THE DIAMOND. I ONLY polished am in mine own dust Naught else against my hardness will prevail: And thou, O man, in thine own sufferings must Be polished: every meaner art will fail. FALLING STARS. ANGELS are we, that, once from heaven exiled, Would climb its crystal battlements again; But have their keen-eyed watchers not beguiled, Hurled by their glittering lances back amain. HARMOSAN. Now the third and fatal conflict for the Persian throne was done, Harmosan, the last and boldest the invader to defy, Then exclaimed that noble captive: "Lo! I perish in my thirst; In his hand he took the goblet, but awhile the draught forbore, Well might then have paused the bravest - for around him angry foes With a hedge of naked weapons did that lonely man enclose. "But what fear'st thou ?" cried the caliph; -" is it, friend, a secret blow? Fear it not!-our gallant Moslem no such treacherous dealing know. "Thou mayst quench thy thirst securely, for thou shalt not die before Thou hast drunk that cup of water- this reprieve is thine-no more!" Quick the satrap dashed the goblet down to earth with ready hand, "Thou hast said that mine my life is, till the water of that cup For a moment stood the caliph as by doubtful passions stirred - Bring another cup, and straightway to the noble Persian give: Drink, I said before, and perish-now I bid thee drink and live!" JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE. THE NAME IN THE BARK. THE self of so long ago, And the self I struggle to know, I sometimes think we are two,- or are we shadows of one? Returns in the sweet summer calm To trace where the earlier shadow flitted awhile in the sun. Once more in the dewy morn I came through the whispering corn; Cool to my fevered cheek soft breezy kisses were blown; Leaned over the flattering glass, And the sunny waters trilled the same low musical tone. To the gray old birch I came, Where I whittled my school-boy name: The nimble squirrel once more ran skippingly over the rail, The alders noisily sung, And under the blackberry-brier whistled the serious quail. I came, remembering well As I painfully reached and wrote to leave to the future a sign: A half-healed, curious wound. An ancient scar in the bark, but no initial of mine! Then the wise old boughs overhead Took counsel together, and said, And the buzz of their leafy lips like a murmur of prophecy passed,"He is busily carving a name In the tough old wrinkles of fame; But, cut he as deep as he may, the lines will close over at last!" Sadly I pondered awhile, Then I lifted my soul with a smile, And I said "Not cheerful men, but anxious children are we, As we toil at the letters of life, Just marring a little the rind, never piercing the heart of the tree." And now by the rivulet's brink I leisurely saunter, and think How idle this strife will appear when circling ages have run, If then the real I am Descend from the heavenly calm, To trace where the shadow I seem once flitted awhile in the sun. THE RESTORED PICTURE. In later years, veiling its unblest face It hung, till, gnawed away It fell, and parted from its mouldering frame. The rotting canvas, faintly smiling still, From worldly puff and frill, Its ghastly smile of coquetry and pride, Crumpling its faded charms And yellow jewelled arms, Mere rubbish now, was rudely cast aside. The shadow of a Genius crossed the gate: He, skilled to re-create The soul so long concealed! In old and ruined paintings their lost All heavenly faint at first, then softly soul The Art that slept beneath.A chrysalis in its sheath, That waited to be waked to life again. Upon enduring canvas to renew Each wondrous trait and hue,- For so on its perfection time had laid Fresh tints to form and face. With some more modern grace, Had buried quite the mighty Master's Art. A bright, As smiles the young-eyed Dawn When darkness is withdrawn, shining angel breaks upon the sight! Restored, perfected, after the divine Imperishable design, Lo, now! that once despised and outcast thing Holds its true place among The fairest pictures hung In the high palace of our Lord the King! MIDWINTER. THE speckled sky is dim with snow, The light flakes falter and fall slow; Athwart the hill-top, rapt and pale, Silently drops a silvery veil; And all the valley is shut in By flickering curtains gray and thin. I watch the slow flakes as they fall On bank and brier and broken wall; Over the orchard, waste and brown, All noiselessly they settle down, TROWBRIDGE. Tipping the apple-boughs, and each Light quivering twig of plum and peach. On turf and curb and bower-roof It paves with pearl the garden walk; The hooded beehive, small and low, All day it snows: the sheeted post In the dark tresses of the pine. The ragged bramble, dwarfed and old, Still cheerily the chickadee As snow-flakes, on my soul alight, Till all my being seems to be MIDSUMMER. BECALMED along the azure sky, Far off their pearl-white peaks uplift. Through all the long midsummerday The meadow-sides are sweet with I seek the coolest sheltered seat, Where grow the pine-trees tall and The ancient oaks austere and grand, I watch the mowers, as they go Through the tall grass, a whitesleeved row. With even stroke their scythes they In tune their merry whetstones ring. Slopes the broad pasture, basks the And bright, where summer breezes break. The green wheat crinkles like a lake. The butterfly and bumble-bee The brooklet rings its tinkling bells, The partridge beats his throbbing The squirrel leaps among the boughs, Where the vain bluebird trims his Entwining, in their manifold digres-Secure to him and to his heirs for sions, Lands of my neighbors, wind these peaceful ways. The masters, coming to their calm possessions, Followed in solemn state by long processions, Make quiet journeys these still summer days. This is my freehold! Elms and fringy larches, Maples and pines, and stately firs of Norway, Build round me their green pyramids and arches; Sweetly the robin sings, while slowly marches The stately pageant past my verdant doorway. |