And some, who walk in calmness here, Shall shudder as they reach the door Where one who made their dwelling dear, Its flower, its light, is seen no more. Youth, with pale cheek and slender frame, Keen son of trade, with eager brow! Who of this crowd to-night shall tread Some, famine-struck, shall think how long The cold dark hours, how slow the light who flaunt amid the throng, And some, Shall hide in dens of shame to-night. Each, where his tasks or pleasures call, There is who heeds, who holds them all, In his large love and boundless thought. These struggling tides of life that seem THE WHITE-FOOTED DEER. Ir was a hundred years ago, When, by the woodland ways, The traveller saw the wild deer drink, Beneath a hill, whose rocky side And fenced a cottage from the wind, She only came when on the cliffs The evening moonlight lay, And no man knew the secret haunts White were her feet, her forehead showed A spot of silvery white, That seemed to glimmer like a star In autumn's hazy night. And here, when sang the whippoorwill, She cropped the sprouting leaves, And here her rustling steps were heard On still October eves. But when the broad midsummer moon Rose o'er that grassy lawn, Beside the silver-footed deer There grazed a spotted fawn. The cottage dame forbade her son To aim the rifle here; "It were a sin," she said, "to harm Or fright that friendly deer. "This spot has been my pleasant home Ten peaceful years and more; And ever, when the moonlight shines, She feeds before our door. "The red men say that here she walked A thousand moons ago; They never raise the war-whoop here, And never twang the bow. "I love to watch her as she feeds, And think that all is well. While such a gentle creature haunts The youth obeyed, and sought for game Where, deep in silence and in moss, But once, in autumn's golden time, Nor roused the pheasant nor the deer, The crescent moon and crimson eve The deer, upon the grassy mead, He raised the rifle to his eye, A sudden echo, shrill and sharp, Away into the neighbouring wood |