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Sixteen years old when she died!

Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name, It was not her time to love; beside,

Her life had many a hope and aim,
Duties enough and little cares;

And now was quiet, now astir,
Till God's hand beckoned unawares,

And the sweet white brow is all of her.

Is it too late, then, Evelyn Hope?

What! your soul was pure and true; The good stars met in your horoscope,

Made you of spirit, fire, and dew; And just because I was thrice as old,

And our paths in the world diverged so wide, Each was naught to each, must I be told? We were fellow-mortals, - naught beside?

No, indeed! for God above

Is great to grant as mighty to make, And creates the love to reward the love;

I claim you still, for my own love's sake! Delayed, it may be, for more lives yet,

Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few; Much is to learn and much to forget

Ere the time be come for taking you.

But the time will come at last it will

When, Evelyn Hope, what meant, I shall say, In the lower earth, - in the years long still, That body and soul so pure and gay?

Why your hair was amber I shall divine,

And your mouth of your own geranium's red, And what you would do with me, in fine,

In the new life come in the old one's stead.

I have lived, I shall say, so much since then,

Given up myself so many times,
Gained me the gains of various men,

Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes;
Yet one thing one - in my soul's full scope,

Either I missed or itself missed me,
And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope!

What is the issue? let us see!

I loved you, Evelyn, all the while;

My heart seemed full as it could hold, There was place and to spare for the frank young

smile, And the red young mouth, and the hair's young

gold. So, hush! I will give you this leaf to keep;

See, I shut it inside the sweet, cold hand. There, that is our secret! go to sleep;

You will wake, and remember, and understand.

THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS

BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT

The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the

year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere.

Heap'd in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves

lie dead; They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's

tread. The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs

the jay,

And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the

gloomy days.

Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that

lately sprang and stood In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sister

hood? Alas! they all are in their graves; the gentle race of

flowers Are lying in their lowly beds with the fair and good of

ours.

The rain is falling where they lie; but the cold Novem

ber rain Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones

again.

The wind-flower and the violet, they perish'd long

ago, And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the sum

mer glow; But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the

wood, And the yellow sunflower by the brook, in autumn

beauty stood, Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men,

And the brightness of their smile was gone from up

land, glade, and glen.

And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still such

days will come, To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter

home; When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all

the trees are still, And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the

rill, The south wind searches for the flowers whose fra

grance late he bore, And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream

no more.

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And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty

died, The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my

side. In the cold moist earth we laid her when the forest

cast the leaf, And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so

brief; Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend

of ours,

So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the

flowers.

O MOTHER OF A MIGHTY RACE

BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT

O mother of a mighty race,
Yet lovely in thy youthful grace!
The elder dames, thy haughty peers,
Admire and hate thy blooming years;

With words of shame
And taunts of scorn they join thy name.

For on thy cheeks the glow is spread
That tints thy morning hills with red;
Thy step, — the wild deer's rustling feet
Within thy woods are not more fleet;

Thy hopeful eye
Is bright as thine own sunny sky.

Ay, let them rail, those haughty ones,
While safe thou dwellest with thy sons.
They do not know how loved thou art,
How many a fond and fearless heart

Would rise to throw
Its life between thee and the foe.

They know not, in their hate and pride,
What virtues with thy children bide,
How true, how good, thy graceful maids
Make bright, like flowers, the valley shades;

What generous men
Spring, like thine oaks, by hill and glen;

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