The birds break into canticles around Life's marvelous queen-flower blossoms only so, What fiery fields of Chaos must be won, What battling Titans rear themselves a tomb, What births and resurrections greet the sun Before the Rose can bloom! And of some wonder-blossom yet we dream THE WATER-LILY. From the reek of the pond the lily Has risen, in raiment white, A spirit of air and water, A form of incarnate light. Yet, except for the rooted stem That steadies her diadem, Except for the earth she is nourished by, Could the soul of the lily have climbed to the sky? Phattop THE SINGING WIRE. Hark to that faint and fairy twang That from the bosom of the breeze Has caught its rise and fall; there rang Eolian harmonies! I looked; again the mournful chords, "I, messenger of many fates, Strung to all strains of woe or weal, Fine nerve that thrills and palpitates With all men know or feel,— "O, is it strange that I should wail? "There is a spirit in the post; It, too, was once a murmuring tree; Its sapless, lone and withered ghost Echoes my melody. Come close, and lay your listening ear Against the bare and branchless wood. Say, croons it not, so low and clear, As if it understood?" I listened to the branchless pole I heard its muffled music roll, And stirred with sweet desire. "O wire more soft than seasoned lute, O, though so long so coyly mute, I listened; but it was in vain, At first, the wind's old, wayward will But suddenly some kindling shock Struck flashing through the wire: a bird, Poised on it, screamed, and flew; the flock Rose with him, wheeled, and whirred. Then to my soul there came this sense: "Her heart has answered unto thine; She comes, to-night. Up! hence, O hence! Meet her: no more repine!" Mayhap the fancy was far-fetched; Ere moonrise, Love, a hand was stretched And so more dear to me has grown In yonder singing wire. Nor care I for the will of states, Or aught besides, that smites that string, "THE SUNSHINE OF THINE EYES." The sunshine of thine eyes, (O still, celestial beam!) Whatever it touches it fills With the life of its lambent gleam. The sunshine of thine eyes, O let it fall on me! Though I be but a mote of the air, I could turn to gold for thee. THE PHOEBE-BIRD. Yes, I was wrong about the Phoebe-bird. I did not know those strains of joy and sorrow Came from one throat, or that each note could borrow Strength from the other, making one more brave And one as sad as rain-drops on a grave. But thus it is. Two songs have men and maidens: One is for hey-day, one is sorrow's cadence. Our voices vary with the changing seasons Of life's long year, for deep and natural reasons. Therefore despair not! Think not you have altered, KEENAN'S CHARGE. (CHANCELLORSVILLE, MAY, 1863.) The sun had set! I. The leaves with dew were wet; Down fell a bloody dusk On the woods, that second of May, Where Stonewall's corps, like a beast of prey, Tore through, with angry tusk. "They've trapped us, boys!"— |