And again the tongues of flame "These are prophets, bards, and seers ; In the horoscope of nations, They control the coming years." But the night-wind cries, "Despair! These are but the flying sparks. "Dust are all the hands that wrought; Books are sepulchres of thought ; The dead laurels of the dead Suddenly the flame sinks down ; And alone the night-wind drear Clamours louder, wilder, vaguer,— ""Tis the brand of Meleager Dying on the hearth-stone there." And I answer, “Though it be, Is the prize the vanquish'd gain." KILLED AT THE FORD. He is dead, the beautiful youth, Whose voice was blithe as the bugle-call, Whom all eyes follow'd with one consent, The cheer of whose laugh, and whose pleasant word, Hush'd all murmurs of discontent. Only last night, as we rode along He was humming the words of some old song : And another he bore at the point of his sword.” Sudden and swift a whistling ball Came out of a wood, and the voice was still; d; We lifted him up to his saddle again, And through the mire and the mist and the rain And laid him as if asleep on his bed; And I saw by the light of the surgeon's lamp Two white roses upon his cheeks, And one, just over his heart, blood-red! And I saw in a vision how far and fleet And a bell was toll'd in that far-off town, And the neighbours wonder'd that she should die. THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. UNDER a spreading chestnut-tree The village smithy stands; The smith a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms His hair is crisp, and black, and long, His brow is wet with honest sweat, He earns whate'er he can, And looks the whole world in the face, For he owes not any man. Week in, week out, from morn till night, Like a sexton ringing the village-bell, And children coming home from school And hear the bellows roar, And catch the burning sparks that fly He goes on Sunday to the church, He hears the parson pray and preach, And it makes his heart rejoice. It sounds to him like her mother's voice, He needs must think of her once more, And with his hard, rough hand he wipes Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing, Has earn'd a night's repose. Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, Thus at the flaming forge of life Each burning deed and thought! JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. MY LOVE. I. NOT as all other women are II. Great feelings hath she of her own, And sweet are they as any tone III. Yet in herself she dwelleth not, Although no home were half so fair; No simplest duty is forgot, Life hath no dim and lowly spot That doth not in her sunshine share. IV. She doeth little kindnesses, Which most leave undone, or despise ; |