O LITTLE feet! that such long years
Must wander on through hopes and fears,
Must ache and bleed beneath your load;
I, nearer to the wayside inn

Where toil shall cease and rest begin,
Am weary, thinking of your road!

O little hands! that, weak or strong,
Have still to serve or rule so long,

Have still so long to give or ask ;
I, who so much with book and pen,
Have toiled among my fellow-men

Am weary, thinking of your task.

O little hearts! that throb and beat
With such impatient, feverish heat,

Such limitless and strong desires;

THE STORM-BELL OF DUINO.

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Mine that so long has glowed and burned,
With passions into ashes turned

Now covers and conceals its fires.

O little souls! as pure and white
And crystalline as rays of light

Direct from heaven, their source divine;
Refracted through the mist of years,
How red my setting sun appears,

How lurid looks this soul of mine!

Longfellow.

THE STORM-BELL OF DUINO.

Among the bastions of the Castle of Duino, on the shores of the Adriatic, an iron staff is erected during summer, and it is part of the duty of a sentinel whenever a storm threatens to raise a halberd on the summit of this staff. If, on the approach of the halberd, sparks are emitted, it is held sure that a storm is impending, and he tolls a bell, which sends forth the tidings of danger to the surrounding country.

THE sentinel mounts the turret stair
His halberd is raised in the sultry air,
And the sparks they danced

As the lightnings glanced,

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THE STORM-BELL OF DUINO.

And he rings the deep-toned bell,
And the tocsin rolls

As the deep bell tolls

Wide over the flood and fell.-

Though the lark sings high
In that ocean sky

On the verge of the darkling cloud,
There's the mischief dire

Of no earth-born fire

Concealed in that purple shroud,

And the storm they know

Will not be slow,

When they hear that warning loud.

The swineherd hastes from woodland height
And hurries his herd before him;

The fisherman pulls with main and might
Ere the first loud peal bursts o'er him;
The peasant is fled

To the hill-side shed,

Ere the blinding flash he see ;

Not a sound is heard,

Nor of beast nor bird,

Far over that wide country.

HUMAN LIFE.

Hark! Duino's bell

Rings the warning knell!

In, in, with the wandering kine!
For the flinty shower

Shall its vengeance pour

And the grape be torn from the vine.
Oh! there's many a knee

In fair Italy

Before the Madonna's shrine,

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And heads all bare, in the convent prayer,
When that bell swings loud, and that spear is

there!

Professor Badham.

HUMAN LIFE.

(THE LOVER.)

WHO spurs his horse against the mountain side;
Then, plunging, slakes his fury in the tide?
Draws, and cries ho! and where the sunbeams fall,
At his own shadow thrusts along the wall?
Who dances without music; and anon

Sings like the lark-then sighs as woe-begone
And folds his arms, and, where the willows wave,

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HUMAN LIFE.

Glides in the moonshine by a maiden's grave?
Come hither, boy, and clear thy open brow,
Yon summer-clouds, now like the Alps, and now
A ship, a whale, change not so fast as thou.
He hears me not; those sighs were from the heart.
Too, too well taught, he plays the lover's part.
He who at masques, nor feigning nor sincere,
With sweet discourse would win a lady's ear,
Lie at her feet and on her slipper swear
That none were half so faultless, half so fair,
Now through the forest hies, a stricken deer,
A banished man, flying when none are near;
And writes on every tree, and lingers long
Where most the nightingale repeats her song;
Where most the nymph, that haunts the silent grove,
Delights to syllable the names we love.

Two on his steps attend, in motley clad;

One woeful-wan, one merry but as mad; Called Hope and Fear. Hope shakes his cap and bells

And flowers spring up among the woodland dells. To Hope he listens, wandering without measure Thro' sun and shade, lost in a trance of pleasure; And, if to Fear but for a weary mile,

Hope follows fast and wins him with a smile.

Rogers.