Weave a circle round him thrice,

And close your eyes with holy dread,

For he on honey-dew hath fed,

And drunk the milk of Paradise.

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

ECHO AND SILENCE

IN eddying course when leaves began to fly,
And Autumn in her lap the store to strew,

As mid wild scenes I chanced the Muse to woo,
Through glens untrod, and woods that frowned on high,
Two sleeping nymphs with wonder mute I spy!
And, lo, she 's gone! - In robe of dark-green hue
'T was Echo from her sister Silence flew,

For quick the hunter's horn resounded to the sky;
In shade affrighted Silence melts away.
Not so her sister. Hark! for onward still,
With far-heard step she takes her listening way,
Bounding from rock to rock, and hill to hill.
Ah, mark the merry maid in mockful play

With thousand mimic tones the laughing forest fill!

SIR SAMUEL EGERTON BRYDGES.

INDIRECTION

FAIR are the flowers and the children, but their subtle suggestion

is fairer ;

Rare is the roseburst of dawn, but the secret that clasps it is rarer; Sweet the exultance of song, but the strain that precedes it is

sweeter;

And never was poem yet writ, but the meaning out-master'd the

metre.

Never a daisy that grows, but a mystery guideth the growing; Never a river that flows, but a majesty sceptres the flowing; Never a Shakespeare that soared, but a stronger than he did enfold him ;

Nor ever a prophet foretells, but a mightier seer hath foretold him.

Back of the canvas that throbs the painter is hinted and hidden; Into the statue that breathes the soul of the sculptor is bidden; Under the joy that is felt lie the infinite issues of feeling; Crowning the glory reveal'd is the glory that crowns the revealing.

Great are the symbols of being, but that which is symbol'd is

greater;

Vast the create and beheld, but vaster the inward creator;

Back of the sound broods the silence, back of the gift stands the

giving;

Back of the hand that receives thrill the sensitive nerves of re

ceiving.

Space is as nothing to spirit, the deed is outdone by the doing; The heart of the wooer is warm, but warmer the heart of the wooing;

And

up from the pits where these shiver, and up from the heights where those shine,

Twin voices and shadows swim starward, and the essence of life

is divine.

RICHARD REALF.

"WE ARE THE MUSIC MAKERS”

WE are the music makers,

And we are the dreamers of dreams,
Wandering by lone sea-breakers,

And sitting by desolate streams ;-
World-losers and world-forsakers,
On whom the pale moon gleams :
Yet we are the movers and shakers
Of the world for ever, it seems.

With wonderful deathless ditties
We build up the world's great cities,
And out of a fabulous story
We fashion an empire's glory :
One man with a dream, at pleasure,
Shall go forth and conquer a crown;
And three with a new song's measure
Can trample a kingdom down.

We, in the ages lying

In the buried past of the earth,
Built Nineveh with our sighing,
And Babel itself in our mirth;
And o'erthrew them with prophesying
To the old of the new world's worth;
For each age is a dream that is dying,
Or one that is coming to birth.

ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY.

GIVE ME BACK MY YOUTH AGAIN

THEN give me back that time of pleasures,
While yet in joyous growth I sang,—
When, like a fount, the crowding measures
Uninterrupted gush'd and sprang!

Then bright mist veil'd the world before me,
In opening buds a marvel woke,

As I the thousand blossoms broke
Which every valley richly bore me !

I nothing had, and yet enough for youth --
Joy in Illusion, ardent thirst for Truth.
Give unrestrain'd the old emotion,
The bliss that touch'd the verge of pain,
The strength of Hate, Love's deep devotion,
O, give me back my youth again!

(From the German of Goethe.)

IDLE SINGER OF AN EMPTY DAY

Of Heaven or Hell I have no power to sing,
I cannot ease the burden of your fears,
Or make quick-coming death a little thing,
Or bring again the pleasure of past years,
Nor for my words shall ye forget your tears,
Or hope again for aught that I can say,
The idle singer of an empty day.

But rather, when aweary of your mirth
From full hearts still unsatisfied ye sigh,
And, feeling kindly unto all the earth,
Grudge every minute as it passes by,
Made the more mindful that the sweet days die,
Remember me a little then, I pray,

The idle singer of an empty day.

The heavy trouble, the bewildering care

That weighs us down who live and earn our bread,
These idle verses have no power to bear;
So let me sing of names remembered,
Because they, living not, can ne'er be dead,
Or long time take their memory quite away
From us poor singers of an empty day.

Dreamer of dreams, born out of my due time,
Why should I strive to set the crooked straight?
Let it suffice me that my murmuring rhyme
Beats with light wing against the ivory gate,
Telling a tale not too importunate
To those who in the sleepy region stay,
Lull'd by the singer of an empty day.

Folk say, a wizard to a northern king

At Christmas-tide such wondrous things did show
That through one window men beheld the spring,

And through another saw the summer glow,
And through a third the fruited vines a-row,
While still, unheard, but in its wonted way,
Piped the drear wind of that December day.
So with this Earthly Paradise it is,
If ye will read aright, and pardon me,
Who strive to build a shadowy isle of bliss
Midmost the beating of the steely sea,

Where toss'd about all hearts of men must be ;
Whose ravening monsters mighty men shall slay,
Not the poor singer of an empty day.

WILLIAM MORRIS (The Earthly Paradise).

IN OUR BOAT

STARS trembling o'er us and sunset before us,
Mountains in shadow and forests asleep;
Down the dim river we float on forever,
Speak not, ah, breathe not

there's peace on the deep.

Come not, pale sorrow, flee till to-morrow;
Rest softly falling o'er eyelids that weep;
While down the river we float on forever,

Speak not, ah, breathe not- there's peace on the deep.

As the waves cover the depths we glide over,
So let the past in forgetfulness sleep,
While down the river we float on forever,
Speak not, ah, breathe

peace on the deep.

Heaven shine above us, bless all that love us;
All whom we love in thy tenderness keep!
While down the river we float on forever,
Speak not, ah, breathe not

there's peace on the deep.

DINAH MARIA MULOCK CRAIK.

CONVALESCENCE

THANK Heaven! the crisis,

The danger is past,

And the lingering illness

Is over at last,

And the fever called "Living"

Is conquered at last.

Sadly, I know,

I am shorn of my strength,
And no muscle I move

I am better at length.

And I rest so composedly
Now, in my bed,
That any beholder

Might fancy me dead,—
Might start at beholding me,
Thinking me dead.
My tantalized spirit
Here blandly reposes,
Forgetting, or never
Regretting, its roses,
Its old agitations

Of myrtles and roses :

For now, while so quietly
Lying, it fancies

A holier odor

About it, of pansies,

A rosemary odor,

Commingled with pansies,

With rue and the beautiful

Puritan pansies.

EDGAR ALLAN POE (For Annie).

THE ORCHARD-LANDS OF LONG AGO*

THE orchard-lands of Long Ago!
O drowsy winds, awake and blow
The snowy blossoms back to me,
And all the buds that used to be!
Blow back along the grassy ways
Of truant feet, and lift the haze
Of happy summer from the trees
That trail their tresses in the seas
Of grain that float and overflow
The orchard-lands of Long Ago!
Blow back the melody that slips
In lazy laughter from the lips
That marvel much if
any kiss

Is sweeter than the apple's is.
Blow back the twitter of the birds
The lisp, the titter, and the words

Of merriment that found the shine

Of summer-time a glorious wine

By permission of the publishers, The Bobbs-Merrill Co., from "Rhymes of Childhood," copyright, 1900.