When noon ruled from the heavens, and man Through busy day toiled on, My Spirit drooped his shining wings His radiant smile was gone; His voice had ceased, his grace had flown, Bitter, O bitter tears I wept, Could it be so? My heart stood still. I strove; but my despair was vain; Now stars are rising one by one, He speaks and smiles, but never sings, With thankful, true content, I know Is not a faithful spirit mine Mine still at close of day? Yet will my foolish heart repine For that bright morning dream of mine. OUR DEAD. OTHING is our own : we hold our pleasures Just a little while, ere they are fled : One by one life robs us of our treasures; Nothing is our own except our Dead. They are ours, and hold in faithful keeping, Cruel life can never stir that sleeping, Cruel time can never seize that prey. Justice pales; truth fades; stars fall from heaven; No true crown of honor can be given, How the Children leave us and no traces Yet we have some little ones, still ours; When our Joy is lost and life will take it· Death, more tender-hearted, leaves to sorrow We shall find, in some far, bright to-morrow, Is Love ours, and do we dream we know it, Bound with all our heart-strings, all our own? Any cold and cruel dawn may show it, Shattered, desecrated, overthrown. Only the dead Hearts forsake us never; So when Fate would fain besiege our city, A WOMAN'S ANSWER. WILL not let you say a Woman's part Answers a thousand claims besides your own. I love - what do I not love? earth and air I love the Summer with her ebb and flow Of light, and warmth, and music, that have nurst Her tender buds to blossoms and you It was in summer that I saw you first. know I love the Winter dearly too,. . . . but then I love the Stars like friends; so many nights I love the Flowers; happy hours lie Shut up within their petals close and fast: You have forgotten, dear; but they and I Keep every fragment of the golden Past. to make I love, too, to be loved; all loving praise I love all good and noble souls; I heard One speak of you but lately, and for days, Only to think of it, my soul was stirred In tender memory of such generous praise. I love all those who love you; all who owe Even for those poorer hearts who once could know, Well, is my heart so narrow, I, who spare Love for all these? Do I not even hold My favorite books in special tender care, And prize them as a miser does his gold? The Poets that you used to read to me because do you remember why? Will you be jealous? Did you guess before O more a thousand times, than all the rest! THE STORY OF THE FAITHFUL SOUL. FOUNDED ON AN OLD FRENCH LEGEND. HE fettered Spirits linger Their last faint earthly stain, Which Life's imperfect sorrow Yet, on each feast of Mary |