Various

“ Dear little flag in the window there, Hung with a tear and a woman's prayer, Child of Old Glory, born with a star— Oh, what a wonderful flag you are! Blue is your star in its field of white, Dipped in the red that was born of fight; Born of the blood that our forebears shed To raise your mother, The Flag, o'er-head. And now you've come, in this frenzied day, To speak from a window—to speak and say: "I am the voice of a soldier son, Gone, to be gone till the victory's won. ”

“ This hour has made the boy a man. I knelt before my slaughtered sire, Nor felt one throb of vengeful ire. I wept upon his marble brow, Yes, wept! I was a child; but now My noble mother, on her knee, Hath done the work of years for me!" He drew aside his broidered vest, And there, like slumbering serpent's crest, The jeweled haft of poniard bright Glittered a moment on the sight. "Ha! start ye back? Fool! coward! knave! Think ye my noble father's glaive Would drink the life-blood of a slave? The pearls that on the handle flame Would blush to rubies in their shame ”

“ From the hills beyond the clouds messages are borne, Drifting on the dews of dream to his heart of morn; Time awaits and ages stay till he wakes and shows Glimpses of the larger life that his vision knows! He who has the vision feels more than you may feel, Joy beyond the narrow joy in whose realm we reel— For he knows the stars are glad, dawn and middleday, In the jocund tide that sweeps dark and dusk away, He who has the vision lives round and all complete, And through him alone we draw dews from combs of sweet. ”

“ A dreamer dropped a random thought; 'Twas old, and yet 'twas new; A simple fancy of the brain, But strong in being true. It shone upon a genial mind, And, lo! its light became A lamp of life, a beacon ray, A monitory flame; The thought was small, its issue great; A watch-fire on the hill; It shed its radiance far adown, And cheers the valley still. A nameless man, amid a crowd That thronged the daily mart, Let fall a word of Hope and Love, Unstudied from the heart; A whisper on the tumult thrown, A transitory breath— It raised a brother from the dust, It saved a soul from death. ”

“ Work, the power that drives behind, Guiding the purposes, taming the mind, Holding the runaway wishes back, Reining the will to one steady track, Speeding the energies, faster, faster, Triumphing ever over disaster; Oh, what is so good as the pain of it, And what is so great as the gain of it, And what is so kind as the cruel goad, Forcing us on through the rugged road? Work! Thank God for the swing of it, For the clamoring, hammering ring of it, Passion of labor daily hurled On the mighty anvils of the world. Oh, what is so fierce as the flame of it? ”

“ 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 spoken That sorrow can ne'er set right. We have careful thoughts for the stranger, And smiles for the sometime guest, But oft for "our own" The bitter tone, Though we love "our own" the best. Ah, lips with the curve impatient! Ah, brow with that look of scorn! 'Twere a cruel fate, Were the night too late To undo the work of morn. ”

“ If you can make good bread as well as fudges, Can sew with skill and have an eye for dust, If you can be a friend and hold no grudges, A girl whom all will love because they must; If sometime you should meet and love another And make a home with faith and peace enshrined, And you its soul—a loyal wife and mother— You'll work out pretty nearly to my mind The plan that's been developed through the ages, And win the best that life can have in store, You'll be, my girl, the model for the sages— A woman whom the world will bow before. ”

“ The great wave of cheering came billowing back As the hoofs of brave Tenny ran swift down the track, And he stood there beside us, all bone and all muscle, Our noble opponent, well trained for the tussle That waited us there on the smooth, shining course. My Salvator, fair to the lovers of horse As a beautiful woman is fair to man's sight— Pure type of the thoroughbred, clean-limbed and bright— Stood taking the plaudits as only his due And nothing at all unexpected or new. And then there before us as the bright flag is spread, There's a roar from the grand stand, and Tenny's ahead ”

“ There are brows of beauty and bosoms of snow— There are heaps of dust—but we love them so!— There are trinkets and tresses of hair; There are fragments of song that nobody sings, And a part of an infant's prayer, There's a lute unswept, 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 lifted 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. ”

“ Like a staff, And a crook is in his back, And a melancholy crack In his laugh. I know it is a sin For me to sit and grin At him here; But the old three-cornered hat, And the breeches, and all that, Are so queer! And if I should live to be The last leaf upon the tree In the spring, Let them smile, as I do now, At the old forsaken bough Where I cling. Oliver Wendell Holmes. Old Flag Forever
She's up there—Old Glory—where lightnings are sped; She dazzles the nations with ripples of red; And she'll wave for us living, or droop o'er us dead,— The flag of our country forever! ”

“ Let us cheer the way we tread on, With a soldier's song! Faint we by the weary road, Or fall we in the rout, Dirge or Pæan, Death or Triumph!— Let the song ring out! We are they who scorn the scorners— Love the lovers—hate None within the world's four corners— All must share one fate; We are they whose common banner Bears no badge nor sign, Save the Light which dyes it white— The Hope that makes it shine. We are they whose bugle rings, That all the wars may cease ”

“ He bowed his head upon him and broke forth In the resistless eloquence of woe: "Alas! my noble boy; that thou shouldst die! Thou who were 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! "Cold is thy brow, my son! 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 those dumb And cold lips, Absalom! "But death is on thee! ”

“ And, with tears in my eyes, I will beg my poor wife To 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. ”

“ There are two kinds of people on earth to-day; Just two kinds of people, no more, I say. Not the sinner and saint, for it's well understood, The good are half bad and the bad are half good. Not the rich and the poor, for to rate a man's wealth, You must first know the state of his conscience and health. Not the humble and proud, for in life's little span, Who puts on vain airs is not counted a man. Not the happy and sad, for the swift flying years Bring each man his laughter and each man his tears. No; the two kinds of people on earth I mean, Are the people who lift and the people who lean. ”

“ Surely never a jeer From my lips shall one hear, For—that poor lonely lambkin—was—I. While the eons shall roll O'er my glad ransomed soul I will praise the Good Shepherd above, For a place on His breast, For its comfort and rest, For His wonderful, wonderful love. D. N. Howe. A Sermon in Rhyme
If you have a friend worth loving, Love him. Yes, and let him know That you love him ere life's evening Tinge his brow with sunset glow; Why should good words ne'er be said Of a friend—till he is dead? If you hear a song that thrills you, Sung by any child of song, Praise it. ”

“ Most folks call me Singing Jessie; wot may your name chance to be?" "My name's Tommy; I'm a cripple, and I want to hear you sing, For it makes me feel so happy—sing me something, anything," Jessie laughed, and answered smiling, "I can't stay here very long, But I'll sing a hymn to please you, wot I calls the 'Glory Song.'" Then she sang to him of heaven, pearly gates, and streets of gold, Where the happy angel children are not starved or nipped with cold; But where happiness and gladness never can decrease or end, And where kind and loving Jesus is their Sovereign and their Friend. ”

“ For the world will look on as you hoe your row, And will judge you by that which you do; Therefore, try for first prize, Though your utmost it tries, For the harvest depends on you. T.B. Weaver. Our Flag
Fling it from mast and steeple, Symbol o'er land and sea Of the life of a happy people, Gallant and strong and free. Proudly we view its colors, Flag of the brave and true, With the clustered stars and the steadfast bars, The red, the white, and the blue. Flag of the fearless-hearted, Flag of the broken chain, Flag in a day-dawn started, Never to pale or wane. ”

“ No longer boy and girl, but man and woman grown, They stand again beside the brook, that murmurs Ever in its course, nor stays for time nor man, And tell the old, old story, And promise to be true till life for them shall end. Again the years roll on, And they are old. The frost of age Has touched the once-brown hair, And left it white as are the chaliced lilies. Children, whose rosy lips once claimed A father's blessing and a mother's love, Have grown to man's estate, save two Whom God called early home to wait For them in heaven. ”

“ You know rough Esek Harden well; And if he seems no suitor gay, And if his hair is mixed with gray, The maiden grown shall never find His heart less warm than when she smiled Upon his knees, a little child!" Her tears of grief were tears of joy, As folded in his strong embrace, She looked in Esek Harden's face. "O truest friend of all!" she said, "God bless you for your kindly thought, And make me worthy of my lot!" He led her through his dewy fields, To where the swinging lanterns glowed, And through the doors the huskers showed. "Good friends and neighbors!" ”

“ Those little acts of kindness So easily out of mind, Those chances to be angels Which we poor mortals find— They come in night and silence, Each sad, reproachful wraith, When hope is faint and flagging And a chill has fallen on faith. For life is all too short, dear, And sorrow is all too great, To suffer our slow compassion That tarries until too late; And it isn't the thing you do, dear, It's the thing you leave undone Which gives you a bit of a heartache At the setting of the sun, Margaret E. Sangster. ”

“ Up to my ear the morning brings The outrage of the poor. Think ye I have made this ball A field of havoc and war, Where tyrants great and tyrants small Might harry the weak and poor? My angel—his name is Freedom— Choose him to be your king. He shall cut pathways east and west And fend you with his wing. I will never have a noble; No lineage counted great, Fishers and choppers and plowmen Shall constitute a state, And ye shall succor man, 'Tis nobleness to serve; Help them who cannot help again ”

“ Witing letters, is 'ou, mamma? Tan't I wite a letter too?" "Not now, darling, mamma's busy; Run and play with kitty, now." "No, no, mamma, me wite letter; Tan if 'ou will show me how." I would paint my darling's portrait As his sweet eyes searched my face— Hair of gold and eyes of azure, Form of childish, witching grace. But the eager face was clouded, As I slowly shook my head, Till I said, "I'll make a letter Of you, darling boy, instead." So I parted back the tresses From his forehead high and white, And a stamp in sport I pasted 'Mid its waves of golden light. ”

“ Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay, The midnight brought the signal sound of strife, The morn the marshaling in arms,—the day Battle's magnificently stern array! The thunder clouds close o'er it, which when rent The earth is covered thick with other clay, Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent, Rider and horse—friend, foe—in one red burial blent. Lord Byron. The Land Where Hate Should Die
This is the land where hate should die— No feuds of faith, no spleen of race, No darkly brooding fear should try Beneath our flag to find a place. ”

“ The sailor twitched his shirt so blue, And from within his bosom drew The kerchief. She was wild. "My God! my Father! is it true My little lad, My Elihu? My blessed boy, my child! My dead,—my living child!" Alice Cary. The Circling Year
SPRING The joys of living wreathe my face, My heart keeps time to freshet's race; Of balmy airs I drink my fill— Why, there's a yellow daffodil! Along the stream a soft green tinge Gives hint of feathery willow fringe; Methinks I heard a Robin's "Cheer"— I'm glad Spring's here! SUMMER An afternoon of buzzing flies. Heat waves that sear, and quivering rise ”

“ 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-pines like tossing plumes, Over his bier to wave, And God's own hand, in that lonely land, To lay him in the grave? In that strange grave without a name, Whence his uncoffin'd 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. ”

“ The dim funereal tapers throw A holy luster o'er his brow, And burnish with their rays of light The mass of curls that gather bright Above the haughty brow and eye Of a young boy that's kneeling by. What hand is that, whose icy press Clings to the dead with death's own grasp, But meets no answering caress? No thrilling fingers seek its clasp. It is the hand of her whose cry Rang wildly, late, upon the air, When the dead warrior met her eye Outstretched upon the altar there. With pallid lip and stony brow She murmurs forth her anguish now. ”

“ Proud to the bone of as four strong lads as ever had tasted the sea, Welshmen all to the lungs and loins, who, about that coast, 'twas said, Had saved some hundred lives apiece—at a shilling or so a head! So the father launched the lifeboat, in the teeth of the tempest's roar, And he stood like a man at the rudder, with an eye on his boys at the oar, Out to the wreck went the father! out to the wreck went the sons! Leaving the weeping of women, and booming of signal guns; Leaving the mother who loved them, and the girls that the sailors love; Going to death for duty, and trusting to God above! ”

“ A thousand hearts beat happily; and when Music arose with its voluptuous swell, Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage bell; But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell. Did ye not hear it?—No; 'twas but the wind, Or the car rattling o'er the stony street: On with the dance! let joy be unconfined; No sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet To chase the glowing hours with flying feet— But, hark!—that heavy sound breaks in once more, As if the clouds its echo would repeat And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! ”

“ Beneath the hot midsummer sun The men had marched all day, And now beside a rippling stream Upon the grass they lay. Tiring of games and idle jest As swept the hours along, They cried to one who mused apart, "Come, friend, give us a song." "I fear I can not please," he said; "The only songs I know Are those my mother used to sing For me long years ago." "Sing one of those," a rough voice cried. "There's none but true men here; To every mother's son of us A mother's songs are dear." Then sweetly rose the singer's voice Amid unwonted calm: "Am I a soldier of the Cross, A follower of the Lamb? ”

“ Above, the spectral glaciers shone, And from his lips escaped a groan, Excelsior! "Try not the Pass!" the old man said; "Dark lowers the tempest overhead, The roaring torrent is deep and wide!" And loud the clarion voice replied, Excelsior! "O stay," the maiden said, "and rest Thy weary head upon this breast!" A tear stood in his bright blue eye, But still he answered, with a sigh, Excelsior! "Beware the pine-tree's withered branch! Beware the awful avalanche!" This was the peasant's last Good-night, A voice replied, far up the height, Excelsior! ”

“ And evermore that mountain mass Seems climbing from the shadowy pass To light, as if to manifest Thy nobler self, they life at best! John G. Whittier. The Flower of Liberty
What flower is this that greets the morn, Its hues from Heaven so freshly born? With burning star and flaming band It 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 abode Its tender seed our fathers sowed ”