Two

pilgrims from the distant plain Come quickly o'er the mossy ground. One is a boy, with locks of gold

Thick curling round his face so fair; The other pilgrim stern and old,

Has snowy beard and silver hair.

The youth with many a merry trick
Goes singing on his careless way;
His old companion walks as quick,

But speaks no word by night or day.
Where'er the old man treads, the grass
Fast fadeth with a certain doom;
But where the beauteous boy doth pass
Unnumbered flowers are seen to bloom.

And thus before the sage, the boy

Trips lightly o'er the blooming lands,
And proudly bears a pretty toy-

A crystal glass with diamond sands.
A smile o'er any brow would pass
To see him frolic in the sun-

To see him shake the crystal glass,
And make the sands more quickly run.

And now they leap the streamlet o'er,
A silver thread so white and thin;
And now they reach the open door,
And now they lightly enter in :
"God save all here "-that kind wish flies
Still sweeter from his lips so sweet;
"God save you kindly, " Norah cries,

"Sit down, my child, and rest and eat." "Thanks, gentle Norah, fair and good, We'll rest awhile our weary feet;

But though the old man needeth food,
There's nothing here that he can eat.
His taste is strange, he eats alone,
Beneath some ruined cloister cope,
Or on some tottering turret's stone,
While I can only live on-hope!
"A week ago, ere you were wed—
It was the very night before-
Upon so many sweets I fed

While passing by your mother's doorIt was that dear, delicious hour

When Owen here the nosegay brought, And found you in the woodbine bowerSince then, indeed, I've needed naught."

A blush steals over Norah's face,
A smile comes over Owen's brow,
A tranquil joy illumes the place,

As if the moon were shining now;
The boy beholds the pleasing pain,
The sweet confusion he has done,
And shakes the crystal glass again;

And makes the sands more quickly run.

"Dear Norah, we are pilgrims, bound Upon an endless path sublime;

We pace the green earth round and round.
And mortals call us LOVE and TIME:
He seeks the many, I the few;

I dwell with peasants he with kings.
We seldom meet; but when we do,
I take his glass, and he my wings.
"And thus together on we go,

Where'er I chance or wish to lead :

D

RAWN out, like lingering bees, to share The last sweet summer weather, Beneath the reddening maples walked Two Puritans together

A youth and maiden heeding not

The woods which round them brightened,
Just conscious of each other's thoughts,
Half happy, and half frightened.

Grave were their brows, and few their words,
And coarse their garb and simple;
The maiden's very cheek seemed shy
To own its worldly dimple.

For stern the time; they dwelt with Care,

And Fear was oft a comer;

A sober April ushered in

The Pilgrim's toilful summer.

And stern their creed; they tarried here
Mere desert-land sojourners:
They must not dream of mirth or rest,
God's humble lesson-learners.

The temple's sacred perfume round
Their week-day robes were clinging;
Their mirth was but the golden bells
On priestly garments ringing.

But as to-day they softly talked,

That serious youth and maiden,
Their plainest words strange beauty wore,
Like weeds with dewdrops laden.
The saddest theme had something sweet,
The gravest something tender,
While with slow steps they wandered on,
'Mid summer's fading splendor.

He said, "Next week the church will hold
A day of prayer and fasting;"
And then he stopped, and bent to pick
A white life-everlasting—

A silvery bloom, with fadeless leaves;
He gave it to her, sighing;

A mute confession was his glance,
Her blush, a mute replying.

"Mehetabel!" (at last he spoke)

"My fairest one and dearest ! One thought is ever to my heart The sweetest and the nearest.

"You read my soul; you know my wish;
O, grant me its fulfilling!
She answered low, "If Heaven smiles,
And if my father's willing!"

No idle passion swayed her heart,
This quaint New England beauty!
Faith was the guerdon of her life—
Obedience was a duty.

Too truthful for reserve, she stood,
Her brown eyes earthward casting,
And held with trembling hand the while
Her white life-everlasting.

Her sober answer pleased the youth-
Frank, clear, and gravely cheerful;
He left her at her father's door,
Too happy to be fearful.

She looked on high, with earnest plea,
And Heaven seemed bright above her;
And when she shyly spoke his name,
Her father praised her lover.

And when, that night, she sought her couch,
With headboard high and olden,

Her prayer was praise, her pillow down,
And all her dreams were golden.

And still upon her throbbing heart,
In bloom and breath undying,
A few life-everlasting flowers,
Her lover's gift, were lying.

A

SENTINEL angel, sitting high in glory, Heard this shrill wail ring out from purgatory: 'Have mercy, mighty angel, hear my story!

"I loved-and blind with passionate love I fell;
Love brought me down to death, and death to Hell;
For God is just, and death for sin is well.

"I do not rage against his high decree,
Nor for myself do ask that grace shall be ;
But for my love on earth who mourns for me.
"Great Spirit! Let me see my love again
And comfort him one hour, and I were fain
To pay a thousand years of fire and pain.”

Then said the pitying angel. “ Nay, repent
That wild vow! Look, the dial finger's bent
Down to the last hour of thy punishment!”
But still she wailed, "I pray thee let me go!

I cannot rise to peace and leave him so.
Oh, let me soothe him in his bitter woe!"

The brazen gates ground sullenly ajar, And upward, joyous, like a rising star, She rose and vanished in the ether far.

But soon adown the dying sunset sailing,
And like a wounded bird her pinions trailing,
She fluttered back, with broken-hearted wailing.

LL thoughts, all passions, all delights,

AL

Whatever stirs this mortal frame,

All are but ministers of Love,

And feed his sacred flame.

Oft in my waking dreams do I
Live o'er again that happy hour,
When midway on the mount I lay
Beside the ruined tower.

The moonshine stealing o'er the scene
Had blended with the lights of eve;
And she was there, my hope, my joy,
My own dear Genevieve!

She leaned against the armed man,
The statue of the armed knight;
She stood and listened to my lay,
Amid the lingering light.

Few sorrows hath she of her own,
My hope my joy! my Genevieve!
She loves me best when'er I sing
The songs that make her grieve.

I played a soft and doleful air,

I sang an old and moving story

An old rude song, that suited well
That ruin wild and hoary.

She listened with a fitting blush,
With downcast eyes and modest grace;
For well she knew I could not choose
But gaze upon her face.

I told her of the knight that wore
Upon his shield a burning brand;
And that for ten long years he wooed
The lady of the land.

I told her how he pined; and ah!
The deep, the low, the pleading tone
With which I sang another's love
Interpreted my own.

She listened with a flitting blush,
With downcast eyes and modest grace;
And she forgave me that I gazed
Too fondly on her face.

But when I told the cruel scorn
That crazed that bold and lowly knight,
And that he crossed the mountain woods,
Nor rested day nor night;

That sometimes from the savage den,
And sometimes from the darksome shade,
And sometimes starting up at once

In green and sunny glade,

There came and looked him in the face

An angel beautiful and bright;

And that he knew it was a fiend,

This miserable knight !

And that, unknowing what he did,

He leaped amid a murderous band,
And saved from outrage worse than death
The lady of the land;