The sprinkled fountain or baptismal stream;
Shall jealous passions in unseemly strife
Cross their dark weapons o'er the waves of "T was purchased by an English squire, to

He took a long and solmn draught, and wi- So John did drink, — and well he wrought

ped his yellow beard,

And one by one the musketeers

that fought and prayed

the men

All drank as 't were their mother's milk, and not a man afraid.

that night at Bunker's Hill!

I tell you there was generous warmth in good old English cheer;

I tell you 't was a pleasant thought to bring this symbol here;

That night, affrighted from his nest, the 'T is but the fool that loves excess.

screaming eagle flew;

thou a drunken soul?

Hast

He heard the Pequot's ringing whoop, the The bane is in thy shallow skull, not in my

A hundred years, and fifty more, had spread Nay this poor bauble it bequeathed,

their leaves and snows,

my

eyes grow moist and dim A thousand rubs had flattened down each To think of all the vanished joys that danced around its brim.

little cherub's nose,

When once again the bowl was filled, but

not in mirth or joy,

"T was mingled by a mother's hand to cheer her parting boy.

Then fill a fair and honest cup, and bear it

straight to me;

The goblet hallows all it holds, whate'er the liquid be;

,,Drink, John," she said,,,'t will do you good, And may the cherubs on its face protect me

This working in the dismal trench out in the That dooms one to those dreadful words

With heavy plunge, and solemn anthem, Heedless of storm, and reckless of the hour,

sweeps

Deep, deep, with everlasting trumpet-tone, together in one emerald mass, Thou soundest ever on! The thundering cataract;

A thousand harvests of the human race, Silence in the valley sleepeth,
Hath Death's keen sickle shorn,
Since thou wast in convulsions born;

But like a passing mist across thy face,
Year follows year, and age succeeds to age,
And terrible as at thine hour of birth,
Thy hoary locks thou shakest wildly forth,
And scarless, in eternal youth, dost rage.

Falling, falling, as if in huge despair, Thy watery weight descends;

Silence every hill-top steepeth,
And the tall trees sleep
Saving when the light winds lifting,
Through the hovering leaflets sifting,
With a whisper, creep.

Fire-flies glance across the meadow,
Lightening through its trailing shadow,
Living meteors

-

And a ceaseless silvery ringing,

Rising, rising, as Hope were even there, From the shrill cicadae singing,

Through the still air stirs.

Dark, austere, and self-denying,
In the cold earth's shadow lying,
Half thy life thou grievest!

Strong as thou art, there is for thee an hour! Half, from out that darkness turning,

A BLISSFUL sense of Hope, whose light My spirit is subdued unto the tone

The pearly clouds, that on the golden breast Those earthly props, which might its ruin Of the clear twilight sleep, nor seem to move, Are not more tender than the thoughts of love,