Puslapio vaizdai
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From the ripe harvest that shining stood, But waiting the reaper's knife.

Then labor well, that in death you go

Not only with blossoms sweet,—

Not bent with doubt and burdened with fears,
And dead, dry husks of the wasted years,
But laden with golden wheat.

ELIZA O. PEIRSON.

THE WORLD WOULD BE THE BETTER FOR IT.

IF men cared less for wealth and fame,
And less for battle-fields and glory,
If writ in human hearts a name
Seemed better than in song or story;
If men instead of nursing pride
Would learn to hate it and abhor it,
If more relied

On Love to guide,

The world would be the better for it.

If men dealt less in stocks and lands,
And more in bonds and deeds fraternal,
If Love's work had more willing hands
To link this world with the supernal;
If men stored up Love's oil and wine
And on bruised human hearts would pour it,
If yours" and "mine"

Would once combine,

The world would be the better for it.

If more would act the play of Life, And fewer spoil it in rehearsal; If Bigotry would sheath its knife,

Till good became more universal; If Custom, gray with ages grown, Had fewer blind men to adore it,

If Talent shone

In Truth alone,

The world would be the better for it.

If men were wise in little things-
Affecting less in all their dealings;
If hearts had fewer rusted strings

To isolate their kindred feelings;

If men, when Wrong beats down the Right,
Would strike together to restore it,-
If Right made Might

In every fight,

The world would be the better for it.

M. H. COBB.

HELEN OF TROY.

LONG years ago he bore to a land beyond the sea, To a city fair and stately, that renowned must ever be

Through all ages yet to follow, for the light shed there by me.

I am Helen; where is Troy?

They have told me not a roof-tree nor a wall is standing now,

That o'erthrown is the great altar, where ten thousand once did bow,

While on high to Aphrodite rose the solemn hymn and vow.

I am Helen; where is Troy?

Do they deem thus the story of my life will pass away?

Troy betrayed, and all who loved me slain upon that fatal day,

Shall but make the memory of me evermore with men to stay.

I am Helen; where is Troy?

Fools! to dream that time can ever make the tale of Troy grow old;

Buried now is every hero, and the grass green o'er the mold.

But of her they fought and died for, every age shall yet be told.

I am Helen; where is Troy?
FLORENCE PEACOCK.

AFTER THE FALL OF TROY.

TROY has fallen; and never will be
War like the war that was waged for me.
Could I but have those ten years back again
With the love, and the glory, the pleasure like pain,
The clash of arms, and the din of the fight,
The feasting and music, the color and light;
Yet, mixed with it all, there sounded to me
Ever a moan from the far-off sea.

There still remains this for all time to be:
The war of the world was fought for me.
Give them no pity who died for me there,
Men can never more die for a face so fair.
And what does it matter that now they lie,
Quiet and silent beneath the sky?
Remember that none evermore can be

Back for those years in Troy with me.
FLORENCE PEACOCK.

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