Creaking at the homestead window All the weary nights and days; Dismally the rain is falling, Very dismally and cold.
Close, within the village grave-yard, By a heap of freshest ground, With a simple, nameless head-stone, Lies a low and narrow mound; And the brow of Annie Clayville Is no longer shadow-crowned.
Rest thee, lost one! rest thee calmly, Glad to go where pain is o'er, Where they say not, through the night-time, "I am weary!" any more.
-IN the sharp extremities of fortune
The blessings which the weak and poor can scatter Have their own season. 'Tis a little thing To give a cup of water; yet its draught Of cool refreshment, drain'd by fever'd lips, May give a shock of pleasure to the frame More exquisite than when nectarine juice Renews the joy of life in happiest hours. It is a little thing to speak a phrase Of common comfort, which by daily use Has almost lost its sense; yet on the ear Of him who thought to die unmourn'd, 'twill fall Like choicest music; fill the glazing eye With gentle tears; relax the knotted hand To know the bonds of fellowship again; And shed on the departing soul a sense, More precious than the benison of friends About the honored death-bed of the rich, To him who else were lonely, that another Of the great family is near and feels.
Though her glances sleep like shadows, 'Neath each fallen, silken lash, Yet, like aught that wakes resentment, They magnificently flash.
Though you loved such dewy dream-light, And such glance of sweet surprise,
You could never bear the scorn
Of those proud and brilliant eyes.
There's a bright and winning cunning In her bright lip's crimson hue, And a flitting tint of roses
From her soft cheek gleaming through ; Do you think that you have met her? She is young, and pure and fair, And she weaves a wreath of starlight In her braided, ebon hair.
Often at her feet I'm sitting,
With my head upon her knee, While she tells me dreams of beauty In low words of melody.
And, when my unskilful fingers Strive her silvery lyre to wake, She will smooth my tresses, smiling At the discord which I make.
But of late days I have missed her- The bright being of my love, And perchance she's stolen pinions And has floated up above. Tell me have you ever met her— Met the spirit of my song- Have her wave-like footsteps glided Through the city's worldly throng?
UPON the barren sand
A single captive stood,
Around him came, with bow and brand,
The red men of the wood.
Like him of old, his doom he hears, Rock-bound on ocean's rim :— The chieftain's daughter knelt in tears, And breathed a prayer for him.
Above his head in air,
The savage war-club swung ; The frantic girl, in wild despair, Her arms about him flung. Then shook the warriors of the shade, Like leaves on aspen-limb,
Subdued by that heroic maid
Who breathed a prayer for him.
"Unbind him!" gasped the chief, "It is your king's decree!" He kissed away her tears of grief, And set the captive free.
'Tis ever thus, when, in life's storm Hope's star to man grows dim, An angel kneels in woman's form, And breathes a prayer for him.
STATELY trees are growing, Lusty winds are blowing, And mighty rivers flowing On, forever on.
As stately forms were growing, As lusty spirits blowing,
And as mighty fancies flowing On, forever on ;-
But there has been leave-taking, Sorrow and heart-breaking,
And a moan, pale Echo's making, For the gone, forever gone!
Lovely stars are gleaming, Bearded lights are streaming, And glorious suns are beaming On, forever on.
As lovely eyes were gleaming,
As wondrous lights were streaming, And as glorious minds were beaming On, forever on ;-
But there has been soul-sundering, Wailing and sad wondering;
For graves grow fat with plundering The gone, forever gone!
We see great eagles soaring, We hear deep voices roaring, And sparkling fountains pouring
On, forever on.
As lofty minds were soaring,
As sonorous voices roaring,
And as sparkling wits were pouring
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