Thoughts that hardly flourish here,
Feelings long have ceased to blow,
Breathe a native atmosphere
In the world of Long-ago.
On that deep-retiring shore
Frequent pearls of beauty lie,
Where the passion-waves of yore
Fiercely beat, and mounted high:
Sorrows that are sorrows still
Lose the bitter taste of woe;
Nothing's altogether ill
In the griefs of Long-ago.
Tombs where lonely love repines,
Ghastly tenements of tears,
Wear the look of happy shrines
Thro' the golden mist of years:
Death, to those who trust in good,
Vindicates his hardest blow;
Oh! we would not if we could,
Wake the sleep of Long-ago!
Tho' the doom of swift decay
Shocks the soul where life is strong,
Tho' for frailer hearts the day
Lingers sad and overlong,-
Still the weight will find a leaven,
Still the spoiler's hand is slow,
While the Future has its Heaven,
And the Past its Long-ago.
A SPANISH ANECDOTE.
It was a holy usage to record
Upon each refectory's side or end
The last mysterious supper of our Lord,
That meanest appetites might upward tend.
Within the convent palace of old Spain,
Rich with the gifts and monuments of kings, Hung such a picture, said by some to reign, The sovran glory of those wondrous things. A painter of far fame, in deep delight,
Dwelt on each beauty he so well discern'd, While, in low tones, a grey Geronomite This answer to his ecstacy return'd: "Stranger! I have received my daily meal In this good company, now three-score years, And thou, whoe'er thou art, canst hardly feel How time these lifeless images endears. “Lifeless,—ah! no: while in my heart are stored Sad memories of my brethren dead and gone, Familiar places vacant round our board,
And still that silent supper lasting on.
"While I review my youth,- what I was then,What I am now, and ye, beloved ones all,
It seems as if these were the living men,
And we the colour'd shadows on the wall."
THE SPIRIT OF PHILANTHROPY.
A SENSE of an earnest will
To help the lowly living,
And a terrible heart-thrill,
you have no power of giving;
An arm of aid to the weak,
A friendly hand to the friendless,
Kind words, so short to speak,
But whose echo is endless:
The world is wide, these things are small,
They may be nothing, but they are all.
of the following He is the author
WE have no hesitation in recognizing the writer beautiful poems as a poet of remarkable promise. of a delightful little volume entitled "Wandering Cries" (London: Partridge & Co.). The following graceful effusions have been written since its publication; and with the exception of the lines entitled "Ocean," first printed in "Household Words," and "The Golden Year," more recently in "All the Year Round," they appear for the first time. We not only thank Mr. Harris for his valuable co-operation, but acknowledge also the courtesy of Mr. Charles Dickens, by whose permission the poems specially referred to are reprinted.
We live by love; perchance a child is given
Whose beauty holds us as with magic chain,
Or our affections follow friends in heaven,
Or we love one who loves us not again,
Or some ideal form in dreams may grow
Fairer than all on earth, and slowly dear,
For from our hearts the stream must ever flow,
If we would keep the fountain fresh and clear.
But thou, oh! senseless and unhappy wight,
Whom love's sweet music pleases not, nor grieves,
What art thou but a star deprived of light,
A bud enclosing only withered leaves?
Oh! fool, to choose the darkness and the cold,
The last year's nest, whence all delights are fled,
And with no help in learning, fame, or gold,
For, loveless, art thou not already dead?
OH, that this silver stream would bear my soul (While, in abstracted mood, I watch'd some star), Like sere leaf on its water's petty roll!
I would its devious windings follow far,
And never with one thought disturb its flow,
But, like a child in some beloved embrace,
Lie still and rest, and purest pleasure know
In looking to attain the wish'd-for place.
With thee, great Ocean, would I long to be;
Again to rest upon thy shell-strewn sand,
To list, like lover, to the melody
Of thy dear voice; to kiss the snowy hand
Which smooths to pillows the rough beach; to fold
In my embrace thy rocks; in dreams once more
To spend old hours with thee, and to behold
Thy face, reflecting Heaven as of yore.
To seek concealed wonders few would note,
The unheeded ripple, like an infant smile,
The shell of life deserted; or to float
On thy calm breast at evening, the while
No sound should startle the tranced air, and gaze
On minute forests and strange plants that grow
On thy sand-floor, where, folded in the maze
Of purple leaves, untended flowers blow.
To watch the evening shades and vapours dun
Gather like clouds of sorrow on thy face,
And to behold, perchance, the weary sun
Serenely sinking in thy kind embrace,
Like a most wayward child who will not rest
Save on one breast; for thee, in silence deep,
To rock his cloudy cradle in the west
And draw the curtain as he falls asleep.
To wait until the moon, in garments bright,
Enters the sky as a deserted town,
Changing the battlements to walls of light,
Whilst, scarcely seen, some starry eyes look down,
With gentle greeting, as she glides along,
The Queen of Peace, with majesty elate;
But thou, as lonely echo some sweet song,
In thy clear breast dost mock her little state.
Like watcher by a slumbering child, to list
To thy low breathing, as thou sleepest by;
To see the distant vessel veil'd in mist,
Like spirit invoked of the moon on high;
To climb some rock, and calm my troubled mind,
The while unwearied tides pass on below,
Though all seem still, and there is no rough wind
To weave the dying wave a wreath of snow.
Thou, Ocean, art the same; but where are they
With whom I loved to haunt thy vocal shore?
Life's changes bore them from my path away,
And I may see those well-known forms no more:
Sad thought, no more to tread that glistening beach,
And watch thy troubled bosom heave and fall,
In their sweet presence,- for beyond my reach
Wafted are those dear hearts and scatter'd all.
As if, far distant in the universe,
A group of planets, which to our short sight
Had seem'd a shining cloud, should all disperse,
Deserting their true paths of borrow'd light,
And, on the eternal ocean, circling far,
Seek island worlds; leaving their sun, bereft
Of their kind ministry, a wandering star,
To explore Heaven alone. So I am left.
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