Rock of the desert, prophet-sung! Or tend a prayer-wheel in Thibetar brooks, Or beat a drum on Yedo's templefloor. No falser idol man has bowed before, How grew its shadowing pile at length, | In Indian groves or islands of the sea, wrong, The rich man's charm and fetish of the strong, The Eternal Fulness meted, clipped, and shorn, The seamless robe of equal mercy torn, The dear Christ hidden from his kindred flesh, And, in his poor ones, crucified afresh ! Better the simple Lama scattering wide, Where sweeps the storm Alechan's steppes along, His paper horses for the lost to ride, And wearying Buddha with his prayers to make The figures living for the traveller's sake, Than he who hopes with cheap praise to beguile The ear of God, dishonoring man the while; Who dreams the pearl gate's hinges, 245 For Sabbath use in measured grists are ground; And, ever while the spiritual mill goes round, Between the upper and the nether stones, Unseen, unheard, the wretched bondman groans, And urges his vain plea, prayer-smothered, anthem-drowned! WELL thought! who would not rather hear The songs to Love and Friendship sung Than those which move the stranger's tongue, And feed his unselected ear? Our social joys are more than fame; Let such as love the eagle's scream The pastoral bleat, the drone of bees, Then lend thy hand, my wiser friend, And help me to the vales below, (In truth, I have not far to go,) Where sweet with flowers the fields extend. THE PALM-TREE. Is it the palm, the cocoa-palm, On the Indian Sea, by the isles of balm ? Or is it a ship in the breezeless calmn? A ship whose keel is of palm beneath, Whose ribs of palm have a palm-bark sheath, And a rudder of palm it steereth with. Branches of palm are its spars and rails, What does the good ship bearso well? What are its jars, so smooth and fine, But hollowed nuts, filled with oil and wine, And the cabbage that ripens under the Line? Who smokes his nargileh, cool and calm? The master, whose cunning and skill could charm Cargo and ship from the bounteous palm. In the cabin he sits on a palm-mat soft, From a beaker of palm his drink is quaffed, And a palm-thatch shields from the sun aloft! His dress is woven of palmy strands, And he holds a palm-leaf scroll in his hands, Traced with the Prophet's wise commands! READ AT THE BOSTON CELEBRATION OF THE HUNDREDTH ANNIVERSARY OF For he who sings the love of man The love of God hath sung! 247 To-day be every fault forgiven Sweet airs of love and home, the hum To sing in door-yard trees. THE RED RIVER VOYAGEUR. OUT and in the river is winding The links of its long, red chain Through belts of dusky pine-land And gusty leagues of plain. THE BIRTH OF ROBERT BURNS, 25TH Only, at times, a smoke-wreath 1ST MO., 1859. How sweetly come the holy psalms The waving of triumphal palms Above the thorny crown! The choral praise, the chanted prayers From harps by angels strung, The hunted Cameron's mountain airs, The hymns that Luther sung! Yet, jarring not the heavenly notes, The brook sings on, though loud and high The cloudy organs blow! And, if the tender ear be jarred That, haply, hears by turns The saintly harp of Olney's bard, The pastoral pipe of Burns, No discord mars His perfect plan Who gave them both a tongue; With the drifting cloud-rack joins, Drearily blows the north-wind And heavy the hands that row. And with one foot on the water, And one upon the shore, Is it the clang of wild-geese? Is it the Indian's yell, That lends to the voice of the northwind The tones of a far-off bell? The voyageur smiles as he listens To the sound that grows apace; Well he knows the vesper ringing Of the bells of St. Boniface. The bells of the Roman Mission, That call from their turrets twain, |