And I said, "Is that the sky, all gray and silver

suited?"

And I thought, "Is that the sea that lies so white and wan?

I have dreamed as I remember: give me time—I was reputed

Once to have a steady courage-O, I fear 'tis gone!"

And I said, "Is this my heart? if it be, low 'tis beating, So he lies on the mountain, hard by the eagles' brood; I have had a dream this evening, while the white and gold were fleeting,

But I need not, need not tell it—where would be the good?

"Where would be the good to them, his father and his mother?

For the ghost of their dead hope appeareth to them

still.

While a lonely watch-fire smoulders, who its dying red would smother,

That gives what little light there is to a darksome hill ? "

I rose up, I made no moan, I did not cry nor falter, But slowly in the twilight I came to Cromer town. What can wringing of the hands do that which is ordained to alter?

He had climbed, had climbed the mountain, he would ne'er come down.

But, O my first, O my best, I could not choose but love thee!

O, to be a wild white bird, and seek thy rocky bed! From my breast I'd give thee burial, pluck the down and spread above thee;

I would sit and sing thy requiem on the mountain head.

Fare thee well, my love of loves! would I had died before thee!

O, to be at least a cloud, that near thee I might flow, Solemnly approach the mountain, weep away my being o'er thee,

And veil thy breast with icicles and thy brow with snow!

THE TWO STREAMS.

Jean Ingelow.

EHOLD the rocky wall

BE

That down its sloping sides

Pours the swift rain-drops, blending, as they fall,

In rushing river-tides !

Yon stream, whose sources run
Turned by a pebble's edge,

Is Athabasca, rolling toward the sun

Through the cleft mountain-ledge.

The slender rill had strayed,

But for the slanting stone,

To evening's ocean, with the tangled braid
Of foam-flecked Oregon.

So from the heights of Will
Life's parting stream descends,
And, as a moment turns its slender rill,
Each widening torrent bends,

One to long darkness and the frozen tide,
One to the Peaceful Sea!

O. W. Holmes.

A

A VISION.

SINGLE step, that freed me from the skirts

Of the blind vapor, opened to my view
Glory beyond all glory ever seen

By waking sense or by the dreaming soul!
The appearance, instantaneously disclosed,
Was of a mighty city, boldly say

A wilderness of building, sinking far
And self-withdrawn into a boundless depth,
Far sinking into splendor, - - without end!
Fabric it seemed of diamond and of gold,
With alabaster domes, and silver spires,
And blazing terrace upon terrace, high

Uplifted; here, serene pavilions bright,

In avenues disposed; there, towers begirt With battlements that on their restless fronts illumination of all gems!

Bore stars,

By earthly nature had the effect been wrought
Upon the dark materials of the storm

Now pacified; on them, and on the coves
And mountain-steeps and summits, whereunto
The vapors had receded, taking there

Their station under a cerulean sky.

O, 'twas an unimaginable sight!

Clouds, mists, streams, watery rocks, and emerald

turf,

Clouds of all tincture, rocks and sapphire sky,

Confused, commingled, mutually inflamed,
Molten together, and composing thus,
Each lost in each, that marvellous array
Of temple, palace, citadel, and huge
Fantastic pomp of structure without name,
In fleecy fold voluminous enwrapped.
Right in the midst, where interspace appeared
Of open court, an object like a throne
Under a shining canopy of state

Stood fixed; and fixed resemblances were seen
To implements of ordinary use,

But vast in size, in substance glorified;

Such as by Hebrew Prophets were beheld

In vision, — forms uncouth of mightiest power

For admiration and mysterious awe.

This little Vale, a dwelling-place of Man,
Lay low beneath my feet; 'twas visible, —

I saw not, but I felt that it was there.
That which I saw was the revealed abode
Of Spirits in beatitude: my heart

Swelled in my breast.

"I have been dead," I cried,

"And now I live! O, wherefore do I live?" And with that pang I prayed to be no more! —

Wordsworth.

THE

A MYSTERY.

HE river hemmed with leaning trees
Wound through its meadows green;
A low, blue line of mountains showed
The open pines between.

One sharp, tall peak above them all
Clear into sunlight sprang :

I saw the river of my dreams,
The mountains that I sang!

No clew of memory led me on,
But well the ways I knew;
A feeling of familiar things
With every footstep grew.

Not otherwise above its crag
Could lean the blasted pine;
Not otherwise the maple hold
Aloft its red ensign.