A DEATH-BED

ER suffering ended with the day,

HR

Yet lived she at its close;

And breathed the long, long night away
In statue-like repose.

But when the sun, in all his state,

Illumed the eastern skies,

She passed through Glory's morning gate,

And walked in Paradise!

JAMES ALDRICH.

ON A QUIET LIFE

MALL fields are mine; a small and guiltless rent:

In both I prize the quiet of content.

My mind maintains its peace, from feverish dread
Secure, and fear of crimes that sloth has bred.
Others let toilsome camps or curule chairs
Invite, and joys which vain ambition shares.
May I, my lot among the people thrown,
Live to myself, and call my time my own!

Translation of Charles Abraham Elton.

AVIENUS.

THE BLUE AND THE GRAY

Y THE flow of the inland river,

BY

Whence the fleets of iron have fled,
Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver,

Asleep are the ranks of the dead; -
Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the Judgment Day:
Under the one, the Blue;

Under the other, the Gray.

These in the robings of glory,
Those in the gloom of defeat,
All with the battle-blood gory,
In the dusk of eternity meet; -
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the Judgment Day:
Under the laurel, the Blue;

Under the willow, the Gray.

From the silence of sorrowful hours

The desolate mourners go,
Lovingly laden with flowers

Alike for the friend and the foe;-
Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the Judgment Day:
Under the roses, the Blue;

Under the lilies, the Gray.

So with an equal splendor

The morning sun-rays fall,

With a touch impartially tender,

On the blossoms blooming for all;
Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the Judgment Day:
'Broidered with gold, the Blue;
Mellowed with gold, the Gray.

So, when the summer calleth,
On forest and field of grain
With an equal murmur falleth
The cooling drip of the rain;-
Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the Judgment Day:
Wet with the rain, the Blue;
Wet with the rain, the Gray.

Sadly, but not with upbraiding,

The generous deed was done;

In the storm of the years that are fading,
No braver battle was won;-

Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the Judgment Day:
Under the blossoms, the Blue;
Under the garlands, the Gray.

No more shall the war-cry sever,
Or the winding rivers be red;

They banish our anger forever

When they laurel the graves of our dead!
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the Judgment Day:
Love and tears for the Blue;
Tears and love for the Gray.

FRANCIS MILES FINCH.

γου

ABRAHAM LINCOLN

THE ATONEMENT OF MR. PUNCH

Du lay a wreath on murdered Lincoln's bier:
You, who with mocking pencil wont to trace,
Broad for the self-complaisant British sneer,

His length of shambling limb, his furrowed face,

His gaunt, gnarled hands, his unkempt bristling hair,
His garb uncouth, his bearing ill at ease,

His lack of all we prize as debonair,

Of power or will to shine, or art to please;

You, whose smart pen backed up the pencil's laugh,
Judging each step as though the way were plain;
Reckless, so it could point its paragraph,

Of chief's perplexity or people's pain,

Beside this corpse, that bears for winding-sheet
The Stars and Stripes he lived to rear anew,
Between the mourners at his head and feet,
Say, scurrile jester, is there room for you?
Yes: he had lived to shame me from my sneer,
To lame my pencil and confute my pen;
To make me own this hind of princes peer,
This rail-splitter a true-born king of men.

My shallow judgment I had learned to rue,
Noting how to occasion's height he rose;
How his quaint wit made home-truth seem more true;
How, iron-like, his temper grew by blows;

How humble, yet how hopeful he could be;
How in good fortune and in ill the same:
Nor bitter in success, nor boastful he,

Thirsty for gold, nor feverish for fame.

He went about his work,- such work as few

Ever had laid on head and heart and hand,

As one who knows, where there's a task to do,

Man's honest will must Heaven's good grace command;

Who trusts the strength will with the burden grow,
That God makes instruments to work his will,

If but that will we can arrive to know,

Nor tamper with the weights of good and ill.

XXVIII-1023

So he went forth to battle, on the side

That he felt clear was Liberty's and Right's,

As in his pleasant boyhood he had plied

His warfare with rude Nature's thwarting mights:

The uncleared forest, the unbroken soil,

The iron bark that turns the lumberer's axe, The rapid that o'erbears the boatman's toil,

The prairie hiding the mazed wanderer's tracks,

The ambushed Indian, and the prowling bear,-
Such were the deeds that helped his youth to train;
Rough culture, but such trees large fruit may bear,
If but their stocks be of right girth and grain.

So he grew up, a destined work to do,

And lived to do it: four long-suffering years' Ill fate, ill feeling, ill report lived through;

And then he heard the hisses change to cheers,

The taunts to tribute, the abuse to praise,

And took both with the same unwavering mood,— Till, as he came on light, from darkling days,

And seemed to touch the goal from where he stood,

A felon hand, between the goal and him,

Reached from behind his back, a trigger prest, And those perplexed and patient eyes were dim, Those gaunt, long-laboring limbs were laid to rest.

The words of mercy were upon his lips,

Forgiveness in his heart and on his pen,
When this vile murderer brought swift eclipse

To thoughts of peace on earth, good-will to men.
The Old World and the New, from sea to sea,
Utter one voice of sympathy and shame.
Sore heart, so stopped when it at last beat free!
Sad life, cut short just as its triumph came!

A deed accursed! Strokes have been struck before
By the assassin's hand, whereof men doubt
If more of horror or disgrace they bore!

But thy foul crime, like Cain's, stands darkly out,

Vile hand, that brandest murder on a strife,
Whate'er its grounds, stoutly and nobly striven,
And with the martyr's crown crownest a life
With much to praise, little to be forgiven.

TOM TAYLOR.

A MIRROR

HOU art a mountain stately and serene,
Rising majestic o'er each earthly thing,
And I a lake that round thy feet do cling,
Kissing thy garment's hem, unknown, unseen.

I tremble when the tempests darkly screen

Thy face from mine. I smile when sunbeams fling Their bright arms round thee. When the blue heavens lean Upon thy breast, I thrill with bliss, O King!

Thou canst not stoop,- we are too far apart;

I may not climb to reach thy mighty heart:

Low at thy feet I am content to be.

But wouldst thou know how great indeed thou art,
Bend thy proud head, my mountain love, and see

How all thy glories shine again in me!

SUSAN MARR SPALDING.

THE DAY AFTER THE BETROTHAL

HAT troubleth thee, Sweetheart?

"WHAT

For thine eyes are filled with tears.".

I have dwelt in Arcadia, Love,

So many, many years!

"Is Arcadia fair, Sweetheart?

When I called, wert thou loth to go?" –

Nay, ask me not that, I pray,

For truly I do not know.

"Is Arcadia dear, Sweetheart,

That thine eyes are so heavy and wet?” —

Dear? O Love, how dear

I may not tell thee yet!

"Wouldst fain go back, Sweetheart?
It's only a step to take."—

No, no! not back! but hold me close,

For my heart is like to break.

Not for Arcadia lost

Ah, Love, have I not thee?

But oh, the scent of those wind-swept hills

And the salt breath of that sea!

EVA L. OGDEN LAMBERT.