And I sit and think when the sunset's gold
Is flushing river, hill, and shore,

I shall one day stand by the water cold

And list for the sound of the boatman's oar. I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping sail;

I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand; I shall pass from sight with the boatman pale To the better shore of the spirit-land.

I shall know the loved who have gone before,
And joyfully sweet will the meeting be,
When over the river, the peaceful river,
The angel of death shall carry me.

PICTURES OF MEMORY.

ALICE CARY.

AMONG the beautiful pictures

That hang on Memory's wall, Is one of a dim old forest,

That seemeth best of all. Not for its gnarl'd oaks olden,

Dark with the mistletoe;

Not for the violets golden

That sprinkle the vale below;

Not for the milk-white lilies

That lean from the fragrant ledge,
Coquetting all day with the sunbeams,
And stealing their golden edge;
Not for the vines on the upland

Where the bright red berries rest,
Nor the pinks, nor the pale, sweet cowslip,

It seemeth to me the best.

I once had a little brother

With eyes that were dark and deep;

In the lap of that dim old forest,

He lieth in peace asleep.

Light as the down of the thistle,
Free as the winds that blow,
We roved there, the beautiful summers,
The summers of long ago;
But his feet on the hills grew weary,
And, one of the autumn eves,

I made for my little brother
A bed of the yellow leaves.

Sweetly his pale arms folded

My neck in a meek embrace,
As the light of immortal beauty
Silently cover'd his face;
And when the arrows of sunset
Lodged in the tree-tops bright,
He fell, in his saint-like beauty,
Asleep by the gates of light.
Therefore, of all the pictures
That hang on Memory's wall,
The one of the dim old forest
Seemeth the best of all.

SANDALPHON.

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

HAVE you read in the Talmud of old,
In the Legends the Rabbins have told
Of the limitless realms of the air,
Have you read it, - the marvellous story
Of Sandalphon, the Angel of Glory,
Sandalphon, the Angel of Prayer?

How, erect, at the outermost gates
Of the City Celestial he waits,

With his feet on the ladder of light, That, crowded with angels unnumber'd, By Jacob was seen, as he slumber'd Alone in the desert at night?

The Angels of Wind and of Fire
Chant only one hymn, and expire

With the song's irresistible stress;
Expire in their rapture and wonder,
As harp-strings are broken asunder
By music they throb to express.
But, serene in the rapturous throng,
Unmoved by the rush of the song,

With eyes unimpassion'd and slow, Among the dead angels, the deathless Sandalphon stands listening, breathless,

To sounds that ascend from below;

From the spirits on Earth that adore,
From the souls that entreat and implore

In the fervour and passion of prayer; From the hearts that are broken with losses, And weary with dragging the crosses

Too heavy for mortals to bear.

And he gathers the prayers as he stands,
And they change into flowers in his hands,
Into garlands of purple and red;

And beneath the great arch of the portal,
Through the streets of the City Immortal
Is wafted the fragrance they shed.

It is but a legend, I know,

A fable, a phantom, a show,

Of the ancient Rabbinical lore:
Yet the old mediæval tradition,
The beautiful, strange superstition,

But haunts me and holds me the more.

When I look from my window at night,
And the welkin above is all white,

All throbbing and panting with stars,
Among them majestic is standing
Sandalphon the angel, expanding
His pinions in nebulous bars.

And the legend, I feel, is a part
Of the hunger and thirst of the heart,
The frenzy and fire of the brain,
That grasps at the fruitage forbidden,
The golden pomegranates of Eden,
To quiet its fever and pain.

ODE TO TRANQUILLITY.

S. T. COLERIDGE.

TRANQUILLITY! thou better name
Than all the family of Fame!
Thou ne'er wilt leave my riper age
To low intrigue or factious rage;

For, O dear child of thoughtful Truth!

To thee I gave my early youth,

And left the bark, and blest the steadfast shore,

Ere yet the tempest rose and scared me with its roar.

Who late and lingering seeks thy shrine,

On him but seldom, Power divine,

Thy spirit rests! Satiety

And Sloth, poor counterfeits of thee,
Mock the tired worldling. Idle hope
And dire remembrance interlope,

To vex the feverish slumbers of the mind:
The bubble floats before, the spectre stalks behind.

But me thy gentle hand will lead

At morning through th' accustom'd mead;
And in the sultry Summer's heat

Will build me up a mossy seat;

And, when the gusty Autumn crowds

And breaks the busy moonlit clouds,

Thou best the thought canst raise, the heart attune, Light as the busy clouds, calm as the gliding Moon.

The feeling heart, the searching soul,
To thee I dedicate the whole !
And, while within myself I trace
The greatness of some future race,
Aloof with hermit-eye I scan

The present works of present man,

A wild and dream-like trade of blood and guile Too foolish for a tear, too wicked for a smile!

As aptly, also, might be given

A Pencil to her hand;

That, softening objects, sometimes even

Outstrips the heart's demand;

That smoothes foregone distress, the lines

Of lingering care subdues,

Long-vanish'd happiness refines,

And clothes in brighter hues;

Yet, like a tool of Fancy, works

Those Spectres to dilate

That startle Conscience, as she lurks

Within her lonely seat.

O, that our lives, which flee so fast,

In purity were such,

That not an image of the past

Should fear that pencil's touch!