Various

“ Is it worth while that we jeer at each other In blackness of heart that we war to the knife? God pity us all in our pitiful strife. God pity as all as we jostle each other; God pardon us all for the triumph we feel When a fellow goes down 'neath his load on the heather, Pierced to the heart: Words are keener than steel, And mightier far for woe than for weal, Were it not well, in this brief little journey On over the isthmus, down into the tide, We give him a fish instead of a serpent, Ere folding the hands to be and abide Forever and aye in dust at his side? ”

“ The years of man are the looms of God, let down from the place of the sun, Wherein we are weaving ever, till the mystic web is done. Weaving blindly but weaving surely each for himself his fate— We may not see how the right side looks, we can only weave and wait. But, looking above for the pattern, no weaver hath to fear; Only let him look clear into heaven, the Perfect Pattern is there. If he keeps the face of the Savior forever and always in sight His toil shall be sweeter than honey, his weaving sure to be right. ”

“ The weary teacher sat alone; Unnerved and pale was he; Bowed 'neath a yoke of care, he spoke In sad soliloquy: "Another round, another round Of labor thrown away, Another chain of toil and pain Dragged through a tedious day. "Of no avail is constant zeal, Love's sacrifice is lost. The hopes of morn, so golden, turn, Each evening, into dross. "I squander on a barren field My strength, my life, my all: The seeds I sow will never grow,— They perish where they fall." He sighed, and low upon his hands His aching brow he pressed; And o'er his frame ere long there came A soothing sense of rest. ”

“ Cromwell will not come till sunset," and her lips grew strangely white As she breathed the husky whisper: "Curfew must not ring to-night." "Bessie," calmly spoke the sexton—every word pierced her young heart Like the piercing of an arrow, like a deadly poisoned dart,— "Long, long years I've rung the curfew from that gloomy shadowed tower; Every evening, just at sunset, it has told the twilight hour; I have done my duty ever, tried to do it just and right; Now I'm old I will not falter,—curfew, it must ring to-night." Wild her eyes and pale her features, stern and white her thoughtful brow. ”

“ The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye Shone beauty and pleasure—her triumphs are by; And the memory of those who loved her and praised Are alike from the minds of the living erased. The hand of the king who the scepter hath borne, The brow of the priest who the mitre hath worn, The eye of the sage and the heart of the brave Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave. The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap, The herdsman who climbed with his goats to the steep, The beggar who wandered in search of his bread Have faded away like the grass that we tread. ”

“ The Four-leaf Clover
I know a place where the sun is like gold, And the cherry blooms burst like snow; And down underneath is the loveliest nook, Where the four-leaf clovers grow. One leaf is for faith, and one is for hope, And one is for love, you know; And God put another one in for luck— If you search, you will find where they grow. But you must have faith and you must have hope, You must love and be strong, and so If you work, if you wait, you will find the place Where the four-leaf clovers grow. ”

“ These in the robings of glory, Those in the gloom of defeat, All, with the battle blood gory, In the dusk of eternity meet; Under the sod and the dew,— Waiting the judgment day— Under the laurel, the Blue; Under the willow, the Gray. From the silence of sorrowful hours The desolate mourners go, Lovingly laden with flowers Alike for the friend and the foe; Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day— Under the roses, the Blue; Under the lilies, the Gray. So with an equal splendor The morning sun-rays fall, With a touch impartially tender, On the blossoms blooming for all ”

“ Though the flinty slopes be hard, Stubble-speared the new-mown sward, Every morn shall lead thee through Fresh baptisms of the dew; Every evening from thy feet Shall the cool wind kiss the heat: All too soon these feet must hide In the prison cells of pride, Lose the freedom of the sod, Like a colt's for work be shod, Made to tread the mills of toil, Up and down in ceaseless moil: Happy if their track be found Never on forbidden ground, Happy if they sink not in Quick and treacherous sands of sin. ”

“ Grow on for the good or evil, sunshine streamed or darkness hurled; For the hand that rocks the cradle is the hand that rules the world. Woman, how divine your mission here upon our natal sod! Keep, oh, keep the young heart open always to the breath of God! All true trophies of the ages are from mother-love impearled, For the hand that rocks the cradle is the hand that rules the world. Blessings on the hand of woman! fathers, sons and daughters cry, And the sacred song is mingled with the worship in the sky— Mingles where no tempest darkens, rainbows evermore are curled ”

“ Let the living pour in, take possession, Flood back to the city, the ranch, the farm, The church and the college and mill, Back to the office, the store, the exchange, Back to the wife with the babe on her arm, Back to the mother that waits on the sill, And the supper that's hot on the range. And now, when the last of them all are by, Be the Gates lifted up on high To let those Others in, Those Others, their brothers, that softly tread, That come so thick, yet take no ground, That are so many, yet make no sound, Our Dead, our Dead, our Dead! ”

“ The golden sun, The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, Are shining on the sad abodes of death, Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness, Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound, Save his own dashings—yet, the dead are there; And millions in those solitudes, since first The flight of years began, have laid them down In their last sleep—the dead reign there alone. ”

“ But this I know, I love to play, Through the meadow, among the hay, Up the water and o'er the lea, That's the way for Billy and me. James Hogg. November
The leaves are fading and falling, The winds are rough and wild, The birds have ceased their calling, But let me tell you, my child, Though day by day, as it closes, Doth darker and colder grow, The roots of the bright red roses Will keep alive in the snow. And when the winter is over, The boughs will get new leaves, The quail come back to the clover, And the swallow back to the eaves. ”

“ When death, careering on the gale, Sweeps darkly 'round the bellied sail, And frighted waves rush wildly back Before the broadside's reeling rack, Each dying wanderer of the sea Shall look at once to heaven and thee, And smile to see thy splendors fly In triumph o'er his closing eye. Flag of the free heart's hope and home! By angel hands to valor given; Thy stars have lit the welkin dome, And all thy hues were born in heaven. Forever float that standard sheet! Where breathes the foe but falls before us, With Freedom's soil beneath our feet, And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us? ”

“ The word must be spoken that bids you depart— Though the effort to speak it should shatter my heart— Though in silence, with blighted affection, I pine, Yet the lips that touch liquor must never touch mine! If one spark in your bosom of virtue remain, Go fan it with prayer till it kindle again; Resolved, with "God helping," in future to be From wine and its follies unshackled and free! And when you have conquered this foe of your soul,— In manhood and honor beyond his control— This heart will again beat responsive to thine, And the lips free from liquor be welcome to mine. ”

“ Heap high the golden corn! No richer gift has Autumn poured From out her lavish horn! Let other lands, exulting, glean The apple from the pine, The orange from its glossy green, The cluster from the vine; We better love the hardy gift Our rugged vales bestow, To cheer us when the storm shall drift Our harvest-fields with snow. Through vales of grass and meads of flowers, Our plows their furrows made, While on the hills the sun and showers Of changeful April played. We dropped the seed o'er hill and plain, Beneath the sun of May, And frightened from our sprouting grain The robber crows away. ”

“ I have leaped through the valley, dashed down the mountain, Slipped from the sunshine, and dripped from the fountain, I have burst my cloud-fetters, and dropped from the sky, And everywhere gladdened the prospect and eye; I have eased the hot forehead of fever and pain, I have made the parched meadows grow fertile with grain. I can tell of the powerful wheel of the mill, That ground out the flour, and turned at my will. I can tell of manhood debased by you That I have uplifted and crowned anew; I cheer, I help, I strengthen and aid, I gladden the heart of man and maid ”

“ If you have not gold and silver Ever ready to command, If you cannot towards the needy Reach an ever-open hand, You can visit the afflicted, O'er the erring you can weep, You can be a true disciple, Sitting at the Savior's feet. If you cannot in the conflict, Prove yourself a soldier true, If where fire and smoke are thickest, There's no work for you to do, When the battle-field is silent, You can go with careful tread, You can bear away the wounded, You can cover up the dead. ”

“ No listening, no longing shall aught, aught discover: You leave the story to me. The foxglove shoots out of the green matted heather, Preparing her hoods of snow: She was idle, and slept till the sunshiny weather: Oh, children take long to grow. I wish and I wish that the spring would go faster, Nor long summer bide so late; And I could grow on like the foxglove and aster, For some things are ill to wait. I wait for the day when dear hearts shall discover, While dear hands are laid on my head: "The child is a woman, the book may close over, For all the lessons are said." ”

“ His brow is wet with honest sweat, He earns whate'er he can, And looks the whole world in the face, For he owes not any man. Week in, week out, from morn till night, You can hear his bellows blow; You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, With measured beat and slow, Like a sexton ringing the village bell, When the evening sun is low. And children coming home from school Look in at the open door; They love to see the flaming forge, And hear the bellows roar, And catch the burning sparks that fly Like chaff from a threshing floor. ”

“ At the crowded crossing she waited long, Jostled aside by the careless throng Of human beings who passed her by, Unheeding the glance of her anxious eye. Down the street with laughter and shout, Glad in the freedom of "school let out," Come happy boys, like a flock of sheep, Hailing the snow piled white and deep; Past the woman, so old and gray, Hastened the children on their way. None offered a helping hand to her, So weak and timid, afraid to stir, Lest the carriage wheels or the horses' feet Should trample her down in the slippery street. ”

“ They climb up into my turret O'er the arms and back of my chair; If I try to escape, they surround me; They seem to be everywhere. They almost devour me with kisses, Their arms about me entwine, Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen In his Mouse-tower on the Rhine! Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti, Because you have scaled the wall, Such an old mustache as I am Is not a match for you all! I have you fast in my fortress, And will not let you depart, But put you down into the dungeon In the round-tower of my heart. ”

“ Mother, come back from the echoless shore, Take me again to your heart as of yore; Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care, Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair; Over my slumbers your loving watch keep;— Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep. Backward, flow backward, O tide of the years! I am so weary of toil and of tears,— Toil without recompense, tears all in vain,— Take them, and give me my childhood again! I have grown weary of dust and decay,— Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away; Weary of sowing for others to reap;— Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep. ”

“ Very anxious were the people on that rocky coast of Wales, Lest the dawn of coming morrow should be telling awful tales, When the sea had spent its passion and should cast upon the shore Bits of wreck and swollen victims as it had done heretofore. With the rough winds blowing round her, a brave woman strained her eyes, As she saw along the billows a large vessel fall and rise. Oh, it did not need a prophet to tell what the end must be, For no ship could ride in safety near that shore on such a sea! Then the pitying people hurried from their homes and thronged the beach. ”