SOMEBODY'S LOVERS.

You cannot laugh as I laugh in my heart, my lover will come to-day!

For

Sing sweet, little bird, sing out to your mate
That hides in the leafy grove;

Sing clear and tell him for him you wait,
And tell him of all your love ;

But though you sing till you shake the buds
And the tender leaves of May,

My spirit thrills with a sweeter song,
For my lover must come to-day!

Come up, O winds, come up from the south
With eager hurrying feet,

And kiss your red rose on her mouth

In the bower where she blushes sweet;
But you cannot kiss your darling flower,
Though you clasp her as you may,
As I kiss in my thought the lover dear
I shall hold in my arms to-day!

SOMEBODY'S LOVERS.

Too meek by half was he who came
A-wooing me one morn,

For he thought so little of himself
I learned to share his scorn.

At night I had a suitor, vain

As the vainest in the land; Almost he seemed to condescend In the offer of his hand.

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In one who pressed his suit I missed
Courage and manly pride;

And how could I think of such a one
As a leader and a guide?

And then there came a worshipper
With such undoubting trust,

That when he knelt he seemed not worth
Upraising from the dust.

The next was never in the wrong,

Was not too smooth nor rough ; So faultless and so good was he, That that was fault enough.

But one, the last of all who came,
I know not how to paint ;
No angel do I seem to him
He scarcely calls me saint!

He hath such sins and weaknesses
As mortal man befall;

He hath a thousand faults, and yet
I love him with them all!

He never asked me yea nor nay,

Nor knelt to me one hour; But he took my heart, and holds With a lover's tender power.

my

heart

And I bow, as needs I must, and say,

In proud humility,

Love's might is right, and I yield at last

To manhood's royalty!

LAST POEMS.

NOBODY'S CHILD.

ONLY a newsboy, under the light

Of the lamp-post plying his trade in vain : Men are too busy to stop to-night,

Hurrying home through the sleet and rain. Never since dark a paper sold ;

Where shall he sleep, or how be fed?

He thinks as he shivers there in the cold,
While happy children are safe abed.

Is it strange if he turns about

With angry words, then comes to blows, When his little neighbor, just sold out,

Tossing his pennies, past him goes? Stop!"

some one looks at him, sweet and mild, And the voice that speaks is a tender one:

"You should not strike such a little child,

And you should not use such words, my son!"

Is it his anger or his fears

That have hushed his voice and stopped his arm? "Don't tremble," these are the words he hears;

"Do you think that I would do you harm?"

"It isn't that," and the hand drops down ; “I wouldn't care for kicks and blows ; But nobody ever called me son,

Because I'm nobody's child, I s'pose."

O men! as ye careless pass along,

Remember the love that has cared for you; And blush for the awful shame and wrong

Of a world where such a thing could be true! Think what the child at your knee had been If thus on life's lonely billows tossed; And who shall bear the weight of the sin, If one of these "little ones" be lost!

JOHN G. WHITTIER.

GREAT master of the poet's art!
Surely the sources of thy powers
Lie in that true and tender heart
Whose every utterance touches ours.

For, better than thy words, that glow
With sunset dyes or noontide heat,
That count the treasures of the snow,
Or paint the blossoms at our feet,

Are those that teach the sorrowing how
To lay aside their fear and doubt,
And in submissive love to bow

To love that passeth finding out.

THOU KNOWEST.

And thou for such hast come to be
In every home an honored guest
Even from the cities by the sea

To the broad prairies of the West.

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Thy lays have cheered the humble home Where men who prayed for freedom knelt; And women, in their anguish dumb,

Have heard thee utter what they felt.

And thou hast battled for the right
With many a brave and trenchant word,
And shown us how the pen may fight
A mightier battle than the sword.

And therefore men in coming years
Shall chant thy praises loud and long ;
And women name thee through their tears
A poet greater than his song.

But not thy strains, with courage rife,
Nor holiest hymns, shall rank above
The rhythmic beauty of thy life,
Itself a canticle of love!

THOU KNOWEST.

LORD, with what body do they come
Who in corruption here are sown,

When, with humiliation done,

They wear the likeness of thine own?