IN SEPTEMBER. THIS windy, bright September afternoon Keeps swelling and subsiding; till there seems O'er all the world of valleys, hills, and streams, Only the wind's inexplicable tune. My heart is full of dreams, yet wide awake. Of tall elms, pale against the vaulted blue; But even now some yellowing branches shake, Some hue of death the living green endows:If beauty flies, fain would I vanish too. A BREATHING TIME. HERE is a breathing time, and rest for a little season. Here have I drained deep draughts out of the springs of life. Here, as of old, while still unacquainted with toil and faintness, Stretched are my veins with strength, fearless my heart and at peace. I have come back from the crowd, the blinding strife and the tumult, Pain, and the shadow of pain, sorrow in silence endured; Fighting, at last I have fallen, and sought the breast of the Mother, Quite cast down I have crept close to the broad sweet earth. Lo, out of failure triumph! Renewed the wavering courage, Tense the unstrung nerves, steadfast the faltering knees! Weary no more, nor faint, nor grieved at heart, nor despairing, Hushed in the earth's green lap, lulled to slumber and dreams! O Child of Nations, giant-limbed, The trust in greatness not thine own? To front the world alone! Achieve thy destiny, seize thy fame — These are thy manhood's heritage! steep, Oh, might some patriot rise the gloom dispel, RIPE GRAIN. (Published at the age of twelve.) O STILL, white face of perfect peace, O noble face! your beauty bears of finished work, of ripened grain. Of human care you left no trace, No lightest trace of grief or pain,On earth an empty form and faceIn Heaven stands the ripened grain. DORA READ GOODALE, FROM HENRY KIRKE WHITE. FRAGMENT. (Written at the age of fourteen.) HARK! the owlet flaps his wings In the pathless dell beneath! Hark! 'tis the night-raven sings Tidings of approaching death! PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. FROM THE EMBARGO. (Written at the age of thirteen.) E'EN while I sing, see Faction urge her claim, Misled with falsehood and with zeal inflame; Lift her black banner, spread her empire wide, And stalk triumphant with a Fury's stride! She blows her brazen trump, and at the sound A motley throng, obedient, flock around; A mist of changing hue around she flings, And Darkness perches on her dragon wings! THE ECHO. "CONSTANTIA AND PHILETUS.” (Written at the age of twelve.) "OH! what hath caused my killing miseries?" "EYES," Echo said. What hath detained my ease?" SOMEBODY'S MOTHER. THE woman was old and ragged and gray, At the crowded crossing she waited long, None offered a helping hand to her, Lest the carriage wheels or the horses' feet He stands at ilka door, an' he keeks wi' wistful' e'e, To see the crowd aroun' the fire a' laughin' loud wi' glee, But he daurna venture ben, though his heart be e'er sae fain, For he maunna play wi' ither bairns, the drunkard's raggit wean. Oh, see the wee bit bairnie, his heart is unco' fou, The sleet is blawin' cauld, and he's droukit through and through, He's peerin' for his mither, an' he wun'ers whaur she's gane, But oh! his mither she forgets her puir wee raggit wean. He ken's nae faither's love, an' he kens nae mither's care, To sooth his wee bit sorrows, or kame his tautit hair, To kiss him when he waukens, or smooth his bed at e'en, An' oh! he fears his faither's face, the drunkard's raggit wean. Oh pity the wee laddie, sae guileless an' sae young, The oath that lea's the faither's lip 'll settle on his tongue; An' sinfu' words his mither speaks his infant lips 'll stain, For oh! there's nane to guide the bairn, the drunkard's raggit wean. Then surely we micht try an' turn that sinfu' mither's heart, An' try to get his faither to act a faither's part, taste again, An' cherish wi' a parent's care, their puir wee raggit wean. JAMES P. CRAWFORD, WHAT I LIVE FOR. I LIVE for those who love me, For all human ties that bind me, I live to learn their story To emulate their glory, And follow in their wake: |