Volume I Part 62 (1/2)

Truer than work of sculptor's art Comes this dear maid of long ago, Sheltered from woeful chance, to show A spirit's lovely counterpart,

And bid mistrustful men be sure That form shall fate of flesh escape, And, quit of earth's corruptions, shape Itself, imperishably pure.

Edward Sandford Martin [1856-

ON THE PICTURE OF A ”CHILD TIRED OF PLAY”

Tired of play! Tired of play!

What hast thou done this live-long day!

The bird is silent and so is the bee, The shadow is creeping up steeple and tree; The doves have flown to the sheltering eaves, And the nests are dark with the drooping leaves; Twilight gathers, and day is done,-- How hast thou spent it, restless one?

Playing! And what hast thou done beside To tell thy mother at eventide?

What promise of morn is left unbroken?

What kind word to thy playmate spoken?

Whom hast thou pitied, and whom forgiven?

How with thy faults has duty striven?

What hast thou learned by field and hill, By greenwood path and by singing rill?

There will come an eve to a longer day That will find thee tired,--but not with play!

And thou wilt learn, as thou learnest now, With wearied limbs and aching brow, And wish the shadows would faster creep And long to go to thy quiet sleep.

Well will it be for thee then if thou Art as free from sin and shame as now!

Well for thee if thy tongue can tell A tale like this, of a day spent well!

If thine open hand hath relieved distress, And thy pity hath sprung to wretchedness-- If thou hast forgiven the sore offence And humbled thy heart with penitence;

If Nature's voices have spoken to thee With her holy meanings, eloquently-- If every creature hath won thy love, From the creeping worm to the brooding dove-- If never a sad, low-spoken word Hath plead with thy human heart unheard-- Then, when the night steals on, as now It will bring relief to thine aching brow, And, with joy and peace at the thought of rest, Thou wilt sink to sleep on thy mother's breast.

Nathaniel Parker Willis [1806-1867]

THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN

At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears, Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years: Poor Susan has pa.s.sed by the spot, and has heard In the silence of morning the song of the Bird.

'Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees A mountain ascending, a vision of trees; Bright volumes of vapor through Lothbury glide, And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.

Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale, Down which she so often has tripped with her pail; And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's, The one only dwelling on earth that she loves.

She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but they fade, The mist and the river, the hill and the shade: The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise, And the colors have all pa.s.sed away from her eyes!

William Wordsworth [1770-1850]