And again the tongues of flame
Start exulting and exclaim,

"These are prophets, bards, and seers ;

In the horoscope of nations,
Like ascendant constellations,

They control the coming years."

But the night-wind cries, "Despair!
Those who walk with feet of air
Leave no long-enduring marks;
At God's forges incandescent
Mighty hammers beat incessant,

These are but the flying sparks.

"Dust are all the hands that wrought; Books are sepulchres of thought ;

The dead laurels of the dead
Rustle for a moment only,
Like the wither'd leaves in lonely
Churchyards at some passing tread."

Suddenly the flame sinks down ;
Sink the murmurs of renown;

And alone the night-wind drear Clamours louder, wilder, vaguer,— ""Tis the brand of Meleager

Dying on the hearth-stone there."

And I answer, “Though it be,
Why should that discomfort me?
No endeavour is in vain ;
Its reward is in the doing,
And the rapture of pursuing

Is the prize the vanquish'd gain."

KILLED AT THE FORD.

He is dead, the beautiful youth,
The heart of honour, the tongue of truth,
He, the light and life of us all,

Whose voice was blithe as the bugle-call,

Whom all eyes follow'd with one consent,

The cheer of whose laugh, and whose pleasant word, Hush'd all murmurs of discontent.

Only last night, as we rode along
Down the dark of the mountain-gap,
To visit the picket-guard at the ford,
Little dreaming of any mishap,

He was humming the words of some old song :
"Two red roses he had on his cap,

And another he bore at the point of his sword.”

Sudden and swift a whistling ball

Came out of a wood, and the voice was still;
And for a moment my blood grew chill:
I spake in a whisper, as he who speaks
In a room where some one is lying dead
But he made no answer to what I said.

d;

We lifted him up to his saddle again,

And through the mire and the mist and the rain
Carried him back to the silent camp,

And laid him as if asleep on his bed;

And I saw by the light of the surgeon's lamp

Two white roses upon his cheeks,

And one, just over his heart, blood-red!

And I saw in a vision how far and fleet
That fatal bullet went speeding forth
Till it reach'd a town in the distant North,
Till it reach'd a house in a sunny street,
Till it reach'd a heart that ceased to beat
Without a murmur, without a cry;

And a bell was toll'd in that far-off town,
For one who had pass'd from cross to crown,

And the neighbours wonder'd that she should die.

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.

UNDER a spreading chestnut-tree

The village smithy stands;

The smith a mighty man is he,

With large and sinewy hands;

And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;

His brow is wet with honest sweat,

He earns whate'er he can,

And looks the whole world in the face,

For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,

Like a sexton ringing the village-bell,
When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,

And hear the bellows roar,

And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys ;

He hears the parson pray and preach,
And hears his daughter's voice
Singing in the village choir,

And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
Singing in paradise!

He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;

And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,

Has earn'd a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught !

Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped

Each burning deed and thought!

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

MY LOVE.

I.

NOT as all other women are
Is she that to my soul is dear:
Her glorious fancies come from far,
Beneath the silver evening star,
And yet her heart is ever near.

II.

Great feelings hath she of her own,
Which lesser souls may never know;
God giveth them to her alone,

And sweet are they as any tone
Wherewith the wind may choose to blow.

III.

Yet in herself she dwelleth not,

Although no home were half so fair;

No simplest duty is forgot,

Life hath no dim and lowly spot

That doth not in her sunshine share.

IV.

She doeth little kindnesses,

Which most leave undone, or despise ;
For nought that sets one heart at ease,
And giveth happiness or peace,
Is low-esteemed in her eyes.