All subtle thought, all curious fears, Thrice blest whose lives are faithful prayers, SPRING-TIDE. BY TENNYSON. Now fades the last long streak of snow, Now rings the woodland loud and long, Now dance the lights on lawn and lea, On winding stream or distant sea; Where now the sea-mew pipes, or dives S breast From land to land; and in my And buds and blossoms like the rest. TO-MORROW. BY LONGFELLOW. LORD, what am I, that with unceasing care Has chilled the bleeding wounds upon thy feet! "Soul, from thy casement look, and thou shalt see And when the morrow came, I answered still- SEA-WEED. BY LONGFELLOW. WHEN descends on the Atlantic Storm-wind of the Equinox, Landward in his wrath he scourges Laden with sea-weed from the rocks. From Bermuda's reefs; from edges In some far-off bright Azore; Surges of San Salvador; From the trembling surf that buries On the desolate, rainy seas;— Ever drifting, drifting, drifting Currents of the restless main; All have found repose again. So when storms of wild emotion Of the poet's soul, ere long From each cave and rocky fastness, Floats some fragments of a song. From the far-off isles enchanted, With the golden fruit of Truth; In the tropic clime of Youth; From the strong Will, and the Endeavour Wrestles with the tides of Fate; Floating waste and desolate; Ever drifting, drifting, drifting Currents of the restless heart; THE LEGEND OF THE CROSSBILL. (From the German of Julius Mosen.) BY LONGFELLOW. On the cross the dying Saviour And by all the world forsaken At the ruthless nail of iron A little bird is striving there. Stained with blood and never tiring, From the cross 'twould free the Saviour, And the Saviour speaks in mildness, "Blest be thou of all the good! Bear as token of this moment Marks of blood and holy rood!" And that bird is called the crossbill, A PSALM OF LIFE. BY LONGFELLOW. TELL me not, in mournful numbers, Life is real! Life is earnest! Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums are beating Funeral marches to the grave. |