Too long I am toss'd like the driven foam; Good-bye to Flattery's fawning face; Ralph Waldo Emerson, 1803-'82. BETTER MOMENTS. My Mother's voice! how often creeps Her gentle tone comes stealing by, Nathaniel P. Willis, 1807-'67. THE SOLDIER'S WIDOW. WOE! for my vine-clad home! That it should ever be so dark to me, With its bright threshold, and its whispering tree ! That I should ever come, Fearing the lonely echo of a tread, Beneath the roof-tree of my glorious dead! Lead on my orphan boy 1 ! Thy home is not so desolate to thee, And the low shiver in the linden tree May bring to thee a joy; But, oh! how dark is the bright home before thee, To her who with a joyous spirit bore thee! Nathaniel P. Willis. AN OLD MAN'S HEART. FOR it stirs the blood in an old man's heart, To catch the thrill of a happy voice, And the light of a pleasant eye. Nathaniel P. Willis. LOST FEELINGS. OH! weep not that our beauty wears But mourn the inward wreck we feel And Time's effacing fingers steal Robert Montgomery, 1807-'55. THE STARRY HEAVENS. How sweet to gaze upon your placid eyes, THE OCEAN. AND thou vast ocean, on whose awful face Robert Montgomery. I THINK ON THEE. I THINK on thee in the night, And the moon comes out, with her pale, sad light To sit on the lonely hill; When the stars are all like dreams, And the breezes all like sighs, And there comes a voice from the far-off streams, Thomas K. Hervey, 1804-'59. THE VALE OF CHILDHOOD. YEARS have gone by I—and life's lowlands are past, And I stand on the hill which I sigh'd for, at last; But I turn from the summit that once was my star, To the vale of my childhood, seen dimly and far. Thomas K. Hervey. OUR DREAM OF LOVE. ADIEU, adieu!—our dream of love Thomas K. Hervey. THE CONVICT SHIP. WHO, as the beautiful pageant sweeps by- EARLY LOVE. THE love that took an early root, And had an early doom. Thomas K. Hervey LITTLE STREAMS. Down in valleys green and lowly, Up in mountain-hollows wild, Mary Howitt, 1804- OLD ENGLAND. OLD England is our home, and Englishmen are we; Mary Howitt. THE BURIAL OF THE DEAD. THAN wander back to life, and lean John Keble, 1800-'66. THE BIBLE. THERE is a book, who runs may read, John Keble. ABIDE WITH ME. ABIDE with me from morn till eve, John Keble. MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR. YES, the year is growing old, And his eye is pale and blear'd; The leaves are falling, falling, Caw! caw the rooks are calling. Through woods and mountain-passes Henry W. Longfellow, 1807-'82. A PSALM OF LIFE. TELL me not in mournful numbers, 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, Henry W. Longfellow. MAIDENHOOD MAIDEN! with the meek brown eyes, Thou, whose locks outshine the sun, |