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George Parsons Lathrop.

TO MY SON.

Do you remember, my sweet, absent son.

How in the soft June days forever done

You loved the heavens so warm and

clear and high; And when I lifted you, soft came

your cry — "Put me'way up—'way up in the

blue sky?"

I laughed and said I could not; set

you down, Your gray eyes wonder-filled beneath

that crown Of bright hair gladdening me as you

raced by.

Another Father now, more strong than I,

Has borne you voiceless to your dear blue sky.

NEW WORLDS.

With my beloved I lingered late one night.

At last the hour when I must leave

her came: But, as I turned, a fear I could not

name

Possessed me that the long sweet

evening might Prelude some sudden storm, whereby

delight

Should perish. What if Death, ere dawn, should claim

One of us'! Al though living, not the same Each should appear to each in morning light?

Changed did I find her, truly, the next day: Ne'er could I see her as of old again,

That strange mood seemed to draw a cloud away,

And let her beauty pour through every vein Sunlight and life, part of me. Thus the lover

With each new morn a new world may discover.

THE LILY-POND.

Some fairy spirit with his wand,
I think, has hovered o'er the dell,

And spread this film upon the pond, And touched it with this drowsy spell,

For here the musing soul is merged

In moods no other scene can bring, And sweeter seems the air when scourged

With wandering wild-bees' murmuring.

One ripple streaks the little lake, Sharp purple-blue; the birches, thin

And silvery, crowd the edge, yet break

To let a straying sunbeam in.

How came we through the yielding wood,

That day, to this sweet-rustling
shore ?.

Oh, there together while we stood,
A butterfly was wafted o'er,

In sleepy light; and even now
His glimmering beauty doth return

Upon me when the soft winds blow, And lilies toward the sunlight yearn.

The yielding wood? And yet 'twas loth

To yield unto our happy march; Doubtful it seemed, at times, if both Could pass its green, elastic arch.

Yet there, at last, upon the marge We found ourselves, and there, behold,

In hosts the lilies, white and large, Lay close with hearts of downy gold!

Deep in the weedy waters spread

The rootlets of the placid bloom: So sprung my love's flower, that was bred

In deep still waters of heart'sgloom.

So sprung; and so that morn was nursed

To live in light, and on the pool Wherein its roots were deep immersed Burst into beauty broad and cool.

Few words were said; a moment passed;

I know not how it came—that awe And ardor of a glance that cast Our love in universal law.

But all at once a bird sang loud, from dead twigs of the gleamy beech;

His notes dropped dewy, as from a cloud,

A blessing on our married speech.

Ah, Love! how fresh and rare, even now,

That moment and that mood return

Upon me, when the soft winds blow, And lilies toward the sunlight yearn!

SAILOR'S SONG.

The sea goes up, the sky comes down.

Oh, can you spy the ancient town,— The granite hills so hard and gray, That rib the land behind the bay?

O ye ho, boys! Spread her wings!

Fair winds, boys: send her home!
O ye ho!

Three years? Is it so long that we
Have lived upon the lonely sea?
Oh, often I thought we'd see the
town,

When the sea went up, and the sky
came down.
O ye ho, boys! Spread her wings!
Fair winds, boys; send her home!
O ye ho!

Even the winter winds would rouse
A memory of my father's house;
For round his windows and his door
They made the same deep, inouthless
roar.

O ye ho, boys! Spread her wings!
Fair winds, boys: send her home!
O ye ho!

And when the summer's breezes beat,

Methought I saw the sunny street Where stood my Kate. Beneath her hand

She gazed far out, far out from land. O ye ho, boys! Spread her wings! Fair winds, boys: send her home! O ye ho!

Farthest away, I oftenest dreamed That I was with her. Then, it seemed

A single stride the ocean wide Had bridged and brought me to her side.

O ye ho, boys! Spread her wings! Fair winds, boys: send her home! O ye ho!

But though so near we're drawing, now,

'T is farther off—I know not how. We sail and sail: we see no home. Would we into the port were come!

O ye ho, boys! Spread her wings!

Fair winds, boys: send her home! O ye ho!

At night, the same stars o'er the . mast:

The mast sways round — however fast

We fly — still sways and swings around

One scanty circle's starry bound.
O ye ho, boys! Spread her wings!
Fair winds, boys: send her home!
O ye ho!

Ah, many a month those stars have shone,

"And many a golden morn has flown,
Since that so solemn happy morn,
When, I away, my babe was born.
O ye ho, boys! Spread her wings!
Fair winds, boys: send her home!
O ye ho!

And, though so near we're drawing now,

'T is farther off — I know not how —
I would not aught amiss had come
To babe or mother there, at home!

O ye ho, boys! Spread her wings!

Fair winds, boys: send her home!
O ye ho!

'T is but a seeming; swiftly rush
The seas, beneath. I hear the crush
Of foamy ridges 'gainst the prow.
Longing outspeeds the breeze, I know.

O ye ho, boys! Spread her wings!

Fair winds, boys: send her home!
O ye ho!

Patience, my mates! Though not

this eve, We cast our anchor, yet believe,

If but the wind holds, short the run: We'll sail in with to-morrow's sun.

O ye ho, boys! Spread her wings!

Fair winds, boys: send her home! O ye ho

A FACE IN THE STREET.

Poor, withered face, that yet was

once so fair, Grown ashen-old in the wild fires

of lust — Thy star-like beauty, dimmed with

earthly dust, Yet breathing of a purer native air; They who, whilom, cursed vultures,

sought a share Of thy dead womanhood, their

greed unjust Have satisfied, have stripped and

left thee bare. Still, like a leaf warped by the autumn gust, And driving to the end, thou wrapp'st

in flame

And perfume all thy hollow-eyed decay,

Feigning on those gray cheeks the

blush that Shame Took with her when she fled long

since away. Ah God! rain fire upon this foul

souled city That gives-such death, and spares its

men,— for pity 1

Emma Lazarus.

[From Scenes in the Wood. Suggested by Robert Schumann.]

PLEASANT PROSPECT.

Hail, free, clear heavens! above our heads again, With white-winged clouds that melt before the sun: Hail, good green earth! with blossoms, grass and grain: O'er the soft rye what silvery ripples run!

What tawny shadows! Slowly we

have won This high hill's top: on the wood's

edge we stand, While like a sea below us rolls the

land.

The meadows blush with clover, and the air

Is honeyed with its keen but spicy smell;

In silence graze the kine, but everywhere

Pipe the glad birds that in the forest dwell;

Where hearths are set curled wreaths of vapor tell; Life's grace and promise win the soul again;

Hope floods the heart like sunshine after rain.

[From Seenea in the Wood. Suggested by llobvrt Schumann.]

NIGHT.

White stars begin to prick the wan blue sky, The trees arise, thick, black and tall: between Their slim, dark boles, gray, filmwinged gnats that fly Against the failing western red are seen.

The footpaths dumb with moss have lost their green. Mysterious shadows settle everywhere,

A passionate murmur trembles in the air.

Sweet scents wax richer, freshened

with cool dews, The whole vast forest seems to

breathe, to sigh With rustle, hum and whisper that

confuse

The listening ear, blent with the fitful cry

Of some belated bird. In the far sky,

Throbbing with stars, there stirs a

weird unrest, Strange joy, akin to pain, fulfils the

breast —

A longing born of fears and promises, A wild desire, a hope that heeds no bound.

A rayof moonlightstruggling through the trees

Startles us like a phantom; on the ground

Fall curious shades; white glory spreads around;

The wood is past, and tranquil meadows wide,

Bathed in bright vapor, stretch on every side.

A MARCH VIOLET.

Black boughs against a pale clear sky,

Slight mists of cloud-wreaths floating by:

Soft sunlight, gray-blue smoky air,
Wet thawing snows on hillsides bare;
Loud streams, moist sodden earth;
below

Quick seedlings stir, rich juices flow
Through frozen veins of rigid wood,
And the whole forest bestirs in bud.
No longer stark the branches spread
An iron network overhead.
Albeit naked still of green;
Through this soft, lustrous vapor
seen

On budding boughs a warm flush glows,

With tints of purple and pale rose.
Breathing of spring, the delicate air
Lifts playfully the loosend hair
To kiss the cool brow. Let us rest
In this bright, sheltered nook, now
blest

With broad noon sunshine over all, Though here June's leafiest shadows fall.

Young grass sprouts here. Look up!

the sky Is veiled by woven greenery. Fresh little folded leaves— the first, And goldener than green, they burst Their thick full buds and take the

breeze.

Here, when November stripped the trees.

I came to wrestle with a grief:
Solace I sought not, nor relief.
I shed no tears, I craved no grace
I fain would see Grief face to face,
Fathom her awful eyes at length,
Measure my strength against her
strength,

I wondered why the Preacher saith, "Like as the grass that withereth."

The late, close blades still waved around;

I clutched a handful from the ground. *' He mocks us cruelly," I said: "The frail herb lives and she is dead."

I lay dumb, sightless, deaf as she;
The long slow hours passed over me,
I saw Grief face to face; I know
The very form and traits of Woe.
I drained the galled dregs of the
draught

She offered me: I could have laughed
In irony of sheer despair,
Although I could not weep. The air
Thickened with twilight shadows
dim:

I rose and left. I knew each limb
Of these great trees, each gnarled,

rough root Piercing the clay, each cone of fruit They bear in autumn.

W hat blooms here, Filling the honeyed atmosphere With faint, delicious fragrances, Freighted with blessed memories? The earliest March violet, Dear as the image of Regret, And beautiful as Hope. Again Past visions thrill and haunt my

brain.

Through tears I see the noddinghead,
The purple and the green dispread.
Here, where I nursed despair that
morn.

The promise of fresh joy is born,
Arrayed in sober colors still,
But piercing the gray mould to fill
With vague sweet influence the air,
To lift the heart's dead weight of
care.

Longings and golden dreams to bring
With joyous phantasies of spring.

REMEMBER.

Remember Him, the only One,

Now, ere the years flow by, — Now, while the smile is on thy lip,

The light within thine eye. Now, ere for thee the sun have lost

Its glory and its light, And earth rejoice thee not with flowers,

Nor with the stars the night. Now, while thou lovest earth, because

She is so wondrous fair
With daisies and with primroses,

And sunlit, waving air;
And not because her bosom holds

Thy dearest and thy best,
And some day will thyself infold

In calm and peaceful rest.
Now, while thou lovest violets.

Because mid grass they wave, And not because they bloom upon

Some early-shapen grave. Now, while thou lovest trembling stars,

But just because they shine, And not because they're nearer one

Who never can be thine. Now, while thou lovest music's strains,

Because they cheer thy heart, And not because from aching eyes

They make the tear-drops start. Now, whilst thou lovest all on earth

And deemest all will last,
Before thy hope is vanished quite,

And every joy has past;
Remember Him, the only One,

Before the days draw nigh When thou shall have no joy in them.

And praying, yearn to die.

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