TO THE PAST.

WONDROUS and awful are thy silent halls,
O kingdom of the past!

There lie the bygone ages in their palls,

Guarded by shadows vast,

There all is hushed and breathless,

Save when some image of old error falls

Earth worshipped once as deathless.

There sits drear Egypt, 'mid beleaguering sands,

Half woman and half beast,

The burnt-out torch within her mouldering hands

That once lit all the East;

A dotard bleared and hoary,

There Asser crouches o'er the blackened brands

Of Asia's long-quenched glory.

Still as a city buried 'neath the sea
Thy courts and temples stand;

Idle as forms on wind-waved tapestry
Of saints and heroes grand,

Thy phantasms grope and shiver,

Or watch the loose shores crumbling silently

Into Time's gnawing river.

Titanic shapes with faces blank and dun,

Of their old godhead lorn,

Gaze on the embers of the sunken sun,

Which they misdeem for morn;

And yet the eternal sorrow

In their unmonarched eyes says day is done
Without the hope of morrow.

O realm of silence and of swart eclipse,

The shapes that haunt thy gloom

Make signs to us and move their withered lips

Across the gulf of doom;

Yet all their sound and motion

Bring no more freight to us than wraiths of ships.

On the mirage's ocean.

And if sometimes a moaning wandereth

From out thy desolate halls,

If some grim shadow of thy living death

Across our sunshine falls

And scares the world to error,

The eternal life sends forth melodious breath

To chase the misty terror.

Thy mighty clamors, wars, and world-noised deeds

Are silent now in dust,

Gone like a tremble of the huddling reeds

Beneath some sudden gust;

Thy forms and creeds have vanished, Tossed out to wither like unsightly weeds

From the world's garden banished.

Whatever of true life there was in thee

Leaps in our age's veins;

Wield still thy bent and wrinkled empery,

And shake thine idle chains;

To thee thy dross is clinging,

For us thy martyrs die, thy prophets see,

Thy poets still are singing.

Here, 'mid the bleak waves of our strife and care, Float the green Fortunate Isles

Where all thy hero-spirits dwell, and share

Our martyrdoms and toils;

The present moves attended

With all of brave and excellent and fair

That made the old time splendid.

TO THE FUTURE.

O LAND of Promise! from what Pisgah's height
Can I behold thy stretch of peaceful bowers,
Thy golden harvests flowing out of sight,

Thy nestled homes and sun-illumined towers ?
Gazing upon the sunset's high-heaped gold,
Its crags of opal and of chrysolite,

Its deeps on deeps of glory, that unfold

Still brightening abysses,

And blazing precipices,

Whence but a scanty leap it seems to heaven,

Sometimes a glimpse is given

Of thy more gorgeous realm, thy more unstinted blisses.