Puslapio vaizdai

John Danforth was hit just in Lexington street, John Bridge, at that lane where you cross Beaver Falls;

And Winch and the Snows just above John Monroe's,

Swept away by one swoop of the big cannon balls.

I took Bridge on my knee, but he said: "Don't mind me,

Fill your horn from mine-let me lie where I be. Our fathers," says he, "that their sons might be free,

Left their king on his throne and came over the sea;

And that man is a knave or a fool who, to save
His life, for a minute would live like a slave."

[blocks in formation]


UNDER the snow are the roses of June,

Cold in our bosoms the hopes of our youth; Gone are the wild-birds that warbled in tune, Mute are the lips that have pledged us their truth. Wind of the winter night, lonely as I, Wait we the dawn of the bright by-and-by. Roses shall bloom again,

Sweet love will come again:

It will be summer time, by-and-by.

Patience and toil are the meed of to-day

Toil without recompense, patience in vain; Darkness and terrror lie thick on our way,

Our footsteps keep time with the angel of pain. Wind of the winter night, far in the sky, Watch for the day-star of dear by-and-by. Parched lips shall quaff again, Sad souls shall laugh again; Earth will be happier, by-and-by. Cruel and cold is the judgment of man, Cruel as winter, and cold as the snow; But by-and-by will the deed and the plan Be judged by the motive that lieth below. Wail of the winter wind, echo our cry, Pray for the dawn of the sweet by-and-by, When hope shall spring again; When joy shall sing again; Truth will be verified, by-and-by. Weary and heartsick we totter along,

Feeble the back, though the burden is large;
Broken the purpose, and hushed is the song:

Why should we linger on life's little marge?
Wind of the winter night, hush! and reply:
Is there, oh! is there a glad by-and-by?
Will dark grow bright again,
Burdens grow light again,

And faith be justified, by-and-by?

Dreary and dark is the midnight of war,

Distant and dreamy the triumph of right; Homes that are desolate, hearts that are sore, Soon shall the morning star gladden our sight. Wail of the winter wind, so like a sigh, Herald the dawn of the blest by-and-by. Freedom shall reign again, Peace banish pain again; Right will be glorified, by-and-by.



A FLAWLESS pearl, snatched from an ocean cave
Remote from light or air,

And by the mad caress of stormy wave
Made but more pure and fair;

[blocks in formation]



WOMAN and man, cast out
From the garden of the Lord,
Before them, danger and doubt,
Behind them, the flaming sword,

Gaze in each other's eyes;

Lo! what out weighs the ban? "We have hope," the woman cries, "We have love," the word of the man. SOLOMON SOLIS-COHEN. -Lippincott's Magazine, September, 1890.


THE folk who lived in Shakespeare's day,
And saw that gentle figure pass
By London Bridge-his frequent way-
They little knew what man he was!

The pointed beard, the courteous mien,
The equal port to high and low,
All this they saw, or might have seen,
But not the light behind the brow!

The doublet's modest gray or brown,

The slender sword-hilt's plain device, What sign had these for prince or clown? Few turned, or none, to scan him twice.

Yet it was the king of England's kings!
The rest, with all their pomps and trains,
Are moldered, half-remembered things-
"T is he alone that lives and reigns!


-The Century, August, 1890.


THE dead child lay in the shroud,

And the widow watched beside;

And her mother slept and the channel swept The gale in the teeth of the tide.

But the widow laughed at all.

"I have lost my man in the sea,

And the child is dead. Be still," she said; "What more can ye do to me?"

And the widow watched the dead,
And the candle guttered low
And she tried to sing the passing song
That bids the poor soul go.

And "Mary take you now," she sang,
"That lay against my heart,"
And "Mary smooth your crib to-night;"
But she could not say, "depart."

Then came a cry from the sea,

But the storm lay thick on the glass, And "Heard ye nothing, mother," she said; "T is the child that waits to pass."

And the nodding mother sighed:
"'T is a lambing ewe in the whin;
For why should the christened soul cry out
That never knew of sin?"

Oh, feet I have held in my hand!

Oh, hands at my heart to catch! How can they know the road to go, And how can they lift the latch?

They laid a sheet to the door,

With the little quilt atop,

That it might not hurt from the cold or dirt; But the crying would not stop.

The widow lifted the latch

And strained her eyes to see;

And opened the door on the bitter shore
To let the soul go free.

There was neither glimmer nor ghost;
There was neither spirit nor spark,
And "Heard ye nothing, mother?" she said;
"T is crying for me in the dark."

And the nodding mother sighed:
""T is sorrow makes ye dull;

Have ye yet to learn the cry of the tern,
Or the wail of the wind-blown gull?"

"The terns are blown inland,

The gray gull follows the plow; 'T was never a bird the voice I heard;

Oh, mother, I hear it now!"

"Lie still, dear lamb, lie still;

The child is safe from harm.

'Tis the ache in your breast that breaks your rest,

And the feel of an empty arm."

She put her mother aside;

"In Mary's name let be!

For the peace of my soul I must go," she said; And she went to the calling sea.

[blocks in formation]

O Sorrow, Sister Sorrow, thou dost give
A richer tone to poets when they cross,
To seek Eurydice, from where joys live,
And make them godlike through thy gift of loss.

-Lippincott's Magazine, September, 1890.


How little the left hand knoweth

The deeds that are done by the right, How little the night time showeth

Its sorrowful shades to the light! How few of the hearts that are broken

Betray to the breaker their grief;

How many harsh words that are spoken
Are the crushed soul's only relief!

Alas! for the childlike gladness
We never may know again;

And alas, and alas, for the sadness

That broods like a spirit of pain!

Like some spirit of pain, that will hover

Still nearer when sunlight is fled,
Until youth, and youth's last changeful lover
Grow old, and grow cold as the dead!

It is strange that the hands that might lead us
To heaven, refuse us their hold;
That the dear lips that whisper "God speed us,"
Are the lips that are first to grow cold!
But love, we are nearer the dawning,

Just there is the heavenly light,

And how little the glorious morning
Knows the sorrowful shades of the night!

-Atlanta Constitution.


A MIGRANT Song-bird I,

Out of the blue, between the sea and the sky, Landward blown on bright, untiring wings; Out of the South I fly,

Urged by some vague strange force of Destiny,
To where the young wheat springs,

And the maize begins to grow,
And the clover fields to blow.

I have sought,

In far wild groves below the tropic line,
To lose old memories of this land of mine;

I have fought

This vague, mysterious power that flings me forth into the North,

But all in vain. When flutes of April blow
The immemorial longing lures me, and I go.

I go, I go,

The sky above, the sea below,
And I know not by what sense I keep my way,
Slow winnowing the ether night and day;

Yet ever to the same green, fragrant maplegrove,
Where I shall swing and sing beside my love,
Some irresistible impulse bears me on,
Through starry dusks and rosy mists of dawn,
And flames of noon and purple films of rain;
And the strain

Of mighty winds hurled roaring back and forth,
Between the caverns of the reeling earth,
Cannot bewilder me.

I know that I shall see,

Just at the appointed time the dogwood blow, And hear the willows rustle and the mill stream flow.

The very bough that best

Shall hold a perfect nest

Now bursts its buds and spills its keen perfume:
And the violets are in bloom,

Beside the bowlder, lichen grown and gray,
Where I shall perch and pipe,
Till the dewberries are ripe,

And our brood has flown away,

And the empty nest swings high Between the flowing tides of grass and the dreamy violet sky.

I come, I come!

Bloom, O cherry, peach and plum!

Bubble brook, and rustle corn and rye!

Falter not, O Nature, nor will I.

Give me thy flower and fruit,
And I'll blow for thee my flute;

I'll blow for thee my flute so sweet and clear,
This year,
Next year,

And many and many a blooming coming year,
Till this strange force

No more aloft shall guide me in my course,
High over weltering billows and dark woods,
Over Mississippi's looped and tangled floods,
Over the hills of Tennessee,
And old Kentucky's greenery,

In sun, in night, in clouds, and forth
Out of the South into the North,

To the spot where first the ancestral nest was


Where first the ancestral song was sung,

Whose shadowy strains still ravish me
With immemorial melody.


-The Independent, August 7, 1890.

« AnkstesnisTęsti »