The fair world is the witness of a Of their futurity to them unfurled Has dared to check the mirth-compelling shout. crime Repeated every hour. For life and breath Are sweet to all who live; and bitterly The voices of these robbers of the heath Sound in each ear and chill the passerby. -What have we done to thee, thou monstrous Time? What have we done to Death that we must die? A DAY IN SUSSEX. THE dove did lend me wings. I fled away From the loud world which long had troubled me. Oh, lightly did I flee when hoyden May Threw her white mantle on the hawthorn tree. I left the dusty highroad, and my way Was through deep meadows, shut with copses fair. A choir of thrushes poured its roundelay From every hedge and every thicket there. Mild, moon-faced kine looked on, where in the grass, All heaped with flowers I lay, from noon till eve; And hares unwitting close to me did pass, And still the birds sang, and I could not grieve. Oh, what a blessed thing that evening was! Peace, music, twilight, all that could deceive A soul to joy, or lull a heart to peace. It glimmers yet across whole years like these. LAUGHTER AND DEATH. THERE is no laughter in the natural world Of beast or fish or bird, though no sad doubt 804 GEORGE HENRY BOKER. NEARNESS. BOKER. I know the sunshine of this hour, THROUGH the dark path, o'er which The scarlet leaves are doomed to I tread, One voice is ever at my ear, near. In times of doubt, he whispers trust; He follows me, with patient tread, He bends beside me, head by head, And sharing thus my smallest deed, He lies against my heart at last. Dear ghost, I feel no dread of thee; IN AUTUMN. IN hazy gold the hill-side sleeps, The sun is but a blur of light, The sky in ashy gray is lost; I hear the clamor of the crow, In wedges driving through the sky. fall, The lake shall stiffen at a breath; The crow shall ring his dreary call Above December's waste of death. And so, thou bird of southern flight, In gazing on the death of things. Fain would I spread an airy plume, For lands where endless summers And lose myself in tropic bloom, MY ANSWER. WHEN I am turned to mouldering thrust SARAH K. BOLTON. ENTERED INTO REST. SOLDIER, statesman, scholar, friend, But its work is grandly done. Nations weep about thy bier, Come the great from many lands. Rest thee by Lake Erie. Winter snows will wrap thy mound, Autumn leaves lie on thy tomb: Rest thee by Lake Erie. Strong for right, in danger brave, Of the people's life a part. All thy gifted words shall be A. B. BOYLE. WIDOWED. SHE did not sigh for death, nor make sad moan, Turning from smiles as one who solace fears, But filled with kindly deeds the waiting years; Yet, in her heart of hearts, she lived alone, And in her voice there thrilled an undertone That seemed to rise from soundless depths of tears; As, when the sea is calm, one sometimes hears The long, low murmur of a storm, unknown Within the sheltered haven where he stands, While tokens of a tempest overpast So on the surface of her life was cast, EMILY A. BRADDOCK. AN UNTHRIFT. BROWN bird, with a wisp in your mouth for your nest, Away! away! you have found your guest. Treasured speech from age to age; Golden-ringed bee, through the air Thy heroic loyalty Be a country's heritage; Mentor and thy precious ties Sacred in the nation's eyes. Rest thee by Lake Erie. From thy life and death shall come An ennobled, purer race, Rest thee by Lake Erie. sea steer home, The freight of sweets that lured you to roam. O reapers! well may you sing, to hold Your arms brimful of the grain's But what to me that ye all go by? In my heart of hearts, it is singing gray, Nor offered a helping hand to her, So meek, so timid, afraid to stir, Lest the carriage wheels or the horses' feet Should crowd her down in the slippery street. At last came one of the merry troop— The gayest laddie of all the group: He paused beside her and whispered low, "I'll help you across if you wish to go." Her aged hand on his strong young arm She placed, and so, without hurt or harm, He guided her trembling feet along, Poud that his own were firm and strong. And bent with the chill of the win-Then back again to his friends he ter's day: went, tent. "She's somebody's mother, boys, you know, For all she's aged and poor and slow; And I hope some fellow will lend a hand To help my mother, you understand, If ever she's poor and old and gray, When her own dear boy is far away." And "somebody's mother" bowed low her head In her home that night, and the prayer she said Was, "God be kind to the noble boy Who is somebody's son and pride and joy." |