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LXVIII.

And in the nights of winter,

When the cold north winds blow,
And the long howling of the wolves
Is heard amidst the snow;
When round the lonely cottage
Roars loud the tempest's din,
And the good logs of Algidus
Roar louder yet within;

LXIX.

When the oldest cask is opened,
And the largest lamp is lit;

When the chestnuts glow in the embers,
And the kid turns on the spit ;
When young and old in circle

Around the firebrands close;

When the girls are weaving baskets,
And the lads are shaping bows;

LXX.

When the goodman mends his armor,
And trims his helmet's plume;
When the goodwife's shuttle merrily
Goes flashing through the loom ;
With weeping and with laughter
Still is the story told,

How well Horatius kept the bridge

In the brave days of old.

THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY.

L

The Awakening of Endymion.

ONE upon a mountain, the pine-trees wailing round him,

Lone upon a mountain the Grecian youth is laid ;

Sleep, mystic sleep, for many a year has bound him,

Yet his beauty, like a statue's, pale and fair, is undecayed. When will he awaken ?

When will he awaken? a loud voice hath been crying
Night after night, and the cry has been in vain ;
Winds, woods, and waves found echoes for replying,
But the tones of the beloved ones were never heard again.
When will he awaken?

Asked the midnight's silver queen.

Never mortal eye has looked upon his sleeping;

Parents, kindred, comrades, have mourned for him as

dead;

By day the gathered clouds have had him in their keeping, And at night the solemn shadows round his rest are shed. When will he awaken ?

Long has been the cry of faithful Love's imploring ;
Long has Hope been watching, with soft eyes fixed above;
When will the Fates, the Life of life restoring,

Own themselves vanquished by much-enduring Love?

When will he awaken ?

Asks the midnight's weary queer.

Beautiful the sleep that she has watched untiring,
Lighted up with visions from yonder radiant sky,
Full of an immortal's glorious inspiring,

Softened by a woman's meek and loving sigh.

When will he awaken ?

He has been dreaming of old heroic stories,

And the Poet's world has entered in his soul;

He has grown conscious of life's ancestral glories,

When sages and when kings first upheld the mind's control.

When will he awaken?

Asks the midnight's stately queen.

Lo, the appointed midnight! the present hour is fated!
It is Endymion's planet that rises on the air;
How long, how tenderly his goddess love has waited,
Waited with a love too mighty for despair!
Soon he will awaken.

Soft amid the pines is a sound as if of singing,

Tones that seem the lute's from the breathing flowers

depart;

Not a wind that wanders o'er Mount Latmos but is bring

ing

Music that is murmured from Nature's inmost heart.

Soon he will awaken

To his and midnight's queen !

Lovely is the green earth,—she knows the hour is holy;
Starry are the heavens, lit with eternal joy ;

Light like their own is dawning sweet and slowly

O'er the fair and sculptured forehead of that yet dreaming boy.

Soon he will awaken!

Red as the red rose towards the morning turning,
Warms the youth's lip to the watcher's near his own;
While the dark eyes open, bright, intense, and burning
With a life more glorious than, ere they closed, was
known.

Yes, he has awakened

For the midnight's happy queen!

What is this old history, but a lesson given,

How true love still conquers by the deep strength of truth— How all the impulses, whose native home is heaven, Sanctify the visions of hope, and faith, and youth? 'Tis for such they waken!

When every worldly thought is utterly forsaken,
Comes the starry midnight, felt by life's gifted few;
Then will the spirit from its earthly sleep awaken
To a being more intense, more spiritual, and true.
So doth the soul awaken,

Like that youth to night's fair queen!

LÆTITIA ELIZABETH MACLEAN.

Her Name.

THE lily's perfume pure, fame's crown of light;

The latest murmur of departing day ;

Fond friendship's plaint, that melts in pity's sight ;
The mystic farewell of each hour in flight ;

The kiss which beauty grants with coy delay;

The seven-fold scarf that parting storms bestow,
A trophy to the proud, triumphant sun ;
The thrilling accent of a voice we know ;
The love enthralled maiden's secret vow;

An infant's dream, ere life's first sands are run;

The chant of distant choirs; the morning's sigh,
Which erst inspired the fabled Memnon's frame;
The melodies that, murmured, trembling die ;
The sweetest gems that 'mid thought's treasures lie,
Have naught of sweetness that can match Her Name!

Low be its utterance like a prayer divine,

Yet in each warbled song be heard the sound!
Be it the light in darksome fanes to shine,
The sacred word which at some hidden shrine
The self-same voice forever makes resound!

O friends! ere yet, in living words of flame,

My Muse, bewildered in her soarings wide, With names the vaunting lips of pride proclaim, Shall dare to blend the one, the purer name,

Which love a treasure in my breast doth hide,

Must the wild lay my faithful harp can sing,
Be like the hymns which mortals, kneeling, hear!
To solemn harmonies attuned the strings-
As, music shaking from his viewless wings,
On heavenly airs some angel hovered near !

Anonymous Translation.

VICTOR HUGO.

The Grandmother.

MOTHER of our own dear mother, good old grandam,

wake and smile!

Commonly your lips keep moving when you're sleeping all the while;

For between your prayer and slumber scarce the difference

is known;

But to-night you're like the image of Madonna cut in stone, With your lips without a motion or a breath—a single one.

Why more heavily than usual dost thou bend thy old gray brow?

What is it we've done to grieve thee that thou'lt not caress us now?

Grandam, see, the lamp is paling, and the fire burns fast

away;

Speak to us, or fire and lamp-light will not any longer stay, And thy two poor little children, we shall die as well as they.

Ah! when thou shalt wake and find us near the lamp that's ceased to burn,

Dead, and when thou speakest to us, deaf and silent in our

turn

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