SMA

THE BROOK RHINE.

MALL current of the wilds afar from men,
Changing and sudden as a baby's mood;

Now a green babbling rivulet in the wood, Now loitering broad and shallow through the glen, Or threading 'mid the naked shoals, and then

Brattling against the stones, half mist, half flood, Between the mountains where the storm clouds

brood:

And each change but to wake or sleep again;
Pass on, young stream, the world has need of thee:
Far hence a mighty river on its breast

Bears the deep-laden vessels to the sea;

Far hence wide waters feed the vines and corn; Pass on, small stream, to so great purpose born, On to the distant toil, the distant rest.

Augusta Webster.

THE RIVER'S END.

UT the majestic river floated on,

BUT

Out of the mist and hum of that low land,

Into the frosty starlight, and there moved,
Rejoicing, through the hush'd Chorasmian waste,
Brimming, and bright, and large; then sands begin
To hem his watery march, and dam his streams,
And split his currents; then for many a league
The shorn and parcell'd Oxus strains along
Through beds of sand and matted rushy isles-
Oxus forgetting the bright speed he had
In his high mountain-cradle in Pamere,

UP IN THE WILD.

A foil'd circuitous wanderer-till at last

The long'd for dash of waves is heard, and wide
His luminous home of waters opens, bright

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And tranquil, from whose floor the new-bathed stars Emerge, and shine upon the Aral sea.

Matthew Arnold.

U

UP IN THE WILD.

P in a wild where no one comes to look

There lives and sings a little lonely brook :

Liveth and singeth in the dreary pines,

Yet creepeth on to where the daylight shines.

Pure from their heaven, in mountain chalice caught,
It drinks the rains, as drinks the soul her thought;
And down dim hollows where it winds along,
Pours its life-burden of unlistened song.

I catch the murmur of its undertone,
That sigheth ceaselessly, Alone! alone!
And hear afar the Rivers gloriously
Shout on their paths toward the shining sea!

The voiceful Rivers, chanting to the sun,
And wearing names of honor, every one :
Outreaching wide, and joining hand with hand
To pour great gifts along the asking land.

Ah! lonely brook! creep onward through the pines;
Press through the gloom to where the daylight shines!
Sing on among the stones, and secretly

Feel how the floods are all akin to thee!

Drink the sweet rain the gentle heaven sendeth ; Hold thine own path, however-ward it tendeth; For somewhere, underneath the eternal sky, Thou, too, shalt find the Rivers, by-and-by! Adeline D. T. Whitney.

I

IF THOU ART WORN.

F thou art worn and hard beset

With 90rrows that thou would'st forget,

If thou would'st read a lesson that will keep

Thy heart from fainting and thy soul from sleep, Go to the woods and hills!-No tears

Dim the sweet look that Nature wears.

H. W. Longfellow.

MONADNOCK FROM CHESTERFIELD.

HE merest bulge above the horizon's rim

TH

Of purplish blue which you might think a cloud
Low-lying there,-that is Monadnock proud,

Full seventy miles away. But far and dim
Although it be, I still can without glass

Descry, as I were standing happy there
Upon the topmost ledges gray and bare,
Something which with the shadows will not pass,—
A vision that abides: a fair young girl

Lying her length; her hair all disarrayed

By the bold mountain-wind; her cheeks aglow;

As if that rocky summit should unfurl

A rose of June! And what if I had said, "Thrice fair Monadnock with her lying so!"

J. W. Chadwick.

ABOVE AND BELOW.

177

WAV

SONG.

AVES on the beach, and the wild sea-foam,
With a leap, and a dash, and a sudden
cheer,

Where the sea-weed makes its bending home,
And the sea-birds swim on the crests so clear,
Wave after wave, they are curling o'er,
Where the white sand dazzles along the shore.
W. E. Channing.

ABOVE AND BELOW.

I.

DWELLERS in the valley-land,

Who in deep twilight grope and cower,

Till the slow mountain's dial-hand
Shortens to noon's triumphal hour,—
While ye sit idle, do ye think

The Lord's great work sits idle too?
That light dare not o'erleap the brink
Of morn, because 'tis dark with you?

Though yet your valleys skulk in night,

In God's ripe fields the day is cried,
And reapers, with their sickles bright,
Troop, singing, down the mountain-side:
Come up, and feel what health there is
In the frank Dawn's delighted eyes,
As, bending with a pitying kiss,

The night-shed tears of Earth she dries!

The Lord wants reapers: Oh, mount up,
Before night comes, and says,— “Too late!
Stay not for taking scrip or cup,

The Master hungers while ye wait;
'Tis from these heights alone your eyes
The advancing spears of day can see,
Which o'er the eastern hill-tops rise,
To break your long captivity.

II.

LONE watcher on the mountain-height!
It is right precious to behold
The first long surf of climbing light
Flood all the thirsty east with gold;

But we, who in the shadow sit,

Know also when the day is nigh, Seeing thy shining forehead lit

With his inspiring prophecy.

Thou hast thine office; we have ours;
God lacks not early service here,
But what are thine eleventh hours

He counts with us for morning cheer;
Our day, for Him, is long enough,
And, when He giveth work to do,
The bruised reed is amply tough

To pierce the shield of error through.

But not the less do thou aspire

Light's earlier messages to preach; Keep back no syllable of fire,

Plunge deep the rowels of thy speech.