And they hurry home at their topmost speed,
Flurried and flush'd with the sudden need,
Sprinkling earth as they pass along
With a flood of colour and gush of song-
For the Summer is coming to wed the Spring,
And Earth on their altar her wealth shall fling,
And the Heavens soft odours and breezes bring,
And the hollow heights and the depths shall ring
With a wild overgushing of gladdening-
With the tumult and joy of that marrying!
A fanciful passage from one of the poems of MATTHEW ARNOLD.
THE air of the December night
Steals coldly around the chamber bright,
Where those lifeless lovers be.
Swinging with it, in the light
Flaps the ghostlike tapestry.
And on the arras wrought you see
A stately Huntsman, clad in green,
And round him a fresh forest scene.
On that clear forest knoll he stays
With his pack round him, and delays.
He stares and stares, with troubled face,
At this huge gleam-lit fireplace,
At the bright lorn-figur'd door,
And those blown rushes on the floor.
He gazes down into the room
With heated cheeks and flurried air,
And to himself he seems to say-
"What place is this and who are they?
Who is that kneeling Lady fair?
And on his pillows that pale Knight
Who seems of marble on a tomb?
How comes it here, this chamber bright,
Through whose mullion'd windows clear
The castle court, all wet with rain,
The drawbridge and the moat appear,
And then the beach, and, mark'd with spray,
The sunken reefs, and far away
The unquiet bright Atlantic plain ?—
What, has some glamour made me sleep,
And sent me with my dogs to sweep,
By night, with boisterous bugle peal,
Through some old sea-side knightly hall,
Not in the free greenwood at all?
That Knight's asleep, and at her prayer
That Lady by the bed doth kneel:
Then hush, thou boisterous bugle peal!"
The wild boar rustles in his lair
The fierce hounds snuff the tainted air-
But lord and hounds keep rooted there.
Cheer, cheer thy dogs into the brake,
O hunter! and without a fear
Thy golden-tassell'd bugle blow,
And through the glades thy pastime take!
For thou wilt rouse no sleepers here,
For these thou seest are unmov'd;
Cold, cold, as those who liv'd and lov'd
A thousand years ago.
COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE.
Taken from one of the periodicals, where it appeared anonymously.
THE lusty birds are singing now,
As sin and sorrow were no more,
From ev'ry bush and ev'ry bough,
The tide of song they wildly pour.
Ah! little birds, ye break my heart-
'Twas thus the poet silence broke,
And tears reveal the inward smart,
His earnest words but feebly spoke.
Must silence reign and song expire,
If man is out of sorts with sound.
Must stars forget to shed their fire-
If man, alas! is selfish found.
Shall flowers untimely fade away,
And dying mingle with the dust,
Till better times resume their sway,
And man shall cease to be unjust.
The ringing laughter of a child-
In pain perchance and peril bred,
Can scatter evil thoughts and wild,
And raise again the drooping head.
Unconscious child, still happy be,
Nor catch too soon the trick of griefNor thou, sweet bird, resign the glee, That yields thy little life so brief.
From springs of joy remote and few,
Not wisely man will turn away-
Refreshing, as the morning dew,
As evanescent too, are they.
The shadow rolling at our feet,
Of thin and airy cloud begot,
Is image meet, and emblem sweet,
That man on earth abideth not.
DOWN BY THE WOOD.
By ROBERT NICOLL.
Down by the wood
When daylight is breaking,
And the first breath of dawn
The green leaves is shaking,
"Tis bliss, without limit
Alone to be straying,
To hear the wild wood-birds,
And what they are saying.
Down by the wood,
When it's noon in the heaven,
And the steer to the shade
Of the hedgerow is driven
'Tis sweet to recline
In the beechen-tree's shadow,
And drink all the glories
Of field, forest, meadow!
Down by the wood,
At the fall of the gloaming 'Mong clear crystal dewdrops 'Tis sweet to be roamingThe hush of the wheat-earsThe gushing of water— The shiver of green leavesThe music of Nature!
THE MOURNING MOTHER OF THE DEAD BLIND.
By Mrs. ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
Dost thou weep, mourning mother,
For thy blind boy in his grave?
That no more with each other,
Sweet counsel ye can have?—
That he, left dark by Nature,
Can never more be led
By thee, maternal creature,
Along smooth paths instead?
That thou can'st no more show him
The sunshine, by the heat;
The river's silver flowing,
By murmurs at his feet?
The foliage, by its coolness;
The roses, by their smell;
And all creation's fullness,
By love's invisible?
Weepest thou to behold not
His meek blind eyes again
Closed doorways which were folded,
And prayed against in vain—
And under which, sate smiling
The child-mouth evermore,
As one who watcheth, whiling
The time by at a door?
And weepest thou to feel not
His clinging hand on thine-
Which now, at dream-time will not
Its cold touch disentwine?
And weepest thou still ofter,
Oh, never more to mark
His low soft words, made softer
By speaking in the dark?
Weep on, thou mourning mother!
But since to him when living,
Thou wert both sun and moon,
Look o'er his grave surviving,
From a high sphere alone!
Sustain that exaltation-
Expand that tender light:
And hold in mother-passion
Thy blessed, in thy sight.
See how he went out straightway
From the dark world he knew
No twilight in the gateway
To mediate 'twixt the two
Into the sudden glory,
Out of the dark he trod,
Departing from before thee
At once to light and God!-
For the first face, beholding
The Christ's in its divine-
For the first place, the golden
And tideless hyaline;
With trees at lasting summer,
That rock to songful sound,
While angels, the new-comer
Wrap a still smile around.
Oh, in the blessed psalm now,
His happy voice he tries-
Spreading a thicker palm-bough,
Than others o'er his eyes-
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