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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
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;
Why should we linger on life's little marge?
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.
LEWIS J. BATES.
A FLAWLESS pearl, snatched from an ocean cave
And by the mad caress of stormy wave
WOMAN and man, cast out
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,
The pointed beard, the courteous mien,
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!
THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.
-The Century, August, 1890.
THE GIFT OF THE SEA.
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 "Mary take you now," she sang,
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:
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
There was neither glimmer nor ghost;
And the nodding mother sighed:
Have ye yet to learn the cry of the tern,
"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.
O Sorrow, Sister Sorrow, thou dost give
-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
Alas! for the childlike gladness
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,
It is strange that the hands that might lead us
Just there is the heavenly light,
And how little the glorious morning
OUT OF THE SOUTH.
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,
And the maize begins to grow,
I have sought,
In far wild groves below the tropic line,
I have fought
This vague, mysterious power that flings me forth into the North,
But all in vain. When flutes of April blow
I go, I go,
The sky above, the sea below,
Yet ever to the same green, fragrant maplegrove,
Of mighty winds hurled roaring back and forth,
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:
Beside the bowlder, lichen grown and gray,
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,
I'll blow for thee my flute so sweet and clear,
And many and many a blooming coming year,
No more aloft shall guide me in my course,
In sun, in night, in clouds, and forth
To the spot where first the ancestral nest was
Where first the ancestral song was sung,
Whose shadowy strains still ravish me
-The Independent, August 7, 1890.