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And the names he loved to hear
Have been carved for many a year
Ou the tomb.

My grandmamma has said —
Poor old lady! she is dead

Long ago —
That he had a Koman nose,
And his cheek was like a rose

In the snow.

But now his nose is thin.
And it rests upon his chin

Like a staff;
And a crook is in bis back,
And a melancholy crack

In his laugh.

I know it is a sin
For ine to sit and grin

At him here,
But the old three-cornered hat,
And the breeches, and all that.

Are so queer!

And if I should live to be
The last leaf upon the tree

In the spring,
Let them smile, as I do now,
At the old forsaken bough

Where I cling.

Oliver Wendell Holmes.

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OR my own private satisfaction, I had rather be master of my own time than wear a diadem.


slumbers of midnight the sailor boy lay;
His hammock swung loose at the sport of the

But watch-worn and weary, his cares flew away,
And visions of happiness danced o er his mind.

He dreamt of his home, of his dear native bowers,
And pleasures that waited on life's merry morn;

While memory each scene gaily covered with flowers,
And restored every rose, but secreted its thorn.

Then Fancy her magical pinions spread wide,
And bade the young dreamer iu ecstasy rise;

Now far, far behind him the greeu waters glide,
And the cot of his forefathers blesses hi.; eyes.

The jessamine clambers in flower o'er the thatch,
And the swallow chirps sweet from her nest in the

All trembling with transport, he raises the latch,
And the voices of loved ones reply to his call.

A father bends o'er him with looks of delight;

His cheek is bedewed witli a mother's warm tear; And the lips of the boy in a love-kiss unite

With the lips of the maid whom his bosom holds dear.

The heart of the sleeper beats high in his breast;

Joy quickens his pulses,— his hardships seem o'er; And a murmur of happiness steals through his rest,—

■• O God! thou hast blest me,— I ask for no more."

Ah! whence is that flame which now glares on his eye? Ah! what is that sound which now bursts on his


'Tis the lightning's red gleam, painting hell on the sky!

'Tis the crashing of thunders, the groan of the sphere!

He springs from his hammock,— he flies to the deck;

Amazement confronts hiiu with images dire; Wild winds and mad waves drive the vessel a wreck;

The masts fly in splinters; the shrouds are on fire.

Like mountains the billows tremendously swell;

In vain the lost wretch calls on Mercy to save; Unseen hands of spirits are ringing his knell;

And the death-angel flaps his broad wing o'er the wave!

O sailor boy, woe to thy dream of delight!

In darkness dissolves the gay frost-work of bliss. Where now is the picture that Fancy touched bright,—

Thy parents' fond pressure, and love's honeyed kiss?

O sailor boy! sailor boy! never again
Shall home, love or kindred thy wishes repay;

Unblessed and unhonored, down deep in the main,
Full many a fathom, thy frame shall decay.

No tomb shall e'er plead to remembrance for thee,

Or redeem form or fame from the merciless surge; But the white foam of waves shall thy winding-sheet be,

And winds in the midnight of winter thy dirge!

On a bed of green sea-flowers thy limbs shall be laid,—

Around thy white bones the red coral shall grow; Of thy fair yellow locks threads of amber be made, And every part suit to thy mansion below.

Days, months, years, and ages shall circle away.
And still the vast waters above thee shall roll;

Frail, short-sighted mortals their doom must obey,—
O sailor boy! sailor boy! peace to thy soul!

William Dimond.


glNG out, wild bells, to the wild sky, The flying cloud, the frosty light; The year is dying in the night; Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new;

Ring, happy bells, across the snow;

The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind,
For those that here we see no more;
Ring out the fetid of rich and poor,

Ring in redress to all mankind.

Ring out a slowly dying cause
And ancient forms of party strife;

Ring in the nobler modes of life,
With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out false pride in place and blood,
'Hie civic slander and the spite:
Ring in the love of truth and right,

Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease,
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
Ring out the thousand wars of old,

Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Ring in the valiant man and free,
The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
Ring out the darkness of the land,

Ring in the Christ that is to be.

Alfred Tennyson.


there no place on the face of the earth,
Where charity dwelleth, where virtue has birth?
Where bosoms in mercy and kindness will heave,
When the poor and the wretched shall ask and

Is there no place at all, where a knock from the poor,
Will bring a kind angel to open the door?
Ah, search the wide world wherever you can,
There is no open door for the Moneyless Man.

Go, look in yon hall where the chandelier's light
Drives off with its splendor the darkness of night,
Where the rich hanging velvet in shadowy fold
Sweeps gracefully down with its trimmings of gold,
And the mirrors of silver take up and renew
In long lighted vistas the wildering view:
Go there! at the bauquet, and tind if you can,
A welcoming smile for a Moneyless Man.

Go, look in yon church of the cloud-reaching spire,
Which gives to the sun his same look of red fire,
Where the arches and columns are gorgeous within,
And the walls seem as pure as the soul without sin;
Walk down the long aisles, see the rich and the great
In the pomp and the pride of their worldly estate;
Walk down in your patches, and find, if you can
Who opens a pew to a Moneyless Man!

Go, look in the Banks, where Mammon has told
His hundreds and thousands of silver and gold;
Where, safe from the hands of the starving and poor,
Lies pile upon pile of the glittering ore!
Walk up to their counters—ah, there yon may stay
Till your limbs grow old, till your hairs grow gray,
And you'll tind at the Banks not one of the clan
With money to lend to the Moneyless Man.

Go, look to yon Judge, in his dark flowing gown,
With the scales wherein law weigheth equity down;
Where he frowns on the weak and smiles on the strong,
And punishes right whilst he justifies wrong;
Where juries their lips to the Bible have laid,
To render a verdict they've already made:
Go there, in the court-room, and find, if you can,
Any law for the cause of a Moneyless Man.

Then go to your hovel—no raven has fed

The wife who has suffered too long for her bread;

Kneel down by her pallet, and kiss the death-frost

From the lips of the angel your poverty lost,

Then turn in your agony upward to God,

And bless, while it smites you, the chastening rod,

And you'll find, at the end of your life's little span,

There's a welcome above for a Moneyless Man.

Henry T. Stanton.

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I In minds made better by their presence; live
y 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 for ever.

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.

Marian Evans Lewes Cross (George Eliot).

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