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THE NIGHT PIECE.

HER eyes the glow-worme lend thee,
The shooting-starres attend thee;
And the elves also,

Whose little eyes glow

Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee.

No Will-o'-th'-Wispe mislight thee,
Nor snake nor slow-worme bite thee;
But on thy way,

Not making stay,

Since ghost there's none t' affright thee.

Let not the darke thee cumber;

What though the moon does slumber?

The stars of the night

Will lend thee their light,

Like tapers cleare, without number.

Then, Julia, let me woo thee,

Thus, thus to come unto me;
And when I shall meet

Thy silvery feet,

My soule I'll pour into thee!

ROBERT HERRICK.

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POOR lone Hannah,

Sitting at the window, binding shoes!
Faded, wrinkled,

Sitting, stitching, in a mournful muse!

Bright-eyed beauty once was she,
When the bloom was on the tree.
Spring and Winter

Hannah's at the window, binding shoes.

HANNAH BINDING SHOES.

Not a neighbor

Passing nod or answer will refuse
To her whisper:

"Is there from the fishers any news?"
O, her heart's adrift with one
On an endless voyage gone!

Night and morning

Hannah's at the window, binding shoes.

Fair young Hannah,

Ben, the sun-burnt fisher, gayly woos;
Hale and clever,

For a willing heart and hand he sues.
May-day skies are all a-glow,
And the waves are laughing so!
For her wedding

Hannah leaves her window and her shoes.

May is passing;

'Mid the apple-boughs a pigeon coos. Hannah shudders;

For the mild southwester mischief brews.
Round the rocks of Marblehead,

Outward bound, a schooner sped.
Silent, lonesome,

Hannah's at the window, binding shoes.

'Tis November;

Now no tear her wasted cheek bedews.
From Newfoundland

Not a sail returning will she lose;

THE LIVING LOST.

Whispering, hoarsely, "Fishermen,
Have you, have you heard of Ben?"
Old with watching,

Hannah's at the window, binding shoes.

Twenty Winters

Bleach and tear the ragged shore she views:
Twenty seasons;

Never one has brought her any news.
Still her dim eyes silently

Chase the white sails o'er the sea.
Hopeless, faithful,

Hannah's at the window, binding shoes.

LUCY LARCOM.

THE LIVING LOST.

MATRON, the children of whose love,

Each to his grave, in youth have passed,
And now the mould is heaped above
The dearest and the last!

Bride, who dost wear the widow's veil
Before the wedding flowers are pale!
Ye deem the human heart endures
No deeper, bitterer grief than yours.

Yet there are pangs of keener woe,
Of which the sufferers never speak,

THE NEW YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY

ASTOP, LENOX

TILDIN FOUNDATIONS

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