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And the widow's sob and the orphan's | Now changed the scene and changed the wail jarred through the joyous air; How could the light wind o'er the sea, blow on so fresh and fair? How could the gay waves laugh and leap, landward o'er sand and stone, While he, who knew and loved them all lay lapped in clay alone?
But for long, when to the beetling heights
When gear is sorted, and sails are set,
A kindly sigh, and a hearty word, they
ON RECROSSING THE ROCKY MOUN-
LONG years ago I wandered here,
A score of horsemen here we rode,
These scenes in glowing colors drest,
The whispering woods and fragrant breeze
And glistening crag in sunlit sky,
My path was o'er the prairie wide,
The rose that waved in morning air,
That here once looked on glowing skies,
These riven trees, this wind-swept plain
The rocks rise black from storm-packed
All checked the river's pleasant flow,
The buoyant hopes and busy life
The world's rude contact killed the rose,
Backward, amidst the twilight glow
But here thick clouds the mountains hide,
And rising gusts, and darkening sky,
WE left the city, street and square,
And turned us toward the suburb,
Full from the east-the fresh wind blew.
One cloud stood overhead the sun, ——
A glorious trail of dome and spire, The last star flickered, and was gone;
The first lark led the matin choir.
MARY N. PRESCOTT.
The sea has been friend, and fire, and bread;
Put me, where it will tell of me, lying
How It called, and I rose and went.
- ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY.
MARY N. PRESCOTT.
SWEET Wind, fair wind, where have you been? "I've been sweeping the cobwebs out of the sky; I've been grinding a grist in the mill hard by; I've been laughing at work while others sigh;
Let those laugh who win!"
Sweet rain, soft rain, what are you doing? "I'm urging the corn to fill out its cells; I'm helping the lily to fashion its bells; I'm swelling the torrent and brimming the wells;
Is that worth pursuing?"
Redbreast, red breast, what have you done? "I've been watching the nest where my fledgelings lie; I've sung them to sleep with a lullaby; By and by I shall teach them to fly, Up and away, every one!" Honey-bee, honey-bee, where are you going?
"To fill my basket with precious pelf; To toil for my neighbor as well as myself; To find out the sweetest flower that grows, Be it a thistle or be it a rose, —
A secret worth the knowing!"
Each content with the work to be done,
Wind and rain fulfilling His word! Tell me, was ever a legend heard Where the wind, commanded to blow, deferred; Or the rain, that was bidden to fall, demurred?
"And yet for days it seems my heart shall | That while they nobly held it as each blossom never more,
And the burden of my loneliness lies on
man can do and bear, It did not wholly fall my side as though
no man were there.
me very sore:
Therefore, O hewer of the stones that
With hopes, their bright reflections. Rush to my troubled heart at thought of thee,
My own illustrious, injured Italy.
Dear queen of snowy mountains,
To praise it right, thine own sweet tones would fail;
Hail to thee! hail!
How rich art thou in lakes to poet dear,
And those broad pines amid the sunniest glade
So reigning through the year,
Glittering and circling! but I may not
On gifts, which, decking thee too
Allured the spoiler. Let me fix my ken
On history's pillars towering gloriously,
In spite of chance,
And worser ignorance,
If men be ruled by Duty's firm decree,
What art thou now? Alas! Alas!
That chord again, again that note of glee,-
That so divine, so beautiful a Maid
Italy! O Italy! the very sound it charm-
To speak of death?
The fool alone and unbeliever weepeth.
High thought of self-devotions,
At the end of her correction,