TWO LIVES.

Two infants in their cradles lie, Where lullabies of peace In gentle strains of tender music die.

And carols never cease.

Two urchins o'er the meadow lands Are bounding in their plays, Where sweet enjoyment with angelic hands Winds gladness o'er the days.

Two boys, where golden fancies bless, Repose in sunny beams, And muse away the hours of happiness On couches made of dreams.

Two men upon a summer sea Are toiling, brave and strong, Where pleasures roll their elfin harmony And labor ends in song.

Two gray-haired sages, silvered o'er, In life meet once again, To name the wondrous happiness they bore Among their fellow-men.

Two graves forever hide the twain Who found, in all their years, No secret shadows, where unbroken pain Held fountains full of tears.

Two lives have pa.s.sed from human reach, And few have heard of them, But joy had not been better served if each Had worn a diadem.

Ah, bosoms here are strangely blest With perfect bliss that glows, And he above all others lives the best, Who has the fewest woes!

"AWAY, AWAY, FROM THE SULTRY WAYS."

Away, away, from the sultry ways Where the pleasures fall and fade, To the bannered corn and the meadowed bloom And the forest's cooling shade!

Afar, afar, from the rooms of care With the toils of life distressed, To the gra.s.sy hills and the fragrant slopes And the quiet vales of rest!

Away from the weary, dusty town, Where the sorrows dim the days, To the sleeping lake and the silent stream And the wildwood's tangled ways!

To margins wide of the woodland pools, Where the wild birds troll their songs, Where the lilies laugh and the willows wave, And the pleasures dance in throngs!

The dark-eyed nymphs and the fairy elves In their robes of laughing smiles, In the forests romp 'neath the leafy trees, Through the narrow long-drawn aisles.

The bannered corn and the golden wheat In the ties of bliss are bound; The sweetest joys and highest hopes On the shady farms are found.

The raptures reign in the holy scenes, And the old grow young once more, To roam the meadows and live again In the happy years of yore.

Then haste, O, haste, to the country downs, Where the valleys are sweet with joys, And the soul grows young, and the heart is light, And the bosom is like a boy's!

SPINSTERHOOD.

Alone, alone, in the twilight gray, In the shadows so dark and dim, I watch through all of the weary hours, And I wait with my heart for him; For him who'll come, when he comes at all, As my king and warrior bold; Whose form so tall is my fortress wall And whose heart is a chunk of gold.

Again, again, do I dream the dreams, All the dreams that my young heart knew, And through my soul do the yearnings thrill As of old they were wont to do; I know in truth when his face I see, I shall fall at his shining feet, Where'er it be and whoever is he, In the light of his glances sweet.

I wait in vain for the sounds that rise From the tread of his horse's hoof, And still the mists hide his form away And forever he stays aloof; His shining face and his eyes so bright In the shades of the distance hide, And out of the night with the stars bedight He hath never approached my side!

O, years, O, wonderful tide of years, From the shadows of time set free My king, my lover, my life, and bring To my heart what is most of me!

Somewhere in pain do his yearnings grope For the joys that my love would bring; O, up the slope of his life-long hope, Guide the feet of my royal king!

"SWEET FAIRIES FROM THE ISLES OF SONG."

Sweet fairies from the isles of song, Bewitching choirs from music land, The pleasures of your wondrous band Once wooed me from the ways of wrong; Once won my heart with fond caress To sacred vales of summer glees, Till carols fraught with lullabies Filled all my soul with blessedness!

My yearnings miss those gentle sprites, Whose laughing lips and angel eyes And voices ever winsome-wise, Bedewed my dreams with new delights; For in the sad hours of my pain I hold them as I hold the dead, And trust that in the vales they tread, My hands shall clasp their hands again.

From those glad meadows where they play 'Neath lovely sun and gentle star, My longing soul has wandered far On rocky path and th.o.r.n.y way; I croon again the notes of song In strains they taught me years ago, And weep because my sorrows know They have been absent for so long.

Return, O, laughing sprites of rest, From gentle isles and peaceful seas, And pour the balsamed wine of ease Upon the anguish of my breast!

Till gladness in her raptures roll Sweet strains of music, and I gain Eternal joy for all the pain That darkens o'er my weary soul!

STANZAS.

G.o.d bless the man who gave us rest And him who taught us play, For kindness reigned within his breast To all our sorrow slay; The weary heart, the fainting limb, The soul that droops in woe, Should most unceasing praise on him In grat.i.tude bestow.

He is the hero of the race, The toiling nation's friend, For pity smiles upon his face With joys that never end; He tears away the iron gyves That chain our best repose, And makes the deserts of our lives To blossom as the rose.

He pours his balms into the wound Of bosom weak and sad, Till holy pleasures flit around And all the heart is glad; Till all is sweet that here before Was wrapped in bitter woe, And only gladness hurries o'er The millions here below.

Great man he is, and him I give That grat.i.tude of mine, Which must in brilliance while I live With brightest glory shine, To wreathe a radiance always gay Around the worthy breast Of him who first discovered play And gave the nations rest.

MAKE THE MOST OF THIS LIFE.

Make the most of this life; where the shadow reposes The beams of the summer shall gather in glee, And the snow on the graves of the lilies and roses But cradles the blooms that shall whiten the lea; Though the hopes of the heart be encircled with sorrow And billows of wretchedness mutter and roll, There shall come with the morn of the bountiful morrow The pleasures that gladden the desolate soul.

Make the most of this life; where the carols are sleeping That rose in their rapture from lips of the spring, That awakened the world from its winter of weeping, Sweet songs shall be sung by the birds on the wing.

Though the bosom be dark with the dirges of sadness And solitudes gather so heavy and lone, There shall float from the musical meadows of gladness The ravishing measures that banish each groan.

Make the most of this life; 'tis a garden of beauty, Where, blushing, the blossoms grow tenderly-sweet, While they brighten the years of man's labor and duty And scatter the kisses of love at his feet; 'Tis a world that is wild with the laughter of living When hands do the brotherly kindness they can, And its hearts are the treasures of tenderness giving To soften and sweeten the nature of man.

Make the most of this life; there is happiness in it, When souls find a theme for their jubilant song; There is music, when angels are taught to begin it, Which never was marred with a murmur of wrong; There are voices that sing in their sweetness forever, And mutter no strains of contention or strife, Neither burden the hours with the pangs of endeavor, When we, with our deeds, make the most of this life.