To her old leaves new myriads?
Such and so grew these holy piles,
Whilst love and terror laid the tiles.
Earth proudly wears the Parthenon
As the best gem upon her zone;
And morning opes with haste her lids
To gaze upon the Pyramids;
O'er England's Abbeys bends the sky
As on its friends with kindred eye;
For, out of Thought's interior sphere
These wonders rose to upper air,
And Nature gladly gave them place,
Adopted them into her race,
And granted them an equal date
With Andes and with Ararat.

These temples grew as grows the grass;
Art might obey, but not surpass.
The passive Master lent his hand
To the vast Soul that o'er him planned,
And the same power that reared the
shrine,

Bestrode the tribes that knelt within.
Ever the fiery Pentecost

Girds with one flame the countless host, Trances the heart through chanting choirs,

And through the priest the mind inspires.

The word unto the prophet spoken
Was writ on tables yet unbroken;
The word by seers or sibyls told,
In groves of oak or fanes of gold,
Still floats upon the morning wind,
Still whispers to the willing mind.
One accent of the Holy Ghost
The heedless world hath never lost.
I know what say the Fathers wise,
The book itself before me lies, -
Old Chrysostom, best Augustine,
And he who blent both in his line,
The younger Golden Lips or mines,
Taylor, the Shakespeare of divines;
His words are music in my ear,
I see his cowled portrait dear,
And yet, for all his faith could see,
I would not the good bishop be.

BOSTON HYMN.

THE word of the Lord by night

To the watching Pilgrims came, As they sat by the seaside,

And filled their hearts with flame.

God said, I am tired of kings, I suffer them no more;

Up to my ear the morning brings The outrage of the poor.

Think ye I made this ball
A field of havoc and war,
Where tyrants great and tyrants small
Might harry the weak and poor?

My angel, his name is Freedom,-
Choose him to be your king;
He shall cut pathways east and west,
And fend you with his wing.

201

Lo! I uncover the land,

Which I hid of old time in the West, As the sculptor uncovers the statue When he has wrought his best;

I show Columbia, of the rocks Which dip their foot in the seas, And soar to the air-borne flocks

Of clouds, and the boreal fleece.,

I will divide my goods;

Call in the wretch and the slave: None shall rule but the humble,

And none but Toil shall have.

I will have never a noble,

No lineage counted great; Fishers and choppers and ploughmen Shall constitute a state.

Go, cut down trees in the forest, And trim the straightest boughs; Cut down trees in the forest,

And build me a wooden house.

Call the people together,

The young men and the sires, The digger in the harvest-field, Hireling, and him that hires;

And here in a pine state-house They shall choose men to rule In every needful faculty,

In church and state and school.

Lo, now! if these poor men

Can govern the land and sea, And make just laws below the sun, As planets faithful be.

And ye shall succor men;
'Tis nobleness to serve;
Help them who cannot help again:
Beware from right to swerve.

How it swells! How it dwells

On the Future! how it tells Of the rapture that impels To the swinging and the ringing Of the bells, bells, bells, Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells, To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!

--

203

At the melancholy menace of their tone!

What a world of solemn thought their
monody compels !
In the silence of the night,
How we shiver with affright

For every sound that floats
From the rust within their throats
Is a groan.

And the people,-ah, the people, —
They that dwell up in the steeple,
All alone,

And who, tolling, tolling, tolling,
In that muffled monotone,
Feel a glory in so rolling

On the human heart a stone,
They are neither man nor woman,
They are neither brute nor human,
They are Ghouls:

And their king it is who tolls; And he rolls, rolls, rolls,

Rolls

A pæan from the bells! And his merry bosom swells

With the pean of the bells!
And he dances and he yells;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the pean of the bells,-
Of the bells:
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,

To the throbbing of the bells, -
Of the bells, bells, bells, -
To the sobbing of the bells;
Keeping time, time, time,

As he knells, knells, knells,
In a happy Runic rhyme,

To the rolling of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells,

To the tolling of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, -
Bells, bells, bells,
To the moaning and the groaning of the
bells.

ROBERT BROWNING.

EVELYN HOPE.

BEAUTIFUL Evelyn Hope is dead!

Sit and watch by her side an hour. That is her book-shelf, this her bed;

She plucked that piece of geraniumflower,

Beginning to die, too, in the glass.
Little has yet been changed, I think, —.