=_Thomas Hailey Aldrich.[102] 1836-._=

From his “Poems.”

=_427._= THE CRESCENT AND THE CROSS.

  Kind was my friend who, in the Eastern land,
  Remembered me with such a gracious hand,
  And sent this Moorish Crescent which has been
  Worn on the tawny bosom of a queen.

  No more it sinks and rises in unrest
  To the soft music of her heathen breast;
  No barbarous chief shall bow before it more,
  No turbaned slave shall envy and adore!

  I place beside this relic of the Sun
  A cross of Cedar brought from Lebanon,
  Once ’borne, perchance, by some pale monk who trod
  The desert to Jerusalem—­and his God!

  Here do they lie, two symbols of two creeds,
  Each meaning something to our human needs,
  Both stained with blood, and sacred made by faith,
  By tears, and prayers, and martyrdom, and death.

  That for the Moslem is, but this for me! 
  The waning Crescent lacks divinity: 
  It gives me dreams of battles, and the woes
  Of women shut in hushed seraglios.

  But when this Cross of simple wood I see,
  The Star of Bethlehem shines again for me,
  And glorious visions break upon my gloom—­
  The patient Christ, and Mary at the Tomb!

[Footnote 102:  Born in New Hampshire, but long connected with the press in New York.  Has produced several volumes of poetry of unusual beauty and finish.]

* * * * *

=_Francis Bret Harte._=

From his “Poems.”

=_428._= DICKENS IN CAMP.

  Above the pines the moon was slowly drifting,
    The river ran below;
  The dim Sierras, far beyond, uplifting
    Their minarets of snow.

  The roaring camp-fire, with rude humor, painted
    The ruddy tints of health,
  On haggard face, and form that drooped and fainted
    In the fierce race for wealth;

  Till one arose, and from his pack’s scant treasure
    A hoarded volume drew,
  And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure,
    To hear the tale anew;

  And then, while round them shadows gathered faster,
    And as the firelight fell,
  He read aloud the book wherein the Master
    Had writ of “Little Nell.”

  Perhaps ’twas boyish fancy,—­for the reader
    Was youngest of them all,—­
  But, as he read, from clustering pine and cedar,
    A silence seemed to fall.

  The fir-trees, gathering closer in the shadows,
    Listened in every spray,
  While the whole camp, with “Nell” on English meadows,
    Wandered, and lost their way.

  And so in mountain solitudes—­o’ertaken
    As by some spell divine—­
  Their cares dropped from them like the needles shaken
    From out the gusty pine.

  Lost is that camp I and wasted all its fire: 
    And he who wrought that spell?—­
  Ah, towering pine and stately Kentish spire,
    Ye have one tale to tell!