180

THE FINDING OF THE LYRE

So said, so done; the chords he strained,
And, as his fingers o'er them hovered,
The shell disdained a soul had gained,

The lyre had been discovered.

O empty world that round us lies,

Dead shell, of soul and thought forsaken,
Brought we but eyes like Mercury's,

In thee what songs should waken!

JAMES RUSSELL Lowell.

THE NOBLE NATURE

T is not growing like a tree

IT

In bulk, doth make man better be;

Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,

To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sear.
A lily of a day

Is fairer far in May,

Although it fall and die that night,-
It was the plant and flower of Light.
In small proportions we just beauties see;
And in short measures life may perfect be.

BEN JONSON.

THE PATRIOT

T was roses, roses all the way,

IT

With myrtle mixed in my path like mad: The house roofs seemed to heave and sway, The church spires flamed, such flags they had A year ago on this very day.

The air broke into a mist with bells,

The old wall rocked with the crowd and cries. Had I said, "Good folk, mere noise repels

But give me your sun from yonder skies!" They had answered, " And afterward, what else?"

Alack, it was I who leaped at the sun

To give it to my loving friends to keep; Naught man could do, have I left undone: And you see my harvest, what I reap This very day, now a year is run.

There's nobody on the housetops now-
Just a palsied few at the windows set;
For the best of the sight is, all allow,

At the Shambles Gate-or, better yet,
By the very scaffold's foot, I trow.

I

go

THE PATRIOT

in the rain, and, more than needs, A rope cuts both my wrists behind;

And I think, by the feel, my forehead bleeds,
For they fling, whoever has a mind,
Stones at me for my year's misdeeds.

Thus I entered, and thus I go!

In triumphs, people have dropped down dead. "Paid by the world, what dost thou owe Me?"-God might question; now instead, 'Tis God shall repay: I am safer so.

ROBERT BROWNING.

183

THE RAINY DAY

'HE day is cold, and dark, and dreary:

ΤΗ

It rains, and the wind is never weary;
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,
And the day is dark and dreary.

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;

My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past, But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast, And the days are dark and dreary.

Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life some rain must fall,
Some days must be dark and dreary.

LONGFELLOW.