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SECURELY cabined in the ship below,
That he who guides the good ship o'er that waste Sees in the stars her shining pathway traced. Blindfold I walk this life's bewilderiug maze,
Up flinty steep, through frozen mountain-pass,
Through thornset barren and through deep morass; But strong in faith I tread the uneven ways,
And bare my head unshrinking to the blast,
Because my Father's arm is round me cast; And, if the way seems rough, I only clasp The hand that leads me with a firmer grasp.
Go forth in life, oh friend ! not seeking love
A mendicant that with imploring eye
And outstretched hand asks of the passers-by
Thy generous spirit may not stoop and wait,
Like a spurned beggar's at a palace-gate. But thy heart's affluence lavish uncontrolled
The largess of thy love give full and free, As monarchs in their progress scatter gold;
And be thy heart like the exhaustless sea, That must its wealth of cloud and dew bestow, Though tributary streams or ebb or flow.
THE LAKE AND STAR.
May still gaze heavenward on the evening star
Though boundless distance must divide them far; Still may the lake the star's bright image bear,
Still may the star from its blue ether dome
Shower down its silver beams across the gloom,
Amid the shadows that above me roll;
Thus does thine image float upon my soul, Through the wide space that must our lives dissever Far as the lake and star, ah me, for ever!
BONES IN THE DESERT.
Across the Arabian waste,
A fearful path is traced.
The traveller sees it rise-
Beneath those burning skies.
The desert-sands have strewed,
For ever is renewed.
The caravans move on,
Ere yet the shrine be won.
And shuts his gentle eyes ;
And there the fiery rider droops,
Toward Mecca looks, and dies.
They fall unheeded from the ranks:
On sweeps the endless train ;
Their whitening bones remain.
As thus I read the mournful tale
Is this sad pilgrimage.
Some object unattained,
Some Mecca to be gained.
Go in their morning down,
Tell of the goal unwon.
Above their dust may sweep;
The rest of those who sleep.
That gush far off e’en now,
Where your sweet waters flow?
Cloud-palaces that rise
When will ye greet mine eyes?
From the declining sun ;
Sighs for the journey done!
E. SPENCER MILLER. [Born in 1817. A barrister, and author of a volume of poems, Caprices, published anonymously in 1849).
It fans my face, it fans the tree,
Upon my chilly brow it plays,
It comes and whispers in my ear,
Away,--the old cathedral-bell
Away, -with every breath there come
" THE BLUEBEARD CHAMBERS OF THE HEART.'
Mould upon the ceiling,
Mould upon the floor,
Spiders on the shelves,
Back upon themselves;
Weaving, ever weaving,
Weaving in the gloom,
Trails about the room.
Waken not the echo,
Nor the bat that clings
Of the pannelings.
Waken not the echo;
It will haunt your ear,-
Words you would not hear.
Gather in the dark,
Dust from off a mark ;