His hair was all in tangled curl, Her tawny legs were bare and taper ; And still the gathering larger grew, And gave its pence and crowded nigher, While aye the shepherd-minstrel blew His pipe, and struck the gamut higher. O heart of Nature, beating still With throbs her vernal passion taught her, Even here, as on the vine-clad hill, Or by the Arethusan water! New forms may fold the speech, new lands Arise within these ocean-portals, But Music waves eternal wands, Enchantress of the souls of mortals! R. H. STODDARD. With daffodil and starling And hours of fruitful breath; And I were page to joy, If you were April's lady, And I were lord in May, We'd throw with leaves for hours, And draw for days with flowers, Till day like night were shady, And night were bright like day; If you were April's lady, And I were lord in May. If you were queen of pleasure, And I were king of pain, We'd hunt down love together, Pluck out his flying-feather, And teach his feet a measure, And find his mouth a rein; If you were queen of pleasure, And I were king of pain. R. H. STODDARD. [U. s. A.] NEVER AGAIN. THERE are gains for all our losses, We Something beautiful is vanished, EDNA DEAN PROCTOR. 289 Against the sunset lie the darkening hills, | And up the listening hills the echoes float Faint and more faint and sweetly multiplied. Mushroomed with tents, the sudden growth of war; Where mellow haze the hill's sharp outline dims, Bare elms, like sentinels, watch silently, The delicate tracery of their slender limbs Pencilled in purple on the saffron sky. Content and quietude and plenty seem Blessing the place, and sanctifying all; And hark! how pleasantly a hidden stream Sweetens the silence with its silver fall! The failing grasshopper chirps faint and shrill, The cricket calls, in massy covert hid, Cheery and loud, as stoutly answering still The soft persistence of the katydid. With dead moths tangled in its blighted bloom, The golden-rod swings lonesome on its throne, Forgot of bees; and in the thicket's gloom, The last belated peewee cries alone. The hum of voices, and the careless laugh Of cheerful talkers, fall upon the ear; The flag flaps listlessly adown its staff; And still the katydid pipes loud and near. And now from far the bugle's mellow throat Pours out, in rippling flow, its silver tide; Peace reigns; not now a soft-eyed nymph that sleeps Unvexed by dreams of strife or con queror, But Power, that, open-eyed and watchful, keeps Unwearied vigil on the brink of war. Night falls; in silence sleep the patriot bands; And the still figure of the sentry stands The tireless cricket yet repeats its tune, In black relief against the low full moon. EDNA DEAN PROCTOR. THE winds that once the Argo bore Though shaped of Pelion's tallest pines. And Priam's voice is heard no more No wail goes up as Hector falls. Mother Earth! Are thy heroes dead? Do they thrill the soul of the years no more? Are the gleaming snows and the poppies red All that is left of the brave of yore? Gone?-in a nobler form they rise; Dead? we may clasp their hands in ours, And catch the light of their glorious eyes, And wreathe their brows with immortal flowers. Wherever a noble deed is done, There are the souls of our heroes stirred; Their armor rings on a fairer field Than Greek or Trojan ever trod, Leave him to God's watching eye, Trust him to the hand that made him. Mortal love weeps idly by: God alone has power to aid him, Lay him low, lay him low, In the clover or the snow! What cares he? he cannot know: Lay him low! For Freedom's sword is the blade they LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON. wield, And the light above them the smile of God! So, in his isle of calm delight, But the heroes live, and the skies are bright, And the world is a braver world to-day. GEORGE H. BOKER. [U. s. A.] DIRGE FOR A SOLDIER, CLOSE his eyes; his work is done! Hand of man, or kiss of woman? As man may, he fought his fight, Lay him low, lay him low, Fold him in his country's stars, Roll the drum and fire the volley! What to him are all our wars, What but death-bemocking folly? Lay him low, lay him low, In the clover or the snow! What cares he? he cannot know: Lay him low! [U. s. A.] THE HOUSE IN THE MEADOW. IT stands in a sunny meadow, The trees fold their green arms round it, And the sunbeams drop their gold. The cowslips spring in the marshes, The herds go feeding at will. Within, in the wide old kitchin, Till the day is almost done. |