To her old leaves new myriads?
Such and so grew these holy piles,
Whilst love and terror laid the tiles.
Earth proudly wears the Parthenon
As the best gem upon her zone;
And morning opes with haste her lids
To gaze upon the Pyramids;
O'er England's Abbeys bends the sky
As on its friends with kindred eye;
For, out of Thought's interior sphere
These wonders rose to upper air,
And Nature gladly gave them place,
Adopted them into her race,
And granted them an equal date
With Andes and with Ararat.

These temples grew as grows the grass;
Art might obey, but not surpass.
The passive Master lent his hand
To the vast Soul that o'er him planned,
And the same power that reared the
shrine,

Bestrode the tribes that knelt within.
Ever the fiery Pentecost

Girds with one flame the countless host, Trances the heart through chanting choirs,

And through the priest the mind in

spires.

The word unto the prophet spoken Was writ on tables yet unbroken; The word by seers or sibyls told, In groves of oak or fanes of gold, Still floats upon the morning wind, Still whispers to the willing mind. One accent of the Holy Ghost The heedless world hath never lost. I know what say the Fathers wise, The book itself before me lies, Old Chrysostom, best Augustine, And he who blent both in his line, The younger Golden Lips or mines, Taylor, the Shakespeare of divines; His words are music in my ear, I see his cowled portrait dear, And yet, for all his faith could see, I would not the good bishop be.

BOSTON HYMN.

THE word of the Lord by night
To the watching Pilgrims came,

As they sat by the seaside,

And filled their hearts with flame.

God said, I am tired of kings, I suffer them no more;

Up to my ear the morning brings The outrage of the poor.

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Think ye I made this ball
A field of havoc and war,
Where tyrants great and tyrants small
Might harry the weak and poor?

My angel, his name is Freedom,—
Choose him to be your king;
He shall cut pathways east and west,
And fend you with his wing.

Lo! I uncover the land,

Which I hid of old time in the West, As the sculptor uncovers the statue When he has wrought his best;

I show Columbia, of the rocks
Which dip their foot in the seas,
And soar to the air-borne flocks
Of clouds, and the boreal fleece.

I will divide my goods;

Call in the wretch and the slave: None shall rule but the humble, And none but Toil shall have.

I will have never a noble,

No lineage counted great; Fishers and choppers and ploughmen Shall constitute a state.

Go, cut down trees in the forest,

And trim the straightest boughs; Cut down trees in the forest,

And build me a wooden house.

Call the people together,

The young men and the sires, The digger in the harvest-field, Hireling, and him that hires;

And here in a pine state-house They shall choose men to rule In every needful faculty,

In church and state and school.

Lo, now if these poor men
Can govern the land and sea,
And make just laws below the sun,
As planets faithful be.

And ye shall succor men;
"T is nobleness to serve;
Help them who cannot help again:
Beware from right to swerve.

How it swells!

How it dwells

What a tale of terror, now, their turbuleney tells!

In the startled ear of night
How they scream out their affright!
Too much horrified to speak,
They can only shriek, shriek,
Out of tune,

In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,

In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire.

Leaping higher, higher, higher,
With a desperate desire,
And a resolute endeavor
Now-

- now to sit or never,
By the side of the pale-faced moon.
O, the bells, bells, bells,

What a tale their terror tells

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At the melancholy menace of their tone!

For every sound that floats

From the rust within their throats

Is a groan.

And the people,-ah, the people, —
They that dwell up in the steeple,
All alone,

And who, tolling, tolling, tolling,
In that muffled monotone,
Feel a glory in so rolling

On the human heart a stone,
They are neither man nor woman,
They are neither brute nor human,
They are Ghouls:

And their king it is who tolls;
And he rolls, rolls, rolls,
Rolls

A pan from the bells!
And his merry bosom swells

With the pean of the bells!
And he dances and he yells;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the pean of the bells, -
Of the bells:

Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,

To the throbbing of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells,

To the sobbing of the bells; Keeping time, time, time,

As he knells, knells, knells, In a happy Runic rhyme,

To the rolling of the bells, Of the bells, bells, bells,

To the tolling of the bells, Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells,

To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.

ROBERT BROWNING.

EVELYN HOPE.

BEAUTIFUL Evelyn Hope is dead!

Sit and watch by her side an hour. That is her book-shelf, this her bed;

She plucked that piece of geraniumflower,

Beginning to die, too, in the glass.

Little has yet been changed, I thi..k,

Then, welcome each rebuff
That turns earth's smoothness rough,
Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand,
but go!

Be our joys three parts pain!
Strive, and hold cheap the strain;
Learn, nor account the pang; dare, never
grudge the throe!

For thence a paradox

Which comforts while it mocks

Shall life succeed in that it seems to fail :

What I aspired to be,

And was not, comforts me:

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Thence shall I pass, approved

A man, for ave removed

From the developed brute; a God though in the germ.

And I shall thereupon

not sink i' the scale.

What is he but a brute

Whose flesh hath soul to suit,

Once more on my adventure brave and

new:

Fearless and unperplexed,

When I wage battle next,

want play?

To man, propose this test,

Thy body at its best,

indue.

Youth ended, I shall try

lone way?

Yet gifts should prove their use:

I own the Past profuse

Of power each side, perfection every turn :

Eyes, ears took in their dole,

Brain treasured up the whole;

Be the fire ashes, what survives is gold: And I shall weigh the same,

Give life its praise or blame:

Young, all lay in dispute; I shall know, being old.

For note, when evening shuts,

I strove, made head, gained ground upon the whole!"

As the bird wings and sings,

The Master work, and catch

Hints of the proper craft, tricks of the tool's true play.

As it was better, youth

Should strive, through acts uncouth,