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Break, break, break,
At the foot of thy crags, O Sea! But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me.
THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES. HAVE had playmates, I have had compan
ions, In my days of childhood, in my joyful school
days; All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. I have been laughing, I have been carousing, Drinking late, sitting late with my bosom
cronies ; All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
I loved a love once, fairest among women; Closed are her doors on me now, I must not
see her. All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man; Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly ;
Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces.
Ghost-like, I paced round the haunts of my
childhood, Earth seemed a desert I was bound to trav
erse, Seeking to find the old familiar faces.
Friend of my bosom, thou more than a broth
er, Why wert thou not born in my father's dwell
ing? So might we talk of the old familiar faces,
How some they have died, and some they
have left me, And some are taken from me; all are depart
ed, All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
THE BAREFOOT BOY.
With the sunshine on thy face,
0! for boyhood's painless play,
O for boyhood's time of June,
“ Blessings on thee, little man,
Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan.” Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond,
O, for festal dainties spread, Mine the walnut slopes beyond,
Like my bowl of milk and bread, Mine, on bending orchard trees,
Pewter spoon and bowl of wood, Apples of Hesperides!
On the door-stone, gray and rude! Still, as my horizon grew,
O’er me, like a regal tent, Larger grew my riches too,
Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent; All the world I saw or knew
Purple-curtained, fringed with gold, Seemed a complex Chinese toy,
Looped in many a wind-swung fold; Fashioned for a barefoot boy!
While, for music, came the play
Of the pied frogs' orchestra;
All too soon these feet must hide
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.
Sleep on, baby on the floor,
Tired of all thy playing.”
SLEEPING AND WATCHING.
Little head and little foot
Heavy laid for pleasure,
Underneath the lids half shut That you dropped away in !
Slants the shining azure; On your curls' fair roundness stand
Open soul in noonday sun, Golden lights serenely;
So you lie and slumber! One cheek, pushed out by the hand,
Nothing evil having done, Folds the dimple inly ;
Nothing can encumber.
I, who cannot sleep as well,
Shall I sigh to view you?
All that may undo you?
Ere the sorrow neareth.
Pleasure's token weareth.
I shall sleep through losing:
Sure is the reposing:
Go, look in your hall, where the chandelier's
light Drives off with its splendor the darkness of
night, Where the rich hanging velvet in shadowy
And God knows who sees us twain, Go, look in yon church of the cloud-reaching
Which gives back to the sun his same look of As you seem of pleasure ;
red fire, Very soon, too, by his grace
Where the arches and columns are gorgeous Gently wrapped around me,
And the walls seem as pure as a soul without
Go down the long aisle-see the rich and the
great, While my hand shall drop the few In the pomp and the pride of their worldly Given to my keeping;
estate Differing in this, that I
Walk down in your patches, and find, if you Sleeping shall be colder,
Who opens a pew to a moneyless man,
Go, look on yon judge in the dark flowing (Sleeper, have you heard me ?
gown, Do you move, and open wide
With the scales wherein law weigheth equity Eyes of wonder toward me?)
down, That while you I thus recall
Where he frowns on the weak and smiles on From your sleep, I solely,
the strong, Me from mine an angel shall,
And punishes right where he justifies wrong ; With reveille holy !
Where jurors their lips on the Bible have laid, ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. To render a verdict they've already made;
Go, there in the court-room, and find if you
can, THE MONET'LESS MAN.
Any law for the cause of a moneyless man! S there no secret place on the face of the earth,
Go, look in the banks where mammon has told Where charity dwelleth, where virtue hath His hundreds and thousands of silver and birth?
gold; Where bosoms in mercy and kindness shall Where safe from the hand of the starving and heave,
poor, And the poor and the wretched shall“ask and Lays pile upon pile of the glittering ore; receive ?"
Walk up to the counter-and there you may Is there no place on earth where a knock from
Till your limbs grow old and your hair turns Will bring a kind angel to open the door?
gray, Ah! search the wide world wherever you can, And you'll find at the banks no one of the clan There is no open door for a moneyless man! With money to loan to a moneyless man!
SONGS OF SEVEN.
The lambs play always—they know no better; There's no rain left in heaven.
They are only one times one.
O Moon! in the night I have seen you sailing