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ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN-MARY ASHLEY TOWNSEND 329
Why rob these shadows of their sacred
Let the thick cobwebs hide the day once more;
Leave the dead years to silence and to dust,
And close again the long unopened door.
ROCK ME TO SLEEP
BACKWARD, turn backward, O Time, in your flight,
Make me a child again just for to-night! Mother, come back from the echoless shore, Take me again to your heart as of yore; Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care, Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair;
Over my slumbers your loving watch keep;
Rock me to sleep, mother, -rock me to sleep!
Backward, flow backward, O tide of the years!
I am so weary of toil and of tears,
Toil without recompense, tears all in vain,Take them, and give me my childhood
DOWN THE BAYOU
THE Cypress swamp around me wraps its spell,
With hushing sounds in moss-hung branches there,
Like congregations rustling down to prayer,
The scarlet lichen writes her rubrics well. The cypress-knees take on them marvellous shapes
Of pygmy nuns, gnomes, goblins, witches, fays,
The vigorous vine the withered gum-tree drapes,
Across the oozy ground the rabbit plays,
THE sea tells something, but it tells not all That rests within its bosom broad and deep; The psalming winds that o'er the ocean sweep
From compass point to compass point may call,
Nor half their music unto earth let fall;
Of life, which men can touch not nor lay bare:
Thus great in what he gives the world to grasp,
Is greater still in that which he withholds.
BREAK not his sweet repose
Thou whom chance brings to this sequestered ground,
The sacred yard his ashes close,
But go thy way in silence; here no sound Is ever heard but from the murmuring pines,
Answering the sea's near murmur;
Of anxious world or war's foregathering signs.
The bleaching flag, the faded wreath, Mark the dead soldier's dust beneath, And show the death he chose; Forgotten save by her who weeps alone, And wrote his fameless name on this low stone:
Break not his sweet repose.
COME, Walter Savage Landor, come this
Step through the lintel low, with prose or
Tallest of latter men; the early star
Strong at the root, and at the top, blossoms
Perennial. When culled the fields around Still calling up the great for wisest talk, Or singing clear some fresh, melodious stave,
Not sickly-sweet, but like ripe autumn fruit,
Of which not one but all the senses taste,
Here mayst thou air all day thine eloquence,
And I a never weary listener,
If thou at eve wilt sing one witty song, Or chant some line of cadenced, classic hymn.
THE wind blows wild on Bos'n Hill,
Then the dead Bos'n wakes in glee
To hear the storm-king's song; And from the top of mast-pine tree
He blows his whistle loud and long.
The village sailors hear the call,
He pipes the dead up from their graves, Whose bones the tansy hides;
He pipes the dead beneath the waves,
They hear and cleave the rising tides.
But sailors know when next they sail
Now dandelions in the short, new grass, Through all their rapid stages daily pass; No bee yet visits them; each has its place,
Still near enough to see the other's face. Unkenn'd the bud, so like the grass and ground
In our old country yards where thickest found;
Some morn it opes a little golden sun,
Lo! now it findeth wings and lightly flies,
Edmund Clarence Stedman
SONG FROM A DRAMA
THOU art mine, thou hast given thy word;
Thou art mine, I have made thee mine own;
Henceforth we are mingled forever: But in vain, all in vain, I endeavor Though round thee my garlands are thrown, And thou yieldest thy lips and thy zone To master the spell that alone
My hold on thy being can sever.
Thou art mine, thou hast come unto me! But thy soul, when I strive to be near it
The innermost fold of thy spirit Is as far from my grasp, is as free, As the stars from the mountain-tops be, As the pearl, in the depths of the sea, From the portionless king that would wear it.
I HAVE a little kinsman
Whose earthly summers are but three,
Greater than Drake or Frobisher,
And, far beyond the tether
Of them who seek the frozen Pole,
Has sailed where the noiseless surges roll.
Ay, he has travelled whither
Suddenly, in his fair young hour, Came one who bore a flower, And laid it in his dimpled hand With this command: "Henceforth thou art a rover ! Thou must make a voyage far, Sail beneath the evening star, And a wondrous land discover." - With his sweet smile innocent Our little kinsman went.
Since that time no word
Who can tell
How he fares, or answer well
From the pricking of his chart
Ah, no! not so!
We may follow on his track,
He is a brave discoverer
Of climes his elders do not know.