And thou art terrible; the tear, The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier, But to the hero, when his sword Has won the battle for the free, The thanks of millions yet to be. We tell thy doom without a sigh; For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's- That were not born to die. THE UNDISCOVERED COUNTRY. Could we but know The land that ends our dark, uncertain travel, Aught of that country should we surely know, Might we but hear The hovering angels' high imagined chorus, Were we quite sure To find the peerless friend who left us lonely, ANON. RED RIDING HOOD. J. G. WHITTIER. On the wide lawn the snow lay deep, Her scarlet hood could scarcely show She dropped for bird and beast forlorn Come, black old crow-come, poor blue jay, OVER THE RIVER. ANON. I had a glorious coronal-emeralds, sapphires and pearls; Brave was its glow on the frank young brow, 'mid the sheen of the clustering curls; But the purest gem of the diadem was the first to drop away— There are few to be told, 'mid the tarnished gold, round the tresses scant and gray. Men ask for the jewels I wore erewhile: "Over the river," I say, and smile. I had a wreath of beautiful buds, crimson and golden and blue; Through the April hours my fair, frail flowers nor change nor drooping knew; But some shrunk and died in the summer's pride, some faded in autumn's rain: The wild winds moan where I stand alone, on the arid, leafless plain. "Where are the roses you cherished of late?" "Over the river," I say, and wait. I had a lute, whose music was the glory of life to me; Love gave to each string its happy ring, Hope woke its melody. But the thrilling chords and the passionate words died into silence soon, And my faint, cold touch cannot wake so much as the ghost of a vanished tune. "Where is the measure you loved the best?" "Over the river, with all the rest." Fast as the fleeting moments, sure as the night to the day, Our hopes and pleasures, our joys and treasures, glide from our clasp away; Sudden and swift the dark clouds lift, the lightning flashes down— Not an hour we know on our path below, if marked for the cross or the crown. Yet God guides all to the perfect day; THE OLD GRAVE. 'Tis an old, old grave: the snows and rains And the coarse-leaved burdocks make their home "Tis an old, old grave-how came I here? I-I don't know. It is many a year ANON. How odd that I'm standing here alone, I know the place-as a boy have played 'Twas a chestnut tree that once stood there! How all is changed in the spot I knew— How thick are the graves that once were few! How the moss has spread, how the wall sags down- Is nearer now than it used to be When I was a boy. * * What's this I see, As I scrape the lichen from the stone? What name do I read? Good God, my own! WHEN THE LAMP IS SHATTERED. When the lamp is shattered PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. The light in the dust lies dead; When the cloud is scattered The rainbow's glory is shed. When the lute is broken Sweet tones are remembered not; When the lips have spoken Loved accents are soon forgot. As music and splendor Survive not the lamp and the lute, The heart's echoes render No song when the spirit is mute— No song but sad dirges, Like the wind through a ruined cell, That ring the dead seaman's knell. When hearts have once mingled Love first leaves the well-built nest; |