Book __.- 3-4^ 
 
 COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT 
 
BEAUTIFUL QEM5 
 
 OP 
 
 Thought and Sentiment 
 
 CONTAININQ 
 
 CHARMING PRODUCTIONS OF THE 
 MOST CELEBRATED AUTHORS 
 
 INCLUDING 
 
 POEMS OF HOME AND COUNTRY ; BEAUTIES OF NATURE ; LOVE AND 
 ROMANCE; NARRATIVES IN VERSE; DESCRIPTIONS AND TALES 
 OF THE SEA; BALLADS AND NATIONAL SONGS; CHILD- 
 HOOD AND YOUTH; HUMOROUS SELECTIONS; 
 
 CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL 
 
 ^ J 
 
 QUOTATIONS, ETC. 
 
 COMPRISING 
 
 A SUPERB COLLECTION OF GEMS FROM THE 
 WORLD'S BEST LITERATURE 
 
 Profusely Embellished with Magnificeiit Phototype 
 and Wood Engravings 
 
 National Publishing Company 
 
 239 TO 243 So. American Street 
 Philadelphia. Pa. 
 
THE LIB«A«Y ©F 
 CONG«ESS, 
 
 Two COP<E« RtCEIVlA 
 
 MAR. 6 ' 1902 
 
 COPVWOHT OTTRY 
 
 CLASS 0/ XXa N«. 
 
 z 4 7 / s- 
 
 COPY B. 
 
 
 ENTERED ACCORDING TO ACT OF CONGRESS, IN THE YEAR 1902, BY 
 
 D. Z. HOWELL 
 ih THE OFFICE OF THE LIBRARIAN OF CONGRESS, AT WASHINGTON, D. C, U. 6. A, 
 
PREFACE 
 
 ^6 
 
 MACAULAY, in his brilliant essay on John Milton, says: "We hold that the 
 most wonderful and splendid proof of genius is a great poem produced 
 in a civilized age." Adopting such a standard, this new and peerless 
 volume is a magnificent repository of the gems of genius, gathered from the most 
 celebrated authors of all countries and ages. Its delightful pages are enriched 
 by the most beautiful and entrancing selections of Poetry, Prose and Song. These 
 are all classified and arranged under their appropriate titles. 
 
 Home, Sweet Home comprises gems for the fireside, picturing in glowing 
 colors the delights of the home circle, the beauty of domestic life and the sweet 
 memories that cluster around the old homestead. 
 
 The Charms of Nature contain the most graphic pen-pictures of Natural 
 Scenery, including the Picturesque, the Beautiful and the Sublime. This is the 
 natural field of poetry; 
 
 "Here valleys bloom and mountains rise, 
 And landscapes smile beneath the skies." 
 
 The earth, the sea, and the vaulted heavens are portrayed to the reader's wonder- 
 ing eye. The Poetry of the Year forms another part and contains the most 
 charming descriptions of the Seasons, their Flowers, Birds and Pleasant Pastimes. 
 Descriptions and Tales of the Sea furnish a striking panorama of the World 
 of Waters. The white-winged ships, the bounding billows, the bold tailor, the 
 floral beauties of the vasty deep are all vividly depicted. Who does not love 
 nature ? What a glow of health comes from the fresh breezes of the sea and 
 from hillside and valley. 
 
 "God made the country and man made the town." 
 
 The Album of Love. — This part contains the most exquisite and beautiful 
 selections, in delightful variety, gathered from every source. Here are the sweet- 
 est and most entrancing productions of Burns, Byron, Longfellow, Bryant, Moore, 
 Emerson, Hood, Tennyson, Shakespeare, Saxe, Irving, Scott, Swinburne, Thacke- 
 ray, Browning and scores of others who have woven the charms of their brightest 
 genius around the one great master passion. 
 
 ^^ Stanton 1 
 
il PREFACE. 
 
 Narratives in Verse comprise a captivating collection of Tales of Adventure 
 and Romance, beginning with the " Massacre at Fort Dearborn, Chicago, in 1812." 
 In this part famous historic incidents are related in verse by renowned authors, 
 such as Austin Dobson, Frederick Von Schiller, Longfellow and Whittier, Baxen- 
 dale and Tennyson, Bryant, Helen Hunt Jackson and many others. The most 
 thrilling events are celebrated and are given undying fame by the poetic genius of 
 the brilliant authors who narrate them. The next part includes Ballads and 
 National Airs. These rivet the attention of the reader and in imagination he 
 beholds the scenes they depict as living realities. Our most celebrated National 
 Songs are found in this part, including "The Battle Hymn of the Republic," "The 
 Star Spangled Banner," "My Maryland," "The German's Fatherland," etc. 
 
 Hope and Memory, or Glimpses of the Past and Future, embrace a delightful 
 collection of poems which carry the reader back to the scenes of long-ago, the 
 memories of childhood, the joys of other days, and draw aside the veil of the future, 
 through which are seen the blossoms of immortal hope. 
 
 Next we have Patriots and Heroes, commemorating their noble sacrifices 
 and valiant deeds. Great men who live in history, who rose in their might, and 
 with undaunted heroism purchased the liberties which are the world's proudest 
 possession, are celebrated In immortal song. There is an Irresistible fascination 
 about these time-honored heroes, whose grand lineaments are here photographed 
 for universal admiration. Among other productions, we have that thrilling lyric, 
 entitled "The Cuban Crisis." 
 
 " Red is the setting sun, 
 
 Redder the Cuban sod ; 
 Maceo's valiant fight is done 
 
 For freedom and for God. 
 The long-leaved pine and the stately palm 
 
 Bend lowly in grief to-night, 
 And through the hush of the tropic calm 
 There rolls from the sea a mournful psalm, 
 
 A requiem over the right." 
 
 The Sword and the Plow is another part of this superb volume, which 
 describes the victories of war and of peace. The most renowned writers have 
 celebrated the sentiment which is taking deeper root every day, that 
 
 " Peace hath her victories no less renowned than war," 
 
 a saying of Milton, the truth of which no one will deny. The war-cloud lifts from 
 the torn battle-field; the thunder of guns Is hushed; armies are disbanded, and 
 where the sod was red with blood, peaceful harvests wave in their golden glory. 
 
PREFACE. ill 
 
 Rural Scenes portray the lights and shadows of country life. Here the pages 
 ?.re fragrant with the floral breath of summer fields and woods. "The whistling 
 plow-boy drives his team afield," and the scythes of the mowers glint in the sun- 
 shine. The old farmhouse stands embosomed in cool shadows. "The busy 
 housewife plies her evening care," and, In the winter, sleigh-bells jingle, skaters 
 skim the mirrored lake, and the glow of health beams in the faces of happy country 
 boys and girls. Nothing could be more inviting than these Rural Scenes. 
 
 Then comes a wide-awake collection of poems, entitled The World's Work- 
 ers, in which the nobility of labor is eulogized. Here we learn " How Cyrus laid 
 the Cable," how "you have but to take one step and then another, and the longest 
 walk is ended;" how to win in the battle of life, and with what happy expressions 
 the poet Whittier wrote of the ship-builders, the shoe-makers and the lumbermen. 
 Here, too, are the songs of buskers, the plowmen and the whole vast army of the 
 sons of toil. 
 
 The next part embraces the Beauty and Grandeur of the Alps, containing 
 brilliant descriptions of Swiss Scenery. Here Byron appears in the grand march 
 of his lofty imagery. Snow-capped mountains veil their heads in the sk\' ; cascades 
 dash from towering summits and rivers of ice move majestically toward the deep 
 valleys. 
 
 Above me are the Alps, 
 
 The palaces of nature, whose vast walls 
 Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps, 
 
 And throned eternity in icy halls 
 Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls 
 
 The avalanche — the thunderbolt of snow ! 
 All that expands the spirit, yet appalls, 
 
 Gathers around the summits, as to show 
 How earth may soar to heaven, yet leave vain man below. — Lord Byron. 
 
 Let it not be supposed that the little people are forgotten. The part on 
 Childhood and Youth contains captivating selections for the young. All the 
 Innocence of childhood, the sports of the little folks as well as the pathos of their 
 merry laughter hushed in death, are depicted with a master hand. Our literature 
 is rich In tales and lessons for the )'oung, the brightest and best of which adorn 
 these pages. 
 
 The Crown of Genius, containing tributes to celebrated persons, sings the 
 praises of those whose names have become historic, while the part entitled 
 Thought and Sentiment embraces the choicest productions from master minds on 
 a great variety of topics. A vast collection of the finest poems ever written. 
 
. PREFACE, 
 
 IV 
 
 Tragedy and Sorrow comprises pathetic selections from the most distinguished 
 autliors. This part has a peculiar charm and beauty of its own. '1 he Gates of 
 Pearl appeal to the religious sentiment and give full expression to the soul s 
 loftiest aspirations. Here are glowing tributes to faith and hope; pithy descrip- 
 tions of the practical virtues ; tender words of comfort for the bereaved and grand 
 descriptions of die heavenly world. 
 
 Wit XX.. W.snoM, comprising sparkling gems from the worlds humorists, 
 contains the brightest and most fascinating collection of witty pieces. There is 
 ^vholesome mirth on every page. This part is followed by a large Cvclopeoia ok 
 PoEricAi. Quotations, the subjects being arranged alphabetically. 
 
 iTANTON 
 
HOME, SWEET HOME. 
 
 Page 
 The Light of Home . . . SaraJi J. Hale 17 
 
 My Child J.R.Lozvell 18 
 
 A Mother's Love Emily Taylor 19 
 
 By the Fire 19 
 
 19 
 21 
 22 
 22 
 23 
 23 
 
 The Little Arm-Chair 
 
 An Old Sweetheart of Mine . /. W. RiUy 
 Alone in the House . , Maiy T. Willai-d 
 The Old Friends . . . . 6>. W. Holmes 
 
 Charity Bishop Ke?i 
 
 That Circle of Gold . . W. D. Elhvanger 
 
 Old Christmas 24 
 
 Two Pictures 24 
 
 Dearest Love ! Believe Me . TJios. Pringle 24 
 
 Twilight Corrijie M. Rockwell 24 
 
 A Wife's Appeal to Her Husband ... 25 
 
 Grandmother's Work . Mrs. C. E. Hewitt 25 
 
 An Idyl of the Kitchen . /. A. Eraser Jr. 26 
 
 The Open Window . . H.W. Longfellow 26 
 
 Where there's One to Love, Chas. Swain 26 
 
 The Proudest Lad\^ . . Thomas Westivood 27 
 
 The Home-coming Lord Byron 27 
 
 The First Smile 28 
 
 Tlie Two Gates 29 
 
 The Empty House 29 
 
 The Joys of Home .... John Bowring 29 
 She Grew in Sun and Shower 
 
 William Wordsworth 30 
 
 True Contentment H. S. Kent 30 
 
 Our First-born Gerald Massey 31 
 
 The Mortgage on the Farm 32 
 
 Love in a Cottage N, P. Willis 33 
 
 Grandfather's House. . . Mary McGinre 33 
 
 Happy Love .... Charles Mackay 34 
 
 The Old Barn . . . . T. Buchanan Read 34 
 
 Good-night Song ....... 35 
 
 Page 
 
 One of the Sleepy Kind 85 
 
 Ah, No ! I cannot say " Farewell " 
 
 Alexander Rodger 
 Bertha in the Lane, Elizabeth B. Browning 
 Absence ....... Fanny K. Butler 
 
 The Happy Lot .... Ebenezer Elliott 
 
 The Baby CO. Rogers 
 
 Scenes of my Youth . . Robert Hillhotise 
 The Three Dearest Words 
 
 Mary J. Miickle 
 
 The Mother Charles Swain 
 
 The Old Farmhouse . //. W. Longfellozv 
 The Cricket on the PI earth, W. C. Bennett 
 
 My Own Fireside A. A. Watts 
 
 The Window D. E. McCarthy 
 
 The Lost Little One 
 
 Gathering Apples 43 
 
 Home — a Duet .... Barry Cornwall 43 
 If Thou hast Lost a Friend, Charles Swaht 
 
 I Think on Thee T. K. Hervey 
 
 Unconscious Influence 
 
 Domestic Love George Croly 
 
 Not Lost, but Gone Before, Caroline Norton 45 
 
 Aunt Jemima's Quilt 45 
 
 The Old Oaken Bucket, Saml. Woodwoj^th 47 
 
 Bereft J. W. Riley 47 
 
 I Come to Thee, M)' Wife . Wm. Brunton 48 
 The Happy Husband . . S. T Coleridge 49 
 
 Just What I Wanted 49 
 
 Come Home . . . Eelicia D. Hema?is 50 
 
 Farewell Lord Byron 
 
 Near Thee Charles Swaiyi 
 
 Her Feeble Steps . . . . J. R. Eastivood 
 
 Failed 
 
 Every Inch a Man 
 
 35 
 36 
 36 
 37 
 37 
 38 
 
 38 
 39 
 40 
 40 
 41 
 42 
 42 
 
 43 
 44 
 44 
 44 
 
 50 
 50 
 51 
 52 
 52 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 THE CHARMS OF NATURE. 
 
 Page 
 
 After Sunset E. Matheson 53 
 
 A Moonli<^ht Night . . . Jane Sedgwick 53 
 
 The Rose Sir Walter Scott 53 
 
 Spring Alfred Tennyson 54 
 
 The Use of Flowers .... Mary Howitt 54 
 Song of the Summer Winds, Geo. Darley 56 
 
 Only Promises Robert Herrick h^ 
 
 The Rocky Mountains . . . Albert Pike 56 
 
 The Falls of Niagara 57 
 
 The Vale of Cashmere . . TJwDias Moore 
 The Nightingale .... Mattheiv Arnold 
 To the Daisy . . . William Wordsivorth 
 
 The Brook H. W. Longfellow 
 
 Hark ! Hark ! the Lark, Win. Shakespeare 
 
 Winter Song C. T. Brooks 
 
 Cape-Cottage at Sunset . . W. B. Glazier 
 
 The Bobolink Thomas Hill 
 
 Perseverance R. S. S. Andros 
 
 The Stormy Petrel . . . Barry Cormuall 
 The Pelican .... James Montgomery 
 
 Casco Bay J- G- Whittier 
 
 Lilacs Henry Davenport 
 
 P'lowers H. W. Longfelloiv 
 
 A Scene on the Hudson . W. C. Bryant 
 Pack Clouds AwaN^ .... 7! Heyivood 
 Our Great Plains .... Joaquin Miller 
 A Dream of Summer . . . J. G. Whittier 
 
 A Song to Ma}- Lord Thurlow 
 
 The Wood Madison Cawein 
 
 Osme's Song George Darley 
 
 The Rivulet W. C. Bryant 
 
 The Nightingale John Bowri^ig 
 
 The Swallow Charlotte Smith 
 
 The Early Primrose . . . . H. K. White 
 The Father of Waters . . Sarah J. Hale 
 
 Butterfly Beau T. H. Bayly 
 
 The Old Man of the Mountain 
 
 /. 7! Trowbridge 
 
 After Summer P. B. Marston 
 
 The Dainty Rose .... Thomas Hood 
 
 Snowdrops Roden Noel 
 
 The Moss Rose . . . F. W. Krunimacker 
 F*olding the Flocks, Beaumont & Fletcher 
 
 ')/ 
 58 
 58 
 GO 
 60 
 61 
 61 
 62 
 62 
 63 
 63 
 64 
 64 
 
 6/ 
 6V 
 67 
 68 
 69 
 69 
 70 
 71 
 72 
 72 
 72 
 73 
 73 
 
 73 
 74 
 
 74 
 76 
 
 77 
 77 
 
 Page 
 
 Butterfly Life T, H. Bayly 77 
 
 The Songsters James Thomson 
 
 The Sparrow J. Von Linden 
 
 Indian Summer 
 
 To a Mouse Robert Burns 
 
 Summer Wood> 
 
 John Clare 
 
 The West Wind W. C Bryant 
 
 The Foolish Harebell, George Macdonald 
 To the Daisy . . . William Wordsworth 
 To the Skyhirk . . William Wordsworth 
 The Pine Forest by the Sea, 7^. B. Shelley 
 
 One Swallow M. E. Blaine 
 
 The Flower Alfred Tennysoi 
 
 New England in Winter . J. G. Whittier 
 To the Fringed Gentian . W. C Biyant 
 
 The Thrush 
 
 Spring Horace Smith 
 
 The Comet B. F. Taylor 
 
 Lake Mahopac . . . Caroline M. Sawyer 
 
 The Bugle Alfred Tennyson 
 
 Roses Red and White. . Willia^n Cowan 
 The Nightingale . . . . S. T. Coleridge 
 
 The North Star W. C Bryant 
 
 Harvest Ellen M. Hutchinson 
 
 Song of the Brook . . . Alfred Tennysoji 
 
 Midsummer J- T. Trowbridge 
 
 Trailing Arbutus . . . Rose Terry Cooke 
 
 Little Streams Mary Howitt 
 
 The Buried Flower . . . . W. E. Aytoun 
 
 The Sand -piper Celia Thaxter 
 
 Elegy — Written in Spring, 
 
 American Skies 
 Hampton Beach 
 The Changed Song 
 
 78 
 79 
 79 
 80 
 80 
 81 
 81 
 81 
 82 
 83 
 83 
 85 
 85 
 85 
 86 
 87 
 87 
 88 
 88 
 89 
 89 
 89 
 90 
 90 
 91 
 92 
 92 
 93 
 94 
 
 Michael Bruce 94 
 . W. C Bryant 95 
 . J. G. Whittier 96 
 R. W. Emerson 96 
 
 The Garden Andrew' Marvell 97 
 
 To the River Arve . . . . W. C Bryaiit 97 
 View Across the Roman Campagna 
 
 Elizabeth B. Broivning 98 
 
 The Birch-tree J. R. Loivell 98 
 
 The Glory of Motion . R. S. /. Tyrwhitt 99 
 
 The Windy Night T. B. Read 100 
 
 The Owl 100 
 
 POETRY OF THE YEAR. 
 
 The Year's Twelve Children 101 
 
 Jo)' of Spring Leigh Huiit 101 
 
 March— Chaffinch '. . . . 102 
 
 Spring Felicia D. Hcmans 102 
 
 March William Wordsworth 102 
 
 April— Lark 104 
 
 Day ; A Pastoral . . . John Cunnhigham 104 
 The Grasshopper . . . Abraham Cowley i04 
 
 April William Shakespeare 105 
 
 A Walk by the Water . Charlotte Smith 105 
 Bud and Bloom .... Alfred Tennyson 105 
 The Open Day Henry Alford 105 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 vii 
 
 Page 
 
 May — Nightingale 106 
 
 The Primrose John Clare 106 
 
 A Tribute to May . . . William Roscoe 106 
 The Woodland in Spring 
 
 William Coivper 107 
 Breathings of Spring . Felicia D. Hemans 107 
 Corinna's Gone A-Maying, Robei't Herrick 108 
 
 On May Morning John Milton 109 
 
 Summer Eve H. K. White 109 
 
 Children in Spring John Clare 110 
 
 The Rose Edmund Waller 110 
 
 Morning in Summer . .James Thomson 112 
 
 A June Day William Howitt 112 
 
 June — Dove 112 
 
 July — Cuckoo 113 
 
 Repose in Summer. . . Alfred Tennyson 113 
 Sonnet on Countr}- Life . . .John Keats 113 
 The Blackbird .... Alfred Te?inyson 113 
 
 August — Wren 114 
 
 Summer Reverie John Keats 114 
 
 Shepherd and Flock . .James Thomson 114 
 
 A Winter Sketch Ralph Hoyt 115 
 
 To Meadows Robert Herrick 115 
 
 A Song for the Seasons . Barry Cornwall 116 
 Summer's Haunts . . Felicia D. Hemans 116 
 The Last Rose of Summer, Thomas Moore 116 
 
 Page 
 
 Fair Summer Willis G. Clark 116 
 
 A Day in Autumn . . . Robert Southey 116 
 
 September — Curlew 117 
 
 A Song for September . . T. W. Parsons 117 
 
 Serenity of Autumn . .James Thomso?i 117 
 
 Autumn Thomas Hood 118 
 
 Autumn Flowers . . Caroline B. Southey 118 
 
 October — Swallow 119 
 
 October 119 
 
 Beauties of Autumn . . . Carlos Wilcox 120 
 
 November — Sea-gull 121 
 
 A Still Day in Autumn, Sarah H. Whitinan 121 
 Verses in Praise of Angling 
 
 Sir Henry Wotton 121 
 
 December — Robin 123 
 
 Autumn— A Dirge . . . . P. B.Shelley 123 
 
 The First Snowfall . . . . J. R. Lowell \24: 
 
 Old-time Winter 124 
 
 Blow, Blow, Thou Winter Wind 
 
 William Shakespeare 125 
 
 Dirge for the Year . . . . P, B. Shelley 125 
 
 January — Owl 125 
 
 The Last Snow of Winter, Sarah Doudney 126 
 
 Skating William Wordsworth 126 
 
 February — Sparrow 126 
 
 \ Withered Flowers .... John Bethu7ie 1 28 
 
 DESCRIPTIONS AND TALES OF THE SEA. 
 
 The Life Brigade .... Minnie Mackay 129 
 The Landsman's Song , Barry Cornwall 130 
 My Brigantine . . . J. Fcnimore Cooper 130 
 Is my Lover on the Sea, Barry Cornwall 132 
 The Lighthouse . . . H. W. Lo^tgfellaiv 133 
 
 The Minute Gun R. S. Sharpe 134 
 
 I Loved the Ocean ... . . Eliza Cook 134 
 The White Squall . . . W. M. Thackeray 135 
 The Boatmen's Song. . Henry Davenport 135 
 Tacking Ship off Shore . Walter Mitchell 136 
 The Solitude of the Sea . . Lord Byron 136 
 
 The Ocean James Montgomery 138 
 
 The Gray Swan Alice Cary 138 
 
 Sailor's Song Charles Dibdin 139 
 
 The Sea in Calm .... Barry Cornwall 139 
 The Lost Atlantic . . .John Talman, Jr. 140 
 
 Twilight H. W. Longfellow 141 
 
 Mary's Dream John Lowe 141 
 
 Drifting T. B. Read \A2 
 
 The Launching of the Ship, H. W. Lonfellow 143 
 Mariner's Hymn . . Caroline B. Southey 144 
 The Return of the Admiral, ^<3:rrj/ Cornzuall 14:5 
 
 Life's Troubled Sea 145 
 
 The Sailor's Journal . . Charles Dibdin 146 
 A Song of the Sea . . Catherine Warfield 147 
 The Sound of the Sea, Felicia D. Hemans 148 
 
 The Mermaid Alfred Tennyson 149 
 
 The Shipwreck Lord Byron 150 
 
 The Secret of the Sea . H. W. Longfclloiv 151 
 
 Drifting out to Sea 152 
 
 The Voyage Alfred Tennyson 153 
 
 By the Sea 153 
 
 The Sea-Fairies .... Alfred Tennyson 154 
 An Old-fashioned Sea-fight, Walt Whitman 155 
 The Sailor-Boy .... Alfred Te?inyso?i 155 
 The Gallant Sail-boat . Henry Davenport 156 
 
 ALBUM OF LOVE. 
 
 A Cuban Love Song . . . Daisy Dcane 157 
 I Won't Be Your Dearie Any More 
 
 Rose Reilly 157 
 
 My Ideal S.M.Pcck 158 
 
 The First Kiss .... Thomas Campbell 159 
 
 Quakerdom C. G. Halpine 159 
 
 Marion Moore J. G. Clark 159 
 
 Speak it Once More, Elizabeth B. Broiviiing 1 60 
 Her Bright Eyes Told Me Yes 
 
 T. L. Sapping ton 160 
 
Vlil 
 
 CONTENTS, 
 
 Page 
 The Chess Board . . . R. Biihver Lytton 160 
 Woo the Fair One . ... IV. C. Bryant 162 
 
 Wedding Bells Eliza Cook 163 
 
 Mizpah 164 
 
 True Love 164 
 
 Bonnie Wee Thing .... Robert Bums 164 
 Her Christmas Letter . Augusta Prcscott 164 
 Oh, Doubt Me Not . . . Thomas Moore 165 
 
 Remembered TJioDias Moore 165 
 
 To My Dream Love . Walter A. Cassels 166 
 Kiss Me and Be Still . . . . S, M. Peck 166 
 The Arctic Lover .... W. C. Bryant 167 
 
 The Welcome Thomas Davis 168 
 
 Can You Forget Me . Letitia E. Landon 168 
 The Stars are with the Voyager 
 
 Thomas Hood 168 
 EthePs Song of Love . He^iry Davenpo7't 169 
 For Love's Sweet Sake . Barry Corjtzvall 169 
 The Sleeping Beauty . . Alfred Tennyson 170 
 The Revival of the Sleeping Beauty 
 
 Alfred Tmnyson i70 
 The "Sleeping Beauty" Departs with 
 
 Her Lover .... Alfred Tennyson 170 
 The Belle of the Ball . . . W. M. Praed 171 
 My True Love Hath My Heart 
 
 Sir Philip Sidney 171 
 
 A Reverie 172 
 
 The Bachelor's Soliloquy 172 
 
 Constancy Adelc Auze 1 72 
 
 Go, Happy Rose .... Robert Herrick 172 
 
 Light F.W. Bourdillon 172 
 
 Love and May .... Elinora L. Her%>ey 1 74 
 
 Estranged J- G. Saxe 174 
 
 Love me Little, Love me Long .... 175 
 The Milkmaid's Song . . Sydney Dobell 175 
 
 The Plaything 175 
 
 When Should Lovers Breathe their Vows 
 
 Letitia E. Landon 176 
 Moll McCarty . . . . C. N. Wallington 176 
 A Heine Love Song . . . Eugene Field 176 
 A Gleam of Sunshine . H. W. Longfelloiv 178 
 Up, Quit Thy Bower . . . foanna Baillie 178 
 
 Following Suit 178 
 
 I Saw Two Clouds at Morning 
 
 /. G. C. Brainard 179 
 Green Grow the Rashes, O! 
 
 Robert Burns 179 
 
 A Madrigal 179 
 
 Gathering Poppies S.J. Reilly 180 
 
 Love's Flower 180 
 
 Jamie's on the Sea 180 
 
 Song Caroline Oliphant 181 
 
 When Your Beauty Appears, 
 
 Thomas Parnell 181 
 
 Pagb 
 
 Sweet, Be Not Proud . . Robert Herrick 181 
 An Old Love Letter . . Mrs. J. C. Neal 181 
 Don't Marry a Man "To Save Him." . . 181 
 The Emerald Ring . . Letitia E. Landon 1 82 
 "O, Nancy, Wilt Thou Go with Me?" 
 
 Thomas Percy 182 
 Love Dissembled . William Shakespeare 183 
 A Woman's Question, 
 
 Adelaide A. Proctor 183 
 
 The Knight's Toast 184 
 
 Love is a Sickness . . . Samuel Daniel 184 
 Gray and Silver . . . . C. E. D. Phelps 184 
 Let Not Woman E'er Complain 
 
 Robert Burns 186 
 
 My Own Dora K. Freaney 186 
 
 Kissing Her Hair . . . A. C. Swinburne 186 
 When Thou Art Near Me, 
 
 Lady Jane Scott 187 
 Reuben and Rose .... Thomas Moore 188 
 
 Love's Forgotten Promise 189 
 
 Her Shadow Aubrey De Vere 189 
 
 Found at Last . . . . Samuel M. Peck \%'d 
 Waiting Near . . . . W. M. Thackeray 189 
 The Miller's Daughter . Alfred Tennyson 190 
 
 My Choice William Browne 190 
 
 The Age of Wisdom . W. M. Thackeray 191 
 Ah! What is Love? . . . Robert Greene 191 
 Tell Me, My Heart, If this be Love 
 
 George Lord Lyttelton 191 
 
 Why 192 
 
 He that Loves a Rosy Cheek, Thos. Carew 193 
 The Shepherd's Resolution, 
 
 George Wither 193 
 
 My Sweethearts 193 
 
 Love not Me for Comely Grace .... 193 
 To Helen in a Huff. . . . N. P. Willis 193 
 
 Jealousy E. Bidzver Lytton 194 
 
 For Love's Sake . Elizabeth B. Browning 195 
 
 Jenny's Kiss Leigh Hunt 195 
 
 Satisfactory Chaperonage. . E. P. Butler 195 
 Gilbert and Amethysta . Charles Mackay 195 
 
 Love Thou the Best 196 
 
 Love and Jealousy . . . Mary L Mattis 196 
 
 To the End 196 
 
 Legend of a Coquette 197 
 
 Under the Mistletoe 
 
 Martha E. Hallahan 198 
 The Change . , . . . Letitia E. Landon 198 
 The Hunter's Serenade . . W. C Bryant 198 
 
 The Loveliness of Love 199 
 
 My Dear and Only Love, James Graham 199 
 
 Wooing John B. L. Soide \SSSS 
 
 Love is Enough . . Ella Wheeler Wilcox 200 
 To an Absent Wife . . . G. D. Prentice 200 
 
COXTENTS. 
 
 IX 
 
 TALES OF ADVENTURE AND ROMANCE. 
 
 Page 
 Massacre at Fort Dearborn, Chicago, 
 
 1812 B. F. Taylor 201 
 
 An Incident of the Fire at Mamburgh 
 
 /. R. Lowell 201 
 The Dying Warrior . . . Thomas Moore 202 
 The Indian Boat .... Thomas Moore 202 
 The Green \^.o\xw\.-d!\\\]\x^\ACQ, Henry Reeves 203 
 
 Willy-NiUy E. F, Brcwtnall 204 
 
 My Landlady Austin Dobson 205 
 
 Knight Toggenburg. . . F. Von Schiller 206 
 Phillips of Pelhamville . Alex. Anderson 207 
 
 The Famine H.IV. Longfellow 207 
 
 Conductor Bradley . . . . J. G. Whittier 208 
 
 A Girl Heroine 209 
 
 The Faithful Lovers 209 
 
 The Morte Chapel . . Walter Baxendale 210 
 One of the Six "Hundred . .• 211 
 
 Page 
 
 The Charge of the Light Brigade at Bala- 
 
 klava Alfred Te?uiyson 211 
 
 River and Tide 212 
 
 The Indian Girl . . . Letitia E, La?idon 213 
 
 In School Days f,G. Whittier 214 
 
 The King and the Cottage, yi?//;/ H. Payne 215 
 
 Uncle Jo 215 
 
 The Newsboy's Debt, Helen Huntfackson 216 
 Scott and The Veteran . Bayard Taylor 2 1 7 
 
 Ben Fisher F. D. Gage 218 
 
 The Sea-King's Grave . . Re?inell Rodd 219 
 The Heathen Chinee .... Bret Llarte 219 
 
 Loved One was Not There . Eliza Cook 220 
 The Guard's Story ......... 220 
 
 The Overland Train . . . foaqnin Miller 221 
 The Bridge of Sighs . . . Thomas }lood 221 
 
 Arabella and Sally Ann . . Paul Q^ 
 
 222 
 
 BALLADS, LEGENDS AND NATIONAL AIRS 
 
 The Damsel of Peru . . . W. C. Bryant 223 
 The African Chief . . . . W. C. Bryant 224 
 The Private of the Buffs, Sir F. H. Doyle 224 
 A Maid of Normandy . George Weatherly 225 
 
 Border Ballad Sir Walter Scott 225 
 
 Sir Humphrey Gilbert, H. W. Longfellow 226 
 The Pilgrim Fathers . . . fohn Pierpont 227 
 The Crazed Maiden . . . Geojge Crabbe 227 
 The Murdered Traveller . W. C. Bryant 228 
 
 Leonidas George Croly 229 
 
 The Way of Wooing ! 229 
 
 An Indian Story W,G Bryant 229 
 
 Monterey C. F. Hoffman 230 
 
 Gaspar Becerra. . . . H. W. Longfellow 231 
 
 Boadicea William Cozvpcr 232 
 
 Pericles and Aspasia . . . George Croly 232 
 Yarn of the ''Nancy Bell," W. S. Gilbert 232 
 The Indian Girl's Lament . W, C Bryant 234 
 
 Battle-Hymn of the Republic 
 
 Julia Ward Howe 234 
 The White-Footed Deer . W. C. Bryant 235 
 O Mother of a Mighty Race, W. C.Bryant 236 
 "Once on a Time" .... LJllian Grey 236 
 The Phantom City . . . Frances P. Mace ^'Xl 
 Her Last Moment . . Margaret Craven, 237 
 
 Edward Gray Alfred Teiinyson 239 
 
 My Maryland .... Tames R. Randall 239 
 The Place Where Man Should Die 
 
 Michael f. Barry 240 
 The Death of Aliatar . . W. C. Bryant 240 
 The Lake of the Dismal Swamp 
 
 Thomas Moore 242 
 The Star-Spangled ^dinn^r , Fra7icis S. Key 243 
 
 Hymn for England's Jubilee 243 
 
 The Happiest Land . . H W. Longfellozv 243 
 The Fair Helen 244 
 
 HOPE AND MEMORY. 
 
 A Retrospect George Crabbe 245 
 
 The Long-Ago Lord Houghton 245 
 
 Memories of Childhood . . . /. G. Watts 245 
 
 Departed Joys H C Kendall 246 
 
 The Pleasur'^s of Memory, 
 
 Samuel Rogers 246 
 Watch and Wait . . . . M. C. Gillington 246 
 The Pleasures of Hope, Thomas Campbell 248 
 
 The Pilgrim 249 
 
 My Trundle Bed 249 
 
 Remembrance Anne Hunter 250 
 
 •'Ember Picture" 250 
 
 A Little Song of Hope . . R. F. Gree7ie 
 
 Memories J- G. Whittier 
 
 The Unhappy Past . . Oliver Goldsmith 
 
 Heavenward Lady Nairne 
 
 Never Despair M. F. Tipper 
 
 In Memoriam T. Whytehead 
 
 Sun of the Soul J. Langhorne 
 
 Eden Flowers H.N. OxcnJiam 
 
 The Visionary W. E. Spencer 
 
 Sad Recollections .... Emily Bronte 
 Light in DTrkness . . Oliver Goldsjiiith 
 Hope and Wisdom . . . . W. S, Landor 
 
 250 
 251 
 252 
 252 
 252 
 252 
 252 
 253 
 253 
 254 
 254 
 254 
 
COXTENTS. 
 
 PATRIOTS AND HEROES. 
 
 The Little Firciuc.li ..../• ^^ Nicholls 255 
 Andre's Request to Washington 
 
 N. P. Willis 257 
 
 Dyin^ for Liberty .... Thoiiias Moore 257 
 The Lone Grave on the Mountain 
 
 C.G.Bcede 257 
 
 I'm With You Once Again, Geo. P, Morris 258 
 It is (ireat for Our Country to Die 
 
 Jaines G. Per civ al 258 
 
 The Cuban Crisis . . . . L. S. Aino?iso}i 259 
 
 The Little Drummer 259 
 
 The Poor Voter on Election Day 
 
 /. G. Whittier 259 
 
 A Brave Man Alexaiidcr Pope 260 
 
 Patriotism and P'reedom . [oiuina Baillie 260 
 
 Romero ..." ' W. C. Bryani 260 
 
 March of the Men of Plarlech 261 
 
 The Incorruptible Patriot . . E. C. Jones 263 
 Redmond, in Rokeby Hall, Sir Walter Scott 2QZ 
 
 Courage Ensures Success . John Dryden 263 
 
 Do or Die Lord Byroji 264 
 
 Hymn of the Moravian Nuns of Bethle- 
 hem . - . . , //. f^. LongfeUozv 
 Return of the Hillside Legion, Ethel Lynn 
 Heroes of the Mines . , . J- E. Jones 
 The Drummer Boy of Shiloh , „ . . . 
 The Man with the Musket . H.S. Taylor 
 Battle of Bear an' Duine, Sir Walter Scott 
 Forget Not the Field . . Thomas Moore 
 Paul Revere's Ride . . //. W.Lo7igfellow 
 A Song of the North 
 The Ship of State . . 
 
 The Immortals . = . . . 
 
 The Ballot Box . . . . , John Pierpont 
 The Pride of Battery 'B . F. H. Gassaway 
 Harmodius and Aristogiton,Z^r<a^i9£'?/7;/fl:;2 
 Andreas Hofer . . . . H. T. Tuckerinan 
 
 Lexington . 0. IV. Holmes 
 
 The Sword of Bunker Hill 
 
 The Wounded Soldier . . J. W, Watson 
 The Old Grenadier's Story 
 
 G, W. Thornoury 
 
 Elizabeth Doten 
 0. W. Holmes 
 
 264 
 
 264 
 265 
 267 
 267 
 268 
 269 
 270 
 271 
 27a 
 
 27;i 
 273 
 274 
 274 
 275 
 276 
 276 
 277 
 
 27b 
 
 THE SWORD AND THE PLOW^. 
 
 A Deserter Mary A. Barr 279 
 
 Song of the Greek Amazon, W. C. Bijant 280 
 The Soldier's Widow. . . . iV. P. Willis 280 
 Home from the War . . . Tho^nas Moore 280 
 
 The Golden Age 280 
 
 Peace and the Sword . . E. H. Bicker steth 281 
 
 The Sword Stephen H. Thayer 282 
 
 Love and Peace J. G. Whittier 282 
 
 The Turkish Camp .... Lord Byron 283 
 
 The Battle-field W, C. Bryant 284 
 
 The Regiment's Return . , E.J. Cutler 284 
 The Battle-Song of Gustavus Adolphus 
 
 Michael Altcjibiirg 285 
 
 Old Iion-Sides 0. W. Holmes 285 
 
 Festive Peace . . . William Shakespeare 285 
 The Soldier's Return . Robert Bloomjicld 286 
 Soldier, Rest ! Thy Warfare O'er 
 
 Sir Walter Scott 286 
 Ode to Peace. .... William Tenne7tt 2^1 
 When Bann -.'xc Waving 287 
 
 Before the Battle .... Thornas Moort t^H 
 The Broadswords of Scotland, 
 
 J. G. Lockhart 28 H 
 Let the Sword Rust . H. W. Longfellow 288 
 The Angels of Buena Vista,/. G. Whittier 289 
 A Picture of Peace . . H.W, Lo7igfellow 290 
 The Tyrant's Scourge . . . P. B. Shelley 290 
 Death of the Warrior King, Charles Swain 291 
 The Flight of Xerxes . MariaJ,Jewsbury 291 
 After the Tempest . . . . W. C, Bryant 292 
 Left on the Battle-field . Sarah T. Bolton 292 
 Horrors of War. . . . E. H. Bickersteth 292 
 The Indian Brave ..... /^ 5. Smith 293 
 
 After the Battle Thomas Moore 293 
 
 Coming Peace . . Elizabeth B, Browning 293 
 The Legend of Sir Joseph Wagstafif 
 
 /. M. Wagstaff 294 
 The Time of War . . . . J. G. Whittier 296 
 
 Civil War 296 
 
 Fair Peace James Thomson 296 
 
 RURAL SCENES. 
 
 Farmer John J- T. Troivbridge 297 
 
 The Village Woy /• ^- C^^^'k^ 297 
 
 Homesick for the Country 298 
 
 Summer Woods . . . . W. H Burleigh 298 
 
 The Calf Phoebe Gary 299 
 
 Sleigh Song G W. Pettee 299 
 
 Nightfall: A Picture . . . . A, B. Street 300 
 
 The House on the Hill . . .E.J. Hall 301 
 
 Agriculture James Thomson 302 
 
 The Harvest Sheaf 303 
 
 Dan's Wife L<:ate T. Woods 304 
 
 The Robin Harrison Weir 305 
 
 A Lay of Old Time . . . J. G. Whittle? 305 
 A Little Song 306 
 
COXTEXTS. 
 
 XI 
 
 Page 
 
 Our Skater Belle 306 
 
 The Homestead Phcebe Gary 307 
 
 A Life in the Country . . C. S. Calverlcy 308 
 
 A Rural Picture Joanna Baillie 309 
 
 A Harvest Hymn . . . W. D. Gallagher 310 
 My Little Brook . . . Mary D. Branch 310 
 Conrad in the City . . He7iry Davenport 311 
 
 The Reapers T. B. Read 311 
 
 The Drudge 0. W. Holmes 312 
 
 The Haymaker's Roundelay 312 
 
 True Riches J. N. Barker Z\1 
 
 The Country Maid .... W. G. Bryant 312 
 
 Selling the Farm Beth Day Vi-^ 
 
 Town and Country . . William Gowper 315 
 A Harvest Thought 316 
 
 Page 
 
 The Pumpkin J.G. Whittier 316 
 
 Blossom-time Mary E. Dodge 317 
 
 Country Life 317 
 
 The Old Mill R. H, Stoddard 318 
 
 Back to the Farm W. T. Hale 318 
 
 Two Pictures Marion Douglass 318 
 
 The Haymakers George Liuit 319 
 
 The Song of the Mowers 
 
 W. H Burleigh 319 
 
 Country Life R.H. Stoddard Z1^ 
 
 The Plough W. G. Bryant 320 
 
 The Sacred Woods . . . R.W. Emerson 320 
 The Mowers .... William Allingham 321 
 
 The Cornfield James Thomson 321 
 
 My Heaven X. P. Willis 321 
 
 THE WORLD'S WORKERS, 
 
 The Dreamer 
 
 Press On Park Benjamin 
 
 -Do Something 
 
 How Cyrus Laid the Cable 
 
 Little by Little 
 
 The Way to Win . 
 
 The Church Spider 
 
 Robert Bloomfield 
 . . J, G. Whittier 
 . .J.G. Whittier 
 . . Horace Snath 
 
 Giles and Mary . 
 The Ship-builders . 
 The Shoemakers . 
 Moral Cosmetics . 
 
 Advice 
 
 A Work Song . . . , G. F. Armstj-ong 
 The Happy Heart . . . , . . T. Decker 
 Labor On 
 
 323 
 323 
 324 
 324 
 324 
 324 
 326 
 326 
 327 
 327 
 328 
 328 
 329 
 330 
 3.^)0 
 
 Pluck and Prayer 330 
 
 You and I Gharles Mackay 331 
 
 Don't Stand in the Way 331 
 
 The Husbandman ... Jolui Sterling 332 
 The Poor Man's Labor , . /. P. Gurran 333 
 Working and Dreaming, Mrs. A. L. Lawrie 333 
 To the Harvest Moon . . H. K. White 334 
 The Unfinished Stocking, KS^rrt'/^7r.i^(?//6';2 334 
 
 The Good Old Plough 335 
 
 The Fishermen -/ ^'- ^^I'iHi^^f 335 
 
 The Corn Song J. G. Whittier 336 
 
 The Huskers J. G. Whittier 386 
 
 The Lumbermen . . . . J. G. Whittier 337 
 The Song of the Shirt . . Thomas Hood 339 
 Advice 340 
 
 BEAUTY AND GRANDEUR OF THE ALPS, 
 
 Lake Leman (Geneva) in a Calm 
 
 Lord Byron 341 
 Lake Leman (Geneva) in a Storm 
 
 Sunrise in the Vale of Chamouny 
 
 5. T. Goleridge 346 
 
 The Avalanche Lord Byron 347 
 
 Lord Byron 341 i I^ngland and Switzerland 
 The Battle of Morgarten I William Wordsworth 347 
 
 Felicia D. Hemans 843 Arnold Winkelried . James Montgomery 348 
 The Boy of the Alps . . Thomas Moore 344 ' The Eagle's Shadow . Anna L. Barbauld 350 
 
 CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 
 
 The Doirs Wedding 
 A Fishin' 
 
 353 
 
 . .J.W. Riley 353 
 
 k Mattie's WanLs and Wishes, (9r«^^ Gordon 353 
 
 A Fellow's Mother . . . M. E. Sangstcr 355 
 
 The Little White Hearse 356 
 
 Two Little Maidens .... Agnes Carr 355 
 
 A Life Lesson 355 
 
 Grandma's Angel 355 
 
 The Little Boy's Lament 356 
 
 Forgiveness 356 
 
 Nutting Lncy M. Blinn 
 
 Naming the Baby 
 
 Nan Gora S. Wheeler 
 
 The Chicken's Mistake . . . Phcebe Gary 
 The Merman's Song . . Matthew Arnold 
 
 Dreams 
 
 Be True 
 
 The New Year 
 
 Little Jack E^ngene J. Hall 
 
 What Bessie Saw . . . , C. W.Bronson 
 
 357 
 357 
 357 
 358 
 36(^ 
 360 
 360 
 361 
 3ol 
 362 
 
XII 
 
 CONTENTS, 
 
 Pace 
 Li tt 1 e Re d R i d i n g H ood , LctitiaE, Landon 362 
 The Highwayman. . . Allen G. Bigelow 304 
 
 The Squirrel's Lesson 304 
 
 Boys Wanted 305 
 
 The Riglit Way .... Helm E. Broivn 365 
 
 5 A Song of Golden Curls . E. L. Stanton 305 
 
 The Pied Piperof Hamelin, AWV. j5;'<97t:';//;/^ 300 
 
 The Cluckinc^ Hen 308 
 
 One Thing at a Time 308 
 
 Bab\land George Cooper 308 
 
 The Little Cup-bearer 309 
 
 Do Right 309 
 
 The Boy with the Little Tin Horn 
 
 E. L. Stanton 309 
 
 The Way to Succeed 309 
 
 A Gentleman . . . Margaret E. Sangster 370 
 
 Down in the Strawberry Bed 370 
 
 One Little Act 370 
 
 Six Years Old 370 
 
 Hands and Lips 371 
 
 Jewels of Winter 371 
 
 The Bluebird 371 
 
 The Man in the Mocn 371 
 
 A Rogue 371 
 
 Grandpapa's Spectacles 371 
 
 The BabN-'s Prayer . . Elizabeth S. Phelps 373 
 
 A Child's Wish Clio Stanley 374 
 
 The Children Charles Dickens 374 
 
 The King and the Child . . . E.J. Hall Zlb 
 A Boy's Song /. Hogg 376 
 
 The Little Darling 
 
 The Boy's Complaint 
 
 Lost Tommy Jtilia M. Dana 
 
 The Little Boy who Ran Away 
 
 Mrs. S. T. Perry 
 The F'lag on the School-house 
 
 E. A. Tnpper 
 
 A Girl John J. Piatt 
 
 Cuddle Doon . . , Alexander Anderson 
 The Dead Doll . . Margaret Vandergrifi 
 A Little Boy's Trouble . Carlotta Perry 
 From "Babe Christabel," Gerald Massey 
 What She Said . . . S. D. W. Gamwell 
 
 Unsatisfied A, G. Waters 
 
 A Pleasant Punishment 
 
 Tabby Gray 
 
 Babies and Kittens . . . . Z. M, Hadley 
 A Story of an Apple . . . Sydney Dayre 
 
 The Unfinished Prayer 
 
 Which Loved Best Eoy Allisojc 
 
 The Discontented Buttercup 
 
 Sarah C.Jewett 
 Off for Slumberland ........ 
 
 Suppose Phcebe Cary 
 
 The Dead Kitten .... Sydney Dayre 
 Johnny's Opinion of Grandmothers 
 
 E. L. Beers 
 
 Only a Boy 
 
 The Ill-natured Brier . . . Anna Bache 
 
 The Boy and the F'rog 
 
 pAciE 
 
 376 
 377 
 377 
 
 378 
 
 379 
 379 
 
 380 
 380 
 381 
 381 
 38" 
 383 
 383 
 384 
 384 
 384 
 385 
 385 
 
 385 
 385 
 380 
 380 
 
 387 
 389 
 390 
 390 
 
 THE CROWN OF GENIUS. 
 
 George Washington .... Eliza Cook 391 
 Napoleon and the Sailor, Thomas Campbell 391 
 The Portrait of Shakespeare, /itv/yi^/^/^i-^:;;/ 392 
 
 Mary Morison Robert Burns 392 
 
 Vanderbilt is Dead, Slier 7nan D. Richardson 393 
 George Whitefield . . . William Caliper 393 
 The Old Admiral . . . . E. C Stedman 393 
 
 Robert Southey Lord Byron 394 
 
 To Memory of Ben Johnson,y<rV/;/ Cleveland ^^b 
 Henry Kirke White .... Lord Byron 395 
 Italy's King . . . Elizabeth B, Browning 395 
 To the Memory of Hood ....... 395 
 
 General Grant Walt Whitman 397 
 
 To J. G. Whittier on His Seventieth Birth- 
 day Bayard Taylor 397 
 
 On the Death of President Taylor 
 
 R. T Conrad 397 
 
 Cleopatra William Shakespeare 398 
 
 To Cole, the Painter . . . W. C Bryant 391) 
 The Seminole's Defiance . G. W. Patton 400 
 Fate of Charles the Twelfth, Sand. Johnson 400 
 
 Wendell Phillips Nora Perry 400 
 
 Robert Burns E.G. Halleck 401 
 
 The Princess Charlotte . . . Lord Byron 402 
 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 
 
 E. E. Browne 405 
 Randolph of Roanoke . . J. G. Whittier 405 
 
 Napoleon Lord Byron 407 
 
 Abraham Lincoln J. R. L.oivell 407 
 
 Lord Byron Robert Pollok 401) 
 
 Campbell W. M. Praed 410 
 
 The Duke of Wellington, Alfred Tennyson 410 
 On a Bust of Dante . . . T. M. Parsons 413 
 The Execution of Montrose, W. E. Aytoun 414 
 
 THOUGHT AND SENTIMENT. 
 
 The Village Weaver . . . G. S. Johnson 415 
 
 A Jewel in Disguise 415 
 
 A Dream J. W. Riley 410 
 
 The Days of the Modern Belie .... 410 
 
 The Fortunate Isles . . Joaqtdn Miller 410 
 It Never Comes Again . R. H. Stoddard 410 
 The Bird that Soars . . . /. M. Bcntley 417 
 Sometime H, Q, Blaisdell 417 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 xiu 
 
 Page 
 An Old Vagabond . . . , J. B. O'Reilly Al'^ 
 The Pity of the Park Fountain, N.P. Willis 418 
 Under the Leaves . . . Blanche Buswell 418 
 
 The Water that Has Passed 418 
 
 Courage Barry Cornivall 420 
 
 The Fireside Nathaniel Cotton 420 
 
 Roving Ned S. D. Richardson 420 
 
 Victoria's Tears . Elizabeth B. Browning 422 
 Dust from the Road of Life, 
 
 Mrs. Louis Bedford 423 
 
 The Crown of Life J. P. Bailey 423 
 
 The Chaperon 424 
 
 lairds of Passage . . . H. W. Longfelloiv 424 
 Dimes and Dollars .... Henry Mills 425 
 The Town Pump . , . . G. W. Bungay 425 
 Vastness of the Sea . . . Barry Cormvall 426 
 The Chimes of Amsterdam, 
 
 Minnie E. Kenjiey 426 
 
 Only Friends 427 
 
 The Helping Hand 427 
 
 Life's Winter James Thomson 428 
 
 The Old Reaper 428 
 
 Time's Flight W. M. Praed 428 
 
 To a Friend . J. G. Whittier 429 
 
 Ten Years Ago A. A. Watts 429 
 
 The Angel of Patience . . J, G, Whittier 430 
 
 Two Graves 431 
 
 The Builders , . . , H. W. Longfellow 431 
 A Good New Year .... William Lyle 431 
 
 Page 
 We'll go to Sea no More, Adelaide Corbett 432 
 
 A Hand Pressure Curtis May 433 
 
 Rock Me to Sleep . . Elizabeth A. Allen 433 
 
 Snowdrops 434 
 
 Christmas Eve W. B. Dunham 434 
 
 Forgive Me Now 434 
 
 In the Cage Sir W. Davefia?it 435 
 
 Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard 
 
 Thomas Gray 436 
 
 The Foolish Violet 437 
 
 New Every Morning . . Susan Coolidge 437 
 
 The Men of Old R. M Mines 438 
 
 Suggestions A?zna C Staj'buck 438 
 
 Song of the Mystic A.J. Ryan 438 
 
 The Singers H.W. Longfelloiv 439 
 
 Sour Grapes 439 
 
 A Useful Hint A. Hill 439 
 
 Contentment 489 
 
 The New Morning . . Anna L. Barbaidd 440 
 
 Old Letters Epes Sargent 440 
 
 The Old Year Lilian F. Mentor 440 
 
 You Think I am Dead 441 
 
 I Thank Thee, God! For Weal and Woe 
 
 Eliza Cook 441 
 Crossing the Bar . . . Alfred Temiyson 441 
 The Friendship Flower . . R. M. Milnes 442 
 
 Easy All 442 
 
 Experience Alice M. Rollins 442 
 
 Miranda William Shakespeare 442 
 
 TRAGEDY 
 
 The Driver of the Mail , F. E. Weatherly 
 
 Rover's Petition J. T Fields 
 
 Adieu to His Native Land . Lord Byron 
 
 The Three Little Chairs 
 
 Early Death . ... Hartley Coleridge 
 
 Kindness David Bates 
 
 Think of Me Letitia E. Landon 
 
 It Cannot Be Cy Warman 
 
 A Widow Bird P. B. Shelley 
 
 The Auctioneer's Gift . . . , S. W. Boss 
 The Lost Leader . . . Robert Browinng 
 The Three Weepers . . Horatius Bonar 
 Where Shall we Make Her Grave ? 
 
 Felicia D. Hemans 
 
 Under the Snow 
 
 For All Who Die 
 
 One Voice is Silent 
 
 AND SORROW. 
 
 443 
 443 
 444 
 444 
 444 
 444 
 445 
 445 
 446 
 446 
 447 
 447 
 
 447 
 448 
 449 
 449 
 
 THE GATES 
 
 Forgiveness 459 
 
 Bethlehem Town Eugoie Field 459 
 
 The Lost Chord . . Adelaide A. Proctor 459 
 '' Please to Say Amen." 460 
 
 Weeping T. L. Beddoes 451 
 
 Dirge in Cymbeline . . . W. S. Collins 451 
 
 The Dead Bird Amy S. Wolff 
 
 A Trifle 452 
 
 Thy Long Day's Work . Alfred Tennyson 453 
 The Dirge of Imogen, William Shakespeare 453 
 Oh, Snatched Away in Beauty's Bloom 
 
 Lord Byron 454 
 Lost and Found .... Hamilton Hide 454 
 
 Over the Range J. H. Mills 455 
 
 Solitude H. K. White 456 
 
 The Voiceless 0. W. Holmes 456 
 
 A Lament P. B. Shelley 456 
 
 Song of the Silent Land, H. W. Longfellou^ 456 
 The Mother's Dream . . William Barnes 456 
 Dreamland .... Christina G. Rosetti 457 
 Hope Oliver Goldsmith 458 
 
 OF PEARL. 
 
 The Old Man in the New Church 
 
 /. H. Yates 460 
 Sometime, Somewhere . Robert Broivning 462 
 Heavenward Sir Edwin Arnold 462 
 
XIV 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 A Little Dream 462 
 
 A Christmas Carol . Christina G. Rosetti 463 
 
 Truth liice Gary 464 
 
 In Answer Rose H. Thorpe 464 
 
 Sometime 464 
 
 The Sister's Evening Hymn 
 
 SaraJi Doudncy 465 
 The Well of Loch Maree, /. G. Whitticr 465 
 The Christian's Warfare 
 
 CJiarlotte E. Tonna 466 
 
 The Magi's Gifts S. C. Kirk 466 
 
 Angel Guardians . . . Beatrice Clayton 466 
 
 What was His Creed? 467 
 
 Gettin' Religion Ida G. Morris 467 
 
 Heaven Overarches . Cliristina G. Rosetti 467 
 
 Mercy Williavi Shakespeare 468 
 
 Beyond 468 
 
 The Quaker of the Olden Time 
 
 /. G. Whitticr 468 
 
 Page 
 
 Mary Magdalen W. C. Bryaiit 468 
 
 The Fold 471- 
 
 The Golden Street . . . //'. 0. Stoddard 471 
 
 Empty Prayers 471 
 
 Oh, for the Bridal ¥Q2iSt,Charitie L. Smith 471 
 
 Prayer and Potatoes 472 
 
 The Sacrifice of Isaac . . . X. P. Wdlis 473 
 
 Our Beloved Dead 473 
 
 No Thorn Without a Rose 
 
 /-: R, Havergal 474 
 The Outdoor Church .... E,va Kcane 474 
 
 Rest Marv T Lathrop 475 
 
 The Way T B. Read 475 
 
 Once Upon a Time . . . Louisa Bushne/i 475 
 Peace of IMind . . . . Oliver Goldsmith 475 
 A Distant Carol, Kathariiie Van Harluif^^cn 476 
 I Know Not the Hour of His Coming 
 
 Ezra Hallock 476 
 Blessed are the Dead . . . Simon Dach 476 
 
 WIT AND ^A;^ISDOM. 
 
 Bill's in Trouble 477 
 
 Jack, Who Sews His Buttons On 
 
 Arthur C^^pjuan 477 
 Woo on a Tandem . . . Earl H. Eaton 478 
 The Parrot and the Cat . He?iry S. Leigh 478 
 
 The Scientific Sluggard 478 
 
 Reuben and Matilda 480 
 
 The Old-Fashioned Laundress .... 480 
 
 Spelling Reformer 480 
 
 The Wedding Fee 480 
 
 Cabin Philosophy 481 
 
 Adam Never was a Boy, T. C. Harbaiigh 482 
 A School-day . . , . W. E. McSparran 483 
 
 Three Stages 483 
 
 The Baby in the Cars 486 
 
 Hygiene 486 
 
 Saint Anthon}-'s Sermon to the Fishes 
 
 x\. A. Sancta Clai^a 487 
 
 A Child's Reasoning 487 
 
 The Reason Why 487 
 
 The Indian Chieftain 487 
 
 Jane Jones Ben King 488 
 
 Why Don't You Laugh ? . /. C Challiss 488 
 
 The Maiden's Last Farewell 489 
 
 Whip-Poor-Will l/. //. Rosenfeld 490 
 
 Bakin and Greens 490 
 
 Der Baby .... 490 
 
 The Amorous Gold Fish, LLarry Grccnhank 492 
 
 Spring Under Difficulties 492 
 
 When Maria Jane is [Mayor, William West 492 
 
 The Girl for i\Ie 493 
 
 Sorrows of Werther . . W. JL Thackeray 493 
 
 Th- Next Step 494 
 
 Sambo's Philosophy . - . S. L. Dunbar 494 
 American Aristocracy . . . J. G. Save 495 
 
 De Ole Plantation Mule 495 
 
 The Railroad Crossing . LLezekiah Strong 496 
 The Punkin Frost . . . . B. E. Jolmson 496 
 
 Pat's Reply ., ... 497 
 
 Deborah Lee 498 
 
 What Mr. Robinson Thinks,/. A^ Lowell 499 
 
 Wail of the Unappreciated 500 
 
 Ask and Have Samuel Lover 500 
 
 The Beauty and the Bee, Charles Mackay 500 
 Why Biddy and Pat Married 
 
 R. H. Stoddard 500 
 
 My Paroquet Emma H. Webb 501 
 
 A Man by the Name of Bolus,/. W. Riley 503 
 
 Salad Sydney Smith 503 
 
 'Tis not Fine Feathers that Make F'ine 
 
 Birds 504 
 
 Total Annihilation . . . JLary D. Baine 504 
 
 Cyclopedia of Poetical Quotations with Subjects Arranged Alpha- 
 betically 505 
 
coxTEyrs. 
 
 Xf 
 
 CONTENTS OF PROSE. 
 
 H. T. Tnckcnnaii 
 
 . R. IV. E)ncrson 
 
 WasJiinortoii Irvin^^ 
 
 WasJwicrto)i Irvinsr 
 
 A Sunshim- Husband 
 
 Home is Where the Heart is, Oias. Dickens 
 
 The Sunny Side 
 
 One of the Dearest Words 
 
 The Great Horse-Shoe Curve 
 
 Pleasure Derived from Nature, T. Divight 
 An Italian Sunset , . Washington Allston 
 Valley of the Hudson . George Bancroft 
 The Vernal SQ?i?>ovi, Nathaniel Hawthorne 
 Venice at Night . James Feniniore Cooper 
 First Sight of the Valley of Mexico 
 
 W. H. Prescott 
 
 Flowers Lydia M. Child 
 
 Summer-time . . . H. IV. Longfellow 
 Scenery of Lake Superior, 77. R. ScJioolcraft 
 
 Mountains E. M. Morse 
 
 Coral Treasures of the Sea 
 
 Wreck of the Huron, T.De Witt Talniage 
 Rock and Sand Borers ....... 
 
 Sublimity of the Ocean 
 
 Gone Like a Dream . . R. L. Stevenson 
 
 Beauty of Sea- Waves 
 
 The Crowning Grace 
 
 The Power of Love . 
 
 The Love of a Mother 
 
 Broken Hearts ... 
 
 Andre and Hale C M. Depezu 
 
 Beauty of Heroic Deeds, R. IV. Emerson 
 The Fathers of the Republic . E. Everett 
 
 Patrick Henry ... 
 
 The Little Mayflower . Edward Everett 
 The "Constitution" and ''Guerriere" . . 
 
 Patriotism 
 
 Warren and Bunker Hill 
 The Homes of Freedom 
 The Ravages of War . . 
 
 War's Destruction Robert Hall 
 
 A Brighter Day 
 
 Death in the Country . . /. K. Pauldijig 
 A Charming Prospect . . Joseph Addison 
 Peaceful Enjoyment .... Lord Jeffrey 
 Children and Flowers . H. W. Longfellozv 
 Magnificent Poverty .... Victor Hugo 
 
 Earning Capital James Wilson 
 
 The Sacredness of Work, Thomas Carlyle 
 The Nobility o^ Labor . . Orville Dewey 
 The Monarch of Mountains, G.B. Cheever 
 One of the Gems of Switzerland .... 
 The Glacier of the Rhone, H. W. Longfellozv 
 
 A Famous Summit Lord Byron 
 
 Mt. Pilatus 
 
 Mt. Blanc Betijaniin Silliman 
 
 T. F. Meagher 
 
 . Orville Dewey 
 Charles Sumner 
 
 Page 
 30 
 34 
 39 
 49 
 68 
 76 
 76 
 76 
 78 
 79 
 
 84 
 88 
 01 
 95 
 99 
 131 
 132 
 137 
 143 
 149 
 156 
 157 
 167 
 182 
 192 
 256 
 262 
 262 
 265 
 267 
 272 
 273 
 275 
 278 
 282 
 285 
 285 
 298 
 299 
 309 
 321 
 330 
 332 
 334 
 339 
 342 
 342 
 344 
 344 
 345 
 345 
 
 Avalanches of the Jungfrau 
 
 The Fall of the Staubbach 
 
 Lake Lucerne and William Tell's Chapel 
 Sunrise Among the Alps . JVash. Allston 
 
 Being a Boy CD. JVarner 
 
 What Baby Said 
 
 The Little Match-Girl 
 
 Hans Christian Andersen 
 
 Picking Quarrels John Neal 
 
 As Quick as the Telephone 
 
 Adams and Jefferson . . Edivard Everett 
 William Cullen Bryant . Professor Wilson 
 Thomas Campbell . . . . W. Allingham 
 
 Thomas Hood W. M. Rossctti 
 
 The Last Hours of Socrates 
 
 William Penn George Jumcroft 
 
 Prescott's Method of Living, G. H. Ticknor 
 
 Martin Luther Edzvard Everett 
 
 Copernicus Edzvard Everett 
 
 Charles Lamb ... . William Hazlitt 
 Henry Clay's Popularity . . Janies Parton 
 John Howard .... Henry Davenport 
 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow .... 
 The Great Senators . . . Horace Greeley 
 Nathaniel Hawthorne . . G. P. Lathrop 
 
 Alfred Tennyson R. H. Hntton 
 
 Two Celebrated Astronomers 
 
 Priscilla 
 
 Lady Henry Somerset, Henry Davenport 
 
 Glory Francis Wayland 
 
 Sympathy 
 
 True Nobility 
 
 Faults Henry Ward Beecher 
 
 Luck and Labor .... Ogden Hoffinan 
 
 National Hatred Rnjus Choate 
 
 Be in Earnest . . . . E. Bulzver Lytton 
 The Old Man with Iron Shoes 
 
 R. L. St ez} ens on 
 The Perfect Woman . . . Gail Hamilton 
 Fagin's Last Night Alive, Charles Dickens 
 Death of the First Born. . /. G. Holland 
 The Widow's Lighthouse, Herman Hooker 
 A Sabbath in the Country, CatJi. Sedgwick 
 An Ideal Citizen .... John Habberton 
 
 The Cycling Academy 
 
 Speech of Sergeant Buzfuz, Chas Dickens 
 Swallowing a Fly . .T.De WittTalmage 
 Candace's Opinions, Harriet Beecher Stozve 
 
 Practical Philosophy 
 
 Mark Twain's Watch . . . S. L. Clemens 
 "Births. Mrs. Meek, of a Son." 
 
 Charles Dickens 
 
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HOME, SWEET HOME 
 
 COMPRISING 
 
 GEIVIS FOR THE FIRESIDE 
 
 ^: 
 
 ^^s^ 
 
 FROM THE MOST CELEBRATED AUTHORS. 
 
 THE LIGHT OF HOME. 
 
 The joys of the old fireside, the memories that cling to the *hoiiie circle. an<' 
 the fondness with which the heart turns to the scenes and delights of youth, a*» 
 all very strikingly expressed in this beautiful poem. 
 
 Y boy, thou wilt dream the world is fair, 
 And thy spirit will sigh to roam. 
 And thou must go, but never when there 
 Forget the light of home. 
 
 Though pleasure may smile with a ray more bright. 
 
 It dazzles to lead astray ; 
 Like the meteor's flash 't will deepen the night, 
 When thou treadest the lonely way. 
 
 But the hearth of home has a constant flame. 
 
 And pure as vestal fire ; 
 'T will burn, 't will burn, for ever the same, 
 
 For nature feeds the pyre. 
 
 If from these joys thou art forced to part. 
 
 As roams the wandering dove, 
 Remember how true is the yearning heart 
 
 That is warmed with a mother's love. 
 
 The sea of ambition is tempest-tost, 
 And thy hopes may vanish like foam ; 
 
 But when sails are shivered, and rudder lost, 
 Then look to the light of home : — 
 
 And then like a star through the midnight cloud, 
 
 Thou shalt see the beacon bright, 
 For never, till shining on thy shroud. 
 
 Can be quenched its holy light 
 
 The sun of fame ? — it will gild the name, 
 
 But the heart ne'er felt its ray; 
 And fashion's smiles that rich ones claim, 
 
 Are but beams of a wintry day. 
 
 And how' cold and dim these beams must be, 
 
 Should life's wretched wanderer come ! 
 But, my boy, when the world is dark to thee. 
 Then turn to the light of home. 
 
 Sarah J. Halk. 
 17 
 
18 
 
 HOME, SWEET HOME, 
 
 MY CHILD. 
 
 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. 
 
 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 twelvemontb. 
 
 And it hardly seemed a day. 
 When a troop of wandering angels 
 
 Stole my little daughter away ; 
 
 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, 
 
 Or perhaps those heavenly Zincali 
 But loosed the hampering string; 
 
 And when they had opened her cage-doof 
 My little bird used her wings. 
 
 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 pros}^er 
 
 A poor little violet. 
 
HOME, SWEET HOME. 
 
 19 
 
 This child is not mine as ihe first was — 
 
 I cannot sing it to rest, 
 [ cannot 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. 
 
 James Russell Lowell. 
 
 A MOTHER'S LOVE. 
 
 HAST thou sounded the depths of yonder sea, 
 And counted the sands that under it be ? 
 Hast thou measured the height of heaven 
 above ? 
 Then mayst thou mete out a mother's love. 
 
 Hast thou talked with the blessed of leading on 
 To the throne of God some wandering son ? 
 Hast thou witnessed the angels' bright employ ? 
 Then mayst thou speak of a mother's joy. 
 
 f^vening and morn hast thou watched the bee 
 Go forth on her errand of industry ? 
 The bee for himself hath gathered and toiled, 
 But the mother's cares are all for her child. 
 
 Hast thou gone with the traveller Thought afar — 
 From pole to pole, and from star to star ? 
 Thou hast — but on ocean, earth, and sea, 
 The heart of a mother has gone with thee. 
 
 There is not a grand inspiring thought 
 There is not a truth by wisdom taught, 
 There is not a feeling pure and high, 
 That may not be read in a mother's eye. 
 
 And ever, since earth began, that look 
 Has been to the wise an open book, 
 To win them back from the lore they prize 
 To the holier love that edifies. 
 
 There are teachings in earth, and sea, and air; 
 The heavens the glory of God declare ; 
 But louder than voice beneath or above, 
 He ii hearrl to speak through a mother's love. 
 
 Emily Taylor. 
 
 BY THE FIRE. 
 
 ^^ HE sat and mused by the driftwood fire. 
 
 ^S As the leaping flames flashed high and 
 
 ^-^ higher, 
 
 And the phantoms of youth, as fair and bright, 
 
 Grew for her gaze in the ruddy light, 
 
 The blossoms she gathered in life's young days 
 
 Wreathed and waved in the flickering blaze ; 
 
 And she laughed through a sunny mist of tears, 
 
 rhat rose at the dream of her April years ; 
 
 And ever and aye the sudden rain, 
 
 P-ashed on the glittering window-pane. 
 
 Sobered and saddened the pictures that showed 
 As the driftwood logs to a red core glowed, 
 And the fancied figures of older time 
 Passed with the steadied step of their prime ; 
 The daisies and snowdrops bloomed and died, 
 Red roses and lilies stood side by side, 
 While richer, and fuller, and deeper grew 
 The lines of the pictures August drew ; 
 And ever and aye the falling rain 
 Streamed thick and fast on the window-pane. 
 
 The driftwood died down into feathery ash. 
 
 Where faintly and fitfully shone the flash ; 
 
 Slowly and sadly her pulses beat, 
 
 And soft was the fall, as of vanishing feet ; 
 
 And lush and green as from guarded grave. 
 
 She saw the grass of the valley wave ; 
 
 And like echoes in ruins seemed to sigh 
 
 The -'wet west wind" that went wanderini: by. 
 
 And caught the sweep of the sullen rain, 
 
 And dashed it against the window-pane. 
 
 N 
 
 THE LITTLE ARMCHAIR. 
 
 OBODY sits in the little armchair : 
 It stands in a corner dim ; 
 But a white-haired mother gazing there. 
 And yearningly thinking of him, 
 Sees through the dust of long ago 
 
 The bloom of the boy's sweet face. 
 As he rocks so merrily to and fro, 
 With a laugh that cheers the place. 
 
 Sometimes he holds a book in his hand, 
 
 Sometimes a pencil and slate ; 
 And the lesson is hard to understand, 
 
 The figures to calculate ; 
 But she sees the nod of the father's head. 
 
 So proud of his little son, 
 And she hears the words so often said 
 
 '•' No fear for our little one." 
 
 They were wonderful days, the dear sweet days, 
 
 When a child with sunny hair 
 Was here to scold, to kiss, and to praise. 
 
 At her knee in the little chair. 
 She lost him back in her busy years, 
 
 When the great world caught the man, 
 And he strode away past hopes and fears 
 
 To his place in the battle's van. 
 
 But now and then in a wistful dream. 
 
 Like a picture out of date, 
 She sees a head with a golden gleam 
 
 Bent over pencil and slate ; 
 And she lives again the happy day, 
 
 The day of her young life's spring, 
 i When the small armchair stood just in the way, 
 
 The centre of everything. 
 
BEAUTIFUL FLOWERS 1 UK ilUME DECORATION. 
 
 20 
 
HOME, SWEET HOME. 
 
 21 
 
 AN OLD SWEETHEART OF MINE. ' Where the vines were ever Iruitmi, and the weather 
 
 I ever fine 
 
 The tender pathos and beauty of tliis poem strike a respon- .,,,.', . . ^ , 
 
 e chord in the hearts of all who appreciate the domestic And the birds were ever Singing for that old sweet- 
 
 sive chord in the hearts of all who appreciate 
 aftections. It is one of Mr. Riley's happiest efforts. 
 
 AS one who cons at eve- 
 ning o'er the album 
 all alone 
 And muses on the faces of the 
 friends that he has known, 
 So I turn the leaves of fancy 
 
 till in shadowy design 
 I find the smiling features of 
 an old sweetheart of mine. 
 
 'Tis a fragrant retrospection — for 
 
 the loving hearts that start 
 Into being are like perfumes from 
 
 the blossoms of the heart; 
 And to dream the old dreams o\er 
 
 is a luxury divine, 
 When my truant fancy wanders with that old 
 
 sweetheart of mine. 
 
 Though I hear, beneath my study, like a 
 
 fluttering of wings. 
 The voices of my children and tlie mother as 
 
 she sings, 
 I feel no twinge of conscience to deny me 
 
 any theme 
 When care has cast her anchor in the harbor 
 
 of a dream. 
 
 In fact, to speak in earnest, I believe it adds 
 
 a charm 
 To spice the good a trifle with a little dust of 
 
 harm — 
 For I find an extra flavor in memory's mellow 
 
 vine 
 That makes me drink the deeper to that old 
 
 sweetheart of mine. 
 
 I can see the pink sun-l)onnet and the little check- 
 ered dress 
 
 She wore when first I kissed her and she answered 
 the caress 
 
 With the written declaration that '' as surely as the 
 vine 
 
 Grew 'round the stump, she loved me " — that old 
 sweetheart of mine. 
 
 heart of mine. 
 
 And again I feel the pressure of her slender little ! When I should be her lover forever and a 
 
 hand 
 
 day. 
 
 As we used to talk together of the future we had , And she my faithful sweetheart till the golden hair 
 
 planned — 
 
 was gray ; 
 
 When I should be a poet, and with nothing else ' And we should be so happy that when either' s lips 
 
 to do 
 
 were dumb 
 
 But to write the tender verses that she set the They should not smile in heaven till the other's 
 
 music to. 
 
 kiss had come. 
 
 When we should live together in a cosy little cot. But, ah ! my dream is broken by a step upon the 
 Hid in a nest of roses, with a tiny garden spot ; stair, 
 
22 
 
 HOME, SWEEr HOME. 
 
 And the door is softly opened, and — my wife is 
 
 standing there ; 
 Yet with eagerness and rapture all my visions 1 
 
 resign 
 To meet the living presence of that old sweetheart 
 
 of mine. 
 
 James Whitco.mu Riley. 
 
 ALONE IN THE HOUSE. 
 
 The following beautiful lines were written in response to 
 repealed requests for something from the pen of Mrs. Wil- 
 lard, mother of Miss Frances E. Willard. They give a pic- 
 ture of sacrirlce made with the utmost cheerfulness, such as 
 is not often witnessed, even in the history of reformers, and 
 are typical of the exemplary character of their author. 
 
 Is this, where I think of the rush 
 Of childhood's swift feet at the portal, 
 And of childhood's sweet spirit of trust! 
 
 All alone in the house ! all alone ! 
 
 On this generous festival day ; 
 Oh ! where have my girls gone this New Year's, 
 
 Who made the house merry as May? 
 One went at the call of death's angel, 
 
 And one, duty took her away. 
 
 Oh, how will it be in that future ? 
 
 I do wonder how it will be, 
 When we all meet together in heaven — 
 
 Husband, son, gentle daughters and me. 
 
 ALONE in the house ! who would dream it ! 
 Or think that it ever could be — 
 When my babes thrilled the soft air with 
 love notes 
 That had meaning for no one but me. 
 
 Alone in the house I who would dream it ! 
 
 Or think that it ever could be. 
 When they came from their small garden castle, 
 
 Down under their dear maple tree, 
 Or from graves of their pets and their kittens, 
 
 AVith grief it would pain you to see. 
 
 Then with brows looking weary from lessons. 
 
 Pored over with earnestness rare, 
 And then, from a thoughtful retirement, 
 
 AVith solitude's first blanch of care. 
 
 A house of stark silence and stillness 
 
 \\\\o will bring us together in glory, 
 When the long separation is done ? 
 
 'Tis the Friend who will never forsake us, 
 And who never has left us alone ; 
 
 Then fearless we'll enter to-morrow, 
 'Twill be one day nearer our home. 
 
 But when shall we reach there, I wonder, 
 Where father, brother, and sister now rest, 
 
 To dw^ell with the Christ who redeemed us, 
 In the beautiful land of the blest? 
 
 Mary Thompson Willard. 
 
 THE OLD FRIENDS. 
 
 THERE is no friend like the old friend who 
 has shared our morning days, 
 No greeting like his welcome, no homage 
 like his praise ; 
 Fame is the scentless sunflower, with gaudy crown 
 
 of gold, 
 But friendship is the breathing rose, with sweets in 
 every fold. 
 
 O. W. Holmes. 
 
HOME, SWEET HOME. 
 
 23 
 
 CHARITY. 
 
 BLEST Charity ! the grace long-suffering, kind, 
 Which envies not, has no self-vauntingmind, 
 Is not puffed up, makes no unseemly show, 
 Seeks not her own, to provocation slow, 
 Xo evil thinks, in no unrighteous choice 
 Fakes pleasure, doth in truth rejoice, 
 Hides all things, still believes, and hopes the best. 
 All things endures, averse to all contest. 
 Tongues, knowledge, prophecy, shall sink away. 
 
 And a sign and a seal of our reverence, too, 
 Had a part in our creed, when that old ring was 
 
 new. 
 When a slender, light hand was upraised to our lips. 
 And our kisses were pressed on its slim finger tips. 
 For that circle of gold seemed a hallowing pledge 
 Of a homage profounder than words dare allege. 
 
 But the metal that's purest wears quickest away. 
 And that old wedding ring has grown thinner to- 
 dav : 
 
 At the iirst glance of beatific ray; 
 Then charity its element shall gain, 
 And with the God of love eternal reign. 
 
 Bishop 
 
 THAT CIRCLE OF GOLD. 
 
 Ken. 
 
 WHAT a symbol of love is that circle of gold, 
 Bv the token of which our devotion was 
 'told! 
 How our youthful aft'ection shines out, as it seems, 
 In the light of the romance around it that gleams ; 
 And it knows no beginning or ending, or why 
 Its continuing course should not run till we die. 
 
 Yet the hand which it graced graces it in its turn 
 With a magic the alchemist vainly would learn. 
 For sweet charity's touch has so filled it with gold 
 That that hand never lacked to the hungry and cold. 
 
 And the summers may come, and the summers may 
 
 go. 
 And the winters may whiten the hair with their 
 
 snow ; 
 Still the hand which a lover delighted to kiss 
 Wears the signet of half of a century's bliss. 
 And no earnest of joy in the heavens above 
 Is more sure than that ring and its cycle of love. 
 
 W. D. Ellwangkr. 
 
24 
 
 HOME, SWEET HOME. 
 
 T 
 
 OLD CHRISTMAS. 
 
 HERE'S a box in the cellar, a bundle up- 
 stairs. 
 And the family cherubs are whispering in 
 pairs. 
 
 It's all about Christmas, 
 I know it is Christmas, 
 Old Christmas once more. 
 
 When I venture to enter, where laughter is rife. 
 
 Amid the city's constant din, 
 A man who round the world has been.. 
 Who, 'mid the tumult and the throng, 
 Is thinking, thinking all day long : 
 '' Oh ! could I only tread once more 
 The field-path to the farmhouse door, 
 The old, green meadow could I see, 
 
 How happy, happy, happy. 
 How happy I should be ! " 
 
 DEAREST LOVE! BELIEVE ME. 
 
 D 
 
 ''You cannot come in," cries the voice of my wife. 
 'Tir the sweet sign of Christmas, 
 The coming of Christmas, 
 Old Christmas once more. 
 
 When I open a closet to look for my hat 
 I find — but no matter it is not the cat. 
 
 It is something for Christmas, 
 
 A comfort for Christmas, 
 
 Old Christmas once more. 
 
 TWO PICTURES. I 
 
 AN old farmhouse, with meadows wide, 
 And sweet with clover on each side ; j 
 A bright-eyed boy, who looks from out 
 The door with woodbine wreathed about, ; 
 
 And wishes his one thought all day : 
 " Oh ! if I could but fly away 
 From this dull spot the world to see. 
 
 How happy, happy, happy, 
 How happy I should be !" 
 
 EAREST love ! believe me. 
 Though all else depart, 
 Naught shall e'er deceive thee 
 In this faithful heart : 
 Beauty may be blighted, 
 Youth must pass away, 
 But the vows we plighted 
 Ne'er shall know decay. 
 
 Tempests may assail us 
 
 From affliction's coast, 
 Fortune's breeze may fail us 
 
 When we need it most ; 
 Fairest hopes may perish. 
 
 Firmest friends may change ; 
 But the love we cherish 
 
 Nothing shall estrange. 
 
 Dreams of fame and grandeur 
 
 End in bitter tears ; 
 Love grows only fonder 
 
 With the lapse of years : 
 Time, and change, and trouble. 
 
 Weaker ties unbind, 
 But the bands redouble 
 
 True affection twined. 
 
 Thomas Pringle. 
 
 TWILIGHT. 
 
 SING to me, dear, of the twilight time. 
 Shadowy, tender and gray — 
 Rosy the West, 
 Nature at rest ; 
 Slow rising mist, and a far-away chime — 
 A song for the ending of day. 
 
 Sing me a song of the autumn days, 
 Mellowed and russet and sere — 
 Summer heat done. 
 Frost-time begun ; 
 Sun shining chill through the violet haze — 
 A song for the close of the year. 
 
 Croon to me, dear, of the fireside years, 
 After the toiling and strife — 
 
 Strength ebbing fast, 
 Heart tempests past; 
 We two at rest, beyond doubting and fears — 
 A song for the waning of life. 
 
 CoRRiNE M. Rockwell. 
 
HOME, SWEET HOME. 
 
 Y 
 
 A WIFE'S APPEAL TO HER HUSBAND. 
 
 OU took me, Henry, when a girl, into your [ There's only one return I crave — I may not need 
 home and heart, I it long — 
 
 To bear in all vour after-fate a fond and And it may soothe thee when I'm where ihe 
 
 wretched feel no wrong. 
 I ask not for a kinder tone, for tiiou wert ever 
 
 kind ; 
 I ask not for less frugal fare — ray fare I do not 
 mind. 
 
 faitiiful part : 
 And tell me, have I ever tried that duty to forego, 
 Or pined there was not joy for me when you were 
 sunk in woe ? 
 
 Xo, I would rather share your grief than other 
 
 people's glee ; 
 For though you're nothing to the world, you're 
 
 all the wond to me. 
 You make a palace of my shed, this rough-newn 
 
 bench a throne ; 
 There's sunlight for me in your smile, and music 
 
 in your tone. 
 
 I look upon you when you sleep — my eyes with 
 
 tears grow dim ; 
 I cry, * ' O ! Parent of the poor, look down from 
 
 heaven on him ! 
 Behold him toil, from day to day, exhausting 
 
 strength and soul : 
 
 I ask not for more gay attire — if such as I have got 
 Suffice to make me fair to thee, for more I murmur 
 
 not; 
 But I would ask some share of hours that you in 
 
 toil bestow ; 
 Of knowledge that you prize so much, may I not 
 
 something know? 
 
 Subtract from meetings amongst men each eve an 
 
 hour for me ; 
 Make me companion for your soul, as I may 
 
 surely be : 
 If you will read, I'll sit and work ; then think, 
 
 when \ou're awav. 
 
 Look down in mercy on him, Lord, for thou canst Less tedious I shall find the time, dear Henry, of 
 make him whole !" ; your stay. 
 
 And when, at last, relieving sleep has on my eye- - A meet companion soon I'li be for e'en your 
 
 lids smiled, studious hours, 
 
 How oft are they forbid to close in slumber by my .' And teacher of those little ones you call your 
 
 child ! ' cottage-flowers : 
 
 I take the little murmurer that spoils my span of And if we be not rich and great, we may be wise 
 
 rest, and kind ; 
 
 And feel it is a part of thee I hold upon my And as my heart can warm your heart, so may my 
 
 breast. mind your mind. 
 
 GRANDMOTHER'S WORK. 
 
 UP in the garret the grandmother sits, ^ And these tiny shreds of old soft lace 
 
 Under the rafters dark and low. Which the vears have turned so gjav 
 
 P in the garret the grandmother sits, 
 Under the rafters dark and low. 
 Sorting over the faded bits 
 Of woolen, and silk, and calico ; 
 And the children wonder, as peeping in. 
 They watch the old lady her task begin. 
 Why the aged hands, so wrinkled and thin, 
 Should tremble and be so slow. 
 
 Run away, ye careless ones, to your play I 
 
 Let her muse for awhile alone ! 
 These faded remnants once bright and gay. 
 
 Have a history — every one : 
 And this is the reason the grand-dame sighs. 
 And the blinding tears that unbidden rise. 
 She paused to wipe from those faded eyes. 
 
 Whose weeping, she thought, was done. 
 
 This silk, whose color she scarce can tell, 
 Laid away with such pride and care. 
 
 Was the bridal robe — she remembers well — 
 Of her darling so pure and fair. 
 
 And she hastily folds it out of sight. 
 
 For she knows full well, in that land of light. 
 
 Unfading and spotless, clean and white. 
 Are the garments the ransomed wear. 
 
 How they bring before her the baby face. 
 
 That Avithin these ruffles lay I 
 And the heart leaps over the days that remain, 
 Till she clasps in her arms her babr again. 
 While her withered heart feels a yearning pain 
 
 For the little one called away. 
 
 And now she has found a scrap of blue, 
 
 And she brushes away a tear 
 As she thinks of her soldier son so true 
 
 To his country- — to her so dear: 
 A bit of the blue her brave boy wore 
 When he said ••good-bye'' at the cottage door; 
 She listens in vain, on the oaken floor. 
 
 For the footsteps she loved to hear. 
 
 And thus she labors and thinks and dreams 
 
 While memories fast arise, 
 Till the fading light of evening seems 
 
 To come with swift surprise ; 
 And the children that night in the chimney nook^ 
 Looking up at length from their picture book, 
 See the folded hands, and the shadowy look 
 
 Of tears in her kindlv eves. 
 
 Mrs. C. E. Hewitt. 
 
:26 
 
 HOME, SWEET HOME, 
 
 AN IDYL OF THE KITCHEN. 
 
 IN brown holland apron she stood in the kitchen, 
 Her sleeves were rolled up, and her cheeks all 
 aglow ; 
 Her hair was coiled neatly ; when 1, indiscreetly, 
 Stood watching while Nancy was kneading the 
 dough. 
 
 Now, who could be neater, or brighter, or sweeter, 
 Or who hum a song so delightfully low. 
 
 T 
 
 THE OPEN WINDOW. 
 
 HE old house by the lindens 
 Stood silent in the shade, 
 
 And on the gravelled pathway 
 The light and shadow played. 
 
 I saw the nursery windows 
 Wide open to the air ; 
 
 But the faces of the children. 
 They were no longer there. 
 
 Or who look so slender, so graceful, so tender, 
 As Nancy, sweet Nancy, while kneading the 
 dough ? 
 
 How deftly she pressed it, and squeezed it, 
 caressed it, 
 And twisted and turned it, now quick and now 
 slow, 
 Ah, me, but that madness I've paid for in sadness ! 
 'Twas my heart she was kneading as well as the 
 dough. 
 
 At last, when she turned for her pan to the dresser. 
 
 She saw me and blushed, and said shyly, " Please 
 
 go, 
 
 Or my bread I'll be spoiling in spite of my toiling, 
 
 If you stand here and watch while I'm kneading 
 
 .- the dough." 
 
 I begged for permission to stay. She'd not listen ; 
 
 The sweet little tyrant said, *' No, sir ! no ! no !" 
 Vet when I had vanished on being thus banished, 
 
 My heart stayed with Nancy while kneading the 
 dough. 
 
 I'm dreaming, sweet Nancy, and sec you in fancy. 
 Your heart, love, has softened, and pitied my woe. 
 
 And we, dear, are rich in a dainty wee kitchen 
 Where Nancy, my Nancy, stands kneading the 
 dough. John A. Frasp.r, Jr. 
 
 The birds sang in the branches, 
 
 With sweet, familiar tone ; 
 But the voices of the children 
 
 Will be heard in dreams alone ! 
 
 And the boy that walked beside me. 
 
 He could not understand 
 Why closer in mine, ah ! closer, 
 
 I pressed his \varm, soft hand ! 
 
 H. W. Longfellow. 
 
 WHERE THERE'S ONE TO LOVE. 
 
 HOME'S not merely four square walls. 
 Though with pictures hung and gilded j 
 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 I 
 
 Home's not merely roof and room, 
 
 It needs 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 — 
 
 When there's one we love to meet us ! 
 
 Charles Swain. 
 
HOME, SWEET HOME. 
 
 27 
 
 THE PROUDEST LADY. 
 
 THI^ queen is i>roud on her throne, 
 And proud are her maids so fine ; 
 liUt the proudest lady that ever was known 
 Is a little lady of mine. 
 And oh ! she flouts me, she flouts me, 
 And spurns, and scorns, and scouts me, 
 Though I drop on my knee and sue for grace, 
 And beg, and beseech with the saddest face, 
 Still ever the same she doubts me. 
 
 She is seven by the calendar — 
 A lilv's almost as tall. 
 
 I What petulant pert grimaces ! 
 ! Why, the very pony prances and winks, 
 I And tosses his head, and plainly thinks 
 He may ape her airs and graces. 
 
 But at times, like a pleasant tune, 
 A sweeter mood o'ertakes her; 
 Oh ! then she's sunny as skies of June, 
 And all her pride forsakes her. 
 Oh ! she dances round me so fairly ! 
 Oh ! her laugh rings out so rarely ! 
 Oh I she coaxes and nestles, and purrs and pries 
 
 .. '-y 
 
 But oh ! this little lady's by far 
 The proudest lady of all. 
 It's her sport and pleasure to flout me, 
 To spurn, and scorn, and scout me ; 
 But ah ! I've a notion it's nought but play. 
 And that, say what she will and feign what she 
 
 may, 
 She can't well do without me ! 
 
 When she rides on her nag away, 
 
 By park, and road, and river. 
 In a little hat so jaunty and gay, 
 Oh ! then she's prouder than ever ! 
 And oh ! what faces, what faces ! 
 
 In my puzzled face with her two great eyes, 
 And says, " I love you dearly !" 
 
 Oh ! the queen is proud on her throne. 
 
 And proud are her maids so fine ; 
 But the proudest lady that ever was known 
 Is this little lady of mine. 
 Good lack I she flouts me, she flouts me. 
 And spurns, and scorns, and scouts me ; 
 But ah ! I've a notion its nought but play, 
 And that, say what she will and feign what she 
 
 may. 
 She can't well do without me ' 
 
 Thomas Westwood. 
 
 THE HOME=COMING. 
 
 THEY gain by twilight's hour their lonely isle. 
 To them the very rocks appear to smile ; 
 The haven hums with many a cheering 
 sound. 
 The beacons blaze their wonted stations round. 
 The boats are darting o'er the curly bay. 
 And sportive dolphins bend them through the 
 spra}-. 
 
 Even the hoarse sea-bird's shrill, discordant shriek, 
 Greets like the welcome of his tuneless beak ! 
 Beneath each lamp that through its lattice gleams, 
 Their fancy paints the friends that trim the 
 
 beams. 
 Oh 1 what can sanctify the joys of home. 
 Like liope's gay glance from ocean's troubled 
 
 foam. Lord Byron. 
 
2o 
 
 HOME, SWEET HOME. 
 
 THE FIRST SMILE. 
 
 TEARS from the birth of doom must be 
 Of the sin-born — but wait awhile, 
 ■-= Young mother, and thine eye shall see 
 The dawning of the first soft smile. 
 
 HOMEWARD BOUND. 
 
 It comes in slumber, gently steals 
 O'er the fair cheek, as light on dew; 
 
 Some inward joy that smile reveals ; 
 
 Sit by, and muse ; such dreams are true. 
 
 Closed eyelids, limbs supine, and breath 
 So still, you scarce can calm the doubt 
 
 If life can be so like to death — 
 'Tis life, but all of earth shut out. 
 
 'Tis perfect i)eace; yet all the while 
 O'er marble brow, and dimpled chin 
 
 Mantles and glows that radiant smile, 
 Noting the spirit stirred within. 
 
 Oh dim to this the flashing ray, 
 
 Though dear as life to moth- 
 er's heart, 
 From waking smiles, that later 
 play; 
 In these earth claims the 
 larger part. 
 
 'Tis childish sport, or frolic 
 mirth, 
 Or the fond mother's blame- 
 less guile, 
 Or glittering toy — some gaud 
 of earth. 
 That stirs him to that merry 
 smile. 
 
 Or if in pensive wise it creep, 
 With gradual light and 
 soberer grace. 
 Yet shades of earthly sorrow 
 sleep, 
 Still sleep upon his beau- 
 teous face. 
 
 But did the smile disclose a 
 dream 
 Of bliss that nad been his 
 before ? 
 Was it from heaven's dee}) sea 
 a gleam 
 Not faded quite on earth's 
 dim shore? 
 
 Or told some angel from above, 
 
 Of glories to be his at last, 
 The sunset, crowning hours of 
 love — 
 His labors done — his perils 
 past ? 
 
 Blest smile ! — so let me live 
 my day, 
 That when my latest sun 
 shall set. 
 That smile, reviving once, may 
 play, 
 
 And gild mv dying features 
 yet : 
 
 That smile to cheer the mourners round 
 With hope of human sins forgiven ; 
 
 Token of earthly ties unbound, 
 
 Of heart intent on opening heaven. 
 
 Fair distant land : could mortal eyes 
 
 But half its joys explore, 
 How would our spirits long to rise. 
 
 And dwell on earth no more! 
 
HOME, SWEET HOME. 
 
 29 
 
 THE TWO GATES. 
 
 IT is many a year ago, dear — 
 Ah, me ! how the time has fled — 
 Since we met on a morn in summer, 
 And never a word was said. 
 It is true that our eyes encountered, 
 Ordained by a kindly fate; 
 As I wandered along the roadway, 
 You stood at the garden gate — 
 You stood at the garden gate ! 
 
 As the brooklet will seek the sea, dear, 
 
 As flowers ever hail the sun. 
 
 As the songsters all crave for springtime. 
 
 Our lives yearned to be as one 
 
 You remember how bells were ringing. 
 
 And hearts were with joy elate. 
 
 When on starting on life's twin journey. 
 
 We passed through the same old gate — 
 
 We passed through the same old gate ! 
 
 The stranger's foot shall cross the floor 
 Of old where 1 was wont to go ! 
 
 house that like a little ghost 
 
 Calls to me through the night and rain, 
 
 1 know not if I love you most 
 
 For all the joy or all the pain. 
 
 For hours in which my joy lay dead. 
 For hours in which all heaven I knew — 
 
 Only my life, when all is said, 
 
 Leaves an immortal past with you. 
 
 THE JOYS OF HOME. 
 
 SWEET are the joys of home. 
 And pure as sweet ; for they, 
 Like dews of morn and evening, come 
 To wake and close the day. 
 
 The world hath its delights, 
 And its delusions too ; 
 
 Now that the silvery strands have come, 
 And taken the place of gold. 
 Do we ever regret that summer 
 When love's sweet tale was told ? 
 Ah, no ! for happiness, darling, 
 Is ours, though in life 'tis late, 
 And with us 'twill ever linger, 
 Till close is the htavenly gate — 
 Till close is the heavenly gate ! 
 
 dear, 
 
 T 
 
 THE EMPTY HOUSE. 
 
 O think the moonlight shines to-night 
 In tlie dismantled rooms that were 
 Love's own, the moonlight, cold and white, 
 Upon the desolate walls and bare ! 
 
 To think the dawn shall rise and flood 
 I'he empty house that was love's own, 
 
 WiiereiM love's hours were warm and good — 
 Wherein love's heart hung heavy as stone ! 
 
 To thmk I shall come there no more 
 To the familiar place, to know 
 
 But home to calmer bliss invites, 
 More tranquil and more true. 
 
 The mountain flood is strong, 
 
 But fearful in its pride ; 
 While gently rolls the stream along 
 
 The peaceful valley's side. 
 
 Life's charities, like light. 
 
 Spread smilingly afar ; 
 But stars approached, become more bright. 
 
 And home is life's own star. 
 
 The pilgrim's step in vain 
 
 Seeks Eden's sacred ground ! 
 But in home's holy joys again 
 
 An Eden may be found. 
 
 A glance of heaven to see, 
 
 To none* on earth is given ; 
 And yet a happy family 
 
 Is but an earlier heaven. 
 
 John Bow ring. 
 
30 
 
 HOME, SWEET HOME, 
 
 SHE GREW IN SUN AND SHOWER. 
 
 T 
 
 HREE years she grew in sun and shower, 
 Then nature said, "A lovelier flower 
 On earth was never sown ; 
 
 This child I to myself will take, 
 
 She shall be mine, and I will make 
 
 A lady of my own. 
 
 Myself will to my darling be 
 
 Both law and impulse, and with me 
 
 The girl, in rock and plain, 
 
 In earth and heaven, in glade and bower. 
 
 Shall feel an ever-seeing power 
 
 To kindle or restrain. 
 
 ^* She shall be sportive as the fawn, 
 That wild with glee across the lawn, 
 Or up the mountain springs ; 
 And hers shall be the breathing palm 
 
 And hers the silence and the calm 
 Of mute, insensate things. 
 
 ' The floating clouds their state shall lend 
 To her — for her the willow bend ; 
 Nor shall she fail to see 
 Even in the motions of the storm, 
 Grace that shall mould the maiden's form 
 By silent s}Tnpathy. 
 
 * The stars of midnight shall be dear 
 To her, and she shall lean her ear 
 In many a secret place ; 
 Where rivulets dance their wayward round, 
 And beauty born of murmuring sound, 
 Shall pass into her face. 
 
 '* And vital feelings of delight 
 Shall rear her form to stately, height ; 
 Her virgin bosom swell. 
 Such thoughts to Lucy I will give, 
 While she and I together live 
 Here in this happy dell." 
 
 Thus nature spake — the work was don« — 
 
 How soon my Lucy's race was run ! 
 
 She died, and left to me 
 
 This heath, this calm and quiet scene. 
 
 The memory of what has been, 
 
 And never more will be. 
 
 William Wordsworth. 
 
 A SUNSHINY HUSBAND. 
 
 A SUNSHINY husband makes a merry, beau- 
 tiful home, worth having, worth working 
 for. If a man is breezy, cheery, consider- 
 ate, and sympathetic, his wife sings in her heart 
 over her puddings and her mending basket, counts 
 the hours until he returns at night, and renews her 
 youth in the security she feels of his approbation 
 _^ and admiration. You 
 
 may think it weak 
 or childish '\{ you 
 please, but it is the 
 admired w i f e who 
 hears words of praise 
 and receives smiles 
 of recommendations, 
 who is capable, dis- 
 creet, and executive. 
 I have seen a timid, 
 modest, self-distrust- 
 ing little body fairly 
 bloom into strong, 
 .self-reliant woman- 
 hood, under the tonic 
 of the cordial of com- 
 panionship with a 
 husband who really 
 went out of the way 
 to find occasion for 
 55 I showing her how fully 
 
 he trusted her judg- 
 ment, and how ten- 
 derly he deferred to her opinion and taste. 
 
 In home life there should be no jar. no striving 
 for place, no insisting on prerogatives, no division 
 of interest. The husband and the wife are each 
 the complement of the other. It is just as much 
 his duty to be cheerful, as it is hers to be pjtient ; 
 his right to bring joy into the door, as it is hers to 
 keep in order and beautify the pleasant interior. 
 A family where the daily walk of the father makes 
 glad the hearts of those around him, is constantlv 
 blessed with a heavenly benediction. 
 
 TRUE CONTENTMENT. 
 
 One honest John Fletcher, a hedger and ditcher. 
 Although he was poor didn't want to be richer; 
 All petty vexation in him was prevented 
 By the fortunate habit of being contented. 
 
 Henry S. Kfvv 
 
HOME, SWEET HOME. 
 
 31 
 
 OUR FIRST-BORN. 
 
 O HAPPY husband ! happy wife ! 
 The rarest blessing Heaven drops down, 
 The sweetest blossom in spring s crown, 
 Starts in the furrows of your Ufe ! 
 God ! what a towering height ye win, 
 Who cry, '' Lo, my beloved child ! " 
 And, life on life subHmely piled, 
 Ye touch the heavens and peep within ! 
 
 The mother moves with queenlier tread : 
 Proud swell the globes of ripe delight 
 Above her heart, so warm and white, 
 
 A pillow for the baby-head ! 
 
 Their natures deepen, well-like, clear, 
 Till God's eternal stars are seen. 
 Forever shining and serene, 
 
 By eyes anointed beauty's seer. 
 
 Look how a star of glory swims 
 Down aching silence of space, 
 Flushing the darkness till its face 
 
 With beating heart of light o'erbrims ! 
 
 So brightening came Babe Christabel, 
 To touch the earth with fresh romance, 
 And light a mother's countenance 
 
 With looking on her miracle. 
 
 With hands so flower-like, soft, and fair, 
 She caught at life, with words as sweet 
 As first spring violets, and feet 
 
 As fairy-light as feet of air. 
 
 The father, down in toil's murk mine. 
 Turns to his wealthy world above, 
 Its radiance, and its home of love ; 
 
 And lights his life like sun-struck wine. 
 
 A sense of glory all things took, — 
 
 The red rose-heart of dawn would blow, 
 And sundown's sumptuous pictures show 
 
 Babe-cherubs wearing their babe's look ! 
 
 And round their peerless one they clung, 
 Like bees about a flower's wine-cup ; 
 New thoughts and feelings blossomed up, 
 
 And hearts for very fullness sung. 
 
 Of what their budding babe shall grow, 
 When the maid crimsons into wife, 
 And crowns the summit of some life. 
 
 Like Phosphor, with morn on its brow ! 
 
 And they should bleSs her for a bride. 
 Who, like a splendid saint alit 
 In some heart's seventh heaven, should sit,. 
 
 As now in theirs, all glorified .' 
 
32 
 
 HOME. SWEET HOME. 
 
 But O ! 'iwas all too white a brow 
 To flush with passion that doth fire 
 With Hymen's torch its own death-pyre- 
 
 So pure her heart was beating now ! 
 
 And thus they built their castles brare 
 In fairy lands of gorgeous cloud ; 
 They never saw a little white shroud, 
 
 Nor guessed how flowers may mask the grave. 
 
 Gerald Massey. 
 
 THE MORTGAGE ON THE FARM. 
 
 9T^] 
 
 IS gone at last, and I am glad ; it stayed a 
 ft^arlul while, 
 And when the world was light and gay, 
 I could nut even smile ; 
 It stood before me like a giant, outstretched its 
 
 iron arm ; 
 No matter where I looked, I saw the mortgage on 
 the farm. 
 
 I'll tell you how it happened, for I want the world 
 
 to know 
 How glad I am this winter day whilst earth is 
 
 white with snow ; 
 I'm just as happy as a lark. No cause for rude 
 
 alarm 
 Confronts us now, for lifted is the mortgage on 
 
 the farm. 
 
 The children they were growing up, and they were 
 
 smart and trim. 
 To some big college in the East we'd sent our 
 
 youngest, Jim; 
 And every time he wrote us, at the bottom of his 
 
 screed. 
 He tacked some Latin fol-de-rol which none of us 
 
 could read. 
 
 The girls they ran to music, and to painting, and 
 to rhymes, 
 
 Tliey said the house was out of style and far be- 
 hind the times j 
 
 They suddenly diskivered that it didn't keep 'em 
 warm — 
 
 Another step of course towards a mortgage on the 
 farm. 
 
 We took a cranky notion, Hannah Jane and me 
 
 one day, 
 While we were coming home from town, a-talking 
 
 J^y the way. 
 The Old house wasn't big enough for us, although 
 
 for years 
 lieneath its humble roof we'd shared each other's 
 
 joys and tears. 
 
 We built it o'er and when 'twas done, I wish you 
 
 could have seen it. 
 It was a most tremendous thing — I really didn't 
 
 mean it; 
 Why, it was big enough to hold the people of the 
 
 town, 
 And not one-half as cosy as the old one we pulled 
 
 down. 
 
 I bought a fine planner and it shortened still the 
 
 pile. 
 But, then, it pleased the children, and they banged 
 
 it all the while ; 
 No matter what they played for me, their music 
 
 had no charm, 
 For every tune said plainly : '* There's a mortgage 
 
 on the farm ! ' 
 
 I worked from morn till eve, and toiled as often 
 toils the slave 
 
 To meet that grisly interest ; I tried hard to be 
 brave. 
 
 And oft when I came home at night with tired 
 brain and arm, 
 
 The chickens hung their heads, they felt the mort- 
 gage on the farm. 
 
 But we saved a penny now and then, we laid them 
 
 in a row ; 
 The girls they played the same old tunes, and let 
 
 the new ones go ; 
 And w hen from college came our Jim with laurels 
 
 on his brow, 
 I led him to the stumpy field and put him to the 
 
 plow. 
 
 He something said in Latin which I didn't under- 
 stand, 
 
 But it did me good to see his plow turn up the 
 dewy land ; 
 
 And when the year had ended and empty were 
 the cribs, 
 
 We found we'd hit the mortgage, sir, a blow be- 
 tween the ribs. 
 
 To-day I harnessed up the team and thundered 
 oft to town. 
 
 And in the Lwjer's sight I planked the last bright 
 dollar down; 
 
 And when I trotted up the lane, a- feeling good 
 and warm. 
 
 The old red rooster crowed his best: " No mort- 
 gage on the farm." 
 
 I'll sleep almighty good to-night, the best for 
 
 many a day, 
 The skeleton that haunted us has passed fore*er 
 
 away. 
 The girls can play the brand new tunes with no 
 
 fears to alarm. 
 And Jim can go to Congress, with no mortgage gd 
 
 the farm ! 
 
HOME, SWEET HOME, 
 
 LOVE IN A COTTAGE. 
 
 THEV may talk of love in a cottage, 
 And bowers of treliised vine — 
 Of nature bewitchingly simple, 
 
 And milkmaids half divine ; 
 They may talk of the pleasure of sleeping 
 
 In the shade of a spreading tree, 
 And a walk in the fields at morning, 
 By the side of a footstep free ! 
 
 But give me a sly flirtation 
 
 By the light of a chandelier — 
 With music to play in the pauses, 
 
 And nobody very near ; 
 Or a seat on a silken sofa, 
 
 Near a form that is half divine. 
 And mamma too blind to discover 
 The small white hand in mine. 
 Your love in a cot- 
 tage is hungry. 
 Your vine is a nest 
 for flies — 
 Your milkmaid 
 shocks the Graces, 
 And simplicity talks 
 of pies I 
 You lie down to your 
 shady slumber 
 And wake with a 
 bug in your ear. 
 And your damsel 
 that walks in the 
 morning 
 Is shod like a moun- 
 taineer. 
 True love is at home 
 on a carpet, 
 And mightily likes 
 his ease — 
 And true love has an eye fo'- a dinner, 
 
 And starves beneath shady trees. 
 His wing is the fan of a lad} , 
 
 His foot's an invisible thirg, 
 And his arrow is tipped with a jewel. 
 And shot from a silver string. 
 
 X. P. Willis. 
 
 ISE. 
 
 Ah, me ! the charm of those purple blossoms, 
 Their graceful plumes just nodding o'er 
 
 The reaching, childish hands below them — 
 Their dewy fragrance I'll know no more. 
 
 Grandfather's barn with its whistling crannies, 
 Its frowning beams and rafters gray. 
 
 Its clover smell, the twitter of swallows, 
 And great, high, billowy mows of hay — 
 
 I have found no joy that could be measured 
 With Grandfather's barn on a rainy day. 
 
 Grandfather's woods were — -'miles" it maybe, 
 They reached much farther than one could see ; 
 
 They were deep and dark and full of shadow, — 
 Often explored, and as often we 
 
 Found new treasures ; the leaves in autumn 
 Were rustled bv small feet noisilv. 
 
 a gray old 
 
 GRANDFATHER'S HC 
 
 GRANDFATHER'S house w. 
 building 
 Ever and ever so long ago ; 
 The fields around it were deep with clover. 
 The birds sang over it soft and low. 
 Round Grandfather's house the turf — green vel- 
 vet — 
 Was sprinkled with daises white as snow. 
 
 A clump of lilacs bloomed in May time 
 Over the path by Grandfather's door — 
 
 Grandfather's room : when the day was over 
 
 We rested full in its soothing calm, 
 And heard from the Book with the leather cover. 
 
 The ever-new — old-fashioned psalm. 
 We knew not why, we asked not wherefore ; 
 
 But peace settled over our hearts like balm. 
 
 Oh ! for a glimpse of the dear old homestead, 
 
 The meadow green where the sweet flag grew, 
 For one long breath from the fragrant orchard, 
 
 A touch of the cool leaves bright with dew — 
 For even a sight of the '* Rocky pasture," 
 
 Or the swamp where at nightfall the cows came 
 through. 
 The days were long and the sunshine golden 
 
 At Grandfather's house in the long ago ; 
 The moon was larger, the stars were brighter 
 
 And fun was plenty in rain or snow ; 
 Now life at the best is dull and prosy — 
 
 Strange that the world should alter so I 
 
 Mary McGuire. 
 
34 
 
 HOME, SWEET HOME, 
 
 S 
 
 HAPPY LOVE. 
 
 INCE the sweet knowledge I possess 
 That she I love is mine, 
 All nature throbs with happiness, 
 And wears a face divine. 
 
 And wandering clouds in summer eves 
 
 Are Edens to my sight. 
 My confidants and comforters 
 
 Are river, hill and grove. 
 And sun, and stars, and heaven's blr.e deep, 
 
 And all that live and move. 
 
 O friendly hills ! O garrulous woods ! 
 
 sympathizing air ! 
 
 many-voiced solitudes ! 
 
 1 know my love is fair. 
 
 1 know that she is fair and true, 
 And that from her you've caught 
 
 The changeful glories ever new, 
 
 That robe you in my thought. 
 ^ "' Grief, from the armor of my heart. 
 
 Rolls off like rustling rain : 
 'Tis life to love; but double life 
 To be beloved again. 
 \'s Charles Mackay. 
 
 B 
 
 The woods seem greener than they were, 
 
 The skies are brighter blue ; 
 The stars shine clearer, ai.d the air 
 
 Lets finer sunlight through. 
 Until I loved, I was a child, 
 
 And sported on the sands ; 
 But now the ocean opens out, 
 
 With all its happy lands. 
 
 The circles of my sympathy 
 
 Extend from earth to heaven, 
 I strove to pierce a mystery, 
 
 And lo I the clue is given. 
 The woods, with all their boughs and leaves, 
 
 Are preachers of delight. 
 
 THE OLD BARN. 
 
 ETWEEN broad fields of 
 wheat and corn 
 Is the lowly home where I 
 was born ; 
 The peach-tree leans against the 
 
 wall. 
 And the woodbine wanders over all. 
 There is the barn — and as of yore, 
 I can smell the hay from the open 
 
 door, 
 And see the busy swallows throng, 
 And hear the peewee's mournful 
 song. 
 Oh, ye who daily cross the sill. 
 Step lightly, for I love it still ; 
 And when you crowd the old barn eaves, 
 Then think what countless harvest sheaves 
 Have passed within that scented door 
 To gladden eyes that are no more. 
 
 T. Buchanan Read. 
 
 HOME IS WHERE THE HEART IS. 
 
 IF ever household affections and love are graceful 
 things, they are graceful in the poor. The 
 ties that bind the wealthy and the proud at 
 home may be forged on earth, but those which 
 link the poor man to his humble hearth are of the 
 true metal and bear the stamp of heaven. The 
 man of high descent may love the halls and lands 
 of his inheritance as a part of himself, as trophies 
 of his birth and power ; the poor man's attach- 
 ment to the tenement he holds, which strangers 
 have held before, and may to-monow occupy 
 again, has a worthier root, struck deep into a 
 purer soil. 
 
 Charles Dickens. 
 
HOME, SWEET HOME. 
 
 3S 
 
 GOOD-NIGHT SONG. 
 
 THE birds fly home from east and west, 
 The sleepy winds are blowing, 
 All tired wee things have gone to rest, 
 And baby must be going. 
 Dress him in white, 
 And fold him tight, 
 And whisper once, and twice, '' Good night 
 Then set afloat 
 The cradle boat, 
 The slumber-ship is just in sight ! 
 Now rock and row, 
 Swing to and fro, ^ 
 The winds are soft, the waves are low. 
 The dream-world shores lie dim and blue, 
 The sky is fair, the ship is true. 
 
 Oh baby ! to be left behind 
 
 Would bring us care and sorrow ; 
 'Tis in dream-world }ou must And 
 The laughter for to-morrow. 
 
 There kisses grow, 
 
 And dimples blow. 
 And thinking streams of music flow, 
 
 So sweet and clear — 
 
 Oh, baby dear. 
 The time is up to rock and row. 
 
 We reach the ship ; 
 
 No — back we slip — 
 Again the oars we poise and dip, 
 We dip and poise — Oh ! ship so white. 
 Now take him in ! sweetheart, good night 
 
 1 
 
 ONE OF THE SLEEPY KIND. 
 
 LOVE to wake at early dawn. 
 
 When sparrows "cheep," 
 And then turn over with a yawn, 
 
 And go to sleep. 
 
 I love to see the rising sun 
 
 In picture books. 
 In nature I don't care a bun 
 
 How Phoebus looks. 
 
 I love to lie abed each morn. 
 
 In dreamy doze, 
 And make the neighborhood forlorn 
 
 With tuneful nose. 
 
 I love to draw the blankets well 
 
 Up around my chin ; 
 I hate to hear the breakfast bell — 
 
 Contound its din ! 
 
 In short, I love the sweet embrace 
 
 Of slumber deep ; 
 And heaven to me will be a place 
 
 Where I can sleep ! 
 
 AH, NO! I CANNOT SAY "FAREWELL.'' 
 
 
 m# 
 
 A 
 
 H, no ! I cannot say '' Farewell,'* 
 
 'Twould pierce my bosom through; 
 And to this heart 'twere death's dread knell, 
 To hear thee sigh '' Adieu." 
 Though soil and body both must part, 
 
 Yet ne'er from thee I'll sever, 
 
 For more to me than soul thou art, 
 
 And oh ! I'll quit thee never. 
 
 Whate'er through life may be thy fate. 
 
 That fate with ^hee I'll share. 
 If prosperous, l>e moderate. 
 
 If adverse, meekly bear ; 
 This bosom shall thy pillow be, 
 
 In every change whatever. 
 And tear for tear I'll shed with thee, 
 
 But oh ! forsake thee, never. 
 
 One home, one hearth, shall ours be still. 
 
 And one our daily fare ; 
 One altar, too, where we may kneel, 
 
 And breathe our humble prayer ; 
 And one our praise, that shall ascend 
 
 To one all-bounteous Giver ; 
 And one our will, our aim, our end, 
 
 For oh ! we'll sunder never. 
 
 And when that solemn hour shall -^ome, 
 
 That sees thee breathe thy last. 
 That hour shall also fix my doom, 
 
 And seal my eyelids fast. 
 One grave shall hold us side by side, 
 
 One shroud our clay shall cover; 
 And one then may we mount and glide, 
 
 Through realms of love, forever. 
 
 Alexander Rodger. 
 
36 
 
 HOME, SWEET HOME. 
 
 BERTHA IN THE LANE, 
 
 ilL'T the broidery-frame away, 
 I; For my sewing is all done! 
 The last thread is used to-day, 
 And I need not join it on. 
 Though the clock stands at the noon, 
 I am weary ! I have sown, 
 Sweet, for thee, a wedding-gown. 
 
 Sister, help me to the bed, 
 
 And stand near me, dearest-sweet ! 
 
 Do not shrink nor be afraid, 
 Blushing with a sudden heat ! 
 No one standeth in the street ! — 
 By God's love I go to mee^. 
 Love I thee with love complete. 
 
 Mother, mother, up in heaven, 
 Stand upon the jasper sea, 
 
 And be witness I have given 
 All the gifts required of me ;■ 
 
 Lean thy face down ! drop it in 
 These two hands, that I may hold 
 
 'Twixt their palms thy cheek and chin, 
 Stroking back the curls of gold. 
 'Tis a fair, fair face, in sooth, — 
 Larger eyes and redder mouth 
 Than mine were in my first youth ! 
 
 Thou art younger by seven years — 
 Ah ! so bashful at my gaze 
 
 That the lashes, hung with tears, 
 Grow too heavy to upraise ? 
 I would wound thee by no touch 
 Which thy shyness feels as such, — 
 Dost thou mind me, dear, so much ? 
 
 Have I not been nigh a mother 
 To thy sweetness, — tell me, dear? 
 
 Have we not loved one another 
 Tenderly, from year to year? 
 Since our dying mother mild 
 Said, with accents undefiled, 
 *' Child, be mother to this child ! ' 
 
 Hope that blessed me, bliss that crowned. 
 Love that left me with a wound. 
 Life itself, that turned around ! 
 
 Elizabeth B. Browning. 
 
 ABSENCE. 
 
 WHAT shall I do with all the days and hours 
 That must be counted ere I see thy face ? 
 How shall I charm the interval that low'rs 
 Between this time and that sweet time of grace ? 
 
 Shall 1 in slumber steep each weary sense, 
 Vv"eary with longing ? — shall I flee away 
 
 Into past days, and with some fond pretense. 
 Cheat myself to forget the present day? 
 
 Shall love for thee lay on my soul the sin 
 
 Of casting from me God's great gift of time? 
 
 Shall I these mists of memory locked within, 
 Leave, and forget, life's purposes sublime? 
 
 OK! how. or by what means, may I contrive 
 To bring the ^onr that brings th'^.e back more 
 near? 
 
 How may I teach my drooping hope to live 
 Until that blessed time, and thou art here ? 
 
 I'll tell thee: for thy sake, I will lay hold 
 Of all good aims, and consecrate to thee, 
 
 In worthy deeds, each moment that is told, 
 While thou, beloved one ! art far from me. 
 
 For thee, I will arouse my thoughts to try 
 
 All heavenward flights, all high and holy strains; 
 
 For thy dear sake I will walk patiently 
 
 Thro' these longhours, nor call their minutes pains. 
 
 I will this dreary blank of absence make 
 A noble task time, and will therein strive 
 
 To follow excellence, and to o'ertake 
 
 More good than I have won, since yet I live. 
 Fanny K. Butler. 
 
HOME^ SWEET HOME. 
 
 37 
 
 THE HAPPY LOT. 
 
 BLEST is the hearth where daughters gird the 
 fire, 
 And sons that shall be happier than their 
 sire, 
 iVho sees them crowd around his evening chair, 
 While love and hope inspire 
 
 his world less prayer. 
 from their home paternal may 
 
 they go. 
 With little to unlearn, though 
 
 much to know ! 
 Them, may no poisoned tongue, 
 
 no evil eye. 
 Curse for the virtues that refuse 
 
 to die ; 
 The generous heart, the inde- 
 pendent mind, 
 Till truth, like falsehood, leaves 
 
 a sting behind ! 
 May temperance crown their 
 
 feast, and friendship share ! 
 May pity come, love's sister 
 
 spirit, there ! 
 May they shun baseness as they 
 
 shun the grave ! 
 May they be frugal, pious, hum- 
 ble, brave ! 
 Sweet peace be theirs — the 
 
 moonlight of the breast — 
 And occupation, and alternate 
 
 rest; 
 And dear to care and thought 
 
 the usual walk ; 
 Theirs be no flower that withers 
 
 on the stalk. 
 But roses cropped, thai shall not 
 
 bloom in vain ; 
 And hope's blest sun, that sets 
 
 to rise again. 
 Be chaste their nuptial bed, 
 
 their home be sweet, 
 Their floor resound the tread of 
 
 little feet ; 
 Blest beyond fear and fate, if 
 
 blessed by thee. 
 And heirs, O love ! of thine eter- 
 nity. Ebenezer Elliott. 
 
 Did listen, as her lips did frame 
 The helpless little stranger's name — 
 When baby came ! 
 
 When darkness came and baby died, 
 
 The misty grief that fell belied 
 
 The transient joy that filled the room 
 
 THE BABY. 
 
 WHEN morning broke and baby came 
 The house did scarcely seem the same 
 As just before The very air 
 Grew fragrant with the essence rare 
 Of a celestial garden where 
 The angels, breathless,, learned to hear 
 The vouthful mother's fervid prayer 
 To God, to guard her first-born care. 
 And with what diligence each ear 
 
 But just before ; where brooding gloom 
 Now dumbly spoke the baby's doom. 
 We hid away the little things 
 Woven by nature's matchless loom — 
 A woman's hands ! The amber bloom 
 Waxed dimmer en the finch's wings ; 
 The flowers, too, in sorrow vied, 
 As if kind nature drooped and cried — 
 When baby died ! 
 
 Charles G. Rogers. 
 
HOME, SWEET HOME. 
 
 SCENES OF MY YOUTH. 
 
 SCENES of my birth, and careless childhood 
 hours ! 
 Ye smiling hills, and spacious fertile vales! 
 Where oft I wandered plucking vernal flowers, 
 And revelled in the odor-breathing gales ; 
 
 THE THREE DEAREST W0RD5. 
 
 THERE are three words that sweetly 
 blend, 
 That on the heart are graven ; 
 A precious, soothing balm they lend — 
 They're mother, home and heaven ! 
 
 Should fickle fate, with talismanic wand, 
 
 Bear me afar where either India glows, 
 Or fix my dwelling on the polar land, 
 
 AVhere nature wears her ever-during snows ; 
 iStill shall your charms my fondest themes adorn, 
 
 When placid evening paints the western sky. 
 And when Hyperion wakes the blushing morn, 
 
 To rear his gorgeous sapphire throne on high. 
 For to the guiltless heart, where'er we roam. 
 No scenes delight us like our much-loved home. 
 
 Robert Hillhouse. 
 
 They twine a wreath of beauteous flowers, 
 AVhich, placed on memory's urn, 
 
 Will e'en the longest, gloomiest hours 
 To golden sunlight turn 
 
 They form a chain whose precious links 
 
 Are free from base allov ; 
 A stream where whosoever drinks 
 
 Will find refreshing joy ! 
 
 They build an altar where each day 
 
 I>ove's offering is renewed ; 
 And peace illumes with genial ray 
 
 Life's darkened solitude ! 
 
 If from our side the first has fled. 
 
 And home be but a name, 
 Let's strive the narrow path to tread. 
 
 That we the last may gain ! 
 
 Mary J. Muckle. 
 
HOME, SWEET HOME. 
 
 39 
 
 ^T^'- 
 
 THE MOTHER. 
 
 A SOFTENING thought of other years, 
 A feeling linked to hours 
 When life was all too bright for tears, — 
 
 And hope sang, wreathed with flowers ! 
 A memory of affections fled — 
 Of voices — heard no more ! — 
 Stirred in my spirit when I 
 read 
 That name of fondness 
 o'er! 
 
 Oh, mother! — in that early 
 word 
 What loves and joys com- 
 bine; 
 What hopes — too oft, alas! — 
 deferred ; 
 What vigils — griefs — are 
 thine ! — 
 Yet never till the hour we 
 roam, 
 By worldly thralls op- 
 prest, 
 Learn we to prize that truest 
 home — 
 A watchful mother's breast ! 
 
 The thousand prayers at mid- 
 night poured, 
 Beside our couch of 
 woes ; 
 The wasting weariness en- 
 dured 
 To soften our repose ! — 
 Whilst never murmur marked 
 thy tongue — 
 Nor toils relaxed thy 
 care: — 
 How, mother, is thy heart so 
 strong 
 To pity and forbear ? 
 
 What filial fondness e'er re- 
 paid. 
 Or could repay, the past? — 
 Alas ! for gratitude decayed ! 
 Regrets — that rarely 
 last ! — 
 'Tis only when the dust is thrown 
 
 Thy lifeless bosom o'er, 
 We muse upon thy kindness shown 
 And wish we'd loved thee more ! 
 
 'Tis only when thy lips are cold. 
 
 We mourn with late regret, 
 'Mid myriad memories of old, 
 
 The days forever set ! 
 And not an act — nor look — nor thought — 
 
 Against thy meek control, 
 
 But with a sad remembrance fraught 
 Wakes anguish in the soul I 
 
 In every land — in every clime — 
 
 True to her sacred cause. 
 Filled by that effluence sublime 
 
 From which her strength she draws. 
 Still is the mother's heart the same — 
 
 The mother's lot as tried : — 
 Then, oh 1 may nations guard that name 
 With filial power and pride ! 
 
 Charles Swain. 
 
 THE SUNNY SIDE. 
 
 Mirth is heaven's medicine. Every one ought 
 to bathe in it. Grim care, moroseness, anxiety, 
 all this rust of life ought to be scoured off" by the 
 oil of mirth. It is better than emery. Every man 
 ought to rub himself with it. 
 
40 
 
 HOME, SWEET HOME, 
 
 THE OLD FARMHOUSE. 
 
 W 
 
 E sat within the farmhouse old, 
 
 Whose windows, looking o'er the bay, 
 Gave to the sea-breeze, damp and cold, 
 An easy entrance, night and day. 
 
 Not far away we saw the port — 
 
 The strange, old-fashioned, silent town- 
 
 The lighthouse — the dismantled fort — 
 The wooden houses, quaint and brown. 
 
 We sat and talked until the night, 
 Descending, filled the little room; 
 
 Our faces faded from the sight. 
 Our voices only broke the gloom. 
 
 The very tones in which we spake 
 
 Had something strange, I could but mark; 
 The leaves of memory seemed to make 
 
 A mournful rustling in the dark. 
 
 Oft died the words upon our lips, 
 
 As suddenly, from out the fire 
 Built of the wreck of stranded ships, 
 
 The flames would leap and then expire^ 
 
 And, as their splendor flashed and failed, 
 We thought of wrecks upon the main— 
 
 Of ships dismasted, that were hailed 
 And sent no answer back again. 
 
 We spake of many a vanished scene, 
 
 Of what we once had thought and said, 
 
 Of what had been, and might have been. 
 And who was changed, and who was dead ; 
 
 And all that fills the hearts of friends, 
 V/hen first they feel, with secret pain, 
 
 Their lives thenceforth have separate ends, 
 And never can be one again ; 
 
 The first slight swerving of the heart. 
 That words are powerless to express, 
 
 And leave it still unsaid in part, 
 Or say it in too great excess. 
 
 The windows, rattling in their frames— 
 The ocean, roaring up the beach — 
 
 The gusty blast — the bickering flames — 
 All mingled vaguely in our speech; 
 
 Until they made themselves a part 
 
 Of fancies floating through the brain — 
 
 The long-lost ventures of the heart, 
 That send no answers back again. 
 
 O flames that glowed ! O hearts that yearned I 
 They were indeed too much akin, 
 
 The driftwood fire without that burned. 
 
 The thoughts that burned and glowed within, 
 
 H. W. LONGKELLOW. 
 
 THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH. 
 
 VOICE of summer, keen and shrill, 
 Chirping round my winter fire, 
 Of thy song T never tire. 
 Weary others as they will ; 
 For thy song with summer s filled — 
 Filled with sunshine, filled with June; 
 Firelight echo of that noon 
 Heard in fields when all is stilled. 
 In the golden light of May, 
 Bringing scents of new-mown hay, 
 Bees, and birds, and flowers away : 
 
 Prithee, haunt my fireside still, 
 Voice of summer, keen and shrill ! 
 Neither night nor dawn of day 
 Puts a period to thy play. 
 Sing, then, and extend thy span 
 Far beyond the date of man. 
 Wretched man, whose years are spent 
 In repining discontent. 
 Lives not, aged though he be, 
 Half r span, compared with thee. 
 
 William C. Bp:nnett. 
 
HOME. SWEET HOME. 
 
 41 
 
 MY OWN FIRESIDE. 
 
 LET others seek for empty joys, 
 At ball, or concert, rout or play ; 
 Whilst far from fashion's idle noise, 
 Her gilded domes and trappings gay, 
 I while the wintry eve away, 
 
 'Twixt book and lute the hours divide : 
 And marvel how I e'er could stray 
 From thee — my own fireside ! 
 
 My own fireside ! Those simple words 
 Can bid the sweetest dreams arise ; 
 
 To thoughts of quiet bliss give birth ; 
 
 Then let the churlish tempest chide, 
 It cannot check the blameless mirth 
 
 That glads my own fireside ! 
 
 My refuge ever from the storm 
 
 Of this world's passion, strife, and care; 
 Though thunder-clouds the skies deform, 
 
 Their fury cannot reach me there ; 
 There all is cheerful, calm, and fair ; 
 
 Wrath, envy, malice, strife, or pride, 
 
 Awaken feeling's tenderest chords, 
 And fill with tears of joy mine eyes. 
 
 What is there my wild heart can prize, 
 That doth not in thy sphere abide ; 
 
 Haunt of my home-bred sympathies, 
 My own — my own fireside ! 
 
 A gentle form is near me now ; 
 
 A small, white hand is clasped in mine ; 
 I gaze upon her placid brow, 
 
 And ask, what joys can equal thine? 
 A babe, whose beauty's half divine, 
 
 In sleep his mother's eyes doth hide; 
 Where may love seek a fitter shrine 
 
 Than thou — my own fireside ! 
 
 What care I for the sullen roar 
 
 Of winds without, that ravage earth ; 
 
 It doth but bid me prize the more 
 
 The shelter of thy hallowed hearth : — 
 
 Hath never made its hated lair 
 By thee — my own fireside ! 
 
 Thy precincts are a charmed ring. 
 
 Where no harsh feeling dares intrude; 
 Where life's vexations lose their sting; 
 
 Where even grief is half subdued : 
 And peace, the halcyon, loves to brood. 
 
 Then let the world's proud fool deride; 
 I'll pay my debt of gratitude 
 
 To thee — my own fireside ! 
 
 Shrine of my household deities ; 
 
 Bright scene of home's unsullied joys; 
 To thee my burdened spirit flies. 
 
 When fortune frowns, or care annov^ ! 
 Thine is the bliss that never clo^s ; 
 
 The smile whose truth hath oft been tried ;- 
 What, then, are this world's tinsel toys, 
 
 To thee — my own fireside ! 
 
42 
 
 HOME, SWEET HOME. 
 
 Oh, may the yearnings, fond and sweet, 
 
 That bid my thoughts be all of thee, 
 Thus ever guide my wandering feet 
 
 To thy heart-soothing sanctuary ! 
 Whate'er my future years may be, 
 
 Let joy or grief my fate betide ; 
 Be still an Eden bright to me. 
 
 My own — my own fireside ! 
 
 Alaric a. Watts. 
 
 THE WINDOW. 
 
 T my window, late and early, 
 In the sunshine and the 
 rain, 
 When the jocund beams of 
 
 morning 
 Come to wake me from my 
 
 napping, 
 With their golden fingers 
 tapping 
 At my window pane : 
 From my troubled slumbers flitting — 
 From my dreamings fond and vain, 
 From the fever intermitting, 
 Up I start and take my sitting 
 At my window-pane. 
 
 Through the morning, through the noontide, 
 
 Fettered by a diamond chain, 
 Through the early hours of evening, 
 When the stars begin to tremble, 
 As their shining ranks assemble 
 
 O'er the azure plain : 
 
 When the thousand lamps are blazing, 
 Through the street and lane — 
 
 Mimic stars of man's upraising — 
 
 Still I linger, fondly gazing 
 From my window-pane ! 
 
 For, amid the crowds slow passing, 
 
 Surging like the main, 
 Like a sunbeam among shadows, 
 
 Through the storm-swept cloudy masses. 
 Sometimes one bright being passes 
 
 'Neath my window-pane; 
 Thus a moment's joy I borrow 
 
 From a day of pain. 
 See, she comes ! but bitter sorrow ! 
 Not until the slow to-morrow 
 Will she come again. 
 
 D. F. M'Carthy. 
 
 THE LOST LITTLE ONE. 
 
 WE miss her footfall on the floor. 
 Amidst the nursery din. 
 Her tip-tap at our bedroom door, 
 Her bright face peeping in. 
 
 And when to Heaven's high court above 
 
 Ascends our social prayer, 
 Though there are voices that we love. 
 
 One sweet voice is not there. 
 
 And dreary seem the hours, and lone, 
 
 That drag themselves along, 
 Now from our board her smile is gone, 
 
 And from our hearth her song 
 
 We miss that farewell lau^h of hers. 
 
 With its light joyous sound, 
 And the kiss between the balusters. 
 
 When good-night time comes round. 
 
 And empty is her little bed, 
 
 And on her pillow there 
 Must never rest that cherub head 
 
 With its soft silken hair. 
 
 But often as we wake and weep, 
 Our midnight thoughts will roam. 
 
 To visit her cold, dreamless deep, 
 In her last narrow home. 
 
 Then, then it is faith's tear-dimmed eyes 
 
 See through ethereal space. 
 Amidst the angel-crowded skies, 
 
 That dear, that well-known face. 
 
 With beckoning hand she seems to say, 
 *' Though, all her sufferings o'er. 
 
 Your little one is borne away 
 To this celestial shore. 
 
 Doubt not she longs to welcome you 
 
 To her glad, bright abode, 
 There happy endless ages through 
 
 To live with her and God." 
 
HOME, SWEET HOME. 
 
 43 
 
 S 
 
 GATHERING APPLES. 
 
 EASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness ! 
 Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun ; 
 Conspiring with him how to load and bless 
 With fruit the vines that round the thatch- 
 eves run ; 
 To bend withapples themossed 
 cottage trees, 
 And fill all fruit with ripe- 
 ness to the core ; 
 To swell the gourd and 
 plump the hazel-shells 
 With a sweet kernel ; to set 
 budding more, 
 And still more, later flowers 
 
 for the bees, 
 Until they think warm days 
 will never cease. 
 For summer has o'erbrimmed their 
 clammy cells. 
 
 HOME— A DUET. 
 
 flE. Dost thou love wandering? whither wouldst 
 thou go ? 
 Dreamest thou, sweet daughter, of a land 
 more fair? 
 Dost thou not love these aye-blue streams, 
 that flow? 
 These spicy forests? and this golden air? 
 
 She. Oh, yes ! I love the woods and streams so 
 gay, 
 And more than all, O f.ther! I love thee; 
 Yet would I fain be wandering far away, 
 Where such things never were, nor e'er 
 shall be. 
 
 He. Speak, mine own daughter, with the sun- 
 bright locks, 
 To what pale banished nation wouldst 
 thou roam ? 
 She. O father, let us find our frozen rocks ! 
 
 Let's seek that country of all countries — 
 home ! 
 
 He. See' St thou these orange flowers ! this palm 
 that rears 
 Its head up tow'rds heaven's blue and 
 cloudless dome? 
 She. I dream, I dream, mine eyes are hid in tears, 
 My heart is wandering round our ancient 
 home. 
 
 He. Why, then, we'll go. Farewell, ye tender 
 skies, 
 Who sheltered us when we were forced to 
 roam. 
 She. On, on ! Let's pass the swallow as he flies! 
 Farewell, kind land ! Now, father, now 
 for home. Barry Cornwall. 
 
 IF THOU HAST LOST A FRIEND. 
 
 IF thou hast lost a friend, 
 By hard or hasty word, 
 Go — call him to thy heart again ; 
 Let pride no more be heard. 
 
 
 crr^sis 
 
 Remind him of those happy days, 
 
 Too beautiful to last; 
 Ask, if a 7£/^n/should cancel years 
 Of truth and friendship past ? 
 Oh ! if thou'st lost a friend, 
 
 By hard or hasty word, 
 Go — call him to thy heart again ; 
 Let pride no more be heard. 
 
 Oh ! tell him, from thy thought, 
 
 The light of joy hath fled ; 
 That, in thy sad and silent breast, 
 
 Thy lonely heart seems dead ; 
 That mount and vale — each path ye trod, 
 
 By morn or evening dim, — 
 Reproach you with their frowning gaze, 
 
 And ask your soul for him. 
 
44 
 
 HOME, SWEET HOME, 
 
 Then, if thou'st lost a friend, 
 
 By hard or hasty word, 
 Go — caii him to thy heart again ; 
 
 Let pride no more be heard. 
 
 Charles Swain. 
 
 I THINK ON THEE. 
 
 I THINK on thee in the night, 
 When all beside is still, 
 And the moon comes out, with her pale, sad 
 light. 
 To sit on the lonely hill. 
 When the stars are all like dreams, 
 
 And the breezes all like sighs, 
 And there comes a voice from the far-off streams, 
 Like thy spirit's low replies ! 
 
 I think on thee by day, 
 
 'Mid the cold and busy crowd, 
 When the laughter of the young and gay 
 
 Is far too glad and loud 
 I hear thy soft sad tone, 
 
 And thy young sweet smile I see; 
 My heart, my heart, were all alone, 
 
 But for its dreams of thee ! 
 
 Of thee who wert so dear, — 
 
 And yet I do not weep, 
 For thine eyes were stained by many a tear 
 
 Before they went to sleep ; 
 /nd if I haunt the past. 
 
 Yet may I not repine. 
 That thou hast won thy rest at last. 
 
 And all the grief is mine. 
 
 I think upon thy gain, 
 
 Whate'er to me it cost, 
 And fancy dwells with less of pain 
 
 On all that I have lost ! 
 Hope, like the cuckoo's oft-told tale, 
 
 Alas ! it wears her wing ; 
 And love, that, like the nightingale, 
 
 Sings only in the spring ! 
 
 Thou art my spirit's all, 
 
 Just as thou wert in youth, 
 Still from thy grave no shadows fall 
 
 Upon my lonely truth. 
 A taper yet above thy tomb 
 
 Since lost its sweeter rays. 
 And what is memory through the gloom 
 
 Was hope in brighter days. 
 
 I am pining for the home 
 
 Where sorrow sinks to sleep, 
 Where the weary and the weeper come.. 
 
 And they cease to toil and wecj) ; 
 They walk about with smiles. 
 
 That each should be a tear, 
 Vain as the summer's glowing spoils. 
 
 Flung o'er an early bier. 
 
 Oh ! like those fairy things, 
 
 Those insects of the East, 
 That have their beauty in their wings. 
 
 And shroud it when at rest ; 
 That fold their colors of the sky, 
 
 When earthward they alight. 
 And flash their splendor on the eye. 
 
 Only to take their flight. 
 
 I never knew" how^ dear thou wert, 
 
 Till thou wert borne away ! 
 I have it yet about my heart. 
 
 Thy beauty of that day ! 
 As if the robe thou wert to wear 
 
 Beyond the stars were given. 
 That I might learn to know it there. 
 
 And seek thee out in heaven. 
 
 T. K. Hervey. 
 
 UNCONSCIOUS INFLUENCE. 
 
 THERE'S never a rose in all the world 
 But makes some green spray sweeter; 
 There's never a wind in all the sky 
 But makes some bird wing fleeter ; 
 There's never a star but brings to heaven 
 
 Some silver radiance tender ; 
 And never a rosy cloud but helps 
 To crown the sunset splendor ; 
 No robin but may thrill some heart. 
 
 His dawnlight gladness voicing. 
 God gives us all some small, sweet way 
 To set the world rejoicing. 
 
 DOMESTIC LOVE. 
 
 DOMESTIC Love ! not in proud palace hails 
 Is often seen thy beauty to abide ; 
 Thy dwelling is in lowly cottage walls. 
 That in the thickets of the woodbine hide; 
 With hum of bees around, and from the side 
 Of woody hills some little bubbling spring, 
 
 Shining along through banks with harebells 
 dyed ; 
 And many a bird to warble on the wing. 
 When morn her saffron robe o'er heaven and earth 
 doth fling. 
 
 O I love of loves ! — to thy white hand is given 
 
 Of earthly happiness the golden key ! 
 Thine are the joyous hours of winter's even. 
 
 When the babes cling around their father's 
 
 knee ; 
 And thine the voice, that on the midnight sea 
 Melts the rude mariner with thoughts of home. 
 Peopling the gloom with all he longs to see. 
 Spirit ! — I've built a shrine; and thou hast come. 
 And on its altar closed — for ever closed thy 
 plume ! 
 
 George Croly. 
 
HOME, SWEET HOME, 
 
 45 
 
 H 
 
 NOT LOST, BUT GONE BEFORE.' 
 
 OW mournful seems, in broken dreams, 
 The memory of the day, 
 When icy death hath sealed the breath 
 Of some dear form of clay ! 
 
 When pale, unmoved, the face we loved, 
 
 The face we thought so fair. 
 And the hand lies cold, whose fervent hold 
 
 Once charmed away despair. 
 
 Oh, what could heal the grief we feel 
 
 For hopes that come no more, 
 Had we ne'er heard the Scripture word, 
 
 " Not lost, but gone before !" 
 
 Oh sadly yet with vain regret 
 
 The widowed heart must ) earn ; 
 And mothers weep their babes asleep 
 
 In the sunlight's vain return. 
 
 The brother's heart shall rue to part 
 From the one through child- 
 hood known ; 
 And the orphan's tears lament 
 for years 
 A friend and father gone. 
 
 For death and life, with ceasele>s 
 strife. 
 
 Beat wild on this world's shore, 
 And all our calm is in that balm, 
 
 " Not lost, but gone before." 
 
 •Oh ! world wherein nor death, 
 nor sin. 
 Nor weary warfare dwells ; 
 Their blessed home we parted 
 from 
 With sobs and sad farewells. 
 
 Where eyes awake, for whose dear 
 sake 
 
 Our own with tears grow dim, 
 And faint accords of dying words 
 
 Are changed for heaven's sweet hymn ; 
 
 Oh ! there at last, life's trials past, 
 
 W^e'U meet our loved once more, 
 Whose feet have trod the path to God — 
 
 " Not lost, but gone before." 
 
 Caroline Norton. 
 
 AUNT JEMIMA'S QUILT. 
 
 A MIRACLE of gleaming dyes. 
 Blue, scarlet, buff and green; 
 Oh, ne'er before by mortal eyes 
 Snch gorgeous hues were seen ! 
 So grandly was its plan designed. 
 
 So cunningly 'twas built. 
 The whole proclaimed a master mind — 
 My Aunt Jemima's quilt. 
 
 This work of art my aunt esteemed 
 
 The glory of her age ; 
 No poet's eyes have ever beamed 
 
 More proudly o'er his page. 
 
 - T' 
 
 Were other quilts to this compared 
 Her nose would upward tilt ; 
 
 Such impudence was seldom dared 
 O'er Aunt Jemima's quilt. 
 
 Her dear old hands have gone to dust, 
 
 That once were lithe and light, 
 Her needles keen are thick with rust 
 
 That flashed so nimbly bright ; 
 And here it lies by her behest, 
 
 Stained with the tears we spilt, 
 Safe folded in this cedar chest— 
 
 My Aunt Jemima's quilt. 
 
46 
 
 GATHERING FLOWERS. 
 
HOME. SWEET HOME, 
 
 47 
 
 THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET. 
 
 This delightful poem was written when the author, a poor 
 printer, resided in Duane Street, New York City. Coming 
 into the house one hot day he poured out a glass of water 
 and eagerly drank it. As he did so he exclaimed, " This 
 is very refreshing; but how much more refreshing would it 
 be to take a good, long draught from the old oaken bucket I 
 left hanging in my father's well, at 
 home." " Selin," said his wife, 
 " wouldn't that be a pretty subject 
 for a poem ?" Wood worth took 
 his pen, and as the picture of his 
 old home in Plymouth county, 
 Mass., came to his memory, he 
 wrote the familiar words which 
 have touched the universal heart. 
 
 As fancy reverts to my father's plantation, 
 
 And sighs 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. 
 
 this heart 
 of my 
 
 HOW dear to 
 are the scenes 
 childhood, 
 When fond recollection 
 presents them to view ! 
 The orchard, the meadow, 
 the deep-tangled wild- 
 wood, 
 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 cataract 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 hunsf in the well. 
 
 when returned 
 
 That moss-covered bucket I hail as 
 a treasure ; 
 For often, at noon, 
 from the field, 
 I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, 
 The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. 
 How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glow- 
 ing ! 
 And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell ! 
 Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing, 
 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 re- 
 ceive 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 Jupiter sips. 
 And now, far removed from the loved situation, 
 The tear of regret will intrusively swell, 
 
 BEREFT. 
 
 LET me come in where you sit weeping : aye 
 Let me who have not any child to die 
 Weep with you for the little one whose love 
 I have known nothing of. 
 The little arms that slowly, slowly loosed 
 Their pressure round your neck; the hands you used 
 To kiss; such arms, such hands, I never kn^w; 
 May I not weep with you ? 
 Fain would I be of service, say something 
 Between the tears that would be comforting 
 But, ah ! so sadder than yourselves am I 
 Who have no child to die ! 
 
 Tames Whitcomb R:ley. 
 
48 
 
 HOME, SWEET HOME. 
 
 I 
 
 COME TO THEE, MY WIFE. 
 
 COME to thee, my wife, 
 In every time of need, 
 To strengthen me in strife, 
 For noble work and deed ; 
 I come in hours of calm, 
 Because thy love is rest, 
 
 A blessing and a balm ; 
 With thee I'm ever blest ! 
 
 I come to thee soul-sad, 
 
 I come to thee for cheer, 
 Thy sun of love makes glad. 
 
 And drives away the drear. 
 I come with darksome thought, 
 
 To thee so full of light. 
 A magic change is wrought, 
 
 And day replaces night. 
 
 O come to thee, my wife, 
 My heart is lone and low ; 
 
 I come to thee its life 
 
 That joy may overflow ; 
 I come and find my food, 
 
 The food the angels eat. 
 And stay in raptured mood, 
 
 All blessed at thy feet ! 
 
 I come with empty mind, 
 
 As wintei comes 
 to spring, 
 I come to thee, 
 so kind, 
 And thou dost 
 fullness bring; 
 I breathe thy 
 light and air, 
 I live beneath 
 thy smile, 
 And all my mind 
 
 is fair. 
 And budding all 
 the while ! 
 
 Dear wife, I come 
 
 to thee. 
 Because thou 
 art so true, 
 Because thy love 
 is free. 
 And there I love 
 renew. 
 I come and share 
 
 thy heart, 
 And mingle with 
 
 thy life. 
 No more, no more 
 to part. 
 My own beloved wife I 
 
 The bird thus seeks its nest. 
 
 The river thus the sea. 
 And man his evening rest, 
 
 So do I come to thee. 
 The flowers thus do grow. 
 The stars thus sweetly shine, 
 And all my heart is so 
 Because that it is thine ! 
 
 The Arab loves the fount 
 
 That slakes his desert thirst, 
 The Swiss the towering mount 
 
 Where freedom came at first. 
 I love the love of thee, 
 
 My darling and my own. 
 Thy love a mighty sea, 
 
 Thy faith, my heart's great throne ! 
 
 I come to thee, my wife. 
 
 In every time I know ; 
 I come to thee, my wife, 
 
 Till loves together flow. 
 
HOME^ SWEET HOME. 
 
 49 
 
 Thus let them wander on. 
 
 Through time, and death and bliss, 
 "^or we, my love are one, 
 
 In yonder world and this I 
 
 William Brunton. 
 
 THE HAPPY HUSBAND. 
 
 FT, oft methinks, the while 
 with thee 
 
 I breathe, as from the heart, 
 thy dear 
 
 And dedicated name, I hear 
 A promise and a mystery, 
 
 A pledge of more than pass- 
 ing life, 
 
 Yea, in that very name of 
 wife ! 
 
 A pulse of love, that ne'er 
 can sleep ! 
 A feeling that upbraids the 
 
 heart 
 With happiness beyond de- 
 sert, 
 That gladness half requests to 
 weep ! 
 Nor bless I not the keener sense 
 And unalarming turbulence 
 
 Of transient joys, that ask no sting 
 
 From jealous fears, or coy denying; 
 
 But born beneath love's brooding wing, 
 And into tenderness soon dying, 
 
 Wheel out their ^iddy moment, then 
 
 Resign the soul to love again. 
 
 A more precipitated vein 
 
 Of notes, that eddy in the flow 
 
 Of smoothest song, they come, they go, 
 
 And leave their sweeter under-strain 
 Jts owm sweet self — a love of thee 
 Tbat seems, yet cannot greater be ! 
 
 S. T. Coleridge. 
 
 JUST WHAT I WANTED. 
 
 GRANDPAPA looked at his fine new chair, 
 On the twenty-sixth day of December, 
 Saying: ''Santa Claus is so good to me ! 
 He never fails to remember : 
 But my old armchair is the one for me " 
 
 (And he settled himself in it nicely); 
 *' I hope he wont mind if I chng to it. 
 For it fits my back precisely. ' ' 
 
 Papa came home that very night, 
 
 He had plowed his way through the snow, 
 And the Christmas twinkle had left his eye, 
 
 And his step was tired and slow. 
 Warming for him his slippers lay. 
 
 The lovely embroidered-in-gold ones, 
 That had hung on the Christmas tree last night ; 
 
 But he slipped his feet in the old ones. 
 
 I And when dear little Marjory's oedtime came, 
 
 On the parlor rug they found her, 
 f The long, dark lashes a-drooj) on her cheeks 
 And her Christmas toys around her. 
 Neglected Angelique's waxen nose 
 The fire had melted completely ; 
 But her precious rag doll, Hannah Jane, 
 On her breast was resting sweetly. 
 
 ONE OF THE DEAR- 
 EST WORDS. 
 
 HERE is something in 
 I he word home, that 
 wakes the kindliest 
 leelings of the heart. 
 It is not merely frier.ds 
 and kindred who ren- 
 der that place so dear ; 
 but the very hills and 
 rocks and rivulets 
 throw a charm around 
 the place of one's na- 
 tivity. It is no won- 
 der that the loftiest 
 harps have been tuned 
 to sing of '' home, 
 sweet home." The 
 rose that bloomed in 
 the garden where one has wandered in early years 
 a thoughtless child, careless in innocence, is lovely 
 in its bloom, and lovelier in its decay. 
 
 No songs are sweet like those we heard among 
 the boughs that shade a parents d^^elling, when 
 the morning or the evening hour found us gay as 
 the birds that warbled over us. No waters are 
 bright like the clear silver streams that wind 
 among the flower-decked knolls, where, in child- 
 hood, we have often strayed to pluck the violet or 
 the lily, or to twine a garland for some loved 
 schoolmate. 
 
 We may wander away and mingle in the 
 "world's fierce strife," and form new associa- 
 tions and friendships, and fancy we have almost 
 forgotten the land of our birth ; but at some even- 
 ing hour, as we listen perchance to the autumn 
 winds, the remembrance of other days comes over 
 the soul, and fancy bears us back to childood's 
 scenes. We roam again the old familiar haunts, 
 and press the hands of companions long since cold 
 in the grave, and listen to the voices we shall hear 
 on earth no more. It is then a feeling of melan- 
 choly steals over us, which, like Ossian's music, is 
 pleasant, though mournful to the soul. 
 
 The African, torn from his willow-braided hut, 
 and borne away to the land of strangers and of 
 toil, weeps as he thinks of home, and sighs and 
 pines for the cocoaland beyond the waters of the 
 
.60 
 
 HOME, SWEET HOME. 
 
 sea. Years may have passed over him ; strifes and 
 toil may have crushed his spirits ; all his kindred 
 may have found graves upon the corals of the 
 ocean ; yet, were he free, how soon would he seek 
 the shores and skies of his boyhood dreams ! 
 
 The New England mariner, amid the icebergs 
 of the Northern seas, or breathing the spicy gales 
 of the evergreen isles, or coasting along the shores 
 of the Pacific, though the hand of time may have 
 blanched his raven locks, and care have plowed 
 deep furrows on his brow, and his heart have been 
 chilled by the storms of the ocean, till the foun- 
 tains of his love have almost ceased to gush with 
 the heavenly current ; yet, upon some summer's 
 evening, as he looks out upon the sun sinking be- 
 hind the western wave, he will think of home ; his 
 heart wili yearn for the loved of other days, and 
 his tears flow like the summer rain. 
 
 How, after long years of absence, does the heart 
 of the wanderer beat, and his eyes fill, as he 
 catches a glimpse of the hills of his nativity ; and 
 when he has pressed the lip of a brother or sister, 
 how soon does he hasten to see if the garden, and 
 the orchard, and the stream look as in days gone 
 by ! We may find climes as beautiful, and skies 
 as bright, and friends as devoted ; but that will 
 not usurp the place of home. 
 
 COME HOME. 
 
 These lines of Mrs. Hemans, addressed to her brother who 
 was fighting in Spain under Sir John Moore, display the 
 remarkable tenderness, beauty and sweetness of her far- 
 famed productions. In the qualities that belong to the 
 poetry of feeling and sentiment, she may be said to have few 
 rivals, and no superior among literary celebrities. 
 
 COME home. 
 Would I could send my spirit o'er the 
 deep, 
 Would I could wing it like a bird to thee. 
 To commune with thy thoughts, to fill thy sleep 
 With these unwearying words of melody, 
 Brother, come home. 
 
 Come home. 
 Come to the hearts that love thee, to the eyes 
 
 That beam in brightness but to gladden thine ; 
 Come where fond thoughts like holiest incense 
 rise, 
 Where cherished memory rears her altar's shrine. 
 Brother, come home. 
 
 Come home. 
 Come to the hearthstone of thy earlier days. 
 
 Come to the ark, like the o'erwearied dove, 
 Come with the sunlight of thy heart's warm rays, 
 Come to the fireside circle of thy love. 
 Brother, come home. 
 
 Come home. 
 It is not home without thee ; the lone seat 
 
 Is still unclaimed where thou wert wont to be ; 
 
 In every echo of returning feet 
 
 In vain we list for what should herald thee» 
 Brother, come home. 
 
 Come home. 
 We've nursed for thee the sunny buds of spring, 
 Watched every germ a full-blown flow'ret rear., 
 Saw o'er their bloom the chilly winter brin^- 
 Its icy garlands, and thou art not here. 
 Brother, come home. 
 
 Come home. 
 Would I could send my spirit o'er the deep, 
 Would I could wing it like a bird to thee 
 To commune with thy thoughts, to fill thy sleep 
 With these unwearying words of melody. 
 Brother, come home. 
 
 Felicia D. Hemans 
 
 FAREWELL. 
 
 FAREWELL ! if ever fondest prayer 
 For other's weal availed on high, 
 Mine will not all be lost in air. 
 
 But waft thy name beyond the sky. 
 'Twere vain to speak — to weep — to sigh— 
 Oh ! more than tears of blood can tell. 
 When wrung from guilt's expiring eye, 
 Are in that word, Farewell ! Farewell 1 
 
 These lips are mute, these eyes are dry, 
 
 But in my breast and in my brain. 
 Awake the pangs that pass not by. 
 
 The thought that ne'er shall sleep again 
 My soul nor deigns nor dares complain ; 
 
 Though grief and passion there rebel, 
 
 I only know we loved in vain, 
 
 I only feel Farewell ! Farewell ! 
 
 Lord Byron. 
 NEAR THEE. 
 
 I WOULD be with thee — near thee — ever near 
 thee— 
 Watching thee ever, as the angels are — 
 Still seeking with my spirit-power to cheer thee. 
 
 And thou to see me, but as some bright star. 
 Knowing me not, but yet oft-times perceiving 
 That when thou gazest I still brighter grow. 
 Beaming and trembling — like some bosom heaving 
 With all it knows, yet would not have thee know^ 
 
 I would be with thee — fond, yet silent ever. 
 
 Nor break the spell in which my soul is bound ; 
 Mirrored within thee as within a river ; 
 
 A flower upon thy breast, and thou the ground ! 
 That, when 1 died and unto earth returned. 
 
 Our natures never more might parted be , 
 Within thy being all mine own inurned — 
 
 Life, bloom, and beauty, all absorbed in thee ! 
 
 Charles Swain, 
 
-J PROL'D yOung) motKcr, in tKe ^low 
 Of life'6 gidd morning, long doo 
 If was her Kappy ta^k to guide 
 Hib cKildisK steps wKen, side by 3ide, 
 
 Along d iuniit patK they walked, 
 Mi3 ^mall hand .clasped in fieri>, and talked 
 Witn Joyous tones, and lauohter ligKt, 
 /Nmid a >A/orld of beauty bright — 
 
 Now, bent beneatb tKe wei^bt of years, 
 C>be leans upon his arm, and bears 
 
 The deep, stern voice his comrades know,, 
 speaking in accents soft and low, 
 while, with erect and manly air, 
 A noble son, with foving care 
 
 Me guides her feeble steps, whose day 
 Of life IS fading fast away ' 
 
 \Vith grateful heart he dwells upon 
 The (gracious time, forever gone, 
 
 le hoursi she watched and tended him I 
 And now her eyes arc growinO dim, 
 And stren<5th is failing, he will i^uide 
 Mer feeble steps with tender pride. 
 // Counting her love of higher worlK 
 
 Thdn any JDrixc he ^m^ 
 on earth 
 
 51 
 
52 
 
 HOME, SWEET HOME. 
 
 FAILED. 
 
 YES, I'm a ruined man, Kate — everything g(?ne 
 at last; 
 Nothing to show for the trouble and toil of 
 the weary years that are past ; 
 Houses and lands and money have taken wings 
 
 and fled ; 
 This very morning I signed away the roof from 
 over my head. 
 
 I shouldn't care for myself, Kate ; I'm used to 
 the world's rough ways ; 
 
 I've dug and delved and plodded along through 
 all my manhood days ; 
 
 But I think of you and the children, and it al- 
 most breaks my heart ; 
 
 For I thought so surely to give my boys and 
 girls a splendid start. 
 
 So many years on the ladaer, I thought I was 
 near the top — 
 
 Only a few days longer, and then I expected to 
 stop. 
 
 And put the beys in my place, Kate, with an 
 easier life ahead ; 
 
 But now I mjjst give the prospect up ; that com- 
 forting dream is dead. 
 
 " I am worth m')re than my gold, eh?" You're 
 
 good to look at it so ; 
 But a man isn't worth very much, Kate, when 
 
 his hail is turning to snow. 
 My poor little girls, with their soft white hands, 
 
 and their innocent eyes of blue, 
 Turned adrift in the heartless world — what can 
 
 and what will they do ? 
 
 "An honest failure?" Indeed it was; dollar for 
 
 dollar was paid ; 
 Never a creditor suffered, whatever people have 
 
 said. 
 Better are rags and a conscience clear than a 
 
 palace and flush of shame. 
 One thing I shall leave to my children, Kate ; 
 
 and that is an honest name. 
 
 What's that ? '' The boys are not troubled, they 
 
 are ready now to begin 
 And gain us another fortune, and work through 
 
 thick and thin?" 
 The noble fellows ! already I feel I haven't so 
 
 much to bear ; 
 Their courage has lightened my heavy load of 
 i misery and despair. 
 
 "And the girls are so glad it was honest ; they'd 
 rather not dress sc fine. 
 And think they did it with money that wasn't 
 honestly mine?" 
 
 'i hey 're ready to show what they're made of— 
 
 quick to earn and to save — 
 My blessed, good little daughters 1 so generous 
 
 and so brave ! 
 
 And you think vve needn't fret, Kate, while we 
 
 have each other left, 
 No matter of what possessions our lives may be 
 
 bereft ? 
 You are right. With a quiet conscience, and a 
 
 wife so good and true, 
 I'll put my hand to the plow again ; and I know 
 
 that we'll pull through. 
 
 EVERY INCH A MAN. 
 
 SHE sat on the porch in the sunshine 
 As I went down the street — 
 A woman whose hair was silver, 
 But whose face was blossom sweet, 
 Making me think of a garden. 
 
 When in spite of the frost and snow 
 Of bleak November weather, 
 Late, fragile lilies grow. 
 
 I heard a footstep behind me. 
 
 And the sound of a merry laugh, 
 And I knew the heart it came from 
 
 Would be like a comforting staff 
 In the time and the hour of trouble, 
 
 Hopeful and brave and strong ; 
 One of the hearts to lean on, 
 
 When we think all things go wrong. 
 
 I turned at the click of the gate latch, 
 
 And met his manly look ; 
 A face like his gives me pleasure, 
 
 Like the page of a pleasant book. 
 It told of a steadfast purpose, 
 
 Of a brave and daring will ; 
 A face with a promise in it 
 
 That, God grant, the years fulfill. 
 
 He went up the pathway singing, 
 
 I saw the woman's eyes 
 Grow bright with a wordless welcome. 
 
 As sunshine warms the skies. 
 ''Back again, sweetheart mother," 
 
 He cried, and bent to kiss 
 The loving face that was uplifted 
 
 For what some mothers miss. 
 
 That boy will do to depend on ; 
 
 I hold that this is true — 
 From lads in love with their mothers 
 
 Our bra\est heroes grew. 
 Earth's grandest hearts have been loving hearts 
 
 Since time and earth began ; 
 And the boy who kisses his mother 
 
 Is everv inch a man ! 
 
THOMAS MOORE. 
 
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY. 
 
THE CHARMS OF NATURE 
 
 CONTAINING 
 
 GRAPHIC DESCRIPTIONS OF NATURAL SCENERY. 
 
 INCLUDING 
 
 THE PICTURESQUE, THE BEAUTIFUL, AND THE SUBLIME. 
 
 AFTER SUNSET. 
 
 NE tremulous star above the deepening west; 
 The splash of waves upon a quiet beach; 
 A sleepy twitter from some hidden nest 
 Amidst the clustered ivy, out of reach. 
 
 The sheep-bell's tinkle from the daisied leas; 
 
 The rhythmic fall of homeward-wending fee' ; 
 A wind that croons amongst the leafy trees, 
 
 And dies away in whispers faint and sweet. 
 
 A pale young moon, whose slender silver bo'.v 
 Creeps slowly up beyond the purple hill; 
 
 And seems to absorb the golden afterglow 
 Within the far horizon lingering still. 
 
 An open lattice and the scent of musk ; 
 
 Then, through the slumbrous hush of earth and sky, 
 A tender mother-voice that in the dusk 
 
 Sings to a babe some Old- World lullaby. 
 
 E. Matheson. 
 
 A MOONLIGHT NIGHT. 
 
 THE stars that stand about the moon, 
 Their shining faces veil as soon 
 As at her full, in splendor bright. 
 She floods the earth with silver light. 
 
 And through green boughs of apple trees 
 Cool comes the rustling of the breeze, 
 While from the quivering leaves down flows 
 A stream of sleep and soft repose. 
 
 Jane Sedgwick. 
 
 THE ROSE. 
 
 44 'T*] 
 
 'HE rose is fairest when 'tis budding new. 
 And hope is brightest when it dawns 
 from fears ; 
 The rose is sweetest washed with morning dew. 
 
 And love is loveliest when embalmed in tears. 
 O wilding rose, whom fancy thus endears, 
 
 I bid your blossoms in my bonnet wave, 
 Emblem of hope and love through future years !" 
 Thus spoke young Norman, heir of Armandave, 
 What time the sun arose on Vennachar's broad 
 wave. Sir Walter Scott. 
 
 53 
 
54 
 
 THE CHARMS OF NATURE. 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 DIP down upon the northern shore, 
 O sweet new-year, delaying long : 
 Thou doest expectant nature wrong ; 
 Delaying long, delay no more. 
 
 What stays thee from the clouded noons, 
 Thy sweetness from its proper place? 
 Can trouble live with April days, 
 
 Or sadness in the summer moons ? 
 
 3rmg orchis, bring the foxglove spire. 
 The little speedwell's darling blue. 
 
 The happy birds, that change their sky 
 To build and brood, that live their lives 
 
 From land to land ; and in my breast 
 Spring wakens too ; and my regret 
 Becomes ah April violet, 
 
 And buds and blossoms like the rest. 
 
 Alfred Tennyson, 
 
 G 
 
 THE USE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 OD might have made the earth bring forth, 
 Enough for great and small. 
 The oak-tree and the cedar-tree, 
 
 Deep tulips dashed with fiery dew^ 
 Laburnums, dropping-wells of fire. 
 
 O thou, new-year, delaying long, 
 Delayest the sorrow in my blood. 
 That longs to burst a frozen bud, 
 ind flood a fresher throat with song. 
 
 Mow fades the last long streak of snow ; 
 Now bourgeons every maze of quick 
 About the flowering squares, and thick 
 
 By ashen roots the violets blow. 
 
 Now rings the woodland loud and long, 
 The distance takes a lovelier hue, 
 And drowned in yonder living blue 
 
 The lark becomes a sightless song. 
 
 Now dance the lights on lawn and lea, 
 The flocks are whiter down the vale. 
 And milkier every milky sail 
 
 On winding stream or distant sea ; 
 
 Where now the seamew pipes, or dives 
 In yonder greening gleam, and fly 
 
 Without a flower at all. 
 We might have had enough, enough 
 
 For every want of ours. 
 For luxury, medicine, and toil. 
 
 And yet have had no flowers. 
 
 Then wherefore, wherefore were they made, 
 
 All dyed with rainbow-light, 
 All fashioned with supremest grace 
 
 Upspringing day and night: — 
 Springing in valleys green and low, 
 
 And on the mountains high, 
 And in the silent wilderness 
 
 Where no man passes by ? 
 
 Our outward life requires them not, — 
 
 Then wherefore had they birth ? — 
 To minister delight to man, 
 
 To beautify the earth ; 
 To comfort man, — to whisper hope. 
 
 Whene'er his faith is dim. 
 For who so careth for the flowers 
 
 Will care much more for him ! 
 
 Mary Howitt. 
 
THE FIRST FLOWERS OF THE SEASON. 
 
 55 
 
56 
 
 THE CHARMS OF NATURE. 
 
 50NG OF THE SUMMER WINDS, 
 
 U 
 
 P the dale and down the bourne, 
 O'er the meadows swift we fly ; 
 Now we sing, and now we mourn, 
 
 Now we whistle. 
 
 now we sigh. 
 
 By the grassy- fringed river, 
 
 Through the murmuring reeds we sweep 
 Mid the lily-leaves we quiver, 
 
 To their very hearts we creep. 
 
 Now the maiden rose is blushing 
 
 At the frolic things we say. 
 While aside her check we're rushing, 
 
 Like some truant bees at play. 
 
 Through the blooming groves we rustle. 
 Kissing every bud we pass, — 
 
 As we did it in the bustle, 
 Scarcely knowing how it was. 
 
 Down the glen, across the mountain, 
 O'er the yellow heath we roam. 
 
 Whirling round about the fountain, 
 Till its little breakers foam. 
 
 Bending down the weeping willows, 
 While our vesper hymn we sigh; 
 Then unto our rosy pillows 
 
 On our weary wings we hie. 
 
 There of idlenesses dreaming, 
 Scarce from waking we refrain^ 
 
 Moments long as ages deeming 
 
 Till we're at our play again. 
 
 George Darley. 
 
 ONLY PROMISES. 
 
 FAIR pledges of a fruitful tree, 
 Why do ye fall so fast ? 
 Your date is not so past 
 But you may stay yet here awhile- 
 To blush and gently smile, 
 And go at last. 
 
 What ! were ye born to be 
 An hour or half's delight. 
 And so to bid good night ? 
 'Tis pity nature 
 forth 
 Merely to show your wort} 
 And lose you quite. 
 
 are lovely leaves, where we 
 read how soon things have 
 end, though ne'er so brave; 
 after they have shown their Dride 
 
 ^ou awhile, they glide 
 ;nto the grave. 
 
 Robert Herrick. 
 
 TiiE ROCKY MOUNTAINS. 
 
 On the eastern border of the Colorado plateau the summits 
 attain their greatest elevation, and here are more than two 
 hundred peaks that rise to an altitude of thirteen or fourteen^ 
 thousand feet above the level of the sea. 
 
 THESE mountains, piercing the blue sky 
 With their eternal cones of ice — 
 The torrents dashing from on high. 
 O'er rock and crag and precipice — ■ 
 Change not, but still remain as ever, 
 
 Unwasting, deathless, and sublime, 
 And will remain while lightnings quiver. 
 
 Or stars the hoary summits climb. 
 Or rolls the thunder-chariot of eternal time, 
 
 Albert Pike. 
 
 brought 
 
 ye 
 
THE CHARMS OF NATURE. 
 
 bi 
 
 .HE FALLS OF 
 NIAGARA. 
 
 The following selection vividly 
 depicts the overwhelming impres- 
 sions of sublimity and infinite power, 
 which the first view of the great 
 cataract is so well calculated to pro- 
 duce upon the beholder. 
 
 STOOD within a vision's 
 spell ; 
 I saw, I heard. The 
 liquid thunder 
 Went pouring to its 
 foaming hell, 
 And it fell 
 Ever, ever fell 
 Into the invisible abyss 
 opened under. 
 
 I 
 
 I stood upon a speck of 
 ground ; 
 Before me fell a stormy 
 ocean. 
 I was like a captive bound ; 
 And around 
 A universe of sound 
 Troubled the heavens with 
 ever-quivering motion. 
 
 Down, down forever — down, 
 down forever. 
 Something falling, falling, 
 falling. 
 Up, up forever — up, up for- 
 ever. 
 
 Resting never, 
 Boiling up forever. 
 Steam-clouds shot up with 
 thunder-bursts appalling. 
 
 A tone that since the birth 
 of man 
 Was never for , moment 
 broken, 
 A word that since ti. j world 
 began , 
 
 And waters ran, 
 Hath spoken still to 
 man, — 
 Of God and of Eternity hath spoken. 
 
 THE VALE OF CASHMERE. 
 
 WHO has not heard of the Vale of Cash- 
 mere, 
 With its roses the brightest that earth 
 ever gave. 
 Its temples, and grottoes, and fountains as clear 
 
 As the love-lighted eyes that hang over their wave? 
 O, to see it at sunset — when warm c'/?r the lake 
 Its splendor at parting a summer eve throws. 
 
 Like a bride, full of blushes, when lingering to take 
 A last look of her mirror at night ere she 
 
 goes ! — 
 When the shrines through the foliage are gleaming 
 
 half shown. 
 And each hallows the hour by some rites of its 
 
 own. 
 
 Here the music of prayer from a minaret swells. 
 Here the Magian his urn full of perfume 16 
 swinging. 
 
58 
 
 THE CHARMS OF NATURE. 
 
 And here, at the altar, a zone of sweet bells 
 
 Round the waist of some fair Indian dancer is 
 
 ringing. 
 Or to see it by moonlight — when mellowly 
 
 shines 
 The light o'er its palaces, gardens, and shrines ; 
 When the waterfalls gleam like a quick fall of 
 
 stars, 
 And the nightingale's hymn from the Isle of 
 ^ Chenars 
 
 Is broken by laughs and light echoes of feet 
 From the cool shining walks where the young 
 
 people meet. 
 
 Or at morn, when the magic of daylight awakes 
 A new wonder each minute as slowlv it breaks, 
 
 Hills, cupolas, fountains, called forth every one 
 Out of darkness, as they were just born of the 
 
 sun. 
 When the spirit of fragrance is up with the 
 
 day. 
 From his harem of night-flowers stealing away ; 
 And the wind, full of wantonness, woos like a 
 
 lover 
 The young aspen-trees till they tremble all over. 
 When the east is as warm as the light of first 
 
 hopes, 
 And the day, with its banner of radiance unfurled, 
 Shines in through the mountainous portal that 
 
 opes 
 Sublime, from that valley of bliss to the world ! 
 
 Thomas Moore. 
 
 THE NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 :.^ ARK ! ah, the nightingale ! 
 The tawny-throated ! 
 Hark ! from that moonlit cedar 
 
 what a burst ! 
 What triumph ! hark — what 
 
 pain ! 
 O wanderer from a Grecian 
 
 shore, 
 Still — after many years, in dis- 
 tant lands — 
 Still nourishing in thy be- 
 wildered brain 
 That wild, unquenched, deep- 
 sunken, Old -World pain — 
 Say., will it never heal? 
 And can this fragrant lawn, 
 With its cool trees, and night, 
 And the sw( .c, tranquil Thames, 
 And moonshine, and the dew, 
 To thy racked heart and brain 
 Afford no balm ? 
 
 Dost thou to-night behold. 
 Here, through the moonlight on this English 
 
 grass, 
 The unfriendly palace in the Thracian wild? 
 
 Dost thou again peruse, 
 With hot cheeks and seared eyes, 
 The too clear web, and thy dumb sister's shame ? 
 
 Dost thou once more essay 
 Thy flight ; and feel come over thee. 
 Poor fugitive ! the feathery change ; 
 Once more ; and once more make resound, 
 With love and hate, triumph and agony, 
 Lone Daulis, and the high Cephisian vale ? 
 
 Listen, Eugenia — 
 
 How thick the bursts come crowding through the 
 leaves ! 
 
 Again — thou hearest ! 
 Eternal passion ! 
 Eternal pain ! 
 
 Matthew Arnold. 
 
 TO THE DAISY. 
 
 IN youth from rock to rock I went, 
 From hill to hill, in discontent, 
 Of pleasure high and turbulent, 
 Most pleased when most uneasy ; 
 But now my own delights I make, — 
 My thirst at every rill can slake, 
 And gladly nature's love partake 
 Of thee, sweet daisy ! 
 
 When soothed a while by milder airs, 
 Thee winter in the garland wears 
 That thinly shades his few grey hairs ; 
 
 Spring cannot shun thee ; 
 Whole summer fields are thine by right : 
 And autumn, melancholy wight ! 
 Doth in thy crimson head delight 
 
 When rains are on thee. 
 
 In shoals and bands, a dancing train. 
 Thou greet 'st the traveler in the lane ; 
 If welcomed once thou countest it gain ; 
 
 Thou art not daunted, 
 Nor carest if thou be set at naught : 
 And oft alone in nooks remote 
 We meet thee, like a pleasant thought, 
 
 When such are wanted. 
 
 Be violets in their secret news 
 
 The flowers the wanton zephyrs choose ; 
 
 Proud be the rose, with rains and dews 
 
 Her head impearling ; 
 Thou liv'st with less ambitious aim. 
 Yet hast not gone without thy fame ; 
 Thou art indeed, by many a claim. 
 
 The poet's darling ! 
 
 William Wordsworth. 
 
HARK! THE NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 59 
 
GO 
 
 THE CHARMS OF NATURE, 
 
 THE BROOK. 
 
 FROM THE SPANISH. 
 
 L AUG H of tne mountain! lyreofbi"d and tree ! 
 Pomp of the meadow ! mirror of the morn ! 
 The soul of April, unto whom are born 
 The rose and jessamine, leaps wild in thee ! 
 
 How without guile thy bosom, all transparent 
 As the pure crystal, lets the curious eye 
 Thy secrets scan, thy smooth, round pebbles count \ 
 How, without malice murmuring, glides thy current 1 
 
 Although, where'er thy devious current strays, 
 The lap of earth with gold and silver teems, 
 To me thy clear proceeding brighter seems 
 Than golden sands that charm each shepherd's gaze. 
 
 O sweet simplicity of da) s gone by! 
 Thou shun'st the haunts of man, to dwell in lim- 
 pid fount ! 
 
 H. W. Longfellow. 
 
 H 
 
 HARK, HARK! 
 
 ARK, hark ! the lark at heaven's gate sings. 
 And Phoebus 'gins arise. 
 His steeds to water at those springs 
 On chaliced flowers that lies; 
 And winking Mary-buds begin 
 
 THE LARK. 
 
 To ope their golden eyes ; 
 With everything that pretty bin, 
 My lady sweet, arise ; 
 Arise, arise ! 
 
 William Shakespeare. 
 
A FAIR BEGINNER 
 
THE CHARMS OF NATURE. 
 
 Gl 
 
 WINTER SONG. 
 
 FROM THE GERMAN. 
 
 SUMMER joys are o'er; 
 Flowerets bloom no more, 
 Wintry winds are sweeping ; 
 Through the snow-drifts peeping 
 Cheerful evergreen 
 Rarely now is seen. 
 
 Now no plmned throng 
 
 Charms the wood with song ; 
 Ice-bound trees are glittering ; 
 Merry snow-birds, twittering, 
 
 Fondly strive to cheer 
 
 Scenes so cold and drear. 
 
 Winter, still I see 
 
 Many charms in thee, — 
 Love thy chilly greeting, 
 Snow-storms fiercely beating, 
 
 And the dear delights 
 
 Of the long, long nights. 
 
 Charles T. Brooks. 
 
 CAPE=COTTAGE AT SUNSET. 
 
 E stood upon the ragged rocks, 
 
 When the long day was nearly done; 
 The waves had ceased their sullen shocks. 
 And lapped our feet with murmuring toie, 
 And o'er the bay in streaming locks 
 Blew the red tresses of the sun. 
 
 Along the west the golden bars 
 
 Still to a deeper glory grew ; 
 Above our heads the faint, few stars 
 
 Looked out from the unfathomed blue ; 
 And the fair city's clamorous jars 
 
 Seem melted in that evening hue. 
 
 sunset sky ! O purple tide ! 
 O friends to friends that closer pressed ! 
 
 Those glories have in darkness died, 
 And ye have left my longing breast. 
 
 1 could not keep you by my side, 
 
 Nor fix that radiance in the west. 
 
 W. B. Glazier. 
 
62 
 
 THE CHARMS OF NATURE, 
 
 B 
 
 THE BOBOLINK. 
 
 OBOLINK ! that in the meadow, 
 Or beneath the orchard's shadow, 
 Keepest up a constant rattle 
 Joyous as my children's prattle, 
 Welcome to the north again ! 
 
 Welcome to mine ear thy strain, 
 Welcome to mine eye the sight 
 Of thy buff, thy black and white. 
 Brighter plumes may greet the sun, 
 By the banks of Amazon ; 
 Sweeter tones may weave the spell 
 Of enchanting Philomel; 
 But the tropic bird would fail. 
 
 A 
 
 And the English nightingale, 
 If we should compare their worth 
 With thine endless, gushing mirth. 
 
 When the ides of May are past, 
 June and summer nearing fast, 
 While from depths of blue above 
 Comes the mighty breath of love,, 
 Calling out each bud and flower 
 With resistless, secret power — 
 AVaking hope and fond desire. 
 Kindling the erotic fire — 
 Filling youths' and maidens' dreams 
 With mysterious, pleasing themes ; 
 Then, amid the sunlight clear 
 Floating in the fragrant air, 
 Thou dost fill each heart with pleasure. 
 By thy glad ecstatic measure. 
 
 A single note, so sweet and low. 
 Like a full heart's overflow. 
 Forms the prelude ; but the strain 
 Gives no such tone again. 
 For the wild and saucy song 
 Leaps and skips the notes among,. 
 With such quick and sportive play,^ 
 Ne'er was madder, merrier lay. 
 
 Gayest songster of the spring ! 
 Thy melodies before me bring 
 Visions of some dream-built land. 
 Where, by constant zephyrs fanned,. 
 I might walk the livelong day, 
 Embosomed in perpetual May. 
 Nor care nor fear thy bosom knows ;■ 
 For thee a tempest never blows ; 
 But when our northern summer's o'er. 
 By Delaware's or Schuylkill's shore 
 The wild rice lifts its airy head. 
 And royal feasts for thee are spread. 
 And when the winter threatens there. 
 Thy tireless wings yet own no fear, 
 But bear thee to more southern coasts 
 Far beyond the reach of frosts. 
 
 Bobolink ! still may thy gladness 
 Take from me all taints of sadness ; 
 Fill my soul with trust unshaken 
 In that Being who has taken 
 Care for every living thing. 
 In summer, winter, fall and spring. 
 
 Thomas Hill. 
 
 PERSEVERANCE. 
 
 SWALLOW in the spring 
 Came to our granary, and 'neath the eavt* 
 Essayed to make a nest, and there did bring 
 
 Wet earth and straw and leaves. 
 
 Day after day she toiled 
 With patient art, but ere her work was crowned, 
 
THE CHARMS OF NATURE. 
 
 63 
 
 Some sad mishap the tiny fabric spoiled, 
 And dashed it to the ground. 
 
 She found the ruin wrought, 
 But not cast down, forth from the place she flew, 
 And with her mate from fresh earth and grasses 
 brought 
 
 And built her nest anew. 
 
 But scarcely had she placed 
 The last soft feather on its ample floor, 
 A^hen wicked hand, or chance, again laid waste 
 
 And wrought the ruin o'er. 
 
 But still her heart she kept, 
 And toiled again — and last night, hearing calls, 
 I looked — and lo ! three little swallows slept 
 
 Within the earth-made walls. 
 
 What truth is here, O man ! 
 Hath hope been smitten in its early dawn ? 
 Have clouds o'ercast thy purpose, trust, or plan? 
 Have faith, and struggle on ! 
 
 R. S. S. Andros. 
 
 THE STORMY PETREL. 
 
 from 
 
 THOUSAND miles 
 
 land are we, 
 Tossing about on the stormy 
 
 sea — 
 From billow to bounding 
 
 billow cast, 
 Lilk 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 disdains — 
 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 swordfish 
 
 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 unhe?.rd ! 
 Ah I 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 e'er the waves on thy stormy wing I 
 
 Barry Cornwall. 
 
 THE PELICAN. 
 
 ERELONG the thriving brood outgrew their 
 cradle. 
 Ran through the grass, and dabbled in the 
 
 pools ; 
 No sooner denizens of earth than made 
 Free both of air and water ; day by day, 
 New lessons, exercises, and amusements 
 Employed the old to teach, the young to learn. 
 Now floating on the blue lagoon beholding them ; 
 The sire and dam in swan-like beauty steering, 
 Their cygnets following through the foamy wake, 
 Picking the leaves of plants, pursuing insects, 
 Or catching at the bubbles as they broke : 
 Till on some minor fry, in reedy shallo^A s, 
 With flapping pinions and unsparing beaks 
 The well-taught scholars plied their double art, 
 To fish in troubled waters, and secure 
 The petty captives in their maiden pouches ; 
 Then hurried with their banquet to the shore. 
 With feet, wings, breast, half swimming and half 
 
 flying. 
 
 But when their pens grew strong to fight the 
 
 storm. 
 And buff'et with the breakers on the reef, 
 The parents put them to severe reproof; 
 On beetling rocks the little ones were mar- 
 shalled ; 
 There, by endearments, stripes, example, urged 
 To try the void convexity of heaven, 
 And plough the ocean's horizontal field. 
 Timorous at first they fluttered round the verge, 
 Balanced and furled their hesitating wings. 
 Then put them forth again with steadier aim ; 
 Now, gaining courage as they felt the wind 
 Dilate their feathers, till their airy frames 
 With buoyancy that bore them from their feet. 
 They yielded all their burdens to the breeze, 
 And sailed and soared where'er their guardians 
 
 led; 
 Ascending, hovering, wheeling, or alighting. 
 They searched the deep in quest of nobler game 
 Than yet their inexperience had encountered ; 
 With these they battled in that element. 
 Where wings or fins were equally at home. 
 Till, conquerors in many a desperate strife. 
 They dragged their spoils to land, and gorged at, 
 leisure. 
 
 James Montgomery. 
 
THE CHARMS OF NATURE. 
 
 CASCO BAY. 
 
 OWHERE, fairer, sweeter, rarer, 
 Does the golden-locked fruit-bearer. 
 Through his painted woodlands stray, 
 Than where hill-side oaks and beeches 
 Overlook the long blue reaches, 
 Silver coves and pebbled beaches 
 And green isles of Casco Bay ; 
 Nowhere day, for delay, 
 With a tenderer look beseeches, 
 
 " Let me with my charmed earth stay.'^ 
 
 On the grainlands of the mainlands 
 Stands the serried corn like train-bands, 
 
 Plume and pennon rustling gay ; 
 Out at sea, the islands wooded, 
 Silver birches, golden-hooded. 
 Set with maples, crimson-blooded, 
 
 White sea-foam and sand-hills gray, 
 
 Stretch away, far away. 
 Dim and dreary, over-brooded 
 
 By the hazy autumn day. 
 
 Gayly chattering to the clattering 
 
 Of the brown nuts downward pattering, 
 
 Leap the squirrels red and gray. 
 On the grass-land, on the fallow, 
 Drop the apples, red and yellow. 
 Drop the russet pears and mellow, 
 
 Drop the red leaves all the day, — 
 
 And away, swift away. 
 Sun and cloud, o'er hill and hollow 
 
 Chasing, weave their web of play. 
 
 John G. Whittier. 
 
 LILACS. 
 
 FAIR, purple children of the sun, 
 I pet your blossoms one by one, 
 Glance looks of love into your eyes, 
 Your perfume breathe, your beauty prize, 
 
 Hold your sweet clusters to my view. 
 Cool my warm blushes with your dew. 
 And evening, morning, and at noon, 
 Mourn that your tints are gone so soon. 
 
 Henry Davenport. 
 
BLOSSOMS AND PERFUME. 
 
 6^ 
 
Gt) 
 
 THE CHARMS OF NATURE, 
 
 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. 
 
 Not alone in spring's armorial bearing, 
 And in summer's green-emblazoned field, 
 
 But m arms of brave old autumn's wearing, 
 In the centre of his brazen shield ; 
 
 Stars they are, wherein we read our history, 
 
 As astrologers and seers of eld ; 
 Yet not wrapped about with awful mystery, 
 
 Like the burning stars, which they beheld. 
 
 Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous, 
 God hath written in those stars above; 
 
 But not less in the bright flowerets under us 
 Stands the revelation of his love. 
 
 Everywhere about us they are glowing, 
 Some like stars, to teli us spring is born; 
 
 Others, their bke eyes with tears o'erflowing, 
 Stand like Ruth amid the golden corn ; 
 
 w 
 
 Not alone in meadows and green alleys, 
 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. 
 
THE CHARMS OF NATURE. 
 
 In all places, then, and in all seasons, 
 
 Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings, 
 
 Teaching us, by most ])ersuasive 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, 
 
 land. 
 H. W. Longfellow. 
 
 Emblems of the bright and better 
 
 C 
 
 A SCENE ON THE HUDSON. 
 
 OOL shades and dews are round my way. 
 
 And silence of the early day; 
 
 Mid the dark rocks that watch his bed. 
 Glitters the mighty Hudson spread, 
 Unrippled, save by drops that fall 
 From shrubs that fringe his mountain wall; 
 And o'er the clear, still waters swells 
 The music of the Sabbath bells. 
 
 All, save this little nook of land 
 Circled with trees, on which I stand; 
 All, save that line of hills which lie 
 Suspended in the mimic sky — 
 Seems a blue void, above, below. 
 Through which the white clouds come and go, 
 And from the green world's farthest steep 
 I gaze into the airy deep. 
 
 P 
 
 PACK CLOUDS 
 
 ACK clouds away, and welcome day, 
 With night we banish sorrow ; 
 Sweet air, blow soft ; mount, lark, aloft. 
 
 To give my love good morrow. 
 Wings from the wind to please her mind. 
 
 Notes from the lark I'll borrow: 
 Bird, prune thy wing; nightingale, sing, 
 
 To give my love good morrow, 
 
 To give my love good morrow. 
 
 Notes from them all I'll borrow. 
 
 Loveliest of lovely things are they. 
 On earth, that soonest pass away. 
 The rose that lives its little hour 
 Is prized beyond the sculptured flower. 
 Even love, long tried and cherished long, 
 Becomes more tender and more strong, 
 At thought of that insatiate grave 
 From which its yearnings cannot save. 
 
 River ! in this still hour thou hast 
 Too much of heaven on earth to last; 
 Nor long may thy still waters lie, 
 An image of the glorious sky. 
 Thy fate and mine are not repose, 
 And ere another evening close. 
 Thou to thy tides shalt turn again, 
 And I to seek the crowd of men. 
 
 W. C. Bryant. 
 
 AWAY. 
 
 Wake from thy nest, robin redbreast. 
 
 Sing, birds, in every furrow; 
 And from each hill let music shrill 
 
 Give my fair love good morrow. 
 Blackbird and thrush in every bush. 
 
 Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow. 
 You pretty elves, amongst yourselves, 
 
 Sing my fair love good morrow. 
 
 To give my love good morrow, 
 
 Sing birds in every furrow. T. Heywqod. 
 
 OUR GREAT PLAINS. 
 
 THESE plains are made up, to a great extent, of rolling 
 prairies, seemingly as boundless as the sea, over 
 which millions of buffalo once roamed Avild and 
 fearless, but which are fast dwindling to timid, 
 watcliful, wary hertis, ever scenting danger, and taking flight 
 at the approach of man. 
 
 Room ! Room to turn round in, to breathe and be 
 
 I'ree, 
 And to grow to be giant, to sail as at sea 
 With the speed of the wind on a steed with his mane 
 To the wind, without pathway or route or a rein. 
 
 Room ! Room to be free where the vdiite-bordered sea 
 Blows a kiss to a brother as boundless as he ; 
 And to east and to west, to the north and the sun. 
 Blue skies and brown grasses are welded as one. 
 And the buffalo come like a cloud on the plain. 
 Pouring on like the tide of a storm-driven main. 
 And the lodge of the hunter, to friend or to foe 
 Offers rest ; and unquestioned you come or you go 
 Vast plains of America! Seas of wild lands! 
 I turn to you, lean to you, lift up my hands. 
 
 Joaquin Miller. 
 
68 
 
 THE CHARMS OF NATURE. 
 
 B 
 
 A DREAM OF SUMMER. 
 
 LAND as the morning breath of June 
 The southwest breezes play ; 
 And, through its haze, the winter noon 
 Seems warm as summer's day. 
 
 ■M?fl^ 
 
 Through 
 
 The snow-plumed angel of the North 
 Has dropped his icy spear ; 
 
 Again the mossy earth looks forth, 
 Again the streams gush clear. 
 
 The fox his hill-side cell forsakes, 
 The muskrat leaves his nook, 
 
 The bluebird in the meadow brakes 
 Is singing with the brook. 
 
 ''Bear up, oh mother nature !" cry 
 Bird, breeze, and streamlet free; 
 
 "Our winter voices prophesy 
 Of summer days to thee !" 
 
 So, in those winters of the soul, 
 
 By bitter blasts and drear 
 O'erswept from memory's frozen 
 pole, 
 Will sunny days appear. 
 Reviving hope and faith, they show 
 
 The soul its living powers, 
 And how, beneath the winter's snow^ 
 Lie germs of summer flowers ! 
 
 The night is mother of the day, 
 
 The winter of the spring. 
 And ever upon old decay 
 
 The greenest mosses cling. 
 Behind the cloud the starlight lurks, 
 showers the sunbeams 
 fall'. 
 For God, who loveth all his works. 
 Has left his hope with all ! 
 
 John G. Whittier. 
 
 GREAT HORSE=SHOE CURVE. 
 
 A BRIEF stop is made at Altoona Station, 
 and then, with all steam on, the giant 
 locomotive at the head of your train 
 begins the ascent of the heaviest grade on the 
 line. The valley beside you sinks lower and 
 lower, until it becomes a vast gorge, the bu'- 
 tom of which is hidden by impenetrable gloom. 
 ^ Far in the depths cottages appear for a moment, 
 only to disappear in the darkness, and then, 
 just as night is falling, you begin the circuit 
 of the world-famous Horse-shoe Curve, the 
 most stupendous piece of engineering ever 
 accomplished ; the wonder and admiration of 
 travelers from the four corners of the globe ; the 
 one feature of American railroad construction that 
 you have been told required the utmost courage to 
 attempt, and the most miraculous skill to achieve. 
 And now, as the enormous bend, sweeping first 
 north, then curving westward, and still curving 
 away to the south again, presents itself to your 
 view, you confess that you did not begin to esti- 
 mate its grandeur. An eagle soars majestically 
 away from some crag above your head, and floats 
 with extended wings over the gulch that makes 
 your brain reel as you glance downward, so deep 
 is it. 
 
 The clouds into which you are climbing bend 
 low and hide the rugged top of the mountain to 
 whose beetling side you are clinging, forming a 
 whitish-gray canopy that extends half-way across 
 the dizzy chasm. It is all so large, so grand, so 
 majestic, that you admit that your imagination has 
 been unequal to the task of picturing it. 
 
THE CHARMS OF NATURE. 
 
 69 
 
 SONG TO MAY. 
 
 Jk^AY, queen of blossoms, 
 
 And fulfilling flowers, 
 
 With what pretty music, 
 
 Shall we charm the 
 
 hours ? 
 
 Wilt thou have pipe and 
 
 reed, 
 Blown in the open 
 
 mead ? 
 Or to the lute give heed, 
 
 In the green bowers ? 
 
 THE WOOD. 
 
 WITCH-HAZEL, dogwood, and the maple 
 here; 
 And there the oak and hickory ; 
 Linn, poplar, and the beech tree, far and near 
 As the eased eye can see. 
 
 Wild ginger, wahoo, with its roan balloons ; 
 
 And brakes of briers of a twilight green ; 
 And fox grapes plumed with summer ; and strung 
 moons 
 
 Of mandrake flower between. 
 
 Thou hast no need of us, 
 
 Or pipe or wire ; 
 Thou hast the golden bee 
 
 Ripened with fire ; 
 And many thousand more 
 Songsters, that thee adore. 
 Filling earth's grassy floor 
 
 With new desire. 
 
 Thou hast thy mighty herds, 
 
 Tame, and free-livers ; 
 Doubt not, thy music too 
 
 In the deep rivers ; 
 And the whole plumy flight 
 Warbling the day and night — 
 Up at the gates of light, 
 See, the lark quivers ! 
 
 Edward, Lord Thurlow. 
 
 Deep gold-green ferns, and mosses red and gray — 
 Mats for what naked myth's white feet? 
 
 And cool and calm, a cascade far away. 
 With ever-falling beat 
 
 Old logs made sweet with death ; rough bits of bark: 
 And tangled twig and knotted root ; 
 
 And sunshine splashes, and great pools of dark ; 
 And many a wild bird's flute. 
 
 Here let me sit until the Indian dusk 
 With copper-colored feet comes down ; 
 
 Sowing the wildwood with star-fire and musk, 
 And shadows blue and brown. 
 
 Then side by side with some magician dream 
 
 To take the owlet-haunted lane, 
 Half-roofed with vines ; led by a firefly gleam. 
 
 That brings me home again. 
 
 Madison Cawein. 
 
70 
 
 THE CHARMS OF NATURE. 
 
 OSME'S SONG. 
 
 HITHER! hither! 
 O come hither ! 
 Lads and lasses come and see ! 
 Trip it neatly, 
 Foot it featly, 
 O'er the grassy turf to me ! 
 
 Odorous blossoms 
 
 For sweet bosoms, 
 Garlands green to bind the hair ; 
 
 Crowns and kirtles 
 
 Weft of myrtles, 
 You may choose, and beauty wear ! 
 
 Here are bowers 
 
 Hung with flowers, 
 Richly curtained halls for you ! 
 
 Meads for rovers. 
 
 Shades for lovers, 
 Violet beds, and pillows too I 
 
 Purple heather 
 
 You may gather. 
 Sandal-deep in seas of bloom ! 
 
 Pale-faced lily. 
 
 Proud Sweet-Willy, 
 Gorgeous rose, and golden broom ! 
 
 Brightsome glasses 
 
 For bright faces 
 Shine in ev'ry rill that flows; 
 
 Every minute 
 
 You look in it 
 Still more bright your beauty grows ! 
 
 Hither ! hither ! 
 
 O come hither I 
 Lads and lasses come and see ! 
 
 Trip it neatly, 
 
 Foot it featly. 
 O'er the grassy turf to me ! 
 
 George Darley. 
 
THE CHARMS OF NATURE, 
 
 71 
 
 THE RIVULET. 
 
 ■VHIS little rill that from the 
 
 springs 
 Of yonder grove its current 
 
 brings, 
 Plays on the slope a while, 
 
 and then 
 Goes prattling into groves 
 
 again, 
 Oft to its warbling 
 
 waters drew 
 My little feet, when life was new. 
 When woods in early green were dressed, 
 And from the chambers of the west 
 The warmer breezes, travelling out, 
 Breathed the new scent of flowers about, 
 My truant steps from home would stray. 
 Upon its grassy side to play, 
 List the brown thrasher's vernal hymn. 
 And crop the violet on its brim. 
 With blooming cheek and open brow. 
 As young and gay, sweet rill, as thou. 
 
 And when the days of boyhood came, 
 And I had grown in love with fame. 
 Duly I sought thy banks, and tried 
 My first rude numbers by thy side. 
 Words cannot tell how bright and gay 
 The scenes of life before me lay. 
 Then glorious hopes, that now to speak 
 Would bring the blood into my cheek. 
 Passed o'er me ; and I wrote on high, 
 A name I deemed should never die. 
 
 Years change thee not. Upon yon hill 
 The tall old maples, verdant still. 
 Yet tell, in grandeur of decay. 
 How swift the years have passed away. 
 Since first, a child, and half afraid, 
 I wandered in the forest shade. 
 Thou ever joyous rivulet. 
 Dost dimple, leap, and prattle yet ; 
 And sporting with the sands that pave 
 The windings of thy silver wave. 
 And dancing to thy own wild chime, 
 Thou laughest at the lapse of time. 
 The same sweet sounds are in my ear, 
 My early childhood loved to hear ; 
 As pure thy limpid waters run, 
 As bright they sparkle to the sun ; 
 As fresh and thick the bending ranks 
 Of herbs that line thy oozy banks ; 
 The violet there, in soft May dew. 
 Comes up, as modest and as blue ; 
 As green amid thy current's stress, 
 Floats the scarce-rooted water-cress : 
 And the brown ground-bird, in thy glen, 
 Still chirps as merrily as then. 
 
 Thou changest not — but I am changed, 
 Since first thy pleasant banks I ranged ; 
 And the grave stranger, come to see 
 The play-place of his infancy, 
 Has scarce a single trace of him 
 Who sported once upon thy brim. 
 The visions of my youth are past — 
 Too bright, too beautiful to last. 
 
 And I shall sleep — and on thy side. 
 As ages after ages glide, 
 Children their early sports shall try. 
 And pass to hoary age and die. 
 But thou, unchanged from year to year, 
 Gayly shalt play and glitter here ; 
 Amid young flowers and tender grass 
 Thy endless infancy shalt pass ; 
 And, singing down thy narrow glen, 
 Shalt mock the fading race of men. 
 
 W. C. Bryant. 
 
72 
 
 THE CHARMS OF NATURE. 
 
 P 
 
 THE NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 RIZE thou the nightingale, 
 Who soothes thee with his tale, 
 And wakes the woods around ; 
 A singing feather he — a winged and wandering 
 sound ; 
 
 Whose tender carolling 
 Sets all ears listening 
 Unto that living lyre, 
 Whence flow the airy not.es his ecstasies inspire ; 
 
 Whose shrill, capricious song 
 Breathes like a flute along, 
 With many a careless tone — 
 
 Come, summer visitant, attach 
 
 To my reed-roof your nest of cla> , 
 And let my ear your music catch, 
 Low twittering underneath the thatch, 
 At the gray dawn of day. 
 
 As fables tell, an Indian sage, 
 
 The Hindustani woods among. 
 Could in his desert hermitage. 
 As if 'twere marked in written page, 
 Translate th^ wild bird's song. 
 
 I wish I did his power possess. 
 
 That I might learn, fleet bird, from thee, 
 What our vain systems only guess, 
 
 Music of thousand tongues, formed by one tongue 
 alone. 
 
 O charming creature rare ! 
 Can aught with thee compare ? 
 Thou art all song — thy breast 
 Thrills for one month o' the year — is tranquil all 
 the rest. 
 
 Thee wondrous we may call — 
 Most wondrous this of all. 
 That such a tiny throat 
 Should wake so loud a sound, and pour so loud a 
 note. John Bowring. 
 
 T 
 
 THE SWALLOW. 
 
 HE gorse is yellow on the heath. 
 
 The banks with speedwell flowers are gay. 
 The oaks are budding ; and beneath. 
 The hawthorn soon will bear the wreath. 
 The silver wreath of May. 
 
 The welcome guest of settled spring, 
 The swallow, too, is come at last ; 
 Just at sunset, when thrushes sing, 
 I saw her dash with rapid wing. 
 And hailed her as she passed. 
 
 M 
 
 And know from what wild wilderness 
 You came across the sea. 
 
 Charlotte Smith. 
 
 THE EARLY PRIMR05E. 
 
 ILD offspring of a dark and sullen sire ! 
 Whose modest form, so delicately fine, 
 Was nursed in whirling storms 
 And cradled in the winds. 
 
 Thee, when young spring first questioned winter's 
 
 sway. 
 And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight, 
 
 Thee on this bank he threw 
 
 To mark his victory. 
 
 In this low vale the promise of the year. 
 Serene, thou openest to the nipping gale, 
 
 Unnoticed and alone. 
 
 Thy tender elegance. 
 
 So virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms 
 Of chill adversity ; in some lone walk 
 
 Of life she rears her head. 
 
 Obscure and unobserved ; 
 
 While every bleaching breeze that on her blows 
 Chastens her spotless purity of breast. 
 
 And hardens her to bear 
 
 Serene the ills of life. 
 
 Henry Kirke White. 
 
THE CHARMS OF NATURE. 
 
 THE FATHER OF WATERS. 
 
 Not only in the extent of fertile territory drained, but in 
 the vast flood of waters which it carries down to the Gulf, 
 the Mississippi has no equal among the rivers of Europe. 
 
 AY, gather Europe's royal rivers all — 
 The snow-swelled Neva, with an empire's 
 weight 
 On her broad breast, she yet may overwhelm ; 
 Dark Danube, hurrying, as by foe pursued. 
 Through shaggy forests and from palace walls, 
 To hide its terrors in a sea of gloom ; 
 The castled Rhine, whose vine-crowned waters flow, 
 
 The fount of fable and the source of song ; 
 The rushing Rhone, in whose cerulean depths 
 The loving sky seems wedded with the wave; 
 The yellow Tiber, choked with Roman spoils, 
 A dying miser shrinking 'neath his gold ; 
 And Seine, where fashion glasses fairest forms ; 
 And Thames, that bears the riches of the world ; 
 Gather their waters in one ocean mass — 
 Our Mississippi, rolling proudly on. 
 Would sweep them from its path, or swallow up. 
 Like Aaron's rod, these streams of fame and song. 
 
 Sarah J. Hale. 
 
 I 
 
 BUTTERFLY BEAU. 
 
 M a volatile thing, with an exquisite wing. 
 
 Sprinkled o'er with the tints of the rainbow; 
 All the Butterflies swarm to behold my sweet 
 form. 
 Though the Grubs may all vote me a vain beau. 
 I my toilet go through, with my rose-water dew, 
 
 And each blossom contributes its essence ; 
 Then all fragrance and grace, not a plume out of 
 place, 
 I adorn the gay world with my presence — 
 In short, you must know, 
 I'm the Butterfly Beau. 
 
 At first I enchant a fair Sensitive plant, 
 Then I flirt with the Pink of perfection; 
 
 Then I seek a Sweet Pea, and I whisper, '*'For 
 thee 
 I have long felt a fond predilection." 
 
 A Lily I kiss, and exult in my bliss, 
 
 But I very soon search for a new lip ; 
 And I pause in my flight to exclaim with delight, 
 *' Oh! how dearly I love you, my Tulip !" 
 In short, you must know, 
 I'm the Butterfly Beau. 
 
 Thus for ever I rove, and the honey of love 
 
 From each delicate blossom I pilfer ; 
 But though many I see pale and pining for me, 
 I know none that are worth growing ill for : 
 And though I must own, there are some that I've 
 known. 
 Whose external attractions are splendid ; 
 On myself I most doat, for in my pretty coat 
 All the tints of the garden are blended — 
 In short, you must know, 
 I'm the Butterfly Beau. T. Haynes Bayly. 
 
 THE OLD MAN OF THE MOUNTAIN. 
 
 On Mount Cannon, or Profile Mountain, opposite Lafay- 
 ette, west of the Notch, in the White Mountains, and 1,500 i 
 feet above the road, are three projecting rocks, that, viewed j 
 from a particular point, assume a well defined profile of a ' 
 colossal human face eighty feet long, with firmly drawn chin, 
 lips slightly parted, and a well-proportioned nose, surmounted 
 by a massive brow. Hence the mountain is called * ' Profile ^ 
 Mountain," and to this interesting intimation of a human j 
 countenance that suddenly disappears when the observer 
 moves, has been given the above appropriate title. 
 
 A GLORY smites the craggy heights : 
 And in a halo of the haze, 
 Flushed with faint gold, far up, behold 
 That mighty face, that stony gaze ! 
 In the wild sky upborne so high 
 Above us perishable creatures, 
 Confronting time with those sublime. 
 Impassive, adamantine features. 
 
 Thou beaked and bald high front, miscalled 
 
 The profile of a human face ! 
 No kin art thou, O Titan brow, 
 
 To puny man's ephemeral race. 
 The groaning earth to thee gave birth, — 
 
 Throes and convulsions of the planet ; 
 Lonely uprose, in grand repose. 
 
 Those eighty feet of facial granite. 
 
 We may not know how long ago 
 
 That ancient countenance was young ; 
 Thy sovereign brow was seamed as now 
 
 When Moses wrote and Homer sung. 
 Empires and states it antedates, 
 
 And wars, and arts, and crime, and glory; 
 In that dim morn when man was born 
 
 Thy head with centuries was hoary. 
 
 Canst thou not tell what then befell ? 
 
 What forces moved, or fast or slow ; 
 How grew the hills ; what heats, what chills ; 
 
 What strange, dim life, so long ago? 
 High-visaged peak, wilt thou not speak 
 
 One word, for all our learned wrangle? 
 What earthquakes shaped, what glaciers scraped 
 
 That nose, and gave the chin its angle ? 
 
 silent speech, that well can teach 
 The little worth of words or fame ! 
 
 1 go my way, but thou \\alt stay 
 
 While future millions pass the same : — 
 But what is this I seem to miss ? 
 
 Those features fall into confusion ! 
 A further pace — where was that face? 
 
 The veriest fugitive illusion ! 
 
74 
 
 THE CHARMS OF NATURE. 
 
 O Titan, how dislimned art thoui 
 A withered cliff is all we see ; 
 
 That giant nose, that grand repose, 
 Have in a moment ceased to be ; 
 
 Or still depend on lines that blend, 
 
 On merging shapes, and sight, and distarxce, 
 
 And in the mind alone can find 
 Imaginary brief existence ! 
 
 John T. Trowbridge 
 
 W 
 
 E'LL not weep for summer over. 
 No, not we ; 
 Strew above his head the clover, 
 Let him be ! 
 
 AFTER SUinMER. 
 
 Dream at all of all the sorrows 
 That were ours — 
 
 Bitter nights, more bitter morrows ; 
 Poison-flowers 
 
 Other eyes may weep his dying. 
 
 Shed their tears 
 There upon him where he's lying 
 
 AVith his peers. 
 
 Shall we in our tombs, I wonder. 
 
 Far apart, 
 Sundered wide as seas can sunder 
 
 Heart from heart, 
 
 Summer gathered, as in madness. 
 Saying, ''See, 
 These are yours, in place of gladness — 
 Gifts from me !" 
 
 Nay, the rest that will le ours 
 
 Is supreme — 
 And below the poppv flowers 
 
 Steals no dream. T- B. Marston. 
 
 THE DAINTY ROSE. 
 
 I WILL not have the mad Clytie, 
 Whose head is turned by the sun . 
 The tulip is a courtly queen. 
 Whom, therefore, I will shun ; 
 The cowslip is a country wench, 
 
 The violet is a nun — 
 But I will woo the dainty rose, 
 The queen of every one. 
 
 The pea is but a wanton witch, 
 
 In too much haste to wed, 
 And clasps her rings on every hand ; 
 
 The wolfsbane I should dread— 
 
 Nor will I dreary rosemary, 
 
 That always mourns the dead — 
 
 But I will woo the dainty rose, 
 With her cheeks of tender red. 
 
 The lily is all in white, like a saint. 
 
 And so is no mate for me — 
 And the daisy's cheek is tipped with a blush, 
 
 She is of such low degree; 
 Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves, 
 
 And the broom's betrothed to the bee— 
 But I will plight with the dainty rose. 
 
 For fairest of all is she. Thomas Hood. 
 
FLORAL BEAUTIES. 
 
 75 
 
76 
 
 THE CHARMS OF NATURE. 
 
 o 
 
 5N0WDR0PS. 
 
 DARLING spirits of the snow, 
 
 Who hide within your heart the green, 
 Howe'er the wnnry wind may blow, 
 rhe secret of the summer sheen 
 Ye smile to know ! 
 
 By frozen rills, in woods and mead, 
 
 A mild pure sisterhood ye grow. 
 Who bend the meek and quiet head. 
 
 The ever-varying brilliancy and grandeur of the 
 landscape, and the magnificence of the sky, sun, 
 moon and stars, enter more extensively into the 
 enjoyment of mankind than we, perhaps, ever 
 think, or can possibly apprehend, without frequent 
 and extensive investigation. This beauty and 
 splendor of the objects around us, it is ever to be 
 remembered, are not necessary to their existence, 
 nor to what we commonly intend by their useful- 
 ness. It is, therefore, to be regj^rded as a source 
 
 HMMim 
 
 And are a token from below 
 From our dear dead ; 
 
 As in their turf ye softly shine 
 
 Of innocent white lives they lead, 
 With healing influence divine 
 For souls who on their memory feed. 
 World-worn like mine. 
 
 RoDEN Noel. 
 
 PLEASURE DERIVED FROM NATURE. 
 
 WERE all the interesting diversities of color 
 and form to disappear, how unsightly, 
 dull and wearisome would be the aspect 
 of the world ! The pleasures conveyed 
 to us by the endless varieties with which these 
 sources of beauty are presented to the eye, are so 
 much things of course, and exist so much without 
 intermission, that we scarcely think either of their 
 nature, their number or the great proportion which 
 they constitute in the whole mass of our enjoy- 
 ment. 
 
 But were an inhabitant of this country to be re- 
 moved from its delightful scenery to the midst of 
 an Arabian desert, a boundless expanse of sand a 
 waste spread with uniform desolation, enlivened 
 by the murmur of no stream and cheered by the 
 beauty of no verdure, although he miglit live in r. 
 palace and riot in splendor and luxury, he would, 
 I think, find life a dull, wearisome, melancholy 
 round of existence, and amid all his gratifications 
 would sigh for the hills and valleys of his naHve 
 land, the brooks and rivers, the livinc^ lustre of 
 the spring, and the rich glories of the autumn. 
 
 of pleasure gratuitously superinduced upon the 
 general nature of the objects themselves, and in 
 this light as a testimony of the divine goodness 
 peculiarly affecting. 
 
 Timothy Dwight. 
 
 AN ITALIAN SUNSET. 
 
 IT was one of those evenings never to be forgot- 
 ten by a painter — but one too which must 
 come upon him in misery as a gorgeous mock- 
 ery. The sun was yet up, and resting on the 
 highest peak of a ridge of mountain-shaped clouds, 
 that seemed to make a part of the distance ; sud- 
 denly he disappeared, and the landscape was over- 
 spread with a cold, lurid hue, then, as if molten 
 in a furnace, the fictitious mountains began to 
 glow ; in a moment more they tumbled asunder ; 
 in another he was seen again, piercing their frag- 
 ments, and darting his shafts to the remotest east, 
 till, reaching the horizon, he appeared to recall 
 them, and with a parting flash to wrap the whole 
 heavens in flame. 
 
 Washington Allston. 
 
 VALLEY OF THE HUDSON. 
 
 AND how changed is the scei'ie from that on 
 which Hudson gazed ! The earth glows 
 with the colors of civilization; the banks 
 of the streams are enamelled with richest 
 grasses; woodlands and cultivated fields are har- 
 moniously blended ; the birds of spring find their 
 deh'ght in orchards and trim gardens, variegated 
 with choice-t plants from eveiy t^mnerate zone ; 
 while the brilliant flowers of the trop'cs blooui 
 
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 ^ W I LUAj2_S H ^'^^iB-^^^^ 
 
THE CHARMS OF NATURE, 
 
 from the windows of the greenhouse and the 
 saloon. 
 
 The yeoman, living like a good neighbor near 
 the fields he cultivated, glories in the fruitfulness 
 of the valleys, and counts with honest exultation 
 the flocks and herds that browse in safety on the 
 hills. The thorn has given way to the rosebush ; 
 the cultivated vine clambers over rocks where the 
 brood of serpents used to nestle ; while industry 
 smiles at the changes she has wrought, and inhales 
 the bland air which now has health on its wings. 
 
 George Bancroft. 
 
 Therefore from such danger lock 
 Every one his loved flock ; 
 And let your dogs lie loose without, 
 Lest the wolf come as a scout 
 From the mountain, and ere day, 
 Bear a lamb or kid away ; 
 Or the crafty, thievish fox. 
 Break upon your simple flocks. 
 To secure yourself from these, 
 Be not too secure in ease; 
 So shall you good shepherds prove, 
 And deserve your master's love. 
 
 THE MOSS ROSE. 
 
 THE angel of the flowers, 
 one day, 
 Beneath a rose-tree 
 sleeping lay — 
 That spirit to whose charge 
 
 't is given 
 To bathe young buds in dews 
 
 of heaven. 
 Awaking from his light re- 
 pose, 
 The angel whispered to the 
 
 rose: 
 *'0 fondest object of my care, 
 Still fairest found, where all are fair: 
 For the sweet shade thou giv'st to me 
 Ask what thou wilt, 't is granted thee 
 
 *' Then," said the rose, with deepened glow, 
 *' On me another grace bestow." 
 The spirit paused, in silent thought — 
 What grace was there that flower had not ? 
 *T was but a moment — o'er the rose 
 A veil of moss the angel throws, 
 And, robed in nature's simplest weed, 
 Could there a flower that rose exceed ? 
 
 F. W. Krummacher. 
 
 FOLDING THE FLOCKS. 
 
 SHEPHERDS all, and maidens fair, 
 Fold your flocks up ; for the air 
 'Gins to thicken, and the sun 
 Already his great course hath run. 
 See the dewdrops, how they kiss 
 Every little flower that is ; 
 Hanging on their velvet heads, 
 Like a string of crystal beads. 
 
 See the heavy clouds low falling 
 And bright Hesperus down calling 
 The dead night from underground ; 
 At whose rising, mists unsound, 
 Damps and vapors, fly apace. 
 And hover o'er the smiling face 
 Of these pastures ; where they come. 
 Striking dead both bud and bloom. 
 
 Now, good-night ! may sweetest slumbers 
 And soft silence fall in numbers 
 On your eyelids. So farewell : 
 Thus I end my evening knell. 
 
 Beaumont and Fletcher, 
 
 BUTTERFLY LIFE. 
 
 WHAT, though you tell me each gay little 
 rover 
 Shrinks from the breath of the first 
 autumn day ! 
 Surely 'tis better, when summer is over, 
 
 To die when all fair things are fading away. 
 Some in life's winter may toil to discover 
 
 Means of procuring? a weary delay — 
 r be a butterfly ; living, a rover, 
 
 Dying when fair things are fading away ! 
 
 T. Hay^es Bayly. 
 
78 
 
 THE CHARMS OF NATURE. 
 
 THE VERNAL SEASON. 
 
 'HANK Providence for spring ! The earth — 
 and man himself, by sympathy with his 
 birthplace — would be far other than we find 
 them, if life toiled wearily onward, without this 
 periodical infusion of the primal spirit. Will the 
 
 T 
 
 ez^4- 
 
 world ever be so decayed that spring may not re- 
 new its greenness ? Can man be so dismally age- 
 stricken that no faintest sunshine of his youth may 
 revisit him once a year ? It is impossible. The 
 moss on our time-worn mansion brightens into 
 beauty; the good old pastor, who once dwelt 
 here, renewed his prime, regained his boyhood, in 
 the genial breezes of his ninetieth spring. 
 
 Alas for the worn and heavy soul, if, whether in 
 youth or age, it have outlived its privilege of spring- 
 
 time sprightliness ! From sucli *x soul the woria 
 must hope no reformation of its evil — no sympath/ 
 with the lofty faith and gallant struggles of those 
 who contend in its behalf. Summer works in the 
 present, and thinks not of the future ; autumn is a 
 rich conservative \ winter has utterly lost its faith, 
 and clings tremulously to the 
 remembrance of what has been; 
 but spring, with its outgushing 
 life, is the true type of the 
 movement. 
 Nathaniel Hawthorne. 
 
 THE SONGSTERS. 
 
 UP SPRINGS the lark, 
 Shrill-voiced and loud, 
 the messenger of morn; 
 Ere yet the shadows fly, he 
 
 mounted sings 
 Amid the dawning clouds, and 
 
 from their haunts 
 Calls up the tuneful nations. 
 
 Every copse 
 Deep-tangled, tree irregular, 
 
 and bush 
 Bending with dewy moisture, 
 
 o'er the heads 
 Of the coy quiristers that lodge 
 
 within. 
 Are prodigal of harmony. The 
 
 thrush 
 And woodlark, o'er the kind* 
 
 contending throng 
 Superior heard, run through 
 
 the sweetest length 
 Of notes ; when listening Phil- 
 
 omelia deigns 
 To let them joy, and purposes, 
 
 in thought 
 Elate, to make her night excel 
 
 their day. 
 
 The blackbird whistles from 
 the thorny brake ; 
 
 The mellow bullfinch answers 
 from the grove; 
 
 Nor are the linnets, o'er the 
 flowering furze 
 
 Poured out profusely, silent : 
 •^ joined to these 
 
 Innumerous songsters, in the freshening shade 
 Of new-sprung leaves, their modulations mix 
 Mellifluous. The jay, the rook, the daw. 
 And each harsh pipe, discordant heard alone, 
 Aid the full concert ; while the stockdove breathes 
 A melancholy murmur through the whole. 
 'Tis love creates their melody, and all 
 This waste of music is the voice of love ; 
 That even to birds and beasts the tender arts 
 Of pleasing teaches. James Thomsoh. 
 
THE CHARMS OF NATURE. 
 
 Id 
 
 THE SPARROW. 
 
 OBIN I love, the blue-bird and 
 
 the wren, 
 The thrush, the lark and many, 
 
 many more ; 
 But, oh, above them all, that 
 
 friend of men 
 I love, the sparrow piping at 
 
 my door. 
 
 When summer flees, and winter blusters forth 
 With roaring blasts that shake the naked trees, 
 
 Still you may hear above the legioned North 
 A merry note above the coppices. 
 
 The sparrow still doth pipe his little lay 
 As sweetly as he piped it in the spring ; 
 
 No migrant he, that quickly flies away 
 
 When summer winds no longer round him sing. 
 
 A hardy comrade, when the storms arise 
 
 He breasts their fury like some honest friend, 
 
 That, when adversity besets our skies, 
 
 Doth quit us not, but cheers us to the end. 
 
 So, when I hear the choir of summer sing, 
 I listen, pleased, but hear above the art 
 
 Of gayer birds the sparrow's note, and cling 
 To it as something dearer to my heart. 
 
 JoRis Von Linden. 
 
 INDIAN SUMMER. 
 
 WHEN leaves grow sear all things take 
 sombre hue ; 
 The wild winds waltz no more the wood- 
 side through. 
 And all the faded grass is wet with dew. 
 
 A gauzy nebula films the pensive sky. 
 
 The golden bee supinely buzzes by. 
 
 In silent flocks the blue-birds southward fly. 
 
 The forests' cheeks are crimsoned o'er with shame. 
 
 The cynic frost enlaces every lane, 
 
 The ground with scarlet blushes is aflame ! 
 
 The one we love grows lustrous-eyed and sad. 
 With sympathy too thoughtful to be glad. 
 While all the colors round are running mad. 
 
 The sunbeams kiss askant the sombre hill, 
 The naked woodbine climbs the window-sill. 
 The breaths that noon exhales are faint and chill. 
 
 The ripened nuts drop downward day by day. 
 Sounding the hollow tocsin of decay, 
 And bandit squirrels smuggle them away. 
 
 Vague sighs and scents pervade the atmosphere, 
 Sounds of invisible stirrings hum the ear. 
 The morning's lash reveals a frozen tear. 
 
 The hermit mountains gird themselves with mail, 
 Mocking the threshers with an echo flail, 
 Th^ while the afternoons grow crisp and pale. 
 
 Inconstant summer to the tropics flees, 
 
 And, as her rose-sails catch the amorous breeze, 
 
 Lo ! bare, brown autumn trembles to her knees ! 
 
 The stealthy nights encroach upon the days, 
 The earth with sudden whiteness is ablaze. 
 And all her paths are lost in crystal maze ! 
 
 Tread lightly where the dainty violets blew. 
 Where the spring winds thei/ soft eyes open flew; 
 Safely tney sleep the churlish winter through. 
 
 Though all life's portals are indiced with woe. 
 And frozen pearls are all the world can show. 
 Feel! Nature's breath is warm beneath the snow. 
 
 Look up! dear mourners! Still the blue expanse, 
 Serenely tender, bends to catch thy glance. 
 Within thy tears sibyllic sunbeams dance 1 
 
 With blooms full sapped again will smile the land. 
 The fall is but the folding of His hand, 
 Anon with fuller glories to expand. 
 
 The dumb heart hid beneath the pulseless tree 
 Will throb again ; and then the torpid bee 
 Upon the ear wiU. drone his drowsy glee. 
 
 So shall the truant blue-birds backward fly, 
 And all loved things that vanish or that dif 
 Return to us in some sweet by-and-by. 
 
 VENICE AT NIGHT. 
 
 THE moon was at the height. Its rays fell In 
 a flood on the swelling domes and massive 
 roofs of Venice, while the margin of the 
 town was brilliantly defined by the glittering bay. 
 The natural and gorgeous setting was more than 
 worthy of that picture of human magaificence ; for 
 at that moment, rich as was the queen of the Adri- 
 atic in ner works of art, the grandeur of her pub- 
 lic monuments, the number and splendor of hei 
 palaces, and most else that the ingenuity and am- 
 bition of man could attempt, she was but secondary 
 in the glories of the hour. 
 
 Above was the firmament gemmed with worlds, 
 and sublime in immensity. Beneath lay the broad 
 expanse of the Adriatic, endless to the eye, tran- 
 quil as the vault it reflected, and luminous with its 
 borrowed light. Here and there a low island, re- 
 claimed from the sea by the patient toil of a 
 thousand years, dotted the Lagunes, burdened by 
 the group of some conventual dwellings, or pic- 
 turesque with the modest roofs of a hamlet of the 
 fishermen. Neither oar, nor song, nor laugh, nor 
 flap of sail, nor jest of mariner disturbed the still- 
 ness. All in the near view was clothed in mid- 
 night loveliness, and all in the distance bespoke 
 the solemnity of nature at peace. The city and 
 the Lagunes, the gulf and the dreamy Alps, the 
 interminable plain of Lombardy, and the blue void 
 of heaven lay alike in a common and grand repose. 
 Jamzs Fenimore Cooper. 
 
80 
 
 THE CHARMS OF NATURE. 
 
 TO A MOUSE. 
 
 ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH. 
 
 WEE, sleekit, cow'rin*, tim'rous beastiC; 
 O, what a panic's in thy breastie ! 
 Thou need na start awa' sae hasty, 
 Wi' bickering brattle ! 
 I waci be laith to rin an' chase thee, 
 Wi' murd'ring pattle ! 
 
 I'm truly sorry man^s dominion 
 Has broken nature's social union, 
 An' justifies that ill opinion 
 
 Which makes thee startle 
 At me, thy poor earth-born companion, 
 
 An' fellow-mortal ! 
 
 I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve; 
 What then? poor beastie, thou maun live ! 
 A daimen icker in a thrave 
 
 'S a sma' request; 
 I'll get a blessin' wi' the laive, 
 
 And never miss 't ! 
 
 Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin ! 
 It's silly wa's the win's are strewin' ! 
 An' naething now to big a new ane 
 
 O' foggage green ! 
 An' bleak December's winds ensuin*, 
 
 Baith snell and keen ! 
 
 Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste» 
 An' weary winter comin' fast, 
 An' cozie here, beneath the blast. 
 
 Thou thought to dwell. 
 Till crash ! the cruel coulter past 
 
 Out through thy cell. 
 
 That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble 
 Has cost thee mony a weary nibble ! 
 
 Now thou's turned out 
 
 for a' thy trouble, 
 
 No house or hald, 
 
 To thole the winter's 
 
 sleety dribble, 
 
 An' cranreuch cauld ! 
 
 But, Mousie, thou art no 
 
 thy lane. 
 In proving foresight 
 
 may be vain ; 
 The best-laid schemes 
 
 o' mice an' men 
 Gang aft a-gley, 
 An' lea'e us naught but 
 
 grief and pain, 
 For promised joy. 
 
 Still thou art blest, compared wi' me ! 
 The present only toucheth thee ! 
 But, och I I backward cast my e'e 
 
 On prospects drear ; 
 An' forward, though I canna see, 
 
 I guess an' fear. 
 
 Robert Burns. 
 
 SUMMER WOODS. 
 
 1L0VE at eventide to walk alone, 
 Down narrow glens, o'erhung with dewy 
 thorn. 
 Where from the long grass underneath, the snail, 
 Jet black, creeps out, and sprouts his timid horn. 
 I love to muse o'er meadows newly mown. 
 Where withering grass perfumes the sultry air; 
 Where bees search round, with sad and weary 
 
 drone, 
 In vain, for flowers that bloomed but newly there', 
 While in the juicy corn the hidden quail 
 Cries, '' Wet my foot ; " and, hid as thoughts un 
 
 born. 
 The fairy-like and seldom-seen land-rail 
 Utters ''Craik, craik," like voices underground. 
 Right glad to meet the evening's dewy veil, 
 And see the light fade into gloom around. 
 
 John Clare. 
 
THE CHARMS OF NATURE. 
 
 81 
 
 B 
 
 THE WEST WIND. 
 
 ENEATH the forest's skirts I rest, 
 
 Whose branching pines rise dark and high, 
 
 Vnd hear the breezes of the West 
 Among the threaded foliage sigh. 
 
 Sweet Zephyr ! why that sound of woe ? 
 
 Is not thy home among the flowers ? 
 Do not the bright June roses blow, 
 
 To meet thy kiss at morning hours? 
 
 And lo I thy glorious realm outspread — 
 Yon stretching valleys, green and gay, 
 
 And yon free hill-tops, o'er whose head 
 The loose white clouds are borne away. 
 
 And there the full broad river runs. 
 
 And many a fount wells fresh and sweet, 
 
 To cool thee when the mid-day suns 
 
 Have made thee faint beneath their heat. 
 
 Thou wind of joy, and youth, and love; 
 
 Spirit of the new-wakened year! 
 The sun in his blue realm above 
 
 Smooths a bright path when thou art here. 
 
 In lawns the murmuring bee is heard, 
 The wooing ring-dove in the shade ; 
 
 On thv soft breath, the new-fledged bird 
 Takes wing, half happy, half afraid. 
 
 Ah ! thou art like our wayward race ; — 
 When not a shade of pain or ill 
 
 Dims the bright smile of Nature's face, 
 Thou lovest to sigh and murmur still. 
 
 W. C. Bryant. 
 
 A 
 
 THE FOOLISH HAREBELL. 
 
 HAREBELL hung its willful head : 
 
 '* I am so tired, so tired ! J "ash I was 
 dead." 
 
 She hung her head in the mossy dell : 
 ■** If all were over, then all were well." 
 
 The wind he heard, and was pitiful ; 
 He waved her about to make her cool. 
 
 ■<* Wind, you are rough," said the dainty bell; 
 *' Leave me alone — I am not well." 
 
 And the wind, at the voice of the drooping dame, 
 Sank in his heart, and ceased for shame. 
 
 " I am hot, so hot !" she sighed and said; 
 ** I am withering up; I wish I was dead." 
 
 Then the sun, he pitied her pitiful case. 
 And drew a thick veil over his face. 
 
 •*' Cloud, go away, and do^^'t be rude; 
 I am not — I c^on't s"e whv you should." 
 6 
 
 The cloud withdrew, and the harebell cried, 
 I am faint, so faint! and no water beside !" 
 
 And the dew came down its million-fold pa"'i *. 
 But she murmured, *' I did not want a bath. 
 
 A boy came by in the morning gray ; 
 
 He plucked the harebell, and threw it away. 
 
 The harebell shivered, and cried, " Oh ! oh! 
 I am faint, so faint ! Come, dear wind, blow/' 
 
 The wind blew softly, and did not speak. 
 She thanked him kindly, but grew more weak. 
 
 Sun, dear sun, I am cold," she said. 
 
 He rose ; but lower she drooped her head. 
 
 O rain ! I am withering ; all the blue 
 Is fading out of me; — come, please do." 
 
 The rain came down as fast as it could. 
 But for all its will it did her no good. 
 
 She shuddered and shriveled, and moaning said > 
 Thank you all kindly;" and then she was dead. 
 
 Let us hope, let us hope, when she comes next 
 
 year, 
 She'll be simple and sweet. But I fear. I fear. 
 
 George Macdonald, 
 
 W 
 
 TO THE DAISY. 
 
 ITH little here to do or see 
 Of things that in the great world bc„ 
 Sweet daisy ! oft I talk to thee. 
 For thou art worthy, 
 Thou unassuming commonplace 
 Of nature, with that homely face, 
 And yet with something of a grace 
 Which love makes for thee ! 
 
 I see thee glittering from afar, — 
 And then thou art a pretty star. 
 Not quite so fair as many are 
 
 In heaven above thee I 
 Yet like a star, with glittering crest, 
 Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest;— 
 May peace come never to his nest 
 
 Who shall reprove thee ! 
 
 Sweet flower ! for by that name at last, 
 
 When all my reveries are past, 
 
 I call thee, and to that cleave fast. 
 
 Sweet, silent creature ! 
 That breath' St with me in sun and air. 
 Do thou, as thou are wont, repair 
 My heart with gladness, and a share 
 
 Of thy meek nature. 
 
 William Wordsworth. 
 
THE CHARMS OF NATURE, 
 
 E 
 
 TO THE 5KYLARK. 
 
 THEREAL minstrel ! pilgrim of the sky ! 
 Dost thou despise the earth where cares 
 abound ? 
 
 Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye 
 Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground? 
 
 'Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond, 
 
 Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain ; 
 Yet mightst thou seem, proud privilege ! to sing; 
 All independent of the leafy spring. 
 
 Leave to the nightingale her shady wood ; 
 A privacy of glorious light is thine, 
 
 
 /, I^ORNINGS AT SEVEN; 
 ^ HILLSIDES DEW PEARLEDj 
 lark's ON THE V/lNC?j 
 THE^SNAIL's,ONTHE THpRN: 
 
 Thy nest, into which thou canst drop at will, 
 Those quivering wings composed, that music 
 
 still! 
 To the last point of vision and beyond. 
 
 Mount, daring warbler ! — that love-prompted 
 strain, 
 
 Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood 
 
 Of harmony, with instinct more divine; 
 Type of the wise, who soar, but never roam — 
 True to the kindred points of heaven and 
 home ! 
 
 William Wordsworth, 
 
THE CHARMS OF NATURE, 
 
 83 
 
 THE PINE FOREST BY THE SEA. 
 
 WE wandeR d to the pine forest 
 That skirts the ocean's loam; 
 The lightest wind was in its nest, 
 The tempest in its home. 
 The whisp'ring waves were half asleep, 
 
 The clouds were gone to play, 
 And on the bosom of the deep 
 
 The smile of heaven lay ; 
 It seemed as if the hour were one 
 
 Sent from beyond the skies, 
 Which scattered from above the sun 
 A light of Paradise ! 
 
 How calm it was ! the silence there 
 
 By such a chain was bound. 
 That even the busy woodpecker 
 
 Made stiller by her sound 
 The inviolable quietness ; 
 
 The breath of peace we drew, 
 With its soft motion made not less 
 
 The calm that round us grew. 
 
 We paused beside the pools that lie 
 
 Under the forest bough ; 
 Each seemed as 'twere a little sky 
 
 Gulfed in a world below ; 
 A firuiament of purple light 
 
 Which in the dark earth lay. 
 More boundless than the depth of night, 
 
 And purer than the day — 
 In which the lovely forests grew, 
 
 As in the upper air, 
 More perfect both in shape and hue 
 
 Than any spreading there. 
 
 There lay the glade and the neighboring lawn, 
 And through the dark green woods 
 
 The white sun, twinkling like the dawn 
 Out of a speckled cloud. 
 
 Sweet views which in our world above 
 Can never well be seen, 
 
 Were imaged by the water's love 
 Of that fair forest green : 
 
 And all was interfused beneath 
 With an El\ sian glow, 
 
 An atmosphere without a breath, 
 A soi'ter day below. 
 
 Percy B. 
 
 Shelley. 
 
 ONE SWALLOW. 
 
 THE day was gray and dark and chill, 
 Though May had come to meet us, 
 So closely April lingered still. 
 She had no heart to greet us ; 
 When, with a swift and sudden flight. 
 
 Wind-blown o'er hill and hollow, 
 Two gray wings swept across my sight, 
 And lo ! the first wild swallow. 
 
 "Alas, fair bird ! the little breast 
 
 That cuts the air so fleetly 
 Should still have pressed its southern nest 
 
 Till June was piping sweetly. 
 In spite of cheery song and voice, 
 
 Thou brave and blithe newcomer, 
 I cannot in thy joy rejoice ; 
 
 One swallow makes no summer." 
 
 Thus in my thought I fain would say : 
 
 Meantime, on swift wing speeding, 
 Its wild and winning roundelay 
 
 The bird sang on unheeding : 
 Of odorous fields and drowsy nooks. 
 
 Of slow tides landward creeping, 
 Of woodlands thrilled with jocund tunes. 
 
 Of soft airs hushed and sleeping. 
 
 He sang of waving forest heights 
 
 With strong green boughs u] springing ; 
 Of -aint stars pale with drows) lights, 
 
 In dusky heavens swinging ; 
 Of nests high hung in cottage < aves, 
 
 Of yellow corn-fields growings 
 And through the long, slim, fluttering leaves, 
 
 The sleepy winds a-blowing. 
 
KOBERT BURNS AND HIS HIGHLAND MARY. 
 
THE CHARMS OF NATURE, 
 
 85 
 
 with any other emotions than those of astonish- 
 ment and rapture. 
 
 What, then, must have been the emotions of 
 the Spaniards, when, after working their toilsome 
 way into the upper air, the cloudy tabernacle 
 parted before their eyes, arid they beheld these fair 
 
 scenes in all their pristine magnificence and beauty! 
 It was like the spectacle which greeted the eyes of 
 Moses from the summit of Pisgah, and, in the 
 warm glow of their feelings, they cried out, " it is 
 the promised land." 
 
 W. H. Prescott. 
 
 THE FLOWER. 
 
 O 
 
 NCE in a golden hour 
 I cast to earth a seed. 
 Up there came a flower, 
 The people said, a weed. 
 
 Sowed it far and v/ide 
 
 By every town and tower, 
 
 Till all the people cried, 
 ''Splendid is the flower." 
 
 To and fro ihcy went 
 
 Through my garden-bower, 
 And muttering discontent 
 
 Cursed me and my flower. 
 
 Then it grew so tall 
 
 It wore a crown of light, 
 But thieves from o'er the wall 
 
 Stole the seed by night ; 
 
 
 Read my little fable : 
 
 He that runs may read. 
 Most can raise the flowers now, 
 
 For all have got the seed. 
 
 And some are pretty enough, 
 And some are poor indeed ; 
 
 And now again the people 
 Call it but a weed. 
 
 Alfred Tennyson. 
 
 NEW ENGLAND IN WINTER. 
 
 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 it?, roaring draught 
 The great throat of the chimney laughed, 
 
 T 
 
 TO THE FRINGED 
 
 HOU blossom, bright with autumn dew, 
 And colored with the heaven's own blue. 
 That openest when the quiet light 
 Succeeds the keen and frosty night ; 
 
 Thou comest not when violets lean 
 
 O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen, 
 
 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. 
 J. G. Whittier. 
 GENTIAN. 
 
 Or columbines, in purple dressed. 
 
 Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest. 
 
 Thou waitest late, and com'st alone. 
 When woods are bare and birds are flown. 
 And frosts and shortening days portena 
 The aged year is near his end. 
 
86 
 
 THE CHARMS OF NATURE. 
 
 Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye 
 Look through its fringes to the sky, 
 Blue — blue — as if that sky let fall 
 A flower from its cerulean wall. 
 
 I would that thus, when I shall see 
 The hour of death draw near to me, 
 Hope, blossoming within ray heart. 
 May look to heaven as I depart. 
 
 W. C. Bryant. 
 
 S 
 
 THE THRUSH. 
 
 ONGSTER of the russet coat, 
 Full and liquid is thy note; 
 Plain thy dress, but great thy skill, 
 Captivating at thy will. 
 
 Small musician of the field. 
 Near my bower thy tribute yield, 
 
 Little servant of the ear, 
 Ply thy task, and never fear. 
 
 I will learn from thee to praise 
 God, the author of my days ; 
 I will learn from thee to sing, 
 Christ, my Saviour and my King; 
 Learn to labor with my voice. 
 Make the sinking heart rejoice. 
 
THE CHARMS OF NATURE, 
 
 87 
 
 T 
 
 PRINQ. 
 
 HE bud is in the bough and the leaf is in 
 the bud, 
 And earth's beginning now in her veins to 
 feel the blood, 
 Which, warmed by summer's sun in the alembic 
 
 of the vine, 
 From her founts will overrun in a ruddy gush of 
 wine. 
 
 How awful is the thought of the wonders under- 
 ground, 
 Of the mystic changes wrought in the silent, dark 
 
 profound ; 
 How each thing upward tends by necessity decreed, 
 And the world's support depends on the shooting 
 
 of a seed ! 
 The summer's in her ark, and this sunny-pinioned 
 
 day 
 Ts commissioned to remark whether winter holds 
 
 her sway ; 
 Go back, thou dove of peace, with myrtle on thy 
 
 wing, 
 Say that floods and tempests cease and the world 
 
 is ripe for spring. 
 
 Thou hast fanned the sleeping earth till her dreams 
 are all of flowers, 
 
 And the waters look in mirth for their overhang- 
 ing bowers ; 
 
 The forest seems to listen for the rustle of its leaves, 
 And the very skies to glisten in the hope of sum- 
 mer eves. 
 
 The cattle lift their voices from the valleys and the 
 
 hills, 
 And the feathered race rejoices with a gush of 
 
 tuneful bills ; 
 And if this cloudless arch fills the poet's song with 
 
 glee, 
 O thou sunny first of March ! be it dedicate to 
 
 thee. 
 
 Horace Smith. 
 
 ^r^ 
 
 THE COMET. 
 
 'WAS a beautiful night on a beautiful deep, 
 And the man at the helm had fallen 
 
 asleep. 
 
 And the watch on the deck, with his head 
 on his breast, 
 Was beginning to dream that another's is pressed, 
 When the look-out aloft cried, *'A sail! ho, a 
 
 sail!" 
 ' ' A sail ! ho, a sail ! " ' ' Where away ?" " North- 
 
 nn'th west ! ' ' 
 "Make her out?" "No, your honor!" The 
 
 din drowns the rest. 
 There indeed is the stranger, the first in these 
 
 seas, 
 Yet she drives boldly on in the teeth of the 
 
 breeze, 
 Now her bows to the breakers she readily turns ; 
 Ah, how brightly the light of her binnacle burns ! 
 Not a signal for Saturn this rover has given, 
 No salute from our Venus, the flag-star of Heaven, 
 Not a rag or a ribbon adorning her spars, 
 She has saucily sailed by the red planet Mars ; 
 She has doubled triumphant the Cape of the 
 
 Sun, 
 And the sentinel stars without firing a gun ! 
 Now a flag at the fore and mizzen unfurled. 
 
 She is bearing quite gallantly down on the 
 
 world ! 
 " Helm-a-port !" " Show a light !" "She will 
 
 run us aground !" 
 "Fireagun!" " Bring her to I" "Sail ahoy!" 
 
 " Whither bound ?" 
 " Avast ! there, ye lubbers 1 Leave the rudder 
 
 alone ; ' ' 
 *Tis a craft in commission — the Admiral's own ; 
 And she sails with sealed orders, unopened as 
 
 yet. 
 Though her anchor she weighed before Lucifer 
 
 set! 
 Ah ! she sails by a chart no draughtsman can 
 
 make. 
 Where each cloud that can trail, and each wave 
 
 that can break ; 
 Where each planet is cruising, each star i? a*" 
 
 rest, 
 
THE CHARMS OF NATURE. 
 
 Vith its anchor let go in the blue of the blest ; 
 Wliere the sparkling flotilla, the Asteroids, lie, 
 Wiiere the craft of red morning is flung on the 
 
 sky; 
 Where the breath of the sparrow is staining the 
 
 air — 
 Oi) the chart that she bears you will find them all 
 
 there ! 
 Let her pass on in peace to the port whence she 
 
 came, 
 With her trackings of fire and her streamers of 
 
 flame ! 
 
 Benjamin F. Taylor. 
 
 FLOWEftS. 
 
 HOW theunveroai neii.cof luan olessesflcversf 
 They are wreathed round the cradle, the 
 marriage-altar, and the tomb. The Per- 
 sian in the far East delights in their perfume, and 
 writer his love in nosegays ; while the Indian child 
 of the far West clasps his hands with glee as he 
 gathers the abundant blossoms— the illuminated 
 scripture of the prairies. The Cupid of the an- 
 cient Hindoos tipped his arrows with flowers, and 
 orange buds are the bridal crown with us, a nation 
 of yesterday. Flowers garlanded the Grecian 
 
 LAKE MAHOPAC. 
 
 LAKE of the soft and sunny hills, 
 What loveliness is thine ! 
 Around thy fair, romantic shore 
 What countless beauties shine ! 
 Shrined in their deep and hollow urn, 
 
 Thy silver waters lie — 
 A mirror set in waving gems 
 Of many a regal dye. 
 
 Oh, pleasant to the heart it is 
 
 In those fair isles to stray, 
 Or fancy's idle visions weave 
 
 Through all the golden day, 
 Where dark old trees, around whose stems 
 
 Caressing woodbines cling, 
 O'er mossy, flower-enamelled banks 
 
 Their trembling shadows fling. 
 
 Caroline M. Sawyer. 
 
 altar, and they hang in votive wreaths before the 
 Christian shrine. 
 
 All these are appropriate uses. Flowers should 
 deck the brow of the youthful bride, for they are 
 in themselves a lovely type of marriage. They 
 should twine round the tomb, for their perpetually 
 renewed beauty is a symbol of the resurrection. 
 They should festoon the altar, for their fragrance 
 and their beauty ascend in perpetual worship be- 
 fore the Most High. Lydla. M. Child. 
 
 THE BUGLE. 
 
 THE splendor falls on castle walls 
 And snowy summits old in story : 
 The long light shakes across the lakes, 
 And the wild cataract leaps in glory. 
 Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, 
 Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 
 
THE CHARMS OF NATURE, 
 
 89 
 
 O hark ! O hear \ how thin and clear, 
 And thinner, clearer, farther going ! 
 O sweet and far, from chff and scar, 
 The horns of Elfland faintly blowing ! 
 Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying ; 
 E!ow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 
 
 O love, they die in yon rich sky. 
 
 They faint on hill or held or river ; 
 Our echoes roll from soul to soul, 
 And grow forever and forever. 
 Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying. 
 And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. 
 
 Alfred Tennyson. 
 
 R 
 
 OSES, roses, red and white, 
 
 They are sweet and fresh and bright ; 
 
 Buy them for thy love's delight ! 
 In a garden old they grew. 
 Old with flowers ever new — 
 Buy them for thy loved one true, 
 
 Roses, red and white, to wear 
 
 On her bosom, in her hair. 
 
 Buy them for thy lady fair : 
 
 Like a token from above, 
 
 Thy heart faithful they will prove — 
 
 Buy them for thy lady love. 
 
 William Cowan. 
 
 THE NIQHTINQA» 
 
 HARK ! the nightingale begins his song, 
 ''Most musical, most melancholy " bird ! 
 A melancholy bird ! O idle thought ! 
 In nature there is nothing melancholy. 
 But some night- wandering man, whose heart was 
 
 pierced 
 With the remembrance of a grievous wrong. 
 
 Or slow distemper, or neglected love 
 (And so, poor wretch ! filled all things with him- 
 self. 
 And made all gentle sounds tell back the tale 
 Of his own sorrows), he, and such as he, 
 First named these notes a melancholy strain. 
 
 S. T. Colerid(;e. 
 
 THE NORTH STAR. 
 
 ON thy unaltering blaze 
 The half-wrecked mariner, his compass 
 lost, 
 Fixes his steady gaze, 
 And steers, undoubting, to the friendly coast ; 
 And they who stray in perilous wastes, by night. 
 Are glad when thou dost shine to guide their foot- 
 steps right. 
 
 And, therefore, bards of old. 
 Sages, and hermits of the solemn wood. 
 
 Did in thy beams behold 
 A beauteous type of that unchanging good, 
 That bright eternal beacon, by whose ra; 
 The voyager of time should shape his litedful 
 way. 
 
 W. C. Bryant. 
 
90 
 
 THE CHARMS OF NATURE, 
 
 ARVEST 
 
 SWEET, sweet, sweet, 
 Is the wind's song, 
 Astir in the rippled wheat 
 All day long, 
 \t ha:h the brook's wild gayety. 
 The sorrowful cry of the sea. 
 Oh, hush and hear ! 
 Sweet, sweet and clear, 
 Above the locust's whirr 
 And hum of bee 
 Rises that soft, pathetic harmony. 
 
 In the meadow-grass 
 
 The innocent white daisies blow, 
 Tlie dandelion plume doth pass 
 
 Vaguely to and fro — 
 
 The unquiet spirit of a flower, 
 That hath too brief an hour. 
 Now doth a little cloud all white, 
 
 Or golden bright, 
 Drift down the warm blue sky; 
 
 And now on the horizon line 
 Where dusky woodlands lie, 
 
 A sunny mist doth shine. 
 
 Like to a veil before a holy shrine, 
 
 Concealing, half-revealing, things divine. 
 
 Sweet, sweet, sweet. 
 
 Is the wind's song, 
 Astir in the rippled wheat 
 
 All day long. 
 That exquisite music calls 
 
 The reaper everywhere — 
 Life and death must share. 
 
 The golden harvest falls. 
 
 So doth all end- 
 Honored philosophy. 
 
 Science and art, 
 The bloom of the heart ; 
 Master, Consoler, Friend, 
 
 Make Thou the harvest of our day.*" 
 To fall within thy ways. 
 
 Ellen M. Hut' hinson. 
 
 1 
 
 SONG OF THE BROOK. 
 
 COME from haunts of coo: and hern 
 
 I make a sudden sally 
 And sparkle out among the fern, 
 
 To bicker down a valley. 
 
 By thirty hills I hurry down. 
 Or slip between the ridges. 
 
 By twenty thorps, a little town, 
 And half a hundred bridges. 
 
 Till last by Philip's farm I flow 
 To join the brimming river. 
 
 For men may come and men may go, 
 But I go on forever. 
 
 I chatter over stony ways, 
 In little sharps and trebles, 
 
 I bubble into eddying bays, 
 I babble on the pebbles. 
 
 With many a curve my banks I fret 
 By many a field and fallow. 
 
 And many a fairy foreland set 
 With willow-weed and mallow. 
 
 I chatter, chatter, as I flow 
 To join the brimming river ; 
 
 For men may come and men may go, 
 But I go on forever. 
 
 I wind about, and in and out. 
 With here a blossom sailing, 
 
 And here and there a lusty trout, 
 And here and there a grayling. 
 
 And here and there a foamy flake 
 
 Upon me, as I travel 
 With many a silvery waterbreak 
 
 Above the golden gravel, 
 
 And draw them all along, and flow. 
 To join the brimming river. 
 
 For men may come and men may go, 
 But I go on forever. 
 
 I steal by lawns and grassy plots: 
 
 I slide by hazel covers; 
 I move the sweet forget-me-nots 
 
 That grow for happy lovers. 
 
 I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, 
 Among my skimming swallows; 
 
 I make the netted sunbeam dance 
 Against my sandy shallows. 
 
THE CHARMS OF NATURE. 
 
 91 
 
 I murmur under moon and stars 
 
 In brambly wildernesses; 
 I linger by my shingly bars ; 
 
 1 loiter round my cresses ; 
 
 And out again I curve and flow 
 
 To join the brimming river, 
 For men may come and men may go, 
 
 But I go on forever. 
 
 Alfred Tennyson. 
 
 A 
 
 MIDSUMiHER. 
 
 ROUND this lovely valley rise 
 The purple hills of Paradise. 
 
 O, softly on yon banks of haze 
 Her rosy face the summer lays ! 
 
 Becalmed along the azure sky 
 The argosies of cloudland lie, 
 
 The butterfly and humble- bee 
 
 Come to the ['leasaiit woods with me; 
 
 Quickly before me runs the quail. 
 The chickens skulk behind the rail ; 
 
 High up the lone wood-pigeon sits, 
 And the woodpecker pecks and flits. 
 
 Sweet woodland music sinks and swells, 
 The brooklet rings its tinkling bells, 
 
 The swarming insects drone and hum, 
 The partridge beats his throbbing drum, 
 
 The squirrel leaps among the boughs 
 And chatters in his leafy house. 
 
 The oriole flashes by ; and, look ! 
 Into the mirror of the brook, 
 
 Whose shores, Avith many a shining rift. 
 Far off their pearl-white peaks uplift. 
 
 Through all the long midsummer day 
 The meadow sides are sweet with hay. 
 
 I seek the coolest sheltered seat, 
 
 Just where the field and forest meet — 
 
 Where grow the pine trees tall and bland, 
 The ancient oaks austere and grand. 
 
 And fringy roots and pebbles fret 
 The ripples of the rivulet. 
 
 I watch the mowers as they go 
 
 Through the tall grass, a white-sleeved row. 
 
 With even stroke their scythes they swing. 
 In tune their merry whetstones ring. 
 
 Behind, the nimble youngsters run 
 And toss the thick swaths in the sun. 
 
 The cattle graze ; while warm and still 
 Slopes the broad pasture, basks the hill, 
 
 And bright, where summer breezes break, 
 The green wheat crinkles like a lake. 
 
 W^here the vain bluebird trims his coat. 
 Two tiny feathers fall and float. 
 
 As silently, as tenderly. 
 
 The down of peace descends on me. 
 
 O, this is peace ! I have no need 
 Of friend to talk, of book to read ; 
 
 A dear Companion here abides; 
 Close to my thrilling heart He hides; 
 
 The holy silence is His voice: 
 I lie and listen, and rejoice. 
 
 J. T. Trowbridge. 
 
 SUMMER-TIME. 
 
 THEY were right — those old German minne- 
 singers — to sing the pleasant summer-time ! 
 What a time it is ! How June stands illum- 
 inated in the calendar ! The windows are all wide 
 open ; only the Venetian blinds closed. Here and 
 there a long streak of sunshine streams in through 
 a crevice. We hear the low sound of the wind 
 among the trees ; and, as it swells and freshens, 
 the distant doors clap to, with a sudden sound. 
 
EUGENE FIELD. 
 
THE CHARMS OF NATURE. 
 
 93 
 
 I 
 
 N the silence of my chamber, 
 
 When the night is still and deep, 
 And the drowsy heave of ocean 
 Mutters in its charmed sleep: 
 
 Oft I hear the angel voices 
 
 That have thrilled me long ago — 
 
 THE BURIED FLOWER. 
 
 Voices of my lost companions, 
 Lying deep beneath the snow. 
 
 Where are now the flowers we tended? 
 
 Withered, broken, branch and stem; 
 Where are now the hopes we cherished? 
 
 Scattered to the winds with them. 
 
94 
 
 THE CHARMS OF NATURE. 
 
 For ye, too, were flowers, ye dear ones ! 
 
 Nursed in hope and reared in love, 
 Looking fondly ever upward 
 
 To the clear blue heaven above : 
 
 Smiling on the sun that cheered us, 
 Rising lightly from the rain. 
 
 Never folding up your freshness 
 Save to give it forth again : 
 
 Never shaken, save by accents 
 From a tongue that was not free. 
 
 As the modest blossom trembles 
 At the wooing of the bee. 
 
 O ! 'tis sad to lie and reckon 
 All the days of faded youth, 
 
 All the vows that we believed in, 
 All the words we spoke in truth. 
 
 Severed — were it severed only 
 By an idle thought of strife, 
 
 Such as time may knit together ; 
 Xot the broken chord of life ! 
 
 O my heart ! that once so truly 
 Kept another's time and tune, — 
 
 Heart, that kindled in the morning, 
 Look around thee in the noon ! 
 
 Where are they who gave the impulse 
 To thy earliest thought and flow ? 
 
 Look across the ruined garden — 
 All are withered, dropped, or low ! 
 
 O ! I fling my spirit backward. 
 And I pass o'er years of pain ; 
 
 All I loved is rising round me, 
 All the lost returns again. 
 
 Brighter, fairer far than living. 
 With no trace of woe or pain, 
 
 Robed in everlasting beauty, 
 Shall I see thee once again. 
 
 By the light that never fadeth, 
 
 Underneath eternal skies, 
 When the dawm of resurrection 
 
 Breaks o'er deathless Paradise. 
 
 William E. Aytoun. 
 
 THE SAND-PIPER. 
 
 ACROSS the narrow beach we flit, 
 One little sand-piper and I ; 
 And fast I gather, bit by bit, 
 
 The scattered drift-wood, bleached and 
 dry. 
 The wild waves reach their hands for it, 
 
 The wild wind raves, the tide runs high, 
 As up and down the beach we flit — 
 One liti.:e sand piper and L 
 
 Above our heads the sullen clouds 
 
 Scud black and swift across the sky ; 
 Like silent ghosts, in misty shrouds 
 
 Stand out the white light-houses nigh. 
 Alm.ost as far as eye can reach, 
 
 I see the close-reefed vessels fly, 
 As fast we flit along the beach — 
 
 One little sand-piper and L 
 
 I watch him as he skims along, 
 
 Uttering his sweet and mournful cry ; 
 He starts not at my fitful song, 
 
 Or flash of fluttering drapery : 
 He has no thought of any wrong, 
 
 He scans me with a fearless eye ; 
 Staunch friends are we, well-tried and strong, 
 
 This little sand-piper and I. 
 
 Comrade, where w^ilt thou be to-night, 
 
 When the loosed storm breaks furiously ? 
 My drift-wood fire will burn so bright ! 
 
 To what w-arm shelter canst thou fly ? 
 I do not fear for thee, though wroth 
 
 The tempest rushes through the sky ; 
 For are we not God's children both. 
 
 Thou little sand-piper and I ? 
 
 Celia Thaxter. 
 
 ELEGY— WRITTEN IN SPRING. 
 
 IS past : the iron north has 
 spent his rage ; 
 Stern winter novr resigns 
 the lengthening day. 
 The stormy howlin: s of the 
 winds assuage, 
 And warm o'er ether west- 
 ern breezes pla}-. 
 
 Of genial heat and cheerful 
 light the source. 
 From southern climes, beneath another sk}-. 
 The sun, returning, wheels his golden course : 
 Before his beams all noxious vapors fly. 
 
 Far to the north grim winter draws his train. 
 To his own clime, to Zembla's frozen shore; 
 
 Where, throned on ice, he holds eternal reign ; 
 Where w^hirl winds madden, and where tempests 
 roar. 
 
 Loosed from the bands of frost, the verdant 
 ground 
 
 Again puts on her robe of cheerful green, 
 Again puts forth her flowers ; and all around 
 
 Smiling, the cheerful face of spring is seen. 
 
 Behold ! the trees new deck their withered boughs; 
 
 Their ample leaves the hospitable plane. 
 The taper elm, and lofty ash disclose; 
 
 The blooming hawthorn variegates the scene. 
 
THE CHARMS OF NATURE. 
 
 95^ 
 
 The lily of the vale, of flowers the queen, 
 
 p. Its on the robe she neither sewed nor spun ; 
 
 The birds on ground, or on the branches green, 
 Hop to and fro, and glitter in the sun. 
 
 Soon as o'er eastern hills the morning peers, 
 From her low nest the tufted lark upsprings ; 
 
 And, cheerful singing, up the air she steers ; 
 Still high she mounts, still loud and sweet 
 sings. 
 
 she 
 
 Now is the time for those who wisdom love, 
 Who love to walk in virtue's flowery road, 
 
 Along the lovely paths of spring to rove, 
 And follow nature up to nature's God. 
 
 Michael Bruce. 
 
 AMERICAN 5KIE5. 
 
 THE sunny Italy may boast 
 The beauteous tints that flush her skies, 
 And lovely, round the Grecian coast. 
 May thy blue pillars rise. 
 I only know how fair they stand 
 Around my own beloved land. 
 
 And they are fair — a charm is theirs, 
 
 That earth, the proud green earth, has not — 
 
 With all the forms, and hues, and airs, 
 That haunt her sweetest spot. 
 
 We gaze upon thy calm pure sphere. 
 
 And read of Heaven's eternal year. 
 
 Oh, when, amid the throng of men. 
 The heart grows sick of hollow mirth, 
 
 How wilHngly we turn us then 
 Away from this cold earth, 
 
 And look into thy azure breast, 
 
 For seats of innocence and rest ! 
 
 W. C. Bryant. 
 
 SCENERY OF LAKE SUPERIOR. 
 
 FEW portions of America can vie in scenic 
 attractions with this interior sea. Its size 
 alone gives it all the elements of grandeur, 
 but these have been heightened by the mountain 
 masses which nature has piled along its shores. 
 In some places these masses consist of vast walls 
 of coarse gray or drab sandstone, placed horizon- 
 tally until they have attained many hundred feet 
 in height above the water. The 
 action of such an immense liquid 
 area, forced against these crum- 
 bling walls by tempests, has caused 
 wide and deep arches to be worn 
 into the solid structure at their 
 base, into which the billows rush 
 with a noise resembling low pealing 
 thunder. By this means, large areas 
 of the impending mass are at length 
 undermined and precipitated into 
 the lake, leaving the split and rent 
 parts from which they have sepa- 
 rated standing like huge misshapen 
 turrets and battlements. Such is 
 the varied coast called the Pictured 
 Rocks. 
 
 At other points of the coast vol- 
 canic forces have operated, lifting 
 up these level strata into positions 
 nearly vertical, and leaving them to 
 stand like the leaves of an open book. At the 
 same time, the volcanic rocks sent up from below 
 have risen in high mountain piles. Such is the 
 condition of things at the Porcupine Mountains. 
 
 There are yet other theatres of action for this 
 sublime mass of inland waters, where it has mani- 
 fested perhaps still more strongly, if not so strik- 
 ingly, its abrasive powers. The whole force of 
 the lake, under the impulse of a north-west tem- 
 pest, is directed against prominent portions of the 
 shore, which consist of the black and hard volcanic 
 rocks. Solid as these are, the waves have found 
 an entrance in veins of spar or minerals of softer 
 structure, and have thus been led inland, and torn 
 up large fields of amygdaloid and other rock, or 
 left portions of them standing in rugged knobs or 
 promontories. Such are the east and west coasts 
 of the great peninsula of Keweena, which has 
 recently become the theatre of mining operations. 
 When the visitor to these remote and boundless 
 waters comes to see this wide and varied scene of 
 complicated attractions, he is absorbed in wonder 
 and astonishment. The eye, once introduced to 
 this panorama of waters, is never done looking 
 and admiring. Scene after scene, clifl" after cttff, 
 island after island, and vista after vista are pre- 
 sented. One day's scenes are but the prelude to 
 another, and when weeks and months have been 
 spent in picturesqu*" rambles along its shores, the 
 
 -s.%^ 
 
^6 
 
 THE CHARMS OF NATURE. 
 
 traveler has only to ascend some of its streams and 
 go inland to find falls and cascades, and cataracts 
 of the most beautiful or magnificent character. Go 
 where he will, there is something to attract him. 
 Beneath his feet the pebbles are agates. The water 
 is of the most crystalline purity. The sky is filled 
 at sunset with the most gorgeous piles of clouds. 
 The air itself is of the purest and most inspiriting 
 kind. To visit such a scene is to draw health 
 from its purest fountains, and to revel in intel- 
 lectual delights. 
 
 Henry R. Schoolcraft. 
 
 HAMPTON BEACH. 
 
 THE sunlight glitters keen and bright, 
 Where, miles away, 
 Lies stretching to my dazzled sight 
 A luminous belt, a misty light. 
 Beyond the dark pine bluffs and wastes of sandy 
 gray. 
 
 The tremulous shadow of the sea ! 
 
 Against its ground 
 Of silvery light, rock, hill, and tree, 
 Still as a picture, clear and free, 
 With varying outline mark the coast for miles 
 around. 
 
 On — on — we tread with loose-flung rein 
 
 Our seaward way, 
 Through dark-green fields and blossoming grain, 
 Where the wild brier-rose skirts the lane. 
 And bends above our heads the flowering locust 
 spray. 
 
 Ha ! like a kind hand on my brow 
 
 Comes this fresh breeze, 
 Cooling its dull and feverish glow, 
 While through my being seems to flow 
 The breath of a new life — the healing of the seas! 
 
 Now rest we, where this grassy mound 
 
 His feet hath set 
 In the great waters, which have bound 
 His granite ancles greenly round 
 With long and tangled moss, and weeds with cool 
 spray wet. 
 
 Good-bye to pain and care ! I take 
 
 Mine ease to-day ; 
 Here where these sunny waters break, 
 And ripples this keen breeze, I shake 
 All burdens from the heart, all weary thoughts 
 away. 
 
 I draw a freer breath — I seem 
 
 Like all I see — 
 Waves in the sun — the white-winged gleam 
 Of sea-birds in the sl.mting beam — 
 And tar-off sails which flit before the south wind 
 free. 
 
 So when time's veil shall fall asunder, 
 
 The soul may know 
 No fearful change, nor sudden wonder, 
 Nor sink the weight of mystery under. 
 But with the upward rise, and with the vastness 
 grow. 
 
 And all we shrink from now may seem 
 
 No new revealing ; 
 Familiar as our childhood's stream. 
 Or pleasant memory of a dream 
 The loved and cherished past upon the new life 
 stealing. 
 
 Serene and mild the untried light 
 
 May have its dawning ; 
 And, as in summer's northern night 
 The evening and the dawn unite, 
 The sunset hues of time blend with the soul's new 
 morning. 
 
 I sit alone : in foam and spray 
 
 Wave after wave 
 Breaks on the rocks w^hich, stern and gray, 
 Shoulder the broken tide away, 
 Or murmurs hoarse and strong through mossy clef> 
 and cave. 
 
 What heed I of the dusty land 
 
 And noisy town ? 
 I see the mighty deep expand 
 From its white line of glimmering sand 
 To where the blue of heaven on bluer waves shuts 
 down ! 
 
 In listless quietude of mind, 
 
 I yield to all 
 The change of cloud and wave and wind. 
 And passive on the flood reclined, 
 I wander with the waves, and with them ri..-:' and 
 fall. 
 
 But look, thou dreamer ! — wave and shore 
 
 In shadow lie ; 
 The night- wind warns me back once more 
 To where my native hill-tops o'er 
 Bends like an arch of fire the glowing sunset skv \ 
 
 So then, beach, bluff and wave, farewell ! 
 
 I bear with me 
 No token stone nor glittering shell. 
 But long and oft shall Memory tell 
 Of this brief thoughtful hour of musing by tlie Sep. 
 
 J. G. Whittier. 
 
 THE CHANGED SONG. 
 
 1 THOUGHT the sparrows note from heaven. 
 Singing at dawn from the alder bough ; 
 I brought him home, in his nest, at even ; 
 He sings the song, but it pleases not now, 
 For I did not bring home the river and sky; — 
 He sang to my ear, — they sang to my eye. 
 
 R. W. Emerson. 
 
THE CHARMS OF NATURE. 
 
 THE GARDEN. 
 
 OW vainly men themselves amaze, 
 To win the palm, the oak, or bays; 
 And their incessant labors see 
 Crowned from some single herb, or tree, 
 Whose short and narrow-verged shade 
 Does prudently their toils upbraid ; 
 While all the flowers and trees do close, 
 To weave the garland of repose. 
 
 No white nor red was ever seen 
 
 So amorous as this lovely green. 
 
 Fond lovers, cruel as their flame. 
 
 Cut in these trees their mistress' name. 
 
 Little, alas ! they know or heed. 
 
 How far these beauties her exceed ! 
 
 Fair trees ! where'er your barks I wound. 
 
 No name shall but your own be found. 
 
 When we have run our passion's heat, 
 Tove hither makes his best retreat. 
 The gods who mortal beauty chase, 
 Still in a tree did end their race. 
 Apollo hunted Daphne so, 
 Only that she might laurel grow; 
 And Pan did after Syrinx speed. 
 Not as a nymph, but for a reed. 
 
 What wondrous life in this I lead ! 
 Ripe apples drop about my head ; 
 The luscious clusters of the vine 
 Upon my mouth do crush their wine ; 
 The nectarine, and curious peach. 
 Into my hands themselves do reach ; 
 Stumbling on melons, as I pass, 
 Insnared with flowers, I fall on grass. 
 
 Meanwhile the mind from pleasure less 
 
 Withdraws into its happiness. 
 
 The mind, that ocean where each kind 
 
 Does straight its own resemblance find ; 
 
 Yet it creates, transcending these, 
 
 Far other worlds and other seas ; 
 
 Annihilating all that's made 
 
 To a green thought in a green shade. 
 
 Here at the fountain's sHding foot. 
 Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root, 
 Casting the body's vest aside. 
 My soul into the boughs does. glide; 
 There, like a bird, it sits and sings, 
 Then whets and claps its silver wings, 
 And, till prepared for longer flight, 
 Waves in its plumes the various light. 
 
 Such was the happy garden state. 
 While man there walked without a mate; 
 After a place so pure and sweet. 
 What other help could yet be meet ? 
 But 'twas beyond a mortal's share 
 To wander solitary there : 
 7 
 
 Two paradises are in one. 
 To live in paradise alone. 
 
 How well the skillful gardener drew 
 Of flowers, and herbs, this dial new ! 
 Where, from above, the milder sun 
 Does through a fragrant zodiac run ; 
 And, as it works, th' industrious bee 
 Computes its time as well as we. 
 How could such sweet and wholesome houn 
 Be reckoned, but with herbs and flowers ? 
 
 Andrew Marvell. 
 TO THE RIVER ARVE. 
 
 SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN AT A HAMLET NEAR THE FOCI 
 OF MONT BLANC. 
 
 Tourists in Switzerland are in the habit of visiting the 
 point where the River Arve unites with the River Rhone. 
 The Arve flows from the glaciers of the Alps, and has a 
 pecuHarly muddy appearance. The waters of the Rhone are 
 clear as crystal. When the two rivers unite there is a dis- 
 tinct line of demarkation between them for a considerable 
 distance, but gradually their waters are mingled. 
 
 NOT from the sands or cloven rocks, 
 Thou rapid Arve ! thy waters flow ; 
 Nor earth, within her bosom, locks 
 Thy dark, unfathomed wells below. 
 Thy springs are in the cloud, thy stream 
 
 Begins to move and murmur first 
 Where ice-peaks feel the noonday beam, 
 Or rain-storms on the glacier burst. 
 
98 
 
 THE CHARMS OF NATURE, 
 
 Born where the thunder and the blast, 
 
 And morning's earliest light are born, 
 Thou rushest swol'n, and loud, and fast, 
 
 By these low homes, as if in scorn ; 
 Yet humbler springs yield purer waves ; 
 
 And brighter, glassier streams than thine. 
 Sent up from earth's unlighted caves. 
 
 With heaven's own beam and image shine. 
 
 Yet stay ; for here are flowers and trees ; 
 
 Warm rays on cottage roofs are here. 
 And laugh of girls, and hum of bees — 
 
 Here linger till thy waves are clear. 
 Thou heedest not — thou hastest on ; 
 
 From steep to steep thy torrent falls, 
 Till, mingling with the mighty Rhone, 
 
 It rests beneath Geneva's walls. 
 
 Rush on — but were there one with me 
 
 That loved me, I would light my hearth 
 Here, where with God's own majesty 
 
 Are touched the features of the earth. 
 By these old peaks, white, high, and vast, 
 
 Still rising as the tempests beat. 
 Here would I dwell, and sleep, at last, 
 
 Among the blossoms at their feet. 
 
 W. C. Bryant. 
 
 VIEW ACROSS THE ROMAN CAMPAQNA. 
 
 OVER the dumb campagna-sea, 
 Out in the offing through mist and rain, 
 St. Peter's Church heaves silently 
 Like a mighty ship in pain, 
 Facing the tempest with struggle and strain. 
 
 Motionless waifs of ruined towers, 
 Soundless breakers of desolate land ! 
 
 The sullen surf of the mist devours 
 
 That mountain-range upon either hand, 
 Eaten away from its outline grand. 
 
 And over the dumb campagna-sea 
 
 Where the ship of the Church heaves on to wreck. 
 
 Alone and silent as God must be 
 
 The Christ walks! — Ay, but Peter's neck 
 Is stiff to turn on the foundering deck. 
 
 Peter, Peter, if such be thy name. 
 
 Now leave the ship for another to steer, 
 
 And proving thy faith evermore the same 
 
 Come forth, tread out through the dark and drear, 
 Since He who walks on the sea is here ! 
 
 Peter, Peter ! — he does not speak, — 
 
 He is not as rash as in old Galilee. 
 Safer a ship, though it toss and leak, 
 
 Than a reeling foot on a rolling sea ! 
 
 And he's got to be round in the girth, thinks he. 
 
 Peter, Peter ! — he does not stir, — 
 
 His nets are heavy with silver fish : 
 He reckons his gains, and is keen to infer 
 
 **The broil on the shore, if the Lord should 
 
 wish, — 
 But the sturgeon goes to the Caesar's dish." 
 
 Peter, Peter, thou fisher of men, 
 
 Fisher of fish wouldst thou live instead, — 
 
 Haggling for pence with the other Ten, 
 Cheating the market at so much a head, 
 Griping the bag of the traitor dead ! 
 
 At the triple crow of the Gallic cock 
 
 Thou weep' St not, thou, though thine eyes be 
 dazed : 
 What bird comes next in the tempest shock ? 
 . . Vultures ! See — as when Romulus gazed, 
 To inaugurate Rome for a world amazed ! 
 
 Elizabeth B. Browning. 
 
 THE BIRCH-TREE. 
 
 RIPPLING through thy branches goes the sun- 
 shine. 
 Among thy leaves that palpitate for ever ; 
 Ovid in thee a pining Nymph had prisoned. 
 The soul once of some tremulous inland river. 
 Quivering to tell her woe, but, ah! dumb, dumb 
 for ever ! 
 
 While all the forest, witched with slumberous moon- 
 shine, 
 Holds up its leaves in happy, happy silence. 
 Waiting the dew, with breath and pulse suspended, — 
 I hear afar thy whispering, gleaming islands. 
 And track- thee wakeful still amid the wide-hung 
 silence. 
 
 Upon the brink of some wood-nestled lakelet, 
 Thy foliage, like the tresses, of a Dryad, 
 Dripping about thy slim white stem, whose shadow 
 Slopes quivering down the water's dusky quiet. 
 Thou shrink' St as on her bath's edge would some 
 startled Dryad. 
 
 Thou art the go-between of rustic lovers ; 
 Thy white bark has their secrets in its keeping ; 
 Reuben writes here the happy name of Patience, 
 And thy lithe boughs hang murmuring and weeping 
 Above her, as she steals the mystery from thy 
 keeping. 
 
 Thou art to me like my beloved maiden, 
 
 So frankly coy, so full of trembly confidences ; 
 
 Thy shadow scarce seems shade; thy pattering 
 
 leaflets 
 Sprinkle their gathered sunshine o'er my senses, 
 And Nature gives me all her summer confidences 
 
 Whether my heart with hope or sorrow tremble, 
 Thou sympathizest still ; wild and unquiet, 
 I fling me down, thy ripple, like a river, 
 Flows valleyward while calmness is, and by it 
 My heart is floated down into the land of quiet. 
 James Russell Lowelu 
 
THE CHARMS OF NATURE. 
 
 99 
 
 MOUNTAINS. 
 
 MOUNTAINS! who was your builder? Who 
 laid your awful foundations in the central 
 fires, and piled your rocks and snow- 
 capped summits among the clouds ? Who placed 
 you in the gardens of the world, like noble altars, 
 on which to offer the sacrificial gifts of many 
 nations ? 
 
 Who reared your rocky walls in the barren desert, 
 like towering pyramids, like monumental mounds, 
 like giants' graves, like dismantled piles of royal 
 ruins, telling a mournful tale of glory, once bright, 
 but now fled forever, as flee the dreams of a mid- 
 summer's night? Who gave you a home in the 
 islands of the sea, — those emeralds that gleam 
 among the waves, — those stars of ocean that mock 
 the beauty of the stars of night? 
 
 Mountains ! I know who built you. It was 
 God ! His name is written on your foreheads. 
 He laid your cornerstones on that glorious morn- 
 ing when the orchestra of heaven sounded the 
 anthem of creation. He clothed your high, im- 
 perial forms in royal robes. 
 
 He gave you a snowy garment, and wove for you 
 a cloudy vail of crimson and gold. He crowned 
 you with a diadem of icy jewels; pearls from the 
 Arctic seas; gems from the frosty pole. Moun- 
 tains ! ye are glorious. Ye stretch your granite 
 arms away toward the vales of the undiscovered : 
 ye have a longing for immortality. 
 
 But, Mountains ! ye long in vain. I called you 
 glorious, and truly ye are ; but your glory is like 
 that of the starry heavens, — it shall pass away at 
 the trumpet-blast of the angel of the Most High. 
 And yet ye are worthy of a high and eloquent 
 eulogium. Ye were the lovers of the daughters of 
 the gods ; ye are the lovers of the daughters of 
 Liberty and Religion now ; and in your old and 
 feeble age the children of the skies shall honor 
 your bald heads. 
 
 The clouds of heaven — those shadows of Olym- 
 pian power, those spectral phantoms of dead Titans 
 — kiss your summits, as guardian angels kiss the 
 brow of infant nobleness. On your sacred rocks 
 I see the footprints of the Creator; I see the 
 blazing fires of Sinai, and hear its awful voice ; I 
 see the tears of Calvary, and listen to its mighty 
 groans. 
 
 Mountains ! ye are proud and haughty things. 
 Ye hurl defiance at the storm, the lightning, and 
 the wind; ye look down with deep disdain upon 
 the thunder-cloud ; ye scorn the devastating tem- 
 pest ; ye despise the works of puny man ; ye shake 
 your rock-ribbed sides with giant laughter, when 
 the great earthquake passes by. Ye stand as giant 
 sentinels, and seem to say to the boisterous bil- 
 lows, — ''Thus far shalt thou come, and here shall 
 thy proud waves be stayed !" 
 
 Mountains ! ye are growing old. Your ribs of 
 L.ofC. 
 
 granite are getting weak and rotten ; your muscles 
 are losing their fatness; your hoarse voices are 
 heard only at distant intervals ; your volcanic heart 
 throbs feebly and your lava-blood is thickening, as 
 the winters of many ages gather their chilling 
 snows around your venerable forms. 
 
 The brazen sunlight laughs in your old and 
 wrinkled faces; the pitying moonlight nestles in 
 your hoary locks ; and the silvery starlight rests 
 
 upon you like the halo of inspiration that crowned 
 the heads of dying patriarchs and prophets. 
 Mountains ! ye must die. Old Father Time, that 
 sexton of earth, has dug you a deep, dark tomb ; 
 and in silence ye shall sleep after sea and shore 
 shall have been pressed by the feet of the apoca- 
 lyptic angel, through the long watches of an 
 eternal night. 
 
 E. M. Morse. 
 
 THE GLORY OF MOTION. 
 
 THREE twangs of the horn, and they're all 
 out of cover ! 
 Must brave you, old bull-finch, that's right 
 in the way ! 
 A rush, and a bound, and a crash, and I'm over I 
 They're silent and racing and for'ard away; 
 
100 
 
 THE CHARMS OF NATURE. 
 
 Fly, Charley, my darling ! Away and we follow ; 
 
 There's do earth or cover for mile upon mile; 
 We're winged with the flight of the itork and the 
 swallow ; 
 
 The heart of the eagle is ours for a while. 
 
 The pasture land knows not of rough plough or 
 harrow ! 
 
 The hoofs echo hollow and soft on the sward \ 
 The soul of the horses goes into our marrow ; 
 
 My saddle's a kingdom, and I am its lord : 
 And rolling and flowing beneath us like ocean, 
 
 Gray waves of the high ridge and furrow glide on, 
 And small flying fences in musical motion, 
 
 Before us, beneath us, behind us, are gone. 
 
 O puissant of bone and of sinew availing, 
 
 On thee how I've longed for the brooks and the 
 showers ! 
 O white-breasted camel, the meek and unfailing, 
 To speed through the glare of the long desert 
 hours ! 
 And, bright little barbs, ye make worthy pretences 
 
 To go with the going of Solomon's sires ; 
 But you stride not the stride, and you fly not the 
 fences ! 
 And all the wide Hejaz is naught to the shires. 
 
 O gay gondolier ! from thy night-flitting shallop 
 
 I've heard the soft pulses of oar and guitar; 
 But sweeter the rhythmical rush of the gallop, 
 
 The fire in the saddle, the flight of the star. 
 Old mare, my beloved, no stouter or faster 
 
 Hath ever strode under a man at his need ; 
 But glad in the hand and embrace of thy master, 
 
 A.nd pant to the passionate music of speed. 
 
 Can there e'er be a thought to an elderly person 
 
 So keen, so inspiring, so hard to forget, 
 So fully adapted to break into burgeon 
 
 As this — that the steel isn't out of him yet ; 
 That flying speed tickles one's brain with a feather; 
 
 That one's horse can. restore one the years that 
 are gone ; 
 That, spite of gray winter and weariful weather. 
 
 The blood and the pace carry on, carry on ? 
 R. S. J. Tyrwhitt. 
 
 A 
 
 THE WINDY NIGHT, 
 
 LOW and aloof, 
 
 Over the roof, 
 
 How the midnight tempests howl ! 
 With a dreary voice, like the dismal tune 
 Of wolves that bay at the desert moon ; 
 
 Or whistle and shriek 
 
 Through limbs that creak. 
 
 "Tu-who! Tu-whit!" 
 
 They cry, and flit, 
 *' Tu-whit ! Tu-who !" like the solemn owl I 
 
 Alow and aloof, 
 Over the roof, 
 
 Sweep the moaning winds amain. 
 
 And wildly dash 
 
 'i'he elm and ash, 
 Clattering on the window sash 
 
 With a clatter and patter 
 
 Like hail and rain, 
 
 That well-nigh shatter 
 
 The dusky pane ! 
 
 Alow and aloof. 
 
 Over the roof. 
 How the tempests swell and roar! 
 
 Though no foot is astir, 
 
 Though the cat and the cur 
 Lie dozing along the kitchen floor, 
 
 There are feet of air 
 
 On every stair — 
 
 Through every hall ! 
 
 Through each gusty door 
 
 There's a jostle and bustle, 
 
 With a silken rustle. 
 Like the meeting of guests at a festival I 
 
 Alow and aloof, 
 
 Over the roof, 
 How the stormy tempests swell ! 
 
 And make the vane 
 
 On the spire complain ; 
 They heave at the steeple with might and maini 
 
 And burst and sweep 
 
 Into the belfry, on the bell ! 
 They smite it so hard, and they smite it so well, 
 
 That the sexton tosses his arms in sleep, 
 And dreams he is ringing a funeral knell ! 
 
 T. B. Read. 
 
 W 
 
 THE OWL. 
 
 HILE the moon, wdth sudden gleam. 
 Through the clouds that cover Imt, 
 Darts her light upon the stream, 
 And the poplars gently stir ; 
 Pleased I hear thy boding cry. 
 Owl, that lov'st the cloudy sky! 
 Sure thy notes are harmony. 
 
 While the maiden, pale with care, 
 
 Wanders to the lonely shade. 
 Sighs her sorrows to the air. 
 
 While the flowerets round her fade,— 
 Shrinks to hear thy boding cry ; 
 Owl, that lovst the cloudy sky. 
 To her it is not harmony. 
 
 While the wretch with mournful dole> 
 
 Wrings his hands in agony. 
 Praying for his brother's soul. 
 Whom he pierced suddenly, — 
 Shrinks to hear thy boding cry; 
 Owl, that lov'st the cloudy sky. 
 To him it is not harmony. 
 
In maiden meditation, fancy free. 
 
 RHAKESPEARC 
 
With thee conversing I forget all time, 
 
 All seasons and their change — all please alike. 
 
POETRY OF THE YEAR: 
 
 COMPRISING 
 
 Poems on the Seasons, Including Flowers and Birds. 
 
 THE YEAR'S TWELVE CHILDREN. 
 
 ANUARY, Avan and gray, 
 
 Like an old pilgrim by the way, 
 Watches the snow, and shivering sighs 
 As the wild curlew round him flies, 
 Or, huddled underneath a thorn, 
 Sits praying for the lingering morn. 
 
 February, bluff and cold, 
 O'er furrows striding scorns the cold, 
 And with his horses two abreast 
 Makes the keen plough do his behest. 
 
 Rough March comes blustering down the road, 
 In his wratby hand the oxen goad ; 
 Or, with a rough and angry haste. 
 Scatters the seeds o'er the dark waste. 
 
 r April, a child, half tears, half smiles, 
 Trips full of little playful wiles ; 
 And laughing, 'neath her rainbow hood. 
 Seeks the wild violets in the wood. 
 
 May, the bright maiden, singing goes. 
 To where the snowy hawthorn blows, 
 AVatching the lambs leap in the dells, 
 List'ning the simple village bells. 
 
 June, with the mower's scarlet face. 
 Moves o'er the clover field apace, 
 And fast his crescent scythe sweeps on 
 O'er spots from whence the lark has flown. 
 
 July, the farmer, happy fellow. 
 Laughs to see the corn grow yellow ; 
 The heavy grain he tosses up 
 From his right hand as from a cup. 
 
 August, the reaper, cleaves his way. 
 Through golden waves at break of day ; 
 Or in his wagon, piled with corn. 
 At sunset home is proudly borne. 
 
 September, with his baying hound. 
 Leaps fence and pale at every bound, 
 And casts into the wind in scorn. 
 All cares and dangers from his horn. 
 
 October comes, a woodman old. 
 Fenced with tough leather from the cold; 
 Round s\\ ings his sturdy axe. and lo ! 
 k fir branch falls at ever^ blow. 
 
 November cowers before the flame, 
 Blear crone, forgetting her own name ! 
 Watching the blue smoke curling rise. 
 And broods upon old memories. 
 
 December, fat and rosy, strides, 
 
 His old heart warm, well clothed his sides; 
 
 With kindly word for young and old. 
 
 The cheerier for the bracing cold, 
 
 Laughing a welcome, open flings 
 
 His doors, and as he goes he sings. 
 
 JOY OF SPRING. 
 
 FOR lo ! no sooner has the cold withdrawn. 
 Than the bright elm is tufted on the lawn ; 
 The merry sap has run up in the bowers. 
 And burst the windows of the buds in flowers ; 
 With song the bosoms of the birds run o'er. 
 The cuckoo calls, the swallow's at the door, 
 And apple-trees at noon, with bees alive, 
 Burn with the golden chorus of the hive. 
 Now all these sweets, these sounds, this vernal 
 
 blaze 
 Is but one joy, expressed a thousand ways ; 
 And honey from the flowers, and song from birds, 
 Are from the poet's pen his overflowing words. 
 
 Leigh Hunt, 
 
 101 
 
105 
 
 POETRY OF THE YEAR. 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 I COME ! I come ! ye have called me long — 
 I come o'er the mountains with light and song! 
 Ye may trace my step o'er the wakening earth , 
 By the winds which tell of the violet's birth, 
 By the primrose-stars in the shadowy grass, 
 By the green leaves opening as I pass. 
 
 I have breathed on the South, and the chestnut 
 
 flowers 
 By thousands have burst from the forest-bowers, 
 And the ancient graves and the fallen fanes 
 Are veiled with wreaths on Italian plains ; — 
 But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom. 
 To speak of the ruin or the tomb ! 
 
 I have looked on the hills of the stormy North, 
 
 And the larch has hung all his tassels forth, 
 
 The fisher is out on the sunny sea. 
 
 And the reindeer bounds o'er the pastures free, 
 
 And the pine has a fringe of softer green. 
 
 And the moss looks bright where my foot hath been. 
 
 I have sent through the wood-paths a glowing sigh. 
 And called out each voice of the deep blue sky ; 
 From the night bird's lay through the starry time, 
 In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime. 
 To the swan's wild note by the Iceland lakes. 
 When the dark fir-branch into verdure breaks. 
 
 From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain; 
 They are sweeping on to the silvery main. 
 They are flashing down from the mountain browSy 
 They are flinging spray o'er the forest boughs. 
 They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves, 
 And the earth resounds with the joy of waves ! 
 
 Come forth, O ye children of gladness ! come ! 
 Where the violets lie may be now your home. 
 Ye of the rose-lip and dew-bright eye. 
 And the bounding footstep, to meet me fly ! 
 AVith the lyre, and the wreath, and the joyous lay, 
 Come forth to the sunshine — I may not stay. 
 
 Felicia D. Hemans. 
 
 MARCH. 
 
 HE cock is crowing. 
 
 The stream is flowing. 
 The small birds twitter, 
 The lake doth glitter, 
 The green field sleeps in the sun; 
 The oldest and youngest ; 
 Are at work with the 
 
 strongest ; 
 The cattle are grazing, 
 
 Their heads never raising ; 
 There are forty feeding like one 
 
 Like an army defeated, 
 
 The snow hath retreated. 
 
 And now doth fare ill 
 
 On the top of the bare hill; 
 The ploughboy is whooping — anon — anon 
 
 There's joy on the mountains; 
 
 There's life in the fountains/ 
 
 Small clouds are sailing, 
 
 Blue sky prevailing ; 
 The rain is over and gone \ 
 
 '^''iLi.iAM Wordsworth, 
 

 ~i 
 
 A M'^.CH DAY 
 
 IPS 
 
104 
 
 POETRY OF THE YEAR. 
 
 APRIL=LARK. 
 
 Rejoicing bird : whose wings have cleft the blue 
 
 And those far heights of morning sky have scaled : 
 Youth loves to watch thee, but with sighs watch 
 those 
 Whose wings grow wearied, and whose hopes have 
 failed. 
 
 S 
 
 DAY: A PASTORAL. 
 
 WIFTLY from the mountain's brow, 
 
 Shadows, nursed by night, retire ; 
 And the peeping sunbeam, now, 
 Paints with gold the village spire. 
 
 Philomel forsakes the thorn, 
 
 Plaintive where she prates at night; 
 
 And the lark, to meet the morn. 
 Soars beyond the shepherd's sight. 
 
 From the low-roofed cottage ridge, 
 See the chatt'ring swallow spring; 
 
 Darting through the one-arched bridge, 
 Quick she dips her dappled wing. 
 
 Now the pine-tree's waving top 
 Gently greets the morning gale ! 
 
 Kidlings, now, begin to crop 
 Daisies, in the dewy dale. 
 
 From the balmy sweets, uncloyed 
 (Restless till her task be done), 
 
 Now the busy bee's employed 
 Sipping dew before the sun. 
 
 Trickling through the creviced rock, 
 Where the limpid stream distils, 
 
 Sweet refreshment waits the flock 
 When 'tis sun-drove from the hills. 
 
 Sweet — O sweet, the warbling throng. 
 On the white emblossomed spray ! 
 
 Nature's universal song 
 Echoes to the rising day. 
 
 John Cunningham. 
 
 THE GRASSHOPPER. 
 
 HAPPY insect, what can be, 
 In happiness compared to thee? 
 Fed with nourishment divine, 
 The dewy morning's gentle wine ! 
 Nature waits upon thee still. 
 And thy verdant cup does fill ; 
 'Tis filled wherever thou dost tread, 
 Nature self's thy Ganymede. 
 Thou dost drink and dance and sing, 
 Hapjjier than the happiest king ! 
 All the fields which thou dost see, 
 All the plants belong to thee; 
 All the summer hours produce, 
 Fertile made with early juice. 
 Man for thee does sow and plough, 
 
 Farmer he, and landlord thou ! 
 
 Thou dost innocently enjoy, 
 
 Nor does thy luxury destroy. 
 
 The shepherd gladly heareth thee, 
 
 More harmonious than he, 
 
 The country hinds with gladness hear, 
 
 Prophet of the ripened year ! 
 
 To thee, of all things upon earth, 
 
 Life is no longer than thy mirth. 
 
 Happy insect ! happy thou, 
 
 Dost neither age nor winter know ; 
 
 But when thou'st drunk and danced and sung 
 
 Thy fill, the flowery leaves among. 
 
 Sated with thy summer feast, 
 
 Thou retir'st to endless rest. 
 
 Abraham Cowley. 
 
POETRY OF THE YEAR. 
 
 105 
 
 APRIL. 
 
 NOW daisies pied, and violets blue, 
 And lady-smocks all silver-white, 
 And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue. 
 Do paint the meadows with delight; 
 The cuckoo now on every tree. 
 Sings cuckoo ! cuckoo ! 
 
 William Shakespeare. 
 
 L 
 
 A WALK BY THE WATER. 
 
 ET us walk where reeds are growing. 
 By the alders in the mead ; 
 Where the crystal streams are flowing, 
 In whose waves the fishes feed. 
 
 There the golden carp is laving. 
 
 With the trout, the perch, and bream; 
 
 Mark ! their flexile fins are waving, 
 As they glance along the stream. 
 
 Now they sink in deeper billows, 
 
 Now upon the surface rise ; 
 Or, from under roots of willows, 
 
 Dart to catch the water-flies. 
 
 Midst the reeds and pebbles hiding, 
 
 See the minnow and the roach ; 
 Or, by water-lilies gliding. 
 
 Shun with fear our near approach. 
 
 Do not dread us, timid fishes, 
 We have neither net nor hook ; 
 
 Wanderers we, whose only wishes 
 Are to read in nature's book. 
 Charlotte Smith. 
 
 N 
 
 BUD AND BLOOM. 
 
 O W fades the last long streak 
 of snow. 
 Now burgeons every maze 
 of quick 
 About the flowering squares and 
 thick 
 By ashen roots the violets blow. 
 
 Now rings the woodland loud and long. 
 The distance takes a lovelier hue, 
 And drowned in yonder living blue 
 
 The lark becomes a sightless song. 
 
 ,.=^.^ /y Now dance the lights on lawn and lea. 
 The flocks are whiter down the vale. 
 And milkier every milky sail. 
 On winding stream or distant sea ; 
 
 Where now the seamew pipes, or dives 
 In yonder greening gleam, and fly 
 The happy birds, that change their sky 
 
 To build and brood, that live their lives 
 
 From land to land ; and in my breast 
 Spring wakens too : and my regret 
 Becomes an April violet, 
 
 And buds and blossoms like the rest. 
 
 Alfred Tennyson. 
 
 THE OPEN DAY. 
 
 OFT have I listen' d to a voice that spake 
 Of cold and dull realities of life. 
 Deem we not thus of life ; for we may fetch 
 Light from a hidden glory, which shall clothe 
 
 The meanest thing that is with hues of heaven. 
 Our light should be the broad and open day ; 
 And as we lose its shining, we shall look 
 Still on the bright and daylight face of things. 
 
 Henry Alford. 
 
106 
 
 POETRY OF THE YEAR, 
 
 No new '^ong sings the Nightingale, 
 
 And no new month she finds for singing; 
 
 She sings the sweet old song of love. 
 
 When May her fairest flowers is bringing. 
 
 WELCOME, pale primrose 
 between 
 Dead matted leaves of ash and oak. 
 strew 
 The every lawn, the wood, and spinny 
 through ; 
 'Mid creeping moss and ivy's darker green ; 
 
 How much thy presence beautifies the ground, 
 How sweet thy modest, unaffected pride. 
 
 THE PRIMROSE. 
 
 starting up 
 
 that 
 
 Glows on the sunny bank, and wood's warm side ! 
 
 And when thy fairy flowers in groups are found i 
 The schoolboy roams enchantedly along, 
 
 Plucking the fairest with a rude delight ; 
 While the meek shepherd stops his simple song, 
 
 To gaze a moment on the pleasing sight ; 
 O'erjoyed to see the flowers that truly bring 
 The welcome news of sweet returning spring. 
 
 John Clark. 
 
 A TRIBUTE TO MAY. 
 
 FROM THE GERMAN OF CONRAD OF KIRCHBERG. 
 
 M 
 
 AY, sweet May, again is come — 
 May that frees the land from gloom ; 
 Children, children ! up and see 
 All her stores of jollity. 
 On the laughing hedgerow's side 
 She hath spread her treasures wide ; 
 She is in the greenwood shade, 
 Where the nightingale hath made 
 Every branch and every tree 
 |Ung with her sweet melody ; 
 
 Hill and dale are May's own treasures, 
 Youths, rejoice ! In sportive measures 
 
 Sing ye ! join the chorus gay ! 
 
 Hail this merry, merry May ! 
 Up ! then, children ! we will go. 
 Where the blooming roses grow ; 
 In a joyful company, 
 We the bursting flowers will see ; 
 Up, your festal dress prepare ! 
 Where gay hearts are meeting, there 
 
POETRY OF THE YEAR. 
 
 107 
 
 May hath pleasures most inviting, 
 Heart, and sight, and ear delighting. 
 Listen to the bird's sweet song, 
 Hark ! how soft it floats along. 
 Courtly dames ! our pleasure share ; 
 
 Never saw I May so fair : 
 Therefore, dancing will we go, 
 Youths, rejoice ! the flow'rets blow ! 
 
 Sing ye ! join the chorus gay ! 
 
 Hail this merry, merry May ! 
 
 William Roscoe. 
 
 THE WOODLAND IN SPRING. 
 
 E'EN in the spring and playtime of the year. 
 That calls the unwonted villager abroad 
 With all her little ones, a sportive train, 
 To gather kingcups in the yellow mead, 
 
 Sits cooing in the pine-tree, nor suspends 
 His long love-ditty for my near approach. 
 Drawn from his refuge in some lovely elm, 
 That age or injury has hollowed deep, 
 
 Where, on his bed of wool and matted 
 
 leaves, 
 He has outslept the winter, ventures 
 forth 
 To frisk awhile, and bask in the 
 
 warm sun. 
 The squirrel, flippant, pert, and 
 full of play; 
 
 
 "^^^feoi;" 
 
 And prink their hair with daisies, or to pick 
 A cheap but wholesome salad from the brook : 
 These shades are all my own. The timorous hare. 
 Grown so familiar with her frequent guest, 
 Scarce shuns me ; and the stock dove, unalarmed, 
 
 He sees me, and at 
 once swift as a bird, 
 Ascends the neighboring beech; there whisks his 
 
 brush, 
 And perks his ears, and stamps and cries aloud, 
 With all the prettiness of feigned alarm, 
 And anger insignificantly fierce. 
 
 William Cowper. 
 
 BREATHINGS OF SPRING. 
 
 WHAT wakest thou, Spring? Sweet voices 
 in the woods. 
 And reed-like echoes, that long have 
 been mute; 
 Thou bringest back to fill the solitudes, 
 
 The lark's clear pipe, the cuckoo's viewless flute. 
 Whose tone seems breathing mournfulftesg or 
 glee, 
 g'eii as our hearts may be, 
 
 And the leaves greet thee. Spring! — the joyou? 
 leaves, 
 Whose tremblings gladden many a copse and 
 glade. 
 Where each young spray a rosy flush receives, 
 When thy south wind hath pierced the whispery 
 shade. 
 And happy murmurs, running through the grass, 
 Tell that thy footsteps p^sSr 
 
108 
 
 POETRY OF THE YEAR. 
 
 And the briglit waters — ihcy too hear thy call, 
 Spring, the awakener i thou hast burst their 
 sleep ! 
 Amidst the hollows of the rocks their fall 
 Makes melody, and in the forests deep. 
 Where sudden sparkles and blue gleams betray 
 Their winding to the day. 
 
 And flowers — the fairy-peopled world of flowers ! 
 
 Thou from the dust hast set that glory free, 
 Coloring the cowslip with the sunny hours, 
 
 And pencilling the wood anemone : 
 Silent they seem — yet each to thoughtful eye 
 Glows with mute poesy. 
 
 But what awakest thou in the heart, O Spring ! 
 
 The human heart, with all its dreams and sighs? 
 Thou that givest back so many a buried thing, 
 
 Restorer of forgotten harmonies ! 
 Fresh songs and scents break forth, where'er thou art. 
 What wakest thou in the heart? 
 
 Vain longings for the dead ! — why come they back 
 With thy young birds, and leaves and living 
 blooms ? 
 Oh ! is it not, that from thine earthly track 
 Hope to thy world may look beyond the tombs ? 
 V'es, gentle Spring ! no sorrow dims thine air. 
 Breathed by our loved ones /he?'e ! 
 
 Felicia D. Hemans. 
 
 CORINNA'S GOING A=MAYING. 
 
 GET up, get up for shame ! the blooming morn 
 Upon her wings presents the God unshorn ! 
 See how Aurora throws her fair 
 Fresh-quilted colors through the air ! — 
 Get up, sweet slug-a-bed ! and see 
 The dew bespangling herb and tree. 
 Each flower has wept and bowed towards the east 
 Above an hour since, yet you are not dressed ! — 
 Nay, not so much as out of bed. 
 When all the birds have matins said, 
 And sung their thankful hymns : 'tis sin — 
 Nay, profanation, to keep in. 
 Whereas a thousand virgins on this day 
 Spring sooner than the lark, to fetch in May! 
 
 Come, my Corinna ! come, and coming, mark 
 How each field turns a street — each street a park. 
 
 Made green, and trimmed with trees ! — see how 
 
 Devotion gives each house a bough 
 
 Or branch ! — each porch, each door, ere this 
 
 An ark, a tabernacle is. 
 Made up of whitehorn neatly interwove, 
 As if here were those cooler shades of love. 
 
 Can such delights be in the street 
 
 And open fields, and we not see 't? 
 
 Come, we'll abroad, and let's obey 
 
 The proclamation made for May, 
 And sin no more, as we have done by staying, 
 3ut, my Corinna ! come let's go a-Maying. 
 
 Come, let us go, while we are in our prime, 
 And take the harmless folly of the time; 
 
 We shall grow old apace and die 
 
 Before we know our liberty. 
 
 Our life is short, and our days run 
 
 As fast away as does the sun : 
 And as a vapor, or a drop of rain. 
 Once lost, can ne'er be found again, 
 
 So when or you or I are made 
 
 A fable, song, or fleeting shade. 
 
 All love, all liking, all delight, 
 
 Lies drowned with us in endless night. 
 Then while time serves, and we are but decaying, 
 Come, my Corinna ! come, let's go a-Maying. 
 
 Robert Herrick. 
 
 THE EARTH'S GLADNESS. 
 
 THE earth with Spring's first flowers is glad, 
 The skies, the seas are blue, 
 But still shall finer spirits turn 
 With hearts that long, and souls that bum, 
 And for some ghostly whiteness yearn 
 Some glimpses of the true \ 
 Chasing some fair ideal sweet. 
 Breathless with bleeding feet. 
 
 High Summer comes with warmth and light. 
 
 The populous cities teem 
 
 Through statue-decked perspectives, long. 
 
 Aglow with painting, lit with song, 
 
 Surges the busy, world -worn throng. 
 
 But, ah ! not these their dream. 
 
 Not these, like that white ghost allure, 
 
 August, celestial, pure. 
 
 Crowning the cloud-based ramparts, shines 
 
 The city of their love. 
 
 Now soft with fair reflected light, 
 
 And now intolerably bright, 
 
 Dazzling the feeble, struggling sight. 
 
 It beckons from above. 
 
 It gleams above the untrodden snows, 
 
 Flushed by the dawn's weird rose. 
 
 It gleams, it grows, it sinks, it fades, 
 
 While up the perilous height. 
 
 From the safe, cloistered walls ot home. 
 
 Low cot, or aery palace dome, 
 
 The faithful pilgrims boldly come. 
 
 Though Heaven be veiled in night. 
 
 They come, they climb, they dare not stay 
 
 Whose feet forerun the day. 
 
 And some through midnight darkness fall 
 
 Missing the illumined sky ; 
 
 And some with cleansed heart and mind, 
 
 And souls to lower splendors blind. 
 
 The city of their longing find. 
 
 Clear to the mortal eye. 
 
 For all yet here, or far beyond the sun. 
 
 At last the height is won. Lewis R, Morj^is, 
 
'GATHERING FLOWERS. HERSELF A FAIRER FLOWER' 
 
AN OCEAN VOYAGE 
 
POETRY OF THE YEAR, 
 
 109 
 
 ON MAY MORNING. 
 
 NOW the bright morning-star, day's har- 
 binger, 
 Comes dancing from the East, and leads 
 with her 
 The flowery May, who from her green lap throws 
 The yellow cowslip and the pale primrose. 
 
 Hail bounteous May ! that dost inspire 
 Mirth, and youth, and warm desire ; 
 Woods and groves are of thy dressing. 
 Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing. 
 Thus we salute thee with our early song, 
 And welcome thee, and wish thee long. 
 
 John Milton 
 
 D 
 
 SUMMER EVE. 
 
 OWN the sultry arc of day 
 The burning wheels have urged their 
 way, 
 
 And Eve along the western skies 
 Spreads her intermingling dyes ; 
 Down the deep, the miry lane, 
 Creaking comes the empty wain ; 
 And driver on the shaft-horse sits, 
 Whistling now and then by fits. 
 The barn is still — the master's gone — 
 And thresher puts his jacket on ; 
 While Dick upon the ladder tall 
 Nails the dead kite to the wall. 
 
 Here comes Shepherd Jack at last, 
 He has penned the sheepcot fast ; 
 For 'twas but two nights before 
 A lamb was eaten on the moor ; 
 His empty wallet Rover carries — 
 Now for Jack, when near home, tarries ; 
 With lolling tongue he runs to try 
 If the horse-trough be not dry. 
 
 The milk is settled in the pans. 
 And supper messes in the cans ; 
 In the hovel carts are wheeled. 
 And both the colts are drove a-field : 
 The horses are all bedded up, 
 
 And the ewe is with the tup. 
 The snare for Mister Fox is set. 
 The leaven laid, the thatching wet, 
 And Bess has slinked away to talk 
 With Roger in the holly walk. 
 
 Now on the settle ail but Bess 
 Are set, to eat their supper mess ; 
 And little Tom and roguish Kate 
 Are swinging on the meadow gate. 
 Now they chat of various things — 
 Of taxes, ministers, and kings ; 
 Or else tell all the village news — 
 How madam did the 'squire refuse, 
 How parson on his tithes was bent, 
 And landlord oft distrained for rent. 
 
 Thus do they, till in the sky 
 
 The pale-eyed moon is mounted high. 
 
 The mistress sees that lazy Kate 
 
 The happing coal on kitchen grate 
 
 Has laid — while master goes throughout. 
 
 Sees shutter fast, the mastiff out ; 
 
 The candles safe, the hearths all clear, 
 
 And nought from thieves or fire to fear; 
 
 Then both to bed together creep. 
 
 And join the general troop of sleep. 
 
 Henry Kirke White. 
 
no 
 
 POETRY OF THE YEAR, 
 
 CHILDREN IN SPRING. 
 
 T 
 
 HE snow has left the cottage-top; 
 
 The thatch moss grows in brighter green; 
 And eaves in quick succession drop, 
 Where grinning icicles have been, 
 Pit-patting with a pleasant noise 
 
 In tubs set by the cottage-door; 
 While ducks and geese, with happy joys, 
 Plunge in the yard-pond brimming o'er. 
 
 The sun peeps through the window-pane, 
 
 Which children mark with laughing eye, 
 And in the wet street steal again, 
 
 To tell each other spring is nigh. 
 Then as young hope the past recalls, 
 
 In playing groups they often draw, 
 To build beside the sunny walls 
 
 Their spring-time huts of sticks or straw. 
 
 
 And oft in pleasure's dream they hie 
 
 Round homesteads by the village side, 
 Scratching the hedge-row mosses by. 
 
 Where painted pooty shells abide; 
 Mistaking oft the ivy spray 
 
 For leaves that come with budding spring. 
 And wondering, in their search for play, 
 
 Why birds delay to build and sing. 
 
 THE 
 
 G 
 
 O, lovely rose I 
 
 Tell her that wastes her time and me 
 That now she knows, 
 When I resemble her to thee, 
 How sweet and fair she seems to be. 
 
 Tell her that's young. 
 And shuns to have her graces spied, 
 
 That hadst thou sprung 
 In deserts where no men abide, 
 Thou must have uncommended died. 
 
 The mavis thrush, with wild delight, 
 
 Upon the orchard's dripping tree 
 Mutters, to see the day so bright 
 
 Fragments of yourtg hope's poesy; 
 And dame oft stops her buzzing wheel, 
 
 To hear the robin's note once more, 
 Who tootles while he pecks his meal 
 
 From sweet-brier buds beside the door 
 ' John Clar 
 
 ROSE. 
 
 Small is the worth 
 Of beauty from the light retired ' 
 
 Bid her come forth — 
 Suffer heibclf to be desired, 
 And not blush so to be admired. 
 
 Then die, that she 
 The common fate of all things rare 
 
 May read in thee — 
 How small a part of time they share 
 That are so wondrous sweet and fair 
 
 EDMXJND WALUk 
 
A. SPRUNG ROSE. 
 
 ni 
 
112 
 
 POETRY OF THE YEAR. 
 
 MORNING IN SUMMER. 
 
 AND soon, observant of approaching day, 
 The meek-eyed morn appears, mother of 
 dews, 
 At first faint gleaming in the dappled east ; 
 Till far o'er ether spreads the winding glow, 
 And from before the lustre of her face 
 White break the clouds away. With quickened 
 
 step, 
 Brown night retires : young day pours in apace. 
 And opens all the lawny prospect wide. 
 The dripping rock, the mountain's misty top, 
 Swell on the sight, and brighten with the 
 
 dawn. 
 Blue, through the dusk, the smoking currents 
 
 shine; 
 And from the bladed field the fearful hare 
 Limps, awkward : while along the forest 
 
 glade 
 
 W 
 
 A JUNE DAY„ 
 
 HO has not dreamed a world of bliss, 
 On a bright, sunny noon like tliis, 
 
 Couched by his native brook's green maze, 
 With comrade of his boyish days? 
 While all around them seemed to be 
 Just as in joyous infancy. 
 
 Who has not loved, at such an hour, 
 Upon that heath, in birchen bower, 
 Lulled in the poet's dreamy mood, 
 Its wild and sunny solitude ? 
 
 Mholr--- 
 
 The wild deer trip, and, often turning, gaze 
 
 At early passenger. Music awakes 
 
 The native voice of undissembled joy ; 
 
 And thick around the woodland hymns arise. 
 
 Roused by the cock, the soon-clad shepherd 
 
 leaves 
 His mossy cottage, where with peace he dwells ; 
 And from the crowded fold, in order, drives 
 His flock, to taste the verdure of the morn. 
 But yonder comes the powerful king of day. 
 Rejoicing in the east ! The lessening cloud. 
 The kindling azure, and the mountain's brow 
 Illumed with fluid gold, his near approach 
 Betoken glad. Lo ! now, apparent all, 
 Aslant the dew-bright earth, and colored air. 
 He looks in boundless majesty abroad ; 
 And sheds the shining day, that burnished plays 
 On rocks, and hills and towers, and wandering 
 
 streams, 
 High-gleaming from afar. 
 
 James Thomson. 
 
 While o'er the waste of purple ling 
 You marked a sultry glimmering ; 
 Silence herself there seems to sleep. 
 Wrapped in a slumber long and deep. 
 Where slowly stray those lonely sheep 
 Through the tall fox-gloves' crimson bloom.. 
 And gleaming of the scattered broom. 
 
 Love you not, then, to list and hear 
 The crackling of the gorse-flowers near, 
 Pouring an orange-scented tide 
 Of fragrance o'er the desert wide? 
 To hear the buzzard whimpering shrill 
 Hovering above you high and still ? 
 The twittering of the bird that dwells 
 Amongst the heath's delicious bells? 
 While round your bed, or fern and blade, 
 Insects in green and gold arrayed, 
 The sun's gay tribes have lightly strayed 
 And sweeter sound their humming wings 
 Than the proud minstrel's echoing strings. 
 William Howjtt. 
 
POETRY OF THE YEAR, 
 
 113 
 
 JULY— CUCKOO. 
 
 He's told his name to every grove — 
 Cry shame such vanity upon ! 
 Yet now at parting we grow sad, 
 For when he leaves us spring has gone. 
 
 V-0^A 
 
 H 
 
 REPOSE IN SUMMER. 
 
 ER eyelids dropped their silken eaves, 
 I breathed upon her eyes, 
 Through all the summer of my leaves, 
 A welcome mixed with sighs. 
 
 Sometimes I let a sunbeam slip 
 
 To light her shaded eye ; 
 A second fluttered round her lip, 
 
 Like a golden butterfly. 
 
 Alfred Tennyson. 
 
 SONNET ON COUNTRY LIFE. 
 
 TO one who has been long in city pent, 
 'Tis very sweet to look into the fair 
 And open face of heaven — to breathe a 
 prayer 
 Full in the smile of the blue firmament. 
 Who is more happy, when, with heart's con- 
 tent. 
 Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair 
 Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair 
 And gentle tale of love and languishment ? 
 Returning home at evening, with an ear 
 
 Catching the notes of Philomel — an eye 
 Watching the sailing cloudlet's bright career, 
 He mourns that day so soon has glided by: 
 E'en like the passage of an angel's tear 
 That falls through the clear ether silently. 
 
 John Keats. 
 
 THE BLACKBIRD. 
 
 O BLACKBIRD ! sing me something well ; 
 While all the neighbors shoot the rounc 
 I keep smooth plats of fruitful ground. 
 Where thou may' St warble, eat, and dwell. 
 
 The espaliers and the standards all 
 
 Are thine ; the range of lawn and park ; 
 The unnetted black-hearts ripen dark, 
 
 All thine, against the garden wall. 
 
 Yet, tho' I spared thee all the spring, 
 Thy sole delight is, sitting still, 
 With that gold dagger of thy bill 
 
 To fret the summer jenneting. 
 
 A golden bill 1 the silver tongue, 
 
 Cold February loved, is dry : 
 
 Plenty corrupts the melody 
 That made thee famous once, when young : 
 
 And in the sultry garden-squares. 
 
 Now thy flute-notes are changed to coarse, 
 
 I hear thee not at all, or hoarse 
 As when a hawker hawks his wares. 
 
 Take warning ! he that will not sing 
 While yon sun prospers in the blue. 
 Shall sing for want, ere leaves are new, 
 
 Caught in the frozen palms of spring. 
 
 Alfred Tennyson, 
 
114 
 
 POETRY OF THE YEAR, 
 
 5UMMER REVERIE. 
 
 I STOOD tiptoe upon a little hill, 
 The air was cooling, and so very still, 
 That the sweet buds which with a modest pride 
 Pull droopingly, in slanting curve aside, 
 Their scanty-leaved, and finely-tapering stems, 
 Had not yet lost their starry diadems 
 Caught from the early sobbing of the morn. 
 The clouds were pure and white as flocks new 
 
 shorn, 
 And fresh from the clear brook ; sweetly they slept 
 On the blue fields of heaven, and then there crept 
 A little noiseless noise among the leaves. 
 Born of the very sigh that silence heaves ; 
 For not the faintest motion could be seen 
 Of all the shades that slanted o'er the green. 
 
 There was wide wandering for the greediest eye, 
 To peer about upon variety ; 
 Far round the horizon's crystal air to skim, 
 And trace the dwindled edgings of its brim ; 
 
 To picture out the quaint and curious bending 
 Of a fresh woodland alley never-ending : 
 Or by the bowery clefts, and leafy shelves, 
 Guess where the jaunty streams refresh themselves. 
 
 I gazed awhile, and felt as light and free 
 
 As though the fanning wings of Mercury 
 
 Had played upon my heels : I was light-hearted, 
 
 And many pleasures to my vision started ; 
 
 So I straightway began to pluck a posy 
 
 Of luxuries bright, milky, soft, and rosy. 
 
 A bush of May-flowers with the bees about them ; 
 Ah, sure no tasteful nook could be without them ! 
 And let a lush laburnum oversweep them. 
 And let long grass grow round the roots to keep 
 
 them 
 Moist, cool, and green ; and shade the violets, 
 That they may bind the moss in leafy nets. 
 
 John Keats. 
 
 SHEPHERD AND FLOCK. 
 
 AROUND the adjoining brook, that purls along 
 The vocal grove, now fretting o'er a rock. 
 Now scarcely moving through a reedy pool. 
 Now starting to a sudden stream, and now 
 Gently difl"used into a limpid plain ; 
 A various group the herds and flocks compose, 
 Rural confusion ! On the grassy bank 
 Some ruminating lie ; while others stand 
 Half in the flood, and often bending sip 
 
 The circling surface. In the middle droops 
 The strong laborious ox, of honest front. 
 Which incomposed he shakes ; and from his sides 
 The troublous insects lashes with his tail. 
 Returning still. Amid his subjects safe 
 Slumbers the monarch-swain, his careless arm 
 Thrown round his head, on downy moss sustained 
 Here laid his scrip, with wholesome viands filled ; 
 There, listening every noise, his watchful dog. 
 
 James Thomson. 
 
POETRY OP THE YEAR. 
 
 115 
 
 A WINTER SKETCH. 
 
 HE blessed morn has come again ; 'Tis winter, yet there is no sound 
 
 TThe early gray 
 Taps at the sUimberer's window-pane, 
 And seems to say, 
 Break, break from the enchanter's chain, 
 Away, away ! 
 
 Along the air 
 Of winds along their battle-ground ; 
 
 But gently there 
 The snow is falling — all around 
 
 How fair, how fair ! Ralph Hoyt. 
 
 TO MEADOWS. 
 
 Y 
 
 E have been fresh and green ; 
 
 Ye have been filled with flowers; 
 And ye the walks have been 
 
 Where maids have spent their hours. 
 
 Ye have beheld where they 
 With wicker arks did come. 
 
 To kiss and bear away 
 
 The richer cowslips home ; 
 
 You've heard them sweetly smg, 
 And seen them in a round ; 
 
 Each virgin, like the spring. 
 With honeysuckles crowned. 
 
 But now we see none here 
 Whose silvery feet did tread. 
 
 And with dishevelled hair 
 
 Adorned this smoother mead. 
 
 Like unthrifts, having spent 
 Your stock, and needy grown, 
 
 You're left here to lament 
 Your poor estates alone. 
 
 Robert Herrick. 
 
116 
 
 POETRY OF THE YEAR, 
 
 A 50NG FOR THE SEASONS. 
 
 W 
 
 HEN the merry lark doth gild 
 
 With his song the summer hours, 
 And their nests the swallows build 
 In the roofs and tops of towers, 
 And the golden broom-flower burns 
 
 All about the waste, 
 And the maiden May returns 
 With a pretty haste — 
 
 Then, how merry are the times ! 
 The summer times ! the spring times ! 
 
 Now, from off the ashy stone 
 
 The chilly midnight cricket crieth, 
 And all merry birds are flown, 
 
 And our dream of pleasure dieth ; 
 Now the once blue, laughing sky 
 
 Saddens into gray, 
 And the frozen rivers sigh. 
 
 Pining all away ! 
 
 Now, how solemn are the times ! 
 The winter times ! the night times ! 
 
 Yet, be merry : all around 
 
 Is through one vast change revolving ; 
 Even night, who lately frowned, 
 ,^ Is in paler dawn dissolving ; 
 
 Earth will burst her fetters strange, 
 
 And in spring grow free ; 
 All things in the world will change. 
 Save — my love for thee ! 
 
 Sing then, hopeful are all times ! 
 Winter, summer, spring times ! 
 
 Barry Cornwall. 
 
 SUMMER'S HAUNTS. 
 
 L» T NTO me, glad summer, 
 I How hast thou flown to me ? 
 -^ My chainless footsteps nought hath kept 
 
 From thy haunts of song and glee ; 
 Thou hast flown in wayward visions, 
 
 In memories of the dead — 
 In shadows from a troubled heart. 
 O'er thy sunny pathway shed. 
 
 Felicia D. Hemans. 
 
 7^] 
 
 THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER. 
 
 ^IS 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 ? 
 
 Thomas Moore. 
 
 FAIR SUMMER. 
 
 THE spring's gay promise melted into thee. 
 Fair summer ! and thy gentle reign is 
 here ; 
 Thy emerald robes are on each leafy tree ; 
 In the blue sky thy voice is rich and clear ; 
 And the free brooks have songs to bless thy 
 
 reign — 
 They leap in music 'midst thy bright domain. 
 
 Thus gazing on thy void and sapphire sky, 
 O, summer ! in my inmost soul arise 
 
 Uplifted thoughts, to which the woods reply. 
 And the bland air with its soft melodies — 
 
 Till basking in some vision's glorious ray, 
 I long for eagles' plumes to flee away ! 
 
 Willis G. Clark. 
 
 A DAY IN AUTUMN. 
 
 THERE was not, on that day, a speck to stain 
 The azure heaven \ the blessed sun, alone. 
 In unapproachable divinity, 
 Careered, rejoicing in his fields of light. 
 How beautiful, beneath the bright blue sky. 
 The billows heave ! one glowing green expanse, 
 Save where along the bending line of shore 
 Such hue is known as when the peacock's neck 
 Assumes its proudest tint of amethyst, 
 Embathed in emerald glory. All the flocks 
 Of ocean are abroad : like floating foam. 
 The sea-gulls rise and fall upon the waves ; 
 With long-protruded neck the cormorants 
 Wing their far flight aloft, and round and round 
 The plovers wheel, and give their note of joy. 
 
 It was a day that sent into the heart 
 
 A summer feeling : even the insect swarms 
 
 From their dark nooks and coverts issued forth. 
 
 To sport through one day of existence more ; 
 
 The solitary primrose on the bank 
 
 Seemed now as though it had no cause to mourn 
 
 Its bleak autumnal birth ; the rocks and shores, 
 
 The forest, and the everlasting hills, 
 
 Smiled in that joyful sunshine — they partook 
 
 The universal blessing. 
 
 Robert Southey. 
 
POETRY OF THE YEAR. 
 
 117 
 
 SEPTEMBER-CURLEW. 
 
 White breakers foam upon the desolate sands, 
 rhe gray sea-grass bends in the freshening breeze, 
 And, heard with winds and waves, the curlew's cry 
 Blends in a wild sea music that can please. 
 
 
 m 
 
 A SONG FOR SEPTEMBER. 
 
 SEPTEMBER strews the woodland o'er 
 With many a brilliant color ; 
 The world is brighter than before — 
 Why should our hearts be duller? 
 Sorrow and the scarlet leaf, 
 
 Sad thoughts and sunny weather ! 
 Ah me ! this glory and this grief 
 Agree not well together. 
 
 This is the parting season — this 
 
 The time when friends are flying ; 
 And lovers now, with many a kiss, 
 
 Their long farewells are sighing. 
 Why is earth so gayly drest ? 
 
 This pomp that autumn beareth, 
 A funeral seems, where every guest 
 
 A bridal garment weareth. 
 
 Each one of us, perchance, may here, 
 
 On some blue morn hereafter, 
 Return to view the gaudy year. 
 
 But not with boyish laughter. 
 We shall then be wrinkled men. 
 
 Our brows with silver laden, 
 And thou this glen mayst seek again, 
 
 But nevermore a maiden ! 
 
 Nature perhaps foresees that spring 
 Will touch her teeming bosom, 
 
 And that a few brief months will bring 
 The bird, the bee, the blossom ; 
 
 Ah ! these forests do not know — 
 Or would less brightly wither — 
 
 The virgin that adorns them so 
 Will never more come hither ! 
 
 Thomas William Parsons^ 
 
 SERENITY OF AUTUMN. 
 
 BUT see the fading many-colored woods, 
 Shade deepening over shade, the country 
 round 
 Imbrown ; a crowded umbrage, dusk and dun. 
 Of every hue, from wan declining green 
 To sooty dark. These now the lonesome Muse, 
 Low whispering, lead into their leaf-sirown walks. 
 And give the season in its latest view. 
 
 Meantime, light shadowing all, a sober calm 
 Fleeces unbounded ether : whose least wave 
 Stands tremulous, uncertain where to turn 
 The gentle current : while illumined wide, 
 The dewy-skirted clouds imbibe the sun. 
 And through their lucid veil his softened force 
 Shed o'er the peaceful world. Then is the time, 
 For those whom virtue and whom nature charm, 
 To steal themselves from the degenerate crowd, 
 And soar above this little scene of things ; 
 To tread low-thoughted vice beneath their feet; 
 To soothe the throbbing passions into peace ; 
 And woo lone quiet in her silent walks. 
 
 Thus solitary, and in pensive guise. 
 Oft let me wander o'er the russet mead. 
 And through the saddened grove, where scarce is 
 heard 
 
118 
 
 POETRY OF THE YEAR. 
 
 One dying strain, to cheer the woodman's toil. 
 Haply some widowed songster pours his plaint, 
 Far, in faint warblings, through the tawny copse ; 
 While congregated thrushes, linnets, larks. 
 And each wild throat, whose artless strains so late 
 
 The rivers run chill ; 
 
 The red sun is sinking ; 
 And I am grown old, 
 
 And life is fast shrinking ; 
 
 Here's enough for sad thinking ! 
 
 Tho^la-s Hood. 
 
 Robbed of their tuneful souls, now shivermg sit 
 On the dead tree, a dull despondent flock; 
 With not a brightness waving o'er their plumes. 
 And nought save chattering discord in their note 
 
 James Thomson. 
 
 T 
 
 AUTUMN. 
 
 HE autumn is old ; 
 
 The sere leaves are flying; 
 He hath gathered up gold, 
 And now he is dying : 
 Old age, begin sighing ! 
 
 The vintage is ripe ; 
 The harvest is heaping ; 
 
 But some that have sowed 
 Have no riches for reaping : 
 Poor wretch, fall a-weeping ! 
 
 The year's in the wane ; 
 
 There is nothing adorning ; 
 The night has no eve, 
 
 And the day has no morning; 
 
 Cold winter gives warning. 
 
 AUTUMN FLOWERS. 
 
 THOSE few pale autumn flowers, 
 How beautiful they are ! 
 Than all that went before, 
 Than all the summer store. 
 How lovelier far ! 
 
 And why ? — They are the last ! 
 
 The last ! the last ! the last ! 
 Oh! by that little word 
 How many thoughts are stirred 
 
 That whisper of the past ! 
 
 Pale flowers! pale perishing flowers! 
 
 Ye' re types of precious things; 
 Types of those bitter moments, 
 That flit, like life's enjoyments. 
 
 On rapid, rapid wings : 
 
 Last hours with parting dear ones 
 (That time the fastest spends), 
 
POETRY OF THE YEAR, 
 
 119 
 
 Last tears in silence shed, 
 Last words half uttered, 
 Last looks of dying friends. 
 
 Who but would fain compress 
 
 A life into a day — 
 The last day spent with one 
 Who, ere the morrow's sun, 
 
 Must leave us, and for aye ? 
 
 The rabbit is cavorting 
 Along the gloomy slope, 
 
 The shotgun of the sportsman 
 Eliminates his lope. 
 
 The butterfly's departed. 
 Likewise the belted bee. 
 
 The small boy in the orchard 
 Is up the apple tree. 
 
 M I 
 
 \ 
 
 
 
 OCTOBER— SWALLOW. 
 
 The sky grows dim, the leaves like lost hope fall, 
 And Swallows, joyous comers long ago. 
 
 Rise up to take departure — summer friends, 
 Who leave us lone to meet the coming woe. 
 
 precious, precious moments ! 
 
 Pale flowers ! ye' re types of those; 
 The saddest, sweetest, dearest, 
 Because, like those, the nearest 
 
 To an eternal close. 
 
 Pale flowers ! pale perishing flowers ! 
 I woo your gentle breath — 
 
 1 leave the summer rose 
 For younger, blither brows ; 
 
 Tell me of change and death ! 
 
 Caroline B. Southey. 
 
 T 
 
 OCTOBER. 
 
 HE pumpkin pie is yellow, 
 The buckwheat cake is brown, 
 
 The farmer's gray neck whiskers 
 Are full of thistle down. 
 
 The leaves are crisp and russet, 
 The sumac's blazing red, 
 
 The butternut descending 
 Is cracked upon your head. 
 
 The county fair is blooming. 
 The circus is no more. 
 
 And on the polished brass dogs 
 We make the hickory roar. 
 
 The trees wear lovely colors 
 
 In beautiful excess ; 
 All nature seems to rustle 
 
 Just like a new silk dress. 
 
 The sausage soon will ripen. 
 The popcorn soon will pop. 
 
 And Christmas things enliven 
 The window of the shop. 
 
 Sing ho ! for merry autumn, 
 Sing ho ! for autumn gay, 
 
 Whose pretty potpie squirrels 
 Among the branches play. 
 
 For now no merry bluebird 
 Upon the rose tree toots. 
 
 And autumn, golden autumn, 
 ^^-enely up and scoots. 
 
120 
 
 POETRY OF THE YEAR, 
 
 BEAUTIES OF AUTUMN. 
 
 THE month is now far spent ; and the meri- 
 dian sun, 
 Most sweetly smihng, with attempered beams, 
 Sheds gently down a mild and grateful 
 warmth ; 
 f^eneath its yellow lustre, groves and woods, 
 
 With its bright colors intermixed with spots 
 
 Of darker green. Yes, it were sweetly sad 
 
 To wander in the open fields, and hear, 
 
 E'en at this hour, the noon-day hardly past, 
 
 The lulling insects of the summer's night ; 
 
 To hear, where lately buzzing swarms were heard, 
 
 A lonely bee, long roving here and there 
 
 Chequered by one night's frost with various hues, 
 While yet no wind has swept a leaf away, 
 Shine doubly rich. It were a sad delight 
 Down the smooth stream to glide, and see it 
 
 tinged 
 Upon each brink with all the gorgeous hues, 
 The yellow, red, or purple of the trees 
 That singly, or in tufts, or forests thick, 
 Adorn the shores — to see, perhaps, the side 
 Of some high mount reflected far below, 
 
 To find a single flower, but all in vain ; 
 Then rising quick, and with a louder hum. 
 In widening circles round and round his head, 
 Straight by the listener flying clear away, 
 As if to bid the fields a last adieu ; 
 To hear, within the woodland's sunny side. 
 Late full of music, nothing save, perhaps. 
 The sound of nut-shells, by the squirrel dropped 
 From some tall beech, fast falling through the 
 leaves. Carlos Wilcox. 
 
POETRY OF THE YEAR. 
 
 121 
 
 NOVEMBER— SEA=GULL. 
 
 Storms of autumn sweep the sea, 
 Inland, on the blast upwinging, 
 Come white-breasted Sea-gulls bringin 
 Fresh breaths of the wild and free. 
 
 1 
 
 A STILL DAY IN AUTUMN. 
 
 LOVE to wander through the woodlands hoary, 
 
 In the soft gloom of an autumnal day. 
 When summer gathers up her robes of glory, 
 And, like a dream of beauty, glides away. 
 
 How, through each loved, familiar path she lingers, 
 Serenely smiling through the golden mist, 
 
 Tinting the wild grape with her dewy fingers. 
 Till the cool emerald turns to amethyst ; 
 
 Kindling the faint stars of the hazel, shining 
 To light the gloom of autumn's mouldering 
 halls; 
 With hoary plumes the clematis entwining. 
 
 Where, o'er the rock, her withered garland 
 falls. 
 
 Warm lights are on the sleepy uplands waning 
 Beneath dark clouds along the liorizon rolled, 
 
 Till the slant sunbeams, through their fringes rain- 
 ing, 
 Bathe all the hills in melancholy gold. 
 
 The moist winds breathe of crisped leaves and 
 flowers, 
 
 In the damp hollows of the woodland sown, 
 Mingling the freshness of autumnal showers 
 
 With spicy airs from cedam alleys blown. 
 
 Beside the biook and on the umbered meadow, 
 Whete yellow fern-tufts fleck the faded ground, 
 
 With folded lids beneath their palmy shadow. 
 The gentian nods, in dreary slumbers bound. 
 
 Upon those soft, fringed lids the bee sits brooding, 
 Like a fond lover loath to say farewell ; 
 
 Or, with shut wings, through silken folds intruding, 
 Creeps near her heart his drowsy tale to tell. 
 
 The little birds upon the hill-side lonely 
 Flit noiselessly along from spray to spray. 
 
 Silent as a sweet, wandering thought, that only 
 Shows its bright wings and softly glides away. 
 
 The scentless flowers, in the warm sunlight dream- 
 ing, 
 Forget to breathe their fulness of delight ; 
 And through the tranced woods soft airs are 
 streaming, 
 Still as the dew-fall of the summer night. 
 
 So, in my heart, a sweet, unwonted feeling 
 Stirs, like the wind in ocean's hollow shell, 
 
 Through all its secret chambers sadly stealing, 
 Yet finds no words its mystic charm to tell. 
 SAR.A.H H. Whitman. 
 
 VERSES IN PRAISE OF ANGLING. 
 
 QUIVERING fears, heart-tearing cares, 
 Anxious sighs, untimely tears, 
 Fly, fly to courts. 
 Fly to fond worldlings' sports, 
 Where strained sardonic smiles are glosing still. 
 And grief is forced to laugh against her will, 
 Where mirth's but mummery, 
 And sorrows only real be. 
 
122 
 
 POETRY OF THE YEAR. 
 
 Fly from our country pastimes, fly, 
 Sad troops of human misery ; 
 Come, serene looks, 
 Clear as the crystal brooks, 
 
 Abused mortals ! did you know 
 
 Where joy, heart's ease, and comforts grow. 
 You'd scorn proud towers 
 And seek them in these bowers, 
 
 ')r the pure azured heaven that smiles to 
 see 
 
 t'he rich attendance on our poverty ; 
 Peace and a secure mind, 
 Which all men seek, we only find. 
 
 Where winds, sometimes, our woods perhaps may 
 shake, 
 
 But blustering care could never tempest make, 
 Nor murmurs e'er come nigh us, 
 Saving of fountains that glide by us. 
 
POETRY OF THE YEAR, 
 
 123 
 
 Here's no fantastic mask nor dance, 
 But of our kids that frisk and prance; 
 
 Nor wars are seen, 
 
 Unless upon the green 
 Two harmless lambs are butting one the other, 
 Wliich done, both bleating run, each to his mother; 
 
 And wounds are never found. 
 
 Save what the ploughshare gives the ground. 
 
 Here are no entrapping baits 
 To h isten to too hasty fates ; 
 
 Unless it be 
 
 The fond credulity 
 or silly fish, which, worldling like, still look 
 Upon the bait, but never on the hook ; 
 
 Nor envy, 'less among 
 
 The birds, for price of their sweet song. 
 
 Go, let the diving negro seek 
 
 For gems, hid in some forlorn creek : 
 
 We all pearls scorn 
 
 Save what the dewy morn 
 Congeals upon each little spire of grass, 
 Which careless shepherds beat down as they 
 pass; 
 
 And gold ne'er here appears. 
 
 Save what the yellow Ceres bears. 
 
 Blest silent groves, oh, may you be, 
 For ever, mirth's best nursery ! 
 May pure contents 
 For ever pitch their tents 
 Upon these downs, these meads, these rocks, these 
 
 mountains ; 
 And peace still slumber by these purling foun- 
 tains. 
 Which we may every year 
 Meet, when we come a-fishing here. 
 
 Sir Henry Wotton. 
 
 The partridge looks round on the wintry world. 
 Snow-draped in ermine, with frost impearled ; 
 " I'm warm," says he, ''and dressed for the cold 
 As well as the lamb that's snug in the fold." 
 
 AUTUMN— A DIRGE. 
 
 pale 
 
 THE warm sun is falling; the bleak wind is 
 wailing ; 
 The bare boughs are sighing; the 
 flowers are dying ; 
 And the year 
 On the earth, her death -bed, in shroud of leaves dead, 
 Is lying. 
 Come, months, come away, 
 From November to May ; 
 In your saddest array 
 Follow the bier 
 Of the dead, cold year. 
 And like dim shadows watch by her sepulchre. 
 
 The chill rain is falling ; the nipt worm is crawling ; 
 The rivers are swelling ; the thunder is knelling 
 
 For the year ; 
 The blithe swallows are flown, and the lizards 
 each gone 
 
 To his dwelling ; 
 Come, months, come away ; 
 Put on white, black and gray ; 
 Let your light sisters play — 
 Ye, follow the bier 
 Of the dead, cold year, 
 And make her grave green with tear on tear. 
 
 Percy B. Shelley. 
 
124 
 
 POETRY OF THE YEAR. 
 
 \ 
 
 THE FIRST SNOWFALL. 
 
 THE snow had begun in the gloaming, 
 And busily all the night 
 Had been heaping field and highway 
 With a silence deep and white. 
 
 Every pine and fir and hemlock 
 Wore ermine too dear for an earl, 
 
 And the poorest twig on the elm-tree 
 Was ridged inch deep with pearl. 
 
 From sheds new-roofed with Carrara 
 Came chanticleer's muffled crow, 
 
 The stiff rails were softened to swan's-down, 
 And still fluttered down the snow. 
 
 I remembered the gradual patience 
 That fell from that cloud like snow, 
 
 Flake by flake, healing and hiding 
 The scar of our deep-plunged woe. 
 
 And again to the child I whispered, 
 
 '' The snow that husheth all. 
 Darling, the merciful Father 
 
 Alone can make it fall !" 
 
 Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her, 
 And she, kissing back, could not know 
 
 That my kiss was given to her sister, 
 Folded close under deepening snow. 
 
 James Russell Lowell. 
 
 I stood and watched by the window 
 The noiseless work of the sky, 
 
 And the sudden flurries of snow-birds, 
 Like brown leaves whirling by. 
 
 I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn 
 Where a little headstone stood ; 
 
 How the flakes were folding it gently, 
 As did robins the babes in the wood. 
 
 Up spoke our own little Mabel, 
 
 Saying, " Father, who makes it snow?' 
 
 And I told of the good All-Father 
 Who cares for us here below. 
 
 Again I looked at the snowfall, 
 And thought of the leaden sky 
 
 That arched o'er our first great sorrow, 
 When that mound was heaped so high. 
 
 W 
 
 OLD=TIME WiNTER. 
 
 HERE, oh, where, is winter, 
 The sort we used to know? 
 The icy blast, 
 The skies o'ercast, 
 And the drifting, sifting snow? 
 Where are the ponds for skating. 
 The snow-clad coasting hills; 
 The urchin's sled. 
 And the usual dread 
 
 Of colds and other ills? 
 Where are the jingling sleighbells, 
 The girl with the frosted nose, 
 The slippery walks 
 And the old-fashioned gawks. 
 
 With the shoes inside their hose? 
 Where are the snowball battles, 
 Of the erstwhile festive kid; 
 
POETRY OF THE YEAR. 
 
 125 
 
 The snowy spheres, 
 That skipped one's ears, 
 
 The wind that chased one's lid ? 
 Where is the old-style winter, 
 
 The winter of winds that blow ? 
 Tell us we pray, 
 Where the icicles stay, 
 
 Of the winters we used to know? 
 
 DIRGE FOR The YEAR. 
 
 ORPHAN hours, the year is dead, 
 Come and sigh, come and weep I 
 Merry hours, smile instead, 
 For the year is but asleep : 
 See, it smiles as it is sleeping. 
 Mocking your untimely weeping. 
 
 BLOW, BLOW, THOU WINTER WIND. 
 
 B 
 
 LOW, blow, thou winter wind — 
 Thou art not so unkind 
 As man's ingratitude ; 
 Thy tooth is not so keen. 
 Because thou art not seen. 
 
 Although thy breath be rude, 
 Heigh ho ! sing heigh ho ! unto the green holly ° 
 Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly; 
 Then, heigh ho ! the holly ! 
 This life is most jolly ! 
 
 Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky — 
 Thou dost not bite so nigh 
 
 As benefits forgot ; 
 Though thou the waters warp. 
 Thy sting is not so sharp 
 
 As friend remembered not. 
 Heigh ho ! sing heigh ho ! unto the green holly: 
 Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly; 
 Then, heigh ho ! the holly ! 
 This life is most jolly ! 
 
 William Shakespeare. 
 
 As an earthquake rocks a corse 
 
 In its coffin in the clay, 
 So white winter, that rough nurse, 
 
 Rocks the dead-cold year to-day , 
 Solemn hours ! wail aloud 
 For your mother in her shroud. 
 
 As the wild air stirs and sways 
 The tree-swung cradle of a child. 
 
 So the breath of these rude days 
 
 Rocks the year. Be calm and mild. 
 
 Trembling hours ; she will arise 
 
 With new love within her eyes. 
 
 January gray is here. 
 
 Like a sexton by her grave ; 
 February bears the bier ; 
 
 March with grief doth howl and rave. 
 And April weeps — but, O ye hours ! 
 Follow with May's fairest flowers. 
 
 Percy B. Shelley. 
 
I 
 
 126 
 
 POETRY OF THE YEAR. 
 
 THE LA5T 5N0W OF WINTER. 
 
 SOFT snow still rests within this wayside cleft, 
 Veiling the primrose buds not yet unfurled ; 
 Last trace of dreary winter, idly left 
 On beds of moss, and sere leaves crisply curled ; 
 Why does it linger while the violets blow, 
 And sweet things grow ? 
 
 A relic of long nights and weary days, 
 
 When all fair things were hidden from my sight ; 
 
 It was a time of rapture 1 Clear and loud 
 The village clock tolled six — I wheeled about, 
 Proud and exulting, like an untired horse 
 That cares not for his home. — All shod with steel 
 We hissed along the polished ice, in games 
 Confederate, imitative of the chase 
 And woodland pleasures — the resounding horn, 
 The pack loud-chiming, and the hunted hare. 
 
 So through the darkness and the cold we flew, 
 And not a voice was idle : with the din 
 
 
 A chill reminder of those mournful ways 
 
 1 traversed when the fields were cold and white; 
 My life was dim, my hopes lav still and low 
 Beneath the si^.ow ! 
 
 Now spring is coming, and ray buried love 
 
 Breaks fresh and strong and living through the 
 sod; 
 The lark sings loudly in the blue above. 
 
 The budding earth must magnify her God; 
 Let the old sorrows and old errors go 
 With the last snow ! 
 
 Sarah Doudney. 
 
 SKATING. 
 
 AND in the frosty season, when the sun 
 Was set, and, visible for many a mile. 
 The cottage-windows through the twilight 
 blazed, 
 I heeded not the summons : happy time 
 it was indeed for all of us ; for me 
 
 Smitten, the precipices rang aloud ; 
 
 The leafless trees and every icy crag 
 
 Tinkled like iron ; while the distant hills 
 
 Into the tumult sent an alien sound 
 
 Of melancholy, not unnoticed, while the stars, 
 
 Eastward, were sparkling clear, and in the west 
 
 The orange sky of evening died away. 
 
 Not seldom from the uproar I retired 
 
 Into a silent bay, or sportively 
 
 Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous throng, 
 
 To cut across the reflex of a star ; 
 
 Image, that, flying still before me, gleamed 
 
 Upon the glassy plain : and oftentimes, 
 
 When we had given our bodies to the wind, 
 
 And all the shadowy banks on either side 
 
 Came sweeping through the darkness, spinning 
 
 still 
 The rapid line of motion, then at once 
 Have I, reclining back upon my heels, 
 Stopped short ; yet still the solitary cliffs 
 
\Vix\iJiK PAbTlIOi::. 
 
 127 
 
128 
 
 POETRY OF THE YEAR. 
 
 Wheeled by me— even as if the earth had rolled 
 With visible motion her diurnal round ! 
 Behind me did they stretch in solemn train, 
 Feebler and feebler, and I stood and watched 
 Till all was tranquil as a summer sea. 
 
 William Wordsworth. 
 
 WITHERED FLOWERS. 
 
 DIEU ! ye withered flowerets ! 
 Your day of glory's past ; 
 But your parting smile was loveliest, 
 
 For we knew it was your last : 
 No more the sweet aroma 
 
 Of your golden cups shall rise, 
 To scent the morning's stilly breath, 
 Or gloaming's zephyr sighs. 
 
 Ye were the sweetest offerings 
 
 Which friendship could bestow — 
 A token of devoted love 
 
 In pleasure or in woe ! 
 Ye graced the head of infancy, 
 
 By soft affection twined 
 Into a fairy coronal 
 
 Its sunny brows to bind. 
 
 Ye decked the coffins of the dead, 
 
 By yearning sorrows strewd 
 Along each lifeless lineament, 
 
 In death's cold damps bestowed ; 
 Ye were the pleasure of our eyes 
 
 In dingle, wood and word, 
 In the parterre's sheltered premises, 
 
 And on the mountain cold. 
 
 But ah ! a dreary blast hath blown 
 
 Athwart you in your bloom, 
 And, pale and sickly, now your leaves 
 
 The hues of death assume : 
 We mourn your vanished loveliness. 
 
 Ye sweet departed flowers ! 
 For ah ! the fate which blighted you 
 
 An emblem is of ours. 
 
 There comes a blast to terminate 
 
 Our evanescent span : 
 For frail, as your existence, is 
 
 The mortal life of man ! 
 And is the land we hasten to 
 
 A land of grief and gloom? 
 No ! there the Lily of the Vale 
 
 And Rose of Sharon bloom! 
 
 And there a stream of ecstasy 
 
 Through groves of glory flows. 
 And on its banks the Tree of Life 
 
 In heavenly beauty grows; 
 And flowers that never fade away. 
 
 Whose blossoms never close. 
 Bloom round the walks where angels stray, 
 
 And saints redeemed repose. 
 
 And though, like you, sweet flowers ofearthj 
 
 We wither and depart, 
 And leave behind, to mourn our loss. 
 
 Full many an aching heart ; 
 Yet, when the winter of the grave 
 
 Is past, we hope to rise, 
 Warmed by the Sun of Righteousness, 
 
 To blossom in the skies. 
 
 John Bethune. 
 
DESCRIPTIONS AND TALES OF THE SEA: 
 
 EMBRACING 
 
 GRAPHIC PEN-PICTURES OF THE WORLD OF WATERS. 
 
 THE LIFE BRIGADE. 
 
 ARK! 'mid the strife of waters 
 
 A shrill despairing cry, 
 As of some drowning sailor 
 
 In his last agony ! 
 Another ! and now are mingled 
 
 Heart-rending shrieks for aid. 
 Lo ! a sinking ship. What ho ! arouse, 
 
 Arouse the Life Brigade 1 
 
 They come with hurrying footsteps: 
 
 No need for a second call; 
 They are broad awake and ready, 
 
 And willing one and all. 
 Not a hand among them trembles, 
 
 Each tread is firm and free, 
 Not one man's spirit falters 
 
 In the face of the awful sea. 
 
 Yet well may the bravest sailor 
 
 Shrink back appalled to-night 
 From that army of massive breakers 
 
 With their foam -crests gleaming white, 
 Those beautiful, terrible breakers. 
 
 Waiting to snatch their prey, 
 And bury yon hapless vessel 
 
 'Neath a monument of spray ! 
 
 But rugged, and strong, and cneery 
 
 Dauntless and undismayed, 
 Are the weather-beaten heroes 
 
 Of the gallant Life Brigade. 
 ** To the rescue !" shouts their leader, 
 
 Nor pauses for reply — 
 A plunge ! — and the great waves bear him 
 
 Away to do or die ! 
 
 The whole night long, unwearied. 
 
 They battle with wind and sea, 
 All ignorant and heedless 
 
 Of what their end may be. 
 They search the tattered rigging, 
 
 They climb the quivering mast, 
 And life after life is rescued 
 
 Till the frail ship sinks at last. 
 
 9 
 
 The thunderous clouds h:..^ vanished, 
 
 And rose-fingered morn awakes. 
 While over the breast of ocean 
 
 The shimmering sunlight breaks ; 
 And the Life Brigade have finished 
 
 The work God gave them to do. 
 Their names are called. *'Any missing?' 
 
 Mournful the answer — " Two !" 
 
 Two of the best and bravest 
 
 Have been dragged by the cruel waves 
 Down to the depths unmeasured, 
 
 'Mid thousands of sailor graves! 
 Two lives are given for many! 
 
 And the tears of sorrow shed, 
 Should be tears of joy and glory 
 
 For the grandeur of the dead ! 
 
 Minnie Mackay 
 129 
 
130 
 
 DESCRIPTIONS AND TALES OF THE SEA. 
 
 THE LANDSMAN'S SONG, 
 
 O 
 
 H ! who would be bound to the barren sea, 
 If he could dwell on land — 
 Where his step is ever both firm and free, 
 Where flowers arise, 
 Like sweet girls' eyes, 
 And rivulets sing 
 Like birds in spring ? 
 
 And so — I will take my stand 
 
 On land, on land ! 
 For ever and ever on solid land | 
 
 Some swear they could die on the salt, salt sea, 
 (But have they been loved on land ?) 
 
 Some rave of the ocean in drunken glee — 
 Of the music born 
 On a gusty morn. 
 When the tempest is waking, 
 
 For me — I will take my stand 
 
 On land, on land I 
 For ever and ever on solid land ! 
 
 I've sailed on the riotous roaring sea, 
 With an undaunted band : 
 
 Yet my village home more pleaseth me, 
 With its valley gay 
 Where maidens stray, 
 And its grassy mead 
 Where the white flocks feed : 
 
 And billows are breaking. 
 And lightning flashing, 
 And the thick rain dashing. 
 And the winds and the thunders 
 Shout forth the sea wonders ! 
 — Such things may give joy 
 To a dreaming boy : 
 
 But for 7?ie — I will take my stand 
 On land, on land ! 
 
 For ever and ever on solid land. 
 
 Barry Cornwall. 
 
 MY BRIGANTINE. 
 
 JUST in thy mould and beauteous in thy form, 
 Gentle in roll and buoyant on the surge, 
 Light as the sea-fowl rocking in the storm, 
 In breeze and gale thy onward course we 
 urge, 
 
 My water-queen ! 
 Lady of mine, 
 More light and swift than thou none thread the 
 
 sea, 
 With surer keel or steadier on its path. 
 
 We brave each waste of ocean-mystery 
 
 And laugh to hear the howling tempest's wrath, 
 
 For we are thine. 
 
 '' My'brigantine ! 
 Trust to the mystic power that points thy way. 
 Trust to the eye that pierces from afar ; 
 Trust the red meteors that around thee play. 
 And, fearless, trust the Sea-Green Lady's Star, 
 
 Thou bark divine !" 
 
 James Fenimore Cooper. 
 
The various corals, many 
 of them beautiful in color and 
 structure, are the work of 
 minute insects, myriads of 
 which people some parts of 
 the ocean. They are as busy 
 workers in the water as bees 
 are on land. 
 
 In the waters of the Cen- 
 tral Pacific coral reefs are 
 found in greatest profusion 
 and variety. These reefs, built 
 up by the tiny workmen from 
 the bottom of the sea until 
 they reach the surface, vary in 
 size from less than a mile to 
 ninety miles long, and may be 
 ten miles wide, the breadth 
 being on the average about a 
 quarter of a mile. 
 
 CORAL TREASURES OF THE SEA. 
 
 131 
 
132 
 
 DESCRIPTIONS AND TALES OF THE SEA. 
 
 IS MY LOVER ON THE SEA? 
 
 IS my lover on the sea, 
 Sailing East, or sailing West ? 
 Mighty ocean, gentle be, 
 Rock him into rest ! 
 
 Let no angry wind arise, 
 
 Nor a wave with whitened crest ; 
 All be gentle as his eyes 
 
 When he is caressed ! 
 
 Bear him (as the breeze above 
 Bears the bird unto its nest), 
 
 Here — unto his home of love, 
 And there bid him rest ! 
 
 Barry Cornwall. 
 
 WRECK OF THE HURON. 
 
 A FEW days ago there went out from our 
 Brooklyn Navy Yard a man-of-war, the 
 Huron. She steamed down to Hampton 
 Roads, dropped anchor for further orders, and 
 then went on southward — one hundred and thirty- 
 six souls on board — and the life of the humblest 
 boy in sailor's jacket as precious as the life of the 
 commander. 
 
 There were storms in the air, the jib-stay had 
 been carried away, but what cares such a monarch 
 
 of the deep for a hurricane ! All's well at twelve 
 o'clock at night ! Strike eight bells ! All's well 
 at one o'clock in the morning ! Strike two bells ! 
 How the water tosses from the iron prow of the 
 Huron as she seems moving irresistibly on ! If a 
 fishing smack came in her way she would ride it 
 down and not know she touched it. 
 
 But, alas! through the darkness she is aiming 
 for Nag's Head ! What is the matter with the 
 compasses? At one o'clock and forty minutes 
 there is a harsh grating on the 
 bottom of the ship, and the cry 
 goes across the ship, " What's the 
 matter?" Then the sea lifts up 
 the ship to let her fall on the 
 breakers — shock ! shock ! shock ! 
 The dreadful command of the 
 captain rings across the deck and 
 is repeated among the hammocks, 
 "All hands save the ship!" 
 Then comes the thud of the axe 
 in answer to the order to cut 
 away the mast. Overboard go 
 the guns. They are of no use in 
 this battle with the wind and 
 wave. 
 
 Heavier and heavier the vessel 
 falls till the timbers begin to 
 crack. The work of death goes 
 on, every surge of the sea carry- 
 ing more men from the forecastle, 
 and reaching up its briny fingers 
 to those hanging in the rigging. 
 Numb and frozen, they hold on 
 and lash themselves fast, while 
 some, daring each other to the 
 undertaking, plunge into the 
 beating surf and struggle for the 
 land. Oh, cruel sea ! Pity them, 
 as bruised, and mangled, and with 
 broken bones, they make desper- 
 ate effort for dear life. For thirty 
 miles along the beach the dead of the Huron are 
 strewn, and throughout the land there is weeping 
 and lamentation and great woe. 
 
 A surviving officer of the vessel testifies that 
 the conduct of the men was admirable. It is a 
 magnificent thing to see a man dying at his post, 
 doing his whole duty. It seems that every ship- 
 wreck must give to the world an illustration of 
 the doctrine of vicarious sacrifice — men daring 
 all things to save their fellows. Who can see 
 such things without thinking of the greatest deed 
 of these nineteen centuries, the pushing out of 
 the Chieftain of the universe to take the human 
 race off the wreck of the world ? And this is 
 a rescue that will fill heaven with hallelujahs and 
 resounding praise, and the jubilant notes of the 
 anthem will never cease. 
 
 T. De Witt Talmage. 
 
DESCRIPTIONS AND TALES OF THE SEA, 
 
 133 
 
 T 
 
 THE LIGHTHOUSE. 
 
 HE rocky ledge runs far into the sea 
 
 And on its outer point, some miles away, 
 The lighthouse lifts its massive masonry, 
 A pillar of fire by night, of cloud by day. 
 
 Even at this distance I can see the tides. 
 Upheaving, break unheard along its base, 
 
 A speechless wrath, that rises and subsides 
 In the white lip and tremor of the face. 
 
 And as the evening darkens, lo ! how bright, 
 Through the deep purple of the twilight air. 
 Beams forth the sudden radiance of its 
 light 
 With strange, unearthly splendor in 
 its glare ! 
 
 And the great ships sail outward and 
 return. 
 Bending and bowing o'er the billowy 
 swells. 
 And ever joyful, as they see it burn. 
 They wave their silent welcomes and 
 farewells. 
 
 The startled waves leap over it ; the storm 
 Smites it with all the scourges of the rain. 
 
 And steadily against its solid form 
 
 Press the great shoulders of the hurricane. 
 
 The sea-bird wheeling round it, with the din 
 Of wings and winds and solitary cries, 
 
 Blinded and maddened by the light within, 
 Dashes himself against the glare, and dies. 
 
 A new Prometheus, chained upon the rock. 
 Still grasping in his hand the fire of Jove, 
 
 They come forth from the darkness, ard 
 their sails 
 Gleam for a moment only in the blaze. 
 And eager faces, as the light unveils, 
 Gaze at the tower, and vanish while 
 they gaze. 
 
 The mariner remembers when a child. 
 On his first voyage, he saw it fade and 
 sink ; 
 And when, returning from adventures 
 wild, 
 He saw it rise again o'er ocean's brink. 
 
 Steadfast, serene, immovable, the same 
 
 Year after year, through all the silent night 
 
 Burns on for evermore that quenchless flame, 
 Shines on that inextinguishable light ! 
 
 It sees the ocean to its bosom clasp 
 
 The rocks and sea-sand with the kiss of peace 
 It sees the wild winds lift it in their grasp. 
 
 And hold it up, and shake it like a fleece. 
 
 It does not hear the cry, nor heed the shock, 
 But hails the mariner with words of love. 
 
 " Sail on !" it says, " sail on, ye stately ships ! 
 And with your floating bridge the ocean 
 span ; 
 Be mine to guard this light from all eclipse, 
 Be yours to biing man nearer unto man !" 
 H, W. Longfellow. 
 
134 
 
 DESCRIPTIONS AND TALES OF THE SEA, 
 
 THE MINUTE GUN. 
 
 W 
 
 HEN in the storm on Albion's coast, 
 The night-watch guards his wary post, 
 
 From thoughts of danger free, 
 
 He marks some vessel's dusky form, 
 
 And hears, amid the howling storm, 
 
 The minute-gun at sea. 
 
 Swift on the shore a hardy few 
 The life-boat man with gallant crew 
 And dare the dangerous wave ; 
 Through the wild surf they cleave their way. 
 
 Lost in the foam, nor know dismay, 
 For they go the crew to save. 
 
 But, O, what rapture fills each breast 
 
 Of the hopeless crew of the ship distressed ! 
 
 Then, landed safe, what joy to tell 
 
 Of all the dangers that befell ! 
 
 Then is heard no more. 
 
 By the watch on shore. 
 
 The minute-gun at sea. 
 
 R. S. Sharpe, 
 
 I LOVED THE OCEAN, 
 
 WHAT was it that I loved so well about my 
 childhood's home? 
 It was the wide and wave-lashed shore, 
 the black rocks crowned with foam ! 
 It was the sea-gull's flapping wing, all trackless in 
 
 its flight, 
 Its screaming note that welcomed on the fierce 
 
 and stormy night ! 
 The wild heath had its flowers and moss, the for- 
 est had its trees. 
 Which bending to the evening wind, made music 
 
 in the breeze. 
 But earth, ha ! ha ! I laugh e'en now, earth had 
 no charms for me : 
 
 No scene half bright enough to win my young 
 
 heart from the sea ! 
 No ! 't was the ocean, vast and deep, the fathom- 
 less, the free ! 
 The mighty rushing waters, that were ever dear 
 
 to me ! 
 My earliest steps would wander from the green and 
 
 fertile land, 
 Down where the clear blue ocean rolled to pace 
 
 the rugged strand ; 
 Oh ! how I loved the waters, and even longed 
 
 to be 
 A bird, a boat, or anything that dwelt upon the 
 
 sea ! Eliza Cook 
 
DESCRIPTIONS AND TALES OF THE SEA. 
 
 135 
 
 THE WHITE SQUALL. 
 
 ND so the hours kept 
 tolling ; 
 And through the ocean 
 
 rolling 
 Went the brave Iberia 
 bowling, 
 
 Before the break of 
 day — 
 
 When a squall upon a 
 
 sudden, 
 Came o'er the waters 
 
 scudding ; 
 And the clouds began 
 
 to gather. 
 And the sea was lashed 
 
 to lather, 
 And the lowering thun- 
 der grumbled, 
 And the lightning 
 jumped and tumbled, 
 And the ship, and all 
 
 the ocean, 
 Woke up in wild com- 
 motion. 
 Then the wind set up a 
 howling. 
 And the poodle dog a yowling, 
 And the cocks began a crowing, 
 And the old cow raised a lowing. 
 As she heard the tempest blowing ; 
 And fowls and geese did cackle, 
 And the cordage and the tackle 
 Began to shriek and crackle ; 
 And the spray dashed o'er the funiiels, 
 And down the deck in runnels ; 
 And the rushing water soaks all, 
 From the seamen in the fo'ksal 
 To the stokers, whose black faces 
 Peer out of their bed-places ; 
 And the captain he was bawling, 
 And the sailors pulling, hauling. 
 And the quarter-deck tarpauling 
 Was shivered in the squalling ; 
 And the passengers awaken. 
 Most pitifully shaken ; 
 And the steward jumps up, and hastens 
 For the necessary basins. 
 
 And when, its force expended, 
 The harmless storm was ended. 
 And as the sunrise splendid 
 
 Came blushing o'er the sea— 
 I thought, as day was breaking, 
 My little girls were waking. 
 And smiling, and making 
 A prayer at home for me. 
 
 William Makepeace Thackeray. 
 
 THE BOATMEN'S SONG. 
 
 COME, sport with the sea-gull— come, ride 
 on the billows. 
 Come, dance with the mermaids upon the 
 wave's crest ; 
 The sea is the mother that fondles and pillows 
 Our loved little craft on her passionate breast. 
 
 We dip the long oars in the swift-flowing tide, 
 We shoot the sharp prow through the white, 
 splashing foam, 
 
 Fast away — far away o'er the waters we glide, 
 And, jubilant, sing to the winds as we roam. 
 
 We have bronze on our cheeks and we carry the 
 traces 
 Of storm and of sun as we bend to the oar, 
 
 The tales of the deep you may read in our faces, 
 And hear in our ballads the hoarse tempest's 
 roar. 
 
 Eyes fired with love scan the wide waters o'er. 
 Breasts beat with the wavelets that strike our 
 light craft ; 
 To the watchers who wait on the dim, distant 
 shore, 
 Our thoughts and heart messages fondly we 
 waft. 
 
 Now away, brave and gay, through the mist and 
 the spray. 
 
 With cradle- like motion 
 We toss on the ocean, 
 And murmuring waters around the boat play ; 
 We are gallant and merry. 
 And our dull cares we bury 
 Down deep in the caves of the wide-spreading bay. 
 
 Henry Dave n port = 
 
136 
 
 DESCRIPTIONS AAW TALES OF THE SEA. 
 
 TACKING 5HIP OFF SHORE. 
 
 HE weather- 
 leech of the 
 topsail shivers, 
 he bowlines 
 strain, and the 
 lee-shrouds 
 slacken. 
 The braces are taut, 
 the lithe boom 
 quivers. 
 And the waves 
 with the coming 
 squall-cloud blacken. 
 
 Open one point on the 
 weather-bow, 
 Is the light-house tall on 
 Fire Island Head? 
 There's a shade of doubt 
 on the captain's brow. 
 And the pilot watches the heaving lead. 
 
 I stand at the wheel, and with eager eye 
 To sea and to sky and to shore I gaze. 
 
 Till the muttered order of "Full and by ! " 
 Is suddenly changed for "Full for stays ! " 
 
 The ship bends lower before the breeze, 
 As her broadside fair to the blast she lays ; 
 
 And she swifter springs to the rising seas. 
 As the pilot calls, "Stand by for stays ! " 
 
 It is silence all, as each in his place, 
 
 With the gathered coil in his hardened hands. 
 
 By tack and bowline, by sheet and brace. 
 Waiting the watchword impatient stands. 
 
 And the light on Fire Island Head draws near. 
 As, trumpet-winged, the pilot's shout 
 
 From his post on the bowsprit's heel I hear. 
 With the welcome call of "Ready! About!" 
 
 No time to spare ! It is touch and go ; 
 
 And the captain cries, "Down, helm! hard 
 down!" 
 As my weight on the whirling spokes I throw. 
 While heaven grows black with the storm-cloud's 
 frown. 
 
 High o'er the knight-heads flies the spray, 
 As we meet the shock of the plunging sea; 
 
 And my shoulder stiff to the wheel I lay. 
 
 As I answer, "Ay, ay, sir! Ha-a-rd a-lee! " 
 
 With the swerving leap of a startled steed 
 The ship flies fast in the eye of the wind, 
 
 The dangerous shoals on the lee recede. 
 
 And the headland white we have left behind. 
 
 The topsails flutter, the jibs collapse. 
 
 And belly and tug at the groaning cleats ; 
 
 The spanker slats, and the mainsail flaps; 
 
 And thunders the order, "Tacks and sheets! " 
 
 'Mid the rattle of blocks and the tramp of the 
 crew, 
 
 Hisses the rain of the rushing squall: 
 The sails are aback from clew to clew, 
 
 And now is the moment for, "Mainsail, haul! " 
 
 And the heavy yards, like a baby's toy. 
 By fifty strong arms are swiftly swung: 
 
 She holds her way, and I look with joy 
 
 For the first white spray o'er the bulwarks flung. 
 
 "Let go, and haul ! " 'Tis the last command, 
 And the head-sails fill to the blast once more : 
 
 Astern and to leeward lies the land. 
 
 With its breakers white on the shingly shore. 
 
 What matters the reef, or the rain, or the squall? 
 
 I steady the helm for the open sea ; 
 The first mate clamors, "Belay, there, all! " 
 
 And the captain's breath once more comes free. 
 
 And so off shore let the good ship fly; 
 
 Little care I how the gusts may blow. 
 In my fo' castle bunk, in a jacket dry. 
 
 Eight bells have struck, and my watch is below, 
 Walter Mitchell. 
 
 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. 
 
 SOLITUDE OF THE SEA. 
 
 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 cannot all conceal. 
 
 Lord Byron. 
 
ROCK AND SAND BORERS. 
 
 Among the wonders of the sea is a low order of 
 animals admirably adapted for boring in the sand and 
 also in harder substances. Insignificant in appear- 
 ance, easily crushed by the foot of a careless passer- 
 by, they are yet endowed with remarkable power, 
 and are quite as marvelous in their way as "the 
 Leviathan that sporteth himself in the sea." The 
 whole tribe of mollusks has been the wonder of super- 
 ficial observers and the study of scientists. Particu- 
 larly are their shells adorned with some of the finest 
 touches of nature. 
 
 137 
 
138 
 
 DESCRIPTIONS AND TALES OF THE SEA. 
 
 THE OCEAN. 
 
 ALL hail to the ruins, the rocks, and the 
 shores ! 
 Thou wide-rolling Ocean, all hail ! 
 Now brilliant with sunbeams and dimpled with 
 
 oars, 
 Now dark with the fresh-blowing gale, 
 While soft o'er thy bosom the cloud-shadows sail, 
 And the silver-winged sea-fowl on high, 
 Like meteors bespangle the sky, 
 Or drive in the gulf, or triumphantly ride. 
 Like foam on the surges, the swans of the tide. 
 
 THE GRAY 
 
 ^^^^ RAY, tell me, sailor, 
 
 4 4 ^il^ WI3^^^^^^ tell me true, 
 
 Is my little lad, my 
 Elihu, 
 A-sailing with 
 your ship?" 
 The sailor's eyes were 
 dim with dew — 
 Your little lad, your 
 Elihu?" 
 He said with trembling lip — 
 ** What httle lad? What ship?" 
 
 *' What little lad ! as if there could be 
 Another such a one as he ! 
 
 What little lad, do you say ? 
 Why, Elihu, that to the sea 
 The moment I put him off my knee ! 
 
 It was just the other day 
 
 The Gray Swan sailed away." 
 
 " The other day !" the sailor's eyes 
 Stood open with a great surprise, — 
 
 *' The other day ! the Swan !" 
 His heart began in his throat to rise. 
 " Ay, ay, sir ; here in the cupboard lies 
 The jacket he had on." 
 ** And so your lad is gone !" 
 
 '* Gone with the Swan." ''And did she stand 
 
 With her anchor clutching hold of the sand. 
 
 For a month, and never stir?" 
 " Why to be sure I I've seen from the land. 
 Like a lover kissing his lady's hand, 
 
 The wild sea kissing her, 
 
 A sight to remember, sir." 
 
 ** But, my good mother, do you know 
 All this was twenty years ago ? 
 
 From the tumult and smoke of the city set free, 
 With eager and awful delight. 
 From the crest of the mountain I gaze upon thee, 
 I gaze — and am changed at the sight ; 
 For mine eye is illumined, my genius takes flight, 
 My soul, like the sun, with a glance 
 Embraces the boundless expanse. 
 And moves on thy waters, wherever they roll, 
 From the day-darting zone to the night-shado\\ ed 
 pole. 
 
 James Montgomery. 
 
 SWAN. 
 
 I stood on the Gray Swan's deck, 
 And to that lad I saw you throw, 
 Taking it off, as it might be, so. 
 
 The kerchief from your neck." 
 
 '' Ay, and he'll bring it back !" 
 
 And did the little lawless lad 
 
 That has made you sick and made you sad, 
 
 Sail with the Gray Swan's crew?" 
 Lawless ! the man is going mad ! 
 The best boy ever mother had — 
 
 Be sure he sailed with the crew ! 
 
 What would you have him do?" 
 
 And he has never written a line. 
 
 Nor sent you a word, nor made you sign 
 
 To say he was alive ?" 
 Hold ! if 'twas wrong the wrong is mine 
 Besides, he may be in the brine. 
 
 And could he write from the grave ? 
 " Tut, man; what would you have?" 
 
 Gone twenty years— a long, long cruise, 
 'Twas wicked thus your love to abuse ; 
 
 But if the lad still live, 
 And come back home, think you, you can for- 
 give ?" 
 *' Miserable man; you're as mad as the sea — 
 you rave — 
 What have I to forgive ! ' ' 
 
 The sailor twitched his shirt so blue, 
 And from within his bosom drew 
 
 The kerchief. She was wild. 
 My God ! my Father ! is it true ! 
 My little lad, my Elihu ! 
 
 My blessed boy, my child ! 
 
 My dead — my living child !" 
 
 Alice Gary. 
 
DESCRIPTIONS AND TALES OF THE SEA. 
 
 139 
 
 SAILOR'S SONG 
 
 BLOW high, blow low, let tempests tear 
 The mainmast by the board ; 
 My heart with thoughts of thee, my dear 
 And love, well-stored. 
 Shall brave all danger, scorn all fear, 
 The roaring winds the raging sea. 
 
 And this shall be my song : 
 
 Blow high, blow low, let tempests tear 
 The mainmast from the board. 
 
 And on that night when all the crew, 
 The memory of their former lives 
 
 In hopes on shore 
 
 To be once more. 
 
 Safe moored with thee ! 
 
 Aloft, while mountains high we go>, 
 
 The whistling winds that scud along, 
 And the surge roaring from below. 
 Shall my signal be. 
 To think on thee, 
 
 THE 
 
 SEA 
 
 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 , 
 
 O'er flowing cups of flip renew. 
 
 And drink their sweethearts and their wives, 
 I'll heave a sigh, and think on thee ; 
 And, as the ship rolls through the sea, 
 The burden of my song shall be — 
 Blow high, blow low, let tempests tear 
 The mainmast by the board. 
 
 Charles Dibdin. 
 IN CALM. 
 
 Even Echo speaks not on these radiant moors ! 
 What ! is the giant of the ocean dead. 
 Whose strength was all unmatched beneath the suy* i 
 No ; he reposes ! Now his toils are done, 
 More quiet than the babbling brook is he. 
 So mightiest powers by deepest calms are fed, 
 And asleep, how oft, in things that gentlest be I 
 
 Barry Cornwall, 
 
140 
 
 DESCRIPTIONS AND TALES OF THE SEA. 
 
 THE LOST 
 
 'IS night on the waters. The darkness hangs 
 over the sea like a pall: 
 The moon is dissolved \\\ the gloaming — 
 the stars have gone out in the sky. 
 Hushed is the voice of the mermaid; secure in 
 her -par-lighted hall, 
 
 ?nn] 
 
 power, enwrapt in 
 
 ATLANTIC. 
 
 Rest, man! in thy confident 
 
 unbroken repose, 
 While ocean is bearing thee forth from thy land 
 
 to a strange, distant shore. 
 Tranquilly slumber, sweet maid ! nor thine eyelid 
 
 of beauty unclose 
 
 ABANDONING THE SHIP. 
 
 She lists to the voice of the billows, and winds 
 that are fitful and high , 
 But the gallant ship speeds on her passage, and 
 soon in the harbor will glide, 
 Unscathed from the fury of ocean, and safe 
 from the rage of the blast ; 
 On, on, with the prosperous breezes, she fearlessly 
 walks on the tide. 
 With the plash of her paddles time keeping with 
 waves that uprear — fall — are passed. 
 
 *Tis night on the waters. Now gentle, oh babe! 
 be thy slumbers and deep ; 
 Thy visions contrast with the heavens that 
 darkly arch over thee, child ; 
 Nor chill sweeping down from the Northland, nor 
 storm shall forbid thee to sleep, 
 Nor danger approach thee, though booms the 
 loud ocean in majesty wild. 
 
 On the sorrows and joys of a world that shall 
 grieve thee and glad thee no more. 
 
 'Tis night on the waters — a night of ill omen, 
 disaster and doom — 
 For Death is the ghastly commander that now 
 on the vessel's deck stands ! 
 From the mystic unknown he advances, appareled 
 in garbs of the tomb, 
 And over a thousand still sleepers he stretches 
 his skeleton hands ! 
 Hark to the loud detonations of breakers and 
 billows ! .... A shock ! 
 The strong and majestical vessel goes down — the 
 seas break o'er her now j 
 The proud but ill-fated Atlantic is dashed on the 
 perilous rock, 
 For Death — the commander — the pilot — his 
 station has ta'en at her prow. 
 
DESCRIPTIONS AND TALES OF THE SEA. 
 
 141 
 
 Up through the night on the waters, and filHng 
 with horror the air, 
 The agonized wails of a thousand, that shrink 
 from the sepulchre, rise. 
 Up from the waste of wide waters ascend both a 
 curse and a prayer; 
 To each, in his triumph unsated, grim Death, 
 the commander, replies: 
 "The crypts of the charnel are open. To me — 
 the invincible king — 
 Relentless — compassionless — deathless — to me 
 be an offering made ! ' ' 
 Up through the night on the waters the souls of 
 five hundred take wing — 
 Down, 'mid the seaweed and coral, the clay of 
 five hundred is laid. 
 
 'Tis morn on the waters. From ocean is lifted 
 the shadowy pall; 
 The ripples disport in the daylight; the phan- 
 toms of midnight have flown. 
 The mermaid is plaintively chanting, adown in 
 her spar-lighted hall, 
 A requiem, mournfully tender, for those she 
 laments as her own. 
 Over the populous nations, that loved ones and 
 lost ones bewail, 
 A mantle of sorrow is resting, like night on a 
 desolate heath; 
 O the day was portentous and sad that so many 
 doomed hundreds set sail 
 On the strong yet ill-fated Atlantic, whose cap- 
 tain and pilot was Death. 
 
 John Talman, Jr. 
 
 TWILIGHT. 
 
 What tale do the roaring ocean 
 
 And the night-wind, bleak and wild, 
 
 As they beat at the crazy casement, 
 Tell to that little child? 
 
 MARY'S 
 
 The author is known only for this one beautiful 
 
 THE moon had climbed the highest hill 
 Which rises o'er the source of Dee, 
 And from the eastern summit shed 
 Her silver light on tower and tree ; 
 When Mary laid her down to sleep. 
 Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea, 
 When, soft and slow, a voice was heard; 
 Saying, ' ' Mary, weep no more for me ! ' ' 
 
 She from her pillow gently raised 
 
 Her head, to ask who there might be, 
 And saw young Sandy shivering stand, 
 
 With visage pale and hollow e'e. 
 "O, Mary dear, cold is my clay; 
 
 It lieth beneath a stormy sea. 
 Far, far from thee I sleep in death; 
 
 So, Mary, weep no more for me ! 
 
 HE twilight is sad and cloudy; 
 
 The wind blows wild and free; 
 And like the wings of seabirds 
 Flash the white caps of the sea ; 
 
 But in the fisherman's cottage 
 
 There shines a ruddier light. 
 And a little face at the window 
 
 Peers out into the night; 
 
 Close, close it is pressed to the window. 
 
 As if those childish eyes 
 Were looking into the darkness. 
 
 To see some form arise. 
 
 And a woman's waving shado\y 
 
 Is passing to and fro, 
 Now rising to the ceiling, 
 
 Now bowing and bending low. 
 
 And why do the roaring ocean. 
 
 And the night-wind, wild and bleak, 
 As they beat at the heart of the mother, 
 Drive the color from her cheek? 
 
 H. W. Longfellow. 
 DREAM. 
 
 poem, yet this has given him enduring fame. 
 
 ''Three stormy nights and stormy days 
 
 We tossed upon the raging main; 
 And long we strove our bark to save, 
 
 But all our striving was in vain. 
 Even then, when horror chilled my blood, 
 
 My heart was filled with love for thee: 
 The storm is past, and I at rest ; 
 
 So, Mary, weep no more for me! 
 
 "O maiden dear, thyself prepare; 
 
 We .'^oon shall meet upon that shore. 
 Where love is free from doubt and care, 
 
 And thou and I shall part no more ! ' ' 
 Loud crowed the cock, the shadow fled. 
 
 No more of Sandy could she see; 
 But soft the passing spirit said, 
 
 "Sweet Mary, weep no more for me ! " 
 
 John Lowe. 
 
142 
 
 DESCRIPTIONS AND TALES OF THE SEA. 
 
 DRIFTING. 
 
 Y soul to-day 
 Is far away, 
 Sailing the Vesu- 
 vian Bay ; 
 My winged 
 
 boat, 
 A bird afloat, 
 Swims round the 
 purple peaks remote ; 
 
 Round purple peaks 
 It sails and seeks 
 Blue inlets and their crystal 
 creeks, 
 
 At piece I lie. 
 Blown softly by, 
 A cloud upon this liquid sky. 
 
 The day, so mild. 
 
 Is Heaven's own child, 
 With earth and ocean reconciled ; 
 
 The airs I feel 
 
 Around me steal 
 Are murmuring to the murmuring keel. 
 
 Over the rail 
 
 My hand I trail 
 Within the shadow of the sail, 
 
 A joy intense ; 
 
 The cooling sense 
 Glides down my drowsy indolence. 
 
 With dreamful eyes 
 My spirit lies 
 Where summer sings and never dies j 
 
 Where high rocks throw, 
 Through deeps below, 
 A duplicated golden glow. 
 
 Far, vague, and dim 
 The mountains swim ; 
 
 While on Vesuvius' misty brim, 
 With outstretched hands, 
 The gray smoke stands, 
 
 O'erlooking the volcanic lands. 
 
 I heed not, if 
 
 My rippling skiff 
 Float swift or slow from cliff to cliff: 
 
 With dreamful eyes 
 
 My spirit lies 
 Under the walls of Paradise. 
 
 Under the walls 
 Where swells and falls 
 The bay's deep breast at intervals, 
 
 O'erveiled with vines, 
 She glows and shines 
 Among her future oil and wines. 
 
 Her children, hid 
 
 The cliffs amid, 
 Are gamboling with the gamboling kid, 
 
 Or down the walls. 
 
 With tipsy calls, 
 Laugh on the rocks like waterfalls. 
 
 The fisher's child. 
 
 With tresses wild. 
 Unto the smooth, bright sand beguiled, 
 
 With glowing lips 
 
 Sings as he skips, 
 Or gazes at the far-off ships. 
 
 Yon deep bark goes 
 Where traffic blows 
 From lands of sun to lands of snows ; 
 
DESCRIPTIONS AND TALES OF THE SEA. 
 
 143 
 
 This happier one, 
 Its course is run 
 From lands of snow to lands of sun. 
 
 O happy ship, 
 
 To rise and dip, 
 With the blue crystal at your lip ! 
 
 O happy crew. 
 
 My heart with you 
 Sails, and sails, and sings anew ! 
 
 No more, no more 
 
 The worldly shore 
 Upbraids me with its loud uproar ! 
 
 With dreamful eyes 
 
 My spirit lies 
 Under the walls of paradise ! 
 
 Thomas Buchanan Read. 
 
 THE LAUNCHING OF THE SHIP. 
 
 ALL is finished, and at length 
 Hai come the bridal day 
 Of beauty and of strength. 
 To-day the vessel shall be launched ! 
 With fleecy clouds the sky is blanched, 
 And o'er the bay, 
 Slowly, in all its splendors dight. 
 The great sun rises to behold the sight. 
 The ocean old, 
 Centuries old, 
 
 Strong as youth, and as uncontrolled, 
 Paces restless to and fro, 
 Up and down the sands of gold. 
 His beating heart is not at rest ; 
 And far and wide. 
 With ceaseless flow. 
 His beard of snow 
 Heaves with the heaving of his breast. 
 
 He waits impaiient for his bride. 
 
 There she stands, 
 
 With her foot upon the sands. 
 
 Decked with flags and streamers gay. 
 
 In honor of her marriage-day ; 
 
 Her snow-white signals fluttering, blending 
 
 Round her like a veil descending, 
 
 Ready to be 
 
 The bride of the gray old sea. 
 
 Then the Master, 
 
 With a gesture of command. 
 
 Waved his hand ; 
 
 And at the word. 
 
 Loud and sudden there was heard. 
 
 All around them and below. 
 
 The sound of hammers, blow on blo>.', 
 
 Knocking away the shores and spurs. 
 
 And see ! she stirs. 
 
 She starts, she moves, — she seems to feel 
 
 The thrill of life along her keel, 
 
 And, spurning with her foot the ground, 
 
 With one exulting, joyous bound 
 
 She leaps into the ocean's arms. 
 And lo ! from the assembled crowd 
 There rose a shout, prolonged and loud, 
 That to the ocean seemed to say, 
 *'Take her, O bridegroom, old and gray; 
 Take her to thy protecting arms, 
 With all her youth and all her charms." 
 
 How beautiful she is ! how fair 
 
 She lies within those arms, that press 
 
 Her form with many a soft caress 
 
 Of tenderness and watchful care ! 
 
 Sail forth into the sea, O ship ! 
 
 Through wind and wave, right onward steer; 
 
 The moistened eye, the trembling lip. 
 
 Are not the signs of doubt or fear. 
 
 Sail forth into the sea of life, 
 O gentle, loving, trusting wife ! 
 And safe from all adversity. 
 Upon the bosom of that sea 
 Thy comings and thy goings be ! 
 For gentleness, and love, and trust, 
 Prevail o'er angry wave and gust; 
 And in the wreck of noble lives 
 Something immortal still survives ! 
 
 Thou, too, sail on, O ship of State ! 
 Sail on, O Union, strong and great ! 
 Humanity, with all its fears. 
 With all its hopes of future years, 
 Is hanging breathless on thy fate ! 
 We know what master laid thy keel. 
 What workmen wrought thy ribs of steel, 
 Who made each mast, and sail, and rope. 
 What anvils rang, what hammers beat. 
 In what a forge, and what a heat. 
 Were shaped the anchors of thy hope. 
 
 Fear not each sudden sound and shock ; 
 
 'Tis of the wave and not the rock; 
 
 'Tis but the flapping of the sail. 
 
 And not a rent made by the gale. 
 
 In spite of rock and tempest roar. 
 
 In spite of false lights on the shore, 
 
 Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea. 
 
 Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee, — 
 
 Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, 
 
 Our faith triumphant o'er our fears. 
 
 Are all with thee — are all with thee, 
 
 H. W. Longfellow. 
 
 W 
 
 SUBLIMITY OF THE OCEAN. 
 
 HAT is there more sublime than the track- 
 less, desert, all-surrounding, unfathoma- 
 ble sea? What is there more peacefully 
 sublime than the calm, gently-heaving, silent sea? 
 What is there more terribly sublime than the angry, 
 dashing, foaming sea? Power — resistless, over- 
 whelming power — is its attribute and its expression, 
 whether in the careless, conscious grandeur of its 
 deep rest, or the wild tumult of its excited wrath. 
 
144 
 
 DESCRIPTIONS AND TALES OF THE SEA. 
 
 MARINER'S HYMN. 
 
 LAUNCH thy bark, mariner ! 
 Christian, God speed thee ! 
 Let loose the rudder-bands — 
 Good angels-lead thee ! 
 Set thy sails warily. 
 
 What of the night, watchman ? 
 
 What of the night?" 
 Cloudy — all quiet — 
 
 No land yet— all's right." 
 Be wakeful, be vigilant — 
 
 THE RESCUE. 
 
 Tempests will come ; 
 Steer thy course steadily ; 
 Christian, steer home ! 
 
 Look to the weather-bow, 
 
 Breakers are round thee ; 
 Let fall the plummet now, 
 
 Shallows may ground thee. 
 Reef in the foresail there ; 
 
 Hold the helm fast ! 
 So — let the vessel wear — 
 
 There swept the blast. 
 
 Danger may be 
 At an hour when all seemeth 
 Securest to thee. 
 
 How ! gains the leak so fast? 
 
 Clean out the hold- 
 Hoist up thy merchandise, 
 
 Heave out the gold ; 
 There — let the ingots go- 
 Now the ship rights ; 
 Hurrah ! the harbor's near — 
 Lo ! the red lights ! 
 
DESCRIPTIONS AND TALES OF THE SEA. 
 
 145 
 
 Slacken not sail yet 
 
 At inlet or island ; 
 Straight for the beacon steer, 
 
 Straight for the high land. 
 
 Crowd all thy canvas on, 
 
 Cut through the foam — 
 Christian ! cast anchor now — 
 
 Heaven is thy home ! 
 
 Mrs. Robert Southey. 
 
 THE RETURN OF THE ADMIRAL. 
 
 Oh ! would I were our Admiral, 
 
 To order, with a word — 
 To lose a dozen drops of blood, 
 
 And straight rise up a lord ! 
 I'd shout e'en to you shark, there, 
 
 Who follows in our lee, 
 " Some day I'll make thee carry me. 
 
 Like lightning through the sea." 
 
 The Admiral grew paler, 
 
 And paler as we flew : 
 Still talked he to his officers, 
 
 And smiled upon his crew ; 
 And he looked up at the heavens, 
 
 And looked down on the sea, 
 And at last he spied the creature, 
 
 That kept following in our lee. 
 He shook — 'twas but an instant — 
 
 For speedily the pride 
 Ran crimson to his heart. 
 
 Till all chances he defied : 
 
 It threw boldness on his forehead ; 
 
 Gave firmness to his breath ; 
 And he stood like some grim warrior 
 
 New risen up from death. 
 10 
 
 OTH gallantly, and merrily. 
 
 We ride along the sea ! 
 The morning is all sunshine, 
 
 The wind is blowing free : 
 The billows are all sparkling, 
 
 And bounding in the light, 
 Like creatures in whose sunny veins 
 
 The blood is running bright. 
 All nature knows our triumph : 
 
 Strange birds about us sweep ; 
 Strange things come up to look at us. 
 
 The masters of the deep. 
 In our wake, like any servant, 
 
 Follows even the bold shark — 
 Oh, proud must be our Admiral 
 
 Of such a bonny barque ! 
 
 Proud, proud, must be our Admiral 
 
 (Though he is pale to-day), 
 Of twice five hundred iron men. 
 
 Who all his nod obey ; 
 Who've fought for him, and conquered— 
 
 Who've won, with sweat and gore, 
 Nobility / which he shall have 
 
 Whene'er he touch the shore. 
 
 That night, a horrid whisper 
 
 Fell on us where we lay ; 
 And we knew our old fine Admiral 
 
 Was changing into clay ; 
 And we heard the wash of waters. 
 
 Though nothing could we see. 
 And a whistle and a plunge 
 
 Among the billows on our lee ! 
 Till dawn we watched the body 
 
 In its dead and ghastly sleep. 
 And next evening at sunset. 
 
 It was slung into the deep ! 
 And never, from that moment — 
 
 Save one shudder through the sea, 
 Saw we (or heard) the shark 
 
 That had followed in our lee ! 
 
 Barry Cornwall. 
 
 LIFE'S TROUBLED SEA. 
 
 THIS life is like a troubled sea, 
 Where, helm a-weather or a-lee. 
 The ship will neither stay nor wear. 
 But drives, of every rock in fear. 
 
 Still blows in vain the hurricane, 
 While love is at the helm. 
 
1-iG 
 
 DESCRIPTIONS AND TALES OF THE SEA, 
 
 THE SAILOR'S JOURNAL. 
 
 T 
 
 WAS post meridian, half- past four, 
 By signal I from Nancy parted ; 
 At six she lingered on the shore, 
 With uplift hands and broken-hearted. 
 
 I little to their mirth inclined, 
 
 While tender thoughts rushed on my fancy, 
 And my warm sighs increased the wind, 
 
 Looked on the moon, and thought of Nancy ! 
 
 At seven, while taughtening the forestay, 
 I saw her faint, or else 'twas fancy; 
 
 At eight we all got under weigh, 
 And bade a long adieu to Nancy ! 
 
 Night came, and now eight bells had rung, 
 While careless sailors, ever cheery, 
 
 On the mid watch so jovial sung. 
 With tempers labor cannot weary. 
 
 And now arrived that jovial night 
 
 When every true-bred tar carouses; 
 When o'er the grog, all hands delight 
 To toast their sweethearts and their 
 spouses. 
 Round went the can, the jest, the glee, 
 While tender wishes filled each fancy ; 
 
 And when, in turn, it came to me, 
 I heaved a sigh, and toasted Nancy ! 
 
 Next morn a storm came on at four, 
 
 At six the elements in motion 
 Plunged me and three poor sailors more 
 
 Headlong within the foaming ocean. 
 Poor wretches! they soon found their graves". 
 
 For me — it may be only fancy — 
 But love seemed to forbid the waves 
 
 To snatch me from the arms of Nancy ! 
 
DESCRIPTIONS AND TALES OF THE SEA. 
 
 147 
 
 Scarce the foul hurricane was cleared, 
 
 Scarce winds and waves had ceased to rattle, 
 When a bold enemy appeared, 
 
 And, dauntless, we prepared for battle. 
 And now, while some loved friend or wife 
 
 Like lightning rushed on every fancy, 
 To Providence I trusted life, 
 
 Put up a prayer and thought of Nancy ! 
 
 At last — 'twas in the month of May — 
 
 The crew, it being lovely weather. 
 At three a. m. discovered day. 
 
 And England's chalky cliffs together. 
 At seven up Channel now we bore. 
 
 While hopes and fears rushed on my fancy ; 
 At twelve I gaily jumped ashore. 
 
 And to my throbbing heart pressed Nancy ! 
 Charles Dibdin. 
 
 1 NEVER knew how dear thou wert, 
 Till I was on the silent sea ; 
 And then my lone and musing heart 
 Sent back its passionate thoughts to thee. 
 When the wind slept on ocean's breast, 
 
 And the moon smiled above the deep, 
 I longed thus o'er thy spirit's rest 
 A vigil like yon moon to keep. 
 
 When the gales rose, and, tempest-tossed, 
 Our struggling ship was sore beset, 
 
 Our topsails rent, our bearing lost, 
 And fear in every spirit met — 
 
 OCEAN. 
 
 Oh ! then, amid the midnight storm, 
 Peace on my soul thy memory shed : 
 
 The floating image of thy form 
 
 Made strong my heart amid its dread. 
 
 Yes ! on the dark and troubled sea, 
 
 I strove my spirit's depths to know, 
 And found its deep, deep love for thee. 
 
 Fathomless as the gulfs below. 
 The waters bore me on my way — 
 
 Yet, oh ! more swift than rushing streams. 
 To thee flew back, from day to dav; 
 
 My clinging love — my burning dreams. 
 Catharine Warfield. 
 
 OF all objects which I have ever seen, there 
 is none which affects my imagination so 
 much as the sea, or ocean. I cannot see 
 the heavings of this prodigious bulk of waters, even 
 in a calm, without a very pleasing astonishment ; 
 
 but when it is worked up in a tempest, so that the 
 horizon on every side is nothing but foaming bil- 
 lows and floating mountains, it is impossible to 
 describe the agreeable horror that rises from such 
 a prospect. Joseph Addison. 
 
1-18 
 
 DESCRIPTIONS AND TALES OF THE SEA. 
 
 T 
 
 THE SOUND OF THE SEA 
 
 HOU art sounding on, thou mighty sea 1 
 
 For ever and the same ; 
 The ancient rocks yet ring to thee — 
 
 Those thunders nought can tame. 
 
 Thy billowy anthem, ne'er to sleep 
 Until the close of time. 
 
 It fills the noontide's calm profound 
 The sunset's heaven of gold ; 
 
 Oh ! many a glorious voice is gone 
 From the rich bowers of earth, 
 
 And hushed is many a lovely one 
 Of mournfulness or mirth. 
 
 But thou art swelling on, thou deep ! 
 Through many an olden clime, 
 
 And the still midnight hears the sound 
 Even as first it rolled. 
 
 Let there be silence, deep and strange. 
 Where sceptred cities rose ! 
 
 Thou speakest of One who doth not change- 
 So may our hearts repose. 
 
 Felicia D. Hemans. 
 
DESCRIPTIONS AND TALES OF THE SEA, 
 
 149 
 
 THE MERMAID. 
 
 HO would be 
 A mermaid fair, 
 Singing alone, 
 Combing her hair 
 Under the sea. 
 In a golden curl 
 With a comb of pearl. 
 On a throne? 
 
 I would be a mermaid fair; 
 
 I would sing to myself the whole of the day ; 
 With a comb of pearl I would comb my hair , 
 
 And still as I combed I would sing and say, 
 ''Who is it loves me? who loves not me?" 
 I would comb my hair till my ringlets would fall, 
 Low adown, low adown. 
 
 From under my starry sea-bud crown 
 
 Low adown and around. 
 And I should look like a fountain, of gold 
 Springing alone 
 With a shrill inner sound, 
 
 Over the throne 
 In the midst of the hall : 
 And all the mermen under the sea 
 Would feel their immortality 
 Die in their hearts for the love of me. 
 
 But at night I would wander away, away, 
 
 I would fling on each side my low-flowing 
 locks. 
 
 And lightly vault from the throne and play 
 With the mermen in and out of the rocks ; 
 
 We would run to and fro, and hide and seek, 
 On the broad sea-wolds in the crimson shells. 
 Whose silvery spikes are nighest the sea. 
 
 But if any came near I would call, and shriek, 
 
 And adown the steep like a wave I would leap 
 From the diamond-ledges that jut from the 
 dells; 
 For I would not be kissed by all who would list. 
 Of the bold merry mermen under the sea ; 
 They would sue me, and woo me, and flatter me, 
 In the purple twilights under the sea ; 
 But the king of them all would carry me. 
 Woo me, and win me, and marry me, 
 In the branching jaspers under the sea ; 
 Then all the dry pied things that be 
 In the hueless mosses under the sea 
 Would curl round my silver feet silently, 
 All looking up for the love of me. 
 And if I should carol aloud, from aloft 
 All things that are forked, and horned, and soft. 
 Would lean out from the hollow sphere of the 
 
 sea. 
 All looking down for the love of me. 
 
 Alfred Tennyson. 
 
 GONE LIKE A DREAM. 
 
 SUDDENLY, out in the black night before us, 
 and not two hundred yards away, we heard, 
 at a moment when the wind was silent, the 
 clear note of a human voice. Instantly the wind 
 swept howling down upon the Head, and the Cove 
 bellowed, and churned, and danced with a new 
 fury. But we had heard the sound, and we knew, 
 with agony, that this was the doomed ship now 
 close on ruin, and that what we had heard was the 
 voice of her master issuing his last command. 
 
 Crouching together on the edge, we waited, 
 straining every sense, for the inevitable end. It 
 was long, however, and to us it seemed like ages, 
 ere the vessel suddenly appeared for one brief in- 
 stant, relieved against a tower of glimmering foam. 
 I still see her reefed mainsail flapping loose, as the 
 boom fell heavily across the deck ; I still see the 
 
 black outline of the hull, and still think I can dis- 
 tinguish the figure of a man stretched upon the 
 tiller. 
 
 Yet the whole sight we had of her passed swifter 
 than lightning ; the very wave that disclosed her 
 fell burying her forever; the mingled cry of many 
 voices at the point of death rose and was quenched 
 in the roaring of the ocean. And with that the 
 tragedy was at an end. The strong ship, with all 
 her gear, and the lamp perhaps still burning in her 
 cabin, the lives of so many men, precious surely to 
 others, dear, at least, as heaven to themselves, had 
 all, in that one moment, gone down into the surg- 
 ing waters. They were gone like a dream. And 
 the wind still ran and shouted, and the senseless 
 waters in the Cove still leaped and tumbled as 
 before. Robert Louis Stevenson. 
 
150 
 
 DESCRIPTIONS AND TALES OF THE SEA, 
 
 THE SHIPWRECK. 
 
 T 
 
 WAS twilight, and the sunless day went down 
 Over the waste of waters, like a veil, 
 Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose 
 the frown 
 
 That still could keep afloat the struggling tars, 
 For yet they strove, although of no great use: 
 
 There was no light in heaven but a few sta'-=;, 
 The boats put off o'ercrowded with thei: crews; 
 
 '' i^mfK 
 
 
 t\ 
 
 \ 
 
 Of one whose hate is masked but to assail. 
 Thus to their hopeless eyes the night was shown, 
 
 And grimly darkled over the faces pale. 
 And the dim desolate deep; twelve days had fear 
 Been their familiar, and now death was here. 
 
 At half-past eight o'clock, booms, hencoops, spars, 
 And all things for a chance, had been cast loose, 
 
 She gave a heel, and then a lurch to port, 
 
 And, going down head foremost — sunk, in short. 
 
 Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell — 
 Then shrieked the timid, and stood still the 
 brave. 
 
 Then some leaped overboard with dreadful yell< 
 As eager to anticipate their grave; 
 
DESCRIPTIONS AND TALES OF THE SSrA. 
 
 151 
 
 And the sea yawned round her like a hell, 
 
 And down she sucked with her the whirling wave, 
 Like one who grapples with his enemy, 
 And strives to strangle him before he die. 
 
 And first one universal shriek there rushed, 
 Louder than the loud ocean, like a crash 
 
 Of echoing thunder; and then all was hushed, 
 Save the wild wind and the remorseless dash 
 
 Of billows; but at intervals there gushed 
 Accompanied with a convulsive splash, 
 
 A solitary shriek, the bubbling cry 
 
 Of some strong swimmer in his agony. 
 
 There were two fathers in this ghastly crew, 
 
 And with them their two sons, of whom the one 
 
 Was more robust and hardy to the view, 
 But he died early ; and when he was gone, 
 
 His nearest messmate told his sire, who threw 
 One glance at him, and said, " Heaven's will be 
 done; 
 
 I can do nothing," and be saw him thrown 
 
 Into the deep without a tear or groan. 
 
 The other father had a weaklier child, 
 Of a soft cheek, and aspect delicate ; 
 
 But the boy bore up long, and with a mild 
 And patient spirit held aloof his fate; 
 
 Little he said, and now and then he smiled. 
 As if to win a part from off the weight 
 
 He saw increasing on his father's heart. 
 
 With the deep deadly thought, that they must part. 
 
 And o'er him bent his sire, and never raised 
 His eyes from off his face, but wiped the foam 
 
 From his pale lips, and ever on him gazed ; 
 
 And when the wished-for shower at length was 
 come, 
 
 THE SECRET 
 
 AH ! what pleasant visions haunt me 
 As I gaze upon the sea ! 
 All the old romantic legends, 
 All my dreams come back to me. 
 
 Sails of silk and ropes of sendal. 
 
 Such as gleam in ancient lore ; 
 And the singing of the sailors. 
 
 And the answer from the shore ! 
 
 Most of all, the Spanish ballad 
 
 Haunts me oft, and tarries long, 
 Of the noble Count Arnaldos 
 
 And the sailor's mystic song. 
 
 Like the long waves on a sea-beach, 
 
 Where the sand as silver shines, 
 With a soft, monotonous cadence, 
 
 Flow its unrhymed lyric lines ; 
 
 Telling how the Count Arnaldos, 
 
 With his hawk upon his hand, 
 Saw a fair and stately galley. 
 
 Steering onward to the land j— 
 
 And the boy's eyes, which the dull film half 
 glazed. 
 Brightened, and for a moment seemed to roam. 
 He squeezed from out a rag some drops of rain . 
 Into his dying child's mouth — but in vain. 
 
 The boy expired— the father held the clay. 
 And looked upon it long; and when at last 
 
 Death left no doubt, and the dead burden lay 
 Stiff on his heart, and pulse and hope were past^ 
 
 He watched it wistfully, until away 
 
 'Twas borne by the rude wave wherein 'twr 
 cast ; 
 
 Then he himself sunk down, all dumb and shiv( 
 ing, 
 
 And gave no sign of life, save his limbs quivering. 
 
 As morning broke, the light wind died away; 
 
 When he who had the watch sung out and swore, 
 If 'twas not land that rose with the sun's ray, 
 
 He wished that land he never might see more : 
 And the rest rubbed their eyes, and saw a bay, 
 
 Or thought they saw, and shaped their course foi 
 shore ; 
 For shore it was, and gradually grew 
 Distinct, and high, and palpable to view. 
 
 And then of these some part burst into tears, 
 
 And other, looking with a stupid stare, 
 Could not yet separate their hopes from fears, 
 And seemed as if they had no further care, 
 While a few prayed — (the first time for some 
 years) — 
 And at the bottom of the boat three were 
 Asleep : they shook them by the hand and head, 
 And tried to waken them, but found them dead. 
 
 Lord Byron. 
 OF THE SEA. 
 
 How he heard the ancient helmsman 
 
 Chant a song so wild and clear. 
 That the sailing sea-bird slowly 
 
 Poised upon the mast to hear. 
 
 Till his soul was full of longing, 
 
 And he cried, with impulse strong — 
 
 ''Helmsman ! for the love of heaven. 
 Teach me, too, that wondrous song ! " 
 
 " Wouldst thou," — so the helmsman answered, 
 
 ''Learn the secret of the sea? 
 Only those who brave its dangers 
 
 Comprehend its mystery ! " 
 
 In each sail that skims the horizon, 
 In each landward-blowing breeze, 
 
 I behold that stately galley, 
 Hear those mournful melodies; 
 
 Till mv soul is full of longing 
 
 For the secret of the sea. 
 And the heart of the great ocean 
 
 Sends a thrilling pulse through me. 
 
 JI. W. Longfellow 
 
162 
 
 DESCRIPTIONS AND TALES OF THE SEA, 
 
 DRIFTING OUT TO SEA. 
 
 TWO little ones grown tired of play, 
 Roamed by the sea one summer day, 
 Watching the great waves come and go, 
 Prattling — as children will, you know — 
 Of dolls and marbles, kites and strings, 
 Sometimes hinting at graver things. 
 
 At last they spied within their reach, 
 A.n old boat cast upon the beach. 
 Helter-skelter with merry din. 
 
 And now across the sunny sky 
 A black cloud stretches far away, 
 And shuts the golden gates of day. 
 
 A storm comes on with flash and roar, 
 While all the sky is shrouded o'er; 
 The great waves rolling from the West, 
 Bring night and darkness on their breast, 
 Still floats the boat through driving storm, 
 Protected by God's powerful arm. 
 
 Over its sides they clamber in — 
 Ben, with his tangled, nut-brown hair, 
 Bess, with her sweet face flushed and fair. 
 
 R filing in from the briny deep, 
 Nearer, nearer, the great waves creep; 
 Higher, higher, upon the sands. 
 Reaching out with their giant hands ; 
 Grasping the boat in boisterous glee. 
 Tossing it up and out to sea. 
 
 The sun went down 'mid clouds of gold ; 
 Nis^ht came, with footsteps damp and cold ; 
 Day dawned ; the hours crept slowly by ; 
 
 The home-bound vessel, "Seabird," lies 
 In ready trim, 'twixt sea and skies, 
 Her captain paces restless now, 
 A troubled look upon his brow : 
 While all his nerves with terror thrill — 
 The shadow of some coming ill. 
 
 The mate comes up to where he stands, 
 And grasps his arm with eager hands ; 
 "A boat has just swept past," says he, 
 '' Bearing two children out to sea — 
 'Tis dangerous now to put about. 
 Yet they cannot be saved without-** 
 
DESCRIPTIONS AND TALES OF THE SEA. 
 
 153 
 
 *' Naught but their safety will suffice — 
 
 They must be saved !" the captain cries. 
 
 *'By every thought that's juet and right, 
 
 By lips I hoped to kiss to-night, 
 
 I'll peril vessel, life and men. 
 
 And God will not forsake me then." 
 
 With anxious faces, one and all. 
 
 Each man responded to the call ; 
 
 And when at last, through driving storm, 
 
 They lifted up each lictle form. 
 
 The captain started with a groan : 
 
 *' My God !" he cried, " they are my own." 
 
 THE VOYAGE. 
 
 WE left behind the painted buoy 
 That tosses at the harbor-mouth : 
 And madly danced our hearts with joy 
 As fast we fleeted to the South : 
 How fresh was every sight and sound 
 
 On open main or winding shore ! 
 We knew the merry world was round, 
 And we might sail forevermore. 
 
 Warm broke the breeze against the brow. 
 
 Dry sang the tackle, sang the sail : 
 The Lady's-head upon the prow 
 
 Caught the shrill salt, and sheered the gale. 
 The broad seas swelled to meet the keel. 
 
 And swept behind: so quick the run, 
 We felt the good ship shake and reel, 
 
 We seemed to sail into the sun ! 
 
 By peaks that flamed, or, all in shade, 
 
 Gloomed the low coast and quivering brine 
 With ashy rains, that spreading made 
 
 Fantastic plume or sable pine ; 
 By sands and steaming flats, and floods 
 
 Of mighty mouth, we scudded fast, 
 And hills and scarlet-mingled woods 
 
 Glowed for a moment as we passed. 
 
 For one fair Vision ever fled 
 
 Down the waste waters day and night. 
 And still we followed where she led 
 
 In hope to gain upon her flight. 
 Her face was evermore unseen, 
 
 And fixed upon the far sea-line ; 
 But each man murmured, ''O my Queen, 
 
 I follow till I make thee mine. ' ' 
 
 And now we lost her, now she gleamed 
 
 Like fancy made of golden air. 
 Now nearer to the prow she seemed 
 
 Like virtue firm, like knowledge fair, 
 Now high on waves that idly burst 
 
 Like heavenly hope she crowned the sea. 
 And now, the bloodless point reversed. 
 
 She bore the blade of liberty. 
 
 And only one among us — him 
 
 We pleased not — he was seldom pleased : 
 He saw not far : his eyes were dim : 
 
 But ours he swore were all diseased. 
 '* A ship of fools," he shrieked in spite, 
 
 '' A ship of fools," he sneered and wept. 
 And overboard one stormy night 
 
 He cast his body, and on we swept. 
 
 And never sail of ours was furled 
 
 Nor anchor dropt at eve or morn ; 
 We loved the glories of the world. 
 
 But laws of nature were our scorn ; 
 For blasts would rise and rave and cease. 
 
 But whence were those that drove the sail 
 Across the whirlwind's heart of peace, 
 
 And to and through the counter-gale ? 
 
 Again to colder climes we came. 
 
 For still we followed where she led: 
 Now mate is blind and captain lame, 
 
 And half the crew are sick or dead. 
 But blind or lame or sick or sound 
 
 We follow that which flies before : 
 We know the merry world is round. 
 
 And we may sail for evermore. 
 
 Alfred Tennyson. 
 
 BY THE SEA. 
 
 O GOLDEN glory on sea and land, 
 O crimson twilight and azure sky, 
 While, far out, beyond the shining sand. 
 The sea-birds shoreward hurrying fly ; 
 They dipped their wings in the northern sea, 
 Till, tired at last, they are wandering back. 
 To build their nests in the dear old cliff, 
 
 And fly once more o'er the homeward track. 
 
 I catch the gleam of their flashing wings, 
 I hear the greeting from hearts content; 
 
 Ah, that my song were as free from pain, 
 And my life as free from days ill-spent. 
 
 The sweetest songs are the songs of home, 
 When voices we love take up the strain ; 
 
 If a chord be lost, the dearest song 
 Is never the same to us again. 
 
 Then veil your glory, O crimson sky, 
 
 A day is dead, and a great white stone 
 I roll on its grave, lest its restless ghost 
 
 Might vex my soul with its ceaseless moan. 
 I have buried deep the ''might have been," 
 
 The restless longing for what may be, 
 I have said a prayer and shed my tears, 
 
 And left the grave by the tossing sea. 
 
154 
 
 DESCRIPTIONS AND TALES OF THE SEA, 
 
 THE 5EA=FAIRIES. 
 
 SLOW sailed the weary mariners and saw, 
 Betwixt the green brink and the running 
 foam, 
 Sweet faces, rounded arms, and bosoms prest 
 To little harps of gold ; and while they mused, 
 Whispering to each other half in fear. 
 Shrill music reached them on the middle sea. 
 
 Whither away 
 no more. 
 
 whither away, whither away? fly 
 
 Mariner, mariner, furl your sails, 
 
 For here are the blissful downs and dales, 
 
 And merrily, merrily carol the gales. 
 
 And the spangle dances in bight and bay 
 
 And the rainbow forms and flies on the land 
 
 Over the islands free ; 
 
 And the rainbow lives in the curve of the sand 
 
 Hither, come hither and see; 
 
 And the rainbow hangs on the poising wave, 
 
 And sweet is the color of cove and cave, 
 
 Whither away from the high green field, and the 
 
 happy blossoming shore ? 
 Day and night to the billow the fountain calls; 
 Down shower the gamboling waterfalls 
 From wandering over the lea : 
 Out of the live-green heart of the dells 
 They freshen the silvery-crimson shells. 
 And thick with white bells the clover-hill swells 
 High over the full-toned sea : 
 O hither, come hither and furl your sails, 
 Come hither to me and to me : 
 Hither, come hither and frolic and play ; 
 Here it is only the nmew that wails ; 
 We will sing to you all the day : 
 
 And sweet shall your welcome be : 
 O hither, come hither, and be our lords 
 For merry brides are we : 
 
 We will kiss sweet kisses, and speak sweet words 
 O listen, listen, your eyes shall glisten 
 With pleasure and love and jubilee : 
 O listen, listen, your eyes shall glisten 
 When the sharp clear twang of the golden chords 
 Runs up the ridged sea. 
 Who can light on as happy a shore 
 All the world o'er, all the world o'er? 
 Whither away ? listen and stay : mariner, mariner, 
 fly no more. 
 
 Alfred Tennyson, 
 
DESCRIPTIONS AND TALES OF THE SEA. 
 
 155 
 
 AN OLD=FASHIONED SEA=FIGHT. 
 
 WOULD you hear of an old-fashioned sea- 
 fight? 
 Would you learn who won by the hght 
 of the moon and stars? 
 List to the story as my grandmother's father, the 
 sailor, told it to me. 
 
 Our foe was no skulk in his ship, I tell you (said he) ; 
 His was the surly English pluck, and there is no 
 
 tougher or truer, and never was, and never 
 
 will be ; 
 Along the lowered eve he came, horribly raking us. 
 
 We closed with him, the yards entangled, the can- 
 non touched ; 
 My captain lashed fast with his own hands. 
 
 We had received some eighteen-pound shots under 
 the water ; 
 
 On our lower-gun deck two large pieces had burst 
 at the first fire, killing all around, and blow- 
 ing up overhead. 
 
 Fighting at sundown, fighting at dark ; 
 
 Ten o'clock at night, the full moon well up, our 
 leaks on the gain, and five feet of water re- 
 ported ; 
 
 The master-at-arms loosing the prisoners confined 
 in the after-hold, to give them a chance for 
 themselves. 
 
 The transit to and from the magazine is now stopt 
 
 by the sentinels, 
 They see so many strange faces, they do not know 
 
 whom to trust. 
 
 Our frigate takes fire ; 
 
 The other asks if we demand quarter, 
 
 If our colors are struck, and the fighting is done. 
 
 Now I laugh content, for I hear the voice of my 
 
 little captain : 
 "We have not struck," he composedly cries, ''we 
 
 have just begun our part of the fighting." 
 
 Only three guns are in use ; 
 
 One is directed by the captain himself against the 
 
 enemy's main-mast ; 
 Two, well served with grape and canister, silence 
 
 his musketry and clear his decks. 
 
 The tops alone second the fire of this little battery, 
 
 especially the main-top ; 
 They hold out bravely during the whole of the action. 
 
 Not a moment's cease ; 
 
 The leaks gain fast on the pumps, the fire eats 
 toward the powder-magazine. 
 
 One of the pumps has been shot away, it is gener- 
 ally thought we are sinking. 
 
 Serene stands the little captain ; 
 
 He is not hurried, his voice is neither high nor low ; 
 
 His eyes give more light to us than our battle- 
 lanterns. 
 
 Toward twelve at night, there in the beams of the 
 moon, they surrender to us. 
 
 Stretched and still Hes the midnight ; 
 
 Two great hills motionless on the breast of the 
 
 darkness ; 
 Our vessel riddled and slowly sinking — prepara- 
 tions to pass to the one we have conquered ; 
 The captain on the quarter-deck coldly giving his 
 
 orders through a countenance white as a sheet ; 
 Near by, the corpse of the child that served in the 
 
 cabin ; 
 The dead face of an old salt with long white hair 
 
 and carefully curled whiskers ; 
 The flames, spite of all that can be done, flickering 
 
 aloft and below ; 
 The husky voices of the two or three officers yet 
 
 fit for duty ; 
 Formless stacks of bodies, and bodies by them- 
 selves, dabs of flesh upon the masts and spars, 
 Cut of cordage, dangle of rigging, slight shock of 
 
 the soothe of waves, 
 Black and impassive guns, litter of powder-parcels, 
 
 strong scent, 
 Delicate sniffs of sea-breeze, smells of sedgy grass, 
 
 and charge to survivors, 
 The hiss of the surgeon's knife, the gnawing teeth 
 
 of his saw, 
 Wheeze, chuck, swash of falling blood, short wild 
 
 scream, and long, dull, tapering groan ; 
 These so — these irretrievable. 
 
 Walt Whitman. 
 
 THE SAILOR=BOY. 
 
 E rose at dawn and fired with hope, 
 Shot o'er the seething harbor-bar, 
 And reached the ship and caught the rope 
 And whistled to the morning star. 
 
 And while he whistled long and loud 
 He heard a fierce mermaiden cry, 
 ■' O boy, though thou art young and proud, 
 I see the place where thou wilt lie. 
 
 '' The sands and yeasty surges mix 
 In caves about the dreary bay, 
 And on thy ribs the limpet sticks. 
 
 And in thy heart the scrawl shall play." 
 
 " Fool," he answered, " death is sure 
 
 To those that stay and those that roam, 
 But I will nevermore endure 
 
 To sit with empty hands at home. 
 
 •' My mother clings about my neck, 
 
 My sisters crying, ' Stay, for shame;' 
 My father raves of death and wreck, 
 
 They are all to blame, they are all to blame 
 
 ■' God help me ! save I take my part 
 Of danger on the roaring sea, 
 A devil rises in my heart. 
 
 Far worse than any death to me." 
 
 Alfred Tennyson. 
 
 H 
 
156 
 
 DESCRIPTIONS AND TALES OF THE SEA. 
 
 THE GALLANT SAIL-^BOAT. 
 
 FROM "TWIN SOULS: A PSYCHIC ROMANCE." 
 
 HIGH noon had dried the morning dew, 
 Old ^olus his warm winds blew, 
 The wavelets washed the gleaming strand 
 And flung their foam upon the sand, 
 The bathers shouted in their glee, 
 As, splashing in the genial sea, 
 They dipped beneath the waves and then, 
 With each new breaker, plunged again. 
 The young, the old looked on and laughed, 
 With freshened cheeks the breeze they quaffed. 
 Bright children frolicked on the beach, 
 And accents of their prattling speech 
 Joined with the surf-song, loud and clear, 
 In music dulcet to the ear. 
 
 The fashion of the town was there 
 To breathe the cool and bracing air : 
 The men of mind, the men of wealth. 
 The men who, in pursuit of health. 
 Take pills and potions for their ills — 
 Dull headaches, sideaches, sweats and chills — 
 And, skipping off from work and care. 
 Take once a year a breath of air. 
 
 And women, pale and melancholy. 
 Burned out by fashion's winter folly. 
 Like eastern queens were decked and dressed. 
 Just to lie by and take a rest. 
 These drooping willows, day by day. 
 In stupid languor seemed to say, 
 '^ Life somewhere on this dismal sphere 
 May be worth living, but not here." 
 
 Not such the sprightly, merry party. 
 Young maidens bright and fellows hearty. 
 Who stood with Conrad on the shore, 
 Where break the waters evermore. 
 Among the group that clustered there, 
 Could there be found a mated pair, 
 Who, come what might of wind and weather, 
 Would sail life's rumpled sea together? 
 
 The boat, impatient of delay. 
 With spreading, white wings flew away. 
 Pushed its bold venture more and more, 
 Left far behind the fading shore. 
 And glided on, swan-like and free, 
 A thing of life, sylph of the sea. 
 The speed grew swift, each eager sail 
 Swelled as it caught the gentle gale, 
 
 And so, with canvas all unfurled, 
 Around the prow the waters curled, 
 And wreaths of spray, formed one by one, 
 Made rainbows in the shining sun. 
 
 The lively breeze then stiffer grew. 
 The sail-boat leaped and darted through 
 Each billow as it struck her breast, 
 Or, mounting upward, skimmed the crest, 
 Plunged down into the hollow graves, 
 Made by the fast advancing waves. 
 Then rose again with graceful bound, 
 Wet with the white-caps splashing round, 
 And in her frolicsome advance. 
 Moved like a maiden in the dance. 
 Careening low upon her side. 
 No bird that cuts the air could glide 
 More deftly than she gaily flew. 
 Light-hearted, o'er the waters blue. 
 
 And just as gay were those on board, 
 Their youthful spirits in accord. 
 As well-tuned strings wake with a thri)^ 
 Touched by the harpist's facile skill, 
 So these young hearts were in attune. 
 And carolled like the birds of June. 
 The pleasure-seekers, side by side. 
 Rode with the wind, rode with the tide, 
 While sparkling jest and blithesome Jong, 
 And bursts of laughter loud and long, 
 Spontaneous mirth and shouts of glte, 
 Went floating o'er the ruffled sea. 
 
 Henry Davenpokt, 
 
 BEAUTY OF SEA-WAVES. 
 
 A LADY, on seeing the sea at Brighton for 
 the first time, exclaimed, ''What a beau- 
 tiful field! " She had never seen sucli a 
 beautiful green, moving, sparkling, grassy praiiie. 
 Mr. Leigh Hunt lavished a page of admiratic n 
 upon a line of Ariosto's describing the waves as 
 " Neptune's white herds lowing o'er the deep." 
 
 Anacreon exclaims, in language appropriate to 
 calm seas and smooth sand-beaches, *'How the 
 waves of the sea kiss the shore ! " Saint-Lambert 
 has four lines descriptive of the waves of a stormy 
 sea dashing upon the beach, which have been 
 much admired by writers upon imitative harmony. 
 '* Neptune has raised up his turbulent plains, the 
 sea falls and leaps upon the tremblimg shores. 
 She remounts, groans, and with redoubled blows 
 makes the abyss and the shaken mountains resound." 
 
ALBUM OF LOVE: 
 
 CONTAINING 
 
 GLOWING TRIBUTES TO THE MASTER PASSION. 
 
 THE CROWNING GRACE. 
 
 MANY live and die 
 knowing nothing of 
 love except through 
 their intellect. Their 
 ideas on the subject 
 are fanciful, because 
 it has never been re- 
 vealed by conscious- 
 ness. Yet it were to 
 question the benig- 
 nity of God to be- 
 lieve that an element 
 of our being so oper- 
 ative and subtle, and 
 one that abounds 
 chiefly in the good 
 and the gifted, is of 
 light import or not 
 susceptible of being 
 explained by reason, 
 justified by con- 
 science, and hal- 
 lowed by religion, 
 and thus made to 
 bear a harvest not 
 only of delight, but 
 of virtue. 
 
 Love, Petrarch 
 maintains, is the 
 crowning grace of humanity, the holiest right of 
 the soul, the golden link which binds us to duty 
 and truth, the redeeming principle that chiefly 
 reconciles the heart to life, and is prophetic of 
 eternal good. It is a blessing of a glorious ex- 
 perience, according to the soul in which it is 
 engendered. 
 
 The blessedness of true love springs from the 
 stTul itself, and is felt to be its legitimate and holi- 
 est fruit. Thus, and thus alone, is human nature 
 richly developed, and the best interests of life 
 wisely embraced. Shadows give way to substance, 
 vague wishes to permanent aims, indifferent moods 
 
 to endearing associations, 
 ''hope full of immortality 
 
 and vain desire to a 
 ' Man is for the first 
 time revealed to himself, and absolutely known to 
 another ; for entire s\-mpathy, not friendly obser- 
 xation, is the key to our individual natures; and 
 
 when this has fairly opened the sacred portal, we 
 are alone no more for ever ! 
 
 Henry T. Tuckerman. 
 
 A CUBAN LOVE SONG. 
 
 THE dewdrops glitter on the tree. 
 Gold flashes the wild, tropic sea. 
 And now I'm dreaming, love, of thee, 
 Of Charmiane. 
 
 The wood-dove coos within his nest 
 With gentle love his home is blest. 
 And he knows that I love thee best, 
 My Charmiane 1 
 
 Xow night is come and fireflies bright 
 Shed o'er the flowers their golden light 
 And love-birds call with all their might 
 To Charmiane ! 
 
 The silver morn hangs in the sky, 
 Abound the tower the black bats fly, 
 Whilst I am calling soft to my 
 Sweet Charmiane. 
 
 Daisy Deane. 
 
 I WON'T BE YOUR DEARIE ANY MORE. 
 
 YOU are fickle, oh, so fickle, dare I tell. 
 All my striving shall undo the magic spell. 
 Sweet the dreams I dreamt the while 
 Will no more my heart beguile, 
 
 For I won't be your dearie any more. 
 
 All confiding on your single heart I dreamt. 
 Little thinking that your vows were never meant ; 
 You will wonder when you find. 
 That the girl yoa left behind. 
 
 Isn't going to be your dearie any more. 
 
 In some other luscious beauty's liquid eyes 
 You will steep your fickle heart with tender sighS; 
 But when at length you'll run 
 From the fickle web you've spun, 
 
 You will find I'm not your dearie any more. 
 
 Some other bonnet now you'll dote upon, 
 And your evenings at the club will madly run, 
 The estrangement will not hurt, 
 For with others I can flirt. 
 
 As I won't be your dearie any more. 
 
 Rose Reilly. 
 157 
 
158 
 
 ALBUM OF LOVE. 
 
 MY IDEAL. 
 
 H 
 
 ER height? Perhaps you'd deem her tail- 
 To be exact, just five feet seven, 
 Her arching feet are not too small ; 
 Her glancing eyes are bits of heaven. 
 
 Her nose is just the proper size, 
 Without a trace of upward turning. 
 
 Her shell-like ears are wee and wise 
 The tongue of scandal ever spurning. 
 
 Slim are her hands, though not too wee — 
 1 could not fancy useless fingers ; 
 
 Her hands are all that hands should be, 
 And own a touch whose memory lingers. 
 
 Though little of her neck is seen, 
 
 That little is both smooth and sightly ; 
 
 And fair as marble is its sheen 
 
 Above her bodice gleaming whitely. 
 
 In mirth and woe her voice is low, 
 
 Her calm demeanor never fluttered; 
 Her every accent seems to go 
 
 Straight to one's heart as soon as uttered. 
 She ne'er coquets as others do ; 
 
 Her tender heart would never let her. 
 Where does she dwell ? I would I knew, 
 
 As yet, alas ! I've never met her. 
 
 Samuel Minturn PtcK, 
 
ALBUM OF LOVE. 
 
 159 
 
 THE FIRST KISS. 
 
 HOW delicious is the winning 
 Of a kiss at love's beginning, 
 When two mutual hearts are sighing 
 For the knot there's no untying. 
 Yet remember, midst your wooing. 
 Love has bliss, but love has ruing \ 
 Other smiles may make you fickle, 
 Tears for other charms may trickle. 
 
 Love he comes, and love he tarries, 
 Just as fate or fancy carries, — 
 Longest stays when sorest chidden, 
 Laughs and flies when pressed and bidden. 
 
 Bind the sea to slumber stilly. 
 Bind its odor to the lily. 
 Bind the aspen ne'er to quiver, — 
 Then bind love to last forever ! 
 
 Love's a fire that needs renewal 
 
 Of fresh beauty for its fuel ; 
 
 Love's wing moults when caged and captured, — 
 
 Only free he soars enraptured. 
 
 Can you keep the bee from ranging. 
 Or the ring-dove's neck from changing? 
 No ! nor fettered love from dying 
 In the knot there's no untying. 
 
 Thomas Campueli.. 
 
 QUAKERDOM. 
 
 THE FORMAL CALL. 
 
 THROUGH her forced, abnormal quiet 
 Flashed the soul of frolic riot. 
 And a most malicious laughter lighted up 
 her downcast eyes ; 
 All in vain I tried each topic. 
 Ranged from polar climes to tropic, — 
 Every commonplace I started met with yes-or-no 
 replies. 
 
 For her mother — stiff and stately. 
 As if starched and ironed lately — 
 Sat erect, with rigid elbows bedded thus in curving 
 palms ; 
 There she sat on guard before us, 
 And in words precise, decorous. 
 And most calm, reviewed the weather, and recited 
 several psalms. 
 
 How without abruptly ending 
 
 This my visit, and offending 
 Wealthy neighbors, was the problem which em- 
 ployed my mental care ; 
 
 When the butler, bowing lowly. 
 
 Uttered clearly, stiffly, slowly, 
 " Madam, please, the gardener wants you," — 
 
 Heaven, I thought, has heard my prayer. 
 
 " Pardon me !" she grandly uttered ; 
 Bowing low, I gladly muttered, 
 ** Surely, madam !" and, relieved, I turned to scan 
 the daughter's face : 
 
 Ha! what pent-up mirth outflashes 
 From beneath those pencilled lashes ! 
 How the drill of Quaker custom yields to nature*}* 
 brilliant grace. 
 Brightly springs the prisoned fountain 
 From the side of Delphi's mountain 
 When the stone that weighed upon its buoyant life 
 is thrust aside ; 
 So the long-enforced stagnation 
 Of the maiden's conversation 
 Now imparted five-fold brilliance to its ever-vary- 
 ing tide. 
 Widely ranging, quickly changing. 
 Witty, winning, from beginning 
 Unto end I listened, merely flinging in a casual 
 word ; 
 Eloquent and yet Kuw simple ! 
 Hand and eyCj and eddying dimple. 
 Tongue and lip together made a music seen as well 
 as heard. 
 When the noonday woods are ringing, 
 All the birds of summer singing. 
 Suddenly there falls a silence, and we know a ser- 
 pent nigh : 
 So upon the door a rattle 
 Stopped our animated tattle. 
 And the stately mother found us prim enough to 
 suit her eye. Charles G. Halpine. 
 
 MARION MOORE. 
 
 GONE, art thou, Marion, Marion Moore, 
 Gone, like the bird in the autumn that 
 singeth ; 
 Gone, like the flower by the way-side that springeth ; 
 Gone, like the leaf of the ivy that clingeth 
 
 Round the lone rock on a storm-beaten shore ! 
 
 Dear wert thou, Marion, Marion Moore, 
 Dear as the tide in my broken heart throbbing ; 
 Dear as the soul o'er thy memory sobbing ; 
 Sorrow my life of its roses is robbing 
 
 Wasting is all the glad beauty of yore. 
 
 I will remember thee, Marion Moore ! 
 I shall remember, alas ! to regret thee ! 
 I will regret when all others forget thee ; 
 Deep in my breast will the hour that I met thee 
 
 Linger and burn till life's fever is o'er. 
 
 Gone, art thou, Marion, Marion Moore ! 
 Gone, like the breeze o'er the billow that bloweth ; 
 Gone, like the rill to the ocean that floweth ; 
 Gone, as the day from the grey mountain goeth, 
 
 Darkness behind thee, but glory before. 
 
 Peace to thee, Marion, Marion Moore ! 
 Peace which the queens of the earth cannot borrow ; 
 Peace from a kingdom that crowned thee with 
 
 sorrow ; 
 O ! to be happy with thee on the morrow 
 Who would not fly from this desolate shore ? 
 
 James G. Clark. 
 
160 
 
 ALBUM OF LOVE. 
 
 SPEAK IT ONCE MORE. 
 
 KROM THE PORTUGUESE. 
 
 SAY over again, and yet once over again, 
 That thou dost love me. Though the word 
 repeated 
 Should seem '-'a cuckoo-song," as thou dost treat it, 
 Remember, never to the hill or plain. 
 Valley and wood, without her cuckoo-strain. 
 Comes the fresh spring in all her green completed. 
 Beloved, I, amid the darkness greeted 
 By a doubtful spirit-voice, in that doubt's pain 
 
 Cry : " Speak once more — thou lovest !" Who can 
 
 fear 
 Too many stars, though each in heaven shall roll — 
 Too many flowers, though each shall crown the 
 
 year? 
 Say thou dost love me, love me, love me — toll 
 The silver iterance ! — only minding, dear, 
 To love me also in silence, with thy soul. 
 
 Elizabeth B. Browning. 
 
 HER BRIGHT EYES TOLD ME YES. 
 
 WEET Molly was a maiden coy, divinely fair to see. 
 With all a maiden's willfulness she tantalized poor me. 
 She laughed at all my pleadings, oh, it seemed they were in vain, 
 My ardent vows she ridiculed, and treated with disdain. 
 But when I gazed into her face, no more I felt distress. 
 For though her lips they told me no, her bright eyes told me yes. 
 
 Although her lips they told me no, her bright eyes told me yes, 
 Beneath her sweeping lashes I could see love's tenderness. 
 Some day I knew she would be mine — the truth she would confess — 
 For though her lips they told me no, her bright eyes told me yes. 
 
 At times I tried to steal a kiss, my arm crept round 
 
 her waist, 
 I tilted up her dimpled chin and stooped, her lips 
 
 to taste. 
 And then in sinnilated wrath, and with a haughty 
 
 ^'sir," 
 She'd tear herself from my embrace, but swift I'd 
 
 follow her. 
 And undismayed I'd try again — her thoughts I 
 
 well could guess — 
 For though her lips they told me no, her bright 
 
 eyes told me, yes. 
 
 And now for years she's been my wife, we both 
 are getting old. 
 
 Our heads are white, our backs are bent, but love 
 has not grown cold. 
 
 Content we journey hand in hand along life's 
 winding way ; 
 
 Joy keeps our hearts forever young, as on oih- wed- 
 ding day. 
 
 My youthful dream came true, I knew I'd have 
 this happiness — 
 
 For though her lips they told me no, her bright 
 eyes told me, yes. Tom L. Sappington. 
 
 THE CHESS=BOARD. 
 
 M 
 
 Y little love, do you remember, 
 
 Ere we were grown so sadly wise. 
 Those evenings in the bleak December, 
 Curtained warm from the snowy weather. 
 When you and I played chess together. 
 Checkmated by each other's eyes? 
 
 Ah ! still I see your soft white hand 
 
 Hovering warm o'er Queen and Knight; 
 
 Brave Pawns in valiant battle stand ; 
 
 The double Castles guard the wings ; 
 
 The Bishop, bent on distant things. 
 Moves, sidling, through the fight. 
 
 Our fingers touch ; our glances meet, 
 And falter ; falls your golden hair 
 Against my cheek ; your bosom sweet 
 Is heaving. Down the field your Queen 
 
 Rides slow, her soldiery all between, 
 
 And checks me unaware. 
 
 Ah me ! the little battle's done; 
 Disperst is all its chivalry. 
 Full many a move since then have we 
 Mid life's perplexing checkers made. 
 And many a game with fortune played ; 
 
 What is it we have won ? 
 
 This, this at least — if this alone : 
 
 That never, never, nevermore, 
 
 As in those old still nights of yore, 
 (Ere we were grown so sadly wise), 
 Can you and I shut out the skies. 
 
 Shut out the world and wintry weather, 
 And eyes exchanging warmth with eyes. 
 
 Play chess, as then we played together. 
 
 Robert Bulwer Lytton. 
 
11 
 
 WHlbtrt-RS OF LOVE. 
 
 161 
 
1G2 
 
 ALB CM OF LOVE. 
 
 WOO TH2 FAIR ONE. 
 
 DOS r thou icily ask to hear 
 At what gentle seasons 
 Nymphs relent, when lovers near 
 Press the tenderest reasons? 
 Ah, they give their faith loo ^ft 
 
 To the careless wooer ; 
 Maidens' hearts are alw^iys soft : 
 Would that men's wc^e truer. 
 
 When, through boughs that knit the bower, 
 Moonlight gleams are stcalmg; 
 
 AVoo her, till the gentle hour 
 Wake a gentler leeling. 
 
 Woo her, when autumnal dyes 
 
 Tinge the woody mountain ; 
 When the drooping foliage lies 
 
 In the weedy fountain ; 
 
 MATCHMAKING IX THE OLDEN TIM; 
 
 Woo the fair one, Avhen around 
 
 Early birds arc singing; 
 When, o'er all the fragrant ground. 
 
 Early herbs are springing : 
 When the brookside, bank, and grove. 
 
 All with blossoms laden, 
 Shine with beauty, breathe of love — 
 
 Woo the timid maiden. 
 
 Woo her when, with rosy blush. 
 
 Summer eve is sinkinc: ; 
 When, on rills that sofdv push, 
 
 Stars are softly winking ; 
 
 fast 
 
 Let t]ie scene, that tells how 
 
 Youth is passing over, 
 Warn her, ere her bloom is past. 
 
 To secure her lover. 
 
 Woo her, when the north winds call 
 
 At the lattice nightly ; 
 When, within the cheerful hall. 
 
 Blaze the fagots brightly ; 
 While the wintry tempest round 
 
 Sweeps the landscape hoary, 
 Sweeter in her ear shall sound 
 
 Love's delightful story. W. C. Bryant, 
 
ALBUM OF LOVE. 
 
 16a 
 
 TWILIGH r shade is calmly falling 
 Round about the dew-robed flowers ; 
 Philomel's lone song is calling 
 Lovers to their fairy bowers ; 
 Echo, on the zephyrs gliding, 
 
 Bears a voice that seems to say — 
 '•Ears and hearts^ come, list my tiding : 
 This has been a wedding day. ' ' 
 
 Hark ! The merry chimes are pealing — 
 Soft and glad the music swells ; 
 
 Gaily on the night wind stealing, 
 Sweetly sound the wedding bells. 
 
 Ev'ry simple breast rejoices, 
 
 Laughter rides upon the gale; 
 Happy hearts and happy voices 
 
 Dw4ll within the lowly vale ; 
 O, how sweet, on zephyrs gliding, 
 
 Sound the bells that seem to say — 
 '' Ears and hearts, come, list my tiding: 
 
 This has been a wedding day." 
 
 Hark ! The merry chimes are pealing — 
 Soft and glad the music swells ; 
 
 Gaily on the night wind stealing, 
 Sweetly sound the wedding bells. 
 Eliza Cook. 
 
164 
 
 ALBUM OF LOVE. 
 
 AUZPAH! 
 
 It is said on good authority tliat a corainon castom among 
 the ancient Hebrews wlien they separated was to speak the 
 word *' Mizpah," meaning thereby, "Jehovah watch between 
 me and thee while we are absent one from another." 
 
 1 KISSED your lips, and held your hands, 
 And said farewell, and went away, 
 Well knowing that another day 
 Would speed you forth to other lands. 
 And down the summer-scented street 
 I heard your echoing voice repeat 
 The Hebrew motto, quaint and sweet : 
 -Mizpah!" 
 
 A thousand miles between us lay 
 
 When autumn passed in lingering flight, 
 And drenched with fragrant dew at night 
 
 The woodland fires he lit by day ; 
 But, all the golden distance through. 
 From you to me and me to you 
 Went out the tender prayer and true : 
 Mizpah ! 
 
 The winter night falls cold and bleak ; 
 1 sit, in saddened mood, alone, 
 And listen to the wind's low moan, 
 
 And hide a fear I dare not speak. 
 For you are far, so far away, 
 And younger lips have turned to clay ; 
 Dear love ! I tremble while I pray, 
 Mizpah ! 
 
 it spring shall blossom up the plain. 
 And Easter lilies scent the air, 
 And song birds riot everywhere, 
 And heart and hope grow glad agair.. 
 Yet still my nightly prayer shall 1) \ 
 Though swallows build or swallows flee, 
 Until my love comes back to me, 
 Mizpah ! 
 
 And when, with flowers of June, you come. 
 And face to face again we star.d, 
 And heart to heart and hand to hand, 
 
 O love ! within the one dear home : 
 We shall not need to say again. 
 In winter's snow or summer's rain, 
 Till death shall come to part us twain : 
 :vliz-)ah ! 
 
 H 
 
 TRUE LOVE. 
 
 E offers me no palace, 
 No name of high degre^^ ; 
 Bright fortune's golden chalice 
 He does not bring to me ; 
 But he has won my hand. 
 
 And he has gained my heart ; 
 
 nore than palace grand, 
 
 all gold can impart 
 
 s his true love for me ! 
 
 •. his true love for me ! 
 
 By many a tender token, 
 
 By many a winning word, 
 I know with love unbroken 
 
 His heart for me is stirred ; 
 For this I give my hand 
 
 And yield my trusting heart, 
 For more than title grand, 
 
 Or aught wealth can impart. 
 Is a true heart to me ! 
 Is a true heart to me ! 
 
 Bright are the halls of pleasure, 
 
 And grand is fashion's train, 
 But far more do I treasure 
 
 A home without a stain ! 
 Rank may not alwa\s charm. 
 
 Nor fortune always bless ; 
 But love the heart will warm, 
 
 And bring true happiness ! 
 Then a bright home for me ! 
 Truth, love, and home for me ! 
 
 BONNIE WEE THING. 
 
 BONNIE wee thing ! cannie wee thing ! 
 Lovely wee thing ! wert thou mine, 
 I wad wear thee in my' bosom, 
 Lest my jewel I should tine. 
 Wishfully I look, and languish, 
 In that bonnie face o' thine ; 
 And my heart it stounds wi' anguish, 
 Lest my wee thing be na mine. 
 
 Wit and grace, and love and beauty. 
 
 In ae constellation shine ; 
 To adore thee is my duty, 
 
 Goddess o' this soul o' mine ! 
 Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing. 
 
 Lovely wee thing, wert thou mine, 
 I wad wear thee in my bosom. 
 
 Lest my jewel I should tine. 
 
 Robert Burns. 
 
 HER CHRISTMAS LETTER. 
 
 W 
 
 HEN I write to you 
 
 My pen I'd dip with honey dew. 
 When I write to you. 
 
 What can a woman say ! 
 
 Not hers to sing love's roundelay, 
 What can a woman say ! 
 
 '* Faithful, strong and true !" 
 
 Must run my letter through, 
 When I write to you. 
 
 When you are far away 
 
 My heart can make no holiday ; 
 Come Christmas when it may. 
 
 Augusta Prescott. 
 
ALBUM OF LOVE, 
 
 16o 
 
 OH DOUBT ME NOT! 
 
 OH doubt me not 1 — the season 
 Is o'er, when folly made me rove, 
 And now the vestal, reason, 
 Shall watch the fire awaked by love. 
 Although this heart was early blown, 
 
 And fairest hands disturbed the tree. 
 They only shook some blossoms down. 
 Its fruit has all been kept for thee. 
 Then doubt me not — the season 
 
 Is o'er, when foUv made me rove ; 
 And now the vestal, reason, 
 
 Shall watch the fire awaked by love. 
 
 Thomas Moore. 
 
 REMEMBERED. 
 
 NAY, tempt me not to love again, 
 There was a time when love was sweet 3 
 Dear Nea ! had I known thee then, 
 Our souls had not been slow to meet ! 
 But, oh ! this weary heart hath run 
 So many a time the rounds of pain. 
 Not e'en for thee, thou lovely one ! 
 Would I endure such pangs again. 
 In pleasure's dream or sorrow's hour. 
 In crowded hall or lonely bower, 
 The business of my soul shall be, 
 Forever to remember thee ! 
 
 Thomas Moore. 
 
166 
 
 ALBUM OF LOVE. 
 
 TO MY DREAM=LOVE. 
 
 WHERE art thou, oh ! my beautiful ? Afar 
 I seek thee sadly, till the day is done, 
 .\nd o'er the splendor of the setting sun, 
 Cold, calm, and silvery floats the even- 
 ing star : 
 Where art thou? Ah ! where art thou, hid in light 
 That haunts me, yet still wraps thee from my 
 sight ? 
 
 Not wholly, ah I not wholly — still love's eyes 
 Trace thy dim beauty through the mystic veil, 
 Like the young moon that glimmers faint and pale, 
 At noon-tide through the sun-web of the skies : 
 But ah ! I ope mine arms, and thou art gone, 
 And only memory knows where thou hast shone. 
 
 Night — night the tender, the compassionate, 
 Binieth thee, gem-like, 'mid her raven hair: 
 I dream, I see, I feel that thou art there — 
 And stand all weeping at sleep's golden gate. 
 Till the leaves open, and the glory streams 
 Down through my tranced soul in radiant dreams. 
 
 Too short, too short, soon comes the chilly morn, 
 To shake from love's boughs all their sleep-born 
 bloom, 
 
 And wake my heart back to its bitter doom. 
 Sending me through the land downcast, forlorn. 
 Whilst thou, my beautiful, art far away. 
 Bearing the brightness from my joyless day. 
 
 I stand and gaze across earth's fairest sea, 
 And still the flashing of the restless main 
 Sounds like the clashing of a prisoner's chain, 
 That binds me, oh ! my beautiful, from thee. 
 Oh ! sea-bird, flashing past on snow-white wing. 
 Bear my soul to her in thy wandering I 
 
 My heart is weary, gazing o'er the sea — 
 O'er the long dreary lines that close the sky : 
 Through solemn sunsets ever mournfully. 
 Gazing in vain, my beautiful, for thee; 
 Hearing the sullen waves for evermore 
 Dashing around me on the lonely shore. 
 
 But tides creep lazily about the sands, 
 Washing frail land-marks, Lethe-like, away ; 
 And though their records perish day by day, 
 Still stand I ever with close-claped hands. 
 Gazing far westward o'er the heaving sea, 
 Gazing in vain, my beautiful, for thee. 
 
 Walter A. C.^ssels. 
 
 KISS ME, AND BE STILL. 
 
 SWEETHEART, if there should come a time 
 When in my careworn face 
 The beauty of a vanished prime. 
 You strive in vain to trace ; 
 When faded tresses gray and thin, 
 
 Defy the binder's skill ; 
 Sweetheart, betray no sign. 
 By word no look repine. 
 Think of the grace that once was mine ; 
 Kiss me and be still. 
 
 Sweetheart, if there should come a year 
 
 When from my withered lips 
 The loving word that now rings clear, 
 
 In tuneless weakness slips ; 
 If I should sing with quavering voice 
 
 Some old song worse than ill, 
 Sweetheart, with kind deceit. 
 
 No mocking words repeat. 
 Think of the voice that once was sweet ; 
 
 Kiss me, and be still. 
 
 Sweetheart, if there should come a da\ — 
 
 I know not when nor how — 
 When your love beams with lessening ray. 
 
 That burns so brightly now ; 
 When you can meet my faithful eyes, 
 
 And feel no answering thrill ; 
 Sweetheart, let me know — 
 
 I could not bear the woe — 
 Think of the dear, dead long ago ; 
 
 Kiss me, and be still. 
 
 Samuel Minturn Pecic 
 
 I 
 
ALBUM OF LOVE. 
 
 1«7 
 
 THE ARCTIC LOVER. 
 
 GONE is the long, long winter night; 
 Look, my beloved one ! 
 How glorious, through his depths of light, 
 Rolls the majestic sun ! 
 The willows waked from winter's death, 
 Give out a fragrance like thy breath — 
 The summer is begun ! 
 
 Ay, 'tis the long bright summer day : 
 
 Hark, to that mighty crash ! 
 The loosened ice-ridge breaks away — 
 
 i he smitten waters flash. 
 Seaward the glittering mountain rides. 
 While down its green translucent sides, 
 
 The loamy torrents dnsh. 
 
 See, love, my boat is moored for thee, 
 
 By ocean's weedy floor — 
 The petrel does not skim the sea 
 
 More swiftly than my oar. 
 IVe'll go. where, on the rocky isles, 
 Her eggs the screaming sea- fowl piles 
 
 Beside the pebbly shore. 
 
 Or, bide thou where the poppy blows, 
 With wind-flowers frail and fair. 
 
 While I, upon his isle of snows, 
 Seek and defy the bear. 
 
 Fierce though he be, and huge of frame, 
 
 This arm his savage strength shall tame, 
 And drag him from his lair. 
 
 When crimson sky and flamy cloud 
 
 Bespeak the summer o'er, 
 A nd the dead valleys wear a shroud 
 
 Of snows that melt no more, 
 I'll build of ice thy winter home, 
 With glistening walls and glassy dome, 
 
 And spread with skins the floor. 
 
 The white fox by thy couch shall play; 
 
 And, from the frozen skies, 
 The meteors of a mimic day 
 
 Shall flash upon thine eyes. 
 And I — for such thy vow — meanwhile 
 Shall hear thy voice and see thy smile, 
 
 Till that long midnight flies. 
 
 W. C. Bryant. 
 
 THE POWER OF LOVE. 
 
 THE passion remakes the world for the youth It makes all things alive and significant. Nature 
 grows conscious. Every bird on the boughs of the tree sings now to his heart and souL 
 Almost the notes are articulate. The clouds have faces, as he looks on them. The trees 
 of the forest, the waving grass and the peeping flowers have grown intelligent ; and almost he fears 
 to trust them with the secret which they seem to invite. Yet nature soothes and sympathizes. In 
 :the green solitude he finds a dearer home than with men. 
 
 " Fountain heads and pathless groves, 
 Places which pale passion loves, 
 Moonlight walks, when all the fowls 
 Are safely housed, save bats and owls, 
 A midnight bell, a passing groan, 
 These are the sounds we feed upon." 
 
 Behold there in the wood the fine madman I He is a palace of sweet sounds and sights; 
 lie dilates ; he is twice a man ; he walks with arms akimbo ; he soliloquizes ; he accosts the grass 
 and the trees ; he feels the blood of the violet, the clover and the lily in his veins ; and he talks 
 ivith the brook that wets his foot. 
 
 The causes that have sharpened his perceptions of natural beauty have made him love music 
 and verse. It is a fact often observed that men have written good verses under the inspiration 
 of passion, who cannot write well under any other circumstances. 
 
 The like force has the passion over all his nature. It expands the sentiment ; it makes the 
 clown gentle, and gives the coward heart. Into the most pitiful and abject it will infuse a heart 
 and courage to defy the world, so only it have the countenance of the beloved object. In giving 
 him to another, it still more gives him to himself. He is a new man, with new perceptions, new 
 and keener purposes, and a religious solemnity of character and aims. He does not longer appertain 
 to his family and society. He is somewhat. He is a person. He is a soul. 
 
 R. W. Emerson. 
 
IC'S 
 
 ALBUM OF LOVE. 
 
 THE WELCOME. 
 
 OME in the evening, or come in the morning; 
 
 Come when you're looked for, or come without warning; 
 Kisses and welcome you'll find here before you, 
 And the oftener you come here the more I'll adore you 1 
 Light is my heart since the day we were plighted ; 
 Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted ; 
 The green of the trees looks far greener than ever. 
 And the linnets are singing, ''True lovers don't se\cr!"' 
 
 I'll pull you sweet flowers, to wear if you choose them I 
 Or, after you've kissed them, they'll lie on my bosom; 
 I'll fetch from the mountain its breeze to inspire you; 
 I'll fetch from my fancy a tale that won't tire you. 
 Oh ! your step's like the rain to the summer-vexed farmer. 
 Or sabre and shield to a knight without armor; 
 I'll sing you sweet songs till the stars rise above me, 
 Then wandering, I'll wish you in silence to love me. 
 
 We 11 look through the trees at the cliff and the 
 
 eyrie ; 
 We'll tread round the rath on the track of the fairy; 
 We'll look on the stars, and w^e'll list to the river, 
 Till you ask of your darling what gift you can give 
 
 her. 
 Oh ! she'll w^hisper you — '' Love, as unchangeably 
 
 beaming, 
 And trust, w^hen in secret, most tunefully streaming ; 
 Till the starlight of heaven above us shall quiver, 
 As our souls flow in one down eternity's river." 
 
 So come in the evening, or come in the morning;: 
 Come when you're looked for, or come without. 
 
 warning ; 
 Kisses and welcome you'll find here before you, 
 And the oftener you come here the more I'll adore 
 
 you ! 
 Light is my heart since the day we were plighted ;. 
 Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted ; 
 The green of the trees looks far greener than ever, 
 And the linnets are singing, " True lovers don't 
 
 sever ! ' ' Thomas Davis. 
 
 CAN YOU FORGET ME? 
 
 CAN you forget me? — I who have so cher- 
 ished 
 The veriest trifle that was memory's link ? 
 The roses that you gave me, although perished, 
 Were precious in my sight ; they made me 
 think 
 You took them in their scentless beauty stooping 
 
 From the warm shelter of the garden wall ; 
 
 Autumn, while into languid winter drooping, 
 
 Gave its last blossoms, opening but to fnll. 
 
 Can you forget them ? 
 
 Can you forget me ? My whole soul w^as blended ; 
 
 At least it sought to blend itself with thine ; 
 My li'"e's whole purpose, winning thee, seemed 
 ended ; 
 Thou wert my heart's sweet home — my spirit's 
 shrine. 
 
 Can you forget me? — when the firelight burning, 
 Flung sudden gleams around the quiet room ? 
 
 How would thy words, to long past moments turn- 
 ing, 
 Trust me 
 
 with 
 gloom ! 
 
 thoughts soft as the shadowy 
 
 Can you forget them ? 
 
 Can you forget me ? This is vainly tasking 
 
 The faithless heart where I, alas ! am not. 
 Too well I know the idleness of asking — 
 
 The misery — of why am I forgot ? 
 The happy hours that I have passed while kneeling^ 
 
 Half slave, half child, to gaze upon thy face. 
 But what to thee this passionate appealing — 
 
 Let my heart break — it is a common case. 
 You have forgotten n^.e. 
 Letitia E. Landon, 
 
 THE STARS ARE WITH THE VOYAGER. 
 
 T 
 
 HE stars are with the voyager 
 
 Wherever he may sail ; 
 The moon is constant to her time ; 
 The sun will never fail ; 
 But follow, follow round the world, 
 
 The green earth and the sea; 
 So love is with the lover's heart. 
 Wherever he may be. 
 
 Wherever he may be, the stars 
 
 Must daily lose their light ; 
 The moon will veil her in the shade ; 
 
 The sun will set at night. 
 The sun may set, but constant love 
 
 Will shine when he's away ; 
 So that dull night is never night. 
 
 And day is brighter day. 
 
 Thomas Hood. 
 
ALBUM OF LOVE. 
 
 369 
 
 ETHEL'S SONG OF LOVE. 
 
 FROM " TWIN SOULS : A PSYCHIC ROMANCL 
 
 I LOVE, and my heart that was dying, 
 Scarce gasping a tremulous breath, 
 To song turns its sorrowful sighing, 
 And ceases its moanings for death 
 O worlds ! hear my jubilant singing — 
 
 Notes keyed to the coo of the dove — 
 Notes keyed to the clarion, ringing — 
 O worlds, 'tis the music of love ! 
 
 O love, I hear melodies stealing 
 
 From woodlands and meadows and dells. 
 
 Now, hues of the May-trees are whiter. 
 And deeper the blush of the dawn. 
 
 The far constellations are brighter. 
 The wail of the night winds is gone. 
 
 Hush, husli ! Through the shadows that hover 
 Around me this star-lighted night, 
 
 I catch the footfall of my lover — 
 Two beings in one now unite ; 
 
 He comes with the glow of the morning. 
 He comes with the breath of the spring ; 
 
 As if the glad angels were pealing 
 Soft chimes from invisible bells ; 
 
 A mystical harp thou art thrumming, 
 
 Whose strings are the sun's mellow beams- 
 
 I list to the sweet, tender humming. 
 And hear it again in my dreams. 
 
 O love, my hot brow thou art wreathing 
 With blossoms pearl dews have caressed ; 
 
 With affluent joy thou art breathing 
 New life through my perishing breast ; 
 
 Too cheap were such tawdry adorning 
 As graces the head of a king. 
 
 O lover, to me thou art bringing 
 
 The gems of earth's opulent zones, 
 And down at my feet thou art flinging 
 
 Far more than the splendor of thrones \ 
 Poor, poor was my spirit and dying, 
 
 Till thou to my bosom didst fly. 
 Now, angels as well might be sighing. 
 
 And pant in their heaven to die. 
 
 Henry Davenport. 
 
 FOR LOVE'S SWEET SAKE. 
 
 A 
 
 WAKE ! — the starry midnight hour 
 
 Hangs charmed, and pauseth in its flight ; 
 In its own sweetness sleeps the flower, 
 And the doves lie hushed in deep delight. 
 Awake ! awake ! 
 Look forth, my love, for love's sweet sake ! 
 
 Awake ! — soft dews will soon arise 
 
 From daisied mead and thorny brake : 
 Then, sweet, uncloud those eastern eyes. 
 And like the tender morning break ! 
 Awake 1 awake ' 
 Dawn forth, my love, for love's sweet sake 1 
 
 Awake 1 — within the musk-rose bower 
 
 I watch, pale flower of love, for thee. 
 Ah. come ! and show the starry hour 
 
 What wealth of love thou hid'st from me ! 
 Awake ! awake ! 
 Show all thy love, for love's sweet sak ! 
 
 Awake ! — ne'er heed though listening night 
 
 Steal music from thy silver voice ; 
 Uncloud thy beauty, rare and bright. 
 And bid the world and me rejoice ! 
 Awake ! awake ! — 
 She comes at last, for love's sweet sal -. 
 
 Barry Cornwall. 
 
170 
 
 ALBUM OF LOVE, 
 
 Y 
 
 THE SLEEPING BEAUTY. 
 
 FROM "THE DAY DREAM." 
 
 EAR after year unto h-jr feet, 
 She lying on her couch alone, 
 Across the purple coverlet, 
 
 The maiden's jet-black hair has grown ; 
 On either side her tranced form 
 
 Forth streaming from a braid of pearl ; 
 The slumb'rous light is rich and warm, 
 And moves not on the rounded curl. 
 
 The silk star-broidered coverlid 
 
 Unto her limbs itself doth mould, 
 Languidly ever ; and amid 
 
 Her full black ringlets, downward rolled, 
 Glows forth each softly shadowed arm, 
 
 With bracelets of the diamond bright. 
 Her constant beauty doth inform 
 
 Stillness with love, and day with light. 
 
 She sleeps ; her breathings are not heard 
 
 In palace chambers far apart. 
 The fragrant tresses are not stirred 
 
 That lie upon her charmed heart. 
 She sleeps ; on either hand upswells 
 
 The gold-fringed pillow lightly prest ; 
 She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells 
 
 A perfect form in perfect rest. 
 
 Alfred Tennyson. 
 
 THE REVIVAL OF THE 
 BEAUTY." 
 
 SLEEPING 
 
 A 
 
 FROM "THE DAY DREA.M." 
 
 TOUCH, a kiss ! the charm was snapt. 
 There rose a noise of striking clocks; 
 And feet that ran, and doors that clapt, 
 And barkins: dogs, and crowing cocks; 
 A fuller li . ht illumined all ; 
 
 A breeze through all the garden swept ; 
 A sudden hubbub shook the hall ; 
 And sixty feet the fountain leapt. 
 
 The hedge broke in, the banner blew, 
 
 The butler drank, the steward scrawled, 
 The fire shot up, the martin flew, 
 
 The parrot screamed, the peacock squalled ; 
 The maid and page renewed their strife ; 
 The palace banned, and buzzed and clackt; 
 And all the long-pent stream of life 
 Dashed downward in a cataract. 
 
 And last of all the king awoke, 
 
 And in his chair himself upreared, 
 And yawned, and rubbed his face, and 
 spoke : 
 
 " By holy rood, a royal beard ! 
 How say you ? we have slept, my lords ; 
 
 IMy beard has grown into my lap." 
 The barons swore, with many words, 
 
 'T was but an after-dinner's nap. 
 
 " Pardy !" returned the king, " but still 
 
 My joints are something stiff or so. 
 My lord, and shall we pass the bill 
 
 I mentioned half an hour ago?" 
 The chancellor, sedate and vain, 
 
 In courteous words returned reply; 
 But dallied with his golden chain, 
 
 And, smiling, put the question by. 
 
 Alfred Tennyson. 
 
 THE "SLEEPING BEAUTY" DEPARTS 
 WITH HER LOVER. 
 
 FROM *'THE DAY DREAM." 
 
 AND on her lover's arm she leant. 
 And round her waist she felt it fold ; 
 And far across the hills they went 
 In that new world which is the old. 
 Across the hills, and far away 
 
 Beyond their utmost purple rim, 
 And deep into the dying: day. 
 
 The happy princess followed him. 
 
 *M*d sleep another hundred years, 
 
 O love, for such another kiss !" 
 ** O wake forever, love," she hears, 
 
 '' O love, 't was such as this and this." 
 And o'er them many a sliding star. 
 
 And many a merry wind was borne. 
 And, streamed through many a golden bar. 
 
 The twilight melted into morn. 
 
 " O eyes long laid in happy sleep !" 
 
 '• O happy sleep, that lightly fled !" 
 '* O happy kiss, that woke thy sleep !" 
 
 '' O love, thy kiss would wake the dead !*' 
 And o'er them many a flowing range 
 
 Of vapor buoyed the crescent bark ; 
 And, rapt through many a rosy change. 
 
 The twilight died into the dark. 
 
ALBUM OF LOVE, 
 
 171 
 
 ^' A hundred summers ! can it be ? 
 
 And whither goest thou, tell me where !" 
 *' O, seek my father's court with me, 
 
 For there are greater wonders there." 
 And o'er the hills, and far away 
 
 Beyond their utmost purple rim, 
 Beyond the night, across the day, 
 
 Through all the world she followed him. 
 
 Alfred Tennyson. 
 
 Y 
 
 THE BELLE OF THE BALL. 
 
 EARS, years ago, ere yet my dreams 
 Had been of being wise or witty. 
 Ere I had done with writing themes, 
 Or yawned o'er this infernal Chitty — 
 Years, years ago, while all my joys 
 
 Were in my fowling-piece and filly ; 
 In short, while I was yet a boy, 
 I fell in love with Laura Lilly. 
 
 I saw her at the county ball ; 
 
 There, when the sounds of flute and fiddte 
 Gave signal sweet in that old hall 
 
 Of hands across and down tlie middle. 
 Hers w^as the subtlest spell by far 
 
 Of all that sets young hearts romancing : 
 She was our queen, our rose, our star ; 
 
 And then she danced— O heaven ! her dancing. 
 
 Dark was her hair ; her hand was white ; 
 
 Her voice was exquisitely tender \ 
 Her eyes well full of liquid light ; 
 
 I never saw a waist so slender ; 
 Her every look, her every smile, 
 
 Shot right and left a score of arrows : 
 I thought 't was Venus from her isle. 
 
 And wondered where she'd left her sparrows. 
 
 Through sunny May, through sultry June, 
 
 I loved her with a love eternal ; 
 1 spoke her praises to the moon, 
 
 I wrote them to the Sunday journal. 
 My mother laughed ; I soon found out 
 
 That ancient ladies have no feeling : 
 My father frowned ; but how should gout 
 
 See any happiness in kneeling ? 
 
 She was the daughter of a dean — 
 
 Rich, fat and rather apoplectic ; 
 She had one brother just thirteen. 
 
 Whose color was extremely hectic ; 
 Her grandmother for many a year. 
 
 Had fed the parish with her bounty ; 
 Her second cousin was a peer. 
 
 And lord-lieutenant of the county. 
 
 But titles and the three-per-cents, 
 And mortgages, and great relations, 
 
 And India bonds, and tithes and rents, 
 O, what are they to love's sensations ; 
 
 JBlack eyes, fair forehead, clustering locks — 
 
 Such wealth, such honors Cupid chooses; 
 He cares as little for the stocks 
 
 As Baron Rothschild for the muses. 
 
 She sketched ; the vale, the wood, the beach, 
 
 Grew lovelier from her pencil's shading: 
 She botanized ; I envied each 
 
 Young blossom in her boudoir fading: 
 She warbled Handel ; it was grand — 
 
 She made the Catilina jealous : 
 She touched the organ ; 1 could stand 
 
 For hours and hours to blow the bellows 
 
 And she was flattered, worshipped, bored ; 
 
 Her steps were watched, her dress was noted ; 
 Her poodle-dog was quite adored ; 
 
 Her sayings were extremely quoted. 
 She laughed — and every heart was glad. 
 
 As if the taxes were abolished ; 
 She frowned — and every look was sad, 
 
 As if the opera were demolished 
 
 She smiled on many just for fun — 
 
 I knew that there was nothing in it ; 
 I was the first, the only one, 
 
 Her heart had thought of for a minute. 
 I knew it, for she told me so. 
 
 In phrase which A\as divinely moulded ; 
 She wTOte a charming hand — and O, 
 
 How sweetly all her notes were folded ! 
 
 Our love Avas most like other loves, — 
 
 A little glow, a little shiver, 
 A rosebud and a pair of gloves. 
 
 And "Fly Not Yet," upon the river; 
 Some jealousy of some ore's heir, 
 
 Some hopes of dying broken-hearted ; 
 A miniature, a lock of hair. 
 
 The usual vows — and then we parted. 
 
 We parted : months and years rolled by , 
 
 We met again four summers i)f:er. 
 Our parting was all sob and sigh.. 
 
 Our meeting was all mirth and laughte: ! 
 For in my heart's most secret cell 
 
 There had been many other lodgers ; 
 And she was not the ball-room's belle, 
 
 But only Mrs. — Something — Rogers ! 
 
 WiNTHROP ]NL Praed. 
 
 M 
 
 MY TRUE=LOVE HATH MY HEART. 
 
 Y true-love hath my heart, and I have his. 
 By just exchange ore to the other given : 
 I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss. 
 There never was a better bargain driven : 
 My true-love hath my heart, and I have his. 
 
 His heart in me keeps him and me in one ; 
 
 My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides: 
 He loves my heart, for once it was his own ; 
 
 I cherish his because in me it bides : 
 My true-love hath my heart, and T have his. 
 
 fJ:R Ph.'lip Sidney. 
 
172 
 
 ALBUM OF LOVE. 
 
 A REVERIE. 
 
 IT was only a winsome way she had, 
 As there in the twilight gray • 
 She smiled on me till my heart was glad, 
 In the glad, old-fashioned way ; 
 •Vnd fainter far than echoes are 
 
 Was the touch of a tremulous tone 
 That round me fell with the magic spell 
 Of a hand that clasped my own. 
 
 The rough old rivw, close to our feet, 
 
 Ran on with curve and fret 
 As our love once ran on its way to meet 
 
 And be lost in a vain regret ; 
 My darkened room shook out its gloom 
 
 Into folds of a fair delight, 
 Till overhead was canopied 
 
 By only the stars of night. 
 
 She flung me a shred of broken song, 
 
 Raveled from the unrest 
 That flutters where faith has suffered wrong 
 
 From doubts in the human breast ; 
 And here and there and everywhere 
 
 The world bent down to wait, 
 With me, the sign of a form divine 
 
 And the click of a cottage gate. 
 
 Ah ! Fate, you cannot hide her face 
 
 And fairy form from me ! 
 For the soul is careless of time and space 
 
 And master of thi -gs t j be ; 
 And while you would have my spirit sad 
 
 As I sit in the twilight gray, 
 She smiles on me till my heart is glad 
 
 In the glad, old-fashioned way. 
 
 THE BACHELOR'S SOLILOQUY. 
 
 TO marry or not to marry ? that's the question. 
 Whether 'tis nobler in the bach to suffer 
 The jeers and banters of outrageous females, 
 Or to take arms against a sea of troubles. 
 And by proposing, end them. To court; to marry. 
 To be a bach no more : and, by a marriage end 
 The lieart-ache, and the thousand and one ills 
 Bachelors are heir to ; 'tis a consummation 
 I'/e'/outly to be wished. To court, to marry; 
 To marry ! perchance to rue — ay, there's the rub ; 
 For in that state what afterthoughts may come. 
 When we have shuffled off this bachelor coil. 
 Must bring repentance. 
 
 There's the respect 
 That makes men live so long a single life. 
 For who would bear the scorn of pretty girls, 
 The hints of widows, the insolence of married men, 
 The inconveniences of undarned socks. 
 And thread-bare coats, and shirts with buttons off, 
 The i^angs of love-fits, and the misery 
 Of sleeping with cold feet, the dump>, the blues, 
 The horrors and the owl-like loneliness; 
 
 When he himself might his quietus make 
 
 With a bare ' ' will you have me ?' ' Who would bear 
 
 To fret and groan under a single life, 
 
 But that the dread of something after marriage — 
 
 That undiscovered net-work from whose meshes 
 
 No venturer escapes, puzzles the will. 
 
 And makes us rather bear the ills we have 
 
 Than flv to others that we know not of? 
 
 B 
 
 CONSTANCY. 
 
 ENEATH the sliadows of the trees. 
 In groves where floats the perfumed breeze,. 
 'Mid roses and 'mid violets, 
 
 I wait, O, love, for thee. 
 
 'Neath skies of deep and sunny blue 
 By water chat reflects its hue, 
 By bayou deep and shallow bay, 
 I wait, O, love, for thee. 
 
 With youth and ever-living love. 
 Which comes to us from Heaven above. 
 With hope and trust and charity, 
 I wait, O, love, for thee. 
 
 'Till age shall turn my dark hair gray, 
 'Till life's illusions fade away, 
 'Till earth shall sever life's frail c rd, 
 I'll wait, O, love, for thee. 
 
 Adele Auze. 
 
 G 
 
 GO, HAPPY ROSE. 
 
 O, happy rose ! and interwove 
 With other flowers, bind my love ! 
 Tell her, too, she must not be 
 Longer flowing, longer free. 
 That so oft hath fettered me. 
 
 Say, if she's fretful, I have bands 
 Of pearl and gold to bind her hands ; 
 Tell her, if she struggle still, 
 I have myrtle rods at will. 
 For to tame, though not to kill. 
 
 Take then my blessing thus, and go, 
 And tell her this, — but do not so ! 
 Lest a handsome anger fly. 
 Like a lightning from her eye. 
 And burn thee up, as well as I. 
 
 Robert Herrick. 
 
 LIGHT. 
 
 HE night has a thousand 
 
 THi^ nign: nas a tnousana eyes, 
 And the day but one ; 
 Yet the light of the bright worl I dies, 
 With the dying sun. 
 
 The mind has a thousand eyes, 
 
 And the heart but one : 
 Yet the light of a whole life dies. 
 
 When love is done. 
 
 Francis W. Bourdillon.. 
 
CONSTANCY. 
 
 173 
 
174 
 
 ALBUM OF LOVE. 
 
 H 
 
 LOVE AND MAY. 
 
 ER worJs f ii r,uk u,jun my ear, 
 
 Like dropping dews from leafy spray 
 She knew no shame, and felt no fear ; 
 She told me how her childhood grew — 
 Her joys how keen, her cares how few : 
 She smiled, and said her name was May 
 
 Y , 
 
 ' (■/'C'P 
 
 I marked her for a little space; 
 
 And soon she seemed to heed me not. 
 But gathered flowers before my face. 
 Oh, sweet to me her untaught ways ! 
 The love I bore her all my days 
 
 Was born of that wild woodland spot. 
 I never called her bride nor wife, 
 
 I watched her bloom a little more, 
 And then she faded out of life : 
 She quaffed the wave I might not drink, 
 And I stood thirstinc^ on the brink ! 
 
 Oh ! hurrying tide ! — Oh, dreary shore ! 
 
 Wild as an untamed bird of spring, 
 She sported 'mid the forest ways. 
 Whose blossoms pale did round her c. -^^ 
 Blithe was she as the banks of June, 
 Where humming-bees kept sweetest tune ; 
 The soul of love was in her lays. 
 
 Still, shouting 'neath the greenwood tree. 
 Glad children call upon her name ; 
 
 But life and time are changed to me : 
 
 The grass is growing where she trod. 
 
 Above her head a bladeless sod — 
 The very earth is not the same. 
 
 Eleonora L. IIervey, 
 
 ESTRAN3ED. 
 
 AH well ! we are wiser at last ; 
 The charming delusion is over; 
 Your dream of devotion is past. 
 And I — am no longer a lover.. 
 But, darling (a' low me the phrase 
 
 For simple civiiity's sake), 
 Don't think in this calmest of lays, 
 I've any reproaches to make. 
 
 Ah no ! not a querulous word 
 
 Shall fall from my passionless pen , 
 The sharp little scoldings you've heard 
 
 I never shall utter again. 
 But if in this final adieu, 
 
 Too chilly for even a kiss, 
 I venture a comment or two, 
 
 You surely won't take it amiss. 
 
 I'm thinking, my dear, of the day — 
 
 (Well, habit is certainly queer, 
 And still, in a lover-like way, 
 
 I call you my "darling " and *' dear")^ 
 I'm thinking, I say, of the time 
 
 I vowed you were charmingly clever, 
 And raved of your beauty in rhyme. 
 
 And promised to love you forever ! 
 
 Forever ! a beautiful phrase. 
 
 Suggestive of heavenly pleasure, 
 That millions and millions of days 
 
 Were wholly unequal to measure ! 
 And yet, as we sadly have seen, 
 The case is remarkably clear, 
 'Tis a word that may happen to mean 
 Rather less than a calendar year ! 
 
 Yet I never have broken my vow, 
 
 Although I admit that I swore 
 To love you forever, and now 
 
 Confess that I love you no more ; 
 For, since you're no longer the same, 
 
 (Heaven pardon and pity us both !) 
 To be loving you now, I proclaim. 
 
 Were really breaking my oath ! 
 
 John G. Saxe. 
 
ALBUM OF LOVE. 
 
 175 
 
 LOVE ME LITTLE, LOVE ME LONG. 
 
 This poem, the author of which is unknown, was originally 
 printed more than 300 years ago. The title has become a 
 common saying, and the sentiment appears to have been sug- 
 gested by another saying, that "hot love is always short." 
 
 LOVE me little, love me long ! 
 Is the burden of my song : 
 Love that is too hot and strong 
 Burneth soon to waste. 
 Still I would not have thee cold, — 
 Not too backward, nor too bold ; 
 Love that lasteth till 't is old 
 
 Fadeth not in haste. 
 Love me little, love me long I 
 Is the burden of my song. 
 
 If thou lovest me too much, 
 'Twill not prove as true a touch ; 
 Love me little more than such, — 
 
 For I fear the end. 
 I'm with little well content, 
 And a little from thee sent 
 Is enough, with true intent 
 
 To be steadfast, friend. 
 
 Say thou lovest me, while thou live, 
 I to thee my love will give. 
 Never dreaming to deceive 
 
 While that life endures ; 
 Nay, and after death, in sooth, 
 I to thee will keep my truth. 
 As now when in my May of youth : 
 
 This my love assures. 
 
 Constant love is moderate ever. 
 And it will through life persever' ; 
 Give me that with true endeavor, — 
 
 I will it restore. 
 A suit of durance let it be. 
 For all weathers, — that for me, — 
 For the land or for the sea ; 
 
 Lasting evermore. 
 
 Winter's cold or summer's heat, 
 Autumn's tempests on it beat; 
 It can never know defeat, 
 
 Never can rebel : 
 Such the love that I would gain. 
 Such the love, I tell thee plain, 
 Thou must give, or woo in vain : 
 
 So to thee — farewell ! 
 
 THE MILKMAID'S SONG. 
 
 PULL, pull ! and the pail is full, 
 And milking' s done and over. 
 Who would not sit here under the tree ? 
 What a fair, fair thing's a green field to see ! 
 Brim, brim, to the rim, ah me ! 
 I have set my pail on the daisies ! 
 It seems so light — can the sun be set ? 
 The dews must be heavy, my cheeks are wet, 
 I could cry to have hurt the daisies ! 
 
 Harry is near, Harry is near, 
 
 My heart's as sick as if he were here, 
 
 My lips are burning, my cheeks are wet, 
 
 He hasn't uttered a word as yet. 
 
 But the air's astir with his praises. 
 
 My Harry ! 
 
 The air's astir with your praises. 
 
 He has scaled the rock by the pixy's stone, 
 
 He's among the kingcuijs — he picks me one, 
 
 I love the grass that I tread upon 
 
 When I go to my Harry ! 
 
 He has jumped the brook, he has climbed the 
 
 knowe, 
 There's never a faster foot I know. 
 But still he seems to tarry. 
 
 Harry ! O Harry ! my love, my pride. 
 My heart is leaping, my arms are wide ! 
 Roll up, roll up, you dull hillside, 
 
 Roll up, and bring my Harry ! 
 They may talk of glory over the sea, 
 But Harry's alive, and Harry's for me. 
 My love, my lad, my Harry ! 
 
 Come spring, come winter, come sun, come snow, 
 
 What cares Dolly, whether or no, 
 
 While I can milk and marry ? 
 
 Right or wrong, and wrong or right, 
 
 Quarrel who quarrel, and fight who fight. 
 
 But I'll bring my pail home every night 
 
 To love, and home, and Harry ! 
 
 We'll drink our can, we'll eat our cake, 
 
 There's beer in the barrel, there's bread in the 
 
 bake. 
 The world may sleep, the world may wake, 
 liut I shall milk and marry. 
 And marry, 
 
 1 shall milk and marry. 
 
 Sydney Dobell. 
 
 THE PLAYTHING. 
 
 KITTY'S charming voice and face. 
 Syren-like, first caught my fancy ; 
 Wit and humor next take place, 
 
 And now I dote on sprightly Nancy. 
 
 Kitty tunes her pipe in vain. 
 
 With airs most languishing and dying ; 
 Calls me false, ungrateful swain, 
 
 And tries in vain to shoot me flying. 
 
 Nancy with resistless art. 
 
 Always humorous, gay, and witty, 
 
 Has talked herself into my heart, 
 And quite excluded tuneful Kitty. 
 
 Ah, Kitty ! Love, a wanton boy, 
 
 Now pleased with song, and now with prattle, 
 Still longing for the newest toy. 
 
 Has changed his whistle for a rattle. 
 
176 
 
 ALBUM OF LOVE. 
 
 WHEN SHOULD LOVERS BREATHE 
 THEIR VOWS? 
 
 HEX should lovers breathe their vows? 
 
 When should ladies hear them ? 
 When the dew is on the boughs, 
 
 When none else are near them 
 When the moon shines col i and pale, 
 
 W 
 
 When the birds are sleeping, 
 When no voice is on the gale. 
 
 When the rose is weeping ; 
 When the stars are bright on high, 
 
 Like hopes in young love's dreaming, 
 And glancing round the light clouds fly, 
 
 Like soft fears to shade their beaming. 
 
 The fairest smiles are those that live 
 On the brow by starlight wreathing; 
 
 And the lips their richest incense give 
 When the sigh is at midnight breathing. 
 
 O, softest is the cheek's love-ray 
 When seen by moonlight hours, 
 
 Other roses seek the day, 
 
 But blushes are night flowers. 
 O, when the moon and stars are bright. 
 
 When the dew drops glisten, 
 Then their vows should lovers plight. 
 
 Then should ladies listen ! 
 
 Letitia E. Landon. 
 
 MOLL McCARTV. 
 
 She's not so very gay. 
 But I can't stay away 
 From her party — fro'. 
 
 her party. 
 Down the street, beside 
 
 the glare 
 Of a lamplight's ro^y 
 
 flare 
 Lives IvIcCarty — Moll 
 
 McCarty. 
 
 Chorus : — And her eyes 
 
 shine bright 
 Like the stars on frosty 
 night. 
 And just as hearty- 
 just as hearty. 
 With a crystalline de- 
 light 
 That sinks my soul in. 
 plight, 
 Oh, McCarty — MoU 
 McCarty. 
 Her lips are cherry red, 
 Like rosebuds in their bed ; 
 Or at a party — at a party. 
 When the sad tears fill her eye, 
 Then in sympathy I cry 
 
 With McCarty— Moll McCarty. 
 You're not so very gay, 
 But you stole my heart away 
 
 At your party — at your party ; 
 And though o'er this world I'd roam 
 My heart would turn to you as home. 
 
 Sweet McCarty — Moll McCarty. 
 Your home beside the flare 
 Of lamplight's rosy glare 
 
 Holds a party — holds a party: 
 The sweet babe upon my knee. 
 Who resembles you and me, 
 My McCarty — Moll McCarty. 
 
 Charles M. Wallington. 
 
 A HEINE LOVE SONG. 
 
 THE image of the moon at night 
 All trembling in the ocean lies, 
 But she, with calm and steadfast light. 
 Moves proudly through the radiant skies. 
 How like the tranquil moon thou art — 
 
 Thou fairest flower of womankind 1 
 
 And, look, within my fluttering heart 
 
 Thy image trembling is enshrined ' 
 
 Eugene Field. 
 
12 
 
 MY LOVE lb UVER THE ,SRA. 
 
 177. 
 
178 
 
 ALBUM OF LOVE. 
 
 A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE. 
 
 T 
 
 HIS is the place. Stand still, my steed, 
 Let me review the scene, 
 And summon from the shadowy past 
 The forms that once have been. 
 
 The past and present here unite 
 
 Beneath time's flowing tide, 
 Like footprints hidden by a brook, 
 
 But seen on either side. 
 
 Here runs the highway to the town ; 
 
 There the green lane descends. 
 Through which I walked to church with tliee, 
 
 O gentlest of my friends ! 
 
 The shadow of the linden-trees 
 
 Lay moving on the grass ; 
 Between them and the moving boughs, 
 
 A shadow, thou didst pass. 
 
 Thy dress was like the lilies. 
 
 And thy heart as pure as they : 
 One of God's holy messengers 
 
 Did walk with me that day. 
 
 I saw the branches of the trees 
 
 Bend down thy touch to meet. 
 The clover-blossoms in the grass 
 
 Rise up to kiss thy feet. 
 
 ''Sleep, sleep to-day, tormenting cares,' 
 
 Of earth and folly born ! " 
 Solemnly sang the village choir 
 
 On that sweet Sabbath morn. 
 
 Through the closed blinds the golden sun 
 
 Poured in a dusty beam. 
 Like the celestial ladder seen 
 By Jacob in his dream. 
 
 And ever and anon, the wind, 
 
 Sweet-scented with the hay. 
 Turned o'er the hymn-book's fluttering leaves 
 
 That on the window lay. 
 
 Long was the good man's sermon, 
 
 Yet it seemed not so to me ; 
 For he spoke of Ruth the beautiful, 
 
 And still I thought of thee. 
 
 Long was the prayer he uttered. 
 
 Yet it seemed not so to me ; 
 For in my heart I prayed with him. 
 
 And still I thought of thee. 
 
 But now, alas ! the place seems changed ; 
 
 Thou art no longer here : 
 Part of the sunshine of the scene 
 
 With thee did disappear. 
 
 Though thoughts, deep-rooted in my heart. 
 
 Like pine-trees dark and high, 
 Subdue the light of noon, and breathe 
 
 A low and ceaseless sigh ; 
 
 This memory brightens o'er the past. 
 
 As when the sun, concealed 
 Behind some cloud that near us hangs. 
 
 Shines on a distant field. 
 
 H. W. Longfellow. 
 
 UP! QUIT THY BOWER. 
 
 UP ! quit thy bower ! late wears the hour, 
 Long have the rooks cawed round the tower ! 
 O'er flower and tree loud hums the bee. 
 And the wild kid sports merrily. 
 The sun is bright, the sky is clear ; 
 Wake, lady, wake ! and hasten here. 
 
 Up, maiden fair ! and bind thy hair. 
 
 And rouse thee in the breezy air ! 
 
 The lulling stream that soothed thy dream 
 
 Is dancing in the sunny beam. 
 
 Waste not these hours, so fresh, so gay : 
 
 Leave thy soft couch, and haste away ! 
 
 Up ! Time will tell the morning bell 
 Its service-sound has chimed well ; 
 The aged crone keeps house alone. 
 The reapers to the fields are gone. 
 Lose not these hours, so cool, so gay : 
 Lo ! whilst thou sleep'st they haste away ! 
 
 Joanna Baillie. 
 
 FOLLOWING SUIT. 
 
 ONE springtime day a gentle maid 
 Adown the garden pathway strayed 
 That wound the shady orchard through; 
 And thinking of her eyes of blue. 
 And tender glances, sweet and true, 
 I followed suit — pray, wouldn't you? 
 
 A saucy breeze that chanced to stray 
 Along that fragrant garden way 
 Swept back her wavy golden hair, 
 
 Surprised to see a maid so fair, 
 
 And sighed for love such charms to view^ 
 
 I followed suit — pray, wouldn't you? 
 
 A ray from out the sunlit sky 
 Espied the maid as she passed by. 
 And rained his kisses, soft and warm. 
 On neck and hair and snowy arm, 
 And cheek of apple-blossom hue. 
 I followed suit — pray, wouldn't you? 
 
ALBUM OF LOVE. 
 
 179 
 
 I 5AW TWO CL0UD5 AT MORNING, 
 
 IS AW two clouds at morning, 
 Tinged by the rising sun, 
 And in the dawn they floated on, 
 And mingled into one; 
 I thought that morning cloud was 
 
 blessed, 
 It moved so sweetly to the west. 
 
 1 saw two summer currents 
 
 Flow smoothly to their meeting, 
 And join their course, with silent 
 force. 
 In peace each other greeting ; 
 Calm was their course through banks of 
 
 green, 
 While dirupling eddies played between. 
 
 Such be your gentle motion, 
 
 Till life's last pulse shall beat ; 
 Like summer's beam and summer's 
 stream, 
 Float on, in joy, to meet 
 A calmer sea, where storms shall cease, 
 A purer sky, where all is peace. 
 
 John G. C. Brainard. 
 
 GREEN GROW THE R4SHES O! 
 
 GREEN grow the rashes O, 
 Green grow the rashes O ; 
 The sweetest hours that e'er I 
 spend 
 Are spent amang the lasses O. 
 
 There's naught but care on ev'ry han'. 
 In every hour that passes O ; 
 
 What signifies the life o' man, 
 An' 't were na for the lasses O ? 
 
 The warly race may riches chase. 
 An' riches still may fly them O ; 
 
 An' though at last they catch them fast 
 Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them O. 
 
 Gie me a canny hour at e'en, 
 My arms about my dearie O, 
 
 An warly cares an' warly men 
 May all gae tapsalteerie O. 
 
 For you sae douce, ye sneer at this, 
 Ye 're naught but senseless asses O ! 
 
 The wisest man the warl' e'er saw 
 He dearly lo'ed the lasses O. 
 
 Auld nature swears the lovely dears 
 Her noblest work she classes O : 
 
 Her 'prentice han' she tried on man, 
 And then she made the lasses O. 
 
 Robert Burns. 
 
 T 
 
 A MADRIGAL. 
 
 HE dreary days of winter come. 
 The fields are bare, the woods are dumb, 
 And chilled with drenching rain ; 
 But, dearest, in your face I see 
 The merry, merry months again. 
 
 For April left within your eyes 
 The peerless azure of his skies ; 
 
 And snowy blooms of May 
 Are on your brow; and June impressed 
 
 The kisses of his rosiest day 
 
 On either cheek. As for your hair, 
 September stored his treasure there 
 
 Of glittering gold, that I 
 Might gaze thereon and valiantly 
 
 The winter frosts and chills defy. 
 
180 
 
 ALBUM OF LOVE, 
 
 T 
 
 HROUGH the golden corn we went, 
 In the rosy evening light; 
 We, the poppies mid the gold. 
 Gathered with a child's delight. 
 
 Time was naught to us, for we 
 Scarcely felt the moments glide; 
 
 She, in robes of purest white, 
 Seemed an angel by my side. 
 
 O, that glorious sunset hour, 
 
 With its radiance round us thrown, 
 
 Seemed an emblem sweet and fair, 
 Of the joy I deemed my own. 
 
 LOVE'S 
 
 IF I were blind and thou shouldst entec 
 E'er so softly in the room, 
 I should know it, 
 I should feel it. 
 Something subtle would reveal it, 
 And a glory round the centre 
 That would lighten up the gloom. 
 And my heart would surely guide me, 
 With love's second-sight provide me. 
 One amid the crowd to find, 
 If I were blind ! 
 
 If I were deaf, and thou hadst spoken 
 Ere thy presence I had known, 
 
 I should know it, 
 
 I should feel it, 
 Something subtle would reveal it. 
 
 E 
 
 JAMIE'S 
 
 RE the twilight bat was flitting. 
 In the sunset at her knitting. 
 Sang a lonely maiden, sitting 
 Underneath her threshold tree. 
 
 On we wandered for a while. 
 
 Then the cornfield path we traced; 
 
 Evening shadows from the sky 
 All its glowing tints had chased. 
 
 All the ruddy petals gone. 
 
 From the gathered poppies now; 
 
 All the light of hope and joy 
 Faded out from cheek and brow. 
 
 For a question and reply, 
 
 Those sad evening breezes bore — 
 
 And I knew that side by side 
 We should wander nevermore. 
 
 S. J. Reilly. 
 
 FLOWER. 
 
 And the seal at once be broken 
 By love's liquid undertone. 
 And the world's discordant noises — 
 Whisper, wheresoe'er thou art, 
 'Twill reach thy heart. 
 
 If I were dead and thou should venture 
 Near the coffin where I lay, 
 
 I should know it, 
 
 I should feel it, 
 Something subtle would reveal it, 
 And no look of mildest censure 
 Rest upon that face of clay. 
 Shouldst thou kiss me, conscious flashes 
 Of love's fire through death's cold ashes 
 Would give back the cheek its red. 
 If I were dead ! 
 
 ON THE SEA. 
 
 And as daylight died before us, 
 And the vesper star shone o'er us. 
 Fitful rose her tender chorus, 
 "Jamie's on the stormy sea." 
 
ALBUM OF LOVE, 
 
 181 
 
 SONG. 
 
 OH ! never, no, never, 
 Thou' It meet me again ! 
 Thy spirit for ever 
 
 Has burst from its chain ; 
 The links thou hast broken 
 
 Are all that remain. 
 For never, oh ! never, 
 Thou'lt meet me again. 
 
 Like the sound of the viol, 
 
 That dies on the blast ; 
 Like the shade on the dial, 
 
 Thy spirit has passed. 
 The breezes blow round me. 
 
 But give back no strain ; 
 The shade on the dial 
 
 Returns not again. 
 
 Where roses enshrined thee, 
 
 In light trellised shade. 
 Still hoping to find thee, 
 
 How oft have I strayed ! 
 Thy desolate dwelling 
 
 I traverse in vain ; — 
 The stillness has whispered 
 
 Thou'lt ne'er come again. 
 
 Caroline Oliphant. 
 
 WHEN YOUR BEAUTY APPEARS. 
 
 T 
 
 AN OLD LOVE=LETTER. 
 
 HROUGH her tears she gazed upon it. 
 Record of that brief bright dream ! 
 
 And she clasped it closer — closer — 
 For a message it would seem, 
 
 'W 
 
 HEN your beauty appears. 
 
 In its graces and airs. 
 All bright as an angel new dropt from 
 the skies, 
 At distance I gaze, and am awed by my fears, 
 So strangely you dazzle my eyes ! 
 But when without art 
 Your kind thoughts you impart. 
 When your love runs in blushes through evei/ vein. 
 When it darts from your eyes, when it pants 
 
 at your heart, 
 Then I know that you're woman again.'' 
 
 *' There's a passion and pride 
 In our sex," she replied ; 
 '*And thus (might I gratify both) I would do — 
 Still an angel appear to each lover beside, 
 But still be a woman for you/' 
 
 Thomas Parnell. 
 
 SWEET, BE NOT PROUD. 
 
 SWEET, be not proud of those two eyes, 
 Which starlike sparkle in their skies ; 
 Nor be you proud that you can see 
 All hearts your captives, yours yet free. 
 Be you not proud of that rich hair. 
 Which wantons with the lovesick air; 
 When as that ruby which you wear. 
 Sunk from the tip of your soft ear, 
 Will last to be a precious stone 
 When all your world of beauty's gone. 
 
 Robert Herr.ick. 
 
 Coming from the lips now silent, 
 Coming from a hand now cold ; 
 
 And she felt the same emotion 
 It had thrilled her with of old. 
 
 Mrs. J. C. Neal. 
 
 DONT MARRY A MAN "TO SAVE HIM." 
 
 A CRY comes over from Oregon 
 For a car-load of maidens, fully grown. 
 All of them women of blood and tone^ 
 Come marry uur men *' to save then)." 
 
182 
 
 ALBUM OF LOVE. 
 
 There are thousands here in these haunts of sin, 
 Spending their money in gaming and gin, 
 Corrupt without and corrupt within — 
 Come marry these men '• to save them." 
 
 They have each been somebody's pride and joy, 
 Somebody's petted and pampered boy, 
 Spoiled for lack of a maiden coy — 
 
 Come marry these men "to save them." 
 
 You must be healthy, pure, and strong. 
 Alike to breast and bear the wrong, 
 Willing to carry a burden long — 
 
 Come marry these men " to save them." 
 
 You must be leader, but always seem 
 To be gentle and helpless as love's young dream, 
 And leaned upon when you seem to lean — 
 Come marry these men '' to save them." 
 
 You must be cleanly, and kind, and sweet, 
 Making a path for their godless feet 
 Up to the grace of the mercy-seat — 
 
 Come marry these men " to save them." 
 
 Oh, woman, you are sold at a fearful price, 
 If you wed your virtue to whisky and dice, 
 And trust your soul to a den of vice — 
 Don't marry a man " to save him." 
 
 A life that is pure needs a pure one in turn, 
 A being to honor, and not to spurn. 
 An equal love, that shall constant burn — 
 Don't marry a man '' to save him." 
 
 A woman's life is a precious thing. 
 
 Her love a rose unwithering ; 
 
 Would you bury it deep in early spring. 
 
 Bv 
 
 to save him ?' 
 
 You can pray for his soul from morn till eve, 
 You can wish the angels to bring reprieve 
 To his sin-bound heart, but you'll always grieve 
 If you marry a man " to save him." 
 
 God gives to woman a right to press 
 Her claim to a man's best manliness. 
 A woman gives all ; shall a man give less ? 
 Don't marry a man " to save him." 
 
 THE EMERALD RING. 
 
 A SUPERSTITION. 
 
 IT is a gem which hath the power to show 
 If plighted lovers keep their faith or no; 
 If faithful, it is like the leaves of spring; 
 If faithless, like those leaves when withering. 
 Take back again your emerald gem, 
 
 There is no color in the stone; 
 It might have graced a diadem. 
 
 But now its hue and light are gone! 
 Take back your gift, and give me mine — 
 The kiss that sealed our last love-vow ; 
 
 Ah, other lips have been on thine — 
 My kiss is lost and sullied now ! 
 
 The gem is pale, the kiss forgot, 
 
 And, more than either, you are changed; 
 
 But my true love has altered not. 
 My heart is broken — not estranged 1 
 
 Letitia E. La n don. 
 
 THE LOVE OF A MOTHER. 
 
 W 
 
 HO that has languished, even in advanced 
 life, in sickness and despondency ; who 
 that has pined on a weary bed in the 
 neglect and loneliness of a foreign 
 land; but has thought on the mother " thj t 
 looked on his childhood," that smoothed his pil- 
 low and administered to his helplessness? Oh! 
 there is an enduring tenderness in the love of a 
 mother to a son that transcends all other affections 
 of the heart. It is neither to be chilled by seJ Ish- 
 ness, nor daunted by danger, nor weakened by 
 worthlessness, nor stifled by ingratitude. 
 
 She will sacrifice every comfort to his conveni- 
 ence ; she will surrender every pleasure to his en- 
 joyment ; she will glory in his fame and exult in 
 his prosperity — and, if misfortune overtake him, 
 he will be the dearer to her from his misfortunes ; 
 and if disgrace settle upon his name, she will still 
 love and cherish him in spite of his disgrace ; and 
 if all the world beside cast him off, she will be all 
 the world to him. 
 
 Washington Irving. 
 
 «'0 NANCY, WILT THOU GO WITH ME." 
 
 O 
 
 XANCY, wilt thou go with me, 
 
 Nor sigh to leave the flaunting town ? 
 Can silent glens have charms for thee, 
 The lonely cot and russet gown ? 
 No longer drest in silken sheen. 
 
 No longer decked with jewels rare. 
 Say, canst thou quit each courtly scene 
 Where thou wert fairest of the fair ? 
 
 O Nancy ! when thou 'rt far away, 
 
 Wilt thou not cast a wish behind ? 
 Say, canst thou face the parching ray, 
 
 Nor shrink before the wintry wind ? 
 O, can that soft and gentle mien 
 
 Extremes of hardship learn to bear. 
 Nor sad regret each courtly scene 
 
 Where thou wert fairest of the fair ? 
 
 O Nancy ! canst thou love so true, 
 
 Through perils keen with me to go, 
 Or when thy swain mishap shall rue. 
 
 To share with him the pangs of woe ? 
 Say, should disease or pain befall. 
 
 Wilt thou assume the nurse's care. 
 Nor wistful those gay scenes recall 
 
 Where thou wert fairest of the fair? 
 
ALBUM OF LOVE. 
 
 And when a last thy love shall die, 
 
 Wilt thou receive his parting breath ? 
 Wilt thou repress each struggling sigh, 
 
 And cheer with smiles the bed of death? 
 And wilt thou o'er his breathless clay, 
 
 Strew flowers and drop the tender tear, 
 Nor then regret those scenes so gay 
 
 Where thou wert fairest of the fair ? 
 
 Thomas Percy. 
 
 LOVE DISSEMBLED. 
 
 THINK not I love him, though I ask for 
 him; 
 ' T is but a peevish boy : — yet he talks 
 well ; — 
 But what care I for words ? — vet words do 
 
 well. 
 When he that speaks them pleases those that 
 
 hear. 
 But, sure, he's proud ; and yet his pride be- 
 comes him : 
 He '11 make a proper man : The best thing 
 
 in him 
 Is his complexion ; and faster than his 
 
 tongue 
 Did make offence, his eye did heal it up. 
 He is not very tall; vet for his vears he's 
 
 tall ; 
 His leg is but so so ; and yet 't is well : 
 There was a pretty redness in his lip, 
 A little riper and more lusty red 
 Than that mixed in his cheek; 'twas just 
 
 the difference 
 Betwixt the constant red, and mingled 
 
 damask. 
 
 There be some women, Silvius, had they 
 
 marked him 
 In parcels, as I did, would have gone near 
 To fall in love with him : but, for my part, 
 I love him not, nor hate him not ; and yet 
 I have more cause to hate him than to love him : 
 For what had he to do to chide at me ? 
 He said mine eyes were black, and my hair black ; 
 And, now I am remembered, scorned at me : 
 I marvel, why I answered not again : 
 But that's all one; omittance is no quittance. 
 William Shakespeare. 
 
 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 to night 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 ? 
 
 Or 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, 
 O, 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, 
 Iiet no false pity spare the blow, 
 But in true mercy tell me so. 
 
 Is there within thy heart a need 
 
 That mine cannot fulfill ? 
 One chord that any other hand 
 
 Could better wake or still ? 
 Speak now, lest at some future day 
 ^ly 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 fault alone — 
 But shield my heart against thine own. 
 
 Couldst thou withdraw thy hand one day 
 And answer to my claim, 
 
184 
 
 ALBUM OF LOVE. 
 
 That fate, and that to-day's mistake — 
 
 Not thou — had been to blame ! 
 Some soothe their conscience thus ; but thou 
 Wilt surely warn and save me now. 
 
 Nay, answer 7iot — 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 iLOuhi risk it all ! 
 
 Adelaide Anne Procter. 
 
 T 
 
 THE KNIGHT'S TOAST. 
 
 HE feast is o'er! Now brimminsr wine 
 
 o 
 
 In lordly cup is seen to shine 
 Before each eager guest ; 
 And silence fills the crowded hall. 
 As deep as when the herald's call 
 Thrills in the loyal breast. 
 
 Then up arose the noble host, 
 
 And, smiling, cried; ''A toast ! a toast ! 
 
 To all our ladies fair ! 
 Here, before all, I pledge the name 
 Of Staunton's proud and beauteous dame — 
 
 The Lady Gundamere ! ' ' 
 
 Then to his feet each gallant sprung, 
 And joyous was the shout that rung, 
 
 As Stanley gave the word ; 
 And every cup was raised on high, 
 Nor ceased the loud and gladsome cry, 
 
 Till Stanley's voice was heard. 
 
 " Enough, enough," he smiling said, 
 And lowly bent his haughty head ; 
 
 *' That all may have their due. 
 Now each, in turn, must play his part, 
 And pledge the lady of his heart. 
 Like gallant knight and true !" 
 
 Then, one by one, each guest sprang up. 
 And drained in turn the brimming cup, 
 
 And named the loved one's name; 
 And each, as hand on high he raised. 
 His lady's grace or beauty praised, 
 
 Her constancy and fame. 
 
 'Tis now St. Leon's turn to rise; 
 
 On him are fixed those countless eyes ; 
 
 A gallant knight is he ; 
 Envied by some, admired by all, 
 Far famed in lady's bower, and hall — 
 
 The flower of chivalry. 
 
 St. Leon raised his kindling eye, 
 And lifts the sparkling cup on high; 
 
 *' I drink to one,'' he said, 
 ** Whose image never may depart. 
 Deep graven on this grateful heart, 
 
 Till memorv be dead. 
 
 I 
 
 To one whose love for me shall last 
 When lighter passions long have passed— 
 
 So holy 'tis and true; 
 To one whose love hath longer dwelt, 
 More deeply fixed, more keenly felt. 
 
 Than any pledged by you." 
 
 Each guest upstarted at the word. 
 And laid a hand upon his sv\'ord. 
 
 With fury-flashing eye ; 
 And Stanley said : '• We crave the name. 
 Proud knight, of this most peerless dame, 
 
 "Whose love you count so high." 
 
 St. Leon paused, as if he would 
 
 Not breathe her name in careless mood, 
 
 Thus lightly, to another ; 
 Then bent his noble head, as though 
 To give that word the reverence due, 
 
 And gently said, *' My mother !" 
 
 LOVE IS A SICKNESS. 
 
 LO^T^ is a sickness full of woes, 
 All remedies refusing ; 
 A plant that most with cutting grows, 
 ^lost barren with best using. 
 Why so ? 
 More we enjoy it, more it dies ; 
 If not enjoyed, it sighing cries 
 Heigh-ho ! 
 
 Love is a torment of the mind, 
 
 A tempest everlasting ; 
 And Jove hath made it of a kind. 
 Not well, nor full, nor fasting. 
 Why so? 
 !More we enjoy it, more it dies ; 
 If not enjoyed, it sighing cries 
 
 Heigh-ho ! Samuel Daniel. 
 
 GRAY AND SILVER. 
 
 HAD a love ; dark -haired was she, 
 
 Her eyes were gray. 
 For sake of her across the sea 
 
 I sailed away. 
 
 Death, sickness, tempest and defeat 
 
 All passed me by ; 
 With years came fortune, fair and fleet, 
 
 And rich was I. 
 
 Again for me the sun looked down 
 
 Familiar skies ; 
 I found my love, her locks had grown 
 
 Gray as her eyes. 
 
 '' Alas !" she sighed, " forget me, now 
 
 No longer fair." 
 "I loved thy heart," I whispered low, 
 
 *' And not thy hair." 
 
 C. E. D. Phelps, 
 
LOVE'S ENTREATY, 
 
 185 
 
186 
 
 ALBUM OF LOVE, 
 
 LET NOT WOMAN E'ER COMPLAIN. 
 
 L 
 
 EX not woman e'er complain 
 Of inconstancy in love ; 
 Let not woman e'er complain 
 Fickle man is apt to rove ; 
 Look abroad through nature's range, 
 
 MY OWN. 
 
 I CANNOT call thee beautiful, 
 I cannot call thee fair, 
 Give praise unbounded to thine eyes, 
 The color of thy hair, 
 Pronounce thy form a Hebe's, 
 
 Thy voice of matchless tone 
 But know thou art a woman, 
 And lovable, my own. 
 
 I cannot call thee other 
 
 Than what thou art, for though 
 I felt disposed to flatter thee. 
 
 Thou wouldst not have it so ; 
 Thy charms are no divinity's — 
 
 Humanity alone 
 Hath multiplied the gifts that 
 make 
 
 Thee lovable, my own. 
 
 But if thou be not beautiful, 
 
 And if thou be not fair. 
 The loving heart thy bosom 
 shields, 
 
 And all the goodness there, 
 First won my admiration, 
 
 And truly have I grown 
 To know that more than beauty 
 makes 
 
 Thee lovable, my own. 
 
 Let others measure happiness 
 
 By charms that please the eye; 
 I sought for gifts more lasting 
 
 Than beauty, therefore I, 
 In seeking found thee,and thou art 
 
 (No queen on beauty's throne) 
 A woman only, to be loved 
 
 As I love thee, my own. 
 
 Dora K. Freaney 
 
 Nature's mighty law is change; 
 Ladies, would it not be strange 
 Man should then a monster prove? 
 
 Mark the winds, and mark the skies; 
 
 Ocean's ebb and ocean's flow; 
 Sun and moon but set to rise. 
 
 Round and round the seasons go. 
 Why then ask of silly man. 
 To oppose great nature's plan ? 
 We'll be constant while we can — 
 
 You can be no more, you know. 
 
 Robert Burns. 
 
 KIS5INQ HER HAIR. 
 
 KISSING her hair, I sat 
 against her feet : 
 Wove and unwove it — 
 _^ _ wound, and found it 
 
 sweet; 
 Made fast therewith her hands, drew down her 
 
 eyes. 
 Deep as deep flowers, and dreamy like dim skies ; 
 With her own tresses bound, and found her fair — 
 Kissing her hair. 
 
 Sleep were no sweeter than her face to me — 
 Sleep of cold sea-bloom under the cold sea : 
 What pain could get between my face and hers? 
 What new sweet thing would love not relish worse? 
 Unless, Derhaps, white death had kissed me there — 
 Kissing her hair. 
 
 Algernon Charles Swinburne, 
 
ALBUM OF LOVE. 
 
 187 
 
 WHEN THOU ART NEAR ME. 
 
 W 
 
 HEN thou art near me, 
 
 Sorrow seems to fly, 
 And when I think, as well I may, 
 That on this earth there is no one 
 More blest than I. 
 
 But when thou leavest me. 
 Doubts and fears arise, 
 
 And darkness reigns. 
 
 Where all before was light. 
 
 The sunshine of my soul 
 Is in those eyes, 
 
 And when they leave me, 
 All the world is night. 
 
 When thou art near me, 
 
 Beauty lights my sky, 
 The earth is glad, and tells me 
 That neither king nor peasant 
 
 Is so blest as I. 
 
 And when thou art near me. 
 
 Sorrow seems to fly, 
 And then I feel, as well I may. 
 That on the earth there dwells not one 
 
 So blest as I. Lady Jane Scott. 
 
188 
 
 ALBUM OF LOVE, 
 
 REUBEN AND R05E 
 
 A TALE OF ROMANCE. 
 
 HE darkness that hung upon Wilhimberg's walls 
 
 Had long been remembered with awe and dismay ; 
 For years not a sunbeam had played in its halls, 
 And it seemed as shut out from the regions of day. 
 
 Though the valleys were brightened by many a beam, 
 Yet none could the woods of that castle illume ; 
 
 And the lightning, which flashed on the neighboring streams 
 Flew back, as if fearing to enter the gloom ! 
 
 '■'■ Oh ! when shall this horrible darkness disperse !" 
 Said Willumberg's lord to the Seer of the Cave ; — 
 
 *' It can never dispel," said the wizard of verse, 
 
 *' Till the bright star of chivalry sinks in the wave ! " 
 
 And who was the bright star of chivalry then ? 
 
 Who cculdht but Reuben, the flower of the age? 
 For Reuben was first in the combat of men, 
 
 Though youth had scarce written his name on her page. 
 
 For Willumberg's daughter his young heart had beat — 
 For Rose, who was bright as the spirit of dawn, 
 
 When with wand dropping diamonds, and silvery feet, 
 It walks o'er the flowers of the mountain and lawn. 
 
 Must Rose, then, from Reuben so fatally sever ? 
 
 Sad, sad were the words of the Seer of the 
 Cave, 
 That darkness should cover that castle forever, 
 
 Or Reuben be sunk in the merciless wave ! 
 
 To the wizard she flew, saying, " Tell me, oh, tell ! 
 Shall my Reuben no more be restored to my 
 eyes? " 
 *'Yes, yes — when a spiritshall toll the great bell 
 Of the mouldering abbey, your Reuben shall 
 rise! " 
 
 Twice, thrice he repeated, ''Your Reuben shall 
 rise ! ' ' 
 And Rose felt a moment's release from her pain; 
 And wiped, while she listened, the tears from her 
 eyes. 
 And hoped she might yet see her hero again. 
 
 That hero could smile at the terrors of death, 
 When he felt that he died for the sire of his 
 Rose, 
 To the Oder he flew, and there, plunging beneath. 
 In the depth of the billows soon found his re- 
 pose. 
 
 How strangely the order of destiny falls ! — 
 
 Not long in the waters the warrior lay. 
 When a sunbeam was seen to glance over the 
 walls. 
 And the castle of Willumberg basked in the 
 ray. 
 
 All, all but the soul of the maid was in light. 
 There sorrow and terror lay gloomy and blank ; 
 
 Two days did she wander, and all the long 
 night, 
 In quest of her love, on the wide river's bank. 
 
 Oft, oft did she pause for the toll of the bell. 
 And heard but the breathings of night in the 
 air; 
 
 Long, long did she gaze on the watery swell, 
 And saw but the foam of the white billow there. 
 
 And often as midnight its veil would undraw. 
 As she looked at the light of the moon in the 
 stream. 
 She thought 'twas his helmet of silver she saw. 
 As the curl of the surge glittered high in the 
 beam. 
 
 And now the third night was begemming the 
 sky; 
 Poor Rose, on the cold dewy margent reclined, 
 There wept till the tear almost froze in ner eye, 
 When — hark ! — 'twas the bell that came deep in 
 the wind ! 
 
 She startled, and saw, through the glimmering 
 shade, 
 A form o'er the waters in majesty glide ; 
 She knew 'twas her love, though his cheek was 
 decayed. 
 And his helmet of silver was washed by the 
 tide. 
 
ALBUM OF LOVE, 
 
 189 
 
 Was this what the Seer of the Cave had foretold ? — 
 Dim, dim, through the phantom the moon shot 
 a gleam, 
 
 'Twas Reuben, but, ah ! he was deathly and cold, 
 And fleeted away like the spell of a dream ! 
 
 Twice, thrice did he rise, and as often she thought 
 From the bank to embrace him, but vain her 
 endeavor. 
 Then, plunging beneath, at a billow she caught, 
 And sunk to repose on its bosom forever ! 
 
 Thomas Moore. 
 
 LOVE'S FORGOTTEN PROMISE. 
 
 46 T WILL come back," Love cried; *' I will 
 I come back," 
 
 ^ And there where he had passed lay one 
 bright track, 
 Dreamlike and golden as the moonlit sea, 
 Between the pine woods' shadow, tall and black, 
 '^ I will come back !" Love cried. Ah, me ! 
 Love will come back. 
 
 He will come back. Yet, Love, I wait, I wait. 
 Though it is evening now, and cold and late, 
 
 And I am weary watching here so long, 
 A pale, sad watcher at a silent gate — 
 
 For love, who is so fair and swift and strong, 
 I wait, I wait. 
 
 He will come back — come back, though he delays ; 
 He will come back — for in old years and days 
 
 He was my playmate. He will not forget. 
 Though he may linger long amid new ways, 
 
 He will bring back, with barren sweet regret, 
 Old years and days. 
 
 Hush ! on the lonely hills Love comes again ; 
 But his young feet are marked with many a stain. 
 
 The golden haze has passed from his fair brow, 
 And round him clings the blood-red robe of pain ; 
 
 And it is night. O Love — Love — enter now ! 
 Remain ! remain ! 
 
 hands 
 
 HER SHADOW. 
 
 BENDING between me and the taper, 
 While o'er the harp her white 
 strayed, 
 The shadows of her waving tresses 
 Above my hand were gently swayed. 
 
 With every graceful movement waving, 
 
 I marked their undulating swell ; 
 I watched them while they met and parted, 
 
 Curled close or widened, rose or fell. 
 
 I laughed in triumph and in pleasure — 
 So strange the sport, so undesigned ! 
 
 Her mother turned and asked me, gravely, 
 ''What thought was passing through my mind?" 
 
 'Tis love that blinds the eyes of mothers; 
 
 'Tis love that makes the young maids fair ! 
 She touched my hand; my rings she counted; 
 
 Yet never felt the shadows there. 
 
 Keep, gamesome love, beloved infant. 
 Keep ever thus all mothers blind ; 
 
 And make thy dedicated virgins, 
 In substance as in shadow, kind ! 
 
 Aubrey De Vere. 
 
 7^ 
 
 I 
 
 FOUND AT LAST. 
 
 N each man's soul there lives a dream 
 
 Lit by a woman's eyes. 
 Whose glance is like the tender gleam 
 
 That thrills the evening skies. 
 It is a dream that never faints, 
 Though weal or woe befalls ; 
 But haunts the heart and softly paints 
 A picture on its walls. 
 
 In each man's heart there floats a voice 
 
 That speaks to him alone. 
 The voice of her, his spirit's choice. 
 
 He longs to call his own 
 The days may hasten like the wind, 
 
 Or lag with sullen feet ; 
 Some day his wandering heart shall find 
 
 The face he longs to meet. 
 
 Samuel M. Peck. 
 
 WAITING NEAR. 
 
 ALTHOUGH I enter not. 
 Yet round about the spot 
 Ofttimes I hover; 
 And near the sacred gate 
 With longing eyes I wait, 
 Expectant of her. 
 
 My lady comes at last. 
 Timid, and stepping fast. 
 
 And hastening hither, 
 With modest eyes downcast; 
 She comes — she's here — she's past — 
 
 May heaven go with her. 
 
 Kneel, undisturbed, fair saint: 
 Pour out your praise or plaint 
 
 Meekly and duly ; 
 I will not enter there. 
 To sully your pure prayer 
 
 With thoughts unruly. 
 
 But suffer me to pace 
 Round the forbidden place. 
 
 Lingering a minute 
 Like outcast spirits who wait. 
 And see throus^h heaven's gate 
 
 Angels within it. 
 
 W. M. Thackeray. 
 
190 
 
 AinUM OP LOVE. 
 
 IT is the miller's daughter, 
 And she is grown so dear, so dear, 
 That I would be the jewel 
 That trembles in her ear; 
 For, hid in ringlets day and night, 
 I'd touch her neck so warm and white. 
 
 And I would be the girdle 
 
 About her dainty, dainty waist, 
 
 And her heart would beat against me 
 In sorrow and in rest ; 
 
 And I should know if it beat right, 
 
 I'd clasp it round so close and tight. 
 
 And I would be the necklace. 
 
 And all day long to fall and rise 
 
 Upon her balmy bosom, 
 
 With her laughter and her sighs; 
 
 And I would lie so light, so light 
 
 I scarce should be unclasped at night. 
 Alfred Tennyson. 
 
 MY CHOICE. 
 
 SHALL I tell you whom I love ? 
 Hearken then awhile to me ; 
 And if such a woman move 
 As I now shall versify. 
 Be assured 'tis she or none, 
 That I love, and love alone. 
 
 Nature did her so much right 
 As she scorns the help of art. 
 
 In as many virtues dight 
 
 As e'er yet embraced a heart. 
 
 So much good so truly tried, 
 
 Some for less were deified. 
 
 Wit she hath, without desire 
 
 To make known how much she hath ; 
 And her anger flames no higher 
 
 Than may fitly sweeten wrath. 
 Full of pity as may be. 
 Though perhaps not so to me. 
 
 Reason masters every sense. 
 
 And her virtues grace her birth ; 
 
 Lovely as all excellence, 
 
 Modest in her most of mirth. 
 
 Likelihood enough to prove 
 
 Only worth could kindle love. 
 
 Such she is ; and if you know 
 
 Such a one as I have sung ; 
 Be she brown, or fair, or so 
 
 That she be but somewhat young ; 
 Be assured 'tis she, or none. 
 That I love, and love alone. 
 
 William Browne. 
 
ALBUM OF LOVE. 
 
 191 
 
 H 
 
 THE AGE OF WISDOM. 
 
 O ! pretty page, with the dimpled chin, 
 That never has known the barber's shear, 
 All your wish is woman to win ; 
 This is the way that boys begin — 
 Wait till you come to forty year. 
 
 Curly gold locks cover foolish brains ; 
 
 Billing and cooing is all your cheer — 
 Sighing, and singing of midnight strains, 
 Under Bonnybell's window-panes — 
 
 Wait till you come to forty year. 
 
 Forty times over let Michaelmas pass ; 
 
 Grizzling hair the brain doth clear ; 
 Then you know a boy is an ass, 
 Then you know the worth of a lass — 
 
 Once you have come to forty year. 
 
 Pledge me round ; I bid ye declare, 
 
 All good fellows whose beards are gray — 
 Did not the fairest of the fair 
 Common grow and wearisome ere 
 Ever a month was past away ? 
 
 The reddest lips that ever have kissed, 
 
 The brightest eyes that ever have shone, 
 May pray and whisper and we not list. 
 Or look away and never be missed — 
 Ere yet ever a month is gone. 
 
 Gillian's dead ! God rest her bier — 
 How I loved her twenty years sine — 
 
 Marian's married ; but I sit here. 
 
 Alone and merry at forty year. 
 
 Dipping my nose in the Gascon wine. 
 
 W. M. Thackeray. 
 
 AH! WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 AH ! what is love ? It is a pretty thing, 
 As sweet unto a shepherd as a king, 
 And sweeter too ; 
 For kings have cares that wait upon a crown. 
 And cares can make the sweetest face to frown ; 
 
 Ah then, ah then, 
 If country loves such sweet desires gain. 
 What lady would not love a shepherd swain ? 
 
 His flocks are folded ; he comes home at night 
 As merry as a king in his delight, 
 
 And merrier, too ; 
 For kings bethink them what the state require, 
 Where shepherds, careless, carol by the fire ; 
 
 Ah then, ah then, 
 If country loves such sweet desires gain. 
 What lady would not love a shepherd swain ? 
 
 He kisseth first, then sits as blithe to eat 
 
 His cream and curd as doth the king his meat. 
 
 And blither, too ; 
 For kings have often fears when they sup, 
 Where shepherds dread no poison in their cup; 
 
 Ah then, ah then, 
 
 If country loves such sweet desires gain. 
 What lady would not love a shepherd swain ? 
 
 Upon his couch of straw he sleeps as sound 
 As doth the king upon his beds of down, 
 
 More sounder, too ; 
 For cares cause kings full oft their sleep to spill. 
 Where weary shepherds lie and snort their fill ; 
 
 Ah then, ah then, 
 If country loves such sweet desires gain. 
 What lady would not love a shepherd swain? 
 
 Thus with his wife he spends the year as blithe 
 As doth the king at every tide or syth. 
 
 And blither, too ; 
 For kings have wars and broils to take in hand, 
 When shepherds laugh, and love upon the land; 
 
 Ah then, ah then. 
 If country loves such sweet desires gain. 
 What lady would not love a shepherd swain ? 
 
 Robert Greene. 
 
 TELL ME, MY HEART, IF THIS BE LOVE. 
 
 W 
 
 HEN Delia on the plain appears, 
 AAved by a thousand tender fears, 
 I would approach, but dare not move; — = 
 Tell me, my, heart, if this be love. 
 
 Whene'er she speaks, my ravished ear 
 No other voice than hers can hear ; 
 No other wit but hers approve , — 
 Tell me, my heart, if this be love. 
 
 If she some other swain commend, 
 Though I was once his fondest friend. 
 His instant enemy I prove ; — 
 Tell me, my heart, if this be love. 
 
192 
 
 ALBUM OF LOVE. 
 
 When she is absent, I no more 
 Delight in all that pleased before, 
 The clearest spring, the shadiest grove ; — 
 Tell me, my heart, if this be love, 
 
 When fond of power, of beauty vain, 
 Her nets she spread for every swain, 
 I strove to hate, but vainly strove ; — 
 Tell me, my heart, if this be love. 
 
 George Lord Lvttelton. 
 
 BROKEN HEARTS. 
 
 SHALL I confess it? — I believe in broken 
 hearts, and the possibility of dying of dis- 
 appointed love. I do not, however, con- 
 sider it a malady often fatal to my own sex ; 
 but I firmly believe that it withers down many a 
 lovely woman into an early grave. 
 
 Look for her, after a little while, and you wil' 
 find friendship weeping over her untimely grave, 
 and wondering that one who but lately glowed 
 with all the radiance of health and beauty, should 
 so speedily be brought down to •' darkness and 
 the worm." You will be told of some wintry 
 chill, some casual indisposition that laid her low 
 — but no one knows of the menta^ malady that 
 previously sapped her strength, and made her so 
 easy a prey to the spoiler. 
 
 She is like some tender tree, the pride and beauty 
 of the grove ; graceful in its form, bright in its 
 foliage, but with the worm preying at its heart. 
 We find it suddenly withering when it should be 
 most fresh and luxuriant. We see it drooping its 
 branches to the earth and shedding leaf by leaf; 
 imtil, wasted and perished away, it falls even in 
 
 grow dim — how manv ' 
 
 How many bright eyes 
 soft cheeks grow pale — how many lovely forms 
 fade away into the tomb, and none can tell the 
 cause that blighted their loveliness ! As the dove 
 will clasp its wings to its side, and cover and con- 
 ceal the arrow that is preying on its vitals, so it is 
 the nature of woman to hide from the world the 
 pangs of wounded affection. The love of a deli- 
 cate female is always shy and silent. Even when 
 fortunate, she scarcely breathes it to herself; but 
 when otherwise, she buries it in the recesses of 
 her bosom, and there lets it cower and brood 
 among the ruins of her peace. 
 
 With her the desire of the heart has failed. The 
 great charm of existence is at an end. She neg- 
 lects all the cheerful exercises which gladden the 
 spirits, quicken the pulses, and send the tide of 
 life in healthful currents through the veins. Her 
 rest is broken — the sweet refreshment of sleep is 
 poisoned by melancholy dreams — ''dry sorrow 
 drinks her blood," until her enfeebled frame sinks 
 under the slighted external injury. 
 
 the stillness of the forest ; and as we muse over 
 the beautiful ruin, we strive in vain to recollect 
 the blast or thunderbolt that could have smitten it 
 with decay. Washington Irving. 
 
 WHY. 
 
 THERE'S a Uttle rustic seat 
 Just beneath the hill-top's brow, 
 Bowered with meadow-grasses sweet 
 And with many a fragrant bough ; 
 And on sunny summer days, 
 
 There a lassie oft I see, 
 
 With a far-off dreamy gaze 
 
 As of deep expectancy. 
 
 Shall I tell you why she lingers ? 
 
 This is why ! this is why ! 
 Though she knows it not, she's waiting 
 For young love to wander by ! 
 
 Ere the summer's colors pass 
 
 Into autumn's deeper hues, 
 Ere the trees and flowers and grass 
 
 Young-year strength and f^.^shness lose. 
 
ALBUM OF LOVE, 
 
 193 
 
 On that little rustic seat 
 
 Lass and lad I'm sure to see, 
 In companionship so sweet 
 
 They've no eyes or thought for me ! 
 Shall I tell you why 'tis so? 
 This is why ! this is why ! 
 Love the master, love the tyrant, 
 He at length has wandered by ! 
 
 HE THAT LOVES A ROSY CHEEK. 
 
 HE that loves a rosy cheek, 
 Or a coral lip admires, 
 Or from starlight eyes doth seek 
 Fuel to maintain his fires; 
 As old Time makes these decay, 
 So his flames mast waste away. 
 
 But a smooth and steadfast mind, 
 Gentle thoughts, and calm desires. 
 
 Hearts with equal love combined, 
 Kindle never-dying fires : — 
 
 Where these are not, I despise 
 
 Lovely cheeks or lips or eyes. 
 
 Thomas Carew. 
 
 THE SHEPHERD'S RESOLUTION. 
 
 SHALL I, wasting in despair. 
 Die because a woman's fair? 
 Or make pale my cheeks with care 
 'Cause another's rosy are? 
 Be she fairer than the day. 
 Or the flowery meads in May, 
 If she be not so to me, 
 What care I how fair she be ? 
 
 'Cause her fortune seems too high, 
 Shall I play the fool and die? 
 Those that bear a noble mind 
 Where they want of riches find. 
 Think what with them they would do 
 That without them dare to woo ; 
 And unless that mind I see, 
 What care I how great she be ? 
 
 Great, or good, or kind, or fair, 
 
 I will ne'er the more despair : 
 
 If she love me, this believe — 
 
 I will die ere she shall grieve, 
 
 If she slight me when I woo, 
 
 I can scorn and let her go ; 
 For if she be not for me, 
 What care I for whom she be ? 
 
 George Wither. 
 
 My second, he was gaunt and thin, 
 All round the hemispheres he'd been; 
 He'd shot at lions, killed a bear; 
 I loved him for about a year. 
 
 My third had flowing coal-black locks, 
 (I wore then green and yellow frocks). 
 He played and sang my heart away ; 
 I loved him one year and a day. 
 
 • 
 My fourth was handsome, but so poor ! 
 That only made me love him more ; 
 I wept and sighed, but had to part, 
 It almost, almost broke my heart. 
 
 M 
 
 MY SWEETHEARTS. 
 
 Y first was young and very fair. 
 With bright blue eyes and yellow hair ; 
 A surplice white in church he wore ; 
 I loved him for a month or more. 
 13 
 
 My fifth was — well, I cannot say 
 What he was like ; but one fine day 
 I swore to love him all my life ; 
 And now he calls me ''little wife." 
 
 My sixth ? My sixth is very small. 
 He hardly seems a man at all ; 
 But, O, I could not bear to part, 
 With either fifth or sixth sweetheart. 
 
 LOVE NOT ME FOR COMELY GRACE 
 
 LOVE not me for comely grace. 
 For my pleasing eye or face, 
 Nor for any outward part. 
 No, nor for my constant heart ; 
 For those may fail or turn to ill. 
 So thou and I shall sever ; 
 Keep therefore a true woman's eye, 
 And love me still, but know not why. 
 So hast thou the same reason still 
 To dote upon me ever. 
 
 N 
 
 TO HELEN IN A HUFF. 
 
 AY, lady, one frown is enough 
 In a life as soon over as this — 
 And though minutes seem long in a huff. 
 They're minutes 'tis pity to miss ! 
 The smiles you imprison so lightly 
 
 Are reckoned, like days in eclipse ; 
 And though you may smile again brightly, 
 You've lost so much light from your lips! 
 Pray, lady, smile ! 
 
 The cup that is longest untasted 
 May be with our bliss running o*er. 
 
194 
 
 ALBUM OF LOVE, 
 
 And, love when we will, we have wasted 
 An age in not loving before ! 
 
 Perchance Cupid's forging a fetter 
 To tie us together some day, 
 
 And, just for the chance, we had better 
 Be laying up love, I should jay ! 
 Nay, lady, smile 1 
 
 N. P. WiLUS. 
 
 JEALOUSY. 
 
 I 
 
 HAVE thy love — I know no fear 
 
 Of that divine possession ; 
 Yet draw more close, and thou shalt hear 
 A jealous heart's confession. 
 
 I am so much a miser grown, 
 That I could wish to hide thee, 
 
 Where never breath but mine alon? 
 Could drink delight beside thee. 
 
 I nurse no pang, lest fairer youth 
 Of loftier hopes should win thee; 
 
 There blows no wind to chill the truth, 
 Whose amaranth blooms within thee. 
 
 Unworthier thee if I could grow 
 (The love that lured thee perished), 
 
 Thy woman heart could ne'er forego 
 The earliest dream it cherished. 
 
 I do not think that doubt and love 
 Are one — whate'er they tell us; 
 
 Yet — nay — lift not thy looks above, 
 A star can make me jealous. 
 
 If thou art mine, all mine at last, 
 
 I covet so the treasure. 
 No glance that thou canst elsewhere cast, 
 
 But robs me of a pleasure. 
 
 Then say not, with that soothing air, 
 
 I have no rival nigh thee ; 
 The sunbeam lingering in thy hair — 
 
 The breeze that trembles by thee — 
 
 The very herb beneath thy feet — 
 The rose whose odors woo thee— 
 
 In all things, rivals he must meet. 
 Who would be all things to thee \ 
 
 If sunlight from the dial be 
 But for one moment banished. 
 
 Turn to the silenced plate and see 
 The hours themselves are vanished. 
 
 In aught that from me lures thine eyes. 
 
 My jealousy has trial ; 
 The lightest cloud across the skies 
 
 Has darkness for the dial. 
 
 E. BULWER Lytton. 
 
ALBUM OF LOVE. 
 
 19r 
 
 FOR LOVE'S SAKE. 
 
 IF thou must love me, let it be for naught 
 Except for love's sake only. Do not say, 
 "I love her for her smile, her look, her way 
 Of speaking gently — for a trick of thought 
 That falls in well with mine, and certes brought 
 A sense of pleasant ease on such a day." 
 For these things in themselves, beloved, may 
 Be changed, or change for thee — and love so 
 
 wrought. 
 May be un wrought so. Neither love me for 
 
 Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry — 
 A creature might forget to weep, who bore 
 
 Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby. 
 But love me for love's sake, that evermore 
 Thou mayst love on, through love's eternity. 
 Elizabeth B. Browning. 
 
 JENNY'S KISS. 
 
 JENNY kissed me when we met. 
 Jumping from the chair she sat in ; 
 Time, you thief! who love to get 
 Sweets into your list, put that in : 
 Say I'm weary, say I'm sad, , 
 
 Say that health and wealth have missed me, 
 Say I'm growing old, but add, 
 Jenny kissed me. 
 
 Leigh Hunt. 
 
 SATISFACTORY CHAPERONAQE. 
 
 I ROWED with Doris in my boat 
 Far from the city's noise ; 
 And found a pleasant spot to float 
 Where leaves and lilies poise 
 Upon the little waves that creep 
 To rock the drowsy birds to sleep. 
 
 We talked, but we were not alone 
 Which seemed to disconcert us; 
 
 Aunt Josie was our chaperon, 
 But little did she hurt us. 
 
 For when I looked, I found her deep 
 
 In calm, unchaperoning sleep. 
 
 The chance was far too good to miss, 
 
 And, Doris being willing, 
 I backward leaned and took a kiss 
 
 That set my pulses thrilling ; 
 When lo ! I saw Aunt Josie peep ; 
 The wretch had only feigned her sleep ! 
 
 But Doris sat with downcast eyes 
 Nor dreamed we were discovered, 
 
 While just a hint of mild surprise 
 O'er Aunty Jo's face hovered ; 
 
 And then she winked to show she'd keep 
 
 My secret, and again feigned sleep ! 
 
 Ellis P. Butler. 
 
 GILBERT \ND AMETHYSTA. 
 
 'O 
 
 SUN ! awakener of care. 
 
 Withhold thy dawning light ; 
 O moon ! the lover's planet fair, 
 Prolong the hours of night ! " 
 Thus prays the passion-stricken boy. 
 
 Extravagant and fond : 
 The maid as loving, but more coy, 
 
 Would willing respond — 
 ''How fast the moments fade away ! 
 Oh, how unwelcome is the day I " 
 But lest her speech might seem too bold, 
 She leaves the loving thought untold. 
 
 At length, upon a flowery bank, 
 
 O'ercanopied by leafy arches. 
 Formed by the intertwining boughs 
 
 Of fragrant chestnut-trees and larches, 
 They sit ; the nightingale the while 
 
 Singing, as if from every feather 
 In all its frame it poured the notes ; 
 
 And thus the pair discourse together: 
 
 "Old stories tell that men are fickle. 
 
 False and fickle every one. 
 And that love by guile untainted 
 
 Never dwelt beneath the sun. 
 Great in sorrow, strong in danger, 
 
 Must his pure affection prove. 
 Who would hope to win for ever 
 
 Maiden's passion, woman's love." 
 
 " O Amethysta, best beloved ! 
 
 Since first thine eyes upon me shone, 
 My soul has had no other joy 
 
 Than love of thee, and thee alone ; 
 No other passion shall it own ; 
 
 And be the doubt for ever far ! 
 Thee at my side, whate'er betide. 
 
 In vain the envious world shall war ; 
 I'll love thee still, 
 Through good, through ill. 
 
 My light, my life, my guiding star ! " 
 
 " And couldst thou, Gilbert, for my sake 
 Endure the freezing looks of scorn ? 
 
 If slander's tongue should do me wrong, 
 And pride should call me lowly-born, 
 
 Wouldst thou, as now, repeat thy vow, 
 Nor prove for vanity forsworn? " 
 
 '* Ah, never ! Envy may defame. 
 
 And men may censure if they will ; 
 Thy virtue shall disprove their blame, 
 And Gilbert will adore thee still. 
 No rancorous tongue shall work thee ill ; 
 And pride itself, O maiden mine, 
 Shall bow to worth so high as thine ; 
 And envy with a sigh confess 
 Thy least of charms — thy loveliness." 
 
196 
 
 ALBUM OF LOVE. 
 
 "And coiildst thou (oh, forgive the lear — 
 
 Fond as a woman's fear should be !) — 
 Couldst thou endure, not scorn alone, 
 
 But scorn and poverty for me? 
 Couldst thou, for Amethysta's sake, 
 
 Renounce the honors, thine by birth — 
 The wealth, the titles, and the power, 
 
 And all that men most prize on earth ; 
 And dwell in our secluded cot, 
 By all thy former friends forgot, 
 And never chide me, or repine 
 That I consented to be thine? " 
 
 *'No, Amethysta! poor the heart 
 
 That veers as fortune's currents blow; 
 And mine shall be a nobler part — 
 
 My true affection shall not know 
 Change or decrease, or ever cease 
 
 To prize thee best of all below. 
 Love, like the beacon on the sea 
 
 That warns the tempest-beaten bark, 
 Still shines, if true, like mine for thee. 
 
 The brightest when the sky is dark ! *' 
 
 Thus as they speak his fingers play 
 
 Amid her soft luxuriant tresses, 
 Their cheeks with mutual blushes burn, 
 
 Their tender eyes exchange caresses. 
 So gentle is the night of May, 
 So much the lovers have to say, 
 They never heed the flight of time ; 
 
 And it is far towards the hour 
 When sounds the matin chime. 
 
 Ere from their sheltering forest bower, 
 And bank with early flowers bestrewn, 
 They rise and think they rise too soon. 
 And see the modest eastern sky 
 Blushing because the morn draws nigh, 
 And hear the woods and w^elkin ringing 
 With the sweet song the lark is singing. 
 
 **0h, light the touch of time has been, 
 
 And flowers his hand has carried. 
 Or thus all night in forests green 
 
 Our feet would not have tarried. 
 We have outwatched the moon, my love. 
 
 And all the stars but one : 
 There is no need that we should part 
 
 For rising of the sun. 
 The air so full of odors sweet. 
 
 The breeze-encircled hill, 
 The music of the early birds, 
 And thy sweet looks and sweeter words. 
 
 Invite to linger still." 
 The maid looked up into his face 
 
 With eyes he thought that dimmed the 
 day. 
 And the reply upon her lips 
 
 Melted in happy smiles away. 
 
 Charles Mackay. 
 
 I 
 
 LOVE THOU THE BEST. 
 
 DO not say that thou shouldst never change ; 
 Only let not thy wandering fancy range 
 To waste itself in follies unrepressed ; 
 Love me, or else at least, love thou the best. 
 
 Thy love for me how often hast declared ! 
 Thine inmost soul before my vision bared ! 
 I know thy fervent fondness, yet the praise 
 Of lesser loves doth light thy lonely days. 
 
 Oh, listen, love, and to my words pray heed; 
 If ever thou shouldst feel thy spirit's need 
 More fully satisfied, or understood, 
 More quenched in evil, spurred to all things good. 
 
 By newer love, think not of plighted truth. 
 Think never of those hot, wild vows of youth ; 
 Fling off old bonds, each tie and promise 
 
 break 
 Not for thy senses', but thy spirit's sake. 
 
 Though I should w^eep, yet through my tears I'd see 
 Such faithfulness more fine than constancy; 
 Through breaking heart and lonely life unblessed 
 I'd still rejoke that thou shouldst love the best. 
 
 LOVE AND JEALOUSY. 
 
 A SWEET little voice comes ringing 
 From a cottage over the way ; 
 'Tis a fair little maiden singing 
 The whole of the livelong day. 
 x\nd this is her song, I hear her 
 
 A-lilting it o'er and o'er — 
 *' When jealousy creeps in the window. 
 Then love flies out at the door." 
 
 ''With little of wealth to squander 
 
 True love will be satisfied ; 
 And never an envious murmur, 
 
 When luxury is denied. 
 But list to these words of warning, 
 
 And your heart will never be sore; 
 When jealousy creeps in the window, 
 
 Then love flies out at the door. 
 
 Chorus — '' Oh love flies out at the door. 
 Oh love flies out at the door ; 
 When jealousy creeps in the window, 
 Then love flies out at the door." 
 
 Mary Ingram Mattis. 
 
 TO THE END. 
 
 AS the wings of an angel might guard, as the 
 hands of a mother might cherish, 
 So have I loved you, mine own, though 
 hope and though faith should perish ; 
 And my will is set to hold you yet, close hid in 
 
 my deep heart's centre. 
 In a secret shrine that none may divine, where no 
 one but I may enter. 
 
ALBUM OF LOVE. 
 
 197 
 
 When the stars shine dimly and wan, when the 
 leaves on the pane are fretting, 
 
 When the mist has blotted the world in a dull and 
 a dread forgetting, 
 
 Over the hill where the wind blows chill, over the 
 wintry hollows. 
 
 T 
 
 LEGEND OF A COQUET. 
 
 IS said that when Dan Cupid aims his 
 arrow, 
 Its golden point ne'er fails to find the 
 mark ; 
 
 A wild voice calls, on my sleet it falls, and my 
 spirit awakes and follows. 
 
 Call, and I come through the night, though the 
 mist and the darkness may hide you, 
 
 Weary and desolate heart, my place is surely be- 
 side you. 
 
 From the depth of your black despair, come back, 
 my arm shall be strong to move you, 
 
 To bear you up to the golden gates of heaven, be- 
 Gciuse I love you, 
 
 But once, at least, his victim's charms unnerved 
 him. 
 Or else he aimed at Bessie in the dark. 
 
 For in her trembling cheek the frail shaft quiv- 
 ered. 
 Till, pitying, grieved at his unwitting sin. 
 Kissing, he healed the wound, withdrew the ar- 
 row, 
 Leaving a dimple where the barb had beein. 
 
198 
 
 ALBUM OF LOVE, 
 
 And in the dimple where its point had rested 
 The wondrous arrow left its fabled power ; 
 
 But Cupid, fearing lest again he harm her, 
 Has never dared assail her from that hour. 
 
 UNDER THE MISTLETOE. 
 
 FROM Christmas dance and pleasant plans 
 You stole away — perchance to rest. 
 You were a daughter of the manse 
 And I — a hapless, homeless guest. 
 Along those storied walls you sped. 
 
 Forgive me that I watched you go ! 
 How could I help it, when you shed 
 More radiance than the taper's glow? 
 
 From light-spun jest and careless mirth 
 
 You fled.- Oh, love, why did you flee ? 
 Could you have dreamt how void of worth, 
 
 Your absence made that cheer to me ? 
 The rooms were full of Christmas time, 
 
 And the ladies' laughter, sweetly low, 
 Rang faint as distant silvered chime 
 
 Of bells, across the crystal snow. 
 
 A sensuous, soDbing waltz — indeed 
 
 Within the mazes of that dance 
 Man might have well forsworn his creed; 
 
 Disarmed by beauty's magic lance. 
 Yet o'er the fairest there jw^ shone. 
 
 Ah, did I not, sweet, tell you so. 
 While we two briefly were alone — 
 
 Enraptured 'neath the mistletoe? 
 
 Within the circling glow you stood, 
 
 Nay, was I then so much to blame ? 
 Your eyes downcast, in pensive mood, 
 
 Seemed but to spur the leading flame. 
 I loved you so ! You \vere so fair ! 
 
 But far above me, dear, I know; 
 Yet I forgot — yet, then and there, 
 
 I kissed you 'neath the mistletoe. 
 
 One thrilling second 'neath my kiss, 
 
 Your sweet lips pulsed — could you forget? 
 That moment's clinging, tempting bliss, 
 
 Seems worth a whole life of regret. 
 Your warm face quivered on my breast. 
 
 So long before I let you go ; 
 For I, in Paradise, was blessed 
 
 Full well beneath that mistletoe. 
 
 In dreams I oft repeat that night. 
 
 While pausing 'neath some verdant bough; 
 The distant strains, that leaping light, 
 
 My maddened pulse, long sobered now! 
 And oft I've wondered, love, since then. 
 
 As Yule-log seasons come and go, 
 If you recall that dear one, when 
 
 I kissed you 'neath the mistletoe. 
 
 Ah, me ! The strongest are but weak, 
 When pushing 'gainst fate's iron chain ; 
 
 Crushed passions, whicli we dare not speak, 
 Are those that wear upon the brain. 
 
 But whether better to forget 
 
 That Christmas page of long ago, 
 
 I would not, if I could, regret 
 One moment 'neath its mistletoe. 
 
 So often, when I pass you by, 
 
 A serf where you are throned a queen, 
 I wonder if you never sigh, 
 
 Or weep, perchance, when all unseen ! 
 And if we two should stand again. 
 
 Alone, as in that grand Yule glow. 
 Would you be tender, love, as when 
 
 I kissed you 'neath the mistletoe? 
 
 Martha E. Halahan. 
 
 T 
 
 THE CHANGE. 
 
 HY features do not wear the light 
 They wore in happier days ; 
 Though still there may be much to love, 
 There's little left to praise. 
 
 The rose has faded from thy cheek — 
 There's scarce a blush left now; 
 
 And there's a dark and weary sign 
 Upon thine altered brow 
 
 Thy raven hair is dashed with gray, 
 
 Thine eyes are dim with tears ; • 
 
 And care, before thy youth is past, 
 Has done the work of years. 
 
 Beautiful wreck ! for still thy face, 
 Though changed, is very fair : 
 
 Like beauty's moonlight, left to show 
 Her morning sun was there. 
 
 Letitia E, Landon* 
 
 THE HUNTER'S SERENADE. 
 
 THY bower is finished, fairest ! 
 Fit bower for hunter's bride — 
 Where old woods overshadow 
 The green savanna's side. 
 I've wandered long, and wandered far, 
 
 And never have I met, 
 In all this lovely western land, 
 
 A spot so lovely yet. 
 But I shall think it fairer. 
 
 When thou art come to bless. 
 With thy sweet smile and silver voice. 
 Its silent loveliness. 
 
 For thee the wild grape glistens. 
 
 On sunny knoll and tree, 
 The slim papaya ripens 
 
 Its yellow fruit for thee. 
 For thee the duck, on glassy stream, 
 
 The prairie-fowl shall die, 
 My rifle for thy feast shall bring 
 
 The wild swan from the sky, 
 
ALBUM OF LOVE. 
 
 199 
 
 The forest's leaping panther, 
 
 Fierce, beautiful, and fleet. 
 Shall yield his spotted hide to be 
 
 A carpet for thy feet. 
 
 I know, for thou hast told me. 
 
 Thy maiden love of flowers ; 
 Ah, those that deck thy gardens 
 
 Are pale compared with ours. 
 When our wide woods and mighty lawns 
 
 Bloom to the April skies, 
 The earth has no more gorgeous sight 
 
 To show to human eyes. 
 In meadows red with blossoms, 
 
 All summer long, the bee 
 Murmurs, and loads his yellow thighs, 
 
 For thee, my love, and me. 
 
 Or wouldst thou gaze at tokens 
 
 Of ages long ago — 
 Our old oaks stream with mosses, 
 
 And sprout with mistletoe ; 
 And mighty vines, like serpents, climb 
 
 The giant sycamore ; 
 And trunks, o'erthrown for centuries, 
 
 Cumber the forest floor; 
 And in the great savanna. 
 
 The solitary mound, 
 Built by the elder world, o'erlooks 
 
 The loneliness around. 
 
 Come, thou has not forgotten ^ 
 
 Thy pledge and promise quite, 
 With many blushes murmured. 
 
 Beneath the evening light. 
 Come, the young violets crowd my door, 
 
 Thy earliest look to win, 
 And at my silent window-sill 
 
 The jessamine peeps in. 
 All day the red-bird warbles, 
 
 Upon the mulberry near. 
 And the night-sparrow trills her song. 
 
 All night, with none to hear. 
 
 W. C. Bryant. 
 
 I 
 
 THE LOVELINESS OF LOVE. 
 
 T is not beauty I demand, 
 
 A crystal brow, the moon's despair. 
 Nor the snow's daughter, a white hand. 
 Nor mermaid's yellow pride of hair. 
 
 Tell me not of your starry eyes. 
 Your lips that seem on roses fed. 
 
 Your breasts, where Cupid tumbling lies 
 Nor sleeps for kissing of his bed — 
 
 A bloomv pair of vermeil cheeks 
 Like Hebe's in her ruddiest hours, 
 
 A breath that softer music speaks 
 
 Than summer winds a- wooing flowers \- 
 
 These are but gauds; nay, what are lips? 
 
 Coral beneath the ocean-stream, 
 Whose brink when your adventurer slips 
 
 Full oft he perisheth on them. 
 
 And what are cheeks, but ensigns oft 
 That wave hot youth to fields of blood? 
 
 Did Helen's breast, though ne'er so soft, 
 Do Greece or Ilium any good ? 
 
 Eyes can with baleful ardor burn ; 
 
 Poison can breath, that erst perfumed; 
 There's many a white hand holds an urn 
 
 With lover's hearts to dust consumed. 
 
 For crystal brows there's naught within ; 
 
 They are but empty cells for pride ; 
 He who the Siren's hair would win 
 
 Is mostly strangled in the tide. 
 
 Give me, instead of beauty's bust, 
 A tender heart, a loyal mind. 
 
 Which with temptation I would trust. 
 Yet never linked with error find — 
 
 One in whose gentle bosom I 
 
 Could pour my secret heart of woes, 
 
 Like the care-burdened honey-fly 
 
 That hides his murmurs in the rose — 
 
 My earthly comforter ! whose love 
 
 So indefeasible might be 
 That, when my spirit wonned above, 
 
 Hers could not stay, for sympathy. 
 
 MY DEAR AND ONLY LOVE. 
 
 M 
 
 A 
 
 ' dear and only love, T pray. 
 
 This noble wofld of thee 
 Be governed by no other sway 
 But purest monarchy. 
 For if confusion have a part, 
 
 Which virtuous souls abhor, 
 And hold a synod in thy heart, 
 I'll never love thee more. 
 
 Like Alexander I will reign. 
 
 And I will reign alone. 
 My thoughts shall evermore disdain 
 
 A rival on my throne. 
 He either fears his fate too much. 
 
 Or his deserts are small. 
 That puts it not unto the touch, 
 
 To win or lose it all. 
 
 James Graham. 
 
 WOOING. 
 
 LITTLE bird once met another bird. 
 And whistled to her, '' Will you be my 
 mate?" 
 With fluttering wings she twittered, "How 
 absurd ! 
 Oh; what a §iUy pat? !" 
 
200 
 
 ALBUM OF LOVE, 
 
 And off into a distant tree she flew, 
 
 To find concealment in the shady cover; 
 And passed the hours in slyly peeping through 
 At her rejected lover. 
 
 The jilted bird, with drooping heart and wing, 
 
 Poured forth his grief all day in plaintive songs; 
 Telling in sadness lo the ear of spring 
 The story of his wrongs. 
 
 But little thought he, while each nook and dell 
 With the wild music of his plaint was thrilling, 
 
 That scornful breast with sighs began to swell — 
 Half-pitying and half-willing. 
 
 Next month I walked the same sequestered way, 
 When close together on a twig I spied them; 
 And in a nest half-hid with leaves there lay 
 Four little birds beside them. 
 
 Coy maid, this moral in your ear I drop : 
 
 When lover's hopes within their hearts you 
 prison, 
 Fly out of sight and hearing ; do not stop 
 To look behind and listen. 
 
 John B. L. Soule. 
 LOVE 15 ENOUGH. 
 
 LOVE is enough. Let us not seek for gold. 
 Wealth breeds false aims, and pride and 
 selfishness ; 
 In those serene, Arcadian days of old. 
 Men gave no thought to princely homes and 
 dress. 
 The gods who dwelt in fair Olympia's height. 
 Lived only for dear love and love's delight; 
 Love is enough. 
 
 Love is enough. Why should we care for fame? 
 
 Ambition is a most unpleasant guest : 
 It lures us with the glory of a name 
 
 Far from the happy haunts of peace and rest. 
 Let us stay here in this secluded place. 
 Made beautiful by love's endearing grace ; 
 Love is enouo^h. 
 
 Love is enough. Why should we strive for power ? 
 
 It brings men only envy and distrust ; 
 The poor world's homage pleases but an hour, 
 
 And earthly honors vanish in the dust. 
 The grandest lives are ofttimes desolate ; 
 Let me be loved, and let who will be great ; 
 Love is enough. 
 
 Love is enough. Why should we ask for more ? 
 
 What greater gift have gods vouchsafed to men? 
 What better boon of all their precious store 
 
 Than our fond hearts that love and love again ? 
 Old love may die ; new love is just as sweet ; 
 And life is fair, and all the world complete ; 
 Love is enough. 
 Ella Wheeler Wilcox. 
 
 TO AN ABSENT WIFE. 
 
 T 
 
 IS morn ; the sea breeze seems to bring 
 Joy, health, and freshness on its wing; 
 Bright flowers, to me all strange and new, 
 Are glittering in the early dew ; 
 And perfumes rise from many a grove 
 As incense to the clouds that move 
 Like spirits o'er yon welkin clear; 
 But I am sad — thou art not here. 
 
 'Tis noon ; a calm unbroken sleep 
 Is on the blue waves of the deep ; 
 A soft haze, like a fairy dream, 
 Is floating over hill and stream ; 
 And many a broad magnolia flower 
 Within its shadowy woodland bower 
 Is gleaming like a lovely star ; 
 But I am sad — thou art afar. 
 
 'Tis eve ; on earth the sunset skies 
 Are painting their own Eden dyes; 
 The stars come down, and trembling glow 
 Like blossoms in the waves below; 
 
 And, like some unseen sprite, the breeze 
 Seems lingering 'mid the orange-trees. 
 Breathing in music round the spot ; 
 But I am sad — I see thee not. 
 
 'Tis midnight ; with a soothing spell 
 The far tones of the ocean swell. 
 Soft as a mother's cadence mild. 
 Low bending o'er her sleeping child ; 
 And on each wandering breeze are heard 
 The rich notes of the mocking-bird 
 In many a wild and wondrous lay ; 
 But I am sad — thou art away. 
 
 I sink in dreams, low, sweet, and clear ; 
 Thy own dear voice is in my ear ; 
 Around my cheek thy tresses twine. 
 Thy own loved hand is clasped in mine, 
 Thy own soft lip to mine is pressed, 
 Thy head is pillowed on my breast. 
 Oh ! I have all my heart holds dear; 
 And I am happy — thou art here. 
 
 George D. Prentice. 
 
NARRATIVES IN VERSE: 
 
 INCLUDING 
 
 TALES OF ADVENTURE AND ROMANCE. 
 
 MASSACRE AT FORT DEARBORN, CHICAGO, 1812- 
 
 ORN of the prairie and the wave — the blue sea and the green, 
 A city of the Occident, Chicago, lay between ; 
 Dim trails upon the meadow, faint wakes upon the main, 
 On either sea a schooner and a canvas-covered wain. 
 I saw a dot upon the map, and a house-fly's flimsy wing — 
 They said 'twas Dearborn's picket flag when Wilderness was 
 
 king; 
 I heard the reed-bi^d's morning song— the Indian's awkward flail— 
 The rice tattoo in his rude canoe like a dash of April hail — 
 The beaded grasses' rustling bend — the swash of the lazy tide 
 Where ships shake out the salted sails and navies grandly ride ! 
 
 I heard the block-house gates unbar, the column's solemn tread, 
 I saw the tree of a single leaf its splendid foliage shed 
 To wave awhile that August morn above the column's head ; 
 I heard the moan of muffled drum, the woman's wail of fife, 
 
 The Dead March played for Dearborn's men just marching out of life. 
 
 The swooping of the savage cloud that burst upon the rank 
 
 And struck it with its thunderbolt in forehead and in flank, 
 
 The spatter of the musket-shot, the rifles' whistling rain — 
 
 The sand-hills drift round hope forlorn that never marched again ! 
 
 Benjamin F. Taylor. 
 
 AN INCIDENT OF THE FIRE AT HAMBURGH. 
 
 THE tower of old Saint Nicholas soared up- 
 ward to the skies. 
 Like some huge piece of nature's make, 
 the growth of centuries; 
 You could not deem its crowding spires a work of 
 
 human art. 
 They seemed to struggle lightward so from a 
 sturdy living heart. 
 
 Not nature's self more freely speaks in crystal or 
 
 in oak 
 Than, through the pious builder's hand, in that 
 
 gray pile she spoke ; 
 And as from acorn springs the oak, so, freely and 
 
 alone 
 Sprang from his heart this hymn to God, sung in 
 
 obedient stone. 
 
 It seemed a wondrous freak of chance, so perfect, 
 
 yet so rough, 
 A whim of nature cn-'^^-allized slowly in granite 
 
 tough 
 
 The thick spires yearned toward the sky in quaint 
 
 harmonious lines. 
 And in broad sunlight basked and slept, like a 
 
 grove of blasted pines. 
 
 Never did rock or stream or tree lay claim with 
 
 better right 
 To all the adorning sympathies of shadow and of 
 
 . light ; 
 And in that forest petrified, as forester there 
 
 dwells 
 Stout Herman, the old sacristan, sole lord of all 
 
 its bells. 
 
 Surge leaping after surge, the fire roared onward, 
 
 red as blood. 
 Till half of Hamburgh lay engulfed beneath the 
 
 eddying flood; 
 For miles away, the fiery spray poured down its 
 
 deadly rain. 
 And back and forth the billows drew, and paiised, 
 
 and broke again. 
 
 201 
 
202 
 
 NARRATIVES IN VERSE, 
 
 From square to square, with tiger leaps, still on 
 
 and on it came ; 
 The air to leeward trembled with the pantings of 
 
 the flame, 
 And church and palace, which even now stood 
 
 whelmed but to the knee, 
 Lift their black roofs like breakers lone amid the 
 
 rushing sea. 
 
 Up in his tower old Herman sat and watched with 
 
 quiet look ; 
 His soul had trusted God too long to be at last 
 
 forsook : 
 He could not fear, for surely God a pathway 
 
 would unfold 
 Through this red sea, for faithful hearts, as once 
 
 he did of old. 
 
 But scarcely can he cross himself, or on his good 
 saint call, 
 
 Before the sacrilegious flood o'erleaped the church- 
 yard wall, 
 
 THE DYING 
 
 AAVOUNDED chieftain, lying 
 By the Danube's leafy side, 
 Thus faintly said, in dying, 
 " Oh ! bear, thou foaming tide 
 '"^his gift to my lady bride." 
 
 'Twas then, in life's last quiver, 
 He flung the scarf he wore 
 
 Into the foaming river, 
 
 Which, ah too quickly, bore 
 That pledge of one no more ! 
 
 With fond impatience burning, 
 
 The chieftain's lady stood. 
 To watch her love returning 
 
 T 
 
 THE INDIAN 
 
 WAS midnight dark. 
 
 The seaman's bark 
 Swift o'er the waters bore him, 
 When, through the night; 
 He spied a light 
 Shoot o'er the wave before him. 
 ** A sail ! a sail !" he cries; 
 
 ** She comes from the Indian shore, 
 And to-night shall be our prize. 
 With her freight of golden ore : 
 Sail on ! sail on !" 
 When morning shone. 
 He saw the gold still clearer ; 
 But, though so fast 
 The waves he passed. 
 That boat seemed never the nearer. 
 
 Bright daylight came. 
 And still the same 
 
 Kich b^k before him floated \ 
 
 And, ere a pater half was said, *mid smoke and 
 
 crackling glare. 
 His island tower scarce juts its head above the 
 
 wide despair. 
 
 Upon the peril's desperate peak his heart stood 
 
 up sublime ; 
 His first thought was for God above, his next was 
 
 for his chime ; 
 '*Sing now, and make your voices heard in hymns 
 
 of praise," cried he, 
 "As did the Israelites of old, safe-walking through 
 
 the sea ! 
 
 '* Through this red sea our God hath made our 
 
 pathway safe to shore ; 
 Our promised land stands full in sight ; shout now 
 
 as ne'er before." 
 And, as the tower came crashing down, the bells, 
 
 in clear accord, 
 Pealed forth the grand old German hymn — '• All 
 
 good souls praise the Lord ! " 
 
 James Russell Lowell. 
 
 WARRIOR. 
 
 In triumph down the flood, 
 From that da}''s field of blood. 
 
 But, field, alas ! ill-fated. 
 The lady saw, instead 
 
 Of the bark whose speed she waited, 
 Her hero's scarf, all red 
 With the drops his heart had shed. 
 
 One shriek — and all was over — 
 Her life-pulse ceased to beat ; 
 
 The gloomy waves now cover 
 That bridal flower so sweet. 
 And the scarf is her winding-sheet. 
 
 Thomas Moore. 
 
 BOAT. 
 
 While on the prize 
 
 His wishful eyes 
 Like any young lover's doted : 
 " More sail ! more sail !" he cries, 
 
 While the waves o'ertop the mast; 
 And his bounding galley flies, 
 Like an arrow before the blast. 
 
 Thus on, and on. 
 
 Till day was gone. 
 And the moon through heaven did hie her, 
 
 He swept the main, 
 
 But all in vain. 
 That boat seemed never the nigher. 
 
 And many a day 
 
 To night gave way. 
 And many a morn succeeded : 
 
 While still his flight. 
 
 Through day and night. 
 That restless mariner speeded. 
 
 I 
 
NARRATIVES IN VERSE. 
 
 203 
 
 U nPHE 
 
 Who knows — who knows what seas 
 
 He is now careering o'er? 
 Behind, the eternal breeze, 
 
 And that mocking bark, before ! 
 For, oh till sky 
 And earth shall die, 
 And their death leave none to rue it, 
 That boat must flee 
 O'er the boundless sea, 
 And that ship in vain pursue it. 
 
 Thomas Moore. 
 
 THE GREEN MOUNTAIN JUSTICE. 
 
 snow is deep," the Justice said; 
 There's mighty mischief overhead." 
 High talk, indeed !" his wife ex- 
 claimed j 
 " What, sir ! shall Providence be blamed?" 
 The Justice, laughing, said, " Oh no 1 
 I only meant the loads of snow 
 Upon the roofs. The barn is weak ; 
 I greatly fear the roof will break. 
 So hand me up the spade, my dear, 
 I'll mount the barn, the roof to clear." 
 *' No !" said the wife; " the barn is high, 
 And if you slip, and fall, and die, 
 How will my living be secured ? — 
 Stephen, your life is not insured. 
 But tie a rope your waist around, 
 And it will hold you safe and sound." 
 '' I will," said he. "■ Now for the roof- 
 All snugly tied, and danger-proof ! 
 Excelsior ! Excel — But no ! 
 The rope is not secured below !" 
 Said Rachel^ '' Climb, the end to throw 
 Across the top, and I will go 
 And tie that end around my waist." 
 
 '' Well, every woman to her taste; 
 You always would be tightly laced. 
 Rachel, when you became my bride, 
 I thought the knot securely tied ; 
 But lest the bond should break in twain, 
 I'll have it fastened once again." 
 Below the arm-pits tied around. 
 She takes her station on the ground, 
 While on the roof, beyond the ridge, 
 He shovels clear the lower edge. 
 But, sad mischance ! the loosened snow 
 Comes sliding down, to plunge below. 
 And as he tumbles with the slide, 
 Up Rachel goes on t'other side. 
 Just half-way down the Justice hung ; 
 Just half-way up the woman swung. 
 '' Good land o' Goshen !" shouted she ; 
 *' Why, do you see it?" answered he. 
 
 The couple, dangling in the breeze. 
 Like turkeys, hung outside to freeze. 
 At their rope's end and wit's end, too. 
 Shout back and forth what best to do. 
 
 Cried Stephen, " Take it coolly, wife; 
 
 All have their ups and downs in life. ' ' 
 
 Quoth Rachel, " What a pity 'tis 
 
 To joke at such a time as this ? 
 
 A man whose wife is being hung 
 
 Should know enough to hold his tongue." 
 
 *' Now, Rachel, as I look below, 
 
 I see a tempting heap of snow. 
 
 Suppose, my dear, I take my knife, 
 
 And cut the rope to save my life ?' ' 
 
 She shouted, ' ' Don't ! ' twoujd be my death— 
 
 I see some pointed stones beneath. 
 
 A better way would be to call. 
 
 With all our might, for Phebe Hall." 
 
 "Agreed !" he roared. First he, then she 
 
 Gave tongue; " O Phebe ! Phebe ! Fhg-e- 
 
 be Hall!" in tones both fine and coarse, 
 
 Enough to make a drover hoarse. 
 
 Now Phebe, over at the farm. 
 Was sitting, sewing, snug and warm ; 
 But hearing, as she thought, her name, 
 Sprang up, and to the rescue came ; 
 Beheld the scene, and thus she thought : 
 ' ' If now a kitchen chair were brought. 
 And I could reach the lady's foot, 
 I'd draw her downward by the boot. 
 Then cut the rope, and let him go ; 
 He cannot miss the pile of snow. ' ' 
 He sees her moving towards his wife, 
 Armed with a chair and carving-knife, 
 And, ere he is aware, perceives 
 His head ascending to the eaves ; 
 And, guessing what the two are at. 
 Screams from beneath the roof, *' Stop that ! 
 You make me fall too far, by half!" 
 But Phebe answers, with a laugh, 
 " Please tell a body by what right 
 You've brought your wife to such a plight !" 
 And then, with well-directed blows, 
 She cuts the rope and down he goes. 
 
 The wife untied, they walk around. 
 When lo ! no Stephen can be found. 
 They call in vain, run to and fro ; 
 They look around, above, below ; 
 No trace or token can they see. 
 And deeper grows the mystery. 
 Then Rachel's heart within her sank; 
 But, glancing at the snowy bank. 
 She caught a little gleam of hope — 
 A gentle movement of the rope. 
 They scrape away a little snow ; 
 What's this? A hat ! Ah ! he's below. 
 Then upward heaves the snowy pile, 
 And forth he stalks in tragic style. 
 Unhurt, and with a roguish smile ; 
 And Rachel sees, with glad surprise, 
 The missing found; the fallen rise. 
 
 Henry Reeves, 
 
204 
 
NARRATIVES IN VERSE, 
 
 205 
 
 MY LANDLADY, 
 
 A 
 
 SMALL brisk woman, capped with many a 
 bow; 
 ''Yes," so she says, ''and younger, too, 
 than some," 
 Who bids me, busthng, " Godspeed," when I go, 
 And gives me, rusthng, "Welcome," when I 
 come. 
 
 "Ay, sir, 'tis cold — and freezing hard, they say; 
 I'd like to give that hulking brute a hit — 
 Beating his horse in such a shameful way ! — 
 Step here, sir, till your fire's blazed up a bit." 
 
 A musky haunt of lavender and shells, 
 
 Quaint-figured Chinese monsters, toys, and 
 travs — 
 
 Where is he?" '' Ah, sir, he is dead — my boy ! 
 
 Full thirty years ago — in 'sixty-three ; 
 He's always living in my head — my boy ! 
 
 He was left drowning in the Southern Sea. 
 
 There were two souls washed overboard, they said, 
 And one the waves brought back ; but he was 
 left. 
 
 They saw him place the life-buoy o'er his head ; 
 The sea was running wildly ; — he was left. 
 
 He was a strong, strong swimmer. Do you 
 know, 
 
 When the wind whistled yesternight, I cried. 
 And prayed to God — though 'twas so long ago — 
 
 He did not struggle much before he died. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 ^' 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 r 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 1 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 1 
 
 1^^ 
 
 
 
 1 
 
 H^^ 
 
 
 1 
 
 Hi- 
 
 •-^"^ 
 
 1 
 
 . _ 
 
 ''"^■i 
 
 A life's collection — where each object tells 
 Of fashions gone and half- forgotten ways : — 
 
 A glossy screen, where wide-mouth dragons ramp ; 
 
 A vexed inscription in a sampler-frame ; 
 A shade of beads upon a red-capped lamp ; 
 
 A child's mug graven with a golden name ; 
 
 A pictured ship, with full-blown canvas set ; 
 
 A card, with seaweed twisted to a wreath. 
 Circling a silky curl as black as jet. 
 
 With yellow writing faded underneath. 
 
 Looking, I sink within the shrouded chair. 
 And note the objects, slowly one by one. 
 
 And light at last upon a portrait there — 
 
 Wide-collared, raven-haired. *' Yes, 'tis my 
 son!" 
 
 'Twas his third voyage. That's the box he 
 
 brought — 
 
 Or would have brought, my poor deserted boy ! 
 
 And these the words the agents sent — they 
 
 thought 
 
 That money, perhaps, could make my loss a joy. 
 
 ■ Look, sir, I've something here that I prize more, 
 This is a fragment of the poor lad's coat — 
 That other clutched him as the wave went o'er, 
 And this stayed in his hand. That's what 
 they wrote. 
 
 Well, well, 'tis done. My story's shocking you; 
 
 Grief is for them that have both time and 
 
 wealth ; 
 
 We can't mourn much, who have much work to do ; 
 
 Your fire is bright. Thank God, I have my 
 
 health?" Austin Dobson. 
 
206 
 
 NARRATIVES IN VERSE. 
 
 KNIGHT TOGQENBURG. 
 
 4 i \Z NIGHT, to love thee like a sister 
 1^ Vows this heart to thee ; 
 
 ■*• ^ Ask no other, warmer feeling — 
 
 That were pain to me. 
 Tranquil would I see thy coming. 
 
 Tranquil see thee go ; 
 What that starting tear would tell me, 
 I must never know." 
 
 He with silent anguish listens, 
 Though his heart-strings bleed ; 
 
 Clasps her in his last embraces, 
 
 Springs upon his steed ; 
 Summons every faithful vassal 
 
 From his Alpine home ; 
 Binds the cross upon his bosom, 
 
 Seeks the Holy Tomb. 
 
 There /uU many a deed of glory 
 
 Wrought the hero's arm ; 
 Foremost still his plumage floated 
 
 Where the foemen swarm ; 
 Till the Moslem, terror-stricken, 
 
 Quailed before his name ; — 
 But the pang that wTings his bosom 
 
 Lives at heart the same. 
 
 One long year he bears his sorrow, 
 
 But no more can bear ; 
 Rest he seeks, but finding never, 
 
 Leaves the army there ; 
 Sees a ship by Joppa's haven, 
 
 Which, with swelling sail. 
 
 Wafts him where his lady's breathing 
 Mingles with the gale. 
 
 At her father's castle-portal 
 
 Hark ! his knock is heard : 
 See ! the gloomy gate uncloses 
 
 With the thunder- word : 
 ** She thou seek'st is veiled forever, 
 
 Is the bride of heaven ; 
 Yester-eve the vows were plighted — 
 
 She to God is given. ' ' 
 
 Then his old ancestral castle 
 
 He forever flees ; 
 Battle steed and trusty weapon 
 
 Nevermore he sees. 
 From the Toggenburg descending 
 
 Forth unknown he glides ; 
 For the frame once sheathed in iron 
 
 Now the sackcloth hides. 
 
 There beside that hallowed region 
 
 He hath built his bower. 
 Where from out the dusky lindens 
 
 Looked the convent-tower; 
 Waiting from the morning's glim- 
 mer 
 
 Till the day was done, 
 Tranquil hope in every feature. 
 
 Sat he there alone. 
 
 Gazing upward to the convent. 
 
 Hour on hour he passed ; 
 Watching still his lady's lattice 
 
 Till it oped at last ; 
 Till that form looked forth sc 
 lovely. 
 Till the sweet face smiled 
 Down into the lonebome valley, 
 Peaceful, angel-mild. 
 
 Then he laid him down to slumber, 
 
 Cheered by peaceful dreams. 
 Calmly waiting till the morning 
 
 Showed again its beams. 
 Thus for days he watched and waited. 
 
 Thus for years he lay, 
 Happy if he saw the lattice 
 
 Open day by day — 
 
 If that form looked forth so lovely, 
 
 If the sweet face smiled 
 Down into the lonesome valley, 
 
 Peaceful, angel-mild. 
 There a corpse they found him sitting 
 
 Once when day returned, 
 Still his pale and placid features 
 
 To the lattice turned. 
 
 F. VON Schiller. 
 
NARRATIVES IN VERSE. 
 
 207 
 
 PHILLIPS OF PELHAMVILLE. 
 
 SHORT is the story I say, if you will 
 Hear it, of Phillips of Pelhamville : 
 
 An engineer for many a day 
 
 Over miles and miles of the double way. 
 
 Day and night, in all kinds of weather, 
 He and the engine he drave together. 
 
 I can fancy this Phillips as one in my mind 
 With little of speech to waste on his kind, 
 
 Always sharp and abrupt of tone, 
 Whether off duty or standing on. 
 
 With this firm belief in himself that he reckoned 
 His duty first ; all the rest was second. 
 
 Short is the story I say, if you will 
 Hear it, of Phillips of Pelhamville. 
 
 He was out that day, running sharp, for he knew 
 He must shunt ahead for a train overdue. 
 
 The South Express coming on behind 
 With the swing and rush of a mighty wind. 
 
 No need to say in this verse of mine 
 How accidents happen along the line. 
 
 A rail lying wide to the gauge ahead, 
 A signal clear when it should be red ; 
 
 An axle breaking, the tire of a wheel 
 Snapping off at a hidden flaw in the steel. 
 
 Enough. There were wagons piled up in the air, 
 As if some giant had tossed them there. 
 
 Rails broken and bent like a willow wand, 
 
 And sleepers torn up through the ballast and sand. 
 
 The hiss of the steam was heard, as it rushed 
 Through the safety-valves of the engine, crushed 
 
 Deep into the slope, like a monster driven 
 To hide itself from the eye of heaven. 
 
 But where was Phillips ? From underneath 
 The tender wheels, with their grip of death. 
 
 They drew him, scalded by steam, and burned 
 By the engine fires as it overturned. 
 
 They laid him gently upon the slope. 
 Then knelt beside him with little of hope. 
 
 Though dying, he was the only one 
 
 Of them all that knew what ought to be done ; 
 
 For his fading eye grew quick with a fear. 
 As if of some danger approaching near. 
 
 \nd it sought — not the wreck of his train that lay 
 Over the six and the four-feet way — 
 
 But down the track, for there hung on his mind , 
 The South Express coming up behind. 
 
 And he half arose with a stifled' groan, 
 
 While his voice had the same old ring in its tone : 
 
 '' Signal the South Express!" he said. 
 
 Then fell back in the arms of his stoker, dead. 
 
 Short, a9 you see, is this story of mine. 
 And of one more hero of the line. 
 
 For hero he was, though before his name 
 Goes forth no trumpet-blast of fame. 
 
 Yet true to his duty, as steel to steel. 
 Was Phillips the driver of Pelhamville. 
 
 Alexander Anderson. 
 
 I 
 
 THE FAMINE. 
 
 FROM "HIAWATHA." 
 
 N the wigwam with Nokomis, 
 
 With those gloomy guests that watched her, 
 
 With the Famine and the Fever, 
 
 She was lying, the beloved. 
 
 She the dying Minnehaha. 
 " Hark !" she said, '' I hear a rushing, 
 
 Hear a roaring and a rushing. 
 
 Hear the Falls of Minnehaha 
 
 Calling to me from a distance !" 
 "No, my child!" said old Nokomis, 
 "*Tis the night-wind in the pine-trees !' 
 *'Look!" she said, *'I see my father 
 
 Standing lonely at his doorway. 
 
 Beckoning to me from his wigwam 
 
 In the land of the Dacotahs !" 
 *'No, my child !" said old Nokomis, 
 *"Tis the smoke that waves and beckons!*' 
 
 "Ah !" she said, " the eyes of Pauguk 
 Glare upon me in the darkness, 
 I can feel his icy fingers 
 Clasping mine amid the darkness ! 
 Hiawatha! Hiawatha!" 
 
 And the desolate Hiawatha, 
 Far away amid the forest. 
 Miles away among the mountains, 
 Heard that sudden cry of anguish, 
 Heard the voice of Minnehaha 
 Calling to him in the darkness, 
 " Hiawatha ! Hiawatha ! ' ' 
 
 Over snow-fields waste and pathless, 
 Under snow-encumbered branches, 
 Homeward hurried Hiawatha, 
 Empty-handed, heavy-hearted, 
 Heard Nokomis moaning, wailing ; 
 " Wahonowin ! Wahonowin ! 
 Would that I had perished for you. 
 Would that I were dead as you are ! 
 Wahonowin ! Wahonowin !" 
 And he rushed into the wigwam. 
 Saw the old Nokomis slowly 
 Rocking to and fro and moaning. 
 Saw his lovely Minnehaha 
 Lying dead and cold before him. 
 And his bursting heart within him 
 
208 
 
 NARRATIVES IN VERSE. 
 
 Uttered such a cry of anguish, 
 
 That the forest moaned and shuddered, 
 
 That the very stars in heaven 
 
 Shook and trembled with his anguish. 
 
 Then he sat down still and speechless. 
 On the bed of Minnehaha, 
 At the feet of Laughing Water, 
 At those willing feet, that never 
 More would lightly run to meet him, 
 Never more would lightly follow. 
 With both hands his face he covered, 
 Seven long days and nights he sat there, 
 As if in a swoon he sat there, 
 Speechless, motionless, unconscious 
 Of the daylight or the darkness. 
 
 C 
 
 Come not back again to suffer, 
 Where the Famine and the Fever 
 Wear the heart and waste the body. 
 Soon my task will be completed. 
 Soon your footsteps I shall follow 
 To the Islands of the Blessed, 
 To the Kingdom of Ponemah, 
 To the Land of the Hereafter !" 
 
 H. W. Longfellow. 
 
 CONDUCTOR BRADLEY. 
 
 ONDUCTOR Bradley (always may his 
 name 
 Be said with reverence !) as the swift doom 
 
 Then they buried Minnehaha ; 
 In the snow a grave they made her, 
 In the forest deep and darksome. 
 Underneath the moaning hemlocks ; 
 Clothed her in her richest garments, 
 Wrapped her in her robes of ermine. 
 Covered her with snow, like ermine ; 
 Thus they buried Minnehaha. 
 And at night a fire was lighted. 
 On her grave four times was kindled, 
 For her soul upon its journey 
 To the Islands of the Blessed. 
 From his doorway Hiawatha 
 Saw it burning in the forest. 
 Lighting up the gloomy hemlocks) 
 From his sleepless bed uprising, 
 From the bed of Minnehaha, 
 Stood and watched it at the doorway, 
 That it might not be extinguished, 
 Might not leave her in the darkness. 
 
 ' Farewell !' ' said he, '' Minnehaha ; 
 Farewell, O my Laughing Water ! 
 All my heart is buried with you. 
 All my thoughts go onward with you ! 
 Come not back again to labor, 
 
 Smitten to death, a crushed and mangled frame, 
 
 Sank with the brake he grasped just 
 
 where he stood 
 To do the utmost that a brave man 
 
 could, 
 And die, if needful, as a true man 
 
 should. 
 
 Men stooped above him ; women 
 
 dropped their tears 
 On that poor wreck beyond all liopes 
 
 or fears. 
 Lost in the strength and glor;,- ol X.'.i 
 
 years. 
 
 What heard they? Lo! the r hast ; 
 
 lips of pain. 
 Dead to all thought save duty',*, 
 
 moved again : 
 
 Put out the sii^nals for the other train !" 
 
 No nobler utterance since the world began, 
 From lips of saint or martyr ever ran, 
 Electric, through the sympathies of man. 
 
 Ah, me ! how poor and noteless seem to this 
 The sick-bed drama of self-consciousness — 
 Our sensual fears of pain and hopes of bliss ! 
 
 Oh, grand, supreme endeavor ! Not in vain 
 That last brave act of failing tongue and brain ! 
 Freighted with life, the downward-rushing train, 
 
 Following the wrecked one as wave follows wave, 
 Obeyed the warning which the dead lips gave. 
 Others he saved, himself he could not save ! 
 
 Nay, the lost life was saved. He is not dead 
 Who in his record still the earth shall tread 
 With God's clear aureole shining round his head. 
 
 We bow as in the dust, with all our pride 
 Of virtue dwarfed the 7iobie deed beside, 
 God give us grace to live as Bradley died ! 
 
 J. G. Whittier 
 
NARRATIVES IN VERSE, 
 
 209 
 
 A GIRL HEROINE. 
 
 SHE had heard of heroines far away, 
 Of wonderful deeds that girls had done, 
 And wished that she were as brave as they 
 Who such an amount of praise had won. 
 T'here was naught she could do to gain renown. 
 
 No chance for a commonplace girl like her ; 
 For a blizzard never had reached the town, 
 Nor anything else that made a stir. 
 
 She had often read of Joan of Arc, 
 
 And in spirit followed the daring maid, 
 And wondered if she was scared at the dark, 
 
 Or of ghosts and goblins had been afraid 
 When she was a child. And was it true 
 
 That angels came to her in a trance, 
 And told her exactly what to do 
 
 For her honor, and the glory and good of 
 France ? 
 
 And Amy sighed ; and she said : '' 'Tis well 
 
 That I lead an easy and quiet life, 
 With nothing that's likely to compel 
 
 My taking part in such active strife; 
 For 1 faint away at the sight of blood, 
 
 Would run a mile to avoid a cow. 
 And at thought of terrors of fire and flood 
 
 Am ready to go in hysterics now. 
 
 " I am only brave in my dreams, and then 
 
 To accomplish my purpose I never fail, 
 But rush to the charge with valiant mein 
 
 And a heart that scoffs at a coat-of-mail. 
 What plans I make! and what deeds I do ! 
 
 King Arthur himself had no grander schemes, 
 Nor ever more glorious triumphs knew 
 
 Than I — in my rapturous girlish dreams. ' ' 
 
 That night came a wild, fierce cry of *' Fire !" 
 
 And Amy sprang from her couch with a scream, 
 For the flames about her were drawing nigher, 
 
 And seemed at first like a horrid dream. 
 The stairs were ablaze ; and below them stood 
 
 Her mother — the young babe in her arms — 
 And she looked as only a mother could 
 
 Whose heart was tortured with vague alarms. 
 
 She strove to speak, but her lips were dumb ; 
 
 She tried to move, but she could not stir ; 
 Oh, why should horror her strength benumb. 
 
 And at this moment so cripple her ? 
 There — above — in an inner room — 
 
 Her children slept, while the flames rose higher ; 
 Naught could avert their fearful doom ; 
 
 And between her and them was this wall of fire ! 
 
 Quick as a flash did Amy speed 
 
 To the bed where nestled each tiny elf ; 
 
 Strength was given for the hour of need. 
 She had no time to think of herself. 
 
 But seizing each, with a loving kiss 
 
 She hushed their fears, and then hurled them so 
 14 
 
 Over the fiery red abyss 
 
 That they were caught by the men below. 
 
 Then Amy stood at the head of the stair 
 
 Alone and pallid — but not with fright : 
 And she looked like an angel standing there, 
 
 Crowned with a halo of dazzling light. 
 She did not know that they called her name, 
 
 Nor heard them shrieking, '' Jump ! jump this 
 way !" 
 Her gaze was fixed on the lurid flame. 
 
 And she knew 'twas fatal to long delay. 
 
 So over the chasm, with flying leap. 
 
 Did Amy go into outstretched hands. 
 That were eager the hungry flames to keep 
 
 From leaving their mark on these precious 
 brands. 
 Plucked from the burning. And oh, what bliss 
 
 To gaze once more on her mother's face, 
 To be rewarded with kiss on kiss, 
 
 When closely held in her fond embrace ! 
 
 From the noisy plaudits she shrank dismayed. 
 
 With a feeling that her deserts were small — 
 'Twas but an impulse that she obeyed ; 
 
 Yet she was a heroine after all. 
 And had learned the lesson that from above 
 
 Is strength imparted for all our needs, 
 And that even a child with a heart of love 
 
 May astonish the world with its mighty deeds. 
 
 THE FAITHFUL LOVERS. 
 
 I'D been away from here three years — about 
 that — 
 And I returned to find my Alary true ; 
 And thought I'd question her, nor doubted that 
 It was unnecessary so to do. 
 
 'Twas by the chimney corner we were sitting; 
 "Mary," said I, ''have you been always 
 true?" 
 " Franky," said she — ^just pausing in her knit- 
 ting— 
 '^I don't think I've unfaithful been to you; 
 But for the three years past I'll tell you what 
 I've done : then say if I've been true or not. 
 
 " When first you left, my grief was uncontrollable. 
 Alone I mourned my miserable lot, 
 
 And all v/ho saw me thought me inconsolable, 
 Till Captain Clifford came from Aldershott ; 
 
 To flirt with him amused me while 'twas new; 
 I don't count that unfaithfulness. Do you? 
 
 '' The next — oh ! let me see — was Freddy Phipps, 
 I met him at my uncle's, Christmas-tide ; 
 And 'neath the mistletoe, where lips met lips, 
 He gave me his first kiss" — and here she 
 sighed ; 
 " We stayed six weeks at uncle's — how time flew! 
 I don't count that unfaithfulness. Do you? 
 
210 
 
 NARRATIVES IN VERSE. 
 
 Lord Cecil Fossmore, only twenty-one, 
 
 Lent me his horse. Oh, how we rode and 
 raced ! 
 We scoured the downs, we rode to hounds — such 
 fun! 
 And often was his arm around my waist — 
 That was to lift me up or down. But who 
 Would count that unfaithfulness? Do you? 
 
 Do you know Reggy Vere ? Ah, how he sings ! 
 We met — 'twas at a picnic. Ah, such weather ! 
 He gave me, look, the first of these two rings, 
 
 When we were lost in Cliefden woods to- 
 gether. 
 Ah, what happy times we spent, we two ! 
 I don't count that unfaithfulness to you. 
 
 I've got another ring from him. D'you see 
 The plain gold circle that is shining here?" 
 
 I took her hand : " Oh, Mary ! can it be 
 That you" — quoth she, "That I am Mrs. 
 Vere. 
 
 I don't count that unfaithfulness, do you?" 
 
 No," I replied, " for i am married, too." 
 
 THE MORTE CHAPEL. 
 
 HOW IT WAS CONSECRATED. 
 
 A Norwegian bark was driven on the rocks at Morte 
 Point, North Devon, during a heavy storm. All attempts 
 to launch the boats proved failures, but an immense wave 
 lifted the upper part of the ship, and carried it with the 
 sailors upon it safely to the shore. The captain, a God-fear- 
 ing man, led his crew to the village, and found shelter in the 
 newly-built chapel, which as yet had not been used for pub- 
 lic worship. 
 
 i i TV T O boat may ride," the captain cried, 
 I \^ '' In a raging sea like this ; 
 ■*• ^ And the rocks that gore my brave barque 
 
 o er. 
 Must sink her soon, 
 
 I wis. 
 
 *' Yet launch the boat, for man must strive 
 
 Ere ever he turns to God." 
 Tiie boat was lowered — the white waves poured 
 
 To sink her like a clod. 
 
 Said the captain brave, '' 'Tis the hour of prayer 
 
 When human efforts fail;" 
 By the quivering mast they knelt them fast, 
 
 'Mid the thunders of the gale. 
 
 Crash went the timbers of the wreck. 
 
 And strewed that fatal strand ; 
 But safe to shore, the mad waves o'er, 
 
 The deck was swept to land. 
 
 Right on the crest of the wild foam's breast, 
 
 It steers like a thing of life ; 
 And the mariners there scarce cease their prayer, 
 
 Ere it lifts them from the strife. 
 
 *^Now rise, ye men," cried the captain then, 
 
 '' For the Master's hand is seen ; 
 Though the billows roar on the angry shores 
 
 'Tis the hour of praise, I ween." 
 
NARRATIVES IN VERSE. 
 
 211 
 
 They climbed the hill, where the village still 
 
 Slept 'ncatii tlie silent stars; 
 Not a voice they hear, to bid them cheer, 
 
 Not a house will loose its bars. 
 
 'Tis the village kirk, unblessed of man, 
 
 That opens wide its door ; 
 And, shelter found, they kneel around 
 
 In prayer on its unstained floor. 
 
 Their hearts they raise, in a hymn of praise, 
 
 A glad, thanksgiving song ; 
 What bishop or choir with a joy like theirs ? 
 
 What hallowing rite so strong ? 
 
 And the benediction lingers yet, 
 
 Like the dew or the gracious rain ; 
 For the clouds that rise, and float to the skies. 
 
 Must fall to the earth again. 
 
 Walter Baxendale. 
 
 THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE 
 AT BALAKLAVA. 
 
 From September, 1854, to June, 1856, Balaklava, a smaT- 
 Greek fishing- village in the Crimea, was the British head- 
 nuarters during the Crimean war. Here the famous charge 
 of the Six Hundred was made, October 25, 1854, which 
 has rendered the name of Balaklava glorious as that o( 
 Thermopylce. The ballad was written, as Tennyson him- 
 self tells us, after reading the report in a morning journal. 
 where only six hundred and seven sabres were mentioned as 
 having taken part in the magnificent charge. Later, the 
 soldiers sang this ballad, now of world-wide fame, by their 
 watch-fires in the Crimea. 
 
 H 
 
 ALF a league, half a league, 
 
 Half a league onward, 
 
 All in the valley of death. 
 
 Rode the six hundred. 
 
 Into the valley of death 
 Rode the six hundred ; 
 
 For up came an order which 
 Some one had blundered. 
 
 '' Forward, the light brigade ! 
 
 Take the guns !" Nolan said : 
 
 Into ^he valley of death. 
 Rode the six hundred. 
 
 "Forward the light brigade !" 
 No man was there 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 sabres bare, 
 Flashed all at once in air, 
 Sabring the gunners there, 
 Charging an army, while 
 
 All the world wondered. 
 Plunged in the battery smoke, 
 With many a desperate stroke 
 The Russian line they broke ; 
 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. 
 Came through the jaws of death, 
 Back from the mouth of hell, 
 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, 
 
 ONE OF THE SIX HUNDRED. 
 
 A paragraph recently appeared in a New York journal an^ 
 nouncing the death of John Fitzpatrick, one of the Light 
 Brigade, who died of starvation in England. He had re- 
 ceived a pension of sixpence a day, which, however, was 
 withdrawn several years ago, and he endeavored to eke out a 
 miserable existence by riding in circus pageants. Old age 
 and disease had unfitted him for this or any other work ; the 
 only refuge for the disabled soldier was the workhouse, from 
 which he shrank in horror. The verdict of the coroner's 
 jury was : " Died of starvation, and the case is a disgrace '■~ 
 the War Office." 
 
 SPEED the news ; speed the news ! 
 Speed the news onward ! 
 "Died of starvation," one 
 Of the Six Hundred : 
 One who his part had played 
 Well in the Light Brigade, 
 Rode with six hundred. 
 
 Food to the right of him, 
 Food to the left of him, 
 Food all around, yet 
 
 The veteran hungered ; 
 He, who through shot and shell 
 Fearlessly rode, and well. 
 And when the word was ^' Charge," 
 
 Shrank not nor lingered. 
 
212 
 
 NARRATIVES IN VERSE. 
 
 " Off to the workhouse, you !' 
 Back in dismay he drew — 
 Feeling he never knew 
 
 When cannon thundered. 
 His not to plead or sigh, 
 His but to starve and die, 
 And to a paupers' s grave 
 Sink with a soul as brave 
 As through the vale of death 
 
 Rode the six hundred. 
 
 Flashed a proud spirit there, 
 Up through the man's despair, 
 Shaming the servile there. 
 Scaring the timid, while 
 
 Sordid souls wondered ; 
 Then turned to face his fate 
 Calmly, with a soul as great 
 
 As when through shot and shell 
 
 He rode with six hundred I 
 With high hope elate. 
 Laughing in face of fate — 
 
 Rode with six hundred. 
 
 Hunger hi'- mate by day, 
 Sunday and working day, 
 Winter and summer day — 
 
 Shame on the nation ! 
 Struggling with might and main, 
 Smit with disease and pain, 
 He, in Victoria's reign, 
 *' Died of starvation." 
 
 While yet the land with pride 
 Tells of the headlong ride 
 
 Of the six hundred ; 
 While yet the welkin rings. 
 While yet the laureate sings, 
 
 " Some one has blundered;" 
 •*' Let us with bated breath 
 
 Tell how one starved to death — 
 
 Of the six hundred. 
 
 What can that bosom hide ? 
 Oh the dread death he died ! 
 
 Well may men wonder — 
 One of the Light Brigade, 
 One v/ho that charge had made. 
 
 Died of sheer hunger. 
 
 RIVER AND TIDE. 
 
 ON the bank of the river was seated one day 
 An old man, and close by his side 
 Was a child who had paused from his 
 laughing and play 
 To gaze at the stream, as it hurried away 
 To the sea, with the ebb of the tide. 
 
 "What see you, my child, in the stream, as it 
 flows 
 To the ocean, so dark and deep ? 
 Are you watching how swift, yet how silent it 
 
 goes? 
 Thus hurry our lives, till they sink in repose. 
 And are lost in a measureless sleep. 
 
 *' Now listen, my boy ! You are young, I am old, 
 
 And yet like two rivers are we ; 
 Though the flocd-tide of youth from time's ocean 
 
 in rolled. 
 Yet it ebbs all too soon, and its waters grow cold 
 
 As it creeps back again to the sea." 
 
 <' But the river returns !" cried the boy, while his 
 eyes 
 Gleamed bright at the water below. 
 "Ah! yes," said the old man; "but time, as it 
 
 flies. 
 Turns the tide of our life, and it never can rise." 
 " But first," said the boy, " it must flow." 
 
NARRATIVES IN VERSE. 
 
 213 
 
 Thus, watching its course from the bank of the 
 stream, 
 They mused, as they sat side by side ; 
 Each read different tales in the river's bright 
 
 gleam — 
 One borne with the flow of a glorious dream, 
 And one going out with the tide. 
 
 Ah ! nothing like the heavy step 
 
 Betrays the heavy heart. 
 
 It is a usual history 
 
 That Indian girl could tell ; 
 Fate sets apart one common doom 
 
 For all who love too well. 
 
 The " mighty Fall " mentioned in this pa- 
 thetic poem was Niagara, and the incident is a 
 well -authenticated fact. 
 
 SHE sat alone beside her hearth — 
 For many nights alone; 
 She slept not on the pleasant couch 
 Where fragrant herbs were strown. 
 
 At first she bound her raven hair 
 
 With feather and with shell ; 
 But then she hoped ; at length, like nighty 
 
 Around her neck it fell. 
 
 They saw her wandering 'mid the woods, 
 Lone, with the cheerless dawn. 
 
 And then they said, " Can this be her 
 AVe called, 'The Startled Fawn?' " 
 
 Her heart was in her large sad eyes, ' 
 Half sunshine and half shade ; 
 
 And love, as love first springs to life, 
 Of everything afraid. 
 
 The red leaf far more heavily 
 
 Fell down to autumn earth, 
 Than her light feet, which seemed to move 
 
 To music and to mirth. 
 
 With the light feet of early youth. 
 What hopes and joys depart ! 
 
 The proud — the shy — the sensitive — 
 
 Life has not many such ; 
 They dearly buy their happiness. 
 
 By feeling it too much. 
 
 A stranger to her forest home, 
 That fair young stranger came ; 
 
 They raised for him the funeral song — 
 For him the funeral flame. 
 
 Love sprang from pity — and her arms 
 Around his arms she threw ; 
 
 She told her father, ''If he dies, 
 Your daughter dieth too." 
 
 For her sweet sake they set him free- 
 He lingered at her side ; 
 
114 
 
 NARRATIVES IN VERSE. 
 
 And many a native song yet tells 
 Of that pale stranger's bride. 
 
 Two years have passed — how much two years 
 
 Have taken in their flight ! 
 They've taken from the lip its smile, 
 
 And from the eye its light. 
 
 Poor child ! she was a child in years — 
 
 So timid and so young ; 
 With what a fond and earnest faith 
 
 To desperate hope she clung ! 
 
 His eyes grew cold — his voice grew strange— 
 
 They only grew more dear. 
 She served him meekly, anxiously, 
 
 With love— half faith, half fear. 
 
 And can a fond and faithful heart 
 
 Be worthless in those eyes 
 For which it beats ? — Ah ! woe to those 
 
 Who such a heart despise. 
 
 Poor child ! what lonely days she passed, 
 
 With nothing to recall 
 But bitter taunts, and careless words. 
 
 And looks more cold than all. 
 
 Alas ! for love, that sits at home. 
 
 Forsaken, and yet fond ', 
 The grief that sits beside the hearth, 
 
 Life has no grief beyond. 
 
 He left her, but she followed him — 
 
 She thought he could not bear 
 AVhen she had left her home for him 
 
 To look on her despair. 
 
 Adown the strange and mighty stream 
 
 She took her lonely way ! 
 The stars at night her pilots were. 
 
 As was the sun by day. 
 
 Yet mournfully — how mournfully ; — 
 
 The Indian looked behind, 
 When the last sound of voice or step 
 
 Died on the midnight wind. 
 
 Yet still adown the gloomy stream 
 
 She plied her weary oar ; 
 Her husband — he had left their home. 
 
 And it was home no more. 
 
 She found him — but she found in vain — 
 
 He spurned her from his side ; 
 He said, her brow was all too dark. 
 
 For her to be his bride. 
 
 She grasped his hands — her own were cold — 
 
 And silent turned away, 
 As she had not a tear to shed, 
 
 And not a word to say. 
 
 And pale as death she reached her boat. 
 
 And guided it along ; 
 With broken voice she strove to raise 
 
 A melancholy song. 
 
 None watched the lonely Indian girl — 
 
 She passed unmarked of all. 
 Until they saw her slight canoe 
 
 Approach the mighty Fall ! 
 
 Upright, within that slender boat 
 They saw the pale girl stand. 
 
 Her dark hair streaming far behind- 
 Upraised her desperate hand. 
 
 The air is filled with shriek and shout — 
 
 They call, but call in vain ; 
 The boat amid the waters dashed — 
 
 'Twas never seen again ! 
 
 Letitia E. Landon. 
 
 IN SCHOOL DAYS. 
 
 STILL sits the school-house by the road 
 A ragged beggar sunning ; 
 Around it still the sumachs grow. 
 And blackberry vines are running. 
 
 AVithin, 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 M'orn 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 trembling of her voice. 
 As if a fault confessing: 
 
NARRATIVES IN VERSE, 
 
 215 
 
 'Tm sorry that I spelt 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. 
 
 J. G. Whittier. 
 
 THE KING AND THE COTTAGE. 
 
 The following lines breathe a sentiment kindred to that of 
 ihe gifted author's far-famed poem entitled, " Home, Sweet 
 Home." The one is the companion of the other, and both 
 are tributes to domestic joys almost without a rival. 
 
 THERE once was a king on his throne of gold 
 seated ; 
 His courtiers in smiles were all standing 
 around ; 
 They heard him with news of fresh victories 
 greeted ; 
 The skies with the joy of his people resound ; 
 And all thought this king was most thoroughly 
 
 blest, 
 Till sadly he sighed forth his secret unrest : 
 'How much more delight to my bosom 'twould 
 bring, 
 To feel myself happy, than know myself king ! ' ' 
 
 "Ah w^iat ! while such power and such treasure 
 possessing,' 
 (A courtier, astonished, stept forward and cried), 
 " Could fortune bestow in exchange for the bless- 
 ing ? " 
 And thus to the courtier the king straight replied : 
 ** Health, a cottage, few friends, and a heart all my 
 
 own 
 Were heaven in exchange for the cares of a throne ! " 
 *' Then live if no longer to empire you cling, 
 Seek these, and be happ}^ and let me be the king ! ' ' 
 
 The king gave the courtier his throne and de- 
 scended ; 
 The longed for delights of retirement to prove. 
 And now for the first time around him there 
 blended 
 The smiles of contentment, and friendship and 
 love ; 
 But the courtier soon came to the king in his cot ; 
 " Oh no ! " said the king, "I'll no more change 
 
 my lot ! 
 Think not, that once freed from the diadem's 
 
 sting, 
 I'll give up my cottage and stoop to be king ! ' ' 
 John Howard Payne. 
 
 UNCLE JO. 
 
 I HAVE in memory a little story. 
 That few indeed would rhyme about but me ; 
 'Tis not of love, nor fame, nor yet of glory, 
 Although a little colored with the three — 
 In very truth, I think as much, perchance. 
 As most tales disembodied from romance. 
 
 Jo lived about the village, and was neighbor 
 To every one who had hard work to do ; 
 
 If he possessed a genius, 'twas for labor 
 
 Most people thought, but there were one or two 
 
 Who sometimes said, when he arose to go, 
 
 " Come in again and see us, Uncle Jo !" 
 
 The ' ' Uncle ' ' was a courtesy they gave — 
 And felt they could afford to give to him, 
 
 Just as the master makes of some good slave 
 An "Aunt Jemima," or an " Uncle Jim;" 
 
 And of this dubious kindness Jo was glad — 
 
 Poor fellow, it was all he ever had ! 
 
 A mile or so away he had a brother, — 
 
 A rich, proud man, that people didn't hire ; 
 
 But Jo had neither sister, wife nor mother. 
 And baked his corn- cake, at his cabin fire, 
 
 After the day's work, hard for you and me. 
 
 But he was never tired — how could he be ? 
 
 The\- called him dull, biit he had eyes of quickness 
 For everybody that he could befriend ; 
 
 Said one and all, " How kind he is in sickness," 
 But there, of course, his goodness had an end. 
 
 Another praise there was, might have been given, 
 
 For, one or more days out of every seven. 
 
 With his old pickaxe swung across his shoulder. 
 And downcast eyes, and slow and sober tread. 
 
 He sought the place of graves, and each beholder 
 Wondered and asked each other, who was dead ? 
 
 But when he digged all day, nobody thought 
 
 That he had done a whit more than he ought. 
 
 At length, one winter when the sunbeams slanted 
 Faintly and cold across the churchyard snow, 
 
 The bell tolled out — alas ! a grave was wanted, 
 And all looked anxiously for Uncle Jo ; 
 
 His spade stood there, against his own roof-tree, 
 
 There was his pickaxe, too, but wdiere was he ? 
 
 They called and called again, but no replying ; 
 
 Smooth at the window, and about the door 
 The snow in cold and heavy drifts was lying — 
 
 He didn't need the daylight any more. 
 One shook him roughly, and another said, 
 " As true as preaching. Uncle Joe is dead !" 
 
 And when they wrapped him in the linen, fairer 
 And finer, too, than he had w^orn till then. 
 
 They found a picture — haply of the sharer 
 
 Of sunny hope, some time; or where or when, 
 
 They did not care to know, but closed his eyes,^ 
 
 And placed it in the coffin where he lies ! 
 
216 
 
 NARRATIVES IN VERSE. 
 
 None wrote his epitaph, nor saw the beauty 
 Of the pure love that reached into the grave, 
 
 Nor how, in unobtrusive ways of duty 
 
 He kept, despite the dark ; but men less brave 
 
 Have left great names, while not a willow bends 
 
 Above his dust — poor Jo, he had no friends ! 
 
 O 
 
 THE NEWSBOY'S DEBT. 
 
 NLY last year, at Christmas time. 
 While pacing down a city street, 
 I saw a tiny, ill-clad boy — 
 
 One of the thousands that we meet- 
 
 As ragged as a boy could be, 
 
 With half a cap, with one good shoe ; 
 Just patches to keep out the wind — 
 
 I know the wind blew keenly, too ; 
 
 A newsboy, with a newsboy's lungs, 
 A square Scotch face and honest brow, 
 
 And eyes that liked to smile so well 
 They had not yet forgotten how ; 
 
 A newsboy, hawking his last sheets 
 With loud persistence. Now and then 
 
 Stopping to beat his stiffened hands. 
 And trudging bravely on agaii*. 
 
 Dodging about among the crowd, 
 
 Shouting his '' Extras " o'er and o*er. 
 
 Pausing by whiles to cheat the wind 
 Within some alley, by some door. 
 
 At last he stopped — six papers left, 
 Tucked hopelessly beneath his 
 arm — 
 To eye a fruiter's outspread store, 
 And products from some country 
 farm. 
 
 He stood and gazed with wistful 
 
 face, 
 
 All a child's longing in his eyes ; 
 
 Then started, as I touched his arm, 
 
 And turned in quick, mechanic 
 
 wise. 
 
 cap with purple 
 sir? Sun, Stai, 
 
 Raised his torn 
 hands. 
 Said, '' Paper, 
 Times!" 
 And brushed away a freezing tear 
 That marked his cheek with frosty 
 rimes. 
 
 How many have you ? Nevermind — 
 Don't stop to count — I'll take 
 them all ; 
 And when you pass my office here 
 With stock on hand, give me a 
 call." 
 
 He thanked me with a broad Scotch 
 
 smile, 
 
 A look half wondering and half 
 
 glad. 
 
 I fumbled for the proper *' change," 
 
 And said, "You seem a little lad 
 
 "■ To rough it in the streets like this." 
 ''I'm ten years old this Christ- 
 mas time !" 
 Your name?" '' Jim Hanley." '' Here's abill— 
 I've nothing else, but this one dimcv-- 
 
 Five dollars. When you get it changed 
 Come to my office — that's the place. 
 
 Now wait a bit, there's time enough ; 
 You need not run a headlong race. 
 
 Where do you live?" '' Most anywhere. 
 
 We hired a stable-loft to-day, 
 Me and two others.'/ '' And you thought 
 
 The fruiter's window pretty, hey? 
 
 And you are cold ?" ''Aye, just a bit. 
 
 I don't mind cold." "Why, that is strange !" 
 He smiled and pulled his ragged cap, 
 
 And darted off to get the " change.'* 
 
NARRATIVES IN VERSE, 
 
 217 
 
 So, with half unconscious sigh, 
 
 I sought my office desk again. 
 An hour or more my busy wits 
 
 Found work enough with book and pen. 
 
 But when the mantel clock struck five 
 
 I started with a sudden thought, 
 For there beside my hat and cloak 
 
 Lay those six papers I had bought. 
 
 " Why, Where's the boy, and where's the * change ' 
 He should have brought an hour ago ? 
 Ah, well ! ah, well ! they're all alike ! 
 I was a fooi to tempt him so ! 
 
 ** Dishonest ! Well, I might have known ; 
 And yet his face seemed candid, too. 
 He would have earned the difference 
 If he had brought me what was due." 
 
 Just two days later, as I sat, 
 
 Half dozing in my office chair, 
 I heard a timid knock, and called, 
 
 In my brusque fashion, ''Who's there?" 
 
 An urchin entered, barely seven — 
 
 The same Scotch face, the same blue eyes — 
 
 And stood half doubting, at the door, 
 Abashed at my forbidding guise. 
 
 " Sir, if you please, my brother Jim — 
 
 The one you gave the bill, you know — 
 He couldn't bring the money, sir, 
 Because his back was hurted so. 
 
 " He didn't mean to keep the '■ change,' 
 He got runned over up the street ; 
 One wheel went right across his back. 
 And t'other fore-wheel mashed his feet. 
 
 *' They stopped the horses just in time. 
 And then they took him up for dead ; 
 And all that day and yesterday 
 He wasn't rightly in his head. 
 
 " They took nim to the hospital — 
 
 One of the newsboys knew 'twas Jim — 
 And I went too, because, you see. 
 We two are brothers, I and him. 
 
 " He had that money in his hand. 
 And never saw it any more. 
 Indeed, he didn't mean to steal ! 
 He never lost a cent before. 
 
 "■ He was afraid that you might think 
 He meant to keep it any way. 
 This morning, when they brought him to. 
 He cried because he couldn't pay. 
 
 " He made me fetch his jacket here; 
 It's torn and dirtied pretty bad. 
 It's only fit to sell for rags, 
 
 But then you know it's all he had ! 
 
 " When he gets well — it wont be long— 
 
 If you will call the money lent, 
 He says he'll work his fingers off 
 But what he'll pay you every cent." 
 
 And then he cast a rueful glance 
 At the soiled jacket, where it lay, 
 " No, no, my boy ! Take back the coat, 
 Your brother's badly hurt, you say? 
 
 '* Where did they take him? Just run ou> 
 And hail a cab, then wait for me. 
 Why, I would give a thousand coats. 
 And pounds, for such a boy as he !" 
 
 A half hour after this we stood 
 
 Together in the crowded wards. 
 And the nurse checked the hasty stepi: 
 
 That fell too loudly on the boards. 
 
 I thought him smiling in his sleep. 
 
 And scarce believed her when she said, 
 
 Smoothing away the tangled hair 
 
 From brow and cheek, '' The boy is dead !" 
 
 Dead ? Dead so soon ? How fair he looked, 
 One streak of sunshine on his hair. 
 
 Poor lad ! Well, it is warm in heaven ; 
 No need of "change" and jackets there. 
 
 And something rising in my throat 
 
 Made it so hard for me to speak, 
 I turned away, and left a tear 
 
 Lying upon his sunburned cheek. 
 
 Helen Hunt Jackson. 
 
 5C0TT AND THE VETERAN. 
 
 AN old and crippled veteran to the War De- 
 partment came. 
 He sought the Chief who led him on many 
 a field of fame — 
 The Chief who shouted '* Forward!" where'er 
 
 his banner rose. 
 And bore its stars in triumph behind the flying 
 foes. 
 
 '^ Have you forgotten, General," the battered 
 
 soldier cried, 
 *' The days of eighteen hundred twelve, when I 
 was at your side ? 
 Have you forgotten Johnson, who fought at 
 
 Lundy's Lane? 
 'Tis true, I'm old and pensioned, but I want 
 to fight again." 
 
 '' Have I forgotten?" said the Chief: *'my brave 
 
 old soldier, no ! 
 And here's the hand I gave you then, and let it 
 
 tell you so ; 
 But you have done your share, my friend ; you're 
 
 crippled, old and gray. 
 And we have need of younger arms and fresher 
 
 blood to-day." 
 
218 
 
 NARRATIVES IN VERSE. 
 
 But, General/' cried the veteran, a flush upon 
 
 his brow, 
 The very men who fought with us, they say, are 
 
 traitors now : 
 They've torn the flag of Lundy's Lane, our old 
 
 red, white and blue, 
 And while a drop of blood is left, I'll show that 
 
 drop is true. 
 
 I'm not so weak but I can strike, and I've a good 
 
 old gun. 
 To get the range of traitors' hearts, and prick 
 
 them, one by one. 
 Your Minnie rifles and such arms, it ain't worth 
 
 while to try ; 
 I couldn't get the hang o' them, but I'll keep 
 
 my powder dry !" 
 
 God bless you, comrade!" said the Chief, — 
 
 " God bless your loyal heart ! 
 But younger men are in the field, and claim to 
 
 have a part ; 
 They'll plant our sacred banner firm, in each 
 
 rebellious town. 
 And woe, henceforth, to any hand that dares to 
 
 pull it down !" 
 
 But, General!" — still persisting, the weeping 
 
 veteran cried, 
 I'm young enough to follow, so long as you're 
 
 my guide ; 
 And some you know, must bite the dust, and 
 
 that, at least, can I ; 
 So give the young ones place to fight, but me a 
 
 place to die ! 
 
 If they should fire on Pickens, let the colonel in 
 
 command 
 Put me upon the rampart with the flag-staff in 
 
 my hand : 
 No odds how hot the cannon-smoke, or how the 
 
 shell may fly, 
 I'll hold the stars and stripes aloft, and hold 
 
 them till I die ! 
 
 I'm ready, General ; so you let a post to me be 
 
 given. 
 Where ^Vashington can look at me, as he looks 
 
 down from heaven. 
 And say to Putnam at his side, or may be. 
 
 General Wayne — 
 There stands old Billy Johnson, who fought at 
 
 Lundy's Lane !' 
 
 And when the fight is raging hot, before the 
 traitors fly. 
 
 When shell and ball are screeching, and burst- 
 ing in the sky, 
 
 If any shot should pierce through me, and lay 
 me on my face, 
 
 My soul would go to Washington's, and not to 
 Arnold's place !" 
 
 Bayard Taylor. 
 
 BEN FISHER, 
 
 BEN FISHER had finished his hard day's work. 
 And he sat at his cottage door ; 
 His good wife, Kate, sat by his side. 
 And the moonlight danced on the floor — 
 The moonlight danced on the cottage floor, 
 
 Her beams were clear and bright 
 As when he and Kate, twelve years before, 
 Talked love in her mellow light. 
 
 Ben Fisher had never a pipe of clay, 
 
 And never a dram drank he ; 
 So he loved at home with his wife to stay. 
 
 And they chatted right merrily ; 
 Right merrily chatted they on, the while 
 
 Her babe slept on her breast, 
 While a chubby rogue, with rosy smile. 
 
 On his father's knee found rest. 
 
 Ben told her how fast the potatoes grew, 
 
 And the corn in the lower field ; 
 And the wheat on the hill was grown to seed. 
 
 And promised a glorious yield ; — 
 A glorious yield in the harvest time, 
 
 And his orchard was doing fair ; 
 His sheep and his stock were in their prime. 
 
 His farm all in good repair. 
 
 Kate said that her garden looked beautiful, 
 
 Her fowls and her calves were fat ; 
 That the butter that Tommy that morning churned, 
 
 Would buy him a Sunday hat ; 
 That Jenny, for Pa, a new shirt had made, 
 
 And 'twas done too by the rule ; 
 That Neddy the garden could nicely spade ; 
 
 And Ann was ahead at school. 
 
 Ben slowly raised his toil-worn hand 
 Through his locks of grayish brown ; 
 
 '' I tell you, Kate, what I think," said he, 
 '' We're the happiest folks in town." 
 
 " I know," said Kate, '' that we all work hard- 
 Work and health go together, I've found ; 
 
 For there's Mrs. Bell does not work at all. 
 And she's sick the whole year round. 
 
 " They're worth their thousands, so people say, 
 
 But I ne'er saw them happy yet; 
 'Twould not be me that would take their gold. 
 
 And live in a constant fret ; 
 My humble home has a light within, 
 
 Mrs. Bell's gold could not buy — 
 Six healthy children, a merry heart. 
 
 And a husband's love-lit eye." 
 
 I fancied a tear was in Ben's eye — 
 
 The moon shone brighter and clearer, 
 I could not tell why the man should cry. 
 
 But he hitched up to Kate still nearer ; 
 He leaned his head on her shoulder there. 
 
 And he took her hand in his — 
 I guess — (though I looked at the moon just then), 
 
 That he left on her lips a kiss. 
 
 Francis Dana Gage. 
 
NARRATIVES IN VER^E, 
 
 219 
 
 THE SEA=KING'S GRAVE. 
 
 HIGH over the wild sea-border, on the fur- 
 thest downs to the West, 
 Is the green grave-mound of the Norse- 
 man, with the yew-tree grove on its crest. 
 And I heard in the winds his story, as they leapt 
 
 up salt from the wave. 
 And tore at the creaking branches that grow from 
 
 the sea-king's grave ; 
 Some son of the old-world Vikings, the wild sea- 
 wandering lords, 
 Who sailed in a snake-pro wed 
 
 galley, with a terror 
 
 of twenty swords. 
 From the fiords of the sunless 
 
 winter, they came on 
 
 an icy blast. 
 Till over the whole world's 
 
 seaboard the shadow 
 
 of Odin passed, 
 Till they sped to the inland 
 
 waters and under the 
 
 Southland skies, 
 And stared on the puny 
 
 princes with their 
 
 blue victorious eyes. 
 And they said he was old and 
 
 royal, and a warrior 
 
 all his days. 
 But the king who had slain 
 
 his brother lived yet in the island ways ; 
 And he came from a hundred battles, and died in 
 
 his last wild quest. 
 For he said, ''I will have my vengeance, and then 
 
 I will take my rest. ' ' 
 
 He had passed on his homeward journey, and the 
 
 king of the isles was dead; 
 He had drunken the draft of triumph, and his cup 
 
 was the isle king's head ; 
 And he spoke of the song and feasting, and the 
 
 gladness of things to be, 
 And three days over the waters they rowed on a 
 
 w^aveless sea; 
 Till a small cloud rose to the shoreward, and a 
 
 gust broke out of the cloud. 
 And the spray beat over the rowers, and the mur- 
 mur of winds was loud 
 With the voice of the far-off thunders, till the 
 
 shuddering air grew warm, 
 And the day was as dark as at even, and the wild 
 
 god rede on the storm. 
 But the old man laughed in the thunder as he set 
 
 his casque on his brow, 
 And he waved his sword in the lightning and 
 
 clung to the painted prow. 
 And a shaft from the storm-god's quiver flashed 
 
 out from the flame-flushed skies. 
 Rang down on his war-worn harness and gleamed 
 
 in his fiery eyes, 
 
 And his mail and his crested helmet, and his hair 
 
 and his beard burned red ; 
 And they said, ''It is Odin calls;" and he fell, 
 
 and they found him dead. 
 
 So here, in his war guise armored, they laid him 
 
 down to his rest. 
 In his casque with the reindeer antlers, and the 
 
 long grey beard on his breast ; 
 His bier was the spoil of the islands, with a sail for 
 
 a shroud beneath. 
 
 And an oar of his blood-red galley, and his 'j-.ttle- 
 
 brand in the sheath; 
 And they buried his bow beside him, and planted 
 
 the grove of yew, 
 For the grave of a mighty archer, one tree for 
 
 each of his crew; 
 Where the flowerless cliffs are sheerest, where the 
 
 sea-birds circle and swarm. 
 And the rocks are at war with the waters, with 
 
 their jagged grey teeth in the storm ; 
 Axud the huge Atlantic billows sweep in, and the 
 
 mists enclose 
 The hill with the grass-grown mound where the 
 
 Norseman's yew-tree grows. 
 
 Rennell RoDr»- 
 
 THE HEATHEN CHINEE. 
 
 TABLE MOUNTAIN, 1870. 
 
 WHICH I wish to remark— 
 And my language is plain- 
 That for ways that are dark, 
 And for tricks that are vain. 
 The heathen Chinee is peculiar, 
 Which the same I would rise to explain. 
 
 Ah Sin was his name ; 
 
 And I shall not deny 
 In regard to the same 
 
 What that name might imply, 
 
220 
 
 NARRATIVES IN VERSE. 
 
 But his smile it was pensive and child-like, 
 As I frequent remarked to Bill Nye. 
 
 It was August the third, 
 
 And quite soft was the skies; 
 Which it might be inferred 
 That Ah Sin was likewise; 
 Yet he played it that day upon William 
 And me in a way I despise. 
 
 Which we had a small game, 
 And Ah Sin took a hand: 
 It was euchre. The same 
 He did not understand; 
 But he smiled as he sat by the table, 
 With a smile that was child-like and bland. 
 
 Yet the cards they were stocked 
 
 In a way that I grieve, 
 And my feelings were shocked 
 At the state of Nye's sleeve, 
 Which was stuffed full of aces and bowers, 
 And the same with intent to deceive. 
 
 But the hands that were played 
 
 By that heathen Chinee, 
 And the points that he made 
 Were quite frightful to see — 
 Till at last he put down a right bower, 
 Which the same Nye had dealt unto me. 
 
 Then I looked up at Nye, 
 And he gazed upon me; 
 And he rose with a sigh. 
 And said, ''Can this be? 
 We are ruined by Chinese cheap labor," 
 And he went for that heathen Chinee. 
 
 In the scene that ensued 
 I did not take a hand, 
 But the floor it was strewed 
 Like the leaves on tlie strand 
 With the cards that Ah Sin had been hiding, 
 In the game he ''did not understand." 
 
 In his sleeves, which were long, 
 
 He had twenty-four packs — 
 Which was coming it strong, 
 Yet I state but the facts; 
 And we found on his nails, which were taper, 
 What is frequent in tapers — that's wax. 
 
 Which is why I remark, 
 
 And my language is plain, 
 That for ways that are dark. 
 And for tricks that are vain, 
 The heathen Chinee is peculiar, 
 Which the same I am free to maintain. 
 
 Bret Harte. 
 
 LOVED ONE WAS NOT THERE. 
 
 WE gathered round the festive board, 
 The crackling fagot blazed ; 
 But few would taste the wine that poured, 
 Or join the song we raised : 
 For there was now a glass unfilled — 
 
 A favored place to spare ; 
 All eyes were dull, all hearts were chilled — 
 The loved one was not there. 
 
 No happy laugh was heard to ring, 
 
 No form would lead the dance ; 
 A smothered sorrow seemed to fling 
 
 A gloom in every glance. 
 The grave had closed upon a brow, 
 
 The honest, bright, and fair; 
 We missed our mate, we mourned the blow — 
 
 The loved one was not there. 
 
 Eliza Cook. 
 
 THE GUARD'S STORY. 
 
 WE were on picket, sir, he and I, 
 Under the blue of a midnight sky 
 In the wilderness, where the night 
 bird's song 
 Gives back an echo all night long. 
 Where the silver stars as they come and pass 
 Leave stars of dew on the tangled grass. 
 And the rivers sing in the silent hours 
 Their sweetest songs to the list'ning flowers. 
 
 He'd a slender form and a girlish face, 
 That seemed in the army out of place, 
 Though he smiled as I told him so that day,— 
 Aye, smiled and flushed in a girlish way 
 That 'minded me of a face I knew. 
 In a distant village, 'neath the blue ; 
 When our army marched, at the meadow bars, 
 She met and kissed me 'neath the stars. 
 
 Before us the river silent ran, 
 
 And we'd been placed to guard the ford; 
 A dangerous place, and we'd jump and start 
 
 Whenever a leaf by the wind was stirred. 
 Behind us the array lay encamped, 
 
 Their camp-fires burned into tlie nighty 
 Like bonfires built upon the hills, 
 
 And set by demon hands alight. 
 
 Somehow, whenever I looked that way, 
 
 I seemed to see her face again. 
 Kind o' Jiazy like, as you've seen a star 
 
 A peepin' out through a misty rain ! 
 And once, believe, as I thought of her, 
 
 I thought aloud, and I called him Bess, 
 When he started quick, and smiling, said, 
 
 "You dream of some one at home, I guess.'* 
 
 'Twas just in the flush of the morning light. 
 We stopped for a chat at tlie end of our beat, 
 
NARRATIVES IN VERSE. 
 
 221 
 
 When a rifle flashed at the river's bank, 
 And bathed in blood he sank at my feet ; 
 
 All of a sudden I knew her then, 
 
 And kneeling, I kissed the girlish face ; 
 
 And raised her head from the tangled grass, 
 To find on my breast its resting place. 
 
 When the corporal came to change the guard, 
 
 At six in the morning, he found me there, 
 With Bessie's dead form clasped in my arms. 
 
 And hid in my heart her dying prayer. 
 They buried her under the moaning pines. 
 
 And never a man in the armf knew 
 That Willie Searles and my girl were one. 
 
 You're the first I've told — the story's new. 
 
 THE OVERLAND TRAIN. 
 
 THE Plains ! The shouting drivers at the wheel ; 
 The crash of leather whips ; the crush and 
 roll 
 Of wheels ; the groan of yokes and grinding steel 
 And iron chain, and lo ! at last the whole 
 Vast line, that reached as if to touch the goal, 
 Began to stretch and stream away and wind 
 Toward the west, as if with one control : 
 Then hope loomed fair, and home lay far behind; 
 Before, the boundless plain, and fiercest of their 
 kind. 
 
 Some hills at last began to lift and break ; 
 Some streams began to fail of wood and tide. 
 The sombre plain began betime to take 
 A hue of weary brown, and wild and wide 
 It stretched its naked breast on every side. 
 A babe was heard at last to cry for bread 
 Amid the deserts ; cattle lowed and died. 
 And dying men went by with broken tread, 
 And left a long black serpent line of wreck and 
 dead. 
 
 They rose by night ; they struggled on and on 
 As thin and still as ghosts ; then here and there 
 Beside the dusty way before the dawn 
 Men silent laid them down in their despair, 
 And died. But woman! Woman, frail as fair! 
 May man have strength to give to you your due ; 
 You faltered not, nor murmured anywhere. 
 You held your babes, held to your course, and 
 
 you 
 Bore on through burning hell your double burthens 
 
 through. 
 
 The dust arose, a long dim line like smoke 
 From out a riven earth. The wheels went by, 
 The thousand feet in harness and in yoke. 
 They tore the ways of ashen alkali, 
 And desert winds blew sudden, swift and dry. 
 The dust ! it sat upon and filled the train i 
 It seemed to fret and fill the very sky. 
 Lo ! dust upon the beasts, the tent, the plain. 
 And dust, alas ! on breasts that rose not up again. 
 
 My brave and unremembered heroes, rest ; 
 You fell in silence, silent lie and sleep. 
 Sleep on unsung, for this, 1 say, were best; 
 The world to-day has hardly time to weep ; 
 The world to-day will hardly care to keep 
 In heart her plain and unpretending brave ; 
 The desert winds, they whistle by and sweep 
 About you ; browned and russet grasses wave 
 Along a thousand leagues that lie one common 
 grave. 
 
 Joaquin Miller. 
 
 THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. 
 
 ONE more unfortunate. 
 Weary of breath. 
 Rashly importunate. 
 Gone to her death I 
 
 Take her up tenderly. 
 Lift her with care ; 
 Fashioned so slenderly- 
 Young, and so fair I 
 
 Look at her garments 
 Clinging like cerements, 
 Whilst the wave constantly 
 Drips from her clothing; 
 Take her up instantly, 
 Loving, not loathing ! 
 
 Touch her not scornfully! 
 Think of her mournfully. 
 Gently and humanly — 
 Not of the stains of her; 
 All that remains of her 
 Now is pure womanly. 
 
 Make no deep scrutiny 
 Into her mutiny, 
 Rash and undutiful; 
 Past all dishonor. 
 Death has left on her 
 Only the beautiful. 
 
 Still, for all slips of hers — 
 One of Eve's family — 
 Wipe those poor lips of hers, 
 Oozing so clammily. 
 
 Loop up her tresses 
 Escaped from the comb — 
 Her fair auburn tresses — 
 Whilst wonderment guesses 
 AVhere was her home? 
 
 Who was her father? 
 Who was her mother ? 
 Had she a sister ? 
 Had she a brother? 
 Or was there a dearer one 
 Still, and a nearer one 
 Yet, than all other ? 
 
•^99 
 
 NARRATIVES IN VERSE. 
 
 Alas ! for the rarity 
 Of Christian charity 
 Under the sun ! 
 O ! it was pitiful ! 
 Near a whole city full, 
 Home she had none. 
 
 Sisterly, brotherly, 
 Fatherly, motherly 
 Feelings had changed — 
 Love, by harsh evidence. 
 Thrown from its eminence; 
 Even God's providence 
 Seeming estranged. 
 
 Where the lamps quiver 
 
 So far in the river, 
 
 With many a light 
 
 From window and casement. 
 
 From garret to basement, 
 
 She stood, with amazement, 
 
 Houseless by night. 
 
 The bleak wind of March 
 Made her tremble and shiver 
 But not the dark arch, 
 Or the black flowing river; 
 INIad from life's history. 
 Glad to death's mystery, 
 Swift to be hurled 
 Anywhere, anywhere 
 Out of the world ! 
 
 In she plunged boldly — 
 No matter how coldly 
 The rough river ran — 
 Over the brink of it ! 
 Picture it — think of i: ! 
 Dissolute man ! 
 Lave in it, drink of it, 
 J'hen if you can ! 
 
 Take her up tenderly — 
 Lift her with care ! 
 Fashioned so slenderly — 
 Young, and so fair ! 
 
 Ere her limbs, frigidly. 
 Stiffen too rigidly, 
 Decently, kindly, 
 Smooth and compose them ; 
 And her eyes, close them, 
 Staring so blindly! 
 
 Dreadfully staring 
 Through muddy impurity, 
 As when with the daring 
 Last look of despairing, 
 Fixed on futurity. 
 
 Perishing gloomily. 
 Spurred by contumely, 
 Cold inhumanity, 
 Burning insanity 
 Into her rest ! 
 Cross her hands humbly. 
 As if praying dumbly. 
 Over her breast ! 
 
 Owning her weakness, 
 Her evil behavior. 
 And leaving, with meekness, 
 Her sins to her Saviour ! 
 
 Thomas H(30d. 
 
 ARABELLA AND SALLY ANN. 
 
 ARABELLA was a schoolgirl, 
 So was Sally Ann. 
 Hasty pudding can't be thicker 
 Than two schoolgirls can. 
 
 These were thick as schoolgirls can be, 
 
 Deathless love they swore, 
 Vowed that naught on earth should part thcni- 
 
 One forever more. 
 
 They grew up as schoolgirls will do, 
 
 Went to parties, too. 
 And as oft before has happened, 
 
 Suitors came to woo. 
 
 But as fate or luck would have it, 
 
 One misguided man 
 Favored blue-eyed Arabella 
 
 More than Sally Ann. 
 
 And, of course, it made no difference 
 
 That the laws are such 
 That he could not wed two women, 
 
 Though they wished it much. 
 
 So a coolness rose between them. 
 
 And the cause — a man. 
 Cold was Arabella — very; 
 
 Colder Sally Ann. 
 
 Now they call each other " creature; " 
 
 What is still more sad — 
 Bella, though she won the treasure. 
 
 Wishes Sally had. 
 
 Paul Carson. 
 
FAMOUS BALLADS, LEGENDS 
 
 AND 
 
 NATIONAL AIRS. 
 
 THE DAMSEL OF PERU. 
 
 HERE olive leaves were 
 
 twinkling in every wind 
 
 that blew, 
 There sat beneath the 
 
 pleasant shade a damsel 
 
 of Peru. 
 Betwixt the slender 
 
 boughs, as they opened 
 
 to the air, 
 Came glimpses of her 
 
 ivory neck and of her 
 
 glossy hair ; 
 And sweetly rang her sil- 
 ver voice, within that 
 
 shady nook, 
 As from the shrubby glen 
 is heard the sound of hidden brook. 
 
 'Tis a song of love and valor, in the noble Span- 
 ish tongue, 
 
 That once upon the sunny plains of old Castile 
 was sung ; 
 
 When, from their mountain holds, on the Moor- 
 ish rout below, 
 
 Had rushed the Christians like a flood, and swept 
 away the foe. 
 
 Awhile that melody is still, and then breaks forth 
 anew 
 
 A wilder rhyme, a livelier note, of freedom and 
 Peru. 
 
 For she has bound the sword to a youthful lover's 
 
 side, 
 A.nd sent him to the war the day she should have 
 
 been his bride, 
 And bade him bear a faithful heart to battle for 
 
 the right, 
 And held the fountains of her eyes till he was out 
 
 of sight. 
 Since the parting kiss was given, six weary months 
 
 are fled, 
 And yet the foe is in the land, and blood must 
 
 yet be shed. 
 
 A white hand parts the branches, a lovely face 
 iooks forth. 
 
 And bright dark eyes gaze steadfastly and sadly 
 
 toward the north. 
 Thou look' St in vain, sweet maiden, the sharpest 
 
 sight would fail 
 To spy a sign of human life abroad in all the 
 
 vale; 
 For the noon is coming on, and the sunbeams 
 
 fiercely beat, 
 And the silent hills and forest-tops seem reeling 
 
 in the heat. 
 
 That white hand is withdrawn, that fair sad face 
 
 is gone. 
 But the music of that silver voice is flowing 
 
 sweetly on, 
 Not as of late, in cheerful tones, but mournfully 
 
 and low — 
 A ballad of a tender maid heart-broken long 
 
 ago, 
 Of him who died in battle, the youthful and the 
 
 brave, 
 And her who died of sorrow, upon his early 
 
 grave. 
 
 But see, along that mountain's slope, a fiery horse- 
 man ride ; 
 
 Mark his torn plume, his tarnished belt, the sabre 
 at his side. 
 
 His spurs are buried rowel deep, he rides with 
 loosened rein, 
 
 There's blood upon his charger's flank and foam 
 upon the mane ; 
 
 He speeds him towards the olive-grove, along that 
 shaded hill : 
 
 God shield the helpless maiden there, if he should 
 mean her ill ! 
 
 And suddenly that song has ceased, and suddenly 
 
 I hear 
 A shriek sent up amid the shade, a shriek — but not 
 
 of fear. 
 For tender accents follow, and tenderer pauses 
 
 speak 
 The overflow of gladness, when words are all too 
 
 weak : 
 *^ I lay my good sword at thy feet, for now Peru 
 
 is free. 
 And I am come to dwell beside the olive-grove 
 
 with thee." 
 
 W. C. Bryant. 
 223 
 
224 
 
 FAMOUS BALLADS AND NATIONAL AIRS. 
 
 THE AFRICAN CHIEF. 
 
 The story of the African Chief related in this ballad is 
 well known. The chief was a warrior of majestic stature, 
 brother of the king of the Solima nation. He had been 
 taken in battle and was brought in chains for sale to the 
 Rio Pongas, where he was exhibited in the market-place, 
 his ankles still adorned with the massive rings of gold which 
 be wore when captured. The refusal of his captor to listen 
 o his offers of ransom drove him mad and he died a maniac. 
 
 CHAINED in the market-place he stood, 
 A man of giant frame, 
 Amid the gathering multitude 
 That shrunk to hear his name — 
 All stern of look and strong of limb 
 
 His dark eye on the ground : — 
 And silently they gazed oa him. 
 As on a lion bound. 
 
 Vainly, but well, that chief had fcrught, 
 
 He was a captive now, 
 Yet pride, that fortune humbles not, 
 
 Was written on his brow. 
 The scars his dark broad bosom wore, 
 
 Showed warrior true and brave ; 
 A prince among his tribe before, 
 
 He could not be a slave. 
 
 Then to his conqueror he spake — 
 
 " My brother is a king ; 
 Undo this necklace from my neck. 
 
 And take this bracelet ring, 
 A.nd send me where ray brother reigns. 
 
 And I will fill thy hands 
 VVith store of ivory from the plains, 
 
 And gold-dust from the sands." 
 
 " Not for thy ivory nor thy gold 
 
 Will I unbind thy chain ; 
 That bloody hand shall never hold 
 
 The battle-spear again. 
 A price thy nation never gave 
 
 Shall yet be paid for thee ; 
 For thou shalt be the Christian's slave. 
 
 In lands beyond the sea. ' ' 
 
 Then wept the warrior chief, and bade 
 
 To shred his locks away ; 
 And one by one, each heavy braid 
 
 Before the victor lay. 
 Thick were the platted locks, and long, 
 
 And closely hidden there 
 Shone many a wedge of gold among 
 
 The dark and crisped hair. 
 
 *' Look, feast thy greedy eye with gold 
 
 Long kept for sorest need : 
 Take it — thou askest sums untold, 
 
 And say that I am freed. 
 Take it — my wife, the long, long day, 
 
 Weeps by the cocoa-tree. 
 And my young children leave their play. 
 
 And ask in vain for me." 
 
 ** I take thy gold — but I have made 
 
 Thy fetters fast and strong. 
 And ween that by the cocoa shade 
 
 Thy wife will wait thee long." 
 Strong was the agony that shook 
 
 The captive's frame to hear, 
 And the proud meaning of his look 
 
 Was changed to mortal fear. 
 His heart was broken — crazed his brain . 
 
 At once his eye grew wild ; 
 He struggled fiercely with his chain. 
 
 Whispered, and wept, and smiled; 
 Yet wore not long those fatal bands. 
 
 And once, at shut of day. 
 They drew him forth upon the sands. 
 
 The foul hyena's prey. W. C. Bftant. 
 
 THE PRIVATE OF THE BUFFS. 
 
 LAST night, among his fellow roughs, 
 He jested, quaffed, and swore ; 
 A drunken private of the Buffs, 
 Who never looked before. 
 To-day, beneath the foeman's frown. 
 
 He stands in Elgin's place. 
 Ambassador from Britain's crown. 
 
 And type of all her race. 
 Poor, reckless, rude, low-born, untaught^ 
 
 Bewildered, and alone, 
 A heart, with English instinct fraught. 
 
 He yet can call his own. 
 Ay, tear his body limb from limb, 
 
 Bring cord or axe or flame. 
 He only knows that not through him 
 
 Shall England come to shame. 
 Far Kentish hop-fields round him seemed. 
 
 Like dreams, to come and go; 
 Bright leagues of cherry-blossom gleamed. 
 
 One sheet of living snow ; 
 The smoke above his father's door 
 
 In gray soft eddyings hung ; 
 Must he then watch it rise no more, 
 
 Doomed by himself so young? 
 Yes, honor calls ! — with strength like steel 
 
 He put the vision by; 
 Let dusky Indians whine and kneel, 
 
 An English lad must die. 
 And thus, with eyes that would not shrink. 
 
 With knee to man unbent, 
 Unfaltering on its dreadful brink, 
 
 To his red grave he went. 
 Vain mightiest fleets of iron framed, 
 
 Vain those all-shattering guns. 
 Unless proud England keep untamed 
 
 The strong heart of her sons; 
 So let his name through Europe ring — 
 
 A man of mean estate, 
 Who died, as firm as Sparta's king. 
 
 Because his soul was great. 
 
 Sir Francis H. Doyle. 
 
 I 
 
FAMOUS BALLADS AND NATIONAL AIRS. 
 
 22i 
 
 A MAID OF 
 
 WITHIN a sheltered mossy glade, 
 Hid in a mighty forest's shade, 
 There first it was I chanced to see 
 My little maid of Normandy. 
 
 /was a painter, poor, obscure; 
 She was a peasant, fair and pure; 
 And oh ! she was so dear to me — 
 My little maid of Normandy. 
 
 NORMANDY. 
 
 And I was all the world to her. 
 Scarce ever from my side she'd stir, 
 But watched me paint with childish glee- 
 My little maid of Normandy. 
 
 Alas ! alas ! there came a day 
 When all the sunshine died away ! 
 They buried her beside the sea — 
 My little maid of Normandy. 
 
 And time went on, and hour by hour. 
 And day by day love gained in power, 
 Till she was all the world to me — 
 My little maid of Normandy. 
 
 BORDER 
 
 MARCH, m.arch, Ettrick and Teviotdale ! 
 Why the de'il dinna ye march forward in 
 order? 
 March^ march, Eskdale and Liddesdale ! 
 All the Blue Bonnets are over the Border ! 
 
 15 
 
 And now I roam the will world o'er, 
 But memory haunts me evermore ! 
 One love alone for me can be — 
 My little maid of Normandy. 
 
 George Weather: 
 
 BAKLAD. 
 
 Many a banner spread 
 
 Flutters above your head, 
 Many a crest that is famous in story i-- 
 
 Mount and make ready, then, 
 
 Sons of the mountain glen, 
 Fight for the queeii and our old Scottish glory 8 
 
2-2(; 
 
 FAMOUS BALLADS AND NATIOJVAL AIRS. 
 
 Come from the hills where your hirsels are grazing ; 
 
 Come from the glen of the buck and the roe; 
 Come to the crag where the beacon is blazing ; 
 Come with the buckler, the lance and the bow. 
 Trumpets are sounding ; 
 War-steeds are bounding; 
 
 Stand to your arms, and march in good order, 
 
 England shall many a day 
 
 Tell of the bloody fray, 
 When the Blue Bonnets came over the Border. 
 
 Sir Walter Scott, 
 
 S 
 
 SIR HUMPHREY 
 
 OUTHWARD with fleet of ice 
 Sailed the corsair Death ; 
 Wild and fast blew the blast, 
 And the east wind was his breath. 
 
 GILBERT. 
 
 Eastward from CampoDciio 
 Sir Humphrey Gilbert sailed; 
 
 Three days or more seaward he bore, 
 Then, alas ! the land-wind failed. 
 
 His lordly ships of ice 
 
 Glistened in the sun ; 
 On each side, like pennons wide, 
 
 Flashing crystal streamlets run. 
 
 His sails of white sea-mist 
 Dripped with silver rain ; 
 
 But where he passed there were cast 
 Leaden shadows o'er the main. 
 
 Alas ! the land-wind failed. 
 And ice-cold grew the night; 
 
 And never more, on sea or shore, 
 Should Sir Humphrey see the light. 
 
 He sat upon the deck. 
 
 The Book was in his hand ; 
 
 Do not fear ! Heaven is as near," 
 He said, '* by water as by land!" 
 
FAMOUS BALLADS AND NATIONAL AIRS. 
 
 227 
 
 In the first watch of the night, 
 
 Without a signal's sound, 
 Out of the sea, mysteriously. 
 
 The fleet of Death rose all around. 
 
 The moon and the evening star 
 
 Were hanging in the shrouds ; 
 Every mast, as it passed. 
 
 Seemed to rake the passing clouds. 
 
 They grappled with their prize. 
 
 At midnight black and cold ! 
 As of a rock was the shock ; 
 
 Heavily the ground-swell rolled. 
 
 Southward through day and dark. 
 
 They drift in close embrace. 
 With mist and rain, to the Spanish Main ; 
 
 Yet there seems no change of place. 
 
 Southward, forever southward, 
 They drift through dark and day; 
 
 And like a dream, in the Gulf-Stream 
 Sinking, vanish all away. 
 
 H. W. Longfellow. 
 
 THE PILGRIM FATHERS. 
 
 THE Pilgrim Fathers, where are they? 
 The waves that brought them o'er 
 Still roll in the bay, and throw their spray, 
 As they break along the shore — 
 Still roll in the bay as they rolled that day 
 
 When the Mayflower moored below. 
 When the sea around was black with storms, 
 And white the shore with snow. 
 
 The mists that wrapped the pilgrim's sleep 
 
 Still brood upon the tide ; 
 And his rocks yet keep their watch by the deep. 
 
 To stay its waves of pride; 
 But the snow-white sail that he gave to the gale 
 
 When the heavens looked dark, is gone ; 
 As an angel's wing through an opening cloud 
 
 Is seen, and then withdrawn. 
 
 The pilgrim exile — sainted name ! 
 
 The hill, whose icy brow 
 Rejoiced, when he came, in the morning's flame, 
 
 In the morning's flame burns now. 
 And the moon's cold light, as it lay that night 
 
 On the hillside and the sea, 
 Still lies where he laid his houseless head; 
 
 But the pilgrim, where is he? 
 
 The Pilgrim Fathers are at rest ; 
 
 When summer is throned on high. 
 And the world's warm breast is in verdure dressed, 
 
 Go, stand on the iiill where they lie : 
 The earliest ray of the golden day 
 
 On the hallowed spot is cast ; 
 And the evening sun, as he leaves the world, 
 
 Looks kindly on that spot last. 
 
 The pilgrim spirit has not fled : 
 
 It walks in noon's broad light; 
 And it watches the bed of the glorious dead, 
 
 With the holy stars by night : 
 It watches the bed of the brave who have bled, 
 
 And shall guard this ice-bound shore, 
 Till the waves of the bay where the Mayflower lay 
 
 Shall foam ana freeze no more, 
 
 John Pierpont. 
 
 THE CRAZED MAIDEN. 
 
 LET me not have this gloomy view 
 About my room, about my bed ; 
 But morning roses, wet with dew. 
 To cool my burning brow instead; 
 As flowers that once in Eden grew. 
 
 Let them their fragrant spirits shed. 
 And every day their sweets renew. 
 Till I, a fading flower, am dead. 
 
 let the herbs I loved to rear 
 
 Give to my sense their perfumed breath ! 
 Let them be placed about my bier, 
 
 And grace the gloomy house of death. 
 I'll have my grave beneath a hill. 
 
 Where only Lucy's self shall know. 
 Where runs the pure pellucid rill 
 
 Upon its gravelly bed below : 
 There violets on the borders blow. 
 
 And insects their soft light display, 
 Till, as the morning sumbeams glow. 
 
 The cold phosphoric fires decay. 
 
 That is the grave to Lucy shown ; 
 
 The soil a pure and silver sand ; 
 The green cold moss above it grown, 
 
 Unplucked of all but maiden hand. 
 In virgin earth, till then unturned, 
 
 There let my maiden form be laid ; 
 Nor let my mouldering clay be spurned, 
 
 Nor for new guest that bed be made. 
 
 There will the lark, the lamb, in sport, 
 In air, on earth, securely play : 
 
 And Lucy to my grave resort, 
 As innocent, but not so gay. 
 
 1 will not have the churchyard ground 
 
 With bones all black and ugly grown, 
 To press my shivering body round. 
 Or on my wasted limbs be thrown. 
 
 With ribs and skulls I will not sleep, 
 
 In clammy beds of cold blue clay. 
 Through which the clammy earth-worms creep, 
 
 And on the shrouded bosom prey. 
 I will not have the bell proclaim 
 
 When those sad marriage rites begin. 
 And boys, without regard or shame, 
 
 Press the vile mouldering masses in. 
 
 George Crabbe, 
 
'2'ZS 
 
 FAMOUS BALLADS AND NATIONAL AIRS, 
 
 THE MURDERED TRAVELER. 
 
 Some years since, in the month of May, the remains of a 
 human body, partly devoured by wild animals, were found in 
 a woody ravine, near a solitary road passing between the 
 mountains west of the village of Stockbridge, Mass. It was 
 supposed that the person came 
 to his death by violence, but 
 no traces could be discovered 
 of his murderers. It was only 
 recollected that one evening, 
 in the course of the previous 
 winter, a traveler had stopped 
 
 .•^ 
 
 And many a vernal blossom sprung, 
 And nodded careless by. 
 
 The red-bird warbled, as he wrought 
 His hanging nest o'erhead, 
 
 And fearless, near the fatal spot, 
 Her young the partridge led. 
 
 But there was weeping far away, 
 And gentle eyes, for him, 
 
 With watching many an anxious day, 
 Were sorrowful and dim. 
 
 at an inn in the village ot West 
 Stockbridge ; that he had inquired 
 the way to Stockbridge ; and that, in 
 paying the innkeeper for something 
 he had ordered, it appeared that he 
 had a considerable sum of money in 
 his possession. Two ill-looking men 
 were present, and went out about the 
 same time that the traveler proceeded 
 on his journey. During the winter, 
 also, two men of shabby appearance, but plen- 
 tifully supplied with money, had lingered for 
 awhile about the village of Stockbridge. 
 Several years afterward, a criminal, about to 
 be executed for a capital offence in Canada, confessed that he 
 had been concerned in murdering a traveler in Stockbridge 
 for the sake of his money. Nothing was ever discovered 
 respecting the name or residence of the person murdered. 
 
 HEN spring, to woods and wastes around, 
 
 Brought bloom and joy again, 
 The murdered traveler's bones were found. 
 Far down a narrow glen. 
 
 The fragrant birch, above him, hung 
 Her tassels in the sky ; 
 
 W 
 
 They little knew, who loved him so. 
 
 The fearful death he met, 
 When shouting o'er the desert snow, 
 
 Unarmed, and hard baset ; — 
 
 Nor how, when round the frosty pole 
 The northern dawn was red. 
 
 The mountain wolf and wild-cat stole 
 To banquet on the dead. 
 
 J 
 
FAMOUS BALLADS AND NATLONAL ALRS, 
 
 229 
 
 S 
 
 Nor how, when strangers found his bones, 
 
 They dressed the hasty bier. 
 And marked his grave with nameless stones, 
 
 Unmoistened by a tear. 
 
 But long they looked, and feared, and wept, 
 
 Within his distant home ; 
 And dreamed, and started as they slept, 
 
 For joy that he was come. 
 
 Long, long they looked — but never spied 
 
 His welcome step again, 
 Nor knew the fearlul death he died 
 Far down that narrow glen. 
 
 W. C. Bryant. 
 LEONIDAS. 
 
 HOUT for the mighty men 
 
 Who died along this shore. 
 Who died within the mountain's glen 1 
 For never nobler chieftain's head 
 Was laid on valor's crimson bed. 
 
 Nor ever prouder gore 
 Sprang forth, than theirs who won the day 
 Upon thy strand, Thermopylae ! 
 
 Shout for the mighty men 
 
 Who on the Persian tents. 
 Like lions from their midnight den 
 Bounding on the slumbering deer. 
 Rushed — a storm of sword and spear ; 
 
 Like the roused elements, 
 Let loose from an immortal hand 
 To chasten or to crush a land ! 
 
 But there are none to hear — 
 
 Greece is a hopeless slave. 
 Leonidas ! no hand is near 
 To lift thy fiery falchion now ; 
 No warrior makes the warrior's vow 
 
 Upon thy sea-washed grave. 
 The voice that should be raised by men 
 Must now be given by wave and glen. 
 
 And it is given ! The surge, 
 
 The tree, the rock, the sand 
 On freedom's kneeling spirit urge, 
 In sounds that speak but to the free, 
 The memory of thine and thee ! 
 
 The vision of thy band 
 Still gleams within the glorious dell 
 Where their gore hallowed as it fell ! 
 
 And is thy grandeur done ? 
 
 Mother of men like these ! 
 Has not thy outcry gone 
 Where justice has an ear to hear? 
 Be holy ! God shall guide thy spear. 
 
 Till in thy crimsoned seas 
 Are plunged the chain and scimitar. 
 Greece sh^U be a new-born star ! 
 
 George Croly. 
 
 THE WAY OF WOOING. 
 
 A MAIDEN sat at her window wide, 
 Pretty enough for a Prince's bride, 
 Yet nobody came to claim her. 
 She sat like a beautiful picture there, 
 With pretty bluebells and roses fair. 
 
 And jasmine-leaves to frame her. 
 And why she sat there nobody knows ; 
 But this she sang as she plucked a rose, 
 
 The leaves around her strewing : 
 " I've time to lose and power to choose; 
 'Tis not so much the gallant who woos. 
 But the gallant's way of wooing !" 
 
 A lover came riding by awhile, 
 
 A wealthy lover was he, whose smile 
 
 Some maids would value greatly — 
 A formal lover, who bowed and bent, 
 With many a high-flown comphment. 
 
 And cold demeanor stately. 
 ** You've still," said she to her suitor stern, 
 "The 'prentice-work of your craft to learn. 
 
 If thus you come a-cooing. 
 I've time to lose and power to choose; 
 'Tis not so much the gallant who woos. 
 
 As the gallant's way of wooing!" 
 
 A second lover came ambling by — 
 A timid lad with a frightened eye 
 
 And a color mantling highly, 
 He muttered the errand on which he'd come. 
 Then only chuckled and bit his tongue. 
 
 And simpered, simpered shyly. 
 *' No," said the maiden, *' go your way; 
 You dare but think what a man would say. 
 
 Yet dare to come a-suing ! 
 I've time to lose and power to choose ; 
 'Tis not so much the gallant who woos. 
 
 As the gallant's way of wooing! " 
 
 A third rode up at a startling pace — 
 A suitor poor, with a homely face — 
 
 No doubts appeared to bind him. 
 He kissed her lips and he pressed her waist. 
 And off he rode with the maiden placed 
 
 On a pillion safe behind him. 
 And she heard the suitor bold confide 
 This golden hint to the priest who tied 
 
 The knot there's no undoing ; 
 " With pretty young maidens who can choose, 
 'Tis not so much the gallant who woos. 
 
 As the gallant's way of wooing !" 
 
 AN INDIAN STORY. 
 
 KNOW where the timid fawn abides 
 
 In the depths of the shady dell. 
 Where the leaves are broad and the thicket 
 hides. 
 With its many stems and its tangled sides^ 
 From the eye of the hunter well, 
 
 "I 
 
230 
 
 FAMOUS BALLADS AND NATIONAL ALRS, 
 
 " I know where the young May violet grows, 
 
 In its lone and lowly nook, 
 On the mossy bank, where the larch-tree throws 
 Its broad dark boughs, in solemn repose, 
 
 Far over the silent brook. 
 
 '* And that tintid fawn starts not with fear 
 
 When I steal to her secret bower ; 
 And tliat young May violet to me is dear, 
 And I visit the silent streamlet near, 
 
 To look on the lovely flower." 
 
 Thus Maquon sings as he lightly walks 
 To the hunting-ground on the hills; 
 'Tis a song of his maid of the woods and rocks. 
 With her bright black eyes and long black locks, 
 And voice like the music of rills. 
 
 He goes to the chase — but evil eyes 
 
 Are at watch in the thicker shades ; 
 For she was lovely that smiled on his sighs, 
 And he bore, from a hundred lovers, his prize, 
 The flower of the forest maids. 
 
 The boughs in the morning wind ar^ "birred, 
 
 And the woods their song renew. 
 With the early carol of many a bird. 
 And the quickened tune of the streamlet heard 
 
 Where the hazels trickle with dew ; 
 
 And Maquon has promised his dark-haircv' maid. 
 
 Ere eve shall redden the sky, 
 A good red deer from the forest shade. 
 That bounds with the herd through grove and glade, 
 
 At her cabin-door shall lie. 
 
 The hollow woods, in the setting sun, 
 
 Ring shrill with the fire-bird's lay; 
 And Maquon' s sylvan labors are done, 
 And his shafts are spent, but the spoil they won 
 
 He bears on his homeward way. 
 
 He stops near his bower — his eye perceives 
 
 Strange traces along the ground — 
 At once to the earth his burden he heaves. 
 He breaks through the veil of boughs and leaves, 
 
 And gains its door with a bound. 
 
 But the vines are torn on its walls that leant. 
 
 And all from the young shrubs there 
 By struggling hands have the leaves been rent. 
 And there hangs on the sassafras, broken and bent. 
 One tress of the well-known hair. 
 
 But where is she who, at this calm hour. 
 
 Ever watched his commg to see ? 
 She is not at the door, nor yet in the bower ; 
 He calls — but he orly hears on the flower 
 
 The hum of the laden bee. 
 
 It is not a time for idle grief. 
 
 Nor a time for tears to flow ; 
 The horror that freezes his limbs is brief — 
 He grasps his war-axe and bow, and a sheaf 
 
 Of darts made sharp for the foe. 
 
 And he looks for the print of the ruffian's feet, 
 
 Where he bore the maiden away ; 
 And he darts on the fatal path more fleet 
 Than the blast that hurries the vapor and sleet 
 
 O'er the wild November day. 
 
 'Twas early summer when Maquon's bride 
 
 Was stolen away from his door; 
 But at length the maples in crimson are dyed, 
 And the grape is black on the cabin side, — 
 
 And she smiles at his hearth once more. 
 
 But far in the pine-grove, dark and cold. 
 
 Where the yellow leaf falls not, 
 Nor the autumn shines in scarlet and gold, 
 There lies a hillock of fresh dark mould. 
 
 In the deepest gloom of the spot. 
 
 And the Indian girls, that pass that way, 
 
 Point out the ravisher's grave; 
 "■ And how soon to the bower she loved," they say. 
 " Returned the maid that was borne away 
 
 From Maquon, the fond and the brave." 
 
 W. C. Bryant. 
 
 MONTEREY. 
 
 WE were not many, we who stood 
 Before the iron sleet that day ; 
 Yet many a gallant spirit would 
 Give half his years if but he could 
 Have with us been at Monterey. 
 
 Now here, now there, the shot it hailed 
 
 In deadly drifts of fiery spray, 
 Yet not a single soldier quailed 
 When wounded comrades round him wailed 
 
 Their dying shout at Monterey. 
 
 And on, still on, our column kept 
 
 Through walls of flame its withering way ; 
 Where fell the dead, the living stept. 
 Still charging on the guns which swept 
 The slippery streets of Monterey. 
 
 The foe himself recoiled aghast. 
 
 When, striking where he strongest lay, 
 We swooped his flanking batteries past, 
 And braving full their murderous blast. 
 Stormed home the towers of Monterey. 
 
 Our banners on those turrets wave. 
 
 And there our evening bugles play ; 
 Where orange-boughs above their grave, 
 Keep green the memory of the brave 
 Who fought and fell at Monterey. 
 
 We are not many, we who pressed 
 
 Beside the brave who fell that day ; 
 But who of us has not confessed 
 He'd rather share their warrior rest 
 Than not have been at Monterey ? 
 
 Charles Fennq Hoffmajj. 
 
FAMOUS BALLADS AND NATLONAL AIRS. 
 
 231 
 
 'Twas an image of the Virgin 
 That had tasked his utmost skill 
 
 But alas ! his fair ideal 
 
 Vanished and escaped him still. 
 
 From a distant Eastern island 
 
 Had the precious wood been brought; 
 Day and night the anxious master 
 
 At his toil untiring wrought; 
 
 Till, discouraged and desponding^ 
 Sat he now in shadows deep, 
 
 And the day's humiliation 
 -Found oblivion in sleep. 
 
232 
 
 FAMOUS BALLADS AND NATIONAL AIRS, 
 
 Then a voice cried, "Rise, O master! 
 
 From the burning brand of oak 
 Shape the thought that stirs within thee !" 
 
 And the startled artist woke — 
 
 Woke, and from the smoking embers 
 Seized and quenched the glowing wood; 
 
 And therefrom he carved an image, 
 And he saw that it was good. 
 
 O thou sculptor, painter, poet ! 
 
 Take this lesson to th\' heart : 
 That is best which lieth nearest ; 
 
 Shape from that thy work of art. 
 
 H. W. Longfellow. 
 
 BOADICEA. 
 
 W 
 
 HEN the British warrior queen, 
 Bleeding from the Roman rods, 
 
 Sought, with an indignant mien. 
 Counsel of her country's gods, 
 
 Sage beneath the spreading oak: 
 Sat the Druid, hoary chief; 
 
 Every burning word he spoke 
 Full of rage and full of g-^ef . 
 
 Princess ! if our aged ey«:S 
 
 Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, 
 'Tis because resentment ties 
 
 All the terrors of our tongues. 
 
 Rome shall perish — write that word 
 In t\e blood that she has spilt ; 
 
 Perish, hopeless and abhorred, 
 Deep in ruin as in guilt. 
 
 Rome, for empire far renowned, 
 Tramples on a thousand states; 
 
 Soon her pride shall kiss the ground — 
 Hark ! the Gaul is at her gates ! 
 
 Other Romans shall arise, 
 Heedless of a soldier's name ; 
 
 Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize. 
 Harmony the path to fame. 
 
 Then the progeny that springs 
 From the forests of our land, 
 
 Armed with thunder, clad with wings. 
 Shall a wider world command. 
 
 Regions Caesar never knew 
 
 Thy posterity shall sway ; 
 Where his eagles never flew. 
 
 None invincible as they. 
 
 Such the bard's prophetic words, 
 Pregnant with celestial fire. 
 
 Bending as he swept the chords 
 Of his sweet but awful lyre. 
 
 She, with all a monarch's pride. 
 Felt them in her bosom glow, 
 
 T 
 
 Rushed to battle, fought, and died ; 
 Dying, hurled them at the foe. 
 
 Ruffians, pitiless as proud, 
 
 Heaven awards the vengeance due; 
 Empire is on us bestowed. 
 
 Shame and ruin wait for you. 
 
 William Cowper. 
 
 PERICLES AND ASPASIA. 
 
 HIS was the ruler of the land 
 
 When Athens was the land of fame > 
 This was the light that led the band 
 When each w^as like a living flame ; 
 The centre of earth's noblest ring. 
 Of more than men the more than king. 
 
 Yet not by fetter, nor by spear, 
 His sovereignty was held or won : 
 
 Feared — but alone as freemen fear, 
 Loved — but as freemen love alone, 
 
 He waived the sceptre o'er his kind 
 
 By nature's first great title, mind! 
 
 Resistless words were on his tongue ; 
 
 Then eloquence first flashed below. 
 Full armed to life the portent sprung, 
 
 Minerva from the thunderer's brow! 
 And his the sole, the sacred hand 
 That shook her aegis o'er the land. 
 
 And throned immortal by his side, 
 A woman sits with eye sublime, 
 
 Aspasia, all his spirit's bride; 
 
 But, if their solemn love were crime. 
 
 Pity the beauty and the sage — 
 
 Their crime was in their darkened age. 
 
 He perished, but his wreath was won — 
 He perished in his height of fame ; 
 
 Then sunk the cloud on Athens' sun. 
 Yet still she conquered in his name. 
 
 Filled with his soul, she could not die; 
 
 Her conquest was posterity ! 
 
 George Croly. 
 
 YARN OF THE " NANCY BELL.'* 
 
 V I ^WAS on the shores that round the coast 
 I From Deal to Ramsgate span, 
 -■- That I found alone on a piece of stone, 
 An elderly naval man. 
 
 His hair was weedy, his beard was long, 
 
 And weedy and long was he, 
 And I heard this wight on the shore recite 
 
 In a singular minor key : 
 
 Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold, 
 
 And a mate of the Nancy brig. 
 And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite, 
 
 And the crew of the captain's gig," 
 
 I 
 
FAMOUS BALLADS AND NATIONAL AIRS, 
 
 233 
 
 And he shook his fists and he tore his hair, 
 
 Till I really felt afraid, 
 For I couldn't help thinking the man had been 
 drinking 
 
 And so I simply said : 
 
 Oh, elderly man, it's little I know 
 
 Of the duties of men of the sea, 
 And I'll eat my hand if I understand 
 
 How you can possibly be 
 
 At once a cook and a captain bold 
 
 And the mate of the Nancy brig, 
 And a bo'sun tight and a midshipmite, 
 
 And the crew of the captain's gig." 
 
 The next lot fell to the Nancy's mate. 
 
 And a delicate dish he made ; 
 Then our appetite with the midshipmite 
 
 We seven survivors stayed. 
 
 And then w^e murdered the bo'sun tight. 
 
 And he much resembled pig ; 
 Then we wittled free, did the cook and me, 
 
 On the crew of the captain's gig. 
 
 Then only the cook and me was left. 
 And the delicate question * Which 
 
 Of us two goes to the kettle?' arose, 
 And we argued it out as sich. 
 
 Then he gave a hitch to his trousers, which 
 
 Is a trick all seamen larn. 
 And having got rid of a thumping quid, 
 
 He spun this painful yarn : 
 
 ' 'Twas on the good ship ' Nancy Bell,' 
 
 That we sailed to the Indian sea. 
 
 And there on a reef we came to grief. 
 
 Which has often occurred to me. 
 
 ■' And pretty nigh all of the crew was drowned, 
 (There was seventy-seven o' soul), 
 And only ten of the Nancy's men 
 Said ' Here !' to the muster roll. 
 
 ' There was me and the cook and the captain bold. 
 And the mate of the Nancy brig. 
 And the bo'sun tight, and the midshipmite. 
 And the crew of the captain's gig. 
 
 '■' For a month we'd neither wittles nor drink. 
 Till a hungry we did feel, 
 So we drawed a lot, and accordin' shot 
 The caDtain for our meal 
 
 For I loved that cook a 1 i 1 r^ I 1 d, 
 
 And the cook he worshiped me ; 
 But we'd both be blowed if we'd either be stowed 
 
 In the other chap's hold, you see. 
 
 ' 111 be eat if you dine's off me.' says Tom; 
 * Yes, that,' says I, ' you'll be — 
 I'm boiled if I die, my friend,' quoth I, 
 And 'Exactly so,' quoth he. 
 
 Says he, ' Dear James, to murder me 
 
 Were a foolish thing to do. 
 For don't you see that you can't cook me 
 
 While I can — and will — cook you I 
 
 So he boils the water, and takes the salt 
 
 And the pepper in portions true 
 (Which he ne'er forgot), and some chopped 
 
 chalot. 
 And some sage and parsley too. 
 
 ' Come here, ' says he, with a proper pride, 
 
 Which his smiling features tell, 
 'Twill soothing be if I let you see 
 
 How extremely nice you'll smell,' 
 
234 
 
 FAMOUS BALLADS AND NATIONAL AIRS. 
 
 -' And he stirred it round and round and round, 
 And he sniffed at the foaming froth ; 
 When I ups with his heels, and smothers his 
 squeals 
 In the scum of the boiling broth. 
 
 ■' And I eat that cook in a week or less, 
 And — as I eating be 
 The last of his chops, why I almost drops, 
 For a wessel in sight I see. 
 
 " And I never larf, and I never smile, 
 And 1 never lark nor play, 
 But I sit and croak, and a single joke 
 I have, which is to say, 
 
 '' Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold. 
 And the mate of the Nancy brig. 
 And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite, 
 And the crew of the captain's gig !" 
 
 W. S. Gilbert. 
 
 THE INDIAN GIRL'S LAMENT. 
 
 AN Indian girl was sitting where 
 Her lover, slain in battle, slept; 
 Her maiden veil, her own black hair, 
 Came down o'er eyes that wept; 
 And wildly, in her woodland tongue, 
 This sad and simple lay she sung : 
 
 " I've pulled away the shrubs that grew 
 Too close above thy sleeping head. 
 And broke the forest boughs thf *hrew 
 
 Their shadows o'er thy bed. 
 That, shining from the sweet southwest, 
 The sunbeams might rejoice thy rest. 
 
 *'' It was a weary, weary road 
 
 That led thee to the pleasant coast. 
 Where thou, in his serene abode, 
 
 Hast met thy father's ghost ; 
 AVhere everlasting autumn lies 
 
 On yellow woods and sunny skies. 
 " 'Twas I the broidered mocsen made. 
 
 That shod thee for the distant land; 
 'Twas I thy bow and arrows laid 
 
 Beside thy still cold hand ; 
 Thy bow in many a battle bent. 
 Thy arrows never vainly sent. 
 
 *' With wampum bells I crossed thy breast, 
 And wrapped thee in the bison's hide, 
 
 And laid the food that pleased thee best, 
 In plenty, by thy side. 
 
 And decked thee bravely, as became 
 
 A warrior of illustrious name. 
 
 *' Thou'rt happy now, for thou hast passed 
 The long dark journey of the grave, 
 And in the land of light, at last. 
 
 Hast joined the good and brave ; 
 Amid the flushed and balmy air, 
 The bravest and the loveliest there. 
 
 '' Yet, oft to thine own Indian maid 
 
 Even there thy thoughts will earthward stray- 
 To her who sits where thou wert laid, 
 
 And weeps the hours away. 
 Yet almost can her grief forget, 
 To think that thou dost love her yet. 
 
 '^ And thou, by one of those still lakes 
 
 That in a shining cluster lie, 
 On which the south wind scarcely breaks 
 
 The image of the sky, 
 A bower for thee and me hast made 
 Beneath the many-colored shade. 
 
 '^ And thou dost wait and watch to meet 
 My spirit sent to join the blessed. 
 And, wondering what detains my feet 
 
 From the bright land of rest. 
 Dost seem, in every sound, to hear 
 The rustling of my footsteps near." 
 
 W. C. Bryant. 
 
 BATTLE=HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC. 
 
 MINE eves have seen the glory of the coming 
 'of the Lord: 
 He is tramping out the vintage where the 
 grapes of wrath are stored ; 
 He hath loosed the fateful lightnings of his terri- 
 ble, swift sword : 
 His truth is marching on. 
 
 I have seen him in the watch-fires of a hundred 
 
 circling camps ; 
 They have builded him an altar in the evening 
 
 dews and damps ; 
 I can read his righteous sentence by the dim and 
 
 flaring lamps : 
 His day is marching on. 
 
 I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows 
 
 of steel: 
 "As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my 
 
 grace shall deal ; 
 Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent 
 
 with his heel. 
 Since God is marching on." 
 
 He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never 
 call retreat ; 
 
 He is sifting out the hearts of men before his judg- 
 ment-seat ; 
 
 O, be swift, my soul, to answer him ! be jubilant, 
 my feet ! 
 Our God is marching on. 
 
 In the beauty of the lillies Christ was born across 
 
 the sea, 
 With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you 
 
 and me ; 
 As he died to make men holy, let us die to make 
 men free, 
 While God is marching on. 
 
 Julia Wahd Howj:, 
 
FAMOUS BALLADS AND NATIONAL AIRS, 
 
 23f 
 
 THE WHITE=FOOTED DEER. 
 
 During the expedition of Colonel Long, who had charge 
 of the explorations between the Mississippi river and the 
 Rocky Mountains, three specimens of a variety of the com- 
 mon deer were brought in, having all the feet white near 
 the hoofs, and extending to those on the hind feet from a 
 little above the spurious hoofs. This white extremity was 
 
 She only came when on the cliffs 
 
 The evening moonlight lay, 
 And no man knew the secret haunts 
 In which she walked by day. 
 
 White were her feet, her forehead showed 
 A spot of silvery white, 
 
 divided, upon the sides of the foot, by the general color of 
 the leg, which extends down near to the hoofs, leaving a 
 white triangle in front, of which the point was elevated 
 rather higher than the spurious hoofs, 
 
 IT was a hundred years ago. 
 When, by the woodland ways, 
 The traveller saw the wild deer drink, 
 Or crop the birchen sprays. 
 
 Beneath a hill, whose rocky side 
 
 O'erbrowed a brassy mead, 
 And fenced a cottage from the wind, 
 
 A deer was wont to feed, 
 
 That seemed to glimmer like a star 
 In autumn's hazy night. 
 
 And here, when sang the whippoorwill. 
 She cropped the sprouting leaves, 
 
 And here her rustling steps were heard 
 On still October eves. 
 
 But when the broad midsummer moon 
 
 Rose o'er that grassy lawn, 
 Beside the silver-footed deer 
 
 There gazed a spotted fawn. 
 
 The cottage dame forbade her son 
 To aim the rifle here ) 
 
i36 
 
 FAMOUS BALLADS AND NATIONAL AIRS, 
 
 " It was a sin," she said, ** to harm 
 Or fright that friendly deer. 
 
 "This spot has been my pleasant home 
 Ten peaceful years and more ; 
 
 And ever, when the moonlight shines, 
 She feeds before our door. 
 
 " The red men say that here she walked 
 
 A thousand moons ago ; 
 They never raise the war-whoop here, 
 
 And never twang the bow. 
 
 *'I love to watch her as she feeds, 
 
 And think tiiat all is well 
 While such a gentle creature haunts 
 
 The place in which we dwell." 
 
 The youth obeyed, and sought for game 
 
 In forests far away, 
 Where, deep in silence and in moss, 
 
 The ancient woodland lay. 
 
 But once, in autumn's golden time. 
 
 He ranged the wild in vain, 
 Nor roused the pheasant nor the deer, 
 
 And wandered home again. 
 
 The crescent moon and crimson eve 
 Shone with a mingling light ; 
 
 The deer, upon the grassy mead, 
 Was feeding full in sight. 
 
 He raised the rifle to his eye, 
 
 And from the cliffs around 
 A sudden echo, shrill and sharp, 
 
 Gave back its deadly sound. 
 
 Away into the neighboring wood 
 
 The startled creature flew. 
 And crimson drops at morning lay 
 
 Amid the glimmering dew. 
 
 Next evening shone the waxing moon 
 
 As sweetly as before ; 
 The deer upon the grassy mead 
 
 Was seen again no more. 
 
 But ere the crescent moon was old. 
 
 By night the red men came, 
 And burnt the cottage to the ground, 
 
 And slew the youth and dame. 
 
 Now woods have overgrown the mead. 
 And hid the cliffs from sight ; 
 
 There shrieks the hovering hawk at rvoon. 
 And prowls the fox at night. 
 
 W. C. Bryant. 
 
 O MOTHER OF A MIGHTY RACE. 
 
 O MOTHER of a mighty race. 
 Yet lovely in thy youthful grace ! 
 The elder dames, thy haughty peers. 
 Admire and hate thy blooming years ; 
 
 With words of shame 
 Aud taunts of scorn the^ join th^ n^me, 
 
 For on thy cheeks the glow is spread 
 That tints thy morning hills with red ; 
 Thy step — the wild deer's rustling feet 
 Within thy woods are not more fleet; 
 
 Thy hopeful eye 
 Is bright as thine own sunny sky. 
 
 Ay, let them rail — those haughty ones, 
 While safe thou dwellest with thy sons ! 
 They do not know how loved thou art. 
 How many a fond and fearless heart 
 
 Would rise to throw 
 Its life between thee and the foe. 
 
 They know not, in their hate and pride, 
 What virtues with thy children bide — 
 How true, how good, thy graceful maids 
 Make bright, like flowers, the valley shades 
 
 What generous men 
 Spring, like thine oaks, by hill and glen ; 
 
 What cordial welcomes greet the guest 
 By thy lone rivers of the west ; 
 How faith is kept, and truth revered. 
 And man is loved, and God is feared, 
 
 In woodland homes. 
 And where the ocean border foams. 
 
 There's freedom at thy gates, and rest 
 For earth's downtrodden and opprest, 
 A shelter for the hunted head, 
 For the starved laborer toil and bread. 
 
 Power, at thy bounds, 
 Stops, and calls back his baffled hounds. 
 
 O fair young mother ! on thy brow 
 Shall sit a nobler grace than now. 
 Deep in the brightness of thy skies 
 The thronging years in glory rise. 
 
 And, as they fleet. 
 Drop strength and riches at thy feet. 
 
 Thine eye, with every coming hour, 
 
 Shall brighten, and thy form shall tower; 
 
 And when thy sisters, elder born. 
 
 Would brand thy name with words ot scorn. 
 
 Before thine eye 
 Upon their lips the taunt shall die. 
 
 W. C. Bryant. 
 
 "ONCE ON A TIME." 
 
 A FAIRY woke one winter night 
 And looked about with glances bright. 
 '' I think I will arise," she said, 
 *' And leave my comrades in their bed, 
 And I will go abroad and see 
 How mortals fare. ' ' So, full of glee 
 At such wild daring, forth she went. 
 On bold investigation bent. 
 
 The air was chill, the moon shone bright 
 As ever on a summer night ; 
 The ground was covered deep with snow, 
 And trees stood leaflesS; row on row. 
 
 I 
 
FAMOUS BALLADS AND NATIONAL AIRS. 
 
 237 
 
 The fairy shivered in the wind 
 And said, "The friends I left behind 
 In their deep slumber happier are 
 Than I who rashly roam so far." 
 
 Yet on she went and sought the town, 
 And in amaze went up and down. 
 Such lights, such music and good cheer, 
 As grace no other time of year, 
 Such happy faces everywhere, 
 Such glad release from fret and care, 
 And homes so garlanded with green, 
 As ne'er before the elf had seen ! 
 
 ** I thought the world was dull and drear 
 In winter-time," said she. " Oh, dear ! 
 I wish my comrades only knew 
 How bright it is, how fresh and new, 
 In its white dress ; how every street 
 Is all alive with bounding feet ; 
 How people laugh and sing and play — 
 It surely is some festal day !" 
 
 Through street and house and church and store 
 
 She flitted, wondering more and more 
 
 At all she saw and all she heard. 
 
 Hoping for some enlightening word, 
 
 When on a banner carried by 
 
 She saw these words uplifted high — 
 
 " Rejoice, O, Earth ! be glad and gay ; 
 
 It is the blessed Christmas Day !" 
 
 Away she sped o'er town and hill 
 And field and wood and frozen rill, 
 
 Unto a cavern warm and deep. 
 And woke her comrades from their sleep — 
 " Arise !" she cried ; '' Oh, come away ! 
 The world is keeping Christmas Day !" 
 And, ever since, when birth-bells chime. 
 The fairies help keep Christmas time. 
 
 Lillian Grey. 
 
 THE PHANTOM CITY. 
 
 It was somewhere on the banks of the romantic and pic- 
 turesque Penobscot, probably at the Indian village where 
 Bangor now stands, that the fabulous city "Norembega" 
 was located by the early French fishermen and explorers of 
 Cape Breton, who told big stories of its wealth and magnifi- 
 cence. The winding stream bore many an adventurer in 
 search of this Northern Eldorado; and in 1 604 Champlain, 
 the French voyager, sailed up the river on the same errand. 
 But he found no evidence of civilization save a cross, very 
 old and mossy, that marked the burial-place of a nameless 
 traveler, and he wisely concluded that those who told of the 
 city had never seen it — that it was but a shadow and a 
 dream. 
 
 MIDSUMMER'S crimson moon. 
 Above the hills like some night-opening 
 rose 
 Uplifted, pours its beauty down the vaL- 
 Where broad Penobscot flows. 
 
 And I remember now 
 
 That this is haunted ground. In ages past 
 Here stood the storied Norembega's walls, 
 r Magnificent and vast. 
 
 The streets were ivory paved. 
 The stately walls were built of golden ore. 
 Its domes outshone the sunset, and full boughs 
 Hesperian fruitage bore. 
 
 And up this winding flood 
 Has wandered many a sea-tossed daring bark, 
 While eager eyes have scanned the rugged shore. 
 Or pierced the wildwood dark. 
 
 But watched in vain ; afar 
 They saw the spires gleam golden on the sky. 
 The distant drum-beat heard, or bugle-note 
 Wound wildly, fitfully. 
 
 Banners of strange device 
 
 Beckoned from distant heights ; yet as the stream 
 
 Narrowed among the hills, the city fled — 
 
 A mystery — or a dream. 
 
 Frances P. Mace. 
 
 HER LAST MOMENT. 
 
 HANGS the picture, bold and striking, 
 On the Academic wall, 
 Claiming notice, if not liking, 
 With a strong, resistless call. 
 Some approve, while some denounce it. 
 
 But the praise outweighs by far, 
 And the critics all pronounce it 
 Greatest work of Alan Barr. 
 
^-'38 
 
 FAMOUS BALLADS AND NATIONAL AIRS, 
 
 Pictured on a summer morning, 
 
 There you see the Falls of Lynn, 
 Almost hear the sound of warning 
 
 In the foaming torrent's din, 
 As you note the ground is crumbling 
 
 'Neath the footstep of the girl, 
 Gazing down into the tum.bling 
 
 Waters in their eddying whirl. 
 
 Of no dangers apprehensive. 
 
 Poising there in lightsome grace. 
 Radiant happiness, though pensive. 
 
 Shines from out that happy face. 
 " Her last Moment," such the title 
 
 Of that vivid artist-dream. 
 Telling in a curt recital, 
 
 Of a tragedy supreme. 
 
 *' Hush ! a truce to praise or stricture." 
 
 " See ! the artist and his wile !" 
 *' Is the lady in the picture. 
 
 Then, her portrait, drawn from life ?" 
 '' Nay ! less lovely," is the murmur. 
 
 As, beside his stately bride. 
 And with lips compressed the firmer, 
 
 Alan breasts the human tide. 
 
 At the throng the lady glances, 
 
 To her husband saying loud — 
 ** Strange this oddest of your fancies 
 
 Has such power to charm the crowd ! 
 Yet I hardly deem it equal 
 
 In true feeling to your last " 
 
 Alan Barr heard not the sequel, 
 
 For his thoughts were in the past. 
 
 Oh ! the glory of that summer 
 
 Only poet's tongue could tell ! 
 And the city-bred new-comer 
 
 Yielded to its magic spell. 
 Busy nature's marvels daily 
 
 Ceaseless wonder wrought in her, 
 While her artist kinsman gaily 
 
 Acted as interpreter. 
 
 So began the old, old story, 
 
 As through shady lanes they strolled 
 Or drank in the sunset glory. 
 
 Hues of blue, and rose, and gold. 
 " It was but his bounden duty ; 
 
 Courtesy to his mother's guest," 
 Alan argued, when her beauty 
 
 Caused a thrill within his breast- 
 Childlike beauty, childlike sweetness, 
 
 Marked the face of Rose Adair, 
 Yet in full and rich completeness. 
 
 Woman's soul was pictured there. 
 Quick responsive to each feeling. 
 
 Sharing nature's varying mood, 
 Frank, transparent, yet revealing 
 
 Depths not straightway understood. 
 
 So, within the careless present, 
 
 Alan revelled, wilful-blind. 
 Diving, as a pastime pleasant. 
 
 For the treasures of her mind. 
 Rose, meanwhile, in him but seeing 
 
 Noble nature, good and wise ; 
 Talented and kingly being, 
 
 Loomed the painter in her eyes. 
 
 Yet, when jest with earnest blending, 
 
 Alan scoffed at higher themes, 
 Saying; '' What more blest than spending. 
 
 Golden days in golden dreams?" 
 Flamed her eyes in steel-blue splendor, 
 
 Though she colored 'neath his gaze. 
 '* Nay," she said in accents tender, 
 
 '* Golden deeds make golden days ! 
 
 *' Life means not a mere existence 
 
 Passed in ease and dreamy sloth." 
 Urging still with soft persistence. 
 
 Tasks upon the idler, loth 
 To resign his much-loved leisure. 
 
 Yet he roused at her behest, 
 Seeking so to give her pleasure. 
 
 Sketched the spot she loved the best. 
 
 Conscience-pangs thus idly stifling, 
 
 Acting an unworthy part. 
 Pledged unto another, trifling 
 
 With a pure and trusting heart. 
 With a wordless wooing winning 
 
 Love he was not free to claim, 
 'Gainst all truth and honor sinning. 
 
 Sin the world is slow to blame. 
 
 Rose, half thoughtful, happy wholly. 
 
 Gazed into the Falls of Lynn, 
 As he sat and painted slowly. 
 
 While the conflict raged within ; 
 Conscience proved at length the stronger— 
 
 ** Yes, to-morrow we must part; 
 She shall be deceived no longer. 
 
 Oh ! but it will break her heart !" 
 
 Then, with softened glance and tender. 
 
 Turned he to sweet Rose Adair, 
 Just to see the figure slender 
 
 Flutter from his sight — oh, where? 
 Far below, the swirling water 
 
 Seizing on its dainty prey. 
 Tossed and buffeted and caught her. 
 
 In a fierce tumultuous play. 
 
 Though so cruelly is battered 
 
 Life from out that shapely form, 
 Yet the gentle heart, unshattered, 
 
 Havened is from earthly storm. 
 Now no polished phrases cruel 
 
 Tell her of a hopeless loss, 
 Tell her she has changed her jewel 
 
 For a thing of worthless dross. 
 
FAMOUS BALLADS AND NATIONAL AIRS. 
 
 239 
 
 Not for her to pine and languish 
 
 Till long years the pain might lull ; 
 Even spared the parting anguish — 
 
 Oh ! but God was merciful ! 
 Almost reeled the painter's reason, 
 
 'Neath the sudden blow, whose force 
 Ended that idyllic season 
 
 With a weight of dull remorse. 
 
 Yet with manhood's strength reviving 
 
 Her last counsel he obeys, 
 Solace seeks in fruitful striving : 
 
 *' Golden deeds make golden days." 
 Still his troth-plight is unbroken, 
 
 And he weds where faith is due — 
 Henceforth (though to woman spoken i) 
 
 Alan's every word is true. 
 
 Always with him, fading never. 
 
 Is the haunting fate of Rose, 
 Till the scene, with slight endeavor, 
 
 Vivid on the canvas grows. 
 Now, in beauty and completeness. 
 
 Hangs the graceful picture there, 
 Alan owns, with bitter sweetness, 
 
 Fame — the gift of Rose Adair. 
 
 Margaret Craven. 
 
 EDWARD GRAY. 
 
 SWEET Emma Moreland of yonder town 
 Met we w^alking on yonder way, 
 "■ And have you lost your heart?" she said : 
 ' ' And are you married yet, Edward Gray ?' ' 
 
 Sweet Emma Moreland spoke to me : 
 Bitterly weeping I turned away : 
 " Sweet Emma Moreland, love no more 
 Can touch the heart of Edward Gray. 
 
 " Ellen Adair she loved me well, 
 
 Against her father's and mother's will : 
 To-day I sat for an hour and wept. 
 By Ellen's grave, on the windy hill. 
 
 " Shy she was, and I thought her cold ; 
 
 Thought her proud, and fled over the sea ; 
 Filled I was with folly and spite, 
 
 When Ellen Adair was dying for me. 
 
 *' Cruel, cruel the words I said ! 
 
 Cruelly came they back to-day : 
 
 * You're too slight and fickle,' I said, 
 
 * To trouble the heart of Edward Gray.' 
 
 '^ There I put my face in the grass — 
 Whispered, * Listen to my despair: 
 I repent me of all I did : 
 Speak a little, Ellen Adair!' 
 
 " Then I took a pencil, and wrote 
 On the mossy stone, as I lay, 
 
 * Here lies the body of Ellen Adair ; 
 
 And here the heart of Edward Gray !' 
 
 " Love may come, and love may go, 
 
 And fly, like a bird, from tree to tree i 
 But I will love no more, no more, 
 Till Ellen Adair comes back to me. 
 
 *' Bitterly wept I over the stone : 
 Bitterly weeping I turned away : 
 There lies the body of Ellen Adair ! 
 And there the heart of Edward Gray ! " 
 Alfred Tennyson. 
 
 MY MARYLAND. 
 
 THE despot's heel is on thy shore, 
 Maryland ! 
 His torch is at thy temple door, 
 Maryland ! 
 Avenge the patriotic gore 
 That flecked the streets of Baltimore, 
 And be the battle queen of yore, 
 Maryland, my Maryland ! 
 
 Hark to an exiled son's appeal, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 My Mother State, to thee I kneel, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 For life or death, for woe or w^eal, 
 Thy peerless chivalry reveal. 
 And gird thy beauteous limbs with steel, 
 
 Maryland, my Maryland ! 
 
 Thou wilt not cower in the dust, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 Thy beaming sword shall never rust, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 Remember Carroll's sacred trust. 
 Remember Howard's warlike thrust. 
 And all thy slumberers Wi/> the just, 
 
 Maryland, my Maryland! 
 
 Come I 'tis the red dawn of the day, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 Come w^ith thy panoplied array, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 With Ringgold's spirit for the fray. 
 With Watson's blood at Monterey, 
 With fearless Lowe and dashing May, 
 
 Maryland, my Maryland I 
 
 Dear Mother burst the tyrant's chain, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 Virginia should not call in vain, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 She meets her sisters on the plain, 
 ' ' Sic semper ! " 'tis the proud refrain 
 That baffles minions back amain, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 Arise in majesty again, 
 
 Maryland, my Maryland ! 
 
 Come ! for thy shield is bright and strong, 
 
 Maryland I 
 Come 1 for thy dalliance does thee wrong, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 
240 
 
 FAMOUS BALLADS AND NATIONAL AIRS. 
 
 Come to thine own heroic throng 
 Stalking with liberty along, 
 And chant thy dauntless slogan-song, 
 Maryland, my Maryland ! 
 
 I see the blush upon thy cheek, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 But thou wast ever bravely meek, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 But lo ! there surges forth a shriek, 
 From hill to hill, from creek to creek, 
 Potomac calls to Chesapeake, 
 
 Maryland, my Maryland ! 
 
 Thou wilt not yield the Vandal toll, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 Thou wilt not crook to his control, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 Better the fire upon the roll. 
 Better the shot, the blade, the bowl. 
 Than crucifixion of the soul, 
 
 Maryland, my Maryland ! 
 
 I hear the distant thunder-hum ! 
 
 Maryland ! 
 The **01d Line's" bugle, fife and drum, 
 
 Maryland ! 
 She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb : 
 Huzza ! she spurns the Northern scum — 
 She breathes! She burns! She'll come! She'll 
 come ! 
 
 Maryland, my Maryland ! 
 
 James R. Randall. 
 
 THE PLACE WHERE MAN SHOULD DIE. 
 
 HOW little recks it where men die, 
 When once the moment's past 
 In which the dim and glazing eye 
 Has looked on earth its last ; 
 Whether beneath the sculptured urn 
 
 The coffined form shall rest. 
 Or, in its nakedness, return 
 Back to its mother's breast. 
 
 Death is a common friend or foe. 
 
 As different men may hold. 
 And at its summons each must go. 
 
 The timid and the bold ; 
 But when the spirit, free and warm, 
 
 Deserts it, as it must, 
 What matter where the lifeless form 
 
 Dissolves again to dust ? 
 
 The soldier falls 'mid corpses piled 
 
 Upon the battle-plain. 
 Where reinless war-steeds gallop wild 
 
 Above the gory slain ; 
 But though his corpse be grim to see, 
 
 Hoof-trampled on the sod, 
 What recks it when the spirit free 
 
 Has soared aloft to God ! 
 
 The coward's dying eye may close 
 
 Upon his downy bed. 
 And softest hands his limbs compose, 
 
 Or garments o'er him spread ; 
 But ye who shun the bloody fray 
 
 Where fall the mangled brave. 
 Go strip his coffin-lid away. 
 
 And see him in his grave ! 
 
 'Twere sweet indeed to close our eyes 
 
 With those we cherish near. 
 And, wafted upward by their sighs. 
 
 Soar to some calmer sphere ; 
 But whether on the scaffold high, 
 
 Or in the battle's van. 
 The fittest place where man can die 
 
 Is where he dies for man. 
 
 Michael J. Barry. 
 
 THE DEATH OF ALIATAR. 
 
 FROM THE SPANISH. 
 
 ' ^ I ^IS not with gilded sabres 
 
 I That gleam in baldricks blue, 
 
 -■■ Nor nodding plumes in caps of Fez, 
 Of gay and gaudy hue — 
 But, habited in mourning weeds. 
 
 Come marching from afar. 
 By four and four, the valiant men 
 
 Who fought with Aliatar. 
 All mournfully and slowly 
 
 The afflicted warriors come, 
 To the deep wail of the trumpet. 
 
 And beat of muffled drum. 
 
 The banner of the Phenix^ 
 
 The flag that loved the sky. 
 That scarce the wind dared wanton with, 
 
 It flew so proud and high — 
 Now leaves its place in battle-field. 
 
 And sweeps the ground in grief. 
 The bearer drags its glorious folds 
 
 Behind the fallen chief. 
 
 Brave Aliatar led forward 
 
 A hundred Moors to go 
 To where his brother held Motril 
 
 Against the leaguering foe. 
 On horseback went the gallant Moor, 
 
 That gallant band to lead ; 
 And now his bier is at the gate, 
 
 From whence he pricked his steed. 
 
 The knights of the Grand Master 
 
 In crowded ambush lay ; 
 They rushed upon him where the reeds 
 
 Were thick beside the way ; 
 They smote the valiant Aliatar, 
 
 They smote the warrior dead. 
 And broken, but not beaten, were 
 
 The gallant ranks he led. 
 
"•"llii 
 
 I'ii' 
 
 'III 
 
 16 
 
 241 
 
24^ 
 
 FAMOUS BALLADS AND NATIONAL AIRS. 
 
 Oh! what was Zayda's sorrow, 
 
 How passionate her cries ! 
 Her lover's wounds streamed not more free 
 
 Than that poor maiden's eyes. 
 Say, Love — for didst thou see her tears? 
 
 Oh, no ! he drew more tight 
 The Winding fillet o'er his lids 
 
 To spare his eyes the sight. 
 
 Nor Zayda weeps him only, 
 But all that dwell between 
 
 The great Alhambra's palace walls 
 
 And springs of Albaicin. 
 The ladies weep the flower of knights, 
 
 The brave the bravest here ; 
 The people weep a champion. 
 
 The Alcaydes a noble peer. 
 While mournfully and slowly 
 
 The afflicted warriors come. 
 To the deep wail of the trumpet, 
 
 And beat of muffled drum. 
 
 W. C. Bryant. 
 
 THE LAKE OF THE DISMAL SWAMP. 
 
 WRITTEN AT NORFOLK IN VIRGINIA. 
 
 "They tell of a young man who lost his mind upon the 
 death of a girl he loved, and who, suddenly disappearing from 
 his friends, was never afterwards heard of. As he had fre- 
 quently said in his ravings that the girl was not dead, but 
 gone to the Dismal Swamp, it is supposed he had wandered 
 into that dreary wilderness, and had died of hunger, or been 
 lost in some ofits dreadful morasses." 
 
 The Great Dismal Swamp is ten or twelve miles distant 
 from Norfolk, and the lake in the middle of it (about seven 
 miles long) is called Drummond's Pond. 
 
 i i ^ I ^HEY made her a grave too coW and damp 
 I For a soul so warm and true ; 
 ^ And she's gone to the lake of the Dismal 
 
 Swamp, 
 Where all night long, by a firefly lamp, 
 She paddles her white canoe. 
 
 And her firefly lamp I soon shall see, 
 And her paddle I soon shall hear ; 
 Long and loving our life shall be. 
 And I'll hide the maid in a cypress-tree. 
 When the footstep of death is near !" 
 
 Away to the Dismal Swamp he speeds, — 
 
 His path was rugged and sore, 
 Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds. 
 Through many a fen where the serpent feeds^ 
 
 And man never trod before ! 
 
 And when on earth he sunk to sleep. 
 
 If slumber his eyelids knew, 
 He lay where the deadly vine doth weep 
 Its venomous tear, and nightly steep 
 
 The flesh with blistering dew ! 
 
 And near him the she-wolf stirred the brake, 
 And the copper-snake breathed in his ear. 
 Till he starting cried, from his dream awake, 
 O, when shall I see the dusky lake, 
 And the white canoe of my dear?" 
 
 He saw the lake, and a meteor bright 
 
 Quick over its surface played, — 
 Welcome," he said, *'my dear one's light !" 
 And the dim shore echoed for many a night 
 The name of the death-cold maid ! 
 
FAMOUS BALLADS AND NATIONAL AIRS. 
 
 243 
 
 Till he hollowed a boat of the birchen bark, 
 
 Which carried him off from shore ; 
 Far he followed the meteor spark, 
 The wind was high and the clouds were dark, 
 And the boat returned no more. 
 
 But oft, from the Indian hunter's camp, 
 
 This lover and maid so true 
 Are seen, at the hour of midnight damp. 
 To cross the lake by a firefly lamp, 
 
 And paddle their white canoe ! 
 
 Thomas Moore. 
 
 THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER. 
 
 OSAY, can you see, by the dawn's early light, 
 What so proudly we hailed in the twilight'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. 
 O, say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave 
 O* er the land of the free and the home of the brave ? 
 
 On the shore, dimly seen through the mists of the 
 
 deep. 
 Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence 
 
 reposes. 
 What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering 
 
 steep, 
 As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half 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 ! O, 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 footsteps' 
 pollution. 
 No refuge could save the hireling and slave 
 From the terror of death and the gloom of the 
 
 grave. 
 And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave 
 O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave ! 
 
 0, thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand 
 Between their loved homes and the war's deso- 
 lation ; 
 Blest with victory and peace, may the heaven-res- 
 cued land 
 Praise the p6wer that has made and preserved us 
 a nation. 
 
 Then conquer we must, for 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 S. Key. 
 
 HYMN FOR ENGLAND'S JUBILEE. 
 
 JULY, 1897. 
 
 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 fire ; 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Amen. 
 RuDYARD Kipling. 
 
 T 
 
 THE HAPPIEST LAND. 
 
 FROM THE GERMAN. 
 
 HERE sat one day in quiet, 
 By an alehouse on the Rhine, 
 Four hale and hearty fellows, 
 And drank the precious wine. 
 
 The landlord's daughter filled their cups, 
 
 Around the rustic board ; 
 Then sat they all so calm and still. 
 
 And spake not one rude word. 
 
 But when the maid departed, 
 
 A Swabian raised his hand. 
 And cried, all hot and flushed with wine, 
 
 " Long live the Swabian land ! 
 
244 
 
 FAMOUS BALLADS AND NATIONAL AIRS, 
 
 " The greatest kingdom upon earth 
 
 Cannot with that compare ; 
 With all the stout and hardy men 
 
 And the nut-brown maidens there.'* 
 
 *' Ha ! " cried a Saxon, laughing — 
 
 And dashed his beard with wine; 
 *' I had rather live in Lapland, 
 
 Than that Swabian land of thine ! 
 
 '' The goodliest land on all this earth, 
 
 It is the Saxon land ! 
 There have I as many maidens 
 
 As fingers on this hand ! " 
 
 '' Hold your tongues ! both Swabian and Saxon ! " 
 
 A bold Bohemian cries ; 
 " If there's a heaven upon this earth. 
 
 In Bohemia it lies. 
 
 " There the tailor blows the flute. 
 
 And the cobbler blows the horn, 
 And the miner blows the bugle. 
 
 Over mountain gorge and bourn." 
 
 And then the landlord's daughter 
 
 Up to heaven raised her hand. 
 And said, ye may no more contend, — 
 
 There lies the happiest land ! ' ' 
 
 H. W. Longfellow^ 
 
 THE FAIR HELEN. 
 
 The legend upon which this ballad is founded is briefly 
 this : Helen Irving, daughter of the Laird of Kirconnell in 
 Dumfriesshire, celebrated for her beauty, was beloved by two 
 gentlemen. The favored lover was Adam Fleming, of Kirk- 
 patrick ; the other is supposed to have been a Bell, of Bracket 
 House. The latter' s suit was favored by the friends of the 
 lady; consequently, the lovers were compelled to meet in 
 secret, and by night in the Kirconnell churchyard, a pic- 
 turesque spot almost surrounded by the river Kirtle. During 
 one of these meetings the despised suitor suddenly appeared 
 on the opposite bank of the stream and fired a carbine at his 
 rival. But Helen, throwing herself before her lover, received 
 the bullet intended for him, and died in his arms. Fleming 
 fought the murderer and cut him to pieces. Other accounts 
 state that Fleming pursued his foe to Spain, and slew him in 
 the streets of Madrid. The first part of the ballad — sus- 
 pected to be modern — consists of an address to the lady, 
 either by Fleming or his rival; the second part — by far the 
 more beautiful — forms the lament of Fleming over Helen's 
 grave. Lord Macaulay considered this the finest ballad in 
 the English language. 
 
 Part I. 
 
 O SWEETEST sweet, and fairest fair. 
 Of birth and worth beyond compare, 
 Thou art the causer of my care, 
 Since first I loved thee. 
 
 Yet God hath given to me a mind. 
 The which to thee shall prove as kind 
 As any one that thou shalt find. 
 Of high or low degree. 
 
 The shallowest water makes maist din, 
 The deadliest pool, the deepest lin ; 
 The richest man least truth within. 
 Though he preferred be. 
 
 Yet, nevertheless, I am content. 
 And never a whit my love repent, 
 But think the time was a'weel spent, 
 '1 hough I disdained be. 
 
 O ! Helen sweet, and maist complete, 
 My captive spirit's at thy feet ! 
 Think'st thou still fit thus for to treat 
 Thy captive cruelly ? 
 
 ! Helen brave ! but this I crave. 
 Of thy poor slave some pity have. 
 And do him save that's near his grave, 
 
 And dies for love of thee. 
 
 Part II. 
 
 1 wish I were where Helen lies, 
 Night and day on me she cries, 
 O that I were where Helen lies. 
 
 On fair Kirconnell Lee ! 
 
 Curst be the heart that thought the thought 
 And curst the hand that fired the shot. 
 When in my arms burd Helen dropt, 
 And died to succor me ! 
 
 think na ye my heart was sair. 
 
 When my love dropt down and spak nae /^air' 
 There did swoon wi' meikle care. 
 On fair Kirconnell Lee. 
 
 As I went down the water side. 
 None but my foe to be my guide. 
 None but my foe to be my guide. 
 On fair Kirconnell Lee; 
 
 1 lighted down my sword to draw, 
 I hacked him in pieces sma', 
 
 I hacked him in pieces sma'. 
 For her sake that died for me. 
 
 O Helen fair, beyond compare ! 
 I'll make a garland of thy hair. 
 Shall bind my heart for evermair. 
 Until the day I die. 
 
 O that I were where Helen lies ! 
 Night and day on me she cries ; 
 Out of my bed she bids me rise. 
 
 Says, '* Haste and come to me ! " — 
 
 Helen fair ! O Helen chaste ! 
 If I were with thee, I were blest, 
 Where thou lies low, and takes thy rest. 
 
 On fair Kirconnell Lee. 
 
 1 wish my grave were growing green, 
 A winding sheet drawn ower my een. 
 And I in Helen's arms lying, 
 
 On fair Kirconnell Lee. 
 
 I wish I were where Helen lies ! 
 Night and day on me she cries ; 
 And I am weary of the skies. 
 For her sake that died for me. 
 
HOPE AND MEMORY: 
 
 OR 
 
 BRIGHT GLIMPSES OF THE PAST AND FUTURE 
 
 A RETROSPECT. 
 
 ES, I behold again the place, 
 
 The seat of joy, the source of pain; 
 It brings in view the form and face 
 That I must never see again. 
 
 The night-bird's song that sweetly floats 
 On this soft gloom — this balmy air, 
 
 Brings to the mind her sweeter notes 
 That I again must never hear. 
 
 Lo ! yonder shines that window's light. 
 
 My guide, my token, heretofore ; 
 And now again it shines as bright, 
 When those dear eyes can shine no more. 
 
 Then hurry from this place away ! 
 
 It gives not now the bliss it gave ; 
 For death has made its charm his prey, 
 
 And joy is buried in her grave, 
 
 THE LONQ=AGO. 
 
 ON that deep-retiring shore 
 Frequent pearls of beauty lie, 
 Where the passion-waves of yore 
 Fiercely beat and mounted high : 
 Sorrows that are sorrows still 
 
 Lose the bitter taste of woe ; 
 Nothing's altogether ill 
 In the griefs of long-ago. 
 
 Tombs where lonely love repines, 
 
 Ghastly tenements of tears. 
 Wear the look of happy shrines 
 
 Through the golden mist of years 
 Death, to those who trust in good. 
 
 Vindicates his hardest blow ; 
 Oh ! we would not, if we could, 
 
 Wake the sleep of long-ago ! 
 
 Though the doom of swift decay 
 
 Shocks the soul where life is strong, 
 Though for frailer hearts the day 
 
 Lingers sad and overlong — 
 Still the weight will find a leaven, 
 
 Still the spoiler's hand is slow, 
 While the future has its heaven. 
 
 And the past its long-ago. 
 
 Lord Houghton. 
 
 O 
 
 George Crabbe. 
 MEMORIES OF CHILDHOOD 
 
 H dear old friend ! I come this way 
 
 Once more, once more to rest on tnee, 
 While generous branch and leafy spray 
 A pleasant bower make for me. 
 
 It seems as only yesterday 
 
 That I was racing down the mead. 
 
 With young companions blithe and gay, 
 To mount thee, brave and bonny steecJ 
 
 The blackbird pipes as cheerily now, 
 
 As gaily flaunts the butterfly, 
 As when we shook the pliant bough 
 
 By madly urging thee on high. 
 
 But scattered is that gamesome band 
 That filled with mirth the flying hours ; 
 
 One sojourns in a distant land, 
 
 One sleeps beneath the daisy flowers. 
 
 And others from my ken have passed, 
 
 But this I feel, where'er they be, 
 They'll not forget while life shall last 
 Our swing beneath the chestnut-tree. 
 
 J. G. Watts, 
 245 
 
246 
 
 HOPE AND MEMORY. 
 
 A 
 
 DEPARTED JOYS. 
 
 MONGST the thunder-splintered caves, 
 On ocean's long and windy shore, 
 I catch the voice of dying waves 
 Below the ridsres old and hoar. 
 
 The spray descends in silver showers. 
 And lovely whispers come and go. 
 
 Like echoes from the happy hours 
 I never more may hope to know ! 
 
 The moonlight dreams upon the sail 
 That drives the restless ship to sea ; 
 
 The clouds troop past the mountain vale, 
 And sink like spirits down the lee ; 
 
 Why, comes thy voice, thou lonely one, 
 Along the wild harp's wailing strings? 
 
 Have not our hours of meeting gone, 
 Like fading dreams on phantom wings ? 
 
 Are not the grasses round thy grave 
 Yet springing green and fresh to view ? 
 
 And does the gleam on ocean's wave 
 Tide gladness now to me and you ? 
 
 H. C. Kendall 
 
 THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY. 
 
 CHILDHOOD'S loved group revisits every 
 scene, 
 The tangled wood-walk and the tufted 
 green ! 
 Indulgent memory wakes, and lo, they live ! 
 Clothed with far softer hues than light can give. 
 Thou first, best friend that Heaven assigns below, 
 To soothe and sweeten all the cares we know ; 
 Vvhose glad suggestions still each vain alarm, 
 AMien nature fades and life forgets to charm ; 
 Thee would the jNIuse invoke ! to thee belong 
 The sage's precept and the poet's song. 
 
 What softened views thy magic glass reveals, 
 When o'er the landscape time's meek twilight 
 
 steals ! 
 As when in ocean sinks the orb of day. 
 Long on the wave reflected lustres play ; 
 Thy tempered gleams of happiness resigned, 
 Glance on the darkened mirror of the mind. 
 
 The school's lone porch, with reverend mosses gray, 
 Just tells the pensive pilgrim where it lay. 
 Mute is the bell that rang at peep of dawn, 
 Quickening my truant feet across the lawn : 
 Unheard the shout that rent the noontide air 
 When the slow dial gave a pause to care. 
 Up springs, at every step, to claim a tear. 
 Some little friendship formed and cherished here ; 
 And not the lightest leaf, but trembling teems 
 With golden visions and romantic dreams. 
 
 Down by yon hazel copse, at evening blazed 
 The gipsy's fagot — there we stood and gazed ; 
 
 Gazed on her sunburnt face with silent awe, 
 Her tattered mantle and her hood of straw ; 
 Her moving lips, her caldron brimming o'er; 
 The drowsy brood that on her back she bore, 
 Imps in the barn with mousing owlets bred. 
 From rifled roost at nightly revel fed ; 
 Whose dark eyes flashed through locks of blackest 
 
 shade, 
 When in the breeze the distant watch-dog bayed: 
 And heroes fled the sibyl's muttered call. 
 Whose elfin prowess scaled the orchard wall. 
 As o'er my palm the silver piece she drew. 
 And traced the line of life with searching view, 
 How throbbed my fluttering pulse with hopes and 
 
 fears. 
 To learn the color of my future years ! 
 
 Ah, then, what honest triumph flushed my breast ; 
 Tnis truth once known — to bless is to be blest ! 
 We led the bending beggar on his way — 
 Bare were his feet, his tresses silver-gray — 
 Soothed the keen pangs his aged spirit felt, 
 And on his tale with mute attention dwelt : 
 As in his scrip we dropt our little store. 
 And sighed to think that little was no more, 
 He breathed his prayer, *' Long may such goodness 
 
 live!" 
 'Twas all he gave — 'twas all he had to give. 
 
 Hail, memory, hail ! in thy exhaustless mine 
 From age to age unnumbered treasures shine ! 
 Thought and her shadowy brood thy call obey, 
 And place and time are subject to thy sway ! 
 Thy pleasures most we feel when most alone ; 
 The only pleasures we can call our own. 
 Lighter than air, hope's summer-visions die. 
 If but a fleeting cloud obscure the sky ; 
 If but a beam of sober reason play, 
 Lo, fancy's fairy frost-work melts away ! 
 But can the wiles of art, the grasp of power, 
 Snatch the rich relics of a well-spent hour ? 
 These, when the trembhng spirit wings her flight. 
 Pour round her path a stream of living light ; 
 And gild those pure and perfect realms of rest, 
 Where virtue triumphs, and her sons are blest ! 
 
 Samuel Rogers. 
 
 WATCH AND WAIT. 
 
 THE red-breast sings with a plaintive note, 
 The cattle are housed in stall, my dear, 
 The dead leaves float at the rim of the moat. 
 Under the moss grown wall, my dear; 
 But your eyes are happy with dreams of spring. 
 
 As you sit by the hearth to-night, 
 And your opal ring, like a living thing, 
 Flashes with fitful light ! 
 
 The dainty blossoms are gone indeed 
 
 To their home in the darkness deep, my dear. 
 
 But the hopeful seed for the whole world's need 
 Is laid in the earth to sleep, my dear ! 
 
DREAMING OF THE FUTURE. 
 
 247 
 
248 
 
 HOPE AND MEMORY. 
 
 And you gaze deep, deep, in the heart of the glow, 
 
 On the flickering, dancing flame, 
 And your blushes show what your lips breathe low. 
 
 As you whisper the one loved name. 
 
 Though the dwindling day to the dark decline. 
 
 And the year be fain to depart, my dear, 
 Sweet visions shine like gems of the mine 
 
 In the hush of your faiihful heart, mv dear ! 
 Watch yet awhile, and wait — who knows 
 
 What fate may have stored for you? 
 When winter goes, and the leaves unclose, 
 
 And beautiful dreams come true ! 
 
 M. C. GiLLINGTON. 
 
 Primeval hope, the Aonian muses say, 
 When man and nature mourned their first decay ; 
 When every form of death, and every woe, 
 Shot from malignant stars to earth below; 
 When murder bared his arm. and rampant war 
 Yoked the red dragons of his iron car : 
 When peace and mercy, banished from the plain, 
 Sprang on the viewless winds to heaven again ; 
 All, all forsook the friendless, guilty mind, 
 But hope, the charmer, lingered still behind. 
 
 Thi:s, while Elijah's burning wheels prepare 
 From Carmel's heights to sweep the fields of air, 
 The prophet's mantle, ere his flight began, 
 Dropt on the world — a sacred gift to man. 
 
 
 ic-^'f 
 
 THE PLEASURES OF HOPE. 
 
 Few p)oems have afforded so much delight as the one from 
 which these dehghtful Hnes have been selected. The popu- 
 larity it gained instantly upon its publication has not dimin- 
 ished. The seventh line below has passed into a popular 
 proverb. 
 
 AT summer eve, when heaven's ethereal bow 
 Spans with bright arch the glittering hills 
 below. 
 Why to yon mountain turns the musing eye, 
 Whose sunbright summit mingles with the sky? 
 Why do those cliffs of shadowy tint appear 
 More sweet than all the landscape smiling near? 
 'Tis distance lends enchantment to the view, 
 And robes the mountain in its azure hue. 
 Thus, with delight, we linger to survey 
 The promised joys of life's unmeasured way ; 
 Thus, from afar, each dim-discovered scene 
 More pleasing seems than all the past hath been. 
 And every form, that fancy can repair 
 From dark oblivion, glows divinely there. 
 
 Auspicious hope ! in thy sweet garden grow 
 ^^'reaths for each toil, a charm for every woe \ 
 Won by their sweets, in nature's languid hour. 
 The way-worn pilgrim seeks thy summer bower; 
 There, as the wild bee murmurs on the wing. 
 What peaceful dreams thy handmaid spirits bring ! 
 What viewless forms the .Eolian organ play. 
 And sweep the furrowed lines of anxious thought 
 away. 
 
 Lo ! at the couch, where infant beauty sleeps, 
 Her silent watch the mournful mother keeps ; 
 She. while the lovely babe unconscious lies, 
 Smiles on her slumbering child with pensive eyes. 
 And weaves a song of melancholy joy — 
 "Sleep, image of thy father, sleep, my boy; 
 No lingering hour of sorrow shall be thine. 
 No sigh that rends thy father's heart and mine; 
 Bright as his manly sire the son shall be 
 In form and soul ; but, ah, more l)lest than he ! 
 Thy fame, thy worth, thy filial love at last, 
 
HOPE AND MEMORY, 
 
 249 
 
 Shall soothe his aching heart for all the past — 
 
 With many a smile my solitude repay, 
 
 And chase the world's ungenerous scorn away. 
 
 Warsaw's last champion from her height sur- 
 veyed, 
 
 Wide o'er the fields, a waste of ruin laid — 
 
 *' Oh ! Heaven !" he cried, "my bleeding country 
 save ! 
 
 Is there no hand on high to shield the brave? 
 
 Yet, though destruction sweep those lovely plains, 
 
 Rise, fellow-men ! our country yet remains ! 
 
 By that dread name, we wave the sword on high ! 
 
 And swear for her to live ! — with her to die !" 
 
 He said, and on the rampart heights arrayed 
 His trusty warriors, few, but undismayed ; 
 Firm-paced and slow, a horrid front they form, 
 Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm ; 
 
 Low murmuring sounds along their banners fly, 
 Revenge, or death — the watchword and reply ; 
 Then pealed the notes, omnipotent to charm, 
 And the loud tocsin tolled their last alarm ! 
 
 In vain, alas ! in vain, ye gallant few ! 
 From rank to rank your volleyed thunder flew :^ 
 Oh, bloodiest picture in the book of time, 
 Sarmatia fell, unwept, without a crime ; 
 Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe, 
 Strength in her arm, nor mercy in her woe ! 
 Dropt from her nerveless grasp ,the shattered 
 
 spear, 
 Closed her bright eye, and curbed her high 
 
 career ; — 
 Hope, for a season, bade the world farewell. 
 And Freedom shrieked — as Kosciusko fell ! 
 
 Thomas Campbell. 
 
 THE PILGRIM. 
 
 '^ I ^WAS only a wandering pilgrim 
 
 I That slowly was treading along ; 
 
 -■■ 'Twas only the portal to heaven 
 That seemed to open in song. 
 But I had been wondering sadly 
 Of times that are borne in song. 
 
 His hair, it was gray as the snowflakes ; 
 
 His beard, it was hoary, too; 
 While his wrinkled hand with palsy shakes. 
 
 And a hazy mist is his view, 
 While tottering on to that portal 
 
 Which opens for me and for you. 
 
 Ay ! strong returns the remembrance I 
 
 Ay ! sad that form glided by ! 
 But never a fuller acceptance 
 
 Bequeathed to man from on high. 
 And I will cherish it ever 
 
 As a thing that cannot die. 
 
 For may I not once roam as sadly 
 The paths I now tread in glee? 
 
 And may not my thoughts once dream raadl);^ 
 Of the foam on the restless sea ? 
 
 Oh, will I then harbor in safety 
 On the shores of Qternity ? 
 
 MY TRUNDLE BED. 
 
 AS I rummaged through the attic, 
 List'ning to the falling rain. 
 As it pattered on the shingles 
 And against the window pane ; 
 Peeping over chests and boxes. 
 
 Which with dust were thickly spread]; 
 Saw I in the farthest corner 
 What was once my trundle bed 
 
 So I drew it from the recess. 
 
 Where it had remained so long, 
 Hearing all the while the music 
 
 Of my mother's voice in song ; 
 As she sung in sweetest accents, 
 
 What I since have o'ten read — 
 ^' Hush, my dear, lie still and slumber, 
 
 Holy angels guard thy bed." 
 
 As I listened, happy hours, 
 
 That I thought had been forgot, 
 Came with all the gush of memory, 
 
 Rushing, thronging to the spot ; 
 And I wandered back to childhood, 
 
 To those merry days of yore. 
 When I knelt beside my mother, 
 
 By this bed upon the floor. 
 
250 
 
 HOPE AND MEMORY. 
 
 Then it was with hands so gently 
 
 Placed upon my infant head, 
 That she taught my lips to utter 
 
 Carefully the words she said ; 
 Never can they be forgotten, 
 
 Deep are they in mem'ry graven — 
 '' Hallowed be thy name, O Father ! 
 
 Father ! thou who art in heaven." 
 
 Years have passed, and that dear mother 
 
 Long has mouldered 'neath the sod, 
 And I trust her sainted spirit 
 
 Revels in the home of God : 
 But that scene at summer twilight 
 
 Never has from memory fled. 
 And it comes in all its freshness 
 
 When I see my trundle bed. 
 
 This she taught me, then she told me 
 
 Of its import, great and deep — 
 After which I learned to utter, 
 
 '' Now I lay me down to sleep : " 
 Then it was with hands uplifted. 
 
 And in accents soft and mild. 
 That my mother asked — " Our Father ! 
 
 Father ! do thou bless mv child i" 
 
 T 
 
 REMEMBRANCE. 
 
 HE season comes when first we met. 
 But you return no more ; 
 Why cannot I the days forget. 
 Which time can ne'er restore ? 
 O days too sweet, too bright to last. 
 Are you indeed forever past ? 
 
 The fleeting shadows of delight, 
 
 In memory I trace : 
 In fancy stop their rapid flight 
 
 And all the past replace : 
 But ah ! I wake to endless woes, 
 And tears the fading visions close ! 
 
 Anne Hunter. 
 
 -EMBER PICTURE." 
 
 CLOSE by the embers 
 Burning low, 
 While she remembers 
 Long ago. 
 E'er the December's 
 Drifted snow 
 Silvered her soft brown hair: 
 Pensively rocking 
 
 To and fro ; 
 Memories flocking 
 
 Come and go ; 
 Holding a stocking 
 Long ago 
 Worn by a baby fair. 
 
 Sad as the sighing 
 
 Winds that blow, 
 Thoughts of one lying 
 
 'Neath the snow. 
 Flit through the dying 
 
 Embers' glow ; 
 And memories round her throng : 
 Memories bringing 
 
 Joy and woe — 
 Drifting — clinging 
 
 Like the snow. 
 While she is singing 
 
 Soft and low — 
 Singing a cradle song. 
 
 A LITTLE SONG OF HOPE. 
 
 I'VE battled through adversity when skies were 
 blue and bright 
 To win of fickle fortune but a feather in the 
 fight. 
 An' I've never felt a flurry nor the smallest mite 
 
 distressed, 
 Till Sol had sunk to slumber in the cradle of the 
 west. 
 
 It always seemed that even, with its darkness an' 
 
 its dew. 
 Brought forth a host of pigmies, an' these little 
 
 troubles grew 
 Till, like Gulliver, they bound me, an' when hope 
 
 had nearly gone, 
 I felt a peace come stealing through the gateway 
 
 of the dawn. 
 
 I've lain awake so troubled, an' a-tossin' through 
 
 the night, 
 A-hopin' I'd be guided in the paths o' truth an' 
 
 right, 
 A-wrestlin' with my conscience over somethin' I 
 
 had done. 
 Or else a-plannin' duties with the risin' o' the sun; 
 
 An' I've conjured up the sorrows that it seemed 
 were sure to fall 
 
 Upon me an' to wrap me in a sort o' sombre pall; 
 
 But the ills have always vanished when the morn- 
 ing cried. Begone ! 
 
 An' a dream o' peace came stealin' through the gate- 
 way of the dawn. 
 
 An' so I say to sinners, an' to saints who strive as well, 
 The cares that came upon you when the shades o' 
 
 sorrow fell 
 Will vanish with the vision of a soul-enlightened 
 
 day, 
 An' God will wipe the tear-drops from your swollen 
 
 eyes away. 
 
 The host of little worries that beset you through 
 the night 
 
 Shall flee in stealth, an', banished, shall be frown- 
 ing in their flight. 
 
 An' the rest will be the sweeter for the ills you've 
 undergone 
 
 When that holy peace comes stealing through the 
 gateway of the dawn, R. F. Greene. 
 
HOPE AND MEMORY. 
 
 261 
 
 MEMORIES. 
 
 A BEAUTIFUL and happy girl, 
 With step as light as summer air, 
 Eyes glad with smiles, and brow of pearl, 
 Shadowed by many a careless curl 
 Of unconfined and flowing hair; 
 
 A seeming child in everything, 
 
 Save thoughtful brow and ripening charms, 
 As nature wears the smile of spring 
 
 When sinking into summer's arms, 
 
 A mind rejoicing in the light 
 
 Which melted through its graceful bower, 
 Leaf after leaf, dew-moist and bright. 
 And stainless in its holy white, 
 
 Unfolding like a morning flower ; 
 
 A heart, which, like a fine-toned lute, 
 
 With every breath of feeling woke, 
 
 And, even when the tongue was mute, 
 
 From eye and lip in music spoke. 
 
 How thrills once more the lengthening chain 
 Of memory, at the thought of thee ! 
 
 Old hopes which long in dust 
 
 have lain, 
 Old dreams, come thronging 
 back again. 
 And boyhood lives again in 
 me ; 
 I feel its glow upon my cheek, 
 Its fulness of the heart is 
 mine, 
 As when I leaned to hear thee 
 speak, 
 Or raised my doubtful eye 
 to thine. 
 
 I hear again thy low replies, 
 I feel thine arm within my 
 own, 
 And timidly again uprise 
 The fringed Hds of hazel 
 eyes, 
 With soft brown tresses over- 
 blown. 
 Ah ! memories of sweet sum- 
 mer eves. 
 Of moonlit wave and wil- 
 lowy way, 
 Of stars and bowers, and dewy 
 leaves, 
 And smiles and tones more 
 dear than they ! 
 
 Ere this, thy quiet eye hath 
 smiled 
 My picture of thy youth to 
 see. 
 When, half a woman, half a 
 
 child, 
 Thy very artlessness beguiled, 
 And folly's self seemed wise 
 in thee ; 
 I too can smile, when o'er that 
 hour 
 The lights of memory back- 
 ward stream. 
 Yet feel the while that manhood's power 
 Is vainer than my boyhood's dream. 
 
 Years have passed on, and left their trace 
 Of graver care and deeper thought ; 
 
 And unto me the calm, cold face 
 
 Of manhood, and to thee the grace 
 Of woman's pensive beauty brought. 
 
 More wide, perchance, for blame than praise, 
 The schoolboy's humble name has flown: 
 
252 
 
 HOPE AND MEMORY, 
 
 Thine, in the green and quiet ways 
 Of unobtrusive goodness known. 
 
 And wider yet in thought and deed 
 
 Diverge our pathways, one in youth , 
 Thine the Genevan's sternest creed, 
 While answers to my spirit's need 
 
 The Derby dalesman's simple truth. 
 For thee, the priestly rite and prayer, 
 
 And holy day, and solemn psalm ; 
 For me, the silent reverence where 
 
 My brethren gather, slow and calm. 
 
 Yet hath thy spirit left on me 
 
 An impress time has worn not out, 
 And something of myself in thee, 
 A shadow from the past, I see, 
 
 Lingering, even yet, thy way about ; 
 Not wholly can the heart unlearn 
 
 That lesson of its better hours. 
 Not yet has time's dull footstep worn 
 
 To common dust that path of flowers 
 
 Thus, while at times before our eyes 
 
 The shadows melt, and fall apart. 
 And, smiling through them, round us lies 
 The warm light of our morning skies — 
 
 The Indian summer of the heart ! — 
 In secret sympathies of mind. 
 
 In founts of feeling which retain 
 Their pure, fresh flow, we yet may find 
 
 Our early dreams not wholly vain ! 
 
 J. G. Whittier. 
 
 THE UNHAPPY PA5T. 
 
 O MEMORY ! thou fond deceiver. 
 Still importunate and vain ! 
 To former joys recurring ever. 
 And turning all the past to pain : 
 
 Hence, intruder most distressing ! 
 
 Seek the happy and the free : 
 The wretch who wants each other blessing 
 
 Ever wants a friend in thee. 
 
 Oliver Goldsmith. 
 
 HEAVENWARD. 
 
 WOULD you be young again ? 
 So would not I — 
 One tear to memory given. 
 Onward I'd hie. 
 Life's dark flood forded o'er, 
 All but at rest on shore. 
 Say, would you plunge once more. 
 With home so nigh? 
 
 If you might, would you now 
 
 Retrace your way ? 
 Wander through thorny wilds, 
 
 Faint and astray ? 
 
 Night's gloomy waters fled, 
 Morning all beaming red, 
 Hope's smiles around us shed. 
 Heavenward — away. 
 
 Where are they gone, of yore 
 
 My best delight? 
 Dear and more dear, though now 
 
 Hidden from sight. 
 Where they rejoice to be. 
 There is the land for me ; 
 Fly, time — fly speedily. 
 
 Come, life and light. 
 
 Lady Nairne. 
 
 NEVER DESPAIR. 
 
 NEVER give up ! it is wiser and better 
 Always to hope, than once to despair ; 
 Fling off the load of doubt's cankering 
 fetter, 
 And break the dark spell of tyrannical care : 
 Never give up or the burden may sink you — 
 
 Providence kindly has mingled the cup; 
 And in all trials and troubles, bethink you 
 
 The watchword of life must be — never give up. 
 
 M. F. TuppER. 
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 THOU wert the first of all I knew 
 To pass unto the dead, 
 And Paradise hath seemed more true. 
 And come down closer to my view. 
 Since there thy presence fled. 
 
 The whispers of thy gentle soul 
 
 At silent lonely hours, 
 Like some sweet saint-bell's distant toll 
 Come o'er the waters, as they roll 
 
 Betwixt thy world and ours. 
 
 Oh ! still my spirit clings to thee. 
 
 And feels thee at my side ; 
 Like a green ivy, when the tree, 
 Its shoots had clasped so lovingly, 
 
 Within its arms hath died j 
 
 And ever round that lifeless thing 
 Where first their clusters grew. 
 
 Close as while yet it lived they cling. 
 
 And shrine it in a second spring 
 Of lustre dark and new. 
 
 T. Whytehead. 
 
 SUN OF THE SOUL. 
 
 SUN of the soul ! whose cheerful ray 
 Darts o'er this gloom of life a smile; 
 Sweet hope, yet further gild my way, 
 
 Yet light my weary steps awhile, 
 Till thy fair lamp dissolve in endless day. 
 J. Langhorne. 
 
HOPE AND MEMORY. 
 
 253 
 
 G 
 
 EDEN FLOWERS. 
 
 ENTLE mourner, fondly dreaming 
 O'er the grave of buried years, 
 Where the cold pale stars are gleaming 
 Far along this vale of tears; — 
 
 Sweetest spring from thoughts of sadness 
 Eden flowers that ne'er decay. 
 
 Here, of mirth and anguish blended, 
 Joys are born that cannot c'oy, 
 
 Fond enthusiast, wildly gazing 
 
 From the towers of childhood's home, 
 
 On the visioned beacon's blazing 
 
 Bright o'er ocean's sun-flushed foam; — 
 
 Hope's false mirage hides the morrow. 
 Memory gilds the days gone by ; 
 
 Give not thy young life to sorrow, 
 Trust not joys that bloom to die. 
 
 Fiercest throbs the pulse of gladness, 
 Heralding a darker day ; 
 
 Ending — not till life is ended — 
 In the painless, endless joy. 
 
 H. X. OXENHAM. 
 
 w 
 
 THE VISIONARY. 
 
 HEN midnight o'er the moonless skies 
 Her pall of transient death has spread. 
 When mortals sleep, when spectres rise, 
 And nought is wakeful but the dead ! 
 
 No bloodless shape my way pursues, 
 No sheeted ghost my couch annoys, 
 
254 
 
 HOPE AXD MEMORY, 
 
 Visions more sad my fancy views, 
 Visions of long departed joys ! 
 
 The shade of youthful hope is there, 
 
 That lingered long, and latest died ; 
 Ambition all dissolved to air, 
 
 With phantom honors at her side. 
 
 SAD RECOLLECTIONS 
 
 What empty shadows glimmer nigh ! 
 
 They once were friendship, truth, and love j 
 Oh, die to thought, to memory die, 
 
 Since lifeless to my heart ye prove I 
 
 W. E. Spencer. 
 
 COLD in the earth — and the deep snow piled 
 above thee. 
 Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave! 
 Have I forgot, my only love, to love thee. 
 Severed at last by time's all-severing wave ? 
 
 Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hover 
 Over the mountains, on that northern shore, 
 
 Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves 
 cover 
 Thy noble heart for ever, evermore? 
 
 No later light has lightened up my heaven, 
 No second morn has ever shone for me ; 
 
 All my life's bliss from thy dear life was given, 
 All my life's bliss is in the grave with thee. 
 
 But when the days of golden dreams had per- 
 ished, 
 And even despair was powerless to destroy ; 
 Then did I learn how existence could be cher- 
 ished, 
 Strengthened and fed without the aid of joy. 
 
 ^^^NX.V. 
 
 Cold in trie earth — and fifteen wild December , 
 From those brown hills, have melted into spring: 
 
 Faithlul, indeed, i^ the spirit that remembers 
 After such )ear, cf change and suffering! 
 
 Sweet love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee, 
 While the world's tide is bearing me along. 
 
 Other desires and other hopes beset me, 
 
 Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong I 
 
 LIGHT IN DARKNESS. 
 
 FATIGUED with life, yet loath to part. 
 On hope the wretch relies; 
 And every blow that sinks the heart 
 Bids the deluder rise. 
 
 Hope, like the taper's gleamy light. 
 
 Adorns the wretch's way ; 
 And still, as darker grows the night. 
 
 Emits a brighter ray. 
 
 Oliver Goldsmith. 
 
 Then did I check the tears of useless passion — 
 Weaned my }oung soul from yearning after thine; 
 
 Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten 
 
 Down to that tomb, already more than mine. 
 
 And even yet, I dare not let it languish, 
 
 Dare not indulge in memory's rapturous pain; 
 
 Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish. 
 How could I seek the empty world again ? 
 
 Emilv Bronte. 
 
 HOPE AND WISDOM. 
 
 YOUTH is the virgin nurse of tender hope. 
 And lifts her up and shows a far-off scene ; 
 When care with heavy tread would interlope. 
 They call the boys to shout her from the green. 
 
 Ere long another comes, before whose eyes 
 
 Nurseling and nurse alike stand mute and quail; 
 
 Wisdom : to her hope not one word replies, 
 And youth lets drop the dear romantic tale. 
 
 W. S. Landor. 
 
PATRIOTS AND HEROES 
 
 COMMEMORATING THEIR 
 
 NOBLE SACRIFICES AND VALIANT DEEDS, 
 
 THE LITTLE FIREMAN. 
 
 HAT do you think o' my youngster — he's a likely lad, sir, eh? 
 You wouldn't think he was a hero in the amateur-fireman way. 
 But he is. I can tell you a story that'll make you look and stare; 
 How he brought down a lad at a fire, sir, from the top of that 
 building there. 
 
 It's a hospital, that's what it is, sir ; and it's nearly a fortnight ago 
 
 Since a chum o' my Willie's went in, sir, on account of his health bein' 
 low. 
 
 And my Will he got anxious and worried, for he missed his young play- 
 fellow bad. 
 
 And he went about gloomy and grumpy, and always looked lonely and sad. 
 
 He was constantly watching that window (the top one, up there to the right), 
 And I'm certain, if I would a-let him, he'd a-looked at it all through the night 5 
 For his playfellow's bed lay near it, and my Willie knew that quite well, 
 And to look at that window was pleasure, far more than we can tell. 
 
 Well, he kept like that for some days, sir; he was 
 
 always a-watching that place, 
 When he rushed into me one evening, with a. look 
 
 of alarm on his face. 
 ** It's on fire !" he shouted ; *' oh, father, the nos- 
 
 pital's all in a blaze !" 
 And he looked at me with such eyes, sir, that I 
 
 shrank from his terrified gaze. 
 
 " Oh, father ! " he cried in his terror, and he seemed 
 
 nigh, ready to drop, 
 *' How can they get at poor Tommy? he's right at 
 
 the very tip-top, 
 It'll burn him right up to a cinder if he is obliged 
 
 to stay ; 
 I'll run out and tell them to fetch him," and he 
 
 instantly darted away. 
 
 I told him to stop, but he did'nt; so I followed 
 
 him, sir, like mad. 
 But he went on ahead like an engine, and the crush 
 
 was fearfully bad ; 
 The hospital, sir, was a-burning, and the flames 
 
 getting fiercer and higher, 
 Ybile the firemen were working their hardest to 
 
 get some control o' the fire. 
 
 They were fetching the patients out too, sir, as 
 
 quickly as ever they couid, 
 tVnd the fire-escape men were all busy and doing a 
 
 great deal of good ; 
 cc 
 
 But the friends of the patients were watching to 
 see that they all were got out. 
 
 And above all the roar of the flames, sii, we pre- 
 sently heard a shout : 
 
 '* There's a boy at the top forgotten," and I thought 
 
 c' my Will's little chum ; 
 And my eyes grew heavy and dim, sir, for the 
 
 great salt tears would come. 
 The firemen seemed well nigh distracted, — the 
 
 escape was on fire at the top ; 
 And they said it was death to ascend it, for the 
 
 ladder would certainly drop. 
 
 But a lad dashed up that escape, sir, as it seemed 
 
 to his certain death : 
 While the crowd stood speechless and silent, and 
 
 every one held his breath. 
 That boy was my Will^ I could see him, by the 
 
 light from the great red fire, 
 And I felt — well, I can't tell how, sir, as I saw him 
 
 mount higher and higher. 
 
 For the ladder seemed all of a totter, but that boy 
 of mine was so light 
 
 That he got to the window in safety ; and we saw 
 him get in all right ; 
 
 But he came out again in a second, and he carried 
 a small white pack ; 
 
 That boy had gone in after Tommy, and was bring- 
 ing him down on his back. 
 
 255 
 
266 
 
 PATRIOTS AND HEROES. 
 
 Such a cheer rent the heavens just then, sir, as I 
 never shall hear again ; 
 
 And the crowd got as mad as hatters, and shouted 
 with might and main. 
 
 But the lads got down safe to the ground, sir, and 
 both of 'em fainted away; 
 
 For after that dreadful excitement, 'twas no won- 
 der at all, I say. 
 
 What had this young man done to merit immor- 
 tality? The mission whose tragic issue lifted hin: 
 out of the oblivion of other minor British officers, 
 in its inception was free from peril or daring, and 
 its object and purposes were utterly infamous. 
 Had he succeeded by the desecration of the hon- 
 orable uses of passes and flags of truce, his name 
 would have been held in everlasting execration. 
 
 ARREST OF ANDRE. 
 
 What do you think of him, now, sir? a likely lad, 
 
 sir, eh ! 
 There's not many youngsters a-going as could act 
 
 in that sort of a way ; 
 For he risked his own life for his playmate, and 
 
 he's ready to do it still, 
 So I hope there's no harm in my saying I'm proud 
 
 of my Fireman Will. 
 
 John F. Nicholls. 
 
 ANDRE AND HALE. 
 
 Andre's story is the one overmastering 
 romance of the Revolution. American 
 and English literature are full of elo- 
 quence and poetry in tribute to his memory and 
 sympathy for his fate. After a lapse of a hundred 
 years there is no abatement of absorbing interest. 
 
 In his failure, the infant republic escaped the dag- 
 ger with which he was feeling for its heart, and the 
 crime was drowned in tears for his untimely end. 
 
 His youth and beauty, his skill with pen and 
 pencil, his effervescing spirits and magnetic dis- 
 position, the brightness of his life, the calm cour- 
 age in the gloom of his death, his early love and 
 disappointment, and the image of his lost Honora 
 hid in his mo.ith when captured in Canada, with 
 the exclamation, ''That saved, I care not for the 
 loss of all the rest," and nestling in his bosom 
 when he was slain, surrounded him with a halo of 
 poetry and pity which have secured for him what 
 he most sought and could never have won in bat- 
 tles and sieges — a fame and recognition which have 
 outlived that of all the generals under whom he 
 served 
 
PATRIOTS AND HEROES. 
 
 257 
 
 Are kings only grateful, and do republics for- 
 get? Is fame a travesty, and the judgment of 
 mankind a farce ? America had a parallel case in 
 Captain Nathan Hale. Of the same age as Andre, 
 he graduated at Yale college with high honors, 
 enlisted in the patriot cause at the beginning of 
 the contest, and secured the love and confidence 
 of all about him. When none else would go on a 
 most important and perilous mission, he volun- 
 teered, and was captured by the British. 
 
 While Andre received every kindness, courtesy 
 and attention, and was fed from Washington's 
 table. Hale was thrust into a noisome dungeon in 
 the sugar-house. While Andre was tried by a 
 board of ofiftcers, and l.~d ample time and every 
 facility for defence, Hale was summarily ordered 
 to execution the next morning. While Andre's 
 last wishes and bequests were sacredly followed, 
 the infamous Cunningham tore from Hale his 
 letters to his mother and sister, and asked him 
 what he had to say. ''All I have to say," was 
 Hale's reply, " is that I regret I have but one Ife 
 to lose for my country." His death was concealed 
 for months, because Cunningham said he did not 
 want the rebels to know they had a man who could 
 die so bravely. 
 
 And yet, while Andre rests in that grandest of 
 mausoleums, where the proudest of nations garners 
 the remains and perpetuates the memories of its 
 most eminent and honored, the name and deeds 
 of Nathan Hale have passed into oblivion, and 
 only a simple tomb in a village churchyard marks 
 his resting-place. The dying declarations of 
 Andre and Hale express the animating spirit of 
 their several armies, and teach why, with all their 
 power, England could not conquer America. ''I 
 call upon you to witness that I die like a brave 
 man," said Andre, and he spoke from British and 
 Hessian surroundings, seeking only glory and pay. 
 "I regret that I have only one life to lose for my 
 country," said Hale; and with him and his com- 
 rades self was forgotten in that absorbing, passion- 
 ate patriotism which pledges fortune, honor and I 
 life to the sacred cause. | 
 
 Chauncey M. Depew. 
 
 I 
 
 ANDRE'S REQUEST TO WASHINGTON. 
 
 T is not the fear of death 
 That damps my brow. 
 It is not for another breath 
 I ask thee now ; 
 I can die with a lip unstirred 
 
 And a quiet heart — 
 Let but this prayer be heard 
 Ere I depart. 
 
 I can give up my mother's look — 
 
 My sister's ki-~s ; 
 I can think of love — yet broe]'' 
 
 A death like this ! 
 
 17 
 
 I can give up the young fame 
 
 I burned to win — 
 All — but the spotless name 
 
 I glory in. 
 
 Thine is the power to give. 
 
 Thine to deny, 
 Joy for the hour I live — 
 
 Calmness to die. 
 By all the brave should cherish. 
 
 By my dying breath, 
 I ask that I may perish 
 
 By a soldier's death ! 
 
 N. P. Willis. 
 
 DYING FOR LIBERTY. 
 
 AS by the shore, at break of day, 
 A vanquished chief expiring lay. 
 Upon the sands with broken sword. 
 He traced his farewell to the free ; 
 And there the last unfinished word 
 He dying wrote, was ''Liberty!" 
 
 At night a sea-bird shrieked the knell 
 Of him who thus for freedom fell ; 
 The words he wrote, ere evening came. 
 
 Were covered by the sounding sea ; 
 So pass away the cause and name 
 
 Of him who dies for liberty ! 
 
 Thomas Moore. 
 
 THE LONE GRAVE ON THE MOUNTAIN 
 
 ON the crest of the hills I found it, 
 For the grave of a host there was room. 
 For the pyramids of ^gyptus 
 Are as naught to this lofty tomb. 
 There he lies till the trump shall call him, 
 
 In his grave on the hills, all alone ; 
 Just a soldier's grave, so they told me. 
 But yet one that a king might own. 
 
 There he fell, there he died, there the} laid him ; 
 
 Though unmarked and forgot, 'tis a throne. 
 What's his name? He died for his country. 
 
 Then what matter his name unknown ? 
 'Tis the act, not the actor, liveth ; 
 
 'Tis the deeds which we do crown the grave; 
 What life wins in transient glory ; 
 
 It is death makes a king or slave. 
 
 Here the sun's last blush lingers longest. 
 
 Here the feet of the morning first come. 
 And the thunder's voice speaketh his requiem, 
 
 Like the roll of a funeral drum. 
 See, the clouds above him are stooping. 
 
 And they gather around him and weep; 
 So I leave him, enwrapped in his glory, 
 
 With his God, on the hills, asleep. 
 
 Charles G. Beede. 
 
258 
 
 PATRIOTS AND HEROES, 
 
 I'M with you once again, my friends, 
 No more my footsteps roam ; 
 Where it began my journey ends. 
 Amid the scenes of home. 
 No other clime has skies so blue, 
 Or streams so broad and clear, 
 And where are hearts so warm and true 
 As those that meet me here ? 
 
 *M WITH YOU ONCE AGAIN. 
 
 In other countries when I heard 
 
 The language of my own, 
 How fondly each familiar word 
 
 Awoke an answering tone ! 
 But when our woodland songs were sung 
 
 Upon a foreign mart 
 The vows that faltered on the tongue 
 
 With rapture thrilled my heart ! 
 
 Since last, with spirits wild and free, 
 
 I pressed my native strand, 
 I've wandered many miles at sea, 
 
 And many miles on land : 
 I've seen fair regions of the earth 
 
 With rude commotion torn. 
 Which taught me how to prize the worth 
 
 Of that where I was born. 
 
 My native land ! I turn to you. 
 
 With blessing and with prayer, 
 Where man is brave and woman true, 
 
 And free as mountain air. 
 Long may our flag in triumph wave. 
 
 Against the world combined. 
 And friends a welcome — foes a grave. 
 
 Within our borders find. 
 
 George P. Morris. 
 
 IT IS GREAT FOR OUR COUNTRY TO DIE. 
 
 OH ! it is great for our country to die, where 
 ranks are contending : 
 Bright is the wreath of our fame ; glory 
 awaits us for aye — 
 Glory, that never is dim, shining on with light 
 never ending — 
 Glory that never shall fade, never, oh ! never 
 away. 
 
 Oh ! it is sweet for our country to die ! How softly 
 reposes 
 Warrior youth on his bier, wet by the tears of 
 his love. 
 Wet by a mother's warm tears; they crown him 
 with garlands of roses, 
 Weep, and then joyously turn, bright where he 
 triumphs above. 
 
 Not to the shades shall the youth descend, who for 
 country hath perished ; 
 Hebe awaits him in heaven, welcomes him there 
 with her smile ; 
 
 There, at the banquet divine, the patriot spirit is 
 cherished ; 
 Gods love the young who ascend pure from the 
 funeral pile. 
 
 Not to Elysian fields, by the still, oblivious river; 
 Not to the isles of the blest, over the blue, roll- 
 ing sea ; 
 But on Olympian heights shall dwell the devoted 
 forever ; 
 There shall assemble the good, there the wise, 
 valiant and free. 
 
 Oh ! then, how great for our country to die, in the 
 front rank to perish, 
 Firm with our breast to the foe, victory's shout 
 in our ear ! 
 Long they our statues shall crown, in songs our 
 memory cherish ; 
 We shall look forth from our heaven, pleased 
 the sweet music to hear. 
 
 James G. Percival. 
 
PATRIOTS AND HEROES. 
 
 259 
 
 THE CUBAN CRISIS. 
 
 RED is the setting sun, 
 Redder the Cuban sod ; 
 Maceo's valiant fight is done 
 For freedom and for God. 
 The long-leaved pine and the stately palm 
 
 Bend lowly in grief to-night, 
 And through the hush of the tropic calm 
 There rolls from the sea a mournful psalm, 
 A requiem over the right. 
 
 Honored with many scars 
 
 Now lies the hero brave ; 
 Pityingly the southern stars 
 
 Weep o'er the martyr's grave, 
 While night winds whisper of deeds so fell 
 
 That nature shudders in sleep. 
 And every tree in the crimson dell 
 Mutters a secret most dread to tell 
 
 Of treachery foul and deep. 
 
 Every land shall know, 
 
 Heaven and earth shall see ; 
 The whole world weeps when a traitor's blow 
 
 Strikes at the brave and free. 
 But from Havana comes clang of bells. 
 
 Borne gaily across the lea 
 From Morro Castle, where Weyler dwells, 
 A drunken wassail the clamor swells 
 
 With plaudits and fiendish glee. 
 
 Dark seem the midnights there, 
 
 Dark are the crimes they blot ; 
 But darker still are the dungeons where 
 
 The friends of freedom rot. 
 Their chains clank dull on the slimy walls, 
 
 Their festering bones protrude ; 
 And day after day the death bell tolls 
 As the drifting smoke from the slaughter rolls, 
 
 'Mid jeers from the multitude ! 
 
 Red is the rising sun, 
 
 Red with the wrath of God ; ^ 
 
 For Cuba reddens in streams that run f 
 
 With blood where her tyrants have trod. 
 Still flows to the sea the scarlet tide ; 
 
 How long shall it last, O Lord ! 
 But hell rolls on where the Spaniards ride, 
 And frenzied women in terror hide 
 
 From a fate far worse than the sword. 
 
 Our skies are obscured with smoke. 
 
 Our seas are stained with blood ; 
 Cur hills still echo the butcher's stroke 
 
 Across the crimson flood. 
 Our flag insulted, our brothers slain, 
 
 At last awakens our land ; 
 Now sweeps a tempest from every plain, 
 Our sovereign people have challenged Spain, 
 
 The judgment hour is at hand. 
 
 Louis S. Amonson. 
 
 THE LITTLE DRUMMER. 
 
 AT his post, the little major 
 Dropped his drum, that battle day ; 
 On the field, all stained with crimson. 
 Through that battle-night he lay. 
 Crying, *' Oh, for love of Jesus, 
 Grant me but this little boon, 
 Can you, friends, refuse me water — 
 Can you, when I die so soon !" 
 
 There were none to help or save him ; 
 
 All his friends had early fled, 
 Save the forms outstretched around him 
 
 Of the dying and the dead. 
 Hush ! they come, there falls a footstep — 
 
 How it makes his heart rejoice ; 
 They will help, oh, they will save him, 
 
 When they hear his fainting voice. 
 
 See, the lights are flourishing round him, 
 
 And he hears a loyal word ; 
 Strangers they whose lips pronounce it. 
 
 Yet he trusts his voice is heard ; 
 It was heard — oh, God forgive them, 
 
 They refuse his dying prayer ; 
 *' Nothing but a wounded drummer," 
 
 So they say, and leave him there. 
 
 See, the moon that shone above him 
 
 Veils her face as if in grief. 
 And the skies are sadly weeping. 
 
 Shedding tear-drops of relief. 
 Oh, to die, by friends forsaken. 
 
 With his last request denied ; 
 This he frets his keenest anguish. 
 
 When at morn he gasped and died. 
 
 THE POOR VOTER ON ELECTION DA\ 
 
 THE proudest now is but my peer, 
 The highest not more high ; 
 To-day, of all the weary year, 
 A king of men am I. 
 To-day, alike are great and small. 
 
 The nameless and the known; 
 My palace is the people's hall, 
 The ballot-box my throne ! 
 
 Who serves to-day upon the list 
 
 Beside the served shall stand ; 
 Alike the brown and wrinkled fist, 
 
 The gloved and dainty hand ! 
 The rich is level with the poor. 
 
 The weak is strong to-day ; 
 And sleekest broadcloth counts no more 
 
 Than homespun frock of gray. 
 
 To-day let pomp and vain pretence 
 
 My stubborn right abide ; 
 I set a plain man's common sense 
 
 Against the pedant's pride. 
 
260 
 
 PATRIOTS AND HEROES. 
 
 To-day shall simple manhood try 
 The strength of gold and land ; 
 
 The wide world has not wealth to buy 
 The power in my right hand ! 
 
 While there's a grief to seek redress, 
 
 Or balance to adjust 
 Where weighs our living manhood less 
 
 Than Mammon's vilest dust — 
 While there's a right to need my vote, 
 
 A wrong to sweep away, 
 Up ! clouted knee and ragged coat ! 
 
 A man's a man to-dav ! 
 
 J. G, 
 
 A BRAVE MAN. 
 
 w 
 
 Whittier. 
 
 NO common object to your sight displays, 
 But what with pleasure heaven itself sur- 
 ve) s, 
 A brave man struggling in the storm of fate, 
 And greatly falling wdth a falling state. 
 While Cato gives his little senate laws, 
 What bosom beats not in his country's cause ! 
 Who sees him act, but envies every deed ? 
 Who hears him groan, and does not wish to bleed? 
 
 Alexander Pope. 
 
 PATRIOTISM AND FREEDOM. 
 
 INSENSIBLE to high heroic deeds, 
 Is there a spirit clothed in mortal weeds, 
 Who at the patriot's moving story 
 Devoted to his country's good, 
 
 Devoted to his country's glory, 
 Shedding for freemen's rights his generous blood — 
 Listeneth not with deep heaved, high, 
 Quivering nerve, and glistening eye. 
 Feeling within a spark of heavenly flame. 
 That with the hero's worth may humble kindred 
 
 claim ? 
 If such there be, still let him plod 
 On the dull foggy paths of care. 
 Nor raise his eyes from the dank sod 
 
 To view creation fair : 
 What boots to him the wondrous works of God ? 
 His soul with brutal things hath ta'en its earthly 
 lair. 
 
 Oh ! who so base as not to feel 
 
 The pride of freedom once enjoyed, 
 
 Though hostile gold or hostile steel 
 Have long that bliss destroyed ! 
 
 The meanest drudge will sometimes vaunt 
 Of independent sires who bore 
 Names known to fame in days of yore. 
 
 Spite of the smiling stranger's taunt ; 
 
 But recent freedom lost — what heart 
 "^an bear the humbling thought — the quick' ning 
 
 mad'ning smart ? 
 
 Joanna Baillie. 
 
 ROMERO : 
 
 a fugitive from MEXICO. 
 
 HEN freedom, from the land of Spain, 
 
 By Spain's degenerate sons was driven, 
 Who gave their willing hmbs again 
 To wear the chain so lately riven ? 
 Romero broke the sword he wore — 
 '' Go, faithful band," the warrior said, 
 " Go, undishonored, never more 
 
 The blood of man shall make thee red: 
 I grieve for that already shed ; 
 And I am sick at heart to know, 
 That faithful friend and noble foe 
 Have only bled to make more strong 
 The yoke that Spain has worn so long. 
 Wear it who will, in abject fear — 
 
 I wear it not w^ho have been free ; 
 The perjured Ferdinand shall hear 
 No oath of loyalty from me." 
 
 Then, hunted by the hounds of power, 
 
 Romero chose a safe retreat. 
 Where bleak Nevada's summits tower 
 
 Above the beauty at their feet. 
 There once, when on his cabin lay 
 The crimson light of setting day, 
 When even on the mountain's breast 
 The chainless winds were all at rest, 
 And he could hear the river's flow 
 From the calm paradise below ; 
 Warmed with his former fires again. 
 He framed this rude but solemn strain : 
 
 ''Here will I make my home— for here at least I 
 
 see, 
 Upon this wild Sierra's side, the steps of liberty; 
 Where the locust chirps unscared beneath the un- 
 
 pruned lime, 
 And the merry bee doth hide from man the spoil 
 
 of the mountain thyme : 
 Where the pure winds come and go, and the wild 
 
 vine gads at will, 
 An outcast from the haunts of man, she dwells with 
 
 nature still. 
 
 ''I see the valleys, Spain ! where thy mighty rivers 
 
 run, 
 And the hills that lift thy harvests and vineyards 
 
 to the sun, 
 And the flocks that drink thy brooks and sprinkle 
 
 all the green. 
 Where lie thy plains, with sheep-walks seamed, and 
 
 olive-shades between ; 
 I see thy fig-trees bask, with the fair pomegranate 
 
 near. 
 And the fragrance of thy lemon -groves can almost 
 
 reach me here. 
 
 I "Fair — fair — but fallen Spain! 'tis with a swell- 
 I ing heart. 
 
PATRIOTS AND HEROES. 
 
 261 
 
 That I think on all thou mightst have been, and 
 look at what thou art ; 
 
 But the strife is over now, and all the good and 
 brave. 
 
 That would have raised thee up, are gone, to exile 
 or the grave. 
 
 Thy fleeces are for monks, thy grapes for the con- 
 vent feast, 
 
 And the wealth of all thy harvest-fields for the 
 pampered lord and priest. 
 
 '^ But I shall see the day, it will come before I die, 
 I shall see it in my silver hairs, and with an age- 
 dimmed eye ; — 
 When the spirit of the land to liberty shall bound, 
 As yonder fountain leaps away from the darkness 
 
 of the ground ; 
 And to my mountain cell, the voices of the free 
 Shall rise, as from the beaten shore the thunders 
 of the sea." 
 
 W. C. Bryant. 
 
 :,^\^ 
 
 \^/ 
 
 MARCH OF THE MEN OF 
 
 HARLECH CASTLE 
 HARLECH 
 
 The War of the Roses was a disastrous struggle which 
 desolated England during the fifteenth century. It v/as so 
 called because the two factions into which the country was 
 divided upheld the claims to the throne of the Houses of 
 York and Lancaster, whose badges were the white and the 
 red rose respectively. Harlech is an ancient town of North 
 Wales, situated on the sea coast. On a Pteep hill overlook- 
 ing the stream is its massive castle, which held out for the 
 House of Lancaster in the War of the Roses and l^ter for 
 
 Charles I. The "March of the Men of Harlech' 
 memorates its capture by the Yorkists in 1468. 
 
 M 
 
 EN of Harlech ! in the hollow, 
 Do you hear, like rushing billow, 
 Wave on wave that surging follow, 
 Battle's distant sound ? 
 'Tis the tramp of Saxon foeman, 
 Saxon spearsmen, Saxon bowmen, 
 
262 
 
 PATRIOTS AND HEROES. 
 
 Be they knights, or hinds, or yeomen, 
 
 They shall bite the ground ! 
 Loose thy folds asunder, 
 Flag we conquer under ! 
 
 The placid sky now bright on high 
 ohall launch its bolts in thunder ! 
 Onward, 'tis our country needs us, 
 He is bravest, he who leads us ! 
 Honor's self now proudly heads us ! 
 
 Freedom, God and Right ! 
 
 Cambria, God and Right ! 
 He is bravest, he who leads us ! 
 Honor's self now proudly heads us ! 
 
 Cambria, God and Right ! 
 Rocky steeps and passes narrow 
 Flash with spear and flight of arrow ; 
 Who would think of pain or sorrow ? 
 
 Death is glory now. 
 Hurl the reeling horsemen over ! 
 Let the earth dead foemen cover ! 
 Fate of friend, of wife, of lover, 
 
 Trembles on a blow ! 
 Strands of life are riven, 
 Blow for blow is given, 
 
 In deadly lock or battle shock, 
 And mercy shrieks to heaven ! 
 Men of Harlech ! young or hoary, 
 Would you win a name in story ? 
 Strike for home, for life, for glory ! 
 
 Freedom, God and right ! 
 
 Cambria, God and Right ! 
 Would you win a name in story ? 
 Strike for home, for life, for glory, 
 
 Cambria, God and Right ! 
 
 BEAUTY OF HEROIC DEED5. 
 
 THE presence of a higher, namely, of the spirit- 
 ual element is essential to its perfection. 
 The high and divine beauty which can be 
 loved without effeminacy, is that which is 
 found in combination with the human will, and 
 never separate. Beauty is the mark God sets upon 
 virtue. Every natural action is graceful. Every 
 heroic act is also decent, and causes the place and 
 the bystanders to shine. We are taught by great 
 actions that the universe is the property of every 
 individual in it. Every rational creature has all 
 nature for his dowry and estate. It is his, if he 
 will. He may divest himself of it ; he may creep 
 into a corner, and abdicate his kingdom, as most 
 men do ; but he is entitled to the world by his 
 constitution. In proportion to the energy of his 
 thought and will, he takes up the world into 
 himself. 
 
 " All those things for which men plough, build 
 or sail, obey virtue;" said an ancient historian. 
 **The winds and waves," said Gibbon, *'are 
 always on the side of the ablest navigators." So 
 are the sun and moon and all the stars of heaven. 
 When a noble act is done — perchance in a scene 
 of great natural beauty ; when Leonidas and his 
 three hundred martyrs consume one day in dying, 
 and the sun and moon come each and look at 
 them once in the steep defile of Thermopylae ; 
 when Arnold Winkelried, in the high Alps, under 
 the shadow of the avalanche, gathers in his side a 
 sheaf of Austrian spears to break the line for his 
 comrades ; are not these heroes entitled to add 
 the beauty of the scene to the beauty of the deed ? 
 
 When the bark of Columbus nears the shore of 
 America — before it, the beach lined with savages, 
 fleeing out of all their huts of cane ; the sea be- 
 hind; and the purple mountains of the Indian 
 Archipelago around, can we separate the man 
 from the living picture? Does not the New 
 World clothe his form with her palm-groves and 
 savannahs as fit drapery? Ever does natural 
 beauty steal in like air, and envelop great actions. 
 When Sir Harry Vane was dragged up the Tower- 
 hill, sitting on a sled, to suffer death, as the cham- 
 pion of the English laws, one of the multitude 
 cried out to him, *' You never sate on so glorious 
 a seat." Charles II., to intimidate the citizens of 
 London, caused the patriot Lord Russel to be 
 drawn in an open coach through the principal 
 streets of the city on his way to the scaffold. 
 ''But," to use the simple narrative of his biog- 
 rapher, '' the multitude imagined they saw liberty 
 and virtue sitting by his side." 
 
 In private places, among sordid objects, an act 
 of truth or heroism seems at once to draw to itself 
 the sky as its temple, the sun as its candle. Nature 
 stretcheth out her arms to embrace man, only let 
 his thoughts be of equal greatness. Willingly 
 does she follow his steps with the rose and the 
 violet, and bend her lines of grandeur and grace 
 to the decoration of her darling child. Only let 
 his thoughts be of equal scope, and the frame will 
 suit the picture. A virtuous man is in unison with 
 her works, and makes the central figure of the 
 visible sphere. 
 
 Ralph Waldo Emerson. 
 
 THE FATHERS 
 
 TO be cold and breathless, to feel not and 
 speak not, — this is not the end of existence 
 to the men who have breathed their spirits 
 into the institutions of their country, who have 
 Stamped their characters on the pillars of the age, 
 
 OF THE REPUBLIC. 
 
 who have poured their heart's blood into the chan- 
 nels of the public prosperity. 
 
 Tell me, ye who tread the sods of yon sacred 
 height, is Warren dead ? Can you not still see 
 him — not pale and prostrate, the blood of his 
 
PATRIOTS AND HEROES, 
 
 263 
 
 gallant heart pouring out of his ghastly wound, but 
 moving resplendent over the field of honor, with 
 the rose of heaven upon his cheek, and the fire of 
 liberty in his eye ? 
 
 Tell me, ye who make your pious pilgrimage to 
 the shades of Vernon, is Washington indeed shut 
 up in the cold and narrow house? That which 
 made these men, and men like these, cannot die. 
 
 The hand that traced the charter of Independ- 
 ence is, indeed, motionless ; the eloquent lips that 
 sustained it are hushed ; but the lofty spirits that 
 conceived, resolved and maintained it, and which 
 alone, to such men, make it life to live — these can- 
 not expire. Edward Everett. 
 
 THE INCORRUPTIBLE PATRIOT. 
 
 Governor Johnstone, of New Jersey, is said to have offered 
 Gen. Joseph Reed fifty thousand dollars if he would try to 
 re-unite the colonies to the mother country. Said he, " I am 
 not worth purchasing ; but, such as I am, the King of Great 
 Britain is not rich enough to buy me." 
 
 1 SPURN your gilded bait, oh, King ! my faith 
 you cannot buy ; 
 Go, tamper with some craven heart, and dream 
 of victory ; 
 My honor never shall be dimmed by taking such 
 
 a bribe ; 
 The honest man can look above ihe mercenary 
 tribe. 
 
 Carlisle and Eden may consort to bring about a 
 
 a peace ; 
 Our year of jubilee will be the year of our release. 
 Until your fleets and armies are all remanded back, 
 Freedom's avenging angel will keep upon your 
 
 track. 
 
 What said our noble Laurens ? What answer did 
 
 he make ? 
 Did he accept your overtures, and thus our cause 
 
 forsake ? 
 No ! as his country's mouth-piece, he spoke the 
 
 burning words, 
 *' Off with conciliation's terms — the battle is the 
 
 Lord's!" 
 
 Are ye afraid of Bourbon's house? And do ye 
 
 now despair. 
 Because to shield the perishing the arm of France 
 
 is bare ? 
 That treaty of alliance, which makes a double strife. 
 Has, like the sun, but warmed afresh your viper 
 
 brood to life. 
 
 And art thou, Johnstone, art thou, pray, upon this 
 mission sent, 
 
 To keep at distance, by thy craft, the throne's dis- 
 memberment ? 
 
 Dismemberment ! — ah, come it must, for union is 
 a sin. 
 
 When parents' hands the furnace heat, and thrust 
 the children in. 
 
 Why, English hearts there are at home, that pul- 
 sate with our own ; 
 
 Voices beyond Atlantic's waves send forth a loving 
 tone; 
 
 Within the Cabinet are men who would not offer 
 gold, 
 
 To see our country's liberty, like chattel, bought 
 and sold. 
 
 You say that office shall be mine if I the traitor 
 
 play: 
 Can office ever compensate for honesty's decay? 
 Ten thousand pounds! ten thousand pounds! Shall 
 
 I an Esau prove, 
 And for a mess of pottage sell the heritage I love? 
 
 If you can blot out Bunker Hill, or Brandywine 
 
 ignore, 
 Or Valley Forge annihilate, and wipe away its gore; 
 If you can make the orphans' tears forget to plead 
 
 with God, 
 Then you may find a patriot's soul that owns a 
 
 monarch's nod. 
 
 The King of England cannot buy the faith which 
 
 fills my heart ; 
 My truth and virtue cannot stand in traffic's servile 
 
 mart; 
 For till your fleets and armies are all remanded 
 
 back, 
 Freedom's avenging angel will keep upon your 
 
 track. Edward C. Jones. 
 
 REDMOND, IN ROKEBY HALL. 
 
 WILFRED has fallen— but o'er him stood 
 Young Redmond, soiled with smoke and 
 blood 
 Cheering his mates, with heart and hand 
 Still to make good their desperate stand. 
 *' Up, comrades, up ! in Rokeby halls 
 Ne'er be it said our courage falls — 
 What faint ye for their savage cry, 
 Or do the smoke- wreaths daunt your eye ? 
 These rafters have returned a shout 
 As loud at Rokeby 's wassail rout ; 
 As thick a smoke these hearths have given 
 At Hallowtide or Christmas even. 
 Stand to it yet ! renew the fight. 
 For Rokeby and Matilda's right ! 
 These slaves ! they dare not, hand to hand, 
 Bide buffet from a true man's brand." 
 
 Sir Walter Scott. 
 
 COURAGE ENSURES SUCCESS. 
 
 NO, there is a necessity in fate. 
 Why still the brave bold man is fortunate ; 
 He keeps his object ever full in sight, 
 And that assurance holds him firm and right ; 
 True, 'tis a narrow way that leads to bliss, 
 But right before there is no precipice ; 
 Fear makes men look aside, and so their footing 
 miss. John Dryden. 
 
:^64 
 
 PATRIOTS AND HEROES. 
 
 DO OR DIE. 
 
 1 DETEST that waiting; though it seems so safe 
 to fight 
 Behind high walls, and hurl down foes into 
 Deep fosses, or behold them sprawl on spikes 
 Strewed to receive them, still I like it not — 
 My soul seems lukewarm ; but when I set on them 
 Though they were piled on mountains I would 
 
 have 
 A pluck at them, or perish in hot blood ! 
 Let me then charge ! 
 
 Lord Byron. 
 
 HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS OF 
 BETHLEHEM, 
 
 AT THE CONSECRATION OF PULASKl'S BANNER. 
 Count Pulaski, a celebrated Polish officer, was born of dis- 
 tinguished parentage in 1747. Taking up arms against the 
 Russian invaders, he commanded in many battles and sieges 
 and performed many daring exploits. His fame as a warrior 
 was unrivaled. He went into exile in 1 772, and entered the 
 service of the United States five years later. Four days after 
 the battle of Brandy wine he was appointed commander of 
 the cavalry with the rank of brigadier-general. He resigned 
 his command and raised a body called Pulaski's Legion, 
 which was ordered to South Carolina early in 1779. He was 
 killed in the autumn of that year at the siege of Savannah. 
 The occasion of presenting to him a banner forms the subject 
 of the following poem : 
 
 WHEN the dying flame of day 
 Through the chancel shot its ray, 
 Far the glimmering tapers shed 
 Faint light on the cowled head ; 
 And the censer burning swung, 
 Where, before the altar, hung 
 The blood-red banner, that with prayer 
 Had been consecrated there. 
 
 And the nun's sweet hymn was heard the while. 
 Sung low in the dim, mysterious aisle. 
 
 " Take thy banner ! May it wave 
 Proudly o'er the good and brave; 
 When the battle's distant wail 
 Breaks the sabbath of our vale, 
 When the clarion's music thrills 
 To the hearts of these lone hills, 
 When the spear in conflict shakes. 
 And the strong lance shivering breaks. 
 
 " Take thy banner ! and, beneath 
 The battle-cloud's encircling wreath, 
 (iuard it ! — till our homes are free ! 
 Guard it ! — God will prosper thee ! 
 In the dark and trying hour, 
 In the breaking forth of power, 
 III the rush of steeds and men. 
 His right hand will shield thee then. 
 
 •' Take thy banner! But, when night 
 Closes round the ghastly fight. 
 If the vanquished warrior bow, 
 Sp?ire him ! — By our holy vow, 
 
 By our prayers and many tears, 
 
 By the mercy that endears. 
 
 Spare him ! — he our love hath shared ! 
 
 Spare him ! — as thou wouldst be spared ! 
 
 *' Take thy banner! — and if e'er 
 Thou shouldst press the soldier's bier, 
 And the muffled drum should beat 
 To the tread of mournful feet. 
 Then this crimson flag shall be 
 Martial cloak and shroud for thee.'* 
 
 The warrior took that banner proud, 
 And it was his martial cloak and shroud ! 
 
 H. W. Longfellow. 
 
 RETURN OF THE HILLSIDE LEGION. 
 
 WHAT telegraphed word 
 The village hath stirred? 
 Why eagerly gather the people ; 
 And why do they wait 
 At crossing and gate — 
 Why flutters yon flag on the steeple ? 
 
 Wall, stranger, do tell — 
 
 It's now a smart spell 
 Since our sogers went marchin' away, 
 
 And we calculate now. 
 
 To show the boys how 
 We can welcome the Legion to-day. 
 
 Bill Allendale's drum 
 
 Will sound when they come. 
 And there's watchers above on the hilL 
 
 To let us all know, 
 
 When the big bugles blow, 
 To hurrah with a hearty good will. 
 
 All the women folks wait 
 
 By the 'Cademy gate. 
 With posies all drippin' with dew ; 
 
 The Legion shan't say 
 
 We helped them away, 
 And forgot them when the service was through. 
 
 My Jack's comin', too, 
 
 He's served the war through ; 
 Hark ! the rattle and roar of the train ! 
 
 There's the bugle and drum, 
 
 Our sogers have come. 
 Hurrah ! for the boys home again. 
 
 " Stand aside ! stand aside! 
 
 Leave a space far and wide 
 Till the regiment forms on the track.** 
 
 Two soldiers in blue — 
 
 Two men — only two 
 Stepped off, and the Legion was back. 
 
 The hurrah softly died. 
 In the space far and wide. 
 As they welcomed the worn, weary menj 
 
PATRIOTS AND HEROES, 
 
 265 
 
 The drum on the hill 
 Grew suddenly still, 
 And the bugle was silent again. 
 
 I asked Farmer Shore 
 
 A question no more, 
 For a sick soldier lay on his breast ! 
 
 While his hand, hard and brown, 
 
 Stroked tenderly down, 
 The locks of the weary at rest. 
 
 Ethel Lynn. 
 
 PATRICK HENRY. 
 
 NO individual influenced by his eloquence the 
 cause of the American Revolution more 
 than did Patrick Henry. His great speech 
 before the Virginian Con- 
 vention has become historic, 
 passages of which have been 
 read and committed to mem- 
 ory by almost every school- 
 boy from that time to the 
 present. He insisted on the 
 necessity of fighting for in- 
 dependence, and closed with 
 the words, '' Give me lib- 
 erty or give me death !" 
 
 He was constantly in ad- 
 vance of the most ardent 
 patriots, suggesting and car- 
 rying into effect by his im- 
 mediate personal influence 
 measures that were opposed 
 as premature and violent by 
 all the eminent supporters of the cause of 
 liberty. Although unpromising and shiftless 
 in his early youth, he ripened out into a noble 
 manhood, and, being inspired by the struggle 
 for independence, he used all the resources of 
 his burning eloquence in favor of the colonies, 
 and has left behind him a name as a patriot 
 and an orator which history delights to commemo- 
 rate and advancing time does not eclipse. 
 
 HEROES OF THE MINES. 
 
 ID many strangely thrilling tales 
 That time to a wondering world 
 signs, 
 Is one from the rock-rent hills of Wales ; 
 
 Where men, down deep in its dark coal mines 
 Were there enclosed by the fire-damp's shock. 
 
 Imprisoned fast in the fearful gloom ; 
 
 While countless tons of the ruptured rock 
 
 Confined them there in a living tomb. 
 
 Grouped overhead were the weeping wives, 
 
 And men with faces stern and still, 
 Who sadly thought of the hundred lives 
 
 That death had claimed in the trembling hill ; 
 Or watched, impatient, the curling smoke 
 
 That rose from the burning mine below ; 
 
 And the roaring flames, that raged and broke 
 Like the waves of hell in their crimson flow. 
 
 Long hours they waited, then work began — 
 
 With a fierce desire to seek their dead ; 
 And no one shrank from the risk he ran, 
 
 But hearts were heavy with grief, as lead. 
 And they vainly hoped that a chosen few. 
 
 In the chambers somewhere beneath the ground, 
 Had refuge sought, and perhaps lived through, 
 
 And 'scaped the fate that the rest had found. 
 
 They fiercely labored through many days. 
 Nor paused to rest in the darksome night, 
 
 And slowly opened the cumbered ways. 
 Where many a bloody and ghastly sight 
 
 'M 
 
 con- 
 
 They met, in working and toiling by ; 
 
 And mangled corpses w^ere sent above, 
 Where hillsides echoed the anguished cry 
 
 Of some poor creature's despairing love. 
 
 But on they went ; for they found not all, 
 
 Though hundreds lay in the grasp of death- 
 And hourly hastened to catch the call 
 
 Of some poor wretch with expiring breath, 
 Who might have lived in a rock-hewn grave. 
 
 To hear the rapid but deadened sound 
 That told him comrades had sought to save, 
 
 And wrest its prey from the flinty ground. 
 
 When, sudden, a sound the stillness broke, 
 As the sound of waters far away ; 
 
 While each arrested his falling stroke, 
 No frozen statues as still as they 
 
 Who looked and listened in rapt surprise 
 To the shivering echoes, low and long, 
 
266 
 
 PATRIOTS AND HEROES, 
 
 While through the caverns fall and rise 
 The solemn chant of a sacred song. 
 
 A song that all, in their native tongue, 
 
 Had listened to on their mother's breast, 
 And heard in trembling accents sung 
 
 When friends were laid in the grave to rest ; 
 A hymn so old, as to form a part 
 
 Of the oldest legends the Welshmen knew, 
 To cling to their inmost soul and heart. 
 
 As the old home anthems ever do : 
 
 To the Christian's glad, triumphant strain. 
 
 That looked with trust to an awful death ; 
 That proudly conquered despair and pain. 
 
 And sang sweet songs with the latest breath. 
 No higher heroes in ancient days, 
 
 Who proudly figure in glorious tales, 
 Had stronger claims to the hero's praise 
 
 Than these rough men in the mines of Wales. 
 
 Then the seeking miners bent their powers 
 Till the sturdy strokes fell thick and fast, 
 
 " In the deep and angry billows 
 
 None can raise my sinking hea.d 
 But my fond and faithful Saviour, 
 
 Who hath lived and died instead. 
 Friend of friends in death's dark river, 
 
 Firm support upon the wave, 
 Seeing him I sing contented 
 
 Though death's waters round me rave.'' 
 
 Thus distant voices sang the song, 
 
 Afaint with fasting, but not with fears ; 
 For the brave old miners' hearts were strong, 
 
 While listening comrades heard with tears 
 The notes that the prisoned miners sang, 
 
 Who knew not yet that help drew nigh. 
 Till the dismal death-trap's echoes rang 
 
 With the fearless faith that dared to die ; 
 
 ' And working bravely a few short hours, 
 They rescued the little band at last ; 
 
 But some were discovered, alas, too late; 
 While those surviving the bitter fright 
 
 Bore such dread marks of their cruel fate 
 That strong men wept at the woeful sight 
 
 For hunger's clutches had marked each face 
 
 With the sign of suffering branded deep. 
 And the lines that pain's sharp pencils trace 
 
 On the forms that such dread vigils keep. 
 'Tis a simple story, sad but true. 
 
 Of the humble heroes, rough and brave, 
 Who sang a grand old anthem through 
 
 In the gloomy depth of a living grave — 
 One of the sadly simple tales 
 Of life and death in the mines of Wales. 
 
 J. Edgar Jones, 
 
PATRIOTS AXD HEROES. 
 
 267 
 
 THE LITTLE MAYFLOWER. 
 
 AXD now — for the fulness of time is come — 
 let us go up once more, in imagination, to 
 yonder hill, and look out upon the Novem- 
 ber scene. That single dark speck, just discernible 
 through the perspective glass, on the waste of 
 waters, is the fated vessel. The storm moans 
 through her tattered canvas, as she creeps, almost 
 sinking, to her anchorage in Provincetown harbor ; 
 and there she lies, with all her treasures, not of 
 silver and gold (for of these she has none), but of 
 courage, of patience, of zeal, of high spiritual 
 daring. 
 
 So often as I dwell in imagination on this scene ; 
 when I consider the condition of the Mayflower, 
 utterly incapable, as she was, of living through 
 another gale; when I survey the terrible front 
 presented by our coast to the navigator who, unac- 
 quainted with its channels and roadsteads, should 
 approach it in the stormy season, I dare not call it 
 a mere piece of good fortune, that the general 
 north and south wall of the shore c5 New England 
 should be broken by this extraordinary projection 
 of the cape, running out into the ocean a hundred 
 miles, as if on purpose to receive and encircle the 
 precious vessel. 
 
 A.S I now see her, freighted with the destinies of 
 a continent, barely escaped from the perils of the 
 deep, approaching the shore precisely where the 
 broad sweep of this most remarkable headland 
 presents almost the only point at which, for hun- 
 dreds of miles, she could, with any ease, have made 
 a harbor, and this, perhaps, the very best on the 
 seaboard, I feel my spirit raised above the sphere 
 of mere natural agencies. 
 
 I see the mountains of New England rising from 
 their rocky thrones. They rush forward into the 
 ocean, settling down as they advance ; and there 
 they range themselves, as a mighty bulwark around 
 the heaven-directed vessel. Yes, the everlasting 
 God himself stretches out the arm of his mercy 
 and his power, in substantial manifestation, and 
 gathers the meek company of his worshippers as 
 in the hollow of his hand. Edward Everett. 
 
 THE DRUMMER BOY OF SHILOH. 
 
 ON Shiloh's dark and bloody ground the dead 
 and wounded lay ; 
 Among them was a drummer boy who beat 
 the drum that day ; 
 ^ wounded soldier held him up, his drum was by 
 
 his side ; 
 He clasped his hands and raised his eyes, and 
 prayed before he died. 
 
 "Look down upon the battlefield, O, thou our 
 
 Heavenly Friend ; 
 Have mercy on our sinful souls :" the soldiers cried 
 
 Amen ; 
 
 For gathered 'round a little group each brave man 
 
 knelt and cried ; 
 They listened to the drummer boy, who prayed 
 
 before he died. 
 
 "Oh, mother," said the dying boy, ''look down 
 
 from heaven on me ; 
 Receive me to thy fond embrace, O take me home 
 
 to thee ; 
 I've loved my country as mv God, to serve them 
 
 both I've tried."' 
 He smiled, shook hands; death seized the boy, 
 
 who prayed before he died. 
 
 Each soldier wept then like a child, stout hearts 
 
 were they and brave ; 
 The flag his winding sheet ; God's book the key 
 
 unto his grave ; 
 They wrote upon a simple board these words : 
 
 " This is a guide 
 To those who'd mourn the drummer boy, who 
 
 prayed before he died." 
 
 Ye angels 'round the throne of grace, look down 
 upon the braves 
 
 Who fought and died on Shiloh's plain now slum- 
 bering in their graves ; 
 
 How many homes made desolate, how mar.y hearts 
 have sighed. 
 
 How many like the drummer boy, who prayed 
 before he died ! 
 
 THE MAN WITH THE MUSKET. 
 
 SOLDIERS pass on from this rage of renown. 
 This ant-hill, commotion and strife, 
 Pass by where the marbles and bronzes look 
 dowm 
 With their fast-frozen gestures of life, 
 On, out to the nameless who lie 'neath the gloom 
 
 Of the pitying cypress and pine : 
 Your man is the man of the sword and the plume, 
 But the man of the musket is mine. 
 
 I knew him ! By all that is noble, I knew 
 
 This commonplace hero I name ! 
 I've camped with him, marched with him, fought 
 with him, too, 
 
 In the swirl of the fierce battle-flame ! 
 Laughed with him, cried with him. taken a part 
 
 Of his canteen and blanket, and known 
 That the throb of his chivalrous prairie boy's hearc 
 
 Was an answering stroke of my own. 
 
 I knew him, I tell you ! And, also, I knew 
 
 When he fell on the battle-swept ridge, 
 That poor battered body that lay there in blue 
 
 Was only a plank in the bridge 
 Over which some should pass to a fame 
 
 That shall shine while the high stars shall shine ! 
 Your hero is known by an echoing name. 
 
 But the man with the musket is mine. 
 
268 
 
 PATRIOTS AND HEROES. 
 
 I "knew him ! All through him the good and the [ 
 bad 
 Ran together and equally free ; 
 But I judge as I trust Christ will judge the brave 
 lad, 
 For death made him noble to me ! 
 
 In the cyclone of war, in the battle's eclipse 
 
 Life shook off its lingermg sands, 
 And he died with the names that he loved on his 
 lips, 
 
 His musket still grasped in his hands ! 
 
 So darkly glooms yon thunder-cloud, 
 That swathes, as with a purple shroud, 
 Benledi's distant hill. 
 
 Is it the thunder's solemn sound 
 
 That mutters deep and dread, 
 Or echoes from the groaning ground 
 
 The warrior's measured tread ? 
 Is it the lightning's quivering glance 
 
 That on the thicket streams, 
 Or do they flash on spear and lance 
 
 The sun's retiring beams ? 
 
 Up close to the flag my soldier went down, 
 
 In the salient front of the line; 
 You may take for your heroes the men of renown, 
 
 But the man of the musket is mine. 
 
 H. wS. Taylor. 
 
 BATTLE OF BEAL' AN' DUINE. 
 
 THE Minstrel came once more to view 
 The eastern ridge of Benvenue, 
 For ere he parted, he would say 
 Farewell to lovely Loch Achray. 
 Where shall he find, in foreign land, 
 So lone a lake, so sweet a strand ? 
 There is no breeze upon the fern, 
 No ripple on the lake, 
 Upon her aerie nods the erne. 
 The deer has sought the brake, 
 The small birds will not sing aloud, 
 The springing trout lies still, 
 
 I see the dagger-crest of Mar, 
 I see the ISIoray's silver star, 
 Wave o'er the cloud of Saxon war, 
 That up the lake comes winding far ? 
 To hero, bound for battle strife. 
 
 Or bard of martial lay, 
 'Twere worth ten years of peaceful life. 
 
 One glance at their array ! 
 
 Their light-armed archers far and near, 
 
 Surveyed the tangled ground. 
 Their center ranks, with pike and spear, 
 
 A twilight forest frowned. 
 Their barbed horsemen, in the rear. 
 
 The stern battalia crowned. 
 No cymbal clashed, no clarion rang, 
 
 Still were the pipe and drum : 
 Save heavy tread, and armor's clang, 
 
 The sullen march was dumb. 
 
PATRIOTS AND HEROES, 
 
 269 
 
 There breathed no wind their crests to shake, 
 
 Or wave their flags abroad ; 
 Scarce the frail aspen seemed to quake, 
 
 That shadowed o'er their road ; 
 Their vanward scouts no tidings bring, 
 
 Can rouse no lurking foe, 
 Nor spy a trace of living thing, 
 
 Save when they stirred the roe; 
 The host moves like a deep sea-wave, 
 Where ride no rocks, its pride to brave, 
 
 High-swelling, dark and slow. 
 The lake is passed, and now they gain 
 A narrow and a broken plain. 
 Before the Trosach's rugged jaws: 
 And here, the horse and spearmen pause, 
 While to explore a dangerous glen, 
 Dive through the pass the archer-men. 
 
 At once there rose so wild a yell 
 Within that dark and narrov/ dell. 
 As all the fiends, from heaven that fell, 
 Had pealed the banner-cry of hell ! 
 Forth from the pass in tumult driven, 
 Like chaff before the wind of heaven, 
 
 The archery appear ; 
 For life! for life ! their flight they ply; 
 While shriek and shout and battle-cry, 
 And plaids and bonnets waving high. 
 And broadswords flashing to the sky, 
 
 Are maddening in the rear. 
 
 Onward they drive, in dreadful race, 
 
 Pursuers and pursued ; 
 Before that tide of flight and chase. 
 How shall it keep its rooted place, 
 
 The spearmen's twilight wood ? 
 *' Down ! down !" cried Mar, "your lances down ! 
 
 Bear back both friend and foe ! 
 Like reeds before the tempest's frown, 
 That serried grove of lances brown 
 
 At once lay leveled low ; 
 And closely shouldering side to side, 
 The bristling ranks the onset bide, 
 " We'll quell the savage mountaineer 
 
 As their Tinchell cows the game ! 
 They come as fleet as mountain deer, 
 We'll drive them back as tame," 
 Bearing before them in their course 
 The relics of the archer force, 
 Like wave with crest of sparkling foam, 
 Right onward did Clan Alpine come. 
 Above their tide, each broadsword bright 
 Was brandishing like gleam of light, 
 
 Each targe was dark below; 
 And with the ocean's mighty swing, 
 When heaving to the tempest's wing. 
 
 They hurled them on the foe. 
 
 I heard the lance's shivering crash, 
 As when the whirlwind rends the ash : 
 
 I heard the broadsword's deadly clang. 
 As if a hundred anvils rang; 
 But Moray wheeled his rearward rank 
 Of horsemen on Clan Alpine's flank, 
 ** My banner-man, advance ! 
 I see," he cried, '' their column shake; 
 Now, gallants ! for your ladies' sake, 
 Upon them with your lance!" 
 
 The horsemen dashed among the rout 
 
 As deer break through the broom ; 
 Their steeds are stout, their swords are out. 
 
 They soon make lightsome room. 
 Clan Alpine's best are backward borne ; 
 
 Where, where was Roderick then? 
 One blast upon his bugle horn 
 
 Were worth a thousand men. 
 And refluent through the pass of fear 
 
 The battle's tide was poured; 
 Vanished the Saxon's struggling spear, 
 
 Vanished the mountain's sword 
 As Bracklin's chasm, so black and steep 
 
 Receives her roaring lin ; 
 As the dark caverns of the deep 
 
 Suck the wild whirlpool in, 
 So did the deep and darksome pass 
 Devour the battle's mingled mass; 
 None linger now upon the plain, 
 Save those who ne'er shall fight again. 
 
 Sir Walter Scott. 
 
 FORGET NOT THE FIELD. 
 
 "^ORGET not the field where they perished, 
 "^ The truest, the last of the brave. 
 
 All gone — and the bright hopes we cher- 
 ished, 
 Gone with them, and quenched in their 
 grave ! 
 
 Oh ! could we from death but recover 
 Those hearts as they bounded before. 
 
 In the face of high Heaven to fight over 
 That combat for freedom once more ; — 
 
 Could the chain for an instant be riven 
 Which tyranny flung round us then, 
 
 No ! 'tis not in man, nor in heaven. 
 To let tyranny bind it again I 
 
 But 'tis past — and though blazoned in story 
 
 The name of our victor may be, 
 Accurst is the march of that glory 
 
 Which treads o'er the hearts of the free. 
 
 Far dearer the grave or the prison 
 
 Illumed by one patriot name, 
 Than the trophies of all who have risen 
 
 On liberty's ruins to fame. 
 
 Thomas Moore. 
 
270 
 
 PATRIOTS AND HEROES. 
 
 PAUL REVERE'S RIDE. 
 
 Paul Revere, an American patriot of the Revolution, and 
 one of the earliest American engravers, was bom at Boston 
 in 1735. He took an active part in the destruction of the tea 
 in Boston harbor, and was conspicuous for his patriotism in 
 the. political movements of the time. His midnight expedi- 
 tion to Concord to give notice of the intended attack of General 
 G^e forms the subject of the following spirited poem : 
 
 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 to-night, 
 
 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 he said good-night, and with muffled oar 
 
 Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore, 
 
 Just as the moon rose over the bay, 
 
 Where swinging wide at her moorings lay 
 
 The Somersett, 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 sombre rafters, that round him made 
 
 Masses and moving shapes of shade — 
 
 Up the light ladder, slender 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 churhyard, 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, 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 on 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 sombre, and still. 
 
PATRIOTS AND HEROES, 
 
 271 
 
 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 hurrying 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 that flies 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. 
 
 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 when the sun goes down. 
 
 It was one by the village-clock, 
 
 When he rode into Lexington. 
 
 He saw the gilded weathercock 
 
 Swim in the moonlight as he passed, 
 
 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 
 
 Blowdng 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 red-coats 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 our history to the last. 
 
 In the hour of darkness and peril and need, 
 
 "A 
 
 The people will waken and listen to hear 
 The hurrying hoof-beat of that steed. 
 And the midnight-message of Paul Revere. 
 
 H. W. Longfellow. 
 
 A SONG OF THE NORTH. 
 
 Captain Crozier, the second officer of Sir John Franklin's 
 last ill-fated expedition, sailed with Franklin in 1845, i"^ 
 search of a Northwest passage, after which nothing was 
 heard of the party until 1859, when Captain McClintock 
 found on King William's Island a record, dated April 25, 
 1848, signed by Captain Crozier, stating that the ships 
 Erebus and Terror had been abandoned and that the crews, 
 under command of Crozier, were about to start for Great 
 Fish River. Fitz James was one of the officers in command. 
 All of the expedition perished in the snows of the North, 
 after leaving relics which were discovered by subsequent ex- 
 peditions. 
 
 WAY ! away ! " cried the stout Sir John, 
 " While the blossoms are on the trees ; 
 For the summer is short and the time 
 speeds on. 
 As we sail for the northern seas. 
 Ho ! gallant Crozier and brave Fitz James ! 
 
 We will start the world I trow. 
 When we find a way to the Northern seas 
 
 That never was found till new ! 
 A good stout ship is the Erebus 
 
 As ever unfurled a sail, 
 And the Terror will match with as brave a one, 
 As ever outrode a gale." 
 
 So they bid farewell to their pleasant homes, 
 
 To the hills and valleys green, 
 With three hearty cheers for their native isle, 
 
 And three for the English queen. 
 They sped them away beyond cape and bay, 
 
 Where the day and night are one — 
 Where the hissing light in the heavens grew 
 bright 
 
 And flamed like a midnight sun. 
 
 There was nought below save the fields of snow, 
 
 That stretched to the icy pole ; 
 And the Esquimaux in his strange canoe. 
 
 Was the only living soul ! 
 Along the coast like a giant host. 
 
 The glittering icebergs frowned ; 
 Or they met on the main like a battle plain. 
 
 And crashed with a fearful sound ! 
 The seal and the bear, with a curious stare, 
 
 Looked down from the frozen heights. 
 And the stars in the skies with their great wild 
 eyes. 
 
 Peered out from the Northern lights. 
 The gallant Crozier and the brave Fitz James, 
 
 And even the stout Sir John, 
 Felt a doubt like a chill through their warm 
 hearts thrill 
 
 As they urged the good ships on. 
 
 They sped them away, beyond cape and bay, 
 Where even the tear-drops freeze ; 
 
272 
 
 PATRIOTS AND HEROES. 
 
 But no way was found by strait or sound, 
 
 To sail through the Northern seas ; 
 They sped them away, beyond cape and bay, 
 
 And they sought but they sought in vain ! 
 But no way was found, through the ice around 
 
 To return to their homes again. 
 But the wild waves rose, and the waters froze 
 
 Till they closed like a prison wall ; 
 And the icebergs stood, in the silent flood 
 
 Like jailers grim and tall. 
 O God, O God ! — it was hard to die 
 
 In that prison-house of ice ! 
 For what was fame, or a mighty name, 
 
 When life was the fearful price. 
 
 The gallant Crozier and the brave Fitz James, 
 
 And even the stout Sir John, 
 Had a secret dread, and the hopes all fled, 
 
 As the weeks and months passed on. 
 
 And deeper and deeper came tiic sleep, 
 Till they slept to wake no more ! 
 
 Oh, the sailor's wife and the sailor's child ! 
 
 They weep and watch and pray ; 
 And the Lady Jane, she will hope in vain 
 
 As the long years pass away ! 
 The gallant Crozier and the brave Fitz James. 
 
 And the good Sir John have found 
 An open way to a quiet bay, 
 
 And a port where all are bound. 
 Let the waters roar round the ice-bound shore 
 
 That circles the frozen pole, 
 But there is no sleep and no grave so deep 
 
 That can hold the human Soul. 
 
 Elizabeth Doten. 
 
 QUER= 
 
 Then the Ice King came, with his eyes of flame, 
 
 And looked on the fated crew ; 
 His chilling breath was as cold as death, 
 
 And it pierced their warm hearts through. 
 A heavy sleep that was dark and deep, 
 
 Came over their weary eyes. 
 And they dreamed strange dreams of the hills 
 and streams, 
 
 And the blue of their native skies. 
 
 The Christmas chimes of the good old times 
 
 Were heard in each dying ear, 
 And the darling feet and the voices sweet 
 
 Of their wives and children dear ! 
 But it faded away — away — away ! 
 
 Like a sound on a distant shore ; 
 
 THE "CONSTITUTION" AND 
 RIERE." 
 
 URING the War of 1812 a British squadron 
 sailed from Halifax to cruise off the port 
 New York. The American frigate 
 ^* Constitution," Cap- 
 tain Hull, while endea- 
 voring to enter New 
 York harbor, fell in 
 with this squadron, and 
 was chased by it for four 
 days. Her escape wa^ 
 due entirely to the supe- 
 rior skill of her officers 
 and the energy of her 
 crew. The chase was 
 one of the most remark- 
 able in history, and the 
 escape of the American 
 frigate won great credit 
 for Captain Hull. Fail- 
 ing to reach New York, 
 Hull sailed for Boston, 
 and reached that port in 
 safety. Remaining there 
 a few days, he put to sea 
 again, just in time to 
 avoid orders from Wash- 
 ington to remain in port. 
 The '' Constitution " sailed from Boston to the 
 northeast. On the 19th of August, while cruising 
 off the mouth of the St. Lawrence, she fell in with 
 the British frigate '* Guerriere," Captain Dacres, 
 one of the vessels that had chased her during the 
 previous month. The *' Guerriere " immediately 
 stood towards her, and both vessels prepared for 
 action. The English commander opened his fire 
 at long range, but Captain Hull refused to reply 
 until he had gotten his ship into a favorable posi- 
 tion, and for an hour and a half he manoeuvred in 
 silence, under a heavy fire from the British frigate. 
 At length, having gotten within pistol shot of 
 her adversary, the ^' Constitution " opened a ter- 
 rible fire upon her, and poured in her broadsides 
 
PATRIOTS AND HEROES. 
 
 273 
 
 with such effect that the " Guerriere " struck her 
 colors within thirty minutes. The "Guerriere" 
 lost seventy-nine men killed and wounded, while 
 the loss of the '' Constitution was but seven men. 
 The " Guerriere " was so much injured in the fight 
 that she could not be brought into port, and Hull 
 had her burned. 
 
 The ''Constitution" then returned to Boston 
 with her prisoners, and was received with an ovation. 
 It was the first time in half a century that a British 
 frigate had struck her flag in a fair fight, and the 
 victory was hailed with delight in all parts of the 
 country. 
 
 THE 5HIP OF STATE. 
 
 THE Ship of State — above her skies are blue. 
 But still she rocks a little, it is true, 
 And there are passengers whose faces white 
 Show they don't feel as happy as they might. 
 Yet, on the whole, her crew are quite contend". 
 Since its wild fury the typhoon nas spent ; 
 And willing, if her pilot thinks it best. 
 To head a little nearer south by west. 
 And this they feel, the ship came too near wreck 
 In the long quarrel for the quarter deck. 
 
 Now, when she glides serenely on her way, 
 The shallows past, where dread explosives lay, 
 The stiff obstructives' churlish game to try, 
 Let sleeping dogs and still torpedoes lie. 
 And so I give you all " The Ship of State ! 
 Freedom's last venture is her priceless freight. 
 God speed her, keep her, bless her while she steers 
 Amid the breakers of unsounded years. 
 Lead her through danger's path with even keel 
 And guide the honest hand that holds her wheel." 
 
 O. W. Holmes. 
 
 THE IMMORTALS. 
 
 PATRIOTS have toiled, and in their country's 
 cause. 
 Bled nobly, and their deeds, as they de- 
 serve, 
 Receive proud recompense. We give in charge 
 Their names to the sweet lyre. The historic Muse, 
 Proud of her treasure, marches with it down 
 To latest times : and Sculpture in her turn 
 Gives bond, in stone and ever-during brass, 
 To guard them, and immortalize her trust. 
 
 W 
 
 THE BALLOT BOX. 
 
 E have a weapon, firmer set. 
 
 And better than the bayonet ; 
 A weapon which comes down as still 
 As snow-flakes fall upon the sod, 
 But executes a freeman's v/ill 
 
 As lightning does the will of God. 
 Naught from its force, or bolt, or knocks 
 Can shield them — 'tis the Ballot Box. 
 
 John Pierpont. 
 18 
 
 PATRIOTISM. 
 
 ?^ EREFT of patriotism, the heart of 
 a nation will be cold and cramped 
 and sordid ; the arts will have no 
 enduring impulse, and commerce 
 no invigorating soul ; society will 
 degenerate, and the mean and vi- 
 cious triumph. Patriotism is not 
 a wild and glittering passion, but a 
 glorious reality. The virtue that 
 gave to paganism its dazzling lus- 
 tre, to barbarism its redeeming trait, to Chris- 
 tianity its heroic form, is not dead. It still lives 
 to console, to sanctify humanity. In every clime 
 it has its altar, its worship and festivities. 
 
 On the heathered hill of Scotland the sword of 
 Wallace is yet a bright tradition. The gen''is of 
 France, in the briUiant literature of the day, pays 
 its high homage to the piety and heroism of the 
 young Maid of Orleans. In her new Senate-hall, 
 England bids her sculptor place, among the efiigies 
 of her greatest sons, the images of Hampden and 
 of Russell. In the gay and graceful capital of 
 Belgium, the daring hand of Geefs has reared a 
 monument, full of glorious meaning, to the three 
 hundred martyrs of the revolution. 
 
 By the soft,. blue waters of Lake Lucerne scands 
 the chapel of William Tell. On the anniversary 
 of his revolt and victory, across those waters, as 
 they glitter in the July sun, skim the light boats 
 of the allied cantons. From the prows hang the 
 banners of the republic, and, as they near the 
 sacred spot, the daughters of Lucerne chant the 
 hymns of their old poetic land. Then bursts forth 
 the glad Te Deuniy and heaven again hears the 
 voice of that wild chivalry of the mountains which, 
 five centuries since, pierced the white eagle of 
 Vienna, and flung it bleeding on the rocks of Uri. 
 At Innspruck, in the black aisle of the old 
 cathedral, the peasant of the Tyrol kneels berore 
 the statue of Andreas Hofer. In the defiles and 
 valleys of the Tyrol, who forgets the day on which 
 he fell within the walls of Mantua ? It is a festive 
 day all through this quiet, noble land. In that 
 old cathedral his inspiring memory is recalled 
 amid the pageantries of the altar ; his image ap- 
 pears in every house ; his victories and virtues are 
 proclaimed in the songs of the people : and when 
 the sun goes down a chain of fires, in the deep red 
 light of which the eagle spreads his wings and 
 holds his giddy revelry, proclaims the glory of the 
 chief whose blood has made his native land a 
 sainted spot in Europe. Shall not all loin in this 
 glorious worship ? Shall not all have the faith, the 
 duties, the festivities of patriotism ? Happy is the 
 country whose sons and daughters love her sacred 
 soil, and are ready to consecrate it to freedom with 
 
 their blood. rr. ^ ^^ 
 
 T. F. Meagher. 
 
274 
 
 PATRIOTS AND HEROES, 
 
 S^- 
 
 THE PRIDE OF BATTERY B. 
 
 OUTH Mountain towered upon our right, far off the river lay, 
 And over on the wooded height we held their lines at bay. 
 At last the muttering guns were still, the day died slow and 
 
 wan ; 
 At last the gunners' pipes did fill, the sergeant's yarns be- 
 gan ; 
 When, as the wind a moment blew aside the fragrant flood 
 Our brierwoods raised, within our view a little maiden stood ; 
 A tiny tot of six or seven, from fireside fresh she seemed, 
 (Of such a little one in heaven one soldier often dreamed). 
 
 And as we started, one little hand went to her 
 
 curly head 
 In grave salute. *' And who are you? " at length 
 
 the sergeant said. 
 ''And where's your home?" he growled again. 
 
 She lisped out, " Who is me? 
 Why, don't you know? I'm little Jane, the pride 
 
 of Battery B. 
 My home ? Why that was burned away, and pa 
 
 and ma are dead, 
 And so I ride the guns all dav along with Sergeant 
 
 Ned. 
 And I've a drum that's not a toy, a cap with 
 
 feathers too, 
 And I march beside the drummer boy on Sundays 
 
 at review. 
 But now our 'bacca's all give out, the men can't 
 
 ^^l^ tj^^ir smoke, ,, i I Till after awhile, a far hoarse shout upon the wind 
 
 And so they re cross; why even Ned won t play heard 
 
 with me and joke. ! 
 
 And the big colonel said to-day — I hate to hear We sent it back, and cast sad eyes upon the scene 
 
 him swear — , around, 
 
 He'd give a leg for a good pipe like the Yanks had \ A baby's hand had touched the tie that brothers 
 
 Indeed I will, for Ned, say he, if I do what I say, 
 I'll be a general yet, maybe, and ride a prancing 
 bay." 
 
 We brimmed her tiny apron o'er. You should 
 
 have heard her laugh. 
 As each man from his scanty store shook out a 
 
 generous half. 
 To kiss the little mouth stooped down a score of 
 
 grimy men. 
 Until the sergeant's husky voice said, " 'Tention, 
 
 squad ! ' ' and then 
 We gave .her escort, till good-night the pretty 
 
 waif we bid. 
 And watched her toddle out of sight — or else 
 
 'twas tears that hid 
 Her tiny form — nor turned about a man, nor spoke 
 
 a word, 
 
 over there. 
 And so I thought when beat the drum, and the big 
 
 guns were still, 
 I'd creep beneath the tent and come out here 
 
 across the hill, 
 And beg, good Mister Yankee men, you'd give me 
 
 some Lone Jack; 
 Please do ! When we get some again I'll surely 
 
 bring it back. 
 
 once had bound. 
 That's all; save when the dawn awoke again the 
 
 work of hell, 
 And through the sullen clouds of smoke the 
 
 screaming missiles fell. 
 Our general often rubbed his glass and marveled 
 
 much to see 
 Not a single shell that whole day fell in the camp 
 
 of Batterv B. F. H. Gassaway. 
 
 HARMODIUS AND ARISTOGITON. 
 
 FROM THE GREEK. 
 
 Harmodius was a young Athenian, who, with his friend 
 Aristogiton, acquired celebrity by a conspiracy against Hip- 
 pias and Hipparchus, who held the chief power in Athens 
 about 525 B. C. Harmodius having received a personal 
 affront from Hipparchus. the two friends conspired to revenge 
 this by the death of both the brothers. They first attacked 
 and killed Hipparchus, whose guards then slew Harmodius 
 and arrested Aristogiton, who was afterwards put to death by 
 the order of Hippias. The latter having become tyrannical 
 and unpopular was expelled from the state about three years 
 after that event. Statues were erected at the public expense 
 to the memory of the conspirators, who were regarded as 
 heroes and martyrs of liberty. It is said that when the tyrant 
 Dionysius asked Antipho which was the finest kind of brass, 
 
 he replied, "That of which the statues of Harmodius and 
 Aristogiton are formed." 
 
 I 
 
 LL wreathe my sword in myrtle bough, 
 The sword that laid the tyrant low, 
 When patriots, burning to be free, 
 To Athens gave equality. 
 
 Harmodius, hail ! though reft of breath, 
 Thou ne'er shall feel the stroke of death; 
 The heroes' happy isles shall be 
 The bright abode allotted thee. 
 
PATRIOTS AND HEROES. 
 
 275 
 
 I'll wreathe my sword in myrtle bough, 
 The sword that laid Hipparchus low, 
 When at Athena's adverse fane 
 He knelt, and never rose again. 
 
 While freedom's name is understood. 
 You shall delight the wise and good; 
 You dared to set your country free, 
 And gave her laws equality. 
 
 Lord Denman. 
 
 His loss was deeply and universally lamented. 
 His memory is cherished with even warmer regard 
 than that of some others, who, from the greater 
 length of their career and the wider sphere in 
 which they acted, may be supposed to have ren- 
 dered more important services to the country. 
 He was born at Roxbury, Mass., in 1741, and 
 graduated at Harvard College in 1759. He pos- 
 sessed in high perfection the gift of eloquence. 
 
 WARREN AND BUNKER HILL. 
 
 GENERAL JOSEPH WARREN was one of 
 the most distinguished patriots of the 
 American Revolution. He opposed the 
 plan of fortifying the heights of Charlestown, but 
 the majority of the council of war decided against 
 him, and thus brought on the battle of Bunker 
 Hill before the Americans were fully prepared for 
 it. While both the armies were awaiting the 
 signal for action on the 17th of June, 1775, Gen- 
 eral Warren joined the ranks as a volunteer, and 
 declined to take the command of the army which 
 was offered to him by General Putnam. He was 
 about to retire from the redoubt, after the ammu- 
 nition of the Americans had been exhausted, 
 when he was shot in the forehead and instantly 
 killed. 
 
 ANDREAS HOFER. 
 
 Hofer was a celebrated Tyrolese patriot. With his army 
 of peasants he signally defeated the French commander after 
 a long and obstinate conflict, but, overpowered at last by the 
 reinforcements sent from France, he took refuge in the moun- 
 tains. Being soon after betrayed by a former friend, he was 
 tried and shot, February, 18 10. At the place of execution 
 he said *'he stood before Him who created him; and stand- 
 ing he would yield up his spirit to Him." A coin which had 
 been issued during his administration, he delivered to the 
 corporal, with the charge to bear witness, that in his last 
 hour, he felt himself bound by every tie of constancy to his 
 poor father-land. Then he cried " Fire !" 
 
 I WILL not kneel to yield my life ; 
 Behold me firmly stand. 
 As oft I've stood in deadly strife 
 For my dear father-land ; 
 
27G 
 
 PATRIOTS AND HEROES. 
 
 The cause for which I long have bled, 
 
 I cherish to the last — 
 God's blessing be upon it shed 
 
 When my vain life is past ! 
 
 On nature's ramparts was I born, 
 And o'er them walked elate, 
 
 My retinue the hues of dawn, 
 The mists my robe of state ; 
 
 I will not shame my mountain-birth, 
 Slaves only crouch to die, 
 
 Erect I'll take my leave of earth, 
 With clear and dauntless eye. 
 
 Thoughts of the eagle's lofty home. 
 
 Of stars that ever shine. 
 The torrent's crested arch of foam, 
 
 The darkly waving pine. 
 The dizzy crag, eternal snow. 
 
 Echoes that wildly roll — 
 With valor make my bosom glow. 
 
 And wing my parting soul. 
 
 This coin will make my country's tears, 
 
 Fresh cast in freedom's mould, 
 *Tis dearer to my brave compeers 
 
 Than all your despot's gold ; 
 O, let it bear the last farewell 
 
 Of one free mountaineer, 
 And bid the Tyrol peasants swell 
 
 Their songs of martial cheer ! 
 
 IVe met ye on a fairer field. 
 
 And seen ye tamely bow. 
 Think not with suppliant knee I'll yield 
 
 To craven vengeance now ; 
 Cut short my few and toilsome days. 
 
 Set loose a tyrant's thrall, 
 I'll die with unaverted gaze. 
 
 And conquer as I fall. 
 
 H. T. TUCKERMAN. 
 
 LEXINGTON. 
 
 SLOWLY the mist o'er the meadow was creep- 
 ing, 
 Bright on the dewy buds glistened the sun, 
 When from his couch, while his children 
 were sleeping, 
 Rose the bold rebel and shouldered his gun. 
 Waving her golden veil 
 Over the silent dale, 
 Blithe looked the morning on '^ottage and spire. 
 Hushed was his parting sigh, 
 While from his noble eye 
 Flashed the last sparkle of liberty's fire. 
 
 On the smooth green where the fresh leaf is spring- 
 ing 
 Calmly the first-born of glory have met ; 
 Hush ! the death-volley around them is ringing ! 
 Look ! with their life-blood the young grass is 
 wet ! 
 
 Faint is the feeble breath, 
 
 Murmuring low in death, 
 *' Tell to our sons how their fathers have died;" 
 
 Nerveless the iron hand. 
 
 Raised for its native land, 
 Lies by the weapon that gleams at its side. 
 
 Over the hillsides the wild knell is tolling. 
 
 From their fair hamlets the yeomanry come ; 
 As through the storm-clouds the thunder-bursi 
 rolling. 
 Circles the beat of the mustering drum. 
 Fast on the soldier's path 
 Darkens the waves of wrath. 
 Long have they gathered, and loud shall they fall, 
 Red glares the musket's flash. 
 Sharp rings the rifle's crash, 
 Blazing and clanging from thicket and wall. 
 
 Snow-girdled crags where the hoarse wind is rav 
 
 ing, 
 Rocks where the weary floods murmur and wail 
 Wilds where the fern by the furrow is waving, 
 Reeled with the echoes that rode on the gale ; 
 Far as the tempest thrills. 
 Over the darkened hills. 
 Far as the sunshine streams over the plain, 
 Roused by the tyrant band. 
 Woke all the mighty land, 
 Girded for battle from mountain to main. 
 
 Green be the graves where her martyrs are lying \ 
 Shroudless and tombless they sank to their rest 
 While o'er their ashes the starry fold flying. 
 Wraps the proud eagle they roused from his nest 
 Borne on her Northern pine. 
 Long o'er the foamy brine, 
 Spread her broad banner to storm and to sun ! 
 Heaven keep her ever free, 
 W^ide as o'er land and sea 
 Floats the fair emblem her heroes have won ! 
 
 O. W. Holmes. 
 
 THE SWORD OF BUNKER HILL. 
 
 HE lay upon his dying bed, 
 His eyes were growing dim 
 When with a feeble voice he called 
 His weeping son to him. 
 ''Weep not, my boy," the veteran said 
 
 " I bow to heaven's high will, 
 But quickly from yon antlers bring 
 The Sword of Bunker Hill." 
 
 The sword was brought ; the soldier's eyes 
 
 Lit with a sudden flame, 
 And as he grasped the ancient blade. 
 
 He murmured Warren's nam.e. 
 Then said : " My boy, I leave you gold. 
 
 But what is better still, 
 I leave you, mark me, mark me now. 
 
 The Sword of Bunker Hill. j^; 
 
PATRIOTS AND HEROES. 
 
 277 
 
 " *Twas on that dread immortal day 
 
 AVe dared the British band, 
 A captain raised this sword on me, 
 
 I tore it from his hand. 
 And as the awful battle raged, 
 
 It lighted freedom's wih ! 
 For, boy, the Gel of freedom blessed 
 
 The Sword of Bunker Hill. 
 
 *' O keep the sword " — his accents broke ; 
 
 A smile, and he was dead — 
 But his wrinkled hands still grasped the blade 
 
 Upon that dying bed. 
 The son remains, the sword remains, 
 
 Its glory growing still. 
 And many millions bless the sire 
 
 And Sword of Bunker Hill. 
 
 THE WOUNDED SOLDIER. 
 
 STEADY, boys, steady! Keep your arms 
 ready, 
 God only knows whom we may meet here. 
 Don't let me be taken ; I'd rather awaken 
 To-morrow, in — no matter where, 
 Than to lie in that foul prison-hole, over there. 
 Step slowly ! Speak lowly ! The rocks may l.^.e 
 
 life! 
 Lay me down in the hollow ; we are out of the 
 
 strife. 
 By heaven ! the foeman may track me in blood. 
 For this hole in my breast is outpouring a flood. 
 No ! No surgeon for me ; he can give me no aid; 
 The surgeon I want is a pick-axe and spade. 
 What, Morris, a tear? Why, shame on you, man! 
 I thought you a hero ; but since you began 
 To w^himper and cry, like a girl in her teens. 
 By George ! I don't know what the devil it means. 
 
 Well ! well ! I am rough, 'tis a very rough school* 
 This life of a trooper — but yet I'm no fool ! 
 I know a brave man, and a friend from a foe; 
 And, boys, that you love me I cartainly know. 
 
 But wasn't it grand, 
 "When they came down the hill over sloughing and 
 
 sand? 
 But we stood — did we not? — like immovable rock. 
 Unheeding their balls and repelling their shock. 
 Did you mind the loud cry, when, as turning to fly, 
 Our men sprang upon them, determined to die ? 
 
 Oh, wasn't it grand? 
 God help the poor wretches who fell in the fight ; 
 No time wa€ there given for prayers or for flight. 
 They fell by the score, in the crash, hand to hand, 
 And they mingled their blood with the sloughing 
 
 and sand. 
 
 Great heavens! This bullet-hole gaps like a 
 
 grave ; 
 A curse on the aim of the traitorous knave ! 
 Is there never a one of you knows how to pray, 
 
 Or speak for a man as his life ebbs away ? 
 Pray ! Pray ! 
 
 Our Father I Our Father! — why don't you pro- 
 ceed? 
 
 Can't you see I am dying? Great God, how I 
 bleed 1 
 
 Our Father in heaven — boys, tell me the rest. 
 
 While I stanch the hot blood from the hole in my 
 breast. 
 
 There's something about the forgiveness of sin; 
 
 Put that in ! put that in ! — and then 
 
 I'll follow your words and say an "Amen." 
 
 Here, Morris, old fellow, get hold of my hand, 
 And Wilson, my comrade — oh ! wasn't it grand 
 When they came down the hill like a thunder- 
 charged cloud, 
 And were scattered like mist by our brave little 
 
 crowd ? — 
 Where's Wilson, my comrade ? Here stoop down 
 
 your head. 
 Can't you say a short prayer for the dying and 
 dead? 
 
 -^' Christ-God, whc died for sinners all, 
 
 Hear Thou this suppliant wanderer's cry; 
 Let not e'en this poor sparrow fall 
 
 Unheeded by Thy gracious eye ; 
 Throw wide Thy gates to let him in. 
 
 And take him, pleading, to Thine arms; 
 Forgive, O Lord, his lifelong sin. 
 
 And quiet all his fierce alarms." 
 
 God bless you, my comrade, for singing that hymn. 
 It is light to my path, now my sight has grown 
 
 dim. 
 I am dying ! Bend down, till I touch you once 
 
 more; 
 Don't forget me, old fellow — God prosper this 
 
 war ! 
 Confusion to enemies ! — keep hold of my hand— 
 And float our dear flag o'er a prosperous land ! 
 
 J. W. Watson. 
 
 THE OLD GRENADIER'5 STORY. 
 
 ^'T^WAS the day beside the Pyramids, 
 I It seems but an hour ago, 
 
 -*■ That Kleber's Foot stood firm in squares, 
 Returning blow for blow\ 
 The Mamelukes were tossing 
 Their standards to the sky. 
 When I heard a child's voice say, "My men, 
 Teach me the way to die ! " 
 
 'Twas a little drummer, with his side 
 
 Torn terribly with shot ; 
 But still he feebly beat his drum, 
 
 As though the wound were not. 
 And when the Mameluke's wild horse 
 
 Burst with a scream and cry, ;^ 
 
 He said, " O men of the Forty-third, 
 
 Teach me the wav to die I " 
 
278 
 
 PATRIOTS AND HEROES, 
 
 ** My mother has got other sons, 
 
 With stouter hearts than mine, 
 But none more ready blood for France 
 
 To pour out free as wine. 
 Yet still life's sweet," the brave lad moaned, 
 
 *'Fair are this earth and sky ; 
 Then, comrades of the Forty-third, 
 
 Teach me the way to die ! " 
 
 I saw Salenche, of the granite heart, 
 
 Wiping his burning eyes — 
 It was by far more pitiful 
 
 Than mere loud sobs and cries. 
 One bit his cartridge till his lip 
 
 Grew black as winter sky, 
 But still the boy moaned, " Foity-third, 
 
 Teach me the way to die ! " 
 
 never saw I sight like that ! 
 The sergeant flung down flag, 
 
 Even the fifer bound his brow 
 
 With a wet and bloody rag ; 
 Then looked at locks, and fixed their steel, 
 
 But never made reply, 
 Until he sobbed out once again, 
 
 " Teach me the way to die ? " 
 
 Then, with a shout that flew to God, 
 They strode into the fray ; 
 
 1 saw their red plumes join and wave, 
 
 But slowly melt away. 
 The last who went — a wounded man — 
 
 Bade the poor boy good-by, 
 And said, -'We men of the Forty-third 
 
 Teach you the way to die ! " 
 
 I never saw so sad a look 
 
 As the poor youngster cast, 
 When the hot smoke of cannon 
 
 In cloud and whirlwind passed. 
 Earth shook and heaven answered : 
 
 I watched his eagle eye. 
 As he faintly moaned, *' The Forty-third 
 
 Teach me the way to die ! " 
 
 Then, with a musket for a crutch, 
 
 He limped unto the fight; 
 I, with a bullet in my hip, 
 
 Had neither strength nor might. 
 But, proudly beating on his drum, 
 
 A fever in his eye, 
 I heard him moan, "The Forty-third 
 
 Taught me the way to die ! ' ' 
 
 They found him on the morrow, 
 
 Stretched on a heap of dead ; 
 His hand was in the grenadier's 
 
 Who at his bidding bled. 
 They hung a medal round his neck, 
 
 And closed his dauntless eye ; . 
 On the stone they cut, '' The Forty-third 
 
 Taught him the way to die ! ' ' 
 
 'Tis forty years from then till now — 
 
 The grave gapes at my feet — 
 Yet, when I think of such a boy, 
 
 I feel my old heart beat. 
 And from my sleep I sometimes wake, 
 
 Hearing a feeble cry, 
 And a voice that says, " Now, Forty-third, 
 
 Teach me the way to die ! " 
 
 G. W. Thornbury. 
 
 THE HOMES OF FREEDOM. 
 
 I HAVE seen my countrymen, and have been 
 with them a fellow-wanderer, in other lands ; 
 and little did I see or feel to warrant the appre- 
 hension, sometimes expressed, that foreign travel 
 would weaken our patriotic attachments. One sigh 
 for home — home, arose from all hearts. And why, 
 from palaces and courts — why, from ,ealleries of the 
 arts, where the marble softens into life, and paint- 
 ing sheds an almost living presence of beauty 
 around it — why, from the mountain's awful brow, 
 and the lovely valleys and lakes touched with the 
 sunset hues of old romance — why, from those vener- 
 able and touching ruins to which our very heart 
 grows — why, from all these scenes, were they look- 
 ing beyond the swellings of the Atlantic wave, to 
 a dearer and holier spot of earth — their own, own 
 country? Doubtless it was, in part, because it is 
 their country. 
 
 But it was also, as every one's experience will 
 testify, because they knew that there was no oppres- 
 sion, no pitiful exaction of petty tyranny ; because 
 that there, they knew, was no accredited and irre- 
 
 sistible religious domination ; because that there, 
 they knew, they should not meet the odious soldier 
 at every corner, nor swarms of imploring beggars, 
 the victims of misrule ; that there, no curse cause- 
 less did fall, and no blight, worse than plague and 
 pestilence, did descend amidst the pure dews of 
 heaven ; because, in fine, that there, they knew, 
 was liberty — upon all the green hills, and amidst 
 all the peaceful valleys — liberty, the wall of fire 
 around the humblest home ; the crown of glory, 
 studded with her ever-blazing stars upon the proud- 
 est mansion ! 
 
 My friends, upon our own homes that blessing 
 rests, that guardian care and glorious crown ; and 
 when we return to those homes, and so long as we 
 dwell in them — so long as no oppressor's foot in- 
 vades their thresholds, let us bless them, and hallow 
 them as the homes of freedom! Let us make them, 
 too, the homes of a nobler freedom — of freedom 
 from vice, from evil, from passion — from every 
 corrup>ting bondage of the soul. 
 
 Orville Dewey. 
 
THE SWORD AND THE PLOW: 
 
 OR 
 
 THE VICTORIES OF WAR AND OF PEACE. 
 
 A DESERTER. 
 
 ^.ciERTER!" Well, Captain, the world's about right, 
 And it's uncommon queer I should run from a fight, 
 Or the chance of a fight ; I, raised in a land 
 Where boyt., you may say, are born rifle in hand, 
 And who've fought all my life for the right of my ranch. 
 With the wily Apache and the cruel Comanche. 
 
 But it's true, and I'll own it, I did ran away. 
 
 " Drunk?" No, sir; I'd not tasted a drop all day; 
 
 But — smile if you will — I'd a dream in the night. 
 
 And I woke in a fever of sorrow and fright 
 
 And went for my horse ; 'twas up and away; 
 
 And I rode like the wind, till the break of the day. 
 
 ^' What was it I dreamt?" I dreamed of my wife — 
 The true little woman that's better than life — 
 I dreamt of my boys — I have three — one is ten. 
 The youngest is four — all brave little men — 
 Of my one baby girl, my pretty white dove. 
 The star of my home, the rose of its love. 
 
 I saw the log house on the clear San Antoine, 
 And I knew that around it the grass had been 
 
 mown, 
 For I felt in my dream, the sweet breath of the 
 
 hay, 
 I was there, for I lifted a jessamine spray ; 
 A.nd the dog that I loved heard my whispered 
 
 command, 
 And whimpered and put his big head in my 
 
 hand. 
 
 The place was so still ; all the boys were at rest ; 
 And the mother lay dreaming, the babe at her 
 
 breast. 
 I saw the fair scene for a moment ; then stood 
 In a circle of flame, amid shrieking and blood. 
 The Comanche had the place —Captain, spare me 
 
 the rest ; 
 You know what that means, for you come from 
 
 the West. 
 
 I woke with a shout, and I had but one aim — 
 To save or revenge them — my head was aflame, 
 And my heart had stood still ; I was mad, I dare 
 
 say, 
 For my horse fell dead at the dawn of the day ; 
 
 Then I knew what I'd done, and with heart- 
 broken breath. 
 
 When the boys found me out I was praying for 
 death. 
 
 ''A pardon?" No, Captain, I did run away. 
 And the wrong to the flag it is right I should 
 
 pay 
 With my life. It's not hard to be brave 
 When one's children and wife have gone to the 
 
 grave. 
 Boys, take a good aim ! When I turn to the 
 
 west 
 Put a ball through my heart ; it's kindest and best. 
 
 He lifted his hat to the flag — bent his head 
 
 And the prayer of his childhood solemnly said — ■ 
 
 Shouted, ''Comrades, adieu!" — spread his arms 
 
 to the west — 
 And a rifle ball instantly granted him rest, 
 But o'er that sad grave by the Mexican sea, 
 Wives and mothers have planted a blossoming 
 
 tree, 
 And maidens bring roses, and tenderly say : 
 "■ It was love — sweetest love — led the soldier 
 
 away." Mapv A Barr. 
 
 279 
 
280 
 
 THE SWORD AND THE PLOW, 
 
 SONG OF THE GREEK AMAZON. 
 
 I BUCKLE to my slender side 
 The pistol and the scimitar, 
 And in my maiden flower and pride 
 Am come to share the tasks of war. 
 And yonder stands my fiery steed, 
 
 That paws the ground and neighs to go, 
 My charger of the Arab breed — 
 I took him from the routed foe. 
 
 My mirror is the mountain spring, 
 
 At which I dress my ruffled hair ; 
 My dimmed and dusty arms I bring, 
 
 And wash away the blood-stain there. 
 Why should I guard from wind and sun 
 
 This cheek, whose virgin rose is fled? 
 It was for one — oh, only one — 
 
 I kept its bloom, and he is dead. 
 
 But they who slew him — unaware 
 
 Of coward murderers lurking nigh — 
 And left him to the fowls of air. 
 
 Are yet alive — and they must die. 
 They slew him and my virgin years 
 
 Are vowed to Greece and vengeance now. 
 And many an Othman dame, in tears, 
 
 Shall rule the Grecian maiden's vow. 
 
 I touched the lute in the better days, 
 
 I led in dance the joyous band ; 
 Ah ! they may move to mirthful lays 
 
 Whose hands can touch a lover's hand. 
 The march of hosts that haste to meet 
 
 Seems gayer than the dance to me ; 
 The lute's sweet tones are not so sweet 
 
 As the fierce shout of victory. 
 
 W. C. Bryant. 
 
 THE SOLDIER'S WIDOW. 
 
 W 
 
 O for my vine-clad home ! 
 
 That it should ever be so dark to 
 me. 
 With its bright threshold, and its whispering tree ! 
 
 That I should ever come. 
 Fearing the lonely echo of a tread 
 Beneath the roof-tree of my glorious dead ! 
 
 Lead on, my orphan boy ! 
 Thy home is not so desolate to thee — 
 And the low shiver in the linden tree 
 
 May bring to thee a joy ; 
 But oh, how dark is the bright home before thee, 
 To her who with a joyous spirit bore thee ! 
 
 Lead on ! for thou art now 
 My sole remaining helper. God hath spoken, 
 And the strong heart I leaned upon is broken ; 
 
 And I have seen his brow — 
 The forehead of my upright one, and just — 
 Trod bv the hoof of battle in the dust. 
 
 He will not meet thee there 
 Who blest thee at the eventide, my son \ 
 And when the shadows of the night steal on, 
 
 He will not call to prayer. 
 The lips that melted, giving thee to God, 
 Are in the icy keeping of the sod! 
 
 Ay, my own boy ! thy sire 
 Is with the sleepers of the valley cast, 
 And the proud glory of my life hath passed 
 
 With his high glance of fire. 
 Wo that the linden and the vine should bloom. 
 And a just man be gathered to the tomb ! 
 
 Why — bear them proudly, boy ! 
 It is the sword he girded to his thigh — 
 It is the helm he wore in victory — 
 
 And shall we have no joy ? 
 For thy green vales, oh Switzerland, he died ! — 
 I will forget my sorrow in my pride ! 
 
 N. P. Willis. 
 
 M 
 
 HOME FROM THE WAR. 
 
 ARCH ! nor heed those arms that hold thee, 
 Though so fondly close they come ; 
 Closer still will they enfold thee. 
 When thou bring' st fresh laurels home. 
 Dost thou dote on woman's brow? 
 
 Dost thou live but in her breath ? 
 March ! — one hour of victory now 
 Wins thee woman's smile till death. 
 
 Oh, what bliss, when war is over, 
 
 Beauty's long-missed smile to meet. 
 And, when wreaths our temples cover, 
 
 Lay them shining at her feet ! 
 Who would not, that hour to reach. 
 
 Breathe out life's expiring sigh — 
 Proud as waves that on the beach 
 
 Lay their war-crests down, and die? 
 
 There ! I see thy soul is burning ; 
 
 She herself, who clasps thee so. 
 Paints, ev'n now, thy glad returning. 
 
 And, while clasping, bids thee go. 
 One deep sigh, to passion given. 
 
 One last glowing tear, and then — 
 March! — nor rest thy sword, till Heaven 
 
 Brings thee to those arms again. 
 
 Thomas Moore. 
 
 THE GOLDEN AGE. 
 
 FOR lo ! the days are hastening on; 
 By prophet bards foretold, 
 When, with the ever circling years, 
 Comes round the age of gold ! 
 When peace shall over all the earth 
 Its final splendors fling, 
 And the whole world send back the song 
 Which now the angels sing ! 
 
281 
 
282 
 
 THE SWORD AND THE PLOW. 
 
 THE SWORD. 
 
 OVER the mantel hangs the sword, 
 Sheathed in scabbard, dented and old; 
 Red scarf, tasseled and faded there, 
 Clings to the hilt, never a word. 
 All the battles are left untold — 
 
 Fighting and blood, or when and where, 
 The sword speaks not ; the sword is great ; 
 Silence is gold when acts are fate. 
 
 Blood, did you say ? Ay, death on death ! 
 Who knows? Where is the wearer now — 
 He whose right arm wielded it then ? 
 Dust, with the host that breathed the breath 
 Of the battle years, when the nation's vow 
 Freedomed the lives of a million men. 
 Silent? Ah, yes ! The man who led 
 With horse and yonder sword, is dead. 
 
 Who can tell of its flashing blade ? 
 Who confess the valor it taught ? 
 
 Where are the ranks that followed its lead? 
 Where are the fields of carnage laid ? 
 Where the hearts that back of it fought? 
 On what page is written their meed ? 
 Silent the men and their battle-cry, 
 They who challenged their fate — to die ! 
 
 Powerless now on the panelled wall — 
 
 Nevertheless — smitten like its master's hand ; 
 . Flash gone out of its tempered steel 
 Since it lay on its master's pall ; 
 
 Bound no more by the red scarf band 
 Near the heart that it once could feel ; 
 Never again to mix in the din 
 Or in the van to lose or to win ! 
 
 Peace is carved on the rusty sword. 
 Peace is wrought in the silent stone. 
 Memory crowned by love's true art ; 
 Battle and victory speak no word ; 
 Sword art thou of the spirit of one 
 
 Whom death enshrines in the reverent heart ; 
 Love and honor gleam from thy blade — 
 Battle and victory fade and fade ! 
 
 Stephen H. Thayer. 
 
 LOVE AND PEACE. 
 
 THERE is a story told 
 In Eastern tents, when autumn nights grow 
 cold, 
 And round the fire the Mongol shepherds sit 
 With grave responses listening unto it : 
 Once, on the errands of his mercy bent, 
 Buddha, the holy and benevolent, 
 Met a fell monster, huge and fierce of look, 
 Whose awful voice the hills and forests shook. 
 "■ O son of peace ! " the giant cried, "■ thy fate 
 Is sealed at last, and love shall yield to hate." 
 The unarmed Buddha looking, with no trace 
 Of fear or anger, in the monster's face, 
 With pity said ; ''Poor fiend, even thee I love." 
 
 Lo ! as he spake, the sky-tall terror sank 
 To handbreadth size ; the huge abhorrence shrank 
 Into the form and fashion of a dove ; 
 And where the thunder of its rage was heard, 
 Brooding above him sweetly sang the bird : 
 '' Hate hath no harm for love," so ran the song, 
 '* And peace unweaponed conquers every wrong ! ' ' 
 
 J. G. Whitiier. 
 
 THE RAVAGES OF WAR. 
 
 1NEED not dwell now on the waste and cruelty 
 of war. These stare us wildly in the face, 
 like lurid meteor lights, as we travel the page 
 of history. We see the desolation and death that 
 pursue its demoniac footsteps. We look upon 
 sacked towns, upon ravaged territories, upon vio- 
 lated homes ; we behold all the sweets charities of 
 life changed to wormwood and gall. Our soul 
 is penetrated by the sharp moan of mothers, sis- 
 ters and daughters — of fathers, brothers and sons, 
 who, in the bitterness of their bereavement, refuse 
 to be comforted. Our eyes rest at last upon one 
 of those fair fields, where nature in her abundance 
 spreads her cloth of gold, spacious and apt, for 
 the entertainment of mighty multitudes ; or, per- 
 haps, from the curious subtlety of its position, like 
 the carpet in the Arabian tale, seeming to contract 
 so as to be covered by a few only, or to dilate so 
 as to receive an innumerable host. 
 
 Here, under a bright sun, such as shone at Aus- 
 terlitz or Buena Vista- amidst the peaceful har- 
 monies of nature — on the Sabbath of peace — we 
 behold bands of brothers, children of a common 
 Father, heirs to a common happiness, struggling 
 together in the deadly fight, with the madness of 
 fallen spirits, seeking with murderous weapons the 
 lives of brothers who have never injured them or 
 their kindred. The havoc rages. The ground 
 is soaked with their commingling blood. '1 he air 
 is rent by their commingling cries. Horse and 
 rider are stretched together on the earth. 
 
 Islore revolting than the mangled victims, than 
 the gashed limbs, than the lifeless trunks, than the 
 spattering brains, are the lawless passions which 
 sweep, tempest-like, through the fiendish tumult. 
 
 Nearer comes the storm, and nearer, rolling fast 
 and frightful on. 
 
 Speak, Ximena, speak and tell us, who has lost 
 and who has won ? 
 
 *'Alas! alas! I know not; friend and foe to- 
 gether fall. 
 
 O'er the dying rush the living; pray, my sister, 
 for them all! " 
 
 Horror-struck, we asked, wherefore this hateful 
 contest? The melancholy, but truthful answer 
 comes, that this is the establishrd method of deter- 
 mining justice between nations 1 
 
 Charles Sumner. 
 
THE SWORD AND THE PLOW, 
 
 283 
 
 ^'T^IS midnight : on the mountains brown 
 I The cold round moon shines deeply down; 
 
 Blue roll the waters, blue the sky 
 Spreads like an ocean hung on high 
 Bespangled with those isles of light, 
 So wildly, spiritually bright ; 
 
 THE TURKI5H CAMP. 
 
 BEFORE CORINTH. 
 
 And echo answered from the hill, 
 And the wide hum of that wild host 
 Rustled like leaves from coast to coast, 
 As rose the Muezzin's voice in air 
 In midnight call to wonted prayer ; 
 It rose, that chanted mournful strain, 
 
 Who ever gazed upon them shining, 
 And turned to earth without repining 
 Nor wished for wings to flee away, 
 And mix with their eternal ray ? 
 The waves on either shore lay there, 
 Calm, clear, and azure as the air : 
 And scarce their foam the pebbles shook. 
 But murmured meekly as the brook. 
 
 The winds were pillowed on the waves ; 
 The banners drooped along their staves, 
 And, as they fell around them furling, 
 Above them shone the crescent curling; 
 And that deep silence was unbroke, 
 Save where the watch his signal spoke, 
 Save where the steed neighed oft and 
 shrill, 
 
 Like some lone spirit's o'er the plain : 
 
 'Twas musical, but sadly sweet, 
 
 Such as when winds and harp-strings meet, 
 
 And take a long unmeasured tone, 
 
 To mortal minstrelsy unknown. 
 
 It seemed to those within the wall 
 A cry prophetic of their fall ; 
 It struck even the besieger's ear 
 With something ominous and drear, 
 An undefined and sudden thrill, 
 Which makes the heart a moment still, 
 Then beat with quicker pnlse, ashamed 
 Of that strange sense its silence framed ; 
 Such as a sudden passing-bell 
 Wakes, though but for a stranger's knell. 
 
 Lord Byron. 
 
284 
 
 THE SWORD AND THE PLOW. 
 
 THE BATTLE=FIELD. 
 
 This striking poem is an American classic. Two lines 
 alone, if there were no others, are enough to give it immor- 
 tal fame : 
 
 " Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again ; 
 The eternal years of God are hers." 
 
 O 
 
 NCE 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 fought 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 w\andering 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 ! 
 
 Soon rested those who fought ; but thou 
 Who minglest in the harder strife 
 
 For truths which men receive not now. 
 Thy warfare only ends with life. 
 
 A friendless w^arfare ! 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 frown — 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 worshippers. 
 
 Yea, 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. 
 
 W. C. Bryant. 
 
 THE REGIMENT'S RETURN. 
 
 HE is coming, he is coming, my true-love comes 
 home to-day ; 
 All the city throngs to meet him as he lin- 
 gers by the way. 
 He is coming from the battle, with his knapsack 
 
 and his gun — 
 He, a hundred times my darling, for the dangers 
 he hath run. 
 
 Twice they said that he was dead, but I would not 
 believe the lie; 
 
 While my faithful heart kept loving him I knew he 
 could not die. 
 
 All in white will I array me, with a rosebud in my 
 hair. 
 
 And his ring upon my finger — he shall see it shin- 
 ing there. 
 
 He will kiss me, he will kiss me with the kiss of 
 
 long ago; 
 He will fold his arms around me close, and I shall 
 
 cry, I know. 
 Oh the years that I have waited — rather lives they 
 
 seemed to be — 
 For the dawning of the happy day that brings him 
 
 back to me. 
 But the worthy cause has triumphed. Oh, joy ! 
 
 the war is over. 
 He is coming, he is coming, my gallant soldier 
 
 lover. 
 
 Men are shouting all around me, women weep and 
 laugh for joy, 
 
 Wives behold again their husbands, and the mother 
 clasps her boy; 
 
 All the city throbs with passion; 'tis a day cf 
 jubilee ; 
 
 But the happiness of thousands brings not happi- 
 ness to me ; 
 
 I remember, I remember, when the soldiers vf^,\\. 
 away, 
 
 There was one among the noblest who has not re- 
 turned to-day. 
 
 Oh, I loved him, how I loved him, and I never 
 
 can forget 
 That he kissed me as we parted, for the kiss is 
 
 burning yet ! 
 'Tis his picture in my bosom, where his head will 
 
 never lie ; 
 'Tis his ring upon my finger — I will wear it till I 
 
 die. 
 Oh, his comrades say that dying he looked up and 
 
 breathed my name ; 
 They have come to those that loved them but my 
 
 darling never came. 
 Oh, they snid he died a heru — but I knew how 
 
 thnt would be ; 
 And they sav the cause has triumphed — will that 
 
 bring him back to me? E. J. Cutler. 
 
THE SWORD AND THE PLOW, 
 
 285 
 
 WAR'5 DESTRUCTION. 
 
 CONCEIVE, but for a moment, the conster- 
 nation which the approach of an invading 
 army would impress on the peaceful vil- 
 lages in our own neighborhood. When you have 
 placed yourselves for an instant in that situation, 
 you will learn to sympathize with those unhappy 
 countries which have sustained the ravages of arms. 
 But how is it possible to give you an idea of these 
 horrors ? 
 
 Here you behold rich harvests, the bounty of 
 heaven, and the reward of industry, consumed in 
 A moment, or trampled under foot, while famine 
 and pestilence follow the steps of desolation. 
 There the cottages of peasants given up to the 
 flames, mothers expiring through fear, not for 
 themselves, but their infants; the inhabitants fly- 
 ing with their helpless babes in all directions, 
 miserable fugitives on their native soil. 
 
 In another part you witness opulent cities taken 
 by storm; the streets, where no sounds were heard 
 but those of peaceful industry, filled on a sudden 
 with slaughter and blood, resounding with the cries 
 of the pursuing and the pursued; the palaces of 
 nobles demolished ; the houses of the rich pillaged, 
 and every age, sex and rank, mingled in promis- 
 cuous massacre and ruin. 
 
 Robert Hall. 
 
 THE BATTLE=SONG OF GUSTAVUS 
 ADOLPHUS. 
 
 FROM THE GERMAN. 
 
 FEAR not, O little flock ! the foe 
 Who madly seeks your overthrow, 
 Dread not his rage and power ; 
 What though your courage sometimes faints ? 
 His seeming triumph o'er God's saints 
 Lasts but a little hour. 
 
 Be of good cheer ; your cause belongs 
 To him who can avenge your wrongs, 
 
 Leave it to him, our Lord. 
 Though hidden now from all our eyes. 
 He sees the Gideon who shall rise 
 
 To save us, and his word. 
 
 As true as God's own word is true, 
 Not earth or hell with all their crew 
 
 Against us shall prevail. 
 A jest and by-word are they grown ; 
 God is with us, we are his own. 
 
 Our victory cannot fail. 
 
 Amen, Lord Jesus, grant our prayer ; 
 Great Captain, now thine arm make bare; 
 
 Fight for us once again. 
 So shall the saints and martys raise 
 A mighty chorus to thy praise. 
 
 World without end. Amen. 
 
 Michael Altenburg. 
 
 OLD IRONSIDES. 
 
 The frigate " Constitution," whose glorious record is 
 known to all familiar with our naval history, was saved from 
 destruction by the following beautiful lines of Dr. Holmes, 
 which caused the people to pause, and reconsider their deter- 
 mination of breaking up the nation's favorite. 
 
 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 hero's 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. 
 
 O. W. Holmes. 
 
 FESTIVE PEACE. 
 
 NOW are our brows bound with victorious 
 wreaths ; 
 Our bruised arms hung up for monuments ; 
 Our stern alarums changed to merry meet- 
 ing, 
 Our dreadful marches to delightful measures. 
 Grim-visaged war has smoothed his wrinkled front; 
 And now — instead of mounting barbed steeds. 
 To fright the souls of fearful adversaries — 
 He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber, 
 To the lascivious pleasing of a lute. 
 
 William Shakespeare. 
 
 A BRIGHTER DAY. 
 
 LET us reckon upon the future. A time will 
 come when the science of destruction shall 
 bend before the arts of peace ; when the 
 genius which multiplies our powers— which creates 
 new products — which diffuses comfort and happi- 
 ness among the great mass of the people— shall 
 occupy in the general estimation of mankind that 
 rank which reason and common sense now as- 
 siofn to it. 
 
286 
 
 THE SWORD AND THE PLOW, 
 
 THE SOLDIER'S RETURN. 
 
 HOW sweet it was to breathe that cooler air, 
 And take possession of my father's chair ! 
 Beneath my elbow, on the solid frame^ 
 Appeared the rough initials of my name, 
 Cut forty years before ! The same old clock 
 Struck the same bell, and gave my heart a shock 
 I never can forget. A short breeze sprung, 
 And while a sigh was trembling on my tongue. 
 Caught the old dangling almanacs behind, 
 
 While thus I mused, still gazing, gazing still, 
 
 On beds of moss that spread the window-sill, 
 
 I deemed no moss my eye had ever seen 
 
 Had been so lovely, brilliant, fresh and green. 
 
 And guessed some infant hand had placed it there, 
 
 And prized its hue, so exquisite, so rare. 
 
 Feelings on feelings mingling, doubling rose ; 
 
 My heart felt anything but calm repose ; 
 
 I could not reckon minutes, hours, nor years, 
 
 And up they flew like banners in the wind ; 
 Then gently, singly, down, down, down they went, 
 And told of twenty years that I had spent 
 Far from my native land. That instant came 
 A robin on the threshold ; though so tame, 
 At first he looked distrustful, almost shy. 
 And cast on me his coal-black steadfast eye, 
 And seemed to say — past friendship to renew — 
 *' Ah ha ! old worn-out soldier, is it you?" 
 
 But rose at once, and found relief in tears ; 
 
 Then, like a fool, confused, sat down again. 
 
 And thought upon the past with shame and pain; 
 
 I raved at war and all its horrid cost, 
 
 And glory's quagmire, where the brave are lost. 
 
 On carnage, fire, and plunder long I mused. 
 
 And cursed the murdering weapons I had used. 
 
 Robert Bloomfield. 
 
 50LDIER, REST! THY WARFARE O'ER. 
 
 FROM "THE LADY OF THE LAKE." 
 
 SOLDIER, rest ! thy warfare o'er. 
 Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking 
 Dream of battled 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 fighting 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, 
 
 Triumph nor pibroch summon here 
 Mustering, or squadron tramping. 
 
 Yet the lark's shrill fife may come 
 Att he daybreak 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 slumberous spells assail ye. 
 Dream not, with the rising sun, 
 
 Bugles here shall sound reveille. 
 Sleep ! the deer is in 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 bugles sound reveille. 
 
 Sir Walter Scott. 
 
THE SWORD AND THE PLOW. 
 
 287 
 
 ODE TO PEACE. 
 
 DAUGHTER of God ! that sit'st on high 
 Amid the dances of the sky, 
 And guidest with thy gentle sway 
 Thy planets on their tuneful way ; 
 Sweet Peace ! shall ne'er again 
 The smile of thy most holy face, 
 From thine ethereal dwelling-place, 
 Rejoice the wretched, weary race 
 Of discord-breathing men ? 
 
 Then come from thy serene abode, 
 Thou gladness-giving child of God ! 
 And cease the world's ensanguined strife, 
 And reconcile my soul to life ; 
 
 For much I long to see. 
 Ere I shall to the grave descend, 
 Thy hand its blessed branch extend. 
 And to the world's remotest end 
 
 Wave love and harmony ! 
 
 William Tennent. 
 
 Too long, O gladness-giving queen ! 
 Thy tarrying in heaven has been ; 
 Too long o'er this fair blooming world 
 The flag of blood has been unfurled. 
 
 Polluting God's pure day ; 
 Whilst, as each maddening people reels, 
 War onward drives his scythed wheels, 
 And at his horses' bloody heels 
 
 Shriek murder and dismay. 
 
 Oft have I wept to hear the cry 
 
 Of widow wailing bitterly ; 
 
 To see the parent's silent tear 
 
 For children fallen beneath the spear ; 
 
 And I have felt so sore 
 The sense of human guilt and woe, 
 That I, in virtue's passioned glow, 
 Have cursed (my soul was wounded so) 
 
 The shape of man I bore ! 
 
 WHEN BANNERS ARE WAVING, 
 
 W 
 
 HEN banners are waving. 
 And lances a-pushing ; 
 When captains are shouting, 
 And war-horses rushing ; 
 When cannon are roaring, 
 
 And hot bullets flying, 
 He that would honor win, 
 Must not fear dying. 
 
 Though shafts fly so thick 
 
 That it seems to be snowing ; 
 Though streamlets with blood 
 
 More than water are flowing ; 
 Though with sabre and bullet 
 
 Our bravest are dying. 
 We speak of revenge, but 
 
 We ne'er speak of flying. 
 
288 
 
 THE SWORD AND THE PLOW. 
 
 Come, stand to it, heroes ! 
 
 The heathen are coming ; 
 Horsemen are round the walls, 
 
 Riding and running ; 
 Maidens and matrons all 
 
 Arm ! arm ! are crying, 
 From petards the wildfire's 
 
 Flashing and flying. 
 
 The trumpets from turrets high 
 
 Loudly are braying ; 
 The steeds for the onset 
 
 Are snorting and neighing; 
 As waves in the ocean. 
 
 The dark plumes are dancing ; 
 As stars in the blue sky, 
 
 The helmets are glancing.' 
 
 Their ladders are planting. 
 
 Their sabres are sweeping ; 
 Now swords from our sheaths 
 
 By the thousand are leaping ; 
 Like the flash of the lightning 
 
 Ere men hearken thunder, 
 Swords gleam, and the steel caps 
 
 Are cloven asunder. 
 
 The shouting has ceased. 
 
 And the flashing of cannon ! 
 I looked from the turret 
 
 For crescent and pennon : 
 As flax touched by fire, 
 
 As hail in the river. 
 They were smote, they were fallen, 
 
 And had melted for ever. 
 
 BEFORE THE BATTLE. 
 
 BY the hope within us springing. 
 Herald of to-morrow's strife ; 
 By that sun, whose light is bringing 
 Chains or freedom, death or life — 
 Oh ! remember life can be 
 No charm for him, who lives not free ! 
 Like the day-star in the wave. 
 Sinks a hero in his grave, 
 Midst the dew-fall of a nation's tears. 
 Happy is he o'er whose decline 
 The smiles of home may soothing shine, 
 And light him down the steep of years ; 
 But oh, how blest they sink to rest. 
 Who close their eyes on victory's breast ! 
 
 O'er his watch-fire's fading embers 
 
 Now the foeman's cheek turns w^hite, 
 When his heart that field remembers, 
 
 Wnere we tamed his tyrant might. 
 
 Never let him bind again 
 
 A chain, like that we broke from then. 
 
 Hark ! the horn of combat calls — 
 
 Ere the golden evening falls. 
 May we pledge that horn in triumph round ! 
 
 Many a heart that now beats high, 
 
 In slumber cold at night shall lie. 
 Nor waken even at victory's sound. — 
 But oh, how blest that hero's sleep. 
 O'er whom a wond'ring world shall weep I 
 Thomas Moore. 
 
 THE BROADSWORDS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 NOW there's peace on the shore, now there's 
 calm on the sea, 
 Fill a glass to the heroes whose swords kept 
 us free, 
 Right descendants of Wallace, Montrose and 
 Dundee. 
 
 O the broadswords of old Scotland ! 
 And O the old Scottish broadswords ! 
 
 Old Sir Ralph Abercromby, the good and the 
 
 brave — 
 Let him flee from our board, let him sleep with 
 
 the slave, 
 Whose libation comes slow while we honor his 
 
 grave. 
 
 Though he died not, like him, amid victory's 
 
 roar. 
 Though disaster and gloom wove his shroud on 
 
 the shore. 
 Not the less we remember the spirit of Moore. 
 
 Yea, a place with the fallen the living shall claim \ 
 We'll intwine in one wreath every glorious name. 
 The Gordon, the Ramsay, the Hope, and the 
 Graham. 
 
 Count the rocks of the Spey, count the groves of 
 
 the Forth, 
 Count the stars in the clear, cloudless heaven of 
 
 the north ; 
 Then go blazon their numbers, their names, and 
 
 their worth. 
 
 The highest in splendor, the humblest in place. 
 
 Stand united in glory, as kindred in race, 
 
 For the private is brother in blood to his Grace. 
 
 Then sacred to each and to all let it be, 
 
 Fill a glass to the heroes whose swords kept us 
 
 free. 
 Right descendants of Wallace, Montrose and 
 Dundee. 
 O the broadswords of old Scotland ! 
 And O the old Scottish broadswords ! 
 
 John G. Lockhart. 
 
 LET THE SWORD RUST. 
 
 WERE half the power that fills the world 
 with terror, 
 Were half the wealth bestowed on camps 
 and courts, 
 Given to redeem the human mind from error, 
 There were no need of arsenals and forts ! 
 
 H. W. Longfellow. 
 
THE SWORD AND THE PLOW. 
 
 289 
 
 4 4 o pea: 
 
 THE ANGELS OF BUENA VISTA. 
 
 PEAK, and tell us, our Ximena, looking 
 northward far away, 
 'er the camp of the invaders, o'er the 
 Mexican array, 
 Who is losing ? who is winning ? — are they far, 
 
 or come they near? 
 Look abroad, and tell us, sister, whither rolls 
 the storm we hear ? 
 
 Down the hills of Angostura still the 
 
 storm of battle rolls ; 
 Blood is flowing, men are dying; God, 
 
 have mercy on their souls !" 
 Who is losing? who is winning!" — 
 
 " Over hill and over plain, 
 I see but smoke of cannon clouding 
 
 through the mountain rain." 
 
 Holy mother ! keep our brothers ! Look 
 
 Ximena, look once more !" 
 Still I see the fearful whirlwind rolling 
 
 darkly as before, 
 Bearing on in strange confusion, friend 
 
 and foeman, foot and horse, 
 Like some wild and troubled torrent 
 
 sweeping down its mountain course." 
 
 Look forth once more, Ximena ! " " Ah ! 
 
 the smoke has rolled away ; 
 And I see the northern rifles gleaming 
 
 down the ranks of grey. 
 Hark ! that sudden blast of bugles ! 
 
 there the troop of Minon wheels ; 
 There the northern horses thunder, 
 
 with the cannon at their heels. 
 
 Jesus, pity ! how it thickens ! now re- 
 treat and now advance ! 
 
 Right against the blazing cannon shivers 
 Puebla's charging lance ! 
 
 Down they go, the brave young riders ; 
 horse and foot together fall ; 
 
 Like a ploughshare in the fallow, through 
 them ploughs the northern ball." 
 
 Nearer came the storm, and nearer, roll- 
 ing fast and frightful on : 
 
 Speak, Ximena, speak and tell us, who 
 has lost and who has won ?' ' 
 
 Alas ! alas ! I know not ; friend and 
 foe together fall, 
 
 O'er the dying rush the living: pray, my 
 sisters, for them all ! 
 
 Lo! the wind the smoke is lifting: Blessed 
 
 Mother, save my brain ! 
 I can see the wounded crawling slowly out from 
 
 heaps of slain. 
 Now they stagger, blind and bleeding ; now 
 
 they fall and strive to rise ; 
 Hasten, sisters, haste and save them, lest they 
 
 die before our eyes ! 
 
 19 
 
 "■ Oh, my heart's love ! oh, my dear one ! lay thy 
 
 poor head on my knee ; 
 Dost thou know the lips that kiss thee ? canst 
 
 thou hear me ? canst thou see ? 
 Oh, my husband, brave and gentle ! oh, my 
 
 Bernal, look once more 
 On the blessed cross before thee ! Mercy ! 
 
 mercy ! all is o'er !" 
 
 NEWS FROM THE BATTLE FIELD. 
 
 Dry thy tears, my poor Ximena ; lay thy dear 
 
 one down to rest ; 
 Let his hands be meekly folded ; lay the cross 
 
 upon his breast ; 
 Let his dirge be sung hereafter, and his funeral 
 
 masses said ; 
 To-day, thou poor bereaved one ! the living ask 
 
 thy aid. 
 
THE SWORD AND THE PLOW. 
 
 Close beside her, faintly moaning, fair and 
 young, a soldier lay, 
 
 Torn with shot, and pierced with lances, bleed- 
 ing slow his life away ; 
 
 But, as tenderly before him the lorn Ximena 
 knelt, 
 
 She saw the northern eagle shining on his pistol 
 belt. 
 
 With a stifled cry of horror straight she turned 
 
 away her head ; 
 With a sad and bitter feeling looked she back 
 
 upon her dead ; 
 But she heard the youth's low moaning, and his 
 
 struggling breath of pain, 
 And she raised the cooling water to his parched 
 
 lips again. 
 
 AVhispered low the dying soldier, pressed her 
 
 hand, and faintly smiled : 
 Was that pitying face his mother's? did she 
 
 watch beside her child ? 
 All his stranger words with meaning her woman's 
 
 heart supplied ; 
 With her kiss upon his forehead, " Mother !" 
 
 murmured he, and died ! 
 
 '■^ A bitter curse upon them, poor boy, who led 
 
 thee forth, 
 From some gentle, sad-eyed mother, weeping 
 
 lonely in the North !" 
 Spake the mournful Mexic woman, as she laid 
 
 him with her dead, 
 And turned to soothe the living, and bind the 
 
 wounds which bled. 
 
 ■'Look forth once more, Ximena!" **Like a 
 
 cloud before the wind 
 Rolls the battle down the mountains, leaving 
 
 blood and death behind ; 
 Ah ! they plead in vain for mercy ; in the dust 
 
 the wounded strive ; 
 Hide your faces, holy angels ! oh, thou Christ 
 
 of God, forgive !" 
 
 Sink, oh night, among thy mountains ! let the 
 cool grey shadows fall ; 
 
 Dying brothers, fighting demons, drop thy cur- 
 tain over all ! 
 
 Through the thickening winter twilight, wide 
 apart the battle rolled, 
 
 In its sheath the sabre rested, and the cannon's 
 lips grew cold. 
 
 But the noble Mexic women still their holy task 
 
 pursued. 
 Through that long, dark night of sorrow, worn 
 
 and faint, and lacking food ; 
 Over weak and suffering brothers, with a tender 
 
 care they hung. 
 And the dying foemen blessea them in a strange 
 
 and northern tongue. 
 
 Not wholly lost, O Father ! is this evil world of 
 
 ours: 
 Upward through its blood and ashes, spring 
 
 afresh the Eden flowers ; 
 From its smoking hell of battle, love and pity 
 
 send their prayer, 
 And still thy white-winged angels hover dimly 
 
 in our air. 
 
 J. G. Whittier. 
 
 A PICTURE OF PEACE. 
 
 FROM "EVANGELINE," 
 
 PEACE seemed to reign upon the earth, and 
 the restless heart of the ocean 
 Was for a moment consoled. All sounds 
 were in harmony blended. 
 Voices of children at play, the crowing of cocks 
 
 in the farm-yard. 
 Whirr of wings in the drowsy air, and the cooing 
 
 of pigeons. 
 All were subdued and low as the murmurs of love, 
 
 and the great sun 
 Looked with eye of peace through the golden 
 vapors around him. 
 
 H. W. Longfellow 
 
 THE TYRANT'S 5C0URGE. 
 
 AH ! whence yon glare, 
 That fires the arch of heaven ? — that dark 
 red smoke 
 Blotting the silver moon ? The stars are quenched 
 In darkness, and pure and spangling snow 
 Gleams faintly through the gloom that gathers 
 
 round ! 
 Hark to that roar, whose swift and deafening peals 
 In countless echoes through the mountains ring, 
 Startling pale midnight on her starry throne ! 
 Now swells the intermingling din ; the jar 
 Frequent and frightful of the bursting bomb ; 
 The falling beam, the shriek, the groan, the shout, 
 The ceaseless clangor, and the rush of men 
 Inebriate with rage ; — loud, and more loud 
 The discord grows; till pale death shuts the scene, 
 And o'er the conqueror and the conquered draws 
 His cold and bloody shroud. Of all the men 
 Whom day's departing beam saw blooming there, 
 In proud and vigorous health ; of all the hearts 
 That beat with anxious life at sunset there. 
 How few survive, how few are beating now ! 
 All is deep silence, like the fearful calm 
 That slumbers in the storm's portentous pause; 
 Save when the frantic wail of widowed 2ove 
 Comes shuddering on the blast, or the faint moan 
 With which some soul burst from the frame of clay 
 Wrapt round its struggling powers. 
 
 The gray morn 
 Dawns on the mournful scene; the sulphurous 
 
 smoke 
 Before the icy winds slow rolls away, 
 
THE SWORD AND THE PLOW. 
 
 2^1 
 
 T 
 
 And the bright beams of frosty morning dance - 
 Along the spangling snow. There tracks of blood 
 Even to the forest's depth, and scattered arms, 
 And lifeless warriors, whose hard lineaments 
 Death's self could change not, mark the dreadful 
 
 path 
 Of the outsallying victors; far behind, 
 Black ashes note where their proud city stood. 
 Within yon forest is a gloomy glen — 
 Each tree which guards its darkness from the day 
 Waves o'er a warrior's tomb. 
 
 War is the statesman's game, the priest's delight, 
 
 Tbe lawyer's jest, the hired assassin's trade. 
 
 And to those royal murderers whose mean thrones 
 
 Are bought by crimes of treachery and gore. 
 
 The bread they eat, the staff on which they lean. 
 
 Guards, garbed in blood red livery, surround 
 
 Their palaces, participate the crimes 
 
 That force defends, and from a nation's rage 
 
 Secure the crown, which all the curses reach 
 
 That famine, frenzy, woe and penury breathe. 
 
 These are the hired bravos who defend 
 
 The tyrant's throne. Percy P. Shelley. 
 
 THE DEATH OF THE WARRIOR KING. 
 
 HERE are noble heads bowed down and pale. 
 Deep sounds of woe arise. 
 And tears flow fast around the couch 
 Where a wounded warrior lies; 
 The hue of death is gathering dark 
 
 Upon his lofty brow. 
 And the arm of might and valor falls, 
 Weak as an infant's now. 
 
 I saw him 'mid the battling hosts, 
 
 Like a bright and leading star. 
 Where banner, helm and falchion gleamed. 
 
 And flew the bolts of war. 
 When, in his plentitude of power, 
 
 He trod the Holy Land, 
 I saw the routed Saracens 
 
 Flee from his blood-dark brand. 
 
 I saw him in the banquet hour 
 
 Forsake the festive throng, 
 To seek his favorite minstrel's haunt, 
 
 And give his soul to song ; 
 For dearly as he loved renown, 
 
 He loved that spell-wrought strain 
 Which bade the braves of perished days 
 
 Light conquest's torch again. 
 
 Then seemed the bard to cope with time^ 
 
 And triumph o'er his doom — 
 Another world m freshness burst 
 
 Oblivion's mighty tomb ! 
 Again the hardy Britons rushed 
 
 Like lions to the fight. 
 While horse and foot — helm, shield and lance. 
 
 Swept by his visioned sight ! 
 
 But battle shout and waving plume, 
 
 The drum's heart-stirring beat. 
 The glittering pomp of prosperous war. 
 
 The rush of million feet. 
 The magic of the minstrel's song. 
 
 Which told of victories o'er. 
 Are sights and sounds the dying king 
 
 Shall see — shall hear no more ! 
 
 It was the hour of deep midnight, 
 
 In the dim and quiet sky. 
 When, with sable clock and 'broidered pall, 
 
 A funeral-train swept by ; 
 Dull and sad fell the torches' glare 
 
 On many a stately crest — 
 They bore the noble warrior king 
 
 To his last dark home of rest. 
 
 Charles Swain. 
 
 I 
 
 THE FLIGHT OF XERXES. 
 
 SAW him on the battle-eve. 
 
 When like a king he bore him — 
 Proud hosts in glittering helm and greave 
 And prouder chiefs before him ; 
 The warrior, and the warrior's deeds, 
 The morrow, and the morrow's meeds. 
 
 No daunting thoughts came o'er him; 
 He looked around him, and his eye 
 Defiance flashed to earth and sky. 
 
 He looked on ocean — its broad breast 
 
 Was covered with his fleet ; 
 On earth — and saw from east to west 
 
 His bannered millions meet ; 
 While rock and glen and cave and coast 
 Shook with the war-cry of that host. 
 
 The thunder of their feet ! 
 He heard the imperial echoes ring — 
 He heard, and felt himself a king. 
 
 1 saw him next alone : nor camp 
 
 Nor chief his steps attended ; 
 Nor banner blazed, nor courser's tramp 
 
 With war-cries proudly blended. 
 He stood alone, whom fortune high 
 So lately seemed to deify; 
 
 He who with heaven contended 
 Fled like a fugitive and slave ! 
 Behind, the foe ; before, the wave. 
 
 He stood — fleet, army, treasure, gone — 
 
 Alone, and in despair ! 
 But wave and wind swept ruthless on. 
 
 For they were monarchs there ; 
 And Xerxes, in a single bark, 
 Where late his thousand ships were dark. 
 
 Must all their fury dare. 
 What a revenge — a trophy, this — 
 For thee, immortal Salamis ! 
 
 Maria J. JewsburYc 
 
292 
 
 THE SWORD AND THE PLOW. 
 
 AFTER THE TEMPEST. 
 
 IT was a scene of peace — and, like a spell, 
 Did that serene and golden sunlight fall 
 Upon the motionless wood that clothed the 
 fell, 
 And precipice upspringing like a wall, 
 And glassy river and white waterfall. 
 And happy living things that trod the bright 
 And beauteous scene ; while far beyend them all, 
 On many a lovely valley, out of sight, 
 
 Was poured from the blue heavens the same soft 
 golden light. 
 
 I looked, and thought the quiet of the scene 
 An emblem of the peace that yet shall be, 
 When o'er earth's continents, and isles between, 
 The noise of war shall cease from sea to sea. 
 And married nations dwell in harmony; 
 When millions, crouching in the dust to one, 
 No more shall beg their lives on bended knee. 
 Nor the black stake be dressed, nor in the sun 
 The o'erlabored captive toil, and wish his life 
 were done. 
 
 Too long, at clash of arms amid her bowers 
 And pools of blood, the earth has stood aghast, 
 The fair earth, that should only blush with flowers 
 And ruddy fruits ; but not for aye can last 
 The storm, and sweet the sunshine when 'tis past. 
 Lo, the clouds roll away — they break — they fly, 
 And, like the glorious light of summer cast 
 O'er the wide landscape from the embracing sky. 
 On all the peaceful world the smile of heaven 
 shall lie. W. C. Bryant. 
 
 LEFT ON THE BATTLE=FIELD. 
 
 WHAT, was it a dream ? am I all alone 
 In the dreary night and the driz- 
 zling rain? 
 Hist ! — ah, it was only the river's moan ; 
 They have left m.e behind with the mangled 
 slain. 
 
 Yes, now I remember it all too well ! 
 
 We met, from the battling ranks apart ; 
 Together our weapons flashed and fell. 
 
 And mine was sheathed in his quivering 
 heart. 
 
 In the cypress gloom, where the deed was done, 
 
 It was all too dark to see his face ; 
 But I heard his death-groans, one by one, 
 
 And he holds me still in a cold embrace. 
 
 He spoke but once, and I could not hear 
 The words he said, for the cannon's roar; 
 
 But my heart grew cold with a deadly fear — 
 O God ! I had heard that voice before ! 
 
 Had heard it before at our mother's knee, 
 
 When we lisped the words of our evening 
 prayer ! 
 
 My brother ! would I had died for thee — 
 This burden is more that my soul can bear ! 
 
 I pressed my lips to his death-cold cheek, 
 
 And begged him to show me, by word or sign, 
 
 That he knew and forgave me : he could no I 
 speak, 
 But he nestled his poor cold face to mine. 
 
 The blood flowed fast from my wounded side, 
 And then for a while 1 forgot my pain. 
 
 And over the lakelet we seemed to glide 
 In our little boat, two boys again. 
 
 And then, in my dream, we stood alone 
 On a forest path where the shadows fall ; 
 
 And I heard again the tremulous tone, 
 And the tender words of his last farewell. 
 
 But that parting was years, long years ago, 
 He wandered away to a foreign land ; 
 
 And our dear old mother will never know 
 That he died to-night by his brother's hand. 
 
 The soldiers who buried the dead away 
 
 Disturbed not the clasp of that last embrace, 
 
 But laid them to sleep till the judgment-day, 
 Heart folded to heart, and face to face. 
 
 Sarah T. Bolton. 
 
 HORRORS OF WAR. 
 
 A VAUNT thee, horrid war : whose miasms, 
 bred 
 Of nether darkness and tartarean swamps , 
 
 Float o'er this fallen world, and blight th(. 
 flowers. 
 Sole relics of a ruined Eden ! Hence, 
 With all thy cruel ravages ! fair homes 
 Rifled for thee of husband, brother, son; 
 Wild passions slipped like hell-hounds in the 
 
 heart. 
 And baying in full cry for blood ; the shock 
 Of battle : the quick throes of dying men ; 
 The ghastly stillness of the mangled dead ; 
 The crumbling ramparts breached, the cit)- 
 
 stormed. 
 The shrieks of violated innocence. 
 And bloom, almost too delicate for the print 
 Of bridal kisses and the touch of love, 
 Ruthlessly trampled underneath the heel 
 Of armed lust ; and, pitiful to see, 
 The mother's womb ripped by the pitiless sword, 
 And life — her unborn offspring's, and her own — 
 Shed in short mortal travail; lurid flames, 
 Wrapping the toils of arduous centuries 
 And hopes of ages in one funeral pyre ; 
 Gaunt famine after, and remorseless plague. 
 Reaping their myriads where the warrior's scythe 
 Had been content with thousands ; leaving scars 
 Upon a nation's heart, which never time 
 Wholly can heal : hence horrid, horrid war ! 
 
 Edward H. Bickersteth. 
 
THE SWORD AND THE PLOW. 
 
 293 
 
 THE INDIAN BRAVE. 
 
 IaM fresh from the conflict— I'm drunk with 
 the blood 
 Of the white men, who chased me o'er prai- 
 rie and flood, 
 Till I trapped them at last, and exultingly swore 
 That my fearless red warriors should revel in 
 
 gore ! 
 I have well kept my oath, O Manitou, the Just ! 
 
 N 
 
 AFTER THE BATTLE. 
 
 IGHT closed around the conqueror's way, 
 And lightnings showed the distant hillj 
 Where those who lost that dreadful day, 
 Stood few and faint, but fearless still. 
 The soldier's hope, the patriot's zeal. 
 For ever dimmed, for ever crost — 
 Oh ! who shall say what heroes feel, 
 When all but life and honor's lost ? 
 
 Three hundred white hirelings are low in the dust. 
 The unequal conflict was bloody and brief. 
 And they weep for their men and their golden- 
 haired chief. 
 
 I hate the palefaces ! I'll fight to the death 
 While the prairies are mine, and a warrior has 
 
 breath ! 
 By the bones of our fathers, whose ruin they 
 
 wrought, 
 When they first trod our land, and for sympathy 
 
 sought — 
 By the souls of our slain, when our villages 
 
 burned — 
 By all the black vices our people have learned, 
 No season of rest shall my enemies see, 
 Till the earth drinks my blood, or my people are 
 
 free. 
 
 Francis S. Smith. 
 
 The last sad hour of freedom's dream, 
 
 And valor's task, moved slowly by, 
 While mute they watched, till morning's beair 
 
 Should rise and give them light to die. 
 There's yet a world, where souls are free. 
 
 Where tyrants taint not nature's bliss; — 
 If death that world's bright opening be, 
 
 Oh ! who would live a slave in this ? 
 
 Thomas Moore. 
 
 COMING PEACE. 
 
 DRUMS and battle cries 
 Go out in music of the morning star ; 
 And soon we shall have thinkers in the 
 place 
 Of fighters ; each found able as a man 
 To strike electric influence through a race. 
 Unstayed by city- wall and barbican. 
 
 Elizabeth B. Browning. 
 
294 
 
 THE SWORD AND THE PLOW, 
 
 THE LEGEND OF SIR JOSEPH WAG- 
 STAFF. 
 
 A WARWICKSHIRE BALLAD. 
 
 FROM Salisbury Church the bells rang out, 
 Right sharp their notes and stern ; 
 Within the town were rabble and rout, 
 Like tow did the houses burn, 
 And the prisoners freed were all about 
 Wherever a man might turn. 
 
 Till the roar and the clash and the battled 
 flash 
 Burst in on their intent. 
 
 ^' Now hang them all !" Sir Joseph cried, 
 
 And sternly flashed his eye; 
 ' * The craven cowards that dare to doom 
 
 And do not dare to die ! 
 If my neck's in the other end of the rope, 
 
 Quoth Wagstafl", * " What care I ?" ' 
 
 <'I CHARGE THEE, BOY, LET GO: 
 
 For its hey, ho ! boot and saddle ! 
 
 And up with the sceptre and crown ! 
 The day of the great Assizes 
 
 Like a storm swept Wagstaff down, 
 With his men and his arms and his drums and alarms 
 
 To the gates of Salisbury town. 
 
 The Judges sat in tlieir grave sad state 
 
 That the rebel Commons sent, 
 And many a loyal man and true 
 
 To a felon*s prison went ; 
 
 Now Cromwell has taken him to horse 
 
 And gathered a goodly band 
 To fight with Sir Joseph Wagstaff's force 
 
 In the swelling Devon land, 
 And cut down their ranks like new-mown grass 
 
 Till never a man mote stand. 
 
 '' Ho, lead the flight, Sir Arthur Knight ! 
 
 For one must head the race, 
 But to turn his back on a stricken fight 
 
 Is not a Wagtaff's place, 
 
THE SWORD AND THE PLOW, 
 
 295 
 
 And the hills of Devon are as near to heaven 
 As Charlcote's sheltered chace. 
 
 **My little page, why dost thou stand 
 
 And view thy master so ? 
 Poor little lad, let go my hand, 
 
 I charge thee, boy, let go ! 
 What have I ever done for thee 
 
 That thou shouldst love me so ? 
 
 '^ If thou escaps't this bloody day 
 
 Hie thee to Tachbrook Hall, 
 And tell Dame Alice it is our way 
 
 In battle-field to fall. 
 There were twenty Wagstaffs to my day 
 
 And they fell in battle all ! 
 
 *' Would they had slain me where I stood 
 
 'Neath the blue and open sky, 
 For this foul dank prison taints my blood 
 
 And a dog's death I must die. 
 Was never a WagstafT died like this 
 
 Without his good sword nigh ! 
 
 '' Farewell, farewell, to Tachbrook Hall 
 Where the noble park-lands sweep ! 
 
 Farewell to the lush sweet meadows all 
 Where the peaceful cattle sleep ! 
 
 Farewell, broad oaks and elm trees tall 
 By the quiet river deep ! 
 
 " Farewell, my babe, thou child of care, 
 
 Heir of thy father's fame ! 
 Thou tiny tender prop to bear 
 
 Old Wagstaff's honored name ! 
 God grant thee strength that name to wear 
 
 Unsulhed as it came ! 
 
 *' But woe and curse and endless shame 
 
 And vain remorse's sting 
 Be his, the first of Wagstaff's name 
 
 That turns from Church and King I 
 God blight the ripe fruit of his age 
 
 The blossoms of his spring ! 
 
 " And his be every foul disgrace 
 
 And every bitter pain, 
 May he go mourning all his days 
 
 Where once he used to reign ! 
 May all his strength be spent for naught 
 
 And all his toil in vain ! 
 
 ^* Farewell, farewell, my gentle wife, 
 
 Now widowed ere thy prime — 
 How differently I planned thy life 
 
 The last sweet summer-time, 
 When we trod the path from the gray church 
 tower 
 
 That rang our wedding chime. 
 
 <* Farewell, farewell, my own right hand. 
 
 My nervous arm and true ! 
 Poor body, on the scaffold's sand 
 
 I take my leave of you ! 
 
 I would 'twere 'mid an armed band 
 With a good pike piercing through !'* 
 
 In Tachbrook' s ancient, solemn church 
 
 Are Wagstaff tombs enow ; 
 Twenty knights and twenty dames 
 
 In sculptured marble show, 
 But Sir Joseph's head with blood-clots red 
 
 Rots where the Thames doth flow. 
 
 A stranger rules in Tachbrook Hall — 
 
 A stranger still shall reign ! 
 ** Away !" he cries, ^' ye King's men all, 
 
 Ye ne'er shall come again !" 
 Thus cruel he cried e'er tears were dried 
 
 That marked the widow's pain. 
 
 Yet still they say at Tachbrook Hall 
 
 They hear a bugle horn 
 Full cheerly to the hunter's call 
 
 At early break of morn. 
 The silver notes on the breeze that floats 
 
 In the valleys far upborne. 
 
 And still when summer clothes the land 
 
 With soft enamelled green, 
 A figure on the terrace old 
 
 At even oft is seen, 
 With pensive brow and locks of gold, 
 
 And a grave and knightly mien. 
 
 But the startled reaper drops his hook 
 
 And shrinks with a ghastly fear. 
 When he sees 'mid the line of the golden grain 
 
 The shrivelled and blasted ear — 
 For the mildew black marks Sir Joseph's track, 
 
 And he knows that his step is here. 
 
 And when the hard rime clasps the trees. 
 
 And biting north winds blow. 
 He keeps his watch by the mouldering arch, 
 
 As in days of long ago. 
 And at morn they say 'twas no mortal tread 
 
 Made that footprint on the snow. 
 
 And still on the storm round Tachbrook Hall 
 
 A shadowy phantom flies. 
 And ever he looks through the casements tall 
 
 With sad, reproachful eyes ; 
 While through shutter and bar they know afar 
 
 That without a spirit cries ! 
 
 They say Sir Joseph's restless sprite 
 
 For twice seven lives must wait, 
 Till the lands shall pass to a lady bright. 
 
 Who shall take a Wagstaff mate ; 
 The old, old wounds of hate. 
 
 Till then there hangs o'er Tachbrook Hall 
 
 A shadow dim and gray, 
 And sad with tears of other years 
 
 That time should sweep away. 
 And it may not lift for griefs or fears 
 
 Till dawns that distant day. J. M. Wagstaff. 
 
296 
 
 THE SWORD AND THE PLOW, 
 
 T 
 
 THE TIME OF WAR. 
 
 HE flags of war like storm-birds fly, 
 The charging trumpets blow ; 
 Yet rolls no thunder in the sky, 
 No earthquake strives below. 
 
 And, calm and patient, nature keeps 
 Her ancient promise well, 
 Though o'er her bloom and greenness sweeps 
 The battle's breath of hell. 
 
 And still she walks in golden hours 
 Through harvest-happy farms, 
 And still she wears her fruits and flowers 
 Like jewels on her arms. 
 
 What mean the gladness of the plain. 
 This joy of eve and morn. 
 The mirth that shakes the beard of grain 
 And yellow locks of corn ? 
 
 Ah ! eyes may well be full of tears, 
 And hearts with hate are hot ; 
 But even-paced come round the years, 
 And nature changes not. 
 
 She meets with smiles our bitter grief, 
 With songs our groans of pain ; 
 She mocks with tint of flower and leaf 
 The war field's crimson stain. 
 
 Still, in the cannon's pause we hear 
 Her sweet thanksgiving psalm ; 
 Too near to God for doubt or fear, 
 She shares the eternal calm. 
 
 She knows the seed lies safe below 
 The fires that blast and burn ; 
 For all the tears of blood we sow 
 She waits the rich return. 
 
 She sees with clearer eye'^than ours 
 The good of suffering born — 
 The hearts that blossom like her flowers, 
 And ripen like her corn. 
 
 J. G. Whittier. 
 
 CIVIL WAR. 
 
 ( i T^ IFLEMAN, shoot me a fancy shot 
 
 ry Straight at the heart of yon prowling 
 ^ ^ vidette; 
 
 Ring me a ball in the glittering spot 
 That shines on his breast like an amulet ! ' ' 
 
 '' Ah, captain ! here goes for a fine-drawn bead, 
 There's music around when my barrel's in 
 tune!" 
 Crack ! went the rifle, the messenger sped. 
 
 And dead from his horse fell the ringing 
 dragoon. 
 
 *' Now, rifleman, steal through the bushes, and 
 snatch 
 From your victim some trinket to handsel first 
 blood , 
 A button, a loop, or that luminous patch 
 
 That gleams in the moon like a diamond stud !" 
 
 ^' O captain ! I staggered, and sunk on my track. 
 
 When I gazed on the face of that fallen vidette. 
 
 For he looked so like you, as he lay on his 
 
 back, 
 
 That my heart rose upon me, and masters me 
 
 yet. 
 
 *'But I snatched off the trinket — this locket of 
 gold; 
 An inch from the centre my lead broke its 
 way. 
 Scarce grazing the picture, so fair to behold, 
 Of a beautiful lady in bridal array." 
 
 '' Ha ! rifleman, fling me the locket ! — 't is she, 
 Isly brother's young bride — and the fallen 
 dragoon 
 Was her husband — Hush! soldier, 't was Heaven's 
 decree, 
 We must bury him there, by the light of the 
 moon I 
 
 *'But, hark i the far bugles their warnings unite; 
 
 War is a virtue — weakness a sin ; 
 There's a lurking and loping around us to-night ; 
 
 Load again, rifleman, keep your hand in !" 
 
 FAIR PEACE- 
 
 OH first of human blessings ! and supreme ! 
 Fair peace ! how lovelv, how delightful 
 thou : 
 By whose wide tie the kindred sons of men 
 Live brothers like, in amity combined, 
 And unsuspicious faith ; while honest toil 
 Gives every joy, and to those joys a right. 
 Which idle, barbarous rapine but usurps. 
 
 James Thomson. 
 
RURAL SCENES 
 
 OR 
 
 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF COUNTRY LIFE. 
 
 FARMER JOHN. 
 
 OME from his journey Farmer John 
 
 Arrived this morning safe and sound; 
 His black coat off and his old clothes on, 
 " Now I'm myself," says Farmer John; 
 And he thinks, 'Til look around." 
 
 Up leaps the dog : " Get down, you pup ! 
 Are you so glad you would eat me up?" 
 The old cow lows at the gate to greet him, 
 The horses prick up their ears to meet him : 
 " Well, well old Bay! 
 Ha, ha, old Gray ! 
 Do you get good food when I'm away? 
 
 ' You haven't a rib," says Farmer John; 
 '' The cattle are looking round and sleek; 
 The colt is going to be a roan, 
 .\nd a beauty too ; how he has grown I 
 We'll wean the calf next week." 
 
 Says Farmer John, " When I've been off. 
 To call you again about the trough, 
 And watch you and pet you while you drink, 
 Is a greater comfort than you can think !" 
 
 And he pats old Bay, 
 
 And he slaps old Gray. 
 " Ah, this is the comfort of going away ! 
 
 " For after all," sajs Farmer John, 
 
 *' The best of a journey is getting home. 
 I've seen great sights, but would I give 
 This spot, and the peaceful life I live, 
 For all their Paris and Rome ? 
 
 •* These hills for the city's stifled air. 
 And big hotels, all bustle and glare; 
 Land all houses, and roads all stones 
 That deafen your ears and batter your bones ? 
 
 W^ould you, old Bay? 
 
 Would you, old Gray? 
 That's what one gets by going away. 
 
 " I've found this out," says Farmer John, 
 '^ That happiness is not bought and sold, 
 And clutched in a life of waste and hurry, 
 In nights of pleasure and days of worry; 
 And wealth isn't all in gold, 
 ■- Mortgages, stocks, and ten per cent., 
 :. But in simple ways and sweet content i 
 
 Few wants, pure hope, and noble ends, 
 Some land to till, and a few good friends 
 
 Like you, old Bay, 
 
 And you, old Gray : 
 That's what I learned by going away." 
 
 J. T. Trowbridge. 
 
 THE VILLAGE BOY. 
 
 FREE from the village corner, see how wild 
 The village boy along the pasture hies. 
 With every smell, and sound, and sight be- 
 guiled, 
 That round the prospect meets his wondering 
 eyes ; 
 Now, stooping, eager for the cowslip peeps. 
 
 As though he'd get them all. — now tired of these., 
 Across the flaggy brook he eager leaps, 
 
 For some new flower his happy rapture sees ;— 
 
 Now, leering 'mid the bushes on his knees 
 
 On woodland banks, for blue- bell flowers he 
 creeps; — 
 And now, while looking up among the trees, 
 
 He spies a nest, and down he throws his flowers. 
 And up he climbs with new-fed ecstasies; 
 The happiest object in the summer hours. 
 
 J. G. Clarke- 
 297 
 
298 
 
 RURAL SCENES. 
 
 HOMESICK FOR THE COUNTRY. 
 
 I'D kind o' like to have a cot 
 Fixed on some sunny slope ; a spot 
 Five acres more or less, 
 
 With maples, cedars, cherr\ -trees. 
 And poplars whitening in the breeze. 
 
 'T would suit my taste, I guess, 
 To have the porch with vines o'erhung, 
 With bells of pendant woodbine swung. 
 
 In every bell a bee : 
 And round my latticed window spread 
 A clump of roses, white and red. 
 
 To solace mine and me, 
 I kind o' think I should desire 
 To hear around the lawn a choir 
 Of wood-birds singing sweet ; 
 
 And in a dell I'd have a brook, 
 Where I might sit and read my 
 book. 
 
 Such should be my retreat, 
 Far from the city's crowd and 
 
 noise ; 
 There would I rear the girls 
 and boys, 
 (I have some two or three). 
 And if kind Heaven should 
 
 bless my store 
 With five or six or seven more. 
 How happy I would be ! 
 
 SUMMER WOODS. 
 
 THE ceaseless hum of men, 
 the dusty streets, 
 Crowded with multitudi- 
 nous life; the din 
 
 Of toil and traffic, and the woe 
 and sin, 
 
 The dweller in the populous 
 city meets ; 
 
 These have I left to seek the 
 cool retreats 
 
 Of the untrodden forest,where, 
 in bowers 
 
 Builded by nature's hand, in- 
 laid with flowers, 
 
 And roofed with ivy, on the 
 mossy seats 
 
 Reclining, I can Avhile away 
 the hours 
 
 In sweetest converse with cJd 
 books, or give 
 
 ISIy thoughts to God ; or fan- 
 cies fugitive 
 
 Indulge, while over me their 
 radiant showers 
 
 Of rarest blossoms the old trees 
 shake down. 
 
 And thanks to Him my medi- 
 tations crown ! 
 William H. Burleigh. 
 
 DEATH IN THE COUNTRY. 
 
 FROM " THE DUTCHMAN'S FIRESIDE." 
 
 THERE is to my mind and to my early recol- 
 lections something exquisitely touching in 
 the tolling of a church-bell amid the silence 
 of the country. It communicates for miles around 
 the message of mortality. The ploughman stops 
 his horses to listen to the solemn tidings; the 
 
RURAL SCENES, 
 
 299 
 
 housewife remits her domestic occupations, and 
 sits with her needle idle in her fingers, to ponder 
 who it is that is going to the long home ; and even 
 the little thoughtless children, playing and laugh- 
 ing their way from school, are arrested for a mo- 
 ment in their evening gambols by these sounds of 
 melancholy import, and cover their heads when 
 they go to rest. 
 
 James K. Paulding. 
 
 THAT CALF. 
 
 TO the yard, by the barn, came the farmer one 
 morn. 
 And, calling the cattle, he said. 
 While they trembled with fright: " Now which 
 of you, last night. 
 Shut the barn door while I was abed?" 
 Each one of them all shook his head. 
 
 Now the little calf Spot, she was down in the lot, 
 And the way the rest talked was a shame ; 
 
 For no one, night before, saw her shut up the 
 door; 
 But they said that she did, all the same. 
 For they always made her take the blame. 
 
 Said the horse (dapple gray), "I was not up that 
 way 
 Last night, as I now recollect;" 
 And the bull, passing by, tossed his horns very 
 high,' 
 And said, ''Let who may here object, 
 I say this, that calf I suspect." 
 
 Then out spoke the cow, ' • It is terrible now, 
 To accuse honest folks of such tricks." 
 
 Said the cock in the tree, " I'm sure'twasn't me;" 
 And the sheep all cried, ' ' Bah ! (there were 
 
 six) 
 Now that calf s got herself in a fix." 
 
 "Why, of course we all knew 'twas the wrong 
 thing to do," 
 Said the chickens. "Of course," said the cat. 
 " I suppose," cried the mule, "some folks think 
 me a fool, 
 But I'm not quite so simple as that ; 
 The poor calf never knows what she's at." 
 
 Just that moment, the calf, who was always the 
 laugh 
 And the jest of the yard, came in sight. 
 *' Did you shut my barn door?" asked the farmer 
 ' once more. 
 " I did, sir, I closed it last night," 
 Said the calf; "and I thought that was right." 
 
 Then each one shook his head. " She will catch 
 
 it," they cried, 
 "Serves her right for her meddlesome ways." 
 Said the farmer, " Come here, little bossy, my 
 
 dear. 
 
 You have done what I cannot repay. 
 And your fortune is made from to-day. 
 
 " For a wonder, last night, I forgot the door quite, 
 And if you had not shut it so neat. 
 
 All my colts had slipped in, and gone right to the 
 bin, 
 And got what they ought not to eat, 
 They'd have foundered themselves upon wheat." 
 
 Then each hoof of them all began loudly to bawl, 
 The very mule smiled, the cock crew : 
 
 "Little Spotty, my dear, you're a favorite here," 
 They cried, " we all said it was you. 
 We were so glad to give you your due." 
 A nd the calf answered knowingly, "Boo!** 
 
 p'hcebe Gary. 
 
 SLEIGH SONG. 
 
 JINGLE, jingle, clear the way, 
 'Tis the merry, merry sleigh; 
 As it swiftly scuds along 
 Hear the burst of happy song. 
 See the gleam of glances bright. 
 Flashing o'er the pathway white. 
 
 Jingle, jingle, past it flies, 
 Sending shafts from hooded eyes,— ^ 
 Roguish archers, I'll be bound. 
 Little heeding whom they wound; 
 See them, with capricious pranks. 
 Ploughing now the drifted banks. 
 
 Jingle, jingle, mid the glee 
 
 Who among them cares for me? 
 
 Jingle, jingle, on they go, 
 
 Gapes and bonnets white with snow^ 
 
 Not a single lOht they fold 
 
 To protect them from the cold. 
 
 Jingle, jingle, mid the storm. 
 Fun and frolic keep them warm; 
 Jingle, jingle, down the hills. 
 O'er the meadows, past the mills. 
 Now 't is slow, and now 't is fast; 
 Winter will not always last. 
 Jingle, jingle, clear the way, 
 'Tis the merry, merry sleigh. 
 
 G. W. Pettee. 
 
 A CHARMING PROSPECT. 
 
 GROVES, fields, and meadows are at any 
 season of the year pleasant to look upon, 
 but never so much as in the opening of 
 the spring, when they are all new and fre=h. Aith 
 their first glow upon them, and not yet too much 
 accustomed and familiar to the eye. Foi tnis 
 reason there is nothing that more enlivens a pros- 
 pect than rivers, jetteaus, or falls of water, where 
 the scene is perpetually shifting, and entertaining 
 the sight every moment with Something that is new. 
 
 Joseph Addison. 
 
300 
 
 RURAL SCENES, 
 
 L 
 
 NIGHTFALL: A PICTURE. 
 
 OW burns the summer afternoon ; 
 
 A mellow lustre lights the scene ; 
 And from irs smiling beauty soon 
 
 The purpling shade will chase the sheen. 
 
 The old, quaint homestead's windows blaze ; 
 rhe cedars long black pictures show ; 
 
 The harness, bridle, saddle dart 
 
 Gleam from the lower, rough expanse ; 
 
 At either side the stoo[)ing cart, 
 
 Pitchfork, and plow cast looks askance. 
 
 White Dobbin through the stable doors 
 Shows his round shape ; faint color coats 
 
 The manger, where the farmer pours, 
 With rustling rush, the glancing oats. 
 
 
 And broadly slopes one path of rays 
 . Within the barn, and makes it glow. 
 
 The loft stares out — the cat intent, 
 Like carving, on some gnawing rat — 
 
 With sun-bathed hay and rafters bent,- 
 
 Naoked, cobwebbed homes of wasp and bat. 
 
 A sun haze streaks the dusty shed ; 
 
 Makes spears of seams and gems of chinks ; 
 In mottled gloss the straw is spread ; 
 
 And the grey grindstone dully blinks. 
 
 The sun salutes the lowest west 
 
 With gorgeous tints around it drawn 5 
 
RURAL SCENES. 
 
 301 
 
 A. beacon on the mountain's breast, 
 A crescent, shred, a star — and gone. 
 
 The landscape now prepares for night ; 
 
 A gauzy mist slow settles round ; 
 Eve shows her hues in every sight, 
 
 And blends her voice with every sound. 
 
 The sheep stream rippling down the dell, 
 Their smooth, sharp faces pointed straight; 
 
 The pacing kine, with tinkling bell, 
 Come grazing through the pasture gate. 
 
 The ducks are grouped, and talk in fits ; 
 
 One yawns with stretch of leg and wing ; 
 One rears and fans, then, settling, sits ; 
 
 One at a moth makes awkward spring. 
 
 The geese march grave in Indian file, 
 The ragged patriarch at the head ; 
 
 Then, screaming, flutter off awhile,, 
 Fold up, and once more stately tread. 
 
 Brave chanticleer shows haughtiest air; 
 
 Hurls his shrill vaunt with lofty bend ; 
 Lifts foot, glares round, then follows where 
 
 His scratching, picking partlets wend. 
 
 Staid Towser scents the glittering ground ; 
 
 Then, yawning, draws a crescent deep, 
 Wheels his head-drooping frame around 
 
 And sinks with forepaws stretched for sleep. 
 
 The oxen, loosened from the plow. 
 Rest by the pear-tree's crooked trunk; 
 
 Tim, standing with yoke-burdened brow, 
 Trim, in a mound beside him sunk. 
 
 One of the kine upon the bank. 
 
 Heaves her face-lifting, wheezy roar ; 
 
 One smooths, with lapping tongue, her flank ; 
 With ponderous droop one finds the floor. 
 
 Freed Dobbin through the soft, clear dark 
 Glimmers across the pillared scene, 
 
 With the grouped geese — a pallid mark — 
 And scattered bushes black between. 
 
 The fire-flies freckle every spot 
 
 With fickle light that gleams and dies ; 
 
 The bat, a wavering, soundless blot, 
 The cat, a pair of prowling eyes. 
 
 Still the sweet, fragrant dark o'erflows 
 The deepening air and darkening ground, 
 
 By its rich scent I trace the rose. 
 The viewless beetle by its sound. 
 
 The cricket scrapes its rib-like bars ; 
 
 The tree-toad purrs in whirring tone ; 
 And now the heavens are set with stars, 
 
 And night and quiet reign alone. 
 
 Alfred B. Street. 
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE HILL. 
 
 FROM the weather-worn house on the brow of 
 the hill 
 We are dwelling afar, in our manhood, to- 
 day; 
 But we see the old gables and hollyhocks still, 
 As they looked long ago, ere we wandered 
 away ; 
 We can see the tall well-sweep that stands by the 
 
 door. 
 And the sunshine that gleams on the old oaken 
 floor. 
 
 We can hear the low hum of the hard-working 
 bees 
 At their toil in our father's old orchard, once 
 more. 
 
 In the broad, trembling tops of the bright-bloom- 
 ing trees, 
 As they busily gather their sweet winter store ; 
 
 And the murmuring brook, the delightful old 
 horn, 
 
 And the cawing black crows that are pulling the 
 corn. 
 
 We can hear the sharp creak of the farm-gate 
 
 again. 
 And the loud, cackling hens in the gray barn 
 
 near by, 
 With its broad sagging floor and its scaffolds of 
 
 grain, 
 And its rafters that once seemed to reach to the 
 
 sky; 
 We behold the great beams, and the bottomless 
 
 bay 
 Where the farm-boys once joyfully jumped on the 
 
 hay. 
 
 We can see the low hog-pen, just over the way, 
 And the long-ruined shed by the side of the 
 
 road, 
 Where the sleds in the summer were hidden away 
 And the wagons and plows in the winter were 
 
 stowed ; 
 And the cider-mill, down in the hollow below, 
 With a long, creaking sweep, the old horse used 
 
 to draw, 
 Where we learned by the homely old tub long ago. 
 What a world of sweet rapture there was in a 
 
 straw. 
 From the cider-casks there, loosely lying around, 
 More leaked from the bung-holes than dripped on 
 
 the ground. 
 
 We beheld the bleak hillsides still bristling with 
 rocks. 
 Where the mountain streams murmured with 
 musical sound, 
 Where we hunted and fished, where we chased the 
 red fox, 
 With lazy old house-dog or loud-baying hound; 
 
302 
 
 RURAL SCENES. 
 
 And the cold, cheerless woods we delighted to 
 tramp 
 For the shy, whirring partridge, in snow to our 
 knees, 
 Where, with neck-yoke and pails, in the old sugar- 
 camp. 
 We gathered the sap from the tall maple-trees ; 
 And the fields where our plows danced a furious 
 
 While we wearily followed the furrow all day. 
 Where we stumbled and bounded o'er boulders so 
 big 
 That it took twenty oxen to draw them away ; 
 
 Where we sowed, where we hoed, where we cra- 
 dled and mowed, 
 Where we scattered the swaths that were heavy 
 with dew, 
 Where we tumbled, we pitched, and behind the 
 tall load 
 The broken old bull-rake reluctantly drew. 
 
 How we grasped the old "Sheepskin" with feel- 
 ings of scorn 
 As we straddled the back of the old sorrel mare, 
 And rode up and down through the green rows of 
 corn, 
 Like a pin on a clothesline that sways in the air ; 
 We can hear our stern fathers reproving us still. 
 As the careless old creature "comes down on a 
 hill." 
 
 We are far from the home of our boyhood to-day, 
 In the battle of life we arc struggling alone; 
 
 The weather-worn farmhouse has gone to decay, 
 The chimney has fallen, its swallows have flown. 
 
 But fancy yet brings, on her bright golden wings. 
 Her beautiful pictures again from the past, 
 
 And memory fondly and tenderly clings 
 
 To pleasures and pastimes too lovely to last. 
 
 We wander again by the river to-day ; 
 
 We sit in the school-room, o'erflo wing with fun. 
 We whisper, we play, and we scamper away 
 
 When our lessons are learned and the spelling 
 is done. 
 
 We see the old cellar where apples were kept, 
 The garret where all the old rubbish was thrown. 
 
 The little back chamber where snugly we slept, 
 The homely old kitchen.the broad hearth of stone. 
 
 Where apples were roasted in many a row. 
 
 Where our grandmothers nodded and knit long 
 ago. 
 
 Our grandmothers long have reposed in the tomb ; 
 With a strong, healthy race they have peopled 
 the land ; 
 They worked with the spindle, they toiled at the 
 loom. 
 Nor lazily brought up their babies by hand. 
 
 The old flint-lock musket, whose awful recoil 
 Made many a Nimrod with agony cry, 
 
 Once hung on the chimney, a part of the spoil 
 Our gallant old grandfathers captured at "Ti." 
 
 Brave men were our grandfathers, sturdy and strong ; 
 The kings of the forest they plucked from their 
 lands ; 
 They were stern in their virtues, they hated all 
 wrong. 
 And they fought for the right with their hearts 
 and their hands. 
 
 Down, down from the hillsides they swept in their 
 might, 
 
 And up from the valleys they went on their way, 
 To fight and to fall upon Hubbardton's height, 
 
 To struggle and conquer in Bennington's fray. 
 
 Oh ! fresh be their memory, cherished the sod 
 That long has grown green o'er their sacred re- 
 mains, 
 And grateful our hearts to a generous God 
 
 For the blood and the spirit that flows in our 
 veins. 
 
 Our Aliens, our Starks, and our Warrens are gone, 
 But our mountains remain with their evergreen 
 crown. 
 
 The souls of our heroes are yet marching on. 
 The structure they founded shall never go down. 
 
 From the weather-worn house on the brow of the hill 
 We are dwelling afar, in our manhood to-day ; 
 
 But we see the old gables and hollyhocks still, 
 As they looked when we left them to wander 
 away. 
 
 But the dear ones we loved in the sweet long ago 
 
 In the old village churchyard sleep under the snow. 
 
 Farewell to the friends of our bright boyhood days, 
 To the beautiful vales once delightful to roam, 
 
 To the fathers, the mothers, now gone from our 
 gaze. 
 From the weather-worn house to their heavenly 
 home. 
 
 Where they wait, where they watch, and will wel- 
 come us still. 
 
 As they waited and watched in the house on the 
 hill. Eugene J. Hall. 
 
 I 
 
 AGRICULTURE. 
 
 N ancient times, the sacred plough employed 
 The kings, and awful fathers of mankind ; 
 And some, with whom compared your insect 
 tribes 
 Are but the beings of a summer's day, 
 Have held the scale of empire, ruled the storm 
 Of mighty war, then, with unwearied hand, 
 Disdaining little delicacies, seized 
 The plough, and greatly independent lived. 
 
 James Thomson. 
 
303 
 
304 
 
 RUK. 
 
 SCENES. 
 
 DAN'5 WIFE. 
 
 UP in early morning light, 
 Sweeping, dusting, ** setting aright," 
 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 her chair. 
 Cutting meat, and spreading bread, 
 Dishing out so much per head, 
 Eating as she can, by chance, 
 
 i 
 
 Bedclothes 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, shirt, 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. 
 
 Giving husband kindly glance. 
 Toiling, working, busy life — 
 *' 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 with ease; 
 Happy Dan, but one to please. 
 Children must be put to bed — 
 All the little prayers are said, 
 Little shoes are placed in rows, 
 
 Upstairs, tossing to and fro. 
 Fever holds the woman low; 
 Children wander, free to play 
 When and where they will to-day; 
 Bridget loiters — dinner's cold, 
 Dan looks anxious, cross, and old ; 
 Household screws are out of place. 
 Lacking one dear, patient face; 
 Steady hands, 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. 
 
 Kate T. Woods. 
 
RURAL SCENES. 
 
 205 
 
 THE ROBIN. 
 
 THOUGH the snow is falling fast 
 Specking o'er his coat with white- 
 Though loud roars the chilly blast, 
 And the evening's lost in night — 
 
 Yet from out the darkness 
 
 dreary 
 Cometh still that cheerful 
 
 note ; 
 Praiseful aye, and never 
 
 weary, 
 Is that little warbling throat. 
 
 Thank him for his lesson's 
 
 sake. 
 Thank God's gentle minstrel 
 
 there, 
 Who, when storms make others 
 
 quake, 
 Sings of days that brighter 
 
 were. 
 
 Harrison Weir. 
 
 A LAY OF OLD TIME. 
 
 ONE morning of the first 
 sad fall. 
 Poor Adam and his 
 bride 
 Sat in the shade of Eden's 
 wall — 
 But on the outer side. 
 
 She, blushing in her fig-leaf 
 suit 
 For the chaste garb of old ; 
 He, sighing o'er his bitter 
 fruit 
 For Eden's drupes of gold. 
 
 Behind them, smiling in the 
 morn, 
 Their forfeit garden lay, 
 Before them, wild with rock 
 and thorn. 
 The desert stretched away. 
 
 They heard the air above them 
 fanned, 
 A light step on the sward. 
 And lo ! they saw before them 
 stand 
 The angel of the Lord ! 
 
 *' Arise," he said, '' why look behind, 
 
 When hope is all before, 
 And patient hand and willing mind, 
 
 Your loss may yet restore ? 
 
 ** I leave with you a spell whose power 
 Can make the desert glad, 
 
 20 
 
 And call around you fruit and €ower 
 As fair as Eden had. 
 
 " I clothe your hands with power to lift 
 The curse from off your soil ; 
 
 Your very doom shall seem a gift, 
 Your loss a gain through toil. 
 
 " Go, cheerful as yon humming-bees, 
 
 To labor as to play." 
 White glimmering over Eden's trees 
 
 The angel passed away. 
 
306 
 
 RURAL SCENES, 
 
 The pilgrims of the world went forth 
 
 Obedient to the word, 
 And found wher'er they tilled the earth 
 
 A garden of the Lord ! 
 
 The thorn-tree cast its evil fruit 
 And blushed with plum and pear; 
 
 And seeded grass and trodden root 
 Grew sweet beneath their care. 
 
 1 \ ^-^ ^ t/Msit** 
 
 We share our primal parents' fate, 
 
 And in our turn and day, 
 Look back on Eden's sworded gate 
 
 As sad and lost as they. 
 
 But still for us his native skies 
 
 The pitying Angel leaves, 
 And leads through toil to Paradise 
 
 New Adams and new Eves ! 
 
 John G. Whittier. 
 
 A LITTLE SONG. 
 
 SING a song of summer time 
 Coming by and by, 
 Four-and-twenty blackbirds 
 Sailing through the sky; 
 When the season opens 
 
 They'll ail begin to sing. 
 And make the finest concert 
 Ever heard upon the wing. 
 Blackbirds, yellowbirds, 
 Robins and the wrens. 
 All coming home again 
 When the winter ends. 
 
 Sing a song of summer-time, 
 
 Coming very soon, 
 With the beauty of the May, 
 The glory of the June. 
 
 Now the busy farmer toils, 
 
 Intent on crops and money, 
 Now the velvet bees are out 
 
 Hunting after honey. 
 
 Well they know the flowery 
 
 nooks 
 
 Bathed in sunshine mellow, 
 
 Where the morning-glories are, 
 
 And roses pink and yellow. 
 
 OUR SKATER BELLE. 
 
 ALONG the frozen lake 
 she comes 
 In linking crescents, 
 light and fleet; 
 The ice -imprisoned Undine 
 hums 
 A welcome to her little feet. 
 
 I see the jaunty hat, the plume 
 Swerve bird-like in the joy- 
 ous gale — 
 The cheeks lit up to burning b]3ora, 
 
 The young eyes sparkling through the veil. 
 
 The quick breath parts her laughing lips. 
 
 The white neck shines through tossing curls ; 
 
 Her vesture gently sways and dips. 
 As on she speeds in shell-like whorls. 
 
 Men stop and smile to see her go ; 
 
 They gaze, they smile in pleased surprise ; 
 They ask her name ; they long to show 
 
 Some silent friendship in their eyes. 
 
 She glances not ; she passes on ; 
 
 Her steely footfall quicker rings ; 
 She guesses not the benizon 
 
 Which follows her on noiseless wings. 
 
 Smooth be her ways, secure her tread 
 
 Along the devious lines of life. 
 From grace to grace successive led — ' 
 
 A noble maiden, nobler wife! 
 
RURAL SCENES. 
 
 307 
 
 THE HOMESTEAD. 
 
 'ROM the old squire s dwelling, gloomy and 
 
 grand, 
 Stretching away on either hand, 
 Lie fields of broad and fertile land. 
 
 Acres on acres everywhere, 
 
 The look of smiling plenty wear. 
 
 That tells of the master's thoughtful care. 
 
 Here blossoms the clover, white and red, 
 Here the heavy oats in a tangle spread, 
 And the millet lifts her golden head ; 
 
 And, ripening, closely neighbored by 
 Fields of barley and pale white rye. 
 The yellow wheat grows strong and high. 
 
 There, miles away, like a faint blue line, 
 Whenever the day is clear and fine, 
 You can see the track of a river shine. 
 
 Near it a city hides unseen, 
 
 Shut close the verdant hills between. 
 
 As an acorn set in its cup of green. 
 
 And right beneath, at the foot of the 
 
 hill. 
 The little creek flows swift and still. 
 That turns the wheel of Dovecote mill. 
 
 Nearer the grand old house one sees 
 
 Fair rows of thrifty apple-trees. 
 
 And tall straight pears o'ertopping these. 
 
 And near, untried through the summer days, 
 Lifting their spears in the sun's fierce blaze, 
 Stand the bearded ranks of the maize. 
 
 Straying over the side of the hill, 
 The sheep run to and fro at will. 
 Nibbling of short green grass their fill. 
 
 Sleek cows down the pasture take their ways. 
 Or lie in the shade through the sultry days. 
 Idle, and too full-fed to graze. 
 
 Ah ! you might wander far and wide. 
 Nor find a spot in the country's side 
 So fair to see as our valley's pride ! 
 
 How, just beyond, if it will not tire 
 Your feet to climb this green knoll higher, 
 We can see the pretty village spire ; 
 
 And, mystic haunt of the whip-poor-wills, 
 The wood, that all the background fills. 
 Crowning the tops to the mill-creek hills. 
 
 And down at the foot of the garden, lov 
 On a rustic bench, a pretty show. 
 White bee-hives, standing in a row. 
 
 Here trimmed in sprigs, with blossoms, caci^ 
 
 Of the little bees in easy reach. 
 
 Hang the boughs of the plum and peach. 
 
 At the garden's head are poplars tall. 
 
 And peacocks, making their harsh, loud call, 
 
 Sun themselves all day on the wall. 
 
 And here you will find on every hand 
 Walks and fountains and statues grand, 
 And trees from many a foreign land. 
 
 And flowers, that only the learned can name. 
 Here glow and burn like a gorgeous flame. 
 Putting the poor man's blooms to shame. 
 
 Far away from their native air 
 
 The Norway pines their green dress wear; 
 
 And larches swing their long, loose hair 
 
308 
 
 RURAL SCENES. 
 
 Near the porch grows the broad catalpa tree, 
 And o'er it the grand wisteria 
 3orn to the purple of royalty. 
 
 There looking the same for a weary while — 
 'Twas built in this heavy, gloomy style — 
 Stands the mansion, a grand old pile. 
 
 Always closed, as it is to-day, 
 
 And the proud squire, so the neighbors say, 
 
 Frowns each unwelcome guest away. 
 
 Who will make the deliciousest sketches. 
 Which I'll place in my Theodore's desk. 
 
 "■ Then how pleasant to study the habits 
 
 Of the creatures we meet as we roam; 
 And perhaps keep a couple of rabbits. 
 
 Or some fish and a bullfinch at home ! 
 The larks, when the summer has brought 'em. 
 
 Will sing overtures quite like Mozart's, 
 And the blackberries, dear, in the autumn 
 
 Will make the most exquisite tarts. 
 
 .^ 
 
 ■^YJ/i^ 
 
 ^^^^bs^ 
 
 Though some, who knew him long ago, 
 If you ask, will shake their heads of snow, 
 And tell you he was not always so. 
 
 Though grave and quiet at any time, 
 
 But that now, his head in manhood's prime 
 
 Is growing white as the winter's rime. 
 
 Phoebe Gary. 
 
 A LIFE IN THE COUNTRY. 
 
 "O 
 
 H ! a life in the country how joyous, 
 How ineffably charming it is ; 
 With no ill-mannered crowds to an- 
 noy us 
 Nor odious neighbors to quiz ! " 
 So murmured the beautiful Harriet 
 
 To the fondly affectionate Brown, 
 As they rolled in the flame-colored chariot 
 
 From the nasty detestable town : 
 Singing, "Oh, a life in the country how joyous, 
 How ineffably charming it is ! " 
 
 *'\ shall take a portfolio quite full 
 Of the sweetest conceivable glees ; 
 
 And at times manufacture delightful 
 Little odes to the doves on the trees. 
 
 There'll be dear little stockingless wretches 
 In those hato that are so picturesque, 
 
 " The bells of the sheep will be ringing 
 
 All day amid sweet-scented showers, 
 As we sit by some rivulet singing 
 
 About May and her beautiful bowers. 
 We'll take intellectual rambles 
 
 In those balm-laden evenings of June, 
 And say it reminds one of Campbell's 
 
 (Or somebody's) lines to the moon." 
 
 But these charms began shortly to pall on 
 
 The taste of the gay Mrs. Brown ; 
 She hadn't a body to call on. 
 
 Nor a soul that could make up a gown. 
 She was yearning to see her relations. 
 
 And besides had a troublesome cough ; 
 And in fact she was losing all patience, 
 
 And exclaimed, "We must really be off. 
 Though a life in the country so joyous, 
 
 So ineffably charming it is. 
 
 " But this morning I noticed a beetle 
 
 Crawl along on the dining-room floor. 
 If we stay till the summer, the heat'U 
 
 Infallibly bring out some more. 
 Now few have a greater objection 
 
 To beetles than Harriet Brown : 
 And, my dear, I think, on reflection — 
 
 I should like to go back to the town." 
 
 C. S. Calverley, 
 
RURAL SCENES, 
 
 309 
 
 A RURAL PICTURE. 
 
 EVEN now methinks 
 Each little cottage of my native vale 
 Swells out its earthen sides, upheaves its 
 roof, 
 Like to a hillock moved by laboring mole. 
 And with green trail-weeds clambering up its 
 walls, 
 
 Of 'nighted travelers, who shall gladly bend 
 Their doubtful footsteps towards the cheering 
 
 din. 
 Solemn, and grave, and cloistered, and demure 
 We shall not be. Will this content ye, damsels? 
 
 Every season 
 Shall have its suited pastime ; even winter. 
 In its deep noon, when mountains piled with snow 
 
 Roses and every gay and fragrant plant 
 Before my fancy stands, a fairy bower. 
 Ay, and within it, too, do fairies dwell. 
 Peep through its wreathed window, if indeed 
 The flowers grow not too close ; and there within 
 Thou'lt see some half-a-dozen rosy brats, 
 Eating from wooden bowls their dainty milk. 
 Those are ray mountain elves. Seest thou not 
 Their very forms distinctly ? 
 
 I'll gather round my board 
 All that Heaven sends to me of way-worn folks, 
 And noble travelers, and neighboring friends, 
 Both } oimg and old. Within my ample hall, 
 The worn-out man of arms shall o' tiptoe tread, 
 Tossing his grey locks from his wrinkled brow 
 With cheer ''ul freedo-n, as he boasts his feats 
 Of days gone by. Music we'll have : and oft 
 The bickering dance upon our oaken floors 
 Sliall, thundering loud, strike on the distant ear 
 
 And choked-up valleys from our mansion bar 
 All entrance, and nor guest nor traveler 
 Sounds at our gate ; the empty hall forsaken, 
 In some wj'.rm chamber, by the crackling fire. 
 We'll hold our little, snug, domestic court, 
 Plying our work with song and tale between. 
 
 Joanna Baillie. 
 
 PEACEFUL ENJOYMENT. 
 
 TAKE the case of a common English land- 
 landscape; — green meadows with fat cattle; 
 canals, or navigable rivers; well-fenced, 
 well-cultivated fields; neat, clean, scattered cot- 
 tages ; humble antique church, with church-yard 
 and crossing hedge-rows, all seen under 
 
 elms ; 
 bright 
 beaut} 
 scene, 
 
 skies, and in good weather ; there is much 
 , as every one will acknowledge, in such a 
 
310 
 
 RURAL SCENES. 
 
 But in what does the beauty consist? Not, cer- 
 tainly, in the mere mixture of colors and forms; 
 for colors more pleasing, and lines more graceful 
 (according to any theory of grace that may be 
 preferred), might be spread upon a board, or a 
 painter's pallet, without engaging the eye to a 
 second glance, or raising the least emotion in the 
 mind : but in the picture of human happiness that 
 
 A HARVEST HYMN. 
 
 GREAT GOD ! our heart-felt thanks to Thee ; 
 We feel thy presence everywhere ; 
 And pray, that we may ever be 
 Thus objects of thy guardian care. 
 
 We sowed ! — by Thee our work was seen, 
 And blessed ; and instantly went forth 
 
 Thy mandate ; and in living green 
 Soon smiled the fair and fruitful 
 earth. 
 
 We toiled ! — and Thou didst note our 
 toil; 
 And gav'st the sunshine and the 
 rain, 
 Till ripened on the teeming soil 
 
 The fragrant grass, and golden grain. 
 
 And now, we reap ! — and oh, our God ! 
 From this, the earth's unbounded 
 floor, 
 We send our song of thanks abroad. 
 And pray Thee, bless our hoarded 
 store ! 
 
 W. D. Gallagher. 
 
 A^: 
 
 is presented to our imaginations and affections — 
 and in the visible and unequivocal signs of com- 
 fort, and cheerful and peaceful enjoyment — and of 
 that secure and successful industry that insures its 
 continuance — and of the piety by which it is ex- 
 alted — and of the simplicity by which it is con- 
 trasted with the guilt and the fever of a city life — 
 in the images of health and temperance and plenty 
 which it exhibits to every eye, and in the glimpses 
 which it affords to warmer imaginations of those 
 primitive or fabulous times when man was uncor- 
 rupted by luxury and ambition ; and of those hum- 
 ble retreats in which we still delight to imagine 
 that love and philosophy may find an unpolluted 
 asylum. 
 
 Lord Jeffrey. 
 
 MY LITTLE BROOK. 
 
 TTLE brook half hidden 
 
 under trees — 
 gives me peace and rest the 
 whole day through, 
 Having this little brook to wander to. 
 So cool, so clear, with grassy banks 
 
 and these 
 Sweet miracles of violets 'neath the 
 trees. 
 
 There is a rock where I can sit and 
 see 
 The crystal ripples dancing down and 
 
 racing. 
 Like children round the stones earh 
 other chasing, 
 Then for a moment pausing seriously 
 In a dark mimic pond that I can see. 
 
 The rock is rough and broken on its edge 
 With jutting corners, but there come alway 
 The merry ripples with their tiny spray, 
 To press it ere they flow on by the sedge, 
 They never fail the old rock's broken edge. 
 
 I sit here by the stream in full content, 
 Tt is so constant, and I lay my hand 
 Down through its waters on the golden sand. 
 And watch the sunshine with its shallows blent, 
 Watch it with ever-growing, sweet content. 
 
 And yet the waves they come I know not 
 whence, 
 And they flow on from me I know not whither^ 
 
RURAL SCENES. 
 
 311 
 
 Sometimes my fancy pines to follow thither ; 
 But I can only see the forest dense — 
 Still the brook flows I know not where nor 
 whence. 
 
 Who knows from what far hills it threads its 
 way, 
 What mysteries of cliffs and pines and skies 
 O'erhang the spot where its first fountains rise, 
 What shy wild deer may stoop to taste its spray, 
 Through what rare regions my brook threads 
 its way. 
 
 I only see the trees above, below, 
 Who knows through what fair lands the stream 
 
 may run, 
 What children play, what homes are built thereon, 
 Through what great cities broadening it may 
 
 go?— 
 I only see the trees above, below. 
 
 What do I care? I pause with full content, 
 My little brook beside the rock to see, 
 What it has been or what it yet may be, 
 Naught matters, I but know that it is sent 
 Flowing my way, and I am well content. 
 
 Mary B. Branch. 
 
 CONRAD IN THE CITY. 
 
 FROM " TWIN SOULS : A PSYCHIC ROMANCE." 
 
 \CK in the noisy, man-made town. 
 Walls high and blank, smoke-fouled 
 
 and brown, 
 A factory whose clattering wheels 
 With rattling speed are crazed and 
 hot, 
 Where life its best and worst reveals. 
 Where money is and man is not — 
 There was but little to impart 
 Content to Conrad's harassed heart. 
 He missed the ocean, missed the hills, 
 Woods, meadows, vales and romping rills. 
 
 A man within the city pent. 
 
 Whose mornings, noons and nights are spent 
 
 As if in prison serving time 
 
 To expiate some flagrant crime. 
 
 Is blind to nature's changing scene. 
 
 Earth, sky and clouds that intervene, 
 
 And all the rich and floral blooms 
 
 That dress the fields and breathe perfumes. 
 
 His landscape is the dusty street. 
 The back yard is his cool retreat. 
 His trees are poles with wires strung, 
 His birds are poultry, old and young. 
 His bower where twilight lovers hide 
 Is in an alley five feet wide, 
 His charming rest in shaded gullies 
 Is under awnings worked with pulleys. 
 
 His brook, whose waters leap and sputter. 
 Is found in every city gutter, 
 And all his wide and open heaven 
 Is in a room ten feet by seven. 
 
 There in the country prospects fair, 
 Here in the city smudgy air; 
 There, grand old hills that prop the sky, 
 Here, buildings thirteen stories high ; 
 There, purling streams that smg and prattle, 
 Here, draymen's carts that jolt and rattle; 
 There nature's hues of green and gold, 
 Here, whitewash, stucco, paint and mould; 
 There, growing shrubs with blossoms bright, 
 Here, iron lamp-posts bolt upright ; 
 There, waving tops of elm and oak. 
 Here, chimneys tops begrimed with smoke; 
 There, gurgling fountains on the lawn, 
 Here, draughts from rusty faucets drawn ; 
 There, bird-songs heard on mossy banks. 
 Here, music played by organ cranks ; 
 There, odors of the pink and rose. 
 Here, odors — different from those; 
 There, valleys, slopes and verdant plains, 
 Rare berries, vines and billowy grains ; 
 Here, markets, shops and dirty stables, 
 Wheelbarrows, trolleys and car-cables ! 
 
 Strange contrast now the seething town 
 To mountain glen with mossy down ; 
 Yet where is marked the path of duty. 
 There all things wear the garb of beauty. 
 Where noble aims employ the hours. 
 Dull workshops turn to floral bowers, 
 Life's routine has its sanctities. 
 And labor's blows are symphonies. 
 
 Now to the anvil ! — Conrad thought — 
 Life is a thing that must be wrought. 
 Must be hard hammered, must be moulded. 
 Its new and living shapes unfolded. 
 We cannot choose our fields, our sky, 
 Nor swerve the fate that shall deny 
 Our wish to find unvexed content. 
 And build our own environment. 
 I think, I guess — but do not know: 
 Child-like, I trust the winds that blow. 
 And if I'm blown to unknown strand. 
 It will be wiser than I planned : 
 The harbor waits, I know not where — 
 My home-bound bark will anchor there, 
 And gain, through harmless storms or calms. 
 The isles of spices and of palms. 
 
 Henry Davenport. 
 
 THE REAPERS. 
 
 I SIGH for the time 
 When the reapers at morn 
 Come down from the hill 
 At the sound of the horn ; 
 Or when dragging the rake, 
 I fpllowe4 them out 
 
312 
 
 RURAL SCENES, 
 
 WTiile they tossed the light sheaves 
 
 AVith their laughter about; 
 Through the field, with boy-daring, 
 
 Barefooted I ran ; 
 But the stubbles foreshadowed 
 
 The path of the man. 
 Now the uplands of life 
 
 Lie all barren of sheaves — 
 While my footsteps are loud 
 
 In the withering leaves. 
 
 T. Buchanan Read. 
 
 Calls us to the new-mo^\^l hay. 
 Piping to our roundelay. 
 
 When the golden sun appears, 
 
 On the mountain's surly brow, 
 When his jolly beams he rears, 
 Darting joy, behold them now: 
 Then, then, oh hark! 
 The merry lark 
 Calls us to the new-mown hay, 
 Piping to our roundelay. 
 
 What are honors ? What's a court? 
 
 Calm content is worth them all ; 
 Our honor is to drive the cart, 
 
 Our brightest court the harvest hall : 
 But now — oh hark ! 
 The merry lark 
 Calls us to the new-mown hay. 
 Piping to our roundelay. 
 
 TRUE RICHES. 
 
 THANKS to my humble nature, while I've 
 limbs, 
 Tastes, senses, I'm determined to be rich : 
 So long as that fine alchymist, the sun, 
 Can transmute into gold whate'er I like 
 On earth, in air, or water ! while a banquet 
 I Is ever spread before me, in a hall 
 Of heaven's ow^n building, perfumed with the 
 breath 
 , Of nature's self, and ringing to the sounds 
 I Of her own choristers. 
 
 J. N. Barker, 
 
 ^.l 
 
 p: 
 
 THE DRUDGE. 
 
 OOR drudge of the city ! 
 How happy he feels, 
 ith burrs on his legs 
 And the grass at his heels ; 
 No dodger behind. 
 
 His bandannas to share, 
 Xo constable grumbling — 
 *' You cannot go there !" 
 
 O. W. Holmes. 
 
 THE HAYMAKER'S ROUNDELAY. 
 
 DRIFTED snow no more is seen, 
 Blust'ring winter passes by; 
 Merry spring comes clad in green. 
 While woodlands pour their melody: 
 I hear him I hark ! 
 The merry lark 
 
 O 
 
 THE COUNTRY MAID. 
 
 H fairest of the rural maids ! 
 Thy birth was in the forest shades; 
 Green boughs, and glimpses of the sky, 
 Were all that met thy infant eye. 
 
 Thy sports, thy w anderings, when a child. 
 Were ever in the sylvan wild ; 
 And all the beauty of the place 
 Is in thy heart and on thy face. 
 
 The twilight of the trees and rocks 
 Is in the light shade of thy locks ; 
 Thy step is as the wind that weaves 
 Its playful way among the leaves. 
 
 Thine eyes are springs, in whose serene 
 And silent waters heaven is seen ; 
 Their lashes are the herbs that look 
 On their young figures in the brook. 
 
 The forest depths, by foot unpressed, 
 Are not more sinless than thy breast ; 
 The holy peace, that fills the air 
 Of those calm solitudes, is there. 
 
 W. C. Bryant. 
 
THE RURAL MAID, 
 
 313 
 
314 
 
 RURAL SCENES. 
 
 WELL, why don't you say it, husband ? 
 know what you want to say; 
 Vou want to talk about selling the farm, 
 for the mortgage we cannot pay. 
 I know that we cannot pay it ; I have thought of 
 
 it o'er and o'er; 
 For the w^heat has failed on the corner lot, where 
 wheat never failed before. 
 
 5ELLING THE FARM. 
 
 I 
 
 I thought that the merciful Father would somehow 
 care for the lad, 
 
 Because he was trying to better the past, and be- 
 cause he was all we had. 
 
 But now I am well-nigh hopeless, since the hope 
 for my boy has fled, 
 
 For selling the farm means giving him up, and 
 knowing for sure he's dead. 
 
 And everything here's gone backward since Willie j O Thomas ! how can we leave it, the home we 
 went off to sea 1 have always known ? 
 
 To pay the mortgage and save the farm, the home- 
 stead, for } ou and me. 
 
 I know it was best to give it ; it was right that the 
 debts be paid — 
 
 The debts that our thoughtless Willie, in the hours 
 of his w^eakness, made ; 
 
 And Will would have paid it fairly, you know it as 
 
 well as I, 
 If the ship had not gone down that night, when 
 
 no other ship was nigh. 
 But, somehow, I didn't quit hoping, and ever I've 
 
 tried to pray — 
 (But I know if our Will was alive on earth, he'd 
 
 surely been here to-day). 
 
 We won it away from the forest, and maae it so 
 
 much our own. 
 First day we kept house together was the day that 
 
 you brought me here ; 
 And no other place in the wide, wide world will 
 
 ever be half so dear. 
 
 Of course you remember it, Thomas — I need not 
 
 ask you, I know. 
 For this is the month, and this is the day — it was 
 
 twenty-six years ago. 
 And don't you remember it, Thomas, the winter 
 
 the barn was made, 
 How we were so proud and happy, for all our 
 
 debts were paid ? 
 
RURAL SCENES. 
 
 315 
 
 The crops were good that summer, and everything 
 
 worked like a charm, 
 And we felt so rich and contented, to think we 
 
 had paid for the farm. 
 And now to think we must leave it, when here I 
 
 was hoping to die ; 
 It seems as if it was breaking my heart, but the 
 
 fount of my tears is dry. 
 
 There's a man up there in the village that's want- 
 ing to buy, you say ; 
 
 Well, Thomas, he'll have to have it ; but why does 
 he come to day ? 
 
 But there, it is wrong to grieve you, for you have 
 enough to bear, 
 
 And in all of our petty trouble, you always have 
 borne your share ; 
 
 I am but a sorry helpmeet since I have so childish 
 grown : 
 
 There, there, go on to the village ; let me have it 
 out alone. 
 
 Poor Thomas, he's growing feeble, he steps so 
 weary and slow ; 
 
 There is not much in his looks to-day like twenty- 
 six years ago. 
 
 But I know that his heart is youthful as it was 
 when we first were wed, 
 
 And his love is as strong as ever for me, and for 
 WiUie, our boy that's dead. 
 
 Oh, Willie, my baby Willie ! I shall never see 
 him more ; 
 
 I never shall hear his footsteps as he comes through 
 the open door. 
 
 " How are you, dear little mother?" were always 
 
 the words he'd say ; 
 It seems as if I would give the world to hear it 
 
 again to-day. 
 I knew when my boy was coming, be it ever so 
 
 early or late. 
 He was always a whistling " Home, Sweet Home," 
 
 as he opened the garden gate. 
 
 And many and many a moment, since the night 
 
 that the ship went down, 
 Have I started up at a whistle like his, out there 
 
 on the road from town ; 
 And in many a night of sorrow, in the silence, 
 
 early and late, 
 Have I held my breath at a footstep that seemed 
 
 to pause at the gate. 
 
 I hope that he cannot see us, wherever his soul 
 
 may be ; 
 It would grieve him to know the trouble that's 
 
 come to father and me. 
 Out there is the tree he planted the day he was 
 
 twelve years old ; 
 The sunlight is glinting through it, and turning 
 
 its leaves to gold ; 
 
 And often, when I was lonely, and no one near at 
 
 hand, 
 I have talked to it hours together, as if it could 
 
 understand ; 
 And sometuTies I used to fancy, whenever I spoke 
 
 of my boy. 
 It was waving its leaves together, like clapping its 
 
 hands for joy. 
 
 It may be the man that will own it, that's coming 
 
 to buy to-day. 
 Will be chopping it down, or digging it up, and 
 
 burning it out of the way. 
 And there are the pansies yonder, and the roses he 
 
 helped to tend : 
 Why, every bush on the dear old place is as dear 
 
 as a tried old friend. 
 
 And now we must go and leave them — but there 
 
 they come from town ; 
 I haven't had time to smooth my hair, or even to 
 
 change my gown. 
 I can see them both quite plainly, although it is 
 
 getting late. 
 And the stranger's a whistling " Home, Sweet 
 
 Home," as he comes up from the gate. 
 I'll go out into the kitchen now, for I don't want 
 
 to look on his face : 
 What right has he to be whistling that, unless he 
 
 has bought the place ? 
 
 Why, can that be Thomas coming ? He usually 
 
 steps so slow ; 
 There's something come into his footsteps like 
 
 twenty-six years ago ; 
 There's something that sounds like gladness, and 
 
 the man that he used to be 
 Before our Willie went out from home to die on 
 
 the stormy sea. 
 
 What, Thomas ! Why are you smiling and hold- 
 ing my hands so tight ? 
 
 And why don't you tell me quickly — must we go 
 from the farm to-night? 
 
 What's that? " You bring me tidings, and tidings 
 of wonderful joy? 
 
 It cannot be very joyous, unless it is news of my 
 boy. 
 
 O, Thomas ! You cannot mean it ! Here, let me 
 look in your face ; 
 
 Now, tell me again — it is Willie that's wanting to 
 buy the place?" 
 
 Beth Day. 
 
 TOWN AND COUNTRY. 
 
 God made the country and man made the town ; 
 What wonder then, that health and virtue, gifts 
 That can alone make sweet the bitter draught 
 That life holds out to all, should most abound 
 And least be threatened in the fields and groves? 
 
 William Cowpek, 
 
316 
 
 RURAL SCENES. 
 
 /v iiARp^xgn- 
 
 "^^K^ 
 
 T 
 
 HE harvest dawn is near, 
 The year delays not long ; 
 
 And he who sows with many a tear 
 Shall reap with many a song. 
 
 Sad to his toil he goes, 
 
 His seed with weeping leaves; 
 
 But he shall come at twilight's close, 
 And bring his golden sheaves. 
 
 THE PUMPKIN. 
 
 O GREENLY and fair in the lands of the &un, 
 The vines of the gourd and the rich melon 
 run, 
 And the rock and the tree and the cottage enfold, 
 With broad leaves all greenness and blossoms all 
 
 gold. 
 Like that which o'er Nineveh's prophet once grew. 
 While he waited to know that his warning was true. 
 And longed for the storm-cloud, and listened in 
 
 vain 
 For the rush of the whirlwind and red-fire rain. 
 
 On the banks of the Xenil, the dark Spanish maiden 
 Comes up with the fruit of the tangled vine laden ; 
 And the Creole of Cuba laughs out to behold 
 Through orange-leaves shining the broad spheres 
 
 of gold ; 
 Yet with dearer delight from his home in the 
 
 North, 
 On the fields of his harvest the Yankee looks forth, 
 Where crook-necks are coiling and yellow fruit 
 
 shines, 
 And the sun of September melts down on his vines. 
 
 Ah! on Thanksgiving Day, when from East and 
 
 from West, 
 From North and from South come the pilgrim and 
 
 guest. 
 
 ( When the grey-haired New Englander sees round 
 
 his board 
 The old broken links of affection restored, 
 When the care-wearied man seeks his mother once 
 
 more. 
 And the worn matron smiles where the girl smiled 
 
 before, 
 What moistens the lip, and what brightens the eye? 
 What calls back the past, like the rich pumpkin-pie? 
 
 O, fruit loved of boyhood! the old days recalling; 
 When wood-grapes were purpling and brown nuts 
 
 were falling ! 
 When wild, ugly faces we carved in its skin, 
 Glaring out through the dark with a candle within ! 
 When we laughed round the corn -heap, with hearts 
 
 all in tune. 
 Our chair a broad pumpkin, our lantern the moon, 
 Telling tales of the fairy who traveled like steam 
 In a pumpkin-shell coach, with two rats for her 
 
 team ! 
 
 Then thanks for thy present ! — none sweeter or 
 
 better 
 E'er smoked from an oven or circled a platter ! 
 Fairer hands never wrought at a pastry more fine. 
 Brighter eyes never watched o'er its baking than 
 
 thine ! 
 
RURAL SCENES. 
 
 317 
 
 And the prayer, which my mouth is too full to 
 
 express, 
 Swells my heart that thy shadow may never be 
 
 less. 
 That the days of thy lot may be lengthened below, 
 
 And the fame of thy worth like a pumpkin-vine 
 
 grow. 
 And thy Hfe be as sweet, and its last sunset sky 
 Gold-tinted and fair as thine own pumpkin-pie ! 
 
 J. G. Whittier. 
 
 BLOSSOM=TIME. 
 
 THERE'S a wedding in the orchard, dear, 
 I know it by the flowers ; 
 They're wreathed on every bough and branch, 
 Or falling down in showers. 
 
 The air is in a mist, I think. 
 
 And scarce knows which to be — 
 
 Whether all fragrance, clinging close, 
 Or bird-song, wild and free. 
 
 And though I saw no wedding-guest, 
 Nor groom, nor gentle bride, 
 
 I know that holy things were asked, 
 And holy love replied. 
 
 And countless wedding-jewels shine, 
 
 And golden gifts of grace ; 
 I never saw such wealth of sun 
 
 In any shady place. 
 
 It seemed I heard the flu tt' ring robes 
 
 Of maidens clad in white. 
 The clasping of a thousand hands 
 
 In tenderest delight : 
 
 While whispers rang among the boughs 
 
 Of promises and praise ; 
 And playful, loving messages 
 
 Sped through the leaf-lit ways. 
 
 And just beyond the wreathed aisles 
 
 That end against the blue, 
 The raiment of the wedding-choir 
 
 And priest came shining through. 
 
 And something through the sunlight said : 
 
 '' Let all who love be blest ! 
 The earth is wedded to the spring — 
 
 And God, He knoweth best " 
 
 Mary E. Dodge. 
 
 COUNTRY LIFE. 
 
 THE merchant tempts me with his gold. 
 The gold he worships night and day ; 
 He bids me leave this dreary wold. 
 And come into the city gay. 
 I will not ,2:0 ; I won't be sold ; 
 
 I scorn his pleasures and array; 
 I'll rather bear the country's cold, 
 Than from its freedom walk away. 
 
 What is to me the city's pride ? 
 
 The haunt of luxury and pleasure ; 
 Those fields and hills, this wild brookside, 
 
 To me are better beyond measure. 
 'Mid country scenes I'll still abide; 
 
 With country life and country leisure, 
 Content, whatever mav betide, 
 
 With common good instead of treasure. 
 
318 
 
 RURAL SCENES. 
 
 THE OLD MILL. 
 
 ESIDE the stream the grist-mill stands, 
 With bending roof and leaning wall ; 
 So old, that when the winds are wild. 
 
 The miller trembles lest it fall ; 
 And yet it baffles wind and rain, 
 Our brave old mill, and will again. 
 
 Its dam is steep, and hung with weeds; 
 
 The gates are up, the waters pour. 
 And tread the old wheels slippery round, 
 
 The lowest step forever o'er. 
 Methinks they fume, and chafe with ire, 
 Because they cannot climb it higher. 
 
 From morn to night in autumn time, 
 
 When harvests fill the neighboring plains. 
 
 Up to the mill the farmers drive. 
 And back anon with loaded wains ; 
 
 And when the children come from school 
 
 They stop and watch its foamy pool. 
 
 The mill inside is small and dark ; 
 
 But peeping in the open door 
 You see the miller flitting round. 
 
 The dusty bags along the floor. 
 The whirling shaft, the clattering spout, 
 And the yellow meal a-pouring out ! 
 
 All day the meal is floating there, 
 Rising and falling in the breeze ; 
 
 And when the sunlight strikes its mist 
 It glitters like a swarm of bees ; 
 
 Or like the cloud of smoke and light 
 
 Above a blacksmith's forge at night. 
 
 I love our pleasant, quaint old mill. 
 It still recalls my boyish prime ; 
 
 'Tis changed since then, and so am I, 
 We both have known the touch of time; 
 
 The mill is crumbling in decay, 
 
 And I — my hair is early gray. 
 
 I stand beside the stream of life. 
 
 And watch the current sweep along ; 
 
 And when the flood-gates of my heart 
 Are raised, it turns the wheel of song; 
 
 But scant, as yet, the harvest brought 
 
 From out the golden fields of thought. 
 
 R. H. Stoddard. 
 
 BACK TO THE FARM. 
 
 BACK to the farm these autumn days, 
 A-swinging and a-swinging, 
 A fellow's brooding fancy strays, 
 A-swinging and a-swinging! 
 The frost that makes the pumpkin sweet — 
 You feel it in the city street ; 
 
 The cobwebs hanging o'er the way- 
 Are spiders' poems to the day ; 
 The cricket's palpitating song 
 Is but the echo of a gong 
 The Liliputians might have beat 
 In sounding some ill-starred retreat ; 
 The ripened cymlings, round and fair, 
 Seem fairies' skulls a-bleaching there ; 
 And where the apples to the gaze 
 Make pimples on the orchard's face^ 
 A haws hangs in the upper sea — 
 A loosened skiff that lazily 
 Is swinging and a-swinging. 
 
 Back to the old plantation days, 
 
 A-swinging and a-swinging, 
 O'er hazy hills and browning braes, 
 
 A-swinging and a-swinging ! 
 The geese file through the pasture slow. 
 Like mimic cotton drays that go 
 Up city streets to where are furled 
 In bales the comforts of a world ! 
 The old folks putter round the house — 
 The father turning in the cows 
 To graze where rye among the stalks 
 Is green as Gul's enamored walks ; 
 And mother sings an old-time hymn 
 In rooms where hang on walls the dint 
 And pictured faces of the loved. 
 Who've died or from the home nest roved^ 
 And dear old folks ! there's one at least 
 Who through the years has never ceased 
 To long to be with you again. 
 Where dear old days through autumn's reign 
 
 Go swinging and a-swinging ! 
 
 Will T. Hale. 
 
 CikEEN RIVER. 
 
 WHEN breezes are soft and skies are fair, 
 I steal iS'^ hour from study and care. 
 And hie me away to the woodland scene, 
 Where wanders the stream with waters of green, 
 As if the bright fringe of herbs on its brink 
 Had given their stain to the wave they drink ; 
 And they, whose meadows it murmurs through, 
 Have named the stream from its own fair hue. 
 
 Though forced to drudge for the dregs of men, 
 
 And scrawl strange words with the barbarous pen, 
 
 And mingle among the jostling crowd. 
 
 Where the sons of strife are subtle and loud — 
 
 I often come to this quiet place. 
 
 To breathe the airs that ruffle thy face. 
 
 And gaze upon thee in silent dream, 
 
 For in thy lonely and lovely stream 
 
 An image of that calm life appears 
 
 That won my heart in my greener years. 
 
 W. C. Bryant. 
 
RURAL SCENES. 
 
 319 
 
 THE HAYMAKERS. 
 
 DOWN on the Merrimac River, 
 While the autumn grass is green, 
 Oh, there the jolly hay-men 
 In their gundalows are seen ; 
 Floating down, as ebbs the current, 
 And the dawn leads on the day. 
 With their scythes and rakes all ready, 
 To gather in the hay. 
 
 The good wife, up the river, 
 
 Has made the oven hot. 
 And with plenty of pandowdy 
 
 Has filled her earthen pot. 
 Their long oars sweep them onward, 
 
 As the rip; 'ss round them play. 
 And the jolly hay men drift along 
 
 To make the meadow hay. 
 
 THE SONG OF THE MOWERS. 
 
 WE are up and away, ere the sunrise hath 
 kissed 
 In the valley below us, that ocean of 
 mist, 
 Ere the tops of the hills have grown bright in its 
 
 ray, 
 With our scythes on our shoulders, we're up and 
 away. 
 
 The freshness and beauty of morning are ours, 
 The music of birds and the fragrance of flowers ; 
 And' our trail is the first that is seen in the dew, 
 As our pathway through orchards and lanes we 
 pursue. 
 
 Hurrah ! here we are ! now together, as one, 
 Give your scythes to the sward, and press steadily 
 on ; 
 
 At the bank-side then they moor her. 
 
 Where the sluggish waters run, 
 By the shallow creek's low edges, 
 
 Beneath the fervid sun — 
 And all day long the toilers 
 
 Mow their swaths, and day by day. 
 You can see their scythe blades flashing 
 
 At the cutting of the hay. 
 
 When the meadow-birds are flying. 
 
 Then down go scythe and rake. 
 And right and left their scattering shots 
 
 The sleeping echoes wake — 
 For silent spreads the broad expanse. 
 
 To the sand-hills far away. 
 And thus they change their work for sport. 
 
 At making of the hay. 
 
 When the gundalows are loaded — 
 
 Gunwales to the water's brim — 
 With their little square-sails set atop. 
 
 Up the river how they swim ! 
 At home, beside the fire, by night, 
 
 While the children round them play, 
 What tales the jolly hay-men tell 
 
 Of getting in the hay ! 
 
 George Lunt. 
 
 All together, as one, o'er the stubble we pass, 
 With a swing and a ring of the steel through the 
 grass. 
 
 Before us the clover stands thickly and tall. 
 At our left it is piled in a verdurous wall ; 
 And never breathed monarch more fragrant per- 
 fumes 
 Than the sunshine distills from its leaves and its 
 
 blooms. 
 Invisible censers around us are swung. 
 And anthems exultant from tree-tops are flung ; 
 And 'mid fragrance and music and beauty we share 
 The jubilant life of the earth and the air. 
 
 Let the priest and the lawyer grow pale in their 
 
 shades. 
 And the slender young clerk keep his skin like a 
 
 maid's ; 
 We care not, though dear Mother Nature may 
 
 bronze 
 Our cheeks with the kiss that she gives to her sons. 
 
 Then cheerly, boys, cheerly ! together, as one. 
 Give your scythes to the sward, and press steadily on ; 
 All together, as one, o'er the stubble we pass, 
 With a swing and a ring of the steel through the 
 grass. W. H. Burleigh. 
 
320 
 
 RURAL SCENES. 
 
 THE COUNTRY LIFE, 
 
 gZ^ 
 
 Some peach-trees, with unfruitful boughs, 
 
 A well, with weeds to hide it ; 
 No flowers, or only such as rise 
 Self-sown, poor things, which all despise. 
 
 Dear country home ! Can I forget 
 
 The least of thy sweet trifles ? 
 The window-vines that clamber yet, 
 
 AVhose bloom the bee still rifles ? 
 The roadside blackberries, growing ripe. 
 And in the woods the Indian Pipe ? 
 
 Happy the man who tills his field. 
 
 Content with rustic labor; 
 Earth does to him her fulness yield. 
 
 Hap what may to his neighhor. 
 
 THE 
 
 FAR back in the ages, 
 The plough with wreaths was crowned; 
 The hands of kings and sages 
 Entwined the chaplet round ; 
 Till men of spoil disdained the toil 
 
 By which the world was nourished. 
 And dews of blood enriched the soil 
 
 Where green their laurels flourished ; 
 Now the world her fault repairs — 
 The guilt that stains her story ; 
 And weeps her crimes amid the cares 
 That formed her earliest glory. 
 
 OT what we would, but what we must, 
 
 Makes up the sum of living ; 
 Heaven is both more and less than just 
 
 In taking and in giving. 
 Swords cleave to hands that sought the plough. 
 And laurels miss the soldier's brow. 
 Me, whom the city holds, whose feet 
 
 Have worn its stony highways, 
 Famihar with its loneliest street — 
 
 Its ways were never my ways. 
 My cradle was beside the sea. 
 And there, I hope, my grave will be. 
 Old homestead ! In that old gray town, 
 
 Thy vane is seaward blowing. 
 The slip of garden stretches down 
 
 To where the tide is flowing ; 
 Below they lie, their sails all furled, 
 The ships that go about the world. 
 Dearer that little country house, 
 
 Inland, with pines beside it ; 
 
 Well days, sound nights, oh, can there be 
 A life more rational and free ? 
 Dear country life of child and man ! 
 
 For both the best, the strongest. 
 That with the earliest race began. 
 
 And hast outlived the longest ; 
 Their cities perished long ago ; 
 Who the first farmers were we know. 
 Perhaps our Babels, too, will fall ; 
 
 If so, no lamentations, 
 For Mother Earth will shelter all, 
 
 And feed the unborn nations ; 
 Yes, and the swords that menace now, 
 Will then be beaten to the plough. 
 
 R. H. Stoddard. 
 PLOUGH. 
 
 The proud throne shall crumble, 
 
 The diadem shall wane, 
 The tribes of earth shall humble 
 
 The pride of those who reign ; 
 And war shall lay his pomp away j — 
 
 The fame that heroes cherish. 
 The glory earned in deadly fray 
 
 Shall fade, decay, and perish. 
 Honor waits, o'er all the earth. 
 
 Through endless generations. 
 The art that calls her harvests forth. 
 
 And feeds the expectant nations. 
 
 W. C. Bryant. 
 
 THE SACRED WOODS. 
 
 OWHEN I am safe in my sylvan home, 
 I mock at the pride of Greece and Rome ! 
 9 And when I am stretched beneath the 
 pines 
 When the evening star so holy shines. 
 
 I laugh at the lore and pride of man, 
 At the Sophist's schools, and the learned clan; 
 For what are they all in their high conceit, 
 When man in the bush with God may meet? 
 
 R. W. Emerson, 
 
RURAL SCENES. 
 
 321 
 
 w 
 
 THE MOWERS. 
 
 HERE mountains round a lonely dale 
 Our cottage-roof enclose, 
 Come night or morn, the hissing pail 
 With yellow cream o'erflows ; 
 And roused at break of day from sleep, 
 
 And cheerly trudging hither — 
 A scythe-sweep, and a scythe-sweep, 
 We mow the grass together. 
 
 The fog drawn up the mountain-side 
 
 And scattered flake by flake, 
 The chasm of blue above grows wide. 
 
 And richer blue the lake ; 
 Gay sunlights o'er the hillocks creep, 
 
 And join for golden weather — 
 A scythe-sweep, and a scythe-sweep. 
 
 We mow the dale together. 
 
 To-morrow's sky may laugh or weep, 
 To Heaven we leave it, whether — 
 
 A scylhe-sweep, and a scythe-sweep. 
 We've done our task together. 
 
 William Allingham. 
 
 THE CORNFIELD. 
 
 SOON as the morning trembles o'er the sky, 
 And, unperceived, unfolds the spreading day, 
 Before the ripened field the reapers stand. 
 At once they stoop and swell the lusty sheaves. 
 
 While through their cheerful band the rural ta;k 
 The rural scandal, and the rural jest, 
 Fly harmless, to deceive the tedious time, 
 And steal unfelt the sultry hours away. 
 
 James Thomson. 
 
 
 Trie good-wife stirs at five, we know, 
 
 And master soon comes round. 
 And many swaths must lie a-row 
 
 Ere break fast-.horn shall sound ; 
 The clover and the florin deep. 
 
 The grass of silvery feather — 
 A scythe-sweep and a scythe-sweep 
 
 We mow the dale together. 
 
 The noon-tide brings its welcome rest 
 
 Our toil-wet brows to dry ; 
 Anew with merry stave and jest 
 
 The shrieking hone we ply. 
 White falls the brook from steep to steep 
 
 Among the purple heather — 
 A scythe-sweep, and a scythe-sweep. 
 
 We mow the dale together. 
 
 For dial, see, our shadows turn ; 
 
 Low lies the stately mead ; 
 A scythe, an hour-glass, and an urn — 
 
 All flesh is grass, we read. 
 21 
 
 MY HEAVEN. 
 
 RICH, though poor ! 
 My low-roofed cottage is this hour a heaveiT 
 Music is in it— and the song she sings, 
 That sweet-voiced wife of mine, arrests the ear 
 Of my young child awake upon her knee 
 And with his calm eye on his master's face 
 My noble hound lies couchant. 
 
 N. P. WiLLISo 
 
 CHILDREN AND FLOWERS. 
 
 THE birds begin to sing — they utter a few 
 rapturous notes, and then wait for an answer 
 in the silent woods. Those green-coated 
 musicians, the frogs, make holiday in the 
 neighboring marshes. They, too, belong to the 
 orchestra of nature ; whose vast theatre is again 
 opened, though the doors have been so long 
 bolted with icicles, and the scenery hung with 
 snow and frost, like cobwebs. This is the pre- 
 
OOO 
 
 RURAL SCENES. 
 
 lude, which announces the rising of the broad 
 green curtain. Already the grass shoots forth. 
 The waters leap with thrilling pulse through the 
 veins of the earth ; the sap through the veins of 
 the plants and trees ; and the blood through the 
 veins of man. 
 
 What a thrill of delight in springtime ! What 
 a joy in being and moving ! Men are at work in 
 gardens; and in the air there is an odor of the 
 Iresh earth. The leaf-buds begin to swell and 
 l)lush. The white blossoms of the cherry hang 
 ui)on the boughs like snow-flakes, and ere long our 
 next-door neighbors will be completely hidden 
 from us by the dense green foliage. The May 
 flowers open their soft blue eyes. Children are 
 let loose in the fields and gardens. They hold 
 butter-cups under each other's chins, to see if they 
 love butter. And the little girls adorn themselves 
 
 with chains and curls of dandelions ; pull out the 
 yellow leaves to see if the schoolboy loves them, 
 and blow the down from the leaiiess stalk, to find 
 out if their mothers want them at home. 
 
 And at night so cloudless and so still ! Not a 
 voice of living thing — not a whisper of leaf or 
 waving bough — not a breath of wind — not a sound 
 upon the earth nor in the air ! And overhead 
 bends the blue sky, dewy and soft, and radiant 
 with innumerable stars, like the inverted bell of 
 some blue flower, sprinkled with golden dust, and 
 breathing fragrance. Or if the heavens are over- 
 cast, it is no wild storm of wind and rain ; but 
 clouds that melt and fall in showers. One does 
 not wish to sleep; but lies awake to hear the 
 pleasant sound of the dropping rain. 
 
 H. W. Longfellow. 
 
THE WORLD'S WORKERS. 
 
 OR 
 
 THE NOBILITY OF LABOR. 
 
 THE DREAMER. 
 
 OT in the laughing bowers, 
 Where by green swinging elms a pleasant shade 
 At summer's noon is made, 
 
 And where swift-footed hours 
 Steal the rich breath of enamored flowers, 
 Dream I. Nor where the golden glories be. 
 At sunset, laving o'er the flowing sea ; 
 And to pure eyes the faculty is given 
 To trace a smooth ascent from earth to heaven ! 
 
 Not on a couch of ease, 
 With all the appliances of joy at hand — 
 Soft light, sweet fragrance, beauty at command ; 
 Viands that might a godlike palate please, 
 And music's soul-creative ecstasies, 
 Dream I. Nor gloating o'er a wide estate, 
 Till the full, self-complacent heart elate. 
 Well satisfied with bliss of mortal birth. 
 Sighs for an immortality on earth ! 
 
 But where the incessant din 
 Of iron hands, and roars of brazen throats. 
 Join their unmingled notes, 
 
 While the long summer day is pouring in, 
 Till day is gone, and darkness doth begin. 
 Dream I — as in the corner where I lie, 
 On wintry nights, just covered from the sky ! — 
 Such is my fate — and, barren though it seem. 
 Yet, thou blind, soulless scorner, yet I dream ! 
 
 And yet I dream — 
 Dream of a sleep where dreams no more sna" 
 
 come, 
 My lazt, my first, my only welcome home ! 
 Rest, unbeheld since life's beginning stage, 
 Sole remnant of my glorious heritage. 
 Unalienable, I shall find thee yet. 
 And in thy soft embrace the past forget. 
 
 Thus do I dream ! 
 
 PRESS ON. 
 
 PRESS on ! there's no such word as fail; 
 Press nobly on ! the goal is near ; 
 Ascend the mountain ! breast the gale ! 
 Look upward, onward — never fear ! 
 Why shouldst thou faint ? Heaven smiles above 
 
 Though storm and vapor intervene ; 
 
 That sun shines on, whose name is love. 
 
 Serenely o'er life's shadowed scene. 
 
 Press on ! surmount the rocky steeps. 
 
 Climb boldly o'er the torrents' arch; 
 He fails alone who feebly creeps ; 
 
 He wius who dares the hero's march. 
 Be thou a hero ! let thy might 
 
 Tramp on eternal snows its way. 
 Arid through the ebon walls of night, 
 
 Hew down a passage unto day. 
 
 Press 071 / 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 
 
 To-day, to-morrow 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 ! 
 
 323 
 
324 
 
 THE WORLD'S WORKERS, 
 
 i'yess on ! what though upon the ground 
 
 Thy love has been poured out hke rain ? 
 That happiness is always found 
 
 The sweetest that is born of pain. 
 Oft mid the forest's deepest glooms, 
 
 A bird sings from some blighted tree ; 
 And in the dreariest desert blooms 
 
 A never-dying rose for thee. 
 
 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. 
 
 I 
 
 DO SOMETHING. 
 
 F the world seems cold to you, 
 Kindle fires to warm it ! 
 Let their comfort hide from you 
 Winters that deform it. 
 
 Hearts as frozen as your own 
 
 To that radiance gather ; 
 You will soon forget to moan, 
 
 " Ah ! the cheerless weather." 
 
 If the world's a vale of tears, 
 Smile till rainbows span it ; 
 
 Breathe the love that life endears — 
 Clear from clouds to fan it. 
 
 Of our gladness lend a gleam 
 
 Unto souls that shiver ; 
 Show them how dark sorrow's stream 
 
 Blends with hope's bright river ! 
 
 HOW CYRUS LAID THE CABLE. 
 
 C 
 
 OME, listen to my song, it is no silly fable, 
 'Tis all about the mighty cord they call the 
 Atlantic Cable. 
 
 Bold Cyrus Field, said he, ''I have a pretty notion 
 That I could run a telegraph across the Atlantic 
 Ocean." 
 
 And all the people laughed and said they'd like to 
 
 see him do it ; 
 He might get '' half seas over," but never would 
 
 go through it. 
 
 To carry out his foolish plan he never would be 
 able ; 
 
 He might as well go hang himself with his Atlan- 
 tic Cable. 
 
 But Cyrus was a valiant man, a fellow of decision, 
 And heeded not their careless words, their laughter 
 and derision. 
 
 Tw ice did his bravest efforts fail, yet his mind was 
 
 stable ; 
 He wasn't the man to break his heart because he 
 broke his cable. 
 
 ''Once more, my gallant boys," said he; ''three 
 
 times," — you know the fable. 
 "I'll make it thirty," muttered he, " but what I'll 
 
 lay the cable. ' ' 
 
 Hurrah ! hurrah ! again hurrah ! what means this 
 great commotion? 
 
 Hurrah ! hurrah ! The cable's laid across the At- 
 lantic Ocean. 
 
 Loud ring the bells, for flashing through ten 
 
 thousand leagues of water, 
 Old Mother England's benison salutes her eldest 
 
 daughter. 
 
 O'er all the land the tidings spread, and soon in 
 every nation, 
 
 They'll hear about the cable with profoundest ad- 
 miration. 
 
 Long live the gallant souls who helped our noble 
 Cyrus ; 
 
 And may their courage, faith, and zeal, with emu- 
 lation fire us. 
 
 And may we honor, evermore, the manly, bold 
 
 and stable. 
 And tell our sons, to make them brave, how Cyrus 
 
 laid the Cable. 
 
 LITTLE BY LITTLE. 
 
 ONE step and then another, and the longest 
 walk is ended ; 
 One stitch and then another, and the 
 widest rent is mended ; 
 One brick upon another, and the highest wall is 
 
 made ; 
 One flake upon another, and the deepest snow is 
 
 laid. 
 I 
 
 j Then do not frown nor murmur at the work you 
 j have to do, 
 
 I Or say that such a mighty task you never can get 
 
 through ; 
 But just endeavor, day by day, another point to 
 i gain. 
 
 And soon the mountain that you feared will prove 
 
 to be a plain. 
 
 T 
 
 THE WAY TO WIN. 
 
 HERE'S always a river to cross. 
 
 Always an effort to make. 
 If there's anything good to win, 
 Any rich prize to take; 
 Yonder's the fruit we crave. 
 
 Yonder the charming scene ; 
 But deep and wide, with a troubled tide, 
 Is the river that lies between. 
 
HOME EMPLOYMENTS, 
 
 325 
 
326 
 
 THE WORLDS WORKERS, 
 
 SPIDER. 
 
 'WO spiders, so the story goes, 
 Upon a living bent, 
 Entered the meeting-house one Orxy, 
 And hopefully were heard to say — 
 ''Here we will have at least fair play, 
 With nothing to prevent." 
 
 Each chose his place and went to work— 
 
 The light web grew apace ; 
 One on the altar spun his thread, 
 But shortly came the sexton dread, 
 And swept him off, and so, half dead, 
 
 He sought another place. 
 
 "I'll try the pulpit next," said he, 
 
 '•' There surely is a prize ; 
 The desk appears so neat and clean, 
 I'm sure no spider there has been — 
 Besides, how often have I seen 
 
 The pastor brushing flies!" 
 
 He tried the pulpit, but alas ! 
 
 His hopes proved visionary ; 
 With dusting brush the sexton came, 
 And spoiled the geometric game. 
 Nor gave him time or space to claim 
 
 The right of sanctuary. 
 
 Ac length, half starved, and weak and lean. 
 
 He sought his former neighbor. 
 Who now had grown so sleek and round, 
 He weighed a fraction of a pound. 
 And looked as if the art he'd found 
 Of living without labor. 
 
 " How is it, friend," he asked, '* that I 
 
 Endured such thumps and knocks. 
 While you have grow^n so very gross? " 
 " 'Tis plain," he answered — " not a loss 
 I've met, since first I spun across 
 The contribution box." 
 
 GILES AND MARY. 
 
 ^^^ORTH comes the maid, and like the morn- 
 ing smiles; 
 The mistress, too, and followed close by 
 Giles. 
 A friendly tripod forms their humble seat, 
 With pails bright scoured and delicately sweet. 
 Where shadowing elms obstruct the morning ray 
 Regins the work, begins the simple lay; 
 The full-charged udder yields its willing stream 
 V/hile Mary sings some lover's amorous dream; 
 And crouching Giles beneath a neighboring tree 
 Tugs o'er his pail, and chants with equal glee; 
 
 Whose hat with battered brim, of nap so bare, 
 From the cow's side purloins a coat of hair — 
 A mottled ensign of his harmless trade, 
 An unambitious, peaceable cockade. 
 
 As unambitious, too, that cheerful aid 
 The mistress yields beside her rosy maid ; 
 With joy she views her plenteous reeking store. 
 And bears a brimmer to the dairy door. 
 Her cows dismissed, the luscious mead to roam; 
 Till eve a^ain recalls them loaded home. 
 
 Robert Bloomfield. 
 
THE WORLDS WORKERS. 
 
 327 
 
 fHE SHIP-BUILDERS. 
 
 rHE sky is ruddy in the east, 
 The earth is gray below, 
 And spectral in the river-mist, 
 The ship's white timbers show. 
 Then let the sounds of measured stroke 
 
 And grating saw begin ; 
 The broad -axe to the gnarled oak, 
 The mallet to the pin ! 
 
 Hark ! — roars the bellows, blast on blast, 
 
 The sooty smithy jars, 
 And fire-sparks, rising far and fast. 
 
 Are fading with the stars. 
 All day for us the smith shall stand 
 
 Beside that flashing forge ; 
 All day for us his heavy hand 
 
 The groaning anvil scourge. 
 
 From far-off hills, the panting team 
 
 For us is toiling near ; 
 For us the raftsmen down the stream 
 
 Their island barges steer. 
 Rings out for us the axe-man's stroke 
 
 In forests old and still — 
 For us the century-circled oak 
 
 Falls crashing down his hill. 
 
 Up !- — up ! — in nobler toil t m ours 
 
 No craftsmen bear a par' 
 We make of nature's giar powers 
 
 The slaves of human a . 
 Lay rib to rib and beam to beam, 
 
 And drive the treenails free ; 
 Nor faithless joint nor yawning seam 
 
 Shall tempt the searching sea ! 
 
 Where'er the keel of our good ship 
 
 The sea's rough field shall plough — 
 Where'er her tossing spars shall drip 
 
 With salt-spray caught below — 
 That ship must heed her master's beck, 
 
 Her helm obey his hand, 
 And seamen tread her reeling deck 
 
 As if they trod the land. 
 
 Her oaken ribs the vulture-beak 
 
 Of northern ice may peel ; 
 The sunken rock and coral peak 
 
 May grate along her keel ; 
 And know we well the painted shell 
 
 We give to wind and wave. 
 Must float, the sailor's citadel. 
 
 Or sink, the sailor's grave ! 
 
 Ho ! — strike away the bars and blocks, 
 
 And set the good ship free ! 
 Why lingers on these dusty rocks 
 
 The youn^ bride of the sea ? 
 
 Look ! how she moves adown the grooves, 
 
 In graceful beauty now i 
 How lowly on the breast she loves 
 
 Sinks down her virgin prow ! 
 
 God bless her ! wheresoe'er the breeze 
 
 Her snowy wings shall fan, 
 Aside the frozen Hebrides, 
 
 Or sultry Hindostan ! 
 Where'er, in mart or on the main. 
 
 With peaceful flag unfurled, 
 She helps to wind the silken chain 
 
 Of commerce round the world ! 
 
 Speed on the ship ! — But let her bear 
 
 No merchandise of sin. 
 No groaning cargo of despair 
 
 Her roomy hold within. 
 No Lethean drug for eastern lands, 
 
 Nor poison-draught for ours; 
 But honest fruits of toiling hands 
 
 And nature's sun and showers. 
 
 Be hers the prairie's golden grain. 
 
 The desert's golden sand. 
 The clustered fruits of sunny Spain, 
 
 The spice of morning-land ! 
 Her pathway on the open main 
 
 May blessings follow free. 
 And glad hearts welcome back again 
 
 Her white sails from the sea ! 
 
 J. G. Whittier. 
 
 THE SHOEMAKERS. 
 
 HO ! workers of the old time styled 
 The gentle craft of leather ! 
 Young brothers of the ancient guild, 
 Stand forth once more together! 
 Call out again your long array. 
 In the olden merry manner ! 
 Once more, on gay St. Crispin's day, 
 Fling out your blazoned banner. 
 
 Rap, rap ! upon the well-worn stone 
 
 How falls the polished hammer ! 
 Rap, rap ! the measured sound has grown 
 
 A quick and merry clamor. 
 Now shape the sole ! now deftly curl 
 
 The glossy vamp around it, 
 And bless the while the bright-eyed girl 
 
 Whose gentle fingers bound it ! 
 
 For you, along the Spanish main 
 
 A hundred keels are ploughing ; 
 For you, the Indian on the plain 
 
 His lasso-coil is throwing ; 
 For you, deep glens with hemlock dark 
 
 The woodman's fire is lighting; 
 For you, upon the oak's gray bark, 
 
 Th? woodman'? axe i§ smiting. 
 
328 
 
 THE WORLDS WORKERS. 
 
 For you, from Carolina's pine 
 
 The rosin -gum is stealing ; 
 For you, the dark-eyed Florentine 
 
 Her silken skein is reeling ; 
 For you, the dizzy goat-herd roams 
 
 His rugged Alpine ledges ; 
 For you, round all her shepherd homes, 
 
 Bloom England's thorny hedges. 
 
 The foremost still, by day or night, 
 
 On moated mound or heather, 
 Where'er the need of trampled right 
 
 Brought toiling men together ; 
 Where the free burghers from the wall 
 
 Defied the mail-clad master. 
 Than yours, at freedom's trumpet-call, 
 
 No craftsmen rallied faster. 
 
 Let foplings sneer, let fools deride — | 
 
 Ye heed no idle scorner ; [ 
 
 Free hands and hearts are still your pride, | 
 
 And duty done, your honor. 
 Ye dare to trust, for honest fame. 
 
 The jury time empanels, 
 And leave to truth each noble name 
 
 Which glorifies your annals. 
 
 Thy songs, Hans Sachs, are living yet, 
 
 In strong and hearty German ; 
 And Bloomfield's lay, and Gifford's wit, 
 
 And patriot fame of Sherman ; 
 Still from his book, a mystic seer. 
 
 The soul of Behmen teaches. 
 And England's priestcraft shakes to hear 
 
 Of Fox's leathern breeches. 
 
 The foot is yours; where'er it falls. 
 
 It treads your well-wrought leather, 
 On earthen floor, in marble halls, 
 
 On carpet or on heather. 
 Still there the sweetest charm is found 
 
 Of matron grace or vestal's. 
 As Hebe's foot bore nectar round 
 
 Among the old celestials ! 
 
 Rap ! rap ! your stout and bluff brogan, 
 
 With footsteps slow and weary. 
 May wander where the sky's blue span 
 
 Shuts down upon the prairie. 
 On beauty's foot your slippers glance, 
 
 By Saratoga's fountains, 
 Or twinkle down the summer dance 
 
 Beneath the Crystal Mountains ! 
 
 The red brick to the mason's hand. 
 
 The brown earth to the tiller's. 
 The shoe in yours shall wealth command. 
 
 Like fairy Cinderella's! 
 As they who shunned the household maid 
 
 Beheld the crown upon her, 
 So all shall see your toil repaid 
 
 With hearth and home and honor. 
 
 Y 
 
 Then let the toast be freely quaffed, 
 
 In water cool and brimming — 
 All honor to the good old craft, 
 
 Its merry men and women ! ' 
 Call out again your long array. 
 
 In the old time's pleasant manner ; 
 Once more, on gay St. Crispin's day, 
 
 Fling out his blazoned banner ! 
 
 J. G. Whittier. 
 
 MORAL C05METICS. 
 
 E who would have your features florid. 
 Lithe limbs, bright eyes, unwrinkled fore- 
 head. 
 
 From age's devastation horrid. 
 Adopt this plan — 
 T will make, in climate cold or torrid, 
 A hale old man. 
 
 Avoid in youth luxurious diet. 
 Restrain the passions' lawless riot; 
 Devoted to domestic quiet, 
 
 Be wisely gay ; 
 So shall ye, si:)ite of age's fiat, 
 
 Resist decay. 
 
 Seek not in Mammon's worship pleasure, 
 But find your richest, dearest treasure 
 In God, his word, his work, not leisure : 
 
 The mind, not sense. 
 Is the sole scale by which to measure 
 
 Your opulence. 
 
 This is the solace, this the science, 
 Life's purest, sweetest, best appliance. 
 That disappoints not man's reliance, 
 
 Whate'er his state ; 
 But challenges, with calm defiance. 
 
 Time, fortune, fate. 
 
 Horace Smith. 
 
 T 
 
 ADVICE. 
 
 AKE the open air. 
 
 The more you take the better; 
 Follow nature's laws 
 To the very letter. 
 Let the doctors go 
 
 To the Bay of Biscay, 
 Let alone the gin, 
 
 The brandy, and the whiskey. 
 Freely exercise. 
 
 Keep your spirits cheerful ; 
 Let no dread of sickness 
 
 Make you ever fearful. 
 Eat the simplest food. 
 
 Drink the pure, cold water. 
 Then you will be well, 
 
 Or at least you ou§hUr% 
 
THE WORLD'::, WORKERS. 
 
 320 
 
 A WORK=SONG. 
 
 WHO murmurs that his heart is sick 
 With toil from day to day, 
 That brows are wrinkled ere 
 time 
 And locks of youth are grey ? 
 'Twas not in such a craven mood 
 
 Our fathers won the lands, 
 .5ut by the might of toiling brain, 
 The stroke of resolute hands : 
 
 ;heir 
 
 For true love's fruits are noble acts, 
 
 And fruitless love must die ; 
 And if thy fervency be spurned, 
 
 Go, set to work again — 
 'Twill help to quench the burning woe, 
 To ease the bitter pain ; 
 
 For hard work is strength, boy. 
 Whatever the fiend may say, 
 And after storm and cloud and rain 
 Comes up the cheerier day. 
 
 WINNOWING RICE IN JAPAN. 
 
 For hard work is strength, boy ; 
 
 And, whether in house or field. 
 Ho ! for the men that mind and arm 
 
 In righteous labor wield ! 
 
 If trouble clings about thy path 
 
 Ere yet thy days are old ; 
 If dear friends sink in death, and leave 
 
 Thy world all void and cold ; 
 Wilt thou lie down in aimless woe 
 
 And waste thy life away ? 
 Nay, grieving's but a sluggish game 
 That coward spirits play ; 
 
 But hard work is strength, boy, 
 
 And when the stout heart bleeds, 
 There's ne'er a balm that heals it 
 Like the doing of great deeds. 
 
 4\h ! — lovest thou a bonnie lass? 
 Then scorn to dream and sigh, 
 
 And is a true, true wife thine own ^ - 
 
 Let never a murmur rise 
 To draw one doubt across her brow, 
 
 One tear into her eyes ; 
 And if thy children round her knees 
 
 Look up and cry for bread, 
 O kiss their fears away, and turn 
 And work with heart and head; 
 For hard work is strength, boy, 
 
 And with the setting sun 
 Come dearer peace and sweeter rest 
 The more of it that's done. 
 
 And if thou have no child, nor wife, 
 Nor bosom friend, what then ? 
 
 Toil on with might through day, t' 
 night, 
 To help thy fellow-men ; 
 
 And though thou earn but little tharJwS, 
 Forbear to fret and pine ; 
 
 •roug; 
 
330 
 
 THE WORLDS WORKERS. 
 
 There's One that drank of deadlier woes, 
 And holds ihee dear for thine : 
 And hard work is strength, boy, 
 
 And love is the end of life, 
 Music that fires the blood of the brave 
 In the midst of battle and strife. 
 
 And when thy power is ebbed and gone, 
 
 Lay down thy head to rest, 
 fVnd the great God will stretch his hands, 
 
 And draw thee to his breast — 
 Nay, talk no more of sickening heart, 
 
 Gray hairs or wrinkled brow ; 
 Up, up, and gird thy loins for toil; 
 There's good to do enow ; 
 
 And hard work is strength, boy, 
 
 And life's a rapture still. 
 That loses no whit of its jo\ousness 
 To the men of unwavering will. 
 
 George F. Armstrong. 
 
 THE HAPPY HEART. 
 
 RT thou poor, yet hast thou 
 golden slumbers ? 
 O sweet content ! 
 Art thou rich, yet is thy mind 
 perplexed ? 
 O punishment ! 
 Dost thou laugh to see how 
 fools are vexed 
 add to golden numbers, golden 
 numbers ? 
 sweet content ! O sweet, O sweet 
 
 content ! 
 Work apace, apace, apace, apace , 
 Honest labor bears a lovely face ; 
 nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny ! 
 
 Canst drink the waters of the crisped spring ? 
 
 O sweet content ! 
 Swim m' St thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine own 
 tears ? 
 O punishment ! 
 Then he that patiently want's burden bears 
 No burden bears but is a king, a king ! 
 O sweet content ! O sweet, O sweet content! 
 Work apace, apace, apace, apace ; 
 Honest labor bears a lovely face ; 
 Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny! 
 
 T. Decker. 
 LABOR ON. 
 
 N the name of God advancing. 
 Sow thy seed at morning light; 
 Cheerily the furrow turning, 
 Labor on with all thy might. 
 Look not to the far-off future. 
 
 Do the work which nearest lies ; 
 Sow thou must before thou reapest, 
 J<^st at last is labor's pri7.e, 
 
 Then he' 
 
 I 
 
 PLUCK AND PRAYER. 
 
 THERE wa'n't any use o' frettin', 
 And I told Obadiah so, 
 For ef we couldn't hold on to things 
 We'd jest got to let 'em go. 
 There were lots of folks that'd suffer 
 
 Along with the rest of us, 
 An' it didn't seem to be wuth our whilp 
 To make sich a drefiie fuss. 
 
 With the point of a cambric needle 
 
 I druv the wolf from the door. 
 For I knew that we needn't starve to deaths 
 
 Or be lazy because we were poor. 
 An' Obadiah he wondered, 
 
 An' kept me patchin' his knees. 
 An' thought it strange how the meal held out, 
 
 An' strange we didn't freeze. 
 
 But I said to myself in a whisper, 
 
 '' God knows where His gift descends ; 
 An' 'tisn't alius that faith gits down 
 
 As fur as the finger-ends." 
 An' I wouldn't have no one reckon 
 
 My Obadiah a shirk ; 
 For some, you know, have the gift to pray. 
 
 An' others the gift to work. 
 
 MAGNIFICENT POVERTY. 
 
 POVERTY in youth, when it succeeds, is so 
 far magnificent that it turns the whole will 
 towards effort, and the whole soul towards 
 aspiration. Poverty strips the material life en- 
 tirely bare, and makes it hideous ; thence arise 
 inexpressible yearnings toward the ideal life. The 
 rich young man has a hundred brilliant and coarse 
 amusements, racing, hunting, dogs, cigars, gaming, 
 feasting, and the rest ; busying the lower wrtions 
 of the soul at the expense of its higher and deli- 
 cate portions. 
 
 The poor young man must work for his bread ; 
 he eats ; when he has eaten, he has nothing more 
 but revery. He goes free to the play which God 
 gives ; he beholds the sky, space, the stars, the 
 flowers, the children, the humanity in which he 
 suffers, the creation in which he shines. He looks 
 at humanity so much that he sees the soul ; he 
 looks at creation so much that he sees God. He 
 dreams, he feels that he is great ; he dreams again, 
 and he feels that he is tender. From the egotism 
 of the suffering man, he passes to the compassion 
 of the contemplating man. A wonderful feeling 
 springs up within him, forgetfulness of self, and 
 pity for all. 
 
 In thinking of the numberless enjoyments which 
 nature offers, gives and gives lavishly to open souls, 
 and refuses to closed souls, he, a millionaire ( ( 
 intelligence, comes to grieve for the millionaires 
 of money. All hatred goes out of his heart in 
 proportion as all light enters his mind, An4 then 
 
THE WORLDS WORKERS. 
 
 331 
 
 is he unhappy ? No. The misery of a young 
 man is never miserable. The first lad you meet, 
 poor as he may be, with his health, his strength, 
 his quick ste,j, his shining eyes, his blood which 
 circulates warmly, his black locks, his fresh cheeks, 
 his rosy lips, his white teeth, his pure breath, will 
 always be envied by an old emperor. 
 
 And then every morning he sets about earning 
 his bread ; and while his hands are earning his 
 living, his backbone is gaining firmness; his brain 
 is gaining ideas. When his work is done, he re- 
 *;urns in ineffable ecstasies to contemplation, to 
 jOy ; he sees his feet in difficulties, in obstacles, 
 on the pavement, in thorns, sometimes in mire ; 
 his head is in the light. He is firm, serene, gen- 
 tle, peaceful, attentive, serious, content with little, 
 benevolent ; and he blesses God for having given 
 him these two estates which many of the rich are 
 without : labor which makes him free, and thought 
 which makes him noble. 
 
 Victor Hugo. 
 
 YOU AND I. 
 
 WHO would scorn his humble fellow 
 For the coat he wears ? 
 For the poverty he suffers ? 
 For his daily cares ? 
 Who wcuid pass him in the footway 
 
 With averted eye ? 
 Would you, brother ? No, you would not. 
 If you would — not / 
 
 Who, when vice or crime, repentant. 
 
 With a grief sincere 
 Asked for pardon, would refuse it — 
 
 More than Heaven severe ? 
 Who, to erring woman's sorrow. 
 
 Would with taunts reply ? 
 Would you brother ? No, you would not. 
 
 If you would — not /. 
 
 Who would say that all who differ 
 
 From his sect must be 
 Wicked sinners, heaven-rejected, 
 
 Sunk in error's sea. 
 And consign them to perdition 
 
 With a holy sigh ? 
 Would you, brother ? No, you would not. 
 
 If you would — not /. 
 
 Who would say that six days' cheating 
 
 In the shop or mart, 
 Might be rubbed by Sunday praying 
 
 From the tainted heart, 
 If the Sunday face were solemn 
 
 And the credit high? 
 Would you, brother? No, you would not. 
 
 If you would — not /. 
 
 Who would say that vice i§ virtUQ 
 
 In a hall of state? 
 
 Or that rogues are not dishonest, 
 
 If they dine off plate ? 
 Who would say success and merit 
 
 Ne'er part company? 
 Would you, brother ? No, you would r^ot. 
 
 If you would — not /. 
 
 Who would give a cause his efforts 
 
 When the cause was strong, 
 But desert it on its failure. 
 
 Whether right or wrong? 
 Ever siding with the upmost. 
 
 Letting downmost lie ? 
 Would you, brother? No, you would not. 
 
 If you would — not /. 
 
 Who would lend his arm to strengthen 
 
 Warfare with the right ? 
 Who would give his pen to blacken 
 
 Freedom's page of light? 
 Who would lend his tongue to utter 
 
 Praise of tyranny? 
 Would you, brother ? No, you would not. 
 
 If you would — not I. 
 
 Charles Mackay. 
 
 DON'T STAND IN THE WAY, 
 
 U 
 
 T 
 
 HE world is too crowded," 
 
 The grumbler declares, 
 ''I don't like its labor, 
 I don't like its cares." 
 If you care not to work, sir, 
 
 And much rather play. 
 Why, do as you please. 
 
 But don't stand in the way. 
 
 The sowers are coming 
 
 To put in the seed, 
 This army is scarcely 
 
 Enough for our need ; 
 You can lend us a hand 
 
 For an hour, or a day. 
 Or stand like a post. 
 
 But don't stand in the way. 
 
 Life's summer and autumn 
 
 They glide on apace, 
 And then the glad reapers 
 
 Will fall into place. 
 But if you have not labored 
 
 You can't expect pay; 
 And the harvest is theirs ! 
 
 So don't stand in their way. 
 
 Keep moving, keep moving, 
 
 There's good work for all, 
 Put a hand to the plough, 
 
 Or go back to the wall. 
 The young men are coming, 
 
 And old men grown gray. 
 The world needs them all ; 
 
 Friend^ don't stand in the way. 
 
332 
 
 THE WORLDS WORKERS. 
 
 E 
 
 THE HUSBANDMAN. 
 
 ARTH, of man the bounteous mother, 
 Feeds him still with corn and wine 
 He who best would aid a brother 
 Shares with him these gifts divine. 
 
 Many a power within her bosom, 
 Noiseless hidden, works beneath ; 
 
 Work with these, as bids thy reason, 
 For they work thy toil to aid. 
 
 Sow thy seed and reap in gladness ! 
 
 Man himself is all a seed ; 
 Hope and hardship, joy and sadness — 
 
 Slow the plant to ripeness lead. 
 
 John Sterling. 
 
 'Illi' 
 
 '■''i|;JM : 
 
 Hence are seed and leaf and blossom, 
 Golden ear, and clustered wreath. 
 
 These to swell with strength and beauty 
 
 Is the royal task of man ; 
 Man's a king ; his throne is duty, 
 
 Since his work on earth began. 
 
 Bud and harvest, bloom and vintage — 
 These, like man, are fruits of earth; 
 
 Stamped in clay, a heavenly mintage, 
 All from dust receive their birth. 
 
 "What the dream but vain rebelling, 
 \^ from earth we sought to flee? 
 
 'Tis our stored and ample dwelling ; 
 'Tis from it the skies we see. 
 
 Wind and frost, and hour and season, 
 [.and and water, sun and shade — 
 
 EARNING CAPITAL. 
 
 YOUNG men amongst us generally have tc 
 earn their capital if they ever have any. It 
 is not governed by the amount of wages or 
 profit, but by the difference between earnings and 
 spendings. The principle of saving has first to be 
 established, and its beginning often tests the grit 
 of a young man more than temptations to do 
 wrong. He should have learned that money is 
 only safely and surely gotten by work at least, by 
 toil often, by drudgery frequently, and that his 
 life will turn for worth or worthlessness as he re- 
 gards the days of small things. 
 
 Our country is accumulating capital fast, and 
 the good, com])etent boys of correct habits, who 
 have learned the value of a dollar by saving a 
 penny, will get the use of what they need of it 
 Too luany, however, despise work, shirk frpm toil, 
 
THE WORLD'S WORKERS, 
 
 S3:) 
 
 and in no emergency would be the drudge when 
 these are the crucibles that try the gold in a fellow. 
 Ownership of land in future does not promise en- 
 hanced values at such rapid rates as in the past, 
 while good farming promises abundantly. With 
 the young person everything turns on the habits 
 of industry. I am not considering anything but 
 this one distinction, for no matter how pleasant, 
 temperate or honest a boy may be, if he shuns 
 labor he is not worth the powder to blow him up. 
 The struggle for the front will be greater ; the for- 
 tune will favor the frugal. 
 
 But he v/Lo accomplishes most will learn soonest 
 ^ save a dollar, if he has to sweat for it ; and he 
 nrho fails will keep the sidewalk. Wealth in the 
 
 For soon she found an early grave, 
 Nor stayed her partner long alone. 
 
 They left their orphan here below, 
 A stranger wild beneath the sun, 
 
 This lesson sad to learn from woe — 
 The poor man's labor's never done. 
 
 No parent's hand, with pious care, 
 
 IMy childhood's devious steps to guide; 
 Or bid my venturous youth beware 
 
 The griefs that smote on every side. 
 'Twas still a round of changing woe. 
 
 Woe never ending, still begun, 
 That taught my bleeding heart to know 
 
 The poor man's labor's never done. 
 
 future will come from scientific knowledge of some 
 industrial pursuit begun in early life, and pursued 
 with all the energy of careful men. The biogra- 
 phy, faithfully pictured, of our unfortunates who 
 fail would be quite salutary and suggestive, and 
 why a man went to the poor-house would be quite 
 as valuable family reading as how another man 
 went to the Senate. 
 
 James Wilson. 
 
 THE POOR MAN'S LABOR. 
 
 MY mother sighed, the stream of pain 
 Flowed fast and chilly o'er her brow; 
 My father prayed, nor prayed in vain; 
 Sweet Mercy cast a glance below. 
 ** My husband dear," the sufferer cried, 
 
 '* My pains are o'er, behold your son" 
 ** Thank Heaven, sweet partner," he replied; 
 **The poor boy's labor's then begun." 
 
 Alas ! the hapless life she gave 
 
 By fate was doomed to cost her own ; 
 
 Soon dies the faltering voice of fame ; 
 
 The vow of love's too warm to last; 
 And friendship, what a faithless dream ! 
 
 And, wealth, how soon thy glare is past! 
 But sure one hope remains to save — 
 
 The longest course must soon be run. 
 And in the shelter of the grave 
 
 The poor man's labor must be done. 
 
 John Philpot Curran. 
 
 WORKING AND DREAMING. 
 
 ALL the while my needle traces 
 Stitches in a prosy seam, 
 Flit before me little faces, 
 And for them the while I dream. 
 
 Building castle light and airy 
 
 For my merry little Kate, 
 Wondering if the wayward fairy 
 
 Will unlock the golden gate. 
 
 Scaling fame's proud height for Willie, 
 Just as all fond mothers do, 
 
tu 
 
 THE WORLD'S WORKERS. 
 
 And for her, my thoughtful Lily, 
 Twining laurel leaflets, too. 
 
 In the far-off future roving 
 
 Where the skies are bright and fair ; 
 Hearing voices charmed and loving, 
 
 Calling all my darlings there. 
 
 Through the distant years I'm tracing 
 Dewy pathways bright wnth flowers, 
 
 And along their borders placing 
 Here and there these pets of ours. 
 
 And the while my fancy lingers 
 In that hope-born summer clime, 
 
 Pretty garments prove my fingers 
 Have been busy all the time. 
 
 Mrs. a. L. Lawrie. 
 
 TO THE HARVEST MOON. 
 
 PLEASING 't is, O modest moon ! 
 Now the night is at her noon, 
 'Neath thy sway to musing lie, 
 While around the zephyrs sigh, 
 Fanning soft the sun-tanned wheat, 
 Ripened by the summer's heat; 
 Picturing all the rustic's joy 
 When boundless plenty greets his eye, 
 And thinking soon, 
 O modest moon ! 
 How many a female eye will roam 
 Along the road, 
 To see the load, 
 The last dear load of harvest home. 
 'Neath yon lowdy roof he lies, 
 The husbandman, with sleep-sealed eyes ; 
 He dreams of crowded barns, and round 
 The yard he hears the flail resound ; 
 O, may no hurricane destroy 
 His visionary views of joy ! 
 God of the winds ! O, hear his humble prayer. 
 And w^hiie the moon of harvest shines, thy bluster- 
 ing whirlwind spare ! 
 
 Henry Kirke White. 
 
 THE SACREDNESS OF WORK. 
 
 THERE is a perennial nobleness, and even 
 sacredness, in work. Were he ever so be- 
 nighted, or forgetful of his high calling, 
 there is always hope in a man that actually and 
 earnestly works ; in idleness alone there is per- 
 petual despair. Consider how, even in the meanest 
 sorts of labor, the whole soul of a man is composed 
 into real harmony. He bends himself with free 
 valor against his task; and doubt, desire, sorrow, 
 remorse, indignation, despair itself, shrink mur- 
 muring far off in their caves. The glow of labor 
 in him is a purifying fire, wherein all poison is 
 burned u]) ; and of smoke itself there is made a 
 bright and blessed flame. 
 
 Blessed is he who has found his work ; let him 
 ask no other blessedness; he has a life purpose. 
 
 Labor is life. From the heart of the worker rises 
 the celestial force, breathed into him by Almighty 
 God, awakening him to all nobleness, to all knowl- 
 edge. Hast thou valued patience, courage, open- 
 ness to light, or readiness to own thy mistakes? 
 In wrestling with the dim brute powers of fact thou 
 wilt continually learn. For every noble work the 
 possibilities are diffused through immensity, undis- 
 coverable, except to faith. 
 
 Man, son of heaven ! is there not in thine in- 
 most heart a spirit of active method, giving thee 
 no rest till thou unfold it? Complain not. Look 
 up. See thy fellows-workmen surviving through 
 eternity, the sacred band of immortals. Strive to 
 be one of that immortal company. 
 
 Thomas Carlyle. 
 
 THE UNFINISHED STOCKING. 
 
 L 
 
 AY it aside — her work ; no more she sits 
 By open window in the western sun, 
 Thinking of this and that beloved one 
 
 In silence as she knits. 
 
 Lay it aside ; the needles in their place ; 
 No more she welcomes at the cottage door 
 The coming of her children home once more 
 
 With sweet and tearful face. 
 
THE WORLD'S WORKERS. 
 
 335 
 
 Lay it aside ; her work is done and well ; 
 A generous, sympathetic, Christian life — 
 A faithful mother and a noble wife — 
 
 Her influence who can tell ? 
 
 Lay it aside — say not her work is done ; 
 No deed of love or goodness ever dies, 
 But in the lives of others multiplies; 
 
 Say it is just begun. 
 
 Sarah K. Bolton. 
 
 THE GOOD OLD PLOUGH. 
 
 AS SUNG BY THE HUTCHINSONS. 
 
 LET them sing who may of the battle fray. 
 And the deeds that have long since past ; 
 Let them chant in praise of the tar whose 
 days, 
 Are spent on the ocean vast. 
 I would render to these all the worship you please, 
 
 I would honor them even now ; 
 But I'd give far more for my heart's full store 
 To the cause of the good old plough. 
 
 Let them laud the notes that in music float 
 
 Through the bright and glittering hall; 
 While the amorous twirl of the hair's bright curl 
 
 Round the shoulder of beauty fall. 
 But dearer to me is the song from the tree, 
 
 And the rich and blossoming bough ; 
 O, these are the sweets which the rustic greets 
 
 As he follows the good old plough ! 
 
 Full many there be that daily we see. 
 
 With a selfish and hollow pride. 
 Who the ploughman's lot, in his humble cot, 
 
 With a scornful look deride ; 
 But I'd rather take, aye, a hearty shake 
 
 From his hand than to wealth I'd bow ; 
 For the honest grasp of his hand's rough clasp, 
 
 Has stood by the good old plough. 
 
 All honor be, then, to these gray old men. 
 
 When at last they are bowed with toil ! 
 Their warfare then o'er, they battle no more. 
 
 For they have conquered the stubborn soil. 
 And the chaplet each wears is his silver hairs ; 
 
 And ne'er shall the victor's brow 
 With a laurel crown to the grave go down 
 
 Like the sons of the good old plough. 
 
 THE FISHERMEN. 
 
 HURRAH ! the seaward breezes 
 Sweep down the bay amain ; 
 Heave up, my lads, the anchor ! 
 Run up the sail again 1 
 Leave to the lubber landsmen 
 The rail-car and the steed ; 
 The stars of heaven shall guide us, 
 The breath of heaven shall speed. 
 
 From the hill-top looks the steeple, 
 And the light-house from thi sand ; 
 
 And the scattered pines are waving 
 Their farewell from the land. 
 
 One glance, my lads, behind us. 
 For the homes we leave one sigh. 
 
 Ere we take the change and chances 
 Of the ocean and the sky. 
 
 Now, brothers, for the icebergs 
 
 Of frozen Labrador, 
 Floating spectral in the moonshine. 
 
 Along the low, black shore ! 
 Where like snow the gan net's feathers 
 
 On Brador's rocks are shed, 
 And the noisy murr are flying, 
 
 Like black scuds, overhead ; 
 
 Where in mist the rock is hiding. 
 
 And the sharp reef lurks below. 
 And the white squall smites in summer, 
 
 And the autumn tempests blow ; 
 Where, through gray and rolling vaoor^ 
 
 From evening unto morn, 
 A thousand boats are hailing,^ 
 
 Horn answering unto horn. 
 
 Hurrah ! for the Red Island, 
 
 With the white cross on its crown ! 
 Hurrah ! for Meccatina, 
 
 And its mountains bare and brown ! 
 Where the Caribou's tall antlers 
 
 O'er the dwarf- wood freely toss. 
 And the footstep of the Mickmack 
 
 Has no sound upon the moss. 
 
 There we'll drop our lines, and gather 
 
 Old ocean's treasures in. 
 Where'er the mottled mackerel 
 
 Turns up a steel-dark fin. 
 The sea's our field of harvest, 
 
 Its scaly tribes our grain ; 
 We'll reap the teeming waters 
 
 As at home they reap the plain ! 
 
 Our wet hands spread the carpet. 
 
 And light the hearth of home ; 
 From our fish, as in the old time, 
 
 The silver coin shall come. 
 As the demon fled the chamber 
 
 Where the fish of Tobit lay, 
 So ours from all our dwellings 
 
 Shall frighten want away. 
 
 Though the mist upon our jackets 
 
 In the bitter air congeals. 
 And our lines wind stiff and slowly 
 
 From off the frozen reels ; 
 Though the fog be dark around us, 
 
 And the storm blow high and loud. 
 We will whistle down the wild wind, 
 
 And laugh beneath the cloud ! 
 
:V3(] 
 
 THE WORLD'S l^ORKERS. 
 
 In the darkness as in daylight, 
 
 On the water as on land, 
 God's eye is looking on us, 
 
 And beneath us is his hand ! 
 Death will find us soon or later, 
 
 On the deck or in the cot ; 
 And we cannot meet him better 
 
 Than in working out our lot. 
 
 Hurrah ! — hurrah ! — the west wind 
 
 Comes freshening down the bay, 
 The rising sails are filling — 
 
 Give way, my lads, give way ! 
 Leave the coward landsman clinging 
 
 To the dull earth, like a weed — 
 The stars of heaven shall guide us, 
 
 The breath of heaven shall speed ! 
 
 J. G. Whittier. 
 
 H 
 
 THE CORN SONG. 
 
 EAP high the farmer's wintry hoard ! 
 Heap high the golden corn ! 
 No richer gift has autumn poured 
 From out her lavish horn ! 
 
 ''.et other lands, exulting, glean 
 
 The apple from the pine, 
 The orange from its glossy green, 
 
 The cluster from the vine ; 
 
 We better love the hardy gift 
 
 Our rugged vales bestow. 
 To cheer us when the storm shall drift 
 
 Our harvest -fie Ids with snow. 
 
 Through vales of grass and meads of flowers. 
 Our ploughs their furrows made, 
 
 While on the hills the sun and showers 
 Of changeful April played. 
 
 We dropped the seed o'er hill and plain, 
 
 Beneath the sun of May, 
 And frightened from our sprouting grain 
 
 The robber crows away. 
 
 All through the long bright days of June, 
 
 Its leaves grew green and fair, 
 And waved in hot midsummer's noon 
 
 Its soft and yellow hair. 
 
 And now, with autumn's moonlit eves, 
 
 Its harvest time has come. 
 We pluck away the frosted leaves, 
 
 And bear the treasure home. 
 
 There, richer than the fabled gift 
 
 Apollo showered of old, 
 Fair hands the broken grain shall sift, 
 
 And knead its meal of gold. 
 
 Let \apid idlers loll in silk, 
 Around their costly board ; 
 
 Give us the bowl of samp and milk. 
 By homespun beauty poured ! 
 
 Where'er the wide old kitchen hearth 
 
 Sends up its smoky curls. 
 Who will not thank the kindly earth, 
 
 And bless our farmer girls? 
 
 Then shame on all the proud and vain. 
 
 Whose folly laughs to scorn 
 The blessing of our hardy grain. 
 
 Our wealth of golden corn ! 
 
 Let earth withhold her goodly root, 
 
 Let mildew blight the rye, 
 Give to the worm the orchard's fruit, 
 
 The wheat-field to the fly. 
 
 But let the good old crop adorn 
 
 The hills our fathers trod ; 
 Still let us, for his golden corn. 
 
 Send up our thanks to God ! 
 
 J. G. Whittier. 
 
 THE HUSKERS. 
 
 IT was late in mild October, and the long autum- 
 nal rain 
 Had left the summer harvest-fields all green 
 with grass again ; 
 The first sharp frosts had fallen, leaving all the 
 
 w^oodlands gay 
 With the hues of summer's rainbow, or the 
 meadow-flowers of May. 
 
 Through a thin, dry mist, that morning, the sun 
 
 rose broad and red. 
 At first a rayless disc of fire, he brightened as he 
 
 sped ; 
 Yet, even his noontide glory fell chastened and 
 
 subdued, 
 On the corn-fields and the orchards, and softly 
 
 pictured wood. 
 
 And all that quiet afternoon, slow sloping to the 
 
 night, 
 He wove with golden shuttle the haze with yellow 
 
 light ; 
 Slanting through the painted beeches, he glorified 
 
 the hill ; 
 And, beneath it, pond and meadow lay brighter, 
 
 greener still. 
 
 And shouting boys in woodland haunts caught 
 
 glimpses of that sky, 
 Flecked by the many-tinted leaves, and laughed, 
 
 they knew not why ; 
 And school-girls, gay with aster-flowers, beside the 
 
 meadow brooks, 
 Mingled the glow of autumn with the sunshine of 
 
 sweet looks. 
 
THE WORLDS WORKERS, 
 
 387 
 
 From spire and barn, looked westerly the patient 
 
 weather-cocks ; 
 But even the birches on the hill stood motionless 
 
 as rocks. 
 No sound was in the w^oodlands, save the squirrel's 
 
 dropping shell, 
 And the yellow leaves among the boughs, low 
 
 rustling as they fell. 
 
 The summer grains were harvested ; the stubble- 
 fields lay dry, 
 
 Where June winds rolled, in light and shade, the 
 pale-green waves of rye ; 
 
 But still, on gentle hill-slopes, in valleys fringed 
 with wood, 
 
 Ungathered, bleaching in the sun, the heavy corn 
 crop stood. 
 
 Bent low, by autumn's wind and rain, through 
 husks that, dry and sere, 
 
 Unfolded from their ripened charge, shone out the 
 yellow ear ; 
 
 Beneath, the turnip lay concealed, in many a ver- 
 dant fold, 
 
 And glistened in the slanting light the pumpkin's 
 sphere of gold. 
 
 There wrought the busy harvesters ; and many a 
 
 creaking wain 
 Bore slowly to the long barn-floor its load of husk 
 
 and grain; 
 Till broad and red, as when he rose, the sun sank 
 
 down at last, 
 And like a merry guest's farewell, the day in 
 
 brightness passed. 
 
 And lo ! as through the western pines, on meadow, 
 
 stream and pond, 
 Flamed the red radiance of a sky, set all afire 
 
 beyond, 
 Slowly o'er the Eastern sea-bluffs a milder glory 
 
 shone. 
 And the sunset and the moonrise were mingled 
 
 into one. 
 
 As thus into the quiet night the twilight lapsed 
 
 away, 
 And deeper in the brightening moon the tranquil 
 
 shadows lay ; 
 From many a brown old farm-house, and hamlet 
 
 without name. 
 Their milking and their home-tasks done, the 
 
 merry buskers came. 
 
 Swung o'er the heaped-up harvest, from pitchforks 
 
 in the mow, 
 Shone dimly down the lanterns on the pleasant 
 
 scene below ; 
 The growing pile of husks behind, the golden ears 
 
 before, 
 And laughing eyes and busy hands and brown 
 
 cheeks glimmering o'er. 
 
 '.22 
 
 Half hidden in a quiet nook, serene of look and 
 heart. 
 
 Talking their old times over, the old men sat 
 apart ; 
 
 While, up and down the unhusked pile, or nest- 
 ling in its shade, 
 
 At hide-and-seek, with laugh and shout, the happy 
 children played. 
 
 Urged by the good host's daughter, a maiden 
 
 young and fair, 
 Lifting to light her sweet blue eyes and pride of 
 
 soft brown hair, 
 The master of the village school, sleek of hair and 
 
 smooth of tongue. 
 To the quaint tune of some old psalm, a husking- 
 
 ballad sung. J. G. Whittier. 
 
 W 
 
 THE LUMBERMEN. 
 
 ILDLY round our woodland quarters. 
 
 Sad-voiced autumn grieves ; 
 Thickly down these swelling water? 
 Float his fallen leaves. 
 Through the tall and naked timber, 
 
 Column-like and old, 
 Gleam the sunsets of November, 
 From their skies of gold. 
 
 O'er us, to the southland heading, 
 
 Screams the gray wild goose ; 
 On the night-frost sounds the treading 
 
 Of the brindled moose. 
 Noiseless creeping, while we're sleeping, 
 
 Frost his task-work plies ; 
 Soon, his icy bridges heaping. 
 
 Shall our log-piles rise. 
 
n38 
 
 THE WORLD'S WORKERS. 
 
 When, with sounds of smothered thunder, 
 
 On some night of rain, 
 Lake and river break asunder 
 
 Winter's weakened chain, 
 Down the wild March flood shall bear them 
 
 To the saw-mill's wheel, 
 Or where steam, the slave, shall tear them 
 
 With his teeth of steel. 
 
 Be it starlight, be it moonlight, 
 
 In these vales below, 
 When the earliest beams of sunlight 
 
 Streak the mountain's snow, 
 Crisps the hoar-frost, keen and early, 
 
 To our hurrying feet, 
 And the forest echoes clearly 
 
 All our blows repeat. 
 
 Where the crystal Ambijejis 
 
 Stretches broad and clear. 
 And Millnoket's pine-black ridges 
 
 Hide the browsing deer : 
 Where through lakes and wide morasses. 
 
 Or through rocky walls, 
 Swift and strong, Penobscot passes 
 
 White with foamy falls ; 
 
 Where, through clouds, are glimpses given 
 
 Of Katahdin's sides — 
 Rock and forest piled to heaven, 
 
 Torn and ploughed by slides ! 
 
 Far below, the Indian trapping, 
 
 In the sunshine warm ; 
 Far above, the snow-cloud wrappinc 
 
 Half the peak in storm ! 
 
 Where are mossy carpets better 
 
 Than the Persian weaves, 
 And than eastern perfumes sweeter 
 
 Seem the fading leaves; 
 And a music wild and solemn, 
 
 From the pine-tree's height, 
 Rolls its vast and sea-like volume 
 
 On the wind of night ; 
 
 Make we here our camp of winter; 
 
 And, through sleet and snow. 
 Pitchy knot and beechen splinter 
 On our hearth shall glow. 
 Here, with mirth to lighten duty. 
 
 We shall lack alone 
 Woman's smile and girlhood's beauty, 
 Childhood's lisping tone. 
 
 But their hearth is brighter burning 
 
 For our toil to-day ; 
 And the welcome of returning 
 
 Shall our loss repay. 
 When, like seamen from the waters, 
 
 From the woods we come. 
 Greeting sisters, wives, and daughters. 
 
 Angels of our home ! 
 
 Not for us the measured ringing 
 
 From the village spire, 
 Not for us the Sabbath singing 
 
 Of the sweet-voiced choir: 
 Ours the old, majestic temple. 
 
 Where God's brightness shines 
 Down the dome so grand and ample^ 
 
 Propped by lofty pines ! 
 
 Through each branch-enwoven skylight, 
 Speaks He in the breeze. 
 As of old beneath the twilight 
 
 Of lost Eden's trees ! 
 For his ear, the inward feeling 
 
 Needs no outward tongue ; 
 He can see the spirit kneeling 
 
 While the axe is swung. 
 
 Heeding truth alone, and turning 
 
 From the false and dim, 
 Lamp of toil or altar burning 
 
 Are alike to Him. 
 Strike, then, comrades ! — Trade is waiting 
 
 On our rugged toil ; 
 Far ships waiting for the freighting 
 
 Of our woodland spoil ! 
 
 Ships, whose traffic links these highlands. 
 
 Bleak and cold, of ours. 
 With the citron-planted islands 
 
 Of a clime of flowers ; 
 
THE WORLD'S WORKERS. 
 
 S3d 
 
 To our frosts the tribute bringing 
 
 Of eternal heats ; 
 In our lap of winter flinging 
 
 Tropic fruits and sweets. 
 
 Cheerly, on the axe of labor, 
 
 Let the sunbeams dance, 
 Better than the flash of sabre 
 
 Or the gleam of lance ! 
 Strike ! — With every blow is given 
 
 Freer sun and sky, 
 And the long-hid earth to heaven 
 
 Looks, with wondering eye ! 
 
 Loud behind us grow the murmurs 
 
 Of the age to come ; 
 Clang of smiths, and tread of farmers. 
 
 Bearing harvest home ! 
 Here her virgin lap with treasures 
 
 Shall the green earth fill ; 
 Waving wheat and golden maize-ears 
 
 Crown each beechen hill. 
 
 Keep who will the city's alleys. 
 
 Take the smooth-shorn plain — 
 Give to us the cedar valleys, 
 
 Rocks and hills of Maine ! 
 In our north-land, wild and w^oody, 
 
 Let us still have part ; 
 Rugged nurse and mother sturdy. 
 
 Hold us to thy heart ! 
 
 O ! our free hearts beat the warmer 
 
 For thy breath of snow ; 
 And our tread is all the firmer 
 
 For thy rocks below. 
 Freedom, hand in hand with labor, 
 
 Walketh strong and brave ; 
 On the forehead of his neighbor 
 
 No man writeth slave ! 
 
 Lo, the day breaks ! old Katahdin's 
 
 Pine-trees show its fires. 
 While from these dim forest gardens 
 
 Rise their blackened spires. 
 Up, my comrades ! up and doing ! 
 
 Manhood's rugged play 
 Still renewing, bravely hewing 
 
 Through the w^orld our way ! 
 
 J. G. Whittier. 
 
 THE NOBILITY OF LABOR. 
 
 I CALL upon those whom I address to stand up 
 for the nobility of labor. It is Heaven's 
 great ordinance for human improvement. 
 Let not that great ordinance be broken down. 
 What do I say? It is broken down; and it has 
 been broken down for acres. Let it, then, be 
 built up again ; here, if anywhere, on these shores 
 of a new world — of a new civilization. But how, 
 I may be asked, is it broken down? Do not men 
 toil? it may be sail. They do, indeed, toil '. but 
 
 they, too, generally do it because they must. 
 Many submit to it as, in some sort, a degrading 
 necessity ; and they desire nothing so much on 
 earth as escape from it. They fulfill the great law 
 of labor in the letter, but break it in the spirit ; 
 fulfill it with the muscle, but break it with the 
 mind. 
 
 To some field of labor, mental or manual, every 
 idler should fasten, as a chosen and coveted theatre 
 of improvement. But so is he not impelled to do, 
 under the teachings of our imperfect civilization. 
 On the contrary, he sits down, folds his hands, 
 and blesses himself in his idleness. This way of 
 thinking is the heritage of the absurd and unjust 
 feudal system, under which serfs labored, and gen- 
 tlemen spent their lives in fighting and feasting. 
 It is time that this opprobrium of toil were done 
 away. 
 
 Ashamed to toil, art thou? Ashamed of thy 
 dingy workshop and dusty labor-field ; of thy hard 
 hands, scarred with service more honorable than 
 that of w^ar; of thy soiled and w^eather-stained 
 garments, on which Mother Nature has embroid- 
 ered, 'midst sun and rain, 'midst fire and steam, 
 her own heraldic honors? Ashamed of these 
 tokens and titles, and envious of the flaunting 
 robes of imbecile idleness and vanity? It is trea- 
 son to nature — it is impiety to Heaven — it is 
 breaking Heaven's great ordinance. Toil, I re- 
 peat — TOIL, either of the brain, or of the heart, or 
 of the hand, is the only true manhood, the only 
 true nobility ! Orville Dewey. 
 
 THE SONG OF THE SHIRT. 
 
 WITH fingers weary and worn, 
 With eyelids heavy and red, 
 A woman sat, in unwomanly rags^ 
 Plying her needle and thread — 
 Stitch ! stitch ! stitch ! 
 
 In poverty, hunger, and dirt ; 
 And still with a voice of dolorous pitch 
 She sang the " Song of the Shirt !" 
 
 " Work ! work ! work ! 
 
 While the cock is crowing aloof! 
 And work — work — work 
 
 Till the stars shine through the roof! 
 It's, O, to be a slave 
 
 Along wdth the barbarous Turk, 
 Where woman has never a soul to save, 
 
 If this is Christian work ! 
 
 " Work — work — work ! 
 
 Till the brain begins to swim ! 
 Work — work — work 
 
 Till the eyes are heavy and diin * 
 Seam, and gusset, and band. 
 
 Band, and gusset, and seam — 
 Till over the buttons I fall asleep, 
 
 And sew them on in a dream ! 
 
fUO 
 
 THE WORLDS WORKERS. 
 
 ** O men with sisters dear ! 
 
 O men with mothers and wives ! 
 It is not linen you're wearing out, 
 
 But human creatures' lives ! 
 Stitch — stitch — stitch, 
 
 In poverty, hunger, and dirt — 
 Sewing at once, with a double thread, 
 
 A shroud as well as a shirt ! 
 
 " But why do I talk of death— 
 
 That phantom of grisly bone ? 
 I hardly fear his terrible shape, 
 
 It seems so like my own — 
 It seems so like my own 
 
 Because of the fasts I keep ; 
 O God ! that bread should be so dear ! 
 
 And flesh and blood so cheap ! 
 
 " Work — work — work! 
 
 My labor never flags ; 
 And what are its wages ? A bed of straw, 
 
 A crust of bread— and rags, 
 That shattered roof — and this naked floor — 
 
 A table — a broken chair — 
 And a wall so blank my shadow I thank 
 
 For sometimes falling there ! 
 
 '•' Work — work — work ! 
 
 From weary chime to chime \ 
 Work — work — work 
 
 As prisoners work for crime ! 
 Band, and gusset, and seam. 
 
 Seam, and gusse4:, and band — 
 Till the heart is sick and the brain benumbed, 
 
 As well as the weary hand. 
 
 '•' Work — work — work ! 
 
 In the dull December light ! 
 And work — work — work 
 
 When tlie weather is warm and bright ! 
 While underneath the eves 
 
 The brooding swallows cling, 
 As if to show me their sunny backs, 
 
 And twit me with the spring. 
 
 '* O but to breathe the breath 
 
 Of the cowslip and primrose sWeet— 
 With the sky above my head, 
 
 And the grass beneath my feet ! 
 For only one short hour 
 
 To feel as I used to feel, 
 Before I knew the woes of want, 
 
 And the walk that costs a meal ! 
 
 *' O but for one short hour — 
 
 A respite, however brief! 
 No blessed leisure for love or hope, 
 
 But only time for grief ! 
 A little weeping would ease my heart : 
 
 But in their briny bed 
 My tears must stop, for every drop 
 
 Hinders needle and thread !" 
 
 With fingers weary and worn, 
 
 With eyelids heavy and red, 
 A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, 
 
 Plying her needle and thread — 
 Stitch ! stitch I stitch ! 
 
 In poverty, hunger, and dirt; 
 And still with a voice of dolorous pitch — 
 Would that its tone could reach the rich I — 
 
 She sang this " Song of the Shirt !" 
 
 Thomas Hood. 
 
 ADVICE. 
 
 CHEER up, chillun, an' move yoh feet ! 
 Doan' ack glum ter de folks yoh meet. 
 Er smile's ez easy ez a sigh. 
 An' it's no mo' wuhk foh ter laugh dan cry. 
 So git in step wif de hurryin' throng 
 Stid o' mopin' erlong. 
 
 When de bother comes an' yoh chance seems bad, 
 Yoh makes it wuss ef yoh face gits sad, 
 'Case it stands ter reason, er hahd-luck tale 
 When it comes ter winnin' yer friends will fail. 
 So brush yoh gyahments an' hum er song, 
 Stid o' mopin' erlong. 
 
bti AUTY AND GRANDEUR OF THE ALPS 
 
 CONTAINING 
 
 BRILLIANT DESCRIPTIONS OF SWISS SCENERY. 
 
 LAKE LEMAN (GENEVA) IN A CALM. 
 
 LEAR, placid Leman ! thy contrasted lake, 
 
 With the wild world I dwelt in, is a thing 
 "Which warms me, with its stillness, to forsake 
 
 Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring. 
 This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing 
 
 To waft me from distraction ; once I loved 
 Torn ocean's roar, but thy soft murmuring 
 
 Sounds sweet as if a sister's voice reproved, 
 
 That I with stern delights should e'er have been sp moved 
 
 It is the hush of night, and all between 
 
 Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear, 
 
 Mellowed and mingling, yet distinctly seen, 
 Save darkened Jura, whose capt heights appear 
 
 Precipitously steep ; and drawing near. 
 
 There breathes a living fragrance from the shore, 
 
 Of flowers yet fresh with childhood ; on the ear 
 Drops the light drip of the suspended oar. 
 Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more. 
 
 At intervals, some bird from out the brakes 
 Starts into voice a moment, then is still. 
 There seems a floating whisper on the hill, 
 But that is fancy — for the starlight dews 
 All silently their tears of love instil, 
 Weeping themselves away. 
 
 Lord Byron. 
 
 LAKE LEMAN (GENEVA) IN A 5T0RM. 
 
 THE sky is changed — and such a change ! Oh 
 night. 
 And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous 
 strong. 
 Yet lovely in your strength, as in 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, 
 out every mountain now hath found a tongue. 
 And Jura answers, through her misty shroud. 
 Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud ! 
 
 Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way be- 
 tween 
 Heights which appear as lovers who have parted 
 In hate, whose mining depths so intervene 
 
 That they can meet no more, though broken- 
 hearted ! 
 
 Though in their souls, which thus each other 
 thwarted. 
 Love was the very root of the fond rage 
 Which blighted their life's bloom, and then de- 
 parted : 
 Itself expired, but leaving them an age 
 Of years all winters — war within themselves to 
 wage. 
 
 Now, where the quick Rhone thus hath ckft his 
 way. 
 The mightiest of the storms hath ta'en his 
 stand : 
 For here, not one, but many, make their play. 
 And fling their thunderbolts from hand to 
 
 hand, 
 Flashing and cast around : of all the band, 
 
 The brightest through these parted hills hath 
 forked 
 
 341 
 
342 
 
 BEAUTY AND GRANDEUR OF THE ALPS. 
 
 His lightnings — as if he did understand, 
 That in such gaps as desolation worked, 
 There the hot shaft should blast whatever there- 
 in lurked. 
 
 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 tem})est and of thee ! 
 How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea, 
 
 And the big rain comes dancing to the earth ! 
 And now again 't is black — and now, the glee 
 
 Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth, 
 
 As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's 
 birth. 
 
 Sky, mountains, rivers, winds, lake, lightnings ! 
 ye ! 
 With night, and clouds, and thunder, and a 
 soul 
 To make these felt and feeling, well may be 
 
 Things that have made me watchful; the far 
 roll 
 Of your departing voices is the knoll 
 
 Of what in me is sleepless — if I rest. 
 But where of ye, oh tempests ! is the goal? 
 Are ye like those within the hum.an breast ? 
 Or do ye find, at length, like eagles, some high 
 nest? 
 
 Lord Byron. 
 
 THE MONARCH OF MOUNTAINS. 
 
 OUR bitter disappointment in the fog was 
 hard to be borne, and we sat brooding 
 and mourning over the gloomy prospect 
 for the day, and wondering what we had 
 best do with ourselves, when suddenly, on turning 
 toward the window, Mont Blanc was flashing in 
 the sunshine. 
 
 Such an instantaneous and extraordinary reve- 
 lation of splendor we never dreamed of. The 
 clouds had vanished, we could not tell where, and 
 the whole illimitable vast of glory in this, the heart 
 of Switzerland's Alpine grandeurs, was disclosed ; 
 the snowy Monarch of Mountains, the huge gla- 
 ciers, the jagged granite ])eaks, needles, and rough 
 enormous crags and ridges congregated and shoot- 
 ing up in every direction, with the long beautiful 
 vale of Chamouny visible from end to end, far 
 beneath, as still and shining as a picture ! Just 
 over the longitudinal ridge of mountains on one 
 side was the moon in an infinite depth of ether; it 
 seemed as if we could touch it ; and on the other 
 the sun was exulting as a bridegroom coming out 
 of his chamber. The clouds still sweeping past 
 us, now concealing, now i)artially veiling, and now 
 revealing the view, added to its power by such 
 sudden alternations. 
 
 But the hour of most intense splendor in this 
 
 day of glory was the rising of the clouds 
 in Chamouny, as we could discern them 
 like stripes of amber floating in an 
 azure sea. They rested upon, and floated 
 over the successive glacier gorges of the 
 mountain range on either hand, like so 
 many islands of the blest, anchored in 
 mid-heaven below us; or like so many 
 radiant files of the white-robed heavenly 
 host floating transversely across the val- 
 ley. This extended through its whole 
 length, and it was a most singular phe- 
 nomenon ; for through these ridges of cloud we 
 could look as through a telescope down into the 
 vale and along to its farther end ; but the inten- 
 sity of the light flashing from the snows of the 
 mountains and reflected in these fleecy radiances, 
 almost as so many secondary suns, hung in the 
 clear atmosphere, was well nigh blinding. 
 
 The scene seemed to me a fit symbol of celestial 
 glories ; and I thought if a vision of such intense 
 splendor could be arrayed by the divine power out 
 of mere earth, air and water, and made to assume 
 such beauty indescribable at a breath of the wind, 
 a movement of the sun, a slight change in the ele- 
 ments, what mind could even dimly and distantly 
 form to itself a conception of the splendors of the 
 world of heavenly glory ! George B. Cheever. 
 
 ONE OF THE GEMS OF SWITZERLAND. 
 
 THE Lake of Geneva, called by the Romans 
 Lacus Lemanus, has nearly the shape of a 
 crescent, its horns being turned towards 
 the south. It is the largest lake in Switzer- 
 land, being fifty-six miles long; it is eight miles 
 wide at the broadest part, and its greatest depth is 
 twelve hundred and thirty feet. Its surface is 
 about twelve hundred and thirty feet above the 
 level of the sea, but the height often varies in the 
 year more than fifty inches, being usually lowest 
 in the winter, between January and April, and 
 highest in August and part of July and Septem- 
 ber, owing to the supplies then derived from the 
 melting snows. 
 
BEAUTY AND GRANDEUR OF THE ALPS, 
 
 343 
 
 Besides these periodical variations, the lake is 
 subject to othei more arbitrary changes of level, 
 called seiches. This phenomenon consists of a 
 sudden rise and fall of the water in particular 
 parts of the lake, independently of the agency of 
 the wind or of any other apparent cause. It is 
 most common in the vicinity of Geneva, During 
 these oscillations the waters sometimes rise five 
 feet, though the usual increase is not more than 
 two ; it never lasts longer than twenty-five min- 
 utes, but it is generally less. The cause of these 
 seiches has not been explained with certainty, but 
 they are observed to occur most commonly when 
 the clouds are heavy and low. 
 
 The lake never freezes over entirely, 
 but in severe winters the lower extremity 
 is covered with ice. The sand and mud 
 brought down by the Rhone and deposited 
 around its mouth have caused considerable 
 encroachments upon its upper extremity. 
 
 '' Mon lac est le premier" are the 
 words in which Voltaire has vaunted the 
 beauties of the Lake of Geneva; and it 
 must be confessed that, though it wants 
 the gloomy sublimity of the Bay of Uri 
 and the sunny softness of the Italian lakes, 
 with their olive and citron groves, it has 
 high claims to admiration. It also pos- 
 sesses great variety of scenery. The vine- 
 covered slopes of Vaud contrast well with 
 the abrupt, rocky precipices of Savoy. 
 Near Geneva the hills subside, admitting 
 an exquisite view of Mont Blanc, whose 
 snowy summit, though sixty miles distant' is often 
 reflected in its waters. 
 
 ** Lake Leman woos me with its crystal face, 
 The mirror where the stars and mountains view 
 The stillness of their aspect in each trace 
 Its clear depth yields of their fair height and 
 hue." 
 
 At its upper extremity it extends to the very 
 base of the high Alps, which by their close vicinity 
 give its scenery a character of magnificence. 
 
 THE BATTLE OF MORGARTEN. 
 
 THE wine month shone in its golden prime. 
 And the red grapes clustering hung, 
 But a deeper sound through the Switzers' clime, 
 Than the vintage music rung — 
 A sound through vaulted cave, 
 A sound through echoing glen. 
 Like the hollow swell of a rushing wave ; 
 'Twas the tread of steel-girt men. 
 
 But a band, the noblest band of all, 
 
 Through the rude Morgarten strait. 
 With blazoned streamers and lances tall, 
 
 Moved onwards in princely state. 
 
 They came with heavy chains 
 For the race despised so long— 
 But amidst his Alp-domains, 
 The herdsman's arm is strong ! 
 
 The sun was reddening the clouds of morn 
 
 When they entered the rock-defile, 
 And shrill as a joyous hunter's horn 
 Their bugles rang the while. 
 But on the misty height 
 Where the mountain people stood 
 There was stillness as of night. 
 When storms at distance brood. 
 
 There was stillness as of deep dead night. 
 
 And a pause — but not of fear — 
 While the Switzers gazed on the gathering might 
 Of the hostile shield and spear. 
 On wound these columns bright 
 Between the lake and wood. 
 But they looked not to the misty height 
 Where the mountain people stood. 
 
 And the mighty rocks came bounding down 
 
 Their startled foes among. 
 With a joyous whirl from the summit thrown, 
 Oh ! the herdsman's arm is strong ! 
 They came like lauwine hurled 
 From Alp to Alp in play. 
 When the echoes shout through the snowy world, 
 And the pines are borne away. 
 
 With their pikes and massy clubs they brake 
 
 The cuirass and the shield. 
 And the war-horse dashed to the reddening lake 
 From the reapers of the field ! 
 The field — but not of sheaves : 
 Proud crests and pennons lay. 
 Strewn o'er it thick as the birchwood leaves 
 In the autumn tempest's way. 
 
 Felicia D. Hemans. 
 
844 
 
 BEAUTY AND GRANDEUR OF THE ALPS. 
 
 THE GLACIER OF THE RHONE. 
 
 ERE long he reached the magnificent glacier 
 of the Rhone ; a frozen cataract, more than 
 two thousand feet in height, and many 
 miles broad at its base. It fills the whole valley 
 between two mountains, running back to their 
 summits. At the base it is arched, like a dome ; 
 and above, jagged and rough, and resembles a 
 mass of gigantic crystals, of a pale emerald tint, 
 mingled "with white. A snowy crust covers its 
 
 white and sulphury, and immeasurably deep in 
 appearance. The side we ascended was not of so 
 precipitous a nature ; but, on amving at the sum- 
 mit, we looked down upon the other side upon a 
 boiling sea of cloud, dashing against the crags on 
 which we stood — these crags on one side quite 
 perpendicular. In passing the masses of snow, I 
 made a snowball, and pelted Hobhouse with it." 
 
 Ye avalanches. 
 
 Ye toppling crags of ice — 
 whom a breath draws down 
 
 'O "^ -^ 
 
 surface; but at every rent and crevice the pale 
 green ice shines clear in the sun. Its shape is that 
 of a glove, lying with the palm dow^nwards, and 
 the fingers crooked and close together. It is a 
 gauntlet of ice, which, centuries ago, winter, the 
 king of these mountains, threw down in defiance 
 to the sun ; and year by year the sun strives in 
 vain to lift it from the ground on the point of his 
 glittering spear. H. W. Longfellow. 
 
 A FAMOUS SUMMIT. 
 
 APART of Byron's "Manfred" was either 
 written or mentally composed on the 
 Wengern Alp. He says in his Journal, 
 " Heard the avalanches falling every five minutes 
 nearly. The clouds -ose from the opposite valley, 
 curling up perpendicular precipices, like the foam 
 of the ocean of hell during a spring tide — it was 
 
 In mountainous o'erwhelming, come and crush me! 
 I hear ye momently above, beneath, 
 Crash with a frequent conflict ; but ye pass. 
 And only fall on things that still would live ; 
 On the young flourishing forest, or the hut 
 And hamlet of the harmless villager. 
 The mists boil up around the glaciers ; clouds 
 Rise curling far beneath me, white and sulphury, 
 Like foam from the roused ocean of deep hell ! 
 
 Lord Byron. 
 
 THE BOY OF THE ALPS. 
 
 LIGHTLY, Alpine rover. 
 Tread the mountains over ; 
 Rude is the path thou'st yet to go; 
 
 Snow cliffs hanging o'er thee, 
 
 Fields of ice before thee, 
 While the hid torrent moans below. 
 Hark, the deep thunder, 
 Through the vales yonder ! 
 'Tis the huge av'lanche downward cast; 
 
 From rock to rock 
 
 Rebounds the shock. 
 But courage, boy ! the danger's past. 
 
 Onward, youthful rover. 
 
 Tread the glacier over, 
 Safe shalt thou reach thy home at last. 
 On, ere light forsake thee, 
 Soon will dusk o'ertake thee : 
 
BEAUTY AND GRANDEUR OF THE ALPS. 
 
 345 
 
 O'er yon ice-bridge lies the way ! 
 
 Now, for the risk prepare thee ; 
 
 Safe it yet may bear thee, 
 Though 'twill melt in morning's ray. 
 
 Hark, that dread howling ! 
 ' ris the wolf prowling — 
 Scent of thy track the foe hath got; 
 And cliff and shore 
 Resound his roar. 
 But courage, boy — the danger' s past! 
 Watching eyes have found thee, 
 Loving arms are round thee. 
 Safe hast thou reached thy father's cot. 
 Thomas Moore. 
 
 MT. PILATU5. 
 
 UNFORTUNATELY Pilatus 
 is very attractive to clouds, 
 otherwise the mountain is 
 far more interesting than the Rigi, 
 and the view from it in some re- 
 spects finer, though a less complete 
 panorama, and the grandeur of its 
 own serrated outline, which forms 
 so important a feature of the Rigi 
 view, ij of course wanting. The 
 Lake of Lucerne lies open as far as 
 Brunnen. 
 
 According to a wild tradition of 
 considerable antiquity, this moun- 
 tain derives its name from Pilate, 
 the wicked governor of Judaea, m^io, 
 having been banished to Gaul by 
 Tiberius, wandered about among 
 the mountains, stricken by con- 
 science, until he ended his misera- 
 ble existence by throwing himself 
 into a lake on the top of Pilatus. 
 The mountain, in consequence, la- 
 bors under a very bad reputation. 
 From its position as an outlier, or 
 advanced guard of the chain of the 
 Alps, it collects the clouds which float over the 
 plain from the west and north; and it is remarked 
 that almost all the storms which burst upon the 
 Like of Lucerne gather and brew on its summit. 
 
 This almost perpetual assembling of clouds was 
 bng attributed by the superstitious to the unquiet 
 spirit still hovering round the sunken body, which, 
 when disturbed by any intruder, revenged itself 
 by sending storm, and darkness, and hail on the 
 surrounding district. So prevalent was the belief 
 in this superstition, even down to times compara- 
 tively recent, that the government of Lucerne for- 
 bade the ascent of the mountain, and the natural- 
 ist. Conrad Gessner, in 1555, was obliged to pro- 
 vide himselt with a special order, removing the 
 
 interdict in his case, to enable him to carry on his 
 researches. 
 
 According to some the name Pilatus is only a 
 corruption of Pileatus (capped), arising from the 
 cap of clouds which rarely quits its barren brow, 
 and which is sometimes seen rising from it like 
 steam from a caldron. 
 
 ^ 
 
 \ 
 
 1^^ 
 
 
 MT. BLANC. 
 
 THIS mountain is very steep and rocky ; it is 
 exceedingly encumbered with its own im- 
 mense ruins, which, in the course of ages, 
 have rolled down from its summit and lodged 
 either at its base or on its flanks. There are piles 
 on piles of rocks, and some of them are of great 
 dimensions; among which, to clear even a mule- 
 path has evidently been a work of great labor and 
 difficulty. The zigzag ascent winds around turns, 
 which aVe very abrupt and frequent. They often 
 pass along the edge of fearful precipices, where a 
 false step would send the mule and the rider to 
 destruction. 
 
 It often seems as if the apparently perverse, but 
 
346 
 
 BEAUTY AND GRANDEUR OF THE ALPS. 
 
 really skillful little animal, was about to walk de- 
 liberately off, as, in order that his feet may find 
 their proper position, his head and neck are pro- 
 jected beyond the road, and overhang the preci- 
 pice. But do not interfere with the nice balancing 
 of your mule ; he knows better than you can in- 
 struct him how to proceed, and has not the least 
 inclination to roll down the mountain, although 
 the wrong pulling up of a reign, or the sudden 
 change of position of a heavy man on the saddle, 
 may force him and yourself to that result. Trust 
 a good Providence, and the mule, as the instru- 
 ment, and you will pass safely along the mountain 
 steeps. Benjamin Silliman. 
 
 SUNRISE IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNY. 
 
 HAST thou a charm to stay the morning star 
 In his steep course ? So long he seems to 
 pause 
 0.1 thy bald, awful head, O sovran Blanc ! 
 The Arve and Arveiron at thy base 
 Rave ceaselessly ; but chou, most awful form ! 
 Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines, 
 How silently ! Around thee and above, 
 Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black. 
 An ebon mass : methinks thou piercest it. 
 As with a wedge ! But when I look again. 
 It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine, 
 Thy habitation from eternity ! 
 O dread and silent mount ! I gazed upon thee, 
 
 Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, 
 
 Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in 
 
 prayer 
 I worshiped the Invisible alone. 
 
 Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody, 
 So sweet we know not we are listening to it, 
 Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my 
 
 thought, 
 Yea, with my life and life's own secret joy; 
 Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused, 
 Into the mighty vision passing — there, 
 As in her natural form, swelled vast to heaven ! 
 
 Awake, my soul ! not only passive praise 
 
 Thou owest ! not alone these swell- 
 ing tears 
 
 Mute thanks and secret ecstacy. 
 Awake, 
 
 Voice of sweet song ! Awake, my 
 heart, awake ! 
 
 Green vales and icy cliffs, all join 
 my hymn. 
 
 Thou first and chief, sole sovran 
 
 of the vale ! 
 O, struggling with the darkness all 
 
 the night. 
 And visited all night by troops of 
 
 stars. 
 Or when they climb the sky or 
 
 when they sink : 
 Companion of the morning star at 
 
 dawn, 
 Thyself earth's rosy star, and of 
 
 the dawn 
 Co-herald : wake, O wake and utter 
 
 praise ! 
 Who sank thy sunless pillars deep 
 
 in earth F 
 Who filled thy countenance with 
 
 rosy light ? 
 Who made thee parent of perpetual 
 
 streams ? 
 
 I And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad ! 
 
 I Who called you forth from night and utter death, 
 From dark and icy caverns called you forth, 
 Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks, 
 Forever shattered and the same forever? 
 Who gave you your invulnerable life. 
 Your strength, your speed, your fury and your joy, 
 Unceasing thunder and eternal foam ? 
 And who commanded (and the silence came). 
 Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest? 
 
 Ye ice- falls ! ye that from the mountain's brow 
 Adown enormous ravines slope amain — 
 Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice. 
 And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge- 
 Motionless torrents ! silent cataracts ! 
 
BEAUTY AND GRANDEUR OF THE ALPS, 
 
 347 
 
 Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven 
 Beneath the keen, full moon ? Who bade the sun 
 Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living 
 
 flowers 
 Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet — 
 God ! let the torrents, like a shout of nations, 
 Answer ! and let the ice-plains echo, God ! 
 God ! Sing, ye meadow streams, with gladsome 
 
 voice ! 
 Ye pine groves, with your soft and soul-like 
 
 sounds ! 
 And they, too, have a voice, yon piles of snow. 
 And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God ! 
 
 Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost ! 
 Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest ! 
 Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain storm ! 
 Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds ! 
 Ye sis^ns and wonders of the elements ! 
 Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise ! 
 
 Thou, too, hoar Mount ! with thy sky-pointing 
 
 peaks. 
 Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard. 
 Shoots downward, glittering through the pure 
 
 serene 
 Into the depth of clouds, that veil thy breast — 
 Thou too again, stupendous mountain ! thou 
 That as I raise my head, a while bowed low 
 In adoration, upward from thy base 
 Slow traveling with dim eyes suffused with tears, 
 Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud, 
 To rise before me — rise, oh, ever rise, 
 Rise like a cloud of incense from the earth ! 
 Thou kingly spirit, throned among the hills, 
 Thou dread ambassador from earth to heaven. 
 Great hierarch ! tell thou the silent sky. 
 And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun. 
 Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God. 
 
 S. T. Coleridge. 
 
 THE AVALANCHE. 
 
 ABOVE me are the Alps, 
 The palaces of nature, whose vast walls 
 Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps, 
 And throned eternity in icy halls 
 Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls 
 
 The avalanche — the thunderbolt of snow ! 
 All that expands the spirit, yet appals, 
 Gather around the summits, as to show 
 How earth may soar to heaven, yet leave vain man 
 below. Lord Byron. 
 
 ENGLAND AND SWITZERLAND. 
 
 TWO voices are there — one is of the sea. 
 One of the mountains, each a mighty voice : 
 In both from age to age thou didst rejoice, 
 They were thy chosen music, liberty ! 
 
 There came a tyrant, and with holy glee 
 Thou fought'st against him — but hast vainly 
 striven ; 
 
 Thou from thy Alpine holds at length are driven 
 Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee. 
 
 — Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft; 
 Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left— 
 For, high-souled maid, what sorrow would it be 
 
 That mountain floods should thunder as before. 
 And ocean bellow from his rocky shore. 
 And neither awful voice be heard by thee ! 
 
 William Wordsworth. 
 
 AVALANCHES OF THE JUNQFRAU. 
 
 ORDINARILY, in a sunny day at noon, the 
 avalanches are falling on the Jungfrau 
 about every ten minutes, with the roar of 
 thunder, but they are much more seldom visible, 
 and sometimes the traveler crosses the Wengern 
 Alp without witnessing them at all. But we were 
 so very highly favored as to see two of the grandest 
 avalanches possible in the course of about an hour, 
 between twelve o'clock and two. One cannot 
 command any language to convey an adequate 
 idea of their magnificence. You are standing far 
 below, gazing up to where the great disc of the 
 glittering Alp cuts the heavens, and drinking in 
 the influence of the silent scene around. 
 
 Suddenly an enormous mass of snow and ice, in 
 itself a mountain, seems to move ; it breaks from 
 the toppling outmost mountain ridge of snow, 
 where it is hundreds of feet in depth, and in its 
 first fall of perhaps two thousand feet, is broken 
 into millions of fragments. As you first see the 
 flash of distant artillery by night, then hear the 
 roar, so here you may see the white flashing mass 
 majestically bowing, then hear the astounding din. 
 A cloud of dusty, misty, dry snow rises into the 
 air from the concussion, forming a white volume 
 of fleecy smoke, or misty light, from the bosom of 
 which thunders forth the icy torrent in its second 
 prodigious fall over the rocky battlements. The 
 eye follows it delighted as it ploughs through the 
 path which preceding avalanches have worn, till it 
 comes to the brink of a vast ridge of bare rock, 
 perhaps more than two thousand feet perpendicular. 
 
 Then pours the whole cataract over the gult 
 with a still louder roar of echoing thunder, to 
 which nothing but the noise of Niagara in its sub- 
 limity is comparable. Nevertheless, you may think 
 of the tramp of an army of elephants, of the roar 
 of multitudinous cavalry marching to battle, of 
 the whirlwind tread of ten thousand bisons sweep- 
 ing across the prairie, of the tempest surf of ocean 
 beating and shaking the continent, of the sound 
 of torrent floods or of a numerous host, or of the 
 voice of the Trumpet on Sinai, exceeding loud, 
 and waxing louder and louder, so that all the 
 people in the camp trembled, or of the roUing 
 orbs of that fierce chariot, described by Milton, 
 Under whose burning wheels 
 The steadfast empyrean shook throughout. 
 
348 
 
 BEAUTY AND GRANDEUR OF THE ALPS, 
 
 THE FALL OF THE STAUBBACH. 
 
 STRANGERS, who expect in the Staubbach 
 the roaring rapidity of a cataract, will be 
 disappointed ; but, in the opinion of many, 
 this want is atoned for by other beauties. The 
 friction of the rock, and the resistance of the air, 
 retard the descent of the water, giving it, when 
 seen in front, the appearance of a lace veil sus- 
 pended from the precipice, and imitating, in its 
 centre, the folds of the drapery. When very 
 
 full, it shoots out from the rock, and is bent 
 by the wind into flickering undulations. Byron 
 !.is described it admirably, both in prose and 
 verse : 
 
 "The torrent is in shape, curving over the 
 rock, like the tail of a white horse streaming in 
 the wind — such as it might be conceived would 
 be that of the * pale horse ' on which Death is 
 mounted in the Apocalvpse. It is neither mist 
 nor water, but a something between both: its im- 
 mense height gives it a wave or curve — a spreading 
 here or condension there — wonderful and inde- 
 scribable." 
 
 "It is not noon — the sunbow's rays still arch 
 The torrent with the many hues of heaven, 
 And roll the sheeted silver's waving column 
 O'er the crags headlong perpendicular, 
 
 And fling its lines of foaming light along, 
 And to and fro, like the pale courser's tail, 
 The giant steed to be bestrode by Death, 
 As told in the Apocalypse." 
 
 ARNOLD WINKELRIED. 
 
 In ihe battle of Sempach, in the fourteenth century, this 
 martyr-patriot perceiving that there was no other means of 
 breaking the heavy-armed hnes of the Austrians than by 
 gathering as many of their spears as he could grasp together, 
 opened, by this means, a passage for his fellows-combatants, 
 who, with hammers and hatchets, hewed down the mailed 
 men-at-arms and won the victory. 
 
 U 71 yr AKE way for liberty! " he cried— 
 
 / V I ^^^de way for liberty, and died ! 
 ^ * ■*- In arms the Austrian phalanx stood, 
 
 A living wall, a human wood ; 
 
 Impregnable their front appears, 
 
 All-horrent with projected spears. 
 
 Opposed to these, a hovering band 
 
 Contended for their fatherland, 
 
 Peasants, whose new-found strength had broke 
 
 From manly necks the ignoble yoke ; 
 
 Marshaled once more at freedom's call, 
 
 They came to conquer or to fall. 
 
 And now the work of life and death 
 
 Hung on the passing of a breath ; 
 
 The fire of conflict burned within ; 
 
 The battle trembled to begin ; 
 
 Yet, while the Austrians held their ground, 
 
 Point for assault w^as nowhere found; 
 
 Where'er the impatient Switzers gazed, 
 
 The unbroken line of lances blazed ; 
 
 That line 'twere suicide to meet, 
 
 And perish at their tyrant's feet. 
 
 How could they rest within their graves, 
 
 To leave their homes the haunts of slaves ? 
 
 Would they not feel their children tread, 
 
 With clanking chains, above their head? 
 
 It must not be : this day, this hour 
 Annihilates the invader's power ! 
 All Switzerland is in the field — 
 She will not fly, she cannot yield, 
 She must not fall; her better fate 
 Here gives her an immortal date. 
 Few were the numbers she could boast. 
 Yet every freeman was a host. 
 And felt as 'twere a secret known 
 That one should turn the scale alone, 
 While each unto himself was he 
 On whose sole arm hung victory. 
 
 It did depend on one, indeed ; 
 Behold him — Arnold Winkelried ! 
 There sounds not to the trump of fame 
 The echo of a nobler name. 
 Unmarked, he stood amid the throng. 
 In rumination deep and long, 
 Till you might see, with sudden grace, 
 The very thought come o'er his face; 
 
BEAUTY AND GRANDEUR OF THE ALPS, 
 
 349 
 
 And by the motion of his form, 
 
 Anticipate the bursting storm , 
 
 And, by the uplifcing of his brow, 
 
 Tell where the bolt would strike, and how. 
 
 But 'twas no sooner thought than done — 
 
 He bowed amidst them, like a tree. 
 And thus made way for liberty. 
 
 Swift to the breach his comrades fly — 
 ■'Make way for liberty!" they cry, 
 And through the Austrian phalanx dart. 
 
 ON THE AXENSTRASSE— LAKE OF LUCERNE. 
 
 The field was in a moment won ! 
 '' Make way for liberty ! " he cried. 
 
 Then ran, with arms extended wide. 
 
 As if his dearest friend to clasp ; 
 
 Ten spears he swept within his grasp. 
 *'Make way for liberty ! " he cried ; 
 
 Their keen points crossed from side to side ; 
 
 As rushed the spears through Arnold's heart, 
 
 While, instantaneous as his fall, 
 
 Rout, ruin, panic seized them all; 
 
 An earthquake could not overthrow 
 
 A city with a surer blow. 
 
 Thus Switzerland again was free — 
 
 Thus death made way for liberty. 
 
 James Montgomery. 
 
BEAUTY AND GRANDEUR OF THE ALP^. 
 
 351 
 
 LAKE LUCERNE AND WILLIAM TELL'S 
 CHAPEL. 
 
 OPPOSITE Brunnen the lake changes at once 
 its direction and character. Along the 
 bay of Uri, or of Fliielen as it is some- 
 times called, it stretches nearly north and south, 
 and its borders are the buttresses of mountains, 
 higher than any of those which overlook the other 
 branches of the lake. On the east runs an almost 
 unbroken precipice of the grandest dimensions, 
 
 which connects Brunnen with Fliielen, a distance 
 of about eight miles. It was commenced by the 
 Swiss Government after the union of Savoy with 
 France, when it was considered advisable to im- 
 prove the communication between the Cantons. 
 To reach Fliielen from Brunnen or Schwyz it was 
 formerly usual to make a long circuit ; but there 
 was a difficult path which was actually traversed 
 by the French General Lecourbe, with his army, 
 in pursuit of Suwarrow, in the night by torchlight, 
 I 799. The want of boats to carry his troops across 
 
 WILLIAM TELL'S CHAPEL— LAKE LUCERNE. 
 
 with twisted strata descending sheer to the water, 
 here in places more than 11 00 feet deep. It is 
 upon this that the superiority of the Lake of Lu- 
 cerne to all other lakes depends. The vast mount- 
 ains rising on every side and closing at the end, 
 with their rich clothing of wood, the sweet soft 
 spots of verdant pasture scattered at their feet, and 
 sometimes on their breast, and the expanse of 
 water, unbroken by islands, and almost undis- 
 turbed by any signs of living men, make an im- 
 pression which it would be foolish to attempt to 
 convey by words. 
 
 Until 1865 the east side of the Bay of Uri was 
 impassable. It was first invaded by the telegraph 
 wire, which ran from rock to rock, but it is now 
 traversed by a magnificent road — the Axenstrasse. 
 
 the lake compelled him to attempt this daring ex- 
 ploit. 
 
 At one point the precipices recede a little, leav- 
 ing a ledge, formed by earth fallen from above, 
 and sloping to the water. A few walnut and 
 chestnut trees have here taken root, and the small 
 space is occupied by a meadow conspicuous among 
 the surrounding woods from the brightness of its 
 verdure. This is Grlitli or Riitli, the spot pointed 
 out by tradition as the rendezvous of the three 
 founders of Swiss freedom — Werner Stauffacher, 
 Erni and Walter Fiirst. These '' honest conspira- 
 tors " met in the dead of night, on this secluded 
 spot, at the end of the year 1307, to form a plan 
 for liberating their country from the oppression 
 of the Austrians. They here "swore to be faith= 
 
352 
 
 BEAUTY AND GRANDEUR OF THE ALPS. 
 
 ful to each other, but to do no wrong to the Count 
 of Habsburg, and not to maltreat his governors." 
 
 These poor mountaineers, in the 14th century, 
 furnish, perhaps, the only example of insurgents | 
 who, at the moment of revolt, bind themselves as j 
 sacredly to be just and merciful to their oppressors j 
 as to be faithful to each other ; and, we may add, i 
 who remained true to their intentions. The 
 scheme thus concerted was carried into execution 
 on the following New Year's day ; and such was 
 the origin of the Swiss Confederation. 
 
 According to popular belief, which everywhere 
 in Switzerland connects political events with no- j 
 tions of religion, the oath of the Griitli was fol- 
 lowed by a miracle, and three springs gushed from 
 the spot upon which the confederates had stood. 
 In token of this every stranger is led to a little 
 hut built over the sources, and is invited to drink 
 from them to the memory of the founders of Swiss 
 freedom 
 
 Tell's Chapel is 300 feet above the lake, un- 
 equalled for situation and view^ ; small, but com- 
 fortable, except on Sunday, when it is often 
 crow^ded. Here, according to the tradition. Tell 
 sprang on shore from the boat in which Gessler 
 was carrying him a prisoner to Kiissnacht, when a 
 sudden storm on the lake had compelled him to re- 
 move Tell's fetters, in order to avail himself of his 
 skill as steersman. The chapel, an open arcade 
 lined with rude and faded paintings, representing 
 the events of the delivery of Switzerland, ^vas 
 erected by canton Uri in 1388, and, in the firm 
 belief of the country people, to the memory of the 
 brave archer. Once a year, on the first Friday 
 after the Ascension, mass is said and a sermon 
 preached in the chapel, which is attended by the 
 inhabitants residing on the shores of the lake, who, 
 repairing hither in boats, form an aquatic proces- 
 sion. But there have been fierce disputes as co 
 the truth of the story of Tell. 
 
 It is not mentioned by Jean de Winterthur, a 
 contemporary and minute narrator of the events of 
 the revolution, nor by any w riter for two centuries 
 
 after their occurrence. It is first found in the 
 chronicle of Melchior Russ, 1476. It is pretty 
 clear that a Swiss named William Tell existed, and 
 that he was held in honor by his countrymen, but 
 there is nothing to prove his connection with the 
 history of the Confederation. Exactly similar 
 legends, or saga, of the loth century are found in 
 Norway and Denmark. 
 
 The view from Tell's chapel is exceedingly fine. 
 The following are the remarks of Sir James Mack- 
 intosh on this scene : " The combination of what 
 is grandest in nature, with whatever is pure and 
 sublime in human conduct, affected me in this 
 passage (along the lake) more powerfully than 
 any scene I had ever witnessed. Perhaps neither 
 Greece nor Rome would have had such power 
 over me. They are dead. The present inhabi- 
 tants are a new race, who regard with little nr no 
 feeling the memorials of former ages. This is, 
 perhaps, the only place in our globe where deeds 
 of pure virtue, ancient enough to be venerable, are 
 consecrated by the religion of the people, and con- 
 tinue to command interest and reverence. No 
 local superstition so beautiful and so moral any- 
 w^here exists. The inhabitants of Thermopylae or 
 Marathon know no more of these famous spots 
 than that they are so many square feet of earth. 
 England is too extensive a country to make Run- 
 nymede an object of national afi'ection. In coun- 
 tries of industry and wealth the stream of events 
 sw^eeps away these old remembrances. The soli- 
 tude of the Alps is a sanctuary destined for the 
 monuments of ancient virtue ; Griitli and Tell's 
 chapel are as much reverenced by the Alpine pea- 
 sants as Mecca by a devout Mussulman." 
 
 5UNRISE AMONG THE ALPS. 
 
 Such a sunrise ! The giant Alps seemed liter- 
 ally to rise from their purple beds, and putting on 
 their crowns of gold, to send up hallelujahs almost 
 audible ! 
 
 Washington Allston„ 
 
CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH: 
 
 CONTAINING 
 
 CAPTIVATING SELECTIONS FOR THE YOUNG, 
 
 THE DOLLS' WEDDING 
 
 My pa he ist fished an' fished, 
 An' my ma she said she wished 
 Me an' her was home — an' pa 
 Said he wished so wors'n ma ! 
 
 Pa said if you talk, er say 
 Anything, er sneeze, er play, 
 Haint no fish, alive or ded, 
 Ever goin' to bite ! he said. 
 
 HERE'S a wedding to-day in the garden below, 
 Where the pinks and marigolds stand in a row ; 
 The prettiest wedding that ever was seen, 
 I know, for I peeped through the trellisses green. 
 
 The bride is a doll that is nearly as tall 
 
 As the lily that leans to look over the wall. 
 
 In a gown of pink silk she is gorgeously dressed, 
 
 With a plume in her hat and a brooch on her breast 
 
 The groom is a sailor boy gallant and bold. 
 In a cap and a jacket all braided with gold ; 
 (Both dollies belong to a lassie of three. 
 Whose face bubbles over with frolic and glee.) 
 
 There are roses above, there are roses around, 
 And the petals of roses lie thick on the ground, 
 And the robin is there with his silvery flute. 
 And the oriole clad in his flame-colored suit. 
 
 Little Tiny, the terrier, married the pair. 
 Sitting on a bench with a serious air, 
 With grandmother's kerchief as clerical clothes. 
 And grandfather's spectacles over his nose. 
 
 A FISHIN'. 
 
 WUNST we went a fishin' — me 
 An' my pa an' ma, all three — 
 When they was a picnic, 'way 
 Out to Ranch's wood one day. 
 
 An' they was a crick out there, 
 Where the fishes is, and where 
 Little boys 'taint big an' strong. 
 Better have their folks along ! 
 
 Purt nigh dark in town when we 
 Got back home ; an' ma says she 
 Now she'll have a fish fer shore — 
 And she buyed one at the store ! 
 
 Nen at supper, pa he won't 
 Eat no fish, an' says he don't 
 Like 'em — an' he ponded me 
 When I choked — ma, didn't he? 
 
 James Whitcomb Riley. 
 
 I 
 
 MATTIE^S WANTS ANl> WISHES. 
 
 23 
 
 WANTS a piece of cal'co 
 To make my doll a dess ; 
 I doesn't want a big piece; 
 A yard '11 do I guess. 
 
 I wish you'd fred my needle. 
 And find my fimble, too — 
 
 I has such heaps o' sewin' 
 I don't know what to do. 
 
 353 
 
35-4 
 
 CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH, 
 
 My Hepsy torcd her apron 
 A tum'lin' down the stair, 
 
 And Caesar's lost his pantnoons, 
 And needs anozzer pair. 
 
 She lets me wipe the dishe^. 
 And see in grandpa's watch- 
 
 I wish I'd free, four pennies 
 To buy some butter-scotch. 
 
 I wants my Maud a bonnet ; 
 
 She hasn't none at all ; 
 And Fred must have a jacket ; 
 
 His ozzer one's too small, 
 I want's to go to grandma's ; 
 
 You promised me I might. 
 I know she'd like to see me \ 
 
 I wants to go to-night 
 
 I wants some newer mittens — 
 
 I wish you'd knit me some, 
 'Cause most my finger freezes, 
 
 They leaks so in the fum. 
 I wored 'em out last summer, 
 
 A puUin' George's sled; 
 I wish you wouldn't laugh so — 
 
 It hurts me in my head. 
 
 I wish I had a cookie ; 
 
 I'm hungry's I can be. 
 If you hasn't pretty large ones. 
 
 You'd better bring me free. 
 
CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH 
 
 355 
 
 I wish I had a p'ano — 
 
 Won't you buy me one to keep? 
 
 O, dear ! I feels so tired, 
 I wants to go to sleep. 
 
 Grace Gordon. 
 
 A FELLOW'S MOTHER. 
 
 i(, A FELLOW'S mother,'' said Fred the wise, 
 
 ZA With his rosy cheeks and his merry eyes, 
 
 -*- ^ ''Knows what to do if a fellow gets hurt 
 
 By a thump, or a bruise, or a fall in the dirt. 
 
 '' A fellow's mother has bags and strings, 
 Rags and buttons, and lots of things; 
 No matter how busy she is, she'll stop 
 To see how well you can spin your top. 
 
 *' She does not care, not much, I mean. 
 If a fellow's face is not always clean ; 
 And if your trousers are torn at the knee 
 She can put in a patch that you'd never see. 
 
 " A fellow's mother is never mad, 
 But only sorry if you are bad. 
 And I'll tell you this, if you're only true. 
 She'll always forgive whate'er you do. 
 
 '* I'm sure of this," said Fred the wise, 
 With a manly look in his laughing eyes, 
 
 *' I'll mind my mother, quick, every day, 
 A fellow's a baby that don't obey." 
 
 M. E. Sangster. 
 
 THE LITTLE WHITE HEARSE. 
 
 AS the little white hearse went glimmering 
 by— 
 The man on the coal cart jerked his lines, 
 And smutted the lid of either eye, 
 
 And turned and stared at the business signs ; 
 And the street car driver stopped and beat 
 His hands on his shoulders and gazed up street 
 Till his eye on the long track reached the sky — 
 As the little white hearse went glimmering by. 
 
 As the little white hearse went glimmering by — 
 
 A stranger petted a ragged child 
 In the crowded walk, and she knew not why. 
 
 But he gave her a coin for the way she smiled ; 
 And a bootblack thrilled with a pleasure strange 
 As a customer put back his change 
 With a kindly hand and a grateful sigh — 
 As the little white hearse went glimmering by. 
 
 As the little white hearse went glimmering by — 
 A man looked out of a window dim, 
 
 And his cheeks were wet and his heart was dry — 
 For a dead child even were dear to him. 
 
 And he thought of his empty life and said : 
 
 *' Loveless alive, and loveless dead. 
 
 Nor wife nor child in earth or skv !" ^^ 
 
 As the little white hearse went glimmering by. 
 
 TWO LITTLE MAIDENS. 
 
 A SORRY little maiden 
 Is Miss Fuss-and-Feather, 
 Crying for the golden moon, 
 Grumbling at the weather ; 
 The sun will fade her gown. 
 The rain spoil her bonnet, 
 If she ventures out, 
 And lets it fall upon it. 
 
 A merry little maiden 
 
 Is Miss Ra^s-and-Tatters, 
 Chatting of the twinkling stars 
 
 And many other matters ; 
 Dancing in the sunshine. 
 
 Pattering through the rain, 
 Her clothes never cause her 
 
 A single thought or pain. 
 
 Agnes Carr. 
 
 A LIFE LESSON. 
 
 THERE, little girl, don't cry. 
 They've broken your doll, I know. 
 And your tea set blue 
 And your toy house, too. 
 Are things of the long ago ; 
 But childish troubles will soon pass by ; 
 There, little girl, don't cry. 
 
 There, little girl, don't cry; 
 
 They've broken your heart, I know, 
 
 And the rainbow gleams 
 
 Of your youthful dreams 
 
 Are things of the long ago ; 
 
 But Heaven holds all for which you sigh ; 
 
 There, little girl, don't cry. 
 
 "M 
 
 GRANDMA'S ANGEL. 
 
 AM MA said : ' Little one, go and see 
 If grandma's ready to come to tea.* 
 I knew I mustn't disturb her, so 
 I stepped as gently along, tiptoe. 
 And stood a moment to take a peep — 
 And there was grandmother fast asleep ! 
 
 '' I knew it was time for her to wake ; 
 I thought I'd give her a little shake. 
 Or tap at her door or softly call; 
 But I hadn't the heart for 'that at all — 
 
 '' She looked so sweet and so quiet there. 
 Lying back in her high arm-chair. 
 With her dear white hair, and a little smile 
 That means she's loving you all the while. 
 
 '^I didn't make a speck of noise; 
 I knew she was dreaming of the little boys 
 And girls who lived with her long ago. 
 And then went to heaven — she told me so. 
 
 " I went up close, and I didn't speak 
 One word, but I gave her on the cheek 
 
356 
 
 CHILDHOOD AXD YOUTH. 
 
 The softest bit of a little kiss, 
 Just in a whisper, and then said this : 
 ' Grandmother dear, it's time for tea.' 
 
 •• She opened her eyes and looked at me. 
 And said : ' Why. pet. I have just now dreamed 
 Of a little angel who came and seemed 
 
 To kiss me i^. ..._,_ ^„ :..\ i.i^e. 
 She pointed right at the very place ! 
 
 '' I never told her 'twas only me : 
 i took her hand, and we went to tea.' 
 
 O 
 
 THE LITTLE BOY'5 LAMENT. 
 
 H ! why must I always be washed so clean 
 And scrubbed and drenched for Sunday. 
 When you know very well, for you've 
 always seen. 
 That I'm dirty again on Monday? 
 
 My eyes are filled with the latherv ouap. 
 Which adown my ears is dripping ; 
 
 And my smarting eyes I can scarcely opt, 
 And my lips the suds are sipping. 
 
 It's down my neck and up my nose, 
 
 And to choke me you seem to be trying ; 
 
 That I'll shut my mouth you 
 need not suppose, 
 For how can 1 keep from 
 crying ? 
 
 You rub as hard as ever you 
 can 
 And your hands are hard to 
 my sorrow ; 
 No woman shall wash me 
 when I'm a man, 
 And I wish I was one to- 
 morrow. 
 
 FORGIVENESS. 
 
 1SAT in the evening cool 
 Of the heat-baked city 
 street, 
 "Musing, and watching a ^iit'.e 
 pair. 
 Who played on the walk at 
 my feet : 
 A boy, the elder, of strong, 
 rough mould ; 
 His sister, a blossom sweet. 
 
 When, just in the midst of 
 their play, 
 Came an angry cry, and a 
 blow, 
 '( hat bruised the cheek of the 
 little maid 
 And caused bright tears to 
 flow, 
 And brought from my lips 
 quick, sharp reproof 
 On the lad who had acted 
 so. 
 
 And he stood by, sullen and 
 hard. 
 While the maid soon dried 
 her tear. 
 He looked at her with an angry eye ; 
 
 She timialy drew near. 
 Don't be cross, Johnny !" (a little sob), 
 "■ Let me fordive 'oo, dear !" 
 
 And the cloud is passed and gone, 
 And again in their play they meet. 
 
 And the strong, rough boy wears a kinder mien 
 And brighter the maiden sweet, 
 
 While a whisper has come from the heart of God 
 To a man, a man on the street. 
 
CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 
 
 357 
 
 NUTTING. 
 
 OUT in the pleasant sunshine of a bright 
 October day, 
 Rollicking, frolicking through the woods, 
 scaring the birds away, 
 Went a group of laughing girls and boys to play 
 
 till the sun was set ; 
 Martha and Robbie, and Tom and Will, and 
 Dolly, the household pet ! 
 
 They ''made believe" they were foragers bold, 
 
 scouring the country o'er. 
 To add to their scanty soldier fare from an enemy's 
 
 fruitful store. 
 And they charged on the squirrels' leafy homes 
 
 till they beat a quick retreat ; 
 While their precious hoards came rattling down at 
 
 the noisy victors* feet. 
 
 They played tag and follow my leader and scam- 
 pered up and down. 
 
 Covering each other in their glee with the leaves 
 so crisp and brown. 
 
 Till they huddled down to talk and rest and plan 
 some pleasure new, • 
 
 While Martha unpacked the ''goodies" for the 
 hungry, bright-faced crew. 
 
 "I'm too little to work," said Dolly, tossing her 
 
 curls away, 
 " You make the dinner, Mattie, dear — then I'll be 
 
 papa, and pray ! 
 I know just how he does it, 'cause I've looked 
 
 through my fingers, so ; 
 And God will hear me better out-doors than he 
 
 would in the house, I know !" 
 
 Then clasping her baby fingers, and bowing her 
 leaf-crowned head, 
 
 With its tangled floss half over her face, shading 
 its flush of red, 
 
 Sweetly the innocent little voice stole out on the 
 waiting air. 
 
 And up to the children's Father floated this child- 
 ish prayer : 
 
 *' I thank you, God, 'way up in the sky, for these 
 
 nice things to eat ; 
 For this happy day in the pleasant woods, for the 
 
 squirrels and birdies sweet ; 
 For fathers and mothers to love us — only Robbie, 
 
 his mother's dead ; 
 But I guess you know all about that, God — you 
 
 took her away, they said ! 
 
 "If you please, don't make my mother die; 
 
 I shouldn't know what to do ! 
 I couldn't take care of myself at all; you'd have 
 
 to get me, too ! 
 Make all the days just as good as this, and don't 
 
 let Robbie cry — 
 That's all little Dolly knows to pray, our Father in 
 
 heaven, good-by!" 
 
 Then the sweet child voices rose anew like a 
 
 beautiful refrain. 
 And the birds in the brown leaves overhead caught 
 
 up the merry strain. 
 And twittered it back till the yellow sun was lost 
 
 in the hazy west. 
 When birds and children fluttered home, each to 
 
 a sheltering nest. 
 
 Lucy M. Blinn. 
 
 T 
 
 NAMING THE BABY. 
 
 HEY gather in solemn council. 
 The chiefs in the household band ; 
 They sit in the darkened chamber, 
 A conclave proud and grand ; 
 They peer in the curtained chamber, 
 
 And all with one voice exclaim. 
 As they point to the new-found treasure 
 " The baby must have a name !" 
 
 They bring forth the names by dozens 
 
 With many an anxious look ; 
 They scan all the tales and novels. 
 
 They search through the good old Book ; 
 Till the happy-voiced young mother, 
 
 Now urging her prior claim, 
 Cries out in the fondest accents, 
 
 " O ! give him a pretty name." 
 
 " His grandpa was Ebenezer, 
 
 "Long buried and gone, dear soul," 
 Says the trembling voice of grandma, 
 
 As the quiet tear-drops roll. 
 "Oh, call him Eugene Augustus," 
 
 Cries the youngest of the throng ; 
 "Plain John," says the happy father, 
 
 " Is an honest name and strong." 
 
 And thus is the embryo statesman 
 
 Or, perhaps, the soldier bold, 
 Respecting his future title 
 
 Left utterly out in the cold ; 
 And yet it can matter but Httle 
 
 To him who is heedless of fame, 
 For no name will dishonor the mortal. 
 
 If the mortal but honors the name. 
 
 NAN. 
 
 I KNOW a maid, a dear little maid ; 
 If you knew her, you'd woo her, 
 I'm sadly afraid; 
 So I think it as well 
 Her name not to tell. 
 Except that she's sometimes called " Nan>" 
 
 She has a hand, a soft little hand ; 
 Did you feel it, you'd steal it, 
 I quite understand ; 
 So I think it as well 
 To reveal not the spell 
 That lurks in the fingers of Nan. 
 
358 
 
 CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 
 
 Bright are her eyes, her clear hazel eyes ; 
 If their dance should entrance you 
 I'd feel no surprise; 
 So I think it as well 
 The whole truth to tell; 
 She's my own baby daughter, my Nan. 
 
 Cora Stuart Wheeler. 
 
 There is a great comfort to a boy in the amount 
 of work he can get rid of doing. It is sometimes 
 astonishing how slow he can go on an errand. 
 Perhaps he couldn't explain, himself, why, when 
 he is sent to the neighbor's after yeast, he stops to 
 stone the frogs. He is not exactly cruel, but he 
 wants to see if he can hit 'em. It is a curious 
 fact about boys, that two will be 
 a great deal slower in doing any- 
 thing than one. Boys have a great 
 power of helping each other do 
 nothing. But say w^hat you will 
 about the general usefulness of 
 boys, a farm without a boy would 
 very soon come to grief. He is 
 always in demand. 
 
 In the first place, he is to do all 
 the errands, go to the store, the 
 post-office, and to carry all sorts of 
 messages. He would like to have 
 as many legs as a wheel has 
 spokes, and rotate about in the 
 same way. This he sometimes 
 tries to do, and people who have 
 seen him ''turning cart-wheels" 
 along the side of the road have 
 supposed he was amusing himself 
 and idling his time. He w^as 
 only trying to invent a new mode 
 of locomotion, so that he could 
 economize his legs and do his 
 errands with greater dispatch. 
 Leap-frog is one of his methods 
 of getting over the ground quickly. 
 He has a natural genius for com- 
 bining pleasure with business. 
 Charles Dudley Warner 
 
 THE CHICKEN'S MISTAKE. 
 
 A 
 
 BEING A BOY. 
 
 ONE of the best things in the world to be is 
 a boy ; it requires no experience, though 
 it needs some practice to be a good one. 
 The disadvantage of the position is that 
 he does not last long enough. It is soon over. 
 Just as you get used to being a boy, you have to 
 be something else, with a good deal more work to 
 do, and not half so much fun. And yet every boy 
 is anxious to be a man, and is very uneasy with the 
 restrictions tliat are put upon him as a boy. There 
 are so many bright spots in the life of a farm boy 
 that I sometimes think I should like to live the 
 life over again. I should almost be willing to be 
 a girl if it were not for the chores. 
 
 LITTLE downy chick one 
 day 
 Asked leave to go on the 
 water. 
 Where she saw a duck with her 
 brood at play 
 Swimming and splashing about her. 
 
 Indeed, she began to peep and cry. 
 
 When her mother wouldn't let her, 
 "If the ducks can swim, then why can't I? 
 
 Are they any bigger or better?" 
 
 Then the old hen answered, " Listen to me, 
 
 And hush your foolish talking ; 
 Just look at your feet, and you will see 
 
 They were only made for walking." 
 
 But chicky wistfully eyed the brook. 
 
 And didn't half believe her; 
 For she seemed to say, by a knowing look. 
 
 Such stories couldn't deceive her. 
 
THE MERRY BOATING PARTY. 
 
 359 
 
:MjO 
 
 CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH, 
 
 And as her mother was scratching the ground, 
 
 She muttered lower and lower, 
 '* I know I can go there and not be drowned, 
 
 And so I think I'll show her." 
 
 Then she made a plunge where the stream was 
 deep, 
 
 And saw too late her blunder ; 
 For she had hardl\- time to peep 
 
 When her foolish head went under. 
 
 And now I hope her fate will show 
 
 That child my story reading. 
 That those who are older sometimes know 
 
 What you will do well in heeding : 
 
 That each content in his place should dwell, 
 
 And envy not his brother, 
 For any part that is acted well 
 
 Is just as good as another ; 
 
 For we all have our proper spheres below, 
 And this is a truth worth knowing : 
 
 You will come to grief if you try to go 
 Where you never were made for going. 
 
 Phceee Gary. 
 
 THE MERMAN'S SONG. 
 
 COME away, children ; 
 Come, children, come down. 
 The hoarse wind blows colder, 
 Lights shine in the town. 
 She will start from her slumber 
 ^Vhen gusts shake the door; 
 She will hear the winds howling, 
 
 Will hear the waves roar. 
 We shall see, while above us 
 The waves roar and whirl, 
 A ceiling of amber, 
 
 A pavement of pearl. 
 Singing, " Here came a mortal, 
 
 But faithless was she ; 
 
 And alone dwells forever 
 
 The king of the sea." 
 
 But, children, at midnight, 
 
 When soft the winds blow. 
 When clear falls the moonlight, 
 
 When spring tides are low. 
 When sweet airs come seaward 
 
 From heaths starred with bloom, 
 And high rocks throw mildly 
 
 On the blanched sands a gloom. 
 Up the still glistening beaches, 
 
 Up the creeks we will hie, 
 Over banks of bright seaweed 
 
 The ebb tide leaves dry. 
 We will gaze, from the sand-hills, 
 
 At the white, sleeping town, 
 At the church on the hillside, 
 
 And then come back down, 
 
 Singing, "• There dwells a loved one. 
 
 But cruel is she ; 
 She left lonely forever 
 
 The king of the sea." 
 
 Matthew Arnold. 
 
 DREAMS. 
 
 SOME tiny elves, one evening, grew mischiev- 
 ous, it seems. 
 And broke into the store-room where the 
 Sandman keeps his dreams, 
 And gathered up whole armfuls of dreams all 
 
 bright and sweet, 
 And started forth to peddle them adown the vil- 
 lage street. 
 
 Oh, you would never, never guess how queerly 
 
 these dreams sold ; 
 Why, nearly all the younger folk bought dreams 
 
 of being old ; 
 And one wee chap in curls and kilts, a gentle liitle 
 
 thing, 
 Invested in a dream about an awful pirate king. 
 
 A maid, who thought her pretty name old-fash- 
 ioned and absurd, 
 
 Bought dreams of names the longest and the 
 queerest ever heard ; 
 
 And, strange to say, a lad, who owned all sorts of 
 costly toys, 
 
 Bought dreams of selling papers with the raggedest 
 of boys. 
 
 And then a dream of summer and a barefoot boy 
 
 at play 
 Was bought up very quickly by a gentleman quite 
 
 gray ; 
 And one old lady — smiling through the grief she 
 
 tried to hide — 
 Bought bright and tender visions of a little girl 
 
 who died. 
 
 A ragged little beggar girl, with weary, wistful 
 
 gaze. 
 Soon chose a Cinderella dream, with jewels all 
 
 ablaze — 
 Well, it wasn't many minutes from the time they 
 
 came in sight 
 Before the dreams were all sold out and the elves 
 
 had taken flight. 
 
 BE TRUE. 
 
 YOUNG friends, to whom life's early days 
 Are bright with promise all. 
 And to whose view the glowing rays 
 Of hope unclouded fall ; 
 To counsel each to choose the good. 
 Throughout the coming years, I would 
 
 A precept give to you : 
 Observe, if you success would win, 
 The wealth of worth embodied in 
 Two little words : Be true. 
 
CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 
 
 361 
 
 Je true to right : let justice still 
 
 Her even balance claim ; 
 Unawed, unbribed, through good or ill, 
 
 Make rectitude your aim. 
 Unswayed by prejudice, thy mind 
 Each day submitted claims will find 
 
 To champion or deny ; 
 Then cast, according to thy light. 
 Thy influence on the side of right. 
 
 Though all the world goes by. 
 
 Be true to truth : the proudest name 
 
 That sterling worth may win 
 Is soiled and tarnished past reclaim 
 
 Where falsehood enters in. 
 No gem that arduous toil may find. 
 In learning's fields adorns the mind 
 
 Like truth's pure, shining ray. 
 And from her presence error's crowds 
 Of worshippers disperse like clouds 
 
 Before the rising day. 
 
 LITTLE JACK. 
 
 HE wore a pair of tattered pants, 
 A ragged roundabout. 
 And through the torn crown of his hat 
 A lock of hair stuck out ; 
 He had no shoes upon his feet, 
 
 No shirt upon his back ; 
 lis home was on the friendless street, 
 His name was '' Little Jack." 
 
 One day a toddling baby-boy 
 
 With head of curly hair 
 Escaped his loving mother's eyes, 
 
 Who, busy with her care, 
 "orgot the little one, that crept 
 
 Upon the railroad near 
 '^o play with the bright pebbles there, 
 
 Without a thought of fear. 
 
 But see ! around the curve there comes 
 
 A swiftly flying train — 
 It rattles, roars ! the whistle shrieks 
 
 With all its might and main ; 
 
 The mother sees her child, but stands 
 Transfixed wath sudden fright ! 
 
 The baby clasps his little hands 
 And laughs with low delight. 
 
 Look ! look ! a tattered figure flies 
 
 Adown the railroad track ! 
 His hat is gone, his feet are bare ! 
 
 'Tis ragged ^'Little Jack!" 
 He grasps the child and from the track 
 
 The babe is safely tossed — 
 A slip ! a cry ! the train rolls by — 
 
 Brave * •' Little Jack ' ' is lost. 
 
 They found his mangled body there, 
 
 Just where he slipped and fell, 
 And strong men wept who never cared 
 
 For him when he was well. 
 If there be starry crowns in heaven 
 
 For little ones to wear. 
 The star in *' Little Jack's " shall shine 
 
 As bright as any there ! 
 
 Eugene J. Haix^ 
 
362 
 
 CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 
 
 WHAT BESSIE SAW. 
 
 THIS morning, when all the rest had gone down, 
 I stood by the window to see 
 The beautiful pictures, which there in the night 
 Jack Frost had been painting for me. 
 
 There were mountains, and windmills, and bridges, and boats, 
 
 Some queer looking-houses and trees; 
 A hammock that hung by itself in the air, 
 
 And a giant cut off at the knees. 
 
 Then there was a steeple, so crooked and high, 
 
 I was thinking it surely must fall. 
 When right down below it I happened to spy 
 
 The loveliest thing of them all. 
 
 The cutest and cunningest dear little girl ! 
 
 I looked at her hard as I could, 
 And she stood there so dainty — and looked back at me— 
 
 In a little white ulster and hood. 
 
 **Good morning," I whispered, for all in a flash 
 I knew 'twas Jack Frost's little sister, 
 
 I was so glad to have her come visiting me, 
 I reached up quite softly and kissed her. 
 
 Then can you believe it ? the darling was gone ! 
 
 Kissed dead in that one little minute. 
 I never once dreamed that a kiss would do that. 
 
 How could there be any harm in it ? 
 
 And I am so sorry ! for though I have looked 
 Fifty times at that window since then, 
 
 Half hoping to see her once more, yet I know 
 She can never come back again. 
 
 And — it may be foolish — but all through the day 
 I have felt — and I knew that I should — 
 
 Just as if I had killed her, that dear little girl I 
 In the little white ulster and hood. 
 
 C. W. Bronson. 
 
 LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. 
 
 COME back, come back together, 
 All ye fancies of the past, 
 Ye days of April weather, 
 Ye shadows that are cast 
 
 By the haunted hours before ! 
 Come back, come back, my childhood ; 
 
 Thou art summoned by a spell 
 From the green leaves of the wildwood, 
 From beside the charmed well, 
 For Red Riding Hood, the darling. 
 The flower of fairy lore ! 
 
 The fields were covered over 
 
 With colors as she went ; 
 Daisy, buttercup, and clover 
 
 Below her footsteps bent ; 
 
 Summer shed its shining store; 
 She was happy as she pressed them 
 
 Beneath her little feet ; 
 She plucked them and caressed them ; 
 
 They were so very sweet. 
 
 They had never seemed so sweet b'^fore. 
 To Red Riding Hood, the darling, 
 The flower of fairy lore. 
 
 How the heart of childhood dances 
 
 Upon a sunny day ! 
 It has its own romances. 
 
 And a wide, wide world have they! 
 A world where Phantasie is king, 
 Made all of eager dreaming ; 
 
 When once grown up and tall — 
 Now is the time for scheming — 
 
 Then we shall do them all! 
 
 Do such pleasant fancies spring 
 For Red Riding Hood, the darling, 
 
 The flower of fairy lore? 
 
 She seems like an ideal love, 
 The poetry of childhood shown. 
 
 And yet loved with a real love, 
 As if she were our own — 
 
 A younger sister for the heart ; 
 
 Like the woodland pheasant. 
 Her hair is brown and bright ; 
 
 And her smile is pleasant. 
 With its rosy light. 
 Never can the memory part 
 
 With Red Riding Hood, the darling, 
 The flower of fairy lore. 
 
 Did the painter, dreaming 
 
 In a morning hour, 
 Catch the fairy seeming 
 
 Of this fairy flower ? 
 
 Winning it with eager eyes 
 
BLOWING SOAP BUBBLES. 
 
 363 
 
364 
 
 CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH, 
 
 From the old enchanted stories, 
 Lingering with a long delight 
 On the un forgotten glories 
 Of the infant sight ? 
 
 Giving us a sweet surprise 
 In Red Riding Hood, the darling, 
 I he flower of fairy lore ! 
 
 Too long in the meadow staying, 
 
 Where the cowslip bends, 
 With the buttercups delaying 
 As with early friends, 
 
 Did the little maiden stay. 
 Sorrowful the tale for us ; 
 
 We, too, loiter 'mid life's flowers, 
 A little while so glorious, 
 So soon lost in darker hours. 
 
 All love lingering on their way, 
 Like Red Riding Hood, the darling, 
 The flower of fairy lore. 
 
 Letitia E. Landon. 
 
 THE HIGHWAYMAN. 
 
 DID you ever meet a robber, with a pistol and 
 a knife, 
 Whose prompt and cordial greeting was, 
 ''Your money or your life; " 
 Who, while you stood a-trembling, with your 
 
 hands above your head^ 
 Took your gold, most grimly offering to repay you 
 in cold lead ? 
 
 Well, I once met a robber ; I was going home to 
 
 tea; 
 The way was rather lonely, though not yet too dark 
 
 to see 
 That the sturdy rogue who stopped me there was 
 
 very fully armed — 
 But I'm honest in maintaining that I did'nt feel 
 
 alarmed. 
 
 He was panting hard from running, so I, being 
 
 still undaunted, 
 Very boldly faced the rascal and demanded what 
 
 he wanted ; 
 I was quite as big as he was, and I was not out of 
 
 breath, 
 So I didn't fear his shooting me, or stabbing me 
 
 to death. 
 
 In answer to my question the highwayman raised 
 
 an arm 
 And pointed it straight at me — though I still felt 
 
 no alarm ; 
 He did not ask for money, but what he said was 
 
 this : 
 "You cannot pass, papa, unless you give your boy 
 
 a kiss I " 
 
 Allen G. Bigelow. 
 
 I 
 
 _ WHAT BABY SAID. 
 
 AM here. And if this is what they call the 
 world, I don't think much of it. It's a very 
 flannelly world, and smells of paregoric aw- 
 fully. It's a dreadful light world, too, and makes 
 me blink, I tell you. And I don't know what to 
 do with my hands; I thmk I'll dig my fists in my 
 eyes. No, I won't. I'll scratch at the corner of 
 my blanket and chew it up, and then I'll holler ; 
 whatever happens, I'll holler. And the more pare- 
 goric they give me, the louder I'll yell. That old 
 nurse puts the spoon in the corner of my mouth, 
 sidewise like, and keeps tasting my milk herself all 
 the while. She spilt snuff in it last night, and 
 when I hollered she trotted me. That comes of 
 being a two-days-old baby. Never mind ; when 
 I'm a man, I'll pay her back good. 
 
 There's a pin sticking in me iij-,/, and if I say a 
 word about it, I'll be trotted or fed ; and I would 
 rather have catnip-tea. I'll tell you who I am. I 
 found out to-day. I heard folks say, " Hush ! 
 don't wake up Emeline'sbaby ;" and I suppose that 
 pretty, white-faced woman over on the pillow is 
 Emeline. 
 
 No, I was mistaken ; for a chap was in here just 
 now and wanted to see Bob's baby; and looked at 
 me and said I was a funny little toad, and looked 
 just like Bob. He smelt of cigars. I wonder 
 who else I belong to ! Yes, there's another one — 
 that's ''Gamma." "It was Gamma's baby, so it 
 was." I declare, I do not know who I belong to; 
 but I'll holler, and maybe I'll find out. There 
 comes snuffy with catnip-tea. I'm going to sleep. 
 I wonder why my hands won't go where I want 
 them to ! 
 
 THE SQUIRREL'S LESSON. 
 
 TWO little squirrels, out in the sun, 
 One gathered nuts, and the other had none; 
 "Time enough yet," his constant refrain; 
 " Summer is still only just on the wane." 
 
 Listen, my child, while I tell you his fate : 
 
 He roused him at last, but he roused him too late ; 
 
 Down fell the snow from a pitiless cloud. 
 
 And gave little squirrel a spotless white shroud. 
 
 Two little boys in a school-room were placed, 
 One always perfect, the other disgraced ; 
 " Time enough yet for my learning," he said ; 
 '* I will climb, by and by, from the foot to the head." 
 
 Listen, my darling; their locks are turned gray; 
 
 One as a Governor sitteth to-day ; 
 
 The other, a pauper, looks out at the door 
 
 Of the almshouse, and idles his days as of yore. 
 
 Two kinds of people we meet every day : 
 One is at work, the other at play, 
 Living uncared for, dying unknown — 
 The busiest hive hath ever a drone. 
 
CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 
 
 365 
 
 B 
 
 BOYS WANTED. 
 
 OYS of spirit, boys of will, 
 
 Boys of muscle, brain, and power, 
 Fit to cope with anything. 
 These are wanted every hour. 
 
 Not the weak and whining drones, 
 Who all troubles magnify ; 
 
 Not the watchword of ''I can't," 
 But the nobler one, " I'll try." 
 
 Do whate'er you have to do 
 With a true and earnest zeal ; 
 
 Bend your sinews to the task, 
 
 " Put your shoulder to the wheel." 
 
 Though your duty may be hard. 
 
 Look not on it as an ill ; 
 If it be an honest task, 
 
 Do it with an honest will. 
 
 In the workshop, on the farm, 
 At the desk, where'er you be, 
 
 From your future efforts, boys^ 
 Comes a nation's destiny. 
 
 A 
 
 Sweet — sweet !" 
 
 All the birds are singing ; 
 Sweet — sweet !" 
 
 The blossom-bells are ringing; 
 Kisses from the red rose — 
 
 Kisses from the white. 
 Kissing you good-morning 
 
 And kissing you good-night ! 
 
 THE RIGHT WAY. 
 
 T home, abroad, by day or night. 
 
 In country or in town, ^ 
 
 If asked to drink, we'll smile and 
 turn 
 Our glasses upside down. 
 
 The ruby wine, or bright champagne, 
 
 Or lager rich and brown. 
 We'll never touch, but always turn 
 
 Our glasses upside down. 
 
 If friends shall say 'tis good for health, 
 
 'Twill all your troubles drown, 
 We'll dare to differ and to turn 
 
 Our glasses upside down. 
 
 Companions gay, and maidens fair. 
 
 And men of high renown. 
 May sneer; but never mind, we'll turn 
 
 Our glasses upside down. 
 
 We mean to conquer in this strife. 
 
 To win the victor's crown. 
 And so we'll always bravely turn 
 
 Our glasses upside down. 
 
 Helen E. Brown. 
 
 A SONG OF GOLDEN CURLS. 
 
 STAY a little, golden curls — twinkling eyes of 
 blue; 
 Stay and see the violets, for they are kin to you; 
 Linger where the frolic winds around the gardens 
 
 race, 
 Cheeks like lovely mirrors where the red rose seeks 
 its face. 
 
 Stay a little, golden curls — brightening eyes of blue, 
 The violets are listening for the lovely steps of you, 
 The white rose bids you welcome, the red rose calls 
 
 you sweet. 
 And the daisies spread a carpet for the falling of 
 your feet. 
 '' Sweet — sweet !" 
 
 All the birds are singing ; 
 ** Sweet — sweet !'' 
 
 The blossom-bells are ringing ; 
 Kisses from the red rose — 
 
 Kisses from the white, 
 Kissing you good-morning 
 And kissing you good-night ! 
 
 Frank L. Stanton. 
 
366 
 
 CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 
 
 THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN. 
 
 HAMELIN Town's in Brunswick, 
 By famous Hanover City ; 
 The river Weser, deep and wide, 
 
 Washes its wall on the southern side; 
 A pleasanter spot you never spied ; 
 But when begins my ditty, 
 
 Almost five hundred years ago. 
 To see the townsfolk suffer so 
 From vermin was a pity, 
 
 An hour they sat in counsel — 
 
 At length the Mayor broke silence : 
 '' For a guilder I'd my ermine gown sell; 
 
 I wish I were a mile hence ! 
 It's easy to bid one rack one's brain — 
 I'm sure my poor head aches again, 
 I've scratched it so, and all in vain. 
 O for a trap, a trap, a trap !" 
 Just as he said this, what should hap 
 At the chamber door but a gentle tap ? 
 
 Rats! 
 They fought the dogs, and killed the cats. 
 
 And bit the babies in the cradles. 
 And ate the cheeses out of the vats, 
 
 And licked the soup from the cook's ow^n 
 ladles, 
 Split open the kegs of salted sprats. 
 Made nests inside men's Sunday hats, 
 And even spoiled the women's chats, 
 
 By drowning their speaking 
 
 With shrieking and squeaking 
 In fifty different sharps and flats. 
 
 At last the people in a body 
 
 To the Town Hall came flocking : 
 " 'Tis clear, "cried they, ''our Mayor's a 
 noddy ; 
 And as for our Corporation — shocking 
 To think we buy gowns lined with ermine 
 For dolts that can't or won't determine 
 What's best to rid us of our vermin !" 
 At this the Mayor and Corporation 
 Quaked with a mighty consternation. 
 
 '* Bless us," cried the Mayor, "what's that?" 
 
 " Come in !" — the Mayor cried, looking bigger; 
 
 And in did come the strangest figure ; 
 
 He advanced to the council-table : 
 
 And, "Please your honors," said he, "I'm 
 
 able. 
 By means of a secret charm, to draw 
 All creatures living beneath the sun, 
 That creep or swim or fly or run, 
 After me so as you never saw ! 
 
 Yet," said he, " poor piper as I am. 
 In Tartary I freed the Cham, 
 Last June, from his huge swarm of gnats; 
 I eased in Asia the Nizam 
 Of a monstrous brood of vampire-bats ; 
 And as for what your brain bewilders — 
 If I can rid your town of rats. 
 Will you give me a thousand guilders?" 
 "One? fifty thousand !" — was the exclamation 
 Of the astonished Mayor and Corporation. 
 
 Into the street the piper stept. 
 Smiling first a little smile, 
 
CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 
 
 367 
 
 As if he knew what magic slept, 
 
 In his quiet pipe the while ; 
 Then, like a musical adept, 
 To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled. 
 And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled, 
 Like a candle flame where salt is sprinkled ; 
 And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered, 
 You heard as if an army muttered j 
 And the muttering grew to a grumbling; 
 And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling ; 
 And out of the houses the rats came tumbling. 
 Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats. 
 Brown rats, black rats, gray rats, tawny rats. 
 Grave old plodders, gay young friskers, 
 
 Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins, 
 Cocking tails and pricking whiskers; 
 
 Families by tens and dozens, 
 -^rothers, sisters, husbands, wives — 
 Followed the piper for their lives. 
 From street to street he piped advancing, 
 And step for step they followed dancing. 
 Until they came to the river Weser 
 Wherein all plunged and perished 
 Save one, who, stout as Julius Caesar, 
 Swam across and lived to carry 
 (As he the manuscript he cherished) 
 To Rat-land home his commentary, 
 Which was: *'At the first shrill notes of the 
 
 pipe, 
 I heard a sound as of scraping tripe, 
 And putting apples, wondrous ripe. 
 Into a cider-press's gripe — 
 And a moving away of pickle-tub-boards, 
 And a leaving ajar of conserve-cupboards. 
 And a drawing the corks of train-oil flasks, 
 And a breaking the hoops of butter-casks ; 
 And it seemed as if a voice 
 (Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery 
 Is breathed) called out, O rats, rejoice ! 
 The world is grown to one vast drysaltery ! 
 So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon, 
 Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon! 
 And just as a bulky sugar-puncheon. 
 All ready staved, like a great sun shone 
 Glorious, scarce an inch before me, 
 Just as methought it said, Come, bore me ! — 
 I found the Weser rolling o'er me." 
 
 You should have heard the Hamelin people 
 Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple ; 
 *'Go," cried the Mayor, *'and get long poles ! 
 I'Poke out the nests and block up the holes ! 
 Consult with carpenters and builders 
 And leave in our town not even a trace 
 Of the rats ! " — when suddenly, up the face 
 Of the piper perked in the market-place, 
 With a "First, if you please, my thousand 
 guilders ! " 
 
 A thousand guilders ! The Mayor looked blue ; 
 So did the Corporation, too. 
 
 For council-dinners made rare havoc 
 
 With Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hock; 
 
 And half the money would replenish 
 
 Their cellar's biggest butt with Rhenish. 
 
 To pay this sum to a wandering fellow 
 
 With a gipsy coat of red and yellow ! 
 
 "Beside," quoth the Mayor, with a knowing 
 
 wink, 
 " Our business was done at the river's brink; 
 We saw with our eyes the vermin sink. 
 And what's dead can't come to life, I think. 
 So, friend, we're not the folks to shrink 
 From the duty of giving you something for 
 
 drink. 
 And a matter of money to put in your poke ; 
 But as for the guilders, what we spoke 
 Of them, as you very well know, was in joke. 
 Beside, our losses have made us thrifty ; 
 A thousand guilders ! Come, take fifty ! " 
 
 The piper's face fell, and he cried, 
 " No trifling ! I can't wait ! beside, 
 I've promised to visit by dinner time 
 Bagdat, and accept the prime 
 Of the head cook's pottage, all he's rich in. 
 For having left, in the Caliph's kitchen, 
 Of a nest of scorpions no survivor — 
 With him I proved no bargain-driver ; 
 With you, don't think I'll bate a stiver! 
 And folks who put me in a passion 
 May find me pipe to another fashion." 
 
 ^'How?" cried the Mayor, "d'ye think I'll 
 
 brook 
 Being worse treated than a cook ? 
 Insulted by a lazy ribald 
 With idle pipe and vesture piebald ? 
 You threaten us, fellow ? Do your worst. 
 Blow your pipe there till you burst ! ' ' 
 
 Once more he stept into the street ; 
 And to his lips again 
 
 Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane ; 
 And ere he blew three notes (such sweet 
 
 Soft notes as yet musician's cunning 
 Never gave the enraptured air) 
 
 There was a rustling that seemed like a bus- 
 tling 
 
 Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hust- 
 ling; 
 
 Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clat- 
 tering, 
 
 Little hands clapping, and little tongues chat- 
 tering ; 
 
 And, like fowls in a farm-yard when barley is 
 scattering. 
 
 Out came the children running : 
 
 All the little boys and girls. 
 
 With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls. 
 
 And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls, 
 
368 
 
 CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 
 
 Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after 
 
 The wonderful music with shouting and laughter. 
 
 The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood 
 
 As if they were changed into blocks of wood, 
 
 Unable to move a step, or cry 
 
 To the children merrily skipping by — 
 
 And could only follow with the eye 
 
 That joyous crowd at the piper's back. 
 
 But how the Mayor was on the rack, 
 
 And the wretched Council's bosoms beat 
 
 As the piper turned from the High Street 
 
 To where the Weser rolled its waters 
 
 Right in the way of their sons and daughters ! 
 
 However, he turned from south to west 
 
 And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed, 
 
 And after him the children pressed ; 
 
 Great was the joy in every breast. 
 
 " He never can cross that mighty top ! 
 
 He's forced to let the piping drop, 
 
 And we shall see our children stop ! ' ' 
 
 When, lo, as they reached the mountain's side, 
 A wondrous portal opened wide, 
 As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed ; 
 And the piper advanced and the children fol- 
 lowed ; 
 And when all were in, to the very last, 
 The door in the mountain-side shut fast. 
 Did I say all? No ! One was lame, 
 And could not dance the whole of the way j 
 And in after years, if you would blame 
 His sadness, he was used to say — 
 " It's dull in our town since my playmates left, 
 I can't forget that I'm bereft 
 Of all the pleasant sights they see, 
 Which the piper also promised me ; 
 For he led us, he said to a joyous land, 
 Joining the town and just at hand. 
 Where waters gushed and fruit trees grew. 
 And flowers put forth a fairer hue, 
 And everythmg was strange and new ; 
 The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here, 
 And their dogs outran our fallow deer, 
 And honey-bees had lost their stings, 
 And horses were born with eagles' wings ; 
 And just as I became assured 
 My lame foot would be speedily cured, 
 The music stopped and I stood still. 
 And found myself outside the Hill, 
 Left alone against my will, 
 To go now limping as before, 
 And never hear of that country m.ore ! " 
 
 Robert Browning. 
 
 THE CLUCKING HEN. 
 
 4 4 ^ 1[ 7 ILL you take a walk with me, 
 \/\/ My little wife, to-day? 
 ^ ^ There's barley in the barley-field. 
 And hay-seed in the liay." 
 **Oh, thank you !" said the clucking hen, 
 
 '' I've something else to do; 
 I'm busy sitting on my eggs — 
 I cannot walk with you." 
 
 ^' Cluck, cluck, cluck, cluck!" 
 
 Said the clucking hen ; 
 '* My little chicks will soon be hatched; 
 
 I'll think about it then." 
 The clucking hen sat on her nest — 
 
 She made it in the hay — 
 And warm and snug beneath her breast 
 
 A dozen white eggs lay. 
 
 Crack, crack ! went all the eggs — 
 
 Out drop the chickens small. 
 ** Cluck !" said the clucking hen; 
 
 "■ Now I have you all. 
 Come along, my little chicks ! 
 
 I'll take a walk with j'<?z/." 
 '^Halloo !" said the barn-door cock, 
 
 '^ Cock-a-doodle-doo !" 
 
 ONE THING AT A TIME. 
 
 W 
 
 ORK while you work. 
 Play while you play. 
 
 That is the way to be 
 Cheerful and gay. 
 
 All that you do, 
 
 Do with your might. 
 
 Things done by halves 
 Are never done right. 
 
 One thing each time. 
 And that done well. 
 
 Is a very good rule. 
 As many can tell. 
 
 Moments are useless, . 
 
 Trifled away, 
 So work while you work. 
 
 And play while you play. ' 
 
 BABYLAND. 
 
 HOW many miles to Babyland? 
 Any one can tell ; 
 Up one flight, 
 To your right — 
 Please to ring the bell. 
 
 What can you see in Babyland ? 
 Little folks in white. 
 Downy heads, 
 Cradle beds, 
 Faces pure and bright. 
 
 What do they do in Babyland? 
 
 Dream and work and play. 
 
 Laugh and crow, 
 
 Shout and grow. 
 
 Jolly times have they. 
 
CHILDHOOD AXD YOUTH. 
 
 369 
 
 T 
 
 What do they say in Babyland ? 
 Why, the oddest things ; 
 
 Might as well 
 
 Try to tell 
 What a birdie sings. 
 
 Who is the queen of Babyland ? 
 Mother, kind and sweet ; 
 And her love, 
 Born above, 
 Guides the little feet. George Cooper. 
 
 THE LITTLE CUP=BEARER. 
 
 HE little cup-bearer entered the room, 
 
 After the banquet was done ; 
 His eyes were like the skies of May, 
 
 Aglow with a cloudless sun ; 
 Kneeling beside his master's feet, 
 
 The feet of the noble king. 
 He raised the goblet, ^' Drink, my liege, 
 
 The offering that I bring." 
 
 ** Nay, nay," the good king smiling said, 
 
 "But first a faithful sign 
 That thou bringest me no poison draught : 
 
 Taste thou, my page, the wine." 
 Then gently, firmly, spoke the lad, 
 
 *' My dearest master, no. 
 Though at thy lightest wish my feet 
 
 Shall gladly come and go." 
 
 **Rise up, my little cup-bearer," 
 
 The king astonished cried ; 
 ** Ri>e up and tell me straightway, why 
 
 Is my request denied? " 
 The young page rose up slowly. 
 
 With sudden paling cheek, 
 While courtly lords and ladies 
 
 Waited to hear him speak. 
 
 ^*My father sat in princely halls, 
 
 And tasted wine with you ; 
 He died a wretched drunkard, sire — " 
 
 The brave voice tearful grew, 
 " I vowed to my dear mother 
 
 Beside her dying bed. 
 That for her sake I would not taste 
 
 The tempting poison red.'' 
 
 '* Away with this young upstart ! " 
 
 The lords impatient cry. 
 But spilhng slow the purple wine, 
 
 The good king made reply ; 
 " Thou shaJt be my cup-bearer. 
 
 And honored well," he said, 
 ** But see thou bring not wine to me 
 
 But water pure instead." 
 
 D 
 
 DO RIGHT. 
 
 O what conscience says is right ; 
 Do what reason says is best ; 
 Do with all your mind and might ; 
 Do vour dutv and be blest. 
 
 24 
 
 THE BOY WITH THE LITTLE TIN HORN. 
 
 WHAT care we for skies that are snowing 
 On fields that no roses adorn ; 
 For blizzards so icily blowing. 
 When the boy with the little tin horn 
 So merrily blows 
 As he goes, as "he goes — 
 With eyes like the violet, cheeks like the rose? 
 
 He's the herald of Christmas — this fellow 
 
 W^ho rouses the dreamer at morn ; 
 The notes are not soothing or mellow 
 That come from his little tin horn. 
 But he blows just the same 
 By the firelight's flame. 
 And we love him and so there is no one to blame. 
 
 He summons the soldiers, reclining 
 
 In corners great soldiers would scorn ; 
 They rise, with their little guns shining. 
 And march to the little tin horn ! 
 
 They are stiffer than starch, 
 'Neath the chandelier's arch. 
 But they move when their curly-haired captain 
 cries •'•' March !" 
 
 For there never was music in battle, 
 
 Where the flags by the bullets are torn. 
 As brisk as the holiday rattle 
 
 Of the toy drum and the little tin horn ; 
 With a rubbing of eyes 
 All the soldiers arise 
 When the little tin horn sends a blast to the skies.. 
 
 Blow, blow, little tin horn ! No summer 
 
 Of song is as sweet as your notes ! 
 And march, little rosy-faced drummer. 
 With the soldiers in little tin coats ! 
 *' Hep-hep! to the right!" 
 With your regiments bright. 
 And a kiss for the captain who wins in the fight. 
 
 Frank L. Stanton. 
 
 D 
 
 THE WAY TO SUCCEED. 
 
 RIVE the nail aright, boys, 
 
 Hit it on the head ; 
 Strike with all your might, boys, 
 
 While the iron's red. 
 
 When you've work to do, boys. 
 
 Do it with a will ; 
 They who reach the top, boys. 
 
 First must climb the hill. 
 
 Standing at the foot, boys, 
 
 Gazing at the sky. 
 How can you ever get up, boys, 
 
 If you never try ? 
 
 Though you stumble oft, boys. 
 
 Never be downcast ; 
 Try, and try again, boys — 
 
 You'll succeed at last. 
 
370 
 
 CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 
 
 I 
 
 A GENTLEMAN. 
 
 KNEW him for a gentleman 
 
 By signs that never fail ; 
 His coat was rough and rather worn, 
 His cheeks were thin and pale — 
 A lad who had his way to make 
 
 With little time for play ; 
 I knew him for a gentleman 
 By certain signs to-day. 
 
 He met his mother on the street ; 
 
 Off came his little cap. 
 My door was shut ; he waited there 
 
 Until I heard his rap. 
 He took the bundle from my hand, 
 
 And when I dropped my pen, 
 He sprang to pick it up for me — 
 
 This gentleman of ten. 
 
 He does not push and crowc". along; 
 
 His voice is gently pitched ; 
 He does not fling his books about 
 
 As if he were bewitched, 
 He stands aside to let you pass ; 
 
 He always shuts the door ; 
 He runs on errands willingly 
 
 To forge and mill and store. 
 
 He thinks of you before himself, 
 
 He serves you if he can ; 
 For, in whatever company, 
 
 The manners make the man. 
 At ten or forty, 'tis the same; 
 
 The manner tells the tale. 
 And I discern the gentleman 
 
 By signs that never fail. 
 
 Margaret E. Sangster. 
 
 DOWN IN THE STRAWBERRY BED. 
 
 JAYS in the orchard are screaming, and hark 1 
 Down in the pasture the blithe meadow lark 
 Floods all the air with melodious notes; 
 Robins and sparrows are straining their throats — 
 '' Dorothy, Dorothy," out of the hall 
 Echoes the sound of the music call ; 
 Songbirds are silent a moment, then sweet 
 ** Dorothy," all of them seem to repeat. 
 
 Where is the truant ? No answer is heard. 
 Save the clear trills of each jubilant bird ! 
 Dawn -damask roses have naught to unfold, 
 Fresh with the dew and the morning's bright gold. 
 *' Dorothy, Dorothy," — still no reply. 
 None from the arbor or hedgerow a-nigh. 
 None from the orchard, where the grasses are deep — 
 " Dorothy," — surely she must be asleep ! 
 
 Rover has seen her ; his eyes never fail ; 
 Watch how he sabers the air with his tail ! 
 Follow him, follow him ! where has he gone? 
 Out toward the garden and over the lawn. 
 
 I 
 
 ** Dorothy. Dorothy," plaintive and low, 
 Up from the paths where the holl\ hocks grow, 
 Comes the sott voice with a tremor of dread, 
 " Dorofy's down in 'e stwawberry bed !" 
 
 Curls in a tangle and frock all awry, 
 Bonnet, a beam from the gold in the sky. 
 Eyes with the sparkle of mirth brimming o'er, 
 Lap filled with ruby fruit red to the core. 
 Dorothy, Dorothy ! rogue that thou art ; 
 Who, at thee, sweet one, to scold has a heart? 
 Aprons and fingers and cheeks staii:rd with red, 
 Dorothy, down in the strawberry bed ! 
 
 ONE LITTLE ACT. 
 
 SAW a man, with tottering steps, 
 
 Come down a graveled walk, one day ; 
 The honored frost of many years 
 Upon his scattered thin locks lay. 
 With trembling hands he strove to raise ■ 
 
 The latch that held the little gate, 
 When rosy lips looked up and smiled, — 
 A silvery child-voice said, " Please wait." 
 
 A little girl oped wide the gate. 
 
 And held it till he passed quite through, 
 Then closed it, raising to his face 
 
 Her modest eyes of winsome blue. 
 ''May heaven bless you, little one," 
 
 The old man said, with tear wet eyes ; 
 ''Such deeds of kindness to the old 
 
 Will be rewarded in the skics." 
 
 'Twas such a little thing to do — 
 
 A moment's time it took — no more ; 
 And then the dancing, graceful feet 
 
 Had vanished through the school-room door. 
 And yet I'm sure the angels smiled. 
 
 And penned it down in words of gold ; 
 'Tis such a blessed thing to see 
 
 The young so thoughtful of the old. 
 
 O 
 
 5IX YEARS OLD. 
 
 SUN I so far up in the blue sky, 
 O, clover ! so white and so sw eet, 
 
 O, little brook ! shining like silver, 
 And running so fast past my feet, — 
 
 You don't know what strange things have hap- 
 pened 
 
 Since sunset and starlight last night ; 
 Since the four o'clocks closed their red \ etids 
 
 To wake up so early and bright. 
 
 Say ! what will you think when I tell you 
 What my dear mamma whispered to me. 
 
 When she kissed me on each cheek twice over? 
 You don't know what a man you may see. 
 
 O, yes ! I am big and I'm heavy ; 
 
 I have grown, since last night, very old. 
 And I'm stretched out as tall as a lar'der; 
 
 Mamma says I'm too large to hold. 
 
CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 
 
 371 
 
 Sweet clover, stand still ; do not blow so ; 
 
 I shall whisper way down in your ear, 
 I was six years old early this morning. 
 
 Would you think so to see me, my dear? 
 
 Do you notice my pants and two pockets ? 
 
 I'm so old I must dress Hke a man ; 
 I must learn to read books and write letters 
 
 And I'll write one to you when I can. 
 
 My pretty gold butterflies flying, 
 Little bird, and my busy brown bee, 
 
 I shall never be too old to love you, 
 And I hope you'll always love me. 
 
 HANDS AND UPS. 
 
 OH, what can little hands do 
 To please the King of Heaven ? 
 The little hands some work may try 
 To help the poor in misery. 
 Such grace to mine be given ! 
 
 Oh, what can little lips do 
 
 To praise the King of Heaven? 
 
 The little lips can praise and pray, 
 And gentle words of kindness say. 
 Such grace to mine be given ! 
 
 A 
 
 JEWELS OF WINTER. 
 
 MILLION little diamonds 
 Twinkled on the trees : 
 
 And all the little maidens said, 
 *'A jewel if you please ! " 
 
 But while they held their hands outstretched, 
 
 To catch the diamonds gay, 
 A million little sunbeams came, 
 
 And stole them all away. 
 
 THE BLUEBIRD. 
 
 1KN0W the song that the bluebird is singing. 
 Out in the apple tree where he is swinging. 
 Brave little fellow ! the skies may be dreary, 
 Nothing cares he w^hile his heart is so cheery. 
 
 Hark ! how the music leaps out from his throat ! 
 Hark ! was there ever so merry a note ? 
 Listen awhile, and you'll hear what he's saying. 
 Up in the apple tree, swinging and swaying : 
 
 '* Dear little blossoms, down under the snow. 
 You must be weary of winter, I know ; 
 Hark ! while I sing you a message of cheer, 
 Summer is coming, and spring time is here ! 
 
 '' Little white snowdrop, I pray you arise ; 
 Bright yellow crocus, come, open your eyes, 
 Sweet little violets hid from the cold, 
 Put on your mantles of purple and gold ; 
 Daffodils, daffodils! say, do you hear? 
 Summer is coming, and spring time is here ! " 
 
 THE MAN IN THE MOON. 
 
 THE man in the moon who sails through the 
 sky, 
 Is the most courageous skipper ; 
 But he made a mistake when he tried to take 
 A drink of milk from the " dipper." 
 
 He dipped it into the ''milky way," 
 
 And slowly, cautiously filled it ; 
 But the ''Great Bear" growled and the "Little 
 Bear" howled. 
 
 And scared him so that he spilled it. 
 
 A ROGUE. 
 
 GRANDMA was nodding, I rather think ; 
 Harry was sly and quick as a wink ; 
 He climbed in the back of her great arm- 
 chair, 
 And nestled himself very snugly there ; 
 Grandma's dark locks were mingled with white. 
 And quick this fact came to his sight ; 
 A sharp twinge soon she felt at her hair, 
 And woke with a start, to find Harry there. 
 " Why^ what are you doing, my child?" she 
 
 said. 
 He answered, " I'se pulling a basting fread I" 
 
 GRANDPAPA'S SPECTACLES. 
 
 GRANDPAPA'S spectacles cannot be found ; 
 He has searched all the rooms, high and 
 low, 'round and 'round; 
 Now he calls to the young ones, and what does he 
 
 say? 
 " Ten cents to the child Avho Avill find them to- 
 day." 
 
 Then Henry and Nelly and Edward all ran, 
 And a most thorough hunt for the glasses began, 
 And dear little Nell, in her generous way. 
 Said : "I'll look for them, grandpa, without any 
 pay." 
 
 All through the big Bible she searches with care 
 That lies on the table by grandpapa's chair ; 
 They feel in his pockets, they peep in his hat, 
 They pull out the sofa, they shake out the mat. 
 
 Then down on all fours, like two good-natnred 
 
 bears. 
 Go Harry and Ned under tables and chairs, 
 Till, quite out of breath, Ned is heard to declare. 
 He believes that those glasses are not anywhere. 
 
 But Nelly, who, leaning on grandpapa's knee. 
 Was thinking most earnestly where they could be. 
 Looked suddenly up in the kind, faded eyes, 
 And her own shining brown ones grew big with 
 surprise. 
 
372 
 
 CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 
 
 She slapped both her hands — all her dimples caine 
 
 out — 
 She turned to the boys with a bright, roguish 
 
 shout ; 
 " You may leave off your looking, both Harry 
 
 and Ned, 
 For there are the glasses on grandpapa's head!" 
 
 THE LITTLE MATCH=QrRL. 
 
 IT was very cold, the snow fell, and it was al- 
 most quite dark ; for it was evening — yes, the 
 last evening of the year. Amid the cold and 
 the darkness, a poor little girl, with bare head 
 and naked feet, was roaming through the streets. 
 It is true she had a pair of slippers when she left 
 home, but they were not of much use. They were 
 very large slippers; so lar^e, indeed, that they had 
 hitherto been used by b j mother ; besides, the 
 little creature lost them as she hurried across the 
 street, to avoid two carriages that were driving 
 very quickly past. 
 
 One of the slippers was not to be found, and 
 the other was pounced upon by a boy who ran 
 away with it, saying that it would serve for a cradle 
 when he should have children of his own. So the 
 little girl went along, with her little bare feet that 
 were red and blue with cold. She carried a num- 
 ber of matches in an old apron, and she held a 
 hundle of them in her hand. Nobody had bought 
 anything from her the whole livelong day ; nobody 
 had even given her a penny. 
 
 Shivering with cold and hunger, she crept along, 
 a perfect picture of misery — poor little thing ! 
 The snow-flakes covered her long flaxen hair, 
 Avhich hung in pretty curls round her throat; but 
 she heeded them not now. Lights were streaming 
 from all the windows, and there was a savory smell 
 of roast goose ; for it was New Year's Eve. And 
 this she <-//</ heed. 
 
 She now sat down, cowering in a corner formed 
 by two houses, one of which projected beyond the 
 other. She had drawn her little feet under her, 
 but she felt colder than ever ; yet she dared not 
 return home, for she had not sold a match and 
 could not bring home a penny ! She would cer- 
 tainly be beaten by her father ; and it was cold 
 enough at home, besides — for they had only the 
 roof above them, and the wind came howling 
 through it, though the largest holes had been 
 stopped with straw and rags. Her little hands 
 were nearly frozen with cold. Alas ! a single 
 match might do her some good, if she might only 
 draw one out of the bundle, and rub it against the 
 wall, and warm her fingers. 
 
 So at last she drew one out. Ah ! how it sheds 
 •si^arks, and how it burns ! It gave out a warm, 
 bright flame, like a little candle, as she held her 
 hands over it — truly it was a wonderful little light! 
 It really seemed to the little girl as if she were sit- 
 
 ting before a large iron stove, with polished brass 
 feet, and brass shovel and tongs. The fire burned 
 so brightly, and warmed so nicely, that the little 
 creature stretched out her feet to warm them like- 
 wise., when lo ! the flame expired, the stove van- 
 ished, and left nothing but the little half-burned 
 match in her hand. 
 
 She rubbed another match against the wall. It 
 gave a light, and where it shone upon the wall, the 
 Litter became as transparent as a veil, and she 
 could see into the room. A snowy- white table- 
 cloth was spread upon the table, on which stood a 
 splendid china dinner service, while a roast goose 
 stuffed with apples and prunes, sent forth the most 
 savory fumes. And what was more delightful still 
 to see, the goose jumped down from the dish, and 
 waddled along the ground with a knife and fork 
 in its breast, up to the poor girl. The match then 
 went out, and nothing remained but the thick, 
 damp wall. 
 
 She lit yet another match. She now sat under 
 the most magnificent Christmas tree, that was 
 larger, and more superbly decked, than even the 
 one she had seen through the glass door at the 
 rich merchant's. A thousand tapers burned on 
 its green branches, and gay pictures, such as one 
 sees on shields, seemed to be looking down upon 
 her. She stretched out her bonds, but the match 
 then went out. The Christmas lights kept rising 
 higher and higher. They now looked like stars 
 in the sky. One of them fell down, and left a 
 long streak of fire. *' Somebody is now dying," 
 thought the little girl, — for her old grandmother, 
 the only person who had ever loved her, and who 
 was now dead, had told her, that when a star 
 falls, it is a sign that a soul is going up to heaven. 
 
 She again rubbed a match upon the wall, and it 
 was again light all around ; and in the brightness 
 stood her old grandmother, cltar and shining like 
 a spirit, yet looking so mild and loving. " Grand- 
 mother," cried the little one, "oh. take me with 
 you ! I know you will go a^^ ay when the match 
 goes out — you will vanish like the warm stove, and 
 the delicious roast goose, and the fine, large Christ- 
 mas tree !" And she made haste to rub the whole 
 bundle of matches, for she wished to hold her 
 grandmother fast. And the matches gave a light 
 that was brighter than noonday. Her grand- 
 mother had never appeared so beautiful nor so 
 large. She took the little girl in her arms, and 
 both flew upwards, all radiant and joyfiil, far, far 
 above mortal ken, where there was neither cold, 
 nor hunger, nor care to be found ; where there 
 was no rain, no snow, or stormy wind, but calm, 
 sunny days the whole year round. 
 
 But, in the cold dawn, the poor girl might be 
 seen leaning against the wall, with red cheeks and 
 smilino: mouth ; she had been frozen on the last 
 night of the old year. The new year's sun shone 
 
CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 
 
 373 
 
 upon the little dead girl She sat still holding the 1 dreamed of the fine things she had seen, nor in 
 matches, one bundle of which was burned. Peo- | what splendor she had entered, along with her 
 pie said : " She tried to warm herself." Nobody : grandmother, upon the joys of the New Year. 
 
 Hans Christian Andersen. 
 
 'L 
 
 THE BABY'S PRAYER. 
 
 ORD b'ess papa, mamma, Daisy," 
 The baby prayed to-day ; 
 Kitty, Bose, and ole brack Thomas- 
 What else s'all I say? 
 I can't fink of nuffin' moah, 
 
 (Stoopid work to pray !) 
 Hush' for what I'd like to know, now, 
 
 You old Mamma Gray ? 
 Ain't I p'ayed, an' p'ayed, and p'ayed, 
 
 Time 'n time again ? 
 I've fergot the way to end it — 
 Why don't you tell me ven? 
 
 For whose sake, mamma — say ? 
 I'm — so — s'eepy — O, I 'member — 
 For pity's sake. Amen !" 
 
 Who chides the child ? I kiss and hush. 
 
 Silent I join the group down -stairs 
 That rest and linger by the fire 
 
 To laugh at Baby's prayers. 
 
 And what did Baby say to-night?" 
 But low I answer, with grave brow : 
 
 She prayed for Bose, and you and me — ** 
 I cannot tell them now. 
 
374 
 
 CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 
 
 How full the mood the child has drawn 
 And pressed upon a musing heart 1 
 
 Amid the hapjjy household chat 
 I sit like one apart. 
 
 Mv thoughts, like prayers, move solemnly: 
 " O Lord," I say, ** the great, the wise. 
 
 The weak, the miserable, are 
 All children in Thine eyes. 
 
 We take the name of Thy dear Son 
 Daring, upon a trembling lip ; 
 
 The cup Thou givest us we lift 
 And shrink, and taste, and sip, 
 
 And try to say, ' For Jesus' sake;' 
 Dear Lord, the babe is wisest when, 
 
 Fearless and clear, she pleads with Thee 
 ' For pity's sake, Amen.' 
 
 O. truer than the sacred phrase 
 
 That time from Christian years has spun, 
 Is he who prays, nor questions if 
 
 Pity and Christ are one !" 
 
 Elizabeth Stuart Phelps. 
 
 W 
 
 A CHILD'S WISH. 
 
 HEN the sunlight fell with radiant glory 
 
 O'er the little bed, 
 And the wind, with gentle fingers, moved 
 The tresses on her head, 
 With fainter voice she whispered, while 
 
 The angel-wings drew nigher, 
 And loving ones had hushed their sobs, 
 ''Ob, Father, lift me higher." 
 
 But her dim sight looked yet further 
 
 Than our weeping eyes could see, 
 Far beyond the land of sunsets. 
 
 Into immortality ; 
 She heeded not the crimson mist 
 
 That crowned the hills with fire. 
 But only breathed, in gentle tones, 
 
 " Dear Father, lift me higher." 
 
 Yet while she spoke the color died 
 
 From out the evening sky, 
 And twilight, clad in ashen robes. 
 
 Passed slow and silent by ; 
 And death had shut the door of life. 
 
 Smitten the golden lyre. 
 And answered the sweet childish wish 
 
 But to be 
 
 lifted higher. 
 
 Father, we thank Thee ! for the child 
 
 Treads now th' eternal hills. 
 Her footsteps falter not beside 
 
 The ever-flowing rills ; 
 Lifted above all grief and care. 
 
 From trial borne away, 
 She has exchanged the twilight gloom 
 
 For never-ending day. 
 
 Clio Stanley. 
 
 THE CHILDREN. 
 
 POEM FOUND IN THE DESK OF CHARLES DICKENS AFTER 
 HIS DEATH. 
 
 WHEN lessons and tasks are all ended. 
 And the school for the day is dismissed, 
 And the little ones gather around me 
 To bid me '' good night," and be kissed, 
 O the little white arms that encircle 
 
 My neck in a tender embrace ! 
 O the smiles that are halos of heaven. 
 Shedding sunshine and love on my face ! 
 
 And when they are gone I sit dreaming 
 
 Of my childhood, too lovely to last; 
 Of love that my heart will remember 
 
 When it wakes to the pulse of the past. 
 Ere the world and its wickedness made me 
 
 A partner of sorrow and sin — 
 When the glory of God was about me, 
 
 And the glory of gladness within. 
 
 O my heart grows weak as a woman's. 
 
 And the fountain of feeling will flow. 
 When I think of the paths steep and stony, 
 
 Where the feet of the dear ones must go ; 
 Of the mountains of sin hanging o'er them, 
 
 Of the tempests of fate blowing wild — 
 O there's nothing on earth half so holy 
 
 As the innocent heart of a child. 
 
 They are idols of hearts and of household, 
 They are angels of God in disguise — 
 
 His sunlight still sleeps in their tresses, 
 His glory still beams from their eyes — 
 
 those truants from earth and from heaven, 
 They have made me more manly and mild. 
 
 And I know now how Jesus could liken 
 The kingdom of God to a child. 
 
 Seek not a life for the dear ones 
 
 All radiant, as others have done; 
 But that life may have just as much shadow 
 
 To temper the glare of the sun. 
 
 1 would pray God to guard them from evil. 
 
 But my prayer w^ould bound back to myself, 
 Ah ! a seraph may pray for a sinner. 
 But a sinner must pray for himself. 
 
 The twig is so easily bended, 
 
 I have banished the rule and the rod ; 
 I have taught them the goodness of knowledge. 
 
 They have taught me the goodness of God. 
 My heart is a dungeon of darkness, 
 
 Where I shut them for breaking a rule; 
 My frown is sufficient correction, 
 
 My love is the law of the school. 
 
 I shall leave the old house in the autumn, 
 To traverse its threshold no more ; 
 
 Ah ! how I shall sigh for the dear ones 
 That meet me each morn at the door. 
 
CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 
 
 375 
 
 I shall miss the ''good nights" and the kisses, 
 And the gush of their innocent glee, 
 
 The group on the green, and the flowers 
 That are brought every morning to me. 
 
 I shall miss them at morn and at eve, 
 
 Their song in the school and the street ; 
 I shall miss the low hum of their voices, 
 
 And the tramp of their delicate feet. 
 When the lessons and tasks are all ended, 
 
 And death says the school is dismissed, 
 May I he little ones gather around me. 
 
 And bid me " good-night" and be kissed. 
 Charles Dickens. 
 
 T 
 
 THE KING AND THE CHILD. 
 
 HE sunlight shone on walls of stone 
 
 And towers sublime and tall ; 
 King Alfred sat upon his throne 
 Within his council hall. 
 
 And glancing o'er the splendid throng, 
 With grave and solemn face, 
 
 To where his noble vassals stood, 
 He saw a vacant place. 
 
 *' Wliere is the Earl of Holderness? " 
 
 With anxious look, he said. 
 '' Alas, O King ! " a courier cried, 
 
 "■ The noble Earl is dead ! " 
 
 Before the monarch could express 
 
 The sorrow that he felt, 
 A soldier with a war-worn face 
 
 Approached the throne and knelt. 
 
 " My sword," he said, ''has ever been. 
 
 O King I at thy command, 
 And many a proud and haughty Dane 
 
 Has fallen by my hand. 
 
 ^Tve fought beside thee in the field. 
 And 'neath the greenwood tree; 
 
 It is but fair for thee to give 
 Yon vacant place to me." 
 
 ^' \^ is not just," a statesman cried, 
 " This soldier's prayer to hear. 
 
 My wisdom has done more for thee 
 Than either sword or spear. 
 
 " I'he victories of the council hall 
 Have made thee more renown 
 
 Th iQ all the triumphs of the field 
 Hare given to thy crown. 
 
 ** My name is known in every land, 
 
 My talents have been thine, 
 Bestow this earldom, then, on me, 
 
 For it is justly mine." 
 
 Yet, while before the monarch's throne 
 
 These men contending stood, 
 A woman crossed the floor who wore 
 
 The weeds of widowhood. 
 
 And slowly to King Alfred's feet 
 
 A fair-haired boy she led — 
 "O King ! this is the rightful heir 
 
 Of Holderness," she said. 
 
 " Helpless he comes to claim his own. 
 
 Let no man do hirn wrong, 
 For he is weak and fatherless. 
 
 And thou art just and strong." 
 
 " What strength of power," the statesman cried, 
 
 '• Could such a judgment bring ? 
 Can such a feeble child as this 
 
 Do aught for thee, O King ? 
 
 " When thou hast need of brawny arms 
 
 To draw thy deadly bows. 
 When thou art wanting crafty men 
 
 To crush thy mortal foes." 
 
 With earnest voice the fair young boy 
 
 Replied : "I cannot fight, 
 But I can pray to God, O King ; 
 
 And Heaven can give thee might ! ' ' 
 
 The King bent down and kissed the child. 
 
 The courtiers turned away. 
 " The heritage is thine," he said, 
 
 " Let none their right gainsay. 
 
 " Our swords may cleave the casques of men. 
 
 Our blood may stain the sod. 
 But what are human strength and power 
 
 Without the help of God ? " 
 
 Eugene J. Hall. 
 
 PICKING QUARRELS. 
 
 ' I ^HERE ! I have opened the windows, I have 
 I drawn the blinds, and hark ! already there 
 '■' is the sound of little voices afar off, like 
 "sweet bells jangling." Nearer and nearer come 
 they, and now we catch a glimpse of bright faces 
 peeping round the corners, and there, by that 
 empty enclosure, a general mustering and swarm- 
 ing, as of bees about a newly-discovered flower- 
 garden. But the voices we now hear proceed from 
 two little fellows who have withdrawn from the 
 rest. One carries a large basket, and his eyes are 
 directed to my window; he doesn't half like the 
 Minds being drawn. The other follows him with 
 a tattered book under his arm, rapping the posts, 
 one after the other, as he goes along. He is 
 clearly on bad terms with himself. And now we 
 can see their faces. Both are grave, and one 
 rather pale, and trying to look ferocious. And 
 hark ! now we are able to distinguish their words. 
 
376 
 
 CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 
 
 "Well, I ain't skeered o' you," says the fore- 
 most and the larger boy. "Nor I ain't skeered 
 o' you," retorts the other; " but you needn't say 
 you meant to lick me." And so I thought. An- 
 other, less acquainted with children, might not be 
 able to see the connection ; but I could — it was 
 worthy of Aristotle himself or John Locke. "I 
 didn't say I meant to lick ye," rejoined the first; 
 " I said I could lick ye, and so I can." To which 
 the other replies, glancing first at my window and 
 then all up and down street, '• I should like to see 
 you try it." Whereupon the larger boy begins to 
 move away, half-backwards, half-sideways, mutter- 
 ing just loud enough to be heard, '' Ah, you want 
 to fight now, jest 'cause you're close by your own 
 house." And here the dialogue finished, and the 
 babies moved on, shaking their little heads at each 
 other and muttering all the way up street ]Men 
 are but children of a larger growth ! Children 
 but empires in miniature. 
 
 '* Ah, ah, hourra ! hourra ! here's a fellow^' s birth- 
 day ! ' ' cried a boy in my hearing once. A num- 
 ber had got together to play ball, but one of them 
 having found a birthday, and not only the birth- 
 day, but the very boy to whom it belonged, they 
 all gathered about him as if they had never wit- 
 nessed a conjunction of the sort before. The very 
 fellows for a committee of inquiry ! — into the af- 
 fairs of a national bank, if you please. 
 
 Never shall I fors-et another incident which oc- 
 curred in my presence between two other boys. 
 One was trying to jump over a \vheelbarrow. 
 Another was going by ; he stopped, and after con- 
 sidering a moment, spoke. "I'll tell you what 
 you can't do," said he. "Well, w^hat is it?" 
 " You can't jump down your own throat." " W^ell, 
 you can't." " Can't I though?" The simplicity 
 of "Well, you can't," and the roguishness of 
 " Can't I though ! " tickled me prodigiously. They 
 reminded me of a sparring I had seen elsewhere — 
 I should not like to say where — having a greac re- 
 spect for the ten'.^>,s of justice and the halls of 
 legislation. 
 
 I saw three children throwing sticks at a cow. 
 She grew tired of her share in the game at last, and 
 holding down her head and shaking it, demanded 
 a new deal. They cut and run. After getting to 
 a place of comparative security, they stopped, and 
 holding by the top of a board fence began to recon- 
 noitre. Meanwhile, another troop of children hove 
 in sight, and arming themselves with brickbats, 
 began to approach the same cow. Whereupon two 
 of the others called out from the fence, "You, 
 Joe ! you better mind ! that's our cow ! ' ' The 
 plea was admitted without a demurrer ; and the 
 cow was left to be tormented by the legal owners. 
 Hadn't these boys the law on their side? 
 
 But children have other characters. At times 
 they are creatures to be afraid of. Every case I 
 give is a fact within my own observation. There 
 
 are children, and I have had to do with them, „hose 
 very eyes were terrible ; children, who after years 
 
 I of watchful and anxious discipline, were as indom- 
 itable as the young of the wild beast, dropped in 
 
 t the wilderness, crafty and treacherous and cruel. 
 And others I have known who, if they live, must 
 have dominion over the multitude, being evidently 
 of them that from the foundations of the world 
 have been always thundering at the gates of power. 
 
 John Neal. 
 
 W 
 
 A BOY'5 SONG. 
 
 HERE the pools are bright and deep, 
 Where the grey trout lies asleep, 
 Up the river and o'er the lea, 
 That's the way for Billy and me. 
 
 Where the blackbird sings the latest, 
 Where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest, 
 Where the nestlings chirp and flee. 
 That's the way for Billy and me. 
 
 Where the mowers mow the cleanest, 
 Where the hay lies thick and greenest ; 
 There to trace the homeward bee, 
 That's the way for Billy and me. 
 
 Where the hazel bank is steepest. 
 Where the shadow falls the deepest,. 
 Where the clustering nuts fall free 
 That's the way for Billy and me. 
 
 Why the boys should drive away 
 Little sweet maidens from the play. 
 Or love to banter and fight so well, 
 That's the thing I never could tell. 
 
 But this I know, I love to play, 
 Through the meadow, among the hay ; 
 Up the water and o'er the lea. 
 That's the way for Billy and me. 
 
 J. Hogg,. 
 THE LITTLE DARLING. 
 
 A LITTLE maid with sweet blue eyes 
 Looked upward with a shy surprise 
 Because I asked her name , 
 
 Awhile she bent her golden head, 
 While o'er her face soft blushes spread 
 Like some swift rosy flame ; 
 Then looking up she softly said, 
 " My name is Mamma's Darling." 
 
 "Tell me your mother's name, my dear," 
 
 And stooping low I paused to hear — 
 
 The little maid seemed musing ; 
 "Why. mamma's name's like mine, you know>. 
 
 But just because we love her so. 
 
 We call her Mamma Darling." 
 
CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 
 
 377 
 
 "Tell me your papa's name," I cried ; 
 The little maiden's eyes grew wide; 
 
 ** My papa? Don't you know? 
 Why, ever since the baby died 
 Mamma and I have always tried 
 To cheer him from his sorrowing ; 
 And my mamma and I love best 
 To call him Papa Darling." 
 
 *' What did you call the baby, 
 dear?" 
 
 The answer came quite low 
 
 but clear : 
 ** The baby — oh, I wonder 
 
 what 
 They call him now in heaven ; 
 But we had only one name 
 
 here 
 And that was Baby Darling." 
 
 Swift years flew by, and once 
 
 again 
 That little maid so tender 
 Stood by my side, but she 
 
 had grown 
 Like lilies, tall and slender ; 
 This time 'twas I that called 
 
 her name, 
 And swift the blushes grew 
 
 like flame 
 At rosy mist of morning ; 
 I clasped her in my arms and kissed 
 My tender-hearted Darling. 
 
 THE BOY^S COMPLAINT. 
 
 4i /^"^K • never mind, they're only boys; " 
 
 I I 'Tis thus the people say, 
 ^— ^ And they hustle us and jostle us, 
 And drive us out the way. 
 
 They never give us half our rights^ 
 
 I know that this is so ; 
 Ain't I a boy? and can't I see 
 
 The way that these things go ? 
 
 The little girls are petted all, 
 
 Called *' honey," "dear," and ''sweet," 
 But boys are cuffed at home and school, 
 
 And knocked about the street. 
 
 My sister has her rags and dolls 
 
 Strewn all about the floor. 
 While old dog Growler dares not put 
 
 His nose inside the door. 
 
 And if I go upon the porch 
 
 In hopes to have a play. 
 Some one calls out, " Hello, young chap, 
 
 Take that noisy dog away ! " 
 
 My hoop is used to build a fire, 
 My ball is thrown aside ; 
 
 And mother let the baby have 
 My top, because it cried. 
 
 If company should come at night, 
 The boys can't sit up late; 
 
 And if they come to dinner, then 
 The boys, of course, must wait. 
 
 If anything is raw or burned 
 
 It falls to us, no doubt ; 
 And if the cake or pudding's short, 
 
 We have to go without. 
 
 If there are fireworks we can't get 
 
 A place to see at all ; 
 And when the soldiers come along 
 
 We're crowded to the wall. 
 
 Whoever wants an errand done, 
 
 We always have to scud ; 
 Whoever wants the sidewalk, we 
 
 Are crowded in the mud. 
 
 'Tis hurry-scurry, here and there, 
 
 Without a moment's rest. 
 And we scarcely get a "Thank you," if 
 
 We do our very best. 
 
 But never mind, boys — we will be 
 The grown men by and by ; 
 
 Then I suppose 'twill be our turn 
 To snub the smaller boy. 
 
 LOST TOMMY. 
 
 PRAY, have you seen our Tommy ?^ 
 He's the cutest little fellow. 
 With cheeks as round as apples, 
 And hair the softest yellow. 
 
378 
 
 CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH, 
 
 You see, 'twas quite a while age — 
 
 An hour or two, perhaps — 
 When grandma sent him off to buy 
 
 A pound of ginger-snaps. 
 
 We have traced him to the baker's, 
 
 And part way back again \ 
 We found a little paper sack 
 
 Lying empty in the lane. 
 But Tommy and the ginger-snaps 
 
 Are missing totally ; 
 I hope they both will reappear 
 
 In time enough for tea. 
 
 We have climbed up to the garret, 
 
 And scoured the cellar through ; 
 We have ransacked every closet, 
 
 And the barn and orchard too ; 
 We have hunted through the kitchen, 
 
 And the pantry? Oh! of course — 
 We have screamed and shouted *' Tommy " 
 
 Until we're fairly hoarse. 
 
 Poor mamma goes distracted, 
 
 And pretty Auntie May 
 Is sure the darling cherub 
 
 Has somehow lost his way. 
 Well, well, I'll give another look 
 
 Into the nursery ; 
 I hardly think the little rogue 
 
 Can hide away from me. 
 
 All! here's the laundry basket, 
 
 Within I'll take a peep. 
 Why — what is this curled up so tight? 
 
 'Tis Tommy, fast asleep. 
 O mamma, auntie, grandma ! 
 
 Come and see the fun. 
 Tommy, where's the ginger-snaps? 
 
 ** Eaten ! — every one ! " 
 
 ** Bless my heart ! " laughs auntie; 
 
 *' Dear, dear, I shall collapse ; 
 Where could he stow them all away? 
 
 A pound of ginger-snaps ! " 
 But mamma falls to kissing. 
 
 Forgetting fright and toil. 
 While grandma bustles out to fetch 
 
 A dose of castor oil. 
 
 Julia M. Dana. 
 
 THE LITTLE BOY WHO RAN AWAY. 
 
 4 4 T 'M going now to run away," 
 
 I Said little Sammy Green one day, 
 ^ ' ' Then I can do just what I choose, 
 
 I'll never have to black my shoes, 
 
 Or wash my face or comb my hair. 
 
 I'll find a place, I know, somewhere 
 
 And never have again to fill 
 
 That old chip basket — so I will. 
 
 ''Good-bye, mamma! " he said, ''Good-by!" 
 
 He thought his mother then would cry. 
 
 She only said, *' You going, dear?" 
 
 And didn't shed a single tear. 
 
 *' There now," said Sammy Green, "I know 
 
 She does not care if I do go. 
 
 But Bridget does. She'll have to fill 
 
 That old chip basket, so she will. 
 
 But Bridget only said : " Well, boy, 
 You're off for sure. I wish you joy." 
 And Sammy's little sister Kate, 
 Who swung upon the garden gate, 
 Said anxiously as he passed through : 
 " To-night whatever will you do, 
 When you can't get no 'lasses spread 
 At supper time on top of bread?" 
 
 One block from home, and Sammy Green's 
 Weak little heart was full of fear. 
 He thought about Red Riding Hood, 
 The wolf that met her in the wood, 
 The beanstalk boy who kept so mum 
 When he heard the giant's "■ P^e, fo, fum, ' 
 Of the dark night and the policeman. 
 Then poor Sammy homeward rau: 
 
 Quick through the alley way he sped, 
 
 And crawled in through the old woodshed. 
 
 The big chip basket he did fill, 
 
 He blacked his shoes up with a will, 
 
 He washed his face and combed his hnir ; 
 
 He went up to his mother's chair 
 
 And kissed her twice, and then he said : 
 
 **I'd like some 'lasses top of bread." 
 
 Mrs. S. T. Perry. 
 
 THE FLAG ON THE SCHOOLHOUSE. 
 
 UP with the starry banner ! 
 Let it float over roof and tower ! 
 Let it greet each pupil and teacher 
 When Cometh the morning hour ! 
 
 Let the first thought in the morning 
 
 Be aye of the star-bright flag, 
 Of the heroes who fought in its honor, 
 
 Of the courage that could not lag. 
 
 And all through the daily lessons, 
 
 Wherever our duties call, 
 Remember the star-bright banner 
 
 Is floating over us all. 
 
 If history is the lesson. 
 
 Never forget the flag 
 That waved through a hundred battles. 
 
 From the sea to the mountain crag — 
 
 The flag of a hundred battles, 
 
 Stars brighter for each and all, 
 With a glory ever growing. 
 
 As its folds now rise, now fall. 
 
CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 
 
 379 
 
 What if a pine-tree banner 
 Floated at Bunker Hill? 
 
 Its glory was transmitted 
 To the flag that's floatinc 
 
 A GIRL. 
 
 still. 
 
 So, from Lexington and Concord, 
 
 From Boston's wave-washed shore 
 From each spot where free- 
 dom struggled, 
 There cometh a glory 
 more. 
 
 So, each state shall see em- 
 blazoned 
 
 Upon our standard fair. 
 The sum of all local glory 
 
 In a national glory there. 
 
 Yorktown and Saratoga 
 Are in each stripe and 
 star; 
 Trenton and Princeton flash 
 and glow 
 Like beacon-lights afar. 
 And all of the naval glory, 
 Won by sea-faring sires, 
 Glows with an ageless lustre, 
 Whose splendor never 
 tires. 
 
 ** Old Ironsides " I see there. 
 Whose captain could do 
 and dare, 
 As he showed the British 
 sailors, 
 When he silenced the 
 Guerriere. 
 
 And a splendid motto glis- 
 tens, 
 A motto for every lip, 
 Columbia's naval watchword 
 Of " Don't give up the 
 ship!" 
 
 And another close beside it, 
 
 Shall be known for ages 
 
 hence. 
 
 It is: ''Not one cent for 
 
 tribute, 
 
 But millions for defence." 
 
 Forth from the smoke of battle, 
 
 Brighter than noonday sun, 
 Flashes the nation's motto: 
 
 " Out of many — one." 
 
 So, all through the daily lessons, 
 
 Wherever our duties call, 
 Remember the star-bright banner 
 
 Is floating over us all. 
 
 Frederic Allison Tupper. 
 
 OSWEE r, shy girl, with roses in her heart, 
 And love-light in her face, like those 
 upgrown ; 
 Full uf still dreams and thoughts that, dream-like, 
 start 
 From fits of solitude when not alone ! 
 
 Gay dancer over thresholds of bright days, 
 
 Tears quick to her eyes, as laughter to her lips ! 
 
 A game of hide-and-seek with time she plays, 
 Time hiding his eyes from hers in bright eclipse. 
 
 O gentle-souled ! how dear and good she is, 
 Blest by soft dews of happiness and love. 
 
 Cradled in tenderest arms I Her mother's kiss 
 Seals all her good-night prayers. Her father's 
 smile 
 
3s^.j 
 
 CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 
 
 Brighten her mornings. Through the earth shall 
 move 
 Her child-sweet soul, not far from heaven the 
 while ! 
 
 John James Piatt. 
 
 CUDDLE DOON. 
 
 THE bairnies cuddle doon at nicht, 
 VVi' muckle fash an' din ; 
 "Oh, try and sleep, ye waukrife rogues; 
 
 Your father's comin' in." 
 '1 hey never heed a word I speak, 
 
 I try to gie a froon ; 
 But aye I hap thim up an' cry, 
 
 •' Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon ! " 
 Wee Jamie, wi' the curly heid — 
 
 He aye sleeps next the wa' — 
 Bangs up an' cries, " I want a piece " — 
 
 The rascal starts them a'. 
 I ran an' fetch thim pieces, drinks — 
 
 They stop awee the soun' — 
 Then draw the blankets up, an' cry, 
 
 ''Noo, weanies, (uddle doon! '' 
 
 But ere five minutes gang, wee Rab 
 
 Cries oot, frae 'neath the claes, 
 ** Mither, make Tarn gie ower at once, 
 
 He's kittlin' wi' his taes." 
 The mischief's in that Tam for tricks ; 
 
 He'd bother half the toon, 
 But aye I hap them up an' cry, 
 
 ''Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon ! '* 
 
 At length they hear their father's fit; 
 
 An' as he steeks the door, 
 They turn their faces to the wa'. 
 
 While Tam pretends to snore. 
 " Hae a' the weans been gude? " he asks, 
 
 As he puts off his shoon; 
 " The bairnies, John, are in their beds, 
 
 An' lang since cuddled doon." 
 
 An' just afore we bed oorsel's — 
 
 We look at oor wee lambs ; 
 Tam has his arm roun' wee Rab's neck, 
 
 And Rab his arm roun' Tarn's. 
 I lift wee Jamie up the bed, 
 
 An' as I straik each croon, 
 I whisper till my heart fills up. 
 
 **0h, bairnies, cuddle doon." 
 
 The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht, 
 
 Wi' mirth that's dear to me ; 
 But soon the big warl's cark an' care 
 
 Will quaten doon their glee. 
 Yet come what will to ilka ane, 
 
 May He who sits aboon. 
 Aye whisper, though their pows be bauld, 
 
 *'Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon." 
 
 Alexander Anderson. 
 
 THE DEAD DOLL. 
 
 YOU needn't be trying to comfort me — I tell 
 you my dolly is dead ! 
 There's no use in sa\ ing she isn't with a 
 crack like that in her head; 
 It's just like you said it wouldn't hurt much to 
 
 have my tooth out that day, 
 And then, when the man 'most pulled my head 
 off, you hadn't a word to say. 
 
 And I guess you must think I'm a baby, when you 
 
 f-ay you can mend it with glue, 
 As if I didn't know better than that! Why, just 
 
 suppose it was you ; 
 You might make her look all mended — but what 
 
 do I care for looks? 
 Why, glue's for chairs and tables, and toys, and 
 
 the backs of books ! 
 
 My dolly! My own little daughter! Oh, but it's 
 
 the awfulest crack ! 
 It just makes me sick to think of the sound when 
 
 her poor head went whack 
 Against that horrible brass thing that holds up the 
 
 little shelf. 
 Now, nursey, what makes you remind me? I 
 
 know that I did it myself. 
 
 I think you must be crazy — you'll get her another 
 
 head ! 
 What good would forty heads do her? I tell you 
 
 my dolly is dead ! 
 And to think I hadn't quite finished her elegant 
 
 new spring hat ! 
 And I took a sweet ribbon of hers last night to tie 
 
 on that horrid cat ! 
 
 When my mamma gave me that ribbon — I was 
 
 playing out in the yard — 
 She said to me, most expressly, " Here's a ribbon 
 
 for Hildegarde." 
 And I went and put it on Tabby, and Hildegarde 
 
 saw me do it; 
 But I said to myself, ''Oh, nevermind, I don't 
 
 believe she knew it." 
 
 But I know that she knew it now, and I just be- 
 lieve, I do. 
 
 That her poor little heart was broken, and so her 
 head broke too. 
 
 Oh, my baby ! My little baby ! I wish my head 
 had been hit ! 
 
 For I've hit it over and over, and it hasn't cracked 
 a bit. 
 
 But since the darling is dead, she'll want to be 
 
 buried, of course ; 
 We will take my little wagon, nurse, and you shall 
 
 be the horse ; 
 And I'll walk behind and cry; and we'll put her 
 
 in this, you see — 
 
CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 
 
 381 
 
 This dear little box — and we'll bury her there oat 
 under the maple tree. 
 
 And papa will make me a tombstone, like the one 
 
 he made for my ^ bird ; 
 And he'll put what I tell him on it — yes, every 
 
 single word ! 
 I shall say, '' Here lies Hildegarde, a beautiful 
 
 doll who is dead : 
 .She died of a broken heart, and a dreadful crack 
 
 in her head." 
 
 Margaret Vandergrift. 
 
 A LITTLE BOY'S TROUBLE. 
 
 I THOUGHT when I'd learned my letters 
 That all of my troubles were done ; 
 But I find myself much mistaken — 
 They only have just begun. 
 Learning to read was awful. 
 
 But nothing like learning to write; 
 I'd be sorry to have you tell it, 
 But my copy-book is a sight I 
 
 The ink gets over my fingers; 
 
 The pen cuts all sorts of shines, 
 And won't do at all as I bid it ; 
 
 The letters won't stay on the lines, 
 But go up and down and all over. 
 
 As though they w^ere dancing a jig — 
 They are there in all shapes and sizes, 
 
 Medium, little, and big. 
 
 The tails of the g's are so contrary. 
 
 The handles get on the wrong side 
 Of the d's, and the k's, and the h's, 
 
 Though I've certainly tried and tried 
 To make them just right; it is dreadful 
 
 I really don't know what to do, 
 I'm getting almost distracted — 
 
 My teacher says she is too. 
 
 There 'd be some comfort in learning 
 
 If one could get through : instead 
 Of that there are books awaiting 
 
 Quite enough to craze my head. 
 There's the multiplication table, 
 
 And grammar, and — oh ! dear me. 
 There is no good place for stopping 
 
 When one has b^^gun, I see. 
 
 My teacher says, little by little 
 
 To the mountain tops we climb ; 
 It isn't all done in a minute, 
 
 But only a step at a time ; 
 She says that all the scholars. 
 
 All the wise and learned men, 
 Had each to begin as I do ; 
 
 If *'iat's so, Where's my pen? 
 
 Carlotta Perry. 
 
 A 
 
 FROM "BABE CHRISTABEL." 
 
 ND thou hast stolen a jewel, death ! 
 
 Shall light thy dark up like a star, 
 A beacon kindling from afar 
 Our light of love, and fainting faith. 
 
 Through tears it gleams peipetuallv, 
 
 And glitters through the thickest glooms. 
 Till the eternal morning comes 
 
 To light us o'er the jasper sea. 
 
 With our best branch in tenderest leaf. 
 
 We've strewn the way our Lord doth come ; 
 
 And, ready for the harvest home. 
 His reapers bind our ripest sheaf. 
 
 Our beautiful bird of light hath fled : 
 Awhile she sat with folded wings — 
 Sang round us a few hoverings — 
 
 Then straightway into glory sped. 
 
 And white-winged angels nurture her ; 
 
 With heaven's white radiance robed and 
 crowned, 
 
 And all love's purple glory round, 
 She summers on the hills of myrrh. 
 
 Through childhood's morning-land, serene 
 She walked betwixt us twain, like love; 
 While, in a robe of light above, 
 
 Her better angel walked unseen, 
 
 Till life's highway broke bleak and wild ; 
 Then, lest her starry garments trail 
 In mire, heart bleed, and courage fail, 
 
 The angel's arms caught up the child. 
 
 Her wave of life hath backward rolled 
 To the great ocean ; on whose shore 
 We wandered up and down, to store 
 
 Some treasures of the times of old : 
 
 And aye we seek and hunger on 
 
 For precious pearls and relics rare, 
 Strewn on the sands for us to wear 
 
 At heart for love of her that's gone. 
 
 O weep no more ! there yet is balm 
 In Gilead ! Love doth ever shed 
 Rich healing where it nestles — spread 
 
 O'er desert pillows some green palm ! 
 
 Strange glory streams through life's wild rents^ 
 And through the open door of death 
 We see the heaven that beckoneth 
 
 To the beloved going hence. 
 
 God's ichor fills the hearts that bleed ; 
 
 The best fruit loads the broken bough ; 
 
 And in the wounds our suffering plough, 
 Immortal love sows sovereign seed. 
 
 Gerald Massey. 
 
38-2 
 
 CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 
 
 O 
 
 AS QUICK AS THE TELEPHONE. 
 
 NE night a well-known merchant of a town When he was some distance from his house, he 
 
 found that in changing his coat he had forgotten 
 
 his purse, and he could not go out on a drinking- 
 
 out (or a night of | bout without any money, even though his family 
 
 in the West, who had been walking for 
 some time in the downward path, came 
 
 out of his house and started 
 carousal with some old 
 companions he had ])rom- 
 ised to meet. 
 
 His young wife had besought him with implor- 
 ing eyes to spend the evening with her, and had 
 reminded him of the time when evenings passed 
 in her comi:)any were all too short. His little 
 daughter had clung about his knees and coaxed in 
 her pretty willful way for papa to tell her some bed- 
 time stories ; but habit was stronger than love for wife 
 or child, and he eluded her tender questioning by 
 the deceits and excuses which are the convenient 
 refuge of the intemperate, and so went on his way. 
 
 needed it, and his wife 
 waseconomizingevery 
 day more and more in 
 order to make up his 
 deficits. So he hur- 
 ried back and crept 
 _^ softly past the window 
 ^^ of his own home, in 
 order that he might 
 steal in and obtain it 
 without running the 
 gauntlet of other ques- 
 tions or caresses. 
 
 But as he looked 
 through the window 
 something stayed his 
 feet. There was a fire 
 in the grate within — 
 J for the night was chill 
 
 — and it lit up tie 
 pretty little parlor ana 
 brought out in start- 
 -^ ling effect the pictures 
 
 ^^ on the wall. But these 
 
 were nothing to the 
 pictures on the hearth. Thrre, 
 in the soft glow of the fire- 
 light, knelt his child at her 
 mother's feet, its small han( s 
 clasped in prayer, and its fair head 
 bowed ; and as its rosy lips whis- 
 pered each word with childish 
 distinctness, the father listened, 
 spellbound, to the words which he 
 himself had so often uttered at his 
 own mother's knee : 
 
 " Now I lay me down to sleep.'' 
 
 His thoughts ran back to boyhood hours; 
 and as he compressed his bearded lips, he 
 could see in memory the face of that mother, 
 long ago gone to her rest, who taught his own 
 infant lips prayers which he had long forgotten 
 to utter. 
 
 The child went on and completed her little 
 verse, and then, as prompted by her mother, con- 
 tinued : 
 
 *'God bless mamma, papa, and my own self" 
 — then there was a pause, and she lifted her trou- 
 bled blue eyes to her mother's face. 
 
 ** God bless papa," prompted the mother, softly. 
 ** God bless papa," lisped the little one. 
 '' And please send him home sober." 
 He could not hear the mother as she said this; 
 but the child followed in a clear, inspired tone — 
 
CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH 
 
 383 
 
 " God bless papa — and please — send him — home 
 sober. Amen." 
 
 Mother and child sprang to their feet in alarm 
 when the door opened so suddenly; but they were 
 not afraid when they saw who it was returned so 
 soon. But that night when little Mary was being 
 tucked up in bed, after such a romp with papa, 
 she said in the sleepiest and most contented of 
 voices : 
 
 '' Mamma, God answers almost as quick as the 
 telephone, doesn't he?" 
 
 WHAT SHE SAID. 
 
 SHE told me sumfin' defful ! 
 It almost made me cry ! 
 I never will believe it, 
 It mus' be all a lie ! 
 I mean she mus' be 'staken. 
 
 I know she b'oke my heart ; 
 I never can forgive her ! 
 That horrid Maggie Start. 
 
 Tuesdays she does her bakin's ! 
 
 An' so I fought, you see, 
 I'd make some fimble cookies 
 
 For Arabella's tea. 
 An' so I took my dollies 
 
 An' set 'em in a row, 
 Where they could oversee me 
 
 When I mixed up my dough. 
 
 An' when I'd wolled an' mixed it 
 
 Free minutes, or an hour, 
 Somehow I dwopped my woller, 
 
 An' spilt a lot of flour. 
 An' I was defful firsty, 
 
 An' fought I'd help myself 
 To jes' a little dwop of milk 
 
 Off from the pantry shelf. 
 
 So I weached up on tip-toe, 
 
 But, quicker than a flash. 
 The horrid pan turned over, 
 
 An' down it came ker-splash ! 
 O, then you should have seen her 
 
 Rush frough that pantry door ! 
 *' An' this is where you be !" she said, 
 
 ''O, what a lookin' floor! 
 
 "You, an' your dolls — I'll shake you all — 
 
 I'll shake you black 'n blue!" 
 "You shall not touch us, Miss," I cried, 
 
 " We're jes' as good as you ! 
 An' I will tell my mofer, 
 
 The minute she gets home, 
 An' I will tell ole Santa Claus, 
 
 An' I'll tell every one." 
 
 O, then you should have heard her laugh ! 
 " Tell Santa Claus, indeed ! 
 
 I'd like to have you find him first ; 
 
 The humbug never lived I" 
 '' What do you mean, you Maggie Start? 
 
 Is dear old Santa dead?" 
 " Old Santa never lived," she cried, 
 
 And that is what she said. 
 
 S. D. W. Gamwell. 
 
 UNSATISFIED. 
 
 THERE was a little chicken that was shut up 
 in a shell, 
 He thought to himself, '' I'm sure I cannot 
 tell 
 What, I am walled in here for — a shocking coop I 
 
 find. 
 Unfitted for a chicken with an enterprising mind." 
 
 He went out in the barnyard one lovely morn in 
 
 May, 
 Each hen he found spring-cleaning in the only 
 
 proper way ; 
 ^^ This yard is much too narrow — a shocking coop 
 
 I find. 
 Unfitted for a chicken with an enterprising mind." 
 
 He crept up to the gateway and slipped betwixt a 
 
 crack, 
 The world stretched wide before him, and just as 
 
 widely back; 
 " This world is much too narrow — a shocking 
 
 coop I find, 
 Unfitted for a chicken with an enterprising mind. 
 
 "I should like to have ideals, I should like to 
 
 tread the stars, 
 To get the unattainable, and free my soul from 
 
 bars; 
 I should like to leave this dark earth, and some 
 
 other dwelling find 
 More fitted for a chicken with an enterprising 
 
 mind. 
 
 "There's a place where ducks and pleasure boats 
 go sailing to and fro. 
 
 There's one world on the surface and another 
 world below." 
 
 The little waves crept nearer and, on the brink 
 inclined. 
 
 They swallowed up the chicken with an enterpris- 
 ing mind. A. G. "Waters. 
 
 O 
 
 A PLEASANT PUNISHMENT. 
 
 LD master Brown brought his ferule down ; 
 His face was angry and red ; 
 " Anthony Blair, go sit you there, 
 Among the girls," he said. 
 So Anthony Blair, with a mortified air. 
 
 And his head hung down on his breast, 
 Went right away and sat all day 
 With the girl who loved him best. 
 
384 
 
 CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH 
 
 TABBY GRAY. 
 
 I 
 
 M a pretty little kitten, 
 
 My name is Tabby Gray ; 
 I live at Frogley Farmhouse, 
 Some twenty miles away. 
 
 My little eyes are hazel, 
 
 My skin is soft as silk, 
 I'm fed each night and morning 
 
 With a saucerful of milk. 
 
 The milk comes sweet and foaming, 
 Fresh from the good old cow, 
 
 And, after I have lapped it, 
 I frolic you know how. 
 
 I'm petted by the mistress 
 And children of the house. 
 
 And sometimes \vhen I'm nimble 
 I catch a little mouse. 
 
 And sometimes when I'm naughty 
 
 I chmb upon the stand, 
 And eat the cake and chicken. 
 
 Or anything at hand. 
 
 Oh, then they hide my saucer, 
 No matter how I mew ; 
 
 And that's the way I'm punished 
 For naushty things I do. 
 
 T 
 
 BABIES AND KITTENS. 
 
 HERE were two kittens, a black and a gray. 
 And grandma said with a frown : 
 " It never will do to keep them both. 
 The black one we had better drown." 
 
 " Don't cry, my dear" to tiny Bess, 
 " One kitten is enough to keep, 
 
 Now run to nurse, for 'tis growing late 
 And time you w^ere fast asleep." 
 
 The morning dawned, and rosy and sweet, 
 
 Came little Bess from her nap, 
 The nurse said, '' Go in mamma's room, 
 
 And look in grandma's lap." 
 
 " Come here," said grandma, with a smile. 
 From the rocking-chair, where she sat, 
 
 *• God has sent you two little sisters. 
 What do you think of that? " 
 
 Bess looked at the babies a moment. 
 
 With their wee heads, yellow and brown, 
 
 And then to grandma soberly said : 
 
 ** Which one are you going to drown?" 
 
 T. M. Hadley 
 
 A STORY OF AN APPLE. 
 
 LITTLE Tommy and Peter and Archy and 
 Bob 
 Were walking one day, when they found 
 An apple ; 'twas mellow and rosy and red, 
 And lying alone on the ground. 
 
 Said Tommy: " I'll have it." Said Peter: " 'Tis 
 mine." 
 
 Said Archy : " I've got it : so there ! " 
 Said Bobby : *' Now let us divide in four parts. 
 
 And each of us boys have a share." 
 
 "No, no !" shouted Tommy, ''I'll have it my- 
 self." 
 
 Said Peter: '' I want it, I say." 
 Said Archy : '• I've got it, and I'll have it all ; 
 
 I won't give a morsel away." 
 
 Then Tommy, he snatched it, and Peter, he 
 fought, 
 
 ('Tis sad and distressing to tell !) 
 And Archy held on with his* might and his main, 
 
 Till out of his fingers it fell. 
 
 Away from the quarrelsome urchins it flew, 
 
 And then down a green little hill 
 That apple it rolled, and it rolled, and it rolled 
 
 As if it would never be still. 
 
CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH, 
 
 885 
 
 A lazy old brindle was nipping the grass 
 
 And switching her tail at the flies, 
 When all of a sudden the apple rolled down 
 
 And stopped just in front of her eyes. 
 
 She gave but a bite and a swallow or two — 
 
 That apple was seen nevermore ! 
 *' I wish," whimpered Archy and Peter and Tom, 
 
 '* We'd kept it and cut it in four." 
 
 Sydney Dayre. 
 
 THE UNFINISHED PRAYER. 
 
 "N 
 
 OW I lay" — say it darling : 
 
 ''Lay me," lisped the tiny lips 
 Of my daughter, kneeling, bending 
 O'er folded finger tips. 
 
 "Down to sleep" — "to sleep," she murmured 
 And the curly head dropped low ; 
 
 *' I pray the Lord " — I gently added, 
 " You can say it all, I know." 
 
 *' Pray the Lord " — the words came faintly, 
 Fainter still — '' my soul to keep; " 
 
 "When the tired head fairly nodded, 
 And the child wast fast asleep. 
 
 But the dewy eyes half opened. 
 
 When I clasped her to my breast. 
 And the dear voice softly whispered, 
 
 " Mamma, God knows all the rest." 
 
 44 
 
 I 
 
 WHICH LOVED BEST? 
 
 LOVE you, mother," said little Ben, 
 Then forgetting his work, his cap went on, 
 And he was off to the garden swing, . 
 And left her the water and wood to bring. 
 
 '* I love you, mother," said rosy Nell — 
 ** I love you better than tongue can tell; " 
 Then she teased and pouted full half the day. 
 Till her mother rejoiced when she went to play. 
 
 " I love you, mother, "said little Fan, 
 
 ** To-day I'll help you all I can; 
 
 How glad I am school doesn't keep; " 
 So she rocked the babe till it fell asleep. 
 
 Then stepping softly she fetched the broom 
 And swept the floor and tidied the room ; 
 Busy and happy all day was she. 
 Helpful and happy as child could be. 
 
 - I love you, mother," again they said. 
 Three children going to bed ; 
 How do you think that mother guessed 
 Which of them really loved her best ? 
 
 FoY Allison. 
 
 THE DISCONTENTED BUTTERCUP. 
 
 D 
 
 OWN in a field, one day in June, 
 
 The flowers all bloomed together. 
 Save one, who tried to hide herself. 
 And drooped that pleasant weather, 
 
 A robin who had soared too high, 
 
 And felt a little lazy. 
 Was resting near a buttercup. 
 
 Who wished she were a daisy. 
 
 For daisies grow so big and tall ; 
 
 She always had a passion 
 For wearing frills about her neck, 
 
 In just the daisy's fashion. 
 
 And buttercups must always be 
 
 The same old, tiresome color, 
 While daisies dress in gold and white. 
 
 Although their gold is duller. 
 
 ** Dear robin," said this sad young flower, 
 " Perhaps you'd not mind trying 
 To find a nice white frill for me 
 Some day when you are flying." 
 
 ** You silly thing !" the robin said ; 
 ' ' I think you must be crazy ; 
 I'd rather be my honest self 
 Than any made-up daisy. 
 
 " You're nicer in your own bright gown; 
 The little children love you ; 
 Be the best buttercup you can, 
 And think no flower above you. 
 
 '* Though swallows leave me out of sight, 
 We'd better keep our places ; 
 Perhaps the world would all go wrong 
 With one too many daisies. 
 
 ** Look bravely up into the sky, 
 And be content with knowing 
 That God wished for a buttercup 
 Just here where you are growing." 
 
 Sarah O. Jewett. 
 
 OFF FOR 5LUMBERLAND. 
 
 P 
 
 25 
 
 URPLE waves of evening play 
 Upon the western shores of day. 
 While babies sail, so safe and free, 
 Over the mystic Slumber sea. 
 
 Their little boats are cradles light ; 
 The sails are curtains pure and white ; 
 The rudders are sweet lullabies ; 
 The anchors, soft and sleepy sighs. 
 
 They're outward bound for Slumberland 
 Where shining dreams lie on the sand 
 Like whisp'ring shells that murmur low 
 The pretty fancies babies know. 
 
386 
 
 CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 
 
 And there among the dream-shells bright 
 The little ones will play all night, 
 Until the sleepy tide turns — then 
 They'll all come sailing home again! 
 
 SUPPOSE. 
 
 SUPPOSE, my little lady. 
 Your doll should break her head, 
 Could you make it whole by crying 
 Till your nose and eyes were red? 
 
 INNOCENCE. 
 
 And wouldn't it be pleasanter 
 
 To treat it as a joke, 
 And say you're glad 'twas dolly's, 
 
 And not your own head that's broke? 
 
 Suppose you're dressed for walking 
 
 And the rain comes pouring down, 
 Will it clear off any sooner 
 
 Because you scold and frown ? 
 And wouldn't it be nicer 
 
 For you to smile than pout. 
 And so make sunshine in the house 
 
 When there is none without ? 
 
 Suppose your task, my little man, 
 
 Is very hard to get, 
 Will it make it any easier 
 
 For you to sit and fret ? 
 
 And wouldn't it be wiser 
 
 Than waiting like a dunce. 
 To go to work in earnest 
 
 And learn the thing at once? 
 
 Suppose that some boys have a horse, 
 
 And some a coach and pair, 
 Will it tire you less while walking 
 
 To say, "It isn't fair?" 
 And wouldn't it be nobler 
 
 To keep you temper sweet, 
 And in your heart be thankful 
 
 You can walk upon your feet ? 
 
 Suppose the world doesn't please you, 
 
 Nor the way some people do, — 
 Do you think the whole creation 
 
 Will be altered just for you ? 
 And isn't it, my boy or girl. 
 
 The wisest, bravest plan. 
 Whatever comes or doesn't come 
 
 To do the best you can ? 
 
 Phcebe Gary. 
 
 THE DEAD KITTEN. 
 
 DON'T talk to me of parties. Nan. 
 I really cannot go ; 
 When folks are in affliction they 
 don't go out, you know. 
 I have a new brown sash, too, it seems a 
 
 pity — eh ? 
 That such a dreadful trial should have 
 come just yesterday ! 
 
 The play-house blinds are all pulled down 
 
 as dark as it can be ; 
 It looks so very solemn, and so proper, 
 
 don't you see? 
 And I have a piece of crape pinned on 
 
 every dolly's hat ; 
 Tom says it is ridiculous for only just a 
 
 cat — 
 
 But boys are all so horrid ! They always, every 
 one, 
 
 Delight in teasing little girls and kitties, **just for 
 fun." 
 
 The way he used to pull her tail — it makes me 
 angry now — 
 
 And scat her up the cherry tree, to make the dar- 
 ling '* meow!" 
 
 I've had her all the summer. One day away last 
 
 spring, 
 I heard a frightful barking, and I saw the little 
 
 thing 
 In the corner of the fence; 'twould have made you 
 
 laugh outright 
 To see how every hair stood out, and how she tried 
 
 to fight. 
 
CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 
 
 387 
 
 I shooed the dog away, and she jumped upon my 
 
 arm ; 
 The pretty creature knew I wouldn't do her any 
 
 harm. 
 I hugged her close and carried her to mamma, and 
 
 she said 
 She should be my own wee kitty, if I'd see that 
 
 she was fed. 
 
 A cunning little dot she was, with 
 
 silky, soft gray fur ; 
 She'd lie for hours on my lap, and 
 
 I could hear her purr ; 
 And then she'd frolic after when I 
 
 pulled a string about. 
 Or try to catch her tail, or roll a 
 
 marble in and out. 
 
 Such a coftifort she has been to me, 
 
 I'm sure no one could tell, 
 Unless some other little girl who 
 
 loves her pussy well. 
 I've heard about a maltese cross, but 
 
 viy dear little kit 
 Was always sweet and amiable, and 
 
 never cross a bit ! 
 
 But oh ! last week I missed her. I 
 
 hunted all around. 
 My darling little pussy cat was 
 
 nowhere to be found. 
 I knelt and whispered softly, when 
 
 nobody could see : 
 ''Take care of little kitty, please, 
 
 and bring her back to me !" 
 
 I found her lying, yesterday, behind 
 
 the lower shed ; 
 I thought my heart was broken when 
 
 I found that she was dead. 
 Tom promised me another one, but 
 
 even he can see 
 No other kitty ever will be just the 
 
 same to me ! 
 
 I carCt go to your party, Nannie — 
 
 Macaroons, you say ? 
 And ice cream ? — I know I ought 
 
 to try and not give way ; 
 And I feel it would be doing wrong to disappoint 
 
 you so ! — 
 Well — if I'm equal to it by to-morrow — I 7nay go ! 
 
 Sydney Dayre. 
 
 JOHNNY'S OPINION OF GRANDMOTHERS. 
 
 I'm sure I can't see it at all 
 
 What a poor fellow ever could do 
 
 For apples and pennies and cakes 
 Without a grandmother or two. 
 
 Grandmothers speak softly to " ma's' 
 To let a boy have a good time ; 
 
 G 
 
 RANDMOTHERS are very nice folks; 
 They beat all the aunts in creation ; 
 They let a chap do as he likes 
 And don't worry about education. 
 
 Sometimes they will whisper, 'tis true. 
 T'other way when a boy wants to climb. 
 
 Grandmothers have muffins for tea, 
 And pies, a whole row. in the cellar. 
 
 And they're apt (if they know it in time) 
 To make chicken pies for a feller. 
 
 And if he is bad now and then, 
 And makes a great racketing noise, 
 
 They only look over their specs 
 
 And say: ''Ah, these boys will be boys! 
 
388 
 
 AFTERNOON TEA. 
 
CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH, 
 
 ;80 
 
 •' Life is only so short at the best ; 
 
 Let the children be happy to-day." 
 Then they look for awhile at the sky, 
 
 And the hills that are far, far away. 
 
 Quite often, as twilight comes on 
 Grandmothers sing hymns very low 
 
 To themselves, as they rock by the fire, 
 About heaven, and when they shall go. 
 
 ONLY A BOY. 
 
 ONLY a boy with his noise and fun, 
 The veriest mystery under the sun ; 
 As brimful of mischief and wit and glee 
 As ever a human frame can be, 
 And as hard to manage — what ! ah me ! 
 'Tis hard to tell, 
 Yet we love him well. 
 
 And then a boy, stopping to think, 
 Will find a hot tear in his eye, 
 
 To know what must come at the last. 
 For grandmothers all have to die. 
 
 I wish they could stay here and pray, 
 For a boy needs their prayers every night 
 
 Some boys more than others, I s'ppose ; 
 Such teller3 as m^ pe^4 a sight. 
 
 Only a boy with his fearful tread, 
 Who can not be driven, must be led ! 
 Who troubles the neighbors' dogs and cats, 
 And tears more clothes and spoils more hats, 
 Loses more kites and tops and bats 
 
 Than would stock a store 
 
 For a week or more. 
 
 Only a boy with his wild, strange ways, 
 With bis idle hours pr his busy days; 
 
390 
 
 CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH, 
 
 With his queer remarks and his odd replies, 
 Sometimes foolish and sometimes wise, 
 Often brilliant for one of his size, 
 
 As a meteor hurled 
 
 From the planet world. 
 
 Only a boy, who may be a man 
 If nature goes on with her first great plan — 
 If intemperance or some fatal snare, 
 Conspires not to rob us of this our heir, 
 Our blessing, our trouble, our rest, our care, 
 
 Our torment, our joy ! 
 
 ''Only a boy!" 
 
 THE ILL=NATURED BRIER. 
 
 LITTLE Miss Brier came out of the ground ; 
 She put out her thorns and scratched every- 
 thing 'round : 
 'Til just try," said she, 
 " How bad I can be; 
 At pricking and scratching, there's few can match 
 me." 
 
 Little Miss Brier was handsome and bright. 
 Her leaves were dark green and her flowers were 
 pure white ; 
 But all who came nigh her 
 Were so worried by her 
 They'd go out of their way to keep clear of the 
 Brier. 
 
 Little Miss Brier was looking one day 
 
 At her neighbor, the Violet, over the way , 
 
 '- 1 wonder," said she, 
 
 ' ' That no one pets me, 
 While all seem so glad little Violet to see." 
 
 A sober old Linnet, who sat on a tree, 
 Heard the speech of the Brier, and thus answered 
 he:— 
 
 " 'Tis not that she's fair, 
 
 For you may compare 
 In beauty with even Miss Violet there ; 
 
 ' ' But Violet is always so pleasant and kind, 
 So gentle in manner, so humble in mind. 
 
 E'en the worms at her feet 
 
 She would never ill-treat, 
 And to Bird, Bee, and Butterfly always is sweet." 
 
 The gardener's wife just then the pathway came 
 
 down. 
 And the mischievous Brier caught hold of her 
 gown ; 
 ' ' Oh, dear ! what a tear ! 
 My gown's spoiled, I declare ! 
 That troublesome Brier ! — it has no business there; 
 Here, John, pull it up, throw it into the fire ; " 
 And that was the end of the ill-natured Brier. 
 
 Anna Bache, 
 
 THE BOY AND THE FROG. 
 
 SEE the frog, the slimy, green frog. 
 Dozing away on that old rotten log ; 
 Seriously wondering 
 What caused the sundering 
 Of the tail that he wore when a wee pollywog. 
 
 See the boy, the freckled schoolboy, 
 Filed with a wicked love to annoy. 
 
 Watching the frog 
 
 Perched on the log 
 With feelings akin to tumultuous joy. 
 
 See the rock, the hard, flinty rock. 
 Which the freckled-faced boy at the frog dotb 
 sock. 
 
 Conscious he's sinning. 
 
 Yet gleefully grinning 
 At the likely result of its terrible shock. 
 
 See the grass, the treacherous grass. 
 Slip from beneath his feet ! Alas ! 
 
 Into the mud 
 
 With a dull thud 
 He falls, and rises a slimy mass. 
 
 Now, see the frog, the hilarious frog. 
 Dancing a jig on his old rotten log. 
 Applying his toes 
 To his broad, blunt nose, 
 As he laughs at the boy stuck fast in the bog. 
 
 Look at the switch, the hickory switch, 
 Waiting to make that schoolboy twitch. 
 When his mother knows 
 The state of his clothes 
 Won't he raise his voice to its highest pitch? 
 
 t-s^ 
 
 i^^^^^^^^^^l 
 
 ^,^.,',f 
 
 ^•^i4j_;^^pB^^ 
 
 ■PPpm-v^TO, 
 
 ■■■:. 
 
THE CROWN OF GENIUS: 
 
 OR 
 
 TRIBUTES TO CELEBRATED PERSONS, 
 
 GEORGE WASHINGTON. 
 
 AND 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 ! 
 
 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 chained 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 shall be their ''glory" by the side of Washington? 
 
 He stood the firm, the calm, the wise, the patriot and sage ; 
 He showed no deep avenging hate — no burst of despot rage. 
 He stood for liberty and truth, and dauntlessly led on. 
 Till shouts of victory gave forth the name of Washington. 
 
 He saved his land, but did not lay his soldier trappings down 
 To change them for the regal vest, and don a kingly crown; 
 Fame was too earnest in her joy — too proud of such a son — 
 To let a robe and title mask a noble Washington. 
 
 Eliza Cook. 
 
 NAPOLEON AND THE 5AIL0R. 
 
 A TRUE STORY. 
 
 NAPOLEON'S banners at Boulogne 
 Armed in our island every freeman, 
 His navy chanced to capture one 
 Poor British seaman. 
 
 They suffered him — I know not how — 
 Unprisoned on the shore to roam ; 
 
 And aye was bent his longing brow 
 On England's home. 
 
 His eye, methinks, pursued the flight 
 Of birds to Britain half-way over, 
 
 With envy, they could reach the white 
 Dear cliffs of Dover. 
 
 A stormy midnight watch, he thought. 
 Than thi^ sojourn would have been dear^r^ 
 
 It but the storm his vessel brought 
 To England nearer. 
 
 At last, when care had banished sleep, 
 
 He saw one morning — dreaming — doating. 
 
 An empty hogshead from the deep 
 Come shoreward floating ; 
 
 He hid it in a cave, and wrought 
 The livelong day laborious ; lurking 
 
 Until he launched a tiny boat 
 By mighty working. 
 
 Heaven help us ! 'twas a thing beyond 
 Description wretched : such a wherry 
 
 Perhaps ne'er ventured on a pond, 
 Or crossed a ferry, 
 
 391 
 
392 
 
 THE CROWN OF GENIUS. 
 
 For ploughing in the salt sea-field, 
 
 It would have made the boldest shudder; 
 
 Untarred, uncompassed, and unkeeled, 
 No sail — no rudder. 
 
 From neighboring woods he interlaced 
 His sorry skiff with wattled willows ; 
 
 And thus equipped he would have passed 
 The foaming billows — 
 
 But Frenchmen caught him on the beach, 
 
 His little Argo sorely jeering ; 
 ill tidings of him ch 
 Napoleon's hearing. 
 
 Till tidings of him chanced to reach 
 
 With folded arms Napoleon stood, 
 Serene alike in peace and danger ; 
 
 And in his wonted attitude, 
 Addressed the stranger: — 
 
 *' Rash man that wouldst yon channel pass 
 On twigs and staves so rudely fashioned ; 
 Thy heart with some sweet British lass 
 Must be impassioned." 
 
 *' I have no sweetheart," said the lad; 
 *' But — absent long from one another — 
 Great was the longing that I had 
 To see my mother." 
 
 " And so thou shalt," Napoleon said, 
 *' Ye've both my favor fairly won; 
 A noble mother must have bred 
 So brave a son." 
 
 H% gave the tar a piece of gold, 
 
 And with a flag of truce commanded 
 
 He should be shipped to England Old, 
 And safely landed 
 
 Our sailor oft could scantly shift 
 To find a dinner plain and hearty ; 
 
 But never changed the coin and gift 
 Of Bonaparte. 
 
 Thomas Campbell. 
 
 THE PORTRAIT OF SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 T 
 
 HIS figure that thou here seest put, 
 It was for gentle Shakespeare cut, 
 Wherein the graver had a strife 
 With nature, to outdo the life : 
 O could he but have drawn his wit. 
 As well in brass, as he hath hit 
 His face ; the print would then surpass 
 All that was ever writ in brass : 
 But since he cannot, reader, look. 
 Not on his picture, but his book. 
 
 Ben Jonson» 
 
 MARY MORISON. 
 
 OMARY, at thy window be ! 
 It is the wished, the trysted hour! 
 Those smiles and glances let me see 
 That make the miser's treasure poor; 
 How blithely wad I bide the stoure, 
 
 A weary slave frae sun to sun. 
 Could I the rich reward secure — 
 The lovely Mary Morison. 
 
 Yestreen when to the trembling string 
 
 The dance gaed through the lighted ha', 
 To thee my fancy took its wing — 
 
 I sat, but neither heard nor saw ; 
 Though this was fair, and that was braw 
 
 And yon the toast of a' the town, 
 I sighed, and said amang them a', 
 
 " Ye are na Mary Morison." 
 
 O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace 
 
 Wha for thy sake wad gladly dee ? 
 Or canst thou break that heart of hi&j,, 
 
 Whase only faut is loving thee? 
 If love for love thou wilt na gie. 
 
 At least be pity to me shown ; 
 A thought ungentle canna be 
 
 The thought o' Mary Morison, 
 
 Robert Burns. 
 
 CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 We would meet and welcome thee. 
 Preacher of humanity : 
 Welcome fills the throbbing breast 
 Of the sympathetic West. 
 
 W. H. Venable. 
 
 ADAMS AND JEFFERSON. 
 
 NO, fellow-citizens, we dismiss not Adams 
 and Jefferson to the chambers of forget- 
 fulness and death. What we admired, 
 and prized, and venerated in them can never die, 
 nor, dying, be forgotten. I had almost said that 
 they are now beginning to live — to live that hfe 
 of unimpaired influence, of unclouded fame, of 
 unmingled happiness, for which their talents and 
 services were destined. They were of the select 
 few, the least portion of whose life dwells in their 
 physical existence ; whose hearts have watched 
 while their senses slept ; whose souls have grown 
 up into a higher being; whose pleasure is to be use- 
 ful ; whose wealth is an unblemished reputation ; 
 who respire the breath of honorable fame; who 
 have deliberately and consciously put what is 
 called life to hazard, that they may live in the 
 hearts of those who come after. Such men do 
 not, can not die, 
 
 Edward Ev»r;^tt» 
 
THE CROWN r^- GENIUS. 
 
 393 
 
 VANDERBILT IS DEAD. 
 
 THE news comes whispering o'er the wire, 
 Vanderbilt is dead. 
 The press rolls out the message dire, 
 Vanderbilt is dead. 
 And the newsboys cry along the street, 
 Through the driving storm and wintry sleet, 
 Vanderbilt is dead. 
 
 A king dethroned sleeps low in death, 
 
 Vanderbilt is dead. 
 The rich men speak with bated breath, 
 
 Vanderbilt is dead. 
 And the clanging trains go out to-night 
 O'er the icy rails in a ghostly flight, 
 
 Vanderbilt is dead. 
 
 The palace grand is now a tomb, 
 
 Vanderbilt is dead. 
 Its splendors grand are veiled with gloom, 
 
 Vanderbilt is dead. 
 Wnere joy was known the mourners weep. 
 Where the laugh was heard is sorrow deep, 
 
 Vanderbilt is dead. 
 
 Sleep on, O King, in thy royal bed, 
 
 Vanderbilt is dead. 
 The wealth of the world doth crown thy head, 
 
 Vanderbilt is dead. 
 Thy sigh is o'er, thy deeds are done, 
 And God shall judge them, one by one — 
 
 Vanderbilt is dead. 
 
 Sherman D. Richardson. 
 
 GEORGE WHITEFIELD. 
 
 HE loved the world that hated him ; the tear 
 That dropped upon his Bible was sincere ; 
 Assailed by scandal and the tongue of 
 strife. 
 His only answer was a blameless life ; 
 And he that forged and he that threw the dart 
 Had each a brother's interest in his heart. 
 Paul's love of Christ and steadiness unbribed 
 Were copied close in him, and well transcribed. 
 He followed Paul ; his zeal a kindred flame. 
 His apostolic charity the same. 
 Like him crossed cheerfully tempestuous seas, 
 Forsaking country, kindred, friends and ease ; 
 Like him he labored, and like him, content 
 To bear it, suffered shame where'er he went. 
 Blush, calumny ! and write upon his tomb. 
 If honest eulogy can spare thee room, 
 Thy deep repentance of thy thousand lies, 
 Which, aimed at him, have pierced the offended 
 
 skies ; 
 And say, Blot out my sin, confessed, deplored, 
 Against thir>'* image in thy saint, O Lord ! 
 
 William Cowper, 
 
 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
 
 THE gifted author of '^ Thanatopsis " has 
 adorned the literature of our later times. 
 The poem just referred to was written by 
 Bryant when a very young man, and we find in 
 it the keynote to all his subsequent songs. The 
 chief charm of his genius consists in a tendei 
 pensiveness, a moral melancholy, breathing over 
 all his contemplations, dreams and reveries, even 
 
 ^<3^. 
 
 W. C. BRYANT. 
 
 such as in the main are glad, and giving assurance 
 of a pure spirit, benevolent to all human creatures, 
 and habitually pious in the felt omnipresence of 
 the Creator. His poetry overflows with natural 
 religion — with what Wadsworth calls "The re- 
 ligion of the woods/' Professor AVilson. 
 
 THE OLD ADMIRAL. 
 
 ADMIRAL STEWART, U. S. N. 
 
 GONE at last. 
 That brave old hero of the past! 
 His spirit has a second birth. 
 An unknown, grander life ; 
 All of him that was earth 
 Lies mute and cold, 
 Like a wrinkled sheath and old 
 Thrown off forever from the shimmering blade 
 That has good entrance made 
 
 Upon some distant, glorious strife. 
 
 From another generation, 
 
 A simpler age, to ours Old Ironsides came; 
 The morn and noontide of the nation 
 
 Alike he knew, nor yet outlived his famc^- 
 0, not outlived his fame ! 
 
394 
 
 THE CROWN OF GENIUS. 
 
 The dauntless men whose service guards our shore 
 
 Lengthen still their glory-roll 
 
 With his name to lead the scroll, 
 As a flagship at her fore 
 
 Carries the Union, with its azure and the stars, 
 ■Symbol of tim.es that are no more 
 
 And the old heroic wars. 
 
 He was the one 
 
 Wliom death had spared alone 
 
 Of all the captains of that lusty age, 
 Who sought the foeman where he lay, 
 On sea or sheltering bay. 
 
 Nor till the prize was theirs repressed their rage. 
 They are gone — all gone : 
 
 They rest with glory and the undying powers ; 
 
 Only their name and fame, and what they saved, 
 are ours ! 
 
 Tt was fifty years ago, 
 
 Upon the Gallic Sea, 
 
 He bore the banner of the free, 
 And fought the fight whereof our children know — 
 
 The deathful, desperate fight ! 
 
 Under the fair moon's light 
 The frigate squared, and yawed to left and right. 
 
 Every broadside swept to death a score ! 
 Roundly played her guns and well, till their fiery 
 
 ensigns fell. 
 Neither foe replying more. 
 All in silence, when the night-breeze cleared the air, 
 
 Old Ironsides rested there, 
 Locked in between the twain, and drenched with 
 blood. 
 
 Then homeward, like an eagle with her prey ! 
 
 O, it was a gallant fray — 
 
 That fight in Biscay Bay ! 
 Fearless the captain stood, in his youthful hardi- 
 hood : 
 
 He was the boldest of them all, 
 
 Our brave old Admiral ! 
 
 And still our heroes bleed. 
 Taught by that olden deed. 
 
 Whether of iron or of oak 
 The ships we marshal at our country's need. 
 
 Still speak their cannon now as then they spoke; 
 Still floats our unstruck banner from the mast 
 
 As in the stormy past. 
 
 Lay him in the ground : 
 
 Let him rest where the ancient river rolls ; 
 Let him sleep beneath the shadow and the sound 
 
 Of the bell whose proclamation, as it tolls. 
 Is of freedom and the gift our fathers gave. 
 
 Lay him gently down : 
 
 The clamor of the town 
 Will not break the slumbers deep, the beautiful 
 ripe sleep, 
 
 Of this lion of the wave, 
 
 Will not trouble the olcl Admiral in his grave. 
 
 Earth to earth his dust is laid. 
 Methinks his stately shade 
 
 On the shadow of a great ship leaves the shore; 
 Over cloudless western seas 
 Seeks the far Hesperides, 
 
 The islands of the blest, 
 Where no turbulent billows roar — 
 
 Where is rest. 
 His ghost upon the shadowy quarter stands 
 Nearing the deathless lands. 
 
 There all his martial mates, renewed and strong, 
 
 Await his coming long. 
 
 I see the happy Heroes rise 
 
 With gratulation in their eyes : 
 ''Welcome, old comrade," Lawrence cries; 
 " Ah, Stewart, tell us of the wars ! 
 Who win the glory and the scars ? 
 How floats the skyey flag — how many stars? 
 
 Still speak they of Decatur's nam.e, 
 
 Of Bainbridge's and Perry's fame? 
 
 Of me, who earliest came ? 
 Make ready, all : 
 Room for the Admiral ! 
 
 Come, Stewart, tell us of the wars ! " 
 
 E. C. Stedman. 
 
 ROBERT SOUTHEY. 
 
 HE said (I only give the heads) — he said 
 He meant no harm in scribbling; 't was 
 his way 
 Upon all topics ; 't was, besides, his bread. 
 
 Of which he buttered both sides; 't would 
 delay 
 Too long the assembly (he was pleased to dread), 
 
 And take up rather more time than a day, 
 To name his works — he would but cite a few — 
 ''Wat Tyler "—" Rhymes on Blenheim"— 
 "Waterloo." 
 
 He had written praises of a regicide ; 
 
 He had written praises of all kings whatever ; 
 He had written for republics far and wide. 
 
 And then against them bitterer than ever ; 
 For pantisocracy he once had cried 
 
 Aloud, a scheme less moral than 't was clever; 
 Then grew a hearty anti-jacobin — 
 Had turned his coat — and would have turned his 
 skin. 
 
 He had sung against all battles, and again 
 
 In their high praise and glory ; he had called 
 Reviewing "the ungentle craft," and then 
 
 Become as base a critic as e'er crawled — 
 Fed, paid, and pampered by the very men 
 
 By whom his muse and morals had been mauled ; 
 He had written much blank verse, and blanker 
 prose, 
 
 And more of both than anybody knows. 
 
 j:.0RD Byron, 
 
THE CROWN OF GENIUS, 
 
 395 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF BEN JONSON. 
 
 THE muse's fairest light in no dark time, 
 The wonder of a learned age the line 
 Which none can pass; the most propor 
 tioned wit — 
 To nature, the best judge of what was fit ; 
 The deepest, plainest, highest, clearest pen ; 
 The voice most echoed by consenting men ; 
 The soul which answered best to all well said 
 By others, and which most requital made ; 
 Tuned to the highest key of ancient Rome, 
 Returning all her music with his own ; 
 In whom, with nature, study claimed a part. 
 And yet w^ho to himself owed all his art : 
 Here lies Ben Johnson ! every age will look 
 With sorrow here, with wonder on his book. 
 
 John Cleveland. 
 
 HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 
 
 UNHAPPY White ! while life was in its 
 spring, 
 And thy young muse just waved her 
 joyous wing. 
 The spoiler came, and all thy promise fair 
 Has sought the grave, to sleep forever there. 
 O what a noble heart was there undone. 
 When science self-destroyed her favorite son ! 
 Yes, she too much indulged thy fond pursuit ; 
 She sowed the seeds, but death has reaped the 
 
 fruit. 
 'T w^as thine own genius gave the fatal blow. 
 And helped to plant the wound that laid thee 
 low. 
 
 So the struck eagle, stretched upon the plain, 
 No more through rolling clouds to soar again, 
 Viewed his own feather on the fatal dart, 
 And winged the shaft that quivers at his heart. 
 
 Keen were his pangs ; but keener far to feel 
 He nursed the pinion which impelled the steel, 
 While the same plumage that had warmed his nest 
 Drank the last life-drop from his bleeding breast ! 
 
 Lord Byron. 
 
 ITALY'S KING. 
 
 O Victor Emmanuel, the King, 
 
 The sword be for thee, and the ueed ] 
 
 And nought for the alien, next spring. 
 
 Nought for Hapsburg and Bourbon agreed; 
 But, for us, a great Italy freed, 
 
 With a hero to head us — our King. 
 
 Elizabeth B. Browning. 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF HOOD. 
 
 Here lies a poet. Stranger, if to thee 
 His claim to memory be obscure. 
 
 If thou wouldst learn how truly great was he. 
 Go, ask it of the poor. 
 
 THE POET CAMPBELL. 
 
 BEST known by his remarkable poem, " The 
 Pleasures of Hope," Campbell's fame rests 
 upon other productions which do not seem 
 to lose their charm. He wrote in the taste 
 of the time, yet with no small degree of origi- 
 
 THOMAS CAMPBELL. 
 
 nality, and he handled topics of immediate though 
 not ephemeral interest. His battle-pieces on 
 names and subjects known to all had the true 
 popular ring, a bold tramp of metre. 
 
 Little matters how Campbell managed to pro- 
 duce his most inspiring poems. He had the 
 touch, that is what is certain. Many of his short 
 poems had the unmistakable stamp of the artist 
 upon them. Compared as lyrical writers, Camp- 
 bell seems to have a finer touch than Scott or 
 Byron, the former of whom is apt to be rough, the 
 latter turgid. But in whatever rank one or an- 
 other reader may place the poetry of Campbell 
 all will agree that he made genuine additions to 
 English literature. "It is on his lyrics," says 
 Professor Aytoun, " that the future reputation of 
 Campbell must principally rest. They have taken 
 their place, never to be disturbed, in the popular 
 heart ; and, until the language in which they are 
 written perishes, they are certain to endure." 
 
 WiLLJAM AttlNQHAM, 
 
396 
 
 THE CROWN OF GENIUS. 
 
 A 
 
 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 S a poet and humorist Hood has touched 
 the universal heart. His two productions, 
 ''Song of the Shirt" and ''Bridge of 
 Sighs " are sufficient to give him immortal fame, 
 even if he had written nothing else. It has been 
 well said that the predominant characteristic of 
 Hood's genius are humorous fancies grafted upon 
 melancholy impressions. Yet the term " grafted " 
 
 THE LAST HOURS OF SOCRATES. 
 
 S 
 
 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 i i hardly strong enough. Hood appears by natural 
 bent and permanent habit of mind to have seen 
 a-id sought for ludicrousness under all conditions; 
 it was the first thing that struck him. 
 
 On the other hand, his nature being poetiC; his 
 sympathies acute, and the condition of his life 
 morbid, he very frequently wrote in a tone of deep 
 melancholy feeling, and was a master both of his 
 own art and of the reader's emotion. Sometimes, 
 not very often, we are allowed to reach the close 
 of a poem of his without having our attention 
 jogged and called off by something grotesque, and 
 then we feel how exquisite a poetic sense and 
 choice a cunning of hand were his. On the whole 
 v.e can pronounce him the finest English poet be- 
 tween the generation of ShelJey and the generation 
 pf Tennyson. W. M. Rossetti, 
 
 OCRATES was the reverse of a skeptic. No 
 man ever looked upon life with a mere posi- 
 tive and practical eye. No man ever pur- 
 sued his mark with a clearer perception of the road 
 which he was traveling. No man ever combined^ 
 in like manner, the absorbing enthusiasm of a 
 missionary, with the acuteness, the originality, the 
 inventive resources, and the generalizmg compre- 
 hension of a philosopher. And yet this man 
 was condemned to death — condemned by a hos- 
 tile tribunal of more than five hundred citizens of 
 Athens, drawn at hazard from all classes of 
 society. A majority of six turned the scale, in 
 the most momentous trial that, up to that time, 
 the world had witnessed. And the vague charges 
 on which Socrates was condemned were, that he 
 was a vain babbler, a corrupter of yuuth, and 
 a setter-forth of strange gods ! 
 
 It would be tempting to enlarge on the 
 closing scene of his life — a scene whicli Plato has 
 invested with such immortal glory : on the affect- 
 ing farewell to the Judges ; on the long thirty 
 days which passed in prison before the execu- 
 tion of the verdict ; on his playful equanimity, 
 amid the uncontrollable emotions of his com- 
 panions ; on the gathering in of that solemn 
 evening, when the fading of the sunset hues on 
 the tops of the Athenian hills was the signal that 
 the last hour was at hand; on the introduc- 
 tion of the fatal hemlock, the immovable coun- 
 tenance of Socrates, the firm hand, and then 
 the burst of frantic lamentation from all his 
 friends, as, with his habitual ease and cheerful- 
 ness, he drained the cup to its dregs ; then the 
 solemn silence enjoined by himself; the pacing 
 to and fro; the strong religious persuasions 
 attested by his last words ; the cold palsy of 
 the poison creeping from the extremities to 
 the heart ; the gradual torpor ending in death ! 
 But I must forbear. 
 
 O for a modern spirit like his ! O for one hour 
 of Socrates ! O for one hour of that voice whose 
 questioning w^ould make men see what they knew, 
 and what ihey did not know; what they meant, 
 and what they only tJioicght they meant ; what they 
 believed in t7'uth^ and what they only believed in 
 name ; wherein they agreed, and wherein they dif- 
 fered. That voice is, indeed, silent ; but there is 
 a voice in each man's heart and conscience which, 
 if we will, Socrates has taught us to use rightly. 
 That voice still enjoins us to give to ourselves a 
 reason for the hope that is in us — both hearing and 
 asking questions. It tells us that the fancied re- 
 pose which self-inquiry disturbs is more than com- 
 pensated by the real repose which it gives ; that a 
 wise questioning is the half of knowledge ; and 
 that a life without self-examination is no life 
 M all. 
 
THE CROWN O'F GEmUS. 
 
 397 
 
 GENERAL GRANT. 
 
 AS one by one withdraw the lofty actors 
 From that great play on history's stage 
 eterne, 
 That lurid, partial act of war and peace — 
 of old and new contending, 
 Fought out through wrath, fears, dark dismays, 
 
 and many a long suspense ! 
 All past — and since, in countless graves receding, 
 
 mellowing, 
 Victor's and vanquished — Lincoln's and Lee's — 
 
 now thou with them, 
 Man of the mighty days — and equal to the days ! 
 Thou from the prairies ! tangled and many-veined 
 
 and hard has been thy part, 
 To admiration has it been enacted ! 
 
 And still shall be — resume again, thou hero heart ! 
 Strengthen ta fiiiiiest day O rosy dawn of hope ! 
 Thou dirge I started first, to joyful shout reverse 
 
 — and thou, O grave, 
 Wa.it Long and long ! Walt Whitman. 
 
 TO J. G. WHITTIER ON HIS SEVEN=. 
 TIETH BIRTHDAY. 
 
 SNOW-BOUND for earth, but summer-souled 
 for thee. 
 Thy natal morning shines : 
 
 Hail, friend and poet. Give thy hand 
 to me. 
 And let me read its lines ! 
 
 For skilled in fancy's palmistry am I, 
 When years have set their crown ; 
 
 When life gives light to read its secrets by, 
 And deed explains renown. 
 
 So, poking backward from thy seventieth year 
 On service grand and free. 
 The pictures of the spirit's past are clear. 
 And each interprets thee. 
 
 I see thee, first, on hills our Aryan sires 
 
 In time's lost morning knew. 
 Kindling as priest the lonely altar-fires 
 
 That from earth's darkness grew. 
 
 Then wise with secrets of Chaldsean lore, 
 
 In high Akkadian fane ; 
 Or pacing slow by Egypt's river shore, 
 
 In Thothmes' glorious reign. 
 
 I hear thee, wroth with all iniquities 
 
 That Judah's kings betrayed. 
 Preach from Ain-Jidi's rock thy God's decrees. 
 
 Or Mamre's terebinth shade. 
 
 And, ah ! most piteous vision of the past, 
 
 Drawn by thy being's law, 
 I see thee, martyr, in the arena cast, 
 
 Beneath the lion's paw. 
 
 Yet, afterwards, how rang thy sword upon 
 
 The paynim helm and shield ! 
 How shone with Godfrey, and at Askalon, 
 
 Thy white plume o'er the field. 
 
 Strange contradiction ! where the sand waves 
 spread 
 The boundless desert sea, 
 The Bedouin spearmen found their destined 
 head. 
 Their dark-eyed chief — in thee ! 
 
 And thou wert friar in Cluny's saintly cell. 
 
 And Skald by Norway's foam. 
 Ere fate of poet fixed thy soul to dwell 
 
 In this New England home. 
 
 Here art thou poet — more than warrior, priest ; 
 
 And here thy quiet years 
 Yield more to us than sacrifice or feast, 
 
 Or clash of swords or spears. 
 
 The faith that lifts, the courage that sustains, 
 These thou wert sent to teach : 
 
 Hot blood of battle, beating in thy veins. 
 Is turned to gentle speech. 
 
 Not less, but more, than others hast thou 
 striven ; 
 Thy victories remain : 
 The scars of ancient hate, long since for- 
 given. 
 Have lost their power to pain. 
 
 Apostle pure of freedom and of right. 
 
 Thou hast thy one reward ; 
 Thy prayers were heard and flashed upon thy 
 sight 
 
 The coming of the Lord ! 
 
 Now, sheathed in myrtle of thy tender songs. 
 
 Slumbers the blade of truth ; 
 But age's wisdom, crowning thee, prolongs 
 
 The eager hope of youth. 
 
 Another line upon thy hand I trace 
 
 All destinies above : 
 Men know thee most as one that loves his race. 
 
 And bless thee with their love ! 
 
 Bayard Taylor. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF PRESIDENT 
 TAYLOR. 
 
 WEEP not for him ! The Thracians wisely 
 gave 
 Tears to the birth-couch, triumph to 
 the grave. 
 Weep not for him ! Go, mark his high career ; 
 It knew no shame, no folly, and no fear. 
 Nurtured to peril, lo ! the peril came. 
 To lead him on, from field to field, to fame. 
 Weep not for him whose lustrous life has known 
 No field of fame he has not made his own ! 
 
39S 
 
 THE CROWN OF GENIUS. 
 
 In many a fainting clime, in many a war, 
 Still bright-browed Victory drew the patriot's car. 
 Whether he met the dusk and prowling foe 
 By oceanic Mississippi's flow; 
 Or where the Southern swamps, with steamy 
 
 breath, 
 Smite the worn warrior with no warrior's death ! 
 Or where, like surges on the rolling main. 
 Squadron on squadron sweep the prairie plain — 
 Dawn — and the field the haughty foe o'erspread 
 Sunset — and Rio Grande's waves ran red ! 
 Or where, from rock-ribbed safety, Monterey 
 Frowns death, and dares him to the unequal fray; 
 Till crashing walls and slippery streets bespeak 
 How frail the fortress where the heart is weak ; 
 How vainly numbers menace, rocks defy. 
 Men sternly knit, and firm to do or die ; — 
 Or where on thousand thousands crowding rush, 
 (Rome knew not such a day) his ranks to crush. 
 The long day paused on Buena Vista's height, 
 Above the cloud with flashing volleys bright, 
 Till angry freedom, hovering o'er the fray. 
 Swooped down, and made a new Thermopylae ; — 
 In every scene of peril and of pain, 
 His were the toils, his country's was the gain. 
 From field to field — and all were nobly won — • 
 He bore, with eagle flight, her standard on : 
 New stars rose there — but never star grew dim 
 While in his patriot grasp. Weep not for him. 
 
 He was a spirit simple, grand and pure, 
 Great to conceive to do, and to endure; 
 Yet the rough warrior was, in heart, a child, 
 Rich in love's aflluence, merciful and mild. 
 His sterner traits, majestic and antique. 
 Rivalled the stoic Roman or the Greek; 
 Excelling both, he adds the Christian name, 
 And Christian virtues make it more than fame. 
 To country, youth, age, love, life — all were 
 given 
 In death, she lingered between him and heaven ; 
 Thus spake the patriot, in his latest sigh — 
 "My duty done — I do not fear to die ! " 
 
 Robert T. Conrad. 
 
 WILLIAM PENN. 
 
 PENN, despairing of relief in Europe, bent 
 the whole energy of his mind to accom- 
 plish the establishment of a free govern- 
 ment in the New World. For that "heavenly 
 end," he was prepared by the severe discipline of 
 life, and the love, without dissimulation, which 
 formed the basis of his character. The sentiment 
 of cheerful humanity was irrepressibly strong in 
 his bosom ; as with John Eliot and Roger Wil- 
 liams, benevolence gushed prodigally from his 
 ever-flowing heart ; and when, in his late old age, 
 his intellect was impaired, and his reason pros- 
 trated by apoplexy, his sweetness of disposition 
 rose serenely over the clouds of disease. 
 
 Possessing an extraordinary greatness of mind, 
 vast conceptions, remarkable for their universality 
 and precision, and ''surpassing in speculative en- 
 dowments; " conversant with men, and books, and 
 governments, with various languages, and the forms 
 of political combinations, as they existed in Eng- 
 land and France, in Holland, and the principalities 
 and free cities of Germany, he yet sought the 
 source of wisdom in his own soul. Humane by 
 nature and by suffering ; familiar with the royal 
 family; intimate with Sunderland and Sydney; 
 acquainted with Russel, Halifax, Shaftesbury, and 
 Buckingham ; as a member of the Royal Society, 
 the peer of Newton and the great scholars of his 
 age — he valued the promptings of a free mind 
 more than the awards of the learned, and rever- 
 enced the single-minded sincerity of the Notting- 
 ham shepherd more than the authority of colleges 
 and the wisdom of philosophers. 
 
 George Bancroft. 
 
 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 THE barge she sat in, like a burnished throne, 
 Burnt on the water : the poop was beaten 
 gold; 
 Purple the sails, and so perfumed that 
 The winds were love-sick with them : the oars 
 
 were silver ; 
 Which to the tune of flutes kept stroke and made 
 The water, which they beat, to follow faster, 
 As amorous of their strokes. For her own person^ 
 It beggared all description: she did lie 
 In her pavilion (cloth of gold, of tissue), 
 O'erpicturing that Venus, where we see 
 The fancy out-work nature : on each side her 
 Stood pretty dimpled bo} s, like smiling Cupids, 
 With divers-colored fans, whose wind did seem 
 To glow the delicate cheeks which they did cool 
 And what they undid, did. 
 
 Her gentlewomen, like the Nereides, 
 So many mermaids, tended her i' the eyes, 
 And made their bends adornings : at the helm 
 A seeming mermaid steers ; the silken tackle 
 Swell with the touches of those flower-soft hands, 
 That rarely frame the office. From the barge 
 A strange invisible perfume hits the sense 
 Of the adjacent wharfs. The city cast 
 Her people out upon her ; and Antony, 
 Enthroned in the market-place, did sit alone, 
 Whistling to the air; which, but for vacancy, 
 Had gone to gaze on Cleopatra too, 
 And made a gap in nature. 
 
 Upon her landing, Antony sent to her. 
 Invited her to supper : she replied, 
 It should be better he became her guest ; 
 Which she entreated : our courteous Antony, 
 Whom ne'er the word of *' No," woman heard 
 speak, 
 
THE CROWN OF GENIUS. 
 
 399 
 
 Being barbered ten times o'er, goes to the feast; 
 And, for his ordinary, pays his heart, 
 For what his eyes eat only. 
 
 William Shakespeare. 
 
 PRESCOTT'S METHOD OF LIVING. 
 
 THAT Mr. Prescott, under his disheartening 
 infirmities — I refer not only to his imper- 
 fect sight, but to the rheumatism from 
 which he was seldom wholly free — should, at 
 the age of five and twenty or thirty, with no 
 help but this simple apparatus, have aspired to 
 the character of an historian dealing with 
 events that happened in times and countries 
 far distant from his own, and that art recorded 
 chiefly in foreign languages and by authors whose 
 conflicting testimony was often to be reconciled 
 by laborious comparison, is a remarkable fact 
 in literary history. It is a problem the solu- 
 tion of which was, I believe, never before 
 undertaken ; certainly never before accom- 
 plished. Nor do I conceive that he himself 
 could have accomplished it, unless to his uncom- 
 mon intellectual gifts had been added great ani- 
 mal spirits, a strong, persistent will, and a moral 
 courage which was to be daunted by no obsta- 
 cle that he m:'ght deem it possible to remove 
 by almost any amount of effort. 
 
 That he was not insensible to the difficulties 
 of his undertaking, we have partly seen, as we 
 have witnessed how his hopes fluctuated while 
 he was struggling through the arrangements for 
 beginning to write his '^Ferdinand and Isa- 
 bella," and, in fact, during the whole period 
 of its composition. But he showed the same 
 character, the same fertility of resource, everyday 
 of his life, and provided, both by forecast and self- 
 sacrifice, against the embarrassments of his con- 
 dition as they successively presented themselves. 
 
 The first thing to be done, and the thing 
 always to be repeated day by day, was to 
 strengthen, as much as possible, what remained 
 of his sight, and at any rate, to do nothing 
 that should tend to exhaust its impaired powers. 
 In 182 1, when he was still not without some 
 hope of its recovery, he made this memoran- 
 dum : "I will make it my principal purpose -^ 
 to restore my eye to its primitive vigor, and 
 will do nothing habitually that can seriously 
 injure it." To this end he regulated his life 
 with an exactness that I have never known 
 equalled. Especially in whatever related to the 
 daily distribution of his time, whether in regard 
 to his intellectual labors, to his social enjoyments, 
 or to the care of his physical powers, including his 
 diet, he was severely exact — managing himself, 
 indeed, in this last respect, under the general 
 directions of his wise medical adviser, but carry- 
 ing out these directions with an ingenuity and 
 fidelity all his own. G. H. Ticknor. 
 
 TO COLE, THE PAINTER, DEPARTING 
 FOR EUROPE. 
 
 THINE eyes shall see the light ot distant 
 skies : 
 Yet, Cole ! thy heart shall bear to Europe's 
 
 strand 
 A living image of thy native land. 
 Such as on thine own glorious canvas lies ; 
 I^one lakes — savannas where the bison roves — 
 
 W. H. PRESCOTT. 
 
 Rocks rich with summer garlands — solemn 
 
 streams, 
 Skies, where the desert eagle wheels and 
 screams — • 
 Spring bloom and autumn blaze of boundless groves, 
 Fair scenes shall greet thee where thou goest — fair, 
 But different — everywhere the trace of men. 
 Paths, homes, graves, ruins, from the lowest glen 
 To where life shrinks from the fierce Alpine air, 
 Gaze on them, till the tears shall dim thy sight; 
 But keep that earlier, wilder image bright. 
 
 W. C. Bryant. 
 
iJO 
 
 THE CROWN OF GENIUS, 
 
 THE SEMINOLE S DEFIANCE. 
 
 BLAZE, with you serried columns ! I will not bend the knee; 
 The shackle ne'er again shall bind the arm which now is free! 
 I've mailed it with the thunder, when the tempest muttered low. 
 And where it falls, ye well may dread the lightning of its blow. 
 I've scared you in the city; I've scalped you on the plain; 
 Go, count your chosen where they fell beneath my leaden rain ! 
 I scorn your proffered treaty ; the pale-face I defy; 
 Revenge is stamped upon my spear, and ' ' blood ' ' my battle-cry ! 
 
 Some strike for hope of booty ; some to defend their all ; — 
 
 I battle for the joy I have to see the white man fall. 
 
 I love, among the wounded, to hear his dying moan. 
 
 And catch, while chanting at his side, the music of his groan. 
 
 Ye've trailed me through the forest; ye've tracked me o'er the stream 
 
 And struggling through the everglade your bristling bayonets gleam, 
 
 But I stand, as should the warrior, with his rifle and his spear ; 
 
 The scalp of vengeance still is red, and warns you — '' Come not here ! " 
 
 Think ye to iind my household ? — I gave it to the fire. 
 
 My tawny household do ye seek ? — I am a childless sire. 
 
 But, should ye crave life's nourishment, enough I have, and good; 
 
 I live on hate — 'tis ?U my bread ; yet light is not my food. 
 
 I loath you with my bosom ! I scorn you with mine eye ! 
 
 And I'll taunt you with my latest breath, and fight you till I die ! 
 
 I ne'er will ask for quarter, and I ne'er \vill be your slave ; 
 
 But I'll swim the sea of slaughter till I sink beneath the wave ! 
 
 G. W. Patton; 
 
 FATE OF CHARLES THE TWELFTH. 
 
 ON what foundation stands the warrior's 
 pride, 
 How just his hopes, let Swedish Charles 
 decide ! 
 A frame of adamant, a soul of fire. 
 No dangers fright him, and no labors tire ; 
 O'er love, o'er fear, extends his wide domain, 
 Unconquered lord of pleasure and of pain; 
 No joys to him pacific sceptres yield, 
 War sounds the trump, he rushes to the field ; 
 Behold surrounding kings their powers combine, 
 And one capitulate, and one resign ; 
 Peace courts his hand, but spreads her charms in 
 
 vain, 
 *' Think nothing gained," he cries, ^'till naught 
 
 remain ; 
 On Moscow's walls till Gothic standards fly, 
 And all be mine beneath the polar sky. ' ' 
 
 dT he march begins in military state, 
 A.nd nations on his eye suspended wait; 
 Stern famine guards the solitary coast, 
 And winter barricades the realms of frost; 
 He comes — ^nor want nor cold his course delay ; 
 Hide, blushing glory, hide Pultowa's day! 
 The vanquished hero leaves his broken bands, 
 And shows his miseries in distant lands; 
 Condemned a needy suppliant to wait. 
 While ladies interpose, and slaves debate. 
 
 But did not chance at length her error mend? 
 Did no subverted empire mark his end ? 
 Did rival monarchs give the fatal wound ? 
 Or hostile millions press him to the ground? 
 His fall was destined to a barren strand, 
 A petty fortress, and a dubious hand ; 
 He left the name, at which the world grew pale, 
 To point a moral, or adorn a tale ! 
 
 Samuel Johnson. 
 
 WENDELL PHILLIPS. . 
 
 ALONG the streets one day with that swift 
 tread 
 He walked a living king — then "He is 
 dead,'' 
 The whisper flew from lip to lip, while still 
 Sounding within their ears, the echoing thrill 
 Of his magician's voice we seemed to hear, 
 In notes of melody ring near and clear. 
 
 So near, so clear, men cried, "It cannot be! 
 
 It was but yesterday he spoke to me : 
 
 But yesterday we saw him move along, 
 
 His head above the crowd, swift-paced and strong ; 
 
 But yesterday his plan and purpose sped, 
 
 It cannot be to-day that he is dead." 
 
 A moment thus, half-dazed, men met and spoke, 
 When first the sudden news upon them broke ; 
 A moment more, with sad acceptance turned 
 To face the bitter truth that they had spurned. 
 
THE CROWN OF GENIUS. 
 
 401 
 
 Friends said through tears, ** How empty seems 
 
 the town." 
 And warning critics laid their weapons down. 
 
 He had his faults, they said, but they were faults 
 Of head and not of heart — his sharp assaults 
 Flung seeming heedless from his quivering bow, 
 And needless striking either friend or foe, 
 Were launched with eyes that saw not foe or friend, 
 But only shining far, some goal or end. 
 
 That compassed once, should bring God's saving 
 
 grace 
 To purge and purify the human race — 
 The measure that meted out he took, 
 And blow for blow received without a look, 
 Without a sigh of conscious hurt or hate, 
 To stir the tranquil calmness of his state. 
 
 Born on the heights and in the purple bred. 
 He chose' to walk the lowly ways instead. 
 That he might lift the wretched and defend 
 The rights of those who languished for a friend, 
 So many years he spent in listening 
 To these sad cries of wrong and suffering. 
 
 Nora Perry. 
 
 MARTIN LUTHER. 
 
 IN the solemn loneliness, in which Luther found 
 himself, he called around him not so much 
 the masters of the Greek and Latin wisdom 
 through the study of the ancient languages, as he 
 did the mass of his own countrymen, by his trans- 
 lation of the Bible. It would have been a matter 
 of tardy impression and remote efficacy, had he 
 done no more than awake from the dusty alcoves of 
 the libraries the venerable shades of the classic 
 teachers. He roused up a population of living, 
 sentient men, his countrymen, his brethren. He 
 might have written and preached in Latin to his 
 dying day, and the elegant Italian scholars, cham- 
 pions of the church, would have answered him in 
 Latin better than his own ; and with the mass of 
 the people, the whole affair would have been a con- 
 test betv/een angry and loquacious priests. * ' Awake 
 all antiquity from the sleep of the libraries !" 
 
 He awoke all Germany and half Europe from 
 the scholastic sleep of an ignorance worse than 
 death. He took into his hands not the oaten pipe 
 of the classic muse; he moved to his great work, 
 not 
 
 * * * To the Dorian mood 
 Of flutes and soft recorders : — 
 
 He grasped the iron trumpet of his mother tongue 
 — the good old Saxon from which our own is de- 
 scended, the language of noble thought and high 
 resolve — and blew a blast that shook the nations 
 from Rome to the Orkneys. Sovereign, citizen, 
 and peasant, started at the sound ; and, in a few 
 short years, the poor monk, who had begged his 
 26 
 
 bread for a pious canticle in the streets of Eisen- 
 ach — no longer friendless — no longer solitary — 
 was sustained by victorious armies, countenanced 
 by princes, and, what is a thousand times more 
 precious than the brightest crown in Christendom, 
 revered as a sage, a benefactor, and a spiritual 
 parent, at the firesides of millions of his humble 
 and grateful countrymen. 
 
 Edward Everett. 
 
 H 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 IS is that language of the heart 
 
 In which the answering heart would speak. 
 Thought, word, that bids the warm tear start, 
 Or the smile light the cheek ; 
 
 And his that music to whose tone 
 
 The common pulse of man keeps time. 
 
 In cot or castle's mirth or moan. 
 In cold or sunny clime. 
 
 Through care and pain and want and woe, 
 With wounds that only death could heal. 
 
 Tortures the poor alone can know. 
 The proud alone can feel. 
 
 He kept his honesty and truth. 
 His independent tongue and pen, 
 
 And moved, in manhood as in youth, 
 Pride of his fellow-men. 
 
 Strong sense, deep feeling, passions strong, 
 A hate of tyrant and of knave, 
 
 A love of right, a scorn of wrong. 
 Of coward and of slave ; 
 
 A kind, true heart, a spirit high, 
 
 That could not fear and would not bow. 
 
 Were written in his manly eye 
 And on his manly brow. 
 
 Praise to the bard ! his words are driven, 
 Like flower-seeds by the far winds sown. 
 
 Where'er beneath the sky of heaven 
 The birds of fame have flown. 
 
 Praise to the man ! a nation stood 
 Beside his coffin with wet eyes — 
 
 Her brave, her beautiful, her good — 
 As when a loved one dies. 
 
 And still, as on his funeral day. 
 
 Men stand his cold earth-couch around, 
 
 With the mute homage that we pay 
 To consecrated ground. 
 
 And consecrated ground it is — 
 
 The last, the hallowed home of one 
 
 Who lives upon all memories. 
 Though with the buried gone. 
 
 Fitz-Greene Halleck. 
 
402 
 
 THE CROWN OF GENIUS, 
 
 C0PERNICU5. 
 
 HE is dying, but he leaves a glorious truth as 
 his dying bequest to the world. He bids 
 the friend who has brought it place him- 
 self between the window and his bedside, that the 
 sun's rays may fall upon the precious volume, and 
 he may behold it once more before his eye grows 
 dim. He looks upon it, takes it in his hands, 
 presses it to his breast, and expires. 
 
 But no, he is not wholly gone. A smile lights up 
 his dying countenance ; a beam of returning intelli- 
 gence kindles in his eye ; his lips move ; and the 
 
 fresh to the eye of memory ; he yearns after and 
 covets what soothes the frailty of human nature. 
 That touches him most nearly which is withdrawn 
 to a certain distance, which verges on the borders 
 of oblivion. The streets of London are his fairy- 
 land, teeming with wonder, with life and interest 
 to his retrospective glance, as it did to the eager 
 eye of childhood ; he has contrived to weave its 
 tritest traditions into a bright and endless romance. 
 As an essayist. Lamb will be remembered with 
 the best of his class. He has wisdom and wit of 
 the highest order, exquisite humor, a genuine and 
 
 CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 friend who leans over him can hear him faintly mur- 
 mur the beautiful sentiments which the Christian 
 lyrist of a later age has so finely expressed in verse : 
 '*Ye golden lamps of heaven, farewell, with all 
 
 your feeble light ; 
 Farewell, thou ever-changing moon, pale empress 
 
 of the night ; 
 And thou, effulgent orb of day, in brighter flames 
 
 arrayed ; 
 My soul, which springs beyond thy sphere, no 
 
 more demands thy aid. 
 Ye stars are but the shining dust of my divide 
 
 abode. 
 The pavement of those heavenly courts where I 
 
 shall reign with God." 
 So died the great Columbus of the heavens. 
 Edward Everett. 
 
 CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 LAMB'S style runs pure and clear, though it 
 mav often take an underground course, or 
 ] , conveyed through old-fashioned con- 
 duits. He delights to dwell on that which is 
 
 cordial vein of pleasantry, and the most heart 
 touching pathos. His thoughts are always his 
 own. Even when his words seem cast into the 
 very mould of others, the perfect originality of 
 his thinking is felt and acknowledged. An in- 
 stance of this is his delightful essay on '^ Roast 
 Pig" — an essay that is fairly succulent with the 
 juices of the oven, and is enough to tickle the 
 palate of even a man who is not fond of this 
 product of the farm-yard. The sweet stream of 
 thought bubbles and sparkles with witty fancies 
 such as I do not remember to have elsewhere met 
 with, except in Shakespeare. 
 
 William Hazlitt. 
 
 THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE. 
 
 WOE unto us, not her ; for she sleeps well t 
 The fickle reek of popular breath, the 
 tongue 
 Of hollow counsel, the false oracle. 
 Which from the birth of monarchy hath rung 
 Its knell in princely ears, till the o'erstung 
 Nations have armed in madness, the strange fate 
 
THE CROWN OF GEXIUS. 
 
 40g 
 
 Which tumbles mightiest sovereigns, and hath 
 
 flung 
 Against their blind omnipotence a weight 
 Within the opposing scale, which crushes soon or 
 
 late — 
 
 These might have been her destiny ; but no, 
 Our hearts deny it : and so young, so fair, 
 Good without effort, great without a foe ; 
 But now a bride and mother, — and now there ! 
 How many ties did that stern moment tear ! 
 From thy sire's to his humblest subject's breast 
 Is linked the electric chain of that despair, 
 Whose shock was as an earthquake's, and 
 
 opprest 
 The land which loved thee so that none could 
 
 love thee best. 
 
 Lord Byron. 
 
 HENRY CLAY'S POPULARITY. 
 
 OF our public men of the sixty years pre- 
 ceding the war, Henry Clay was certainly 
 the most shining figure. Was there 
 ever a public man, not at the head of a state, so 
 beloved as he? Who ever heard -such cheers, 
 so hearty, distinct, and ringing, as those which 
 his name evoked ? Men shed tears at his defeat, 
 and women w^ent to bed sick from pure sym- 
 pathy with his disappointment. He could not 
 travel during the last thirty years of his life, 
 but only make progresses. When he left his 
 home the public seized him and bore him 
 along over the land, the committee of one State 
 passing him on to the committee of another, 
 and the hurrahs of one town dying away as 
 chose of the next caught his ear. The country 
 seemed to place all its resources at his disposal ; 
 all commodities sought his acceptance. 
 
 Passing through Newark once, he thoughtlessly 
 ordered a carriage of a certain pattern : the same 
 evening the carriage was at the door of his hotel 
 in New York, the gift of a few Newark friends. 
 It was so everywhere and with everything. His 
 house became at last a museum of curious gifts. 
 There was the counterpane made for him by a lady 
 ninety-three years of age, and Washington's camp- 
 goblet given him by a lady of eighty ; there were 
 pistols, rifles, and fowling-pieces enough to defend 
 a citadel; and, among a bundle of walking-sticks, 
 was one cut for him from a tree that shaded 
 Cicero's grave. There were gorgeous prayer- 
 books, and Bibles of exceeding magnitude and 
 splendor, and silver- ware in great profusion. 
 
 On one occasion there arrived at Ashland the 
 substantial present of twenty-three barrels of salt. 
 In his old age, when his fine estate, through the 
 misfortunes of his sons, was burdened with mort- 
 gages to the amount of thirty-thousand dollars, 
 and other large debts weighed heavily upon his 
 
 soul, and he feared to be compelled to sell the 
 home of fifty years and seek a strange abode, a 
 few old friends secretly raised the needful sum, 
 secretly paid the mortgages and discharged the 
 debts, and then caused the aged orator to be 
 informed of what had been done, but not of the 
 names of the donors. 
 
 " Could my life insure the success of Henry 
 Clay, I would freely lay it down this day," ex- 
 claimed an old Rhode Island sea-captain on the 
 morning of the Presidential election of 1844. 
 Who has forgotten the passion of disappointment, 
 
 HENRY CLAY AT LEXINGTON, KY. 
 
 the amazement and despair, at the result of that 
 day's fatal work? Fatal we thought it then, little 
 dreaming that, while it precipitated evil, it brought 
 nearer the day of deliverance. 
 
 James Parton. 
 
 JOHN HOWARD. 
 
 THE prisons of Europe previous to Howard's 
 great reformatory work almost surpassed 
 description. They were dungeons without 
 a ray of light to cheer. If human in- 
 genuity had set itself to work to inflict the most 
 abject misery upon condemned criminals it could 
 not have achieved a greater success. Man was 
 
404 
 
 THE CROWN OF GENIUS, 
 
 nothing more than a brute. There was no pity for 
 his chains, no sympathy for his sorrows. The cold 
 walls of his cell were no more unfeeling than the 
 
 Great Britain and Europe were grander than 
 triumphal marches. If the victims of the dark 
 dungeons could have been released for a moment 
 
 hearts of his judicial tormentors. One loud groan 
 went up to heaven from every prison in Europe. 
 
 John Howard came. He was human, sympa- 
 thetic, wise. He heard the moan of the prisoner ; 
 if he did not turn it into music he at least made 
 it less dolorous. Howard's journeys through 
 
 they would have strewn palm-branches in his way. 
 The sun rose upon a night of darkness. Uplifted 
 eyes and broken hearts hailed the coming of John 
 Howard, the prisoner's friend. Better to have^the 
 blessings of the poor and oppressed than to live 
 in bronze and granite. 
 
THE CROWN OF GENIUS, 
 
 405 
 
 M 
 
 Never before had been heard such nmsic — the 
 clanking of chains stricken off by his half-omnipo- 
 tent hand. A new era had dawned in civiliza- 
 tion. Not that there was any effort to prevent the 
 rigid exercise of justice, but the angel of pity, almost 
 a stranger in the earth, bent down over the weak, 
 the suffering, the abused, the doomed, and there was 
 heaven in her eyes. Henry Davenport. 
 
 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 .\N is the grief of those whose faith 
 Is bounded by the shores of death ; 
 From out whose mists of doubt and 
 gloom 
 No rainbow arches o'er the tomb 
 Where love's last tribute of a tear 
 Lies with dead flowers upon the bier. 
 
 O thoii revered, beloved ! — not yet, 
 With sob of bells, with eyes tear-wet, 
 With faltering pulses, do we lay 
 Thy greatness in the grave away ; 
 Not Auburn's consecrated ground 
 Can hold the life that wraps thee round. 
 
 Still shall thy gentle presence prove 
 Its ministry of hope and love; 
 Thy tender tones be heard within 
 The story of Evangeline ; 
 And by the fireside, midst the rest, 
 Thou oft shalt be a welcome guest. 
 
 Again the mystery will be clear; 
 The august Tuscan's shades appear ; 
 Moved by thy impulse, we shall feel 
 New longings for thy high ideal ; 
 And under all thy forms of art 
 Feel beatings of a human heart. 
 
 As in our dreams we follow thee 
 With longing eyes beyond the sea, 
 "We see thee on some loftier height 
 Across whose trembling bridge of light 
 Our voices of the night are borne, 
 Clasp with white hand the stars of morn. 
 
 O happy poet ! Thine is not 
 
 A portion of the common lot ; 
 
 Thy works shall follow thee ; thy verse 
 
 Shall still thy living thoughts rehearse ; 
 
 The ages shall to thee belong — 
 
 An immortality of song. 
 
 Francis F. Browne. 
 
 RANDOLPH OF ROANOKE. 
 
 OH, Mother Earth ! upon thy lap 
 Thy weary ones receiving. 
 And o'er them, silent as a dream, 
 Thy grassy mantle weaving — 
 Fold softly in thy long embrace 
 
 That heart so worn and broken, 
 And cool its pulse of fire beneath 
 Thy shadows old and oaken. 
 
 Shut out from him the bitter word 
 
 And serpent hiss of scorning ; 
 Nor let the storms of yesterday 
 
 Disturb his quiet morning. 
 Breathe over him forgetfulness 
 
 Of all save deeds of kindness, 
 And, save to smiles of grateful eyes. 
 
 Press down his lids in blindness. 
 
 There, where with living ear and eye 
 
 He heard Potomac's flowing, 
 And, through his tall, ancestral trees 
 
 Saw autumn's sunset glowing, 
 He sleeps — still looking to the west. 
 
 Beneath the dark wood shadow. 
 As if he still would see the sun 
 
 Sink down on wave and meadow. 
 
 Bard, sage, and tribune ! — in himself 
 
 All moods of mind contrasting — 
 The tenderest wail of human woe. 
 
 The scorn like hghtning blasting ; 
 The pathos which from rival eyes 
 
 Unwilling tears could summon. 
 The stinging taunt, the fiery burst 
 
 Of hatred scarcely human ! 
 
 Mirth, sparkling like a diamond-shower, 
 
 From lips of life-long sadness ; 
 Clear picturings of majestic thought 
 
 Upon a ground of madness ; 
 And over all, romance and song 
 
 A classic beauty throwing, 
 And laurelled Clio at his side 
 
 Her storied pages showing. 
 
 All parties feared him : each in turn 
 
 Beheld its schemes disjointed, 
 As right or left his fatal glance 
 
 And spectral finger pointed. 
 Sworn foe of cant, he smote it down 
 
 With trenchant wit, unsparing, 
 And, mocking, rent with ruthless hand 
 
 The robe pretence was wearing. 
 
 Too honest or too proud to feign 
 
 A love he never cherished. 
 Beyond Virginia's border line 
 
 His patriotism perished. 
 While others hailed in distant skies. 
 
 Our eagle's dusky pinion, 
 He only saw the mountain bird 
 
 Stoop o'er his Old Dominion ! 
 
 Still through each change of fortune strange, 
 
 Racked nerve, and brain all burning, 
 His loving faith in mother-land 
 
 Knew never shade of turning: 
 By Britain's lakes, by Neva's wave. 
 
 Whatever sky was o'er him. 
 He heard her rivers' rushing sound. 
 
 Her blue peaks rose before him. 
 
 J. G. Whittier. 
 
406 
 
 THE CROWN OF GENIUS, 
 
 HENRY WADSWORTh LONGFELLOW, 
 
 O 
 
 NE of the greenest of laurels adorns the brow of this faror^ 
 
 ite American poet, who, it has been said, is even more 
 
 extensively read and admired in England than at home. 
 
 Many of his productions are as familiar in the homes of the 
 
 people as the old-time almanac used to be in the homesteads of 
 
 our grandfathers. 
 
 Longfellow studied the principles of verbal melody, and ren- 
 dered himself master of the mysterious affinities which exist 
 between sound and sense, word and thought, feeling and ex- 
 pression. There is an aptitude, gracefulness and vivid beauty 
 in many of his stanzas which at once impress the memory and 
 win ear and heart. There is in the tone of his poetry little pas- 
 sion, but much quiet earnestness. 
 
 His ideas and metaphors are often striking and poetical, but 
 there is no affluence of imagery or wonderful glow of emotion 
 such as take us captive in Byron or Shelley; the claim of Long- 
 fellow consists rather in the wise and tasteful use of his materials than in their richness and their 
 originality. He illustrates the gentler themes of song, and pleads for justice, humanity, and particu- 
 larly the beautiful, with a poet's deep conviction of their eternal claims upon the distinctive recognition 
 of the man. 
 
 THE GREAT SENATORS. 
 
 OUR great triumvirate — Clay, Webster, Cal- 
 houn — last appeared together in public 
 life in the Senate of 1849-50; the two 
 former figuring conspicuously in the debates which 
 preluded and resulted in what was termed the Com- 
 promise of that year — Mr. Calhoun dying as they 
 had fairly opened, and Messers. Clay and Webster 
 not long after their close. These lines are, there- 
 fore, in some sort, my humble tribute to their 
 genius and their just renown. 
 
 I best knew and loved Henry Clay ; he was by 
 nature genial, cordial, courteous, gracious, magnetic, 
 winning. When General Glascock, of Georgia, 
 took his seat in Congress as a Re'^xcsentative, a 
 mutual friend asked, "General, may I introduce 
 you to Henry Clay?" " No, sir !" "^^as the stern 
 response ; *' I am his adversary, ard choose not to 
 subject myself to his fascination " I think it 
 would have been hard to constitute for three or 
 four years a legislative body whereof Mr. Clay was 
 a member, and not more than foMr-sevenths were 
 his pledged, implacable op-:^nents, whereof he 
 would not have been the master-spirit, and the 
 author and inspirer of most of its measures, after 
 the first or second year. 
 
 Mr. Webster was colder, graver, sterner, in his 
 general bearing : though he could unbend and be 
 sunny and blithe in his intercourse with those ad- 
 mitted to his intimacy. There were few gayer 
 or more valued associates on a fishing or sailing 
 party. His mental calibre was much the larger; 
 I judge that he had read and studied more ; though 
 neither could boast much erudition, not even in- 
 tense application. I believe each was about thirty 
 years in Congress, where Mr. Clay identified his 
 name with the origin or success of at least half a 
 
 dozen important measures to every one thus blended 
 with Mr. Webster's. Though Webster's was far 
 the more massive intellect, Mr. Clay as a legisla- 
 tor evinced far the greater creative, constructive 
 power. 
 
 I once sat in the Senate Chamber when Mr. 
 Douglas, who had just been transferred from the 
 House, rose to move forward a bill in which he 
 was interested. *' We have no such practic. in 
 the Senate, sir," said Mr. Webster, in his deep, so- 
 lemn voice, fixing his eye on the mover, but with- 
 out rising from his seat. Mr. Douglas at once 
 varied his motion, seeking to achieve his end in a 
 somewhat 4ifferent way. *^ That is not the way 
 we do business in the Senate, sir," rejoined Mr. 
 Webster, still more decisively and sternly. *' The 
 Little Giant" was a bold, ready man, not easily 
 over-awed or disconcerted ; but, if he did not 
 quiver under the eye and voice of Webster, then 
 my eyesight deceived me — and I was very near 
 him. 
 
 Mr. Calhoun was a taU, spare, earnest, evidently 
 thoughtful man, with stiff, iron-gray hair, which 
 reminded you of Jackson's about the time of his 
 accession to the Presidency. He was eminently a 
 logician — terse, vigorous, relentless. He courted 
 the society of clever, aspiring young men who in- 
 clined to fall into his views, and exerted great in- 
 fluence over them. As he had abandoned the 
 political faith which I distinguish and cherish as 
 National while I was yet a school-boy, I never met 
 him at all intimately ; yet once, while I was con- 
 nected with mining on Lake Superior, I called on 
 him, as on other leading members of Congress, to 
 explain tlie effect of the absurd policy then in 
 vogue of keeping mineral lands out of market, and 
 
THE CROWN OF GENIUS, 
 
 407 
 
 attempting to collect a per centage of the mineral 
 as rent accruing to the Government. 
 
 He received me courteously, and I took care to 
 make my statement as compact and perspicuous as 
 I could, showing him that, even in the lead region, 
 where the system had attained its full development, 
 the Treasury did not receive enough rent to pay 
 the salaries of the officers employed in collecting 
 it. 
 
 ''Enough," said Mr. Calhoun; " you are clearly 
 right. I will vote to give away these lands, rather 
 than perpetuate this vicious system." "We only 
 ask, Mr. Calhoun," I rejoined, "that Congress fix 
 on the lands whatever price it may deem just, and 
 sell them at that price to those lawfully in posses- 
 sion ; they failing to purchase, then to whomsoever 
 will buy them." '' That plan will have my hearty 
 support," he responded ; audit did. When the 
 question came at length to be taken, I believe there 
 was no vote in either House against selling the 
 mineral lands. Horace Greeley. 
 
 NAPOLEON. 
 
 V I ^IS done — but yesterday a king ! 
 
 I And armed with kings to strive — 
 
 -*■ And now thou art a nameless thing ; 
 
 So abject — yet alive ! 
 Is this the man of thousand thrones, 
 Who strewed our earth with hostile bones, 
 
 And can he thus survive ? 
 Since he, miscalled the Morning Star, 
 Nor man nor fiend hath fallen so far. 
 
 Ill-minded man ! why scourge thy kind 
 
 Who bowed so low the knee ? 
 By gazing on thyself grown blind. 
 
 Thou taught' st the rest to see. 
 With might unquestioned — power to sa^e — 
 Thine only gift hath been the grave 
 
 To those that worshipped thee; 
 Nor till thy fall could mortals guess 
 Ambition's less than littleness! 
 
 Thanks for that lesson — it will teach 
 
 To after warriors more 
 Than high philosophy can preach. 
 
 And vainly preached before. 
 That spell upon the minds of men 
 Breaks never to unite again, 
 
 That led them to adore 
 Those Pagod things of sabre sway, 
 With fronts of brass and feet of clay. 
 
 The triumph and the vanity, 
 
 The rapture of the strife ; 
 The earthquake voice of victory. 
 
 To thee the breath of life ; 
 The sword, the sceptre, and that sway 
 Which man seemed made but to obey, 
 
 Wherewith renown was rife — 
 
 All quelled ! — Dark spirit ! what must be 
 The madness of thy memory ! 
 
 The desolator desolate ! 
 
 The victor overthrown ! 
 The arbiter of others' fate 
 
 A suppliant for his own ! 
 Is it some yet imperial hope. 
 That with such change can calmly cope? 
 
 Or dread of death alone? 
 To die a prince, or live a slave — 
 Thy choice is most ignobly brave ! 
 
 He who of old would rend the oak 
 
 Dreamed not of the rebound ; 
 Chained by the trunk he vainly broke — 
 
 Alone — how looked he round ? 
 Thou, in the sternness of thy strength, 
 An equal deed hast done at length, 
 
 And darker fate hast found : 
 He fell, the forest-prowlers' prey ; ' 
 But thou must eat thy heart away ! 
 
 Thine evil deeds are writ in gore. 
 
 Nor written thus in vain ; 
 Thy triumphs tell of fame no more, 
 
 Or deepen every stain. 
 If thou hadst died as honor dies, 
 Some new Napoleon might arise. 
 
 To shame the world again ; 
 But who would soar the solar height, 
 To set in such a starless night ? 
 
 Weighed in the balance, hero dust 
 
 Is vile as vulgar clay ; 
 Thy scales, mortality ! are just 
 
 To all that pass away : 
 But yet methought the living great 
 . Some higher spark should animate, 
 
 To dazzle and dismay ; 
 Nor deemed contempt could thus make mirtk 
 Of these, the conquerors of the earth. 
 
 Lord Byron. 
 
 ABRAHAM LINCOLN. 
 
 FROM THE " COMMEMORATION ODE." 
 
 LIFE may be given in many ways. 
 And loyalty to truth be sealed 
 As bravely in the closet as the field. 
 So bountiful is fate ; 
 But then to stand beside her, 
 When craven churls deride her. 
 To front a lie in arms and not to yield, 
 This shows, methinks, God's plan 
 And measure of a stalwart man, 
 Limbed like the old heroic breeds. 
 Who stand self-poised on manhood's solid 
 earth, 
 Not forced to frame excuses for his birth, 
 Fed from within with all the strength he needs. 
 
408 
 
 THE CROWN OF GENIUS, 
 
 Such was he, our martyr-chief, 
 
 Whom late the nation he had led, 
 
 With ashes on her head. 
 Wept with the passion of an angry grief: 
 Forgive me, if from present things I turn 
 To speak what in my heart will beat and burn, 
 A.nd hang my wreath on his world-honored urn. 
 
 Nature they say, doth dote. 
 
 And cannot make a man 
 
 Save on some worn-out plan, 
 
 Repeating us by rote : 
 For him her Old World moulds aside she threw, 
 And, choosing sweet clay from the breast 
 
 Of the unexhausted west. 
 With stuff untainted shaped a hero new. 
 Wise, steadfast in the strength of God, and true. 
 
 How beautiful to see 
 Once more a shepherd of mankind indeed. 
 Who loved his charge, but never loved to lead ; 
 One whose meek flock the people joyed to be. 
 
 Not lured by any cheat of birth. 
 
 But by his clear-grained human worth, 
 And brave old wisdom of sincerity ! 
 
 They knew that outward grace is dust ; 
 
 They could not choose but trust 
 In that sure-footed mind's unfaltering skill. 
 
 And supple-tempered will 
 That bent like perfect steel to spring again and 
 thrust. 
 
 His was no lonely mountain-peak of mind. 
 Thrusting to thin air o'er our cloudy bars, 
 A sea-mark now, now lost in vapors blind; 
 Broad prairie rather, genial, level-lined, 
 Fruitful and friendly for all human kind, 
 Yet also nigh to heaven and loved of loftiest 
 stars. 
 Nothing of Europe here, 
 Or, then, of Europe fronting mornward still, 
 Ere any names of Serf and Peer 
 Could Nature's equal scheme deface; 
 Here was a type of the true elder race, 
 And one of Plutarch's men talked with us face to 
 face. 
 
 I praise him not ; it were too late ; 
 And some innative weakness there must be 
 In him who condescends to victory 
 Such as the Present gives, and cannot wait. 
 Safe in himself as in a fate. 
 So always firmly he : 
 He knew to bide his time. 
 And can his fame abide, 
 otill patient in his simple faith sublime, 
 Till the wise years decide. 
 Great captains, with their guns and drums, 
 Disturb our judgment for the hour. 
 But at last silence comes ; 
 These all are gone, and, standing like a tower, 
 
 Our children shall behold his fame, 
 
 The kindly-earnest, brave, foreseeing man, 
 Sagacious, patient, dreading praise, not blame, 
 New birth of our new soil, the first American. 
 
 J. R. Lowell. 
 
 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 IN his style he early developed that maturity 
 of dignified composure, free from constraint, 
 or affectation, and that lucid expression 
 which are among its most characteristic traits. 
 With little faculty for the harmonies of verse, 
 he had a singular command over the musical 
 qualities of prose, enabling him to produce 
 periods remarkable for their sonorous richness 
 and delicate cadences, that sometimes raised 
 them almost to the plane of poetry, yet never 
 
 HAWTHORNE. 
 
 destroy their character as prose by interjecting 
 the actual rhythms of verse. Although excep- 
 tionally fitted for conveying subtleties of fancy 
 and thought, his style is equally adapted to the 
 comprehension of children, being invariably clear 
 and strongly marked by common sense. 
 
 Another noticeable peculiarity is that in the 
 entire range of his writings quotation is almost 
 never resorted to, the author's mind apparently 
 feeling no need of aid or illustration from other 
 writers. The superlative merits of Hawthorne's 
 style were but slowly recognized in his own 
 country, but his fame has rapidly and steadily 
 increased since his death, and he is now gene- 
 rally esteemed as one of the greatest imaginative 
 minds of the century, holding a place in the 
 first rank among masters of modern English 
 prose. 
 
 The personal appearance of Hawthorne was 
 tall, vigorous and commanding. Powerful physi- 
 cally, and in every way a strong specimen of 
 manhood, he yet, in his manner and presence, 
 showed the gentleness of a woman. His intimates 
 
THE CROWN OF GENIUS, 
 
 409 
 
 were few, but with them, he was a genial com- 
 rade, as he was also a delightful companion in 
 his household. The union in him of strength 
 and sensitiveness has been well described by 
 James Russell Lowell : 
 
 First, he from sympathy still held apart 
 By shrinking, over-eagerness of heart — 
 New England's poet, soul-reserved and deep, 
 November nature with a name of May. 
 
 G. P. Lathrop. 
 
 LORD BYRON. 
 
 WITH nature's self 
 He seemed an old acquaintance, free to 
 jest 
 At will with all her glorious majesty. 
 He laid his hand upon '' the Ocean's mane," 
 And played familiar with his hoary locks ; 
 Stood on the Alps, stood on the Apennines, 
 And with the thunder talked as friend to friend ; 
 And wove his garland of the li-^htning's wing, 
 In sportive twist — the lightning's fiery wing, 
 Which, as the footsteps of the dreadful God, 
 Marching upon the storm in vengeance seemed ; 
 Then turned, and with the grasshopper, who sung 
 His evening song beneath his feet, conversed. 
 Suns, moons, and stars, and clouds his sisters were ; 
 Rocks, mountains, meteors, seas, and winds, and 
 
 storms 
 His brothers, younger brothers, whom he scarce 
 As equals deemed. All passions of all men. 
 The wild and tame, the gentle and severe; 
 All thoughts, all maxims, sacred and profane ; 
 All creeds, all seasons, time, eternity ; 
 All that was hated, and all that was dear; 
 All that was hoped, all that was feared, by man, — 
 He tossed about, as tempest-withered leaves ; 
 Then, smiling, looked upon the wreck he made. 
 
 With terror now he froze the cowering blood. 
 And now dissolved the heart in tenderness ; 
 Yet would not tremble, would not weep himself; 
 But back into his soul retired, alone. 
 Dark, sullen, proud, gazing contemptuously 
 On hearts and passions prostrate at his feet. 
 So ocean, from the plains his waves had late 
 To desolation swept, retired in pride, 
 Exulting in the glory of his might. 
 And seemed to mock the ruin he had wrought. 
 
 As some fierce comet of tremendous size,. 
 To which the stars did reverence as it passed, 
 So he, through learning and through fancy, took 
 His flights sublime, and on the loftiest top 
 Of fame's dread mountain sat; not soiled and 
 
 worn. 
 As if he from the earth had labored up, 
 But as some bird of heavenly plumage fair 
 He looked, which down from higher regions came, 
 And perched it there, to see what lay beneath. 
 
 The nations gazed, and wondered much and 
 praised. 
 Critics before him fell in humble plight ; 
 Confounded fell ; and made debasing signs 
 To catch his eye ; and stretched and swelled them- 
 selves 
 To bursting nigh, to utter bulky words 
 Of admiration vast ; and many too. 
 Many that aimed to imitate his flight. 
 With weaker wing, unearthly fluttering made. 
 And gave abundant sport to after days. 
 
 Great man! the nations gazed and wondered 
 
 much, 
 And praised ; and many called his evil good. 
 Wits wrote in favor of his wickedness; 
 And kings to do him honor took delight. 
 Thus full of titles, flattery, honor, fame ; 
 Beyond desire, beyond ambition, full — 
 He died — he died of what ? Of wretchedness ; 
 Drank every cup of joy, heard every trump 
 Of fame ; drank early, deeply drank ; drank 
 
 draughts 
 That common millions might have quenched, then 
 
 died 
 Of thirst, because there was no more to drink. 
 His goddess, nature, wooed, embraced, enjoyed, 
 Fell from his arms, abhorred; his passions died, 
 Died, all but dreary, solitary pride ; 
 And all his sympathies in being died. 
 
 As some ill-guided ba.k, well built and tall, 
 Which angry tides cast out on desert shore, 
 And then, retiring, left it there to rot 
 And moulder in the winds and rains of heaven ; 
 So he, cut from the sympathies of life. 
 And cast ashore from pleasure's boisterous surge, 
 A wandering, weary, worn, and wretched thing. 
 Scorched and desolate and blasted soul, 
 A gloomy wilderness of dying thought — 
 Repined, and groaned, and withered from the 
 
 earth. 
 His groanings filled the land his numbers filled * 
 And yet he seemed ashamed to groan. — Pool 
 
 man ! 
 Ashamed to ask, and yet he needed help. 
 
 Robert Pollok. 
 
 ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 
 LORD ALFRED TENNYSON has been called 
 the Shakespeare of his time. It is some- 
 what invidious to compare him with any 
 poet who ever lived. He is a mountain summit 
 by himself, standing alone, majestic and grand, 
 yet anything but cold and forbidding. He is 
 superior in intellectual grasp, original expression, 
 and subtle emotion. 
 
 Mr. Tennyson was an artist before he was a 
 poet. I suppose it is in some respects this lavish 
 native strength which has given him his delight in 
 
410 
 
 THE CROWN OF GENIUS, 
 
 great variety and richness of materials, showing a 
 tropical luxuriance of natural gifts. What his 
 poetical faculty delights in most are rich land- 
 scapes, in which either nature or man has accu- 
 mulated a lavish variety of effects. It is in the 
 scenery of the mill, the garden, the chase, the 
 rich pastures, the harvest fields, the palace plea- 
 
 sings the praises of holy and exalted friendship 
 more than the warmer passion of love. He may 
 be characterized as an elevated philosopher with a 
 poet's expression, which a delicate perception of 
 the beautiful and true has given him. 
 
 His harp is not strung with strings whose wild, 
 loud notes shall first awaken, and then petrify the 
 snoring world, but with silken, silvery, gossamer 
 chords, whose fairy melody is heard only by 
 the delicate spiritual ear. 
 
 Yet keeps he perhaps too close to the shores 
 of time, and dares not, or will not, sail the 
 mighty oceans of mind, and bring us, like golden 
 fruit, from beyond their distant shores sublime 
 and inspiring ideas of futurity. He keeps his 
 wings too closely furled, when we consider his 
 poetical powers. 
 
 R. H. HUTTON. 
 
 ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 
 sure-grounds, fair parks and domains, glowing 
 with sylvan beauty, that Mr. Tennyson most 
 delights. 
 
 He has a strong fascination for old legends, as 
 well as for those common tales of achievement 
 and adventure which delight the popular heart. 
 There is always the movement of real life in his 
 poems, a kind of stately tread and marching for- 
 ward, which seizes the reader as the mighty tide 
 lays hold of the floating skiff and carries it away 
 on its heaving bosom. His pen-pictures, it may 
 be said, succeed each other too rapidly, yet for the 
 most part his style ripples along with perfect ease 
 and grace. 
 
 Not exactly cypress, but a wreath of weeping 
 willow, should encircle his name. He is enam- 
 ored with ideal beauty and purity of soul, and he 
 
 C 
 
 CAMP=BELLe 
 
 CHARADE. 
 
 OME from my first, ay, come ! 
 The battle dawn is nigh ; 
 And the screaming trump and the thun- 
 dering drum 
 Are calling thee to die ' 
 
 Fi 
 
 ht as thy father fought ^ 
 Fall as thy father fell ; 
 Thy task is taught; thy shroud is wrought; 
 So forward and farewell ! 
 
 Toll ye my second ! toll ! 
 
 Fling high the flambeau's light, 
 And sing the hymn for a parted soul 
 
 Beneath the silent night ! 
 
 The wreath upon his head, 
 
 The cross upon his breast ; 
 Let the prayer be said and the tear be shed. 
 
 So — take him to his rest ! 
 
 Call ye my whole — ay, call 
 
 The lord of lute and lay ; 
 And let him greet the sable pall 
 
 With noble song to-day. '^ 
 
 Go, call him by his name ! 
 
 No fitter hand may crave 
 To light the flame of a soldier's fame 
 
 On the turf of a soldier's grave. 
 
 W. M. Praed. 
 
 M 
 
 THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON. 
 
 OURN, for to us he seems the last. 
 Remembering all his greatness in the past. 
 No more in soldier fashion will he greet 
 With lifted hand the gazer in the street. 
 O friends, our chief state-oracle is mute; 
 Mourn for the man of long-enduring blood, 
 The statesman-warrior, moderate, resolute, 
 Whole in himself, a common good. 
 
 Alfred Tennyson, 
 
THE CROWN OF GENIUS, 
 
 411 
 
 CAROLINE AND SIR WILLIAM HERSCHEL. 
 
 TWO CELEBRATED ASTRONOMERS. 
 
 THE name of Herschel is as bright as the stars 
 in company with which those who bore the 
 name spent a good part of their lives. Their 
 look seemed to be upward, always exploring the 
 mysteries of the heavens. Brilliant discoveries 
 came within range of their vision, and the great 
 
 volumes in the library of science are more numer 
 ous to-day than as if the Herschels had never 
 lived. They held companionship with the starry 
 heavens, and were on the best of terms with distanf 
 worlds. 
 
 Caroline was the sister of Sir William Herschel 
 whom she assisted in his astronomical observa- 
 
412 
 
 THE CROWN OF GENIUS. 
 
 tions and computations. There have been several 
 women who have excelled in the science of astro- 
 nomy. It is a science which appeals to their love 
 
 of the beautiful and the sublime, while at the same 
 time many are gifted with mathematical talent 
 equal to the study. In 1798 Caroline published 
 a valuable catalogue of over 500 stars. Her 
 brother William distinguished himself by many 
 important discoveries, which created a profound 
 
 impression upon the scientific thought of his 
 time. He was the first to behold the planet 
 Uranus floating in the far depths of space. This 
 was one of the most important dis- 
 coveries of modern times, and gave 
 to Herschel a name henceforth to be 
 held in honor. 
 
 PRISCILLA. 
 
 MILES STANDISH, the famous 
 captain of Plymouth Colony, 
 feeling the desolation of his 
 bachelorhood, resolved to take unto 
 himself a wife, and also resolved that 
 this wife should be the fair Puritan maid 
 Priscilla. Standish sent his dutiful sec- 
 retary, John Alden, to make known his 
 wishes and to do the courting. Stand- 
 ish himself felt that he was more skillful 
 in the arts of war than in those of court- 
 ship. Maidens are known sometimes 
 to have minds of their own, and Pris- 
 cilla, not being lost in admiration of 
 Miles Standish, and knowing a good 
 chance when she saw it, executed a 
 flank movement, and said, '' Why don't 
 you speak for yourself, John?" 
 
 John was not slow to speak after 
 receiving such encouragement, and 
 Captain Miles Standish was compelled 
 to doff his plumes to the man who had 
 been commissioned to do the courting. 
 It was not long before there were wed- 
 ding festivities, the termination of 
 which is beautifully described by Long- 
 fellow : 
 
 Onward the bridal procession now 
 
 moved to their new habitation, 
 Happy husband and wife, and friends 
 
 conversing together. 
 Plecv ^antly murmured the brook as they 
 
 crossed the ford in the forest, 
 Pleased with the image that passed, like 
 
 a dream of love through its bosom. 
 Tremulous, floating in air, o'er the 
 
 depths of the azure abysses. 
 
 Down through the golden leaves the sun 
 
 was ]30uring his splendors, 
 Gleaming on purple grapes, that, from 
 branches above them suspended, 
 Mingled their odorous breath with the 
 balm of the pine and the fir-tree. 
 Wild and sweet as the clusters that grew in the 
 
 valley of Eschol. 
 Like a picture it seemed of the primitive, pastoral 
 
 ages, 
 Fresh with the youth of the world and recalling 
 Rebecca and Isaac, 
 
THE CROWN OF GENIUS, 
 
 418 
 
 Old and yet ever tiew, and simple and beautiful 
 
 always, 
 Love immortal and young in the endless succession 
 
 of lovers. 
 So through the Plymouth woods passed onward 
 
 jhe bridal procession. 
 
 ON A BUST OF DANTE. 
 
 SEE, from this counterfeit of him 
 Whom Arno shall remember long, 
 How stern of lineament, how grim, 
 The father was of Tuscan song ! 
 There but the burning sense of wrong, 
 Perpetual care, and scorn, abide — 
 
 Small friendship for the lordly throng, 
 Distrust of all the world beside. 
 
 Faithful if this wan image 
 
 be, 
 
 No dream his life was, but a fight ; 
 Could any Beatrice see 
 
 A lover in that anchorite ? 
 
 To that cold Ghibelline's gloomy sight 
 Who could have guessed the visions came 
 
 Of beauty, veiled with heavenly light, 
 In circles of eternal flame ? 
 
 The lips as Cumae's cavern close. 
 
 The cheeks with fast and sorrow thin. 
 
 The rigid front, almost morose. 
 But for the patient hope within, 
 Declare a life whose course hath been 
 
 Unsullied still, though stili severe, 
 
 Which, through the wavering days of sin, 
 
 Kept itself icy-chaste and clear. 
 
 Not wholly such his haggard look 
 
 AVhen wandering once, forlorn, he strayed, 
 With no companion save his book. 
 
 To Corvo's hushed monastic shade ; 
 
 Where, as the Benedictine laid 
 His palm upon the pilgrim guest, 
 
 The single boon for which he prayed 
 The convent's charity was rest. 
 
 Peace dwells not here — this rugged face 
 
 Betrays no spirit of repose ; 
 The sullen warrior sole we trace. 
 
 The marble man of many woes. 
 
 Such was his mien when first arose 
 The thought of that strange tale divine — 
 
 When hell he peopled wdth his foes. 
 The scourge of many a guilty line. 
 
 War to the last he waged with all 
 
 The tyrant canker-worms of earth ; 
 Baron and duke, in hold and hall. 
 
 Cursed the dark hour that gave him birth ; 
 
 He used Rome's harlot for his mirth ; 
 Plucked bare hypocrisy and crime ; 
 
 But valiant souls of kingly worth 
 Transmitted to the rolls of time. 
 
 O Time ! whose verdicts mock our own, 
 
 The only righteous judge art thou ; 
 That poor, old exile, sad and lone, 
 
 Is Latium's other Virgil now. 
 
 Before his name the nations bow ; 
 His words are parcel of mankind. 
 
 Deep in whose hearts, as on his brow. 
 The marks have sunk of Dante's mind. 
 
 Thomas William Parsons. 
 
 LADY HENRY SOMERSET. 
 
 OF noble birth, yet nobler in heart and soul. 
 Lady Somerset is one of the famous 
 women of our time, by virtue of her 
 broad charity, her arduous labors in the cause of 
 reform, especially that of temperance, and that 
 
 LADY SOMERSET. 
 
 spirit of self-sacrifice which has devoted fortune 
 and noble birth to the uplifting of the poor and 
 degraded. Her name is known in both hemi- 
 spheres. In America she has shed the light and 
 glow of her great heart and nature from ocean to 
 ocean. Of rare personal attractions, cultured 
 manners, graceful and forcible speech, untiring 
 labor and enthusiasm, she illustrates vividly what 
 can be accomplished by woman when inspired by 
 a great aim and moved by a holy purpose. 
 
 Lady Somerset in no degree loses her dignity 
 and refinement by her public life. There is no 
 appearance of coming down; of stepping from 
 
414^ 
 
 THE CROWN OF GENIUS. 
 
 some lofty, pedestal; of abandoning a sacred 
 sphere, such as the world has always conceded 
 to woman. She lifts up, adorns, purifies, glori- 
 fies what she touches, and like the aroma of 
 flowers is the influence of her life. 
 
 Henry Davenport. 
 
 THE EXECUTION OF MONTROSE. 
 
 EXECUTED 1650. 
 
 THE morning dawned full darkly, 
 The rain came flashing down, 
 And the jagged streak of the levin-bolt 
 Lit up the gloomy town. 
 The thunder crashed across the heaven, 
 
 The fatal hour was come ; 
 Yet aye broke in, with muffled beat, 
 
 The 'larum of the drum. 
 There was madness on the earth below 
 
 And anger in the sky, 
 And young and old, and rich and poor. 
 Came forth to see him die. 
 
 Ah God ! that ghastly gibbet ! 
 
 How dismal 't is to see 
 The great tall spectral skeleton, 
 
 The ladder and the tree ! 
 Hark ! hark ! it is the clash of arms — 
 
 The bells begin to toll — 
 *' He is coming ! he is coming ! 
 
 God's mercy on his soul ! " 
 One last long peal of thunder — 
 
 The clouds are cleared away. 
 And the glorious sun once more looks down 
 
 Amidst the dazzling day. 
 
 '' He is coming ! he is coming ! " 
 
 Like a bridegroom from his room 
 Came the hero from his prison 
 
 To the scaffold and the doom. 
 There was glory on his forehead, 
 
 There was lustre in his eye, 
 And he never walked to battle 
 
 More proudly than to die. 
 
 There was color in his visage, 
 
 Though the cheeks of all were watt ; 
 
 And they marvelled as they saw him pass. 
 That great and goodly man ! 
 
 He mounted up the scaffold, 
 
 And he turned him to the crowd ; 
 But they dared not trust the people, 
 
 So he might not speak aloud. 
 But he looked upon the heavens. 
 
 And they were clear and blue, 
 And in the liquid ether 
 
 The eye of God shone through : 
 Yet a black and murky battlement 
 
 Lay resting on the hill, 
 As though the thunder slept within — 
 
 All else was calm and still. 
 
 The grim Geneva ministers 
 
 With anxious scowl drew near, 
 As you have seen the ravens flock 
 
 Around the dying deer. 
 He would not deign them word nor sign. 
 
 But alone he bent the knee ; 
 And veiled his face for Christ's dear grace 
 
 Beneath the gallows-tree. 
 Then, radiant and serene, he rose, 
 
 And cast his cloak away ; 
 For he had ta'en his latest look 
 
 Of earth and sun and day. 
 
 A beam of light fell o'er him, 
 
 Like a glory round the shriven, 
 And he climbed the lofty ladder 
 
 As it were the path to heaven. 
 Then came a flash from out the cloud. 
 
 And a stunning thunder-roll ; 
 And no man dared to look aloft, 
 
 For fear was on every soul. 
 There was another heavy sound, 
 
 A hush, and then a groan ; 
 And darkness swept across the sky — 
 
 The work of death was done ! 
 
 W. E. Aytoun. 
 
THOUGHT AND SENTIMENT: 
 
 CONTAINING 
 
 CHOICE PRODUCTIONS FROM MASTER MINDS 
 
 THE VILLAGE WEAVER. 
 
 HE weaver is sitting before his loom, 
 All day long in a curious room, 
 
 Weaving a carpet of various hues ; 
 Here and there is a shade of green, 
 With brighter colors woven between, 
 
 And various tints of browns and blues. 
 
 Strangers and neighbors visit the room. 
 And children, as well, to see the lootn, 
 
 Who ponder awhile and go away. 
 Of the visitors that kindly call. 
 The little ones please him best of all, 
 
 With rapturous songs of mirth and play. 
 
 Forward and oackward the shuttle goes, 
 Followed by loud and creaking blows. 
 
 While the faithful weaver works away. 
 He turns a selvedge with skillful hands, 
 Shaping a pattern of various brands, 
 
 Out of black and a mixture of gray. 
 
 His back is bent and his hair is white, 
 For many a year has taken flight 
 
 Since he on the loom began to weave. 
 During that time, I may safely say> 
 The woof that has crossed the warp each day 
 
 Could encircle the world, I believe. 
 
 I often watch him plying his trade. 
 Blending with harmony every shade. 
 
 And forming a carpet quaint and fine. 
 On much the same as the weaver planned 
 Each life is wrought with a filmy strand. 
 
 And deeds, like colors, form some design. 
 
 Time is a weaver whose shuttles hum, 
 Until the end of our life has come, 
 
 xAnd the soul parts from its dusty loom^ 
 Youth is bright color that fades away, 
 Age and years are the dark and gray. 
 And the world is the curious room. 
 
 George S. Johnsor 
 A JEWEL IN DISGUISE. 
 
 I'VE met with a good many people 
 In jogging over life's varied way — 
 I've encountered the clever, the simple. 
 The crabbed, the grave and the gay. 
 I have traveled with beauty, with virtue, 
 
 I've been with the ugly, the bad, 
 I've laughed with the ones who were merry, 
 And wept with the ones who were sad. 
 
 One thing I have learned in my journey, 
 Never to judge one by what he appears — 
 
 The eyes that seem sparkling with laughter 
 Oft battle to keep back the tears; 
 
 And long sanctimonious faces 
 
 Hide often the souls that are vile. 
 
 While the heart that is merry and cheerful 
 Is often the freest from guile. 
 
 And I've learned not to look for perfection 
 
 In one of our frail human kind ; 
 In hearts the most gentle and loving 
 
 Some blemish or fault we can find. 
 But yet I have not found the creature 
 
 So low, or depraved, or so mean, 
 But had some good impulse, some virtue 
 
 That *mong his bad traits might be seea 
 
 415 
 
41(j 
 
 THOUGHT AND SENTIMENT, 
 
 A DREAM. 
 
 OIT was but a dream I had 
 While the musicians played — 
 ^ And here the sky and here the glad 
 Old ocean kissed the glade ; 
 And here the laughing ripples ran, 
 
 iVnd here the roses grew 
 That threw a kiss to every man 
 That voyaged with the crew. 
 
 Our silken sails in lazy folds 
 
 Dropped in the breathless breeze 
 As o'er a field of marigolds 
 
 Our eyes swam o'er the seas ; 
 While here the eddies lisped and purled 
 
 Around the island's rim, 
 And up from out the underworld 
 
 We saw the mermen swim. 
 
 And it was dawn and middle day 
 
 And midnight — for the moon 
 On silver rounds across the bay 
 
 Had climbed the skies of June — 
 And here the glowing, glorious king 
 
 Of day ruled o'er the realm, 
 With stars of midnight glittering 
 
 About the diadem. 
 
 The sea-gull reeled on languid wing 
 
 In circles round the mast ; 
 We heard the songs the sirens sing 
 
 As we went sailing past, 
 And up and down the golden sands 
 
 A thousand fairy throngs 
 Flung at us from their flashing hand 
 
 The echoes of their songs. 
 
 James Whitcomb Riley. 
 
 THE DAYS OF THE MODERN BELLE. 
 
 OH, for the time of the minuette 
 When stately movement on movement 
 swayed, 
 And soft eyes spoke some quaint regret ; 
 Gone are the days of the old brocade ; 
 In the tripping time of the waltz is made 
 
 Some deft enchantment, and 'neath its spell 
 Her dainty heart on his sleeve is laid. 
 These are the days of the modern belle. 
 
 When Hetty was pretty in homespun yet, 
 
 And every fold her grace betrayed — 
 Ah, sombre jewels of coral and jet ! 
 
 Gone are the days of the old brocade. 
 From the shops of Paris, we find obeyed 
 
 The hints that Virot and Worth may tell. 
 And gentle simplicity flees dismayed, 
 
 These are the days of the modern belle. 
 
 *Till now grave memories anxiously fret 
 At the glittering splendor and gay parade. 
 
 And sigh for the times of Polly and Bet — 
 Gone are the days of the old brocade, 
 
 When softest blushes in beauty strayed. 
 
 And brimming dimples would come — ah well ! 
 
 Those gentle years were meant to fade — 
 These are the days of the modern belle. 
 
 Ah, memory listens to fancy's aid, 
 Gone are the days of the old brocade ; 
 And their very follies our loves impel. 
 These are the days of the modern belle. 
 
 THE FORTUNATE ISLES. 
 
 YOU sail and you seek for the Fortunate Isles, 
 The old Greek Isles of the yellow bird'i 
 song ? 
 Then steer straight on through the watery miles, 
 
 Straight on, straight on, and you can't go wrong. 
 Nay, not to the left, nay, not the right. 
 But on, straight on, and the Isles are in sight, 
 The Fortunate Isles where the yellow birds sing, 
 And life lies girt with a golden ring. 
 
 These Fortunate Isles they are not so far. 
 
 They lie wathin reach of the lowliest door; 
 You can see them gleam by the twilight star ; 
 
 You can hear them sing by the moon's white shore. 
 Nay, never look back! Those leveled grave-stones, 
 They were landing-steps; they were steps unto 
 
 thrones 
 Of glory for souls that have sailed before. 
 And have set white feet on the fortunate shore. 
 
 And what are the names of the Fortunate Isles ? 
 
 Why, duty and love and a large content- 
 Lo ! these are the Isles cf the w^atery miles 
 
 That God let down from the firmament ; 
 Lo ! duty and love, and a true man's trust ; 
 Your forehead to God, and your feet in the dust ; 
 Lo ! duty and love, and sweet babe's smiles. 
 And these, O friend, are the Fortunate Isles. 
 
 Joaquin Miller. 
 
 T 
 
 IT NEVER COMES AGAIN. 
 
 HERE are gains for all our losses, 
 
 There are balms for all our pains ; 
 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. 
 
 R. H. Stoddard. 
 
THOUGHT AND SENTIMENT, 
 
 417 
 
 T 
 
 HE biid that soars on highest wing, 
 Builds on the ground its lowly nest, 
 
 And she that doth most sweetly sing, 
 Sings in the shade when all things rest. 
 J. M. Bentley. 
 
 GLORY, 
 
 THE crumbling tombstone and the gorgeous 
 mausoleum, the sculptured marble, and the 
 venerable cathedral, all bear witness to the 
 instinctive desire within us to be remembered by 
 coming generations. But how short-lived is the 
 immortality which the works of our hands can 
 confer ! The noblest monuments of art that the 
 irorld has ever seen are covered with the soil of 
 twenty centuries. The works of the age of Peri- 
 cles lie at the foot of the Acropolis in indiscrim- 
 inate ruin. The ploughshare turns up the marble 
 which the hand of Phidias had chiselled into 
 beauty, and the Mussulman has folded his flock 
 beneath the falling columns of the temple of 
 Minerva. 
 
 But even the works of our hands too frequently 
 •survive the memory of those who have created 
 them. And were it otherwise, could we thus carry 
 down to distant ages the recollection of our exist- 
 •ence, it were surely childish to waste the energies 
 of an immortal spirit in the effort to make it 
 known to other times, that a being whose name 
 Mras written with certain letters of the alphabet, 
 <once lived, and flourished, and died. Neither 
 27 
 
 sculptured marble, nor stately column, can reveal 
 to other ages the lineaments of the spirit ; and 
 these alone can embalm our memory in the hearts 
 of a grateful posterity. As the stranger stands 
 beneath the dome of St. Paul's, or treads, with 
 religious awe, the silent aisles of Westminster 
 Abbey, the sentiment, which is breathed from 
 every object around him, is, the utter emptiness 
 of sublunary glory. 
 
 Francis Wayland. 
 
 SOMETIME. 
 
 I AM waiting for the shadows round me lying 
 To drift away ; 
 I am waiting for the sunlight, always flying, 
 To come and stay ; 
 I know there's light beyond the cloudy curtain, 
 
 A light sublime ! 
 That it will shine on me I now am certain, 
 Sometime ! sometime ! 
 
 I am waiting for the summer's golden lustre — 
 
 Now far away — 
 When golden fruits around my life shall cluster 
 
 Each sunny day ! 
 
418 
 
 THOUGHT AND SENTIMENT 
 
 We read of fadeless flowers in fabled story, 
 
 In far-off clime, 
 And I shall pluck them in their pristine glory, 
 
 Sometime ! sometime ! 
 
 Then I shall hear the voice of loved ones call me 
 
 To their dear side ; 
 And I shall then, whatever may befall me, 
 
 Rest satisfied ! 
 For on my ear sweet notes of love shall tremble 
 
 In matchless rhyme, 
 From heart and lips that never can dissemble, 
 
 Sometime ! sometime ! 
 
 I am waiting ; but at times I grow so weary — 
 
 Far seems the day 
 When all the pain which makes our life so dreary 
 
 . Shall pass away. 
 I know the heart oft filled with tones of sadness, 
 
 Like funeral chime, 
 Shall echo with songs of love and gladness. 
 
 Sometime ! sometime ! 
 
 HosEA Q. Blaisdell. 
 
 AN OLD VAGABOND. 
 
 HE was old and alone, and he sat on a stone 
 to rest for awhile from the road ; 
 His beard was white, and his eye was bright, 
 and his wrinkles overflowed 
 With a mild content at the way life went ; and I 
 
 closed the book on my knee : 
 *'I will venture a look in this living book," I 
 thought, as he greeted me. 
 
 And I said: '^My friend, have you time to spend 
 to tell me what makes you glad?" 
 
 '^ Oh, ay, my lad," with a smile; " I'm glad that 
 I'm old, yet am never sad !" 
 
 "But why?" said I; and his merry eye made 
 
 answer as much as his tongue : 
 "Because," said he, *'I am poor and free who 
 
 was rich and a slave when young." 
 
 John Boyle O'Reilly. 
 
 THE PITY OF THE PARK FOUNTAIN. 
 
 ^'TnWAS a summery day in the last of May — 
 I Pleasant in sun or shade ; 
 
 -*■ And the hours went by, as the poets say, 
 Fragrant and fair on their flowery way ; 
 And a hearse crept slowly through Broadway — 
 And the fountain gaily played. 
 
 The fountain played right merrily, 
 
 And the world looked bright and gay ; 
 
 And a youth went by, with a restless eye, 
 
 Whose heart was sick and whose brain was dry ; 
 
 And he prayed to God that he might die — 
 And the fountain played away. 
 
 Uprose the spray like a diamond throne, 
 
 And the drops like music rang — 
 And of those who marvelled how it shone. 
 Was a proud man, left, in his shame, alone : 
 And he shut his teeth with a smothered groan — 
 
 And the fountain sweetly sang. 
 
 And a rainbow spanned it changefully, 
 
 Like a bright ring broke in twain ; 
 And the pale, fair girl, who stopped to see. 
 Was sick with the pangs of poverty — 
 And from hunger to guilt she chose to flee 
 
 As the rainbow smiled again. 
 
 And all as gay, on another day. 
 
 The morning will have shone ; 
 And at noon, unmarked, through bright Broadways, 
 A hearse will take its silent way ; 
 And the bard who sings will have passed away— 
 
 And the fountain will play on ! 
 
 N. P. Willis. 
 
 UNDER THE LEAVES. 
 
 INTO the lap of the bare brown earth, 
 Stripped of her beautiful golden sheave^ 
 As if in sympathy for her dearth. 
 
 Flutter and nestle the autumn leaves; 
 And the lonely landscape hides away 
 Her face, deep-lined with sad decay. 
 Under the leaves ! 
 
 Down from the tall old forest trees 
 
 The leafy showers gently fall, 
 And, taking the wings of the passing breezy. 
 
 Softly they cover the earth like a pall. 
 Ah, would that we the past might fold, 
 Of blighted hopes and dreams untold. 
 Under the leaves ! 
 
 Under the leaves of the flying years 
 
 Oh, strive, thou weary soul, to lay 
 The care and sorrow, the bitter tears, 
 The dreary burden of yesterday — 
 Away deep down in the heart's recess, 
 Under the leaves of forgetfulness. 
 
 Under the leaves. 
 
 Blanche Buswell. 
 
 THE WATER THAT HAS PASSED. 
 
 LISTEN to the water-mill. 
 Through the livelong 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 
 
 With the water that has passed." 
 
THOUGHT AND SENThMENT. 
 
 419 
 
 Take the lesson to thyself, 
 Loving heart and true; 
 
 Golden years are fleeting by, 
 Youth is passing too; 
 
 Work while yet the daylight shines, 
 Man of strength and will ; 
 
 Never does the streamlet glide 
 Useless by the mill- 
 
 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." 
 
 Wait not till to-morrow's sun 
 
 Beams upon the way; 
 All that thou canst call thine own 
 
 Lies in thy to-day. 
 Power, intellect and health 
 
 May not, can not last; 
 *'The mill will never grind 
 
 With the water that has passed.*- 
 
420 
 
 THOUGHT AND SENTIMENT. 
 
 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." 
 
 COURAGE. 
 
 COURAGE ! — Nothing can withstand 
 Long a wronged, undaunted land ; 
 If the hearts within her be 
 True unto themselves and thee. 
 Thou freed giant, liberty ! 
 Oh ! no mountain-nymph art thou. 
 When the helm is on thy brow, 
 And the sword is in thy hand. 
 Fighting for thy own good land ! 
 
 Courage ! — Nothing e'er withstood 
 Freemen fighting for their good ; 
 Armed with all their father's fame. 
 They will win and wear a name, 
 That shall go to endless glory. 
 Like the gods of old Greek story, 
 Raised to heaven and heavenly worth, 
 For the good they gave to earth. 
 
 Courage ! — There is none so poor, 
 (None of all who wrong endure,) 
 None so humble, none so weak, 
 But may flush his father's cheek; 
 And his maiden's dear and true, 
 With the deeds that he may do. 
 Be his days as dark as night, 
 He may make himself a light. 
 What though sunken be the sun ! 
 There are stars when day is done \ 
 
 Courage ! — Who will be a slave. 
 That have strength to dig a grave. 
 And therein his fetters hide. 
 And lay a tyrant by his side? 
 Courage ! — Hope, howe'er he fly 
 For a time, can never die ! 
 Courage, therefore, brother men ! 
 Cry *' God ! and to the fight again !" 
 
 Barry Cornwall. 
 
 THE FIRESIDE. 
 
 EAR Chloe, while the busy crowd, 
 The vain, the wealthy, and the proud, 
 In folly's maze advance ; 
 Though singularity and pride 
 Be called our choice, we'll step aside. 
 Nor join the giddy dance. 
 
 D 
 
 From the gay world we'll oft retire 
 To our own family and fire, 
 
 Where love our hours employs ; 
 No noisy neighbor enters here, 
 No intermeddling stranger near, 
 
 To spoil our heartfelt joys. 
 
 If solid happiness we prize. 
 Within our breast this jewel lies, 
 
 And they are fools who roam ; 
 The world hath nothing to bestow — 
 From our own selves our bliss must flow. 
 
 And that dear hut, our home. 
 
 Our portion is not large, indeed ; 
 But then how little do we need. 
 
 For nature's calls are few; 
 In this the art of living lies, 
 To want no more than may suffice. 
 
 And make that little do. 
 
 We'll therefore relish with content 
 Whate'er kind Providence has sent. 
 
 Nor aim beyond our power ; 
 For, if our stock be very small, 
 'Tis prudence to enjoy it all. 
 
 Nor lose the present hour. 
 
 To be resigned when ills betide, 
 Patient when favors are denied, 
 
 And pleased with favors given — 
 Dear Chloe, this is wisdom's part, 
 This is that incense of the heart. 
 
 Whose fragrance smells to heaven. 
 
 Nathaniel Cotton. 
 
 ROVING NED. 
 
 DIVORCED, did they say? What I, Roving 
 Ned, 
 Divorced in disgrace from the woman I wed 
 In the wealth of her beauty, five summers to-night, 
 'Mid the chiming of bells and happiness bright; 
 O God, can it be? Have I fallen so low? 
 Divorced from that bride — and I loved her so ? 
 
 Was that Eden a dream? Was that husband's 
 
 first kiss 
 But an apple of Sodom in the feast of my bliss? 
 Were those vows that I spoke but the words of 
 
 untruth — 
 A perjurer's lie to the love of his youth? 
 Were those visions I saw but a mirage of fate 
 And the words of endearment the seeds of a hate? 
 
 Was that life in the cottage a dream of the past ? 
 And the joy that it brought us too precious to 
 
 last? 
 Did the child that was sent us return in its flight 
 To escape the dark shadows now clouding this 
 
 night ? 
 Were our hopes, then so bright, to be shrouded in 
 
 gloom. 
 And the roses so sweet but the bloom of the tomb? 
 
 i 
 
THOUGHT AND SENTIMENT 
 
 421 
 
 Bound helpless in sin ! Ah, I see it now, plain, 
 And thou, damning glass, hath enwoven the chain ! 
 O, sparkle and gleam, but I know thee too well ; 
 Thy diamonds of joy are the jewels of hell. 
 
 I see a lone wanderer over the earth, 
 
 Now shunned and disowned by the kin of his 
 
 birth. 
 So weary of life, but too sinful to die, 
 
 The wealth of thy pleasure is sorrow and care 
 And the spell of thy charm but the gall of despair. 
 
 Ah, sparkle and ghmmer, I see in thy tide 
 The hand that was raised to a once-worshiped bride. 
 Ah, sparkle and glitter ! I see a dread flight 
 From a drunkard enraged through a cold winter's 
 
 night. 
 That husband so proud but a wreck is now left, 
 Of love and affection and manhood bereft. 
 
 With the pangs of remorse 'neath the frowns from 
 
 on high. 
 Far downward he sinks till his oaths sound the 
 
 knell 
 Of a soul that is tottering on the verge of a hell. 
 
 Cursed be thee, glass ! Is thy conquest complete? 
 No ! I will grind thee, fiend yet 'neath my feet ! 
 By a mother's last prayer, by the home of my 
 birth, 
 
422 
 
 THOUGHT AND SENTIMENT. 
 
 I will dash thee in fragments down swift to the 
 
 earth ! 
 By the love of that woman that once my name 
 
 bore 
 I will rise from a slave to my manhood once more. 
 
 Come, friends of my youth, there's a soul to be 
 
 saved. 
 Give me of thy strength, there are storms to be 
 
 braved. 
 Come back, O my will, with all of thy might 
 And make me a giant to battle for right. 
 To earth and to heaven again I will call 
 And snatch even life from the folds of a pall. 
 
 God help me to stand by the vows that I make ; 
 God help me, if any, in weakness I break ; 
 Lead me not to the tempter, but guide me in right 
 Until I am strong in thy mercy and might. 
 Then lead back my bride to her husband again 
 And link with thy blessing the now parted chain. 
 Sherman D. Richardson. 
 
 SYMPATHY. 
 
 SYMPATHY has never a harder task that when 
 it finds itself in the presence of suffering 
 which it is powerless to alleviate, and it 
 never is of greater value or greater helpfulness 
 than just there and then. It is comparatively a 
 light task to bend in sympathy over the suffering, 
 when one's every touch takes away some of the 
 ];ain, and the hopeful eyes of the patient follow 
 with gratitude every motion of him that ministers. 
 
 But when the wound is beyond human skill, and 
 all that one can do, is to stand by in silent or in 
 softly spoken sympathy, and see a loved one 
 lacked with pain which none can remove, then 
 comes the truest test of the worth of sympathy. 
 The kindly offices of sympathy are then most 
 precious, simply because they cost so largely, and 
 can effect so little. But there are deeper needs in 
 the human soul than the alleviations of either 
 bodily pain or mental anguish; and it is these 
 needs which are met by the presence of that sym- 
 pathy which is so powerless for things merely 
 material. Though the pain may be no whit the j 
 less, a new strength comes to the sufferer when he 
 knows that a fellow-heart is suffering with him, 
 and is sending up aspirations, though seemingly in 
 vain, for his quick deliverance. 
 
 The wounded beast may have no other need 
 than to crawl away into some dark spot and moan 
 its life out in loneliness ; but from cradle to grave 
 no man lives to himself alone, and none has a 
 right to refuse, when need comes, to fulfill the 
 kindly duty of comforting his brother. Alleviate 
 bodily and mental pain when you can ; but when 
 the call of duty comes for your sympathy in a case 
 where you can do neither, know that your ready 
 answer to that call will do more for the sufferer 
 
 than the outw^ard eye will see ; for by your pres- 
 ence you will share the burden which you cannot 
 lift, and your strength will strengthen the weak- 
 ness which you cannot remove. 
 
 "O 
 
 VICTORIANS TEARS. 
 
 MAIDEN, heir of kings, 
 A king has left his place ; 
 The majesty of death has swept 
 All others from his face. 
 And thou, upon thy mother's breast, 
 
 No longer lean adown — 
 But take the glory for the rest, 
 And rule the land that loves thee best." 
 The maiden wept ; 
 She wept to wear a crown ! 
 
 They decked her courtly halls — 
 
 They reined her hundred steeds — 
 They shouted at her palace gate, 
 
 '* A noble queen succeeds ! " 
 Her name has stirred the mountains' sleep, 
 
 Her praise has filled the town : 
 And mourners God had stricken deep 
 Looked hearkening up, and did not weep ! 
 Alone she wept. 
 
 Who wept to wear a crown. 
 
 She saw no purple shine, 
 
 For tears had dimmed her eyes : 
 She only knew her childhood's flowers 
 
 Were happier pageantries ! 
 And while the heralds played their part 
 
 For million shouts to drown — 
 ''God save the Queen," from hill to mart — 
 She heard, through all her beating heart; 
 And turned and wept ! 
 
 She wept, to wear a crown, 
 
 God save thee, weep'.ng queen ! 
 
 Thou £-i.alt be well beloved. 
 The tyran'*; sceptre cannot move 
 
 As th. .i pure tears have moved ; 
 The nature ai thine eye we see, 
 
 Whicli tyrants cannot own — 
 The love tliat: guardeth liberties; 
 Strange bieismg on the nation lies, 
 Whose sovereign wept. 
 
 Yea, ^\ er. t, to wear its crown. 
 
 God bless thee, weeping queen. 
 
 With blessing more divine ; 
 And fill with better love than earth's. 
 
 That tender heart of thine; 
 That when the thrones of earth shall be 
 
 As low ap graves brought down, 
 A pierced hand may give to thee. 
 The crown which angels wept to see. 
 Thou wilt not weep 
 
 To wear that heavenly crown. 
 
 Elizabeth B, Browning 
 
THOUGHT AND SENTIMENT. 
 
 423 
 
 DUST FROM THE ROAD OF LIFE, 
 
 S 
 
 OME of the dust from the road of life 
 Has fallen upon my hair, 
 And silver threads from my raven locks 
 Are gleaming out here and there ; 
 And, oh, these meshes of silver gray 
 Tell of the moments flown — 
 
 For threatening clouds o'erspread the sky. 
 And the night seems very near. 
 
 By faith I turn — in the rosy East 
 
 A beautiful star I see 
 Stand o'er the manger in Bethlehem, 
 
 And it seems to shine for me ; 
 And from the city of golden spires, 
 
 Whose gates just now are ajar, 
 I catch a radiant beam of light 
 
 From the bright and morning star. 
 
 And when upon Jordan's restless wave 
 
 I shall launch my way-worn bark, 
 The ''dust from the road of life" shall fall 
 
 From my tresses long and dark ; 
 
 And the lines of care upon my brow, 
 
 And the pain within mv breast. 
 
 Shall pass away as my 
 bark draws near 
 This beautiful land of 
 rest. 
 
 Mrs. Louis Bedford. 
 
 Of the day that's draw- 
 ing to a close. 
 And the night that's 
 coming on. 
 
 But 
 
 the coming night 
 
 cold and dark 
 And my heart is filled 
 
 fears, 
 i^s thought flies backward on weary wings, 
 
 O'er the waste of vanished years; 
 And in the castle of memory 
 
 Few jewels are treasured there ; 
 But dross and rubbish that tell of earth 
 
 Are visible everywhere. 
 
 Even on the faithful register, 
 That hangs in memory's hall, 
 
 I find only worthless deeds are traced — 
 They are dark and blotted all ; 
 
 jHence, as approaches the eve of life, 
 My spirit shrinks back with fear, 
 
 THE CROWN OF LIFE. 
 
 FOR every leaf the loveliest flower 
 Which beauty sighs for from her bower, 
 For every star a drop of dew. 
 For every sun a sky of blue, 
 For every heart a heart as true ! 
 
 For every tear by pity shed, 
 
 Upon a fellow-sufferer's head, 
 
 Oh ! be a crown of glory given ; — 
 
 Such crowns as saints to gain have striven, 
 
 Such crowns as seraphs wear in heaven. 
 
424 
 
 THOUGHT AND SENTIMENT, 
 
 I 
 
 For all who toil at honest fame, 
 A proud, a pure, a deathless name — 
 For all who love, who loving bless, 
 Be life one long, kind, close caress, 
 Be life all love, all happiness ! 
 
 J. P. Bailey. 
 
 THE CHAPERON. 
 
 TAKE my chaperon to the play — 
 She thinks she's taking me — 
 
 And the gilded youth who owns the box, 
 A proud young man is he. 
 
 But how would his young heart be hurt 
 If he could only know 
 That not for his sweet sake I go, 
 Nor yet to see the trifling show ; 
 
 But to see my chaperon flirt. 
 
 Her eyes beneath her snowy hair 
 They sparkle young as mine ; 
 
 There's scarce a wrinkle in her hand 
 So delicate and fine. 
 
 And when my chaperon is seen. 
 They come from everywhere — 
 The dear eld boys with silvery hair, 
 With old-time grace and old-time air, 
 
 To greet their old-time queen. 
 
 They bow as my young Midas here 
 Will never learn to bow, 
 
 (The dancing masters do not teach 
 That gracious reverence now); 
 
 With voices quavering just a bit, 
 They play their old parts through, 
 They talk of folks who used to woo, 
 Of hearts that broke in 'fifty-two^ 
 
 Now none the worse for it. 
 
 And as those aged crickets chirp 
 I watch my chaperon's face, 
 
 And see the dear old features take 
 A new and tender grace — 
 
 And in her happy eyes I see 
 Her youth awakening bright. 
 With all its hope, desire, delight — 
 Ah, me ! I wish that I were quite 
 
 As young- 
 
 -as young as she ! 
 
 TRUE NOBILITY. 
 
 IT does not consist in a pompous display of 
 wealth, a high-sounding name, a long line of 
 ancestry whom the world delighted to honor ; 
 nor, yet, in jeweled crowns, steel-emblazoned 
 armor, or costly apparel of purple and fine linen. 
 Indeed, these adjuncts as frequently indicate the 
 absence of a truly noble heart and mind as other- 
 wise. It too often happens that the form instead 
 of the substance of things is the object desired, 
 and as so many are incapable of distinguishing 
 between appearance and reality, it is a very easy 
 
 matter to dazzle their eyes with a false display of 
 greatness and goodness. Since the world sets so 
 much value on a lofty title, it is too frequently the 
 case that its possessor makes little effort to merit 
 the name he bears. That man is not to be relied 
 upon who makes his name and inheritance the 
 stepping-stone to his entrance into good society. 
 
 It is not an evidence of nobility to do a praise- 
 worthy act at the risk of personal safety when you 
 have hopes of a liberal reward. There are many 
 who will expose their lives to save that of another 
 when they have reason to believe that the risk in- 
 volved will be amply remunerated who would refuse 
 to do so when they have no such expectations. We 
 pay homage to men who have slain thousands on 
 the bloody field of war and won many battles for 
 the sake of victory. We call them great ; yet a 
 rough sailor who plunges into the sea to save a 
 drowning child for humanity's sake alone, has a 
 far nobler heart beating within his sunburnt bosom 
 than the victor of a thousand battles. Were I 
 called upon to name four words as synonymous 
 with the word nobility, I would say truth, honesty, 
 bravery, charity. 
 
 B 
 
 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 
 
 LACK shadows fall 
 From the lindens tall, 
 That lift aloft their massive wall 
 Against the southern sky; 
 
 And from the realms 
 Of the shadowy elms 
 A tide-like darkness overwhelms 
 The fields that round us lie. 
 
 But the night is fair. 
 And everywhere 
 A warm, soft vapor fills the air, 
 And distant sounds seem near ; 
 
 And above, in the light 
 Of the star-lit night, 
 Swift birds of passage wing their flight 
 Through the dewy atmosphere. 
 
 I hear the beat 
 Of their pinions fleet, 
 As from the land of snow and sleet 
 They seek a southern lea. 
 
 I hear the cry 
 Of their voices high 
 Falling dreamily through the sky. 
 But their forms I cannot see. 
 
 O, say not so ! 
 
 Those sounds that flow 
 
 In murmurs of delight and woe 
 
 Come not from wings of birds. 
 
THOUGHT AND SENTIMENT. 
 
 425 
 
 They are the throngs 
 Of the poet's songs, 
 
 Murmurs of pleasures, and pains, and wrongs, 
 The sound of winged words. 
 
 This is the cry 
 Of souls, that high 
 On toiling, beating pinions fly, 
 Seeking a warmer clime. 
 
 From their distant flight 
 Through realms of light 
 It falls into our world of night. 
 
 With the murmuring sound of rhyme. 
 H. W. Longfellow. 
 
 DIME5 AND DOLLARS. 
 
 ( Q T~^ IMES and dollars ! dollars and dimes ! " 
 I I Thus the old miser rang the chimes, 
 ^ — ^ As he sat by the side of an open box, 
 With ironed angles and massive locks ; 
 And he heaped the glittering coin on high. 
 And cried in delirious ecstasy — 
 ** Dimes and dollars ! dollars and dimes ! 
 Ye are the ladders by which man climbs 
 Over his fellows. Musical chimes ! 
 Dimes and dollars ! dollars and dimes ! '* 
 
 A sound on the gong and the miser rose, 
 
 And his laden coffer did quickly close, 
 
 And locked secure. *' These are the times 
 
 For a man to look after his dollars and dimes. 
 
 A letter ! Ha ! from my prodigal son. 
 
 The old tale — poverty — pshaw, begone ! 
 
 Why did he marry when I forbade ? 
 
 Let him rest as he can on the bed he has made. 
 
 As he has sown, so he must reap ; 
 
 But I my dollars secure will keep. 
 
 A sickly wife and starving times ! 
 
 He should have wed with dollars and dimes." 
 
 Thickly the hour of midnight fell ; 
 
 Doors and windows were bolted well. 
 
 ** Ha ! " cried the miser, '' not so bad ; — 
 
 A thousand guineas to-day I've made. 
 
 Money makes money \ these are the times 
 
 To double and treble the dollars and dimes. 
 
 Now to sleep, and to-morrow to plan — 
 
 Rest is sweet to a wearied man." 
 
 And he fell to sleep with the midnight chimes, 
 
 Dreaming of glittering dollars and dimes. 
 
 The sun rose high and its beaming ray 
 
 Into the miser's room found way. 
 
 It moved from the foot till it lit the head 
 
 Of the miser's low, uncurtained bed; 
 
 And it seemed to say to him, *' Sluggard, awake; 
 
 Thou hast a thousand dollars to make. 
 
 Up, man, up ! " How still was the place. 
 
 As the bright ray fell on the mi^^er's face ! 
 
 Ha ! the old miser at last is dead ; 
 
 Dreaming of gold his spirit fled. 
 And left behind but an earthly clod, 
 Akin to the dross that he made his god. 
 
 What now avails the chinking chimes 
 Of dimes and dollars ! dollars and dimes? 
 Men of the time", ! men of the times ! 
 Content may not rest with dollars and dimes. 
 Use them well, and their use sublimes 
 The mineral dross of the dollars and dimes. 
 Use them ill, and a thousand crimes 
 Spring from a coffer of dollars and dimes. 
 Men of the times ! men of the times ! 
 Let charity dwell with your dollars and dimes. 
 
 Henry Mills. 
 
 T 
 
 THE TOWN PUMP. 
 
 HE pump, straight as a soldier stands : 
 Good friend of mine, 
 I clasp his hand with my two hands. 
 And shake it hard and heartilv. 
 Although 'tis not his turn to trea , 
 He stands out in the open street. 
 And pours his wine 
 With wasteful hospitality. 
 
 With grateful heart I drink my fill, 
 
 From his full cup ; 
 And others come, and drink, and still 
 
 The crystal current freely flows 
 For all the thirsty multitude ; 
 The beverage pure that nature brewed 
 To cheer us up. 
 Here's to the drink the pump bestows I 
 
 Nor rich nor poor the pump will slight. 
 
 Gentile and Jew, 
 Christian, Moslem and Muscovite, 
 
 Thy bounteous gift alike may share; 
 Thine is a noble, generous deed. 
 That washes out the lines of creed. 
 And, like the dew. 
 Falls pure and stainless in the air. 
 
 A benefactor pure thou art. 
 
 To thirsty souls. 
 I feel a quicker pulse of heart. 
 
 When my hand touches thine, old friends 
 Thy shadow marks the narrow way. 
 Which, followed, will not lead astray 
 Where tempting bowls 
 May bring life to a bitter end. 
 
 There, like fair Rachel at the well, 
 
 A maiden stands. 
 Will Jacob come and break the spell 
 
 Of her mysterious revery ? 
 Oh, dear old pump, the people's friend. 
 May benedictions without end 
 Fill the clean hands 
 That clasp thy hand outreached and free. 
 George W. Bungay. 
 
426 
 
 THOUGHT AXD SEXTIMEXT. 
 
 FAULTS. 
 
 A MAN has a large emerald, but it is "fea- 
 thered," and he knows an expert would 
 say, ''What a pity that it has such a 
 feather ! " it will not bring a quarter as much as 
 it otherwise would ; and he cannot take any sat- 
 isfaction in it. A man has a diamond ; but 
 there is a flaw in it, and it is not the diamond 
 that he wants. A man has an opal, but it is 
 imperfect, and he is aissatisfied with it. An 
 opal is covered with little seams, but they must 
 be the right kind of seams. If it has a crack 
 running clear across, it is marred, no matter 
 
 water, usually. To get to it you must wade or 
 leap from bog to bog, tearing your raiment and 
 soiling yourself. I see a great many noble men, 
 but they stand in a swamp of faults. They 
 bear fruit that you fain would pluck, but there 
 are briars and thistles and thorns all about it; 
 and to get it you must make your way through 
 all these hindrances. 
 
 How many persons there are that are sur- 
 rounded by a thousand little petty faults ! They 
 are so hedged in by these things that you lose all 
 the comfort and joy you would otherwise have in 
 them. Henry Ward Beecher. 
 
 how large it is, and no matter how wonderful 
 its reflections are. And this man is worried all 
 the time because he knows his opal is imper- 
 fect ; and it would worry him even if he knew 
 that nobody else noticed it. 
 
 So it is in respect to dispositions, and in re- 
 sp.ct to character at large. Little cracks, little 
 flaws, little featherings in them, take away their 
 exquisiteness and beauty, and take away that 
 fii.e finish which make moral art. How many 
 noble men there are who are diminished, who 
 are almost wasted, in their moral influence ! 
 How many men are like the red maple' It is 
 one of the most gorgeous trees, both in spring, 
 blossoming, and in autumn, with its crimson 
 foliage. But it standi, knee-deep ia swamp- 
 
 VASTNESS OF THE SEA. 
 
 THE sea ! the sea ! the open sea ! 
 The blue, the fresh, the ever free ! 
 Without a mark, without a bound, 
 It runneth the earth's wide regions round ; 
 It plays with the clouds, it mocks the skies, 
 Or like a cradled creature lies. 
 
 Barry Cornwall. 
 
 THE CHIMES OF AMSTERDAM. 
 
 FAR up above the city, 
 In the gray old belfry tower, 
 The chimes ring out their music 
 Each day at the twilight hour , 
 
THOUGHT AND SENTIMENT. 
 
 427 
 
 Above the din and the tumult, 
 And the rush of the busy street, 
 
 You can hear their solemn voices 
 In an anthem clear and sweet. 
 
 When the busy day is dying, 
 
 And the sunset gates, flung wide, 
 Mark a path of crimson glory 
 
 Upon the restless tide. 
 As the white-winged ships drop anchor, 
 
 And furl their snowy sails. 
 While the purple twilight gathers, 
 
 And the glowing crimson pales; 
 
 Then from the old gray belfry 
 
 The chimes peal out again. 
 And a hush succeeds the tumult, 
 
 As they ring their sweet refrain ; 
 No sound of discordant clangor 
 
 Mars the perfect melody. 
 But each, attuned by a master hand, 
 
 Has its place in the harmony. 
 
 I climbed the winding stairway 
 
 That led to the belfry tower, 
 As the sinking sun in the westward 
 
 Heralded twilight's hour ; 
 For I thought that surely the music 
 
 Would be clearer and sweeter far 
 Than when through the din of the city 
 
 It seemed to float from afar. 
 
 But lo, as I neared the belfry. 
 
 No sound of music was there. 
 Only a brazen clangor 
 
 Disturbed the quiet air ! 
 The ringer stood at a keyboard. 
 
 Far down beneath the chimes, 
 And patiently struck the noisy keys. 
 
 As he had uncounted times. 
 
 He had never heard the music, 
 
 Though every day it swept 
 Out over the sea and the city. 
 
 And in lingering echoes crept. 
 He knew not how many sorrows 
 
 Were cheered by the evening strain. 
 And how men paused to listen 
 
 As they heard the sweet refrain. 
 
 He only knew his duty, 
 
 And he did it with patient care ; 
 But he could not hear the music 
 
 That flooded the quiet air; 
 Only the jar and the clamor 
 
 Fell harshly on his ear, 
 And he missed the yellow chiming 
 
 That every one else could hear. 
 
 So we from our quiet watch-towers 
 May be sending a sweet refrain. 
 
 And prladdening the lives of the lowly 
 Though we hear not a single strain. 
 
 Our work may seem but a discord, 
 Though we do the best we can ; 
 
 But others will hear the music. 
 If we carry out God's plan. 
 
 Far above a world of sorrow, 
 
 And o'er the eternal sea, 
 It will blend with angelic anthems 
 
 In sweetest harmony ; 
 It will ring in lingering echoes 
 
 Through the corridors of the sky. 
 And the strains of earth's minor music 
 
 Will swell the strains on high. 
 
 Minnie E. Kenney. 
 
 ONLY FRIENDS. 
 
 SUMMER'S freshness fell around us, 
 Nature dreamed its sweetest dream. 
 Every balmy evening found us 
 By the meadow or the stream, 
 With our hearts as free from sadness 
 
 As the sunshine heaven sends; 
 Youth's bright garden bloomed in gladness, 
 Where we wandered — only friends. 
 
 Not a word of love was spoken, 
 
 No hot blushes flushed in red ; 
 Love's first sleep was left unbroken. 
 
 Bitter tears were never shed. 
 We were young and merry-hearted, 
 
 Dreaming not of future ends. 
 And without a sigh we parted ; 
 
 Fate had made us — only friends. 
 
 But a little germ of sorrow 
 
 Wakened in my heart's recess, 
 When I wandered on the morrow 
 
 By our haunts of happiness, 
 And this germ found deeper rooting 
 
 As the weary days wore on. 
 Till I felt a blossom shooting 
 
 In love's garden all alone. 
 
 No kind fate threw us together, 
 
 We had missed the lucky tide ; 
 Golden-gilded summer weather 
 
 Not forever doth abide, 
 But for me, though vainly sighing 
 
 For a love time never sends. 
 Still is left this thought undying. 
 
 We, alas ! were — onlv friends. 
 
 T 
 
 THE HELPING HAND. 
 
 HE timid hand stretched forth to aid 
 A brother in his need. 
 
 The kindly word in grief's dark hour 
 That proves the friend indeed, 
 The plea for mercy softly breathed 
 When justice threatens nigh, 
 The sorrows of a contrite heart — 
 These thino^s shall never die. 
 
428 
 
 THOUGHT AND SENTIMENT. 
 
 LIFE'S WINTER. 
 
 ^T^ IS done! dread winter spreads his latest 
 
 I glooms, 
 
 ^ And reigns tremendous o'er the conquered 
 year. 
 How dead the vegetable kingdom lies ! 
 How dumb the tuneful ! horror wide extends 
 
 Ilis desolate domain ! 
 
 hold, fond man ! 
 See here thy pictured life : 
 pass some few years, 
 Thy flowering spring, thy summer' s ardent strength, 
 Thy sober autumn fading into age, 
 And pale concluding winter comes at last, 
 And shuts the scene. 
 
 James Thomson. 
 
 M 
 
 THE OLD REAPER. 
 
 ID the brown-haired and the black-haired 
 men, 
 With ruddy faces aglow, 
 The old man stood in the harvest field. 
 With a head as white as snow. 
 '' Let me cut a sheaf, my boys," he said 
 " Before it is time to go." 
 
 They put the sickle within his hand: 
 He bowed to the windy wheat; 
 
 Pleasantly fell the golden ears, 
 With the corn flowers at his feet. 
 
 He lifted a handful, thoughtfully ; 
 It was ripe and full and sweet. 
 
 " Many and many a sheaf," he said, 
 *' I have cut in the years gone past; 
 
 And many and many a sheaf these arms 
 On the harvest wains have cast. 
 
 But, children dear, I am weary now, 
 And I think this is — the last. 
 
 * ' Let me rest awhile beneath 
 the tree ; 
 For ] like to watch you go, 
 With sickles bright, through the 
 ripe, full wheat, 
 And to feel the fresh wind 
 blow." 
 And they spread their working 
 coats for him 
 'Mong the grasses sweet and 
 low. 
 
 When the sun grew high they 
 came again. 
 For a drink and their bread 
 and meat ; 
 And in the shadow he sleeping: 
 lay, 
 With sunshine on his feet. 
 Like a child at night, outspent 
 with play, 
 He lay in slumber sweet 
 
 TIME'S FLIGHT. 
 
 O? ER the level plains, where mountains greet 
 me as I go. 
 O'er the desert waste, where fountains- 
 at my bidding flow. 
 On the boundless beam by day, on the cloud by 
 
 night, 
 I am riding hence away : who will chain my 
 flight ? 
 
 War his weary watch was keeping — I have crushed 
 
 his spear; 
 Grief within her bower was weeping — I have dried 
 
 her tear ; 
 Pleasure caught a minute's hold — then I hurried 
 
 by, 
 
 Leaving all her banquet cold and her goblet dry. 
 
 Power had won a throne of glory : where is now 
 his fame ? 
 
 Genius said : *'Ilive in story," who hath heard 
 his name? 
 
 Love beneath a myrtle bough whispered '' Why so- 
 fast?" 
 
 And the roses on his brow withered as I past. 
 
THOUGHT AND SENTIMENT 
 
 429 
 
 I have heard the heifer lowing o'er the wild wave's 
 
 bed; 
 I have seen the billow flowing where the cattle fed; 
 Where began my wanderings ? Memory will not 
 
 say ! 
 Where will rest my weary wings ? Science turns 
 
 away ! 
 
 W. M. Praed. 
 
 TO A FRIEND, 
 
 ON HER RETURN FROM EUROPE. 
 
 HOW smiled the land of France 
 Under thy blue eye's glance, 
 Light hearted rover ! 
 Old walls of chateaux gray, 
 Towers of an early day, 
 Which the three colors play 
 Flauntingly over. 
 
 Now midst the brilliant train 
 Thronging the banks of Seine : 
 
 Now midst the splendor 
 Of the wild Alpine range, 
 Waking with change on change 
 Thoughts in thy young heart strange. 
 
 Lovely, and tender. 
 
 TaleSj soft Elysian, 
 Like those in the vision 
 
 Of Mirza, when, dreaming, 
 He saw the long hollow dell, 
 Touched by the prophet's spell, 
 Into an ocean swell 
 
 With its isles teeming. 
 
 Cliffs wrapped in snows of years, 
 Splintering with icy spears 
 
 Autumn's blue heaven: 
 Loose rock and frozen slide. 
 Hung on the mountain side. 
 Waiting their hour to glide 
 
 Downward, storm-driven ! 
 
 Rhine stream, by castle old, 
 Baron's and robber's hold. 
 
 Peacefully flowing; 
 Sweeping through vineyards green, 
 Or where the cliffs are seen 
 O'er the broad wave between 
 
 Grim shadows throwing. 
 
 Or, where St. Peter's dome 
 Swells o'er eternal Rome, 
 
 Vast, dim and solemn — 
 Hymns ever chanting low — 
 Censers swung to and fro — 
 Sable stoles sweeping slow 
 
 Cornice and column ! 
 
 Oh, as from each and all 
 Will there not voices call 
 
 I 
 
 Evermore back again? 
 In the mind's gallery 
 Wilt thou not always see 
 Dim phantoms beckon thee 
 
 O'er that old track again ? 
 
 New forms thy presence haunt — 
 New voices softly chant — 
 
 New faces greet thee ! — 
 Pilgrims from many a shrine 
 Hallowed by poet's line, 
 At memory's magic sign. 
 
 Rising to meet thee. 
 
 And when such visions come 
 Unto thy olden home. 
 
 Will they not waken 
 Deep thoughts of Him whose hand 
 Led thee o'er sea and land 
 Back to the household band 
 
 Whence thou wast taken ? 
 
 While, at the sunset time. 
 Swells the cathedral's chime. 
 
 Yet, in thy dreaming. 
 While to thy spirit's eye, 
 Yet the vast mountains lie 
 Piled in the Switzer's sky. 
 
 Icy and gleaming : 
 
 Prompter of silent prayer. 
 Be the wild picture there 
 
 In the mind's chamber, 
 And, through each coming day 
 Him, who, as staff and stay, 
 Watched o'er thy wandering way. 
 
 Freshly remember. 
 
 So, when the call shall be 
 Soon or late unto thee, 
 
 As to all given. 
 Still may that picture live, 
 All its fair forms survive. 
 And to thy spirit give 
 
 Gladness in heaven ! 
 
 J. G. Whittier. 
 
 TEN YEARS AGO. 
 
 TOO am changed — I scarce know why — 
 
 Can feel each flagging pulse decay; 
 And youth and health, and visions high, 
 Melt like a wreath of snow away ; 
 Time cannot sure have wrought thee ill ; 
 
 Though worn in this world's sickening strife, 
 In soul and form, I linger still 
 
 In the first summer month of life ; 
 Yet journey on my path below. 
 Oh ! how unlike — ten years ago ! 
 
 But look not thus: I would not give 
 
 The \vreck of hopes that thou must share, 
 
430 
 
 THOUGHT AND SENTIMENT 
 
 To bid those joyous hours revive, 
 When all around me seemed so fair. 
 
 We've wandered on in sunny weather, 
 
 When winds were low, and flowers in bloom, 
 
 Together cleave life's fitful tide ; 
 Nor mourn, whatever winds may blow, 
 Youth's first wild dreams— ten years ago ! 
 
 Alaric a. Watts. 
 
 IN THE ART GALLERY. 
 
 And hand in hand have kept together, 
 
 And still will keep, 'mid storm and gloom ; 
 Endeared by ties we could not know 
 When life was young — ten years ago ! 
 
 Has fortune frowned ? Her frowns were vain, 
 For hearts like ours she could not chill ; 
 
 Have friends proved false ? Their love might 
 wane. 
 But ours grew fonder, firmer still. 
 
 Twin barks on this world's changing wave, 
 Steadfast in calms, in tempests tried; 
 
 In concert still our fate we'll brave, 
 
 THE ANGEL OF PATIENCE. 
 
 FROM THE GERMAN. 
 
 TO weary hearts, to mourning homes, 
 God's meekest angel gently comes: 
 No power has he to banish pain, 
 Or give us back our lost again : 
 And yet in tenderest love, our dear 
 And Heavenly Father sends him here. 
 
 There's quiet in that angel's glance. 
 There's rest in his still countenance ! 
 He mocks no grief with idle cheer. 
 Nor wounds with words the mourner's car; 
 
THOUGHT AND SENTIMENT. 
 
 431 
 
 But ills and woes he may not cure 
 Pie kindly trains us to endure. 
 
 Angel of Patience ! sent to calm 
 Our feverish brows with cooling palm ; 
 To lay the storms of hope and fear, 
 And reconcile life's smile and tear ; 
 The throbs of wounded pride to still 
 And make our own our Father's will ! 
 
 Oh ! thou who mournest on thy way, 
 With longings for the close of day ; 
 He walks with thee, that angel kind. 
 And gently whispers " Be resigned : 
 Bear up, bear on, the end shall tell 
 The dear Lord ordereth all things well !" 
 J. G. Whittier. 
 
 TWO QRAVE5. 
 
 A RICH man died. They laid him down to 
 rest 
 Upon a fair slope, slanting toward the west. 
 And cast about the silence of his tomb 
 A marble mausoleum's sacred gloom. 
 
 They hung within its tower, tall and white, 
 
 A chime of sweet-voiced bells ; and every night, 
 
 Just as the red sun sank below the swell 
 
 Of that green hill they tolled his solemn knell. 
 
 Another died. They buried him in haste 
 
 Within a barren field, a weedy waste. 
 
 Rank nettles locked their arms, and thorns were 
 
 sown 
 Above his bed, unmarked by cross or stone. 
 
 One lived on many tongues; the other fell 
 From human memory ; and both slept well ! 
 
 A 
 
 THE BUILDERS. 
 
 LI< 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 to-days 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 to-day, then, strong and sure. 
 With a firm and ample base ;' 
 
 And ascending and secure 
 
 Shall to-morrow 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. 
 
 H. W. Longfellow, 
 
 A 
 
 A GOOD NEW YEAR. 
 
 = ' Good New Year," so let it be. 
 
 But, brother, as I take it, 
 And so I think you will agree, 
 'Twill be just as you make it. 
 
 A "good new year," the wish is good. 
 
 None will presume to doubt it ; 
 Still, wishes are but flimsy food, 
 
 What will you do about it ? 
 
 If you have vowed to snap and bite 
 
 At all men as you meet them. 
 The year will hardly come out right — 
 
 Men don't want churls to greet them. 
 
 If you're resolved to curse your stars, 
 
 At every little trouble, 
 And let your spite breed mimic wars. 
 
 You'll find your sorrows double. 
 
 But should you think that life is short 
 
 And strive to make it sunny. 
 My head for yours, you'll find the sport 
 
 Better than all your money. 
 
 The years don't grow upon the trees. 
 To pull as you may choose them ; 
 
 They come and go just as they please, 
 'Tis yours to mar or use them. 
 
 'Tis well to wish a good new year, 
 
 If wishing so would do it ; 
 Kind words, kind deeds, and smiles of cheer, 
 
 Will better help you through it. 
 
 William Lyle. 
 
432 
 
 THOUGHT AND SENTIMENT 
 
 WE'LL GO TO SEA NO MORE. 
 
 O BLITHELY shines the bonny sun 
 Upon the Isle of May, 
 And blithely comes the morning tide 
 Into St. Andrew's Bay. 
 Then up, gudeman, the breeze is fair, 
 And up, my braw bairns, three ; 
 
 When squalls capsize our wooden walls, 
 When the French ride at theTS'ore, 
 
 When Leith meets Aberdour half way, 
 We'll go to sea no more — 
 
 No more, 
 We'll go to sea no more. 
 
 There's goud in yonder bonny boat 
 That sails sae weel the sea ! 
 
 When haddocks leave the Firth o' Forth, 
 
 And mussels leave the shore. 
 When oysters climb up Berwick Law, 
 We'll go to sea no more — 
 
 No more, 
 We'll go to sea no more. 
 
 IVe seen the waves as blue as air, 
 
 I've seen them green as grass; 
 But I never feared their heaving yet, 
 
 From Grangemouth to the Bass. 
 I've seen the sea as black as pitch, 
 
 I've seen it white as snow ; 
 But I never feared its foaming yet, 
 
 Though the winds blew high or low. 
 
 I never liked the landsman's life, 
 
 The earth is aye the same ; 
 Gie me the ocean for my dower, 
 
 My vessel for my hame. 
 Gie me the fields that no man plows, 
 
 The farm that pays no fee ; 
 Gie me the bonny fish that glance 
 So gladly through the sea. 
 
 When sails hang flapping on the masts 
 While through the waves we snore, 
 When in a calm we're tempest-tossed, 
 We'll go to sea no more — 
 
 No more. 
 We'll go to sea no more. 
 
 The sun is up, and round Inchkeith 
 The breezes softly blaw ; 
 
THOUGHT AND SENTIMENT 
 
 433 
 
 The gudeman has the lines on board — 
 
 Awa, my bairns, awa ! 
 An' ye be back by gloamin' gray, 
 
 An' bright the fire will glow. 
 An' in your tales and sangs we'll tell 
 How weel the boat ye row. 
 
 When life's last sun gaes feebly down 
 
 And death comes to our door, 
 When a' the world's a dream to us, 
 We'll go to sea no more — 
 
 No more. 
 We'll go to sea no more. 
 
 Adelaide Corbett. 
 
 A HAND PRESSURE. 
 
 ONLY a pressure of the hand, 
 Nothing more. 
 For on the valley side we stand ! 
 The avalanche holds his mighty weight, 
 
 Poised for a breath to overthrow. 
 Speak not a word. 'Tis the hush of fate. 
 What if the load be tears or snow, 
 If a life is o'er ! 
 
 Up on the high, clear mountain peak 
 
 Near the sun, 
 There with a calm heart one may speak. 
 There where the hawk goes circling round, 
 
 Seeking the cleft she builded in, 
 Far above drifts and ice-rent ground, 
 At the last height, where the skies begin 
 Is the burden done. 
 
 Curtis May. 
 
 LUCK AND LABOR. 
 
 IT has been denied that any other credit than 
 that of good luck is due to Fulton for his 
 invention. Gentlemen would have us suppose 
 that good luck is the parent of all that we admire 
 in science or in arms. If this be so, why, then, 
 indeed, what a bubble is reputation ! How vain 
 and how idle are the anxious days and sleepless 
 nights devoted to the service of one's country I 
 Admit this argument and you strip from the brow 
 of the scholar his bay, and from those of the states- 
 man and soldier their laurel. 
 
 Why do you deck w^th chaplets the statue of the 
 Father of his Country, if good luck, and good luck 
 alone, be all that commends him to our gratitude 
 and love ? A member of this House retorts, '• Bad 
 luck would have made W^ashington a traitor." Ay, 
 but in whose estimation ? Did the great and holy 
 principles which produced and governed our Revo- 
 lution depend, for their righteousness and truth, 
 upon success or defeat ? Would Washington, had 
 he s'lffered as a rebel on the scaffold — would 
 Washington have been regarded as a traitor bv 
 Warren and Hancock and Greene and Hamilton 
 — by the crowd of patriots who encompassed him., 
 28 
 
 partners of his toil and sharers of his patriotism? 
 Was it good luck that impelled Columbus, through 
 discouragement, conspiracy and poverty, to perse- 
 vere in his path of danger, until this western world 
 blessed his sight, and rewarded his energy and 
 daring? Does the gentleman emulate the glory 
 of the third king of Rome, TuUus Hostillus — and 
 would he erect in our own land a temple to for- 
 tune ? It cannot be that he would seriously pro- 
 mulgate such views; — that he would take from 
 human renown all that gives it dignity and worth, 
 by making it depend less on the virtue of the in- 
 dividual than on his luck ! 
 
 Ogden Hoffman. 
 
 ROCK ME TO 5LEEP. 
 
 BACKWARD, turn backward, O time, in vour 
 flight. 
 Make me a child again just for to-night ! 
 ]Mother, come back from the ec'holess shore. 
 Take me again to your heart as of yore ; 
 Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care. 
 Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair ; 
 Over my slumbers your loving watch keep ; — 
 Rock me to sleep, mother — rock me to sleep ! 
 
 Backward, flow backward, oh, tide of the years ! 
 I am so weary of toil and of tears — 
 Toil without recompense, tears all in vain — 
 Take them, and give me my childhood again ! 
 I have grown weary of dust and decay — 
 Weary of flinging my soul- wealth away ; 
 Weary of sowing for others to reap ; — 
 Rock me to sleep, mother — rock me to sleep ! 
 
 Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue. 
 Mother, O mother, my heart calls for yor. ! 
 Many a summer the grass has grown green, 
 Blossomed and faded, our faces between : 
 Yet, with strong yearning and passionate pain. 
 Long I to-night for your presence again. 
 Come from the silence so long and so deep ; — 
 Rock me to sleep, mother — rock me to sleep ! 
 
 Over my heart, in the days that are flown. 
 No love like mother-love ever has shone ; 
 No other worship abides and endures — 
 Faithful, unselfish, and patient like yours : 
 None like a mother can charm away pain 
 From the sick soul and the world-weary brain. 
 Slumber's soft calms o'er my heavy lips creep ;— - 
 Rock me to sleep, mother — rock me to sleep ! 
 
 Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold. 
 Fall on your shoulders again as of old ; 
 Let it drop over my forehead to-night. 
 Shading my faint eyes away from the light ; 
 For with its sunny- edged shadows once more 
 Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore ; 
 Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep: — 
 Rock me to sleep, mother — rock me to sleep ! 
 
434 
 
 THOUGHT AND SENTIMENT 
 
 Mother, dear mother, the years have been long 
 Since I last listened your lullaby song : 
 Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem 
 Womanhood's years have been only a dream. 
 Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace, 
 With your light lashes just sweeping my face, 
 Never hereatter to wake or to weep ; — 
 'vock me to sleep, mother — rock me to sleep ! 
 Elizabeth A. Allen. 
 
 How happy he, 
 
 The saint to be 
 Of the girls and all the boys ! 
 
 He hears his praise 
 
 Through the holidays, 
 As they eat their sweets, and break their toys. 
 
 So still he smiles, 
 And the time beguiles 
 
 CHRISTMAS EVE 
 
 THE snow is white 
 On the roofs to-night ; 
 The moon looks down with her silvery smile ; 
 And the wind blows free 
 Through bush and tree, 
 And whistles along for mile on mile. 
 
 And ah ! hark there ! 
 
 On the midnight air, 
 Comes the faintest tinkle of fairy bells. 
 
 They are coming near, 
 
 They are coming here, 
 And their sweet sound swelling of joy foretells. 
 
 It is Santa Claus, 
 
 And he cannot pause; 
 But down the chimney he quickly glides; 
 
 Each stocking fills, 
 
 Till it almost spills. 
 Then gayly chuckles, and off he glides. 
 
 Concocting schemes our hearts to cheer; 
 
 He loves us all, 
 
 And great and small 
 Regret that he comes but once a year. 
 
 William B. Dunham. 
 
 FORGIVE ME NOW^. 
 
 WAIT not the morrow, but forgive me now ; 
 Who knows what fate to-morrow's dawn 
 may bring ? 
 Let us not part with shadow on thy brow. 
 With my heart hungering. 
 
 Wait not the morrow, but entwine thy hand 
 In mine, with sweet forgiveness full and free ; 
 
 Of all life's joys I only understand 
 This joy of loving thee. 
 
 Perhaps some day I may redeem the wrong, 
 Rcj^air the fault — I know not when or how. 
 
 Oh, dearest, do not wait — it may be long — 
 Only iorgive me nov/. 
 
THOUGHT AND SEXTIMEXT. 
 
 435 
 
 IN THE CAGE. 
 
 DOST thou use me as fond children do 
 Their birds, show me my freedom in a 
 string, 
 And, when thou'st played with me a while, then 
 
 pull 
 Me back again, to languish in my cage ? 
 
 Sir W. Davenaxt. 
 
 NATIONAL HATRED. 
 
 NO, Sir! no. Sir! We 
 are above all this. Let 
 the Highland clans- 
 man, half naked, half civil- 
 ized, half blinded by the peat- 
 smoke of his cavern, have his 
 hereditary enemy and his 
 hereditary enmity, and keep 
 the keen, deep and precious 
 hatred, set on fire of hell, 
 alive, if he can ; let the North 
 American Indian have his, 
 and hand it down from father 
 to son, by Heaven knows 
 what symbols of alligators, 
 and rattlesnakes, and war- 
 clubs smeared with vermilion 
 and entwined with scarlet ; 
 let such a country as Poland 
 — cloven to the earth, the 
 armed heel on the radiant 
 forehead, her body dead, her 
 soul incapable to die — let her 
 remember the " wrongs of 
 days long past ; " let the lost 
 and wandering tribes of Israel 
 remeuiber theirs — the manli- 
 ness and the sympathy of the 
 world may allow or pardon 
 this to them ; but shall Amer- 
 ica, young, free, prosperous, 
 jast setting out on the high- 
 way of Heaven, *' decorating 
 and cheering the elevated 
 sphere she just begins to move 
 in, glittering like the morning 
 itar, full of life and joy," 
 shall she be supposed to be 
 
 polluting and corroding her noble and happy 
 heart, by moping over old stories of stamp act, 
 and tea tax, and the firing of the '• Leopard " upon 
 the " Chesapeake " in a time of peace ? No, Sir ! 
 no. Sir! a thousand times no! 
 
 Why, I protest I thought all that had been set- 
 tled. I thought two wars had settled it all. What 
 else was so much good blood shed for, on so 
 many more than classical fields of Revolutiona y 
 glory? For what was so much good blood more 
 lately shed at Lundy's Lane, at Fort Erie, before 
 
 I and behind the lines at New Orleans, on the deck 
 ' of the" Constitution," on the deck of the -'Java," 
 I on the lakes, on the sea, but to settle exactly 
 1 these ''wrongs of past days?" And have we 
 : come back sulky and sullen from the ver\- field of 
 I honor? For my country I deny it. 
 I Mr. President, let me say that, in mv judgment, 
 ! this notion of a national enmity of feeling towards 
 
 Great Britain belongs to a past age of our history. , 
 My younger countrymen are unconscious of it.' 
 They disavow it. That generation in who^e opin- 
 ions and feelings the actions and the destiny of 
 the next are unfolded, as the tree in the germ, do 
 not at all comprehend your meanin , nor your 
 fears, nor your regrets. We are born to happier 
 feelings. We look to England as we look to 
 France. We look to them, i"rom our new world — 
 not unrenowned, yet a new world still — and the 
 blood mounts to our cheeks ; our eyes swim ; our 
 
436 
 
 THOUGHT AXD SENTIMENT 
 
 voices are stifled with emulousness of so much 
 glory; their trophies will not let us ileep : but 
 there is no hatred at all; no hatred, — no barbarian 
 memorv of wrongs, for which brave men have made 
 the last expiation to the brave. Rufus Choate. 
 
 ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY 
 CHURCHYARD. 
 
 T 
 
 HE curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 
 The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea ; 
 The ploughman homeward plods his weary 
 way, 
 And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 
 
 Can storied urn or animaicd 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 tim^ did ne'er unroll; 
 
 Chill penury repressed their noble rage, 
 And froze the genial current of the soul. 
 
 Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight. Full many a gem of purest ray serene 
 
 And all the air a solemn stillness holds. ' The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear; 
 
 Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 
 
 And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds; And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 
 
 Save that from yonder ivy-mantled touer 
 
 The moping owl doth to the moon complain 
 
 Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, 
 Molest her ancient solitary reign. 
 
 Beneath those ru^sred elms, that vew-trade's shade, 
 Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering 
 heap, 
 
 Each in his narrow cell forever laid, 
 
 T he 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 afield ! 
 How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy 
 stroke ! 
 
 Let not ambition mock their useful toil. 
 Their homely joys and destiny bscure ; 
 
 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're gave, 
 Await alike the inevitable hour ; — 
 
 The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 
 
 Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fauli. 
 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 i»raise. 
 
 Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast 
 The little tyrant of his fields withstood ; 
 
 Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest ; 
 Some C^omweM, guiltless of his country's blood. 
 
 The applause of listening senates to command, 
 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 con- 
 fined ; 
 
 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. 
 
 Y'et e'en these bones from insult to protect, 
 Some frail memorial still erected nigh. 
 
 With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture 
 decked, 
 Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 
 
 Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered 
 muse, 
 
 The place of fame and elegy su}jply ; 
 And many a holy text around she strews. 
 
 That teach the rustic moralist to die. 
 
 For wjio. to dumb forgetfiilness a prey. 
 
 This pleasing, anxious being e'er resigned. 
 
 Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, 
 Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind ? 
 
THOVGHT AND SENTIMENT, 
 
 437 
 
 On some fond breast the parting soul relies, 
 Some })ious drops the closing eye requires ; 
 
 E'en Iroui the tomb the voice of nature cries, 
 E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. 
 
 For thee, who, mindful of the unhonored dead, 
 Dost in these lines their artless tale relate ; 
 
 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, woeful, wan, like one forlorn, 
 Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless 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 saw 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 unknown ; 
 
 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. 
 
 44 
 
 I 
 
 THE F00U5H VIOLET. 
 
 WAS so lonely," a violet said. 
 
 As she nestled close to an eagle's 
 
 breast, 
 "So tired, too, of the dusk and the dew, 
 
 God sent you, I think, to give me rest. 
 Bear me away to the gates of day. 
 
 To heights that forever are glad and green. 
 
 And soft on your breast as a bird in its nest. 
 Let me learn what living and loving mean." 
 
 The wind crept cold by the eyrie's edge 
 
 That night, in his cavern beside the sea, 
 The bird slept well, but the pride of the dell, 
 
 Forgotten and faded, cried, "Ah! me 
 
 For the sweet, sweet dream by the shadowing 
 stream. 
 For the lonely life that I used to hate — 
 For the dusk and the dew so tender and true ! '' 
 But the wind made answer, ' ' Too late ! too 
 late ! " 
 
 To-day in the calm of his cold content, 
 
 High on the cliffs the bold bird sits, 
 And never a thought of the harm he wrought 
 
 Through the sunny space of his memory fl!ts; 
 But the wind '.n glee creeps up from the sea, 
 
 And, finding the violet doomed and dead. 
 Wafts it away from the gates of day, 
 
 And buries it down where the dusks are shed. 
 
 NEW EVERY MORNING. 
 
 EVERY day is a fresh beginning, 
 Every morn is a world made new^ ; 
 You who are weary of sorrow and sinning, 
 Here is a beautiful hope for you ; 
 A hope for me and a hope for you. 
 
 All the past things are past and over, 
 
 The tasks are done and the tears are shed ; 
 
 Yesterday's errors let yesterday cover; 
 
 Yesterday's wounds which smarted and bled, 
 Are healed with the healing which night has shed. 
 
 Yesterday now is a part of forever. 
 
 Bound up in a sheaf which God holds tight. 
 With glad days and sad days and bad days which 
 never 
 Shall visit us more with their bloom and iheir 
 
 blight, 
 Their fulness of sunshine or sorrowful night. 
 
 Let them go since we cannot relieve them. 
 
 Cannot undo and cannot atone ; 
 God in his mercy receive, forgive them. 
 
 Only the new days are our own ; 
 
 To-day is ours and to-day alone. 
 
 Here are the skies all burnished brightly. 
 Here is the spent earth all reborn, 
 
 Here are the tired limbs springing lightly 
 To face the sun and to share with the morn 
 In the chrism of dew and the cool of dawn. 
 
 Every day is a fresh beginning ; / 
 
 Listen, my soul, to the glad refrain. 
 
 And spite of old sorrow and older sinning, 
 And puzzles forecasted and possible pain, 
 Take heart with the day, and begin again. 
 
 Susan Coolidge. 
 
438 
 
 7 M OUGHT AXD SENTIMENT. 
 
 S 
 
 THE MEN OF OLD. 
 
 1KX0W not that the men of old 
 Were better than men now, 
 Of heart more kind, of hand more bold, 
 Of more ingenious brow : 
 I heed not those who pine for force 
 
 A ghost of time to raise, 
 As if they thus could check the course 
 Of these appointed days. 
 
 Still is it true, and over-true, 
 
 That I delight to close 
 This book of life self-wise and new, 
 
 And let my thoughts repose 
 On all that humble happiness 
 
 The world has since foregone — 
 The daylight of contentedness 
 
 That on those faces shone ! 
 
 With rights, though not too closely scanned, 
 
 Enjoyed, as far as known — | 
 
 "With will, by no reverse unmanned — 1 
 
 With pulse of even tone — 
 They from to-day and from to-night 
 
 Expected nothing more, 
 Than yesterday and yesternight 
 
 Had proffered them before. 
 
 A man's best things are nearest him, 
 
 Lie close about his feet. 
 It is the distant and the dim 
 
 That we are sick to greet : 
 For flowers that grow uur hands beneath 
 
 We struggle and aspire — 
 Our hearts must die except they breathe 
 
 The air of fresh ^lesire. 
 
 R. IMONCTON MiLXES. 
 
 SUGGESTIONS. 
 
 URELY 'tis worth more than ducats 
 That one can go through the mart, 
 And the crowd never guess, from one's visage, 
 The secrets that hide in the heart. 
 Whether of joy or of sorrow ; 
 
 Whether of pleasure or pain ; 
 Or whether the smile cloaks a teardrop; 
 Or the thoughts be of lo-ses or gain. 
 
 For one can look out on the follies 
 
 Of fashion, and those in its thrall, 
 And laugh in one's sleeve at the medley, 
 
 But keep a straight face over all. 
 'Tis best not to rail at distortions, 
 
 Or waste one's wise logic on fools; 
 And useless to grow misanthropic; 
 
 Or think to guide others by rules. 
 
 As long as the earth keeps its orbit 
 
 Sweet sunshine will gladden the sight; 
 
 So why, like a mole in the darkness, 
 
 Should one burrow away from the light ? 
 
 Prepare to have mixed with your potion 
 
 'Ihe bitter as well as the sweet ; 
 But *' wear not your heart on your sleeve, ' ' friend, 
 
 Let your lace tell no tales on the street. 
 
 Anna C. Starbuck. 
 
 SONG OF THE MYSTIC. 
 
 1WALK down the valle} o." silenc e, 
 Down the dim, voiceless valley alone 
 And I hear not the fall of a footstep 
 Around me save God's and my own. 
 And the hush of my heart is as holy 
 As hovers where angels have flown ! 
 
 Long ago was I weary of voices. 
 
 Whose music my heart could not win: 
 
 Long ago I was weary of noises 
 
 That fretted my soul with their din ; 
 
 Long ago was I weary of places 
 
 Where I met but the human — and sin. 
 
 I walked in the world with the worldly ; 
 
 I craved what the world never gave ; 
 And I said : "In the world each ideal 
 
 That shines like a star on life's wave, 
 Is wrecked on the shores of the real, 
 
 And sleeps like a dream in a grave." 
 
 And still did I pine for the perfect, 
 
 And still found the false with the true; 
 
 I sought 'mid the human for heaven. 
 But caught a mere glimpse of its blue; 
 
 And I wept when the clouds of the mortal 
 Veiled even that glimpse from my view. 
 
 And I toiled on, heart-tired of the human; 
 
 And I moaned 'mid the mazes of men ; 
 Till I knelt long ago at an altar, 
 
 And heard a voice call me — since then 
 I walk down the valley of silence 
 
 That lies far beyond mortal ken. 
 
 Do you ask what I found in the valley? 
 
 'Tis my trysting place with the Divine, 
 And I fell at the feet of the Holy, 
 
 And above me a voice said : "Be mine." 
 And there arose from the depth of my spirit 
 
 An echo — " My heart shall be thine." 
 
 Do you ask how I live in the valley ? 
 
 I weep, and I dream, and I pray 
 But my tears are as sweet as the dewdrops 
 
 That fall on the roses in May ; 
 And my prayer, like a perfume from censers, 
 
 Ascendeth to God night and day. 
 
 In the hush of the valley of silence 
 I dream all the songs that I sing : 
 
 And the music floats down the dim valley, 
 'Till each finds a word for a wing, 
 
 That to hearts, like the dove of the deluge, 
 A message of peace they may bring. 
 
THOUGHT AND SENTIMENT 
 
 439 
 
 But far on the deep there are billows 
 That never shall break on the beach ; 
 
 And I have heard songs in the silence 
 That never shall float into speech ; 
 
 And I hav^e had dreams in the valley 
 Too lofty for language to reach. 
 
 And I have seen thoughts in the valley — 
 Ah me ! how my spirit was stirred ! 
 
 And they wear holy veils on their faces ; 
 Their footsteps can scarcely be heard. 
 
 They pass through the valley, like virgins, 
 Too pure for the touch of a word. 
 
 Do you ask me the place of the valley? 
 
 Ye hearts that are harrowed by care I 
 It lieth afar between mountains, 
 
 And God and his angels are there ; 
 And one is the dark mount of sorrow. 
 
 And one — the bright mountain of prayer. 
 
 Abram J. RYA.N. 
 
 THE SINGERS. 
 
 OD sent his singers upon earth 
 With songs of sadness and of mirth, 
 That they might touch the hearts of men, 
 And brins: them back to heaven asrain. 
 
 G 
 
 The first, a youth, with soul of fire. 
 
 Held in his hand a golden lyre; 
 
 Through groves he wandered, and by streams, 
 
 Playing the music of our dreams. 
 
 The second, with a bearded face, 
 Stood singing in the market-place, 
 And stirred with accents deep and loud 
 The hearts of ail the listening crowd. 
 
 A gray, old man, the thirl and last, 
 Sang in cathedrals uim and vast, 
 While the majestic organ rolled 
 Contrition from its mouths of gold. 
 
 And those who heard the singers three 
 Disputed which the best might be ; 
 For still their music seemed to start 
 Discordant echoes in each heart. 
 
 But the great Master said, "I see 
 
 No best in kind, but in degree; 
 
 I gave a various gift to each, 
 
 To charm, to strengthen, and to teach. 
 
 ''These are the three great chords of might, 
 And he whose ear is tuned aright 
 Will hear no discord in the three, 
 But the most perfect harmony." 
 
 H. W. Longfellow. 
 
 SOUR GRAPES. 
 
 A FOX was trotting on one day, 
 And just above his head 
 He spied a vine of luscious grapes, 
 
 Rich, ripe, and purple-red; 
 Ejger he tried to snatch the fruit, 
 
 liut, ah ! it was too high ! 
 Poor Reynard had to give it up. 
 
 And, heaving a deep sigh. 
 He curl d his nose and said, *' Dear me ! 
 
 I would not waste an hour 
 Upon such mean and common fruit — 
 
 Pm sure those grapjs are sour I" 
 'Tis thus we often wish through life. 
 
 When seeking wealth and power; 
 And when we fail, say, like the fox, 
 
 We're "sure the grapes are sour 1" 
 
 BE IN EARNEST. 
 
 NEVER be ashamed to say, " I do not know." 
 Men will then believe you when vou say, 
 -I do know." 
 
 Never be ashamed to say, "I can't afford it ;" 
 "I can't afford to waste time in the idleness to 
 which you invite me," or "I can't afford the 
 money you ask me to spend." Never affect to be 
 otner than you are — either wiser or richer. 
 
 Learn to say " No " with decision ; " Yes " with 
 caution. '' No " with decision whenever it resists 
 temptation; "Yes" with caution whenever it im- 
 plies a promise; for a promise once given is a bond 
 inviolable. 
 
 A man is already of consequence in the world 
 when it is known that we can implicitly rely upon 
 him. Often have I known a mai to be preferred 
 in stations of honor and profit because he had this 
 reputation: when he said he knew a thing, he 
 knew it ; and when he said he would do a thing, 
 he did it. E Bulwer Lytton. 
 
 T 
 
 A USEFUL HINT. 
 
 ENDER-HANDED stroke a nettle. 
 And it stings you for your pains; 
 Grasp it like a man of mettle. 
 And it soft as silk remains. 
 
 'Tis the same with common natures. 
 
 Use them kindly they rebel ; 
 But be rough as nutmeg graters, 
 And the rogues obe\- \ou well. 
 
 A. Hill. 
 CONTENTMENT. 
 
 THERE is a jewel which no Indian mines can 
 buy, 
 No chemic art can counterfeit ; 
 It makes men rich in greatest poverty. 
 Makes water wine, turns wooden cups to gold, 
 The homely whistle to sw^eet music's strain ; 
 Seldom it comes, to few from heaven sent, 
 That much in little —all in naught — contentment. 
 
440 
 
 THOUGHT AND SENTIMENT 
 
 THE NEW MORNING. 
 
 LIFE ! we've been long together, 
 Through pleasant and through cloudy 
 weather ; 
 'Tis hard to part when friends are dear, 
 Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear; 
 Then steal away^, give little warning, 
 
 Choose thine own time, 
 Say not "Good night," but in some brighter 
 clime 
 
 Bid me 
 
 • Good-morning.' 
 
 Anna L. Barbauld. 
 
 tion. The tribes that came swarming out of the 
 North and East, if they were indeed pressed 
 onward from behind by others, were drawm at the 
 same time by the magnetic influence of the 
 South and West. The fame of other lands had 
 reached them; the name of the eternal city rang in 
 their ears ; they were not colonists, but pilgrims ; 
 they traveled toward wine and gold and sunshine, 
 but their hearts were set on something higher. 
 
 That divine unrest, that old stinging trouble of 
 humanity that makes all high achievements and all 
 miserable failure, the same that spread wings with 
 Icarus, the same that sent 
 Columbus into the desolate 
 Atlantic, inspired and sup- 
 ported these barbarians on 
 their perilous march. There 
 is one legend which pro- 
 foundly represents their spirit, 
 of how a flying party of these 
 wanderers encountered a very 
 old man shod with iron. The 
 old man asked them whither 
 they were going ; and they 
 answ^ered, with one voice : 
 "To the Eternal City?" He 
 looked upon them gravely. "I 
 have sought it," he said, " over 
 the most part of the world. 
 Three such pairs as I now carry 
 on my feet have I worn out 
 upon this pilgrimage, and now 
 the fourth is growing slender 
 underneath my steps. And all 
 this while I have not found 
 the city. " And he turned and 
 went his own way alone, leav- 
 ing them astonished. 
 
 Robert Louis Stevenson. 
 
 OLD LETTERS. 
 
 DO you like letter-reading ? If you do, 
 I have some twenty dozen very pretty 
 ones: 
 Gay, sober, rapturous, solemn, very true, 
 
 And very lying stupid ones, and witty ones; 
 On gilt-edged paper, blue perhaps, or pink, 
 And frequently in fancy-colored ink. 
 
 EsPES Sargent. 
 
 THE OLD MAN WITH IRON SHOES. 
 
 WE are told by men of science that all the 
 ventures of mariners on the sea, all that 
 counter-marching of tribes and races 
 that confounds old history witli its dust and rumor, 
 sprung from nothing more abstruse than the laws 
 of supply and demand, and a certain natural in- 
 stinct for cheap rations. To any one thinking 
 deeply, this will seem a dull and pitiful explana- 
 
 B 
 
 THE OLD YEAR. 
 
 LESS the old year ! He's almost gone; 
 I heard him utter a dismal moan ; 
 "I'm weary — I'm lonely — I'm wasting,' 
 said he; 
 *' Will no one breathe a blessing on me ? " 
 
 "Thou poor old man, with the snow^ white hair, 
 I'll bless thee," said a lady fair; 
 " For thou in thy youth didst bring to me 
 My beautiful babe in its purity ! " 
 
 " Bless the old year ! " the young man cried ; 
 " In merry spring he brought me my bride — 
 The richest gift to mortal given — 
 Brought her from the gate of heaven ! " 
 
 " Bless the old year ! " the sick one said, 
 And gently raised his drooping head ; 
 " Its hours are past, and I shall be 
 From pain, from grief, from anguish free ! " 
 
THOUGHT AND SENTIMENT, 
 
 441 
 
 The mourner breathed in tones of sadness, 
 ** Bless it, tho' it brought no gladness; 
 I learned on earth no home to make ; 
 Bless it for its lesson's sake ! " 
 
 " Bless the old year ! " cried the child with glee 
 ^' In its merry hours I was happy and free ; 
 It has brought me frolic for every day ; 
 Bless the old year ere it passes away ! " 
 
 Bless the old year ! Come one and all ; 
 Answer to his lonely call ; 
 Let it so be the last sound he shall hear 
 Shall echo a blessing ! Bless the old year ! 
 
 Lilian F. Mentor. 
 
 YOU THINK I AM DEAD. 
 
 44 4 
 
 Y 
 
 OU think I am dead,' 
 
 The apple tree said, 
 Because I have never a leaf to show, 
 Because I stoop 
 And my branches droop, 
 And the dull gray mosses over me grow ! 
 But I'm alive in trunk and shoot ; 
 The buds of next May 
 I fold away, 
 But I pity the withered grass at my root.' 
 
 " * You think I am dead,' 
 
 The quick grass said, 
 ' Because I have parted with stem and blade ! 
 
 But under the ground 
 
 I am safe and sound, 
 With the snow's thick blanket over me laid. 
 Fm all alive and ready to shoot, 
 
 Should the spring of the year 
 
 Come dancing here ; 
 But I pity the flower without branch or root.' 
 
 '^ ' You think I am dead,' 
 
 A soft voice said, 
 * Because not a branch or root I own ! 
 
 I have never died. 
 
 But close I hide 
 In a plumy seed that the wind has sown, 
 Patient I wait through the long winter hours ; 
 
 You will see me again — 
 
 I shall laugh at you then. 
 Out of the eyes of a hundred flowers.' " 
 
 I THANK THEE, GOD! FOR WEAL AND 
 WOE. 
 
 I 
 
 THANK thee, God ! for all I've known 
 
 Of kindly fortune, health and joy ; 
 And quite as gratefully I own 
 The bitter drops of life's alloy. 
 
 Oh ! there was wisdom in the blow 
 That wrung the sad and scalding tear 
 
 That laid my dearest idol low, 
 
 And left my bosom lone and drear. 
 
 I thank thee, God ! for all of smart 
 That thou hast sent, for not in vain 
 
 Has been the heavy, aching heart. 
 The sigh of grief, the throb of pain. 
 
 What if my cheek had ever kept 
 
 Its healthful color, glad and bright ? 
 
 What if my eyes had never wept 
 
 Throughout a long and sleepless night ? 
 
 Then, then, perchance, my soul liad not 
 Remembered there were paths less fair, 
 
 And, selfish in my own blest lot. 
 
 Ne'er strove to soothe another's care. 
 
 But when the weight of sorrow found 
 My spirit prostrate and resigned. 
 
 The anguish of the bleeding wound 
 Taught me to feel for all mankind. 
 
 Even as from the wounded tree 
 
 The goodly, precious balm will pour, 
 
 So in the rived heart there'll be 
 Mercy that never ilowed before. 
 
 'Tis well to learn that sunny hours 
 
 May quickly change to mournful shade ; 
 
 'Tis well to prize life's scattered flowers, 
 Yet be prepared to see them fade. 
 
 I thank thee, God ! for weal and woe ; 
 
 And, whatsoe'er the trial be, 
 'Twill serve to wean me from below. 
 
 And bring my spirit nigher thee. 
 
 Eliza Cook. 
 
 CROSSING THE BAR. 
 
 The following was the last poem of the celebrated author. 
 It was sung at his funeral. 
 
 UNSET and evening star. 
 And one clear call for me ; 
 And may there be no moaning of the bar 
 When I put out to sea. 
 
 But such a tide as moving seems asleep. 
 
 Too full for sound and foam. 
 When that which drew from out the boundless 
 deep 
 
 Turns again home. 
 
 Twilight and evening bell. 
 
 And after that the dark; 
 And may there be no sadness of farewell 
 
 When I embark; 
 
 For, though from out our bourne of time anJ 
 place. 
 The flood may bear me far, 
 I hope to see my Pilot face to face 
 When I have crossed the bar. 
 
 Alfred Tennyson. 
 
 S 
 
442 
 
 THOUGHT AND SENTIMENT 
 
 THE FRIENDSHIP FLOWER. 
 
 W 
 
 HEX first the friendship flower is planted 
 \\ ithin the garden of your soul, 
 Little of care or thought are wanted 
 To guard its beauty fresh and whole; 
 But when the one empassioned age 
 
 Has full revealed the magic bloom, 
 A wise and holy tutelage 
 
 Alone can shun the open tomb. 
 
 It is not absence you should dread — 
 
 For absence is the very air 
 In which, if sound at root, the head 
 
 Shall wave most wonderful and fair ; 
 With sympathies of joy and sorrow 
 
 Fed, as with morn and even dews, 
 Ideal coloring it may borrow 
 
 Richer than ever earthly hues. 
 
 But oft the plant, whose leaves unsere 
 
 Refresh the desert, hardly brooks 
 The common-peopled atmosphere 
 
 Of daily thoughts, and words, and looks ; 
 It trembles at the brushing wings 
 
 Of many a careless fashion -fly. 
 And strange suspicions aim their stings 
 
 To taint it as they wanton by. 
 
 Rare is the heart to bear a flower, 
 
 That must not wholly fall and fade, 
 Where alien feelings, hour by hour. 
 
 Spring up, beset, and overshade; 
 Better, a child of care and toil. 
 
 To glorify some needy spot. 
 Than in a glad redundant soil 
 
 To pine neglected and forgot. 
 
 Yet when, at last, by human slight. 
 
 Or close of their permitted day. 
 From the swe^t world of life and light 
 
 Such fine creations lapse away — 
 Bury the relics that retain 
 
 Sick odors of departed pride — 
 Hoard as ye will your memory's gain, 
 
 But let them perish where they died. 
 
 Richard M. Milnes. 
 
 T 
 
 THE PERFECT WOMAN. 
 
 HE perfect woman is as beautiful as she is 
 strong, as tender as she is sensible. She is 
 calm, deliberate, dignified, leisurely. She 
 is gay, graceful, sprightly, sympathetic. 
 She is severe upon occasion and upon occasion 
 playful. She has fancies, dreams, romances, ideas. 
 She organizes neatness, and order, and comfort, 
 but they are merely the foundation whereon rises 
 the temple of her home, beautiful for situation, the 
 joy of the whole earth. 
 
 Gail Hamilton. 
 
 "E 
 
 EASY ALL I 
 
 ASY all !" rings out the c~'^er, 
 And the muscles cease to strain, 
 And the swing of oars in rowlocks 
 Stops the rhythmical refrain. 
 And the sinking heart beats freely. 
 And the spent breath comes again. 
 
 '' Easy all !" O, joyous mandate 
 To the strugglers on life's flood, 
 
 Be it but a passing respite. 
 
 For the brain, and strength, and blood. 
 
 Though far distant be the guerdon; 
 Fame, or wealth, or livelihood ! 
 
 When the summer sunshine brightens 
 
 Grimy street and sullen wail. 
 From the strips of azure heaven 
 
 Seems to come the kindly call ; 
 '' Rest a while, ye weary toilers. 
 
 Drop your oars, and easy all !" 
 
 EXPERIENCE. 
 
 A CHILD laid in the grave ere it had known 
 Earth held delight beyond its mother's 
 kiss; 
 A fair girl passing from a world like this 
 Unto God's vast eternity alone ; 
 A brave man's soul in one brief instant thrown 
 To deepest agony from highest bliss ; 
 A woman steeling her young heart to miss 
 All joy in life, one dear one having flown ; 
 These have I seen ; yet happier these, I said, 
 Than one who, by experience made strong, 
 Learning to live without the precious dead. 
 
 Survive despair, outlive remorse and wrong, 
 Can say when new grief comes, with unbowed 
 head, 
 " Let me not mourn ! I shall forget ere long 1" 
 
 Alice Marland Rollins. 
 MIRANDA. 
 
 ADMIRED Miranda! 
 Indeed the top of admiration ; worth 
 What's dearest to the world ! Full many 
 a lady 
 I have eyed with best regard ; and many a time 
 The harmony of their tongues hath into bond- 
 age 
 Brought my too diligent ear ; for several virtues 
 Have I liked several women ; never any 
 With so full s(^ul but some defect in her 
 Did quarrel witn the noblest grace she owned 
 And put it to the foil. But you, O you, 
 So perfect, and so peerless, are created 
 Of every creature's best. 
 
 William Shakespeare. 
 
TRAGEDY AND SORROW: 
 
 COMPRISING 
 
 PATHETIC SELECTIONS FROM THE MOST DISTINGUISHED AUTHORS 
 
 THE DRIVER OF THE MAIL. 
 
 AKE me the signal, dear," she cried, 
 
 The little wife of the engineer, 
 *' As you drive the mail to the North to-night, 
 
 Three low whistles, sharp and clear." 
 ** Nay, never fear, sweet wife!" he said, 
 
 Kissing away her tears that fell, 
 '* You'll hear the sign, as we sweep the line, 
 
 Three low whistles that ' All is well ! ' " 
 
 She sat her down at her window bright, 
 Waiting, and watching the darkening sky, 
 She saw the gleam of the junction light, 
 And heard the roar as the trains went by. 
 '* God watch over him!" soft she prayed, 
 Down by her baby's bed she fell; 
 But there came no sign from the ringing line. 
 Never a note to say ^' All's well." 
 
 Night wore on, but she could not sleep. 
 
 Out she crept 'neath the morning sky; 
 There he lies ! by his engine wrecked ! 
 
 Dead at his post, as a man should die. 
 Was it for this she loved him so ? 
 
 Was it for this her tears that fell? 
 Peace ! let him rest ! God's will is best ! 
 
 All is well ! All is well ! 
 
 Frederic E. Weatherly. 
 
 i i JZ" IND traveler, do not pass me by, 
 j^ And thus a poor old dog forsake ; 
 '■' ^ But stop a moment on your way. 
 And hear my woe, for pity's sake ! 
 
 " My name is Rover ; yonder house 
 
 Was once my home for many a year ; 
 My master loved me ; every hand 
 Caressed young Rover, far and near. 
 
 *' The children rode upon my back. 
 And I could hear my praises sung ; 
 With joy I licked their pretty feet. 
 As round my shaggy sides they clung. 
 
 * I watched them while they played or slept; 
 I gave them all I had to give ; 
 My strength was theirs from morn till night; 
 For only them I cared to live. 
 
 ROVER'S PETITION. 
 
 LAST POEM OF THE AUTHOR. 
 
 '' Now I am old, and blind, and lame. 
 They've turned me out to die alone, 
 Without a shelter for my head, 
 Without a scrap of bread or bone. 
 
 " This morning I can hardly crawl, 
 
 While shivering in the snow and hail. 
 My teeth are dropping one by one ; 
 T scarce have strength to wag my tail; 
 
 " I'm palsied grown with mortal pains, 
 My withered limbs are useless now ; 
 My voice is almost gone, you see, 
 And I can hardly make my bow. 
 
 '' Perhaps you'll lead me to a shed 
 
 Where I may find some friendly straw 
 On which to lay my aching limbs, 
 And rest my helpless broken paw. 
 
 443 
 
444 
 
 TRAGEDY AND SORROW, 
 
 ** Stranger, excuse this story long, 
 
 And pardon, pray, my last a])peal ; 
 You've owned a dog yourself, perhaps, 
 
 And learned that dogs, like men, can/«?<f/." 
 
 Yes, poor old Rover, come with me ; 
 
 Food, with warm shelter, I'll supply — 
 And heaven forgive the cruel souls 
 
 Who drove you forth to starve and die ! 
 James T. Fields. 
 
 ADIEU TO HIS NATIVE LAND. 
 
 (( A DIEU, adieu ! my native shore 
 L\ Fades o'er the waters blue : 
 -^ ^ The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, 
 
 And shrieks the wild sea-mew\ 
 Yon sun that sets upon the sea 
 
 We follow in his flight ; 
 Farewell awhile to him and thee, 
 My native land — good-night ! 
 
 *' A few^ short hours, and he will rise 
 
 To give the morrow birth ; 
 And I shall hail the main and skies, 
 
 But not my mother earth. 
 Deserted in my own good hall. 
 
 Its hearth is desolate ; 
 Wild weeds are gathering on the wall ; 
 
 My dog howls at the gate 
 
 " Come hither, hither, my little page ! 
 
 Why dost thou weep and wail? 
 Or dost thou dread the billow's rage, 
 
 Or tremble at the gale ? 
 But dash the tear-drop from thine eye j 
 
 Our ship is swift and strong : 
 Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly 
 
 More merrily along." 
 
 ** Let winds be shrill, let weaves roll high, 
 
 I fear not wave nor wind : 
 Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I 
 
 Am sorrowful in mind; 
 For I have from my father gone, 
 
 A mother -whom I love. 
 And have no friend, save these alone. 
 
 But thee — and One above." v 
 
 Lord Byron. 
 
 THE THREE LITTLE CHAIRS. 
 
 THEY sat alone by the bright wood fire, 
 The gray-haired dame and the aged sire, 
 Dreaming of days gone by ; 
 The tear-drops fell on each wrinkled cheek. 
 They both had thoughts that they could not 
 speak. 
 And each heart uttered a sigh. 
 
 Pbv their sad and tearful eyes descried 
 Three little chairs placed side by side, 
 
 Against the sitting-room wall ; 
 Old fashioned enough as there they stood. 
 
 Their seats of flag and their frannes oi wood. 
 With their backs so straight and tall. 
 
 Then the sire shook his silvery head. 
 And with trembling voice he gently said — 
 
 " Mother, those empty chairs ! 
 They bring us such sad, sad thoughts to-night, 
 We'll put them forever out of sight, 
 
 In the small dark room upstairs." 
 
 But she answered, '' Father, no, not yet, 
 For I look at them and I forget 
 
 That the children are away : 
 The boys come back, and our Mary, too. 
 With her apron on, of checkered blue. 
 
 And sit here every day. 
 
 ^' Johnny still whittles a ship's tall masts, 
 And Willie his leaden bullets casts, 
 
 While Mary her patch -work sews; 
 At evening time three childish prayers 
 Go up to God from those little chairs. 
 
 So softly that no one knows. 
 
 "Johnny comes back from the billow deep, 
 VVilhe wakes from his battle-field sleep, 
 
 To say good-night to me ; 
 Mary's a wife and a mother no more. 
 But a tired child whose play-time is o'er. 
 
 And comes to rest on my knee. 
 
 " So let them stand there, though empty now, 
 And every time when alone we bow, 
 
 At the Father's throne to pray, 
 We'll ask to meet the children above, 
 In our Saviour's home of rest and love, 
 
 Where no child goeth away." 
 
 EARLY DEATH. 
 
 SHE passed aw^ay, like morning dew. 
 Before the sun was high ; 
 So brief her time, she scarcely knew 
 The meaning of a sigh. 
 
 As round the rose its soft perfume, 
 Sweet love around her floated ; 
 
 Admired she grew — while mortal doom 
 Crept on, unfeared, unnoted. 
 
 Love was her guardian angel here, 
 But love to death resign'd her; 
 
 Though love Avas kind, why should we fear, 
 But holy death is kinder ? 
 
 Hartley Colekidge. 
 
 KINDNESS. 
 
 Speak gently, kindly, to the poor ; 
 
 Let no harsh term be heard ; 
 They have enou,o:h they must endure 
 
 Without an unkind word. 
 
 David Bates, 
 
TRAGEDY AND SORROW, 
 
 445 
 
 F 
 
 THINK OF ME. 
 
 AREWELL : —and never think of me 
 In lighted hall or lady's bower ! 
 Farewell ! — and never think of me 
 In spring sunshine or summer hour ! 
 
 But when you see a lonely grave, 
 Just where a broken heart might be, 
 
 With not one mourner by its sod, 
 Then — and then only — think of me ! 
 
 Letitia E. Landon. 
 
 T 
 
 IT CANNOT BE 
 
 HE dying lips of a dear friend 
 At parting spoke to me, 
 Saying : "■ Wheresoe'er your path may trend 
 There ever I shall be. 
 
 *'Go walk where over Egypt's sand 
 
 The burning simoons blow, 
 Or in Alaska's sunless land. 
 
 Your wake my wings shall know. 
 
 '' When winter's nights are long and dark 
 
 I'll lead you by the hand, 
 And when the waves beat on your bark 
 
 Will beacon you to land." 
 
 He died. I watched his spirit go 
 Across death's darkening sea: 
 
 He came not back, and now Tknow 
 Of things that cannot be. 
 
 Cy Warm an 
 
44G 
 
 TRAGEDY AXD SORROW. 
 
 ^w-^ 
 
 / 
 
 -r--^^ 
 
 I I 
 
 \ "^ 
 
 
 ^ -^ ^v 
 
 ^ V */V^ 
 
 
 A 
 
 WIDOW bird sat mourning for her love ' 
 Upon a wintry bough ; j 
 
 The frozen wind crept on above, 
 The freezing stream below. 
 
 There was no leaf upon the forest bare, 
 No flower upon the ground, 
 
 And little motion in the air, 
 
 Except the mill-wheel's sound. 
 
 P. B. Shelley. 
 
 THE AUCTIONEER'S GIFT. 
 
 THE auctioneei- leaped on a chair, and bold He scattered round his jests, like rain, on the un- 
 
 and loud and clear, just and the just ; 
 
 He poured his cataract of words, just like Sam Sleeman said he 'Maffed so much he thought 
 
 an auctioneer. that he would bust." 
 
 An auction sale of furniture, where some hard ; 
 
 mortgagee | He knocked down bureaus, beds, and .covc ?, and 
 
 Was bound to get his money back, and pay his I clocks and chandeliers. 
 
 lawyer's fee. And a grand piano, which he swore would last a 
 
 I thousand years ;' 
 
 A humorist of wide renown, this doughty auc- | He rattled out the crockery, and sold the silver- 
 
 tioneer. ware ; 
 
 His joking raised the loud guffaw, and brought the 
 answering jeer, 
 
 At last they passed him up to sell a little baby's 
 chair. 
 
TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 
 
 447 
 
 "How much? how much? Come, make a bid; 
 
 is all your money spent?" 
 And then a cheap, facetious wag came up and bid, 
 
 " One cent." 
 Just then a sad-faced woman, who stood in silence 
 
 there. 
 Broke down and cried, "My baby's chair! My 
 
 poor, dead baby's chair ! ' 
 
 *' Here, madam, take your baby's chair," said the 
 
 softened auctioneer, 
 '' I know its value all too well, my baby died last 
 
 year ; 
 And if the owner of the chair, our friend, the 
 
 mortgagee, 
 Objects to this proceeding, let him send the bill 
 
 to me !" 
 
 Gone was the tone of raillery; the humorist 
 auctioneer 
 
 Turned shamefaced from his audience, to brush 
 away a tear ; 
 
 The laughing crowd was awed and still, no tear- 
 less eye was there 
 
 When the Aveeping woman reached and took her 
 little baby's chair. 
 
 S. W. Foss. 
 
 THE LOST LEADER. 
 
 JUST for a handful of silver he left us ; 
 Just for a riband to stick in his coat — 
 Found the one gift of which Fortune bereft 
 us, 
 Lost all the others she lets us devote. 
 They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver, 
 
 So much was theirs who so little allowed. 
 How all our copper had gone for his service ! 
 Rags — were they purple, his heart had been 
 proud ! 
 
 We that had loved him so, followed him, honored 
 him., 
 Lived in his mild and magnificent eye. 
 Learned his great language, caught his clear ac- 
 cents. 
 Made him our pattern to live and to die ! 
 Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us. 
 
 Burns, Shelley, were with us — they watch from 
 their graves ! 
 He alone breaks from the van and the freemen ; 
 He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves ! 
 
 We shall march prospering — not through his pres- 
 ence; 
 Songs may inspirit us — not from his lyre ; 
 Deeds will be done — while he boasts his quies- 
 cence. 
 Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire. 
 Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more, 
 One task more declined, one more footpath un- 
 trod, 
 
 One more tiiumph for devils, and sorrow for 
 angels. 
 One wrong more to man, one more insult to 
 God! 
 
 Life's night begins ; let him never come back to 
 us! 
 There would be doubt, hesitation, and pain. 
 Forced praise on our part — the glimmer of twi- 
 light, 
 Never glad, confident morning again 1 
 Best fight on well, for we taught him — strike gal- 
 lantly. 
 Aim at our heart ere we pierce through his own ; 
 Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait 
 us, 
 Pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne! 
 Robert Browning. 
 
 THE THREE WEEPERS. 
 
 SORROW weeps! 
 And drowns its bitterness in tears; 
 My child of sorrow, 
 Weep out the fulness of thy passionate grief, 
 And drown in tears 
 The bitterness of lonely years. 
 God gives the rain and sunshine mild, 
 And both are best, my child ! 
 
 Joy weeps ! 
 
 And overflows its banks with tears ; 
 
 My child of joy, 
 
 Weep out the gladness of thy pent-up heart. 
 
 And let thy glistening eyes 
 
 Run over in their ecstasies ; 
 
 Life needeth joy; but from on high 
 
 Descends what cannot die ! 
 
 Love weeps ! 
 
 And feeds its silent life with tears ; 
 
 My child of love. 
 
 Pour out the riches of thy yearning heart, 
 
 And like the air of even, 
 
 Give and take back the dew of heaven; 
 
 And let that longing heart of thine 
 
 Feed upon love divine ! Horatils Bonar. 
 
 WHERE SHALL WE MAKE HER 
 GRAVE? 
 
 HERE shall we make her grave ? 
 
 W: 
 Oh, where the wild flowers wave 
 In the free air ! 
 When shower and singing bird 
 . 'Midst the young leaves are heard — 
 There — lay her there ! 
 
 Harsh was the world to her — 
 Now may sleep minister 
 
 Balm for each ill ; 
 Low on sweet nature's breast 
 Let the meek heart find rest 
 
 Deep, deep and still ! 
 
448 
 
 TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 
 
 Murmur, glad waters, by ! 
 Faint gales, with happy sigh, 
 
 Come wandering o'er 
 That green and mossy bed 
 Where, on a gentle head, 
 
 Storms beat no more ! 
 
 Oh, then, where wild-flowers wave, 
 Make ye her mossy grave 
 
 In the free air ! 
 Where shower and singing-bird 
 'Midst the young leaves are heard — 
 
 There, lay her there I 
 
 Felicia D. Hemans. 
 
 What though for her in vain 
 Falls now the bright spring-rain, 
 
 Plays the soft wind? 
 Yet still, from where she lies, 
 Should blessed breathings rise, 
 
 Gracious and kind. 
 
 Therefore let song and dew 
 Thence in the heart renew 
 
 Life's vernal glow ; 
 And o'er that holy earth 
 Scents of the violet's birth 
 
 Still come and goi 
 
 UNDER 
 
 THE 5N0W. 
 
 I 
 
 DEAR little hands, I loved them so ! 
 And now they are lying under the snow I 
 Under the snow, so cold and white, 
 I cannot see them, or touch them to-night. 
 They are quiet and still at last, ah me! 
 How busy and restless they used to be I [snow — 
 But now they can never reach up through the 
 Dear little hands, I loved thepi so I 
 
 Dear little hands. I miss thern so I 
 
 All through the day, wherever I go — 
 
 All through the night, how lonely it seems. 
 
TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 
 
 449 
 
 For no little hands wake me out of my dreams. 
 I miss them all through the weary hours ; 
 I miss them as others miss sunshine and flowers ; 
 Day time, or night time, wherever I go, 
 Dear little hands, I miss them so ! 
 
 Dear little hands, they have gone from me now. 
 Never again will they rest on my brow — 
 Never again smooth my sorrowful face, 
 Never again clasp me in childish embrace, 
 And now my forehead grows wrinkled with care. 
 Thinking of little hands once resting there, 
 But I know in a happier, heavenlier clime. 
 Dear little hands I will clasp you some time. 
 
 Dear little hands, when the Master shall call 
 I'll welcome the summons that comes to us all — 
 
 When lying on my earthly bed 
 
 In icy sleep. 
 Who there by pure affection led 
 
 Will come and weep ? 
 By the pale moon implant the rose 
 
 Upon my breast, 
 And bid it cheer my dark repose. 
 
 My lonely rest ? 
 Could I but know when I'm sleeping 
 
 Low in the ground, 
 One faithful heart would then be keeping 
 
 Watch all round. 
 As if some gem lay shrined beneath 
 
 That cold sod's gloom, 
 'Twould mitigate the pangs of death 
 
 And light the tomb. 
 
 When my feet touch the waters so dark and so 
 
 cold, 
 I'll catch my first gimpse of the city of gold 
 If I keep my eyes fixed on the heavenly gate 
 Over the tide where the white-robed ones wait, 
 Shall I know you, I wonder, among the bright 
 
 bands ? 
 Will you beckon me over, oh ! dear little hands ? 
 
 FOR ALL WHO DIE. 
 
 The following poem was regarded by Edgar A. Poe as 
 the most beautiful and touching of its kind in the language. 
 Strange to say, the author is unknown. 
 
 IT hath been said for all who die 
 There is a tear. 
 Some paining, bleeding heart to sigh 
 O'er every bier; 
 But in that hour of pain and dread 
 
 Who will draw near 
 Around my humble couch and shed 
 A farewell tear ? 
 
 Who'll watch the first departing ray 
 
 In deep despair. 
 And soothe the spirit on its way 
 
 With holy prayer? 
 What mourner round my couch will come 
 
 In words of woe. 
 And follow me to my long home, 
 
 Solemn and slow ? 
 29 
 
 Yet in that hour, if I could feel 
 
 From the halls of glee 
 And beauty's pressure one would steal 
 
 In secrecy, 
 And come and sit or stand by me 
 
 Ir night's deep noon; 
 Oh ! I would ask of memory 
 
 No other boon. 
 
 But, ah ! a lonelier fate is mine, 
 
 A deeper woe, 
 From all I've loved in youth's sweet time 
 
 I soon must go. 
 Draw round me my pale robes of white 
 
 In a dark spot. 
 To sleep through death's long dreamless night 
 
 Lone and forgot. 
 
 ONE VOICE IS SILENT. 
 
 ONE voice is silent, round the evening fire. 
 One form comes not to cheer us with its 
 gladness ; 
 There brother, sister mingle — babe and sire, 
 But tongues are mute and bosoms chilled with 
 sadness ; 
 Thought dwells on past communion unforgot ; 
 One voice is silent, and we hear it not ! 
 
 One voice is silent ! at the place of prayer 
 
 When morning breaks, or twilight gathers o'er, 
 
460 
 
 TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 
 
 That sainted form no more is bending there, 
 
 Those lips in holy accents breathe no more ; 
 Death's hand hath thrown strange light upon the 
 
 brow ; 
 One voice is silent, and it pleads not now ! 
 
 One voice is silent ! from the couch of pain, 
 Which she hath pressed in summer-time and 
 spring, 
 
 The words of counsel shall not come again — 
 No anxious thought that gentle bosom wring ; 
 
 The shrouded e\e hath parted with its tear ; 
 
 One voice is silent — one we loved to hear. 
 
 One voice is silent ! ay, no more that tone, 
 
 Fond sister, o'er our pleasant home is stealing; 
 
 The mother's life is done, and we are lone ! 
 But, oh, remember, in this pang of feeling. 
 
 How dear the hope that God to us hath given. 
 
 One voice is silent — but it wakes in heaven ! 
 
 FAQIN'5 LAST NIGHT ALIVE. 
 
 Few passages from the pen of Dickens, the world's great- 
 est fictionist, are more thrilling than his description of the 
 last night of Fagin, one of the prominent characters in 
 "Oliver Twist." Fagin lived by tempting others, particu- 
 larly boys and girls, to crime, and lived on the profits of their 
 pilferings and bolder burglaries. At last the fearful conse- 
 quences of his misdoings overtook him. He fell into the 
 clutches of the law, was tried, convicted, and sentenced to 
 death. The scene as depicted by the novelist is one oi the 
 most startling ever written. 
 
 THE court was paved, from floor to roof, with 
 human faces. Inquisitive and eager eyes 
 peered from every inch of space. From 
 the rail before the dock, away into the sharpest 
 angle of the smallest corner in the galleries, all 
 looks were fixed upon one man — Fagin. Before 
 him and behind ; above, below, on the right and 
 on the left ; he seemed to stand surrounded by a 
 firmament, all bright wdth gleaming eyes. 
 
 He stood there, in all this glare of living light, 
 with one hand resting on the wooden slab before 
 him, the other held to his ear, and his head thrust 
 forward to enable him to catch with greater dis- 
 tinctness every word that fell from the presiding 
 judge, who was delivering his charge to the jury. 
 At times, he turned his eyes sharply upon them to 
 observe the effect of the slightest feather-weight in 
 his favor ; and when the points against him were 
 stated with terrible distirctness, looked tow^ards 
 his counsel, in mute appeal that he would, even 
 then, urge something in his behalf. Beyond these 
 manifestations of anxiety, he stirred not hand 
 or foot. He had scarcely moved since the trial 
 began : and now that the judge ceased to speak, 
 he still remained in the same strained attitude of 
 close attention with his gaze bent on him, as though 
 he listened still. 
 
 A slight bustle in the court recalled him to him- 
 self. Looking round, he saw that the jurymen 
 
 had turned together, to consider their verdict. As 
 his eyes wandered to the gallery, he could see the 
 people rising above each jiher to see his face ; 
 some hastily applying their glasses to their eyes; 
 and others whispering to their neighbors with looks 
 expressive of abhorrence A few there were who 
 seemed unmindful of him, and looked only to the 
 jury, in impatient wonder how they could delay. 
 But in no one face — not even among the women, 
 of whom there were many there — could he read 
 the faintest symi)athy with himself, or any feeling 
 but one of all-absorbing interest that he should be 
 condemned. 
 
 As lie saw all this in one bewildered glance, the 
 death-like stillness came again, and, looking back, 
 he saw that the jurymen had turned towards the 
 judge. Hush ! Thev only sought permission to 
 retire. 
 
 He looked, wistfully, into their faces, one by 
 one, when they passed out, as though to see which 
 way the greater number leant ; but that was fruit- 
 less. The jailer touched him on the shoulder. He 
 followed mechanically to the end of the dock, and 
 sat down on a chair. The man pointed it out, or 
 he would not have seen it. 
 
 He looked up into the gallery again. Some of 
 the people were eating, and some fanning them- 
 selves with handkerchiefs, for the crowded place 
 was very hot. There was one young man sketch- 
 ing his face in a little note-book. He wondered 
 whether it was like him, and looked on when the 
 artist broke his pencil-point, and made another 
 with his knife, as any idle spectator might have 
 done. 
 
 In the same way, when he turned his eye towards 
 the judge, his mind began to busy itself with the 
 fashion of his dress, and what it cost, and how he 
 put it on. There was an old fat gentleman on the 
 bench, too, who had gone out, some half an hour 
 before, and now come back. He wondered with- 
 in himself whether this man had been to get his 
 dinner, what he had had, and where he had it ; and 
 pursued this train of careless thought until some 
 new object caught his eye and roused another. 
 
 Not that, all this time, his mind was, for an in- 
 stant, free from one oppressive overwhelming sense 
 of the grave that opened at his feet ; it was ever- 
 present to him, but in a vague and general w^ay, 
 and he could not fix his thoughts upon it. Thus, 
 even wliile he trembled, and turned burning hot 
 at the idea of speedy death, he fell to counting 
 the iron spikes before him, and wondering how 
 the head of one had been broken off, and whether 
 they w^ould mend it, or leave it as it was. Then 
 he thought of all the horrors of the gallows and 
 the scaffold — and stopped to watch a man sprink- 
 ling the floor to cool it — and then went on to 
 think again. 
 
 At length there was a cry of silence, and a 
 breathless look from all towards the door. The 
 
ruiGEDY AND SORROW. 
 
 451 
 
 jury returned, and passed him close. He could 
 glean nothing from their faces ; they might as well 
 have been of stone. Perfect stillness ensued — not 
 a rustle — not a breath — Guilty. 
 
 The building rang with a tremendous shout, and 
 another, and another, and then it echoed loud 
 groans, that gathered strength as they swelled out, 
 like angry thunder. It was a peal of joy from the 
 populace outside, greeting the news that he would 
 die on Monday. 
 
 The noise subsided, and he was asked if he had 
 anything to say why sentence of death should not 
 be passed upon him. He had resumed his listen- 
 ing attitude, and looked intently at his questioner 
 while the demand was made ; but it was twice 
 repeated before he seemed to hear it, and then he 
 only muttered that he was an old man — an old 
 man — an old man — and so, dropping into a whis- 
 per, was silent again. 
 
 The judge assumed the black cap, and the pris- 
 oner still stood with the same air and gesture. A 
 woman in the gallery uttered some exclamation, 
 called forth by this dread solemnity ; he looked 
 hastily up as if angry at the interruption, and bent 
 forward yet more attentively. The address was 
 solemn and impressive; the sentence fearful to 
 hear. But he stood, like a marble figure, without 
 the motion of a nerve. His haggard face was still 
 thrust forward, his under-jaw hanging doAvn, and 
 his eyes staring out before him, when the jailer 
 put his hand upon his arm, and beckoned him 
 away. He gazed stupidly about him for an in- 
 stant, and obeyed. 
 
 They led him through a paved room under the 
 court, where some prisoners were waiting till their 
 rarns came, and others were talking to their 
 friends, who crowded round a gate which looked 
 into the open yard. There was nobody there to 
 speak to hwt ; but, as he passed, the prisoners fell 
 back to render him more visible to the people who 
 were clinging to the bars ; and they assailed him 
 with opprobrious names, and screeched and hissed. 
 He shook his fist, and would have spat upon them ; 
 but his conductors hurried him on, through a 
 gloomy passage lighted by a few dim lamps, into 
 the interior of the prison. 
 
 Here he was searched, that he might not have 
 about him the means of anticipating the law ; this 
 ceremony performed, they led him to one of the 
 condemned cells, and left him there — alone. 
 
 He sat down on a stone bench opposite the door, 
 which served for seat and bedstead ; and casting 
 his blood-shot eyes upon the ground, tried to col- 
 lect his thoughts. After a while he began to re- 
 member a few disjointed fragmeiits of what the 
 judge had said ; though it had seemed to him, at 
 the time, that he could not hear a word. These 
 gradually fell into their proper places, and by de- 
 grees suggested more ; so that, in a little time, he 
 
 had the whole, almost as it was delivered. To be 
 hanged by the neck till he was dead — that was the 
 end. To be hanged by the neck till he was dead. 
 
 Charles Dickens. 
 
 EEPING. 
 
 F thou wilt ease thy 
 heart 
 Of love, and all its 
 smart — 
 Then sleep, dear, sleep ! 
 And not a sorrow 
 
 Hang any tear on your eyelashes; 
 
 Lie still and deep, 
 Sad soul, until the sea-wave washes 
 The rim o'the sun to-morrow, 
 In eastern sky. 
 
 But wilt thou cure thine heart 
 Of love, and all its smart — 
 
 Then die, dear, die ! 
 'Tis deeper, sweeter, 
 Than on a rose-bank to lie dreaming 
 
 With folded eye; 
 And then alone, amid the beaming 
 Of love's stars, thou' It meet her 
 In eastern sky. 
 
 Thomas L. Beddoes. 
 
 DIRGE IN CYMBELINE. 
 
 SUNG BY GUIDERUS AND ARVIRAGUS OVER FIDELE, SUPPOSED 
 
 T 
 
 TO BE DEAD. 
 
 O fair Fidele's grassy tomb 
 
 Soft maids and village hinds shall bring 
 Each opening sweet of earliest bloom. 
 And rifle all the breathing spring. 
 
 No wailing ghost shall dare appear, 
 To vex with shrieks this quiet grove; 
 
 But shepherd lads assembled here. 
 And melting virgins own their love. 
 
 No withered witch shall here be seen — 
 No goblins lead their nightly crew ; 
 
 The female fays shall haunt the green, 
 And dress thy grave with pearly dew. 
 
152 
 
 TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 
 
 The redbreast oft. at evening hours, 
 Shall kindly lend his little aid, 
 
 With. hoary moss, and gathered flowers, 
 To deck the ground where thou art laid. 
 
 When howling winds and beating rain 
 In tempests shake the sylvan cell, 
 
 Or 'midst the chase, on every plain, 
 The tender thought on thee shall dwell. 
 
 Each lonely scene shall thee restore, 
 
 For thee the tear be duly shed ; 
 Beloved till life can charm no more, 
 
 And mourned till pity's self be dead. 
 
 William Collins, 
 
 FOR many years my little bird 
 Had shared my daily life with m^ ; 
 By kindly fortune still preserved, 
 Both near and dear, two friends were we. 
 In closest company. 
 
 He hourly wooed my thoughts from care 
 With sprightly glance, with happiest song ; 
 
 And, swinging in his cage — ^just there — 
 Tweet, tweet, would murmur all day long, 
 With loving constancy. 
 
 When I was glad, he fluttered round, 
 Would nod and bob his yellow head 
 
 To right, to left, first up, then down ; 
 And flirt his beak, his wings outspread, 
 Then sing uproariously. 
 
 Were I aggrieved ? His little eyes 
 W^ould meet mine almost pityingly ; 
 
 They really seemed so wondrous wise, 
 I felt he knew and yearned for me 
 To show his sympathy. 
 
 A.nd as I sit here in my chair 
 The pen drops idly, half forgot ; 
 
 My eyes keep turning over there — 
 My little bird's accustomed spot — 
 To see — but vacancy. 
 
 The room seems lonely-like to-day 
 
 Without my feathered friend near by ; 
 The empty cage is hid away. 
 The last song, ended in a sigh, 
 Has hushed eternally. 
 
 Amy S. Wolff. 
 
 TRIFLE. 
 
 A KISS he took and a backward look, 
 And her heart grew suddenly lighter ; 
 A trifle, you say, to color a day, 
 Yet the dull gray morn seemed brighter, 
 For hearts are such that a tender touch 
 
 May banish a look of sadness ; 
 A small, bright thing can make us sing, 
 But a frown will check our gladness. 
 
 The cheeriest ray along our way 
 
 Is the little act of kindness, 
 And the keenest sting some careless thing 
 
 That was done in a moment of blindness. 
 We can bravely face life in a home where 
 strife 
 
 No foothold can discover, 
 And be lovers still if we only will. 
 
 Though youth's bright days are over. 
 
 Ah, sharp as swords cut the unkind words 
 
 That are far beyond recalling, 
 When a face lies hid 'neath a coffin lid. 
 
 And bitter tears are falling. 
 We fain would give the lives we live 
 
 To undo our idle scorning ; 
 Then let's not miss the smile and kiss 
 
 When we part in the light of morning. 
 
TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 
 
 463 
 
 THY LONG DAY'S WORK. 
 
 NOW is done thy long day's work ; 
 Fold thy palms across thy breast- 
 Fold thine arms, turn to thy rest. 
 Let them rave. 
 Shadows of the silver birk 
 Sweep the green that folds thy grave 
 Let them rave. 
 
 Crocodiles wept tears for thee; 
 
 The woodbine and eglatere 
 
 Drip sweeter dews than traitor's tear. 
 
 Let them rave. 
 Rain makes music in the tree 
 O'er the green that folds thy grave. 
 
 Let them rave. 
 
 Round thee blow, self-pleached deep, 
 Bramble roses, faint and pale, 
 And long purples of the dale. 
 
 Let them rave. 
 These in every shower creep 
 Through the green that folds thy grave. 
 
 Let them rave. 
 
 The gold-eyed kingcups fine, 
 The frail blue-bell peereth over 
 Rare broid'ry of the purple clover. 
 Let them rave. 
 
 Kings have no such couch r.s 
 
 thine, 
 As the green that folds thy 
 grave. 
 
 Let them rave. 
 
 Thee nor carketh care nor slander ; 
 Nothing but the small cold worm 
 Fretteth thine enshrouded form. 
 
 Let them rave. 
 Light and shadow ever wander 
 O'er the green that folds thy grave. 
 
 Let them rave. 
 
 Thou wilt not turn upon thy bed ; 
 Chanteth not the brooding bee 
 Sweeter tones than calumny ? 
 
 Let them rave. 
 Thou wilt never raise thine head 
 From the green that folds thy grave. 
 
 Let them rave. 
 
 Wild words wander here and there ; 
 God's great gift of speech abused 
 Makes thy memory confused — 
 
 But let them rave. 
 The balm-cricket carols clear 
 In the green that folds thy grave. 
 
 Let them rave. Alfred Tennyson. 
 
 THE DIRGE OF IMOGEN. 
 
 FEAR no more the heat o' the sun, 
 Nor the furious winter's ^rages ; 
 Thou thy world task hath done, 
 
 Home art gone and ta'en thy wages: 
 Golden lads and girls all must 
 As chimney-sweepers come to dust. 
 
454 
 
 TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 
 
 Fear no more the frown o' the great — 
 Thou art past the tyrant's stroke; 
 
 Care no more to clothe and eat; 
 To thee the reed is as the oak. 
 
 The sceptre, learning, physic, must 
 
 All follow this, and come to dust. 
 
 Fear no more the lightning-flash, 
 Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone; 
 
 Fear not slander, censure rash ; 
 Thou hast finished joy and moan: 
 
 All lovers young, all lovers must 
 
 Consign to thee, and come to dust. 
 
 No exorciser harm thee ! 
 Nor no witchcraft charm thee ! 
 Ghost unlaid forbear thee ! 
 Nothing ill come near thee ! 
 
 Quiet consummation hav^ , 
 
 And renowned be thy grave ! 
 
 William Shakespeare. 
 
 OMI 5NATCHED AWAY IN BEAUTY'S 
 BLOOM. 
 
 DH ! snatched away in beauty's bloom. 
 On thee shall press no ponderous tomb ; 
 But on thy turf shall roses rear 
 Their leaves, the earliest of the year ; 
 .nd the wild cypress wave in tender gloom. 
 
 And oft by yon blue gushing stream 
 Shall sorrow lean her drooping head, 
 
 t\x\di feed deep thought with many a dream. 
 And lingering pause and lightly tread — 
 Fond wretch ! as if her step disturbed the dead. 
 
 Away ! we know that tears are vain, 
 
 That death nor heeds nor hears distress : 
 
 Will this unteach us to complain ? 
 Or make one mourner weep the less? 
 
 And thou who tell'st me to forget, 
 
 Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet. 
 
 Lord Byron. 
 
 LOST AND FOUND. 
 
 SOME miners were sinking a shaft in Wales — 
 (I know not where, — but the facts have 
 filled 
 A chink in my brain, while other tales 
 
 Have been swept away, as, when pearls are spilled, 
 One pearl rolls into a chink in the floor) ; 
 Somewhere, then, where God's light is killed, 
 
 id men tear in the dark at the earth's hearth- 
 core, 
 lese men were at work, when their axes knocked 
 hole in the passage closed years before. 
 
 slip in the earth, I suppose, had blocked 
 A his gallery suddenly up with a heap 
 Of rubble, as safe as a chest is locked, 
 
 Till these men picked it ! and *gan to creep 
 In, on all fours. Then a loud shout ran 
 Round the black roof—'' Here's a man asleep !** 
 
 They all pushed forward, and scarce a span 
 From the mouth of the passage, in sooth, the lamp 
 Fell on the upturned face of a man. 
 
 No taint of death, no decaying damp 
 Had touched that fair young brow, whereon 
 Courage had set its glorious stamp. 
 
 Calm as a monarch upon his throne, 
 Lips hard clenched, no shadow of fear, 
 He sat there, taking his rest, alone. 
 
 He must have been there for many a year ; 
 The spirit had fled, but there was its shrine. 
 In clothes of a century old or near ! 
 
 The dry and embalming air of the mine 
 
 Had arrested the natural hand of decay, 
 
 I Nor faded the flesh, nor dimmed a line. 
 
 Who was he then ? No man could say 
 When the passage had suddenly fallen in — 
 Its memory, even, had passed away ! 
 
 In their great rough arms, begrimed with coal. 
 
 They took him up, as a tender lass 
 
 Will carry a babe, from that darksome hole, 
 
 To the outer world of the short warm grass. 
 Then up spoke one, '^ Let us send for Bess, 
 She is seventy-nine, come Martinmas ; 
 
 '' Older than any one here, I guess! 
 
 Belike, she may mind when the wall fell there. 
 
 And remember the chap by his comliness." 
 
 So they brought old Bess, with her silver hair, 
 To the side of the hill, where the dead man lay 
 Ere the flesh had crumbled in outer air. 
 
 And the crowd around them all gave way. 
 As with tottering steps old Bess drew nigh, 
 And bent o'er the face of the unchanged clay. 
 
 Then suddenly rang a sharp low cry ! 
 Bess sank on her knees, and wildly tossed 
 Her withered arms in the summer sky. 
 
 *' O Willie ! Willie ! my lad ! my lost ! 
 The Lord be praised ! after sixty years 
 I see you again ! The tears you cost, 
 
 ''O Willie, darlin', were bitter tears! 
 They never looked for ye underground, 
 They told me a tale to mock my fears ! 
 
 '^ They said ye were auver the sea — ye'd found 
 A lass ye loved better nor me, to expiain 
 How ye'd a-vanished fra sight and sound ! 
 
 '' O darlin', a long, long life o' pain 
 
 I ha' lived since then ! And now I'm old, 
 
 Seems a' most as if youth were come back again. 
 
TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 
 
 455 
 
 '* Seeing ye there wi* your locks o' gold, 
 And limbs as straight as ashen beams, 
 I a' most forget how the years ha' rolled 
 
 '' Between us ! O Willie ! how strange it seems 
 To see ye here as I've seen you oft, 
 Auver and auver again in dreams ! ' ' 
 
 In broken words like these, with soft 
 Low wail she rocked herself. And none 
 Of the rough men around her scoffed. 
 
 For surely a sight like this, the sun 
 Had rarely looked upon. Face to face, 
 The old dead love and the living one ! 
 
 The dead, with its undimmed fleshly grace 
 
 At the end of the three-score years ; the quick, 
 
 Puckered, and withered, without a trace 
 
 Of its warm girl beauty ! A wizard's trick 
 Bringing the youth and the love that were, 
 Back to the eyes of the old and sick ! 
 
 These bodies were just of one age ; yet there 
 Death, clad in youth, had been standing still, 
 While life had been fretting itself threadbare ! 
 
 But the moment was come (as a moment will 
 To all who have loved, and have parted here, 
 And hav^e toiled alone up the thorny hill ; 
 
 When, at the top, as their eyes see clear. 
 
 Over the mists in the vale below, 
 
 Mere specks their trials and toils appear. 
 
 Beside the eternal rest they know) — 
 Death came to old Bess that night, and gave 
 The welcome summons that she should go. 
 And now, though the rains and winds may rave, 
 Nothing can part them. Deep and wide. 
 The miners that evening dug one grave ! 
 
 And there, while the summers and winters glide 
 Old Bess and young Willie sleep side by side ! 
 
 Ha?^iilton Hide. 
 
 OVER THE RANGE. 
 
 HALF-SLEEPING, by the fire I sit, 
 I start and wake, it is so strange 
 To find myself alone, and Tom 
 Across the Range. 
 
 We brought him in with heavy feet 
 
 And eased him down ; from eye to eye. 
 
 Though no one spoke, there passed a fear 
 That Tom must die. 
 
 He rallied when the sun was low, 
 
 And spoke ; I thought the words were strange ; 
 " It's almost night, and I must go 
 Across the Range." 
 
 "What, Tom?" He smiled and nodded: 
 ''Yes, 
 They've struck it rich there, Jim, you know, 
 The parson told us; you'll come soon ; 
 Now Tom must go." 
 
 I brought his sweetheart's pictured face : 
 Again that smile, so sad and strange. 
 
 Tell her," said he, ''that Tom has gone 
 Across the Range." 
 
 The last night lingered on the hill. 
 " There's a pass, somewhere," then he said. 
 And lip, and eye, and hand were still ; 
 And Tom was dead. 
 
 Half-sleeping, by the fire I sit : 
 I start and wake, it is so strange 
 
 To find myself alone, and Tom 
 Across the Range. 
 
 J. Harrison Mills. 
 
456 
 
 TRAGEDY AND SORROW, 
 
 SOLITUDE. 
 
 IT is not that my lot is low 
 That makes the silent tear to flow ; 
 It is not grief that bids me moan ; 
 It is that I am all alone. 
 
 In woods and glens I love to roam, 
 When the tired hedger hies him home ; 
 Or by the woodland pool to rest, 
 When pale the star looks on its breast. 
 
 Yet when the silent evening sighs 
 With hollowed airs and symphonies, 
 My spirit takes another tone, 
 And sighs that it is all alone. 
 
 The autumn leaf is sere and dead — 
 It floats upon the water's bed ; 
 T would not be a leaf, to die 
 Without recording sorrow's sigh ! 
 
 The woods and winds, with sullen wail, 
 Tell all the same unvaried tale ; 
 I've none to smile when I am free. 
 And when I sigh to sigh with me. 
 
 Yet in my dreams a form I view, 
 That thinks on me, and loves me too ; 
 I start, and when the vision's flown, 
 I weep that I am all alone 
 
 Henry Kirke White. 
 
 THE VOICELESS. 
 
 WE count the broken lyres that rest 
 Where the sweet wailing singers slumber, 
 But o'er their silent sister's breast 
 The wild flowers who will stoop to number? 
 A few can touch the magic string. 
 
 And noisy fame is proud to win them ; 
 Alas for those that never sing, 
 
 But die with all their music in them ! 
 
 Nay, grieve not for the dead alone, 
 
 Whose song has told their heart's sad story: 
 Weep for the voiceless, who have known 
 
 The cross without the crown of glory ! 
 Not where Leucadian breezes sweep 
 
 O'er Sappho's memory-haunted billow, 
 But where the glistening night-dews weep 
 
 On nameless sorrow's church-yard pillow. 
 
 \j hearts that break, and give no sign. 
 
 Save whitening lip and fading tresses, 
 Till Death pours out his cordial wine, 
 
 Slow-dropped from misery's crushing presses ! 
 If singing breath or echoing chord 
 
 To every hidden pang were given, 
 What endless melodies were poured, 
 
 As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven ! 
 
 O. W. Holmes. 
 
 A LAMENT. 
 
 SWTFTER far than summer's flight, 
 Swifter far than youth's delight, 
 Swifter far than happy night. 
 Art thou come and gone ; 
 As the earth when leaves are dead. 
 As the night when sleep is sped. 
 As the heart when joy is fled, 
 I am left alone, alone. 
 
 The swallow, summer, comes again ; 
 The owlet, night, resumes her reign; 
 But the wild swan, youth, is fain 
 
 To fly with thee, false as thou. 
 My heart each day desires the morrow; 
 Sleep itself is turned to sorrow; 
 Vainly would my winter borrow 
 
 Sunny leaves from any bough. 
 
 Lilies for a bridal bed, 
 Roses for a matron's head, 
 Violets for a maiden dead — 
 
 Pansies let my flowers be; 
 On the living grave I bear, 
 Scatter them without a tear. 
 Let no friend, however dear, 
 
 Waste one hope, one fear for me. 
 
 P. B. Shelley. 
 
 SONG OF THE SILENT LAND. 
 
 FROM THE GERMAN. 
 
 INTO the silent land ! 
 Ah ! who shall lead us thither ! 
 Clouds in the evening sky more darkly gather, 
 And shattered wrecks lie thicker on the strand : 
 Who leads us with a gentle hand 
 Thither, oh, thither ! 
 Into the silent land ? 
 
 Into the silent land ! 
 To you, ye boundless regions 
 Of all perfection ! Tender morning-visions 
 Of beauteous souls ! The future's pledge and band ! 
 Who in life's battle firm doth stand 
 Shall bear hope's tender blossoms 
 
 Into the silent land ! 
 
 O land ! O land ! 
 For all the broken-hearted 
 The mildest herald by our fate allotted 
 Beckons, and with inverted torch doth stand 
 To lead us with a gentle hand 
 Into the land of the great departed — 
 
 Into the silent land ! 
 
 H. W. Longfellow. 
 
 THE MOTHER'S DREAM. 
 
 I'D a dream to-night 
 As I fell asleep. 
 Oh ! the touching sight 
 Makes me still to weep: 
 
TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 
 
 457 
 
 Of my little lad, 
 Gone to leave mo sad, 
 Aye, the child I had. 
 But was not to keep. 
 
 As in heaven high, 
 I my child did seek, 
 There, in train, came by 
 Children fair and meek 
 Each in lily white, 
 With a lam 13 alight ; 
 Each was clear to sight, 
 But they did not speak. 
 
 Then, a little sad, 
 Came my child in turn, 
 But the lamp he had. 
 Oh ! it did not burn ; 
 He, to clear my doubt, 
 Said, half turned about, 
 *' Your tears put it out ; 
 Mother, never mourn !" 
 William Barnes. 
 
 DREAM=LAND. 
 
 WHERE sunless rivers 
 weep 
 Their waves into the 
 deep. 
 She sleeps a charmed sleep • 
 
 Awake her not. 
 Led by a single star, 
 She came from very far, 
 To seek where shadows are 
 Her pleasant lot. 
 
 She left the rosy morn, 
 She left the fields of corn, 
 For twilight cold and lorn 
 
 And water-springs. 
 Through sleep, as through a 
 
 veil. 
 
 She sees the sky look pale, ^^ 
 
 And hears the nightingale e^ 
 
 That sadly sings. 
 
 Rest, rest, a perfect rest 
 Shed over brow and breast ; 
 Hjr face is toward the west, 
 
 The purple land. 
 She cannot see the grain • 
 
 Ripening on hill and plain ; 
 She cannot feel the rain 
 Upon her hand. 
 
 Rest, rest, for evermore 
 Upon a mossy shore ; 
 Rest, rest at the heart's core 
 
 Till time shall cease : 
 Sleep that no pain shall wake. 
 
 Night that no morn shall break. 
 Till joy shall overtake 
 Her perfect peace. 
 
 Christina G. Rosetti. 
 
 
 .-.„^ 
 
 Jy 
 
 nay/?* 
 
 DEATH OF THE FIRST==BORN. 
 
 This beautiful extract from "Arthur Bonnicastle," will be 
 read with deep and tender interest by many whose experi- 
 ence it truthfully portrays. 
 
 1 STAND in a darkened room before a little 
 casket that holds the silent form of my first- 
 born. My arm is around the wife and 
 mother, who weeps over the lost treasure and 
 
458 
 
 TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 
 
 cannot, till tears have had their wa}-, be com- 
 forted. 1 had not thought that my child could 
 die — that 7ny child could die. I knew that other 
 children had died, but I felt safe. We laid the 
 little fellow close by his grandfather at last ; we 
 strew his grave with flowers, and then return to 
 
 our saddened home with hearts united in sorrow 
 as they liad never been united in joy, and with 
 sympathies forever opened toward all who are 
 called to a kindred grief. 
 
 I wonder where he is to-day, in what mature 
 angelhood he stands, how he will look when I 
 meet him, how he will make himself known to me, 
 who have been his teacher ! He was like me : 
 will his grandfather know him? I never can 
 cease thinking of him as cared for and led by the 
 same hand to which my own youthful fingers 
 clung, and as hearing from the fond lips of my 
 own father, the story of his father's eventful life. 
 I feel how wonderful to me has been the ministry 
 of my children — how much more I have learned 
 from them than they have ever learned from me — 
 how by holding my own strong life in sweet sub- 
 
 ordination to their helplessness, they have taught 
 me patience, self-sacrifice, self-control, truthful- 
 ness, faith, simplicity and purity. 
 
 Ah ! this taking to one's arms a little group o^ 
 souls, fresh from the hand of God, and living 
 with them in loving companionship through all 
 their stainless years, is, or 
 ought to be, like living in 
 heaven, for of such is the 
 heavenly kingdom. To no 
 one of these am I more in- 
 debted than to the boy who 
 went away from us before 
 the world had touched him 
 with a stain. The key that 
 shut him in the tomb was 
 the only key that could un- 
 lock my heart, and let in 
 among its sympathies the 
 world of sorrowing men and 
 women who mourn because 
 their little ones are not. 
 
 The little graves, alas! 
 how many they are ! The 
 mourners above them, how 
 vast the multitude ! Brothers, 
 sisters, I am one with you. 
 I press your hands, I weep 
 with you, I trust with you, I 
 belong to you. Those waxen, 
 folded hands; that still breast 
 which I have so often pressed 
 warm to my own; those 
 sleep-bound eyes which have 
 been so full of love and life ; 
 that sweet, unmoving, ala- 
 baster face — ah ! we have all 
 looked upon them, and they 
 have made us one and made 
 us better. There is no foun- 
 tain which the angel of heal- 
 ing troubles with his restless 
 and life-giving wings so con- 
 stantly as the fountain of tears, and only those 
 too lame and bruised to bathe, miss the blessed 
 influence. 
 
 J. G. Holland. 
 
 HOPE. 
 
 T 
 
 HE wretcn condemned with life to part. 
 Still, still on hope relies ; 
 And ev'ry pang that rends the heart, 
 Bids expectation rise. 
 Hope, like the glimm'ring taper's light, 
 
 Adorns and cheers the way ; 
 And still, as darker grows the night. 
 Emits a brighter ray. 
 
 Oliver Goldsmith. 
 
THE GATES OF PEARL: 
 
 OR 
 
 SACRED POEMS AND SELECTIONS 
 
 FORGIVENESS. 
 
 HEN on the fragrant sandal-tree 
 The woodman's axe descends, 
 And she who bloomed so beauteously 
 
 Beneath the keen stroke bends, 
 E'en on the edge that wrought her death 
 Dying she breathed her sweetest breath, 
 As if to tokeE, in her fall, 
 Peace to her foes, and love to all. 
 
 How hardly man this lesson learns, 
 
 To smile, and bless the hand that spurijs; 
 
 To see the blow, to feel the pain, 
 
 But render only love again ! 
 This spirit not to earth is given — 
 One had it, but He came from heaven. 
 Reviled, rejected and betrayed, 
 No curse He breathed, no 'plaint He made, 
 But when in death's deep pang He sighed. 
 Prayed for His murderers, and died. 
 
 BETHLEHEM TOWN. 
 
 THERE burns a star o'er Bethlehem town- 
 See, O my eyes ! 
 And gloriously it beameth down 
 Upon a Virgin Mother meek 
 And Him whom solemn Magi seek ; 
 Burn on, O star ! and be the light 
 To guide us all to Him this night. 
 
 The angels walk in Bethlehem town — 
 
 Hush, O my heart ! 
 The angels come and bring a crown 
 To Him, our Saviour and our King, 
 And sweetly all this night they sing ; 
 Sing on in rapture, angel throng, 
 That we may learn that heavenly song. 
 
 Near Bethlehem town there blooms a tree- 
 
 O heart, beat low ! 
 And it shall stand on Calvary ; 
 But from the shade thereof we turn 
 Unto the star that still shall burn 
 When Christ is dead and risen again. 
 To mind us that He died for men. 
 
 There is a cry in Bethlehem town — 
 
 Hark, O my soul ! 
 'Tis of the Babe that wears the crown; 
 It telleth us that man is free — 
 That He redeemeth all and me. 
 The night is sped — behold the morn — 
 Sing, O my soul, the Christ is born ! 
 
 Eugene Fie. 
 THE LOST CHORD. 
 
 SEATED one day at the organ, 
 I was weary and ill at ease. 
 And my fingers wandered idly 
 Over the ivory keys ; 
 I know not what I was playing. 
 
 Or what I was dreaming then, 
 But I struck one chord of music 
 Like the sound of a great Amen. 
 
 It flooded the crimson twilight 
 
 Like the close of an angel's psalm, 
 And it lay on my fevered spirit 
 
 With a touch of infinite calm. 
 It quieted pain and sorrow. 
 
 Like love overcoming strife ; 
 It seemed the harmonious echo 
 
 From our discordant life. 
 
 459 
 
460 
 
 THE GATES OF PEARL. 
 
 It linked all perplexed meanings 
 
 Into one perfect peace, 
 And trembled away into silence 
 
 As if it were loth to cease. 
 I have sought, but I seek it vainly, 
 
 That one lost chord divine 
 Which came from the soul of the organ 
 
 And entered into mine. 
 
 It may be that death's bright angel 
 Will speak in that chord again ; 
 
 It may be that only in heaven 
 I shall hear that grand Amen. 
 
 Adelaide A. Proctor. 
 
 "PLEASE TO SAY AMEN." 
 
 I 
 
 N the bonny Scottish Highlands 
 At a manse I was a guest — 
 All the land a flush of heather, 
 Glowing sweet the summer weather, 
 Filling me with balm and rest. 
 
 Seven precious little children 
 Made a heaven of the manse, 
 
 With their coaxes, loves and kisses, 
 
 Singing ecstasies and blisses, 
 Ever circling in a dance. 
 
 Jessie was my dove, my darling. 
 
 Oh, she came from elfin land ! 
 
 With her eyes of starry splendor. 
 
 Rosy mouth so sweet and tender, 
 
 Little queen of all the band. 
 
 To the kirk upon the Sunday 
 Jessie took me o'er the lea. 
 Soon her golden head low bending, 
 Soft she whispered, " Now descending 
 Holy Spirit, come to me." 
 
 Then she said, her eyes uplifted 
 Bright with the momentous news, 
 
 " My papa it is who preaches. 
 
 And the gospital he teaches 
 To the people in the pews. 
 
 '' That big bookie is the Bible; 
 
 It was written long ago. 
 Now the bell has ceased its ringing. 
 We'll have praying, we'll have singing, 
 
 Like a little heaven below." 
 
 So that lovely wee thing taught me. 
 
 And of earthly thoughts beguiled; 
 There I listened to the preaching, 
 But the gospital, the teaching, 
 
 Was from heaven through the child. 
 
 At the quiet manse that evening 
 Came an aged friend to stay ; 
 All the bonny bairns before us, 
 And the moonliizht flooding o'er us. 
 Knelt he slowly down to pray. 
 
 Jessie nestled close beside me. 
 
 Tiny hands were folded tight. 
 Baby face composed so quaintly, 
 Clothed upon with whiteness saintly, 
 By the mystic sweet moonlight. 
 
 Long and solemn was the praying. 
 Then there came a gentle touch. 
 
 "I'll be quiet as a mousie. 
 
 But oh, never in my housie 
 Did my papa pray so much ! ' ' 
 
 Soft she rose — I never hindering — 
 
 Stepping light on tiptoe then 
 Crept she close w^here he was praying, 
 In his ear she whispered, saying, 
 '' Oh sir, please to say Amen / '' 
 
 "From the mouths of babes and sucklings 
 
 Hast thou, Father, perfect praise." 
 Rather say ''Amen" when weary, 
 Than to render homage dreary 
 To the Author of our days. 
 
 THE OLD MAN IN THE NEW CHURCH, 
 
 'T^HEY'VE left the old church, Nancv, and 
 
 HEY'VE left the old church, 
 gone into a new; 
 There's paintings on the windows, and 
 cushions in each pew; 
 I looked up at the shepherd, then around upon the 
 
 sheep, 
 And thought w^hat great inducements for the 
 drowsy ones to sleep. 
 
 Yes ! When I saw the cushions, and the flowers 
 
 fine and gay, 
 In all the sisters' bonnets, I couldn't help but 
 
 say, 
 ''Must I be carried to the skies on flowery beds 
 
 of ease 
 While others fought to win the prize and sailed 
 
 through bloody seas?" 
 
 The preacher read the good old hymns sung in our 
 youthful days — 
 
 " Oh for a thousand tongues to sing my great Re- 
 deemer's praise !" 
 
 And, though a thousand tongues were there, they 
 didn't catch the fire. 
 
 And so the good old hymn was sung by a new- 
 fangled choir. 
 
 I doubt not but the people called the music very 
 
 fine, 
 But if they heard a word they said, they've better 
 
 ears than mine ; 
 For the new tune in the new church was a very 
 
 twisting thing, 
 And not much like the tunes of old that Christians 
 
 used to sing. 
 
 A 
 
THE GATES OF PEARL. 
 
 Why, Nancy, in the good old times, the singing 
 
 sounded more 
 Like the noise of many waters as they beat upon 
 
 the shore ; 
 
 461 
 
 He can hear a 
 
 The Lord's ear is not heavy, 
 
 sinner's cry 
 In a church that is not painted like a rainbow in 
 
 the sky ; 
 
 For everybody knew the tunes, and everybody 
 
 sang, 
 And the churches, though not quite so fine, with 
 
 hallelujahs rang. 
 
 Now I'm not an old fogy, but I sometimes want to 
 scold. 
 
 When I see our people leave good ways simply be- 
 cause they're old ; 
 
 I've served the Lord nigh forty years, and, till I'm 
 'neath the sod, 
 
 I shall always love the simple, good old ways of 
 serving God. 
 
 ''The Lord's arm is not shortened." He will 
 
 save a sinner, now. 
 Though he may in lonely hovel, on a cold earth- 
 
 altar bow. 
 
 But they've left the old church, Nancy, and gone 
 into a new, 
 
 And I fear they've gone in more for style than foi 
 the good and true ; 
 
 And, from what little I heard said I fear that, sad- 
 der yet, 
 
 In beating other churches, they've got badly into 
 debt. 
 
46^ 
 
 THE GATES OF PEARL. 
 
 We didn't think of lotteries and grab-bags, years 
 
 ago, 
 As means of raising money to make a better show ; 
 When the church demanded dollars, we all, with 
 
 one accord, 
 Put our hands down in our pockets and gave them 
 
 to the Lord. 
 
 While I sat there at the meetin', looking 'round 
 
 from pew to pew, 
 I saw no familiar faces, for the faces all were new ; 
 When the services were ended all the members 
 
 passed me by ; 
 None were there to greet the old man with gray 
 
 hairs and failing eye. 
 
 Then I knew that God had taken to the temple in 
 
 the skies 
 All the soldiers that with you and I fought hard to 
 
 win the jjrize; 
 I some doubt if Christians now-a-days will reach 
 
 the gates of gold 
 Any better in the new wavs than they did in the 
 
 old. 
 
 For the Lord looks not on tinsel ; His spirit will 
 depart 
 
 When the love of worldly grandeur takes posses- 
 sion of the heart ; 
 
 Oh ! I know the Lord of glory will pass through a 
 hovel door. 
 
 Sooner than through temple portals where are no 
 seats for the poor. 
 
 In a little while, dear Nancy, we will lay our 
 armor down, 
 
 And from the King Eternai we'll receive our 
 starry crown ; 
 
 Then we'll meet the blessed pilgrims that w^e wor- 
 shipped with of old. 
 
 And we'll worship there, together, in the city 
 built of gold. 
 
 John H. Yates. 
 
 SOMETIME, SOMEWHERE. 
 
 UNANSWERED yet ! The prayer your lips 
 have pleaded 
 In agony of heart, these many years ? 
 Does faith begin to fail, is hope departing, 
 
 And think you all in vain those falling tears? 
 Say not the Father hath not heard your prayer ; 
 You shall have your desire, sometime, some- 
 where. 
 
 Unanswered yet? though when you first presented 
 This one petition to the Father's throne, 
 
 It seemed you could not wait the time of asking. 
 So urgent was your heart to make it known. 
 
 Though years have passed since then, do not de- 
 spair ; 
 The Lord will answer you sometime, somewhere. 
 
 Unanswered yet? Nay, do not say, ungranted ! 
 
 Perhaps your part is not yet wholly done. 
 The work began when first your prayer was uttered 
 
 And God will finish what He has begun. 
 If you will keep the incense burning there, 
 
 His glory you shall see, sometime, somewhere, 
 
 Unanswered yet ? Faith cannot be unanswered, 
 Her feet are firmly planted on the Rock ; 
 
 Amid the wildest storms she stands undaunted, ■ 
 Nor quails before the loudest thunder shock. 
 
 She knows Omnipotence has heard her prayer. 
 And cries, "It shall be done, sometime, some- 
 where." Robert Browning. 
 
 HEAVENWARD. 
 
 SO many hills arising, green and gray, 
 On earth's large round, and that one 
 hill to say : 
 '^ I was his bearing place I ' ' On earth's wide 
 
 breast 
 So many maids ! And she — of all most blest — 
 Heavily mounting Bethlehein, to be 
 His mother!— Holy Maid of Galilee ! 
 Hill with the olives and the little town ! 
 If rivers from their crystal founts flow down, 
 If 'twas the dawn which did day's gold unbar 
 Ye were beginnings of the best we are. 
 The most we see, the highest that we know, 
 The lifting heavenward of man's life below. 
 
 Heaven aglow ! 
 
 And the mild burden of its minstrelsy; 
 Peace beginning to be, 
 Deep as the sleep of the sea 
 When the stars their faces glass 
 In its blue tranquillity ; 
 Hearts of men upon earth 
 From the first to the second birth 
 To rest as the wild waters rest 
 With the colors of heaven on their breast. 
 Sir Edwin Arnold. 
 
 A LITTLE DREAM. 
 
 THESE years of life ! What do they seem ? 
 A little dream 
 Of pain and pleasure blent together ; 
 A time of sharply changing weather, 
 When brilliant sunbeams gleam and die 
 On heavy storm-clouds sailing by — 
 
 Where falling tears 
 Are bright with hope and cold with fears. 
 What shall the future progress be 
 
 Of life with me ? 
 God knows. I roll on Him my care ; 
 Night is not night if He be there. 
 When daylight is no longer mine, 
 And stars forbidden are to shine, 
 
 I'll turn my eyes 
 To where eternal days shall rise. 
 
WE GATES OF PEARL. 
 
 463 
 
 THE WIDOW'S LIGHTHOUSE. 
 
 IT is related that on a small, and rocky, and 
 almost inaccessible island, is the residence of 
 a poor widow. The passage of the place 
 is exceedingly dangerous to vessels, and her cot- 
 tage is called the " Lighthouse," from the fact that 
 she uniformly keeps a lamp burning in her little 
 window at night. Early and late she may be seen 
 trimming her lamp with oil, lest some misguided 
 bark may perish through her neglect. For this 
 she asks no reward. But her kindness stops not 
 here. When any vessel 
 is wrecked, she rests not 
 till the chilled mariners 
 come ashore to share 
 her little board, and be 
 warmed by her glowing 
 fire. This poor woman 
 in her younger, perhaps 
 not happier days, tliough 
 happy they must have 
 been, for sorrow cannot 
 lodge in such a heart, wit- 
 nessed her husband strug- 
 gling with the waves and 
 swallowed up by the re- 
 morseless billows, 
 
 "In sight of home and 
 friends who thronged 
 to save." 
 
 This directed her be- 
 nevolence towards those 
 who brave the dangers of 
 the deep; this prompted 
 her present devoted and 
 solitary life, in which her only, her sufficient enjoy- 
 ment is in doing good. Sweet and blessed fruit of 
 bereavement ! What beauty is here ! a liveliness 
 I would little speak of, but more revere ! a flower 
 crushed indeed, yet sending forth its fragrance to 
 all around ! Truly, as the sun seems greatest in his 
 lowest estate, so did sorrow enlarge her heart and 
 make her appear the more noble, the lower it 
 brought her down. We cannot think she was un- 
 happy, though there was a remembered grief in 
 her heart. A. grieved heart may be a richly stored 
 one. Where charity abounds, misery cannot. 
 
 ^ '■ Such are the tender woes of love, 
 Fostering the heart, they bend." 
 
 Herman Hooker. 
 
 A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 
 
 Snow had fallen, snow on snow, 
 
 Snow on snow. 
 In the bleak midwinter 
 
 Long ago. 
 
 Our God, heaven cannot hold Him, 
 
 Nor earth sustain ; 
 Heaven and earth shall flee away 
 
 When He comes to reign; 
 
 /-^ 
 
 I 
 
 N the bleak midwinter 
 
 Frosty wind made moan 
 Earth stood hard as iron. 
 Water like to stone ; 
 
 In the bleak midwinter 
 A stable-place sufficed 
 
 The Lord God Almighty— 
 Jesns Christ. 
 
 Enough of Him, whom cherubim 
 
 Worship night and day ; 
 A breastful of milk 
 
 And a manger of hay 
 Enough for Him whom angels 
 
 Fall down before. 
 The ox and ass and camel 
 Which adore. 
 
 Angels and archangels 
 
 May have gathered there. 
 Cherubim and seraphim 
 
 Thronged the air ; 
 But only His mother 
 
 In her maiden bliss 
 Worshiped the beloved 
 With a kiss. 
 
464 
 
 THE GATES OF PEARL, 
 
 What can I give Him, 
 
 Poor as I am ? 
 If I were a shepherd 
 
 I would bring a lamb, 
 If I were a wise man 
 
 I would do my part — 
 Yet what I can I give Him ? 
 Give my heart. 
 
 Christina G. Rossetti. 
 
 PEACE to the true man's ashes ! weep for those 
 Whose days in old delusions have grown dim ; 
 Such lives as his are triumphs, and their close 
 An immortality : weep not for him. 
 
 As feathers wafted from the eagle's wings 
 
 Lie bright among the rocks they cannot warm, 
 
 So lie the flowery lays that genius brings, 
 In the cold turf that wraps his honored form. 
 
 A practical rebuker of vain strife, 
 
 Bolder in deeds than words, from beardless youth 
 To the white hairs of age, he made his life 
 A beautiful consecration to the truth. 
 
 Alice Gary. 
 IN ANSWER. 
 
 'M 
 
 ADAM, we miss the train at B- 
 
 ' But can' t you make it, sir ? " 
 gasped. 
 ' ' Impossible ; it leaves at three. 
 
 And we are due a quarter past." 
 ** Is there no way? O, tell me, then. 
 
 Are you a Christian?" ''I am not." 
 ''And are there none among the men 
 
 Who run the train ? " '' No — I forgot- 
 I think this fellow over here, 
 
 Oiling the engine, claims to be." 
 She threw upon the engineer 
 
 A fair face, white with agony. 
 
 she 
 
 ''Are you a Christian?" "Yes, I am." 
 
 " Then, O sir, won't you pray with me. 
 All the long way, that God will stay, 
 
 That God will hold the train at B ?" 
 
 " 'Twill do no good, it's due at three 
 
 And" — "Yes, but God can hold the train j 
 My dying child is calling me. 
 
 And I ??iust see her face again. 
 O, zvon' t you pray ? " "I will," a nod 
 
 Emphatic, as he takes his place. 
 When Christians grasp the arm of God 
 
 They grasp the i)ower that rules the rod. 
 
 Out from the station swept the train. 
 
 On time, swept on past wood and lea; 
 The engineer, with cheeks aflame, 
 
 Prayed, " O Lord, hold the train at B ." 
 
 Then flung the throttle wide, and like 
 
 Some giant monster of the plain. 
 With panting sides and mighty strides, 
 
 Past hill and y alley, swept the train. 
 
 A half, a minute, two are gained ; 
 
 Along those burnished lines of steel 
 His glances leap, each nerve is strained. 
 
 And still he prays with fervent zeal. 
 Heart, hand, and brain, with one accord. 
 
 Work while his prayer ascends to heaven, 
 " Just hold the train eight minuter Lord, 
 
 And I'll make up the other seven." 
 
 With rush and roar through meadow lands. 
 
 Past cottage homes and green hillsides, 
 The panting thing obeys his hands, 
 
 And speeds along with giant strides. 
 They say an accident delay^ed 
 
 The train a little while ; but He 
 Who listened while His children prayed, 
 
 In answer, held the train at B . 
 
 Rose Hartwick Thorpe. 
 
 SOMETIME. 
 
 SOMETIME, dear heart, yes, sometime, 
 The brighter days will come, 
 And floods of golden sunlight 
 Will flash across thy gloom. 
 
 Sometime for thee will open 
 
 The fairest flowers that be. 
 And sometime in the future 
 
 The birds will sing for thee. 
 
 To all there comes a morning 
 Who wait the end of night — 
 
 For every hour of darkness 
 There dawneth one of light. 
 
 Then, oh, my heart, take courage, 
 
 The east begins to glow — 
 'Tis always morning somewhere, 
 
 'Twill come to thee I know. 
 
HE GATES OF PEARL, 
 
 465 
 
 ISaT at an open window, 
 Alone in a city street, 
 And thought of the far-off meadows, 
 Where blossoms and grass were sweet ; 
 Till the murmur of lovers straying. 
 
 At home on the daisied lea, 
 And the songs of the children playing 
 Came back in a dream to me. 
 
 My soul was weary longing, 
 
 The meaning of life was dim, 
 But angels came in the twilight 
 
 To sing me a vesper hymn ; 
 There were voices floating, and thrilling 
 
 My heart in its silent gloom, 
 As they came through the casement, filling 
 
 With music that dusky room. 
 
 They sang of the sheep that wandered, 
 
 Now safe in the blessed fold; 
 Of new love sweeter and purer 
 
 Than all that we dreamed of old ; 
 Of the golden links that were shattered, 
 
 Now joined in one glorious chain ; 
 Of the dear ones parted and scattered. 
 
 All gathered and found again. 
 
 Sweet sisters, singing at even 
 To gladden a stranger's breast ! 
 
 Their song was a song of heaven, 
 A message of bliss and rest ; 
 30 
 
 Of saints from the shadows ascended 
 They sang to the watcher here; 
 
 And long ere their anthem was ended 
 The meaning of life was clear. 
 
 Sarah Doudney. 
 
 THE WELL OF LOCH MAREE. 
 
 C 
 
 ALM on the breast of Loch Maree 
 
 A little isle reposes ; 
 A shadow woven of the oak 
 And willow o'er it closes. 
 
 Within, a Druid's mound is seen. 
 Set round with stony warders ; 
 
 A fountain, gushing through the turf. 
 Flows o'er its grassy-borders. 
 
 And whoso bathes therein his brow. 
 With care or madness burning, 
 
 Feels once again his healthful thought 
 And sense of peace returning. 
 
 O ! restless heart and fevered brain, 
 
 L'nquiet and unstable. 
 That holy well of Loch Maree 
 
 Is more than idle fable ! 
 
 Life's changes vex, its discords stun. 
 Its glaring sunshine blindeth. 
 
 And blest is he who on his way 
 That fount of healinsr findeth 1 
 
466 
 
 THE GATES OF j-JiJiRL, 
 
 s 
 
 The shadows of a humbled will 
 And contrite heart are o'er it: 
 
 Go read its legend — " Trust in God " — 
 On Faith's white stones before it. 
 
 J. G. Whittier. 
 
 THE CHRISTIAN'S WARFARE. 
 
 OLDIER go — but not to claim 
 
 Mouldering spoils of earth-born treasure ; 
 Not to build a vaunting name, 
 
 Not to dwell in tents of pleasure. 
 Dream not that the way is smooth, 
 
 Hope not that the thorns are roses : 
 Turn no wishful eye of youth 
 
 Where the sunny beam reposes : — 
 Thou hast sterner work to do, 
 Hosts to cut thy passage through 
 Close behind thee gulfs are burning — 
 Forward ! there is no returning. 
 
 Soldier rest — but not for thee 
 
 Spreads the world her downy pillow ; 
 On the rock thy couch must be, 
 
 While around thee chafes the billow : 
 Thine must be a watchful sleep, 
 
 Wearier than another's waking; 
 Such a charge as thou dost keep 
 
 Brooks no moment of forsaking. 
 Sleep as on the battle-field. 
 Girded — grasping sword and shield. 
 Those thou canst not name nor number 
 Steal upon thy broken slumber. 
 
 Soldier, rise ! — the war is done, 
 
 Lo ! the hosts of hell are flying ; 
 'Twas thy Lord the battle won ; 
 
 Jesus vanquished them by dying. 
 Pass the stream — before thee lies 
 
 All the conquered land of glory ; 
 Hark what songs of rapture rise, 
 These proclaim the victor's story. 
 Soldier, lay thy weapon down ; 
 Quit the cross and take the crown : 
 Triumph ! all thy foes are banished, 
 Death is slain and earth has vanished. 
 
 Charlotte E. Tonna. 
 
 THE MAGrS GIFTS. 
 
 TWO thousand years have rolled arcund 
 Since, strangely led, the Magi found 
 The Babe of Bethlehem's retreat 
 And bowed in worship at His feet ; 
 Then sealed their worship, we are told. 
 With myrrh, and frankincense, and gold — 
 A Gentile hand the first to bring 
 An offering to the new-born King ! 
 
 Whence came the gold, perhaps none knew, 
 Nor whence the fragrant perfume grew ; 
 
 But sure it is, no gold more fine 
 Was ever dug from Ophir's mine; 
 Nor since has Orient sun and air 
 Distilled a perfume half so rare, 
 Save that which loving Mary poured 
 Upon the head of Christ her Lord. 
 
 The child-King's hands, too small to lift, 
 They barely touch the Magi's gift, 
 But lo ! what light illumes each gem 
 Touched by the Babe of Bethlehem ! 
 Far down the years it sheds its ray, 
 Dissolving darkness into day. 
 O, Magi's gold! what alchemist 
 E'er dreamed of such a change as this* 
 
 Nor did the frankincense that shed 
 Its perfume o'er the infant's bed, 
 Its fragrance lose by night or day, 
 But, as the ages passed away^ 
 Its hallowed sweetness filled the air 
 That man might breathe it everywhere. 
 Its scented breath diffuses wide 
 And sweetens now our Christmastide. 
 
 Dear Lord, we may not bring Thee much. 
 Transmute it, Master, by Thy touch ; 
 Purge out the dross of selfish thought. 
 With which our gifts so oft are fraught; 
 And though we cannot bring the gold 
 Nor frankincense like them of old, 
 Take Thou our lives and let them be, 
 A living incense. Lord, for Thee. 
 
 S. C. Kirk. 
 
 B 
 
 ANGEL GUARDIANS. 
 
 RAVE hearts that wage a never-ending strife 
 
 Against temptations manifold and large. 
 Concerning ye, so saith the Book of Life, 
 God gives His angels charge. 
 
 Ye who proclaim the story sweet of old. 
 
 To spread Christ's love, wide as the world is 
 
 wide, 
 In danger, weariness and want — behold 
 The angels at your side. 
 
 Ye sinners who have drained the bitter cup. 
 
 But now, repentant, mourn and weep o'er sin, 
 Despair not now I look up — to Christ look up ! 
 And let the angels in ! 
 
 And ye who serve the Master here below 
 
 In sweet humility and holy fear, 
 Be strong to bear the burden of earth's woe, 
 God's angels hover near ! 
 
 What need ye dread, O servants of the King? 
 
 Though dangers menace, imminent and large; 
 O'er ye to bend upon protecting wing, 
 '' He gives His angeis charge." 
 
 Beatrice Clayton. 
 
THE GATES OF PEARL. 
 
 467 
 
 WHAT WAS HIS CREED? 
 
 Wrapped 
 moor- 
 
 left a load of anthracite 
 
 In front of a poor widow's door 
 When the deep snow, frozen and 
 
 white 
 street and square, mountain and 
 
 That was his deed : 
 
 He did it well ; 
 '' What was his creed ? " 
 
 I cannot tell. 
 
 Blessed '' in his basket and his store/' 
 
 In sitting down and rising up ; 
 When more he got he gave the more, 
 Withholding not the crust and cup ; 
 He took the lead 
 
 In each good task ; 
 * ' What was his creed ? ' ' 
 I did not ask. 
 
 His cTiarity was like the snow, 
 
 Soft, white, and silken in its fall ; 
 Not like the noisy winds that blow 
 
 From shivering trees the leaves ; a pall 
 For flower and weed, 
 
 Dropping below ; 
 " What was his creed ? ' ' 
 The poor may know. 
 
 He had great faith in loaves of bread 
 
 For hungry people, young and old ; 
 And hope inspired, kind words he said, 
 To those he sheltered from the cold, 
 For he must feed 
 
 As well as pray ; 
 " What was his creed ? ' ' 
 I cannot say. 
 
 In words he did not put his trust, 
 
 In faith his words he never writ ; 
 He loved to share his cup and crust 
 With all mankind who needed it ; 
 In time of need 
 
 A friend was he ; 
 ** What was his creed ? " 
 He told not me. 
 
 He put his trust in Heaven, and 
 
 Worked right well with hand and head ; 
 And what he gave in charity 
 
 Sweetened his sleep and daily bread. 
 Let us take heed, 
 
 For life is brief; 
 "What was his creed ? " 
 "What was his belief?" 
 
 QETTIN' RELIGION. 
 
 1 AIN'T much on religion, nor prayer-meeting 
 beside. 
 I've never jined the church as yet, nor ain't 
 been sanctified ; 
 But a tender sort of feeling draws me nearer to 
 
 the skies, 
 Since I got a peep of heaven through a pair of 
 trusting eyes. 
 
 Time was when nothing moved my thoughts above 
 
 this sinful world; 
 No preacher's words could stir me up, in wrath 
 
 an' fury hurled ; 
 But lately I've been drifting nigher to the better land, 
 And the force that leads me upward is a little 
 
 dimpled hand. 
 
 Seems like the bad thoughts sneak away, with that 
 
 wee chap hard by; 
 And cuss words that were handy once won't come 
 
 when he is nigh ; 
 Fact is, it sort o' shames me to see those clear, 
 
 blue eyes 
 Look at me (when I'm gettin riled) in pity an' 
 
 surprise. 
 
 I don't know much of heaven or angels an' such 
 
 things ; 
 But somehow, when I picture 'em, it ain't with 
 
 harps and wings ; 
 But with yeller curls all tangled, and tender eyes 
 
 that shine. 
 An' lips that's soft and loving, like that little 
 
 chap of mine. 
 
 Then, when he folds his dimpled hands, in his 
 little bed at night. 
 
 An' whispers, '' Now I lay me," why thar's some- 
 thing ails my sight, 
 
 An' my throat gits sort of husky when he blesses 
 me, an' then 
 
 I'm dead sure I've got religion by the time he 
 says, " Amen ! " Ida G. Morris. 
 
 HEAVEN OVERARCHES. 
 
 LAST POEM OF THE GIFTED AUTHOR. 
 
 HEAVEN overarches earth and sea. 
 Earth-sadness and sea-bitterness. 
 Heaven overarches you and me ; 
 A little while and we shall be — 
 Please God — where there is no more sea 
 Nor barren wilderness. 
 
 Heaven overarches you and me, 
 
 And all earth's gardens and her graves. 
 Look up with me, until we see 
 The daybreak and the shadows flee, 
 What though to-night wrecks you and me, 
 If so to-morrow saves ! 
 
 Christina G. Rossettl 
 
468 
 
 THE GATES OF PEARL. 
 
 The quality of mercy is not strained ; 
 It droppeth as the gentle dew from heaven 
 Upon the place beneath : it is twice blessed ; 
 It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes : 
 'Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes 
 The throned monarch better than his crown. 
 William Shakespeare. 
 
 BEYOND. 
 
 A WANDERER far in the gloomy night 
 Had traversed his way, alone ; 
 Nor compass, nor chart, nor beacon light, 
 On his tortuous pathway shone ; 
 And the storm came on, like a demon's tread, 
 
 And the labors of man were tost 
 On the seething tempest, as hope were fled. 
 
 And the weary soul were lost ; 
 But soft through that tempest's billowy wrath, 
 A bright ray glinted across the path ; 
 Like the voice of an angel, far and free, 
 Rang '' Near — er, my God, to Thee — 
 Near— er to Thee !" 
 
 The rage of that tempest, fierce and wild, 
 
 Like the marshaled hosts of wrong, 
 Dispelled, as the voice of the gentle child 
 
 Continued its heaven-taught song. 
 And the wanderer bravely struggled on 
 
 Toward that doubly sacred goal. 
 For the blissful light of a perfect dawn 
 
 Had gladdened his eager soul ; 
 He stood, transfixed by a mystic spell, 
 As the song like an inspiration fell : 
 Still — all — my — song — shall — be, 
 Near — er, my God, to Thee — 
 Near— er to Thee !" 
 
 Oh, thus do the bitter storms conceal 
 
 The light of a perfect day ; 
 Thus does the sacred song reveal 
 
 Hope's beauteous beacon ray ; 
 
 Gethsemane heard the pilgrim's cry 
 
 That echoed in worlds above ; 
 The thunders that crashed from Sinai 
 
 But opened the gates of love ; 
 The song that is echoing down the years. 
 With their heaving tempest of doubts and fears, 
 The wanderer's compass and chart shall be ! 
 '' Near— er, my God, to Thee— 
 Near — er to Thee!" 
 
 MARY MAGDAEEN. 
 
 FROM THE SPANISH, 
 
 BLESSED, yet sinful one, and broken-hearted! 
 The crowd are pointing at the thing for- 
 lorn, 
 In wonder and in scorn ! 
 Thou weepest days of innocence departed ; 
 
 Thou weepest, and thy tears have power to move 
 The Lord to pity and love. 
 
 The greatest of thy follies is forgiven, 
 
 Even for the least of all the tears that shine 
 On that pale cheek of thine. 
 Thou didst kneel down, to Him who came from 
 heaven, 
 Evil and ignorant, and thou shalt rise 
 Holy, and pure, and wise. 
 
 It is not much that to the fragrant blossom 
 
 The ragged brier should change ; the bitter fir 
 Distil Arabian myrrh ! 
 Nor that, upon the wintry desert's bosom. 
 
 The harvest should rise plenteous, and the swain 
 Bear home the abundant grain. 
 
 But come and see the bleak and barren mountains 
 Thick to their tops with roses ; come and see 
 Leaves on the dry dead tree ; 
 The perisned plant, set out by living fountains, 
 Grows fruitful, and its beauteous branches rise, 
 For ever, toward the skies. 
 
 W. C. Bryant. 
 
 THE QUAKER OF THE OLDEN TIME. 
 
 HE Quaker of the olden time ! — 
 How calm and firm and true, 
 Unspotted by its wrong and crime, 
 He walked the dark earth through; 
 The lust of power, the love of gain. 
 
 The thousand lures of sin 
 Around him, had no power to stain 
 The purity within. 
 
 With that deep insight which detects 
 
 All great things in the small, 
 And knows how each man's life affects 
 
 The spiritual life of all, 
 He walked by faith and not by sight, 
 
 By love and not by law ; 
 The presence of the wrong or right 
 
 He rather felt than saw. 
 
 T 
 
iH 
 
 liEDFORP CHURCH, 
 
 469 
 
470 
 
 THE GATES OF PEARL. 
 
 He felt that wrong with wrong partakes, 
 
 That nothing stands alone, 
 That whoso gives the motive, makes 
 
 His brother's sin his own. 
 And, pausing not for doubtful choice 
 
 Of evils great or small, 
 He listened to that inward voice 
 
 Which called away from all. 
 
 from their habitations, and, with solemn demea- 
 nor, bend their measured steps to the meeting- 
 house ; — the families of the minister, the squire. 
 the doctor, the merchant, the modest gentry of the 
 village, and the mechanic and laborer, all arrayed 
 in their best, all meeting on even ground, and all 
 with that consciousness of independence and 
 equality, which breaks down the pride of the rich. 
 
 Oh ! SpiriL of that early day, 
 
 So pure and strong and true, 
 Be with us in the narrow way 
 
 Our faithful fathers knew. 
 Give strength the evil to forsake, 
 
 The cross of truth to bear. 
 And love and reverent fear to make 
 
 Our daily lives a prayer ! 
 
 J. G. Whittier. 
 
 A SABBATH IN THE COUNTRY. 
 
 THE Sabbath morning is as peaceful as the 
 first hallowed day. Not a human sound is 
 heard without the dv/ellings, and, but for 
 the lowing of the herds, the crowing of the 
 cocks, and the gossiping of the birds, animal life 
 would seem to be extinct, till, at the bidding of 
 the church-je^oing bell, the old ^nd young issue 
 
 and rescues the poor from servility, envy, and dis- 
 content. If a morning salutation is reciprocated, 
 it is in a suppressed voice; and if, perchance, 
 nature, in some reckless urchin, burst forth in 
 laughter — "My dear, you forget it's Sunday,'* is 
 the ever-ready reproof. 
 
 Though every face wears a solemn aspect, yet 
 we once chanced to see even a deacon ^s muscles 
 relaxed by the wit of a neighbor, and heard him 
 allege, in a half-deprecating, half-laughing voice, 
 '' The squire is so droll, that a body must laugh, 
 though it be Sabbath-day." 
 
 Towards the close of the day (or to borrow a 
 phrase descriptive of his feelings, who first used 
 it), '' when the Sabbath begins to abate,'' the chil- 
 dren cluster about the windows. Their eyes wan- 
 der from their catechism to the western sky, and, 
 though it seems to them as if the sun would never 
 (^isappear^ his broad disk does slpwly sink behind 
 
THE GATES OF PEARL, 
 
 471 
 
 the mountain ; and, while his last ray still linger? 
 on the eastern summits, merry voices break forth, 
 and the ground resounds with bounding footsteps. 
 The village belle arrays herself for her twilight 
 walk; the boys gather on "the green;" the lads 
 and girls throng to the *' singing school ;" while 
 some coy maiden lingers at home, awaiting her 
 expected suitor ; and all enter upon the pleasures 
 of the evening with as keen a relish as if the day 
 had been a preparatory penance. 
 
 Catherine M. Sedgwick. 
 
 W 
 
 THE FOLD. 
 
 HEN God shall ope the gates of gold, 
 The portals of the heavenly fold, 
 And bid his flock find pasture wide 
 Upon a new earth's green hillside, 
 
 What poor strayed sheep shall thither fare, 
 Black -smirched beneath the sunny air, 
 To wash away in living springs 
 The mud and mire of earthly things ! 
 
 What lonely ewes with eyes forlorn, 
 With weary feet and fleeces torn. 
 To whose shorn back no wind was stayed. 
 Nor any rough ways smooth were made ; 
 
 What happy little lambs shall leap 
 To those sad ewes and spattered sheep, 
 With gamesome feet and joyful eyes. 
 From years of play in Paradise ! 
 
 The wind is chill, the hour is late ; 
 Haste Thee, dear Lord, undo the gate. 
 For grim wolf-sorrows prowl and range 
 These bitter hills of chance and change: 
 
 And from the barren wilderness 
 With homeward face Thy flocks do press ; 
 Their worn bells ring a jangled chime — 
 Shepherd, come forth, 'tis eventime. 
 
 THE GOLDEN STREET. 
 
 THE toil is very long and I am tired : 
 Oh, Father, I am weary of the way ! 
 Give me that rest I have so long desired ; 
 Bring me that Sabbath's cool, refreshing day, 
 And let the fever of my world-worn feet 
 Press the cool smoothness of the golden street. 
 
 Tired, — very tired! And I at times have seen, 
 When the far pearly gates were open thrown 
 For those who walked no more with me, the green 
 Sweet foliage of the trees that there alone 
 
 At last wave over those whose world-worn feet 
 Press the cool smoothness of the golden street. 
 
 When the gates open, and before they close — 
 Sad hours but holy — I have watched the tide 
 
 Whose living crystal there forever flows 
 Before the throiie, ^nd sadly have I sighed 
 
 To think how long until my world-worn feet 
 Press the cool smoothness of the golden street. 
 
 They shall not wander from that blessed way; — 
 
 Nor heat, nor cold, nor weariness, nor sin, 
 Nor any clouds in that eternal day 
 
 Trouble them more who once have entered in ; 
 But all is rest to them whose world-worn feet 
 Press the cool smoothness of the golden street 
 
 Thus the gates close and I behold no more, — 
 
 Though, as I walk, they open oftener now 
 For those who leave me and go on before ; — 
 And I am lonely also while I bow 
 
 And think of those dear souls whose world- 
 worn feet 
 Press the cool smoothness of the golden street. 
 
 Tired, very tired! — but I will patient be, 
 
 Nor will I murmur at the weary way : 
 I too shall walk beside the crystal sea. 
 
 And pluck the ripe fruit, all that God-lit day, 
 When Thou, O Lord, shalt let my world-worn 
 
 feet 
 Press the cool smoothness of the golden street. 
 
 William O. Stoddard. 
 
 EMPTY PRAYERS. 
 
 IDG not like to hear him pray — 
 "Let blesssngs on the widow be," 
 Who never seeks her home to say — 
 '' If want o'ertakes you, come to me." 
 I hate the prayer, so long and loud, 
 
 That's offered for the orphan's weal. 
 By him who sees him crushed by wrong, 
 And only with his lips doth feel. 
 
 I do not like to hear her pray. 
 
 With jeweled ears and silken dress. 
 Whose washerwoman toils all day, 
 
 And then is asked to '^work for less." 
 Such pious shavers I despise ; 
 
 With folded arms and face demure, 
 They lift to heaven their '' angel " eyes, 
 
 Then steal the earnings of the poor. 
 
 OH, FOR THE BRIDAL FEAST. 
 
 OH for the robes of whiteness ! 
 Oh for the tearless eyes ! 
 Oh for the glorious brightness 
 Of the unclouded skies ! 
 
 Oh for the no more weeping 
 Within the land of love. 
 
 The endless joy of keeping 
 The bridal feast above. 
 
 Cparitie L. Smith- 
 
472 
 
 THE GATES OF PEARL, 
 
 PRAYER AND POTATOES. 
 
 W 
 
 These quaint lines are said to have formed a part of a charity sermon preached at Dorchester, Mass. 
 
 ITH troubled face and neglected hair, 
 An old dame sat in her old arm-chair. 
 And wearily sighed, *' Potatoes ! " 
 For days and for weeks her meagre fare, 
 As she sat alone in her old arm-chair, 
 
 Had been nothing at all but potatoes. 
 
 And now they were finished : bad or good, 
 There remained for to-day's and to-morrow's food 
 
 Not one of her stock of potatoes. 
 And she shook her head and she murmured, "Oh! 
 Where shall I send ? to whom shall I go 
 
 For another supply of potatoes?" 
 
 And she thought of the deacon over the way — 
 The deacon so ready to worship and pray, 
 
 ^^'hose cellar was full of potatoes. 
 Said slie, '' I'll send for the deacon — yes ! 
 He'll never grudge me a few, I guess. 
 
 Out of such a store of potatoes." 
 
 The deacon came over as fast as he could. 
 Rejoiced at a chance of doing her good. 
 
 But never once thought of potatoes. 
 " Now, tell me," said he, " the chief want of your soul;" 
 And she, good woman, expecting a dole. 
 
 Immediately oaid " Potatoes." 
 
 But the deacon's religion went not that way; 
 He was more accustomed to preach and pray 
 
 Than to give of his hoarded potatoes; 
 Nc*- catching at all what the old dame said, 
 He loi'e to pray with uncovered head — 
 
 But she only thought of potatoes. 
 
 He prayed for wisdom and truth and grace : 
 *' Lord, send her light from Thy holy place !" 
 
 She murmured; *' Oh, send potatoes!" 
 And still at the close of each prayer he said, 
 He heard, or fancied he heard, instead 
 
 This strange request for potatoes. 
 
 The deacon got into quite a fuss — 
 
 It was awful that folks should be thinking thus 
 
 About perishing, carnal potatoes ! 
 He slammed the door — for his wrath was stirred— - 
 And lo 1 as it closed, a groan he heard, 
 
 '' Oh, give the hungry potatoes !" 
 
 It followed him home to his cosy room. 
 It haunted his soul in the midnight gloom, 
 
 " Oh, give the hungry potatoes !" 
 He could bear it no longer — he rose and dressed. 
 And took from his cellar a bag of his best. 
 
 His finest and best potatoes. 
 
 Again he Avent to the widow's hut; 
 Her weary eyes she had never shut ; 
 Still there she sat in her old arm-chair. 
 
 With the same wan features, the same sad air; 
 
 So, entering in, from his goodly store 
 A bushel or more he poured on the floor, 
 Of the pick of his prime potatoes. 
 
 The widow's heart leaped up at the sight; 
 
 Her brow smoothed out and her eyes grew 
 
 bright. 
 ''Now," said the deacon, ''we'll kneel and pra)'." 
 ''Yes," said the widow, " now you may." 
 
THE GATES OF PEARL. 
 
 473 
 
 So he kneeled him down on the sanded floor 
 Which the cheery potatoes had trundled o'er, 
 And such a prayer the deacon prayed 
 As never before his lips essayed ; 
 Stinted and slow it was wont to be, 
 But now from his soul the prayer gushed free : 
 To his softened eyes the tears must start ; 
 '* Amen " came up from the widow's heart — 
 But never a word of potatoes. 
 
 Would you, good people, who hear my tale 
 Pray for the poor, and, praying, " prevail ?" 
 Then preface your prayers with kindly deeds; 
 Search out the poor with their cares and needs. 
 Pray for peace and pray for grace, 
 Comfort and help from the holy place ; 
 Water of life and heavenly food ; 
 Pray for them all, for all are good — 
 But don't forget the potatoes. 
 
 ^^ 
 
 " Isaac ! my only son !'* — The boy looked up, 
 And Abraham turned his face away, and wept. 
 ''Where is the lamb, my father?" — Oh the 
 
 tones, 
 The sweet, the thrilling music of a child ! — 
 How it doth agonize at such an hour ! — 
 It was the last deep struggle. Abraham held 
 His loved, his beautiful, his only son. 
 And he lifted up his arm, and called on God — 
 And lo ! God's angel stayed him — and he fell 
 Upon his face, and wept. 
 
 N. P. Willis. 
 
 1 
 
 THE SACRIFICE OF ISAAC. 
 
 T was noon — 
 
 And Abraham on Moriah bowed himself, 
 And buried up his face, and prayed 
 strength. 
 
 foj 
 
 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. Oh ! man was 
 
 made 
 For the stern conflict. In a mother's love 
 There is more tenderness ; the thousand chords, 
 Woven with every fibre of her heart. 
 Complain, like delicate harp-strings, at a breath; 
 But love in man is one deep principle. 
 Which, like a root grown in a rifted rock, 
 Abides the tempest. He rose up, and laid 
 The wood upon the altar. All was done. 
 Ke stood a moment — and a deep, quick flush 
 l^ssed o'er his countenance ; and then he nerved 
 I-Jis spirit with a bitter strength, and spoke — 
 
 T 
 
 OUR BELOVED DEAD. 
 
 HEY say if our beloved dead 
 
 Should seek the old familiar place, 
 Some stranger would be there instead. 
 And they would find no welcome face. 
 
 I cannot tell how it might be 
 
 In other homes — but this I know : 
 
 Could my lost darling come to me, 
 That she would never find it so. 
 
 Ofttimes the flowers have come and gone, 
 Ofttimes the winter winds have blown, 
 
 The while her peaceful rest went on, 
 And I have learned to live alone. 
 
 Have slowly learned, from day to day, 
 In all life's tasks to bear my part; 
 
 But whether grave, or whether gay, 
 I hide her memory in ray heart. 
 
474 
 
 THE GATES OF PEARL. 
 
 Fond, faithful love has blest my way, 
 
 And friends are round me, true and tried ; 
 
 They have their place — but hers to-day 
 Is empty as the day she died. 
 
 How would I spring with bated breath. 
 And joy too deep for word or sign, 
 
 To take my darling home from death, 
 And once again to call her mine. 
 
 I dare not dream — the blissful dream, 
 It fills my heart with wild unrest ; 
 
 Where yonder cold white headstones gleam 
 She still must slumber — God knows best. 
 
 But this I know, that those who say 
 Our best beloved would find no place, 
 
 Have never hungered every day — 
 
 Through years and years — for one sweet face. 
 
 NO THORN WITHOUT A ROSE. 
 
 U^T^ 
 
 HERE is no rose without a thorn I" 
 Who has not found this true, 
 
 And known that griefs of gladness born 
 Our footsteps still pursue ? 
 
 That in the grandest harmony 
 
 The strangest discords rise ; 
 The brightest bow we only trace 
 
 Upon the darkest skies ? 
 
 No thornless rose ! So, more and more, 
 
 Our pleasant hopes are laid 
 Where waves this sable legend o'er 
 
 A still sepulchral shade. 
 
 But faith and love, with angel-might, 
 Break up life's dismal tomb. 
 
 Transmuting into golden light 
 The words of leaden gloom. 
 
 Reversing all this funeral pall. 
 White raiment they disclose ; 
 
 Their happy song floats full and long, 
 '' No thorn without a rose! 
 
 *' No shadow, but its sister light 
 Not far away must burn ! 
 No weary night, but morning bright 
 Shall follow in its turn. 
 
 ** No chilly snow, but safe below, 
 A million buds are sleeping ; 
 No wintry days, but fair spring rays 
 Are swiftly onward sweeping. 
 
 •^ With fiercest glare of summer air 
 Comes fullest leafy shade ; 
 And ruddy fruit bends every shoot, 
 Because the blosspms f^de, 
 
 *' No note of sorrow but shall melt 
 In sweetest chord unguessed ; 
 No labor all too pressing felt, 
 But ends in quiet rest. 
 
 " No sigh, but from the harps above 
 Soft echoing tones shall win ; 
 No heart- wound, but the Lord of Love 
 Shall pour his comfort in. 
 
 ** No withered hope, while loving best 
 Thy Father's chosen way ; 
 No anxious care, for he will bear 
 Thy burdens every day. 
 
 '* Thy claim to rest on Jesus' breast 
 AH weariness shall be. 
 And pain thy portal to his heart 
 Of boundless sympathy. 
 
 *' No conflict, but the King's own hand 
 Shall end the glorious strife ; 
 No death, but leads thee to the land 
 Of everlasting life." 
 
 Sweet seraph voices, faith and love ! 
 
 Sing on within our hearts 
 This strain of music from above. 
 
 Till we have learnt our parts : 
 
 Until we see your alchemy 
 
 On all that years disclose, 
 And, taught by you, still find it true, 
 
 '' No thorn without a rose !" 
 
 Frances Ridley Havergal. 
 
 THE OUTDOOR CHURCH. 
 
 THE carven pillars of the trees. 
 The flowered mosaic of the grass, 
 The green transparent traceries 
 Of leaf on leaf that lightly lies 
 
 And lightly moves when breezes pass. 
 
 The anthem of the waterfall, 
 
 My chorister the blackbird's lay. 
 And mingling with, suffusing all, 
 Borne by the wind and still let fall. 
 The incense of the new-mown hay: — 
 
 This is my church, my altar there ; 
 
 Here Earth the kindly mother kneels. 
 Her mighty hands outspread in prayer. 
 While o'er her brow the sunny air, 
 
 A south wind full of blessing, steals. 
 
 She wraps me in her mantle-fold, 
 I kneel and pray beside her there 
 
 As children do whom mothers hold. 
 
 And living air, and sunlight-gold, 
 
 And wood and meadow, pray with me. 
 Eva Keane, 
 
THE GATES OF PEARL. 
 
 475 
 
 REST. 
 
 BEAUTIFUL toiler, thy work all done, 
 Beautiful soul into glory gone, 
 Beautiful life with its crown now won, 
 God giveth thee rest. 
 Rest from all sorrows, and watching, and fears, 
 Rest from all possible sighing and tears, 
 Rest through God's endless, wonderful years — 
 At home with the blest. 
 
 Beautiful spirit, free from all stain, 
 Ours the heartache, the sorrow and pain, 
 Thine is the glory and infinite gain — 
 
 Thy slumber is sweet. 
 Peace on the brow and the eyelids so calm, 
 Peace in the heart, 'neath the white folded palm. 
 Peace drooping down like a wondrous balm 
 
 From the head to the feet. 
 
 It was so sudden," our white lips said, 
 How we shall miss her, the beautiful dead. 
 Who take the place of the precious one fled ; 
 
 But God knoweth best. 
 We know He watches the sparrows that fall. 
 Hears the sad cry of the grieved hearts that call. 
 Friends, husband, children, He loveth them all — 
 
 We can trust for the rest.'' 
 
 Mary T. Lathrop. 
 
 A 
 
 THE WAY. 
 
 WEARY, wandering soul am I, 
 
 O'erburthened with an earthly weight, 
 A pilgrim through the world and sky. 
 Toward the Celestial Gate. 
 
 Tell me, ye sweet and sinless flowers, 
 Who all night gaze upon the skies. 
 
 Have ye not in the silent hours 
 Seen aught of Paradise? 
 
 Ye birds that soar and sing, elate 
 
 With joy, that makes your voices strong. 
 
 Have ye not at the golden gate 
 Caught somewhat of your song ? 
 
 Ye waters, sparkling in the morn. 
 
 Ye seas, which glass the starry night. 
 
 Have ye not from the imperial bourn 
 Caught glimpses of its light ? 
 
 Ye hermit oaks, and sentinel pines. 
 Ye mountain forests old and grey, 
 
 In all your long and winding lines 
 Have ye not seen the way ? 
 
 O moon, among thy starry bowers, 
 
 Know'st thou the path the angels tread? 
 
 Seest thou beyond thy azure towers 
 The shining gates dispread ? 
 
 /e holy spheres, that sang with earth ' 
 When earth was still a sinless star, 
 
 Ka-e the immortals heavenly birth 
 Wit-lip your realms afar? 
 
 And thou, O sun ! whose light unfurls 
 
 Bright banners through unnumbered skies, 
 
 Seest thou among thy subject worlds 
 The radiant portals rise ? 
 
 All, all are mute ! and still am I 
 
 O'erburthened with an earthly weight; 
 
 A pilgrim through the world and sky, 
 Toward the Celestial Gate. 
 
 No answer wheresoe'er I roam — 
 From skies afar no guiding ray ; 
 
 But hark ! the voice of Christ says, ^* Come ! 
 Arise ! I am the way ! ' ' 
 
 Thomas B. Read. 
 
 ONCE UPON A TIME. 
 
 ONCE upon a time life lay before me. 
 Fresh as a story untold. 
 Now so many years have traveled o'er me 
 I and the story are old. 
 
 Once upon a time my locks fell flowing, 
 
 Brown as yours and as bright ; 
 Now so many winters coming and goii-g 
 
 Have left them, you see, snow-white. 
 
 Once upon a time I, too, had a lover, 
 
 Gallant and full of grace ; 
 Now do you think, dear, you can discover 
 
 Him in grandpapa's face? 
 
 Once upon a time I thought it living 
 
 Only to draw my breath ; 
 Now I've learned that it means a striving. 
 
 Sometimes even to death. 
 
 Once upon a time I fell to weeping 
 
 If but my wish was crossed ; 
 Now I can trust to a better keeping, 
 
 Even if all seem lost. 
 
 Once upon a time it looked so dreary 
 
 Ever to wait and rest ; 
 Now, at last, I'm a little weary. 
 
 Resting a while seems best — 
 
 Waiting a while, till the great to-morrow 
 
 Over the hill-tops climb. 
 Joy is forever. Thank God, dear, that sorrow 
 
 Only is once upon a time. 
 
 Louisa Bushnell. 
 
 PEACE OF MIND. 
 
 O PEACE of mind, angelic guest, 
 Thou soft companion of the breast, 
 Dispense thy balmy store ! 
 Wing all our thoughts to reach the skies. 
 Till earth, receding from our eyes, 
 Shall vanish as we soar ! 
 
 Oliver Goldsmith, 
 
476 
 
 THE GATES OF PEARL. 
 
 AN IDEAL CITIZEN. 
 
 THE ideal citizen is the man who believes that 
 all men are brothers, and that the nation is 
 merely an extension of his family, to be 
 loved, respected and cared for accordingly. Such 
 a man attends personally to all civic duties with 
 which he deems himself charged. Those which 
 are within his own control he would no more trust 
 to his inferiors than he would leave the education 
 of his children to kitchen servants. The public 
 demands upon his time, thought and money come 
 upon him suddenly, and often they find him ill 
 prepared ; but he nerves himself to the inevitable, 
 knowing that in the village, State and nation any 
 mistake or neglect upon his part must impose a 
 penalty, sooner or later, upon those whom he 
 loves. John Habberton. 
 
 M 
 
 A DISTANT CAROL. 
 
 ARK, 
 Leaning from the casement dark. 
 How the keen, star-kindled light 
 Of the pulseless winter night 
 Glints upon the bosom white 
 Of the frozen earth, 
 Drear, even for that wond'rous birth, 
 
 Lofty, lowly. 
 
 Human, holy. 
 Whereat now all earth rejoices. 
 Hark ! a distant choir of voices 
 In a Christmas carol blending. 
 To the sparkling sky ascending. 
 Hear the far chimes' measured ringing 
 Faintly blended with the singing ; 
 
 Sinking, soaring, 
 
 Soft, adoring. 
 Midnight now hath found a tongue, 
 As though the choired stars that sung 
 High circling over them 
 That watched in Bethlehem, 
 
 Were echoing, echoing still, 
 
 Peace and good will, 
 
 Good will. 
 
 Peace and good will to man. 
 The voices wake again. 
 Soft chimes their tones repeat. 
 Oh, far-heard message sweet. 
 
 So faintly heard as yet 
 
 That men forget, 
 
 Forget. 
 Come nearer ; louder swell ! 
 Soar, voices ! Peal, clear bell ! 
 Wake echoes that shall last 
 Till all the year be past ! 
 When yuletide comes again, 
 Still may good will to men 
 
 Be echoing, echoing still — 
 
 Peace and good will, 
 
 Good will I 
 Katherine Von Harungen, 
 
 I KNOW NOT THE HOUR OF HIS COMING. 
 
 I KNOW not the hour of His coming ; 
 I know not the day or the year ; 
 But I know that he bids me be ready 
 For the step that I sometime shall hear 
 
 I know not what lieth before me, 
 
 It may be all pleasure, all care ; 
 But I know at the end of the journey 
 
 Stands the mansion He went to prepare. 
 
 And whether in joy or in sorrow, 
 
 Through valley, o'er mountain or hill, 
 
 I will walk in the light of His presence. 
 And His love all repining shall still. 
 
 I know not what duties are waiting 
 For hands that are willing and true ; 
 
 And I ask but the strength to be faithful, 
 And do well what he gives me to do. 
 
 And if He should bid me stand idle — 
 Just waiting — in weakness and pain, 
 
 I have only to trust and be faithful. 
 And sometime He'll make it all plain. 
 
 And when His voice calls, in the morning, 
 At noontime, perhaps, or at night, 
 
 With no plea but the one, Thou hast called me, 
 I shall enter the portals of light. 
 
 Ezra Hallock. 
 
 BLESSED ARE THE DEAD. 
 
 FROM THE GERMAN. 
 
 OHQW blest are ye whose toils are ended ! 
 Who, through death, have unto God 
 ? ascended ! 
 
 Ye have risen 
 From the cares which keep us still in prison. 
 
 We are still as in a dungeon living, 
 
 Still oppressed with sorrow and misgiving ; 
 
 Our undertakings 
 
 Are but toils, and troubles, and heart-breakings. 
 
 Ye, meanwhile, are in your chambers sleeping. 
 Quiet, and set free from all our weeping ; 
 No cross nor trial 
 Hinders your enjoyments with denial. 
 
 Christ has wiped away your tears for ever ; 
 Ye have that for which we still endeavor. 
 To you are chanted 
 Songs which yet no mortal ear have haunted. 
 
 Ah ! who would not, then, depart with gladness, 
 
 To inherit heaven for earthly sadness? 
 
 Who here would languish 
 
 Longer in bewailing and in anguish? 
 
 Comej O Christ, and loose the chains that bind us! 
 Lead us forth, and cast this world behind us ! 
 With Thee, the Anointed, 
 Finds the soul its joy and rest appointed. 
 
 Simon Daci?, 
 
WIT AND WISDOM: 
 
 COMPRISING 
 
 SPARKLING GEMS FROM THE WORLD'S HUMORISTS. 
 
 BILL'S IN TROUBLE! 
 
 VE got a letter, parson, from my son away out West, 
 An' my ol' heart is heavy as an anvil in my breast. 
 To think the boy whose futur' I had once so proudly planned 
 Should wander from the path o' right an' come to sich an end ! 
 I told him when he left us only three short years ago, 
 He'd find himself a-plowin' in a mighty crooked row — 
 He'd miss his father's counsels, an' his mother's prayers, too. 
 But he said the farm was hateful, an' he guessed he'd have to go. 
 
 I know thar's big temptation for a youngster in the West, 
 But I believed our Billy had the courage to resist, 
 An' when he left I warned him o" the ever-waitin' snares 
 That lie like hidden sarpints in life's pathway every wheres. 
 But Bill he promised faithful to be keerful, an' allowed 
 He'd build a reputation that 'd make us mighty proud. 
 But it seems as how my counsel sort o' faded from his mind, 
 An' now the boy's in trouble o' the very wustest kind ! 
 
 His letters came so seldom that I somehow sort o' knowed 
 
 That Billy was a-trampin' on a mighty rocky road. 
 
 But never once imagined he would bow my head in shame. 
 
 An' in the dust 'd wa.ller his ol' daddy's honored name. 
 
 He writes from out in Denver, an' the story's mighty short ; 
 
 I just can't tell his mother; it'll crush her poor ol' heart ! 
 
 An' so I reckoned, parson, you might break the news to her — 
 
 Bill's in the Legislatur', but he doesn't say what fur. 
 
 JACK, WHO SEWS HIS BUTTONS ON. 
 
 JACK, who sews his buttons on. 
 Lives on the toppest floor, 
 An' every day, before he's gone. 
 We raps upon his door ; 
 He hollers loud : " Come right in, kids !' 
 An' laughs an' says : " Take off your lids !' 
 Ma says that's slang, but me an' Don 
 Lices Jack, who sews his buttons on. 
 
 Sometimes to please us two he plays 
 
 His yaller violin ; 
 An', say ! his eyes jest seem to blaze — 
 
 I hoi' my breath right in 
 An' seem to be a floatin' roun' 
 In some bright place above the groun', 
 A driftin' way from little Don 
 With Jack, who sews his buttons on. 
 
 He does th' awful queerest things j 
 
 He sleeps all day, 'en goes 
 An' writes about th' folks what sings 
 
 An' plays in actor shows ; 
 He smokes a skull pipe, an' his hair 
 Is always mussed, an' he don't care 
 How much we pull it — me an' Don — 
 01' Jack, who sews his buttons on. 
 
 Ma says that he has sowed wild wheat, 
 
 'N's a prodigious son, 
 But wunst a lady, dressed so sweet. 
 
 Went upstairs on th' run 
 An' called him her'n an' burst in tears- 
 An' 'en th' door shut — but it 'pears 
 He wouldn't go, an' me an' Don 
 Kept Jack, who sews his buttons on. 
 
 477 
 
478 
 
 IV/T AND WISDOM. 
 
 One day last week a piece ma read, 
 
 Near made her faint away ; 
 It said 'at Jack, right from his head, 
 
 Had wrote a actor play, 
 An' he wa' rich an' famous, too, 
 An' ma says : ** Here's a howd'y do !" 
 Now all 'cept us says Mistar John 
 To Jack, who sews his buttons on. 
 
 Arthur Chapman. 
 
 W 
 
 TWO ON A TANDEM. 
 
 HEN all the tiny wheeling stars 
 
 Their cycle lamps have lit. 
 And, bending o'er their handle bars. 
 On roads celestial flit, 
 
 I trundle out my tandem fleet, 
 
 With Daisy at my side ; 
 We mount, and then our flying feet 
 
 Propel us far and wide. 
 
 Along the smooth secluded pike 
 
 We take our evening run^ 
 Two souls with but a single bike, 
 
 Two hearts that scorch as one. 
 
 Earl H. Eaton. 
 
 THE PARROT AND THE CAT. 
 
 I'VE a deep domestic tragedy that calls for your 
 attention. 
 If your sympathy a minute you'll be good 
 enough to grant ; 
 4.nd, by way of a beginning to my story, I may 
 mention. 
 That a year or so ago, you know, I had a maiden 
 aunt. 
 I was constant in my visits to ner nospitable 
 dwelling, 
 For a quiet cup of coffee and a comfortable 
 chat. 
 She possessed a mint of money — and the fact is 
 worth my telling, 
 That she also had a parrot, and she also had a 
 cat. 
 
 I confess that I was jealous, for my aunt was deeply 
 smitten 
 With her biped and her quadruped, and all their 
 pretty tricks ; 
 She had known the cat and loved it ever since it 
 was a kitten, 
 She had known and loved the parrot when the 
 bird was under six. 
 And the beast was very clever, and the bird was 
 very funny ; 
 For the bird was good at language, and the 
 beast was good at rats ; 
 buc I hardly liked the notion that my aunt sh£>uld 
 leave her money 
 To a hospital for parrots, or dispensary for cats. 
 
 So I seized an opportunity whenever I could get it 
 To instruct these hated animals in very wicked 
 ways ; 
 Pretty Poll was very rapid at the lessons that I 
 set it. 
 Pretty Pussy was a pupil to deserve the highest 
 praise. 
 If you ever heard a sailor speak the dialect of 
 Wapping, 
 I assure you that the parrot spoke a little worse 
 than that ; 
 And its only very rarely that you find a creature 
 dropping 
 Into such abandoned habits as that miserable 
 cat. 
 
 When I found myself the master of this noble 
 situation, 
 I would gladly paint my joy, you know (although, 
 you know, I can't) ; 
 And a month or so ago, you know, I heard with 
 resignation 
 That I'd lost a friend and relative — I mean my 
 maiden aunt. 
 When the lady's will and testament was read by 
 her attorney 
 I was naturally present with a crape about my 
 hat: 
 I was paid for all my trouble, and rewarded for 
 my journey 
 By a legacy consisting of — the parrot and the 
 cat. 
 
 Kenry S. Leigh. 
 
 THE SCIENTIFIC SLUGGARD. 
 
 ^'T^IS the voice of the scientist, hear him ex- 
 I plain ; 
 
 -■■ '' Don't get up too soon, it is bad for the 
 
 brain ; 
 The mind it unhinges," he ruthlessly said; 
 *' If you rise in the morning too soon from your 
 bed." 
 
 ' ' Go early to bed and be early to rise, 
 And so ycu'll be healthy and wealthy and wise;'* 
 But how about those agricultural hands, 
 Who do all the year round what the proverb com- 
 mands ? 
 
 I passed by his garden quite early one morn, 
 And saw him uprooting the thistle and thorn ; 
 His limbs are rheumatic, his energy flags, 
 And as for his trousers and shirt, they were rags. 
 
 I spoke to the yokel, still hoping to find 
 That rising so early v/as good for his mind ; 
 He doddered and drivelled, alas, it was plain 
 The worthy bucolic was three parts insane. 
 
 Said I in my heart : Here's a lesson for me, 
 That man is a picture of what I might be; 
 Then thanks to the Science, for teaching so clearly. 
 It's quite a delusion to get up too early. 
 
THE SLUGGARD'^ BREAKFAST. 
 
 479 
 
480 
 
 WIT AND . WISDOM. 
 
 REUBEN AND MATILDA. 
 
 SAYS Reuben Knott unto his fair, 
 In language burning hot : 
 ** Matilda, do you love me, dear? '* 
 Says she: *'I love you Knott." 
 
 *' Oh, say not so !" again he cried : 
 '' Oh, share with me my lot ! 
 
 Oh, say that you will be my bride !" 
 Says she : " I'll wed you, Knott." 
 
 **0h, cruel fair, to serve me so ! 
 
 I love you well, you wot ! ' ' 
 **I could not wed you, Reub," says she, 
 
 ^' For then I should be Knott." 
 
 A light broke in on Reuben's mind 
 
 As in his arms she got ; 
 She looks demurely in his face 
 
 And says : ^' Pray kiss me, Knott !" 
 
 THE OLD=FASHIONED LAUNDRESS. 
 
 HOW dear to my sight are the shirts of m; 
 past da}s. 
 When mem ry recalls them so perfect and 
 fair, 
 That never went through any steam laundry fast 
 ways. 
 But hung, bleaching and drying, in purely fresh 
 air. 
 The edges unfrayed, as they danced in the day- 
 light, 
 The buttonholes fractureless, free from all rent. 
 The tubs with the bubbles presenting a gay sight, 
 And e'en the stout laundress that over them 
 bent — 
 The old-fashioned laundress, the home-keeping 
 laundress, 
 The singing old laundress that over them bent. 
 
 That old-fashioned laundress was surely a treasure, 
 
 John Chinaman then was in distant Cathay, 
 And dragging machines used no shirts at their 
 pleasure. 
 And chemicals then ate no linen away. 
 How deftly she turned them and rubbed them and 
 scrubbed them, 
 And put them in boilers with honest intent. 
 And when with her strong arms she gently had 
 wrung them. 
 We knew that the shirts needed no foreign 
 scent — 
 The old-fashioned laundress, the home-keeping 
 laundress, 
 The singing old laundress that over them bent. 
 
 Then our shirts took a day and a year in their 
 wearing. 
 The bosoms ne'er cracked like a stiff, brittle 
 board. 
 And we put them on safe without fear of a tearing. 
 And sung forth her praise in lofty accord. 
 
 She never disappointed in whiteness or lustre. 
 Nor caused us in "cuss words" our feelings to 
 vent. 
 And we gave her the best words our brain pan 
 could muster, 
 And said that from paradise sure she was sent — 
 The old-fashioned laundress, the home-keeping 
 laundress, 
 The singing old laundress that over them bent. 
 
 T 
 
 SPELLING REFORMER. 
 
 HERE was a young girl had two beaux; 
 The best-looking one was named Meaux; 
 But towards the cleaux 
 Of his call he would deaux, 
 And make a great noise with his neaux. 
 
 O 
 
 THE WEDDING FEE. 
 
 NE morning, fifty years ago — 
 
 When apple-trees were white with snow 
 Of fragrant blossoms, and the air 
 Was spellbound with the perfume rare — 
 Upon a farm horse, large and lean, 
 And lazy with its double load, 
 
 A sun-brown youth and maid were seen 
 Jogging along the winding road. 
 
 Blue were the arches of the skies. 
 But bluer were that maiden's eyes ! 
 The dewdrops on the grass were bright, 
 But brighter was the loving light 
 That sparkled 'neath each long-fringed lid, 
 Where those bright eyes of blue were hid ; 
 Adown the shoulders, brown and bare, 
 Rolled the soft waves of golden hair. 
 
 It was the fairest sight, I ween, 
 That the young man had ever seen ; 
 And with his features all aglow. 
 The happy fellow told her so. 
 And she, without the least surprise. 
 Looked on him with those heavenly eyes — 
 And drew the dear face to her own. 
 And with a joy but rarely known, 
 Beneath the bridal bonnet hid — 
 I cannot tell you what she did. 
 
 So on they ride, until among 
 
 The new-born leaves with dewdrops hung, 
 
 The parsonage, arrayed in white, 
 
 Peers out — a more than welcome sight. 
 
 Then with a cloud upon his face, 
 " What shall we do?" he turned to say, 
 " Should he refuse to take his pay 
 
 From what is in the pillow case?" 
 
 And glancing down his eyes surveyed 
 The pillow case before him laid, 
 Whose contents, reaching to its hem, 
 Might purchase endless joys for them. 
 
WIT AND WISDOM 
 
 481 
 
 The maiden answers : -' Let us wait ; 
 To borrow trouble where's the need?" 
 
 Then at the parson's squeaking gate 
 Halted the more than willing steed. 
 
 Down from his horse the bridegroom sprung ; 
 
 The latchless gate behind him swung. 
 
 The knocker of that startled door, 
 
 Struck as it never was before, 
 
 Brought the whole household, pale with fright. 
 
 And there with blushes on his cheek, 
 
 So bashful he could hardly speak, 
 
 The parson met their wondering sight. 
 
 The groom goes in, his errand tells. 
 And as the parson nods, he leans 
 
 Far out across the window-sill and yells — 
 *' Come in. He says he'll take the beans !" 
 Oh ! how she jumped ! With one glad bound 
 She and the bean-bag reached the ground. 
 
 Then, clasping with each dimpled arm 
 The precious products of the farm, 
 She bears it through the open door. 
 And down upon the parlor floor 
 Dumps the best beans vines ever bore. 
 
 Ah ! happy were their songs that day. 
 When man and wife they rode away ; 
 
 But happier this chorus still 
 
 Which echoed through those woodland scenes : 
 ** God bless the priest of Whittensville ! 
 
 God bless the man who took the beans." 
 
 CABIN PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 JES' turn de back-log, ober, dar — an' pull your 
 stoo'es up nigher. 
 An' watch dat 'possum cookin' in de skillet 
 by de fire : 
 Lemmc spread my legs out on de bricks to make 
 my feelin's flow, 
 
 Ef you stumble on a hornets'-nes' an' make de 
 
 critters scatter. 
 You needn't stan' dar like a fool an' argefy de 
 
 matter ; 
 An' when de yaller fever comes an' settles all 
 
 aroun*, 
 'Tis better dan de karanteen to shuflle out c 
 
 town ! 
 
 Dar's heap o' dreadful music in de very fines' 
 I fiddle ; 
 
 A ripe an' meller apple may be rotten in de mid- 
 dle; 
 
 De wises' lookin' trabeler may be de bigges' fool ; 
 
 Dar's a lot o' solid kickin' in the humbles' kind 
 o' mule ; 
 
 De preacher ain't de holiest' dat war's de meekes' 
 look. 
 
 An' does de loudes' bangin' on the kiver ob de 
 book ! 
 
 De people pays deir bigges' bills in buyin' lots 
 
 an' lan's; 
 Dey sca'ter all deir picayunes aroun' de peanut 
 
 Stan's ; 
 De twenties an' de fifties goes in payin' orf deir 
 
 rents. 
 But heben an' de organ grinder gits de copper 
 
 cents. 
 
 I nebber likes de cullud man dat thinks too 
 
 much o' eatin'; 
 But frolics froo de wukin' days, and snoozes at de 
 
 meetin'; 
 Dat jines de Temp'ance 'City, an' keeps a gettin' 
 
 tight, 
 An' pulls his water-millions in de middle ob de 
 
 night ! 
 
 Dese milerterry nigger chaps, with muskets in 
 
 deir ban's, 
 Perradin' froo de city to de music ob de ban's, 
 
 An' I'll grin' you out a fac' or two, to take befo' Had better drop deir guns, an' go to marchin' wid 
 
 deir hoes 
 
 An' git a honest libbin' as dey chop de cotton- 
 rows. 
 
 Or de State may put 'em arter while to drillin' in 
 de ditches, 
 
 Wid more'n a single stripe a-running' 'cross deii 
 breeches. 
 
 you go. 
 
 Now, in dese busy wukin' days, dey's changed de 
 
 Scripter fashions, 
 An* you needn't look to mirakuls to furnish you 
 
 wid rations ; 
 Now, when you's wantin' loaves o' bread, you got 
 
 to go and fetch 'em, 
 An' ef you's wantin' fishes, you mus' dig your 
 
 wums an' ketch 'em; 
 For you kin put it down as sartin dat the time is 
 
 long gone by, 
 When sassages an' 'taters use to rain fum out de 
 
 sky ! 
 
 Ef yo think about it keerfully, an' put it to the 
 
 tes', 
 You'll diskiver dat de safes' plan is gin'ully de 
 
 bes' ; 
 31 
 
 Well, you think dat doin' nuffin' 'tall is mighty 
 
 so' an' nice. 
 But it busted up de renters in de lubly Paradise ! 
 You see, dey bofe was human bein's jes' like me 
 
 an' you, 
 An' dey couldn't reggerlate deirselves wid not a 
 
 thing to do ; 
 Wid plenty wuk befo' 'em, an' a cotton crop to 
 
 make, 
 Dey'd nebber thought o' loafir' roun' an' chattin' 
 
 wid de snake. 
 
482 
 
 IVIT AND WISDOM 
 
 ADAM NEVER WAS A BOY. 
 
 O 
 
 F all the men the world has seen 
 Since time his rounds began, 
 
 There's one I pity every day — 
 Earth's first and foremost man ; 
 
 He never with a pin-hook fished 
 Along the brook alone ; 
 
 He never sought the bumblebee 
 Among the daisies coy, 
 
 I ill nil 
 
 n 1, r ,i'il'll!'i!i'll' 
 
 ^(uii,ihiiiiiAlif'rii|llf"" 
 
 1fiMi'|ii||ii||| 
 
 AT THE MASQUERADE. 
 
 And then I think what fun he missed 
 
 By failing to enjoy 
 1 he wild delights of youth-time, for 
 
 He never was a boy. 
 
 He never stubbed his naked toe 
 Against a root or stone ; 
 
 Nor felt its business end, because 
 He never was a boy. 
 
 He never hookey played, nor tied 
 
 The ever-ready pail, 
 Down in the alley all alone, 
 
 To trusting Fido's tail. 
 
PVIT AND WISDOM. 
 
 483 
 
 And when he home from swimmin' came, 
 
 His happiness to cloy, 
 No slipper interfered, because 
 
 He never was a boy. 
 
 He might refer to splendid times 
 
 'Mong Eden's bovvers, yet 
 He never acted Romeo 
 
 To a six year Juliet. 
 He never sent a valentine, 
 
 Intended to annoy 
 A good, but maiden aunt, because 
 
 He never was a boy. 
 
 He never cut a kite-string, no ! 
 
 Nor hid an Easter ^gg ; 
 He never ruined his pantaloons 
 
 A-playing mumble-peg ; 
 He never from the attic stole, 
 
 A coon-hunt to enjoy. 
 To find ' ' the old man ' ' watching, for 
 
 He never was a boy. 
 
 I pity him. Why should I not ? 
 
 I even drop a tear ; 
 He did not know how much he missed ; 
 
 He never will, I fear. 
 And when the scenes of '' other days'' 
 
 My growing mind employ, 
 I think of him, earth's only man 
 
 Who never was a boy. 
 
 T. C. Harbaugh. 
 
 'N 
 
 A SCHOOL=DAY. 
 
 OW, John," the district teacher says. 
 
 With frown that scarce can hide 
 The dimpling smiles aromid her mouth, 
 Where Cupid's hosts abide, 
 '' What have you done to Mary Ann, 
 That she is crying so ? 
 Don't say 'twas 'nothing' — don't, I say, 
 For, John, that can't be so ; 
 
 *' For Mary Ann would never cry 
 
 At nothing, I am sure ; 
 And if you've wounded justice, John, 
 
 You know the only cure 
 Is punishment ! So, come, stand up; 
 
 Transgression must abide 
 The pain attendant on the scheme 
 
 That makes it justified." 
 
 So John steps forth, with sun -burnt face. 
 
 And hair all in a tumble, 
 His laughing eyes a contrast to 
 
 His drooping mouth so humble. 
 ** Now, Mary, you must tell me all — 
 
 I see that John will not. 
 And if he's been unkind or rude, 
 
 I'll whip him on the spot." 
 
 ** W — we were p — playin' p — pris'ner's b — base, 
 An' h — he is s — such a t — tease. 
 
 An' w — v/hen I w — wasn't 1 — lookin*, m- 
 ma'am, 
 
 H — he k — kissed me — if you please !" 
 Upon the teacher's face the smiles 
 
 Have triumphed o'er the frown, 
 A pleasant thought runs through her mind. 
 
 The stick comes harmless down. 
 
 But outraged law must be avenged ! 
 
 Begone, ye smiles, begone ! 
 Away, ye little dreams of love, 
 
 Come on, ye frowns, come on ! 
 I think ril have to whip you, John, 
 
 Such conduct breaks the rule ; 
 No boy, except a naughty one. 
 
 Would kiss a girl — at school." 
 
 Again the teacher's rod is raised, 
 
 A Nemesis she stands — 
 A premium were put on sin. 
 
 If punished by such hands ! 
 As when the bee explores the rose 
 
 We see the petals tremble. 
 So trembled Mary's rosebud lips — 
 
 Her heart would not dissemble. 
 
 I wouldn't whip him veij hard " — : 
 
 The stick stops in its fall — 
 It wasn't right to do it, but — 
 
 It didn't hurt at all!" 
 What made you cry, then, Mary Ann?" 
 
 The school's noise makes a pause. 
 And out upon the listening air. 
 
 From Mary comes — '' Because !" 
 
 W. F. McSparrab 
 
 THREE STAGES. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SIGHING like a furnace 
 Over ears in love. 
 Blind in adoration 
 Of his lady's glove ; 
 Thinks no girl was ever 
 Quite so sweet as she. 
 Tells you she's an angel. 
 Expects you to agree. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Moping and repining, 
 
 Gloomy and morose, 
 Asks the price of poison. 
 
 Thinks he'll take a dose. 
 Women are so fickle. 
 
 Love is all a sham. 
 Marriage is a failure. 
 
 Like a broken dam. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Whistling, blithe and cheerful. 
 Always bright and gay. 
 
484 
 
 IV/T AND WISDOM, 
 
 Dancing, singing, laughing, 
 
 All the livelong day ; 
 Full of fun and frolic, 
 
 Caught in fashion's whirl. 
 Thinks no more of poison — 
 
 Got another girl ! 
 
 THE CYCLING ACADEMY. 
 
 1USED to look down on bicyling and contemn 
 it as a low fonn of amusement — or of exer- 
 cise. But see how changeable we mortals are ! 
 It is fashion that has, all unknowing, such a 
 vast influence on us ! Instead of owning with the 
 poet that '' everything is spoilt by use," everything 
 seems, on the contrary, only to become right and 
 proper by use. Thus I and my sister, though no 
 longer in our first youth, so strongly object to be 
 left "high and dry" by the strong tide of bicycl- 
 ism (the coinage of a word for the occasion must 
 De excused) that we one day presented ourselves, 
 quaking, at the door of an establishment in the 
 Edgebury Road, over which was written, in large 
 gilt letters, "Ladies' Cycle School." 
 
 At our feeble little knock the sacred portal was 
 opened by a betouzled young woman, in appear- 
 ance something between a music hall "artiste" 
 and ^ ''general slavey," who bade us walk in. 
 Once inside, we beheld a strange scene. Within 
 a round, covered enclosure, on a floor ot wooden 
 planking, careered a number of bicycles, ridden 
 by performers more or less ignorant of the accom- 
 plishment. You could tell the stage of progress 
 at which they had arrived by the comparative 
 anxiety apparent in their faces as well as by the 
 amount of their conversation. 
 
 "^Vhy is it called 'Ladles' Cycle School'?" 
 my sister murmured, referring me to the presence 
 of two raw-boned personages of the male persua- 
 sion, who might by courtesy be termed "military," 
 and a chuckle-headed youth who appeared to l3e 
 amusing himself by falling off his steed as many 
 times as the celebrated knight in "Through the 
 Looking-glass," fell off his. 
 
 The attendant, who was near us, volunteered 
 an answer to the question: "Where the lydies 
 goes, the gents is sure to foUer," was his reason- 
 ing, given in a "stage aside." After this very 
 lucid explanation we sat on chairs on a kind of 
 dais and looked on, being told to " wait for our 
 turns." 
 
 Presently a timid knock was heard, and two 
 elderly heads presented themselves at the door. 
 These belonged to a prim old couple, evidently 
 retired tradespeople, who were going to " try their 
 luck." The wife, in grey ringlets and side-combs, 
 was evidently much alarmed : " Oh, 'Enery," she 
 said, with a gasp, " I niver can git on the back o' 
 sich a new-fangled thing as that." "Law, yes, 
 Mary Ann, you've only got to set on it — this 'ere 
 Johnnie 'H do al! the pushin\ Look 'er out a 
 
 quiet one," he instructed the grinning akendantj 
 "one as is warranted not to kick." "'Enery," 
 who was of the stout order, evidently did not feel 
 quite happy in his own mind. Another double 
 knock, this time no hesitating one ; the midertaker 
 from next door, his wife, and his two red-cheeked 
 daughters, accompanied by the " young man " of 
 one of these latter. " Look alive with them bikes, 
 'Arry," said the paterfamilias, "for I ain't got 
 more'n 'arf a hour afore my job's en ; and 
 Chawles " — indicating the weak-kneed young man 
 — "an' me 'as got to go on the coaches to 'Igh« 
 gate." These were evidently old customers, for 
 the middle-aged couple and ourselves looked 
 meekly and respectfully on while they were sup- 
 plied with "bikes" all out of their turn. Indeed, 
 they proceeded to show us what they could do in 
 that line, and executed tours deforce that made us 
 shudder with fright. 
 
 "Keep a he}'e on the door, J'mima," said the 
 anxious parent after a few rounds. "Is them 
 coaches up yet ? ' ' 
 
 "No; but some mourners has come," J'mima 
 answered, peeping. "Oh, my! sich crape, sich 
 white 'ankerchers ! " 
 
 " We must keep '.em v>aiting, ef it was the corp 
 hisself," said papa, "till I've 'ad uy nioney's 
 worth." 
 
 But here a little contretcinps arose. The charm- 
 er in green stockings, who had for some tmie 
 been ogling " Chawles," here forgot herself so far 
 as to enter into conversation with him, and pre- 
 sently the two were careering round the arena 
 (pardon the suggestive simile !) together, to the 
 ineffable disgust of " Chawles's " Jia?icee, who, 
 together with her sister, dismounted and carried 
 on a lively conversation in no measured tones, in 
 which the words "sich a liberty," "puflick 
 stranger," "some folks 'as a cheek," "bold-faced 
 hussy," "good smack o' the 'ed," could from 
 time to time be distinguished. "Chawles," who 
 was "the kind of man that you could warrant 
 townmade," not only took no notice of this, but 
 presently added to his iniquities by getting his 
 wheels locked in the siren's, both, as a result, 
 heavily falling to the ground. The siren was 
 helped off limping, and "Chawles" showed an 
 evident desire to follow and administer consola- 
 tion, but was deterred by a severe look from his 
 inamorata. What "words" might have followed 
 we know not ; but luckily, at this juncture, papa, 
 interposing with "The coaches is up," carried 
 " Chawles " off, leaving the two girls to the finish- 
 ing of their lesson, and to the bestowal of sundry 
 furious glances at the green -stockinged delinquent, 
 who feigned absolute unconsciousness of any 
 " family row " on her account. 
 
 "Now's your turn, miss. 'Ere's two nice bikes 
 will suit you exactly — made a' purpose," said an 
 attendant, coming our way. 
 
W/T AND WISDOM. 
 
 485 
 
 It is one thing to sit in safety and laugh at other 
 people, and quite another to be an object of 
 laughter yourself. But as the executioner — I 
 mean the attendant — drew near with his dread 
 machine, I felt, with the courage born of despair, 
 that there was no help for it, and got clumsily into 
 the saddle, clutching nervously at my ''helper" — 
 who was, by the way, a very good specimen of the 
 average London " loafer " — as I did so. 
 
 "'Ere, look out, don't throttle me," hj ob- 
 served. "Ketch 'old of the 'andle; but there, 
 don't bear too 'eavy on it. Set up as strite as you 
 can, a.nd pedal' ' 
 
 "Hold me tighter," I gasped, not knowing 
 what the magic word "pedal" might mean, and 
 feeling in imminent danger of falling off. 
 
 " 'Ere, I see I must put a drawring-rein on yer." 
 And the wretch proceeded to fasten a piece of 
 leather, eight inches wide, round my unfortunate 
 waist. " Now this is to give me a good grip of 
 yer, d'ye see? Don't lollop so — set strite, can't 
 yer? Ye're all o' one side." 
 
 "Ye — ye — s, but my feet are getting mixed up 
 with the machinery, and — and one of my legs is 
 much longer than the other," I protested feebly. 
 The man treated this last remark with the con- 
 tempt it deserved. " Pedal on, pedal on," he said 
 sturdily. " W'y, y're gittin' along fymous." 
 
 Here my machine suddenly gave a violent 
 lurch, 'which nearly landed me in the arms of the 
 chuckle-headed youth, who w^as still aimlessly 
 gyrating in space. (In the middle of the arena 
 he, with some other fiends in human shape, was 
 learning to '' mount, 
 innocent and quiet spirits like myself.) 
 
 " 'Old on, 'old on," said my loafer, who, by the 
 bye, smelt so strongly of onions that in my desire 
 to get as far as possible from him I now nearly fell 
 over on the other side. Stopping a bit to gain 
 breath, I novv beheld the elderly gentleman and 
 his wife in the act of mounting. The wife, with 
 a strong determination plainly written in her face, 
 once ascended, held on like grim death ; but her 
 husband had no sooner got up on one side than 
 he fell off on the other. 
 
 " 'Enery, for my sake," called his wife in 
 agony, " be more keerful ! " 
 
 'Enery got up dusty. 
 
 "I can't aim to get my feet on them treadles," 
 he said apologetically. "I guess it's 'cos I ain't 
 never learnt the sewing-machine. My feet go 
 round and round quite keerless-like." 
 
 " Will ye set down and rest while I 'elp the old 
 
 It?" said my conductor; and, only too glad of 
 respite, I assented. Now, from the safety of the 
 dais I beheld my sister going round quite swim- 
 mingly—pushed, it is true, by a '•' loafer," but still 
 with an air of ease that filled me with envy. She 
 sat up straight, she looked "somebody." The 
 word "Toff," uttered in a tone of conviction. 
 
 to the imminent danger of 
 
 resounded in my neighborhood as she passed tis. 
 Nc one, I bitterly reflected, had taken me for a 
 " Toff"; but, perhaps, my bearing on a bicycle 
 was not exactly suggestive of that "repose" that 
 is poetically supposed to denote " the caste of Vere 
 de Vere." 
 
 '^That 'ere's a taisty dress, ain't it?" said the 
 chuckle-headed youth suddenly in my ear, refer- 
 ring to my sister's garb. 1 drew myself up; and 
 then, reflecting that it was one of my objects in 
 life to "mix with the masses," relented and made 
 myself affable. "Let me get yer a fourpenny 
 Scotch," he said pleasantly, after a few minutes' 
 conversation. 
 
 Politely informing him that I belonged to a 
 branch of the Blue Ribbon Army, I turned to 
 watch the bicyclists. Now the sad woman in the 
 red hat came round again ; on her depressed 
 countenance was written a stern resignation. She 
 dismounted, and sat close by me. "Do you 
 enjoy bicycling?" I inquired of her, wishing to 
 pursue my acquaintance with the masses. She 
 looked at me sadly. "Well, you see, it's like 
 this," she said in a low voice, "I'm engaged to a 
 young man in the comercial line. We've bin 
 keepin' comp'ny now eight years, and on'y last 
 Sunday was a week, 'e as good as told me 'e 
 couldn't think o' gittin' merried to a girl as 
 couldn't bike. So what could I do but come an' 
 learn? You can't be lef be'ind, can yer?" 
 
 This was a contingency that quite startled me. 
 So bicycling, I thought, is to be added to the 
 necessary accomplishments of a marriageable lady! 
 Why, some lovers are as exacting as was the suitor 
 in the late Marriage Agency case, who insisted 
 that the girl of his affections should be "a' good 
 swimmer and fond of draughts and dominot !" 
 "She painted in water-colors, and of such is ;he 
 Kingdom of Heaven." " There is no end to the 
 requirements oi fiancees,^' I thought, as I sympa- 
 thized with this sad case. 
 
 A very stout lady now engrossed my attention ; 
 she was objecting — and not unnaturally — to the 
 "helper" provided, a tiny boy of some twelve 
 summers, and small at that. ' ' I really jnust have 
 somebody bigger," she pleaded; " //<? can't never 
 hold me up; I weigh fourteen stun if I wdgh a 
 pound." 
 
 " Sich people as 'er oughter pay for two bikes 
 i'stead of one," the Jehu remarked surlily, as the 
 "lady" climbed into the saddle, w4th a liberal 
 display of stocking in the process. It is, by the 
 way, very difflcult for beginners in the art to know 
 how to arrange their dresses, as shown by the vary- 
 ing degrees of inelegance apparent in that direc- 
 tion. Now came the elderly gentleman round 
 again. 
 
 "'Ow are ye a-gittin' on, 'Enery?" asked his 
 wife, who, sitting in security beside me, could 
 afford to be sympathetic. 
 
486 
 
 W/T AND WISDOM. 
 
 *'0h, prime," 'Enery replied, looking about as 
 happy as a puppy under process of muzzling, and 
 with his forehead similarly rucked up into a thou- 
 sand wrinkles. " But my feet still come off them 
 blamed pedals. Can't you make my stirrup 
 shorter?" — this plaintively to the attendant. 
 
 " It ain't a 'orse, sir," said the man testily. 
 
 " No," said 'Enery ; '' if it were a 'orse it would 
 stand up straight, at any rate, and not keep a-tip- 
 pin' me off one side or the other." In this 
 remark I entirely concurred. 
 
 When I was taken for my second '^'turn" I 
 found that many riders, in the agony of the 
 moment, not only mistook their "bikes" for 
 horses, but also for boats. " 'Ere, don't keep 
 takin' my water ! " " 'Old your 'orse's 'ed up ! " 
 " Gee wo ! " " Mind your oar ! " were common 
 expletives; and once, when a railway whistle hap- 
 pened to sound in close proximity, I myself own 
 to feeling agonized lest my steed should "shy." 
 It is so impossible to entirely dissociate the idea 
 oi perso7iaUty from the bicycle. I distinctly felt 
 this with regard to tlie various ^' bikes " I watched. 
 Some were like cart-horses, some like fiery steeds; 
 some were meek, some irritating, some really evilly 
 disposed; as, for instance, that ''bike" on which 
 a long-legged martial individual careered about in 
 the middle of the enclosure, knocking down 
 remorselessly everybody he happened to come 
 across; or, no less sinful, the machine ridden by 
 the siren in the scarlet blouse. A very meek 
 bicycle, too, was just ahead of me. " How many 
 lessons has that woman had ? " I asked, denoting 
 the lady in the red hat, who went on her sad little 
 way in front of me. 
 
 ''That laidy,^^ said my attendant reprovingly, 
 " is at 'er fifth lesson ; but she'll never be a credit 
 to us — not she." 
 
 I was now come to the end of my hour's 
 instruction, and as I descended I pressed a shil- 
 ling " tip " gratefully into my loafer's horny palm. 
 '' But as \.o yoii,^^ he continued, his face brighten- 
 ing; "why, I'd guarantee jv<?z/V learn it in three 
 days. You just give me a chance o' teachin' yer, 
 and I don't mind bettin' any money on it." 
 
 This little incident led on the way home to a some- 
 what heated argument between my sister and myself 
 She had only had three-pence-worth of encourage- 
 ment, and therefore, no doubt, felt sore. For what, 
 after all, is even bicycling without encouragement? 
 
 I have only as yet had this one lesson ; but I 
 bicycle all night in my dreams. I claim to have 
 even invented a new form of nightmare, in which 
 I continually fall off my bicycle, and it as remorse- 
 lessly comes back and falls on the top of me ; or 
 else I bicycle, with the rapidity of the wind, eter- 
 nally through endless aeons of space. 
 
 But I wish I could honestly think that that shil- 
 ling had had no influence whatever on my guide's 
 opinion. 
 
 THE BABY IN THE CARS. 
 
 WHAT great improvements nowadays on 
 every line we find, 
 New comforts, new contrivances of every 
 sort and kind ; 
 And different far the methods are of nineteenth 
 
 century ways 
 Compared with modes of traveling in our fore- 
 lathers' days ! 
 Yet still one nuisance irritates, one obstacle an- 
 noys, 
 One thorn that pricks the traveler's sides, his rose- 
 bed rest destroys ; 
 I'm not inclined to captiousness, nor given to com- 
 plain. 
 But what a crying nuisance is a baby in the train ! 
 
 We've got more ventilation, and tightly-fitting 
 
 doors, 
 And Pullman cars and drawing-rooms and spacious 
 
 corridors ; 
 And there's no need at station bars to bolt a hasty 
 
 feed. 
 Good meals are served "on board," and if you 
 
 like the fragrant weed 
 You'll find a pleasant smoking-room, and lava- 
 tories, too, 
 And luxuries in many forms our fathers never 
 
 knew. 
 But all these pleasures manifold give place to grief 
 
 and pain 
 If some one brings to mar your bliss a baby in the 
 
 train. 
 
 HYGIENE. 
 
 1 CANNOT eat but little meat, 
 By microbes it is spoiled ; 
 And sure I think I cannot drink, 
 Save water that is boiled ; 
 And I'll endure low temperature, 
 
 Since by the doctors told 
 That to live long and keep us strong 
 'Tis better to be cold. 
 
 So let bacteria scourge and scare, 
 
 With ailments manifold, 
 To do us good we'll eat no food, 
 
 And keep our bodies cold. 
 
 I love no roast except dry toast, 
 
 And that at stated terms ; 
 And little bread I eat, in dread 
 
 Of pathogenic germs ; 
 Of milk no whit I take, lest it 
 
 Zymotic ills enfold, 
 And fevers breed ; yet most I heed 
 
 To keep my body cold. 
 
 A keen east wind I never mind, 
 , And fifty Fahrenheit 
 
WIT AND WISDOM 
 
 487 
 
 Is the degree that best suits me, 
 
 By day and eke by night ; 
 Thus wise I strive to keep alive, 
 
 And haply to grow old, 
 With beef uncarved, athirst and starved, 
 
 And perished with the cold. 
 
 So let bacteria scourge and scare, 
 
 With ailments manifold. 
 To do us good we'll eat no food, 
 
 And keep our bodies cold. 
 
 SAINT ANTHONY'5 5ERM0N TO THE 
 FI5HES. 
 
 S 
 
 FROM THE GERMAN. 
 
 AINT Anthony at church 
 Was left in the lurch. 
 So he went to the ditches 
 And preached to the fishes. 
 They wriggled their tails. 
 In the sun glanced their scales. 
 
 The carps, with their spawn, 
 
 Are all thither drawn ; 
 
 Have opened their jaws, 
 
 Eager for each clause. 
 No sermon beside 
 Had the carps so edified. 
 
 Sharp-snouted pikes. 
 
 Who keep fighting like tikes, 
 
 Now swam up harmonious 
 
 To hear Saint Antonius. 
 No sermon beside 
 Had the pikes so edified. 
 
 And that very odd fish. 
 
 Who loves fast-days, the cod-fish — 
 
 The stock-fish, I mean — 
 
 At the sermon was seen. 
 No sermon beside 
 Had the cods so edified. 
 
 Good eels and sturgeon 
 Which aldermen gorge on, 
 W^ent out of their way 
 To hear preaching that day. 
 No sermon beside 
 Had the eels so edified. 
 
 Crabs and turtles also, 
 Who always move slow. 
 Made haste from the bottom. 
 As if the devil had got 'em. 
 No sermon beside 
 Had the crabs so edified. 
 
 Fish great and fish small^ 
 Lords, lackeys, and all. 
 Each looked at the preacher 
 Like a reasonable creature. 
 
 A 
 
 At God's word, 
 They Anthony heard. 
 
 The sermon now ended, 
 
 Each turned and descended ; 
 
 The pikes went on stealing. 
 
 The eels went on eeling. 
 
 Much delighted were they, 
 But preferred the old way. 
 
 The crabs are backsliders, 
 
 The stock-fish thick-siders, 
 
 The carps are sharp set, 
 
 All the sermon forget. 
 
 Much delighted were they. 
 But preferred the old way. 
 
 Abraham A. Sancta Clara. 
 
 A CHILD'S REASONING. 
 
 SHE was ironing dolly's new gown, 
 Maid Marian, four years old, 
 With her brows puckered down 
 In a painstaking frown 
 
 Under her tresses of gold. 
 
 'Twas Sunday, and nurse coming in 
 Exclaimed in a tone of surprise : 
 
 ** Don't you know it's a sin 
 
 Any work to begin 
 
 On the day that the Lord sanctifies ?" 
 
 Then, lifting her face like a rose. 
 Thus answered this wise little tot : 
 
 " Now, don't you suppose 
 
 The good Lord He knows 
 This little iron aint hot?" 
 
 THE REASON WHY. 
 
 BOSTON master said, one day 
 " Boys, tell me if you can, I pray. 
 Why Washington's birthday should shine 
 In to-day's history, more than mine?" 
 
 At once such stillness in the hall 
 You might have heard a feather fall ; 
 Exclaims a boy not three feet high, 
 " Because he never told a lie !" 
 
 t: 
 
 THE INDIAN CHIEFTAIN. 
 
 WAS late in the autumn of '53 
 
 That, making some business-like excuse, 
 left New York, which is home to me, 
 And went on the cars to Syracuse. 
 
 Born and cradled in Maiden Lane, 
 I went to school in Battery Row, 
 
 Till when, my daily bread to obtain, 
 They made me clerk to Muggins & Co. 
 
 But I belonged to a genteel set 
 
 Of clerks with souls above their sphere, 
 
 Who night after night together met 
 To feast on intellectual cheer. 
 
488 
 
 WIT A AD WISDOM. 
 
 We talked of Irving and Bryant and Spratt — 
 Of Willis, and how much they pay him per 
 page— 
 
 Of Sontag and Julien and Art, and all that — 
 And what d'ye call it ? — the Voice of the Age ! 
 
 We wrote little pieces on purling brooks, 
 
 And meadow, and zephyr, and sea, and sky — 
 Things of which we had seen good descriptions in 
 books, 
 And the last, between houses some sixty feet 
 high! 
 
 Somehow in this way my soul got fired ; 
 
 I wanted to see and hear and know 
 The glorious things that our hearts inspired — 
 
 The things that sparkled in poetry so ! 
 
 And I had heard of the dark-browed braves 
 
 Of the famous Onondaga race, 
 Who once paddled the birch o'er Mohawk's 
 waves, 
 
 Or swept his shores in war and the chase. 
 
 I'd see that warrior stern and fleet ! 
 
 Aye, bowed though he be with oppression's 
 abuse ; 
 I'd grasp his hand ! — so in Chambers Street 
 
 I took my passage for Syracuse. 
 
 Arrived at last, I gazed upon 
 The smoke-dried wigwam of the tribe • 
 
 ''The depot, sir," suggested one — 
 I smiled to scorn the idle gibe. 
 
 Then to the baggage-man I cried, 
 
 " O, point me an Indian chieftain out !" 
 
 Rudely he grinned as he replied, 
 ''You'll see 'em loafin' all about !" 
 
 AVounded I turn — when lo ! e'en now 
 
 Before me stands the sight I crave ! 
 I know him by his swarthy brow ; 
 
 It is an Onondaga brave ! 
 
 I know him by his falcon eye. 
 
 His raven tress and mien of pride ; 
 Those dingy draperies, as they fly, 
 
 Tell that a great soul throbs inside ! 
 
 No eagle-feathered crown he wears. 
 
 Capping in pride his kingly brow ; 
 But his crownless hat in grief declares, 
 
 " I am an unthroned monarch now !" 
 
 " O noble son of a royal line !" 
 
 I exclaim, as I gaze into his face, 
 *' How shall I knit my soul to thine ? 
 
 How right the wrongs of thine injured race? 
 
 "What shall I do for thee, glorious one? 
 
 To soothe thy sorrows my soul aspires. 
 Speak ! and say how the Saxon's son 
 
 May atone for the wrongs of his ruthless sires !" 
 
 He speaks, he speaks !— that noble chief'. 
 
 From his marble lips deep accents come ; 
 And I catch the sound of his mighty grief — 
 
 " Fy g% me tree cent for git some rum /" 
 
 JANE JONES. 
 
 JANE JONES keeps a-whisperin' to me all the 
 time. 
 An' says : " Why don't you make it a rule 
 To study your lessons, an' work hard an' learn, 
 
 An' never be absent from school ? 
 Remember the story of Elihu Burritt, 
 
 How he dumb up to the top ; 
 Got all the knowledge 'at he ever had 
 
 Down in the blacksmithin' shop." 
 Jane Jones she honestly said it was so ; 
 
 Mebby he did — I dun no ; 
 'Course, what's a-keepin' me 'way from the top 
 Is not nev^er havin' no blacksmithin' shop. 
 
 She said 'at Ben Franklin was awfully poor, 
 
 But full o' ambition and brains 
 An' studied philosophy all 'is hull life — 
 
 An' see what he got for his pains. 
 He brought electricity out of the sky 
 
 With a kite an' the lightnin' an' key, 
 So we're owin' him more'n any one else 
 
 For all the bright lights 'at we see. 
 Jane Jones she actually said it was so. 
 
 Mebby he did — I dunno ; 
 'Course, what's allers been hinderin' me 
 In not havin' any kite, lightnin' or key. 
 
 Jane Jones said Columbus was out at the knees 
 
 When he first thought up his big scheme ; 
 An' all of the Spaniards an' Italians, too, 
 
 They laughed an' just said 'twas a dream; 
 But Queen Isabella she listened to him, 
 
 An' pawned all her jewels o' worth, 
 An' bought 'im the "Santa Marier " 'n said: 
 
 " Go hunt up the rest of the earth." 
 Jane Jones she honestly said it was so ; 
 
 Mebby he did — I dunno ; 
 'Course, that may all be, but you must allow 
 They ain't any land to discover just now. 
 
 Ben King. 
 
 WHY DON'T YOU LAUGH ? 
 
 WHY don't you laugh, young man, wTien 
 troubles come, 
 Instead of sitting 'round sosour and glum? 
 You cannot have all play, 
 And sunshine every day; 
 When troubles come, I say, why don't you laugh? 
 
 Why don't you laugh ? 'Twill ever help to soothe 
 The aches and pains. No road in life is smooth ; 
 
 There's many an unseen bump, 
 
 And many a hidden stump, 
 O'er which you'll have to jump. Why don't you 
 lau2;h ? 
 
WIT AND WISDOM 
 
 489 
 
 Why don't you laugh ? Don't let your spirits wilt. 
 Don't sit and cry because the milk you've spilt; 
 
 If you would mend it, now 
 
 Pray let me tell you how : 
 Just milk another cow ! Why don't you laugh ? 
 
 Why don't you laugh, and make us all laugh, too, 
 And keep us mortals all from getting blue ? 
 
 A laugh will always win ; 
 
 If you can't laugh, just grin — 
 ^ome on, let's all join in ! Why don't you laugh? 
 James Courtney Challiss. 
 
 *' Oh, promise me, love, oy the fire-hole you'lJ 
 watch, 
 And when mourners and stokers convene, 
 You will see that they light me some solemn, 
 
 slow match, 
 And warn them against kerosene. 
 
 ^' It would cheer me to know, ere these rude- 
 breezes waft 
 My essences far to the pole, 
 That one whom I love will look to the draft, 
 And have a fond eye on the coal. 
 
 THE STEPMOTHER. 
 
 THE MAIDEN'S LAST FAREWELL. 
 
 IN THE DAY OF CREMATION. 
 
 T 
 
 HExN the night wore on, and we knew the 
 worst. 
 That the end of it all was nigh ; 
 Three doctors they had from the very first — 
 And what could one do but die? 
 
 ' ' Oh, William !" she cried, 
 spring, 
 
 strew no blossoms of 
 
 For the new ' apparatus * might rust ; 
 But say that a handful of shavings you'll bring. 
 And linger to see me combust. 
 
 Then promise me, love," — and her voice fainter 
 
 grew — 
 *•■ While this body of mine calcifies. 
 You will stand just as near as you can to the flue, 
 And gaze while my gases arise. 
 
 For Thompson — Sir Henry — has found out away! 
 
 (Of his ' process ' you've surely heard tell), 
 And you burn, like a parlor-match, gently away^ 
 
 Nor even offend by a smell. 
 
 So none of the dainty need sniff in disdain 
 When my carbon floats up to the sky ; 
 
 And I'm sure, love, that you will never complain, 
 Though an ash should blow into your eye. 
 
490 
 
 WIT AND WISDOM. 
 
 ** Now promise me, love " — and she murmured 
 low — 
 " When the calcification is o'er, 
 You will sit by my grave in the twilight glow — 
 I mean by my furnace door. 
 
 ** Yes, promise me, love, while the seasons revolve 
 On their noiseless axles, the years, 
 You will visit the kiln where you saw me ' resolve,' 
 And leach my pale ashes with tears." 
 
 WHIP=POOR=WILL. 
 
 HARK ! I hear the voice again ! 
 Softly now and low, 
 When the twilight s o'er the plain 
 And the first stars glow. 
 This is what it uttereth — 
 In a rather mournful breath — 
 *^ Whip-poor-Will ! Whip-poor-Will !" 
 
 What has Will been doing now? 
 
 Has he truant played 
 With a sad, coquettish brow 
 
 From some simple maid ? 
 Did he steal her heart away? 
 For I hear vou always say, 
 *' Whip-poor-Will ! Whip-poor-Will !" 
 
 Tell me now what Will has done, 
 
 Who's to whip him, dear? 
 Is he some scamp full of fun 
 
 That IS straying near? 
 Have you caught him at your nest 
 By the ones you love the best ? 
 '' Whip-poor-Will ! Whip-poor-Will !" 
 
 That is all )'ou seem to say, 
 
 Little bird so shy. 
 Tell me now, without delay, 
 
 Why whip Will, O why? 
 There ! your voice fades in the lea — 
 Leaving this command to me, 
 " Whip-poor-Will ! Whip-poor-Will ! ' ' 
 
 Monroe H. Rosenfeld. 
 
 BAKIN AND GREENS. 
 
 YO' may tell me ob pastries and fine oyster 
 patties, 
 Of salads and crowkets an' Boston baked 
 beans, 
 But dar's nuffin so temptin' to dis nigger's palate 
 As a big slice ob bakin and plenty ob greens. 
 
 ]es bile 'em right down, so dey'll melt when yo* 
 eat 'em ; 
 Hab a big streak ob fat an' a small streak o' 
 lean; 
 Dar's nuffin on earf yo' kin fix up to beat 'em. 
 Fur de king ob all dishes am bakin and greens. 
 
 Den take some good co'hnmeal and sif it aD<5 
 
 pat it. 
 An' put it in de ashes wid nuffin between ; 
 Den blow off de ashes and set right down at it, 
 For dar's nuffin like ashcake wid bakin and 
 
 greens. 
 
 'Twill take de ole mammies to fix 'em up greasy, 
 Wid a lot ob good likker and dumplin's between, 
 
 Take all yo' fine eatin', I won't be uneasy, 
 If yo'U gimme dat bakin wid plenty ob greens. 
 
 Rich folks in dar kerrage may frow de dust on 
 me ; 
 But how kin I envy dem men ob big means. 
 Dey may hab de dispepsey and do' they may scorn 
 me, 
 Dey can't enjoy bakin wid a dish ob good greens. 
 
 You may put me in rags, fill my cup up wid sor- 
 row; 
 
 Let joy be a stranger, and trouble my dreams, 
 But I still will be smilin', no pain kin I borrow, 
 
 Ef you lebe me dat bakin wid plenty of greens. 
 
 S 
 
 DER BABY. 
 
 O help me gracious, efery day 
 I laugh me wild to see der vay 
 My small young baby drie to play- 
 Dot funny leetle baby. 
 
 Ven I look on dhem leetle toes, 
 Und saw dot funny leetle nose, 
 Und heard der vay that rooster crows, 
 I schmile like I was grazy. 
 
 Und vhen I heard der real nice vay 
 Dhem beoples to my wife dhey say, 
 More like his fater every day," 
 I vas so proud like blazes. 
 
 Sometimes dhere comes a leetle schqualL 
 Dot's vhen der vindy vind vill crawl 
 Righd in its leetle schtomach schmall — 
 Dot's too bad for der baby. 
 
 Dot makes him sing at night so schveet, 
 Und gorrybarric he must eat, 
 Und I must chumb shbry on my feet, 
 To help dot leetle baby. 
 
 He bulls my nose and kicks my hair, 
 Und crawls me over everywhere, 
 Und shlobbers me — but vat I care ? 
 
 Dot vas my schmall young baby. 
 
 Around my head dot leetle arm 
 Vas schqueezin me so nice and varm — 
 Oh, raav dhere never come some harm 
 To dot schmall leetle baby ! 
 
V//J AND WISDOM, 
 
 491 
 
 SPEECH OF SERGEANT BUZFUZ. 
 
 YOU heard from my learned friend, gentle- 
 men of the jury, that this is an action for a 
 breach of promise of marriage, in which the 
 damages are laid at fifteen hundred pounds. 
 The plaintiff, gentlemen, is a widow ; yes, gentle- 
 men, a widow. The late Mr. Bardell, sometime 
 before his death, became the father, gentlemen, of 
 a little boy. With this little boy, the only pledge 
 of her departed exciseman, Mrs. Bardell shrunk 
 from the world and courted the retirement and 
 tranquillity of Goswell street ; and here she placed 
 in her front parlor-window a written placard, bear- 
 ing this inscription: '* Apartments furnished 
 
 FOR A SINGLE GENTLEMAN. INQUIRE WITHIN." 
 
 Mrs. Bardell's opinions of the opposite sex, gen- 
 tlemen, were derived from a long contemplation 
 of the inestimable qualities of her lost husband. 
 She had no fear — she had no distrust — all was con- 
 fidence and reliance. ''Mr. Bardell," said the 
 widow, "w^as a man of honor — Mr. Bardell was a 
 man of his word— Mr. Bardell was no deceiver — 
 Mr. Bardell was once a single gentleman himself: 
 to single gentlemen I look for protection, for as- 
 sistance, for comfort and consolation ; in single 
 gentlemen I shall perpetually see something to re- 
 mind me of what Mr. Bardell was, when he first 
 won my young and untried aifections ; to a single 
 gentleman, then, shall my lodgings be let." 
 
 Actuated by this beautiful and touching im- 
 pulse (among the best impulses of our imperfect 
 nature, gentlemen), the lonely and desolate widow 
 dried her tears, furnished her first floor, caught her 
 innocent boy to her maternal bosom, and put the 
 bill up in her parlor-window. Did it remain 
 there long ? No. The serpent was on the watch, 
 the train was laid, the mine was preparing, the 
 sapper and miner Avas at work. Before the bill 
 had been in the parlor-window three days, gentle- 
 men — a being, erect upon two legs, and bearing 
 all the outward semblance of a man, and not of a 
 monster, knocked at the door of Mrs. Bardell's 
 house ! He inquired within ; he took the lodg- 
 ings ; and on the very next day he entered into 
 possession of them. This man was Pickwick — 
 Pickwick the defendant ! 
 
 Of this man I will say little. The subject pre- 
 sents but few attractions; and I, gentlemen, am 
 not the man, nor are you, gentlemen, the men to 
 delight in the contemplation of revolting heart- 
 lessness, and of systematic villany. I say system- 
 atic villany. gentlemen ; and when I say system- 
 atic villany, let me tell the defendant Pickwick if 
 he be in court, as I am informed he is, that it 
 would have been more decent in him, more be- 
 coming, if he had stopped away. Let me tell him, 
 further, that a counsel, in the dischars^e of his 
 duty, is neither to be intimidated nor bullied, nor 
 put down ; and that any attempt to do either the 
 
 one or the other will recoil on the head of the at- 
 tempter, be he plaintiff or be he defendant, be his 
 name Pickwick, or Nokes, or Stoaks, or Stfles, or 
 Brown, or Thompson. 
 
 I shall show, gentlemen, that for two years 
 Pickwick continued to reside constantly, and 
 without interruption or intermission, at Mrs. Bar- 
 dell's house. I shall show you that Mrs. Bardell, 
 during the whole of that time, waited on him, at- 
 tended to his comforts, cooked his meals, looked 
 out his linen for the washerwoman when it went 
 abroad, darned, aired and prepared it for wear 
 when it came home, and, in short, enjoyed his 
 fullest trust and confidence. I shall show you 
 that, on many occasions, he gave half-pence, and 
 on some occasions even sixpence, to her little boy. 
 I shall prove to you, that on one occasion, when 
 he returned from the country, he distinctly and 
 in terms offered her marriage — previously, how- 
 ever, taking special care that there should be no 
 witnesses to their solemn contract ; and I am in a 
 situation to prove to you, on the testimony of three 
 of his own friends — most unwilling witnesses, gen- 
 tlemen — most unwilling witnesses — that on that 
 morning he was discovered by them holding the 
 plaintiff in his arms, and soothing her agitation by 
 his caresses and endearments. 
 
 And now, gentlemen, but one word more. Two 
 letters have passed between these parties— letters 
 that must be viewed with a cautious and suspicious 
 eye — letters that were evidently intended, at the 
 time, by Pickwick, to mislead and delude any third 
 parties into whose hands they might fall. Let me 
 read the first : " Garraway's, twelve o'clock. — 
 Dear Mrs. B. — Chops and Tomato sauce. Yours, 
 Pickwick." Gentlemen, what does this mean? 
 Chops and Tomato sauce ! Yours, Pickwick ! 
 Chops ! Gracious heavens ! And Tomato sauce. 
 Gentlemen, is the happiness of a sensitive and 
 confiding female to be trifled away by such shal- 
 low artifices as these ? 
 
 The next has no date whatever, which is in it- 
 self suspicious : *'Dear Mrs. B., I shall not be at 
 home to-morrow. Slow coach." And then fol- 
 lows this very remarkable expression: "Don't 
 trouble yourself about the warming-pan." The 
 warming-pan ! Why, gentlemen, who does trouble 
 himself about a warming-pan? Why is Mrs. 
 Bardell so earnestly entreated not to agitate her- 
 self about this warming-pan, unless (as is no doubt 
 the case) it is a mere cover for hidden fire — a 
 mere substitute for some endearing word or prom- 
 ise, agreeably to a preconcerted system of cor- 
 respondence, artfully contrived by Pickwick with 
 a view to his contemplated desertion ? And what 
 does this allusion to the slow coach mean ? For 
 aught I know it may be a reference to Pickwick 
 himself, who has most unquestionably been a 
 criminally slow coach during the whole of this 
 
492 
 
 WJ7' AND WISDOM. 
 
 transaction, but whose speed will now be very un- 
 expectedly accelerated, and whose wheels, gentle- 
 men, «s he will find to his cost, will very soon be 
 greased by you 1 
 
 But enough of this, gentlemen. It is difficult to 
 ^inile with an aching heart. My client's hopes and 
 orospects are ruined, and it is no figure of speech 
 lo say that her occupation is gone, indeed. The 
 bill is down; but there is no tenant! Eligible 
 single gentlemen piss and repass; but there i.s no 
 invitation tor them to inquire within, or witho'ut ' 
 All is gloom and silence in the house : even fne 
 voice of the child is hushed ; his infant sports are 
 disregarded when his mother weeps. 
 
 But Pickwick, gentlemen, Pickwick, the ruth- 
 less destroyer of this domestic oasis in the desert 
 of Gosweli street — Pickwick, who has choked up 
 the well and thrown ashes on the sward — Pick- 
 wick who comes before you to-day with his heart- 
 less tomato sauce and warming-pans — Pickwick 
 still rears his head with unblushing effrontery, and 
 gazes without a sigh on the ruin he has made ! 
 Damages, gentlemen, heavy damages, is the only 
 punishment with which you can visit him — the 
 only recompense you can award to my client ! 
 And for those damages she now appeals to an en- 
 lightened, a high-minded, a right-feeling, a con- 
 scientious, a dispassionate, a sympathizing, a con- 
 templative jury of her civilized countrymen ! 
 
 Charles Dickens. 
 
 THE AMOROUS GOLD FISH. 
 
 A GOLD fish swam in a big glass bowl — 
 As dear little gold fish do — 
 But she loved with the whole of her heart 
 and soul 
 An officer brave from the ocean wave. 
 
 And she thought that he loved her too ! 
 Her small inside he daily fed 
 With crumbs of the best digestive bread — 
 "This kind attention proves," said she, 
 " How exceeding fond he is of me !" 
 
 And she thought " Its fit— fit— fitter, 
 He should love my glit — glit — glitter, 
 
 Than his heart give away 
 
 To the butterflies gay, 
 Or the birds that twit— twit— twitter." 
 
 She flashed her frock in the sunshine bright — 
 
 That officer brave to charm. 
 And he vowed she was quite a delightful sight ; 
 So her spirits were gay — till he came one day 
 
 With a girl on his stalwart arm. 
 In whispers low they talked of love — 
 He begged for a rose and a worn-out glove; 
 But when they kissed a fond good-bye 
 The poor little gold fish longed to die ! 
 
 And she sobbed "It's bit — bit — bitter 
 He should love this crit — crit — critter, 
 
 When I thought he would wish 
 For a nice little fish 
 With a frock all glit — glit— glitter !" 
 
 That charming girl for a time upset 
 
 The officer brave and gay, 
 And his sad little pet he contrived to forget ; 
 For with never a crumb did he chance to come-* 
 
 So the gold fish pined away ! 
 Until at last some careless soul 
 With a smasli knocked over the big glass bowl, 
 And there on the carpet — dead and cold — 
 Lay the poor little fish in her frock of gold ! 
 
 But her fate so bit — bit — bitter 
 Is a story fit — fit — fitter 
 
 For a sad little sigh 
 
 And a tear in the eye 
 Than a thoughtless tit— tit — titter ! 
 
 Harry Greenbank. 
 
 SPRING UNDER DIFFICULTCES. 
 
 THE wintry forests are gone : — 
 A bluebird pipes his sweet, enchanting 
 note. 
 (Here comes the butcher with his bill ; go, pawn 
 My overcoat !) 
 
 Now slips the bloom from winter's rude control, 
 The thrush is building, by the hedges hid. 
 
 (Upon my soul I paid that bill for coal — 
 Or thought I did !) 
 
 Now brawls the brook, and many a violet 
 
 Flaunts its blue beauty in the ice-king's track. 
 
 (Here comes the grocer. Darling, can you get 
 Ten dollars on that sacque ?) 
 
 The heyday of the resurrected year 
 
 When the leaf feels the sculpturing sap aflow. 
 
 (I never paid that plumber's bill ! My dear, 
 Your shawl will have to go !) 
 
 Season of song by river, field and lake ; 
 
 Lo ! how the trees have donned their vernal 
 suits ! 
 (Another bill ! Do ask him if he'll take 
 
 My rubber boots !) 
 
 WHEN MARIA JANp IS MAYOR. 
 
 WHEN Maria Jane's elected to the mayor- 
 alty chair. 
 There'll be many wrongs corrected that 
 are now apparent there. 
 The sidewalks will be carpeted, the streets swept 
 
 thrice a day, 
 The alleys be as fragrant as fields of new-mown 
 hay. 
 
 What with parties and receptions, and occasionally 
 
 a ball, 
 There will be a transformation around the City 
 
 Hall. 
 
tV/T AND WISDOM. 
 
 493 
 
 And each ward in the city will be lepresented then 
 By lovely alderwomen and not horrid aldermen. 
 
 When Maria Jane is mayor none but ladies will, 
 
 of course, 
 Be appointed members of the city police force, 
 And in their bloomer uniforms they'll look so very 
 
 sweet, 
 The gang to be arrested will consider it a treat. 
 
 The stores will be compelled to have a bargain sale 
 
 each day, 
 And for chewing-gum and soda you will not be 
 
 asked to pay. 
 Oh, great reforms will be projected, all the wrongs 
 
 will be corrected 
 When Maria Jane's elected to the mayoralty chair. 
 
 William West. 
 
 The way they mend a buttonhole ! 
 And how the needle they control ! 
 I love the girl with all my soul 
 Who sews my buttons on ! 
 
 The useful and the sweet are mine, 
 All folded in those hands divine ! 
 What need that I should now repine ? 
 
 A garment whole I don ! 
 So let the poets pen their rhyme, 
 And praise the girls of every clime, 
 I her extol who all the time 
 
 Doth sew my buttons on ! 
 
 W 
 
 SORROWS OF WERTHER. 
 
 ERTHER had a love for Charlotte 
 Such as words could never utter ; 
 
 Would you know how first he met her? 
 She was cuttingr bread and butter. 
 
 THE GIRL FOR ME. 
 
 TKE poets sing of Hebes fair, 
 Of bonnie lassies debonnaire ; 
 They sonnets pen to golden hair, 
 Which all delight to con : 
 The darlings of sweet poesy 
 I doubt not all these charmers be. 
 But that dear woman give to me 
 Who sews my buttons on ! 
 
 I once would muse before the fire, 
 My trousers held by bits of wire ; 
 I know not why — I don't inquire — 
 
 These I was forced to don ; 
 But life has now no sad regret, 
 I bless my little useful pet, 
 The darlingest I ever met, 
 
 Who sews my buttons on ! 
 
 Those little hands, so small and white, 
 So true and nimble, to my sight 
 Are evevviiore a pure delight, 
 A joy to dwell upon ! 
 
 Charlotte was a married lady. 
 And a moral man was Werther, 
 
 And for all the wealth of Indies 
 Would do nothing for to hurt her. 
 
 So he sighed and pined and ogled, 
 And his passion boiled and bubbled, 
 
 Till he blew his silly brains out, 
 And no more was by it troubled. 
 
 Charlotte, having seen his body 
 
 Borne before her on a shutter, 
 Like a well-conducted person. 
 
 Went on cutting bread and buttei*. 
 
 W. M. Thackeray, 
 
 SWALLOWING A FLY. 
 
 A COUNTRY meeting-house. A midsummer 
 Sabbath. We had come to the middle of 
 our sermon, when a large fly, taking advan- 
 tage of the opened mouth of the speaker, darted 
 into our throat. The crisis was upon us. Shall we 
 cough and eject this impertinent intruder, or let 
 
494 
 
 IVIT AND VVISLrOM. 
 
 fiim silently have his way ? We had no precedent 
 to guide us. We knew not what the fathers of the 
 church did in like circumstances, or the mothers 
 either. 
 
 We saw the unfairness of taking advantage of a 
 fly in such straitened circumstances. It may have 
 been a blind fly, and not have known where it was 
 going. It may have been a scientific fly, and only 
 experimenting with air currents. It may have 
 been a reckless fly, doing what he soon would be 
 sorry for; or a young fly, and gone a-sailing on 
 Sunday without his mother's consent. 
 
 Besides this, we are not fond of flies prepared 
 in that way. We have, no doubt, often taken them 
 preser^""!^ in blackberry jam. But fly in the raw 
 was a V. et from which we recoiled. We would 
 have preferred it roasted, or fried, or panned, or 
 baked, and then to have chosen our favorite part, 
 the upper joint, and a little of the breast, if you 
 please, sir. But, no ; it was wings, proboscis, feet, 
 poisers. There was no choice ; it was all, or none. 
 
 We foresaw the excitement and disturbance we 
 v/ould make, and the probability of losing our 
 thread of discourse, if we undertook a series of 
 coughs, chokings, and expectorations; and that, 
 after all our efl'orts, we might be unsuccessful, and 
 end the affray with a fly's wing on our lip, and a 
 leg m the windpipe. 
 
 We concluded to take down the nuisance. We 
 rallied all our energies. It was the most animated 
 passage in all our discourse. We were not at all 
 hungry for anything, much less for such hastily 
 prepared viands. The fly evidently wanted to 
 back out. '' No !" we said within ourselves. " Too 
 late to retreat. You are in for it now !" AVe ad- 
 dressed it in the words of Noah to the orangoutang, 
 as it was about entering the ark, and lingered too 
 long at the door, ''Go in, sir — go in!" 
 
 And so we conquered, giving a warning to flies 
 and men that it is easier to get into trouble than 
 to get out again. We have never mentioned the 
 above circumstance before; we felt it a delicate 
 subject. But all the fly's friends are dead, and we 
 can slander it as much as we please, and there is 
 no danger now. 
 
 You acknowledge that we did the wisest thing 
 that could be done ; and yet how many people 
 spend their time in elaborate, and long-continued, 
 and convulsive ejection of flies which they ought 
 to swallow and have done with. 
 
 Your husband's thoughtlessness is an exceeding- 
 annoyance. He is a good man, but he is careless 
 about where he throws his slippers. On the top 
 of one of your best parlor books he has laid a plug 
 of pig-tail tobacco. For fifteen years you have 
 lectured him about leaving the newspaper on the 
 floor. Do not let such little things interfere with 
 your domestic peace. Better swallow the fly, and 
 have done with it. 
 
 It never pays to hunt a fly. You clutch at him. 
 
 I You sweep your hand convulsively through the air. 
 You wait till he alights on your face, and then give 
 a fierce slap on the place where he was. You slyly 
 wait till he crawls up you sleeve, and then give a 
 violent crush to the folds of your coat, to find out 
 that it was a different fly from the one you were 
 searching after. That one sits laughing at your 
 vexation from the tip of your nose. 
 
 Apothecaries advertise insect exterminators; but 
 if in summer-time we set a glass to catch flies, for 
 every one we kill there are twelve coroners called 
 to sit as jury of inquest ; and no sooner does one 
 disappear under our fell pursuit, than all its broth- 
 ers, sisters, nephews, nieces, and second cousins, 
 come out to see what in the world is the matter. 
 Oh man ! go on with your life work ! If, opening 
 your mouth to say the thing that ought to be said, 
 a fly dart in, swallow it ! 
 
 The current of your happiness is oiten choked 
 up by trifles. The want of more pantry room, the 
 need of an additional closet, the smallness of the 
 bread-tray, the defectiveness of the range, the lack 
 of draught in a furnace, a crack in the sauce-pan, 
 are flies in the throat. Open your mouth, shut 
 your eyes, and gulp down the annoyances. 
 
 Had we stopped on the aforesaid day to kill the 
 insect, at the same time we would have killed our 
 sermon. 
 
 Our every life is a sermon. Our birth is the tex'i 
 from which we start. Youth is the introduction to 
 the discourse. During our manhood we lay down 
 a few propositions and prove them. Some of the 
 passages are dull, and some sprightly. Then come 
 inferences and applications. At seventy years we 
 say " Fifthly and lastly." The Doxology is sung. 
 The benediction is pronounced. The book closed. 
 It is getting cold. Frost on the window-pane. 
 Audience gone. Shut up the church. Sexton 
 goes home with the key on his shoulder. 
 
 T. De Witt Talmage. 
 
 THE NEXT STEP. 
 
 E have boiled the hydrant water, 
 
 We have sterilized the milk, 
 We have strained the prowling microbe 
 Through the finest kind of silk. 
 We have bought and we have borrowed 
 
 Every patent health device, 
 And at last the doctor tells us 
 That we've got to boil the ice. 
 
 SAMBO'S PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 FOLKS ain't got no right to censuah othah 
 folks about dey habits ; 
 Him dat giv' de squir'ls de bushtail made de 
 bobtails fu de rabbits. 
 Him dat built de gread big mountains hollered 
 i out de little valleys. 
 
 I Him dat made de streets an' driveways wasn't 
 ' 'shamed to make de alleys. 
 
 W 
 
iVn AND WISDOM. 
 
 495 
 
 We is all constructed diff'ent, d'ain't no two of us 
 
 de same ; 
 We cain't he'p ouah likes an' dislikes, ef we'se 
 
 bad we ain't to blame. 
 Ef we'se good, we needn't show off, 'case you bet 
 
 it ain't ouah doin', 
 We gits into cu'ttain channels dat we jes' cain't 
 
 he'p pu'suin'. 
 
 But we all fits into places dat no othah ones could 
 
 fill, 
 An' we does the things we has to, big er little, 
 
 good er ill. 
 John cain't tek de place o' Henry, Su an' Sally 
 
 ain't alike; 
 Bass ain't nothin' hke a sukah, chub ain't nothin' 
 
 like a pike. 
 
 Samuel LAWRE^XE Dunbar. 
 
 AMERICAN ARISTOCRACY. 
 
 OF all the notable things on earth, 
 The queerest one is pride of birth 
 Among our "fierce democracy!" 
 A bridge across a hundred years. 
 Without a prop to save it from sneers, 
 Not even a couple of rotten peers — 
 A thing for laughter, fleers, and jeers, 
 Is American aristocracy ! 
 
 English and Irish, French and Spanish, 
 Germans, Italians, Dutch and Danish, 
 Crossing their veins until they vanish 
 
 In one conglomeration ! 
 So subtle a tangle of blood, indeed, 
 No Heraldry Harvey will ever succeed 
 
 In finding the circulation. 
 
 Depend upon it, my snobbish friend, 
 Your family thread you can't ascend, 
 Without good reason to apprehend 
 You may find it waxed, at the farther end, 
 
 By some plebeian vocation ! 
 Or, worse than that, your boasted line 
 May end in a loop of stronger twine. 
 
 That plagued some worthy relation ! 
 
 John G. Saxe. 
 
 CANDACE'S OPINIONS. 
 
 'I 
 
 INTEND," said Mr. Marvyn, ''to make 
 
 the same offer to your husband, when he 
 
 returns from work "-Q-night." 
 
 " Laus, Mass'r — why, Cato. he'll do jes' as I do 
 
 — dere a'n't no kind o' need o' askin' him.' Course 
 
 he will." 
 
 A smile passed round the circle, because between 
 Candace and her husband there existed one of 
 those whimsical contrasts which one sometimes 
 sees in married life. Cato was a small-built, thin, 
 softly-spoken negro, addicted to a gentle chronic 
 cough ; and, though a faithful and skillful servant, 
 seemed, in relation to his better half^ much like a 
 
 hill of potatoes under a spreading apple-tree. Can- 
 dace held to him with a vehement and patronizing 
 fondness, so devoid of conjugal reverence as to 
 excite the comments of her friends. 
 
 "You must remember, Candace," said a good 
 deacon to her one day, when she was ordering him 
 about at a catechizing, '• you ought to give honor 
 to your husband; the wife is the weaker vessel." 
 
 "/ de weaker vessel?" said Candace, looking 
 down from the tower of her ample corpulence on 
 the small, quiet man whom she had been fledging 
 with the ample folds of a worsted comforter, out 
 of which his little head and shining bead-eyes 
 looked, much like a blackbird in a nest — "/ de 
 weaker vassel ! Umph !" 
 
 A whole woman 's-rights' convention could not 
 have expressed more in a day than was given in 
 that single look and word. Candace considered a 
 husband as a thing to be taken care of — a rather 
 inconsequent and somewhat troublesome species of 
 pet, to be humored, nursed, fed, clothed, and guided 
 in the way that he was to go — an animal that was 
 always losing off buttons, catching colds, wearing 
 his best coat every day, and getting on his Sunday 
 hat in a surreptitious manner for week-day occa- 
 sions ; but she often condescended to express it as 
 her opinion that he was a blessing, and that she 
 didn't know what she'd do if it wasn't for Cato. She 
 sometimes was heard expressing herself very ener- 
 getically in disapprobation of the conduct of one 
 of her sable friends, named Jinny Stiles, who, after 
 being presented with her own freedom, worked 
 several years to buy that of her husband, but be^ 
 came afterwards so disgusted with her acquisition, 
 that she declared she would "neber buy anoder 
 nigger." 
 
 "Now, Jinny don't know what she's talkin' 
 about," she would say. " S'pose he does cough 
 and keep her awake nights, and take a little too 
 much sometimes, a'n't he better' n no husband at 
 all? A body wouldn't seem to hab nuffin to lib 
 for, ef dey hadn't an old man to look arter. Men 
 is nate'lly foolish about some tings — but dey's good 
 deal better'n nuflin." 
 
 And Candace, after this condescending remark, 
 would lift off with one hand a brass kettle in which 
 poor Cato might have been drowned, and fly 
 across the kitchen with it as if it were a feather. 
 Harriet Beecher Stowe. 
 
 DE OLE PLANTATION MULE. 
 
 AAVERRY funny feller is de ole plantation 
 mule ; 
 An' nobody' 11 play wid him unless he is a 
 fool. 
 De bestest ting to do w'en you meditates about 
 
 him. 
 Is to kinder sorter calkerlate you'll get along 
 widout him. 
 
i^A 
 
 WIT AND WISDOM. 
 
 Wen you try to 'proach dat mule from de front 
 
 endwise, 
 He look as meek as Moses, but his look is full ob 
 
 lies ; 
 He doesn' t move a muscle, he doesn't even wink; 
 A*n' you say his dispersidon's better' n people tink. 
 
 He Stan' so still that you s'pose he is a monument 
 
 of grace ; 
 An' you almos' see a 'nevolent expression on his 
 
 face ; 
 But that ' nevolent expression is de mask dat' s allers i 
 
 worn ; 
 For ole Satan is behin' it, jest as sure as you is 
 
 born. 
 
 Den you cosset him a little, an' you pat his other 
 end, 
 
 I thought I'd stop and read the thing, and find out 
 
 what It said, 
 And so I stopped the bosses on the railroad track, and 
 
 read. 
 
 I ain't no scholar, rekollect, and so I had to spell, 
 I started kmder cautious like, with R-A-I and L ; 
 And that spelt "rail" as clear as mud ; R-O-A-D 
 
 was ' road, ' ' 
 I lumped 'em : "railroad " was the word, and that 
 
 'ere much I knowed. 
 
 C-R-0 and double S, with I-N-G to boot, 
 
 Made "crossing" just as plain as Noah Webster 
 
 dared to do ' t. 
 "Railroad crossing" good enough 1 L double 0-K 
 ook ;' ' 
 
 An' you has a reverlation dat he aint so much ' ^nd I was lookin' all the time, and spellin' like a 
 
 your friend; b^^j. 
 
 You has made a big mistake ; but before de heart i 
 
 repents, m i- -r 
 
 You is histed werry sudden to de odder side de \ ^"^'-T spelt "out" jest right; and there it was 
 
 fence. 
 
 Well, you feel like you'd been standin' on de 
 
 locomotive track 
 An' de engine come an' hit you in de middle ob 
 
 de back ; 
 You don* know wat has happened, you can 
 
 scarcely cotch your breff ; 
 But you tink youv'e made de 'quaintance ob a 
 
 werry vi' lent deff. 
 
 Now a sin in de soul is precisely like de mule ; 
 
 An' nobody' 11 play wid it, unless he is a fool. 
 
 It looks so mitey innercent ; but honey, dear, be- 
 ware ! 
 
 For although de kick is hidden, de kick is allers 
 there. 
 
 THE RAILROAD CROSSING. 
 
 I CAN'T tell you much about the thing, 'twas 
 done so powerful quick ; 
 But 'pears to me I got a most outlandish 
 heavy lick ; 
 It broke my leg, and tore my skulp, and jerked 
 
 my arm most out. 
 But take a seat : I'll try and tell just how it kem 
 about. 
 
 You see, I'd started down to town with that *ere 
 
 team of mine, 
 A-hauling down a load o' corn to Ebenezer KHne, 
 An' drivin' slow ; for, just about a day or two 
 
 before, 
 The off horse run a sphnter in his foot, and made 
 
 it sore. 
 
 You know the railroad cuts across the road at 
 
 Martin's Hole ; 
 Well, thar I seed a great big sign, raised high 
 
 upon a pole ; 
 
 look out, 
 I's kinder cur' us, Hke, to know jest what 'twas all 
 
 about ; 
 F-O-R and T-H-E ; 'twas then "look out for 
 
 the — 
 And then I tried the next word ; it commenced with 
 
 E-N-G. 
 
 I'd got that fur, when suddintly there came an awful 
 
 whack ; 
 A thousand fiery thunderbolts just scooped me off the 
 
 track ; 
 The bosses went to Davy Jones, the wagon went to 
 
 smash, 
 And I was histed seven yards above the tallest ash. 
 
 I did' t come to life ag' in fur ' bout a day or two ; 
 But, though r m crippled up a heap, I sorter struggled 
 
 trough, 
 It ain't the pain, nor 'tain't the loss o* that 'ere team 
 
 of mine ; 
 But, stranger, how I'd like to know the rest of that 
 
 ' ere sign ! 
 
 Hezekiah Strong. 
 
 THE PUNKIN FROST. 
 
 HEN the frost is on the punkin and the 
 fodder's in the shock. 
 And you hear the kyouck and gobble of 
 the struttin' turkey cock, 
 And the clackin of the guineas, and the cluckin' of 
 
 the hens. 
 And the rooster's hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the 
 
 fence, 
 Oh, it's then's the time a feller is a-feelin' at his 
 
 best. 
 With the risin' sun to greet him from a night of gra- 
 cious lest. 
 
 w 
 
W/T AND WISDOM 
 
 497 
 
 As he leaves the house bare-headed, and goes out 
 
 to feed the stock, 
 When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's 
 
 in the shock, 
 
 They's sumphin kind o' hearty-like about the 
 
 atmosphere. 
 When the heat of summer's over, and the coolin' 
 
 fall is here — 
 Of course we miss the flowers and the blossoms on 
 
 the trees, 
 And the mumble of the hummin' -birds, and buz- 
 
 zin' of the bees : 
 But the air's so appetizin', and the landscape 
 
 through the haze 
 Of a crisp and sunny mornin' of the early autumn 
 
 days 
 Is a picture that no painter has the colorin' to 
 
 mock ; 
 When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's 
 
 in the shock. 
 
 The husky, rusty rustle of the tossels of the corn, 
 And the raspin' of the tangled leaves, as golden as 
 
 the morn; 
 The stubble in the furries, kind o' lonesome-like, 
 
 but still 
 A-preachin' sermons to us of the barns they growed 
 
 to fill. 
 The straw stack in the medder, and the reaper in 
 
 the shed ; 
 The bosses in their stalls below, the clover over- 
 head ; 
 Oh, it sets my heart a-clickin' like the tickin' of 
 
 a clock. 
 When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's 
 
 in the shock. 
 
 B. F. Johnson. 
 
 PAT'S REPLY. 
 
 AS Pat, an odd joker, and Yankee more sly, 
 Once riding together, a gallows passed by ; 
 Said the Yankee to Pat, '' If I don't make 
 too free. 
 Give that gallows its due, and pray where would 
 
 you be?" 
 *'Why, honey," said Pat, ''faith, that's easily 
 
 known — 
 I'd be riding to town by myself all alone." 
 
 PRACTICAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 4 6 T Tl 7ALKIN' out dis mawin to behole de 
 
 yy bewtiful in natur'," began Presi- 
 
 ^ ^ dent Gardner as he arose, " my 
 
 mind recollected dat I had been 
 
 axed to spain de true secret o' happiness. In de 
 
 fust place, when am a man happy ? Is it when he 
 
 has lots o' money — when he has fixed his enemy — 
 
 when he travels an' sees de world — when he has a 
 
 good home ? An' how many grades of happiness 
 
 32 
 
 kin you count up? An' what am happiness, when 
 you boil it down? 
 
 "Happiness,- as an old black man like me de- 
 fines it," continued Brother Gardner, "am not 
 sto' cloze, a fat wallet, a big house an' ice cream 
 ebery night afore you go to bed. When I looked 
 about me arter a wife I didn't look fur anything 
 gaudy. I knew I mus' ma'ry a black woman or 
 none at all. I knew she'd be away off on her 
 Greek an' Latin, an so when I got my ole woman 
 I war' not a bit dis'pinted. She am as good as I 
 am, an' what more can I ask ? When I war' free 
 to start out I reasoned dat I mus' job 'round at dis 
 an' dat, kase I had no trade. I nebber counted 
 on havin' more dan a cord of wood an' five bush- 
 els of 'taters ahead, an' I nebber have had. I 
 knew I'd have to live in a small house, own a 
 cheap dog, live an' dress plainly, an' keep dis 
 black skin to de grave, an' it has all happened 
 jist as I 'spected. I am happy kase I havn't 
 'spected too much. I am happy kase I doan't 
 figger on what I havn't got. I am happy kase I 
 reason dat de weather can't alius be fa'r, money 
 can't alius be plenty, good health can't alius last, 
 an' yer bes' fr'ends can't alius be counted on. If 
 dar' am any secret of happiness I believe it am dis. 
 an' we will now begin de reg'lar biziness of de oc- 
 cashun." 
 
 MARK TWAIN'S WATCH. 
 
 MY beautiful new watch had run eighteer 
 months without losing or gaining, ana 
 without breaking any part of its machin- 
 ery, or stopping. I had come to believe it infal- 
 lible in its judgments about the time of day, and to 
 consider its constitution and its anatomy imperish- 
 able. But at last, one night, I let it run down. 
 I grieved about it as if it were a recognized mes- 
 senger and forerunner of calamity. But by-and- 
 by I cheered up, set the watch by guess, and com- 
 manded my bodings and superstitions to depart. 
 Next day I stepped into the chief jeweler's to set 
 it by the exact time, and the head of the establish- 
 ment took it out of my hand and proceeded to set 
 it for me. Then he said, " She is four minutes 
 slow — regulator wants pushing up." I tried to 
 stop him — tried to make him understand that the 
 watch kept perfect time. 
 
 But no ; all this human cabbage could see was 
 that the watch was four minutes slow, and the 
 regulator musf be pushed up a little ; and so, while 
 I danced around him in anguish, and implored 
 him to let the watch alone, he calmly and cruelly 
 did the shameful deed. My watch began :o gain. 
 It gained faster and faster day by day. Within 
 the week it sickened to a raging fever, and its 
 pulse went up to a hundred and fifty in the shade. 
 At the end of two months it had left all thetimo 
 pieces of the to^vn far in the rear, and WSS; a i~sZ^^^ 
 tion over thirteen days shead oif the almanaCt 
 
498 
 
 W/T AND WISDOM 
 
 It was away into November enjoying the snow, 
 while the October leaves were still turning. It 
 hurried up house rent, bills payable, and such 
 things, in such a ruinous way that I could not 
 abide it. I took it to the watchmaker to be regu- 
 lated. He asked me if I had ever had it repaired. 
 I said no, it had never needed any repairing. He 
 looked a look of vicious happiness and eagerly 
 pried the watch open, and then put a small dice 
 box into his eye and peered into its machinery. 
 He said it wanted cleaning and oiling, besides 
 regulating — come in a week. 
 
 After being cleaned, and oiled, and regulated, 
 my watch slowed down to that degree that it ticked 
 like a tolling bell. I began to be left by trains, I 
 failed all appointments, I got to missing my din- 
 ner ; my watch strung out three days' grace to four 
 and let me go to protest ; I gradually drifted back 
 into yesterday, then day before, then into last 
 week, and by-and-by the comprehension came upon 
 me that all solitary and alone I was lingering along 
 in week before last, and the world was out of sight. 
 I seemed to detect in myself a sort of sneaking 
 fellow-feeling for the mummy in the museum, and 
 a desire to swop news with him. 
 
 I went to a watchmaker again. He took the 
 watch all to pieces while I waited, and then said 
 the barrel was ''swelled." He said he could 
 reduce it in three days. After this the watch 
 averaged well, but nothing more. For half a day 
 it would go like the very mischief, and keep up 
 such a barking and wheezing and whooping and 
 sneezing and snorting, that I could not hear my- 
 self think for the disturbance ; and as long as it 
 held out there was not a watch in the land that 
 stood any chance against it. But the rest of the 
 day it would keep on slowing down and fooling 
 along until all the clocks it had left behind caught 
 up again. So at last, at the end of twenty-four 
 hours, it would trot up to the judges' stand all 
 right and just in time. It would show a fair and 
 square average, and no man could say it had done 
 more or less than its duty. 
 
 But a correct average is only a mild virtue in a 
 watch and I took this instrument to another watch- 
 maker. He said the kingbolt was broken. I said 
 I was glad it was nothing more serious. To tell 
 the plain truth, I had no idea what the kingbolt 
 was, but I did not choose to appear ignorant to a 
 stranger. He repaired the kingbolt, but what the 
 watch gained in one way it lost in another. It 
 would run awhile and then stop awhile, and then 
 run awhile again, and so on, using its own discre- 
 tion about the intervals. And every time it went 
 off it kicked back like a musket. I padded my 
 breast for a few days, but finally took the watch to 
 another watchmaker. He picked it all to pieces, 
 and turned the ruin over and over under his glass ; 
 and then he said there appeared to be something 
 the matter with the hair-trigger. 
 
 He fixed it, and gave it a fresh start. It did 
 well now, except that always at ten minutes to ten 
 the hands would shut together like a pair of scis- 
 sors, and from that time forth they would travel 
 together. The oldest man in the world could not 
 make out the time of day by such a watch, and so 
 I went again to have the thing repaired. This 
 person said that the crystal had got bent, and that 
 the mainspring was not straight. He also remarked 
 that part of the works needed half-soling. He 
 made these things all right, and then my time- 
 piece performed unexceptionably, save that now 
 and then she would reel off the next twenty-four 
 hours in six or seven minutes, and then stop with 
 a bang. 
 
 I went with a heavy heart to one more watch- 
 maker, and looked on while he took her to pieces. 
 Then I prepared to cross-question him rigidly, for 
 this thing was getting serious. The watch had cost 
 two hundred dollars originally, and I seemed to 
 have paid out two or three thousand for repairs. 
 While I waited and looked on I presently recog- 
 nized in this watchmaker an old acquaintance — a 
 steamboat engineer of other days, and not a good 
 engineer either. He examined all the parts care- 
 fully, just as the other watchmakers had done, and 
 then delivered his verdict with the same confidence 
 of manner. 
 
 He said — "She makes too much steam — you 
 want to hang the monkey-wrench on the safety- 
 valve!" 
 
 I floored him on the spot. 
 
 My uncle William (now deceased, alas !) used to 
 say that a good horse was a good horse until it had 
 run away once, and that a good watch was a good 
 watch until the repairers got a chance at it. 
 
 Samuel L. Clemens. 
 
 DEBORAH LEE. 
 
 A PARODY. 
 
 ? ^ I ^IS a dozen or so of years ago, 
 
 I Somewhere in the West countree, 
 -■■ That a nice girl lived, as ye Hoosiers know 
 By the name of Deborah Lee ; 
 Her sister was loved by Edgar Poe, 
 But Deborah by me. 
 
 Now I was green, and she was green, 
 
 As a summer's squash might be ; 
 And we loved as warmly as other folks — 
 
 I and my Deborah Lee — 
 With a love that the lasses of Hoosierdom 
 
 Coveted her and me. 
 
 Q^it somehow it happened a long time ago, 
 
 In the aguish West countree, 
 That a chill March morning gave the shakes 
 
 To my beautiful Deborah Lee ; 
 
IVIT AND WISDOM 
 
 49S 
 
 And the grim steam-doctor (drat him !) came, 
 
 And bore her away from me — 
 The doctor and death, old partners they — 
 
 In the aguish countree. 
 
 The angels wanted her in heaven 
 
 (But they never asked for me). 
 And that is the reason, I rather guess. 
 
 In the aguish West countree, 
 That the cold March wind, and the doctor, and 
 death, 
 
 Took off my Deborah Lee — 
 
 My beautiful Deborah Lee-^ 
 From the warm sunshine and the opening flower. 
 
 And bore her away from me. 
 
 Our love was as strong as a six-horse team, 
 
 Or the love of folks older than we, 
 
 Or possibly wiser than we ; 
 But death, with the aid of doctor and steam. 
 
 Was rather too many for me ; 
 He closed the peepers and silenced the breath 
 
 Of my sweetheart Deborah Lee, 
 And her form lies cold in the prairie mould, 
 
 Silent and cold — ah me ! 
 
 The foot of the hunter shall press her grave. 
 
 And the prairie's sweet wild flowers 
 In their odorous beauty around it wave 
 
 Through all the sunny hours — 
 
 The still, bright summer hours ; 
 And the birds shall sing in the tufted grass. 
 
 And the nectar-laden bee, 
 With his dreamy hum, on his gauze wings pass, — 
 
 She wakes no more to me ; 
 
 Ah ! nevermore to me ! 
 Though the wild birds sing and the wild flowers 
 spring, 
 
 She wakes no more to me. 
 
 Yet oft in the hush of the dim, still night, 
 
 A vision of beauty I see 
 Gliding soft to my bedside, — a phantom of light. 
 
 Dear, beautiful Deborah Lee — 
 
 My bride that was to be ; 
 And I wake to mourn that the doctor, ano death, 
 And the cold March wind, should stop the breath 
 
 Of my darling Deborah Lee — 
 
 Adorable Deborah Lee — 
 That angels should want her up in heaven 
 
 Before they wanted me. 
 
 WHAT MR. ROBINSON THINKS. 
 
 FROM "THE BIGLOW PAPERS." 
 
 UVENER B. is a sensible man ; 
 
 He stays to his home an' looks arter his 
 folks ; 
 He draws his furrer ez straight ez he can. 
 An' into nobody's tater-patch pokes ; — 
 But John P. 
 Robinson he 
 Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B. 
 
 G 
 
 My ! ain't it terrible ? Wut shall we du ? 
 
 We can' t never choose him o' course. — thet' s flat ) 
 Guess we shall hev to come round, (don't you?) 
 An' go in fer thunder an' guns, an' all that ; 
 Fer John P. 
 Robinson he 
 Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B. 
 
 Gineral C. is a dreffle smart man : 
 
 He's ben on all sides thet give places or pelf; 
 But consistency still wuz a part of his plan, — 
 He's ben true to one party, — an' thet is himself; — 
 So John P. 
 Robinson he 
 Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C. 
 
 We were gittin' on nicely up here to our village. 
 
 With good old idees o' wut's right an' wut aint, 
 We kind o' thought Christ went agin war an' pil- 
 lage. 
 An' thet eppyletts worn't the best mark of a 
 saint ; 
 
 But John P. 
 Robinson he 
 Sez this kind o' thing's an exploded idee. 
 
 The side of our country must oilers be took. 
 
 An' President Polk, you know, /le is our country; 
 A rJ the angel thet writes all our sins in a book 
 \ Puts the dehV to him, an' to us the ^er contry ; 
 An' John P. 
 Robinson he 
 Sez this is his view o' the thing to a T. 
 
 Parson Wilbur he calls all these argimunts lies ; 
 
 Sez they're nothin' onairth but ']^sifee,faw,fum; 
 And thet all this big talk of our destinies 
 Is half ov it ign'ance, an' t'other half rum : 
 But John P. 
 Robinson he 
 Sez it ain't no sech thing; an', of course, so 
 must we. 
 
 Parson Wilbur sez he never heerd in his life 
 Thet th' Apostles rigged out in their swallcr-tail 
 coats, 
 An' marched round in front of a drum an' a fife. 
 To git some on 'em office, an' some on 'em 
 votes . 
 
 But John P. 
 Robinson he 
 Sez they didn't know every thin* down in 
 Judee. 
 
 Wal, it's a marcy we've gut folks to tell us 
 
 The rights an' the wrongs o' these matters, I 
 vow, — 
 God sends country lawyers, an' other wise fellers, 
 To drive the world's team wen it gits in a slough ; 
 Fer John P. 
 Robinson he 
 Sez the world' 11 go right, ef he hollers out Gee ! 
 James Russell Lowell. 
 
500 
 
 mr AND WISDOM, 
 
 WAIL OF THE UNAPPRECIATED. 
 
 THE poets all have sung their songs in tones 
 of loving praise, 
 Of fightin' men, and all that set, for count- 
 less years and days, 
 Until I think it's almost time to make Pegasus 
 
 prance 
 In ringin' in some word for them as never had a 
 chance. 
 
 I know a dozen fellers now, that somehow staid 
 
 behind, 
 And why, no one could never tell, for they was 
 
 men of mind, 
 All brainy men and statesmen, too, as modern 
 
 statesmen go. 
 But, somehow, in this crooked world, they've 
 
 never had no show. 
 
 There's old Jim Potts, who ought to be in Con- 
 gress ris^ht to-dav. 
 
 He han't no head for business — could never make 
 it pay ; 
 
 But when it comes to tariff, or internal revenue— 
 
 Now what old Jim he doesn't know ain't worth a- 
 lookin' through. 
 
 But pore old Jim (a brainy man, as I have saic 
 
 before). 
 And several more (includin' me) set round the 
 
 grocery store, 
 And there we run the country, accordin' to our j 
 
 lights. 
 And we hgger how the workingman is loosin* aij 
 
 his rights. 
 
 But yet, with all our good, hard sense, some loud 
 
 and windy cuss 
 Can put a standin' collar on and raise a little 
 
 fuss, 
 And everybody flocks to him and lauds him to 
 
 the sky, 
 And leaves us men of solid worth plums stranded 
 
 high and dry. 
 
 ASK AND HAVE. 
 
 4 4 /^^\ H, 'tis time I should talk to your mother, 
 ( I Sweet Mary," says I ; 
 
 ^-^ "Oh, don't talk to my mother," says 
 Mary, 
 Beginning to cry : 
 " For my mother says men are deceivers, 
 
 And never, I know, will consent ; 
 She says girls in a hurry who marry. 
 At leisure repent." 
 
 ** Then, suppose I would talk to your father, 
 
 Sweet Mary," says I ; 
 ** Oh, don't talk to my father," says Mary, 
 
 Beginning to cry : 
 
 "For my father, he loves me so dearly. 
 
 He'll never consent I should go — 
 If you talk to my father," says Mary, 
 " He'll surely say ' No.' " 
 
 *' Then how shall I get you, my jewel ? 
 
 Sweet Mary," says I; 
 *' If your father and mother's so cruel, 
 
 Most surely I'll die !" 
 *' Oh, never say die, dear," says Mary ; 
 
 "A way now to save you I see: 
 Since my parents are both so contrary — 
 
 You'd better ask w^." 
 
 Samuel Lover. 
 
 THE BEAUTY AND THE BEE. 
 
 FANNY, arrayed in the bloom of her beauty^ 
 Stood at the mirror and toyed with hei 
 hair. 
 Viewing her charms, till she felt it a duty 
 To own that like Fanny no woman was fair. 
 A bee from the garden — oh, what could mislead 
 him? — 
 Strayed through the lattice new dainties to seek, 
 And lighting on Fanny, too busy to heed him, 
 Stung the sweet maid on her delicate cheek. 
 
 Smarting with pain, round the chamber she sought 
 him, 
 Tears in her eyes, and revenge in her heart. 
 And angrily cried, when at last she had caught 
 him, 
 "Die for the deed, httle wretch that thou 
 art !" 
 Stooping to crush him, the hapless offender 
 
 Prayed her for mercy — to hear and forgive : 
 " Oh, spare me!" he cried, "by those eyes in 
 their splendor ; 
 " Oh, pity my fault, and allow me to live ! 
 
 " Am I to blame that your cheeks are like roses, 
 
 Whose hues all the pride of the garden eclipse ? 
 Lilies are hid in your mouth when it closes, 
 
 And odors of Araby breathe from your lips. " 
 Sweet Fanny relented : " 'Twere cruel to hurt you ; 
 
 Small is the fault, pretty bee, you deplore ; 
 And e'en were it greater, forgiveness is virtue ; 
 
 Go forth and be happy — I blame you no more." 
 
 Charles IMackay. 
 
 WHY BIDDY AND PAT MARRIED. 
 
 "O, 
 
 WHY did you marry him, Biddy? 
 Why did you take Pat for your 
 spouse ~ 
 
 Sure, he's neither purty nor witty. 
 And his hair is as red as a cow's ! 
 
 You might had your pick had you waited, 
 You'd done a dale better with Tim ; 
 
 And Phelim O' Toole was expectin' — 
 You couldn't do better n(»r him. 
 
W/T AND WISDOM. 
 
 501 
 
 You talk of us young people courtin' — 
 Pray tell how your courtin' began, 
 
 When you were a widdy woman, 
 And he was a widdy man." 
 
 " Tim and Pat, Miss, you see, was acquainted, 
 
 Before they came over the sea. 
 ^ When Pat was a-courtin' Norah, 
 
 And Tim was a-courtin' me. 
 She did not know much, the poor Norah, 
 
 Nor, for that matter, neither did Pat ; 
 He had not the instinct of some one, 
 
 But no one had then told him that ; 
 But he soon found it out for himself, 
 
 For life's at best's but a span — 
 When I was a widdy woman. 
 
 And he was a widdy man. 
 
 *'I helped him to take care of Norah, 
 And when he compared her with me, 
 
 He saw, as he whispered one evening, 
 What a woman one woman could be, 
 
 She went out like the snuff of a candle ; 
 Then the sickness seized upon Tim, 
 
 And we watched by his bedside together- 
 It was such a comfort to him, 
 
 I was not alone in my weeping, 
 
 Our tears in the same channel ran — 
 
 For I was a widdy woman, 
 And he was a widdy man. 
 
 "We had both had our troubles, mavourneen. 
 
 Though neither, perhaps, was to blame ; 
 And we both knew by this what we wanted. 
 
 And we were willing to pay for the same. 
 We knew what it was to be married, 
 
 And before the long twelvemonth had flown. 
 We had made up our minds it was better 
 
 Not to live any longer alone ; 
 We wasted no time shilly-shally. 
 
 Like you. Miss, and Master Dan — 
 For I was a widdy woman. 
 
 And he was a widdy man." 
 
 R. H. Stoddard. 
 
 MY PAROQUET. 
 
 1HAD a parrot once, an ugly bird, 
 With the most wicked eye I ever saw. 
 Who though it comprehended all it heard, 
 Would only say, ' ' O pshaw ! ' ' 
 
 I did my best to teach it goodly lore ; 
 
 I talked to it of medicine and law; 
 It looked as if it knew it all before, 
 
 And simply said, " O phsaw !" 
 
 I sat me down upon a dry-goods box 
 
 To stuff sound doctrine down its empty craw, 
 
 It would have none of matters orthodox, 
 3But yawned and said, "O pshaw!" 
 
 I talked to it of politics, finance ; 
 
 I hoped to teach the bird to say " Hurrah !*' 
 For my pet candidates when he'd a chance, 
 
 He winked and chirped, ''O pshaw!" 
 
 I am for prohibition, warp and woof. 
 
 But that bird stole hard cider through a straw, 
 
 And then he teetered off at my reproof. 
 And thickly said, "O pshaw!" 
 
 Enraged, I hurled a bootjack, missed my aim 
 And plugged a passing stranger in the jaw ; 
 
 He wheeled to see from whence the missile came ', 
 The demon laughed ' ' O pshaw ! ' ' 
 
 I gave the creature to an old-maid aunt. 
 
 And shook with parting grief its skinny claw. 
 "He'll serve to cheer," she said, "my lonely 
 
 hearth. 
 For I'd not marry the best man on earth !*' 
 "O pshaw!" sneered Poll, "C psha-a-w !" 
 
 Emma H. Webb. 
 
 *• BIRTHS. MRS. MEEK, OF A SON.'' 
 
 MY name is Meek. I am, in fact, Mr. Meek. 
 That son is mine, and Mrs. Meek's. When 
 I saw the announcement in the Times, I 
 dropped the paper. I had put it in myself, and 
 paid for it, but it looked so noble that it over- 
 powered me. 
 
 As soon as I could compose my feelings, I took 
 the paper up to Mrs. Meek's bedside. "Maria 
 Jane," said I (I allude to Mrs. Meek), "you are 
 now a public character. " We read the review of 
 our child, several times, with feelings of the 
 strongest emotions; and I sent the boy who 
 cleaned the boots and shoes to the office for fifteen 
 copies. No reduction was made on taking that 
 quantity. 
 
 I hope and believe I am a quiet man. I will go 
 further. I k7iow I am a quiet man. My constitu- 
 tion is tremulous, my voice was never loud, and in 
 point of stature, I have been from infancy small. 
 I have the greatest respect for Mrs. Bigby, Maria 
 Jane's mamma. She is a most remarkable woman. 
 I honor Maria Jane's mamma. In my opinion she 
 would storm a town, single handed, with a hearth- 
 broom, and carry it. I have never known her to 
 yield any point whatever to mortal man. She is 
 calculated to terrify the stoutest heart. Still — but 
 I will not anticipate. 
 
 The first intimation I had of any preparations 
 being in progress, on the part of Maria Jane's 
 mamma, was one afternoon, several months ago. 
 I came home earlier than usual from the office, 
 and proceeding into the dining room, found an 
 obstruction behind the door, Avhich prevented it 
 from opening freely. It was an obstruction of a 
 soft nature. On looking in I found it to bfe ^ 
 female. 
 
502 
 
 WIT AND WISDOM, 
 
 The female in question stood in the corner 
 behind the door, consuming sherry wine. From 
 the nutty smell of that beverage pervading the 
 apartment, I have no doubt she was consuming a 
 second glassful. She wore a black bonnet of large 
 dimensions and was copious in figure. The ex- 
 pression of her countenance was severe and dis- 
 contented. The words to which she gave utter- 
 ance on seeing me, were these, ''Oh git along 
 with you, Sir, if you please ; me and Mrs. Bigby 
 don't want no male parties here?" That female 
 was Mrs. Prodgit. 
 
 I immediately withdrew, of course, I was 
 rather hurt, but I made no remark. Whether it 
 was that I showed a lowness of spirits after dinner, 
 in consequence of feeling that I seemed to intrude, 
 I cannot say. But Maria Jane's mamma said to 
 me, on her retiring for the night, in a low, distinct 
 voice, and with a look of reproach that completely 
 subdued me, '-' George Meek, Mrs. Prodgit is your 
 wife' s nurse ! ' ' 
 
 I bear no ill-will toward Mrs. Prodgit. Is it 
 likely that I, writing this with tears in my eyes, 
 should be capable of deliberate animosity toward 
 a female so essential to the welfare of M^ixia Jane? 
 I am willing to admit that Fate may have been to 
 blame, and not Mrs. Prodgit ; but it is undeniably 
 true that the latter female brought desolation and 
 devastation into my lowly dwelling. 
 
 We were happy after her first appearance ; we 
 were sometimes exceedingly so. But whenever 
 the parlor door was opened, and ^' Mrs. Prodgit j" 
 announced (and she was very often announced), 
 misery ensued. I could not bear Mrs. Prodgit' s 
 look. I felt that I was far from wanted, and had 
 no business to exist in Mrs. Prodgit' s presence. 
 Between Maria Jane's mamma and Mrs. Prodgit 
 there was a dreadful, secret understanding — a dark 
 mystery and conspiracy, pointing me out as a 
 being to be shunned. I appeared to have done 
 something that was evil. Whenever Mrs. Prodgit 
 called, after dinner, I retired to my dressing room 
 — where the temperature is very low indeed, in the 
 wintry time of the year — and sat looking at my 
 frosty breath as it rose before me, and at my rack 
 of boots ; a serviceable article of furniture, but 
 never, in my opinion, an exhilarating object. The 
 length of the councils that were held with Mrs. 
 Prodgit under these circumstances I will not 
 attempt to describe. 
 
 I pass, generally, over die period that intervened 
 between the day when Mrs. Prodgit entered her 
 protest against male parties, and the ever memor- 
 able midnight when I brought her to my unobtru- 
 sive home in a cab, with an extremely large box 
 on the roof and a bundle, a bandbox and a basket 
 between the driver's legs. I have no objection to 
 Mrs. Prodgit (aided and abetted by Mrs. Bigby, 
 who I never can forget is the parent of Maria 
 Jane), taking entire possession of my unassuming 
 
 establishment. In the recesses of my own breast 
 the thought may linger that a man in possession 
 cannot be so dreadful as a woman, and that woman 
 Mrs. Prodgit; but I ought to bear a good deal, 
 and I hope I can and do. Hufhng and snujbing 
 prey upon my feelings, but I can bear them with- 
 out complaint. They may tell in the long run ; I 
 may be hustled about, from post to pillar, beyond 
 my strength ; nevertheless, i wish to avoid giving 
 rise to words in the family. 
 
 The voice of Nature, however, cried aloud in 
 behalf of Augustus George, my infant son. It is 
 for him that I wish to utter a few plaintive house- 
 hold words. I am not at all angry; I am mild — 
 but miserable. 
 
 I wish to know why, when my child, Augustus 
 George, was expected in our circle, a provision of 
 pins was made, as if the little stranger were a 
 criminal who was to be put to the torture imme- 
 diately on its arrival, instead of a holy babe ? I 
 wish to know why haste was made to stick those 
 pins all over his innocent form, in every direction ? 
 I wish to be informed why light and air are 
 excluded from Augustus George, like poisons? 
 Why, I ask, is my unoffending infant so hedged 
 into a basket-bedstead, with dimity and calico, 
 with miniature sheets and blankets, that I can only 
 hear him snufRe (and no wonder!) deep down 
 under the pink hood of a little bathing machine, 
 and can never peruse even so much of his linea- 
 ments as his nose. 
 
 Was I expected to be the father of a French 
 roll, that the brushes of all nations were laid in, 
 to rasp Augustus George ? Am I to be told that 
 his sensitive skin was ever intended by Nature to 
 have rashes brought out upon it, by the premature 
 and incessant use of those formidable little instru- 
 ments ? 
 
 Is my son a nutmeg, that he is to be grated on 
 the stiff edges of sharp frills ? Am I the parent 
 of a muslin boy, that his yielding surface is to be 
 crimped and small-plaited ? Or is my child com- 
 posed of paper or of linen, that impressions of the 
 finery getting-up art practiced by the laundress 
 are to be printed off all over his soft arms and 
 legs, as I constantly observe them ? The starch 
 enters his soul ; who can wonder that he cries ? 
 
 Was Augustus George intended to have limbs, 
 or to be born a Torso? I presume that limbs 
 were the intention, as they are the usual practice. 
 Then, why are my poor child's limbs fettered and 
 tied up? 
 
 If the days of Egyptian mummies are past, how 
 dare Mrs. Prodgit require, for the use of my son, 
 an amount of flannel and linen that would carpet 
 my humble roof? Do I wonder that she requires 
 it ? No ! This morning, within an hour, I beheld 
 this astonishing sight. I beheld my son — Augus- 
 tus George — in Mrs. Prodgit' s hands, and on Mrs. 
 Prodgit's knee, being dressed. He was at the 
 
WIT AND WISDOM. 
 
 503 
 
 moment, comparatively speaking, in a state of 
 nature ; having nothing on but an extremely short 
 shirt, remarkably disproportionate to the length of 
 his usual outer garments. 
 
 Trailing from Mrs. Prodgit's lap on the floor, 
 was a long narrow roller or bandage — I should say 
 of several yards in extent. In this, I saw Mrs. 
 Prodgit tightly roll the body of my unoffending 
 infant, turning him over and over, now presenting 
 his unconscious face upward, now the back of his 
 bald head, until the unnatural feat was accom- 
 plished, and the bandage secured by a pin, which 
 1 have every reason to believe entered the body of 
 my only child. In this tourniquet he passes the 
 present phase of his existence. C^-n 1 know it 
 and smile? 
 
 I feel I have been betrayed into expressing my- 
 ^If warmly, but I feel deeply. Not for myself; 
 but for Augustus George. I dare not interfere. 
 Will any one? Will any publication? Any doc- 
 tor? Any parent? Any body? I do not complain 
 that Mrs. Prodgit (aided and abetted by Mrs. 
 Bigby) entirely alienates Maria Jane's affections 
 from me, and interposes an impassable barrier 
 between us. I do not complain of being made of 
 no account. I do not want to be of any account. 
 But Augustus George is a production of Nature. 
 md I claim that he shou'd be treated with some 
 remote reference to Nature. In my opinion Mrs. 
 Prodgit is, from first to last, a convention and a 
 superstition. 
 
 P. S. — Maria Jane's mamma boasts of her own 
 knowledge of the subject, and says she brought up 
 seven children besides Maria Jane. But how do 
 I know that she might not have brought them up 
 much better? Maria Jane herself is far from 
 strong, and is subject to headaches, and nervous 
 indigestion. Besides which, I learn from the 
 statistical tables, that one child in five dies within 
 the first year of its life: and one child in three 
 within the fifth. That don't look as if we could 
 ttever improve in these particulars, I think ! 
 
 P. P. S. — Augustus George is in convulsions. 
 
 Charles Dickens. 
 
 A MAN BY THE NAME OF BOLUS. 
 
 A MAN by the name of Bolus — (all 'at we'll 
 ever know 
 Of the stranger's name, I reckon — and I'm 
 kind o' glad it's so !) 
 Got off here Christmas morning — looked round 
 
 the town, and then 
 Kind o' sized up the folks, I guess, and — went 
 away again ! 
 
 The fact is, this man Bolus got ^'run in" Christ- 
 mas day ; 
 
 The town turned out to see it, and cheered, and 
 blocked the way ! 
 
 [ And they dragged him 'fore the Mayor — fer he 
 couldn't er wouldn't walk — 
 And socked him down fer trial — though he 
 couldn't er wouldn't talk ! 
 
 i 
 
 Dru7ik ? — they was no doubt of it ! W'y, the Mar- 
 1 shal of the town 
 
 ' Laughed and testified 'at he fell up stairs 'stid of 
 I down ! 
 
 This man by the name of Bolus? W'y, he even 
 
 drapped his jaw 
 And snored on through his "hearin"' drunk as 
 you ever saw ! 
 
 One fellar spit in his bootleg, and another'n 
 
 drapped a small 
 Little chunk of ice down his collar — but he didn't 
 
 wake at all I 
 And they all nearly split when His Honor said, in 
 
 one of his witty ways. 
 To "chalk it down for him 'Called away — be 
 
 back in thirty days !' " 
 
 That's where this man named Bolus slid, kind o' 
 
 like in a fit. 
 Flat on the floor — and drat my ears ! I hear 'em 
 
 a-laughin' yit 1 
 Somebodv fetched Doc Sifers from jest acrost the 
 
 hall— 
 And all Doc says was, " Morphine ! We're too 
 
 late!" and that's all! 
 
 That's how they found his name out — piece of a 
 
 letter 'at read : 
 '' Your wife has lost her reason, and little Nathan's 
 
 dead — 
 Come ef you kin — fergive her — but Bolus, as fer 
 
 7ne, 
 This hour I send a bullet through where my heart 
 
 ort to be !" 
 
 Man by the iiafne o' Bolus f As his revilers broke 
 Fer the open air, peared like, to me, I heerd a 
 
 voice 'at spoke, 
 Man by the 7ia77ie of Bolus I gitup fro77i where you 
 
 lay — 
 Git up and sTnile white at 'e7n, with your ha7ids 
 
 crossed thatazuay ! 
 
 James Whitcomb Riley. 
 
 SALAD. 
 
 O make this condiment, your poet begs 
 The pounded yellow of two hard-boiled 
 eggs; 
 Two boiled potatoes, passed through kitchen- 
 sieve, 
 Smoothness and softness to the salad give; 
 Let onion atoms lurk within the bowl, 
 And, half-suspected, animate the whole. 
 Of mordant mustard add a single spoon, 
 Distrust the condiment that bites too soon \ 
 
 T 
 
504 
 
 W/T AND WISDOM. 
 
 But deem it not, thou man of herbs, a fault, 
 To add a double quantity of salt. 
 And, lastly, o'er the flavored compound toss 
 A magic soup-spoon of anchovy sauce. 
 Oh, green and glorious ! Oh, herbaceous treat ! 
 'Twould tempt the dying anchorite to eat; 
 Back to the world he'd turn his fleeting soul, 
 And plunge his fingers in the salad bowl ! 
 Serenely full, the epicure would say, 
 " Fate cannot harm me, I have dined to-day !" 
 
 Sydney Smith. 
 
 •T IS NOT FINE FEATHERS THAT MAKE 
 FINE BIRDS. 
 
 A PEACOCK came, wath his plumage gay, 
 Strutting in regal pride, one day. 
 Where a little bird hung in a gilded cage. 
 Whose song might a seraph's ear engage. 
 The bird sang on, while the peacock stood, 
 Vaunting his plumes to the neighborhood ; 
 And the radiant sun seemed not more bright 
 Than the bird that basked in his golden light; 
 But the little bird sang, in his own sweet words, 
 " 'T is not fine feathers that make fine birds !" 
 
 The peacock strutted — -a bird so fair 
 
 Never before had ventured there, 
 
 While the small bird hung at the cottage door — 
 
 And what could a peacock wish for more ? 
 
 Alas ! the bird of the rainbow wing, 
 
 He was n't contented — he tried to sing ! 
 
 And they who gazed on his beauty bright. 
 
 Scared by his screaming, soon took to flight ; 
 
 While the little bird sang, in his own sweet words, 
 ^* 'T is not fine feathers that make fine birds !" 
 
 Then, prithee, take warning, maidens fair, 
 And still of the peacock's fate beware; 
 Beauty and wealth won't win your way, 
 Though they 're attired in plumage gay ; 
 Something to charm you all must know, 
 Apart from fine feathers and outward show — 
 A talent, a grace, a gift of mind. 
 Or else small beauty is left behind ! 
 
 While the little birds sing, in their own true 
 words, 
 *' *T is not fine feathers that make fine birds !" 
 
 O 
 
 TOTAL ANNIHILATION. 
 
 H ! he was a Bowery bootblack bold. 
 And his years they numbered nine. 
 Rough and unpolished was he, albeit, 
 He constantly aimed to shine. 
 
 As proud as a king on his box he sat. 
 
 Munching an apple red. 
 While the boys of his set looked wistfully on, 
 
 And, *' Give me a bite !" they said. 
 
 But the bootblack smiled a lordly smile, 
 *' No free bites here !" he cried. 
 
 And the boys, they sadly walked away. 
 Save one, who stood at his side. 
 
 " Bill, give us the core," he whispered low. 
 
 That bootblack smiled one more, 
 And a mischievous dimple grew in his cheek— 
 
 " There ain't goin' to be no core !" 
 
 Marv D. Baine, 
 
CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS 
 
 WITH 
 
 SUBJECTS ARRANGED ALPHABETICALLY. 
 
 ABSENCE. 
 
 F all affliction taught a lover yet, 
 
 'Tis sure the hardest science to forget ! 
 
 Pope. 
 
 Condemned whole years in absence to deplore, 
 And image charms he must behold no more. 
 
 Pope. 
 
 No happier task these faded eyes pursue; 
 To read and weep is all they now can do. 
 
 Pope, 
 
 Love reckons hours for months, and days for years; 
 And every little absence is an age. 
 
 Dryden. 
 
 All flowers will droop in absence of the sun 
 That waked their sweets. 
 
 Dryden. 
 
 A boat at midnight sent alone 
 
 To drift upon the moonless sea, 
 A lute, whose leading chord is gone, 
 A wounded bird, that hath but one 
 Imperfect wing to soar upon, 
 
 Are like what I am, without thee ! 
 
 Moore. 
 'Tis scarcely 
 Two hewrs since ye departed : two long hours 
 To me, but only hours upon the sun. 
 
 Byron. 
 
 Wives, in their husband's absence, grow subtler, 
 And daughters sometimes run off with the butler. 
 
 Byron. 
 
 Absent many a year 
 Far o'er the sea, his sweetest dreams were still 
 Of that dear voice that soothed his infancy. 
 
 Southey 
 
 We must part awhile : 
 A few short months — though short, they must 
 be long 
 
 Without thy dear society ; but yet 
 We must endure it, and our love will be 
 The fonder after parting — it will grow 
 Intenser in our absence, and again 
 Burn with a tender glow when I return. 
 
 Percivdi 
 When from land and home receding, 
 And from hearts that ache to bleeding, 
 Think of those behind, who love thee, 
 While the sun is bright above thee ! 
 Then, as down the ocean glancing, 
 With the waves his rays are dancing, 
 Think how long the night will be 
 To the eyes that weep for thee. 
 
 Miss GouUU 
 Call thou me home I from thee apart 
 
 Faintly and low my pulses beat, 
 As if the life-blood of my heart 
 
 Within thine own heart holds its seat, 
 And floweth only where thou art : 
 Oh ! call me home. 
 
 Mrs. Oakes Sinitk, 
 
 ACTIVITY. 
 
 The keen spirit 
 Seizes the prompt occasion — makes the thought 
 Start into instant action, and at once 
 Plans and performs, resolves and executes ! 
 
 Hannah More, 
 
 My days, though few, have passed below 
 In much of joy, though more of woe ; 
 Yet still, in hours of love or strife, 
 I've 'scap'd the weariness of life. 
 
 Byron* 
 505 
 
506 
 
 CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS, 
 
 How slow the time 
 To the warm soul, that, in the very instant 
 It forms, would execute a great design ! 
 
 Thomson. 
 
 Lives of great men all remind us 
 We can make our lives sublime, 
 
 And, departing, leave behind us 
 Footprints on the sands of time. 
 
 Let us then be up and doing; 
 
 With a heart for any fate, 
 Still achieving, still pursuing, 
 
 Learn to labor and to wait. 
 
 Longfellow, 
 
 Run if you like, but try to keep your breath ; 
 Work like a man, but don't be worked to death 
 
 Holmes. 
 
 ADVERSITY. 
 
 For as when merchants break, o'erthrown 
 Like ninepins, they strike others down. 
 
 Butler, 
 
 Though losses and crosses 
 Be lessons right severe. 
 There's wit there, ye' 11 get there, 
 Ye' 11 find nae other where. 
 
 Burns. 
 
 The brave unfortunate are our best acquaintance ; 
 They show us virtue may be much distressed, 
 And give us their example how to suffer. 
 
 Francis. 
 
 In this wild world the fondest and the best, 
 Are the most tried, most troubled, and distressed. 
 
 Crabbe. 
 
 I have not quailed to danger's brow 
 When high and happy — need I now? 
 
 Byron. 
 
 One thought alone he could not — dared not meet, 
 '* Oh, how these tidings will Medora greet?" 
 Then — only then — his clanking hands he raised 
 And strained with rage the chain on which he gazed. 
 
 Byron. 
 
 The good are better made by ill : — 
 As odors crushed are sweeter still ! 
 
 Rogers. 
 
 AGE. 
 
 The sixth age shifts 
 Into the lean and slippered pantaloon ; 
 With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side ; 
 His youthful hose well saved, a world too wide 
 For his shrunk shank ; and his big manly voice, 
 Turning again towards childish treble, pipes 
 And whistles in his sound. 
 
 Last scene of all, 
 That ends this strange eventful history. 
 Is second childishness, and mere oblivion ; 
 Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans every thing. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 I'm thirty-five, I'm thirty-five! 
 
 Nor would I make it less. 
 For not a year has passed away 
 
 Unmarked by happiness. 
 And who would drop one pleasant link 
 
 J'rom memory's golden chain ? 
 
 Deserted at his utmost need, 
 By those his former bounty fed. 
 
 Dryden, 
 To exult 
 Ev'n o'er an enemy oppressed, and heap 
 Affliction on the afflicted, is the mark, 
 And the mean triumph of a dastard soul. 
 
 Smollett, 
 Ye good distressed ! 
 Ye noble few ! who here unbending stand 
 Beneath life's pressure, yet bear up awhile, 
 And what your bounded view, which only saw 
 A little part, deemed evil, is no more ; 
 The storms of wintry time will quickly pass, 
 And one unbounded spring encircle all. 
 
 Thomson. 
 
 Affliction is the good man's shining scene; 
 
 Prosperity conceals his brightest ray ; 
 
 As night to stars, woe lustre gives to man. 
 
 Young, 
 
 We bleed, we tremble, we forget, we smile. 
 The mind turns fool, before the cheek is dry. 
 
 Young, 
 
 Adversity's cold frosts will soon be o'er; 
 It heralds brighter days : — the joyous spring 
 Is cradled on the winter's icy breast. 
 And yet comes flushed in beauty. 
 
 Mrs. Hemans, 
 
 Or lose a sorrow, losing too 
 
 The love that soothed the pain ? 
 
 Oh ! still may heaven within my soul 
 Keep truth and love alive — 
 
 Then angel graces will be mine, 
 Though over thirty-five. 
 
 Mrs. Hale. 
 
 Why grieve that time has brought so soon 
 The sober age of manhood on ? 
 
 As idly should I weep at noon 
 
 To see the blush of morning gone. 
 
 Bryant. 
 
 Thus aged men, full loth and slow. 
 The vanities of life forego. 
 And count their youthful follies o'er, 
 Till memory lends her light no more. 
 
CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS, 
 
 607 
 
 AMBITION, 
 
 Great souls, 
 By nature half divine, soar to the stars, 
 And hold a near acquaintance with the gods. 
 
 Rowe, 
 That is a step. 
 On which I must fall down, or else o'erleap, 
 For in my way it lies. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 Before I knew thee, Mary, 
 Ambition was my angel : I did hear 
 For ever its witched voices in mine ear ; 
 
 My days were visionary — 
 My nights were like the slumbers of the mad :■ 
 And every dream swept o'er me glory clad. 
 
 Willis. 
 
 Unnumbered suppliants crowd preferment's gate, 
 Athirst for wealth, and burning to be great, 
 Delusive fortune hears the incessant call. 
 They mount, they shine — evaporate and lall. 
 
 Dr. Johiison, 
 
 I have no spur 
 To prick the sides of my intent, but only 
 Vaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itself, 
 And falls on the other side. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 These quenched a moment her ambitious thirst- 
 So Arab deserts drink in summer's rain 
 In vain ! — As fall the dews on quenchless sands, 
 Blood only serves to wash ambitious hands. 
 
 Byrot. 
 
 ANGLING. 
 
 I in these flowery meads would be ; 
 These crystal streams should solace me ; 
 To whose harmonious, bubbling noise 
 I with my angle would rejoice. Walton. 
 
 And angle on, and beg "to have 
 
 A quiet passage to a welcome grove. Walton. 
 
 Oh ! lone and lovely haunts are thine. 
 
 Soft, soft the river flows, 
 Wearing the shadow of thy line. 
 The gloom of alder boughs. 
 
 Mrs. Henians. 
 Our plenteous streams a various race supplv. 
 
 Pope. 
 
 AVARICE. 
 
 Some, o'er-enamored of their bags, run mad, 
 Groan under gold, yet weep for want of bread. 
 
 Young. 
 
 Why Mammon sits before a million hearths 
 Where God is bolted out from every house. 
 
 Bailley. 
 
 *' I give and I devise " (Old Euclio said, 
 And sigh'd,) "my lands and tenements to Ned." 
 Your money, sir? — " My money, sir, what, all? 
 Why, if I must" (then wept), *' I give it Paul." 
 The manor, sir? — ''The manor! hold," he cried, 
 " Not that — I cannot part with that," and died. 
 
 Pope. 
 
 The lust of gold succeeds the lust of conquest : 
 The lust of gold, unfeeling and remorseless ! 
 The last corruption of degenerate man. 
 
 Dr. Johison. 
 
 O cursed love of gold ; when for thy sake 
 The fool throws up his interest in both worlds, 
 First starved in this, then damned in that to come. 
 
 Blair. 
 
 But the base miser starves amid his store, 
 Broods on his gold, and griping still at more. 
 Sits sadly pining, and believes he's poor. 
 
 Dryden, 
 
 BEAUTY. 
 
 Beautiful, yes ! but the blush will fade, 
 
 The light grow dim which the blue eyes wear; 
 The gloss will vanish from curl and braid, 
 
 And the sunbeam die in the waving hair. 
 Turn from the mirror, and strive to win 
 
 Treasures of loveliness still to last ; 
 Gather earth's glory and bloom within. 
 
 That the soul may be bright when youth is past. 
 
 Mrs. Osgood. 
 
 Thou art beautiful, young lady — 
 
 But I need not tell you this ; 
 For few have borne, unconsciously, 
 
 The spell of loveliness. 
 
 Whittier. 
 
 I've gazed on many a brighter face. 
 
 But ne'er on one for years, 
 Where beauty left so soft a trace 
 
 As it had left on hers. Mrs. Welby. 
 
 The face, O call it fair, not pale. 
 
 Coleridge. 
 
 A thing of beauty is a joy for ever. 
 
 Keats. 
 
 No wonder that cheek in its beauty transcendant, 
 Excelleth the beauty of others by far ; 
 
 No wonder that eye is so richly resplendentj 
 For your heart is a rose and your soul is a star 
 
 Mrs. Osgood, 
 
508 
 
 CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS. 
 
 Her cheek had the pale pearly pink 
 Of sea-shells, the world's sweetest tint, as though 
 She lived, one half might deem, on roses sopped 
 In silver dew. 
 
 Bailey. 
 
 When I forget that the stars shine in air, 
 When I forget that beauty is in stars — 
 Shall I forget thy beauty. 
 
 Bailey. 
 
 Thy glorious beauty was the gift of heaven — 
 As such thou should' St have prized it, and have died 
 Ere thou didst yield it up to mortal touch, 
 Unless thy heart went with it, to make pure 
 And sanctify the offering. 
 
 Mrs, Osgood. 
 
 What right have you, madam, gazing in your 
 
 shining mirror daily, 
 Getting so by heart your beauty, which all others 
 
 must adore ; 
 While you draw the golden ringlets down your 
 
 fingers, to vow gaily, 
 You will wed no man that's only good to God — 
 
 and nothing more. 
 
 Mrs. Browning. 
 
 Beauty — the fading rainbow's pride. 
 
 Halleck. 
 
 Without the smile from partial beauty won, 
 Oh, what were man ! — a world without a sun ! 
 
 Ca7npbell. 
 
 Beauty has gone ; but yet her mind is still 
 As beautiful as ever ; still the play 
 Of light around her lips has every charm 
 Of childhood in its freshness. 
 
 Percival. 
 
 O, say not, wisest of all the kings 
 
 That have risen on Israel's throne to reign, 
 Say not, as one of your wisest things. 
 That grace is false and beauty vain. 
 
 Pierpont. 
 Is beauty vain because it will fade ? 
 
 Then are earth's green robe and heaven's light 
 vain; 
 For this shall be lost in evening's shade, 
 And that in winter's sleety rain. 
 
 Pierpont. 
 
 I would that thou might'st ever be 
 
 As beautiful as now ; 
 That time might ever leave as free 
 
 Thy yet unwritten brow. 
 
 Willis. 
 
 She was like 
 A dream of poetry, that may not be 
 Written or told — exceeding beautiful. 
 
 Willis. 
 Beauty was lent to nature as the type 
 Of heaven's unspeakable and holy joy. 
 Where all perfection makes the sum of bliss» 
 
 Mrs. Hale. 
 
 BIGOTRY. 
 
 For modes of faith let graceless zealots fight ; 
 His can't be wrong, whose life is in the right. 
 
 Pope, 
 
 Heaven never took a pleasure or a pride, 
 
 In starving stomachs, or a horsewhipped hide. 
 
 Wolcot. 
 
 Yet some there are, of men I think the worst, 
 Poor imps ! unhappy, if they can't be curst. 
 
 Wolcot. 
 
 To follow foolish precedents, and wink 
 With both our eyes, is easier than to think. 
 
 Cowper. 
 
 And he at length the amplest triumph gained. 
 Who contradicted what the last maintained. 
 
 Prior. 
 
 And many more such pious scraps 
 
 To prove (what we've long proved perhaps) 
 
 That mad as Christians used to be 
 
 About the thirteenth century, 
 
 There's lots of Christians to be had 
 
 In this, the nineteenth, just as mad ! 
 
 Moore. 
 
 The slaves of custom and established mode. 
 With pack-horse constancy we keep the road, 
 Crooked or straight, through quags or thorny dells, 
 True to the jingling of our leader's bells. 
 
 Cowper. 
 
 Sure 'tis an orthodox opinion, 
 That grace is founded in dominion. 
 
 Butler. 
 
 BIRTHDAY. 
 
 If any white-winged power above 
 
 My joys and griefs survey. 
 The day when thou wert born, my love — 
 
 He surely blessed that day. 
 And duly shall my raptured song. 
 
 And gladly shall my eyes 
 Still bless this day's return, so long 
 
 As thou shalt see it rise. 
 
 Campbell. 
 
 Why should we count our life by years, 
 
 Since years are short, and pass away ! 
 Or, why by fortune's smiles or tears. 
 
 Since tears are vain and smiles decay ! 
 O ! count by virtues — these shall last 
 
 When life's lame-footed race is o'er; 
 And these, when earthly joys are past. 
 
 May cheer us on a brighter shore. 
 
 Mrs. Hah^ 
 
CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL QUOIATIONS. 
 
 ^> 
 
 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 thy knees. Willis. 
 
 Another year I another leaf 
 
 Is turned within life' s volume brief, 
 
 And yet not one bright page appears 
 
 Of mine within that book of years. Hoffmann, 
 
 Yet all I've learnt from hours rife 
 With painful brooding here, 
 
 Is, that amid this mortal srrife, 
 The lapse of every year 
 
 But takes away a hope from life. 
 And adds to death a fear. 
 
 Hoffman. 
 
 Another milestone planted by the way. 
 
 Wilcox. 
 
 BOOKS. 
 
 'T is pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print; 
 A book's a book although there's nothing in 't. 
 
 Byron. 
 
 'T was heaven to lounge upon a couch, said Gray, 
 And read new novels on a rainy day. 
 
 Spragiie. 
 
 A-blessing on the printer's art I — 
 Books are the ^Mentors of the heart. 
 
 Mrs. Hale. 
 
 The burning soul, the burdened mind 
 In books alone companions find. 
 
 Mrs. Hale. 
 
 The past but lives in words: a thousand ages 
 Were blank, if books had not evok' d their ghosts, 
 And kept the pale, unbodied shades to warn us 
 From fleshless lips. 
 
 Btdwer. 
 
 Turn back the tide of ages to its head, 
 And hoard the wisdom of the honored dead. 
 
 Sprague. 
 
 What he has written seems to me no more 
 Than I have thought a thousand times before. 
 
 Willis. 
 
 We never speak our deepest feelings; 
 
 Our holiest hopes have no revealings, 
 
 Save in the gleams that light the face, 
 
 Or fancies that the pen may trace. 
 
 And hence to books the heart must turn 
 
 W^hen with unspoken thoughts we yearn. 
 
 And gather from the silent page 
 
 The just reproof, the counsel sage. 
 
 The consolation kind and true 
 
 That soothes and heals the wounded heart. 
 
 Mrs. Hale. 
 
 CANDOR. 
 
 Then, gentle Clarence, welcome unto Warwick 
 And welcome, Somerset : — I hold it cowardice 
 To rest mistrustful where a noble heart 
 Hath pawed an open hand in sign of love. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 Make my breast 
 Transparent as pure crystal, that the world, 
 Jealous of me, may see the foulest thought 
 My heart does hold. 
 
 Buckingham. 
 
 'Tis great — 'tis manly to disdain disguise ; 
 It shows our spirit, or it proves our strength. 
 
 Y0U7lg. 
 
 No haughty gesture marks his gait, 
 
 No pompous tone his word. 
 No studied attitude is seen. 
 
 No palling nonsense heard ; 
 He'll suit his bearing to the hour, 
 
 Laugh, listen, learn or teach, 
 With joyous freedom in his mirth 
 
 And candor in his speech. Eliza Cook. 
 
 CARE. 
 
 But human bodies are sic fools. 
 For a' their colleges and schools. 
 That when nae real ills perplex them. 
 They mak' enow themselves to vex them. 
 
 Burns. 
 And on, with many a step of pain, 
 
 Our weary race is sadly run ; 
 And still, as on we plod our way. 
 
 We find, as life' s gay dreams depart. 
 To close our being' s troubled day. 
 Naught left us but a broken heart. 
 
 Percival. 
 
 Care keeps his watch in every old man's eye. 
 And where care lodgeth sleep will never lie. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 Care is no cure, but rather corrosive. 
 For things that are not to be remedied. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 He woke — to watch the lamp, and tell 
 From hour to hour the castle-bell, 
 Or listen to the owlet's cry, 
 Or the sad breeze that whistles by. 
 Or catch by fits the tuneless rhyme 
 With which the warden cheats the time ; 
 And envying think, how, when the sun 
 Bids the poor soldier's watch be done, 
 Couched on his straw, and fancy-free, 
 He sleeps like careless infancy. 
 
 Scolt. 
 
510 
 
 CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS. 
 
 CHANGE. 
 
 Weep not that the world changes — did it keep 
 A stable, changeless course, 'twere cause to weep. 
 
 Bryant. 
 
 Not in vain the distance beckons, 
 Forward, forward let us range ; 
 
 Let the peoples spin for ever 
 
 Down the ringing grooves of change. 
 
 Tennyso7t. 
 
 I ask not what change 
 Has come over thy heart, 
 
 I seek not what chances 
 Have doomed us to part ; 
 
 I know thou hast told me 
 To love thee no more, 
 
 And I still must obey- 
 Where I once did adore. 
 
 Hqff'man 
 
 CHARACTER. 
 
 His talk is like a stream which runs 
 
 With rapid change irom rocks to roses ; 
 He slips from politics to puns, 
 
 Passes from Mahomet to Moses ; 
 Beginning with the laws that keep 
 
 The planets in their radiant courses, 
 And ending with some precept deep 
 
 For dressing eels or shoeing horses. 
 
 Pragd. 
 She was the pride 
 Of her familiar sphere — the daily joy 
 Of all who on her gracefulness might gaze, 
 And in the light and music of her way 
 Have a companion's portion. 
 
 Willis. 
 
 The angels sang in heaven when she was born. 
 
 Longfellow. 
 
 Devoted, anxious, generous, void of guile, 
 And with her whole heart's welcome in her smile. 
 
 Mrs. A^orfon. 
 
 She has a glowing heart, they say, 
 Though calm her seeming be : 
 
 And oft that warm heart's lovely play 
 Upon her cheek I see. 
 
 Mrs. Osgood. 
 
 Though time her bloom is stealing, 
 There's still beyond his art — 
 
 The wild-flower wreath of feeling, 
 The sunbeam of the heart. 
 
 Halleck, 
 
 Bold in the cause of God he stood 
 Like Templar in the Holy land ; 
 
 And never knight of princely blood 
 In lady's bower more bland. 
 
 Mrs. HaU 
 
 His high, broad forehead, marble fair, 
 
 Told of the power of thought within ; 
 And strength was in his raven hair — 
 But when he smiled a spell was there 
 
 That more than strength or power could 
 win. Mrs. Hale, 
 
 CHARITY. 
 
 For his bounty. 
 There was no winter in't ; an autumn 'twas 
 That grew the more by reaping. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 A poor man served by thee, shall make thee rich. 
 
 Mrs. Broivniftg. 
 
 O, rich man's son ! there is a toil, 
 That with all others level stands ; 
 
 Large charity doth never soil. 
 
 But only whitens soft white hands ; — 
 This is the best crop for thy lands ; 
 
 A heritage, it seems to me, 
 
 Worth being rich to hold in fee. 
 
 Lowell. 
 
 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. 
 
 Goldsmith. 
 
 Then gently scan your brother man. 
 
 Still gentler sister woman, 
 Though both may gang a kennie wrang, 
 
 To step aside is human. 
 
 Burns, 
 
 Cast not the clouded gem away, 
 Quench not the dim but living ray — 
 
 My brother man, beware ! 
 With that deep voice, which from the skies, 
 Forbade the Patriarch's sacrifice, 
 
 God's angel cries. Forbear! 
 
 Whittier. 
 
 As the rivers, farthest flowing, 
 
 In the highest hills have birth ; 
 As the banyan, broadest growing, 
 
 Oftenest bows its head to earth — 
 So the noblest minds press onward, 
 
 Channels far of good to trace; 
 So the largest hearts bend downward, 
 
 Circling all the human race. 
 
 Mrs. Hale, 
 
CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS, 
 
 511 
 
 Still to a stricken brother true, 
 
 Whatever clime hath nurtured him ; 
 
 He stooped to heal the wounded Jew, 
 The worshiper of Gerizim. 
 
 Whittier. 
 
 And when religious sects ran mad, 
 He held, in spite of all his learning, 
 
 That if a man's belief is bad, 
 
 It will not be improved by burning. 
 
 Praed, 
 
 CHEERFULNESS. 
 
 Let me play the fool : 
 With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come ; 
 And let my liver rather heat with wine, 
 Than my heart cool with mortifying groans. 
 Why should a man whose blood is warm within. 
 Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster ? 
 Sleep when he wakes? and creep into the jaundice 
 By being peevish ? 
 
 Shahespeare. 
 
 The seasons all had charms for her — 
 
 She welcomed each with joy ; 
 The charm that in her spirit lived 
 
 No changes could destroy. 
 
 Mrs. Hale. 
 
 Smooth flow the waves, the zephyrs gently play, 
 Belinda smiled and all the world was gay. 
 
 Pope. 
 
 When cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue, 
 
 Her bow across her shoulders flung, 
 Her buskins gemmed with morning dew. 
 
 Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket 
 rung. 
 
 Collins. 
 
 Were it not worse than vain to close our eyes 
 Unto the azure sky and golden light. 
 
 Because the tempest cloud doth sometimes rise, 
 And glorious day must darken into night? 
 
 Jerold. 
 
 CONSCIENCE. 
 
 O, it is monstrous I — monstrous! 
 Methought, the billows spoke and told me of it ; 
 The winds did sing it to me, and the thunder, 
 That deep and dreadful organ-pipe pronounced 
 The name of Prosper. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 I feel within me 
 A peace above all earthly 
 A still and quiet conscience 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 dignities, 
 
 'Tis ever thus 
 With noble minds, if chance they slide to folly; 
 Remorse stings deeper, and relentless conscience, 
 Pours more of gall into the bitter cup 
 Of their severe repentance. 
 
 Maso7i. 
 
 Now conscience wakes despair 
 That slumbered, wakes the bitter memory 
 Of what he was, what is, and what must be 
 Worse; if worse deeds, worse sufferings must 
 ensue. Milton. 
 
 conscience, into what abyss of fears 
 
 And horrors hast thou driven me ; out of which 
 
 1 find no way, from deep to deeper plunged. 
 
 Milton. 
 
 "Why should not conscience have vacation 
 As well as other court's o' th' nation; 
 Have equal power to adjourn, 
 Appoint appearance and return ? 
 
 Butler, 
 
 What's tender conscience? 'Tis a botch 
 That will not bear the gentlest touch : 
 But, breaking out, despatches more 
 Than the epidemical'st plague-sore 
 
 Butler. 
 
 Here, here it lies; a lump of lead by day; 
 And in my short, distracted, nightly slumbers. 
 The hag that rides my dreams. 
 
 Dry den. 
 
 Yet still there whispers the small voice within, 
 Heard through God's silence, and o'er glory's din 
 Whatever creed be taught or land be trod, 
 Man's conscience is the oracle of God ! Byron, 
 
 CONTENT. 
 
 Contentment, parent of delight, 
 So much a stranger to our sight. 
 Say, goddess, in what happy place. 
 Mortals behold thy blooming face ; 
 Thy gracious auspices impart, 
 And for thy temple choose my heart, 
 They whom thou deignest to inspire. 
 Thy science learn, to bound desire ; 
 Ey happy alchemy of mind. 
 They turn to pleasure all they find. 
 
 Green. 
 
 The cynic hugs his poverty, 
 
 The peHcan her wilderness ; 
 
 And 'tis the Indian's pride to be 
 
 Naked on frozen Caucasus: 
 
 Contentment cannot smart ; stoics, we see, 
 
 Make torments easy to their apathy. 
 
 I swear, 't is better to be lowly born. 
 And range with humble livers in content. 
 Than to be perked up in a glistering grief, 
 And wear a golden sorrow. Shakespeare^ 
 
612 
 
 CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS, 
 
 Poor and content, is rich and rich enough; 
 But riches, fineless, is as poor as winter. 
 To him that ever fears he shall be poor. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 Think' St thou the man whose mansions hold 
 The worldling's pomp and miser's gold, 
 
 Obtains a richer prize 
 Than he who, in his cot at rest, 
 Finds heavenly peace a willing guest, 
 And bears the promise in his breast 
 
 Of treasure in the skies ? Mrs. Sigoiirney. 
 
 Lo now, from idle wishes clear, 
 
 I make the good I may not find ; 
 Adown the stream I gently steer, 
 
 And shift my sail with every wind. 
 And half by nature, half by reason, 
 
 Can still with pliant heart prepare, 
 The mind, attuned to every season. 
 
 The merry heart that laughs at care. 
 
 Mihnan. 
 
 Life's but a short chase ; our game — content. 
 
 Cibber, 
 
 COQUETTE. 
 
 The vain coquette each suit disdains. 
 And glories in her lover's pains ; 
 With age she fades — each lover flies. 
 Contemned, forlorn, she pines and dies. 
 
 Gay, 
 
 Who has not heard coquettes complain 
 Of days, months, years, misspent in vain ? 
 For time misused they pine and waste. 
 And love's sweet pleasures never taste. 
 
 Gay. 
 
 Can I again that look recall, 
 
 That once could make me die for thee ?— 
 No, no ! — the eye that beams on all, 
 
 Shall never more be prized by me. Meore, 
 
 Would you teach her to love ? 
 For a time seem to rove ; 
 
 At first she may frown in a pet ; 
 But leave her awhile. 
 She shortly will smile, 
 
 And then you may win your coquette. 
 
 Byron, 
 
 COURAGE. 
 
 Let fortune empty her whole quiver on me, 
 I have a soul, that, like an ample shield. 
 Can take in all, and verge enough for more ; 
 Fate was not mine, nor am I fate's : 
 Souls know no conquerors. Dryden. 
 
 Not to the ensanguined field of death alone 
 
 Is valor limited : she sits serene 
 
 In the deliberate council, sagely scans 
 
 The source of action : weighs, prevents, provides. 
 
 And scorns to count her glories, from the feats 
 
 Of brutal force alone. Smollett. 
 
 Think'st thou there dwells no courage but in 
 
 breasts 
 That set their mail against the ringing spears. 
 When helmets are struck down? Thou little 
 
 knowest 
 Of nature's marvels. Mrs. Hemans. 
 
 Ah, never shall the land forget 
 
 How gushed the life-blood of the brave, 
 
 Gushed warm with hope and courage yet. 
 Upon the soil they fought to save ! 
 
 Bryant, 
 
 Like a mountain lone and bleak. 
 With its sky-encompassed peak, 
 
 Thunder riven. 
 Lifting its forehead bare, 
 Through the cold and blighting air, 
 
 Up to heaven. 
 Is the soul that feels its woe, 
 And is nerved to bear the blow. 
 
 Mrs. Hale, 
 
 Rocks have been shaken from their solid base ; 
 But what shall move a firm and dauntless mind? 
 
 Joan7ia Baillie, 
 
 COURTSHIP. 
 
 My story being done. 
 She gave me for my pains a world of sighs : 
 She swore — in faith, 'twas strange, 'twas passing 
 
 strange ; 
 'Twas pitiful, 'twas wondrous pitiful: 
 She wished she had not heard it ; yet she wished 
 That Heaven had made her such a man ; she 
 
 thanked me ; 
 And bade me, if I had a friend that loved her, 
 I should but teach him how to tell my story, 
 And that would woo her, Shakespeare, 
 
 She that with poetry is won, 
 Is but a desk to write upon ; 
 And what men say of her, they mean 
 No more than on the thing they lean. 
 
 Butler, 
 
 The knight, perusing this epistle, 
 Believed h' had brought her to his whistle : 
 And read it, like a jocund lover, 
 With great applause t' himself twice over. 
 
 Butler, 
 
CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS, 
 
 513 
 
 If this inducement move her not to love, 
 Send her a letter of thy noble deeds. 
 
 Shakespeare, 
 
 O if good heaven would be so much my friend ! 
 To let my fate upon my choice depend, 
 All my remains of life with you I'd spend. 
 And think my stars had given a happy end. 
 
 Oldham. 
 
 Like a lovely tree 
 She grew to womanhood, and between whiles 
 Rejected several suitors, just to learn 
 How to accept a better in his turn. 
 
 Byron. 
 
 Woe to the man who ventures a rebuke ! 
 'Twill but precipitate a situation 
 Extremely disagreeable, but common 
 To calculators when they count on woman. 
 
 Byron. 
 Learn to win a lady's faith 
 
 Nobly as the thing is high ; 
 Bravely, as for life and death 
 
 With a loyal gravity. 
 Lead her from the festive boards, 
 
 Point her to the starry skies, 
 Guard her by your truthful words. 
 Pure from courtship's flatteries. 
 
 Mrs, Browning, 
 
 CURIOSITY. 
 
 The over curious are not over wise. 
 
 Massijtger. 
 
 He who would pry 
 Behind the scenes oft sees a counterfeit. 
 
 Dry den. 
 
 Conceal yersel' as weel's ye can 
 
 Fra' critical dissection ; 
 But keek thro' every other man 
 
 With lengthened, sly inspection. Bums. 
 
 Eve, 
 With all the fruits of Eden blest, 
 Save only one, rather than leave 
 That one unknown lost all the rest. 
 
 Moore. 
 
 I loathe that low vice, curiosity. 
 
 Byron. 
 
 — Curiosity ! who hath not felt 
 
 Its spirit, and before its altar knelt ? 
 
 Sprague. 
 
 How many a noble art, now widely known. 
 Owes its young impulse to this power alone ! 
 
 Sprague. 
 
 What boots it to your dust, your son were born 
 An empire's idol or a rabble's scorn ? 
 Think ye the franchised spirit shall return, 
 To share his triumph, his disgrace to mourn ? 
 Ah, curiosity ! by thee inspired 
 This truth to know how oft has man enquired ! 
 
 Sprague. 
 
 Faith we may boast, undarkened by a doubt. 
 We thirst to find each awful secret out. 
 
 Sprague. 
 
 The enquiring spirit will not be controlled. 
 We would make certain all, and all behold. 
 
 sprague. 
 
 The curious questioning eye. 
 That plucks the heart of every mystery. 
 
 Mellen, 
 
 DEATH, 
 
 Death levels all things in his march, 
 
 Nought can resist his mighty strength ; 
 The palace proud — triumphal arch, 
 
 Shall mete their shadow's length; 
 The rich, the poor, one common bed 
 
 Shall find in the unhonored grave. 
 Where weeds shall crown alike the head 
 
 Of tyrant and of slave. Marvel. 
 
 On death and judgment, heaven and hell, 
 Who oft doth think, must needs die well. 
 
 Raleigh, 
 
 That must end us, that must be our cure. 
 To be no more ; sad cure ; for who would lose, 
 Though full of pain, this intellectual being, 
 These thoughts that wander through eternity ; 
 To perish rather, swallowed up and lost 
 In the wide womb of uncreated night. 
 Devoid of sense and motion. 
 
 Milton, 
 33 
 
 Death's shafts fly thick! Here falls the village 
 
 swain. 
 And there his pampered lord ! The cup goes 
 
 round. 
 And who so artful as to put it by ? 
 
 Blair, 
 O great man-eater. 
 Whose every day is carnival, not sated yet ! 
 Unheard of epicure ! without a fellow ! 
 The veriest gluttons do not always cram ; 
 Some intervals of abstinence are sought 
 To edge the appetite ; thou seekest none. 
 
 Blair, 
 
 Death's but a path that must be trod, 
 If man would ever pass to God. 
 
 Par7iell, 
 
 When musing on companions gone, 
 We doubly feel ourselves alone. 
 
 Scott, 
 
514 
 
 CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS. 
 
 Weep not for him who dieth — 
 
 For he sleeps and is at rest ; 
 And the couch whereon he lieth 
 
 Is the green earth's quiet breast. 
 
 Mrs. Norton. 
 
 When our souls shall leave this dwelling, 
 The glory of one fair and virtuous action 
 Is above all the scutcheons on our tomb, 
 Or silken banners over us. 
 
 Shirley, 
 
 DEBTS. 
 
 You have outrun your fortune ; 
 I blame you not that you would be a beggar ; 
 Ea h to his taste ! But I do charge you, Sir, 
 That, being beggared, you should win false 
 
 moneys 
 Out of that crucible called debt ! 
 
 Bulwer. 
 
 The ghost of many a veteran bill 
 
 Shall hover around his slumbers. Holmes, 
 
 The ghostly dun shall worry his sleep. 
 And constables cluster around him. 
 
 And he shall creep from the wood-hole deep 
 Where their spectre eyes have found him. 
 
 Hobnes, 
 
 DECEIT. 
 
 Our innocence is not our shield : 
 They take offence, who have not been offended \ 
 They speak our ruin too, who speak us fair ; 
 And death is often ambushed in our smiles : 
 AVe know not whom we have to fear. 
 
 Young. 
 
 The world's all title-page; there's no contents; 
 The world's all face ; the man who shows his heart 
 Is hooted for his nudities and scorned. 
 
 Young. 
 
 But now I look upon thy face, 
 
 A very pictured show. 
 Betraying not the slightest trace 
 
 Of what may work below. 
 
 Miss Lando7i. 
 
 O what a tangled web we weave, 
 When first we practise to deceive ! 
 
 Scott. 
 
 They may be false who languish and complain, 
 But they who sigh for money never feign. 
 
 Lady Montague, 
 
 He that hangs or beats out his brains 
 The devil's in him if he feigns. Butler. 
 
 False wave of the desert, thou art less beguiling 
 Than false beauty over the lighted hall shed : 
 What but the smiles that have practised theii 
 smiling, 
 Or honey words measured, and reckoned as said. 
 
 Miss Landon. 
 
 DESPAIR. 
 
 To doubt 
 Is worse than to have lost ; and to despair, 
 Is but to antedate those miseries 
 That must fall on us. 
 
 Massinger. 
 
 Despair takes heart, when there's no hope to speed: 
 Tiie coward then takes arms and does the deed. 
 
 Herrick. 
 
 Despair, 
 Thou hast the noblest issue of all ill. 
 Which frailty brings us to ; for to be worse 
 We fear not, and who cannot lose. 
 Is ever a frank gamester. 
 
 Howard. 
 
 Talk not of comfort, 'tis for lighter ills; 
 I will indulge my sorrows, and give way 
 To all the pangs and fury of despair, 
 
 Addison. 
 
 O Lucius, I am sick of this bad world ! 
 The daylight and the sun grow painful to me. 
 
 Addison. 
 
 Methinks we stand on ruin ; nature shakes 
 About us; and the universal frame's 
 So loose, that it but wants another push 
 To leap from its hinges. 
 
 Lee, 
 
 What miracle 
 Can work me into hope ! Heaven here is bank- 
 rupt, 
 The wond'ring gods blush at the want of power. 
 And quite abashed confess they cannot help me. 
 
 Lee. 
 
 And if despondency weigh down 
 Thy spirit's fluttering pinions, then 
 
 Despair — thy name is written on 
 The roll of common men. 
 
 Halleck, 
 
 No thought within her bosom stirs, 
 
 But wakes some feeling dark and dread ; 
 
 God keep thee from a doom like hers. 
 Of living when the hopes are dead. 
 
 Phoebe Gary 
 
CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS. 
 
 515 
 
 DISCONTENT. 
 
 Man hath a weary pilgrimage, 
 As through the world he wends; 
 
 On every stage, from youth to age. 
 Still discontent attends. Soitthey. 
 
 I cannot bear to be with men 
 
 Who only see my weaknesses ; 
 Who know not what I might have been, 
 
 But scan my spirit as it is. Willis. 
 
 It's hardly in a body's power 
 
 To keep, at times, frae being sour, 
 
 To see how things are shared ; 
 
 How best o' chiels are whyles in want, 
 
 While coofs on countless thousands rant, 
 
 And ken na how to wair't. Burns. 
 
 Thou poutest upon thy fortune and thy love : 
 
 Take heed, take heed, for such die miserable. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 DOUBT. 
 
 Our doubts are traitors, 
 And make us lose the good we oft might win. 
 By fearing to attempt. 
 
 Shakespeare, 
 
 The clear,- cold question chills to frozen doubt ; 
 Tired of beliefs, we dread to live without ; 
 O then, if reason waver at thy side, 
 Let humbler INIemory be thy gentle guide, 
 Go to thy birth-place, and, if faith was there. 
 Repeat thy father's creed, thy mother's prayer. 
 
 Holmes. 
 
 Yet do not think I doubt thee, 
 I know thy truth remains \ 
 
 I would not live without thee. 
 For all the world contains. 
 
 Morris. 
 
 Beware of doubt — faith is the subtle chain 
 Which binds us to the infinite : the voice 
 
 Of a deep life within, that will remain 
 Until we crowd it thence. 
 
 Mrs. Oakes Smith. 
 
 DRESS. 
 
 'Tis the mind that makes the body rich ; 
 
 And as the sun breaks through the darkest clouds. 
 
 So honor peereth in the meanest habit, 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy. 
 
 But not expressed in fancy ; rich, not gaudy ; 
 
 For the apparel oft proclaims the man. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 Through tattered clothes small vices do appear; 
 Robes and furr'd gowns hide all. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 Can any dresses find a way 
 
 To stop th' approaches of decay 
 
 And mend a ruined face ? 
 
 Dorset. 
 
 I pass their form, and ev'ry charming grace; 
 But their attire, like liveries of a kind 
 All rich and rare, is fresh within my mind. 
 
 D7-yde7i. 
 
 Nay, oft in dreams invention we bestow 
 To change a flounce, or add a furbelow. 
 
 Pope. 
 
 No worthies formed by any muse but thine 
 Could purchase robes to make themselves so fine. 
 
 Waller. 
 
 Gay mellow silks her mellow charms infold. 
 And nought of Lyce but herself is old. 
 
 Yoimg. 
 Loveliness 
 Needs not the foreign aid of ornament. 
 But is, when unadorned, adorned the most. 
 
 Thomsoti, 
 
 DUTY. 
 
 Stern daughter of the voice of God ! 
 
 O Duty ! if that name thou love 
 Who art a light to guide, a rod 
 
 To check the erring, and reprove ; 
 Thou who art victory and law 
 When empty terrors overawe. 
 Give unto me, made lowly wise, 
 The spirit of self-sacrifice. Wordsworth. 
 
 Cold duty's path is not so blithely trod 
 Which leads the mournful spirit to its God. 
 
 Herbert. 
 
 Rugged strength and radiant beauty — 
 These were one in nature's plan ; 
 
 Humble toil and heavenward duty — 
 These will form the perfect man. 
 
 Mrs. Halt. 
 
 Vain we number every duty. 
 
 Number all our prayers and tears, 
 
 Still the spirit lacketh beauty, 
 Still it droops with many fears. 
 
 M7's. Oakes Smithy 
 
516 
 
 CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS. 
 
 To hallowed duty, 
 Here with a loyal and heroic heart, 
 Bind we our lives. 
 
 Mrs. Osgood. 
 
 Then the purposes of life 
 Stood apart from vulgar strife, 
 Labor in the path of duty 
 Gleamed up like a thing of beauty. 
 
 Crunch, 
 
 EDUCATION. 
 
 *Tis education forms the common mind; 
 Just as the twig is bent, the tree's inclined. 
 Boastful and rough, your first son is a squire ; 
 The next a tradesman meek, and much a liar ; 
 Tom struts a soldier, open, bold, and brave ; 
 Will sneaks a scrivener, an exceeding knave : 
 Is he a churchman ? Then he's fond of power ; 
 A Quaker ? Sly ; A Presbyterian ! Sour ; 
 A smart free-thinker ? All things in an hour. 
 
 Pope. 
 
 She taught the child to read, and taught so well, 
 That she herself, by teaching, learned to spell. 
 
 Byron. 
 
 'Tis pleasing to be schooled in a strange tongue 
 
 By female lips and eyes — that is, I mean 
 When both the teacher and the taught are young, 
 
 As was the case at least where I have been ; 
 They smile so when one's right, and when one's 
 
 wrong 
 They smile still more. 
 
 Byron. 
 
 A little learning is a dangerous thing, 
 Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring, 
 
 For shallow draughts intoxicate the brain, 
 
 But drinking largely sobers us again. 
 
 Pope. 
 
 Culture's hand 
 Has scattered verdure o'er the land; 
 And smiles and fragrance rule serene, 
 Where barren wild usurped the scene. 
 And such is man — a soil which breeds 
 Or sweetest flowers, or vilest weeds ; 
 Flowers lovely as the morning's light, 
 Weeds deadly as an aconite : 
 Just as his heart is trained to bear 
 The poisonous weed, or flow' ret fair. 
 
 Bowring. 
 
 Learning by study must be won ; 
 'Twas ne'er entailed from sire to son. 
 
 Gay. 
 
 And say to mothers what a holy charge 
 Is theirs — with what a kingly power their love 
 Might rule the fountains of the new-born mind ; 
 Warn them to wake at early dawn, and sew 
 Good seed before the world has sown its tares. 
 
 Mrs. Sigourney. 
 
 Look through the casement of yon village school, 
 Where now the pedant with his oaken rule, 
 Sits like Augustus on the imperial throne. 
 Between two poets yet to fame unknown. 
 
 Fields, 
 
 ENTHUSIASM. 
 
 No wild enthusiast ever yet could rest, 
 'Till half mankind were like himself possessed. 
 
 Cowper. 
 
 And rash enthusiasm in good society 
 Were nothing but a moral inebriety. 
 
 In every secret glance he stole 
 The fond enthusiast sent his soul. 
 
 Byron. 
 
 Scott. 
 
 I gaze upon the thousand stars 
 
 That fill the midnight sky ; 
 And wish, so passionately wish, 
 
 A light like theirs on high. 
 I have such eagerness of hope 
 
 To benefit my kind ; 
 I feel as if immortal power 
 
 Were given to my mind. 
 
 Miss Landon, 
 
 ERROR. 
 
 O hateful error, melancholy's child ! 
 
 Why dost thou show to the apt thoughts of men 
 
 The things that are not? O error, soon conceived, 
 
 Thou never com'st unto a happy birth. 
 
 But kill' St the mother that engendered thee. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 When people once are in the wrong. 
 Each line they add is much too long; 
 Who fastest walks, but walks astray. 
 Is only furthest from his way. 
 
 Prior. 
 
 By tasting of the fruit forbid 
 Where they sought knowledge they did error find, 
 111 they desired to know, and ill they did. 
 And to give passion eyes made reason blind. 
 
 Davies. 
 
 Error is worse than ignorance. Bailey. 
 Error's monstrous shapes from earth are driven : 
 They fade, they fly — but truth survives the flight. 
 
 Bryant. 
 
 Verily, there is nothing so true, that the damps of 
 error hath not warped it. Tupper. 
 
CYCLOPEDIA 
 
 ^^j^TICAL QUOTATIONS, 
 
 517 
 
 ETIQUETTE. 
 
 There's nothing in the world like etiquette 
 In kingly chambers or imperial halls, 
 As also at the race and county balls. 
 
 Byron. 
 
 There was a general whisper,, toss, and wriggle, 
 But etiquette forbade them all to giggle. 
 
 Byron. 
 
 Harshly falls 
 The doom upon the ear — " She's not genteel !" 
 And pitiless is woman who doth keep 
 Of " good society " the golden key 1 
 And gentlemen are bound, as are the stars, 
 To stoop not after rising. 
 
 Willis, 
 
 EXAMPLE. 
 
 For as the light 
 Not only serves to show, but render us _ 
 Mutually profitable; so our lives, 
 In acts exemplary, not only win 
 Ourselves good names, but do to others give 
 Matter for virtuous deeds, by which we live. 
 
 Chap7na?i. 
 Heaven me such uses send ; 
 Not to pick bad from bad ; but by bad, mend ! 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 No age hath been, since nature first began 
 To work Jove's wonders, but hath left behind 
 Some deeds of praise for mirrors unto man. 
 Which more than threatful laws have men in. 
 
 clined, 
 To tread the paths of praise excites the mind : 
 Mirrors tie thoughts to virtue's due respects; 
 Examples hasten deeds to good eftects. 
 
 Sackville. 
 
 EYES. 
 
 Those eyes, those eyes, how full of heaven they are, 
 When the calm twilight leaves the heaven most 
 holy ! 
 Tell me, sweet eyes, from what divinest star 
 Did ye drink in your liquid melancholy ? 
 Tell me, beloved eyes ! 
 
 Bidiver. 
 
 Some praise the eyes they love to see, 
 As rivalling the western star ; 
 
 But eyes I know well worth to me 
 
 A thousand firmaments afar. Sterling. 
 
 Those eyes that were so bright, love. 
 
 Have now a dimmer shine ; 
 But what they've lost in light, love, 
 
 Is what they gave to mine. 
 And still those orbs reflect, love. 
 
 The beams of former hours. 
 That ripened all my joys, love, 
 
 And tinted all my flowers. Hood. 
 
 His eye was blue and calm, as is the sky 
 In the serenest noon. Willis. 
 
 I have sat, 
 And in the blue depths of her stainless eyes 
 Have gazed ! Willis. 
 
 Those eyes — among thine elder friends 
 Perhaps they pass for blue ; — 
 
 No matter — if a man can see, 
 AVhat more have eyes to do ? 
 
 Holmes. 
 
 I look upon the fair blue skies, 
 
 And naught but empty air I see ; 
 But when I turn me to thine eyes. 
 
 It seemeth unto me 
 Ten thousand angels spread their wings 
 Within those little azure rings. 
 
 Holmes. 
 
 The bright black eye, the melting blue, 
 I cannot choose between the two. 
 But that is dearest, all the while. 
 Which wears for us the sweetest smile. 
 
 Holmes, 
 
 FAITH, 
 
 Faith is the subtle chain 
 That binds us to the Infinite : the voice 
 Of a deep life within, that will remain 
 Until we crowd it thence. Mrs. Oakes Smith. 
 
 Faith loves to lean on time's destroying arm, 
 And age, like distance, lends a double charm. 
 
 Holmes. 
 
 Great faith it needs, according to my view, 
 To trust in that which never could be true. 
 
 Benjamin. 
 
 Faith builds a bridge =icross the gulf of death, 
 To break the shock blind nature cannot shun, 
 And lands thought smoothly on the further sho^-e- 
 
 Yoimg. 
 
 But faith, fanatic faith, once wedded fast 
 To dear falsehood, hugs it to the last. 
 
 Moore, 
 
 There lives more faith in honest doubt, 
 Believe me, than in half the creeds. 
 
 Tennyson. 
 
518 
 
 CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS, 
 
 FAME. 
 
 Fame ! Fame ! thou canst not be the stay 
 
 Unto tlie drooping reed, 
 The cool fresh fountain in the day 
 
 Of the soul's feverish need : 
 Where must the lone one turn or flee ? 
 Not unto thee, oh ! not to thee ! 
 
 Mrs. Heinans. 
 
 Of all the phantoms fleeting in the mist 
 Of Time, though meagre all and ghostly thin, 
 Most unsubstantial, unessential shade 
 Was earthly fame. 
 
 Pollock. 
 
 I am a woman — tell me not of fame, 
 The eagle's wing may sweep the stormy path, 
 \nd fling back arrows where the dove would die. 
 
 Miss Lajidon. 
 
 Nor let thy noble spirit grieve, 
 
 Its life of glorious fame to leave — 
 
 A life of honor and of worth 
 
 Has no eternity on earth. Longfellow, 
 
 The world may scorn me, if they choose — I care 
 But little for their scoffings. I may sink 
 For moments; but I rise again, nor shrink 
 
 From doing what the faithful heart inspires. 
 I will not flatter, fawn, nor crouch, nor wink. 
 At what high mounted wealth or power desires 
 I have a loftier aim, to which my soul aspires. 
 
 Percival. 
 We tell thy doom without a sigh. 
 
 For thou art freedom's now, and fame's — 
 One of the few immortal names 
 That were not born to die. Halleck. 
 
 FAREWELL. 
 
 Fare thee well ! yet think awhile 
 
 On one whose bosom bleeds to doubt thee ; 
 Who now would rather trust thy smile. 
 
 And die with thee, than live without thee. 
 
 Moore. 
 *Twere vain to speak, to weep, to sigh ; 
 
 Oh ! more than tears of blood can tell, 
 When wrung from guilt's expiring eye. 
 
 Are in the word, farewell — farewell ! 
 
 Byron. 
 
 Farewell ! there's but one pang in death, 
 One only — leaving thee ! 
 
 Mrs. Heinans. 
 
 Farewell ! the early dews that fall 
 Upon the grass-grown bed, 
 
 Are like the thoughts that now recall 
 
 Thine image of the dead. 
 A blessing hallows thy dark cell — 
 I will not stay to weep. — Farewell. 
 
 Miss Landon. 
 
 Farewell — thou hast trampled love's faith in the 
 
 dust, 
 Thou hast torn from my bosom its hope and its 
 
 trust ; 
 Yet^ k"thy life's current with bliss it would swell, 
 I would 
 
 pour out my own m 
 
 this last fond fare- 
 well ! Hoffman. 
 
 And, like som.e low and mournful spell, 
 To whisper but one word — farewell ! 
 
 Benjamin, 
 
 FASHION. 
 
 Oh ! wreathe the ribbon lightly round, 
 
 And tie it 'neath your chin; 
 And do not let its folds be bound 
 
 By needle or by pin ! 
 It is unworthy, lady dear. 
 
 Your dignity of mind, 
 To take such trouble with your gear. 
 
 Mrs. Osgood. 
 
 Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion 
 
 Round the wealthy bride ; 
 But when compared with real passion 
 
 Poor is all that pride — 
 What are their showy treasures? 
 What are their noisy pleasures ? 
 
 The gay, gaudy glare of vanity and art — 
 The polished jewels blaze 
 May draw the wondering gaze. 
 
 But never, never can come near the worthy heart. 
 
 Burns. 
 
 The company is " mixed." (The phrase I 
 
 quote is 
 As much as saying, they're below your notice.) 
 
 Byron. 
 
 Fashion's smiles, that rich ones claim, 
 
 Are beams of a wintry day ; 
 How cold and dim those beams would be 
 
 Should life's poor wanderer come ! 
 
 Mrs. Hale. 
 
 FEAR. 
 
 The night came on alone, 
 
 The little stars sat one by one 
 
 Each on his golden throne ; 
 
 The evening air passed by my cheek, 
 
 The leaves above were stirred, 
 But the beating of my own heart 
 Was all the sound I heard. 
 
 Milnes, 
 
CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS. 
 
 519 
 
 But that I am forbid 
 To tell the secrets of my prison-house, 
 I could a tale unfold, whose lightest word 
 Would harrow up thy soul ; freeze thy young 
 
 blood ; 
 Make thy two eyes, like stars, start from their 
 
 spheres ; 
 Thy knotted and combined locks to part. 
 And each particular hair to stand on end. 
 Like quills upon the fretful porcupine. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 Hast thou learned to doubt professions, and dis- 
 trust 
 
 The word of promise? — if not so, the world has 
 been more just 
 
 To thee than me. Miss Bogart. 
 
 Like one, that on a lonesome road 
 
 Doth walk in fear and dread. 
 And having once turned round walks on, 
 
 And turns no more his head ; 
 Because he knows a frightful fiend 
 
 Doth close behind him tread. 
 
 Coleridge. 
 
 And what art thou ? I know, but dare not speak ! 
 
 Shelley. 
 
 Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness. 
 
 Keats, 
 
 The workings of the soul ye fear ; 
 
 Ye fear the power that goodness hath ; 
 Ye fear the unseen One ever near. 
 
 Walking his ocean path. Dana. 
 
 FICKLENESS. 
 
 Ev'fi as one heat another heat expels, 
 Or as one nail by strength drives out another; 
 So the remembrance of my former love, 
 Is by a newer object quite forgotten. 
 
 Shakespeare, 
 
 How long must women wish in vain 
 
 A constant love to find ? 
 No art can fickle man retain. 
 
 Or fix a roving mind. 
 Yet fondly we ourselves deceive, 
 
 And empty hopes pursue ; 
 Though false to others, we believe 
 
 They will to us prove true. 
 
 Shadwell. 
 
 Three things a wise man will not trust. 
 The wind, the sunshine of an April day, 
 And woman's plighted faith. 1 have beheJd 
 The weathercock upon the steeple point 
 Steady from morn till eve, and I have seen 
 The bees go forth upon an April morn. 
 Secure the sunshine will not end in showers : 
 But when was woman true ? Southey, 
 
 The dream on the pillow, 
 
 That flits with the day. 
 The leaf of the willow 
 
 A breath wears away ; 
 The dust on the blossom. 
 
 The spray on the sea ; 
 Ay — ask thine own bosom — 
 
 Are emblems of thee. Miss Landon, 
 
 FIDELITY. 
 
 Fdthful found 
 Among the fci^thless, faithful only he; 
 Among innumerable false, unmov'd. 
 Unshaken, unseduced, unterrified; 
 His loyalty he kept, his love, his zeal ; 
 Nor number, nor example with him wrought 
 To swerve from truth, or change his constant 
 
 mind 
 Though single. Miltoii. 
 
 She is as constant as the stars 
 That never vary, and more chaste than they. 
 
 Proctor. 
 
 Full many a miserable year hath passed — 
 She knows him as one dead, or worse than dead. 
 And many a change her varied life hath known, 
 But her heart none. Matitriii. 
 
 Oh ! if there be an elysium on earth, 
 
 It is this — 
 When two that are linked in one heavenly tie. 
 Love on through all ills, and love on till they die, 
 
 Moore. 
 
 My heart too firmly trusted, fondly gave 
 Itself to all its tenderness a slave ; 
 I had no wish but thee, and only thee ; 
 I knew no happiness but only while 
 Thy love-lit eyes were kindly turned on me. 
 
 Percival. 
 
 Within her heart was his image. 
 Clothed in the beauty of love and youth, as last 
 
 she beheld him, 
 Only more beautiful made by his death-like silence 
 
 and absence. Longfellow. 
 
 FLOWERS. 
 
 Oh ! wKst ^^dder thoughts beneath 
 Those s:'(ent flowers are lying. 
 
 Hid within the mystic wreath 
 
 My love hath kissed in tying. Moore. 
 
 A violet by a mossy stone, 
 
 Half-hidden from the eye, 
 Fair as a star, when only one 
 
 Is shining in the sky. Wordsworth, 
 
520 
 
 CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS, 
 
 O flowers, 
 That never will in other climate grow, 
 My early visitation, and my last 
 At ev'n, while I bred up with tender hand 
 From the first opening bud, and gave ye names, 
 Who now shall rear ye to the sun, or rank 
 Your tribes, and water from th' ambrosial fount ? 
 
 Milton. 
 
 'Twas a lovely thought to mark the hours 
 
 As they floated in light away. 
 By the opening and the folding flowers 
 
 That laugh to the summer's day: 
 Oh ! let us live, so that flower by flower, 
 
 Shutting in turn, may leave 
 A lingerer still for the sunset hour, 
 
 A charm for the shaded eve. 
 
 Mrs. Heinans. 
 
 Flowers are love's truest language, 
 
 Benjamin. 
 
 FORGIVENESS 
 
 Bring flowers to crown the cup and lute- 
 Bring flowers — the bride is near ; 
 
 Bring flower? to soothe the captive's cell, 
 Bring flowers to strew the bier ! 
 
 Miss Landon,. 
 
 There is to me 
 A daintiness about these early flowers, 
 That touches me like poetry. They blow out 
 With such a simple loveliness among 
 The common herbs of pasture, and they breatht 
 Their lives so unobtrusively, like hearts 
 Whose beatings are too gentle for the world. 
 
 Willis. 
 
 Sweet flower, thou tell'st how hearts 
 As pure and tender as thy leaf — as low 
 And humble as thy stem — will surely know 
 
 The joy that peace imparts. 
 
 Pcrcival. 
 
 Let us no more contend, nor blame 
 Each other, blam'd enough elsewhere, but strive, 
 In offices of love, how we may lighten 
 Each other's burden, in our share of woe. 
 
 Milton. 
 
 'Tis easier for the generous to forgive. 
 Than for offence to ask it 
 
 Thojnson. 
 
 Young men soon give, and soon forget affronts ; 
 Old age is slow in both. 
 
 Addison. 
 
 That curse shall be — forgiveness I 
 
 Byro7i. 
 Thou hast the secret of my heart — 
 Forgive, be generous and depart. 
 
 Scott 
 
 They who forgive most shall be most forgiven. 
 
 Bailey 
 
 If I do wrong, forgive me or I die ; 
 
 And thou wilt then be wretcheder than I ;- 
 
 The unforgiving than the unforgiven. 
 
 Bailey, 
 
 FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 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 ? 
 
 Moore. 
 
 And what is friendship but a name, 
 
 A charm, that lulls to sleep ; 
 A shade that follows wealth or fame. 
 
 And leaves the wretch to weep ? Goldsmith. 
 
 Friends are like melons. Shall I tell you why ? 
 To find one good, you must a hundred try. 
 
 Majitiet. 
 
 So we grew together. 
 Like to a double cherry, seeming parted, 
 But yet a union in partition, 
 Two lovely berries moulded on one stem ; 
 So, with two seeming bodies, but one heart. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 Let others boast them as they may. 
 
 Of spirits kind and true. 
 Whose gentle words and loving smiles 
 
 Have cheered them on life through ; 
 And though they count of friends a host. 
 
 To bless the paths they've trod, 
 These are the ones have loved t?ie most. 
 
 My mother, wife, and God. 
 
 Coe. 
 
 God, who oft descends to visit men 
 Unseen, and through their habitations walks 
 To mark their doings. Milton, 
 
 God into the hands of their deliverer 
 Puts invincible might, 
 
 To quell the mighty of the earth, the oppressor- 
 The brute and boist'rous force of violent men. 
 
 Milton. 
 
 GOD. 
 
 Where'er thou art. He is ; the eternal mind 
 Acts through all places ; is to none confined ; 
 Fills ocean, earth, and air, and all above, 
 And through the universal mass does move. 
 
 Dryden. 
 
 All things that are on earth shall wholly pass away, 
 Except the love of God, which shall live and last 
 for aye. Bryant, 
 
CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS. 
 
 521 
 
 Thy great name 
 In all its awful brevity, hath nought 
 Unholy breeding in it, but doth bless 
 Rather the tongue that uses it; for me, 
 I ask no higher ofhce than to fling 
 My spirit at thy feet, and cry thy name, 
 God ! through eternity. 
 
 Bailey. 
 
 GRIEF. 
 
 Oppressed with grief, oppressed with care, 
 A burden more than I can bear, 
 
 I sit me down and sigh; 
 O life ! thou art a galling load. 
 Along a rough, a weary road, 
 
 To wretches such as I. Bunts. 
 
 Thy grief unmans me, and I fain would meet 
 That which approaches, as a brave man yields 
 With proud submission to a mightier foe. 
 
 Mrs. Hemans. 
 
 I need not say how, one by one. 
 
 Love's flowers have dropped from off love's 
 chain, 
 Enough to say that they are gone, 
 And that they cannot bloom again. 
 
 Miss Landoii. 
 
 The hand of God 
 Has written legibly that man may know 
 The glory of the Maker. Ware. 
 
 The depth 
 Of Glory in the attributes of God, 
 Will measure the capacities of mind ; 
 And as the angels differ, will the ken 
 Of gifted spirits glorify Him more. Willis 
 
 I hush my heart, I hide my tears, 
 
 Lest he my grief should guess 
 Who, watched thee, darling, day and night, 
 
 With patient tenderness; 
 'Twould grieve his generous soul to see 
 
 This anguish wild and vain, 
 And he would deem it sin in me 
 
 To wish thee back again ; 
 But oh ! when I am all alone, 
 
 I cannot calm my grief. 
 
 Mrs. Osgood. 
 
 We look before and after. 
 And pine for what is not ; 
 
 Our sincerest laughter 
 
 With some pain is fraught. 
 
 Shelley. 
 
 HAPPINESS. 
 
 All the good we have rests in the mind ; 
 
 By whose proportions only we redeem 
 Our thoughts from out confusion, and do find 
 
 The measures of ourselves, and of our powers : 
 And that all happiness remains confined 
 
 Within the kingdom of this breast of ours. 
 
 Daniel. 
 
 The spider's most attenuated thread 
 Is cord — is cable — to man's tender tie 
 On earthly bliss : it breaks at every breeze. 
 
 Yoimg. 
 
 We were not made to wander on the wing: 
 But if we would be happy, Ave must bring 
 Our buoyed hearts to a plain and simple school. 
 
 Percival. 
 
 \ True happiness is not the growth of earth, 
 The soil is fruitless if you seek it there: 
 'Tis an exotic of celestial birth. 
 
 And never blooms but in celestial air. 
 Sweet plant of paradise ! its seeds are sown 
 
 In here and there a breast of heavenly mould, 
 It rises slow, and buds, but ne'er was known 
 To blossom here — the climate is too cold. 
 
 Sheridan. 
 
 There comes 
 For ever something between us and what 
 We deem our happiness. Byron. 
 
 True happiness (if understood) 
 Consists alone in doing good. 
 
 Soinerville. 
 
 The common ingredients of health and Ion 
 
 are 
 Great temp' ranee, open air. 
 Easy labor, little care. Sir F. Sidjiey. 
 
 HEALTH 
 
 •life 
 
 The surest road to health, say what they will, 
 Is never to suppose we shall be ill. 
 Most of those evils we poor mortals know 
 From doctors and imagination flow. Churchill. 
 
 HEART. 
 
 Father of spirits, hear ! 
 Look on the inmost heart to thee reveal' d. 
 Look on the fountain of the burning tear. 
 
 Mrs Hemans. 
 
 Heaven's Sovereign spares all beings but himself 
 That hideous sight — a naked, human heart ! 
 
 Young. 
 And power sublime is that of heart. Austin. 
 
522 
 
 CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS, 
 
 The heart is like the sky a part of heaven, 
 
 But changes, night and day, too, like the sky ; 
 Now o'er it clouds and thunder must be driven, 
 
 And darkness and destruction, as on high ; 
 But when it hath been scorch'd and pierced and 
 riven, 
 Its storms expire in water-drops ; the eye 
 Pours forth, at last, the heart's blood turn'd to tears. 
 
 Byron. 
 To me she gave her heart — the all 
 Which tyranny cannot enthral. Byron. 
 
 I am not old — though time has set 
 
 His signet on my brow, 
 And some faint furrows there have met, 
 
 Which care may deepen now ; — 
 For in my heart a fountain flows, 
 And round it pleasant thoughts repose, 
 And sympathies and feelings high 
 Spring like the stars on evening sky. 
 
 Be?ijamm. 
 A woman's heart, that touch of heaven. 
 
 Burt, 
 
 HEAVEN. 
 
 Ye stars ! which are the poetry of heaven ; 
 If in your bright leaves we would read the fate 
 Of men and empires — 'tis to be forgiven. 
 That in our aspirations to be great, 
 Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state. 
 And claim a kindred with you ; for ye are 
 A beauty and a mystery, and create 
 In us such love and reverence from afar. 
 That fortune, fame, power, life, have named 
 themselves a star. Byron. 
 
 I cannot be content with less than Heaven : 
 O Heaven, I love thee ever ! sole and whole, 
 Living, and comprehensive of all life ; 
 Thee, agy world, thee, universal Heaven, 
 And heavenly universe ! 
 
 Bailey, 
 
 Heaven asks no surplice round the heart that feels, 
 And all is holy where devotion kneels. 
 
 Holmes, 
 
 HOME. 
 
 The angry word suppressed, the taunting thoughts ; 
 
 Subduing and subdued, the petty strife. 
 
 Which clouds the color of domestic life, 
 
 The sober comfort, all the peace which springs 
 
 From the large aggregate of little things ; 
 
 On these small cares of — daughter — wife — or friend, 
 
 The almost sacred joys of home depend. 
 
 Hannah Moore. 
 We leave 
 Our home in youth — no matter to what end — 
 Study— or strife — or pleasure, or what not; 
 And coming back in few short years, we find 
 All as we left it outside ; the old elms. 
 The house, the grass, gates, and latchet's self- 
 same click : 
 But lift that latchet — all is changed as doom. 
 
 Bailey. 
 
 His warm but simple home where he enjoys 
 With her who shares his pleasure and his heart, 
 Sweet converse. 
 
 Cowper, 
 
 Give me my home, to quiet dear, 
 
 Where hours untold and peaceful move ; 
 
 So fate ordain I sometimes there 
 May hear the voice of him I love. 
 
 Mrs. Opie, 
 
 The land was beautiful — 
 Fair rose the spires, and gay the buildings were. 
 And rich the plains, like dreams of blessed isles ; 
 But when I heard my country's music breathe, 
 I sighed to be among her wilds again ! 
 
 Maturin. 
 
 HOPE. 
 
 Work without hope draws nectar in a sieve. 
 And hope without an object cannot live. 
 
 Coleridge. 
 Hope on — hope ever ! — by the sudden springing 
 Of green leaves which the winter hid so long; 
 And by the burst of free, triumphant singing. 
 After cold silent months the Avoods among ; 
 And by the rending of the frozen chains. 
 Which bound the glorious river of the plains, 
 Hope on — hope ever. Mrs. Hemans. 
 
 God wills, man hopes ; in common souls 
 
 Hope is but vague and undefined. 
 Till from the poet's tongue the message rolls 
 A blessing to his kind. Lowell. 
 
 How disappointment tracks 
 The steps of hope ! Miss Landon. 
 
 Though at times my spirit fails me. 
 
 And the bitter tear-drops fall, 
 Though my lot is hard and lonely. 
 Yet I hope — I hope through all. 
 
 Mrs. Norton, 
 Come then , oh care ! oh grief ! oh woe ! 
 
 Oh troubles ! mighty in your kind, 
 I have a balm ye ne'er can know, 
 
 A hopeful mind. Vane. 
 Other hope had she none, nor wish in life, but to 
 
 follow 
 Meekly, with reverent steps, the sacred feet of the 
 Saviour. Longfellow. 
 
 Hopes, that beckon with delusive gleams. 
 Till the eye dances in the void of dreams. 
 
 Holmes, 
 
CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL QUOTAIIONS. 
 
 523 
 
 HUMILITY. 
 
 Humility, that low, sweet root, 
 
 From whicii all heavenly virtues shoot. Moore. 
 
 The meek mountain daisy, with delicate crest. 
 And the violet whose eye told the heaven of her 
 breast. Mrs. Sigourney. 
 
 Lowliness is the base of every virtue : 
 
 And he who goes the lowest, builds the safest. 
 
 My God keeps all his pity for the proud. Bailey. 
 
 Humility mainly becometh the converse of man 
 
 with his Maker, 
 But oftentimes it seemeth out of place of man with 
 
 man; 
 Render unto all men their due, but remember thou 
 
 also art a man. 
 And cheat not thyself of the reverence which is 
 
 owing to thy reasonable being. 
 
 Tupper, 
 
 HUSBANDS. 
 
 Look here upon this picture, and on this: 
 The counterfeit presentment of two brothers: 
 See, what a grace was seated on this brow ; 
 Hyperion's curls; the front of Jove himself; 
 An eye, like Mars, to threaten or command ; 
 A station, like the herald Mercury, 
 New lighted on a heaven-kissing hill ; 
 A combination, and a form indeed. 
 Where every god did seem to set his seal. 
 To give the world assurance of a man ! 
 This was your husband — Look you now what 
 follows ; 
 
 There is your husband — like a mildewed ear 
 Blasting his wholesome brother. Shakespeare. 
 
 To all married men be this caution. 
 Which they should duly tender as their life, 
 Neither to doat too much, nor doubt a wife. 
 
 Massinger. 
 
 A narrow-minded husband is a thief 
 To his own fame, and his preferment too ; 
 He shuts his parts and fortunes from the world ; 
 While from the popular vote and knowledge, 
 Men rise to employment in the state. Shirley, 
 
 IDLENESS. 
 
 I would not waste my spring of youth 
 In idle dalliance : I would plant rich seeds. 
 To blossom in my manhood, and bear fruit 
 When I am old. Hillhouse. 
 
 Tax not my sloth that I 
 
 Fold my arras beside the brook ; 
 
 Each cloud that floateth in the sky 
 
 Writes a letter in my book. Emerson. 
 
 Long has it been my fate to hear 
 The slave of mammon, with a sneer. 
 
 My indolence reprove ; 
 Ah, little knows he of the care, 
 The toil, the hardship that I bear, 
 While lolling in my elbow-chair. 
 
 And seeming scarce to move. 
 
 Allston, 
 
 IMMORTALITY. 
 
 Cold in the dust this perished heart may lie, 
 But that which warmed it once shall never die. 
 
 Campbell. 
 
 O, listen man ! 
 A voice with within us speaks that startling word, 
 " Man, thou shalt never die ! " Celestial voices 
 Hymn it unto our souls : according harps. 
 By angel fingers touched, when the mild stars 
 Of morning sang together, sound forth still 
 The song of our great immortality. 
 
 Da7ia. 
 
 It is wonderful. 
 That man should hold himself so haughtily, 
 And talk of an immortal name, and feed 
 His proud ambition with such daring hopes 
 As creatures of a more eternal nature 
 Alone should form. Percival, 
 
 Press onward through each varying hour ; 
 
 Let no weak fears thy course delay; 
 Immortal being ! feel thy power. 
 
 Pursue thy bright and endless way. 
 
 Norton, 
 
 INDUSTRY. 
 
 The chiefest action for a man of spirit, 
 Is never to be out of action ; we should think 
 The soul was never put into the body, 
 Which has so many rare and curious pieces 
 Of mathematical motion, to stand still. 
 Virtue is ever sowing of her seeds. 
 
 Webster. 
 
 Work for some .i2;or,d, be it ever so slowly ; 
 Cherish some liower, be it ever so lowly ; 
 Labor — all labor is noble and holy. Mrs. Osgood. 
 
 Chide me not, laborious band, 
 For the idle flowers I brought ; 
 
 Every aster in my hand 
 
 Goes home loaded with a thought. 
 
 Emerson, 
 
 Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, 
 Is our destined end or way; 
 
 But to act, that each to-morrow 
 Find us farther than to-day. 
 
 Longfellow. 
 
524 
 
 CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL QUOTATION^. 
 
 JEALOUSY. 
 
 Ah no ! my love knows no vain jealousy ; 
 The rose that blooms and lives but in the sun, 
 Asks not what other flowers he shines upon, 
 If he but shine on her. Afine C. Lynch. 
 
 In gentle love the sweetest joys we find — 
 Yet even those joys, dire jealousy molests, 
 And blackens each fair image in our breasts. 
 
 Lyttleton. 
 
 Hence, jealousy ; thou fatal lying fiend, 
 Thou false seducer of our hearts, be gone ! 
 
 C. Joluison. 
 
 To doubt's an injury; to suspect a friend 
 Is breach of friendship : jealousy's a seed 
 Sown but in vicious minds ; prone to distrust, 
 Because apt to deceive. 
 
 Lansdown, 
 
 Her maids were old, and if she took a new one, 
 You might be sure she was a perfect fright : 
 She did this during even her husband's life — 
 I recommend as much to every wife. 
 
 Byron^ 
 
 JUSTICE. 
 
 Ay, justice, who evades her? 
 
 Her scales reach every heart ; 
 The action and the motive. 
 
 She weigheth each apart ; 
 And none who swerve from right or truth 
 
 Can 'scape her penalty ! Blrs. Hale, 
 
 Good my liege, for justice 
 All place a temple, and all season, summer ! 
 Do you deny my justice ? Bulwer. 
 
 Remember, One, a judge of righteous men. 
 
 Swore to spare Sodom if she held but ten ! 
 
 Holmes. 
 A happy lot be thine, and larger light 
 
 Await thee there ; for thou hast bound thy will, 
 In cheerful homage to the rule of right. 
 
 And lovest all, and doest good for ill. Bryant. 
 
 Man is unjust, but God is just ; and finally justice 
 Triumphs. Longfellow, 
 
 KINDNESS. 
 
 Generous as brave, 
 Affection, kindness, the sweet offices 
 Of love and duty, were to him as needful 
 As his daily bread. Rogers. 
 
 I may be kind, 
 And meet with kindness, yet be lonely still. 
 
 Miss Landon. 
 
 Both men and women belie their nature 
 When they are not kind. Bailey. 
 
 Think me not unkind and rude 
 
 That I walk alone in grove and glen ; 
 
 I go to the god of the wood 
 To fetch his word to men. 
 
 Emerson. 
 
 Speak gently ! Love doth whisper low 
 The vows that true hearts bind ; 
 
 And gently friendship's accents flow ; 
 Affection's voice is kind. BaUs. 
 
 KISS. 
 
 Oh ! let me live for ever on those lips ! 
 The nectar of the gods to these is tasteless. 
 
 Dry den. 
 
 Soft child of love — thou balmy bliss. 
 Inform me, O delicious kiss ! 
 Why thou so suddenly art gone. 
 Lost in the moment thou art won ? 
 
 Wolcot. 
 
 A long, long kiss, a kiss of youth and love. 
 
 Byron . 
 
 My heart can kiss no heart but thine, 
 And if these lips but rarely pine 
 
 In the pale abstinence of sorrow. 
 It is that nightly I divine. 
 As I this world-sick soul recline, 
 
 I shall be with thee ere the morrow- 
 
 Bailey' 
 
 And with a velvet lip print on his brow. 
 Such language as the tongue hath never spoken. 
 
 Mrs. Sigourney. 
 
 KNOWLEDGE. 
 
 wad some power the giftie gie us 
 To see oursels as others see us ! 
 
 It wad frae mony a blunder free us, 
 
 An' foolish notion. Bums. 
 
 1 know is all the mourner saith — 
 Knowledge by suffering entereth — 
 As life is perfected by death. 
 
 Mrs. BrozL<ni}ivr. 
 
 Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers. 
 
 And I linger more and more, 
 And the individual withers. 
 
 And the world is more and more. 
 
 Tennyson. 
 
 Oh ! there is nought on earth worth being known. 
 But God and our own souls. 
 
 Bailey. 
 
CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS^ 
 
 525 
 
 LABOR, 
 
 Give me the fair one, in country or city, 
 Whose home and its duties are dear to her heart, 
 Who cheerfully warbles some rustical ditty, 
 While plying the needle with exquisite art. 
 
 Woodworth. 
 
 ^' Labor is worship" — the robin is singing: 
 "Labor is worship " — the wild bee is ringing. 
 Listen ! that eloquent whisper upspringing, 
 Speaks to thy soul out of nature's great heart. 
 
 3Irs. Osgood. 
 
 Labor is life ! — 'T is the still water faileth; 
 Idleness ever despaireth, bewaileth ; 
 Keep the watch wound, or the dark rust aS' 
 saileth. Mrs. Osgood. 
 
 Here, brothers, secure from all turmoU and dange; 
 
 We reap what we sow, for the soil is our own ; 
 We spread hospitality's board for the stranger, 
 
 And care not a fig for the king on his throne ; 
 We never know want, for we live by our labor. 
 
 And in it contentment and happiness find. 
 
 Morrts, 
 
 LIBERTY. 
 
 For freedom's battle, once begun. 
 Bequeathed by bleeding sire to son, 
 Though baffled oft, is ever won. Byro7i. 
 
 There is a spirit working in the world. 
 Like to a silent, subterranean fire ; 
 
 Yet ever and anon some monarch hurled 
 Aghast and pale, attests its fearful ire : 
 
 The dungeoned nations now once more respire 
 The keen and stirring air of liberty ! 
 
 HilL 
 
 LOVE. 
 
 Come, gentle night; come, loving, black-browed 
 
 night ; 
 Give me my Romeo : and, when he shall die, 
 Take him and cut him out in little stars. 
 And he will make the face of heaven so fine. 
 That all the world will be in love with night, 
 And pay no worship to the garish sun. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 Doubt thou the stars are fire ; 
 
 Doubt that the sun doth move ; 
 Doubt truth to be a liar ; 
 
 But never doubt I love. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 Her hand he seized, and to a shady bank, 
 Thick overhead with verdant roof embowered. 
 He led her nothing loath ; flowers were the couch, 
 Tansies, and violets, and asphodel, 
 A-nd hyacinth, earth's freshest, softest lap. 
 
 Milton. 
 
 My heart's so full of joy. 
 That I shall do some wild extravagance 
 Of love in public; and the foolish world. 
 Which knows not tenderness, will think me mad. 
 
 Dry den. 
 
 The maid that loves 
 Goes out to sea upon a shattered plank. 
 And puts her trust in miracles for safety. 
 
 Young. 
 
 If we love one another. 
 Nothing, in truth, can harm us, whatever mis- 
 chances may happen. 
 
 LongfelloTJO. 
 
 They sin who tell us love can die : 
 With love all other passions fly, 
 All others are but vanity ; 
 Its holy flame forever burneth, 
 From heaven it came, to heaven returneth. 
 
 Southey. 
 
 Oh ! I would ask no happier bed. 
 
 Than the chill wave my love lies under : 
 
 Sweeter to rest together dead, 
 Far sweeter than to live asunder. 
 
 Moore, 
 
 There's not a look, a word of thine, 
 
 My soul hath e'er forgot ; 
 Thou ne'er hast bid a ringlet shine. 
 Nor giv'n thy locks one graceful twine, 
 
 Which I remember not. 
 
 Moore. 
 
 God gives us love. Something to love 
 He lends us ; but when love is grown 
 
 To ripeness, that on which it throve 
 Falls off, and love is left alone. 
 
 Tennyson^ 
 
 True love is at home on a carpet. 
 
 And mightily likes his ease — 
 And true love has an eye for a dinner. 
 
 And starves beneath shady trees. 
 His wing is the fan of a lady. 
 
 His foot's an invisible thing, 
 And his arrow is tipped with a jewel. 
 
 And shot from a silver string. 
 
 Willh. 
 
 MAN. 
 
 This is the state of man ; to-day he puts forth 
 The tender leaves of hope, to-morrow blossoms, 
 And bears his blushing honors thick upon him ; 
 The third day comes a frost, a killing frost. 
 
 And when he thinks, good easy man, full surely 
 His greatness is a ripening, nips his root ; 
 And then he falls as I do. 
 
 Shakespeare, 
 
526 
 
 CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS. 
 
 I dare do all that may become a man ; 
 Who dares do more, is none. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 Yes, thoii mayst sneer, but still I own 
 A love that spreads from zone to zone : 
 No time the sacred fire can smother ! 
 Where breathes the man, I hail the brother. 
 Man ! how sublime — from Heaven his birth — 
 The God's bright Image walks the earth ! 
 And if, at times, his footstep strays, 
 I pity where I may not praise. 
 
 Biilwer. 
 
 Through all disguise, form, place or name 
 Beneath the flaunting robe of sin, 
 
 Through poverty and squallid shame, 
 
 Thou lookest on the man within : 
 On man, as man, retaining yet, 
 
 Howe'er debased, and soiled, and dim, 
 The crown upon his forehead set — 
 The immortal gift of God to him. 
 
 WhiitieK 
 Profounder, profounder, 
 
 Man's spirit must dive: 
 To his aye-rolling orbit 
 
 No goal will arrive. 
 The heavens that now draw him 
 
 With sweetness untold, 
 Once found — for new heavens 
 He spurneth the old. 
 
 Emerso7i. 
 
 MARRIAGE. 
 
 Say, shall I love the fading beauty less. 
 
 Whose spring- tide radiance has been wholly 
 mine ? 
 No — come what will, thy steadfast truth I'll 
 bless ; 
 In vouth, in age, thine own — for ever thine. 
 
 A. A. Watts. 
 
 Although my heart, in earlier youth, 
 Might kindle with more wild desire. 
 
 Believe me, it has gained in truth 
 Much more than it has lost in fire ; 
 
 The flame now warms my inmost core, 
 That then but sparkled on thy brow : 
 
 And though I seemed to love thee more. 
 Yet oh, I love thee better now. Moore. 
 
 Then come the wild weather — come sleet or come 
 
 snow, 
 We will stand by each other, however it blow ; 
 Oppression and sickness, and sorrow and pain, 
 Shall be to our true love as links to the chain. 
 
 Longfellow. 
 
 While other doublets deviate here and there. 
 What secret handcuff binds that pretty pair ? 
 Compactest couple ! pressing side to side, — 
 Ah ! the white bonnet — that reveals the bride ! 
 
 Holmes. 
 
 MOTHER. 
 
 A mother's love — how sweet the name ! 
 
 What is a mother's love? 
 A noble, pure, and tender flame. 
 
 Enkindled from above, 
 To bless a heart of earthly mould ; 
 The warmest love that can grow cold ; 
 
 This is a mother's love. 
 
 Mo7itgomery . 
 
 She was my friend — I had but her — no more, 
 No other upon earth — and as for heaven, 
 I am as they that seek a sign, to whom 
 No sign is given. My mother ! Oh, my mother ! 
 
 Taylor. 
 
 MUSIC. 
 
 My mother ! at that holy name 
 
 Within my bosom there's a gush 
 Of feeling which no time can tame, 
 A feeling which for years of fame 
 
 I would not, could not crush ! Morris. 
 
 And while my soul retains the power 
 
 To think upon each faded year, 
 In every bright or shadowed hour. 
 
 My heart shall hold my mother dear. 
 The hills may tower — the waves may rise, 
 
 And roll between my home and me ; 
 Yet shall my quenchless memories 
 
 Turn with undying love to thee. Clark. 
 
 Music has charms to soothe the savage breast, 
 To soften rocks, and bend the knotted oak. 
 
 Congreve. 
 
 So far was heard the mighty knell. 
 The stag sprung up on Cheviot Fell, 
 Spread his broad nostrils to the wind. 
 Listed before, aside, behind ; 
 And quaked among the mountain fern, 
 To hear that sound so dull and stern. 
 
 Scott. 
 
 There's music in the sighing of a reed ; 
 There's music in the gushing of a rill ; 
 There's music in all things, if men had ears ; 
 Their earth is but an echo of the spheres. Byron. 
 
 There's music in the forest leaves, 
 
 When summer winds are there, 
 And in the lau^h of forest girls. 
 
 That braid their sunny hair. 
 The first wild bird that drinks the dew. 
 
 From violets of the spring, 
 Has music in his song, and in 
 
 The fluttering of his wing. Halleck. 
 
CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS. 
 
 527 
 
 Rich, though poor! 
 My low-roofed cottage is this hour a heaven ; 
 Music is in it — and the song she sings, 
 That sweet-voiced wife of mine arrests the ear 
 Of my young child, awake upon her knee. 
 
 Willis. 
 
 And wheresoever, in his rich creation, 
 
 Sweet music breathes — in wave, or bird, or soul, 
 
 'Tis but the faint and far reverberation 
 
 Of that grand tune to which the planets roll. 
 
 Mrs. Osgood. 
 
 NIGHT. 
 
 Night, sable goddess ! from her ebon throne, 
 In ray less majesty, now stretches forth 
 Her leaden sceptre o'er a slumb'ring world. 
 Silence, how dead ! and darkness, how profound ! 
 Nor eye, nor list'ning ear, an object finds; 
 Creation sleeps. 'Tis as the gen'ral pulse 
 Of life stood still, and nature made a pause ; 
 An awful pause ! prophetic of her end. Yoimg. 
 
 The night has come, but not too soon ; 
 
 And sinking silently, 
 All silently, the little moon 
 
 Drops down behind the sky. Longfellow. 
 
 'Tis dark abroad. The majesty of night 
 Bows down superbly from her utmost height, 
 Stretches her starless plumes across the world. 
 And all the banners of the wind are. furled. 
 
 Neal. 
 
 'Tis now the very witching time of night; 
 When churchyards yawn, and hell itself breathes out 
 Contagion to this world ; now could I drink hot 
 
 blood. 
 And do such business as the bitter day 
 Would quake to look on. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 OPINION. 
 
 How much there is self-will would do, 
 Were it not for the dire dismay 
 
 That bids ye shrink, as ye suddenly think 
 Of '' what will my neighbors say?" 
 
 Eliza Cook. 
 
 Yet in opinions look not always back ; 
 
 Your wake is nothing, mind the coming track; 
 
 Leave what you've done for what you have to do, 
 Don't be "consistent," but be simply true. 
 
 Holmes. 
 
 He loved his kind, but sought the love of few, 
 And valued old opinions more than new. 
 
 Benjamin. 
 
 OPPORTUNITY. 
 
 There is a tide in the affairs of men, 
 Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune ; 
 Omitted, all the voyage of their life 
 Is bound in shallows, and in miseries. 
 
 On such a full sea are we now afloat. 
 
 And we must take the current when it serves. 
 
 Or lose our ventures. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 PARTING. 
 
 Good night, good night! parting is such sweet 
 
 sorrow 
 That I shall say — good night till it be morrow. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 There are two souls whose equal flow 
 In gentle streams so calmly run, 
 
 That when they part — they part ! — ah, no ! 
 They cannot part — those souls are one. 
 
 Barton. 
 
 I must leave thee, lady sweet ! 
 Months shall waste before we meet. 
 Winds are fair, and sails are spread. 
 Anchors leave their ocean bed ; 
 Ere this shining day grows dark. 
 Skies shall gird my shoreless bark ; 
 Through thy tears, O lady mine. 
 Read thy lover's parting line. 
 
 Holmes. 
 
 Well — peace to thy heart, though another's it be, 
 And health to thy cheek, though it bloom not for 
 
 me. 
 
 Moore. 
 
 'Twas bitter then to rend the heart 
 
 With the sad thought that we must part : 
 
 And, like some low and mournful spell. 
 To whisper but one word — farewell. 
 
 Benjamin. 
 
 When forced to part from those we love. 
 
 Though sure to meet to-morrow ; 
 We yet a kind of anguish prove 
 
 And feel a touch of sorrow. 
 But oh ! what words can paint the fears 
 
 When from those friends we sever, 
 Perhaps to part for months — for years — 
 
 Perhaps to part forever. 
 
528 
 
 CYCLOPEDIA 01^ POETICAL QUOTATIONS. 
 
 PATRIOTISM, 
 
 How sleep the brave, who sink to rest, 
 By all their country's wishes blest ! 
 When spring, with dewy fingers cold, 
 Returns to deck their hallowed mould, 
 She there shall dress a sweeter sod, 
 Than fancy's feet have ever trod. 
 By fairy hands their knell is rung. 
 By forms unseen their dirge is sung, 
 There honor comes, a pilgrim gray. 
 To bless the turf that wraps their clay. 
 And freedom shall awhile repair, 
 To dwell a weeping hermit there. Collins. 
 
 Our country first, their glory and their pride. 
 Land of their hopes, land where their fathers died. 
 When in the fight, they'll keep thy honor bright. 
 When in the wrong, they'll die to set it right. 
 
 Fields. 
 
 PEN. 
 
 In days of yore, the poet's pen 
 
 From wing of bird was plundered. 
 Perhaps of goose, but now and then, 
 
 From Jove's own eagle sundered. 
 But now, metallic pens disclose 
 
 Alone the poet's numbers; 
 In iron inspiration glows, 
 
 Or with the poet slumbers. /. Q. Adams. 
 
 The brave are ever tender. 
 And feel the miseries of suffering virtue. 
 
 Marty n. 
 
 Not always is the heart unwise. 
 
 Nor pity idly born, 
 If even a passing stranger sighs 
 
 For those who do not mourn. 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 Then none was for a party ; 
 
 Then all were for the state ; 
 Then the great man helped the poor. 
 
 And the poor man loved the great ; 
 Then lands were fairly portioned ; 
 
 Then spoils were fairly sold ; 
 The Romans were like brothers 
 
 In the brave days of old. 
 
 Maca,ulay„ 
 
 This was the noblest Roman of them all ; 
 
 All the conspirators, save only he. 
 
 Did that they did in envy of great 
 
 Caesar ; 
 He, only, in a general honest thought. 
 And common good to all, niade one of 
 
 them. 
 
 Shakespeare, 
 
 Beneath the rule of men entirely great, 
 
 The pen is mightier than the sword. Behold 
 
 The arch enchanter's wand ! itself a nothing ! 
 
 But taking sorcery from the master hand. 
 
 To paralyze the Caesars, and to strike 
 
 The loud earth breathless ! Bulwer. 
 
 That mighty instrument of little men. 
 
 Byron. 
 
 PITY. 
 
 Pity thee ! So I do ! 
 I pity the dumb victim at the altar — 
 But does the robed priest for his pity falter ? 
 
 Willis. 
 
 Oh, brother man ! fold to thy heart thy brother ; 
 \ Where pity dwells, the peace of God is there. 
 
 Whitiier. 
 
 POLITICS. 
 
 Men who their duties know. 
 But know their rights, and knowing, dare maintain. 
 
 Sir W.Jo7ies. 
 
 Believe me, friends, loud tumults are not laid 
 With half the easiness that they are raised. 
 
 Ben Jonson. 
 
 Dull rogues affect the politician's part, 
 And learn to nod, and smile, and shrug with art ; 
 Who nothing has to lose, the war bewails; 
 A.nd he who nothing pays, at taxes rails. 
 
 Congreve. 
 
 The seals of office glitter in his eyes ; 
 
 He climbs, he pants, he grasps them ; at his heelSj 
 
 Close at his heels, a demagogue ascends. 
 
 And, with a dextrous jerk, soon twists him down, 
 
 And wins them, but to lose them in his turn. 
 
 Cowper. 
 
 Watch thou, and wake when others be asleep. 
 To pry into the secrets of the state. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 Commonwealths by virtue ever stood. 
 
 Sir J. Davies, 
 
 PORTRAIT. 
 
 I've gazed on many a brighter face. 
 But ne*er on one for years, 
 
 Where beauty left so soft a trace 
 As it had left on hers ; 
 
 But who can paint the spell that wove 
 A brightness round the whole ! 
 
 'T would take an angel from the skies 
 
 To paint the immortal soul — 
 To trace the light, the inborn grace. 
 The spirit sparkling o'er her face. 
 
 Mrs. Welby, 
 
 Is she not more than painting can express? 
 
 Rowe. 
 
CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS. 
 
 529 
 
 Waking, I must dream no more, 
 Night has lovelier dreams in store. 
 Picture dear, farewell to thee, 
 Be thine image left with me, 
 
 Miss Landoji, 
 
 The picture, in my memory now, 
 Is fair as morn, and fresh as May ! 
 
 A still, sweet, placid, moonlight face, 
 
 And slightly nonchalant, 
 Which seems to claim a middle place 
 
 Between one's love and aunt, 
 Where childhood's star has left a ray 
 
 In woman's sunniest sky, 
 As mornins: dew and blushing day 
 
 Willis. 
 
 POVERTY. 
 
 On fruit and blossom lie. 
 
 Holmes. 
 
 His raw-boned cheeks, through penury and pine, 
 Were shrunk into his jaws, as he did never dine. 
 
 Spenser. 
 
 O grant me, Heaven, a middle state, 
 Neither too humble nor too great ; 
 More than enough for nature's ends, 
 With something left to treat my friends. 
 
 Mallet. 
 
 Few save the poor feel for the poor j 
 
 The rich know not how hard 
 It is to be of needful rest 
 
 And needful food debarred : 
 They know not of the scanty meal. 
 
 With small, pale faces round ; 
 No fire upon the cold, damp hearth 
 
 When snow is on the ground. Miss Landon. 
 
 What doth the poor man's son inherit? 
 
 Stout muscles and a sinewy heart, 
 A hardy frame, a hardier spirit ; 
 
 King of two hands, he does his part 
 
 In every useful toil and art ; 
 A heritage, it seems to me, 
 A king might wish to hold in fee. 
 
 Lowell. 
 
 O, poor man's son, scorn not thy state; 
 There is worse weariness than thine, 
 
 In merely being rich and great ; 
 Toil only gives the soul to shine, 
 And makes rest fragrant and benign ; 
 
 A heritage, it seems to me, 
 
 Worth being poor to hold in fee. 
 
 Lowell. 
 
 PRAYER. 
 
 Any heart, turned Godward, feels more joy 
 In one short hour of prayer, than e'er was raised 
 By all the feasts on earth since their foundation. 
 
 Bailey. 
 
 In desert wilds, in midnight gloom ; 
 
 In grateful joy, in trying pain ; 
 In laughing youth, or nigh the tomb ; 
 
 Oh ! when is prayer unheard or vain ? 
 
 Eliza Cook. 
 
 There are God and peace above thee : 
 
 Wilt thou languish in despair ? 
 Tread thy griefs beneath thy feet. 
 
 Scale the walls of heaven with prayer — 
 'Tis the key of the apostle. 
 
 That opens heaven from below j 
 *Tis the ladder of the patriarch, 
 
 Whereon angels come and go ! 
 
 Miss Lynch. 
 
 They had no stomach, o'er a grace to nod. 
 Nor time enough to offer thanks to God ; 
 That might be done, they wisely knew. 
 When they had nothing else to do. 
 
 Wolcot. 
 
 O, the precious privilege 
 
 To the pious given — 
 Sending by the dove of prayer 
 
 Holy words to heaven ! 
 Arrows from the burning sun 
 
 Cleave the quivering air — 
 Swifter, softlier, surer on. 
 
 Speeds the dove of prayer, 
 Bearing from the parted lips 
 
 Words of holy love, 
 Warm as from the heart they gushed. 
 
 To the throne above ! 
 
 Mrs. Hale. 
 
 PRIDE. 
 
 Pride (of all others the most dangerous fault) 
 Proceeds from want of sense, or want of thought. 
 The men who labor and digest things most. 
 Will be much apter to despond than boast ; 
 For if 3'our author be profoundly good, 
 *T will cost you dear before he's understood. 
 
 Roscoinnion. 
 
 What is pride? a whizzing rocket 
 That would emulate a star. 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 34 
 
 The fiend that man harries 
 
 Is love of the Best, 
 Yawns the Pit of the Dragon 
 
 Lit by rays from the Blest; 
 The Lethe of Nature 
 
 Can't trance him again, 
 Whose soul sees the Perfect 
 
 Which his eyes seek in vain. 
 Pride ruined the angels, 
 
 Their shame them restores. 
 
 Emerson. 
 
530 
 
 CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS, 
 
 Oh ! ask not a homo in the mansions of pride, 
 Where marble chines out in the pillars and walls; 
 
 Though the roof be of gold it is brilliantly cold, 
 And joy may not bo found in its torch-lighted 
 halls. Eliza Cook. 
 
 Yes — the same sin that overthrew the angels, 
 And of all sins most easily besets 
 Mortals the nearest to the angelic nature : 
 The vile are only vain ; the great are proud. 
 
 Byroth 
 
 PROPOSAL. 
 
 As letters some hand has invisibly traced. 
 
 When held to the flame will steal out to the 
 sight. 
 
 So, many a feeling that long seemed effaced, 
 The warmth of a meeting like this brings to 
 
 lisht ! 
 
 Moore. 
 
 Whither my heart is gone, there follows my hand, 
 
 and not elsewhere, 
 For where the heart goes before, like a lamp, and 
 
 illumines the pathway. 
 Many things are made clear, that else lie hidden 
 
 in darkness. Longfellow. 
 
 *' Yes !" I answered you last night ; 
 *' No !" this morning, sir, I say! 
 Flowers seen by candle-light. 
 Will not look the same by day. 
 
 Mrs. Browni7ig. 
 
 Look how the blue-eyed violets 
 Glance love to one another ! 
 
 Their little leaves are whispering 
 The vows they may not smother. 
 
 The birds are pouring passion forth, 
 In every blossoming tree — 
 
 If flowers and birds talk love, lady, 
 Why not we ? 
 
 And over all the happy earth. 
 Love floweth — like a river — 
 
 True love whose glory fills the sky 
 For ever and for ever. 
 
 The pale hearts of the silver stars 
 Throb, too, as mine to thee — 
 
 All things delight in love, lady, 
 Why not we ? 
 
 Read. 
 
 Read. 
 
 PROVIDENCE. 
 
 Our indiscretion sometimes serves us well ; 
 When our deep plots do pall : and that should 
 
 teach us. 
 There's a divinity that shapes our ends. 
 Rough-hew them how we will. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 The ways of heaven are dark and intricate. 
 Puzzled in mazes, and perplexed with errors ; 
 Our understanding traces them in vain, 
 Lost and bewildered in the fruitless search ; 
 Nor sees with how much art the windings run, 
 Nor where the regular confusion ends. 
 
 Addiso7i. 
 
 Who is it, that will doubt 
 The care of heaven ; or think th' immortal 
 Pow'rs are slow, 'cause they take the privilege 
 
 To choose their own time, when they will send 
 
 their 
 Blessings down. Davenant. 
 
 Go, mark the matchless working of the power 
 That shuts within the seed the future flower; 
 Bids these in elegance of form excel. 
 In color these, and those delight the smell, 
 Sends nature forth, the daughter of the skies, 
 To dance on earth, and charm all human eyes. 
 
 Cowper. 
 
 Thus wisdom speaks 
 To man ; thus calls him through this actual form 
 Of nature, though religion's fuller noon. 
 Through life's bewildering mazes to observe 
 A Providence in all. 
 
 Ogilvie. 
 
 PURITY. 
 
 Around her shone 
 The light of love, the purity of grace. 
 The mind, the music breathing from her face ; 
 The heart whose softness harmonized the whole ; 
 And, oh ! that eye was in itself a soul ! 
 
 Byron. 
 
 Her form was fresher than the morning rose 
 When the dew wets its leaves ; unstained and pure 
 As is the lily, or the mountain snow. 
 
 Thomson. 
 Let me be pure ! 
 Oh ! I wish I was a pure child again, 
 When life was calm as is a sister's kiss. 
 
 Bailey. 
 
 Pure and undimmed, thy angel smile 
 
 Is mirrored on my dreams. 
 Like evening's sunset-girded isle 
 
 Upon her shadowed streams : 
 And o'er my thoughts thy vision floats, 
 Like melody of spring-bird notes. 
 When the blue halcyon gently laves 
 His plumage in the flashing waves. 
 
 Benjamin. 
 
 Sweet beauty sleeps upon thy brow. 
 And floats before my eyes : 
 
 As meek and pure as doves art thou, 
 Or beings of the skies. 
 
 Robert Morris, 
 
CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS. 
 
 531 
 
 Spring has no blossom fairer than thy form ; 
 
 Winter no snow-wreath purer than thy mind ; 
 The dew-drop trembling to the morning beam 
 
 Is like thy smile, pure, transient, heaven-refined. 
 
 Mrs. Pierson. 
 
 I cannot look upon a star, 
 Or cloud that seems a seraph's car, 
 Or any form of purity — 
 Unmingled with a dream of thee. 
 
 Benjamin, 
 
 RAIN. 
 
 The rain is playing its soft pleasant tune 
 Fitfully on the skylight, and the shade 
 Of the fast flying clouds across my book 
 Passes with delicate change. Willis. 
 
 The April rain — the April rain — 
 
 I hear the pleasant sound; 
 Now soft and still, like little dew, 
 
 Now drenching all the ground. 
 Pray tell me why an April shower 
 
 Is ploasanter to see 
 Than falling drops of other rain? 
 
 I'm sure it is to me. Mrs. Oakes Smith. 
 
 Dashing in big drops on the narrow pane. 
 And making mournful music for the mind, 
 While plays his interlude the wizard wind, 
 
 I hear the singing of the frequent rain. 
 
 Burleigh. 
 
 The later rain — it falls in anxious haste 
 
 Upon the sun-dried fields and branches bare. 
 
 Loosening with searching drops the rigid waste. 
 As if it would each root's lost strength repair. 
 
 Jones, 
 
 RAINBOW. 
 
 My heart leaps up when I behold 
 A rainbow in the sky ! 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 Triumphal arch, that fiU'st the sky, 
 
 When storms prepare to part, 
 I ask not proud philosophy 
 
 To tell nie what thou art. 
 Still seem, as to my childhood's sight, 
 
 A midway station given 
 For happy spirits to alight, 
 
 Betwixt the earth and heaven ! 
 
 Campbell. 
 
 The rainbow dies in heaven and not on earth. 
 
 Bailey. 
 
 Far up the blue sky a fair rainbow unrolled 
 Its soft-tinted pinions of purple and gold ; 
 'T was born in a moment, yet quick at its birth, 
 It had stretched to the uttermost ends of the earth, 
 And fair as an angel, it floated as free. 
 With a wing on the earth and a wing on the sea. 
 
 Mrs. Welby. 
 
 O, beautiful rainbow — all woven of light ! — 
 There 's not in thy tissue one shadow of night; 
 Heaven surely is open when thou dost appear. 
 And, bending above thee, the angels draw near, 
 And sing — '' The rainbow ! the rainbow ! 
 The smile of God is here. ' ' 
 
 Mrs. Hale. 
 
 REAPERS. 
 
 Soon as the morning trembles o'er the sky. 
 
 And, unperceived, unfolds the spreading day; 
 
 Before the ripened field the reapers stand. 
 
 In fair array ; each by the lass he loves. 
 
 To bear the rougher part, and mitigate 
 
 By nameless gentle offices her toil. 
 
 At once they stoop and swell the lusty sheaves ; 
 
 While through their cheerful band the rural talk, 
 
 The rural scandal, anc? the rural jest, 
 
 Fly harmless, to deceive the tedious time. 
 
 And steal unfelt the sultry hours away. 
 
 Thomson. 
 
 I love, I love to see 
 
 Bright steel gleam through the land ; 
 'T is a goodly sight, but it must be 
 
 In the reaper's tawny hand. Eliza Cook. 
 
 Around him ply the reapers' band, 
 With lightsome heart and eager hand. 
 
 Priiigle. 
 
 There is a reaper, whose name is death, 
 
 And with his sickle keen, 
 He reaps the bearded grain at a breath. 
 
 And the flowers that grow between. 
 
 Longfellow. 
 
 RELIGION 
 
 Upon my conduct as a whole decide. 
 Such trifling errors let my virtues hide ; 
 Fail I at meeting ? am I sleepy there ? 
 My purse refuse I \vith the priest to share ? 
 Do 1 deny the poor a helping hand ? 
 Or stop the wicked women in the strand ? 
 Or drink at club beyond a certain pitch ? 
 Which are your charges? conscience, tell me which ? 
 
 Crabbe, 
 
 And they believe him! oh! the lover may 
 Distrust that look which steals his soul away; — 
 The babe may cease to think that it can play 
 With heaven's rainbow : — alchymists may doubt 
 The shining gold their crucible gives out ; 
 But faith, fanatic faith, once wedded fast 
 To some dear falsehood, hugs it to the last. 
 
 Moors, 
 
532 
 
 CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS. 
 
 But this it is, all sects, we see, 
 Have watchwords of morality; 
 Some cry out Venus, others Jove, 
 Here 't is religion, there 't is love \ 
 
 Moore. 
 I find the doctors and the sages 
 Have differed in all climes and ages, 
 And two in fifty scarce agree 
 On what is pure morahty. 
 
 Moore. 
 
 My altars are the mountains and the ocean, 
 Earth, air, stars — all that springs from the great 
 
 whole, 
 Who hath produced, and will receive the soul. 
 
 Byro7i. 
 
 The absolutely true religion is 
 In heaven only ; yea, in Deity. 
 
 Bailey. 
 
 Thou didst not leave me, oh my God ! 
 
 Thou wert with those who bore the truth of old 
 Into the deserts from the oppressor's rod, 
 
 And made the caverns of the rock their fold ; 
 And in the hidden chambers of the dead, 
 Our guiding lamp, with fire immortal fed. 
 
 Mrs. Hemans. 
 
 Love never fails ; though knowledge cease. 
 
 Though prophecies decay. 
 Love — Christian love, shall still increase. 
 
 Shall still extend her sway. Peter, 
 
 Cling to thy faith — 't is higher than the thought 
 That questions of thy faith. Mrs. Oakes Smith. 
 
 Man, by nature proud, 
 Was taught the Scriptures by the love of praise, 
 And grew religious, as he grew in fame. 
 
 Pollock, 
 
 ReMEMBRANCE. 
 
 Remember thee ?^ 
 Yea, from the table of my memory 
 I'll wipe away all trivial fond records; 
 All saws of books, all forms, all pressUics past. 
 That youth and observation copied there ; 
 And thy commandment all alone shall live 
 Within the book and volume of my brain. 
 Unmixed with baser matter. Shakespeare. 
 
 She placed it sad, with needless fear, 
 
 Lest time should shake my wavering soul- 
 Unconscious that her image there 
 
 Held every sense in fast control. Byron. 
 
 Oh ! only those 
 Whose souls have felt this one idolatry, 
 Can tell how precious is the slightest thing 
 Affection gives and hallows ! A dead flower 
 Will long be kept, remembrancer of looks 
 That made each leaf a treasure. Miss Lafidon. 
 
 Thy imaged form I shall survey, 
 
 And, pausing at the view. 
 Recall thy gentle smile, and say, 
 
 '' Oh, such a maid I knew ! " Bowles. 
 
 Man hath a weary pilgrimage. 
 
 As through the world he wends ; 
 On every stage, from youth to age. 
 
 Still discontent attends ; 
 With heaviness he casts his eye 
 
 Upon the road before, 
 And still remembers with a sigh, 
 
 The days that are no more. 
 
 Soiithey. 
 
 There's not an hour 
 Of day, or dreaming night, but I am with thee : 
 There's not a wind but whispers of thy name ; 
 And not a flower that sleeps beneath the moon. 
 But in its fragrance tells a tale 
 Of thee. 
 
 Proctor. 
 
 There's not a look, a word of thine, 
 
 My soul hath e'er forgot ; 
 Thou ne'er hast bid a ringlet shine, 
 Nor given thy locks one graceful twine. 
 
 Which I remember not. Moore. 
 
 Oh ! these are the words that eternally utter 
 
 The spell that is seldom cast o'er us in vain ; 
 With the wings and the wand of a fairy they flutter, 
 
 And draw a charmed circle about us again. 
 We return to the spot where our infancy gam- 
 bolled ; 
 We linger once more in the haunts of our youth; 
 We re-tread where young Passion first stealthily 
 rambled. 
 And whispers are heard full of Nature and Truth, 
 Saying, "Don't you remember?" 
 
 Eliza Cook. 
 
 When shall we come to that delightful day, 
 
 When each can sav to each, *' Dost thou remem- 
 ber?" 
 Let us fill urns with rose-leaves in our May, 
 And hive the thrifty sweetness for December r 
 
 Bulwer, 
 Remember me, I pray — but not 
 
 In Flora's gay and blooming hour. 
 When every brake hath found its note. 
 And sunshine smiles in every flower; 
 But when the falling leaf is sere, 
 
 And withers sadly from the tree, 
 And o'er the ruins of the year 
 
 Cold autumn weeps — remember me. 
 
 Everett. 
 Remember me — not, I entreat, 
 
 In scenes of festal week-day joy ; 
 For then it were not kind or meet 
 
 Tliy thoughts thy pleasures should alloy ; 
 --^ But on the sacred Sabbath day, 
 
 And, dearest, on thy bended knee, 
 When thou for those thou lov'st dost pray. 
 Sweet sister, then remember me. Everett, 
 
CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS. 
 
 633 
 
 RICHES. 
 
 Extol not riches then, the toil of fools, 
 
 The wise man's cumbrance, if not snare, more apt 
 To slacken virtue, and abate her edge. 
 Than prompt her to do aught may merit praise. 
 
 Milton. 
 
 Much learning shows how little mortals know ; 
 
 Much wealth, how little worldlings can enjoy ; 
 
 At best, it babies us with endless toys. 
 
 And keeps us children till we drop to dust. 
 
 As monkeys at a mirror stand amazed, 
 
 They fail to find what they so plainly see ; 
 
 Thus men, in shining riches, see the face 
 
 Of happiness, nor know it as a shade ; 
 
 But gaze, and touch, and peep, and peep again, 
 
 And wish, and wonder it is absent still. 
 
 Young. 
 The rich man's son inherits lands, 
 
 And piles of brick, and stone, and gold. 
 And he inherits soft white hands. 
 And tender flesh that fears the cold. 
 Nor dares to wear a garment old ; 
 A heritage, it seems to me, 
 One scarce would wish to hold in fee. Lowell 
 
 \ Then let us get money, like bees lay up honey ; 
 
 We build us new hives and store each cell ; 
 ' The sight of our treasure shall yield us great 
 pleasure, 
 We'll count it, and chink it, and jingle it well. 
 
 Be7i Fra7iklm. 
 My purse is very slim, and very few 
 
 The acres that I number ; 
 But I am seldom stupid, never blue ; 
 My riches are an honest heart and true. 
 And quiet slumber. Say-gent. 
 
 The rich man's son inherits cares; 
 
 The bank may break, the factory burn, 
 A breath may burst his bubble shares. 
 
 And soft white hands could hardly earn 
 
 A living that would serve his turn. 
 
 Loivell. 
 The rich scarce know the sweetest thought 
 
 That gives to gold its worth : 
 'Tis in the dwelling of the poor 
 
 This thankful thought has birth, 
 AVhen, for a time, the wolf of want 
 
 Is driven from the hearth. Mrs. Hale. 
 
 RUMOR. 
 
 The flying rumors gathered as they rolled. 
 Scarce any tale was sooner heard than told. 
 And all who told it added something new. 
 And all who heard it made enlargement, too, 
 In every ear it spread, on everv tongue it grew. 
 
 Pope. 
 
 And when they talk of him, they shake their heads, 
 
 And whisper one another in the ear ; 
 
 And he that speaks doth gripe the hearer's wrist; 
 
 Whilst he that hears makes fearful action, 
 
 With wrinkled brows, with nods, with rolling eyes. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 Rumor is a pipe 
 Blown by surmises, jealousies, conjectures; 
 And of so easy and so plain a stop. 
 That the blunt monster with uncounted heads. 
 The still discordant wavering multitude. 
 Can play upon it. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 By holy Paul, they love his grace but lightly, 
 That fills his ears with such dissentious rumors. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 SABBATH. 
 
 Oh ! welcome to the wearied earth 
 
 The Sabbath resting comes, 
 Gathering the sons of toil and care 
 
 Back to their peaceful homes ; 
 And, like a portal to the skies. 
 
 Opens the house of God, 
 Where all who seek may come and learn 
 
 The way the Saviour trod. 
 But holier to the wanderer seems 
 
 The Sabbath on the deep. 
 When on, and on, in ceaseless course, 
 
 The toiling bark must keep, 
 And not a trace of man appears 
 
 Amid the wilderness 
 Of waters — then it comes like dove 
 
 Direct from heaven to bless. 
 
 Mrs. Hale. 
 
 Fresh glides the brook and blows the gale, 
 
 Yet yonder halts the quiet mill ; 
 The whirring wheel, the rushing sail. 
 
 How motionless and still ! 
 Six days stern labor shuts the poor 
 
 From nature's careless banquet-hall ; 
 The seventh, an angel opes the door. 
 
 And, smiling, welcomes all! 
 
 Btilwer. 
 
 Let us escape ! This is our holiday — 
 
 God's day, devote to rest; and through the 
 
 wood 
 We'll wander, and perchance find heavenly 
 food, 
 So, profitless it shall not pass away. 
 
534 
 
 CYCLOPEDIA OF FUEriCAL QUOTATIONS. 
 
 Yes, child of suffering, thou may'st well be sure 
 He who ordained the Sabbath loves the poor. 
 
 Holmes. 
 
 But, chiefly, man the day of rest enjoys. 
 
 Hail, Sabbath ! thee I hail, the poor man's day: 
 
 On other days, the man of toil is doomed 
 
 To eat his joyless bread, lonely, the ground 
 
 Both seat and board — screened from the winter's 
 
 cold 
 And summer's heat, by neighboring hedge or tree; 
 But on this day, embosomed in his home, 
 He shares the frugal meal with those he loves ; 
 With those he loves he shares the heartfelt joy 
 Of giving thanks to God — not thanks of form. 
 
 A word and a grimace, but reverently, 
 With covered face and upward earnest eye. 
 Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man's day. 
 The pale mechanic now has leave to breatlie 
 The morning air pure from the city's smoke, 
 As wandering slowly up the river's bank, 
 He meditates on Him whose powers he marks 
 In each green tree that proudly spreads the bough^ 
 And in the tiny dew-bent flowers that bloom 
 Around the roots : and while he thus surveys 
 With elevated joy each rural charm. 
 He hopes (yet fears presumption in the hope). 
 That heaven may be one Sabbath without end. 
 
 Grahame. 
 
 SCHOOL. 
 
 See, toward yon dome where village science 
 
 dwells. 
 Where the church-clock its warning summons 
 
 swells, 
 What tiny feet the well-known path explore, 
 And gaily gather from each rustic door. 
 Light-hearted group ! — who carol wild and high, 
 The daisy cull, or chase the butterfly. 
 Or by some traveler's wheels aroused from play, 
 The stiff salute, with deep demureness, pay, 
 Bare the curled brow, and stretch the sunburnt 
 
 hand, 
 The home-taught homage of an artless land. 
 The stranger marks, amid their joyous line, 
 The little baskets, whence they hope to dine, 
 And larger books, as if their dexterous art 
 Dealt most nutrition to the noblest part ! — 
 Long may it be, ere luxury teach the shame 
 To starve the mind, and bloat the unwieldy frame. 
 
 Mrs. Sigourney. 
 
 Oh ye ! who teach the ingenious youth of nations, 
 Holland, France, England, Germany or Spain, 
 I pray ye flog them upon all occasions. 
 It mends their morals, never mind the pain. Byron. 
 In a green lane that from the village street 
 Diverges, stands the school-house ; long and lov/ 
 The frame, and blackened with the hues of time. 
 
 Street. 
 
 The room displays 
 Long rows of desk and bench ; the former stained 
 And streaked with blots and trickles of dried ink. 
 Lumbered with maps and slates, and well-thumbed 
 
 books, 
 And carved with rude initials. Street. 
 
 Yet is the school-house rude, 
 As is the chrysalis to the butterfly — 
 To the rich flower the seed. The dusky walls 
 Hold the fair germ of knowledge, and the tree 
 Glorious in beauty, golden with its fruits, 
 To this low school-house traces back its life. Street, 
 
 SELFISHNESS. 
 
 That smooth-faced gentleman, trickling commo- 
 dity — 
 Commodity the bias of the world : 
 The world, who of itself is poised well, 
 Made to run even, upon even ground ; 
 Till this advantage, this vile drawing bias, 
 This sway of motion, this commodity. 
 Makes it take heed from all indifferency. 
 From all direction, purpose, course, intent. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 Whate'er the passion, knowledge, fame or pelf, 
 
 No one will change his neighbor for himself; 
 
 The learned is happy nature to explore, 
 
 The fool is happy that he knows no more ; 
 
 The rich is happy in the plenty given, 
 
 The poor contents him with the care of heaven. 
 
 See the blind beggar dance, the cripple sing ; 
 
 The sot a hero, lunatic a king; 
 
 The starving chemist, in his golden views 
 
 Supremely blest, the poet in his muse. 
 
 Pope. 
 
 Ye may twine the living flowers 
 
 Where the living fountains glide, 
 And beneath the rosy bowers 
 
 Let the selfish man abide ; 
 And the birds upon the wing, 
 
 And the barks upon the wave, 
 Shall no sense of freedom bring — 
 
 All is slavery to the slave : 
 Mammon's close-linked chains have bound 
 him. 
 
 Self-imposed and seldom burst ; 
 Though heaven's waters gush around him, 
 
 He would pine with earth's poor thirst. 
 
 Mrs. Hale. 
 
 How cold he hearkens to some bankrupt's woe. 
 Nods his wise head, and cries, — '' I told you so !" 
 
 Sprague. 
 
 And though all cry down self, none means 
 His own self in a literal sense. 
 
 Butler. 
 
CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS. 
 
 535 
 
 Self is the medium least refined of all, 
 Through which opinion's searching beam can fall ; 
 And passing there, the clearest, steadiest ray 
 Will tinge its light and turn its line astray. 
 
 Moore. 
 
 Self-love never yet could look on truth, 
 But with bleared beams ; sleek flattery and she 
 Are twin-born sisters, and so mix their eyes, 
 As if you sever one, the other dies. 
 
 Be7i Jonson, 
 
 SHIP. 
 
 So turns the faithful needle to the pole, 
 Though mountains rise between and oceans roll. 
 
 Darwin. 
 
 The obedient steel with living instinct moves, 
 And veers for ever to the pole it loves. 
 
 Darwin. 
 
 She comes majestic with her swelling sails, 
 The gallant bark ; along her watery way 
 Homeward she drives before the favoring gales ; 
 Now flirting at their length the streamers play. 
 And now they ripple with the ruffling breeze. 
 
 Southey. 
 
 On each gay deck they might behold 
 
 Lances of steel and crests of gold, 
 
 And hauberks with their burnished fold. 
 
 That shimmered fair and free ; 
 And each proud galley, as she passed, 
 To the wild cadence of the blast 
 
 Gave vjrilder minstrelsy. Scott. 
 
 Upon the gale she stooped her side, 
 And bounded o'er the swelling tide, 
 
 As she were dancing home ; 
 The merry seamen laughed to see 
 Their gallant ship so lustily 
 
 Furrow the green sea-foam. 
 
 Scott, 
 
 Merrily, merrily goes the bark. 
 
 On a breeze from the northward free ; 
 
 So shoots through the morning sky the lark, 
 Or the swan through the summer sea. 
 
 Scott. 
 
 How gloriously her gallant course she goes ! 
 Her white wings flying — never from her foes ; 
 She walks the waters like a thing of life, 
 And seems to dare the elements to strife. 
 Who would not brave the battle-fire — the wreck- 
 To move the monarch of her peopled deck? 
 
 Byron, 
 
 SILENCE. 
 
 They never felt, 
 Those summer hl:'s .;hat^ flit so gayly round thee, 
 They never felt one moment what I feel. 
 With such a silent tenderntss, and keep 
 So closely in my heart. Percival. 
 
 The temple of our purest thoughts is — silence ! 
 
 Mrs. Hale. 
 
 There is a silence where hath been no :sound, 
 There is a silence where no sound may be, 
 In the cold grave, under the deep, deep sea, 
 
 Or in wide desert where no life is found, 
 
 Which hath been mute, and still must sleep pro- 
 found ; 
 
 No voice is hushed — no life treads silently. 
 
 But clouds and cloudy shadows wander free, 
 That never spoke, over the idle ground ; 
 But in green ruins, in the desolate walls 
 
 Of antique palaces, where man hath been. 
 Though the dun fox or wild hyena calls. 
 
 And owls that flit continually between, 
 Shriek to the echo, and the low wind moan, 
 There the true silence is, self-conscious and alone. 
 
 Hood, 
 
 SINCERITY. 
 
 Men should be what they seem : 
 Or, those that be not, would they might seem 
 none. Shakespeare. 
 
 His nature is too noble for the world : 
 
 He would not flatter Neptune for his trident, 
 
 Or Jove for's power to thunder : his heart's his 
 
 mouth : 
 What his breast forges that his tongue must vent; 
 And, being angry, does forget that ever 
 He heard the name of death. Shakespeare. 
 
 His words are bonds, his oaths are oracles : 
 His love sincere, his thoughts immaculate ; 
 His tears pure messengers sent from his heart ; 
 His heart as far from fraud as heaven from earth. 
 
 Shakespeare, 
 
 You have a natural wise sincerity, 
 
 A simple truthfulness ; 
 And, though yourself not unacquaint with care. 
 
 Have in your heart wide room. 
 
 Lowell, 
 
 SLANDER. 
 
 O many a shaft at random sent, 
 Finds mark the archer never meant ; 
 And many a word at random spoken. 
 May soothe or wound the heart that's broken ! 
 
 ScotL 
 
 There is a lust in man no charm can tame, 
 Of loudly publishing his neighbor's shame; 
 On eagle's wings immortal scandals fly ; 
 While virtuous actions are but born and die. 
 
 Uafvey^ 
 
536 
 
 CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS. 
 
 A whisper woke the air — 
 
 A soft light tone and low, 
 
 Yet barbed with shame and woe — 
 Now might it only perish there ! 
 
 Nor farther go. 
 Ah me ! a quick and eager ear 
 
 Caught up the little meaning sound ! 
 Another voice hath breathed it clear, 
 
 And so it wanders round 
 From ear to lip — from lip to ear — 
 Until it reached a gentle heart, 
 
 And that — it broke. 
 
 Mrs. Osgood. 
 
 'Tis slander ; 
 . Whose edge is sharper than the sword ; whose 
 
 tongue 
 ,Out-venoms all the worms of Nile ; whose breath 
 Rides on the posting winds, and doth belie 
 All corners of the world : kings, queens, and 
 
 states, 
 Maids, matrons — nay, the secrets of the grave 
 This viperous slander enters. Shakespeare. 
 
 What have I done, that thou dar'st wag thy tongue 
 In noise so rude against me ? Shakespeare. 
 
 Be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou 
 Shalt not escape calumny. Shakesi>eare. 
 
 No might nor greatness in mortality 
 Can censure 'scape ; back-wounding calumny 
 The whitest virtue strikes : what king so strong. 
 Can tie the gall up in the slanderous tongue ? 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 Nor do they trust their tongues alone. 
 
 But speak a language of their own : 
 
 Can read a nod, a shrug, a look, 
 
 Far better than a printed book ; 
 
 Convey a libel in a frown. 
 
 And wink a reputation down ; 
 
 Or, by the tossing of a fan, 
 
 Describe the lady and the man. Swift. 
 
 Society itself, which should create 
 
 Kindness, destroys what little we had got : 
 To feel for none is the true social art 
 Of the world's stoics — men without a heart. 
 
 Byron. 
 
 How many pleasant faces shed their light on every 
 
 side, 
 How many angels unawares have crossed thy casual 
 
 way ! 
 How often, in thy journeyings, hast thou made 
 
 thee instant friends, 
 Found, to be loved a little while, and lost, to meet 
 
 no more ; 
 Friends of happy reminiscences, although so tran- 
 sient in their converse, 
 Liberal, cheerful, and sincere, a crowd of kindly 
 
 traits. 
 I have sped by land and sea, and mingled with 
 
 much people, 
 
 SORROW 
 
 Slander meets no regard from noble minds ; 
 Only the base believe, what the base only utter, 
 
 Bette7 
 
 SOCIETY. 
 
 But never yet could find a spot unsunned by 
 
 human kindness ; 
 Some more, and some less — but, truly, all can 
 
 claim a little : 
 And a man may travel through the world, and sow 
 
 it thick with friendships. 
 
 Tapper. 
 Society is now one polished horde. 
 Formed of two mighty tribes, the bores and bored 
 
 Byron. 
 
 Blessed we sometimes are ! and I am now 
 Happy in quiet feelings ; for the tones 
 Of a most pleasant company of friends 
 Were in my ear but now, and gentle thoughts 
 From spirits whose high character I know ; 
 And I retain their influence, as the air 
 Retains the softness of departed day. 
 
 Willis. 
 
 What bliss is born of sorrow ! 
 
 'Tis never sent in vain — 
 The heavenly Surgeon maims to save, 
 
 He gives no useless pain. 
 
 Watts. 
 
 When the cold breath of sorrow is sweeping 
 
 O'er the chords of the youthful heart. 
 And the earnest eye, dimmed with strange weeping. 
 
 Sees the visions of fancy depart; 
 \Vhen the bloom of young feeling is dying, 
 
 And the heart throbs with passion's fierce strife, 
 When our sad days are wasted in sighing, 
 
 Who then can find sweetness in life? 
 
 Mrs. Embury. 
 
 Sorrow treads heavily, and leaves behind 
 
 A deep impression, e'en when she departs: 
 While joy trips by with steps light as the wind, 
 
 And scarcely leaves a trace upon our hearts 
 Of her faint foot-falls : only this is sure, 
 In this world nought, save misery, can endure. 
 
 Mrs. Embtiry. 
 Ye withered leaves ! Ye withered leaves ! 
 
 To mark your premature decay. 
 With sympathy my bosom heaves. 
 For like its hopes, ye pass away ! 
 Like you, they brightened in the gleam 
 
 Of summer's sweetly genial ray. 
 But brilliant, transient as a dream, 
 The autumn found them in decay. 
 
 Mrs. Dennis, 
 
CYCLOPEDIA Oh POETICAL QUOTATIONS. 
 
 hZl 
 
 SOUL. 
 
 Inward turn 
 
 Each thought and every sense, 
 
 For sorrow lingers from without, 
 
 Thou canst not charm it thence. 
 But all attuned the soul may be 
 Unto a deathless melody. 
 
 M7's. Oakes Smith. 
 
 Our thoughts are boundless, though our frames are 
 frail, 
 
 Our souls immortal, though our limbs decay ; 
 (Though darkened in this poor life by a veil 
 
 Of suffering, dying matter, we shall play 
 
 In truth's eternal sunbeams ; on the way 
 To Heaven's high capitol our cars shall roll; 
 
 The temple of the Power whom all obey, 
 That is the mark we tend to, for the soul 
 Can take no lower flight, and seek no meaner goal. 
 
 Fercival. 
 
 What, my soul, was thy errand here? 
 
 Was it mirth or ease, 
 Or heaping up dust from year to year ? 
 
 -* Nay, none of these !" 
 
 Speak, soul, aright in His holy sight, 
 
 Whose eye looks still 
 And steadilv on thee through the night ; 
 
 " To do His will!" 
 
 IVhittier, 
 
 Oh, laggard soul ! unclose thine eyes — 
 
 No more in luxury soft 
 Of joy ideal waste thyself: 
 
 Awake, and soar aloft ! 
 Unfurl this hour those falcon wings 
 
 Which thou dost fold too long ; 
 Raise to the skies thy lightning gaze, 
 
 And sing thy loftiest song I 
 
 Mrs. Osgood. 
 
 Oh soul ! I said, '' thy boding murmurs cease ; 
 Though sorrow bind thee as a funeral pall, 
 Thy Father's hand is guiding thee through all, 
 His love will bring a true and perfect peace. 
 
 Look upward once again ; though drear the 
 
 night, 
 Earth may be darkness, Heaven will give thee 
 light!" Mrs, Neal. 
 
 STARS. 
 
 A\Tiom their great stars 
 Throne and set high. Shakespeare. 
 
 Here 
 Will I set up my everlasting rest, 
 And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars 
 From this world-wearied flesh. Shakespeare. 
 
 See, at the call of night. 
 The star of evening sheds her silver light. 
 
 Gay. 
 There they stand, 
 Shining in order like a living hymn 
 Written in light. Willis. 
 
 They are all up — the innumerable stars 
 
 That hold their place in heaven. ]\Iy eyes have been 
 
 Searching the pearly depths thiough which they 
 
 spring 
 Like beautiful creations. Willis. 
 
 Ye stars, that are the poetry of heaven. Byron. 
 
 The sky 
 Spreads like an ocean hung on high, 
 Bespangled with those isles of light 
 So wildly, spiritually bright. 
 Who ever gazed upon them shining. 
 And turned to earth without repining. 
 Nor wished for wings to flee away. 
 And mix with their eternal ray ? Byron. 
 
 But the stars, the soft stars ! — when they glitter 
 above us, 
 I gaze on their beams with a feeling divine ; 
 For, as true friends in sorrow more tenderly love us, 
 i The darker the heaven, the brighter thev shine. 
 
 Mrs. iVelby. 
 
 And infant cherubs pierced the blue, 
 Till rays of heaven came shining through. 
 
 Peabody. 
 
 SUCCESS. 
 
 'Tis not in mortals to command success ; 
 But we'll do more, Semproniiis, we'll deserve it. 
 
 Addiso7i. 
 
 Had I miscarried, I had been a villain ; 
 For men judge actions always by events : 
 But when we manage by a just foresight, 
 Success is prudence, and possession right. 
 
 Higgins. 
 It is success that colors all in life : 
 Success makes fools admired, makes villains honest, 
 All the proud \artue of this vaunting world 
 Fawns on success and power, howe'er acquired. 
 
 Thomson. 
 
 What though I am a villain, who so bold 
 To tell me so ? let your poor petty traitors 
 Feel the vindictive lash and scourge for wrong ; 
 But who shall tax successful villany. 
 Or call the rising traitor to account ? 
 
 Havard. 
 
 Applause 
 Waits on success ; the fickle multitude, 
 Like the light straw that floats along the strean?, 
 Glide with'the current still, and follow fortune. 
 
 Bai. Fra?iklin. 
 
538 
 
 CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS, 
 
 SYMPATHY. 
 
 What my tongue dares not, that my heart shall say. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 Kindness by secret sympathy is tied, 
 For noble souls in nature are allied. 
 
 Dryden. 
 Love's soft sympathy imparts 
 That tender transport of delight 
 That beats in undivided hearts. 
 
 Cartwright. 
 
 A knight and a lady once met in a grove, 
 
 While each was in quest of a fugitive love; 
 
 A river ran mournfully murmuring by, 
 
 And they wept in its waters for S}'mpathy. 
 
 '' Oh, never ^yas knight such a sorrow that bore, 
 
 Oh, never was maid so deserted before." 
 
 " From life and its woes let us instantly fly, 
 
 And jump in together for sympathy !" 
 
 At length spoke the lass, 'twixt a smile and a tear: 
 
 *' The weather is cold for a watery bier, 
 
 When the summer returns, we may easily die ; 
 
 Till then let us sorrow in sympathy." 
 
 Heber. 
 It is not well, 
 Here in this land of Christian liberty, 
 That honest worth or hopeless want should dwell 
 Unaided by our care and sympathy. 
 
 Phoebe Cary. 
 
 Oh, there is need that on men's hearts should fall 
 A spirit that can sympathize with all ! 
 
 Phcebe Cary. 
 
 Oh ! ask not, hope thou not too much 
 
 Of sympathy below ; 
 Few are the hearts whence one same touch 
 
 Bids the sweet fountain flow. 
 
 Mrs. Henians. 
 
 If there be one that o'er thy dead 
 
 Hath in thy grief borne part. 
 And watched through sickness by thy bed — ■ 
 
 Call this a kindred heart ! 
 
 Mrs. Hemans. 
 
 It is the secret sympathy. 
 
 The silver link, the silken tie, 
 
 Which heart to heart, and mind to mind, 
 
 In body and in soul can bind. 
 
 ScotL 
 
 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 the paining jar 
 
 Through all will run. 
 
 Wliittier. 
 
 In the same beaten channel still have run 
 The blessed streams of human sympathy ; 
 
 And though I know this ever hath been done, 
 The why and wherefore I could never see ! 
 
 Ph(£be Cary. 
 
 TALKING. 
 
 Nor did we fail to see within ourselves 
 What need there is to be reserved in speech. 
 And temper all our thoughts with charity. 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 And we talked — oh, how we talked ! her voice so 
 cadenced in the talking, 
 Made another singing — of the soul! a music 
 without bars — 
 While the leafy sounds of woodlands, humming 
 round where we were walking, 
 Brought interposition worthy — sweet, — as skies 
 about the stars, 
 And she spake such good thoughts natural, as if 
 she always thought them. 
 
 Mrs. Browning. 
 
 Speak gently ! 'Tis a little thing 
 Dropped in the heart's deep well ; 
 
 The good, the joy which it may bring 
 Eternity shall tell. 
 
 Bates. 
 
 It may be glorious to write 
 
 Thoughts that shall glad the two or three 
 High souls, like those far stars that come in sigh* 
 
 Once in a century ; — 
 But better far it is to speak 
 
 One simple word, which now and then 
 Shall waken their free nature in the weak 
 
 And friendless "sons of men. Lcivell. 
 
 Thy talk is the sweet extract of all speech. 
 And holds mine ear in blissful slavery. 
 
 Bailey. 
 She spake. 
 And his love-wildered and idolatrous soul 
 Clung to the airy music of her words, 
 Like a bird on a bough, high swaying in the wind. 
 
 Bailey. 
 I cannot tell thee, hour by hour, 
 
 That I adore thee dearly ; 
 I cannot talk of passion's power — 
 But oh ! I feel sincerely ! 
 
 Mrs. Osgood 
 
 TEARS. 
 
 The tear that is shed, though in secret it roll, 
 Shall long keep his memory green in my soul. 
 
 Moore, 
 
 Thank God, bless God, all ye who suffer not 
 More grief than ye can weep for. 
 
 yjfrj. Browning, 
 
CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS, 
 
 639 
 
 Hide thy tears — 
 I do not bid thee not to shed them — 'twere 
 Easier to stop Euphrates at its source 
 Than one tear of a true and tender heart — 
 But let me not behold them ; they unman me. 
 
 Byro7i. 
 
 Tears! what are tears? The babe weeps in his cot, 
 
 The mother singing ; at her marriage bell, 
 
 The bride weeps ; and before the oracle 
 
 Of high-famed hills, the poet hath forgot 
 
 The moisture on his cheeks. Mrs. Browjiing. 
 
 Give our tears to the dead ! For humanity's claim 
 From its silence and darkness is ever the same ; 
 The hope of the world whose existence is bli.-s, 
 May not stifle the tears of the mourners of this. 
 
 Whittier. 
 
 Yet thou, didst thou but know my fate, 
 Wouldst melt, my tears to see ; 
 
 And I, methinks, would weep the less, 
 Wouldst thou but weep with me. 
 
 Percival. 
 
 TEMPERANCE. 
 
 Temperate in every place — abroad, at home. 
 Thence will applause, and hence will profit come; 
 And health from either he in time prepares 
 For sickness, age, and their attendant cares. Crabbe. 
 
 Beware the bowl ! though rich and bright 
 
 Its rubies flash upon the sight, 
 
 An adder coils its depth beneath, 
 
 Whose lure is woe, whose sting is death. Street. 
 
 Though I look old, yet I am strong and lusty, 
 For in my youth I never did apply 
 Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood ; 
 Nor did I with unbashful forehead woo 
 The means of weakness and debility ; 
 Therefore my age is as a lusty winter. 
 Frosty, but kindly. Shakespeare. 
 
 Health in the shaded spring. Foster. 
 
 VANITY. 
 
 These our actors. 
 As I foretold you, were all spirits, and 
 Are melted into air, into thin air : 
 And like the baseless fabric of this vision. 
 The cloud-clapped towers, the gorgeous palaces, 
 The solemn temples, the great globe itself. 
 Yea, all which it inherit shall dissolve ; 
 And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, 
 Leave not a rack behind : we are such stuff 
 
 As dreams are made of, and our little life 
 
 Is rounded with a sleep. Shakespeaj-e. 
 
 Thus felt Sir Owen, as a man whose cause 
 
 Is very good — it has his own applause. Crabbe. 
 
 And he, the light and vain one, for him there never 
 
 wakes 
 That love, for which a woman's heart will beat 
 
 until it breaks. ji/iss Latidon. 
 
 VIRTUE. 
 
 A virtuous deed should never be delayed. 
 
 The impulse comes from heaven, and he who 
 
 strives 
 A moment to repress it, disobeys 
 The god within his mind. Dowe. 
 
 The only amaranthine flower on earth 
 Is virtue ; th' only lasting treasure, truth. 
 
 Couper. 
 
 Virtue 
 Stands like the sun, and all which rolls around 
 Drinks life, and light, and glory from her aspect. 
 
 Byro7i. 
 
 How insecure, how baseless in itself 
 Is that philosophy, whose sway is framed 
 For mere material instruments ! How weak 
 The arts and high inventions, if unpropped 
 virtue ! 
 
 By 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 All true glory rests, 
 All praise, all safety, and all happiness. 
 Upon the moral law. 
 
 WordsiL'orth. 
 
 Think — if thou on beauty leanest, 
 Think how pitiful that stay. 
 
 Did not virtue give the meanest 
 Charms superior to decay. 
 
 WordsiL'orth. 
 
 Keep thy spirit pure 
 From worldly taint, by the repellant power 
 of virtue. Bailey. 
 
 Morality's the right rule for the world. 
 
 Nor could society cohere without 
 
 Virtue ; and there are those whose spirits walk 
 
 Abreast of angels and the future here. 
 
 Bailey. 
 
640 
 
 CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS. 
 
 WATER. 
 
 Water, water, every where, 
 
 And all the boards did shrink ; 
 
 Water, water, every where, 
 
 Nor any drop to drink ! Coleridge. 
 
 For the cool water we have quaffed, 
 Source of all good, we owe thee much ; 
 
 Our lips have touched no burning draught 
 This day — nor shall they ever touch. 
 
 Pierpont. 
 
 Pour the bright lymph that Heaven itself let fall- 
 In one fair bumper let us toast them all ! 
 
 Holmes. 
 
 Let light on water shine — 
 
 The light of love and truth 
 Then shall that drink divine 
 
 Be quaffed by age and youth. 
 
 Pierpont. 
 
 Joy smiles in the fountain, health flows in the rills. 
 And the ribands of silver unwind from the hills; 
 They breathe not the mist of the bacchanal's 
 
 dreams. 
 But the lilies of innocence float on their streams. 
 
 Holmes. 
 
 WEEPING. 
 
 Oh, weep not for the dead ! 
 Rather, oh, rather give the tear 
 To those who darkly linger here, 
 
 When all besides are fled : 
 Weep for the spirit withering 
 In its cold, cheerless sorrowing ; 
 Weep for the young and lovely one 
 That ruin darkly revels on ; 
 
 But never be a tear-drop shed 
 
 For them, the pure enfranchised dead. 
 Mary E. Brooks. 
 
 Do not weep so, dear-heart- warm ! 
 
 It was best as it befell ! 
 If I say he did me harm, 
 
 I speak wild — I am not well. 
 All his words were kind and good — 
 He esteemed me ! Only blood 
 Runs so faint in womanhood. 
 
 Mrs. Browning. 
 
 On that grave drop not a tear ! 
 
 Else, though fathom deep the place. 
 Through the woollen shroud I wear 
 
 I shall feel it on my face. 
 Rather smile there, blessed one, 
 Thinking of me in the sun — 
 Or forget me — smiling on ! . 
 
 Mrs. Browning. 
 
 In silence weep. 
 And thy convulsive sorrows inward keep. 
 
 Prior. 
 
 I SO lively acted with my tears. 
 That my poor mistress, moved therewithal, 
 AVept bitterly. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 Larded all with sweet flowers, 
 Which bewept to the grave did go. 
 With true love showers. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 This heart shall break into a thousand flaws 
 Or ere I weep. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 Old fond eyes, 
 Beweep this cause again, I'll pluck you out, 
 And cast you with the waters that you lose, 
 To temper clay. 
 
 Shakespeare, 
 
 I weep, but not rebellious tears ; 
 
 I mourn, but not in hopeless woe ; 
 I droop, but not with doubtful fears ; 
 
 For whom I've trusted. Him I know. 
 Lord, I believe ; assuage my grief. 
 And help, oh ! help my unbelief. 
 
 My days of youth and health are o'er; 
 
 My early friends are dead and gone ', 
 And there are times it tries me sore 
 
 To think I'm left on earth alone. 
 But yet Faith whispers, " 'Tis not so : 
 He will not leave, nor let thee go." 
 
 Caroline A. Southey. 
 
 WIFE. 
 
 The sum of all that makes a just man happy 
 
 Consists in the well choosing of his wife ; 
 
 And there, well to discharge it, does require 
 
 Equality of years ; of birth, of fortune \ 
 
 For beauty being poor, and not cried up 
 
 By birth or wealth, can truly mix with neither. 
 
 And wealth, when there's such difference in 
 
 years 
 And fair descent, must make the yoke uneasy. 
 
 Massinger. 
 
 Give me, next good, an understanding wife. 
 By nature wise, not learned by much art; 
 Some knowledge on her side will all my life 
 More scope of conversation then impart ; 
 Besides her inborn virtue fortify ; 
 They are most good who best know why. 
 
 Overbiiry. 
 
 Sole partner and sole part, of all these joys, 
 Dearer thyself than all. 
 
 Milton. 
 
CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS. 
 
 541 
 
 Men dying make their wills, 
 But wives escape a task so sad : 
 
 Why should they make what all their lives 
 The gentle dames have had ? 
 
 I want (who does not want ?) a wife 
 
 Affectionate and fair, 
 To solace all the woes of life, 
 
 And all its joys to share ; 
 Of temper sweet, of yielding will, 
 
 Of firm yet placid mind, 
 With all my faults to love me still 
 With sentiment refined. 
 
 J. Q. Adams, 
 She is mine own ; 
 And I as rich in having such a jewel. 
 As twenty seas, if all their sand were pearl, 
 The w^ater nectar, and the rocks pure gold. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 Should all despair. 
 That have revolted wives, the tenth of mankind 
 Would hang themselves. Shakespeare. 
 
 What thou did'st 
 Unargued I obey ; so God ordains ; 
 God is thy law ! thou mine ; to know no more 
 Is woman's happiest knowledge, and her praise. 
 
 Milton. 
 Thy likeness, thy fit help, thy other self. 
 Thy wish exactly to thy heart's desire. 
 
 Milton. 
 
 For nothing lovelier can be found 
 In woman, than to study household good. 
 And good works in her husband to promote. 
 
 Milton. 
 
 Of earthly good, the best is a good wife, 
 A bad — the bitterest curse of human life. 
 
 My bride. 
 My wife, my life. O we will walk this world. 
 Yoked in all exercise of noble aim, 
 And so through those dark gates across the wild 
 That no man knows. Tennysmi. 
 
 Look through mine eyes with thine, true wife, 
 Round my true heart thine arms entwine ; 
 
 My other, dearer life in life, 
 
 Look through my very soul with thine ! 
 
 Tennyson. 
 
 What bliss for her who lives her little day. 
 In blest obedience, like to those divine. 
 Who to her loved, her earthly lord can say, 
 
 ''God is thy law, most just, and thou art mine." 
 
 Mrs. Brooks. 
 Thou wast my nurse in sickness, and my comforter 
 
 in health ; 
 So gentle and so constant, when our love was all 
 
 our wealth : 
 Thy voice of music soothed me, love, in each des- 
 ponding hour. 
 As heaven's honey-dew consoles the bruised and 
 broken flower. Pike. 
 
 Why tarries he so long, while she — that one, 
 
 So fond and true, so beautiful and bright — 
 Now sits in cheerless watchfulness alone. 
 
 Waiting his coming through the tedious night ? 
 And as the chimes upon the distant bell 
 
 Mark mournfully and sad his lingering stay. 
 Each echoing peal seems but the gloomy knell 
 
 Of joys departed, pleasures passed away. 
 
 Patterson. 
 The world well tried — the sweetest thing in life 
 Is the unclouded welcome of a wife. Willis. 
 
 All day, like some sweet bird, content to sing 
 In its small cage, she moveth to and fro — 
 And ever and anon will upward spring 
 To her sweet lips, fresh from the fount below. 
 The murmured melody of pleasant thought. 
 Light household duties, evermore inwrought 
 With pleasant fancies of one trusting heart, 
 That lives but in her smile, and ever turns 
 To be refreshed where one pure altar burns ; 
 Shut out from hence the mockery of life, 
 Thus liveth she content, the meek, fond, trusting 
 wife. Mrs. Oakes Smith. 
 
 WI5D0M. 
 
 O wisdom ! if thy soft control 
 Can soothe the sickness of the soul, 
 Can bid the Avarring passions cease, 
 And breathe the calm of tender peace ; 
 Wisdom ! I bless thy gentle sway. 
 And ever, ever will obey. 
 
 Mrs. Barbanld. 
 All human wisdom to divine is folly ; 
 This truth, the wisest man made melancholy. 
 
 Denhani. 
 Wisdom sits alone. 
 Topmost in heaven — she is its light — its God 
 And in the heart of man she sits as high — 
 Though grovelling minds forget her oftentimes, 
 Seeing but this world's idols. The pure mind 
 
 Sees her forever : and in youth we come 
 Filled with her sainted ravishment, and kneel. 
 Worshipping God through her sweet altar fires. 
 And then is knowledge ''good !" Willis. 
 
 The bearing and the training of a child 
 Is woman's wisdom. 
 
 Temiyson. 
 
 The wise do always govern their own fates. 
 And fortune with officious zeal attends 
 To crown their enterprises with success. 
 
 Walk 
 Boldly and wisely in that light thou hast; 
 There is a hand above will help thee on. 
 
 Bailey, 
 
642 
 
 CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL QUOTANIONS. 
 
 WOMAN. 
 
 A perfect woman, nobly planned, 
 To warn, to comfort, and command ; 
 And yet a spirit still, and bright. 
 With something of an angel light. 
 
 Wcv'dsworth. 
 
 Women act their parts 
 When they do make their ordered houses know 
 them. Knowles, 
 
 Happy — happier far than thou, 
 AVith the laurel on thy brow ; 
 She that makes the humblest hearth 
 Lovely but to one on earth. 
 
 Mrs. Hemaiis, 
 
 Fairest and loveliest of created things. 
 By our great Author in the Image formed 
 Of His celestial glory, and designed 
 To be man's solace. Herbert. 
 
 ]\Ian is but half without woman ; and 
 As do idolaters their heavenly gods, 
 We deify the things that we adore. 
 
 Bailey. 
 And I marvel, sir, 
 At those who do not feel the majesty. 
 By heaven ! I'd almost said the holiness, — 
 That circles round the fair and virtuous woman ! 
 
 JFrances Butler. 
 
 Charming woman can true converts make. 
 We love the precepts for the teacher's sake ; 
 Virtue in her appears so bright and gay. 
 We hear with pleasure, and with pride obey. 
 
 Bejt Franklin. 
 
 Earlier than I know 
 Immersed in rich foreshadowings of the world, 
 I loved the woman : he that doth not, lives 
 A drowning life, besotted in sweet self. 
 Or pines in sad experience, worse than death, 
 Or keeps his winged affections dipt with crime. 
 
 Tennyson. 
 
 Woman ! blest partner of our joys and woes ! 
 
 Even in the darkest hour of earthly ill. 
 Untarnished yet thy fond affection glows, 
 
 Throbs with each pulse, and beats with every 
 thrill ! 
 
 Bright o'er the wasted scene thou hoverest still. 
 Angel of comfort to the failing soul ; 
 
 Undaunted by the tempest, wild and chill, 
 That pours its restless and disastrous roll 
 O'er all that blooms below, with sad and hollow 
 howl. Sand. 
 
 Through suffering and sorrow thou hast passed, 
 To show us what a woman true may be. 
 
 Lowell. 
 Maiden, when such a soul as thine is born, 
 The morning-stars their ancient music make. 
 
 Lowell. 
 
 A health to sweet woman ! the days are no more. 
 When she watched for her lord when the revel 
 
 was o'er. 
 And soothed the white pillow, and blushed when 
 
 he came. 
 As she pressed her cold lips on his forehead of 
 
 flame. 
 Alas, for the loved one ! too spotless and fair. 
 The joys of his banquet to chasten and share ! 
 Her eye lost its light, that its goblet might shine. 
 And the rose on her cheek was dissolved in his 
 
 wine. Hobnes. 
 
 She had a mind. 
 Deep and immortal, and it would not feed 
 On pageantry. She thirsted for a spring 
 Of a serener element, and drank 
 Philosophy, and for a little while 
 She was allayed, till presently it turned 
 Bitter within her, and her spirit grew 
 Faint for undying waters. Then she came 
 To the pure fount of God — and is athirst 
 No more — save, when the '' fever of the world** 
 Falleth upon her, she will go and breathe 
 A holy aspiration after heaven. Willis. 
 
 In that stillness 
 Which most becomes a woman — calm and holy — 
 Thou sittest by the fireside of the heart, 
 
 Longfellow, 
 
 Feeding its flame. 
 
 Ah ! woman — in this world of ours. 
 What gift can be compared to thee ? 
 
 How slow would drag life's weary hours, 
 
 Though man's proud brow were bound with flowers. 
 And his the wealth of land and sea, 
 
 If destined to exist alone. 
 
 And ne'er call woman's heart his own. Morris, 
 
 Yes, woman's love is free from guile. 
 And pure as bright Aurora's ray; 
 The heart will melt before its smile, 
 
 And earthly objects fade away. 
 Were I the monarch of the earth. 
 And master of the swelling sea, 
 I would not estimate their worth, 
 Dear woman, half the price of thee. 
 
 Morris, 
 
 And well the poet, at her shrine. 
 
 May bend and worship while he woos 3 
 To him she is a thing divine, 
 The inspiration of his line. 
 
 His loved one, and his muse. 
 If to his song the echo rings 
 
 Of fame — 'tis woman's voice he hears; 
 If ever from his lyre's proud strings 
 Flow sounds, like rush of angel wings — 
 'Tis that she listens while he sings. 
 
 With blended smiles and tears. Halleck, 
 
CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL QLUTATIONS, 
 
 543 
 
 WORDS. 
 
 A word is ringing through my brain, 
 It was not meant to give me pain ; 
 
 It was when yfri-/ the sound I heard 
 A lightly uttered, careless word. 
 
 Mrs Norton. 
 
 Oh ! ye who, meeting, sigh to part. 
 Whose words are treasures to some heart, 
 Deal gently, ere the dark days come, 
 When earth hath but for ojie a home ; 
 Lest musing o'er the past, like me, 
 They feel their hearts wrung bitterly. 
 And, heeding not what else is heard, 
 Dwell weeping on a careless word. 
 
 Mrs. Norton. 
 
 Words are the motes of thought, and nothing more. 
 Words are like sea-shells on the shore ; they show 
 Where -the mind ends, and not how far it has been. 
 
 Bailey. 
 
 Cold words that hide the envious thought ! 
 
 Willis. 
 
 On my ear her language fell 
 
 As if each word dissolved a spell. 
 
 Willis. 
 A mist of words. 
 Like haloes round the moon, though they enlarge 
 The seeming size of thoughts, make the light less 
 Doubly. It is the thought writ down we want, 
 Not its effect — not likenesses of likenesses. 
 And such descriptions are not, more than gloves 
 Instead of hands to shake, enough for us. 
 
 Bailey, 
 
 Words lead to things; a scale is more precise, — 
 Coarse speech, bad grammar, swearing, drinking, 
 vice. Holmes. 
 
 One vague inflection spoils the whole with doubt. 
 
 One trivial letter ruins all left out ; 
 
 A knot can choke a felon into clay ; 
 
 A ''not" will save him, spelt without the *'k;" 
 
 The smallest word has some unguarded spot, 
 
 And danger lurks in " i " without a dot. 
 
 Holmes. 
 
 YOUTH. 
 
 Of gentle blood, his parents' only treasure. 
 
 Their lasting sorrow, and their vanished pleasure. 
 
 Adorned with features, virtues, wit, and grace, 
 
 A large provision for so short a race : 
 
 More moderate gifts might have prolonged his date, 
 
 Too early fitted for a better state : 
 
 But, knowing heaven his home, to shun delay. 
 
 He leaped o'er age, and took the shortest way. 
 
 Dry den. 
 
 Something of youth, I in old age approve ; 
 But more the marks of age in youth I love. 
 Who this observes, may in his body find 
 Decrepit age, but never in his mind. 
 
 De7iham. 
 
 Intemperate youth, by sad experience found. 
 Ends in an age imperfect and unsound. 
 
 Denka?n. 
 
 The love of higher things and better days; 
 The unbounded hope, and heavenly ignorance 
 Of what is called the world, and the world's ways. 
 The moments when we gather from a glance 
 More joy than from all future pride or praise. 
 Which kindle manhood, but can ne'er entrance 
 The heart in an existence of its own. 
 Of which another's bosom is the zone. 
 
 Byron. 
 
 - In earlier days, and calmer hours, 
 ^ When heart with heart delights to blend, 
 Where bloom my native valley's bowers, 
 I had — ah ! have I now ? — a friend ! 
 
 Byron's Giaour, 
 
 Here — while I roved, a heedless boy, 
 
 Here, while through paths of peace I ran, 
 
 My feet were vexed with puny snares. 
 
 My bosom stung with insect-cares : 
 
 But ah ! what light and little things 
 
 Are childhood's woes ! — they break no rest. 
 
 Like dew-drops on the skylark's wings. 
 
 While slumbering in his grassy nest, 
 
 Gone in a moment, when he springs 
 
 To meet the morn with open breast. 
 
 As o'er the eastern hills her banners glow, 
 
 And veiled in mist the valley sleeps below. 
 
 Montgo?nery. 
 
 Let them exult ! their laugh and song 
 Are rarely known to last too long ; 
 Why should we strive, with cynic frown. 
 To knock their fairy castles down ? 
 
 Eliza Cook. 
 
 Youth might be wise. 
 Than pleasures. 
 
 We suffer less from pains 
 Bailey. 
 
 Youth hath a strong and strange desire to try 
 All feelings on the heart : it is very wrong, 
 And dangerous, and deadly : strive against it ! 
 
 Bailey. 
 
 The rainbow's lovely on the eastern cloud, 
 The rose is beauteous on the bended thorn. 
 
 Sweet is the evening ray from purple shroud, 
 And sweet the orient blushes of the morn ; 
 
 Sweeter than all the beauties which adorn 
 The female form in youth and maiden bloom. 
 
 Hogg. 
 
544 
 
 CYCLOPEDIA OF POETICAL QUOTATIONS, 
 
 ^ 
 
 Promise of youth ! fair as the form 
 Of heaven's benign and golden bow, 
 
 Thy smihng arch begirds the storm, 
 And sheds a light on every woe. 
 
 Brooks. 
 
 I feel the rush of waves that round me rise — 
 The tossing of my boat upon the sea ; 
 
 Few sunbeams linger in the stormy skies, 
 
 And youth's bright shore is lessening on the lee! 
 
 Bayard Taylor. 
 
 In the passion hour of youth. 
 
 The lip may speak its holiest vow, 
 
 Yet shadows dim the spirit's truth 
 
 And pride and coldness change the brow. 
 
 Bayard Taylor. 
 
 Light to thy path, bright creature ! I would 
 
 charm 
 Thy being, if I could, that it should be 
 Ever as now thou dreamest, and flow on. 
 Thus innocent and beautiful, to heaven. 
 
 Willis. 
 But can there grow cowslips and lilies. 
 Like those that I gathered in youth ? 
 With my heart in the depths of their blossoms, 
 , All steeped in the dew-drops of truth ? 
 
 Miss Jewsbiiry. 
 
 Youth has spent his wealth and bought 
 
 The knowledge he would fain 
 Change for forgetfulness, and live 
 
 His dreaming life again. 
 
 Miss Landon. 
 
 Youth, that pursuest, with such eager pace, 
 
 Thy even way, 
 Thou pantest on to win a mournful race : 
 
 Then stay ! oh stay ! Milnes. 
 
 Alas ! that youth's fond hopes should fade, 
 
 And love be but a name. 
 While its rainbows, followed e'er so fast. 
 
 Are distant still the same. Dawes. 
 
 The restless spirit charmed thy sweet existence. 
 
 Making all beauteous in youth's pleasant maze, 
 While gladsome hope illumed the onward dis- 
 tance. 
 And lit with sunbeams thy expectant days. 
 
 Clark. 
 
 The youth whose bark is guided o'er 
 A summer stream by zephyr's breath, 
 
 With idle gaze delights to pore 
 
 On imaged skies that glow beneath. 
 
 Leggett. 
 
 How beautiful who scatters, wide and free, 
 
 The gold — bright seeds of loved and loving 
 truth ! 
 By whose perpetual hand each day supplied — 
 Leaps to new life the empire's heart of youth. 
 
 Mathews. 
 
 How shall I ever go through this rough world ! 
 How find me older every setting sun ! 
 How merge my boyish heart in manliness ! 
 
 Coxe. 
 
 Remember not the follies of my youth, 
 But in thy mercy think upon me. Lord ! 
 
 Coxe. 
 
 I go from strength to strength, from joy to joy ; 
 From being unto being. I will snatch 
 This germ of comfort from departing youth, 
 And when the pictured primer's thrown aside, 
 I'll hoard its early lessons in my heart. 
 
 Coxe. 
 
 ZEAL. 
 
 Spread out earth's holiest records here, 
 Of days and deeds to reverence dear ; 
 A zeal like this what pious legends tell ? 
 
 Sprague. 
 
 His zeal 
 None seconded, as out of season judged. 
 Or singular and rash. Milton. 
 
 Press bravely onward ! — not in vain 
 Your generous trust in human kind; 
 
 The good which bloodshed could not gain 
 Your peaceful zeal shall find. WJiittier, 
 
 Zeal and duty are not slow ; 
 But on occasion's forelock watchful wait. 
 
 Milton. 
 How beautiful it is for man to die 
 Upon the walls of Zion ! to be called 
 Like a watch-worn and weary sentinel. 
 To put his armor off, and rest — in heaven ! 
 His heart was with Jerusalem ; and strong 
 As was a mother's love, and the sweet ties 
 Religion makes so beautiful at home. 
 He flung them from him in his eager race, 
 And sought the broken people of his God, 
 To preach to them of Jesus ! Willis. 
 
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