English

AN INDIAN LEGEND .

Lost in the forest — three maidens fair —
Lost in the wild woods, dark and deep —
Wandering hopelessly here and there,
Through tangled thickets where shadows sleep.
Is there no refuge? at last they cry —
Mercy or hope in the starlit sky?

They had come from far in that early day,

I.

The dew falls fast, and the night is dark,
And the trees stand silent in the park;
And winter passeth from bough to bough
With stealthy foot that none may know,
But little the old man thinks he weaves
His frosty kiss on the ivy leaves.
From bridge to bridge with tremulous fall
The river droppeth down,
And it washeth the base of a pleasant hall
On the skirts of Cambridge town.
Old trees by night are like men in thought,
By poetry to silence wrought;
They stand so still and they look so wise,

Peace, beldam ugly! thou'lt not find
M'ears bottles for enchanted wind;
That breath of thine can only raise
New storms, and discompose the seas.
It may (assisted by the clatter)
A Pigmaean army scatter;
Or move, without the smallest stream,
Loretto's chapel once again,
And blow St. Goodrick, while he prays,
And knows not what it is he says,
And helps false Latin with a hem
From Finckly to Jerusalem;
Or in th' Pacific sea supply
The wind, that Nature doth deny.
What dost thou think, I can retain

When men talk much to me of woods and hills,
How evening lights and star-embroidered skies
Go through them with mysterious sympathies,
How gushing cataracts and diving rills
Find way into their hearts, and Autumn pale,
And Spring ere sunny June hath raised her veil,
And Summer's breadth of shade, are full of thought —
Then I believe them not: they have but caught
A trick of words from some dear minstrel's verse.
The awful spirit of reserve, that dwells
In nature's forms and shadows, hides in cells,

Ah, the anguish and the shame,
And the bitter throbs of blame,
And the grief that could but weep,
All are lulled by loving sleep.
Like a summer storm it passed,
Dew and starlight followed fast —
And she lifts her lids at last,
With a tender, growing gaze,
Half of softness, half amaze —
With a rapture, low and faint,
Like some long-tormented saint
Opening recovered eyes
On a Morn of Paradise.

ON READING HIS LINES ENTITLED " TEAMSTER JIM. "

You struck right at the moral, Bob, a shoulder-hitting blow,
And knocked the stuffin' squarely out of twaddlin' " 'Ostler Joe. "
You opened Truth's dividers wide, and drew a decent rim
Around ten thousand hearth-stones like that of " Teamster Jim. "

You got us all excited, Bob: we sat and braced our feet,
Just wondering what would happen next unto the great elite,
Who know the line exactly where people shouldn't gush,

I.

Brother, brother! thou art gone, and I will not mourn thy going,
Though thou hast been unto me like a river in its flowing;
For many a fresh and manly thought, and many a glorious dream,
Like fruits and flowers of foreign lands, have flourished by the stream.
Yet, brother, it is well to part: a sunset in the sky
Sinks deepest in the heart when it is fading from the eye!

II.

The heart is never safe unless it trembles while it woos:
Man cannot love a treasure that he does not fear to lose.

Down to the wharves, as the sun goes down,
And the daylight's tumult and dust and din
Are dying away in the busy town,
I go to see if my ship comes in.

I gaze far over the quiet sea,
Rosy with sunset, like mellow wine,
Where ships, like lilies, lie tranquilly,
Many and fair,—but I see not mine.

I question the sailors every night
Who over the bulwarks idly lean,
Noting the sails as they come in sight,—
“Have you seen my beautiful ship come in?”

“Whence does she come?” they ask of me;

I could have wished the few last precious hours
I had with thee, dear friend, should have been given
To dreams of love, and thoughts and hopes of Heaven.
Autumn is out among these woodland bowers:
Still am I lingering here, as loth to part
From my soul's glorious king. Yet ah! my heart
Hath been at wayward angry war with thine.
I spoke rude words of those who are at rest,
Profaning him whose memory thou dost shrine
In some choice niche within thy secret breast.
'Twas a rude act: but friendships newly sprung

I.

My heart was like a wooded vale,
Bright with a summer afternoon,
With shades so thick the sun was pale
And thin as an autumnal moon;
And winds made stirs in every tree,
Most like a far-off, quiet sea.

II.

There came a cloud o'er this bright home,
Sudden and strange; and no one knew
From whence the omen dark had come
When all the sky around was blue.
The wind dropped down; and sounds came near,
Like thunder when the air is clear.

III.

Still hangs that gloomy cloud above,