Yet, Poet-Priest! the world shall ever thrill
To thy loved theme, its charm undying still!
Hearts in their youth are Greek as Homer's song,
And all Olympus half contents the boy,
Who from the quarries of abounding joy
Brings his white idols without thought of wrong.

With reverent hand he sets each votive stone,
And last, the altar "To the God Unknown."

As in our dreams the face that we love best
Blooms as at first, while we ourselves grow old,--
As the returning Spring in sunlight throws
Through prison-bars, on graves, its ardent gold,--
And as the splendors of a Syrian rose
Lie unreproved upon the saddest breast,--
So mythic story fits a changing world:
Still the bark drifts with sails forever furled.
An unschooled Fancy deemed the work her own,
While mystic meaning through each fable shone.



HER GRACE, THE DRUMMER'S DAUGHTER.


Foray, a mass of crags embellished by some greenness, looked up to
heaven a hundred miles from shore. It was a fortified position, and a
place of banishment. In the course of a long war, waged on sea and land
between two great nations, this, "least of all," became a point of some