That drenched the leaves that loved it so JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY. ALONE BY THE HEARTH HERE, in my snug little fire-lit chamber, And, as I gaze in the coals, I remember Saddening it is when the night has descended, Pensively musing on episodes ended Still in my visions a golden-hair'd glory Flits to and fro; She whom I loved Dead, long ago. but 't is just the old story: "T is but a wraith of love; yet I linger Foolishly kissing the ring on my finger — Nothing has changed since her spirit departed, Save I, who, weary, and half broken-hearted, Loud 'gainst the window the winter rain dashes, Over the floor the red fire-light flashes, Just as of old. Just as of old - but the embers are scatter'd, Flash'd o'er the floor where the fairy feet patter'd Then, her dear voice, like a silver chime ringing, Often these walls have re-echo'd her singing, Now hush'd for aye! Why should love bring nought but sorrow, I wonder? Time and death, sooner or later, must sunder Holiest ties. Years have roll'd by; I am wiser and older Not till my heart and its feelings grow colder, So, in my snug little fire-lit chamber, Sit I alone; And, as I gaze in the coals, I remember Days long agone! GEORGE ARNOLD. THE WISTFUL DAYS WHAT is there wanting in the Spring? What is wanting in the Spring? What is so poignant in thy thrall Let Youth go dally with the Spring, Call her the dear, the fair, the young; Let him, once more rehearsing, sing. We have not truly known the Spring. ROBERT UNDERWOOD JOHNSON. AT BEST THE faithful helm commands the keel, So, man to man; in fair accord, On thought and will the winds may wait; At best will bended be; The ship that holds the straightest course JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY SHELLEY Aн, did you once see Shelley plain, My starting moves your laughter! I cross'd a moor, with a name of its own 'Mid the blank miles round about : ROBERT BROWNING. BUGLE SONG THE splendor falls on castle walls And the wild cataract leaps in glory. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, O, hark! O, hear! how thin and clear, O, sweet and far from cliff and scar They faint on hill, or field, or river; And grow forever and forever. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, EGYPTIAN SERENADE SING again the song you sung (The Princess). Sing the song, and o'er and o'er, GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS. CHIMNEY SWALLOWS I SLEPT in an old homestead by the sea: And in their chimney nest, At night the swallows told home-lore to me, A liquid twitter, low, confiding, glad, Was all the voice; and yet its accents had A poem's golden notes. Quaint legends of the fireside and the shore, And sounds of festal cheer, And tones of those whose tasks of love are o'er, And wondrous lyrics, felt but never sung, And histories, whose perfumes long have clung I heard the dream of lovers, as they found At last their hour of bliss, And fear and pain and long suspense were drown'd I heard the lullaby of babes, that grew And childhood's angels, singing as they flew, I heard the voyagers who seem'd to sail And sad, weird voices in the autumn gale, And sighs suppress'd and converse soft and low And what is utter'd when the stricken know And steps of those who, in the Sabbath light, And hot lips pressing, through the long, dark night, And fervent greetings of old friends, whose path But to each other brought life's aftermath, With uncorroded heart. The music of the seasons touch'd the strain, The orchard's bounty and the yellow grain, And secrets of the soul that doubts and And gropes in regions dim, yearns Till, meeting Christ with raptured eye, discerns Its perfect life in Him. So, thinking of the Master and his tears, I sank in arms that folded me from fears, HORATIO NELSON POWERS. THE WANDERER * UPON a mountain height, far from the sea, And to my listening ear this lonely thing Ever a song of ocean seemed to sing, Ever a tale of ocean seem'd to tell. How came this shell upon the mountain height ? Ah, who can say *From "A Little Book of Western Verse "; copyright, 1889, by Eugene Field; published by Charles Scribner's Sons. |