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But colder still the cold winds blew, And deeper still the deep drifts grew,

And his mare, a beautiful Morgan brown,

At last in her struggles floundered down,

Where a log in a hollow lay.

In vain, with a neigh and a frenzied snort,

She plunged in the drifting snow, While her master urged, till his

breath grew short, With a word and a gentle blow; But the snow was deep, and the tugs

were tight; His hands were numb and had lost

their might: So he wallowed back to his half-filled

sleigh,

And strove to shelter himself till day, With his coat and buffalo.

He has given the last faint jerk of

the rein, To rouse up his dying steed; And the poor dog howls to the blast

in vain

For help in his master's need. For awhile he strives with a wistful cry

To catch a glance from his drowsy eye,

And wags his tail when the rude winds flap

The skirt of the buffalo over his lap,
And whines that he takes no heed.

The wind goes down and the storm
is o'er—
'Tis the hour of midnight past;
The old trees writhe and bend no more

In the whirl of the rushing blast. The silent moon with her peaceful light

Looks down on the hills with snow all white,

And the giant shadow of Camel's Hump, I stump,

The blasted pine and the ghostly Afar on the plain are cast.

But cold and dead by the hidden log Are they who came from the town: The man in his sleigh, and his faithful dog,

And his beautiful Morgan brown, In the wide snow-desert, far and grand,

With his cap on his head and the

reins in his hand, The dog with his nose on his master's

feet,

And the mare half seen through the crusted sleet, Where she lay when she floundered down.

George Eliot (marian Evans Cross).

O MAY I JOIN THE CHOIR
INVISIBLE.

O may I join the choir invisible
Of these immortal dead who live
again

In minds made better by their presence; live In pulses stirred to generosity, In deeds of daring rectitude, in scorn Of miserable aims that end with self,

In thoughts sublime that pierce the night like stars,

And with their mild persistence urge

men's minds To vaster issues.

So to live is heaven: To make undying music in the world, Breathing a beauteous order, that controls

With growing sway the growing life of man.

So we inherit that sweet purity For which we struggled, failed and agonized

With widening retrospect that bred despair.

Rebellious flesh that would not be
subdued,

A vicious parent shaming still its
child, [solved;
Poor anxious penitence, is quick dis-
Its discords quenched by meeting

harmonies,
Die in the large and charitable air.
And all our rarer, better, truer self,
That sobbed religiously in yearning
song.

That watched to ease the burden of

the world. Laboriously tracing what must be, And what may yet be better,— saw

within

A worthier image for the sanctuary,
And shaped it forth before the mul-
titude,

Divinely human, raising worship so
To higher reverence more mixed
with love,— [Time
That better self shall live till human

Shall fold its eyelids, and the human sky

Be gathered like a scroll within the

tomb, Unread forever.

This is life to come,
Which martyred men have made

more glorious
For us, who strive to follow.

May I reach

That purest heaven,— be to other souls

The cup of strength in some great agony,

Enkindle generous ardor, feed pure love,

Beget the smiles that have no cruelty,
Be the sweet presence of a good dif-
fused,

And in diffusion ever more intense!
So shall I join the choir invisible,
Whose music is the gladness of the
world.

Jane Elliot.

THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST.

I've heard the lilting at our ewe-milking,

Lasses a-lilting before the dawn of day;
But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning—

The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

At buchts, in the morning, nae blithe lads are scorning,
The lasses are lonely, and dowie, and wae;

Nae damn', nae gabbin', but sighing and sabbing,
Ilk ane lifts her leglen and hies her away.

In halrst, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering,
The bandsters are lyart, and rankled, and gray;

At fair, or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching —
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

At e'en, at the gloaming, nae swankies are roaming,
'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle to play;

But ilk ane sits drearie. lamenting her dearie —
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

Dool and wae for the order sent our lads to the border
The English, for ance, by guile wan the day;

The Flowers of the Forest, that foucht aye the foremost,
The prime o' our land, are cauld in the clay.

We hear nae mair lilting at our ewe-milking, Women and bairns are heartless and wae;

Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning — The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

Ebenezer Elliott.

POOR ANDREW.

The loving poor! — So envy calls

The ever-toiling poor: But oh! I choke, my heart grows faint,

When I approach my door! Behind it there are living things,

Whose silent frontlets say They'd rather see me out than in,—

Feet foremost borne away! My heart grows sick when home I come,—

May God the thought forgive! If 'twere not for my dog and cat,

I think I could not live.

My dog and cat, when I come home,
Run out to welcome me,—

She mewing, with her tail on end,
While wagging his comes he.

They listen for my homeward steps,
My smothered sob they hear,

When down my heart sinks, deathly down,

Because my home is near. My heart grows faint when home I come,—

May God the thought forgive! If 'twere not for my dog and cat,

I think I could not live.

I'd rather be a happy bird,

Than, scorned and loathed, a king; But man should live while for him lives

The meanest loving thing.
Thou busy bee! how canst thou choose

So far and wide to roam?
O blessed bee! thy glad wings say

Thou hast a happy home!
But I. when I come home,— O God!

Wilt thou the thought forgive? If 'twere not for my dog and cat,

I think I could not live.

Why come they not? They do not come

My breaking heart to meet!
A heavier darkness on me falls,—

I cannot lift my feet.
Oh, yes, they come!—they never fail

To listen for my sighs; My poor heart brightens when it meets

The sunshine of their eyes. Again they come to meet me,— God!

Wilt thou the thought forgive? If 'twere not for my dog and cat,

I think I could not live.

This heart is like a churchyard stone;

My home is comfort's grave; My playful cat and honest dog

Are all the friends I have; And yet my house is filled with friends,—

But foes they seem, and are. What makes them hostile? IgnoRance;

Then let me not despair. But oh! I sigh when home I come,—

May God the thought forgive! If 'twere not for my dog and cat,

I think I could not live.

THE PRESS.

Gon said,—"Let there be light!" Grim darkness felt his might, And fled away; Then startled seas and mountains cold

Shone forth, all bright in blue and gold.

And cried,—"'Tis day! 'tis day!"
"Hail, holy light!" exclaimed
The thunderous cloud that flamed
O'er daisies white;

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And lo! the rose, in crimson dressed,
Leaned sweetly on the lily's breast;
And, blushing, murmured,—
"Light!"
Then was the skylark born;
Then rose the embattled corn;
Then floods of praise
Flowed o'er the sunny hills of noon;
And then, in stillest night, the moon
Poured forth her pensive lays.
Lo, heaven's bright bow is glad!
Lo, trees and flowers, all clad
In glory, bloom!
And shall the mortal sons of God
Be senseless as the trodden clod,
And darker than the tomb?
No, by the mind of man!
By the swart artisan!

By God, our sire!
Our souls have holy light within;
And every form of grief and sin,
Shall see and feel its fire.
By earth, and hell, and heaven,
The shroud of souls is riven!
Mind, mind alone
Is light, and hope, and life, and power!
Earth's deepest night, from this
blessed hour,
The night of minds, is gone!
"The Press! " all lands shall sing;
The Press, the Press we bring,
All lands to bless:
Oh, pallid Want! Oh, Labor stark!
Behold we bring the second ark!
The Press! the Press! the Press!

THE POET'S PRAYER.

Almighty Father! let thy lowly child,

Strong in his love of truth, be wisely bold,— A patriot bard, by sycophants reviled, , Let him live usefully, and not die old!

Let poor men's children, pleased to read his lays, Love, for his sake, the scenes where he hath been,

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If men curse thee, plant their lies Where for truth they best may grow;

Let the railers make thee wise,

Preaching peace where'er thou go! God no useless plant hath planted, Evil — wisely used — is wanted.

If the nation-feeding corn
Thriveth under iced snow;

If the small bird on the thorn
Useth well its guarded sloe,—

Bid thy cares thy comforts double.

Gather fruit from thorns of trouble.

See the rivers! how they run, Strong in gloom, and strong in light!

Like the never-wearied sun,
Through the day and through the
night,

Each along his path of duty,
Turning coldness into beauty.

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Ralph Waldo Emerson.

ODE.

O Texderi.y the haughty day
Fills his blue urn with fire;

One morn is in the mighty heaven,
And one in our desire.

The cannon booms from town to town.

Our pulses are not less, The joy-bells chime their tidings down,

Which children's voices bless.

For he that flung the broad blue fold
O'er mantling land and sea,

One third part of the sky unrolled
For the banner of the free.

The men are ripe of Saxon kind
To build an equal state,—

To take the statute from the mind,
And make of duty fate.

United States! the ages plead,—
Present and past in under-song,—

Go put your creed into your deed,
Nor speak with double tongue.

For sea and land don't understand,

Nor skies without a frown See rights for which the one hand fights

By the other cloven down.

Be just at home; then write your scroll

Of honor o'er the sea.
And bid the broad Atlantic roll

A ferry of the free.

And, henceforth, there shall be no chain,

Save underneath the sea The wires shall murmur through the main

Sweet songs of Liberty.

The conscious stars accord above,

The waters wild below, And under, through the cable wove,

Her fiery errands go.

For he that worketh high and wise,

Nor pauses in his plan,
Will take the sun out of the skies

Ere freedom out of man.

THE PROBLEM.

I Like a church; I like a cowl;
I love a prophet of the soul;
And on my heart monastic aisles
Fall like sweet strains, or pensive
smiles;

Yet not for all his faith can see
Would I that cowled churchman be.

Why should the vest on him allure, Which I could not on me endure?

Not from a vain or shallow thought His awful Jove young Phidias

brought, Never from lips of cunning, fell The thrilling Delphic oracle; Out from the heart of nature rolled The burdens of the Bible old; The litanies of nations came, Like the volcano's tongue of flame, Up from the burning core below,— The canticles of love and woe; The hand that rounded Peter's dome, And groined the aisles of Christian

Rome, s Wrought in a sad sincerity; Himself from God he could not free; He builded better than he knew; — The conscious stone to beauty grew.

Knowest thou what wove yon woodbird's nest

Of leaves, and feathers from her breast?

Or how the fish outbuilt her shell,
Painting with morn each annual cell'!
Or how the sacred pine-tree adds
To her old leaves new myriads?
Such and so grew these holy piles,
Whilst love and terror laid the tiles.
Earth proudly wears the Parthenon,
As the best gem upon her zone;

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