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AUSTERITY OF POETRY.

That son of Italy who tried to blow. Ere Dami. came, the trump of sacred song.

In his light youth amid a festal throng

Sate with liis bride to see a public show.

Fair was the bride, and on her front did glow

Youth like a star; and what to youth belong —

Gay raiment, sparkling gauds, elation strong.

A prop gave way! crash fell a platform! lo,

Mid struggling sufferers, hurt to

death, she lay! Shuddering, they drew her garments

off — and found A robe of sackcloth next the smooth,

white skin.

Such, poets, is your bride, the Muse!

young, gay, Radiant, adoro'd outside; a hidden

ground

Of thought and of austerity within.

[From Memorial Verses.]
GOETHE.

He took the suffering human race, He read each wound, each weakness clear;

And struck his finger on the place, And said: Thou ailest here, and here I

EARLY DEATH AND FAME.

For him who must see many years, I praise the life which slips away Out of the light and mutely; which avoids

Fame, and her less fair followers,

envy, strife,
Stupid detraction, jealousy, cabal,
insincere praises; which descends
The quiet mossy track to age.

But, when immature death
Beckons too early the guest
From the half-tried banquet of life,
Young, in the bloom of his days;
Leaves no leisure to press,
Slow and surely, the sweets
Of a tranquil life in the shade —
Fuller for him be the hours!
Give him emotion, though pain!
Let him live, let him feel: I have listed.
Heap up his moments with life!
Triple his pulses with fame!

SELF-DEPENDENCE.

Weary of myself, and sick of asking What I am, and what I ought to be, At this vessel's prow I stand, which

bears me Forwards, forwards, o'er the starlit sea.

And a look of passionate desire O'er the sea and to the stars I send: Ye who from my childhood up have calm'd me, Calm me, ah, compose me to the end!

"Ah, once more," I cried, " yc stars,

ye waters, On my heart your mighty charm

renew;

Still, still let me, as I gaze upon you, Feel my soul becoming vast like you!"

From the intense, clear, star-sown

vault of heaven. Over the lit sea's unquiet way, In the rustling night-air came the

answer:

"Wouldst thou be as these are 1 Lice as they.

"Unaffrighted by the silence round them,

Undistracted by the sights they see. These demand not that the things

without them Yield them love, amusement, sympathy.

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"And with joy the stars perform

their shining, And the sea its long moon-silver'd

roll;

For self-poised they live, nor pine

with noting All the fever of some differing soul.

"Bounded by themselves, and unregardf ul

In what state God's other works may be,

In their own tasks all their powers pouring,

These attain the mighty life you see."

O air-born voice! long since, severely
clear,

A cry like thine in mine own heart
I hear:

"Resolve to be thyself; and know,
that he

Who finds himself, loses his misery!"

Philip James Bailey.

THE TRUE MEASURE OF LIFE.

We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breath;

In feelings, not in figures on the dial.

We should count time by heart-throbs when they beat

For God, for man, for duty. He most lives,

Who thinks most, feels noblest, acts the best.

Life is but a means unto an end — that end.

Beginning, mean, and end to all things, God.

Joanna

THE WORTH OF FAME.

Oh! who shall lightly say, that Fame
Is nothing but an empty name!
Whilst in that sound there is a charm
The nerves to brace, the heart to
warm,

As, thinking of the mighty dead,
The young from slothful couch will
start,

And vow, with lifted hands out-
spread,

Like them to act a noble part?

Oh! who shall lightly say that Fame
Is nothing but an empty name!
When, but for those, our mighty
dead,

All ages past a blank would be,
sunk in oblivion's murky bed,
A desert bare, a shipless sea?

BAILLIE.

They are the distant objects seen, —
The lofty marks of what hath been.

Oh! who shall lightly say that Fame
Is nothing but an empty name!
When memory of the mighty dead

To earth-worn pilgrim's wistful eye
The brightest rays of cheering shed,

That point to immortality?

THE KITTEN.

Wanton droll, whose harmless
play

Beguiles the rustic's closing day.
When drawn the evening fire about.
Sit aged crone and thoughtless lout,
And child upon his three-foot stool,
Waiting till his supper cool;

And maid, whose cheek outblooms the rose.

As bright the blazing fagot glows. Who, bending to the friendly light Plies her task with busy sleight; Come, show thy tricks and sportive graces,

Thus circled round with merry faces.

Backward eoil'd, and crouching low,

With glaring eyeballs watch thy foe, The housewife's spindle whirling round,

Or thread, or straw, that on the ground

Its shadow throws, by urchin sly
Held out to lure thy roving eye;
Then onward stealing, fiercely spring
Upon the futile, faithless thing.
Now, wheeling round, with bootless
skill,

Thy bo-peep tail provokes thee still,
As oft beyond thy curving side
Its jetty tip is seen to glide;
Till from thy centre, starting fair,
Thou sidelong rear'st, with rump in
air,

Erected stiff, and gait awry,
Like madam in her tantrums high:
Though ne'er a madam of them all,
Whose silken kirtle sweeps the hall
More varied trick and whim displays,
To catch the admiring stranger's
gaze ....

But not alone by cottage fire
Do rustics rude thy feats admire;
The learned sage, whose thoughts
explore

The widest range of human lore,
Or, with unfetter'd fancy, fly
Through airy heights of poesy,
Pausing, smiles with alter'd air,
To see thee climb his elbow-chair,
or, struggling on the mat below,
Hold warfare with his slipper'd toe.
The widow'd dame, or lonely maid,
Who in the still, but cheerless shade
Of home unsocial, spends her age,
And rarely turns a letters page;
Upon her hearth for thee lets fall
The rounded cork, or paper ball.
Nor chides thee on thy wicked watch

The ends of ravell'd skein to catch, But lets thee have thy wayward will, Perplexing oft her sober skill

MY LOVE IS ON HER WAY.

Oh, welcome bat and owlet gray, Thus winging low your airy way! And welcome moth and drowsy fly That to mine ear comes humming by! And welcome shadows dim and deep, And stars that through the pale sky peep;

Oh welcome all! to me ye say
My woodland love is on her way.

Upon the soft wind floats her hair,
Her breath is on the dewy air;
Her steps are in the whisper'd sound,
That steals along the stilly ground.
Oh, dawn of day, in rosy bower.
What art thou to this witching hour'!
Oh, noon of day, in sunshine bright,
What art thou to this faltof night \>

SNATCHES OF BIRTH IN A DARK LIFE.

Didst thou ne'er see the swallow's

veering breast, Winging the air beneath some murky

cloud

In the stunned glimpses of a stormy day,

Shiver in silvery brightness? Or boatman's ear, as vivid lightning flash

In the faint gleam, ili.it like a spirit's path

Tracks the still waters of some sullen lake?

Or lonely tower, from its brown mass of woods,

Give to the parting of a wintry sun

One hasty glance in mockery of the night

Closing in darkness round it ? (Gentle friend!

Chide not her mirth who was sad

yesterday, And may be so to-morrow.)

James Ballantine.

ILKA BLADE O' GRASS KEPS ITS AIN DRAP O' DEW.

Confide ye aye in Providence, for Providence is kind,

And bear ye a' life's changes, wi' a calm and tranquil mind,

Though pressed and hemmed on every side, ha'e faith and ye'll win through,

For ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o'dew.

Gin reft frae friends or crost in love, as whiles nae doubt ye've been,
Grief lies deep hidden in your heart, or tears flow frae your een,
Believe it for the best, and trow there's good in store for you,
For ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew.

In lang, lang days o' simmer, when the clear and cloudless sky
Refuses ae wee drap o' rain to nature parched and dry,
The genial night, wi' balmy breath, gars verdure spring anew,
And ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew.

Sae, lest 'mid fortune's sunshine we should feel owre proud and hie,
And in our pride forget to wipe the tear frae poortith's e'e,
Some wee dark clouds o' sorrow come, we ken na whence or hoo,
But ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew.

Anna Letitia Barbauld.

LIFE.

Life! I know not what thou art,
But know that thou and I must part;
And when, or how, or where we met,
I own to me's a secret yet.

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 warn-
ing.

Choose thine own time;
Say not Good Night, — but in some
brighter clime
Bid me Good Morning.

THE DEATH OF THE VIRTUOUS.

Sweet is the scene when virtue dies!

When sinks a righteous soul to rest, How mildly beam the closing eyes.

How gently heaves th' expiring
breast.

So fades a summer cloud away
So sinks the gale when storms are
o'er,

So gently shuts the eye of day,
So dies a wave along the shore.

Triumphant smiles the victor brow.
Fanned by some angel's purple
wing; —

Where is, O Grave! thy victory now! And where, insidious Death, thy sting!

Farewell, conflicting joys and fears, Where light and shade alternate dwell]

How bright the unchanging mor n appears; — Farewell, inconstant world, farewell!

Its duty done, — as sinks the day, Light from its load the spirit flies;

While heaven and earth combine to say

"Sweet is the scene when Virtue dies!"

David Barker

THE COVERED BRIDGE.

Tell the fainting soul in the weary form,

There's a world of the purest bliss,

That is linked as the soul and form are linked, By a covered bridge with this.

Yet to reach that realm on the other shore,

We must pass through a transient gloom,

and must walk unseen, unhelped, and alone Through that covered bridge — the tomb.

But we all pass over on equal terms.

For the universal toll Is the outer garb, which the hand of God

Has flung around the soul.

Though the eye is dim and the bridge is dark,

And the river it spans is wide, Yet Faith points through to a shining mount That looms on the other side.

To enable our feet on the next day's march

To climb up that golden ridge, We must all lie down for a one night's rest Inside of the covered bridge.

Joel Barlow.

TO FREEDOM.

Scn of the moral world! effulgent source

Of man's best wisdom and his steadiest force,

Soul-searching Freedom! here assume thy stand,

And radiate hence to every distant land;

Point out and prove how all the

scenes of strife, The shock of states, the impassion'd

broils of life.

Spring from unequal sway; and how they fly

Before the splendor of thy peaceful eye;

Unfold at last the genuine social plan, The mind's full scope, the dignity of man.

Bold nature bursting through her

long disguise, A nd nations dari ng to be just and wise. Yes! righteous Freedom, heaven and

earth and sea Yield or withhold their various gifts for thee;

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