"But why do I talk of Death,— O God! that bread should be so dear, "Work! work! work! My labor never flags; And what are its wages? A bed of straw, That shattered roof-and this naked floor- And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank "Work-work-work! From weary chime to chime! Work-work-work! As prisoners work for crime! Band, and gusset, and seam, Seam, and gusset, and band, Till the heart is sick and the brain benumbed. As well as the weary hand. "Work-work-work! In the dull December light! And work-work-work! When the weather is warm and bright! While underneath the eaves The brooding swallows cling, As if to show me their sunny backs, And twit me with the spring. "Oh, but to breathe the breath Of the cowslip and primrose sweet,— With the sky above my head, And the grass beneath my feet! For only one short hour To feel as I used to feel, Before I knew the woes of want "Oh, but for one short hour,- No blessed leisure for love or hope, A little weeping would ease my heart; My tears must stop, for every drop With fingers weary and worn, In poverty, hunger and dirt; And still with a voice of dolorous pitch- Mercy WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE (Born April 23 (?), 1564; Died April 23, 1616) The quality of mercy is not strained; Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings; It is an attribute to God himself; And earthly power doth then show likest God's, From "Merchant of Venice" In the little southern parlor of the house you may have seen With the gambrel-roof, and the gable looking westward to the green, At the side toward the sunset, with the window on its right, Stood the London-made piano I am dreaming of tonight! Ah me! how I remember the evening when it came! What a cry of eager voices, what a group of cheeks in flame, When the wondrous box was opened that had come from over seas, With its smell of mastic-varnish and its flash of ivory keys! Then the children all grew fretful in the restlessness of joy; For the boy would push his sister, and the sister crowd the boy, Till the father asked for quiet in his grave paternal way, But the mother hushed the tumult with the words, "Now, Mary, play." For the dear soul knew that music was a very sovereign balm; She had sprinkled it over Sorrow and seen its brow grow calm, In the days of tender harpsichords with tapping tinkling quills, Or carolling to her spinet with its thin metallic thrills. So Mary, the household minstrel, who always loved to please, Sat down to the new "Clementi," and struck the glittering keys. Hushed were the children's voices, and every eye grew dim, As, floating from lip and finger, arose the "Vesper Hymn.' Catharine, child of a neighbor, curly and rosy-red, (Wedded since, and a widow, something like ten years dead), Hearing a gush of music such as none before, Steals from her mother's chamber and peeps at the open door. Just as the "Jubilate" in threaded whisper dies, "Open it! open it, lady!" the little maiden cries, (For she thought 't was a singing creature caged in a box she heard), "Open it! open it, lady! and let me see the bird!" The World is too much with us; late and soon, We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! The Duel EUGENE FIELD (Born September 3, 1850; Died November 4, 1895) The gingham dog and the calico cat Side by side on the table sat; 'T was half-past twelve, and (what do you think!) Nor one nor t' other had slept a wink! The old Dutch clock and the Chinese plate Appeared to know as sure as fate There was going to be a terrible spat. (I wasn't there; I simply state What was told to me by the Chinese plate!) The gingham dog went "bow-wow-wow!" The air was littered, an hour or so, With bits of gingham and calico, While the old Dutch clock in the chimney-place Up with its hands before its face, For it always dreaded a family row! (Never mind: I'm only telling you What the old Dutch clock declares is true!) The Chinese plate looked very blue, In the awfullest way you ever saw- (Don't fancy I exaggerate I got my news from the Chinese plate!) |