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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

must die?


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.


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,
To scent the violet or the rose.

And sharing thus my smallest deed,
When all the works of day are past,

And sleep becomes a blessed need,
He lies against my heart at last.

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,
The distance fades within the mist,

A cloud of lucid vapor creeps
Along the lake's pale amethyst.

The sun is but a blur of light,
The sky in ashy gray is lost;

But all the forest-trees are bright,
Brushed by the pinions of the frost.

I hear the clamor of the crow,
The wild-ducks' far discordant cry,

As swiftly out of sight they go,
In wedges driving through the sky.

I know the sunshine of this hour,
Warm as the glow of early May,

Will never wake the dying flower,
Nor breathe a spirit through decay.

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,
And never think of death again.


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.


Soldier, statesman, scholar, friend,
Brother to the lowliest one,

Life has come to sudden end,
But its work is grandly done.

Toil and cares of state are o'er;

Pain and struggle come no more.
Rest thee by Lake Erie.

Nations weep about thy bier,
Flowers are sent by queenly hands;

Bring the poor their homage here,
Come the great from many lauds..

Be thy grave our Mecca, hence,

With its speechless eloquence;

Kest thee by Lake Erie.

Winter snows will wrap thy mound,
Spring will send its wealth of bloom,

Summer kiss the velvet ground,
Autumn leaves lie on thy tomb:

Home beside this inland sea,

Where thou lov'dst in life to be;
Rest thee by Lake Erie.

Strong for right, in danger brave,
Tender as with woman's heart,

Champion of the fettered slave,
Of the people's life a part.

To be loved is highest fame;

Garfield, an immortal name!

Rest thee by Lake Erie.

All thy gifted words shall be
Treasured speech from age to age;,

Thy heroic loyalty
Be a country's heritage;

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

hand away.

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

them all;

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,
So meek, so timid, afraid to stir,

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."

Robert Buchanan.


"O Rairn, when I am dead,
How shall ye keep frae harm?

What hand will gie ye bread?
What fire will keep ye warm?

How shall ye dwell on earth awa' fra me I"

"O mother, dinnadee!"

"O bairn, by night or day

I hear nae sounds ava',
But voices of winds that blaw,

And the voices of ghaists that say,
Come awa'! come awa'!
The Lord that made the wind and
made the sea.

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

of me!



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

fading fast?

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.

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