In the vexed glories of unquiet Troy,
  So might to Helen’s jealous ear discourse
  The flute, first tuned on Ida’s haunted hill,
  Against OEnone’s coming, to betray
  In what sweet solitude her shepherd lay.

  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 importance to the authority investing it; the fort was well supplied with the machinery of death, and the prison filled with prisoners.  But peace had now been of long continuance; and though a nation’s banner floated from the tower of the fort, and was seen afar by mariners,—­though the cannon occupied their ancient places, ordered for instant use,—­though all within the fort was managed and conducted day by day with careful regard to orders,—­the operations indicated, in the spirit of their conduct, no fear of warlike surprises.  No man gave or obeyed an order as if his life depended on his expedition.  Neither was the prison the very place it had been; for, once, every cell had its occupant,—­an exile, or a prisoner of war.

The officials of the island led an easy life, therefore.  Active was the brain that resisted the influences of so much leisure as most of these people had.  But, under provocation even, Nature must be true.  So true is she, indeed, that every violation of her dignities illustrates the meaning of that sovereign utterance, VENGEANCE IS MINE.  She will not bring a thorn-tree from an acorn.  Pray, day and night, and see if she will let you gather figs of thistles.  Prayer has its conditions, and faith is not the sum of them.

But Nature’s buoyant spirits must needs conquer the weight of influences whose business is to depress.  And they, seeking, find their centre among things celestial, in spite of all opposing.  Much leisure, light labor, was not the worst thing that could befall some of the men whose lot was cast on Foray.