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But what binds us, friend to friend,
Take, O boatman, thrice thy fee,
For invisible to thee,
Spirits twain have crossed with me.
Douglas, Douglas, tender and true.
Dowglas, Dowglas, tendir and treu."
COULD ye come back to me, Douglas, Douglas,
In the old likeness that I knew,
I would be so faithful, so loving, Douglas,
Never a scornful word should grieve ye,
O to call back the days that are not!
My eyes were blinded, your words were few;
I never was worthy of you, Douglas,
Now all men beside seem to me like shadows-
FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS.
Stretch out your hand to me, Douglas, Douglas,
DINAH MARIA MULOCK.
Footsteps of Angels.
HEN the hours of Day are numbered,
Wake the better soul that slumbered
Ere the evening lamps are lighted,
Then the forms of the departed
The beloved ones, the true-hearted,
He, the young and strong, who cherished
By the roadside fell and perished,
They, the holy ones and weakly,
And with them the being beauteous
With a slow and noiseless footstep
And she sits and gazes at me,
With those deep and tender eyes,
Uttered not, yet comprehended,
Oh, though oft depressed and lonely,
If I but remember only
Such as these have lived and died!
HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.
'HE winds that once the Argo bore
Have died by Neptune's ruined shrines :
And her hull is the drift of the deep-sea floor,
Though shaped of Pelion's tallest pines. You may seek her crew on every isle
Fair in the foam of Ægean seas;
But out of their rest no charm can wile
And Priam's wail is heard no more
Cries "O ye gods, 't is Hector falls!"
On Ida's mount is the shining snow;
But Jove has gone from its brow away; And red on the plain the poppies grow
Where the Greek and the Trojan fought that day
Mother Earth, are the heroes dead?
Do they thrill the soul of the years no more?
Gone? In a grander form they rise!
Dead? We may clasp their hands in ours, And catch the light of their clearer eyes,
And wreathe their brows with immortal flowers. Wherever a noble deed is done,
'Tis the pulse of a hero's heart is stirred; Wherever the Right has a triumph won,
There are the heroes' voices heard.
Their armor rings on a fairer field
Than the Greek or the Trojan ever trod : For Freedom's sword is the blade they wield, And the light above is the smile of God. So in his isle of calm delight
Jason may sleep the years away;
For the heroes live, and the skies are bright,
And the world is a braver world to-day.
EDNA DEAN PROCTOR.
A LITTLE river with its rock-laid banks
In somber elm and laughing linden dressed,
You must remember yet that fair June day!
But more of newer sun and fresher dawn,
You know we talked philosophy—or thought
The untaught record of their simple page
A whiter light should rise upon the years,
A freer wave should break on every strand, The New assuage the Old World's toils and tears, The West should tell it to the morning-land.
But many suns since then have died in flame,