TWO. (From the Portuguese.) How does a woman love? Once, no more, How does a man love? Once for all. Fortune smile, or jest, or frown, The cruel thumb of the world turn down, Loss betray him, or love delight, Through storm or sunshine, by day or night, Though souls may madden, or weak hearts break, ROSE TERRY COOKE. THE DYING SWAN. THE plain was grassy, wild and bare, An under-roof of doleful gray. And loudly did lament. And took the reed-tops as it went. Some blue peaks in the distance rose, One willow over the river wept, Chasing itself at its own wild will, Shot over with purple, and green, and yellow. III. The wild swan's death-hymn took the soul Hidden in sorrow: at first to the ear The warble was low, and full and clear; As when a mighty people rejoice With shawms and with cymbals, and harps of gold, To the shepherd who watcheth the evening star. ALFRED TENNYSON. RIPE WHEAT. WE bent to-day o'er a coffined form, We touched our own to the clay-cold hands, From life's long labor at rest; And among the blossoms white and sweet, We noted a bunch of golden wheat, Clasped close to the silent breast. The blossoms whispered of fadeless bloom, We knew not what work her hands had found, What rugged places at her feet; What cross was hers, what blackness of night; We saw but the peace, the blossoms white, And the bunch of ripened wheat. As each goes up from the field of earth, 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, ELIZA O. PEIRSON. THE WORLD WOULD BE THE BETTER FOR IT. IF men cared less for wealth and fame, On Love to guide, The world would be the better for it. If men dealt less in stocks and lands, If men stored up Love's oil and wine Would once combine, The world would be the better for it. If more would act the play of Life, 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- To isolate their kindred feelings; If men, when Wrong beats down the Right, 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. standing now, That o'erthrown is the great altar, where te 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? AFTER THE FALL OF TROY. TROY has fallen; and never will be There still remains this for all time to be: Back for those years in Troy with me. |