Изображения страниц
PDF
EPUB

"BEAUTIFUL AS SONGS OF THE IMMORTALS, THE HOLY Melodies of Love arise."-Longfellow.

66

"FACTS ARE facts, and FLINCH NOT; STUBBORN THINGS."-R. BROWNING.

THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS.

267

Taught the birds their melodies,
Clothed the earth, and cleared the skies

For thy pleasure or thy food:-
Pour thy soul in gratitude!

[MARY HOWITT.]

"TRADITIONS OF THE SAINT AND SAGE-TALES THAT HAVE THE RIME OF AGE."-LONGFELLOW.

THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS.

HERE is a Reaper, whose name is Death,
And, with his sickle keen,

He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,
And the flowers that grow between.

"Shall I have naught that is fair?" said he ;

"Have nought but the bearded grain?
Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me,
I will give them all back again."

He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes,
He kissed their drooping leaves;

It was for the Lord of Paradise,

He bound them in his sheaves.

"My Lord has need of these flowerets gay,"
The Reaper said, and smiled;
"Dear tokens of the earth are they,
Where He was once a child.

"They shall all bloom in fields of light,
Transplanted by my care,

And saints, upon their garments white,
These sacred blossoms wear."

A SPARK NEGLECTED MAKES A MIGHTY FIRE."-HERRICK.

"THE SUMMER SKY, WHERE THE SAILING CLOUDS WENT BY, LIKE SHIPS UPON THE SEA."-LONGFELLOW.

[merged small][ocr errors]

SWEET MERCY IS NOBILITY'S TRUE badge."-SHAKSPEARE.

THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.

And the mother gave, in tears and pain,
The flowers she most did love;
She knew she should find them all again

In the fields of light above.

Oh, not in cruelty, not in wrath,

The Reaper came that day;
'Twas an angel visited the green earth,

And took the flowers away.

[HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW, the most popular of American
poets, was born at Portland, in the United States, in 1807. He was for
some time Professor of Modern Languages at Havard College, Cambridge,
U.S. He is the author of a host of picturesque ballads and tender lyrics,
which are familiar to every English reader; of the poems of "Evangeline,"
"Hiawatha,"
," and "The Golden Legend;" and the prose romances of
"Hyperion" and "Kavanagh."]

THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.

ETWEEN the dark and the daylight,
When the night is beginning to lower,
Comes a pause in the day's occupations,
That is known as the Children's Hour.

I hear in the chamber above me
The patter of little feet,

The sound of a door that is opened,
And voices soft and sweet.

From my study I see in the lamp-light,
Descending the broad hall-stair,
Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra,

And Edith with golden hair.

TO-MORROW IS A SATIRE ON TO-DAY."-EDWARD YOUNG.

"I HEARD THE TRAILING GARMENTS OF THE NIGHT SWEEP THROUGH HER MARBLE HALLS."-LONGfellow.

"NOR DEEM THE IRREVOCABLE PAST AS WHOLLY WASTED, WHOLLY VAIN,"-(LONGFELLOW)

CONQUER We shall, buT WE MUST FIRST CONTEND;—

[blocks in formation]

'TIS NOT THE fight that CROWNS US, BUT THE END."—COWLEY.

"IF, RISING ON ITS WRECKS, AT LAST TO SOMETHING NOBLER WE ATTAIN."-LONGFELLOW.

"WE HAVE NOT WINGS-WE CANNOT SOAR; BUT WE HAVE FEET TO SCALE AND CLIMB," (LONGFELLOW)

[merged small][ocr errors][merged small][merged small][graphic][merged small][merged small]
[ocr errors]

AND THE DAYS ARE DARK AND DREARY."-LONGFELI.OW.

"BY SLOW DEGREES, BY MORE AND MORE, THE CLOUDY SUMMITS OF OUR TIME."-LONGFELLOW.

"all are arCHITECTS OF FATE, WORKING IN THESE WALLS OF TIME;"-(LONGFELLOW)

SOME FRETFUL TEMPERS WINCE AT EVERY TOUCH,

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.

And looks the whole world in the face,

For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge

With measured beat and slow-
Like a sexton ringing the village bell
When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;

They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,

And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;

He hears the parson pray and preach-
He hears his daughter's voice

Singing in the village choir,

And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice
Singing in Paradise :

He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;

And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling-rejoicing—sorrowing—
Onward through life he goes:

YOU ALWAYS DO TOO LITTLE OR TOO MUCH."-Cowper.

271

'SOME WITH MASSIVE DEEDS AND GREAT, SOME WITH ORNAMENTS OF RHYME."-LONGFELLOW.

« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »