A NIRVANA. LONG the scholar's glowing page I read the Orient thinker's dream Of things that are not what they seem,Of mystic chant and Soma's rage. The sunlight flooding all the room Yet most I read of who aspire To win Nirvana's deep repose, Of that long way the Spirit goes To reach the absence of desire. But through the music of my book "Oh! leave," it said, "your ancient seers; Come out into the woods with me; Behold an older mystery Than Buddhist's hope or Brahman's fears!” The voice so sweet I could but hear; I sallied forth, with staff in hand, While, mile on mile, the mountain-land Was radiant with the dying year. I heard the startled partridge whirr, Where dropped the chestnut's prickly burr. I saw the miracle of life From death upspringing evermore ; The fallen tree a forest bore Of tiny forms with beauty rife. I gathered mosses rare and sweet, 'Mid heaps of leaves, wind-gathered up, I trod with half-remorseful feet. The maple's blush I made my own, Its rich, roof-dotted, wide expanse ; The amorous river gayly led. But still, with all I heard or saw There mingled thoughts of that old time, Where Buddha gave his mystic law,— MONADNOCK FROM WACHUSETT. Till, wearied with the lengthy way, I found a spot where all was still, On either side the mountains stood, And over them in giant form My heart was full as it could hold ; Nirvana's peace my soul had found- 51 While the great moon was mounting higher, And deeper quiet breathed around. 7. W. Chadwick. I MONADNOCK FROM WACHUSETT. WOULD I were a painter, for the sake Of a sweet picture, and of her who led, A fitting guide, with reverential tread, Into that mountain mystery. First a lake Tinted with sunset; next the wavy lines Of far-receding hills; and yet more far, Monadnock lifting from his night of pines His rosy forehead to the evening star. Beside us, purple-zoned, Wachusett laid His head against the West, whose warm light made Menaced the darkness with its golden spear! So twilight deepened round us. Still and black The brown old farm-house like a bird's-nest hung. And down the shadowy lane, in tinklings clear The pastoral curfew of the cow-bell rung. Thus soothed and pleased, our backward path we took, Praising the farmer's home. He only spake, Looking into the sunset o'er the lake, Like one to whom the far-off is most near; "Yes, most folks think it has a pleasant look : I love it for my good old mother's sake, Who lived and died here in the peace of God!" THE CATHEDRAL. 53 The lesson of his words we pondered o'er, As silently we turned the eastern flank Of the mountain, where its shadow deepest sank, Doubling the night along our rugged road : We felt that man was more than his abode,—The inward life than Nature's raiment more; And the warm sky, the sun-down tinted hill, The forest and the lake, seemed dwarfed and dim Before the saintly soul whose human will Meekly in the Eternal footsteps trod, Making her homely toil and household ways Swelling from angel lips and harps of seraphim. J. G. Whittier. THE CATHEDRAL. HELF over shelf the mountain rose; SHELF And, as we climbed, they seemed the stair That scales a minster's wall to seek Some high-hid cell of prayer. And every stair was carpeted Up, up, o'er ferny pavements still The rocky terraces we trod, Till on the heights we stood. |