tal life

Has reached the hour (albeit through

care and pain)

When Good and Evil, as for final strife, Close dim and vast on Armageddon's plain;

And Michael and his angels once again Drive howling back the Spirits of the Night.

O for the faith to read the signs aright And, from the angle of thy perfect sight, See Truth's white banner floating on before;

And the Good Cause, despite of venal friends,

And base expedients, move to noble ends;

See l'eace with Freedom make to Time amends,

And, through its cloud of dust, the threshing-floor, Flailed by the thunder, heaped with chaffless grain!

1357.

THE FIRST FLOWERS.

FOR ages on our river borders,

These tassels in their tawny bloom, And willowy studs of downy silver,

Have prophesied of Spring to come.

For ages have the unbound waters

Smiled on them from their pebbly hem, And the clear carol of the robin And song of bluebird welcomed them.

But never yet from smiling river,

Or song of early bird, have they Been greeted with a gladder welcome Than whispers from my heart to-day.

They break the spell of cold and dark

ness,

The weary watch of sleepless pain; And from my heart, as from the river," The ice of winter melts again.

Thanks, Mary for this wild-wood token Of Freya's footsteps drawing near; Almost, as in the rune of Asgard,

The growing of the grass I hear.

It is as if the pine-trees called me
From ceiled room and silent books,

LACEY Nina do again.

The pure vanaat, from the eye,
And on the sin, and maty mmil
Let the man rijjam die.

You not the los I own your claim
To grateful thanks, dear friends of

Hang, if it please you so, my name
Upem your household line.

It Pame from brazen lips blow wide
Her chosen names, I envy none:
A mother's love, a father's pride,
Bhall keep alive my own!

Still shall that name as now recall
The young leaf wet with morning
dow.

The glory where the sunbeams fall

The breezy woodlands through.

That name shall be a household word,
A spell to waken smile or sigh;
In many an evening prayer be heard
And cradle lullaby.

And thou, dear child, in riper days

When asked the reason of thy name, Shalt answer: "One 't were vain to praise

Or censure bore the same.

"Some blamed him, some believed him good,

The truth lay doubtless 'twixt the two,

He reconciled as best he could

Old faith and fancies new.

"His good was mainly an intent, His evil not of forethought dine: The work he wronght was rarely want Or finished as begun.

** Ill served his tides of feeling strong To turn the common milis of use; And, over restless wings of song,

His birthright garb hung loose!

"His eye was beauty's powerless slave,
And his the ear which discord pains:
Few guessed beneath his aspect grave
What passions strove in chains.

"He had his share of care and pain,
No holiday was life to him;
Still in the heirloom cup we drain
The bitter drop will swim.

"Yet Heaven was kind, and here a bird
And there a flower beguiled his way;
And, cool, in summer noons, he heard
The fountains plash and play.

"On all his sad or restless moods

The patient peace of Nature stole ; The quiet of the fields and woods Sank deep into his soul.

"He worshipped as his fathers did,
And kept the faith of childish days,
And, howsoe'er he strayed or slid,
He loved the good old ways.

"The simple tastes, the kindly traits, The tranquil air, and gentle speech,

lays days

When, by our native streams and forest

ways,

We dreamed them over; while the rivulets made

Songs of their own, and the great pinetrees laid

On warm noon-lights the masses of their shade.

And she was with us, living o'er again Her life in ours, despite of years and pain,

The autumn's brightness after latter rain.

Beautiful in her holy peace as one Who stands, at evening, when the work is done,

Glorified in the setting of the sun!

Her memory makes our common landscape seem

Fairer than any of which painters dream,

Lights the brown hills and sings in every stream;

For she whose speech was always truth's pure gold

Heard, not unpleased, its simple legends told,

And loved with us the beautiful and old.

THE WITCH'S DAUGHTER.

It was the pleasant harvest time,

When cellar-bins are closely stowed, And garrets bend beneath their load,

And the old swallow-haunted barns — Brown-gabled, long, and full of seams Through which the moted sunlight streams,

The red plumes of the roosted cocks, And the loose hay-mow's scented locks