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Nay, let us not such sorrowful

tribute bring Now that thy lark-like soul hath

taken wing: A grateful memory fills and more


The silence when a bird hath ceased to sing.


Not a kiss in life; but one kiss, at life's end, I have set on the face of Death in trust for thee. Through long years, keep it fresh on thy lips, O friend! At the gate of silence, give it back to me.


Died in New Orleans, Dec., 1879.

Small was thy share of all this world's delight,

And scant thy poet's crown of flowers of praise;

Yet ever catches quaint of quaint old days

Thou sang'st, and, singing, kept thy

spirit bright: Even as to lips, the winds of winter


Some outcast wanderer sets his flute

and plays Till at his feet blossom the icy


And from the snowdrift's bitter wasting white He hears the uprising carol of the lark,

Soaring from clover seas with summer ripe — While freeze upon his cheek glad, foolish tears. Ah! let us hope that somewhere in thy dark. Herrick's full note, and Suckling's pleasant pipe Are sounding still their solace in thine ears.


She might have known it in the

earlier spring, That all my heart with vague desire

was stirred; And, ere the summer winds had taken


I told her; but she smiled and said no word.

The autumn's eager hand his red gold grasped,

And she was silent; till from skies

grown drear Fell soft one fine, first snow-flake, and

she clasped My neck, and cried, "Love, we

have lost a year!"

Thomas Burbidge.


Oh, leave thyself to God! and if, indeed,

'Tis given thee to perform so vast a task.

Think not at all — think not, but kneel and ask.

O friend, by thought was never creature freed

From any sin, from any mortal need:

Be patient! not by thought canst thou devise

What course of life for thee is right

and wise; It will be written up, and thou wilt


Oft like a sudden pencil of rich light.

Piercing the thickest umbrage of the wood,

Will shoot, amid our troubles infinite, The spirit's voice; oft, like the balmy flood

Of morn. surprise the universal night With glory, and make all things sweet and good.


Comes something down with eventide

Beside the sunset's golden bars,
Beside the floating scents, beside
The twinkling shadows of the stars.

Upon the river's rippling face,
Flash after flash the white

Broke up in many a shallow place;
The rest was soft and bright.

By chance my eye fell on the stream;

How many a marvellous power, Sleeps in us, — sleeps, and doth not dream!

This knew I in that hour.

For then my heart, so full of strife,
No more was in me stirred;

My life was in the river's life,
And I nor saw nor heard.

I and the river, we were one:
The shade beneath the bank,

I felt it cool; the setting sun
Into my spirit sank.

A rushing thing in power serene

I was; the mystery
I felt of having ever been

And being still to be.

Was it a moment or an hour?

I knew not; but I mourned When from that realm of awful power,

I to these fields returned.

William Henry Burleigh.


Abide not in the land of dreams,
O man, however fair it seems,
Where drowsy airs thy l>owers repress
In languors of sweet idleness.

Nor linger in the misty past, Entranced in visions vague and vast; But with clear eye the present scan, And hear the call of God to man.


That call, though many-voiced, is one,

With mighty meanings in each tone; Through sob and laughter, shriek and prayer,

Its summons meets thee everywhere.

Think not in sleep to fold thy hands,
Forgetful of thy Lord's commands;
From duty's claims no life is free,
Behold, to-day hath need of thee.

Look up! the wide extended plain
Is billowy with its ripened grain;
And in the summer winds, are rolled
its waves of emerald and gold.

Thrust in thy sickle, nor delay
The work that calls for thee to-day;
To-morrow, if it come, will bear
Its own demands of toil and care.

The present hour allots thy task!
For present strength and patience

And trust His love whose sure supplies

Meet all thy needs as they arise.

Lo! the broad fields with harvest white.

Thy hands to strenuous toil invite: And he who labors and believes, Shall reap rew ard of ample sheaves.

Up! for the time is short; and soon the morning sun will climb to noon. Up! ere the herds, with trampling feet

Outrunning thine, shall spoil the wheat.

While the day lingers, do thy best! Full soon the night will bring its rest; And, duty done, that rest shall be Full of beatitudes to thee.


Dashing in big drops on the narrow pane,

And making mournful music for the mind,

While plays his interlude the wizard wind,

I hear the ringing of the frequent rain:

How doth its dreamy tone the spirit lull,

Bringing a sweet forgetfulness of pain,

While busy thought calls up the past again,

And lingers mid the pure and beautiful

Visions of early childhood! Sunny faces

Meet us with looks of love, and in

the means Of the faint wind we hear familiar


And tread again in old familiar


Such is thy power, O rain! the heart to bless,

Wiling the soul away from its own wretchedness.

Thomas Chatterton.


O God, whose thunder shakes the sky.

Whose eye this atom globe surveys,
To Thee, my only rock, I fly,
Thy mercy in Thy justice praise.

The mystic mazes of Thy will,
The shadows of celestial light.

Are past the powers of human skill,
But what the Eternal acts, is right.

Oh, teach me in the trying hour. When anguish swells the dewy tear,

To still my sorrows, own thy power, Thy goodness love, thy justice fear.

If in this bosom aught but Thee, encroaching, sought a boundless sway,

Omniscience could the danger see,
And mercy look the cause away.

Then why, my soul, dost thou complain?

Why drooping, seek the dark recess?

Shake off the melancholy chain,
For God created all to bless.

But, ah! my breast is human still;

The rising sigh, the falling tear, My languid vitals, feeble will,

The sickness of my soul declare.

But yet, with fortitude resigned.

I'll thank the infliction of the blow, Forbid my sigh, compose my mind,

Nor let the gush of misery flow.

The gloomy mantle of the night Which on my sinking spirit steals

Will vanish at the morning light, Which God, my East, my Sun, reveals.

Geoffrey Chaucer.


A Good man there was of religion, That was a poore parson of a town, But rich he was of holy thought and work;

He was also a learned man, a clerk, That Christes gospel truly woulde preach;

His parishens devoutly would he teach;

Benign he was, and wonder diligent,
And in adversity full patient:
And such he was yproved ofte'

Full loth were him to cursen for his tithes;

But rather would he given out of doubt

Unto his poor parishes about Of his offering, and eke of his substance;

He could in little thing have suffisance:

Wide was his parish, and houses far asunder,

But he ne left nought for no rain nor thunder,

In sickness and in mischief, to visit The farthest in his parish much and lite,

Upon his feet, and in his hand a staff:

This noble 'nsample to his sheep he gaf.

That first he wrought, and afterward he taught.

Out of the gospel he the wordes caught,

And this figure he added eke thereto, That, if gold ruste, what should iron do?

For, if a priest be foul on whom we trust,

No wonder is a lewed man to rust; For shame it is, that if a priest take keep

To see a "fouled" shepherd and

clean sheep: Well ought a priest ensample for to


By his cleanness how his sheep should live.

He sett4 not his benefice to hire, And let his sheep accumbred in the mire,

And ran unto London unto Saint Poule's

To seeken him a chantery for souls, Or with a brotherhood to be withold; But dwelt at home and kept well his fold.

So that the wolf ne made it not miscarry;

He was a shepherd and no mercenary;

As though he holy were and virtuous, He was to sinful men not dispitous, Ne of his speeches dangerous ne d igne;

But in his teaching discreet and benign.

To drawen folk to heaven with fairness,

By good ensample, was his business; But it were any person obstinate, What so he were of high or low estate,

Him would he snlbben sharply for the nones:

A better priest I trow that no where none is.

He waited after no pomp or reverence,

Ne makexl him no spiced conscience; But Christes lore, and his apostles twelve

He taught, but first he followed it himselve.


Fly fro the press, and dwell with

soothfastnesse. Suffice unto thy good though it be


For hoard hath hate, and climbing

fickleness. Press hath envy, and weal is blent

over all.

Savour no more than thee behove shall.

Rede well thyself that other folke

canst rede; And truth thee shall deliver, it is no


Paine thee not each crooked to redress

In trust of her that turneth as a ball;

Great rest standeth in little businesse,

Beware also to spurne against an awl,

Strive not as doth a crocks with a wall;

deemed thyself that demest others' deed;

And truth thee shall deliver, it is no drede.

That thee is sent receive in buxomnesse;

The wrestling of this world asketh a fall.

Here is no home, here is but a wildernease.

Forth, pilgrim! forth, beast, out of thy stall 1

Looke up on high, and thanke God of all!

Waive thy lusts, and let thy ghost

thee t ; And truth thee shall deliver, it is no



To you, my purse, and to none other wight

Complaine I, for ye be my lady dere,
I am sorry now that ye be light,
For, certes, ye now make me heavy

Me were as lefe laid upon a here,
For which unto your mercy thus I

Be heavy againe, or els mote I die.

Now vouchsafe this day or it be night,

That I of you the blissful sowne may here,

Or see your color like the sunne bright,

That of yelowness had never pere, Ye be my life, ye be my hertes stere, Queene of comfort and good companle,

Be heavy again, or els mote I die.

Now purse, that art to me my lives light,

And saviour, as downe in this world here,

Out of this towne helpe me by your might,

Sith that you woll not be my treasure,
For I am shave as nere as any frere,
But I pray unto your courtesie,
Be Heavy againe, or els mote I die.

John Vance Cheney.


WrtEN beeches brighten early May, And young grass es along her way;

When April willows meet the breeze Like softest dawn among the trees:

When smell of spring fills all the air, And meadows bloom, and blue-birds pair;

When love first laves her sunny head
Over the brook and lily-bed;
Nothing of sound or sight to grieve
From cheering morn to quiet eve,
My heart will not, for all its ease,
Forget the days to follow these.
This loveliness shall be betrayed,
This happiest of music played
From field to field, by stream and

Shall silent be, as tuneful now;
The silver launch of thistles sail
Adown the solitary vale;
The blue solicitude of sky
Bent over beauty doomed to die,
With nightly mist shall witness here
The yielded glory of the year.

Clarence Cook.

(J. H. E., May 3, 1870).

Why, Death, what dost thou here,

This time o'year? Peach-blow and apple-blossom; Clouds, white as my love's bosom; Warm wind o' the west Cradling the robin's nest; Young meadows hasting their green

laps to fill With golden dandelion and daffodil; These are fit sights for spring; But, oh, thou hateful thing, What dost thou here?

Why, Death, what dost thou here,

This time o' year?
Fair, at the old oak's knee,
The young anemone;
Fair, the plash places set
With dog-tooth violet;

The first sloop-sail,

The shad-flower pale;
Sweet are all sights,
Sweet are all sounds of spring;
But thou, thou ugly thing,

What dost thou here?

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