HELEN BARRON BOSTWICK. [U. s. A.] URVASI. 'Tis a story told by Kalidasa, Hindoo poet,-in melodious rhyme, How with train of inaidens, young Urvasi Came to keep great Indra's festal time. 'T was her part in worshipful confession Of the god-name on that sacred day, Walking flower-crowned in the long pro cession, "I love Puru-shotta-ma" to say. Pure as snow on Himalayan ranges, Heaven-descended, soon to heaven withdrawn, Fairer than the moon-flower of the Ganges, Was Urvasi, Daughter of the Dawn. But it happened that the gentle maiden Loved one Puru-avas,-fateful name!— And her heart, with its sweet secret laden, Faltered when her time of utterance came. "I love" then she stopped, and people wondered; "I love"--she must guard her secret well; Then from sweetest lips that ever blundered, "I love Puru-avas," trembling fell. Ah, what terror seized on poor Urvasi! Misty grew the violets of her eyes, And her form bent like a broken daisy, While around her rose the mocking cries. But great Indra said, "The maid shall marry Him whose image in her faithful heart She so near to that of God doth carry, Scarce her lips can keep their names apart." Call it then not weakness or dissembling, If, in striving the high name to reach, Through our voices runs the tender trembling Of an earthly name too dear for speech! Ever dwells the lesser in the greater; In God's love the human: we by these Know he holds Love's simplest stammering sweeter Than cold praise of wordy Pharisees. UNKNOWN. THE FISHERMAN'S FUNERAL UP on the breezy headland the fisherman's grave they made, Where, over the daisies and clover bells, the birchen branches swayed; Above us the lark was singing in the cloudless skies of June, Aud under the cliffs the billows were chanting their ceaseless tune: For the creamy line was curving along the hollow shore, Where the dear old tides were flowing that he would ride no more. The dirge of the wave, the note of the bird, and the priest's low tone were blent In the breeze that blew from the moor land, all laden with country scent; But never a thought of the new-mown hay tossing on sunny plains, Or of lilies deep in the wild-wood, or roses gemming the lanes, Woke in the hearts of the stern bronzed men who gathered around the UNKNOWN. eyes, 335 And the widow's sob and the orphan's | Now changed the scene and changed the wail jarred through the joyous air; How could the light wind o'er the sea, blow on so fresh and fair? How could the gay waves laugh and leap, But for long, when to the beetling heights A kindly sigh, and a hearty word, they JOHN C. FREMONT. That here once looked on glowing skies, These riven trees, this wind-swept plain The rocks rise black from storm-packed All checked the river's pleasant flow, The buoyant hopes and busy life The world's rude contact killed the rose, Backward, amidst the twilight glow Where still some grand peaks mark the way ON RECROSSING THE ROCKY MOUN-Touched by the light of parting day TAINS IN WINTER, AFTER MANY LONG years ago I wandered here, In the midsummer of the year, - - A score of horsemen here we rode, These scenes in glowing colors drest, The whispering woods and fragrant breeze And glistening crag in sunlit sky, My path was o'er the prairie wide, The rose that waved in morning air, Gave to my heart its ruddiest hue, And memory's sun. Wet was the grass beneath our tread, Thick-dewed the bramble by the way; The lichen had a lovelier red, The elder-flower a fairer gray. And there was silence on the land, The beeches sighed through all their boughs; The gusty pennons of the pine One gable, full against the sun, From all its honeysuckled breath. Then crew the cocks from echoing farms, The chimney-tops were plumed with smoke, The windmill shook its slanted arms, The sun was up, the country woke! And voices sounded mid the trees Of orchards red with burning leaves, By thick hives, sentinelled by bees,From fields which promised tented sheaves; Till the day waxed into excess, And on the misty, rounding gray,One vast, fantastic wilderness, The glowing roofs of London lay. UNKNOWN. THE FISHERMAN'S SUMMONS. THE sea is calling, calling. The boys and girls with their merry din, The sea is calling, calling, Along the hollow shore. I know each nook in the rocky strand, And the worn old cliff where the seapinks cling, And the winding caves where the echoes ring. I shall wake them nevermore. I saw the "sea-dog" over the height, And the cottage creaks and rocks, wellnigh, As the old "Fox" did in the days gone by, In the moan of the rising gale. Yet it is calling, calling. To go fluttering out in the cold and the dark, Like the bird they tell us of, from the ark; While the foam flies thick on the bitter blast, And the angry waves roll fierce and fast, Where the black buoy marks the bay. Do you hear it calling, calling? And the rudder chafed my hold. Will it never stop calling, calling? Come near then, give me a hand to touch, You hear it calling, calling? But, then, it is calling, calling, Well, fetch the parson, find the book, And the crimson weeds on the golden sand, It is up on the shelf there if you look; |