Nearer and round about her, the manifold flowers of the garden Poured out their souls in odors, that were their prayers and confessions Unto the night, as it went its way, like a silent Carthusian. Fuller of fragrance than they, and as heavy with shadows and night-dews, Hung the heart of the maiden. moonlight The calm and the magical Seemed to inundate her soul with indefinable longings, As, through the garden gate, and beneath the shade of the oak-trees, Passed she along the path to the edge of the measureless prairie. Silent it lay, with a silvery haze upon it, and fire-flies Gleaming and floating away in mingled and infinite numbers. Over her head the stars, the thoughts of God in the heavens, Shone on the eyes of man, who had ceased to marvel and worship, Save when a blazing comet was seen on the walls of that temple, As if a hand had appeared and written upon them "Upharsin." And the soul of the maiden, between the stars and the fireflies, Wandered alone, and she cried, "O Gabriel! O, my beloved! Art thou so near unto me, and yet I cannot behold thee? Art thou so near unto me, and yet thy voice does not reach me? Ah! how often thy feet have trod this path to the prairie! Ah! how often thine eyes have looked on the woodlands around me! Ah! how often beneath this oak, returning from labor, Thou hast lain down to rest, and to dream of me in thy slumbers. When shall these eyes behold, these arms be folded about thee?" Loud and sudden and near the note of a whip-poor-will sounded, Like a flute in the woods; and anon, through the neighboring thickets, Farther and farther away it floated and dropped into silence. "Patience!" whispered the oaks from oracular caverns of darkness; And, from the moonlit meadow, a sigh responded, "To`morrow!" Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. BRUSHWOOD. On a weary slope of Apennine, Of Vallombrosa's antique wood, As if in penance for prayers unsaid. Her dull cheeks channeled were with tears, How far, how very far it seemed, Laden till it could bear no more, Has seen a heavenward light that smiled, To the quiet of that home. Steeper and rougher grew the road, Again she heard the toiling tread So down he set her brushwood freight From many a summer hill and glen, She culled the loveliest blooms to shine About the feet of this same shrine; But now, where once her flowers were gay, And prayers and tears a quiet brought, She rose to take her load again. Then spake her traveler-friend: "Dear Soul, Will never pass the o'erladen by. My feet are on the mountain steep; My willing shoulder still is there! Of one on earth who toiled and prayed. Thomas Buchanan Read. A PETITION TO TIME. Touch us gently, Time! Let us glide adown thy stream Gently, as we sometimes glide Through a quiet dream! Humble voyagers are we, Husband, wife, and children three- Touch us gently, Time! We 've not proud nor soaring wings: Lies in simple things. Humble voyagers are we, O'er Life's dim unsounded sea, Seeking only some calm clime; 'Touch us gently, gentle Time! Bryan Waller Procter. ANNABEL LEE. It was many and many a year ago, In a kingdom by the sea, That a maiden lived, whom you may know By the name of Annabel Lee; And this maiden, she lived with no other thought Than to love, and be loved by me. I was a child and she was a child, In this kingdom by the sea; But we loved with a love that was more than love, With a love that the wingéd seraphs of heaven And this was the reason that long ago, In this kingdom by the sea, A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling So that her high born kinsmen came, |