A cloud passed kindly overhead, The moon was slyly peeping through it, Yet hid its face, as if it said, "Come, now or never! do it! do it!" My lips till then had only known The kiss of mother and of sister, But somehow, full upon her own Sweet, rosy, darling mouth, — I kissed her! Perhaps 'twas boyish love, yet still, I'd give-but who can live youth over? THE DISCOVERER. I HAVE a little kinsman Whose earthly summers are but three, And yet a voyager is he Greater than Drake or Frobisher, Of them who seek the frozen Pole, Has sailed where the noiseless surges roll, Ay, he has travelled whither Across the unknown sea. Suddenly, in his fair young hour, Came one who bore a flower, And laid it in his dimpled hand With this command: "Henceforth thou art a rover! Thou must make a voyage far, Sail beneath the evening star, And a wondrous land discover." - With his sweet smile innocent Our little kinsman went. Since that time no word How he fares, or answer well What the little one has found From the pricking of his chart How the skyey roadways part. Hush! does not the baby this way bring, To lay beside this severed curl, Ah, no! not so! He is a brave discoverer More than in the groves is taught, What shapes the angels wear, What is their guise and speech In those lands beyond our reachAnd his eyes behold Things that shall never, never be to mortal hearers told. Once more I see that wooded hill Where the arbutus grows. I see the village dryad kneel, Their pink, pale flowers to view. Once more I dare to stoop beside The dove-eyed beauty of my choice, And long to touch her careless hair, And think how dear her voice. My eager, wandering hands assist With fragrant blooms her lap to fill, And half by chance they meet her own, • Half by our young hearts' will. Till, at the last, those blossoms won,— Like her, so pure, so sweet, so shy, Upon the gray and lichened rocks Close at her feet I lie. Thine shall be foe to hate and friend to love, Pleasures that others gain, the ills they know, And all in a lifetime. Hast thou a golden day. a starlit night, Mirth, and music, and love without alloy ? Leave no drop undrunken of thy delight: Sorrow and shadow follow on thy joy. 'Tis all in a lifetime. What if the battle end and thou hast lost? Others have lost the battles thou hast won: Haste thee, bind thy wounds, nor count the cost; Over the field will rise to-morrow's sun. 'Tis all in a lifetime. Laugh at the braggart sneer, the open scorn, 'Ware of the secret stab, the slanderous lie: For seventy years of turmoil thou wast born, Bitter and sweet are thine till these go by. 'Tis all in a lifetime. Reckon thy voyage well, and spread the sail, Wind and calm and current shall warp thy way; Compass shall set thee false, and chart shall fail; Ever the waves shall use thee for their play. 'Tis all in a lifetime. Thousands of years agone were chance and change, Thousands of ages hence the same shall be; Naught of thy joy and grief is new or strange: Gather apace the good that falls to thee! 'Tis all in a lifetime! RICHARD HENRY STODDARD. THE FLIGHT OF YOUTH. THERE are gains for all our losses, There are balms for all our pain: But when youth, the dream, departs, It takes something from our hearts, And it never comes again. We are stronger, and are better, Under manhood's sterner reign: AN OLD SONG REVERSED. 66 THERE are gains for all our losses." So I said when I was young. If I sang that song again, 'Twould not be with that refrain, Which but suits an idle tongue. Youth has gone, and hope gone with it, Gone the strong desire for fame. Laurels are not for the old. Take them, lads. Give Senex gold. What's an everlasting name? When my life was in its summer One fair woman liked my looks: Now that Time has driven his plough In deep furrows on my brow, I'm no more in her good books. "There are gains for all our losses?" Grave beside the wintry sea, Where my child is, and my heart, For they would not live apart, What has been your gain to me? No, the words I sang were idle, "There's a loss for every gain!" Born with strong arms, that unfought battles won; Direct of speech, and cunning with the pen. Chosen for large designs, he had the art Of winning with his humor, and he went Straight to his mark, which was the human heart; Wise, too, for what he could not break he bent. Upon his back a more than Atlasload, The burden of the Commonwealth, was laid; He stooped, and rose up to it, though the road Shot suddenly downwards, not a Hold, warriors, councillors, kings! To this dear benefactor of the HOW ARE SONGS BEGOT AND BRED. How are songs begot and bred ? Tell me first how folded flowers And the blasted limb of the church yard yew, It shakes like a ghostly hand. The dead are engulfed beneath it, Than earth in all her graves! SONGS UNSUNG. LET no poet, great or small, Not because we woo it long, Every song that has been sung Was before it took a voice, I am ready to repeat Whatsoever they impart; They know how to heal the heart: What are my white hairs, forsooth, How the south wind shapes its tune, I have still the soul of youth, The harper, he, of June. None may answer, none may know, RATTLE THE WINDOW. RATTLE the window, winds, And a weary weight on our brains. The gray sea heaves and heaves, Try me, merry Muses, now. I can still with numbers fleet No, I am no longer young, Old am I this many a year; WHEN THE DRUM OF SICKNESS WHEN the drum of sickness beats Farewell, youth, and all its sweets, |