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Susan Marr Spalding.


Let me not lay the lightest feather's weight

Of duty upon love. Let not, my own,

The breath of one reluctant kiss be blown

Between our hearts. I would not be the gate

That bars, like some inexorable fate,

The portals of thy life; that says, "Alone

Through me shall any joy to thee be known!"

Rather the window, fragrant early and late

With thy sweet, clinging thoughts,

that grow and twine Around me like some bright and

blooming vine, Through which the sun shall shed his

wealth on thee In golden showers; through which

thou mayest look out Exulting in all beauty, without


Or fear, or shadow of regret from me.

Edith M. Thomas.


In the spring, perverse and sour,
He cared not for bud or flower,
Garden row or blossomed tree:
Rounded fruit he fain would see;
Vintage glow on sunburnt hills.
Bursting garners, toiling mills.
Sheer unreason!
Pity 'twere to waste the blooming

What's the matter? Now he sits
Deep in thought; his brow he knits
Here is fruit on vine and bough,—
Malcontent! what seeks he now?
Would have flowers when flowers

So in love with springtime grown!

Sheer unreason! Pity 'twere to waste the ripened son!

Maurice Thompson.


Iie sits among the morning hills,

His face is bright and strong; He scans far heights, but scarcely notes

The herdsman's idle song.

He cannot brook this peaceful life,
While battle's trumpet calls;

He sees a crown for him who wins,
A tear for him who falls.

The flowery glens and shady slopes

Are hateful to his eyes; Beyond the heights, beyond the storms.

The land of promise lies.


He is so old and sits so still.

With face so weak and mild, We know that he remembers naught,

Save when he was a child.

His fight is fought, his fame is won, Life's highest peak is past,

The laurel crown, the triumph's arch Are worthless at the last.

The frosts of age destroy the bay, —
The loud applause of men

Falls feebly on the palsied ears
Of fourscore years and ten.

He does not hear the voice that bears
his name around the world;

He has no thought of great deeds done
Where battle-tempests whirled.

But evermore he's looking back,
Whilst memory fills and thrills

With echoes of the herdsman's song
Among the morning hills.


A c insistent hint of dawn
came from the mountain height;

A wan, uncertain gleam betrayed
The faltering of the night.

The emphasis of silence made

The fog above the brook Intensely pale: the trees took on

A haunted, haggard look.

Such quiet came, expectancy
Filled all the earth and sky;

Time seemed to pause a little space;
I heard a dream go by!

Frank 0. Ticknor.


Out of the focal and foremost fire, Out of the hospital walls as dire; Smitten of grape-shot and gangrene, (Eighteenth battle, and he sixteen!) Spectre! such as you seldom see, Little Giffen, of Tennessee!

"Take him and welcome!" the surgeons said;

Little the doctor can help the dead!

So we took him; and brought him where

The balm was sweet in the summer air;

And we laid him down on a wholesome bed — Utter Lazarus, heel to head!

And we watched the war with abated

breath.— Skeleton boy against skeleton death. Months of torture, how many such? Weary weeks of the stick and crutch; And still a glint of the steel-blue eye Told of a spirit that wouldn't die,

And didn't. Nay, more! in death's despite

The crippled skeleton "learned to write."

Dear mother, at first, of course; and then

Dear captain, inquiring about the men.

Captain's answer: of eighty-and-five,
Giffen and I are left alive.

Word of gloom from the war, one day;
Johnson pressed at the front, they say.
Little Giffen was up and away;
A tear—his first—as he bade good-by,
Dimmed the glint of his steel-blue eye,
"I'll write, if spared!" There was

news of the fight: But none of Giffen. He did not write.

I sometimes fancy that, were I king Of the princely knights of the golden ring,

With the song of the minstrel in mine ear.

And the tender legend that trembles here,

I'd give the best on his bended knee, 'i he whitest soul of my chivalry, For " Little Giffen," of Tennessee.

Oha r.

Something So human-hearted

In a tint that ever lies Where a splendor has just departed

And a glory is yet to rise!

Gray in the solemn gloaming,
Gray in the dawning skies;

In the old man's crown of honor,
In the little maiden's eyes.

Gray mists o'er the meadows brooding.

Whence the world must draw its best;

Gray gleams in the churchyard shadows, Where all the world would " rest."

Gray gloom in the grand cathedral.
Where the " Glorias" are poured,

And, with angel and archangel.
We wait the coming Lord.

Silvery gray for the bridal.

Leaden gray for the pall; For urn, for wreath, for life and death.

Ever the Gray for all.

Gray in the very sadness

Of ashes and sackcloth ; yea, While our raiment of beauty and gladness Tarries, our tears shall stay; And our soul shall smile through

their sadness. And our hearts shall wear the Gray.

Henry Timrod.


Hark to the shouting wind!

Hark to the flying rain!
And I care not though I never see

A bright blue sky again.

There are thoughts in my breast today

That are not for human speech; But I hear t hem in the driving storm, And the roar upon the beach.

And oh! to be with that ship

That I watch through the blinding brine!

re wind! for thy sweep of land and


O sea! for a voice like thine!

Shout on, thou pitiless wind,
To the frightened and flying rain!

I care not though I never see
A calm blue sky again.


Sung at Magnolia Cemetery, Charleston, S. C. 1867.

Sleep sweetly in your humble graves,

Sleep, martyrs of a fallen cause; Though yet no marble column craves The pilgrim here to pause.

In seeds of laurel in the earth The blossom of your fame is blown,

And somewhere waiting for its birth, The shaft is in the stone.

Meanwhile, behalf the tardy years Which keep in trust your storied tombs,

Behold! your sisters bring their tears,

And these memorial blooms,

Small tributes! but your shades will smile

More proudly on those wreaths today,

Than when some cannon-moulded pile

Shall overlook this bay.

Stoop, angels, hither from the skies!

There is no holier spot of ground Than where defeated valor lies,

By mourning beauty crowned.


Somewhere on this earthly planet,
In the dust of flowers to be,

In the dew-drop, in the sunshine,
Sleeps a solemn day for me.

At this wakeful hour of midnight

I behold it dawn in mist, And I hear a sound of sobbing

Through the darkness. Hist, oh, hist!

In a dim and musky chamber,

I am breathing life away! Some one draws a curtain softly,

And I watch the broadening day.

As it purples in the zenith,
As it brightens on the lawn.

There's a hush of death about me,
And a whisper, "He is gone!"

Isaac Watts.


There are a number of us creep Into this world, to eat and sleep; And know no reason why we're born, But only to consume the corn,

Devour the cattle, fowl, and fish,
And leave behind an empty dish.
The crows and ravens do the same,
u nlucky birds of hateful name;
Ravens or crows might fill their

And swallow corn and carcases, Then if their tombstone, when they die,

Be n't taught to flatter and to lie, There's nothing better will be said Than that "they've eat up all their bread,

Drunk up their drink, and gone to bed."


Lokd, when I quit this earthly stage.

Where shall I flee but to thy breast? For I have sought no other home, For I have learned no other rest.

I cannot live contented here,

Without some glimpses of thy face; And heaven, without thy presence there,

Would be a dark and tiresome place.

My God! And can a humble child, That loves thee with a flame so high,

Be ever from thy face exiled,
Without the pity of thy eye?

Impossible. For thine own hands
Have tied my heart so fast to thee,

And in thy book the promise stands, That where thou art thy friends must be.


There is a land of pure delight, Where saints immortal reign;

Eternal day excludes the night, And pleasures banish pain.

There everlasting spring abides, And never-fading flowers;

Death, like R narrow sea divides This heavenly land from ours.

Sweet fields, beyond the swelling flood,

Stand dressed in living green: So to the .lews fair Canaan stood, While Jordan rolled between.

But timorous mortals start and shrink,

To cross this narrow sea; And linger, trembling, on the brink.

And tear to launch away.

Oh, could we make our doubts remove,

Those gloomy doubts that rise, And see the Canaan that we love With unbeclouded eyes;—

Could we but climb where Moses stood.

And view the landscape o'er, Not Jordan's stream — nor death's cold flood, Should fright us from the shore.

Amelia B. Welby.


The twilight hours, like birds, flew by,

As lightly and as free; Ten thousand stars were in the sky, Ten thousand on the sea.

For every wave with dimpled face

That leaped upon the air,
Had caught a star in its embrace

And held it trembling there.

Sarah H. Whitman.


When first I looked into thy glorious


And saw, with their unearthly beauty pained,

Heaven deepening within heaven,

like the skies Of autumn nights without a shadow

stained, — I stood as one whom some strange

dream enthralls: For, far away, in some lost life


Some land which every glorious

dream recalls, A spirit looked on me with eyes like


E'en now, though death has veiled

their starry light, And closed their lids in his relentless

night —

As some strange dream, remembered

in a dream, Again I see in sleep their tender


Unfading hopes their cloudless azure fill,

Heaven deepening within heaven, serene and still

If thy sad heart, pining for human love,

In its earth solitude grew dark with fear,

Lest the high sun of heaven itself should prove

Powerless to save from that phantasmal sphere

Wherein thy spirit wandered — if the flowers

That pressed around thy feet seemed but to bloom

In lone Gethsemanes, through starless hours.

When all who loved had left thee to thy doom! —

Oh, yet believe that in that hollow vale

Where thy soul lingers, waiting to attain

So much of Heaven's sweet grace as

shall avail To lift its burden of remorseful

pain, —

My soul shall meet thee, and its

heaven forego Till God's great love on both, one hope, one Heaven, bestow.


Dost thou remember that autumnal day

When by the Seekonk's lovely wave we stood, And marked the languor of repose that lay,

Softer than sleep, on valley, wave, and wood?

A trance of holy sadness seemed to lull

The charmed earth and circumambient air; And the low murmur of the leaves seemed full

Of a resigned and passionless despair.

Though the warm breath of summer

lingered still In the lone paths where late her

footsteps passed, The pallid star-flowers on the purple


Sighed dreamily, " We are the last

— the last!"

I stood beside thee, and a dream of heaven

Around me like a golden halo fell! Then the bright veil of fantasy was riven.

And my lips murmured, "Fare thee well! farewell!"

I dared not listen to thy words, nor turn

To meet the mystic language of thine eyes; I only felt their power, and in the urn

Of memory, treasured their sweet rhapsodies.

We parted then, forever — and the hours

Of that bright day were gathered to

the past — But through long, wintry nights I

heard the flowers Sigh dreamily, " We are the lastl

— the last!"

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