Lord, give man eyes to see! 'Twas some
Blind fool, for sure, that said
How lightless London had become
A city of the dead!

A city of the dead! I would
The dead again might rise
To look upon a sight so good
For tired hearts and eyes.

Here, amid miles of street and square,
A curfew without sound
Has rung its knell; and everywhere
Men walk on holy ground.

Along the now ungarish street,
Which once shut out the night,
The lamps stand veiled; about their feet
Lie little pools of light;

Deare life, while I do touch
These corrall ports of blisse,
Which still themselves do kiss,
And sweetly me invite to do as much,
All panting in my lips
My heart my life doth leave,
No sense my senses have,
And inward powers do find a strange ecclipse:
This death so heavenly well
Doth so me please, that I
Would never longer seeke in sense to dwell,
If that even thus I only could but dye.

BY WILLIAM WALLACE

Queen of Judea's stricken land,
Thy garland, faded from thy brow,
Lies withered on the desert's sand
And trampled by the Arab now.
The laurel boughs of Lebanon
Still brush the blue unspotted sky; —
Their plumes still quiver in the sun,
Which lights thy ruins from on high; —
But on thy brow so desolate,
Seems stamped the blasting seal of fate!

Quite weary'd with the business of the Day,
To unfrequented Shades I took my way,
And by a murmuring Stream supinely lay.
Soft thoughts confusedly revell'd in my Breast,
Till by composing Slumbers I was bless'd.
Husht was my Sences as the unhaunted Grove,
And all the Vision of my Soul was Love;
Methoughts I saw a soft Celestial Youth,
Whose Eyes speak Love, and smiles Eternal Truth:
Gay as the Spring in all its vernal Pride,
With Amorous Joy sit panting by my side.
I gaz'd with Wonder at a Form so bright,

" Oh, why do ye stand so still, lad,
In yon strange cloak of green?
And why have ye shut with a will, lad,
Them eyes as were once so keen? "

" There's a grumble of guns on the hill, lass;
But under it, where I lie,
The ground of my grave is still, lass;
And stiller beneath am I. "

" Ah, ye do well to be still, lad,
For weary your days have been,
With grumble o' guns on the hill, lad;
But why have ye got on green? "

" In the country where I have been, lass,
All blotted with blood and clay,

Why, Nais, stand ye nice,
Like to a well-wrought stone,
When Dorus would you kisse?
Denie him not that blisse,
He's but a child, old men be children twice,
And even a toothlesse one;
And when his lips yours touch in that delight,
Ye need not feare he will those cherries bite.

BY JAMES H. PERKINS.


It is a beautiful belief,
That ever round our head
Are hovering, on noiseless wing,
The spirits of the dead.

It is a beautiful belief,
When ended our career,
That it will be our ministry
To watch o'er others here;

To lend a moral to the flower;
Breathe wisdom on the wind;
To hold commune, at night's pure noon,
With the imprison'd mind;

To bid the mourners cease to mourn,
The trembling be forgiven;

Passenger, vexe not thy mind,
To make me mine eyes unfold;
For if thou shouldst them behold,
Thine perhaps they will make blind.

Down steps Orion to the west,
High-headed, starry-eyed,
Watchful beneath his warrior-crest,
His sword upon his side.

Amid the unnumbered stars of night
He fills his measured space,
And covers under points of light
The fashion of his face.

He makes no gesture, gives no sign;
Yon form is all we know.
So, belt and scabbard used to shine
Millions of years ago.

Upon his brow endures no frown,
No tumult stirs his breast;
In martial stride he still goes down
With all his stars at rest.

This is no work of stone,
Though it seems breathlesse, cold, and sense hath none,
But that false god which keeps
The monstrous people of the raging deeps;
Now that he doth not change his shape this while,
It is thus constant more you to beguile.