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DARBY AND JOAN

DARBY dear, we are old and gray,
Fifty years since our wedding day,
Shadow and sun for every one
As the years roll on ;

Darby dear, when the world went wry,
Hard and sorrowful then was I-
Ah! lad, how you cheered me then,
Things will be better, sweet wife, again!
Always the same, Darby my own,
Always the same to your old wife Joan.

Darby, dear, but my heart was wild
When we buried our baby child,
Until you whispered "Heav'n knows best!"
And my heart found rest;

Darby, dear, 't was your loving hand
Showed the way to the better land
Ah! lad, as you kiss'd each tear,
Life grew better, and Heaven more near :
Always the same, Darby my own,
Always the same to your old wife Joan.

Hand in hand when our life was May,
Hand in hand when our hair is gray,
Shadow and sun for every one,
As the years roll on ;

Hand in hand when the long night-tide
Gently covers us side by side-
Ah! lad, though we know not when,
Love will be with us forever then :
Always the same, Darby, my own,
Always the same to your old wife Joan.

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THE POET IN THE CITY

THE Poet stood in the sombre town,
And spake to his heart, and said,
"O weary prison, devised by man!
O seasonless place, and dead!"
His heart was sad, for afar he heard

The sound of the Spring's light tread.

He thought he saw in the pearly east
The pale March sun arise,
The happy housewife beneath the thatch,
With hand above her eyes,
Look out to the cawing rooks, that built
So near to the quiet skies.

Out of the smoke, and noise, and sin
The heart of the Poet cried :
"O God! but to be Thy laborer there,
On the gentle hill's green side,

To leave the struggle of want and wealth,

And the battle of lust and pride!"

He bent his ear, and he heard afar The growing of tender things,

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The changeless days were so sad to him,
That the Poet's heart beat strong,
And he struggled as some poor caged lark,
And he cried: "How long, how long?
I have missed a spring I can never see,
And the singing of birds is gone !”

But when the time of the roses came,
And the nightingale hushed her lay,
The Poet, still in the dusty town,
Went quietly on his way
A poorer poet by just one Spring,
And a richer man by one suffering.

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Thy flower enfolds no augur's brow, Nor gives thy poet strength to sing.

Yet, surely, when the winds are low,
And heaven is all alive with stars,
Thy conscious roses still must glow
Above thy dreaming nenuphars;
They recollect their high estate,

The Roman honors they have known, And while they ponder Cæsar's fate They cease to marvel at their own.

THEOCRITUS

THE poplars and the ancient elms

Make murmurous noises high in air; The noon-day sunlight overwhelms

The brown cicalas basking there; But here the shade is deep, and sweet With new-mown grass and lentisk-shoots, And far away the shepherds meet

With noisy fifes and flutes.

Their clamor dies upon the ear;

So now bring forth the rolls of song, Mouth the rich cadences, nor fear

Your voice may do the poet wrong;
Lift up the chalice to our lips, -

Yet see, before we venture thus,
A stream of red libation drips
To great Theocritus.

We are in Sicily to-day;
And, as the honeyed metre flows,
Battos and Corydon, at play,

Will lose the syrinx, gain the rose ;
Soft Amaryllis, too, will bind

Dark violets round her shining hair, And in the fountain laugh to find

Her sun-browned face so fair.

We are in Sicily to-day;

Ah! foolish world, too sadly wise, Why didst thou e'er let fade away Those ancient, innocent ecstasies? Along the glens, in checkered flight,

Hither to-day the nymphs shall flee, And Pan forsake for our delight

The tomb of Helice.

WITH A COPY OF HERRICK FRESH with all airs of woodland brooks And scents of showers,

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