Ballads | Page 6

grown, the

traveller's form and face),
"Courage, Anselmo, though thy sin be great,
God grants thee life that
thou may'st expiate.
"Thy guilty stains shall be washed white again,
By noble service done
thy fellow-men.
"His soul draws nearest unto God above,
Who to his brother ministers
in love."
Meekly Anselmo rose, and, after prayer,
His soul was lightened of its
past despair.
Henceforth he strove, obeying God's high will,
His heaven-appointed
mission to fulfil.
And many a soul, oppressed with pain and grief,
Owed to the friar
solace and relief.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

THE CHURCH AT STRATFORD-ON-AVON.
One autumn day, when hedges yet were green,
And thick-branched
trees diffused a leafy gloom,
Hard by where Avon rolls its silvery tide,

I stood in silent thought by Shakspeare's tomb.
O happy church, beneath whose marble floor
His ashes lie who so
enriched mankind;
The many-sided Shakespeare, rare of soul,
And
dowered with an all-embracing mind.
Through the stained windows rays of sunshine fall
In softened glory
on the chancel floor;
While I, a pilgrim from across the sea,
stand

with bare head in reverential awe.
Churches there are within whose gloomy vaults
Repose the bones of
those that once were kings;
Their power has passed, and what
remains but clay?
While in his grave our Shakspeare lives and sings.
Kings were his puppets, kingdoms but his stage,--
Faint shadows they
without his plastic art,--
He waves his wand, and lo! they live again,

And in his world perform their mimic part.
Born in the purple, his imperial soul
Sits crowned and sceptred in the
realms of mind.
Kingdoms may fall, and crumble to decay,
Time
but confirms his empire o'er mankind.
MRS. BROWNING'S GRAVE AT FLORENCE.
FLORENCE wears an added grace,
All her earlier honors crowning;

Dante's birthplace, Art's fair home,
Holds the dust of Barrett
Browning.
Guardian of the noble dead
That beneath thy soil lie sleeping,

England, with full heart, commends
This new treasure to thy keeping.
Take her, she is half thine own;
In her verses' rich outpouring,

Breathes the warm Italian heart,
Yearning for the land's restoring.
From thy skies her poet-heart
Caught a fresher inspiration,
And her
soul obtained new strength,
With her bodily translation.
Freely take what thou hast given,
Less her verses' rhythmic beauty,

Than the stirring notes that called
Trumpet-like thy sons to duty.
Rarest of exotic flowers
In thy native chaplet twining,
To the
temple of thy great
Add her--she is worth enshrining.
MY CASTLE.

I have a beautiful castle,
With towers and battlements fair;
And
many a banner, with gay device,
Floats in the outer air.
The walls are of solid silver;
The towers are of massive gold;
And
the lights that stream from the windows
A royal scene unfold.
Ah! could you but enter my castle
With its pomp of regal sheen,

You would say that it far surpasses
The palace of Aladeen.
Could you but enter as I do,
And pace through the vaulted hall,
And
mark the stately columns,
And the pictures on the wall;
With the costly gems about them,
That send their light afar,
With a
chaste and softened splendor
Like the light of a distant star!
And where is this wonderful castle,
With its rich emblazonings,

Whose pomp so far surpasses
The homes of the greatest kings?
Come out with me at morning
And lie in the meadow-grass,
And
lift your eyes to the ether blue,
And you will see it pass.
There! can you not see the battlements;
And the turrets stately and
high,
Whose lofty summits are tipped with clouds,
And lost in the
arching sky?
Dear friend, you are only dreaming,
Your castle so stately and fair

Is only a fanciful structure,--
A castle in the air.
Perchance you are right. I know not
If a phantom it may be;
But yet,
in my inmost heart, I feel
That it lives, and lives for me.
For when clouds and darkness are round me,
And my heart is heavy
with care,
I steal me away from the noisy crowd,
To dwell in my
castle fair.
There are servants to do my bidding;
There are servants to heed my

call;
And I, with a master's air of pride,
May pace through the
vaulted hall.
And I envy not the monarchs
With cities under their sway;
For am I
not, in my own right,
A monarch as proud as they?
What matter, then, if to others
My castle a phantom may be,
Since I
feel, in the depths of my own heart,
That it is not so to me?
APPLE-BLOSSOMS.
I sit in the shadow of apple-boughs,
In the fragrant orchard close,

And around me floats the scented air,
With its wave-like tidal flows.

I close my eyes in a dreamy bliss,
And call no king my peer;
For
is not this the rare, sweet time,
The blossoming time of the year?
I lie on a couch of downy grass,
With delicate blossoms strewn,

And I feel the throb of Nature's heart
Responsive to my own.
Oh,
the world is fair, and God is good,
That maketh life so dear;
For is
not this the rare, sweet time,
The blossoming time of the year?
I can see, through the rifts of the apple-boughs,
The delicate blue of
the sky,
And the changing clouds with their marvellous tints
That
drift so lazily by.
And strange, sweet thoughts sing through my