SECOND SUNDAY AFTER EASTER. FOR a sculptor's hand, That thou might'st take thy stand, Thy wild hair floating on the eastern breeze, Thy tranced yet open gaze Fixed on the desert haze, As one who deep in heaven some airy pageant sees. In outline dim and vast Their fearful shadows cast The giant forms of empires on their way To ruin one by one They tower and they are gone, Yet in the Prophet's soul the dreams of avarice stay. No sun or star so bright In all the world of light That they should draw to Heaven his downward eye: He sees the angel's sword, Yet low upon the earth his heart and treasure lie. Lo! from yon argent field, To him and us revealed, One gentle Star glides down, on earth to dwell. Chained as they are below Our eyes may see it glow, And as it mounts again, may track its brightness well. To him it glared afar, A token of wild war, The banner of his Lord's victorious wrath: But close to us it gleams, Its soothing lustre streams Around our home's green walls, and on our church-way path. We in the tents abide Which he at distance eyed Like goodly cedars by the waters spread, While seven red altar-fires Rose up in wavy spires, Where on the mount he watched his sorceries dark and dread. He watched till morning's ray On lake and meadow lay, And willow-shaded streams, that silent sweep Around the bannered lines, Where by their several signs The desert-wearied tribes in sight of Canaan sleep. He watched till knowledge came Upon his soul like flame, Not of those magic fires at random caught: But true prophetic light Flashed o'er him, high and bright, Flashed once, and died away, and left his darkened thought. And can he choose but fear, Who feels his God so near, That when he fain would curse, his powerless tongue In blessing only moves?— Alas! the world he loves Too close around his heart her tangling veil hath flung. Sceptre and Star divine, Who in Thine inmost shrine Hast made us worshippers, O claim Thine own; O teach our love to grow Up to Thy heavenly light, and reap what Thou hast sown. EDWARD, LORD LYTTON. Born 1805. Died 1872. I THE DESIRE OF FAME. DO confess that I have wished to give My land the gift of no ignoble name, And in that holier air have sought to live, Sunned with the hope of fame. Do I lament that I have seen the bays Denied my own, not worthier brows above, Foes quick to scoff, and friends afraid to praise,— More active hate than love? Do I lament that roseate youth has flown No! for whoever with an earnest soul Strives for some end from this low world afar, Better than fame is still the wish for fame, The wish for Fame is faith in holy things That soothe the life, and shall outlive the tomb A reverent listening for some angel wings That cower above the gloom. Bb To gladden earth with beauty, or men's lives To serve with action, or their souls with truth,— These are the ends for which the hope survives The ignobler thirsts of youth. No, I lament not, though these leaves may fall If vain for others, not in vain for me,— Enough if haply in the after days, When by the altar sleeps the funeral stone, When gone the mists our human passions raise, And Truth is seen alone : When causeless Hate can wound its prey no more, Or if yon children, whose young souls of glee Of not all-perished song! Taking some spark to glad the hearth, or light The student lamp, from now neglected fires,— And one sad memory in the sons requite What-I forgive the sires. ALEXANDER SMITH. Born 1830. Died 1867. I FORGETFULNESS. HID my face awhile, then cried aloud, 'No one can give forgetfulness; not one. His orbs were blind with tears-he could not tell. When bees are swarming in the glimmering leaves, His name is Death: seek him, and he may know.' I cried 'O angel, is there no one else?' Methought, when I awoke, 'We have two lives; |