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Her large and lustrous eyes of blue,
Dashed with the dew of mirth,
Bequeathed to all their brilliant hue;
She saw no shades, nor even knew
She walked the heavy earth.

Her ringing laughter woke the dells,
When fell the autumn blight;
She sang through all the rainy spells;
For her the snow was full of bells
Of music and delight.

She swept on her bewildering way,
By every pleasure kissed,
Making a mirth of night and day,-
A brook all sparkle and all spray,
Dancing itself to mist.

I love all bright and happy things,
And joys which are not brief;

All sights and sounds whence pleasure springs;
But weary of the harp whose strings
Are never tuned to grief.

A GLIMPSE OF LOVE.

SHE came, as comes the summer wind,
A gust of beauty to my heart;
Then swept away, but left behind
Emotions that shall not depart.

Unheralded she came and went,
Like music in the silent night,
Which, when the burthened air is spent,
Bequeaths to memory its delight;

Or, like the sudden April bow

That spans the violet-waking rain, She made those blessed flowers to grow Which may not fall or fade again.

Far sweeter than all things most sweet,
And fairer than all things most fair,
She came and passed with footsteps fleet,
A shining wonder in the air.

THE DESERTED FARM.

THE elms were old, and gnarled, and bent; The fields, untilled, were choked with weeds, Where, every year, the thistles sent

Wider and wider their wingèd seeds.

Farther and farther the nettle and dock
Went colonizing o'er the plain;
Growing, each season, a plenteous stock
Of burrs to protect their wild domain.

The last who ever had ploughed the soil
Now in the furrowed churchyard lay;
The boy who whistled to lighten his toil
Was a sexton somewhere far away.

Instead, you saw how the rabbit and mole

Burrowed and furrowed with never a fear; How the tunnelling fox looked out of his hole, Like one who notes if the skies are clear.

No mower was there to startle the birds

With the noisy whet of his reeking scythe; The quail, like a cow-boy calling his herds, Whistled to tell that his heart was blithe.

Now all was bequeathed, with pious care-
The groves and fields fenced round with briars-
To the birds that sing in the cloisters of air,

And the squirrels, those merry woodland friars.

BALBOA.

FROM San Domingo's crowded wharf
Fernandez' vessel bore,

To seek in unknown lands afar
The Indian's golden ore.

And hid among the freighted casks,
Where none might see or know,
Was one of Spain's immortal men,
Three hundred years ago.

But, when the fading town and land
Had dropped below the sea,
He met the captain face to face,
And not a fear had he.

"What villain thou ?" Fernandez cried,
"And wherefore serve us so?"
"To be thy follower," he replied,
Three hundred years ago.

He wore a manly form and face,
A courage firm and bold;
His words fell on his comrades' hearts
Like precious drops of gold.

They saw not his ambitious soul;
He spoke it not-for lo!
He stood among the common ranks
Three hundred years ago.

But when Fernandez' vessel lay
At golden Darien,

A murmur, born of discontent,

Grew loud among the men :

And with the word there came the act;
And with the sudden blow

They raised Balboa from the ranks,
Three hundred years ago.

And, while he took command beneath
The banner of his lord,

A mighty purpose grasped his soul,
As he had grasped the sword.

He saw the mountain's far blue height,
Whence golden waters flow;

Then with his men he scaled the crags,
Three hundred years ago.

He led them up through tangled brakes,
The rivulet's sliding bed,

And through the storm of poisoned darts
From many an ambush shed.

He gained the turret crag-alone-
And wept to see below

An ocean boundless and unknown,
Three hundred years ago.

And, while he raised upon that height
The banner of his lord,

The mighty purpose grasped him still,
As still he grasped his sword.

Then down he rushed with all his men,
As headlong rivers flow,

And plunged knee-deep into the sea,
Three hundred years ago.

And, while he held above his head
The conquering flag of Spain,

He waved his gleaming sword. and smote
The waters of the main :

For Rome! for Leon! and Castile!

Thrice gave

the cleaving blow;

And thus Balboa claimed the sea,

Three hundred years ago.

FRAGMENTS FROM THE REALM OF DREAMS.

"The baseless fabric of a vision."

OFT have I wandered through the Realm of Dreams,
By shadowy mountains and clear running streams,
Catching at times strange transitory gleams
Of Eden vistas, glimmering through a haze
Of floral splendour, where the birds, ablaze
With colour, streaked the air like flying stars,
With momentary bars;

And heard low music breathe above, around,
As if the air within itself made sound,-

As if the soul of Melody were pent
Within some unseen instrument,

Hung in a viewless tower of air,

And with cnchanted pipes beguiled its own despair.
But stranger than all other dreams which led,
Asleep or waking, my adventurous tread

Were these which came of late to me

Through fields of slumber, and did seem to be
Wrapped in an awful robe of prophecy.

I walked the woods of March, and through the boughs
The earliest bird was calling to his spouse;

And in the sheltered nooks

Lay spots of snow,

Or with a noiseless flow

Stole down into the brooks;

And where the springtime sun haa longest shone
The violet looked up and found itself alone.
Anon I came unto a noisy river,

And felt the bridge beneath me sway and quiver;
Below, the hungry waters howled and hissed,

And upward blew a blinding cloud of mist;

But there the friendly Iris built its arch,
And I in safety took my onward march
Now coming to a mighty hill,
Along the shelvy pathway of a rill
Which danced itself to foam and spray,
I clomb my steady way.

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