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THE DIAMOND.

I ONLY polished am in mine own dust

Naught else against my hardness will prevail:

And thou, O man, in thine own sufferings must

Be polished: every meaner art will fail.

FALLING STARS.

ANGELS are we, that, once from heaven exiled,

Would climb its crystal battlements again;

But have their keen-eyed watchers not beguiled,

Hurled by their glittering lances back amain.

HARMOSAN.

Now the third and fatal conflict for the Persian throne was done,
And the Moslem's fiery valor had the crowning victory won.

Harmosan, the last and boldest the invader to defy,
Captive overborne by numbers, they were bringing forth to die.

Then exclaimed that noble captive: "Lo! I perish in my thirst;
Give me but one drink of water, and let then arrive the worst!"

In his hand he took the goblet, but awhile the draught forbore,
Seeming doubtfully the purpose of the foemen to explore.

Well might then have paused the bravest - for around him angry foes With a hedge of naked weapons did that lonely man enclose.

"But what fear'st thou ?" cried the caliph;" is it, friend, a secret blow? Fear it not!- our gallant Moslem no such treacherous dealing know.

"Thou mayst quench thy thirst securely, for thou shalt not die before Thou hast drunk that cup of water- this reprieve is thine-no more!"

Quick the satrap dashed the goblet down to earth with ready hand,
And the liquid sank for ever, lost amid the burning sand.

"Thou hast said that mine my life is, till the water of that cup
I have drained; then bid thy servants that spilled water gather up!"

For a moment stood the caliph as by doubtful passions stirred
Then exclaimed: For ever sacred must remain a monarch's word.

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Bring another cup, and straightway to the noble Persian give: Drink, I said before, and perish-now I bid thee drink and live!"

JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE.

THE NAME IN THE BARK.

THE self of so long ago,

And the self I struggle to know,

I sometimes think we are two,- or are we shadows of one?
To-day the shadow I am

Returns in the sweet summer calm

To trace where the earlier shadow flitted awhile in the sun.

Once more in the dewy morn

I came through the whispering corn;

Cool to my fevered cheek soft breezy kisses were blown;
The ribboned and tasselled grass

Leaned over the flattering glass,

And the sunny waters trilled the same low musical tone.

To the gray old birch I came,

Where I whittled my school-boy name:

The nimble squirrel once more ran skippingly over the rail,
The blackbirds down among

The alders noisily sung,

And under the blackberry-brier whistled the serious quail.

I came, remembering well

How my little shadow fell,

As I painfully reached and wrote to leave to the future a sign:
There, stooping a little, I found

A half-healed, curious wound.

An ancient scar in the bark, but no initial of mine!

Then the wise old boughs overhead

Took counsel together, and said,—

And the buzz of their leafy lips like a murmur of prophecy passed,— He is busily carving a name

In the tough old wrinkles of fame;

But, cut he as deep as he may, the lines will close over at last!"

Sadly I pondered awhile,

Then I lifted my soul with a smile,

And I said " Not cheerful men, but anxious children are we,
Still hurting ourselves with the knife,

As we toil at the letters of life,

Just marring a little the rind, never piercing the heart of the tree."

And now by the rivulet's brink

I leisurely saunter, and think

How idle this strife will appear when circling ages have run,

If then the real I am

Descend from the heavenly calm,

To trace where the shadow I seem once flitted awhile in the sun.

THE RESTORED PICture.

In later years, veiling its unblest face
In a most loathsome place,
The cheap adornment of a house of
shame,

It hung, till, gnawed away
By tooth of slow decay,

It fell, and parted from its mouldering frame.

The rotting canvas, faintly smiling still,

From worldly puff and frill, Its ghastly smile of coquetry and pride,

Crumpling its faded charms And yellow jewelled arms, Mere rubbish now, was rudely cast aside.

The shadow of a Genius crossed the

gate:

He, skilled to re-create

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The soul so long concealed!

In old and ruined paintings their lost All heavenly faint at first, then softly

soul

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The Art that slept beneath.A chrysalis in its sheath, That waited to be waked to life again.

Upon enduring canvas to renew

Each wondrous trait and hue,-
This is the miracle, his chosen task!
He bears it to his house,
And there from lips and brows
With loving touch removes their alien
mask.

For so on its perfection time had laid
An early mellowing shade;
Then hands unskilled, each seeking
to impart

Fresh tints to form and face. With some more modern grace, Had buried quite the mighty Master's Art.

A

bright,

As smiles the young-eyed Dawn When darkness is withdrawn, shining angel breaks upon the sight!

Restored, perfected, after the divine Imperishable design,

Lo, now! that once despised and outcast thing

Holds its true place among
The fairest pictures hung

In the high palace of our Lord the
King!

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Tipping the apple-boughs, and each Light quivering twig of plum and peach.

On turf and curb and bower-roof The snow storm spreads its ivory woof;

It paves with pearl the garden walk; And lovingly round tattered stalk And shivering stem its magic weaves A mantle fair as lily-leaves.

The hooded beehive, small and low, Stands like a maiden in the snow; And the old door-slab is half hid Under an alabaster lid.

All day it snows: the sheeted post
Gleams in the dimness like a ghost;
All day the blasted oak has stood
A muffled wizard of the wood;
Garland and airy cap adorn
The sumach and the wayside thorn.
And clustering spangles lodge and
shine

In the dark tresses of the pine.

The ragged bramble, dwarfed and old,
Shrinks like a beggar in the cold;
In surplice white the cedar stands,
And blesses him with priestly hands.

Still cheerily the chickadee
Singeth to me on fence and tree:
But in my inmost ear is heard
The music of a holier bird;
And heavenly thoughts, as soft and
white

As snow-flakes, on my soul alight,
Clothing with love my lonely heart,
Healing with peace each bruised
part,

Till all my being seems to be
Transfigured by their purity.

MIDSUMMER.

BECALMED along the azure sky,
The argosies of cloudland lie,
Whose shores, with many a shining
rift,

Far off their pearl-white peaks uplift.

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The butterfly and bumble-bee
Come to the pleasant woods with me;
Quickly before me runs the quail,
Her chickens skulk behind the rail;
High up the lone wood-pigeon sits,
And the woodpecker pecks and flits.
Sweet woodland music sinks and
swells,

The brooklet rings its tinkling bells, The swarming insects drone and hum.

The partridge beats his throbbing drum,

The squirrel leaps among the boughs,
And chatters in his leafy house.
The oriole flashes by; and look!
Into the mirror of the brook,

Where the vain bluebird trims his

coat,

Two tiny feathers fall and float.

As silently, as tenderly, The down of peace descends on me. O, this is peace! I have no need | Of friend to talk, of book to read:

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