Upward, downward, hither, thither,
As in mystic dances, go.
In the present all is mystery;
In the past 'tis beauteous history.
O'er the mixing and the mingling,
How the signal bells are jingling!
See you not the Weaver leaving
Finished work behind, in weaving?
See you not the reason subtle,
As the web and woof diminish,
Changing into beauteous finish,
Why the Weaver makes His shuttle,
Hither, thither, scud and scuttle?
Glorious wonder ! what a weaving!
To the dull beyond believing!
Such, no fabled ages know.
Only Faith can see the mystery,
How along the aisle of history
Where the feet of sages go,
Loveliest to the purest eyes,
Grand the mystic tapet lies,-
Soft and smooth, and even spreading
As if made for angels' treading;
Tufted circles touching ever,
Inwrought figures fading never;
Every figure has its plaidings.
Brighter form and softer shadings;
Each illumined, what a riddle !
From a cross that gems the middle.
That its light is all reflected;
That the tapet's hues are given
By a sun that shines in heaven!
"Tis believed, by all believing,
That great God himself is weaving, -
Bringing out the world's dark mystery.
In the light of faith and history;
And as web and woof diminish,
Comes the grand and glorious finish,
When begin the golden ages
Long foretold by seers and sages.
NOTE TO THE PUPIL.-N. P. WILLIS, a distinguished American poet and writer, was born at Portland, Me., in 1807. He conducted the "Home Journal," in connection with George P. Morris. He published several volumes of poems, letters, travels, etc. He died in 1867.
TIRED of play! Tired of play!
What hast thou done this livelong day?
The birds are silent, and so is the bee;
The sun is creeping up steeple and tree;
The doves have flown to the sheltering eaves,
And the nests are dark with the drooping leaves;
Twilight gathers, and day is done -
How hast thou spent it, restless one?
Playing? But what hast thou done beside
To tell thy mother at eventide?
What promise of morn is left unbroken?
What kind word to thy playmate spoken?
Whom hast thou pitied, and whom forgiven?
How with thy faults has duty striven?
What hast thou learn'd by field and hill,
By greenwood path, and by singing rill?
There will come an eve to a longer day,
That will find thee tired—but not of play!
And thou wilt lean, as thou leanest now,
With drooping limbs and aching brow,
And wish the shadows would faster creep,
And long to go to thy quiet sleep.
Well were it then if thine aching brow
Were as free from sin and shame as now!
Well for thee if thy lip could tell
A tale like this, of a day spent well.
If thine open hand hath relieved distress-
If thy pity hath sprung to wretchedness-
If thou hast forgiven the sore offense,
And humbled thy heart with penitence-
If Nature's voices have spoken with thee
With her holy meanings eloquently-
If every creature hath won thy love,
From the creeping worm to the brooding dove —
If never a sad, low-spoken word
Hath plead with thy human heart unheard—
Then, when the night steals on, as now,
It will bring relief to thine aching brow,
And, with joy and peace at the thought of rest,
Thou wilt sink to sleep on thy mother's breast.
HERE was tumult in the city,
In the quaint old Quaker town,
And the streets were rife with people
Pacing restless up and down;
People gathering at corners,
Where they whispered each to each,
And the sweat stood on their temples,
With the earnestness of speech.
As the bleak Atlantic currents
Lash the wild Newfoundland shore
So they beat against the State House,
So they surged against the door;
And the mingling of their voices
Made a harmony profound,
Till the quiet street of Chestnut
Was all turbulent with sound.
"What of Adams?" "What of Sherman ?"
"Oh, God grant they won't refuse !” "Make some way, there! "Let me nearer!"
"I am stifling!" "Stifle, then ;
When a nation's life's at hazard,
We've no time to think of men !
So they beat against the portal
Man and woman, maid and child;
And the July sun in heaven
On the scene looked down and smiled; The same sun that saw the Spartan
Shed his patriot blood in vain,
Now beheld the soul of freedom
All unconquered rise again.
Aloft in that high steeple
Sat the bellman, old and gray;
He was weary of the tyrant
And his iron-sceptered sway;
So he sat with one hand ready
On the clapper of the bell,
When his eye should catch the signal,
Very happy news to tell..
See! See the dense crowd quivers
Through all its lengthy line,
As the boy beside the portal
Looks forth to give the sign!
With his small hands upward lifted,
Breezes dallying with his hair,
Hark! with deep, clear intonation,
Breaks his young voice on the air.
Hushed the people's swelling murmur,
List the boy's strong joyous cry!
Ring!" he shouts aloud, "ring! Grandpa !
Ring! Oh, ring for Liberty!"
And straightway, at the signal,
The old bellman lifts his hand,
And sends the good news, making
Iron music through the land.
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