I hear it faintly:- Louder yet!- Bowl rang to bowl, steel clanged to steel, That made the torches flare around, ye Slaves, traitors! have ye flown? Ho! cowards, have ye left me To meet him here alone? "But I defy him: - let him come! Down rang the massy cup, While from its sheath the ready blade And, with the black and heavy plumes There, in his dark, carved, oaken chair, OLD GRIMES BY ALBERT G. GREENE Old Grimes is dead, that good old man, — We ne'er shall see him more; He used to wear a long black coat, All buttoned down before. His heart was open as the day, His hair was some inclined to gray,- Whene'er he heard the voice of pain, Kind words he ever had for all; His eyes were dark and rather small, He lived at peace with all mankind, His pantaloons were blue. Unharmed, the sin which earth pollutes He passed securely o'er, And never wore a pair of boots For thirty years or more. But good Old Grimes is now at rest, He modest merit sought to find, He had no malice in his mind, His neighbors he did not abuse, — He wore large buckles on his shoes, His knowledge, hid from public gaze He did not bring to view, Nor make a noise, town-meeting days, As many people do. His worldly goods he never threw Thus undisturbed by anxious cares And everybody said he was A fine old gentleman. THE KINGS BY LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY A man said unto his Angel: "The terrible Kings are on me With spears that are deadly bright, Against me so from the cradle Do fate and my fathers fight." Then said to the man his Angel: "As judged by the little judges Who hearken not well, nor see? Not thus, by the outer issue, The Wise shall interpret thee. "Thy will is the very, the only, "Though out of the past they gather, Mind's Doubt, and Bodily Pain, And pallid Thirst of the Spirit "And Grief, in a cloud of banners, And ringletted Vain Desires, And Vice, with spoils upon him Of thee and thy beaten sires,— "While Kings of eternal evil Yet darken the hills about, Thy part is with broken sabre "To fear not sensible failure, JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE DIED IN NEW YORK, SEPTEMBER, 1820 BY FITZ-GREENE HALLECK Green be the turf above thee, Tears fell, when thou wert dying, When hearts, whose truth was proven, And I, who woke each morrow |