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And some, who walk in calmness here,
Shall shudder as they reach the door Where one who made their dwelling dear, Its flower, its light, is seen no more.
Youth, with pale cheek and slender frame,
And dreams of greatness in thine eye! Goest thou to build an early name, Or early in the task to die?
Keen son of trade, with eager brow!
Who of this crowd to-night shall tread
Some, famine-struck, shall think how long The cold dark hours, how slow the light And some, who flaunt amid the throng, Shall hide in dens of shame to-night.
Each, where his tasks or pleasures call,
There is who heeds, who holds them all, In his large love and boundless thought.
These struggling tides of life that seem
That rolls to its appointed end.
THE WHITE-FOOTED DEER.
It was a hundred years ago,
When, by the woodland ways,
Beneath a hill, whose rocky side
And fenced a cottage from the wind,
She only came when on the cliffs
The evening moonlight lay,
White were her feet, her forehead showed
That seemed to glimmer like a star
And here, when sang the whippoorwill, She cropped the sprouting leaves, And here her rustling steps were heard On still October eves.
But when the broad midsummer moon
The cottage dame forbade her son
"It were a sin," she said, "to harm Or fright that friendly deer.
"This spot has been my pleasant home Ten peaceful years and more;
ever, when the moonlight shines, She feeds before our door.
"The red men say that here she walked
"I love to watch her as she feeds, And think that all is well.
While such a gentle creature haunts
The youth obeyed, and sought for game
Where, deep in silence and in moss,
But once, in autumn's golden time,
The crescent moon and crimson eve
He raised the rifle to his eye,
Away into the neighbouring wood