Above the stir and tumult of the street: "He has put down the mighty from their seat, And has exalted them of low degree!" And through the chant a second melody Rose like the throbbing of a single string: "I am an angel, and thou art the king!" King Robert, who was standing near the throne, Kneeling upon the floor, absorbed in silent prayer. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. Life. LIKE to the falling of the star, Man's Mortality. HENRY KING. LIKE as the damask rose you see, Or like the blossom on the tree, Or like the dainty flower in May, Or like the morning of the day, Or like the sun, or like the shade, Or like the gourd which Jonas had E'en such is man whose thread is spun, Drawn out, and cut, and so is done. The rose withers, the blossom blasteth, The flower fades, the morning hasteth, The sun sets, the shadow flies, The gourd consumes- and man he dies! Like to the grass that's newly sprung, Or like a tale that's new begun, Or like the bird that 's here to-day, Or like the pearled dew of May, Or like an hour, or like a span, Or like the singing of a swan E'en such is man, who lives by breath, Is here, now there, in life and death.The grass withers, the tale is ended, The bird is flown, the dew's ascended, The hour is short, the span is long, The swan 's near death-man's life is done! Like to a bubble in the brook, Or in a glass much like a look, Or like a shuttle in a weaver's hand, Or like the writing on the sand, Or like a thought, or like a dream, Or like the gliding of a stream; E'en such is man, who lives by breath, Is here, now there, in life and death. The bubble 's out, the look 's forgot, The shuttle's flung, the writing's blot, The thought is past, the dream is gone, The water glides - man's life is done! Like to a blaze of fond delight, Or like a morning clear and bright, Or like a frost, or like a shower, Or like the pride of Babel's tower, Or like the hour that guides the time, Or like to Beauty in her prime; E'en such is man, whose glory lends That life a blaze or two, and ends. The morn's o'ercast, joy turned to pain, The frost is thawed, dried up the rain, The tower falls, the hour is run, The beauty lost-man's life is done! Like to an arrow from the bow, Or like the spider's tender web, Or like a race, or like a goal, Or like the dealing of a dole; FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS. E'en such is man, whose brittle state Is always subject unto Fate. The arrow's shot, the flood soon spent, The time's no time, the web soon rent, The race soon run, the goal soon won, The dole soon dealt man's life is done! Like to the lightning from the sky, E'en such is man, who heaps up sorrow, SIMON WASTEL. And with them the being beauteous Who unto my youth was given, More than all things else to love me, And is now a saint in heaven. With a slow and noiseless footstep Comes that messenger divine, Takes the vacant chair beside me, Lays her gentle hand in mine; And she sits and gazes at me With those deep and tender eyes, Like the stars, so still and saint-like Looking downward from the skies. Uttered not, yet comprehended, Is the spirit's voiceless prayer, Soft rebukes, in blessings ended, Breathing from her lips of air. Oh, though oft depressed and lonely, All my fears are laid aside, If I but remember only 773 The Burial of the Poct. RICHARD HENRY DANA. IN the old churchyard of his native town, HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. Thou wert lovely on thy Bier. THEY say that thou wert lovely on thy bier, Sonnet. Of mortal glory, O soon darkened ray! O winged joys of man, more swift than wind! O fond desires, which in our fancies stray! O trait'rous hopes, which do our judgments blind! |