For a cap and bells our lives we pay,
Bubbles we buy with a whole soul's tasking:
"Tis heaven alone that is given away,
'Tis only God may be had for the asking,
No price is set on the lavish summer;
June may be had by the poorest comer.
And what is so rare as a day in June?
Then, if ever, come perfect days;
Then heaven tries the earth if it be in tune,
And over it softly her warm ear lays:
Whether we look, or whether we listen,
We hear life murmur, or see it glisten;
Every clod feels a stir of might,

An instinct within it that reaches and towers,
And, groping blindly above it for light,
Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers;

The flush of life may well be seen

Thrilling back over hills and valleys;

The cowslip startles in meadows green,

The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice,
And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean
To be some happy creature's palace;
The little bird sits at his door in the sun,
Atilt like a blossom among the leaves,

And lets his illumined being o'errun

With the deluge of summer it receives;
His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings,

And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings;
He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest,—
In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best?

From "The Vision of Sir Launfal."

THE BURIAL AT GETTYSBURG.

A VOICE as of the ocean surge!

I see a mighty nation tread,

E. A. WASHBURNE, D. D

With banners drooped and funeral dirge,

Within the city of the dead.

On yonder slope, but yesterday,

Clashed steel with steel, and breast with breast;

And tossed the battle's blood-red spray

O'er hosts who now in silence rest.

Kneel, motherland! in broken prayer
To kiss the dear, the holy ground;

See strong men weep like children, there,
Spelling in vain each nameless mound;
And far, by Erie's waters deep,
Or mid the solemn woods of Maine,
The gray sire dreams, in troubled sleep,
Of one who comes not home again.
Sword of the Lord!-that cry of woe

From many a bleeding wound shall start-
Rest in thy scabbard, rest! Ah, no!
While traitors stab a mother's heart!
As breaks the thunder's gathered roar,
I hear-1 hear a nation's cry
From stormy cliff and sounding shore:
No Peace, no Peace, till Treason die!
No! by the sacred toils of all

Who laid with no cement but truth
The stones of our Cyclopean wall;

No! by a people's giant youth;
No! by the red blood crime hath spilt;
No! by this heirdom of the free:
Bare the bright sword, swear on the hilt,
These years of wrong no more shall be!

Chaunt ye not now the Requiem sad;

Lift ye the War-song clear and high;
Sing till it stir the sleepers glad

Who 'neath these crowded hillocks lie.
Sing, motherland! ye peaks that bloom
With wreaths of the eternal snow;
Ye primal forests, in whose womb
Navies of oak and iron grow.

Sing, prairies rich with nobler grains,
Of bearded men, of freeborn sons!
And thou, great river, through whose veins
The life-blood of our heroes runs ;

More than the yellow Tiber's wave

Thy banks shall gleam with deathless fame,
Sing, with thy torrents, of the brave

Who died to keep a nation's spotless name!

THE SKIES.

THE skies! the festal skies

Of a laughing summer morn!
Some love the dazzling glory
That with their light is born,

MARY E. LEB.

And gaze, with ravished sense, upon
The shadowless expanse,

Where not one tissued cloud is seen
To dim its radiance.

While others joy to catch
The fulness of its smile,
When at his evening portal,
The Day God rests awhile,
To tint with matchless coloring
The ether's fluid tide,

That round this prison sphere of ours
Floods out on either side.

And midnight's solemn sky,
Like a blue curtain hung,
And studded with bright star-gems,
As diamonds yet unstrung,
Is filled through its wide concave
With echoes of the strain,
Breathed out by hosts of worshippers
From earth's extended fane.

Each has its charm, but oh!

Not such, not such for me; Morn's skies reveal a brightness That wakes too much of glee; Eve's firmament too holy seems For unison with earth,

And oft beneath still midnight's vault,

Wild, startling thoughts have birth.

Oh! rather would I choose,

If but the choice were mine,

Those skies, where cloud and sunshine
In fitfulness combine,

Where midday's glare is softened, as
By sudden phantom-wings,

And through night's net-work veil, the stars
Look down, like loving things.

The heart! the human heart!
How, everywhere, it turns
To drink in blessed sympathy
From nature's mystic urns;

And ah! methinks no emblem

Is fitter found for life,

With all its changes, than a sky

Where light and shade hold strife.

WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

TREAD lightly here! this spot is holy ground,
And every footfall wakes the voice of ages:
These are the mighty dead that hem thee round,
Names that still cast a halo o'er our pages:

Listen! 'tis Fame's loud voice that now complains,

THOMAS MILLER.

Here sleeps more sacred dust, than all the world contains."

Thou mayst bend o'er each marble semblance now:

That was monarch, see how mute he lies! There was a day when, on his crumbling brow,

The golden crown flashed awe on vulgar eyes; That broken hand did then a sceptre sway,

And thousands round him kneeled his mandates to obey,

Turn to the time, when he thus low was laid

Within this narrow house, in proud array; Dirges were sung, and solemn masses said,

And high-plumed helms bent o'er him as he lay; Princes and peers were congregated here,

And all the pomp of death assembled round his bier.

Then did the mid-night torches flaming wave,

And redly flashed athwart the vaulted gloom;

And white-robed boys sang requiems o'er his grave;

And muttering monks kneeled lowly round his tomb;

And lovely women did his loss deplore,

And, with their gushing tears, bathed the cold marble floor.

See! at his head, a rude-carved lion stands,

In the dark niche where never sunbeams beat;

And still he folds his supplicating hands:

A watchful dragon crouches at his feet,

How oddly blended!-IIe all humble lies,
While they defiance cast from their fierce stony eyes.

Here sleeps another, clothed in scaly mail;
Battle's red field was where he loved to be;
Oft has his banner rustled in the gale,

In all the pomp of blazing heraldry!

Where are his bowmen now, his shield, and spear,
His steed, and battle axe, and all he once held dear?

His banner wasted on the castle wall,

His lofty turrets sunk by slow decay;
His bowmen in the beaten field did fall,

His plated armor, rust hath swept away;
His plumes are scattered, and his helmet cleft,
And this slow-crumbling tomb is all he now hath left.

And this is fame! For this he fought and bled!
See his reward!-No matter; let him rest;

Vacant and dark is now his ancient bed,

The dust of ages dims his marble breast;
And, in that tomb, what thinkest thou remains?
Dust! 'tis the only glory, that on earth man gains.

And kings, and queens, here slumber, side by side,
Their quarrels hushed in the embrace of death;
All feelings calmed of jealousy or pride,

Once fanned to flame by Slander's burning breath;
Even the crowns they wear from cares are free,
As those on children's heads, who play at royalty.

And awful Silence here does ever linger;

Her dwelling is this many-pillared dome; On her wan lip she plants her stony finger,

And, breath-hushed, gazes on her voiceless home; Listening, she stands, with half averted head,

For echoes never heard among the mute-tongued dead.

From "Friendship's Offering."

DON GARZIA.

AMONG those awful forms, in elder time
Assembled, and through many an after-age
Destined to stand as genii of the Place

Where men most meet in Florence, may be seen
His who first played the tyrant. Clad in mail,
But with his helmet off-in kingly state,

ROGERS.