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“Earth has no mineral strangeThe illimitable air no hidden wingsWater no quality in covert springs,

And fire no power to change-
Seasons no mystery, and stars no spell,
Which the unwasting soul might not compel.

“Oh, but for time to track
The
upper

stars into the pathless skyTo see the invisible spirits eye to eye —

To hurl the lightning back-
To tread unhurt the sea's dim-lighted halls-
To chase Day's chariot to the horizon-walls-

“And more, much more—for now
The life-sealed fountains of my nature move-
To nurse and purify this human love-

To clear the godlike brow
Of weakness and mistrust, and bow it down,
Worthy and beautiful, to the much-loved one-

“ This were indeed to feel
The soul-thirst slaken at the living stream—
To live !-oh God! that life is but a dream !

And death- - Aha! I reel
Dim-dim-I faint- darkness comes o'er my eye.
Cover me! save me- -God of heaven! I die !

’T was morning, and the old man lay alone.
No friend had closed his eyelids, and his lips,
Open and ashy pale, the expression wore
Of his death-struggle. His long silvery hair
Lay on his hollow temples thin and wild,
His frame was wasted, and his features wan,
And haggard as with want, and in his palm
His nails were driven deep, as if the throe
Of the last

him sore.
The storm was raging still. The shutters swung
Screaming as harshly in the fitful wind,
And all without went on-as aye it will,

agony had wrung

Sunshine or tempest, reckless that a heart
Is breaking, or has broken, in its change.

The fire beneath the crucible was out; The vessels of his mystic art lay round, Useless and cold as the ambitious hand That fashioned them; and the small rod, Familiar to his touch for threescore years, Lay on the alembic's rim, as if it still Might vex the elements at its master's will.

And thus had passed from its unequal frame A soul of fire-a sun-bent eagle stricken From his high soaring down—an instrument Broken with its own compass. Oh, how poor Seems the rich gift of genius, when it lies, Like the adventurous bird that hath out-flown His strength upon the sea, ambition-wrecked — A thing the thrush might pity, as she sits Brooding in quiet on her lowly nest !

THE BITTER GOURD.

BY LEIGH HUNT.

LOKMAN the Wise, therefore the Good (for wise
Is but sage good, seeing with final eyes),
Was slave once to a lord, jealous though kind,
Who, piqued sometimes at the man's master mind,
Gave him, one day, to see how he would treat
So strange a grace, a bitter gourd to eat.

With simplest reverence, and no surprise,
The sage received what stretched the donor's eyes ;
And, piece by piece, as though it had been food
To feast and gloat on, every morsel chewed ;
And so stood eating, with his patient beard,
Tiil all the nauseous favour disappeared.

Vexed, and confounded, and disposed to find
Some ground of scorn, on which to ease his mind,
“ Lokman !” exclaimed his master,—“In God's name,
Where could the veriest slave get soul so tame ?
Have all my favours been bestowed amiss ?
Or could not brains like thine have saved thee this ?"

Calmly stood Lokman still, as duty stands.-
“Have I received,” he answered,“ at thine hands
Favours so sweet they went to mine heart's root,
And could I not accept one bitter fruit ?”
“ O Lokman !” said his lord (and as he spoke,
For very love his words in softness broke),
“ Take but this favour yet :- be slave no more :-
Be, as thou art, my friend and counsellor :
Oh be; nor let me quit thee, self-abhorred
'Tis I that am the slave, and thou the lord.”

1

THE SWORD CHANT OF THORSTEIN RAUDI.

BY MOTHERWELL.

'Tis not the grey hawk's flight o'er mountain and mere ;
'Tis not the fleet hound's course, tracking the deer;
'Tis not the light hoof-print of black steed or grey,
Though sweltering it gallop a long summer's day,

Which mete forth the lordships I challenge as mine ;

Ha ! ha! 'tis the good brand

I clutch in my strong hand,
That can their broad marches and numbers define.

LAND GIVER! I kiss thee.

Dull builders of houses, base tillers of earth,
Gaping, ask me what lordships I owned at my birth;
But the pale fools wax mute when I point with my sword
East, west, north, and south, shouting, “There am I lord !"
Wold and waste, town and tower, hill, valley, and stream,

Trembling, bow to my sway,

In the fierce battle-fray, When the star that rules Fate is this falchion's red gleam.

MIGHT GIVER ! I kiss thee. I've heard great harps sounding in brave bower and hall, I've drunk the sweet music that bright lips let fall, I've hunted in greenwood, and heard small birds sing ; But away with this idle and cold jargoning ! The music I love is the shout of the brave,

The yell of the dying,

The scream of the flying, When this arm wields Death's sickle, and garners the grave.

Joy GIVER ! I kiss thee.

Far isles of the ocean thy lightning hath known,
And wide o'er the mainland thy horrors have shone.
Great sword of my father, stern joy of his hand !
Thou hast carved his name deep on the stranger's red

strand,
And won him the glory of undying song.

Keen cleaver of gay crests,

Sharp piercer of broad breasts,
Grim slayer of heroes, and scourge of the strong!

FAME GIVER ! I kiss thee.

a

In a love more abiding than that the heart knows,
For maiden more lovely than summer's first rose,

My heart's knit to thine, and lives but for thee;
In dreamings of gladness thou'rt dancing, with me,
Brave measures of madness, in some battle-field,

Where armour is ringing,

And noble blood springing, And cloven, yawn helmet, stout hauberk, and shield.

DEATH GIVER ! I kiss thee. The smile of a maiden's eye soon may depart; And light is the faith of fair woman's heart: Changeful as light clouds, and wayward as wind, Be the passions that govern weak woman's mind. But thy metal's as true as its polish is bright:

When ills wax in number,

Thy love will not slumber;
But, starlike, burns fiercer, the darker the night.

HEART GLADDENER ! I kiss thee.
My kindred have perished by war or by wave;
Now, childless and sireless, I long for the grave.
When the path of our glory is shadowed in death,
With me thou wilt slumber below the brown heath ;
Thou wilt rest on my bosom, and with it decay;

While harps shall be ringing,

And Scalds shall be singing
The deeds we have done in our old fearless day.

SONG GIVER! I kiss thee.

THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD.

BY LONGFELLOW.

This is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling,

Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms; But from their silent pipes no anthem pealing

Startles the villages with strange alarms.

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