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PART I

By the Fireside

By the fireside there are old men seated,
Seeing ruined cities in the ashes,

Asking sadly

Of the Past what it can ne'er restore them.

By the fireside there are youthful dreamers,
Building castles fair with stately stairways,
Asking blindly

Of the Future what it cannot give them.

By the fireside tragedies are acted
In whose scenes appear two actors only,
Wife and husband,

And above them God the sole spectator.

By the fireside there are peace and comfort, Wives and children, with fair thoughtful faces, Waiting, watching,

For a well-known footstep in the passage.

GOLDEN POEMS

PART I

BY THE FIRESIDE

LIKE A LAVEROCK IN THE LIFT

It's we two, it's we two, it's we two for aye,
All the world and we two, and Heaven be our stay.
Like a laverock in the lift, sing, O bonny bride!
All the world was Adam once, with Eve by his side.

What's the world, my lass, my love! — what can it do?
I am thine, and thou art mine; life is sweet and new.
If the world have missed the mark, let it stand by;
For we two have gotten leave, and once more we 'll try.

Like a laverock in the lift, sing, O bonny bride!
It's we two, it's we two, happy side by side.
Take a kiss from me, thy man; now the song begins:
"All is made afresh for us, and the brave heart wins. "

When the darker days come, and no sun will shine,
Thou shalt dry my tears, lass, and I'll dry thine.
It's we two, it's we two, while the world's away,
Sitting by the golden sheaves on our wedding-day.
JEAN INGELOW.

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Only a little brain,
Empty of thought;
Only a little heart,
Troubled with nought.

Only a tender flower

Sent us to rear;
Only a life to love

While we are here;

Only a baby small,

Never at rest;

Small, but how dear to us,

God knoweth best.

MATTHIAS BARR.

CRADLE SONG

WHAT is the little one thinking about?
Very wonderful things, no doubt;
Unwritten history!

Unfathomed mystery!

Yet he laughs and cries, and eats and drinks, And chuckles, and crows, and nods, and winks, As if his head were as full of kinks

And curious riddles as any sphinx!

Warped by colic, and wet by tears,
Punctured by pins, and tortured by fears,
Our little nephew will lose two years;
And he'll never know

Where the summers go;

He need not laugh, for he 'll find it so.

Who can tell what a baby thinks?
Who can follow the gossamer links

By which the manikin feels his way
Out from the shore of the great unknown,
Blind, and wailing, and alone,

Into the light of day?

Out from the shore of the unknown sea,
Tossing in pitiful agony;

Of the unknown sea that reels and rolls,
Specked with the barks of little souls,—
Barks that were launched on the other side,
And slipped from heaven on an ebbing tide!
What does he think of his mother's eyes?
What does he think of his mother's hair?
What of the cradle-roof that flies

Forward and backward through the air?

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