Ask for more than He has done? Stretched as now beneath the sun? How they pale, Ancient myth and song and tale, In this wonder of our days, When the cruel rod of war Blossoms white with righteous law, And the wrath of man is praise! Blotted out! All within and all about Shall a fresher life begin; Freer breathe the universe As it rolls its heavy curse On the dead and buried sin ! It is done! In the circuit of the sun Ring and swing, Bells of joy! On morning's wing Send the song of praise abroad! With a sound of broken chains Tell the nations that He reigns Who alone is Lord and God! OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. [Born in 1809. A Physician, and Professor of Anatomy in Harvard University. Well known as author of The Autocrat of the Breakfast-table and other prose writings, as well as of poems,— humorous, critical, or occasional, for the most part]. THE PHILOSOPHER TO HIS LOVE. DEAREST, a look is but a ray The How few that love us have we found! But Ocean coils and heaves in vain, Alas! one narrow line is drawn, Oh! in the hour when I shall feel THE LAST READER. I SOMETIMES sit beneath a tree, And read my own sweet songs; Though nought they may to others be, Each humble line prolongs A tone that might have passed away I keep them like a lock or leaf That some dear girl has given; Frail record of an hour as brief As sunset-clouds in heaven, But spreading purple twilight still High over memory's shadowed hill. They lie upon my pathway bleak, Those flowers that once ran wild, What care I though the dust is spread Around these yellow leaves, Or o'er them his sarcastic thread Oblivion's insect weaves? Though weeds are tangled on the stream, And therefore love I such as smile Nor deem that flattery's needless wile My opening bosom wrongs; It may be that my scanty ore Long years have washed away, And where were golden sands before, Is nought but common clay; Still something sparkles in the sun For memory to look back upon. And when my name no more is heard, My lyre no more is known, Still let me, like a winter's bird, Fold over them the weary wing Once flashing through the dews of spring. Yes, let my fancy fondly wrap And riot in the rosy lap Of thoughts that once were mine,— And give the worm my little store STANZAS. STRANGE that one lightly-whispered tone But, lady, when thy voice I greet, I look upon the fair blue skies, And nought but empty air I see; But, when I turn me to thine eyes, Ten thousand angels spread their wings The lily hath the softest leaf That ever western breeze hath fanned, But thou shalt have the tender flower, That little hand to me doth yield O lady! there be many things That seem right fair, below, above; ALBERT PIKE. [Born in 1809.1 Beginning as a school-teacher, he made a wandering journey about the United States; became a journalist; and ultimately a barrister. A volume of Hymns to the Gods, written at an early period, is one of his most noted poetical works]. TO SOMNUS. O THOU the leaden-eyed! with drooping lid 1 An American friend whom I have consulted in various matters connected with this book believes (without however vouching for it as a certainty) that Mr. Pike was a General in the Confederate army during the Civil War, and was killed in the course of that struggle. |