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SECURELY cabined in the ship below,
Through darkness and through storm I cross the

A pathless wilderness of waves to me:
But yet I do not fear, because I know

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
The alms his strong necessities may move.
For such poor love, to pity near allied,

Thy generous spirit may not stoop and wait,
A suppliant whose prayer may be denied

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 mountain lake, o'ershadowed by the hills,

May still gaze heavenward on the evening star
Whose distant light its dark recesses fills,

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,
And light the wave that wanders darkly there.
Star of my life! thus do I turn to thee

Amid the shadows that above me roll;
Thus from thy distant sphere thou shin'st on me,

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!

WHERE pilgrims seek the Prophet's tomb

Across the Arabian waste,
Upon the ever-shifting sands

A fearful path is traced.
Far up to the horizon's verge

The traveller sees it rise-
A line of ghastly bones that bleach

Beneath those burning skies.
Across it tempest and simoom

The desert-sands have strewed,
But still that line of spectral white

For ever is renewed.
For, while along that burning track

The caravans move on,
Still do the wayworn pilgrims fall

Ere yet the shrine be won.
There the tired camel lays him down,

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 ;
But there, to mark the desert path,

Their whitening bones remain.

As thus I read the mournful tale
Upon the traveller's page,

I thought how like the march of life

Is this sad pilgrimage.
For every heart hath some fair dream,

Some object unattained,
And far off in the distance lies

Some Mecca to be gained.
But beauty, manhood, love, and power,

Go in their morning down,
And longing eyes and outstretched arms

Tell of the goal unwon.
The mighty caravan of life

Above their dust may sweep;
Nor shout nor trampling feet shall break

The rest of those who sleep.
Oh fountains that I have not reached,

That gush far off e’en now,
When shall I quench my spirit's thirst

Where your sweet waters flow?
Oh Mecca of my lifelong dreams,

Cloud-palaces that rise
In that far distance pierced by hope,

When will ye greet mine eyes?
The shadows lengthen toward the east

From the declining sun ;
And the pilgrim, as ye still recede,

Sighs for the journey done!

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E. SPENCER MILLER. [Born in 1817. A barrister, and author of a volume of poems, Caprices, published anonymously in 1849).

I STIR the pulses of the mind,
And, with my passive cheek inclined,
I lay my ear along the wind.

It fans my face, it fans the tree,
It goes away and comes to me,
I feel it, but I cannot see.

Upon my chilly brow it plays,
It whispers of forgotten days,
It says whatever fancy says.
Away, away—by wood and plain,
About the park and through the lane,
It goes, and comes to me again.
Away,—again away, it roams,
By fields of flocks and human homes,
And laden with their voices comes.

It comes and whispers in my ear,
So close I cannot choose but hear;
It speaks, and yet I do not fear.
Then, sweeping where the shadows lie,
Its murmur softens to a sigh
That pains me as it passes by,-.
And in its sorrow and reproof
Goes wailing round the wall and roof,
So sad the swallow soars aloof.

Away,--the old cathedral-bell
Is swinging over hill and dell;
Devoted men are praying well.

Away, -with every breath there come
The tones of toil's eternal hum,-
Man, legion-voiced, yet ever dumb.

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Mould upon the ceiling,

Mould upon the floor,
Windows barred and double-barred,

Opening nevermore;
Spiders in the corners,

Spiders on the shelves,
Weaving frail and endless webs

Back upon themselves;

Weaving, ever weaving,

Weaving in the gloom,
Till the drooping drapery

Trails about the room.

Waken not the echo,

Nor the bat that clings
In the curious crevices

Of the pannelings.

Waken not the echo;

It will haunt your ear,-
Wall and ceiling whispering

Words you would not hear.
Hist! the spectres gather

Gather in the dark,
Where a breath has brushed away

Dust from off a mark ;

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