In passionate tears, and with him all the tribe Wept for the faithful mare. "They dug her grave O Arabs, though the world be doomed to live AN ORIENTAL IDYL. A SILVER javelin which the hills I hear the never-ending laugh Of jostling waves that come and go, And suck the bubbling pipe, and quaff The sherbet cooled in mountain-snow. The flecks of sunshine gleam like stars And in the distant dim bazaars I scarcely hear the hum of trade. No evil fear, no dream forlorn, What Evil is I cannot tell, But half I guess what Joy may be; I feel no more the pulse's strife,- But live the sweet unconscious life That breathes from yonder jasmine-tree. Upon the glittering pageantries Of gay Damascus streets I look, The painted pictures of a book. Forgotten now are name and race; I only know the morning shines, Deep sunken in the charmed repose, Oh pluck me not from out my dream! 395 FROM THE NORTH. ONCE more without you!-sighing, dear, once more, For all the sweet accustomed ministries Of wife and mother: not as when the seas That parted us my tender message bore From the grey olives of the Cretan shore To those that hid the broken Phidian frieze Of our Athenian home,-but far degrees, Wide plains, great forests, part us now. My door Looks on the rushing Neva, cold and clear: The swelling domes in hovering splendour lie, Like golden bubbles eager to be gone, But the chill crystal of the atmosphere Withholds them; and along the northern sky The amber midnight smiles in dreams of dawn. RICHARD HENRY STODDARD. [Born in 1825. Author of Footprints, a volume of poems published in 1848; Adventures in Fairyland, in prose; and many miscellaneous writings]. SPRING. THE trumpet winds have sounded a retreat, Hail! hail thrice hail !-thou fairest child of Time, And ministrant of its benignest powers! Who hath not caught the glancing of thy wing, And Flora goes With Zephyr from his palace in the west, And haste to meet the expectant bright new-comer, Unmuffled now, shorn of thy veil of showers, Thou tripp'st along the mead with shining hair White-handed, strewing the fresh sward with flowers. But where thy pathway runs the sod is pressed A little month ago, the sky was grey; Snow tents were pitched along the mountain-side, Where March encamped his stormy legions wide, And shook his standard o'er the fields of Day. But now the sky is blue, the snow is flown, And every mountain is an emerald throne, And every cloud a daïs fringed with light, And all below is beautiful and bright. The forest waves its plumes,—the hedges blow,The south wind scuds along the meadowy sea Thick-flecked with daisied foam,-and violets grow Blue-eyed, and cowslips star the bloomy lea. The skylark floods the scene with pleasant rhyme; The ousel twitters in the swaying pine; And wild bees hum about the beds of thyme, And bend the clover-bells and eglantine; The snake casts off his skin in mossy nooks; The long-eared rabbits near their burrows play; The dormouse wakes; and see! the noisy rooks Sly foraging about the stacks of hay! What sights! what sounds! what rustic life and mirth! Grows full and frothy; and the cattle low; The teamster drives his waggon down the lane, And, loitering down the road with cap in hand, The truant chases butterflies—in vain, Heedless of bells that call the village lads to school. Methinks the world is sweeter than of yore, The soul of inspiration everywhere; My vernal days, my prime, return anew; My tranced spirit breathes a silent hymn, My heart is full of dew! A DIRGE. A FEW frail summers had touched thee, Not so bright as thy hair, the sunshine,- We garland the urn with white roses, Burn incense and gums on the shrine, But in vain, all in vain; Thou art gone-we remain ! THE YELLOW MOON. THE yellow moon looks slantly down, |