At the king's gate the crafty noon
Unwove its yellow nets of sun;
Out of their sleep in terror soon
The guards wak'd, one by one.
"Ho here! ho there! Has no man seen "The king?" The cry ran to and fro; Beggar and king, they laugh'd, I ween, The laugh that free men know.
On the king's gate the moss grew gray;
The king came not. They call'd him dead;
And made his eldest son one day
Slave in his father's stead.
LIKE a blind spinner in the sun,
I tread my days;
I know that all the threads will run
Appointed ways;
I know each day will bring its task,
And, being blind, no more I ask.
I do not know the use or name
Of that I spin;
I only know that some one came,
And laid within
My hand the thread, and said—" Since you "Are blind, but one thing you can do."
Sometimes the threads so rough and fast
And tangled fly,
I know wild storms are sweeping past,
And fear that I
but dare not try to find A safer place, since I am blind.
I know not why, but I am sure
That tint and place
In some great fabric to endure,
Past time and race,
My threads will have: so from the first,
Though blind, I never felt accurst.
I think perhaps this trust has sprung
From one short word
Said over me when I was young,—
So young, I heard
It, knowing not that God's name sign'd
My brow and seal'd me His though blind.
But whether this be seal or sign,
Within, without,
It matters not: the bond divine
I never doubt.
I know He sat me here, and still
And glad, and blind, I wait His will;
But listen, listen, day by day,
To hear their tread
Who bear the finish'd web away,
And cut the thread,
And bring God's message in the sun"Thou poor blind spinner! work is done!"
SOMEWHERE thou awaitest,
And I, with lips unkiss'd,
Weep that thus to latest
Thou puttest off our tryst.
The golden bowls are broken,
The silver cords untwine;
Almond flowers in token
Have bloom'd-that I am thine.
Others who would fly thee
In cowardly alarms,
Who hate thee and deny thee,
Thou foldest in thine arms.
How shall I intreat thee
No longer to withhold?
I dare not go to meet thee
O lover far and cold!
O lover! whose lips chilling
So many lips have kiss'd,
Come, even if unwilling,
And keep thy solemn tryst.
GEORGE ARNOLD.
Born at New York 1834-died 1865.
THE JOLLY OLD PEDAGOGUE.
"Twas a jolly old pedagogue, long ago,
Tall and slender, and sallow and dry;
His form was bent, and his gait was slow,
His long, thin hair was as white as snow,
But a wonderful twinkle shone in his eye;
And he sang every night as he went to bed-
"Let us be happy down here below!
The living should live, though the dead be dead,”—
Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago.
He taught his scholars the rule of three,
Writing, and reading, and history, too;
He took the little ones up on his knee,
For a kind old heart in his breast had he,
And the wants of the littlest child he knew:
"Learn while you're young!" he often said,
"There is much to enjoy, down here below;
Life for the living, and rest for the dead!"
Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago.
With the stupidest boys he was kind and cool,
Speaking only in gentlest tones;
The rod was hardly known in his school.
Whipping, to him, was a barbarous rule,
And too hard work for his poor old bones;
Beside, it was painful, he sometimes said:
"We should make life pleasant, down here below,
The living need charity more than the dead,”-
Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago.
He lived in the house by the hawthorn lane,
With roses and woodbine over the door;
His rooms were quiet, and neat, and plain,
But a spirit of comfort there held reign,
And made him forget he was old and poor; "I need so little," he often said;
66 And my friends and relatives here below Won't litigate over me when I am dead,”Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago.
But the pleasantest times that he had, of all,
Were the sociable hours he used to pass,
With his chair tipp'd back to a neighbour's wall,
Making an unceremonious call,
Over a pipe and a friendly glass:
This was the finest pleasure, he said,
Of the many he tasted, here below;
"Who has no cronies, had better be dead!"
Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago.
Then the jolly old pedagogue's wrinkled face
Melted all over in sunshiny smiles;
He stirr'd his glass with an old-school grace,
Chuckled, and sipp'd, and prattled apace,
Till the house grew merry from cellar to tiles :
"I'm a pretty old man "-he gently said,-
"I have linger'd a long while, here below;
But my heart is fresh, if my youth is fled!"
Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago.
He smoked his pipe in the balmy air,
Every night when the sun went down,
While the soft wind play'd in his silvery hair,
Leaving his tenderest kisses there,
On the jolly old pedagogue's jolly old crown:
And, feeling the kisses, he smil'd, and said,
'Twas a glorious world, down here below;
'Why wait for happiness till we are dead?'
Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago.
He sat at his door, one midsummer night,
After the sun had sunk in the west,
And the lingering beams of golden light
Made his kindly old face look warm and bright,
While the odorous night-wind whispered "Rest!"
Gently, gently, he bow'd his head. ...
There were angels waiting for him, I know; He was sure of happiness, living or dead,— This jolly old pedagogue, long ago.
THE leaves that made our forest pathways shady
Begin to rustle down upon the breeze;
The year is fading, like a stately lady
Who lays aside her youthful vanities:
Yet, while the memory of her beauty lingers,
She cannot wear the livery of the old,
So Autumn comes, to paint with frosty fingers,
Some leaves with hues of crimson and of gold.
The Matron's voice fill'd all the hills and valleys
With full-toned music, when the leaves were young;
While now, in forest dells and garden-alleys,
A chirping, reedy song at eve is sung;
Yet sometimes, too, when sunlight gilds the morning,
A carol bursts from some half-naked tree,
As if, her slow but sure decadence scorning,
She woke again the olden melody.
|