Yet would I lie in some familiar place,
Nor share my rest with uncongenial dead,— Somewhere, may be, where friendly feet will tread.As if from out some little chink of space
Mine eyes might see them tripping overhead.
And though too sweet to deck a sepulcher
Seem twinkling daisy-buds and meadow-grass; And so would more than serve me, lest they pass Who fain would know what woman rested there, What her demeanor, or her story was,—
For these I would that on a sculptured stone
(Fenced round with ironwork to keep secure)
Should sleep a form with folded palms demure,
In aspect like the dreamer that was gone,
With these words carved, "I hoped, but was not sure."
Violet Fane [18
OH, where will be the birds that sing,
A hundred years to come?
The flowers that now in beauty spring,
A hundred years to come?
The rosy lip, the lofty brow,
The heart that beats so gaily now,-
Oh, where will be love's beaming eye,
Joy's pleasant smile, and sorrow's sigh,
A hundred years to come?
Who'll press for gold this crowded street,
A hundred years to come?
Who'll tread yon church with willing feet,
A hundred years to come?
Pale, trembling age, and fiery youth,
And childhood with its brow of truth,
The rich and poor, on land and sea,-
Where will the mighty millions be,
A hundred years to come?
Watch till the last pale ember dies,
Till wan and low the dead pyre lies,
Then let the thin white ashes blow
To all earth's winds a finer snow;
There is no wind of hers but I
Have loved it as it whistled by;
No leaf whose life I would not share,
No weed that is not some way fair;
Hedge not my dust in one close urn,
It is to these I would return,—
The wild, free winds, the things that know
No master's rule, no ordered row,—
To be, if Nature will, at length
Part of some great tree's noble strength;
Growth of the grass; to live anew
In many a wild-flower's richer hue;
Find immortality, indeed,
In ripened heart of fruit and seed.
Time grants not any man redress
Of his broad law, forgetfulness;
I parley not with shaft and stone,
Content that in the perfume blown
From next year's hillsides something sweet
And mine, shall make earth more complete.
Sharlot M. Hall [18
IF I should fall asleep one day,
And should my spirit from the clay
Go dreaming out the Heavenward way,
Or thence be softly borne,—
I pray you, angels, do not first
Assail mine ear
With that blest anthem oft rehearsed,—
"Behold, the bonds of Death are burst,"-
Lest I should faint with fear.
When I sail out the narrow straits
Where unknown dangers be,
And cross the troubled, moaning bar
To the mysterious sea,
Dear God, wilt thou not set a lamp
Low in the West for me?
THE DYING RESERVIST
I SHALL not see the faces of my friends,
Nor hear the songs the rested reapers sing
After the labors of the harvesting,
In those dark nights before the summer ends;
Nor see the floods of spring, the melting snow,
Nor in the autumn twilight hear the stir
Of reedy marshes, when the wild ducks whir
And circle black against the afterglow.
My mother died; she shall not have to weep;
My wife will find another home; my child,
Too young, will never grieve or know; but I
Have found my brother, and contentedly
I'll lay my head upon his knees and sleep.
O brother Death,-I knew you when you smiled.
Maurice Baring 1874-
"IF LOVE WERE JESTER AT THE COURT OF DEATH"
IF Love were jester at the court of Death,
And Death the king of all, still would I pray,
"For me the motley and the bauble, yea,
Though all be vanity, as the Preacher saith,
The mirth of love be mine for one brief breath!"
Then would I kneel the monarch to obey,
And kiss that pale hand, should it spare or slay;
Since I have tasted love, what mattereth!
But if, dear God, this heart be dry as sand,
And cold as Charon's palm holding Hell's toll,
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