Noiselessly as the Spring-time Her crown of verdure weaves, Or voice of them that wept, Silently down from the mountain crown The great procession swept. Perchance the bald old eagle, On gray Beth-peor's height, Out of his rocky eyrie, Looked on the wondrous sight; Perchance the lion, stalking, Still shuns the hallowed spot; For beast and bird have seen and heard That which man knoweth not. So when the warrior dieth, His comrades in the war, With arms reversed and muffled drum, Follow the funeral car. They show the banners taken, They tell his battles won, And after him lead his masterless steed, While peals the minute gun. Amid the noblest of the land, Men lay the sage to rest, And give the bard an honored place, With costly marble dressed. In the great minster transept, Where sweet lights like glories fall And the chorus sings and the organ rings Along the emblazoned wall. This was the bravest warrior This the most gifted poet That ever breathed a word; And never earth's philosopher On the deathless page, truths half as sage And had he not high honors? With stars for tapers tall; And the dark rock pines, like tossing plumes, Over his bier to wave; And God's own hand in that lonely land To lay him in the grave. In that deep grave without a name, Shall break again—oh, wondrous thought— And stand with glory wrapped around And speak of the strife that won our life Oh, lonely tomb in Moab's land, Speak to these curious hearts of ours, And teach them to be still. Ways that we cannot tell; He hides them deep, like the secret sleep PATCHWORK PHILOSOPHY. I've been thinking some, Keziah. Ez I say, I've been a thinking It's a square of blue or crimson, Ez to how the patterns run, There's a bit of blue just yonder, 'Tis as bright as a June sky, yet 'Tain't your flimsy kind of cambric That you daren't as much as wet. It's been five-and-twenty Summers Since that cambric gown was new, Then that laylock, on the corner, And the weakest sort of wimmen Can throw sawdust in their eyes. And that check, 'twas off a weskit Howsoe'er the squares may fit, Ye can never tell, till j'ining, Es to how the colors fit. For the blue will spile the purple, And the laylock spile the gray, That the pattern, when its finished, So Keziah, I've been thinking, THE WHITE DÓVE, FREDERIKA BREMER. There sitteth a dove so white and fair, All on the lily spray, And she listeneth when to our Saviour dear Lightly she spreads her friendly wings, From the Father in Heaven who hears her speak, Then, children, lift up a pious prayer; It hears whatever you say, That heavenly dove so white and fair, That sits on the lily spray. THE LIFE BOAT DAGONET. Been out in the lifeboat often? Ay, ay, sir, oft enough. When it's rougher than this? Lor' bless you! this ain't what we calls rough; It's when there's a gale a-blowin', and the waves run in and break On the shore with a roar like thunder and the white cliffs seem to shake; When the sea is a hell of waters, and the bravest holds his breath As he hears the cry for the lifeboat-his summons, maybe, to death That's when we call it rough, sir: but, if we can get her afloat, There's always enough brave fellows ready to man the boat. You've heard of the Royal Helen, the ship as was wrecked last year; Yon be the rocks she struck on-the boat as went out be here; The night as she struck was reckoned the worst as ever we had, And this is a coast in winter where the weather be awful bad. The beach here was strewed with wreckage, and to tell you the truth, sir, then Was the only time as ever we'd a bother to get the men. The single chaps was willin', and six on 'em volunteered, But most on us here is married, and the wives that night was skeered. Our women ain't chicken-hearted when it comes to savin' lives, But death that night looked certain-and our wives be only wives; Their lot ain't bright at the best, sir; but here, when the man lies dead, "Tain't only a husband missin', it's the children's daily bread. |