As I lay a-thinking, a-thinking, a-thinking,
Sadly sang the bird as it perch'd upon a bier
That joyous smile was gone,
And the face was white and wan,
As the down upon the swan
As I lay a-thinking-oh, bitter flow'd the tear! As I lay a-thinking, the golden sun was sinking, O merry sang that bird as it glitter'd on her breast, With a thousand gorgeous dyes,
While soaring to the skies,
'Mid the stars she seem'd to rise, As to her nest;
As I lay a-thinking, her meaning was exprest: "Follow, follow me away
("Twas so she seem'd to say),
66 Here is rest!"
WHEN THE NIGHT AND MORNING MEET.
IN the dark and narrow street,
Into a world of woe,
Where the tread of many feet
Went trampling to and fro,
A child was born (speak low!)
When the night and morning meet.
Full seventy summers back
Was this; so long ago,
The feet that wore the track
Are lying straight and low;
Yet is there still no lack
Of passers to and fro.
Within the narrow street
This childhood ever played,
Beyond the narrow street
This manhood never strayed,
This age sat still and pray'd,
Anear the trampling feet.
The sound of trampling feet
Flow'd through his life, unstirred
By water's fall, or fleet
Wind, music, or the bird
At morn. These sounds are sweet;
But they were never heard.
Within the narrow street,
I stood beside a bed,
I held a dying head,
When the night and morning meet;
And every word was sweet,
Though few the words we said.
And while we talk'd, dawn grew
To-day; the world was fair
In fields afar, I knew;
Yet I spoke not to him there
Of how the grasses grew,
Besprent with dewdrops rare.
I spoke not of the sun,
Nor of this green earth fair;
This soul whose day was done,
Had never claimed its share
In these, and yet its rare
Rich heritage had won.
From the dark and narrow street
Into a world of love,
A soul was born-speak low!
Speak reverent-for we know
Not how they speak above,
When the night and morning meet.
WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE.
WOODMAN, spare that tree;
Touch not a single bough;
In youth it shelter'd me,
And I'll protect it now.
'Twas my forefather's hand
That placed it near his cot;
Then, woodman, let it stand;
Thy axe shall harm it not.
That old familiar tree,
Whose glory and renown
Are spread o'er land and sea,-
And wouldst thou hew it down ?
Woodman, forbear thy stroke,
Cut not its earth-bound ties;
O, spare that aged oak,
Now towering to the skies.
When but an idle boy,
I sought its grateful shade;
In all their gushing joy,
Here, too, my sisters play'd.
My mother kissed me here;
My father pressed my hand:
Forgive this foolish tear,
But let that old oak stand.
My heartstrings round thee cling,
Close as thy bark, old friend!
Here shall the wild bird sing,
And still thy branches bend.
Old tree, the storm still brave!
And, woodman, leave the spot;
While I've a hand to save,
Thy axe shall harm it not.
O LET the soul her slumbers break,
Let thought be quickened and awake;
Awake to see
How soon this life is past and gone,
And death comes softly stealing on,
How silently!
Swiftly our pleasures glide away,
Our hearts recall the distant day
With many sighs;
The moments that are speeding fast
We heed not, but the past,-the past,-
More highly prize.
Onward its course the present keeps,
Onward the constant current sweeps,
Till life is done;
And, did we judge of time aright,
The past and future in their flight
Would be as one.
Let no one fondly dream again,
That Hope and all her shadowy train
Will not decay;
Fleeting as were the dreams of old,
Remembered like a tale that's told,
They pass away.
Our lives are rivers, gliding free
To that unfathomed, boundless sea,
The silent grave!
Thither all earthly pomp and boast
Roll, to be swallowed up and lost
In one dark wave.
Thither the mighty torrents stray,
Thither the brook pursues its way,
And tinkling rill.
There all are equal. Side by side
The poor man and the son of pride
Lie calm and still.
This world is but the rugged road
Which leads us to the bright abode
Of peace above;
So let us choose that narrow way,
Which leads no traveller's foot astray
From realms of love.
Our cradle is the starting place,
In life we run the onward race,
And reach the goal:
When, in the mansions of the blest,
Death leaves to its eternal rest
The weary soul.
Longfellow (from the Spanish).
A PSALM OF LIFE.
TELL me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!"
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
"Dust thou art, to dust returnest,"
Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.
Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.
In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!
Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead past bury its dead!
Act-act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o'erhead!
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;
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