Part 2 (2/2)

The Present, waking from its sleep, Across the hills began to creep, And saw where Past had fallen far A n.o.ble forest, with a scar On many a wounded mountain side That from the elements would hide-- And answered:--Past, I will for thee Plant a tree, A forest tree.

The feeling Future, yet unborn, Heard Present echoing her horn, And stirring somewhat in Life's cell Did try her dearest wish to tell, Whispering in an undertone: I--I shall reap as ye have sown, O heed the Past! and--thanks to thee-- Plant a tree, Plant a tree.

Maid of Shehawken

Maid of Shehawken, kind and true, I sing a fond farewell, But, maiden, though I sing adieu, My love I cannot tell-- My love I cannot tell to thee For parting gives me pain, Oh may I in the days to be Meet with thee once again.

Maid of Shehawken, sweet and fair, Accept my humble praise, And may thy path be free from care, Full happy be thy days, And ever mid the lure of life Where e'er thy lot may be, In pleasant paths or weary strife-- Remember, I love thee.

Maid of Shehawken, kind and true, Tho' far away we roam, Few places will we find, O few As sweet as our highland home, And tho' Life's pathway lead along The s.h.i.+ning streets of gold, Our lips will never know a song As sweet as the songs of old.

Maid of Shehawken, dearer far Than any that I know, Lighting my pathway like a star, Afar from thee I go, But tho' I leave the Hills of Wayne My heart is still with thee, O maiden, may we meet again In the days that are to be.

To the Delaware

Cease thy murmuring, Delaware, For thy many braves so fair Who are sleeping by thy stream-- Rouse them not--there let them dream.

For upon that silent sh.o.r.e Indian's cry shall sound no more.

There, where still the owlets cry And the solemn night-winds sigh, Let the victor's head remain With the spirits of the slain, Leave the warriors fast asleep Where the willows o'er them weep, For thy murmuring, Delaware, Cannot wake those sleeping there, For thy voice deep in the foam Cannot ever call them home.

There, where low and high degree Sleep beneath the self-same tree, And where warriors small and great, Share in death a common fate, Leave the pale-face and the braves Side by side within their graves.

There, where ridges lifting high Try to bridge the endless sky, And where willows bend like lead O'er the footprints of the dead-- To each brother slumbering there, Sing sweet songs, my Delaware.

REQUIEM:

Brave!--thy happy days have fled Into silence with the dead; Thy canoe, thy well-worn way, And thy bow are in decay.

And no more thy camp-fires gleam By thy sweet, complaining stream; And I mourn thy ruthless fate; Weeping am I--but too late-- For upon that silent sh.o.r.e Indian's cry shall sound no more.

Starlight Lake

Well named thou art, O little lake Set in among the hills; Well named art thou,--each star doth make Reflected forms that fancies wake And memory fondly fills.

And nightly on the rugged sh.o.r.e Each cot with ruddy beam Lights up thy face from pane and door And throws a stream of silver o'er Thy bosom like a dream.

Thy hemlock hills, now dimly grown, Fling shadows on thy face, And to their branch the birds have flown, Except the owl, whose monotone The listening ear can trace.

There, where the starlight thickly trails A path across thy wave, A pa.s.sing boat a boatman hails Whose maiden crew still softly sails As with a pilot brave.

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