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WHA

THAT shall I do with all the days and hours

That must be counted ere I see thy face? How shall I charm the interval that lowers

Between this time and that sweet time of grace? Shall I in slumber steep each weary sense,

Weary with longing? Shall I flee away Into past days, and with some fond pretence

Cheat myself to forget the present day? Shall love for thee lay on my soul the sin

Of casting from me God's great gift of time? Shall I, these mists of memory locked within,

Leave and forget life's purposes sublime? O, how or by what means may I contrive

To bring the hour that brings thee back more near? How may I teach my drooping hope to live

Until that blessed time, and thou art here?

I'll tell thee: for thy sake I will lay hold

Of all good aims, and consecrate to thee, In worthy deeds, each moment that is told

While thou, beloved one! art far from me. For thee I will arouse my thoughts to try

All heavenward flights, all high and holy strains; For thy dear sake I will walk patiently Through these long hours, nor call their minutes

pains.

I will this dreary blank of absence make

A noble task-time; and will therein strive
To follow excellence, and to o'ertake
More good than I have won since yet I live.

So may this doomed time build up in me

A thousand graces, which shall thus be thine; So may my love and longing hallowed be,

And thy dear thought an influence divine.

PEACE:

BURIAL OF LINCOLN. Reprinted with permission. By RICHARD HENRY STODDARD.

EACE! Let the long procession come,

For hark!—the mournful, muffled drum,
The trumpet's wail afar;

And see! the awful car!
Peace! Let the sad procession go,
While cannon boom, and bells toll slow;

And go, thou sacred car,

Bearing our woe afar!
Go, darkly borne, from State to State,
Whose loyal, sorrowing cities wait

To honor, all they can,

The dust of that good man!
Go, grandly borne, with such a train
As greatest kings might die to gain:

The just, the wise, the brave

Attend thee to the grave!
And you, the soldiers of our wars,
Bronzed veterans, grim with noble scars,

Salute him once again,

Your late commander,-slain!
Yes, let your tears indignant fall,
But leave your muskets on the wall;

Your country needs you now
Beside the forge, the plough!

So sweetly, sadly, sternly goes
The fallen to his last repose.

Beneath no mighty dome,
But in his modest home.

The churchyard where his children rest, The quiet spot that suits him best,

There shall his grave be made,

And there his bones be laid! And there his countrymen shall come, With memory proud, with pity dumb,

And strangers, far and near,

For many and many a year!
For many a year and many an age,
While History on her ample page

The virtues shall enroll
Of that paternal soul!

THE

IT NEVER COMES AGAIN. Reprinted with per. mission. By RICHARD HENRY STODDARD.

HERE are gains for all our losses,

There are balms for all our pain,
But when youth, the dream, departs,
It takes something from our hearts,

And it never comes again.
We are stronger, and are better,

Under manhood's sterner reign;
Still we feel that something sweet
Followed youth, with flying feet,

And will never come again.
Something beautiful is vanished,

And we sigh for it in vain;
We behold it everywhere,
On the earth, and in the air,

But it never comes again.

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