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"But why do I talk of Death,—
That phantom of grisly bone?
I hardly fear his terrible shape,
It seems so like my own,-
It seems so like my own,
Because of the fasts I keep;

O God! that bread should be so dear,
And flesh and blood so cheap!

"Work! work! work!

My labor never flags;

And what are its wages? A bed of straw,
A crust of bread-and rags,

That shattered roof-and this naked floor-
A table a broken chair—

And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank
For sometimes falling there!

"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
And the walk that costs a meal!

"Oh, but for one short hour,-
A respite, however brief!

No blessed leisure for love or hope,
But only time for grief!

A little weeping would ease my heart;
But in their briny bed

My tears must stop, for every drop
Hinders needle and thread!"

With fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread,—
Stitch! stitch! stitch!

In poverty, hunger and dirt;

And still with a voice of dolorous pitch-
Would that its tone could reach the rich!-
She sang the "Song of the Shirt."

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Mercy

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

(Born April 23 (?), 1564; Died April 23, 1616)

The quality of mercy is not strained;
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath: it is twice blest,-
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes:
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes
The throned monarch better than his crown:
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,
The attribute to awe and majesty,

Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;
But mercy is above this sceptred sway,-
It is enthroned in the hearts of kings,

It is an attribute to God himself;

And earthly power doth then show likest God's,
When mercy seasons justice.

From "Merchant of Venice"

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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.'

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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!"

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The World is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;
Little we see in Nature that is ours;

We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not.-Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn,
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea,
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.

[graphic]

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!"
And the calico cat replied "mee-ow!"

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,
And wailed, "Oh, dear! what shall we do!"
But the gingham dog and the calico cat
Wallowed this way and tumbled that,
Employing every tooth and claw

In the awfullest way you ever saw-
And, oh! how the gingham and calico flew!

(Don't fancy I exaggerate

I got my news from the Chinese plate!)

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