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Anna Maria Fay.


Oft see we in the garish round of day

A danger-haunted world for our sad feet,

Or fear we tread along the peopled street

A homeless path, an uncompanioned way. So too the night doth bring its own array

Of darkling terrors we must singly meet,

Each soul apart in its unknown retreat,

With life a purposeless, unconscious play. But though the day discovers us afraid,

Unsure of some safe hand to be

our guide, rest we at night, as if for each

were said,

"He giveth unto His beloved sleep." Nought less than all do we in sleep confide,

And death but needs of us a trust as deep.


When love is in her eyes,

What need of Spring for me? A brighter emerald lies

On hill and vale and lea. The azure of the skies

Holds nought so sweet to see, When love is in her eyes,

What need of Spring for me?

Her bloom the rose outvies,
The lily dares no plea,

The.violet's glory dies,
No flower so sweet can be;

When love is in her eyes,
What need of Spring for me?

Cornelius George Fenner.


A Weary weed, tossed to and fro, drearily drenched in the ocean brine,

Soaring high and sinking low, Lashed along without will of mine;

Sport of the spume of the surging sea; Flung on the foam, afar and anear,

Mark my manifold mystery,— Growth and grace in their place appear.

I bear round berries, gray and red,
Rootless and rover though I be;
My spangled leaves, when nicely

Arboresce as a trunkless tree; Corals curious coat me o'er,

White and hard in apt array; 'Mid the wild waves' rude uproar,

Gracefully grow I, night and day.

Hearts there are on the sounding shore,

Something whispers soft to me, restless and roaming for evermore,

Like this weary weed of the sea; Bear they yet on each beating breast

The eternal type of the wondrous whole:

Growth unfolding amidst unrest, Grace informing with silent soul. Annie


Daughter of Love! Out of the flowing river,

Bearing the tide of life upon its billow,

Down to that gulf where love and song together

Sink and must perish:

Out of that fatal and resistless current,

One little song of thine to thy great mother,

Treasured upon the heart of earth forever.

Alone is rescued.

Yet when spring comes, and weary is

the spirit, When love is here, but absent is the


And life is here, and only love is dying,

Then turn we, longing, Singer, to thee! Through ages unforgotten;

Where beats the heart of one who in

her loving Sang, all for love, and gave herself

in singing

To the sea's bosom.

[From The Last Contest of Aeschylus.]


But now the games succeeded, then a pause,

And after came the judges with the scrolls;

Two scrolls, not one, as in departed years.

And this saw none but the youth, Sophocles,

Who stood with head erect and shining eyes,

As if the beacon of some promised land

Caught his strong vision and entranced it there.


Then while the earth made mimicry

of heaven With stillness, calmly spake the

mightiest judge: "O ^Eschylus! The father of our


Athenian master of the tragic lyre Thou the incomparable! Swayer of

strong hearts! Immortal minstrel of immortal deeds! The autumn grows apace, and all

must die; Soon winter comes, and silence.

.rEschylus! After that silence laughs the tuneful


Read'st thou our meaning through

this slender veil Of nature's weaving? Sophocles,

stand forth! Behold Fame calls thee to her loftiest


And bids thee wear her crown. Stand

forth, I say!" Then, like a fawn, the youthful poet


From the dark thicket of new crowding friends,

And stood, a straight, lithe form with gentle mien,

Crowned first with light of happiness and youth.

But .lEschylus, the old man, bending lower

Under this new chief weight of all

the years, Turned from that scene, turned from

the shouting crowd, Whose every voice wounded his dying


With arrows poison-dipped, and

walked alone, Forgotten, under plane-trees, by the


"The last! The last! Have I no more to do

With this sweet world! Is the bright morning now

No longer fraught for me with crowding song?

Will evening bring no unsought fruitage home?

Must the days pass and these poor lips be dumb,

While strewing leaves sing falling through the air,

And autumn gathers in her richest fruit?

Where is my spring departed? Where, O gods!

Within my spirit still the building birds

I hear, with voice more tender than

when leaves Are budding and the happy earth is

gay. Am I, indeed, grown dumb for evermore!

Take me, O bark! Take me, thou

flowing stream! Who knowest nought of death save

when thy waves Rush to new life upon the ocean's


Bear thou me singing to the under world!

[From Sophocles.]


Bowed half with age and half with

reverence, thus, I, Sophocles, now answer to your


Questioned have I the cause and the

reason learned. Lo, I am here that all the world may


These feeble limbs that signal of decay!

But, know ye, ere the aged oak must


Long after the strong years have

bent his form. The spring still gently weaves a leafy


Fresh as of yore to deck his wintry head.

And now, O people mine, who have loved my song,

Ye shall be judges if the spring have brought

Late unto me, the aged oak, a crown. Hear ye once more, ere yet the river of sleep

Bear me away far on its darkening


The music breathed upon me from

these fields. If to your ears, alas! the shattered


No longer sing, but breathe a discord harsh,

I will return and draw this mantle close

About my head and lay me down to die.

But if ye hear the wonted spirit call, Framing the natural song that fills

this world To a diviner form, then shall ye all


The love I bear to those most near to me

Is living still, and living cannot wrong;

To me, it seems, the love I bear to thee,

Athens, blooms fresh as violets in yon wood,

Making new spring within this aged breast.


I Am Hephaistos, and forever here Stand at the forge and labor, while I dream

Of those who labor not and are not lame.

I hear the early and the late birds call,

Hear winter whisper to the coming spring,

And watch the feet of summer dancing light

For joy across the bosom of the earth. Labor endures, but all of these must pass!

And ye who love them best, nor are condemned

To beat the anvil through the summer day, . 1

May learn the secret of their sudden flight;

No mortal tongue may whisper where

they hide, But to her love, half nestled in the


Earth has been known to whisper low yet clear

Strange consolation for the wintry days.

Oh, listen then, ye singers! learn and tell

Those who must labor by the dusty way 1


O Youth of the world,
Thou wert sweet!

In thy bud

Slept nor canker nor pain;
In t he blood

Of thy grape was no frost and no rain;

I love thee! I follow thy feet!

The youth of my heart,

And the deathless fire

Leap to embrace thee:

And nighcr, and nigher,

Through the darkness of grief and

the smart, Thy form do I see.

But the tremulous hand of the years
Has brought me a friend.
Beautiful gift beyond price!
Beyond loss, beyond tears!
Hither she stands, clad in a veil,
O thou youth of the world!
She was a stranger to thee,
Thou didst fear her and flee.

Sorrow is her name;
And the face of Sorrow is pale;
But her heart is aflame
With a fire no winter can tame.
Her love will not bend
To the storm.
To the voices of pleasure,
Nor faint in the arms of the earth;
But she followeth ever the form
Of the Master whose promise is sure,
Who knows both our death and our

James Thomas Fields.


At dawn the fleet stretched miles away

On ocean-plains asleep,—
Trim vessels waiting for the day

To move across the deep.
So still the sails they seemed to be
White lilies growing in the sea.

When evening touched the cape's
low rim.
And dark fell on the waves,
We only saw processions dim

Of clouds, from shadowy caves; These were the ghosts of buried ships Gone down in one brief hour's eclipse!


It was a blithesome young jongleur

Who started out to sing,
Eight hundred years ago, or more,

On a leafy morn in spring;
And he carolled sweet as any bird

That ever tried its wing.

Of love his little heart was full,—

Madonna! how he sang! The blossoms trembled with delight,

And round about him sprang. As forth among the banks of Loire

The minstrel's music rang.

The boy had left a home of want
To wander up and down,

And sing for bread and nightly rest

In many an alien town,
And bear whatever lot befell,—

The alternate smile and frown.

The singer's carolling lips are dust,

And ages long since then Dead kings have lain beside their thrones,

Voiceless as common men,— But Gerald's songs are echoing still

Through every mountain glen


Oh, the soul-haunting shadows when

low he'll lie dying, And the dread angel's voice for his

spirit is crying! Where will his thoughts wander, just

before sleeping, When a chill from the dark o'er his

forehead is creeping?
Will he go on beguiling,
And wantonly smiling?

'Tis June with him now, but quick

cometh December; There's a broken heart somewhere

for him to remember, And sure as God liveth, for all his

gay trolling, The bell for his passing one day will

be telling!
Then no more beguiling,
False vowing and smiling!


Go, sophist! dare not to despoil
My life of what it sorely needs

In days of pain, in hours of toil,— The bread on which my spirit feeds.

You see no light beyond the stars,
No hope of lasting joys to come?

I feel, thank God, no narrow bars
Between me and my final home!

Hence with your cold sepulchral bans,—

The vassal doubts Unfaith has given!

My childhood's heart within the man's

Still whispers to me, "Trust in Heaven!"


How sweet and gracious, even in

common speech, Is that fine sense which men call

Courtesy! Wholesome as air and genial as the


Welcome in every clime as breath of

flowers,— It transmutes aliens into trusting


And gives its owner passport round the globe.


O Happiest he, whose riper years retain

The hopes of youth, unsullied by a stain!

His eve of life in calm content shall glide,

Like the still streamlet to the ocean tide:

No gloomy cloud hangs o'er his tranquil day;

No meteor lures him from his home astray;

For him there glows with glittering

beam on high Love's changeless star that leads him

to the sky; Still to the past he sometimes turns

to trace

The mild expression of a mother's face,

And dreams, perchance, as oft in

earlier years, The low, sweet music of her voice he


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