THE LAKE AND STAR.

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!

BONES IN THE DESERT.

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!

E. SPENCER MILLER.

[Born in 1817. A barrister, and author of a volume of poems, Caprices, published anonymously in 1849].

THE WIND.

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.

Away, away,-by lake and lea,-
It cometh ever back to me,

I feel it, but I cannot see.

"THE BLUEBEARD CHAMBERS OF THE HEART."

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 ;

240

Dust of weary winters,

Dust of solemn years,

Dust that deepens in the silence,
As the minute wears.

On the shelf and wainscot,
Window-bars and wall,
Covering infinite devices
With its stealthy fall.

Hist! the spectres gather,
Break, and group again,
Wreathing, writhing, gibbering
Round that fearful stain:-

Blood upon the panels,

Blood upon the floor,

Blood that baffles wear and washing,

Red for evermore.

See, they pause and listen,
Where the bat that clings

Stirs within the crevices

Of the pannelings.

See, they pause and listen,
Listen through the air;
How the eager life has struggled
That was taken there!

See, they pause and listen,
Listen in the gloom;
For a startled breath is sighing,
Sighing through the room.

Sighing in the corners,

Sighing on the floor,

Sighing through the window-bars

That open nevermore.

Waken not those whispers ;

They will pain your ears;