THE HOPE OF THE AZTECS.

Thus, powerless, on the tide of Time,
Steered by an useless chart,
Sickening in Life's unhealthful clime,
Floats the quelled human heart.
Oh! well such heart may lift its cry
From that worst deep to save-

That hopeless, tearless agony

That sea without a wave!

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E. L. MONTAGU.

THE HOPE OF THE AZTECS.

SUGGESTED BY A PASSAGE FROM PRESCOTT'S
66 CONQUEST OF MEXICO."

Ir was a glorious dream that hung
Around that race of old;

By kings believed, by poets sung,
By saint and seer foretold:
The sage amid his mystic lore,

The monarch in his hall,

And the weary peasant waited for

That promised hope of all-
The God, whose presence early blest

The children of the golden West.

His coming brightened childhood's hour,
And crowned the hope of youth;
And manhood trusted in the power
Of its unquestioned truth;

And eyes, upon whose light had fallen
The mists of time and tears,

At Death's dark portals lingered on,
To see those glorious years,
Which to their life and land should bring
The blossoms of eternal spring.

But children grew to toiling men,

And youths' bright locks grew grey,
And from their paths of care and pain
The aged passed away;

And many an early shrine grew cold,
And many a star grew dim,

And woods grew dense, and cities old,
Yet still they looked for him;

But never breeze or billow bore
That glorious wanderer to their shore.

At last, when, o'er the deep, unfurled
They saw the first white sail
That ever sought the western world,
Or wooed the western gale,
How did the Golden Land rejoice,

And welcome from the sea,
With all a nation's heart and voice,

Her wandering deity!

THE HOPE OF THE AZTECS.

But knew not that she hailed, with joy,

The mighty only to destroy.

But who was he that mingled thus

With all a nation's dreams,

And on the monarch's memory rose,
And in the poet's themes?

Was it the child of some far land,
The early wise and bright,

Who shed upon that distant strand
His country's gathered light?

Or wanderer from some brighter sphere,
Who came but could not linger here?

Was it some shadow, vainly bright,
Of hope and memory born,
Like those that shed a passing light
Upon the world's grey morn;
Whose dreamy presence lingers still
By old and ruined shrines,
Or flits, where wandering Israel

For her Messiah pines;

For ages, as they went and came,

Have brought no dimness to that dream?

And even amid our fainter faith,

How long, and oh, how far,

A thousand weary hearts look forth
For some unrisen star:

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But all these vainly yearning dreams
That haunt our path of gloom,
May be but voices from the climes
That lie beyond the tomb;
Telling of brighter, better things,
Than ever blest our earthly springs.

FRANCES BROWN.

THE GUELDER ROSE.

THOU full-blown comely creature,
Say, what is thy sudden stound,
That flushes thy cheek's white feature,
In the guise of Love's own wound!

Wert thou but of human fashion,
Like me, with a burning heart,
I'd say 'twas the tint of passion,-
Yet cold as ice thou art.

"I may have no heart within me,
I may be ice-cold quite;

Yet joy would a cheek-flush win me,
As longing doth paint me white.

"To Earth, my fond mother, I'm fleeting, And Death is to lead the way;

I think of his yesternight's greeting,
And blush for delight to-day."

ANON.

THOUGHTS OF HEAVEN.

"HIGH thoughts!

They come and go,

Like the soft breathings of a list'ning maiden,

While round me flow

The winds, from woods and fields with gladness laden:

When the corn's rustle on the ear doth comeWhen the eve's beetle sounds its drowsy humWhen the stars, dew-drops of the summer sky, Watch over all with soft and loving eyeWhile the leaves quiver

By the lone river,

And the quiet heart

From depths doth call

And garners all—
Earth grows a shadow
Forgotten whole,

And Heaven lives

In the blessed soul!

High thoughts!

They are with me

When, deep within the bosom of the forest,

Thy morning melody

Abroad into the sky, thou, throstle, pourest,