THREE KISSES OF FAREWELL. FROM ONE OF "ESTHER WYNN'S LOVE LETTERS," BY THE ANONYMOUS AUTHOR OF THE SAXE-HOLM STORIES (1873). Three, only three, my darling, Separate, solemn, slow: Not like the swift and joyous ones We used to know, When we kissed because we loved each other, Simply to taste love's sweet, And lavished our kisses as the summer Lavishes heat, But as they kiss whose hearts are wrung, When hope and fear are spent, And nothing is left to give, except A sacrament! First of the three, my darling, Is sacred unto pain: We have hurt each other often, We shall again,— When we pine because we miss each other, And do not understand How the written words are so much colder Than eye and hand. I kiss thee, dear, for all such pain Which we may give or take;— Buried-forgiven before it comes, For our love's sake! The second kiss, my darling, Is full of joy's sweet thrill; We shall reach until we feel each other, We shall listen till we hear each other The earth is full of messengers I kiss thee, darling, for all the joy The last kiss, oh, my darling, My love-I cannot see Through my tears, as I remember What it may be. We may die and never sec each other, Die with no time to give Any sign that our hearts are faithful To die as live. Token of what they will not see Who see our parting breath: This one last kiss, my darling, seals The seal of death! THE SAILOR'S CONSOLATION. In Cassell's "Illustrated Readings," edited by Tom Hood, the younger (1835–1875), this amusing song is credited to William Pitt, who was master attendant at Jamaica Dock-yard, and afterward at Malta, where he died in 1840. It is credited in many collections to Charles Dibdin; an error arising probably from the fact that Dibdin wrote a song under the same title, and commencing "Spanking Jack was so comely, so pleasant, so jolly, Though winds blew great guns still he'd whistle and sing; Jack loved his friend, and was true to his Molly, And, if honor gives greatness, was great as a king." This song was set to music, and published by Novello & Co., London. Pitt's song (a much better one) was also set to music, and published by Purday & Son, London. ANONYMOUS AND MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Griev'st thou that hearts should change? Lo! where life reigneth, What long remaineth? Spring with her flowers doth die; Fast fades the gilded sky; Smile, then, ye sage and wise! And if love sever Bouds which thy soul doth prize, Such does it ever! Deep as the rolling seas, Soft as the twilight breeze,— Oh, think! the darlings of thy love, Bask in the bosom of their God. TO A BEREAVED MOTHER. John Quincy Adams, son of the second President of the United States, and himself President for one term, published, in 1832, a long composition in verse, entitled "Dermot MacMorrogh." The following tender little lyric from his pen will probably outlast all his other poetical productions. Adams died in the Capitol at Washington, February 23d, 1848. His last words were, "This is the last of earth !" He was born in Braintree, Mass., July 11th, 1767. Sure, to the mansions of the blessed Beyond where worlds material roll, With dust united at our birth, But when the Lord of mortal breath Has quenched the radiance of the flame; Back to its God the living fire Reverts, unclouded as it came. AGAIN. ANONYMOUS (BRITISH-19TH CENTURY). O sweet and fair! O rich and rare! The autumn sunshine everywhere, The ferns were clad in cloth of gold, The waves sang on the shore: Such suns will shine, such waves will sing, Forever, evermore. O fit and few! O tried and true! The hours flew past, until at last The twilight kissed the shore. We said, "Such days shall come again Forever, evermore." One day again, no cloud of pain Like, but unlike, the sun that shone, For ghosts unseen crept in between, And marred our harmony. "The past is ours, not yours," they said; "The waves that beat the shore, Though like the same, are not the same, O never, never more!" 535 Bright things can never die, Deathless were made. Doth not the moon's soft ray Solace the night? Kind words can never die: Cherished and blessed, God knows how deep they lie Stored in the breast! Like childhood's simple rhymes, Said o'er a thousand times, Ay, in all years and climes, PROGRESS. ANONYMOUS (BRITISH-19TH CENTURY). All victory is struggle, using chance All good, just sacrifice; and life's success From toil and self-denial. Man must strive Is pregnant with the spring-flowers of To-come; |