I'm very lonely now, Mary,

For the poor make no new friends;
But, O, they love the better still
The few our Father sends!
And you were all I had, Mary,—
My blessin' and my pride;
There's nothing left to care for now,
Since my poor Mary died.

Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary,
That still kept hoping on,

When the trust in God had left my soul,
And my arm's young strength was gone;
There was comfort ever on your lip,

And the kind look on your brow, — I bless you, Mary, for that same, Though you cannot hear me now.

I thank you for the patient smile
When your heart was fit to break,
When the hunger-pain was gnawin' there,
And you hid it for my sake;

I bless you for the pleasant word,

When your heart was sad and sore,O, I'm thankful you are gone, Mary, Where grief can't reach you more!

They say there's bread and work for all,
And the sun shines always there, –
But I'll not forget old Ireland,

Were it fifty times as fair!

And often in those grand old woods
I'll sit, and shut my eyes,
And my heart will travel back again
To the place where Mary lies;
And I'll think I see the little stile

Where we sat side by side,

And the springin' corn, and the bright May morn, When first you were my bride.

TRUE REST

BY JOHN SULLIVAN DWIGHT

Sweet is the pleasure

Itself cannot spoil!

Is not true leisure

One with true toil?

Thou that wouldst taste it,

Still do thy best;
Use it, not waste it,—

Else 't is no rest.

Wouldst behold beauty

Near thee? all round?

Only hath duty

Such a sight found.

Rest is not quitting

The busy career;
Rest is the fitting

Of self to its sphere.

"T is the brook's motion,

Clear without strife,
Fleeing to ocean

After its life.

Deeper devotion

Nowhere hath knelt;

Fuller emotion

Heart never felt.

"T is loving and serving

The highest and best;

"T is onwards! unswerving,

And that is true rest.

O, MAY I JOIN THE CHOIR INVISIBLE!

BY GEORGE ELIOT

O, may I join the choir invisible

Of those immortal dead who live again

In minds made better by their presence; live

In pulses stirred to generosity,

In deeds of daring rectitude, in scorn

Of miserable aims that end with self,

In thoughts sublime that pierce the night like stars, And with their mild persistence urge men's minds

To vaster issues.

So to live is heaven:

To make undying music in the world,
Breathing a beauteous order, that controls
With growing sway the growing life of man.
So we inherit that sweet purity

For which we struggled, failed, and agonized
With widening retrospect that bred despair.
Rebellious flesh that would not be subdued,
A vicious parent shaming still its child,
Poor anxious penitence, is quick dissolved;
Its discords quenched by meeting harmonies,
Die in the large and charitable air.
And all our rarer, better, truer self,

That sobbed religiously in yearning song,
That watched to ease the burden of the world,
Laboriously tracing what must be,

And what may yet be better,

saw within
A worthier image for the sanctuary,
And shaped it forth before the multitude,
Divinely human, raising worship so
To higher reverence more mixed with love,
That better self shall live till human Time
Shall fold its eyelids, and the human sky
Be gathered like a scroll within the tomb,
Unread forever.

This is life to come,

Which martyred men have made more glorious For us, who strive to follow.

May I reach

That purest heaven,- be to other souls

The cup of strength in some great agony,
Enkindle generous ardor, feed pure love,
Beget the smiles that have no cruelty,
Be the sweet presence of a good diffused,
And in diffusion ever more intense!
So shall I join the choir invisible,
Whose music is the gladness of the world.

THE HUMBLEBEE

BY RALPH WALDO EMERSON

Burly, dozing humblebee!
Where thou art is clime for me;
Let them sail for Porto Rique,
Far-off heats through seas to seek,
I will follow thee alone,
Thou animated torrid zone!
Zigzag steerer, desert cheerer,
Let me chase thy waving lines;
Keep me nearer, me thy hearer,
Singing over shrubs and vines.

Insect lover of the sun,
Joy of thy dominion!

Sailor of the atmosphere;

Swimmer through the waves of air,

Voyager of light and noon,

Epicurean of June!

Wait, I prithee, till I come

Within earshot of thy hum,-
All without is martyrdom.