Class _/__/_ Book JE&1 fapyiighf w^py z COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. — : - ;r *' rL TREASURES OF POETRY Being An Extensive Collection from the Best Productions OF POETRY and SONG v/ Representing A Wide Range of Authors and Containing Poems of the Home Circle, Narratives, Beauties of Nature, Poems of Sentiment and Reflection, of Sorrow and Bereavement, of Childhood and Youth, etc. , etc. , and a large Department of POEMS RELATING TO RELIGION AND THE SPIRITUAL LIFE. Compiled and Edited A. L. BYERS and EVA R. JOHNSON. ^ GOSPEL TRUMPET COMPANY Anderson, Indiana .'Ba Copyright, 1918 by Gospel Trumpet Company. ©01^346887^ A* INTRODUCTION HE Encyclopedia Britannica defines absolute Poetry as the concrete and artistic expression of the human mind in emotional and rhythmical language. No literary expression can, properly speaking, be called Poetry that is not in a certain deep sense emotional (whatever may be its subject-matter), concrete in its method and its diction, rhythmical in move- ment, and artistic in form. It is said that Poetry comes from the heart, while Prose is merely the product of the mind; that the poet sings to us, whereas other men only talk; and that while he does not argue more logically than they, he feels more deeply and per- haps more truly. Poetry has been called the twin-sister of Music. The alliance between the two is said to be of very ancient date and originally to have been constant. Whether the emotions of the heart broke forth in praises to the gods and heroes, or in the triumphal strains of happiness and victory, or yet in the lamenta- tions of affliction and defeat, they were sung in measure to the sound of rude instruments. But when Poetry began to express a wider range of sentiment, it was found that the accompaniment of music was often inconvenient, and thus there was substituted the form of recitation more approaching to common speecl). As an explanation of how Poetry differs from Prose and also of its relation to Music, the following is quoted from a writer on the subject: "A little consideration will lead to the conclusion that verse, in most lan- guages, differs from prose in the return of a certain number of syllables that have a peculiar relation to one another as accented and unaccented, or as long and short. It is universally felt that a degree of pleasure arises from this definite arrangement, and the origin of that pleasure is to be traced back to the sense of time with which men are generally endowed. It is this principle that regulates the step of a man, or the stroke of an oar; and hence the pleasure we experience in beholding the regular step of a company of soldiers in their march, and the simultaneous sweep of the oars of a well-manned boat. The time of music, apart from tune, is evidently related to the movement to which we have now referred, and can accordingly be regulated by the properly measured, though monotonous, sound of the drum. The next process was to bring language into conformity with the music thus produced, and the result was verse — a measured or metrical line.* As these results, therefore, flow from innate principles of our constitution, so, in looking as far back along the history of man as our materials enable us, we find him accompanied with music and verse; for the rude cadence of his song or the movement of his dance is ever accompanied by the tap of the drum. "In the Bible, the most ancient of records, we find man, at a very early period, forming both wind and stringed instruments, modulating his speech into verse, and exhibiting in the very earliest instance on record that peculiar parallelism that characterized the Hebrew poetry of all subsequent ages." As an expression of imaginative feeling, as the movement of an energy, as one of those great primal human forces which go to the development of the race, Poetry in the wide sense has played an important part. Bryant says, in his remarks about English Poetry: "I have known persons who frankly said that they took no pleasure in reading poetry, and perhaps the number of those who make this admission would be greater were it not for the fear of appearing singular. But to the great mass of mankind, Poetry is really a delight and a refreshment. To many, perhaps to most, it is not requisite that it should be of the highest degree of merit. Nor, although it be tfrue that the INTRODUCTION. poems which are most famous and most highly prized are works of considerable length, can it be said that the pleasure they give is in any degree proportionate to the extent of their plan. It seems to me that it is only poems of a moderate length or else portions of the greater works to which I refer, that produce the effect upon the mind and heart which make the charm of this kind of writing. The proper office of poetry, in filling the mind with delightful images and awaken- ing the gentler emotions, is not accomplished on a first and rapid perusal, but re- quires that the words should be dwelt upon until they become in a certain sense our own, and are adopted as the utterance of our own minds." While many excellent collections of poems have already been placed before the public, there seemed to be justifiable reasons for this one. An extensive depart- ment of religious poems combined with a large variety of non-religious produc- tions is the feature of this collection. It was the intention of the editors that by the omission of such compositions as are light and frivolous the collection should have a good spiritual tone, one that should evoke love and veneration to God as well as afford delight in the beautiful. In addition to the foregoing plea for the appearance of this volume, it might be said that there are many excellent poems, produced in the last few years, that have probably not as yet found their way into a collection of this sort. Finally, there is that interest which always characterizes a new arrangement. It is hoped that this collection is sufficiently extensive that the reader will not feel greatly disappointed if there proves to be wanting some particular poem of his fancy. It is impossible, of course, in a volume of moderate size to include every poem of merit or to satisfy every mind with regard to what should or should not be included; but it will be a source of gratification to the editors if the result of their efforts hereby expressed may at least be pronounced good and be found to have contributed to the moral or spiritual elevation of humanity. CONTENTS Index of Authors 7 The Home Circle 21 Memories of Home 41 Narrative and Descriptive . 51 Love and Friendship 73 Nature Poems 93 Sea Pictures 121 Months and Seasons 126 Patriotism, Freedom, Heroism , 139 Sentiment and Reflection 159 Life, Time, Anticipation 226 Woman's Sphere and Influence 253 Labor and Rural Life 259 Temperance and Reform : 273 Sorrow, Bereavement, Death 287 Persons and Places 317 Poems of Religion 379 God, Adoration 400 Christian Experience 413 Exhortation : 432 Encouragement, Comfort 441 Christian Graces 470 The Church 481 Supplication, Prayer 485 Submission, Consecration, Trust 496 Heaven, Immortality 50Q Meditation 517 Christian Work, Missionary 523 Expostulation, Warning, Penitence 542 Childhood and Youth _ 549 Poetical Curiosities 579 Index of First Lines r 591 Index of Titles 599 INDEX OF AUTHORS Borne of the poems in this book were selected from periodicals which did not ascribe any authorship, the editors using: merely the word "selected." These along- with those poems which are genuinely anonymous, make up the great number which appear without the author's name, and which are therefore classed as anonymous in the indexes. ABEY, ANNIE M. Look Away 464 Baptism, The 397 ADDISON, JOSEPH. God's Works Declare His Greatness 401 ALDRICH, MRS. JULIA C. Yosemite 120 ALEXANDER, ADDISON. Monosyllable Poem, A 586 ALEXANDER. MRS. C. P. Burial of Moses, The 53 ALLANSON, E. G. God's Language 117 ALLEN, ELIZABETH AKERS. Endurance 206 Every Day 171 Finding Fault .♦. 207 Kisses 78 Rock Me to Sleep 245 ALLEN, JAMES. Before the Cross 430 ALLEN, S. C. Who of Us? 224 ANDERSON, J. GRANT. God Knoweth Best 497 Life or Death 346 The Love of God 351 Too Late 544 ARNOLD, EDWIN. Woman's Voice 257 ARNOLD, GEORGE. September , 133 ASHABRANNER. J. H. Mutability 226 Song of Summer-time 131 ASHENFELTER, MABEL. Footmen and Horses 433 AURIN, EMIL CARL. Hard Luck 175 AUSTIN, ALFRED. Is Life Worth Living? 236 AUSTIN, R. L. End will Tell, The 216 There is a God : 410 What is Peace? 479 B BAILEY, MRS. MATTIE L. Mara 457 BAILEY, PHILIP JAMES. Aim of Life, The 227 BAILEY, T. L. What is Life? 216 BANKS, G. LINNAEUS. What I Live For 234 BANTA, MRS. MELISSA E. Parting Words 87 BARKER, DAVID. Make Your Mark 570 BARR, MARY A. Loved too Late 312 BARRETT, C. D. Seasons, The 127 BARRETT, MYRA T. Christ is Born 527 BARTON, BERNARD. To a Grandmother 27 BATES, DAVID. Speak Gently 163 BAXTER, WILLIAM. Day by the Sea, A 121 Immortality 515 BEATTY, PAKENHAM. To Thine Own Self be True 200 BEDFORD, MRS. LOU. S. Evening Time Best 227 BEETS, MARY F. Sing Me a Song, Sweet Birds 108 BENEDICT, HESTER A. Only a Woman 284 BENJAMIN, PARK. Press On 225 Sexton, The 312 BERGHOUSE, NETTIE L. Beneath the Surface 203 BEST, EVA. Every Day 268 BIXLER, W. A. Beautiful 103 Child's Victory, A 577 Evening Prayer 552 BLAIR, ROBERT. Death of the Good Man 511 BLAND, ROBERT. Home 23 BOLITHO, AXCHIE A. Church of God, Awake! 536 BONAR, HORATIUS. Christian Conflict 432 Everlasting Memorial, The 541 How to Live 242 1 will Fear no Evil 500 Life from Death 512 Lucy 294 Master's Touch, The 505 New Jerusalem, The 483 Nun's Lament, The 360 Remembered 537 Still with Me 490 BOTTOME, FRANK. Oh, Sing of His Mighty Love 425 BOWRING, DR. JOHN. God (Translation) 400 God is Love 405 BOXELL, JOHN WILLIAM. Christian Mother. The 256 BRACKEN, THOMAS. Not Understood 179 BRAINARD, JOHN G. C. Falls of Niagara. The 100 BRAINARD, MRS. MARY G. God Knoweth 502 BRANAM, JAMES B. Course of the World, The 548 Do not Complain 466 God is Love 341 My Treasure 424 Prayer 492 INDEX OF AUTHORS. BRANCH, MARY BOLLES. Petrified Fern, Tbe 118 BRINE, MARY D. Home Concert, The 35 BRININSTOOL, E. A. Riches 552 BRONAUGH, GRACE PEARL. Lesson of the Rose, The 185 BROOKS, CLARA M. All the Way 501 Bride of Christ, The 484 "Give Ye Them to Eat" 524 He Cares for All 571 His Way 485 "How are the Mighty Fallen?" 432 Jesus Alone 417 Life's Fleeting Day 331 Life's Mystery 239 O Love Divine 350 Sweet Hour of Prayer 491 Thy Will be Done 340 'Tis so Sweet 428 What Shall We Wish? 540 BROOKS, EDWARD. Be a Woman 255 BROOKS, FRED EMERSON. Miracle of Cana, The 346 BROOMFIELD, JAMES P. Toil's Grandeur 265 BROTHERSON, FRANCES B. M. Forgiveness 437 BROWN, MORTIMER CRANE. Autumn Dreams 136 BROWNING, ELIZABETH BARRETT. Bereavement 310 Consolation 314 Cry of the Children, The 280 Out in the Fields with God 97 Prospect, The 515 Woman's Question, A 76 BRYANT, JOHN H. Winter 136 BRYANT, WILLIAM CULLEN. Anticipations 244 Antiquity of Freedom, The 144 Blessed are They that Mourn 313 Death of the Flowers, The 106 Evening Wind, The 102 Flood of Years, The 229 Forest Hymn, A 113 June 130 March 128 Past, The 229 Planting of the Apple-tree, The 108 Reflections on a Battle-field 142 Robert of Lincoln 114 Summer Evening 131 Thanatopsis 247 To a Water Fowl Ill Winds. The 119 BUELL, HATTIE E. Child of a King, The 418 BUGBEE, EMILY J. Book of the New Year, The 576 BUNYAN, JOHN. Song 341 BURLEIGH, WILLIAM H. Death of a Young Girl, The 304 BURNS, ROBERT. Afton Water 89 Banks O'Doon, The 320 Highland Mary 309 BURROUGHS, JOHN. Spring 127 BUTLER, WILLIAM ALLEN. Garden of the Gods, The 324 BUTTERWORTH, HEZEKIAH. Bird with the Broken Wing, The 2S4 BYERS, J. W. Face This Sad World with a Smile 446 My Mother's Prayers 336 BYERS, S. H. M. To a Battle-ship 150 BYRON, LORD. Destruction of the Assyrians 57 Ocean, The 125 Storm at Night on Lake Leman 102 BYRUM, ISABEL C. Beauty is not Purity 196 Sweet Story of the Angels 407 Thoughts for the New Year 450 C CALDWELL, ADELBERT F. Best Life, The 175 CAMPBELL, THOMAS. Elijah's Interview 377 Immortal Life, The 506 CARLETON, ADA. Selling the Baby 567 CARLETON, WILL. Apple-blossoms 79 Burning of Chicago, The 71 Convict's Christmas Eve, The 278 Cover Them Over 148 First Settler's Story, The 1S1 CARLYLE, THOMAS. Today 170 CARMICHAEL, T. W. To Be or not to Be 238 CARY, ALICE. Dying Hymn, A 515 Forest, The 98 Take Care 564 Three Bugs 553 CARY, PHOEBE. Bearing Life's Burdens 333 Just Suppose These Things 559 Nearer Home 518 Thanksgiving '.. 45 CARTER, J. F. Service Sweet, A 420 CASE. LIZZIE YORK. Faith and Reasou 395 CAWOOD, JOHN. Hark ! Those Holy Voices 409 CHAPIN, SYLVIA. Prayer, A 490 CHAUCER, GOEFFREY. Good Counsail 587 CHAOTE, ISAAC BASSETT. Our Country's Dead 149 CLARK, EUGENE E. Alone : 79 CLARK, JAMES G. Evergreen Mountains of Life, Tbe 507 CLARK, SUSIE R. G. People's Poet, The 324 CLARK. WILLIS G. Signs of God, The 408 CLAWSON, ALICE. Influence 214 COBB, HENRY N. "Father, Take My Hand" 462 Gracious Answer, The 462 COBERN. E. CRAFT. Look Up 437 COLERIDGE, HARTLEY. Hope 481 November 134 COOK, CLARENCE. Abram and Zimri 59 COOK, ELIZA. Building upon the Sand 222 Home in the Heart, A 24 Old Arm Chair, The 48 Washington 145 INDEX OF AUTHORS. COOK, MRS. W. A. M. Lord will Provide, The 453 COOLIDGE, SUSAN. Ebb and Flow 416 When ? 332 COPLIN, G. Q. Verses on the Twenty-third Psalm 430 CORNWALL, BARRY. Address to the Ocean 125 COSTON, EMMA I. Blessing from Heaven 485 Diligence 437 Precious Gem, A 478 Yet not Forsaken 532 COWPER, WILLIAM. Exhortation to Prayer 4G0 Freeman, The 143 God's Mysterious Way 455 Grace and Providence 404 Humanity 235 Joy and Peace in Believing 425 Martyred Heroes 340 My Mother's Picture 303 Principle Put to the Test 568 COX, C. c. Silent Shades of Evening 247 CRABBE, GEORGE. Practical Charity 47G CRAIK, MARIA MULOCK. Grandpapa 29 CRANCH, CHRISTOPHER PEARSE. Thought 217 CRAWFORD, MRS. M. J. E. Bridal Song, The 89 Child's Last Smile, The 309 Death, The 314 Gone 307 Jesus 343 March Winds 127 Mother to Her Dying Child, A 316 My Soldier Love 26 My Work 501 She is not Dead but Sleepeth 307 Summer Twilight 131 Sunset and Twilight 100 Sunset Thought of Heaven, A 513 Thoughts 169 CROSBY, FANNIE J. All the Way My Savior Leads Me 417 Rescue the Perishing 537 Will Jesus Find Us Watching? 434 CROSBY, ELIZABETH M. Temperance Plea, A 283 CURRIE, CHARLES. Dying Christian, The 516 CUTTER. MISS A. Four Wishes, The 204 CUTTER, GEORGE W. Song of Steam, The 267 D DANA, MARY S. B. Passing under the Rod 384 DANA, RICHARD HENRY. Immortality 514 Soul, The 354 DAVIDSON, GAYLORD. Mother is Dead ,. 293 DAVIS, P. B. Only a Moment 246 DAVIS, THOMAS. Little Things 161 DAWES, RUFUS. Mozart's Requiem 298 DAYRE, SYDNEY. Good Thing to Do, A 577 DEAN OF CANTERBURY. Life's Answer 410 DECK, J. G. "My Beloved" 403 DE LEVIS, M. M. Influence 198 DERZHAVEN. God. . (Translation by Dr. John Bowring. ) .... 400 DE VERE, SIR AUBREY. Misspent Time 178 DEMAREST, MRS. MARY LEE. My Ain Countrie 307 DEMING, MRS. H. A. Life 583 DEWEY, C. H. Evening Light 387 True Hero, A 557 DICKENS, CHARLES. Things that Never Die 210 DICKENSON, CHARLES. Children, The 551 DOANE, GEORGE W. "Stand Like an Anvil" 168 DOANE, W. C. Sculptor-boy, The 233 DODGE, MARY MAPES. My Window Ivy 428 DORR, JULIA C. R. Outgrown 84 DOWD, EMMA C. Out of the Way 277 DRAKE, JOSEPH RODMAN. American Flag, The 146 DUMONT, HENRY. Without You 84 DUNROY, WILLIAM REED. Wind of the West 100 DURYEA, WILLIAM RANKIN. Song for the Hearth and Home, A 31 E EARLE, MABLE. Life Garden, A 521 EDWARDS, MATILDA C. " Church Walking with the World, The 372 EGERMEIER, ELSIE E. Letter in Rhyme, A 323 Sunset on the Blackhawk 105 Winter's Charms 137 EDISON, A. J. No Children's Graves in China 538 ELLIOTT, EBENEZER. Spring 3 27 ELLIOTT, GEORGE. Two Lovers 234 ELLIOTT, GEORGIA C. Blessed Nation, The 427 God's Care 518 His Letters 311 Present Salvation 415 There's a Way 419 Twenty-third Psalm 424 ELLSWORTH, W. W. Nightfall 119 EMERSON, RALPH WALDO. Mountain and the Squirrel, The 559 Snow-storm, The 101 EVE, MARIA L. Conquered at Last 186 EVERETT, ALEXANDER HILL. Young American, The 141 EVERETT. JOHN W. Reflections 79 EYTINGE, MARGARET. Her Name the Countersign 78 P FABER. FREDERICK WILLIAM. His Sweet Will 414 Right Must Win, The 538 10 INDEX OF AUTHORS. FANNINGTON, MARIANNE. My Neighbor's Boy 575 FAWCETT, JOHN. Blest be the Tie that Binds 427 FERGUSON, G. G. Royal Gorge, The 324 FIELD, EUGENE. Good-by, God Bless You 164 In the Firelight 47 FIELD, W. T. Strength 279 FINCH, F. M. Blue and the Gray, The 156 FINCH, MARY BAIRD. Arcana of Nature, The 115- To a Mountain Bluebell 116 FINLEY, SAMUEL. Christmas 232 Where? Oh! Where? 83 FISHER, C. E. Words that Pain 577 FLEMING, PAUL. To Myself 438 FLINT, AMOS E. Promised Land, The 507 "Tis I; be Not Afraid" 461 FLORY, GERTRUDE A. Tell Your Mother that You Love Her 551 FOSS, S. W. Inkstand Bottle, The 284 FOWLER, ELLEN T. Longest Day, The 83 FRENAU, PHILIP. May to April 129 FULTON, A. R. Anthracite 112 If We Could Know 165 Unwritten Song, The 165 GAGE, FRANCIS DANA. Home Picture, A 263 GALLAGHER, WILLIAM D. Truth and Freedom 198 GAMMONS, SUSAN E. Old Year Memories 201 GARDNER, MRS. H. C. Real, The 469 GARFIELD, JAMES ABRAM. Memory 171 What I Would Ask for Thee 357 GATES, ELLEN M. H. Your Mission 267 GEARY, EUGENE. Death of Nathan Hale, The 154 GEIL, H. R. To a Streamlet , 99 GERGEN, MATTIE. Behind the Scenes 225 English Student's Experience, An 361 First Shall be Last; the Last, First, The 393 Jesus Pleads 542 Safe in Jesus 424 Save, Lord, or We Perish 345 Seek and Ye Shall Find 547 GILDER, RICHARD W. Dawn 106 GILDERSLEEVE, A. B. On the Old Camp Ground 342 GILLILAN, STRICKLAND W. Walking on the Wall 486 GILMORE, J. H. He Leadeth Me 423 GOLDSMITH, OLIVER. Deserted Village, The 65 GOOD, JOHN MASON. "Not Worlds on Worlds" 413 GORDON, S. E. Forgive and Forget 193 GOULD, H. F. Name in the Sand, A 519 GRAHAME, JAMES. Sabbath, The 264 GRANT, SIR ROBERT. Blessed Is the Man Whom Thou Chasteneth 356 GRAY, THOMAS. Elegy in a Country Churchyard 237 GREEN, ANNA D. Puritan Lovers, The 76 GRIGG, JOSEPH. Ashamed of Jesus ! 405 GUYON, MADAME. At Home in God 414 Simple Trust '. 426 H HAFFORD, MRS. EMILY H. Earth 235 Evening Thoughts 520 HAFFORD, F. S. Only a Child 556 HALE, WILL T. Don't Forget the Old Folks 36 HALLAM, ARTHUR HENRY. Mother's Influence, A.... 255 HARDY, LIZZIE CLARK. Cry of the Mother, The 40 We Call Them Dead 289 HASTINGS, THOMAS. Lord is Risen, The 385 HAVERGAL, FRANCES RIDLEY. Another Year 490 Be Not Weary 465 Church of God, The 482 Christmas Gifts 339 Daily Strength 462 Disappointment 459 Faithful Promises 433 Fresh Springs 455 God the Provider 467 He Hath Done It 421 Hope 445 I Could Not do Without Thee 494 I Gave My Life for Thee 399 Infinity of God, The 402 Light and Shade 450 Lord Speak to Me 526 Making Poetry 178 Matthew XIV: XXIII 383 Matthew XXVI : XXX 378 Ministry of Song, The 539 Not Yet 380 Not Your Own 386 Nothing to Pay ! 545 Remote Results 469 Secret of a Happy Day, The 441 Seed of Song, The 535 Seeing Heart, A 326 "Tempted and Tried" 456 Thanksgiving 409 "Things Which Are Behind, The" 468 This Same Jesus 404 "Vessels of Mercy, Prepared unto Glory" 528 HAWORTH, MRS. Holy Spirit, The 357 HAY, JOHN. Blind Man's Testimony, The 349 HAYES, CORA WALKER. Christ-child, The 359 HAYNE, PAUL HAMILTON. Deathless Heart, The 157 Farmer's Wife, The 266 Praying for Shoes 559 HAZELTINE, WALTER M. Ho ! Bonny Boy 574 HEARN, MARIANNE. Waiting and Watching for Me 506 HEBER, REGINALD. Christmas Hymn, A 396 INDEX OF AUTHORS. 11 Gone to the Grave 297 Missionary Hymn 538 HELPHINGSTINE, MARY J. Autumn 572 I am Glad 431 HEMANS, FELICIA DOROTHEA. Graves of a Household, The 311 Hour of Death, The 292 Mother's Love, A 253 Wreck and Death at Sea, A 289 HENDERSON, MRS. ANNA R. Child's Fancy, A 181 Garner the Beautiful 209 HENRY, W. J. Love of God, The 420 Only a Little While 206 Present Experience 428 HERBERT, GEORGE. Altar, The 584 Easter Wings 583 Virtue Immortal 170 HERRICK, ROBERT. Country Life, The 269 HERVEY, THOMAS KIBBLE. Love 77 HERWICK, CLINTON A. Autumn 135 Now is the Accepted Time 542 HIGGINSON, ELLA. Sunset on Puget Sound 123 HILL, GEORGE. Fall of the Oak, The 107 HILLYER, SHALER G. Life's Paradox 180 HOBART, MRS. CHARLES. Changed Cross, The 497 HOGAN, KATE. Thy Mother 573 HOLDER, PHEBE A. Hour with Whittier, An 325 HOLLAND, JOSIAH GILBERT. Babyhood 30 Gradation 242 HOLM, SAXE. God's Love 393 HOLMES, A. L. Wait 218 HOLMES, OLIVER WENDELL. Chambered Nautilus, The 123 Hymn of Trust 422 Living Temple, The 104 Old Ironsides 145 HOOD, THOMAS. Nameless Dead, The 297 Song of the Shirt, The 270 HOPPER, EDWARD. Savior, Pilot Me 495 HOWE, MARY E. Gems 124 HOWELL, ELIZABETH LLOYD. Blind Old Milton, The 351 HOWLAND, MRS. R. S. Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep 566 HOYT, B. C. Who Are Wise? 332 HOYT, RALPH. Old Man by the Wayside, The , 43 HUBBARD, MRS. ANNA M. Into all the World , 536 HUNNEX, GLORIA G. Strength vs. Fainting 454 HUNT, LEIGH. May 129 HUTT, FRANK WALCOTT. At a Mother's Grave 291 Indecision 171 I IN u ALLS, JOHN J. Opportunity 197 INGELOW, JEAN. Castaway, The 282 IRISH FACTORY GIRL. God's Forgetfulness „ 336 J JACKSON, HELEN HUNT. "Not as I Will" 504 October's Bright Blue Weather 133 JAMES, MARY D. Sweetly Resting 423 JAQUES, MRS. D. Calvary 434 To My Departed Father 294 JARVIS, MRS. A. P. Through Nature to God 521 JEFFREY, ROSA VERTNER. Angel Watchers 299 JENNER, EDWARD. Signs of Rain 583 JENYNS, SOAME. Unending Life on Earth Undesirable 228 JONES, EMMA. Thanksgiving 403 JUDSON, EMILY C. Tribute, A 541 X KEATS, JOHN. Selection from Endymion 195 KEITH, GEORGE. How Firm a Foundation 454 KENT, A. F. Kneel at No Human Shrine 250 KENT, WILLIS WARREN. Wishing and Working 577 KEY, FRANCIS SCOTT. Star Spangled Banner, The 142 KIDDER, MRS. M. A. Cherish Kindly Feelings 563 Home Life 40 Mother's Mending Basket 28 What Became of a Lie 568 KINNEY, COATES. Rain on the Roof 41 KINNEY, MRS. ELIZABETH C. Which Shall Go? 303 KIPLING, RUDYARD. If We Knew 195 Recessional 147 KNOWLES, HERBERT. Written in Richmond Church-yard, Yorkshire.. 231 KNOWLES, J. S. Tell on Switzerland 141 KNOX, WILLIAM. Oh! Why Should the Spirit of Mortal be Proud ? 249 KROUT, MARY H. Little Brown Hands 270 L LACOSTE, MARIE R. Somebody's Darling 155 LACKEY, MARGARET M'RAE. Only a Baby's Grave 293 LAMONT, ALEXANDER. Round of Life, The 231 LAMPERTUS. German Trust Song, A 500 LANIGAN, G. T. Millionaire and Barefoot Boy 562 LARCOM, LUCY. Across the River 513 Shared 222 Sunbeam, The „ 566 Thanksgiving, A 407 12 INDEX OF AUTHORS. LARIMORE, T. B. Love and Pet Me Now 187 LAVELY, H. A. Heart's Choice, The 217 October 134 LAWRENCE, JONATHAN. Look Aloft 457 LE GRANDE, MRS, MARGARET. Mother's Love, A 256 LEE, HARRISON. Pluck 178 LEONARD, PRISCILLA. Lesson of Content, The 161 LEWIS, LUCY M. Cherished Memories 42 Consolation 458 LEWIS, I. L. Lesson, A 102 LINDESAY, MARIA B. Christ's Humanity 402 LINN, NELLIE. Wanted 275 LINN, O. P. Breakers are Ahead, The 546 Content to Go or Stay 522 God Wants Your All -140 Man's Fall 339 Only a Few Short Years 518 Sinner's Doom, The 341 Sunset 96 Where are the Dead? 506 LIPP1NCOTT, MARTHA SHEPARD. Sunshine Beyond 162 LITTLEDALE, RICHARD F. Another Year 334 LONGFELLOW, HENRY WADSWORTH. Arrow and the Song, The 196 Autumn 136 Bridge, The 234 Builders, The 241 Children 569 Children's Hour, The 563 Day is Done, The 169 Evening on the River 49 God's Acre 226 Flowers 103 Footsteps of Angels 246 Home Song 31 Hymn of the Night 101 Ladder of St. Augustine, The 233 Maidenhood 553 My Lost Youth 46 Paul Revere's Ride 153 Primeval Forest, The 107 Psalm of Life, A 232 Rainy Day, The 174 Reaper and the Flowers, The 304 Resignation 295 Sound of the Sea, The 123 Spirit of Poetry, The 166 Village Blacksmith, The 266 LOWELL, JAMES RUSSELL. Changeling, The 195 Heritage, The 269 Heroism 151 June 130 Sonnets 75 Stanzas on Freedom 147 To the Dandelion 107 Willing Slaves, The 284 LUKE, MRS. JEMIMA. Let the Little Ones Come Unto Me 565 LYDICK, EDWARD N. Winter Hours 572 LYSTER, FRED. What is Life? 190 LYTE, HENRY FRANCIS. Abide with Me 491 Jesus, I My Cross Have Taken 487 Rest in Jesus 418 M MACKAY, CHARLES. Clear the Way 285 Inquiry, The 228 Small Beginnings 194 Working Man's Song 262 MACKAY, MRS. MARGARET. Asleep in Jesus 510 MALONE, EVA WILLIAMS. God's Answer 505 MALONE, WALTER. Opportunity 199 MARCH, DANIEL. Your Mission 530 MARCHIONESS DE SPADARA. Maternal Love 256 MARTIN, W. C. Service of Smiles, The 210 MARTYN, ELIZA L. Trusting 502 MASSEY, GERALD. Oh, Lay Thy Hand in Mine, Dear Thou'rt All the World to Me 00 90 MAST, JENNIE. Always Remembered 463 At the Close of the Year 1906 342 Brief Description of Hell, A 353 Consolation 455 Farewell Greeting 321 Follow Me 468 Gratitude 438 Gone Home 391 Goodness of God, The 398 His Unfailing Love 413 His Voice I Hear 431 Last Call, The 543 Lazarus 371 Left Behind., 365 Little Things 176 My Precious Secret 419 Our Absent Darlings 311 Our Mother's Gone — 315 Our Savior Knows 465 Pardoned 420 Reaper Awake 524 To the Trumpet Family 337 Unfruitful Tree, The 347 Watch and Pray 489 When the Reapers Came Home 533 Who Shall be Able to Stand? 395 Yet Will I Rejoice and Praise Him 388 MC CARTHY, LAURA S. R. Midnight 101 MC CLEAN, SALLIE PRATT. De Massa ob de Sheepfol' 386 MCCOLLUM, H. E. Wherever Thou Art 82 MC CREARY, J. L. There is no Death 2b9 MC DONALD, GEORGE. Better Things 196 MC GAFF AY, ERNEST. Songs Unsung 191 MC GIRR, J. J. I Autumn Evening, The 134 M'GUIRE, MARY. Then and Now 312 3 .'J i M'KEEVER, ABBIE C. Home Again ! MCLAIN, LORAIN. Little Things 224 Out of the Fold 542 Quite Different 217 Storm and the Trial, The 458 Wise Choice, The 162 MC LEAN, SARAH E. P. My Lover MC LEISTER, I. F. I Will Pray 80 486 MC MANUS, S. B. He Knoweth Your Need 459 MILLARD, LYDIA M. Our Goal and Glory 152 INDEX OF AUTHORS. 13 MILLER, I. J. A. Compliment Your Wife 24 Wanted 277 MILLER, JOAQUIN. Columbus 168 MILLER, MELVILLE. When Mother Prayed 44 MILLS, J. S. Memories 214 MILTON, JOHN. Adam to Eve 255 Adam's Morning Hymn in Paradise 412 M'^EOD, NORMAN. Trust in God and Do the Right 436 MITCHELL, WILLIAM. Palace o' the King. The 508 MOLLOY, J. L. Race for Life, A 154 MONTEITH, RUTH CRISWELL. Farewell to the Kitchen.... 266 MONTGOMERY, CARRIE JUDD. Take Me, Break Me, Make Me 504 MONTGOMERY, JAMES. Charity 477 It Is an Emblem of Glory 141 My Country 140 Not Lost, but Gone Before 511 MOORE, THOMAS. As a Beam o'er the Face of the Waters 198 Beacon, The 124 Devotion 491 Evening Bells, The 245 Mourner's Tear, The 402 Oft in the Stilly Night 208 MORRIS, GEORGE P. My Mother's Bible 41 Woodman, Spare that Tree 95 MORRIS, IDA GOLDSMITH. It Takes so Little 186 MORRISON, LLEWELLYN A. Benediction, The, 406 Worship 402 MUHLENBERG, WILLIAM AUGUSTUS. I Would Not Live Alway 509 MUNBY, A. J. Pastoral, A 581 MURRAY, CHARLOTTE. Bright and Yet Brighter 458 MURRAY, ELLEN. Agnes the Martyr 377 N NAYLOR, C. W. Alone With Jesus '.. 488 Backslider, The 382 Before the Storm 118 Fair Zion 484 God's Way is Best 505 I Need Thee, Lord 4S6 Life 241 Songs of the Past and Present 345 To the Ocean 123 Unchanging Word, The 448 What is Prayer? .! 492 NEALY, MARY E. When the Cows Come Home 264 NELSON, H. W. Rest 423 NESBITT, WILBUR D. Laugh, Little Fellow 564 Make this a Day 440 Titanic, The 152 NEWHAM, JOHN. Christian's Wants, A 493 NEWTON, JOHN. Lord will Provide, The 456 NORTON, ANDREWS. After a Summer Shower Ill NORTON, CAROLINE ELIZABETH. Child of Earth, The 290 NOTHOMB, H. E. At Rest 290 NOTTAGE. MAY HASTINGS. My Father's Voice in Prayer 41 O O'BEIRNE, H. F. Sunrise in the Southwest 110 OFFORD, R. M. Year Untried, A 447 OGBORN, W. H. Infinite, The 211 OLI/HAM, G. D. Redeeming the Time 440 Tide of Sin, The 535 OLSON, NELLIE. Among Wisconsin Pines 97 God's Universal Love 535 Humming Birds 104 Life's Golden Goblet 240 Little Freckled Girl 561 Little Tomboy 555 World and I, The 227 Worldling and the Saint, The 387 O'REILLY, JOHN BOYLE. What is Good? 193 ORR, CHARLES E. Autumn Days 132 Evening Hour of Prayer, The 487 God's Loving Care 446 Humility 477 Living for Others 221 Love in Nature 116 Memorial 301 Morning Prayer, A 490 So Let Me Live 517 Sunday Morning, A 357 Thinking, Lord, of Thee 521 OSGOOD, FRANCIS S. To Labor is to Pray 265 OVERALL, J. W. Spring Down in the Dell, The 43 P PALGRAVE, FRANCIS TURNER. City of God, The 343 PALMER, ALICE FREEMAN. Four Mottoes 192 PALMITER, LOUISE P. W. Summer Night Sounds 130 PAYNE, JOHN HOWARD. Home Sweet Home 23 PEABODY, W. O. B. Hymn of Nature 411 PEALE. REMBRANDT. Faith and Hope 244 PEARSE, MARK GUY. Homely Counsel on Care, A 202 PELHAM, NETTIE H. New Paul Revere, The 156 PENNEFATHER, MRS. CHATHERINE. Not Now, My Child 531 PERCIVAL, JAMES G. Flight of Time, The 236 Morning Among the Hills 109 PERCY, FLORENCE. Little Feet 184 PHELPS, D. W. To the Mourner 293 I Love You - 91 PILLIFANT, EDMUND. My Old Bible 358 P1ERPONT, JOHN. My Child 292 Yankee Boy, The 555 14 INDEX OF AUTHORS. POE, EDGAR ALLEN. Bells, The 212 Valentine, A 581 POLLARD, JOSEPHINE. Me and Mine , 2C8 Over and Over Again 192 Price of a Drink, The 275 Tired Wife, The 29 POLLOCK, EDWARD. Parting Hour, The 80 POLLOCK, ROBERT. Dying Mother, The 302 POPE, ALEXANDER. Vague Hopes of Nature 236 PRENTICE, GEORGE D. Closing Year, The 242 PRICKETT, J. B. Picture Fancy Painted, The 46 PRIEST, NANCY A. W. Joys of Heaven 511 Over the River 296 PROCTER, ADELAIDE A. Be Strong 453 Judge Not 163 One by One 197 Present, The 225 Sowing and Reaping 457 Thankfulness 418 Through Peace to Light 486 Word, A 213 PROCTER, BRYAN WALLER. Sea in Calm, The 122 Stormy Petrel, The 122 Q QUARLES, FRANCIS. Brevity of Life 588 Delight in God Only 406 B RANKIN, J. E. Shall We Find Them at the Portals? 189 RAYNE, MRS. M. L. Brave Kate Shelley's Heroism 143 READ, THOMAS BUCHANAN. Closing Scene, The 306 Our American Women 253 Sheridan's Ride 150 REALF, RICHARD. Indirection 203 REARDON, E. A. Chastisement 444 REESE, MARY B. Wanted : A Boy....* 558 REXFORD, EBEN E. "And a Child Shall Lead Them" 81 Best We Can, The 176 Kissed His Mother : 574 RICHARDS, W. C. Still Waters 415 RICHARDSON, HELEN M. In Winter Days 137 RICHARDSON, N. K. No God 410 RILEY, JAMES WHITCOMB. Kissing the Rod 170 Monument for the Soldiers, A 149 Say Something Good 208 ROBERTS, JOHN E. Chosen in Affliction 468 ROTHMAN, ROBERT. Arise and Shine, O Zion 481 Firstfruits of Them that Slept, The 375 Ruth and Naomi 382 Will of God, The 493 ROWLAND, JOHN. Autumn 135 RUDDOCK, C. A. Saloons Can not Run Without Boys 278 RUNCORN, MOLLIE S. How Friends are Won. 90 RUSSELL, ANNIE. My Baby 552 RUTTY. JENNIE C. All Forgiven 430 SALMON, LEWIS A. Promised Rest, The 461 SANBORN, ISAAC W. Autumn 134 SANGSTER, MARGARET E. Are the Children at Home? 298 Our Own 29 Thank Him 207 They Never Quite Leave Us 80 Thing Left Undone, The 209 Trifles 25 SARGENT, EPES. Tribute to Genius and Labor 261 SAWYER, SARAH B. Sunset 98 SAXE, JOHN G. Blind Men and the Elephant, The 586 Head and the Heart, The 219 Solomon and the Bees 60 SCHILLER, FRIEDRICH. Words of Strength 173 SCHMOLKE. Heavier the Cross . 449 My Jesus, as Thou Wilt.... 499 SCOTT, MARGARET A. B. Lines on the Death of a Friend 83 SCOTT, SIR WALTER. Patriotism 151 Soldier's Rest, The 152 SCUDDER, ELIZA. Vesper Hymn 494 SEABURY, EMMA PLAYTER. Whose Fault ? 39 SHAKESPEARE, WILLIAM. Cardinal Wolsey, on Being Cast off by King Henry VIII 251 Immortality of the Soul 516 Mercy 476 SHEFFIELD, EDWARD. Mount Hood 119 SHELLEY, PERCY BYSSHE. Sunset 104 SHERRICK, FANNIE ISABELLE. Denver 323 SHIPTON, ANNA. Ministry of Love, The 487 SHIRLEY, JAMES. Death the Leveler 227 SHROY, JOHN L. One Talent Man, The 466 SIGOURNEY, MRS. LYDIA H. Go to Thy Rest 290 Know Thyself 221 Lost Day, The 197 SILL, E. R. Fool's Prayer, The 53 SIMPSON, A. B. What is the Time to Trust? 442 SKEAT, W. W. Fame, Wealth, Life, Death 248 SKINNER, HUBERT M. Babe of Bethlehem, The 353 SLEEPER, W. T. Nothing Less and Nothing More - 488 SMITH, MRS. ALBERT. Scatter Seeds of Kindness 163 SMITH, ELIZABETH OAKES. Wife, The - 256 INDEX OF AUTHORS. 15 SMITH, FRANCIS S. Spirit Rosebud, The 305 SMITH, HORACE. Moral Alchemy 219 SMITH, MRS. LIDA M. We are Growing Old 228 SMITH, MAT RILEY. Sometime 452 SMITH, MARY RIPLEY. Tired Mothers 192 SMITH, SAMUEL FRANCIS. America 151 SOUTHEY, CAROLINE BOWLES. Pauper's Death-bed, The 310 SOUTHEY, ROBERT. Cataract of Lodore, The - 585 Greenwood Shrift, The 54 Love Indestructible 478 SPENCER, CAROLINE. Living Waters 175 SPRAGUE, CHARLES. Lines on the Death of a Sister 291 STAPLES, BELLE. Heavenly City, The 508 STEVENSON, CHARLES W. Toil 264 STILES, KATE R. Don't Let the Song Go Out of Your Life 166 STODDARD, R. H. Flight of Youth, The 227 STONE, SAMUEL. Church Has One Foundation, The 481 STOWE, HARRIET BEECHER. Other World, The 511 STREET, A. B. American Independence 141 STURN, JULIUS. God's Anvil 498 SUSO, H. Master's Hand, The 429 SWAIN, CHARLES. Forgive and Forget 223 True Nobility 262 SWAIN, JOSEPH. O Thou in Whose Presence 401 T TAPPAN, WILLIAM B. Jesus Prays 378 TATRO, MRS. G. W. Eventide 96 TAYLOR, BAYARD. Possession 78 Wind and Sea 122 TAYLOR, BENJAMIN F. Long Ago, The 243 TAYLOR, GEORGE LANSING. Warning to Ministers, A 587 TAYLOR, TOM. Abraham Lincoln 319 TEASLEY, D. O. Back to the Blessed Old Bible 348 Eternity 335 TELLER, H. W. "What Matter?" 541 TENNYSON, ALFRED. Babylon 57 Break, Break, Break 122 Charge of the Light Brigade 155 Crossing the Bar 252 Fall of Jerusalem, The 55 How Gayly Sinks the Gorgeous Sun 510 Human Cry, The 409 Midnight 99 On the Death of My Grandmother 301 Passions, The 177 Prayer 403 Poet's Song, The 199 Scotch Songs 200 Slighted Lover, The 87 Thunder Storm, The 103 Time: an Ode 254 THAXTER, CELIA. Cheer Up 220 THAYER, JULIA H. Submission 181 THOMAS, ANNA K. Alone 518 Beautiful Snow, The 98 Brook, The 1 10 Childhood 574 Easter Ode, An 405 Faith 477 God's Dwelling-place 360 God's Handiwork 520 India's Call for the Gospel 529 Life 363 Lines to a White Chrysanthemum Ill Petition 488 Plucked Bud, A 313 Prayer, A 488 Refrain, A 520 Shenandoah River, The 321 Spring 128 Sunbeams 120 Thunder, The 517 Time 219 Voices of Nature 117 Walk by Moonlight, The 522 Weariness 521 Year, The 573 THOMAS, MRS. SARAH A. To My Husband 88 THORPE, SMILY D. Silent Village, The 314 TITLEY, W. W. Some Blessed Day 515 TOPLADY, A. M. Consolation in Sickness 447 TRENCH, RICHARD C. Content and Discontent 464 TRIPP, HOWARD C. Old Home, The 42 TROWBRIDGE, JOHN T. Children in the Household 26 Farm Yard Song 272 TUBBS, ARTHUR LEWIS. Two Verdicts 281 VICKERS, GEORGE M. Four Kisses, The 217 VENABLE, W. H. Teacher's Dream, The 172 W WALLACE, WILLIAM. Greenwood Cemetery 326 Hand that Rocks the Cradle, The 254 WARDER, G. W. Saddest Thoughts Make Sweetest Song 213 Woman , 255 WARING, ANNA L. In Heavenly Love Abiding 456 Lowly Heart, The 493 WARNER, ANNA. One More Day's Work for Jesus 537 WARNER, B. T. My Prayer 494 WARNER, DANIEL S. All in All to Me 447 After the Battle 349 Autumn 135 Autumn Leaves 334 Beautiful Spring 128 Bond of Perfectness, The 431 Celia 299 Church Triumphant, The 484 Crusades of Hell, The 367 Eternity 354 16 INDEX OF AUTHORS. Everlasting Joy 415 Faith 479 Good-by, Old Rockies 112 Holy Fellowship 427 Humility 478 I Ought to Love My Savior 429 Innocence 470 Joys that Sinners Know Not 383 Lily and Willie 308 Lines Reproving Some Sectarian Idolatry 399 Love is Freedom's Law 344 My Soul is Satisfied 426 Nature's Devotion 397 New-year's Greeting 338 On the Marriage of a Mr. Hope 582 Pure Bride Restored, The....- 374 Soul-Cripple City 376 Throwing Ink at the Devil 385 To My Dear Sidney 394 To the Alien 392 Truth 389 Two Little Hands 305 Who Will Suffer with Jesus? 532 WARREN, B. E. God's Majesty..... 411 Let Creation Praise the Creator 412 Music 363 Nature 118 Once and Now 422 What Faith Does 476 World in Sin, The 546 WATERMAN, NIXON. To Know All is to Forgive All 164 WATERS, GAY. August 132 WATTS, ISAAC. Cradle Hymn, A 565 Wondrous Cross, The 401 WEBSTER, DANIEL. Memory of the Heart, The 90 WESLEY, CHARLES. Oh, for a Thousand Tongues 411 WHITNEY, HATTIE. Thanksgiving Rest 40 WHITTIER, JOHN GREENLEAF. Angel of Patience, The 450 April 129 Barefoot Boy, The 560 Cities of the Plain, The 64 Clear Vision, The 105 Crucifixion, The 358 Cypress — Tree of Ceylon, The 251 Dear Home Faces 167 Destinies of Life 177 Farewell, The 65 Forgiveness 199 Goodly Heritage, A 460 In School-days 89 Innocent Child and Snow-white Flower 563 Maud Muller 91 Minister's Daughter, The 344 Palestine 322 Poet and the Children, The 325 Red Riding Hood , 167 Sin's Slavery 331 Snow-Bound 95 Tauler 350 Vaudois Teacher, The 338 WILCOX, CARLOS. God Everywhere In Nature 109 WILCOX, ELLA WHEELER. Be not Content 215 Give 218 Snowed Under 248 'They Say" 177 Your Cross 443 WILLARD, EMMA. Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep 499 WILLIAMS, DWIGHT. Book My Mother Read, The 49 "Little While, A" 452 WILLIAMS, MRS. E. E. "All for Jesus!" — Do We Mean It? 523 WILLIAMS, ISAAC. Trust 425 WILLIAMS, T. WARSAW. Hymn of Resignation, A 313 WILLIS, NATHANIEL PARKER. Absalom 61 Birthday Verses 30 Christ's Entrance into * Jerusalem 69 David's Grief for His Child 58 Dying Alchemist, The 56 Healing of the Daughter of Jairus, The 68 Jephthah's Daughter 62 My Mother's Voice 47 New Year, The 137 On the Picture of a "Child Tired of Play".... 201 Sacrifice of Abtaham, The 63 Scece in Gethsemane 64 Present Life in View of the Future, The 511 WILSON, JENNIE. Have We Done What We Could? 532 WILSON, T. E. Women at the Cross 253 WILTON, RICHARD. Favorite Path, A : 220 WINGATE, MARY B. We've Been Praying for You 396 WINTERMUTE, MRS. MARTHA. I'd Rather 164 WINTON, MRS. J. M. Better than Gold 218 WOOD, STANLEY. Homes of the Cliff-Dwellers 320 WOODROW, FRED. Lost Bird on Shipboard 126 WOODS, MRS. KATE T. Dan's Wife 27 WOODWORTH, NELLIE H. In the Dawning of the Morning 516 WOODWORTH, SAMUEL. Old Oaken Bucket, The 45 WRAY, EVA M. ■ Beautiful Sunset 102 Better Part, The 340 Blind — Deaf — Deliverance 547 Charity 478 Is There Naught that Satisfies? 390 Mountain Stream, The 117 Y YATES, JOHN H. Old Ways and the New, The 261 YOUNG, EDWARD. Emptiness of Riches, The 209 Man 235 ANONYMOUS. Against a Thorn 383 Acrostic, An 585 Altar of Prayer, The 425 Always in the Way 24 Answered Prayers 441 Assurance 464 Autumn Woods, The 134 Babylon is Fallen 387 Battle of Life. The 564 Be Kind to Father 561 Be Kind to the Loved Ones at Home 23 Be Patient 463 Be Ready All 438 Be Strong. My Soul, in God 469 Be Swift 206 Be True 557 Beautiful Snow, The 280 Beautiful Things 165 Bedtime Kiss, The 33 Before the Sun Goes Down 196 Believer's Privilege, The 426 Benediction, A 431 Beyond 442 Beyond Today 504 Blessings of Song, The 223 Books of the Bible 582 Boots of a Household, The 576 Boy Who Helps His Mother, The 571 Boy Jesus, The 5(58 INDEX OF AUTHORS. 17 Boy's Promise. A 576 Bravest Battle, The :;*•> Brilliants 500 Brink of the Grave. The 51!* Broadcast Thy Seed 5:'»4 Burden of Sorrow. The 207 Changed Hymn, A 420 Chickens, The 562 Child's Mirror, The 563 Chisel-Work 503 Christ 414 Christian's Warfare. The 467 Christlike 441 Christmas Hymn 308 Cleaning House 210 Closing Year. The 333 "Come Unto Me" 545 "Come Ye Apart" 451 Coming 434 Communion 443 Conscience and Future Judgment - 232 Consecration 500 Convict's Plea, A 282 Correct Order, The 165 Crowded Street. The 223 Cruse that Faileth Not, The 520 Cry from Foreign Fields, A 528 Cry of the Heathen, The 530 "Cumbered About Much Serving" 497 Curfew Must Not Ring Tonight 85 Curious Literary Composition 584 Dare and Do 200 Dealing with Trouble 213 Death 514 Death of an Infant 302 Death of Gaudentis 144 Deeds, Not Words 337 Description of a Storm at Sea 124 Did You Do it for Jesus? 527 Disappointment 504 Do Something Today 529 Do What You Feel You Should 174 Do Your Best 551 Don't Deepen the Wrinkles 224 Don't Marry a Man to Reform Him 2S5 Door Mat, A 502 Dream, A 168 Dreamer, The 190 Dropping a Seed 534 Drunkard's Alphabet. The 281 Duties of Today. The 161 Dying Wife. The 295 Eternal Years. The 435 Emigrant's Wish, The 33 Empty Lives, The 187 Evening Hour, The 161 Example of Alliteration. An 584 Face the Sun 178 Farewell Old Mill 207 Farmer Gray 271 "Fear Thou Not" 454 Fellowship of Toil. The 268 Field, The 532 Fight Fresh Battles 202 Finding Fault 207 Five Little Foxes 571 Folded Hands 315 Folded Hands 316 Follow Me 545 For the Children 565 Followers of Them 362 Forest Trees 572 Forget — Remember 221 Four-leaf Clovers 205 Friends of Long Ago 44 Gather With Care 207 Gentleman, A 575 Gentlemanly Boy, A 570 Gethsemane 3S4 Give Them the Flowers Now 189 Giving and Living _.. 352 Glad Homeland. The 189 Go Bury Thy Sorrow 45" God Holds the Key 421 God is Ever Good 409 God is Everywhere 404 God Understands 457 God's Love and Wisdom 444 God's Sentinels 97 God's Wav is Best 445 God's Will for Us 1«8 Going to S~v>oi 571 Good-bye 83 Good Cheer 172 Good Old Grandmother, The 294 Grandma's Home 49 Grandma's Surprise 570 Grindstone of Fate 567 Happy New Year, A 442 Hate of the Bowl 275 Have Courage, My Boy, to Say No 569 Have Faith in the Boy 573 He Giveth His Loved Ones Sleep 385 He Leadeth Me 424 "He Careth for You" 463 Heavenly Treasure 378 Helping Hand, A 193 Hereafter 308 Hereafter 343 Hiding 573 Himself 417 "His Majesty" 361 Holiness 398 Home 39 Home Song, A 36 Hope 479 House and Home 253 Household Fairy, The 576 How Easy it is! 203 How Readest Thou? 436 How Soon We Lose Them 25 Hymn to the Night Wind 115 I Can not Turn the Key and My Bairn Out- side 33 I Didn't Think 220 I Have no Mother Now 304 Iceberg, The 201 If 283 If I Knew 276 If I May Help 240 If I Should Die Tonight 215 If We Knew 202 If We Would 535 Immortal Life, The 510 In the Heart 169 In the Way 28 Independence Bell 147 Indian Hymn 587 Innocence 480 Is not This the Land of Beulah? 419 It Matters Much 193 Jesus All Sufficient 422 Jesus, I'll Go Through with Thee 503 Jesus Weeping over Jerusalem 381 John, the Beloved 358 Joyful Hours 429 Just a Mention of the Seasons 126 Just for Today 495 Just Like a Man 29 Just This Minute 167 Katie Lee and Willie Gray 75 Keep Steady 180 Kindly Word, The 194 Lady Hildegarde, The 364 Last Rose of Summer, The 189 Leaf by Leaf 194 Lean Hard 452 Learn a Little Every Day 214 Learn to Give 435 Life 190 Life's Lesson 464 Life's Mirror 179 Life's Possibilities 439 Liquor Bar. The 282 Little By Little 556 Little Face, A 569 Little Goldeniiair 552 Little Grave, The 306 Little Kindnesses 201 Little Things 215 Look Ahead 170 Lord's Prayer Illustrated. The 375 Love and Laughter 215 Love Lightens Labor 263 Love of God, The 408 Lucky Call, The 37 Maiden Martyr, The 70 Make Childhood Sweet 37 Man in the Boy, The 553 Man's Answer, A 86 Married for Love 88 Master is Coming, The 366 Master's Healing Touch, The 352 Master's Questions, The 530 18 INDEX OF AUTHORS. Maternity 38 Measuring the Baby 554 MeBsage of Love, A 362 Missionary Call, The 526 More and Less .- 522 Morning Gifts 187 Mother and Her Dying Boy, The 302 Mother is Resting 308 Mother's Good-bye, The 575 Mother's Growing Old 31 Mother's Love, A 75 Mother's Trust, The 374 Mr. Skeptical's Experience 379 My Beautiful Secret 422 My Happy Home 39 My Heart's Story 428 My Little Wife 26 My Lord and 1 421 My Mother's Hands 28 My Shepherd 419 My Times are in Thy Hands 502 Nature and Faith 513 Nay, Speak no 111 221 Need of Today, The 366 New Jerusalem, The 509 New Leaf, A 188 New Year's Wishes 353 Night 101 No Night Shall be in Heaven 512 No Place for Boys 32 Not Knowing 445 Not One to Spare 25 Not Work but Worry 211 Nothing Is Lost 179 Nothing to Do 533 Off for Slumber Land 32 Old Cottage Clock, The 36 Old Couple, The 38 Old Rye Makes a Speech 281 On an Infant's Death 309 One Day 495 One Hundred Thousand Souls Lost Every Day..592 One Link Gone 310 One Little Boy 577 One Little Hour 438 One Step More 449 Only a Step 192 Only for Thee 487 Only One Mother 570 Only Waiting 248 Our Beloved 299 Our Fathers 355 Our Lives 245 Our Mother 37 Our Mother 674 Out of and Into 416 Patience 565 Patience with the Living 84 Pilgrim's Wants, The _ 489 Place of Prayer, The 489 Power of the Cross, The 496 Preacher's Vacation, The 355 Present Help, A 458 Prizing the Cross 461 Prodigal Daughter, The 544 Pure Testimony, The 381 Quaint Old Cross, A 582 Query, A 191 Rainbow, The 185 Rain-drops' Ride, The 562 Reaping 175 Refiner's Fire, The 499 Reliance on God 348 Remember, Boys Make Men 558 Resolution of Ruth .' 87 Rest 188 Rest in God 466 Rock, Christ, The 492 Return, The 34 Risen Lord, The 399 Rock of Ages 188 Rumseller's Sign, The 281 Sacred Spot, A 365 Saintly Sympathy 245 Sanctification 416 Satisfied 496 Sayings and Doings 233 Seeds 216 Selections from Psalm XXXVII 396 Sermon in Rhyme, A 208 Sermon in Verse, A 173 Servtce 442 Shine Just Where You Are 188 Silver Lining, The 170 Singing Birds Fly Lowest * 205 Sojourners 226 Soldier's Wife, The 257 Solitary Way, The .-. 448 Some Mother's Child 534 Somebody Cares 453 Somebody's Mother 557 Somehow or Other 199 Something Sure ;.-.„ 190 Song of the Decanter 588 Songs that Mother Sung, The. 41 Soulless Prayer, The 393 Source of All, The 405 Speak Gently 37 Speak Gently 223 Speak the Good Word 209 Speed Away 348 Star Points 361 Starless Crown, The 530* Stepping in Your Steps 211 Strength for Today 173 Submission and Rest... 499 Success 208 Sun-Clouds 374 Sweet Refuge, A 495 Sweet Rest to Come 541 Sweets of Woman's Life 254 Table Manners in Rhyme 560 Tell Her So 38 Tell Jesus 439 "Tempted and Tried" 456 Time for Prayer, The 495 There Come the Boys 554 Those We Love the Best 163 Thou Lovest not Me 543 Thy Will be Done 498 "Thy Will be Done" 503 To a Skeleton 240 To My Mother 305 Today is Yours 173 Tomorrow 168 Tone of the Voice, The 200 Tongue, The 210 Too Late 213 "Too Many of We" 35 True Aristocrat, The 262 True Gladness 174 True Love Better than Gold -. 85 Trust Thy Father Still 465 Truth 338 Truth 437 Turning the Flowers 191 Two Glasses, The 277 Two Offerings 566 Two Pennies , 527 Two Pennies. The 199 Unanswered Yet? 460 Under His Eye 436 Under the Leaves 170 Unfailing Power 469 Unwritten Poems 198 Valley of Rest, The 313 Wanderer, The 202 Wanted : A Boy 554 Watch Thou in All Things 439 Water that Has Passed, The 180 We All Might do Good 172 We Shall Know Each Other There 516 Web of Life, The 239 We'll Understand 460 What Are the Children Saying? 530 What is Charity? 470 What is Heaven? 372 What is Life? 240 What is Time? 174 What Makes Home? 39 What of Today? 528 What Then? (To the Believer) 372 What Then? (To the Unbeliever.) 372 "When I Have Time" 200 When I Was a Boy 43 When Thy Way Seems Darkest 448 When We Were Boys 558 Where Are You Going to Stop? » 434 Where Girls Can not Go 276 Where is Home? 27 Where's Mother ? 578 Which Loved Best? 562 Which Road? 252 Whither? 200 INDEX OF AUTHORS. 19 Who is My Brother? 492 Who is My Neighbor? 211 Who Will Care? 246 Who Shall Roll away the Stone? 451 Who Trusts in God's Unchanging Love V 449 Whom Having not Seen, We Love 519 Whose Boy ? 283 Why Do We Wait? 174 Why Weepest Thou? 443 Wife to Her Husband, The 34 Will You Love Me When I'm Old? 77 Wolves, The 271 Woman's Question, A 86 Women's Rights 254 Word that Counts, The 187 Words 193 Words I Did not Say, The 205 Your Work 440 THE HOME CIRCLE THE HOME CIRCLE. 23 THE HOME CIRCLE HOME. [From the Greek of Leonidas. ] Cling to thy home! if there the meanest shed Yield thee a hearth and shelter for thy head, And some poor plot, with vegetables stored. Be all that Heaven allots thee for thy board — ■ Unsavory bread, and herbs that, scattered, grow Wild on the river-brink or mountain-brow — Yet e'en this cheerless mansion shall pro- vide More heart's repose than all the world be- side. Robert Bland. HOME, SWEET HOME. Mid pleasure and palaces though we may roam, Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home; A charm from the sky seems to hallow us there. Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met with elsewhere. Home, home, sweet, sweet home! There's no place like home, oh, there's no place like home! An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain; Oh, give me my lowly thatched cottage again! The birds singing gayly, that came at my call- Give me them — and the peace of mind, dearer than all! Home, home, sweet, sweet home! There's no place like home, oh, there's no place like home! I gaze on the moon as I tread the drear wild, And feel that my mother now thinks of her child, As she looks on that moon from our own cottage door Thro' the woodbine, whose fragrance shall cheer me no more. Home, home, sweet, sweet home! There's no place like home, oh, there's no place like home! How sweet 'tis to sit 'neath a fond fa- ther's smile. And the caress of a mother to soothe and beguile! Let others delight mid new pleasure to roam, But give me, oh, give me, the pleasures of home. Home, home, sweet, sweet home! There's no place like home, oh, there's no place like home! To thee I'll return, overburdened with care; The heart's dearest solace will smile on me there; No more from that cottage again will I roam; Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home. Home, home, sweet, sweet home! There's no place like home, oh, there's no place like home! John Howabd Patnb. BE KIND TO THE LOVED ONES AT HOME. Be kind to thy father; for when thou wert young. Who loved thee so fondly as he? He caught the first accents that fell from thy tongue, And joined in thy innocent glee. Be kind to thy father; for now he is old, His locks intermingled with gray; His footsteps are feeble, once fearless and bold; Thy father is passing away. Be kind to thy mother; for, lo! on her brow May traces of sorrow be seen; Oh, well mayst thou cherish and comfort her now. For loving and kind hath she been. Remember thy mother: for thee shall she pray As long as God giveth her breath; With accents of kindness then cheer her lone way, E'en to the dark valley of death. Be kind to thy brother: his heart will have dearth If the smiles of thy joy be withdrawn; The flowers of feeling will fade at their birth If the dew of affection be gone. Be kind to thy brother wherever you are: The love of a brother shall be An ornament purer and richer by far Than pearls from the depths of the sea. Be kind to thy sister: not many may know The depth of the sisterly love: The wealth of the ocean lies fathoms below The surface that sparkles above. Be kind to thy father, once fearless and bold. Be kind to thy mother so near, Be kind to thy brother nor show thy heart cold, Be kind to thy sister so dear. 24 TREASURES OF POETRY. ALWAYS IN THE WAY. [A mother who was preparing some flour for bak- ing into cakes, left it for a few minutes. During her absence little Mary, with childish curiosity to see what it was, took hold of the dish, which fell to the floor and spilled its contents. The mother struck the child a severe blow, saying with anger, "You are al- ways in the way!" A few days afterwards little Mary became deathly sick. While delirious she asked her mother if there would be room for her among the angels. "I was always in your way, Mother, You had no room for me sometimes. Shall I be in the angels' way?" The broken-hearted mother then felt no sacrifice too great, could she have saved her child. In order to impress the incident some one adapted the following verses. ] "When the dewy light was fading And the sky in beauty smiled, Came this whisper, like an echo, From a pale and dying child — "Mother, in that golden region With its pearly gates so fair, Up among the happy angels, Is there room for Mary there? "Mother, raise me just a moment; You'll forgive me when I say Tou were angry when you told me I was always in the way. "You were sorry in a moment; I could read it on your brow, But you'll not recall it, Mother, You must never mind it now. "When my baby sister calls me, And you hear my voice no more; When she plays among the roses By our little cottage door, "Never chide her when 3'ou're angry, Do it kindly and in love, That you both may dwell with Mary, In the sunny land above!" Then she plumed her snowy pinions Till she folded them to rest Mid the welcome songs of rapture On the loving Savior's breast. In the bright and golden region, With its pearly gates so fair, She is singing with the angels — Yes, there's room for Mary there. COMPLIMENT YOUR WIFE. If you'd have her dearly love you — Ardently as God above you — Compliment her worthy actions, Making no unjust exactions; Treat her always in a way That your deeds forever say: Darling wife, I love you ever, Angry words will part us never" Often kiss and hug and squeeze her, That's the way to pet and please her; Do not let her catch the notion — Yours is not a true devotion. Don't believe the guilty rabble Or the mischief-maker's gabble Of the many things she's doing, Of the other heart she's wooing; Stick to her whate'er you do, Trust her as she trusteth you; For a home of love and pleasure Is a truly priceless treasure. When your tea or supper's over, Don't start out and play the "rover," Stay at home — obey her wishes — Rock the babe or dry the dishes; Don't go gadding over town Like a lunatic or clown. If it please her, take her walking, Don't play mule and go to balking. If she's tired and overbearing, Do not then resort to swearing. Treat her kindly, take life easy, Don't be crabbed, rough, or "teasy"; With a reassuring smile Kiss her once or twice a while, And you'll notice what a change Comes from little things so strange. Love her as a lover would, Treat her as a husband should, Let that courtship ever last That impelled you in the past; Make your marriage one of worth, That will last beyond this earth; Court her love and wistful eye, Keep on courting till you die. Help her feel this life worth living; Be forbearing and forgiving. She will gladly bless and honor You, for blessings heaped upon her, And you never will regret That in love you firmly met; And when dead, in lonesome hours, She will deck your grave with flow'rs. I. J. A. Miller. A HOME IN THE HEART. Oh ! ask not a home in the mansions of pride, Where marble shines out in the pillars and walls; Though the roof be of gold, it is brilliantly cold, And joy may not be found in its torch- lighted halls. But seek for a bosom all honest and true, Where love, once awakened, will never depart; Turn, turn to that breast like the dove to its nest, And you'll find there's no home like a home in the heart. Oh! link but one spirit that's warmly sin- cere, That will heighten your pleasure and solace your care; Find a soul you may trust as the kind and the just, And be sure the wide world holds no treasure so rare. Then the frowns of Misfortune may shadow our lot, THE HOME CIRCLE. 25 The cheek-searing- tear-drops of Sorrow may start; But a star never dim sheds a halo for him Who can turn for repose to a home in the heart. Eliza Cook. HOW SOON WE LOSE THEM. Hold diligent converse with thy children! have them Morning- and evening round thee; love thou them, And win their love in these rare, beau- teous years ; For only while the short-lived dream of childhood Lasts are they thine — no longer! When youth comes Much passes through their thoughts, — which is not thou, And much allures their hearts, — which thou hast not. They gain a knowledge of an older world Which fills their souls; and floats before them now The future. And the present thus is lost. Then with his little traveling-pocket full Of indispensables, the boy goes forth. Wteeping, thou watchest till he disappears, And never after is he thine again! He comes back home — he loves — he wins a maid — He lives! They live, and others spring to life From him; and now thou hast in him, A human being, but no more a child! Thy daughter, wedded takes a frequent joy In bringing thee her children to thy house! Thou hast the mother, but the child no more! Hold diligent converse with thy children! have them Morning and evening round thee; love thou them, And win their love in the rare, beauteous years. NOT ONE TO SPARE. [A rich man who had no children proposed to his poor neighbor, who had seven, to take one of them. and promised, if the parents would consent, that he would give them property enough to make them- selves, and their other six children, comfortable for life.] "Which shall it be? Which shall it be?" I looked at John, John looked at me (Dear, patient John, who loves me yet As well as when my locks were jet). And when I found that I must speak, My voice seemed strangely low and weak: "Tell me again what Robert said!" And then I, listening, bent my head. "This is his letter: 'I will give A house and land while you shall live, If, in return, from out youj* seven, One child to me for aye be given.' " I looked at John's old garments worn; I thought of all that John had borne Of poverty, and work, and care, Which I, though willing, could not share; I thought of seven mouths to feed, Of seven little children's need, And then of this. "Come, John," said I, "We'll choose among them as they lie Asleep." So, walking hand in hand, Dear John and I surveyed our band. First to the cradle light we stepped, Where Lillian, the baby, slept, A glory 'gainst the pillow white. Softly the father stooped to lay His rough hand down in loving way. When dream or whisper made her stir; Then huskily he said, "Not her." We stooped beside the trundle-bed, And one long ray of lamp-light shed Athwart the boyish faces there, In sleep so pitiful and fair. I saw on Jamie's rough, red cheek A tear undried. Ere John could speak, "He's but a baby, too," said I, And kissed him as we hurried by. Pale, patient Robbie's angel face Still in his sleep bore suffering's trace: "No for a thousand crowns, not him," We whispered, while our eyes were dim. Poor Dick! bad Dick! our wayward son, Turbulent, reckless, idle one — Could he be spared? "Nay, He who gave Bids us befriend him to his grave; Only a mother's heart can be Patient enough for such as he. And so," said John, "I would not dare To send him from her bedside prayer." Then stole we softly up above, And knelt by Mary, child of love: "Perhaps for her 'twould better be," I said to John. Quite silently He lifted up a curl that lay Across her cheek in wilful way, And shook his head, "Nay, love, not thee," The while my heart beat audibly. Only one more, our eldest lad, Trusty and truthful, good and glad — So like his father "No, John, no — I can not, will not let him go." And so we wrote in courteous way, We could not drive one child away. And afterwards toil lighter seemed, Thinking of that of which we dreamed; Happy, in truth, that not one face Was missed from its accustomed place; Thankful to work for all the seven, Trusting the rest to One in heaven! TRIFLES. Sometimes I am tempted to murmur That life is flitting away, With only a round of trifles Filling each busy day; Dusting nooks and corners, Making the house look fair. And patiently taking on me The burden of woman's care. Comforting childish sorrows, And charming the childish heart 26 TREASURES OF POETRY. With the simple song and story, Told with a mother's art; Setting the dear home table, And clearing the meal away. And going on little errands In the twilight of the day. One day is just like another! Sewing and piecing well Little jackets and trousers So neatly that none can tell Where are the seams and joinings. Ah, the seamy side of life Is kept out of sight by the magic Of many a mother and wife. And oft when ready to murmur That life is flitting away, With the selfsame round of duties Filling each busy day, It comes to my spirit sweetly, With the grace of a thought divine: "You are living, toiling, for love's sake, And the loving should never repine. "You are guiding the little footsteps In the way they ought to walk, You are dropping a word for Jesus In the midst of your household talk; Living your life for love's sake Till the homely cares grow sweet, And sacred the self-denial That is laid at the Master's feet." • Margaret E. Sangsteb. CHILDREN IN THE HOUSEHOLD. Old age is a garden of faded flowers, Ruined bowers, Peopled by cares and failing powers; Whe e Pain with his crutch, and lonely Grief, Grope with brief, Slow steps over ruined stalk and leaf. But the love of chil ren is like some rare Heaven 1 ' air, That makes long Indian summer there; A youth in age, when the skies yet glow, Soft winds blow, And hearts keep glad under locks of snow. In the best-wrought life there is still a reft, Something left Forever unfinished, a broken weft. But merciful Nature makes amends, When she sends Youth, that takes up our raveled ends, Our hopes, our loves, that they be not quite Lost to sight; But leave behind us a fringe of light. Blessed be children! Year by year They appear, Filling the humblest home with cheer. Now a daughter and now a son. One by one They are cradled, they creep, they walk, they run. Sons and daughters, until, behold! Young and old, A Jacob's ladder with steps of gold! A ladder of little heads! each fair Head a stair For the angels that visit the parent pair! Blessed be childhood! even its chains Are our gains! Welcome and blessed with all the pains, Losses, and upward vanishings Of light wings, With all the sorrow and toil it brings, All burdens that ever those small feet bore To our door — Blessed and welcome forevermore! John T. Trowbridge. MY SOLDIER LOVE. Oh! where art thou, my soldier love? The rain is dripping heavily, The evening shades are closing in; The children gather round my knee, And merrily their voices ring, But I am lonely, missing thee! Oh! where art thou, my soldier love? The little ones are gone to rest. All but the youngest, darling dove, Who slumbers lightly on my breast. If thou wert here, thy good-night kiss Would on her cheek be softly pressed. Oh! where art thou, my soldier love? The pale moon climbs the midnight sky, Upon the woody hill above Our lowly home, the cool winds sigh, They win an answering sigh from me — I am so lonely, missing thee! My soldier love! my soldier love! I need no longer question now; I've seen the damp earth heaped above Thy pulseless breast, thy faded brow, And henceforth my sad heart must be Forever lonely, missing thee! Mrs. M.J. E. Crawford. MY LITTLE WIFE. Our table is spread for two, tonight — No guests our bounty share; The damask cloth is snowy white, The services elegant and bright, Our china quaint and rare; My little wife presides, And perfect love abides. The bread is sponge, the butter gold, The muffins nice and hot, THE HOME CIRCLE. .37 What though the winds without blow cold? The walls a little world infold, And the storm is soon forgot; In the fire-light's cheerful glow Beams a paradise below. A fairer picture who has seen? Soft lights and shadows blend; The central figure of the scene, She sits, my wife, my queen — Her head a little bent; And in her eyes of blue I read my bliss anew. I watch her as she pours the tea, With quiet, gentle grace; Wjth fingers deft, and movements free ohe mixes in the cream for me, A bright smile on her face; And, as she sends it up, I pledge her in my cup. "Was ever man before so blessed?" I secretly reflect. The passing thought she must have guessed, For now dear lips on mine are pressed, An arm is round my neck. Dear treasure of my life — God bless her! — little wife. WHERE IS HOME? Home is where affection binds Gentle hearts in union, Where the voices all are kind, Holding sweet communion. Home is where the hearts can rest Safe from darkening sorrow, Where the friends we love the best Brighten every sorrow. Home is where the friends that love To our hearts are given, Where the blessings from above Makes the home a heaven. Yes, 'tis home where smiles of cheer Wreath the brows that greet us, And the one of all most dear Ever comes to meet us. DAN S WIFE. Up in early morning light, Sweeping, dusting, "setting right," Oiling all the household springs, Sewing buttons, tying strings, Telling Bridget what to do, Mending rips in Johnny's shoe, Running up and down the stair, Tying baby in his chair, Cutting meat and spreading bread, Dishing out so much per head, Eating as she can, by chance, Giving husband kindly glance, Toiling, working, busy li1 "Smart woman, Dan's wife." Dan comes home at fall of night, Home so cheerful, neat, and bright, Children meet him at the door, Pull him in and look him o'er, Wife asks how the work has gone- "Busy times with us at home!" Supper done, Dan reads at ease, Happy Dan, but one to please. . Children must be put to bed: All their little prayers are said. Little shoes are placed in rows, Bed clothes tucked o'er little toes; Busy, noisy, wearing life — Tired woman, Dan's wife. Dan reads on and falls asleep. See the woman softly creep, Baby rests at last, poor dear, Not a word her heart to cheer; Mending basket full to top — Stockings, shirts, and little frock- Tired eyes and weary brain; Side with darting, ugly pain — "Never mind, 'twill pass away"; She must work, but never play, Closed piano, unused books, Done the walks to cosy nooks, Brightness faded out of life — Saddened woman Dan's wife. Up-stairs, tossing to and fro, Fever holds the woman low; Children wander, free to play, When and where they will today; Bridget loiters — dinner's cold, Dan looks anxious, cross, and old; Household screws are out of place, Lacking one dear, patient face; Steady hand — so weak, but true — Hands that knew just what to do, Never knowing rest or play, Folded now — and laid away; Work of six, in one short life — Shattered woman, Dan's wife. Mrs. Katb T. Woods. TO A GRANDMOTHER. ["Old age is dark and unlovely." — Ossian.? Oh, say not so! A bright old age is thine, Calm as the gentle light of summer eves, Ere twilight dim her dusky mantle weaves; Because to thee is given, in thy decline, A heart that does not thanklessly repine At aught of which the hand of God be- reaves, Yet all he sends with gratitude receives. May such a quiet, thankful close be mine! And hence thy fireside chair appears to me A peaceful throne — which thou wert formed to fill; Thy children ministers who do thy will; And those grandchildren, sporting round thy knee, Thy little subjects, looking up to thee As one who claims their fond allegiance Still. . Bernard Barton. 28 TREASURES OF POETRY. IN THE WAY. Mother, God will not forsake us In our old days; he's a friend Who has hitherto proved faithful, And we'll trust him to the end. We have passed through many trials And afflictions in our day, But the bitterest cup we've tasted, Is to feel we're in the way. We'd a pleasant home with Hiram, Where he said we'd spend our days; But God took the dear boy from us. How mysterious are his ways! Now that John has grown so wealthy, He's ashamed, or seems to be, Of his poor old father and mother. God forgive him; so will we. Hannah, too, our only daughter, Does not seem to want us there, And complains at the expenses, And that we are so much care. Oh, 'tis hard to be dependent On those even who are dear, And to us who are indebted; But God's will be done, my dear. When I think of all our hardships, Days of toil and nights of care; Of our many sacrifices, Which we were so glad to bear, That our children might be cultured, And not have to toil as we, It seems hard that in our old days We should then neglected be. But we will not murmur, Mother, Though our lot is hard to bear; For wherever He may lead us, We can trust our Father's care. Though our children may forget us, Now we're old we'll comfort take, Knowing that the Lord has promised That he never will forsake. We shall reach the end, dear Mother, We are passing near it fast; We have passed the eightieth milestone, And I think it is the last. Hoping In God's grace to help us, Let us trust him day by day; And when we shall get up yonder, We shall not be in the way. MY MOTHERS HANDS. Such beautiful, beautiful hands! They're neither white nor small, And you, I know, would scarcely think That they were fair at all. I've looked on hands whose form and hue A sculptor's dream might be, Yet are those wrinkled, aged hands More beautiful to me. Such beautiful, beautiful hands! Though heart were weary and sad, These patient hands kept toiling on That the children might be glad. I always weep, as looking back To childhood's distant, day, I think how those hands rested not When mine were at their play. Such beautiful, beautiful hands! They're growing feeble now; For time and pain have left their mark On hands and heart and brow. Alas, alas! the nearing time And the sad, sad day to me, When 'neath the daisies out of sight These hands will folded be. But oh! beyond this shadow-fand, Where all is bright and fair, I know full well these dear old hands Will palms of victory bear; Wliere crystal streams through endless years Flow over golden sands And where the old grow young again, I'll clasp my mother's hands. MOTHER S MENDING-BASKET. Over and under, and in and out, The swift little needle flies; For always between her and Idleness The mending-basket lies; And the patient hands, though weary, Work lovingly on and on At tasks that never are finished; For mending is never done. She takes up the father's stocking, And skilfully knits in the heel, And smooths the seam with a tender touch, That he may no roughness feel; And her thoughts to her merry girlhood And her early wifehood go, And she smiles at the first pair of stock- ings She knit so long ago. Then she speaks to the little maiden Learning to knit at her side, And tells her about those stockings Uneven and shapeless and wide: "I had to ravel them out, my dear; Don't be discouraged, but try. And after a while you'll learn to knit As swift and even as I." She takes up a little white apron, And thinks of the yester morn, When her darling come to her crying: "O Mama! see what I've torn!" So she mends the child's pet apron; Then takes up a tiny shoe, And fastens a stitch that is broken. And ties the ribbon of blue. The maiden has wearied of working And gone away to her play; The sun in the west is sinking At the close of the quiet day. THE HOME CIRCLE. 29 Now the mother's hands are resting Still holding a stocking of red, And her thoughts in the twilight shadow, To the far-off future have fled. "Oh! where will the little feet wander Before they have time to rest? Where will the bright heads be pillowed When the mother's loving breast Is under the spring's blue violets, And under the summer grass, When over her fall the autumn leaves, And the storms of winter pass?" And a prayer from her heart she utters: "God bless them, my dear ones all! Oh! may it be many, many years Ere sorrow to them befall!" To her work from the mending-basket She turns with a heart at rest; For she knows that to husband and chil- dren She is always the first and best. Mrs. M. A. Kiddek. GRANDPAPA. Grandpapa's hair is very white, And Grandpapa walks but slow; He likes to sit still in his easy-chair, While the children come and go. "Hush! — play quietly," says Mama; "Let nobody trouble dear Grandpapa." Grandpapa's hand is thin and weak; It has worked hard all his days: A strong right hand, and an honest hand, That has won all good men's praise. "Kiss it tenderly," says Mama; "Let every one honor Grandpapa." Grandpapa's eyes are growing dim; They have looked on sorrow and death; But the love-light never went out of them, Nor the courage and the faith. "You children, all of you," says Mama, "Have need to look up to dear Grandpapa." Grandpapa's years are wearing few, But he leaves a blessing behind — A good life lived, and a good fight fought, True heart and equal mind. "Remember, my children," says Mama, "You bear the name of your Grandpapa." Maria Mtjlock Craik. JUST LIKE A MAN. He sat at the dinner-table With a discontented frown; The potatoes and steak were underdone, And the bread was baked too brown; The pie was too sour and the pudding too sweet, And the roast was much too fat; The soup so greasy, too, and salt — 'Twas hardly fit for the cat. "I wish you could eat the bread and pie I've seen my mother make; They are something like, and 'twould do- . you good Just to look at a loaf of her cake." Said the smiling wife, "I'll improve with age — Just now I'm but a beginner; But ypur mother has come to visit us, And today she cooked the dinner." OUR OWN. If I had known in the morning How wearily all the day The word unkind Would trouble my mind I said when you went away, I had been more careful, darling, Nor given you needless pain; But we vex "our own" With look and tone We may never take back again. For though in the quiet evening You may give me the kiss of peace, Yet well it might be That never for me The pain of the heart should cease. How many go forth in the morning Who never come home at night! And hearts have broken For harsh words spoken That sorrow can ne'er set right. We have careful thought for the stranger, And smiles for the sometime guest, But for "our own" The bitter tone, Though we love "our own" the best. Ah! lip with the curve impatient, Ah! brow with that look of scorn, 'Twere a cruel fate, Were the night too late To undo the work of the morn. Margaret E. Sangbtmt. THE TIRED WIFE. All day the wife had been toiling, From an early hour in the morn, And her hands and her feet were weary With the burdens that she had borne; But she said to herself: "The trouble That weighs on my mind is this — That Tom never thinks to give me A comforting hug or a kiss. "I'm willing to do my duty, To use all my strength and skill In making the home attractive, In striving my place to fill; But though the approval of conscience Is sweet, I'm free to say, That if Tom would give me a hug and a kiss, 'Twould take all the tired away." 30 TREASURES OF POETRY. Then she coiwited over and over The years she had been Tom's wife, And thought of the joys and sorrows She had known in her married life. To be sure, there was money plenty, And never a lack of food, But a kiss now and then and a word of praise Would have done her a world of good. Ah, many a one is longing For words that are never said, And many a heart goes hungry For something better than bread. But Tom had an inspiration, And when he went home that day, He petted his wife and kissed her In the old-time lover-like way. And she— such enigmas are women! — Who had held herself up with pride, At her husband's display of fondness Just hung on his neck and cried. And he, by her grief reminded Of troubles he might have shared, Said: "Bless my heart! What a fool I've been! And I didn't suppose you cared!" Josephine Pollard. BIRTHDAY VERSES. My birthday! O beloved mother! My heart is with thee o'er the seas. I did not think to count another Before I wept upon th3 r knees, Before this scroll of absent years Was blotted with thy streaming tears. My own I do not care to check. I weep — albeit here alone — As if I hung upon thy neck, As if thy lips were on my own, As if this full, sad heart _of mine Were beating closely upon thine. Four weary years! How looks she now? What light is in those tender eyes? What trace of time has touched the brow Whose look is borrowed of the skies That listen to her nightly prayer? How is she changed since he was there Who sleeps upon her heart alway, Whose name upon her lips is worn, For whom the night seems made to pray, For whom she wakes to pray at morn, Whose sight is dim, whose heart-strings stir. Who weeps these tears — to think of her! I know not if my mother's eyes Would find me changed in slighter things; I've wandered beneath many skies, And tasted of some bitter springs; And many leaves, once fair and gay, From youth's full flower have dropped awaj r ; But, as these looser leaves depart, Th>e lessened flower gets near the core, And, when deserted quite, the heart Takes closer what was dear of yore. And yearns to those who loved it first — The sunshine and the dew by which its bud was nursed. Dear mother! dost thou love me yet? Am I remembered in thy home? When those I love for joy are met. Does some one wish that I would come? Thou dost — I am beloved of these! But as the schoolboy numbers o'er Night after night the pleiades And finds the stars he found before, As turns the maiden oft her token, As counts the miser aye his gold, So till life's silver cord is broken, Would I of thy fond love be told. My heart is full, mine eyes are wet — Dear mother! dost thou love thy long-lost wanderer yet? Oh! when the hour to meet again Creeps on, and, speeding o'er the sea, My heart takes up its lengthened chain, And, link by link, draws nearer thee; When land is hailed, and from the shore Comes off the blessed breath of home, With fragrance from my mother's door Of flowers forgotten when I come; When port is gained, and slowly now, The old familiar paths are passed, And entering — unconscious how — I gaze upon thy face at last, And run to thee, all faint and weak, And feel thy tears upon my cheek — Oh! if my heart break not with joy, The light of heaven will fairer seem; And I shall grow once more a boy: And, mother! — 'twill be like a dream That we were parted thus for years; And once that we have dried our tears, How will the days seem long and bright — To meet thee always with the morn, And hear thy blessing every night — Thy "dearest," thy "first-born," And be no more, as now, in a strange land, forlorn! Nathaniel Pakkes Willis. BABYHOOD. What is the little one thinking about' Very wonderful things, no doubt! Unwritten history! Unfathomed mj'stery! Yet chuckles and crows and nods and winks, As if his head were as full of kinks And curious riddles as any sphinx. Warped by colic and wet by tears, Punctured by pins and tortured by fears, Our little nephew will lose two years; And he'll never know Where the summers go — He need not laugh, for he'll find it so. Who can tell what a baby thinks? Who can follow the gossamer links By which the manikin feels his way THE HOME CIRCLE. 31 Out from the shore of the great unknown. Blind and wailing, and alone, Into the light of day? Out from the shore of the unknown sea, Tossing in pitiful agony — Of the unknown sea that reels and rolls, Specked with the barks of little souls — Barks that were launched on the other side, And slipped from heaven on an ebbing tide! What does he think of his mother's eyes? What does he think of his mother's hair? What of the cradle roof that flies Forward and backward through the air? WJiat does he think of his mother's breast, Bare and beautiful, smooth, and white, Seeking it ever with fresh delight — Cup of his life and couch of his rest? What does he think when her quick embrace Presses his hand and buries his face Deep where the heart throbs sink and swell With a tenderness she can never tell, Though she murmur the words Of all the birds — Words she has learned to murmur well? Now he thinks he'll go to sleep! I can see the shadow creep Over his eyes in soft eclipse, Over his brow and over his lips, Out to his little finger-tips! Softly sinking down he goes! Down he goes! down he goes! See! he is hushed in sweet repose! Josiah Gilbert Holland. HOME SONG. Stay, stay at home, my heart, and rest; Home-keeping hearts are happiest, For those that wander they know not where Are full of trouble and full of care: To stay at home is best. Weary and homesick and distressed, They wander east, they wander west, And are baffled and beaten and blown about By the winds of the wilderness of doubt; To stay at home is best. Then stay at home, my heart, and rest; The bird is safest in its nest; O'er all that flutter their wings and fly A hawk is hovering in the sky: To stay at home is best. Henry Wads worth Longfellow. A SONG FOR THE HEARTH AND HOME. ©ark is the night, and fitful and drearily Rushes the wind like the waves of the sea: Little care I, as here I sit cheerily, Wife at my side and my baby on knee. King, king, crown me the king: Home is the kingdom, and Love is the king! Flashes the firelight upon the dear faces. Dearer and dearer as onward we go, Forces the shadow behind us, and places Brightness around us with warmth in the glow. King, king, crown me the king: Home is the kingdom, and Love is the king! Flashes the lovelight, increasing the glory. Beaming from bright eyes with warmth of the soul, Telling of trust and content the sweet story, Lifting the shadows that over us roll. King, king, crown me the king: Home is the kingdom, and Love is the king! Richer than miser with perishing treasure, Served with a service no conquest could bring; Happy with fortune that words can not measure. Light-hearted I on the hearthstone can sing. King, king-, crown me the king: Home is the kingdom, and Love is the king. William Rankin Durtea. MOTHER S GROWING OLD. Her step is slow and weary, Her hands unsteady now, And paler still and deeper The lines upon her brow; Her meek blue eyes have faded, Her hair has lost its gold, Her once firm voice now falters: My mother's growing old. Her days of strength are over, Her earthly joys depart, But peace and holy beauty Are shining in her heart. The links that bind her spirit Relax their trembling hold, She soon will be an angel: Sweet mother's growing old. My thoughts flow back to childhood, When fondled on her knee, I poured out all my sorrows, Or lisped my songs of glee; But now upon me leaning, So wearily and cold, With trembling lips she murmurs: "Dear child, I'm growing old." I think of all her counsels, So precious to my youth, How faithfully she taught me God's sacred words of truth; How tenderly she led me To Jesus' blessed fold, Where she will soon be welcomed No longer bowed and old. 32 TREASURES OF POETRY. The path of daily duty Was ever her delight; She walked by faith and patience, And trusted God for sight. Her hands with useful labor Each day their mission told; Her deeds like heavenly roses, Still bloom, though she is old. Alas! those hands so skilful, Which toiled with loving grace To make me blessed with comfort, And home a happy place — Those dear hands, pale and wrinkled. By time are now controlled; They rest in prayerful quiet: Dear mother's growing old. Yet though her earthly temple Still faileth day by day, Her soul, with faith increasing, Pursues its heavenward way; And when the mists of Jordan, Shall from her sight be rolled, She'll shine in youth and beauty, Where spirits ne'er grow old. mother fond and faithful! Thou truest earthly friend, May I be near to sooth thee When all thy struggles end; And while with sad heart yearning, Thy form my arms enfold, 1 pray in peace to meet thee Where saints no more grow old. NO PLACE FOR BOYS. What can a boy do, and where can a boy stay, If he is always told to get out of the way? He can not sit here and he must not stand there; The cushions that cover that fine rocking- chair Were put there, of course, to be seen and admired, A boy has no business to ever be tired. The beautiful roses and flowers that bloom On the floor of the darkened and delicate room Are not made to walk on — at least, not by boys; The house is no place, any way, for their noise. Yet boys must walk somewhere; and what if their feet, Sent out of our houses, sent into the street, Should step round the corner and pause at the door Where other boys' feet have paused often before; Should pass through the gateway of glit- tering light, Where jokes that are merry and songs that are bright Ring out a warm welcome with flattering voice, And temptingly say, "Here's a place for the boys!" Ah, what if they should? What if your boy or mine Should cross o'er the threshold which marks out the line 'Twixt virtue and vice, 'twixt pureness and sin, And leave all his innocent boyhood within? Oh, what if they should, because you and I, While the days, and the months, and the years hurry by, Are too busy with cares and with life's fleeting joys To make round our hearthstone a place for the boys? There's a place for the boys. They will find it somewhere; And if our own homes are too daintily fair For the touch of their fingers, the tread of their feet, They'll find it, and find it, alas! in the street, Mid the gildings of sin and the glitter of vice; And with heartaches and longings we pay a dear price For the getting of gain that our lifetime employs, If we fail to provide a place for the boys. A place for the boys — dear mother, I pray, As cares settle down round our short earthly way, Don't let us forget, by our kind, loving To show we remember their pleasures and needs. Though our souls may be vexed with the problems of life, And worn with besetments, and toilings, and strife, Our hearts will keep younger — your tired heart and mine — If we give them a place in their innermost shrine; And to our life's latest breath 'twill be one of our joys That we kept a small corner — a place for the boys. OFF FOR SLUMBER LAND. The first train leaves at six P. M., For the land where the poppy blows; The mother dear is the engineer, And the passenger laughs and crows. The palace car is the mother's arms, The whistle, a low, sweet strain; The passenger winks and nods and blinks, And goes to sleep in the train. At eight P. M. the next train starts For the poppy land afar; The summons clear falls on the ear: "All aboard for the sleeping-car." THE HOME CIRCLE. 33 "But what is the fare to poppy land? I hope it is not too dear." "The fare is this — a hug and a kiss — And it's paid to the engineer. So I ask of him who children took On his knee in kindness great, "Take charge, I pray, of the trains each day That leave at six and eight." "Keep watch of the passengers," thus I pray, "For to me they are very dear, And special ward, O gracious Lord, O'er the gentle engineer." THE BEDTIME KISS. O mothers, so weary, discouraged, Worn out with the cares of the day, You often grow cross and impatient, Complain of the noise and the play; For the day brings so many vexations, So many things going amiss: But, mothers, whatever may vex you, Send the children to bed with a kiss. The dear little feet wander often, Perhaps from the pathway of right; The dear little hands find new mischief To try you from morning till night; But think of the desolate mothers Wfio'd give all the world for your bliss, And, as thanks for your infinite blessings, Send the children to bed with a kiss. For some day their voice will not vex-you«, The silence will hurt you far more; You will long for the sweet childish voices, For a sweet childish face at the door; And to press a child's face to your bosom — You'd give all the world just for this: For the comfort 'twill bring j^ou in sorrow, Send the children to bed with a kiss. THE EMIGRANTS WISH. I wish we were hame to our ain folk, Our kind and our true-hearted ain folk, Where the simple are weal, and the gen- tle are leal, And the hames are the hames o' our ain folk. We've been wi' the gay, and the gude where we've come, We're courtly wi' many, we're couthy wi' some; But something's still wantin' we never can find Sin' the day that we left our auld neebors behind. Oh, I wish we were hame to our ain folk, Our kind and our true-hearted ain folk, Where daffin and glee wi' the friendly and free Made our hearts aye sae fond o' our ain folk. Though spring had its moils, and summer its toils, And autumn craved pith ere we gathered its spoils, Yet winter repaid a' the toil that we took, When ilk ane crawed crouse by his ain ingle nook. Oh, I wish we were hame to our ain folk, Our kind and our true-hearted ain folk, Where maidens and men in hall and in slen Still welcome us aye as their ain folk. They told us in gowpens we'd gather the gear, Sae sune as we cam' to the rich Mailing here, But what are the Mailins, or what are they worth, If they be not enjoyed in the land o' our birth! Then I wish we were hame to our ain folk, Our kind and our true-hearted ain folk, But deep are the howes and high are the knowes, That keep us awa' frae our ain folk. The seat by the door where our auld fai- th ers sat, To tell a' the news, their views, and a' that, While down by the kailyard the burnie rowed clear, 'Twas mair to my liking than aught that is here. Then I wish we were hame to our ain folk, Our kind and our true-hearted ain folk, Where the wild thistles wave o'er th' abode o' the brave, And the graves are the graves o' our ain folk. But happy, gey lucky, we'll trudge on our way, Till our arm wazes weak and our haffets grow gray; And, tho' in this world our ain still we miss, We'll meet them at last in a world o' bliss. And then we'll be hame to our ain folk, Our kind and our true-hearted ain folk, Where far 'yont the moon in the heavens aboon The hames are the hames o' our ain folk. I CAN NOT TURN THE KEY AND MY BAIRN OUTSIDE." [In some parts of England this tender sentiment or custom still prevails: when one of a family has been buried or has gone away, the house door is left unlocked for seven nights, lest the departed might. in some way, feel that he was locked out of his old home. ] "Suspense is worse than bitter grief — The lad will come no more; Why should we longer watch and wait? Turn the key in the door. From weary days and lonely nights The light of hope has fled; I say the ship is lost, good wife, And our bairn is dead." 34 TREASURES OF POETRY. "Husband, the last words that I spoke, Just as he left the shore, Were, 'Come thou early, come thou late, Thou'lt find an open door; Open thy mother's heart and hand, Whatever else betide,' And so I can not turn the key And my bairn outside. "Seven years is naught to mother-love, And seventy times the seven; A mother is a mother still, On earth or in God's heaven. I'll watch for him, I'll pray for him — Prayer as the world is wide; But, oh! I can not turn the key And leave my bairn outside. "When winds were loud, and snow lay white, And storm-clouds drifted black, I've heard his step— for hearts can hear; I know he's coming back. What if he came this very night, And he the house-door tried, And found that we had turned the key, And our bairn outside!" The good man trimmed the candle-light, Threw on another log, Then, suddenly, he said: "Good wife! What ails — what ails the dog? And what ails you? What do you hear?" She raised her eyes and cried: "Wide open fling the house-door now, For my bairn's outside!" Scarce said the words, when a glad hand Flung wide the household door. "Dear mother! father! I am come! I need not leave thee more!" That night, the first in seven long years, The happy mother sighed: "Father, you now may turn the key, For my bairn's inside!" THE RETURN. I see the hills of home again, Again the bees are humming, And slowly down the scented lane, With measured step in single train, The cows at eve are coming I see, along the winding stream, The willow fringes straying, While in and out the waters gleam, Back-glowing in the sunset's beam, On pebbly fastness straying. I see, like ribbon bound about, The dusty highway rearing, And hear the schoolboys laugh and shout, The children, from their tasks let out, In very gladness cheering. And soft across the echoing hill The sunset bells are ringing; Slow drips the water by the mill, The fretted wheel at last is still, And hushed the brooklet's singing. I wander down familiar ways, I look for old-time faces, While memory paints again the days, And strongly with her touch essays To find the old-time places. I see the house where first I knew The summer's golden splendor: Here first my happy fancies grew. And dreams that fairyland was true. And life was sweet and tender. Strange faces meet me at the door, And stranger voices telling; And so my dream of home is o'er, And I shall find it never more, In stranger countries dwelling. THE WIFE TO HER HUSBAND. Linger not long. Home is not home with- out thee; Its dearest tokens do but make me mourn. Oh, let its memory, like a chain about thee, Gently compel and hasten thy return! Linger not long. Though crowds should woo thy staying, Bethink thee, can the mirth of thy friends, though dear, Compensate for the grief thy long delaying Costs the fond heart that sighs to have thee here? Linger not long. How shall I watch thy coming, As evening shadows stretch o'er moor and dell; When the wild bee hath ceased her busy humming, And silence hangs on all things like a spell! How shall I watch for thee, when fears grow stronger, As night growa dark and darker on the hill! How shall I weep, when I can watch no longer; Ah! art thou absent, art thou absent still? Yet I should grieve not, though the eye that seeth me Gazeth through tears that make its splen- dor dull; For oh! I sometimes fear when thou art with me, My cup of happiness is all too full. Haste, haste thee home to thy mountain dwelling, Haste, as a bird unto its peaceful nest! Haste, as a skiff, through tempests wide and swelling, Flies to its haven of securest rest! THE HOME CIRCLE. 35 TOO MANY OF WE. "Mama, is there too many of we?" The little girl asked with a sigh. "Perhaps you wouldn't be tired, you see, If a few of your childs could die." She was only three years old — the one Who spoke in that strange, sad way, As she saw her mother's impatient frown At the children's boisterous play. There were half a dozen who round her stood, And the mother was sick and poor, Worn out with the care of the noisy brood And the fight with the wolf at the door. For a smile or a kiss, no time, no place — For the little one, least of all; And the shadow that darkened the mother's face O'er the young- life seemed to fall. More thoug-htful than any, she felt more care, And pondered in childish way How to lighten the burden she could not share, Growing heavier day by day. Only a week, and the little Clare In her tiny white trundle-bed Lay with blue eyes closed, and the sunny hair Cut close from the golden head. "Don't cry," she said — and the words were low, Feeling tears that she could not see — "You won't have to work and be tired so When there ain't so many of we." But the dear little daughter who went away From the home that for one was stilled, Showed the mother's heart from that dreary day, What a place she had always filled. HOME AGAIN. Home again! Mother, your boy will rest, For a time, at least, in the old home nest. How good to see you in your cornered nook, With knitting or sewing, or paper or book, The same sweet mother my boyhood knew, The faithful, the patient, the tender and true. You have little changed; ah, well, maybe A few gray hairs in the brown I see, A mark or two under smiling eyes, So lovingly bent in your glad surprise: 'Tis I who have changed, ah, mother mine, From a teasing lad to manhood's prime. No longer I climb on your knee at night For a story told in the soft fire-light; No broken slate or book all torn Do I bring to you with its edges worn; But I'll come to you with my graver cares; You'll help me bear them with tender prayers. I'll come again as of old, and you Will help the man to be brave and true; For the man's the boy, only older grown, And the world has many a stumbling-stone. Ah, mother mine, there is always rest, When I find you here in the old home nest. Abbih C. M'Keeveb. "GOOD-BY — GOD BLESS YOU!" I love the words — perhaps because When I was leaving Mother, Standing at last in solemn pause, We looked at one another. And I — I saw in Mother's eyes The love she could not tell me — A love eternal as the skies, Whatever fate befell me; She put her arms about my neck, And soothed the pain of leaving, And, though her heart was like to break, She spoke no word of grieving; She let no tear bedim her eye, For fear that might distress me, But, kissing me, she said good-by, And asked our God to bless me! Etjgexb Field. THE HOME CONCERT. Well, Tom, my boy, I must say good-by; I've had a wonderful visit here. Enjoyed it, too, as well as I could Away from all that my heart holds dear. Maybe I've been a trifle rough — A little awkward, your wife would say — And very likely I've missed the hint Of your city polish, day by day. But somehow, Tom, though the same old roof Sheltered us both when we were boys, And the same dear mother-love watched us both, Sharing our childish griefs and joys, Yet you are almost a stranger now; Your ways and mine are as far apart As though we never had thrown an arm About each other with loving heart. Your city home is a palace, Tom; Your wife and children are fair to see; You couldn't breathe in the little cot, The little home that belongs to me. And I am lost in your grand large house, And dazed with the wealth on every side, i And I hardly know my brother, Tom, In the midst of so much stately pride. Yes, the concert was grand last night. The singing splendid; but, do you know, 30 TREASURES OF POETRY. My heart kept longing the evening through, For another concert, so sweet and low That maybe it wouldn't please the ear Of one so cultured and grand as you; But to its music — laugh if you will — My heart and thoughts must ever be true. I shut my eyes in the hall last night (For the clash of the music wearied me) And close to my heart this vision came — The same sweet picture I always see: In the vine-clad porch of a cottage-home, Half in shadow and half in sun, A mother chanting her lullaby, Rocking to rest her little one. And soft and sweet as the music fell From the mother's lips I heard the coo Of my baby girl, as with drowsy tongue She echoed the song with "Goo-a-goo." Together they sang, the mother and babe, My wife and child, by the cottage door. Ah! that is the concert, brother Tom, My ears are aching to hear once more. So now, good-by. And I wish you well, And many a year of wealth and gain. You were born to be rich and gay; I am content to be poor and plain. And I go back to my country home With a love that absence has strength- ened, too — Back to the concert all my own — Mother's singing, and baby's coo. Mart D. Brink. A HOME SONG. I turned an ancient poet's book, And found upon the page: "Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage." Yes, that is true, and something more; You'll find, where'er you roam, That marble floors and gilded walls Can never make a home; But every house where Love abides And Friendship is a guest, Is surely home, and home, sweet home, For there the heart can rest. THE OLD COTTAGE CLOCK. Oh! the old, old clock, of the household stock Was the brightest thing and the neatest; Its hands, though old, had a touch of gold, And its chime rang still the sweetest. 'Twas a monitor, too; though its words were few. Yet they lived though nations altered; And its voice, still strong, warned old and young, When the voice of friendship faltered; "Tick, tick," it said — "quick, quick to bed — For nine I've given warning; Up, up and go, or else, you know, Tou'll never rise soon in the morning." A friendly voice was that old, old clock As it stood in the corner smiling, And blessed the time, with a merry chime, The wintry hours beguiling; But a cross old voice was that tiresome clock As it called at daybreak boldly, When the dawn looked gray on the misty way, And the early air blew coldly; "Tick, tick," it said — "quick out of bed — For five I've given warning; You'll never have health, you'll never get wealth, Unless you're up soon in the morning." Still hourly the sound goes round and round, With a tone that ceases never; While tears are shed for the bright days fled And the old friends lost forever; Its heart beats on, though hearts are gone That warmer beat and younger; Its hands still move, though hands we love Are clasped on earth no longer! "Tick, tick," it said — "to the churchyard bed— The grave hath given warning; Up, up and rise, and look to the skies, And prepare for a heavenly morning!" DONT FORGET THE OLD FOLKS. Nay, don't forget the old folks, boys — they've not forgotten you; Though years have passed since you were home, the old hearts still are true, And not an evening passes by they haven't the desire To see your faces once again and hear your footsteps nigher. You're young and buoyant, and for you Hope beckons with her hands And life spreads out a waveless sea that laps but tropic strands; The world is all before your face, but let your memories turn To where fond hearts still cherish you and loving bosoms yearn. No matter what your duties are nor what your place in life, There's never been a time they'd not as- sume your load of strife; And shrunken shoulders, trembling hands, and forms racked by disease Would bravely dare the grave to bring to you the pearl of peace. So don't forget the old folks, boys — they've not forgotten you; Though years have passed since you "were home the old hearts still are true; And write them now and then to bring the light into their eyes, And make the world glow once again and bluer gleam the skies. Will T. Hals. THE HOME CIRCLE. 37 THE LUCKY CALL. A colintry curate visiting his flock, At old Rebecca's cottage gave a knock. "Good morning, dame, I mean not any libel, But in your dwelling have you got a Bi- ble?" "A Bible, sir?" exclaimed she in a rage; "D'ye think I've turned a pagan in my age? Here Judith, and run up-stairs, my dear, 'Tis in the drawer; be quick and bring it here." The girl returned with Bible in a minute- • Not dreaming for a moment what was in it— When lo! on opening it at parlor door, Down fell her spectacles upon the floor. Amazed she stared, was for a moment dumb, But quick exclaimed: "Dear sir, I'm glad you're come! 'Tis six years since these glasses first were lost, And I have missed 'em to my poor eyes' cost!" Then as the glasses to her nose she raised, She closed the Bible — saying, "God be praised!" OUR MOTHER. Mother's so good to us, what can we do? How can we ever repay her? Oh, 'twould be better for me and for you, Were we more prompt to obey her — Ready to lighten her burdens of care. Ready our tempers to smother, Striving each day, in a delicate way, To prove our affection for mother. Mother has always been thoughtful and kind, On the lookout for our pleasure; Deep in the heart are her children en- shrined, None her devotion can measure. What can we do in return for this love, Faithful and fond as no other? Can we ever forget how deeply In debt We always must be to our mother? Mother's so patient, so quick to excuse Each little weakness and failing, Ready her comforting powers to use When we are troubled or ailing, Teaching us more by example than words Truly to love one another; And in return how we should yearn To care in her old age for our mother. Mother's so good to us, day after day, Giving us tender protection; Oh, how the thought of her kindness should sway Ever the heart's recollection! Yet there are many who treat her with scorn, Grateful emotions they smother. And angels — ah, me! — must weep when they see How cruel they are to their mother. Better for us to be thoughtful and kind To mother, dear, while she is living; Better for us that we bear her in mind, Kisses and sympathy giving; Than after her presence is missed from the home And she's gone from this world to another, To weep and lament, and with anguish re- pent, Of the way we neglected our mother. SPEAK GENTLY. Gently, mother, gently, Chide thy little one. 'Tis a toilsome journey It has just begun; Many a darksome vallej*, Many a rugged steep, Lieth in its pathway, And full oft 'twill weep; Oh, then gently, gently. Kindly, mother, kindly, Speak in tender tone; That dear child, remember, Echoes back thine own. Teach in gentle accents, Teach in words of love, Let the softest breezes Its own heart-strings move; Kindly, mother, kindly. Wouldst thou have the setting Of a gem most fair, In a crown of beauty It were thine to wear? Mother, train with caution That dear little one. Guide, reprove, and ever Let the work be done Gently, mother, gently. MAKE CHILDHOOD SWEET. Wait not till the little hands are at rest Ere you fill them full of flowers; Wait not for the crowning tuberose To make sweei the last sad hours; But while in the busy household band Your darlings still need your guiding hand, Oh, fill their lives with sweetness! Wait not till the little hearts are still For the loving look of praise; And while you gently chide a fault, The good deed kindly praise. The word you would speak beside the bier Falls sweeter far on the living ear: Oh, fill young lives with sweetness! Ah, what are kisses on cold clay lips To the rosy mouth we press, 38 TREASURES OF POETRY. When our wee one flies to her mother's arms For love's tenderest caress! Let never a worldly babble keep Your heart from the joy each day should reap, Circling young lives with sweetness. Give thanks each morn for the sturdy boys, Give thanks for the fairy girls; With a dower of wealth like this at home, Would you rifle the earth for pearls? Wait not for Death to gem Love's crown, But daily shower life's blessings down, And fill young hearts with sweetness. Remember the homes where light has fled, Where the rose has faded away; And the love that glows in youthful hearts, Oh, cherish it while you may! And make your home a garden of flow'rs, Where joy shall bloom through childhood's hours, And fill young hearts with sweetness. THE OLD COUPLE. The old man sits, with folded arms, In his easy-chair today; His happy wife, with crossed palms, Hums snatches from the olden psalms In a cheerful kind of way. 'Tis sweet to see this aged pair, Who have loved so long and well, Each other's joys so fondly share, And every little grief and care Alike each bosom swell. 'Tis fifty years since they were wed, Just fifty years today; They have outlived the early dead, But age has bowed each silvery head — They soon will pass away. Well may their dim and faded eyes O'erflow with pearly tears As visions of the past arise, And memory on its mission flies Back to those early years. Again they tread the village green, Where in infancy they played, O'erjoyed at the familiar scene, Until a shadow comes between, And happy visions fade. "And soon our days will ended be; We've nearly reached the shore; We've sailed upon life's stormy sea Fsr nearly fourscore years and three; Our journey's almost o'er." TELL HER SO. Amid the cares of married life, In spite of toil and business strife, If you value your sweet wife, Tell her so! Prove to her you don't forget The bond to which the seal is set; She's of life's sweets the sweetest yet- Tell her so! When days are dark and deeply blue, She has her troubles, same as you; Show her that your love is true — Tell her so! There was a time you thought it bliss To get the favor of one kiss; A dozen now won't come amiss — Tell her so! Your love for her is no mistake — You feel it, dreaming or awake — Don't conceal it. For her sake, Tell her so! Don't act, if she has passed her prime, As though to please her were a crime; If e'er you loved her, now's the time — Tell her so! She'll return, for each caress, An hundredfold of tenderness! Hearts like hers were made to bless — Tell her so! You are hers and hers alone; Well you know she's all your own. Don't wait to "carve it on a stone" — Tell her so! Never let her heart grow cold — Richer beauties will unfold; She is worth her weight in gold! Tell her so! MATERNITY. Then comes a gleam of later years, Of friends so tried and true, Who sympathized in all their fears, And wiped away their bitter tears, And made their sorrows few. "Where are they now," the old man cries, "The cherished friends of yore?" Pointing to the arching skies, The good wife tearfully replies, "They are all gone before. Can it be really I who, lying here Upon my pillow in such sweet content, May claim and wear the crown of "Mother- hood," Bestowed by this wee gift, from heaven sent? Ah! only yesterday these arms of mine Were empty, and there lay upon my breast No baby head, no tiny clinging form For my enfolding — cuddling into rest; THE HOME CIRCLE. 39 I had not known the rapture, and the thrill Which stir within a woman's heart when she Beholds life's sweetest gift, and knows at last That bliss which quickens with Mater- nity! And — yesterday I had not learned to croon A lullaby, nor known beneath life's skies The swelling joy which now lies deep within My heart, while baby on my bosom lies; And she is mine! Oh, wondrous miracle, Which has unto my life new gladness wrought, Tho' thro' deep waters I was made to pass To win the crown my little one has brought! * * * * * * * 9 * O God, thou Giver of this precious gift, Help me to fail not in thy trust in me; That pure and spotless, when this life is o'er, My loved and I rise to Eternity. WHOSE FAULT? If men were a little more tender To women — more faithful and true — They would not care for a larger share Of work in the world to do. If homes were a blessed refuge, Where loving was at its best, The better part of a woman's heart Would cling to its peace and rest. There never yet was a woman Who did not hunger alone For the love denied and the manly pride Who cherished her for his own; WTio would not give wealth and power And the glittering things of life For love-lit eyes, for the priceless prize, The crown of mother and wife. Emma Playteb Seaburt. WHAT MAKES HOME. Home's not merely four square walls, Though with pictures hung and gilded; Home is where affection calls, Filled with shrines the heart hath builded. Home! Go watch the faithful dove Sailing 'neath the heaven above us; Home is where there's one to love, Home is where there's one to love us. Home's not merely roof and room, Needs it something to endear it; Home is where the heart can bloom, Where there's some kind lip to cheer it. What is home with none to meet, None to welcome, none to greet us? Home is sweet, and only sweet, Where there's one we love to meet us. HOME. A man can build a mansion And furnish it throughout; A man can build a palace, With lofty walls and stout; A man can build a temple, With high and spacious dome; But no man in the world can build That precious thing called Home. It is the happy faculty Of woman far and wide, To turn a cot or palace Into something else beside — Where brothers, sons, and husbands tired With willing footsteps come; A place of rest, where love abounds, A perfect kingdom — Home. THE BRAVEST BATTLE. The bravest battle that ever was fought, Shall I tell you where and when? On the map of the world you will find it not— It was fought by the mothers of men. Not with cannon or battle shot, With sword or mightier pen; Not with wonderful word or thought From the lips of eloquent men. But deep in some patient mother's heart, A woman who could not yield, But silently, cheerfully bore her part, Aj^e, there is the battle-field. No marshaling troop, no bivouac song, No banners to flaunt and wave, But, oh! their battles they last so long — From the cradle e'en to the grave. MY HAPPY HOME. Coming home in the cold, gray twilight, Over the lonesome way, With heart and brain overburdened By the worry and care of the day; Tired from the struggle of living, And glad for the night to come, I turn the corner, and there I see The light of my happy home. And worry and care forsake me, And weariness finds its rest; With quickened footsteps I hurry on To the place I love the best. For I know that some one is waiting, And looking out throug-h the gloom, Down over the lonesome roadway, And wishing for me to come. And, hastening on, I remember The days of long ago, The golden dreams of my youth time. The triumph I was to know, 40 TREASURES OF POETRY. With game and fortune to conquer, And all life's blessings to come; But the only dream that ever came true Is this, my own sweet home. And what were all the others — Ambition, and power, and fame? The wealth of the Indies would leave me poor, And fame were an empty name, Without the love of my darling- wife, My baby and my home. I can ask no greater happiness Than to my lot has come. What matters a day of labor, When the rest is sweet at night! What matters how dark the roadway That leads to my own home-light? What matters the wide world's favor That never to me may come, When my wife and baby are waiting And watching to welcome me home? THANKSGIVING REST. The busy year has ceased its toil, Its peaceful hour of twilight won; Its leaves and bloom are laid away, Its webs of shade and luster spun; The fleeces of the fields are shorn, The fruitage gathered from the bough ; The fervor of the sun is lost — The weary world is resting now. As gloaming lies 'twixt day and dark, There comes a little space between The bitter wastes of winter snow And autumn's matchless gold and green; And though the world be chill without, In this late twilight of the year, The gray month bears a jeweled link — A day of happiness and cheer. So, troubled Marthas of the land, Unbind the burden of your woes; Recall the words the Savior spoke; Seek out the part that Mary chose. Sit down, in peace, beside your hearth; Let fretting sorrows drift away, And take unto your weary hearts The lesson of Thanksgiving Day. Hattih Whitnbt. THE CRY OF THE MOTHER. My life is so narrow, so narrow, environed by four square walls, And ever across my threshold the shadow of duty falls. My eyes wander oft to the hilltops, but ever my heart stoops down In a passion of love to the babies that helplessly cling to my gown. In the light of the new day dawning I see an Evangel stand, And to fields that are ripe for the harvest, I am lured by a beckoning hand; But I have no place with the reapers, no part in the soul-stirring strife; I must hover my babes on the hearth -stone and teach them the lessons of life. I must answer their eager questions with God-given words of truth; I must guide them in ways of wisdom, through childhood and early youth; I must nourish their souls and their bodies with infinite, watchful care; Take thought of the loaves and the fishes and the raiment that they must wear. But at night when the lessons are over, and I cuddle each sleepy head; When the questions are asked and an- swered, and the last little prayer is said; When the fruitless unrest has vanished that fretted my soul through the day, Then I kneel in the midst of my children and humbly and thankfully pray; "Dear Lord, when I stand with the reapers before thee at set of the sun, When the sheaves of the harvest are gar- nered, and life and its labor are done, I shall lay at thy feet these my children — to my heart and my garments they cling; I may not go forth with the reapers, and these are the sheaves that I bring." I.izzm Clarke-Ha»dt. HOME LIFE. If the children find not love within, And a golden chain to bind it, Of words of cheer and kisses dear, They'll go outside to find it. If home lacks joys, our girls and boys Will seek them elsewhere, mind it. For the blood is warm in growing limbs, And leaps to tuneful measures, While hearts in rhyme, at childhood's time. Beat high for wholesome pleasures; Right merry feet, and voices sweet, Have they, our household treasures. If the fire burns low, and ashes lie Broadcast, as one might sow it, With naught complete, or fair, or neat, The little ones first know it; A child's young heart has at the start The instinct of the poet. Then let us fan the home blaze high, And set the place in order, Decking the rooms with rosy blooms And heart's-ease for the border, Taking good care to match each snare And bar out grim disorder. Thus may we keep our jewels safe — The children God hath given — And train them right, in paths of light, Each day of all the seven. Till by and by, beyond the sky, We find the gate of heaven. Mrs. M. A. Kidou. THE HOME CIRCLE— Memories of Home. 11 MEMORIES OF HOME MY MOTHER S BIBLE. This book is all that's left me now; Tears will unbidden start; With faltering lip and throbbing- brow, I press it to my heart. For many generations past, Here is our family tree; My mother's hands this Bible clasped; She, dying, gave it me. Ah! well do I remember those Whose names these records bear, Who round the hearthstone used to close After the evening prayer, And speak of what these pages said, In tones my heart would thrill; Though they are with the silent dead, Here are the living still. My father read this holy book To brothers, sisters, dear; How calm was my poor mother's look, Who loved God's Word to hear! Her angel face — I see it yet! What thronging memories come! Again that little group is met Within the halls of home. Thou truest friend man ever knew, Thy constancy I've tried; When all were false, I found thee true, My counselor and guide. The mines of earth no treasures give That could this volume buy; In teaching me the way to live, It taught me how to die. Georgb P. Morris. MY FATHERS VOICE IN PRAYER. In the silence that falls on my spirit When the clamor of life loudest seems, Comes a voice that floats in tremulous notes Far over my sea of dreams. I remember the dim old vestry, And my father kneeling there; And the old hymns thrill with the memory still Of my father's voice in prayer. I can see the glance of approval As my part in the hymn I took; I remember the grace of my mother's face, And the tenderness of her look; And I knew that a gracious memory Cast its light on that face so fair, As her cheek flushed faint — O mother, my saint! — At my father's voice in prayer. 'Neath the stress of that marvelous plead- ing All childish dissensions died; Each rebellious will sank conquered and still In a passion of love and pride. Ah, the years have held dear voices. And melodies tender and rare; But tenderest seems the voice of my dreams — My father's voice in prayer. Mat Hastings Nottagk. THE SONGS THAT MOTHER SUNG. Go sing the songs you cherish well. Each ode and simple lay; Go chord the notes till bosoms swell With strains that deftly play. All, all are yours to sacred keep Your choicest treasures 'mong, But leave for me, till mem'ries sleer. The songs that mother sung. When life's dark paeans, plaintive round, Fall 'cross the weary way, To bring in soughing, mournful sound The dirge of dismal day, Then softly back lost strains will steal, From cradle anthem rung, To drown the woes that sorrows feel, In songs that mother sung. TWien mirth and sadness — as they will — Recall those times agone, To wake the mem'ries lingering still Mid life's bright morning dawn; Then, dreaming vivid, 'bove the rest, As when our childhood clung, We lie and listen, on her breast, The songs that mother sung. And when the ebb of eventide, Afar across the strand, Sets out to where the billows ride, Beyond life's shifting sand, In lost refrain, above the roar Of mad, mad waters flung, Oh, back, bring back to me once more The songs that mother sung! RAIN ON THE ROOF. When the humid shadows hover Over all the starry spheres, And the melancholy darkness Gently weeps in rainy tears, Wfhat a bliss to press the pillow Of a cottage-chamber bed, And to listen to the patter Of the soft rain overhead! Every tinkle on the shingles Has an echo in the heart; And a thousand dreamy fancies Into busy being start, 42 TREASURES OF POETRY. And a thousand recollections Weave their air-threads into woof, As I listen to the patter Of the rain upon the roof. Now in memory comes my mother, As she used, in years agone, To regard the darling dreamers Ere she left them till the dawn: So I see her leaning- o'er me, As I list to this refrain Which is played upon the shingles By the patter of the rain. Then my little seraph sister, With the wings and waving hair, And her star-eyed cherub brother — A serene angelic pair — Glide around my wakeful pillow. With their praise or mild reproof, As I listen to the murmur Of the soft rain on the roof. And another comes, to thrill me, With her eyes' delicious blue: And I mind not, musing on her, That her heart was all untrue: I remember but to love her With a passion kin to pain, And my heart's quick pulses vibrate To the patter of the rain. Art hath naught of tone or cadence That can work with such a spell In the soul's mysterious fountains, Whence the tears of rapture well, As that melody of nature, That subdued, subduing strain Which is played upon the shingles By the patter of the rain. Coates Kinney. CHERISHED MEMORIES. Treasured deep in memory's casket, Is a gem that glitters bright, And it shines with twofold splendor As I sit alone tonight Musing in the gathering twilight While the shadows come and go: I am thinking of my mother And the happy long ago. Oh, how well do I remember When a happy child so free, Knowing naught of care or sorrow; Home was all the world to me. Were I sick or tired and weary, Quickly I to mother came; For her gentle, fond caresses Were a balm for every pain. Day by day with patience toiling, Busy at the spinning-wheel, Stopping not for rest, though weary, Life to her had grown so real; When she felt her burdens heavy And the nearer waters roll, I could hear her sweetly singing "Jesus lover of my soul." Then when night had spread her mantle, And our fond good-night was said, She would gently tuck the cover Round my little trundle-bed; Duties of the day all ended, When the house was calm and still, Seated by the tallow candle, Plied her needle with a will. This was long ago, dear mother, And your child is growing old; Time has left its lines of care On the brow once crowned with gold; Yes, old Time is bearing onward Down the stream my little bark; Still the sweet words of the poet Find an echo in my heart: "Backward, turn backward, O Time in your flight; Make me a child again, just for tonight." Lucy M. Lewis. THE OLD HOME. In vain we strive to keep the tears From falling as we turn to face The dear old home, the dwelling-place Of ours for many happy years. A spirit seems to whisper low In language quaint, sublime, and queer, "How can you leave without a tear The old home of the long ago?" The old, old home where happy hours Were often passed in childish play, Where memories sweet did pass away Beneath time's overwhelming powers. We turn to go, yet linger nigh, Unwilling still to leave the place Which time alone will soon efface Beyond the sight of any eye. Again we look, and through our tears The purest feelings of the heart Awake to life, and quickly start Adown the mystic flight of years. Again we walk in childhood's prime, Viewing the bright scenes as of old: Our mother's form we do behold With gladness, for she seems sublime. Our father, working near the door, Has given leave that we depart; And now our tear-drops quickly start, For now we leave forevermore. Yes, we must go; our mind is set On something dearer yet to find! The dear old home we leave behind With "one pure image of regret." O blessed place of rest, farewell! We leave thee with our hopes and fears To sail adown the fleeting years To some fair isle where seraphs dwell. Adieu, thou peaceful realm of light, Along the gulf of time we stray; Courtesy of C. R. Reeves, Anderson. Ind. THE HOME CIRCLE— Memories of Home. 43 We'll think of thee when far away — We'll think of thee with glad delight. Farewell! in leaving, all the years Of happy childhood quick return; Farewell! farewell! we yet may learn Of something grander for our tears. Old home, adieu! yet as we roam Far from thy peaceful vale of rest, We can not hope to be more blest Than we were in our dear old home! Howard C. TRiri\ WHEN I WAS A BOY. Up in the attic where I slept When I was a boy, a little boy! In through the lattice the moonlight crept, Bringing a tide of dreams that swept Over a low, red trundle-bed, Bathing the tangled curly head, While the moonbeams played at hide and seek With the dimples on the sun-browned cheek — • When I was a little boy! And oh! the dreams — the dreams I dreamed When I was a boy, a little boy! For the grace that through the lattice streamed Over my folded eyelids seemed To have the gift of prophecy. And to bring the glimpses of time to be When manhood's clarion seemed to call — Oh! that was the sweetest dream of all, When I was a little boy! I'd like to sleep where I used to sleep When I was a boy, a little boy! For in at the lattice the moon would peep, Bringing her tide of dreams to sweep The crosses and griefs of the years away From the heart that is weary and faint to- day; And those dreams should give me back again A peace I have never known since then — When I was a boy, a little boy! THE OLD MAN BY THE WAYSIDE. By the wayside, on a mossy stone, Sat a hoary pilgrim sadly musing; Oft I marked him sitting there alone, All the landscape like a page perusing: Poor, unknown — By the wayside, on a mossy stone. Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-rimmed hat, Coat as ancient as the form 'twas folding, Silver buttons, queue, and crimpt cravat, Oaken staff his feeble hand upholding, There he sat: Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-rimmed hat. Seemed it pitiful he should sit there, No one sympathizing, no one heeding, None to love him, for his thin gray hair, And the furrows all so mutely pleading Age and care : Seemed it pitiful lie should sit there. It was summer, and we went to school, Dapper country-lads and little maidens, Taught the motto of the "Dunce's stool" (Its grave import still my fancy ladens) — "Here's a fool!" It was summer, and we went to school. When the stranger seemed to mark our play, Some of us Were joyous, some sad-hearted; I remember well, too well, that day! Oftentimes the tears unbidden started, Would not stay, When the stranger seemed to mark our play. One sweet spirit broke the silent spell; Ah! to me her name was always heaven! She besought him all his grief to tell (I was then thirteen, and she eleven) — ISABEL! One sweet spirit broke the silent spell. "Angel," said he sadly, "I am old; Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow: Yet why I sit here thou shalt be told." Then his eye betrayed a pearl of sorrow; Down it rolled! "Angel," said he sadly, "I am old. "I have tottered here to look once more On the pleasant scene where I delighted In the careless, happy days of yore, Ere the garden of my heart was blighted To the core: I have tottered here to look once more. "All the picture now to me how dear! E'en this gray old rock where I am seated Is a jewel worth my journey here. Ah, that such a scene must be completed With a tear! All the picture now to me so dear! "Old stone schoolhouse! it is still the same! There's the very step I so oft mounted; There's the window creaking in its frame, And the notches that I cut and counted For the game: Old stone schoolhouse! it is still the same! "In the cottage yonder I was born; Long my happy home that humble dwell- ing; There the fields of clover, wheat, and corn; There the spring, with limpid nectar swelling. Ah, forlorn! In the cottage yonder I was born. "There's the orchard where we used to climb When my mates and I were boys together, 44 TREASURES OF POETRY. Thinking- nothing- of the flight of time, Fearing naught but work and rainy weath er — Past its prime! There's the orchard where we used to climb. "There's the mill that ground -our yellow grain ; Pond and river still serenely flowing; Cot, there nestling in the shaded lane, Where the lily of my heart was blowing — Mary Jane! There's the mill that ground our j'ellow grain. "There's the gate on which I used to swing, Brook and bridge, and barn, and old red stable; But, alas! no more the morn shall bring That dear group around my father's ta- ble- Taken wing! There's the gate on which I used to swing. "I am fleeing! all I loved are fled! Ton green meadow was our place for playing; That old tree can tell of sweet things said When around it Jane and I were straying: She is dead! I am fleeing! all I loved are fled! "Yon white spire — a pencil on the sky, Tracing silently life's changeful story — So familiar to my dim old eye, Points me to seven that are now in glory There on high! Yon white spire — a pencil on the sky. "Oft the aisle of that old church we trod, Guided thither by an angel mother; Now she sleeps beneath its sacred sod, Sire and sisters, and m3 r little brother; Gone to God! Oft the aisle of that old church we trod. "There I heard of wisdom's pleasant ways: Bless the holy lesson! but, ah, never Shall I hear again those songs of praise, Those sweet voices, silent now forever! Peaceful da3 r s! There I heard of wisdom's pleasant ways. "There my Mary blessed me with her hand, When our souls drank in the nuptial blessing, Ere she hastened to the spirit-iand; Yonder turf her gentle bosom pressing: Broken band! There my Mary blessed me with her hand. "I have come to see that grave once more, And the sacred place where we delighted, Where we worshiped in the days of yore, Ere the garden of my heart was blighted To the core! I have come to see that grave once more. "Angel," said he sadly, "I am old; Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow: Now, why I sit here thou hast been told. In his eye another pearl of sorrow; Down it rolled! "Angel,' said he sadly, "I am old." By the wayside, on a mossy stone, Sat the hoary pilgrim sadly musing; Still I marked him sitting there alone, All the landscape like a page perusing: Poor, unknown — By the wayside, on a mossy stone! Ralfh Hott. FRIENDS OF LONG AGO. When I sit in the twilight gloaming, And the .busy streets grow still, I dream of the wide, green meadows And the old house on the hill; I can see the roses blooming About the doorway low; Again my heart gives greeting To the friends of long ago- Dear long ago! I can see my mother sitting With life's snowflakes in her hair, And she smiles above her knitting, And her face is saintly fair; And I see my father reading From the Bible on his knee, And again I hear him praying As he used to pray for me — So long ago! I see all the dear old faces Of the boys and girls at home, As I saw them in the dear old days Before we learned to roam; And I sing the old songs over With the friends I used to know; And my heart forgets its sorrow In its dream of long ago — Dear long ago! How widely our feet have wandered From our old home's tender ties! Some are bej^ond the ocean, And some are beyond the skies. My heart grows sad with thinking Of the friends 1 used to know; Perhaps I shall meet in heaven All the loved ones of long ago — Dear long ago! WHEN MOTHER PRAYED. Somehow God always seemed so real, Somehow I could not doubt, nor feel That God was ever far away, When I could hear my mother pray; Somehow when she would kneel in prayer, God always seemed to meet her there. When she would kneel beside my bed, With her dear hands upon my head, My little heart would cease to fear, THE HOME CIRCLE— Memories of Home. 45 And God would seem to come so near; Somehow, someway, when Mother prayed, I could not, dared not, feel afraid. And when she prayed for him to keep Me through the night, and give me sleep And rest until the break of day, I felt that it must be, someway; That round about me was his arm, And he could keep me safe from harm. When Mother prayed! O precious hour, When God would come in mighty power! memory sweet! O hallowed place Where God did shine in Mother's face! Somehow in prayer she found such rest; Somehow her soul God always blest. When Mother prayed! Ah, then I knew Within my soul that God is true; 1 could no longer doubt his love; And, yielding all, born from above, My soul was filled with peace divine, And mother's God was thenceforth mine. Melyillb Miller. THANKSGIVING. O men, grown sick with toil and care, Leave for a while the crowded mart; O women sinking with despair, Weary of limb and faint of heart, Forget your years today and come As children back to childhood's home. Follow again the winding rills; Go to the places where you went When, climbing up the summer hills, In their green laps you sat content, And softly leaned your head to rest On Nature's calm and peaceful breast. Walk through the sere and fading wood, So slightly trodden by your feet, When all you knew of life was good, And all you dreamed of life was sweet, And ever fondly looking back O'er youthful love's enchanted track. Taste the ripe fruits from the orchard boughs; Drink from the mossy well once more; Breathe fragrance from the crowded mows With fresh, sweet clover running o'er; And count the treasures at your feet, Of silver rye and golden wheat. Go sit beside the hearth again, Whose circle once was glad and gay: And if, from out the precious chain, Some shining links have dropped away, Then guard with tender heart and hand The remnant of thy household band. Draw near the board with plenty spread, And if, in the accustomed place, You see the father's reverend head, Or mother's patient, loving face, Whate'er your life may have of ill, Thank God that these are left you still. And though where home has been you stand Today in alien loneliness; Though you may clasp no brother's hand, And claim no sister's tender kiss; Though with no friend nor lover nigh, The past is all your company, — Thank God for friends your life has known, For every dear, departed day; The blessed past is safe alone — God gives, but does not take away; He only safely keeps above For us the treasures that we love. Phoebh Cart. THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET. How dear to my heart are the scenes of my childhood, When fond recollection presents them to view! The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wildwood, And every loved spot which my infancy knew; The wide-spreading pond, and the mill which stood by it, The bridge, and the rock where the cata- ract fell; The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it, And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well — The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket which hun? in the well. That moss-covered vessel I hail as a treas- ure; For often, at noon, when returned from the field, I found it the source of an exquisite pleas- ure, The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing! How quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell; Then soon, with the emblem of truth over- flowing, And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well — ■ The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket arose from the well. How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it, As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips! Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it, Though filled with the nectar that Jupi- ter sips. And now, far removed from the loved situa- tion, The tear of regret will intrusively swell, 46 TREASURES OF POETRY. As fancy reverts to my father's plantation, And sigrhs for the bucket which hangs in the well — The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket which hangs in the well. Samuel Woodworth. THE PICTURE FANCY PAINTED. An old man dreaming sits. His streaming locks Are whitened by the flecks of foaming spray From off the crested waves of passing years, That ebb and flow on Time's tempestuous sea, Whose waters separate the fairy-land Of far-off childhood from life's sunset-land. The murm'ring breezes softly whisper as They gently blow from off that distant shore Of life's sweet Springtime Land, and, blending with The sad, sweet music of the murm'ring sea, The long-forgotten songs of childhood sing In silvery cadence, soft, and sweet and low, And lull, with golden symphonies from chords Of memories long forgot, the wearied brain And heart and soul to dreamland's sweet repose. And by the rose-winged messengers of sleep, And through the mystic mazes of dreamland, He back transported was across the gulf Of Time's relentless sea, to that sweet realm — The fairy-land of childhood's happy days. He, dreaming, sits upon the hilltop's once Familiar brow, where stands the old log home — ■ To him a palace now, because it holds Life's sweetest memories; and form so dear Of a sweet mother, whose unchanging love, Like golden sunbeam, gilded life's pathway Through childhood's happy years. Before him now, He sees the old, loved scenes of years agone. At foot of hill, and in its shadow deep, At sunset's hour, there stands the silent mill, And from it flows, o'er pebbly bottom bright, The little streamlet, bearing on its breast A flood of old-time memories so dear. Beyond it lies, like dimpled smile upon The placid face of guileless innocence, The little meadow with its nodding plumes Of gold and purple flowers, and sweet per- fume — A gem of Nature's setting in the crown Of the old home! Beyond the meadow's rim, In shadow of the overhanging trees, The more majestic river calmly flows — A silvery framework for the picture dear, In Memory's chamber hanging, and which tide Of passing years can not deface nor dim. And as he dreaming sits, and lives again Amid the scenes to which the golden chain Of memory binds his heart and soul, a strange Poetic fire and ardor sweetly thrill His being, and the inspiration, felt By artists who to canvas have transferred Their golden-glowed conceptions rare and pure, Fills mind and soul, and he an artist is. With rare conception, execution true, The inspiration of his magic touch, To spotless canvas the loved picture gives: The rude, log home; the gently sloping hill; The pebbled-bottomed brooklet at its base; The flower-decked meadow with its gilded rim Of silvery waters, and the grand old trees, Deep in whose shadow's heard the river's flow. Ah! sweet the picture, and so true complete; 'Twas Art with Nature vieing. But just then The Master Artist of the universe, With rainbow tints, and sunsets' golden glow And mellowed hues, touched topmost branches of The grand old forest trees. Then with the hand Of inspiration, quick the golden hues To canvas were transferred. And as he gazed Admiringly upon his work, a hand Upon each shoulder then was gently laid; Two soft and dimpled arms stole lovingly About his neck, and bending o'er him then, With face and form angelic and divine, Was his soul's idol, who, with holy kiss Sealed her pure heart's devotion deep and true. J. B. Pbickktt. MY LOST YOUTH. Often I think of the beautiful town That is seated by the sea, Often in thought go up and down The pleasant streets of that dear old town, And my youth comes back to me. And a verse of a Lapland song Is haunting my memory still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." I can see the shadowy lines of its trees, And catch, in sudden gleams, The sheen of the far-surrounding seas, And islands that were the Hesperides Of all my boyish dreams. And the burden of that old song, It murmurs and whispers still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." I remember the black wharves and the slips, And the sea-tides tossing free; THE HOME CIRCLE— Memories of Home. *7 And Spanish sailors with bearded lips, And the beauty and mystery of the ships, And the magic of the sea. And the voice of that wayward song Is singing- and saying still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, Ions thoughts." I remember the bulwarks by the shore, And the fort upon the hill; The sunrise gun, with its hollow roar; The drum-beat repeated o'er and o'er, And the bugle wild and shrill. And the music of that old song Throbs in my memory still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." I remember the sea-fight far away — How it thundered o'er the tide! — And the dead captains, as they lay In their graves, o'erlooking the tranquil bay, Where they in battle died. And the sound of that mournful song Goes through me with a thrill: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." I can see the breezy dome of groves, The shadows of Deering's Woods; And the friendships old and the early loves Come back with a Sabbath sound, as of doves In quiet neighborhoods. And the verse of that sweet old song, It flutters and murmurs still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." I remember the gleams and glooms that dart Across the school-boy's brain; The song and the silence in the heart, That in part are prophecies, and in part Are longings wild and vain. And the voice of that fitful song- Sings on, and is never still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." There are things of which I may not speak; There are dreams that can not die; There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak, And bring a pallor into the cheek, And a mist before the eye. And the words of that fatal song Come over me like a chill: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." Strange to me now are the forms I meet When I visit the dear old town; But the native air is pure and sweet, And the trees that o'ershadow each well- known street, As they balance up and down, Are singing the beautiful song, Are sighing and whispering still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." And Deering's Woods are fresh and fair, And with joy that is almost pain My heart goes back to wander there, And among the dreams of the days that were, I find my lost youth again. And strange and beautiful song, The groves are repeating it still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." Hexrt Wads worth Longfellow. IN THE FIRELIGHT. The fire upon the hearth is low, And there is stillness everywhere; Like troubled spirits, here and there The firelight shadows fluttering go, And as the shadows round me creep, A childish treble breaks the gloom, And softly from a further room Comes, "Now I lay me down to sleep." And, somehow, with that little prayer And that sweet treble in my ears, My thought goes back to distant years, And lingers with a dear one there; And as I hear the child's amen, My mother's faith comes back to me; Crouched by her side I seem to be, And mother holds my hands again. Oh, for an hour in that dear place! Oh, for the peace of that dear time! Oh, for that childish trust su.blime! Oh, for a glimpse of mother's face! Yet, as the shadows round me creep, I do not seem to be alone — Sweet magic of that trembling tone, And, "Now I lay me down to sleep!" Eugexh Field. MY MOTHERS VOICE. My mother's voice! how often creep Its accents on my lonely hours, Like healing sent on wings of sleep, Or dew to the unconscious flowers! I can forget her melting prayer While leaping pulses madly fly, But in the still, unbroken air, Her gentle tone comes stealing by; And years and sin and folly flee, And leave me at my mother's knee. The evening hours, the birds, the flowers, The starlight, moonlight, all that's meet For heaven in this lost world of ours, Remind me of her teachings sweet. My heart is harder, and perhaps My thoughtlessness hath drunk up tears, 48 TREASURES OF POETRY. And there's a mildew in the lapse Of a few swift and checkered years; But nature's book is even yet With all my mother's lessons writ. I have been out at eventide Beneath a moonlight sky of spring-, When earth was garnished like a bride, And night had on her silver wing; When bursting leaves, and diamond grass, And waters leaping to the light, And all that makes the pulses pass With wilder sweetness thronged the night; When all was beauty; then have I, With friends on whom my love is flung, Like myrrh on winds of Araby, Gazed up where evening's lamp is hung; And when the beautiful spirit there Flung over me its golden chain, My mother's voice came on the air Like the light dropping of the rain. And resting on some silver star The spirit of a bended knee, I've poured out low and fervent prayer That our eternity might be To rise in heaven, like stars at night, And tread a living path of light. I have been on the dewy hills When night was stealing from the dawn, And mist was on the waking rills, And tents were delicately drawn In the gray east; when birds were waking, With a low murmur in the trees, And melody by fits was breaking Upon the whisper of the breeze; And this when I went forth, perchance, As a worn reveler from the dance; And when the sun sprang gloriously And freely up, and hill and river Were catching upon wave and tree The arrows from his subtle quiver, — I say a voice has thrilled me then, Herald on the still and rushing light, Or, creeping from the lonely glen Like words from the departing night, Hath stricken me; and I have pressed On the wet grass my fevered brow, And pouring forth the earliest, First prayer, with which I learned to bow, Have felt my mother's spirit rush Upon me as in by- past years, And, yielding to the blessed gush Of my ungovernable tears, Have risen up, the gay, the wild, Subdued and humble as a child. Nathaniel Parker Willis. THE SPRING DOWN IN THE DELL. Though years have glided like a dream Since I stood by thy side, Yet still, thou little rippling stream. I've thought of thee with pride, And bless thee, as I bless thee now: Oh! I remember well How thou didst cool my fevered brow, Dear spring down in the dell. On many a golden summer hour I laid me down to rest Where every wind would throw a shower Of blossoms on my breast; The spangled flowers grew around: Oh! I remember well The mossy rocks, the velvet ground, The spring down in the dell. Thy waters sparkled in my cup, And flashed along the rim, And when I raised it gladly up, And broke its dimpled brim, Far sweeter than the Samian wine — Oh! I remember well — Was that bright crystal wave of thine, Dear spring down in the dell. And, mirrored in thy mimic glass, I've watched the artless grace Of many a dark-eyed village lass, As she did kiss thy face; And I have envied thee thy lot — Oh! I remember well Thou wilt not, canst not, be forgot, Sweet spring down in the dell. J. W. Overall. THE OLD ARMCHAIR. I love it, I love it; and who shall dare To chide me for loving that old armchair? I've treasured it long as a sainted prize; I've bedewed it with tears, and embalmed it with sighs. 'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart; Not a tie will break, not a link will start. Would ye learn the spell? — A mother sat there ; And a sacred thing is that old armchair. In childhood's hour I lingered near The hallowed seat with listening ear; And gentle words that mother would give, To fit me to die and teach me to live. She told me shame would never betide, With truth for my creed and God for my guide; She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer As I knelt beside that old armchair. I sat and watched her many a day When her eye grew dim and her locks were gray; And I almost worshiped her when she smiled, And turned from her Bible to bless her child. Years rolled on; but the last one sped — My idol was shattered; my earth-star fled; I learned how much the heart can bear, When I saw her die in that old armchair. 'Tis past, 'tis past, but I gaze on it now With quivering breath and throbbing brow. 'Twas there she nursed me; 'twas there she died; And memory flows with lava tide. THE HOME CIRCLE— Memories of Home. 49 Say it is folly, and deem me weak, While the scalding drops start down my cheek; But I love it, I love it; and can not tear My soul from a mother's old armchair. Eliza Cook. THE BOOK MY MOTHER READ. I have it yet, the dear old book That lay upon the stand, In which she often used to look, And always at her hand; The corners rounded are with age, The leaves are worn and thin, And dim the lines on many a page She so delighted in. A half-hours rest in household toil For needed strength she caught, And in the light of fragrant oil She found the place she sought; And heavy labor turned to love, And duty led away To visions of the land above, A Sabbath-hour each day. The book remains more sacred still Because of her dear eyes, That saw therein Gods wondrous will And saw not otherwise; For thus she found a way to Him Who down to evening late, And through the valley, lone and dim, Brought her to His dear gate. DWIGHT WILLIAMS. GRANDMAS HOME. I am thinking of a cottage In a quiet rural dell, And a brook that ran beside it, That I used to love so well. I have sat for hours and listened As it rippled at my feet, And I thought no other music In the world was half so sweet. There are forms that flit before me, There are tones I yet recall; But the gentle words of Grandma, Still I prize the most of all. In her loving arms she held me, And beneath her patient care, I was borne away to dreamland, In her dear old rocking-chair. I am thinking of a promise That I made when last we met; 'Twas a rosy summer twilight That I never shall forget, "Grandma's going home," she whispered, "And the hour is drawing nigh. Only say that you will meet me In our Father's house on high." She was looking down upon me; For a moment all was still; Then I answered, with emotion, "By the grace of God I will!" How she clasped me to her Dosom! And we bowed our heads in prayer, Where we oft had knelt together — By her dear old rocking-chair. She has passed the vale of shadows She has crossed the narrow sea, And beyond the crystal river She is waiting now for me; But in fancy I behold her; Once again we kneel in prayer. While my heart repeats its promise By her dear old rocking-chair. EVENING ON THE RIVER. [From "Evangeline."] Softly the evening came. The sun from the western horizon Like a magician extended his golden wand o'er the landscape; Twinkling vapors arose; and sky and water and forest Seemed all on fire at the touch, and melted and mingled together. Hanging between two skies, a cloud with edges of silver, Floated the boat, with its dripping oars, on the motionless water. Filled was Evangeline's heart with inex- pressible sweetness. Touched by the magic spell, the sacred fountains of feeling Glowed with the light of love, as the skies and waters around her. Then from a neighboring thicket the mock. ing-bird, wildest of singers, Swinging aloft on a willow spray that hung- o'er the water, Shook from his little throat such floods of delirious music That the whole air and the woods and the waves seemed silent to listen. Plaintive at first were the tones and sad; then soaring to madness, Seemed they to follow or guide the revel of frenzied Bacchantes. Single notes were then heard, in sorrowful, low lamentation; Till, having gathered them all, he flung them abroad in derision, As when, after a storm, a gust of wind through the tree-tops Shakes down the rattling rain in a crystal shower on the branches. Hknuy Wads worth Longfellow. NARRATIVE and DESCRIPTIVE NARRATIVE AND DESCRIPTIVE. 53 NARRATIVE AND DESCRIPTIVE THE BURIAL OF MOSES. By Nebo's lonely mountain, On this side Jordan's wave, In a vale in the land of Moab, There lies a lonely grave; And no man dug- that sepulcher, And no man saw it e'er, For the "sons of God" upturned the sod, And laid the dead man there. That was the grandest funeral That ever passed on earth; But no man heard the trampling, Or saw the train go forth. Noiselessly as the daylight Comes when the nig-ht is done, And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek Grows into the great sun — Noiselessly as the springtime Her crown of verdure weaves, And all the trees on all the hills Open their thousand leaves; So, without sound of music, Or voice of them that wept, Silently down from the mountain's crown The great procession swept. Perchance the bald old eagle, On gray Beth-peor's height, Out of his rocky eyry Looked on the wondrous sight; Perchance the lion stalking Still shuns that hallowed spot; For beast and bird have seen and heard That which man knoweth not. But when the warrior dieth, His comrades in the war, With arms reversed, and muffled drum, Follow the funeral car. They show the banners taken, They tell his battles won, And after him lead his masterless steed, "While peals the minute-gun. Amid the noblest of the land Men lay the sage to rest, And give the bard an honored place, With costly marble drest — In the great minster transept, Where lights like glories fall, And the sweet choir sings, and the organ rings Along the emblazoned wall. This was the bravest warrior That ever buckled sword; This, the most gifted poet That ever breathed a word; And never earth's philosopher Traced with his golden pen, On the deathless page, truths half so sage As he wrote down for men. And had he not high honor? The hillside for his pall, To lie in state while angels wait, With stars for tapers tall, And the dark rock-pines like tossing plumes Over his bier to wave, And God's own hand, in that lonely land, To lay him in the grave! In that deep grave without a name, Whence his uncoffined clay Shall break again — most wondrous thought — Before the judgment-day, And stand, with glory wrapped around, On the hills he never trod, And speak of the strife that won our Itfe With the Incarnate Son of God. O lonely tomb in Moab's land! O dark Beth-peor hill! Speak to these curious hearts of ours, And teach them to be still. God hath his mysteries of grace Ways that we can not tell; And hides them deep, like the secret sleep Of him he loved so well. Mrs. C. P. Alexa^oeh. THE FOOL S PRAYER. The royal feast was done; the king Sought some new sport to banish care. And to his jester cried, "Sir Fool, Kneel down, and make for us a prayer!" The jester doffed his cap and bells, And stood the mocking court before; They could not see the bitter smile Behind the painted grin he wore. He bowed his head, and bent his knee Upon the monarch's silken stool; His pleading voice arose: "O Lord, Be merciful to me, a fool! "No pity, Lord, could change the heart From red with wrong to white as wool; The rod must heal the sin; but, Lord, Be merciful to me, a fool! " 'Tis not by guilt the onward sweep Of truth and right, O Lord, we stay; 'Tis by our follies that so long We hold the earth from heaven away. "These clumsy feet, still in the mire, Go crushing blossoms without end; These hard, well-meaning hands we thrust Among the heart-strings of a friend. "The ill-timed truth we might have kept — Who knows how sharp it pierced and stung! £4 TREASURES OF POETRY. The word we had not sense to say — Who knows how grandly it had rungr! "Our faults no tenderness should ask, The chastening stripes must cleanse them all; But for our blunders — oh! in shame Before the eyes of Heaven we fall. "Earth bears no balsam for mistakes; Men crown \he knave and scourge the tool That aid his will; but thou, O Lord, Be merciful to me, a fool!" The room was hushed; in silence rose The king, and sought his gardens cool, And: walked apart, and murmured low, "Be merciful to me, a fool!" E. R. Sill. THE GREENWOOD SHRIFT. Outstretched beneath the leafy shade Of Windsor forest's deepest glade, A dying woman lay; Three little children round her stood, And there went up from the greenwood A woeful wail that day. VO -mother!" was the mingled cry, "O mother, mother! do not die, And leave us all alone." "My blessed babes!" she tried to say, But the faint accents died away In a low sobbing moan. And then, life struggling hard with death, And fast and strong she drew her breath, And up she raised her head; And, peering through the deep wood maze With a long, sharp, unearthly gaze, "Will she not come?" she said. Just then the parting boughs between, A little maid's light form was seen, All breathless with her speed; And following close a man came on (A portly man to look upon) Who; led a panting steed. "Mother!" the little maiden cried, Or e'er she reached the woman's side, And kissed her clay-cold cheek, "I have not idled in the town, But long went wandering up and down, The minister to seek. "They told me here, they told me there— I think they mocked me everywhere; And when I found his home, And begged him on my bended knee To bring his book and come with me, Mother! he would not come. "I • told him how you dying lay. And could not go in peace away Without the minister: I begged him, for dear Christ his sake, But o% my heart was fit to break — Mother! he would not stir. "So though my tears were blinding me, I ran back, fast as fast could be, To come again to you; And here — close by — this squire I met* Wlio asked, so mild, what made me fret; And when I told him true — " T will go with you, child,' he said, 'God sends me to this dying bed' — Mother, he's here, hard by." While thus the little maiden spoke, The man, his. back against an oak, Looked on with glistening eye. The bridle on his neck hung free. With quivering flank and trembling knee, Pressed close his bonny bay; A statelier man, a statelier steed, Never on greensward paced, I rede, Than those stood there that day. So while the little maiden spoke, The man, his back against an oak, Looked on with glistening eye And folded arms, and in his look Something that, like a sermon-book, Preached, "All is vanity." But when . the dying woman's face Turned toward him with a wishful gaze, He stepped to where she lay; And, kneeling down, bent over her, Saying, "I am a minister, My sister! let us pray." And well, withouten book or stole, (God's words were printed on his soul!) Into the dying ear He breathed, as 'twere an angel's strain, The things that unto life pertain, And death's dark shadows clear. He spoke of sinners' lost estate, In Christ renewed, regenerate; Of God's most blessed decree That not a single soul should die ^ . Who turns repentant, with the cry, "Be merciful to me." He spoke of trouble, pain, and toil, Endured but for a little while In patience, faith, and love, Sure, in God's own good time, to be " Exchanged for an eternity Of happiness above. Then as : the spirit ebbed away, He raised his hands and eyes to pray That peaceful it might pass ; And then— the orphan's sobs alone Were heard, and they knelt, every one Close round on the green grass. Such was the sight their wandering eyes Beheld, in heart-struck, mute surprise, Who reined their coursers back, Just as they found the long astray, Who, in the heat of chase that day, Had wandered from their track. But each man reined his pawing steed, And lighted down, as if agreed, NARRATIVE AND DESCRIPTIVE. 55 In silence at his side, And there, uncovered all, they stood — It was a wholesome sight and good That day for mortal pride. For of the noblest of the land. Was that deep-hushed, bareheaded band; And central in the ring:, By that dead pauper on the ground Her ragged orphans Clinging round, Knelt their anointed king.* ROBKBT SOUTHHt. THE FALL OF JERUSALEM. Jerusalem! Jerusalem! Thou art low! thou mighty one, How is the brilliance of thy diadem, How is the luster of thy throne, Rent from thee, and thy sun of fame Darkened by the shadowy pinion Of the Roman bird, whose sway All the tribes of earth obey, Crouching 'neath his dread dominion, And the terrors of his name! How is thy royal seat — whereon Sat in days of yore Lowly Jesse's godlike son, And the strength of Solomon, In . those rich and happy times When the ships from Tarshish bore Incense, and from-Ophir's land, With silken sail and cedar oar, Wafting to Judea's strand All the wealth of foreign climes — How is thy royal seat o'erthrown! Gone is all thy majesty! Salem! Salem! city of kings, Thou sittest desolate and lone, Where once the glory of the Most High Dwelt visibly enshrined between the wings Of Cherubim, within whose bright em- brace The golden mercy-seat remained: Land of Jehovah! view that sacred place Abandoned and profaned! Wail, fallen Salem, Wail! Mohammed's votaries pollute thy fane; The dark division of thine holy veil Is rent in twain! Thrice hath Sion's crowned rock Seen thy temple's marble state, Awfully, serenely great, Towering on his sainted brow, Rear its pinnacles of snow: Thrice, with desolating shock, Down to earth hath seen it driven From his heights, which reach to heaven! Wail, fallen Salem, Wail! Though not one stone above another There was left to tell the tale Of the greatness of thy' story, •George III. Yet the long lapse of ages oan not smother The blaze of thine abounding glory; Which through the mist of rolling years, O'er history's darkened page appears, Like the morning star, whose gleam Gazeth through the waste of night, What time old Ocean's purple stream In his cold surge hath deeply laved Its ardent front of dewy light. Oh! who shall e'er forget thy bands, which braved The terrors of the desert's barren reign. And that strong arm which broke the chain Wlherein ye foully lay enslaved, Or that sublime Theocracy which paved Your way through ocean's vast domain, And on, far on to Canaan's emerald plain Led the Israelitish crowd With a pillar and a cloud? Signs on earth and signs on high Prophesied thy destiny; A trumpet's voice above thee rung, A starry saber o'er thee, hung; Visions of fiery armies, redly flashing In the many-colored glare Of the setting orb of day; . And flaming chariots fiercely dashing, Swept along the peopled air, In magnificent array; The temple doors, on brazen hinges crash- ing, Burst open with appalling sound, A wondrous radiance streaming round! "Our blood be on our heads!" ye said: Such your awless imprecation: Full bitterly at length 'twas paid Upon your captive nation! Arms of adverse legions bound thee, Plague and pestilence stood round thee; Seven weary suns had brightened Syria's sky, Yet still was heard the unceasing cry, "From south, north, east, and west a voice, Woe unto thy sons and daughters! Woe to Salem! thou art lost!" A sound divine Came from the sainted, secret inmost shrine: "Let us go hence!" — and then a noise — The thunders of the parting Deity Like the rush of countless waters, Like the murmur of a host! Though now each glorious hope be blighted, Yet an hour shall come, when ye, Though scattered like the chaff, shall be Beneath one standard once again united; When your wandering race shall Prostrate at the dazzling throne Of your high Almighty Lord, The wonders of his searchless Word, The unfading splendors of his Son! Alfred ThnnysoN. 50 TREASURES OF POETRY. THE DYING ALCHEMIST. The night- wind with a desolate moan swept by; And the old shutters of the turret swung Screaming upon their hinges; and the moon, As the torn edges of the clouds flew past, Struggled aslant the strained and broken panes So dimly that the watchful eye of death Scarcely was conscious when it went and came. The fire beneath his crucible was low: Yet still it burned; and ever as his thoughts Grew insupportable, he raised himself Upon his wasted arm, and stirred the coals With difficult energy; and when the rod Fell from his nerveless fingers, and his eye Felt faint within its socket, he shrunk back Upon his pallet, and with unclosed lips Muttered a curse on death. The silent room, From its dim corners, mockingly gave back His rattling breath; the humming in the firo Had the distinctness of a knell; and when Duty the antique horologe beat one, He drew a phial from beneath his head, And drank. And instantly his lips com- pressed, And, with a shudder in his skeleton frame, He rose with supernatural strength, and sat Upright, and communed with himself: "I did not think to die Till I had finished what I had to do: I thought to pierce the eternal secret through With this my mortal eye. I felt — O God! it seemeth even now This can not be the death-dew on my brow! "And yet it is: I feel Of this dull sickness at my heart, afraid! And in my eye the death-sparks flash and fade; And something seems to steal Over my bosom like a frozen hand, Binding its pulses with an icy band. "And this is death! But why Feel I this wild recoil? It can not be The immortal spirit shuddereth to be free! Would it not leap to fly, Like a chained eaglet at its parent's call? I fear, I fear that this poor life is all! "Tet thus to pass away! To live but for a hope that mocks at last; To agonize, to strive, to watch, to fast, To waste the light of day, Night's better beauty, feeling, fancy, thought, All that we have and are, for this — for naught! "Grant me another year, God of my spirit! — but a day — to win Something to satisfy this thirst within! I would know something here! Break for me but one seal that is unbroken! Speak forme but one word that is unspoken! "Vain! vain! my brain is turning With a swift dizziness, and my heart grows sick, And these hot temple-throbs come fast and thick, And I am freezing — burning — Dying! O God, if I might only live! My phial! — Ha! it thrills me! — I revive! "Ay; were not man to die, He were too mighty for this narrow sphere! Had he but time to brood on knowledge here, Could he but train his eye, Might he but wait the mystic word and hour, Only his Maker would transcend his power! "Earth has no mineral strange, The illimitable air no hidden wings. Water no quality in covert springs, And fire no power to change, Seasons no mystery, and stars no spell, Which the unwasting soul might not com- pel. "Oh, but for time to track The upper stars into the pathless sky. To see the invisible spirits eye to eye, To hurl the lightning back, To tread unhurt the sea's dim-lighted halls, To chase Day's chariot to the horizon- walls! "And more, much more; for now The life-sealed fountains of my nature move To nurse and purify this human love; To clear the godlike brow Of weakness and mistrust, and bow it down, Worthy and beautiful, to the much-loved one! "This were indeed to feel The soul-thirst slaken at the living stream- To live — O God! that life is but a dream! And death — aha! I reel — Dim — dim — I faint — darkness comes o'er my eye — Cover me! save me! — God of heaven! I die!" 'Twas morning, and the old man lay alone. No friend had closed his eyelids, and his lips. Open and ashy pale, the expression wore Of his death-struggle. His long, silvery hair Lay on his hollow temples, thin and wild; His frame was wasted and his features wan And haggard as with want; and in his palm His nails were driven deep, as if the throe Of the last agony had wrung him sore. The storm was raging still. The shutters swung Screaming as harshly in the fitful wind, And all without went on, as aye it will, Sunshine or tempest, reckless that a heart Is breaking or has broken, in its change. NARRATIVE AND DESCRIPTIVE. 57 The fire beneath the crucible was out; The vessels of his mystic art lay round, Useless and cold as the ambitious hand That fashioned them; and the small rod, Familiar to his touch for threescore years, Lay on the alembic's rim, as if it still Might vex the elements at its master's will. r And thus had passed from its unequal frame A soul of fire; a sun-bent eagle, stricken From his hig-h soaring down; an instrument Broken with its own compass. Oh, how poor Seems the rich gift of genius when it lies, Like the adventurous bird that hath out« flown His strength upon the sea, ambition- wrecked! A thing the thrush might pity, as she sits, Brooding in quiet on her lowly nest. Nathanieu Paekeb Willis. And the idols are broken in the temple of Baal; And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord. Lord Byron. DESTRUCTION OF THE ASSYRIANS. The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green, That host with their banners at sunset were seen; Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown, That host on the morrow lay withered and strown. For the angel of death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed on the face of the foe as he passed. And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and for- ever grew still. And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, But through it there rolled not the breath of hia pride; And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf. And cold as the spray of the rock-beaten surf. And there lay the rider, distorted and pale, "With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail; And the tents were all silent, the banners alone. The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown, Ami the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, BABYLON. Bow, daughter of Babylon, bow thee to dust! Thine heart shall be quelled, and thy pride shall be crushed: Weep, Babylon, weep! for thy splendor is past; And they come like the storm in the day of the blast. Howl, desolate Babylon, lost one and lone! And bind thee in sackcloth — for where is thy throne? Like a wine-press in wrath will I trample thee down, And rend from thy temples the pride of thy crown. Though thy streets be a hundred, thy gates be all brass, Yet thy proud ones of war shall be with- ered like grass; Thy gates shall be broken, thy strength be laid low, And thy streets shall resound to the shouts of the foe. Though thy chariots of power on thy bat- tlements bound, And the grandeur of waters encompass thee round; Yet thy walls shall be shaken, thy waters shall fail, Thy matrons shall shriek, and thy king shall be pale. The terrible day of thy fall is at hand, When my rage shall descend on the face of thy land; The lances are pointed, the keen sword is bared, The shields are anointed, the helmets pre- pared. I call upon Cyrus. He comes from afar, And the armies of nations are gathered to war. With the blood of thy children his path shall be red, And the bright sun of conquest shall blaze o'er his head. Thou glory of kingdoms! thy princes are drunk, But their loins shall be loosed, and their hearts shall be sunk; They shall crouch to the dust, and be counted as slaves, 58 TREASURES OF POETRY. At the roll of his wheels, like the rushing of waves. For I am the Lord, who have mightily spanned The breadth of the heaven, and the sea and ; the land; And the mountains shall flow at my pres- ence, and earth Shall reel to and fro in the glance of my wrath. Your proud domes of cedar on earth shall be thrown, And the rank grass shall wave o'er the lonely hearthstone; And your sons and your sires and your daughters shall bleed By the barbarous hands of the murdering Mede! I will sweep ye away in destruction and death, As the whirlwind that scatters the chaff with its breath; And the fanes of your gods shall be sprink- led with gore, And the course of your stream shall be heard of no more. There the wandering Arab shall ne'er pitch his tent, But the beasts of the desert shall wail and lament; In their desolate houses the dragons shall lie, And the satyrs shall dance, and the bittern shall cry! Alfred Tennyson. DAVID S GRIEF FOR HIS CHILD. 'Twas daybreak, and the fingers of the dawn Drew the night's curtain, and touched si- lently The eyelids of the king. And David woke, And robed himself, and prayed. The in- mates, now, Of the vast palace were astir, and feet Glided: along the tesselated floors With a pervading murmur, and the fount Whose, music had been all the night un- heard, Played as if light had made it audible; And each one, waking, blessed it unaware. The fragrant strife of sunshine with the morn Sweetened the air to ecstasy, and now The king's wont was to lie upon his couch Beneath the sky-roof of the inner court, And, shut in from the world, but not from heaven, Play with his loved son by the fountain's lip; For, with idolatry confessed alone To the rapt wires of his reproofless harp, He loved the child of Bathsheba. And when The golden selvedge of his robe was heard Sweeping the marble pavement, from within Broke forth a child's laugh suddenly, and words — Articulate, perhaps, to his "heart only — Pleading to come to him. They brought the boy— An infant cherub, leaping as if used To hover with that motion upon wings, And marvelously beautiful! His brow Had the inspired up-lift of the king's, And kingly was his infantine regard; But his ripe mouth was of the ravishing mold Of Bathsheba' s — the hue and type of love, Rosy and passionate — and oh, the moist Unfathomable blue of his large eyes Gave out its light as twilight shows a star. And drew the heart of the beholder in!— And this was like his mother. David's lips Moved with unuttered blessings, and a while He closed the lids upon his moistened eyes, And, with the round cheek of the nestling boy Pressed to his bosom, sat as if afraid That but the lifting of his lids might jar The heart-cup's overfulness. Unobserved, A servant of the outer court had knelt Waiting before him; and a cloud the while Had rapidly spread o'er the summer heaven; And, as the chill of the withdrawing sun Fell on the king, he lifted up his eyes And frowned upon the servant— for that hour Was hallowed to his heart and his fair child, And none might seek him. And the king arose, And with a troubled countenance looked up To the fast-gathering darkness; and, behold, The servant bowed himself to earth, and said, "Nathan the prophet cometh from the Lord!" And David's lips grew white, and with a clasp Which wrung a murmur from the frighted child, He drew him to his breast, and covered him With the long foldings of his robe, and said, "I will come forth. Go now!" And linger- ingly With kisses on the fair uplifted brow, And mingled words of tenderness and prayer Breaking in tremulous accents from his lips, He gave to them the child, and bowed his head Upon his breast with agony. And so, To hear the errand of the man of God, He fearfully went forth. ********* It was the morning of the seventh day. A hush was in the palace, for all eyes Had woke before the morn; and they who drew The curtains to let in the welcome light, Moved* in their chambers with unslippered feet, And listened breathlessly. And still no stir! The servants who kept watch without the door NARRATIVE AND DESCRIPTIVE. 59 Sat motionless; the purple casement-shades From the low windows had been rolled away. To give the child air; and the flickering light That, all the night, within the spacious court, Had drawn the watcher's eye to one spot only, Paled with the sunrise and fled in. And hushed With more than stillness was the room where lay The king's son on his mother's breast. His locks Slept at the lips of Bathsheba unstirred — So fearfully, with heart and pulse kept down, She watched his breathless slumber. The low moan That from, his lips all night broke fitfully, Had silenced with the daybreak; and a smile— Or something that would fain have been a smile- Played in his parted mouth; and though his lids Hid not the blue of his unconscious eyes, His senses seemed all peacefully asleep, And Bathsheba in silence blessed the morn — That brought back hope to her! But when the king Heard not the voice of the complaining child, Nor breath from out the room, nor foot astir— But morning there — so welcomeless and still- He groaned and turned upon his face. The nights Had wasted, and the mornings come, and days Crept through the sky, unnumbered by the king, Since the child sickened; and, without the .dOOr* :> ;: Upon the bare earth prostrate, he ; had lain — Listening only to the moans that brought Their inarticulate tidings, and the voice Of Bathsheba, whose pity and caress, In loving utterance all broke with tears, Spoke as his heart would speak if he were there, And filled his prayer with agony. O God! To thy bright mercy-seat the way is far! How fail the weak words while the heart keeps on! And when the spirit, mournfully, at last, Kneels at thy throne, how cold, how dis- tantly The comforting of friends falls on the ear — The anguish they would speak to, gone to thee. But suddenly the watchers at the door Rose up and they who ministered within Crept to the threshold and looked earnestly Where the king lay. And still, while Bath- sheba Held the unmoving child upon her knees, The curtains were let down, and all came forth, And, gathering with fearful looks apart, , Whispered together. . . And the king arose And gazed on them a moment, and with voice Of quick, uncertain utterance, he asked,. "Is the child dead?" They answered,; "He is dead!" But when they looked to see him fall again Upon his face, and rend himself and weep — For while the child was sick, his agony . Would bear no comforters, and they had thought His heart-strings with the tidings must give way — Behold! his face grew calm, and, with his robe Gathered together like his kingly wont, He silently went in. And David came, Robed and anointed, forth, and to the house Of God went up to pray. And he returned, And they set bread before him, and he ate— And when they marveled, he said: "Where- fore mourn? The child is dead, and I shall go to him — But he will not return to me." Nathaniel Paekeb Willis. ABRAM AND ZIMRI. Abram and Zimri owned a field together — A level field hid in a happy vale; They plowed it with one plow, and in the spring Sowed, walking side by side, the fruitful Seed. :::;,.. In harvest, when the glad earth smiled with grain, Each carried to his home one-half the sheaves, And stored them with much labor in his barns. Now, Abram had a wife and seven sons, But Zimri dwelt alone within his house. One night, before the sheaves were gath- ered in, As Zimri lay upon his lonely bed And counted in his mind his little gains, He thought upon his brother Abram's lot; And said, "I dwell alone within my house, But Abram hath a wife and seven sons, And yet we share the harvest sheaves alike. He surely needeth more for life than I; I will arise, and gird myself, and go Down to the field, and add to his from mine," So he arose, and girded up his loins, And went out softly to the level field; The moon shone out from dusky bars of clouds, • . The trees stood black against the cold blue sky, The branches waved and whispered in the wind. So Zimri, guided by the shifting light, Went down the mountain- path, and found the field, . ., ...... Took from his store of sheaves a generous third, m TREASURES OF POETRY. And bore them grladly to his brother's heap, And then went back to sleep and happy dreams. Now, that same night, as Abram lay in bed, Thinking upon his blissful state in life, He thought upon his brother Zimri's lot, And said, "He dwells within his house alone, He goeth forth to toil with few to help, He goeth home at night to a cold house, And hath few other friends but me and mine" (For these two tilled the happy vale alone), "While I, whom Heaven hath very greatly blessed, Dwell happy with my wife and seven sons, Who aid me in my toil and make it light, And yet we share the harvest sheaves alike. This surely is not pleasing unto God; I will arise, and gird myself, and go Out to the field, and borrow from my store, And add unto my brother Zimri's pile." So he arose and girded up his loins, And went down softly to the level field. The moon shone out from silver bars of clouds, The trees stood blank against the starry sky, The dark leaves waved and whispered in the breeze; So Abram, guided by the doubtful light, Passed down the mountain-path and found the field. Took from his store of sheaves a gener- ous third, And added them unto his brother's heap, Then he went back to sleep and happy dreams. So the next morning with the early sun The brothers rose, and went out to their toil; And when they came to see the heavy sheaves, Each wondered in his heart to find his heap, Though he had given a third, was still the same. Now, the next night went Zimri to the field, Took from his store of sheaves a generous share, And placed them on his brother Abram's heap. And then lay down behind his pile to watch. The moon looked out from bars of silvery cloud. The cedars stood up black against the sky, The olive-branches whispered in the wind. Then Abram came down softly from his home. And, looking to the right and left, went on; Took from his ample store a generous third, And laid it on his brother Zimri's pile. Then Zimri rose, and caught him in his arms, And wept up©n his neck, and kissed his cheek; And Abram saw the whole, and could not speak, Neither could Zimri. So they walked along Back to their homes, and thanked their God in prayer That he had bound them in such loving bands. Clarencb Cook. SOLOMON AND THE BEES. When Solomon was reigning in his glory, Unto his throne the Queen of Sheba came (So in the Talmud you may read the story), Drawn by the magic of the monarch's fame, To see the splendors of his court, and bring Some fitting tribute to the mighty king. Nor this alone: much had her highness heard What flowers of learning graced the royal speech ; What gems of wisdom dropped with every word; What wholesome lessons he was wont to teach In pleasing proverbs; and she wished, in sooth, To know if Rumor spoke the simple truth. Besides, the queen had heard (which piqued her most) How through the deepest riddles he could spy; How all the curious arts that women boast Were quite transparent to his piercing ©ye; And so the queen had come — a royal guest — To put the sage's cunning to the test. And straight she held before the monarch's view, In either hand, a radiant wreath of flow- ers; The one, bedecked with every charming hue, Was newly culled from Nature's choicest bowers; The other, no less fair in every part, Was the rare product of divinest Art "Which is the true, and which the false?" she said. Great Solomon was silent. All amazed, Each wondering courtier shook his puz- zled head; While at the garlands long the monarch gazed, As one who sees a miracle, and fain, For very rapture, ne'er would speak again. "Which is the true?" once more the woman asked, Pleased at the fond amazement of the king; "So wise a head should not be hardly tasked, Most learned Liege, with such a trivial thing!" But still the sage was silent; it was plain A deepening doubt perplexed the royal brain While thus he pondered, presently he sees, Hard by the casement — so the story goes— A little band of busy, bustling bees. Hunting for honey in a withered rose. The monarch smiled, and raised his royal head; "Open the window!" that was all he said. The window opened at the king's command; Within the room the eager insects flew, NARRATIVE AND DESCRIPTIVE. «>] And sought the flowers in Sheba's dexter hand! And so the king and all the courtiers knew That wreath was Nature's; and the baffled queen Returned to tell the wonders she had seen. My story teaches (every tale should bear A fitting moral) that the wise may find In trifles light as atoms in the air Some useful lesson to enrich the mind — Some truth designed to profit or to please — As Israel's king learned wisdom from the bees! John G. Saxk. ABSALOM. The waters slept. Night's silvery veil hung low On Jordan's bosom, and the eddies curled Their glassy rings beneath it, like the still, Unbroken beating of the sleeper's pulse. The reeds bent down the stream; the wil- low-leaves, With a soft cheek upon the running tide, Forgot the lifting winds; and the long stems, Whose flowers the water, like a gentle nurse, Bears on its bosom, quietly gave way, And leaned, in graceful attitude, to rest, How strikingly the course of nature tells, By its light heed of human suffering, That it was fashioned for a happier world! King David's limbs were weary. He had fled Prom far Jerusalem; and now he stood, With his faint people, for a little rest, Upon the shore of Jordan. The light wind Of morn was stirring, and he bared his brow To its refreshing breath; for he had worn The mourner's covering, and he had not felt That he could see his people until now. They gathered round him on the fresh green bank And spoke their kindly words; and as the sun Rose up in heaven, he knelt among them there, And bowed his head upon his hands to pray. Oh! when the heart is full, when bitter thoughts Come crowding thickly up for utterance, And the poor common words of courtesy Are such an empty mockery, how much The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer! He prayed for Israel; and his voice went up Strongly and fervently. He prayed for those Whose love had been his shield; and his deep tones Grew tremulous. But, oh! for Absalom — For his estranged, misguided Absalom — The proud, bright being who had burst away, In all his princely beauty, to defy The heart that cherished him — for him he poured, In agony that would not be controlled, Strong supplication, and forgave him there, Before his God, for his deep sinfulness. The pall was settled He who slept be- neath Wbs straightened for the grave; and as the folds Sunk to the still proportions they betrayed The matchless symmetry of Absalom. His hair was yet unshorn, and silken curls Were floating round the tassels, as they swayed To the admitted air. as glossy now As when, in hours of gentle dalliance, bath- ing The snowy fingers of Judea's daughters. His helm was at his feet; his banner, soiled With trailing through Jerusalem, was laid, Reversed, beside him; and the jeweled hilt Whose diamonds lit the passage of his blade, Rested, like mockery, on his covered brow. The soldiers of the king trod to and fro, Clad in the garb of battle; and their chief, The mighty Joab, stood beside the bier, And gazed upon the dark pall steadfastly, As if he feared the slumberer might stir. A sIoty step startled him. He grasped his blade As if a trumpet rang; but the bent form Of David entered, and he gave command, In a low tone, to his few followers, And left him with his dead. The king stood still Till the last echo died: then, throwing off The sackcloth from his brow, and laying back The pall from the still features of his child, He bowed his head upon him, and broke forth In the resistless eloquence of woe: 'Alas, my noble boy, that thou shouldst die! Thou, who wert made so beautifully fair! That death should settle in thy glorious eye, And leave his stillness in this clustering hair! How could he mark thee for the silent tomb, My proud boy, Absalom? "Cold is thy brow, my son; and I am chill, As to my bosom I have tried to press thee. How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill, Like a rich harp-string, yearning to ca- ress thee, And hear thy sweet 'my father' from these dumb And cold lips, Absalom! "But death is on thee. I shall hear the gush Of music and the voices of the young, And life will pass me in the mantling blush, And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung; But thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shall come To meet me, Absalom! "And, oh! when I am stricken, and my heart, Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken, How will its love for thee, as I depart, 62 TREASURES OF POETRY. Yearn lor thine ear to drink its last deep "token! • It were so sweet amid death's gathering: • ; gloom To see thee, Absalom! **And now, farewell! 'Tis hard to give thee . -up, . With death so like a gentle slumber on .. thee; And thy dark sin! — Oh, I could drink the cup, If from this woe its bitterness had won thee! May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home, My erring Absalom!" lie covered up his face, and bowed himself A moment on his child; then, giving him A look of melting tenderness, he clasped His hands convulsively, as if in prayer, And, as if strength were given him of God, He rose up calmly, and composed the pall Firmly and decently, and left him there, As if his rest had been a breathing sleep. Nathaniel Pabkeb Willis. JEPHTHAH S DAUGHTER. She stood before her father's gorgeous tent, To listen for his coming. Her loose hair Was resting on her shoulders, like a cloud Floating around a statute, and the wind, Just swaying her light robe, revealed a shape Praxiteles might worship. She had clasped Her hands upon her bosom, and had raised Her beautiful, dark, Jewish eyes to heaven, Till the long lasbes lay upon her brow. Her lip was slightly parted, like the cleft Of a pomegranate blossom; and her neck, Just where the cheek was melting to its curve With the unearthly beauty sometimes there, Was shaded, as if light had fallen off, Its surface was so polished. She was still- ing Her light, quick breath to hear; and the white rose Scarce moved upon her bosom, as it swelled, Like nothing but a lovely wave of light, To meet the arching of her queenly neck. Her countenance was radiant with love. She looked like one to die for it — a being Whose whole existence was the pouring out Of rich and deep affections. Onward came The leaden tramp of thousands. Clarion notes Rang sharply on the ear at intervals; And the low, mingled din of mighty hosts, Returning from the battle, poured from far, Like the deep murmur of a restless sea. They came, as earthly conquerors always come, With blood and splendor, revelry and woe. The stately horse treads proudly — he hath trod "The brow of death as well. The chariot- wheels Of warriors roll magnificently on— Their weight hath crushed the fallen. Man is there — Majestic, lordly man — with his sublime And elevated brow, and godlike frame; Lifting his crest in triumph — for his heel Hath trod the dying like a wine-press down! The mighty Jephthah led his warriors on Through Mizpeh's streets. His helm was proudly set, And his stern lip curled lightly, as if praise Were for the hero's scorn. His step was firm, But free as India's leopard; and his mail, Whose shekels none in Israel anight bear, Was like a cedar's tassel on his frame. His crest was Judah's kingliest;and the look Of his dark, lofty eye, and bended brow, Might quell the lion. He led on; but thoughts Seemed gathering round which troubled him. The veins Grew visible upon his swarthy brow, And his proud lip was pressed as if with pain. He trod less firmly; and his restless eye Glanced forward frequently, as if some ill He dared not meet, were there. His home was near, And men were thronging, with that strange delight They have in human passions, to observe The struggle of his feelings with his pride. He gazed intently forward. The tall firs Before his door were motionless. The leaves Of the sweet aloe, and the clustering vines Which half concealed his threshold, met his eye, Unchanged and beautiful; and one by one, The balsam, with its sweet-distilling stems, And the Circassian rose, and all the crowd Of silent and familiar things, stole up, Like the recovered passages of dreams. He strode on rapidly. A moment more, And he had reached his home; when lo! there sprang One with a bounding footstep, and a brow Of light, to meet him. On, how beautiful! Her proud eye flashing like a sun-lit gem, And her luxuriant hair — 'twas like the sweep Of a wing in visions. He stood still, As if the sight had withered him. She threw Her arms about his neck; he heeded not. She called him "Father," but he answered not. She stood and gazed upon him. Was he wroth? There was no anger in that blood-shot eye. Had sickness seized him? She unclasped his helm, And laid her white hand gently on his brow, And the large veins felt stiff and hard, like cords. The touch aroused him. He raised up his hands, And spoke the name of God in agony. She knew that he was stricken then, and rushed Again into his arms, and with a flood NARRATIVE AND DESCRIPTIVE. 63 Of tears she could not stay, she sobbed a prayer That he would breathe his agony in words. He told her — and a momentary flush Shot o'er her countenance; and then the soul Of Jephthah's daughter wakened; and she stood Calmly and nobly up, and said 'twas well — And she would die. ***** The sun had well-nigh set. The fire was on the altar; and the priest Of the High God was there. A pallid man Was stretching- out his trembling hands to heaven, As if he would have prayed, but had no words — ■ And she who was to die, the calmest one In Israel at that hour, stood up alone, And waited for the sun to set. Her face Was pale, but very beautiful — her lip Had a more delicate outline, and the tint Wp,s deeper; but her countenance was like The majesty of angels. Nathaniel Pakkeb Willis. THE SACRIFICE OF ABRAHAM. Morn breaketh in the east. The purple clouds Are putting on their gold and violet, To look the meeter for the sun's bright coming. Sleep is upon the waters and the wind; And nature, from the wavy forest-leaf To her majestic master, sleeps. As yet There is no mist upon the deep blue sky, And the clear dew is on the blushing bosoms Of crimson roses in a holy rest. How hallowed is the hour of morning! meet — • Ay, beautifully meet — for the pure prayer. The patriarch standeth at his tented door, With his white locks uncovered. 'Tis his wont To gaze upon that gorgeous orient; And at that hour the awful majesty Of man who talketh often with his God, Is wont to come again, and clothe his brow As at his fourscore strength. But now, he seemeth To be forgetful of his vigorous frame, And boweth to his staff as at the hour Of noon-tide sultriness. And that bright sun — i He looketh at its penciled messengers, Coming in golden raiment, as if all Were but a graven scroll of fearfulness. Ah, he is waiting till it herald in The hour to sacrifice his much-loved son! Light poureth on the world. And Sarah stands Watching the steps of Abraham and her child Along the dewy sides of the far hills, And praying that her sunny boy faint not. Would she have watched their path so si- lently, If she had known that he was going up, E'en in his fair-haired beauty, to be slain As a white lamb for sacrifice? They trod Together onward, patriarch and child, The bright sun throwing back the old man's . shade In straight and fair proportions, as of one Whose years were freshly numbered. He stood up, Tall in his vigorous strength ; and, like a tree Rooted in Lebanon, his frame bent not. His thin white hairs had yielded to the wind, And left his brow uncovered; and his face, Impressed with the stern majesty of grief Nerved to a solemn duty, now stood forth Like a rent rock, submissive, yet sublime. But the young boy — he of the laughing eye And ruby lip — the pride of life was on him. He seemed to drink the morning. Sun and dew, And the aroma of the spicy trees, And all that giveth the delicious East Its fitness for an Eden, stole like light Into his spirit, ravishing his thoughts With love and beauty. Every thing he met, Buoyant or beautiful, the lightest wing Of bird or insect, or the palest dye Of the fresh flowers, won him from his path ; And joyously broke forth his tiny shout. As he flung back his silken hair, and sprung Away to some green spot or clustering vine, To pluck his infant trophies. Every tree And fragrant shrub was a new hiding-place; And he would crouch till the old man came by, Then bound before him with his childish laugh, Stealing a look behind him playfully, To see if he made his father smile. The sun rode on in heaven. The dew stole up From the fresh daughters of the earth, and heat Came like a sleep upon the delicate leaves, And bent them with the blossoms to their dreams Still trod the patriarch on, with that same step, Firm and unfaltering; turning not aside To seek the olive shades, or lave their lips In the sweet waters of the Syrian wells, Whose gush hath so much music. Weari- ness Stole on the gentle boy, and he forgot To toss his sunny hair from off his brow. And spring for the fresh flowers and light wings As in the early morning; but he kept Close by his father's side, and bent his head Upon his bosom like a drooping bud, Lifting it not, save now and then, to steal A look up to the face whose sternness awed His childishness to silence. It was noon — And Abraham on Moriah bowed himself, And buried up his face, and prayed for strength. He could not look upon his son, and pray; But, with his hand upon the clustering curls Of the fair, kneeling boy, he prayed that God Would nerve him for that hour. * * * ***** He rose up, and laid The wood upon the altar. All was done. He stood a moment — and a deop, quick flush 64 TREASURES OF POETRY. Passed o'er his countenance; and then he nerved His spirit with a bitter strength, and spoke — - "Isaac! my only son!" — The boy looked up: "Where is the lamb, my father?" — Oh, the tones, The sweet, familiar voice of a loved child! What would its music seem at such an hour! It was the last deep struggle. Abraham held His loved, his beautiful, his only son, And lifted up his arm, and called on God — And lo! God's angel stayed him — and he fell Upon his face, and wept. Nathaniel Parkeb Wilms. THE CITIES OF THE PLAIN. "Get ye up from the wrath of God's terrible day! Ungirded, unsandalled, arise and away! 'Tis the vintage of blood, 'tis the fulness of time, And vengeance shall gather the harvest of crime!" The warning was spoken; the righteous had gone, And the proud ones of Sodom were feasting alone. All gay was the banquet; the revel was long, With the pouring of wine and breathing of song. 'Twas an evening of beauty; the air was perfume, The earth was all greenness, the trees were all bloom; And softly the delicate viol was heard Like the murmur of love or the notes of a bird. And beautiful maidens moved down in the dance, With the magic of motion and sunshine of glance; And white arms wreathed lightly, and tresses fell free As the plumage of birds in some tropical tree. Where the shrines of foul idols were lighted on high, And wantonness tempted the lust of the eye; Midst rites of obsceneness, strange, loath- some, abhorred, The blasphemer scoffed at the name of the Lord. Hark! the growl of the thunder — the quak- ing of earth! Woe, woe to the worship, and woe to the mirth ! The black sky has opened — there's flame in the air — The red arm of vengeance is lifted and bare! Then the shriek of the dying rose wild where the song, And the low tone of love had been whis- pered along; For the fierce flames went lightly o'er pal- ace and bower, Like the red tongues of demons, to blast and devour! Down — down on the fallen the red ruin rained, And the reveler sank with his wine-cup un- drained; The foot of the dancer, the music's loved thrill, And the shout and the laughter grew sud- denly still. The last throb of anguish was fearfully given; The last eye glared forth in its madness on heaven! The last groan of horror rose wildly and vain, And death brooded over the pride of the Plain! John Gbeenlbaf Whittikb. SCENE IN GETHSEMANE. The moon was shining yet. The Orient's brow, Set with the morning star, was not yet dim; And the deep silence which subdues the breath Like a strong feeling, hung upon the world As sleep upon the pulses of a child. 'Twas the last watch of night. Gethsemane, With its bathed leaves of silver, seemed dissolved In visible stillness; and as Jesus' voice, With its bewildering sweetness, met the ear Of his disciples, it vibrated on Like the first whisper in a silent world. They came on slowly. Heaviness oppressed The Savior's heart, and when the kindnesses Of his deep love were poured, he felt the need Of near communion, for his gift of strength Was wasted by the spirit's weariness. He left them there, and went a little on, And in the depth of that hushed silentness, Alone with God, he fell upon his face; And as his heart was broken with the rush Of his surpassing agony, and death, Wrung to him from a dying universe, Was mightier than the Son of man could bear, He gave his sorrows way — and in the deep Prostration of his soul, breathed out the prayer, "Father, if it be possible with thee, Let this cup pass from me." Oh, how a word, Like the forced drop before the fountain breaks, Stilleth the press of human agony! The Savior felt its quiet in his soul; And though his strength was weakness, and the light NARRATIVE AND DESCRIPTIVE. 64 Which led him on till now was sorely dim, He breathed a new submission — "Not my will. But thine be done .O Father!" As he spoke, Voices were heard in heaven, and music stole Out from the chambers of the vaulted sky As if the stars were swept like instruments. No cloud was visible, but radiant wings Were coming: with a silver j' rush to earth, And as the Savior rose, a glorious one, With an illumined forehead, and the light Whose fountain is the mystery of God, Encalmed within his eye, bowed down to him And nerved him with a ministry of strength. It was enough — and with his godlike brow Rewritten of his Father's messenger, With meekness, whose divinity is more Than power and glory, he returned again To his disciples, and awaked their sleep, For "he that should betray him was at hand." Nathaniel Parker Willis. THE FAREWELL. [Of a Virginia slave mother to her daughters sold into bondage.] Gone, gone, sold and gone, To the rice-swamp dank and lone. Where the slave-whip ceaseless swings, Where the noisome insect stings, Where the fever demon strews Poison with the falling dews, Where the sickly sunbeams glare Through the hot and misty air — Gone, gone, sold and gone, To the rice-swamp dank and lone, From Virginia's hills and waters — Woe is me, my stolen daughters! Gone, gone, sold and gone, To the rice-swamp dank and lone. There no mother's eye is near them, There no mother's ear can hear them; Never, when the torturing lash Seams their back with many a gash, Shall a mother's kindness bless them, Or a mother's arms caress them. Gone, gone, sold and gone, To the rice-swamp dank and lone, From Virginia's hills and waters — Woe is me, my stolen daughters! Gone, gone, sold and gone, To the rice-swamp dank and lone. Oh, when weary, sad, and slow, From the fields at night they go, Faint with toil, and racked with pain, To their cheerless homes again, There no brother's voice shall greet them, There no father's welcome meet them. Gone, gone, sold and gone, To the rice-swamp dank and lone, From Virginia's hills and waters — "Woe is me, my stolen daughters! Gone, gone, sold and gone, To the rice-swamp dank and lone. JTrom the tree whose shadow lay On their childhood's place of play; From the cool spring where they drank, Rock, and hill, and rivulet bank; From the solemn house of prayer, And the holy counsels there — Gone, gone, sold and gone, To the rice-swamp dank and lone, From Virginia's hills and waters — Woe is me, my stolen daughters! Gone, gone, sold and gone, To the rice-swamp dank and lone. Toiling through the weary day, And at night the spoiler's prey. Oh, that they had earlier died, Sleeping calmly, side by side, Where the tyrants power is o'er, And the fetter galls no more! Gone, gone, sold and gone, To the rice-swamp dank and lone, From Virginia's hills and waters — Woe is me, my stolen daughters! Gone, gone, sold and gone, To the rice-swamp dank and lone. By the holy love He beareth, — By the bruised reed He spareth, — Oh, may He to whom alone All their cruel wrongs are known Still their hope and refuge prove, With a more than mother's love! Gone, gone, sold and gone, To the rice-swamp dank and lone, From Virginia's hills and waters — Woe is me, my stolen daughters! John Greenleaf Whittier. THE DESERTED VILLAGE. Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain, Where health and plenty cheereu the labor- ing swain, Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid, And parting summer's lingering blooms de- layed ; Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, Seats of my youth when every sport cou!d please; How often have I loitered o'er thy green, Where humble happiness endeared each scene! How often have I paused on every charm — The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm, The never-failing brook, the busy mill, The decent church t t topped the neighbor- ing hill, The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade, For talking age and whispering lovers made! How often have I blessed the coming day, When toil remitting lent its turn to play, And all the village train, from labor free, Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree! While many a pastime circled in the shade, The young contending, as the old surveyed: And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground, And sleights of art, and feats of strength went round ; 66 TREASURES OF POETRY. And still, as each repeated pleasure tired, Succeeding- sports the mirthful band in- spired. The dancing pair that simply sought renown By holding out to tire each other down; The swain mistrustless of his smutted face, While secret laughter tittered round the place; The bashful virgin's side-long looks of love; The matron's glance, that would these looks reprove; These were thy charms, sweet village! sports like these, With sweet succession taught e'en toil to please; These round thy bowers their cheerful in- fluence shed, These were thy charms — but all these charms are fled. Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn, Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn. Amid thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen, And desolation saddens all thy green; One only master grasps the whole domain, And half a tillage stints the smiling plain; No more thy glassy brook reflects the day, But choked with sedges works its weedy- way; Along thy glades, a solitary guest, The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest; Amid thy desert walks the lapwing flies, And tires their echoes with unvaried cries; Sunk are thy bowers, in shapeless ruin all, And the long grass o'ertops the moldering wall; And, trembling, shrinking from the spoil- ers' hand, Far, far away thy children leave the land. ********** Sweet Auburn, parent of the blissful hour. Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power. Here as I take my solitary rounds, Amid thy tangled walks, and ruined grounds, And, many a year relapsed, return to view Where once the cottage stood, the haw- thorn grew, Remembrance wakes with all her busy train, Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain. In all my wanderings through this world of care, In all my griefs — and God has given me my share — ■ I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown, Amid these humble bowers to lay me down; To husband out life's taper at the close, And keep the flame from wasting by repose; I still had hopes, for pride attends us still, Amid the swains to show my book-learned skill; Around my fire an evening group to draw, And tell of all I felt, and all I saw; And, as a hare when hounds and horns pursue, Pants to the place from whence at first she flew, I still had hopes, my long vexations past, Here to return — and die at home at last. Sweet was the sound, when oft, at eve- ning's close. Up yonder hill the village murmur rose; There, as I passed with careless steps and slow, The mingled notes came softened from be- low; The swain responsive as the milkmaid sung, The sober herd that lowed to meet their young, The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, The playful children just let loose from school, The watch-dog's voice that bayed the whis- pering wind, And the loud laugh that spake the vacant mind; These all in sweet confusion sought the shade, And filled each pause the nightingale had made. But now the sounds of population fail, No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale, No busy steps the grass-grown footway tread, But all the blooming flush of life is fled; All but yon widowed, solitary thing, That feebly bends beside the plashy spring; She, wretched matron, forced, in age, for bread, To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread, To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn, To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn; She only left of all the harmless train, The sad historian of the pensive plain. Near yonder copse, where once the gar- den smiled, And still where many a garden flower grows wild; There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, The village preacher's modest mansion rose. A man he was to all the country dear, And passing rich with forty pounds a year, Remote from towns he ran his godly race, Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change, his place; Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour; For other aims his heart had learnt to prize, More bent to raise the wretched than to rise. His house was known to all the vagrant train, He chide their wanderings, but relieved their pain; The long-remembered beggar was his guest, Whose beard descending swept his aged breast; The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud, Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed; The broken soldier, kindly bid to stay, Sat by his fire, and talked the night away; Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done, Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were won. NARRATIVE AND DESCRIPTIVE. 67 Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow, And quite forgot their vices in their woe; Careless their merits or their faults to scan, His pity gave ere charity began. Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, And e'en his failings leaned to virtue's side; But in his duty prompt at every call, He watched and wept, he prayed and felt, for all. And, as a bird each fond endearment tries, To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies; He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. Beside the bed where parting life was laid, And sorrow, guilt, and pains, by turns dis- mayed, The reverend champion stood. At his con- trol, Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul; Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, And his last faltering accents whispered praise. At church with meek and unaffected grace, His looks adorned the venerable place; Truth from his lips prevailed, with double sway, And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray. The service past, around the pious man, With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran; E'en children followed, with endearing wile, And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smile. His ready smile a parent's warmth ex- pressed; Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed; To them his heart, his love, his griefs, were given, But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven: As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form, Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, Eternal sunshine settles on its head. Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way, With blossomed furze unprofitably gay, There, in his noisy mansion skilled to rule, The village master taught his little school. A man severe he was, and stern to view, I knew him well, and every truant knew. Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace The day's disasters in his morning face; Full well they laughed with counterfeited glee, At all his jokes, for many a joke had he; Full well the busy whisper, circling round, Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned ; Yet he was kind, or if severe in aught, The love he bore to learning was in fault. The village all declared how much he knew; 'Twas certain he could write and cipher too; Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage, And e'en the story ran that he could gauge; In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill, For e'en though vanquished, he could argue still; While words of learned length, and thun- dering sound, Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around, And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew, That one small head should carry all he knew. But past is all his fame. The very spot Where many a time he triumphed, is forgot. Near yonder thorn that lifts its head so high, Where once the signpost caught the pas3- ing eye, Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspired, Where gray-beard mirth, and smiling toil, retired ; Where village statesmen talked with looks profound, And news much older than their ale went round. Imagination fondly stoops to trace, The parlor-splendors of that festive place — The white-washed wall, the nicely sanded floor, The varnished clock that clicked behind the door; The chest, contrived a double debt to pay, A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day; The pictures placed for ornament and use; The twelve good rules; the royal game of goose; The hearth, except when winter chilled the day, With aspen boughs, and flowers, and fennel gay, While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show, Ranged o'er the chimney, glistened in a row. ********* Good Heaven! what sorrows gloomed that parting day, That called them from their native walks away; When the poor exiles, every pleasure past, Hung round the bowers, and fondly looked their last, And took a long farewell, and wished in vain, For seats like these beyond the western main; And shuddering still to face the distant deep, Returned and wept, and still return to weep! The good old sire, the first prepared to go, To new-found worlds, and wept for others' woe; But for himself, in conscious virtue brave, He only wished for worlds beyond the grave- His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears, The fond companion of his helpless years, Silent went next, neglectful of her charms, And left a lover's for a father's arms. TREASURES OF POETRY. With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes, And blessed the cot where every pleasure rose; And kissed her thoughtless babes with many a tear, And clasped them close, in sorrow doubly dear; While her fond husband strove to lend re- lief, In all the silent manliness of grief. * * * * * * * * * Even now the devastation is begun, And half the business of destruction done; Even now, methinks, as pondering here I stand, I see the rural virtues leave the land. Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail, That idly waiting flaps with every gale, Downward they move, a melancholy band! Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand. ********* Oliveb Goldsmith. THE HEALING OF THE DAUGHTER OF JAIRUS. Freshly the cool breath of the coming eve Stole through the lattice, and the dying girl Felt it upon her forehead. She had lain Since the hot noontide in a breathless trance, Her thin pale fingers clasped within the hand Of the heart-broken ruler, and her breast, Like the dead marble, white and motionless, The shadow of a leaf lay on her lips, And, as it stirred with the awakening wind, The dark lids lifted from her languid eyes, And her slight fingers moved, and heavily She turned upon her pillow. He was there — The same loved, tireless watcher, and she looked Into his face until her sight grew dim With the fast-falling tears; and, with a sigh Of tremulous weakness murmuring his name, She gently drew his hand upon her lips, And kissed it as she wept. The old man sunk Upon his knees, and in the drapery Of the rich curtains buried up his face; And when the twilight fell, the silken folds Stirred with his prayer, but the slight hand he held Had ceased its pressure; and he could not hear, In the dead, utter silence, that a breath Came through her nostrils, and her temples gave To his nice touch no pulse; and, at her mouth, He held the lightest curl that on her neck Lay with a mocking beauty, and his gaze Ached with its deathly stillness. * * * * * * * * It was night— And, softly, o'er the Sea of Galilee, Danced the breeze-ridden ripples to the shore, Tipped with the silver sparkles of the moon. The breaking waves played low upon the beach Their constant music, but the air beside Was still as starlight, and the Savior's voice, In its rich cadences unearthly sweet, Seemed like some just-born harmony in the air, Waked by the power of wisdom. On a rock. With the broad moonlight falling on his brow, He stood and taught the people. At his feet Lay the small scrip, and pilgrim's scallop- shell, And staff, for they had waited by the sea Till he came o'er from Gadarene, and prayed For his wont teachings as he came to land. His hair was parted meekly on his brow, And the long curls from off his shoulders fell, As he leaned forward earnestly, and still The same calm cadence, passionless and deep, And in his looks the same mild majesty, And in his mien the sadness mixed with power, Filled them with love and wonder. Sud- denly, As on his words entrancedly they hung, The crowd divided, and among them stood Jairus the ruler. With his flowing robe Gathered in haste about his loins, he came, And fixed his eyes on Jesus. Closer drew The Twelve disciples to their Master's side; And silently the people shrunk away, And left the haughty ruler in the midst Alone. A moment longer on the face Of the meek Nazarene he kept his gaze, And, as the Twelve looked on him, by the light Of the clear moon they saw a glistening tear Steal to his silver beard; and, drawing nigh Unto the Savior's feet, he took the hem Of his coarse mantle, and with trembling hands Pressed it upon his lids, and murmured low, "Master! my daughter!" * * * * * * * * The same silvery light, That shone upon the lone rock by the sea, Slept on the ruler's lofty capitals, As at the door he stood, and welcomed in Jesus and his disciples. All was still. The echoing vestibule gave back the slide Of their loose sandals, and the arrowy beam Of moonlight, slanting to the marble floor, Lay like a spell of silence in the rooms, As Jairus led them on. With hushing steps He trod the winding stair; but ere he touched The latchet, from within a whisper came, "Trouble the Master not — for she is dead!" And his faint hand fell nerveless at his side, And his steps faltered, and his broken voice Choked in its utterance — but a gentle hand Was laid upon his arm, and in his ear NARRATIVE AND DESCRIPTIVE. 69 The Savior's voice sank thrillingly and low, "She is not dead — but sleepeth." They passed in. The spice-lamps in the alabaster urns Burned dimly, and the white and fragrant smoke Curled indolently on the chamber walls. The silken curtains slumbered in their folds— Not even a tassel stirring in the air — And as the Savior stood beside the bed, And prayed inaudibly, the ruler heard The quickening division of his breath As he grew earnest inwardly. There came A gradual brightness o'er his calm, sad face; And, drawing nearer to the bed, he moved The silken curtains silently apart, And looked upon the maiden. Like a form Of matchless sculpture in her sleep she lay, The linen vesture folded on her breast, And over it her white transparent hands, The blood still rosy in their tapering nails. A line of pearl ran through her parted lips, And in her nostrils, spiritually thin, The breathing curve was mockingly like life; And round beneath the faintly tinted skin Ran the light branches of the azure veins; And on her cheek the jet lash overlay, Matching the arches penciled on her brow. Her hair had been unbound, and falling loose Upon her pillow, hid her small round ears In curls of glossy blackness, and about Her polished neck, scarce touching it, they hung. Like airy shadows floating as they slept. 'Twas heavenly beautiful. The Savior raised Her hand from off her bosom, and spread out The snowy fingers in his palm, and said, "Maiden! Arise!" — and suddenly a flush Shot o'er her forehead, and along her lips And through her cheek the rallied color ran; And the still outline of her graceful form Stirred in the linen vesture; and she clasped The Savior's hand, and fixing her dark eyes Full on his beaming countenance — AROSE! Nathaniel Parker Willis. CHRIST S ENTRANCE INTO JERUSALEM. He sat upon the "ass's foal" and rode On to Jerusalem. Beside him walked, Closely and silently, the faithful Twelve, And on before him went a multitude Shouting Hosannas, and with eager hands Strewing their garments thickly in his way. The unbroken foal beneath him gently stepped, Tame as its patient dam; and as the song Of "Welcome to the Son of David" burst Forth from a thousand children, and the leaves Of the waved branches touched its silken It turned its wild eye for a moment back, And then, subdued by an invisible hand, Meekly trode onward with its slender feet. The dew's last sparkle from the grass had gone As he rode up Mount Olivet. The woods Threw their cool shadows freshly to the west, And the light foal, with quick and toiling step, And head bent low, kept its unslackened way Till its soft mane v/as lifted by the wind Sent o'er the mount from Jordan. As he reached The summit's breezy pitch, the Savior raised His calm blue eye — there stood Jerusalem! Eagerly he bent forward, and beneath His mantle's passive folds, a bolder line Than the wont slightness of his perfect limbs Betrayed the swelling fulness of his heart. There stood Jerusalem! How fair she looked — The silver sun on all her palaces, And her fair daughters mid the golden spires Tending their terrace flowers, and Kedron's stream Lacing the meadows with its silver band, And wreathing its mist-mantle on the sky With the morn's exhalations. There she stood — • Jerusalem — the city of his love, Chosen from all the earth; Jerusalem — That knew him not, and had rejected him; Jerusalem — for whom he came to die! The shouts redoubled from a thousand lips At the fair sight; the children leaped and sang Louder Hosannas; the clear air was filled With odor from the trampled olive-leaves — But "Jesus wept." The loved disciples saw His Master's tears, and closer to his side He came with yearning looks, and on his neck The Savior leant with heavenly tenderness, And mourned — "How oft, Jerusalem! would I Have gathered you, as gathereth a hen Her brood beneath her wings — but ye would not!" He thought not of the death that he should die; He thought not of the thorns he knew must pierce His forehead; of the buffet on the cheek, The scourge, the mocking homage, the foul scorn.' Gethsemane stood out beneath his eye Clear in the morning sun, and there, he knew, While they who "could not watch with him one hour" Were sleeping, he should sweat great drops of blood, Praying the "cup might pass." And Golgotha Stood bare and desert by the city wall, And in its midst, to his prophetic eye, Rose the rough cross, and its keen agonies Were numbered all — the nails were in his feet, The insulting sponge was pressing on hi» lips, 70 TREASURES OF POETRY. The blood and water gushing- from his side, The dizzy faintness swimming- in his brain, And while his own disciples fled in fear, A world's death-agonies all mixed in his! Ay! he forgot all this. He only saw Jerusalem — the chosen — the loved — the lost! He only felt that for her sake his life Was vainly given, and, in his pitying love, The sufferings that would clothe the heav- ens in black, Were quite forgotten. Was there ever love. In earth or heaven, equal unto this? P. Willis. THE MAIDEN MARTYR. [The following is a true incident. It occurred in the history of the Scotch Covenanters. ] A troop of soldiers waited at the door, A crowd of people gathered in the street, Aloof a little from them bared sabers gleamed, And flashed into their faces. Then the door Was opened, and two women meekly stepped Into the sunshine of the sweet May-noon, Out of the prison. One was weak and old, A woman full of tears, and full of woes; The other was a maiden in her morn. And they were one in name, and one in faith, Mother and daughter in the bond of Christ, That bound them closer than the ties of blood. The troop moved on; and down the sunny street The people followed, ever falling back As in their faces flashed the naked blades. But in the midst the women simply went As if they two were walking, side by side, Up to God's house on some still Sabbath morn, Only they were not clad for Sabbath-day; But as they went about their daily tasks, They went to prison and they went to death, Upon their Master's service. On the shore The troopers halted. All the shining sands Lay bare and glistering; for the tide had Drawn back to its farthest margin's weedy mark, And each succeeding wave, with flash and curve, That seemed to mock the sabers on the shore, Drew nearer by a hand-breadth: "It will be A long day's work," murmured those mur- derous men As they slacked rein. The leader of the troops Dismounted, and the people passing near Then heard the pardon proffered, with the oath Renouncing and abjuring part with all The persecuted, covenanted folk; But both refused the oath: "Because," they said, "Unless with Christ's dear servants we have part, Wo have no part with him." On this they took The elder Margaret, and led her out Over the sliding sands, the weedy sludge, The pebbly shoals, far out, and fastened her Unto the farthest stake, already reached By every rising wave, and left her there; And as the waves crept about her feet, she prayed "That He would firm uphold her in their midst, Who holds them in the hollow of His hand." The tide flowed in. And up and down the shore There paced the Provost and the Laird of Grim Grierson— with Windram and with Graham; And the rude soldiers, jesting with coarse oath, As in the midst the maiden meekly stood, Waiting her doom delayed, said "she would Turn before the tide — seek refuge in their arms From the chill waves." But ever to her lips There came the wondrous words of life and peace: "If God be for us, who can be against? Who shall divide us from the love of Christ? Nor height, nor depth, nor any other crea- ture." From the crowd A woman's voice cried a very bitter cry — "O Margaret! My bonnie, bonnie Margaret! Gie in, gie in, my bairnie, dinna ye drown, Gie in, and tak' the oath." The tide flowed in; And so wore on the sunny afternoon; And every fire went out upon the hearth, And not a meal was tasted in the town that day. And still the tide was flowing in; Her mother's voice yet sounding in her ear, They turned young Margaret's face toward the sea, Where something white was floating— some- thing White as the seamew that sits upon the wave; But as she looked it sank; then showed again; Then disappeared; and round the shore And stake the tide stood ankle deep. Then Grierson With cursing vowed that hie would wait No more, and to the stake the soldier led her Down, and tied her hands, and round her Slender waist too roughly cast the rope, for Windram came and eased it while he whis- pered In her ear, "Come, dear, take the test, and ye are free." And one cried, "Margaret, say but, God save The king!" "God save the king of his great grace," She answered, but the oath she would not take. And still the tide flowed in, And drove the people back, and silenced them. The tide flowed in, and rising to her knees, NARRATIVE AND DESCRIPTIVE. She sang: the psalm, "To Thee I lift my soul." The tide flowed in, and rising to her waist, "To thee, my God, I lift my soul," she sang-. The tide flowed in, and rising- to her throat, She sang- no more, but lifted up her face, And there was glory over all the sky, And there was glory over all the sea — A flood of glory — and the lifted face Swam in it till it bowed beneath the flood, And Scotland's Maiden Martyr went to God. THE BURNING OF CHICAGO. 'Twas night in the beautiful city, The famous and wonderful city, The proud and magnificent city, The Queen of the North and the West. The riches of nations were gathered in wondrous and plentiful store; The swift-speeding bearers of commerce were waiting on river and shore; The great staring walls towered skyward, with visage undaunted and bold, And said, "We are ready, O Winter! come on with your hunger and cold! Sweep down with your storms from the Northward! come out from your ice-guarded lair! Our larders have food for a nation! our Wardrobes have clothing to spare! For off from the corn-bladed prairies, and out from the valleys and hills, The farmer has swept us his harvests, the miller has emptied his mills; And here, in the lap of our city, the treas- ures of autumn shall rest, In golden-crowned, glorious Chicago, the Queen of the North and the West." 'Twas night in the church-guarded city, The templed and altar-decked city, The sacred and spire-adorned city, The Queen of the North and the West. And out from the beautiful temples that Wealth in its fulness had made, And out from the haunts that were hum- ble, where poverty peacefully prayed, Where praises and thanks had been of- fered to Him where they rightly belonged, In peacefulness quietly homeward the wor- shiping multitude thronged: The Pharisee, laden with riches and jew- elry, costly and rare, Who proudly deigned thanks to Jehovah he was not as other men are; The penitent, crushed in his weakness, and laden with pain and with sin; The outcast, who yearningly waited to hear the glad bidding, "Come in"; And thus went they quietly homeward, with sins and omissions confessed, In spire-adorned, templed Chicago, the Queen of the North and the West. *Twas night in the sin-burdened city, The turbulent, vice-laden city, The sin-compassed, rogue-haunted city, Though Queen of the North and the West. And low in their caves of pollution great beasts of humanity growled; And over his money-strewn table the gam- bler bent fiercely and scowled; And men with no seeming of manhood, with countenance flaming and fell, Drank deep from the fire-laden fountains that spring from the rivers of hell; And men with no seeming of manhood, who dreaded the coming of day, Prowled, cat-like, for blood-purchased plun- der from men who were better than they; And men with no seeming of manhood, whose dearest craved glory was shame, Whose joys were the sorrows of others, whose harvests were acres of flame, Slunk, whispering and low, in their cor- ners, with bowie and pistol tight- pressed, In rogue-haunted, sin-cursed Chicago, though Queen of the North and the West. 'Twas night in the elegant city, The rich and voluptuous city, The beauty-thronged, mansion-decked city, Gay Queen of the North and the West. And childhood was placidly resting in slum- ber untroubled and deep; And softly the mother was fondling her innocent baby to sleep; And maidens were dreaming of pleasures and triumphs the future should show, And scanning the brightness and glory of joys they were never to know; And firesides were cheerful and happy, and Comfort smiled sweetly around, But grim Desolation and Ruin looked into the window and frowned; And pitying angels looked downward, and gazed on their loved ones below, And longed to reach forth a deliverance, and yearned to beat backward the foe; But Pleasure and Comfort were reigning, nor danger was spoken or guessed, In beautiful, golden Chicago, gay Queen of the North and the West. Then up in the streets of the city, The careless and negligent city, The soon-to-be-sacrificed city, Doomed Queen of theNorth and the West, Crept, softly and slyly, so tiny it hardly was worthy the name, Crept, slowly and softly through the rub- bish, a radiant serpent of flame. The South-wind and West-wind came shriek- ing, "Rouse up in your strength and your ire! For many a year they have chained you, and crushed you, O demon of fire! For many a year they have bound you, and made you their servant and slave! Now, rouse you, and dig for this city a fiery and desolate grave! 72 TREASURES OF POETRY. Freight heavy with grief and with wailing her world-scattered pride and re- nown! Charge straight on her mansions of splen- dor, and battle her battlements down ! And we, the strong South-wind and West- wind, with thrice-doubled fury pos- sessed, Will sweep with you over this city, the Queen of the North and the West!" Then straight at the great quiet city, The strong and o'er-confident city, The well-nigh invincible city, Doomed Queen of the North and the West, The Fire-devil rallied his legions, and speeded them forth on the wind, With tinder and treasures before him, with ruins and tempests behind. The tenement crushed 'neath his footstep, the mansion oped wide at his knock; And walls that had frowned him defiance, they trembled and fell with a shock; And down on the hot, smoking house-tops, came raining a deluge of fire; And serpents of flame writhed and clam- bered and twisted on steeple and spire ; And beautiful, glorious Chicago, the city of riches and fame, Was swept by a storm of destruction, was flooded by billows of flame. The Fire-king loomed high in his glory, with crimson and flame-streaming crest, And grinned his fierce scorn on Chicago, doomed Queen of the North and the West. Then swiftly the quick-breathing city. The fearful and panic-struck city, The startled and fire-deluged city, Rushed back from the South and the West. And loudly the fire-bells were clanging, and ringing their funeral notes; And loudly wild accents of terror come peal- ing from thousands of throats; And loud was the wagon's deep rumbling, and loud the wheel's clatter and creak. And loud was the calling for succor from those who were sightless and weak, And loud were the hoofs of the horses, and loud was the tramping of feet, And loud was the gale's ceaseless howling through fire-lighted alley and street; But louder, yet louder, the crashing of roofs and of walls as they fell, And louder, yet louder, the roaring that told of the coming of hell. The Fire-king threw back his black mantle from off his great blood-dappled breast, And sneered in the face of Chicago, the Queen of the North and the West. 'Twas morn in the desolate city, The ragged and ruin-heaped city, The homeless and hot-smoking city, The grief of the North and the West. But down from the West came the bid ding, "O Queen, lift in courage thy head! Thy friends and thy neighbors awaken, and hasten with raiment and bread." And up from the South came the bidding, Cheer up, fairest Queen of the Lakes ! For comfort and aid shall be coming from out our savannahs and brakes." And down from the North came the bid- ding, "O City, be hopeful of cheer! We've somewhat to spare for thy sufferers, for all of our suffering here." And up from the East came the bidding, "O City, be dauntless and bold! Look hither for food and for raiment, look hither for credit and gold." And all through the world went the bid- ding, "Bring hither your choicest and best, For weary and hungry Chicago — sad Queen of the North and the West." O crushed, but invincible city! O broken, but fast-rising city! O glorious, but unconquered city. Still Queen of the North and the West! The long, golden years of the future, with treasures increasing and rare, Shall glisten upon thy rich garments, shall twine in the folds of thy hair; From out the black heaps of thy ruins new columns of beauty shall rise, And glittering domes shall fling grandly our nation's proud flag to the skies; From off the wide prairies of splendor the treasures of autumn shall pour; The breezes shall sweep from the North- ward and hurry the ships to thy shore! For Heaven will look downward in mercy on those who've passed under the rod, And happ'ly again they will prosper, and bask in the blessings of God. Once more thou dost stand mid the cities, by prosperous breezes caressed, O grand and unconquered Chicago, still Queen of the North and the West! Will Oableton. LOVE and FRIENDSHIP LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 75 LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP A MOTHERS LOVE. Where the autumn sun is shining Through a leafy maze o'erhead, There a lassie sits repining - , All the love within her dead. It is but the old, old story Of a lover proved untrue, Yet life seems to lose its glory, All its hopeful roseate hue. Then, with patient, sweet endeavor, Lovingly her mother tries To dismiss despair forever, Chase the sorrow from her eyes. And the tender words revealing All the unspoken love of years, "Wake a newer, holier feeling, Bring the priceless gift of tears. Well may hearts cease all repining, In a mother's love secure; Love that needs no fire's refining, Ever watchful, ever sure; Love that's like a pure stream welling From a heaven-fed mountain crest; Love all earthly love excelling — Love the truest and the best. SONNETS. My love, I have no fear that thou shouldst die; Albeit I ask no fairer life than this, Whose numbering-clock is still thy gentle kiss, While Time and Peace with hands unlocked fly,— Yet care I not where in eternity We live and love, well knowing that there is No backward step for those who feel the bliss Of faith as their most lofty yearnings high: Love hath so purified my being's core, Meseems I scarcely should be startled, even, To find, some morn, that thou hadst gone before; Since, with thy love, this knowledge too was given, Which each calm day doth strengthen more and more, That they who love are but one step from heaven. I can not think that thou shouldst pass away, Whose life to mine is an eternal law, A piece of nature that can have no flaw, A new and certain sunrise every day; But if thou art to be another ray About the Sun of Life, and art to live Free from all of thee that was fugitive, The debt of love I will more fully pay, Not downcast with the thought of thee so high, But rather raised to be a nobler man. And more divine in my humanity, As knowing that the waiting eyes which scan My life are lighted by a purer being, And ask meek, calm-browed deeds, with it agreeing. I thought our love at full, but I did err; Joy's wreath drooped o'er mine eyes; I could not see That sorrow in our happy world must be Love's deepest spokesman and interpreter. But as a mother feels her child first stir Under her heart, so felt I instantly Deep in my soul another bond to thee Thrill with that life we saw depart from her; O mother of our angel-child! twice dear! Death knits as well as parts, and still, I wis, Her tender radiance shall infold us here, Even as the light, borne up by inward bliss, Threads the void glooms of space without a fear, To print on farthest stars her pitying kiss. James Russell Lowell. KATIE LEE AND WILLIE GREY. Two brown heads wih tossing curls; Red lips shutting over pearls; Bare feet, white and wet with dew; Two eyes black, and two eyes blue; Little girl and boy were they, Katie Lee and Willie Grey. They were standing where a brook, Bending like a shepherd's crook, Flashed its silver, and thick ranks Of willow fringed its mossy banks; Half in thought, and half in play, Katie Lee and Willie Grey. They had cheeks like cherries red; He was taller-— 'most a head; She, with arms like wreaths of snow, Swung a basket to and fro. As she loitered, half in play, Chattering to Willie Grey. "Pretty Katie," Willie said — And there came a dash of red Through the brownness of his cheek — • "Boys are strong and girls are weak, And I'll carry, so I will, Katie's basket up the hill." Katie answered with a laugh, "You shall carry only half"; And then, tossing back her curls, "Boys are weak as well as girls." Do you think that Katie guessed Half the wisdom she expressed? 76 TREASURES OF POETRY. Men are only boys grown tall; Hearts don't change, much after all; And when, long years from that day, Katie Lee and Willie Grey Stood again beside the brook, Bending like a shepherd's crook, Is it strange that Willie said, While again a dash of red Crossed the brownness of his cheek, "I am strong and you are weak; Life is but a slippery steep, Hung with shadows cold and deep. "Will you trust me, Katie dear — Walk beside me without fear? May I carry, if I will, All your burdens up the hill?" And she answered, with a laugh, "No, but you may carry half." Close beside the little brook, Bending like a shepherd's crook, Washing with its silver hands Late and early at the sands, Is a cottage, where today Katie lives with Willie Grey. In a porch she sits, and lo! Swings a basket to and fro — Vastly different from the one That she swung in years agone, This is long and deep and wide, And has rockers at the side. A WOMAN S QUESTION. Do you know you have asked for the cost- liest thing Ever made by the hand above — A woman's heart, and a woman's life, And a woman's wonderful love? Do you know you have asked for this price- less thing As a child might ask for a toy — Demanding what others have died to win, With the reckless dash of a boy? You have written my lesson of duty out, Man-like you have questioned me; Now stand at the bar of my woman's soul Until I shall question thee. You require your mutton shall always be hot, Your socks and your shirts shall be whole; I require your heart to be true as God's stars, And pure as heaven your soul. You require a cook for your mutton and beef; I require a far better thing. A seamstress you're wanting for stockings and shirts; I look for a man and a king — A king for a beautiful realm called home, And a man that the Maker, God, Shall look upon as he did the first. And say, "It is very good." I am fair and young, but the rose will fade From my soft, young cheek one day; Will you love then, mid the falling leaves, As you did mid the bloom of May? Is your heart an ocean so strong and deep I may launch my all on its tide? A loving woman finds heaven or hell On the day she is made a bride. I require all things that are grand and true, All things that a man should be; If you give this all, I would stake my life To be all you demand of me. If you can not do this — a laundress and cook You can hire with little to pay; But a woman's heart and a woman's life Are not to be won that way. Elizabeth Barrett Browning. THE PURITAN LOVERS. Drawn out, like lingering bees, to share The last, sweet summer weather. Beneath the reddening maples walked Two puritans together — A youth and maiden, heeding not The woods which round them brightened, Just conscious of each other's thoughts, Half happy and half frightened. Grave were their brows, and few their words, And coarse their garb and simple; The maiden's very cheek seemed shy To own its worldly dimple. For stern the time; they dwelt with Care, And Fear was oft a comer; A sober April ushered in The Pilgrim's toilful summer. And stern their creed: they tarried here Mere desert-land sojourners; They must not dream of mirth or rest, God's humble lesson-learners. The temple's sacred perfume round Their week-day robes was clinging; Their mirth was but the golden bells On priestly garments ringing. But as today they softly talked. That serious youth and maiden, Their plainest words strange beauty wore, Like weeds with dewdrops laden. The saddest theme had something sweet, The gravest something tender, While with slow steps they wandered on, Mid summer's fading splendor. He said, "Next week the church will hold A day of prayer and fasting"; LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 77 And then he stopped, and bent to pick A white life-everlasting- — A silvery bloom, with fadeless leaves — He gave it to her, sighing; A mute confession was his glance, Her blush a mute replying. "Mehetabel!" at last he spoke, "My fairest one and dearest! One thought is ever to my heart The sweetest and the nearest. "You read my soul; you know my wish; Oh, grant me its fulfilling!" She answered low, "If Heaven smiles, And if my father's willing!" No idle passion swayed her heart, This quaint New England beauty! Faith was the guardian of her life, Obedience was a duty. Too truthful for reserve, she stood, Her brown eyes earthward casting, And held with trembling hand the while Her white life-everlasting. Her sober answer pleased the youth — Frank, clear, and gravely cheerful; He left her at her father's door, Too happy to be fearful. She looked on high, with earnest plea, And Heaven seemed bright above her; And when she shyly spoke his name, Her father praised her lover. And when, that night, she sought her couch, With head-board high and olden, Her prayer was praise, her pillow down, »And all her dreams were golden. And still upon her throbbing heart, In bloom and breath undying, A few life-everlasting flowers. Her lover's gift, were lying. O Venus' myrtles, fresh and green! O Cupid's blushing roses! Not on your classic flowers alone The sacred light reposes; Though gentler care may shield your buds From north-winds rude and blasting, As dear to Love, those few, pale flowers Of white life-everlasting. Annih D. Green. WILL YOU LOVE ME WHEN l'M OLD? Will afTection still infold me When the day of life declines; When old age with ruthless rigor Plows my face in furrowed lines; When the eye forgets its seeing, And the hand forgets its skill, And the very words prove rebel To the mind's once kingly will; When the deaf ear, strained to listen, Scarcely hears the opening word And the unfathomed depths of feeling Are by no swift current stirred; When fond memory, like a limner, Many a line perspective casts, Spreading out our bygone pleasures On the canvas of the past; < When the leaping blood grows sluggish, And the fire of youth has fled; When the friends who now surround us Half are numbered with the dead; When the years appear to shorten, Scarcely leaving us a trace; When Old Time with bold approaches Marks his dial on my face; When our present hopes, all gathered, Lie like dead flowers on our track; When the whole of our existence Is one fearful looking back; When each wasted hour of talent, Hardly measured now at all, Sends its witness back to haunt us, Like the writing on the wall; When the ready tongue is palsied, And the form is bowed with care; When our only hope is heaven, And our only help is prayer; When our idols, broken round us, Fall amid the ranks of men; Until Death uplifts the curtain — Will thy love endure till then? LOVE. There are who say the lover's heart Is in the loved one's merged; Oh, never by love's own warm art So cold a plea was urged! NO! — hearts that love hath crowned or crossed Love fondly knits together; But not a thought or hue is lost That made a part of either. ********** It is an ill-told tale that tells Of "hearts by love made one": He grows who near another's dwells More conscious of his own; In each spring up new thoughts and powers That, mid love's warm, clear weather, Together tend like climbing flowers. And, turning, grow together. Such fictions blink love's better part, Yield up its half of bliss; The wells are in the neighbor heart, When there is thirst in this: There findeth love the passion-flowers On which it learns to thrive, Makes honey in another's bowers, But brings it home to hive. 78 TREASURES OF POETRY. Love's life is in its own replies — To each low beat it beats, Smiles back the smiles, sighs back the sighs, And every throb repeats. Then, since one loving heart still throws Two shadows in love's sun, How should two loving hearts compose And mingle into one? Thomas Kibble Hervey. KISSES. The kiss of friendship, kind and calm, May fall upon the brow like balm; A deeper tenderness may speak In precious pledges on the cheek; Thrice dear may be, when young lips meet, Love's dewy pressure, close and sweet; But more than all the rest I prize The faithful lips that kiss my eyes. Smile, lady, smile, when courtly lips Touch reverently your finger-tips; Blush, happy maiden, when you feel The lips which press love's glowing seal; But as the slow years darklier roll, Grown wiser, the experienced soul Will own as dearer far than they The lips which kiss the tears away! Elizabeth Akebs Allen. POSSESSION. "It was our wedding-day A month ago," dear heart, I hear you say. If months, or years, or ages since have passed, I know not; I have ceased to question Time. I only know that once there pealed a chime Of joyous bells, and then I held you fast, And all stood back, and none my right de- nied, And forth we walked; the world was free and wide Before us. Since that day I count my life; the past is washed away. It was no dream, that vow; It was the voice that woke me from a dream — • A happy dream, I think — but I am waking now, And drink the splendor of a sun supreme That turns the mist of former tears to gold. Within these arms I hold The fleeting promise, chased so long in vain: Ah, weary bird! thou wilt not fly again; Thy wings are clipped, thou canst no more depart— Thy nest is builded in my heart. I was the crescent; thou The silver phantom of the perfect sphere, Held in its bosom: in one glory now Our lives united shine, and many a year — Not the sweet moon of bridal only — we One luster, ever at the full, shall be; One pure and rounded light, one planet whole, One life developed, one completed soul! For I in thee, and thou in me, Unite our cloven halves of destiny. God knew his chosen time; He bade me slowly ripen to my prime, And from my boughs withheld the prom- ised fruit, Till storm and sun gave vigor to the root. Secure, O Love! secure Thy blessing is; I have thee day and night; Thou art become my blood, my life, my light: God's mercy thou, and therefore shalt en- dure. Batard Tatlob. HER NAME THE COUNTERSIGN. 'Twas near the break of day, but still The moon was shining brightly; The west wind as it passed the flowers Set each one swaying lightly; The sentry slow paced to and fro, A faithful night-watch keeping, While in the tents behind him stretched His comrades — all were sleeping. Slow, to and fro, the sentry paced, His musket on his shoulder, But not a thought of death or war Was with the brave young soldier; Ah, no! his heart was far away, Where on a Western prairie A rose- twined cottage stood. That night The countersign was "Mary." And there his own true love he saw, Her blue eyes kindly beaming, Above them on her sun-kissed brow Her curls like sunshine gleaming, And heard her singing as she churned The butter in the dairy, The song he loved the best. That night The countersign was "Mary." "Oh, for one kiss from her!" he sighed, When up the lone road glancing, He spied a form, a little form, With faltering steps advancing; And as it neared him silently, He gazed at it in wonder, Then dropped his musket to his hand, And challenged, "Who goes yonder?" Still on it came. "Not one step more, Be you man, child, or fairy, Unless you give the countersign, Halt! Who goes there?" — -'"Tis Mary," A sweet voice cried, and in his arms The girl he'd left behind him Half fainting fell. O'er many miles She'd bravely toiled to find him. "I heard that you were wounded, dear," She sobbed. "My heart was breaking; I could not stay a moment, but All other ties forsaking, LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 79 I traveled, by my grief made strong-, Kind Heaven watching- o'er me, Until unhurt and well" — "Yes, love, At last you stood before me." "They told me that I could not pass The lines to seek my lover Before day fairly came; but I Pressed on ere night was over, And as I told my name, I found The way as free as prairie." "Because, thank God! tonight," he said, "The countersign is 'Mary.' " Margaret Eytinge. APPLE-BLOSSOMS. Underneath an apple-tree Sat a maiden and her lover, And the thoughts within her he Yearned, in silence, to discover. Round them danced the sunbeams bright, Green the grass-lawn stretched before him, While the apple-blossoms white Hung in rich profusion o'er them. Naught within her eyes he read That would tell her mind unto him; Though their light, he after said, Quivered swiftly through and through him; Till at last his heart burst free From the prayer with which 'twas laden, And he said, "When wilt thou be Mine forevermore, fair maiden?" "When," said she, "the breeze of May With white flakes our heads shall cover, I will be thy brideling gay — Thou shalt be my husband-lover." "How," said he, in sorrow bowed, "Can I hope such hopeful weather? Breeze of May and winter's cloud Do not often fly together." Quickly as the words he said, From the west a wind came sighing, And on each uncovered head Sent the apple-blossoms flying; " 'Flakes of white!' thou'rt mine," said he, "Sooner than thy wish or knowing!" "Nay, I heard the breeze," quoth she, "When in yonder forest blowing." Will Cableton. REFLECTIONS. 'Tis late; the sun is sinking in the west; The wind moans lonesome through the waving trees; The twit'ring birds have hushed to seek their rest; The swallow's wing beats homeward on the breeze. The river moans and ripples as it flows; The moon is rising now upon the scene; The stars are stealing slowly from their close, And adding pleasure to the thought se- rene. Upon this bank I have stood in days gone by; In youth's bright, happy hours I've wan- dered here, Wjlth one who now is sleeping silently Beneath the sod, whose voice I'll never hear! Ah, yes! upon this bank of rocks and sand, Beneath the shady trees that bow above, I kissed her cheeks, and pressed her lit- tle hand, And spoke to her in tender words of love. How often has she knelt to write her name Upon the ground upon the river's strand, And stood and watched the wavelets as they came, And washed the writing from the glitter- ing sand! She knew not then while standing by ray side, And gazing at her name as 't disappeared, That her own life, so lovely — and my pride- 1 - Was pictured there in emblems she had reared. Ah, life is short! but oh, how beautiful Is hers to me while memory draws it nigh! How gentle! oh, how mild and dutiful Was she, who — lovely, darling girl — should die! Yes, time has borne her from this sacred place; No longer meet we by the river's shore, No more shall I behold her lovely face, And her sweet voice shall greet me, never more! John W. Everett.' ALONE. O golden moon, that sifts thy yellow dust In gleaming riist o'er all the silent earth, Tell me, dest look upon another face So sad as mine, another heart so sad? Your light falls soothing as a mother's touch On fevered brow in childhood's nervous dream, For well I know upon another form That wanders in far lands you smile • to- night. Oh, one bright star that looks into the room Where he has been, but, ah! so silent now, You seem to waver on with my despair; You hear me sigh and say, "He is not here." And sweet south-wird that comes across the flowers 80 TREASURES OF POETRY. Of my own sunny southland in its bloom, You whisper to ma in soft, fluttering: tones As faintly low as pulse of dying- day. You bid me rest. Your message from my love Sheds boundless peace and joy ineffable. Thy fragrant breath is warm from off his lips; Oh! touch my face and leave his heart- breath there. Touch thou mine eyes, my lips, O sweet south-wind, And gather there the kisses that are his; Oh! waft them to him on thy scented breath To where he wanders — far from love and me. O golden moon, and stars, and fragrant winds, Shine brightly — grently blow upon my love; O heaven-ligrhts, in safety guide his steps To where the heart he knows is true awaits. And winds, take from my lips its guarded kiss; Fly swiftly with it to my lover's lips, Nor linger, lest the greedy air absorb One heart-throb of that passionful caress. Ye whispering winds that fill my heart with praise, Till all my soul speaks in a jubilate, Ye bid me rest; and peace thrills every vein, And restlessness falls swooningly away. ErcExia E. Clabk. THE PARTING HOUR. [Edward Pollock, the gifted Californian poet, banded the following poem to a friend of bis who was about to depart on a steamer for Oregon, and said, "Take this; you may perhaps read and appre- ciate the sentiment long after I have ceased to be among the living."] There's something in the "parting hour" Will cheer the warmest heart, Yet kindred, comrades, lovers, friends, Are fated all to part; But this I've seen — and many a page Has pressed it on my mind — The one who goes is happier Than those he leaves behind. No matter what the journey Adventurous, dangerous, far, To the wild deep or black frontier, To solitude or war — Still something cheers the heart that dares In all of human kind And they who go are happier Than those they leave behind. The bride goes to the bridegroom's home With doubtings and with tears, But does not Hope her rainbow spread Across her cloudy fears? Alas! the mother who remains, What comfort can she find But this — the gone is happier Than one she leaves behind? Have you a friend, a comrade dear. An old and valued friend? Be sure your term of sweet concourse At length will have an end. And when you part — as part you will — Oh, take it not unkind If he who goes is happier Than you he leaves behind! God wills it so — and so it is; The pilgrims on their way, Though weak and worn, more cheerful are Than all the rest who stay; And when, at last, poor man, subdued, Lies down to death resigned, May he not still be happier far Than those he leaves behind? Edward Pollock. MY LOVER. What if my lover be dark, or fair — I have no wish; I do not care, If only his manly, honest face Shows in each feature an inward grace What if my lover be tall, or slight — I do not care, if only his sight Be lifted above earth's sordid care To see God's handiwork, true and fair. What if my lover be poor, or rich — To me it makes no difference which; If only his heart be stanch and true, His hand will lead me safely through. What if my lover be famous, or no — Fame may fade, or perchance may grow; If he comes to me his manhood clear From the stain of sin, I will not fear. Somewhere he tarries and waits for me, Sometime his face I shall surely see; For I shall know when my king I meet, My soul will rise and his coming greet. Sabah E. P. McLban. THEY NEVER QUITE LEAVE US. They never quite leave us, our friends who have passed Through the shadows of death to the sun- light above; A thousand sweet memories are holding them fast To the places they blessed with their presence and love. The work which they left and the books which they read Speak mutely, though still with an elo- quence rare, And the songs that they sang, the words that they said, LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 81 Yet linger and sigh on the desolate air. And oft when alone, and oft in the throng-, Or when evil allures us, or sin draweth nigh, A whisper comes gently, "Nay, do not the wrong," And we feel that our weakness is pitied on high. Margaret E. Sangster. AND A CHILD SHALL LEAD THEM." I thought, on our marriage morning, that never a cloud would rise To mar the brightness and beauty that gladdened earth and skies; Never a minor cadence be heard in the blithe, sweet strain Of the song that love was singing to the wedding-bells' refrain. In our little home under the roses we took u-p the tasks of life, And Love was our guest, and he strength- ened the heart of each for the strife By his tender and thoughtful counsel that brought to the time of need Such boon as the sun and the showers bring- to the quickening seed. When the little one came to brighten our home with its winsome face, I fancied that heaven must be lacking the charm that was round the place. The sound of its mirth and prattle made music all the day, And never a shadow gathered that it could not laugh away. God knows — and God knows only! — how I loved that little child. It was like a glimpse of heaven when he looked at me and smiled; And ever and ever, whenever I kissed the baby's eyes, I whispered a "Thank thee, Father," for this gift from Paradise. But one day the sweet blue blossoms of the baby eyes were missed, And the heavy lids that hid them lifted not when they were kissed, And the house was oh, so silent! for no pattering feet were heard, And no echo in the shadows by the baby's voice was stirred. In the lonesome time of midnight God's messenger-angel came, And, bending over the cradle, spoke softly the baby's name; Then the little hands were lifted, the blue eyes opened wide, And into the face of the angel the baby smiled — and died. We made him a grave in the garden un- der the lilac-trees, Where he loved to play and prattle, and hear the hum of the bees. When we went back o'er the threshold home was a desolate place, For the shadow of death had hidden the sunshine of baby's face. So sad was the hearthstone after the baby had gone away That I tried to lose my sorrow in hard work, day by day. I fancied the baby's mother was glad to be left alone, And, craving the bread of loving words, she was answered with a stone. So it was that I, unknowing the need of a stricken heart For love's balm in time of trouble, broke the bonds of love apart; She thought me cold, unloving, and never once thought I That a heart might break in silence. And so the days went by. Now as I look back over that sorrowful year of life, I see the mistakes that made it a time of stress and strife, God help our human blindness! God pity the heart that aches When it knows — too late! — the sorrow that comes of its sad mistakes! Like a rill that at first is so narrow that a step might turn it aside, But grows to become a river, mighty, and deep, and wide, So the trouble grew till our pathways were parted by the stream, And the love we had pledged each other was a half-remembered dream. At last the storm broke fiercely; I know not how it came; It may have been a fretful frown was like wind that fanned the flame; It may have been that a harsh word kindled into a blaze The smoldering fire of the passion that grew in those evil days. Oh, words in hot anger spoken! They cut our hearts like steel, But we forgot, in our passion, that human hearts can feel, Forgot — may God forgive us! — the grave on summer green, Where the link in the broken love-chain lay in the lilac-roots between. I never knew how it happened, or which one shaped the plan — It formed itself, I fancy, as the things of evil can — But we said that day to each other, hence- forth we would live apart, For love could tarry no longer as guest in home or heart. 82 TREASURES OF POETRY. So it was that the nig-ht before Christmas Mary and I agreed To seek separate ways on the morrow, and, wherever those ways might lead, "We would strive to forget each other and heal the wounds of the heart By the ashes of love that deaden the pain and its cruel smart. I stood in the lonesome twilight and looked down the garden way Towards the little grave in the lilacs where the moon's white glory lay, And I saw, kneeling down beside it, her : face with tears all wet, The mother whose heart was aching with the love it could not forget. I know not what impulse moved me to go to the little grave; I think that one of God's angels, sent earthward to help and save, Laid its hand on my heart that moment, and lo! its anger fled, And towards the grave in the lilacs I went softly, angel-led. I heard the sound of her sobbing as I came near the place, And I paused, apart in the shadow, with a rain of tears on my face, And I heard her wailing, crying, "O little one, how can I go And leave you here — and leave you here, I loved you, loved you so! "In all the world, my baby, this is the only spot — ■ Your little grave — that I care to keep, and I can claim it not. Your father has turned me from his heart, and I may not even keep For my own the place where my little one lies under the grass asleep!" Almost before I knew it I knelt by the little one's bed, And I stretched my arms across it, and wild, swift words were said. "Forgive, oh, forgive!" I pleaded. "Here by the baby's grave Let us promise to love each other. Forgive as Christ forgave!" I held my arms out toward her, I whis- pered, "Mary, come!" And Love swung wide the heart's closed door, crying softly, "Welcome home!" And across the grave of our baby she crept to my arms again, And I know the little one smiled in sleep. and dreamed of his mother then! As I held her close to my bosom, and kissed her tears away, Suddenly out of the silence the bells be- gan to play— The bells of the Christmas morning, that j sang of a Savior's birth — And peace was the music's burden, "Be Peace, be Peace on Earth!" "Be peace between us, my husband," she whispered with a kiss. "There was a Bethlehem Christ-child, but oh! be sure of this— Our little Christ-child this moment swings the door of his grave apart, And reaches his little hands upward to hold us heart to heart." And so, on that Christmas morning, we put the past away, And Love came back to the hearthstone, and there he dwells today. And we love to think, as we stand by the grave of the babe no sin defiled, That into the beautiful Land of Peace we were led by a little child. Eben E. Rexpobd. W.HERE EVER THOU ART. Where ever thou art is the place made most fair, Like a palace adorned with gems cosily and rare; But the house of a king would seem empty and drear, Were love's lamp not shining o'er all bright and clear. Oh, I know that the light in thy dear loving eyes "Will send its bright beams where the dark shadow lies; Both care and despair will be driven away, From the break of the dawn till the close of the day. Where ever thou art doth the night bring repose, For thy presence makes friends of the fier- cest of foes; In the morning brings joy, with the evening comes peace, And the visions of sleep only see these in- crease; For in dreams are the heart's secret cham- bers thrown wide, And the thoughts freely flow with the life- giving tide. No evil can come where love sits on the throne, And happy are they who his scepter doth own. Where ever thou art is the music so sweet, That the lonely and sad haste to sit at thy feet; When they soon are enabled to join in the song, While the angels of heaven the chorus prolong; For forever thou voicest the unfathomed theme, The love which is flowing with Calvary's stream; And the happy and hungry receive from above, What is always the need of all human hearts — love! H. E. McCollum. LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 83 GOOD-BY. We say it for an hour or for years; We say it smiling:, say it choked with tears; We say it coldly, say it with a kiss; And yet we have no other word than this— "Good-by." We have no dearer word for our heart's friend. For him who journeys to the world's far end And scars our soul with going-; thus we sa3', As unto him who steps but o'er our way — "Good-by." Alike to those we love and those we hate, Wie say no more at parting-. At life's grate, To him who passes out beyond earth's sig-ht, We cry as to the wanderer for a nig-ht — "Good-by." WHERE? OH! WHERE? Oh! is there not a land where love re- gains Its treasures, lost amid the whirls of time? Shall sorrow never cease, nor grief assuage Its pangs, save thro' the lapse of years un- told? Is there no clime celestial, where the skies Serene o'erhang in peace the lovely scenes Below? And underneath those skies serene Are there no "babbling- brooks," no "silent shades"? Nor sunny hillside having: wide outlook O'er verdant mead, where, seated, groups of friends Of olden time, might gather up the links Of love long- sundered, and resume the chain Enchanted, 'neath the sweet entrancing- bond? ********* Oh yes! There is a land which Love Su- preme Has set apart for those who truly love: "For he who loves is born of God." Beyond, Oh, far beyond that sea of limpid green It lies, on which the evening- cloudlet floats, While yet in glorious beauty o'er the skies, The sunlight lingers as the day declines. There, in that land, there shall be no more night, Nor yet tempestuous sea, nor brooding storm. Trouble no more shall lift her quiv'ring spear Against the afflicted soul, nor grief invade, Nor care affright within those sacred bounds. There Peace benignant smiles 'neath cloud- less skies; The King Eternal there in beauty sits With face unveiled; thither love's exiles here By death set free all haste. Loving and loved In groups once more; they freely roam from brook To shade, or sunny hillside, or upon Thy banks reclined, O lovely stream of life, Recount their wand'rings o'er thro* mists and maze Of time. Sweet grows the chain of Love. and dear, With each fond link recovered from the dim, And distant past, the slow receding past Of earth, and earthly life. Samuei, Finlby. LINES ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND. Away! ere the spring blossoms flicker Though hillsides with russet and gold, Ere the song of tho birds in the May-time, We lay thee, sweet friend, in the mold! In the dew of thy morning, the Master With tenderest pity stooped down; He sought thee to brighten his chaplet, To wear thee a gem in his crown. Gentle and loving, he called thee; Go at his bidding, nor fear; Bright in the land of immortals Opens thy beautiful year! Sleep peacefully, love, it is over — The brief, silvery ripples are still, And the sheen of thy presence shall hover To hallow all joy and all ill. Attuned to new rapture, she heareth Strains wondrously sweeter than ours; So swift from our bleak winter passing,. She trod on unperishing flowers! Her pinions have lightened the valley, And lifted the thickness of gloom; For, ajar through the portals, a zephyr Drifts back from a billow of bloom! Not for thee, but for us be our sadness — The weight of life's burden to bear, Thick studded with dangers to baffle, . A fetter so weary to wear! Safe sheltered forever thou sleepest* No harm to thy pillow can come; The Father, with gentle compassion,. Hath tenderly taken thee home! Margaret A. B. ScoTr. THE LONGEST DAY. The summer's story Has reached its glory, .. . Fulfilling all the sweet dreams of May; The daylight lingers, With rosy fingers Defying night on the longest day, Tet I remember No dark December When sunbeams seemed to elude delay,. Like those which measure The hours of pleasure I spend with you on the longest day. 84 TREASURES OF POETRY. With j r ou beside me To cheer and guide me, I feel — whatever the sages say — That evening shadows Across the meadows Come all too soon on the longest day. If we together Face sunny weather, And love each other when skies are gray, Life's span shall be, dear, To you and me, dear, As short and sweet as the longest day. And, dearest, after The tears and laughter Are all forgotten and passed away, We two forever, Where night falls never, Will spend together the longest day. Ellen T. Fowlek. WITHOUT YOU. Without you, love, the day would hold no light, The kindly stars would vanish from the night, The flowers would forget to wake at morn, The rose die sleeping, leaving but the thorn, — Without you. Without you, love, no promise would be bright, Hope's golden sun would darken at its height, The world of all its glory would be shorn, And I should be a wanderer, forlorn — Without you. Henry Dumont. PATIENCE WITH THE LIVING. Sweet friend, when thou and I are gone Beyond earth's weary labor, When small shall be our need of grace Prom comrade or from neighbor; Passed all the strife, the toil, the care, And done with all the sighing — ■ What tender ruth shall we have gained, Alas, by simply dying? Then lips too chary of their praise Will tell our merits over, And eyes too swift our faults to see Shall no defects discover; Then hands that would not lift a stone, Where stones were thick to cumber Our steep hill path, will scatter flowers Above our pillowed slumber. Sweet friend, perchance both thou and I, Ere love is past forgiving, Should take the earnest lesson home — Be patient with the living. Today's repressed rebuke may save Our blinding tears tomorrow; Then patience, e'en with keenest edge, May whet a nameless sorrow! 'Tis easy to be gentle when Death's silence shames our clamor, And easy to discern the best Through memory's mystic glamor, But wise it were for thee and me, Ere love is past forgiving, To take the tender lesson home — Be patient with the living. OUTGROWN. Nay, you wrong her, my friend, she's not fickle; her love she has simply outgrown: One can read the whole matter, translating her heart by the light of one's own. Can you bear me to talk with you frankly? There is much that my heart would say; And you. know we were children together, have quarreled and "made up" in play. And so, for the sake of old friendship, I venture to tell you the truth — As plainly, perhaps, and as bluntly, as I might in our earlier youth. Five summers ago, when you wooed her, you stood on the selfsame plane, Face to face, heart to heart, never dreaming your souls could be parted again. She loved you at that time entirely, in the bloom of her life's early May; And it is not her fault, I repeat it, that she does not love you today. Nature never stands still, nor souls either: they ever go up or go down; And hers has been steadily soaring — but how has it been with your own? She has struggled and yearned and aspired, grown purer and wiser each year; The stars are not farther above you in yon luminous atmosphere! For she whom you crowned with fresh roses, down yonder, five summers ago, Has learned that the first of our duties to God and ourselves is to grow. Her eyes, they are sweeter and calmer, but their vision is clearer as well; Her voice has a tenderer cadence, but is pure as a silver bell. Her face has the look worn by those who with God and angels have talked; The white robes she wears are less white than the spirits with whom she has walked. And you? Have you aimed at the highest? Have you, too, aspired and prayed? Have you looked upon evil unsullied? Have you conquered it undismayed? LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 85 Have you, too, grown purer and wiser, as the months and the years have rolled on? Did you meet her this morning rejoicing: in the triumph of victory won? Nay, hear me! The truth can not harm you. When today in her presence you stood, Was the hand that you gave her as white and clean as that of her womanhood? Go measure yourself by her standard. Look back on the years that have fled; Then ask, if you need, why she tells you that the love of her girlhood is dead! She can not look down to her lover: her love like her soul, aspires; He must stand by her side, or above her, who would kindle its holy fires. Now farewell! For the sake of old friendship I have ventured to tell you the truth, As plainly, perhaps, and as bluntly, as I might in our earliest youth. Julia C. R. Dorr. TRUE LOVE BETTER THAN GOLD. We started one morn, my love and I, On a journey brave and bold; T'was to find the end of the rainbow, And the buried bag of gold. But the clouds rolled by the summer's sky, And the radiant bow grew dim, And we lost the way where the treasure lay, Near the sunset's golden rim. The twilight fell like a curtain Pinned with the evening star, And we saw in the shining heavens The new moon's golden car. And we said, as our hands clasped fondly, "What though we found no gold? Our love is a richer treasure Than the rainbow's sack can hold." And years, with their joys and sorrows. Have passed since we lost the way To the beautiful buried treasure At the end of the rainbow's rays; But love has been true and tender, And life has been rich and sweet. And we still clasp hands with the olden joy That made our day complete. CURFEW MUST NOT RING TONIGHT. England's sun was slowly setting O'er the hills so far away, Filling all the land with beauty At the close of one sad day; And the last rays kissed the forehead Of a man and maiden fair — He with step so slow and weakened, She with sunny, floating hair; He with sad bowed head, and thoughtful, She with lips so cold and white, Struggling to keep back the murmur, "Curfew rauat not ring tonight." "Sexton," Bessie's white lips faltered, Pointing to the prison old, With its walls so dark and gloomy — Wall so dark, and damp, and cold — "I've a lover in that prison, Doomed this very night to die, At the ringing of the curfew, And no earthly help is nigh. Cromwell will not come till sunset"; And her face grew strangely white, As she spoke in husky whispers, "Curfew must not ring tonight." "Bessie," calmly spoke the sexton — Every word pierced her young heart Like a thousand gleaming arrows, Like a deadly poisoned dart — "Long, long years I've rung the curfew From that gloomy shadowed tow*r; Every evening, just at sunset, It has told the twilight hour. I have done my duty ever, Tried to do it just and right; Now I'm old, I will not miss i%; Girl, the curfew rings tonight!" Wild her eyes and pale her features, Stern and white her thoughtful brow, And within her heart's deep center, Bessie made a solemn vow. She had listened while the judges Read, without a tear or sigh, "At the ringing of the curfew Basil Underwood must die." And her breath came fast and faster, And her eyes grew large and bright; One low murmur, scarcely spoken — "Curfew must not ring tonight" She with light step bounded forward, Sprang within the old church door, Left the old man coming slowly, Paths he'd often trod before; Not one moment paused the maiden, But with cheek and brow aglow. Staggered up the gloomy towei, Where the bell swung to and fro; Then she cumbed the slimy ladder, Dark, without one ray of light, Upward still, her pale lips saying, "Curfew shall not ring tonight." She has reached the topmost ladder, O'ei her hangs the great dark bell, And the awful gloom beneath her, Like the pathway down to hell. See, the ponderous tongue is swinging, 'Tis the hour of curfew now; And the sight has chilled her bosom, Stopped her breath, and paled her brow. Shall she let it ring? No, never! Her eyes flash with sudden light, As she springs and grasps it drmly — "Curfew shall not ring tonight." Out she swung, far out, the city Seemed a tiny speck below; m TREASURES OF POETRY. There, 'twixt heaven and earth suspended, As the bell swung to and fro; And the half -deaf sexton ringing (Years he had not heard the bell), And he thought the twilight curfew Rang young Basil's funeral knell; Still the maiden clinging firmly, Cheek and brow so pale and white, Stilled her frightened heart's wild beating — "Curfew shall not ring tonight." It was o'er — the bell ceased swaying, And the maiden stepped once more Firmly on the damp old ladder, Where for hundred years before Human foot had not been planted; And what she this night had done Should be told in long years after: As the rays of setting sun Light the sky with mellow beauty, Aged sires with heads of white, Tell the children why the Curfew Did not ring that one sad night. O'er the distant hills came Cromwell; Bessie saw him, and her brow, Lately white with sickening terror, Glows with sudden beauty now. At his feet she told her story, Showed her hands all bruised and torn; And- her sweet young face so haggard, With a look so sad and worn, Touched his heart with sudden pity, Lit his eyes with misty light; "Go, your lover lives!" cried Cromwell; "Curfew shall not ring tonight." A WOMAN S QUESTION. Before I trust my fate to thee, Or place my hand in thine; Before , I let thy future give Color and form to mine; Before I peril all for thee, Question thy soul tonight for me. I break all slighter bonds, nor feel A shadow of regret; Is there one link within the past That holds thy spirit yet? Oh, is thy faith as clear and free As that which I can pledge to thee? Does there within thy dimmest dreams A possible future shine Wherein .thy life could henceforth breathe Untouched, unshared by mine? If so, at any pain or cost, Oh, tell me, before all is lost Look .deeper still; if thou canst feel Within thy inmost soul That thou hast kept a portion back While. I have staked the whole, Let no false pity spare the blow, But in true mercy tell me so. Is there within thy heart a need That mine can not fulfil? One chord that any other hand Could better wake or still? Speak now — lest at some future day My whole life wither and decay. Lives there within thy nature hid The demon spirit Change, Shedding a passing glory still On all things new and strange? It may not be thy fau.lt alone, But shield my heart against thy own. Couldst thou withdraw thy hand one day And answer to my claim That fate and today's mistake — Not thou — had been to blame? Some soothe their conscience thus, but thou Wilt surely warn and save me now. Nay, answer not; I dare not hear — The words would come too late; Yet, I would spare thee all remorse, So comfort thee my fate. Whatever on my heart may fall, Remember, I would risk it all. A MAN S ANSWER. Before thou trust thy fate to me Or place thy hand in mine, Or ere thou lettest my future give Color and form to thine, Since thou must peril all for me, Accept my answer true to thee. I know the bonds that thou must break, The tender fam'ly tie; I pledge to thee — this promise make: My love shall never die. My faith, oh, may it be as free As that which thou dost pledge to me! My dreams, dear love, are all of thee, My thoughts by day and night; Yea, every hour thy face I see. Thy soul so pure and white. I promise thee, at any cost, Thy love for me shall not be lost. Yet deeper still thou'dst have me look — Into my very soul, E'en into every inmost nook — Then let the truth be whole. I answer now on bended knee, My very life I'd give for thee. Oh, may there not within my heart One single thought appear To cause me not to do my part, Or wring from thee a tear! List now — I swear by all that's true, I give my heart, my all, to you. No secret of my heart I hold From thee, my love, from thee. May our devotion ne'er grow cold; Through life I cling to thee. I promise thee no fault of mine Shall ever tear my life from thine LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 87 ShouJd I withdraw my heart and hand And blot out all the past, I could not feel myself a man — I'd love thee to the last. I swear to thee my strong- right arm Shall shield and keep thee from all harm. I could not think the cursed thought That would fore'er us part, And turn my happiness to naught — Nay, wicked thought, depart. I take thee, love, for what thou art; Oh, come and dwell within my heart! PARTING WORDS. When lovers part at eventide To meet again tomorrow, With laughing lips and backward glance, Undimmed by thought of sorrow, Ah, then, as glows the sickle moon, And soft distils the dew, Wjhat other word so fitting sweet As, "Love, adieu, adieu"? When true friends part whose lives in one, Like rippling streamlets blended, As clinging hands and tearful eyes Bespeak that all is ended, Ah, then beneath life's summer noon, Or autumn's stormier sky, What word so fond on friendship's Mps As, "Friend, good-by, good-by"? When o'er some life knit to our own Death's darkness settles stilly, As fades the love-light from the eyes, And falls the clasped hand chilly; With raining tears and aching loss That tears may not dispel, The tortured heart throbs to the lips, "Farewell, beloved farewell." Mbs. Melissa E. Banta. RESOLUTION OF RUTH. Farewell? Oh no! it may not be; My firm resolve is heard on high; I will not breathe farewell to thee, Save only in my dying sigh. I know not, that I now could bear Forever from thy side to part, And live without a friend to share The treasured sadness of my heart. I did not love, in former years, To leave thee solitary now; When sorrow dims thine eyes with tears, And shades the beauty of thy brow, I'll share the trial and the pain; And strong the furnace fires must be, To melt away the willing chain That binds a daughter's heart to thee. I will not boast a martyr's might, To leave my home without a sigh, The dwelling of my past delight, The shelter where I hoped to die. In such a duty, such an hour, The weak are strong, the timid brave. For Love puts on an angel's power, And Faith grows mightier than the grave. It was not so ere he we loved And vainly strove with heaven to save, Heard the low call of death, and moved With holy calmness to the grave, Just at that brightest hour of youth, When life spread out before us lay, And charmed us with its tones of truth, And colors radiant as the day. When morning's tears of joy were shed, Or nature's evening incense rose, We thought upon the grave with dread, And shuddered at its dark repose. But all is altered now; of death The morning echoes sweetly speak, j And like my loved one's dying breath, The evening breezes fan my cheek. For rays of heaven, serenely bright, Have gilt the caverns of the tomb; And I can ponder with delight, On all its gathering thoughts of gloom. Then, mother, let us haste away To that blessed land to Israel given, Where faith, unsaddened by decay, Dwells nearest to its native heaven. We'll stand within the temple's bound, In courts by kings and prophets trod; We'll bless, with tears, the sacred ground, And there be earnest with our God, Where peace and praise forever reign, And glorious anthems duly flow, Till seraphs learn to catch the strain Of heaven's devotions, here below. But where thou goest, I will go; With thine my earthly lot is cast; In pain and pleasure, joy and woe, Will I attend thee to the last. That hour shall find me by thy side; And where thy grave is, mine shall be: Death can but for a time divide My firm and faithful heart from thee. THE SLIGHTED LOVER. I loved a woman, and too fondly thought The vows she made were constant and sincere, But now, alas! in agony am taught That she is faithless — I no longer dear! Why was I frenzied when her bright black eye, With ray pernicious, flashed upon my gaze? Why did I burn with feverish ecstasy, Stung with her scorn, and ravished with her praise? Would that her loveliness of form and mind Had only kindled friendship's calmer glow! Then had I been more tranquil and resigned, And her neglect had never touched me so. 88 TREASURES OF POETRY. But with such peerless charms before his sight, Who would not own resistless Love's con- trol, Feel the deep thrilling: of intense delight, And lose at once the balance of his soul? Such was my fate — one sole enchanting hope, One darling object from all else I chose: That hope is gone — its blighted blossoms droop; And where shall hopeless passion find repose? Alfred Tbnnysois. TO MY HUSBAND. Twelve years of sunshine and of storms Since first our lives were joined in one; But had the sky no threatening clouds, We would forget to prize the sun. With life one joyous summer-day, And, gliding down life's quiet stream, We would not note our rapid flight Were there no landmarks by the way. I would not call to memory now The sorrows of those vanished years (Our steps led through affliction's path, Bordered by bitter falling tears); But I would have you think today Of all that made life seem most dear, Of hopes that tint with pleasing ray The prospects of the coming year. It seems that those who love are doomed Affliction's bitterest cup to drain, As if they with their mutual strength Were better formed to bear the pain; Or it may be, had fortune smiled, Our love with years had colder grown: Yours might have followed fancy's paths, And I have dou/bted e'en my own. Perhaps that Fate has been more kind Than we, dear heart, shall ever know; The purest gem may worthless seem If scanned by firelight's fitful glow. Then at our lot we'll not repine, Though cold and dreary seem the way, But journey on, heart joined to heart, Until we find the perfect day. Mrs. Sarah A. Thomas. MARRIED FOR LOVE. "Yes, Jack Brown was a splendid fellow, But married for love, you know. I remember the girl very well — Sweet little Kitty Duffau. Pretty and loving and good, And bright as a fairy elf; I was very much tempted indeed To marry Kitty myself. "But her friends were all of them poor, And Kitty had not a cent; And I knew I should never be With 'love in a cottage' content. So Jack was the lucky wooer, Or unlucky — anyway • You can see how shabby his coat, And his hair is turning gray. "But I'm told he thinks himself rich With Kitty and homely joys; A cot far away out of town, Full of noisy girls and boys. Poor Jack! I'm sorry, and all that, But of course he very well knew That fellows who marry for love Must drink of the liquor they brew." And the handsome Augustus smiled, His coat was in perfect style, And women still spoke of his grace, And gave him their sweetest smile. But he thought that night of Jack Brown, And said, "I'm growing old; I think I must really marry Some beautiful girl with gold." Years passed, and the bachelor grew Tiresome and stupid and old; He had not been able to find The beautiful girl with gold. Alone with his fancies he dwelt. Alone in the crowded town, Till one day he suddenly met The friend of his youth, Jack Brown. "Why, Gus!" "Why, Jack!" What a meeting! Jack was so happy and gay; The bachelor sighed for content As he followed his friend away To the cot far out of town, Set deep in its orchard-trees, Scented with lilies and roses Cooled with the ocean-breeze. "Why, Jack, what a beautiful place! What did it cost?" "Oh, it grew. There were only three rooms at first, Then soon the three were too few. So we added a room now and then; And oft in the evening hours, Kitty, the children, and I Planted the trees and flowers. "And they grew as the children grew (Jack, Harry, and Grace, and Belle)." "And where are the youngsters now?" "All happy and doing well. Jack went to Spain for our house — His road is level and clear — And Harry's a lawyer in town, Making three thousand a year. "And Grace and Belle are well married — They married for love, as is best. But often our birdies come back To visit the dear home nest. So my sweet wife Kitty and I From labor and care may cease; We have enough, and age can bring Nothing but love and peace" LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 89 But over and over again The bachelor thought that night, "Home, and wife, and children! Jack Brown was, after all, right. Oh! if in the days of my youth I had honestly loved and wed! For now when I'm old there's no one cares Whether I'm living or dead." A BRIDAL SONG. A song and a blessing for thee, young bride! As thou goest forth by thy loved one's side, Passing from under the old roof-tree, Winch long and kindly has sheltered thee, Leaving the home of thy childhood's hours; Bidding farewell to its birds and flowers, And the quiet spot where thy dear cnes rest, With the green sod hiding each peaceful breast. Thou, art going forth and there resteth now, A shadow of grief on thy girlish brow ; But it soon will pass, for thy path is bright, Thy future is warm with a golden light; And, leaning with mingled love and pride, On him thou hast chosen to be thy guide, Thou lookest forth to the coming years, And a rainbow gleams through thy gath- ering tears. Bless thee, young bride, for thy trustful love; Thou art going forth like a mated dove, To fold thy wing in a new-found nest. Oh, mayest thou ever be glad and blest! May the links that bind thee be ever bright, And thy heart rejoice in unshadowed light! Mbs. M. J. E. Crawford. IN SCHOOL-DAYS. Still sits the schoolhouse by the road, A ragged beggar sunning; Around it still the sumachs grow, And blackberry vines are running. Within, the master's desk is seen, Deep scarred by raps official; The warping floor, the battered seats, The jackknife's carved initial; The charcoal frescoes on its wall; Its door's worn sill, betraying The feet that, creeping slow to school, Went storming out to playing. Long years ago a winter sun Shone over it at setting; Lit up its western window-panes, And low eaves' icy fretting. It touched the tangled golden curls, And brown eyes, full of grieving, Of one who still her steps delayed When all the school were leaving. For near her stood the little boy Her childish favor singled, His cap pulled low upon a face Where pride and shame were mingled. Pushing with restless feet the snow To right and left, he lingered, As restlessly her tiny hands The blue-checked apron fingered. He saw her lift her eyes; he felt The soft hands' light caressing, And heard the tremble of her voice, As if a fault confessing: "I'm sorry that I spelled the word; I hate to go above you, Because" — the brown eyes lower fell — "Because, you see, I love you!" Still memory to a gray-haired man That sweet child-face is showing. Dear girl! the grasses on her grave Have forty years been growing. He lives to learn in life's hard school How few who pass above him Lament their triumph and his loss, Like her — because they love him. John Greenleaf Whittieb. AFTON WATER. Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes; Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise: My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream; Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds through the glen, Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den, Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear; I charge you disturb not my slumbering: fair. How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighboring hills, Far marked with the courses of clear wind- ing rills! There daily I wander as noon rises high, My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye. How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below, Where wild in the woodlands the prim- roses blow! There oft as mild evening weeps over the lea, The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me. Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides, And winds by the cot where my Mary re- sides ! 90 TREASURES OF POETRY. How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, As, gathering- sweet flowers, she stems thy clear wave! Flow gently, sweet Afton, among- thy green braes ; Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays; My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream; Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. ROBEBT BURNS. THE MEMORY OF THE HEART. If stores of dry and learned lore we gain, "We keep them in the memory of the brain; Names, things, and facts — whate'er we knowledge call There is the common ledger for them all; And images on this cold surface traced Make slight impression, and are soon ef- faced. But we've a page, more glowing and more bright. On which our friendship and our love to write, That these may never from the soul depart, We trust them to the memory of the heart. There is no dimming, no effacement there; Each new pulsation keeps the record clear; "Warm, golden letters all the tablet fill, Nor lose their luster till the heart stands still. Daniel Webster. THOU RT ALL THE WORLD TO ME. Heaven hath its crown of stars, the earth Her glory-robe of flowers, The sea its gems, the grand old woods Their songs and greening showers; The birds have homes, where leaves and blooms In beauty wreathe above; High yearning hearts their rainbow-dream — And we, sweet! we have love. "W!e walk not with the jeweled great, "Where Love's dear name is sold; Yet have we wealth we would not give For all their world of gold! "We revel not in corn and wine, Yet have we from above Manna divine, and we'll not pine, While we may live and love. Cherubim, with clasping wings, Ever about us be, And happiest of God's happy things, There's love for you and me! Thy lips, that kiss to death, have turned Life's water into wine; The sweet life melting, through thy looks, Hath made my life divine. All love's dear promise hath been kept, Since thou to me wert given; A ladder for my soul to climb, And summer high in heaven. I know, dear heart! that in our lot May mingle tears and sorrow; But love's rich rainbow's built from tears Today, with smiles tomorrow. The sunshine from our sky may die, The greenness from life's tree, But ever, mid the warring storm, Thy nest shall sheltered be. The world maj r never know, dear heart! What I have found in thee; But, though naught to the world, dear heart! Thou'rt all the world to me. Gerald Masset. OH, LAY THY HAND IN MINE, DEAR. Oh, lay thy hand in mine, dear! We're growing old, But Time hath brought no sign, dear, That hearts grow cold. 'Tis long, long since our new love Made life divine; But age enricheth true love, Like noble wine. And lay thy cheek to mine, dear, And take thy rest; Mine arms around thee twine, dear, And make thy nest. A many cares are pressing On this dear head, But Sorrow's hands in blessing Are surely laid. Oh, lean thy life on mine, dear! 'Twill shelter thee. Thou wert a winsome vine, dear, On my young tree; And so, till boughs are leafless, And song-birds flown, We'll twine, then lay us, griefless, Together down. Gerald Mas sett. HOW FRIENDS ARE WON. She sighed for beauty, for wealth and fame, For pleasures she had not known; "If only these charmed things were mine, Content would be my own." She sighed for a lover brave and kind. For friends that were good and true; She did not know that these are won By things that we say and do. Beauty and fame never dwelt with her, And wealth never came her way, But happiness came an abiding guest When this lesson she learned one day: LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. yi That it isn't the house you live in, And it isn't the clothes you wear, That makes your friends admire you, Or makes a lover care. Nor is it a form divinely wrought, Or cheek of a lovely hue, Nor locks the Lorelei might wish, Or eyes of corn-flower blue. But it is the words we speak each day, And the acts of kindness done, That makes our old friends love us, And the way that new are won. Mollis S. Runcobn. I LOVE YOU. [From husband to wife after eight years of mar- ried life.] When morning's beams first wake the pulses of a new-born day, And when, like these, new fancies spring and hopes are born anew, I rise and know and feel within myself as something new, Yet as a sweet old song, sung long ago, — I love you. I love you! As that song thrills my heart And echoes down the chambers of my soul. Fond memory wakes, and with sweetest voice she sings The old, old song of other days when first I loved you. Ah, then 'twas that love, born of thy pure, true soul and tender being, First to my heart played sweetest, wildest melody. 'Twas then I learned to know and feel and say- — With truest heart and being all attuned to love's sweet song — I love you. I loved you then — But as days drew on their length of toil and pain and happiness, Tying us closer with the strong sure cord of sympathy, Love's strain more equal, even grew, and, with a low sweet voice, That thrilled our hearts and lives to deep- est depths, each cried to each, — I love you! I have loved you! Days, weeks, months, and years with all they may be or can bring to us — Toil, sorrow, pain, joy, peacei religion. hope of future life — Are cords that bind me close to God and thee; And when I say, I live, either in this life or the life to come, 'Tis but a new cord played upon love's harp to say, — Darling, I love you. And I shall love you always! What though friends shall come bringing the joy of friendship and their love, What though cares shall cry in. voice disv cordant in our ears, Yet will our hearts, like harps that by the master hand of love Are tuned to sweetest harmony, respond, Unmindful of all jarring discord — So shall they sing in unison together,— I love you. I shall love you! When the years of time are past and in that beautous home beyond the sky The father calls his wandering children to the world of light to be at home, — We'll meet again; and through unending years of joy unfading, With the God who made these hearts and tuned them to respond to love's, sweet story, Forever and forever, all eternity, we'll sing The song our hearts have sung so long on earth — I love you. J. W. Phblps. MAUD MULLER. Maud Muller, on a summer's day, Raked the meadow, sweet with hay. Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth Of simple beauty and rustic health. ■ Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee' The mock-bird echoed from his tree. But, when she glanced to the far-off town White from its hill-slope looking down, The sweet song died, and a vague unrest And a nameless longing filled her breast— A wish, that she hardly dared to own, For something better than she had known The Judge rode slowly down the lane, Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane'. He drew his bridle in the shade Of the apple-trees to greet the maid, And ask a draught from the spring that flowed Through the meadow across the road. She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up, And filled for him her small tin cup. And blushed as she gave it, looking down On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown. "Thanks!" said the Judge, "a sweeter draught From a fairer hand was never quaffed." 92 TREASURES OF POETRY. He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees, Of the singing- birds and the humming bees; Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether The cloud in the west would bring foul weather. And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown And her graceful ankles bare and brown, And listened, while a pleased surprise Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes. At last, like one who for delay Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away. Maud Muller looked and sighed: "Ah, me! That I the Judge's bride might be! "He would dress me up in silk so fine, And praise and toast me at his wine. "My father should wear a broadcloth coat; My brother should sail a painted boat. "I'd dress my mother so grand and gay, And the baby should have a new toy each day. "And I'd feed the hungry and clothe the poof. And all should bless me who left our door." The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill, And saw Maud Muller standing still. "A form more fair, a face more sweet, Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet. "And her modest answer and graceful air Show her wise and good as she is fair. "Would she were mine, and I today, Like her, a harvester of hay: "No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs, Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues, "But low of cattle and song of birds, And health, and quiet, and loving words." But he thought of his sisters proud and cold, And his mother vain of her rank and gold. So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on, And Maud was left in the field alone. But the lawyers smiled that afternoon, When he hummed in court an old love- tune; And the young girl mused beside the well, Till the rain on the unraked clover fell. He wedded a wife of richest dower, Who lived for fashion as he for power. Yet oft in his marble hearth's bright glow. He watched a picture come and go; And sweet Maud Muller' s hazel eyes Looked out in their innocent surprise. Oft, when the wine in his glass was red, He longed for the wayside-well instead, And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms To dream of meadows and clover-blooms; And the proud man sighed, with a secret pain : "Ah, that I were free again! "Free as when I rode that day Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay." She wedded a man unlearned and poor, And many children played round her door. But care and sorrow, and childbirth pain, Left their traces on heart and brain. And oft when the summer sun shone hot On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot, And she heard the little spring brook fall Over the roadside, through the wall, — In the shade of the apple-tree again She saw a rider draw his rein, And, gazing down with timid grace, She felt his pleased eyes read her face- Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls Stretched away into stately halls, The weary wheel to a spinnet turned, The tallow candle an astral burned, And for him who sat by the chimney lug, Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug, A manly form at her side she saw, And joy was duty and love was law. Then she took up her burden of life again, Saying only, "It might have been!" Alas for maiden, alas for Judge, For rich repiner and household drudge! God pity them both ! and pity us all, Who vainly the dreams of youth recall. For of all sad words of tongue or pen, The saddest are these: "It might havo been!" Ah, well! for us all some sweet hope lies Deeply buried from human eyes; And, in the hereafter, angels may Roll the stone from its grave away! John Gbeenleap WHrrrnm. NATURE POEMS NATURE POEMS. 95 NATURE POEMS WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE. Woodman, spare that tree! Touch not a single bough! In youth it sheltered me, And I'll protect it now. 'Twas my forefather's hand That placed it near his cot: There, woodman, let it stand; Thy ax shall harm it not! That old familiar tree, Whose glory and renown Are spread o'er land and sea — And wouldst thou hew it down? Woodman, forbear thy stroke! Cut not its earth-bound ties! Oh! spare that aged oak, Now towering to the skies. When but an idle boy I sought its grateful shade; In all their gushing joy, Here, too, my sisters played. My mother kissed me here, My father pressed my hand: Forgive this foolish tear, But let that old oak stand! My heart-strings round thee cling, Close as thy bark, old friend! Here shall the wild bird sing, And still thy branches bend. Old tree, the storm still brave! And, woodman, leave the spot! While I've a hand to save, Thy ax shall harm it not. Geobgh P. Mobris. SNOW-BOUND. [A selection from one of Whittier's best-known poems.] The sun that brief December day Rose cheerless over hills of gray, And, darkly circled gave at noon A sadder light than waning moon. Slow tracing down the thickening sky Its mute and ominous prophecy, A portent seeming less than threat, It sank from sight before it set. A chill no coat, however stout, Of homespun stuff could quite shut out, A hard, dull bitterness of cold, That checked, mid-vein, the circling race Of life-blood in the sharpened face, The coming of the snow-storm told. The wind blew east; we heard the roar Of Ocean on his wintry shore, And felt the strong pulse throbbing there Beat with low rhythm our inland air. Meanwhile we did our nightly chores — Brought in the wood from out-of-doors, Littered the stalls, and from the mows Raked down the herd's-grass for the cows: Heard the horse whinnying for his corn: And, sharply clashing horn on horn, Impatient down the stanchion rows The cattle shake their walnut bows; While, peering from his early perch Upon the scaffold's pole of birch, The cock his crested helmet bent And down his querulous challenge sent. Unwarmed by any sunset light The gray day darkened into night, A night made hoary with the swarm And whirl-dance of the blinding storm, As zigzag, wavering to and fro, Crossed and recrossed the winged snow; And ere the early bedtime came The white drift piled the window-frame, And through the glass the clothes-line posts Looked in like tall and sheeted ghosts. So all night long the storm roared on: The morning broke without a sun; In tiny spherule traced with lines Of Nature's geometric signs, In starry flake, and pellicle, All day the hoary meteor fell; And, when the second morning shone, Wie looked upon a world unknown, On nothing we could call our own. Around the glistening wonder bent The blue walls of the firmament, No cloud above, no earth below — A universe of sky and snow! The old familiar sights of ours Took marvelous shapes; strange domes and towers Rose up where sty or corn-crib stood. Or garden-wall, or belt of wood; A smooth white mound the brush-pile showed, A fenceless drift what once was road; The bridle-post an old man sat With loose-flung coat and high cocked hat; The well-curb had a Chinese roof; And even the long sweep, high aloof, In its slant splendor, seemed to tell Of Pisa's leaning miracle. ********* All day the gusty north-wind bore The loosening drift its breath before; Low circling round its southern zone, The sun through dazzling snow-mist shone. No church-bell lent its Christian tone To the savage air, no social smoke Curled over woods of snow-hung oak; A solitude made more intense By dreary-voiced elements — The shrieking of the mindless wind, The moaning tree-boughs swaying blind, And on the glass the unmeaning beat Of ghostly finger-tips of sleet. Beyond the circle of our hearth No welcome sound of toil or mirth Unbound the spell and testified 96 TREASURES OF POETRY. Of human life and thought outside. We minded that the sharpest ear The buried brooklet could not hear, The music of whose liquid lip Had been to us companionship, And, in our lonely life, had grown To have an almost human tone. As night drew on, and, from the crest Of wooded knolls that ridged the west, The sun, a snow-blown traveler, sank From sight beneath the smothering bank, We piled, with care, our nightly stark Of wood against the chimney-back — The oaken log, green, huge, and thick. And on its top the stout back-stick; The knotty forestick laid apart, And filled between with curious art The ragged brush; then, hovering near, We watched the first red blaze appear, Heard the sharp crackle, caught the gleam On whitewashed wall and sagging beam, Until the old, rude-furnished room Burst, flower-like, into rosy bloom; While radiant with a mimic flame Outside the sparkling drift became, And through the bare-boughed lilac-tree Our own warm hearth seemed blazing free. The crane and pendent trammels showed, The Turks' heads on the andirons glowed; While childish fancy, prompt to tell The meaning of the miracle, Whispered the old rhyme: "Under the tree, When fire outdoors burns merrily, There the witches are making tea." The moon above the eastern wood Shone at its full; the hill-range stood Transfigured in the silver floods Its blown snows flashing cold and keen, Dead white, save where some sharp ravine Took shadow, or the somber green Of hemlocks turned to pitchy black Against the whiteness at their back. For such a world and such a night Most fitting that unwarming light, Which only seemed where'er it fell To make the coldness visible. Shut in from all the world without, We sat the clean-winged hearth about, Content to let the north wind roar In baffled rage at pane and door, While the red logs before us beat The frost-line back with tropic heat; And ever, when a louder blast Shook beam and rafter as it passed, The merrier up its roaring draught The great throat of the chimney laughed; The house-dog on his paws outspread Laid to the fire his drowsy head, The cat's dark silhouette on the wall A couchant tiger's seemed to fall; And, for the winter fireside meet, Between the andirons' straddling feet, The mug of cider simmered slow, The apples sputtered in a row, And, close at hand, the basket stood With nuts from brown October's wood. What matter how the night behaved? What matter how the north-wind raveuv Blow high, blow low, not all its snow Could quench our hearth-fire's ruddy glow. ********* John Gbeenlbaf Whittieb. EVENTIDE. Slowly the sun sinks in the west; The song-bird, hovering o'er her nest, Softly twitters her evening song; While from the fields, where all day long The harvesters with sickles keen Have cut the waving, golden sheen Of ripened grain, and while the dew Falls on each bud and floweret new, The whippoorwill from thicket green Pipes his shrill whistle all unseen; While moonlit rays of silvery light Pierce through the gloom of darkening night, And twinkling stars shine softly through The azure depths of heavenly blue; And with the sleeping world abide The watchful sprites of eventide. Mbs. G. W. Tatro. SUNSET. The brilliant orb of day hangs in the west; The gold-fringed clouds in splendor clus- ter round, And touch with amber glow the earth's dark ground. The beaten paths and crumbling clods abound With colors rare, and everywhere is found Sol's benediction as he sinks to rest. All nature sovereign beauty now assumes; As nuggets fair the' gold-tinged pebble fills The splashing brooklets and the shining rills; And how the grandeur of the sun now thrills, As large and red it dips behind the hills, And fills the earth with mellow twilight glooms! Across the rosy west dim shadows steal. First timidly, forerunners of the night, They seem to struggle with the parting light; Then stretching forth in unexpected might They merge from out their darksome covert, night, Their sullen shroud more boldly to reveal Thus oft we watch night draw its sable pall Across the glorj' of the western skies; And night enthroned we watch as day- light dies. The tops of ghostly pines, now towering high, Are swept to motion by the winds, and sigh As on its dismal throne night reigns o'er all. NATURE POEMS. 07 We tli ink of that last eve, when ebbing: life (As fading twilight yields its charms to night, Extinguishing earth's grandeur from our sight) Will close these heavy lids. But ah! the flight On cherub wings through darkness unto light Is brief; then rest we free from fear and strife. O. L. Linn. OUT IN THE FIELDS WITH GOD. The little cares that fretted me, I lost them yesterday, Among the fields, above the sea, Among the winds at play; Among the lowing of the herds, The rustling of the trees; Among the singing of the birds, The humming of tne bees. The foolish fears of what may happen, I cast them all away Among the clover-scented grass, Among the new-mown hay; Among the rustling of the corn, Where drowsy poppies nod, Where ill thoughts die and good are born — Out in the fields with God. Elizabeth Babbett Bbowning. AMONG WISCONSIN PINES. Closely bending to each other Sway thft slender trees of pine, While their branches, finger-ending. Clasp each other, keeping time, As in olden minuet, On a graceful, stately step, To the rhythm of the music Breathed in whispers By the pines. Oh, the fragrance of the pines! How it lingers in our minds, As a censer, swinging near, Leaves the spicy perfume rare, Or as from some oaken chest Odors come from folds long pressed; While the aged forest bards Sweetly mimic harpsichords, In the rambling, dulcet music Of the pines. In the bosom of the forest, In some hushed and dainty nook Where the mosses strewn with dead leaves Weave a cushion under foot, There the red deer meet in secret And the oriole and the linnet, Working in the forest twilight, Swing their cradles in the vines, And their voices, clear and joyous, Join the chorus Of the pines. Here in winter blows the North Wind From the tangled frozen marshes, And in chambers, long and winding, Sifts the deep and drifting snows. Then the voices of the forest, In a shrill and mighty chorus, Wail like lost souls, tempest tossed, Marching in a mighty host, And in passing, keeping time To the soughing and the sighing Of the pines. Let me then among the pines Dream and work and humbly live, Drawing sips of honeyed nectar From the ample breast of Nature; And from banks, moss-grown and low, When life's shadows longer grow, See the beck'ning pine-trees mirrored In some placid silvery river While their shades from deep confines Wave a welcome To the pines. Nellib Olson. GODS SENTINELS. God loves the mountains. Since earth's primal days When puny man awoke to light and life, His steps have haunted all their mystic ways, Above, remote from petty human strife. Man's monuments endure but for a day, But these eternal in their strength alway. How little all things human-builded seem! The marbled pomp of proud imperial Rome; The tower of Babel, but a madman's dream; The boast of Grecian art, St. Peter's dome; The pigmy pyramids, the Pharaoh's pride — How like to motes our mighty peaks be- side! We proudly choose some fondly cherished spot, And rear our shafts for future eyes to see, A little time, and lo! our works are not; They perish as the leaves that fall, but ye Have stood in strength since immortal time, And still shall stand forever more sublime. Beloved by Nature fond the sun's first rays Bask on each crown in ecstacy of bliss With soft caress, and his last lingering blaze The towering purple summits softly kiss. Ere yet he sinks within the golden west And leaves the world to solitude and rest. The mountains have been Freedom's safe retreat From Tyranny, since Time's first early dawn; Here Liberty has fled with bleeding feet 98 TREASURES OF POETRY. When in the plain all light and hope had flown; And, standing: proudly on the tow'ring height, Has bid defiance to the tyrant's might. O migrhty peaks, so all supremely grand! Springing to meet the azure vault above, Warding from storm the slumb'ring peace- ful land, Bending o'er all with tender, ceaseless love; Watch still, mute sentries, set by Him on high To guard us during life and point us to the sky I SUNSET. High up in heaven the foamy flakes Of sunset-clouds are resting; The rose-tint o'er them softly breaks Their ragged edges cresting; Here lies a strip of darkling blue, Fringed with a soft pale yellow; Close by a crimson shade is seen Blending with each bright billow. But see! a purple light now glows, Fading but lovely still, Replaced by gold and silver rays That flash from hill to hill. Low down beneath an orange shade Of clouds more still and dark, The sun is slowly sinking now — Of heaven's sea the bark; For like an ocean broad, methinks The tinted clouds are spread; And through their billows bright, the sun Each day his course hath sped. But he has gone — and lo! the clouds That flitted o'er his way, The blue, the gold, the orange shade, Have changed to sober gray. 'Tis thus with life — some brilliant sun Our rough path crosses o'er, But soon is gone; the ray is lent, Then, quivering, gleams no more. Not in ourselves are all the shades That make our sky so bright; But, like the clouds at sunset hour, We shine with borrowed light. Sarah B. Sawyer. THE FOREST. Of all the beautiful pictures That hang on Memory's wall, The one of the dim, old forest Seemeth the best of all. Not for its gnarled oaks olden, Dark with the mistletoe; Not for the violets golden That sprinkle the vale below; Not for the milk-white lilies That lean from the fragrant hedge, Sporting all day with the sunbeams, And stealing their golden edge. I once had a little brother With eyes that were dark and deep; In the lap of that dim, old forest He iieth in peace, asleep. Light as the down on the thistle, Free as the winds that blow. We roved there the beautiful summers — The summers of long ago. But his feet on the hills grew weary, And on one of the autumn eves I made for my little brother A bed of the yellow leaves. Sweetly his small arms enfolded My neck in a silent embrace, While the sleep of immortal beauty Silently covered his face. Therefore, of all the pictures That hang on Memory's wall The one of the dim, old forest, Seemeth the best of all. Alicb Cam. THE BEAUTIFUL SNOW. Silent and still, sweeping down through the air, Fairy-like painting wild scenes rich and rare. Noiseless its passage, though swift is its flight; Naught can we hear of its footfall, so light Strewing its numberless glittering gems Over the forest, fields, mountains, and glens, Setting the pulses of Nature aglow, Falls the soft, beautiful, beautiful snow. From dizzy heights with a fearless descent, Hither, with favors, thy footsteps are bent. Cover, in kindness, with crystals of light Terra's brown features, and veil them from sight; Gladden her soul with your sheltering care, Wreathe her dull brow with the crown which you bear; Far over landscape and wild wood bestow Benefits welcome, O beautiful snow. Dreamily floating far down from above, With shining pinions, all flashing with love; Delicate, frail as a child sweet and fair, Stronger in spirit than beasts in their lair; Constant, unfailing the charms which you lend; Changeless and sure is the cheer which you send — Drop from your sphere to this world far be- low, Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful snow. From yonder cloud-land, thy native glad skies, You bring us gifts that we cherish and prize; NATURE POEMS. 39 Holding: a chalice of matchless design, Exquisite form and a beauty sublime, Out of whose depths, in unmeasured clear streams, Flows a sweet nectar which sparkles and g-leams, Thrilling- the heart with a pleasure untold Bounding- with joys which they ever unfold. Quietly slipping- from heaven's blue dome, Calmly to rest in a lowlier home; Beaming- kind messeng-er, smiling- and brig-ht, Blessing-s you bear us on wings pure and white. Old Mother Earth, with pulse dormant and still, Wakes from her sadness with resolute will, Vibrates with hope as you gently o'er- spread, Glory and splendor forms seas and dead. Here may thy presence, so clean, pure, and true, Teach us to live for the g-ood we can do: Modest, with purpose firm, strong- as thy own; Scattering- hopes over hearts that are lone, Carrying- tidings of faith, love, and peace, In whose fruition all sorrow will cease — Let our life be, as we heaven's lig-ht show, Lovely and fair, like the beautiful snow. Whatever station or rank we may hold, Let us endeavor, with hearts brave and bold, Help the downtrodden and shield from de- spair Souls who lack courage life's burden to bear; Teil them of Jesus, that others may know Whom to believe — he'll make whiter than snow. Thus may our service, wherever we go, Beautiful be, like the beautiful snow. Anna K. Thomas. TO A STREAMLET. Flow on, sweet streamlet, flow, Over the rocks where the mosses grow, Dashing- thy crest into silver snow, As the white swan floats on the foam below Within the shade of the willow row, And the fishes creep 'neath the bank so low — Flow on, O streamlet, flow. Glide on, clear streamlet, glide, By the boggy fen, where the goblins hide, And the fairy forms on the night-winds ride; By the flowers that bloom on the steep hillside, While the white swan floats on thy silver tide- Glide on, O streamlet, glide. Sweep on, pure streamlet, sweep, Through the flowery dale, where the shad- ows creep; By the stern old pines on the hillside steep; Through the greening glen, where the roses peep At thy tranquil crest while they nightly keep Their vigils true with the ones who weep — Sweep on, O streamlet, sweep. Sing on, v O streamlet, sing, While the fleeing years unceasing bring The joys so sweet, and death's cold sting; Sing ye to the bird of the tireless wing, Sing ye while the wedding-bells shall ring Clear and sweet on the morn of spring — Sing on, O streamlet, sing. Sigh on, sad streamlet, sigh, For my sister fair with her laughing eye, For the tall old oak that grew so high, For the birds that sang 'neath the autumn sky, For the hawk so harsh, and the wren so shy — • Thou art severed now from every tie, Sigh on, O streamlet, sigh. H. R. Gbil. MIDNIGHT. 'Tis midnight o'er the dim mere's lonely bosom, Dark, dusky, windy midnight; swift are driven The swelling vapors onward; every blossom Bathes its bright petals in the tears of heaven. Imperfect; half-seen objects meet the sight, The other half our fancy must portray; A wan, dull, lengthened sheet of swimming light Lies the broad lake; the moon conceals her ray, Sketched faintly by a pale and lurid gleam Shot through the glimmering clouds; the lovely planet Is shrouded in obscurity; the scream Of owl is silenced; and the rocks of gran- ite Rise tall and drearily, while damp and dank Hang the thick willows on the reedy bank; Beneath, the gurgling eddies slowly creep, Blackened by foliage; and the glutting wave, That saps eternally the cold gray steep, Sounds heavily within the How cave. All earth is r^~ + less: from his glossy wing The heath-fowl lifts his he.ad at inter- vals ; Wet, driving, rainy, come the bursting squalls; All nature wears her dun dead covering; Tempest is gathered, and the brooding storm Spreads its black mantle o'er the moun- tains' form; And, mingled with the rising roar, is swell- ing, From the far hunter's booth, the blood- hound's yelling; The water-falls in various cadence chiming, 100 TREASURES OF POETRY. Or in one loud unbroken sheet descending. Salute each other through fehe night's dark womb; The moaning pine-trees to the wild blast bending, Are pictured faintly through the cheq- ured gloom; The forests, half-way up the mountain climbing, Resound with crash of falling branches; quiver Their aged mossy trunks; the startled doe Leaps from her leafy lair; the swelling river Winds his broad stream majestic, deep, and slow. Alfred Tennyson. SUNSET AND TWILIGHT. The sun hath gone down in the crimsoned west, The dove hath flown to her lonely nest, And the golden light of departing day Tinges the mountains far away, Till their green sides glow with a brilliant flush, Like a calm face lighting with love's warm blush. The sky is bright as the light that gleams From the sparkling waves of sunlit streams, And the rosy clouds are soft and light As the dreams which visit our hearts by night The soft west wind as it murmurs by With its fragrant breath and dreamy sigh, Makes music sweet as the pleasant tones Which fall from the lips of loving ones — Tones which leave in the inmost heart Gentle echoes which never depart. The eye which rests on a scene so bright Never can tire of the gorgeous sight: The soul is filled with a rapture pure, That mortal senses can scarce endure; The pulses throb, and the full heart longs To frame its bliss into thrilling songs, The glorious light to its depth to win, And drink the spirit of beauty in; Embody each delicate tint and glow, And breathe it in music soft and low; But its powers are bound in too bright a chain — Lips can not utter that spirit-strain. The bright hues fade, and a purple mist Creeps o'er the hills which the sunbeams kissed; The thin clouds melt from their mellow hue. And lose themselves in the deep, dark blue; While shadows steal o'er the quiet scene, Like fairy forms from the woodland green. The day-blooms softly are folding up The glowing leaves of each tiny cup, Quietly closing each drowsy eye, Till light returns to the eastern sky; WTiile dew-drops gather like gems of light, In hearts of blossoms which scent the night. The stars come out in the arch above, Pure lamps lit up by the har -' of love; And earthward spreading their shining wings, As if to vie with those radiant things; The fireflies glitter and gleam and glance. And seem to move in a mystic dance; The sound of streams and the scent of flowers Seem sweeter now than at other hours, And the soul grows calm in the twilight air, And bows itself in unspoken prayer. Mbs. M. J. E. CBAWFOEn. THE FALLS OF NIAGARA. The thoughts are strange that crowd into my brain, While I look upward to thee. It wculdseem As if God poured thee from his "hollow hand," And hung his bow upon thine awful front, And spoke in that loud voice, which seemed to him Who dwelt in Patmos for his Savior's sake, "The sound of many waters," and had bade Thy flood to chronicle the ages back, And notch his centuries in the eternal rocks. Deep calleth unto deep. And what are we, That hear the question of that voice sub- lime? Oh, what are all the notes that ever rung From war's vain trumpet, by thy thunder- ing side! Tea, what is all the riot man can make In his short life, to thy unceasing roar! And yet, bold babbler, what art thou to Him Who drowned a world, and heaped the waters far Above its loftiest mountains? A light wave, That breaks, and whispers of its Maker's might. John G. O. Bbainabd. WIND OF THE WEST. Wandering wind of the west. Come in at my window and oe my guest; You must be tired, come in ana rest. Tell me a story of what you have seen W"hile flying the earth and sky between O'er many a changeful western scene. As down the mountainside I came, When all the eastern sky aflame With dawning fires was, I saw The night her gloomy curtains draw, And hide her stars before the sun His glowing circuit had begun. I played a while in an eagle's nest; I plucked a feather from her breast And took it with me down below And dropped it in the river's flow. I darted through a waterfall And dashed its spray against the wall; I tore a rainbow into shreds: NATURE POEMS. 101 And from a spider's silken threads I made a hammock which I hung: The fragile mountain flowers among. Across the plains where lonely stand The brown sod houses in the sand I idly soared, and through their doors I came and played upon their floors. I plaved on graves where slanting stood Plain crosses made of rough pine wood; I danced on heaps of whitened bones, On fleshless, naked skeletons. I wandered through deserted fields, Where barren soil but scarcely yields The wandering thistle and ugly weeds That grow from careless, vagrant seeds. I played with ghosts of long ago Of Indian and of buffalo; T heard the warrior's mournful songs, I heard the tramp of shaggy throngs Across the level dusk-bathed plain; Then all grew calm and still again. And now I nestle in your breast; The day is done, I'll stop and rest. William Reed Dunboy. NIGHT. Low hangs the heavy moon, and low The drowsy locust droops with sleep; Across the quiet fields below, And where the languid lilies blow On sluggish waters, still and deep, The balmy zephyrs, to and fro, In slumbrous silence creep. The stars seem pausing in the sky Around their listless planet-queen; The trees have hushed their lullaby; And sylvan songsters, cradled high, Dream lightly in their chambers green; All things are resting; only I, Sink not in sleep serene. THE SNOW-STORM. Announced by all the trumpets of the sky, Arrives the snow; and, driving o'er the fields, Seems nowhere to alight. The whited air Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven, And veils the farm-house at the garden's end. The sled and traveler stopped, the courier's feet Delayed, all friends shut out, the house- mates sit Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed In a tumultuous privacy of storm. Come see the north- wind's masonry! Out of an unseen quarry, evermore Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer Curves his white bastions with projected roof Round every windward stake or tree or door; Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work So fanciful, so savage; naught cares he For number or proportion. Mockingly, On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths; A swan-like form invest*, the hidden thorn; Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall, Maugre the farmer's sighs; and at the gate A tapering turret overtops the work. And when his hours are numbered, and the world Is all his own, retiring as he were not, Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone, Built in an age, the mad wind's night- work, The frolic architecture of the snow. Ralph Waldo Emerson. MIDNIGHT. 'Tis night mid-glory. Earth, so calm, so still, On couch of space is wrapped in slum- ber's spell; How soft and pure her bosom's rounded swell 'Neath fleecy robes and placid radiance shed From silver orb, like watcher's lamp, o'er- head! While starry legions dimly throng and fill Her airy chamber, whence all sound is fled Save breath of rising prayer, or whir of wings As angels viewless pass, or heavenward springs The guardian who hath wrought the Fa- ther's will. Midnight and moonlight, silence, stars, and God— Sublimest height Diurnal Time hath trod. Lauka S. R. McCarthy. HYMN OF THE NIGHT. I heard the trailing garments of the Night Sweep through her marble halls; I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light From the celestial walls. I felt her presence, by its spell of might, Stoop o'er me from above; The calm, majestic presence of the Night, As of the one I love. I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight, The manifold, soft chimes, That fill the haunted chambers of the Night, Like some old poet's rhymes. From the cool cisterns of the midnight air My spirit drank repose; The fountain of perpetual peace flows there — ■ From those deep cisterns flows. O holy Night! from thee I learn to bear What man has homo before! 102 TREASURES OF POETRY. Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care, And they complain no more. Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer! Descend with broad-wingred flight, The welcome, the thrice-prayed for most fair, The best-beloved Nigrht! Henry Wadsworth Longfellow the STORM AT NIGHT ON LAKE LEMAN. Thy sky is changed — and such a change! O night, And storm, and darkness, ye are won- drous strong, Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light Of a dark eye in woman! Far along, From peak to peak, the rattling crags among Leaps the live thunder! Not from one lone cloud, But every mountain now hath found a tongue, And Jura answers, through her misty shroud, Back to the joyous Alps, who. call to her aloud! And this is in the night — most glorious night! Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me be A sharer in thy fierce and far delight — A portion of the tempest and of thee! How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea, And the big rain comes dancing to the earth! And now again 'tis black — and now, the glee Of the loud hills shakes with its moun- tain-mirth, As if they did rejoice o'er a young earth- quake's birth. Lord Byron. BEAUTIFUL SUNSET. I gaze at the beautiful sunset, Portrayed by an Artist Divine, In colors of roseate splendor, In which mellow glories do shine. Was ever a scene so majestic Wrought daily for mortals below? Methinks that the angels of heaven Are charmed with its radiant glow. Now misty, gray clouds are approaching; Will they hinder this marvelous scene? Ah, no! they transform to the grandeur Of the sunset, so calm and serene. The mountains so lofty and somber, And hitherto bleak as the snow, Now bathed in this far-reaching splendor, Become with the sunset aglow. Then each with its rare beauty tinted, Reflects on the valley forlorn, The soft, mellow halo of sunset, More fair than the glow of the morn. ********** Be each of our lives as the sunset, Adorned by the great Artist's hand, Reflecting the light in the darkness As He in his wisdom has planned, Till like the gray clouds and bleak moun- tains, And the vale when the day has withdrawn, Each life may be lighted with beauties — As these, and keep passing them on. And as we are clothed like the sunset, With beauty the world to adorn, God grant that life's eve be more brilliam. With glory, by far, than its morn. Eva M. What. THE EVENING WIND. Spirit that breathest through my lattice, thou That coolest the twilight of the sultry day, Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow; Thoui hast been out upon the deep at play, Riding all day the wild blue waves till now, Roughening their crests, and scattering high their spray, And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee To the scorched land, thou wanderer of the Nor I alone; a thousand bosoms round Inhale thee in the fulness of delight; And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound Livlier, at coming of the wind of night; And, languishing to hear thy grateful — sound, Lies the vast inland stretched beyond the sight. Go forth into the gathering shade; go forth, God's blessing breathed upon the fainting earth ! Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest, Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouse The wide old wood from his majestic rest, Summoning from the innumerable boughs The strange, deep harmonies that haunt his breast: Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows The shutting flower, and darkling waters And where the o'ershadowing branches sweep the grass. The faint old man shall lean his silver head To feel thee; thou shalt kiss the child asleep, NATURE POEMS. 103 And dry the moistened curls that over- spread His temples, while his breathing grows more deep; And they who stand about the sick man's bed, Shall joy to listen to thy -distant sweep, And softly part his curtains to allow Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow. Go — but the circle of eternal change, Which is the life of nature, shall restore, With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range, Thee to thy birthplace of the deep once more; Sweet odors in the sea-air, sweet and strange, Shall tell the home-sick, mariner of the shore; And, listening to thy murmur, he shall deem He hears the rustling leaf and running stream. William Cullen Bryant. BEAUTIFUL. Beautiful sun that giveth us light, Beautiful moon that shineth by night, Beautiful planets in the heaven so far, Beautiful twinkle of each little star. Beautiful waters so blue and so clear, Beautiful sound of the surges we hear, Beautiful brooklet, its ripples so sweet, Beautiful flowers that bloom at our feet. Beautiful springtime when all is delight; Beautiful summer, so warm and so bright; Beautiful autumn, with fruits and with grain; Beautiful winter, with snowflakes again. W. A. Bixlhh. THE THUNDER-STORM. The storm is brooding! — I would see it pass, Observe its tenor, and its progress trace. How dark and dun the gathering clouds appear! Their rolling thunders seem to rend the ear; But faint at first, they slowly, sternly rise, From mutterings low to peals which rock the skies, As if at first their fury they forbore, And nursed their terrors for a closing roar. And hark! they rise into a loftier souoid, Creation's trembling objects quake around; In silent awe the subject-nations hear The appalling crash of elemental war. The lightning, too, each eye in dimness shrouds— The fiery progeny of clashing clouds, That carries death upon its blazing wing, And the keen tortures of the electric sting: Not like the harmless flash on summer's eve (When no rude blasts their silent slumbers leave), Which, like a radiant vision to the eye, Expands serenely in the placid sky; It rushes fleeter than the swiftest wind, And bids attendant thunders wait behind. Quick — forked — livid, through the air it flies, A moment blazes — dazzles — bursts — and dies; Another, and another yet, and still To each replies its own allotted peal. But see, at last, its force and fury spent, The tempest slackens, and the clouds are rent: How sweetly opens on the enchanted view The deep-blue sky, more fresh and bright in hue! A finer fragrance breathes in every vale, A fuller luxury in every gale; My ravished senses catch the rich perfume, And Nature smiles in renovated bloom! Alfred Tennyson. FLOWERS. Spake full well, in language quaint and olden, One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine, When he called the flowers, so blue and golden, Stars, that in earth's firmament do shine. Stars they are, wherein we read our his- tory, As astrologers and seers of eld; Yet not wrapped about with awful mystery, Like the burning stars, which they be- held. Wondrous truths, and manifold as won- drous, God hath written in those stars above; But not less in the bright flowerets under us Stands the revelation of his love. Bright and glorious is that revelation. Written over all this great world of ours; Making evident our own creation, In these stars of earth, these golden flowers. And the poet, faithful and far-seeing, Sees, alike in stars and flowers, a part Of the selfsame, universal being, Which is throbbing in his brain and heart. Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining, Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day, Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lin- ing, Buds that open only to decay. Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tis- sues, Flaunting gayly in the golden light; Large desires, with most uncertain issues; Tender wishes, blossoming at night! These in flowers and men are more than seeming; Workings are they of the selfsame powers, 104 TREASURES OF POETRY. Which the poet, in no idle dreaming:, Seeth in himself and in the flowers. Everywhere about us are they glowing — Some like stars, to tell us spring is born; Others, their blue eyes with tears o'er- flowing, Stand like Ruth amid the golden corn; Not alone in Spring's armorial bearing, And in Summer's green-emblazoned field, But in arms of brave Autumn's wearing, In the center of his brazen shield; Not alone in green meadows and green val- leys, On the mountain-top, and by the brink Of sequestered pools in woodland valleys, Where the slaves of nature stoop to drink; Not alone in her vast dome of glory, Not on graves of bird and beast alone; But in old cathedrals, high and hoary, On the tombs of heroes, carved in stone; In the cottage of the rudest peasant; In ancestral homes, whose crumbling towers, Speaking of the Past unto the Present, Tell us of the ancient Games of Flowers. In all places, then, and in all seasons, Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings, Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons, How akin they are to human things. And with childlike, credulous affection We behold their tender buds expand; Emblems of our own great resurrection, Emblems of the bright and better land. Henei Wadswobth Longfellow. HUMMING BIRDS. Among the sweet peas, Then off to the clover, A drumming of wings as he daintily sups; In quest of sweet store This wild, fickle lover, From all the enticing, gay silver-lined cups. A breath of bluebells, A swift followed humming, Again he is balanced on fast-beating wings; Each lily-bell thrilled With joy at his coming, Each sighing the pleasure his sweet pres- ence brings. A far-away buzz, A streak of blue luster, Away to green meadows to gather fresh sips; There's no joy for him But in some new cluster; Enjoyment is lost now for once-tasted lips. A laugh and a song, Some tears, even anger — A lifetime is wasted in seeking mere joy; With no higher aim, And no thought of danger — Then drinking the dregs from a cup of alloy. NHLLia Olson. SUNSET. If solitude hath ever led thy steps To the wild ocean's echoing shore. And thou hast lingered there Until the sun's broad orb Seemed resting on the burnished wave, Thou must have marked the lines Of purple gold that motionless Hung o'er the sinking sphere; Thou must have marked the billowy clouds, Edged with intolerable radiancy, Towering like rocks of jet Crowned with a diamond wreath. And yet there is a moment, When the sun's highest point Peeps like a star o'er ocean's western edge, When those far clouds of feathery gold, Shaded with deepest purple, gleam Like islands on a dark-blue sea; Then has thy fancy soared above the earth, And furled its wearied wing Within the Fairy's fane. Yet not the golden islands Gleaming in yon flood of light. Nor the feathery curtains Stretching o'er the sun's bright couch, Nor the burnished ocean's waves Paving that gorgeous dome, So fair, so wonderful a sight As Mab's ethereal palace could afford. Yet likest evening's vault, that fairy hall! Heaven, low resting on the wave, it spread Its floors of flashing light. Its vast and azure dome, Its fertile golden islands Floating on a silver sea; Whilst suns their mingling beaming darted Through clouds of circumambient darkness, And pearly battlements around Looked o'er the immense of heaven. Percy Btsshb Shelley. THE LIVING TEMPLE. Not in the world of light alone, Where God has built his blazing throne; Not yet alone in earth below, With belted seas that come and go, And endless isles of sunlit green, Is all thy Maker's glory seen; Look in upon thy wondrous frame — Eternal wisdom still the same! The smooth, soft air with pulse-like waves Flows murmuring through its hidden caves, Whose streams of brightening purple rush, Fired with a new and livlier blush, NATURE POEMS. 105 While all their burden of decay The ebbing current steals away, And red with Nature's flame they start From the warm fountains of the heart. No rest that throbbing: slave may ask, Forever quivering- o'er his task, While far and wide a crimson jet Leaps forth to fill the woven net Which in unnumbered crossing- tides The flood of burning- life divides, Then, kindling- each decaying- part, Creeps back to find the throbbing- heart. But warmed with that unchanging- flame Behold the outward moving- frame, Its living- marbles jointed strong With giistening- band and silvery thongr, And linked to reason's guiding reins By myriad rings in trembling- chains, Each graven with the threaded zone Which claims it as the master's own. See how yon beam of seeming- white Is braided out of seven-hued lig-ht, Yet in those lucid giobes no ray By any chance shall break astray. Hark how the rolling- surge of sound, Arches and spirals circling round, Wakes the hushed spirit through thine ear With music it is heaven to hear. Then mark the cloven sphere that holds All thought in its mysterious folds; That feels sensation's faintest thrill, And flashes forth the sovereig-n will; Think on the stormy world that dwells Locked in its dim and clustering- cells! The lightning gieams of power it sheds Along- its hollow glassy threads! O Father! grant thy love divine To make these mystic temples thine! When wasting- age and wearying- strife Have sapped the leaning- walls of life, When darkness gathers over all, And the last tottering- pillars fall, Take the poor dust thy mercy warms, And mold it into heavenly forms! Olives Wendell Holmes. THE CLEAR VISION. I did but dream! I never knew What charms our sternest season wore, Was never yet the sky so blue, Was never earth so white before. Till now I never saw the giow Of sunset on yon hills of snow, And never learned the bough's designs Of beauty in its leafless lines. Did ever such a morning break As that my eastern windows see? Did ever such a moonlight take Weird photographs of shrub and tree? Rang ever bells so wild and fleet The music of the winter street? Was ever yet a sound by half So merry as yon school-boy's laugh? O Earth! with gladness overfraught, No added charm thy face hath found; Within my heart the change is wrought, My footsteps make enchanted ground. Forth couch of pain and curtained room, Forth to thy light and air I come, To find in all that meets my eyes The freshness of a glad surprise. Fair seem these winter days,, and soon Shall blow the warm west-winds of spring. To set the unbound rills in tune, And hither urge the bluebird's wing. The vales shall laugh in flowers, the woods Grow misty green with leafing buds, And violets and wind-flowers sway Against the throbbing heart of May. Break forth, my lips, in praise, and own The wiser love severely kind; Since, richer for its chastening grown, I see, whereas I once was blind. The world, O Father! hath not wronged With loss of life by thee prolonged; But still, with every added year, More beautiful thy works appear! As thou hast made thy world without, Make thou more fair my world within; Shine through its lingering clouds of doubt ; Rebuke its haunting shapes of sin; Fill, brief or long, my granted span Of life with love to thee and man; Strike when thou wilt the hour of rest, But let my last days be my best! John Gkeenleaf Whittjeb. SUNSET ON THE BLACKHAWK. Day is dying on the Blackhawk; Slowly sinks the orb of light; Dark'ning shadows from the eastward Mark the sure approach of night. Yes, the day is dying, dying; Songbirds soon will tuck their heads 'Neath their wings, while woodland rovers Will be seeking their rude beds. Evening zephyrs idly wander Through each quiet, shady dell, Rustling every drooping leaflet, Some familiar tale to tell. On the calm and peaceful surface Of the Blackhawk's winding stream, Here and there are dim reflections Of an old, forgotten dream. In the rippling of its waters We can hear a murmur low, And, perchance, we catch faint echoes Rising from the long ago. Lingering near we wait to listen — Summer's twilierht slowly dies, 106 TREASURES OF POETRY. While the ever murmuring- waters Silently soliloquize. Speak they of our red-faced brothers, Men whose race of life was run Ere we drove their kindred westward, Farther toward the setting- sun. "Long ago the daylight faded On this peaceful little stream; Long ago they watched the starlight On its silvery waters gleam; "Long ago they roved the woodlands Bordering on the Blackhawk's brink, Drew the fish from out its waters, Saw within dark shadows sink. "Heard they then the gushing, gurgling Sound from where the streamlets flow; At the river's head they gathered In the sweet old long ago. "Up and down the land they wandered To the north, south, east, and west; But they loved to light their campfires By the dear old Blackhawk best." Swiftly glides Time's river onward, Never backward does it flow; Daylight faded on the Blackhawk For the redmen long ago. ELSIH E. EGERMHIEE. DAWN. The night was dark, thoutgh sometimes a faint star A little while a little space made bright. The night was long, and, like an iron bar, Lay heavy on the land: till o'er the sea Slowly, within the east, there grew a light Which half was starlight, and half seemed to be The herald of a greater. The pale white Turned slowly to pale rose, and up the height Of heaven slowly climbed. The gray sea grew Rose-colored like the sky. A -white gull flew Straight toward the utmost boundary of the east, Wfiere slowly the rose gathered and in- creased. It was as on the opening of a door By one that in his hand a lamp doth hold, Whose flame is hidden by the garment's fold— The still air moves, the wide room is less dim. More bright the east became; the ocean turned Dark and more dark against the brighten- ing sky — Sharper against the sky the long sea-line. The hollows of the breakers on the shore Were green like leaves whereon no sun doth shine, Though white the outer branches of the tree. From rose to red the level heaven burned; Then sudden, as if a sword fell from on high, A blade of gold flashed on the horizon's rim. Richard W. Gildbk. THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. The melancholy days are come, the sad- dest of the year — Of wailing winds and naked woods and meadows brown and sear. Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie dead; They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread. The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay, And from the wood-top calls the crow though all the trees are still, Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood In brighter light and softer airs, a beau- teous sisterhood? Alas! they all are in their graves: the gentle race of flowers Are lying in their lowly beds with the fair and good of ours. The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold November rain Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again. The wind-flower and the violet, they per- ished long ago, And the briar-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow; But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood, And the yellow sunflower by the brook, in autumn beauty stood, Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men, And the brightness of their smile has gone from upland, glade, and glen. And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still such days will come, To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home; When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, through all the gloomy day. And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill; The south-wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore, knd sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more. And then I think of one who in her youth- ful beauty died, The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side, In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forests cast the leaf, \.nd we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief; NATURE POEMS. 107 Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young: friend of ours, So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers. William Cullen Bryant. THE PRIMEVAL FOREST. [From the Introduction of "Evangeline."] This is the forest primeval. The murmur- ing pines and the hemlocks, Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight, Stand like Druids of old, with voices sad and prophetic; Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms. Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep- voiced neighboring ocean Speaks, and in accents disconsolate an- swers the wail of the forest. This is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts that beneath it Leaped like the roe when he hears in the woodland the voice of the huntsman? Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. THE FALL OF THE OAK. A glorious tree is the old gray oak: He has stood for a thousand years, Has stood and frowned On the trees around, Like a king among his peers; As round their king they stand, so now, When the flowers their pale leaves fold, The tall trees round him stand, arrayed In their robes of purple and gold. He has stood like a tower Through sun and shower, And dared the winds to battle; He has heard the hail, As from plates of mail, From his own limbs shaken, rattle; He has tossed them about, and shorn the tops (When the storm had roused his might) Of the forest-trees, as a strong man doth The heads of his foes in fight. The autumn sun looks kindly down, But the frost is on the lea, And sprinkles the horn Of the owl at morn, As she hies to the old oak-tree. Not a leaf is stirred; Not a sound is heard Bu.t the thump of the thresher's flail, The low wind's sigh, Or the distant cry Of the hound on the fox's trail. The forester he has whistling plunged With his axe, in the deep wood's gloom, That shrouds the hill, Where few and chill The sunbeams struggling come; His brawny arm he has bared, and laid His axe at the root of the tree, The gray old oak, And, with lusty stroke, He wields it merrily — With lusty stroke, — And the old gray oak, Through the folds of his gorgeous vest You may see him shake, And the night-owl break From her perch in his leafy crest. She will come but to find him gone from where He stood at the break of day; Like a cloud that peals as it melts to air, He has passed, with a crash, away. Though the spring in the bloom and the frost in gold No more his limbs attire, On the stormy wave He shall float, and brave The blast and the battle-fire! Shall spread his white wings to the wind, And thunder on the deep, As he thundered when His bough was green, On the high and stormy steep. Georgb Hill. TO THE DANDELION. Dear common flower, that grow'st beside the way, Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold; First pledge of blithesome May, Wlhich children pluck, and full of pride up- hold, High-hearted buccaneers, o'er joyed that they An Eldorado in the grass have found, Which not the rich earth's ample round May match in wealth, thou art more dear to me Than all the prouder summer-blooms may be. Gold such as thine ne'er drew the Span- ish prow Through the primeval hush of Indian seas, Nor wrinkled the lean brow Of age, to rob the lover's heart of ease; 'Tis the Spring's largess, which she scat- ters now To rich and poor alike, with lavish hand, Though most hearts never understand To take it at God's value, but pass by The offered wealth with unrewarded eye. Thou art my tropics and mine Italy; To look at thee unlocks a warmer clime; The eyes thou givest me Are in the heart, and heed not space or time: Not in mid June the golden-cuirassed bee Feels a more summer-like warm ravishment In the white lily's breezy tent, His fragrant Sybaris, than I, when first 108 TREASURES OF POETRY. From the dark green thy yellow circles burst. Then think I of deep shadows on the Of meadows where in sun the cattle graze, Y^here, as the breezes pass, The gleaming rushes lean a thousand ways; Of leaves that slumber in a cloudy mass, Or whiten in the wind; of waters blue That from the distance sparkle through Some woodland gap, and of a sky above, Where one white cloud like a stray lamb doth move. My childhood's earliest thoughts are linked with thee; The sight of thee calls back the robin's song, Who, from the dark, old tree Beside the door, sang clearly all day long, And I, secure in childish piety, Listened as if I heard an angel sing With news from heaven, which he could bring Fresh every day to my untainted ears, When birds and flowers and I were happy peers. How like a prodigal doth nature seem, When thou, for all thy gold, so common art! Thou teachest me to deem More sacredly of every human heart, Since each reflects in joy its scanty gleam Of heaven, and could some wondrous secret show, Did we but pay the love we owe, And with a child's undoubting wisdom look On all these living pages of God's book. Jambs Russell Lowell. SING ME A SONG, SWEET BIRDS. Ye happy birds that hop about From bough to bough in shady bowers, Come, sing to me at set of sun, And cheer my solitary hours, Ye blissful birds. Tell me a tale of southern seas, With sunny islands dotted o'er, Of the seagulls' cry and storm-tossed ships, Of waves that haunt the pebbly shore — In rhythmic words. Oh! tell me of the land of flowers, Of the sunny southland far away; Of bright-hued birds in tangled nooks, That chirp all night and sing all day. Their happy songs. Of the deep, dark forest sing to me, Of the flowers that grow by the river's side; And sing me the song that the rivers sang To you as they wandered on in their pride, Through all day long. Oh! tell me of your last year's nest, And where you built it, tell me pray; And are your birdies safe from harm? Or were they stolen on the way By cruel hands? If you would build just out of sight High in the fern-trees by the wall, And keep your birdies safe at home, You need not wander far, at all. In stranger lands. Sing me the song that last you sang Down in the forest by the sea; Come, perch upon the window-sill And sing your sweetest song to me; No one is near. 'Twas such a pretty song you sang; Now fly away, you tiny things; And if when daylight comes again, You seek for me with tireless wings, You'll find me here. Mar* P. Bbbts. THE PLANTING OF THE APPLE- TREE. Come, let us plant the apple-tree. Cleave the tough greensward with the spade; Wide let its hollow bed be made; There gently lay the roots, and there Sift the dark mold with kindly care. And press it o'er them tenderly, As round the sleeping infant's feet We softly fold the cradle-sheet; So plant we the apple-tree. What plant we in this apple-tree? Buds, which the breath of summer days Shall lengthen into leafy sprays; Boughs where the thrush with crimson breast, Shall haunt, and sing, and hide her nest; We plant, upon the sunny lea, A shadow for the noontide hour, A shelter from the summer shower, When we plant the apple-tree. What plant we in this apple-tree? Sweets for a hundred flowery springs To load the May-wind's restless wings, When, from the orchard's row, he pours Its fragrance through our open doors; A world of blossoms for the bee, Flowers for the sick girl's silent room, For the glad infant sprigs of bloom, We plant with the apple-tree. What plant we in this apple-tree? Fruits that shall swell in sunny June, And redden in the August noon, And drop, when gentle airs come by, That fan the blue September sky, While children come, with cries of glee, And seek them where the fragrant grass Betraj r s their bed to those who pass, At the foot of the apple-tree. NATURE POEMS. 100 And when, above this apple-tree, The winter stars are quivering: bright, And winds go howling through the night, Girls, whose young eyes o'erflow with mirth, Shall peel its fruit by cottage hearth; And guests in prouder homes shall see, Heaped with the grape of Cintra's vine And golden orange of the Line, The fruit of the apple-tree. The fruitage of this apple-tree Winds and our flag of stripe and star Shall bear to coasts that lie afar, Where men shall wonder at the view, And ask in what fair groves they grew; And sojourners beyond the sea Shall think of childhood's careless day And long, long hours of summer play, In the- shade of the apple-tree. Each year shall give this apple-tree A broader flush of roseate bloom, A deeper maze of verdurous gloom, And loosen, when the frost-clouds lower, The crisp brown leaves in thicker shower. The years shall come and pass, but we Shall hear no longer, where we lie, The summer's songs, the autumn's sigh. In the boughs of the apple-tree. And time shall waste this apple-tree. Oh, when its aged branches throw Thin shadows on the ground below, Shall fraud and force and iron will Oppress the weak and helpless still? What shall the tasks of mercy be, Amid the toils, the strifes, the tears Of those who live when length of years Is wasting this apple-tree? "Who planted this old apple-tree?" The children of that distant day Thus to some aged man shall say; And, gazing on its mossy stem, The gray-haired man shall answer them: "A poet of the land was he, Born in the rude but good old times; 'Tis said he made some quaint old rhymes On planting the apple-tree." William Cullen Bryant. GOD EVERYWHERE IN NATURE. How desolate were nature, and how void Of every charm, how like a naked waste Of Africa, were not a present God Beheld employing, in its various scenes, His active might to animate and adorn! What life and beauty, when, in all that breathes, Or moves, or grows, his hand is viewed at work? When it is viewed unfolding every bud, Each blossom tingeing, shaping every leaf. Wafting each cloud, that passes o'er the sky, Rolling each billow, moving every wing That fans the air, and every warbling throat Heard in the tuneful woodlands! In the least As well as in the greatest of his works Is ever manifest his presence kind; As well in swarms of glittering insects, seen Quick to and fro within a foot of air, Dancing a merry hour, then seen no more, As in the systems of resplendent worlds, Through time revolving in unbounded space. His eye, while comprehending in one view The whole creation, fixes full on me; As on me shines the sun with his full blaze, While o'er the hemisphere he spreads the same, His hand, while holding oceans in its palm, And compassing the skies, surrounds my life, Guards the poor rushlight from the blast of death. Carlos Wilcox. MORNING AMONG THE HILLS. A night had passed away among the hills, An now the first faint tokens of the dawn Showed in the east. The bright and dewy star Whose mission is to usher in the morn, Looked through the cool air, like a olessed thing In a far purer world; below, there lay, Wrapped round a woody mountain tran- quilly, A misty cloud. Its edges caught the light That now came up from out the unseen depth Of the full fount of day, and they were laced With colors ever brightening. I had waked From a long sleep of many changing dreams, And now in the fresh forest air I stood, Nerved to another day of wandering. Below, there lay a far-extended sea, Rolling in feathery waves. The wind blew o'er it And tossed it round the high-ascending rocks, And swept it through the half-hidden for- est-tops, Till, like an ocean waking into storm, It heaved and weltered. Gloriously the light Crested its billows, and those craggy is- lands Shone on it like to palaces of spar, Built on a sea of pearl. The sky bent round The awful dome of a most mighty temple, Built by Omnipotent hands, for nothing less Than infinite worship. There I stood in silence; I had no words to tell the mingled thoughts Of wonder and of joy which then came o'er me, Even with a whirlwind's rush. So beautiful, So bright, so glorious! Such a majesty In yon pure vault! So many dazzling tints In yonder waste of waves — so like the ocean 110 TREASURES OF POETRY. With its unnumbered islands there encircled By foaming- surges. Soon away the mist-cloud rolled, Wave after wave. They climbed the high- est rocks, Poured over them in surges, and then rushed Down glens and valleys like a winter's tor- rent, Dashed instant to the plain. It seemed a moment, And they were gone, as if the touch of fire At once dissolved them! Then I found myself Midway in air, ridge after ridge below Descending with their opulence of woods Even to the dim-seen level, where a lake Flashed in the sun, and from it wound a line, Now silvery bright, even to the furthest verge Of the encircling hills. A waste of rocks Wlfcs round me, but below — how beautiful! How rich the plain! a wilderness of groves And ripening harvests; while the sky of June The soft, blue sky of June, and the cool air That makes it then a luxury to live Only to breathe it, and the busy echo Of cascades and the voice of mountain- brooks Stole with so gentle meaning to my heart, That where I stood seemed heaven! J. G. Pebcival. THE BROOK. Little rambling, sunny stream, Round thee plays the bright sunbeam Racing, chasing — never mind; Doubt and fear you'll leave behind. With thy dimpled smile draw near, Into crease and crevice peer, Into secret crannies look, Laughing, babbling little brook. Catching rain-drops as they fall, Pressing through the garden wall, Flowing, going ev'rywhere — Busy here and busy there; Bounding, springing, full of glee, Ever trending t'ward the sea, Bold to enter ev'ry nook, Gurgling, rippling, bubbling brook. Never resting by the way, Time thy current can not stay; Winding like a silver thread O'er thy mossy gravel bed; Oft thou'st given birdlings drink As they rested on thy brink And their dainty pinions shook O'er thy pillow, charming brook. Murm'ring, singing soft and low, Gently gliding, on you go; When all Nature sinks to sleep, With the stars you vigil keep; Gone from view the light of day, For the sunbeams fled away And thy quiet haunts forsook; Yet you toil on, patient brook! Dashing down the mountain's side, 'Neath his rugged brow you hide, While life's purpose you fulfil, Cunning, sparkling little rill; Where thy wand'ring course was bent And thy shining virtues went Nature of thy joys partook, Pleasant, happy, cheerful brook. Those who would life's pleasure find, And, like thee, have peace of mind, Would they all thy secrets know, To thy waters let them go And within their crystal smile — Glad the moments to beguile — Read, as in an open book, Thy sweet story, joyous brook! Ever faithful little friend, Wouldst thy spirit to me lend? Though Time's shades may round me fall And enfold me like a pall, May my life be one sweet strain Floating to th' eternal main, As I pensive stand and look In thy depths, O smiling brook! Anna K. Thojias. SUNRISE IN THE SOUTHWEST. From far gray ridges bald and bare Bewildered darkness glides away; The gaunt wolf shrinking to his lair, Howls dismal in the face of day. The eagle from his misty height Surveys the dawn with sanguine eye; Beyond the distant shores of light He sees the star of morning die; He spreads his wings above the peak, The smoky vapors round him curled, And, rising with exultant shriek, Defies the feathered world. As hope disperses human care, So morning clears the mist away; There is a freshness in the air, A vigor in the dawning day. The clam'rous flocks beside the flood Fly from the timid-footed fawn; The whirling wreck of drifted wood Rolls, and the river rumbles on. And whereso'er the eye may rest, From north to south, from east to west, Rock, river, lake, and mountain height Are wrapped in universal light. Sublimest work of Master hand, The sunrise in a lonely land With naught that's human to impair The luster and the glory there. King of the choir — the mocking-bird — Remote in shadowy cedars heard, Tells to the breeze with swelling throat The wonders of his varied note. NATURE POEMS. Ill Ere first the shadows have reclined On waters brisk with morning wind, Before the sunbeam reaches there, A thousand voices fill the air; Yet not a single bar is wrong In all that wilderness of song. What melody where every throat Is gifted with a native note! The very hawk on deadly trail With stormy music fills the gale! Whilst we, in voiceless wonder stand, Dumb dreamers in a desert land. The longing eyes, the lips compressed, Do well betray the yearning breast; Our naked thoughts like fledgeless birds Still flutter for their winged words; Yet ne'er to mortal doth belong The art to reach the depth of song. We live, and with sublime distress, Behold and feel what none express. The poet 'rapt in metric lore, Is nature's mimic, nothing more; Poor mote of heaven's central beam, He reaches forth to grasp the dream As though his very soul were drawn Beyond the red expanding dawn. H. P. O'Beirne. And all the train of mean desire, Refuse to breathe this holy air, And mid this living light expire. Andrews Norton. AFTER A SUMMER SHOWER. The rain is o'er. How dense and bright Yon pearly clouds reposing lie! Cloud above cloud, a glorious sight, Contrasting with the dark blue sky! In grateful silence earth receives The general blessing; fresh and fair, Each flower expands its little leaves, As glad the common joy to share. The softened sunbeams pour around A fairy light, uncertain, pale; The wind blows cool; the scented ground Is breathing odors on the gale. Mid yon rich clouds' voluptuous pile, Methinks some spirit of the air Might rest, to gaze below a while, Then turn to bathe and revel there. The sun breaks forth; from off the scene Its floating veil of mist is flung; And all the wilderness of green With trembling drops of light is hung. Now gaze on Nature — yet the same — Glowing with life, by breezes fanned, Luxuriant, lovely, as she came, Fresh in her youth, from God's own hand. Hear the rich music of that voice, Which sounds from all below, above; She calls her children to rejoice, And round them throws her arms of love. Drink in her influence; low-born care, TO A WATERFOWL. Whither, midst falling dew While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way? Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, As, darkly seen against the crimson sky, Thy figure floats along. Seekest thou the plashy brink Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, Or where the rocking billows rise and sink On the chafed ocean-side? There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast — The desert and illimitable air — Lone wandering, but not lost. All day thy wings have fanned, At that far height, the cold, thin atmos- phere, Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, Though the dark night is near. And soon that toil shall end; Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend, Soon o'er thy sheltered nest. Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven Hath swallowed up thy form; yet on my heart Deeply has sunk the lesson thou hast given, And shall not soon depart. He who, from zone to zone, Guides through the boundless sky thy cer- tain flight, In the long way that I must tread alone, Will lead my steps aright. William Cullen Bryant. LINES TO A WHITE CHRYSANTHEMUM. Deep as the silence of thought, lovely flow r, Lie thy soft charms in my heart's sacred bow'r; Fondly secure is thy beauty enshrined Midst the affection that round me you twined. Fragrant and pure is thy delicate breath. Sweet in thy life and still pleasant in death; 112 TREASURES OF POETRY. N Hung: with rare graces, though voiceless and mild, Subtle thy witch'ry, O Flora's fair child! Dainty white petals of exquisite mold Form brighter wreathlets than crowns wrought in gold; Kings with their equipage, glory, and fame Never outrival thine own quiet reign; Artless and gracef ul — we note ev'ry curve — Cheering, endearing, you rule while you serve ; Much we esteem thee, thy merits admire, Thrilled with delight, which thy virtues inspire. Dear little friend, ever faithful and true, Welcome and greeting we hold out to you, When with your presence you bring us good cheer — Cherish thy mem'ry when thou art not near. Teach us thy loveliness — how we may win Souls for our Savior, who'll cleanse them from sin, Weave for them chaplets which never de- cay; Those, who obeying, will walk in his way. Anna K. Thomas. ANTHRACITE. Back in the misty ages past There grew a forest by the sea, Which o'er the land dark shadows cast, And shelter'd snail-like mollusks free. Late, passing from chaotic time, This orb unfitted was for man; Strange creatures burrowed in the slime That marred its yet unfinished plan. But not in vain that forest grew By steamy sea, or warm lagoon; From beams of ancient suns it drew For coming time a needed boon. Then rose the floods and covered deep That old-time forest from the light; Now, after seons vast of sleep, Behold it in the anthracite! What angry seas have surged and rolled, Exchanging places with the land, Since floods swept down that forest old, Entombing it 'neath beds of sand! There, in each tissue, stem, and frond, Were sealed the latent light and heat, Till, in the ages long beyond, The world for man should be complete! Released now from its darksome bed By force of sturdy miner's blow, It gives to man the sunbeams, shed Perchance a million years ago! There, in that grate of anthracite, Weird forms in wreaths of blue flame curled, May thy observing eye delight With visions of an ancient world! No graceful wing of tuneful bird, With song to greet the rosy morn, Is in that primal forest heard, And flowers sweet are yet unborn. But, seething in the sun's hot glare, O'er beaches strewn with chambered shells, Behold what seas sweep wildly there, Engulfing all beneath their swells! In marshes warm tall tree-ferns grow; The calamite its stem uprears, Where steaming vapors, noxious, flow From carbon-laden atmospheres. And there the sunlight and the rain, With all the elements combine, To store beneath some ancient main These hoarded treasures of the mine! A. R. Fultok. GOOD-BY, OLD ROCKIES. I love your wild, romantic beauties, Ye forms that seem to vie Each with the summit of his neighbor, And pierce the giddy sky. Old Rockies, now to you I bid adieu, adieu, But hope we part not here forever. I leave you as I found you, covered With winter's chilly shroud, Reaching toward the starry heavens, And mantled in the clouds. While I God's mercy preach, And you his greatness teach, We jointly glorify our Maker. I read upon your lofty bulwarks The might of nature's God. What fortresses thy hands have builded Where human feet ne'er trod! The strength of these are thine, And round their apex shine Jehovah's bright creative glory. The dreadful heat and vast explosions That have ye mountains cast, Was God Almighty's moulting furnace, His great creative blast: He cut between the hills A channel for the rills, And cleft the mountains for his rivers. And oh, ye dear old rustic Rockies, How well you've taught to me, While gazing on your wondrous beauties, God's awful majesty! Thy peaks in eloquence Proclaim omnipotence, And magnify their great Creator. The sunbeams of the hot midsummer Fall coolly on thy snow, That reigns in bleak perpetual winter On Pike's majestic brow: And from the lines where meet Winter's snow and summer's heat, Flow heaven's best and sparkling bev'rage. NATURE POEMS. 113 Here He who hath all things created, Beholding- that the rain, Conveyed by clouds, were insufficient To fresh the skirting- plain, Doth treasure up the snow, And send its gracious flow To bless the broad and fertile valleys. So then ye long and lofty ranges, Your tributes do bestow, Upon the herds and greedy grangers That crop the plains below: Far o'er the broad domain, You cause the springing grain, Through skilful ducts of irrigation. I passed thy Royal Gorge at midnight, And looking twixt the cars, Up through the cliffs that seem to mingle Their summits with the stars, A sense of holy awe At what my vision saw, My mind and inmost soul o'erwhelmed. The deep and solemn winding passage Gave only straightened place To Nahum's chariots and that wild stream- let, That wore the mountain's base; While on our right and left The lofty mountains cleft, Stood vertical or tops inclining. Three miles or more, with awe and wonder, "We tread the deep defile; Down into which the king of noonday Casts but a passing smile. Would you this scene command, Then take the Rio Grande And look beyond the flight of poets. DANIEIj S. Warneb. A FOREST HYMN. The groves were God's first temples. Ere man learned To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave, And spread the roof above them — ere he framed The lofty vault to gather and roll back The sound of anthems — in the darkling wood, Amid the cool and silence, he knelt down And offer'd to the Mightiest solemn thanks And supplication; for his simple heart Might not resist the sacred influences Which from the stilly twilight of the place, And from the gray old trunks that high in heaven Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the sound Of the invisible breath that swayed at once All their green tops, stole over him, and bowed His spirit with the thought of boundless power And inaccessible majesty. Ah! why Should we, in the world's riper years, neglect God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore Only among the crowd, and under roofs That our frail hands have raised? Let me, at least, Here, in the shadow of this aged wood, Offer one hymn — thrice happy if it find Acceptance in His ear. Father, thy hand Hath rear'd these venerable columns. Thou Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst look down Upon the naked earth, and forthwith rose All these fair ranks of trees. They, in thy sun, Budded, and shook their green leaves in thy breeze, And shot toward heaven. The century-liv- ing crow, Whose birth was in their tops, grew old and died Among their branches, till at last they stood, As now they stand, massy, and tall, and dark, Fit shrine for humble worshiper to hold Communion with his Maker. These dim vaults, These winding aisles, of human pomp and pride Report not. No fantastic carvings show The boast of our vain race, to change the form Of thy fair works. But thou art here; thou fillest The solitude. Thou art in the soft winds That run along the summit of these trees In music; thou art in the cooler breath That from the inmost darkness of the place Comes, scarcely felt. The barky trunks, the ground — ■ The fresh, moist ground — are all instinct with thee. Here is continual worship. Nature, here, In the tranquillity that thou dost love, Enjoys thy presence. Noiselessly, around, From perch to perch, the solitary bird Passes; and yon clear spring, that, 'midst its herbs, Wells softly forth, and, wandering, steeps the roots Of half the mighty forest, tells no tale Of all the good it does. Thou hast not left Thyself without a witness, in these shades, Of thy perfections. Grandeur, strength, and grace, Are here to speak of thee. This mighty oak, By whose immovable stem I stand and seem Almost annihilated, not a prince In all that proud old world beyond the deep E'er wore his crown as loftily as he Wears the green coronal of leaves with which Thy hand has graced him. Nestled at his root Is beauty such as blooms not in the glare Of the broad sun. That delicate forest- flower, With scented breath, and look so like a smile, 114 TREASURES OF POETRY. Seems, as it issues from the shapeless mold, An emanation of the indwelling Life, A visible token of the upholding Love, That are the soul of this wide universe. My heart is awed within me when I think Of the grreat miracle that still goes on In silence round me — the perpetual work Of thy creation, finish'd, yet renew'd Forever. Written on thy works, I read The lesson of thy own eternity. Lo! all grow old and die; but see again How on the faltering footsteps of decay Youth presses — ever gay and beautiful youth, In all its beautiful forms. These lofty trees Wave not less proudly that their ancestors Molder beneath them. Oh! there is not lost One of earth's charms: upon her bosom yet, After the flight of untold centuries, The freshness of her far beginning lies, And yet shall lie. Life mocks the idle hate Of his arch-enemy, Death; yea, seats him- self Upon the tyrant's throne — .the sepulcher — And of the triumphs of his ghastly foe Makes his own nourishment. For he came forth From thine own bosom, and shall have no end. There have been holy men who hid them- selves Deep in the woody wilderness, and gave Their lives to thought and prayer, till they outlived The generation born with them, nor seemed Less aged than the hoary trees and rocks Around them; and there have been holy men Who deemed it were not well to pass life thus. But let me often to these solitudes Retire, and in thy presence reassure My feeble virtue. Here its enemies, The passions, at thy plainer footsteps shrink, And tremble, and are still. O God, when thou Dost scare the world with tempests, set on fire The heavens with falling thunderbolts, or fill With all the water of the firmament The swift dark whirlwind that uproots the woods And drowns the villages, — when, at thy call, Uprises the great deep and throws himself Upon the continent and overwhelms Its cities — who forgets not, at the sight Of these tremendous tokens of thy power, His pride, and lays his strifes and follies by? Oh, from these sterner aspects of thy face Spare me and mine, nor let us need the wrath Of the mad, unchained elements to teach Who rules them. Be it ours to meditate In these calm shades thy milder majesty, And to the beautiful order of thy works Learn to conform the order of our lives. William Cullen Bryant. ROBERT OF LINCOLN. Merrily swinging on brier and weed, Near to the nest of his little dame, Over the mountainside or mead, Robert of Lincoln is telling his name: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink: Snug and safe in that nest of ours, Hidden among the summer flowers. Chee, chee, chee. Robert of Lincoln is gayly dressed, Wearing a bright black wedding-coat; White are his shoulders and white his crest: Hear him call in his merry note: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink. Look what a nice coat is mine; Sure there was never a bird so fine. Chee, chee, chee. Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife, Pretty and quiet with plain brown wings, Passing at home a patient life, Broods in the grass while her husband sings: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink. Brood, kind creature; you need not fear Thieves and robbers while I am here. Chee, chee, chee. Modest and shy as a nun is she, One weak chirp is her only note; Braggart and prince of braggarts is he, Pouring boasts from his little throat: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink. Never was I afraid of man; Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can. Chee, chee, chee. Six white eggs on a bed of hay, Flecked with purple — a pretty sight! There as the mother sits all day, Robert is singing with all his might: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink. Nice good wife that never goes out, Keeping house while I frolic about. Chee, chee, chee. Soon as the little ones chip the shell, Six wide mouths are open for food; Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well, Gathering seed for the hungry brood. Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink. This new life is likely to be - Hard for a gay young fellow like me. Chee, chee, chee. Robert of Lincoln at length is made Sober with work and silent with care; Off is his holiday garment laid, Half forgotten that merry air, Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink. Nobody knows but my mate and I NATURE POEMS. 115 Where our nest and our nestlings lie. Chee, chee, chee. Summer wanes; the children are grown; Fun and frolic no more he knows; Robert of Lincoln's a humdrum crone. Off he flies, and we sing as he goes: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink. When you can pipe that merry old strain, Robert of Lincoln, come back again. Chee, chee, chee. William Cullen Bryant. HYMN TO THE NIGHT-WIND. Unbridled Spirit, throned upon the lap Of ebon Midnight, whither dost thou stray? Whence didst thou come, and where is thy abode? From slumber I awaken at the sound Of thy most melancholy voice. Sublime, Thou ridest on the rolling clouds, which take The form of sphinx, or hippogriff, or car, Like those of Roman conquerors of yore In Nemean pastimes used, by fiery steeds Drawn headlong on; or choosest, all unseen, To ride the vault, and drive the murky storms Before thee, or bow down, with giant wing, The wondering forests as thou sweepestby! Daughter of Darkness! when remote the noise Of tumult, and of discord, and mankind; When but the watch-dog's voice is heard, or wolves That bay the silent night, or from the tower, Ruined and rent, the note of boding owl, Or lapwing's shrill and solitary cry; When sleep weighs down the eyelids of the world, And life is as it were not, — down the sky, Forth from thy cave, wide-roaming, thou dost come To hold nocturnal orgies. Behold! Stemming with eager prow the Atlantic tide Holds on the intrepid mariner; abroad The wings of night brood shadowy; heave the waves Around him, mutinous, their curling heads ; Portentous of a storm; all hands are plied A zealous task, and sounds the busy deck With notes of preparation; many an eye Is upward cast toward the clouded heaven And many a thought, with troubled tender ness Dwells on the calm tranquillity of home And many a heart its supplicating prayer Breathes forth; meanwhile, the boldest sail or's cheek Blanches, stout courage fails, young child hood's shriek Awfully piercing bursts, and woman's fears Are speechless. With a low, insidious moan, Rush past the gales that harbinger thy way, And - hail thy advent; gloom the murky clouds Darker around; and heave the maddening waves Higher their crested summits. With a glare Unveiling but the clouds and foaming sea, Flashes the lightning, then, with doubling peal, Reverberating to the gates of heaven, Rolls the deep thunder, with tremendous crash, Sublime as if the firmament were rent Amid the severing clouds that pour their storms, Commingling sea and sky. Disturbed, arise The monsters of the deep, and wheel around Their mountainous bulk unwieldy, while aloft, Poised on the feathery summit of the wave, Hangs the frail bark, its howlings of despair, Lost on the mocking storm. Then frantic, thou Dost rise, tremendous Power, thy wings unfurled — Unfurled, but not to succor nor to save: Then is thine hour of triumph; with a yell Thou rushest on, and with a maniac tone Sing'st in the rifted shroud; the straining mast Yields, and the cordage cracks. Thou churnest the deep To madness, tearing up the yellow sands From their profound recesses and dost strew The clouds around thee, and within thy hand Takest up the billowy tide, and dashest down The vessel to destruction! — She is not! — But when the morning lifts her dewy eye, And to a quiet calm, the elements, Subsiding from their fury, have dispersed, There art thou, like a satiate conqueror, Recumbent on the murmuring deep, thy smiles All unrepentant of the savage wreck. THE ARCANA OF NATURE. Spirit of the great unknown, I dwell in the infinite seas; I sing in the wind's glad tone, And sigh in the soft summer breeze; I brood in silence and storm, I come with the earthquake's wrath; I pillow the worlds on my arm, And stay the sweet moons in their path. I scatter the sunshine of June That heralds the grass and the grain; I dream by the fountains at noon, Or waken the winter again; My girdle of rainbows I bind As I sit by the gray ocean-side; 116 TREASURES OF POETRY. My footsteps are fleeter than wind, My pulse is the flow of the tide. I am soul of legions of suns, I touch their swift wheels with my hand, Tet the smallest streamlet that runs Is mine with its silvery band, And mine is its silvery song; Though the chorus of stars is my own. I hasten their cycling throng And breathe in their undertone. I marshal my forces and go To systems unseen of the earth, I laugh in their rivers that flow, I attend the least star at its birth; Of the universe I am the Lord, Though I whisper my secrets as mild As dew shimmering down on the sward, And I wait on the steps of your child. I am heart of the lily and rose, I have painted them out of the deeps; I move in each blossom that blows, And the zephyr that over them sweeps; Tet I tread on the outermost bar, And ride on the ripples of day; I have twirled the bright rim of a star, And danced in its billows away. I have kept for the children of men A book illumined with gold; Vast suns wrought my radiant pen, And the volume shall never grow old; I have lettered the rocks by the sea, In the caverns and depths of the mine; I have writ on the ages that flee A psalm and a sermon divine. Mar* Baird Finch. TO A MOUNTAIN BLUEBELL. Little flower of bonny blue, Welcome is thy tender hue, Tinted like an ocean-shell, Dainty little mountain-bell; Blooming o'er the murky mines, 'Neath the moaning of the pines, And the aromatic fir, Neighbor of the juniper; In the music of thy bells Tell me of the mountain-dells, And the mountain-breezes blown In thy plaintive undertone. With the song of mountain-rills Hurrying to the hungry mills, Whisper low and true to me Of a prehistoric sea; Of the Vulcan hand that brought Order from the ruin wrought. Where the mountain chain was born, In that dim chaotic morn, Slowly rose each hill and lea — Islands in a golden sea, Blue as are thy bonny bells Singing of the ocean-shells. Canst thou tell the low, sweet words Murmured by the strangest birds, Where the brown nun sits and sings, Crooning by the mountain-springs? Flower of the- tender hue Like the eyes that once I knew, Eyes that haunt me yet afar Where thy blue-robed sisters are; Eyes like some sweet placid water Hadst my little mountain-daughter, And I dream of her at night In her lonely bed of white, Sleeping near the Western mountains, By the bluebells and the fountains. Mary Baird Finch. LOVE IN NATURE. The summer day is dying now; The dew falls on her cool, pale brow; The red round sun goes to his rest Behind the tinted woodland's crest; The western sky so ruddy glows, And breathes on me a sweet repose; Fond Nature courts in tender love The beauteous graces from above. The hours of day, with duty done, Have gone in silence, one by one, Into the sober, solemn past To come no more while time shall last; But deeds done in them stand for aye, And will return some future day. Should they in memory come no more, They'll face thee on the other shore; Thy thoughts, thy words, thy deeds, O man. All are recorded — 'tis God's plan — And shall accounted be by thee In the dawning of eternity. My soul, this truth e'er bear in mind, And as thou lea vest each day behind, By virtuous thoughts and lowly mien Keep all thy pages white and clean. The little stars in pale blue light Now smile a welcome to the night; The river sings its sweetest song, And on its bosom bears along The moonbeams as they peaceful fall Through leafy towering tree-tops tall. A line of clouds, in beauty dressed, Upon the air in slumber rest; They speak in their tranquillity A wondrous language unto me: "Shalt thou so peacefully repose When life's last day draws near its close?" From out his secret place of rest The horned owl wings the distant west In search of prey; now flies from sight Behind the deepening shades of night. The flowers in white and pink and blue Now ope their cup to catch the dew; The beetle, silent all day long, Now hums, on wing, her drowsy song; The blade waves from the cornstalk tall Like banners in some kingly hall. Fond nature in this hour serene Unveils her sweetest, grandest scene — Such works reveal that "God is love," And turn my thoughts to scenes above. NATURE POEMS. 117 In silence 'neath the starry skies My soul would thus soliloquize: "Man can view the beauteous flower, Glad nature's field and shady bower, Can walk the dark deep ocean's bed, Or tread the mountain's barren head, The smiling- moon her course can trace, And note the hour she hides her face; But who, where sin has marred the scene, Where fades the flower and pales the green, Can know the bliss where love is queen And holy holiness is seen?" Charles B. Orb. GODS LANGUAGE. I've climbed the Sierra Madres; I've seen the bighorn's leap; I've fought the mighty silver- tip In canyons wild and deep; I've gone to rest at evening In lonely silent glens, Where dark pines lift their towering crests, And gray wolves seek their dens; Where light the perfumed zephyrs Cool on my brow would play, Until the sun came up at morn And chased the dawn away. The tall firs towered above me; I heard them whispering still — I see the velvet lawn beneath Laced with the mountain-rill. The grandeur of those grand old hills, How infinite! how sublime! 'Tis God's own language to the soul — Th« impress of the Divine! E. G. Allanson. THE MOUNTAIN STREAM. Oh, see the trickling mountain-stream! It travels on with glint and gleam, Now through the sunshine, kissed by flowers, Replenished often by the showers; Then floweth on through shady dell, Where merry squirrels and song-birds dwell; The speckled and the rainbow trout Here swim and play and dart about, Evading fly or baited hook, Enjoying so this little brook. But soon it reaches boulders great; Shall it complain, the rocks berate? Ah, no! it dashes boldly on, From morn till night, from eve till dawn; For it is said by sages gray, "A constant drip wears rocks away." On then it leaps so cheerfully, And moisture gives each plant and tree — A pleasant, cheering stream withal. Oh, see! it forms a waterfall! How gracefully it tumbles down With gentle murmur but no frown Ever mars its placid countenance, But cheerily 'twill spray and dance, Encouraging the passer-by, As it the scene doth beautify. And stops it here? Nay, verily, But onward flows more placidly, And broader grows its winding bed, For oft by other streams 'tis fed, 'Tis used much now to irrigate, The dry and barren land to sate. 'Twas once a desert where it flows, But now doth blossom as the rose. ********* O pleasant, cheerful, useful stream! So let our lives with beauties gleam, Renewed by showers from above To show this world that God is love; And as we're fed by streams of grace, With mountain-stream e'er keep apace, And so dispel some sad heart's gloom, That we shall make its desert bloom. Eva M. What. VOICES OF NATURE. They come to us with solemn moan, And come in cheerful merry tone — Oft silently and still; But of their own sweet will They whisper to me A love that is free, And ever they speak of eternity. They come to us with morn's bright rays, And come with joyful notes of praise; At noon we sometimes hear Their echoes far and near, Which whisper to me, "Love pours like the sea Its fulness through gates of eternity." They come to us with night's footfall, ' So soft and sad, like death's dark pall That nature's fallen tears In sparkling dew appears, And whisper to me In love like the sea, As deep as the bells of eternity. These voices come at any time, And speak to us of a fair clime That flows with peace and light In streets celestial, bright, And whisper to me Of love full and free, And ever it lives through eternity. They come to us, oh, everywhere, And every way our hearts may share The volumes yet untold, Which Time's strong hand unfold Of love true and free That whispers to me And speaks of an endless eternity. A thousand chimes upon me break, — A thousand chords within me wake With messages of love Like those that dwell above, And whisper to me, "Love lingers for thee As full as the shoreless eternity." These voices deep and solemn, tend To wing my thoughts, and to me send Their own sweet-scented breath, 118 TREASURES OF POETRY. Unsoiled by fumes of death, And whisper to me In tones like the sea, "Love smiles o'er a boundless eternity." The silence of the moon and stars Speak louder than the noise of wars With all their deadly din; For they're defiled by sin, But these tell to me A love pure and free That echoes throughout an eternity. Anna K. Thomas. BEFORE THE STORM. The wind is hushed, there is a calm, The aspen leaves are still; The songsters' note no more is heard In valley, dell, or hill; The busy bees are hast'ning home From meadow, wood, and plain; All nature seems preparing to Welcome the coming rain. The little lake beneath the hill Reflects the darkened sky Upon its placid breast, which will Be foaming by and by; And o'er the hills which westward rise The booming thunders sound; Nearer and nearer comes the rain To fill the thirsty ground. The farmer hastens with his load Of fragrant new-mown hay Toward his barn's wide open door — A safe retreat alway; The children standing on the mead Have ceased their merry song, And gaze, half scared, upon the storm That slowly moves along. The vanguard of the inky clouds Is passing overhead; The storm king's marshaling forces fill The fearful heart with dread. So grand, so awful Nature's mood And wonderful the form In which to us she shows herself Before the thunder-storm! C. W. Natlob. THE PETRIFIED FERN. In a valley, centuries ago, Grew a little fern-leaf, green and slendor, Veining delicate and fibers tender, Waving when the wind crept down so low; Rushes tall, and moss, and grass grew round it, Playful sunbeams darted in and found it, Drops of dew stole down by night and crowned it, But no foot of man e'er came that way — Earth was young and keeping holiday. Monster fishes swam the silent main, Stately forests waved their giant branches, Mountains hurled their snowy avalanches, Mammoth creatures stalked across the plain ; Nature reveled in grand mysteries; But the little fern was not of these, Did not number with the hills and trees, Only grew and waved its sweet wild way; No one came to note it day by day. Earth, one time, put on a frolic mood, Heaved the rocks and changed the mighty motion Of the deep, strong currents of the ocean; Moved the plain and shook the haughty wood, Crushed the little fern in soft, moist clay, Covered it and hid it safe away. Oh, the long, long centuries since that day! Oh, the changes! Oh, life's bitter cost! Since the useless little fern was lost! Useless? Lost? There came a thoughtful man, Searching Nature's secrets, far and deep; From a fissure in a rcoky steep He withdrew a stone o'er which there ran Fairy pencilings, a quaint design, Leafage, veining, fibers, clear and fine. And the fern's life lay in every line, So, I think, God hides some souls away, Sweetly to surprise us the last day! Maby Bolles Bbanoh. NATURE. Rippling brook and flowing stream In the sparkling sunlight gleam, Making merry faces beam With their gladsome story; Soft their music floats away, Where the evening zephyrs play, Where the siren singers stay In their verdant glory. See blest virgin Nature smile, In her queenly robes the while; Man of earth she would beguile With her flowing tresses. Bright her face with blooming flowers, Sweet the odor from her bowers, Fresh her sparkling April showers, Mid her warm caresses. Hills and valleys robed in green, Winding rivers flow between, There the rustic rocks are seen Where the water splashes; On the rising silvery spray, Rainbow colors seem to play, Painted by the orb of day, In the sunlight flashes. Soft the kisses of her lips, Sweet the honeydew she sips, From her hand of mercy drips Every single blessing. With her arms embracing me, I am safe as I can be, When I come on bended knee, Nature's God confessing. B. E. Wabbhn. NATURE POEMS. 119 MOUNT HOOD. Crown of the Cascade mountain range, Imperial Hood, I sing of thee — Of the vast presence, weird and strange, That neither time nor storms can change — Of thy sublimity! Robed like the Great White Throne of God, In awful grandeur thou dost rise Above Columbia's fretful flood, Above a wild, mysterious wood, To pierce the vaulted skies. The song-birds carol from the trees, The tender flowers in beauty bloom, When softly tempered, balmy breeze Comes from the far-off western seas, Dispelling all thy gloom. In lonely forests, far below, The timid deer sports day by day, Where raging torrents ceaseless flow, Fed by everlasting snow, And peace doth reign alway. Above the clouds the snowy crest Receives the first kiss of the sun, The last kiss ere it sinks to rest On broad Pacific's heaving breast, As days pass one by one. Bathed by the full moon's pale, soft light, I've seen thee oft and bowed before Thy majesty, and in God's sight Have watched full many a pleasant night To worship and adore. Thy grandeur prompts the soul to praise Our Maker's works in sacred song, And tells the wonders of his ways Through silent nights and glowing days Until our hearts are strong. And faith, which erst was growing weak, Takes courage, and our spirits feel That power that made thy mountain peak, That makes all nature plainly speak, Will truth to us reveal — Will all reveal in after-time, And what is so mysterious here — So wonderful and so sublime, In every age, in every clime — Will plain to us appear. When storm-clouds sweep adown thy Thou standest like a sentinel, Immovable, with scarce a trace Of change upon thy pallid face, To tell us all is well. And when the hours of calm have come, And sunbeams shed their garish light, The same sublime, heaven-pointing dome, Where solitude hath fixed its home, Awaits our mortal sight. Unchanging ever, ever grand! O lofty mount! majestic Hood! As thou didst leave thy Maker's hand, In all thy glory thou shalt stand — He hath pronounced thee good! Edwakd Shbffihld. THE WINDS. Ye winds, ye unseen currents of the air, Softly ye played a few brief hours ago; Ye bore the murmuring bee; ye tossed the hair O'er maiden cheeks, that took a fresher glow; Ye rolled the round white clouds through depths of blue; Ye shook from shaded flowers the lingering dew; Before you the catalpa blossoms flew — Light blossoms, dropping on the grass like snow. How are ye changed! Ye take the cata- ract's sound; Ye take the whirlpool's fury and its might; The mountain shudders as ye sweep the ground; The valley woods lie prone beneath your flight; The clouds before you shoot like eagles past; The homes of men are rocking in your blast; Ye lift the roofs like autumn leaves, and cast, Skyward, the whirling fragments out of sight. The weary fowls of heaven make wing in vain To escape your wrath; ye seize and dash them dead. Against the earth ye drive the roaring rain ; The harvest-field becomes a river's bed, And torrents tumble from the hills around; Plains turn to lakes, and villages are drowned, And wailing voices, mid the tempest's sound, Rise, as the rushing waters swell and spread. Ye dart upon the deep, and straight is heard A wilder roar, and men grow pale, and pray; Ye fling its floods around you, as a bird Flings o'er his shivering plumes the foun- tain's spray. See! to the breaking mast the sailor clings; Ye scoop the ocean to its briny springs, And take the mountain billow on your wings, And pile the wreck of navies round the bay. William Cullen Bryant. NIGHTFALL. Alone I stand; On either hand In gathering gloom stretch sea and land; Beneath my feet, "With ceaseless beat, The waters murmur low and sweet. 120 TREASURES OF POETRY. Slow falls the night; The tender light Of stars grows brighter and more bright; The lingering ray Of dying day Sinks deeper down and fades away. Now fast, now slow, The south winds blow, And softly whisper, breathing low; With gentle grace They kiss my face Or fold me in their cool embrace. Where one pale star, O'er waters far, Droops down to touch the harbor-bar, A faint light gleams, A light that seems To grow and grow till nature teems With mellow haze; And to my gaze Comes proudly rising, with its rays No longer dim, The moon; its rim In splendor gilds the billowy brim. I watch it gain The heavenly plain; Behind it trails a starry train — While low and sweet The wavelets beat Their murmuring music at my feet. Fair night of June! Ton silver moon Gleams pale and still. The tender tune, Faint-floating, plays, In moonlit lays, A melody of other days. *Tis sacred ground; A peace profound Comes o'er my soul. I hear no sound, Save at my feet The ceaseless beat Of waters murmuring low and sweet. W. W. Ellswoeth. YOSEMITE. With humbled heart, subdued and awed I look on thee, Thou time-defying granite pile; with senses rapt I see thee, grand and world-renowned Yo- semite — Thy spray-enwreathing stream, Thy rock- walled vale and sunset clouds, all glory capped With evanescent gleam. Aye, see, and wondering gaze, until the cen- turies swing Their massive doors ajar and glimpses give when earth was young; But farthest grasp of human thought but weakling reasons bring To solve thy problem vast; In vain we ask the voiceless silences that hung Their mysteries o'er the past — The far, dim past, that wrapped our sphere in shoreless sea; The mantling gloom, that swathed its in- fancy in mist, While yet the sun did wait Omnipotent de- cree To bless the world with light, Ere day's first smiling morn, with rosy beams had kissed Away the brooding night. What engine wrought in Nature's great completing plan To ope for thee thy chasms broad, abysmal deep? Was it the glacier's ponderous plow, that smoothed for man The verdant fertile plain, Or, rolling waters, that through circling eons wore thy steeps With solemn, sad refrain? Or, from earth's central fires, did fierce vol- canic throes Expel, in molten mass, the elemental rock, That o'er the wilds to mountain majesty arose, And while yet warm with throbbing strain, Did earthquake rend with pole-disturbing shock Thy mighty walls amain? O puny mind, be still and catch the chant sublime Of Nature's psalm, that here is poured in never-ending praise; Accept the truth, that God by his right hand did raise These templed rocks, to stand through an eternity of time, An altar place of worship, where All nations come and every heart an of- fering lays Of mingled praise and prayer. Mbs. Julia C. Aldbich. SUNBEAMS. The sun's bright, merry beams, With sparkle, dance, and gleams, Send love and cheer Through all the year To busy, weary hearts Oft pressed by piercing darts. They pass through open door, Through crack and crevice pour, And rest a while, With their sweet smile, Then gently, as in play, Creep slowly far away. They speak in voiceless song, And bid our hearts be strong, As through the day They kindly stay NATURE POEMS— Sea Pictures. 121 Ere night unfolds her wings, But we may hear And mournful requiems sings. Tour presence near Their touch all gloom dispels, And to us tidings tells As down through space you flow To bless the earth below. Of peace and hope There're hearts whose smiles all bright When shadows grope To shadowed lives bring light, That would our spirits pain Chase gloom and fear With their remorseless chain. And sorrow's tear These pleasant little raj r s Spread out in sheets and sprays Far from their souls away, And flood with hope's glad ray. O'er all the earth We think of Him, and bless With untold worth; The Sun of Righteousness, And oft, in guileless sport, Who healing brings Sweet childhood's favor court. In his soft wings; On old and youthful brow They rest, and seem to bow Enfolds with songs at night, Of peace and love and light. As down they fall The sun that rules the day On great and small, And lights our earthly way And with caress and kiss Is type of Him Fill life with joy and bliss. Who shines within Dear gliding, sunny streams, We love your elfin beams And leads us to our home Before his Father's throne. That to us come, With zeal and love intense, Where'er we roam, Like Him, may we dispense With messages of love The good we know, From Father's hand above. And others show Tour tones are silent, sweet, Your footsteps light and fleet; The light and truth He's giv'n To guide the way to heav'n. Anna K. Thomas. SEA PICTURES A DAY BY THE SEA. Bright glow the portals of the east With every rich and glorious dye; The blue waves, in the morning beam, Lift up their heads rejoicingly; And as they break upon the shore, Their murmur seems a lofty hymn, Rising, and mingling with the strain Sung by adoring seraphim. White sails" departing from the land Seem like the wings of some sweet dove, Bearing away to distant climes The cheering words of faithful love. The fisher to his daily toil Speeds swiftly, with a bending oar, Oft looking backward to the band Which throngs his humble cottage-door. Rejoicing in his freedom now, The eagle sails far out to sea, Where his shrill scream is heard above The swelling waves' wild melody. By wave, and shore, all things are bright, When morning's purest, earliest glow, Bathing the heavens in rainbow hues, Falls on the waiting world below. 'Tis noon. The waves, long wakened now, Are lifting their white crests on high, And on the far horizon's verge They seem to mingle with the sky. And oh! it is a solemn joy To listen to their sullen roar, And seem them, like a white-plumed band Of warrior's rushing to the shore; But never yet did mail-clad band With such a fierce, resistless sweep Rush on the foe, as rush to land Those crested warriors of the deep. Vessels, with snowy canvas filled, Are swiftly dashing through the foam; Tet careless as those birds which make The billow, wild and free, their home. Full oft, amid the waters bright, Are seen the dolphin's varied dyes, And, to elude his swift pursuit, Aloft the silver mullet flies. The sea-gull rides upon the wave, As fearless on its foaming crest As land-birds, at the day's decline, Sit brooding o'er the mossy nest. And in his course, the God of day Beholds no scene so fresh and free As that which meets his burning gaze At noon, beside the chainless sea. 'Tis evening, — and the crested waves Are softly sinking to their rest, As infancy, when day is done, Sinks gently on its mother's breast. For morn the tranquil waters woke; Noon saw them flashing, wild and high; But eve the gentle south wind brought, To soothe them with its lullaby. Bright is the wave, bright is the shore. And brighter seems yon far-off isle; For all above, beneath, around, Glows in the sun's departing smile. Returning slowly to the land, 122 TREASURES OF POETRY. The snowy pelican is seen; And soon she folds her weary wing:, Where her loved nest the rushes screen. The fisher's song- steals o'er the wave, Now grently chiming- with his oar, Until the strain is broken by Sweet voices hailing- from the shore. Clouds, floating- in the firmament, Unbroken 'neath the waters lie, And as the quiet stars come forth, They seem to find another sky; For mirrored in the placid tide Their glories undimished glow, Sparkling-, as if the stars above Were speaking- to the stars below. In unveiled splendor then the moon Sheds o'er the sea her mellow ligrht; And never lovelier scene than this Can fall upon our mortal sight. The dawn is glorious, when the sun Bursts forth in grandeur o'er the sea, And many charms hath glowing noon; But evening by the wave for me. William Baxteb. THE SEA IN CALM. Look what immortal floods the sunset pours Upon us! Mark how still (as though in dreams Bound) the once wild and terrible ocean seems! How silent are the winds! no billow roars; But all is tranquil as Elysian shores The silver margin which aye runneth round The moon-enchanted sea hath here no sound; Even Echo speaks not on these radiant moors. What! is the giant of the ocean dead, Whose strength was all unmatched be- neath the sun? No; he reposes. Now his toils are done; More quiet than the babbling brooks is he. So mightiest powers by deepest calms are fed, And sleep, how oft, in things that gentlest be! Bbtan Walleb Pbocteb. THE STORMY PETREL. A thousand miles from land are we, Tossing about on the stormy sea, From billow to bounding billow cast, Like fleecy snow on the stormy blast. The sails are scattered abroad like weeds; The strong masts shake like quivering reeds; The mighty cables and iron chains, The hull, which all earthly strength dis- dains, — They strain and they crack; and hearts like stone Their natural, hard, proud strength disown. Up and down! up and down! From the base of the wave to the billow's crown, And amidst the flashing and feathery foam The stormy petrel finds a home, — A home, if such a place may be For her who lives on the wide, wide sea, On the craggy ice, in the frozen air, And only seeketh her rocky lair To warm her young, and to teach them to spring At once o'er the waves on their stormy wing. O'er the deep! o'er the deep! Where the whale and the shark and the sword-fish sleep, — Outflying the blast and the driving rain, The petrel telleth her tale — in vain; For the mariner curseth the warning bird Which bringeth him news of the storm unheard! Ah! thus does the prophet of good or ill Meet hate from the creatures he serveth still, Yet he ne'er falters; so, petrel, spring Once more o'er the waves on thy stormy wing! Bbtan Walleb Pbocteb. BREAK, BREAK, BREAK. Break, break, break. On thy cold, gray stones, O sea! And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me. Oh, well for the fisherman's boy That he shouts with his sister at play! Oh, well for the sailor lad That he sings in his boat on the bay! And the stately ships go on To the haven under the hill; But oh, for the touch of a vanished hand, And the sound of a voice that is still! Break, break, break, At the foot of thy crags, O sea! But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me. Alfbed Tennyson. WIND AND SEA. The Sea is a jovial comrade; He laughs wherever he goes. His merriment shines in the dimpling lines That wrinkle his hale repose; He lays himself down at the feet of the Sun, - And shakes all over with glee, And the broad-backed billows fall faint on the shore, In the mirth of the mighty Sea, But the Wind is sad and restless, And cursed with an inward pain; You may hark as you will, by valley or hill, But you hear him still complain, fle wails on the barren mountains. And shrieks on the wintry sea; He sobs in the cedar, and moans in the pine, And shudders all over the aspen-tree. NATURE POEMS— Sea Pictures. 123 Welcome are both their voices, And I know not which is best — The laughter that slips from the Ocean's lips, Or the comfortless Wind's unrest. There's a pang in all rejoicing-, A joy in the heart of pain, And the Wind that saddens, the Sea that gladdens, Are singing- the selfsame strain! Bayard Taylor. THE SOUND OF THE SEA. The sea awoke at midnight from its sleep, And round the pebbly beaches far and wide I heard the first wave of the rising tide Rush onward with uninterrupted sweep; A voice out of the silence of the deep, A sound mysteriou,sly multiplied As of a cataract from the mountain's side, Or roar of winds upon a wooded steep. So comes to us at times, from the unknown And inaccessible solitudes of being, The rushing of the sea-tides of the soul; And inspirations, that we deem our own, Are some divine foreshadowing and fore- seeing Of things beyond our reason or control. Henry Wads-worth Longfellow. THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS. [This poem was suggested by looking at a section of one of those chambered shells called the Pearly Nautilus. ] This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, Sails the unshadowed main — The venturous bark that flings On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings, And coral reefs lie bare, Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair. Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl; Wrecked is the ship of pearl! And every chambered cell, Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell, Before thee lies revealed, Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed! Year after year beheld the silent toil That spread his lustrous coil; Still, as the spiral grew, He left the past year's dwelling for the new, Stole with soft step its shining archway through, Built up its idle door, Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more. Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, Child of the wandering sea, Cast from her lap, forlorn! From thy dead lips a clearer note is born Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn! While on mine ear it rings, Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings: "Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, As the swift seasons roll! Leave thy low-vaulted past! Let each new temple, nobler than the last, Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, Till thou at length art free, Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's un- resting sea!" Oliver Wendell Holmes. SUNSET ON PUGET SOUND. Broad wave on wave of scarlet flecked with gold, Outstretched beneath an opalescent sky, Wherein pale tints with glowing colors vie; From their birthplace within the sea are rolled Sweet perfumes by the sea-breeze strong and cold. Here white sails gleam and soft cloud- shadows lie, And isles are kissed by winds that wanton by, Or rocked by gales in unchecked passion bold. Locked in by swelling, fir-clad hills it lies — One stretch of purpling, heavy gold; serene, It laughs and dimples under sunset skies, Toward which the chaste Olympies, snow- girt, lean, And, bathing in that flood of glory, make Fit setting for that burnished ocean-lake. Ella Higginson. TO THE OCEAN. ocean, vast, extended, great, 1 love thy charms to contemplate, Thy wonders to behold. How like thee is huimanity! For in thine every state I see Emblems of life unfold. When storm-winds beat upon thy breast, How like the multitude's unrest Thy rolling waves appear! As when some long-enduring wrong To frenzy drives the gathered throng, And tyrants shake with fear. And when against the living rock Thy waves rush on with thunder-shock, Resounding far and near, How like the passions of mankind Omnipotence alone can bind, Thy wrathful force appears! 124 TREASURES OF POETRY. When peace and calm o'erspread thy breast, How like the Christian's inward rest, So gentle and serene — A joyous quiet undisturbed, No sound of strife or evil heard, And Christ in all is seen! And as thy tides which rise and fall, Obedient to Attraction's call, So too the ransomed soul The calling of the Spirit heeds, And in its words and thoughts and deeds, Yields to its Lord's control. C. W. Natlob. GEMS. Where the ocean's waves are dashing On the far-off Indian shore; Where the coral rocks are flashing Mid the waters' rush and roar; Where the sands are heaped and gathered By the strong and sweeping tide, And the billows, capped and feathered, On their prancing air steeds ride; Where wild mountain ledges, frowning, High their granite faces lift; And where rivers Oriental Mid their palmy islands drift, — Tbere the gems of earth are gleaming, Diamonds flash and rubies shine; Pearls of light are softly beaming Down the dark and foaming brine. Mart E. Howe. THE BEACON. The scene was more beautiful far to my eye Than if day in its pride had arrayed it. The land-breeze blew mild, and the azure- arched sky Looked pure as the spirit that made it. The murmur rose soft as I silently gazed On the shadowy waves' playful motion, From the dim distant isle till the bea- con-fire blazed Like a star in the midst of the ocean. No longer the joy of the sailor-boy's breast Was heard in his wildly-breathed num- bers; The sea-bird had flown to her wave-girdled nest, The fisherman sunk to his slumbers. I sighed as I looked from the hill's gentle slope; All hushed was the billow's commotion; And I thought that the beacon looked lovely as Hope, That star of life's tremulous ocean. The time is long past, and the scene is afar, Yet when my head rests on its pillow, Will memory sometimes rekindle the star, That blazed on the breast of the billow. In life's closing hour, when the trembling soul flies, And death stills the heart's last emotion. Oh, then may the seraph of mercy arise Like a star on eternity's ocean. Thomas Moorb. DESCRIPTION OF A STORM AT SEA. The evening winds shrieked wildly; the dark cloud Rested upon the horizon's hem, and grew Mightier and mightier, flinging its black arch Around the troubled offing, till it grasped Within its terrible embrace, the all That eye could see of ocean. There arose, Forth from the infinite of waters, sounds, Confused, appalling; from the dread lee shore There came a heavier swell, a lengthened roar, Each moment deeper, rolling on the ear With most portentous voice. Rock howled to rock, Headland to headland, as the Atlantic flung Its billows shoreward; and the feathery foam Of twice ten thousand broken surges, sailed High o'er the dim-seen land. The startled gull, With scream prophetic, sought his savage cliff, And e'en the bird that loves to sail between The ridges of the sea, with hurried wing, Flew from the blast's fierce onset. One — far off — One hapless ship was seen upon the deep, Breasting the western waters. Nothing lived Around her; all was desert; for the storm Had made old ocean's realm a solitude, Where man might fear to roam. And there she sat, A lonely thing amid the gathering strife, With pinions folded — not for rest — prepared To struggle with the tempest. And it came, As night abruptly closed. Nor moon nor star Looked from the sky, but darkness deep as that Which reigned over primeval chaos, wrapped That fated bark, save when the lightning hissed Along the bursting billow. Ocean howled To the high thunder, and the thunder spoke To the rebellious ocean, with a voice So terrible that all the rush and roar Of waves were but as the meek lapse of rills, To that deep, everlasting peal, which comes From thee, Niagara, wild flinging o'er Thy steep the waters of a world. Anon The lightnings glared more fiercly, burning round The glowing offing with unwonted stay, As if they lingered o'er the dark abyss, And raised its veil of horror, but to show Its wild and tortured face. And then the winds Held oft a momentary pause, As spent with their own fury; but they came NATURE POEMS-^Sea Pictures. 125 Again with added power; with shriek and cry, Almost unearthly, as if on their wings, Passed by the spirit of the storm. They heard, Who rode the midnight mountain-wave; the voice Of death was in that cry unearthly. Oft, In the red battle had they seen him stride The glowing deck, scattering his burning hail, And breathing liquid flame, until the winds, The very winds grew faint, and on the waves Rested the columned smokes; but on that night He came with tenfold terrors; with a power That shook at once heaven, earth; his min- isters Of Vengeance round him, the great wind, the sea, The thunder, and the fatal flash! Alas! Day dawned not on the mariner; ere morn, The lightning lit the seaman to his grave, And the fierce sea-dog feasted on the dead! I love to wander on thy pebbled beach, Marking the sunlight at the evening hour, And harken to the thoughts thy waters teach— Eternity — Eternity — and Power. Barr* Cornwall. ADDRESS TO THE OCEAN. O thou vast Ocean! ever-sounding Sea! Thou 'symbol of a drear immensity! Thou thing that windest round the solid world Like a huge animal, which, downward hurled From the black clouds, lies weltering and alone, Lashing and writhing till its strength be gone! Thy voice is like the thunder, and thy sleep Is as a giant's slumber — loud and deep. Thou speakest in the east and in the west At once, and on thy heavily laden breast Fleets come and go, and shapes that have no life Or motion, yet are moved and meet in strife. The earth has naught of this; no chance or change Ruffles its surface, and no spirits dare Give answer to the tempest- wakened air; But o'er its wastes the weakly tenants range At will, and wound its bosom as they go. Ever the same, it hath no ebb, no flow; But in their stated rounds the seasons come, And pass like visions to their wonted home, And come again, and vanish. The young Spring Looks ever bright with leaves and blossom- ing; And Winter always winds his sullen horn, When the wild Autumn, with a look forlorn, Dies in his stormy manhood; and the skies Weep, and flowers sicken, when the sum- mer flies. O wonderful thou art, great element, And fearful in thy spleeny humors bent, And lovely in repose! Thy summer form Is beautiful; and when thy silver waves Make music in earth's dark and winding caves, THE OCEAN. Oh that the desert were my dwelling-place. With one fair spirit for my minister, That I might all forget the human race, And, hating no one, love but only her! Ye elements! in whose ennobling stir I feel myself exalted, can ye not Accord me such a being? Do I err In deeming such inhabit many a spot? Though with them to converse can rarely be our lot. There is a pleasure in the pathless woods; There is a rapture on the lonely shore; There is society, where none intrudes, By the deep sea, and music in its roar. I love not man the less, but nature more, From these our interviews, in which I steal From all I may be, or have been before, To mingle with the universe, and feel What I can ne'er express, yet can not all conceal. Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean, roll! Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain. Man marks the earth with ruin; his control Stops with the shore: upon the watery plain The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth re- main A shadow of man's ravage, save his own„ When for a moment, like a drop of rain, He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, Without a grave, unknelled, uncofflned, and unknown. The armaments which thunderstrike the walls Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake And monarch s tremble in their capitals, The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make Their clay creator the vain title take Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war, — These are thy toys, and as the snowy flake, They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar Alike the Armada's pride or spoils of Traf- algar. Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee: Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they? Thy waters wasted them while they were free, And many a tyrant since; their shores obey The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay Has dried up realms to deserts: not so thou, Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play; 126 TREASURES OF POETRY. Time writes no wrinkle on thy azure brow; Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou roll- est now. Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form Glasses itself in tempests; in all time, Calm or convulsed, in breeze, or gale, or storm, Icing- the pole, or in the torrid clime Dark heaving-; boundless, endless, and sub- lime; The image of eternity; the throne Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made; each zone Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fath- omless, alone. And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be Borne, like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy I wantoned with thy breakers; they to me Were a delight; and, if the freshening sea Made them a terror, 'twas a pleasing fear, For I was as it were a child of thee, And trusted to thy billows far and near, And laid my hand upon thy mane, as I do here. Lord Btbon. LOST BIRD ON SHIPBOARD. Lone rover of the pathless deep, And blank abyss of gloom; A hundred weary leagues and more From native tree and Moorish shore And thy forgotten home. Thy weary wing a silent throb In vast and upper void, Under the watch-fire of the star, Where sentinels of worlds afar In camps of space abide. And like a crimsoned autumn leaf Torn from its parent tree, So drifting from the higher air, Thy wings of color rich and rare Droop on the purple sea. By snowy sail and lofty spar And woof of salty rope, Thy failing strength upon the deep A heaven finds for rest and sleep, A refuge and a hope. Thy cradle-nest is far away, O weary bird! Why here? The music of thy natal song, Not written on the waves that throng In channels of the sphere. Not mine to know, or thine to tell, Enough! Thou hast a rest, So in my jacket safely stay From midnight watch to break of day, And nestle in my breast. For in thy mute exhausted life Unspoken truth for me, A note unheard but written plain, In human soul to voice again The angel dumb in thee — Of care divine — that never sleeps In watching o'er its own; For souls of men, where'er they stray, Have in the darkness of their way A resting-place and home. In trouble, doubt, and haunting fear Of sorrow's starless sea, O brother! lost in storm or gloom, God keeps amid the wrecks of doom An ark that waits for thee. Feed Woodbo-w. MONTHS AND SEASONS JUST A MENTION OF THE SEASONS. SPRING. Is this a time to be gloomy and sad, When our mother Nature laughs around, When even the deep blue heavens look glad, And gladness breathes from the blossom- ing ground? The clouds are at play in the azure space, And their shadows at play on the bright green vale; And here they stretch to the frolic chase, And there they roll on the easy gale. And look at the broad-faced sun, how he smiles On the dewy earth that smiles on his ray, On the leaping waters and gay young isles; Aye, look, and he'll smile thy gloom away. SUMMER. When summer comes in radiant dress, And sunshine floods the land, And blossoms, buds, and butterflies Are seen on every hand, It's quite beyond disputing That, far more than the rest — The winter, spring, and autumn — I love sweet summer best. AUTUMN. There's music in the air, Soft as the bee's low hum; There's music in the air, When the autumn days are come. Fairies sweet, your songs we hear; At times you're sad, then full of cheer. Come out! come out! we know you're near, By the music in the air. NATURE POEMS— Months and Seasons. 127 WINTER. Old Winter comes forth in his robe of white; He sends the sweet flowers far out of sight; He robs the trees of their green leaves bright; He freezes the pond and river. We like the spring with its fine fresh air; We like the summer with flowers so fair; We like the fruits we in autumn share; And we like, too, old Winter's greeting. THE SEASONS. SPRING. I arose one morn, and from my door Saw the world all dressed in green; And I knew in her robe of emerald hue Small amethysts could be seen. 'Twas like a dream of my childhood hours, This happy growing-time, That spoke the poetry of youth, When life itself was rhyme. SUMMER. I arose one morn, and beheld the hills All clad in gorgeous robes Of scarlet and saffron, of purple and gold, And jewels of circles and globes. 'Twas like a dream of more joyful days, When life seemed a vision rare, And I thought no earthly blessedness Could with my own compare. AUTUMN. I arose one morn, and lo! the hills Again had changed attire; The mantle, brown, bore scarlet gems In lustre most entire. A vision 'twas of labor done, Of tasks now at an end; Ambitions, hopes, now realized, Their joys or sorrows send. WINTER. I arose one morn, from my window looked, And the world was white and still. No lay of plumed songsters heard, Of robin or whippoorwill; But, oh! it was like a dream of peace, This winding-sheet of white — The still world told of a sweet repose, The end of a stormy night. God help us in our struggle here, Give us to see the reasons For all our cares; and wisdom grant To gladly take life's seasons. C. D. Barrett. MARCH WINDS. The balmy scent of spring is on the breeze; 'Tis not the scent of flowers, they bloom not yet; 'Tis not the early blossoming of trees, Their tiny leaf-buds are not more than set; I know not whence the breathing fragrance flows, Which comes upon the first warm breath of spring, Long ere the violet or early rose Unfold their sweets to woo the zephyr's wing; Mayhap it cometh from the dark-brown earth Where sleeps the loveliness of summer hours, And the young winds have in their early mirth Stirred up the odors of the perished flowers. I know not, and it matters not to know, The secret of the March wind's balmy breath ; I love it better that its murmurs low Are waked in scenes which wear the hue of death — • The mourning hue which chilly autumn gave — ■ It sounds like music breathed above the tomb, Whose soft notes tell of hope beyond the grave, As March winds herald April's coming bloom. Mrs. M. J. E. Crawford. SPRING. Again the violet of our early days Drinks beauteous azure from the golden sun, And kindles into fragrance at his blaze; The streams, rejoiced that winter's work is done, Talk of tomorrow's cowslips, as they run. Wild apple, thou art blushing into bloom! Thy leaves are coming, snowy-blossomed thorn! Wake, buried lily! spirit, quit thy tomb! And thou shade-loving hyacinth, be born! Then, haste, sweet rose! sweet woodbine, hymn the morn, Whose dewdrops shall illume with pearly light Each grassy blade that thick embattled stands From sea to sea, while daisies infinite Uplift in praise their little glowing hands O'er every hill that under heaven expands. Ebenezeb Elliott. SPRING. Behold the robin's breast aglow As on the lawn he seeks his game; His cap a darker hue doth show, His bill a yellow flame. In sunny woods the mold makes room For living "leaf to ope her eyes; A tiny firmament of bloom With stars upon a mimic sky. 128 TREASURES OF POETRY. Up from the marsh a chorus shrill Of piping- frogs swells in the night; The meadow-lark shows flashing quill As o'er brown fields she takes her flight. Now screaming hawks soar o'er the wood, And sparrows red hunt busy banks; The starlings gossip, "Life is good," And grackles pass in sable ranks. The rye-fields show a tender hue Of fresh'ning green amid the brown, And pussy-willows clad anew Along the brook in silver gown. The purple finch has found his tongue — Prom out the elm- tree what a burst! Now once again all things are young, Renewed by love as at the first. John Bubkotjghs. MARCH. The stormy March is come at last, With wind and cloud and changing skies; I hear the rushing of the blast That through the snowy valley flies. Ah! passing few are they who speak, Wild, stormy month, in praise of thee; Yet, though thy winds are loud and bleak, Thou art a welcome month to me. For thou to northern lands again, The glad and glorious sun dost bring, And thou hast joined the gentle train, And wear'st the gentle name of Spring. And, in thy reign of blast and storm, Smiles many a long, bright, sunny day, When the changed winds are soft and warm, And heaven puts on the blue of May. Then sing aloud the gushing rills And the full springs, from frost set free, That, brightly leaping down the hills, Are just set out to meet the sea. The year's departing beauty. hides Of wintry storms the sullen threat; But in thy sternest frown abides A look of kindly promise yet. Thou bring'st the hope of those calm skies And that soft time of sunny showers, When the wide bloom, on earth that lies, Seems of a brighter world than ours. William Cullen Bbyant. SPRING. She comes! she comes! the gentle spring With all her princely train! Her magic wands choice blessings bring Back to our hearts again. She comes! she comes! the gentle spring! Her swift approach we hear, And see her bright new life begin, Her graceful form appear. Her silv'ry voices, low and sweet, Enchant the heart and ear; In ev'ry nook her charms we meet, Her fragrant breath wafts near. We feel the touch of her kind hand, Her kisses pure and soft; She spreads her emerald robes o'er land Her tresses hang aloft. Oh, welcome! welcome, lovely spring! Thy tender smile we greet. Ten thousand bounties here you bring, And lay them at our feet! On ev'ry living shrub and tree You fling your verdure down; These, fondly draped, yield back to thee, Bequeathing thee a crown. Thou'rt lithe and beautiful and fair, The year's glad queen and good, Bedecked with glories, rich and rare Thy blushing maidenhood. Thy Maker calls thee forth at will Away from southern haunts, And bids thee his good pleasure fill; His laws on thee he plants. O Spring-tide! child of peace and love, From Father's bosom sent, We drink thy joys drawn from above, And breathe thy life thus lent. Anna K. Thomas. BEAUTIFUL SPRING. Ah, gentle spring, thy balmy breeze, New chanting mid the budding trees, A glorious resurrection sings! And on thy soft, ethereal wings Sweet nectar from ten thousand flowers, That bloom in nature's happy bowers, Thou dost as holy incense bring To Him who sheds the beams of spring. Far in the South thy bloom appeared, And all our journey homeward cheered; A thousand miles in sweet embrace, We northward held an even race; Or if by starts we did outrun Thy even tenor from the sun, Erelong we blessed thy coming tread And quaffed the odors thou didst spread. O brightest, sweetest of the year! When all is vocal with thy cheer, Thy lily cups and roses red With us some tear-drops also shed. The cherry-trees, in shrouds of white, Bring back to mind a mournful sight — A coffined brother 'neath the bloom, Just ere they bore him to the tomb. Ah, yes, thou sweet, beguiling spring, Of thee my inmost heart would sing. NATURE POEMS— Months and Seasons. 129 "The time of love," all bards agree To sing- in merry notes to thee. Yea, such thou art, and happy they "Who walk in love's delightful day, Along the path thy flakes have strewn, And know indeed her constant boon. But what of him who walks alone, With past love fled and turned to stone? Shall not the springtide music's roll Mock withered joys and sting the soul? Not in the heart embalmed in love Transported from the worlds above, Nor seasons, no, nor else can bring Heart-aches where only God is King; That soul an endless spring enjoys Where life the will of God employs. He mid the fields of bliss may tread, And feast on joys that long have fled, By sacred memories' glowing trace More than the heart untouched by grace, Can drink from full fruition's stream, Or paint in fancy's wildest dream. O God! thou, art the life of spring, The Source of all the seasons bring, The soul of all the joys we know, The Fountain whence our pleasures flow. While nature wakes from winter's sleep, And gentle clouds effusive weep, We join creation's grateful lays, And celebrate our Maker's praise. Daniel S. Waener. MAY TO APRIL. Without your showers I breed no flowers; Each field a barren waste appears; If you don't weep, My blossoms sleep, They take such pleasure in your tears. Philip Fbenau. MAY May, thou month of rosy beauty, Month when pleasure is a duty; Month of maids that milk the kine, Bosom rich, and health divine; Month of bees and month of flowers, Month of blossom-laden bowers; Month of little hands with daisies, Lovers' love, and poets' praises; thou merry month complete, May, the very name is sweet! May was maid in olden times And is still in Scottish rhymes — May's the month that's laughing now. 1 no sooner write the word, Than it seems as though it heard, And looks up and laughs at me, Like a sweet face, rosily, — Flushing from the paper's white; Like a bride that knows her power, Startled in a summer bower. If the rains that do us wrong Come to keep the winter long And deny us thy sweet looks, I can love thee, sweet, in books, Love thee in the poets' pages, Where they keep thee green for ages; Love and read thee as a lover Reads his lady's letters over, Breathed blessings on the art Which commingles those that part. There is May in books forever: May will part from Spencer never; May's in Milton; May's in Prior; May's in Chaucer, Thomson, Dyer; May's in all the Italian books; She has old and modern nooks, Where she sleeps with nymphs and elves In happy places they call shelves, And will rise and dress your rooms With a drapery thick with blooms. Come, ye rains, then, if ye will, May's at home and with me still; But come rather, thou good weather, And find us in the fields together. Leigh Hunt. APRIL. 'Tis noon of the springtime, yet never a bird In the wind-shaken elm or the maple is heard; For green meadow-grasses wide levels of snow, And blowing of drifts where the crocus should blow; Where wind-flower and violet, amber and white, On the south-sloping brooksides should smile in the light, O'er the cold winter-beds of their late- waking roots The frosty flake eddies, the ice-crystal shoots; And longing for light under wind-driven heaps. Round the boles of the pine-wood the ground-laurel creeps, Unkissed of the sunshine, unbaptized of showers, With buds scarcely swelled, which should burst into flowers. We wait for thy coming, sweet wind of the south! For the touch of thy light wings, the kiss of thy mouth; For the yearly evangel thou bearest from God, Resurrection and life to the graves of the sod. Up our long river-valley, for days, have not ceased The wail and the shriek of the bitter northeast — Raw and chill, as if winnowed through ices and snow, All the way from the land of the wild Esquimau* — 130 TREASURES OF POETRY. Until all our dreams of the land of the blest, Like that red hunter's, turn to the sunny- southwest. O soul of the spring-time, its. light and its breath ! Bring warmth to this coldness, bring life to this death ; Renew the great miracle; let us behold The stone from the mouth of the sepulcher rolled, And Nature, like Lazarus, rise, as of old. Let our faith which in darkness and cold- ness has lain, Revive with the warmth and the bright- ness again, And in blooming of flower and budding of tree The symbols and types of our destiny see; The life of the springtime, the life of the whole, And, as sun to the sleeping earth, love to the soul. John Gbeenleaf Whittieb. JUNE. [It is remarkable that, as a fulfilment of his wish, Bryant died in the month of June (1878). He was buried in the beautiful village cemetery at Roslyn, Long Island.] I gazed upon the glorious sky And the green mountains round, And thought that when I came to lie At rest within the ground, 'Twere pleasant that in flowery June, When brooks send up a cheerful tune, And groves a joyous sound, The sexton's hand, my grave to make, The rich, green mountain-turf should break. A cell within the frozen mold, A coffin borne through sleet, And icy clods above it rolled, While fierce the tempests beat — Away! I will not think of these. Blue be the sky and soft the breeze, Earth green beneath the feet, And be the damp mold gently pressed Into my narrow place of rest. There through the long, long summer hours, The golden light should lie, And thick young herbs and groups of flowers Stand in their beauty by; The oriole should build and tell His love-tale close beside my cell; The idle butterfly Should rest him there, and there be heard The housewife bee and humming-bird. And what if cheerful shouts at noon Come, from the village sent, Or songs of maids, beneath the moon With fairy laughter blent? And what if, in the evening light, Betrothed lovers walk in sight Of my low monument? I would the lovely scene around Might know no sadder sight nor sound. I know that I no more should see The season's glorious show, Nor would its brightness shine for me, Nor its wild music flow; But if, around my place of sleep, The friends I love should come to weep, They might not haste to go. Soft airs, and song, and light, and bloom Should keep them lingering by my tomb. These to their softened hearts should bear The thought of what has been, And speak of one who can not share The gladness of the scene; Whose part, in all the pomp that fills The circuit of the summer hills, Is that his grave is green; And deeply would their hearts rejoice To hear again his living voice. William Cullen Bbyant. JUNE. And what is so rare as a day in June? Then, if ever, come perfect days; Then heaven tries the earth if it be in tune, And over it softly her warm ear lays. Whether we look, or whether we listen, We hear life murmur, or see it glisten; Every clod feels a stir of might, An instinct within it that reaches and towers, And, groping blindly above it for light, Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers; The flush of life may well be seen Thrilling back over hills and valleys; The cowslip startles in meadows green, The buttercup catches the sun in its cha- lice, And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean To be some happy creature's palace; The little bird sits at his door in the sun, Atilt like a blossom among the leaves, And late Ms allumined being o'errun With the deluge of summer it receives; His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings, And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings; He sings to the wide world and she to her nest — In the nice ear of nature, which song is the best? James Russell Lowell. SUMMER NIGHT SOUNDS. 'Tis sweet to sit, Ere the lamps are lit, By the vine-wreathed casement, listening When the winds are still, And the cricket's trill Is heard where the dew is glistening: "Cheereet, cheereet." 'Tis a summer night, With a moon so bright, NATURE POEMS— Months and Seasons. 131 That the fire-fly lamps are pale, And all night long-, Comes a mournful song From a lone bird in the vale: "Whippoorwill, whippoorwill." In a shady nook, By the side of the brook, Hid away from the prying moon, On a moss-grown log, Some love-lorn frog Is singing this mellow tune: "Ker-chug, ker-chug." And a little beyond, Just over the pond, From a tall tree on the bank, Comes faint, but clear To my listening ear, The song of a feathered crank: "Too-whoo, too-whoo." Then a gossip unseen, In the ivy green, Kepeats to a drowsy bird A scandalous tale Of some mortal frail, And these are the words I heard: "Katydid, katydid." And across the way, By the bright moon's ray A youth and maiden are seen, And I hear a repeat Of the old words, sweet, As the gate swings to, between: "Good-night, good-night." Louisa P. W. Palmiter. SUMMER TWILIGHT. Oh, how I love to steal away And spend an hour in silent musing Just when the rosy smile of day In twilight shades its light is losing! For then a pure and holy spell On every earthly scene seems dwelling, And from each woody hill and dell Soft, faint-toned melodies are swelling. They are not like the gay, glad songs Through field and forest daily ringing, But pensively they float along, Like wearied ones sweet vespers singing. And stars come stealing gently forth, In dewy brightness calmly beaming, And dew-drops thicken o'er the earth Like pearls among the dark leaves gleam- ing. At such an hour my spirit turns Away from scenes of mirth and pleasure, For in its secret depths it yearns For purer joys and richer treasure. The twilight hour! the silent prayer Of thousands at this hour ascending, Like incense on the dewy air, With angel-songs is sweetly blending. The twilight hour! how mild and calm It woos the soul to meek devotion, And sheds around a soothing balm Which stills each day-born, wild emotion! Mrs. M. J. E. Crawford. SONG OF SUMMER-TIME. The fields are bright with the golden grain, That waves in the subtile breeze; The partridge calls, in his loud refrain, To his mate from the apple-trees. Sweet and low is the hum of bees, And the hum of the reapers' tune, As, one by one, they bind the sheaves Beneath the skies of June. Deep in the shade of the beech en grove, Where the sun and the shadows play; The oriole swings with his mated love, And blends his tuneful lay. Silent and grand, with a lurid glow, Behind the hills of the west, The chariot of Sol is sinking low, And bids the harvester rest. J. H. ASHABRANNER. SUMMER EVENING. The summer day has closed; the sun is set: Well have they done their office, those bright hours, The latest of whose train goes softly out In the red west. The green blade of the ground Has risen, and herds have cropped it; the young twig Has spread its plaited tissues to the sun; Flowers of the garden and the waste have blown And withered; seeds have fallen upon the soil From bursting cells, and, in their graves, await Their resurrection. Insects from the pools Have filled the air a while with humming wings, That now are stilled forever; painted moths Have wandered the blue sky, and died again ; The mother-bird hath broken for her brood Their prison shell, or shoved them from their nest, Plumed for their earliest flight. In bright alcoves, In woodland cottages with barky walls, In noisome cells of the tumultuous town, Mothers have clasped with joy the new- born babe ; Graves by the lonely forest, by the shore Of rivers and of ocean, by the ways Of the thronged city, have been hollowed out, And filled, and closed. This day hath parted friends That ne'er before were parted; it hath knit 132 TREASURES OF POETRY. New friendships; it hath seen the maiden plight Her faith, and trust her peace to him who long Hath wooed; and it hath heard, from lips which late Were eloquent of love, the first harsh word, That told the wedded one her peace was flown. Farewell to the sweet sunshine! One glad day Is added now to childhood's merry days, And one calm day to those of quiet age; Still the fleet hours run on; and, as I lean, Amid the thickening- darkness, lamps are lit By those who watch the dead and those who twine Flowers for the bride. The mother from the eyes Of her sick infant shades the painful light, And sadly listens to his quick-drawn breath. William Cullbn Beyant. AUGUST. The hot still sky is hushed in silent rest; No voice of bird. A fleecy whiteness wings away to west; No leaf is stirred, The poplar's silver glistens in the burning light; The meadow-lands Bathed in the still heat of a hot delight; The hay-cart stands On the white road waiting in the sun. A straggling vine Stretches across a dell where brown bees hum And wet weeds shine; A locust slips its shrill note in the air; The beetles' drone Flecks the hushed stillness here and there With lazy tone. Gay Waters. AUTUMN DAYS. Still onward through immensity of space Our planet speeds, nor wearies in the race, Nor tarries once in all her course along; But on the arm of gravitation strong, She rounds the god to whom the heathen prays, And sails into our port with autumn days. A stately ship! steered by unerring hand Through ethereal sea, she brings a cargo grand — The yearly products of her fertile land. To make the tropic clime their transient home, The pewit and the lark have southward flown; The fancied chariots of the heated sun Now wheel their burden toward the Ama- zon; On chilly winds from out the northern land The frost king rides, and, at his stem command, Unto the flower is laid the icy sword, Death-dealing, like the worm to Jonah's gourd ; The night, the ruling scepter now doth sway, And swallows up a portion of the day; The season when the sky, with meteor scars, Displa3 r s what literalists term the "fall- ing stars"; In northern sky Aurora's flames of fire Awaken thoughts of God's avenging ire; The zephyrs, breathing fresh and cool at eve, Man's weary hands and aching heart re- lieve. Sweet autumn days, so full of cheering themes, Enwrapt my soul in many pleasant dreams; Heaven has lent to you the power of song, To buoy my spirit o'er the raging wrong. At eventide when all is hushed, I muse And bathe my heart and brow in cooling dews, And, fanned by odorous breath, I sweetly rest, While amaranthine glories fill my breast. Through all my soul a solemn feeling strays Inspired by melancholy autumn days; No time creates emotions half so deep As do the days when Nature seems to weep. To pass the golden-rod with drooping head, Its color changed from brightest gold to lead, The maple-leaf from deepest green to red; The opening of the chestnut-burr so brown; To hear the nuts, through branches fall- ing down; To wander through the wood where falls the leaf — All tell to me, mortality is brief. A change is wrought by autumn's hand unseen; The forest and the field give up their green, On leaf and blade is placed the golden crown, And nature all is robed in suit of brown. As I, behold her soft and silent tread, Numb'ring the grass and flowers among the dead, In gravest reverence, with uncovered head, I stand and note her march o'er hill and plain, Like mourners in their sad funeral train. Fair autumn days! upon your sighing breast In meditation deep I sweetly rest; Thy breath, that softly plays amid the yews, Thy whispering air, so weighted with fresh dews, And scented like the blooming springtime rose, With amorous song shall lull me to repose. Halcyon days! my heart is won to you — Not goddess, but revealing God so true — Long would I in your balmy region stray, And tune my soul to sweetest heavenly lay; Your deep and hallowed melancholy sigh NATURE POEMS— Months and Seasons. 133 Wings me unto the "Rock that's higher than I." Unhindered by the tenant-house of clay, On silent wings of Muse I fly away; I view, o'er earth the course of human kind, And note the struggling of the heart and mind, Each one employed some treasure lost, to find. From Eden's garden, man was turned away; He's sought for long-lost treasure since that day: Amid the isles of some far-distant sea, One thinks the priceless jewel there must be, Or o'er the rugged mountain's frozen brow The costly gem lies 'neath the Klondike snow, Or on the fields of fame they hope to reap Pellucid glories that shall never weep; In halls of pleasure there they hope to find Something to satisfy the heart and mind; And thus they seek their treasure lost to gain — Their autumn days will prove their search in vain; When they have reached the "sere and yel- low leaf," They'll fold their arms around the blighted sheaf. Ambitious mortal, give thy struggle o'er; Come rest with me upon this evening shore; Behold the wondrous works of Infinite, Let naught in earth or sky elude thy sight; The book of nature let your thoughts en- The hand of God you'll find on every page; By power of holy faith unloose the seal, Let the Book of Life unto your heart reveal Redemption's story — sweetest theme o f old- Find treasures there of greater worth than gold. Chables E. Oer. SEPTEMBER. Sweet is the voice that calls From babbling waterfalls In meadows where the downy seeds are fly- ing; And soft the breezes blow, And eddying come and go In faded gardens where the rose is dying. Among the stubbled corn The blithe quail pipes at morn, The merry partridge drums in hidden places, And glittering insects gleam Above the reedy stream, Where busy spiders spin their filmy laces. At eve cool shadows fall Across the garden wall And on the clustered grapes to purple turn- ing, And pearly vapors lie Along the eastern sky, Where the broad harvest moon is redly burning. Ah, soon on field and hill The wind shall whistle chill, And patriarch swallows call their flocks together, To fly from frost and snow, And seek for lands where blow The fairer blossoms of a balmier weather. The cricket chirps all day, "O fairest summer, stay!" The squirrel eyes askance the chestnuts browning; The wild fowl fly afar Above the foamy bar, And hasten southward ere the skies are frowning. Now comes a fragrant breeze Through the dark cedar-trees, And round about my temples fondly lin- gers, In gentle playfulness, Like to the soft caress Bestowed in happier days by loving fingers. Yet, though a sense of grief Comes with the falling leaf, And memory makes the summer doubly pleasant, In all my autumn dreams A future summer gleams, Passing the fairest glories of the present! Geobgb Abnold. OCTOBER S BRIGHT BLUE WEATHER. O suns and skies and clouds of June And flowers of June together, Ye can not rival for one hour October's bright blue weather — When loud the bumble-bee makes haste, Belated thriftless vagrant, And golden-rod is dying fast, And lanes with grapes are fragrant; When gentians roll their fringes tight To save them from the morning, And chestnuts fall from satin burrs, Without a sound of warning; When on the ground red apples lie, In piles like jewels shining, And redder still, on old stone walls, Are leaves of woodbine twining; When all the lovely wayside things Their white-winged seeds are sowing, And in the fields, still green and fair, Late aftermaths are growing; When springs run low and on the brooks, In idle golden freighting, 134. TREASURES OF POETRY. Bright leaves sink noiseless in the hush Of woods for winter waiting. O suns and skies and flowers of June, Count all your boasts together, Love loveth best of all the year October's bright blue weather. Helen Hunt Jackson. THE AUTUMN WOODS. What beauty in the autumn woods! Where in the calm, deep solitudes, The amber sunshine finds its way, And checkered light and shadows play. Such beauty everywhere we turn! The moss-grown rock and drooping fern, The woodland flowers and trailing vines, The singing brooks and sighing pines, The murmur of the gentle breeze That stirs the yellow chestnut-leaves Till softly in the grasses brown The round and prickly burs drop down. The maples are in bright array Of mottled gold and crimson gay; The oak in deepest scarlet dressed; In cloth of gold are all the rest, Except that now and then between There stands a tall dark evergreen That sheds its spicy fragrance round, And drops its cones upon the ground With asters white and purple tinged, And golden-rod, the woods are fringed, With scarlet berries peeping through Where wild grapes hang of purple hue, And fiery-fingered ivy clings, While milk-weed floats on downy wings. The crickets chirp and insects hum, For glorious Autumn now has come. THE AUTUMN EVENING. Sadly dies the au.tumn day, In moaning winds and sunset gray; The forest trees, with branches bare. Upraise their arms as though in prayer, While at their feet the dead leaves lie Hushed and sad and silently. The gray squirrel from his dizzy height Perceives the fast approaching night, And with quick and startled leap, Scrambles to his nest and sleep, While deep within the wood is heard The plaintive cry of the midnight bird. Now just above the western hills, The dark clouds part, and sunlight fills The forest, and the saddened scene Is glorified in the golden sheen Of the setting sun. So, sweetly on my saddened life, Dark with sickness and with strife, There falls the sunlight of God's love, With hope that in his home above, "When life and sorrow both be past, My weary feet will rest at last. J. J. McGirk. OCTOBER. Into its lap the treasures of the year Are gladly thrown: the royal golden-rod, Fresh from the kind and gracious hand of God, Puts on a brighter garb, and far and near The wonders of the autumn hues appear; The balmy air with ecstacy is rife; All nature grows in plentitude of life, And breathes deep with the bounties of good cheer. The morning clouds are full of beauty, too, And dash their richest crimson o'er the scene, While in the range of sunset's purple view There glows the glory of its changing sheen — The tints of earth and sky forever new; The grandeur which forever rolls between! H. A. Lavelest. NOVEMBER. The mellow year is hasting to its close; The little birds have almost sung their last, Their small notes twitter in the dreary blast — That shrill-piped harbinger of early snows; The patient beauty of the scentless rose, Oft with the morn's hoar crystal quaintly glassed, Hangs, a pale mourner for the summer past, And makes a little summer where it grows; In the chill sunbeam of the faint brief day The dusky waters shudder as they shine; The russet leaves obstruct the straggling way Of oozy brooks, which no deep banks define; And the gaunt woods, in ragged, scant ar- ray, Wrap their old limbs with sombre ivy twine. Hartley Colebidgb. AUTUMN. After the spring and the labor of day,s. After the summer sun's genial rays. Cometh the harvest of golden maize; 'Tis autumn! Golden the harvest and rich in store, Bending the beams of the thresher's floor, Cheering the hearts of the laboring poor; 'Tis autumn! Beautiful days and balmy air, After the season of toil and care, Silvery clouds flitting here and there; 'Tis autumn! The fields are brown and the forests red, The singing birds of the lawn have fled, And the year is waning, too, 'tis said; 'Tis autumn! NATURE POEMS— Months and Seasons. 135 Winter will come with Its frosts and snows; Prepare we may for its chilling- blows Before this plenteous season goes; 'Tis autumn! • Isaac W. Sanborn. AUTUMN. Gone is the spring with all its flowers, And gone the summer's verdant show; Now strewn beneath the autumn bowers, The yellow leaves await the snow. Behold this earth so cold and gray, An emblem of our life appears; Its blooming robes sink to decay, To rise again in round of years. Earth cheers its winter sleep with dreams Of springtime's warmth and gentle rain, When she shall wake to murmuring streams, And songs of merry birds again. So we came forth like springtime flowers, Soon into manhood's summer grow, Then like the leaves of autumn bowers, Lie down beneath the winter's snow. And there our bodies slumb'ring wait, Till time's short winter day has fled, And Christ, our Lord and Advocate, Shall come again to wake the dead. Then winter's storm and summer's heat Shall end in everlasting spring, And all immortal we shall meet, And round the throne of glory sing. D. S. Waknbb. AUTUMN. Frosty is the morning, and the air is chill; Nature, robed in beauty, bows to Autumn's will; Leaves of gold and crimson thickly fly and fall, Stormy wind in eddies drives them one and all; Down they come in showers all around our feet; In the wood and meadow, in the vale and street, By the hedge and thicket, over marsh and plain— Ev'ry where they're whirling to the earth amain. Soon the sun, arising, casts a cheerful smile; Now he's brightly beaming, now he hides a while. Think you he is frowning over what he Over withered verdure, over naked trees' Nay, he runs his circuit just the same along, Shining without ceasing, beautiful and strong; Ruling all the seasons with his welcome glow, As they in rotation swiftly come and go. As the leaves of autumn wither in the cold, So our mortal bodies soon will turn to mold, But our spirits never; they'll outlive the sun, Throughout ages they'll live on and on. Therefore let us hasten wisdom to impart To the lost and dying, to the faint in heart; Speak of lasting comfort, happiness, and love; Point them to the Savior and to heaven above. Clinton A. Hebwick. AUTUMN. How calm, how sweet the days of autumn seem! The dreary earth is like a pleasing dream: October's sun makes paradise of noon; The starry night pays homage to the moon; The sun by day, the moon and stars by night, Fill every sense with strange and pure delight. Through all the long hot summer days have run Swift messengers to wait upon the sun, To spread the banquet for the autumn feast, For she among the season's lot the least. Into old Autumn's lap the ripe fruits fall, While all the trees and shrubs, or great or small. As if to worship with the fruit they bring, A whole year's large and bounteous offering. She bids the idlers taste and take their fill, While frisky squirrels gather where they will; She feeds the tiny birds, that know no care, With seeds dropped here and there and everywhere. The fairies, riding on the fresh'ning breeze, Bend down the topmost branches of the trees, Where hangs the apples, red and russet brown; That to the grassy mead come tumbling down, While age bent low and youth together pass, To find unharmed the fruit among the grass. She dips the maples in a rainbow dye, To please the wondrous gaze of passers-by; And day by day the marvelous colors grow, Till every leaf and fern are all aglow. The winter king she watches close with care; Lest some dread sign should make the good despair, She bids the hopeless mortal look and see Death's emblem as a pleasing mystery. John Rowland. 136 TREASURES OF POETRY. AUTUMN DREAMS. When the maples turn to crimson 'Neath the fingers of the frost; When the gardens and the meadows All their summer bloom have lost; When from off the lowland marshes Blue ethereal vapors rise, And a dreamy haze is floating:, Through the mellow, sunlit skies, — Then I know the year is dying, Soon the summer will be dead. I can trace it in the flying Of the black crows overhead; I can hear it in the rustle Of the dead leaves as I pass, And the south wind's plaintive sighing Through the dry and withered grass. Ah, 'tis then I love to wander, Wander idly and alone, Listening to the solemn music Of sweet nature's undertone; Wrapt in thoughts I can not utter, Dreams my tongue can not express, Dreams that match the autumn's sadness In their longing tenderness. Thoughts of friends my heart hath cher- ished In the summer days gone by; Hopes that all too soon have perished, E'en as summer blossoms die. Luckless plans and vain ambitions, Stranded, long ere summer's prime, Buried, as will be the flowers, 'Neath the winter snows of time. Yet, although my thoughts are sadder Than in summer's wealth of bloom, 'Tis a sadness that makes better, And is not akin to gloom. Ah, the human heart seems purer, Much of earth's defilement lost, When the maple turns to crimson 'Neath the fingers of the frost. Mortimer Crane Brown. AUTUMN. With what glory comes and goes the year! The buds of spring, those beautiful harbin- gers Of sunny skies and cloudless times, enjoy Life's newness, and earth's garniture spread out; And when the silver habit of the clouds Comes down upon the autumn sun, and with A sober gladness the old years takes up His bright inheritance of golden fruits, A pomp and pageant fill the splendid scene. There is a beautiful spirit breathing now Its mellow richness on the clustered trees, And, from a beaker full of richest dyes, Pouring new glory on the autumn woods, And dipping in warm light the pillared clouds. Morn on the mountain, like a summer bird, Lifts up her purple wing, and in the vales The gentle wind, a sweet and passionate wooer, Kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up life Within the solemn woods of ash deep-crim- soned, And silver beech, and maple yellow-leaved, Where Autumn, like a faint old man, sits down By the wayside a-weary. Through the trees The golden robin moves; the purple finch, That on wild cherry and red cedar feeds, A winter bird, comes with its plaintive whistle, And pecks by the witch-hazel; whilst aloud From cottage roofs the warbling blue-bird sings; And merrily, with oft repeated stroke, Sounds from the threshing-floor the busy flail. Oh, what a glory doth this world put on For him who, with a fervent heart, goes forth Under the bright and glorious sky, and looks On duties well performed, and days well spent! For him the wind, ay, and the yellow leaves, Shall have a voice, and give him eloquent teachings. He shall so hear the solemn hymn that Death Has lifted up for all, that he shall go To his long resting-place without a tear. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. WINTER. The day had been a calm and sunny day, And tinged with amber was the sky at even; The fleecy clouds at length had rolled away, And lay in furrows on the eastern heaven; The moon arose and shed a glimmering ray, And round her orb a misty circle lay. The hoarfrost glittered on the naked heath, The roar of distant winds was loud and deep, The dry leaves rustled in each passing breath, And the gay world was lost in quiet sleep. Such was the time when, on the landscape brown, Through a December air the snow came down. The morning came, the dreary morn, at last, And showed the whitened waste. The shivering herd Lowed on the hoary meadow-ground, and fast Fell the light flakes upon the earth un- stirred; The forest firs with glittering snows o'er- laid Stood like hoar priests in robes of white arrayed. John H. Bryant. NATURE POEMS— Months and Seasons. 137 IN WINTER DAYS. When autumn breezes rattle at the case- ment, And whistle through the pine-trees at the door; When squirrels store up nuts without abatement, And corn-stalks pile up on the old barn floor; When robins in large flocks begin to chatter About the journey southward, near at hand, And crickets shrilly chirp about the matter Of winter days when they will all dis- band, — We dream of joys beside the fireside wait- ing— The book, the game, the quiet social hour When we again may think of spring birds mating, Of sleeping bud unfolding into flower. Winter would have no terror to appal us Did we but mate our action and desire Unto the duties that forever call us, And bid us e'en though storm-bound to acquire The faith that holds the bird poised in mid- ocean Above a storm-tossed sea, its wings out- spread, Conscious that through life's turmoil and commotion We shall be safely and securely led. Helen M. Richardson. WINTERS CHARMS. When the twilight steals upon us, Ending thus the wintry day, When the atmosphere is chilly And the sky is cold and gray, We retreat with willing footsteps Near the fire-glow on the hearth Where the family circle gathers — Dearest spot in all the earth. Soon the twilight shades grow deeper Till they darken into night, And we hear the north wind sobbing As if driven on in fright Through the treetops, round the corner, Till at last its mournful tone Slowly dies out in the distance And no more we hear it moan. Then, while we are lost in slumber, Silently doth Nature toil Robing earth in dazzling garments — Nothing does her efforts foil; Every tree and shrub and bower Must be clothed with special care In the clear and crystal raiment Which she wishes them to wear. When this task she has completed, She retires with ease and grace To await the dawn of morning In her own appointed place. Not one twig has been neglected, Not one withered blade of grass, Each one now is well enclosed In its winter house of glass. Now the early dawn is breaking, Bidding darkness flee away; See, upon the clear horizon Shines the glowing orb of day; Night is past — behold the morning Bursting forth with glorious light! Could there be a scene whose beauty Would surpass this lovely sight? Springtime has her buds and blossoms, Summer boasts of roses fair, Autumn's pride is golden harvests, But of these can none compare With the glowing charms of Winter Wlhen his crystal fields we view, Sparkling in the brilliant sunlight As the day breaks forth anew. Elsie E. Egermeihr. THE NEW YEAR. Fleetly hath passed the year; the seasons came Duly as they were wont — the gentle spring, And the delicious summer, and the cool, Rich autumn, with the nodding of the grain, And winter, like an old and hoary man, Frosty and stiff — and so are chronicled. We have read gladness in the new green leaf, And in the first-blown violets; we have drunk Cool water from the rock, and in the shade Sunk to the noontide slumber; we have plucked The mellow fruitage of the bending tree, And girded to our pleasant wanderings When the cool winds came freshly from the hills; And when the tinting of the autumn leaves Had faded from its glory, we have sat By the good fires of winter, and rejoiced Over the fulness of the gathered sheaf. "God hath been very good." 'Tis he whose hand Molded the sunny hills and hollowed out The shelter of the valleys, and doth keep The fountains in their secret places cool; And it is he who leadetJi up the sun, And ordereth the starry influences, And tempereth the keenness of the frost; And, therefore, in the plenty of the feast, And in the lifting of the cup, let him Have praises for the well-completed year, Nathaniel Pabkeb Willis. PATRIOTISM, FREEDOM HEROISM PATRIOTISM, FREEDOM, HEROISM. 141 PATRIOTISM, FREEDOM, HEROISM AMERICAN INDEPENDENCE. Hail to the planting of Liberty's tree! Hail to the charter declaring us free! Millions of voices are chanting- its praises, Millions of worshipers bend at its shrine, Wherever the sun of America blazes, Wherever the stars of our bright banner shine. Sing to the heroes who breasted the flood That, swelling, rolled o'er them, a deluge of blood. Fearless they clung to the ark of the nation, And dashed on mid lightning and thun- der and blast, Till Peace, like the dove, brought her branch of salvation, And Liberty's mount was their refuge at last. Bright is the beautiful land of our birth, The home of the homeless all over the earth. Oh! let us ever with fondest devotion, The freedom our fathers bequeathed us, watch o'er, Till the angel shall stand on the earth and the ocean. And shout mid earth's ruins that time is no mora A. B. Street. TELL ON SWITZERLAND. Once Switzerland was free! With what a pride I used to walk these hills, look up to heaven, And bless God that it was so! It was free From end to end, from cliff to lake 'twas free! Free as our torrents are, that leap our rocks, And plough our valleys, without asking leave; Or as our peaks, that wear their caps of snow In very presence of the regal sun! How happy was I in it, then! I loved Its very storms; ay, often have I sat In my boat at night, and when midway o'er the lake, The stars went out, and down the moun- tain-gorge The wind came roaring — I have sat and eyed The thunder breaking from his cloud, and smiled To see him shake his lightnings o'er my head, And think I had no master save his own. Tou know the jutting cliff, round which a track Up hither winds, whose base is but the brow To such another one, with scanty room For two abreast to pass? O'ertaken there By the mountain-blast, I've laid me flat along, And while gust followed gust more furi- ously, As if to sweep me o'er the horrid brink, And I have thought of other lands, whose storms Are summer flaws to those of mine, and just Have wished me there, the thought that mine was free Has checked that wish, and I have raised my head, And cried in thraldom to that furious wind, "Blow on! This is the land of liberty!" J. S. Knowles. IT IS AN EMBLEM OF GLORY. O flag of a resolute nation, O flag of the strong and the free, The cherished of true-hearted millions, We hallow thy colors three! Three proud, floating emblems of glory, Our guide for the coming time; The red, white, and blue, in their beauty, Love gives them a meaning sublime. Thy red is the deep crimson life-stream Which flowed on the battle-plain, Redeeming our land from oppression, And leaving no servile stain. Thy white is a proud people's honor, Kept spotless and clear as light; A pledge of unfaltering justice; A symbol of truth and right. Thy blue is our nation's endurance, And points to the blue abeve — The limitless, measureless azure, A type of our Father's love. Thy stars are God's witness of blessing, And smile at the foeman's frown; They sparkle and gleam in their splendor, Bright gems in the great world's crown. James Montgomery. THE YOUNG AMERICAN. Scion of a mighty stock! Hands of iron, hearts of oak, Follow with unflinching tread Where the noble fathers led. Craft and subtle treachery, Gallant youth! are not for thee; Follow thou in word and deeds Where the God within thee leads! Honesty with steady eye, Truth and pure simplicity, Love that gently winneth hearts — These shall be thy only arts: 142 TREASURES OF POETRY. Prudent in the council train, Dauntless on the battle-plain, Ready at the country's need For her glorious cause to bleed. Wjhere the dews of night distil Upon Vernon's holy hill; "Where above it, gleaming - far, Freedom lights her guiding star, — Thither turns the steady eye, Flashing with a purpose high; Thither, with devotion meet, Often turn the pilgrim feet. Let the noble motto be, God — the country — liberty! Planted on religion's rock, Thou shalt stand in every shock. Laugh at danger far or near! Spurn at baseness — spurn at fear! Still, with persevering might, Speak the truth, and do the right. So shall peace, a charming guest, Dove-like in thy bosom rest; So shall honor's steady blaze Beam upon thy closing days. Happy if celestial favor Smile upon the high endeavor; Happy if it be thy call In the holy cause to fall. Alexander Hill Evebbtt. THE STAR SPANGLED BANNER. [Francis Scott Key was an American who, with a friend was detained with the British fleet during the attack on Fort McHenry, near Baltimore, Sept. 3 3, 14, 1814. In a position to witness the bombard- ment, they watched, with great anxiety, the Ameri- can flag over the fort all day until night hid it from view. With eager eyes they looked in that direction at dawn, and, to their great joy, they saw the star spangled tanner yet waving over the ramparts. It inspired the poet. This composition is now our na- tional song.] Oh, say! can you see, by the dawn's early light, What so proudly we hailed at the twi- light's last gleaming? Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous fight, O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming; And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air, Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there. Oh, say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave? What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep, As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now discloses? Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam, In full glory reflected, now shines on the stream ; 'Tis the star-spangled banner! Oh, long may it wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave! And where is that band who so vauntingly swore That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion, A home and a country should leave us no more? Their blood has washed out their foul footstep's pollution; No refuge could save the hireling and slave From the terror of flight or the gloom of the grave. And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave! Oh! thus be it ever when freemen shall stand Between their loved homes and the war's desolation; Blessed with victory and peace, may the heaven-rescued land Praise the Power that hath made and preserved us a nation. Then conquer we must when our cause it is just, And this be our motto: "In God is our trust." And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave! Francis Scott Key. On the that shore, dimly seen through mists of the deep, Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes, REFLECTIONS ON A BATTLE-FIELD. Once this soft turf, this rivulet's sands, Were trampled by a hurrying crowd, And fiery hearts and armed hands Encountered in the battle-cloud. Ah! never shall the land forget How gushed the life-blood of her brave Gushed, warm with hope and courage yet, Upon the soil they sought to save. Now all is calm and fresh and still; Alone the chirp of flitting bird, And talk of children on the hill, And bell of wandering kine are heard. No solemn host goes trailing by The black-mouthed gun and staggering wain ; Men start not at the battle-cry, Oh, be it never heard again! PATRIOTISM, FREEDOM, HEROISM. 143 Soon rested those who fought; but thou Who mightiest in the harder strife For truths which men receive not now, Thy warfare only ends with life. A friendless warfare! lingering long Through weary day and weary year, A wild and many-weaponed throng Hang on thy front, and flank, and rear. Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof, And blench not at thy chosen lot; The timid good may stand aloof, The sage may front — yet faint thou not. Nor heed the shaft too surely cast, The foul and hissing bolt of scorn; For with thy side shall dwell, at last, The victory of endurance born. Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again; The eternal years of God are hers; But Error, wounded, writhes with pain, And dies among his worshipers. Tea, though thou lie upon the dust, When they who helped thee flee in fear, Die full of hope and manly trust, Like those who fell in battle here. Another hand thy sword shall wield, Another hand the standard wave, Till from the trumpet's mouth is pealed The blast of triumph o'er thy grave. William Ctjllen Bryant. THE FREEMAN. [From "The Winter Morning Walks."] He is the freeman whom the truth makes free, And all are slaves beside. There's not a chain That hellish foes confederate for his harm Can wind around him, but he casts it off With as much ease as Samson his green withes. He looks abroad into the varied field Of nature; and though poor, perhaps, com- pared With those whose mansions glitter in his sight, Calls the delightful scenery all his own. His are the mountains, and the valley his, And the resplendent rivers — his to enjoy With a propriety that none can feel But who, with filial confidence inspired Can lift to heaven an unpresumptuous eye, And smiling say, "My Father made them all!" Are they not his by a peculiar right, And by an emphasis of interest his, Whose eyes they fill with tears of holy joy, Whose heart with praise, and whose ex- alted mind With worthy thoughts of that unwearied love That planned and built, and still upholds, a world So clothed with beauty for rebellious man? Yes, ye may fill your garners, ye that reap The loaded soil, and ye may waste much good In senseless riot; but ye will not find In feast, or in the chase, in song or dance, A liberty like his, who, unimpeached Of usurpation, and to no man's wrong, Appropriates nature as his Father's work, And has a richer use of yours than you. He is indeed a freeman — free by birth Of no mean city, planned or e'er the hills Were built, the fountains opened, or the sea With all his roaring multitude of waves. His freedom is the same in every state; And no condition of this changeful life, So manifold in cares, whose every day Brings its own evil with it, makes it less. For he has wings that neither sickness, pain, Nor penury can cripple or confine; No nook so narrow but he spreads them there With ease, and is at large. The oppressor holds His body bound; but knows not what a range His spirit takes, unconscious of a chain; And that to bind him is a vain attempt, Whom God delights in, and in whom he dwells. William Cowper. BRAVE KATE SHELLEY S HEROISM. [Kate Shelley was a young Iowa girl who, one stormy night, saved the passengers on a railway train from certain death by climbing over a trestle that had been partly destroyed and attracting the atten- tion of the engineer. She was all but exhausted when found, but fortunately recovered in a short time. ] Through the whirl of wind and water, Parted by the rushing steel, Flashed the white glare of the headlight, Flew the swift revolving wheel, As the midnight train swept onward, Bearing on its iron wings, Through the gloom of night and tempest, Freightage of most precious things. Little children by their mothers Nestle in unbroken rest, Stalwart men are dreaming softly Of their journey's finished quest, While the men who watch and guard them Sleepless stand at post and brake, Close the throttle, draw the lever, Safe for wife and sweetheart's sake. Sleep and dream, unheeding danger; In the valley yonder lies Death's debris in weird confusion, Altar fit for sacrifice! Dark and grim the shadows settle Where the hidden perils wait; Swift the train, with dear lives laden, Rushes to its deadly fate. Still they sleep and dream unheeding. O thou watchful One above, 144 TREASURES OF POETRY. Save Thy people in this hour! Save the ransomed of thy love! Send an angel from thy heaven Who shall calm the troubled air, And reveal the powers of evil, Hidden in the darkness there. Saved! ere yet they know their peril, Comes a warning- to alarm; Saved! the precious train is resting On the brink of deadly harm. God has sent his angel to them, Brave Kate Shelley, hero-child! Struggling on, alone, unaided, Through that night of tempest wild. Brave Kate Shelley, tender maiden, Baby hands, with splinters torn, Saved the lives of sleeping travelers, Swiftly to death's journey borne. Mothers wept and clasped their darlings, Breathing words of grateful prayer; Men, with faces blanched and tearful, Thanked God for brave Kate Shelley there. Greater love than this hath no man; When the heavens shall unfold, And the judgment-books are opened, There, in characters of gold, Brave Kate Shelley's name shall center, Mid the pure, the brave, the good — That of one who crowned with glory Her heroic womanhood. Mrs. M. L. Ratne. DEATH OF GAUDENTIS. [Gaudentis was the architect of the Coliseum. Upon his tomb in the Catacombs was found this in- scription: "Thus thou keepest thy promises, O Ves- pasian ! The rewarding with death of him, the crown of thy glory in Rome. Do rejoice, O Gaudentis ! the cruel tyrant promised much, but Christ gave thee all, who prepared thee such a mansion."] Before Vespasian's regal throne Skilful Gaudentis stood; "Build me," the haughty monarch cried, "A theater for blood. I know thou'rt skilled in mason's work; Thine is the power to frame Home's Coliseum vast and wide, An honor to thy name. "Over seven acres spread thy work, And by the gods of Rome, Thou shalt hereafter by my side Have thy resplendent home. A citizen of Roman rights, Silver and golden store, These shall be thine; let Christian blood But stain the marble floor." So rose the Amphitheater, Tower and arch and tier; There dawned a day when martyrs stood Within that ring of fear. But strong their quenchless trust in God, And strong their human love; Their eyes of faith, undimmed, were fixed On temples far above. And thousands gazed, in brutal joy, To watch those Christians die; But one beside Vespasian leaned, With a strange light in his eye. What thoughts welled up within his breast As on that group he gazed! What gleams of holy light from heaven Upon his dark soul blazed! Had he by password gained access To the dark Catacomb, And learned the hope of Christ's beloved, Beyond the rack, the tomb? The proud Vespasian o'er him bends — "My priceless architect, Today I will announce to all Thy privilege elect — A free-made citizen of Rome." Calmly, Gaudentis rose, And folding, o'er his breast, his arms. Turned to the Savior's foes; And in a strength not all his own, With life and death in view, The fearless architect exclaimed, "I am a Christian too." Only a few brief moments passed, And brave Gaudentis lay Within the Amphitheater, A lifeless mass of clay. Vespasian promised him the rights Of proud Imperial Rome, But Christ with martyrs crowned him king, Beneath heaven's cloudless dome. THE ANTIQUITY OF FREEDOM. Here are old trees, tall oaks, and gnarled pines, That stream with gray-green mosses; here the ground Was never trenched by spade, and flowers spring up Unsown, and die ungathered. It is sweet To linger here, among the flitting birds And leaping squirrels, wandering brooks, and winds That shake the leaves, and scatter, as they A fragrance from the cedars, thickly set With pale-blue berries. In these peaceful shades — Peaceful, unpruned, immeasurably old — My thoughts go up the long dim path of years, Back to the earliest days of liberty. O Freedom! thou art not, as poets dream, A fair young girl, with light and delicate limbs, And wavy tresses gushing from the cap With which the Roman master crowned his slave When he took off the gyves. A bearded man, Armed to the teeth, art thou; one mailed hand Grasps the broad shield, and one the sword; thy brow, Glorious in beauty though it be, is scarred PATRIOTISM, FREEDOM, HEROISM. 145 With tokens of old wars; thy massive limbs Are strong with struggling-. Power at thee has launched His bolts, and with his lightnings smitten thee; They could not quench the life thou hast from heaven. Merciless power has dug thy dungeon deep, And his swart armorers, by a thousand fires, Have forged thy chain; yet while he deems thee bound, The links are shivered, and the prison walls Fall outward; terribly thou springest forth, As springs the flame above a burning pile, And shoutest to the nations, who return Thy shoutings, while the pale oppressor flies. Thy birthright was not given by human hands; Thou wert twin-born with man. In pleas- ant fields, While yet our race was few, thou sat'st with him, To tend the quiet flock and watch the stars, And teach the reed to utter simple airs. Thou by his side, amid the tangled wood, Didst war upon the panther and the wolf, His only foes; and thou with him didst draw The earliest furrow on the mountain-side, Soft with the deluge. Tyranny himself, Thy enemy, although of reverend look, Hoary with many years, and far obeyed, Is later born than thou; and as he meets The grave defiance of thine elder eye, The usurper trembles in his fastnesses. Thou shalt wax stronger with the lapse of years, But he shall fade into a feebler age; Feebler, yet subtler. He shall weave his snares, And spring them on thy careless steps, and clap His withered hands, and from their ambush call His hordes to fall upon thee. He shall send Quaint maskers, wearing fair and gallant forms To catch thy gaze, and uttering graceful words To charm thy ear; while his sly imps, by stealth, Twine round thee threads of steel, light thread on thread That grow to fetters, or bind down thy arms With chains concealed in chaplets. Oh! not yet Mayst thou unbrace thy corselet, nor lay by Thy sword; nor yet, O Freedom! close thy lids In slumber; for thine enemy never sleeps, And thou must watch and combat till the day Of the new earth and heaven. But wouldst thou rest A while from tumult and the frauds of men, These old and friendly solitudes invite Thy visit. They, while yet the forest trees Were young upon the unviolated earth, And yet the moss-stains on the rock were new, Beheld thy glorious childhood, and rejoiced. William Cullen Bryant. OLD IRONSIDES. [The frigate Constitution, historic but old and un- sea worthy, was condemned by the Navy Department to be destroyed. Holmes read this in a newspaper paragraph, and it stirred him. On a scrap of paper, with a lead pencil, he rapidly shaped the impetuous stanzas of "Old Ironsides" and sent them to a Bos- ton paper. They traveled fast and far through the newspaper press and were even printed in hand-bills and circulated about the streets of Washington. A national indignation was stirred, and the Secretary made haste to retrace his step. The Constitution's tattered ensign was not torn down. This is probably the only case in which a government policy was changed by the verses of a college student. Holmes had only come of age a month before.] Ay, tear her tattered ensign down! Long has it waved on high, And many an eye has danced to see That banner in the sky; Beneath it rung the battle-shout, And burst the cannon's roar; The meteor of the ocean air Shall sweep the clouds no more. Her deck, once red with heroes' blood, Where knelt the vanquished foe, When winds were hurrying o'er the flood, And waves were white below, No more shall feel the victor's tread, Or know the conquered knee; The harpies of the shore shall pluck The eagle of the sea! Oh, better that her shattered hulk Should sink beneath the wave; Her thunders shook the mighty deep, And there should be her grave. Nail to the mast her holy flag, Set every threadbare sail, And give her to the god of storms, The lightning and the gale! Oliver Wendell Holmes. WASHINGTON. Land of the West! though passing brief The record of thine age, Thou hast a name that darkens all On history's wide page. Let all the blasts of Fame ring out, Thine shall be loudest far; Let others boast their satellites, Thou hast the planet star. Thou hast a name whose characters Of light shall ne'er depart; 'Tis stamped upon the dullest brain, And warms the coldest heart; A war-cry fit for any land Where freedom's to be won; Land of the West! it stands alone, It is thy Washington! 146 TREASURES OF POETRY. Rome had its Caesar, great and brave, But stain was on his wreath; He lived the heartless conqueror, And died the tyrant's death. France had its eagle, but his wings, Though lofty they might soar, "Were spread in false ambition's flight, And dipped in murder's gore. Those hero-gods, whose mighty sway Would fain have claimed the waves;. Who flashed their blades with tiger zeal To make a world of slaves; Who, though their kindred barred the path, Still fiercely waded on — ■ Oh, where appears their "glory" now Beside a "Washington! He fought, but not with love of strife; He struck but to defend; And ere he turned a people's foe, He sought to be a friend. He strove to keep his country's right By reason's gentle word, And sighed when all injustice threw The challenge sword to sword. He stood, the firm, the grand, the wise, The patriot, and the sage; He showed no deep, avenging hate, No burst of despot rage; He stood for liberty and truth, And daringly led on, Till shouts of victory gave forth The name of Washington. Eliza Cook. MY COUNTRY. There is a land, of every land the pride, Beloved by Heaven o'er all the world be- side, Where brighter suns dispense serener light, And milder moons imparadise the night; A land of beauty, virtue, valor, truth, Time-tutored age, and love-exalted youth. The wandering mariner, whose eye explores The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores, Views not a realm so bountiful and fair, Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air. In every clime, the magnet of his soul, Touched by remembrance, trembles to that pole; For in this land of Heaven's peculiar race, The heritage of nature's noblest grace, There is a spot of earth supremely blest, A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest, Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside His sword and scepter, pageantry and pride, While in his softened looks benignly blend The sire, the son, the husband, brother, friend. Here woman reigns; the mother, daughter, wife Strew with fresh flowers the narrow way of life: In the clear heaven of her delightful eye, An angel-guard of love and graces lie; Around her knees domestic duties meet, And fireside pleasures gambol at her feet. "Where shall that land, that spot of earth be found?" Art thou a man? a patriot? look around; Oh! thou shalt find, how'er thy footsteps roam, That land thy country, and that spot thy home! * * * * ** * * * * Man, through all ages of revolving time, Unchanging man, in every varying clime, Deems his own land of every land the pride, Beloved by Heaven o'er all the world be- side; His home the spot of earth supremely blest, A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest. James Montgomery. THE AMERICAN FLAG. When Freedom, from her mountain height, Unfurled her standard to the air, She tore the azure robe of night, And set the stars of glory there; She mingled with its gorgeous dyes The milky baldric of the skies, And striped its pure, celestial white With streakings of the morning light; Then, from his mansion in the sun, She called her eagle-bearer down, And gave into his mighty hand The symbol of her chosen land. Majestic monarch of the cloud! Who rearest aloft thy regal form, To hear the tempest-trumpings loud, And see the lightning lances driven, "When strive the warriors of the storm, And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven — Child of the Sun! to thee 'tis given To guard the banner of the free, To hover in the sulphur smoke, To ward away the battle-stroke, And bid its blendings shine afar, Like rainbows on the cloud of war, The harbingers of victory! Flag of the brave! thy folds shall fly, The sign of hope and triumph high! When speaks the signal-trumpet tone, And the long line comes gleaming on, Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet, Has dimmed the glistening bayonet, Each soldier's eye shall brightly turn To where thy sky-born glories burn, And, as his springing steps advance, Catch war and vengeance from the glance; And when the cannon-mouthings loud Heave in wild wreaths the battle-shroud, And gory sabers rise and fall Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall, Then shall thy meteor glances glow, And cowering foes shall shrink beneath Each gallant arm that strikes below That lovely messenger of death. Flag of the seas! on ocean- wave Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave; PATRIOTISM, FREEDOM, HEROISM. 147 When death, careering on the gale, Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail, And frighted waves rush wildly back Before the broadside's reeling- rack, Each dying wanderer of the sea Shall look at once to heaven and thee, And smile to see thy splendors fly In triumph o'er his closing eye. Flag of the free heart's hope and home, By angel-hands to valor given, Thy stars have lit the welkin dome, And all thy hues were born in heaven. Forever float that standard sheet! Where breathes the foe but falls before us, With Freedom's soil beneath our feet, And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us! Joseph Rodman Drake. STANZAS ON FREEDOM. Men, whose boast it is that ye Come of fathers brave and free, If there breathe on earth a slave, Are ye truly free and brave? If ye do not feel the chain When it works a brother's pain, Are ye not base slaves, indeed — Slaves unworthy to be freed? Is true freedom but to break Fetters for our own dear sake, And, with leathern hearts, forget That we owe mankind a debt? No; true freedom is to share All the chains our brothers wear, And, with heart and hand, to be Earnest to make others free! They are slaves who fear to speak For the fallen and the weak; They are slaves who will not choose Hatred, scoffing, and abuse, Rather than in silence shrink From the truth they needs must think; They are slaves who dare not be In the right with two or three. James Russell Lowell. RECESSIONAL. God of our fathers, known of old — Lord of our far-flung battle-line — Beneath whose awful hand we hold Dominion over palm and pine — Lord God of hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget — lest we forget! The tumult and the shouting dies, The captains and the kings depart — Still stands thine ancient Sacrifice, An humble and a contrite heart; Lord God of hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget — lest we forget! Far-called our navies melt away, On dune and headland sinks the fin Lo, all our pomp of yesterday Is one with Nineveh and Tyre. Judge of the nations, spare us yet, Lest we forget — lest we forget! If, drunk with sight of power we loose Wild tongues that have not thee in awe- Such boasting as the Gentiles use Or lesser breeds without the law — Lord God of hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget — lest we forget! For heathen heart that puts her trust In reeking tube and iron shard; All valiant dust that builds on dust, And guarding calls not thee to guard; For frantic boast and foolish word,- — Thy mercy on thy people, Lord! Rudtard Kipling. INDEPENDENCE BELL. [When the Declaration of Independence was signed by Congress at Philadelphia, July 4, 1776, the event was announced by the ringing of the old State House bell, which bore the inscription, "Proclaim liberty throughout the land, to all the inhabitants thereof." The old bellman stationed his little grandson at the door of the hall to await the instructions of the door keeper when to ring. At the word, the young patriot rushed out, and clapping his hands, shouted, "Ring! rixg! RING!"] There was a tumult in the city, In the quaint old Quaker town, And the streets were rife with people Pacing restless up and down, People gathering at the corners, Where they whispered each to each. And the sweat stood on their temples With the earnestness of speech. As the bleak Atlantic currents Lash the wild Newfoundland shore, So they beat against the State House* So they surged against the door; And the mingling of their voices Made a harmony profound, Till the quiet street of Chestnut Was all turbulent with sound. "Will they do it?" "Dare they do it?" "Who is speaking?" "What's the news?" "What of Adams?" "What of Sherman?" "Oh, God grant they won't refuse!" "Make some way there!" "Let me nearer!" "I am stifling!" "Stifle, then! When a nation's life's at hazard, We've no time to think of men!" So they surged against the State House, While all solemnly inside Sat the "Continental Congress," Truth and reason for their guide. O'er a simple scroll debating, Which, though simple it might be, Yet should shake the cliffs of England With the thunders of the free. Far aloft in that high steeple Sat the bellman, old and gray; He was weary of the tyrant And his iron-sceptered sway, So he sat with one hand ready 148 TREASURES OF POETRY, On the clapper of the bell, When his eye could catch the signal, The long-expected news, to tell. See! See! The dense crowd quivers Through all its lengthy line, As the boy beside the portal Hastens forth to give the sign; With his little hands uplifted, Breezes dallying with his hair, Hark! with deep, clear intonation, Breaks his young voice on the air: Hushed the people's swelling murmur, Whilst the boy cries joyously: •"Ring!" he shouts, "Ring, Grandpapa, Ring, oh, ring for liberty!" Quickly, at the given signal The old bellman lifts his hand, Forth he sends the good news, making Iron music through the land. How they shouted! What rejoicing! How the old bell shook the air, Till the clang of freedom ruffled The calmly gliding Delaware! How the bonfires and the torches Lighted up the night's repose, And from the flames, like fabled Phoenix, Our glorious liberty arose! That old State-House bell is silent, Hushed is now its clamorous tongue; But the spirit it awakened Still is living — ever young; And when we greet the smiling sunlight On the fourth of each July, We will ne'er forget the bellman Who, betwixt ihe earth and sky, Rung out, loudly, "Independence!" Which, please God, shall never die! COVER THEM OVER. Cover them over with beautiful flowers, Deck them with garlands, those brothers of ours, Lying so silent, by night and by day, Sleeping the years of their manhood away, Years they had marked for the joys of the brave, Tears they must waste in the sloth of the grave. All the bright laurels that promised to bloom Pell to the earth when they went to the tomb. Give them the meed they have won in the past; Give them the honors their merits forecast; Give them the chaplets they won in the strife; Give them the laurels they lost with their life. Cover them over, yes, cover them over — Parent and husband and brother and lover; Crown in your heart these dead heroes of ours, And cover them over with beautiful flowers! Cover the faces that motionless lie, Shut from the blue of the glorious sky; Faces once lighted with smiles of the gay, Faces now marred by the frown of decay, Eyes that beamed friendship and love to your own, Lips that sweet thoughts of affection made known, Brows you have soothed in the day of dis- tress, Cheeks you have flushed by the tender caress, Faces that brightened at war's stirring cry, Faces that streamed when they bade you good-by, Faces that glowed in the battle's red flame, Paling for naught till the death-angel came. Cover them over, yes, cover them over — Parent and husband and brother and lover; Kiss in your hearts these dead heroes of ours, And cover them over with beautiful flowers. Cover the hands that are resting, half-tired, Crossed on the bosom or low by the side; Hands to you, mother, in infancy thrown; Hands that you, father, close hid in your own; Hands where you. sister, when tried and dismayed, Hung for protection and counsel and aid; Hands that you, brother, for faithfulness knew; Hands that you, wife, wrung in bitter adieu. Bravely the cross of their country they bore, Words of devotion they wrote with their gore; Grandly they grasped for a garland of light, Catching the mantle of death-darkened night. Cover them over, yes, cover them over — Parent and husband and brother and lover; Clasp in your hearts these dead heroes of ours, And cover them over with beautiful flowers. Cover the feet that, all weary and torn, Thither by comrades were tenderly borne; Feet that have trodden, through love- lighted ways, Near to your own in the old happy days; Feet that have pressed, in life's opening morn, Roses of pleasure and death's poisoned thorn. Swiftly they rushed to the help of the right, Firmly they stood in the shock of the fight. Ne'er shall the enemy's hurrying tramp Summon them forth from their death- guarded camp; Ne'er till eternity's bugle shall sound Will they come out from their couch in the ground. Cover them over, yes, cover them over- Parent and husband and brother and lover; PATRIOTISM, FREEDOM, HEROISM. 140 Rough were the paths of those heroes of ours — ■ Now cover them over with beautiful flowers. Cover the hearts that have beaten so high, Beaten with hopes that were born but to die; Hearts that have burned in the heat of the fray, Hearts that have yearned for the homes far away, Hearts that beat high in the charge's loud tramp, Hearts that low fell in the prison's foul damp. Once they were swelling with courage and will, Now they are lying all pulseless and still; Once they were glowing with friendship and love, Now their great souls have gone soaring above. Bravely their blood to the nation they gave, Then in their bosom they found them a grave. Cover them over, yes, cover them over — Parent and husband and brother and lover; Press to your hearts these dead heroes of ours, And cover them over with beautiful flowers. One there is sleeping in yonder low tomb, Worthy the brightest of flow'rets that bloom. Weakness of womanhood's life was her part, Tenderly stung was her generous heart. Bravely she stood by the sufferer's side, Checking the pain and the life-bearing tide; Fighting the swift-sweeping phantom of death, Easing the dying man's fluttering breath; Then, when the strife that had nerved her was o'er, Calmly she went to where wars are no more. Voices have blessed her now silent and dumb; Voices will bless her in long years to come. Cover her over, yes, cover her over; Blessings, like angels, around her shall hover; Cherish the name of that sister of ours, And cover her over with beautiful flowers. Cover the thousands who sleep far away — Sleep where their friends can not find them today ; They who in mountain and hillside and dell Rest where they wearied and lie where they fell. Softly the grass-blade creeps round their repose, Sweetly above them the wild flow'ret blows; Zephyrs of freedom fly gently o'erhead, Whispering names for the patriot dead. So in our minds we will name them once more, So in our hearts we will cover them o'er; Roses and lilies and violets blue, Bloom in our souls for the brave and the true. Cover them over, yes, cover them over — Parent and husband and brother and lover; Think of those far-away heroes of ours, And cover them over with beautiful flowers. Will Cableton. OUR COUNTRY S DEAD. The mounds are sinking level with the plain. As if Time's hurried footsteps gently pressed With tender memories where our heroes rest — Those mounds above our country's buried slain. The turf is thickening with the passing years, And daisies now grow thicker in the sod, Where sleep the Nation's dead, and thicker nod The lilies watered by a nation's tears. And all is calm beneath the grass today; Quiet and soft their peaceful slumbers prove, Heedless alike of what goes on above, Whether they lay them down in blue or gray. We bring our offerings for those who stood For home and country against all beside, Who, holding loyal to that service, died, Thus sealing their devotion with their blood. And may the passing years weave closer yet The interlacing ties of human kind, As in the sod the knotted grasses bind And hold the springing daisies closer set. Isaac Bassett Choatb. A MONUMENT FOR THE SOLDIERS. A monument for the soldiers! And what will ye build it of? Can ye build it of marble or brass or bronze, Outlasting the soldiers' love? Can ye glorify it with legends As grand as their blood hath writ From the inmost shrine of this land of thine To the outermost verge of it? And the answer came: "We would build it Out of our hopes made sure, And out of our purest prayers and tears, And out of our faith secure. We would build it out of the great white truths Their death hath sanctified, And the sculptured forms of the men in arms, And their faces ere they died." And what heroic figures Can the sculptor carve in stone? Can the marble breast be made to bleed And the marble lips to moan? Can the marble brow be fevered, 150 TREASURES OF POETRY. And the marble eyes be graved To look their last as the flag floats past On the country they have saved? And the answer came: "The figures Shall all be fair and brave, And, as befitting, as pure and white As the stars above their grave; The marble lips and breast and brow Whereon the laurel lies, Bequeath us right to guard the flight Of the old flag in the skies." A monument for the soldiers! Built of a people's love And blazoned and decked and panoplied With the hearts ye build it of; And see that ye build it stately, In pillar and niche and gate, And high in pose as the souls of those It would commemorate! Jambs Whitcomb Rile?. TO A BATTLE-SHIP. [Written for, and read on the occasion of, the launching of the battle-ship Iowa.] Wake, giant of oak and steel, Asleep by the yellow sand, And give to the sea thy keel, And bid farewell to the land, At the touch of beauty arise, At the words that shall bid thee move, At the hand that shall thee baptize. And give to the sea its love. Sail, sail O ship that is ours! New warrant that peace shall be, Whatever the cloud that lowers, O ship of the Western sea! To every land of the earth, To seas that are fair and far, Bear thou the message of worth, That peace is better than war. And guard thou ever our fame, From gulf to the utmost bay; And keep forever thy name As fair as it is today. And if ever grim war should come, In spite of the mien we bear — With the sound of the hurrying drum, And a wail of death on the air — Then open thy sides of steel, And fight with thy thousand men Till the ships of the foe shall feel There are giants abroad again; And thunder with all thy guns, And smite with thy lightning stroke, Nor stop though thy bravest sons Lie bleeding in battle's smoke. Cry out to them Perry's name, Remember how Lawrence fell, And the flag that's above the flame, In spite of the fires of hell. And if ever a foe should bid Thee yield to a haughty hand, Tell him what our Morris did When he sank with the Cumberland. Far better the ship go down, And her guns and her thousand men, In the depths of the sea to drown, Than ever to sail again With the day of her promise done, Or the star of her glory set, Or a thread from the standard gone, That never has yielded yet. Then awake, O giant of steel, Asleep by the yellow sand, Arise from thy dreams and feel The thrill of a nation's hand! Sail, sail to many a main, Strange lands and to trackless ways, But ever come back again, New crowned with the victor's bays. Your colors already we know — The colors our hearts adore — The sea wave's white and the wine's red glow And the blue sky bending o'er. Sail, sail, oh, sail, But come to us at the last, If from the battle or from the gale, With the old flag at the mast! S. H. M. Bters. SHERIDAN S RIDE. Up from the South at break of day, Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay, The affrighted air with a shudder bore, Like a herald in haste, to the chieftan's door, The terrible grumble and rumble and roar, Telling the battle was on once more, And Sheridan twenty miles away. And wider still those billows of war Thundered along the horizon's bar, And louder yet into Winchester rolled The roar of that red sea uncontrolled, Making the blood of the listener cold, As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray, And Sheridan twenty miles away. But there is a road from Winchester town, A good, broad highway leading down; And there through the flush of the morn- ing light, A steed as black as the steeds of night, Was seen to pass, as with eagle flight. As if he knew the terrible need, He stretched away with his utmost speed; Hills rose and fell, but his heart was gay, With Sheridan fifteen miles away. Still sprung from those swift hoofs, thun- dering South, The dust, like smoke from the cannon's mouth, Or the trail of a comet, sweeping faster and faster, Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster. PATRIOTISM, FREEDOM, HEROISM. 151 The heart of the steed and the heart of the master Were beating like prisoners assaulting their walls, Impatient, to be where the battle-field calls; Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play, With Sheridan only ten miles away. Under his spurning feet, the road Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed, And the landscape sped away behind Like an ocean flying before the wind, And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace ire, Swept on with his wild eye full of fire. But lo! he is nearing his heart's desire; He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray, With Sheridan only five miles away. The first that the General saw were the groups Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops; What was done — what to do — a glance told him both, And, striking his spurs, with a terrible oath He dashed down the line, mid a storm of huzzas, And the wave of retreat checked its course there, because The sight of the master compelled it to pause. With foam and with dust the black charger was grajr; By the flash of his eye, and his red nos- tril's play, He seemed to the whole great army to say, "I have brought you Sheridan all the way, From Winchester down, to save the day." Hurrah, hurrah for Sheridan! Hurrah, hurrah for horse and man! And when their statutes are placed on high, Under the dome of the Union sky — The American soldiers' Temple of Fame — There with the glorious General's name Be it said in letters both bold and bright: "Here is the steed that saved the day By carrying Sheridan into the flght, From Winchester — twenty miles away!" Thomas Buchanan Read. HEROISM. Once to ev'ry man and nation Comes the moment to decide, In the strife of Truth with Falsehood, For the good or evil side; Some great cause, God's new Messiah, Offers each the bloom or blight — And the choice goes by forever 'Twixt that darkness and that light. Then to side with Truth is noble When we share her wretched crust, Ere her cause brings fame or profit And 'tis prosp'rous to be just; Then it is the brave man chooses, While the coward stands aside Till the multitude make virtue Of the faith they had denied. Though the cause of Evil prosper, Yet 'tis Truth alone is strong; Though her portion be the scaffold, And upon the throne be Wrong, Yet that scaffold sways the future, And, behind the dim unknown, Standeth God within the shadow, Keeping watch above his own. James Russell Lowell. PATRIOTISM. Breathes there the man with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, "This is my own, my native land?" Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned, As home his footsteps he hath turned, From wandering on a foreign strand? If such there breathes, go, mark him well: For him no minstrel raptures swell; High though his titles, proud his name, Boundless his wealth as wish can claim, Despite those titles, power, and pelf, The wretch, concentered all in self, Living, shall forfeit fair renown, And, doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonored, and unsung. Sib Walteb Scott. AMERICA. My country, 'tis of thee, Sweet land of liberty, Of thee I sing; Land where my fathers died, Land of the pilgrims' pride, From every mountain-side Let freedom ring! My native country, thee — Land of the noble free — Thy name I love; I love thy rocks and rills, Thy woods and templed hills; My heart with rapture thrills Like that above. Let music swell the breeze, And ring from all the trees Sweet freedom's song! Let mortal tongues awake; Let all that breathe partake; Let rocks their silence break — The sound prolong! Our fathers' God! to thee, Author of liberty, To thee we sing; Long may our land be bright With freedom's holy light; Protect us by thy might, Great God, our King! Samuel Francis Smith. 152 TREASURES OF POETRY. OUR GOAL AND GLORY. As down a hundred stairs we graze, A hundred stairs of time; As upward still our eyes we raise, As upward still we climb, — Wie see the vales and hills behind, The vales and hills before; Wte see the goals we hope to find, And see the goals passed o'er. O'er every sea and shore we read, N All men are equal born; The noblest thought and noblest deed Hath noblest glory worn. May every victory we win Be won by tireless toil, No battle smoke or battle din Our growing glory foil. As long as stars above us shine, Or grass beneath shall grow, Peace round us sheds her light divine, And Truth her radiant glow. The God of all the stars and flowers Around us throw his shield, And make this happy land of ours A bloodless battle-field, Where Truth shall fight her battles hard, And win her triumphant way, And Right shall be the brave watchword, And conquer every day. May this be Freedom's dearest home, Her happiest, holiest shrine, That, till to Freedom's heaven we come, Her fires may deathless shine. May every hungry, homeless heart, Where'er on earth it beat, Find here a hearth-stone always bright, A welcome always sweet. Lydia M. Millard. THE SOLDIERS REST. Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er, Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking; Dream of battle-fields no more, Days of danger, nights of waking. In our isle's enchanted hall Hands unseen thy couch are strewing, Fairy strains of music fall, Every sense in slumber dewing. Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er, Dream of battle-fields no more; Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking Morn of toil nor night of waking. No rude sound shall reach thine ear, Armor's clang or war-steed champing, Trump nor pibroch summon here, Mustering clan or squadron tramping; Yet the lark's shrill fife may come At the day-break from the fallow, And the bittern sound his drum, Booming from the sedgy shallow. Ruder sounds shall none be near, Guards nor warders challenge here, Here's no war-steed's neigh and champing, Shouting clans or squadrons stamping. Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done; While our slumb'rous spells assail ye, Dream not, with the rising sun, Bugles here shall sound reveille. Sleep! the deer is m his den; Sleep! thy hounds are by thee lying; Sleep! nor dream in yonder glen, How thy gallant steed lay dying. Huntsman, rest; thy chase is done. Think not of the rising sun, For at dawning to assail ye, Here no bugle sounds reveille. Sib Walter Scott. THE TITANIC. [Just before midnight on April 14, 1912 the steamship Titanic, bound from Liverpool to ' New York on her maiden voyage, struck an iceberg when about one thousand miles from New York. Within four hours from the time of the impact she sank, causing the loss of over sixteen hundred lives. She was the largest, newest, and finest steamship afloat; and as she was believed to be unsinkable, her supply of life- boats was inadequate. Scarcely one-third of the peo- ple on board were saved.] Now, this was the work of the hand of man, the dream of a prideful brain, That the wrath that sleeps in the rolling deep might waken to strength in vain. We builded a ship that was one of might, we builded it stanch and strong; We forged its keel to its ribs of steel, we fashioned it wide and long; We said there was naught that might hum- ble it, no power in sea or sky — And it broke as a crumb 'twixt finger and thumb when the ocean made reply. There were long, long decks where the gay folk strolled; the wake was a white, white foam; And the jewels gleamed and the people dreamed of the strength that bare them home. There were billows high that the bow cleft fair and as scornfully tossed aside; For the ship was great and it hastened straight, with no halting for wind or tide. We said there was naught that might bid it pause, no power in wind or wave — But an echoing surge is the only dirge that is murmured above its grave. Now, the sea is deep and the sea is strange and is jealous of all men do; And it takes its toll as its billows roll, and it answers with wreck and rue. It has been unchained since the birth of time, and it palsies the hand of man Though he work in pride and with faith beside in his cunning toil and plan. We said of the ship it would keep its course, and mock at the sky and sea — PATRIOTISM, FREEDOM, HEROISM. 153 Then a swift-caught breath, and the call of death in a mocking and strident key. Now, this was the work of the hand of man — a mighty and wondrous thing — And we told the sea it no more might be over man and his works the king. We made it as strong as a hundred ships that threaded the seas of yore— And it lies today where the long swells play through the wrecks on the ocean's floor. We said there was naught that might hum- ble it, no power in sea or sky — And it broke as a crumb 'twixt finger and thumb when the ocean made reply. WiLurR D. Nesbitt. PAUL REVERE S RIDE. Listen, my children, and you shall hear Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, On the eighteenth of April, in seventy-five; Hardly a man is now alive Who remembers that famous day and year. He said to his friend: "If the British march By land or sea from the town tonight, Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry-arch Of the North Church tower as a signal light— One, if by land, and two, if by sea; And I on the opposite shore will be, Ready to ride and spread the alarm Through every Middlesex village and farm, For the country folk to be up and to arm." Then said he, "Good-night!" and with muf- fled oar Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore, Just as the moon rose over the bay, Where swinging wide at her moorings lay The Somerset, British man-of-war — A phantom ship, with each mast and spar Across the moon like a prison bar, And a huge black hulk, that was magnified By its own reflection in the tide. Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street, Wanders and watches with eager ears, Till in the silence around him he hears The muster of men at the barrack door, The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet. And the measured tread of the grenadiers, Marching down to their boats on the shore. Then he climbed to the tower of the church, Up the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread, To the belfry-chamber overhead, And startled the pigeons from their perch On the somber rafters, that round him made Masses and moving shapes of shade — Up the trembling ladder, steep and tall, To the highest window in the wall, Where he paused to listen, and look down, A moment on the roofs of the town, And the moonlight flowing over all. Beneath, in the church-yard, lay the dead. In their night-encampment on the hill, Wrapped in silence so deep and still That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread, The watchful night-wind, as it went Creeping along from tent to tent, And seeming to whisper, "All is well!" A moment only he feels the spell Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread Of the lonely belfry and the dead; For suddenly all his thoughts are bent On a shadowy something far away, Where the river widens to meet the bay — A line of black that bends and floats On the rising tide like a bridge of boats. Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere. Now he patted his horse's side, Now gazed at the landscape far and near, Then, impetuous, stamped the earth, And turned and tightened his saddle-girth; But mostly he watched with eager search The belfry-tower of the Old North Church, As it rose above the graves on the hill, Lonely and spectral and somber and still — And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height A glimmer, and then a gleam of light! He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns, But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight A second lamp in the belfry burns. A hurry of hoofs in a village street, A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark, And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet; That was all! And yet through the gloom and the light The fate of a nation was riding that night; And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight, Kindled the land into flame with its heat. He has left the village, and mounted the steep, And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep, Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean-tides; And under the alders, that skirt its edge, Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge, Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides. It was twelve by the village clock When he crossed the bridge into Medford town. He heard the crowing of the cock, And the barking of the farmer's dog, And felt the damp of the river-fog, That rises after the sun goes down. It was one by the village clock When he galloped into Lexington. He saw the gilded weathercock Swim in the moonlight as he passed, 154 TREASURES OF POETRY. And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare, Gaze at him with a spectral glare, As if they already stood aghast, At the bloody work they would look upon. It was two by the village clock When he came to the bridge in Concord town. He heard the bleating of the flock, And the twitter of birds among the trees, And felt the breath of the morning breeze Blowing over the meadows brown. And one was safe and asleep in his bed Who at the bridge would be first to fall, Who that day would be lying dead, Pierced by a British musket-ball. You know the rest. In the books you have read How the British Regulars fired and fled; How the farmers gave them ball for ball, From behind each fence and farm-yard wall, Chasing the redcoats down the lane, Then crossing the fields to emerge again Under the trees at the turn of the road, And only pausing to fire and load. So through the night rode Paul Revere, And so through the night went his cry of alarm To every Middlesex village and farm — A cry of defiance, and not of fear, A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, And a word that shall echo forevermore! For, borne on the night-wind of the past, Through all history, to the last, In the hour of darkness and peril and need, The people will waken and listen to hear The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed, And the midnight message of Paul Revere Henby. Wadsworth Longfellow. A RACE FOR LIFE. A gun is heard at the dead of night — "Lifeboat ready!" And every man, to the signal true, Fights for place in the eager crew. "Now, lads! steady!" First a glance at the shuddering foam, Now a look at the loving home, Then together, with bated breath, They launch their boat in the gulf of death. Over the breakers wild, Little they reck of weather, But tear their way Through blinding spray. Hear the skipper cheer and say, "Up with her, lads, and lift her! All together!" They see the ship in a sudden flash Sinking ever, And grip their oars with a deeper breath; Now it's come to a fight with death, Now or never! Fifty strokes, and they're at her side, If they live in the boiling tide, If they last through the awful strife. Ah, my lads, it's a race for life! Over the breakers wild, Little they reck of weather, But tear their way Through blinding spray. Hear the skipper cheer arid say, "Up with her, lads, and lift her! All together!" And loving hearts are on the shore, Hoping, fearing; Till over the sea there comes a cheer, Then the click of the oars you hear Homeward steering — Ne'er a thought of the danger past, Now the lads are on land at last; What's a storm to a gallant crew Who race for life, and who win it, too? Over the breakers wild, Little they reck of weather, But tear their way Through blinding spray. Hear the skipper cheer and say, "Up with her, lads, and lift her! AH together!" J. L. Mollot. THE DEATH OF NATHAN HALE. [Nathan Hale was a young Revolutionary patriot who met his death under circumstances that have made him famous in American history. He volun- teered to visit Long Island and New York (then held by the British) to secure some much-needed informa- tion from the enemy. Entering the British lines dis- guised as a Dutch school-teacher, he obtained the de- sired information, and was about to return, when he was recognized and captured. On the following morn- ing he was hung as a spy, having been denied the use of a Bible or a visit from a minister, and hav- ing had the letters which he had written to his mother and his fiancee destroyed before his eyes. His last words were, "I only regret that I have but one life to lose for my country."] "Speed, speed thee forth," said Washington, On Harlem's battle-plain, "For yonder lies the British foe; Bring back his plans of battle. Go!" The volunteer of twenty-one, Whose heart was never known to quail, Bowed, heard his orders, bowed again — 'Twas Captain Nathan Hale. One night when shone the harvest-moon, His boat shot through the spray, Blithely across the starlit sound To where upon Manhattan's ground The British were encamped, and soon The soldier-boy was on their trail — Captured their plans — "Now for the fray," Cried fearless Nathan Hale. But e'er his noble task was done Within the foeman's bounds, A yell came up from Briton throats, He saw their shining scarlet coats — "What, ho! a spy from Washington!" Ah, Heaven! was he doomed to fail? As round a hare spring famished hounds, They closed round Nathan Hale. PATRIOTISM, FREEDOM, HEROISM 155 Condemned to death, the hero lay, With shackles on his limbs, And memory brought New London town, His sweetheart with her curls of brown, His anxious mother old and gray; Alas! how will they hear the tale? A welcome tear the blue eye dims Of valiant Nathan Hale. They led him forth mid gibes and jeers, To meet the patriot's fate; The solace of God's Holy Word He asked, but ne'er a Briton stirred; Their oaths still fell upon his ears; Their robber flag waved in the gale; Their eyes, fired by revenge and hate, Were fixed on Nathan Hale. Like bloodhounds eager for his gore, They cried, "Hang the spy!" Undaunted there the hero stands, And, lifting up his shackled hands, The while his captors raved and swore, A flush came o'er his cheek so pale; "Back cowards! I'll show you how to die!" Cried noble Nathan Hale. "A hundred lives ye knaves accurst, I'd yield, and bliss were crowned, To burn that blood-stained ray o'erhead, And raise the stars and stripes instead. I'm ready now; fiends, do your worst, To Freedom's glorious dawn all hail!" The hangman's rope is thrown around The neck of Nathan Hale. Forgotten? Ne'er while Freedom's stars Shine forth in deathless light, From out the flag he loved so well, For which he lived and fought and fell. His guerdon was the soldier's scars, And death far from his native vale — Brave heart, that throbbed for love and right, Brave soldier, Nathan Hale. Eugene Geary. SOMEBODY S DARLING. Into a ward of the whitewashed halls, Where the dead and dying lay, Wounded by bayonets, shells, and balls, Somebody's darling was borne one day — Somebody's darling, so young and so brave, Wearing yet on his pale, sweet face, Soon to be hid by the dust of the grave, The lingering light of his boyhood's °-^ace. Matted and damp are the curls of gold, Kissing the snow of the fair young brow; Pale are the lips of delicate mold — Somebody's darling is dying now. Back from his beautiful blue-veined brow, Brush all the wandering waves of gold; Cross his hands on his bosom now — Somebody's darling is still and cold. Kiss him once for somebody's sake, Murmur a prayer both soft and low; One bright curl from its fair mates take — They are somebody's pride, you know; Somebody's hand hath rested there — Was it a mother's soft and white? And have the lips of a sister fair Been baptized in their waves of light? God knows best! He was somebody's love; Somebody's heart enshrined him there; Somebody wafted his name above, Night and morn, on the wings of prayer; Somebody wept when he marched away, Looking so handsome, brave, and grand; Somebody's kiss on his forehead lay; Somebody clung to his parting hand. Somebody's waiting and watching for him, Yearning to hold him again to her heart; And there he lies with his blue eyes dim* And the smiling childlike lips apart. Tenderly bury the fair young dead, Pausing to drop on his grave a tear; Carve in the wooden slab at his head, "Somebody's darling slumbers here." Marib R. Lacoste. CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE, Half a league, half a league, Half a league onward, All in the valley of death Rode the six hundred. "Forward, the Light Brigade! Charge for the guns!" he said; Into the valley of death Rode the six hundred. "Forward, the Light Brigade!" Was there a man dismayed? Not though the soldier knew Some one had blundered: Theirs not to. make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die: Into the valley of death Rode the six hundred. Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon in front of them, Volleyed and thundered; Stormed at with shot and shell. Boldly they rode and well; Into the jaws of death, Into the mouth of hell, Rode the six hundred. Flashed all their sabers bare. Flashed as they turned in air, Sabering the gunners there, Charging an army, while All the world wondered; Plunged in the battery-smoke, Right through the line they broke: Cossack and Russian Reeled from the saber-stroke, Shattered and sundered. 156 TREASURES OF POETRY. Then they rode back, but not — Not the six hundred. Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon behind them, Volleyed and thundered; Stormed at with shot and shell, While horse and hero fell, They that had fought so well Back from the mouth of hell, — Came through the jaws of death All that was left of them, Left of six hundred. When can their glory fade? Oh, the wild charge they made! All the world wondered. Honor the charge they made! Honor the Light Brigade, Noble six hundred! Alfred Tennyson. THE BLUE AND THE GRAY. By the flow of the inland river, Whence the fleets of iron have fled, Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver, Asleep are the ranks of the dead: Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment-day; Under the one, the Blue, Under the other, the Gray. These in the robings of glory, Those in the gloom of defeat, All with the battle-blood gory, In the dusk of eternity meet: Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment-day; Under the laurel, the Blue, Under the willow, the Gray. From the silence of sorrowful hours The desolate mourners go, Lovingly laden with flowers, Alike for the friend and the foe: Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment-day; Under the roses, the Blue, Under the lilies, the Gray. So, with an equal splendor, The morning sun-rays fall, Wjlth a touch impartially tender, On the blossoms blooming for all: Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment-day; Broidered with gold, the Blue, Mellowed with gold, the Gray. So, when the summer calleth On forest and field of grain, With an equal murmur falleth The cooling drip of the rain: Under the sod and the dew, Waitimr the judgment-day; Wet with the rain, the Blue, Wet with the rain, the Gray. Sadly, but not with upbraiding, The generous deed was done; In the storm of the years that are fading No braver battle was won: Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment-day; Under the blossoms the Blue, Under the garlands, the Gray. No more shall the war-cry sever, Or the winding rivers be red; They banish our anger forever, When they laurel the graves of our dead: Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment-day; Love and tears for the Blue, Tears and love for the Gray. P. M. Finch. THE NEW PAUL REVERE. [Before the frightful rush of waters which, on May 31, 1889, brought death to thousands of people in the Conemaugh Valley, Pennsylvania, in which Johnstown is situated, an unknown man. mounted on a large bay horse, rode madly down the turnpike, shouting, "Run for your lives! To the hills! To the hills!" Dashing onward with the flood behind him, he never checked his desperate speed or ceased his cry of warning till the great wave of foaming waters submerged him.] A cloud of dust in Johnstown's street, The sound of a horse's flying feet, And down the road, at a fearful speed, Like a lightning flash, comes a gallant steed. There's scarce a glimpse of the rider's face, As the horse skims on at his maddened pace. But loud on the air the warning thrills, "Run for your lives! To the hills! To the hills!" The startled people gather round, As the horse leaps on with mighty bound. "Who is the man?" "Whence has he come?" Are the eager questions asked by some, While some are dumb with a sickening fear As the warning words ring loud and clear, And echo back, on the stirring breeze, As swift through the street the rider flees. Still, fast and faster, upon his course, His voice grows still more wild and hoarse. As, over and over, he shouts aloud His warning cry to the startled crowd, To children at play, to maids and wives, "To the hills! To the hills! Run for your lives!" And only the rider knows the need Of the cruel race or the reckless speed. But the awful riddle is solved at last, And the torrent comes, O God! so fast, Chasing the rider along his course, On, on it comes with a fearful force; Down the alleys and swift along, O'erturning, alike, the weak and strong, Engulfing them all in its billows dread, Forms of the living, forms of the dead. Ponderous buildings that meet and crash, As the surging billows around them dash; On speeds the rider, on sweeps the wave, No hand is raised, no power can save, And buried at last, 'neath the torrent's height, PATRIOTISM. FREEDOM, HEROISM. 157 The horse and rider are swept from sight. The few who heeded the warning well, And fled to the hills, shall live to tell The story over, in after-years, With thankful hearts and silent tears, And a prayer for blessings on the head Of that hero among the nameless dead. And ye who sing of the days of old, Of its faithful knights so brave and bold, Oh, was there ever, in ancient time, A knight more worthy of poet's rhyme Than the valiant rider who swiftly sped To warn the town of its danger dread? O hero, brave, with an unknown name, None, none can tell us whence you came; But we write your name on history's page, "The Paul Revere of the present age." Nextib H. Pelham. THE DEATHLESS HEART. The flames ran riot o'er roof and wall, And wrapped the house in a lurid pall. Through the glare and smoke, through the din and heat, All eyes upturned in the crowded street. We're filled with pity and yearning fear For the children thought to be dying there! Just at that moment of speechless dread At an upper window the curly head Of a girl of twelve in the red light shone, Her arms in the tenderest fashion thrown Round her weeping brother of five years old, And her dark locks blent with his locks of gold. The people urged her to leap in vain While the sparks came down like a fiery rain, And the boy was dropped in the widening glow To the haven of outstretched arms below The girl rushed back through the eddying smoke And never a word to the watchers spoke. But swiftly again to the window came A babe in her arms and her clothes aflame. She wrapped the baby in blankets tight And leaped at once with her burden light To the eager hands that were opened wide, Fronting the crest of the crimson tide. The infant, happy and safe at last, Was quite unharmed by the perils parsed. But the sister who saved her, though breathing still, Was beyond the reach of all mortal skill. The fire had fed on her cheeks so fair, Nor left the ghost of a dimple there. No trace remained of her eye so bright — Those marvelous wells of truth and light, And her hair where the sunbeams had loved to stray, Like sudden darkness had passed away. The doctor told her, in gentlest tone, She must go through the valley of death alone, For his healing art and his wish were vain To bring her back to the world again. "Oh, thank you, Doctor! But, don't mind me. I know you, sir, though I can not see. "I've saved our Robbie and Baby, too; 'Twas almost more than I hoped to do. "But now I'm tired and feel some pain, And I hear a voice like a far-off rain, "Or is it — because I know he is near — Oh! tell me, sir, is it Christ I hear? "Our Savior will take me to his kind breast,. Where the weary cease — you know the rest — " With the words unfinished, but smiling said, The girl sank back on the pillow — dead! When the body was wrapped in its wind- ing-sheet, 'Twas found that the terrible smoke and heat Had raged and reveled in every part, But had left unscathed the stainless heart. The watchers whispered below their breath, "What a wonderful token of life in death!" And a poet, standing in silence near, Spoke out in a tremulous voice yet clear: "The flame in reverence dared not touch Tne loyal heart that had done so much; "For more than all temples of earthiy art Is one grand deed of a deathless heart." Paul Hamilton Haynb. SENTIMENT and REFLECTION SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 161 SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION LITTLE THINGS. The flower is small that decks the field, The bee is small that bends the flower, But flower and bee alike may yield Food for a thoughtful hour. Essence and attributes of each For ends profound combine; And all they are, and all they teach, Spring-s from the mind Divine. Is there who scorneth little things? As wisely might he scorn to eat The food that bounteous autumn brings In little grains of wheat. Methinks, indeed, that such an one Few pleasures upon earth will find, Where well-nigh every good is won From little things combined. The lark that in the morning air Amid the sunbeams mounts and sings — What lifted her so lightly there? Small feathers in her wings. What form, too, when the beauteous dyes With which all nature oft is bright, Meadows and streams, woods, hills, and skies? Minutest waves of light. And when the earth is sere and sad From summer's over-fervid reign, How is she in fresh beauty clad? By little drops of rain. Yea, and the robe that Nature weaves, Whence does it every robe surpass? From little flowers, and little leaves, And little blades of grass. Oh, sure, who scorneth little things, If he were not a thoughtless elf, Far above all that round him springs, Would scorn his little self. Thomas Davis. THE EVENING HOUR. Sweet evening hour! dear evening hour! That calms the air and shuts the flower; That brings the wild bird to its nest, The infant to its mother's breast. Sweet hour! that bids the laborer cease; That gives the weary team release, And leads them home, and crowns them there With rest and shelter, food and care. O season of soft sounds and hues; Of twilight walks among the dews; Of tender memories, converse sweet, And thoughts too shadowy to repeat! Yes, lovely hour! thou art the time When feelings flow and wishes climb, When timid souls begin to dare, And God receives and answers prayer. Then, trembling, from the vaulted skies The stars look out, like thoughtful eyes Of angels calm reclining there, And gazing on our world of care. Sweet hour! for heavenly musing made, When Isaac walked, and Daniel prayed, When Abram's offerings God did own, And man may worship Him alone! THE DUTIES OF TODAY. Oft we ponder, looking yonder, At a duty far ahead; Often fretting, and forgetting Those about us where we tread. The duties nearest are the dearest; They are not so far away: Sweetest flowers, they are ours, Growing at our feet today. Be possessing present blessing, Wait not for tomorrow's shower; There's a beauty in each duty, Bringing payment every hour. Look not backward, live not forward, Grand and glorious is today; Let us give it while we live it All the honor that we may. Pastures greenest, waters cleanest, Where the Shepherd leads today; Of tomorrow need we borrow While he feeds us on the way? THE LESSON OF CONTENT. Never fret yourself to see All the things that others have; Take your lot contentedly. It is better to be brave, Cheerful, self-reliant, strong, Craving naught by God denied, Than to join the restless throng, Sated, yet unsatisfied. Never fret yourself to do More than lies within your power; Let your work be always true, Steady, patient, hour by hour. It is better far to build Good foundations, slow and sure, Than to rear in haste unskilled Towers whose strength is InseciSft?. 1 Pbiscilla Leonabd. 162 TREASURES OF POETRY. SUNSHINE BEYOND. Though clouds of sorrow often fall Within this world of ours, There still is sunshine for us all, With passing- of life's show'rs. The flower, beaten by life's storms, Will often raise its head, And bloom again in loveliness, When new sunshine is shed. Though storms may oft oppress the soul, And fill it with despair, Do not despond and cease to hope, For life will grow more fair. Martha Shepakd Lippincott. THE WISE CHOICE. "Oh, give me fame!" a youth once cried When touched by Fortune's wand, "A fame that shines from shore to shore And is known in every land, And I will never ask again Or seek more from thy hand." Through years he grew and grew in fame A lawyer great was he, That wielded well the legal power For gain and petty fee Until bound down by greed of gain, No longer was he free. "Oh! give me power," an artist cried, "To paint with steady hand A picture that shall far excel All others in the land, And I shall have the riches all That aught could e'er demand." He painted then a picture true; Folks marveled at the deed. He soon won fame and wealth and power. But, seized upon by greed, All slipped away — power, wealth, and fame — And left him sore in need. "Oh! give me power to rule the land, To sway affairs of state, And I'll have wealth and power and fame, And will be truly great, And never, never will deplore Or wish to change my fate." Time passed, and power was given him; Of state he held the rein, Until upon his conscience clear Was left full many a stain, For ah! so many deeds of shame He did alone for gain. "Oh! give me wealth, on every hand To gain me thousand fold; Take fame, take power, take honor all, But give me yellow gold. My heart will be as light and free As was the gods of old." Then wealth was given to the youth; Without his least endeavor, It __xieA'}y gained a thousandfold. Wealth proved a powerful lever That robbed the youth of honor bright And doomed his soul forever. "Oh! give me wisdom, grace, and peace, A heart of purity, An honest word that's always good For any surety, And I will always live content Throughout futurity." The youth was given wisdom grand And purity of thought; Then honor came, with fame and wealth And glory all unsought. Yet he despised the baser things, . For which the weaker sought. O youth, choose wisdom while you may; Let those who will choose pelf. Contentment's yours with fame assured, And these alone are wealth; While conscience clear will loud proclaim You are an honor to yourself. Lorain McLain. A LESSON. I wandered 'neath a cloudless sky One lovely autumn day, Througrh ferny dells, by rippling rills, Where flitting shadows play, Where soft and sweet the thrushes' song Through balsam groves is borne along. I rested in the cool deep shade, Where wild deer find a home, Where soft-eyed rabbits rear their young, And cunning foxes roam, Where ruffled grouse their chickens lead, And brown bears on the beechnuts feed. I filled my arms with goldenrod And odorous sweet fern; Then, as the shadows deeper grew, I said, "I will return" — But, lo! the path I could not gain; Search where I would, I searched in vain. Through black-muck swamps, and tangled weeds, And ancient birches gray, Through fragrant flag and underbrush, I vainly sought my way, 'Til, as the sun was sinking low, My tired feet refused to go. I rested long, and then I saw My pathway straight and clear, And after all my sore distress My home was very near; For by a way that I know not I gained the haven I had sought. I looked up to the calm, clear sky, Deep thoughts within me burned; My soul cried out, "Remember well This lesson you have learned, And know when darkest seems the night You may be nearest joy and light." I. L. Lewis. SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 163 JUDGE NOT. Judge not. The workings of his brain And of his heart thou canst not see; What looks to thy dim eyes a stain, In God's pure light may only be A scar brought from some well-won field, Where thou wouldst only faint and yield. The look, the air, that frets thy sight, May be a token that below The soul has closed in deadly fight With some infernal foe, Whose glance would scorch thy smiling face, And cast thee shuddering on thy face. The fall thou darest to despis May be the angel's slackening hand Has suffered it, that he may rise And take a firmer, surer stand; Or, trusting less to earthly things, May henceforth learn to use his wings. And judge none lost, but wait and see, With hopeful pity, not disdain; The depth of the abyss may be The measure of the height of pain, And love and glory that may raise This soul to God in after-days! Adelaide A. Procter. SPEAK GENTLY. Speak gently; it is better far To rule by love than fear. Speak gently; let no harsh words mar The good we might do here. Speak gently. Love doth whisper low The vows that true hearts bind, And gently friendship's accents flow; Affection's voice is kind. Speak gently to the little child, Its love be sure to gain; Teach it in accents soft and mild — It may not long remain. Speak gently to the young, for they Will have enough to bear; Pass through this life as best they may, Tis full of anxious care. Speak gently to the aged one, Grieve not the care-worn heart; The sands of life are nearly run, Let such in peace depart. Speak gently, kindly to the poor, Let no harsh tone be heard; They have enough they must endure Without an unkind word. Speak gently to the erring — know How frail are all! how vain! Perchance unkindness made them so, Oh! win them back again. Speak gently. He who gave his life To bend man's stubborn will, When elements were in fierce strife, Said to them, "Peace, be still." Speak gently; 'tis a little thing Dropped in the heart's deep well; The good, the joy, which it may bring, Eternity shall tell. David Bates. SCATTER SEEDS OF KINDNESS. Let us gather up the sunbeams, Lying all around our path; Let us keep the wheat and roses, Casting out the thorns and chaff; Let us find our sweetest comfort In the blessings of today, With a patient hand removing All the briers from the way. Strange we never prize the music Till the sweet-voiced bird is flown! Strange that we should slight the violets Till the lovely flowers are gone! Strange that summer skies and sunshine Never seem one-half so fair, As when winter's snowy pinions Shake the white down in the air. If we knew the baby fingers, Pressed against the window pane, Would be cold and stiff tomorrow — Never trouble us again — Would the bright eyes of our darling Catch the frown upon our brow? Would the prints of rosy fingers Vex us then as they do now? Ah! those little ice-cold fingers, How they point our memories back To the hasty words and actions Strewn along our backward track! How those little hands remind us, As in snowy grace they lie, Not to scatter thorns, but roses, For our reaping by and by. Mrs. Albert Smith. THOSE WE LOVE THE BEST. They say this world is round, and yet I often think it square, So many little hurts we get From corners here and there. But one great truth in life I've found, While journeying to the west — The only folks who really wound Are those we love the best. Those you may thoroughly despise Can rouse your wrath, 'tis true; Annoyance in your heart will rise At what mere strangers do; But those are only passing ills; This rule all lives will prove: The rankling wound which aches and thrills Is dealt by hands we love. 164 TREASURES OF POETRY. The choicest garb, the sweetest grace, Are oft to strangers shown; The careless mien, the frowning face, Are given to our own. "We flatter those we scarcely know, We please the fleeting guest, And deal full many a thoughtless blow To those who love us best. Love does not grow on every tree, Nor true hearts yearly bloom; Alas for those who only see This cut across a tomb! But soon or late the fact grows plain To all, through sorrow's test, The only folks who give us pain Are those we love the best. TO KNOW ALL IS TO FORGIVE ALL." If I knew you and you knew me; If both of us could clearly see, And with an inner sight divine The meaning of your heart and mine, I'm sure that we should differ less And clasp our hands in friendliness; Our thoughts would pleasantly agree If I knew you and you knew me. If I knew you and you knew me, As each one knows his own self, we Could look each other in the face And see therein a truer grace. Life has so many hidden woes, So many thorns for every rose; The "why" of things our hearts would see If I knew you and you knew me. Nixon Waterman. GOOD-BY, GOD BLESS YOU. I like the Anglo-Saxon speech, With its direct revealings; It takes a hold and seems to reach Far down into your feelings. That some folks deem it rude* I know, And therefore they abuse it; But I have never found it so, Before all else I choose it. I don't object that men should air The Gallic they have paid for, When "au revoir," "adieu, ma chere," For that's what French was made for; But when a crony takes your hand At parting to address you, He drops all foreign lingo, and He says, "Good-by, God bless you!" This seems to me a sacred phrase, With reverence impassioned; A thing come down from the righteous day, Quaintly, but nobly fashioned. It well becomes an honest face, A voice that's round and % cheerful; It stays the sturdy in his* place, And soothes the weak and fearful; Into the porches of the ears It steals with subtle unction, And in your heart of hearts appears To work its gracious function; And all day long with pleasing song It lingers to caress you. I'm sure no human heart goes wrong That's told "Good-by, God bless you!" I love the words, perhaps because When I was leaving mother, Standing at last in solemn pause We looked at one another, And I — I saw in mother's eyes The love she could not tell me, A love eternal as the skies, Whatever fate befell me. She put her arms about my neck, And soothed the pain of leaving, And though her heart was like to break, She spoke no word of grieving; She let no tear bedim her eye, For fear that might distress me, But, kissing me, she said, "Good-by," And asked our God to bless me. Eugene Field. ID RATHER. I'd rather write one heavenly thought To shed its sunlight on the years; I'd rather know that I have wrought Some kindness, wiped away some tears, Or given a hope to banish care And lift a fainting heart above, Or helped my brother's grief to bear, And gained that wondrous goal — his love, Than sit on earthly throne with kings, And sway the scepter of their fame — Oh! wealth and fame are little things Compared with goodness in a name. Td rather be a fragrant flower, To bloom in purity — then die, Fulfilling in a single hour My mission 'neath the sunny sky, Than gain the transient fading goal For which so many hearts have striven; I'd rather open all my soul And drink the hallowed light of Heaven And if His presence still may come, And go with me and give me rest, I'd rather cease to mourn and roam And lean upon the Savior's breast. I'd rather leave earth's weary pain To those who will but plod and moil, And ever with my heart remain Far from the tumult and the toil. I'd rather hear His voice of peace, And blend my soul with Him, and be Wttiere raging of the waves must cease, And toiling on the weary sea. SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION 165 Then, oh! from out that sheltered home I'd reach, and heavenly love impart, Until my spirit should become A home for every weary heart. Mrs. Martha Wintermutb. BEAUTIFUL THINGS. Beautiful faces are those that wear — It matters little if dark or fair — Whole-souled honesty printed there. Beautiful eyes are those that show, Like crystal panes where heart-fires glow, Beautiful thoughts that burn below. Beautiful lips are those whose words Leap from the heart like songs of birds, Yet whose utterance prudence girds. Beautiful hands are those that do Work that is earnest and brave and true, Moment by moment the long day through. Beautiful feet are those that go On kindly ministries to and fro — Down lowliest way, if God wills it so. Beautiful shoulders are those that bear Ceaseless burdens of homely care With patient grace and daily prayer. Beautiful lives are those that bless — Silent rivers of happiness Whose hidden fountains but few may guess. THE UNWRITTEN SONG. Some song unwritten, all have heard, But not with mortal ear; It breathes without one spoken word, In music, sweet and clear. Down, floating from the dream-like past, It murmurs, to recall The scenes that dimly still are cast On memory's fading wall. The organ's peal may thrill indeed, And joys of tone impart, But tones that we, as mortals, heed, Are only notes of art. In silence, and in solitude, Where moves no busy throng, Nor cares of grosser life intrude, We hear the sweeter song. Sometimes, far off it seems, and then In nearer cadence swells, As floats adown some sylvan glen The chime of evening bells. How few there are who have not known Some song they could not sing, But each one for himself alone, May hear its whispering. As with the spirit's eye, in dreams, Things beautiful we see, Or catch in slumber's hour the gleams Of brighter scenes to be; So, far away, through heaven's bounds, The music of the spheres, In harmony of silent sounds, The soul in rapture hears. There is a song that comes to each — It's music undefined — Whose mystic strains the heart may reach, And all its chords unbind. These strains, that oft our spirits haunt, Do not to earth belong, For only angel-voices chant The soul's unwritten song. A. R. Fulton. THE CORRECT ORDER. 'Tis first the true and then the beautiful, Not first the beautiful and then the true; First the wild wood, with rock and fen, and pool, Then the gay garden, rich in scent and hue. 'Tis first the good and then the beautiful, Not first the beautiful and then the good; First the rough seed, sown in the rougher soil, Then the flower blossom or the branch- ing wood. Not first the glad and then the sorrowful, But first the sorrowful and then the glad; Tears for a day, for earth of tears is full, Then we forget that we were ever sad. Not first the bright and after that the dark, But first the dark and after that the bright; First the thick cloud and then the rain- bow's arc; First the dark grave, then resurrection light. IF WE COULD KNOW. O fortune-favored heirs of pride, Who feel no daily round of care, Ye little know what ills betide The poor, or how the lowly fare. Oh! wonder not that soon or late, Some, fainting, in the struggle fall; Our hearts might pity, more than hate, If we could only know it all. As pestilence may come unseen, Nor human skill the scourge control, So fate's decree may intervene, And mar the beauty of some soul. Could we behold, and feel no pain For those who drink life's cup of gall, Or pass such by, in cold disdain, If we could only know it all? Mid semblances of joy and mirth, There often lurks a secret grief; The things men deem of priceless worth, May fail to bring the soul relief. 166 TREASURES OF POETRY. We might not envy some who flaunt Rich purple robes in gilded hall, And yet for something pine in want, If we could only know it all. 'Tis well that we this truth should learn, That under rags true hearts may beat, While clothed in silks, we oft discern Base envy, falsehood, and deceit. Not all who pose in dazzling hue 'Neath gilded domes and steeples tall, Might prove at heart, gilt-edged, and true, If we could only know it all. While modest worth, unknown may plod — Its pathway strewn with noble deeds — Rank arrogance may only nod, And all the world applauding heeds. Mere rank of birth no merit brings, But lords there are with trappings small, Who may not tread in courts of kings, If we could only know it all. A. R. Fulton. DONT LET THE SONG GO OUT OF YOUR LIFE. Don't let the song go out of your life; Though it chance sometimes to flow In a minor strain, it will blend again With the major tone, you know. What though shadows rise to obscure life's skies, And hide for a time the sun? They sooner will lift, and reveal the rift, If you let the melody run. Don't let the song go out of your life; Though your voice may have lost its trill, Though the tremulous note should die in your throat, Let it sing in your spirit still. There is never a pain that hides not some gain, And never a cup of rue So bitter to sup but that in the cup Lurks a measure of sweetness too. Don't let the song go out of your life; Ah! it never would need to go, If, with thought more true, and a broader view, We looked at this life below. Oh! why should we moan that life's spring- time has flown, Or sigh for the fair summer time? The autumn hath days filled with paeans of praise, And the winter hath bells that chime. Don't let the song go out of your life; Let it ring in the soul while here, And when you go hence it shall follow you thence, And sing on in another sphere. Then do not despond, and say that the fond Sweet songs of your life have flown; For if ever you knew a song that was true, Its music is still your own. Katb R. Stiles. THE SPIRIT OF POETRY. There is a quiet spirit in these woods, That dwells where'er the gentle south-wind blows, Where, underneath the white-thorn, in the glade, The wild flowers bloom, or, kissing the soft air, The leaves above their sunny palms out- spread. With what a tender and impassioned voice It fills the nice and delicate ear of thought, When the fast ushering star of morning comes O'erriding the gray hills with golden scarf; Or when the cowled and dusky-sandaled Eve, In mourning weeds, from out the western gate, Departs with silent pace! That spirit moves In the green valley, where the silver brook, From its full laver, pours the white cascade; And, babbling low amid the tangled woods, Slips down through moss-grown stones with endless laughter. And, frequent on the everlasting hills, Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itself In all the dark embroidery of the storm, And shouts the stern, strong wind. And here, amid The silent majesty of these deep woods, Its presence shall uplift thy thoughts from earth, As to the sunshine and the pure, bright air Their tops the green trees lift. Hence gifted bards Have ever loved the calm and quiet shades. For them there was an eloquent voice in all The sylvan pomp of woods, the golden sun, The flowers, the leaves, the river on its way, Blue skies, and silver clouds, and gentle winds, The swelling upland, where the sidelong sun Aslant the wooded slope, at evening, goes, Groves, through whose broken roof the sky looks in, Mountain, and shattered cliff, and sunny vale, The distant lake, fountains, and mighty trees, In many a lazy syllable, repeating Their old poetic legends to the wind. And this is the sweet spirit that doth fill The world; and, in these wayward days of youth, My busy fancy oft embodies it, As a bright image of the light and beauty That dwell in nature; of the heavenly forms We worship in our dreams, and the soft hues That stain the wild-bird's wing, and flush the clouds When the sun sets. Within her tender eye The heaven of April, with its changing light, And when it wears the blue of May, is hung, And on her lip the rich, red rose. Her hair Is like the summer tresses of the trees, When twilight makes them brown, and on her cheek Blushes the richness of an autumn sky, SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 167 With ever-shifting- beauty. Then her breath, It is so like the gentle air of spring, As, from the morning's dewy flowers, it comes Full of their fragrance, that it is a joy To have it round us; and her silver voice Is the rich music of a summer bird, Heard in the still night, with its passion- ate cadence. Henr* Wadsworth Longfellow. DEAR HOME FACES. O Time and Change! — with hair as gray As was my sire's that winter day! How strange it seems, with so much gone Of life and love, to still live on! Ah! brother, only I and thou Are left of all that circle now — The dear home faces whereupon That fitfud firelight paled and shone. Henceforth, listen as we will, The voices of that hearth are still; Look where we may, the wide earth o'er, Those lighted faces smile no more. Wle tread the paths their feet have worn, We sit beneath their orchard- trees, We hear, like them, the hum of bees And rustle of the bladed corn, We turn the pages that they read, Their written words we linger o'er; But in the sun they cast no shade, No voice is heard, no sign is made, No step is on the conscious floor. Yet Love will dream and Faith will trust, (Since He who knows our need is just,) That somehow, somewhere, meet we must Alas for him who never sees The stars shine through his cypress-trees! Who, hopeless, lays his dead away, Nor looks to see the breaking day Across the mournful marbles play! Who hath not learned, in hours of faith, The truth to flesh and sense unknown, That Life is ever lord of Death, And Love can never lose its own! John Greenleap Whittieh. RED RIDING-HOOD. On the wide lawn the snow lay deep, Ridged o'er with many a drifted heap; The wind that through the pine-trees sung The naked elm-boughs tossed and swung; While, through the window, frosty-starred, Against the sunset's purple barred, We saw the somber crow flap by, The hawk's gray fleck along the sky, The crested blue-jay flitting swift, The squirrel poising on the drift, Erect, alert, his broad gray tail Set to the north wind like a sail. It came to pass our little lass, With flattened face against the glass, And eyes in which the tender dew Of pity shone, stood gazing through The narrow space her rosy lips Had melted from the frost's eclipse: "Oh, see." she cried, "the poor blue- jays! What is it that the black crow says? The squirrel lifts his little legs Because he has no hands, and begs; He's asking for my nuts, I know; May I not feed them on the snow?" Half lost within her boots, her head Warm-sheltered in her hood of red, Her plaid skirt close about her drawn, She floundered down the wintry lawn; Now struggling through the misty veil Blown round her by the shrieking gale; Now sinking in a drift so low Her scarlet hood could scarcely show Its dash of color on the snow. She dropped for bird and beast forlorn Her little store of nuts and corn, And thus her timid guests bespoke: "Come, squirrel, from your hollow oak; Come, black old crow; come, poor blue- jay, Before your supper's blown away! Don't be afraid; we all are good, And I'm Mama's Red Riding-hood!" O Thou whose care is over all, Who heedest even the sparrow's fall, Keep in the little maiden's breast The pity which is now its guest! Let not her cultured years make less The childhood charm of tenderness, But let her feel as well as know, Not harder with her polish grow! Unmoved by sentimental grief That wails along some printed leaf, But prompt with kindly word and deed To own the claims of all who need, Let the grown woman's self make good The promise of Red Riding-hood! John Greenleaf Whittier. JUST THIS MINUTE. If we're thoughtful just this minute In whate'er we say or do, If we put a purpose in it That is honest through and through, We shall gladden life and give it Grace to make it all sublime; For though life is long, we live it Just a moment at a time. Just this minute we are going To the right or to the wrong; Just this minute we are sowing Seeds of sorrow or of song; Just this minute we are thinking On the ways that lead to God, Or on idle dreams are sinking To the level of the clod. Yesterday is gone; tomorrow Never comes within our grasp; Just this minute's joy or sorrow, That is all our hands may clasp. Just this minute! Let us take it, As a pearl of precious price, And with high endeavor make it Fit to shine in paradise. 168 TREASURES OF POETRY. A DREAM. I dreamed the plowman told me: "Grow your bread And tend your fields alone; I plow no more." The weaver bade me spin the clothes I wore, The masons quit the wall above my head. Deserted so by all who warmed and fed And sheltered me, my heart was sad and sore; For, seek what path I would, I heard the roar Of sullen lions, and the sky was lead. My eyes fell open, and I saw the sun; I heard a hundred hammers beat as one, The plowboy whistle, and the builder call; And then I knew my happiness, and then 3 felt my endless debt to other men; And since that morning- I have loved them all. COLUMBUS. Behind him lay the gray Azores, Behind the Gates of Hercules; Before him not the ghost of shores, Before him only shoreless seas. The good mate said: "Now must we pray, For lo! the very stars are gone — Brave Admiral, speak, what shall I say?" "Why say, 'Sail on! sr.il on! and on!' " "My men grow mutinous day by day; My men grow ghastly wan and weak." The stout mate thought of home; a spray Of salt wave washed his swarthy cheek. "What shall I say, brave Admiral, say, If we see naught but seas at dawn?" "Why you shall say at break of day, 'Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!' " They sailed and sailed as wind might blow Until at last the blanched mate said: "Why now, not even God would know Should I and all my men fall dead. These very winds forget their way, For God from these dread seas is gone. Now speak, brave Admiral, speak and say"; He said, "Sail on! sail on! and on!" They sailed. They sailed. Then spake the mate: "This mad sea shows his teeth tonight, He curls his lip, he lies in wait, With lifted teeth as if to bite! Brave Admiral, say but one good word: What shall we do when hope is gone?" The words leapt like a leaping sword: "Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!" Then pale and worn he kept his deck, And peered through darkness. Ah, that night Of all dark nights! And then a speck — A light! a light! a light! a light! It grew, a starlight flag unfurled! It grew to be Time's burst of dawn. He gained a world; he gave that world Its grandest lesson — "On! sail on!" Joaquin Millhb. "stand like an anvil." "Stand like an anvil" when the stroke Of stalwart men falls fierce and fast; Storms but more deeply root the oak, Whose brawny arms embrace the blast. "Stand like an anvil" when the sparks Fly, far and wide a fiery shower; Virtue and truth must still be marks, Where malice proves its want of power. "Stand like an anvil" when the bar Lies, red and glowing, on its breast; Duty shall be life's leading star, And conscious innocence its rest. "Stand like an anvil" when the sound Of ponderous hammers pains the ear; Thine, but the still and stern rebound Of the great heart that can not fear. "Stand like an anvil": noise and heat Are born of earth, and die with time; The soul, like God, its source and seat, Is solemn, still, serene, sublime. Geoegb W. Doanb. TOMORROW. The setting sun with dying beam Had waked the purple hills to fire; And citadel and dome and spire Were gilded by the far-off gleam, And in and out dark pine trees crept Full many a slender line of gold; Gold motes athwart the river swept, And kissed it as it onward rolled, And sunlight lingered, loth to go. Ah, well! it causeth sorrow To part from those we love below, And yet the sun as bright shall glow Tomorrow. The tide was ebbing on the strand, And stooping low its silver crest, The crimson sea-weed lay at rest Upon the amber-ribbed sand. Dashed o'er the rocks and on the shore, Flung parting wreaths of pearly spray, Then fled away. Yet turned once more And sent a sigh across the bay, As though it could not bear to go. Ah, well! it causeth sorrow To part with those we love below, Yet thitherward the tide shall flow Tomorrow. Two hearts have met to say farewell, At even when the sun went down; Each life-sound from the busy town Smote sadly as a passing bell. SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 169 One whispered, "Parting is sweet pain, At morn and eve returns the tide"; "Nay, parting- rends the heart in twain," And still they lingered side by side — And still they lingered, loath to go. Ah, well! it causeth sorrow To part from those we love below, For shall we ever meet or not Tomorrow? IN THE HEART. If no kindly thought or word We can give, some soul to bless; If our hands, from hour to hour, Do no deeds of gentleness; If to lone and weary ones We no comfort will impart, — Though 'tis summer in the sky, Yet 'tis winter in the heart! If we strive to lift the gloom From a dark and burdened life; If we seek to lull the storm Of our fallen brother's strife; If we bid all hate and scorn From the spirit to depart, — Though 'tis winter in the sky, Yet 'tis summer in the heart! THOUGHTS. There are beautiful thoughts which come and go Like the dawn of day, like the sunset glow; They haunt our hearts, but we seek in vain To breathe them in words; the loftiest strain The poet sings, is naught to him But a feeble echo, a shadow dim Of the music and light which warm his soul. Oh! if he could but breathe the whole! His song is thrilling in many a breast, But he thinks his voiceless thoughts the best. Thoughts of charity, thoughts of love, Soft as the wing of the brooding dove — Oh! how softly they flutter in, Covering gently a brother's sin, Quietly stirring up thoughts of prayer, Planning how we may help to bear The burden our weary brother bears, How we may lighten his many cares, How we may lead some erring youth Tenderly into the way of truth; But ah! sweet thoughts! it is sad to know How often you pass like the evening glow: The sky grows dark, and the heart grows cold; We go on our way as they went of old, Who, 'passing by on the other side,' Some in coldness and some in pride, Offered no help to him who lay Wounded and faint beside the way. Sorrowful thoughts they come and stay, Vexing our spirits day by day, Casting their shadow on all we see, Filling our souls with perplexity, Shutting the joyous sunshine out, Veiling our hearts with fear and doubt, Till the voice which calmed the stormy sea Speaks to our souls, and the shadows flee. Glorious thoughts all warm and bright, Gleams sent down from the land of light — How do they cheer our earthly way, Turning our darkness into day! Thoughts of Him whose name is Love, Thoughts of heaven or rest above, Thoughts of loved ones dwelling there, Thoughts of joys we soon shall share — Glorious thoughts, serene and pure! — These are the thoughts which shall endure. Beautiful thoughts may pass away Like morning mist on a summer day; Sorrowful thoughts will have no place Where the tears are wiped from every face; But the glory begun on earth shall be Perfected in eternity! Mrs. M. J. E. Cbawfobd. THE DAY IS DONE. The day is done, and the darkness Falls from the wings of Night, As a feather is wafted downward From an eagle in his flight. I see the lights of the village Gleam through the rain and the mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me That my soul can not resist: A feeling of sadness and longing, That is not akin to pain, And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles the rain. Come, read to me some poem, Some simple and heartfelt lay, That shall soothe this restless feeling, And banish the thoughts of day. Not from the grand old masters, Not from the bards sublime, Whose distant footsteps echo Through the corridors of Time; For, like strains of martial music, Their mighty thoughts suggest Life's endless toil and endeavor, And tonight I long for rest. Read from some humbler poet, Whose songs gushed from his heart, As showers from the clouds of summer, Or tears from the eyelids start; Who, through long days of labor. And nights devoid of ease, Still heard in his soul the music Of wonderful melodies. 170 TREASURES OF POETRY Such songs have power to quiet The restless pulse of care, And come like the benediction That follows after prayer. Then read from the treasured volume The poem of thy choice, And lend to the rhyme of the poet The beauty of thy voice. And the night shall be filled with music, And the cares, that infest the day, Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, And as silently steal away. Henri Wads worth Longfellow. UNDER THE LEAVES. Oft have I walked these woodland paths Without the blessed foreknowing That underneath the withered leaves The fairest buds were growing. Today the south wind sweeps away The types of autumn's splendor, And shows the sweet Arbutus flowers — Spring's children, pure and tender. O prophet souls, with lips of bloom, Outvieing in their beauty The pearly tints of ocean-shells, Ye teach me faith and duty. Walk life's dark ways, ye seem to say, With love's divine foreknowing, That where man sees but withered leaves, God sees the sweet flowers growing. THE SILVER LINING. There's never a day so sunny But a little cloud appears; There's never a life so happy But it has its times of tears; Yet the sun shines out the brighter When the stormy tempest clears. There's never a garden growing With a rose in every plot; There's never a heart so hardened But it has one tender spot: We have only to prune the border To find the forget-me-not. There's never a cup so pleasant But has bitter with the sweet; There's never a path so rugged That bears not the print of feet; But we have a Helper promised For the trials we must meet. There's never a sun that rises But we know 'twill set at night; The tints that gleam in the morning At evening are just as bright; And the hour that is the sweetest Is between the dark and light. There's never a dream that's happy But the waking makes us sad; There's never a dream of sorrow But the waking makes us glad: We shall look some day with wonder At the troubles we have had. TODAY. So here hath been dawning another blue day ; Think, wilt thou let it slip useless away? Out of eternity this new day is born; Into eternity at night will return. Behold it aforetime no eye ever did; So soon it forever from all eyes is hid. Here hath been dawning another blue day; Think, wilt thou let it slip useless away? Thomas Carlylb. KISSING THE ROD. O heart of mine, we shouldn't worry so! What we've missed of sun, we couldn't have, you know; What we've met of stormy pain and of sorrow's driving rain, We can better meet again, if it blow. We have erred in that dark hour we have known, When our tears fell with a shower, all alone; Were not shine and shadow blent as the gracious Master meant? Let us temper our content with his own. For we know, not every morrow can be sad; So forgetting all the trouble we have had, Let us fold away our tears, and put by our foolish fears, And through all the coming years, just be glad! James Whitcomb Rilby. VIRTUE IMMORTAL. Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright, The bridal of the earth and sky, The dew shall weep thy fall tonight. For thou must die. Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave, Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye, Thy root is ever in its grave, And thou must die. Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, A box where sweets compacted lie, My music shows ye have your closes, And all must die. Only a sweet and virtuous soul, Like seasoned timber, never gives, But though the whole world turn to coal, Then chiefly lives. Georgh Herbert. SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 171 INDECISION. The road of indecision leads To nowhere in particular — Across the swamps where Sorrow breeds, Through wild morasses, deep and far, With not a guide-post, nor a light, From right to left, from left to right. The steepest place, the longest way, The hardest way of all to climb Is not difficult, they say, If it emerge, somewhere, sometime. Come, comrade; let's be rid of doubt, And take the road we're sure about! Frank Walcott Hutt. MEMORY. [Written during the author's senior year in Wil- liam's College.] 'Tis beauteous night; the stars look brightly down Upon the earth, decked in her robe of snow. No light gleams at the windows, save my own, Which gives its cheer to midnight and to me. And now with noiseless step sweet Mem- ory comes And leads me gently through her twilight realms. What poet's tuneful lyre has ever sung Or delicatest pencil e'er portrayed The enchanted shadowy land where Mem- ory dwells? It has its valleys, cheerless, lone, and drear, Dark-shaded by the mournful cypress-tree; And yet its sunlit mountain-tops are bathed In heaven's own blue. Upon its craggy cliffs, Robed in the dreamy light of distant years, Are clustered joys serene of other days. Upon its gentle sloping hillsides bend The weeping willows o'er the sacred dust Of dear departed ones; yet in that land, Where'er our footsteps fall upon the shore, They that were sleeping rise from out the dust Of death's long, silent years, and round us stand As erst they did before the prison tomb Received their clay within its voiceless halls. The heavens that bend above that land are hung With clouds of various hues: some dark and chill, Surcharged with sorrow, cast their som- ber shade Upon the sunny, joyous land below; Others are floating through the dreamy air, White as the falling snow, their margins tinged With gold and crimson hues; their shadows fall Upon the flowery meads and sunny slopes, Soft as the shadow of an angel's wing. When the rough battle of the day is done, And evening's peace falls gently on the heart, I bound away, across the noisy years, Unto the utmost verge of Memory's land, Where earth and sky in dreamy distance meet. And Memory dim with dark oblivion joins; Where woke the first remembered sounds that fell Upon the ear in childhood's early morn; And, wandering thence along the rolling years, I see the shadow of my former self Gliding from childhood up to man's estate. The path of youth winds down through many a vale, And on the brink of many a dread abyss, From out whose darkness comes no ray of light, Save that a phantom dances o'er the gulf And beckons toward the verge; again the path Leads o'er the summit where the sunbeams fall. And thus in light and shade, sunshine and gloom, Sorrow and joy this life-path leads along. James Abbam Gabfield. EVERY DAY. O trifling tasks, so often done, Yet ever to be done anew! O cares that come with every sun, Morn after morn, the long years through! We shrink beneath their paltry sway, The irksome calls of every day. The restless sense of wasted power, The tiresome round of little things, Are hard to bear, as hour by hour Its tedious iteration brings; Who shall evade or who delay The small demands of every day? The bowlder in the torrent's course, By tide and tempest lashed in vain, Obeys the wave-whirled pebble's force, And yields its substance, grain by grain; So crumble strongest lives away Beneath the wear of every day. We rise to meet a heavy blow, Our souls a sudden bravery fills, But we endure not always so The drop-by-drop of little ills; We feel our noblest powers decay In feeble wars with every day. The heart which boldly faces death Upon the battle-field, and dares Cannon and baj r onet, faints beneath The needle-points of frets and cares; The stoutest spirits they dismay, The tiny stings of every day. Ah, more than martyr's aureole, And more than hero's heart of fire, We need the humble strength of soul Which daily toils and ills require: Sweet Patience! grant us, if you may, An added grace for every day! Elizabeth Akebs Allen. 172 TREASURES OF POETRY. GOOD CHEER. If none were sick and none were sad, What service could we render? I think if we were always glad We scarcely could be tender. Did our beloved never need Our patient ministration, Earth would grow cold and miss indeed Its sweetest consolation. If sorrow never claimed our heart, And every wish were granted, Patience would die and hope depart — Life would be disenchanted. THE TEACHER S DREAM. The weary teacher sat alone While twilight gathered on; And not a sound was heard around — The boys and girls were gone. The weary teacher sat alone, Unnerved and pale was he; Bowed 'neath a yoke of care, he spoke In sad soliloquy: 'Another round, another round Of labor thrown away, Another chain of toil and pain Dragged through a tedious day. "Of no avail is constant zeal, Love's sacrifice is lost; The hopes of morn, so golden, turn, Each evening, into dross. "I squander on a barren field My strength, my life, my all; The seeds I sow will never grow, They perish where they fall." He sighed, and low upon his hands His aching brow he pressed; And o'er his frame erelong there came A soothing sense of rest. And then he lifted up his face, But started back aghast— The room, by strange and sudden change, Assumed proportions vast. It seemed a Senate-hall, and one Addressed a listening throng; Each burning word all bosoms stirred, Applause rose loud and long. The 'wildered teacher thought he knew The speaker's voice and look, "And for his name," said he, "the same Is in my record-book." The stately Senate-hall dissolved; A church rose in its place, Wherein there stood a man of God, Dispensing words of grace. And though he spoke in solemn tone. And though his hair was gray, The teacher's thought was strangely wrought: "I whipped that boy today." The church, a phantasm, vanished soon; What saw the teacher then? In classic gloom of alcoved room An author plied his pen. "My idlest lad!" the teacher said, Filled with a new surprise — "Shall I behold his name enrolled Among the great and wise?" The vision of a cottage home The teacher now descried; A mother's face illumed the place Her influence sanctified. "A miracle! a miracle! This matron, well I know, Was but a wild and careless child Not half an hour ago. "And when she to her children speaks Of duty's golden rule, Her lips repeat in accents sweet My words to her at school." The scene was changed again, and lo, The schoolhouse rude and old; Upon the wall did darkness fall, The evening air was cold. "A dream!" the sleeper, waking, said, Then paced along the floor, And, whistling slow and soft and low, He locked the schoolhouse door. And, walking home, his heart was full Of peace and trust and praise; And singing slow and soft and low, Said, "After many days." W. H. Venablb. WE ALL MIGHT DO GOOD. We all might do good Where we often do ill — There is always the way If there be but the will; Though it be but a word Kindly breathed or suppressed, It may guard off some pain, Or give peace to some breast. We all might do good In a thousand small ways — In forbearing to flatter, Yet yielding due praise; In spurning ill rumor, Reproving wrong done, And treating but kindly The heart we have won. We all might do good Whether lowly or great, For the deed is not gauged By the purse or estate; SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 173 If it be but a cup Of cold water that's given; Like the widow's two mites, It is something for heaven. WORDS OF STRENGTH. There are three lessons I would write, Three words as with a burning pen, In tracings of eternal light, Upon the hearts of men. Have hope. Though clouds environ now, And Gladness hides her face in scorn, Put thou the shadow from thy brow; No night but hath its morn. Have faith. Where'er thy bark is driven — The calm's disport, the tempest's mirth — Know this: God rules the hosts of heaven, The inhabitants of earth. Have love — not love alone for one, But man as man thy brother call, And scatter like the circling sun Thy charities on all. Thus grave these lessons on thy soul — Hope, Faith, and Love — and thou shalt find Strength when life's surges rudest roll, Light when thou else wert blind. Friedbich Schiller. STRENGTH FOR TODAY. Strength for today is all that we need, As there never will be a tomorrow; For tomorrow will prove but another today, With its measure of joy and sorrow. Then why forecast the trials of life With much sad and grave persistence, And wait and watch for a crowd of ills That as yet have no existence? Strength for today — what a precious boon For earnest souls who labor, For the willing hands that minister To the needy friend or neighbor! Strength for today, that the weary hearts In the battle of right may quail not, And the eye bedimmed by bitter tears In their search for light may fail not. Strength for today, on the down-hill track For the travelers near the valley, That up, far up on the upper side, Erelong they may safely rally. Strength for today, that our precious youth May happily shun temptation, And build from the rise to the set of the sun On a strong and sure foundation. Strength for today, in house and home To practise forbearance sweetly; To scatter kind words and loving deeds, Still trusting in God completely. Strength for today to all that we need, And there never will be a tomorrow; For tomorrow will prove but another today, With its measure of joy and sorrow. TODAY IS YOURS. Today is yours, its richness and its chance. And all it holds — its opportunities, Its penalties, rewards, and its advance, And its restrictions and immunities. Today is yours; your yesterday is dead, And unborn is the morrow; but today Holds something that by night-time will have fled And left you staring backward in dismay. Today is yours: how you may use today, Tomorrow pays the toll; your minutes wrecked Are melancholy markers by the way — There is more strife than peace in retro- spect. A SERMON IN VERSE. Tired? Well, what of that? Didst fancy life was spent on beds of ease. Fluttering the rose-leaves scattered by the breeze? Come, rouse thee! work while it is called today; Coward, arise! go forth thy way! Lonely? And what of that? Some must be lonely; 'tis not given to all To feel a heart responsive rise and fall, To blend another life into its own: Work may be done in loneliness; work on! Dark? Well, what of that? Didst fondly dream the sun would never set? Dost fear to lose thy way? Take courage yet; Learn thou to walk by faith and not by sight: Thy steps will guided be and guided right. Hard? Well, and what of that? Didst fancy life one summer holiday, With lessons none to learn, and naught but play? Go, get thee to thy task. Conquer or die! It must be learned; learn it, then patiently. No help? Nay, 'tis not so; Though human help be far, thy God is nigh, Who feeds the ravens, hears his children cry; He's near thee wheresoe'er thy footsteps roam. And he will guide thee, light thee, help thee home. 174 TREASURES OF POETRY. TRUE GLADNESS. Be glad when the flowers have faded? Be glad when the trees are bare? When the fog lies thick on the field and moors, And the frost is in the air? When all around is a desert, And the clouds obscure the light? When there are no songs for the darkest days, No stars for the longest night? Ah, yes, for the truest gladness Is not in ease or mirth; It has its home in the heart of God, Not in the loves of the earth. God's love is the same forever, If the skies are bright or dim, And the joy of the morning lasts all day When the heart is glad with him. WHY DO WE WAIT? Why do we wait till ears are deaf Before we speak our kindly word, And only utter loving praise When not a whisper can be heard? Why do we wait till hands are laid Close-folded, pulseless, ere we place Within them roses sweet and rare, And lilies in their flawless grace? Why do we wait till eyes are sealed To light and love in death's deep trance — Dear wistful eyes — before we bend Above them with impassioned glance? Why do we wait till hearts are still To tell them all the love in ours, And give them such late meed of praise, And lay above them fragrant flowers? Why do we, careless, wait till life's Sweet opportunities are past, And break ouir "alabaster box Of ointment" at the very last! Oh! let us heed the living friend Who walks with us life's common ways, Watching our eyes for look of love, And hungering for a word of praise. DO WHAT YOU FEEL YOU SHOULD. If you've any task to do, Let me whisper, friend, to you, Do it. If you've anything to say, True and needed, yea or nay, Say it. If you've anything to love, As a blessing from above, Love it. If you've anything to give, That another's joy may live, Give it. If some hollow creed you doubt, Though the whole world hoot and shout. Doubt it. If you've any debt "to pay, Rest you neither night nor day, Pay it. If you've any joy to hold, Near your heart, lest it grow cold, Hold it. If you've any grief to meet, At a loving Father's feet, Meet it. If you know what torch to light, Guiding others in the night, Light it THE RAINY DAY. The day is cold, and dark, and dreary; It rains, and the wind is never weary; The vine still clings to the moldering wall. But at every gust the dead leaves fall, And the day is dark and dreary. My life is cold, and dark, and dreary; It rains, and the wind is never weary; My thoughts still cling to the moldering past, But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast, And the days are dark and dreary. Be still, sad heart! and cease repining; Behind the cloud is the sun still shining; Thy fate is the common fate of all — Into each life some rain must fall, Some days must be dark and dreary. Henry Wadswoeth Longfellow. WHAT IS TIME? I asked an aged man, with hoary hairs, Wrinkled and curved with worldly cares: "Time is the warp of life," said he. "Oh, tell The young, the fair, the gay, to weave it well!" I asked the ancient, venerable dead, Sages who wrote, and warriors who bled: From the cold grave a hollow murmur flowed, "Time sowed the seed; we reap in this abode." I asked a dying sinner ere the tide Of life had left his veins: "Time," he re- plied — ■ "I've lost it! ah, the treasure!" and he died. I asked the golden sun and silver spheres, Those bright chronometers of days and years: They answered, "Time is but a meteor glare," And bade me for eternity prepare. I asked the seasons in their annual round, Which beautify or desolate the ground; And they replied (no oracle more wise). " 'Tis Folly's blank, and Wisdom's high- est prize.'' SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 175 I asked a spirit lost — but, oh! the shriek That pierced my soul! I shudder while I speak. It cried, "A particle! a speck! a mite Of endless years, duration indefinite!" Of things inanimate, my dial I Consulted, and it made me this reply: "Time is the season fair of living well, The path of glory or the path of hell." I asked my Bible, and methinks it said, "Time is the present hour; the past has fled. Live! live today! tomorrow never yet On any human being rose or set." I asked old Father Time himself at last, But in a moment he flew swiftly past. His chariot was a cloud, the viewless wind His noiseless steeds, which left no trace behind. I asked the mighty angel who shall stand One foot on sea and one on solid land: "Mortal!" he cried, "the mystery now is o'er: Time was, time is, but time shall be no more." HARD LUCK. Hard luck! you say, because you failed to win. No luck about it — failure lies within. The luck that made you lose the race you ran Was that you didn't know the words. "I can." Hard luck! you say when, after you have fought, Another carries off the prize you sought. No luck about it — you will lose until You learn the meaning of the words, "I will." Hard luck! you say. VVIhat kind do you de- serve, When every obstacle has power to make you swerve? Stick to your course — forget to heave that sigh; He conquers who says earnestly, "I'll try." Emu, Carl Atjrin. THE BEST LIFE. He lives the best who never doth complain, Whether the passing days be filled with sun or rain; Who sows his deeds of love, and, patient, lives, Expecting not again the thing he giyes; Who buries deep the Past — its pain, its tears — ■ And bravely meets his Now, un trammeled by fears; Who lets his life so shine, e'en in the night, That wanderers distressed may see the Light; Who patiently toils on, though feet be sore; Whose home stands by the road with open door; Who smiles though down he sits to feast or crust — His faith in man sincere; in God his trust. Adelbert P. Caldwell. REAPING. Up, mortal, and act, while the angel of light Melts the shadows before and behind thee! Shake off the soft dreams that encumber thy might, And burst the fool's fetters that bind thee! Soars the skylark — soar thou; leaps the stream — do thou leap; Learn from nature the splendor of action: Plough, harrow, and sow, or thou never shalt reap; Faithful deeds bring divine benefaction. The red sun has rolled himself into the blue. And lifted the mists from the mountain; The young hares are feasting on nectar of dew, The stag cools his lips in the fountain, The blackbird is piping within the dim elm, The river is sparkling and leaping, The wild bee is fencing the sweets of his realm, And the mighty limbed reapers are reap- ing. To spring comes the budding; to summer, the blush; To autumn, the happy fruition; To winter, repose, meditation, and hush; But to man, every season's condition: He buds, blooms, and ripens in action and rest. As thinker, and actor, and sleeper; Then withers and wavers, chin drooping on breast, And is reaped by the hand of a reaper. LIVING WATERS. There are some hearts like wells, green- mossed and deep As ever Summer saw, And cool their water is, yea, cool and sweet; But you must come to draw. They hoard not, yet they rest in calm con- tent, And not unsought will give; They can be quiet with their wealth un- spent, So self-contained they live. And there are some like springs, that bub- bling burst To follow dusty ways, And run with offered cup to quench his thirst Where the tired traveler strays; 176 TREASURES OF POETRY. That never ask the meadows if they want What is their joy to give: Unasked, their lives to other life they grant, So self-bestowed they live! And One is like the ocean, deep and wide, Wherein all waters fall; That girdles the broad earth, and draws the tide, Feeding and bearing all; That broods the mists, that sends the clouds abroad, That takes, again to give — Even the great and loving heart of God, Whereby all love doth live. Cabolinh Spencbb. THE BEST WE CAN. When things don't go to suit us, Why should we fold our hands, And say, "No use in trying; Fate baffles all our plans"? Let not your courage falter, Keep faith in God and man, And to this thought be steadfast: "I'll do the best I can." If clouds blot out the sunshine Along the way you tread, Don't grieve in hopeless fashion And sigh for brightness fled. Beyond the clouds the sunlight Shines in the eternal plan; Trust that the way will brighten, And do the best you can. Away with vain repinings; Sing songs of hope and cheer, Till many a weary comrade Grows strong of heart to hear. He who sings over trouble Is aye the wisest man; He can't help what has happened, But — does the best he can. So if things won't go to suit us, Let's never fume and fret, For finding fault with fortune Ne'er mended matters yet. Make the best of whate'er happens, Bear failure like a man, And in good or evil fortune Do just the best you can. Eben E. Rhxfobd. LOOK AHEAD. No matter what's your trouble, Look ahead; Never mind how trials double, Look ahead. Past mistakes are sure to find you If you let their memory bind you, And so never gaze behind you — Look ahead. Don't stop in the way you're going, Look ahead; Don't waste time upon past showing, Look ahead. If the past has gone in failing, Spend no precious moments railing; With fresh energy prevailing, Look ahead. Turn your back on life's disaster, Look ahead; If the past has failed, then faster Look ahead. Let the future wrest successes From the past's mistakes and guesses; While the present this impresses, Look ahead. Looking backward on past glory, Not ahead, Told of Lot's wife the sad story, While ahead, Lay her land of woe-forsaking; So, if fortune you'd be making, And of ill your leave be taking, Look ahead! LITTLE THINGS. The great Creator on his throne Marks well his children's every tear* From little child to hoary crown, Not one is left without his care. Each pair of little hands we fold And lay among the silent dead, By him not one remains untold; The hairs are numbered on each head. Should we, though pressed with constant toil, With brain and muscles overwrought, Grasp for the great things all the while, And leave the little things forgot? No, toiler, look beneath thy feet; Perhaps there bruised and partly torn, You'll find a rose with fragrance sweet As any by a princess worn. A pebble gathered from the shore Once slew a giant great and proud; Then Israel gained a vict'ry sure, And glorified the living God. The great inventions we behold, The vast achievements gained today, Though 'mong the wonders now enrolled, Were little things but yesterday. The mighty river rushing on Heads with a narrow, rippling flow Whose moss-clad banks with flowers strewn Smile in the morn and evening dew; But farther on and toward the sea, Behold, upon her heaving breast, The steamers in their majesty Speed on unhindered by the blast. The sturdy oak, beneath whose shade The weary lingerer longs to rest, And in whose leafy boughs are made SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 177 The feathered songsters' skilful nest, For strength and beauty unsurpassed — And yet 'tis scarce a century Since idly to the grouaid was cast The seed that grew this wondrous tree. Though but a deed of kindness shown, A gentle word of love or cheer, 'Twill drive from some sad heart the gloom, 'Twill help some one the cross to bear. And if the act of love be small, Its lowliness we'll not despise, When Jesus marks the sparrow's fall, And wipes the children's weeping eyes. Jennib Mast. DESTINIES OF LIFE. Know well, my soul, God's hand controls Whate'er thou fearest! Round him in calmest music rolls Whate'er thou hearest. Man sees no future — a phantom show Is alone before him; Past time is dead, and the grasses grow And flow'rs bloom o'er him. The present, the present is all thou hast For thy sure possessing; Like the patriarch's angel, hold it fast Till it gives its blessing. Like warp and woof, all destinies Are woven fast, Linked in sympathy like the keys Of an organ vast. Pluck one thread and the web ye mar; Break but one Of a thousand keys, and paining jar Through all will run. And in life, and in death, in dark and light, All are in God's care; Sound the black abyss, pierce the deep of night, And he is there. John Greenlbaf Whittibb. THE PASSIONS. ["You have passions in your heart — scorpions; they sleep now — beware how you awaken them ! they will sting you even to death!" — 'Mysteries of Udol- phos, Vol. III.] Beware, beware, ere thou takest The draught of misery! Beware, beware ere thou wakest The scorpions that sleep in thee! The woes which thou canst not number, As yet are wrapt in sleep; Yet oh! yet they slumber, But their slumbers are not deep. Yet oh! yet while the rancor Of hate has no place in thee, While the buoyant soul has an anchor In youth's bright tranquil sea; Yet oh! yet while the blossom Of hope is blooming fair, While the beam of bliss lights thy bosom — Oh! rouse not the serpent there! For bitter thy tears will trickle 'Neath misery's heavy load, When the world has put in its sickle To the crop which fancy sowed. When the world has rent the cable That bound thee to the shore, And launched thee weak and unable To bear the billow's roar, Then the slightest touch will waken Those pangs that will always grieve thee, And thy soul will be fiercely shaken With storms that will never leave thee! So beware, beware, ere thou takest The draught of misery! Beware, beware, ere thou wakest The scorpions that sleep in thee! Alfbeo Tennyson. THEY SAY. Have you heard of the terrible family They, And the dreadful venomous things They say? Why, half the gossip under the sun, If you trace it back, you will find begun In that wretched House of They. A numerous family, so I am told, And its genealogical tree is old; For ever since Adam and Eve began To build up the curious race of man, Has existed the House of They. Gossip-mongers and spreaders of lies, Horrid people whom all despise! And yet the best of us now and then, Repeat queer tales about women and men And quote the House of They. They live like lords, and never labor; A They's one task is to watch his neighbor, And tell his business and private affairs To the world at large; they are sowers of tares— These folks in the House of They. It is wholly useless to follow a They With a whip or a gun, for he slips away And into his house, where you can not go; It is locked and bolted and guarded so — This horrible House of They. Though you can not get in, yet they get out, And spread their villainous tales about; Of all the rascals under the sun Who have come to punishment, never one Belonged to the House of They. Ella Wheeler Wilcox. 178 TREASURES OF POETRY. FACE THE SUN. Don't hunt after trouble, but look for suc- cess; You'll find what you look for; don't look for distress. If you see but your shadow, remember, I pray, That the sun is still shining:, but you're in the way. Don't grumble, don't bluster, don't dream, and don't shirk, Don't think of your worries, but think of your work. The worries will vanish, the work will be done. No man sees his shadow who faces the sun. MISSPENT TIME. There is no remed3 r for time misspent, No healing* for the waste of idleness, Whose very languor is a punishment Heavier than active souls can feel or guess. O hours of indolence and discontent. Not now to be redeemed! ye sting- not less Because I know this span of life was lent For lofty duties, not for selfishness. Not to be whiled away in aimless dreams, But to improve ourselves, and serve man- kind, Life and its choicest faculties were given. Man should be ever better than he seems, And shape his acts, and discipline his mind, To walk adorning- earth, with hope of heaven. Sib Aubrey DeVere. PLUCK. Did you tackle that trouble that came your way With a resolute heart and cheerful? Or hide your face from the light of day With a craven soul and fearful? Oh, a trouble's a ton, or a trouble's an ounce, Or a trouble is what you make it; And it isn't the fact that you're hurt that counts — ■ But only how did you take it? You are beaten to earth? Weil! Well! what's that? Come up with a smiling face. It's nothing- against you to fall down flat, But to lie there — that's disgrace. The harder you're thrown, why, the higher you bounce. Be proud of your blackened eye: It isn't the fact that you're licked that counts; It's how did you fight and why? And though you be done to the death — what then? If you battled the best you could, If you played your part in the world like men, Why, the Critic would call it good. Death comes with a crawl or comes with a bounce, And whether he's slow or spry, It isn't the fact that you're dead that counts, But only how did you die? Harbison Lee. MAKING POETRY. Little one, what are you doing, Sitting on the window-seat? Laughing to yourself, and writing, Some right merry thought inditing, Balancing with swinging feet. T'is some poetry I'm making, Though I never tried before: Four whole lines! I'll read them to you. Do you think them funny, do you? Shall I try to make some more? 'I should like to be a poet, Writing verses every day; Then to you T'd always bring them, You should make a tune and sing them; 'Twould be pleasanter than play.' Think you, darling, naught is needed But the paper and the ink, And a pen to trace so lightly, While the eye is beaming brightly, All the pretty things we think? There's a secret — can you trust me? Do not ask me what it is? Perhaps some day you too will know it, If you live to be a poet, All its agony and bliss. Poetry is not a trifle, Lightly thought and lightly made; Not a fair and scentless flower, Gaily cultured for an hour, Then as gaily left to fade. 'Tis not stringing rhymes together In a pleasant true accord; Not the music of the metre, Not the happy fancies, sweeter Than a flower-bell, honey-stored. 'Tis the essence of existence, Rarely rising to the light; And the songs that echo longest, Deepest, fullest, truest, strongest, With your life-blood you will write. With your life-blood. None will know it; You will never tell them how. Smile! and they will never guess it; Laugh! and you will not confess it By your paler cheek and brow. There must be the tightest tension Ere the tone be full and true; Shallow lakelets of emotion SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 179 Are not like the spirit-ocean, Which reflects the purest blue. Every lesson you shall utter, If the charge indeed be yours, First is gained by earnest learning, Carved in letters deep and burning On a heart that long endures. Day by day that wondrous tablet Your life-poem shall receive, By the hand of Joy or Sorrow; But the pen can never borrow Half the records that they leave. Tou will only give a transcript Of a life-line here and there, Only just a spray-wreath springing From the hidden depths, and flinging Broken rainbows on the air. Still, if you but copy truly, 'Twill be poetry indeed, Echoing many a heart's vibration, Rather love than admiration Earning as your priceless meed. Will you seek it? Will you brave it? 'Tis a strange and solemn thing, Learning long, before your teaching, Listening long, before your preaching, Suffering before you sing. Frances Ridley Havebgal. NOT UNDERSTOOD. Not understood. We move along asunder; Our paths grow wider as the seasons creep Along the years; we marvel and we wonder Why life is life; and then we fall asleep, Not understood. Not understood. We gather false impres- sions, And hug them closer as the years go by, Till virtues often seem to us transgressions; And thus men rise and fall and live and die, Not understood. Not understood. Poor souls with stunted vision Oft measure giants by their narrow gauge; The poisoned shafts of falsehood and de- rision Are oft impelled 'gainst those who mold the age, Not understood. Not understood. The secret springs of action, Which lie beneath the surface and the show, Are disregarded. With self-satisfaction We judge our neighbors, and they often go, Not understood. Not understood. How trifles often change us! The thoughtless sentence or the fancied slight Destroy long years of friendship and es- trange us, And on our souls there falls a freezing blight; Not understood. Not understood. How many breasts are aching For lack of sympathy! Ah! day by day, How many cheerless lonely hearts are breaking! How many noble spirits pass away, Not understood. O God! that men would see a little clearer, Or judge less harshly where they can not see! O God! that men would draw a little nearer To one another! They'd be nearer thee, And understood. Thomas Bracki-n. NOTHING IS LOST. Nothing is lost; the drop of dew Which trembles on the leaf or flower Is but exhaled to fall anew In summer's thunder-shower; Perchance to shine within the bow That fronts the sun at fall of day; Perchance to sparkle in the flow Of fountains far away. Nothing is lost: the tiniest seed By wild birds borne or breezes blown, Finds something suited to its need, Wherein 'tis sown and grown. The language of some household song, The perfume of some cherished flower, Though gone from outward sense, belong- To memory's after-hour. So with our words: or harsh or kind Uttered, they are not all forgot; They have their influence on the mind, Pass on — but perish not. So with our deeds: for good or ill, They have their power scarce understood; Then let us use our better will, To make them rife with good! LIFE S MIRROR. There are loyal hearts, there are spirits brave, There are souls that are pure and true; Then give the world the best you have, And the best will come back to you. Give love — and love to your life will flow, A strength in your utmost need; Have faith — and a score of hearts will show Their faith in your word and deed; 180 TREASURES OF POETRY. Give truth — and your grift will be paid in kind. And honor will honor meet; And a smile that is sweet will surely find A smile that is just as sweet. For life is the mirror of king- and slave, 'Tis just what you are and do; Then give to the world the best you have, And the best will come back to you. KEEP STEADY. Keep steady, young- man, keep steady, Nor waver when put to the test; When Satan assails be ready, Defeat him by doing- your best. With plausible words he advances; With cunning- he strengthens his chances; He does all his planning with care; He's wily and wicked. Beware! Resist all his sly approaches, Yield never an inch to the foe; Whenever that foe encroaches, Resort to a resolute No! With flattery, cunning, he plies you; With sympathy, artful he tries you; His wiles he keeps well out of sight; He comes as an "angel of light"! Let truth be your watchword ever, Let right be the law of your life. With these for your guides you never Will suffer defeat in the strife. Give battle to vices that tempt you; Your virtues can never exempt you; Temptations will come, but be strong; Give battle to all that is wrong. LIFE S PARADOX. They told me Wealth was all in all, and then, With greed that comes alone to famished men, I strove for wealth; by day and night I toiled, Nor recked how others fared, what hopes were spoiled. And when 'twas gained I stopped to count my store, To count, exult, and, eager, wish it more; But as each piece fell on the vault's hard stone, Mixed with its ring I heard a human groan. I started up from the accusing pile, Now worse than vain, that did so late be- guile! They told me Pleasure was the chiefest good, And so I followed wheresoe'er she would; Where light feet led, where mocking lips allured, And black eyes told my hopes were half assured. When all was gained, then blight fell on my isle — • I had been dreaming on a wanton's smile. They told me only Knowledge was divine, And so I strove straightway to make it mine ; I read all books, held converse with the wise, Traveled all lands, and searched the dis- tant skies. Then, standing in the edge of Learning's . sea, I heard the breakers calling thus to me: "In vain, O man, my depths thou wouldst explore; Thy soundings all lie close within the shore." Wealth, Pleasure, Knowledge all in turn were tried, Yet in the dust it seemed I must abide. A spirit came and whispered in my ear, And raised me up; then led me to a height From which we had a vision far and clear Of all the world, its peace and joy and light. The spirit said: "If thou wilt follow me, Wilt seek not self, but look beyond, above, All that thou seest will I give to thee." I raised my eyes — the spirit's name was Love. Shales G. Hillthk. THE WATER THAT HAS PASSED. Listen to the water-mill, Through the live-long day; How the clanking of the wheels Wears the hours away! Languidly the autumn wind Stirs the greenwood leaves; From the fields the reapers sing, Binding up the sheaves; And a proverb haunts my mind, As a spell is cast: "The mill will never grind Wdth the water that has passed." Take the lesson to thyself, Living heart and true; Golden years are fleeting by, Youth is passing too; Learn to make the most of life, Lose no happy day; Time will never bring thee back Chances swept away. Leave no tender word unsaid; Love while life shall last. "The mill will never grind With the water that has passed." Work while yet the daylight shines, Man of strength and will; Never does the streamlet glide Useless by the mill. Wait not until tomorrow's sun Beams upon the way; SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 181 All that thou canst call thy own Lies in thy today. Power, intellect, and health, May not, can not last; "The mill will never grind "With the water that has passed." Oh! the wasted hours of life That have drifted by; Oh! the good we might have done, Lost without a sigh ; Love that we might once have saved By a single word; Thoughts conceived, but never penned, Perishing unheard. Take the proverb to thine heart, Take, oh, hold it fast! — "The mill will never grind "With the water that has passed." A CHILD S FANCY. My dear little girl climbed up on my knee In the dusk, in the summer weather; And as happy as two who love can be, We quietly talked together. We had stories of bees, of the biids, and the trees, Of the moon and the stars of even; Butithe little one's thoughts went beyond all these, And she wanted to talk of heaven. "O Mama, they say it is far away, The land where there is no dying; And I wonder so how we ever can go When we have no wings for flying." "My little dear, we never should fear; Our Father will not forsake us; And when he doth care to have us there, He will find some way to take us." Then the eyes of brown looked dreamily down O'er the question a sage might ponder, A little while, then there came a smile, Which was more of delight than wonder. "O Mama dear, I've thoug-ht of a plan, As good as you ever can teach me; I'll climb on the fence just as high as I can, And the Lord won't have far to reach me." Perhaps I smiled at the thought of the child, But there flashed through my heart a feeling That its depths should be stirred by each simple word Such a lesson to me revealing. How much I had dreamed of the good which it seemed The Father might give or teach me! And yet my feet had never been fleet In climbing to help him to reach me. And the thought of the child, sweet and undefined, Lisped out on that summer even, Sank down like a seed in a soil which had need Of a growth for God and heaven. Mbs. Anna R. Henderson. SUBMISSION. Not on seas of wild commotion, When the crazy tempest raves, And the savage voice of Ocean Challenges his clamoring caves — Not on such the mirrored glory Of the great protecting sky; Not a billow tells the story In reflective sympathy. Even when, in broken spirit, Waves but sigh along the shore Still their motion must inherit Shattered, shifting lights — no more. But when every sound is muffled, And repose, as calm as death, Rests upon a sea unruffled By a faint, disturbing breath, Then the image of its glory Answers all the watching sky; Humbled waves repeat the story In adoring ecstasy. Julia H. Thateb. THE FIRST SETTLER S STORY. [Abridged for public reading.] It ain't the funniest thing a man can do — Existing in a country when it's new; Nature, who moved in first — a good long while — ■ Has things already somewhat her own style, And she don't want her woodland splendors battered, Her rustic furniture broke up and scat- tered, Her paintings, which long years ago were done By that old splendid artist-king, the sun, Torn down and dragged in civilization's gutter, Or sold to purchase settlers' bread and but- ter. She don't want things exposed from porch to closet, And so she kind o' nags the man who does it. She carries in her pockets bags of seeds, As general agent of the thriftiest weeds; She sends her blackbirds, in the early morn, To superintend his fields of planted corn; She gives him rain past any duck's desire — Then maybe several weeks of quiet fire; She sails mosquitoes — leeches perched on wings — ■ 182 TREASURES OF POETRY. To poison him with blood-devouring stings; She loves her ag-ue-muscle to display, And shake him up — say every other day; With thoughtful, conscientious care she makes Those travelin' poison-bottles, rattlesnakes; She finds time, 'mongst her other family cares, To keep in stock good wild-cats, wolves, and bears. Well, when I first infested this retreat, Things to my view looked frightful incom- plete; But I had come with heart-thrift in my song, And brought my wife and plunder right along; I hadn't a round-trip ticket to go back, And if I had there wasn't no railroad track; And drivin' East was what I couldn't en- dure: I hadn't started on a circular tour. My girl-wife was as brave as she was good, And helped ma every blessed way she could; She seemed to take to every rough old tree. As sing'lar as when first she took to me. She kep' our little log-house neat as wax, And once I caught her fooling with my axe. She learned a hundred masculine things to do: She aimed a shot-gun pretty middlin' true, Although, in spite of my express desire, She always shut her eyes before she'd fire. She hadn't the muscle (though she had the heart) In out-door v/ork to take an active part; Though in our firm of Duty and Endeavor She wasn't no silent partner whatsoever When I was logging, burning, choppin' wood, She'd linger round and help me all she could. And kept me fresh-ambitious all the while, And lifted tons just with her voice and smile. With no desire my glory for to rob, She used to stan' around and boss the job; And when first-class success my hands be- fell, Would proudly say, "We did that pretty well!" She was delicious, both to hear and see — That pretty wife-girl that kep' house for me. Well, neighborhoods meant counties in those days; The roads didn't have accommodating ways; And maybe weeks would pass before she'd see — And much less talk with — any one but me. The Indians sometimes showed their sun- baked faces, But they didn't teem with conversational graces; Some ideas from the birds and trees she stole, But 'twasn't like talking with a human soul; And finally I thought that I could trace A half heart-hunger peering from her face. Then she would drive it "back and shut the door; Of course that only made me see it more. 'Twas hard to see her give her life to mine, Making a steady effort not to pine; 'Twas hard to hear that laugh bloom out each minute, And recognize the seeds of sorrow in it. No misery makes a close observor mourn Like hopeless grief with hopeful courage borne; There's nothing sets the sympathies to paining Like a complaining woman uncomplaining. It always draws my breath out into sighs To see a brave look in a woman's eyes. Well, she went on, as plucky as could be, Fighting the foe she thought I did not see, And using her heart-horticultural powers To turn that forest to a bed of flowers. You can not check an unadmitted sigh, And so I had to soothe her on the sly, And secretly to help her draw her load; And soon it came to be an up-hill road. Hard work bears hard upon the average pulse, Even with satisfactory results; But when effects are scarce, the heavy strain Falls dead and solid on the heart and brain. And when we're bothered, it will oft occur We seek blame- timber; and I lit on her; And looked at her with daily lessening fa- vor, And when I knew she couldn't help, to save her. And Discord, when he once had called and seen us, Came round quite often, and edged in be- tween us. One night, when I came home unusual late, Too hungrj' and too tired to feel first-rate. Her supper struck me wrong (though I'll allow She hadn't much to strike with, anyhow) ; And when I went to milk the cows, and found They'd wandered from their usual feeding ground, And maybe'd left a few long miles behind 'em, Which I must copy, if I meant to find 'em, Flash-quick the stay-chains of my temper broke, And in a trice these hot words I had spoke: "You ought to've kept the animals in view, And drove 'em in; you'd nothing else to do. The heft of all our life on me must fall; You just lie round, and let me do it all." That speech — it hadn't been gone a half a minute Before I saw the cold black poison in it; And I'd have given all I had, and more, SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 183 To've only safely grot it back in-door. I'm now what most folks "well-to-do" would call: I feel today as if I'd give it all, Provided i through fifty years might reach And kill and bury that half-minute speech. She handed back no words, as I could hear; She didn't frown; she didn't shed a tear; Half proud, half crushed, she stood and looked me o'er, Like some one she had never seen before! But such a sudden anguish-lit surprise I never viewed before in human eyes. (I've seen it oft enoug-h since in a dream; It sometimes wakes me like a midnig-ht scream.) Next morning-, when, stone-faced, but heavy-hearted, With dinner pail and sharpened axe I started Away for my day's work — she watched the door, And followed me half way to it or more; And I was just a-turning round at this, And asking- for my usual g-ood-by kiss; But on her lip I saw a proudish curve, And in her eye a shadow of reserve; And she had shown — perhaps half una- wares — Some little independent breakfast airs; And so the usual parting- didn't occur, Althougn her eyes invited me to her; Or rather half invited me, for she Didn't advertise to furnish kisses free; You always had — that is, I had — to pay Full market price, and g-o more'n half the way. So, with a short "Good-by," I shut the door. And left her as I never had before. But when at noon my lunch I came to eat, Put up by her so delicately neat — Choicer, somewhat, than yesterday's had been, And some fresh, sweet-eyed pansies she'd put in — "Tender and pleasant thoughts," I knew they meant— It seemed as if her kiss with me she'd sent; Then I became once more her humble lover, And said, "Tonight I'll ask forgiveness of her." I went home over-early on that eve, Having contrived to make myself believe, By various signs I kind o' knew and guessed, A thunder-storm was coming from the west. ('Tis strange, when one sly reason fills the heart, How many honest ones will take its part: A dozen first-class reasons said 'twas right That I should strike home early on that night.) Half out of breath, the cabin door I swung, "With tender heart-words trembling on my tongue; But all within looked desolate and bare: My house had lost its soul, — she was not . there! A penciled note was on the table spread, And these are something like the words it said: "The cows have strayed away again, I fear; I watched them pretty close; don't scold me, dear. And where they are, I think I nearly know: I heard the bell not very long ago. . . . I've hunted for them all the afternoon; I'll try once more — I think I'll find them soon. Dear, if a burden I have been to you, And haven't helped you as I ought to do, Let old-time memories my forgiveness plead; I've tried to do my best — I have, indeed. Darling, piece out with love the strength I lack, And have kind words for me when I get back." Scarce did I give this letter sight and tongue — ■ Some swift-blown rain-drops to the window clung, And from the clouds a rough, deep growl proceeded: My thunder-storm had come, now 'twasn't needed. I rushed out-door. The air was stained with black: Night had come early, on the storm-cloud's back: And everything kept dimming to the sight, Save when the clouds threw their electric light; When, for a flash, so clean-cut was the view, I'd think I saw her — knowing 'twas not true. Through my small clearing dashed wide sheets of spray, As if the ocean waves had lost their way; Scarcely a pause the thunder-battle made, In the bold clamor of its cannonade. And she, while I was sheltered, dry, and warm, Was somewhere in the clutches of this storm! She who, when storm-frights found her at her best, Had always hid her white face on my breast! My dog, who'd skirmished round me all the day, Now crouched and whimpering, in a corner lay; I dragged him by the collar to the wall, I pressed his quivering muzzle to a shawl — "Track her, old boy!" I shouted; and he whined, Matched eyes with me, as if to read my mind, Then with a yell went tearing through the wood. I followed him, as faithful as I could. No pleasure-trip was that, through flood and flame; 184- TREASURES OF POETRY. We raced with death; we hunted noble game. All night we dragged the woods without avail ; The ground got drenched — we could not keep the trail. Three times again my cabin home I found, Half hoping she might be here, safe and sound; But each time 'twas an unavailing care: My house had lost its soul; she was not there! When, climbing the wet trees, next morn- ing-sun Laughed at the ruin that the night had done, Bleeding and drenched, by toil and sorrow bent, Back to what used to be my home I went. But as I neared our little clearing-ground — Listen! — I heard the cow-bell's tinkling sound. The cabin door was just a bit ajar; It gleamed upon my glad eyes like a star. "Brave heart," I said, "for such a fragile form! She made them guide her homeward through the storm!" Such pangs of joy I never felt before. "You've come!" I shouted, and rushed through the door. Yes, she had come — and gone again. She lay Wtith all her young life crushed and wrenched away — Lay, the heart-ruins of our home among, Not far from where I killed her with my tongue. The rain-drops glittered 'mid her hair's long strands, The forest thorns had torn her feet and hands, And 'midst the tears — brave tears — that one could trace Upon the pale but sweetly resolute face, I once again the mournful words could read, "I've tried to do my best — I have, indeed." And now I'm mostly done; my story's o'er; Part of it never breathed the air before. 'Tisn't over-usual, it must be allowed, To volunteer heart-history to a crowd, And scatter 'mongst them confidential tears, But you'll protect an old man with his years; And wheresoe'er this story's voice can reach, This is the sermon I would have it preach: Boys flying kites haul in their white- winged birds; You can't do that way when you're flying words. "Careful with fire," is good advice we know: "Careful with words," is ten times doubly Thoughts unexpressed may sometimes fall back dead, But God himself can't kill them when they're said! You have my life-grief: do not think a minute 'Twas told to take up time. There's busi- ness in it. It sheds advice: whoe'er will take and live it, Is welcome to the pain it costs to give it. Will Caelkton. LITTLE FEET. Two little feet so small that both may nes- tle In one caressing hand, Two tender feet upon the untried border Of life's mysterious land. Dimpled and soft, and pink as peach-tree blossoms In April's fragrant days, How can they walk among the briery tan- gles Edging the world's rough ways? These white-rose feet along the doubtful future Must bear a woman's load; Alas! since woman has the heaviest burden And walks the hardest road. Love for a while will make the path be- fore them All dainty, smooth, and fair — Will cull away the brambles, letting only The roses blossom there. But when the mother's watchful eyes are shrouded Away from the sight of men, And these dear feet are left without her guiding. Who shall direct them then? Will they go stumbling blindly in the dark- ness Of sorrow's tearful shades, Or find the upland slopes of peace and beauty, Whose sunlight never fades? Wfill they go toiling up ambition's summit, The common world above; Or, in some nameless vale, securely shel- tered, Walk side by side with love? Some feet there be which walk Life's track unwounded, Which find but pleasant ways; Some hearts there be to which this life is only A round of happy days; But they are few. Far more there are who wander Without a hope or friend; SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 185 Who find their journey full of pains and losses, And long to reach the end. How shall it be with her, the tender stranger, Fair-faced and gentle-eyed, Before whose unstained feet the world's rude highway Stretches so strange and wide? Ah! who may read the future? For our darling We crave all blessings sweet, And pray that He who feeds the crying ravens Will guide the baby's feet. Flobencb Percy. THE LESSON OF THE ROSE. I tore a rose apart, Revealed its inmost heart, Some hidden secret hoping to disclose. The leaves fell to the ground; I bared its heart, but found No secret hidden, and I spoiled my rose! No hand but one divine Could make this rose of mine, No power but God's create such loveliness; But how the roses grow I know not nor can know; I only know their beauty is to bless. O Life which made them live! O Love which longs to give All that thy creatures need or can desire! The feeling overpowers My soul that in the flowers Thou gavest even more than we require. Ye who philosophize As others botanize, Who pluck the truth apart shred after shred, What recompense is there To pay you for despair When God forsakes you and your faith lies dead? There is one Book, but one; Although the summer sun Calls forth a million roses every year, There is one Book, but one! This dark world were undone If, like the roses, it should disappear. Here is the thought which flows In fragrance from the rose, The rose which careless fingers pull apart: Who seeks to penetrate A thing so delicate Should come with gentle hands and rever- ent heart; Come with a mind devout, Undaunted by a doubt; Come with a soul subdued, a faith supreme, As thou wouldst touch a rose — Softly — He will disclose To thy hushed heart things which thou canst not dream! Gbach Pearl Bronattqh. THE RAINBOW. I sometimes have thought in my loneliest hours, That lie on my heart like the dew on the flowers, Of a ramble I took one bright afternoon, When my heart was as light as a blossom in June. The green earth was moist with the late fallen showers; The breeze fluttered down and blew open the flowers; While a single white cloud to its haven of rest, On the white wing of peace floated off in the west As I threw back my tresses to catch the cool breeze That scattered the raindrops and dimpled the seas, Far up the blue sky a fair rainbow un- rolled Its soft-tinted pinions of purple and gold. 'Twas born in a moment, yet, quick as its birth, It has stretched to the uttermost ends of the earth; And, fair as an angel, it floated all free, With a wing on the earth and a wing on the sea. How calm was the ocean! how gentle its swell! Like a woman's soft bosom, it rose and it fell; While its light sparkling waves, stealing laughingly o'er, When they saw the fair rainbow, knelt down to the shore. No sweet hymn ascended, no murmur of prayer, Yet I felt that the spirit of worship was there, And bent my young head in devotion and love 'Neath the form of the angel that floated above. How wide was the sweep of its beautiful wings! How boundless its circle! how radiant its rings! If I looked on the sky, 'twas suspended in air; If I looked on the ocean, the rainbow was there; Thus forming a girdle as brilliant and whole As the thoughts of the rainbow that cir- cled my soul; Like the wing of the Deity, calmly un- furled, It bent from the cloud, and encircled the world. There are moments, I think, when the spirit receives Whole volumes of thought on its unwrit- ten leaves; 186 TREASURES OF POETRY. When the folds of the heart in a moment unclose, Like the innermost leaves from the heart of a rose; And thus, when the rainbow had passed from the sky, The thoughts it awoke were too deep to pass by; It left my full soul like the wing- of a dove, And fluttering with pleasure, and flutter- ing with love. I know that each moment of rapture or pain But shortens the links in life's mystical chain; I know that my form, like that bow from the wave, May pass from the earth and lie cold in the grave; Yet oh! when death's shadows my bosom uncloud, When I shrink from the thought of the cof- fin and shroud, May Hope, like the rainbow, my spirit un- fold In her beautiful pinions of purple and gold. IT TAKES SO LITTLE. It takes so little to make us sad; Just a slighting word or a doubting sneer, Just a scornful smile on some lips held dear, And our footsteps lag, though the goal seemed near, And we lose the courage and hope we had — So little it takes to make us sad. It takes so little to make us glad; Just the cheering clasp of a friendly hand, Just a word from one who can understand And we finish the task we long had planned, And we lose the doubt and the fear we had— So little it takes to make us glad. Ida Goldsmith Moehis. CONQUERED AT LAST. [Shortly after the last yellow-fever scourge swept up the Mississippi Valley, the Mobile News offered a prize for the poem by a Southern writer which thould best express the gratitude of the Southern heart toward the people of the North for the philan- thropy and the magnanimity so nobly and freely dis- played during the pestilence. This offer called forth seventy-seven compositions from various parts of the South. The prize was finally awarded to Miss Maria L. Eve, of Augusta, Ga., the author of "Conquered at Last."] You came to us once, O brothers, in wrath, And rude desolation followed your path. You conquered us then, but only in part, For a stubborn thing is the human heart. So the mad wind blows in his might and main, And the forests bend to his breath like grain, Their heads in the dust and their branches broke; But how shall he soften their hearts of oak? You swept o'er our land like the whirl- wind's wing, But the human heart is a stubborn thing. We laid down our arms, we yielded our will, But our heart of hearts was unconquered still. "We are vanquished," we said, "but our wounds must heal"; We gave you our swords, but our hearts were steel. "We are conquered," we said, but our hearts were sore, And "woe to the conquered" on every door. But the spoiler came, and he would not spare, And the angel that walketh in darkness was there. He walked through the valley, walked through the street, And he left the print of his fiery feet. In the dead, dead, dead, that were every- where, And buried away with never a prayer. From the desolate land, from its very heart, There went forth a cry to the uttermost part. You heard it, O brothers! with never a measure You opened your hearts, and poured out your treasure. O sisters of mercy, you gave above these! For you helped, we know, on your bended knees. Your pity was human, but oh! it was more When you. shared our cross and our bur- den bore. Your lives in your hands, you stood by our side; Your lives for our lives — you lay down and died. And no greater love hath a man to give Than to lay down his life that his friends may live. You poured in our wounds the oil and the wine That you brought to us from a hand divine. You conquered us once, and our swords we We yield now our hearts — they are all we have. SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 187 Our last trench was there, and it held out long; It is yours, O friends! and you'll find it strong. Your love had a magic diviner than art, And "Conquered by Kindness" we'll write on our heart. Maria L. Evb. THE WORD THAT COUNTS. A little word of loving is more to her than wealth, A little word of tenderness is just the same as health; It brings the bright hopes shining and it keeps the doubt away: A little word of loving — take it home to her today! A little word of loving mid her worry and her care — It clears the household shadows, and it sweetens married air; It keeps the young cheeks glowing with the rose-glow of loved youth: A little word of loving is her idea of the truth! A little word of loving lifts the shadows from her mind; It keeps the spirit gentle and the disposi- tion kind; But when you say it, feel it, or she'll know — ah, yes, she will — It's only something acted, like the trage- dies that kill! MORNING GIFTS. The kiss that you gave me this morning, It has clung to my lips all day! A jewel of love's fair adorning, To treasure while you are away; A gem far more precious than rubies, As pure as a heart of the sea; In my heart's hidden casket I place it, With the joy it has given to me. The look that you gave me this morning, I have seen it today everywhere, With its loving glow cheering and warming The gloom and the chill in the air! The shadows have been but as sunbeams, Life has seemed all so joyous and free, For the tender love-light in the dear eyes You gave in the morning to me. The words that you gave me this morning, They have echoed for me all day long! The flowers seemed more sweetly adorning, And the birds had a merrier song. Ah, the long hours have been, oh, so happy! So glad all the toil of today! For the kiss and the look and the sweet words You gave me at going away. LOVE AND PET ME NOW. Take my withered hand in yours, Children of my soul; Mother's heart is craving love. Mother's growing old; See, the snows of many years Crown my furrowed brow. As I've loved and petted you, Love and pet me now. Lay your hand upon my head, Smooth my whitened hair; I've been growing old the while You've been growing fair. I have toiled and prayed for you — Ask not why or how. As I've loved and petted you, Love and pet me now. Take my withered hand in yours, Children of my heart. Mother's growing old; your love Makes life's sweetest part. Touch with love my faded cheeks, Kiss my anxious brow; As I've loved and petted you, Love and pet me now. Take my withered hands in yours, Hold them close and strong; Cheer me with a fond caress, 'Twill not be for long; Youth immortal soon will crown With its wreath my brow. As I loved and petted you, Love and pet me now. Take my withered hand in yours, This your heart will prove; If you owe me anything, Pay the debt with love. Press me in your strong young arms, Breathe a loving vow; As I've loved and petted you, Love and pet me now. T. B. Larimohb. THE EMPTY LIVES. So many die that have not lived at all; It is as though they journeyed through the years Upon a path hedged by a gloomy wall Of other people's little frets and fears. Beyond the wall the joyous fields stretch out And there are little paths to lure the feet, But duty framed by others of their doubt Has made them feel the by-paths are not meet. To spend their days with friends they did not choose; They toil at tasks unfitted for their hands; They join the chorus of them that abuse The one who lives — because he under- stands; 188 TREASURES OF POETRY. They sing the songs the others bid them sing. While in their souls are stifled marvel- strains; They build and they destroy, they fetch and bring; They fume of petty losses and of gains. They count as truth the rote that they are told. They spurn as lies whatever they are bid; They ban as heretic the overbold The one who would uncover what is hid, And they succeed — they say they have suc- cess And call another careless, blind, and weak Who finds the joy they may not even guess, Who reaches goals they may not even What if some dazzling outburst of the light Should show them how supremely far they miss The core of life, the lasting truth and right? But Fate is kind, and does not deal them this. It is as though they plodded through dead years Upon a path hedged by a barren wall Of other people's little frets and fears — So many die, and have not lived at all. A NEW LEAF. He came to my desk with a quivering lip — The lesson was done — "Dear teacher, I want a new leaf," he said; "I have spoiled this one." In place of the leaf so stained and blotted, I gave him a new one all unspotted, And into his sad eyes smiled — "Do better now, my child." I went to the throne with a quivering soul — The old year was done — ■ "Dear Father, hast thou a new leaf for me? I have spoiled this one." He took the old leaf, stained and blotted, ^.nd gave me a new one all unspotted, And into my sad heart smiled — "Do better now, my child." REST. Rest is not quitting The busy career; Rest is the fitting Of self to one's sphere. 'Tis the brook's motion, Clear without strife, Fleeting to ocean After its life. 'Tis loving and serving The highest and best; 'Tis onward unswerving; And this is true rest. SHINE JUST WHERE YOU ARE. Don't waste your time in longing For bright, impossible things; Don't sit supinely yearning For the swiftness of angel wings; Don't spurn to be a rushlight, Because you are not a star; But brighten some bit of darkness By shining just where you are. There is need of the tiniest candle As well as the garish sun; The humblest deed is enobled When it is worthily done. You may never be called to brighten The darkened regions afar; So, fill, for the day, your mission By shining just where you are. GODS WILL FOR US. Just to be tender, just to be true; Just to be glad the whole day through; Just to be merciful, just to be mild; Just to be trustful as a child; Just to be gentle and kind and sweet; Just to be helpful with willing feet; Just to be cheery when things go wrong; Just to drive sadness away with a song, Whether the hour is dark or bright; Just to be loyal to God and right; Just to believe that God knows best; Just in his promise ever to rest; Just to let love be our daily key: This is God's will, for you and me. ROCK OF AGES. "Rock of Ages, cleft for me" — Thoughtlessly the maiden sung; Fell the words unconsciously From her girlish, gleeful tongue; Sang as little children sing, Sang as sing the birds in June; Fell the words as light leaves down On the current of the tune — "Rock of Ages, cleft for me, Let me hide myself in thee." "Rock of Ages, cleft for me" — 'Twas a woman sung them now, Sung them slow and wearily, Wan hand on her aching brow; Rose the song as storm-tossed bird Beats with weary wing the air; Every note with sorrow stirred, Every syllable a prayer — "Rock of Ages, cleft for me, Let me hide myself in thee" "Rock of Ages, cleft for me," — Lips grown aged sung the hymn Trustingly and tenderly; Voice grown weak and eyes grown dfm- SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 189 "Let me hide myself in thee." Trembling though the voice and low, Ran the sweet strain peacefully, Like a river in its flow; Sung as only they can sing Who life's thorny paths have pressed; Sung as only they can sing Who behold the promised rest — "Rock of Ages, cleft for me, Let me hide myself in thee-" "Rock of Ages, cleft for me" — Sung above a coffin lid; Underneath all restfully All life's joys and sorrows hid. Never more, oh, storm-tossed soul, Never more from wind and tide, Never more from billows' roll, Wilt thou ever need to hide, Could the sightless, sunken eyes Closed beneath the soft, white hair; Could the mute and stiffened lips Move again in pleading prayer, Still, aye still, the words would be — "Let me hide myself in thee." THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER. 'Tis the last rose of summer, Left blooming alone; All her lovely companions Are faded and gone; No flower of her kindred, No rosebud is nigh, To reflect back her blushes, Or give sigh for sigh. I'll not leave thee, thou lone one, To pine on the stem; Since the lovely are sleeping, Go sleep thou with them; Thus kindly I scatter Thy leaves o'er the bed, Where thy mates of the garden Lie scentless and dead. So soon may I follow, When friendships decay, And from love's shining circle The gems drop away! When true hearts lie withered, And fond ones are flown, Oh! who would inhabit This bleak world alone? THE GLAD HOMELAND. Life changes all our thoughts of heaven: At first we think of streets of gold. Of gates of pearl and dazzling white, Of shining wings and robes of light, And things all strange to mortal sight; But in the afterward of years It is a more familiar place — A home unhurt by sigh or tears, Where waiteth many a well-known face. With passing months it comes more near, It grows more real day by day, Not strange nor cold, but very dear — The glad homeland not far away, Where none are sick or poor or lone, The place where we shall find our own. And as we think of all we knew Who there have met to part no more, Our longing hearts desire home, too,- With all the strife and trouble o'er. SHALL WE FIND THEM AT THE PORTALS? Will they meet us, cheer, and greet us, Those we've loved who've gone before? Shall we find them at the portals, Find our beautiful immortals, When we reach that radiant shore? Hearts are broken for some token That they live and love us yet! And we ask, "Can those who've left us, Of love's look and tone bereft us, Though in heaven, can they forget?" And we often, as days soften, And comes out the evening star, Looking westward, sit and wonder Whether, when so far asunder, They still think how dear they are. Past yon portals, our immortals — Those who walk with Him in white — Do they, mid their bliss, recall us? Know they what events befall us? Will our coming wake delight? They will meet us, cheer and greet us, Those we've loved who've gone before; We shall find them at the portals, Find our beautiful immortals, When we reach that radiant shore. J. E. Rankin. GIVE THEM THE FLOWERS NOW. Closed eyes can't see the white roses; Cold hands can't hold them, you know; Breath that is stilled can not gather The odors that sweet from them blow. Death, with a peace beyond dreaming, Its children of earth doth endow; Life is the time we can help them; So give them the flowers now! Here are the struggles and striving; Here are the cares and the tears; Now is the time to be smoothing The frowns and the furrows and fears. "What, to closed ears, are kind sayings? What, to hushed heart, is deep vow? Naught can avail after parting — So give them the flowers now. Just a kind word or a greeting; Just a warm clasp or a smile — These are the flowers that will lighten 190 TREASURES OF POETRY. The burdens for many a mile. After the journey is over What is the use of them? how Can they carry them, who must be carried? Oh, give them the flowers now! Blooms from the happy heart's garden. Plucked in the spirit of love; Blooms that are earthly reflections Of flowers that blossom above — Words can not tell what a measure Of blessing such gifts will allow To dwell in the lives of many; So give them the flowers now. SOMETHING SURE. "What a pity nothing ever Has a beauty that will stay!" Said our thoughtful little Nellie, Stopping briefly in her play. "Ail these velvet pansies withered — And I picked them just today!" "And there's nothing very certain," Answered Bess with face demure; "When it rains we can't go driving — I wish promises were truer! I could rest» if I were certain Of a single thing that's sure!" Grandma smiled from out her corner, Smoothing back a soft gray tress; "Sixty seconds make a minute; Did you know it, little Bess? Sixty minutes make an hour, Never more, and never less. "For the seconds in a minute, Whether full of work or fun, Or the minutes in an hour, .Never number sixty-one! That is one thing that is certain Ever since the world begun. "Though the rose may lose its crimson And the buttercup its gold, There is something, through all changes, You may always surely hold: Truth can never lose its beauty Nor its strength by growing old." LIFE. I asked a crimson, blushing rose, Rejoicing after winter snows, "What secret holds the coming year? Say, what is life — why are we here?" It raised its slender, stately head, And on its scented breath it said, "My only mission is to bloom And scatter round me sweet perfume. Upon a branching bough aloft, A sweet-voiced bird was trilling soft; I listened till my soul was stirred, And bid it give its song in word — "Teach me the meaning of the days." It raised to heaven its note of praise. And fluttered soft its silver wing: "My only business is to sing." A child with eyes so soft and bright, Where lingers still the heavenly light, Whose guardian angels, by His grace, Behold always the Father's face — This little one I bid me tell The meaning that he knew so well; The answer came as from above: "My Father put me here to love." O weary heart and aching brain, Why puzzles seek to read in vain, As groping sick at heart we grow, For what we may not, can not know, And lose the meaning of the things A simple love and trusting brings, Till to a little child we go For what our wisdom may not know? WHAT IS LIFE? "Life is a song," so piped the thrush Perched on a sweet, white-blossomed bush. " 'Tis an awakening," said the rose, Whose blushing petals 'gan to unclose. " 'Tis pleasure," breathed the butterfly, Kissing the rose and fluttering by. " 'Tis work," buzzed the busy bee, Sipping the rose sweets greedily. " 'Tis freedom," shrieked the eagle proud, Piercing the fleecy summer cloud. From leaf copse the gentle dove Cooed, softly, murmuring, "Life is love." " 'Tis labor, that, and nothing more," The wave moaned, breaking on the shore. "A dream," the mist sighed, "set with tears." The soft rain wept, " 'Tis tears, all tears." Fre» Lysthb. THE DREAMER. He loves to watch the waves at play Leap up the rocks with ceaseless roar And see their snowy, showering spray Dissolve in pearls along the shore. The western sky is dear to him When rosy day with twilight blends And on the ocean's purple rim The sun, a globe of flame, descends. The white clouds sailing in the blue, The white stars peering through the night, He loves because they bring to view The fringes of the infinite. He hears the music of the skies, The thunder's bass, the song of birds, And vainly tries to crystallize His soul's rich harmonies into words. And wandering in the autumn woods, Far from the sight of human face, SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 191 His fancy fills the solitudes With shapes of beauty and of grace. What boots his idle dreams to those Who with unconquerable will Toil from the dawn till daylight's close To keep the world from standing still? He smiles and says his dreaming tends To show the beauty of design, To shape men's lives to nobler ends And draw them nearer the divine. TURNING THE FLOWERS. Out in the country, where two roads met, A cottage with open door I found; The board for the evening meal was set, The good wife bustled busily round. It was homely and plain, but oh! so sweet, With rose and lavender freshly culled, And there, in a cradle, just at my feet, A beautiful babe to sleep lay lulled. I sat me down, with a bidden right, And a sense of comfort over me stole. The board, though homely, was clean and white, And flowers were upon it — set in a bowl; And the good wife said unto me, her guest, As she twisted the blooms in the bowl so brown; "I like to turn what are freshest and best To the side where the man of the house sits down." I looked at the flowers — so white, so red; I gazed at the happy-faced, busy wife, And, "That is a nice idea," I said; "I wish we could carry it all through life. For the world would be a far happier place, And many a glint through the darkness loom, If we 'turned the flowers' with a tactful grace, And showed the glory instead of the gloom." SONGS UNSUNG. Sweet the song of the thrush at dawning, When the grass lies wet with spangled dew; Sweet the sound of the brook's low whisper Mid reeds and rushes wandering through: Clear and pure is the west wind's murmur, That croons in the branches all da3 r long; But the songs unsung are the sweetest music, And the dreams that die are the soul of song. The fairest hope is the one which faded, The brightest leaf is the leaf that fell; The song that leaped from the lips of sirens Dies away in an old sea-shell. Far to the heights of viewless fancy The soul's swift flight like a swallow goes, For the note unheard is the bird's best carol, And the bud unblown is the reddest rose. Deepest thoughts are the ones unspoken, That only the heart-sense, listening, hears ; Most great joys bring a touch of silence, Greatest grief is in unshed tears. What we hear is the fleetest echo; A song dies out, but a dream lives on; The rose-red tints of the rarest morning Are lingering yet in a distant dawn. Somewhere, dim in the days to follow, And far away in the life to be, Passing sweet is a song of gladness, The spirit-chant of the soul set free. Chords untouched are the ones we wait for, That never rise from the harp unstrung; We turn our steps to the years beyond us, And listen still for the songs unsung Ernest McGaffat. A QUERY. Ah, me! and what is life? An ardent, anxious, chequered race With Time, a little breathing space Of care and strife. And whither does it lead? Alas! poor fools, ye little know To what sad goal or bitter woe Our courses speed. And wherefore is it so? Wtiy should we struggle, fight, an< die, Not knowing whence we come, or *^ ny » Or whither go? If death be life indeed, Why should we longer tarry here Beset by hope and doubt and fear — Why not be freed? Yet why do I deplore My present lot? If God so will That I should tarry longer still, Need I ask more? And if this life be sad, Will death no brighter prospect bring? Will it not lose the only sting It might have had? And if to die be gain, Will not my gain be greater still To leave this world with all its ill And all its pain? Oh, why should I repine? To him who marks the sparrow's fall Shall I not leave my life, my all — Ay, even mine? 192 TREASURES OF POETRY. ONLY A STEP. Only a step between life and death, Length of a heart-beat, span of a breath! Think of it, soul! — but an instant's flight, From here and now to the judgment light. Only a step! Yet it means the span Of fate's vast arc to the soul of man! The parting paths and the choice, today; Tomorrow, the infinite, changeless way. OVER AND OVER AGAIN. Over and over again, No matter which way I turn, I always find in the book of life Some lesson I have to learn. I must taka my turn at the mill, I must grind out the golden grain, I must work at my task with a resolute will, Over and over again. We can not measure the need Of even the tiniest flower, Nor check the flow of the golden sands That run through a single hour; But the morning dews must fall, And the sun and the summer rain Must do their part, and perform it all Over and over again. Over and over again The brook through the meadows flows, Over and over again The ponderous mill wheel goes; Once doing will not suffice, Though doing be not in vain; And a blessing failing us twice May come if we try again. The path that has once been trod Is never so rough to the feet, And the lesson we once have learned Is never so hard to repeat. Though sorrowful tears must fall, And the heart to its depths be driven With storm and tempest we need them all To render us meet for heaven. Josephinb Pollard. TIRED MOTHERS. A little elbow leans upon your knee, Tour tired knee that has so much to bear; A child's dear eyes are looking lovingly From underneath a thatch of tangled hair. Perhaps you do not heed the velvet touch Of warm, moist fingers holding yours so tight; You do not prize this blessing overmuch, You are almost too tired to pray tonight. But it is blessedness! A year ago I did not see it as I do today — We are so dull and thankless, and so slow To catch the sunshine till it slips away. And now it seems surpassing strange to me That while I wore the badge of mother- hood I did not kiss more oft and tenderly The little child that brought me only good. And if some night when you sit down to rest You miss this elbow from your tired knee, This restless curly head from off your breast, This lisping tongue that chatters con- stantly; If from your own the dimpled hand had slipped, And ne'er would nestle in your palm again; If the white feet into the grave had tripped, I could not blame you for your heartache then. I wonder so that mothers ever fret At little children clinging to their gown, Or that the footprints, when the days are wet, Are ever black enough to make them frown. If I could nd a little muddy boot, Or cap, or jacket, on my chamber floor; If I could kiss a rosy, restless foot, And hear it patter in my home once more; If I could mend a broken cart today, Tomorrow make a kite to reach the sky, — There is no woman in God's world could say She was more blissfully content than I. But ah! the dainty pillow next my own Is never rumpled by a shining head; My singing birdling from its nest has flowr- — ■ The little boy I used to kiss is dead! Mab? Riple? Smith. FOUR MOTTOS. "Look up, not down!" Do you see how the tree-top Rejoices in sunshine denied to its root? And hear how the lark, gazing skyward, is flooding The world with his song, while the ground-bird is mute? "Look out and not in!" See the sap rush- ing outward, In leaf, bud, and blossom; all winter it lay Imprisoned, while earth wore a white deso- lation; Now nature is glad with the beauty of May. "Look forward, not back!" 'Tis the chant of Creation, The chime of the seasons as onward they roll; 'Tis the pulse of the world, 'tis the hope of the ages, 'Tis the voice of our God in the depths of the soul. SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 193 "Lend a hand!" Like the sun that turns night into morning, The moon that drives storm-driven sail- ors to land. Ah, life were worth living, with this for the watchword: "Look up, out, and forward, and each lend a hand!" Alicb Freeman Palmer. FORGIVE AND FORGET. Forgive and forget! 'Tis a maxim worth heeding, Recall the harsh judgment so hasty and stern; Not one of us all but is certainly needing Some friendly forbearance and grace in return. Unkindness and malice are weeds that grow thickly, But patience and love may transform them to flowers; Remember our journey is over too quickly To waste on ill-feeling a tithe of its hours. Forgive and forget! Let the bitter thought perish, Life does not lack sorrow more weighty, more real; And in the sharp sting of resentment, why cherish The thorn that must rankle where par- don might heal? Forgive and forget! For we know not how often 'Twill spare us the pang of an endless regret. Don't wait for the future your anger to soften, Oh, now is the time to forgive and forget. S. E. Gordon. WORDS. Words are things of little cost, Quickly spoken, quickly lost; We forget them, but they stand Witnesses at God's right hand, And their testimony bear For us, or against us, there. Oh, how words often ours have been Idle words, and words of sin; Words of anger, scorn, and pride, Or desire our faults to hide; Envious tales, or strife unkind, Leaving bitter thoughts behind. Grant us, Lord, from day to day, Strength to watch and grace to pray May our lips, from sin set free, Love to speak and sing of thee, Till in heaven we learn to raise Hymns of everlasting praise. A HELPING HAND. If I should see a brother languishing in sore distress, And I should turn and leave him comfort- less, When I might be a messenger of hope and happiness, How could I ask to have what I denied, In my own hour of bitterness supplied? If I might sing a little song to cheer a fainting heart, And I should seal my lips and sit apart, When I might bring a bit of sunshine for life's ache and smart, , How could I hope to have my grief re- lieved If I kept silent when my brother grieved? And so I know that day is lost wherein I failed to lend A helping hand to some wayfaring friend; But if it show a burden lightened by the cheer I send, Then do I hold the golden hours well spent, And lay me down to sleep in sweet con- tent. WHAT IS GOOD? "What is the real good?" I ask in musing mood. "Order," said the law court; "Knowledge," said the school; "Truth," said the wise man; "Pleasure," said the fool; "Love," said the maiden; "Beauty," said the page; "Freedom," said the dreamer; "Home," said the sage; "Fame," said the soldier; "Equity," the seer. Spake my heart full sadly: "The answer is not here." Then within my bosom Softly this I heard: "Each heart holds the secret: 'Kindness is the word.' " John Boylb O'Reilly. IT MATTERS MUCH! It matters little where I was born, Or if my parents were rich or poor; Whether they shrank from the cold world's scorn Or walked in the pride of wealth secure; But whether I live an honest man, And hold my integrity firm in my clutch, I tell you, my brother, as plain as I can, It matters much! It matters little how long I stay In a world of sorrow, sin, and care; 194 TREASURES OF POETRY. Whether in youth I am called away, Or live till my bones and pate are bare; But whether I do the best I can To soften the weight of adversity's touch On the faded cheek of my fellow man, It matters much! It matters little where be my grave, On the land or on the sea, By purling brook or 'neath stormy wave — It matters little or naught to me; But whether the Angel of Death comes down And marks my brow with his loving touch, As one that shall wear the victor's crown, It matters much! LEAF BY LEAF. Leaf by leaf the roses fall, Drop by drop the springs run dry, One by one beyond recall, Summer roses droop and die; But the roses bloom again, And the spring will gush anew, In the pleasant April rain, And the summer sun and dew. So, in hours of deepest gloom, When the springs of gladness fail, And the roses in their bloom, Droop like maidens wan and pale, We shall find some hope that lies, Like a silent germ apart, Hidden far from careless eyes, In the garden of the heart — Some sweet hope to gladness wed, That will spring afresh and new, When grief's winter shall have fled, Giving place to sun and dew; Some sweet hope that breathes of spring, Through the weary, weary time, Budding for its blossoming, In the spirit's silent clime. SMALL BEGINNINGS. A traveler through a dusty road strewed acorns on the lea, And one took root and sprouted up, and grew into a tree. Love sought its shade, at evening time, to breathe its early vows; And age w*s pleased, in heats of noon, to bask beneath its boughs; The dormouse loved its dangling twigs, the birds sweet music bore; It stood a glory in its place, a blessing evermore. A little spring had lost its way amid the grass and fern; A passing stranger scooped a well, where weary men might turn; He walled it in, and hung with care a ladle at the brink; He thought not of the deed he did, but judged that toil might drink. He passed again, and lo! the well, by sum- mers never dried, Had cooled ten thousand parching tongues, and saved a life beside, A dreamer dropped a random thought; 'twas old, and yet 'twas new; A simple fancy of the brain, but strong in being true. It shone upon a genial mind, and lo! its light became A lamp of life, a beacon ray, a monitory flame. The thought was small; its issue great; a watchfire on the hill, It sheds its radiance far adown, and cheers the valley still! A nameless man, amid a crowd that thronged the daily mart, Let fall a word of hope and love, unstud- ied, from the heart; A whisper on the tumult thrown, a transi- tory breath. It raised a brother from the dust; it saved a soul from death. O germ! O fount! O word of love! O thought at random cast! Ye were but little at the first, but mighty at the last. Chakles Mackay. THE KINDLY WORD. If you have a word of cheer That may light a pathway clear. Of a brother pilgrim here, Let him know. Show him you appreciate What he does, and do not wait Till the heavy hand of fate Lays him low. If your heart contains a thought That would brighter make his lot, Then, I beg you, hide it not; Tell him so. Life is hard enough at best, But the love that is expressed Makes it seem a pathway blest To our feet. And the troubles that we share Seem the easier to bear. Smile upon your neighbor's care As you greet. Rough and stony are the ways, Dark and dreary are our days, But another's love and praise Make them sweet. Wait not till your friend is dead Ere your compliments are said; For the spirit that has fled, If it know, SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 195 Does not need to speed it on Our poor praise; where it has gone Love's eternal golden dawn Is aglow. But unto our brother here That poor praise is very dear; If you've any word of cheer, Tell him so. IF WE KNEW. Could we but draw back the curtain* That surround each other's lives, See the naked heart and spirit, Know what spur the action gives, Often we should find it better, Purer than we judge we should: We should love each other better, If we only understood. Could we judge all deeds by motives, See the good and bad within, Often we should love the sinner, All the while we loathe the sin. Could we know the powers working To o'erthrow integrity, We should judge each other's errors With more patient charity. If we knew the cares and trials, Knew the effort all in vain, And the bitter disappointment, Understood the loss and gain, Would the grim external roughness Seem, I wonder, just the same? Would we help where now we hinder? Would we pity where we blame? Ah! we judge each other harshly, Knowing not life's hidden force. Knowing not the fount of action Is less turbid at its source, Seeing not amid the evil All the golden grains of good: Oh! we'd love each other better. If we only understood. Rudtard Kipling. SELECTION FROM ENDYMION. A thing of beauty is a joy forever: Its loveliness increases; it will never Pass into nothingness, but still will keep A bower quiet for us, and a sleep Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing. Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreath- ing A flowery band to bind us to the earth, Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth Of noble natures, of the gloomy days, Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways Made for our searching; yes, in spite of all, Some shape of beauty moves away the pall From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon, Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon For simple sheep; and such are daffodils With the green world they live in; and clear rills That for themselves a cooling covert make Against the hot season; the mid-forest brake, Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms: And such too is the grandeur of the dooms We have imagined for the mighty dead; All lovely tales that we have heard or read: And endless fountain of immortal drink, Pouring unto us the heaven's brink. Nor do we merely feel these essences For one short hour; no, even as the trees That whisper round a temple become soon Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon, The passion poesy, glories infinite, Haunt us till they become a cheering light Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast, That, whether there be shine, or gloom o'er- cast, They always must be with us, or we die. John Keats. THE CHANGELING. [Lowell's first child died in her second year. The sorrowful loss was softened by the birth of a second daughter. ] I had a little daughter, And she was given to me To lead me gently backward To the heavenly Father's knee, That I, by the force of nature, Might in some dim wise divine The depth of his infinite patience To this wayward soul of mine. I know not how others saw her, But to me she was wholly fair, And the light of the heaven she came from Still lingered and gleamed in her hair; For it was as wavy and golden, And as many changes took, As the shadows of sun-gilt ripples On the yellow bed of a brook. To what can I liken her smiling Upon me, her kneeling lover, How it leaped from her lips to her eyelids, And dimpled her wholly over, Till her outstretched hands smiled also, And I almost seemed to see The very heart of her mother Sending sun through her veins to me! She had been with us scarce a twelve- month, And it hardly seemed a day, When a troop of wandering angels Stole my little daughter away; Or perhaps those heavenly Zingari But loosed the hampering strings, And when they had opened her cage door, My little bird used her wings. 196 TREASURES OF POETRY. But they left in her stead a changeling, A little angel-child, That seems like her bud in full blossom, And smiles as she never smiled. When I wake in the morning:, I see it Where she always used to lie, And I feel as weak as a violet Alone 'neath the awful sky. As weak, yet as trustful also; For the whole year long- I see All the wonders of faithful Nature Still worked for the love of me; Winds wander, and dews drip earthward, Rain falls, suns rise and set, Earth whirls, and all but to prosper A poor little violet. This child is not mine as the first was; I can not sing it to rest, I can not lift it up fatherly And bless it upon my breast; Yet it lies in my little one's cradle And sits in my little one's chair, And the light of the heaven she's gone to Transfigures its golden hair. Jambs Russell Lowell. THE ARROW AND THE SONG. I shot an arrow into the air; It fell to earth, I knew not where; For, so swiftly it flew, the sight Could not follow it in its flight. I breathed a song into the air; It fell to earth, I knew not where; For who has sight so keen and strong, That it can follow the flight of song? Long, long afterward in an oak I found the arrow, still unbroke; And the song, from beginning to end, I found again in the heart of a friend. Henby Wadswobth Longfellow. BETTER THINGS. Better to smell the violet cool than sip the glowing wine; Better to hark a hidden brook than watch a diamond shine. Better the love of a gentle heart than beauty's favor proud; Better the rose's living seed, than roses in a crowd. Better to love in loneliness than to bask in love all day; Better the fountain in the heart than the fountain by the way. Better be fed by a mother's hand than eat alone at will; Better to trust in God than say, "My goods my storehouse fill." Better to be a little wise than in knowl- edge to abound; Better to teach a child than toil to fill perfection's round. Better to sit at a master's feet than thrill a listening State; Better suspect that thou art proud than be sure that thou art great. Better to walk the real unseen than watch the hour's event; Better the "Well done" at the last than the air with shouting rent. Better to have a quiet grief than a hurry- ing delight; Better the twilight of the dawn than the noonday burning bright. Better a death when work is done than earth's most favored birth; Better a child in God's great house than the king of all the earth. Geobgb McDonald. BEFORE THE SUN GOES DOWN. Let not the sun go down upon your wrath — Eph. 4:26. Has anger any place today In heart and mind? Has malice prompted you to say What was not kind? See how the sum is shining bright In heaven above; Oh, let him not go down tonight On aught but love! Have you been wronged in any way, And so are cross? Has some one injured you today, And caused you loss? The golden sun is sinking fast — 'Twill soon be night! Forgive, and let your wrath be cast Far out of sight! What? some one else was in the wrong, And his the debt? Well, never mind; show you are strong, And can forget. Look you how quickly fades the light; It will not wait! Quick, ere the sun goes down tonight, And 'tis too late! BEAUTY IS NOT PURITY. As fragrance sweet perfumes the air, From flowers dull, from flowers fair, A thought arises in my mind, That I may here a lesson find: The flower clothed in colors bright May seem indeed a pretty sight; But when I search for fragrance rare, I seek in vain; it is not there. Far in a corner, hidden quite, A tiny bloom, not half so bright, Is sending forth its fragrance rare, SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 197 That, rising, sweetly scents the air. Though small, this blossom oft can cheer A troubled heart, when passing near, And in a quiet, simple way, Some silent grief can often stay. Just so with people of today; We can not judge by faces gay. A heart that's shaded black as night May have a face that's pretty, bright; But wait a moment, look within, A heart you'll see all stained with sin. No fragrance can this blighted one Impart to others; it hath none. But there's a face, so tender plain Above a heart that's never vain; There sweetest graces, rich and rare, Lend, daily, perfume to the air, Cheers pilgrims sad along the way, Entreats no gratitude as pay. Sweet emblem of the Christ below, The Lily of the long ago! Sweet flowerets sent from God above Teach others lessons of his love. Though crushed and bruised beneath our feet, Their perfume rises still more sweet; To passers-by tells silently The story of life's mystery; And though their life may soon be gone, Their fragrance sweet will linger on. Isabel C. Btetjm. OPPORTUNITY. Master of human destinies am I. Fame, love, and fortune on my footsteps wait; Cities and fields I walk; I penetrate Deserts and seas remote, and, passing by Hovel, and mart, and palace, soon or late I knock unbidden once at every gate! If sleeping, wake; if feasting, rise before I turn away. It is the hour of fate, And they who follow me reach every state Mortals desire, and conquer every foe Save death; but those who doubt or hesi- tate, Condemned to failure, penury, and woe, Seek me in vain and uselessly implore — I answer not, and I return no more. John J. Ingalls. THE LOST DAY. Lost! lost! lost! A gem of countless price, Cut from the living rock, And graved in Paradise; Set round with three times eight Large diamonds, clear and bright, And each with sixty smaller ones, All changeful as the light. Lost — where the thoughtless throng In Fashion's mazes wind, Where trilleth Folly's song, Leaving a sting behind. Yet to my hand 'twas given, A golden harp to buy, Such as the white-robed choir attune To deathless minstrelsy. Lost! lost! lost! I feel all search is vain; That gem of countless cost Can ne'er be mine again. I offer no reward; For till these heart-strings sever, I know that Heaven's entrusted gift Is reft away forever. But when the sea and land, Like burning scroll have fled, I'll see it in His hand Who judge th quick and dead; And when of scathe and loss That man can ne'er repair, The dread inquiry meets my soul, What shall it answer there? L. H. Sigoubnht. ONE BY ONE. One by one the sands are flowing, One by one the moments fall; Some are coming, some are going; Do not strive to grasp them all. One by one thy duties wait thee; Let thy whole strength go to each, Let no future dreams elate thee, Learn thou first what these can teach. One by one (bright gifts from heaven) Joys are sent thee here below; Take them readily when given, Ready, too, to let them go. One by one thy griefs shall meet thee, Do not fear an armed band; One will fade as others greet thee, Shadows passing through the land. Do not look at life's long sorrow, See how small each moment's pain; God will help thee for tomorrw, So each day begin again. Every hour that fleets so slowly Has its task to do or bear; Luminous the crown, and holy, If thou set each gem with care. Do not linger with regretting, Or for passing hours despond; Nor, the daily toil forgetting, Look too eagerly beyond. Hours are golden links, God's token, Reaching heaven; but one by one Take them, lest the chain be broken Ere the pilgrimage be done. Adelaide A. Procter. 198 TREASURES OF POETRY. UNWRITTEN POEMS. There are poems unwritten and songs un- sung Sweeter than any that ever were heard; Poems that will wait for an angel-tongue, Songs that long for a paradise bird; Poems that rippled through lowliest lives, Poems unnoted, and hidden away Down in souls where the beautiful thrives Sweetly as flowers in the airs of May; Poems that only the angels above us, Looking down deep in our hearts may be- hold; Felt, though unseen by the beings who love us; Written on lives all in letters of gold. INFLUENCE. I dropped a pebble in the stream, It sank forever from my sight; A moment in the sun's warm beam A diamond sparkled pure and bright, Reflecting far its radiant light; A circle, small indeed at first, Widened, e'en midst the tempest's roar, Until at last it faintly burst And vanished on the farther shore. A frown, a scowl, an angry glance, A hasty or unguarded word, A formal bow, a look askance — These, quicker than a swift-winged bird, Pierce to the heart like two-edged sword; Spreading a baleful influence wide, They cast a murksome shade and gloom Across life's rough and troubled tide, And reach unto the silent tomb. A word, a look of sympathy, A penny generously bestowed, A simple act of courtesy, A kindly influence shed abroad, And from the soul lift many a load. These angel-deeds, grand and sublime, Like ripples on the restless sea, Sweep o'er the fretful stream of time And reach into eternity. M. M. DeLevis. TRUTH AND FREEDOM. On the page that is immortal, We the brilliant promise see: "Ye shall know the truth, my people, And its might shall make you free!" For the truth, then, let us battle, Whatsoever fate betide; Long the boast that we are freemen, We have made and published wide. He who has the truth, and keeps it, Keeps what not to him belongs, But performs a selfish action, That his fellow mortal wrongs. He who seeks the truth, and trembles At the dangers he must brave, Is not fit to be a freeman — He at best is but a slave. He who hears the truth, and places Its high promptings under ban, Loud may boast of all that'£ manly, But can never be a man! Friend, this simple lay who readest, Be not thou like either them, But to truth give utmost freedom, And the tide it raises stem. Bold in speech and bold in action Be forever! Time will test, Of the free-souled and the slavish, Which fulfils life's mission best. Be thou like the noble ancient — Scorn the threat that bids thee fear: Speak! — no matter what betide thee; Let them strike, but make them hear! Be thou like the first apostles, Be thou like heroic Paul; If a free thought seek expression, Speak it boldly — speak it all! Face thine enemies — accusers; Scorn the prison, rack, or rod; And if thou hast truth to utter, Speak, and leave the rest to God! William D. Gallagher. AS A BEAM ER THE FACE OF THE WATERS. As a beam o'er the face of the waters may glow While the tide runs in darkness and cold- ness below, So the cheek may be tinged with a warm sunny smile, Though the cold heart to ruin runs darkly the while. One fatal remembrance, one sorrow that throws Its bleak shade alike o'er our joys and our woes, To which life nothing darker or brighter can bring, For which joy has no balm and affliction no sting — ■ Oh! this thought in the midst of enjoyment will stay, Like a dead, leafless branch in the sum- mer's bright ray; The beams of the warm sun play round it in vain; It may smile in his light, but it blooms not again. Thomas Moore. SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 199 THE TWO PENNIES. From the mint two bright new pennies came, The value and beauty of both the same: One slipped from the hand, and fell to the ground, Then rolled out of sight and could not be found ; The other was passed by many a hand, Through many a change in many a land — For temple dues paid, now used in the mart, Now bestowed on the poor by a pitying heart. At length it so happened, as years went round That the long-lost, unused coin was found, Filthy and black, its inscription destroyed Through rusting peacefully unemployed; "Whilst the well-worked coin was bright and clear Through active service year after year; For the brightest are those who live for duty — Rust more than rubbing will tarnish beauty. FORGIVENESS. My heart was heavy, for its trust had been Abused, its kindness answered with foul wrong; So, turning gloomily from my fellow men, One summer Sabbath-day I strolled among The green mounds of the village burial- place, Where, pondering how all human love and hate Find one sad level, and how, soon or late, Wronged and wrong-doer, each with meek- ened face, And cold hands folded over a still heart, Pass the green threshold of our common grave, Whither all footsteps tend, whence none depart, Awed for myself, and pitying my race, Our common sorrow, like a mighty wave, Swept all my pride away, and, trembling, I forgave! John Greenleaf Whittier. SOMEHOW OR OTHER. Life has a burden for every man's shoulder, None may escape from its trouble and care; Miss it in youth and 'twill come when we're older, And fit us as close as the garments we wear. Sorrow comes into our lives uninvited, Robbing our hearts of their treasures of song; Lovers grow cold, and friendships are slighted, Yet somehow or other we worry along. Every-day toil is an every-day blessing, Though poverty's cottage and crust we may share; Weak is the back on which burdens are pressing, But stout is the heart that is strength- ened by prayer. Somehow or other the pathway grows brighter Just when we mourn there were none to befriend; Hope in the heart makes the burdens seem lighter, And somehow or other we get to the end. OPPORTUNITY. They do me wrong who say I come no more When once I knock and fail to find you in; For every day I stand outside your door, And bid you wake, and rise to fight and win. Wail not for precious chances passed away, Weep not for golden ages on the wane; Each night I burn the records of the day, At sunrise every soul is born again. Laugh like a boy at splendors that have sped, To vanished joys be blind and deaf and dumb; My judgments seal the dead past with its dead, But never bind a moment yet to come. Though deep in mire, wring not your hands and weep ; I lend my arm to all who say, "I can." No shamefaced outcast ever sank so deep But he might rise and be again a man. Walteb Malone. THE POET S SONG. The rain had fallen, the poet arose, He passed by the town and out of the street, A light wind blew from the gates of the sun, And waves of shadow went over the wheat, And he sat him down in a lonely place, And chanted a melody loud and sweet, That made the wild-swan pause in her cloud, And the lark drop down at his feet. The swallow stopped as he hunted the bee, The snake slipped under a spray, The wild hawk stood with the down on his beak, And stared, with his foot on the prey, And the nightingale thought, "I have sung- many songs, But never a one so gay, For he sings of what the world will be When the years have died away." Alfred Tennyson. 200 TREASURES OF POETRY. SCOTCH SONGS. There are tears o' pity, an' tears o' wae, An' tears for excess o' joy will fa'; Yet the tears o' luve are sweeter than a'! There are sighs o' pity, an' sighs o' wae, An' sighs o' regret frae the saul will gae; Yet the sighs o' luve are sweeter than a'! There's the look o' pity, the look o' wae, The look o' frien', an' the look o' fae; Yet the look o' luve is sweeter than a'! There's the smile o' friends when they come frae far, There's the smile o' joy in the festive ha'; Yet the smile o' luve is sweeter than a'! Alfbed Tennyson. WHEN I HAVE TIME. When I have time, so many things I'll do To make life happier and more fair For those whose lives are crowded now with care; I'll help to lift them from their low de- spair — ■ When I have time! When I have time, the friend I love so well Shall know no more these weary, toiling days; I'll lead her feet in pleasant paths always, And cheer her heart with words of sweet- est praise — When I have time! When you have time, the friend you hold so dear May be beyond the reach of all your sweet intent, May never know that you so kindly meant To fill her life with gentle, sweet content — When you had time! Now is the time! Ah! friend, no longer wait To scatter loving smiles and words of cheer To those around, whose lives are now so dear; They may not need you in the coming year — Xow is the time. TO THINE OWN SELF BE TRUE. By thine own soul's law learn to live, And if men thwart thee take no heed, And if men hate thee have no care; Sing thou thy song and do thy deed, Hope thou thy hope and pray thy prayer, And claim no crown they will not give, Nor bays they grudge thee for thy hair. Keep thou thy soul-worn steadfast oath, And to thy heart be true — thy heart; What thy soul teaches learn to know, And play out thine appointed part, And thou shalt reap as thou shalt sow, Nor helped nor hindered in thy growth, To thy full stature thou shalt grow. Fix on the future's goal thy face, And let thy feet be lured to stray Nowhither, but be swift to run, And nowhere tarry by the way, Until at last the end is won And thou mayst look back from thy place And see thy long day's journey done. Pakenham Beatty. DARE AND DO. Dare to think, though others frown; Dare in words your thoughts express; Dare to rise, though oft cast down; Dare the wronged and scorned to bless. Dare from custom to depart; Dare the priceless pearl possess; Dare to wear it next your heart; Dare, when others curse, to bless. Dare forsake what you deem wrong; Dare to walk in wisdom's way; Dare to give where gifts belong; Dare God's precepts to obey. Do what conscience says is right; Do what reason says is best; Do with all your mind and might; Do your duty, and be blest. THE TONE OF THE VOICE. It is not so much what you say As the manner in which you say it; It is not so much the language you use As the tones in which you convey it. "Come here!" I sharply said, And the baby cowered and wept; "Come here!" I cooed, and he looked and smiled, And straight to my lap he crept. The words may be mild and fair, And the tones may pierce like a dart; The words may be soft as the summer air, And the tones may break the heart: For words but come from the mind, And grow by study and art; But the tones leap forth from the inner self, And reveal the state of heart. Whether you know it or not, Whether you mean or care, Gentleness, kindness, love, and hate, Envy and anger are there. Then would you quarrels avoid, And in peace and love rejoice, Keep anger not only out of your words, But keep it out of your voice. SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 201 THE ICEBERG. An iceberg drifting- in the polar seas Braces its cold and bold and glistening- front Against the sharpness of the Arctic blasts; But when it idly floats by southern shores, Where mild sunshine wakes the praise of Spring, Warm airs embrace the rugged stranger round. And melt away its angles with their breath ; The tepid waves caress it, and the light Nestles among its many crevices, Till it relents, and in a veil of mist Withdrawing, sinks, and weeps itself away Upon the bosom of the summer sea. And so, when argument, reproach, and force Are spent in vain, the hard heart yields to love. LITTLE KINDNESSES. You gave on the way a pleasant smile And thought no more about it; It cheered a life that was sad the while That might have been wrecked without it; And so for the smile and its fruitage fair You'll reap a crown sometime, some- where. You spoke one day a cheering word, And passed to other duties; It warmed a heart, new promise stirred, And painted a life with beauties; And so for the word and its silent prayer You'll reap a palm sometime, some- where. You lent a hand to a fallen one, A lift in kindness given; It saved a soul when help was none, And won a heart for heaven; And so for the help you proffered there You'll reap a joy sometime, somewhere. ON THE PICTURE OF A TIRED OF PLAY." CHILD Tired of play! Tired of play! What hast thou done this livelong day! The birds are silent, and so is the bee; The sun is creeping up steeple and tree; The doves have flown to the sheltering eaves, And the nests are dark with the drooping leaves; Twilight gathers, and day is done — How hast thou spent it restless one! Playing? But what hast thou done beside To tell thy mother at eventide? What promise of morn is left unbroken? What kind word to thy playmate spoken? Whom hast thou pitied, and whom forgiven? How with thy faults has duty striven? What hast thou learned by field and hill, By greenwood path, and by singing rill? There will come an eve to a longer day, That will find thee tired — but not of play! And thou wilt lean, as thou leanest now, With drooping limbs and aching brow, And wish the shadows would faster creep, And long to go to thy quiet sleep. Well were it then if thine aching brow Were as free from sin and shame as now! Well for thee if thy lip could tell A tale like this, of a day spent well! If thine open hand hath relieved distress; If thy pity hath sprung to wretchedness; If thou hast forgiven the sore offense, And humbled thy heart with penitence; If Nature's voices have spoken with thee With her holy meanings eloquently; If every creature hath won thy love, From the creeping worm to the brooding dove; If never a sad, low-spoken word Hath plead with thy human heart un- heard, — Then, when the night steals on, as now, It will bring relief to thine aching brow; And, with joy and peace at the thought of rest, Thou wilt sink to sleep on thy mother's breast. Nathaniel Parker Willis. OLD YEAR MEMORIES. Let us forget the things that vexed and tried us, The worrying things that caused our souls to fret; The hopes that, cherished long, were still denied us, Let us forget. Let us forget the little slights that pained us, The greater wrongs that rankle some- times yet; The pride with which some lofty one dis- dained us, Let us forget. Let us forget our brother's fault and failing, The yielding to temptations that beset, That the perchance, though grief be una- vailing, Can not forget. But blessings manifold, past all deserving; Kind words and thoughtful deeds, a countless throng; The faults o'ercome, the rectitude un- swerving, Let us remember long. The sacrifice of love, the generous giving When friends were few, the handclasp warm and strong, The fragrance of each life of holy living, Let us remember long. 202 TREASURES OF POETRY. Whatever things were good and true and gracious, Whate'er of right has triumphed over wrong, What love of God or man has rendered pre- cious, Let us remember long. So, pondering well the lessons it has taught us, We tenderly may bid the year good-by, Holding in memory the good it brought us, Letting the evil die. Susan E. Gammons. THE WANDERER. Upon a mountain height, far from the sea, I found a shell, And to my listening ear the lonely thing Ever a song of ocean seemed to sing, Ever a tale of ocean seemed to tell. How came the shell upon that mountain height? Ah, who can say Whether there dropped by some too care- less hand, Or whether there cast when ocean swept the land, Ere the Eternal had ordained the day? Strange, was it not? Far from its native deep, One song it sang — Sang of the awful mysteries of the tide, Sang of the misty sea, profound and wide; Ever with echoes of the ocean rang. And as the shell upon the mountain height Sings of the sea, So do I ever, leagues and leagues away — So do I ever, wandering where I may, Sing, O my home! sing, O my home! of thee. IF WE KNEW. If we knew when walking thoughtless Through the crowded, noisy way, That some pearl of wondrous whiteness Close beside our pathway lay, We would pause when now we hasten, We would often look around, Lest our careless feet should trample Some rare jewel in the ground. If we knew what forms were fainting For the shade that we should fling, If we knew what lips were parching For the water we should bring We would haste with eager footsteps, We would work with willing hands, Bearing cups of cooling water, Planting rows of shading palms. If we knew when friends around us Closely press to say, "Good-by," Which among the lips that kiss us, First should 'neath the daisies lie, We would clasp our arms around them, Looking on them through our tears; Tender words of love eternal We would whisper in their ears. If we knew what lives were darkened By some thoughtless v/ord of ours, Which has ever lain among them Like the frost among the flowers. Oh! with what sincere repentings, With what anguish of regret, While our eyes were overflowing, Would we cry, "Forgive! Forget!" If we knew — alas! and do we Ever care or seek to know, Whether bitter herbs or roses In our neighbor's gardens grow? God forgive us! lest hereafter Our hearts break to hear him say, "Careless child, I never knew you; From my presence flee away." FIGHT FRESH BATTLES. Is it too late? Ah, nothing's too late Till the tired heart shall cease to palpitate. Cato learned Greek at eighty; Sophocles Wrote his grand "Oedipus," and Simonides Bore off the prize of verse from his com- peers, When each had numbered more than four- score years; And Theophrastus at fourscore and ten Had but begun his "Characters of Men"; Chaucer at Woodstock, with the Nightin- gales, At sixty wrote the "Canterbury Tales"; Goethe at Weimar, toiling to the last, Completed "Faust" when eighty years were past. What then? Shall we sit idly down and say, "The night hath come; it is no longer day"? The night hath not yet come; we are not quite Cut off from labor by the failing light; Something remains for us to do or dare. Even the oldest tree some fruit may bear; For age is opportunity no less Than youth itself, though in another dress; And as the evening twilight fades away, The sky is filled with stars, invisible by day. A HOMELY COUNSEL ON CARE. Do not trouble trouble Till trouble troubles you. Do not look for trouble; Let trouble look for you. Do not borrow sorrow; You'll surely have your share. He who dreams of sorrow Will find that sorrow's there. SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 203 Do not hurry worry By worrying lest it come. To flurry is to worry; 'Twill miss you if you're mum. If care you've got to carry, Wait till it's at the door; For he who runs to meet it Takes up the load before. If minding- will not mend it, Then better not to mind; The best thing- is to end it — Just leave it all behind. Who feareth hath forsaken The heavenly Father's side; What He hath undertaken He surely will provide. The very birds reprove thee, With all their happy song; The very flowers teach thee, That fretting is a wrong. "Cheer up!" the sparrow chirpeth; "Thy Father feedeth me; Think how much more he careth, O lonely child, for thee!" "Fear not," the flowers whisper; "Since thus he hath arrayed The buttercups and daisy, How canst thou be afraid?" Then do not trouble trouble Till trouble troubles you; You'll only trouble trouble, And trouble others, too. Mark Gut Pearse. HOW EASY IT IS! How easy it is to spoil a day! The thoughtless words of cherished friends, The selfish act of a child at play, The strength of will that will not bend, The slight of a comrade, the scorn of a foe, The smile that is full of bitter things — They all can tarnish its golden glow And take the grace from its airy wings. By the force of a thought we did not check Little by little we mold the clay, And little flaws may the vessel wreck. The careless waste of a white-winged hour, That held the blessing we long had sought. The sudden loss of wealth or power — And lo, the day is with ill inwrought. How easy it is to spoil a life — And many are spoiled ere well begun — In some life darkened by sin and strife, Or downward course of a cherished one, By toil that robs the form of its grace And undermines till health gives way; By the peevish temper, the frowning face. The hopes that go and cares that stay. A day is too long to be spent in vain; Some good should come as the hours go by, Some tangled maze may be made more plain Some lowered glance may be raised on high. And life is too short to spoil like this; If only a prelude, it may be sweet; Let us bind together its thread of bliss And nourish the flowers around our feet. BENEATH THE SURFACE. The things of greatest value Are often hid from view. The gold which is so costly Is found but by the few Who dig and seek the treasure With unremitting toil: 'Tis so with all that's precious Contained within the soil. And often others' virtues Are not by one glance seen; Sometimes a roughened surface Conceals a soul's bright gleam. Then, pass not by with lightness The one you can't "see through' Perhaps if you look closely, A lesson he'll teach to you. The ways of God are hidden Ofttimes from mortal view; Sometimes there seems no kindness In the way he's dealt with you. A burden sore may press you; You know not why 'tis giv'n, But trust thou in the Father Till the low'ring cloud is riv'n. Look, then, beneath the surface For things of greatest worth, Be it virtues in your brother Or treasures of the earth; And most of all, God's purpose To you, his trusting one, For oft we see a shadow When just behind's the sun. Nettie L. Bhrghousb. INDIRECTION. Fair are the flowers and the children, but their subtle suggestion is fairer; Rare is the roseburst of dawn, but the secret that clasps it is rarer; Sweet the exultance of song, but the strain that precedes it is sweeter, And never was poem yet writ but the meaning outmastered the meter. Never a daisy that grows but a mystery guideth the growing; Never a river that flows but a majesty scepters the flowing; Never a Shakespeare that soared but a stronger than he did enfold him; Nor ever a prophet fortells but a might- ier seer hath foretold him. 204 TREASURES OF POETRY. Back of the canvas that throbs the painter is hinted and hidden; Into the statue that breathes the soul of the sculptor is hidden; Under the joy that is felt lie the infinite issues of feeling-; Crowning the glory revealed is the glory that crowns the revealing. Great are the symbols of being, but that which is symboled is greater; Vast the create and beheld, but vaster the inward creator; Back of the sound broods the silence; back of the gift stands the giving; Back of the hand that receives thrill the sensitive nerves of receiving. Space is as nothing to spirit: the deed is outdone by the doing; The heart of the wooer is warm, but warmer the heart of the wooing; And up from the pits where these shiver, and up from the heights where those shine, Twin voices and shadows swim starward, and the essence of life is divine. Richard Realf. THE FOUR WISHES. Charles: I ask for power, that 'neath my sway Nations might tremble and obey; Over the sea to stretch my hand, And sway my scepter o'er the land; That the proudest monarch should lay down, At will of mine, his jeweled crown; That rich and poor should bend the knee And pay due homage unto me; That the sun's eye should never shine On kingdoms that I called not mine: Thus, seated on my lofty throne, The whole wide world my sway should own. Mother: Thirst not for power! for, rightly used, 'Twill make some foes; but, if abused, Nations will rise and curses shed — Long, loud, deep curses — on thy head! Thirst not for power! thy life will be A life of splendid misery, And thou wilt be the slave of all, Though at thy feet the world should fall. Thirst not for power! for, though today Nations thy slightest will obey, Perchance tomorrow thou'lt lay down, Before the king of death, thy crown! Albert: I ask for riches — wealth untold; For coffers filled with glittering gold; For pearls which in the ocean shine As gems that sparkle in the mine; Upon the treasures of each zone I'd lay my hands and call my own; I would each star that decks the sky A diamond at my feet might lie; That every leaf on every tree Would fall in precious stones for me: Yes, wealth into my coffers pour Till mortal would not wish for more. Mother: Oh, ask not gold! 'twill melt away Like dew-drops in the early day. Oh, ask not gold! for it will fling A fetter o'er the spirit's wing, And bind it when it fain would rise To seek true riches in the skies. Oh, ask not gold! for it will prove A snare, and cause thy feet to rove Far from the straight and narrow way Which leads to realms of endless day! Mary: I ask for beauty — for an eye Bright as the stars in yonder sky; For tresses on the air to fling And put to shame the raven's wing; Cheeks where the lily and the rose Are blended in a sweet repose; For pearly teeth, and coral lip, Tempting the honey-bee to sip; And for a fairy foot as light As is the young gazelle's in flight; And then a small, white, tapering hand: I'd reign a beauty in the land. Mother: Sigh not for beauty! like the flower, That opes its petals for an hour And droops beneath the noontide ray, So will thy beauty fade away. The brightest eye at last must close, And on the cheek where blooms the rose The hand of death will set his seal; O'er it the canker-worm will steal; Those tresses, rich and glossy now, Clustering around the snowy brow, Will turn to dust: yes, beauty's bloom Must wither in the silent tomb. Eliza: I ask the poet's gift — the lyre, With skilful hand to sweep each wire: I'd pour my burning thoughts in song, In lays deep, passionate, and strong, Till hearts should thrill at every word As mine is thrilled at song of bird. Oh! I would die and leave some trace That earth has been my dwelling-place; Would live in hearts forevermore, When my frail, fitful life is o'er. Oh, for the gifted poet's power! This is my wish; be this my dower! Mother: A glorious gift! yet it will be A source of sorrow unto thee, In this cold, selfish world of ours, Where piercing thorns grow mid the flowers; 'Twill fill that gentle breast of thine With thirst for something too divine; And, like a young, caged bird, whose eye Looks out upon the free blue sky, Thy spirit's wing will long to soar To seek some far-off, peaceful shore. SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 205 It may not be a happy lot; Then, gentle maiden, ask it not. All: What shall we ask? If power will shed So many curses on the head; And if the gift of wealth will fling A fetter o'er the spirit's wing; If beauty blooms but for a day, Then, like the spring-flower, fades away; And if the poet's thrilling lyre Will waken such a restless fire Within the soul, and make it pine With thirst for something too divine, — What shall we ask — fain would we know — To make us happy here below? Mother: Oh! ask for things of nobler worth Than the poor cankering gifts of earth: Ask for the treasures of the mind, A heart all generous, true, and kind; Ask virtue a green wreath to twine, To deck these young, fair brows of thine — A wreath of fadeless buds and flowers, Destined to bloom in heaven's own bowers; Ask grace divine; for it will be Worth beauty, fame, and power, to thee; And, when this fleeting life is o'er, 'Twill give thee life forevermore. Miss A. Cuttee. FOUR-LEAF CLOVERS. I know a place where the sun is like gold, And the cherry-blooms burst forth with snow; And down underneath is the loveliest nook, Where the four-leaf clovers grow. One leaf is for hope, — and one is lor faith, And one is for love, you know; And God put another one in for luck: If you search you will find where they grow. But you must have hope, and you must have faith, You must love and be strong; and so, If you work, if you wait, you will find the place Where the four-leaf clovers grow. SINGING BIRDS FLY LOWEST. The eagle builds his aerie Far up the mountain height, And the birds of prey sail proudly In upper realms of light; But the singing birds fly lowest, Amid the groves and flowers, Their gentler lives and voices In fellowship with ours. Ambition rises upward, Impelled by strong desire; And men of eagle spirit, To azure heights aspire; But the singing souls fly lowest Above the moor and fen, In joyous, songful service To all the souls of men. We praise the eagle's powers; We watch the falcon's flight, And picture beak and talons On our escutcheons bright: But God to humbler creatures Gives his unchallenged choice; For the singing birds fly lowest, With better wing and voice. O soul! repining, restless, Impatient with thy lot, Look up, and read the lesson, Too oft by men forgot; For the singing birds fly lowest, And the noblest sons of men Are not on the dizzy mountain, But down in the moor and fen. THE WORDS I DID NOT SAY. Many a word my tongue has uttered Has brought me sorrow at eventide, And I have grieved with a grieving bitter Over speech of anger and scorn and pride; But never a word in my heart remembered As I sit with myself at the close of day Has pierced with repentance more unavail- ing Than have the words I did not say. The word of cheer that I might have whis- pered To a heart that was breaking with weight of woe, The word of hope that I might have given To one whose courage was ebbing low, The word of warning I should have spoken In the ear of one who walked astray — Oh, how they come with sad rebuking, Those helpful words that I did not say! So many and sweet — if I had but said them, How glad my heart then would have been! What a dew of blessing would fall upon it As the day's remembrances gather in! But I said them not, and the chance forever Is gone with the moments of yesterday, And I sit alone with a spirit burdened By all the words that I did not say. The morrow will come with its new begin- ning, Glad and grand, through the morning's gates; Shall I not then with this thought beside me Go bravely forth to the work that waits, Giving a message of cheer and kindness To all I meet on the world's highway, So that I never will grieve at twilight Over the words that I did not say? 206 TREASURES OF POETRY. BE SWIFT. Be swift, dear heart, in loving; For time is brief, And thou mayst along life's highway Keep step with grief. Be swift, dear heart, in saying The kindly word; When ears are sealed, thy passionate plead- ing Will not be heard. Be swift, dear heart, in doing The gracious deed, Lest soon they whom thou holdest dearest Be past the need. Dear heart, be swift in loving; Time speedeth on, And all thy chance of blessed service Will soon be gone. WHITHER? Are you living with a purpose? is it right? Have you plans for all your future, day and night? Are your methods straight and square? Are your motives pure and fair? Are you throwing life away? Are you wearing false array? Are you satisfied or not, With your lot? Stop and think! There are many lives just drifting from the shore, Caring little where they go or what explore; Lives that seem aglow with force, Wavering in uncertain course, Floating with the fickle tide, Out on wild old ocean wide; Sails of paper, ropes of sand, Far from land — Will they think? There are other lives pursuing fame and gold, Power's scepter madly seeking, young and old; They are rushing blindly on, Some excited, others wan. As the bubble shines and glows, Will they grasp it? ah! who knows? What a selfish, worthless plan Is life's plan As they think! Still another class of painted butterflies Fluttering idly in life's gentle summer skies, Sipping only honeyed food, Not a care does life include — Pleasure seeking, transient bliss, Life to them a rose's kiss: Ah! it's pity they must need For indeed, They don't think. Oh, to sail toward that harbor, calm and deep, Where my soul with nobler things its tryst would keep, Where the storms of life are spent, Where the sunshine of content, Smiling on the rippling sea Is reflected back to me! There's no other course than this Leads to bliss — Thus I think. ONLY A LITTLE WHILE. 'Tis only such a narrow line 'Twixt this world and the other, That almost every day we miss A sister or a brother. Our friends that greet us in the morn Scarce walk with us till noon; Their words of tender love are hushed To silence by the tomb. We long to see their faces again, But still we seek in vain; Their footsteps that kept pace with ours, We'll never hear again. They came and went like flowers of spring; They vanished like the dew; And as they left our side we said, "Soon we shall follow you." Our life is short — a little day, A slender cord to sever, And we shall leave this stage of time To join the great forever: No loving word or kindly deed Can go beyond the giver; Affection's off 'rings then can reach No farther than the river. 'Tis such a very little while We have to love each other; To smooth the way for weary feet, Or lift a fallen brother. Then, let us every moment seek To cheer the broken-hearted; "Bestow on all our deeds of love Before they have departed. W. J. Henet. ENDURANCE. How much the heart may bear and yet not break! How much the flesh may suffer and not die! I question much if any pain or ache Of soul or body brings our end more nigh. Death chooses his own time; till that is worn All evils may be borne. We shrink and shudder at the surgeon's knife, Each nerve recoiling from the cruel steel, Whose edge seems searching for the quiv- ering life: SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 207 Yet to our senses the bitter pangs reveal That still, although the trembling flesh be torn, This, also, can be borne. We see a sorrow rising in our way And try to flee from the approaching ill; We seek some small escape, we weep and pray; But when the blow falls, then our hearts are still, Not that the pain is of its sharpness shorn, But that it can be borne. We wind our life about another life — We hold it closer, dearer than our own — Anon it faints and falls in deadly strife, Leaving us stunned and stricken and alone; But, ah! we do not die with those we mourn — This, also, can be borne. Behold, we I've through all things — fam- ine, thirst, Bereavement, pain, all grief and misery, All woe and sorrow: life inflicts its worst On soul and body; but we can not die, Though we be sick and tired, and faint and worn: Lo! all things can be borne. Elizabeth Akbhs Allen. FINDING FAULT. In speaking of a person's faults, Pray don't forget your own; Remember those with homes of glass Should seldom throw a stone. If we have nothing else to do Than talk of those who sin, 'Tis better we commence at home, And from that point begin. We have no right to judge a man Until he's fairly tried; Should we not like his company, We know the world is wide. Some may have faults, and who has not' The old as well as young; Perhaps we may, for all we know, Have fifty to their one. I'll tell you of a better plan, And find it works full well — To find your own defects to cure, Ere others' faults you tell; And though I sometimes hope to be No worse than some I know, My own shortcomings bi" me let The faults of others go. Now let us all, when we begin To slander friend or foe, Think of the harm one word may do To those we little know; Remember curses, chicken-like, Sometimes to roost come home; Don't speak of others' faults until Tou have none of your own. GATHER WITH CARE. "Be circumspect," my mother said, In accents soft and low; I hear her plainly now as when She spoke long years ago. Full well she knew the world's deep arts, Its evil and deceit; And from its hidden snares she fain Would save my eager feet. And so in parable she spoke — "All are not good as fair. Gay flowers spring up on every side, But pluck, my love, with care: The rose conceals a cruel thorn; The nightshade, poisonous breath; The poppy flaunts its gaudy head Above the seeds of death. "Heed not the tallest or the gay; But in its lowly bed, Seek where the perfumed violet Bends down its modest head. The lily, and the heartsease, too, Are innocent as fair. Ah! flowers abound on every side, But gather, love, with care." THANK HIM. For pasture-lands folded with beauty, For plenty that burdened the vale, For the wealth of the teeming abundance, And the promise too royal to fail, We lift to the Maker our anthems, But none the less cheerily come To thank him for bloom and fruition And the happiness crowning the home. Margaret E. Sangster. FAREWELL, OLD MILL. I've come to sit upon thy porch Again today, old mill; The stream is high and swollen, and Thy timeworn timbers thrill With fall of heavy waters, like My heart with grief and joy, At recollections of the time I wandered here a boy. My steps are slow and trembling, but I've come once more to look On dear familiar places and Each well remembered nook. The old stone basement is the same We wandered in and out, The still dark pools beneath the rocks We angled in for trout. The long-used timbers are decayed, And roof aslant; I see That time has wrought a change, old mill, In you as well as me: The steps are gone, the creeper climbs The moss-grown window sill, 208 TREASURES OF POETRY. The flume is gone or sunken, The busy wheel is still. and We waded in the shallows, tempted By the silvery gleam Of sunshine on the pebbles in The cool and limpid stream; I would that I might wander by The grassy banks once more With friends of early childhood, who Have reached the other shore. Soon autumn leaves will glow throughout The hillside and the glen, The woodbine turn to crimson, and I may not be here then. I hear a mournful cadence in The waters, but they swell The sadness into gladness; so Farewell, old mill, farewell. SUCCESS. I stand, at last, upon the lonesome height — The purple-tinted peak that was my goal; The prize I used to dream of in the night, The lofty -end on which I set my soul, Is mine today, and all the toil And all the schemes are done; But chiding voices echo round The height that I have won! Ah, futile toil and unrewarded schemes! The hope that lured me on has fled away; I've gained the height, but lost the sweet old dreams, And no warm hands clasp my cold hand today, For on the toilsome steep that I Have managed to ascend Each step is but the form of one Who hailed me as a friend! SAY SOMETHING GOOD. When over the fair fame of friend or foe The shadow of disgrace shall fall, instead Of words of blame, or proof of thus and so, Let something good be said. Forget not that no fellow-being yet May fall so low but love may lift his head; Even the cheek of shame with tears is wet, If something good be said. No generous heart may vainly turn aside In ways of sympathy; no soul so dead But may awaken strong and glorified, If something good be said. And so I charge ye, by the thorny crown, And by the cross on which the Savior bled, And by your own soul's hope of fair re- nown, Let something good be said. Jambs Whitcomb Rilat. OFT IN THE STILLY NIGHT. Oft in the stilly night, Ere Slumber's chain has bound me, Fond Memory brings me light Of other days around me: The smiles, the tears Of boyhood's years; The words of love then spoken; The eyes that shone, Now dimmed and gone; The cheerful hearts now broken. Thus, in the stilly night, Ere Slumber's chain has bound me, Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me. When I remember all The friends, so linked together, I've seen around me fall, Like leaves in wintry weather, I feel like one Who treads alone Some banquet hall deserted, Whose lights are fled, Whose garlands dead, And all but he departed. Thus, in the stilly night, Ere Slumber's chain has bound me, Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me. Thomas Moobb. A SERMON IN RHYME. If you have a friend worth loving, Love him. Yes, and let him know That you> love him, ere life's evening Tinge his brow with sunset glow. Why should good words ne'er be said Of a friend — till he is dead? If you hear a song that thrills you, Sung by any child of song. Praise it. Do not let the singer Wait deserved praises long. Why should one who thrills your heart Lack the joy you may impart? If you hear a prayer that moves you, By its humble, pleading tone, Join it. Do not let the seeker Bow before his God alone. Why should not your brother share The strength of "two or three" in prayer? If you see the hot tears falling From a brother's weeping eyes, Share them. And by kindly sharing, Own your kinship with the skies. Why should any one be glad When a brother's heart is sad? If a silvery laugh goes rippling Through the sunshine of his face, Share it. 'Tis the wise man's saying — For both grief and joy a place. There's health and goodness in the mirth In which an honest laugh has birth. SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 209 If your work is made more easy By a friendly helping- hand, Say so. Speak out brave and truly, Ere the darkness veil the land. Should a brother workman dear Falter for a word of cheer? Scatter thus your seeds of kindness, All enriching- as you go — Leave them. Trust the harvest-giver; He will make each seed to grow. So until its happy end, Your life shall never lack a friend. THE THING LEFT UNDONE. It isn't the thing you do, dear, It's the thing you leave undone, That gives you a bit of a heartache At the setting of the sun. The tender word forgotten, The letter you did not write, The flower you did not send, dear, Are your haunting ghosts at night. The stone you might have lifted Out of a brother's way, The bit of heartsome counsel You were hurried too much to say, The loving touch of the hand, dear, The gentle, winning tone Which you had no time or thought for With troubles enough of your own. Those little acts of kindness So easily out of mind, Those chances to be angels Which we poor mortals find, Thej* come in night and silence, Each sad, reproachful wraith, When hope is faint and flagging And a chill has fallen on faith. For life is all too short, dear, And sorrow is all too great, To suffer our slow compassion That tarries until too late; And it isn't the thing you do, dear, It's the thing you leave undone, That gives yon a bit of a heartache At the setting of the sun. Margaret E. Sangster. SPEAK THE GOOD WORD. It isn't the thinking how grateful we are For the kindness of friends come to bless Our sorrow or loss 'Neath the weight of the cross; It is telling our gratefulness. It isn't the love that they have in their hearts, And neglect or forget to reveal, That brightens the lives Of husbands and wives; It is telling the love that they feel. It isn't the thinking of good to mankind That comes as a cooling drink To the famishing ones Of earth's daughters and sons; It is telling the good that we think. It isn't the music asleep in the strings Of the lute, that entrances the ear, And brings to the breast The spirit of rest; It is only the music we hear. It isn't the lilies we hide from the world, Nor the roses we keep as our own, That are strewn at our feet By the angels we meet On our way to the great white throne. It isn't the silence of hope unexpressed That heartens and strengthens the weak To triumph through strife For the great things of life; It's the words of good cheer that we speak. THE EMPTINESS OF RICHES. Can gold calm passion, or make reason shine? Can we dig peace or wisdom from the mine? Wisdom to gold prefer, for 'tis much less To make our fortune than our happiness — That happiness which great ones often see, With rage and wonder, in a low degree, Themselves unblessed. The poor are only poor, But what are they who droop amid their store? Nothing is meaner than a wretch of state; The happy only are the truly great. Peasants enjoy like appetites with kings, And those best satisfied with cheapest things. Edward Young. GARNER THE BEAUTIFUL. Garner the beautiful as you go; Wait not for a time of leisure, The hours of toil may be long and slow, And the moments few of pleasure. But beauty strays by the common ways, And calls to the dullest being; Then let not thine ear be deaf to hear, Or thine eye be slow in seeing. Kind nature calls from her varied halls. "I will give you balm for sadness." Let the sunset's gleam and the laugh of the stream Awaken thoughts of gladness; If a bird should pour his song by the door, Let thy heart respond with singing; The wind and the trees have harmonies That may set thy joy-bells ringing. Pause oft by a flower in its leafy bower, And feast thine eye on its beauty; 210 TREASURES OF POETRY. A queen hath bliss no rarer than this, 'Tis thy privilege and duty. And oh! when the shout of a child rings out, And its face is bright with gladness, Let it kindle the shine of joy in thine, And banish care and sadness! Then gather the beautiful by your way; It was made for the soul's adorning: 'Tis a darksome path which no radiance hath At noon, at eve, in the morning. Hard is the soil where we delve and toil In the homely field of duty, But the hand of our King to us doth fling The shining flowers of beauty. Anna R. Henderson. CLEANING HOUSE. I am cleaning house today, dear one — The house of my soul, you know — And I've thrown the windows open wide So into each room God's winds may blow. I am planning now for a fairer place, And friends may gather sweet comfort here; Its wall to be hung with pleasant thoughts That it may send forth love and cheer. Pure and wholesome each tiny space, I will polish the windows with truth, And its home-like fires alike shall charm Dreary old age and restless youth. Cleaning, scouring, and scrubbing away, From the lowest wall to the topmost flight, Bringing the things of worth to mind, Burning the rubbish out of sight. There's a tiny closet which must be cleaned, Though no one may ever enter there, Save my heart and me when my way is dark — 'Tis the place of my secret prayer. THE TONGUE. "The boneless tongue, so small and weak, Can crush and kill," declared the Greek. "The tongue destroys a greater horde," The Turk asserts, "than does the sword." "The tongue can speak a word whose speed," Says the Chinese, "outstrips the steed." While Arab sages this impart: "The tongue's great storehouse is the heart." The Persian proverb wisely saith, "A lengthy tongue — an early death." Or sometimes takes this form instead: "Don't let your tongue cut off your head." From Hebrew wit the maxim sprung: "Though feet should slip, ne'er let the tongue." The sacred writer crowns the whole: "Who keeps his tongue doth keep his soul." THE SERVICE OF SMILES. Go smiling through this world of care, And make the days more bright and fair. So much the clouds o'erspread the sky, So many hopes and comforts die, And we can all some cheer impart To soothe a dull and careworn heart. He serves the Lord who thus beguiles The gloom from souls with sunny smiles. Go smiling through this world of care; 'Twill easy make the loads to bear, And bring some rest and sweet relief To souls borne down by care and grief. In each one's heart some sadness lies, And tears have bathed all human eyes. He serves the Master who beguiles The gloom away with sunny smiles. Go smiling all the way along, And fill the days with joy and song; Go speak a word of hope and cheer To every soul that passes near: For each of them as well as thee That blood was shed on Calvary. Ah, Christlike he is who beguiles Away both care and grief with smiles. W. 0. Martin. THINGS THAT NEVER DIE. The pure, the bright, the beautiful, That stirred our hearts in youth ; The impulses to wordless prayer; The streams of love and truth; The longings after something lost; The spirit's yearning cry; The striving after better hopes — These things can never die. The timid hand stretched forth to aid A brother in his need; A kindly word in grief's dark hour, That proves a friend indeed; The plea for mercy, softly breathed, When justice threatens high; The sorrow of a contrite heart — These things shall never die. The cruel and the bitter word, That wounded as it fell; The chilling want of sympathy We feel, but never tell; The hard repulse that chills the heart Whose hopes were bounding high — In an unfaded record kept, These things shall never die. SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 211 Let nothing pass, for every hand Must find some work to do; Lose not a chance to waken love; Be firm, and just, and true; So shall a light that can not fade Beam on thee from on high, And angel-voices say to thee, "These things shall never die." Chables Dickens. STEPPING IN YOUR STEPS. Climbing the mountain wild and high, Bold was the glance of his eagle eye, Proud was the spirit that knew no fear, Reckless the tread of the mountaineer: Up and down through the fields of snow, Down and down o'er the rocks below. On and on o'er the pathway steep, On o'er the chasms wide and deep. Hark! o'er the mountains bleak and wild Echoed the voice of a little child: "Papa look out! I am coming, too, Stepping in your steps, just like you! Papa, O papa! just see me! Walking like papa — don't you see?" Pale was the cheek of the mountaineer — Pale with the thrill of an awful fear; Paused he quick, and with eager face Clasped the child in his strong embrace; Backward glanced with his eye so dim — Back o'er the path she had followed him. Father, pause in the path of life, Rough with the chasms of sin and strife; When you walk with a step so free 'Mong the rocks where the dangers be, List to the voice that is sounding sweet — List! they are coming — the little feet. Walk with care, they are coming, too, Stepping in your steps, just like you. THE INFINITE. There are tones never reached in music, And feelings for words too deep; There are scenes past all earthly vision; There are griefs that no tears can weep; There's a harp unswept, in each bosom kept, That only God's hand can sweep. There are riches past all earthly treasure, And objection no gold can conceal; There are tints never reached on the pal- ette, And a blackness no night can feel; There's a jewel unmined, in each heart enshrined, That only God's hand can reveal. There's a language by words never spoken, There's a silence no clangor can break; There are storms beyond earth's wildest tempest, And a calm that no terror can shake; There's a thirst for a stream, in each deep human dream, That only God's hand can slake. Oh! what this mysterious problem, Beyond the solution of man, For which he hath ever been striving Since time and creation began? 'Tis the deep unexpressed, in each human breast, Of God's inscrutable plan. So, then, in man's ever unfinished, But ever perfectible dream, Lies proof of his infinite nature — A ray from the Eternal Beam; And in death there's an hour, when this earth-prisoned power, God's merciful hand will redeem. W. H. Ogbobn. WHO IS MY NEIGHBOR? Thy neighbor? It is he whom thou Hast power to aid and bless, Whose aching heart or burning brow Thy soothing hand may press. Thy neighbor? 'Tis the fainting poor, Whose eye with want is dim, Whom hunger sends from door to door: Go thou and succor him. Thy neighbor? 'Tis that weary man, Whose years are at their brim, Bent low with sickness, cares, and pain: Go thou and comfort him. Thy neighbor? 'Tis the heart bereft Of every earthly gem; Widow and orphan, helpless left:. Go thou and shelter them. Thy neighbor? Yonder toiling slave^ Fettered in thought and limb, Whose hopes are all beyond the grave: Go thou and ransom him. Where'er thou meetest a human form Less favored than thine own, Remember 'tis thy neighbor man, Thy brother or thy son. Oh, pass not, pass not heedless by! Perhaps thou canst redeem The breaking -heart from misery: Go, share thy lot with him. NOT WORK, BUT WORRY. It is not the work, but the worry. That wrinkles the smooth, fair face; That blends gray hair with the dusky And robs the form of its grace; That dims the luster and sparkle Of eyes that were once so bright. But now are heavy and troubled, With a weary, despondent light- 212 TREASURES OF POETRY. It is not the work, but the worry, That drives all sleep away; As we toss and turn and wonder About the cares of the day, Do we think of the hands' hard labor Or the steps of the tired feet? Ah, no! but we plan and ponder How both ends can be made to meet. It is not the work, but the worry, That makes us sober and sad; That makes us narrow and sordid When we should be merry and glad. There's a shadow before the sunlight, And even a cloud in the blue; The scent of the roses is tainted, The notes of the song are untrue. It is not the work, but the worry, That makes the world grow old; That numbers the years of its children Ere half the story is told; That weakens their faith in Heaven And the wisdom of God's great plan. Ah, 'tis not the work, but the worry, That breaks the heart of man! THE BELLS. Hear the sledges with the bells, Silver bells! "What a world of merriment their melody foretells! How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, In the icy air of night! While the stars, that oversprinkle All the heavens, seem to twinkle With a crystalline delight, Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells From the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells, From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. Hear the mellow wedding-bells, Golden bells! What a world of happiness their harmony foretells! Through the balmy air of night How they ring out their delight! From the molten-golden notes, And all in tune, What a liquid ditty floats To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats On the moon! Oh, from out the sounding cells What a gush of euphony voluminously wells! How it swells! How it dwells On the future! how it tells Of the rapture that impels To the swinging and the ringing Of the bells, bells, bells, Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells! To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells! Hear the loud alarum bells, Brazen bells! What a tale of terror, now, their turbu- lency tells! In the startled ear of night How they scream out their affright! Too much horrified to speak They can only shriek, shriek, Out of tune, In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire, In a mad expostulation to the deaf and frantic fire, Leaping higher, higher, higher, With a desperate desire And a resolute endeavor Now, now to sit, or never, By the side of the pale-faced moon. Oh, the bells, bells, bells! What a tale their terror tells Of despair! How they clang and clash and roar! What a horror they outpour On the bosom of the palpitating air! Yet the ear it fully knows, By the twanging And the clanging, How the danger ebbs and flows; Yet the ear distinctly tells, In the jangling And the wrangling, How the danger sinks and swells, By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells, Of the bells! Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells! In the clamor and the clangor of the bells! Hear the tolling of the bells, Iron bells! What a world of solemn thought their monody compels! In the silence of the night How we shiver with affright At the melancholy menace of their tone' For every sound that floats From the rust within their throats Is a groan. And the people, — ah, the people — They that dwell up in the steeple, All alone; And who, tolling, tolling, tolling, In that muffled monotone, Feel a glory in so rolling On the human heart a stone — They are neither man nor woman, They are neither brute nor human; They are Ghouls; And their king it is who tolls; And he rolls, rolls, rolls, Rolls, A paean from the bells; SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 213 And his merry bosom swells With the paean of the bells; And he dances and he yells, Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the paean of the bells, Of the bells; Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the throbbing of the bells, Of the bells, bells, bells, To the sobbing of the bells; Keeping time, time, time, As he knells, knells, knells, In a happy Runic rhyme, To the rolling of the bells, Of the bells, bells, bells; To the tolling of the bells, Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells; To the moaning and the groaning of the bells! Edgab Allan Poe. DEALING WITH TROUBLE. He that hunts around for trouble Wastes his time, the sages say, And retires humbly, sadly, Slashed, and bruised, and beaten badly- Always loser in the fray. He that runs away from trouble Must be ever on the go; He has never time for gaining Heights up which the wise are straining- His to skulk and dodge below. He that boldly faces trouble When it rises in his way, Strides ahead and bravely meets it Finds his path, when he defeats it, Broad and smooth, the sages say. SADDEST THOUGHTS MAKE SWEET- EST SONG. When the twilight shades are falling And the even-tide is near, Comes the voice of memory calling, Soft as falling of a tear; And from shadows dim and fleeting Come the saddest songs and greeting, Yet the sweetest that I hear. And I dream the olden dreaming In the gloaming by the way, And life's rosy-tinted gleaming Seems to crown the closing day; And my heart and brain and being Wrapt in visions I am seeing, Sad, yet brightest that I may! Oh, our saddest thoughts are sweetest! For they span a broader sea, Soaring eagle-winged and fleetest O'er the world of memory. Hope crowned, heavenward and untiring, To the good and loved aspiring, They are calling unto thee. Like the murmur of bright rivers In the Islands of the Blest, Where the solemn music quivers Like a birdling in its nest, Come the smiles of those who love us From the far-off heavens above us, And our saddest songs are best. G. W. Warder. TOO LATE. What silences we keep year after year With those who are most near to us and dear; We live beside each other day by day, And speak of myriad things, but seldom say The full, sweet word that lies just in our reach, Beneath the commonplace of common speech. Then out of sight and out of reach they go — These close, familiar friends who loved us so! And sitting in the shadow they have left, Alone with loneliness and sore bereft, We think, with vain regret, of some fond word That once we might have said and they have heard. For weak and poor the love that we ex- pressed Now seems, beside the vast sweet uncon- fessed; And slight the deeds we did to those un- done, And small the service spent to treasure won, And undeserved the praise for word and deed That should have overflowed the simple need. This is the cruel cross of life — to be Full-visioned only when the ministry Of death has been fulfilled, and in the place Of some dear presence is but empty space. What recollec.ed services can then Give consolation for the "might have been"? A WORD. Words are lighter than the cloud-foam Of the restless ocean-spray; Vainer than the trembling shadow That the next hour steals away; By the fall of summer rain-drops Is the air as deeply stirred; And the rose-leaf that we tread on Will outlive a word. Yet on the dull silence breaking With a lightning flash, a word, 214 TREASURES OF POETRY. Bearing endless desolation On its blighting wings, I heard. Earth can forge no keener weapon, Dealing surer death and pain, And the cruel echo answered Through long years again. I have known one word hang star-like O'er a dreary waste of years, And it only shone the brighter Looked at through a mist of tears, While a weary wanderer gathered Hope and heart on life's dark way, By its faithful promise shining Clearer day by day. I have known a spirit calmer Than the calmest lake, and clear As the heavens that gazed upon it, "With no wave of hope or fear; But a storm had swept across it, And its deepest depths were stirred, Never, never more to slumber, Only by a word. Adelaide A. Procter. INFLUENCE. I watched the growth of a little flower, And said to myself, "How passing strange!" For I marked within it the ceaseless change In silence wrought by mystic power. I could not see the air around, Nor the forces hid in the beam of light; The rain-drop falling was lost to sight; Silent and motionless lay the ground. But when one day, like a holy thought, The petals spread from the blossom's heart, I saw the beautiful, perfect part That each had slowly and surely wrought. In secret and silence before me there The new creation had sprung and grown, Whose life yet seemed to me less its own Than that of water or earth or air. And I thought: "O wonderful, deathless soul, Whose change we mark as the years go by, What hidden forces around thee lie, Beyond thy knowledge or thy control! "Thou canst not trace the mysterious power That moves from the outer world to thee, Nor tell whence cometh the symphony To which the heart throbs hour by hour. **Life hideth in thee her secrets well; Like the viewless air and the voiceless light Like the rain-drop falling and lost to sight, They nothing show to us, nothing tell. "But when some day at the Master's call, Like petals the years of time unfold In thy rounded being we shall behold The molding touches of each and all. "And Life shall claim thee — the Life that throbs One whole in the things that God has made — ■ By every impress upon thee laid, Forever abiding, not thine but God's" Alice Clawson. LEARN A LITTLE EVERY DAY. Little rills make wider streamlets; Streamlets swell the river's flow; Rivers join the ocean-billows, Onward, onward as they go! Life is made of smallest fragments- Shade and sunshine, work and play; So may we, with greatest profit, Learn a little every day. Tiny seeds make boundless harvests; Drops of rain compose the showers; Seconds make the flying minu.tes, And the minutes make the hours. Let us hasten, then, and catch them, As they pass us on our way; And with honest, true endeavor, Learn a little every day. Let us read some striking passage, Cull a verse from every page, Here a line and there a sentence, 'Gainst the lonely time of age. At our work or by the wayside, While the sunshine's making hay; Thus we may, by help of Heaven, Learn a little every day. MEMORIES. Once more beneath my yearning eyes The deep-secluded vale appears; Once more I see the mountains rise That, in the dimly distant years, Beheld our bitter parting tears. The meadow-path by which we walked In those old days that were so sweet, The stream that talks as then it talked, The low-roofed church, the village street, That once was glad beneath her feet. Each common object seems to say With me in mute complaining moan, "The light is parted from our day; She once was here, but now is gone, And we are left alone — alone!" I wonder on; yet as I go, The joy to view each well-loved scene Is vanquished by the greater woe, To think of all that might have been. Had not a hard fate stepped between. SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 215 Farewell, once more, my heart's sad home; Once more I go; yet, wheresoe'er, Through length of weary days, I roam, One memory, heart-enshrined, I bear — This mountain valley green and fair, And the sweet flower that blossomed there. J. S. Mills. LITTLE THINGS. We call him strong who stands unmoved — Calm as some tempest-beaten rock — When some great trouble hurls its shock; We say of him, "His strength is proved": But when the spent storm folds its wings, How bears he then life's little things? We call him great that does some deed That echo bears from shore to shore — Does that, and then does nothing more; Yet would his work earn richer meed, When brought before the King of kings, Were he but great in little things. We closely guard our castle gates When great temptations loudly knock; Draw every bolt, clinch every lock, And sternly fold our bars and gates; Yet some small door wide open swings At the sly touch of little things. But what is life? Drops make the sea; And petty cares and small events Small causes and small consequents, Make up the sum for you and me; Then, oh, for strength to meet the stings, That arm the points of little things! IF I SHOULD DIE TONIGHT. If I should die tonight, My friends would look upon my quiet face Before they laid it in its resting-place, And deem that death had left it almost fair; And, laying snow-white flowers against my hair, Would smooth it down with tearful tender- ness, And fold my hands with lingering caress — Poor hands, so empty and so cold tonight! If I should die tonight, My friends would call to mind with loving thought Some kindly deed the icy hand had wrought, Some gentle word the frozen lips had said, Errands on which the willing feet had sped; The memory of my selfishness and pride, My hasty words, would all be put aside, And so I should be loved and mourned to- night. If I should die tonight, Even hearts estranged would turn once more to me, Recalling other days remorsefully; The eyes that chill me with averted glance, Would look upon me as of yore, perchance, And soften in the old familiar way, For who could war with dumb, uncon- scious clay? So I might rest, forgiven of all tonight. O friends! I pray tonight, Keep not your kisses for my cold, dead brow; The way is lonely, let me feel them now. Think gently of me; I am travel- worn; My faltering feet are pierced with many a thorn. Forgive, O hearts estranged, forgive, I plead ! When dreamless rest is mine, I shall not need The tenderness for which I long tonight. LOVE AND LAUGHTER. Laugh, and the world laughs with you; Weep, and you weep alone: This grand old earth must borrow its mirth; It has troubles enough of its own. Sing, and the hills will answer; Sigh, it is lost on the air: The echoes bound to a joyful sound, But shrink from voicing care. Be glad, and your friends are many; Be sad and you lose them all: There are none to decline your nectared wine, But alone you must drink life's gall. There is room in the halls of pleasure For a long and a lordly train, But one by one we must all file on Through the narrow aisles of pain. Feast, and your halls are crowded; Fast, and the world goes by; Succeed and give, 'twill help you live, But no one can help you die. Rejoice, and men will seek you; Grieve, and they turn and go; They want full measure of all your pleas- ure, But they do not want your woe. BE NOT CONTENT. Be not content; contentment means inaction; The growing soul aches on its upward quest; Satiety is twin to satisfaction; All great achievements spring from life's unrest. The tiny roots, deep in the dark mold hid- ing, Would never bless the earth with leaf and flower Were it not an inborn restlessness abiding In seed and germ to stir them with its power. 216 TREASURES OF POETRY. Were man contented with his lot forever, He had not sought strange seas with sails unfurled, And the vast wonder of our shores had never Dawned on the gaze of an admiring- world. Prize what is yours, but be not quite con- tented; There is a healthful restlessness of soul, By which a mighty purpose is augmented, In urging men to reach a higher goal. So when the restless impulse rises, driving Tour calm content before it, do not grieve ; It is the upward reaching and the striving Of the God in you to achieve, achieve. Ella Wheeler Wilcox. WHAT IS LIFE? Ah! what is life? How short it seems! — A passing mist, a world of dreams, So soon cut off beyond recall; Yet full of joy or fraught with woe, The days and years thus come and go; Relentless time soon covers all. He covers all, yet not unseen — Are moments scattered in between, The days and hours in pleasure passed, When thoughts of what beyond us lies, Unbidden will before us rise, Like mountains in our pathway cast. We fly away; the morning dew Is scarce less transient to our view; It fades before the rising sun; Though but the creature of an hour, The drooping flowers have felt its power, And gladly own its work "well done." Then why should life — these fleeting years — Be filled with anxious doubt and fears? 'Tis far too short, too quickly run; Then like the dew, perform our part, And cheer some lonely, drooping heart; Let no one leave this work undone. T. L. Bailey. SEEDS. We are sowing, daily sowing, Countless seeds of good and ill, Scattered on the level lowland, Cast upon the windy hill — Seeds that sink in rich brown furrows, Soft with heaven's gracious rain; Seeds that rest upon the surface Of the dry, unyielding plain; Seeds that fall amid the stillness Of the lonely mountain glen; Seeds cast out in crowded places, Trodden under foot of men; Seeds by idle hearts forgotten, Flung at random on the air; Seeds by faithful souls remembered, Sown in tears and love and prayer; Seeds that lie unchanged, unquickened, Lifeless on the teeming mold; Seeds that live and grow and flourish When the sower's hand is cold. By a whisper sow we blessings, By a breath we scatter strife; In our words and looks and actions Lie the seeds of death and life. Thou who knowest all our weakness, Leave us not to sow alone. Bid Thine angels guard the furrows Where the precious grain is sown, Till the fields are crowned with glory, Filled with mellow ripened ears, Filled with fruit of life eternal From the seed we sowed in tears. Check the froward thoughts and passions, Stay the hasty, heedless hands, Lest the germs of sin and sorrow Mar our fair and pleasant lands. Father, help each weak endeavor, Make each faithful effort blest, Till thine harvest shall be garnered, And we enter into rest. THE END WILL TELL. What if you've made mistakes in life? Don't hang your head in sorrow, But profit by the lesson learned, And better make tomorrow. There's no one who can boast of none, Philosopher or prophet. All you can do is to do your best; When you see your wrong, then stop it. If you should find you're in a fault, And the devil keeps a grinding, Just shake him off and fix it up, And thank God for the finding. When others think they see your faults, Your soul enough to sink it, And you are sure you're in the right, Keep still and let them think it. Keep close to Jesus; Kt him break Each selfish band asunder. Some day the battle you will win While they look on with wonder. The battle is the Lord's, not yours; Then give him all the glory. Stand firm as steel and do not fear; He'll win it- — don't you worry. So trudge along though none may know Your worth or give you glory; To start out brisk don't win the race; The end will tell the story. B. L. Austin. SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 217 THE FOUR KISSES. A baby on a woman's breast Has fallen asleep in peaceful rest; With tender care she lays it down, Draws o'er its feet the tiny gown; Then, thrilled with love, with holy bliss, Bends low and gives A mother's kiss. With blushing cheeks, with downcast eyes, A maiden struggles, softly sighs, Then yields, and from her fancy's flow Drinks deep with joy that angels know; Thus two hearts learn the rapturous bliss That comes to all, with Love's first kiss. A troop halts at a cottage door; A young wife craves one moment more; Her husband draws her to his side — 'Thou art," says he, "a soldier's bride; O Love, I can but give thee this — And this — and this — My farewell kiss." The lamps shed forth a tender light Upon a sweet face, cold and white; The flowers lie strewn, the dirge is sung, The rite is o'er, the bell has rung; God help them, by that dread abyss, Who sobbing press The last sad kiss! George M. Vickers. THOUGHT. Thought is deeper than all speech, Feeling deeper than all thought; Souls to souls can never teach What unto themselves was taught. We are spirits clad in veils; Man by man was never seen; All our deep communing fails To remove the shadowy screen. Heart to heart was never known, Mind with mind did never meet; We are columns left alone Of a temple once complete. Like the stars that gem the sky, Far apart though seeming near, In our light we scattered lie; All is thus but starlight here. What is social company But a babbling summer stream? What our wise philosophy But the glancing of a dream? Only when the sun of love Melts the scattered stars of thought, Only when we live above What the dim-eyed world has taught, Only when our souls are fed By the fount which gave them birth, And by inspiration led, Which they never drew from earth. We, like parted drops of rain, Swelling till they meet and run, Shall be all absorbed again, Melting, flowing into one. Christoi-her Pearsb Cranch. THE HEART S CHOICE. A painter quickly seized his brush, And on the canvas wrought The sweetest image of his soul — His heart's most secret thought. A minstrel gently struck his lyre, And wondrous notes I heard, Which burned and thrilled and soothed by turns, And all my being stirred. A singer sang a simple song — An echo of his soul; It vibrates still through all my life, And lifts me to its goal. A poet took his pen and wrote A line of hope and love; It was a heaven-born thought, and breathed Of purest joys above. A man of God, what time my heart Was weighed with sorrow down, Spoke golden words of faith and trust, And they became my crown. I see the painter's picture still; 1 hear the minstrel's lyre; The singer's song, the poet's thought, Still glow with sacred fire; But in my heart's most hallowed realm The good man's words do live, And through my life a perfume breathe That naught of earth can give. H. A. Lavely. QUITE DIFFERENT. It is pleasant to dream of the azure sky Stretching away so far, Like a tranquil ocean of choicest hue, With never a cloud to mar, Where you sail along in a phantom ship, With never a care to sting; But to battle bravely the storms of life, Is quite a different thing. We may build grand castles in the air, With turret and splendid halls, Where the soft winds blow and the flowers bloom And the chilling blast never falls, Where you revel in fields of supernal bliss While the joy-birds sweetly sing: But to be content in a humble cot Is quite a different thing. 218 TREASURES OF POETRY. It is easy to float down the swiftest stream With never a hand at the oar, Or rock secure in a sheltered gulf Right hardby a friendly shore, Or drift at will o'er the ebbing tide While the fancy like sirens sing; But to pull through the waves that would overthrow Is quite a different thing. With rapture we gaze on the scene of life, Like a painting grand and rare; The deeds we do and the thoughts we think In harmony blended there; We love to gaze on its roseate hues; Our hearts to the canvas cling; But to paint the scene as it ought to be Is quite a different thing. It is easy to offer a friend advice We wouldn't expect to take, Or give suggestions to one in need That another should never make; Tell the troubled soul how to rise and soar 'Bove each trial as on eagle-wing; But to up and do when the trial comes Is quite a different thing. It is easy to notice another's faults, See just ^mere he needs reforms, See the curbing, hewing, and planing it takes Till his life to the rule conforms, Till virtue surrounds his every deed, A perfect unbroken ring; But to see ourselves as another sees Is quite a different thing. Loeain McLain. BETTER THAN GOLD. Better than grandeur, better than gold, Than rank and title a thousandfold, Is a healthy body, a mind at ease, And simple pleasures that always please. A heart that can feel for a neighbor's woe, And share his joys with a genial glow, With sympathies large enough to enfold All men as brothers, is better than gold. Better than gold is a conscience clear, Though toiling for bread in an humble sphere: Doubly blessed with content and health, Untried by the lust of cares or wealth, Lowly living and lofty thought Adorn and ennoble a poor man's cot; For man and morals, or nature's plan, Are the genuine test of a gentleman. Better than gold is the sweet repose Of the sons of toil when their labors close; Better than gold is the poor man's sleep, And the balm that drops on his slumbers deep. Bring sleeping draughts to the downy bed Where luxury pillows his aching head; His simpler opiate labor deems A shorter road to the land of dreams. Better than gold is a thinking mind That in the realm of books can find A treasure surpassing Australian ore, And live with the great and good of yore. The sage's lore and the poet's lay, The glories of empires passed away, The world's great drama will thus enfold And yield a pleasure better than gold. Better than gold is a peaceful home, Where all the fireside charities come — The shrine of love and the heaven of life, Hallowed by mother, or sister, or wife, However feeble the home may be, Or tried by sorrow with Heaven's decree, The blessings that never were bought or sold, And center there, are better than gold. Mks. J. M. Winton. GIVE. Give, and thou shalt receive. Give thoughts of cheer, Of courage and success, to friend and stranger; And from a thousand sources, far and near, Strength will be sent thee in thy hour of danger. Give words of comfort, of defense and hope, To mortals crushed by sorrow and by error; And though thy feet through shadowy paths may grope, Thou shalt not walk in loneliness or terror. Give of thy love, nor wait to know the worth Of what thou lovest, and ask no return- ing; And wheresoe'er thy pathway leads on earth, There thou shalt find the lamp of love- light burning. Ella Wheeleb Wilcox. WAIT. Wait is a weary word. How often we wait till all is gone, Till the joys we wait to clasp are flown, Till our hopes are dead in their beautiful bloom, And we sit and sigh above their tomb! Wait is a weary word. Wait is a sorrowful word. How often we wait till life is drear, Bereft of the ties that make it dear; Till the hands are cold that we wait to grasp; Till the forms are laid low that we wait to clasp; Till the lips are mute that we wait to kiss, And this beautiful world is robbed of bliss! Wait is a sorrowful word. SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. ,219 Wait is a lonely word. How often we turn from the fireside warm And graze out into the nig-ht and storm, Waiting- in vain for coming- feet, Yearning- in vain for a greeting- sweet, While the feet are at rest and the form is low On the battle-sod beneath the snow! Wait is a lonely word. Wait is a pitiful word. I have seen a child with tearful eye Waiting- in hope of the "by and by"; I have seen it sob when it waited in vain, And I've thoug-ht how often with anxious brain We "children of larger growth" must wait For the promised joys that come too late. Wait is a pitiful word. Wait is a fatal word. There are hearts that have waited in vain, in vain For a dear one's smile to return again, Too proud to be humble and say forgive, When that word alone could make them live; Waiting- to see the storm sweep past, And the sun of auection return at last. Wait is a fatal word. Wait is a deathful word. How many a soul has wrecked its peace, And rashly lost a heaven of bliss, By waiting- a "more convenient" time To seek reprieve for folly and crime, By bidding the Spirit, "Go thy way, I will attend thee another day"! Wait is a deathful word. Wait! oh, the fearful Word! The reef where a thousand hopes are wrecked, Where a thousand bright careers are checked, Where hearts and lives are robbed of bliss, Where joy is turned into wretchedness, Where a thousand lives that might be grand Lie wrecked and useless upon the strand. Father in heaven, may I never wait Till the work of my life is begun too late! Wait! 'tis a fearful word! A. L. Holmes. THE HEAD AND THE HEART. The head is stately, calm, and wise, And bears a princely part; And down below in secret lies The warm impulsive heart. The lordly head that sits above, The heart that beats below, Their several offices plainly prove, Their true relation show. The head, erect, serene, and cool, Endowed with Reason's art, Was set aloft to guide and rule The throbbing, wayward heart. And from the head, as from the higher* Comes every glorious thought; And in the heart's transforming fire All noble deeds are wrought. Yet each is best when both unite To make the man complete; What were the heat without the light? The light without the heat? John G. Saxe. TIME. We mark the silent step of Time With measured tread and slow, And hear his voiceless, clanking chime On walls of long ago. When Time was young, his step was gay, His form was lithe and fair; But now his locks are turning grey. His brow is knit with care. We hear him whisper of the past With voiceless bated breath; Yes; Time is growing old at last And soon will end in death. Anna K. Thomas. MORAL ALCHEMY. The toils of alchemists, whose vain pursuit Sought to transmute Dross into gold; their secrets and their store Of mystic lore — What to the jibing modern do they seem? An ignis fatuus chase, a phantasy, a dream! Yet for enlightened moral alchemists There still exists A philosophic stone, whose magic spell No tongue may tell, Which renovates the soul's decaying health. And what it touches turns to purest mental wealth. This secret is revealed in every trace Of Nature's face, Whose seeming frown invariably tends To smiling ends, Transmuting ills into their opposite, And all that shocks the sense to subse- quent delight. Seems Earth unlovely in her robe of snow? Then look below, Where Nature in her subterranean ark, Silent and dark, Already has each floral germ unfurled That shall revive and clothe the dead and naked world. Behold those perished flowers to earth con- signed — 220 TREASURES OF POETRY. They, like mankind, Seek in their grave new birth. By Nature's power. Each in its hour, Clothed in new beauty, from its tomb shall spring. And from its tube or chalice heavenward incense fling. Laboratories of a wider fold I now behold, Where are prepared the harvests yet un- born Of wine, oil, corn. In those mute rayless banquet-halls I see Myriads of coming feasts with all their revelry. Yon teeming minuter cells enclose The embryos Of fruits and seeds, food for the feathered race, Whose chanted grace, Swelling in choral gratitude on high, Shall with thanksgiving anthems melodize the sky. And what materials, mystic Alchemist! Dost thou enlist To fabricate this ever-varied feast, For man, bird, beast? Whence the life, plenty, music, beauty, bloom? From silence, languor, death, unsightliness, and gloom! From Nature's magic hand, whose touch makes sadness Eventual gladness, The reverent moral alchemist may learn Thou art to turn Fate's roughest, hardest, most forbidding dross Into the mental gold that knows not change nor loss. Lose we a valued friend? — To soothe our woe Let us bestow On those who still survive an added love; So shall we prove, Howe'er the dear departed we deplore, In friendship's sum and substance no di- minished store. Lose we our health? — Now may we fully know What thanks we owe For our sane years, perchance of length- ened scope; Nor does our hope Point to the day when sickness, taking flight, Shall make us better feel health's exquisite delight. In losing fortune, many a lucky elf Has found himself. As all our moral bitters are designed To brace the mind, And renovate its healthy tone, the wise Their sorest trials hail as blessings in dis- guise. There is no gloom on earth; for God above Chastens in love, Transmuting sorrows into golden joy Free from alloy. His dearest attribute is still to bless, And man's most welcome hymn is grateful cheerfulness. Hobacb Smith. CHEER UP. Up from the east another day Shall chase the bitter dark away; What though thine eyes with tears be wet, The sunrise never failed us yet. Another dawn may yet restore Our faith and hope and joy once more; Sad soul, take comfort, nor forget That sunrise never failed us yet. Celia Thaxter. A FAVORITE PATH. How soon they fade, our footprints here! How soon their track becomes less clear, O'ergrown by weed or grassy blade, Or flower in summer-pride arrayed! How soon our memories disappear! My path has missed me but one year, But once the green leaf has turned sere — Lost as the traces which I made — How soon they fade! O thou by whom our thoughts are weighed, Let but our hearts on thee be stayed, Let but thy love to us be dear: Then all is well; nor need we fear How soon earth's bright hours merge in shade, How soon they fade. Richard Wilton. I DIDNT THINK. If all the troubles in the world Were traced back to their start, We'd find not one in ten begun From want of willing heart; But there's a sly woe-working elf Who lurks about youth's brink, And sure dismay he brings away — The elf "I didn't think." He seems so sorry when he's caught; His mien is all contrite; He so regrets the woe he's wrought, And wants to make things right. But wishes do not heal a wound, Or weld a broken link; The heart aches on, the link is gone — All through "I didn't think." SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 221 I half believe that ugly sprite, Bold, wicked "I don't care," In life's long run less harm lias done Because he is so rare. And one can be so stern with him, Can make the monster shrink; But lack-a-day, what can we say To whining- "Didn't think"? This most unpleasant imp of strife Pursues us everywhere; There's scarcely one whole day in life He does not cause us care; Small woes and great he brings the world; Strong ships are forced to sink, And trains from iron tracks are hurled, To whining "Didn't think." When brain is comrade to the heart, And heart from soul draws grace, "I didn't think" will quick depart For lack of resting-place. If from that great, unselfish stream, The Golden Rule, we drink, We'll keep God's laws and have no cause To say "I didn't think." FORGET — REMEMBER. Forget each kindness that you do, As soon as you have done it; Forget the praise that falls to you, The moment you have won it; Forget the slander that you hear, Before you can repeat it: Forget each slight, each spite, each sneer, Wherever you may meet it. Remember every kindness done To you, whate'er its measure; Remember praise by others won, And pass it on with pleasure; Remember every promise made, And keep it to the letter; Remember those who lend you aid, And be a grateful debtor. Remember all the happiness That comes your way in living; Forget each worry and distress, Be hopeful and forgiving; Remember good, remember truth, Remember heaven's above you, — A.nd you will find, through age and youth, True joys and hearts to love you. LIVING FOR OTHERS. Some one is trudging, weary and worn, Along life's rugged way; Strength is fast failing, hope almost gone, Feet are going astray; Speak a kind word his lone heart to cheer; Wipe from his eye the sorrowing tear; Drive from his life the gloom and despair; Lend him a hand today. The winds are blowing wildly and chill, Filling some heart with fear; Some one is toiling long up the hill, Under a load of care; Some one's tossing on life's ocean-wave, No one to pity, no one to save: Rush, my brother, with heart true and brave, Help their burdens to bear. Be up and doing while it is day; Soon the long night will come. Your life is fleeing swiftly away; Soon 'twill be past and gone. Do what you can to help those in need; Be a blessing by word and by deed; Let "Living for Others" be ever your creed: Heaven will give you a crown. Chahles E. Obb. NAY, SPEAK NO ILL. Nay, speak no ill; a kindly word Can never leave a sting behind; And oh! to breathe each tale we've heard Is far beneath a noble mind. Full oft a better seed is sown By choosing thus the kinder plan; For if but little good be known, Still let us speak the best we can. Give me a heart that fain would hide, Would fain another's faults efface; How can it pleasure human pride To prove humanity is base? Then, speak no ill, but lenient be To others' failing as your own; If you're the first the fault to see, Be not the first to make it known. For life is but a passing day; No lip may tell how brief its span; Then, oh! what little time we stay, Let's speak of all the best we can. KNOW THYSELF. When gentle Twilight sits On Day's forsaken throne, Mid the sweet hush of eventide Muse by thyself alone, And at the time of rest, Ere sleep asserts its power, Hold pleasant converse with thyself In meditation's bower. Motives and deeds review By Memory's truthful glass, Thy silent self the only judge And critic as they pass; And if their wayward face Should give thy conscience pain, Resolve with energy divine The victory to gain. When morning's earliest rays O'er spire and roof-tree fall. Gladly invite thy waking heart Unto a festival TREASURES OF POETRY. Of smiles and love to all, The lowliest and the least, And of delighted praise to Him, Th© Giver of the feast. Not on the outer world For inward joy depend; Enjoy the luxury of thought, Make thine own self thy friend; Not with the restless throngr, In search of solace roam, But with an independent zeal Be intimate at home. Good company have they Who by themselves do walk, If they have learned on blessed themes With their own souls to talk; For they shall never feel Of dull ennui the power, Not penury of loneliness Shall haunt their hall or bower. Drink waters from the fount That in thy bosom springs, And envy not the mingled draught Of satraps or of kings; So shalt thou find at last, Far from the giddy brain, Self-knowledge and self-culture lead To uncomputed gain. Mbs. Ltdia H. Sigoubnht. BUILDING UPON THE SAND. 'Tis well to woo, 'tis well to wed; For so the world has done Since myrtles grew and roses blew, And morning brought the sun. J3ut have a care, ye young and fair; SBb sure ye pledge with truth; Be certain that your love will wear Beyond the days of youth. For if ye give not heart to heart, As well as hand for hand, You'll find you've played the "unwise part,' And "built upon the sand." *Tis well to save; 'tis well to have A goodly store of gold, And hold enough of sterling stuff, For charity is cold. But place not all your hopes and trust In what the deep mine brings; We can not live on yellow dust Unmixed with purer things. And he who piles up wealth alone Will often have to stand Beside his coffer-chest, and own 'Tis "built upon the sand." 'Tis good to speak in kindly guise, And soothe whate'er we can; For speech should bind the human mind, And love link man to man. But stay not at the gentle words; Let deeds with language dwell: The one who pities starving birds Should scatter crumbs as well. The mercy that is warm and true Must lend a helping hand; For those who talk, yet fail to do, But "build upon the sand." Eliza Coos. SHARED. I said it in the meadow-path, I say it on the mountain-stairs: The best things any mortal hath Are those which every mortal shares. The air we breathe, the sky, the breeze, The light without us and within, Life, with its unlocked treasuries, God's riches, are for all to win. The grass is softer to my tread For rest it yields unnumbered feet; Sweeter to me the wild-rose red Because she makes the whole world sweet Into your heavenly loneliness Ye welcome me, O solemn peaks! And me in every guest you bless Who reverently your mystery seeks. And up the radiant peopled way That opens into worlds unknown, It will be life's delight to say, "Heaven is not heaven for me alone." Rich by my brethren's poverty! Such wealth were hideous! I am blest Only in what they share with me, In what I share with all the rest. Lucy Larcom. SPEAK GENTLY. Speak gently. In this world of ours, Where clouds o'ersweep the sky, And sweetest flowers and fairest forms Are ever first to die; Where friendship changes, and the ties That bind fond hearts are riven, Mild, soothing words are like the stars That light the midnight heaven. There are enough of tears on earth, Enough of toil and care; And e'en the lightest heart hath much To suffer and to bear. Within each spirit's hidden depths Some sweet hope withered lies, From whose soft, faded bloom we turn In sadness to the skies. Speak gently, then, and win the smiles Back to the shadowed face, And bid the clouded brow resume Its fresh and youthful grace. SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 223 Thy gentle words, perchance, may guide A wanderer to the sky, Or teach some earth-bound soul to soar Above the things that die. Lead gently back the erring feet That love perchance to stray; Thou canst not know how long they strove Ere leaving virtue's way, Nor with what desolating power Despair's dark phantom came, And, with her sad touch, made the heart A desert, seared with flame. Within that desert there is yet Some pure oasis-spot, Formed of sweet memories of scenes That ne'er can be forgot. For that bright soul, with care now worn, Bowed down though it may be, The selfsame Savior died who gave His priceless life for thee. THE CROWDED STREET. Let me move slowly through the street, Filled with an ever-shifting train, Amid the sound of steps that beat The murmuring walks like autumn rain. How fast the flitting figures come! The mild, the fierce, the stony face; Some bright with thoughtless smiles, and some Where secret tears have left their trace. They pass, to toil, to strife, to rest; To halls in which the feast is spread; To chambers where the funeral guest In silence sits beside the dead. And some to happy homes repair, Where children pressing cheek to cheek, With mute caresses shall declare The tenderness they can not speak. And some, who walk in calmness here, Shall shudder as they reach the door, Where one who made their dwelling dear, Its flower, its light, is seen no more. Youth, with pale cheek and slender frame, And dreams of greatness in thine eye, Goest thou to build an early name, Or early in the task to die? Keen son of trade, with eager brow, Who is now fluttering in thy snare? Thy golden fortunes — tower they now, Or melt the glittering spires in air? Who of this crowd tonight shall tread The dance till daylight gleams again? Who sorrow o'er the untimely dead? Who writhe in throes of mortal pain? Some, famine-struck, shall think how long The cold, dark hours, how slow the light; And some, who flaunt amid the throng, Shall hide in dens of shame tonight. Each where his tasks or pleasures call, They pass, and heed each other not. There is who heeds, who holds them all In His large love and boundless thought. Those struggling tides of life that seem In wayward, aimless course to tend, Are eddies of the mighty stream That rolls to its appointed end. THE BLESSING OF SONG. "What a friend we have in Jesus," Sang a little child one day; And a weary woman listened To the darling's happy lay. All her life seemed dark and gloomy, All her heart was sad with care; Sweetly rang out baby's treble — "All our sins and griefs to bear." She was pointed out the Savior, Who would carry every woe, And the one who sadly listened Needed that dear Helper so! Sin and grief were heavy burdens For a fainting soul to bear; But the baby, singing, bade her, "Take it to the Lord in prayer." With a simple, trusting spirit, Weak and worn she turned to God, Asking Christ to take her burden, As he was the sinner's Lord. - Jesus was the only refuge, He could take her sin and care, And he blessed the weary woman When she came to him in prayer. And the happy child, still singing, Little knew she had a part In God's wondrous work of bringing Peace unto a troubled heart. FORGIVE AND FORGET. Forgive and forget! Why, the world would be lonely, The garden a wilderness left to deform, If the flowers but remembered the chilling winds only, And the fields gave no verdure for fear of the storm. Oh, still in thy loveliness emblem the flower, Give the fragrance of feeling to sweeten life's way; And prolong not again the brief cloud of an hour, With tears that but darken the rest of the day! 224 TREASURES OF POETRY. Forgive and forget! there's no breast so un- feeling But some gentle thoughts of affection there live; And the best of us all require something concealing, Some heart that with smiles can forget and forgive. Then, away with the cloud from those beau- tiful eyes; That brow was no home for such frowns to have met; Oh! how could our spirits e'er hope for the skies, If Heaven refused to forgive and forget? Charles Swain. and LITTLE THINGS. Only one pillar that was decayed, Only one pillar tall; The rest of the temple was grand strong: One pillar caused its fall. Only one leak in the vessel grand, Only a broken plank; Only a leak, just a little thing; By it the vessel sank. Only a word, a cruel word, Thoughtlessly dropped one day, Caused a wound in the heart of a friend — A wound that may last for aye. Only an action mean and low, Acted in haste and bold, Drove a friend from the fold of love Out in the dark and cold. Only one deed, just one little deed, Done in a manner cold, Brought to the heart of many a one Sorrow a hundredfold. Only a sin, just a little sin, Committed in haste one day, Quickly grew to be manifold, Ruined a life for aye. Ah! These are only the little things, Yet who can their power declare? How they bring sorrow, pain, and woe! How they bring floods of care! Only a smile, a cheering smile, Shed on the darkening pall, Cheered the heart of a downcast friend, Brightened the way for all. Only a word, a gentle word, Spoken in sympathy sweet, Lifted higher a broken life, Smoothed the way for the feet. Only a deed that was good and pure, Done with a gentle hand, Strengthened one who was sadly weak, Helped a brother to stand. Ah! These are only the little things! What is the use of these? They cheer the life, lift up the soul, And give the heart true Do what is good and noble, then; Speak what is pure and grand; Help some one out of sorrow's way, Help the feeble to stand. Brighten the way with smiles and love, Cheer every one you meet; Smooth the pathway with golden deeds — Life will be twice as sweet. Lorain McLain. WHO OF US? Who of us know The heartaches of the men we meet Each day in passing on the busy street, The woes and cares that press them, Forebodings that distress them — Who of us know? Who of us think Of how hot tears have traced the smiling cheek Of some we meet who would not dare to speak The pangs they feel, the burdens that they bear, Each hour that passes through the solemn year — ■ Who of us think? Who of us care To try to think and know their pain and grief, And help to bring the breaking hearts relief; To help to bear the burdens of their care, By tender word and loving look and prayer — Who of us care? S. C. Allen. DONT DEEPEN THE WRINKLES. Is father's eyesight growing dim, His form a little lower? Is mother's hair a little gray, Her step a little slower? Is life's hill growing hard to climb? Make not their pathway steeper; Smooth out the furrows on their brows — Oh, do not make them deeper! There's nothing makes a face so young As joy, youth's fairest token; And nothing makes a face grow old Like hearts that have been broken. Take heed lest deeds of thine should make Thy mother be a weeper; Stamp peace upon a father's brow — Don't make the wrinkles deeper. In doubtful pathways do not go, Be tempted not to wander; SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 225 Grieve not the hearts that love you so, But make their love grow fonder. Much have thy parents borne for thee; Be now their tender keeper, And let them lean upon thy love — Don't make the wrinkles deeper. Be lavish with thy loving deeds; Be patient, true, and tender; And make the path that ageward leads, Aglow with earthly splendor. Some day thy dear ones, stricken low, Must yield to Death, the reaper; And you will then be glad to know You made no wrinkles deeper. BEHIND THE SCENES. Our eyes are caught by a pretty scene; It seems there can be no lack: We turn away but a little, perhaps, And the picture is draped in black. If you knew the truth, how different Life's drama would often appear! Were things sometimes turned inside out The smile might turn to a tear. The strains of the harp, sweet as could be, Swept out to me, wave on wave; But much of the charm was lost when I learned That the dark-skinned lad was a slave. Things are not always what they seem to be, Under this great blue dome; There are tragedies played that the world knows not, In the four little walls called home. They called him close and penurious; They laughed at the clothes he wore; It was months ere they knew 'twas for mother's sake, To keep the wolf from the door. They thought her a silent, unlovely wife; They pitied the man at her side; But one day, when the veil w T as raised, they saw How it read where the curtains hide. So be careful, my dear, how you criticise On sight, a single thing; For 'twill not redound to your comfort much If your tongue has added a sting. Mattie Gergen. PRESS ON. Press on! surmount the rocky steeps, Climb boldly o'er the torrent's arch: He fails alone who feeble creeps; He wins who dares the hero's march. Be thou a hero! let thy might Tramp on eternal snows its way, And, through the ebon walls of night, Hew down a passage unto day. Press on! if once and twice thy feet Slip back and stumble, harder try; From him who never dreads to meet Danger and death, they're sure to fly. To coward ranks the bullet speeds, While on their breasts who never quail Gleams, guardian of chivalric deeds, Bright courage, like a coat of mail. Press on! if Fortune play thee false Today, tomorrow she'll be true; Whom now she sinks, she now exalts, Taking old gifts, and granting new. The wisdom of the present hour Makes up for follies past and gone; To weakness, strength succeeds, and power From frailty springs. Press on, press on! Therefore, press on, and reach the goal, And gain the prize, and wear the crown; Faint not, for to the steadfast soul Come wealth and honor and renown. To thine own self be true, and keep Thy mind from sloth, thy heart from soil; Press on, and thou shalt surely reap A heavenly harvest for thy toil. Park Benjamin. THE PRESENT. Do not crouch today, and worship The old Past whose life is fled: Hush your voice with tender reverence; Crowned he lies, but cold and dead: For the Present reigns our monarch, With an added weight of hours: Honor her, for she is mighty! Honor her, for she is ours! See, the shadows of his heroes Girt around her cloudy throne; Every day the ranks are strengthened By great hearts to him unknown. Noble things the great Past promised, Holy dreams both strange and new; But the Present shall fulfil them, What he promised she shall do. She inherits all his treasures, She is heir to all his fame; And the light that lightens round her Is the luster of his name. She is wise with all his wisdom, Living on his grave she stands; On her brow she bears his laurels, And his harvest in her hands. Coward, can she reign and conquer If we thus her glory dim? Let us fight for her as nobly As our fathers fought for him. God, who crowns the dying ages, Bids her rule and us obey; Bids us cast our lives before her, Bids us serve the great Today. Adblaidb A. p«oct«r. 226 TREASURES OF POETRY. LIFE, TIME, ANTICIPATION SOJOURNERS. [At the age of 83 there died in Boston a Christian man who for three years before his death had read these verses to his wife every evening after family prayers. ] This way is long, my darling, The road is rough and steep, And fast across the evening sky I see the shadows sweep; But oh! my love, my darling, No ill to us can come, No terror turn us from the path, For we are going home. Your feet are tired, my darling — So tired the tender feet! But think, when we are there at last, How sweet the rest! how sweet! For lo! the lamps are lighted, And yonder gleaming dome, Before us shining like a star, Shall guide our footsteps home. Wte've lost the flowers we gathered So early in the morn! And on we go with empty hands, And garments soiled and worn; But oh! the great All-Father Will out to meet us come, And fairer flowers and whiter robes There wait for us at home. Art cold, my love, and famished? Art faint and sore, athirst? Be patient yet a little while, And joyous as at first! For oh! the sun sets never Within that land of bloom, And thou shalt eat the bread of life, And drink life's wine at home. The wind blows cold, my darling, Adown the mountain steep, And thick across the evening sky The darkling shadows creep! But oh! my love, press onward, Whatever trials come, For in the way the Father set, We two are going home. MUTABILITY. [This poem represents human life viewed objec- tively, and must not be taken as a sanction of what- ever falls below a proper standard.] How soon the joys which we have known. The treasures of our greener years, Become with moss and rust o'ergrown, Till scarce the sculptured name appears! The relics of the past, though few, Neglected lie within the heart; The weeds of time conceal their hue, Or but reveal the tints in part. The plaything of the prattling boy Is all the world to him today; Tomorrow brings another toy, For which he flings the old away. But not alone to infant mind, But to the gray-haired children too, A toy appears of fair design, Until replaced by something new. And friends to whom we said adieu And wept to clasp the parting hand Fade from the memory, like the hue Of words engraven on the sand. The vows that made the parting sweet, On memory's tablet yield their place To words of love and smiles that meet Reflection in a fairer face. And love that we regard as true Leaks into flame, and then expires, Or bursts from other vents anew, Relit by flames from other fires. And yet I deem it well that such Is life and all that it contains; For Memory comes with softened touch And brings to mind our lessened pains. And oh, the past! the silent past! What shudders seize the maddened brain When scarce we dare to think, at last The past might come to light again! For deeply buried in the dust Are secrets that we fain would keep; Their tombs we guard with sacred trust Till we, with them, lie down to sleep. J. H. A.SHABBANNEB GOD S-ACRE. I like that ancient Saxon phrase which calls The burial-ground God's-acre! It is just; It consecrates each grave within its walls, And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust. God's-acre! Yes, that blessed name imparts Comfort to those who in the grave have sown The seed that they had garnered in their hearts, Their bread of life, alas! no more their own. Into its furrows shall we all be cast, In the sure faith that we shall rise again At the great harvest, when the archangel's blast Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain. Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom In the fair gardens of that second birth, SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION— Life, Time, Anticipation. 227 And each bright blossom mingle its per- fume With that of flowers which never bloomed on earth. With thy rude plowshare, Death, turn up the sod, And spread the furrow for the seed we sow; This is the field and acre of our God; This is the place where human harvests grow. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. THE AIM OF LIFE. We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths; In feelings, not in figures on a dial. We should count time by heart-throbs when they beat; For God, for man, for duty. He most lives Who thinks most, feels the noblest, acts the best; And he whose heart beats quickest, lives the longest — Lives in an hour more than in years do some Whose fat blood sleeps as it slips along their veins. Life is but a means to an end; that end, Beginning, mean, and end to all things — God. Philip James Bailey. THE WORLD AND I. IN YOUTH. Upon the shingly beach I dream, A boy, with bare feet tucked in sand, And longing look to sea; Nor mind the roaring waters sweep On troubled bosom at my feet The fragments of a wreck. To me the world is young, And clearly shines the o'er-arched sky; The pebbles, freshly washed, to me Are bright as rubies are! The world is young! The world and I are young! IN OLD AGE. A trembling shadow of the past, I totter down the lane. About me heaps the drifting snow; The heavy branches, bending low, Bow stately as I pass; The lusty breeze, ice-ladened sweeps Athwart the lonely lane, Nor stops to spare my heavy years Nor cheer my heart-felt pain. Upon my head the fingers of the frost Have left a hoary crest, While upon the wintry blast I hear the message carried — rest. The world is old! The world and I are old! Nellie Olson. DEATH, THE LEVELER. The. glories of our blood and state Are shadows, not substantial things; There is no armor against fate; Death lays his icy hand on kings: Scepter and crown Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade. Some men with swords may reap the field, And plant fresh laurels where they kill; But their strong nerves at last must yield; They tame but one another still: Early or late, They stoop to fate, And must give up their murmuring breath, When they, pale captives, creep to death. The garlands wither on your brow, Then boast no more your mighty deeds; Upon death's purple altar now See where the victor-victim bleeds: Your heads must come To the cold tomb; Only the actions of the just Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust. James Shirley. THE FLIGHT OF YOUTH. There are gains for all our losses; There are balms for all our pain: But when youth, the dream, departs, It takes something from our hearts, And it never comes again. We are stronger, and are better, Under manhood's sterner reign; Still we feel that something sweet Followed youth, with flying feet, And will never come again. Something beautiful is vanished, And we sigh for it in vain; We behold it everywhere, On the earth, and in the air, But it never comes again. E. H. Stoddard. EVENING TIME BEST. There are who say that evening time is best, When everything in nature sinks to rest; Although the morning hour is passing fair, With warmth and beauty springing every- where, And hope abrooding in the balmy air, And drowning with glad music anxious care, Still many hold that evening is best. Full well I know that evening time is best To one aweary and in need of rest; But surely morning, with its rosy light 228 TREASURES OF POETRY. Asweepiug back the curtains of the night, Until the earth, all beautiful and bright, Bursts forth in one grand anthem of de- light, To youth and joyous childhood is the best. But oh, to me the evening time is best! For I am tired, and I sigh for home; I long beneath my Father's roof_ to rest, To lean my head upon my Brother's breast; I watch the sun declining to the west, Rejoicing that the evening time is come! Mrs. Lou S. Bedford. UNENDING LIFE ON EARTH UNDE- SIRABLE. To live a hundred years, or e'er so few — 'Tis repetition all, and nothing new; A fair where thousands meet, but none can stay; An inn where travelers bait, then post away; A sea where man perpetually is tost, Now plunged in business, now in trifles lost; Who leaves it first, the peaceful port first gains. Might I from Fortune's bounteous hand re- ceive Each boon, each blessing, in her power to give- Genius and science, morals and good sense, Unenvied honors, wit and eloquence, A numerous offspring to the world well known, Both for paternal virtues and their own — E'en at this mighty price I'd not be bound To tread the same dull circle round and round; The soul requires enjoyments more sub- lime, By space unbounded, undestroyed by time. SOAMB JENTNS. WE ARE GROWING OLD. We are growing old — how the thought will rise, As a glance is backward cast! We note our wrinkles with weary sighs; The luster is dim in our once bright eyes. Life's sun is sinking fast; The lengthening shadows along our path Warn us the evening's near; And just before us death's river flows; When the hour is still and our souls repose. The lap of its waves we hear. But why need we care? Just across its tide Lieth the land of rest; Sometimes we hear, mid life's storms and calms, The soft wind's murmur amid its palms, And the anthems of the blest; And oft we hear with our spirit care, When the winds of heaven breathe low, Sounding from Salem's gold-paved street The echoing tread of our loved ones' feet, Who left us long ago. And often we see, with spirit eyes, Through sunset's mystic bar, In the vast, dim distance the shadowing gleam Of the city of light and life's fair stream, Through the golden gates ajar. Oh, the flowers of spring are fair to see, Yet sweet doth the fall rose blow, And grander than morning's radiance fair, When dewy blossoms perfume the air, To sunset's golden glow. We mourn not the vanished days of spring ,. We care not we're growing old. In the fear of the Lord let us pass each day; Then let them speed away, away, Swift as a tale that's told. We are looking away from this desert land To the happy home of the blest, Patiently waiting year by year, Till the glad sweet summons our souls shall hear, "Come, enter into rest." Mbs. Lida M. Smith, THE INQUIRY. Tell me, ye winged winds, that round my pathway roar, Do ye not know some spot where mortals weep no more? Some lone and pleasant dell, some valley in the west, Where, free from toil and pain, the weary soul may rest? The loud wind dwindled to a whisper low. And sighed for pity as it answered — "No." Tell me, thou mighty deep, whose billows round me play, Know'st thou some favored spot, some island far away, Where weary man may find the bliss for which he sighs, Where sorrow never lives, and friendship never dies? The loud waves, rolling in perpetual flow, Stopped for awhile, and sighed to an- swer — "No." And thou, serenest moon, that, with such lovely face, Dost look upon the earth, asleep in night's embrace, Tell me, in all thy round, hast thou not seen some spot, Where miserable man might find a hap- pier lot? Behind a cloud the moon withdrew in woe, And a voice, sweet but sad, responded — "No." SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION— Life, Time, Anticipation. 229 Tell me, my secret soul — oh! tell me, Hope and Faith, Is there no resting-place from sorrow, sin, and death? Is there no happy spot, where mortals may be blest, Where grief may find a balm, and weari- ness a rest? Faith, Hope, and Love, best boons to mor- tals given, Waved their bright wings, and whis- pered — "Yes, in heaven!" Charles Mackay. THE FAST. [In the last stanza Bryant alludes to his father, and to a sister, who died in her twenty-second year.] Thou unrelenting Past! Strong are the barriers round thy dark do- main, And fetters, sure and fast, Hold all that enter thy unbreathing reign. Far in thy realm withdrawn, Old empires sit in sullenness and gloom, And glorious ages gone Lie deep within the shadow of thy womb. Childhood, with all its mirth, Youth, manhood, age that draws us to the ground, And last, man's life on earth, Glide to thy dim dominions, and are bound. Thou hast my better years; Thou hast my earlier friends, the good, the kind, Yielded to thee with tears — The venerable form, the exalted mind. My spirit yearns to bring The lost ones back — yearns with desire in- tense, And struggles hard to wring Thy bolts apart, and pluck thy captives thence. In vain; thy gates deny All passage save to those who hence depart; Nor to the streaming eye Thou givest them back, nor to the broken heart. In thy abysses hide Beauty and excellence unknown; to thee Earth's wonder and her pride Are gathered as the waters to the sea; Labors of good to man, Unpublished charity, unbroken faith, Love, that midst grief began, And grew with years, and faltered not in death. Full many a mighty name Lurks in thy depths, unuttered, unrevered; With thee are silent fame, Forgotten arts, and wisdom disappeared. Thine for a space are they, Yet shalt thou yield thy treasures up at last; Thy gates shall yet give way, Thy bolts shall fall, inexorable Past! All that of good and fair Has gone into thy womb from earliest time, Shall then come forth to wear The glory and the beauty of its prime. They have not perished — no! Kind words; remembered voices once so sweet; Smiles, radiant long ago; And features, the great soul's apparent seat. All shall come back; each tie Of pure affection shall be knit again; Alone shall Evil die, And Sorrow dwell a prisoner in thy reign. And then shall I behold Him, by whose kind paternal side I sprung, And her, who, still and cold, Fills the next grave — the beautiful and young. William Cullen Bryant. THE FLOOD OF YEARS. A mighty Hand, from an exhaustless urn, Pours forth the never-ending Flood of Years, Among the nations. How the rushing waves Bear all before them! On their foremost edge, And there alone, is life. The present there Tosses and foams, and fills the air with roar Of mingled noises. There are they who toil, And they who strive, and they who feast, and they Who hurry to and fro. The sturdy swain — Woodman and delver with the spade — is there, And busy artisan beside his bench, And pallid student with his written roll. A moment on the mounting billow seen, The flood sweeps over them, and they are gone. There groups of revelers whose brows are twined With roses, ride the topmost swell a while, And as they raise their flowing cups and touch The clinking brim to brim, are whirled beneath The waves and disappear. I hear the jar Of beaten drums, and thunders that break forth From cannon, where the advancing billow sends Up to the sight long files of armed men, That hurry to the charge through flame and smoke. The torrent bears them under, whelmed and hid 230 TREASURES OF POETRY. Slayer and slain, in heaps of bloody foam. Down go the steed and rider, the plumed chief Sinks with his followers; the head that wears The imperial diadem goes down beside The felon's with cropped ear and branded cheek. A funeral-train — the torrent sweeps away Bearers and bier and mourners. By the bed Of one who dies men gather sorrowing:, And women weep aloud; the flood rolls on; The wail is stifled and the sobbing- group Borne under. Hark to that shrill, sudden shout, The cry of an applauding- multitude, Swayed by some loud-voiced orator who wields The living- mass as if he were its soul! The waters choke the shout and all is still. Lo! next a kneeling- crowd, and one who spreads The hands in prayer — the engulfing- wave o'ertakes And swallows them and him. A sculptor wields The chisel, and the stricken marble grows To beauty; at his easel, eager-eyed, A painter stands, and sunshine at his touch Gathers upon his canvas, and life glows; A poet, as he paces to and fro, Murmurs his sounding lines: awhile they ride The advancing billow, till its tossing crest Strikes them and flings them under, while their tasks Are yet unfinished. See a mother smile On her young babe that smiles to her again; The torrent wrests it from her arms; she shrieks And weeps, and midst her tears is carried down. A beam like that of moonlight turns the spray To glistening pearls; two lovers, hand in hand, Rise on the billowy swell and fondly look Into each other's eyes; the rushing flood Flings them apart; the youth goes down; the maid With hands outstretched i n vain, and streaming eyes, Waits for the next high wave to follow him. An aged man succeeds; his bending form Sinks slowly; mingling with the sullen stream, Gleam the white locks, and then are seen no more. Lo! wider grows the stream — a sea-like flood Saps earth's walled cities; massive palaces Crumble before it; fortresses and towers Dissolve in the swift waters; populous realms Swept by the torrent see their ancient tribes Engulfed and lost; their very languages Stifled, and never to be uttered more. I pause and turn my eyes, and looking back Where that tumultous flood has been, I see The silent ocean of the past, a waste Of waters weltering over graves, its shores Strewn with the wreck of fleets where mast and hull Drop away piecemeal; battlemented walls Frown idly, green with moss, and temples stand Unroofed, forsaken by the worshiper. There lie memorial stones, whence time has gnawed The graven legends; thrones of kings o'er- turned; The broken altars of forgotten gods; Foundations of old cities and long streets Where never fall of human foot is heard On all the desolate pavement. I behold Dim glimmerings of lost jewels, far within The sleeping waters — diamond, sardonyx, Ruby and topaz, pearl and chrysolite, Once glittering at the banquet on fair brows That long ago were dust; and all around Strewn on the surface of that silent sea Are withering bridal wreaths, and glossy locks Shorn from dear brows, by loving hands, and scrolls O'erwritten, haply with fond words of love And vows of friendship, and fair pages flung Fresh from the printer's engine. There they lie A moment, and then sink away from sight. I look, and the quick tears are in my eyes, For I behold in every one of these A blighted hope, a separate history Of human sorrows, telling of dear ties Suddenly broken, dreams of happiness Dissolved in air, and happy days too brief That sorrowfully ended; and I think How painfully must the poor heart have beat In bosoms without number, as the blow WJas struck that slew their hope and broke their peace. Sadly I turn and look before, where yet The flood must pass, and I behold a mist Where swarm dissolving forms, the brood of Hope, Divinely fair, that rest on banks of flowers, Or wander among rainbows, fading soon And reappearing, haply giving place To forms of grisly aspect such as Fear Shapes from the idle air — where serpents lift The head to strike, and skeletons stretch forth The bony arm in menace. Further on A belt of darkness seems to bar the way, Long, low, and distant, where the life to come Touches the life that is. The Flood of Tears Rolls toward it near and nearer. It must That dismal barrier. What is there beyond? Hear what the wise and good have said! Beyond That belt of darkness, still the years roll on More gently, but with not less mighty sweep. SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION-^Life, Time, Anticipation. 231 They gather up again and softly bear All the sweet lives that late were over- whelmed And lost to sig-ht; all that in them was good, Noble, and truly great, and worthy of love — The lives of infants and ingenuous youths, Sages and saintly women who have made Their households happy; all are raised and borne By that great current in its onward sweep, Wandering and rippling with caressing waves Around green islands with the breath Of flowers that never wither. So they pass From stage to stage along the shining course Of that bright river, broadening like a sea As its smooth eddies curl along their way. They bring old friends together; hands are clasped In joy unspeakable; the mother's arms Again are folded round the child she loved And lost. Old sorrows are forgotten now, Or but remembered to make sweet the hour That overpays them; wounded hearts that bled Or broke are healed forever. In the room Of this grief -shadowed present, there shall be A present in whose reign no grief shall gnaw The heart, and never shall a tender tie Be broken; in whose reign the eternal change That waits on growth and action shall pro- ceed With everlasting concord hand in hand. William Cullen Bryant. THE ROUND OF LIFE. Two children down by the shining strand, With eyes as blue, as the summer sea, While the sinking sun fills all the land With the glow of a golden mystery; Laughing aloud at the sea-mew's cry, Gazing with joy on its snowy breast, Till the first star looks from the evening sky, And the amber bars stretch over the west. A soft green dell by the breezy shore; A sailor lad and a maiden fair; Hand clasped in hand, while the tale yore Is borne again on the listening air; For love is young, though love be old, And love alone the heart can fill; And the dear old tale that has been told In the days gone by is spoken still. of A welcome home and a warm embrace From the love of his youth and his chil- dren bright. An aged man in an old arm-chair; A golden light from the western sky; His wife by his side, with her silvered hair. And the open book of God close by. Sweet on the bay the gloaming falls, And bright is the glow of the evening star; But dearer to them are the jasper walls And the golden streets of the land afar. An old church-yard on a green hillside; Two lying still in their peaceful rest; The fishermen's boats going out with the tide In the fiery glow of the amber west. Children's laughter and old men's sighs, The night that follows the morning clear, A rainbow bridging our darkened skies, Are the round of our lives from year to year. Alexander Lamont. WRITTEN IN RICHMOND CHURCH- YARD, YORKSHIRE. Methinks it is good to be here; If thou wilt, let us build — but for whom? Nor Elias nor Moses appear, But the shadows of eve that encompass the gloom, The abode of the dead and the place of the tomb. Shall we build to Ambition? Oh, no! Affrighted, he shrinketh away; For see! they would pin him below, In a small narrow cave, and, begirt with cold clay, To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey. To Beauty? Ah, no! she forgets The charms which she wielded before, Nor knows the foul worm that he frets The skin which but yesterday fools could adore For the smoothness it held or the tint which it wore. Shall we bu-ild to the purple of Pride — The trapping which bedizen the proud? Alas! they are all laid aside, And here's neither dress nor adornment al- lowed, But the long winding-sheet and the fringe of the shroud. A trim-built home on a sheltered bay; A wife looking out on the glistening sea; A prayer for the loved one far away, And prattling imps, 'neath the old roof- tree; A lifted latch and a radiant face By the open door in the falling night; To Riches? Alas! 'tis in vain; | Who hid in their turn have been hid: The treasures are squandered again, | And here in the grave are all metals for- bid, ! But the tinsel that shines on the dark cof- fin-lid. 232 TREASURES OF POETRY. To the pleasures which Mirth can afford — The revel, the laugh, and the jeer? All! here is a plentiful board! But the guests are all mute as their piti- ful cheer, And none but the worm is a reveler here. Shall we build to Affection and Love? Ah, no! they have withered and died, Or fled with the spirit above; Friends, brothers, and sisters are laid side by side, Yet none have saluted, and none have re- plied. Unto Sorrow? The dead can not grieve; Not a sob, not a sigh, meets mine ear, Which compassion itself could relieve. Ah! sweetly they slumber, nor hope, love, nor fear; Peace, peace is the watchword, the only one here! Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow? Ah, no! for his empire is known, And here there are trophies enow! Beneath — the cold dead, and round — the dark stone, Are the signs of a scepter that none may disown. The first tabernacle to Hope we will build, And look for the sleepers around us to rise; The second to Faith, which insures it ful- filled; And the third to the Lamb of the great sac- rifice, Who bequeathed us them both when he rose to the skies. Herbert Knowles. A PSALM OF LIFE. [This poem has been called of the American conscience."] 'the very heart-beat Tell me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream! For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem. Life is real! life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul. Not enjoyment, and not sorrow Is our destined end or way; But to act, that each tomorrow Find us further than today. Art is long, and time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave. In the world's broad field of battle, In the bivouac of life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Be a hero in the strife! Trust no future, howe'er pleasant! Let the dead past bury its dead! Act — act in the living, present! Heart within, and God o'erhead! Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sand of time — Footprints, that perhaps another, Sailing o'er life's solemn main, A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, Seeing, shall take heart again. Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait. Henbt Wadswobth Longfellow. CONSCIENCE AND FUTURE JUDGMENT. I sat alone with my conscience, In a place where time had fef^ed, And we talked of my former living In the land where the years increased. And I felt I should have to answer The question it put to me, And to face the answer and question Throughout all eternity. The ghosts of forgotten actions Came floating before my sight, And things that I thought were dead things Were alive with a terrible might. And the vision of all my past life Was an awful thing to face Alone with my conscience, sitting In that solemnly silent place. And I thought of a far-away warning, Of a sorrow that was to be mine, In a land that then was the future, But now is the present time. And I thought of my former thinking Of the judgment-day to be, But sitting alone with my conscience Seemed judgment enough for me. And I wondered if there was a future To this land beyond the grave; But no one gave me an answer, And no one came to save. Then I felt that the future was present, And the present would never go by, For it was but the thought of my past life Grown into eternity. Then I woke from my timely dreaming, And the vision passed away, And I knew the far-away warning Was a warning of yesterday. SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION— Life, Time, Anticipation. 233 And I pray that I may ne'er forget it, In this land before the grave; That I may not cry in the future, And no one came to save. And so I have learned a lesson, Which I ought to have known before, And which, though I learned it in dreaming I hope to forget no more. So I sit alone with my conscience, In the place where the years increase, And I try to remember the future In the land where time shall cease; And I know of the future judgment, How dreadful soe'er it be, That to sit alone with my conscience Will be judgment enough for me. THE SCULPTOR-BOY. Chisel in hand stood a sculptor-boy, With his marble block before him; And his face lit up with a smile of joy As ah angel-dream passed o'er him. He carved that dream on the yielding stone With many a sharp incision; In Heaven's own light the sculptor shone — He had caught that angel-vision. Sculptors of life are we as we stand With our lives uncarved before us, Waiting the hour, when, at GocPs command, Our life-dream passes o'er us. Let us carve it, then, on the shielding stone. With many a sharp incision; Its heavenly beauty shall be our own — Our lives, that angel-vision. W. 0. Doanb. SAYINGS AND DOINGS. I sing the hymn of the conquered, who fell in the battle of life — The hymn of the wounded, the beaten, who died overwhelmed in the strife; Not the jubilant song of the victors, from whom the resounding acclaim Of nations* was lifted in chorus, whose brows wore the chaplet of fame; But the hymn of the low and the humble, the weary, the broken in heart, Who strove and who failed, acting bravely a silent and desperate part, Whose youth bore no flower in its branches, whose hopes burned in ashes away, From whose hands slipped the prize they had grasped at, who stood at the dy- ing of day With the work of their life all around them — unpitied, unheeded, alone, With death sweeping down o'er their fail- ure, and all but their faith overthrown. While the voice of the world shouts its chorus, its psean for those who have won; While the trumpet is sounding triumphant, and high to the breeze and the sun Gay. banners are waving, hands clapping, with thousands of hurrying feet Thronging after the laurel-crowned vic- tors, I stand on the field of defeat, In the shadow, 'mongst those who are fallen and wounded and dying, and there Chant a requiem low, place my hand on their pain-knotted brows, breathe a prayer, Hold the hand that is hapless, and whisper: "They only the victory win Who have fought the good fight, and have vanquished the demon that tempts us within; Who have held to their faith unseduced by the prize that the world holds on high; Who have dared for a high cause to suf- fer, resist, fight — if need be, to die." Speak, History! Who are life's victors? Unroll thy long annals and say. Are they those whom the world called the victors who won the success of a day? The martyrs, or Nero? The Spartans who fell at Thermopylae's tryst, Or the Persians or Xerxes? His judges, or Socrates? Pilate, or Christ? THE LADDER OF ST. AUGUSTINE. Saint Augustine! well hast thou said, That of our vices we can frame A ladder, if we will but tread Beneath our feet each deed of shame. All common things, each day's events, That with the hour begin and end, Our pleasures and our discontents, Are rounds by which we may ascend. The low desire, the base design, That makes another's virtues less; The revel of the ruddy wine, And all occasions of excess; The longing for ignoble things; The strife for triumph more than truth; The hardening of the heart, that brings Irreverence for the dreams of youth; All thoughts of ill; all evil deeds, That have their root in thoughts of ill; Whatever hinders or impedes The action of the nobler will, — All these must first be trampled down Beneath our feet, if we would gain In the bright fields of fair renown The right of eminent domain. We have not wings, we can not soar; But we have feet to scale and climb By slow degrees, by more and more, The cloudy summits of our time. The mighty pyramids of stone That wedge-like cleave the desert airs, 234 TREASURES OF POETRY. When nearer seen, and better known, Are but gigantic flights of stairs. The distant mountains, that uprear Their solid bastions to the skies, Are crossed by pathways, that appear As we to higher levels rise. The heights by great men reached and kept Were not attained by sudden flight; But they, while their companions slept, Were toiling upward in the night. Standing on what too long we bore With shoulders bent and downcast eyes, We may discern — unseen before — A path to higher destinies. Nor deem the irrevocable Past As wholly wasted, wholly vain, If, rising on its wrecks, at last To something nobler we attain. Hbnbt Wadswobth Longfellow. TWO LOVERS. Two lovers by a moss-grown spring: They leaned soft cheeks together there, Mingled the dark and sunny hair, And heard the wooing thrushes sing. O budding time! O love's best prime! Two wedded from the portal stept: The bells made happy carolings The air was soft as fanning wings, White petals on the pathway slept. O pure-eyed bride! O tender pride! Two faces o'er a cradle bent: Two hands above the head were locked; These pressed each other while they rocked, Those watched a life that love had sent. O solemn hour! O hidden power! Two parents by the evening fire: The red light fell about their knees On heads that rose by slow degrees Like buds upon the lily spire. O patient life! O tender strife! The two still sat together there, The red light shone about their knees; But all the heads by slow degrees Had gone and left that lonely pair. O voyage fast! O vanished past! The red light shone upon the floor, And made the space between them wide; They drew their chairs up side by side; Their pale cheeks joined, and said, "Once more!" O memories! O past that is! Georgh Eliot. WHAT I LIVE FOR. I live for those who love me Whose hearts are kind and true; For the heaven that smiles above me, And awaits my spirit too; For all human ties that bind me; For the task that God assigned me; For the bright hopes left behind me, And the good that I can do. I live to learn their story Who suffered for my sake; To emulate their glory, And follow in their wake; Bards, patriots, martyrs, sages, The noble of all ages, Whose deeds crown history's pages, And Time's great volume make. I live to hold communion With all that is divine; To feel there is a union 'Twixt nature's heart and mine; To profit by affliction, Reap truth from fields of fiction, Grow wiser from conviction, And fulfil each grand design. ********* I live for those who love me, Who know me to be true; For the heaven that smiles above me, And awaits my spirit too; For the cause that lacks assistance; For the wrong that needs resistance; For the future in the distance, And the good that I can do. G. Linnaeus Banks. THE BRIDGE. I stood on the bridge at midnight As the clocks were striking the hour, And the moon rose o'er the city. Behind the dark church-tower. I saw her bright reflection In the waters under me, Like a golden goblet falling And sinking into the sea. And far in the hazy distance Of that lovely night in June, The blaze of the flaming furnace Gleamed redder than the moon. Among the long, black rafters The wavering shadows lay, And the current that came from the ocean Seemed to lift and bear them away, As, sweeping and eddying through them, Rose the belated tide, And, streaming into the moonlight, The seaweed floated wide. And like those waters rushing Among the wooden piers, A flood of thoughts came o'er me, That filled my eyes with tears. SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION*— Life, Time, Anticipation. 235 How often, oh, how often, In the days that had gone by, I had stood on that bridge at midnight And gazed on that wave and sky! How often, oh, how often, I had wished that the ebbing tide Would bear me away on its bosom O'er the ocean wild and wide! For my heart was hot and restless, And my life was full of care, And the burden laid upon me Seemed greater than I could bear. But now it has fallen from me; It is buried in the sea; And only the sorrow of others Throws its shadow over me. Yet whenever I cross the river On its bridge with wooden piers, L«ike the odor of brine from the ocean Comes the thought of other years. And I think how many thousands Of care-encumbered men, Each bearing his burden of sorrow Have crossed the bridge since then. I see the long procession Still passing to and fro — The young heart hot and restless, And the old subdued and slow! And forever and forever, As long as the river flows, As long as the heart has passions, As long as life has woes, The moon and its broken reflection And its shadows shall appear, As the symbol of love in heaven, And its wavering image here. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. HUMANITY. [From 'The Winter Walks at Noon."] I would not enter on my list of friends (Though graced with polished manners and fine sense, Yet wanting sensibility) the man Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm. An inadvertent step may crush the snail That crawls at evening in the public path; But he that has humanity, forewarned, Will tread aside, and let the reptile live. The creeping vermin, loathsome to the sight, And charged perhaps with venom, that in- trudes, A visitor unwelcome, into scenes Sacred to neatness and repose, the alcove, The chamber, or refectory, may die: A necessary act incurs no blame. Not so when, held within their proper bounds, And guiltless of offense they range the air, Or take their pastime in the spacious field: There they are privileged; and he that hunts Or harms them there is guilty of a wrong, Disturbs the economy of Nature's realm, Who, when she formed, designed them an abode. The sum is this: If man's convenience, health, Or safety interfere, his rights and claims Are paramount, and must extinguish theirs. Else they are all — the meanest things that are — As free to live, and to enjoy that life, As God was free to form them at the first, Who in his sovereign wisdom made them all. Ye, therefore, who love mercy, teach your sons To love it too. William Cowpbh. MAN. [From "Might Thoughts."] How poor, how rich, how abject, how au- gust, How complicate, how wonderful, is man! How passing wonder He who made him such! Who centered in our make such strange extremes, From different natures marvelously mixed, Connection exquisite of distant worlds! Distinguished link in being's endless chain! Midway from nothing to the Deity! A beam ethereal, sullied, and absorpt! Though sullied and dishonored, still divine! Dim miniature of greatness absolute! An heir of glory! a frail child of dust! Helpless immortal! insect infinite! A worm! a god! — I tremble at myself, And in myself am lost. At home a stranger, Thought wanders up and down, surprised, aghast, And wondering at her own. How reason reels! Oh, what a miracle to man is man! Triumphantly distressed! What joy! what dread! Alternately transported and alarmed! What can preserve my life? or what de- stroy? An angel's arm can't snatch me from the grave ; Legions of angels can't confine me there. Edward Young. EARTH. Earth is a battle-ground Where good and ill are fighting still For many a noble youth and older one. Whose shall the conquest be when life's wild strife is done? Earth is a forest wide, Where pain and joy, with much alloy, Like light and shade among the hanging trees, 236 TREASURES OF POETRY. Come over each, to fit for brighter scenes than these. Earth is a seeding-time; And all who will the heart may fill With noble thoughts that, springing forth, shall show A yield of joy more bounteous than earth can know. Earth is a harvest-field, Where golden sheaves and only leaves Are ripening in the world's autumn sun. What will the harvest be when winter's blasts shall come? Earth is a resting-place For infants sweet, and weary feet That tread no more the tangled path of life, But, sinking down in death, have yielded up the strife. Earth is a burial-place Of hopes and fears and heartfelt tears; And the lone wanderer on this mundane sod Finds satisfaction only when he lives for God. Mrs. Emily H. Haffobd. THE FLIGHT OF TIME. Faintly flow, thou falling river, Like a dream that dies away; Down to ocean gliding ever, Keep thy calm unruffled way: Time with such a silent motion, Floats along, on wings of air, To eternity's dark ocean, Burying all its treasures there. Roses bloom, and then they wither; Cheeks are bright, then fade and die; Shapes of light are wafted hither, Then, like visions, hurry by: Quick as clouds at evening driven O'er the many-colored west, Years are bearing us to heaven, Home of happiness and rest. James G. Percival VAGUE HOPES OF NATURE. Hope springs eternal in the human breast : Man never is, but always to be blest. The soul, uneasy and confined from home. Rests and expatiates in a world to come Lo, the poor Indian! whose untutored mind Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind; His soul proud Science never taught to stray Far as the solar walk or milky way; Yet simple nature to his hope has given, Behind the cloud-topped hill, an humbler heaven- Some safer world in depth of woods em- braced, Some happier island in the watery waste, Where slaves once more their native land behold, No friends torment, no Christians thirst -/or gold. To be, contents his natural desire; He asks no angel's wings, no seraph's fire; But thinks, admitted to that equal sky, His faithful dog shall bear him company. Alexander Pope. IS LIFE WORTH LIVING? Is life worth living? Yes, so long As spring revives the year, And hails us with the cuckoo's song, To show that she is here; So long as May or April takes In smiles and tears farewell, And windflowers dapple all the brakes, And primroses the dell; And children in the woodlands yet Adorn their little laps With lady's-mock and violet, And daisy-chain their caps; While over orchard daffodils Cloud-shadows float and fleet, And ouzel pipes and laverock trills, And young lambs buck and bleat; So long as that which bursts the bud, And swells and tunes the rill, Makes springtime in the maiden's blood — Life is worth living still. Life not worth living! Come with me, Now that through vanishing veil, Shimmers the dew on lawn and lea, And milk foams in the pail; Now that June's sweltering sunlight bathes With sweat the striplings lithe, As fall the long, straight, scented swathes Over the rhythmic scythe; Now that the throstle never stops His self-sufficing strain, And woodbine-trails festoon the copse, And eglantine the lane; Now rustic labor seems as sweet As leisure, and blithe herds Wend homeward with unweary feet, Carolling like the birds; Now all, except the lover's vow, And nightingale, is still; Here, in the starlit hour, allow, Life is worth living still. When summer, lingering half-forlorn, On autumn loves to lean, And fields of slowly j^ellowing corn Are girt by woods still green; When hazelnuts wax brown and plump, And apples rosy-red, And the owlet hoots from hollow stump, And the dormouse makes its bed; When crammed are all the granary floors, And the hunter's moon is bright, And life again is sweet indoors, And logs again alight; Aye, even when the houseless wind Waileth through cleft and chink, And in the twilight maids grow kind, And jugs are filled and clink; SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION— Life, Time, Anticipation. 237 When children clasp their hands and pray, "Be done Thy heavenly will!" Who doth not lift his voice and say, "Life is worth living still*'? Is life worth living? Yes, so long As there is wrong- to right, Wail of the weak against the strong, Or tyranny to fight; Long as there lingers gloom to chase, Or streaming tear to dry, One kindred woe, one sorrowing face That smiles as we draw nigh; Long as a tale of anguish swells The heart and lids grow wet, And at the sound of Christmas bells We pardon and forget; So long as faith with freedom reigns, And loyal hope survives, And gracious charity remains To leaven lowly lives; While there is one untrodden tract For intellect or will, And men are free to think and act, — Life is worth living still. Alfred Austin. ELEGY IN A COUNTRY CHURCH- YARD. [Thomas Gray was born in London, 1716. He was a man who wrote little, but that little was polished to the highest degree. His "Elegy" has been said to be "for its size the most popular poem ever written in any language." Every line, every word, even every syllable was a subject of long-continued painstaking study. On the memorable night preceding the taking of Quebec, in the French and Indian War, General Wolfe repeated some stanzas of the "Elegy." One of them was the ninth, which closes with the line, "The paths of glory lead but to the grave." He then said to his companions in arms, "I would rather be the author of that poem than to have the glory of beating the French tomorrow." Perhaps he did not realize how prophetic was the stanza referred to. He was at that moment in the path of glory, and in the day about to dawn it led to the grave.] The curfew tolls the knell of parting day; The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea; The plowman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me. Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds; Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower, The moping owl does to the moon com- plain Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, Molest her ancient solitary reign. Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a molder- ing heap. Each in his narrow cell forever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twittering from the straw- built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening care; No children run to lisp their sire's return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield; Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; How jocund did they drive their team a-field! How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure, Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Await alike the inevitable hour; The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. Can storied urn or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can Honor's voice provoke the silent dust, Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death? Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre. But knowledge to their eyes her ample page. Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll; Chill Penury repressed their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul. Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear; Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 288 TREASURES OF POETRY. Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast, The little tyrant of his fields withstood; Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest, Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. The applause of listening senates to com- mand, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation's eyes, Their lot forbade; nor circumscribed alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined; Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind; The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife Their sober wishes never learned to stray; Along the cool sequestered vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect, Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculp- ture decked, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. Their name, their years, spelt by the un- lettered muse, The place of fame and elegy supply; And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to die. For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing, anxious being e'er resigned, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing, lingering look be- hind? On some fond breast the parting soul re- lies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires; Even from the tomb the voice of nature cries, Even in our ashes live their wonted fires. For thee, who, mindful of the unhonored dead, Dost in these lines their artless tale re- late; If chance, by lonely Contemplation led, Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, Haply some hoary -headed swain may say, "Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by. Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove; Now drooping, woful, wan, like one for- lorn, Or crazed with care, or tossed in hope- less love. One morn I missed him on the customed hill, Along the heath and near his favorite tree; Another came — nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he; The next, with dirges due, in sad array, Slow through the church-way path we see him borne: Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." THE EPITAPH. Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth, A youth, to Fortune and to Fame un- known; Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth, And Melancholy marked him for her own. Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere; Heaven did a recompense as largely send: He gave to Misery (all he had) a tear; He gained from Heaven ('twas all he wished) a friend. No further seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode (There they alike in trembling hope repose), The bosom of his Father and his God. Thomas Gray. TO BE^ OR NOT TO BE. There's a spot on the bank o'er the roadside 'Neath an old tree where often I go To repose on its moss-covered surface, Or to gaze on the meadow below. In the evening I oftentimes wander To that lonely and beautiful spot, And over life's fancies I ponder While all present cares are forgot. One day as I lay in the shadows Enjoying the light summer air, A drowsiness gathered around me, And strange visions greeted me there. Methought there stepped down from the branches A spirit from out of the wood, SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION— Life, Time, Anticipation. 239 Who took from his bosom a pamphlet As before me in silence he stood. I scarcely had time to behold it, Or think what his errand might be, Before he began to unfold it, And said, "I've a message for thee." At these words my anxious heart fluttered And filled up with wonder and dread, As I thought on the message he uttered While to me these quaint words he read: "From this time hence forward, O mortal! It shall not be given to man To enter the heavenly portal, Nor the gulf of division to span; But to you your choice shall be given When death comes his harvest to reap, To live o'er the life thou hast liven Or to lie down forever to sleep." At this the strange spirit departed, As to me these last words he spoke, But the thoughts that his message imparted Still haunted me as I awoke. I wondered, does life's joy and pleasure Make up for its sorrow and tears? Would we grasp at life's form as a treas- ure, Or shrink when its presence appears? Would we fall like the oak in the forest Decaying, to lie on the ground, The spirit alike with the body, Each sharing the one common mound? Or drop to the earth like the acorn And start a new life as before — To spring back again into childhood And renew our memories of yore? Would we take up the burden of trials, Contentedly carry them through, Rather than lie in inaction Forgetting the pleasures we knew? Yes, man, with no show of resistance Would travel the voyage once more, Were it not that we see in the distance A brighter life just on before. T. W. Carmichael. THE WEB OF LIFE. A beautiful piece of patches and shreds — But stay your passionate grieving — Is it late to pick up the broken threads And change the pattern of weaving? The warp was dyed in the wool and drawn To the loom without your willing; But the shuttle that flies from dawn to dawn Carries the thread of your filling. The fabric of life by which you are known Is not, perhaps, of your choosing; But the matter which gives it light and tone Is the color you are using. Over the dingy ancestral dyes, Over and under, and over, The gold of your shuttle tints as it flies The blemish it may not cover. Forward and onward, you may not pause In your own work disbelieving; For still by the force of its unseen laws The loom goes on with its weaving. And your inmost thought is caught in the snare By a law that no man knoweth; And your purpose, be it false or fair, Shows the web, as it groweth. Well for you, and well for us all, sweet friend, When, at last, our shuttles falter, If the weavers beginning where we end Find naught in the pattern to alter. LIFES MYSTERY. "Laugh, and the world laughs with you"; Weep, and the world weeps, too: 'Tis all as you take it, brother; You pave your own pathway through — Pave it with woes and sorrows, With sighs and drops of grief, Or with onyx stones of gladness And ruby smiles of relief; Pave it with sunshin- golden Or densest hues of night, With storm-clouds dark of anguish Or silver stars of light. Pause not to mourn o'er the failures You made on yesterday; The while you are sadly weeping, The present you trifle away. The smoothest and brightest diamond Was once but the roughest stone, And the rose of rarest splendor From the meanest sod has grown. Thus the deepest and richest blessing Comes oft from the bitterest woe, And a life of heavenly beauty From the lowliest place may grow. The darkest hour of the night-time Betokens the coming dawn, And the brightest and warmest sunshine Comes after the rain is gone. Would you but gather roses, And shun the pricking thorn? Have all thy dawnings cheerful With never a cloudy morn? Ah! life is whate'er you make it: Bid sadness and grief depart, And the world shall be filled with music, Begun in thy trusting heart; Rejoice, and the world around you The cheeriest smile will wear; Bow 'neath thy heavy burdens, And the world is filled with care. 240 TREASURES OF POETRY. Then forth to thy duty, brother, Nor falter for wind or tide. What matter how dark the storm-clouds? There's always a brighter side. "Laugh, and the world laughs with you"; Weep, and the world weeps, too: 'Tis all as you take it, brother; You pave your own pathway through. Claea M. Beooks. WHAT IS LIFE? little crib beside the bed; little face upon the spread; little shoe upon the floor; little frock behind the door; little lad with curly hair; little blue-eyed face and fair; little lane that leads to school; little pencil, slate, and rule; little winsome, blithesome maid; little hand within his laid; little family gathering round; little turf -heaped, tear-dewed mound; little cottage, acres four; little old-time household store; little added to his soil; little rest from hardest toil; little silver in his hair; little stool and an easy chair; little night of earth-lit gloom; little cortege to the tomb. We say "Good day" at early dawn; We smile when li:tle baby's born; We laugh all through the sunshine bright; When life is done, we say, "Good night." TO A SKELETON. [The manuscript of this poem was found near a perfect human skeleton. Every effort was made to ascertain its origin ; but it seems the author pre- served his incognito and has never been discovered.] Behold this ruin! 'Twas a skull Once of ethereal spirit full. This narrow cell was Life's retreat, This space was Thought's mysterious seat. What beauteous visions filled this spot? What dreams of pleasure, long forgot? Nor hope, nor joy, nor love, nor fear, Have left one trace of record here. Beneath this moldering canopy Once shone the bright and busy eye, But start not at the dismal void — If social love that eye employed, If with no lawless fire it gleamed, But through the dews of kindness beamed, That eye shall be forever bright When stars and sun are sunk in night. Within this hollow cavern hung The ready, swift, and tuneful tongue; If Falsehood's honey it disdained, And when it could not praise was chained; If bold in Virtue's cause it spoke, Yet gentle concord never broke, — This silent tongue shall plead for thee When Time unveils Eternity! Say, did these fingers delve the mine? Or with the envied rubies shine? To hew the rock or wear a gem Can little now avail to them. But if the page of Truth they sought, Or comfort to the mourner brought, These hands a richer meed shall claim Than all that wait on Wealth and Fame. Avails it whether bare or shod These feet the paths of duty trod? If from the bowers of Ease they fled, To seek Affliction's humble shed; If Grandeur's guilty bride they spurned, And home to Virtue's cot returned, — These feet with angel-wings shall vie, And tread the palace of the sky! LIFE S GOLDEN GOBLET. A golden goblet each man holds, Its contents energy, And how we use this rare wine molds Our endless destiny. No life so mean but holds this pow'r — Oh, wondrous, priceless draught! While hour by hour men ever pour It forth, and prize it not. Whatever way this vital force Is used, results obtain; For we may bring forth fruit perforce Of weeds or perfect grain. Some choose to spill this golden wine On fleeting things of time, Nor realize the gift's divine, And life a charge sublime. Then wisely pour the nectar forth; The greatest good secure From deeds that have the highest worth And ever shall endure. Seek not for deepest soul content From earthly sources, then, But let your choicest force be spent In doing good to men. Nellih Olson. IF I MAY HELP. If I may help some burdened heart His heavy load to bear; If any little song of mine May cheer a soul somewhere; If I may lead some grieving one To know that loss is gain, Or bring some shadowed soul to light, I shall not live in vain. If I may help bewildered ones To find life's grandest clue; SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION— .Life, Time, Anticipation. 241 If I may steady faltering feet, Or help some heart be true; If I may bring a tender touch To some lone couch of pain, Or whisper words of hope and strength, I shall not live in vain. If I may give disheartened ones The impetus they need, Or rescue the oppressed from hands Of cruelty and greed; If I may bring concord and love Where strife and hatred reign, Or be a friend to friendless ones, — I shall not live in vain. If I may battle some great wrong, Some worldly current stem, Or give a hand of fellowship Where other hearts condemn; If I grow strong to do and bear Amid life's stress and strain, And keep a pure heart everywhere, — I shall not live in vain. If I may give forth sympathy, And keep a heart of youth, Or help myself and fellow men To grander heights of truth; However small my part may be, To cleanse the world of stain, If I but do the thing I can, — I shall not live in vain. THE BUILDERS. All are architects of Fate, Working in these walls of Time; Some with massive deeds and great, Some with ornaments of rhyme. Nothing useless is, or low; Each thing in its place is best; And what seems but idle show Strengthens and supports the rest. For the structure that we raise, Time is with materials filled, Our todays and yesterdays Are the blocks with which we build. Truly shape and fashion these; Leave no yawning gaps between; Think not, because no man sees, Such things will remain unseen. In the elder days of Art, Builders wrought with greatest care Each minute and unseen part; For the gods see everywhere. Let us do our work as well, Both the unseen and the seen; Make the house, where gods may dwell, Beautiful, entire, and clean. Else our lives are incomplete, Standing in these walls of Time, Broken stairways, where the feet Stumble as they seek to climb. Build today, then, strong and sure, With a firm and ample base; And ascending and secure Shall tomorrow find its place. Thus alone can we attain To those turrets where the eye Sees the world as one vast plain. And one boundless reach of sky. Henry Wadswobth Longfellow. LIFE. What is life? 'Tis but a vapor That remains but one brief day; Though our hands are stretched to stay it, It must quickly pass away. Fleeting are its joys and gladness, Though we fain would hold them fast; Nothing lingers save a memory Of the things that now are past. Yet our life is what we make it, More than what our lot may be — Mild and gentle, sweet and loving, Like a sunbeam all may see; Or it may be hard and bitter, Filled with envy, hate, and woe, Seeking only vain self-glory, As we tread our path below. If our motive be to lighten Other souls oppressed by care, We shall find that our own burdens Are made easier to bear. If to shed on those around us, Gleams of hope to cheer them on, We behold those rays, reflected, Turn our darkness into dawn. Life is not a dream of fancy, Not a worthless stretch of years To be squandered in our folly, Then to end in bitter tears; But a time for earnest striving For the right, the good, the true, Helping every one around us, Cheering hearts our journey through. Life is full of deepest meaning, Hidden 'neath the gilded dross; But its depth is only fathomed In the shadow of the Cross. Could we feel that every action, Every thought and word, would be Witness for or 'gainst our spirits Throughout all eternity; Could we realize the weight of Each day's work for good or bad, — Would our consciences acquit us? Would the knowledge make us glad? Or that voice within the bosom, Would it speak but to condemn For the life and the example Lived before our fellow men? 242 TREASURES OF POETRY. Life means much, and could we value Every moment as it speeds On so quickly past recalling, Would we spend in evil deeds Days and months to us so precious, Time we can not value now As we shall when life is ebbing-, And death's dew is on our brow? When we near that dark, cold river, Shall we look back with regret On a life far worse than wasted, That we wish we might forget? Noble deeds and brave endeavor Bring no pangs in coming days; Evil has its own requital; Folly ends in sorrow's ways. Life is more than mere existing, Drifting aimlessly along, Yielding to each flitting fancy, Whether it be right or wrong; We are building, daily building For the ages that shall be, And the structure we are rearing Shall abide eternally. 'Tis our future selves we're building, And our work will surely stand Through unceasing ages ever, Whether it be vile or grand; Build, then, wisely for tomorrow: With today thy work is done; Haste thou, lest the good intended, At the eve be not begun. C. W. Natlor. GRADATION. Heaven is not reached at a single bound; But we build the ladder by which we rise From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies, And we mount to the summit round by round. I count this thing to be grandly true. That a noble deed is a step toward God, Lifting the soul from the common sod To a purer air and a broader view. We rise by things that are under our feet; By what we have mastered of good and gain; By the pride deposed and the passion slain, And the vanquished ills that we hourly meet. We hope, we aspire, we resolve, we trust, When the morning calls us to life and light; But our hearts grow weary, and ere the night Our lives are trailing the sordid dust. We hope, we resolve, we aspire, we pray, And we think that we mount the air on wings, Beyond the recall of sensual things, While our feet still cling to the heavy clay. Only in dreams is a ladder thrown From the weary earth to the sapphire walls; But the dreams depart, and the vision falls, And the sleeper awakes on his pillow of stone. Heaven is not reached at a single bound; But we build the ladder by which we rise From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies, And we mount to the summit round by round. Josiah Gilbert Holland. HOW TO LIVE. He liveth long who liveth well; All other life is short and vain: He liveth longest who can tell Of living most for heavenly gain. He liveth long who liveth well; All else is being flung away: He liveth longest who can tell Of true things truly done each day. Waste not thy being; back to Him Who freely gave it, freely give: Else is that being but a dream; 'Tis but to be, and not to live. Be what thou seemest; live thy creed; Hold up to earth the torch divine; Be what thou prayest to be made; Let the great Master's steps be thine. Fill up each hour with what will last; Buy up the moments as they go: The life above, when this is past, Is the ripe fruit of life below. Sow truth, if thou the true wouldst reap; Who sows the false shall reap the vain; Erect and sound thy conscience keep; From hollow words and deeds refrain. Sow love, and taste its fruitage pure; Sow peace, and reap its harvests bright; Sow sunbeams on the rock and moor, And find a harvest-home of light. HOBATITJS BONAB. THE CLOSING YEAR. 'Tis midnight's holy hour, and silence now Is brooding, like a gentle spirit, o'er The still and pulseless world. Hark! on the winds, The bell's deep tones are swelling; 'tis the knell Of the departed year. No funeral train Is sweeping past; yet, on the stream and wood, With melancholy light, the moonbeams rest Like a pale, spotless shroud; the air is stirred, SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION—