The ruddy gold of the sunset heaven,

The green of the twilight grove,

Are a light to the eye of the wayfarer given,
To point to his home above.

The inspired voice in the poet's dreams,
Breathes a message half unspoken;
The heaven-sent ray on the artist gleams,
With its earthly reflection broken.

The secrets of Science, genius may buy,
Thro' a life-toil of many years ;—

They have power to light up the speaking eye,
But they cannot draw our tears.

The dearest gift that is given on earth

Is the smile of those we love ;

But the spirit of man feels a conscious dearth
Which that smile cannot remove.

The Soul cannot rest, till it gains that shore,
Where, blent in one heavenly vision,

The dreams of Affection and Knowledge and Power Are lost in their endless fruition.

W. BELL SCOTT. 1811-1890

BELOW THE OLD HOUSE

Beneath those buttressed walls with lichen grey, Beneath the slopes of trees whose flickering shade Darkens the pools by dun green velveted,

The stream leaps like a living thing at play,

In haste it seems: it cannot, cannot stay!

The great boughs changing there from year to year, And the high jackdaw-haunted eaves, still hear The burden of the rivulet-Passing away!

And some time certainly that oak no more

Will keep the winds in check; his breadth of beam Will go to rib some ship for some far shore;

Those coigns and eaves will crumble, while that

stream

Will still run whispering, whispering night and day, That oversong of Father Time-Passing away!

ALFRED DOMETT. 1811-1887

THE NATIVITY

It was the calm and silent night!
Seven hundred years and fifty-three,
Had Rome been growing up to light,

And now was queen of land and sea.
No sound was heard of clashing oars—
Peace brooded o'er the hushed domain:
Apollo, Pallas, Jove, and Mars

Held undisturbed their ancient reign,
In the solemn midnight
Centuries ago.

'Twas in the calm and silent night!
The Senator of haughty Rome,
Impatient, urged his chariot's flight,
From lordly revel rolling home;
Triumphal arches, gleaming, swell

His breast with thoughts of boundless sway;

What recked the Roman what befell

A paltry province far away,
In the solemn midnight
Centuries ago?

Within that province far away,

Went plodding home a weary boor;
A streak of light before him lay,

Fallen through a half-shut stable door
Across his path. He passed-for naught
Told what was going on within;
How keen the stars, his only thought-
The air how calm, and cold, and thin,
In the solemn midnight

Centuries ago!

Oh, strange indifference! low and high
Drowsed over common joys and cares;
The earth was still-but knew not why
The world was listening, unawares.
How calm a moment may precede

One that shall thrill the world for ever!
To that still moment, none would heed,
Man's doom was linked no more to sever-
In the solemn midnight

Centuries ago!

It is the calm and solemn night!

A thousand bells ring out, and throw
Their joyous peals abroad, and smite
The darkness-charmed and holy now!
The night that erst no naine had worn,
To it a happy name is given;

For in that stable lay, new-born,

The peaceful Prince of earth and heaven, In the solemn midnight

Centuries ago!

ROBERT BROWNING.

1812-1889

MY LAST DUCHESS

That's my last Duchess painted on the wall,
Looking as if she were alive. I call

That piece a wonder, now: Frà Pandolf's hands
Worked busily a day, and there she stands.
Will 't please you sit and look at her? I said
"Frà Pandolf" by design: for never read
Strangers like you that pictured countenance,
The depth and passion of its earnest glance,
But to myself they turned (since none puts by
The curtain I have drawn for you, but I)
And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,
How such a glance came there; so, not the first
Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not
Her husband's presence only, called that spot
Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps
Frà Pandolf chanced to say "Her mantle laps
Over my lady's wrist too much," or "Paint
Must never hope to reproduce the faint
Half-flush that dies along her throat:" such stuff
Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough
For calling up that spot of joy. She had

A heart-how shall I say?-too soon made glad,
Too easily impressed; she liked whate'er
She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.
Sir, 'twas all one! My favour at her breast,
The dropping of the daylight in the West,
The bough of cherries some officious fool
Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule
She rode with round the terrace-all and each
Would draw from her alike the approving speech,