Have you outstript the rest? are you the President? It is a trifle, they will more than arrive there everyone, and still pass on. I am he that walks with the tender and growing night, I call to the earth and sea, half-held by the night. Press close bare-blossom’d night――press close magnetic nourishing night! Night of the South winds――night of the large few stars! Still nodding night――mad naked summer night. Smile, O voluptuous cool-breath’d earth! Earth of the slumbering and liquid trees! Earth of the departed sunset――earth of the mountain misty-topt! Earth of the vitreous pour of the full moon just tinged with blue! Earth of the shine and dark mottling the tide of the river! Earth of the limpid gray of clouds brighter and clearer for my sake! Far-swooping elbow’d earth――rich apple-blossom’d earth! Smile, for your lover comes. Prodigal, you have given me love――therefore I to you give love! O unspeakable, passionate love. * * * * * OLD IRELAND. FAR hence amid an isle of wondrous beauty, Crouching over a grave an ancient sorrowful mother, Once a queen, now lean and tatter’d seated on the ground, Her old white hair drooping dishevel’d round her shoulders, At her feet fallen an unused royal harp, Long silent, she too long silent, mourning her shrouded hope and heir, Of all the earth her heart most full of sorrow because most full of love. Yet a word, ancient mother, You need crouch there no longer on the cold ground with forehead between your knees; O you need not sit there veil’d in your old white hair so dishevel’d, For know you the one you mourn is not in that grave; It was an illusion, the son you love was not really dead; The Lord is not dead, he is risen again, young and strong, in another country, Even while you wept there by your fallen harp by the grave, What you wept for was translated, pass’d from the grave; The winds favor’d and the sea sail’d it; And now, with rosy and new blood, Moves to-day in a new country. * * * * * PÆAN OF JOY. FROM “THE MYSTIC TRUMPETER.” Reference has been made to the similarity in style manifested in some of Whitman’s poems to the style of the Psalmist. Certain parts of the two selections following justify the criticism. NOW trumpeter for thy close, Vouchsafe a higher strain than any yet, Sing to my soul, renew its languishing faith and hope, Rouse up my slow belief, give me some vision of the future, Give me for once its prophecy and joy.