Mary E. Lee. THE POETS. THE poets-the poets- In mighty strength they tower above A noble race-they mingle not But move, with slow and measured step, The poets-the poets What conquests they can boast' Without one drop of life-blood spilt, They rule a world's wide host; Their stainless banner floats unharmed From age to lengthened age; And History records their deeds Upon her proudest page. The poets-the poets— How endless is their fame! Death, like a thin mist, comes, yet leave No shadow on each name; But as yon starry gems that gleam In evening's crystal sky, So have they won, in memory's depths, An immortality. The poets--the poets --- The poets-the poets— Those kingly minstrels dead, Well may we twine a votive wreath Around each honoured head: No tribute is too high to give Those crowned ones among men. The poets-the true poets— Thanks be to God for them! Rev. William Croswell, D D. THE CLOUDS. "Cloud land! gorgeous land!"—COLERIDGE. I CANNOT look above and see Yon high-piled, pillowy mass Of evening clouds, so swimmingly And think not, LORD, how thou wast seen On Israel's desert way, Before them, in thy shadowy screen, Or, of those robes of gorgeous hue When, ravished from his followers' view, Aloft his flight He bore, When lifted, as on mighty wing, He curtained his ascent, And, wrapped in clouds, went triumphing Above the firmament. Is it a trail of that same pall That high above, o'ermantling all, For in like manner as He went,— My soul, hast thou forgot?— Shall be his terrible descent, When man expecteth not! Strength, Son of Man, against that hour, Be to our spirits given, When Thou shalt come again with power Upon the clouds of heaven! William Pitt Palmer LINES то A CHRYSALIS M USING long, I asked me this "Chrysalis, Lying helpless in my path, Obvious to mortal scath From a careless passer-by, Why, from hope and joy apart, "Nature surely did amiss, Chrysalis, When she lavished fins and wings, "E'en the very worm may kiss, Roses on their topmost stems, Quoth the Chrysalis: "Sir Bard Not so hard Is my rounded destiny In the great Economy. Nay, by humble reason viewed, "Though I seem of all things to m Most forlorn, Most obtuse of soul and sense, Next of kin to Impotence, Nay, to Death himself; yet ne'e Priest or prophet, sage or seer, May sublimer wisdom teach "From my pulpit of the sod, I proclaim this wondrous truth: Nearest Glory's natal porch, Where, with pale, inverted torch, Death lights downward to the rest Of the blest. "Mark yon airy butterfly's Rainbow-dyes! Yesterday that shape divine Was as darkly hearsed as mine. But to-morrow I shall be Free and beautiful as e, And sweep forth on wings of light Like a sprite. |