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The fair world i8 the witness of two crime
Repeated every hour. For life and breath
Are sweet to all who live; and bitterly
The voices of these robbers of the heath
Sound in each ear and chill the passerby.
— What have we done to thee, thou
monstrous Time? What have we done to Death that we
A DAY IN SUSSEX.
The dove did lend me wings. I fled away
From the loud world which long had
troubled me. Oh, lightly did I flee when hoyden
Threw her white mantle on the hawthorn tree.
I left the dusty highroad, and my way
Was through deep meadows, shut with copses fair.
A choir of thrushes poured its roundelay
From every hedge and every thicket there.
Mild, moon-faced kine looked on,
where in the grass, All heaped with flowers I lay, from
noon till eve; And hares unwitting close to me did
And still the birds sang, and I could
not grieve. Oh, what a blessed thing that evening
Peace, music, twilight, all that could
A soul to joy, or lull a heart to peace. It glimmers yet across whole years like these.
LAUGHTER AND DEATH.
There is no laughter in the natural world
Of beast or fish or bird, though no sad doubt
Of their futurity to them unfurled Has dared to check the mirth-compelling shout. The lion roars his solemn thunder out
To the sleeping woods. The eagle
screams her cry; Even the lark must strain a serious
To hurl his blest defiance at the sky. Fear, anger, jealousy have found a voice;
Love's pains or raptures the brute
bosom swell. Nature has symbols for her nobler
Her nobler sorrows. Who had dared foretell
That only man. by some sad mockery,
Should learn to laugh who learns that he must die?
There is no comfort underneath the sun.
Youth turns to age; riches are quickly spent;
Pride breeds us pain, our pleasures
punishment; The very courage which we count
A single night of fever shall break down;
And love is slain by fear. Death last of all
Spreads out his nets and watches for our fall.
There is no comfort underneath the sun!
— When thou art old, Oman, if thou
wert proud Be humble; pride will here avail thee
There is no courage which can conquer death.
Forget that thou wert wise. Nay, keep thy breath
For prayer, that so thy wisdom be forgot
And thou perhaps get pity of thy George Henry Boker.
[From •' The Book of the Dead." l
Through the dark path, o'er which I tread, One voice is ever at my ear, One muffled form deserts the dead, And haunts my presence far and near.
In times of doubt, he whispers trust;
In danger, drops a warning word; And when I waver from the just,
His low, complaining sigh is heard.
He follows me, with patient there from daybreak unto evening's close;
He bends beside me, head by head,
And sharing thus my smallest deed,
And sleep becomes a blessed need,
Dear ghost, I feel no dread of thee;
A gracious comrade thou art grown; Be near me, cheer, bend over me.
When the long sleep is settling down!
In hazy gold the hill-side sleeps,
A cloud of lucid vapor creeps
The sun is but a blur of light,
But all the forest-trees are bright,
I hear the clamor of the crow,
As swiftly out of sight they go,
I know the sunshine of this hour,
Will never wake the dying flower,
The scarlet leaves are doomed to fall,
The lake shall stiffen at a breath; The crow shall ring his dreary call Above December's waste of death.
And so, thou bird of southern flight, My soul is yearning for thy wings; I dread the thoughts that come to light,
In gazing on the death of things.
Fain would I spread an airy plume, For lands where endless summers reign,
And lose myself in tropic bloom,
When I am turned to mouldering dust,
And all my ways are lost in night, When through me crocuses have thrust
Their pointed blades, to find the light;
And caught by plant and grass and grain,
My elements are made a part Of nature, and, through sun and rain,
Swings in a flower my wayward heart;
Some curious mind may haply ask, "Who penned this scrap of olden song?
Paint us the man whose woful task Frowns in the public eye so long."
I answer, truly as I can;
I hewed the wood, the water drew; I toiled along, a common man, —
A man, in all things, like to you.
Sarah K. Bolton.
ENTERED INTO R EST.
Soldier, statesman, scholar, friend,
Life has come to sudden end,
Toil and cares of state are o'er;
Pain and struggle come no more.
Nations weep about thy bier,
Bring the poor their homage here,
Be thy grave our Mecca, hence,
With its speechless eloquence;
Kest thee by Lake Erie.
Winter snows will wrap thy mound,
Summer kiss the velvet ground,
Home beside this inland sea,
Where thou lov'dst in life to be;
Strong for right, in danger brave,
Champion of the fettered slave,
To be loved is highest fame;
Garfield, an immortal name!
Rest thee by Lake Erie.
All thy gifted words shall be
Thy heroic loyalty
Mentor and thy precious ties
Sacred in the nation's eyes.
rest thee by Lake Erie.
From thy life and death shall come
An ennobled, purer race. Honoring labor, wife, and home;
More of cheer and Christian grace. Kindest, truest! till that day When He rolls the stone away, rest thee by Lake Erie.
A. B. Boyle.
She did not sigh for death, nor make sad moan.
Turning from smiles as one who solace fears,
But filled w ith kindly deeds the waiting years;
Yet, in her heart of hearts, she lived alone,
And in her voice there thrilled an undertone
That seemed to rise from soundless depths of tears;
As, when the sea is calm, one sometimes hears
The long, low murmur of a storm, unknown
Within the sheltered haven where he stands,
While tokens of a tempest overpast The changing tide brings to the
shining sands; So on the surface of her life was cast, An ever-present shadow of the day, When love and joy went hand in
Emily A. Braddock.
Brown bird, with a wisp in your mouth for your nest,
Away! away! you have found your guest.
Golden-ringed bee, through the airsea steer home.
The freight of sweets that lured you to roam.
O reapers! well may you sing, to hold
Your arms brimful of the grain's
bossed gold. But what to me that ye all go by? An unthrift, empty-handed, fare I, Yet I heard, as I passed, the noise
of a rill;
In my heart of hearts, it is singing still,
Blent with the wind's sough, the trill
of a bird, A child's laugh and a gracious word, Pictures 1 saw limned everywhere, A light here and a shadow there — A cloud, a stream, a flower small; In my heart of hearts I have hid
And some one, it may be, yet through me
The songs shall hear and the pictures see.
O brown bird, and bee, and reapers, go by!
Richer than any of you am I.
Mary D. Brine.
The woman was old and ragged and gray,
And bent with the chill of the winter's day:
The street was wet with a recent snow,
And the woman's feet were aged and slow.
She stood at the crossing and waited long,
Alone, uncared-for, amid the throng
Of human beings who passed her
Nor heeded the glance of her anxious
Down the street with laughter and shout,
Glad in the freedom of " school let out,"
Came the boys like a flock of sheep, Hailing the snow piled white and deep.
Past the woman so old and gray Hastened the children on their way,
Nor offered a helping hand to her,
Lest the carriage wheels or the horses' feet
Should crowd her down in the slippery street.
At last came one of the merry troop— The gayest laddie of all the group:
He paused beside her and whispered low.
"I'll help you across if you wish to go."
Her aged hand on his strong young arm
She placed, and so, without hurt or harm,
He guided her trembling feet along, Proud that his own were firm and strong.
Then back again to his friends he went,
His young heart happy and well content.
"She's somebody's mother, boys,
you know, For all she's aged and poor and slow;
And I hope some fellow will lend a hand
To help my mother, you understand,
If ever she's poor and old and gray, When her own dear boy is far away."
And "somebody's mother" bowed
low her head In her home that night, and the
prayer she said
Was, "God be kind to the noble boy
Who is somebody's son and pride and joy."
"O Rairn, when I am dead,
What hand will gie ye bread?
How shall ye dwell on earth awa' fra me I"
"O mother, dinnadee!"
"O bairn, by night or day
I hear nae sounds ava',
And the voices of ghaists that say,
Is hard on my bairn and me, And I melt in his breath like snaw."
"O mither, dinna dee!"
"O bairn, it is but closing up the een, And lying down never to rise again. Many a strong man's sleeping hae I seen, — There is nae pain! I'm weary, weary, and I scarce ken why;
My summer has gone by, And sweet were sleep, but for the sake o' thee." "O mither, Diana' s"
[From Faces on the Wall.]
Go, triflers with God's secret. Far, oh. far
Be your thin monotone, your brows
flower-crowned, Your backward-looking faces; for ye
The pregnant time with silly sooth of sound.
With flowers around the feverish
temples bound, And withering in the close air of the
Take all the summer pleasures ye have found,
While Circe-charmed ye turn to bird
and beast. Meantime I sit apart, a lonely wight On this bare rock amid this fitful
And in the wind and rain I try to light
A little lamp that may a beacon be, Whereby poor ship-folk, driving
through the night, May gain the ocean-course, and think
H. C. BONNER.
Poet, whose sunny span of fruitful years
Outreaches earth, whose voice within our ears Grows silent — shall we mourn for thee? Our sigh Is April's breath, our grief isApril's tears.
If this be dying, fair it is to die: Even as a garment weariness lays
Thou laycstdown life, to pass as time hath passed, From wintry rigors to a springtime sky.
Are there tears left to give thee at the last,
Poet of spirits crushed and hearts
downcast. Loved of worn women who when
work is done Weep o'er thy page in twilights
Oh, tender-toned and tenderhearted one,
We give thee to the season new begun!
Lay thy w hite head within the arms of spring — Thy song had all her shower and all her sun.