And I know that his heart is breaking, When, over those dear eyes, The darkness slowly gathers, And the loved and loving dies.

A grave is scooped on the hillside Where often, at eve or morn, He lays the blooms of the garden-- He, and his youngest born.

And well I know that a brightness From his life has pa.s.sed away, And a smile from the green earth's beauty, And a glory from the day.

But I behold, above him, In the far blue deeps of air, Dim battlements shining faintly, And a throng of faces there;

See over crystal barrier The airy figures bend, Like those who are watching and waiting The coming of a friend.

And one there is among them, With a star upon her brow, In her life a lovely woman, A sinless seraph now.

I know the sweet calm features; The peerless smile I know, And I stretch my arms with transport From where I stand below.

And the quick tears drown my eyelids, But the airy figures fade, And the shining battlements darken And blend with the evening shade.

I am gazing into the twilight Where the dim-seen meadows lie, And the wind of night is swaying The trees with a heavy sigh.

THE TWO TRAVELLERS.

'Twas evening, and before my eyes There lay a landscape gray and dim-- Fields faintly seen and twilight skies, And clouds that hid the horizon's brim.

I saw--or was it that I dreamed?

A waking dream?--I cannot say, For every shape as real seemed As those which meet my eyes to-day.

Through leafless shrubs the cold wind hissed; The air was thick with falling snow, And onward, through the frozen mist, I saw a weary traveller go.

Driven o'er the landscape, bare and bleak, Before the whirling gusts of air, The snow-flakes smote his withered cheek, And gathered on his silver hair.

Yet on he fared through blinding snows, And murmuring to himself he said: "The night is near; the darkness grows, And higher rise the drifts I tread.

"Deep, deep, each autumn flower they hide; Each tuft of green they whelm from sight; And they who journeyed by my side, Are lost in the surrounding night.

"I loved them; oh, no words can tell The love that to my friends I bore; They left me with the sad farewell Of those who part to meet no more.

"And I, who face this bitter wind And o'er these snowy hillocks creep, Must end my journey soon, and find A frosty couch, a frozen sleep."

As thus he spoke, a thrill of pain Shot to my heart--I closed my eyes; But when I opened them again, I started with a glad surprise.

'Twas evening still, and in the west A flush of glowing crimson lay; I saw the morrow there, and blest That promise of a glorious day.

The waters, in their gla.s.sy sleep, Shone with the hues that tinged the sky, And rugged cliff and barren steep Gleamed with the brightness from on high.

And one was there whose journey lay Into the slowly-gathering night; With steady step he held his way, O'er shadowy vale and gleaming height.

I marked his firm though weary tread, The lifted eye and brow serene; And saw no shade of doubt or dread Pa.s.s o'er that traveller's placid mien.

And others came, their journey o'er, And bade good-night, with words of cheer: "To-morrow we shall meet once more; 'Tis but the night that parts us here."

"And I," he said, "shall sleep ere long; These fading gleams will soon be gone; Shall sleep to rise refreshed and strong In the bright day that yet will dawn."

I heard; I watched him as he went, A lessening form, until the light Of evening from the firmament Had pa.s.sed, and he was lost to sight.

CHRISTMAS IN 1875.

SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY A SPANIARD.

No trumpet-blast profaned The hour in which the Prince of Peace was born; No b.l.o.o.d.y streamlet stained Earth's silver rivers on that sacred morn; But, o'er the peaceful plain, The war-horse drew the peasant's loaded wain.

The soldier had laid by The sword and stripped the corselet from his breast, And hung his helm on high-- The sparrow's winter home and summer nest; And, with the same strong hand That flung the barbed spear, he tilled the land.

Oh, time for which we yearn; Oh, sabbath of the nations long foretold!

Season of peace, return, Like a late summer when the year grows old, When the sweet sunny days Steeped mead and mountain-side in golden haze.

For now two rival kings Flaunt, o'er our bleeding land, their hostile flags, And every sunrise brings The hovering vulture from his mountain-crags To where the battle-plain Is strewn with dead, the youth and flower of Spain.

Christ is not come, while yet O'er half the earth the threat of battle lowers, And our own fields are wet, Beneath the battle-cloud, with crimson showers-- The life-blood of the slain, Poured out where thousands die that one may reign.

Soon, over half the earth, In every temple crowds shall kneel again To celebrate His birth Who brought the message of good-will to men, And bursts of joyous song Shall shake the roof above the prostrate throng.

Christ is not come, while there The men of blood whose crimes affront the skies Kneel down in act of prayer, Amid the joyous strains, and when they rise Go forth, with sword and flame, To waste the land in His most holy name.

Oh, when the day shall break O'er realms unlearned in warfare's cruel arts, And all their millions wake To peaceful tasks performed with loving hearts, On such a blessed morn, Well may the nations say that Christ is born.

THE FLOOD OF YEARS.

A mighty Hand, from an exhaustless Urn, Pours forth the never-ending Flood of Years, Among the nations. How the rushing waves Bear all before them! On their foremost edge, And there alone, is Life. The Present there Tosses and foams, and fills the air with roar Of mingled noises. There are they who toil, And they who strive, and they who feast, and they Who hurry to and fro. The st.u.r.dy swain-- Woodman and delver with the spade--is there, And busy artisan beside his bench, And pallid student with his written roll.

A moment on the mounting billow seen, The flood sweeps over them and they are gone.

There groups of revellers whose brows are twined With roses, ride the topmost swell awhile, And as they raise their flowing cups and touch The clinking brim to brim, are whirled beneath The waves and disappear. I hear the jar Of beaten drums, and thunders that break forth From cannon, where the advancing billow sends Up to the sight long files of armed men, That hurry to the charge through flame and smoke.

The torrent bears them under, whelmed and hid Slayer and slain, in heaps of b.l.o.o.d.y foam.

Down go the steed and rider, the plumed chief Sinks with his followers; the head that wears The imperial diadem goes down beside The felon's with cropped ear and branded cheek.

A funeral-train--the torrent sweeps away Bearers and bier and mourners. By the bed Of one who dies men gather sorrowing, And women weep aloud; the flood rolls on; The wail is stifled and the sobbing group Borne under. Hark to that shrill, sudden shout, The cry of an applauding mult.i.tude, Swayed by some loud-voiced orator who wields The living ma.s.s as if he were its soul!

The waters choke the shout and all is still.

Lo! next a kneeling crowd, and one who spreads The hands in prayer--the engulfing wave o'ertakes And swallows them and him. A sculptor wields The chisel, and the stricken marble grows To beauty; at his easel, eager-eyed, A painter stands, and sunshine at his touch Gathers upon his canvas, and life glows; A poet, as he paces to and fro, Murmurs his sounding lines. Awhile they ride The advancing billow, till its tossing crest Strikes them and flings them under, while their tasks Are yet unfinished. See a mother smile On her young babe that smiles to her again; The torrent wrests it from her arms; she shrieks And weeps, and midst her tears is carried down.

A beam like that of moonlight turns the spray To glistening pearls; two lovers, hand in hand, Rise on the billowy swell and fondly look Into each other's eyes. The rushing flood Flings them apart: the youth goes down; the maid With hands outstretched in vain, and streaming eyes, Waits for the next high wave to follow him.

An aged man succeeds; his bending form Sinks slowly. Mingling with the sullen stream Gleam the white locks, and then are seen no more.

Lo! wider grows the stream--a sea-like flood Saps earth's walled cities; ma.s.sive palaces Crumble before it; fortresses and towers Dissolve in the swift waters; populous realms Swept by the torrent see their ancient tribes Engulfed and lost; their very languages Stifled, and never to be uttered more.