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How best to help the slender store, How mend the dwellings, of the poor;

How gain in life, as life advances, Valour and charity more and more.

All along the valley, stream that flashest

white, Deepening thy voice with the deepening

of the night, All along the valley, where thy waters


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THE CITY CHILD. Dainty little maiden, whither would you

wander? Whither from this pretty hoine, the

home where mother dwells ? • Far and far away,' said the dainty little

maiden, * All among the gardens, auriculas,

anemones, Roses and lilies and Canterbury-bells.'

WHITHER, O whither, love, shall we go,' For a score of sweet little summers or so? The sweet little wife of the singer said, On the day that follow'd the day she was

wed, Whither, () whither, love, shall we go?' And the singer shaking his curly head Turn'd as he sat, and struck the keys There at his right with a sudden crash, Singing, 'And shall it be over the seas With a crew that is neither rude nor

rash, But a bevy of Eroses apple-cheek'd, In a shallop of crystal ivory-beak’d, With a satin sail of a ruby glow, To a sweet little Eden on earth that I

know, A mountain islet pointed and peak’d? Waves on a diamond shingle dash, Cataract brooks to the ocean run, Fairily-delicate palaces shine Mixt with myrtle and clad with vine, And overstream'd and silvery-streak'd With many a rivulet high against the

Sun The facets of the glorious mountain Aash Above the valleys of palm and pine.' *Thither, O thither, love, let us go.'

Dainty little maiden, whither would you

wander? Whither from this pretty house, this

city-house of ours? • Far and far away,' said the dainty little

maiden, * All among the meadows, the clover and

the clematis, Daisies and kingcups and honeysuckle




Slept in a shell. Sleep, little ladies:

And they slept well.

'No, no, no! For in all that exquisite isle, my dear, There is but one bird with a musical


Pink was the shell within,

Silver without;

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O little bard, is your lot so hard,

If men neglect your pages? I think not much of yours or of mine,

I hear the roll of the ages.


Rhymes and rhymes in the range of the

times ! Are mine for the moment stronger? Yet hate me not, but abide your lot,

I last but a moment longer.

This faded leaf, our names are as brief;

What room is left for a hater? Yet the yellow leaf hates the greener

leaf, For it hangs one moment later.

A PLAGUE upon the people fell,

A famine after laid them low, Then thorpe and byre arose in fire,

For on them brake the sudden foe; So thick they died the people cried,

* The Gods are moved against the land: The Priest in horror about his altar To Thor and Odin lifted a hand :

'Help us from famine
And plague and strife!
What would you have of us?
Human life?
Were it our nearest,
Were it our dearest,
(Answer, O answer)
We give you his life.'

Greater than I - is that your cry?

And men will live to see it. Well — if it be so -- so it is, you know;

And if it be so, so be it.


Brief, brief is a summer leaf,

But this is the time of hollies.
O hollies and ivies and evergreens,

How I hate the spites and the follies !

But still the foeman spoil'd and burn'd,

And cattle died, and deer in wood, And bird in air, and fishes turn'd

And whiten'd all the rolling flood;

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The King bent low, with hand on brow,

He stay'd his arms upon his knee:
O wife, what use to answer now?

For now the Priest has judged for me.'
The King was shaken with holy fear;
“The Gods,' he said, would have chosen

Yet both are near, and both are dear,
And which the dearest I cannot tell!'

But the Priest was happy,
His victim won:
*We have his dearest,
His only son !


The Priest went out by heath and hill;

The King was hunting in the wild;
They found the mother sitting still;

She cast her arms about the child.
The child was only eight summers old,
His beauty still with his years in-

His face was ruddy, his hair was gold,
He seem'd a victim due to the priest.

The Priest beheld him,
And cried with joy,
• The Gods have answer'd:
We give them the boy.'

The King return'd from out the wild,

He bore but little game in hand;
The mother said, “They have taken the

To spill his blood and heal the land:
The land is sick, the people diseased,
And blight and famine on all the

The holy Gods, they must be appeased,

So I pray you tell the truth to me.

The rites prepared, the victim bared,

The knife uprising toward the blow
To the altar-stone she sprang alone,

Me, not my darling, no!'
He caught her away with a sudden cry;

Suddenly from him brake his wife,
And shrieking · I am his dearest, I –
I am his dearest!' rush'd on the

And the Priest was happy,

O, Father Odin,
We give you a life.
Which was his nearest?
Who was his dearest?
The Gods have answer'd;
We give them the wife!'



GLORY of warrior, glory of orator, glory of song,

Paid with a voice flying by to be lost on an endless sea
Glory of Virtue, to fight, to struggle, to right the wrong-

Nay, but she aim'd not at glory, no lover of glory she:
Give her the glory of going on, and still to be.

The wages of sin is death: if the wages of Virtue be dust,

Would she have heart to endure for the life of the worm and the fly?
She desires no isles of the blest, no quiet seats of the just,

To rest in a golden grove, or to bask in a summer sky:
Give her the wages of going on, and not to die.

of isolation,

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