XII. And well may the children weep before you; They have never seen the sunshine, nor the glory They know the grief of man, but not the wisdom; Are orphans of the earthly love and heavenly; XIII. They look up, with their pale and sunken faces, For they mind you of their angels in their places, "How long," they say, "how long, O cruel nation, Stifle down with a mailed heel its palpitation, And tread onward to your throne amid the mart? Our blood splashes upward, O our tyrants, And your purple shows your path; But the child's sob curseth deeper in the silence ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. Lowly Pleasures. 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 pleasant 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, E'en now, were I but rich, my hand But I am of the humble crowd; If thou, sweet Muse, wilt cherish me! BARRY CORNWALL. Mary Morison. O MARY! at thy window be, It is the wished, the trysted hour; That make the miser's treasure poor: Yestreen when, to the trembling string, To thee my fancy took its wing, I sat, but neither heard nor saw: O Mary! canst thou wreck his peace, A Psalm of Life. BURNS. WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE PSALMIST. TELL me not, in mournful numbers, Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, 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, Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! 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, Let us, then, be up and doing, LONGFELLOW. |