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So, when affection yields discourse, it seems

The bottom is but shallow whence

they come; They that are rich in words, must

needs discover They are but poor in that which

makes a lover.

Wrong not, sweet mistress of my heart, ,

The merit of true passion; With thinking that he feels no smart

That sues for no compassion,

Since, if my plaints were not to approve

The conquest of thy beauty,
It comes not from defect of love,
But fear to exceed my duty.

For knowing not I sue to serve
A saint of such perfection

As all desire, but none deserve
A place in her affection,

I rather choose to want relief
Than venture the revealing;

Where glory recommends the grief,
Despair disdains the healing.

Silence in love betrays more woe
Than words, though ne'er so witty;

A beggar that is dumb, you know,
May challenge double pity.

Then wrong not, dearest to my heart,

My love for secret passion; He smarteth most who hides his smart

And sues for no compassion.

Thomas Buchanan Read.


Up from the south at break of day, Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay, The affrighted air with a shudder bore,

Like a herald in haste, to the chieftain's door,

The terrible grumble and rumble and roar,

Telling the battle was on once more, And Sheridan twenty miles away.

And wider still those billows of war Thundered along the horizon's bar; And louder yet into Winchester rolled

The roar of that red sea uncontrolled, Making the blood of the listener cold As he thought of the stake in that

fiery fray, With Sheridan twenty miles away.

But there is a road from Winchester town,

A good, broad highway, leading down;

And there, through the flash of the

morning light, A steed as black as the steeds of night Was seen to pass as with eagle flight. As if he knew the terrible need, He stretched away with the utmost


Hills rose and fell, — but his heart

was gay, With Sheridan fifteen miles away.

Still sprung from those swift hoofs, thundering south

The dust, like smoke from the cannon's mouth;

Or the trail of a comet, sweeping faster and faster, [disaster.

Foreboding to traitors the doom of

The heart of the steed and the heart of the master

Were beating, like prisoners assaulting their walls, [calls;

Impatient to be where the battle-field

Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play,

With Sheridan only ten miles away.

Under his spurning feet, the road Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed, And the landscape sped away behind, Like an ocean flying before the wind; And the steed, like a bark fed with

furnace ire, Swept on, with his wild eyes full of


But, lo! he is nearing his heart's


He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray,

With Sheridan only five miles away:

The first that the General saw were

the groups Of stragglers, and then the retreating


What was done, — what to do,—a glance told him both,

And, striking his spurs with a terrible oath,

He dashed down the line mid a storm

of huzzas, And the wave of retreat checked its

course there, because The sight of the master compelled it

to pause.

With foam and with dust the black charger was gray;

By the flash of his eye, and his nostrils' play,

He seemed to the whole great army to say,

"I have brought you Sheridan all the way

From Winchester down, to save the day!"

Hurrah, hurrah for Sheridan 1 Hurrah, hurrah for horse and manl And when their statues are placed on high,

Under the dome of the Union sky. — The American soldier's Temple of Fame,—

There with the glorious General's name

Be it said in letters both bold and bright:

"Here is the steed that saved the day By carrying Sheridan into the fight, From Winchester, — twenty miles away!"


Within the sober realm of leafless


The russet year inhaled the dreamy air;

Like some tanned reaper, in his hour of ease,

When all the fields are lying brown and bare.

The gray barns looking from their hazy hills, O'er the dun waters widening in

the vales,

Sent down the air a greeting to the mills

On the dull thunder of alternate flails.

All sights were mellowed and all

sounds subdued, The hills seemed further and the

stream sang low, As in a dream the distant woodman


His winter log with many a muffled blow.

The embattled forests, erewhile armed

with gold, Their banners bright with every

martial hue, Now stood like some sad, beaten host

of old,

Withdrawn afar in Time's remotest blue.

On slumb'rous wings the vulture held

his flight; The dove scarce heard its sighing

mate's complaint; And, like a star slow drowning in the


The village church-vane seemed to pale and faint.

The sentinel-cock upon the hillside crew, —

Crew thrice, — and all was stiller

than before; Silent, till some replying warden blew His alien horn, and then was heard

no more.

Where erst the jay, within the elm's tall crest, Made garrulous trouble round her unfledged young;

And where the oriole nung her swaying nest,

By every light wind like a censer swung; —

Where sang the noisy martens of the


The busy swallows circling ever near, —

Foreboding, as the rustic mind believes,

An early harvest and a plenteous year; —

Where every bird which charmed the vernal feast Shook the sweet slumber from its wings at morn, To warn the reaper of the rosy east:— All now was sunless, empty, and forlorn.

Alone from out the stubble piped the quail,

And croaked the crow through all the dreamy gloom; Alone the pheasant, drumming in the vale,

Made echo to the distant cottage loom.

There was no bud, no bloom upon

the bowers; The spiders moved their thin

shrouds night by night. The thistle-down, the only ghost of


Sailed slowly by, — passed noiseless out of sight.

Amid all this — in this most cheerless air,

And where the woodbine shed upon the porch Its crimson leaves, as if the year stood there Firing the floor with his inverted torch,—

Amid all this, the centre of the scene,

The white-haired matron with monotonous tread Plied the swift wheel, and with her joyless mien

Sat, like a fate, and watched the flying thread.

She had known sorrow, — he had

walked with her, on supped, and broke the bitter

ashen crust; And in the dead leaves still she heard

the stir

Of his black mantle trailing in the dust.

While yet her cheek was bright with summer bloom, Her country summoned and she gave her all; And twice War bowed to her his sable plume, — Re-gave the swords to rust upon the wall.

Re-gave the swords, but not the hand that drew And struck for Liberty the dying blow;

Nor him who, to his sire and country true,

Fell mid the ranks of the invading foe.

Long, but not loud, the droning wheel went on,

Like the low murmur of a hive at noon;

Long, but not loud, the memory of the gone

Breathed through her lips a sad and tremulous tune.

At last the thread was snapped; her head was bowed; Life dropt the distaff through his hands serene: And loving neighbors smoothed her careful shroud, While Death and Winter closed the autumn scene.


The maid who binds her warrior's sash

With smile that well her pain dissembles,

The while beneath her drooping lash One starry tear-drop hangs and trembles, [tear, Though Heaven alone records the And Fame shall never know her story,

Her heart has shed a drop as dear As e'er bedewed the field of glory!

The wife who girds her husband's sword,

Mid little ones who weep or wonder, And bravely speaks the cheering word,

What though her heart be rent asunder,

Doomed nightly in her dreams to hear The bolts of death around him rattle,

Hath shed as sacred blood as e'er , Was poured upon the field of battle!

The mother who conceals her grief While to her breast her son she presses,

Then breathes a few brave words and brief,

Kissing the patriot brow she blesses, With no one but her secret God To know the pain that weighs upon her, Sheds holy blood as e'er the sod Received on Freedom's field of honor!


My soul to-day

Is far away,
Sailing the Vesuvian Bay;

My winged boat,

A bird afloat, Swims round the purple peaks remote:—

Round purple peaks It sails, and seeks Blue inlets and their crystal creeks,

Where high rocks throw,
Through deeps below,
A duplicated golden glow.

Far, vague, and dim

The mountains swim; While, on Vesuvius' misty brim,

With outstretched hands,

The gray smoke stands O'erlooking the volcanic lands.

Here Ischia smiles

O'er liquid miles;
And yonder, bluest of the isles,

Calm Capri waits,

Her sapphire gates Beguiling to her bright estates

I heed not, if

My rippling skiff Float swift or slow from cliff to cliff;—

With dreamful eyes

My spirit lies
Under the walls of Paradise.

Under the walls

Where swells and falls
The bay's deep breast at intervals,

At peace I lie,

Blown softly by,
A cloud upon this liquid sky.

The day, so mild,

Is Heaven's own child, With Earth and Ocean reconciled; —

The airs I feel

Around me steal Are murmuring to the murmuring keel.

Over the rail

My hand I trail
Within the shadow of the sail;

A joy intense,

The cooling sense
Glides down my drowsy indolence.

With dreamful eyes

My spirit lies Where Summer sings and never dies,—

O'erveiled with vines,

She glows and shines
Among her future oil and wines.
Her children, hid
The cliffs amid,
Are gambolling with the gambolling

Or down the walls,
With tipsy calls,
Laugh on the rocks like waterfalls.

The fisher's child,

With tresses wild, Unto the smooth, bright sand beguiled,

With glowing lips

Sings as she skips,
Or gazes at the far-off ships.

Yon deep bark goes

Where traffic blows, From lands of sun to lands of snows;—

This happier one,

Its course is run From lands of snow to lands of sun.

O happy ship,

To rise and dip, With the blue crystal at your lipl

O happy crew,

My heart with you
Sails, and sails, and sings anew I

No more, no more

The worldly shore Upbraids me with its loud uproar!

With dreamful eyes

My spirit lies
Under the walls of Paradise!

In lofty lines,

Mid palms and pines,
And olives, aloes, elms, and vines,

Sorrento swings

On sunset wings, Where Tasso's spirit soars and sings.

Richard Realf.


This sweet child that hath climbed

upon my knee, This amber-haired, four-summered

little maid, With her unconscious beauty troub

leth me,

With her low prattle maketh me afraid.

Ah, darling! when you cling and nestle so

You hurt me, though you do not

see me cry, Nor hear the weariness with which

I sigh

For the dear babe I killed so long ago.

I tremble at the touch of your caress:

I am not worthy of your innocent faith;

I, who with whetted knives of worldliness, Did put my own child-heartedness to death;

Beside whose grave I pace forevermore,

Like desolation on a shipwrecked shore.

There is no little child within me now, To sing back to the thrushes, to leap up

When June winds kiss me, when an apple-bough laughs into blossoms, or a buttercup

Plays with the sunshine, or a violet Dances in the glad dew. Alas! alas!

The meaning of the daisies in the grass

I have forgotten; and if my cheeks are wet.

It is not with the blitheness of the child,

But with the bitter sorrow of sad years.

O moaning life! with life recon ciled;

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