A land of streams!-some, like a downward smoke, They saw the gleaming river seaward flow From the inner land: far off, three mountain-tops, Three silent pinnacles of aged snow, Stood sunset-flushed; and, dewed with showery drops, Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven copse. The charmed sunset lingered low adown In the red west through mountain-clefts the dale A land where all things always seemed the same. Tennyson. WHO AUDI ALTERAM PARTEM. HO are they that prate of the sweet consolation of Nature? They who fly from the city's heat for a month to the sea shore, Drink of unsavory springs, or camp in the green Adirondacks? They, long since, have left with their samples of ferns and of algæ, Memories carefully dried and somewhat lacking in color, Gossip of tree and cliff and wave and modest advent ure, AUDI ALTERAM PARTEM. 125 Such as a graceful sentiment—not too earnest-ad mits of, Heard in the pause of a dance or bridging the gaps of a dinner. Nay, but I, who know her, exult in her profligate seasons, Turn from the silence of men to her fancied, fond recognition, I am repelled at last by her sad and cynical humor. Kinder, cheerier now, were the pavements crowded with people, Walls that hide the sky, and the endless racket of business. There a hope in something lifts and enlivens the current, Face seeth face, and the hearts of a million, beat ing together, Hidden though each from other, at least are outwardly nearer, Lending the life of all to the one,-bestowing and taking, Weaving a common web of strength in the meshes of contact, Close, yet never impeded, restrained, yet delighting in freedom. There the soul, secluded in self, or touching its fellow Only with horny palms that hide the approach of the pulses, Driven abroad, discovers the secret signs of its kindred, Kisses on lips unknown, and words on the tongue of the stranger. Life is set to a statelier march, a grander accordance Follows its multitudinous steps of dance and of battle: Part hath each in the music; even the sacredest whisper Findeth a soul unafraid and an ear that is ready to listen. Bayard Taylor. TO A PINE-TREE. AR up on Katahdin thou towerest, FA Purple-blue with the distance and vast ; In the storm, like a prophet o'ermaddened, In the calm thou o'erstretchest the valleys To the slumberer asleep 'neath thy glooming TO A PINE-TREE. Till he longs to be swung 'mid their booming Whose finnèd isles are their cattle. For the gale snatches thee for his lyre, Whose arms stretch to his playmate. The wild storm makes his lair in thy branches, Spite of winter, thou keep'st thy green glory, Thou alone know'st the splendor of winter, Thou alone know'st the glory of Summer, 127 J. R. Lowell. I THE DAFFODILS. WANDERED lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills; When all at once I saw a crowd, A host of golden daffodils, Continuous as the stars that shine Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced; but they A poet could not but be gay In such a jocund company. I gazed and gazed, but little thought For oft, when on my couch I lie Wordsworth. |