Make me a child again, just for to-night !
Mother, come back from the echoless shore,
Take me again to your heart as of yore ;
Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care,
Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair ; ,
Over my slumbers your loving watch keep
Rock me to sleep, mother rock me to sleep!

Backward, flow backward, tide of the years !

I am so weary of toil and of tears

Toil without recompense tears all in vain

Take them, and give me my childhood again !

I have grown weary of dust and decay

Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away ;

Weary of sowing for others to reap

Rock me to sleep, mother rock me to sleep !

Tired oPthe hollow, the base, the untrue,
Mother, O Mother, my heart calls for you!
Many a summer the grass has grown green,
Blossomed and faded, our faces between ;



Yet with strong yearning, and passionate pain,
Long I to-night for your presence again.
Come frcm the silence so long and so deep
Rock me to sleep, mother rock me to sleep !

Over my heart, in the days that are flown,
No love like a mother's love ever has shone '
No other worship abides and endures
Faithful, unselfish, and patient like yours ;
None like a mother can charm away pain
From the sick soul and the world-weary brain.
Slumber's soft calm o'er my heavy lids creep
Rock me to sleep, mother rock me to sleep !

Come, let your brown hair just lighted with gold,
Fall on your shoulders again as of old ;
Let it drop over my forehead to-night,
Shading my faint eyes away from the light;
For with its sunny-edged shadows once more
Happy will throng the sweet visions of yore
Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep
Rock me to sleep, mother rock me to sleep !

Mother, dear mother, the years have been long,
Since I last listened to your lullaby song ;
Sing, then, and unto my heart it shall seem,
Womanhood's years have been only a dream ;
Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace,
With your light lashes, just sweeping my face,
Never hereafter to wake or to weep
Rock me to sleep, mother rock me to sleep !



KATIE LEE AND WILLIE GRAY.

WO brown heads with laughing curls,
Red lips shutting over pearls,
Bare feet white, and wet with dew,
Two eyes black, and two eyes blue ;
Little girl and boy were they,
Katie Lee and Willie Gray.

They were standing where a brook,
Bending like a shepherd's crook,
Flashed its silver, and thick ranks
Of green willows fringed its banks ;
Half in thought and half in play,
Katie Lee and Willie Gray.

They had cheeks like cherries red ;
He was taller 'most a head ;
She, with arms like wreaths of snow,
Swung a basket to and fro,
As they loitered, half in play,
Katie Lee and Willie Gray.

" Pretty Katie," Willie said
And there came a flash of red
Through the brownness of his cheek



SELECTIONS FROM THE POETS.



289



" Boys are strong and girls are weak,
And I '11 carry, so I will,
Katie's basket up the hill."

Katie answered with a laugh,
" You shall only carry half ; "

And then, tossing back her curls,
" Boys are weak as well as girls."

Do you think that Katie guessed

Half the wisdom she expressed ?

Men are only boys grown tall ;
Hearts do n't change much after all ;
And when, long years from that day,
Katie Lee and Willie Gray
Stood again beside the brook,
Bending like a shepherd's crook

Is it strange that Willie said
While again a dash of red
Crossed the brownness of his cheek -
" I am strong and you are weak :
Life is but a slippery steep,
Hung with shadows cold and deep.

" Will you trust me, Katie dear
Walk beside me without fear ?
May I carry, if I will,
All your burdens up the hill ? "
And she answered with a laugh,

" No, but you may carry half."

Close beside the little brook
Bending like a shepherd's crook,
Washing with its silver bands
Late and early at the sands,
Is a cottage, where to-day
Katie lives with Willie Gray.

In the porch she sits, and lo !
Swings a basket to and fro
Vastly different from the one
That she swung in years agone ;
This is long, and deep, and wide,
And has rockers on the side !



NEVER AGAIN.

again will the roses blow
For us as the roses we used to know

Oh ! never again will the wide sky hold
Such wealth of glory and sunset gold ;

And never again will I whisper, dear,
The pleasant fancies you smiled to hear

And never again, at the day's decline,
Shall I sit with your little hand in mine,



And look at the beauty of sunset skies,
And the sweeter beauty of your sweet eyes.

Never again ! for the dream is done

That a word, and a look, and a touch begun.

Love, if we always could dream, ah, then !
The words are as sad as " it might have been ! "

For us, there is nothing but memory,

In the coming days, of -what could not be!

Love, you are near me, and yet as far

As the round earth is from the furtherest star.

Kiss me and smile in my eyes once more,
Tho' your lips should quiver, and tears run o'er.

Put your hand in mine for one moment, one,
And then, good-bye, for the dream is done !



IF I SHOULD DIE TO-NIGHT.

I should die to-night,

My friends would look upon my quiet face
Before they laid it in its resting-place,
And deem that death had left it almost fair ;
And, laying snow-white flowers against my hair,
Would smooth it down with tearful tenderness,
And fold my hands with lingering caress ;
Poor hands, so empty and so cold to-night !

If I should die to-night,

My friends would call to mind, with loving thought,
Some kindly deed the icy hand had wrought ;
Some gentle word the frozen lips had said ;
Errands on which the willing feet had sped ;
The memory of my selfishness and pride,
My hasty words, would all be put aside,
And so I should be loved and mourned to-night.

If I should die to-night,

Even hearts estranged would turn once more to me,
Recalling other days remorsefully.
The eyes that chill me with averted glance
Would look upon me as of yore, perchance
And soften, in the old, familiar way,
For who could war with dumb, unconscious 'clay ?
So I might rest, forgiven of all, to-night.

Oh, friends, I pray to-night,
Keep not your kisses for my dead, cold brow.
The way is lonely, let me feel them now.
Think gently of me ; I am travel worn ;
My faltering feet are pierced with many a thorn.
Forgive, oh, hearts estranged, forgive, I plead !
When dreamless rest is mine I shall not need
The tenderness for which I long to-night.



19



290



SELECTIONS FKOM THE POETS.



THE LOST STEAMSHIP.



BY FITZ-JAMES O BRIEN.



>O, there ! fisherman, hold your hand !

Tell me what is that far away
There, where over the Isle of Sand

Hangs the mist-cloud sullen and gray ?
See ! it rocks with a ghastly life,

Raising and rolling through clouds of spray,
Right in the midst of the breakers' strife

Tell me, what is it, fisherman, pray?"

' That, good sir, was a steamer, stout
As ever paddled around Cape Race,

And many 's the wild and stormy bout

She had with the winds in that self-same place ;

But her time had come ; and at ten o'clock,
Last night, she struck on that lonesome shore,

And her sides were gnawed by the hidden rock,

And at dawn this morning she was no more."

' Corre, as you seem to know, good man,

The terrible fate of this gallant ship,
Tell me all about her that you can,

And here 's my flask to moisten your lip.
Tell me how many she had on board

Wives and husbands, and lovers true
How did it fare with her human hoard,

Lost she many, or lost she few ? "

' Master, I may not drink of your flask,

Already too moist I feel my lip ;
But I 'm ready to do what else you ask,

And spin you my yarn about the ship :
'T was ten o'clock, as I said, last night,

When she struck the breakers and went ashore,
And scarce had broken the morning's light,

Than she sank in twelve feet of water, or more.

' But long ere this they knew their doom,

And the captain called all hands to prayer ;
And solemnly over the ocean's boom

The orisons rose on the troubled air :
And round about the vessel there rose

Tall plumes of spray as white as snow,
Like angels in their ascension clothes,

Waiting for those who prayed below.

" So those three hundred people clung,

As well as they could, to spar and rope ;
With a word of prayer upon every tongue,

Nor on any face a glimmer of hope.
But there was no blubbering weak and wild

Of tearful faces I saw but one,
A rough old salt, who cried like a child,

And not for himself, but the Captain's son.



' The Captain stood on the quarter-deck,

Firm but pale, with trumpet in hand,
Sometimes he looked on the breaking wreck,

Sometimes he sadly looked on land.
And often he smiled to cheer the crew

But, Lord ! the smile was terrible grim
'Till over the quarter a huge sea flew,

And that was the last they saw of him.

' I saw one young fellow, with his bride,

Standing amidship upon the wreck ;
His face was white as the boiling tide,

And she was clinging about his neck.
And I saw them try to say good-bye,

But neither could hear the other speak ;
So they floated away through the sea to die

Shoulder to shoulder, and cheek to cheek.

' And there was a child, but eight at best,

Who went his way in a sea we shipped,
All the while holding upon his breast

A little pet parrot, whose wings were clipped.
And as the boy and the bird went by,

Swinging away on a tall wave's crest,
They were grappled by a man with a drowning cry,

And together the three went down to rest.

4 And so the crew went owe by one,

Some with gladness, and few with fear ;
Cold and hardship such work had done,

That few seemed frightened when death was near.
Thus every soul on board went down

Sailor and passenger, little and great ;
The last that sank was a man of my town,

A capital swimmer the second mate."

' Now, lonely fisherman, who are you,

That say you saw this terrible wreck?
How do I know what you say is true,

When every mortal was swept from the deck?
Where were you in that hour of death ?
How do you know what you relate? "
His answer came in an underbreath
" Master, I was the second mate !"



THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS DEATH.



nr HERE is no such thing as death

In Nature nothing dies ;
From each sad remnant of decay

Some forms of life arise.
The little leaf that falls,

All brown and sere to earth,
Ere long will mingle with the buds

That give the flower its birth.



SELECTIONS FROM THE POETS.



291



THE VAGABONDS. *



BY J. T. TROWBRIDGE.



'E are two travelers, Roger and I.

Roger's my dog Come here, you scamp !
Jump for the gentleman, mind your eye !

Over the table, look out for the lamp !
The rogue is growing a little old ;

Five years we've tramped through wind and weather,
And slept out doors when nights were cold,
And ate and drank and starved together

We 've learned what comfort is, I tell you !

A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin,
A bit of fire to thaw our thumbs (poor feljow !

The paw he holds up there 's been frozen,)
Plenty of catgut for my fiddle,

(This out-door business is bad for strings,)
Then a few nice buckwheats, hot from the griddle,

And Roger and I set up for kings !

No, thank ye, sir, I never drink ;

Roger and I are exceedingly moral
Are n't we, Roger ? See him wink !

Well, something hot, then, we won't quarrel,
He's thirsty, too, see him nod his head !

What a pity, sir, that dogs can't talk !
He understands every word that's said,

And he knows good milk from water-and-chalk.

The truth is, sir, now I reflect,

I've been so sadly given to grog,
I wonder I 've not lost the respect

(Here 's to you, sir ! ) even of my dog ;
But he sticks by, through thick and thin ;

And this old coat, with its empty pockets
And rags that smell of tobacco and gin,

He '11 follow while he has eyes in his sockets.

There is n't another creature living

Would do it, and prove through every disaster,
So fond, so faithful, and so forgiving,

To such a miserable, thankless master !
No, sir ! see him wag his tail and grin !

By George ! it makes my old eyes water !
That is, there 's something in this gin

That chokes a fellow. But no matter !

We '11 have some music, if you 're willing,

And Roger (hem ! what a plague a cough is, sir ! )
Shall march a little. Start, you villain !

Stand straight ! 'Bout face ! Salute your officer !
Put up that paw ! Dress ! Take your rifle !

(Some dogs have arms, you see ! ) Now hold your
Cap while the gentleman gives a trifle,

To aid a poor, old, patriot soldier !

March ! Halt ! Now show how the rebel shakes,
When he stands up to hear his sentence.



Now tell us how many drams it takes

To honor a jolly new acquaintance.
Five yelps, that 's five ; he 's mighty knowing !

The night's before us, fill the glasses !
Quick, sir ! I'm ill, my brain is going !

Some brandy, thank you, there, it passes.

Why not reform ? That's easily said ;

But I 've gone through such wretched treatment,
Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread,

And scarce remembering what meat meant,
That my poor stomach 's past reform ;

And there are times when, mad with thinking,
I'd sell out heaven for something warm,

To prop a horrible inward sinking.

Is there a way to forget to think ?

At your age, sir, home, fortune, friends,
A dear girl's love, but I took to drink ;

The same old story ; you know how it ends.
If you could have seen these classic features,

You need n't laugh, sir ; they were not then
Such a burning libel on God's creatures ;

I was one of your handsome men :

If you had seen HER, so fair and young,

Whose head was happy on this breast !
If you could have heard the song I sung

When the wine went round, you would n't have guessed
That ever I, sir, should be straying,

From door to door, with fiddle and dog,
Ragged and penniless, and playing

To you to-night for a glass of grog !

She 's married since ; a parson's wife :

'T was better for her that we should part,
Better the soberest, prosiest life

Than a blasted home and a broken heart.
Have I seen her? Once : I was weak and spent

On a dusty road : a carriage stopped :
But little she dreamed as on she went,

Who kissed the coin that her fingers dropped !

You 've set me talking, sir, I'm sorry ;

It makes me wild to think of the change !
What do you care for a beggar's story ?

Is it amusing ? You find it strange ?
I had a mother so proud of me !

'T was well she died before Do you know
If the happy spirits in heaven can see

The ruin and wretchedness here below ?

Another glass, and strong, to deaden

This pain ; then Roger and I will start,
I wonder, has he such a lumpish, leaden,

Aching thing, in place of a heart ?
He is sad sometimes, and would weep if he could,

No doubt remembering things that were,
A virtuous kennel, with plenty of food,

And himself a respectable cur.



* From " The Vagabonds and Other Poems." by J. T..Trowbridge; published by Jas. R. Osgood & Co., Boston, Mais.



292



SELECTIONS FROM THE POETS.



I'm better now ; that glass was warming.

You rascal ! limber your lazy feet !
We must be fiddling and performing

For supper and bed, or starve in the street.
Not a very gay life to lead, you think?

But soon we shall go where lodgings are free,
And the sleepers need neither victuals nor drink

The sooner the better for Roger and nie !



TWO LITTLE PAIRS.

BY MRS. S. T. PERRY.



prWO little pairs of boots, to-night,

Before the fire are drying ;
Two little pairs of tired feet,
In a trundle bed, are lying ;
The tracks they left upon the floor
Make me feel much like sighing.

Those little boots with copper toes !

They run the livelong day ;
And oftentimes I almost wish

They were miles away ;
So tired am I to hear so oft

Their heavy tramp at play.

They walk about the new ploughed ground

Where mud in plenty lies ;
They roll it up in marbles round,

They bake it into pies,
And then, at night upon the floor.

In every shape it dries i

To-day I was disposed to scold,

But when I look to-night,
At those little boots before the fire.

With copper toes so bright,
1 think how sad my heart would be

To put them out of sight.

For in a trunk up-stairs I Ve laid
Two socks of white and blue ;

If called to put those boots away,
Oh God, what should I do ?

I mourn that there are not to-night
Three pairs instead of two.

I mourn because I thought how nice

My neighbor 'cross the way,
Could keep her carpets all the year

From getting worn or gray ;
Yet well I know she 'd smile to own

Some little boots to-day.

We mothers weary get, and worn,

Over our load of care ;
But how we speak to these little ones

Let each of us beware ;
For what would our firesides be to-night,

If no little boots were there ?



WHICH SHALL IT BE?

'HIGH shall it be ? which shall it be? "
I looked at John John looked at me
(Dear patient John, who loves me yet
As well as though my locks were jet,)
And when I found that I must speak,
My voice seemed strangely low and weak.
Tell me again what Robert said ; "
And then I listening bent my head.
This is his letter : "

" I will give

A house and land while you shall live,
If, in return, from out your seven
One child to me for aye is given."

I looked at John's old garments worn,

I thought of all that John had borne

Of poverty and work and care,

Which I, though willing, could not share ;

I thought of seven mouths to feed,

Of seven little children's need,

And then of this.

" Come, John," said I,
' We'll choose among them, as they lie
Asleep ; " so walking hand in hand,
Dear John and I surveyed our band.
First to the cradle lightly stepped
Where Lilian the baby slept,
Her damp curls lay like gold alight. -
A glory 'gainst the pillow white.
Softly her father stooped to lay
His rough hand down in loving way.
When dream or whisper made her stir.
And huskily, John said, " Not her not her.'

We stooped beside the trundle bed,

And one long ray of lamp-light shed

Across the boyish faces, three,

In sleep so pitiful and fair ;

I saw, on Jamie's rough, red cheek,

A tear undried. Ere John could speak,
' He's but a baby, too," said I,

And kissed him as we hurried by.

Pale, patient Robbie's angel face,

Still in his sleep, bore suffering's trace.
' No, for a thousand crowns, not him,"

We whispered, while our eyes were dim.

Poor Dick ! bad Dick ! our wayward son,

Turbulent, reckless, idle one

Could he be spared ? " Nay, He, who gave,

Bids us befriend him to his grave ;

Only a mother's heart can be

Patient enough for such as he ;

And so," said John, " I would not dare

To send him from her bedside prayer."

Then stole we softly up above,

And knelt by Mary, child of love.



SELECTIONS FKOM THE POETS.



Perhaps for her 'twould better be,"

I said to John. Quite silently

He lifted up a curl that lay

Across her cheek, in willful way,

And shook his head, " Nay, love, not tlice,

The while my heart beat audibly.

Only one more, our oldest lad,

Trusty and thoughtful, good and glad

So like his father. " No, John, no

I cannot, will not, let him go."

And so we wrote, in courteous way,
We could not give one child away ;
And after that, toil lighter seemed,
Thinking of that of which we dreamed,
Happy, in truth, that not one face
Was missed from its accustomed place ;
Thankful to work for all the seven,
Trusting the rest to One in Heaven.



THE LITTLE BOY THAT DIED.



BY JOSHUA D. ROBINSON.



AM all alone in my chamber now

And the midnight hour is near,
And the faggot's crack, and the clock's dull tick,

Are all the sounds I hear ;
And over my soul in its solitude

Sweet feelings of sadness glide ;
And my heart and my eyes are full when I think,

Of the little boy that died.

I went one night to my father's house

Went home to the dear ones all,
And softly I opened the garden gate,

And softly the door of the hall ;
My mother came out to meet her son,

She kissed me, and then she sighed,
And her head fell on my neck, and she wept

For the little boy that died.

And when I gazed on his innocent face,

As still and cold he lay,
And thought what a lovely child he had been,

And how soon he must decay ;
" O Death, thou lovest the beautiful ! "

In the woe of my spirit I cried,
For sparkled the eyes, and the forehead was fair,

Of the little boy that died.

Again I will go to my father's house

Go home to the dear ones all,
And sadly I'll open the garden gate,

And sadly the door of the hall ;



I shall meet my mother, but, nevermore,

With her darling by her side ;
And she'll kiss me and sigh, and weep again

For the little boy that died.

I shall miss him, when the flowers come,

In the garden where he played ;
I shall miss him more by the fireside,

When the flowers have all decayed ;
I shall see his toys and his empty chair,

And the horse he used to ride ;
And they will speak, with silent speech,

Of the little boy that died.

I shall see his little sister again,

With her playmates about the door,
And I'll watch the children at their sports,

As I never did before ;
And if, in the group, I see a child

That's dimpled and laughing-eyed,
I'll look to see if it may not be

The little boy that died.

We shall all go home to our Father's house

To our Father's house in the skies,
Where the hope of our souls shall have no blight,

And our love no broken ties ;
We shall roam on the banks of the River of Peace,

And bathe in its blissful tide ;
Ami one of the joys of our Heaven will be

The little boy that died.

And therefore, when I'm sitting alone,

And the midnight hour is near,
And the faggot's crack and the clock's dull tick

Are the only sounds I hear,
O ! sweet o'er my soul in its solitude

Are the feelings of sadness that glide,
Though my heart and my eyes are full when I think

Of the little boy that died.



HEAVEN BY LITTLES.

fEAVEN is not reached by a single bound ;
But we build the ladder, by which we rise
From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies,
And we mount to its summit round by rovmd.

I count these things to be grandly true !
That a noble deed is a step toward God
Lifting the soul, from the common sod,

To a purer air and a broader view.

We rise by the things that are under our feet ;
By what we have mastered of greed and gain,
By the pride deposed, and the passion slain,

And the vanquished ill that we hourly meet.



294



SELECTIONS FROM THE POETS.



THERE'S BUT ONE PAIR OF STOCKINGS TO MEND
TO-NIGHT.

N old wife sat by her bright fireside,

Swaying thoughtfully to and fro,
In an ancient chair whose creaky frame

Told a tale of long ago ;

While down by her side, on the kitchen floor,
Stood a basket of worsted balls a score.

The good man dozed o'er the latest news.

Till the light of his pipe went out,
And, unheeded, the kitten, with cunning paws,

Rolled and tangled the balls about ;
Yet still sat the wife in the ancient chair,
Swaying to and fro in the fire-light glare.

But anon a misty tear-drop came

In her eye of faded blue,
Then trickled down in a furrow deep,

Like a single drop of dew ;
So deep was the channel so silent the stream
The good man saw naught but the dimmed eye-beam.

Yet he marvelled much that the cheerful light

Of her eye had weary grown,
And marvelled he more at the tangled balls ;

So he said in a gentle tone,

" I have shared thy joys since our marriage vow,
Conceal not from me thy sorrows now."

Then she spoke of the time when the basket there

Was filled to the very brim,
And how there remained of the goodly pile

But a single pair for him.
" Then wonder not at the dimmed eye-light,
There 's but one pair of stockings to mend to-night.

" I cannot but think of the busy feet,

Whose wrappings were wont to lie
In the basket, awaiting the needle's time,

Now wandered so far away ;
How the sprightly steps, to a mother dear,
Unheeded fell on the careless ear.

" For each empty nook in the basket old,

By the hearth there 's a vacant seat ;
And I miss the shadows from off the wall,

And the patter of many feet ;
'T is for this that a tear gathered over my sight
At the one pair of stockings to mend to-night.

" T was said that far through the forest wild,

And over the mountains bold,
Was a land whose rivers and dark'ning caves

Were gemmed with the rarest gold ;
Then my first-born turned from the oaken door,
And I knew the shadows were only four.

" Another went forth on the foaming waves
And diminished the basket's store



But his feet grew cold so weary and cold

They '11 never be warm any more
And this nook, in its emptiness, seemeth to me
To give forth no voice but the moan of the sea.

" Two others have gone toward the setting sun,

And made them a home in its light,