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Contract thy firmament
To compass of a tent.
There's not enough for this and that;
Make thy option which of two.
Economize the failing river;
Not the less revere the Giver;
Leave the many and hold the few.
Timely wise accept the terms,
Soften the fall with wary foot;
A little while
Still plan and smile,
And, fault of novel

germs,
Mature the unfallen fruit.
Curse, if thou wilt, thy sires,
Bad husbands of their fires,
Who, when they gave thee breath,
Failed to bequeath
The needful sinew stark as once,
The Baresark marrow to thy bones,
But left a legacy of ebbing veins,
Inconstant heat and nerveless reins-
Amid the Muses, left thee deaf and dumb,
Amid the gladiators, halt and numb."

As the bird trims her to the gale,
I trim myself to the storm of time,
I man the rudder, reef the sail,
Obey the voice at eve obeyed at prime.
"Lowly faithful, banish fear,
Right onward drive unarmed;
The part, well worth the cruise, is near,
And

every wave is charmed.”

THE PAST.
The debt is paid,
The verdict said,
The Furies laid,
The plague is stayed,
All fortunes made;
Turn the key and bolt the door,
Sweet is death for evermore.
Nor haughty hope, nor swart chagrin,
Nor murdering hate, can enter in.
All is now secure and fast;
Not the gods can shake the Past;
Flies-to the adamantine door,
Bolted down for evermore.
None can re-enter there, -
No thief so politic,
No Satan with a royal trick,
Steal in by window, chink, or hole,
To bind or unbind, add what lacked,
Insert a leaf, or forge a name,
New-face or finish what is packed,
Alter or mend eternal Fact.

COMPENSATION. The wings of Time are black and white, Pied with morning and with night. Mountain tall and ocean deep Trembling balance duly keep. In changing moon and tidal wave Glows the feud of Want and Have. Gauge of more and less through space, Electric star or pencil plays ; The lonely Earth amid the balls That hurry through the eternal halls, A makeweight flying to the void, Supplemental asteroid, Or compensatory spark, Shoots across the neutral Dark,

Man's the elm, and Wealth the vine;
Staunch and strong the tendrils twine:
Though the frail ringlets thee deceive,
None from its stock that vine can reave.
Fear not, then, thou child infirm,
There's no god dare wrong a worm;
Laurel crowns cleave to deserts,
And power to him who power exerts.
Hast not thy share? On winged feet,
Lo! it rushes thee to meet;
And all that Nature made thy own,
Floating in air or pent in stone,
Will rive the hills and swim the sea,
And, like thy shadow, follow thee.

WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS. [Born in 1806, died in 1871. LL.D. of the University of Alabama. A remarkably voluminous author-journalist, poet, dramatist, novelist, biographer, historian. Mr. Simms was a native of South Carolina, and an ardent Southerner in the War of Secession).

THE LOST PLEIAD.
Not in the sky
Where it was seen,
Nor or the white tops of the glistering wave,
Nor in the mansions of the hidden deep,–
Though green
And beautiful its caves of mystery,-
Shall the bright watcher have
A place-and, as of old, high station keep.
Gone, gone!
Oh never more to cheer
The mariner who holds his course alone
On the Atlantic, through the weary night,
When the stars turn to watchers and do sleep,
Shall it appear,
With the sweet fixedness of certain light,
Down-shining on the shut eyes of the deep.

Vain, vain !
Hopeful most idly then, shall he look forth,
That mariner from his bark-
Howe'er the north
Doth raise his certain lamp when tempests lour-
He sees no more that perished light again !
And gloomier grows the hour
Which may not, through the thick and crowding

dark,
Restore that lost and loved one to her tower.

He looks,—the shepherd on Chaldea's hills,
Tending his flocks,
And wonders the rich beacon doth not blaze,
Gladdening his gaze,
And, from his dreary watch along the rocks,
Guiding him safely home through perilous ways !
How stands he in amaze,
Still wondering, as the drowsy silence fills
The sorrowful scene, and every hour distils
Its leaden dews—how chafes he at the night,
Still slow to bring the expected and sweet light,
So natural to his sight!

And lone,
Where its first splendours shone,
Shall be that pleasant company of stars :
How should they know that death
Such perfect beauty mars ?
And, like the earth, its common bloom and breath,
Fallen from on high,
Their lights grow blasted by its touch, and die-
All their concerted springs of harmony
Snapped rudely, and the generous music gone.

A strain-a mellow strain-
Of wailing sweetness filled the earth and sky;
The stars lamenting in unborrowed pain
That one of the selectest ones must die,-
Must vanish, when most lovely, from the rest !

Alas! 'tis evermore the destiny,-
The hope heart-cherished is the soonest lost;
The flower first budded soonest feels the frost :
Are not the shortest-lived still loveliest ?
And, like the pale star shooting down the sky,
Look they not ever brightest when they fly
The desolate home they blessed ?

:

GEORGE LUNT. [Born about 1807, of a naval family. Has held various legal and other public offices in Massachusetts. Besides divers volumes of poetry, he has published, under the pseudonym of Wesley Brooke, a novel named Eastford].

PILGRIM SONG. OVER the mountain wave, see where they come; Storm-cloud and wintry wind welcome them home; Yet, where the sounding gale howls to the sea, There their song peals along, deep-toned and free:

“Pilgrims and wanderers, hither we come;

Where the free dare to be this is our home!” England hath sunny dales, dearly they bloom ; Scotia hath heather-hills, sweet their perfume : Yet through the wilderness cheerful we stray, Native land, native land-home far away!

Pilgrims and wanderers, hither we come; Where the free dare to be—this is our home !" Dim grew the forest-path : onward they trod; Firm beat their noble hearts, trusting in God. Grey men and blooming maids, high rose their song ; Hear it sweep, clear and deep, ever along :

“Pilgrims and wanderers, hither we come;

Where the free dare to be this is our home!”
Not theirs the glory-wreath, torn by the blast;
Heavenward their holy steps, heavenward they passed.
Green be their mossy graves ! ours be their fame,
While their song peals along, ever the same :

Pilgrims and wanderers, hither we come;
Where the free dare to be--this is our home!”

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