Imagens das páginas

He shtuffs mine pipe mit Limburg scheese,

Dot vas der roughest chouse,
I'd dake dot from no oder poy

But leedle Yawcob Strauss.

He dakes mine milk-ban for a drum

Und cuts mine cane in dwo
To make de schticks to peat it mit;

I tells you dot vas drue.
I dinks mine heat vas schplit abart,

He kicks oop sooch a touse;
But nefer mindt, der poys vas few

Like dot young Yawcob Strauss.

He ashks me questions sooch as dese:

"Who baint mine nose so red ?"
"Who vas id cuts dot schmooth blace oudt

Vrom der hair upon mein hed?"
Und “Vhere der plaze goes vrom der lamp?"

Vene er der glim I douse.
How gan I all dose dings eggsblain

To dot smchall Yawcob Strauss ?

I somedimes dink I schall go vildt

Mit sooch a grazy poy,
Und vish vunce more I good haf rest

Und quiet dimes enzhoy;
But ven he vas ashleep in ped,

So quiet as a mouse,
I prays der Lord, “Dake anydinks,

But leaf dot Yawcob Strauss."

Charles Follen Adams, in "Leedle Yawcob Strauss and Other Poems." By permission of the author.


There is no flock, however watched and tended.

But one dead lamb is there!
There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended,

But has one vacant chair!

The air is full of farewells to the dying,

And mournings for the dead;
The heart of Rachel, for her children crying,

Will not be comforted!

Let us be patient! These severe afflictions

Not from the ground arise,
But oftentimes celestial benedictions

Assume this dark disguise.

We see but dimly through the mists and vapors;

Amid these earthly damps,
What seem to us but sad funereal tapers

May be heaven's distant lamps.

There is no Death! What seems so is transition.

This life of mortal breath
Is but a suburb of the life elysian,

Whose portal we call Death.

She is not dead—the child of our affection

But gone unto that school Where she no longer needs our poor protection,

And Christ himself doth rule.

In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion,

By guardian angels led,

Safe from temptation, safe from sin's políution,

She lives, whom we call dead.

Day after day we think what she is doing

In those bright realms of air;
Year after year, her tender steps pursuing,

Behold her grown more fair.

Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken

The bond which nature gives, Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken,

May reach her where she lives.

Not as a child shall we again behold her

For when with raptures wild
In our embraces we again enfold her,

She will not be a child;

But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion,

Clothed with celestial grace;
And beautiful with all the soul's expansion

Shall we behold her face.

And though at times impetuous with emotion

And anguish long suppressed,
The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean

That cannot be at rest.

We will be patient, and assuage the feeling

We may not wholly stay:
By silence sanctifying, not concealing,
The grief that must have way.

Henry W. Longfellow.


Keep pushing—'tis wiser

Than sitting aside,
And dreaming and sighing,

And waiting the tide.
In life's earnest battle

They only prevail
Who daily march onward

And never say fail!

With an eye ever open,

A tongue that's not dumb, And a heart that will never

To sorrow succumbYou'll battle and conquer,

Though thousands assail: How strong and how mighty Who never say

fail! The spirit of angels

Is active, I know, As higher and higher

In glory they go; Methinks on bright pinions

From Heaven they sail, To cheer and encourage Who never say


Ahead, then, keep pushing,

And elbow your way, Unheeding the envious,

And asses that bray; All obstacles vanish,

All enemies quail,

In the might of their wisdom

Who never say fail!

In life's early morning,

In manhood's firm pride,
Let this be your motto

Your footsteps to guide;
In storm and in sunshine,

Whatever assail,
We'll onward and conquer,

And never say fail!


I've wandered to the village, Tom,

I've sat beneath the tree
Upon the schoolhouse playground

That sheltered you and me;
But none were there to greet me, Tom,

And few were left to know
Who played with us upon the green

Just forty years ago.

The grass was just as green, Tom,

Barefooted boys at play
Were sporting, just as we did then,

With spirits just as gay;
But the master sleeps upon the hill

Which, coated o'er with snow,
Afforded us a sliding-place

Some forty years ago.

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