O maiden, proud to hold a hero's name Close in thy prayerful silence, blameless: lo, Transfigured in the light of love and fame, They come, the bearers of the unbended bow! "The strife is hushed, O Land!"-this voice is plain"The bow of Peace is borne from door to door : May thy dread power be never tried again; AUTHOR UNKNOWN. [The following is a specimen of Negro Hymn-writing. It was in actual use, with musical accompaniment, among the slaves of the Southern States]. LITTLE CHILDREN, THEN WON'T YOU BE GLAD? (ARKANSAS.) LITTLE children, then won't you be glad, That you have been to heaven, an' you're gwine to go again, For to try on the long white robe? King Jesus he was so strong, my Lord, Don't you hear what de chariot say? Don't you 'member what you promise de Lord? A few fram summers had touched thee A Lady asks the Minstrel's rhyme A little and girl wandering A lovely sky, a cloudless sun A march in the ranks hard-pressed, and the road unknown A sight in camp in the daybreak grey and dim A silver javelin which the hills PACE 160 133 174 308 285 34 242 197 316 A sound of tumult troubles all the air A weary, wandering scui am I A whisper woke the air Aboard, at a ship's helm Above the petty passions of the crowd Above the sunken sun the clouds are fired All grim and sciled and brown with tan Absence from thee is something worse than death Am I not all alone!-The world is stil As plains the homesick ocean-shell As sunbeams stream through liberal space As when the haze of some wan moonlight makes At midnight, in his guarded tent At midnight, in the month of June At the last, tenderly Ay, thou art welcome, heaven's delicious breath 183 450 232 73 385 31 Come, I will make the continent indissoluble Come up from the fields, father, here's a letter from our Pete Fair isle that from the fairest of all flowers Farewell, dear child, my heart's too much content For this present, hard face to face For those who worship thee there is no death Four points divide the skies From all the rest I single out you, having a message for y Give me the splendid silent sun, with all his beams full-dazzling Go forth in life, O friend! not seeking love God! do not let my loved-one die Hail to the land whereon we tread Hark! I hear the tramp of thousands 442 He was a brick: let this be said 462 How soon, my dear, death may my steps attend I am the Muse who sung alway I had been tossing through the restless night 7 500 4 119 496 I looked to find a man who walked with God I saw a Sower walking slow I sometimes sit beneath a tree 182 196 187 238 504 130 359 401 37 29 384 In feeling I was but a child In from the night In Heaven a spirit doth dwell In midnight sleep, of many a face of anguish In some old realm. we read, when war had come In the greenest of our valleys In the old days (a custom laid aside PAGE 445 447 208 320 202 In times of old, as we are told Into the sunshine out of shade It is time to be old 194 406 It is done It melts and seethes, the chaos that shall grow It was many and many a year ago 184 124 403 203 Just God!-and these are they 172 Knows he who tills this lonely field 62 Light up thy homes, Columbia Little children, then won't you be glad 494 507 Little thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clown 61 Lo! Death has reared himself a throne O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done O thou who once on earth beneath the weight O weary heart, there is a rest for thee Of him I love day and night, I dreamed I heard he was dead Oh did you see him in the street, dressed up in army-blue Oh for an angel's wing Oh for one draught of cooling northern air Oh pour upon my soul again Oh take my hand, Walt Whitman Oh thicker, deeper, darker growing 121 505 239 157 502 363 156 321 490 127 199 Oh whither sail you, Sir John Franklin? On a mound an Arab lay Once more without you!-sighing, dear, once more 88 395 Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary One by one they died Our love is not a fading earthly flower Out of the cradle endlessly rocking Outwearied with the littleness and spite Over the mountain wave, see where they come Pensive, on her dead gazing, I heard the Mother of All. Poor impious soul, that fixes its high hopes Rise, O days, from your fathomless deeps, till you loftier, fiercer sweep . Room for a soldier! lay him in the clover Roving, roving, as it seems Sad is the thought of sunniest days Said Christ our Lord, I will go and see She came in Spring, when leaves were green Spirit that breathest through my lattice, thou Stern be the Pilot in the dreadful hour Take this kiss upon the brow Tears! tears! tears! 135 429 58 179 176 25 506 188 215 Thank Heaven! the crisis 210 Thanks to the morning light The bees in the clover are making honey, and I am making my hay |