12

In vain some tell me that I dream,

That mythic fancies haunt my mind,
That I but hear the moaning wind,

And see a falling meteor gleam.

13

If lacking faith, we still might hope And wish to leave this clime of clouds, These misty hills, these vales of shrouds Where 'mong the dead the living grope.

-14

Not that these skies are always dark,

Not that the Sun beams not each day,

Chasing our gloom and care away,

While Earth bounds onward like a bark :

15

Bearing us, when our souls despond,

Into the azure depths afar,

Nor left, when darkest, without star

To point to brighter spheres beyond.

HAST THOU THY CARES?

Hast thou thy cares, thy sorrows, and thy wrongs?
Many have more and greater, few have less :
Since first men wander'd in the wilderness,
And since they mingled in Life's eager throngs,
All--all have proved that to our race belongs,
The inheritance of trouble and of sin;

That not the strong prevail, the swiftest win;
That saddest tones conclude the sweetest songs;
That there is not in all Earth's devious ways
A path without a serpent or a thorn;

And he in quest of bliss who farthest strays,
Like bird that chases Summer, more forlorn
Returns to tell that he hath not yet found
A spot where human ills did not abound.

HOW ARE THE BURTHENS BORNE ?

WHILE sages moralize and priests exhort,
In diverse manner men the burthens bear
Which, if not equally, they all must share,
Whether life's journey lengthy be or short.
With crutches some their feebleness support;
To their inevitable lot some bend

As oxen to the yoke their necks extend,
And some to restive impotence resort :
Others with sullen discontent submit,

More sigh and groan, and mutely some repine,
And a few gibe at Fortune with small wit ;
Fewer contend not against Heav'n's design,
Yet make brave efforts, with implicit trust
That God will help the weak and save the just.

BEATRICE.

"Twas in Ravenna Dante's daughter dwelt,
Under the shadow of Saint Stephen's tower,
Poor and forlorn, her name the only dower
From him beside whose tomb she often knelt.
Florence, repenting late, compassion felt,
And thence one day a stranger came with gold,
Which to the Nun, so saintly and so cold,
He proffered smiling, while his heart did melt.
No other than Boccaccio brought the gift,
Who as a son revered and loved her sire;
And, when she did her hood all meekly lift
To render grateful answer and retire,

He by the father's portrait knew the child,

And wept, as she return'd her thanks and smiled.*

For the foregoing incident see Carey's DANTE.

THE PATRIOT PRIEST.

L