"Enough

Love dwells in the pipe-so ever it glows with fire!

I am the soul of the bush, and the spirits call me Sweet Brier."

That's what the brier-wood said, as nigh as my tongue can tell,

And the words went straight to my heart, like the stroke of the fire-bell.

To-night I lie in the clover, watching the blossomy smoke;

I'm glad the boys are asleep, for I ain't in the humor to joke.

I lie in the hefty clover: up between me and the

moon

The smoke of my pipe arises; my heart will be quiet, soon.

My thoughts are back in the city, I 'm everything I've been;

I hear the bell from the tower, I run with the swift machine,

I see the red shirts crowding around the enginehouse door,

The foreman's hail through the trumpet comes with a hollow roar.

The reel in the Bowery dance-house, the row in the beer-saloon,

Where I put in my licks at Big Paul, come between me and the moon.

I hear the drum and the bugle, the tramp of the

cow-skin boots,

We are marching on our muscle, the Fire-Zouave recruits!

White handkerchiefs wave before me-O, but the sight is pretty

On the white marble steps, as we march through the heart of the city.

Bright eyes and clasping arms, and lips that bade us good hap;

And the splendid lady who gave me the havelock for my cap.

O, up from my pipe-cloud rises, there between me and the moon,

A beautiful white-robed lady; my heart will be quiet, soon.

The lovely golden-haired lady ever in dreams I

see,

Who gave me the snow-white havelock-but what does she care for me?

Look at my grimy features; mountains between us stand:

I with my sledge-hammer knuckles, she with her jewelled hand!

What care I?-the day that 's dawning may see me, when all is over,

With the red stream of my life-blood staining the hefty clover.

Hark! the reveille sounding out on the morning

air;

Devils are we for the battle- Will there be angels there?

Kiss me again, Sweet Brier, the touch of your lip to mine

Brings back the white-robed lady with hair like the golden wine!

CHARLES DAWSON SHANLY.

MEMORY AND OBLIVION.

ALL hail, Remembrance and Forgetfulness!
Trace, Memory, trace whate'er is sweet or kind:
When friends forsake us or misfortunes press,
Oblivion, 'rase the record from our mind.

From the Greek of MACEDONIUS.

Translation of ROBERT BLAND.

21

IV.

THOUGHT: POETRY: BOOKS.

THE INNER VISION.

Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes
To pace the ground, if path there be or none,
While a fair region round the traveller lies
Which he forbears again to look upon;
Pleased rather with some soft ideal scene,
The work of fancy, or some happy tone
Of meditation, slipping in between
The beauty coming and the beauty gone.
If Thought and Love desert us, from that day
Let us break off all commerce with the Muse:
With Thought and Love companions of our way,-
Whate'er the senses take or may refuse,-—

The mind's internal Heaven shall shed her dews
Of inspiration on the humblest lay.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

THOUGHT.

THOUGHT is deeper than all speech,
Feeling deeper than all thought;
Souls to souls can never teach

What unto themselves was taught.

322

We are spirits clad in veils ;

Man by man was never seen; All our deep communing fails

To remove the shadowy screen.

Heart to heart was never known;
Mind with mind did never meet;
We are columns left alone

Of a temple once complete.

Like the stars that gem the sky,
Far apart, though seeming near,

In our light we scattered lie;
All is thus but starlight here.

What is social company

But a babbling summer stream?

What our wise philosophy

But the glancing of a dream?

Only when the sun of love

Melts the scattered stars of thought,

Only when we live above

What the dim-eyed world hath taught,

Only when our souls are fed

By the fount which gave them birth,

And by inspiration led

Which they never drew from earth,

We, like parted drops of rain,

Swelling till they meet and run,

Shall be all absorbed again,

Melting, flowing into one.

CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH.