YET

ET grieve thou not, nor think thy youth is gone, Nor dream that glorious season e'er could die, Thy pleasant youth, a little while withdrawn, Waits on the horizon of a brighter sky; Waits like the morn that folds her wings, and hides Till the slow stars bring back her dawning hour; Waits like the vanished spring, that slumbering bides, Bides her own sweet time to awaken bud and flower.

There shall he welcome thee, when thou shalt stand
On his bright morning hills, with smiles more sweet
Than when at first he took thee by the hand,
Through the fair earth to lead thy tender feet.

He shall bring back, but brighter, broader still,
Life's early glory to thine eyes again,

Shall clothe thy spirit with new strength, and fill
Thy leaping heart with warmer love than then.
Hast thou not glimpses in the twilight here,

Of mountains where immortal morn prevails; Comes there not through the silence to thine ear A gentle rustling of the morning gales;

A murmur wafted from that glorious shore
Of streams that water banks forever fair,
And voices of the loved ones gone before,
More musical in that celestial air?

-William Cullen Bryant.

U

NWARMED by any sunset light
The gray day darkened into night,
A night made hoary with the swarm,
And whirl-dance of the blinding storm,
As zigzag wavering to and fro

Crossed and recrossed the winged snow;
And ere the early bedtime came
The white drift piled the window frame,
And through the glass the clothes-line posts
Looked in like tall and sheeted ghosts.

Meanwhile we did our nightly chores-
Brought in the wood from out of doors,
Littered the stalls, and from the mows
Raked down the herd's grass, for the cows;
Heard the horse whinnying for his corn;
And, sharply clashing horn on horn,
Impatient down the stanchion rows
The cattle shake their walnut bows.
While peering from his early perch
Upon the scaffold's pole of birch,
The cock his crested helmet bent
And down his querulous challenge sent.

We piled, with care, our nightly stack
Of wood against the chimney back-
The oaken log, green, huge and thick,
And on its top the stout back stick;
The knotty fore-stick laid apart,

And filled between with curious art
The ragged brush; then, hovering near,
We watched the first red blaze appear,
Heard the sharp crackle, caught the gleam
On whitewashed wall and sagging beam,
Until the old, rude-furnished room
Burst, flower-like, into rosy bloom,
While radiant with a mimic flame
Outside the sparkling drift became,
And through the bare-boughed lilac tree
Our own warm hearth seemed blazing free.

Shut in from all the world without,
We sat the clean-winged hearth about,
Content to let the north wind roar
In baffled rage at pane and door,
While the red logs before us beat
The frost-line back with tropic heat;

And ever, when a louder blast

Shook beam and rafter as it passed,
The merrier up its roaring draught
The great throat of the chimney laughed,
The house dog on his paws outspread
Laid to the fire his drowsy head;
The cat's dark silhouette on the wall
A couchant tiger's seemed to fall;
And, for the winter fireside meet,
Between the andirons' straddling feet,
The mug of cider simmered slow.
The apples sputtered in a row,
And close at hand the basket stood,
With nuts from brown October's wood.

What matter how the night behaved?
What matter how the north wind raved?
Blow high, blow low, not all its snow
Could quench our hearth-fire's ruddy glow.
We sped the time with stories old,
Wrought puzzles out, and riddles told,
Or stammered from our school book lore
The Chief of Gambia's golden shore.

Our uncle, innocent of books,

Was rich in lore of fields and brooks,
The ancient teachers never dumb
Of Nature's unhoused lyceum.
In moons and tides and weather wise,
He read the clouds as prophecies,
And foul or fair could well divine,
By many an occult hint and sign,
Holding the cunning warded keys
To all the woodcraft mysteries;
Himself to Nature's heart so near
That all her voices in his ear
Of beast or bird, had meanings clear.

A simple, guileless, childlike man,
Content to live where life began;
Strong only on his native grounds,
The little world of sights and sounds
Whose girdle was the parish bounds,
Whereof his fondly partial pride
The common features magnified,
He told how teal and loon he shot,
And how the eagle's eggs he got,
The feats on pond and river done,
The prodigies of rod and gun;

Till, warming with the tales he told,
Forgotten was the outside cold,
The bitter wind unheeded blew,

From ripening corn the pigeons flew,
The partridge drummed in wood, the mink
Went fishing down the river brink.
In fields with bean or clover gay,
The woodchuck, like a hermit gray,
Peered from the doorway of his cell;
The muskrat plied the mason's trade,
And tier by tier his mud walls laid,
And from the shagbark overhead
The grizzled squirrel dropped his shell.

At last the great logs, crumbling low,
Sent out a dull and duller glow,
The bull's eye watch that hung in view,
Ticking its weary circuit through,
Pointed with mutely warning sign
Its black hand to the hour of nine.
That sign the pleasant circle broke:
My uncle ceased his pipe to smoke,
Knocked from its bowl the refuse gray,
And laid it tenderly away;

Then roused himself to safely cover
The dull red brands with ashes over.

And while with care our mother laid
The work aside, her steps she stayed
One moment seeking to express
Her grateful sense of happiness

For food and shelter, warmth and health,
And love's contentment more than wealth,
With simple wishes (not the weak,
Vain prayers which no fulfillment seek,
But such as warm the generous heart,
O'er prompt to do with heaven its part)
That none might lack, that bitter night,
For bread and clothing, warmth and light.

Within our beds awhile we heard
The wind that round the gables roared,
With now and then a ruder shock,
Which made our very bedsteads rock.
We heard the loosened clapboards tost,
The board-nails snapping in the frost;
And on us, through the unplastered wall,
Felt the light sifted snowflakes fall
But sleep stole on, as sleep will do
When hearts are light, and life is new;
Faint and more faint the murmurs grew;
Till in the summer land of dreams
They softened to the sound of streams,
Low stir of leaves, and dip of oars,
And lapsing waves on quiet shores.

-John Greenleaf Whittier.

It was this incident which inspired the following poem:

THE

HE sun had dropped into the distant west,
The cannons ceased to roar, which tell of rest,
Rest from the shedding of a nation's blood,
Rest to lay their comrades 'neath the sod.

'Twas early spring, and calm and still the night,
The moon had risen, casting softest light;
On either side of stream the armies lay,
Waiting for morn, to then renew the fray.

So near together a sound was heard by all
Each could hear the other's sentry-call,
The bivouac fires burned brightly on each hill,
And save the tramp of pickets, all was still.

The Rappahannock silently flows on
Between the hills so fair to look upon,
Whose dancing waters, tinged with silver light,
Vie in their beauty with the starry night.

But list! from Northern hill there steal along,
The softest strains of music and of song,
The "Starry Banner," our nation's glorious air,
Which tells to all of gallant flag "still there."
Then "Hail Columbia," a thousand voices sing
With all their soul, which makes the hill-tops ring,
From fire to fire, from tent to tent then flew,
The welcome words, "Lads, sing the 'Boys in Blue."

And well they sang. Each heart was filled with joy,
From first in rank to little drummer boy;
Then loud huzzas, and wildest cheers were given,
Which seemed to cleave the air and reach to heaven.

The lusty cheering reached the Southern ear-
Men who courted danger, knew no fear,
Whilst talking o'er their scanty evening meal,
And each did grasp his trusty blade of steel.

Those very strains of music which of yore

Did raise the blood, are felt by them no more. [jeer, How changed! What now they scorn and taunt and Was once to them as sacred, just as dear;

And when the faintest echo seemed to die,
The last huzza been wafted to the sky,
The boys in blue had lain them down to rest,
With gun and bayonet closely hugged to breast.
There came from Southern hill with gentle swell,
The air of "Dixie," which was loved so well
By every one who wore the coat of gray,
And still revered and cherished to this day.

In "Dixie's land," they swore to live and die,
That was their watchword, that their battle cry,
Then rose on high the wild Confederate yell,
Resounding over every hill and dell;

Cheer after cheer went up that starry night
From men as brave as ever saw the light!
Now all is still. Each side has played its part,
How simple songs will fire a soldier's heart!

But hark! from Rappahannock's stream there floats
Another air; but ah! how sweet the notes-
Not those which lash men's passions into foam,
But, richest gem of song, 'twas "Home, Sweet Home."

Played by the band, which reached the very soul,
And down the veteran's cheeks the tear-drop stole,
Men who would march to very cannon's mouth,
Wept like children, from both North and South.

Beneath those well worn coats of gray and blue,
Were generous tender hearts, both brave and true;
The sentry stopped and rested on his gun,
While back to home his thoughts did swiftly run.

Thinking of loving wife and children there,
With no one left to guide them, none to care.
Stripling lads not strong enough to bear
The weight of sabre, or the knapsack wear,
Tried to stop with foolish boyish pride
The starting tear; as well try stop the tide
Of ceaseless rolling ocean, just as well,
As stop those tears which fast and faster fell.

MY

Y business on the jury's done-the quibblin' all is through

I've watched the lawyers, right and left, and give my verdict true;

I stuck so long unto my chair, I thought I would grow in;

And if I do not know myself, they'll get me there again. But now the court's adjourned for good, and I have got my pay;

I'm loose at last, and thank the Lord, I'm goin' home to-day.

I've somehow felt uneasy like since first day I come down;

It's an awkward game to play the gentleman in town; And this 'ere Sunday suit of mime, on Sunday rightly

sets,

But when I wear the stuff a week, it somehow galls and frets;

I'd rather wear my homespun rig of pepper-salt and gray

I'll have it on in half a jiff, when I get home to-day.

I have no doubt my wife looked out, as well as any one, As well as any woman could-to see that things were done:

For though Melinda, when I'm there, wont set her foot out doors,

She's very careful when I'm gone, to 'tend to all the chores.

But nothing prospers half so well when I go off to stay,

And I will put things into shape, when I get home today.

The mornin' that I come away, we had a little bout;
I coolly took my hat and left, before the show was out;
For what I said was naught whereat she ought to take
offense;

And she was always quick at words, and ready to com

mence

But then, she's first one to give up when she has had her say;

And she will meet me with a kiss, when I go home today.

My little boy-I'll give 'em leave to match him, if they

can;

It's fun to see him strut about, and try to be a man! The gamest, cheeriest little chap you'd ever want to see! [bles me. And then they laugh because I think the child resemThe little rogue! he goes for me like robbers for their prey. [day. He'll turn my pockets inside out, when I get home to