So, pine-like, the legend grew, strong-limbed and

tall, As the Gipsy child grows that eats crusts in the

hall; It sucked the whole strength of the earth and the

sky, Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter, all brought it sup

ply ; 'Twas a natural growth, and stood fearlessly there, A true art of the landscape as sea, land, and

air; For it grew in good times, ere the fashion it was To force up these wild births of the woods under

glass, And so, if ’tis told as it should be told, Though 'twere sung under Venice's moonlight of

gold, You would hear the old voice of its mother, the

pine, Murmur sealike and northern through every line, And the verses should hang, self-sustained and free, Round the vibrating stem of the melody, Like the lithe sun-steeped limbs of the parent tree. Yes, the pine is the mother of legends; what food For their grim roots is left when the thousand

yeared woodThe dim-aisled cathedral, whose tall arches spring Light, sinewy, graceful, firm-set as the wing From Michael's white shoulder-is hewn and de

faced By iconoclast axes in desperate waste, And its wrecks seek the ocean it prophesied long, Cassandra-like, crooning its mystical song ? Then the legends go with them,—even yet on the


A wild virtue is left in the touch of the tree,


And the sailor's night-watches are thrilled to the
With the lineal offspring of Odin and Thor.
Yes, wherever the pine-wood has never let in,
Since the day of creation, the light and the din
Of manifold life, but has safely conveyed
From the midnight primeval its armful of shade,
And has kept the weird Past with its sagas alive
'Mid the hum and the stir of To-day's busy hive,
There the legend takes root in the age-gathered

gloom, And its murmurous boughs for their tossing find


Where Aroostook, far-heard, seems to sob as he

goes Groping down to the sea 'neath his mountainous

snows; Where the lake's frore Sahara of never-tracked

white, When the crack shoots across it, complains to the

night With a long, lonely moan, that leagues northward

is lost, As the ice shrinks away from the tread of the frost; Where the lumberers sit by the log-fires which

throw Their own threatening shadows far round o'er the

snow, When the wolf howls aloof, and the wavering glare Flashes out from the blackness the eyes of the bear, When the wood's huge recesses, half-lighted, supply A canvas where Fancy her mad brush may try, Blotting in giant Horrors that venture not down Through the right-angled streets of the brisk, whitemay dream,

washed town,

But skulk in the depths of the measureless wood 'Mid the Dark's creeping whispers that curdle the

blood, When the eye, glanced in dread o'er the shoulder, Ere it shrinks to the camp-fire's companioning

gleam, That it saw the fierce ghost of the Red Man crouch

back To the shroud of the tree-trunk's invincible

black ;There the old shapes crowd thick round the pine

shadowed camp, Which shun the keen gleam of the scholarly lamp, And the seed of the legend finds true Norland A CONTRAST.

ground, While the border-tale's told and the canteen flits


Thy love thou sentest oft to me,

And still as oft I thrust it back ; Thy messengers I could not see

În those who every thing did lack,

The poor, the outcast, and the black. Pride held his hand before mine eyes,

The world with flattery stuffed mine ears ; I looked to see a monarch's guise,

Nor dreamed thy love would knock for years, Poor, naked, fettered, full of tears.

Yet, when I sent my love to thee,

Thou with a smile didst take it in, And entertain’dst it royally,

Though grimed with earth, with hunger thin, And leprous with the taint of sin.

Now every day thy love I meet,

As o'er the earth it wanders wide,
With weary step and bleeding feet,

Still knocking at the heart of pride
And offering

grace, though still denied.


Go! leave me, Priest; my soul would be

Alone with the consoler, Death; Far sadder eyes than thine will see

This crumbling clay yield up its breath ; These shrivelled hands have deeper stains

Than holy oil can cleanse away,Hands that have plucked the world's coarse gains

As erst they plucked the flowers of May.

Call, if thou canst, to those gray eyes

Some faith from youth's traditions wrung; This fruitless husk which dustward dries

Has been a heart once, has been young; On this bowed head the awful Past

Once laid its consecrating hands ; The Future in its purpose vast

Paused, waiting my supreme commands.

But look! whose shadows block the door?

Who are those two that stand aloof? See! on my hands this freshening gore

Writes o’er again its crimson proof! My looked-for death-bed guests are met ;

There my dead Youth doth wring its hands, And there, with eyes that goad me yet,

The ghost of my Ideal stands !
God bends from out the deep and says,

I gave thee the great gift of life;
Wast thou not called in many ways ?

Are not my earth and heaven at strife ?


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