GEORGE HENRY BOKER. [From "The Book of the Dead."] NEARNESS. I know the sunshine of this hour, THROUGH the dark path, o'er which The scarlet leaves are doomed to I tread, One voice is ever at my ear, near. In times of doubt, he whispers trust; He follows me, with patient tread, He bends beside me, head by head, And sharing thus my smallest deed, He lies against my heart at last. Dear ghost, I feel no dread of thee; IN AUTUMN. IN hazy gold the hill-side sleeps, The sun is but a blur of light, The sky in ashy gray is lost; I hear the clamor of the crow, In wedges driving through the sky. fall, The lake shall stiffen at a breath; The crow shall ring his dreary call Above December's waste of death. SARAH K. BOLTON. A. B. BOYLE. WIDOWED. ENTERED INTO REST. SOLDIER, statesman, scholar, friend, | SHE did not sigh for death, nor make Brother to the lowliest one, Nations weep about thy bier, Come the great from many lands.. Rest thee by Lake Erie. Winter snows will wrap thy mound, Autumn leaves lie on thy tomb: Rest thee by Lake Erie. Strong for right, in danger brave, Of the people's life a part. All thy gifted words shall be sad moan, Turning from smiles as one who solace fears, But filled with kindly deeds the waiting years; Yet, in her heart of hearts, she lived alone, And in her voice there thrilled an undertone That seemed to rise from soundless depths of tears; As, when the sea is calm, one sometimes hears The long, low murmur of a storm, unknown Within the sheltered haven where he stands, While tokens of a tempest overpast So on the surface of her life was cast, EMILY A. BRADDOCK. AN UNTHRIFT. BROWN bird, with a wisp in your Treasured speech from age to age; Golden-ringed bee, through the air Thy heroic loyalty Be a country's heritage; Mentor and thy precious ties Sacred in the nation's eyes. Rest thee by Lake Erie. From thy life and death shall come An ennobled, purer race, Rest thee by Lake Erie. sea steer home, The freight of sweets that lured you to roam. O reapers! well may you sing, to hold Your arms brimful of the grain's But what to me that ye all go by? In my heart of hearts, it is singing gray, Nor offered a helping hand to her, So meek, so timid, afraid to stir, Lest the carriage wheels or the horses' feet Should crowd her down in the slippery street. At last came one of the merry troop— The gayest laddie of all the group: He paused beside her and whispered low, "I'll help you across if you wish to go." Her aged hand on his strong young arm She placed, and so, without hurt or harm, He guided her trembling feet along, Proud that his own were firm and strong. And bent with the chill of the win-Then back again to his friends he ter's day: The street was wet with a recent snow, And the woman's feet were agèd and slow. She stood at the crossing and waited long, Alone, uncared-for, amid the throng Of human beings who passed her by. Nor heeded the glance of her anxious eye. Down the street with laughter and shout, Glad in the freedom of "school let out," Came the boys like a flock of sheep, Hailing the snow piled white and deep. Past the woman so old and gray Hastened the children on their way, went, His young heart happy and well con tent. "She's somebody's mother, boys, you know, For all she's agèd and poor and slow; And I hope some fellow will lend a hand To help my mother, you understand, If ever she's poor and old and gray, When her own dear boy is far away." And "somebody's mother" bowed low her head In her home that night, and the prayer she said Was, "God be kind to the noble boy Who is somebody's son and pride and joy." 66 66 "O mither, dinna dee!" "O bairn, by night or day I hear nae sounds ava', And the voices of ghaists that say, The Lord that made the wind and made the sea, Is hard on my bairn and me, And I melt in his breath like snaw." "O mither, dinna dee!" "O bairn, it is but closing up the een, And lying down never to rise again. Many a strong man's sleeping hae I My summer has gone by, If this be dying, fair it is to die: Even as a garment weariness lays by, And sweet were sleep, but for the Thou layest down life, to pass as time sake o' thee.” "O mither, dinna dee!" [From Faces on the Wall.] TO TRIFLERS. Go, triflers with God's secret. Far, oh, far Be your thin monotone, your brows flower-crowned, Your backward-looking faces; for ye mar The pregnant time with silly sooth of sound, With flowers around the feverish temples bound, And withering in the close air of the feast. Take all the summer pleasures ye have found, hath passed, From wintry rigors to a springtime |