The elm's vast shadow far and cool And panting horses felt the air Spread every branch and root, I often think if blessed eyes The old home scenes can see, THE TREES AND THE MASTER. * Into the woods my Master came- But the olives they were not blind to Him; When into the woods He came. Out of the woods my Master went- Out of the woods my Master came- When Death and Shame would woo Him last, From under the trees they drew Him last, 'Twas on a tree they slew Him last, WAITING TO GROW. Little white snowdrop, just waking up, And think what hosts of queer little seeds- Think of the roots getting ready to sprout, *From Poems of Sidney Lanier, copyright 1884, 1891, by Mary D. Lanier, published by Charles Scribner's Sons Only a month or a few weeks more, Nothing so small, or hidden so well, That God will not find it, and very soon tell ORCHARD BLOSSOMS. Doth thy heart stir within thee at the sight Of orchard blooms upon the mossy bough? Doth their sweet household smile waft back the glow Of childhood's morn-the wondering, fresh delight In earth's new coloring, then all strangely bright, A joy of fairyland? Doth some old nook, Haunted by visions of thy first-loved book, Rise on thy soul, with faint-streaked blossoms white Showered o'er the turf, and the lone primrose knot, And robin's nest, still faithful to the spot, And the bee's dreary chime? O gentle friend! The world's cold breath, not time's, this life bereaves Of vernal gifts: Time hallows what he leaves, And will for us endear spring memories to the end. THE USE OF flowers. God might have made the earth bring forth The oak tree and the cedar tree, He might have made enough, enough, For luxury, medicine and toil And yet have made no flowers. The ore within the mountain mine, Nor doth it need the lotus flower To make the river flow. The clouds might give abundant rain, The nightly dews might fall, And the herb that keepeth life in man Might yet have drunk them all. Then wherefore, wherefore were they made, All dyed with rainbow light; All fashioned with supremest grace, Upspringing day and night? Springing in valleys green and low, Our outward life requires them not- To comfort man-to whisper hope, IN PRAISE OF TREES. And forth they passe, with pleasure forward led, The Laurell, meed of mightie conquerors The carver Holme; the Maple seldom inward sound. TONGUES IN TREES. Now, my co-mates and brothers in exile, Faerie Queen. Hath not old custom made this life more sweet Than that of painted pomp? Are not these woods Here feel we but the penalty of Adam, Which, when it bites and blows upon my body, 66 64 And this our life, exempt from public haunt, I would not change it. APRIL TIME. April is here! "As You Like It." There's a song in the maple, thrilling and new; There are stars in the meadow dropped here and there; There's a dash of rain, as if flung in jest; FALL FASHIONS. The maple owned that she was tired of always wearing green, 133.-THE VICTIM. ANONYMOUS. "Hand me the bowl, ye jovial band," He looked around, he blushed, he laughed, In it he read "who drinks this draught, He started up, like one from sleep, He gazed, and saw-his children weep, In his deep dream he had not felt He grasped the bowl, to seek relief; Through haunts of horror and of strife, 134.-REGULUS TO THE ROMAN SENATE. EPES SARGENT. Ill does it become me, O Senators of Rome !-ill does it become Regulus,—after having so often stood in this venerable assembly, clothed with the supreme dignity of the Republic, to stand before you a captive, the captive of Carthage! Though outwardly I am free,-though no fetters encumber the limbs, or gall the flesh,-yet the heaviest of chains, the pledge of a Roman Consul,-makes me the bondsman of the Carthaginians. They have my promise to return to them in the event of the failure of this their embassy. My life is at their mercy. My honor is my own ;-a possession which no reverse of fortune can jeopard; a flame which imprisonment cannot stifle, time cannot dim, death cannot extinguish. Of the train of disasters which followed close on the unexampled successes of our arms,-of the bitter fate which swept off the flower of our soldiery, and consigned me, your General, wounded and senseless, to Carthaginian keeping,-I will not speak. For five years, a rigorous captivity has been my portion. For five years, the society of family and friends, the dear amenities of home, the sense of freedom, and the sight of country, have been to me a recollection and a dream,—no more! But during that period Rome has retrieved her defeats. She has recovered under Metellus what under Regulus she lost. She has routed armies. She has taken unnumbered prisoners. |