THE PRAIRIE. JOHN HAY. THE skies are blue above my head, clouds Fleck white the tranquil skies, Black javelins darting where aloft The whirling pheasant flies. A glimmering plain in drowsy trance With sleepy summer sounds, The murmurous dreamy bees. The butterfly, -a flying flower- With brave flame-mottled wings. The wild pinks burst in crimson fire, The phlox' bright clusters shine, And prairie-cups are swinging free To spill their airy wine. And lavishly beneath the sun, In verdurous tumult far away Far in the East like low-hung clouds The waving woodlands lie; IN the dewy depths of the graveyard The white cloud-islands pass. The birds in the rustling branches The early flowers sleep shaded In the cool green noonday glooms; The broken light falls shuddering On the cold white face of the tombs. Without, the world is smiling In the infinite love of God, But the sunlight fails and falters When it falls on the churchyard sod. On me the joyous rapture Of a heart's first love is shed, But it falls on my heart as coldly As sunlight on the dead. REMORSE. SAD is the thought of sunniest days The eyes once fondliest cherished. Reproachful is the ghost of toys That charmed while life was But saddest is the thought of joys Sad is the vague and tender dream Of unreturning blisses; Deep mourns the soul in anguished pride For the pitiless death that won them, But the saddest wail is for lips that died With the virgin dew upon them. ON THE BLUFF. O GRANDLY flowing River! O gay, oblivious River! The eyes and skies so blue O stern impassive River! As the night-winds moan and rave. A WOMAN'S LOVE. A SENTINEL angel sitting high in glory Heard this shrill wail ring out from Purgatory: "Have mercy, mighty angel, hear my story! A SUMMER mood. АH me! for evermore, for evermore These human hearts of ours must yearn and sigh, While down the dells and up the murmurous shore Nature renews her immortality. The heavens of June stretch calm and bland above, June roses blush with tints of orient skies, But we, by graves of joy, desire, and love, Mourn in a world which breathes of Paradise! The sunshine mocks the tears it may not dry, The breezes-tricksy couriers of the Child-roisterers winged, and lightly fluttering by Blow their gay trumpets in the face of care; And bolder winds, the deep sky's passionate speech, Woven into rhythmic raptures of desire, Or fugues of mystic victory, sadly reach Our humbled souls, to rack, not raise them higher! The field-birds seem to twit us as they pass With their small blisses, piped so clear and loud; The cricket triumphs o'er us in the grass, And the lark, glancing beamlike up the cloud, |