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With a slow and noiseless footstep
And she sits and gazes at me,
With those deep and tender eyes,
Uttered not, yet comprehended,
Is the spirit's voiceless prayer—
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
Though shaped of Pelion's tallest pines.
Fair in the foam of Ægean seas;
And Priam's wail is heard no more
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? Are the gleaming snows and the poppies red All that is left of the brave of yore?
Are there none to fight as Theseus fought,
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;
EDNA DEAN PROCTOR.
LITTLE river with its rock-laid banks
You must remember yet that fair June day!
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More of the inner glories hinted through The orange gates of sunset half withdrawn, And burning inward as the glory grew.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
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,
Much have we seen since then, and much outgrown ;
The world of may-be broadens on our sight, And vaster grows the shadow-clothed unknownAnd ever grander in the growing light.
But while the world's great possible grows more,
And suns set earlier now, and twilights have
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;
An April rain of smiles and tears,
The west winds blow, and singing low,
No longer forward nor behind
I plow no more a desert land,
The manna dropping from God's hand
I break my pilgrim-staff, I lay
The angel sought so far away
The airs of spring may never play
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,
And sweet calm days in golden haze
Not less shall manly deed and word
The graven flowers that wreathe the sword
But smiting hands shall learn to heal,
Nor less my heart for others feel,
All as God wills, who wisely heeds
And knoweth more of all my needs