I sat alone with my conscience,In a place where time had ceased,And we talked of my former livingIn the land where the years increased;And I felt I should have to answerThe question it might put to me,And to face the question and answerThroughout an eternity.The ghosts of forgotten actionsCame floating before my sight,And things that I thought had perishedWere alive with a terrible might;And the vision of life's dark recordWas an awful thing to face—Alone with my conscience sittingIn that solemnly silent place.And I thought of a far-away warning,Of a sorrow that was to be mine,In a land that then was the future,But now is the present time;And I thought of my former thinkingOf the judgment day to be;But sitting alone with my conscienceSeemed judgment enough for me.And I wondered if there was a futureTo this land beyond the grave;But no one gave me an answerAnd no one came to save.Then I felt that the future was present,And the present would never go by,For it was but the thought of a futureBecome an eternity.Then I woke from my timely dreaming,And the vision passed away;And I knew the far-away warningWas a warning of yesterday.And I pray that I may not forget itIn this land before the grave,That I may not cry out in the future,And no one come to save.I have learned a solemn lessonWhich I ought to have known before,And which, though I learned it dreaming,I hope to forget no more.So I sit alone with my conscienceIn the place where the years increase,And I try to fathom the future,In the land where time shall cease.And I know of the future judgment,How dreadful soe'er it be,That to sit alone with my conscienceWill be judgment enough for me.
There's a dandy little fellow,Who dresses all in yellow,In yellow with an overcoat of green;With his hair all crisp and curly,In the springtime bright and earlyA-tripping o'er the meadow he is seen.Through all the bright June weather,Like a jolly little tramp,He wanders o'er the hillside, down the road;Around his yellow feather,Thy gypsy fireflies camp;His companions are the wood lark and the toad.But at last this little fellowDoffs his dainty coat of yellow,And very feebly totters o'er the green;For he very old is growingAnd with hair all white and flowing,A-nodding in the sunlight he is seen.Oh, poor dandy, once so spandy,Golden dancer on the lea!Older growing, white hair flowing,Poor little baldhead dandy now is he!Nellie M. Garabrant.
It's easy to talk of the patience of Job, Humph! Job hed nothin' to try him!Ef he'd been married to 'Bijah Brown, folks wouldn't have dared come nigh him.Trials, indeed! Now I'll tell you what—ef you want to be sick of your life,Jest come and change places with me a spell—for I'm an inventor's wife.And such inventions! I'm never sure, when I take up my coffee-pot,That 'Bijah hain't been "improvin'" it and it mayn't go off like a shot.Why, didn't he make me a cradle once, that would keep itself a-rockin';And didn't it pitch the baby out, and wasn't his head bruised shockin'?And there was his "Patent Peeler," too—a wonderful thing, I'll say;But it hed one fault-it never stopped till the apple was peeled away.As for locks and clocks, and mowin' machines and reapers, and all such trash,Why, 'Bijah's invented heaps of 'em but they don't bring in no cash.Law! that don't worry him—not at all; he's the most aggravatin'est man—He'll set in his little workshop there, and whistle, and think, and plan,Inventin' a jew's-harp to go by steam, or a new-fangled powder-horn,While the children's goin' barefoot to school and the weeds is chokin' our corn.When 'Bijah and me kep' company, he warn't like this, you know;Our folks all thought he was dreadful smart—but that was years ago.He was handsome as any pictur then, and he had such a glib, bright way—I never thought that a time would come when I'd rue my weddin' day;But when I've been forced to chop wood, and tend to the farm beside,And look at Bijah a-settin' there, I've jest dropped down and cried.We lost the hull of our turnip crop while he was inventin' a gunBut I counted it one of my marcies when it bu'st before 'twas done.So he turned it into a "burglar alarm." It ought to give thieves a fright—'Twould scare an honest man out of his wits, ef he sot it off at night.Sometimes I wonder if 'Bijah's crazy, he does sech cur'ous things.Hev I told you about his bedstead yit?—'Twas full of wheels and springs;It hed a key to wind it up, and a clock face at the head;All you did was to turn them hands, and at any hour you said,That bed got up and shook itself, and bounced you on the floor,And then shet up, jest like a box, so you couldn't sleep any more.Wa'al, 'Bijah he fixed it all complete, and he sot it at half-past five,But he hadn't mor'n got into it when—dear me! sakes alive!Them wheels began to whiz and whir! I heered a fearful snap!And there was that bedstead, with 'Bijah inside, shet up jest like a trap!I screamed, of course, but 'twan't no use, then I worked that hull long nightA-trying to open the pesky thing. At last I got in a fright;I couldn't hear his voice inside, and I thought he might be dyin';So I took a crow-bar and smashed it in.—There was 'Bijah peacefully lyin',Inventin' a way to git out agin. That was all very well to say,But I don't b'lieve he'd have found it out if I'd left him in all day.Now, sence I've told you my story, do you wonder I'm tired of life?Or think it strange I often wish I warn't an inventor's wife?Mrs. E.T. Corbett.
The snow and the silence came down together,Through the night so white and so still;And young folks housed from the bitter weather,Housed from the storm and the chill—Heard in their dreams the sleigh-bells jingle,Coasted the hill-sides under the moon,Felt their cheeks with the keen air tingle,Skimmed the ice with their steel-clad shoon.They saw the snow when they rose in the morning,Glittering ghosts of the vanished night,Though the sun shone clear in the winter dawning,And the day with a frosty pomp was bright.Out in the clear, cold, winter weather—Out in the winter air, like wine—Kate with her dancing scarlet feather,Bess with her peacock plumage fine,Joe and Jack with their pealing laughter,Frank and Tom with their gay hallo,And half a score of roisterers after,Out in the witching, wonderful snow,Shivering graybeards shuffle and stumble,Righting themselves with a frozen frown,Grumbling at every snowy tumble;But young folks know why the snow came down.Louise Chandler Moulton.
Closed eyes can't see the white roses,Cold hands can't hold them, you know;Breath that is stilled cannot gatherThe odors that sweet from them blow.Death, with a peace beyond dreaming,Its children of earth doth endow;Life is the time we can help them,So give them the flowers now!Here are the struggles and striving,Here are the cares and the tears;Now is the time to be smoothingThe frowns and the furrows and fears.What to closed eyes are kind sayings?What to hushed heart is deep vow?Naught can avail after parting,So give them the flowers now!Just a kind word or a greeting;Just a warm grasp or a smile—These are the flowers that will lightenThe burdens for many a mile.After the journey is overWhat is the use of them; howCan they carry them who must be carried?Oh, give them the flowers now!Blooms from the happy heart's garden,Plucked in the spirit of love;Blooms that are earthly reflectionsOf flowers that blossom above.Words cannot tell what a measureOf blessing such gifts will allowTo dwell in the lives of many,So give them the flowers now!Leigh M. Hodges.
Some die too late and some too soon,At early morning, heat of noon,Or the chill evening twilight. Thou,Whom the rich heavens did so endowWith eyes of power and Jove's own brow,With all the massive strength that fillsThy home-horizon's granite hills,With rarest gifts of heart and headFrom manliest stock inherited—New England's stateliest type of man,In port and speech Olympian;Whom no one met, at first, but tookA second awed and wondering look(As turned, perchance, the eyes of GreeceOn Phidias' unveiled masterpiece);Whose words, in simplest home-spun clad,The Saxon strength of Caedmon's had,With power reserved at need to reachThe Roman forum's loftiest speech,Sweet with persuasion, eloquentIn passion, cool in argument,Or, ponderous, falling on thy foesAs fell the Norse god's hammer blows.Crushing as if with Talus' flailThrough Error's logic-woven mail,And failing only when they triedThe adamant of the righteous side,—Thou, foiled in aim and hope, bereavedOf old friends, by the new deceived,Too soon for us, too soon for thee,Beside thy lonely Northern sea,Where long and low the marsh-lands spread,Laid wearily down thy august head.Thou shouldst have lived to feel belowThy feet Disunion's fierce upthrow,—The late-sprung mine that underlaidThy sad concessions vainly made.Thou shouldst have seen from Sumter's wallThe star-flag of the Union fall,And armed Rebellion pressing onThe broken lines of Washington!No stronger voice than thine had thenCalled out the utmost might of men,To make the Union's charter freeAnd strengthen law by liberty.How had that stern arbitramentTo thy gray age youth's vigor lent,Shaming ambition's paltry prizeBefore thy disillusioned eyes;Breaking the spell about thee woundLike the green withes that Samson bound;Redeeming, in one effort grand,Thyself and thy imperiled land!Ah cruel fate, that closed to thee,O sleeper by the Northern sea,The gates of opportunity!God fills the gaps of human need,Each crisis brings its word and deed.Wise men and strong we did not lack;But still, with memory turning back,In the dark hours we thought of thee,And thy lone grave beside the sea.Above that grave the east winds blow,And from the marsh-lands drifting slowThe sea-fog comes, with evermoreThe wave-wash of a lonely shore,And sea-bird's melancholy cry,As Nature fain would typifyThe sadness of a closing scene,The loss of that which should have been.But, where thy native mountains bareTheir foreheads to diviner air,Fit emblem of enduring fame,One lofty summit keeps thy name.For thee the cosmic forces didThe rearing of that pyramid,The prescient ages shaping withFire, flood, and frost thy monolith.Sunrise and sunset lay thereonWith hands of light their benison,The stars of midnight pause to setTheir jewels in its coronet.And evermore that mountain massSeems climbing from the shadowy passTo light, as if to manifestThy nobler self, they life at best!John G. Whittier.
What flower is this that greets the morn,Its hues from Heaven so freshly born?With burning star and flaming bandIt kindles all the sunset land:O tell us what its name may be,—Is this the Flower of Liberty?It is the banner of the free,The starry Flower of Liberty!In savage Nature's far abodeIts tender seed our fathers sowed;The storm-winds rocked its swelling bud,Its opening leaves were streaked with blood,Till lo! earth's tyrants shook to seeThe full-blown Flower of Liberty!Then hail the banner of the free,The starry Flower of Liberty!Behold its streaming rays unite,One mingling flood of braided light—The red that fires the Southern rose,With spotless white from Northern snows,And, spangled o'er its azure, seeThe sister Stars of Liberty!Then hail the banner of the free,The starry Flower of Liberty!The blades of heroes fence it round,Where'er it springs is holy ground;From tower and dome its glories spread;It waves where lonely sentries tread;It makes the land as ocean free,And plants an empire on the sea!Then hail the banner of the free,The starry Flower of Liberty!Thy sacred leaves, fair Freedom's flower,Shall ever float on dome and tower,To all their heavenly colors true,In blackening frost or crimson dew,—And God love us as we love thee,Thrice holy Flower of Liberty!Then hail the banner of the free,The starry Flower of Liberty!Oliver Wendell Holmes.
Little lamb, who made thee?Dost thou know who made thee,Gave thee life, and made thee feedBy the stream and o'er the mead?Gave thee clothing of delight,—Softest clothing, woolly, bright?Gave thee such a tender voice,Making all the vales rejoice?Little lamb, who made thee?Dost thou know who made thee?Little lamb, I'll tell thee;Little lamb, I'll tell thee;He is called by thy name,For he calls himself a lamb.He is meek and He is mild;He became a little child:I a child, and thou a lamb,We are called by His name.Little lamb, God bless thee!Little lamb, God bless thee!William Blake.
"Corporal Green!" the orderly cried;"Here!" was the answer, loud and clear,From the lips of the soldier standing near,And "Here" was the answer the next replied."Cyrus Drew!"—then a silence fell—This time no answer followed the call,Only the rear man had seen him fall,Killed or wounded he could not tell.There they stood in the failing light,These men of battle, with grave dark looks,As plain to be read as open books,While slowly gathered the shades of night.The fern on the hillside was splashed with blood,And down in the corn, where the poppies grewWere redder stains than the poppies knewAnd crimson-dyed was the river's flood."Herbert Kline!" At the call there cameTwo stalwart soldiers into the line,Bearing between them Herbert Kline,Wounded and bleeding, to answer his name."Ezra Kerr!"—and a voice said "Here!""Hiram Kerr!"—but no man replied.They were brothers, these two; the sad winds sighed,And a shudder crept through the cornfield near."Ephraim Deane!" then a soldier spoke;"Deane carried our regiment's colors," he said;"Where our ensign was shot, I left him dead,Just after the enemy wavered and broke."Close by the roadside his body lies;I paused a moment and gave him a drink,He murmured his mother's name I think,And Death came with it and closed his eyes."'Twas a victory; yes, but it cost us dear—For that company's roll when called that night,Of a hundred men who went into the fight,Numbered but twenty that answered "Here!"N.G. Shepherd.
God send us a little homeTo come back to when we roam—Low walls and fluted tiles,Wide windows, a view for miles;Red firelight and deep chairs;Small white beds upstairs;Great talk in little nooks;Dim colors, rows of books;One picture on each wall;Not many things at all.God send us a little ground—Tall trees standing round,Homely flowers in brown sod,Overhead, Thy stars, O God!God bless, when winds blow,Our home and all we know.London "Spectator."
No, comrades, I thank you—not any for me;My last chain is riven—henceforward I'm free!I will go to my home and my children to-nightWith no fumes of liquor their spirits to blight;And, with tears in my eyes, I will beg my poor wifeTo forgive me the wreck I have made of her life.I have never refused you before?Let that pass,For I've drank my last glass, boys,I have drank my last glass.Just look at me now, boys, in rags and disgrace,With my bleared, haggard eyes, and my red, bloated face;Mark my faltering step and my weak, palsied hand,And the mark on my brow that is worse than Cain's brand;See my crownless old hat, and my elbows and knees,Alike, warmed by the sun, or chilled by the breeze.Why, even the children will hoot as I pass;—But I've drank my last glass, boys,I have drank my last glass.You would hardly believe, boys, to look at me nowThat a mother's soft hand was pressed on my brow—When she kissed me, and blessed me, her darling, her pride,Ere she lay down to rest by my dead father's side;But with love in her eyes, she looked up to the skyBidding me meet her there and whispered "Good-bye."And I'll do it, God helping! YoursmileI let pass,For I've drank my last glass, boys,I have drank my last glass.Ah! I reeled home last night, it was not very late,For I'd spent my last sixpence, and landlords won't waitOn a fellow who's left every cent in their till,And has pawned his last bed, their coffers to fill.Oh, the torments I felt, and the pangs I endured!And I begged for one glass—just one would have cured,—But they kicked me out doors! I let that, too, pass,For I've drank my last glass, boys,I have drank my last glass.At home, my pet Susie, with her rich golden hair,I saw through the window, just kneeling in prayer;From her pale, bony hands, her torn sleeves hung down,And her feet, cold and bare, shrank beneath her scant gown,And she prayed—prayed forbread, just a poor crust of bread,For one crust, on her knees my pet darling plead!And I heard, with no penny to buy one, alas!For I've drank my last glass, boys,I have drank my last glass.For Susie, my darling, my wee six-year-old,Though fainting with hunger and shivering with cold,There, on the bare floor, asked God to blessme!And she said, "Don't cry, mamma! He will; for you see,Ibelievewhat I ask for!" Then sobered, I creptAway from the house; and that night, when I slept,Next my heart lay the PLEDGE! You smile! let it pass,For I've drank my last glass, boysI have drank my last glass.My darling child saved me! Her faith and her loveAre akin to my dear sainted mother's above!I will make my words true, or I'll die in the race,And sober I'll go to my last resting place;And she shall kneel there, and, weeping, thank GodNodrunkardlies under the daisy-strewn sod!Not a drop more of poison my lips shall e'er pass,For I've drank my last glass, boys,I have drank my last glass.
Ye banks, and braes, and streams aroundThe castle o' Montgomery,Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,Your waters never drumlie!There simmer first unfauld her robes,And there the langest tarry;For there I took the last fareweelO' my sweet Highland Mary.How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk,How rich the hawthorn's blossom,As, underneath their fragrant shade,I clasp'd her to my bosom!The golden hours, on angel wings,Flew o'er me and my dearie;For dear to me as light and lifeWas my sweet Highland Mary!Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace,Our parting was fu' tender;And, pledging aft to meet again,We tore oursels asunder;But, oh, fell death's untimely frost,That nipp'd my flower sae early!Now green's the sod and cauld's the clay,That wraps my Highland Mary!Oh, pale, pale now, those rosy lips,I aft ha'e kiss'd, sae fondly!And closed for aye the sparkling glanceThat dwalt on me sae kindly!And mouldering now in silent dust,That heart that lo'ed me dearly;But still within my bosom's coreShall live my Highland Mary!Robert Burns.
Little one, come to my knee!Hark, how the rain is pouringOver the roof, in the pitch-black night,And the wind in the woods a-roaring!Hush, my darling, and listen,Then pay for the story with kisses;Father was lost in the pitch-black night,In just such a storm as this is!High up on the lonely mountains,Where the wild men watched and waitedWolves in the forest, and bears in the bush,And I on my path belated.The rain and the night togetherCame down, and the wind came after,Bending the props of the pine-tree roof,And snapping many a rafter.I crept along in the darkness,Stunned, and bruised, and blinded,—Crept to a fir with thick-set boughs,And a sheltering rock behind it.There, from the blowing and rainingCrouching, I sought to hide me:Something rustled, two green eyes shone,And a wolf lay down beside me.Little one, be not frightened;I and the wolf together,Side by side, through the long, long nightHid from the awful weather.His wet fur pressed against me;Each of us warmed the other;Each of us felt, in the stormy dark,That beast and man was brother.And when the falling forestNo longer crashed in warning,Each of us went from our hiding-placeForth in the wild, wet morning.Darling, kiss me in payment!Hark, how the wind is roaring;Father's house is a better placeWhen the stormy rain is pouring!Bayard Taylor.
She was a Phantom of delightWhen first she gleamed upon my sight;A lovely Apparition sentTo be a moment's ornament;Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair;Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair;But all things else about her drawnFrom May-time and the cheerful Dawn;A dancing Shape, an Image gay,To haunt, to startle, and way-lay.I saw her upon nearer view,A Spirit, yet a Woman too!Her household motions light and free,And steps of virgin-liberty;A countenance in which did meetSweet records, promises as sweet;A Creature not too bright or goodFor human nature's daily food;For transient sorrows, simple wiles,Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears and smiles.And now I see with eye sereneThe very pulse of the machine;A Being breathing thoughtful breath,A Traveler between life and death;The reason firm, the temperate will,Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;A perfect Woman, nobly planned,To warn, to comfort, and command;And yet a Spirit still, and brightWith something of angelic light.William Wordsworth.
In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes,I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods,Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook,To please the desert and the sluggish brook.The purple petals, fallen in the pool,Made the black water with their beauty gay;Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool,And court the flower that cheapens his array.Rhodora! if the sages ask thee whyThis charm is wasted on the earth and sky,Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing,Then Beauty is its own excuse for being:Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose!I never thought to ask, I never knew:But, in my simple ignorance, supposeThe self-same Power that brought me there brought you.Ralph Waldo Emerson.