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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