LINKS.

ARE there not voices strangely sweet,
And tones of music strangely dear?
So lovingly the soul they greet,

So kindly steal they on the ear.

We know not why they strike so deep,
We cannot tell the secret spring
Within us, which they wake from sleep,
Nor how such thoughts their notes can bring.
We ask not why nor how they thrill
So keenly through the inmost soul ;
And why, when ceased, we listen still,
As though they yet upon us stole.
We feel the sweetness of the voice;
We love the richness of the tone;
It makes us sorrow or rejoice,

Compelling us its power to own.

Are there not words, too, strangely sweet, Thoughts, musings, memories, strangely dear? So lovingly the soul they greet,

So gently steal they on the ear!

Common the words may be and weak,
The passing stranger heeds them not;
To other ears in vain they speak,
Unknown, unrelished, or forgot.

Rich in old thoughts, these words appear
Part of our being's mighty whole;
Linked with our life's strange story here,
Knit to each feeling of our soul.

Linked with the scenes of days gone past,
With all life's earnest hopes and fears,
Linked with the smiles that did not last,
The joys and griefs of faded years.

Linked with old dreams once dreamt in youth,
When dreams were gladder, truer things,
When each night's vision of bright truth,
Lent to each buoyant day its wings.

Linked with the whisper of the trees,
When summer-eves were fair and still;
Set to the music of the breeze,

Or murmur of the twilight rill.

Linked with some scene of sacred calm,
Of holy places, holy days;

Linked with the prayer, the hymn, the psalm,
The multitude's glad voice of praise.

Linked with the names of holy men,
Martyr, or saint, or brother dear;
Some parted, ne'er to meet again,
Some still our fellow-pilgrims here.

Horatius Bonar: born, 1808.

(See page 31.)

SPRING.

THE Spring is here-the delicate-footed May,
With its slight fingers full of leaves and flowers,
And with it comes a thirst to be away,

In lovelier scenes to pass these sweeter hours,—
A feeling like the worm's1 awakening wings,
Wild for companionship with swifter things.

We pass out from the city's feverish hum,
To find refreshment in the silent woods;
And nature, that is beautiful and dumb,

Like a cool sleep upon the pulses broods—
Yet, even there, a restless thought will steal,
To teach the indolent heart it still must feel.

Strange, that the audible stillness of the noon,
The waters tripping with their silver feet,
The turning to the light of leaves in June,
And the light whisper as their edges meet-

1

worm-chrysalis.

2 audible stillness-the figure of speech consisting of a word thus qualified by an epithet of opposite meaning is called an oxymoron, and is frequently found in poetry,

Strange that they fill not, with their tranquil tone,
The spirit, walking in their midst alone.

There's no contentment in a world like this,
Save in forgetting the immortal dream;
We may not gaze upon the stars of bliss,
That through the cloud-rifts radiantly stream;
Bird-like, the prison'd soul will lift its eye
And pine-till it is hooded from the sky.1

Nathaniel Parker Willis.

An American poet: 1806-1867. Mr. Willis was a miscel laneous writer, who excelled in light descriptive sketches. His poetry is sweet and tender-not robust.

OFT IN THE STILLY NIGHT.

OFT in the stilly night,

Ere Slumber's chain has bound me,

Fond Memory brings the light

Of other days around me ;
The smiles, the tears,
Of boyhood's years,

The words of love then spoken;

The eyes that shone,

Now dimmed and gone,

The cheerful hearts now broken!

Thus, in the stilly night,

Ere Slumber's chain has bound me,

Sad Memory brings the light

Of other days around me.

When I remember all

The friends, so linked together,
I've seen around me fall,

1 bird-like

Like leaves in wintry weather,
I feel like one

Who treads alone

will long for it.

Some banquet-hall deserted
Whose lights are fled,
Whose garlands dead,
And all but he departed!

Thus, in the stilly night,

Ere Slumber's chain has bound me,

Sad Memory brings the light

Of other days around me.

Thomas Moore: 1779–1852.

(See page 4.)

FROM "ENDYMION."

A THING of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep

Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,

Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darken'd ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils,
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
'Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms;
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
All lovely tales that we have heard or read :
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.

Nor do we merely feel these essences
For one short hour; no, even as the trees

That whisper round a temple become soon
Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon
The passion poesy, glories infinite

Haunt us till they become a cheering light
Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast,
That whether there be shine, or gloom o'ercast,
They alway must be with us, or we die.

John Keats: 1795-1821.

Keats began life as a surgeon's apprentice. His first poems were published in 1817. In 1818, Endymion appeared, and was so savagely criticised in an important literary magazine, that the health of the sensitive young poet was seriously affected by his mortification. He continued to write, and produced Hyperion, Lamia, The Eve of St. Agnes, and other poems, and his wonderful genius soon met full recognition. But consumption had seized upon him, and having been taken to Italy as a last resource in September 1820, he died there the following year. The poems of Keats are richly imaginative, and strangely musical.

TO TRANQUILLITY.

TRANQUILLITY! thou better name
Than all the family of Fame !
Thou ne'er wilt leave my riper age
To low intrigue, or factious rage;2

For oh dear child of thoughtful Truth,

To thee I gave my early youth,

And left the bark, and blest the steadfast shore,
Ere yet the tempest rose and scared me with its roar.

Who late and lingering seeks thy shrine,

On him but seldom, Power divine,

Thy spirit rests! Satiety 3

4

And Sloth, poor counterfeits of thee,

1 intrigue-evil plotting or scheming.

2 factious rage-the turbulence of party-politics.

3 satiety-surfeit, loss of enjoyment from over-indulgence. 4 counterfeits-imitations.