666 JOHN J . PIATT. [1850-60. Deep in the dim Cathedral hush, Than this strange quiet, where the tide I stand alone. The organ's keys Of fife, upheaved on either side. I touch with homeless fingers. Blush, Hangs trembling, ready soon to beat Sad soul ! — what harmonies are these ? With human waves the Morning Street Aye, soon the glowing morning flood _ Pours through this charmed solitude ; All silent now, this Memnon-stoue Will murmur to the rising sun ; THE MORNING STREET. The busy life this vein will beat — I WALK, alone, the Morning Street, The rush of wheels, the swarm of feet ; Filled with the silence strange and sweet ; The Arachne-threads of Purpose stream. All seems as lone, as still, as dead. Unseen, within the morning gleam ; As if unnumbered years had fled, The Life will move, the Death be plain ; Letting the noisy Babel be The bridal throng, the funeral train Without a breath — a memory ! Together ih the crowd will meet. The light wind walks with me, alone, And pass within the Morning Street. Where the hot day like flame was blown ; Where the wheels roared and dust was beat The dew is in the Morning Street. Whei'e are the restless throngs that pour THE NIGHT-TRAIN. Along this mighty corridor While the noon flames ? the hurrying A TREMBLING hand — a lingering word — crowd the burning Whose footsteps make the city loud ? Of restless passion smouldering, and we The myriad faces ? hearts that beat part : No more in the deserted street ? Ah! slowly from the dark the world is Those footsteps, in their dream-land maze, turning Cross thresholds of forgotten days ; When midnight stars are in a heavy Those faces brighten from the years heart. In morning suns long set in tears ; Those hearts — far in the past they beat — The streets are lighted, and the myriad Are singing in their Morning Street. faces Steal through the gas-light, with their A city 'gainst the world's gray prime, home-led feet, Lost in some desert, far from time, Passing me, homeless : sweet and warm Where noiseless ages, gliding through. embraces Have only sifted sands and dew — Charm many a threshold — smiles and Yet still a marble hand of man kisses sweet. Lying on all the haunted plan ; The passions of the human heart From great hotels the stranger throng is Beating the marble breast of Art — streaming — Were not more lone to one who first The restless wheels in many a street ai'e Upon its giant silence burst, loud ;
