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II.

Landscape-lover, lord of language

TWO YEARS AFTER.

THE winter morning as I write

In the grim city's gloomy light, Midst fogs that choke street, river, church, more than he that sang the Works and And the fast-falling flakes besmirch

Days,

All the chosen coin of fancy

How pure o'er that far country-side

flashing out from many a golden phrase; Must gleam the snow-waste drifted wide;
In my mind's eye I see it rolled
O'er stream-gashed glen and brambly wold;

III.

Thou that singest wheat and woodland,

tilth and vineyard, hive and horse and O'er wheat-sown slope and climbing lane,

herd:

All the charm of all the Muses

often flowering in a lonely word;

IV.

Poet of the happy Tityrus

piping underneath his beechen bowers; Poet of the poet-satyr

whom the laughing shepherd bound with
flowers;

V.

Chanter of the Pollio, glorying

in the blissful years again to be, Summers of the snakeless meadow,

unlaborious earth and oarless sea;

VI.

Thou that seest Universal

Nature moved by Universal mind; Thou majestic in thy sadness

at the doubtful doom of human kind;

VII.

Light among the vanish'd ages;

star that gildest yet this phantom shore; Golden branch amid the shadows,

kings and realms that pass to rise no

more;

VIII.

Now thy Forum roars no longer,

fallen every purple Cæsar's dome Tho' thine ocean-roll of rhythm

sound forever of Imperial Rome

IX.

Now the Rome of slaves hath perish'd,

And ridge that bounds the battle plain;
And orchard, lawn, and garden sward-
That same white raiment of the Lord!

The church stands on the woodland hill,
The pine-trees fence the churchyard still;
Eastward it looks, that home of hers,
The robin whistles in her firs.

All seems the same; but where is she

Whose name is breathed from brake and tree?
Where lives and soars that noblest one
It raised our life to look upon?

Shall spring-tide wake the world again,
And summer light the eyes of men?
Shall throstles thrill her oaken glade,
The primrose star her hazel shade?

This icy mist, these clouds of gray,
Will they not all be wept away?
And western airs blow kindly through
Large lucid skies of tender blue?

And shall no vernal dawn await
The hopes by death left desolate ?
No shining angel brood above
The sepulchre of human love?

That brain of strength, that heart of fire,
That liquid voice, a living lyre-
Do not these vibrate, throb, and burn
Where the lost lights of time return?

The aspiration, passion, power,
That crowd with fate a mortal hour,
Are these crude seeds no bloom may bless,
Beginnings bright of emptiness?

Love's shattered dream-shall it not rise

and the Rome of freemen holds her Re-builded for immortal eyes?

place,

I, from out the Northern Island

sunder'd once from all the human race,

Life's broken song end where round Him
Still quire the "young-eyed cherubim "?
Macmillan's Magazine. JOSEPH TRUMAN.