CCXXXV

STAFFA

MERRILY, merrily, goes the bark,

On a breeze from the northward free,
So shoots through the morning sky the lark,
Or the swan through the summer sea.
The shores of Mull on the eastward lay,
And Ulva dark, and the Colonsay,

And all the group of islets gay

That guard famed Staffa round.
Then all unknown its columns rose,
Where dark and undisturbed repose
The cormorant had found;
And the shy seal had quiet home,
And weltered in that wondrous dome,
Where, as to shame the temples decked
By skill of earthly architect,

Nature herself, it seemed, would raise
A minster to her Maker's praise !
Not for a meaner use ascend
Her columns, or her arches bend;
Nor of a theme less solemn tells
That mighty surge that ebbs and swells,
And still, between each awful pause,
From the high vault an answer draws,
In varied tone prolonged and high,
That mocks the organ's melody.
Nor doth its entrance front in vain
To old Iona's holy fane,

That Nature's voice might seem to say,
"Well hast thou done, frail child of clay!
Thy humble powers that stately shrine
Tasked high, and hard, — but witness mine."
Sir Walter Scott

Τ

E empest rages vild, and

The vaves lift her cice, my

Fierce answers to be ingY KY.—

Miserere Comize.

Through the black night, and riving min.

A mp & arugging, ul nain,

To live

on the stormy nam:—

Miserere Comine.

The thunders roar. he iginings piare.
Vun is it now to strive or iare:

A ay goes up of great iespair.

Miserere Comine.

The stormy voices of the nain.
The noaning vind, må neiting min
Beat on the nursery window pane: -

Miserere Domine.

Warm curtained was the little bed.

Soft pillowed was the little head.

"The storm will wake the child," they said :

Miserere Demine.

Cowering among his pillows white.

He prays, his blue eyes dim with fright "Father, save those at sea to-night!”

Miserere Domine.

The morning shone, all clear and gay,
On a ship at anchor in the bay,

And on a little child at play.

Gloria tibi Domine !

CCXXXVII

A. A. Procter

SAND OF THE DESERT IN AN HOUR

A

GLASS

HANDFUL of red sand, from the hot clime
Of Arab deserts brought,

Within this glass becomes the spy of Time,

The minister of Thought.

How many weary centuries has it been

About those deserts blown!

How many strange vicissitudes has seen,
How many histories known!

Perhaps the camels of the Ishmaelite

Trampled and passed it o'er,

When into Egypt from the patriarch's sight
His favorite son they bore.

Perhaps the feet of Moses, burnt and bare,
Crushed it beneath their tread;

Or Pharaoh's flashing wheels into the air
Scattered it as they sped;

Or Mary, with the Christ of Nazareth

Held close in her caress,

Whose pilgrimage of hope and love and faith

Illumed the wilderness;

Or anchorites beneath Engedi's palms
Pacing the Dead Sea beach,

And singing slow their old Armenian psalms
In half-articulate speech;

Or caravans, that from Bassora's gate
With westward steps depart;

Or Mecca's pilgrims, confident of Fate,
And resolute in heart.

These have passed over it, or may have passed!
Now, in this crystal tower
Imprisoned by some curious hand at last,

It counts the passing hour.

And, as I gaze, these narrow walls expand; —

Before my dreamy eye

Stretches the desert with its shifting sand,

Its unimpeded sky.

And borne aloft by the sustaining blast,

This little golden thread

Dilates into a column high and vast,
A form of fear and dread.

And onward, and across the setting sun,
Across the boundless plain,

The column and its broader shadow run,

Till thought pursues in vain.

The vision vanishes! these walls again
Shut out the lurid sun,

Shut out the hot, immeasurable plain;

The half-hour's sand is run!

H. W. Long fellow

CCXXXVIII

A

A SUNDAY SCENE

CHAPEL, like a wild bird's nest, Closely embowered and trimly drest; And thither young and old repair, This Sabbath-day, for praise and prayer.

Fast the churchyard fills; —anon
Look again, and they all are gone;
And scarcely have they disappeared
Ere the prelusive hymn is heard:
With one consent the people rejoice,
Filling the church with a lofty voice!
They sing a service which they feel:
For 't is the sunrise now of zeal,-
Of a pure faith, the vernal prime,—
In great Eliza's golden time.

A moment ends the fervent din,

And all is hushed, without and within;
For, though the priest, more tranquilly,
Recites the holy liturgy,

The only voice which you can hear

Is the river murmuring near.

When soft!-the dusky trees between, And down the path through the open green, Where is no living thing to be seen,– And through yon gateway, where is found Beneath the arch with ivy bound,

Free entrance to the churchyard ground,— Comes gliding in with lovely gleam,