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And the great sky, the royal heaven | There came no murmur from the streams, above, Though nigh flowed Leither, Tweed, and Quair.
Darkens with storms or melts in hues of love;
While far remote,
My walls are crumbling, but immortal looks
Smile on me here from faces of rare
My heart with true philosophies; a balm Of spiritual dews from humbler song or psalm Fills me with tender calm, Or through hushed heavens of soul Milton's deep thunder rolls! And more than all, o'er shattered wrecks of Fate, The relics of a happier time and state, My nobler life Shines on unquenched! O deathless love that lies
In the clear midnight of those passionate eyes!
Joy waneth! Fortune flies! What then? Thou still art here, soul of my soul, my Wife!
ISA CRAIG KNOX.
BALLAD OF THE BRIDES OF QUAIR.
A STILLNESS crept about the house,
At evenfall, in noontide glare; Upon the silent hills looked forth
The many-windowed House of Quair.
The peacock on the terrace screamed;
Browsed on the lawn the timid hare; The great trees grew i' the avenue,
Calm by the sheltered House of Quair.
The pool was still; around its brim
The days hold on their wonted pace,
While women keep the House of Quair.
And one is clad in widow's weeds,
And one is maiden-like and fair, And day by day they seek the paths About the lonely fields of Quair.
HENRY TIMROD.—WALTER F. MITCHELL.
[U. s. A.]
Out in the lonely woods the jasmine burns
SPRING IN CAROLINA.
SPRING, with that nameless pathos in the At times a fragrant breeze comes floating
Which dwells with all things fair,
And brings, you know not why,
Is with us once again.
In the deep heart of every forest tree
And there's a look about the leafless
As if they dreamed of flowers.
Yet still on every side we trace the hand
Save where the maple reddens on the
Flushed by the season's dawn;
Or where, like those strange semblances
Still there's a sense of blossoms yet unborn
That, not a span below,
A thousand gerins are groping through
In gardens you may note amid the dearth,
In the sweet airs of morn;
One almost looks to see the very street
But many gleams and shadows need must
Along the budding grass,
Shall kiss the rose's mouth.
That age to childhood bind,
The elm puts on, as if in Nature's scorn, Open one point on the weather-bow,
The brown of autumn corn.
Is the lighthouse tall on Fire Island
As yet the turf is dark, although you There's a shade of doubt on the captain's
And the pilot watches the heaving lead.
Some wondrous pageant; and you scarce
A blue-eyed Dryad, stepping forth, should
WALTER F. MITCHELL.
[U. s. A.]
TACKING SHIP OFF SHORE.
THE weather-leech of the topsail shivers, The bow-lines strain, and the lee-shrouds slacken,
The braces are taut, the lithe boom quivers, And the waves with the coming squallcloud blacken.
I stand at the wheel, and with eager eye,
The ship bends lower before the breeze,
It is silence all, as each in his place,
By tack and bowline, by sheet and brace,
And the light on Fire Island Head draws | What matters the reef, or the rain, or the
As, trumpet-winged, the pilot's shout
I steady the helm for the open sea;
With the welcome call of, "Ready!
And the captain's breath once more comes free.