THE PAGEANT.

A SOUND as if from bells of silver,
Or elfin cymbals smitten clear,
Through the frost-pictured panes I
hear.

A brightness which outshines the morning,

A splendor brooking no delay,
Beckons and tempts my feet away.

I leave the trodden village highway. For virgin snow-paths glimmering through

A jewelled elm-tree avenue ;

Where, keen against the walls of sapphire,

The gleaming tree-bolis, ice-em-
bossed,
Hold up

their chandeliers of frost.

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Yon maple, like the bush of Horeb, Burns unconsumed: a white, cold fire

Rays out from every grassy spire.

Each slender rush and spike of mullein,

Low laurel shrub and drooping fern,

Transfigured, blaze where'er I

turn.

How yonder Ethiopian hemlock Crowned with his glistening circlet stands !

What jewels light his swarthy hands!

Here, where the forest opens southward

Between its hospitable pines,

As through a door, the warm sun shines.

The jewels loosen on the branches, And lightly, as the soft winds blow,

Fall, tinkling, on the ice below.

And through the clashing of their cymbals

I hear the old familiar fall

Of water down the rocky wall, Where, from its wintry prison breaking,

In dark and silence hidden long,
The brook repeats its summer song.

One instant flashing in the sunshine,
Keen as a sabre from its sheath,
Then lost again the ice beneath.

I hear the rabbit lightly leaping,

The foolish screaming of the jay, The chopper's axe-stroke far away; The clamor of some neighboring barnyard,

The lazy cock's belated crow,
Or cattle-tramp in crispy snow.

Yet evermore an underthought
Of loss to come within us wrought,
And all the while we felt the strain
Of the strong will that conquered pain.

God giveth quietness at last!

The common way that all have passed
She went, with mortal yearnings fond,
To fuller life and love beyond.

Fold the rapt soul in your embrace,
My dear ones! Give the singer place!
To you, to her, I know not where,-
I lift the silence of a prayer.

For only thus our own we find;
The gone before, the left behind,
All mortal voices die between ;
The unheard reaches the unseen.

Again the blackbirds sing; the streams Wake, laughing, from their winter dreams,

And tremble in the April showers
The tassels of the maple flowers.

But not for her has spring renewed
The sweet surprises of the wood;
And bird and flower are lost to her
Who was their best interpreter !

What to shut eyes has God revealed? What hear the ears that death has sealed?

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What undreamed beauty passing show
Requites the loss of all we know?

O silent land, to which we move,
Enough if there alone be love,
And mortal need can ne'er outgrow
What it is waiting to bestow!

O white soul! from that far-off shore
Float some sweet song the waters o'er,
Our faith confirm, our fears dispel,
With the old voice we loved so well!

CHICAGO.

MEN said at vespers: "All is well!"
In one wild night the city fell;
Fell shrines of prayer and marts of
gain

Before the fiery hurricane.

On threescore spires had sunset shone, Where ghastly sunrise looked on none, Men clasped each other's hands, and said:

"The City of the West is dead!"

Brave hearts who fought, in slow re

treat,

The fiends of fire from street to street, Turned, powerless, to the blinding glare,

The dumb defiance of despair.

A sudden impulse thrilled each wire That signalled round that sea of fire; Swift words of cheer, warm heart-throbs

came;

In tears of pity died the flame!

From East, from West, from South and North,

The messages of hope shot forth,
And, underneath the severing wave,
The world, full-handed, reached to save.

Fair seemed the old; but fairer still The new, the dreary void shall fill With dearer homes than those o'erthrown,

For love shall lay each corner-stone.

Rise, stricken city! - from thee throw
The ashen sackcloth of thy woe;
And build, as to Amphion's strain,
To songs of cheer thy walls again!

How shrivelled in thy hot distress
The primal sin of selfishness !
How instant rose, to take thy part,
The angel in the human heart!

Ah! not in vain the flames that tossed
Above thy dreadful holocaust;
The Christ again has preached through
thee

The Gospel of Humanity!

Then lift once more thy towers on high,
And fret with spires the western sky,
To tell that God is yet with us,
And love is still miraculous!

As beautiful her mornings brea
As fair her evenings fall.
Love watches o'er my quiet ways,
Kind voices speak my name,
And lips that find it hard to praise
Are slow, at least, to blame.

How softly ebb the tides of will!
How fields, once lost or won,
Now lie behind me green and still
Beneath a level sun!

How hushed the hiss of party hate,
The clamor of the throng!
How old, harsh voices of debate
Flow into rhythmic song!

Methinks the spirit's temper grows
Too soft in this still air;
Somewhat the restful heart foregoes
Of needed watch and prayer.

The bark by tempest vainly tossed
May founder in the calm,
And he who braved the polar frost
Faint by the isles of balm.

Better than self-indulgent years
The outflung heart of youth,
Than pleasant songs in idle years

The tumult of the truth.

Rest for the weary hands is good,
And love for hearts that pine,
But let the manly habitude
Of upright souls be mine.

Let winds that blow from heaven re fresh,

Dear Lord, the languid air; And let the weakness of the flesh Thy strength of spirit share.

And, if the eye must fail of light,
The ear forget to hear,
Make clearer still the spirit's sight,
More fine the inward ear!

Be near me in mine hours of need
To soothe, or cheer, or warn,
And down these slopes of sunset lead
As up the hills of morn!