Not like those ancient summits lone,
  Mont Blanc on his eternal throne,—­
  The city-gemmed Peruvian, peak,—­
  The sunset portals landsmen seek,
  Whose train, to reach the Golden Land,
  Crawls slow and pathless through the sand,—­
  Or that whose ice-lit beacon guides
  The mariner on tropic tides,
  And flames across the Gulf afar,
  A torch by day, by night a star,—­
  Not thus to cleave the outer skies. 
  Does my serener mountain rise. 
  Nor aye forget its gentle birth
  Upon the dewey, pastoral earth.

  But ever, in the noonday light,
  Are scenes whereof I love the sight,—­
  Broad pictures of the lower world
  Beneath my gladdened eyes unfurled. 
  Irradiate distances reveal
  Fair nature wed to human weal;
  The rolling valley made a plain;
  Its chequered squares of grass and grain;
  The silvery rye, the golden wheat,
  The flowery elders where they meet,—­
  Ay, even the springing corn I see,
  And garden haunts of bird and bee;
  And where, in daisied meadows, shines
  The wandering river through its vines,
  Move, specks at random, which I know
  Are herds a-grazing to and fro.

[Footnote 98:  Was born in Connecticut but has long resided in New York, where he has combined an active business life with literary pursuits—­a favorite contributor to that magazines.]

* * * * *

=_John James Piatt,[99] 1835-._=

From “Landmarks and other Poems.”

=_424._= LONG AGO.

  Though for the soul a lovely Heaven awaits,
      Through years of woe,
  The Paradise with angels in its gates
      Is Long Ago.

  The heart’s lost Home!  Ah, thither winging ever,
      In silence, show
  Vanishing faces! but they vanish never
      In Long Ago!

  Ye toil’d through desert sands to reach To-morrow,
      With footsteps slow,
  Poor Yesterdays!  Immortal gleams ye borrow
      In Long Ago.

  The world is dark:  backward our thoughts are yearning,
      Our eyes o’erflow: 
  Sweet Memories, angels to our tears returning,
      Leave Long Ago.

  We climb:  child-roses to our knees are climbing,
      From valleys low;
  To call us back, dear birds and brooks are rhyming
      In Long Ago.

  Hands clasp’d, tears shed, sad songs are sung!—­the fair
      Beloved ones, lo! 
  Shine yonder, through the angel gates of air,
      In Long Ago.

[Footnote 99:  Of Western birth and education.  His verse though somewhat crude, has a flow of tenderness and freshness.]

* * * * *

=_Celia Thaxter,[100] 1835-._=

From The Atlantic Monthly.

=_425._= “REGRET.”

  Softly Death touched her, and she passed away,
    Out of this glad, bright world she made more fair;
  Sweet as the apple blossoms, when in May,
    The orchards flush, of summer grown aware.