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ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
They are weary ere they run;
Which is brighter than the sun :
They sink in man's despair, without its calm -
Are martyrs, by the pang without the palm, -
No dear remembrance keep,
Let them weep! let them weep!
They look up, with their pale and sunken faces,
And their look is dread to see,
With eyes meant for Deity ;-
Will you stand, to move the world, on a child's heart, — Stifle down with a mailed heel its palpitation,
And tread onward to your throne amid the mart?
And your purple shows your path;
Than the strong man in his wrath !"
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
METHINKS I love all common things;
The common air, the common flower; The dear kind common thought, that springs
From hearts that have no other dower,
No other wealth, no other power, Save love; and will not that repay For all else fortune tears away?
Methinks I love the horny hand,
That labours until dusk from dawn; Methinks I love the russet band,
Beyond the band of silk or lawn;
And, oh! the lovely laughter drawn From peasant lips, when sunny May Leads in some flowery holiday!
What good are fancies fair, that rack
With painful thought the poet's brain ? Alas! they cannot bear us back
Unto happy years again!
But the white rose without stain Bringeth times and thoughts of flowers, When youth was bounteous as the hours !
E'en now, were I but rich, my hand
Should open like a vernal cloud, When 't casts its beauty on a land
In music sweet but never loud :
But I am of the humble crowd ;
O MARY! at thy window be,
It is the wished, the trysted hour; Those smiles and glances let me see,
That make the miser's treasure poor : How blithely wad I bide the stoure,
A weary slave frae sun to sun,
The lovely Mary Morison !
The dance gaed through the lighted ha',
I sat, but neitber heard nor saw :
And yon the toast of a' the town,
“ Ye are na Mary Morison."
O Mary! canst thou wreck his peace,
Wha for thy sake wad gladly die ?
Whase only faut is loving thee?
At least be pity to me shown:
The thought o' Mary Morison.
2 Psalm of Life.
WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE PSALMIST.
Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
And things are not what they seem.
And the grave is not its goal ;
Was not spoken of the soul.
Is our destined end or way;
Finds us farther than to-day.
Art is long, and time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.
In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be a hero in the strife!
Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead ! Act, - act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o'erhead!
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time ;
Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labour and to wait.