POETRY.
A MEADOW.
THERE is a meadow in the West,
Green, open to the sun and air : A thrill of joy, a throbbing breast, I could not cross it but in prayer.
It glittered like a fleece of gold, And every blade of grass was bright : Each drooping bud was aureoled, And every blossom crowned with light.
And leaning from their leafy nook Moon-daisies, in the crimson glow, Would gaze upon the gliding brook And wich the star of love below.
I drank of that love-haunted stream Whose water bath no bitter lees, And walked with God as in a dream Beneath the dark, melodious trees.
And, thronging through the twilight air, The dead, the living, e'en as one, Would gather round me wandering there Beside the rivulet alone.
They sang of legends dim and old Ere this mysterious world began, • Of earthquake, storm, and fire they told, • And of the still small voice in man.
They sang me songs of love : they sang Of broken hearts and wild farewells : And every. note Of anguish rang Like the deep sob of distant bells.
Then floated a triumphant strain From highest heaven,—now soft, now loud— Sweeter than skylarks after rain That sing above an April cloud.
And soaring to'ard the distant gleam.
• And singing as they passed from sight : The rack and rainbow of my dream Dissolved and faded into light : • Faded : and fainter one by one Their voices reached me from afar : Till, over the green meadow shone Only the shepherd's evening star.
GASCOIGNE MACKIE.
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