Till the sun grows cold,

And the stars are old,

[unfold!

And the leaves of the Judgment Book

My steps are nightly driven

By the fever in my breast,

To hear from thy lattice breathed

The word that shall give me rest.

Open the door of thy heart,

And open thy chamber door,

And my kisses shall teach thy lips

The love that shall fade no more

Till the sun grows cold,

And the stars are old,

And the leaves of the Judgment Book

unfold!

BAYARD TAYLOR.

ALEC. DUNHAM'S BOAT.

THERE she lies at her moorings,

The little two-master,

Answering not now

The call of disaster,

Loose swings the rudder,

Unshipped the tiller

Crossing the Bar so,

One sea would fill her!

Foresail and mainsail

In loose folds are lying, Naked the mastheads areNo pennon flying;

Strident Northeaster

And smoky Sou'wester

Call for the pilot boat,

Eager to test her.

And a ship on the bar,

Just where the waves cast her!

Moored lies the pilot boat

Where is her master?

Oh, bark driving in,

God send that you lee get,

Past Tuckernuck Shoals,
The reefs of Muskeget.
There go the minute guns ;
Now faster and faster-

But no more to their aid

Flies the little two-master.

For the pilot one night

Left his boat as you see her-
Light moored, that if signal came
He ready might free her.
But not from her moorings

Did the pilot's hand cast her,
Though a signal he answered-
One set by the Master.

Gone, say you, and whither?
You ask me which way
Went good pilot as ever
Brought ship into bay?
Who shall say how he cast off,
If to starboard or larboard?

But of one thing I'm sure

The pilot's safe harbored!

CHAS. HENRY WEBB.

DYING IN HARNESS.

ONLY a fallen horse, stretched out there on the

road,

Stretched in the broken shafts, and crushed by the heavy load ;

Only a fallen horse, and a circle of wondering eyes Watching the 'frighted teamster goading the beast to rise.

Hold! for his toil is over-no more labor for him; See the poor neck out stretched, and the patient eyes grow dim;

See on the friendly stones how peacefully rests the head

Thinking, if dumb beasts think, how good it is to be dead;

After the weary journey, how restful it is to lie With the broken shafts and the cruel load-wait

ing only to die.

Watchers, he died in harness-died in the shafts and straps

Fell, and the burden killed him: one of the day's mishaps

One of the passing wonders marking the city road— A toiler dying in harness, heedless of call or goad.

Passers, crowding the pathway, staying your steps awhile,

What is the symbol? Only death—why should we cease to smile

At death for a beast of burden? On, through the busy street

That is ever and ever echoing the tread of the hurrying feet.

What was the sign? A symbol to touch the tireless will?

Does He who taught in parables speak in parables still?

The seed on the rock is wasted-on heedless hearts

of men,

That gather and sow and grasp and lose-labor and sleep-and then

Then for the prize!—A crowd in the street of ever echoing tread

The toiler, crushed by the heavy load, is there in his harness-dead!

JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY.

ON A BUST OF DANTE.

SEE, from this counterfeit of him
Whom Arno shall remember long,
How stern of lineament, how grim,
The father was of Tuscan song!
There but the burning sense of wrong,
Perpetual care and scorn, abide ;
Small friendship for the lordly throng,
Distrust of all the world beside.

Faithful if this wan image be,

No dream his life was-but a fight;
Could any Beatrice see

A lover in that anchorite?

To that cold Ghibeline's gloomy sight

Who could have guessed the visions came

Of Beauty, veiled with heavenly light,

In circles of eternal flame?

The lips as Cumae's cavern close,

The cheeks with fast and sorrow thin,

The rigid front, almost morose,

But for the patient hope within,