Full oft old Time, with stately pride,

Hath paced each mount and mead, With young Spring blushing by his side, Since vainly, with my sylvan reed,

I wooed thee for my bride.

Yet still thine image fills my soul,

Still burns that flame with fierce control;

And should I breathe through years untold
Thy beauty never will grow old;
But purer pride and rapture bring

To me, a minstrel, than a King!

Oh! fleet though fair their fate must prove, Whose hopes, whose hearts, to flesh are given, Who build no ark of rest above;

Earth holds a grave for earthly love,

But deathless is the love of heaven; And, source of all things pure and free, The love of heaven is loving thee!

Great empress of the spirit-land,
The sting of youth's best hour,
The griefs that cursed me like a brand,
Were seeds of thy mute power.

But high the rose o'ertops the thorn,
The rainbow gilds the tempest-worn;
For hours of deep pure bosom-glee,
A realm of beauty and of mind,

A land where giftless eyes are blind,
Thy bright brief smile bequeath'd to me.
What blessings, nursed in Nature's lap,
Burst forth from that sweet time;
What riches for the poor man's heart-

Hail to the poet-clime!

Where'er thy angel foot doth fall,
One holy passion tinctures all!

I'll laud thy lyre, still drink thy words,
Though stranger fingers wake the chords;
And aye shall breathe these lips of mine,
The nymph that spurns me is divine;
And years confirm thy bless'd control,
Ethereal Hebe of my soul !

TO THE DEITY.

FROM "TALES AND POEMS," BY THOMAS NICHOLSON, 1854.

O THOU, Invisible, whose voice I hear

Loud on the rushing tempest where Thou ridest; Thine airy car through boundless space Thou guidest, Where, through the regions of Thy dread career, Thy mighty hands the forked lightnings dart, And the deep soul-appalling thunders rollThe universal works own Thy control;Yet, Thou, Omnipotent, though great Thou art, 'Midst the innumerable orbs that through

The infinity of Thine empyrean move, O show Thyself a God of mercy too!

Regard us from Thy towering throne above With kind compassion, and benignant eye— Avert the lowering storm when it draws nigh,

PROEM TO A VOLUME OF SELECTED POEMS.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW, BORN AT PORTLAND, UNITED STATES, FEBRUARY 27, 1807.

THE day is gone, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night,

As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.

I see the lights of the village

Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me,
That my soul cannot resist;

A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,

And resembles sorrow only

As the mist resembles the rain.

Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,

That shall soothe this restless feeling, And banish the thoughts of day.

Not from the grand old masters,
Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of time.

For, like strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life's endless toil and endeavour;
And to-night I long for rest.

Read from some humbler poet,

Whose songs gush'd from his heart,

As showers from the clouds of summer, Or tears from the eyelids start;

Who through long days of labour,
And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.

Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.

Then read from the treasured volume The poem of thy choice,

And lend to the rhyme of the poet

The beauty of thy voice.

And the night shall be fill'd with music,
And the cares, that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.

ALONE AT EVE.

CHARLES SWAIN, BORN AT MANCHESTER, IN OCTOBER, 1803.

ALONE at eve, when all is still

And memory turns to other years,
How oft our weary hearts we fill

With feeling's dark and bitter tears:
The friendships of onr youthful day--
The hopes, which time could ne'er fulfil
And voices that have pass'd away,

Return at eve-when all is still!

When all is still except the breast
That wakes to long remember'd woe;
Of parted hopes, and hearts opprest,
And loved-ones buried long ago!-
Yet solace may our spirits find,-
A star to light the darkest ill;
There's One the broken heart can bind-
Alone at eve-when all is still!