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Then why pause with indecision,
In whose orbs a shadow lies

When bright angels in thy vision
Like the dusk in evening skies!

Beckon thee to fields Elysian ? Thou whose locks outshine the sun,

Seest thou shadows sailing by, Golden tresses, wreathed in one,

As the dove, with startled eye, As the braided streamlets run!

Sees the falcon's shadow fly?

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Childhood is the bough where slumbered And there they lived in happiness and pleasBirds and blossoms many-numbered ;

ure, Age, the bough with snows encumbered.

And grew in power and pride,

And did great deeds and laid up stores of Gather, then, each flower that grows,

treasure, When the young heart overflows,

And never any died.
To embalm that tent of snows.

And many years rolled on and saw them striv-

With unabated breath; THE CITY OF THE LIVING.

And other years still found and left them liv

ing, IN No record has to-day,

And gave no hope of death. So long ago expired its grief and glory,

Yet listen, hapless soul whom angels pity, There flourished far away,

Craving a boon like this ; In a broad realm, whose beauty passed all Mark how the dwellers of the wondrous city

Grew weary of their bliss. measure, A city far and wide,

One and another who had been concealing Wherein the dwellers lived in peace and

The pain of life's long thrall, pleasure,

Forsook their pleasant faces and came stealAnd never any died.


Outside the city's wall.
Disease and pain and death, those stern ma-

Craving with wish that brooked no
That mar our world's fair face,'

denying, Never encroached upon the pleasant borders

So long had it been crossed,
Of this bright dwelling-place. The blessed possibility of dying

The treasure they had lost!
No fear of parting, and no dread of dying
Could ever enter there ;

Daily the current of rest-seeking mortals No mourning for the lost, no anguished cry

Swelled to a broader tide, ing,

'Till none were left within the city's portals, Made any face less fair.

And graves grew green outside. Without the city's walls Death reigned as ever, Would it be worth the having or the giving, And graves rose side by side ;

The boon of endless breath ? Within the people laughed at his endeavor, Ah, for the weariness that comes of living And never any died.

There is no cure but death!


Ours were, indeed, a case deserving pity

Were that sweet rest denied ;
And few, methinks, would care to find the
Where never any


O happiest of all earth's favored places !

Oh, bliss to dwell therein!
To live in the sweet light of loving faces

And fear no grave between.
To feel no death-damp growing cold and cold-

Disputing Life's warm truth; To live on never lonelier nor older,

Radiant in deathless youth.
And hurrying from the world's remotest quar-

A tide of pilgrims flowed
Across broad plains and over mighty waters

To find that blest abode.


Twoddimpled hands the bars of iron grasp

Two blue and wondering eyes the space

looked through. This massive gate a boundary had been set,

Nor was she ever known to be but true.

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Strange were the sights she saw across the

wayA little child had died some days before

Arome slar meat chod, amid the silence hushed, Trownd goes up and the world goes

Some carried flowers, some a casket bore. The little watcher the garden gate Grew tearful, hers such thoughts and won

derings were, Till said the nurse: “ Come here, dear child.

Weep not. We all must go. 'Tis God has sent for her.” “ If He should send for me”-thus spoke the

child“I'll have to tell the angel, 'Do not wait. Though God has sent for me, I cannot come; I never go beyond the garden gate.'



Y feet are wearied, and my hands are tired,

My soul oppressed-
And I desire, what I have long desired-

Rest-only rest.
'Tis hard to toil, when toil is almost vain,

In barren ways;
'Tis hard to sow, and never garner gra

In harvest days.
The burden of my days is hard to bear,

But God knows best; And I have prayed, but vain has been my prayer,

For rest-sweet rest. 'Tis hard to plant in spring and never reap

The Autumn yield; 'Tis hard to till, and when 'tis tilled to weep

O'er fruitless field.
And so I cry a weak and human cry,

So heart oppressed ;
And so I sigh a weak and human sigh,

For rest--for rest.
My way has wound across the desert years,

And cares infest
My path, and through the flowing of hot tears

I pine for rest.
And I am restless still; 'twill soon be o'er;

For, down the West
Life's sun is setting, and I see the shore
Where I shall rest.


(Father Ryan.)



down, And the sunshine follows the rain; And yesterday's sneer and yesterday's frown

Can never come over again,

Sweet wife, can never come over again. For woman is warm, though man may be cold,

And the night will hallow the day; Till the heart which at even was weary and

old, Can rise in the morning gay, Sweet wife, can rise in the morning gay.



(From “ Afternoon at a Parsonage.”)

'HEN the dimpled water slippeth,
And her wing the wagtail dippeth,

Running by the brink at play; When the poplar leaves a-tremble

Turn their edges to the light, And the far-up clouds resemble

Veils of gauze most clear and white; And the sunbeams fall and flutter

Woodland moss and branches brown, And the glossy finches chatter

Up and down, up and down;
Though the heart be not attending,

Having music of her own,
On the grass, through meadows wending,

It is sweet to walk alone.

When the falling waters utter

Something mournful on their way, And departing swallows flutter,

Taking leave of bank and brae; When the chaffinch idly sitteth

With her mate upon the sheaves,
And the wistful robin flitteth

Over beds of yellow leaves;
When the clouds like ghosts that ponder

Evil fate, float by and frown,
And the listless wind doth wander

Up and down, up and down;
Though the heart be not attending,

Having sorrows of her own,
Through the fields and fallows wending,
It is sad to walk alone.


SONNET TO SLEEP. TOME, Sleep, 0 Sleep, the certain knot of O make in me those civil wars to cease ; peace,

I will good tribute pay, if thou do so. The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe, Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release,

bed; The indifferent judge between the high and A chamber deaf to noise, and blind to light; low,

A rosy garland, and a weary head. With shield of proof shield me from out the And if these things, as being thine by right, press

Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me of those fierce darts Despair at me doth Livelier than elsewhere Stella's image see. throw;


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“And the dream I spun was so lengthy,
It lasted till day was done.”

LL yesterday I was spinning,

I took the threads of my spinning
Sitting alone in the sun!

All of blue summer air,
And the dream I spun was so lengthy, And a flickering ray of sunlight
It lasted till day was done.

Was woven in here and there.
I heeded not cloud or shadow

The shadows grew longer and longer.
That flitted over the hill,

The evening wind passed by,
Or the humming bees or the swallows, And the purple splendor of sunset
Or the trickling of the rill.

Was flooding the western sky.

But I could not leave my spinning,

Though cold was the dew on his hurrying feet, For so fair my dream had grown,

And the blind bat's fitting startled him. I heeded not, hour by hour, How the silent day had flown.

Thrice since then had the lanes been white,

And the orchards sweet with apple-bloom; At last the gray shadows fell round me,

And now, when the cows came back at night, And the night came dark and chill,

The feeble father drove them home.
And I rose and ran down the valley,
And left it all on the hill.

For news had come to the lonely farm

That three were lying where two had lain, I went up the hill this morning,

And the old man's tremulous, palsied arm To the place where my spinning layThere was nothing but glistening dew-drops

Could never lean on a son's again. Remained of my dream to-day.

The summer day grew cool and late; ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER. He went for the cows when the work was

done; DRIVING HOME THE COW'S. But down the lane, as he opened the gate, UT of the clover and blue-eyed grass

He saw them coming one by one :
He turned them into the river-lane;

Brindle, Ebony, Speckle and Bess,
One after another he let them pass,

Shaking their horns in the evening wind, Then fastened the meadow bars again.

Cropping the buttercups out of the grass Under the willows and over the hill

But who was it following close behind ? He patiently followed their sober pace;

Loosely swung in the idle air The merry whistle for once was still,

The empty sleeve of army blue; And something shadowed the sunny face.

And worn and pale, from the crisping hair, Only a boy! and his father had said

Looked out a face that the father knew. He never could let his youngest go;

For Southern prisons will sometimes yawn, Two already were lying dead

And yield their dead to life again, Under the feet of the trampling foe.

And the day that comes with a cloudy dawn But after the evening work was done,

In golden glory at last may wane. And the frogs were loud in the meadow- The great tears sprang to their meeting eyes, swamp,

For the heart must speak when the lips are Over his shoulder he slung his gun,

dumb, And stealthily followed the footpath damp. And under the silent evening skies Across the clover, and through the wheat, Together they followed the cattle home. With resolute heart and purpose grim,




(From "The Virginians.") °HE world can pry out everything about us which it has a mind to know. But there is

this consolation, which men will never accept in their own cases, that the world doesn't care. Consider the amount of scandal it has been forced to hear in its time,

and how weary and blasé it must be of that kind of intelligence. You are taken to prison, and fancy yourself indelibly disgraced? You are bankrupt under odd circumstances? You drive a queer bargain with your friends, and are found out, and imagine the world will punish you? Pshaw! Your shame is only vanity. Go and talk to the world as if nothing had happened, and nothing has happened. Tumble down; brush the mud off your clothes; appear with a smiling countenance, and nol cares. Do you suppose society is going to take out its pocket-handkerchief and be inconsolable when you die? Why should it care very much, then, whether your worship graces yourself or disgraces yourself? Whatever happens, it talks, meets, jokes, yawns, has its dinner pretty much as before.


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