TRINITY COLLEGE LIBRARY DURHAM , NORTH CAROLINA Rec'd cUik^y/m .11 Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2015 https://archive.org/details/gemsofpoetry01rhod GEMS OF POETRY — WITH — ^otes and JlluBtrations. Edited by RICHiiRn S; RHODES. CHICAGO. RHODES & McCLURE PUB. CO., 1885. Entered according' to Act of Congress, in the year 1885, by R. S. Rbodes, In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. THE POET'S STAR-TUNED HARP TO SWEEP. E. B. Browning. ^HERE ARE IN THIS LOUD STUNNING TIDE OF HUMAN CARE AND CRIME, WITH WHOM THE MELODIES ABIDE OF THE EVERLASTING" CHIME; V WHO CARRY MUSIC IN THEIR HEART THROUGH DUSKY LANE AND WRANGLING MART, PLYING THEIR DAILY TOIL WITH BUSIER FEET, BECAUSE THEIR SECRET SOULS A HOLY STRAIN REPEAT, r. KehU, CONTENTS. A Beautiful Legend _ - 126 A Christian Hymn. — Alfred Dommeft - 368 A Christmas Hymn. — Edmund H. Sears- 339 A Love Song. — A. P. Graves 246 A Soncr ot Rome. —Emily c. H. Miller... 216 A Woman's Love Dream. — Nettie P. Houston „--172 A Hundred Tears form Now.^ — Jlrs. Ford (Una.) 211 A ^ish.—S. Rogers... „ 266 A Free Show. — Wyoming Kit 105 A Farewell ....86 A Flower for the Dead 381 A Singing Lesson. — Jea7i Ingelow 388 A Little Word 323 A Petition to Time.— ^. Cormcall _ 43 A Portrait - 100 A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea. — A. Cunningham. 40 A Musical Instrument. — E. B. Brmvning. - 133 An Angel in the Hou..e. — L. Jtiunt.. 28 A Game Two Can Play.... 301 A Farewell. — Charles A ings.. y .342 Advice to a young man. — Ben Johnson 380 At Qhe&s.—Sallie A. Brock 207 At a Solemn Music. — John Milton 275 Annie and Willie's Prayer.— i/rs. >S'. P. Snoic 296 And Thou art Dead.— 5z/ro?i - 327 Antony and Cleopatra.— Ge?!. W. H. Lytle 287 Angel Visits. — Mrs Remans .363 After-Life of the Poet's Work.— Jo7z« Keats 379 Album Verses. — Various Authors 395 After the Storm. — Mrs. Bishoj) Thompson 365 Beautiful Things.— P. Allerton 26 Beyond. — Henry Burton 67 Bed... - 88 Bingen on the Ehine. — Mrs. Norton 149 Bugle Song. — A. Tennyson 177 Beauty : A Sonnet.— "PF. ShaJcspere -.178 (vii.) Vlll CONTENTS. Beautiful Hands.— .¥rs. Ellen H. Gates 235 Bishop Ken's Doxology .._ 308 Byron's Finest Image 356 Brown Lark and Blackbird 336 Comfort 49 Christmas Chimes. — Various Authors. 213 CouQsel.— i/ar2/ W. Sherwood 378 Contrasts 1 ...391 Dnttmg.— CaUsta L. Grant 85 Dead. — Alma Lattin 124 David's Lament over Absalom. — N. P. Willis .-258 Death's First Day.— Byron 347 Elegy Written in a Country Church Yard. — Thomas Gray 55 Example. — ./ Keble _ 70 Extracts from Burns.— i^. G. Halleck .-102 Extracts from "L'Allegro."— J. Milton 143 Extracts from " Criticism." — A. Pope 155 Evening. — Lord Byron _ 335 Farewell to My Harp 400 Father, What'er of Earthly Bliss.— ylnna ^^eeZe 130 Friendship. — W. Shakspere 195 Faith. — Frances Anne Kemhle 87 From the Castle of Indolence. — J Thompson 289 Gillyflowers 89 God's Ways 123 God Knoweth. — Mrs. Mary G. Brainard 161 Gone Before - 341 Hymn of Nature.— TF. O. B. Peabody 315 Inward Music. — J. Keble iii I'd Mourn the Hopes.— Tom Moore 78 I Saw Thee Weep. — George G. Byron 324 Kindred Hearts. — Mrs. Hemans 357 Lead, Kindly Light. — J. H. Newman 35 Little Brown Hands. — Mary H. Krout 51 Loj^e's Philosophy.— P. B. Shelley - 114 Light and Darkness 241 Lines Written While Boat Sailing at Evening. — W. Words- worth 267 CONTENTS. ix Lines Written in an Album.— Byron 394 Majesty of Qod.— Thomas Sternhold 233 Memories. — Barry Cormvall 160 My Bride that Is to Be.— J. W. Riley... 96 My Little Boy that Died.— Dinah Muloch-Craik ..280 Maiden and Butterfly 31 My Angel, — Emily Huntington Miller 169 Napoleon at Rest. — John Pierpont .325 Nature's.— t/oAn G. Whittier _ 231 Night and Death.— J". Blanco White -269 New Poem by Lord Byron 273 Never Despair. — William C. Richai^ds .311 "No, Not More Welcome."— 2'o?7i More _ .234 Never Failed Us -224 Ode to Evening.— TF. Collins 293 Ode to the Tio.ik.—J. Hogg - .165 Ode to the Brave.— IF. Collins - 187 Our O wn.— J/rs. M. E Sangster ... - . 75 Our Infant in Heaven - - 197 On the Death of J. R. Drake.— G. Halleck 252 Over the River. — Nancie A. W. Priest 385 Parting 125 Patriotism. — Sir W. Scott 167 Preface . xiii Questions. — Mrs. Rebecca N. Hazard 371 Questions and Answers. — Goethe 393 Rest. - 63 Rock Me to Sleep, Mother.— ^7. A. Allen (Florence Percy) 185 Raia on tho Roof. — Coates Kinney 304 Revenge of Injuries. — Lady Elizabeth Carew 319 Sabbath Morning Thoughts.— ^7. P. Brothtvell 181 Sad— A Short Tale in Short Words.— W. S. F.. 82 " Sometime, We Say, and Turn our Eyes " ... 66 Sunset with the Clouds . . HI Song of Lightning.— (reo. W. Cutter _ .115 gong on May Morning. — J. Milton 168 Song of the Pioneers. — Wm. D. Gallagher 353 Songs. — W. Shakspere 225 Sometime. — Mrs. Mary Riley Smith 61 X CONTENTS. Sonnet on his Blindness. — J Milton 152 Spring.— iV. P. Willis 250 She Walks in Beauty. — Byron.. 310 Saturday Afternoon.— iV. P. Willis. .331 Serenade. — Edward Coate Pinkney 343 The Baby — Changed from the Scotch -._270 The Bright Side.— Mrs. M. A. Kidder. 47 The Mother's Charge 1 -..46 The Soldier's T>veam.—T. Campbell _ 45 The Tvf o k^es.—H. S.Leigh 36 The Master's Touch.— .H". Bonar . 24 The King of Denmark's Kide. — Mrs. Norton 19 The Poet's Song. — A Tennyson 17 The Whistler 18 The Rose.--^;. Waller il9 The Valley of Silence. — Father Ryan 64 The Blue and the Gray.— P. M. Finch 73 The Cup Bearer.— Pme^ie Clare 76 The Old Church Bell.— IF. H. Sparks 80 The Brook. — A. Tennyson 93 The Nativity.— J. Milton 103 The Youth Who Played Before He Looked 119 The Two Villages. — Rose Terry Cooke 120 The Lover. — C. Patmore-- - .122 The Dying Gladiator.— Lord Byron 135 The Teacher's Dream.— TF. ^. Vendble .136 The Meeting of the Waters.— Tom Moore. - 140 The Lost Chord. — Adelaide A. Proctor 141 The Bivouac of the Dead.— OHara ..189 The True Poet. — From Bailey's Festus ..192 The Finest English Epigram.— Dr Doddridge 196 "The Precious Gift of Song."— Miss Chitwood 203 The Shell.— ^. Tennyson 209 The Bridge.— Henry W. Longfellow .221 The Sabbath of the Soul.— Mrs. Barbauld ..228 The Bower of Bliss— Spenser 229 The Free Mind: A Sonnet,— ill. L. Garrison - 242 The Pride of Battery B - 243 The Source of Happiness.— Cartos Wilcox .247 The Mysterious Music of Ocean --248 The Winged Worshippers.- C/iarZes Sprague 261 CO>^TENTS. Xi The Isle of the Long Ago.— S. F. Taylor ..- 263 The Dying Wife.— iJ. M. T... 271 The Song of Steam. — George W. Gutter 277 The Departure of the Swallow.— T^^??i. Howitt.. 220 The Burial of Moses.— .Urs. C. F. Alexander 282 The Old Cottage Clock 321 The Evening Cloud. — John Wilson 291 The Alpine Flowers. — Mrs. L. H. Sigourney -.333 The Old Farm Gate.—Eugene J. Hall..... 351 The TTater Lillv.— J/rs. Remans 359 The Destruction of Sennacherib. — Byron - 361 The Sacred Harp.— :if?'s. Hemans 872 The Silent Children.— ^;Zzza&e^7i Stuart Phelps 375 The Everlasting Memorial. — Horatius Bonar --- 387 The Farewell to My Harm. — Tom Moore 400 The Flowers' Year 367 The Old Canoe.— Emily R. Page --285 The Beautiful City.—/. W. Riley 68 The Touches of Her Hands.—/, ir. Riley - 44 The Child of a King.-Hattie E. Buell -- 200 Two Views of Living. — Lord Byron : Mrs. BarhavM - - - 25 To Seneca Lake. — /. C. Percival - - - 23 Tired. — Mrs. Helen Burnside 32 Three Characteristic Epitaphs 95 Two Pictures. — Marian Douglas 101 Till Death Us Part.— Dea?i Stanley --107 To the Mocking Bird.— i^. H. Wilde 113 Two Lovers. — George Eliot - - - 153 They Went a Fishing.- - -179 Thanatopsis.— W. C. Bryard - -254 To the Lady Anne Hamilton.— TF. R. Spenser. 260 There Comes a Time — -- - - 265 There Be None of Beauty's Daughters.— 5?/ ?'o?i- - 306 To the Organ.— C. P.W. 309 To the Evening Wind.— Tr. C. Bryant -313 Things of Beauty. — John Keats - 389 Through Night to Light.— J.. Laighton --- 392 Thy Voice.— P. B. Marston --292 Unheed Psalms - 33 Under Milton's Picture.— /o/i.'i />r?/de/i 2G3 xii CONTENTS. Vital Spark of Heavenly Flame.— A. Pope 307 Weary, Lonely, Restless, Homeless.— Fa^/ier Ryan - 38 Who Has Robbed the Ocean Cave ?~John Shaw - . 99 "When to the Sessions." — W. Shakspere - 188 Woman.— S. Barret 199 Which Shall It Be?— ^. A. Allen 204 " When the Song's Gone " 218 Woman's Voice. — Edivin Arnold 237 We Shall Know. — Annie Herbert... - 239 We Have Seen His Star. . . _ 370 Who Will Care ? 268 What is Noble ?~Gharles Swain 317 Wyoming. — Fitz-Oreene Halleck 344 With the Stream .303 You Remember It, Don't You ?—Thos. H. Bayley 318 LIST OF AUTHORS, Alexander 282 kUen 204 Allerton 26 Arnold 237 Bailey 192-318 Barbauld 25-228 Barret 199 Bonar 2i-387 Brainard 161 Brock 207 Browning 133 Brothwell 181 Bryant 213.254 Buell 200 Burnside 32 Burton - 67 Byron . . 135-273-306-310-324-327 335-347-361-394. Campbell 45 Carew 319 Chitwood 203 Clare 76 Collins - 187-293 Cooke 120 CnrnwaU - 160 Craik ^ 280 Cntter 115-277 Cunningham 40 Doddridge 196 Dommett -- 368 Douglass 1*^1 Dry den 236 Eliot 153 Finck 73 Ford 211-242 Gallagher - 353 Garrison 24^ Gates .-- 235 Goethe 398 Gray 55 Graves 246 Grant 85 Hall 351 Halleck 102-252-344 Herbert 239 Hemans 857-359-363-372 Houston 172 Howitt - 220 Hazard 871 Hogg 165 Hunt 28 Johnson 330 Keble iii-70 Keats 379-389 Kemble 87 Kidder-- 47 Kinney--- - 304 Kingsiey 342 Krout 51 -Kit"-- Laighton 392 Leigh 36 Longfellow 221 Lytle 287 Marston 292 [xiu.) LIST OF AUTHORS. Miller 169-216 Hilton 103-143-152-168-27D Moore 78-140-234-400 Newman.- 35 Korton.-.. 19-149 O'Hara 189 Page , 285 Patmore 122 Peabody 315 Percy 185 Percival 23 Pinkney 343 Pierpont 325 Pope 159-307 Phelps 375 Priest... 385 Proctor __ 14| Richards _ 311 Riley 68-96 Rogers...- 266 Ryan 38 Sangster.. , 75 Scott 167 Sears 339 Shakspcre 178-188-195-225 Shaw--- 99 Sherwood 378 Shelly 114 Sigourney - 333 Snowe 296 Spenser.... 229-260 Sprague--- 261 Swain..-' 317 Sparks 80 Stanley 107 Sternhold 233 Steele 130 Taylor.. 263 Tennyson - - - 17-93-177-209 Thompson 289-365 "Una" 211 Waller 29 Whittier. 231 White--- 269 Willis 331-258 Wilcox 247 Wilson 291 Wordsworth 267 Wilde 113 Venable 136 ILLUSTRATIONS. Bay of Naples feoxtispiece, " On Thy Fair Bosom Waveless Stream" 22 " Touch us Geatly, Time" - 42 "iSTo Children Eun to Lisp their Sire's Return" 54 "No More Shall the War Cry Seyer' 72 The First Reporter - 92 " A Shadowy Landscape Dipped in G-old" 110 " As a Reed with the Reeds of the River" 132 Bingen on the Rhine 148 Musical Cherub Soar Singing Away 164 Minnehaha Falls. "And the Cataract Leaps in Glory" 176 Mother Come Back from the Echoless Shore 184 Prairie Songsters 202 "Light on Thy Hills, Jerusalem!" -338 The Old Farm Gate .... --3c0 " Awe-struck the Silent Children Hear 374 GEMS OF POETRY. THE POET'S SONG. A. TENNYSON. HE rain had fallen, the Poet arose, He passed by the town and out of the street, A light wind blew from the gates of the sun, And waves of shadow went over the wheat. And he sat him down in a lonely place. And chanted a melody low and sweet. That made the wild swan pause in her cloud, And the lark di'op down at his feet. The swallow stopt as he hunted the bee, The snake slipt under a spray. The wild hawk stood with the down on his beak. And stared with his foot on the prey. And the nightingale thought, " I have sung many songs, But never a one so gay. For he sings of what the world will be When the years have died away." THE WHISTLER. "You have heard," said a youth to his sweetheart who stood, While he sat on a corn- sheaf at daylight's decline — " You have heard of the Danish boy's whistle of wood;, I wish that Danish boy's whistle was mine." " And what would you do with it? Tell me," she said, While an arch smile played over her beautiful face, " I would blow it," he answered, " and then my fair maid Would fly to my side and there take her place." " Is that all you wish for ? That may be yours Without any magic," the fair maiden cried ; " A favor so light, one's good nature secures," And she playfully seated herself by his side. I would blow it agfdn," said the youth, " and a charm Would work so that not even modesty's cheek Would be able to keep from my neck your fine arm ! " She smiled as she laid her fair arm 'round his neck. *' Yet once more would I blow, and. the magic divine Would bring me a third time an exquisite bliss — You would lay your fair cheek to this brown one of mine, And your lips stealing past would give me a kiss." The maiden laughed out in her innocent glee — " What a fool of yourself with a whistle you'd make; For only consider how silly 'twould be To sit there and whistle for — what you might take." 18 — Northwestern Agricultmnst. THE KING OF DENMAKK'S RIDE. MRS. NORTON. ORD was brought to the Danish king (Hurry!) That the love of his heart lay suffering And pined for the comfort his voice would bring; (O ride as though you were flying!) Better he loves each golden curl On the brow of that Scandinavian girl Than his rich crown- jewels of ruby and pearl: And his Rose of the Isles is dying! Thirty nobles saddled with speed ! (Hurry!) Each one mounting a gallant steed Which he kept for battle and days of need; (O ride as though you were flying!) Spurs were struck in the foaming flank: Worn-out chargers staggered and sank; Bridles were slackened, and girths were burst; But ride as they would, the King rode first, For his rose of the Isles lay dying! His nobles are beaten, one by one; (Hurry!) They have fainted, and faltered, and homeward gone; His little fair page now follows alone, For strength and for courage trying! The king looked back at that faithful child; 19 GEMS or POETRY. Wan was the face that answering smiled; They passed the drawbridge with clattering din, Then he dropped; and only the King rode in Where his Rose of the Isles lay dying! The King blew a blast on his bugle horn; (Silence!) No answer came; but faint and forlorn An echo returned on the cold gray morn, - Like the breath of a spirit sighing. The castle portal stood grimly wide; None welcomed the King from that weary ride ; For dead, in the light of the dawning day, The pale sweet form of the welcomer lay, Who had yearned for his voice while dying! The panting steed, with a drooping crest, Stood weary. The King returned from her chamber of rest, The thick sobs choking in his breast; And, that dumb companion eying. The tears gushed forth which he strove to check; He bowed his head on his charger's neck: " O steed, that every nerve didst strain, Dear steed, our ride hath been in vain To the halls where my love lay dying! " " On thy fair bosom, waveless stream." 22 TO SENECA LAKE. J. G. PERCIVAL. X thy fair bosom, silver lake, The wild swan spreads his snowy sail. And round his breast the ripples break, As do^Yn he bears before the gale. On thy fair bosom, waveless stream, The dipping paddle echoes far, i And flashes in the moonlight gleam. And bright reflects the polar star. The waves along thy pebbly shore, As blows the north wind, heave their foam^ And curl around the dashing oar. As late the boatman hies him home. How sweet, at set of sun, to view Thy golden miiTor spreading wide. And see the mist of mantling blue Float round the distant mountain's side ! At midnight hour, as shines the moon, A sheet of silver spreads below, .And swift she cuts, at highest noon, Light clouds, like wi^eaths of purest snow. On thy fair bosom, silver lake, O, I could ever sweep the oar. When early birds at morning wake, And evening tells us toil is o'er ! THE MASTER'S TOUCH. H. BONAR. N the still air the music lies unheard; In the rough marble beauty hides unseen: To make the music and the beauty, needs The master's touch, the sculptor's chisel keera Great Master, touch us with thy skillful hand; Let not the music that is in us die ! f Great Sculptor, hew and polish us ; nor let, Hidden and lost, thy form within us lie ! Spare not the stroke .! do with us as thou wilt ! Let there be naught unfinished, broken, marred;, Complete thy purpose, that we may become Thy perfect image, thou our God and Lord I TWO VIEWS OF LPyTN'O, Mt life is in the sere and velloTv leaf. The flowers and fiiuts of love are gone; The wonn. the canker, and the giief Ai'e mine alone. The fii'e that on my bosom preys Is lone as some volcanic isle; Xo torch is lighted at its blaze — A fimeral pile. — Lord Byron. Life! I knoAv not what thou art. But knovr that thou and I must part; And when, or how. or where we met. I ovm to me's a secret yet. Life! we've been long together Through pleasant and through cloudy weather; 'Tis hard to pan when friends are dear. — Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear; — Then steal awav. give little warning. Choose thine ow;n time. Say not Good Night. — but in some brighter clime Bid me Good Morning. — .ITr.*. Bjroauld. BEAUTIFUL THINGS. ELLEN P. ALLEETON. Gg:!lEAUTIFUL faces are those that wear, It matters little if dark or fair — Wholesouled honesty printed there. Beautiful eyes are those that show, Like crystal panes where hearthfires glow, Beautiful thoughts that burn below. Beautiful lips are those whose words Leap from the heart like songs of birds, Yet whose utterance prudence girds. Beautiful hands are those that do Work that is earnest and brave and true, Moment by moment the long day through. Beautiful feet are those that go On kindly ministries to and fro, Down lowliest ways if God wills it so. Beautiful shoulders are those that bear Ceaseless burdens of homely care, With patient grace and daily prayer. Beautiful lives are those that bless, Silent rivers of happiness. Whose hidden fountains but few can guess. 26 BEArTIFUL THINGS- 27 Beautiful tTviliglit. at set of sun : Beautiful goal, "v-ith race well run : Beautiful rest, with work well done. Beautiful graves, where gi'asses creep. "Where brown leaves fall, where di'ifts lie deep Over worn-out hands : oh. beautifiU sleep 1 AN ANGEL IN THE HOUSE. L. HUNT. OW sweet it were, if without feeble fright, Or dying of the dreadful beauteous sight, An angel came to us, and we could bear To see him issue from the silent air At evening in our room, and bend on ours His divine eyes, and bring us from his bowers News of dear friends, and children who have never Been dead indeed, —as we shall know forever. Alas! we think not what we daily see About our hearths, angels, that are to be, Or may be if they will, and we prepare Their souls and ours to meet in happy air, — A child, a friend, a wife whose soft heart sings In unison with ours, breeding its future wings. s 28 THE KOSE. E. WALLER. Go, lovely rose ! Tell her that wastes her time on rae, That now she knows, AVhen I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to ba Tell her that's young, And shuns to have her graces spied, That hadst thou sprung In deserts where no men abide, Thou must have uncommended died. 29 30 GEMS OF POETRY. Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retired, Bid her come forth, Suffer herself to be desired. And not blush so to be admired. Then die, that she, The common fate of all things raie May read in thee. How small a part of time they share That are so wondrous sweet and fair. (A lady of Cambridge, England, loaned Waller's poems to H. K. White, who added the following stanza to the above poem; thus illustrating the difference between earthly and heavenly inspiration:) " Yet, though thou fade, From thy dead leaves let fragrance rise; And teach the maid That goodness Time's rude hand defies; That Virtue lives when Beauty dies." IMATDEX AXD BrXTEEFLY. AVitliin the sun-flecked sliadows of a forest glade, Seeking for "sWldwood flowers, a little maid Sang to her happy heart, as to and fi'o She wandered 'mid the swaying gi^asses low : AYhen suddenly a brilliant butterfly Flashed, like a jewel in the sunshine, by And, darting swiftly now that way, now this, Alighted on her lips and stole a kiss. '■Forgive me. sweet he crted. "I swear to yon. I only meant to spy a di'op of dew From out the fi^ac^rant chalice of these roses brio-ht. But. hoveiino^ undecided where to 'li^ht. I saw youi' lily-face uplifted here, And thotight youi' red, red lips were rosebuds, deai' Tossing her suimy ciuis. she raised her head, As, with an air of queenly grace, she said: This once I will forgive : but, pray, beware 31 GEMS OF POETRY. How often you mistake for blossoms rare A maiden's lips ! " She watched him flutter near. To think mine, roses, you are welcome, dear. But," with a merry glance, half arch, half shy, They do not bloom for every butterfly! " "TIRED." MISS HELEN BURNSIDE. "Tired!" Oh yes! so tired, dear. The day has been very long; But shadowy gloaming draweth near, 'Tis time for the even song, I'm ready to go to rest at last, Ready to say " Good night:" The sunset glory darkens fast, To-morrow will bring me light. It has seemed so long since morning-tide, And I have been left so lone. Young smiling faces thronged my side, When the early sunlight shone; But they grew tired long ago, And I saw them sink to rest, With folded hands and brows of snow. On the green earth's mother breast. Sing once again, "Abide with me," That sweetest evening hymn ; And now " Good night!" I cannot see, The light has grown so dim ; "Tired!" Ah, yes, so tired, dear, I shall soundly sleep to-night. With never a dream, and never a fear To wake in the morning light. UNHEEDED PSALMS. God hath His solitudes, unpeopled yet, Save by the peaceful life of bird and flower, "Where, since the world's foundation, He hath set The hiding of His power. Year after year His rains make fi^esh and green Lone wastes of prairies, where, as daylight goes, Legions of bright- hued blossoms all unseen Their carven petals close. Year after year unnumbered forest leaves Expand and darken to their perfect prime; Each smallest gro^vth its destiny achieves In His appointed time. Amid the strong recesses of the hills, Fixed by His word, immutable and calm, The mm-muring river all the silence fills With its unheeded psalm. From deep to deep the floods lift up their voice, Because His hand hath measui'ed them of old; The far outgoings of the morn rejoice His wonders to unfold. 33 3 GEMS OF POETRY. The smallest cloudlet wrecked in distant storms, That wanders homeless through the summer skies, Is reckoned in His purposes, and forms One of His argosies. Where the perpetual mountains patient wait, Girded with purity before His throne, Keeping fi'om age to age inviolate Their everlasting crown; Where the long- gathering waves of ocean break With ceaseless music o'er untrodden strands, From isles that day by day in silence wake, From earth's remotest lands. The anthem of His praise shall uttered be; All works created on His name shall call, And laud, and bless His holy name, for He Hath pleasure in them all. LEAD, KINDLY LIGHT. J. H. NEWMAN. Lead, kindly ligtit, amid the encircling gloom, Lead Thou me on; The night is dark, and I am far from home, Lead Thou me on. Keep thou my feet; I do not ask to see The distant scene; one step enough for me. I was not ever thus, nor prayed that Thou Shouldst lead me on; I loved to choose and see my path; but now Lead Thou me on. I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears, Pride ruled my will: remember not past years J So long Thy power hath blest me, sui'e it still Will lead me on O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till The night is gone. And with the morn those angel faces smile AATiich I have' loved long since, and lost awhile Meanwhile, along the narrow, rugged path Thyself hast trod, Lead, Savior, lead me home in childlike faith. Home to my God, To rest forever after earthly strife, In the calm lio-ht of everlastinsj^ life. 35 THE TWO AGES. H. S. LEIGH. Folks were happy as days were long, In the old Arcadian times: When life seemed only a dance and song In the sweetest of all sweet climes. Our world grows bigger, and stage by stage, As the pitiless years have rolled, We've quite forgotten the Golden Age, And come to the Age of Gold. Time went by in a sheepish way Upon Thessaly's plains of yore. In the nineteenth century lambs at play Mean mutton, and nothing more. Our swains at present are far too sage To live as one lived of old: So they couple the crook of the Golden Age With a hook in the Age of Gold. From Cory don's reed the mountains round Heard news of his latest flame; And Tityrus made the woods resound With echoes of Daphne's name. They kindly left us a lasting guage Of their musical art, we're told: 36 GEMS OF POETRY. 37 And the Pandean pipe of the Golden Age Brinofs mirth to the Ao;e of Gold. Dwellers in huts and in marble hall — From shepherdess up to queen — Cared little for bonnets, and less for shawl, And nothing for crinoline. But now simplicity's not the rage, And it's funny to think how cold The di^ess they wore in the Golden Age • "Would seem in the Age of Gold. Electric telegraphs, printing, gas, Telephones, balloons and steam, Ai'e little eA^ents that have come to pass Since the days of the old regime : ' And in spite of Lempriere"s dazzling page, I'd give — though it might seem bold — A hundred years of the Golden Age For a year of the Age of Gold. WEAKY, LONELY, EESTLESS, HOMELESS. FATHER RYAN. Weary hearts! weary hearts! by cares of life oppressed, Ye are wandering in the shadows, ye are sighing for the rest; There is darkness in the heavens, and the earth is bleak below. And the joys we taste to-day may to-morrow turn to woe. Weary hearts! God is rest. Lonely hearts! lonely hearts! 'tis but a land of grief; Ye are pining for repose, ye are longing for relief; What the world hath never given, kneel and ask of God above. And your grief shall turn to gladness if you lean upon His love. Lonely hearts! God is love. Eestless hearts! restless hearts! ye are toiling night and day, And the flowers of life, all withered, leave but thorns along your way; Ye are waiting, ye are waiting till your toilings here shall cease, And your ever-restless throbbing is a sad, sad prayer for peace. Bestless hearts! God is peace. WEAKY, LONELY, RESTLESS, HOMELESS. 39 Broken hearts ! broken hearts ! ye are desolate and lone, And low voices from the past o'er your present ruins moan; In the sweetest of your pleasures there was bitterest alloy, And a starless night hath followed on the sunset of your joy- Broken hearts! God is joy. Homeless hearts! homeless hearts! through the dreary, dreary years. Ye are lonely, lonely wanderers, and your way is wet with tears ; In bright or blighted places, wheresoever ye may roam. Ye look away from earthland. and ye murmur, " Where is Home?" Homeless hearts! God is home. A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA A. CUNNINGHAM. WET sheet and a flowing sea, A wind that follows fast, And fills the white and rustling sail, And bends the gallant mast,- — And bends the gallant mast, my boys, While, like the eagle free, Away the good ship flies, and leaves Old England on our lee. O for a soft and gentle wind ! I heard a fair one cry ; But give to me the swelling breeze. And white waves heaving high, — The white waves heaving high, my lads, The good ship tight and free; The world of waters is our home. And merry men are we. There's a tempest in yon horned moon, And lightning in yon cloud; And hark! the music, mariners, The wind is wak'ning loud, — The wind is wak'ning loud, my boys, The lightning flashes free ; The hollow oak our palace is. Our heritage the sea. 40 A PETITION TO TIME. B. CORNWALL. Touch US gently, Time ! Let us glide adown thy stream Gently,— as we sometimes glide Through a quiet di'eam ! Humble voyagers are we, Husband, wife, and children three, — (One is lost,-an angel fled To the azure overhead !) Touch us gently. Time ! We've not proud nor soaring wings; Our ambition, oui' content. Lies in simple things. Humble voyagers are we, O'er life's dim, unsounded sea. Seeking only some calm clime ; — Touch us gently, gentle Time ! 43 THE TOUCHES OF HER HANDS. J. W. RILEY. HE touches of her hands are like the fall Of velvet snowflakes ; like the touch of down The peach just brushes 'gainst the garden wall; The flossy fondlings of the thistle -wisp Caught in the crinkle of a leaf of brown The blighting frost has turned from green tc crisp. Soft as the falling of the dusk at night, The touches of her hands, and the delight— The touches of her nands ! The touches of her hands are like the dew That falls so softly down no one e'er knew The touch thereof save to lovers like to one Astray in lights where ranged Endymion. Oh, rarely soft, the touches of her hands, As drowsy zephyrs in enchanted lands ; Or pulse of dying fay ; or fairy sighs ; Or — in between the midnight and the dawn. When long unrest and tears and fears are gone — Sleep, smoothing down the lids of weary eye& 44 THE SOLDIEE'S DEEAM. T. CA:yrPBELL. Our bugles sang truce.- -for the niglit-cloud had lower'd, And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky: And thousands had sunk on the ground over-power' d. The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. AVhen reposing that night on my pallet of straw, By the wolf -scaring fagot that guarded the slain; At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw. And thrice ere the morninor I dreamt it agrain, Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array, Far, far I had roam'd on a desolate track: 'Twas autumn. — and sunshine arose on the way To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back, I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft In life's morning^ march, when mv bosom wasvounof; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft. And knew the sweet strain that the corn -reapers sung. Then pledged we the wine- cup. and fondly I swore. From my home and my weeping friends never to part; My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er. And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fullness of heart. 45 46 GEMS OF POETRY. *'Stay, stay with us, — rest, thou art weary and worn;" And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay; — But sorrow return' d with the dawning of morn, And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away. THE MOTHER'S CHARGE. "Behold,! commit my daughter unto thee of special trustw* Precious and lovely, I yield her to thee! Take her, the gem of thy dwelling to be! She who was ever my solace and pride Glides from my bosom to cling to thy side. Guard her with care, which must never decline; Make her thy day-star — she long hath been mine; Lonely henceforth is my desolate lot, What is the casket where the jewel is not ? Take her and pray that thine arm may be strong, Safely to shield her from danger and wrong, Be to her all that her heart hath portrayed, Then o'er thy path there will gather no shade. Now she doth love thee as one without spot — Dreams of no sorrow to darken her lot — Joyful, yet tearful, I yield her to thee; Take her, the light of thy dAvelling to be! THE BRIGHT SIDE. MES. A. KIDDER. There is many a rest on the road of life, If we only would stop to take it ; And many a tone from the better land, If the querulous heart would wake it. To the sunny soul that is full of hope, And Ayhose beautiful trust neyer faileth. The grass is green, and the flowers are bright, Though the Wintrj^ storm prevaileth. Better to hope, though the clouds hang low. And to keep the eyes still lifted; For the sweet blue sky will soon peep through, When the ominous clouds are rifted. There was neyer a night without a day, Nor an evening without a morning; And the darkest hotir. the proyerb goes, Is just before the dawning. There is many a gem in the path of life, "Which we pass in oui' idle pleastire. That is richer far than the jewelled cro\Mi, Or the miser's hoarded treasure; It may be the loye of a little child, Or a mother's prayer to heayen. Or onh' a beo^o^ar's fateful thanks For a cup of water giyen. GEMS OF POETRY. Better to weave in the web of life A bright and golden filling, And to do God's will with a ready heart, And hands that are swift and willing, Than to snap the delicate silver threads Of our curious lives asunder, And then blame heaven for the tangled ends, And sit to grieve and wonder. COMFOET. If there should come a time as well there may, When sudden tribulation smites thine heart, And thou dost come to me for help, and stay, And comfort — how shall I perform my part ? How shall I make my heart a resting-place, A shelter safe for thee when terrors smite ? How shall I bring the sunshine to thy face, And dry thy tears in bitter woes' desjoite ? How shall I win strength to keep my voice, Steady and firm, although I hear thy sobs ? How shall I bid thy fainting soul rejoice. Nor mar the counsel of mine own heart-throbs ? Love, my love, teaches me a certain way, So, if the dark hour comes, I am thy stay. I must live higher, nearest the reach Of ana-els in their blessed truthfulness, Learn their usefulness, ere I can teach Content to thee whom I would greatly bless. Ah, me ! what w^oe were mine if thou should' st come, Troubled, but trusting unto me for aid, And I should meet thee, powerless and dumb, AVilling to help thee, but confused, afraid ? It shall not happen thus, for I will rise, God helping me, to higher lite, and gain 49 4. GEMS OF POETRY Courage and strength to thee counsel wise. And deeper love to bless thee in thy pain. Fear not, dear love, thy trial hour shall be The dearest bond between my heart and thee. LITTLE BROAA'X HAXDS. 1I.\EY H. KEOrT. [The following poem, written by Maey H. Kegut, of Crawfords- ville, Ind., ten years ago, when its author was in her thirteenth year, is one of the most beautiful and expressive ever penned in the English language, and should find a place throughout the length and breadth of America wherever the dignity of labor is recognized:] They drive home the cows fi'om the pasture. Ep through the long, shady lane. Where the cpiail whistles loud in the wheat Held, That is yellow" with ripening grain. Thev find, in the thick wavino; o-rasses. "NMiere the scarlet-lipped strawberry grows^ They gather the earliest snowdrops. And the lii'st crimson bnds of the rose. They toss the hay in the meadow. They gather the elder bloom white. They fizid where the diislr\' grapes pm-ple In the soft tinted October light. They know where the apples hang ripest, And are sweeter than Italy's wines; They know where the fruit hangs the thickest, On the long, thorny blackbeny vines. They gather the delicate seaweeds, 51 GEMS OF POETRY. And build tiny castles of sand: They pick up the beautiful sea shells- Fairy barks that have di'ifted to land. They wave from the tall, rocking tree tops, Where the Oriole's hammock nest swings, And at night time are folded in slumber By a song that a fond mother sings. Those who toil bravely are strongest; The humble and poor become great: And from those brown- handed children Shall grow mighty rulers of state. The pen of the author and statesman, The noble and wise of the land. The sword and chisel and palette Shall be held in the little brown hand. 0 o children ruE to lisp their sire's return, climb his knees the envied kiss to share ELEGY WEITTEX IN A COUXTKY CHUECHYAED. THOMAS GRAY. HE curfew tolls tlie knell of parting day. The lo^ying herd wind slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me. Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the aii* a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his di'oning flight, And di'owsy tinklings lull the distant folds: Save that, from yonder i\y-mantled tower, The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wandering near her .secret bower. Molest her ancient solitary reign. Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a moldering heap. Each in his narrow cell forever laid. The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn, 55 GEMS OF POETRY. The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed^ The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening care; No children run to lisp their sire's i-eturn. Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke ; How jocund did they drive their team afield! How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke I Let not Ambition mock their useful toil. Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile, The short and simple annals of the poor. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power. And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Await alike the inevitable hour : The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye Proud! impute to these the fault, If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where, through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault. The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. Can storied urn or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath ? Can Honor's voice provoke the silent dust, Or Flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death ? ELZG-Y VTEITTEX A COUyTEY CHTECHYAP.D. 57 Perhaps in tliis neglected spot is laid vSome heart once j^regnant with celestial hr'e: Hands that the rod of empn-e might have sway"d. Or waked to ecstasy the livrng Ivi-e. But Eoiowledge to theu^ eves her ample page. Eich with the spoils of Time, did ne"er nrn'oll; Chill Penury repress" d their noble rage. And fi'oze the genial cuiTent of the soul. Full many a gem of piu'est ray serene The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear; Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, Amd waste its sweetness on the desen au'. Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast The little t^Tant of his helds withstood. Some mute inglorious ]\Iilton here may rest. Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's bloocL The applause of listening senates to command. The thi^eats of pain and ruin to despise. To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land. And read their history in a nation's eyes. Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone Their gi'owing virtues, but thek crimes confined; Forbade to wade thi'ough slaughter to a throne. And shut the gates of Mercy on mankind: The stiiigghng pangs of conscious Truth to hide, To quench the blushes of ingenuous Shame, Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride AVith incense kindled at the Muse's flame. GEMS OF POETRY. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, Their sober wishes never learn' d to stray; Along the cool sequester' d vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet e'en these bones, from insult to protect, Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. Their name, their years, spelt by the unletter'd Muse, The place of fame and elegy supply, And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to die. For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey. This pleasing, anxious being e'er resign'd. Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day. Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind? On some fond breast the parting soul relies. Some pious drops the closing eye requires; E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. For thee, who, mindful of the unhonor'd dead, Dost in these lines their artless tale relate, If chance, by lonely Contemplation lead. Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, Haply some hoary-headed swain may say. Oft have we seen him, at the peep of dawn, Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. 59 " There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech, That weathes its old fantastic root so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by. " Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Muttering his wayward fancies, he would rove; Now drooping, woeful, wan, like one forlorn, Or crazed with care, or cross' d in hopeless love. " One morn I miss'd him on the accustom' d hill. Along the heath, and near his favorite tree; Another came, nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood, was he: The next, with dirges due, in sad array. Slow through the churchway-path we saw him borne. Approach, and read (for thou canst read) the lay Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn:" THE EPITAPH. Here rest^s his head upon the lap of Earth, A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown: Fair Science frown' d not on his humble birth, And Melancholy mark'd him for her own. Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,- Heaven did a recompense as largely send; He gave to misery all he had — a tear; He gain'd from Heaven — 'twas all he wish'd — a friend. No fui'ther seek his merits to disclose. Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, GEMS OF POETRY. (There they alike in trembhng hope repose) The bosom of his Father and his God. SOMETBIE. ilKS. MAY RILEY SMITH. Sometime, when all life's lessons have been learned. And sun and stars forevermore have set. The things which our weak judgment here had spiu^ij The things o'er which Ave grieved A^-ith lashes wei, Will flash before ns out of life's dark night. As stars shine most in deeper tints of bine : And we shall see how all God's plans were right. And how Avhat seemed reproof was love most true And we shall see how, AA'hile Ave fi'OAvn and sigh. God's plans go on as best for you and me; HoAv. when we called, he heeded not oui' ciy, Because his AAisdom to the end could see. And even as prudent parents disallow Too much of sAveet to craving babyhood, So God. perhaps, is keeping fi'om us now Life's sAA'eetest things, because it seemeth good. And if . sometimes, commingled Avith life's wine, AVe find the wormwood and rebel and shi'ink, Be sui'e a Aviser hand than yoiii's or mine Pours out this portion for oui' lips to diink. And if some fi'iend AA'e love is lying Ioav. Where human kisses cannot reach his face, Gl GEMS OF POETRY Oh, do not blame the loving Father so. But wear your sorrow with obedient grace. And you shall shortly know that lengthened breath Is not the sweetest gift God sends his friend, And that, sometimes, the sable pall of death Conceals the fairest boon his love can send. If we could push ajar the gates of life, And stand within and all God's working see, We could interpret all this doubt and strife, And for each mystery could find a key ! But not to-day. Then be content, poor heart! God's plans, like lilies, pure and white, unfold; We must not tear the close-shut leaves apart, Time will reveal the calyxes of gold. And if, through patient toil, we reach the land Where tired feet, with sandals loose, may rest, When we shall clearly know and understand — I think that we will say, " God knew the best!" REST. [The following lines were found under the pillow of a soldier lying dead in a hospital near Port Royal, South Carolina. We have never, we believe, seen verses more true and touching. They are a new and perfect expression of world-wide feeling:] I lay me do^^ to sleep, with little thought of care, "Whether vraking find me here, or there. A bowing, burdened head, that only asks to rest, Unquestioning, upon a loving breast. My o-ood ri2:ht hand f oro^ets its cunnino- now To march the weary march I know not how. I am not eager, bold, nor strong — all that is past. Tm readvnow to die, at last, at last. My half day's work is done, and this is all my part: I give a patient God my patient heart, And grasp his banner still, though all its blue be dim; These strijDes. no less than stars, lead after Him. 63 » THE VALLEY OF SILENCE. FATHER RYAN. WALK down the Valley of Silence Down the dim, voiceless valley alone; And I hear not the fall of a footstep Around me — save God's and my own. And the hush of my heart is as holy As hovers where angels have flown. Long ago was I weary of voices, Whose music my heart could not win; Long ago was I weary of noises, That fretted my soul with their din; Long ago was I weary of places, Where I met but the human and sin. And still I pined for the perfect, And still found the false with the true, I sought mid the human for heaven, But caught a m^ere glimpse of the blue: I wept as the clouds of the world veiled Even that glimpse from my view. I toiled on heart-tired of the human, I moaned mid the mazes of men, 64 THE VALLEY OF SILENCE. Till I knelt, long ago, at an Altar. And heard a Voice call me ; since then I walk down the Yalley of Silence, That lies far beyond mortal ken. Do you ask what I f onnd in the Yalley ? 'Tis my trysting place with the Divine, men I fell at the feet of the Holy. And about me the Yoice said, '"Be Mine," There arose fi*om the depths of my spirit, An echo, '"My heart shall be Thine."' Do you ask how I live in the Yalley ? I weep, and I di'eam, and I pray: But my tears are as sweet as the dew drops, That fall on the roses of May : And my prayer like a perfume fi'om censer Ascendeth to God night and day. In the hush of the Yalley of Silence, I di'eam all the sono-s that I sino^; And the music floats down the dim valley, Till each finds a word for a wing. That to men, like the doves of ^he deluge, The messao'e of Peace thev mav brino^. But far out on the deep there are billows, That never shall break on the beach ; And I have heard songs in the Silence, That never shall float into sj^eech; And I have had di-eams in the Yalley, Too lofty for lano^uao^e to reach. .^d I have seen foiins in the Yalley, Ah, me! how my spirit was stirred; And they wear holy veils on their faces, GEMS OF POETRY. Their footsteps can scarcely be heard They pass through the Valley like virgins, Too pure for the touch of a word. T)o you ask me the place of the Valley, Ye hearts that are harrowed by care ? It lieth afar between Mountains, And God and His angels are there; And one is the dark Mount of Sorrow, The other the bright Mount of Prayer. Some time," we say, and turn our eyes Toward the far hills of Paradise, Some day, some time, a sweet new rest Shall blossom, flower-like in each breast. Some time, some day our eyes shall see The faces kept in memory; Some day their hands shall clasp our hands, Just over in the morning lands. Some day our ears shall hear the song Of triumph over sin and wrong. Some time, some time, but ah! not yet! Still we will wait and not forget, That " some time all these things shall be. And rest be given to you and me." So let us wait, though years move slow, That glad " some time" will come, we know. BEYOND. HENRY BURTON. Never a word is said But it trembles in the air, And the truant voice is sped, To vibrate everywhere; And perhaps far off in eternal years The echo may ring upon our ears. Never are kind acts done To wipe the weeping eyes, But like the flashes of the sun, They signal to the skies ; And up above the angels read How we have helped the sorer need. Never a day is given. But it tones the after years, And it carries up to heaven Its sunshine or its tears; While the to-morrows stand and wait, The silent mutes by the outer gate. There is no end to the sky. And the stars are everywhere. And time is eternity. And the here is over there; For the common deeds of the common Are ringing bells in the far-away. 67 THE BEAUTIFUL CITY. J. W. RILEY. HE Beautiful City ! Forever 1^ Its rapturous praises resound, And we fain would behold it — but never A glimpse of its glory is found. We slacken our lips at the tender White breasts of our mothers to hear Of its marvelous beauty and splendor ; — We see — but the gleam of a tear ! Yet never the story may tire us — First graven in symbols of stone — Rewritten on scrolls of papyrus, And parchment, and scattered and blown By the winds of the tongues of all nations, Like a litter of leaves wildly whirled Down the rack of a hundred translations, From the earliest lisp of the world We compass the earth and the ocean From the Orient's uttermost light. To where the last ripple in motion Lips hem of the skirt of the night, — But The Beautiful City evades us — No spire of it glints in the sun — No glad-bannered battlement shades us When all our long journey is done. THE BEAUTIFUL CITY. Where lies it ? We question arid listen ; We lean from the mountain, or mast, And see but dull earth, or the glisten Of seas inconceivably vast : The dust of the one bliu's our vision— The glare of the other our brain, Nor city nor island elysian In all of the land or the main ! We kneel in dim fanes where the thunders Of organs tumultuous roll, And the longing heart listens and wonders, And the eyes look aloft fi'om the soul, But the chanson grows fainter and fainter, Swoons wholly away and is dead ; And our eyes only reach where the painter Has dabbled a saint overhead. The Beautiful City ! O mortal , Fare hopefully on in thy quest. Pass down through the green grassy portal That leads to the valley of rest, There fii'st passed the One who, in pity Of all thy great yearning, awaits 'To point out the Beautiful City, And loosen the trump at the gates EXAMPLE. J. KEBLE. We scatter seeds with careless hand, And dream we ne'er shall see them more But for a thousand years Their fruit appears, In weeds that mar the land Or healthful store. In deeds we do, the words we say, Into still air they seem to fleet; "We count them ever past; But they shall last — In the dread judgment they And we shall meet. I charge thee by the years gone by,. For the love of brethren dear, Keep, then, the one true way In work and play, Lest in the world their cry Of woe thou hear. " No more shall the war-cry sever.'* THE BLUE AND THE GRAY. F. M. FINCH. Y the flow of the inland river, Whence the fleets of iron have fled, Where the blades of the grave grass quiver Asleep are the ranks of the dead ; — Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the Judgment day ;- Under the one, the Blue; Under the other, the Gray. These in the robings of glory, Those in the gloom of defeat, All with the battle -blood gory. In the dusk of eternity meet ; — Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the Judgment day; — Under the laurel, the Blue; Under the willow, the Gray. From the silence of soiTowful hours The desolate mourners go. Lovingly laden with flowers Alike for the fi'iend and the foe ; — Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the Judgment day; — GEMS OF POETRY. Under the roses, the Blue, Under the lilies,the Gray So with an equal splendor The morning sun-rays fall, With a touch, impartially tender. On the blossoms blooming for all; — Under the sod and the dew. Waiting the Judgment day, — • 'Broidered with gold, the Blue; ^ Mellowed with gold, the Grayc So, when the summer calleth. On forest and field of grain. With an equal murmur falleth The cooling drip of the rain; — Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the Judgment day; — Wet with the rain, the Blue,- Wet with the rain, the Gray. ■31. Sadly, but not with upbraiding, The generous deed was done; In the storm of the years that are fading. No braver battle was won; — Under the sod and the dew. Waiting the Judgment day; — Under the blossoms, the Blue; Under the garlands, the Gray. No more shall the war-cry sever. Or the winding rivers be red; They banish our anger forever When they laurel the graves of our dead I THE BLUE AND THE GRAY. OUR OWN. Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the Judgment day ;■ Love and tears for the Blue; Tears and love for the Gray. OUR OW. MRS. M. E. SANGSTEE. If I had known in the morning, How wearily all the day The words unkind would trouble my mind, I said when you went away, I had been more careful, darling, Nor given you needless pain: But we vex our own with look and tone We might never take back again. For though in the quiet evening You may give me the kiss of peace, Yet it might be that never for me The pain of the heart should cease. How many go forth in the morning That never come home at night, And hearts have broken for harsh words spoke That soiTow can ne'er set right. We have careful thouo^hts for the stranofer, And for the sometime guest, But oft for our o^vn the bitter tone, Though we love our own the best. Ah! lips with the curve impatient, Ah! brow with a look of scorn, 'Twere a cruel fate, were the night too late, To undo the work of morn. THE CUP BEARER. EMILIE CLARE. In olden time there lived a king For wit and wisdom much renowned — In feasting and in reveling He far surpassed all kings around. Now it so happened, on a time When the great lords of earth had met, To feast o'er meats, and fume o'er wine, It needed still one person yet, — One all important personage. To bear the cup with lordly grace; When lo, a youth of tender age Said modestly, "I'll take his place." Well pleased, the king smiles a consent, The youth the cup and napkin bore, And gracefully his footsteps bent To those who knightly honors wore. "Well done," was passed from lip to lip! "My son," his father said, "this thing Was nobly done, yet you to sip Forgot, before you gave your king." THE CUP BEAEEK. "Xav, I forgot no custom old, But coiled within the cup, I saw A poisonous serpent, fold on fold, And that was why I shunned the law." "A serpent, child! and poisonous? — why! — How can you speak so strange and wild?" " I saw the poisonous serpent nigh, And shunned it," said the timid child. " Aye! shunned it, for I saw the power On those who drank but yesterday, In less by far, than one short hour Their wit and wisdom fled away. " Some tried to dance, and some to sing, And some to walk as vainly tried, "WTiile you, forgetful you were king. Mounted a broom-stick for a ride." "I'D MOUEN THE HOPES." TOM MOORE. rd mourn the hopes that leave me, If thy smiles had left me too; I'd weep when friends deceive me, Hadst thou been like them untrue. But while I've thee before me, With heart so warm, and eyes so bright, No clouds can linger o'er me. That smile turns them all to light. 'Tis not in fate to harm me, While fate leaves thy love to me; 'Tis not in joy to charm me, Unless joy be shar'd with thee. One minute's dream about thee Were worth a long and endless year Of waking bliss without thee. My own love, my only dear! And, though the hope be gone, love. That long sparkled o'er our way. Oh! we shall journey on, love. More safely, without its ray; 78 •i'd mourn the hopes." 79 Far better light shall win me, Along the path I've yet to roam; The mind, that bni'ns within me, And pure smiles from thee at home. Thus, when the lamp that lighted The travelery at fii'st goes out He feels awhile benighted And looks round in fear and doubt. But soon, the prospect clearing, By cloudless star-light on he treads, And thinks no lamp so cheering As that light which heaven sheds! THE OLD CHURCH BELL. W. H. SPAEKS. [The following note accompanied the copy of the poem found among Colonel Spark's papers, says the Atlanta Constitution: "After an absence of thirty years, I visited my native village, Eatonton, Putnam county, Ga., and sojourned for a week in the hospitable home of my boyhood s friend, Edmund Reid. On Sabbath morning, whilst alone in my bed-room, the old church bell commenced to ring. My heart was touched, and tears flooded my eyes. The tones were familiar as though I had heard them every Sunday during all that lapse of intervening time. With my pencil I wrote these lines in a small memorandum book which I carried in my pocket : ' ] Ring on, ring on, sweet Sabbath bell; Thy mellow tones I love to hear, I was a boy, when first they fell In melody upon mine ear; In those dear days, long past and gone, When sporting here in boyish glee, The magic of thy Sabbath tone Awoke emotions deep in me. Long years have gone and I have strayed Out o'er the world, far, far away. But thy dear tones have round me played On every lovely Sabbath day. 80 THE OLD CHtT.CH BELL. 81 "When strolling o'er the miglity plains,. Spread widely in the noipeopled West. Each Sabbath morn I've neard thy sti^ains Tolling the welcome day of rest. Upon the rocky mountain crest. "Where Christian feet have never trod, In the deep bosom of the West I've thought of thee and worshiped God; Eing on. sweet belli I've come again To hear thy cherished call to prayer. There's less of pleasm^e. now. than pain In those dear tones which till my ear. Eino- on. rino- on. dear bell, rino; on I Once "more I've come with whitened head To hear thee toll. The sounds are gone! And e'er this Sabbath day has sped. I shall be gone, and may no more Give ear to thee, sweet Sabbath bell! Dear chiux-h and bell, so loved of yore. And childhood's happy home, farewell I —Eafonton, G-a., May 18, 1856. SAD. A SHORT TALE IN SHORT WORDS. W. S. F. ID you hear that sound of woe, Ring out on the still night air ? Did you see the mad fiend's blow Fall on her who knelt in prayer ? Did you hear the last sad moan, As that fair one's soul was freed. And list in vain to hear a groan Or sigh from him who did the deed ? Ah, see that smile of ioy and rest, Now as she draws her last short breath, That to her still white face is prest. E'en while she tastes the cup of death. I would not have you hear the curse That from this base man's lips there fell, Nor go to see the poor lone hearse And grave of her with whom all's well — But turn now to a scene more fair. And see those two so blithe and gay; 82 SAn. He twines a rose •wi^eath in her lian\ She smiles on him thi'ongh all the day. He plights his love, wealth, di^eams of bhss. And she pure love, fair hand, leal heart, Theu' vows are sealed -^-ith faith's sweet kiss, A hic^h trnst wi'oiiofht bv no rnde art. They wed; and as the years sped on. A dark cloud came and o'er them hung; Theii' vows were hid. their love was gone. And in mute woe joy's knell was rung. The Fiend of Drink — the curse and foe Of man thi-ou^h all the flio-hts of time — Stole in and laid the strong youth low; He drank, and this was all his crime. The deeds of wrong which he has done. All came fi'om this his first gi'eat sin, And all his once grand traits had won Was lost in dark wild strife and din ; Eum is the cause of all the shame That holds him now with bands of steel, And when the stern Seer laid a claim Oh what sharp pain his wife did feel I But she is fi-eed fi'om all her woes AMiile he must still go down and down Through all the shades of crime's keen thi'oes He sought a ban and she a crov»-n. The years to come will tell the tale — Frail words cannot speak all the truth, "VMien Death shall come on steed so pale, To take with him this sin- wild youth- GEMS OF POETEY. My brave young boys take heed I pray, And walk not in this black crime's path, Walk on that high and grand straight way, Which shuns the place of fire and wraths Ye bright hopes of the yet to come, With truth now let your feet be shod, Strive for that blest and dear good home,, In the gratid realms of our God. DEIFTINa. CALISTA L. GEAXT. I stand by the riter, so peacefully shining, Beyond is the city I'm yearning to see; I wait for the summons that's coming to me! Hold me closer, my darling, and feel no repining, We know that the pm^e loye our hearts now entwining. Reaching oyer the riyer, immortal will be! Thou fair, golden city, soon, soon, I shall find me Thy clear jasper walls and thy pearl gates within, Where neyer can enter earth's bondage and sin! All the world's care and pain I shall leaye far behind me, No more can my prison chains trammel and bind me. My crown of rejoicing at last I shall win. For I'm dying, you say, though it seems more like dreaming, So slow^ly the life-tide is ebbing away, — So slowly is fadino; life's linoferino^ ray! So long all of earth hath been idle seeming, So long, oh, so long, haye I watched for the gleaming Of the pure gates that open to Heayen's perfect day. Through the yine-curtained window the sunlight is sifting, 85 S6 GEMS OF POETRY. On the snow of the mountains the purple mist lies; But they fade from my view, as the death -shadows rise^ And out from the earth- life my lone bark is drifting, Through the mist and the shadow, but angels are liftings With invisible fingers, the gates of the skies ! A FAREWELL Farewell ! since never more for thee The sun comes up our eastern skies, Less bright henceforth shall sunshine be To some fond hearts and saddened eyes. There are who for thy last, long sleep Shall sleep as sweetly nevermore, Shall weep because thou canst not weep, And grieve that all thy griefs are o'er. Sad thrift of lOve! the loving breast On which the aching head was thrown, Gave up the weary head to rest. But kept the aching for its own. FAITH. FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE. Better trust all and be deceived, And weep that trust and that deceiving, Than doubt one heart that if beheved Had blessed one's life with true believing. 0, in this mocking world too fast The doubting fiend o'ertakes our youth; Better be cheated to the last Than lose the blessed hope of truth. BED. Our sweetest and most bitter hours are thine; Thou by the weary frame art fondly pressed, Which, grateful, blesses its most welcome shrine, While curses thee, pale sickness' sad unrest. 'Tis here the blushing bride receives her lord; 'Tis here the mother first beholds her child; 'Tis here death snaps affection's fondest cord, And changes sunny bliss to anguish wild; 'Tis here the good man, pondering on his fate, Beholds that bed which this doth typefy, Made by the sexton, his frail form's estate, Where, in long slumber, it shall dreamless lie; And he exults, feeling in that dark sod His robe alone will lie — the rest with God! GILLYFLOAYEES. LD-FASmOXED. yes. I know they Long exiled from the gay parterre, And banished from the bowers: -Bnt not the fairest foreign bloom Can match in beanty or perfume Those bonnv English flowers. Their velvet j^etals, fold on fold. In every shade of flaming gold, And richest, deepest brown. Lie close with little leaves betAveen, Of slender shape and tender green, And sofr as softest down. On Sabbath mornino-s lono- ao-o. "XMien melody began to flow From out the belfry tower. I used to breali fr^om childish talk. To phick beside the garden walk My mother's Sunday flower. In spring she loved the snow- drop wJiite, In summer time carnations bright. Or roses newly blown: But this the bower she cherished mostj And from the goodly garden host 90 GEMS OF POETRY. She chose it for her own. ^ Ah, mother dear! the brown flowers wave In sunshine o'er thy quiet grave, This morning far away; And I sit lonely here the while, Scarce knowing if to sigh or smile Upon their sister spray. I well could sigh, for grief is strong, I well could smile, for love lives long, And conquers even death; But if I smile, or if I sigh, God knoweth well the reason why, And gives me broader faith. Firm faith to feel all good is meant. Sure hope to fill with deep content My most despairing hours ; And oftentimes he deigns to shed. Sweet sunshine o'er the path I tread. As on to-day, these flowers. And chose he not a bearer meet, To bring for me those blossoms sweet, A loving little child? And child and bonny blossoms come. Like messages of love and home, O'er waters waste and wild. — All the Year Bound. THE BEOOK. A. TEXXYSOX. "O babbling brook," says Edmund in his rhyme, " Whence come you?" and the brook, why not ? replies. COME from haunts of coot and hern, I make a sudden sally And sparkle out among the fern, To bicker down a yalley. By thii'ty hills I hun-y down, Or slip between the ridges. By twenty thorps, a little town, And half a hundi'ed bridges. Till last by Philip's fann I flow To join the brimming riyer, For men may come and men may go, But I go on f oreyer. I chatter oyer stony ways, In little sharps and trebles, I bubble into eddying bays, I babble on the pebbles. 93 GEMS OF POETRY. With many a 3urve my banks I fret, By many a field and fallow, And many a fairy foreland set With willow- weed and mallow. I chatter, chatter, as I flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on forever. I wind about, and in and out, With here a blossom sailing, And here and there a lusty trout, And here and there a grayling. And here and there a foamy flake Upon me, as I travel With many a silvery waterbreak Above the golden gravel, And draw them all along, and flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on forever. I steal by lawns and grassy plots, I slide by hazel covers; I move the sweet forget-me-nots That grow for happy lovers. I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, Among my skimming swallows; I make the netted sunbeam dance Against my sandy shallows. THE BROOK. - 9^ I murmur under moon and stars In brambly wildernesses: I linger bv my shingly barsj I loiter round my cresses; And out again I curve and flow To join the brimming river. For men may come and men may go, But I go on forever. THEEE CHAEACTERISTIC EPITAPHS. [A Friend who read the epitaph prepared for his own tomb by the late Professor Clifford, was prompted to compose two others, which, with that of the Professor, is given below.] ATHEIST. I was not, and I was conceived; I lived, and did a little work; I am not. and I grieve not. PANTHEIST. A drop of spray cast fi^om the Infinite, I hung an instant there, and thi'ew my ray To make the rainbow. A microcosm I, Reflecting all. Then back I fell again: And though I perished not. I was no more. CHEISTIAX. God willed: I was. "What He had planned I wrought, That done, He called, and now I dwell with him. MY BEIDE THAT IS TO BE. J. W. RILEY. SOUL of mine, look out and see My bride, my bride that is to be! Reach out with mad, impatient hands And draw aside futurity §r As one might draw a veil aside, I And so unveil her where she stands ^ Madonna-like and glorified — The Queen of undiscovered lands Of love, to where she beckons me — My bride, my bride that is to be. The shadow of a willow tree That wavers on a garden wall In summer time may never fall In attitude as gracefully As my fair bride that is to be; Nor ever Autumn's leaves of brown As lightly flutter to the lawn As fall her fairy feet upon The path of love she loiters down. O'er drops of dew she walks, and yet Not one may stain her sandal wet; MY BRIDE THAT IS TO BE. 97 And she might dance upon the way, Nor crush a single di'op to spray, So airy-Hke she seems to me — My bride, my bride that is to be. I know not if her eyes are light As summer skies, or dark as night — I only know that they are dim With mystery. In vain I peer To make their hidden meaning clear, "While o'er their surface, like a tear That ripples to the silken brim, A look of longing seems to swim, All warm and weary -like to me; And then, as suddenly, my sight Is blinded with a smile so bright. Through folded lids I still may see My bride, my bride that is to be. Her face is like a night of June Upon whose brow the crescent moon Hangs pendent in a diadem Of stars, with enxj lighting them; And, like a wild cascade, her hair Floods neck and shoulder, arm and wi'ist, Till only through the gleaming mist I seem to see a siren there, With lips of love and melody. And open arms and heaving breast Wherein I fling my soul to rest. The while my heart cries hopelessly For my fair bride that is to be. Nay, foolish heart and blinded eyes, My bride has need of no disguise — - GEMS OF POETEY. But rather let her come to me In such a form as bent above My pillow when in infancy I knew not anything but love. Ohj let her come from out the lands OfWomanhood — not fairy isles — And let her come with woman's hands, And woman's eyes of tears and smiles; With woman's hopefulness and grace Of patience lighting up her face; And let her diadem be wrought Of kindly deed and prayerful thought. That ever over all distress May beam the light of cheerfulness : And let her feet be brave to fare The labyrinths of doubt and care, That following, my own may find The path to heaven God designed — Oh, let her come like this to me, My bride, my bride that is to be. '^TTHO HAS ROBBED THE OCEAX CAVE •JOHN SHAW. VTho has robbed the ocean cave. To tinge thy lips with coral hue ? VTho. from India's distant wave. Eor thee those pearly treasui^es drew? AMio, from yonder orient sky. Stole the morning of thine eye ? Thousand charms thy form to deck. From sea. and earth, and air are torn; Roses bloom upon thy cheek, On thy breath theu' fi'agrance borne : Guard thy bosom from the day, Lest thy snows should melt away. But one charm remains behind. TMiich mute earth could ne'er impart; Nor in ocean wilt thou find. Xor in the circling air. a heart: Fairest, wouldst thou 23erfect be, Take, oh take that heart from me. 99 A PORTRAIT. Two eyes I see whose snnny blue Rivals the summer skies ; Two lips whose ripe and cherry hue With bright carnation vies; Two rippling waves of gold brown hair, An antique comb to keep them straight; A sweet and simple face most fair — Pressed on my heart is this portrait. TWO PICTUKES. MAEIAN DOUGLASS. An old farm-house, with meadows wide, And sweet with clover on each side; A bright- eyed boy, who looks from out The door with woodbine wi'eathed about And wishes his one thought all day : " O if I could but fly away From this dull spot the world to see, How happy, happy, happy, How happy I should b^! " Amid tne city's constant din, A man who round the world has been, Who, 'mid the tumult and the throng. Is thinking, thinking all day long, — " O could I only tread once more The field -path to. the farm-house door. The old, green meadows could I see, How happy, happy, happy. How happy I should be! " 101 EXTKACTS FROj^I "BURNS." T. G. HALLECK. He kept his honesty and truth, His independent tongue and pen, And moved in manhood as in youth, Pride of his fellow-men. Strong sense, deep feeling, passions strong, A hate of tyrant and of knave, A love of right, a scorn of wrong, Of coward and of slave, A kind, true heart, a spirit high, That could not fear and would not bow, Were written in his manly eye And on his manly brow. Praise to the bard! His words are driven. Like flower-seeds by the far winds sown, Where'er, beneath the sky of heaven, The birds of fame have flown. Praise to the man! A nation stood , Beside his coffin with wet eyes, 102 EXTRACTS FEO^ "BUHNS.' — THE XATITITT. Her brave, her beantifiil. her good. As when a loved one dies. And still, as on his funeral day, Men stand his cold earth- conch aroimd. With the mnte homage that we pay To consecrated ground. And consecrated ground it is, The last, the hallowed home of one Who lives upon all memories, Thouo'h with the buried o;one. Sucn graves as his are pilgrim-shrines. Shrines to no code or creed confined. — The Delphian vales, the Palestines, The Meccas of the mind. THE NATIVITY. J. MILTOX. This is the month, and this the happy mom, ^Tierein the Son of Heaven's Eternal King, Of wedded maid and virgin mother born, Oui' great redem^^tion fi'om above did bring; For so the holy sages once did sing, That he om- daily forfeit should release, And with his Father work us a perpetual peace. That glorious form, that light unsufferable, 104 GEMS OF POETRY. And that far-beaming blaze of majesty, Wherewith he wont at Heaven's high council-table To sit the midst of Trinal Unity, He laid aside, and here with us to be. Forsook the courts of everlasting day, And chose with us a darksome house of mortal clay. Say, heavenly Muse, shall not thy sacred vein Afford a present to the Infant- God? Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain. To welcome him to this his new abode, Now while the heaven, by the sun's team untrod, Hath took no print of the approaching light. And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons bright ? See, how from far, upon the eastern road, The star-led wizards haste with odors sweet; Oh, run, prevent them with thy humble ode, And lay it lowly at his blessed feet; Have thou the honor first thy Lord to greet. And join thy voice unto the angel-choir, From out his secret altar touch' d with hallow' d fire. A FEEE SHOAV WYOMING KIT. SIT to-iiight as audience to my thoughts, AVhich to a panorama treat my vision Of days long past, some bright, some bearing blots. Some worthy praise; some calling forth derision! And as the ever-chanofino' scenes bv — Eliciting applause or condemnation — I bid the canvas halt, as to my eye Appears a scene which once caused aggi^avationl It shows me in the bright sunset of youth. Just entering^ the dawn of manhood's morninof. ^"\lien womankind I ranked as pearls of truth. Forever eveiw thouo;ht of falsehood scornino;! One avalanche of beauty crossed my path. And of my heart susceptible made capture! Ah I who can know the joy I felt, who hath Not likewise had a tussle with love's rapture I I wooed her as did woo the fabled gods — ( At least as I then understood their wooing From what I'd o^leaned from books) — but what's the odds? 106 GEMS OF POETRY. I wooed her, that's enough — ^and in my suing I promised her — W3ll, never mind; 'twas more Than I could ever give from shrunken bounty! Enough to stock the very finest store In this, or any other, high-toned county! My wages vanished Kke a summer dream, ' In little odds or ends to suit her fancy; Gloves, handkerchiefs, confections, rides, ice-cream. And price of opera boxes' occupancy ! My board bill swelled into enormous size ! My washerwoman threatened dire exposure ! And creditors — confound 'em — swarmed like flies, And hinted at a possible disclosure! And yet, my darling's smiles at all times drove Away the morbid shade these scenes threw o'er me The very pangs of sulphurdom , by Jove ! Would lose their terror with her smiles before me. At last she named the happy, joyous day When I should claim her for my own, own treasure But just before the night she ran away With clerk of a hotel, a gent of leisure! *** * * Ten years have passed. I saw her yesterday Beneath a basketful of dirty linen! She takes in washing now! alack-a-day! And 'pon my soul I couldn't keep from grinnin' To see that form which once was lithe and fair. Now weighing some two hundred pounds, or over! And seven children, all with oreide hair. Now greet her with the sacred name of " muvver! " A FREE SHOW. "TILL DEATH US PART. Her husband tumbled from his lofty grade And soaked his diamond! "?) for just a dollar, With which he bought a bootblack's stock in trade And went in partnership with gent of color ! His works now shine — fi'om others' fancy boots! Alas! what ending to love's glorious summer! Bright di'eam of glory plucked out by the roots ! Who? me? — ah — um — well. I'm a genteel bummer. '•TILL DEATH TS PAET." DEAN STANLEY. " Till death us part," So speaks the heart. "When each to each repeats the words of doom; Thro' blessing, and thro* curse, For better and for worse, We Avill be one till the dread hour shall come. Life, with its myriad grasp. Our yearning souls shall clasp, By ceaseless love and still expectant wonder, In bonds that shall endure, Indissolubly sure, Till God in death shall part our paths asunder. Till Death us join, O voice yet more divine! That to the broken heart breathes hope sublime; 108 GEMS OF POETRY. Thro' lonely hours And shattered powers We still are one, despite of change and time. Death, with his healing hand, Shall once more knit the band Which needs but that one link which none may sever j Till, thro' the Only Good, Heard, felt and understood. Our life in God shall make us one forever. 110 GEMS OF POETRY, SUNSET WITH CLOUDS. HE earth grows dark about me, But heaven shines clear above, As daylight slowlv melts away jj AYith the crimson light I love; 'And clouds, like floating shadows Of every form and hue, Hover around his dying couch. And blush a bright adieu. Like fiery forms of angels, They throng around the sun — Courtiers that on their monarch wait, Until his course is run; From him they take their glory: His honor they uphold: And trail their flowing^ o- arments forth, Of purple, green and gold. O bliss to gaze upon them. From this commanding hill, And diink the spirit of the hoiu'. "W^ile all around is still: While distant skies are opening And stretching far away. A shadowy landscape dipp'd in gold, A^Tiere happier spirits stray. Ill 112 GEMS OF POETKY. I feel myself immortal, As in your robe of light The glorious hills and vales of heaven Are dawning on the sight; I seem to hear the murmur Of some celestial stream, And catch the glimmer of its course Beneath the sacred beam. * And such, methinks, with rapture, Is my eternal home — More lovely than this passing glimpse To which my footsteps roam ; There's something yet more glorious Succeeds this life of pain; And, strengthened with a mightier hope, I face the world again. — Temple Bar. TO THE MOCKING BIRD. R. H. TVILDE. Wing'd mimic of the woods! thou motley fool, Who shall thy gay buffoonery describe ? Thine ever -ready notes of ridicule Pursue thy fellows still with jest and gibe: Wit, sophist, songster, Yorick of thy tribe, Thou sportive satirist of Nature's school; To thee the palm of scoffing we ascribe. Arch-mocker and mad Abbot of Misrule! For such thou art by day — but all night long Thou pour'st a soft, sweet, pensive, solemn strain, As if thou didst in this thy moonlight song Like to the melancholy Jacques complain, Musing on falsehood, folly, vice, and wrong, And sighing for thy motley coat again. 8 113 LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY. p. B. SHELLEY. The fountains mingle with the river, And the river with the ocean ; The winds of heaven mix forever, With a sweet emotion ; Nothing in the world is single; All things by a law divine In one another's being mingle: — Why not I with thine ? See! the mountains kiss high heaven, And the waves clasp one another; No sister flower would be forgiven If it disdained its brother; And the sunlight clasps the earth, And the moonbeams kiss the sea:~ What are all these kissings worth, If thou kiss not me ? THE SONG OF LIGHTNING. GEO. W. CUTTER. WAY, away, through the sightless air — Stretch forth your iron thread; For I would not dim my sandals fair With the dust ye tamely tread; Ay, rear it up on its million piers — Let it reach the world around, And the journey ye make in a hundred years I'll clear at a single bound! Though I cannot toil like the groaning slave Ye have fetter' d with iron skill, To ferry you over the boundless wave, Or grind in the noisy mill; Let him sing his giant strength and speed: Why, a single shaft of mine Would give that monster a flight, indeed. To the depths of the ocean brine. No, no! I'm the spirit of light and love: To my unseen hand 'tis given To pencil the ambient clouds above, And polish the stars of heaven. 115 GEMS OF POETRY. I scatter the golden rays of fire On the horizon far below, And deck the skies where storms expire With my red and dazzling glow. The deepest recesses of earth are mine — I traverse its silent core; Around me the starry diamonds shine, And the sparkling fields of ore; And oft I leap from my throne on high, To the depths of the ocean's caves, "Where the fadeless forests of coral lie, Far under the world of waves. My being is like a lovely thought That dwells in a sinless breast; A tone of music that ne'er was caught — A word that was ne'er expressed. I burn in the bright and burnish'd halls, Where the fountains of sunlight play — Where the curtain of gold and opal falls O'er the scenes of the dying day. With a glance I cleave the sky in twain, I light it with a glare, When fall the boding drops of rain Through the darkly- curtain'd air; The rock- built towers, the turrets gray, The piles of a thousand years, Have not the strength of potters' clay Before my glittering spears. From the Alps' or the highest Andes' crag, From the peaks of eternal snow, SOXG OF LIGHTXIXG. The dazzling folds of my fiery flag Gleam o'er the world below; ,The earthquake heralds my coming power, The avalanche bounds , away. And howling storms at midnight hour Proclaim my kingly sway. Ye tremble when my legions come — T\^hen my quivering sword leaps out O'er the hills that echo my thunder- di^um, And rend with my joyous shout: Ye quail on the land or upon the seas, Y'e stand in youi' fear aghast, To see me burn the stalwart trees, Or shiver the stately mast. The hieroglyphs on the Persian wall, The letters of high command. "Where the prophet read the tyi-ant's fall, Were traced with my burning hand: And oft in fii'e have I wi'ote since then, What angiy Heaven decreed — But the sealed eyes of sinful men Were all too blind to read. At last the hour of light is here, And kings no more shall blind. Nor the bigots crush with craven fear The forward march of mind: The words of Truth, and Freedom's rays Ai^e fi'om my pinions hurl'd, And soon the sun of better days Shall rise upon the world. GEMS OF POETRY. But away, away, through the sightless air, Stretch forth your iron thread; For I would not soil my sandals fair With the dust ye tamely tread. Ay, rear it upon its million piers — Let it circle the world around, And the journey ye make in a hundred years I'll clear at a single bound! THE YOUTH WHO PLAYED BEFORE HE LOOKED. A yontti Avent forth to serenade The lady Avhom he loved the best, And passed beneath the mansion's shade ^liere first his charmer used to rest. He warbled till the morninrr light Came dancing o'er the hilltops' rim; But no fair maiden blessed his sio-ht. And all seemed dark and drear to him. With heart aglow and eyes ablaze He drew much nearer than before, "WTien, to his horror and amaze, He saw To Let *' upon the door. THE TWO VILLAGES. ROSE TEEEY COOKE. Over the river on the hill, Lieth a village white and still; All around it the forest trees Shiver and whisper in the breeze. Over it sailing shadows go, Of soaring hawk and screaming crow; And mountain grasses, low and sweet, Grow in the middle of every street. Over the river under the hill, Another village. iieth still; There I see in the cooling night. Twinkling stars of household light. Fires that gleam from the smithy door, Mists that curl on the river shore; And in the road no grasses grow. For the wheels that hasten to and fro. In that village on the hill, Never is sound of smithy or mill ; The houses are thatched with grass and flowers, Never a clock to tell the hours ; The marble doors are always shut; You may not enter at hall or hut. ^ 120 THE TWO VILLAGES. 121 All the village lies asleep. Never a grain to sow or reap : Never in dreams to moan or sigh — Silent — and idle — and low— they lie In the village under the hill, AVhen the night is starry and still, Many a weary soul in prayer Looks to the other village there, And weeping and sighing, longs to go Up to that home from this below — Longs to sleep by the forest wild, Whither have vanished wife and child, And heareth, praying, the answer fall — ''Patience! That village shall hold ye all!" 4 THE LOVER. C. PATMORE. He meets, by heavenly chance express, His destined wife; some hidden hand Unvails to him that lovehness Which others cannot understand. No songs of love, no summer dreams Did e'er his longing fancy fire With vision like to this; she seems In all things better than desire. His merits in her presence grow. To match the promise in her eyes, And round her happy footsteps blow The authentic airs of Paradise. The least is well, yet nothing's light In all the lover does; for he Who pitches hope at such a height Will do all things with dignity. She is BO perfect, true, and pure. Her virtue all virtue so endears. That often, when he thinks of her. Life's meanness fills his eyes with tears. f 122 GOD'S WAYS. God speaks to hearts of men in many ways: Some the red banner of the rising sun. Spread o'er the snow- clad hills, has taught his praise; Some the sweet silence when the day is done; Some, after loveless lives, at length have won His word in children's hearts and children's gaze. And some have found him whore low rafters ring To greet the hand that helps, the heart that cheers: And some in prayer and some in perfecting Of watchful toil through unrewarding years. And some not less are his, who vainly sought His voice, and they with silence have been taught — Who bare his chain that bade them to be bound, And, at the end, in finding not, have found. —The Spectator. DEAD. ALMA LATTIN. Within the flower- lined casket she was laid, Without a tear, without a moan; The very life blood of my heart seemed stayed — Earth's light to deepest darkness grown. I laid my darling down without a sigh, For grief for words was all too deep; My anguished heart could only send one cry: " O God, in heaven, my darling keep! " I cannot lose her; she's my only one; Oh, let me to her. Lord, I pray! " But oh! the golden light of setting sun Shone on her fair, but lifeless clay. I know my darling's shining form will wait Beyond this world, where grief's dark night Enshrouds my saddened life, — at heaven's gate I'll meet my child where all is light. 124 PAETING. In the wood, love, when we parted, Birds were singing loud and clear; Silent stood we, broken hearted; Parting words are hard to hear; Great our love, and great our anguish, Doomed apart to coldly languish! Must it be forever, love ? All without was gay around us; All within was cold and bleak! Grief and pain in silence bound us; Parting Avords are hard to speak! Singing birds, why mock our sorrow ? Know ye that we ]3art to-mon'ow? Trouble not our last farewell. Nature knows no pain or sadness; Bird and flow"r and bee rejoice! Yet I cannot bear their gladness, And I hate their cheerful voice! Oh, farewell, my love, forever! Widely now oui- pathways sever, Never shall we meet again. 125 A BEAUTIFUL LEGEND. OFTLYfell the touch of twilight on Judea's silent hills; Slowly crept the peace of moonlight o'er Judea's trembling rills. In the temple's court, conversing, seven elders sat, apart; Seven grand and hoary sages, wise of head and pure of heart. "What's best?"said Rabbi Judah, he of stern and steadfast gaze; "Answer, ye whose toils have burdened through the march of many days." " To have gained," said Rabbi Ezra, " decent wealth and goodly store. Without sin, by honest labor — nothing less and nothing more." "To have found," said Rabbi Joseph — meekness in his gentle eyes — "A foretaste of heaven's sweetness in home's blessed par- adise." 126 A BEAUTIFUL LEGEND. 127 " To have wealth and power and glory, cro\^^led and bright- ened by the pride Of uprising chikben's children," Eabbi Benjamin rej^lied. *' To have won the praise of nations, to have won the crown of fame," Kabbi Solomon responded, faithful to his kingly name. " To sit throned, the lord of millions, tirst and noblest in the land," x4.nswered haughty Rabbi Asher, youngest of the reverend band. ■''All in vain," said Rabbi Jairus, " unless faith and hope have traced In the soul Mosaic presents, by sin's contact uneffaced." Then uprose wise Rabbi Judah, tallest, gravest o{ ^hem all, " From the heights of fame and honor even valiant souls may fall. "Love may fail us; virtue's sapling grow a diy and thorny rod. If we bear not in our bosoms the unselfish love of God." In the outer couii sat plajdng a sad-featui-ed, fair- haired child; His young eyes seemed wells of sorrow — they were God-like when he smiled! One by one he di'opped the lilies, softly plucked with child- ish hand; One by one he viewed the sages of that grave and hoary band. 128 GEMS or POETRY. Step by step he neared them closer, till encircled by the seven, Then he said, in tones untrembling, with a smile that breathed of heaven, "Nay, nay, fathers; only he within the measure of whose breast Dwells the human love with God-love, can have found life's truest rest; " For where one is not the other must grow stagnant at its spring, Changing good deeds into phantoms — an unmeaning, soul- less thing. " Whoso holds this precept truly, owns a jewel brighter far Than the joys of home and children — than wealth, fame and glory are; " Fairer than old age thrice honored, far above tradition's law, Pure as any radiant vision ever ancient prophets saw. "Only he within the measure — faith apportioned — of whose breast Throbs the brother- love with God- love, knows the depth of perfect rest." Wondering gazed they at each other, once broke silence and no more: "He has spoken words of wisdom no man ever spake before!" A BEAUTIFUL LEGEND. 129 Calmly passing fi'om their presence to the fountain's rippling song, Stooped he to uplift the lilies strewed the scattered sprays among. Fairitly stole the shades of eyening through the massiye open door: Whitely lay the peace of moonlight on the temple's marble floor. Where the elders lingered, silent since he spake, the Unde- filed, "Where the Wisdom of the ages sat amid the flowers — a child. "FATHER, WHATE'ER OF EARTHLY BLISS.'^ A. STEELE. Father, whate'er of earthly bliss Thy sovereign will denies, Accepted at thy throne of grace. Let this petition rise : Give me a calm and thankful heart, From every murmur free, The blessings of thy love impart, And help me live to thee. Let the sweet hope that thou art mine My life and death attend; Thy presence through my journey shine, And crown my journey's end. 130 *' As a reed with the reeds of the river." 132 A ]VrUSICAL INSTRTOIENT. E. B. BEOWXING. HAT was he doin.^, the great god Pan, Down in the re ^ds by the river ? Spreading ruin and scattering ban, Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat, I'-K'S) And breaking the golden lilies afloat AVith the di'agon-fly on the river ? \ He tore out a reed, the great god Pan, From the deep, cool bed of the river, The limpid water tnrbidly ran. And the broken lilies a -dying lay, And the dragon-fly had fled away, Ere he brought it out of the river. High on the shore sat the great god Pan, While tui'bidly flowed the river, And hacked and hewed as a gi-eat god can With his hard, bleak steel at the patient reed. Till there was not a sign of a leaf indeed To prove it fresh fi'om the river. He cut it short, did the great god Pan. ( How tall it stood in the river ! ) 133 134 A MUSICAL ll^STRUMEJsT. Then drew the pith like the heart of a man^ Steadily from the outsiae ring, Then notched the poor dry empty thing In holes, as he sate by the river. " This is the way," langhed the great god Pan, (Laughed while he sate by the river!) " The only way since gods began To make sweet music, they could succeed; " Then dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed, He blew in power by the river. Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan, Piercing sweet by the river, Blinding sweet, O great god Pan! The sun on the hill forgot to di'^. And the lilies revived, and the dragon-fly Came back to dream on the river. Yet half a beast is the great god Pan, To laugh, as he sits by the river. Making a poet out of a man. The true gods sigh for the cost and the pain: — For the reed that grows nevermore again As a reed with the reeds of the river. THE DYING GLADIATOR. LORD BTROX. I see before me the Gladiator lie: He leans upon his hand — his manly brow Consents to death, but conquers agony. And his droop* d head sinks gi'adually low — And through his side the last di'ops, ebbing slow T'rom the red gash, fall heavy, one by one. Like the first of a thunder shower: and now The arena swims around him — he is gone. Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hail'd the -wi'etch who won. He heard it. but he heeded not— his eyes "Were with his heart, and that was far away. He reck'd not of the life he lost nor prize, But where his rude hut by the Danube lay, There were his young barbarians all at play, There was their Dacian mother. — he. their sire, Butcher' d to make a Eoman holiday- All this rush'd with his blood — shall he expire And unavenged? — Arise! ye Goths, and glut your ire! 135 THE TEACHEE'S DREAM. W. H. VENABLE. HE weary teacher sat alone While twilight gathered on; And not a sound was heard around, The boys and girls were gone. The weary teacher sat alone, Unnerved and pale was h3; Bowed 'neath a yoke of care, he spoke In sad soliloquy: Another round, another round. Of labor thrown away — Another chain of toil and pain Dragged through a tedious day. " Of no avail is constant zeal, Love's sacrifice is loss. The hopes of morn, so golden, turn,. Each evening, into dross. I squander on a barren field My strength, my life, my all; 136 THZ TEACHEE S DEEA31. The seeds I sow will never gi'ow. Tliev perish where they fal].'" He sighed, and low upon his hands His aching brow he prest: And o'er his frame ere long there came A soothing sense of rest. And then he hfted up his face. But staited back aghast — ^ The room bv strangle and sudden chano-e Assumed proportions vast. It seemed a Senate -hall, and one Addi'essed a Hstening thi'ong: Each burning word all bosoms stUTed, Applause rose loud and long. The ' wilder ed teacher thought he knew The speaker's voice and look. ••'And for his name." said he. "the same Is in my record book.*" The stately Senate-hall dissolved — A chui'ch rose in its place. Wherein there stood a man of God. Dispensing words of gi'ace. And though he spoke in solemn tone. And though his hair was gi'ay. The tea-cher's thought was strangely wi'ought " I whipped that boy to-day." The chiu'ch. a phantasm, vanished soon — "What saw the teacher then ? GEMS OF POETRY. In classic gloom of alcoved room An author plied his pen. "My idlest lad! " the teacher said, Filled with a new surprise — " Shall I behold his name enrolled Among the great and wise ? " The vision of a cottage home The teacher now descried; A mother's face illumed the place Her influence sanctified. "A miracle! a miracle! This matron, well I know, Was but a wild and careless child, Not half an hour ago. " And when she to her children speaks Of duty's golden rule, Her lips repeat, in accents sweet. My words to her at school." The scene was changed again, and lo, The school -house rude and old. Upon the wall did darkness fall. The evening air was cold. ^' A dream! " the sleeper, waking, said, Then paced along the floor. And whistling slow and soft and low, He locked the school-house door. THE TEACHER'S DREAM. And, walking home, his heart was full Of peace and trust and love and praise; And singing slow and soft and low, He murmured, " After many days." THE MEETING OF THE WATEKS. TOM MOORE. There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet, / As that vale, in whose bosom the bright waters meet; Oh! the last rays of feeling and life must depart, Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade fi'om my heart. Yet it was not that Natm-e had shed o'er the scene Her purest of crystal and brightest of green; 'Twas not her soft magic of streamlet or hill, Oh! no — it was something more exquisite still. 'Twas that friends, the belgv'd of my bosom, were near, Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear, And who felt how the best charms of nature improve. When we see them reflected from looks that we love. Sweet vale of Avoca! how calm could I rest In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best. Where the storms that we feel in this cold world shoul Where the nibbling flocks do stray; Mountains, on whose barren breast The laboring clouds do often rest; Meadows trim, with daisies pied. Shallow brooks, and rivers wide; Towers and battlements it sees Bosom'd high in tufted trees, Where, perhaps, some beauty lies. The cynosure of neighboring eyes. Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes From betwixt two aged oaks, Where Corydon and Thyrsis met. Are at their savory dinner set EXTRACTS FROM L' ALLEGRO. Of herbs, and other country messes, AMiich the neat-handed PhilHs di'esses: And then in haste her bower she leaves, With Thestyhs to bind the sheaves ; Or, if the earher season lead. To the tann'd haycock in the mead. Sometimes, with secure delight, The upland hamlets will invite. "When the meny bells ring round, And the jocund rebecks sound To many a youth and many a maid Dancing in the checker'd shade: And young and old come forth to play On a sunshine holiday. Till the live-lono' davlio-ht fail: * ^ ^ * Tower'd cities please us then. And the busy hum of men. "Wliere thi'ono-s of knio-hts and barons bold, In weeds of j)eace, high triumphs hold. With store of ladies, whose bright eyes Eain infltience, and judge the prize Of wit or arms, while both contend To win her grace whom all commend. There let Hymen oft appear In saffron robe. Avith taper clear. And pom|), and feast, and revelry. With mask and antique pageantry: Such sights as youthful poets dream On summer eves by haunted stream. Then to the well-trod stage anon, If Jonson's learned sock be on. Or sweetest Shakespeare. Fancy's child. 10 GEMS OF POETRY. AVarble his native wood -notes wild. And ever, against eating cares, Lap me in soft Lydian airs, Married to immortal verse, Such as the meeting soul may pierce, In notes, with many a winding bout Of linked sweetness long drawn out, With wanton heed and giddy cunnings The melting voice through mazes running Untwisting all the chains that tie The hidden soul of harmony. That Orpheus' self may heave his head, From golden slumber on a bed Of heap'd Elysian flowers, and hear Such strains as would have won the ear Of Pluto, to have quite set free His half-regain'd Eurydice. These delights if thou canst give. Mirth, with thee I mean to live. 148 GEMS OF POETRY. BINGEN ON THE RHINE. BIXGEX OX THE EHIXE. IIES. C. E. S. XOETOy. SOLDIER of the Legion lay dying in Algiers. There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's tear-: But a comrade stood beside him. while his Ufe- blood ebbed away. And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what h.^ might say. The dying soldier faltered, and he took that cojni'ade's hand. And he said. '* I never more shall see my own. my native land: Take a message. and a token, to some distant fiiends of mine. For I was born at Bingen.— fair Bingen on the Rhine. •"Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet and crowd around, To hear my moiirnful stoiy. in the pleasant vineyard ground, That we fought the battle bravely, and when the day was done, Full many a corse lay ghastly pale beneath the setting sun; And, mid the dead and dying, were some gTOwn old in wars. The death-wound on their gallant breasts, the last of manv scares; 14!) 150 GEMS OF POETRY. And some were young, and suddenly beheld life's morn de- cline^ — And one had come from Bingen, — fair Bingen on the Khine. " Tell my mother that her other son shall comfort her old age; For I was still a truant bird, that thought his home n cage. For my father was a soldier, and even as a child My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild; And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard, I let them take whate'er tJaey would, but kept my father's sword; And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used to shine, On the cottage wall at Bingen^ — calm Bingen on the Rhine. " Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head. When troops come marching home again with glad and gallant tread, But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye, For her brother was a soldier too, and not afraid to die; And if a comrade seek her love, I ask b.r in my name To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame. And to han[T the old sword in its place (my father's sword and mine). For the honor of old Bmgen^ — dear Bingen on the Bhine. "There's another, — not a sister; in the happy days gone by You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye ; Too innocent for coquetry— too fond for idle scorning ^ — bi>Xte:; oy the rhine. 151 0 Mend ! I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest mourning I Tell her the last night of my life ( for. ere the morn be risen, My body will be out of pain, my soul be out of prison) 1 di'eamed I stood with her. and saw the yellow stmlight shine On the rine-clad hills of Bingen. — f air Bingen on the Ehine. ^'I saw the blue Khine sweep along; I heard, or seemed to hear. The German songs we tised to sing, in chortis sweet and clear: And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill, The echoino^ chorus sounded, throusfh the eveninCT calm and still: And hej glad blue eyes were on me. as we passed, \rith fiiendly talk. Down many a path beloved of yore, and well - remembered walk I And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine, — Bfit we'll meet no more at Bingen,— loved Bingen on the Ehine." His trembling voice grew faint and hoarse, his grasp was childish weak. — 'His eyes put on a dying look, he sighed. and ceased to speak: His comi'ade bent to lift him. but the sparks of life had fled, The soldier of the Legion in a foreign land is dead! And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked down On the red sand of the battle-field with bloody corses strewn; Yes, calmly, on that di^eadful scene her pale light seemed to shine. As it shone on distant Bincrenr-fair Bino^en on the Rhine. SONNET ON HIS BLINDESS. J. MILTON. When I consider how my hght is spent Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, And that one talent which is death to hide, Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, lest he, returning chide; "Doth God exact day-labor, light denied ? " I fondly ask: but Patience, to prevent That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need Either man's work, or his own gifts; who best Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best; his state Is kingly : thousands at his bidding speed, And post o'er land and ocean without rest; They also serve who only stand and wait." 152 TWO LOYEKS. GEORGE ELIOT. WO lovers by a moss-grown spring: They leaned soft cheeks together there. Mingled the dark and sunny hair, And heard the wooinoj thrushes sinoj. O bndding time! O love's blest prime! Two wedded fi'om the portal stept : The bells made happy carollings, The air was soft as fannino- Avino;s, ^Miite petals on the pathway slept. O pure-eyed bride ! O tender pride! Two faces o'er a cradle bent: Two hands above the head were locned; These pressed each other while they rocked, Those watched a life that love had sent. O solemn hour! O hidden power! Two parents by the evening fire: The red light fell about their knees GEMS OF POETRY. On heads that rose by slow degrees Like buds upon the lily spire. O patient life! O tender strife! The two still sat together there, The red light shown about th^ir knees; But all the heads by slow degrees Had gone and left that lonely pair. O voyage fast! O vanished past! The red light shone upon the floor And made the space between them wide ; They drew their chairs up side by side, Their pale cheeks joined, and said, "Once more! O memories ! O past that is! EXTEACTS FEOM -CRITICISM." A. POPE. OME beauties vet no precepts can declare. For there's a happiness as well as care. Music resembles poetry: in each Are nameless graces which no methods teach. And which a master-hand alone can reach. If. where the rules not far enough extend. (Since rules were made but to promote their end) Some lucky license answer to the full The intent proposed, that license is a rule. Thus Pegasus, a nearer way to take. May boldly deviate from the common track. Great wits sometimes may gloriously offend. And rise to faults true critics dare not mend; From Tulgar bounds with brave disorder part. And snatch a grace beyond the reach of art. ^Tuch. without passing through the judgment, gains The heart, and all its end at once attains. * ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ A little learnino; is a dano-erotis thing i Drink deep or taste not the Pierian spring: 155 156 GEMS OF POETRY. There shallow draughts intoxicate the brain, And di'inking largely sobers us again. Fired at first sight with what the Muse imparts, In fearless youth w^e tempt the heights of arts, While from the bounded level of our mind, Short views we take, nor see the lengths behind; But more advanced, behold with strange surprise New distant scenes of endless science rise ! So pleased at first the towering Alps we try. Mount o'er the v^ales and seem to tread the sky. The eternal snows appear already pass'd, And the first clouds and mountains seem the last: But, those attained, we tremble to survey The growing labors of the lengthen' d way, The increasing prospect tires our wandering eyes, Hills peep o'er hills, and Alps on Alps arise! * * * * * Whoever thinks a faultless piece to see. Thinks what ne'er was, nor is, nor e'er shall be. In every work, regard the writer's end, Since none can compass more than they intend; And if the means be just, the conduct true, Applause in spite of trivial faults is due. As men of breeding, sometimes men of wit. To avoid great errors, much the less commit; Neglect the rules each verbal critic lays, For not to know some trifles is a praise. Most critics, fond of some subservient art, Still make the whole depend upon a part; They talk of principles, but notions prize. And all to one loved folly sacrifice. ■5K ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ True wit is nature to advantage dress' d; EXTRACTS FEOM ^"CEITICISM." 157 TMiat oft was thought, but ne'er so well expressed; Something, whose truth, cominced at sight we find, That gives us back the image of our mind. As shades more sweetly recommend the light. So modest plainness sets off sprightly wit. ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ¥^ In words, as fashions, the same rule will hold; Ahke fantastic, if too new, or old: Be not the fii^st by whom the new are tried, Xor yet the last to lay the old aside. But most by numbers judge a poet's song. And smooth or rouoii. with them, is rio^ht or wrong:: In the bright Muse, though thousand charms conspire, Her voice is all these tuneful fools admire: AVho haunt Parnassus btit to please their ear. Xot mend their minds: as some to church repair, Xot for the doctrine, but the music there. " These equal syllables alone require, Though oft the ear the open vowels tire; AMiile expletives their feeble aid do join: And ten low words oft creep in one dull line : hile they ring round the same unvaried chimes, AVith siu'e returns of still expected rhymes: "Where'er you find the cooling western breeze," In the next line, it '"whispers thi'ough the trees:" If crystal streams ''with pleasing murmurs creep," The reader's thi^eaten'd (not in vain) ''with sleep:" Then, at the last and only couplet fi'aught Y, i:h some unmeanino- thino- thev call a thouo-ht. A needless Alexandi'ine ends the song, That like a wounded snake, ch'ags its slow length along. Leave such to tune their own dull rhymes and know What's roundlv smooth, or lanc^uishinoiv slow; GEMS OF POETRY. And praise the easy vigor of a line, Where Denham's strength and Waller's sweetness join. True ease in writing comes from art, not chance, As those move easiest who have learn' d to dance. 'Tis not enough no harshness gives offence, The sound must seem an echo to the sense. Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently blows, And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows ; But when loud surges lash the sounding shore, The hoarse, rough verse should like the torrent roar: When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw, The line too labors, and the words move slow: Not so, when swift Camilla scours the plain. Flies o'er the unbending corn, and skims along the main. Hear how Timotheus' varied lays surprise. And bid alternate passions fall and rise! While at each change the son of Libyan Jove Now burns with glory, and then melts with love; Now his fierce eyes with sparkling fury glow. Now sighs steal out^ and tears begin to flow : Persians and Greeks like turns of nature found, And the world's victor stood subdued by sound. * * * * * * Some ne'er advance a judgment of their own. But catch the spreading notion of the town; They reason and conclude by precedent. And own stale nonsense which they ne'er invent. Some judge of authors' names, not works, and then Nor praise nor blame the writings, but the men. , Of all this servile herd, the worst is he That in proud dulness joins with quality. A constant critic at the great man's board, To fetch and carry nonsense for my lord. EXTRACTS FEOM "CRITICISM. What woful stuff this madrigal would be, In some starved hackney sonneteer, or me! But let a lord once own the happy lines, How the wit brightens ! how the style refines ! Before his sacred name flies every fault, And each exalted stanza teems with thought! ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ To what base ends, and by what abject ways, Are mortals urged through sacred lust of praise! Ah ne'er so dire a thirot of glory boast, Nor in the critic let the man be lost. Good-nature and good-sense must ever join; To err is human, to forgive — divine. ^ ^ ^ ^ 2Ll JiLi 7^ 7j\ - vjr TfT yf^ -yjz Be silent always, when you doubt your sense; And speak, though sure, with seeming diffidence: Some positive, persisting fops we know. Who, if once wrong, will needs be always so; But you, with pleasure own your errors past, 4.nd make each day a critique on the last. '4 MEMOEIES. BAREY CORNWALL. ING a low song ! A tender cradle measure soft and low, Not sad or long, But such as we remember long ago, When Time, now old, was flying Over the sunny seasons bright and fleet, And the red rose was lying Amongst a crowd of flowers all too sweet. 160 GOD KNOWETH. MRS. MAEY G. BEAINAED, CHANGED BY P. P. BLISS. I know not what awaits me, God kindly veils mine eyes. And o'er each step of my onward way He makes new scenes to rise; And every joy he sends me. comes A sweet and glad surprise. "WTiere he may lead Pll follow, My trust in Him repose; And every horn- in perfect peace I'll sing, He knows, He knows. One step I see before me, 'Tis all I need to see. The light of heaven more brightly shines, ^\Tien earth's illusions flee; And sweetly through the silence, came His loving ''Follow Me.'' O blissful lack of wisdom, 'Tis blessed not to know; He holds me with His own right hand, 11 161 162 GEMS OF POETRY. And will not let me go, And lulls my troubled soul to rest In Him who loves me so. So on I go not knowing, I would not if I might; rd rather walk in the dark -with God Than go alone in the light; I'd rather walk by faith with Him Than go alone by sight. 164 GEMS OF POETRY. "Musical cherub, soar, singing away!" ODE TO THE LAEK. J. HOGG. Bird of the wilderness. Blithesome and cumberless, Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea! Emblem of happiness. Blest is thy dwelling-place; O, to abide in the desert with thee ! Wild is thy lay, and loud, Far in the downy cloud ; Love gives it energy, love gave it birth, Where, on thy dewy wing, Where art thou journeying ? Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth. O'er fell and fountain sheen, O'er moor and mountain green, O'er the red streamer that heralds the day, Over the cloudlet dim, Over the rainbow's rim. Musical cherub, soar, sino^ino^ awav ! Then, when the gloaming comes. Low in the heather blooms, 165 GEMS OF POETRY. Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be! Emblem of happiness, Blest is thy dwelling place, O, to abide in the desert with thee! PATRIOTISM. SIR W. SCOTT. Breathes there the man, with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land! Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned, As home his footsteps he hath turned. From wandering on a foreign strand! If such there breathe, go, mark him well; For him no minstrel raptures swell; High though his titles, proud his name, Boundless his wealth as wish can claim, Despite those titles, power, and pelf, The wretch, concentred all in self, Living, shall forfeit fair renown. And, doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust, from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonored, and unsung. 167 SONG ON MAY MORNING. J. MILTON. Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger, Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her The flowery May, who, from her green lap, throws The yellow cowslip, and the pale primrose. Hail, bounteous May, that dost inspire Mirth, and youth, and warm desire; Woods and groves are of thy dressing. Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing. Thus we salute thee with our early song, And welcome thee, and wish thee long. 168 MY ANGEL I EMILY HUNTIXGTOX MILLER. ' LOA\'LY the night is falling, Falling down from the hill, And all in the low gi'een valley The dew lies heaw and chill; The crickets cry in the hedges, And the bats are ending low, And like ghosts through the blossoming garden The glimmering night-moths go. Hand in hand throng^h the twiliD;ht Come the childi-en every one, Flushed vvith their eager frolic, Ta^vny with wind and sun ; Home fr'om the sunny uplands ^Miere the sweet wild bemes grow, Home fr'om the tangled thickets A^^iere the nuts are ripening slow. They mock at the owPs wefrd laughter And the cricket's lonesome cry, At the tardy swallows flying GEMS OF POETRY. Late through the darkening sky; And silently gliding after, Through the dusk of the shadowy street, Comes their little angel sister, Star white from her head to her feet — Never crossing the threshold, Come they early or late; With her empty hands on her bosom, She stops at the cottage gate. I stretch out my arms in longing, But she fades from my aching sight. As a little white cloud at morning Vanisnes into the light. And spite of the shining garments Folded about her now. And spite of the deathless beauty Crowning her lip and brow, I wish for one passionate moment She sat on my knee again; On her feet, so spotless and tender. The dust and the earthly stain. For missing her morning and evening, The bitterest thought must be That safe with her blessed kindred The child hath no need of me; And counting her heavenly birthdays, I say in my jealous care: " The babe that lay on my bosom Hath grown to a maiden fair; "And now if out of the glory MY ANGEL. Her face like a star should shine, Could I guess the beautiful changeling Had ever on earth been mine ? I should veil my eyes at her splendor, But never forget my lack For the clincrinof hands of mv babv, And the mouth that kissed me back." Yet though in my human blindness I cannot fathom His way Who counts His glorious cycles A thousand years as a day; — ^\Tienever the cloud is lifted, "Whenever I cross the tide. Mine own He will surely give me And I shall be satisfied. A WOMAN'S LOVE DREAM. NETTIE P. HOUSTON. E all have waking -visions — I have mine, And being young, and fanciful, and counted fai I sometimes dream of love. And sitting all alone, and musing still, AYhile yet the firelight flickers dim, I ask myself if I should learn to love. If my still heart could wake to life, How would I love, and how would I be loved; — I would be loved in calmness — ' Trusted and not feared. I do not ask that he be proud and cold, But calm, and grave, and very strong — A King, like? Saul, among the sons of men, And kinglier o'er himself. He must not tremble at my slightest frown Nor shudder if another meets my eye; I would not rule, nor yet would I be ruled; I scorn the tyrant as I scorn his slave. There is a love of sweet equality, ' The love God gave and smiled upon, — For it was very good. He whom I love must be my king. A WOMAN S LOVE DREAIVI. But I must be his queen; And he should yield me, as my tribute due, The reverence I had earned. Not only by my womanhood, but by all gentleness, Long-suffering, the patient sweetness. Only love can teach; For looking on me he should feel and know That peace and rest which follow after toil. I do not ask for him the world's applause, His deeds the annals of a nation's pride. His name upon the lips of men; But I must feel his power — Must know he could be what earth's heroes are — I could not love him were he not thus great. His hand must be both safe and strong; As hand to shield, to trust, to lay my own within. To stake my life upon; A hand that might have fought with Hercules, Yet would not harm the worm in his path, For tho' the heart of woman loveth oft A thing she doth unwillingly despise, It is a pitiful, imperfect love that hath not For its corner-stone the rock of Faith. His heart must be most tender and most true — A heart that loves, and pities, and befriends Earth's suffering children, whether high. Or yet among the lovely and the poor. And he must love me perfectly. If I should ever meet this man, While he bent down to kiss my shining hair. Or smooth its clusters from their clinging rest, A sweet unspoken, language in his touch Would lift my bright eyes to the light of his; 174 GEMS OF POETRY. And, as in fair Judea, when the world was young, Sarah with reverence said to Abraham, My lips should call him " Lord! " 176 GEMS OF POETRY. BUGLE SONG. A. TEXNYSON. The splendor falls on castle walls And snowy summits old in story: The long light shakes across the lakes And the wild cataract leaps in glory. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. O hark, O hear ! how thin and clear, And thinner, clearer, farther going ! O sweet and far from cliff and scar The horns of Elfland faintly blowing ! Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying : Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, d}dng, dying, dying. O love, they die in yon rich sky, They faint on hill or field or river : Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow forever and forever. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. 12 177 BEAUTY: A SONNET. W. SHAKSPERE. O how much more doth beauty beauteous seem, By that sweet ornament which truth doth give! The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem For that sweet odor which doth in it hve. The canker-blooms have fall as deep a dye. As the perfumed tincture of the roses, Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly When summer's breath their masked buds discloses But for their virtue only is their show, They live unwoo'd, and unrespected fade; Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so ; Of their sweet breaths are sweetest odors made. And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth, When that shall fade, my verse distils your truth. 178 THEY WENT A-FISHING. One morning, when Spring was in her teens — A morn to a poet's wishing All tinted in delicate pinks and greens — Miss Bessie and I went fishing; I in my rough and easy clothes, With my face at the sunshine's mercy; She with her hat tipped down to her nose And her nose tipped — vice versa. I with my rod, and reel and hooks, And a hamper for lunching recesses ; She with the bait of her comely looks, And the seine of her golden tresses. So we sat down on the sunny dike, Where the white pond lilies teeter. And I went to fishing, like quaint old Ike, And she like Simon Peter. AW the noon I lay in the light of her eyes, And dreamily watched and waited; But the fish were cunning and would not rise, And the baiter alone was baited. And, when the time for departure came, 179 180 GEMS OF POETRY, The bag was flat as a flounder; But Bessie had neatly hooked her game — ' A hundred- and- eighty pounder. SABBATH MORNING THOUGHTS. E. P. BEOTHWELL. Afar in the gleaming orient, the amber gates saving wide, And from his lair the day- king stalks thro' in peerless pride The darkness flyeth affrighted, the flowers look up thro' tears, As a lost child greets its mother, forgetting all its fears. Up, np till the walls of the city are burning like molten gold, And hall, and cottage, and chiii'cli- spire gleam bright in the shining fold; But the city is husht and silent, her thousand tongues are dumb, Like the tents of a sleeping army, that wait the rolling dium. The clock high up in the church-tower tells " Seven " in ringing peals; Yet no tramping upon the pavement, no crash of rolling wheels ; No answering chime fi'om work- shops — labor hath rest to- day — No patter of little footsteps, no childish shouts in play. 181 18'2 GEMS OF POETRY. Life weareth no outward tokens, until on the morning air The Sabbath bells' silvery chiming, telleth the hour of prayer, Throbbing thro all the city, and the worshipers come and go, Like the wave of the restless ocean continues to and fro. We sit in the softened sunlight that falls thro' the tinted panes. With pulsing heart uplifted by the organ's lofty strains; We echo the old petition that reverently is said, The old all-time petition asking for daily bread; For strength to resist temptation, fi'om evil to be set free. Giving the glory and honor and power, O God, to thee; But oh, with our human passions, how scarcely dare we pray, "As we forgive, O Father, forgive us our sins this day. "As we forgive, O Father! " were this the heartfelt cry Surging from every altar, up to thy throne on high. How we, thy erring children, should reach a tender hand To every sin- wreck' d struggler upon life's crowded strand! " Mother, come back from the echoless shore." 184: ROCK M'E TO SLEEP. MOTHER. :MIIS. ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEX. ACK^ARD. tiu'ii backward. 0 Time, in jom flight. Make me a child again just for to-night I Mother, come back fi'om the echoless shore, Take me again to vour heart as of yore; Kiss fi'om my forehead the fnrrows of care, Smooth the few silver thi^eads ont of my hair,* ] Over my slumbers your loving watch keep: — Rock me to sleep, motheiy-rock me to sleep! Backward, floAV backward. O tide of the years! I am so weary of toil and of tears, — Toil without recompense, tears all in vain. — Take them, and give me my childhood again ! I have grown weary of dust and decay, — "SVeaiw of flinging my soul- wealth away;- "W^ary of sowing for others to reap; — Rock me to sleep, motheiy-rock me to sleep? Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue. Mother, 0 mother, my heart calls for you I 185 GEMS OF POETRY. Many a summer the grass has grown green, Blossomed, and faded our faces between, Yet with strong yearning and passionate pain Long I to-night for your presence again. Comes from the silence so long and so deep; — Kock me to sleep, mother, — rock me, to sleep 1 Over my heart, in the days that are flown, No love like mother- love ever has shone; No other worship abides and endures, — Faithful, unselfish, and patient like yours: None like a mother can charm away pain From the sick soul and the world-weary brain. Slumber's soft calms o'er my heavy lids creep; — Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep! Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold, Fall on your shoulders again as of old; Let it drop over my forehead to-night, Snading my faint eyes away from the light: For with it-s sunny-edged shadows once more Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore; Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep ; — Rock'meto sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep! Mother, dear mother, the years have been long Since I last listened your lullaby song: Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem Womanhood's years have been only a dream. Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace, With your light lashes just sweeping my face, Never hereafter to wake or to weep; — Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep! ODE TO THE BEAVE. W. OOLLIXS. How sleep the brave who sink to rest, By all their conntrv's wishes blest! "When Spring with dewv fingers cold, Returns to deck their hallow' d mold, She there shall di'ess a sweeter sod Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. By fairy hands their knell is rung, By forms unseen their diro-e is suno-; There Honor comes, a pilgTim gray, To bless the turf that wraps their clay, And Freedom shall awhile repair, To dwell, a weeping hermit, there! "WHEN TO THE SESSIONS." SHAKSPERE. When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought, And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste: Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow, For precious friends hid in death's dateless night, And weep afresh love's long-since-cancelled woe, And moan the expense of many a vanished sight. Then can I grieve at grievances foregone. And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er The sad account of fore -bemoaned moan, Which I new pay as if not paid before. But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, AJl losses are restored, and sorrows end. 188 THE BIVOUAC GF THE DEAD. T. o'hAEA. HE muffled drum's sad roll has beat The soldier's last tattoo; No more on life's parade shall meet That brave and fallen few. On Fame's eternal camping ground Their silent tents are spread, And glory guards, with solemn round, The bivouac of the dead. No rumor of the foe's advance Now swells upon the wind; No troubled thought at midnight haunts Of loved ones left behind; No vision of the morrow's strife The warrior's dream alarms, No braying horn or screaming fife At the dawn shall call to arms. Their shivered swords are red with rust, Their plumed heads are bowed, Their haughty banner trailed in dust, Is now their martial shroud — 189 GEMS OF POETRY. And plenteous funeral tears have washed The red stains from each brow, And the proud forms, by battle gashed, Are free from anguish now. The neighing troop, the flashing blade, The bugle's stirring blast. The charge, the fearful cannonade, The din and shout are past — Nor war's wild note, nor glory's peal. Shall thrill with fierce delight Those breasts that never more may feel The rapture of the fight. Like the fierce northern hurricane That sweeps its great plateau, Flushed with the triumph yet to gain. Came down the serried foe — "Who heard the thunder of the fray Break o'er the field beneath. Knew well the watchword of that day Was victory or death. Full many a mother's breath has swept O'er Angostura's plain. And long the pitying sky has wept Above its moldered slain. The raven's scream or eagle's flight, Or shepherd's pensive lay. Alone now wake each solemn height That frowned o'er that dread fray. Sons of the dark and bloody ground; Ye must not slumber there, THE BIVOUAC OF THE BEAD. XVTiere stranger steps and. tongues resound Along the heedless air ; Your own proud land's heroic soil Shall be TOur fitter grave; She claims from war her richest spoil — The ashes of her brave. Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest, Far fi'om the gory field. Borne to a Spartan mother's breast On many a bloody shield. The sunshine of their native sty- Smiles sadly on them here. And kindi'ed eyes and hearts watch by The heroes' sepulchre. Eest on, embalmed and sainted dead! Dear as the blood ye gave. Xo impious footstep here shall tread The herbage of your grave. iSOT shall your glory be forgot "While Fame her record keeps, Or Honor points the hallowed spot "Where Valor proudly sleej^s. Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone In deathless song shall tell. "WTien many a vanished year hath flown The story how ye fell ; Nor wi^eck, nor change, nor Winter's blight Nor Time's remorseless doom, Can dim one ray of holy light That gilds your glorious tomb. THE TRUE POET. FROM bailey's " FESTUS." HE world is full of glorious likenesses. The poet's power is to sort these out, And to make music with the common strings With which ^he world is strung; to make the dumb Earth utter heavenly harmony, and draw Life clear and sweet and harmless as spring water Welling its way thro' flowers. The poet's pen is the true divining rod WTiich trembles toward the inner founts of feeling; Bringing to light and use else hid from all, The many sweet, clear sources which we have Of good and beauty in our own deep bosoms, And mocks the variations of all mind As does the needle an air-investing storm's. * * * * Experience and imagination are Mother and sire of song — the harp and hand. The bard's aim is to give us thoughts, his art Liieth in giving them as bright as may be. 192 THE TRUE POET. 193 And even when their looks are earthly, still If opened, like geodes, they may be found Full of sparkling, spany loveliness. They should be wought. not cast ; like tempered steel, Burned and cooled, bui-ned again, and cooled again. A thought is like a ray of light — complex In natui'e — simple only in effect. Words are the motes of thought, and nothing more; Words are like sea-shells on the shore; they show "WTiere the mind ends, and not how far it has been. Let every thought, too, soldier-like, be stripped And roughly looked over. A mist of words, Like halos round the moon, though they enlarge The seemino^ size of thouo'hts, make the li^^ht less Doubly. It is the thought writ down we want. Not its effect — not likenesses of likenesses. And such descriptions are not, more than gloves Instead of hands to shake, enough for us. * * * Great bards toil much and most, but most at fii'st . Ere- they can learn to concentrate the soul For hours upon a thought to carry it. Some never rise above a petty fault. And of whose best things it is kindly said. The thought is fair; but to be perfect wants A little hightening, like a pretty face With a low forehead. Some steal a thought And clip it round the edge, and challenge him 13 194 GEMS OF POETKY. Whose 'twas to swear to it. * * * What of style? There is no style is good, but nature's style. And the great ancient's writings beside ours Look like illuminated manuscripts Before plain press print; all had different minds, And followed only their own bents ; for this Nor copied that, nor that the other; each Is finished in his writing; each is best For his own mind and that it was upon; And all have lived, are living, and shall live; But these have died, are dying, and shall die; Yea, copyists shall die, spark out and out. Minds which combine and make alone can tell The bearings and workings of all things In and upon each other. "H^ "^i^" ^ ^ And he who means to be a great bard, must Measure himself against pure mind and fling His soul into a stream of thought, as will A swimmer hurl himself into the water. * * * * Write to the mind and heart, and let the ear Glean after what it can. The voice of great Or graceful thoughts is sweeter far than all Word music ; and great thoughts, like great deeds, need No trumpet. Never be in haste wi'iting. Let that thou utterest be of nature's flow. Not art's — a fountain's, not a pump's. But once Begun, work thou all things into thy work; And set thyself about it, as the sea THE TRUE POET. FRIENDSHIP. About eaiili, lashing at it day and night ; And leave the stamp of thine own soul in it Ab thorough as the fossil flower in clay. 195 FEIENDSHIP. SHAKSPERE. I count myself in nothing else so happy, As in a soul remembering my good friends; And, as my fortune ripens with my love, It shall be still thy ti'ue love's recompense. THE FINEST ENGLISH EPIGRAM. DR. DODDRIDGE. Live while you live," the epicure would say, And seize the pleasures of the present day. " Live while you live," the sacred preacher cries, And give to God each moment as it flies. Lord, in my view, let both united be; I live in pleasure while I live to thee. \ OUR IXFAXT IN HEAVEN. ILENCE filled the courts of heaven, Hushed were angel harp and tone, As w little new-born spirit Knelt before the eternal throne : While her small white hands were lifted, Clasped as if in earnest prayer, And her A'oice in low, sweet murmurs, Rose like music on the air. Light fi^om the full fount of glory On her robes of whiteness glistened, And the bright- winged seraphs round her Bowed their radiant heads and listened: Lord! from thy throne of glory here My heart turns fondly to another ; O, Lord, our God, the comforter. Comfort, comfort my sweet mother! Many soitows hast thou sent her. Meekly has she di^ained the cup. And the jewels thou h'ast lent her, Lnrepining, yielded up — Comfort, comfort my sweet mother. Earth is frowning darkly round her. Many, many hast thou taken, ]97 GEMS OF POETRY. Let her not, though clouds surround her, Feel herself of thee forsaken. Let her think, when faint and weary, We are waiting for her here; Let each lossThat makes earth dreary, Make the thought of heaven more dear — Comfort, comfort my sweet mother. Savior! thou in nature human, Dwelt on earth a little child. Pillowed on the breast of woman, Blessed Mary! undefiled. Thou, who from the cross of suffering, Marked thy mother's tearful face. And bequeathed her to thy loved one, Bidding him to fill thy place — Comfort, comfort my sweet mother. Thou, who from the heaven descending, Tears, and woes, and suffering won; Thou, who Nature's laws suspending. Gave the widow back her son; Thou, who at the grave of Lazarus, Wept with those who wept their dead; Thou, who once in mortal anguish. Bowed thy own anointed head — Comfort, comfort my sweet mother! The dove-like murmurs died away Upon the radiant air, But still the little suppliant knelt, With hands still clasped in prayer; Still were her softly-pleading eyes Turned to the sapphire throne, OUR INFANT IN HEAVEN. WOMAN. Till golden liarp and angel voice Eano^ out in uiio^litA' tone; And as tlie silvery numbers swelled. By seraph voices given. High, clear, and sweet the anthem rolled Through all the court of heaven. WOMAN. E. S. BARRET. Not she with traitorous Mss her Savior stung, Not she denied him with unholy tongue: She, w^hile apostles shrank, could dangers brave, Last at the cross and earliest at the grave. THE CHILD OF A KING. HATTIE E. BUELL. My father is rich in houses and lands, He holdeth the wealth of the world in his hands! Of rubies and diamonds, of silver and gold: His coffers are full, he has riches untold. My Father's own Son, the Savior of men, Once wandered o'er earth as the poorest of men, But now He is reigning forever on high, And will give me a home in heaven by and by. I once was an outcast stranger on earth, A sinner by choice, an "alien" by birth! But I've been "adopted," my name's written down An heir to a mansion, a robe, and a crown. A tent or a cottage, why should I care ? They're building a palace for me over there! Tho' exiled from home yet, still I may sing, All glory to God, I'm the child of a King. I'm the child of a King, The child of a King; With Jesus, my Savior, I'm the child of a King. _ 200 202 jrraine bonffsters. '•THE PKECIOUS GIFT OF SONG," If in one poor bleeding bosom I a woe- swept chord have stilled ; If a dark and restless spirit I with hope of heaven have filled; If I've made, for life's hard battle, One faint heart grow brave and strong — Then, my God, I thank thee, bless thee. For the precious gift of song. MAPY LOUISA CHITWOOD. WHICH SHALL IT BE? ELIZABETH AKEES ALLEN. HIGH shall it be? which shall it be?" I looked at John — John looked at me, Dear patient John, who loves me yet As well as though my locks were jet, And when I found that I must speak, My voice seemed strangely low and weak, "Tell me again what Kobert said," f And then I listened, bent my head. "This is his letter." ^ "I will give A house and land while you shall live, If in return from out your seven. One child to me for aye is given." I looked at John's old garments worn, I thought of all that J ohn had borne Of poverty and work and care, Which I, though willing could not share; Of seven hungry mouths to feed, Of seven little children's need, And then of this. 204 WHICH SHALL IT BE? "Come John," said I, "We'll choose among them as they lie asleep," So walking hand in hand, Dear J ohn and I surveyed our band. First to the cradle lightly stepped, Where Lilian, the baby slept; Her damp curls lay, like gold alight, A glory 'gainst the pillow white; Softly her father stooped to lay His rough hand down in a loving way, When dream or whisper made her stir. And huskily he said, "not her." We stepped beside the trundle bed. And one long ray of lamp-light shed Athwart the boyish faces there, In sleep so pitiful and so fair, I saw on Charlie's rough red cheek A tear undried, ere John could speak; He's but a baby, too," said I, And kissed him as we hurried by. Pale, patient Eobby's angel face Still in his sleep bore suffering's trace; " Nay, for a thousand crowns not him," He whispered while our eyes were dim. Poor Dick! sad Dick! our wayward son, Turbulent, reckless, idle one — Could he be spared. Nay, he who gave Bids us befiiend him to the grave; Only a mother's heart can be Patient enough for such as he; And so said John, "I would not dare GEMS OF POETRl. To send him from our bedside prayer.'* Then stole we lightly up above, And knelt by Mary, child of love; "Perhaps for her it would better be," I said to John, quite silently. He lifted up a curl that lay Across her cheek in willful way, And shook his head, "Nay, love, not thee;" The while my heart beat audibly. Only one more, our oldest lad. Trusty and truthful, good and glad. So like his father, "No, John, no: I can not, will not, let him go." And we wrote in courteous way. We would not give one child away; And afterward toil brighter seemed, Thinking of that of which we dreamed, Happy, in truth, that not one face, We missed from its accustomed place; Thankful to work for all of the seven. Trusting then to One in heaven. AT CHESS. SALLIE A. BROCK. BOVE a checkered table they bent — A man in his prime and a maiden fair, Over whose polished and blue-veined brow Rested no shadowy tinge of care. Her eyes were fountains of sapphire light : Her lips wore the curves of cheerful thought; And into her gestures and into her smile Grace and beauty their spell had fi'aught. Above the checkered table they bent, Wfitching the pieces, red and white, As each moved on in appointed course Through the mimic battle's steady tight — The queen, in her stately, regal power: The kmg, to her person friendly shield; The mitred bishop, with his support, And the massive castle across the field; The pawn, in his slow and cautious pace, A step at a time ; and the mounted kmght, Vaulting, as gallant horseman of old, To the right and left, and left and right. But a single word the silence broke, 207 GEMS OF POETRY. As they cleared aside the ruin and wreck Of the battle's havoc; and that word Was the little monosyllable "Check!" Pawns, and bishops, and castles, and knights Trembled together in sad dismay. While a pair of hearts were pulsing beside To a deeper, wilder, sweeter play. Yet the gaze of each — the man and the maid — On the board was fastened for turn of fate. When she archly whispered, with radiant glance, And a sparkling smile: "If you please, sir, mate!' And gently her fluttering triumph-hand, As white as a flake of purest pearl. She laid on the crown of her victor -king. While the other toyed with a wanton curl. He lifted the first to his smiling lips And on it imprinted a trembling kiss; And he murmured softly: " I should not care For losing the game could I win but this!" What the maiden answered 'twere treason to tell, As her blushes deepened to crimson glow, Mounting like lightning flashes quick Till they burned on cheeks, and ears and brow. And in three months' time the church-bells rang, And the parson finished the game begun. When both wore the conqueror's triumph -smile, And both were happy, for both had won. — Appleton's Journal THE SHELL. A. TEXXrSON. See what a lovely shell, Small and pm-e as a pearl, Lying close to my foot, Frail, but a work di^-ine, Made so f airily well With delicate spire and whorl, How exquisitely minute, A miracle of design! What is it ? a learned man Could give it a clumsy name. Let him name it who can, The beauty would be the same. The tiny cell is forlorn. Void of the little living will That made it stir on the shore. Did he stand at the diamond door Of liis house in a rainbow frill "? Did he push, when he was uncurl' d, A golden foot or a f any horn Thi'o' his dim water-world? 209 210 GEMS OF POETEY. Slight, to be crush' d with a tap Of my finger nail on the sand, Small, but a work divine. Frail, but of force to withstand, Year upon year, the shock Of cataract seas that snap The three-decker's oaken spine Athwart the ledges of rock Here on the Breton strand! A HUNDEED YEARS FEOM NOW. MES. MAEY A. TOED ('TNA.'") . Though bravely sails our bark to-day. pale death EE surging sea of human life forever onward And few^hall know we ever lived a hundred And bears to the eternal shore its daily fi'eight sits at the prow. rolls, of souls; A^ears from now. O mighty human brotherhood! why fiercely war and strive, ^\Taile God's great world has ample space for everything alive '? Broad fields, uncultured and unclaimed, are waiting for the plow Of progress that shall make them bloom a hundi'ed years from now. Why should we try so earnestly in life's short narrow span, On golden stah's to climb so high above our brother man ? Why blindly at an earthly shi'ine in slavish homage bow ? Our gold will rust, ourselves be dust, a hundi^ed years from now! 211 212 GEMS OF POETRY. "Why prize so much the world's applause ? Why dread so much its blame? A fleeting echo is its 'Voice of censure or of fame ; The praise that thrills the heart, the scorn that dyes with shame the brow, Will be as long -forgotten dreams a hundred years from now. O patient hearts, that meekly bear your weary load of wrong! O earnest hearts, that bravely dare, and, striving, grow more strong ! Press on till perfect peace is won; you'll never dream of how \ You struggled o'er life's thorny road a hundred years from now. Grand, lofty souls, who live and toil that freedom, right and truth Alone may rule the universe, for you is endless youth; When 'mid the blest, with God you rest, the grateful lands shall bow Above your clay in rev'rent love a hundred years from now. Earth's empires rise and fall, O Time I like breakers on thy shore ; They rush upon thy rocks of doom, go down, and are no more ; The starry wilderness of worlds that gem night's radiant brow AYill light the skies for other eyes a hundred years from now. Our Father, to whose sleepless eyes the past and future stand An open page, like babes we cling to thy protecting hand; Change, sorrow, death are naught to us if we may safely bow Beneath the shadow of Thy throne, a hundred years from now. CHRISTMAS CHIMES. VARIOUS AUTHORS. Rise, happy morn, rise, holy morn. Draw forth the cheerful day fi'om night; O Father, touch the east, and hght The hght that shone when Hope was born. — Tenxyson. This day Shall change aJl griefs and quarrels into love. — Shakspere. Light on thy hills, Jerusalem! The Savior now is born! And bright on Bethlehem's joyous plains Breaks the first Christmas morn. — E. H. Sears. This happy day, whose risen sun Shall set not through eternity ; This holy day when Christ, the Lord, Took on Him our humanity. PHEBE GARY. 213 I 214 GEMS OF POETRY. Immortal Babe, who this dear day, Didst change Thine Heaven for our clay, And didst with flesh thy God- head veil, Eternal Son of God, all hail! — Bishop Hall. There's a song in the air, there's a star in the sky, There's a mother's deep prayer, and a baby's low cry, And the star rains its fire while the beautiful sing. For the manger of Bethlehem cradles a king. — JosiAH Gilbert Holland. With gentle deeds and kindly thoughts And loving words, withal, Welcome the merry Christmas in, And hear a brother's call. — F. Lawrence. But the star that shines in Bethlehem Shines still, and shall not cease. And we listen still to the tidings Of glory and of peace. — Adelaide A. Procter. Who taught mankind on that first Christmas day. What 'twas to be a man; to give, not take; To serve, not rule; to nourish, not devour; To help, not crush; if need, to die, not live? C. KiNGSLEY. The poor will many a care forget. The debtor think not of his debt. But as they each enjoy their cheer. Wish that 'twere Christmas all the year. — Thomas Miller. CHRISTMAS CHIMES. 215 "Tr^-as Christmas broached the raightiest ale; 'Twas Christmas told the memest tale; A Chi'istmas gambol oft could cheer The poor man's heart through half the year. — Sir Walter Scott. As fits the holy Chi'istmas birth, Be this, good friends, our carol still — Be peace on earth, be peace on earth, To men of gentle will. — AV. M. Thackeray. A SONG OF HOME. EMILY C. H. MILLER. LL day in the deepening sunlight The tops of the mountain glow, All night the white waves of the moonlight Roll down to the valleys below. I sit by my window and listen To the voice of the whispering breeze, As it bears me the breath of the clover, And the murmurous hum of the bees. But away over meadow and upland, A thousand swift fancies have flown, To see how around the old homestead The glory of summer has shone. I see it again in my dreaming; The twilight is heavy and deep, And across the green fields of the barley The night- winds come wooing to sleep. I can hear through the hush how the water Goes chiming along by the mill, With a tune that begins at the sunset, 216 A SOyG or HOME. TMien the sound of the grinding is still. O sweet as a mother's Ioav singing To the baby aslee^^ on her breast, Eino^s out that soft sono; of the water. When the t^^-ilight di'ops down from the west! How white throtigh the boughs of the maple Gleams out the low cottage I love, AVith the moonlight asleep on the threshold, And the stars keeping vigils above! All hushed! but I know by the hearth stone They knelt at the nightfall to pray. And remembered with fond benediction The loved who have wandered away. And one hath no need of their praying. For once, when the summer was bright, She passed through the valley of shadow To the gates of the city of light. And kneeling alone with our sorrow — Alone on that sorrowful shore, "We wept when we thought how her footsteps Would never come back any more. For the brows that eternity crowneth May never be saddened by woe. And the lips that have sung with the angels Are silent forever below. WHEN THE SONG'S GONE." ["When the song's gone out of your life, you can't start another while it's a-ringing in your ears, but it's best to have a bit of silence^ and out o' that maybe a psalm'll come hy-and-hy"-Edward Garrett.] HEN the song's gone out of your life, That you thought would last to the end — That first sweet song of the heart, That no after days can lend — The song of the birds to the trees, The song of the wind to the flowers, The sono^ that the heart sino^s low to itself When it wakes in life's morning hours. a You can start no other song," Not even a tremulous note Will falter forth on the empty air, It dies in your aching throat. It is all in vain that you try, For the spirit of song has fled — The nightingale sings no more to the rose When the beautiful flower is dead. So let silence softly fall On the bruised heart's quivering strings; Perhaps from the loss of all 218 "when the song's gone," MUSIC. 219 You may learn the song that the seraph, sings ; A grand and glorious psalm That will tremble, and rise and thrill, And fill your breast with its grateful rest, And its lonely yearnings still. - Boston Transcript. THE DEPARTURE OF THE SWALLOW. WILLIAM HO WITT. ND is the swallow gone ? Who beheld it? Which way sailed it? Farewell bade it none? No mortal saw it go; — But who doth hear Its summer cheer As it flitteth to and fro? So the freed spirit flies ! From its surrounding clay- It steals away Like the swallow from the skies. Whither ? wherefore doth it go ? 'Tis all unknown; We feel alone That a void is left below. 220 THE BRIDGE. H. W. LONGFELLOW. [By permission of HoughtoD, Mifflin & Co.] STOOD on the bridge at midnight, As the clocks were striking the hour, And the moon rose o'er the city, Behind the dark church-tower. I saw her bright reflection In the waters under me, Like a golden goblet falling And sinkinof into the sea. And far in the hazy distance Of that lovely night in June, The blaze of the flaming furnace Gleamed redder than the moon. Amono^ the lonc^. black rafters The wavering shadows lay, And the current that came from the ocean Seemed to lift and bear them away; As, sweeping and eddying through them, Eose the belated tide. 221 GEMS OF POETRY. And, streaming into the moonlight, The sea-weed floated wide. And like those waters rushing Among the wooden piers, A flood of thoughts came o'er me That filled my eyes with tears. How often, O how often, In the days that had gone by, I had stood on that bridge at midnight, And gazed on that wave and sky! How often, O how often, I had wished that the ebbing tide Would bear me away on its bosom O'er the ocean wild and wide! For my heart was hot and restless, And my life was full of care, And the burden laid upon me Seemed greater than I could bear. But now it has fallen from me. It is buried in the sea; And only the sorrow of others Throws its shadow over me. Yet whenever I cross the river On its bridge with wooden piers. Like the odor of brine from the ocean Comes the thought of other years. And I think how many thousands Of care- encumbered men, THE BRIDGE. Each bearing his burden of sorrow. Have crossed the bridge since then. I see the long procession Still passing to and fi'O. The young heart hot and restless, And the old subdued and slow I And forever and forever, As long as the river llows. As long as the heart has passions, As long as life has woes; The moon and its broken reflection And its shadows shall appear, As the symbol of love in heaven, And its waverinc^ imao^e here. NEVER FAILED US. Upon the sadness of the sea, The sunset broods regretfully; From the far, lonely spaces, slow Withdraws the wistful afterglow. So out of life the splendor dies; So darken all the happy skies ; So gathers twilight, cold and stern, But overhead the planets burn; And up the east another day Shall chase the bitter dark away; What though our eyes with tears be wet ? The sunrise never failed us yet. The blush of dawn may yet restore Our light and hope and joy once more: Sad soul, take comfort, nor forget That sunrise never failed us yet. 224 r SONGS. SHAKSPEKE. AEIET/S SONG. HEEE tlie bee sucks, there lurk I; In a cowslip's bell I lie; ^There I couch when owls do cry; On the bat's back I do fly. After summer merrily. Merrily, merrily, shall I live now. Under the blossom that hangs on the bough. THE FAIEY TO PUCK. Over hill, over dale, Thorough bush, thorough brier, Over park, over pale, Thorough flood, thorough fire, I do wander everywhere, Swifter than the moon's sphere. And I serve the Fairy Queen; To dew her orbs upon the green ; The cowslips tall her pensioners be, In their gold coats spots you see, — Those be rubies, fairy favors ; In those freckles live their savors. 15 225 GEMS OF POETRY. I must go seek some dew-drops here, And hang a pearl in every cowshp's ear, AMIENS'S SONG. Blow, blow, thou winter wind, Thou art not so unkind As man's ingratitude; Thy tooth is not so keen. Because thou art not seen. Although thy breath be rude. Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, That dost not bite so nigh As benefits forgot: Though thou the waters warp, Thy sting is not so sharp As friend remembered not. HARK ! HARK ! THE LARK ! Hark! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings, And Phoebus 'gins arise, His steeds to water at those springs On^ chaliced flowers that lies; And winking Mary buds begin To ope their golden eyes; "With everything that pretty bin ; My lady sweet, arise. UNDER THE GREENWOOD-TREE. Under the greenwood-tree Who loves to lie with me, And tune his merry note Unto the sweet bird's throat. Come hither, come hither, come hither; SONGS. 227 Here shall he see No enemy, But Avinter and rough weather. Who cloth ambition shun, And loves to live i' the sun, Seeking the food he eats, And pleased with what he gets, Come hither, come hither, come hither! Here shall he see No enemy, But winter and rough weather. THE SABBATH OF THE SOUL. Sleep, sleep to-day, tormenting cares, Of earth and folly born ; Ye shall not dim the light that streams From this celestial morn. To-morrow will be time enough To feel your harsh control; Ye shall not violate, this day. The Sabbath of my soul. Sleep, sleep forever, guilty thoughts ; Let fires of vengeance die; And, purged from sin, may I behold A God of purity ! MRS. ANNA L. BARBAULD. 228 THE BOWEE OE BLISS. E. SPEXSZE. HEEE the most dainty paradise on ground Itself doth offer to his sober eye. In which all pleasiii'es plenteonsly abound, And none does others' happiness emy; The painted flo^ver5. the trees iijDshooting high. The dales for shade, the hills for breathing space. The ti'embling groves, the crystal running by. And that which all fair Avorks doth most aggrace. The art. which all that wi'oiight. appeared in no placo. One would have thought (so cunningly the rude And scorned parts were mingled vvith the hnei That natui'e had for wantonness ensued Art. and that art at nature did repine: So stiiving each the other to tmdennine. Each chd the other's work more beautify: So differing both in wills, agi^eed in line: So all agi'eed through sweet diversity. This gai'den to adorn with all variety. 230 GEMS OF POETRY. Eftsoons they heard a most melodious sound, Of all that might delight a dainty ear, Such as at once might not on living ground, Save in this paradise be heard elsewhere: Right hard it was for wight which did it hear, To read what manner music that might be: For all that pleasing is to living ear; Was there consorted in one harmony; Birds, voices, instruments?, winds, waters, all agree. The joyous birds, shrouded in cheerful shade, Their notes unto the voice attempered sweet; The angelical soft trembling voices made To the instruments divine respondence meet; The silver sounding instruments did meet With the base murmur of the water's fall: The water's fall with difference discreet, Now soft, now loud, unto the wind did call: The gentle warbling wind low answered to all. NATUEE'S HYMNS. J. Ct. ^YHITTIEK. [By permission of Houghton, Mifflin Co.] And to her voice the solemn ocean lent, Touching its harp of sand, a deep accompaniment. ^^^-^HE harp at Nature's advent strung Has never ceased to play: The sono^ the stars of mornino^ suno^ Has never died away. And prayer is made, and praise is given, By all things near and far; The ocean looketh up to heaven. And miiTors every star. Its waves are kneeling on the strand, As kneels the human knee. Their white locks bowing to the sand. The priesthood of the sea I They pour their glittering treasures foi-th, Their gifts of pearl they bring, And all the listening hills of earth Take ujd the song they sing. 231 232 GEMS OF POETKY. The green earth sends her incense up From many a mountain shrine; From folded leaf and dewy cup She pours her sacred wine. The mists above the morning rills Else white as wings of prayer; The altar -curtains of the hills ^ Are sunset's purple air. The winds with hymns of praise are loud, Or low with sobs of pain, — The thunder -organ of the cloud. The dropping tears of rain. With drooping head and branches crossed The twilight forest grieves, Or speaks with tongues of Pentecost From all its sunlit leaves. The blue sky is the temple's arch. Its transept earth and air, The music of its starry march The chorus of a prayer. So Nature keeps the reverent frame With which her years began. And all her signs and voices shame The prayerless heart of man. ^Ll-JESTY OF GOD. T. STEEXHOLL>. The Lord descended from above. And bowed the heavens most high. And underneath his feet he cast The darkness of the sky. On cherubim and sera^^him Full royally he rode. And on the wino:s of mio-htv vrinds Came liying all abroad. He sat serene upon the floods. Their fury to restrain: And he. as sovereign Lord and King, For eveiTQore shall reign. Give crlorv to his awfnl name. And h'jnor him alone: Give worship to his majesty. Upon his holy thi'one. 233 **N0, NOT MORE WELCOME." TOM MOORE. No, not more welcome the fairy numbers Of music fall on the sleeper's ear, When, half -awaking from fearful slumbers, He thinks the full choir of heaven is near, — Than came that voice, when all forsaken. This heart long had sleeping lain. Nor thought its cold pulse would ever waken To such benign, blessed sounds again. Sweet voice of comfort! 'twas like the stealing Of summer wind thro' some wreathed shell; Each secret winding, each inmost feeling Of all my soul echoed to its spell! *Twas whisper'd balm — 'twas sunshine spoken! I'd live years of grief and pain. To have my long sleep of sorrow broken By such benign, blessed sounds again. 234 BEAUTIFUL HANDS. MRS. ELLEN H, GATES. CH beantiftil, beantifnl hands, They're neither white nor small, I And you, I know, would scarcely think I That they were fair at all; 'S) I've looked on hands in form and hue A sculptor's dream might be. Yet are these aged, wrinkled hands Most beautiful to me. Such beautiful, beautiful hands; Tho' heart was weary and sad, These patient hands kept toiling on That the childi-en might be glad; I often weep, as looking back, To childhood's distant day, I think how these hands rested not When mine were at their play. Such beautiful, beautiful hands. They're grov»dng feeble now. And time and toil have left their mark On hand, and heart, and brow; GEMS OF POETRY. Alas, alas ! the nearing time, The sad, sad day to me, When 'neath the daisies, cold and white, These hands will folded be. But O beyond these shadowy lands, Where all is bright and fair, , I know full well these dear old hands Will palms of victory bear; Where crystal streams thro' endless years Flow over golden sands, And where the old grow young again, I'll clasp my mother's hands. UNDER MILTON'S PICTURE. J. DRYDEN. Three Poets, in three distant ages born, Greece, Italy, and England did adorn. The first in loftiness of thought surpassed; The next in majesty; in both the last. The force of Nature could no further go; To make a third, she joined the former two. WO^LIX'S VOICE. EDWIX .4lEN0LD. OT in the spraying of the summer trees, '^'Mien evening breezes sing their vesper hymn — Not in the minstrel's mighty symphonies, ^ Xor ripples breaking on the river's brim. ^^^^.^1^ Is earth's best music: these may leave awhile "^Ij;^ High thoughts in happy heaii;s, and carking * cares beguile. But even as the swallow's silken wings, Skimming the water of the sleeping lake, Stii' the still silver with a hundred rings — So doth one sound the slee^^ing spirit wake To brave the danger and to bear the harm — A low and gentle voice — dear woman's chief est charm. An excellent thing it is I and ever lent To truth, and love, and meekness: they who own This gift by the all gracious Giver sent. Ever by quiet step and smile are kno^m : By kind eyes that have wept, hearts that have soiTOw'd — - By patience never tired, frozn their own trials boiTOw'd, 237 288 GEMS OF POETRY. An excellent thing it is — when first in gladness A mother looks into her infant's eyes — Smiles to its smiles, and saddens at its sadness — Pales at its paleness, sorrows at its cries; Its food and sleep, and smiles and little joys — All these come ever blent with one low, gentle voice. An excellent thing it is when life is leaving — Leaving with gloom and gladness, joys and cares — The strong heart failing, and the high soul grieving With strongest thoughts, and wild, unwonted fears; Then, then, a woman's low, soft sympathy Comes like an angel's voice to teach us how to die. But a most excellent thing it is in youth, When the fond lover hears the loved one's tone. That fears, but longs, to syllable the truth — How their two hearts are one, and she his own; It makes sweet human music — oh! the spells That haunt the trembling tale a bright- eyed maiden tells. WE SHALL KNOW. ANNIE HERBERT. HEN the mists have rolled in splendor From the beauty of the hills, And the sunshine, warm and tender, Falls in kisses on the rills, We may read love's shining letter In the rainbow of the spray, — We shall know each other better When the mists have cleared away. If we err, in human blindness, And forget that we are dust; If we miss the law of kindness ♦ When we struggle to be just. Snowy wings of peace shall cover All the plain that hides away, — When the weary watch is over, And the mists have cleared away. When the mists have risen above us, As our Father knows his own. Face to face with those that love us, We shall know as we are known; 239 GEMS OF POETKY. Love, beyond the orient meadowiS Floats the golden fringe of day, Heart to heart, we bide the shadows, Till the mists have cleared away. We shall know as we are known, Nevermore to walk alone, In the dawning of the morning. When the mists have cleared away. LIGHT AFTER DAEKNESS, Light after darkness, Gain after loss, Strength after weakness, Crown after cross, Sweet after bitter. Song after fears, Home aft6r wandering, Praise after tears. Sheaves after sowing. Sun after rain. Light after mystery, Peace after pain, Joy after sorrow, Calm after blast, Eest after weariness, Sweet rest at last. Near after distant. Gleam after gloom, Love after loneliness. Life after tomb ; After long agony, Rapture of bliss; Right was the pathway , Leading to this! 241 THE FREE MIND. W. L. GAERISON. ' High walls and huge the body may confine, And iron gates obstruct the prisoner's gaze, And massive bolts may baffle his design. And vigilant keepers watch his devious ways: Yet scorns the immortal mind this base control! No chains can bind it, and no cell inclose: Swifter than light, it flies from pole to pole. And in a flash from earth to heaven it goes! It leaps from mount to mount; from vale to vale It wanders, plucking honeyed fruits and flowers; It visits home, to hear the fireside tale, Or, in sweet converse, pass the joyous hours. 'Tis up before the sun, roaming afar. And, in its watches, wearies every star! 242 THE PRIDE OF BATTERY B. OUTH Mountain towered upon our right, far off the river lay; And over on the Avooded hight we held their lines at bay. At last the muttering guns were still; the day died slow and wan. At last the gunners' pipes did till, the sargeant's yarns began. When, as the wind a moment blew aside the fragrant flood Our briar woods raised, within our view a little maiden stood. A tiny tot of six or seven, from fireside fresh she seemed, (Of such a little one in heaven one soldier often dreamed.) And as we stared her little hand went to her curly head In grave salute: " And who are you?" at length the sargeant said. "And where' s your home?" he growled again. She lisped out "Who is me ? Why, don't you know? I'm little Jane, the Pride of Bat- tery B. 243 244 GEMS or POETRY. "My home ? Why, that was burned away, and Pa and Ma are dead, And so I ride the guns all day along with Sargeant^I^ed. "And I've a drum that's not a toy, a cap with feathers, too, And I march beside the drummer boy on Sundays at re- view. "But now our 'bacca's all give out, the men can't have their smoke, And so they're cross — why, even Ned won't play with me and joke. "And the big colonel said to-day — I hate to hear him swear — He'd give a leg for a good pipe like the Yank had over there; "And so I thought when beat the drum and the big guns were still, I'd creep beneath the tent and come out here across the hill ''And beg, good mister Yankee man, you'd give me some Lone Jack; Please do — when we get some again I'll surely bring it back. "Indeed I will, for Ned — says he — 'if I do what I say, I'll be a general yet, maybe, and ride a prancing bay.' " We brimmed her tiny apron o'er; you should have heard her laugh As each mart from his scanty store shook out a generous half. TEI] PRIDE OF BATTERY B. 245 To kiss the little mouth stooped down a score of grimy men, Until the sargeant's husky voice said "'Tention squad," and. then ' We gave her escort, till good- night the pretty waif we bid And watched her toddle out of sight — or else 'twas tears that hid Her tiny form — nor tui'ned about a man, nor spoke a word Till after awhile a far, hoarse shout upon the wind we heard ; We sent it back, and cast sad eyes on the scene around; A baby's hand had touched the ties that brothers once had bound. That's all — save when the dawn awoke again the work of hell, And through the sullen clouds of smoke the screaming missiles fell, Our General often rubbed his glass, and marveled much to see Not a single shell bhat whole day fell in the camp of Bat- tery B. A LOVE SONG. A. P. GRAVES. All ! swan of slenderness, dove of tenderness, Jewel of joys, arise! The little red lark, like a rosy spark, Unto his sunburst flies, But till you are risen, earth is a prison. Full of my captive sighs. Then wake, and discover to your fond lover The morn of your matchless eyes. The dawn is dark to me; hark, oh! hark to me, Pulse of my heart, I pray, And gently gliding out of thy hiding, ' Dazzle me w^ith thy day! And oh! I'll fly to thee, singing, and sigh to thee, Passion so sweet and gay, The lark shall listen, and dewdrops glisten, Laughing on every spray. 246 TBI: SOUECE OF HAPPI^'ESS. C. WILCOX. "Woiilclst thon fi'om sorrow lind a sweet relief ? Or is thy heart oppressed A-^^ith woes untold ? BaliQ woiildst thou gather for coiToding grief ? Poui' blessins:^ round thee like a shower of gold. — 'Tis w-hen the rose is wrapped in many a fold Close to its heart, the worm is wasting there Its life and beauty: not when, all um\-^lled. Leaf after leaf, its bosom, rich and fair. Breathes fi'eely its perfimies thi'oughout the ambient air. Rouse to some work of high and holy love. And thou an angel" s happiness shalt know. — Shalt bless the earth while in the world above: The good begun by thee shall onward liow In many a branching stream, and wuder grow; The seed that, in these few and fleeting houi's. Thy hands unsparing and unwearied sow. Shall deck thy gi-ave with amaranthine flowers. And -yield thee fiTiits diAine in heaven's immonal bowers. 247 THE MYSTEEIOUS MUSIC OF OCEAN. ONELY and wild it rose, That strain of solemn mu^ic from the sea, As though the bright air trembled to disclose An ocean mystery. Again a low, sweet tone. Fainting in murmurs on the listening day, Just bade the excited thought its presence own. Then died away. Once more the gush of sound, Struggling and swelling from the heaving plain. Thrilled a rich peal triumphantly around. And fled again. O boundless deep! we know Thou hast strange wonders in thy gloom concealed, Gems, flashing gems, from whose unearthly glow Sunlight is sealed. And an eternal spring Showers her rich colors with unsparing hand, Where coral trees their graceful branches fling O'er golden sand. 248 THE MYSTERIOUS MUSIC OF OCEA^' 249 But tell. O restless main! ^Tio are the dwellers in tliv world beneath. That thns the watery realm cannot contain The joy they breathe ? Emblem of o-lorious mioiit! Are thy wild children like thyself aiTayed, Stroncr in immortal and unchecked delio^ht, AVhich cannot fade Or to mankind allied. Toiling with avo. and passion's tiery sting. Like their own home, where storms or peace preside, As the winds bring ? Alas for human thought I How does it llee existence, worn and old. To win companionship with beings Avrought Of finer mold! 'Tis vain the reckless waves , Join with loud revel the dim ages flo^^ii. But keep each secret of their hidden caves Dark and unknown. WahJt's XationaJ Gazette. SPEING. 4 p. WILLIS. HE Spring is here — the dehcate-footed May, With its slight fingers full of leaves and flowers; And with it comes a thirst to be away, Wasting in wood-paths its voluptuous hours — A feeling that is like a sense of wings, Restless to soar above these perishing things. We pass out from the city's feverish hum. To find refreshment in the silent woods ; And nature, that is beautiful and dumb, Like a cool sleep upon the pulses broods. Yet, even there, a restless thought will steal. To teach the indolent heart it still must J~ee/. Strange, that the audible stillness of the noon, The waters tripping with their silver feet. The turning to the light of leaves in J une. And the light whisper as their edges meet — Strange — that they fill not, with their tranquil tone, The spirit, walking in their midst alone. There's no contentment, in a world like this, Save in forgetting the immortal dream; 250 SPRING. We may not gaze upon the stars of bliss. That through the cloud-rifts radiantly stream Bird- like, the prisoned soul will lift its eye And sing — till it is hooded fi'om the sky. ON THE DEATH OF J. K. DRAKE. #— ■ F. G. HALLECK. Green be the turf above thee, Friend of my better days! None knew thee but to love thee, Nor named thee but to praise. Tears fell, when thou wert dying. From eyes unused to weep, And long, where thou art lying. Will tears the cold turf steep. When hearts, whose truth was proven, Like thine, are laid in earth, There should a wreath be woven To tell the world their worth. And I, who woke each morrow. To clasp thy hand in mine. Who shared thy joy and sorrow. Whose weal and wo were thine, — It should be mine to braid it Around thy faded brow; But I've in vain essayed it, And feel I cannot now. 252 ox THE DEATH OF J, E. DRAKE. While memory bids me weep thee, Nor thoughts nor words are free, The grief is fixed too deeply That mourns a man like thee. THANATOPSIS. W. C. BRYANT. [Thanatopsis— one of the first and best poems of the American Homer— was published in 1817, in the North American Review, and at once attracted the merited attention which has never abat- ed. This "Hymn of Death" is as sublime and beautiful as a Himalayan peak bathed in the rays of the rising sun. The follow- ing verses were prefixed to Thanatopsis at first:] OT that from life, and all its woes, The hand of death shall set me free; Not that this head shall then repose, In the low vale, most peacefully. "Ah, when I touch time's farthest brink, A kinder solace must attend; It chills my very soul to think On that dread hour when life must end. '*In vain the flattering verse may breathe Of ease from pain, and rest from strife; There is a sacred dread of death, Inwoven with the strings of life. "This bitter cup at first was given. When angry Justice frowned severe; 254 THAXATOPSIS. And 'tis the eternal doom of Heaven, That man must view the grave with fear." To him who, in the love of Natui^e, holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language. For his gayer houi's She has a voice of gladness, and a smile And eloquence of beauty; and she glides Into his darker musings with a mild And gentle sympathy, that steals away Their sharpness, ere he is aware. "^Mien thoughts Of the last bitter hour come like a blight Over thy spirit, and sad images Of the stern agony, and shi'oud, and pall, And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart, — Go forth unto the ojoen sky. and list To nature's teachings, while fi'om all around — Eai-th and her waters, and the depths of air — Comes a still voice— Yet a few days, and thee The all -beholding sun shall see no more In all his course. Nor yet in the cold ground, ^\Tiere thy pale form was laid, with many tears. Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim Thy gi'owth, to be resolved to earth again; And, lost each human trace, smTendering up Thine indi^ddual being, .shalt thou go To mix forever with the elements, To be a brother to the insensible rock And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mold. 256 GEMS OF POETRY. Yet not to thy eternal resting-place Shalt thou retire alone; nor couldst thou wish Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down With patriarchs of the infant world — with kings, The powerful of the earth — the wise, the good, Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills, Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun; the vales, Stretching in pensive quietness between ; The venerable woods ; rivers that move In majesty; and the complaining brooks. That make the meadow green; and, poured round all, Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste, — Are but the solemn decorations all Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun. The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, Are shining on the sad abodes of death, Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings Of morning, and the Barcan desert pierce ; Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound. Save his own dashings; yet — the dead are there; And millions in those solitudes, since first The flight of years began, have laid them down In their last sleep —the dead reign there alone. So shalt thou rest; and what if thou shalt fall Unnoticed by the living, and no friend Take note of thy departure ? All that breathe Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Plod on, and each one, as before, will chase THAJv-i.rOPSIS. His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave Their mirth and their employments, and shall come, And make their bed with thee. As the long train Of ages glide away, the sons of men. The youth in life's green sj^ring, and he who goes In the full strength of years, matron, and maid, The bowed with age, the infant, in the smiles And beauty of its innocent age cut off, — Shall, one by one, be gathered to thy side, By those, who. in their turn, shall follow them. So live, that, when tnv summons comes to jo:i> The innumerable caravan, that moves To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take His chamber in the silent halls of death. Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night. Scouro-ed to his dunofeon; but. sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, Like one who wraps the di^apery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. DAVID'S LAMENT OVER ABSALOM. N. P. WILLIS. HE soldiers of the king trod to and fro, Clad in the garb of battle ; and their chief, The mighty Joab, stood beside the bier, And gazed upon the dark pall steadfastly, As if he feared the slnmberer might stir. A slow step startled him. He grasped his blade As if a trumpet rang ; but the bent form Of David entered, and he gave command, In a low tone, to his few followers. And left him with his dead. The king stood still Till the last echo died: then, throwing off The sackcloth from his brow, and laying back The pall from the still features of his child. He bowed his head upon him, and broke forth In the resistless eloquence of wo:— " Alas! my noble boy! that thou should' st die! Thou, who wert made so beautifully fair! That death should settle in thy glorious eye, And leave his stillness in this clustering hair! How could he mark thee for the silent tomb ? My proud boy Absalom! 258 David's laseent over absalom. Cold is thy brow, my son I and I am chill, As to my bosom I have tried to press thee. How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill, Like a rich harp -string, yearning to caress thee, And hear thy sweet ^'my father.''^ from these dumb And cold lips, Absalom! The grave hath won thee. I shall hear the gush Of music, and the voices of the young; And life will pass me in the mantling blush. And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung; — But thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shalt come To meet me, Absalom! ''And, oh! when I am stricken, and my heart, Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken, How will its love for thee, as I de23art, Yearn for thine ear to di'ink its last deep token! It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom. To see thee, Absalom ! " And now, farewell! 'Tis hard to give thee up. With death so like a gentle slumber on thee: — And thy dark sin! — Oh! I could drink the cup. If from this wo its bitterness had won thee. May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home, My erring Absalom !*' He covered up his face, and bowed himself A moment on his child: then, giving him A look of melting tenderness, he clasped His hands convulsively, as if in prayer; And, as a strength were given him of God, He rose up calmly, and composed the pall GEMS OF POETRY. Firmly and decently, and left him there, As if his rest had been a breathing sleep. TO THE LADY ANNE HAMILTON. W. R. SPENCER. Too late I stayed, forgive the crime, Unheeded flew the hours; How noiseless falls the foot of Time That only treads on flowers! What eye with clear account remarks The ebbing of his glass, When all its sands are diamond sparks That dazzle as they pass! Ah! who to sober measurement Time's happy swiftness brings, When birds of Paradise have lent Their plumage to its wings ? THE ^YIXGED AVOESHIPEES. C. SPRAGUE. AY, guiltless pair. AMiat seek ye from the fields of heav Ye have no need of prayer. Ye have no sins to be forgiven. AYhy perch ye here. "Where mortals to their Maker bend ? Can your pure spirits fear The God ye never could offend ? Ye never knew The crimes for which we come to weep: Penance is not for yon. Blessed wanderers of the n23per deep. To yon 'tis given To wake sweet nature's untaught lays; Beneath the arch of heaven To chirp away a life of praise. Then spread each wing, Far, far above, o'er lakes and lands, And join the choirs that sing In yon blue dome not reared with hands. GEMS OF POETRY. Or, if ye stay, To note the consecrated hour, Teach me the airy way, And let me try your envied power. Above the crowd, On upward wings could I but fly, I'd bathe in yon bright cloud. And seek the stars that gem the sky. 'Twere heaven indeed. Through fields of trackless light to soar, On nature's charms to feed. And nature's own great God adore. THE ISLE OF THE LOXG AGO. BEXJ. F. TAYLOR. [By permission of S. C- Griggs & Co.] A AYOXDERFUL stream is the river Time, As it runs tlii'ongli the reahn of tears. AVith a faultless rhythm aud a musical rhyme, And a boundless sweep and a surge sublime, As it blends with the ocean of vears. How the winters are drifting-, like flakes of snow, And the summers like buds between. And the year in the sheaf.— so they come and they go, On the river's breast, with its ebb and flow. As it cflides in the shadow and sheen. There 's a magical Isle up the river Time, Where the softest of airs are playing: There's a cloudless sky and a tropical clime. And a song as sweet as a vesper chime, And the -Junes with the roses are stravinor And the name of that Isle is the Lono- A^o, And we bury our treasures there: There are broAvs of beauty and bosoms of snow • There are heaps of dust — but we loved them so! There are trinkets and tresses of hair ; 263 GEMS OF POETRY. There are fragments of song that nobody sings, And a part of an infant's prayer; There's a lute imswept, and a harp without strings; There are broken vows and pieces of rings, And the garments that she used to wear. There are hands that are waved when the fairy shore By the Mirage is Hfted in air, And we sometimes hear through the turbulent roar Sweet voices we heard in the days gone before, "When the wind down the river is fair. O remember' d for aye, be the blessed Isle, All the day of our life until night; When the evening comes with its beautiful smile, And our eyes are closing to slumber awhile, May that " Greenwood " of soul be in sight! THERE COIMES A TIME. There comes a time, or soon or late, When exery word unkindly spoken, Returns with all the force of fate. To bear reproof from spirits broken, Who slumber in that tranquil rest, ^\Tiich waking cares no more molest. Oh I were the wealth of worlds our own, We fi^eely would the treasures yield, If eyes that here their last haye shone, If lip- m endless silence sealed. One loo.x uf loye o'er us might cast, Might breathe forgiyeness to the past. When ano^er arms the thoug^htless tongue, To wound the feelings of a friend. Oh! thmk ere yet his heait be wrung, In what remorse thy wrath may end; Withhold to-day the words of hate, To-morrow it may be too late. A WISH. S. ROGERS. Mine be a cot beside the hill ; A bee -hive's hum shall soothe mine ear; A willowy brook that turns a mill, With many a fall shall linger near. The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch Shall twitter from her clay built nest; Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch, And share my meal, a welcome guest. Around my ivied porch shall spring Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew; And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing In russet gown and apron blue. The village -church among the trees, Where first our marriage -vows were given, With merry peals shall swell the breeze, And point with taper spire to heaven. 266 LINES WRITTEN WHILE SAILING IN A BOAT AT EVENING. W. WOEDSWORTH. How richly glows the water's breast ^ Before us, tinged with evening hues, While facing thus the crimson west, The boat her silent course pursues! And see how dark the backward stream! A little moment past so smiling! And still, perhaps, with faithless gleam. Some other loiterers beguiling. Such views the youthful bard allure ; But, heedless of the following gloom, He deems their colors shall endure Till peace go with him to the tomb. And let him nurse his fond deceit. And what if he must die in sorrow ! Who would not cherish dreams so sweet, Though grief and pain may come to-morrow! WHO WILL CARE. Who will care? When we lay beneath the daisies, Underneath the churchyard mold, And the lons^ p^rass o'er onr faces Lays its fingers damp and cold; When we sleep from care and sorrow, And the ills of earthly life — Sleep, to know no sad to-morrow, AVith its bitterness of strife — Who will care? Who will care ? AVho will come to weep above us. Lying, oh! so white and still. Underneath the skies of summer. When all nature's pulses thrill To a new life, glad and tender, Full of beauty, rich and sweet. And the world is clad in splendor That the years shall e'er repeat — Who will care ? Who will care ? Who will think of white hands lying On a still and silent breast. WHO WILL CAV.E'f— SIGHT AXD DEATH. 269 Never more to knoAV of sig'liino', Evermore to know of rest ? Who w-ill care? Xo one can tell us, But if rest and peace befall, Will it matter if they miss us, Or they miss us not at all ? - Not at all! NIGHT AND DEATH. J. BLANCO WHITE. Mysterious night I when our first parent knew Thee from report Divine, and heard thy name. Did he not tremble for this lovely frame, This glorius canopy of light and blue? Yet, 'neath a curtain of translucent dew, Bathed in th*:^ rays of the great setting flame, Hesperus, with the host of heaven, came, And lo! creation widened in man's view. Who could have thought such darkness lay concealed Within thy l^eams, O sun! or w^ho could find, AMiilst fly, and leaf, and insect stood revealed. That to such countless orbs thou mad'st us blind? Why do we, then, shun death with anxious st rif e ? li light can thus deceive, wherefore not life ? THE BABY. No shoes to hide her tiny toes, No stockings on her feet; Her supple ankles white as snow, Or early blossoms sweet. Her simple dress of sprinkled pink. Her double, dimpled chin, Her puckered lip and balmy mouth, With not one tooth within. Her eyes so like her mother's eyes. Two gentle liquid things ; Her face is like an angel's face — We're glad she has no wiugs. She is the budding of our love, A gift God gave to us ; We must not love the gift o'er well, 'Twould be no blessing thus. — Changed from the Scotch. 270 THE DYING WIFE. H. M. T. AY my babe upon my bosom, Let me feel her sweet, warm breath ; A strange chill is passing o'er me, And I know that it is death. Let me gaze once more on the treasure Scarcely given, ere I go; Feel her rosy, dimpled fingers Wander o'er my cheeks of snow. I am passing through the waters; But the blessed shore appears. Kneel beside me, husband dearest, Let me kiss away thy tears. Wrestle with thy grief as Jacob Strove from midnight until day; It will seem an angel visit When it vanishes away. Lay my babe upon my bosom — 'Tis not long I'll know she's there. See how to my heart she nestles — 'Tis a pearl I'd love to wear. 271 GEMS OF POETRY. Tell her sometimes of her mother; Yon will call her by my name. Shield her from the winds of sorrow, If she errs, oh ! gently blame. Lead her sometimes where I'm sleeping, I will answer when she calls ; And my breath shall stir her ringlets When my voice in whisper falls, And her mild, blue eyes will brighten She will wonder whence it came— In her heart when years roll o'er her, She will find her mother's name. If in after years, beside thee Sits another in my chair. If her voice is sweeter music, And her face than mine, more fair, If a cherub calls thee " Father," Fjar more beautiful than this. Love your first-born, oh ! my husband, Turn not from the motherless. NEW POEM BY LOED BYRON. N the dome of mv sires as the clear moonbeam \ falls Through silence and shade o'er its desolate walls. It shines from afar like the glories of old: It gilds but it warms not, — 'tis dazzling but cold, f Let the sunbeam be bright for the younger of days ; 'Tis the light that should shine on a race that decays, ^Vhen the stars are on high and the dews on the gi'ound. And the long shadow lingers the ruin around. And the step that o'er- echoes the gray floor of stone Falls sullenly now, for 'tis only my own: And sunk are the voices that sounded in mirth, And empty the goblets, and dreary the hearth. And vain was each effort to raise and recall The brightness of old to illumine our hall; And vain was the hope to avert our decline, And the'^ame of my fathers has faded to mine. And theirs was the wealth and the fullness of fame, And mine to inherit too haughty a name; 18 273 274 GEMS OF POETRY. And theirs were the timfes and the triumphs of yore. And mine to regret, but renew them no more. And ruin is fixed on my tower and my wall, Too hoary to fade and too massy to fall; It tells not of time's or the tempest's decay. But the wreck of the line that have held it in sway. AT A SOLEMN MUSIC. J. MILTOX. LEST pair of sjTens, pledges of heayen's joy, Sphere-born, harmonious sisters. Yoice and Verse. "Wed Yoiu' divine sounds, and mix'd power em- Dead things with inbreathed sense able to pierce; And to our high-raised phantasy present That undisturbed song of pure concent; Aye sung before the sapphire-color' d throne To Him that sits thereon, AVith saintly shout, and solemn jubilee: Where the bright seraphim, in burning row, Their loud uplifted angel trumpets blow: And the cherubic host, in thousand quires, Touch their immortal harps of golden wires. With those just spirits that wear yictorious palms Hymns devout and holy psalms Sino-in^ everlastiuD-lv: That we on earth, with undiscording voice, May rightly answer that melodious noise; As once we did. till disproportioned sin Jan-'d against natm'e's chime, and ■with harsh din Broke the fair music that all creatures made To their grreat Lord, whose love their motion swav'd 276 GEMS or POETR In perfect diapason, whilst they strod In first obedience, and their state of good. Oh, may we soon again renew that song, And keep in tune with heaven, till God, ere long, To his celestial concert us unite, To live with him, and slug in endless morn of light. THE SONG OF STEAM. [The following fine poem, by Georufe Vv\ Curter, of Covington, Ky.j Blackwood pronounped the best lyric of the century; " ^Xft' -^I^'^ESS me down with your iron bands; Be sure of your curb and rein : For I scorn the power of your puny hands, As a tempest scorns a chain I How I laugh' d as I lay conceal' d from sight For many a countless hour, At the childish boast of human might, And the pride of human power! AVhen I saw an army upon the land. A naw upon the seas. Creeping along, a snail-like band. Or waiting a wayward breeze ; ^\Tien I marked the peasant fairly ree With the toil which he faintly bore, As he feebly tui'ned the tardy wheel, Or toiled at the weary oar; AMien I measured the panting courser's speed. The flight of the courier-dove. As they bore the law a king decreed. Or the lines of impatient love — I could not but think how the world would feel, As these were outstripp'd afar. When I should be bound to the rushing keel, Or chained to the flying car! 277 THE SONG OIP STEAM. Ha, ha, ha ! they found mo at last; They invited me forth at length, And I rushed to my throne with a thunder blast, And laugh'd in my iron strength! Oh ! then ye saw a wondrous change On the earth and ocean wide, Where now my fiery armies range, Nor wait for wind or tide. Hurrah ! hurrah ! the waters o'er, The mountain's steep decline; Time — space — have yielded to my power; The world — the world is mine! The rivers the sun hath earliest blessed, Or those where his beams decline; The giant streams of the queenly West, Or the Orient floods divine. The ocean pales where'er I sweep, To hear my strength rejoice. And the monsters of the briny deep Cower, trembling at my voice. I carry the wealth and ore of earth, The thought of his god like mind. The wind lags after my flying forth. The lightning is left behind. In the darksome depths of the fathomless mine My tireless arm doth play, Where the rocks never saw the sun's decline, Or the dawn of a glorious day, I bring earth's glittering jewels up, From hidden cave below, And I make the fountain's granite cup With a crystal gush o'erflow. THE SONG OF STEAM. I blow the bellows, I forge the steel, In all the shops of trade; I hammer the ore and turn the wheel Where my arms of strength are made. I manage the furnace, the mill, the mint — I carry, I spin, I weave: And all my doings I put into print On every Saturday eve I've no muscles to weary, no breast to decay, No bones to be " laid on the shelf," And soon I intend you may "go and play," While I manage the world myself. But harness me down with your iron bands, Be sure of your curb and rein : For I scorn the strength of your puny hands, As the tempest scorns a chain! MY LITTLE BOY THAT DIED. DINAH MULOCH-CRAIK. OOK on his pretty face for just one minute, His braided frock, his dainty buttoned shoes, His firm -shut hand, the favorite plaything in it And tell me, mothers, was't not hard to lose And miss him from my side — My little boy that died ? How many another boy as dear and charming. His father's hope, his mother's one delight, Slips through strange sickness, all fear disarming, And lives a long, long life in parents' sight I Mine was so short a pride ! And then my poor boy died ? I see him rocking on his wooden charger ; I hear him pattering through the house all day ; I watch his great blue eyes grow large and larger, Listening to stories, whether grave or gay, Told at the bright fireside — So dark now, since he died. But yet I often think my boy is living, As living as my other children are ; When good-night kisses I all ai onnd am giving,. I keep one for him, though he is so far. Can a mere grave divide Me from him, though he died? 280 MY LITTLE BOY THAT DIED. 281 So, while I come and plant it o'er with daisies, (Nothing but childish daisies, all year round). Continually God's hand the curtain raises, And I can hear his merry yoice's sound And feel him at my side — My little boy that died. — By the author of ^^jfehn Halifax^ GentlemanP THE BURIAL OF MOSES. MRS. C. Fo ALEXANDER. Y Nebo's lonely mountain, On this side Jordan's wave, |In a vale in the land of Moab, m There lies a lonely grave. And no man knov^s that sepulchre, And no man saw it e'er, For the angels of God upturned the sod, And laid the dead man there. That was the grandest funeral That ever passed on earth ; But no man heard the trampling, Or saw the train go forth: Noiselessly as the daylight Comes back when night is done, And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek Grows into the great sun. Noiselessly as the spring-time Her crown of verdure weaves, And all the trees on all the hills Opened their thousand leaves ; THE BURIAL OF MOSES. 283 So without sound of music Or voice of tliem that wept, Silently dovra from the mountain's crown The great procession swept. Perchance the bald old eagle, On gray Beth-Peor"s height, Out of his lonely eyry Looked on the wondi'ous sight ; Perchance the lion, stalking. Still shuns that hallowed spot, For beast and bird have seen and heard That which man knoweth not. But when the warrior dieth. His comrades in the war. With arms reversed and muffled drum, Follow the funeral car , They show the banners taken, They tell his battles won. And after him lead his masterless steed, While peals the mmute-gun. Amid the noblest of the land We lay the sage to rest, And give the bard an honored place With costly marble drest, In the great minster transept Where lights' like glories fall, And the organ rings and the sweet choir sings Along the emblazoned wall. 284 GE:,IS of rOETRY. This was the truest warrior That ever buckled sword, This the most g'ifted poet That ever breathed a word; And never earth's philosopher Traced with his golden^pen, On the deathless page, truths half so sage As he wrote down for men. And had* he not high honor, — The hillside for a pall To lie in state while angels wait With stars for tapers tall, And the dark rock-pine like tossing plumes Over his bier to wave, And God's own hand, in that lonely land, To lay him in the grave ? In this strange grave without a name Whence his uncoffined clay Shall break again, O wondrous thought, Before the Judgment- day, And stand with glory wrapt around On the hills he never trod. And speak of the strife that won our life With the Incarnate Son of God. O lonely grave in Moab's land ! O dark Beth-Peor's hill ! Speak to these curious hearts of ours, And teach them to be still. God hath His mysteries of grace, Ways that we cannot tell; He hides them deep, like the hidden sleep Of him He loved so well. THE OLD CANOE. EMILY R. PAGE. HERE the rocks are gray and the shore is steep^ And the waters below look dark and deep, AVhere the rugged pine in its lonely pride Leans gloomily over the murky tide; AMiere the reeds and rushes are long and rank, And the Aveeds grow thick on the winding bank; \Vhere the shadow is heavy the whole day through, There lies at its moorino" the old canoe. The useles-. paddles are idly di'opped. Like a sea-bird's wings that the storm has lopped, And crossed on the railing, one o'er one, Like folded hands when the work is done ; While busily back and forth between, Tke spider stretches his silvery screen. And the solemn ow], with his dull ••too-hoo," Settled down on the side of the old canoe. The stern half sunk in the slimy wave, Eots slowly away in its living grave, And the green moss creeps o'er its dull decay. Hiding its moldering dust away — Like the hand that plants o'er the tomb a flower, Or the ivy that mantles the falling tower ; While many a blossom of loveliest hue Springs up o'er the steri. of the old canoe. 286 THE OLD CANOF. The currentless waters are dead and still— Buti the light wind plays with the boat at will, And lazily in and out again, It floats the length of the rusty chain, Like the weary march of the hands < »f time, That meet and part at the noontide chime, And the shore is kissed at each turn anew. By the dripping bow of the old canoe. Oh, many a time, with a careless hand, 1 have pushed it away from the pebbly strand, And paddled it down where the stream runs thick, Where the whirls are wild and the eddies are thick, And laughed as I leaned o'er the rocking side — And looked below in the broken tide — To see that the faces and boats were two, That were mirrored back from the old canoe. But, now, as I lean o'er the crumbling side, And look below in the sluggish tide, The face that I see is graver grown. And the laugh that I "bear has a soberer tone. And the hands that lent to the light skiff wings Have grown familiar with sterner things ; But I love to think of the hours that sped. As I rocked where the whirls their white spray shed. Ere the blossoms waved, or the green grass grew O'er the moldering stem of the old canoe. . A]^TONY AXD CLEOPATRA. GEX. W. H. LYTLE. AM dying, Egypt, d}dng, Ebbs the crimson life- tide fast, And the dark Phitonian shadows Gather on the evening blast. Let thine ann, O queen, support me. Hush thy sobs and bow thine ear, Harken to the great heart secrets, Thou, and thou alone must hear. Though my scarred and veteran legions Bear their eao-les hio'h no more. And my wrecked and scattered galleys Strew dark Actium's fatal shore: Though no glittering guards surround me, Prompt to do their master's will. I must perish like a Eoman, Die the great triumvir still. Let not Caesar's servile minions Mock the lion thus laid low; 'Twas no foemans hand that slew him, « 'Twas his own that struck the blow; Here, then, pillowed on thy bosom, 287 GEMS OF POETRY. Ere his star fades quite away, Him who drunk with thy caresses, Madly flung a world away. Should the base, plebeian rabble Dare assail my fame at Rome, Where the noble spouse, Octavia, Weeps within her widowed home, Seek her, say the gods have told me. Altars, augurs, circling wings, That her blood with mine commingled. Yet shall mount the throne of kings. And for thee, star-eyed Egyptian! Glorious Sorceress of the Nile, Light the path to Stygian horrors With the splendors of thy smile. Give the Caesar crowns and arches, Let his brow the laurel twine, I can scorn the Senate's triumphs, Triumphing in love like thine. I am dying, Egypt, dying. Hark! the insulting foeman's cry, They are coming — quick, my falchion! Let me front them ere I die. Ah! no more amid the battle Shall my heart exulting swell, Isis and Osiris guard thee, Cleopatra, Rome, farewell! FROM THE CASTLE OF INDOLENCE." J. THOMSON. HIS globe ponrtray'd the race of learned men, Still at their books, and turning o'er the page, Backwards and forwards; oft they snatch the pen. As if inspired, and in a Thespian rage; Then wite, and blot, as would your ruth en- gage; Whj, authors, all this scrawl and scribbling sore ? To lose the present, gain the future age. Praised to be when you can hear no more, And much em-ich'd with fame, when useless worldly store. ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ Their only labour was to kill the time (And labour dire it is, and weary woe;) They sit, and loll; turn o'er some idle rhyme: Then, rising sudden, to the glass they go, Or saunter forth, with tottering step and slow; This soon too rude an exercise they find: Straight on the couch their limbs again they throw. Where hours and hours they sighing lie reclined, And court the vapoury god, soft breathing in the wind. 290 GEMS or POETRY. *il ^ ij/ ^ ^ ^ ^ TfT yfr I care not, Fortune, what you me deny; You cannot rob me of free Nature's grace; You cannot shut the windows of the sky, Through which Aurora shows her brightening face; You cannot bar my constant feet to trace The woods and lawns, by living streani at eve. Let health my nerves and finer fibres brace. And I their toys to the great children leave : Of fancy, reason, virtue, nought can me bereave. t THE EVENING CLOUD. JOHN WILSON. CLOUD lay cradled near the setting sun, A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow: Long had I watched the glory moving on O'er the still radiance of the lake below. Tranquil its spirit seemed, and floated slow ! Even in the very motion there was rest; While every breath of eve that chanced to blow Wafted the traveller to the beauteous west. Emblem, methought, of the departed soul, To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given; And by the breath of mercy made io roll Right onwards to the golden gates of heaven, Where to the eye of faith it peaceful lies, And tells to man his glorious destinies. THY VOICE. p. B. MAKSTON. HY voice is like tlie sea's voice, when it makes A melancholy music on the beach. Thy voice is in the winds, when birds beseech The twilight time with song. The stream that takes Its way from out the hill by flowery brakes Has in its tones the sweetness of thy speech. At night when all is still, and faint sounds reach' The ear of one who having slept awakes Full of his dreara, thy voice floats through the night, In music sad as Autumn winds that blow 'Mid yellowing woods in the sun's waning light, Compassionate, persistent, clear, and low. And when the world is fading out of sight, Thy voice shall whisper peace and bid me go. 2^ ODE TO EVEXIXG. W. COLLINS. ^^^-^/-^jF AEGHT of oaten stop or pastoral song k . - 1 ^lav hope, chaste Eve. to soothe thv modest ear. Like thy own solemn springs. 1^^: Thy springs, and dying gales. <^^^^ O nymph reserved, while now the bright -haired ♦ Sun Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts, AVitli liraid ethereal wove. O'er hang his wavy bed: Now air is htished. save where the weak-eyed bat, With short, shiill shi^iek flits on leathern wing; Or where the beetle winds His small but sullen horn, As oft he rises midst the twilight path. Against the pilgi'im borne in heedless hum: Xow teach me. maid composed. To breathe some softened strain. Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale. May not unseemly with its stillness suit : 294 GEMS OF POETRY, As, musing slow, I hail Thy genial, loved return! For when thy folding- star arising shows His paly circlet, at his warning lamp, The fragrant Hours, and Elves Who slept in buds the day, And many a Nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge, And sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier still, The pensive Pleasures sweet, Prepare thy shadowy car. Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene; Or find some ruin midst its dreary dells, Whose walls more awful nod By thy religious gleams. Or, if chill, blustering winds, or driving rain. Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut That from the mountain's side Views wilds, and swelling floods, And hamlets brown, and dim-discovered spires; And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er all Thy dewy fingers draw The gradual, dusky vail. While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont, And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve! While Summer loves to sport Beneath thy lingering light; While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves ; Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air. ODE TO EVENING. 295 Affrights thy shrinking train, And rudely rends thy robes,— So long, regardful of thy quiet rule. Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace, Thy gentlest influence own. And love thy favorite name I ANNIE AND WILLIE'S PRAYER MRS. SOPHIA P. SNOW. WAS the eve before Christmas; " Good night" had been said, And Annie and Willie had crept into bed; There were tears on their pillows, and tears in their eyes, And each little bosom was heavy with sighs — For to-night their stern father's command had been given That they should retire precisely at seven. Instead of at eight, for they troubled him more With their questions unheard of than ever before. He had told them he thought this delusion a sin, No such being as Santa Claus ever had been, And he hoped after this he should never more hear How he scrambled down chimneys with presents each year; And this was the reason that two little heads So restlessly tossed on their soft, downy beds. Eight, nine, and the clock on the steeple tolled ten. Not a word had been spoken by either till then. When Willie's sad face from the blanket did peep And whispered: " Dear Annie, is you fast asleep?" 296 ANNIE AND WILLIE's PRAYER. " Why, no. brother AVillie,'' a sweet voice rephes, •'I've tried it in vain, but I can't shut my eyes, For somehow it makes me sorry because Dear papa has said there is no Santa Glaus, Now we know that there is, and it can't be denied, For he came every year before mamma died. But then I've been thinking that she used to pray, And God would hear everything mamma would say. And perhaps she asked Him to send Santa Glaus here, With the sacks full of presents he brought every year." " Well, why tant we pay dest as mamma did then, And ask him to send us some presents aden?" "I've been thinking so, too," and without a word more Foui' little feet bounded out on the floor. And four little knees the soft carpet ]3ressed, And two tiny hands were clasped close to each breast. "Now. Willie, you know we must firmly believe, That the presents we ask for we're sure to receive; You must wait just as still till I say the Amen, And by that you will know that your turn has come then "Dear Jesus look down on my brother and me And grant us the favor we're asking of Thee; I want a wax dolly, a tea-set and ring. And a beautiful work-box that shuts with a spring. Bless papa, dear J esus, and cause him to see That Santa Glaus loves us far better than he; Don't let him get angry and fi'etf ul again At dear brother Willie and Annie — Amen I" "Please, Desus, 'et Santa Glaus tum down to-night And bring us some presents before it is light; I want he would dive me a nice 'ittle sled, With bright shining yunners and all painted yed; 298 GEMS OF POETBY. A box full of tandy, a book and a toy — Amen — and den, Desus, I'll be a dood boy." Their prayers being ended they raised up their heads, And with hearts light and cheerful again sought their beds. They were soon lost in slumber, both peaceful and deep, And with fairies in dream-land were roaming in sleep. Eight, nine, and the little French clock had struck ten. Ere the father had thought of his children again. He seems now to hear Annie's half -suppressed sighs, And see the big tears stand in Willie's blue eyes. "I was harsh with my darlings," he mentally said, "And should not have sent them so early to bed. But then I was troubled, my feelings found vent. For bank stock to-day has gone down ten per cent. But, of course, they've forgotten their troubles ere this, And that I denied them the thrice -asked -for kiss. But just to make sure I'll steal up to the door. For I never spoke harsh to my darlings before." So saying, he softly ascended the stairs. And arrived at the door to hear both of their prayers ; His Annie's " Bless papa," draws forth the big tears. And Willie's grave promise falls sweet on his ears. " Strange! Strange! I'd forgotten," he said, with a sigh, " How I longed when a child to have Christmas draw nigh. "I'll atone for my harshness," he inwardly said, "By answering their prayers ere I sleep in my bed;" Then he turned to the stair and softly went down, Threw off velvet- slippers and silk dressing -gown. Donned hat, coat and boots, and, was out in the street, A millionaire facing the cold, driving sleet. Nor stopped he until he had boiight everything, ANNIE AND Willie's peayer. From the box full o' candy to the tiny gold ring. Indeed, he kept adding so much to his store That the various presents outnumbered a score. Then homeward he turned with his hohday load, And with Aunt Mary's help in the nm-sery "twas stowed Miss Dolly was seated beneath a pine tree. By the side of a table spread out for her tea: A work-box well tilled in the center was laid, And on it the ring for which Annie had prayed: A soldier in uniform sto()d by a sled. With bright, shining runners, and all painted red. There were balls, dogs and horses, all pleasing to see, And birds of all colors were perched in the trees, "While Santa Claus laughing, stood up in the top, As if getting ready more presents to drop. And as the good father the picture surveyed He thought for his troulile he had amply been paid. And he said to himself, as he brushed off a tear: I'm happier to-night than I've been f(U' a year. I've enjoyed more true pleasure than ever before; What care I if bank stock falls ten per cent, more? Hereafter I"ll make it a rule. I believe. To have Santa Claus visit us each Christmas eve." So thinking, he softlv extinguished the li^'ht. And tripped down stairs to retire for the night. As soon as the beams of the bright morning sun Put the darkness to flight, and the stars one by one, Four little blue eyes out of sleep opened wide, And at the same moment the presents espied. Then out of their beds they sprang with a bound. And the very gifts prayed for were all of them found. They laughed and they cried in their innocent glee, 300 GEMS OF POETRY. And shouted for papa to come quick and see What presents old Santa Glaus brought in the night — Just the things that they wanted — and left before light, And now added Annie, in a voice soft and low ; "You'll believe there's a Santa Glaus, papa, I know"- - While dear little Willie climbed up on his knee. Determined no secret between them fehould be. And told in soft whispers how Annie had said That their dear, blessed mamma, so long ago dead, Used to kneel down and pray by the side of her chair. And that God up in Heaven had answered her prayer. " Then we dot up and prayed dest as well as we tood, AndDod answered our prayers — now wasn't He dood?" "I should say that He was if He sent you all these, And knew just what presents my children would ple ase, (Well, well, let him think so — the dear little elf, 'Twould be cruel to tell him I did it myself.") Blind father, who caused your stern heart to relent, And the hasty words spoken so soon to repent ? "Twas the Being who bade you steal softly up stairs. And made you His agent to answer their prayers. WITH THE STEEAM. RIFTIXG along tlie river, all gleaming With sun-jewels, that sparkled and played on its breast. Down thro" the golden-cupped liUies. and di'eam- ing Of love, as they floated on into the AVest; On past the banks, where the tall grasses, waving Kist the cool stream as they bended them low; No sound to be heard in the deep stillness, sa^dng The water's monotonous, musical flow; Past where the swan mid the sedges was sleeping, Her head "neath her feathers, unruffled and white, And where thi'o' the brushwood the rabbit was peeping, As if make to sure there was no one in sight ; Past where the deep blue forget-me-nots flooded The space where they bloomed with a heavenly glow, Where daffodils stoopt from the banks which they studded. Eeflecting themselves in the water below. Enconscious the two in tiie boat as it drifted Of everything round them, and silent was each ; For the youth, as he gazed in the sweet eyes uplifted, Discoursed in a language unfettered by speech! 303 EAIN ON THE JIOOF. COATES KINNEY. HEN the humid shadows hover over all the starry spheres, And the melancholy darkness gently weeps in rainy tears, What a bliss to press the pillow of a cottage- i chamber bed. And to listen to the patter of the soft rain overhead! Every tinkle on the shingles has an echo in the heart ; And a thousand dreamy fancies into busy being start, And a thousand recollections weave their air- threads into woof, As I listen to the patter of the rain upon the roof. Now in memory comes my mother, as she used, in years agone, To regard the darling dreamers ere she left them til] the dawn; So I see her leaning o'er me, as I list to this refrain Which is played upon the shingles by the patter of the rain. Then my little seraph sister, with the wings and wu nng hair. And her star- eyed cherub brother — a serene ang^rlic pair — 304 EAIN ON THE ROOF. 305 Glide around my wakeful pillow, witli tlieir praise or mild reproof, As I listen to the murmur of the soft rain on the roof. And another comes, to thrill me with her eyes' delicious blue; And I mind not, musing on her, that her heart was all untrue ; I remember but to love her with a passion kin to pain. And my heart's quick pulses vibrate to the patter of the rain. Art hath naught of tone or cadence that can work with such a spell In the soul's mysterious fountains, whence the tears of rapture well, As that melody of nature, that subdued, subduing strain, Which is played upon the shingles by the patter of the rain. 305 THEEE BE NONE OF BEAUTY'S DAUGHTERS. BYEON. There be none of beauty's daughters With a magic like thee; And Hke music on the waters Is thy sweet voice to me: When, as if its sounds were causing The charmed ocean's pausing, The waves lie still and gleaming, And the lull'd winds seem dreaming. And the midnight moon is weaving Her bright chain o'er the deep; Whose breast is gently heaving. As an infant's asleep: So the spirit bows before thee, To listen and adore thee; With a full but soft emotion. Like the swell of Summer's ocean. 306 THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL. A. POPE. Vital spark of heavenly flame, Quit, oh quit this mortal frame. Trembling, hoping, ling' ring, flying, Oh the pain, the bliss of dying! Cease, fond natui'e, cease thy strife, And let me languish into life. Hark! they whisper: angels say, "Sister spirit, come away!" What is this absorbs me quite, Steals my senses, shuts my sight, Drowns my spirit, draws my breath. Tell me, my soul, can this be death ? The world recedes : it disappears : Heaven opens on my eyes : my ears With sounds seraphic ring. Lend, lend your wings! I mount I I fly I O Grave, where is thy victory ? O Death, where is thy sting? 307 BISHOP KEN'S DaXOLOGY. Thomas Ken was born in England, in 1637, and died there in ' 1710. His morning hymn, which ends with this doxology, was written in 1697, at Oxford, for the students in Winchester Col- lege. Mr. H. Butterworth, in his " Story of the Hymns," says this unparalleled doxology " is suited to all religious occasions, to all Christian denominations, to all times, places, and conditions of men, and has been translated into all civilized tongues, and adopted by the church universal. Written more than two hun- dred years ago, it has become the grandest tone in the anthem of earth's voices continually rising to heaven. As England's drum-call follows the sun, so the tongues that take up this grate- ful ascription of praise are never silent, but incessantly encircle the earth with their melody." The stanza has been somewhat changed by the hymn-tinkers, as the original reads: "Praise God, from whom all blessings flow: Praise Him, all creatures here below; Praise Him above, ye angelic host, Praise Father, Son and Holy Ghost." TO THE OEGAN. c. p. w. Utterer of many thoughts which else were still, How oft have I Evoked thy harmony. The voiceless void in my poor heart to fill. Sweet solace of mv loneliness or grief. It is to thee And thy grand minstrelsy That I resort for pleasure or relief. Thy diapason tones" deep, distant swell. Like ocean's roar, Or songs from sea-shell's core, Waken fine chords deep hid in fancy's cell. Oft-times at even, when my mind is fraught AVith visions high, Or some strange fantasy. Thy glowing tones give utterance to my thought. Devotion gains from thee a wanner tone. Thine undersong Carries the soul along, Until it seems to reach the Eternal Thi'one. 309 SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY. BYEON. She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes ; Thus mellow' d to that tender light Which Heaven to gaudy day denies. One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impair' d the nameless grace, Which waves in every raven tress. Or softly lightens o'er her face; Wliere thoughts serenely sweet express, How pure, how dear their dwelling placa And on that cheek, and o'er that brow. So soft, so calm, yet eloquent. The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent! 310 NEVEK DESPAIR. W. C. RICHARDS. HIS motto I give to the young and the old, More precious by far than a treasure of gold; 'Twill prove to its owner a talisman rare, More potent than magic — 'tis Never Despair! No, never despair, whatsoe'er be thy lot, If Fortune's gay sunshine illumine it not; Mid its gloom, and despite its dark burden of care, If thou canst not be cheerful, yet. Never Despair! Oh! what if the sailor a coward should be, "VMien the tempest comes down, in its wrath on the sea, And the mad billows leap, like wild beasts from their lair To make him their prey, if he yield to Despair ? But see him amid the fierce strife of the waves, When around his frail vessel the storm demon raves ; How he rouses his soul up to do and to dare! And, while there is life left, will Never Despair! Thou, too, art a sailor, and Time is the sea. And life the frail vessel that upholdeth thee; Fierce storms of misfortune will fall to thy share, But, like the bold mariner, Never Despair! 311 312 GEMS OF POETRY. Let not the wild tempest thy spirit affright, Shrink not from the storm, tho' it come in its might; Be watchful, be ready, for shipwreck prepare, Keep an eye on the life-boat, and Never Despair. TO THE EYEXIXG WIND. W. C. BRYANT. ["The TalismaL has contained some very beautiful poetry, each year of its publication; but this,— we had almost said it is the sweetest thing in the language. Not in any one of the Souvenirs, either English or American, has there ever appeared a page of such pure, deep, finished poetry. It has all the characteristics of Bryant's style — his chaste elegance, both in thought and expres- sion,— ornament enough, but not in profusion or display, -imagery that is natural, appropriate, and, in this instance, peculiarly sooth- ing,— select and melodious language,— harmony in the flow of the stanza, -gentleness of feeling, and richness of philosophy." — Geo. B. Cheever's Poets of America, id. 265. \ PIRIT that breathest through my lattice, thou That cool'st the twilight of the sultry day, Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow; Thou hast been out upon the dee}) at play, Riding all day the wild blue waves till now, Rouo^henino^ their crests, and scatterino^ hio^h their spray. And swelling the w^hite sail. I welcome thee To the scorched land, thou wanderer of the sea! Nor I alone— a thousand bosoms round Inhale thee in the fulness of delight; And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound 313 314 GEMS OF POETRY. Livelier, at coming of the wind of night ; And, languishing to hear thy grateful sound, Lies the vast inland stretched beyond the sight. Go forth into the gathering shade; go forth, God's blessing breathed upon the fainting earth! Go, rock the littlewood-bird in his nest, Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouse The wide old wood from his majestic rest, Summonino- from the innumerable bouo^hs The strange, deep harmonies that haunt his breast; Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass. And 'twixt the o'er-shadowing branches and the grass. The faint old man shall lean his silver head To feel thee ; thou shalt kiss the child asleep, And dry the moistened curls that overspread His temples, while his breathing grows more deep; And they who stand about the sick man's bed. Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep, And softly part his curtains to allow Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow. Go — but the circle of eternal change. That is the life of nature, shall restore. With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range, Thee to thy birth-place of the deep once more; Sweet odors in the sea-air, sweet and strange, Shall tell the home-sick mariner of the shore; And, listening to the murmur, he shall deem Ee hears the rustling leaf and running stream. HXm' OF XATUEE. 0. B. PEABODY. OD of the eaitli's extended plains! The dark green fields contented lie: The mountains rise like holy towers, Where man might commune ^vith the sky The tall cliff challenges the storm That lowers upon the vale below. \^Tiere shaded fottntains send theii' streams, With joyous mtisic in their flow. God of the dark and heavy deep I . The waves lie sleej^ing on the sands. Till the fierce trtimpet of the stoiin Have stimmoned up their thundering bands; Then the white sails are dashed like foam, Or hurry, trembling, o'er the seas. Till, calmed by thee, the sinking gale Serenely breathes,- Depart in peace. God of the forest's solemn shade I The gi^andeur of the lonely tree, That vvTestles singly with the gale, Lifts up admuing eyes to thee; 315 316 GEMS OF rCFTPF But more majestic far they stand, AVhen, side by side, their ranks tbey form, To wave on high their plumes of green. And fight their battles with the storm. God of the light and viewless air! Where summer breezed sweetly flow, Or, gathering in their angry might, The fierce and wintry tempests blow; All — from the evening's plaintive sigh. That hardly lifts the drooping flower. To the wild whirlwind's midnight cry — Breathe forth the language of thy power. God of the fair and open sky! How gloriously above us springs The tented dome, of heavenly blue, Suspended on the rainbow's rings! Each brilliant star, that sparkles through, Each gilded cloud, that wanders free In evening's purple radiance, gives The beauty of its praise to thee. God of the rolling orbs above! Thy name is written clearly bright In the warm day's unvarying blaze. Or evening's golden shower of light. For every fire that fronts the sun. And every spark that walks alone Around the utmost verge of heaven. Were kindled at thy burning throne. God of the world ! the hour must come, And nature's self to dust return; HYMN OF NATURE. WHAT IS NOBLE? Her crumbling altars must decay; Her incense fires shall cease to burn; But still her grand and lovely scenes Have made man's warmest praises flow; For hearts grow holier as they trace The beauty of the world below. WHAT IS NOBLE. C. SWAIN. What is noble? 'Tis the finer Portion of our Mind and Heart; Linked to something still diviner Than mere language can impart; Ever prompting — ever seeing Some improvement yet to plan; To uplift our fellow being, And, like man, to feel for Man! YOU REMEMBER IT— DON'T YOU? THOMAS H. BAYLEY You remember the time when I first sought your home, When a smile, not a word, was the summons to come? When you called me a friend, till you found with surprise That our frendship turned out to be love in disguise. You remember it, — don't you? You will think of it, — won't you? Yes, yes, of this the remembrance will last, L" ng after the present fades into the past. You remember the grief that grew lighter when shared? With the bliss you remember, could aught be compared? You remember how fond was my earliest vow ? Not fonder than that v/hich I breathe to thee now. You remember it, — don't you ? You will think of it, — won't you? Yes, yes, of all this the remembrance will last, Long after the present fades into the past. 318 REVENGE OF INJURIES. LADY ELIZABETH CAEEW. HE fairest action of onr human lif*^ Is scorning to revenge an injury; For who forgives without a further strife, His adversary's heart to him doth tie; And 'tis a firmer conquest trulj' said, To win the heart, than overthrow the head. If we a worthy enemy do find, To yield to worth it must be nobly done; But, if of baser metal be his mind. In base revenge there is no honor won. Who w^ould a worthy courage overthrow ? And who would wrestle with a worthless foe ? We say our hearts are great, andean not yield; Because they can not yield, it proves them poor : Great hearts are tasked beyond their power, but seld; The weakest lion will the loudest roar; Truth's school for certain did this same allow ; High-heartedness doth sometimes teach to bow. A noble heart doth teach a virtuous scorn: — To scorn to owe a duty over long; 319 320 GEMS OF POETRY. To scorn to be for benefits forborne; To scorn to lie; to scorn to do a wrong; To scorn to bear an injury in mind; To scorn a free-born heart slave-like to bind. But if for wrongs we needs revenge must have, Then be our vengeance of the noblest kind. Do we his body from our fury save, And let our hate prevail against his mind ? What can 'gainst him a greater vengeance be, Than make his foe more worthy far than he ? THE OLD COTTAGE CLOCK. H ! tlie old clock of the household stock "Was the brightest thing and the neatest; Its hands, though old, had a touch of gold, J And its chime rang still the sweetest. 'T was a monitor, too, though its words were few, Yet they lived through nations altered ; And its voice, still strong, warned old and young "When the voice of friendship faltered ; ''Tick, tick," it said — "quick, quick to bed — For nine I've given warning ; ITp, up and go, or else you know. You'll never rise soon in the morning." A fi'iendly voice was that old, old clock, As it stood in the corner smiling, And blessed the time, with a merry chime, The Wintry hours beguiling ; But a cross old voice was that tiresome clock, As it called at daybreak boldly, When the dawn looked gray on the misty way, And the early air blew coldly ; " Tick, tick," it said — "quick, out of bed — For five I've given warning ; Y^ou'll never have health, you'll never get wealth, Unless you're up soon in the morning." 321 322 THE OLD COTTAGE CLOCK. Still hourly the sound goes round and round, With a tone that ceases never ; While tears are shed for the bright days fled, And the old friends lost forever ; Its heart beats on, though hearts are gone That warmer beat and younger ; Its hands still move, though hands we love Are clasped on earth no longer ! " Tick, tick," it said — "to the churchyard bed — The grave hath given warning — Up, up and rise, and look to the skies, And prepare for a heavenly morning." — Christian Intelligences A LITTLE T\'OED. A little word in kindness spoken, A motion or a tear, Has often healed the heaii: that's broken! And made a Mend sincere. A word — a look — has crashed to eaith, Full many a budding flower. Which had a smile but owned its birth. Would bless life's darkest houi\ Then deem it not an idle thing. A pleasant word to speak; The face you wear, the thoughts vou bring. A heaii may heal or break. I SAW THEE WEEP. GEOEGE G. BYKON. I saw thee weep — the big bright tear Came o'er that eye of blue: And then methought it did appear A violet dropping dew: I saw thee smile — the sapphire's blaze Beside thee ceased to shine; It conld not match the living rays That fill'd that glance of thine. ^ As clouds from yonder sun receive A deep and mellow dye, "Which scarce the shade of coming eve Can banish from the sky, Those smiles unto the moodiest mind Their own pure joy impart; 'Their sunshine leaves a glow behind, That lightens o'er the heart. NAPOLEON AT BEST. J. PIERPONT. IS falchion flashed along the Nile, His host he led through Alpine snows; O'er Moscow's towers, that blazed the while, His eagle-flag nnrolled-and froze! Here sleeps he now, alone! — not one, Of all the kings whose crowns he gave, Bends o'er his dnst; nor wife nor son Has ever seen or sought his grave. Behind the sea-girt rock, the star That led him on from crown to crown Has sunk, and nations from afar Gazed as it faded and went down. High is his tomb: the ocean flood. Far, far below, by storms is curled — As round him heaved, while high he stood, A stormy and unstable world. Alone he sleeps: the mountain cloud. That night hangs round him, and the breath 325 GEMS OF POETRY, Of morning scatters, is the shroud That wraps the conqueror's clay in death. Pause here ! The far off world at last Breathes free; the hand that shook its thrones, And to the earth its miters cast, Lies powerless now beneath these stones. Hark! Comes there from the pyramids, And from Siberian wastes of snow. And Europe's hills, a voice that bids The world be awed to mourn him? — No! The only, the perpetual dirge. That's heard here is the sea-bird's cry — The mournful murmur of the surge, The clouds' deep voice, the wind's low sigh. AND THOr AET DEAD. GEORGE GCRDOX (LORD) BYROX. f fXD thou art dead, as young and fair. As aught of mortal binh: And form so soft, and cliaims so rare. Too soon retuim'd to Earth! Though Eaith received them in her bet And o"er the spot the crowd may tread In carelessness or mirth. There is an eye which cotild not brook A moment on that grave to look. I will not ask where thou liest low. Xor gaze upon the spot: There flowers or weeds at will may gi'ow, So I behold them not: It is enough for me to prove That what I loved, and long must love, Like common earth ean rot : To me there needs no stone to tell. 'Tis nothing that I loved so well Yet did I love thee to the last As feiwently as thou_. "SVho didst not change through all the past, GEMS OF POETRY. And canst not alter now. The love where Death has set his seal, Nor age can chill, nor rival steal, Nor falsehood disavow And, what were worse, thou canst not see Or wrong, or change, or fault in me. The better days of life were ours; The worst can be but mine; The sun that cheers, the storm that lowers,, Shall never more be thine. The silence of that dreamless sleep I envy now too much to weep ; Nor need I to repine That all those charms have pass'd away, I might have watch' d through long decay., The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatch'd Must fall the earliest prey; Though by no hand untimely snatch'd, The leaves must drop away: And yet it were a greater grief To watch it withering, leaf by leaf^ Than see it pluck' d to day; Since earthly eye but ill but bear To trace the change to foul from fain, I know not if I could have borne , To see thy beauties fade; The night that follow' d such a morn Had worn a deeper shade : Thy day without a cloud hath pass'd, And thou wert lovely to the last: Extinguish' d, not decay'dj AXD THOU ART DEAD. As stars that shoot along the sky Shine brio;htest as thev fall from hio^h. As once I wept, if I could weep, My tears might well be shed, To think I was not near to keep One vigil o'er thy bed; To gaze, how fondly! on thy face, To fold thee in a faint embrace, Uphold thy di'ooping head ; And show that love, however vain, Xor thou nor I can feel again. Yet how much less it were to gain, Though thou hast left me free, The loveliest things that still remain, Than thus remember thee ! The all of thine that cannot die Through dark and di^ead Eternity Eeturns again to me,' And more thy buried love endears Than aught, except its lining years. ADVICE TO A YOUNG MAN. BEN JONSON. What would I have you do? I'll tell you, kinsman; Learn to be wise, and practice how to thrive; That would I have you do; and not to spend Your coin on every bauble that you fancy, Or every foolish brain that humors you. I'd have you sober, and contain yourself; Not that your sail be bigger than your boat; But moderate your expenses now, (at first,) As you may keep the same proportion still. Nor stand so much on your gentility, Which is an airy, and mere borrowed thing. From dead men's dust and bones; and none of yours, Except you make or hold it. 330 SATUKDAY AFTEKXOOX. N. P. WILLIS. LO^ E to look on a scene like tliis, Of wild and careless play, And jDersuade myself that I am not old. And my locks are not yet gray. ^ For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart, And it makes his pulses fly. To catch the thrill of a happy voice. And the light of a pleasant eye. I have walked the world for four score years: And they say that I am old, And my heart is ripe for the reaper, Death. And my years are well nigh told. It is very true; it is very true; Tm old. and "I 'bide my time:'' But my heart Avill leap at a scene like this, And I half renew my prime. Play on. play on: I am with you there. In the midst of your meiTy ring: I can feel the thrill of the daring jump, And the rush of the breathless swingr. 331 GEMS OF POETRY. I hide with you in the fragrant hay, And I whoop the smothered call, And my feet slip up on the seedy floor, And I care not for the fall. I am willing to die when my time shall come, And I shall be glad to go ; For the world, at best, is a weary place. And my pulse is getting low: But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail In treading its gloomy way ; And it wiles my heart from its dreariness, To see the young so gay. THE ALPIXE ELOWEES. MRS. L. H. SIGOUEXEY. This piece is, perhaps, the finest of Mrs. Sigourney's poetry. It is in some respects so subhme, that it forcibly reminds us of Coleridge's Hymn before Sunrise in the Yale of Chamouny."— George B. Cheever's Poets of America, p. 309.] EEK dwellers mid yon teiTor- stricken cliffs! With brows so pure, and incense-breathing lips. Whence are ye? — Did some white-winged mes- senger ('^ . On Mercy's missions trust your timid germ p^^d To the cold cradle of eternal snows ? ^ ^ Or, breathing on the callous icicles, t Bid them with tear-drops nurse ye ? — — Tree nor shrub Dare that di-ear atmosphere; no polar pine Uprears a veteran front; yet there jk^ stand, Leaning your cheeks against the thick- ribbed ice, And looking up with brilliant eyes to Him AYho bids you bloom unblanched amid the waste Of desolation. Man, who, panting, toils O'er slippery steeps, or trembling, treads the yerge Of yawning gulfs, o'er which the headlong plunge Is to eternity, looks shuddering up, And marks ye in your placid loveliness — 333 GEMS OF POETRY. Fearless, yet frail — and, clasping his chill hands, Blesses your pencilled beauty. 'Mid the pomp Of mountain summits rushing on the sky. And chaining the rapt soul in breathless awe, He bows to bind you drooping to his breast. Inhales your spirit from the frost-\vinged gale, And freer dreams of heaven. EYEXIXG-. LORD BYP.ON. It is the hour when fi'om the boughs The nightingale's high note is heard; It is the houi' when lovers'' tows Seem sweet in eveiw whisper" d word; And o-entle winds, and waters near. !Make music to the lonely ear. Each llower the dews have lightly wet. And in the sky the stars are met. And on the wave is deeper blue. And on the leaf a browner hue, And in the heaven that clear obscure, So softly dark, and darkly pui-e. ^liich follows the decline of day. As tAvihght melts beneath the moon away. 335 BEOWN LARK AND BLACKBIRD. O brown lark, loving cloud-land best, And snn-smit seas of sky. Thee doth a musical unrest Drive to rise upward from thy nest Far fathoms high. O fluid-fluting blackbird, keep The midnight of thy wing Close to my home, where leaves grow deep, Since where two lovers lie asleep, Thou lov'st to sing. 336 338 GEMS OF POETRY. A CHRISTMAS HYMN. E. H. SEAES. ALM on the listening ear of night Come heaven's melodious strains, Where wild Judea stretches far Her silver-mantled plains. Celestial choirs from courts above Shed sacred glories there; And angels, with their sparkling lyres, Make music on the air. The answering hills of Palestine Send back a glad reply, And greet from all their holy hights The Dayspring from on high. O^er the blue depths of Galilee There comes a holier cahn; And Sharon waves in solemn praise Her silent groves of palm. "Glory to God! " the sounding skies Loud with their anthems ring; 339 GEMS OF POETEY. " Peace on the earth — good -will to men From Heaven's Eternal King." Light on thy hills, Jerusalem! The Savior now is born! More bright on Bethlehem's joyous plains Breaks the first Christmas' morn ; And brighter on Moriah's brow, Crowned with her temple spires, Which first proclaim the newborn light, Clothed with its orient fires. This day shall Christian tongues be mute, And Christian hearts be cold ? O catch the anthem that from heaven O'er Judah's mountains rolled! When nightly burst from seraph harps The high and solemn lay, — "Glory to God ; on earth be peace; SalvatioE comes to-day! " GOXE BEFORE. The dimpled hand and ringlet of gold, Lie low in a marble sleep; I stretch my hand for a clasp of old; But the empty air is strangely cold. And my vigil alone I keep. There's a sinless brow with a radiant cro^vn, And a cross laid down in the dust ; There's a smile where never a shade comes now, And tears no more from those dear eyes flow, So sweet in their innocent trust. Ah, well I and summer is come again, Sino-ino: her same old sono-s: But ob 1 it sounds like a sob of pain As it floats in sunshine and in rain. O'er the hearts of the world's great throngs. There's a beautiful region above the skies, And I long to reach its shore. 341 GEMS OF POETRY. For I know I shall find my treasure there, The laughing eyes and the amber hair Of the loved one gone before. A FAEEWELL. - C. KINGSLEY. My fairest child, I have no song to give you, No lark could pipe to skies so dull and grey, Yet, ere we part, one lesson I can leave you For every day. Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever; Do noble things, not dream them, all day long And so make life, death, and that vast for ever One grand, sweet song. SEEENADE. EDWARD COATE PIXKXEY. OOK out upon the stars, my love, And shame them with thine eyes, On which, than on the lights above, There hang more destinies. Night's beauty is the harmony Of blending shades and light; Then, lady, up, — look out. and be A sister to the night! — Sleep not ! thine image wakes for aye Within my watching breast : Sleep not ! — from her soft sleep should fly, "WTio robs all hearts of rest. Nay, lady, from thy slumbers break, And make this darkness gay With looks, whose brightness well might make Of darker nights a day. 34;? WYOMING. ' F. G. HALLECK. KOU com 'st in beauty, on my gaze at last, "On Susquehannah's side, fair Wyoming!" Image of many a dream, in hours long past, When life was in its bud and blossoming, And waters, gushing from the fountain spring Of pure enthusiast thought, dimmed my young eyes, t As by the poet borne, on unseen wing, I breathed, in fancy, 'neath thy cloudless skies, The Summer's air, and heard her echoed harmonies. I then but dreamed: thou art before me now, In life, a vision of the brain no more. I've stood upon the wooded mountain's brow. That beetles high thy lovely valley o'er; And now, where winds thy river's greenest shore. Within a bower of sycamores am laid; And winds, as soft and sweet as ever bore The fragrance of wild flowers through sun and shade. Are singing in the trees, whose low boughs press my head. Nature hath made thee lovelier than the power Even of Campbell's pen hath pictured: he 344 WYOMING. 34^ Had woven, had he gazed one sunny houi' Upon thy smihng vale, its scenery With more of trath, and made each rock and tree Known Hke old friends, and greeted from afar: And there are tales of sad reality. In the dark legends of thy border war. With woes of deeper tint than his own Gertrude's are. But where are they, the beings of the mind. The bard's creations, molded not of clay, Hearts to strange bliss and suffering assigned — Young Gertrude, Albert, "Waldegi'aye — where are they ? We need not ask. The people of to-day Appear good, honest, quiet men enough, And hospitable too — for ready pay, — "With manners, like their roads, a little rough. And hands whose grasp is warm and welcoming, tho' tough. Judge Hallenbach, who keeps the toll-bridge gate, And the town records, is the Albert now Of Wyoming: like him, in church and state. Her Doric column ; and upon his brow The thin hairs, white with seventy winters' snow-, Look patriarchal. Waldegi-ave 'twere in vain To point out here, unless in yon scare- crow. That stands full -uniformed upon the plain. To frighten flocks of crows and blackbirds from the grain. For he would look particularly droll In his Iberian boot*' and '"Spanish plume,*' And be the wonder of each Chi'istian soul, As of the birds that scare-crow and his broom. But Gertrude, in her loveliness and bloom, Hath many a model here, for woman's eye, 346 GEMS OF POETRY . In court or cottage, wheresoe'er her home, Hath a heart- spell too holy and too high To be o'er- praised even by her worshiper — Poesy. There's one in the next field — of sweet sixteen — Singing and summoning thoughts of beauty born In heaven — with her jacket of light green, "Love-darting eyes, and tresses like the morn," Without a shoe or stocking, — hoeing corn. Whether, like Gertrude, she oft wanders there, With Shakspeare's volume in her bosom borne, I think is doubtful. Of the poet-player The maiden knows no more than Cobbett or Voltaire. There is a woman, widowed, gray, and old. Who tells you where the foot of Battle stepped Upon their day of massacre. She told Its tale, and pointed to the spot, and wept. Whereon her father and five brothers slept Shrouldless, the bright- dreamed slunibers of the bra^e, When all the land a funeral mourning kept. And there, wild laurels, planted on the grave, By Nature's hand, in air their pale red blossoms wave. And on the margin of yon orchard hill Are marks where time-worn battlements have been; And in the tall grass traces linger still Of " arrowy frieze and wedged ravelin." Five hundred of her brave that Valley green Trod on the morn in soldier-spirit gay; But twenty lived to tell the noon- day scene — And where are now the twenty ? Pass'd away. Has Death no triumph-hours, save on the battle day ? DEAmS FIEST DAT. [The foilo^mg beautiful descriptive lines are the best in Byron's Giaour {■Jour, an infidel: — applied by the Turks to disbelievers in Mohammedanism. — Webster. ) His note annexed to the succed- ing passages gives an accurate idea of Byron's prose style; "I trust that few of my readers have ever had an opportunity ol vritnessing what is here attempted in description; but those vrhc have will probably retain a painful remembrance of that singular beauty which pervades, with few exceptions, the featiires of the dead, a few houi^ and but for a few hours, after ''the spirit is not there.' It is to be remarked in cases of violent death by gun-shot wounds, the expression is always that of langour, whatever the natural energy of the suJ^erer's character; but in death from a stab_. the countenance preserves its traits of feehng or ferocity, and the mind its bias, to the last."] E who hath bent him o'er the dead Ere the lir^st day of death is fied. The lii'st dark day of nothingness, The last of danger and distress. (Before Decay's effacing nngers Have swept the lines where beauty lingers ). And mark'd the mild angelic aii\. The rajDtiire of repose that's there. The fix'd yet tender traits that sti'eak The langom^ of the placid cheek. And— but for that sad shi'ouded eye. That &es not. wins not. weeps not now. And but for that chill, changeless brow, 348 GEMS OF POETRY. Where cold Obstructions' s apathy Appals the gazing mourner's heart, As if to him it could impart The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon; Yes, but for tHese and these alone, Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour, He still might doubt the tyrant's power; So fair, so calm, so softly seal'd, The first, last look by death reveal'd! Such is the aspect of this shore ; 'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more! So coldly sweet, so deadly fair, We start, for soul is wanting there. Hers is the loveliness in death, That parts not quite with parting breath; But beauty with that fearful bloom, That hue which haunts it to the tomb, Expression's last receding ray, A gilded halo hovering round decay. The farewell beam of Feeling passed away! Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth, Which gleams, but warms no more its cherish'd earth! 350 THE OLD FAEM GATE. E. J. HALL. f HE old farm gate hangs, sagging down, On rusty hinges, b?nt and brown; Its latch is gone, and, here and there It shows rude traces of repair. That old farm gate has seen, each year, The blossoms bloom and disappear; The bright green leaves of S2:)ring unfold, Anc tui'n to Autumn's red and sold. The children haA'e upon it clung, And, in and out, with rapture s^^'ung, When their young hearts were good and pure- ^lien hope was fair and faith was sure. Beside that gate, have lovers true Told the old story, always new; Have made their vows, have dreamed of bliss, And sealed each promise with a kiss. The old farm gate has opened wide To welcome home the new-made bride, Wlien lilacs bloomed, and locusts fair With their sweet fragrance filled the air. 351 GEMS OF POETRY. That gate, with rusty weight and chaiitj Has closed upon the solemn train That bore her lifeless form away, Upon a dreary Autumn day. The lichens gray and mosses green Upon its rotting posts are seen; Initials, carved with youthful skill, Long years ago, are on it still. Yet dear to me above all things. By reason of the thoughts it brings, Is that old gate, now sagging down, On rusty hinges, bent and brown. SOXG OF THE PIONEERS. W. D. GALLAGHER, SOXG for the early times out west, And our green old forest home. AVhose pleasant memories freshly yet Across the bosom come: A song for the free and gladsome life In those early days we led. AVith a teeming soil beneath our feet, And a smiling heaven o'erhead! O the waves of life danced menily, And had a joyous flow, In the days when we were pioneers, Fifty yzaes ago! The hunt, the shot, the glorious chase. The captured elk or deer: The camp, the big, bright fire, and then The rich and wholesome cheer: The sweet, sound sleep, at dead of night, By oui' camp-fire blazing high — Unbroken by the wolfs long howl, And the panther springing by. O meiTily passed the time, despite 353 GEMS OF POETRY. Our wily Indian foe, In the days when we were pioneers. Fifty years ago! We shunned not labor; when 'twas due^, We wrought with right good will ; And, for the home we won for them, Our children bless us still. We lived not hermit lives, but oft In social converse met; And fires of love were kindled then,, That burn on warmly yet. O pleasantly the stream of life Pursued its constant flow, In the days when we were pioneers, Fifty years ago! We felt that we were fellow-men; AVe felt we were a band Sustained here in the wilderness By heaven's upholding hand. And, when the solemn Sabbath came. We gathered in the wood, And lifted up our hearts in prayer To God, the only Good. Our temples then were earth and sky; None others did we know In the days when we were pioneers, Fifty years ago! Our forest life was rough and rude, And dangers closed us round, But here, amid the green old trees, Freedom we sought and found. SONG OF THE PIONEERS. Oft tlirough our dwellings wintiy blasts AVould rush with shriek and moan: We cared not — though they were but frail, We felt they were our own ! O free and manly lives we led, Mid verdui'e or mid snow, In the days when we were pioneers, Fifty years ago! But now our course of life is short; And as, from day to day, We're walking on with halting step, And fainting by the way. Another land, more bright than this. To our dim sight appears, And on our way to it we'll soon Again be pioneers ! Yet while we linger, we may all A backward glance still throw To the days when we were pioneers, Fifty years ago! BYRON'S FINEST IMAGE. [The following lines, from Lord Byron's English Bards and Scotch Reviewers, refer to Henry Kirke White, a too ardent student, born at Nottingham, England, March 21, 1785, and died at Cambridge, England, Oct. 19, 1806. Byron says of H. K. White : " His poems abound in such beauties as must impress the reader with the liveliest regret that so short a period was allotted to talents which would have dignified even the sacred functions he was destined to assume."] Unhappy White! while life was in its spring, And thy young muse just waved its joyous wing, The spoiler came; and all thy promise fair Has sought the grave, to sleep for ever there. Oh! what a noble heart was here undone, When Science 'self destroy'd her favorite son! Yes, she too much indulged thy fond pursuit, She sow'dthe seeds, but death has reap'd the fruit. 'Twas thine own genius gave the fatal blow. And help'd to plant the wound that laid thee low: So the struck eagle, stretch' d upon the plain. No more through rolling clouds to soar again. Viewed his own feather on the fatal dart. And wing'd the shaft that quiver' d in his heart; Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel, He nurs'd the pinion which impelled the steel; While the same plumage that had warm'd his nest, Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast. 356 KIXDEED HEARTS, 3IPlS. HZZVIAXS. a?k not. hope thou not too much Of sympathy below: Few are the heaj'ts whence one same tonch Bids the sweet fountains flow : Few — and by still conflicting powers ^ Forbidden here to meet — Such ties would make this life of ours Too fair for aught so fleet. It may be that thy brother's eye Sees not as thine_. which tui'ns In such deep reverence to the sky, "VThere the rich sunset bui-ns : It may be that the ]3reath of spring, Born amidst violets lone. A raptui'e o'er thy soul can bring — A di'eam. to his unkno^vn. The tune that speaks of other times — A soiTOwful delight I The melody of distant chimes. The sound of waves hj night: The wind that, with so manv a tone. 358 GEMS OF POETRY. Some chord within can thrill, — These may have language all thine own, To him a mystery still. Yet scorn thou, not for this, the true And steadfast love of years; The kindly, that from childhood grew, The faithful to thy tears ! If there be one that o'er the dead Hath in thy grief borne part, And watch'd through sickness by thy bed, — Call his a kindred heart ! But for those bonds all perfect made. Wherein bright spirits blend, Like sister flowers of one sweet shade, With the same breeze that bend, For that full bliss of thought allied, Never to mortals given, — Oh! lay thy lovely dreams aside, Or lift them unto heaven ! THE AVATEE LILY. FELICIA D. B. HEMANS. H! beautiful thou art, Thou sculpture-hke and stately Eiver-Queen! Crowning the depths, as with the light serene Of a pure heart. Bright lily of the wave I Rising in fearless grace with every swell, Thou seem'st as if a spirit meekly brave Dwelt in thy cell : Lifting alike thy head Of placid beauty, feminine yet free, "Whether with foam or jDictured azure spread The waters be. "What is like thee, fair flower, The gentle and the firm? thus bearing up To the blue sky that alabaster cup. As to the shower ? Oh! Love is most like thee, The love of woman; quivering to the blast 'Through every nerve, yet rooted deep and fast, 'MidstLife's dark sea. 359 860 GEMS OF POETRY. And Faith — O, is not faith Like thee, too, Lily, springing into light, Still buoyantly above the billows' might, Through the storm's breath? Yes, link'd with such high thought, Flower, let thine image in my bosom lie! Till something there of its own purity And peace be wrought: Something yet more divine Than the clear, pearly, virgin lustre shed Forth from thy breast upon the river's bed,, As from a shrine. THE DESTKUCTION OF SENNACHEEIB. LOED BTEON. HE Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold. And his cohorts were gleaming in pnrple and gold: And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Gal- ilee. Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green, That host with their banners at sunset were seen; Like the leaves of the forest when xlutnmn hath blown, That host on the morrow lav wither' d and strown. For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast. And breath' d in the face of the foe as he pass'd; And the eves of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew still! And there lav the steed with his nostrils all wide, But through them there roll" d not the breath of his pride; And the foam of his gasping lav white on the turf, And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. And there lav the rider distorted and pale, 361 362 GEMS OF POETRY. With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail; And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal; And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord! ANGEL VISITS. MRS. HEMANS. KE ye forever to your skies departed? Oh! will ye visit this dim world no raore? Ye, whose bright wings a solemn splendor darted Thi'ough Eden's fresh and flowering shades of yore? LS^^^ Now are the fountains dried on that sweet spot, tg>4 And ye — our faded earth beholds you not ! Yet, by your shining eyes not all forsaken, Man wander' d from his Paradise away; Ye, from forgetfulness his heart to waken. Came down, high guests! in many a later day. And with the Patriarchs, under vine or oak, 'Midst noontide calm or hush of evening, spoke. From you, the veil of midnight darkness rending, Came the rich mysteries to the Sleeper's eye, That saw your hosts ascending and descending On those bright steps between the earth and sky; Trembling he woke, and bow'd o'er glory's trace, And worship'd, awe-struck, in that fearful place. 363 364 GEMS OF POETRY. By Chebar's brook ye pass'd, such radiance wearing As mortal vision might but ill endure ; Along; the stream the livino; chariot bearino-, With its high crystal arch, intensely pure ! And the dread rushing of your wings that hour, Was like the noise of waters in their power. But in the Olive mount, by night appearing, 'Midst the dim leaves, your holiest work was done! Whose was the voice that came divinely cheering. Fraught with the breath of God, to aid his Son? — Haply of those that, on the moon-lit plains. Wafted good tidings unto Syrian swains. Yet one more task was yours ! your heavenly dwelling Ye left, and by th' unseal' d sepulchral stone, In glorious raiment, sat; the weepers telling. That He they sought had triumph' d, and was gone! Nowhave ye left us for the brighter shore. Your presence lights the lonely groves no more. But may ye not, unseen, around us hover. With gentle promptings and sweet influence yet, Though the fresh glory of those days be over, WTien, 'midst the palm-trees, man your footsteps met? Are ye not near when faith and hope rise high. When love, by strength, o'ermasters agony? Are ye not near when sorrow, unrepining. Yields up life's treasures unto Him who gave? When martyrs, all things for His sake resigning, Lead on the march of death, serenely brave ? Dreams! — but a deeper thought our souls may fill — One, one is near — a spirit holier still ! AFTEE THE STOEM. IIRS. AXXIE HOWE f BISHOP ) THOMSON. X niglit TvithoTit of wind and rain. And a niglit in my soul of grief and pain, A niglit without of darkness and gloom. And a night in my sonl becatise of a tomb. A lonely tomb on the liilkide made, Under the oak tree's sheltering shade. A lowly gi^ave where a loved one lies, "With the shadow of death on brow and eyes; And a pallor that only comes when life Is ended, with all of mortal strife. With folded hands and a quiet breast: — Dear hands that never before knew rest!- And close sealed lijDs that never again, "Will make the way of life so plain To faltering feet : nor wHL I prove The sweetness of all their words of love. TMiat wonder if anguish tills my breast, That sadden my days and break my rest I T\liat wonder if life and its pleasui'es seem But a fitful o:low. and a fadino- di'eam I — 365 GEMS OF POETRY. That I long in the same low bed to lie, Under this fair, sweet summer's sky. Sleeping my last, long, dreamless sleep. From which I shall never awake to weep ! But, the night will go and the morning beam, And the storm die out as fading dream ; And the blue sky smile from its midnight pall, With the beautiful sunshine over all : So, out of my heart this weary pain, With its night of grief and its storm and rain, Will one day go, when the morn shall rise, Over the hills of paradise : And my loved and lost shall walk: with me, Under the shade of life's fair tree, With a beaming eye and a radiant brow. Though silent and cold, and moldering now. Then heart be still, and patient wait ! For soon will open each pearly gate — Will open to you on realms of bliss, And closing shut out the griefs of this. THE FLOVTEES' TEAR. OR March the violets come; For April, daffodillies: I\Iay and June the roses bloom, In JuIt the lilies. ' ''^ In August comes the golden-rod, Asters in September; In October leaves grow red, And fall od' in November. Then the flowers go to sleep, In their warm earth-houses: Every one through all the long T\'inter snow-time drowses. But when Spring comes, up they start; Stretch their hands a minute — "Time to do our Summer's work: Violets, vou beo-in it I " 367 A CHRISTMAS HYMN. [The following is one of the most beautiful poems ever written on the subject. The author is supposed to have been Alfred Domett.] T was the calm and silent night ! Seven hundred years and fifty- three Had Rome been growing up to might, And now was queen of land and sea! No sound was heard of clashing wars; Peace brooded o'er the hushed domain; Apollo, Pallas, J ove and Mars, Held undisturbed their ancient reign. In the solemn midnight Centuries ago! 'Twas in the calm and silent night! — The senator of haughty Rome Impatient urged his chariot's flight. From lordly revel rolling home! Triumphal arches gleaming swell His breast with thoughts of boundless sway; What recked the Roman what befell A paltry province far away. In the solemn midnight Centuries ago! 368 A CHRISTMAS HYMN. Went plodding home a weary booi'., A streak of light before him lay, Fallen through a half- shut stable door Across his path. He passed — for nought Told what was going on within; < How keen the stars! his only thought The air, how calm, and cold, and thin, In the solemn midnight, Centuries ago! O, strange indifference! low and high Drowsed over common joys and cares; The earth was still — but knew not why. The world was listening — unawares. How calm a moment may precede. One that shall thrill the world forever! To that still moment, none would heed, Man's doom was linked no more to sever, In the solemn midnight, Centuries ago! It is the calm and solemn night! A thousand bells ring out, and thro"Sr Their joyous peals abroad, and smite The darkness — charmed and holy now! The night that erst no shame had worn, To it a happy name is given; For in that stable lay, new born, The peaceful Prince of earth and heaven, In the solemn midnight, Centuries ago. WE HAVE SEEN HIS STAR. HAT babe new-born is this That in a manger lies ? Dear on her lowly bed His happy mother lies. Watching the stars of old, Wise men marveled at night, When the gilded azure wide unrolled With new and wondrous light. On from the gates of mom They followed the sign afar, Saying: " Where is the king that is born? For we have seen his star." Long had the world of night Waited the promised king; She heard 'midst tears of wild delight The sweep of the angel's wing. The strength of sin was broke, Death's fetters scattered far^ As glad the heavenly chorus woke, " Lo, we have seen his star!" QUESTIONS. JIRS. REBECCA X. HAZARD. ^^jF for the welfare of the tree Some branch, though filled with buddinf Ife, Tossed by the wind in dalliance fi^ee, Is made to feel the pruner's knife, Shall it complain ? And if to make the border gay, "When tlowers feel the breath of June, Some plants less fair be cast away To fade and wither all too soon, AMio shall say nay? If in the strife for highest good 'My loss should be another's gain; If some weak soul, in soiTOwing mood. Its peace should purchase through my pain, Shall I repine? Oi' if some thought bom of my woe A benison to others prove, Though waked to life by fiercest thi'oe, Should it another's pang remove, Can I be sad? m 372 GEMS OF POETRY. The answer's plain, and yet, ah me! The human heart hath human needs, And when 'gainst reason's high decree Por self and happiness it pleads, What can avail ? THE SACRED HARP. MRS. F. D. HEMANS. How shall the Harp of poesy regain. That old victorious tone of prophet-years, A spell divine o'er guilt's perturbing fears, And all the hovering shadows of the brain ? Dark evil wings took flight before the strain, And showers of holy quiet, with its fall. Sank on the soul: — Oh! who may now recall The mightv music's consecrated reign? — Spirit of God! whose glory once o eri ^t' A throne, the Ark's dread cherubim bet'v\een, So let thy presence brood, though now unseen , O'er those two powers by whom the harp is strung — Feeling and Thought! — till the rekindled chords Give the long-buried tone back to immortal words! 374 GEMS OF POETIBY. THE SILENT CHILDKEN. ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS. HE light was low in the school-room, The 'day before Christmas day, Had ended. It was darkening in the gardeiij A^Tiere the silent children play. Throughout that House of Pity, The soundless lessons said, The noiseless sport suspended, The voiceless tasks all said. The little deaf-mute children, As still as still could be, Gathered about the master. Sensitive, swift to see. With their fine attentive fingers And their wonderful, watchful eyes— What dumb joy he would bring them For the Christmas eve's surprise! The lights blazed out in the school -room: The play- ground went dark as death; The master moved in a halo; The children held their breath. 375 GEMS OF POETRY. "I show you DOW a wonder — The Audiphone," he said. He spoke in their silent language, Like the language of the dead. And answering spake the children, As the dead might answer too; "But what for us, O master? This may be good for you; "But how is our Christmas coming Out of a wise machine ? For not like other children's Have our happy hours been; "And not like other children's Can they now or ever be!" But the master smiled through the halo "Just trust a mystery. " O my children, for a little As those who suffer must ! Great 'tis to bear denial, But grand it is to trust." Then to the waiting marvel The listening children leant, Like listeners, the shadows Across the school -room bent. Quick signalled then the master, Sweet sang the hidden choir— Their voices, wild and piercing. Broke like a long desire THE SILENT CHILDREN. That to content has streng'thened. Glad the clear strains outrang Nearer to Thee^ oh^ nearer 1^'' The pitying singers sang. " JSfearer to Thee^ oh^ nearer^ Nearer^ fny God^ to theel'^ Awestruck, the silent childi^en Hear the great harmony. Happy that Christmas evening: Wise was the master's choice, Who gave the deaf-mute childi'en The blessed human voice. Wise was that other Master, Tender His pui'pose dim, Who gave His Son on Christmas, To draw us "nearer Him.*' We are all but silent children, Denied and deaf and dumb Before His unknown science — Lord, if Thou wilt, we come ! COUNSEL. M. E. W. SHERWOOD. F thou dost bid thy friend farewell, Tho' but for one night that farewell may be, Press thou his palm with thine! — how canst thou tell How far from thee Fate or caprice may lead his feet, Ere that to-morrow comes? Men have been known To lightly turn the corner of a street. And days have grown To months, and months to lagging years, Before they looked in loving eyes again. Parting, at best, is underlaid with tears. With tears and pain. Therefore, lest sudden death should come between. Or time or distance, clasp with pressure true. The hand of him who goeth forth: Unseen, Fate goeth, too. Yea, find thou alway time to say Some earnest word between the idle talk; Lest with thee henceforth, ever, night and day. Regret should walk. 378 AFTEE-LIFE OF THE POET'S AVOEKS. JOHN EEAT>. [The following felicitous description is from this unfortunate poet's Epistle to his brother George, written in August, 1S16, which appeared in his first volume of poems in 1817. After de- scribing the poet's earthly life and its various experiences, Keats says:] g^^^^^J^HESE are the living pleasiuTs of the bard; ^5^y|§W5 But richer far posterity's award. ^^'i^H^^> ^Vhat d'oes he inurrniu^ with liis latest breath, ^"^^x^^c^ AYliile his proud eye looks through the film of death? "^■i-J^ ' '^^^liat though I leave this dtill and earthly mould. Yet shall my spirit lofty converse hold With after times. —The patriot shall feel My stern alarum, and unsheath his steel: Or. in the senate thunder out my numbers To startle princes from th-eir easy slumbers. The saa"^ ^vill mingle with each moral theme My liappy thoughts sententious; he will teem With lofty periods when my verses tire liim. And then I'll stoop fi'orn heaven to inspire him. Lays have I left of such a dear delight That maids will .:ing them on their bridal night S79 380 GEMS OF POETRY. Gay villagers, upon a morn of May, When they have tired their gentle limbs with play, And formed a snowy circle on the grass, And placed in midst of all that lovely lass Who chosen is their queen, — with her line head Crowned with flowers purple, white, and red: For there the lily and the musk-rose, s'ighing Are emblems true of hapless lovers dying: Between her breasts, that never yet felt trouble, A bunch of violets full bloom, and double, Serenely sleep: — she from a casket takes A little book, — and then a joy awakes About each youthful heart, — with stifled cries, And rubbing of white hands, and sparkling eyes: For she's to read a tale of hopes and fears; One that I fostered in my youthful years : The pearls, that on each glist'ning circlet sleep. Gush ever and anon with silent creep. Lured by the innocent dimples. To sweet rest Shall the dear babe, upon it s mother's breast, Be lulled with songs of mine. Fair world, adieu! Thy dales, and hills, are fading from my view: Swiftly I mount, upon wide spreading pinions, Far from the narrow bounds of thy dominions. Full joy I feel, while thus I cleave the air, That my soft verse will charm thy daughters fair, And warm thy sous!" A FLOWER FOR THE DKID. OU placed this flower in iier hand, you say? This pure, pale rose in her hand of clay? Methinks could she lift her sealed eyes They would meet your own with a grieved sui'- prise. She has been your wife for many a year, When clouds hung low and when skies were clear ; At your feet she laid her life's glad spring And her summer's glorious blossoming. Her whole heart went with the hand you won; If its warm love waned as the years went on, If it chiird in the grasp of an icy spell, What was the reason ? I pray you tell. You cannot? I can! and beside her bier My soul must speak, and your soul must hear ; If she was not all that she might have been, Hers was the sorrow — yours the sin! ^\Tlose was the fault if she did not grow Like a rose in the summer ? Do you know ? Does a lily grow when its leaves are chilled? Does it bloom when its root is winter-killed? 381 382 GEMS OF POETRY. For a little while, when you first were wed, Your love was like sunshine around her shed; Then a something crept between you two, You led where she could not follow you. With a man's firm tread you went, and came; You lived for wealth, for power, for fame; Shut into her woman's work and ways, She heard the nation chant your praise. But ah ! you had dropped her hand the while, What time had you for a kiss, a smile! You two, with the same roof overhead, Were as far apart as the sundered dead! You in your manhood's strength and prime; She — worn and faded before her time. 'Tis a common story. This rose you say You laid in her pallid hand to-day ? When did you give her a flower before ? Ah, well, what matter, when all is o'er? Yet stay a moment; you'll wed again; I mean no reproach; 'tis the way of men. But pray you think, when some fairer face Shines like a star from her wonted place, That love will starve if it is not fed. That true hearts pray for their daily bread. A SINGING LESSON. JEAN INGELOW. NIGHTINGALE made a mistake- She sang a few notes out of tune— Her heart was ready to break, And she hid from the moon. She wrung her claws, poor thing, But was far too proud to weep; She tuck'd her head under her wing, And pretended to be asleep. A lark, arm-in-arm with a thrush, Came sauntering up to the place; The nightingale felt herself blush, Though feathers hid her face. She knew they had heard her song. She felt them snicker and sneer; She thought that this life was too long, And wished she could skip a year. " Oh, nightingale," cooed a dove, "Oh, nightingale, what's the use? You, a bird of beauty and love. Why behave like a goose? 383 GEMS OF POETRY. Don't skulk away from our sight Like a common, contemptible fowl; You bird of joy and delight, Why behave like an owl ? " Only think of all you have done — Only think of all you can do; - A false note is really fun From such a bird as j/ou! Lift up your proud little crest; Open your musical beak; Other birds have to do their best, But you need only speak." The nightingale shyly took Her head from under her wing, And, giving the dove a look, Straightway began to sing. There was never a bird could pass — - The night was divinely calm — And the people stood on the grass To hear that wonderful psalm. The nightingale did not care — She only sang to the skies; Her song ascended there, And there she fixed her eyes. The people who listened below She knew but little about — And this tale has a moral, I know, If you'll try to find it out. OTEE THE iir:'ER. 'SASCTE A. vr. PE.rEST. ^|^^g|jJ'T;VEE the river they iDeckon .o me — * I'iTO^pl': Loved ones who've crossed to the faither '^\&!^Ji\ ' gleam of theii' snowy robes I see. tf^l^i^'^.V their voices are lost in the rushing tide. H^t^" There's one ^vith ringlets of sunny gfold. And eyes. the reflection of heaven's own blue: ■4 He crossed in the twilight gray and cold. And the pale mist hid him from mortal view. "VTe saw not the angels who met him there; The gates of the city we could not see: Over the river, over the river. yLx brother stands waiting to welcome me I Over the river the boatman pale Canied another — the household pet: H-r Ijrown curls waved in the gentle gale — Darling Minnie! I see her yet. She crossed on her bosom her dimpled hands, And fearlessly entered the f antom bark : TTe watched it srlide from the silver sands. 386 GEMS OF POETRY. And all our sunshine grew strangely dark. We know she is safe on the farther side. Where all the ransomed and angels be: Over the river, the mystic river, My childhood's idol is waiting for me. For none return from those quiet shores Who cross with the boatman cold and pale ; We hear the dip of the golden oars, And catch a gleam of the snowy sail, And lo! they have passed from our yearning heart; They cross the stream, and are gone for aye; We may not sunder the vail apart That hides from our vision the gates of day. We only know that their barks no more May sail with us o'er life's stormy sea; Yet somewhere,! know, on the unseen shore They watch, and beckon, and wait for me. And I sit and think, when the sunset's gold Is flushing river, and hill, and shore, I shall one day stand by the water cold, And list for the sound of the boatman's oar. I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping sail: I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand; I shall pass from sight, with the boatman pale, To the better shore of the spirit land ; I shall know the loved who have gone before, And joyfully sweet will the meeting be, When over the river, the peaceful river, The Angel of Death shall carry me. THE E^T:ELASTIXG ^ylEMOELiL. [The following exquisite lines, here complete, are from " Hymns of Hope and Faith" by Horatius Bonar, one of the religious laureates of "Auld Scotia."] P and away, like the dew of the morning. Soaring fi'om earth to its home in the sun; So let me steal awav. gently and lovingly. Only remembered by what I have done. My name, and my place, and my tomb all for- gotten. The brief race of time well and patiently riui, So let me pass away, peacefully, silently, Only remembered by what I have done. Gladly away fi'om this toil would I hasten, Up to the crown that for me has been won ; Lmthought of by man in rewards or in praises, — Only remembered by what I have done. I'p and away, hke the odors of sunset, That sweeten the tv,"ilight as darkness comes on; So be my life,— a thing felt but not noticed. And I but remembered by what I have done. Yes, like the fi-agi-ance that wanders in fi-eshness, 387 388 GEMS OF POETRY. When the flowers that it came from are closed up and gone,— So would I be to this world's weary dwellers, Only remembered by what I have done. Needs there be praise of the love-written record, The name and the epitaph graved on the stone? The things we have lived for,— let them be our story, We, ourselves, but remembered by what we have done. 1 need not be missed, if my life has been bearing, (As its summer and autumn moved silently on) ^ The bloom, and the fruit, and the seed of its season; I shall still be remembered by what I have done. I n e l not be missed, if another succeed me, To reap down those fields which in spring I have sown.; He who plowed and who sowed is not missed by the reaper, He is only remembered by what he has done. Not myself, bat the truth that in life I have spoken. Not myself, but the seed that in life I have sown. Shall pass on to ages,— all about me forgotten, Save the truth I have spoken, the things I have done. So let my living be, so be my dying; So let my name lie, unblazoned, unknown; Unpraised and unmissed, I shall still be remembered; Yes,— but remembered by what I have done. THINGS OF EEACTX EZATS. A THING of beauty is a joy for ever: Its loveliness increases: it vrill never Pass into nothingness: bnt still Tvill keep A bower quiet for ns. and a sleep Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing. Therefore, on every morrow, are we ^'eathing A flowery band to bind us to the earth. Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth Of noble natm^es. of the i:^loomy days. Of all the unhealthy and o'er- darkened ways Made for oui' searching: yes. in spite of all. Some shape of beautv moves away the pall From oui' dark spirits. Such the sun. the moon. Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon For simple sheep: and such are daftbdils With the D-reen Avorld thev Hve in: and clear rills That for themselves coohng covert make 'Gainst the hot season: the mid-forest l^^rake. Eich with a spiinkHng of fair musk-rose blooms: And such too is the gi-andeur of the dooms "We have imacfined for the mig'hty dead; All lovely tales that we have heard or read: 3*9 390 GEMS OF POETRY. An. endless fonniain of immortal drink, Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink. Nor do we merely feel these essences For one short hour; no, even as the trees That whisper round a temple become soon Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon, The passion poesy, glories infinite, Haunt us till they become a cheering light Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast, That, whether there be shine or gloom o'ercasl^, They always must be with us, or we die. CONTEASTS. A short June nignt, now brightening fast to dawn; A house with doors and windows open wide; A silent sick-room, where a dying man Lies prostrate in his youth and manhood's pride. A bird's sweet carol, entering glad and shrill, A bird that sings of Hope, when Hope has fled; And the sound smites the watcher with a thrill Of agony — as if some voice had said: ^' Weep on — and watch! but I shall sing as sweet Among the roses — though thy dear ones die; And all the world shall pass with careless feet, Although thy heart be broken utterly!" O little bird! how tuneful was that lay, That fell so bitterly on mourner's ears; Yet it was summer — and what tongue will say; "'Twere well if Nature too could share our tears!" THKOUGH NIGHT TO LIGHT. A. LAIGHTON. Thy love, dear heart, till closed thy lengthened years^ Illumed my being with its tender flame. It was no flickering light that went and came, Constant it shone through varying hopes and fears, Undimmed by sorrow and unquenched by tears. Though it hath vanished from the earth away, And left a deeper shadow on the day. Death does not hide it; for, as one who peers Into the dark, bewildered, and descries A guiding lamp within the casement set, Knowing it homeward leads his weary feet, So I, with yearning heart and wistful eyes, As in a vision wonderful and sweet. Beyond the grave behold it shining yet. QUESTIONS AND ANSWEES. f GOETHE. What makes the time run short ? Business or busy sport. What makes it long to you ? Hands with no work to do. What brings debts quickly in ? Slowness to work and win. What makes the glowing gold ? The stroke that is quick and bold. What man stands near the throne ? The man who can hold his own. 393 LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM. [What could be finer than the following verses penned by Lord Byron, at Malta, September 14, 1809. in the album of some other- wise forgotten beauty ?] As o'er the cold sepulchral stone Some name arrests the passer by; Thus, when thou view'st this page alone, May mine attract thy pensive eye! And when by thee that name is read, Perchance in some succeeding year, Reflect on me as on the dead, And think my heart is buried here. ALBUM VERSES. TAEIOUS AUTHORS. SOLE^IN mnrmnr in the soul Tells of the world to be, As travelers hear the billows roll Before they reach the sea. TROM bailey's FESTUS. Night brings ont stars as sorrow shows us truths. It is much less what we do. Than what we think, which fits us for the future. All aspiration is a toil; But inspiration cometh fi'om above, And is no labor. Respect is what we owe; love what we give, And men would mostly rather give than pay. We live in deeds, not years ; in thoughts, not breaths ; In feelings, not in figures on a dial. AVe should count time by heart-throbs. He lives most "Who thinks most — feels the noblest — acts the best. ado 396 GEMS OF POETRY. A little word in kindness spoken, A motion, or a tear, Has often healed the heart that's broken, And made a friend sincere. The drying up a single tear has more Of honest fame than shedding seas of gore. — Byron. Truth, crushed to earth, will rise again, — The eternal years of God are hers; ButError, wounded, writhes in pain, And dies among his worshippers. — Bryant, Whatsoe'er of beauty Yearns and yet reposes. Blush, and bosom, and sweet breath, Took a shape in roses. "Woman!" With that word Life's dearest hopes and ♦memories come, Truth, beauty, love, in her adored, And earth's lost paradise restored, In the green bower of home. Beware the bowl! though rich and bright Its rubies flash upon the sight, An adder coils its depth beneath. Whose lure is woe, whose sting is death. ALBUM VERSES. 397 A smile of hope from those we love. May be an angel from above; A whispered weleome in our ears. Be as the music of the spheres; The pressure of a gentle hand. Worth all that glitters in the land ; O! trifles are not what they seem. But fortune's voice and star supreme. 'Tis not in fate to harm me. AMiile fate leaves thy love to me; 'Tis not in joy to charm me. Unless joy be shar'd with thee. One minute's dream about thee Were worth a long and endless year Of waking bliss without thee, My own love, my only dear! — Tom Moore. Only the actions of the just Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust. — /. Shirley. I could not love thee, dear, so much, Loved I not honor more. — Sir R. Lovelace. To you no soul shall bear deceit. No stranger offer wrong; But friends in all the aged you'll meet, And lovers m the young. — R. B. Sheridan. 398 GEMS OF POETRY. Reader, attend, — whether thy soul Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole. Or darkling grubs this earthly hole. In low pursuit; Know prudent, cautious self-control Is wisdom's root. — R. Burns. I can not give what men call love; But wilt thou accept not The worship the heart lifts above, And the heavens reject not, — The desire of the moth for the star, Of the night for the morrow. The devotion to something afar From the sphere of our sorrow ? — P. B. Shelley Better trust all and be deceived, And weep that trust and that deceiving. Than doubt one heart that if believed Had blessed one's life with true believing. O, in this mocking world too fast The doubting fiend o'ertakes our youth; Better be cheated to the last Than lose the blessed hope of truth. — Finances Anne Kemble, So live, that, when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan, that moves To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take His chamber in the silent halls of death, Thou go not, like the quarry slave at night, ALBOI VERSES. 399 Scoiirgecl to Ms dungeon: but. sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach, thr grave. Like one who vn^aps the di^apeiy of his couch About him. and Hes down to pleasant di^eams. — ir. C. Bryant, Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever; Do noble things, not di'eam them all day long: And so make life, death, and that vast for ever One grand, sweet song. — C. Kingsley* Ever youi^ fiiend Till time shall end: — Thi'oughout this world of joy and soitow. Tour smile may make. For your dear sake. More bliss than living else could boiTow. — Guess THE FAREWELL TO MY HARP. TOM MOORE. Dear Harp of my Country ! in darkness I found thee, The cold chain of silence had hung o'er thee long. When proudly, my own Island Harp, I unbound thee, And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and song! The warm lay of love,and the light note of gladness, Have waken' d thy fondest, thy liveliest thrill; But so oft hast thou echod the deep sigh of sadness, That e'en in thy mirth it will steal from thee still. Dear Harp of my Country! farewell to thy numbers, This sweet wreath of song is the last we shall iiwine, Go, sleep with the sunshine of fame on thy slumbers, Till touched by some hand less unworthy than mine. If the pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover, Have throbb'd at our lay, 'tis thy glory alone, I was hut as the wind, passing heedlessly over, And all the wild sweetness I wak'd was thy own I 400 FIRST LINES. PAGEc A cloud lay cradled near the setting sun .._ 291 A. drop of spray cast from the Infinite _ 95 A little word in kindness spoken .323 A nightingale made a mistake 383 A night without of wind and rain _ .365 A short June night, now brightening fast to dawn 391 A smile of hope from those we love 397 A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers - 149 A solemn murmur in the soul 395 A thing of beauty is a joy for ever - 389 A wet sheet and a flowing sea _ _ 40 A youth went forth to serenade 119 Above a checkered table they bent 207 Afar in the gleaming Orient, the amber gates swing wide 181 Ah! swan of slenderness, dove of tenderness 246 "Alas! my noble boy! that thou should'st die!" -.258 All aspiration is a toil- .395 All day in the deepening sunlight 218 And is the swallow gone? -- 220 And thou art dead, as young aud fair .327 An old farm-house, with meadows wide -.101 Are ye for ever to your skies departed 363 As fits the holy Christmas birth — -.215 As o'er the cold sepulchral stone 394 Away, away, through the sightless air 115 Backward, turn backward, O Time, in your flight 185 Beautiful faces are those that wear 26 Be good, sweet maid, and let who wfll be clever 399 Better trust all and be deceived 87 401 402 FIRST LINES. Beware the bowl! though rich and bright 396 Bird of the wilderness 165 Blest pair of syrens, pledges of heaveu's joy . 275 Blow, blow, thou winter wind .226 Breathes there the man, with soul so dead 167 But the star that shines in Bethlehem. _ 214 By Nebo's lonely mountain .282 By the flow of the inland river 1 __. 73 Calm on the listening ear of night _ 339 Dear Harp of my Country! in darkness I found thee 400 Did you hear that sound of woe 82 Drifting along the river, all gleaming _ 303 Ever your friend 399 Farewell ! since never more for thee 86 Father, whate'er of earthly bliss _ 130 Folks were happy as days were long.. 36 For March the violets come - --.367 Gay, guiltless pair- _ -.261 God hath His solitudes, unpeopled yet 33 God of the earth's extended plains _ _315 God speaks to hearts of men in many ways 123 God willed: I was. What he had planned I wrought- 95 Go, lovely rose !- - - 29 Green be the turf above thee 252 Hark! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings 226 Harness me down with your iron bands 277 Haste thee, nymph, and bring with thee -143 He kept his honesty and truth. _ .102 He meets, by heavenly chance express 122 He who hath bent him o'er the dead - - -347 High walls and huge the body may confine 242 His falchion flashed along the Nile .--325 How richly glows the water's breast- -267 How shall the Harp of poesy regain. - 372 How sleep the brave who sink to rest 187 How sweet it were, if without feeble fright 28 I am dying, Egypt, dying .287 I cannot give what men call love ~ . 398 I come from haunts of coot and hern 93 FIRST lilNES. 403 I could not love thee, dear, so much - 397 1 count myself in nothmg else so happy 195 I know not what awaits me _ 161 I lay me down to sleep, with little thought of care 63 I love to look on a scene like this 331 I saw thee weep — the big bright tear _ 324 I see before me the Gladiator lie 135 I sit to-night as audience to my thoughts 105 T stand by the river, so peacefully shining _ 85 I stood on the bridge at midnight 221 I walk down the Valley of Silence 64 I was not, and I was conceived-- 95 I'd mourn the hopes that leave me _ 78 If aught of oaten stop or pastoral song...., 293 If for the welfare of the tree - - 371 If I had known in the morning. 75 If in one poor bleeding bosom , 203 If there should come a time as well there may 49 If thou dost bid thy friend farewell -.378 / In olden time there lived a king 76 In the dome of my sires as the clear moonbeam falls 273 In the still air the music lies unheard 24 In the wood, love, when we parted - -.125 It is much less what we do -395 It IS the hour when from the boughs 335 It was the calm and silent night - -- --- -368 Lay my babe upon my bosom 271 Lead, Kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom - 35 Life ! 1 know not what thou art - - . 25 Light after darkness 241 Live while you live," the epicure would say -196 Lonely and wild it rose.-- 248 Look on his pretty face for just one mmute -280 Look out upon the stars, my love . - - 343 Meek dwellers 'mid yon terror-stricken cliffs - 333 Mine be a cot beside the hill -266 My fairest child, I have no song to give you 342 My Father is rich in houses and lands 200 Mysterious night! when our first parent knew 269 My life is in the sere and yellow leaf - - 25 evei a word is said - - 67 404 FIRST LINES. Night brings out stars as sorrow shows us truths. 395 No, not more welcome the fairy numbers .234 No shoes to hide her tiny toes 270 Not in the swaying of the summer trees 237 Not she with traitorous kiss her Savior stung ..199 Not that from life and all its woes 254 Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger 168 O a wonderful stream is the river Time -.263 O brown lark, loving cloud-land best- 336 Oh! ask not, hope thou not too much 357 Oh! beautiful thou art 359 O how much more doth beauty beauteous seem 178 Oh! the old clock of the household stock 321 Old fashioned, yes, I know they are 89 One morning, when Spring was in her teens. - . - 179 Only the actions of the just.. 397 On thy fair bosom, silver lake 23 O soul of mine, look oat and see 96 Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd 45 Our sweetest and most bitter hours are thine 88 Over hill, over dale 225 Over the river on the hill 120 Over the river they beckon to me 385 Praise God, from whom all blessings flow 308 Precious and lovely, I yield her to thee - 46 Reader, attend, — whether thy soul 398 Respect is what we owe; love what we give 395 Ring on, ring on, sweet Sabbath bell. 80 Seated one day at the organ 141 See what a lovely shell .-209 She walks in beauty, like the night. 310 Silence filled the courts of heaven 197 Sing a low song ! --- 160 Sleep, sleep to-day, tormenting cares 228 Slowly the night is falling - - - 169 Softly fell the touch of twilight on Judea's silent hills 126 So live, that, wlien thy summons comes to join ..-398 Some beauties yet no precepts can declare 155 "Sometime," we say, and turn our eyes 66 Sometime, when all life's lessons have been learned - 61 FIRST LINES. 405 South Mountain towered upon our right, far off the river lay. -243 Spirit that breathest througli my lattice, thou 313 Such beautiful, beautiful hands _ 235 The Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold 361 The Beautiful City ! Forever 68 The curfew tolls the knell of parting day 55 The drying up a single tear has more . . . . 396 The earth grows dark about me . 111 The fairest action of our human life 319 The fountains mingle with the river .114 The harp at Nature's advent strung . . , .231 The light was low in the school-room 375 The Lord descended from above. - 233 The muffled drum's sad roll has beat 189 The old farm gate hangs sagging down 351 The rain had fallen, the Poet arose - 17 The splendor falls on castle walls 177 The Spring is here — the delicate-footed May 250 The surging era of human life forever onward rolls 211 The touches of her hands are like the fall . - 44 The weary teacher sat alone 138 The world is full of glorious likenesses .192 There are in this loud stunning tide iii There be none of beauty's daughters 306 There comes a time or soon or late 265 There is many a rest on the road of life 47 There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet 140 There's a beautiful face in the silent air. 341 There the most dainty paradise on ground 229 These are the living pleasures of the bard 379 They drive home the cows from the pasture 51 This globe pourtray'd the race of learned men.. 289 This is the month, and this the happy morn _ 103 This motto I give to the young and the old -311 Thou com'st in beauty, on my gaze at last.- .-344 Three Poets, m three distant ages born -236 Thy love, dear heart, till closed thy lengthened years 392 Thy voice is like the sea's voice when it makes 292 "Till death us part" - 107 "Tired i" Oh yes! so tired, dear.. 32 Tis not in fate to harm me 397 406 FIRST LINES. To him Tvho, in the love of Nature, holds 255 To you no soul shall bear deceit .397 Too la^.e I strayed, forgive the crime ., .260 Touch us gently. Time _ 43 Truth, crushed to earth, will rise again - -. 396 Twas the eve before Christmas ; "Good night ! " had been said 296 Two eyes I see whose sunny blue .-- 100 Two lovers by a moss-grown spring 153 Under the greenwood tree 226 Unhappy White, while life was in its spring 3- 6 Up and away, like the dew of the morning 387 Upon the sadness of the sea 224 Utterer of many thoughts which else were still 309 Vital spark of heavenly flame _ 307 We all have waking visions — I have mine 172 Weary hearts! weary hearts! by cares of life oppressed 38 We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths 395 We scatter seeds with careless hand 70 What babe new-born is this 370 What is noble? 'Tia the finer 317 What makes the time run short? - - 393 Whatsoe'er of beauty . 396 What was he doing, the great god Pan -.- 133 What would I have you do? I'll tell you, kinsman 330 When I consider how my light is spent 152 When the humid shadows hover over all the starry spheres 304 When the mists have rolled in splendor 239 When the song's gone out of your life . - - 218 When to the sessions of sweet silent thought -188 Where the bee sucks, there lurk I -.. 225 Where the rocks are gray and the shore is steep - - 285 "Which shall it be, whicb shall it be?" 204 Who has robbed the oce m cave 99 Who will care? - - 268 Wing'd mimic of the woods! thou motley fool - 113 Within the flower-lined casket she was laid 124 Within the sun-flecked shadows of a forest glade 31 Woman ! " With that word - - - 396 Word was brought to the Danish king 19 Fir.ST LIXES. 407 Wonlclst thon from sorrow find a sweet relief -247 •■Yon have heard,"' said a yonth to his sweetheart who stood — 18 Yon placed this flower in her hand, yon say 381 Yon remember the time when I first songht yonr home -318 Our Bover. THE AUDIPHONE, GOOD NEWS FOR THE DEAF. An Instrument that Snables Deaf Persons to Hear Ordinary Con^ versation Readily Through the Medium of the Teeth, and those Born Deaf and Dumb to Hear and Learn to Speak. How it is Done, Etc. The Audiphone is a new instrument made of a peculiar composition, possessing the property of gathering the faint- est sounds (somewhat similar to a telephone diaphragm), and conveying them to the auditory nerve, through the medium of the teeth. The external ear has nothing what- ever to do in hearing with this wonderful instrument. It is made in the shape of a fan, and can be used as such, if desired. When adjusted for hearing, it is in suitable tension and the upper edge is pressed slightly against one or more of the upper teeth. Ordinary conversation can be heard with ease. In most cases deafness is not detected, The Audiphone is Patented throughout the civilized world. I* I O E : Conversational, small , $6.00 Conversational, large - $6.00 The Audiphone will be sent to any address, on receipt of price, by RHODES & McCLURE, Agents for the World, 152 DEARBORN STREET, CHICAGO, ILL. (Audiphoue Parlors, Adjacent to the Office.) DUKE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY DURHAM, NORTH CAROLINA 27706