Shoulder the dreamers of an earlier age, | Its wide vibrations, wafted by the gale, Lully and Geber, and the learned crew do. Why count the rest, later days - To each far listener tell a different tale. The sexton, stooping to the quivering floor those names of Till the great caldron spills its brassy roar, That many love, and all agree to Whirls the hot axle, counting, one by praise, one, Or.point the titles, where a glance may Each dull concussion, till his task is read The dangerous lines of party or of creed? Too well, perchance, the chosen list would show What few may care and none can claim Each has his features, whose exterior seal What though for months the tranquil dust descends, Whitening the heads of these mine ancient friends, done. Toil's patient daughter, when the wel come note Clangs through the silence from the steeple's throat, Streams, a white unit, to the checkered street, Demure, but guessing whom she soon The bell, responsive to her secret flame, name. The lover, tenant of the neighboring lane, Sighing, and fearing lest he sigh in vain, While the damp offspring of the modern Hears the stern accents, as they come and go, press Flaunts on my table with its pictured Their only burden one despairing No! dress; Not less I love each dull familiar face, Ocean's rough child, whom many a shore has known Nor less should miss it from the ap- Ere homeward breezes swept him to his I snatch the book, along whose burning Starts at the echo as it circles round, leaves His scarlet web our wild romancer weaves, A thousand memories kindling with the sound; The early favorite's unforgotten charms, Yet, while proud Hester's fiery pangs I Whose blue initials stain his tawny My old MAGNALIA must be standing His first farewell, the flapping canvas The seaward streamers crackling overhead, WHEN o'er the street the morning peal His kind, pale mother, not ashamed to From yon tall belfry with the brazen Her first-born's bridal with the haggard deep, tongue, PICTURES FROM OCCASIONAL POEMS. While the brave father stood with tear less eye, 103 Land of our fathers, in thine hour of need Smiling and choking with his last good- God help thee, guarded by the passive by. Tis but a wave, whose spreading cir. cle beats, With the same impulse, every nerve it meets, Yet who shall count the varied shapes that ride On the round surge of that aerial tide! O child of earth! If floating sounds like these Steal from thyself their power to wound or please, If here or there thy changing will inclines, As the bright zodiac shifts its rolling signs, Look at thy heart, and when its depths are known Then try thy brother's, judging by thine own, But keep thy wisdom to the narrower range, While its own standards are the sport of change, Nor count us rebels when we disobey The passing breath that holds thy passion's sway. NON-RESISTANCE. creed! As the lone pilgrim trusts to beads and cowl, When through the forest rings the gray wolf's howl; As the deep galleon trusts her gilded prow When the black corsair slants athwart her bow; As the poor pheasant, with his peaceful mien, Trusts to his feathers, shining golden green, When the dark plumage with the crimson beak Has rustled shadowy from its splintered peak, So trust thy friends, whose babbling tongues would charm The lifted sabre from thy foeman's arm, Thy torches ready for the answering peal From bellowing fort and thunderfreighted keel! THE MORAL BULLY. YON whey-faced brother, who delights to wear A weedy flux of ill-conditioned hair, Seems of the sort that in a crowded place PERHAPS too far in these considerate One elbows freely into smallest space : days A timid creature, lax of knee and hip, Has patience carried her submissive Whom small disturbance whitens round the lip; ways; Wisdom has taught us to be calm and One of those harmless spectacled mameek, chines, To take one blow, and turn the other The Holy-Week of Protestants convenes; Whom school-boys question if their walk cheek; It is not written what a man shall do, If the rude caitiff smite the other too! transcends The last advices of maternal friends; Whom John, obedient to his master's | And non-resistance ties his white cravat, Though his black broadcloth glories to be seen sign, Conducts, laborious, up to ninety-nine, While Peter, glistening with luxurious In the same plight with Shylock's gaberdine, scorn, Husks his white ivories like an ear of Hugs the same passion to his narrow breast corn; Dark in the brow and bilious in the That heaves the cuirass on the trooper's cheek, chest, Whose yellowish linen flowers but once Hears the same hell-hounds yelling in his rear a week, Conspicuous, annual, in their threadbare That chase from port the maddened bucsuits, And the laced high-lows which they call Feels the same comfort while his acrid their boots words caneer, Well mayst thou shun that dingy front Turn the sweet milk of kindness into curds, severe, But him, O stranger, him thou canst not Or with grim logic prove, beyond de Whose arm is stronger free to knock us down? Points to the text of universal love, To crouch, the vassal of his Sunday Seems fresh from Bedlam, airing on pa His velvet throat against thy corded Who, though he carries but a doubtful wrist, trace His loosened tongue against thy doubled Of angel visits on his hungry face, fist! pay, The MORAL BULLY, though he never Has dodged some vices in a shabby Nor kicks intruders down his entry The right to stick us with his cutthroat Though meekness plants his backward- And bait his homilies with his brother If always nourished on the selfsame From life's dark threads a trembling food; The creeping mite may live so if he please, And feed on Stilton till he turns to cheese, But cool Magendie proves beyond a doubt, faith to weave, Frail as the web that misty night has spun, Whose dew-gemmed awnings glitter in the sun. If mammals try it, that their eyes drop While the calm centuries spell their les In flaming line the telltales of the stage Except when squabbling turns them Showed on his brow the autograph of ject's hue. Pale, hueless waves amid his clustered | Their central sun the flashing chandelier! How dim the eye that sought with doubtful aim hair, And umbered shadows, prints of toil lived race Some friendly smile it still might dare to claim ! How fresh these hearts! his own how worn and cold! Such the sad thoughts that long-drawn sigh had told. No word yet faltered on his trembling tongue; Flit past the scenes and others take their Again, again, the crashing galleries rung. still, With Southern throbs the sturdy Saxon And dark-plumed Hamlet, with his heart, cloak and blade, While fresh sopranos shook the painted Looked on the royal ghost, himself a With their long, breathless, quivering All in one flash, his youthful memories Yet there he stood, the man of other Traced in bright hues of evanescent In the clear present's full, unsparing As the spent swimmer's in the lifelong |