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Then we kissed the little maiden,
And we spoke in better cheer,
JAMES THOMAS FIELDS.
Fling out your field of azure blue;
And point as freedom's eagle flew !
There come new words and warmer tears;
Comes home the loved, the lost for years.
Fear not to-night, or storm or sea :
He sails to shore who sails with me.
How stands the tree when lightnings blaze ;
I know my mother lives and prays.
For silence, and for sleep;
And sank to slumbers deep:
Shows how the vessel reels :
With every shock she feels ;
It almost level lies;
And yet I know, while to and fro
With restless fall and rise,
O promise of my soul!
The ship's convulsive roll,
My soul is filled with light;
Happy as if to-night
JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE.
IN THE SEA
As it blew a year ago,
The rocks of Norman's woe : 'T was dark then ; 't is light now,
And the sails are leaning low. In dreams I pull the sea-weed o'er
And find a face not his,
More pitying than this :
They take what hope there is.
With all its sweetness spilled :
Beat on, when one is stilled ?
Thy happy sparrows build.
Whatever wind may blow;
They trust again and sow :
The grief comes, the change comes,
The tides run high and low.
The summers bloom and go ; —
The bar when tides are low, And wonder how the grave-grass
Can have the heart to grow.
And keep my dead below;
But, through it all, I know,
WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE
Touch not a single bough!
And I'll protect it now.
That placed it near his cot ;
Thy axe shall harm it not !
Whose glory and renown
And wouldst thou hew it down?
Cut not its earth-bound ties;
Now towering to the skies !
I sought its grateful shade ;
Here too my sisters played.
My father pressed my hand —
But let that old oak stand !
Close as thy bark, old friend!
And still thy branches bend.
Old tree! the storm still brave!
And, woodman, leave the spot;
GEORGE P. MORRIS.
That fondly seeks this fairy shrine,
Where worth and loveliness combine,– What boots that I, a vagrant wight
From clime to clime still wandering on, Upon thy friendly page should write ?
Who’ll think of me when I am gone? Go plough the wave, and sow the sand;
Throw seed to every wind that blows • Along the highway strew thy hand,
And fatten on the crop that grows. For even thus the man that roams
On heedless hearts his feeling spends; Strange tenant of a thousand homes,
And friendless, with ten thousand friends. Yet here, for once, I 'll leave a trace,
To ask in after times a thought; To say that here a resting-place
My way-worn heart has fondly sought.
Unmoved, through many a region fair;
WAITING SERENE I fold my arms and wait,
Nor care for wind, or tide, or sea : I rave no more 'gainst time or fate,
For lo! my own shall come to me. I stay my haste, I make delays,
For what avails this eager pace ? I stand amid the eternal ways,
And what is mine shall know my face.
Asleep, awake, by night or day,
The friends I seek are seeking me; No wind can drive my bark astray,
Nor change the tide of destiny. What matter if I stand alone?
I wait with joy the coming years ; My heart shall reap where it has sown,
And garner up its fruit of tears. The waters know their own, and draw
The brook that springs in yonder height; So flows the good with equal law
Unto the soul of pure delight.
Is ready plighted to the bee;
For lo ! thy lover seeketh thee.
The tidal wave unto the sea ;
LIFE'S INCONGRUITIES GREEN grows the laurel on the bank,
Dark waves the pine upon the hill, Green hangs the lichen, cold and dank,
Dark springs the hearts-ease by the rill,
Pale is the water-lily's bloom :
And beauty hovers o'er the tomb.
Each object wears from childhood down; The evanescent — heaven's blue,
The all-enduring — sober brown; Our brightest dreams too quickly die,
And griefs are green that should be old, And joys that sparkle to the eye
Are like a tale that 's quickly told. And yet 't is but the golden mean
That checks our lives' unsteady flow; God's counterbalance thrown between,
To poise the scale 'twixt joy and woe :