And yet, with wistful eyes that never meet, With groping hands that never clasp, and lips Calling in vain to ears that never hear, They seek each other all their weary days, And die unsatisfied-and this is Fate! -Susan Mary Spalding. THE FRINGED GENTIAN T light HOU blossom bright with autumn dew, And colored with heaven's own blue, That openest when the quiet Succeeds the keen and frosty night. Thou comest not when violets lean O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen, Or columbines, in purple dressed, Thou waitest late and com'st alone, When woods are bare and birds are flown, And frosts and shortening days portend The aged year is near his end. Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye I would that thus, when I shall see William Cullen Bryant. THE CHILD MUSICIAN H heavy, E had played for his lordship's lévée, He had played for her ladyship's whim, Till the poor little head was And the poor little brain would swim. And the face grew peaked and eerie, And the large eyes strange and bright, And they said-too late-"He is weary! He shall rest for at least to-night!" But at dawn, when the birds were waking, As they watched in the silent room, With the sound of a strained cord breaking, A something snapped in the gloom. 'Twas a string of his violoncello, And they heard him stir in his bed: "Make room for a tired little fellow, Kind God!" was the last that he said. -Austin Dobson, THE HUMAN TIE "As if life were not sacred, too."-George Eliot. "S PEAK tenderly! For he is dead," we say; "With gracious hand And fullest measure of reward fore cast, Forgetting naught that gloried his brief day." Yet of the brother, who, along our way, the strife, Totters before us-how we search his life, Censure and sternly punish while we may. 1 |