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A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain, And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles rain.
Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay, That shall soothe this restless feeling
And banish the thoughts of day.
Not from the grand old masters
Not from the bards sublime, Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of time.
For, like strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest Life's endless toil and endeavour ;
And to-night I long for rest.
Read from some humble poet,
Whose songs gush'd from his heart, As showers from the clouds of summer,
Or tears from the eyelids start.
Who, through long days of labour,
And nights devoid of ease, Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.
Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care, And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.
Then read from the treasured volume The
poem of thy choice, And lend to the rhyme of the pret
The beauty of thy voice.
And the night shall be filled with music,
And the cares, that infest the day, Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.
AFTERNOON IN FEBRUARY.
The day is ending,
The river dead.
Through clouds like ashes,
That glimmer red.
The snow recommences :
The road o'er the plain ;
While through the meadows,
A funeral train.
The bell is pealing,
To the dismal knell;
Shadows are trailing,
Like a funeral bell.