This is the lore a Spanish monk, distraught With dreams and visions, was the first to teach. These Silences, commingling each with each,

Made up the perfect Silence that he sought
And prayed for, and wherein at times he caught
Mysterious sounds from realms beyond our
reach.

O thou, whose daily life anticipates

The life to come, and in whose thought and

word

The spiritual world preponderates,

Hermit of Amesbury! thou too hast heard
Voices and melodies from beyond the gates,
And speakest only when thy soul is stirred!

THE TWO RIVERS.

I.

SLOWLY the hour-hand of the clock moves round;
So slowly that no human eye hath power
To see it move! Slowly in shine or shower
The painted ship above it, homeward bound,
Sails, but seems motionless, as if aground;
Yet both arrive at last; and in his tower
The slumberous watchman wakes and strikes
the hour,

A mellow, measured, melancholy sound.
Midnight! the outpost of advancing day!
The frontier town and citadel of night!

The watershed of Time, from which the streams Of Yesterday and To-morrow take their way, One to the land of promise and of light, One to the land of darkness and of dreams!

II.

O River of Yesterday, with current swift Through chasms descending, and soon lost to sight,

I do not care to follow in their flight

The faded leaves, that on thy bosom drift! O River of To-morrow, I uplift

Mine eyes, and thee I follow, as the night Wanes into morning, and the dawning light Broadens, and all the shadows fade and shift! I follow, follow, where thy waters run

Through unfrequented, unfamiliar fields, Fragrant with flowers and musical with song; Still follow, follow; sure to meet the sun, And confident, that what the future yields Will be the right, unless myself be wrong.

III.

Yet not in vain, O River of Yesterday,

Through chasms of darkness to the deep descending,

I heard thee sobbing in the rain, and blending
Thy voice with other voices far away.

I called to thee, and yet thou wouldst not stay,
But turbulent, and with thyself contending,
And torrent-like thy force on pebbles spending,
Thou wouldst not listen to a poet's lay.

Thoughts, like a loud and sudden rush of wings,
Regrets and recollections of things past,
With hints and prophecies of things to be,
And inspirations, which, could they be things,
And stay with us, and we could hold them fast,
Were our good angels, · these I owe to thee.

IV.

And thou, O River of To-morrow, flowing
Between thy narrow adamantine walls,
But beautiful, and white with waterfalls,
And wreaths of mist, like hands the pathway
showing;

I hear the trumpets of the morning blowing,

I hear thy mighty voice, that calls and calls, And see, as Ossian saw in Morven's halls, Mysterious phantoms, coming, beckoning, going! It is the mystery of the unknown

That fascinates us; we are children still, Wayward and wistful; with one hand we cling To the familiar things we call our own, And with the other, resolute of will,

Grope in the dark for what the day will bring.

BOSTON.

ST. BOTOLPH'S Town! Hither across the plains
And fens of Lincolnshire, in garb austere,
There came a Saxon monk, and founded here
A Priory, pillaged by marauding Danes,
So that thereof no vestige now remains;
Only a name, that, spoken loud and clear,
And echoed in another hemisphere,

Survives the sculptured walls and painted panes.
St. Botolph's Town! Far over leagues of land
And leagues of sea looks forth its noble tower,
And far around the chiming bells are heard;
So may that sacred name forever stand

A landmark, and a symbol of the power,
That lies concentred in a single word.

ST. JOHN'S, CAMBRIDGE.

The memorial chapel of St. John's, erected by Robert Means Mason in connection with the Episcopal Theological School, stands close by the home of Mr. Longfellow.

I STAND beneath the tree, whose branches shade Thy western window, Chapel of St. John! And hear its leaves repeat their benison

On him, whose hand thy stones memorial laid; Then I remember one of whom was said

In the world's darkest hour, " Behold thy son!" And see him living still, and wandering on And waiting for the advent long delayed. Not only tongues of the apostles teach

Lessons of love and light, but these expanding And sheltering boughs with all their leaves im

plore,

And say in language clear as human speech, "The peace of God, that passeth understanding,

Be and abide with you forevermore ! "

MOODS.

OH that a Song would sing itself to me
Out of the heart of Nature, or the heart
Of man, the child of Nature, not of Art,
Fresh as the morning, salt as the salt sea,
With just enough of bitterness to be

A medicine to this sluggish mood, and start
The life-blood in my veins, and so impart
Healing and help in this dull lethargy!
Alas! not always doth the breath of song

Breathe on us. It is like the wind that bloweth At its own will, not ours, nor tarrieth long; We hear the sound thereof, but no man knoweth From whence it comes, so sudden and swift and

strong,

Nor whither in its wayward course it goeth.

WOODSTOCK PARK.

HERE in a little rustic hermitage

Alfred the Saxon King, Alfred the Great,
Postponed the cares of king-craft to translate
The Consolations of the Roman sage.

Here Geoffrey Chaucer in his ripe old age
Wrote the unrivalled Tales, which soon or late
The venturous hand that strives to imitate
Vanquished must fall on the unfinished page.
Two kings were they, who ruled by right divine,
And both supreme; one in the realm of Truth,
One in the realm of Fiction and of Song.
What prince hereditary of their line,

Uprising in the strength and flush of youth,
Their glory shall inherit and prolong?

THE FOUR PRINCESSES AT WILNA.

A PHOTOGRAPH.

SWEET faces, that from pictured casements lean
As from a castle window, looking down
On some gay pageant passing through a town,
Yourselves the fairest figures in the scene;