I see a crowd in every street, But cannot hear their falling feet; They float like clouds through shade and light, The ships have lain, for ages fled, There is no life on land or sea, Nor ours is true, but only seems, Within some dead old world of dreams. HENRY W. PARKER. [Born in 1825. Mr. Parker, a grand-nephew of the eminent lexicographer Noah Webster, is a minister of the Presbyterian Church]. THE DEAD-WATCH. EACH saddened face is gone, and tearful eye, Through whispering hall, and up the rustling stair. And now both feed the fire and trim the lamp; And the wide air with storm and darkness lours; We will not talk of death, of pall and knell— Or of stern battle, sea, and stormy wreck ; Hark to the distant bell!—an hour is gone! To bathe the face, and stay death's rapid blight: The bathing liquid scents the chilly room; : Take off the muffler from the sleeper's face :You spoke, my friend, of sunken cheek and eyeAh what a form of beauty here doth lie! Never hath Art, from purest wax or stone, A weary angel in sweet slumber caught !— She softly sleeps, and yet how unlike sleep! As shadows o'er the field each other chase; She sweetly sleeps, her lips and eyelids sealed; Oh there is beauty in the winter moon, And beauty in the brilliant summer flower, And in the liquid eye and luring tone Of radiant Love's and rosy Laughter's hour; But where is beauty, in this blooming world, Like death upon a maiden's lip impearled? Veil we the dead, and close the open door. The face it once had kindled into love; JOHN HAY. [Born about 1830. A Colonel in the United States' Army, and author of the volume, Little Breeches, and other Pieces. The more distinctive side of Colonel Hay's talent is the humorous]. THE MONKS OF BASLE. I TORE this weed from the rank dark soil I trimmed it close, and set it again I. Long years ago, when the Devil was loose, Three monks of Basle went out to walk A breeze as pure as the breath of Heaven Blushed rose o'er the minster-glades. But, scorning the lures of summer and sense, In the tough grim talk of the monkish days And whether Just or Justified Was the Church's mystic Head And whether the bread was changed to God, But of human hearts outside their walls And they never thought of the love of God 2. As these three monks went bickering on A wordless carol of life and love, And the three monks paused in the evening shade, And tender and gay the bird sang on, The song had power on the grim old monks' And as they listened the years rolled back, The years rolled back, and they were young, They plucked the daisies, and kissed the girls, 3. But the eldest monk soon broke the spell. ""Tis sin and shame," quoth he, "To be turned from talk of holy things By a bird's cry from a tree. "Perchance the Enemy of Souls Hath come to tempt us so! Let us try by the power of the Awful Word To Heaven the three monks raised their hands. "We charge thee, speak!" they said, "By His dread Name who shall one day come To judge the quick and the dead "Who art thou? Speak!" The bird laughed loud: "I am the devil," he said. The monks on their faces fell; the bird Away through the twilight sped. A horror fell on those holy men (The faithful legends say); And one by one from the face of earth 4. So goes the tale of the monkish books; Whose soul is the slave of creed. Not all in vain with beauty and love REMORSE. SAD is the thought of sunniest days That charmed while life was wasted: But saddest is the thought of joys That never yet were tasted. |