All is of God! If he but wave his hand, Lo! he looks back from the departing cloud. Angels of Life and Death alike are his; Without his leave they pass no threshold o'er; Who, then, would wish or dare, believing this, Against his messengers to shut the door? DAYLIGHT AND MOONLIGHT. IN broad daylight, and at noon, In broad daylight, yesterday, But at length the feverish day Then the moon, in all her pride, Like a spirit glorified, Filled and overflowed the night With revelations of her light. And the Poet's song again Passed like music through my brain; Night interpreted to me All its grace and mystery. THE JEWISH CEMETERY AT NEWPORT. How strange it seems! These Hebrews in their graves, Close by the street of this fair seaport town, Silent beside the never-silent waves, At rest in all this moving up and down! The trees are white with dust, that o'er their sleep Wave their broad curtains in the south-wind's breath, While underneath such leafy tents they keep And these sepulchral stones, so old and brown, The very names recorded here are strange, With Abraham and Jacob of old times. "Blessed be God! for he created Death!" The mourners said, "and Death is rest and peace"; Then added, in the certainty of faith, "And giveth Life that never more shall cease." Closed are the portals of their Synagogue, Gone are the living, but the dead remain, And not neglected; for a hand unseen, Scattering its bounty, like a summer rain, Still keeps their graves and their remembrance green. How came they here? What burst of Christian hate, What persecution, merciless and blind, Drove o'er the sea- that desert desolate – These Ishmaels and Hagars of mankind? They lived in narrow streets and lanes obscure, All their lives long, with the unleavened bread And slaked its thirst with marah of their tears. Anathema maranatha! was the cry That rang from town to town, from street to street; At every gate the accursed Mordecai Was mocked and jeered, and spurned by Christian feet. Pride and humiliation hand in hand Walked with them through the world where'er they went; Trampled and beaten were they as the sand, For in the background figures vague and vast They saw reflected in the coming time. And thus for ever with reverted look The mystic volume of the world they read, Spelling it backward, like a Hebrew book, But ah! what once has been shall be no more! OLIVER BASSELIN. In the Valley of the Vire These words alone: "Oliver Basselin lived here." Far above it, on the steep, Ruined stands the old Château; Stare at the valley green and deep. Once a convent, old and brown, Whose sunny gleam Cheers the little Norman town. In that darksome mill of stone, Careless, humble, and unknown, That ancient mill With a splendor of its own. Never feeling of unrest Broke the pleasant dream he dreamed ; Only made to be his nest, All the lovely valley seemed; No desire Of soaring higher Stirred or fluttered in his breast. True, his songs were not divine; Of this green earth Laughed and revelled in his line. From the alehouse and the inn, That in those days Sang the poet Basselin. In the castle, cased in steel, Knights, who fought at Agincourt, Songs that lowlier hearts could feel. In the convent, clad in gray, |