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And ours is the ancient wisdom,

The lore of Earth and cloud:

We know what the awful lightnings mean, Wi-lo-lo-a-ne with arrows keen,

And the thunder crashing loud; And why with his glorious, burning shield His face the Sun-God hides,

As, glad from the east, while night recedes, Over the Path of Day he speeds

To his home in the ocean tides; For the Deathless One at eve must die, To flame anew in the nether sky, Must die, to mount when the Morning Star, First of his warrior-host afar,

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Bold at the dawning rides! And we carry our new-born children forth His earliest beams to face,

And pray he will make them strong and brave

As he looks from his shining place,
Wise in council and firm in war,
And fleet as the wind in the chase;
And why the Moon, the Mother of Souls,
On summer nights serene,

Fair from the azure vault of heaven
To Earth will fondly lean,

While her sister laughs from the tranquil

lake,

Soft-robed in rippling sheen;

For the Moon is the bride of the glowing

Sun,

But the Goddess of Love is she

Who beckons and smiles from the placid depths

Of the lake and the shell-strown sea.

We know why the down of the Northland

drifts

O'er wood and waste and hill;
And how the light-winged butterflies

To the brown fields summer bear,

And the balmy breath of the Corn-maids floats

In June's enchanted air;

And when to pluck the Medicine flowers On the brow of the mountain peak, The lilies of Té-na-tsa-li,

That brighten the faded cheek, And heal the wounds of the warrior And the hunter worn and weak; And where in the hills the crystal stones And the turquoise blue to seek; And how to plant the earliest maize, Sprinkling the sacred meal,

And setting our prayer-plumes in the midst
As full to the east we kneel,

The plumes whose life shall waft our wish
To the heights the skies conceal;
Nay, when the stalks are parched on the
plain

And the deepest springs are dry,
And the Water-God, the jewelled toad,
Is lost to every eye,

With song and dance and voice of flutes

That soothe the Regions Seven, We can call the blessed summer showers Down from the listening heaven! For ours is the lore of a dateless past, And we have power thereby, Power which our vanished fathers sought Through toil and watch and pain, Till the spirits of wood and wave and air To grant us help were fain; For we are the Ancient People, Born with the wind and rain.

HEAVEN, O LORD, I CANNOT LOSE

Now Summer finds her perfect prime; Sweet blows the wind from western calms; On every bower red roses climb;

The meadows sleep in mingled balms. Nor stream, nor bank the wayside by, But lilies float and daisies throng; Nor space of blue and sunny sky

That is not cleft with soaring song. O flowery morns, O tuneful eves,

Fly swift! my soul ye cannot fill! Bring the ripe fruit, the garnered sheaves, The drifting snows on plain and hill. Alike, to me, fall frosts and dews; But Heaven, O Lord, I cannot lose!

Warm hands to-day are clasped in mine; Fond hearts my mirth or mourning share; And, over hope's horizon line,

The future dawns, serenely fair. Yet still, though fervent vow denies, I know the rapture will not stay; Some wind of grief or doubt will rise And turn my rosy sky to gray.

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In golden hours the angel Peace

Comes down and broods me with her wings:

I gain from sorrow sweet release;
I mate me with divinest things;
When shapes of guilt and gloom arise
And far the radiant angel flees,
My song is lost in mournful sighs,
My wine of triumph left but lees;
In vain for me her pinions shine,
And pure, celestial days begin;
Earth's passion-flowers I still must twine,
Nor braid one beauteous lily in.
Ah! is it good or ill I choose?
But Heaven, O Lord, I cannot lose!

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Charlotte Fiske Bates (MADAME ROGE)

A CHARACTER

His face is truly of the Roman mould,
He bears within the heart of Cato, too;
Although his look may seem severe and
cold,

He never would be false to truth or you.

And deepest feeling hides about the mouth;

His soul-wind blows not always from the north,

But sometimes also from the gentle south, And then, like flowers, the tender words steal forth.

The light and fickle still have love to spare,

If Death has taken from them even thrice;

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Hark to an exiled son's appeal,

Maryland!

My Mother State, to thee I kneel,
Maryland!

For life and death, for woe and weal,
Thy peerless chivalry reveal,
And gird thy beauteous limbs with steel,
Maryland, my Maryland !

Thou wilt not cower in the dust,

Maryland!

Thy beaming sword shall never rust, Maryland!

Remember Carroll's sacred trust, Remember Howard's warlike thrust, And all thy slumberers with the just, Maryland, my Maryland!

Come! 't is the red dawn of the day,
Maryland!

Come with thy panoplied array,
Maryland!

With Ringgold's spirit for the fray,
With Watson's blood at Monterey,
With fearless Lowe and dashing May,
Maryland, my Maryland!

Dear Mother, burst the tyrant's chain,
Maryland!

Virginia should not call in vain,
Maryland!

She meets her sisters on the plain,
"Sic semper!" 't is the proud refrain
That baffles minions back amain,
Maryland!

Arise in majesty again,

Maryland, my Maryland !

Come for thy shield is bright and strong, Maryland!

Come! for thy dalliance does thee wrong,
Maryland!

Come to thine own heroic throng
Stalking with Liberty along,

And chant thy dauntless slogan-song,
Maryland, my Maryland !

I see the blush upon thy cheek,

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