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The wild grapes wait us by the brook,

The brown nuts on the hill, And still the May-day flowers make


The woods of Follymill.

The lilies blossom in the pond,
the bird builds in the tree,

The dark pines sing on Ramoth hill
The slow song of the sea.

I wonder if she thinks of them,
And how the old time seems. —

If ever the pines of Kamolh wood,
Are sounding in her dreams.

I see her face, I hear her voice:
Does she remember mine?

And what to her is now the boy
Who fed her father's kine 1



The silver trumpets rang across the dome:

The people knelt upon the ground

with awe: And borne upon the necks of men

I saw,

Like some great god, the Holy Lord

of Rome. Priest-like, he wore a robe more white than foam, And, king-like, swathed himself

in royal red, Three crowns of gold rose high upon his head: In splendor and in light the Pope

passed home. My heart stole back across wide wastes of years To One who wandered by a

lonely sea. And sought in vain for any place of rest:

"Foxes have holes, and every bird its nest,

I, only I, must wander wearily, And bruise my feet, and drink wine salt with tears."

What cares she that the orioles build For other eyes than ours, —

That other hands with nuts are filled, And other laps with flowers?

O playmate in the golden time!

Our mossy seat is green,
Its fringing violets blossom yet,

The old trees o'er it lean.

The winds so sweet with birch and fern

A sweeter memory blow; And there in spring the vecries sing The songs of long ago.

And still the pines of Ramoth wood
Are moaning like the sea, —

The moaning of the sea of change
Between myself and thee!



A Lily-girl, not made for this world's pain, With brown, soft hair close braided

by her ears, And longing eyes half veiled by slumberous tears Like bluest water seen through mists of rain:

Pale cheeks whereon no love hath left its stain, Red underlip drawn in for fear of love,

And white throat, whiter than the silvered dove, Through whose wan marble creeps

one purple vein. Yet, though my lips shall praise her without cease, Even to kiss her feet I am not bold, [of awe.

Being o'ershadowed by the wings Like Dante, when he stood with Beatrice

Beneath the flaming lion's breast, and saw

The seventh Crystal, and the Stair of Gold.



Nay, Lord, not thus! white lilies in the spring, Sad olive-groves, or silver-breasted dove,

Teach me more clearly of Thy life and love

Than terrors of red name and thundering.

The empurpled vines dear memories

of Thee bring: A bird at evening flying to its nest, Tells me of One who had no place

of rest:

I think it is of Thee the sparrows sing.

Come rather on some autumn afternoon,

When red and brown are burnished

on the leaves, And the fields echo to the gleaner's


Come when the splendid fulness of

the moon Looks down upon the rows of

golden sheaves, And reap Thy harvest: we have

waited long.


The Thames nocturne of blue and gold

Changed to B harmony in Gray: A barge with ochre-colored hay Dropt from the wharf: and chill and cold

The yellow fog came creeping down The bridges, till the houses' walls Seemed changed to shadows, and St. Paul's

Loomed like a bubble o'er the town.

Then suddenly arose the clang Of waking life; the streets were stirred

With country wagons: and a bird Flew to the glistening roofs and sang.

But one pale woman all alone,
The daylight kissing her wan hair,
Loitered beneath the gas-lamps'

With lips of flame and heart of stone.


The sky is laced with fitful red, The circling mists and shadows flee,

The dawn is rising from the sea, Like a white lady from her bed.

And jagged brazen arrows fall Athwart the feathers of the night, And a long wave of yellow light Breaks silently on tower and hall,

And spreading wide across the wold

Wakes into flight some fluttering bird,

And all the chestnut tops are stirred

And all the branches streaked with gold.


The sea is flecked with bars of gray The dull dead wind is out of tune, And like a withered leaf the moon

Is blown across the stormy bay.

Etched clear upon the pallid sand
The black boat lies: a sailor boy
Clambers aboard in careless joy

With laughing face and gleaming hand.

And overhead the curlews cry, Where through the dusky upland grass

The young brown-throated reapers pass,

Like silhouettes against the sky.


Tread lightly, she is near

Under the snow, Speak gently, she can hear

The daisies grow.

All her bright golden hair
Tarnished with rust,

She that was young and fair
Fallen to dust.

Lily-like, white as snow,

She hardly knew She was a woman, so

Sweetly she grew.

Coffin-board, heavy stone,

Lie on her breast,
I vex my heart alone

She is at rest.

Peace, peace, she cannot hear

Lyre or sonnet,
All my life's buried here,

Heap earth upon it.

Richard Henry Wilde.


My life is like the summer rose

That opens to the morning sky, But ere the shades of evening close

Is scattered on the ground — to die. Yet on the rose's humble bed The sweetest dews of night are shed, As if she wept the waste to see, — But none shall weep a tear for me!

My life is like the autumn leaf. That trembles in the moon's pale ray!

Its hold is frail, its date is brief;

Restless, and soon to pass away! Yet, ere that leaf shall fall and fade. The parent tree will mourn its shade, The winds bewail the leafless tree,— But none shall breathe a sigh forme!

My life is like the prints which feet Have left on Tampa's desert strand; Soon as the rising tide shall beat,

All trace will vanish from the sand; Yet, as if grieving to efface All vestige of the human race, On that lone shore loud moans the sea, —

But none, alas! shall mourn for me!


Winged mimic of the woods! thou motley fool!

Who shall thy gay buffoonery describe?

Thine ever-ready notes of ridicule Pursue thy fellows still with jest and gibe:

Wit, sophist, songster, Yorick of thy tribe,

Thou sportive satirist of Nature's school;

To thee, the palm of scoffing, we ascribe,

Arch-mocker and mad abbot of misrule!

For such thou art by day — but all night long

Thou pour'st a soft, sweet, pensive, solemn, strain,

As if thou didst, in this thy moonlight song,

Like to the melancholy Jacques complain, —

Musing on falsehood, folly, sin, and wrong,

And sighing for thy motley coat again.

Helen Maria Williams.


Whilst Thee I seek, protecting Power!

Be my vain wishes stilled; And may this consecrated hour

With better hopes be filled.

Thy love the power of thought bestowed, —

To Thee my thoughts would soar: Thy mercy o'er my life has flowed;

That mercy I adore.

In each event of life, how clear

Thy ruling hand I see! Each blessing to my soul most dear,

Because conferred by Thee.

In every joy that crowns my days,

In every pain I bear, My heart shall find delight in praise,

Or seek relief in prayer.

When gladness wings my favored hour,

Thy love my thoughts shall fill; Resigned, when storms of sorrow lower,

My soul shall meet Thy will.

My lifted eye, without a tear,
The gathering storm shall see;

My steadfast heart shall know no fear;

That heart will rest on Thee.


Oh, ever skilled to wear the form we love,

To bid the shapes of fear and grief depart,—

Come, gentle Hope! with one gay

smile remove The lasting sadness of an aching


Thy voice, benign enchantress! let me hear;

Say that for me some pleasures yet shall bloom;

That Fancy's radiance, Friendship's precious tear,

Shall soften or shall chase misfortune's gloom.

But come not glowing in the dazzling ray

Which once with dear illusions charmed my eye;

Oh, strew no more, sweet flatterer, on my way

The flowers I fondly thought too bright to die.

Visions less fair will soothe my pensive breast.

That asks not happiness, but longs for rest.

Nathaniel Parker Willis.


Stoop to my window, thou beautiful dove!

Thy daily visits have touched my love.
I watch thy coming, and list the note
That stirs so low in thy mellow
And my joy is high
To catch the glance of thy gentle eye.

Why dost thou sit on the heated leaves.

And forsake the wood with its freshened leaves?

Why dost thou haunt the sultry street,

When the paths of the forest are cool
and sweet?
How canst thou bear
This noise of people — this sultry air?

Thou alone of the feathered race Dost look un*eared on the human face;

Thou alone, with a wing to flee,
Dost love with man in his haunts

to be; And the " gentle dove" has become a name for trust and


A holy gift is thine, sweet bird!

Thou'rt named with childhood's earliest word!

Thou'rt linked with all that is fresh and wild

In the prisoned thoughts of the city

child; And thy glossy wings Are its brightest image of moving


It is no light chance. Thou art set apart,

Wisely by Him who has tamed thy heart,

To stir the love for the bright and fair

That else were sealed in this crowded air;

I sometimes dream Angelic rays from thy pinions stream.

Come, then, ever, when daylight leaves

The page I read, to my humble


And wash thy breast in the hollow spout,

And murmur thy low sweet music

out! I hear and see Lessons of heaven, sweet bird, in



I Love to look on a scene like this,

Of wild and careless play. And persuade myself that I am not old.

And my locks are not yet gray;

For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart,

And makes his pulses fly, To catch the thrill of a happy voice, And the light of a pleasant eye.

I have walked the world for fourscore ks years;

And they say that I am old, That my heart is ripe for the reaper, Death,

And my years are well-nigh told. It is very true; it is very true;

I'm old, and " I 'bide my time:" But my heart will leap at a scene like this,

And I half renew my prime.

Play on, play on; I am with you there,

In the midst of your merry ring: I can feel the thrill of the daring jump,

And the rush of the breathless swing.

I hide with you in the fragrant hay, And I whoop the smothered call,

And my feet slip up on the seedy floor,
And I care not for the fall.

I am willing to die when my time
shall come,
And I shall be glad to go;
For the world at best is a weary place,

And my pulse is getting low; But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail In treading its gloomy way; And it wiles my heart from its dreariness

To see the young so gay.


Tired of play! tired of play! What hast thou done this livelong day?

The birds are silent, and so is the bee; The sun is creeping up steeple and tree;

The doves have flown to the sheltering eaves,

And the nests are dark with the drooping leaves;

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