And yet the words they uttered seemed

to change

Their meaning to my ear.

For the one face I looked for was not there,

The one low voice was mute;

Only an unseen presence filled the air,
And baffled my pursuit.

Now I look back, and meadow, manse, and stream

Dimly my thought defines;

I only see a dream within a dream
The hill-top hearsed with pines.

I only hear above his place of rest
Their tender undertone,

The infinite longings of a troubled breast,
The voice so like his own.

There in seclusion and remote from men The wizard hand lies cold,

Which at its topmost speed let fall the

pen,

And left the tale half told.

Ah! who shall lift that wand of magic power,

And the lost clew regain?

The unfinished window in Aladdin's tower

Unfinished must remain !

THE WIND OVER THE CHIMNEY.

EE, the fire is sinking low,
Dusky red the embers glow,

While above them still I cower,

While a moment more I linger,

Though the clock, with lifted finger,
Points beyond the midnight hour.

Sings the blackened log a tune
Learned in some forgotten June

From a school-boy at his play, When they both were young together, Heart of youth and summer weather Making all their holiday.

And the night-wind rising, hark!
How above there in the dark,

In the midnight and the snow,

Ever wilder, fiercer, grander,
Like the trumpets of Iskander,
All the noisy chimneys blow!

Every quivering tongue of flame
Seems to murmur some great name,
Seems to say to me, "Aspire!"
But the night-wind answers, " Hollow
Are the visions that you follow,

Into darkness sinks your fire!"

Then the flicker of the blaze
Gleams on volumes of old days,
Written by masters of the art,
Loud through whose majestic pages
Rolls the melody of ages,

Throb the harp-strings of the heart.

And again the tongues of flame
Start exulting and exclaim :

"These are prophets, bards, and seers;

In the horoscope of nations,

Like ascendant constellations,

They control the coming years."

But the night-wind cries: "Despair!
Those who walk with feet of air

Leave no long-enduring marks; At God's forges incandescent Mighty hammers beat incessant, These are but the flying sparks.

"Dust are all the hands that wrought;
Books are sepulchres of thought;
The dead laurels of the dead
Rustle for a moment only,
Like the withered leaves in lonely
Churchyards at some passing tread."

Suddenly the flame sinks down ;
Sink the rumors of renown;

And alone the night-wind drear Clamors louder, wilder, vaguer,""Tis the brand of Meleager

Dying on the hearth-stone here!"

And I answer,

"Though it be,

Why should that discomfort me?

No endeavor is in vain;

Its reward is in the doing,
And the rapture of pursuing

Is the prize the vanquished gain.”

THE BELLS OF LYNN.

HEARD AT NAHANT.

CURFEW of the setting sun!
O Bells of Lynn !

O requiem of the dying day!
O Bells of Lynn!

From the dark belfries of yon cloudcathedral wafted,

Your sounds aerial seem to float, O Bells of Lynn!

Borne on the evening wind across the crimson twilight,

O'er land and sea they rise and fall, O Bells of Lynn !

The fisherman in his boat, far out beyond the headland,

Listens, and leisurely rows ashore, O Bells of Lynn!

Over the shining sands the wandering cattle homeward

Follow each other at your call, O Bells of

Lynn !