The late, close blades still waved around; I clutched a handful from the ground. I lay dumb, sightless, deaf as she; She offered me: I could have laughed I rose and left. I knew each limb What blooms here, Through tears I see the nodding head, The purple and the green dispread. Here, where I nursed despair that morn, The promise of fresh joy is born, care. Longings and golden dreams to bring With joyous phantasies of spring. REMEMBER. REMEMBER Him, 'the only One, Nor with the stars the night. cause She is so wondrous fair And not because her bosom holds But just because they shine, Now, while thou lovest music's strains, Because they cheer thy heart, And not because from aching eyes They make the tear-drops start. Now, whilst thou lovest all on earth And deemest all will last, Before thy hope is vanished quite, And every joy has past; Remember Him, the only One, Before the days draw nigh When thou shalt have no joy in them, And praying, yearn to die. CHARLES GODFREY LELAND. MINE OWN. AND oh, the longing, burning eyes! O'er chamber, hall, and stair! And oh, the step, half-dreamt, half heard! And oh, the laughter low! Oh, art thou Sylph,- or truly Self,— "Oh, some do call me Laughter, love; And some do call me Sin:" “And they may call thee what they will, So I thy love may win." "And some do call me Wantonness, And some do call me Play:" THE CUCKOO. JOHN LOGAN. HAIL, beauteous stranger of the grove! Thou messenger of spring! Now heaven repairs thy rural seat, And woods thy welcome sing. Soon as the daisy decks the green, Thy certain voice we hear. Hast thou a star to guide thy path, Or mark the rolling year? Delightful visitant! with thee I hail the time of flowers, And hear the sound of music sweet From birds among the bowers. The schoolboy, wandering through the wood To pull the primrose gay, What time the pea puts on the bloom, Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green, Oh, could I fly, I'd fly with thee! HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. THE LADDER OF ST. AUGUSTINE. | All thoughts of ill: all evil deeds, SAINT AUGUSTINE! well hast thou said, That of our vices we can frame A ladder, if we will but tread That have their root in thoughts of ill: Beneath our feet each deed of All these must first be trampled shame! All common things, each day's events, That with the hour begin and end, Our pleasures and our discontents, Are rounds by which we may ascend. The low desire, the base design, That makes another's virtues less: The revel of the ruddy wine, And all occasions of excess: The longing for ignoble things: The strife for triumph more than truth; The hardening of the heart, that brings Irreverence for the dreams of youth; down Beneath our feet, if we would gain In the bright fields of fair renown The right of eminent domain. We have not wings, we cannot soar; But we have feet to scale and climb By slow degrees, by more and more, The cloudy summits of our time. The mighty pyramids of stone That wedge-like cleave the desert airs, When nearer seen, and better known, Are but gigantic flights of stairs. The distant mountains, that uprear Their solid bastions to the skies, Are crossed by pathways, that appear As we to higher levels rise. |