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man can do and bear, It did not wholly fall my side as though no man were there.
"And yet for days it seems my heart shall | That while they nobly held it as each blossom never more, And the burden of my loneliness lies on me very sore: Therefore, O hewer of the stones that pave base human ways, How canst thou bear the years till death, made of such thankless days?"
"And so we toil together many a day from morn till night,
"Perhaps they felt, as with those hands
I in the lower depths of life, they on the lovely height;
For though the common stones are mine,
"And 't is not wholly mine or theirs I think of through the day,
But the great eternal thing we make together, I and they;
Far in the sunset I behold a city that
Made fair with all their nobler toil, built of my common stones.
The worker with the chisel and the
And one who maketh music for their
"Then noonward, as the task grows light with all the labor done,
single thought of all the day berising in my heart at last where it comes a joyous one: thrills up seeking for a voice, and has lain so long, grows almost a song.
"But when the evening comes, indeed,
T. K. HERVEY.
And those broad pines amid the sunniest glade
Dear queen of snowy mountains,
And yet that vice
A rock of adamant?
To praise it right, thine own sweet tones That rock soon destined to dissolve away
Hail to thee! hail!
How rich art thou in lakes to poet dear,
So reigning through the year,
On gifts, which, decking thee too well, Allured the spoiler. Let me fix my ken Rather upon thy godlike men, The good, the wise, the valiant, and the free,
On history's pillars towering gloriously,
Truth hath decreed her joyous resurrection:
In spite of chance,
And worser ignorance,
If men be ruled by Duty's firm decree,
What art thou now? Alas! Alas!
That strength and virtue thus should pass
To speak of death?
The fool alone and unbeliever weepeth.
At the end of her correction,
She shall arise, she must.
For can it be that wickedness hath power
But who shall bear the dazzling radianey,
Yet still imploring succor from on high?
Until that end be come, until I hear
The Alps their mighty voices blend, To swell and echo back the sound most dear
To patriot hearts, the cry of Liberty,
I then may die,
Die how well satisfied!
Conscious that I have watched the second birth
Of her I've loved the most upon the
That no more beauteous sight can here
T. K. HERVEY.
FAREWELL! since never more for thee
And there beneath the immemorial elm Three rosy revellers round a table sit,
Before her home, in her accustomed seat,
The tidy grandam spins beneath the
Of the old honeysuckle, at her feet
To her low chair a little maiden clings,
Sometimes the shadow of a lazy cloud
Like golden shores of Fairyland are
Again the sunshine on the shadow springs,
And fires the thicket-where the Blackbird sings.
The woods, the lawn, the peakéd manorhouse,
With its peach-covered walls, and rookery loud,
The trim, quaint garden-alleys, screened with boughs,
The lion-headed gates, so grim and proud,
The mossy fountain with its murmurings, 1 Lie in warm sunshine-while the Blackbird sings.
Bask in the kindly welcome of the The ring of silver voices, and the sheen Of festal garments, and my lady
But the broad casements of the old Three
With her gay court across the garden
Kings Blaze like a furnace-while the Blackbird sings.
Some laugh, and dance, some whisper
And one calls for a little page; he strings