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There is no Death! What seems so is transition;
This life of mortal breath
Is but a suburb of the life elysian,
She is not dead,-the child of our affection,-
Where she no longer needs our poor protection,
In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion,
Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution,
Day after day we think what she is doing
Year after year, her tender steps pursuing,
Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken
Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken,
May reach her where she lives.
Not as a child shall we again behold her
In our embraces we again enfold her,
But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion,
And beautiful with all the soul's expansion
And though at times impetuous with emotion
And anguish long suppressed,
The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean,
That cannot be at rest,
We will be patient, and assuage the feeling
We may not wholly stay;
By silence sanctifying, not concealing,
The grief that must have way.
ALL are architects of Fate,
Working in these walls of Time;
Nothing useless is or low;
Each thing in its place is best;
For the structure that we raise,
Are the blocks with which we build.
Truly shape and fashion these;
In the elder days of Art,
Builders wrought with greatest care
For the gods see everywhere.
Let us do our work as well,
Both the unseen and the seen;
Else our lives are incomplete,
Build to-day, then, strong and sure,
Shall to-morrow find its place.
Thus alone can we attain
To those turrets, where the eye
SAND OF THE DESERT IN AN HOUR-GLASS. ·
A HANDFUL of red sand, from the hot clime
Within this glass becomes the spy of Time,
How many weary centuries has it been
How many strange vicissitudes has seen,
Perhaps the camels of the Ishmaelite
When into Egypt from the patriarch's sight
Perhaps the feet of Moses, burnt and bare,
Or Pharaoh's flashing wheels into the air
Or Mary, with the Christ of Nazareth
Whose pilgrimage of hope and love and faith
Or anchorites beneath Engaddi's palms
And singing slow their old Armenian psalms
Or caravans, that from Bassora's gate
Or Mecca's pilgrims, confident of Fate,
These have passed over it, or may have passed!
Imprisoned by some curious hand at last,
And as I gaze, these narrow walls expand ;—
Stretches the desert with its shifting sand,
Its unimpeded sky.
And borne aloft by the sustaining blast,
Dilates into a column high and vast,
And onward, and across the setting sun,
The column and its broader shadow run,
The vision vanishes! These walls again
Shut out the hot, immeasurable plain ;
They are the throngs
Of the poet's songs,
Murmurs of pleasures, and pains, and wrongs,
The sound of winged words.
This is the cry
Of souls, that high
On toiling, beating pinions fly,
Seeking a warmer clime.
From their distant flight
It falls into our world of night,
With the murmuring sound of rhyme.
THE OPEN WINDOW.
THE old house by the lindens
I saw the nursery windows
The large Newfoundland house-dog
They walked not under the lindens,
The birds sang in the branches
Will be heard in dreams alone!
And the boy that walked beside me,
Why closer in mine, ah! closer,
KING WITLAF'S DRINKING-HORN.
WITLAF, a king of the Saxons,
That, whenever they sat at their revels,
So sat they once at Christmas,
In their beards the red wine glistened,