« ΠροηγούμενηΣυνέχεια »
With a slow and noiseless footstep
Comes that messenger divine,
Lays her gentle hand in mine;
And she sits and gazes at me,
With those deep and tender eyes,
Looking downward from the skies.
Uttered not, yet comprehended,
Is the spirit's voiceless prayer-
Breathing from her lips of air.
Oh, though of depressed and lonely,
All my fears are laid aside,
HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.
THE 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.
Fair in the foam of Ægean seas ;
Jason and Orpheus and Hercules.
And Priam's wail is heard no more
By windy Ilion's sea-built walls ; Nor great Achilles, stained with gore,
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?
All that is left of the brave of yore ?
Far in the young world's misty dawn?
Mother Earth, are the heroes gone ?
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.
Jason may sleep the years away;
EDNA DEAN PROCTOR.
In somber elm and laughing linden dressed,
A light skiff floating on the river's breast.
You must remember yet that fair June day !
It was a time when setting suns said less Of speeding time and glorious things' decay,
And vacant watches through the sunlessness;
But more of newer sun and fresher dawn,
More of the inner glories hinted through The orange gates of sunset half withdrawn,
And burning inward as the glory grew.
You know we talked philosophy-or thought
We did; and flippantly aside we threw
All that the glorious-visioned exile drew.
The untaught record of their simple page
· Whose footsteps paced with His the morning-land, As rude inscriptions of a younger age,
Unworthy of the ripe world's freer hand.
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,
And many skies for them been sable-clad : The quiet stream moves onward still the same,
With shades to chill, and dawns to make it glad.
Much have we seen since then, and much outgrown;
The world of may-be broadens on our sight, And vaster grows the shadow-clothed unknown-
And ever grander in the growing light.
But while the world's great possible grows more,
And wider outlooks face the eternal hills,
Becomes the vale our straitened pathway fills.
And suns set earlier now, and twilights have
A shade of chill we hardly care to own,
And evening skies seem not so brightly sown.
And we, apostles of the new time's youth,
Are treading in the way our fathers trod,
EVANGELINE M. JOHNSON.
MOURN no more my vanished years ;
Beneath a tender rain,
My heart is young again,
The west winds blow, and singing low,
I hear the glad streams run : The windows of my soul I throw
Wide open to the sun.
No longer forward nor behind
I look in hope and fear;
The best of now and here.
I plow no more a desert land,
To harvest weed and tare;
Rebukes my painful care.
I break my pilgrim-staff, I lay
Aside the toiling oar;
I welcome at my door.
The airs of spring may never play
Among the ripening corn,
Blow through the autumn morn ;
Yet shall the blue-eyed gentian look
Through ftingèd lids to heaven ; And the pale aster in the brook
Shall see its image given;
The woods shall wear their robes of praise,
The south-wind softly sigh,
Melt down the amber sky.
Not less shall manly deed and word
Rebuke an age of wrong: The graven flowers that wreathe the sword
Make not the blade less strong.
But smiting hands shall learn to heal,
To build as to destroy ;
That I the more enjoy.
All as God wills, who wisely heeds
To give or to withhold,
Than all my prayers have told !