The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder,
The rattling musketry, the clashing blade;
And ever and anon, in tones of thunder,
The diapason1 of the cannonade.

Is it, O man, with such discordant noises,
With such accursèd instruments as these,
Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly voices,
And jarrest the celestial harmonies?

Were half the power, that fills the world with terror,
Were half the wealth, bestowed on camps and courts,
Given to redeem the human mind from error,
There were no need of arsenals" nor forts:

The warrior's name would be a name abhorrèd !
And every nation that should lift again
Its hand against a brother, on its forehead

Would wear for evermore the curse of Cain!
Down the dark future, through long generations,
The echoing sounds grow fainter, and then cease;
And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations,

I hear once more the voice of Christ say, 'Peace !'

Peace! and no longer from its brazen portals

The blast of War's great organ shakes the skies! But beautiful as songs of the immortals,

The holy melodies of love arise.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow: born, 1807.

(See page 14.)

RESIGNATION.

THERE is no flock, however watched and tended,
But one dead lamb is there!

There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended,

But has one vacant chair!

1 diapason-deep music.

2 arsenals-magazines or factories of arms and ammunition.

The air is full of farewells to the dying,
And mournings for the dead;

The heart of Rachel, for her children crying,
Will not be comforted!

Let us be patient! These severe afflictions
Not from the ground arise,

But oftentimes celestial benedictions
Assume this dark disguise.

We see but dimly through the mists and vapours;
Amid these earthly damps,

What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers
May be heaven's distant lamps.

There is no Death! What seems so is transition,
This life of mortal breath

Is but a suburb of the life elysian,1
Whose portal we call Death.

She is not dead,-the child of our affection,—
But gone unto that school

Where she no longer needs our poor protection,
And Christ himself doth rule.

In that great cloister's 2 stillness and seclusion,
By guardian angels led,

Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution,
She lives, whom we call dead.

Day after day we think what she is doing
In those bright realms of air;
Year after year her tender steps pursuing,
Behold her grown more fair.

Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken
The bond which nature gives,

Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken,
May reach her where she lives.

Not as a child shall we again behold her;
For when with raptures wild

In our embraces we again enfold her,
She will not be a child;

1 elysian-of joy.

2 cloister-see page 26.

But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion,
Clothed with celestial grace;

And beautiful with all the soul's expansion 1
Shall we behold her face.

And though at times impetuous with emotion
And anguish long suppressed,

The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean,
That cannot be at rest,-

We will be patient, and assuage the feeling
We may not wholly stay;

By silence sanctifying, not concealing,
The grief that must have way.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow: born, 1807.

(See page 14.)

THE GUARDIAN ANGEL.

(A Picture by Guercino.)

DEAR and great angel, wouldst thou only leave
That child, when thou hast done with him, for me!
Let me sit all the day here, that when eve
Shall find perform'd thy special ministry,
And time come for departing, thou, suspending
Thy flight, mayst see another child for tending,
Another still to quiet and retrieve.

Then I shall feel thee step one step, no more,
From where thou standest now, to where I gaze,
And suddenly my head is cover'd o'er

With those wings-white above the child who prays
Now in that tomb, and I shall feel thee guarding
Me, out of all the world; for me discarding

Yon heaven, thy home, that waits and opes its door!

I would not look up thither past thy head

Because the door opes, like that child I know, For I should have thy gracious face instead,

Thou bird of God! And wilt thou bend me low

1

1 beautiful... expansion-beautiful with pure spirituality.

Like him, and lay, like his, my hands together
And lift them up to pray, and gently tether

Me as thy lamb there, with thy garments spread?

If this was ever granted, I would rest

My head beneath thine, while thy healing hands Close covered both my eyes beside thy breast,

Pressing the brain, which too much thought expands,
Back to its proper size again, and smoothing
Distortion down, till every nerve had soothing,
And all lay quiet, happy, and suppressed.

How soon all worldly wrong would be repaired !
I think how I should view the earth and skies
And sea, when once again my brow was bared
After thy healing, with such different eyes.
O world! as God has made it! all is beauty:
And knowing this is love, and love is duty,

What further may be sought for or declared?

Robert Browning: born, 1812.

Few poets require more study, or better repay it than Mr. Browning. His thought is deep and complex, and his expression has none of the hesitation of choice. Hence his style is often intricate and involved. But he knows so well the workings of the human heart, that, to those who read and understand him, he is the truest of poets.

THE SPIRIT'S MYSTERIES.

THE power that dwelleth in sweet sounds to waken
Vague yearnings, like the sailors for the shore,
And dim remembrances, whose hue seems taken

From some bright former state, our own no more; Is not this all a mystery?-Who shall say

Whence are those thoughts, and whither tends their way?

The sudden images of vanish'd things,

That o'er the spirit flash, we know not why; Tones from some broken harp's deserted strings, Warm sunset hues of summers long gone by,

A rippling wave-the dashing of an oar-
A flower-scent floating past our parents' door-
A word-scarce noted in its hour perchance,
Yet back returning with a plaintive tone;
A smile-a sunny or a mournful glance,

Full of sweet meanings now from this world flown ;
Are not these mysteries when to life they start,
And press vain tears in gushes from the heart?

And the far wanderings of the soul in dreams,
Calling up shrouded faces from the dead,
And with them bringing soft or solemn gleams,
Familiar objects brightly to o'erspread;
And wakening buried love, or joy, or fear,-
These are night's mysteries—who shall make them clear?
And the strange inborn sense of coming ill,
That oft-times whispers to the haunted breast
In a low tone which nought can drown or still,
'Midst feasts and melodies a secret guest;
Whence doth that murmur wake, that shadow fall?
Why shakes the spirit thus?—'tis mystery all!
Darkly we move-we press upon the brink
Haply of viewless worlds, and know it not;
Yes! it may be, that nearer than we think,
Are those whom death has parted from our lot!
Fearfully, wondrously, our souls are made-
Let us walk humbly on, but undismay'd!
Humbly-for knowledge strives in vain to feel
Her way amidst these marvels of the mind;
Yet undismay'd-for do they not reveal

Th' immortal being with our dust entwin'd?—
So let us deem! and e'en the tears they wake
Shall then be blest, for that high nature's sake.

Felicia Dorothea Hemans: 1793-1835.

The poems of Mrs. Hemans are graceful and melodious, and rich with descriptions of beautiful things. She was married to Captain Hemans in 1812: six years later her husband went to Italy for the benefit of his health, and she never saw him again. Much of her poetical work was produced while she was living quietly in the English Lake district, and attending to the education of her five sons.