That the days of thy lot may be lengthened below,
And the fame of thy worth like the pumpkin-vine grow,
And thy life be as sweet, and its last sunset sky
Golden-tinted and fair as thy own pumpkin-pie!

By permission

Houghton Mifflin Company.

John Greenleaf Whittier.

THE ETERNAL GOODNESS

I know not what the future hath
Of marvel or surprise;

Assured alone that life and death
His mercy underlies.

And if my heart and flesh are weak
To bear an untried pain,

The bruised reed He will not break,
But strengthen and sustain.

No offerings of my own I have,
No works my faith to prove;
I can but give the gifts He gave,
And plead His love for love.

And so, beside the silent sea,
I wait the muffled oar;

No harm from Him can come to me
On ocean or on shore.

I know not where His islands lift

Their fronded palms in air;

I only know I cannot drift
Beyond His love and care.

John Greenleaf Whittier.

THE MAN AND THE PICNIC

Under the shellbark hickory tree

The picnic man he stands;

A woeful looking man is he,

With bruised and grimy hands;

And the soil that sticks to his trousers' knee,

Is the soil of several lands.

His hair is tumbled, his hat is torn,
His clothes are like the ground;
He wishes he had ne'er been born,
Or born, had ne'er been found.
He glares and scowls in wrathful scorn
As oft he looks around.

At early morn, all dressed in white,
He sought the picnic park;

His face was clean, his heart was light,
His loud song mocked the lark.
But now, although the day is bright,
His world, alas! is dark.

In joyous mood, at early morn,

He sat upon the stump,

But soon, as though upon a thorn

He sat, with mighty jump
He leaped aloft, and all forlorn
In haste he did crump.

For lo, in hordes the big black ants,
With nippers long and slim,

Went swiftly crawling up his pants,

And made it warm for him;

And through the woods they made him dance, With gasp, and groan, and vim.

And when the rustic feast is spread,
And she is sitting by.

His wildwood garland on her head,
The lovelight in her eye,

He-woe, oh, woe! would he were dead---
Sits in the custard pie.

And now they send him up the tree

To fix the picnic swing.

And

up

the shellbark's scraggy side,

They laugh to see him cling;

They cannot hear the words he cried, "Dat fetch! dog gone! dat bing!"

And now he wisheth he were down,
And yet he cannot see,

Just how the giggle, stare and frown.
Escaped by him may be;

He knows he cannot scramble down
With his back against the tree.

Sobbing and sliding and wailing,
Homeward alone he goes;

Clay, pie, and grass stain on his clothes,
More and more plainly shows;

And he vows that to any more picnics
He never will go, he knows.

But the morning comes, and its rising sun
Brings balm to his tattered breeks;
He thinks, after all, he had lots of fun,
And hopefully, gayly he speaks;

And he goes to picnics one by one,
Nine times in the next five weeks.

ANTONY IN ARMS

Lo, we are side by side.

R. J. Burdette.

One dark arm furls

Around me like a serpent, warm and bare;
The other, lifted 'mid a gleam of pearls,
Holds a full golden goblet high in air;
Her face is shining through her cloudy curls
With light that makes me drunken unaware,
And with my chin upon my breast I smile
Upon her, darkening inward all the while.

And thro' the chamber curtains, backward rolled
By spicy winds that fan my fevered head,
I see a sandy flat slope, yellow as gold,

To the brown banks of Nilus wrinkling red
In the slow sunset; and mine eyes behold

The West, low down beyond the river's bed,

Grow sullen, ribbed with many a brazen bar,
Under the white smile of the Cyprian star.

Lo, how her dark arm holds me!-I am bound
By the soft touch of fingers, light as leaves;
I drag my face aside, but at the sound

Of her low voice, I turn-and she perceives
The cloud of Rome upon my brow and round

My neck she twines her odorous arms and grieves, Shedding upon a heart as soft as they

Tears 'tis a hero's task to kiss away!

And then she loosens from me, trembling still

Like a bright throbbing robe, and bids me “Go!”, When pearly tears her drooping eyelids fill,

And her swart beauty whitens into snow;

And lost to use of life and hope and will,
I gaze upon her with a warrior's woe,

And turn, and watch her sidelong in annoy-
Then snatch her to me, flushed with shame and joy.

Once more, O Rome, I would be son of thine-
This constant prayer my chained soul ever saith,

I thirst for honorable end-I pine

Not thus to kiss away my mortal breath.
But comfort such as this may not be mine.
I cannot even die a Roman death;
I seek a Roman's grave, a Roman's rest-
But, dying-I would die upon her breast!

Robert Buchanan.