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But wilt thou own it? Wilt thou in the scroll
Of my sad life, perceive, as in a hive,
A thousand happy fancies that contrive To seek thee out? Thy bosom is the goal Of all my thoughts, and quick to thy control
They wend their way, elate to be alive.
To thee the songs that wildly seem to bless,
And those that mind thee of a past caress
I half forget the cause I have to weep;
And, like a reaper in the realms of sleep,
I almost hear the silence of the night;
And, in my soul, I know the stars are bright Because they love, and that they nightly glow To make it clear that there is nought below,
And nought above, so fair as Love's delight.
But there is something I could never bring
My soul to compass. No! could I compel
Thy plighted troth, I would not have thee tell
Or from the rostrum of a roaring crowd,
Or from the memory of a hushand's shroud, Or from a goblet where a Cæsar sips. I would not touch thee with my finger tips,
But I would die to serve thee-and be proud.
Ah no, my Lady! though I sang to thee
With fuller voice than sings the nightingale
Fuller and softer in the moonlight pale Than lays of Keats, or Shelley, or the free And fire-lipp'd Byron—there would come to me
No word of thine to thank me for the tale.
Thou would'st not heed. Thou would'st not any
when, In bower or grove-or in the holy nook Which shields thy bed—thou would'st not care
to look For thoughts of mine, though faithful in their ken As are the minds of England's fighting men
When they inscribe their names in Honor's book.
O, MASTERS! your sweet singer lieth here
The lovely and unloved, the lone and lost;
His life's frail barque, on seas tumultous tossed. Hath reached the heaven where the skies are clear. All's well! Take ye thought, and shed no tear
Ye that were blinded when his spirit crossed
Your songless world, and, counting not the cost. Sang in the dark, to die when dawn was near! When his heart hungered for your love, ye gave
Nothing. Now that his famished lips are dumbLips that Love kissed not, though their kiss was
sweetLay not a flower upon his voiceless grave: Of their own will the flowers to him will come
God will plant daisies at his head and feet. Thou canst rest in peace, O poet strong and vernal, Aud rapacious death for thee has lost his sting; For thy melodies return to us eternal, With the birds, and bees, and blossomings of spring.
FRANK L. STANTON.
Thou would'st not care to scan my face, and
through This face of mine, the soul, for scraps of thought.
Yet 'tis a face that somewhere has been taught To smile in tears. Mine eyes are somewhat blue And quick to flash (if what I hear be true)
And dark, at times, as velvet newly wrought.
NOW AND EVER.
Ask what you will, my own and only love;
For to love's service true, Your least wish sways me as from worlds above,
And I yield all to you
Who art the only she,
Yet some things e’en to thee I cannot yield,
As that one gift by which
Thou mad'st existence rich,
Who wast the only she,
A lawn unrolled beneath my feet
We had talked long, and then a silence came;
And in the topmost firs To his nest a white dove floated like a flame,
And my lips closed on hers
Who was the only she,
Since when, my heart lies by her heart-nor now
Could I, 'twixt hers and mine, Nor the most love-skilled angel choose; so thou
In vain wouldst ask for thine,
Who art the only she,
ELIZABETH HENRY MILLER.
A syllable of dew that drips
Printed in the Fort Wayne Gazette, in 1878, after the death of the author by suicide.
O GENTLE death, bow down and sip
A tracery of trees grotesque
I stood beneath a summer moon
THE BANNER THAT WELCOMES THE
The dawn of new ages is breaking,
The cycle of Concord has come; There is peace in the echoing bugle,
And a festival march in the drum. To-day the old Sandy Hook wakens
An echo that never will cease; O’er the spot where the grand hero perished
The winds lift the banner of peace!
My helpless ship-wrecked heart and her
O fag of the Navesink Highlands
That patriot bands gave the air, The joy that our bosom is thrilling,
The hearts of the ages shall share! The war ships, the peace ships, shall hail thee,
The prows from the nations oppressed, As thy iris gleams forth from the heaven
At the sentinelled gates of the West!
The eye of the immigrant mother
Shall long through the melting mist gaze, And turn into tears to behold thee,
And close in the silence of praise. The sky-piercing eye of the sailor
From afar shall thy sun ripples view; The tempest-tossed traveler returning
Shall pledge his allegiance anew.
SOLACE OF THE WOODS.
The skies of good-will bend above us,
The ocean beneath us rolls fair;
What sayest thou, Seer of the air?
And wait it the waters impearled. Speak, Flag of the ocean auroras,
Speak, banner that welcomes the world!
Woods, waters, have a charm to soothe the ear, When common sounds have vexed it: when the
day Grows sultry, and the crowd is in thy way, And working in thy soul much toil and care, Betake thee to the forest: in the shade Of pines, and by the side of purling streams That prattle all their secrets in their dreams, Unconscious of a listener-unafraid Thy soul shall feel their freshening and the truth, Of nature then, reviving in thy heart, Shall bring thee the best feelings of thy youth, When in all natural joys thy joy had part, Ere lucre and the narrowing toils of trade Had turned thee to the thing thou wast not made.
William Gilmore SIMMS.
“O Liberty, thou who hast lifted
My eye to the walls of the sun,
The brotherhood conflict has won.
But for man move the cycles sublime; The summons for peace is ascending
From the jubilee trumpets of time!
“I salute ye,
feet that have followed Fair Hesper to destinies new. I salute ye, O pioneers coming,
I bid ye, O voyagers, adieu!
And monkeys, too, that once were full of lovely
monkey shines, No longer play their natural tricks, but work in
other lines, And do not rouse the plaudits of the modern multi
tudes Unless they're gayly dressed and taught to fool
around like dudes.
BESIDE the sewing-table chained and bent.
They stitch for the lady, tyrannous and proud
For her wedding gown, for them a shroud; They stitch and stitch, but never mend the rent Torn in life's golden curtains. Glad Youth went,
And left them alone with Time; and now if bowed
With burdens they should sob and cry aloud, Wondering, the rich would look from their content.
And so this glimmering life at last recedes
In unknown, endless depths beyond recall; And what's the worth of all our ancient creeds,
If here, at the end of ages, this is all
A white face floating in the whirling ball, A dead face plashing in the river reeds?
CHARLES EDWIN MARKHAM. - Californian Magazine, June, 1893.
It was only a chance, light word, and seems still
less to tell, Yet I thought of it on that next, dread day in a
shudder of shot and shell, Strange, like the flash of a sword, when John fell
down at my side; Straight, as a mountain pine tree smitten by
storm, he died.
THE LAST BATTLE.
THE noisy day was over; like a red rose tossed to
the sky Its petals floated out to the West, and a pale
moon hung on high. We lay in the sweet, white clover, half sorry, may
hap, half glad, John and I together, and there was Stephen the
We drew him out of the tumult, Stephen the lad
and I, Back in the sweet, white clover, his face to the
quiet sky, And the boy all flushed with fervor, kneeling beside
him said, “Give me his musket; mine is gone; I'll fight
for the bravest dead!”
We said not a word of the battle which drew anear
with day, Our thunder the musket's rattle, our rain was
the bullet's play; Face to face with Death forgot were a thousand
ills, For it was the last, long night of all, and home
lay over the hills!
Home, which yearned and watched in more than
one dear face, To whom that bitterest absence had brought the
tenderest grace, And lying at rest in the clover, facing the waning
light, To-morrow held happiness only, and War was a
dream of the night.
His hand was on John's heart when sudden he
leaned and gazed, Then sprung to his feet with a cry as of anguish
sore amazed; Had a bullet pierced him too? Nay, then 'tis the
body dies! He saw but the face on the dead man's breast,
John's “bluest and truest of eyes." Was it Stephen who looked through the smoke
with a face like the face of the dead ? Who laid his lips to the picture once, then back
through the tumult sped ? In the din it seemed but a dream, and I left John
lying apart With the smiling, blue forget-me-not eyes of the
pictured face on his heert. Surely it was a dream, yet through all that horrible
day The stricken face of Stephen the lad was before
my sight alway; In the densest rout, in the broken ranks, in the
smoking, blood-red air, In danger's front, in the direst need, I found that
young face there! And found it again, as I knew I should, at the close
of that daytime, when The sunset flamed o'er a smoking pyre strewn with
the hearts of men; Upward turned, with a smile that it never in life
time had, With a light as of triumph upon its brow, was the
face of Stephen the lad.
Then sudden I spoke my thought, “What eyes are
of all most true?” And Stephen, his young face turned to the stars,
smilingly answered "Blue;" “Ay” said John "you are right, boy, my all under
heaven lies In a pair that are waiting for me alone, the bluest
and truest of eyes!
“I have her picture here safely hidden over my
heart; I'll show it to you to-morrow, boys, to-morrow
before we part!" And Stephen, he made no sign, but his hand lay
over his breast, And I knew he thought of the last sweet look of
the blue eyes he loved best.
And I came on a mystery there, kneeling by him
apart, For the same fair face looked up from his breast
That lay on John's brave heart;