Calm, and slowly lifting upward, rose the eastern glory higher, Gilding sea, and shore, and vessel, and the city-crowning spire. Then the sailors shook their canvas to the dryness of the sun, And along the harbor-channel glided schooners, one by one. At the last I sought my cottage; there, before the garden gate, By the lilac, stood my darling, looking for her truant mate. Stooping at the porch, we entered;—where the morning meal was laid, Turning over holy pages, one as pure and holy played,— Little Paul, who links more firmly our two hearts than clasp of gold; And I caught a blessed sentence, while I took him to my hold: “Peace,” it said, “O restless spirit, eager as the climbing wave! With my peace there flows a largesse such as monarchs never gave.” 1857. APOLLO. Vainly, O burning Poets! Ye wait for his inspiration, Even as kings of old Stood by the oracle-gates. _Hasten back, he will say, hasten back_ _To your provinces far away!_ _There, at my own good time,_ _Will I send my answer to you._ Are ye not kings of song? At last the god cometh! The air runs over with splendor; The fire leaps high on the altar; Melodious thunders shake the ground. Hark to the Delphic responses! Hark! it is the god! THE ORDEAL BY FIRE. To many a one there comes a day So black with maledictions, they Hide every earthly hope away. In earlier woes the sufferer bore, Consolement entered at his door, And raised him gently from the floor. To this great anguish, newly come, All former sorrows, in their sum, Were but a faint exordium. His days and nights are full of groans; Sorely, and with a thousand moans, For many wanderings he atones. Old errors, vanquished for a space, Rise up to smite him in the face And threaten him with new disgrace. And others, shadows of the first, From slanderous charnel-houses burst, Pursuing, cry, _Thou art accurst!_ Dear, feeble voices ask for bread; The dross, for which he bowed his head So long, has taken wings and fled. The strong resources of his health Have softly slipt away by stealth: No future toil may bring him wealth. Dreading the shadow of his shame, False friends, who with the sunshine came, Forego the mention of his name. Thus on a fiery altar tost, The harvests of his life are lost In one consuming holocaust. What can he, but to beat the air, And, from the depth of his despair, Cry “Is there respite anywhere? “Is Life but Death? Is God unjust? Shall all the castle of my trust Dissolve, and crumble into dust?” There are, who, with a wild desire For slumber, blinded by the fire, Sink in its ashes and expire. God pity them! too harsh a test Has made them falter; sore distrest, They barter everything for rest. But many, of a sterner mould, Themselves within themselves infold, Even make Death unloose his hold,