As it used to write on the sky

The song of the sea and the blast.

But motionless as I wait,

Like a Bishop lying in state

Lies the Pen, with its mitre of gold, And its jewels inviolate.

Then must I speak, and say
That the light of that summer day
In the garden under the pines
Shall not fade and pass away.

I shall see you standing there,
Caressed by the fragrant air,

With the shadow on your face,
And the sunshine on your hair.

I shall hear the sweet low tone

Of a voice before unknown,

Saying, "This is from me to you

From me, and to you alone."

And in words not idle and vain

I shall answer and thank you again
For the gift, and the grace of the gift,

O beautiful Helen of Maine!

And forever this gift will be

As a blessing from you to me,

As a drop of the dew of your youth On the leaves of an aged tree.

ROBERT BURNS.

Written December 18, 1879.

I SEE amid the fields of Ayr
A ploughman, who, in foul and fair,
Sings at his task

So clear, we know not if it is
The laverock's song we hear, or his,
Nor care to ask.

For him the ploughing of those fields
A more ethereal harvest yields
Than sheaves of grain;

Songs flush with purple bloom the rye,
The plover's call, the curlew's cry,
Sing in his brain.

Touched by his hand, the wayside weed Becomes a flower; the lowliest reed

Beside the stream

Is clothed with beauty; gorse and grass And heather, where his footsteps pass, The brighter seem.

He sings of love, whose flame illumes
The darkness of lone cottage rooms;
He feels the force,

The treacherous undertow and stress
Of wayward passions, and no less
The keen remorse.

At moments, wrestling with his fate,
His voice is harsh, but not with hate;
The brush-wood, hung

Above the tavern door, lets fall
Its bitter leaf, its drop of gall
Upon his tongue.

But still the music of his song
Rises o'er all, elate and strong;
Its master-chords

Are Manhood, Freedom, Brotherhood,
Its discords but an interlude
Between the words.

And then to die so young and leave
Unfinished what he might achieve!
Yet better sure

Is this, than wandering up and down
An old man in a country town,
Infirm and poor.

For now he haunts his native land
As an immortal youth; his hand
Guides every plough ;

He sits beside each ingle-nook,
His voice is in each rushing brook,
Each rustling bough.

His presence haunts this room to-night, A form of mingled mist and light From that far coast.

Welcome beneath this roof of mine! Welcome! this vacant chair is thine, Dear guest and ghost!

HELEN OF TYRE.

"February 26, 1872. Heard Professor Sophocles on Simon Magus, very interesting and curious. Helen of Tyre he called his Epinoia, or self-consciousness." The poem was written December 1, 1879. The scene, Simon Magus and Helen of Tyre in The Divine Tragedy, was written in 1871.

WHAT phantom is this that appears
Through the purple mists of the years,
Itself but a mist like these?

A woman of cloud and of fire;

It is she; it is Helen of Tyre,

The town in the midst of the seas.

O Tyre! in thy crowded streets
The phantom appears and retreats,
And the Israelites that sell

Thy lilies and lions of brass,
Look up as they see her pass,
And murmur "Jezebel!"

Then another phantom is seen
At her side, in a gray gabardine,

With beard that floats to his waist;

It is Simon Magus, the Seer;

He speaks, and she pauses to hear
The words he utters in haste.

He says: "From this evil fame,
From this life of sorrow and shame,

I will lift thee and make thee mine;

Thou hast been Queen Candace,

And Helen of Troy, and shalt be

The Intelligence Divine! "

Oh, sweet as the breath of morn,
To the fallen and forlorn

Are whispered words of praise;
For the famished heart believes
The falsehood that tempts and deceives,
And the promise that betrays.

So she follows from land to land
The wizard's beckoning hand,

As a leaf is blown by the gust,

Till she vanishes into night.
O reader, stoop down and write
With thy finger in the dust.

O town in the midst of the seas,
With thy rafts of cedar trees,

Thy merchandise and thy ships,
Thou, too, art become as naught,
A phantom, a shadow, a thought,
A name upon men's lips.

ELEGIAC.

DARK is the morning with mist; in the narrow mouth of the harbor

Motionless lies the sea, under its curtain of

cloud;

Dreamily glimmer the sails of ships on the distant horizon,

Like to the towers of a town, built on the verge

of the sea.