Out clanged the Ave Mary bells,
And to my heart this message came :
Each clamorous throat among them tells
What strong-souled martyrs died in
flame

To make it possible that thou
Shouldst here with brother sinners bow.

Thoughts that great hearts once broke for, we

Breathe cheaply in the common air; The dust we trample heedlessly Throbbed once in saints and heroes

rare,

Who perished, opening for their race New pathways to the commonplace.

Henceforth, when rings the health to those

Who live in story and in song,
O nameless dead, who now repose
Safe in Oblivion's chambers strong,
One cup of recognition true
Shall silently be drained to you!

WITHOUT AND WITHIN.

My coachman, in the moonlight there, Looks through the side-light of the door;

I hear him with his brethren swear,
As I could do, but only more.
Flattening his nose against the pane,
He envies me my brilliant lot,
Breathes on his aching fists in vain,
And dooms me to a place more hot.

He sees me in to supper go,

A silken wonder by my side, Bare arms, bare shoulders, and a row Of flounces, for the door too wide. He thinks how happy is my arm 'Neath its white-gloved and jewelled load:

And wishes me some dreadful harm,

Hearing the merry corks explode.

Meanwhile I inly curse the bore
Of hunting still the same old coon,
And envy him, outside the door,
In golden quiets of the moon.

The winter wind is not so cold

As the bright smile he sees me win, Nor the host's oldest wine so old As our poor gabble sour and thin. I envy him the ungyved prance

By which his freezing feet he warms, And drag my lady's-chains and dance The galley-slave of dreary forms.

O, could he have my share of din,
And I his quiet! - past a doubt
'T would still be one man bored within,
And just another bored without.

GODMINSTER CHIMES.

WRITTEN IN AID OF A CHIME OF BELLS FOR CHRIST CHURCH, CAMBRIDGE.

GODMINSTER? Is it Fancy's play?
I know not, but the word
Sings in my heart, nor can I say
Whether 't was dreamed or heard;
Yet fragrant in my mind it clings
As blossoms after rain,

And builds of half-remembered things
This vision in my brain.

Through aisles of long-drawn centuries
My spirit walks in thought,
And to that symbol lifts its eyes

Which God's own pity wrought:
From Calvary shines the altar's gleam,
The Church's East is there,
The Ages one great minster seem,

That throbs with praise and prayer.

And all the way from Calvary down
The carven pavement shows
Their graves who won the martyr's

crown

And safe in God repose; The saints of many a warring creed Who now in heaven have learned That all paths to the Father lead Where Self the feet have spurned.

And, as the mystic aisles I pace, By aureoled workmen built, Lives ending at the Cross I trace Alike through grace and guilt:

One Mary bathes the blessed feet

With ointment from her eyes, With spikenard one, and both are sweet, For both are sacrifice.

Moravian hymn and Roman chant
In one devotion blend,
To speak the soul's eternal want
Of Him, the inmost friend;
One prayer soars cleansed with martyr
fire,

One choked with sinner's tears,
In heaven both meet in one desire,
And God one music hears.

Whilst thus I dream, the bells clash out
Upon the Sabbath air,

Each seems a hostile faith to shout,
A selfish form of prayer;

My dream is shattered, yet who knows
But in that heaven so near
These discords find harmonious close
In God's atoning ear?

O chime of sweet Saint Charity,
Peal soon that Easter morn
When Christ for all shall risen be,
And in all hearts new-born!
That Pentecost when utterance clear
To all men shall be given,
When all shall say My Brother here,
And hear My Son in heaven!

I felt Youth's hand grow slack and cold in mine,

As if to be withdrawn, and I replied: "O, leave the hot wild heart within my breast!

Duty comes soon enough, too soon comes Death;

This slippery globe of life whirls of itself,

Hasting our youth away into the dark; These senses, quivering with electric heats,

Too soon will show, like nests on wintry boughs Obtrusive emptiness, too palpable wreck,

Which whistling northwinds line with downy snow

Sometimes, or fringe with foliaged rime, in vain,

Thither the singing birds no more return.'

After long weary days I stood again And waited at the Parting of the Ways; Again the figure of a woman veiled Stood forth and beckoned, and I followed now:

Down to no bower of roses led the path. But through the streets of towns where chattering Cold

Hewed wood for fires whose glow was owned and fenced,

Where Nakedness wove garments of warm wool

Not for itself; - or through the fields it led

Where Hunger reaped the unattainable grain,

Where Idleness enforced saw idle lands, Leagues of unpeopled soil, the common earth,

Walled round with paper against God and Man.

"I cannot look," I groaned, “at only these;

The heart grows hardened with perpetual wont,

And palters with a feigned necessity, Bargaining with itself to be content; Let me behold thy face."

The Form replied: "Men follow Duty, never overtake; Duty nor lifts her veil nor looks behind."

But, as she spake, a loosened lock of hair

Slipped from beneath her hood, and I, who looked

To see it gray and thin, saw amplest gold;

Not that dull metal dug from sordid earth,

But such as the retiring sunset flood Leaves heaped on bays and capes of island cloud.

"O Guide divine," I prayed, "although not yet

I may repair the virtue which I feel Gone out at touch of untuned things and foul

With draughts of Beauty, yet declare how soon!"

"Faithless and faint of heart," the voice returned,

"Thou see'st no beauty save thou make it first;

WHEN I was a beggarly boy,
And lived in a cellar damp,
I had not a friend nor a toy,

But I had Aladdin's lamp;
When I could not sleep for cold,

I had fire enough in my brain, And builded, with roofs of gold,

My beautiful castles in Spain !

Since then I have toiled day and night, I have money and power good store, But I'd give all my lamps of silver bright,

For the one that is mine no more ; Take, Fortune, whatever you choose, You gave, and may snatch again;

He needs no ship to cross the tide,
Who, in the lives about him, sees
Fair window-prospects opening wide
O'er history's fields on every side,
To Ind and Egypt, Rome and Greece.

Whatever moulds of various brain
E'er shaped the world to weal or woe,
Whatever empires' wax and wane,
To him that hath not eyes in vain,
Our village-microcosm can show.

Come back our ancient walks to tread,
Dear haunts of lost or scattered friends,
Old Harvard's scholar-factories red,
Where song and smoke and laughter

Up a ridged beach of cloudy gay,
Curved round the east as round a bay,
It slips and spreads its gradual tide.
Then suddenly, in lurid mood,
The moon looms large o'er town and
field

As upon Adam, red like blood,
'Tween him and Eden's happy wood,
Glared the commissioned angel's shield.
Or let us seek the seaside, there
To wander idly as we list,
Whether, on rocky headlands bare,
Sharp cedar-horns, like breakers, tear
The trailing fringes of gray mist,

Or whether, under skies full flown,
The brightening surfs, with foamy din,
Their breeze-caught forelocks backward
blown,

Against the beach's yellow zone,
Curl slow, and plunge forever in.

And, as we watch those canvas towers
That lean along the horizon's rim,
"Sail on," I'll say ; may sunniest

hours