Did I pray to-sans reply;
Devil take the tribe !-said I.
Worn with travel, tired and lame,
To Assisi's walls I came :
Sad and full of home-sick fancies,
I address'd me to Saint Francis ;
But the beggar never did
Any thing as he was bid,
Never gave me aught—but fleas,—
Plenty had I at Assise.
But in Provence, near Vaucluse,
Hard by the Rhone, I found a Saint
Gifted with a wondrous juice,
Potent for the worst complaint,
'Twas at Avignon that first-
In the witching time of thirst-
To my brain the knowledge came
Of this blessed Catholic's name;
Forty miles of dust that day
Made me welcome Saint Peray.
Though till then I had not heard
Aught about him, ere a third
Of a litre pass'd my lips,
All saints else were in eclipse.
For his gentle spirit glided
With such magic into mine,
That methought such bliss as I did
Poet never drew from wine.
Rest he gave me, and refection,—
Chasten'd hopes, calm retrospection,-
Soften'd images of sorrow,
Bright forebodings for the morrow,-
Charity for what is past,-
Faith in something good at last.
Now, why should any almanack
The name of this good creature lack?
Or wherefore should the breviary
Omit a Saint so sage and merry?
The Pope himself should grant a day
Especially to Saint Peray.
But, since no day hath been appointed,
On purpose, by the Lord's Anointed,
Let us not wait, we'll do him right;
Send round your bottles, Hal! and set your night.
WHAT shall we do now, Mary being dead,
Or say, or write, that shall express the half?
What can we do but pillow that fair head
And let the spring-time write her epitaph?
As it will soon in snow-drop, violet,
Wind-flower, and columbine, and maiden's tear,Each letter of that pretty alphabet
That spells in flowers the pageant of the year.
She was a maiden for a man to love,
She was a woman for a husband's life,
One that had learn'd to value far above
The name of Love the sacred name of Wife.
Her little life-dream, rounded so with sleep,
Had all there is of life-except gray hairs:
Hope, love, trust, passion, and devotion deep,
And that mysterious tie a Mother bears.
She hath fulfill'd her promise and hath past.
Set her down gently at the iron door!
Eyes! look on that loved image for the last:
Now cover it in earth-her earth no more!
CHIMNEY Swallows! homeward hie!
You shall have my Lady's eye
To look and love you, now and then,
When she lays down her book or pen,
Shut wholly from the world of men.
In her chamber if you build,
With her smile you shall be fill'd :
Nevermore will you desire
To wander from her happy fire,
But fluttering in your new-found nest
Say to each other" Here we rest!"
O, had I but your pinions, too!
Full well I know what I would do.
I know where I would dwell to-night,
Where lamp and fire and eyes are bright,
And where the music never fails.
Even if the instrument be still,
There is a music that prevails
Beyond the master's highest skill:
Such harmony as flows from love-
Not passionate-but full of peace;
Past understanding, and above
Music,-most felt when that doth cease.
WILLIAM ROSS WALLACE.
Born at Lexington, Kentucky, 1819
THE GODS OF OLD.
Not realmless sit the ancient gods
Upon their misty thrones.
In that old glorious Grecian heaven
A languor on their awful forms may lie,
And a deep grief upon their large white brows,
King-dwellers of the sky.
But still they show the might of God,
In rustless panoply.
They cannot fade, though other creeds
Came burden'd with their curse,
And One's apotheosis was
A darken'd universe:
No tempest heralded the orient light;
No fiery portent walk'd the solemn night;
No conqueror's blood-red banner was unfurl'd;
No volcan shook its warning torch on high;
No earthquake tore the pulses of the world;
No pale suns wander'd through the swarthy sky;
Only the silent Spheres
Amid the darkness shed some joyous tears;
And then, as rainbows come, it came
With morning's lambent flame.
The Stars look'd from their palaces, whose spires
And windows caught afar the prophet-glow,
And bade their choirs sing to the sweetest lyres,
"Peace and good will unto the orb below!"
The monarchs shudder'd and turn'd sick at heart;
And from their bright hands fell
Gemm'd sceptres with a thunderous sound
Before the miracle:
Ah! sick at soul:-but they, the bards,
Song's calm immortals in the eclipse,
Throng'd up and held the nectar-cup
To their pale lips;
And each, with an eager, fond look, stirr'd
Certain melodious strings,
While the startled tempest-bearing bird,
Poised tremblingly his wings:
Then loftier still their harps resounded,
And louder yet their voices roll'd
Between the arches, and rebounded
Dreamily from the roof of gold:
"Ye cannot leave your throned spheres, Though faith is o'er,
And a mightier ONE than JOVE
On Earth's expectant shore!"
Slowly the daring words went trampling through the
"Not in the earth, nor hell, nor sky,
The IDEAL, O ye gods! can ever die,
But to the soul of man immortal calls.
"Still, Jove, sublime, shall wrap
His awful forehead in Olympian shrouds,
Or take along the heavens' dark wilderness
His thunder-chase behind the hunted clouds:
And mortal eyes upturned shall behold
APOLLO's rustling robe of gold
Sweep through the corridors of the ancient sky
That kindling speaks its Deity:
And HE, the ruler of the sunless land
Of restless ghosts, shall fitfully illume
With smouldering fires that stir in cavern'd eyes
Hell's house of shuddering gloom:
Still the ethereal huntress, as of old,
Shall roam amid the sacred Latmos mountains,
And lave her virgin limbs in waters cold
That earth holds up for her in marble fountains ;
And in his august dreams along the Italian streams,
The poor old throneless god, with angry frown,
Will feebly grasp the air for his lost
Then murmur sadly low of his great overthrow:
And wrapp'd in sounding mail shall he appear,
War's giant charioteer,-
And where the conflict reels
Urge through the swaying lines his crashing wheels;
Or pause to list, amid the horrent shades,
The deep hoarse cry of battle's thirsty blades,
Led by the hungry spear,
Till at the weary combat's close
They gave their passionate thanks,
Amid the panting ranks of conquer'd foes;
Then, drunken with their king's red wine,
Go swooning to repose around his purple shrine.
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