SONG

DAUGHTER of Egypt, veil thine eyes!

I cannot bear their fire;

Nor will I touch with sacrifice

Those altars of desire.

For they are flames that shun the day,
And their unholy light

Is fed from natures gone astray
In passion and in night.

The stars of Beauty and of Sin,
They burn amid the dark,
Like beacons that to ruin win

The fascinated bark.

Then veil their glow, lest I forswear The hopes thou canst not crown, And in the black waves of thy hair My struggling manhood drown!

BEDOUIN SONG

FROM the Desert I come to thee
On a stallion shod with fire;
And the winds are left behind

In the speed of my desire.
Under thy window I stand,

And the midnight hears my cry:
I love thee, I love but thee,
With a love that shall not die
Till the sun grows cold,
And the stars are old,

And the leaves of the Judgment
Book unfold!

Look from thy window and see
My passion and my pain;

I lie on the sands below,

And I faint in thy disdain.
Let the night-winds touch thy brow
With the heat of my burning sigh,
And melt thee to hear the vow
Of a love that shall not die
Till the sun grows cold,
And the stars are old,

And the leaves of the Judgment
Book unfold!

My steps are nightly driven,
By the fever in my breast,
To hear from thy lattice breathed
The word that shall give me rest.
Open the door of thy heart,
And open thy chamber door,

began,

She took what she gave to Man;
Justice, that knew no station,
Belief, as soul decreed,
Free air for aspiration,

Free force for independent deed!
She takes, but to give again,
As the sea returns the rivers in rain;
And gathers the chosen of her seed
From the hunted of every crown and creed.
Her Germany dwells by a gentler Rhine;
Her Ireland sees the old sunburst shine;
Her France pursues some dream divine;
Her Norway keeps his mountain pine;
Her Italy waits by the western brine;
And, broad-based under all,

Is planted England's oaken-hearted mood, As rich in fortitude

As e'er went worldward from the island

wall!

Fused in her candid light,

To one strong race all races here unite; Tongues melt in hers, hereditary foemen Forget their sword and slogan, kith and clan.

'T was glory, once, to be a Roman: She makes it glory, now, to be a man!

He was but seventy-five; I did not think to lay him yet

In Kennett graveyard, where at Monthly Meeting first we met.

The Father's mercy shows in this: 't is better I should be

Picked out to bear the heavy cross alone

than he.

in age We've lived together fifty years: it seems but one long day,

One quiet Sabbath of the heart, till he was called away;

And as we bring from Meeting-time a sweet contentment home,

So, Hannah, I have store of peace for all the days to come.

I mind (for I can tell thee now) how hard it was to know

If I had heard the spirit right, that told me I should go;

For father had a deep concern upon his mind that day,

But mother spoke for Benjamin, — she knew what best to say.

Then she was still: they sat awhile: at last she spoke again,

"The Lord incline thee to the right!" and "Thou shalt have him, Jane !" My father said. I cried. Indeed, 't was not the least of shocks,

For Benjamin was Hicksite, and father Orthodox.

I thought of this ten years ago, when daughter Ruth we lost:

Her husband's of the world, and yet I could not see her crossed.

She wears, thee knows, the gayest gowns, she hears a hireling priest

Ah, dear! the cross was ours: her life's a happy one, at least.

Perhaps she'll wear a plainer dress when she's as old as I,

Would thee believe it, Hannah? once I felt temptation nigh!

My wedding-gown was ashen silk, too simple for my taste;

I wanted lace around the neck, and a ribbon at the waist.

How strange it seemed to sit with him upon the women's side!

I did not dare to lift my eyes: I felt more fear than pride,

Till," in the presence of the Lord," he said, and then there came

A holy strength upon my heart, and I could say the same.

I used to blush when he came near, but then I showed no sign;

With all the meeting looking on, I held his hand in mine.

It seemed my bashfulness was gone, now I was his for life:

Thee knows the feeling, Hannah, — thee, too, hast been a wife.

As home we rode, I saw no fields look half so green as ours;

The woods were coming into leaf, the meadows full of flowers;

The neighbors met us in the lane, and every face was kind,

'Tis strange how lively everything comes back upon my mind.

I see, as plain as thee sits there, the weddingdinner spread:

At our own table we were guests, with father at the head;

And Dinah Passmore helped us both, 't was she stood up with me, And Abner Jones with Benjamin, — and now they're gone, all three !

It is not right to wish for death; the Lord disposes best.

His Spirit comes to quiet hearts, and fits them for His rest;

And that He halved our little flock was merciful, I see:

For Benjamin has two in heaven, and two are left with me.

Eusebius never cared to farm, 't was not his call, in truth,

And I must rent the dear old place, and go to daughter Ruth.

Thee 'll say her ways are not like mine, young people now-a-days

Have fallen sadly off, I think, from all the good old ways.

But Ruth is still a Friend at heart; she keeps the simple tongue,

The cheerful, kindly nature we loved when she was young;

And it was brought upon my mind, remembering her, of late,

That we on dress and outward things perhaps lay too much weight.

THE SONG OF THE CAMP

"GIVE us a song!" the soldiers cried,
The outer trenches guarding,
When the heated guns of the camps allied
Grew weary of bombarding.

The dark Redan, in silent scoff,

Lay, grim and threatening, under;
And the tawny mound of the Malakoff
No longer belched its thunder.

There was a pause. A guardsman said,
66 We storm the forts to-morrow;
Sing while we may, another day
Will bring enough of sorrow."

They lay along the battery's side,
Below the smoking cannon:
Brave hearts, from Severn and from Clyde,
And from the banks of Shannon.

They sang of love, and not of fame;

Forgot was Britain's glory:
Each heart recalled a different name,
But all sang "Annie Laurie."

Voice after voice caught up the song,
Until its tender passion

Rose like an anthem, rich and strong, -
Their battle-eve confession.

Dear girl, her name he dared not speak, But, as the song grew louder, Something upon the soldier's cheek

Washed off the stains of powder.

Beyond the darkening ocean burned
The bloody sunset's embers,
While the Crimean valleys learned
How English love remembers.

And once again a fire of hell

Rained on the Russian quarters, With scream of shot, and burst of shell, And bellowing of the mortars!

And Irish Nora's eyes are dim

For a singer, dumb and gory;
And English Mary mourns for him
Who sang of "Annie Laurie."

Sleep, soldiers! still in honored rest
Your truth and valor wearing:
The bravest are the tenderest,
The loving are the daring.