LEAD, KINDLY LIGHT.

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! Let the dead Past bury its dead! Act-act in the living Present!

Heart within, and God o'erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us

Footprints on the sands of time.

Footprints, that perhaps another, Sailing o'er life's solemn main, A forlorn and shipwreck'd brother, Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing. With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait.

LONGFELLOW.

EAD, Kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom,

Lead Thou me on!

The night is dark, and I am far from home;
Lead Thou me on!

Keep Thou my feet, I do not ask to see
The distant scene; one step enough for me.
I was not ever thus, nor prayed that Thou
Shouldst lead me on;

I loved to see and choose my path; but now
Lead Thou me on!

I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears,
Pride ruled my will. Remember not past years!

So long Thy power hath blest me, sure it still
Will lead me on

O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till
The night is gone,

And with the morn those angel faces smile
Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile!
NEWMAN.

DAY IS DYING.

AY is dying! Float, O song, Down the westward river,

Requiem chanting to the DayDay, the mighty Giver.

Pierced by shafts of Time he bleeds,
Melted rubies sending
Through the river and the sky,
Earth and heaven blending;

All the long-drawn earthy banks
Up to cloud-land lifting;
Slow between them drifts the swan,
'Twixt two heavens drifting.

Wings half open, like a flower

Inly deeply flushing,

Neck and breast as virgin's pure,— Virgin proudly blushing.

Day is dying! Float O swan,
Down the ruby river;
Follow, song, in requiem
To the mighty Giver.

GEORGE ELIOT.

THE BLESSED DAMOZEL.

HE blessed damozel leaned out
From the gold bar of heaven:
Her eyes were deeper than the depth
Of waters stilled at even;
She had three lilies in her hand,

And the stars in her hair were seven

Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem,
No wrought flowers did adorn,
But a white rose of Mary's gift,
For service meetly worn:
Her hair that lay along her back
Was yellow like ripe corn.

Her seemed she scarce had been a day
One of God's choristers;
The wonder was not yet quite gone
From that still look of hers;
Albeit, to them she left, her day
Had counted as ten years.
(To one, it is ten years of years.
Yet now, and in this place,
Surely she leaned o'er me-her hair
Fell all about my face.
Nothing: the autumn fall of leaves.
The whole year sets apace.)

It was the rampart of God's house
That she was standing on;

By God built over the sheer depth
The which is space begun;

So high that looking downward thence
She scarce could see the sun.

It lies in heaven, across the flood
Of ether, as a bridge.
Beneath, the tides of day and night

With flame and darkness ridge
The void, as low as where this earth
Spins like a fretful midge.

Around her, lovers, newly met
'Mid deathless love's acclaims,
Spoke evermore among themselves
Their heart-remembered names;
And the souls mounting up to God
Went by her like thin flames.

And still she bowed herself and stooped
Out of the circling charm;

Until her bosom must have made
The bar she leaned on warm,
And the lilies lay as if asleep

Along her bended arm.

From the fixed place of Heaven she saw
Time like a pulse shake fierce

Through all the worlds. Her gaze still strove
Within the gulf to pierce

Its path; and now she spoke as when
The stars sang in their spheres.

The sun was gone now; the curled moon
Was like a little feather

Fluttering far down the gulf; and now
She spoke through the still weather.
Her voice was like the voice the stars
Had when they sang together.

(Ah sweet! Even now, in that bird's song, Strove not her accents there,

Fain to be hearkened? When those bells
Possessed the mid-day air,
Strove not his steps to reach my side
Down all the echoing stair?)

"I wish that he were come to me,

For he will come," she said.

"Have I not prayed in Heaven?-on earth, Lord, Lord, has he not pray'd?

Are not two prayers a perfect strength?
And shall I feel afraid?

"When round his head the aureole clings,

And he is clothed in white,

I'll take his hand and go with him

To the deep wells of light;

As unto a stream we will step down,
And bathe there in God's sight.

"We two will stand beside that shrine.
Occult, withheld, untrod,
Whose lamps are stirred continually
With prayer sent up to God;
And see our old prayers, granted, melt
Each like a little cloud.

"We two will lie i' the shadow of

That living mystic tree

Within whose secret growth the Dove

Is sometimes felt to be,

While every leaf that His plumes touch
Saith His Name audibly.

"And I myself will teach to him,

I myself, lying so,

The songs I sing here; which his voice
Shall pause in, hushed and slow,
And find some knowledge at each pause,
Or some new thing to know."
(Alas! We two, we two, thou say'st!
Yea, one wast thou with me

That once of old. But shall God lift
To endless unity

The soul whose likeness with thy soul
Was but its love for thee?)

"We two," she said, "will seek the groves Where the Lady Mary is,

With her five handmaidens whose names
Are five sweet symphonies,
Cecily, Gertrude, Magdalen,
Margaret and Rosalys.

"Circlewise sit they, with bound locks
And foreheads garlanded;

Into the fine cloth white like flame
Weaving the golden thread,

To fashion the birth-robes for them
Who are just born, being dead.
"He shall fear, haply, and be dumb :
When will I lay my cheek

To his, and tell about our love
Not once abashed or weak:
And the dear Mother will approve

My pride, and let me speak.

"Herself shall bring us, hand in hand,

To Him round whom all souls Kneel, the clear-ranged unnumbered heads Bowed with their aureoles : And angels meeting us shall sing To their citherns and citoles.

"There will I ask of Christ the Lord
Thus much for him and me:-
Only to live as once on earth
With Love, only to be,

As then awhile, forever now
Together, and he."

She gazed and listened and then said,

Less sad of speech than mild,—

"All this is when he comes." She ceased.

The light thrilled towards her, fill'd With angels in strong level flight. Her eyes prayed, and she smil'd.

(I saw her smile.) But soon their path
Was vague in distant spheres
And then she cast her arms along
The golden barriers,

And laid her face between her hands,
And wept. (I heard her tears.)

ROSSETTI.

MARCO BOZZARIS.

T midnight, in his guarded tent,
The Turk was dreaming of the hour
When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent,
Should tremble at his power:

In dreams through camp and court he bore
The trophies of a conqueror;

In dreams his song of triumph heard ;
Then wore his monarch's signet ring-
Then pressed that monarch's throne,―a king,-
As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing
As Eden's garden bird.

An hour passed on,-the Turk awoke;
That bright dream was his last;

He woke to hear his sentries shriek,

"To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek!" He woke, to die midst flame and smoke, And shout, and groan, and sabre-stroke,

And death-shots falling thick and fast As lightnings from a mountain cloud; And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, Bozzaris cheer his ban:1;"Strike-till the last armed foe expires! Strike-for your altars and your fires! Strike for the green graves of your sires, God, and your native land!"

They fought, like brave men, long and well; They piled the ground with Moslem slain; They conquered; but Bozzaris fell,

Bleeding at every vein.

His few surviving comrades saw

His smile, when rang their proud hurrah,
And the red field was won;

Then saw in death his eyelids close,
Calmly as to a night's repose,

Like flowers at set of sun.

Come to the bridal chamber, Death!

Come to the mother's when she feels
For the first time her first-born's breath;
Come when the blessed seals
That close the pestilence are broke
And crowded cities wail its stroke;
Come in Consumption's ghastly form,
The earthquake shock, the ocean storm;
Come when the heart beats high and warm,

With banquet song, and dance, and wine,

And thou art terrible: the tear,

The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier,
And all we know, or dream, or fear,
Of agony, are thine.

But to the hero, when his sword

Has won the battle for the free, Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word, And in its hollow tones are heard

The thanks of millions yet to be. Bozzaris! with the storied brave

Greece nurtured in her glory's time, Rest thee: there is no prouder grave,

Even in thine own proud clime.

We tell thy doom without a sigh, For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame'sOne of the few, the immortal names,

That were not born to die!

HALLECK.