Caught from the early sobbing of the morn.
The clouds were pure and white as flocks new-shorn,
And fresh from the clear brook; sweetly they slept
On the blue fields of heaven; and then there crept
A little noiseless noise among the leaves,
Born of the very sigh that silence heaves;
For not the faintest motion could be seen
Of all the shades that slanted o'er the green.
A bush of Mayflowers with the bees about them;
Ah, sure no tasteful nook could be without them.
And let a lush laburnum oversweep them,
And let long grass grow round the roots to keep them
Moist, cool, and green; and shade the violets,
That they may bind the moss in leafy nets.
My fairest child, I have no song to give you,
No lark could pipe to skies so dull and gray;
Yet, ere we part, one lesson I would leave you,
For every day.
Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever; Do noble things, not dream them all day long; And so make life, death, and that vast Forever, One grand, sweet song.
The frugal snail, with forecast of repose,
Carries his house with him where'er he goes;
Peeps out, and, if there comes a shower of rain,
Retreats to his small domicile amain.
Touch but a tip of him, a horn-'tis well,-
He curls up in his sanctuary shell.
He's his own landlord, his own tenant; stay
Long as he will, he dreads no Quarter Day.
Himself he boards and lodges; both invites
And feasts himself; sleeps with himself o' nights.
He spares the upholsterer trouble to procure
Chattels; himself is his own furniture,
And his sole riches. Wheresoe'er he roam,
Knock when you will,-he's sure to be at home.
-Charles Lamb.
What the Heart of the Young Man said to the Psalmist
Tell me not in mournful numbers,
"Life is but an empty dream!"
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
"Dust thou art, to dust returnest,"
Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Finds us farther than to-day.
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,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle,
Be a hero in the strife!
Trust no future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead past bury its dead!
Act-act in the living present!
Heart within, and God o'erhead!
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,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main
A forlorn and shipwreck'd brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us, then be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.
-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
Stand! the ground's your own, my braves! Will ye give it up to slaves?
Will ye look for greener graves?
Hope ye mercy still?
What's the mercy despots feel?
Hear it in that battle peal!
Read it on yon bristling steel!
Ask it-ye who will.
Fear ye foes who kill for hire?
Will ye to your homes retire?
Look behind you! They're afire!
And, before you, see
Who have done it!-From the vale
On they come!—and will ye quail?—
Leaden rain and iron hail
Let their welcome be!
In the God of battles trust!
Die we may-and die we must;
But, oh, where can dust to dust
Be consigned so well,
As where heaven its dews shall shed,
On the martyred patriot's bed,
And the rocks shall raise their head,
Of his deeds to tell? -John Pierpont.
Good name in man or woman, dear my lord,
Is the immediate jewel of their souls:
Who steals my purse, steals trash; 'tis something, nothing;
'Twas mine, 'tis his, and has been slave to thousands; But he that filches from me my good name,
Robs me of that which not enriches him,
And makes me poor indeed. -William Shakespeare.
WRITTEN IN MARCH
The cock is crowing,
The stream is flowing,
The small birds twitter,
The lake doth glitter.
The green field sleeps in the sun;
The oldest and youngest
Are at work with the strongest;
The cattle are grazing,
Their heads never raising;
There are forty feeding like one!
Like an army defeated,
The snow hath retreated,
And now doth fare ill
On the top of the bare hill;
The plough-boy is whooping anon, anon.
There's joy in the mountains,
There's life in the fountains!
Small clouds are sailing,
Blue sky prevailing;
The rain is over and gone!
Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise;
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. ·
Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds thro' the glen,
Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den,
Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear,
I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair.
How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighboring hills,
Far mark'd with the courses of clear, winding rills;
There daily I wander as noon rises high,
My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye.
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