The Earth has drunk the vintage up;
  What boots it patch the goblet’s splinters? 
    Can Summer fill the icy cup,
  Whose treacherous crystal is but Winter’s?

    O spendthrift haste! await the Gods;
  Their nectar crowns the lips of Patience;
    Haste scatters on unthankful sods
  The immortal gift in vain libations.

    Coy Hebe flies from those that woo,
  And shuns the hands would seize upon her;
    Follow thy life, and she will sue
  To pour for thee the cup of honor.

J.R.  LOWELL.

The Day is Done.

  The day is done, and the darkness
    Falls from the wings of Night,
  As a feather is wafted downward
    From an eagle in his flight.

  I see the lights of the village
    Gleam through the rain and the mist,
  And a feeling of sadness comes o’er me
    That my soul cannot resist: 

  A feeling of sadness and longing,
    That is not akin to pain,
  And resembles sorrow only
    As the mist resembles the rain.

  Come, read to me some poem,
    Some simple and heartfelt lay,
  That shall soothe this restless feeling,
    And banish the thoughts of day.

  Not from the grand old masters,
    Not from the bards sublime,
  Whose distant footsteps echo
    Through the corridors of Time.

  For, like strains of martial music,
    Their mighty thoughts suggest
  Life’s endless toil and endeavor;
    And to-night I long for rest.

  Read from some humbler poet,
    Whose songs gushed from his heart,
  As showers from the clouds of summer,
    Or tears from the eyelids start;

  Who, through long days of labor,
    And nights devoid of ease,
  Still heard in his soul the music
    Of wonderful melodies.

  Such songs have power to quiet
    The restless pulse of care,
  And come like the benediction
    That follows after prayer.

  Then read from the treasured volume
    The poem of thy choice,
  And lend to the rhyme of the poet
    The beauty of thy voice.

  And the night shall be filled with music,
    And the cares that infest the day
  Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
    And as silently steal away.

H.W.  LONGFELLOW.

Ichabod.

  So fallen! so lost! the light withdrawn
    Which once he wore! 
  The glory from his gray hairs gone
    Forevermore!

  Revile him not,—­the Tempter hath
    A snare for all;
  And pitying tears, not scorn and wrath,
    Befit his fall!

  Oh, dumb be passion’s stormy rage,
    When he who might
  Have lighted up and led his age,
    Falls back in night.

  Scorn! would the angels laugh, to mark
    A bright soul driven,
  Fiend-goaded, down the endless dark,
    From hope and heaven!