There are things of which I may not speak;

There are dreams that cannot die;

There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak,
And bring a pallor into the cheek,
And a mist before the eye.

And the words of that fatal song
Come over me like a chill:

A boy's will is the wind's will,

And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'

Strange to me now are the forms I meet

When I visit the dear old town;

But the native air is pure and sweet,

And the trees that o'ershadow each well-known street,
As they balance up and down,
Are singing the beautiful song,
Are sighing and whispering still:
'A boy's will is the wind's will,

And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'

And Deering's Woods are fresh and fair,
And with joy that is almost pain

My heart goes back to wander there,

And

among the dreams of the days that were,

I find my lost youth again.

And the strange and beautiful song,
The groves are repeating it still:

'A boy's will is the wind's will,

And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'

HENRY W. LONGFELLOW

THE MAGIC ARMORY

ALL men go freely out and in,
And choose their arms to fight and win;
But one man goes with silly hands,
And helpless, halting, choosing stands,
And from the glittering, deadly steels,
Fits him with clumsy sword, and deals
A feeble, witless, useless blow,

Which helps no friend and hurts no foe.

Close by his side his brother makes
Swift choice, unerringly, and takes
From those same chambers hilt and blade
With which more magic sword is made
Than that far-famed which armed the hand
Of Lion-Heart in Eastern land.

So fight and fray the centuries,

The right and truth with wrong and lies;

So men go freely out and in,

And choose their arms, and lose and win;
And none can shut the open door,
All writ with signs of mystic lore,
Where weapons stout and old and good
For each man's utmost hardihood
Lie ready, countless, priceless, free,
Within the magic armory.

HELEN FISKE JACKSON

THE DECISIVE HOUR

WHEN a deed is done for Freedom, through the broad earth's aching breast

Runs a thrill of joy prophetic, trembling on from east to west,

And the slave, where'er he cowers, feels the soul within him climb

To the awful verge of manhood, as the energy sublime Of a century bursts full-blossomed on the thorny stem of Time.

For mankind are one in spirit, and an instinct bears along,

Round the earth's electric circle, the swift flash of right

or wrong;

Whether conscious or unconscious, yet Humanity's vast frame

Through its ocean-sundered fibres feels the gush of joy or shame ;

In the gain or loss of one race all the rest have equal claim.

Once to every man and nation comes the moment to

decide,

In the strife of Truth with Falsehood, for the good or

evil side;

Some great cause, God's new Messiah, offering each the bloom or blight,

Parts the goats upon the left hand, and the sheep upon

the right,

And the choice goes by forever 'twixt that darkness and that light.

We see dimly in the Present, what is small and what is great,

Slow of faith how weak an arm may turn the iron helm of fate,

But the soul is still oracular; amid the market's din, List the ominous stern whisper from the Delphic cave

within,

'They enslave their children's children who make compromise with sin.'

Count me o'er earth's chosen heroes,-they were souls that stood alone,

While the men they agonized for hurled the contumelious stone,

Stood serene, and down the future saw the golden beam incline

To the side of perfect justice, mastered by their faith

divine,

By one man's plain truth to manhood and to God's

supreme design.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL

A BOY'S SONG

WHERE the pools are bright and deep,
Where the gray trout lies asleep,

Up the river and over the lea,
That's the way for Billy and me.

Where the blackbird sings the latest, Where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest, Where the nestlings chirp and flee, That's the way for Billy and me.

Where the mowers mow the cleanest,
Where the hay lies thick and greenest,
There to track the homeward bee,
That's the way for Billy and me.

Where the hazel bank is steepest,
Where the shadow falls the deepest,
Where the clustering nuts fall free,
That's the way for Billy and me.

Why the boys should drive away
Little sweet maidens from the play,
Or love to banter and fight so well,
That's the thing I never could tell.