He was almost blind, and wasted
With the wear of many years;
He had laboured, and had tasted
Bitter troubles, many cares;
But his laugh was loud and ringing,
And his flag was on the mast
Every day they heard him singing:
‘Bound to strike it rich at last.’

Here he brandished axe and maul ere
Buninyong, and after that
Fought and bled with Peter Lalor
And the boys at Ballarat.
East and west and northward, striving,
As the tides set fresh and fast
Ever trying, rarely thriving
Yes, he’d strike it rich at last.

Now and then she’d pan out snugly,
Mostly all the other way,
But he never cut up ugly
When he bottomed on the clay;
Never cursed, or got disgusted,
Mourned the days and chances past
Geordie always hoped and trusted

Only a little more
I have to write:
Then I'll give o'er,
And bid the world good-night.

'Tis but a flying minute,
That I must stay,
Or linger in it:
And then I must away.

O Time, that cut'st down all,
And scarce leav'st here
Memorial
Of any men that were;

How many lie forgot
In vaults beneath,
And piece-meal rot
Without a fame in death?

Behold this living stone
I rear for me,
Ne'er to be thrown
Down, envious Time, by thee.

Pillars let some set up
If so they please;
Here is my hope,
And my Pyramides.

A silver slope, a fall of firs, a league of gleaming grasses,
And fiery cones, and sultry spurs, and swarthy pits and passes!

.        .        .        .        .

The long-haired Cyclops bated breath, and bit his lip and hearkened,
And dug and dragged the stone of death, by ways that dipped and darkened.

Across a tract of furnaced flints there came a wind of water,
From yellow banks with tender hints of Tethys’ white-armed daughter.

She sat amongst wild singing weeds, by beds of myrrh and moly;
And Acis made a flute of reeds, and drew its accents slowly;

And taught its spirit subtle sounds that leapt beyond suppression,
And paused and panted on the bounds of fierce and fitful passion.

Then he who shaped the cunning tune, by keen desire made bolder,...

God of the harvest, once again
Our joyful tones we raise,
For all Thy goodness, day by day,
We give Thee thankful praise.

With blessings rich, from fertile field,
And gifts from fruitful tree,
We wish, this day, our thanks to yield
With earnest hearts, to Thee.

We plough'd the ground, we sow'd the seed,
But Thou didst send the rain
In grateful show'rs, in time of need,
And now we've reap'd the grain.

The sun with grateful heat did shine;
The dew did nightly fall;
And now, for loaded tree and vine -
We give Thee thanks for all.

The bee, in well-fill'd honey cells,
Her sweets for us hath stow'd,
The crystal water in the wells,
For us from springs hath flow'd.

The lowing herd, the prancing steed
Receiv'd we f...

Three Graces; and the mother were a Grace,
But for profounder meaning in her face.

Stern, stern is the voice of fate's fearful command,
When accents of horror it breathes in our ear,
Or compels us for aye bid adieu to the land,
Where exists that loved friend to our bosom so dear,

'Tis sterner than death o'er the shuddering wretch bending,
And in skeleton grasp his fell sceptre extending,
Like the heart-stricken deer to that loved covert wending,
Which never again to his eyes may appear -

And ah! he may envy the heart-stricken quarry,
Who bids to the friend of affection farewell,
He may envy the bosom so bleeding and gory,
He may envy the sound of the drear passing knell,

Not so deep is his grief on his death couch reposing,
When on the last vision his dim eyes are closing!
As the outcast whose love-raptured senses are losing,
Th...

Poi che spiegate.


        Now that these wings to speed my wish ascend,
                The more I feel vast air beneath my feet,
                The more toward boundless air on pinions fleet,
                Spurning the earth, soaring to heaven, I tend:
        Nor makes them stoop their flight the direful end
                Of Daedal's son; but upward still they beat:--
                What life the while with my life can compete,
                Though dead to earth at last I shall descend?
        My own heart's voice in the void air I hear:
                Where wilt thou bear me, O rash man? Recall
                Thy daring will! This boldness waits on fear!
        Dread not, I answer, that tremendous fall:
                Strike through the clo...

Shuffle-shoon and Amber-Locks
Sit together, building blocks;
Shuffle-Shoon is old and gray,
Amber-Locks a little child,
But together at their play
Age and Youth are reconciled,
And with sympathetic glee
Build their castles fair to see.

"When I grow to be a man"
(So the wee one's prattle ran),
"I shall build a castle so -
With a gateway broad and grand;
Here a pretty vine shall grow,
There a soldier guard shall stand;
And the tower shall be so high,
Folks will wonder, by and by!"

Shuffle-Shoon quoth: "Yes, I know;
Thus I builded long ago!
Here a gate and there a wall,
Here a window, there a door;
Here a steeple wondrous tall
Riseth ever more and more!
But the years have leveled low
What I builded long ago!"

    What are you doing here, Tom Thorne, on the white top-knot o' the world,
    Where the wind has the cut of a naked knife and the stars are rapier keen?
    Hugging a smudgy willow fire, deep in a lynx robe curled,
    You that's a lord's own son, Tom Thorne - what does your madness mean?

    Go home, go home to your clubs, Tom Thorne! home to your evening dress!
    Home to your place of power and pride, and the feast that waits for you!
    Why do you linger all alone in the splendid emptiness,
    Scouring the Land of the Little Sticks on the trail of the caribou?

    Why did you fall off the Earth, Tom Thorne, out of our social ken?
    What did your deep damnation prove? What was your dark despair?
    Oh with the width of a world between, and years to the count of ten,...

Balmy morning! blessed morning!
            Dew-drops bright
All the emerald glade adorning
            In thy light -
In thy golden glowing beam
With an ever-changeful gleam
Flashing sparkling deeply glowing
Varying tints of beauty showing
            Everywhere
            Radiant are
        In thy welcome light!

Balmy morning! blessed morning!
            Flowers look up,
With a precious, pearly off'ring,
            In each cup -
Dewy off'ring gleaned by night,
As a tribute to the light, -
Far more precious than the gem
Of a monarch's diadem,
            Is the gift
            Which they lift
        To thy welcome light!

Balmy morning! blessed morning!
            Sounds of mirth,
From the vocal vales ...

Ring out, ye bells!
All Nature swells
With gladness at the wondrous story,--
The world was lorn,
But Christ is born
To change our sadness into glory.

Sing, earthlings, sing!
To-night a King
Hath come from heaven's high throne to bless us.
The outstretched hand
O'er all the land
Is raised in pity to caress us.

Come at his call;
Be joyful all;
Away with mourning and with sadness!
The heavenly choir
With holy fire
Their voices raise in songs of gladness.

The darkness breaks
And Dawn awakes,
Her cheeks suffused with youthful blushes.
The rocks and stones
In holy tones
Are singing sweeter than the thrushes.

Then why should we
In silence be,
When Nature lends her voice to praises;
When he...

You know that oasis, fresh and fair
In the city desert, as Greeley square?

That bright triangle of scented bloom
That lies surrounded by grime and gloom?

Right in the breast of the seething town
Like a gleaming gem or a wanton's gown?

Ah, wonderful things that tulip bed
Unto my listening soul has said.

Over the rattle and roar of the street
I hear a chorus of voices sweet,

Day and night, when I pass that way,
And these are the things the voices say:

"Here, in the heart of the foolish strife,
We live a simple and natural life.

"Here, in the midst of the clash and din,
We know what it is to be calm within.

"Here, environed by sin and shame,
We do what we can with our pure white flame.

"We do what we...

Job xiv. 13-15.

RONDEL.

Would that thou hid me in the grave
And kept me with death's gaoler-care;
Until thy wrath away should wear
A sentence fixed thy prisoner gave!
I would endure with patience brave
So thou remembered I was there!
Would that thou hid me in the grave,
And kept me with death's gaoler-care!

To see thy creature thou wouldst crave--
Desire thy handiwork so fair;
Then wouldst thou call through death's dank air
And I would answer from the cave!
Would that thou hid me in the grave,
And kept me with death's gaoler-care!

Unknown to you, I walk the cheerless shore.
    The cutting blast, the hurl of biting brine
May freeze, and still, and bind the waves at war,
    Ere you will ever know, O! Heart of mine,
That I have sought, reflected in the blue
    Of these sea depths, some shadow of your eyes;
Have hoped the laughing waves would sing of you,
    But this is all my starving sight descries -

I

Far out at sea a sail
    Bends to the freshening breeze,
Yields to the rising gale
    That sweeps the seas;

II

Yields, as a bird wind-tossed,
    To saltish waves that fling
Their spray, whose rime and frost
    Like crystals cling

III

To canvas, mast and spar,
    Till, gleaming like a gem,
She sinks beyond the far
   ...

Thou little star, that in the purple clouds
    Hang'st, like a dew-drop, in a violet bed;
First gem of evening, glittering on the shrouds,
    'Mid whose dark folds the day lies pale and dead:
As through my tears my soul looks up to thee,
    Loathing the heavy chains that bind it here,
There comes a fearful thought that misery
    Perhaps is found, even in thy distant sphere.
Art thou a world of sorrow and of sin,
    The heritage of death, disease, decay,
A wilderness, like that we wander in,
    Where all things fairest, soonest pass away?
And are there graves in thee, thou radiant world,
    Round which life's sweetest buds fall withered,
Where hope's bright wings in the dark earth lie furled,
    And living hearts are mouldering with the dead?
Perchance ...

My answered prayer came up to me,
And in the silence thus spake he:
"O you who prayed for me to come,
Your greeting is but cold and dumb."

My heart made answer: "You are fair,
But I have prayed too long to care.
Why came you not when all was new,
And I had died for joy of you."

The old Squire said, as he stood by his gate,
And his neighbor, the Deacon, went by,
"In spite of my bank stock and real estate,
You are better off, Deacon, than I.

"We're both growing old, and the end's drawing near,
You have less of this world to resign,
But in Heaven's appraisal your assets, I fear,
Will reckon up greater than mine.

"They say I am rich, but I'm feeling so poor,
I wish I could swap with you even
The pounds I have lived for and laid up in store
For the shillings and pence you have given."

"Well, Squire," said the Deacon, with shrewd common sense,
While his eye had a twinkle of fun,
"Let your pounds take the way of my shillings and pence,
And the thing can be easily done!"

(CHARLES BLOOMFIELD.)


    Excuse, Mr. Bee, this epistle, to one
    Whose time, from the earliest gleam of the sun
    Till he sinks in the west, is so busily spent,
    That I fear I intrude; - but I write with intent
    To save your whole city from pillage and ruin,
    And to warn you in time of a plot that is brewing.
    Last night, when, as usual, enjoying the hour
    When the gloaming had spread, and a trickling shower
    Was beading the grass as it silently fell,
    And day with reluctance was bidding farewell;
    When down by yon hedge, nearly opposite you,
    And your City of Honey, as proudly I threw
    The rays from my lamp in a magical round;
    I listened, alarmed upon hearing the sound
    Of human intruders approaching more near;...