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Art hath naught of tone or cadence
That can work with such a speil
In the soul's mysterious fountains,
Whence the tears of rapture well,
As that melody of nature,

That subdued, subduing strain
Which is played upon the shingles

By the patter of the rain.

Coates Kinney [1826-1904]

ALONE BY THE HEARTH

HERE, in my snug little fire-lit chamber,
Sit I alone:

And, as I gaze in the coals, I remember
Days long agone.

Saddening it is when the night has descended,
Thus to sit here,

Bensively musing on episodes ended

Many a year.

Still in my visions a golden-haired glory
Flits to and fro;

She whom I loved-but 'tis just the old story:
Dead, long ago.

'Tis but a wraith of love; yet I linger

(Thus passion errs),

Foolishly kissing the ring on my finger-
Once it was hers.

Nothing has changed since her spirit departed,
Here, in this room

Save I, who, weary, and half broken-hearted,

Sit in the gloom.

Loud 'gainst the window the winter rain dashes,

Dreary and cold;

Over the floor the red fire-light flashes

Just as of old.

The Old Man Dreams

Just as of old-but the embers are scattered,
Whose ruddy blaze

Flashed o'er the floor where the fairy feet pattered
In other days!

Then, her dear voice, like a silver chime ringing,

Melted away;

Often these walls have re-echoed her singing,
Now hushed for aye!

445

Why should love bring naught but sorrow, I wonder? Everything dies!

Time and death, sooner or later, must sunder

Holiest ties.

Years have rolled by; I am wiser and older-
Wiser, but yet

Not till my heart and its feelings grow colder,
Can I forget.

So, in my snug little fire-lit chamber,

Sit I alone;

And, as I gaze in the coals, I remember

Days long agone!

George Arnold [1834-1865]

THE OLD MAN DREAMS

OH for one hour of youthful joy!
Give back my twentieth spring!
I'd rather laugh, a bright-haired boy,
Than reign, a gray-beard king.

Off with the spoils of wrinkled age!
Away with Learning's crown!
Tear out life's Wisdom-written page,
And dash its trophies down!

One moment let my life-blood stream
From boyhood's fount of flame!
Give me one giddy, reeling dream

Of life all love and fame!

My listening angel heard the prayer,
And, calmly smiling, said,

"If I but touch thy silvered hair,
Thy hasty wish hath sped.

"But is there nothing in thy track
To bid thee fondly stay,

While the swift seasons hurry back
To find the wished-for day?"

"Ah, truest soul of womankind!
Without thee what were life?
One bliss I cannot leave behind:
I'll take-my-precious-wife!"

The angel took a sapphire pen
And wrote in rainbow dew,
The man would be a boy again,
And be a husband, too!

"And is there nothing yet unsaid,
Before the change appears?
Remember, all their gifts have fled
With those dissolving years."

"Why, yes;" for memory would recall My fond paternal joys;

"I could not bear to leave them allI'll take-my-girl-and-boys."

The smiling angel dropped his pen,-
"Why, this will never do;
The man would be a boy again,

And be a father, too!"

And so I laughed,-my laughter woke

The household with its noise,

And wrote my dream, when morning broke,

To please the gray-haired boys.

Oliver Wendell Holmes [1809-1894]

The Garret

447

THE GARRET*

AFTER BÉRANGER

WITH pensive eyes the little room I view,
Where, in my youth, I weathered it so long;
With a wild mistress, a stanch friend or two,

And a light heart still breaking into song:
Making a mock of life, and all its cares,
Rich in the glory of my rising sun,
Lightly I vaulted up four pair of stairs,

In the brave days when I was twenty-one.

Yes; 'tis a garret-let him know't who will-
There was my bed-full hard it was and small;
My table there-and I decipher still

Half a lame couplet charcoaled on the wall.
Ye joys, that Time hath swept with him away,
Come to mine eyes, ye dreams of love and fun;
For you I pawned my watch how many a day,
In the brave days when I was twenty-one,

And see my little Jessy, first of all;

She comes with pouting lips and sparkling eyes: Behold, how roguishly she pins her shawl

Across the narrow casement, curtain-wise; Now by the bed her petticoat glides down,

And when did woman look the worse in none? I have heard since who paid for many a gown, In the brave days when I was twenty-one.

One jolly evening, when my friends and I
Made happy music with our songs and cheers,
A shout of triumph mounted up thus high,
And distant cannon opened on our ears:
We rise, we join in the triumphant strain,-
Napoleon conquers-Austerlitz is won-
Tyrants shall never tread us down again,
In the brave days when I was twenty-one.

*For the original of this poem see page 3589.

Let us begone-the place is sad and strange―
How far, far off, these happy times appear;
All that I have to live I'd gladly change

For one such month as I have wasted here—
To draw long dreams of beauty, love, and power,
From founts of hope that never will outrun,
And drink all life's quintessence in an hour,
Give me the days when I was twenty-one!

William Makepeace Thackeray (1811-1863]

"NOW I LAY ME DOWN TO SLEEP"

"Now I lay me down to sleep:

I pray the Lord my soul to keep,”
Was my childhood's early prayer
Taught by my mother's love and care.
Many years since then have fled;
Mother slumbers with the dead;
Yet methinks I see her now,
With love-lit eye and holy brow,
As, kneeling by her side to pray,
She gently taught me how to say,
"Now I lay me down to sleep:
I pray the Lord my soul to keep."

Oh! could the faith of childhood's days,
Oh! could its little hymns of praise,
Oh! could its simple, joyous trust

Be recreated from the dust

That lies around a wasted life,

The fruit of many a bitter strife!
Oh! then at night in prayer I'd bend,
And call my God, my Father, Friend,
And pray with childlike faith once more
The prayer my mother taught of yore,-
"Now I lay me down to sleep:

I pray the Lord my soul to keep.”

Eugene Henry Pullen (1832-1899]

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