II.

TO THE STATUE OF EVE, BY POWERS.

WHO that has had of beauteous womanhood
Translucent visions, in his holiest dreams,
Or when the abstracted, waking mind so teems
With images of beauty that 't will brood,
In happiest silence, on the fertile mood.
So deeply, till each outward thing but seems
Fantastic, while the flashing, inward gleams
Compound a loveliness that would be wooed

As a reality, were such to come

Before thee, with a virgin joy, his soul,
Like a new spirit in Elysium,

Would gush with ecstasy, while from it roll
All memories of dreams or inward sight,
Paled by the fulgence of thy wondrous light.

NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS.

I.

STORM had been on the hills: the day had worn
As if a sleep upon the hours had crept ;
And the dark clouds that gathered at the morn
In dull, impenetrable masses slept,
And the wet leaves hung droopingly, and all
Was like the mournful aspect of a pall.

Suddenly, on the horizon's edge, a blue

And delicate line, as of a pencil, lay,
And, as it wider and intenser grew,

The darkness removed silently away;

And, with the splendor of a god, broke through The perfect glory of departing day :

So, when his stormy pilgrimage is o'er,

Will light upon the dying Christian pour.

II.

ACROSTIC SONNET.

ELEGANCE floats about thee like a dress,
Melting the airy motion of thy form
Into one swaying grace; and loveliness,
Like a rich tint that makes a picture warm,
Is lurking in the chestnut of thy tress,
Enriching it, as moonlight after storm
Mingles dark shadows into gentleness.
A beauty that bewilders like a spell
Reigns in thy eye's clear hazel, and thy brow,

So pure in veined transparency, doth tell How spiritually beautiful art thou,—

A temple where angelic love might dwell. Life in thy presence were a thing to keep, Like a gay dreamer clinging to his sleep.

WILLIAM HENRY CUYERL HOSMER.

I.

ON A CASCADE NEAR WYOMING.

A BROOK, the woody mountain's bounding child,
With a deep murmur in its silvery flow,
Falls, in its journey over rocks up-piled,

On the green carpet of the glen below.
Above the cascade aged hemlocks throw

Their mossy branches, flecked with drops of spray,
Like warders old, that watch around bestow,
Stationed on rocky battlements of gray.

In haunts like these, when baffled in the fight
That drenched a groaning land with crimson showers,
The sturdy champions of the true and right

Have gathered to repair their wasted powers,

And rousing hymns of God and freedom heard,
Sung by the tumbling wave and tameless bird!

II.

NIGHT.

O NIGHT! I love thee as a weary child

Loves the maternal breast on which it leans ! Day hath its golden pomp, its bustling scenes; But richer gifts are thine: the turmoil wild Of a proud heart thy low, sad voice hath stilled, Until its throb is gentler than the swell

Of a light billow, and its chamber filled

With cloudless light, with calm unspeakable : Thy hand a curtain lifteth, and I see

One who first taught my heart with love to thrill, Though long ago her lip of song grew still: A strange mysterious power belongs to thee, To morning, noon, and twilight-time unknown; For the dead gather round thy starry throne!