WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE.

BY R. H. STODDARD.

A PROLOGUE.

Without, the winds of Winter blow;

Without, the Winter sifts its snow:

Within, the hearths are warm and bright,

And all the chambers full of light,

And we again are gathered here,

To greet the advent of the year.

Pile on the wood, and stir the fires,

And in our souls the sweet desires;

And let us frame a mingled rhyme,

To suit the singers and the time;

With different stops, and keys of art,

In quaint old measures, got by heart.

BY THE SEA.

By the rolling waves I roam,

And look along the sea,

And dream of the day and the gleaming sail,

That bore my love from me.

His bark now sails the Indian seas,

Far down the summer zone:

But his thoughts, like swallows, fly to me

By the Northern waves alone.

Nor will he delay, when winds are fair,

To waft him back to me;

But haste, my love! or my grave will be made

By the sad and moaning sea!

WHEAT AND SHEAVES.

Before me now the village stands,

Its cottages embowered in bloom;

Behind me lies the burying ground,

Its sepulchres in cypress gloom.

The bells before me ring aloud,

A pæan for the live and bold;

The bells behind are tolling low,

A requiem for the dead and cold.

The crowd before me tramp away,

And shout until the winds are stirred;

The crowd behind no longer move,

And never breathe a single word.

Before me many moan, and weep:

Behind, there is not one who grieves;

For blight but wastes the standing wheat.

It cannot touch the garnered sheaves!

FRAGMENT.

The gray old Earth goes on

At its ancient pace,

Lifting its thunder voice

In the choir of Space;

And the Years, as they go,

Are singing slow,

Solemn dirges, full of woe!

Tears are shed, and hearts are broken,

And many bitter words are spoken,

And many left unsaid;

And many are with the living,

That were better—better dead!

Tyrants sit upon their thrones,

And will not hear the people's moans,

Nor hear their clanking chains;

Or if they do, they add thereto,

And mock, not ease, their pains;

But little liberty remains—

There is but little room for thee,

In this wide world, O Liberty!

But where thou hast once set thy foot,

Thou wilt remain, though oft unseen;

And grow like thought, and move like wind,

Upon the troubled sea of Mind,

No longer now serene.

Thy life and strength thou dost retain,

Despite the cell, the rack, the pain,

And all the battles won—in vain!

And even now thou seest the hour

That lays in dust the tyrant's power,

When man shall once again be free,

And Earth renewed, and young like thee,

O Liberty! O Liberty!

CERTAIN MERRY STANZAS.

I often wish that I could know

The life in store for me,

The measure of the joy and woe

Of my futurity.

I do not fear to meet the worst

The gathering years can give;

My life has been a life accurst

From youth, and yet I live;

The Future may be overcast,

But never darker than the Past!

My mind will grow, as years depart

With all the wingéd hours;

And all my buried seeds of Art

Will bloom again in flowers;

But buried hopes no more will bloom,

As in the days of old;

My youth is lying in its tomb,

My heart is dead and cold!

And certain sad, but nameless cares

Have flecked my locks with silver hairs!

No bitter feeling clouds my grief,

No angry thoughts of thee;

For thou art now a faded leaf

Upon a fading tree.

From day to day I sea thee sink,

From deep to deep in shame;

I sigh, but dare not bid thee think

Upon thine ancient fame—

For oh! the thought of what thou art

Must be a hell within thy heart!

My life is full of care and pain—

My heart of old desires;

But living embers yet remain

Below its dying fires;

Nor do I fear what all the years

May have in store for me,

For I have washed away with tears

The blots of Memory:

But thou—despite the love on high—

What is there left thee but to die!

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