I knew it was the wing that must upbear

My earthlier form into the realms of air.

"Thou knowest how we gained that beauteous height,
Where dwells the monarch of the sons of light;

Thou knowest he declared us two to be
The chosen servants of his ministry—
Thou as his messenger, a sacred sign
Of conquest, or with omen more benign,
To give its due weight to the righteous cause,
To express the verdict of Olympian laws.

"And I to wait upon the lonely Spring,

Which slakes the thirst of bards to whom 'tis given The destined dues of hopes divine to sing,

And weave the needed chain to bind to heaven:

Only from such could be obtained a draught

For him who in his early home from Jove's own cup

quaffed.

“To wait, to wait, but not to wait too long,

Till heavy grows the burden of a song;

O bird! too long hast thou been gone to-day,

My feet are weary of their frequent way,

has

The spell that opes the Spring my tongue no more can

say.

If soon thou com'st not, night will fall around,

My head with a sad slumber will be bound,
And the pure draught be spilt upon the ground.

"Remember that I am not yet divine ;
Long years of service to the fatal Nine
Are yet to make a Delphian vigour mine,

Oh, make them not too hard, thou bird of Jove!
Answer the stripling's hope, confirm his love;
Receive the service in which he delights,
And bear him often to the serene heights,
Where hands that were so prompt in serving thee
Shall be allowed the highest ministry,
And Rapture live with bright Fidelity."

A

WEAVER sat by the side of his loom,
A-flinging his shuttle fast;

And a thread that would wear till the hour of doom
Was added at every cast.

His

warp had been by the angels spun,

And his weft was bright and new,

Like threads which the morning unbraids from the sun,
All jewelled over with dew.

And fresh-lipped, bright-eyed, beautiful flowers
In the rich, soft web were bedded;

And blithe to the weaver sped onward the hours:
Not yet were Time's feet leaded!

But something there came slow stealing by,
And a shade on the fabric fell;

And I saw that the shuttle less blithely did fly--
For Thought hath a wearisome speli !

And a thread that next o'er the warp was lain,

Was of melancholy gray;

And anon I marked there a tear-drop's stain,
Where the flowers had fallen away.

But still the weaver kept weaving on,

Though the fabric all was gray;

And the flowers, and the buds, and the leaves, were gone,
And the gold threads cankered lay.

And dark-and still darker-and darker grew
Each newly-woven thread;

And some there were of a death-mocking hue,
And some of a bloody red.

And things all strange were woven in—

Sighs, and down-crushed hopes, and fears;
And the web was broken, and poor, and thin,
And it dripped with living tears.

And the weaver fain would have flung it aside,
But he knew it would be a sin;

So in light and in gloom the shuttle he plied,
A-weaving these life-cords in.

And as he wove, and, weeping, still wove,
A tempter stole him nigh;

And, with glozing words, he to win him strove
But the weaver turned his eye.

He upward turned his eye to heaven,
And still wove on-on-on!

Till the last, last cord from his heart was riven,
And the tissue strange was done.

Then he threw it about his shoulders bowed,
And about his grizzled head;

And, gathering close the folds of his shroud,
Laid him down among the dead.

And I after saw, in a robe of light,
The weaver in the sky:

The angels' wings were not more bright,
And the stars grew pale it nigh.

And I saw,

mid the folds, all the iris-hued flowers That beneath his touch had sprung;

More beautiful far than these stray ones of ours,
Which the angels have to us flung.

And wherever a tear had fallen down,
Gleamed out a diamond rare;
And jewels befitting a monarch's crown
Were the footprints left by Care.

And wherever had swept the breath of a sigh,
Was left a rich perfume;

And with light from the fountain of bliss in the sky Shone the labour of Sorrow and Gloom.

And then I prayed, "When my last work is done, And the silver life-cord riven,

Be the stain of Sorrow the deepest one

That I bear with me to heaven!"

Rufus Dawes.

THE SPIRIT OF BEAUTY.

HE Spirit of Beauty unfurls her light,

THE

And wheels her course in a joyous flight; I know her track through the balmy air,

By the blossoms that cluster and whiten there;
She leaves the tops of the mountains green,
And gems the valley with crystal sheen.

At morn, I know where she rested at night,
For the roses are gushing with dewy delight;
Then she mounts again, and round her flings
A shower of light from her crimson wings;
Till the spirit is drunk with the music on high,
That silently fills it with ecstasy.

At noon she hies to a cool retreat,

Where bowering elms over waters meet;

She dimples the wave where the green leaves dip,
As it smilingly curls like a maiden's lip,
When her tremulous bosom would hide, in vain,
From her lover, the hope that she loves again.

At eve she hangs o'er the western sky
Dark clouds for a glorious canopy,
And round the skirts of their deepened fold
She paints a border of purple and gold,
Where the lingering sunbeams love to stay,
When their god in his glory has passed away.