Puslapio vaizdai
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The creak of cabin and bulkhead,

The wail of rigging and mastThe roar of the shrouds as she rises From a deep lee-roll to the blast.

The sullen throb of the engine,
Whose iron heart never tires-
The swarthy faces that redden
By the glare of his caverned fires.

The binnacle slowly swaying,

And nursing the faithful steelAnd the grizzled old quarter-master, His horny hands on the wheel.

I can see it - the little cabin -
Plainly as if I were there-
The chart on the old green table,

The book and the empty chair.

On the deck we have trod together,
A patient and manly form,
To and fro, by the foremast,
Is pacing in sleet and storm.

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What do we give to our beloved ?\.
A little faith all undisproved,

A little dust to overweep
And bitter memories to make

What would we give to our beloved? | The whole earth blasted for our sake.

The hero's heart, to be unmoved,

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He giveth IIis beloved sleep."

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But never doleful dreams again
Shall break the happy slumber when
"He giveth His beloved sleep."

O earth, so full of dreary noises!
O men, with wailing in your voices!
O delved gold, the wailers heap!
O strife, O curse, that o'er it fall!
God strikes a silence through you all,
And **giveth His belovèd sleep."

His dews drop mutely on the hill,
His cloud above it saileth still,
Though on its slope men sow and reap,
More softly than the dew is shed,
Or cloud is floated overhead,
“He giveth His belovèd sleep.”

Ay, men may wonder while they scan
A living, thinking, feeling man,
Confirmed in such a rest to keep;
But angels say, and through the word
I think their happy smile is heard ·
"He giveth His beloved sleep."

For me, my heart that erst did go
Most like a tired child at a show,
That sees through tears the mummers
leap,

Would now its wearied vision close, Would childlike on His love repose, Who" giveth His beloved sleep."

And friends, dear friends - when it shall be

That this low breath is gone from me,
And round my bier ye come to weep,
Let one, most loving of you all,
Say, Not a tear must o'er her fall —
'He giveth His beloved sleep.""

LITTLE MATTIE.

DEAD? Thirteen a month ago! Short and narrow her life's walk. Lover's love she could not know Even by a dream or talk:

Too young to be glad of youth;
Missing honor, labor, rest,
And the warmth of a babe's mouth
At the blossom of her breast.
Must you pity her for this,
And for all the loss it is-
You, her mother, with wet face,
Having had all in your case?

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But if it were not so if I could find No love in all the world for comforting,

Nor any path but hollowly did ring, Where dust to dust" the love from life disjoined —

And if before these sepulchres unmoving

I stood alone, (as some forsaken lamb Goes bleating up the moors in weary dearth)

Crying "Where are ye, O my loved and loving?"

I know a voice would sound, "Daughter, I AM.

Can I suffice for HEAVEN, and not for earth?"

A PORTRAIT.

One name is Elizabeth."-BEN JONSON.

I WILL paint her as I see her; Ten times have the lilies blown Since she looked upon the sun.

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