I remember the gleams and glooms that dart The song and the silence in the heart, And the voice of that fitful song "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." There are dreams that cannot die! There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak, And a mist before the eye. And the words of that fatal song Come over me like a chill: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." Strange to me now are the forms I meet When I visit the dear old town; But the native air is pure and sweet, And the trees that o'ershadow each well-known street, Are singing the beautiful song, Are sighing and whispering still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." And Deering's Woods are fresh and fair, And with joy that is almost pain My heart goes back to wander there, And among the dreams of the days that were I find my lost youth again. And the strange and beautiful song, The groves are repeating it still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." SANTA FILOMENA. ["At Pisa the church of San Francisco contains a chapel dedicated lately to Santa Filomena; over the altar is a picture, by Sabatelli, representing the Saint as a beautiful, nymph-like figure, floating down from heaven, attended by two angels, bearing the lily, palm, and javelin, and beneath, in the foreground, the sick and maimed, who are healed by her intercession."-MRS. JAMESON, Sacred and Legendary Art, II. 298.] WHENE'ER a noble deed is wrought, The tidal wave of deeper souls Out of all meaner cares. Honour to those whose words or deeds Raise us from what is low! Thus thought I, as by night I read The cold and stony floors. Lo! in that house of misery Pass through the glimmering gloom, And slow, as in a dream of bliss, Upon the darkening walls. As if a door in heaven should be The light shone and was spent. A Lady with a Lamp shall stand Nor even shall be wanting here SANDALPHON. HAVE you read in the Talmud of old, τι Have you How, erect, at the outermost gates With his feet on the ladder of light, The Angels of Wind and of Fire With the song's irresistible stress; But serene in the rapturous throng, With eyes unimpassioned and slow, To sounds that ascend from below; From the spirits on earth that adore, And he gathers the prayers as he stands, And beneath the great arch of the portal, It is but a legend, I know, Of the ancient Rabbinical lore; But haunts me and holds me the more. When I look from my window at night, All throbbing and panting with stars, And the legend, I feel, is a part DAYBREAK. A WIND came up out of the sea, It hailed the ships, and cried, "Sail on, It whispered to the fields of corn, It shouted through the belfry-tower, 66 It crossed the churchyard with a sigh, Nor the red Mustang, Of whose purple blood For richest and best Is the wine of the West, Fills all the room And as hollow trees Are the haunts of bees, For ever going and coming; So this crystal hive Is all alive With a swarming and buzzing and humming. Very good in its way Is the Verzenay, Or the Sillery soft and creamy; But Catawba wine Has a taste more divine, There grows no vine As grows by the Beautiful River. Drugged is their juice For foreign use, When shipped o'er the reeling Atlantic, With the fever-pains That have driven the Old World frantic. To the sewers and sinks And after them tumble the mixer; For a poison malign Is such Borgia wine, Or at best but a Devil's Elixir. While pure as a spring Is the wine I sing, And to praise it, one needs but name it, |