A cloud passed kindly overhead, The moon was slyly peeping through it, Yet hid its face, as if it said, "Come, now or never! do it! do it!" My lips till then had only known The kiss of mother and of sister, But somehow, full upon her own Sweet, rosy, darling mouth, — I kissed her! Perhaps 'twas boyish love, yet still, I'd give-but who can live youth over? THE DISCOVERER. I HAVE a little kinsman Whose earthly summers are but three, And yet a voyager is he Of them who seek the frozen Pole, Has sailed where the noiseless surges roll, Ay, he has travelled whither Across the unknown sea. Suddenly, in his fair young hour, With this command: "Henceforth thou art a rover! Thou must make a voyage far, Sail beneath the evening star, And a wondrous land discover." - With his sweet smile innocent Our little kinsman went. Since that time no word How he fares, or answer well What the little one has found Since he left us, outward bound; Would that he might return! Then should we learn From the pricking of his chart How the skyey roadways part. Hush! does not the baby this way bring. To lay beside this severed curl, Ah, no! not so! He is a brave discoverer More than in the groves is taught, What shapes the angels wear, What is their guise and speech In those lands beyond our reachAnd his eyes behold Things that shall never, never be to mortal hearers told. SEEKING THE MAYFLOWER. THE Sweetest sound our whole year round 'Tis the first robin of the spring! The song of the full orchard choir Is not so fine a thing. Glad sights are common: Nature draws [year, Her random pictures through the But oft her music bids us long Remember those most dear. To me, when in the sudden spring The veil is parted wide, and lo, A moment, though my eyelids close, Once more I see that wooded hill Where the arbutus grows. I see the village dryad kneel, Trailing her slender fingers through The knotted tendrils, as she lifts Their pink, pale flowers to view. Once more I dare to stoop beside The dove-eyed beauty of my choice, And long to touch her careless hair, And think how dear her voice. My eager, wandering hands assist With fragrant blooms her lap to fill, And half by chance they meet her own, Half by our young hearts' will. Till, at the last, those blossoms won,Like her, so pure, so sweet, so shy, Upon the gray and lichened rocks Thine shall be foe to hate and friend to love, Pleasures that others gain, the ills they know, And all in a lifetime. Hast thou a golden day. a starlit night, Mirth, and music, and love without alloy ? Leave no drop undrunken of thy delight: Sorrow and shadow follow on thy joy. 'Tis all in a lifetime. What if the battle end and thou hast lost? Others have lost the battles thou hast won: RICHARD HENRY STODDARD. THE FLIGHT OF YOUTH. THERE are gains for all our losses, There are balms for all our pain: But when youth, the dream, departs, It takes something from our hearts, And it never comes again. We are stronger, and are better, Under manhood's sterner reign: On the earth, and in the air, AN OLD SONG REVERSED. "THERE are gains for all our losses." So I said when I was young. Youth has gone, and hope gone with Gone the strong desire for fame. When my life was in its summer One fair woman liked my looks: Now that Time has driven his plough In deep furrows on my brow, I'm no more in her good books. "There are gains for all our losses?" What has been your gain to me? No, the words I sang were idle, "There's a loss for every gain!" THE TWO brides. I SAW two maids at the kirk, And one in her winding-sheet. The choristers sang the hymn, And one to death was wed. They were borne to their bridal beds, One in a merry castle, And one in a solemn tomb. One on the morrow woke In a world of sin and pain; ABRAHAM LINCOLN. THIS man whose homely face you look upon, Was one of nature's masterful, great men; And the blasted limb of the churchyard yew, It shakes like a ghostly hand. The dead are engulfed beneath it, Than earth in all her graves! SONGS UNSUNG. LET no poet, great or small, Not because we woo it long, Every song that has been sung Was before it took a voice, Waiting since the world was young For the poet of its choice. Oh, if any waiting be, May they come to-day to me! I am ready to repeat Whatsoever they impart; Sorrows sent by them are sweet, They know how to heal the heart: Ay, and in the lightest strain Something serious doth remain. What are my white hairs, forsooth, Try me, merry Muses, now. I can still with numbers fleet Old am I this many a year; Sing my songs, and think of me! WHEN THE DRUM OF SICKNESS BEATS. WHEN the drum of sickness beats The change o' the watch, and we are old, Farewell, youth, and all its sweets, Fires gone out that leave us cold! |