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Harriet Mcewen Kimball.
A bee flew in at my window,
And circled around my head; He came like a herald of summertime.
And what do you think he said?
"As sure as the roses shall blossom " — These are the words he said,—
"As sure as the gardens shall laugh in pride,
And the meadows blush clover-red;
"As sure as the golden robin
Shall build her a swinging nest, And the captured sunbeam lie fastlocked
In the marigold's burning breast;
"As sure as the water-lilies
Shall float like a fairy fleet; As sure as the torrent shall leap the rocks
With foamy, fantastic feet;
"As sure as the bobolink's carol
And the plaint of the whippoorwill Shall gladden the morning, and sadden the night, And the crickets pipe loud and shrill;
"So sure to the heart of the maiden Who hath loved and sorrowed long, Glad tidings shall bring the summer of Joy
With bursting of blossom and song!"
A seer as well as a herald!
For while I sat weeping to-day, The tenderest, cheeriest letter came
From Lionel far away.
Good news! O little bee-prophet,
But Lionel's true to me yet!
TROUBLE TO LEND.
To-morrow has trouble to lend
To all who lack to-ilay; Go, borrow it, — borrow, griefless heart,
And thou with thy peace wilt pay!
To-morrow has trouble to lend,—
But I have as much as heart can
Sweetest, sweetest, Heliotrope!
In the sunset's dying splendor.
In the trance of twilight tender,
All my senses I surrender,
The dim air swimmeth in my sight
With visions vague of soft delight; Shadowy hands with endless chain Of purple-clustered bloom enwind me; —
Garlands drenched in dreamy rain Of perfume passionate as sorrow And sad as Love's to-morrow! Bewildering music fills mine ears,— Faint laughter and commingling tears,—
Flowing like delicious pain
Through my drowsy brain. Bosomed in the blissful gloom,—
Meseems I sink on slumberous slope
Buried deep in purple bloom,
And clouds of faces half defined,
Sweeping like a desert wind
What enchantments weird possess me,—
Now uplift me, now oppress me?
Is it bliss, or is it anguish?
While I sicken, droop, and languish?
Still I feel my blood's dull beat
Give me back my strength's completeness. Must I pine and languish ever! Wilt thou loose my senses never! Wilt thou bloom and bloom for ever,
Oh, Lethean Heliotrope?
Ah, the night-wind, freshly blowing,
Flower! I love and do not love thee!
Crush thy buds, yet bid them ope;
Sweetest, sweetest Heliotrope!
How better am I
Than a butterfly?
I cling to my fancy's half-blown flower:
Over its sweetness I brood and brood, And scarcely stir, though sounds intrude
That would trouble and fret another
Who cares for the bees?
I will take my ease, Dream and dream as long as I
please; Hour by hour,
With love-wings fanning my sweet,
sweet flower! Gather your honey, and hoard your
Through spring and summer, and
hive through cold! I will cling to my flower till it is mould, Breathe one sigh And diet
TBS LAST APPEAL.
The room is swept and garnished for
thy sake; The table spread with Love's most
liberal cheer; The fire is blazing brightly on the
Faith lingers yet to give thee wel-
Daily I weave the airy web of hope;
Frail as the spider's, wrought with beads of dew,— That, like Penelope's, each night undone,
Each morn in patience I begin anew.
When wilt thou come?
Not yet! To-morrow Faith will take her flight, The fire die out, the banquet disappear;
Forever will these fingers drop the web,
And only desolation wait thee here. Oh, come today
My fairest child, I have no song to give you, No lark could pipe to skies so dull and gray; Yet, ere we part, one lesson I can leave you For every day: —
Be good, my dear, and let who will, be clever; Do noble things, not dream them, all day long; And so make life, death, and the vast forever One grand, sweet song.
THE THREE FISHERS.
Three fishers went sailing away to the West— Away to the West as the sun went down;
Each thought on the woman who
loved him the best, And the children stood watching
them out of the town; For men must work, and women must
And there s little to earn and many to keep,
Though the harbor-bar be moaning.
Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower
And trimmed the lamps as the sun went down; They looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower, And the night-rack came rolling up, ragged and brown. But men must work and women must weep,
Though storms be sudden and waters deep,
And the harbor-bar be moaning.
Three corpses lay out on the shining sands
In the morning gleam as the tide went down, And the women are weeping and wringing their hands, For those who will never come back to the town; For men must work, and women must weep —
And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep — And good-bye to the bar and its moaning.
DOLCINO TO MARGARET.
The world goes up and the world goes down, And the sunshine follows the rain;
And yesterday's sneer and yesterday's frown
Can never come over again,
For woman is warm, though man be cold,
And the night will hallow the
Till the heart which at eve was weary
SANDS OF DEE.
"O Mary, go and call the cattle home,
And call the cattle home And call the cattle home, Across the sands of Dee!" The western wind was wild and dank with foam And all alone went she.
The western tide crept up along the sand,
And o'er and o'er the sand,
"Oh is it weed, or fish, or floating
Above the nets at sea? Was never salmon yet that shone so fair,
Among the stakes on Dee."
They rowed her in across the rolling
OH! WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF MORTAL BE PROUD?
Oh ! why should the spirit of mortal be proud?
Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fastflying cloud,
A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave,
He passed from life to his rest in the grave.
The leaves of the oak and the willow
shall fade, Be scattered around, and together be
As the young and the old, the low
and the high, Shall crumble to dust and together
The infant, a mother attended and loved,
The mother, that infant's affection
who proved, The father, that mother and infant
who blest, Each, all, are away to that dwelling
The maid, on whose brow, on whose cheek, in whose eye,
Shone beauty and pleasure, — her triumphs are by;
And alike from the minds of the living erased
Are the memories of mortals who loved her and praised.
The head of the king, that the sceptre
hath borne; The brow of the priest, that the mitre
hath worn; The eye of the sage, and the heart of
the brave, — Are hidden and lost in the depths of
The peasant, whose lot was to sow
and to reap; The herdsman, who climbed with his
goats up the steep; The beggar, who wandered in search
of his bread, — Have faded away like the grass that
So the multitude goes, like the flower or weed,
That withers away to let others succeed;
So the multitude comes, even those
we behold, To repeat every tale that has often
For we are the same that our fathers
have been; We see the same sights that our
fathers have seen: We drink the same stream, and we
feel the same sun. And run the same course that our
fathers have run.
The thoughts we are thinking our fathers did think;
From the death we are shrinking our fathers did shrink;
To the life we are clinging our fathers did cling,
But it speeds from us all like the bird on the wing.
They loved, — but the story we cannot unfold;
They scorned, — but the heart of the haughty is cold;
They grieved, — but no wail from their slumbers will come;
They joyed, — but the tongue of their gladness is dumb.
They died, —ah! they died; — we, things that are now,
That walk on the turf that lies over their brow,
And make in their dwelling a transient abode,
Meet the things that they met on their pilgrimage road.
Yea, hope and despondency, pleasure
and pain, Are mingled together in sunshine and
And the smile and the tear, and the
song and the dirge, Still follow each other like surge
'Tis the wink of an eye; 'tis the
draught of a breath From the blossom of health to the
paleness of death, From the gilded saloon to the bier
and the shroud; Oh! why should the spirit of mortal
Marie R. Lacoste.
Into a ward of the whitewashed walls,
Where the dead and dying lay, Wounded by bayonets, shells, and balls,
Somebody's darling was borne one day —
Somebody's darling, so young, and so brave,
Wearing yet on his pale sweet face, Soon to be hid by the dust of the grave,
The lingering light of his boyhood's grace.
Matted and damp are the curls of gold, [brow;
Kissing the snow of that fair young Pale are the lips of delicate mould —
Somebody's darling is dying now.
Back from his beautiful, blue-veined brow,
Brush all the wandering waves of gold.
Cross his hands on his bosom now, Somebody's darling is still and cold.
Kiss him once for somebody's sake,
Murmur a prayer soft and low; One bright curl from its fair mates take,
They were somebody's pride, you know:
Somebody's hand has rested there,— Was it a mother's soft and white?
And have the lips of a sister fair Been baptized in those waves of light?