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THE CROWDED STREET.

LET me move slowly through the street,
Filled with an ever-shifting train,

Amid the sound of steps that beat
The murmuring walks like autumn rain.

How fast the flitting figures come!

The mild, the fierce, the stony face:

Some bright with thoughtless smiles, and some Where secret tears have left their trace!

They pass to toil, to strife, to rest:

To halls in which the feast is spread,
To chambers where the funeral guest
In silence sits beside the dead.

And some to happy homes repair,

Where children, pressing cheek to cheek

With mute caresses, shall declare

The tenderness they cannot speak.

And some, who walk in calmness here,
Shall shudder as they reach the door
Where one who made their dwelling dear,
Its flower, its light, is seen no more.

THE CROWDED STREET.

Youth, with pale cheek and slender frame,
And dreams of greatness in thine eye,
Go'st thou to build an early name,
Or early in the task to die?

Keen son of trade, with eager brow,
Who is now fluttering in thy snare?
Thy golden fortunes, tower they now?
Or melt the glittering spires in air?

Who of this crowd to-night shall tread
The dance, till daylight gleams again?
Who sorrow o'er the untimely dead?

Who writhe in throes of mortal pain?

Some, famine-struck, shall think how long
The cold, dark hours how slow the light;
And some, who flaunt amid the throng,
Shall hide in dens of shame to-night.

Each where his tasks or pleasures call,
They pass, and heed each other not;
There is who heeds, who holds them all,
In His large love and boundless thought.

These struggling tides of life, that seem
In wayward, aimless course to tend,
Are eddies of the mighty stream

That rolls to its appointed end.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

A DEAD ROSE.

O ROSE! Who dares to name thee?

No longer roseate now, nor soft, nor sweet;
But barren and hard, and dry as stubble-wheat:
Kept seven years in a drawer, thy titles shame thee.

The breeze that used to blow thee

Between the hedgerow thorns, and take away
An odor up the lane, to last all day,

If breathing now, unsweetened would forego thee.

The sun that used to smite thee,

And mix his glory in thy gorgeous urn,

Till beam appeared to bloom and flower to burn,
If shining now, with not a hue would light thee.

The dew that used to wet thee,

And, white first, grew incarnadined, because
It lay upon thee where the crimson was,

If dropping now, would darken where it met thee.

The fly that lit upon thee

To stretch the tendrils of its tiny feet

Along the leaf's pure edges after heat,

If lighting now, would coldly overrun thee.

THE MOTHER'S FIRST GRIEF.

The bee that once did suck thee,

And build thy perfumed ambers up his hive,
And swoon in thee for joy, till scarce alive,
If passing now, would blindly overlook thee.

The heart doth recognize thee,

Alone, alone! The heart doth smell thee sweet, Doth view thee fair, doth judge thee most complete, Though seeing now these changes that disguise thee.

Yes, and the heart doth owe thee

More love, dead rose, than to such roses bold

As Julia wears at dances, smiling cold.

Lie still upon this heart, which breaks below thee!

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

THE MOTHER'S FIRST GRIEF.

SHE sits beside the cradle,

And her tears are streaming fast,

For she sees the present only,
While she thinks of all the past:
Of the days so full of gladness,

When her first-born's answering kiss
Thrilled her soul with such a rapture
That it knew no other bliss.

O those happy, happy moments!
They but deepen her despair;

THE MOTHER'S FIRST GRIEF.

For she bends above the cradle,
And her baby is not there!

There are words of comfort spoken,
And the leaden clouds of grief
Wear the smiling bow of promise,
And she feels a sad relief;

But her wavering thoughts will wander,
Till they settle on the scene

Of the dark and silent chamber,

And of all that might have been.

For a little vacant garment,

Or a shining tress of hair,

Tells her heart, in tones of anguish,
That her baby is not there!

She sits beside the cradle,

But her tears no longer flow,
For she sees a blessed vision,
And forgets all earthly woe;
Saintly eyes look down upon her,

And the Voice that hushed the sea
Stills her spirit with the whisper,

"Suffer them to come to Me."

And while her soul is lifted

On the soaring wings of prayer, Heaven's crystal gates swing inward, And she sees her baby there!

ROBERT SMYTH CHILTON.

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