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And the citadel was lighted, and the hall | Till one arose, and from his pack's scant

was gayly drest,

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A hoarded volume drew,

And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure

And exchanged congratulation with the And
English baronet;

To hear the tale anew;

then, while round them shadows gathered faster,

And as the firelight fell,

Till the formal speeches ended, and He read aloud the book wherein the

amidst the laugh and wine

Some one spoke of Concha's lover,

heedless of the warning sign.

Quickly then cried Sir George Simpson:

"Speak no ill of him, I pray.


Had writ of "Little Nell."

Perhaps 't was boyish fancy, -for the reader

Was youngest of them all,

He is dead. He died, poor fellow, forty But, as he read, from clustering pine and

years ago this day.

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A silence seemed to fall;

fir-trees, gathering closer in the shadows,

Listened in every spray, While the whole camp, with "Nell" on English meadows,

Wandered and lost their way.

And so in mountain solitudes- o'ertaken
As by some spell divine-
Their cares dropped from them like the
needles shaken

From out the gusty pine.

Lost is that camp, and wasted all its fire: And he who wrought that spell? towering pine, and stately Kentish spire,


Ye have one tale to tell!

Lost is that camp! but let its fragrant


Blend with the breath that thrills With hop-vines' inceuse all the pensive glory

That fills the Kentish hills.

The roaring camp-fire, with rude humor, And on that grave where English oak


The ruddy tints of health

On haggard face, and form that drooped

and fainted

In the fierce race for wealth;

and holly

And laurel wreaths entwine,

Deem it not all a too presumptuous


This spray of Western pine!

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THEY gave the whole long day to idle I KNEW a Princess: she was old,


To fitful song and jest,

To moods of soberness as idle, after,
And silences, as idle too as the rest.

But when at last upon their way returning,

Taciturn, late, and loath, Through the broad meadow in the sunset burning,

They reached the gate, one fine spell hindered them both.

Her heart was troubled with a subtile anguish

Such as but women know

That wait, and lest love speak or speak not languish,

And what they would, would rather they would not so;

Crisp-haired, flat-featured, with a look Such as no dainty pen of gold

Would write of in a Fairy Book.

So bent she almost crouched, her face Was like the Sphinx's face, to me, Touched with vast patience, desert grace, And lonesome, brooding mystery.

What wonder that a faith so strong

As hers, so sorrowful, so still, Should watch in bitter sands so long, Obedient to a burdening will!

This Princess was a Slave, - like one
Yet free enough to see the sun,
I read of in a painted tale;

And all the flowers, without a vail.

Not of the Lamp, not of the Ring,
The helpless, powerful Slave was she,

Till he said,-man-like nothing compre- But of a subtler, fiercer Thing:


Of all the wondrous guile That women won win themselves with, and bending

Eyes of relentless asking on her the


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She was the Slave of Slavery. Court-lace nor jewels had she seen:

That at her side the whitest queen

She wore a precious smile, so rare

Were dark, her darkness was so fair.

Nothing of loveliest loveliness

This strange, sad Princess seemed to lack; Majestic with her calm distress

She was, and beautiful though black:

Then she-whom both his faith and fear Black, but enchanted black, and shut


Far beyond words to tell,

Feeling her woman's finest wit had


The art he had that knew to blunder so well

In some vague Giant's tower of air, Built higher than her hope was. But The True Knight came and found her there.

The Knight of the Pale Horse, he laid
His shadowy lance against the spell

Shyly drew near, a little step, and mock- That hid her Self: as if afraid;

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The cruel blackness shrank and fell.

Then, lifting slow her pleasant sleep,
He took her with him through the night,
And swam a River cold and deep,

And vanished up an awful Height.

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All the hearts are not dead, nor under the sod,

That those breaths can blow open to Heaven and God!

Ah, "Silver Street" leads by a bright golden road,

-O, not to the hymns that in harmony flowed,

But those sweet human psalms in the old-fashioned choir,

To the girl that sang alto, -the girl that sang air!

"Let us sing in His praise," the good minister said,

All the psalm-books at once fluttered open at "York,"

Sunned their long dotted wings in the words that he read,

While the leader leaped into the tune just ahead,

And politely picked up the key-note with a fork, And the vicious old viol went growling along,

At the heels of the girls, in the rear of

the song.

I need not a wing,-bid no genii come, With a wonderful web from Arabian loom, To bear me again up the river of Time,

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She doubted, once upon a time,


Because it took away her sight,
She looked and said, "There is no light!"
It was thine eyes, poor Italy!
That knew not dark apart from bright.
This flame which burnt for Italy,

It would not let her haters sleep.
They blew at it with angry breath,
And only fed its upward leap,
And only made it hot and deep.
Its burning showed us Italy,
And all the hopes she had to keep.

This light is out in Italy,

Her eyes shall seek for it in vain! For her sweet sake it spent itself,

Too early flickering to its wane, Too long blown over by her pain. Bow down and weep, O Italy, Thou canst not kindle it again!


THE wind was whispering to the vines
The secret of the summer night;
The tinted oriel window gleamed
But faintly in the misty light;
Beneath it we together sat
In the sweet stillness of content.

Till from a slow-consenting cloud
Came forth Diana, bright and bold,
And drowned us, ere we were aware,
In a great shower of liquid gold;
And, shyly lifting up my eyes,
I made acquaintance with your face.

And sudden something in me stirred,
And moved me to impulsive speech,
With little flutterings between,
And little pauses to beseech,
From your sweet graciousness of mind,
Indulgence and a kindly ear.

Ah! glad was I as any bird
That softly pipes a timid note,
To hear it taken up and trilled
Out cheerily by a stronger throat,
When, free from discord and constraint,
Your thought responded to my thought.

I had a carven missal once,
With graven scenes of "Christ, his Woe."
One picture in that quaint old book
Will never from my memory go,

Though merely in a childish wise
I used to search for it betimes.
It showed the face of God in man
Abandoned to his watch of pain,
And given of his own good-will
To every weaker thing's disdain;
But from the darkness overhead


Two pitying angel eyes looked down.

How often in the bitter night
Have I not fallen on my face,
Too sick and tired of heart to ask
God's pity in my grievous case;
Till the dank deadness of the dark,
Receding, left me, pitiless.

Then have I said: "Ah! Christ the Lord!
God sent his angel unto thee;
But both ye leave me to myself,
Perchance ye do not even see!"
Then was it as a mighty stone
Above my sunken heart were rolled.

Now, in the moon's transfiguring light,
I seemed to see you in a dream;
Your listening face was silvered o'er
By one divinely radiant beam;
I leant towards you, and my talk
Was dimly of the haunting past.

I took you through deep soundings where
My freighted ships went down at noon,
Gave glimpses of deflowered plains,
Blown over by the hot Simoon;
Then I was silent for a space:
"God sends no angel unto me!"

My heart withdrew into itself,
When lo a knocking at the door:
"Am I so soon a stranger here,
Who was an honored guest before?"
Then looking in your eyes, I knew
You were God's angel sent to me!


[U. s. A.]


A SENTINEL angel sitting high in glory Heard this shrill wail ring out from Pur gatory:

"Have mercy, mighty angel, hear my story!

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