The Cambridge Book of Poetry and Song

Long since, we parted in our careless prime,

Like summer birds no June shall hasten hither;

No more to meet as in that merry time,

The sweet spring-time that shone on all together.

Some, to the fevered city's toil and grime,

And some o'er distant seas, and some ah! whither?

Nay, we shall never meet as in the time,

The dear old time when we were all together.

And some —

Heads that I helped to lay

On the pillow that lasts for aye.
It is but a little way

To the dreary hill where they lie-
No bed but the cold, cold clay
No roof but the stormy sky.

Cruel the thought and vain!
They've now nothing more to bear-
Done with sickness and pain,

Done with trouble and care-
But I hear the wind and the rain,
And still I think of them there.

Ah, couldst thou come to me,

Bird that I loved the best!
That I knew it was well with thee-
Wild and weary North-West!

- above their heads, in Wail in chimney and tree
wind and rime,

Year after year, the grasses wave

and wither;

Aye, we shall meet!-'tis but a little

Leave the dead to their rest.

THE ADIEU.

SWEET Falsehoods, fare ye well! That may not longer dwell this fond heart, dear paramours of

Youth!

A cold, unloving bride

Is ever at my side

Yet who so pure, so beautiful as
Truth?

Long hath she sought my side,
And would not be denied,

Till, all perforce, she won my spiri
o'er-

And though her glances be

But hard and stern to me,

At every step I love her more and

more.

ALONE.

A SAD old house by the sea.
Were we happy, I and thou,
In the days that used to be?

There is nothing left me now

But to lie, and think of thee
With folded hands on my breast,
And list to the weary sea
Sobbing itself to rest.

LONG AGO.

WHEN at eve I sit alone,
Thinking on the Past and Gone
While the clock, with drowsy finger,

Marks how long the minutes linger,

And the embers, dimly burning,
Tell of Life to Dust returning -
Then my lonely chair around,
With a quiet, mournful sound,
With a murmur soft and low,
Come the ghosts of Long Ago.

One by one, I count them o'er,
Voices, that are heard no more,
Tears, that loving cheeks have wet,
Words, whose music lingers yet,
Holy faces, pale and fair,
Shadowy locks of waving hair
Happy sighs and whispers dear,
Songs forgotten many a year,
Lips of dewy fragrance — eyes
Brighter, bluer than the skies
Odors breathed from Paradise.

And the gentle shadows glide Softly murmuring at my side, Till the long unfriendly day, All forgotten, fades away.

Thus, when I am all alone, Dreaming o'er the Past and Gone, All around me, sad and slow, Come the ghosts of Long Ago.

AT SEA.

MIDNIGHT in drear New England,
'Tis a driving storm of snow
How the casement clicks and rattles,
And the wind keeps on to blow!

For a thousand leagues of coast-line,
In fitful flurries and starts,
The wild North-Easter is knocking
At lonely windows and hearts.

Of a night like this, how many
Must sit by the hearth, like me,
Hearing the stormy weather;

And thinking of those at sea!

His dews drop mutely on the hill,
His cloud above it saileth still,
Though on its slope men sow and reap,
More softly than the dew is shed,
Or cloud is floated overhead,
"He giveth His beloved sleep."

Ay, men may wonder while they scan
A living, thinking, feeling man,
Confirmed in such a rest to keep;
But angels say, and through the word
I think their happy smile is heard -
"He giveth His beloved sleep."

For me, my heart that erst did go
Most like a tired child at a show,
That sees through tears the mummers
leap,

Would now its wearied vision close, Would childlike on His love repose, Who "giveth His beloved sleep."

And friends, dear friends - when it shall be

That this low breath is gone from me,
And round my bier ye come to weep,
Let one, most loving of you all,
Say, "Not a tear must o'er her fall-
'He giveth His beloved sleep.""

LITTLE MATTIE.

DEAD? Thirteen a month ago! Short and narrow her life's walk. Lover's love she could not know Even by a dream or talk:

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The Cambridge Book of Poetry and Song: Selected from English and American ...