Thou that didst speak to nations, and saw thy will

obeyed,

Whose favor made them joyful, whose anger sore

afraid,

Who laid'st thy deep foundations, and thought them strong and sure,

And boasted midst the waters, Shall I not aye endure?

Where is the wealth of ages that heaped thy princely

mart?

The pomp of purple trappings; the gems of Syrian art;

The silken goats of Kedar; Sabæa's spicy store;

The tributes of the islands thy squadrons homeward

bore,

When in thy gates triumphant they entered from the

sea

With sound of horn and sackbut, of harp and psaltery?

Howl, howl, ye ships of Tarshish! the glory is laid waste:

There is no habitation; the mansions are defaced.
No mariners of Sidon unfurl your mighty sails;
No workmen fell the fir-trees that grow in Shenir's

vales

And Bashan's oaks that boasted a thousand years of

sun,

Or hew the masts of cedar on frosty Lebanon.

Rise, thou forgotten harlot! take up thy harp and sing:

Call the rebellious islands to own their ancient king:

Bare to the spray thy bosom, and with thy hair un

bound,

Sit on the piles of ruins, thou throneless and discrowned!

There mix thy voice of wailing with the thunders of the sea,

And sing thy songs of sorrow, that thou remembered be!

Though silent and forgotten, yet Nature still la

ments

The pomp and power departed, the lost magnifi

cence:

The hills were proud to see thee, and they are sadder

now;

The sea was proud to bear thee, and wears a troubled

brow,

And evermore the surges chant forth their vain de

sire:

"Where are the ships of Tarshish, the mighty ships of

Tyre?"

SONG

Bayard Taylor.

DAUGHTER of Egypt, veil thine eyes!

I cannot bear their fire;

Nor will I touch with sacrifice

Those altars of desire.

For they are flames that shun the day,

And their unholy light

Is fed from natures gone astray

In passion and in night.

BEDOUIN SONG

The stars of Beauty and of Sin,
They burn amid the dark,
Like beacons that to ruin win

The fascinated bark.

Then veil their glow, lest I forswear
The hopes thou canst not crown,
And in the black waves of thy hair
My struggling manhood drown!

BEDOUIN SONG

127

Bayard Taylor.

FROM the Desert I come to thee
On a stallion shod with fire;
And the winds are left behind
In the speed of my desire.
Under thy window I stand,

And the midnight hears my cry:

I love thee, I love but thee,

With a love that shall not die

Till the sun grows cold,

And the stars are old,

And the leaves of the Judgment Book

Unfold!

Look from thy window and see

My passion and my pain;

I lie on the sands below,

And I faint in thy disdain.
Let the night-winds touch thy brow
With the heat of my burning sigh,

And melt thee to hear the vow

Of a love that shall not die

Till the sun grows cold,

And the stars are old,

And the leaves of the Judgment Book
Unfold!

My steps are nightly driven,
By the fever in my breast,

To hear from thy lattice breathed
The word that shall give me rest.
Open the door of thy heart,
And open thy chamber door,
And my kisses shall teach thy lips
The love that shall fade no more

Till the sun grows cold,

And the stars are old,

And the leaves of the Judgment Book

Unfold!

Bayard Taylor.

TO A LATE COMER

WHY didst thou come into my life so late?
If it were morning I could welcome thee
With glad all-hails, and bid each hour to be
The willing servitor of thine estate,

Lading thy brave ships with Time's richest freight;
If it were noonday I might hope to see

On some fair height thy banners floating free, And hear the acclaiming voices call thee great! But it is nightfall and the stars are out;

Far in the west the crescent moon hangs low,

And near at hand the lurking shadows wait;

NEARER HOME

129

Darkness and silence gather round about,
Lethe's black stream is near its overflow,
Ah, friend, dear friend, why didst thou come so

late?

Julia C. R. Dorr.

"THALATTA! THALATTA!"

CRY OF THE TEN THOUSAND

I STAND upon the summit of my years;
Behind, the toil, the camp, the march, the strife,
The wandering and the desert; vast, afar,

Beyond this weary way, behold! the Sea!

The sea o'erswept by clouds and winds and wings,
By thoughts and wishes manifold, whose breath
Is freshness and whose mighty pulse is peace.
Palter no question of the dim Beyond;
Cut loose the bark; such voyage itself is rest,
Majestic motion, unimpeded scope,

A widening heaven, a current without care.
Eternity! Deliverance, Promise, Course!
Time-tired souls salute thee from the shore.
Joseph Brownlee Brown.

NEARER HOME

ONE Sweetly solemn thought
Comes to me o'er and o'er;

I am nearer home to-day

Than I ever have been before;

Nearer my Father's house,

Where the many mansions be;