English

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.

Our Sun! our protection,
Thou Vyssegrad fortress,
Thou, haughty and daring,
Above the steeps rising;
Upon the rocks standing
Our enemies' terror —
Beneath thee the waters
Are rapidly flowing.
The vehement Uhltav
His stream urges onward:
And there on the borders
Of crystal Uhltava,
The foliage o'erhanging,
Spreads out its dark shadows;
The nightingale lonely
Sings gratulant music,
Or sorrowful music,
As joy or as sorrow
Has place in her bosom —
O were I the songster

BY WILLIAM D. GALLAGHER .

Our early days! — How often back
We turn on Life's bewildering track,
To where, o'er hill and valley, plays
The sunlight of our early days!

A Boy! — my truant steps were seen
Where streams were bright, and meadows green;
Where flow'rs, in beauty and perfume,
Breath'd ever of the Eden-bloom, —
And birds, abroad in the free wind,
Sang, as they left the earth behind
And wing'd their joyous way above,
Of Eden-peace, and Eden-love.
That life was of the soul, as well

wheare hap or harme shall me betyd
by knowledg of thy lovely face
my doubtfull harte cannot decyde
the dome thearof rests in thy grace

for though thy sweete and pretious love
vouchsafe to voue it selfe to me
Except the fruyts thearof I prove
In suffrance must my fortune be

Or yf to my styll growing greyfe
on lyng[r]ing hoap my lyfe must feade
To late (Alas) wyll cumm relyfe
My hyddne wound doothe inward bleede

And though with mirthe I cloak my woe
In honor to preserve your name

Are not those locks of gold
Sufficient chaines the wildest hearts to hold?
Is not that ivory hand
A diamantine band,
Most sure to keep the most untamed mind,
But ye must others find?
O yes; why is that golden one then worne
Thus free in chaines? perhaps, love's chaines to scorne.

BY JOHN M. HARNEY .

A fever scorched my body, fired my brain!
Like lava in Vesuvius, boiled my blood
Within the glowing caverns of my heart.
I raged with thirst, and begged a cold, clear draught
Of fountain water. — 'T was with tears denied.
I drank a nauseous febrifuge, and slept;
But rested not — harassed with horrid dreams
Of burning deserts, and of dusty plains,
Mountains disgorging flames — forests on fire,
Steam, sun-shine, smoke, and boiling lakes —

BY MRS. LAURA M. THURSTON .

The broad, the bright, the glorious West,
Is spread before me now!
Where the gray mists of morning rest
Beneath yon mountain's brow!
The bound is past — the goal is won —
The region of the setting sun
Is open to my view.
Land of the valiant and the free —
My own Green Mountain land — to thee,
And thine, a long adieu!

I hail thee, Valley of the West,
For what thou yet shalt be!
I hail thee for the hopes that rest
Upon thy destiny!

Here, in a darkened church, in a vacant aisle,
Far from the market cries and the common ken,
A woman kneels and sees from the altar smile
A vision of Love new-born for the needs of men.

Effortless, lo, at a word, from realms divine
Enters the God, — and there, in visible Bread,
Stands to be taken: there, a bodily sign,
Gives Himself as food to the lips unfed.

Starved she takes, and straightway in spirit is filled, —
Lifted and crowned, communion holds with saints:
Glory about her, joy in her pathway spilled,

BY MICAH P. FLINT .

On yonder shore, on yonder shore,
Now verdant with the depths of shade,
Beneath the white-armed sycamore,
There is a little infant laid.
Forgive this tear. — A brother weeps. —
'Tis there the faded floweret sleeps.

She sleeps alone, she sleeps alone,
And summer's forests o'er her wave;
And sighing winds at autumn moan
Around the little stranger's grave,
As though they murmured at the fate
Of one so lone and desolate.

In sounds that seem like sorrow's own,