What we have learned of sun and storm

Is ours alone to know.

The winds are blowing out to sea :

Take up thy life and go!"

ELLEN MACKAY HUTCHINSON.

Where Lies the Land?

WHERE lies the land to which the ship would go?

Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know;

And where the land she travels from? Away,
Far, far behind, is all that they can say.

On sunny noons upon the deck's smooth face,
Linked arm in arm, how pleasant here to pace!
Or o'er the stern reclining, watch below
The foaming wake far widening as we go.

On stormy nights, when wild northwesters rave,
How proud a thing to fight with wind and wave!
The dripping sailor on the reeling mast
Exults to bear, and scorns to wish it past.

Where lies the land to which the ship would

go?

Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know;
And where the land she travels from? Away,
Far, far behind, is all that they can say.

ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH.

Donth and Calm.

"Tis death! and peace indeed is here,
And ease from shame, and rest from fear.
There's nothing can dismarble now
The smoothness of that limpid brow.
But is a calm like this, in truth,
The crowning end of life and youth,
And when this boon rewards the dead,
Are all debts paid, has all been said?
And is the heart of youth so light,
Its step so firm, its eye so bright,
Because on its hot brow there blows
A wind of promise and repose
From the far grave, to which it goes;

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Because it has the hope to come,
One day, to harbor in the tomb?
Ah no, the bliss youth dreams is one
For daylight, for the cheerful sun,
For feeling nerves and living breath-
Youth dreams a bliss on this side death!
It dreams a rest, if not more deep,
More grateful than this marble sleep;
It hears a voice within it tell:

Calm's not life's crown, though calm is well!
"Tis all, perhaps, which man acquires,
But 'tis not what our youth desires.

MATTHEW ARNOLD.

The Soldier's Dream.

OUR bugles sang truce; for the night-cloud had lowered,

And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky;

And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered

The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw, By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain, At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,

And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.

Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track: "Twas autumn- and sunshine arose on the way To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.

I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft

In life's morning march, when my bosom was young;

I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.

Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore From my home and my weeping friends never to part;

My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er,

And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart.

Stay, stay with us!-rest; thou art weary and worn!

And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay; But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn, And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

The Battle of Blenheim.

It was a summer evening —

Old Kaspar's work was done, And he before his cottage door Was sitting in the sun; And by him sported on the green His little grandchild Wilhelmine.

She saw her brother Peterkin

Roll something large and round, Which he beside the rivulet,

In playing there, had found; He came to ask what he had found, That was so large, and smooth, and round.

Old Kaspar took it from the boy,

Who stood expectant by;

And then the old man shook his head;

And, with a natural sigh—

""Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he, "Who fell in the great victory.

"I find them in the garden,

For there's many here about; And often when I go to plough,

The ploughshare turns them out; For many thousand men," said he, "Were slain in the great victory."

"Now tell us what 'twas all about,"
Young Peterkin he cries;
And little Wilhelmine looks up

With wonder-waiting eyes— "Now tell us all about the war, And what they fought each other for.”

"It was the English," Kaspar cried, "Who put the French to rout; But what they fought each other for, I could not well make out;

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Is it, O man, with such discordant noises,
With such accursed instruments as these,
Thou drownest nature's sweet and kindly voices,
And jarrest the celestial harmonies?

Were half the power that fills the world with terror,

Were half the wealth bestowed on camps and courts,

Given to redeem the human mind from error,
There were no need of arsenals nor forts;

The warrior's name would be a name abhorred;
And every nation that should lift again
Its hand against a brother, on its forehead

Would wear forevermore the curse of Cain!'

Down the dark future, through long generations, The echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease; And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations,

I hear once more the voice of Christ say, "Peace!"

Peace!-and no longer from its brazen portals The blast of war's great organ shakes the skies;

But, beautiful as songs of the immortals,
The holy melodies of love arise.

HENRY WADsworth LonGFELLOW.

Sunrise comes To-Morrow.

TRUE it is that clouds and mist

Blot the clear, blue weather;
True that lips that once have kissed
Come no more together:

True that when we would do good,
Evil often follows;

True that green leaves quit the wood,

Summers lose their swallows:
True that we must live alone,

Dwell with pale dejections;
True that we must often moan
Over crushed affections:
True that man his queen awaits
True that, sad and lonely,
Woman, through her prison-gates,
Sees her tyrant only:

True, the rich despise the poor,

And the poor desire

Food still from the rich man's door, Fuel from his fire:

True that, in this age of ours,

There are none to guide us-
Gone the grand primeval powers!
Selfish aims divide us :

True the plaint; but if more true,
I would not deplore it;
If an Eden fade from view,
Time may yet restore it.

Evil comes, and evil goes,
But it moves me never;
For the good, the good, it grows,

Buds and blossoms ever.
Winter still succeeds to spring,

But fresh springs are coming; Other birds are on the wing,

Other bees are humming.

-

I have loved with right good-will,
Mourned my hopes departed,
Dreamed my golden dream- and still
Am not broken-hearted.
Problems are there hard to solve,
And the weak may try them -
May review them and revolve,
While the strong pass by them.
Sages prove that God is not;

But I still adore him,
See the shadow in each spot
That he casts before him.
What if cherished creeds must fade?
Faith will never leave us;

God preserves what God has made,

Nor can truth deceive us.

Let in light-the holy light!

Brothers, fear it never;

Darkness smiles, and wrong grows right: Let in light forever!

Let in light! When this shall be
Safe and pleasant duty,
Men in common things shall see
Goodness, truth, and beauty;
And as noble Plato sings—
Hear it, lords and ladies!-