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Its path: and now she spoke as when The stars sang 'n their spheres.

"I wish that he were come to me,

For he will come," she said. '"Have I not prayed in heaven? — on earth, Lord, Lord, has he not prayed? Are not two prayers a perfect strength? And shall I feel afraid?"

She gazed and listened, and then said,

Less sad of speech than mild.— "All this is when he comes." She ceased.

The light thrilled towards her, filled With angels in strong level flight. Her eyes prayed, and she smiled.

(I saw her smile.) But soon their path

Was vague in distant spheres; And then she cast her arms along

The golden barriers And laid her face between her hands,

And wept. (I heard her tears.)


The lost days of my life until to-day. What were they, could I see them on

the street Lie as they fell? Would they be ears

of wheat

Sown once for food but trodden into clay?

Or golden coins squandered and still to pay?

Or drops of blood dabbling the guilty feet?

Or such spilt water as in dreams

must cheat The throats of men in hell, who thirst


I do not see them here; but after death

God knows I know the faces I shall


Each one a murdered self, with low

last breath: "I am thyself, what hast thou done

to me?"

"And I — and I—thyself "— lo, each

one saith — "And thou thyself to all eternity!"

Margaret E. Sangster.


If I had known in the morning
How wearily all the day [mind

The words unkind would trouble my
That I said when you went away,

I had been more careful, darling,
Nor given you needless pain;

But we vex our own with look and tone

We may never take back again.

For though in the quiet evening

You may give me the kiss of peace, Yet it well might be that never for me

The pain of the heart should cease! How many go forth at morning

Who never come home at night! And hearts have broken for harsh words spoken.

That sorrow can ne'er set right.

We have careful thought for the
And smiles for the sometime guest;
But oft for our own the bitter tone,
Though we love our own the best.
Ah! lips with the curve impatient,

Ah! brow with the shade of scorn, 'Twere a cruel fate, were the night too late

To undo the work of the morn!


Because in a day of my days to come

There waiteth a grief to be, Shall my heart grow faint, and my lips be dumb In this day that is bright for me?

Because of a subtle sense of pain,

Like a pulse-beat threaded through The bliss of my thought, shall I dare refrain

From delight in the pure and true?

In the harvest fields shall I cease to glean

Since the summer bloom has sped? Shall I veil mine eyes to the noonday sheen [fled? Since the dew of the morn hath

Nay, phantom ill with the warning hand

Nay, ghosts of the weary past,

Serene, as in armor of faith, I stand, You may not hold me fast.

Your shadows across my sun may fall,

But as bright the sun shall shine, For I walk in a light ye cannot pall,

The light of the King Divine.

And whatever the shades from day to day,

I am sure that His name is Love, And He never will let me lose my way

To my rest in his home above.

Epes Sargent.


Soin. of my soul, impart

Thy energy divine! Inform and fill this languid heart,

And make Thy purpose mine. Thy voice is still and small,

The world's is loud and rude; Oh, let me hear Thee over all,

And be, through love, renewed.

Give me the mind to seek

Thy perfect will to know; And lead me, tractable and meek,

The way I ought to go. Make quick my spirit's ear

Thy faintest word to hear; Soul of my soul! be ever near

To guide me in my need.


A Life on the ocean wave,

A home on the rolling deep; Where the scattered waters rave,

And the winds their revels keep! Like an eagle caged, I pine

On this dull, unchanging shore: Oh, give me the flashing brine,

The spray and the tempest's roar!

Once more on the deck I stand,

Of my own swift-gliding craft: Set sail! farewell to the land!

The gale follows fair abaft, We shoot through the sparkling foam

Like an ocean-bird set free; — Like the ocean-bird, our home

We'll find far out on the sea.

The land is no longer in view,
The clouds have begun to frown;

But with a stout vessel and crew, We'll say, Let the storm come down!

And the song of our hearts shall be, While the winds and the waters rave,

A home on the rolling sea!
A life on the ocean wave!


"Forget me not?" Ah, words of useless warning To one whose heart is henceforth memory's shrine! Sooner the skylark might forget the morning, Than I forget a look, a tone of thine.

Sooner the sunflower might forget to waken When the first radiance lights the eastern hill, Than I, by daily thoughts of thee forsaken, Feel, as they kindle, no expanding thrill.

Oft, when at night the deck I'm pacing lonely Or when I pause to watch some fulgent star, Will Contemplation be retracing only Thy form, and fly to greet thee, though afar.

When storms unleashed, with fearful clangor sweeping, Drive our strained bark along the hollowed sea, When to the clouds the foam-topped waves are leaping, Even then I'll not forget, beloved one, thee!

Thy image in my sorrow-shaded hours,

Will, like a sunburst on the waters, shine; [flowers 'Twill be as grateful as the breath of

From some green island wafted o'er the brine.

And O sweet lady, when, from home departed, I count the leagues between us with a sigh, —

When, at the thought, perchance a tear has started, May I not dream in heart thou'rt sometimes nigh?

Ay, thou wilt, sometimes, when the wine-cup passes, And friends are gathering round in festal glee, While bright eyes flash, as flash the brimming glasses, Let silent Memory pledge one health to me.

Farewell! My fatherland is disappearing [sight; Faster and faster from my baffled

The winds rise wildly, and thick clouds are rearing Their ebon flags, that hasten on the night,

Farewell! The pilot leaves us; seaward gliding, Our brave ship dashes through the foamy swell;

But Hope, forever faithful and abiding.

hears distant welcomes in this last farewell!


I Waked from slumber at the dead of night,

Moved by a dream too heavenly fair to last — A dream of boyhood's season of delight;

It flashed along the dim shapes of the past;

And, as I mused upon its strange appeal,

Thrilling me with emotions undefined,

Old memories, bursting from Time's icy seal,

Rushed, like sun-stricken fountains on my mind. Scenes where my lot was cast in life's young day; My favorite haunts, the shores, the ancient woods, Where, with my schoolmates, I was wont to stray; Green, sloping lawns, majestic solitudes—

All rose to view, more beautiful than then;—

They faded, and I wept — a child again!


The birds are mute, the bloom is fled,
Cold, cold, the north winds blow;

And radiant summer lieth dead
Beneath a shroud of snow.

Sweet summer! well may we regret
Thy brief, too brief sojourn;

But, while we grieve, we'll not forget, The spring-time will return!

Dear friend, the hills rise bare and bleak

That bound thy future years; Clouds veil the sky, no golden streak,

No rainbow light appears; Mischance has tracked thy fairest schemes, To wreck — to whelm — to burn; But wintry-dark though Fortune seems,

The spring-time will return!

Beloved one! where no sunbeams shine

Thy mortal frame we laid; But oh, thy spirit's form divine

Waits no sepulchral shade! No, by those hopes which, plumed with light, The sod, exulting, spurn, Love's paradise snail bloom more bright — The sprints will return!


A Holy stillness, beautiful and deep, Reigns in the air and broods upon

the ocean; The worn-out winds are quieted to


And not a wave is lifted into motion.

The sea-bird skims along the glassy tide,

With sidelong flight and wing of glittering whiteness, Or floats upon the sea, outstretching


A sheet of gold in the meridian brightness.

Our vessel lies, unstirred by wave or blast,

As she were moored to her dark shadow seeming,

Her pennon twined around the tapering mast, And her loose sails like marble drapery gleaming.

How, at an hour like this, the unruffled mind Partakes the quiet that is shed around us! As if the Power that chained the impatient wind With the same fetter of repose had bound us!


Now we're afloat upon the tropic sea: Here Summer holdeth a perpetual reign.

How flash the waters in their bounding glee!

The sky's soft purple is without a stain.

Full in our wake the smooth, warm trade-winds blowing, To their unvarying goal still faithful run;

And, as we steer, with sails before them flowing, Nearer the zenith daily climbs the sun,

The startled flying-fish around us skim,

Glossed like the humming-bird, with rainbow dyes; And, as they dip into the water's brim,

Swift in pursuit the preying dolphin hies. All, all is fair; and gazing round, we feel

Over the yielding sense the torrid languor steal.


What sounds arouse me from my

slumbers light? "Land ho! all hands, ahoy!"

— I'm on the deck: 'Tis early dawn: the day-star yet is


A few white vapory bars the zenith


And lo! along the horizon, bold and high,

The purple hills of Cuba! Hail, all hail!

Isle of undying verdure, with thy sky

Of purest azure! Welcome, odorous gale!

Ob scene of life and joy! thou art arrayed

In hues of unimagined loveliness. Sing louder, brave old mariner! and aid

My swelling heart its rapture to express; [more For, from enchanted memory, never Shall fade this dawn sublime, this fair, resplendent shore.

Minot Judson Savage.


Where slopes the beach to the setting sun,

On the Pescadero shore,
For ever and ever the restless surf

Rolls up with its sullen roar.

And grasping the pebbles in white hands,

And chafing them together, And grinding them against the cliffs In stormy and sunny weather,

It gives them never any rest;

All day, all night, the pain Of their long agony sobs on,

Sinks, and then swells again.

And tourists come from every clime

To search with eager care. For those whose rest has been the least:

For such have grown most fair.

But yonder, round a point of rock,
In a quiet, sheltered cove.

Where storm ne'er breaks, and sea
ne'er comes.
The tourists never rove.

The pebbles lie 'neath the sunny sky

Quiet forevermore;
In dreams of everlasting peace

They sleep upon the shore.

But ugly, and rough, and jagged still. Are they left by the passing years;

For they miss the beat of angry storms,

And the surf that drips in tears.

The hard turmoil of the pitiless sea
Turns the pebble to beauteous gem,

They who escape the agony
Miss also the diadem.


New being is from being ceased;

No life is but by death; Something's expiring everywhere

To give some other breath.

There's not a flower that glads the spring

But blooms upon the grave
Of its dead parent seed, in which
Its forms of beauty wave.

The oak, that like an ancient tower
Stands massive on the heath,

Looks out upon a living world.
But strikes its roots in death.

The cattle on a thousand hills
Clip the sweet buds that grow

Rank from the soil enriched by herds
Sleeping long years below.

To-day is but a structure built

Upon dead yesterday; And Progress hews her temple-stones

From wrecks of old decay.

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