As tears will be remembrance in her heart
If she recall her lamp's familiar light,
And as a sword vain pity in her heart

If she should hear her children's cry to-night.

Ah Mary, Mother, stand by Heaven's gate
And watch the road for one who comes to find

In loneliness and fear what Heaven holds

To comfort her who leaves the earth behind.
Ethel Clifford [18

OUT OF HEARING

No need to hush the children for her sake,
Or fear their play:

She will not wake, mavrone, she will not wake.
'Tis the long sleep, the deep long sleep she'll take,
Betide what may.

No need to hush the children for her sake;

Even if their glee could yet again outbreak

So loud and gay,

She will not wake, mavrone, she will not wake. But sorrow a thought have they of merry-make This many a day:

No need to hush the children. For her sake

So still they bide and sad, her heart would ache
At their dismay.

She will not wake, mavrone, she will not wake
To bid them laugh, and if some angel spake

Small heed they'd pay.

No need to hush the children for her sake:

She will not wake, mavrone, she will not wake.
Jane Barlow [18

"JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO"

"JOHN ANDERSON, my jo, John,"

How cold you are, and still;
You hear me not, nor see me;
Ah, no, and never will.

The Graves of a Household

Your hands are resting now, John;

The heart that loved me so

Against my breast shall beat no more, "John Anderson, my jo."

"John Anderson, my jo, John," I'll tarry but a while;

I've still some work to do, John,

To go a weary mile;

And then I'll take your path, John,
And win you soon, I know,

For you will wait for your old wife,
"John Anderson, my jo."

Charles G. Blanden [1857–

3333

THE SPRING OF THE YEAR

GONE were but the winter cold,
And gone were but the snow,
I could sleep in the wild woods
Where primroses blow.

Cold's the snow at my head,

And cold at my feet;

And the finger of death's at my e'en,
Closing them to sleep.

Let none tell my father

Or my mother so dear,

I'll meet them both in heaven

At the spring of the year.

Allan Cunningham [1784-1842]

THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD

THEY grew in beauty, side by side,

They filled one home with glee; Their graves are severed far and wide

By mount, and stream, and sea.

The same fond mother bent at night
O'er each fair sleeping brow;
She had each folded flower in sight-
Where are those dreamers now?

One 'mid the forests of the West,
By a dark stream is laid;

The Indian knows his place of rest,

Far in the cedar shade.

The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one—
He lies where pearls lie deep;
He was the loved of all, yet none
O'er his low bed may weep.

One sleeps where southern vines are dressed
Above the noble slain;

He wrapped his colors round his breast
On a blood-red field of Spain.

And one-o'er her the myrtle showers

Its leaves, by soft winds fanned; She faded 'mid Italian flowers,

The last of that bright band.

And, parted thus, they rest who played
Beneath the same green tree,
Whose voices mingled as they prayed

Around one parent-knee!

They that with smiles lit up the hall,
And cheered with song the hearth;

Alas for love, if thou wert all,

And naught beyond, O Earth!

Felicia Dorothea Hemans [1793-1835]

THE FAMILY MEETING

WE are all here,

Father, mother,

Sister, brother,

All who hold each other dear.

Each chair is filled, we are all at home!

To-night let no cold stranger come;

It is not often thus around

Our old familiar hearth we're found.

Bless, then, the meeting and the spot,
For once be every care forgot;

Let gentle peace assert her power,
And kind affection rule the hour.
We're all-all here.

We're not all here!

Some are away,-the dead ones dear,
Who thronged with us this ancient hearth,
And gave the hour to guileless mirth.
Fate, with a stern, relentless hand,
Looked in and thinned our little band;
Some like a night-flash passed away,
And some sank lingering day by day;
The quiet grave-yard-some lie there,—
And cruel ocean has his share.

We're not all here!

We are all here.

Even they-the dead-though dead, so dear,
Fond memory, to her duty true,

Brings back their faded forms to view.
How life-like, through the mist of years,
Each well-remembered face appears!
We see them, as in times long past;
From each to each kind looks are cast;
We hear their words, their smiles behold,
They're 'round us as they were of old.
We are all here!

We are all here:

Father, mother,

Sister, brother,

You that I love with love so dear.

This may not long of us be said;
Soon must we join the gathered dead,
And by the hearth we now sit 'round
Some other circle will be found.

Oh, then, that wisdom may we know
Which yields a life of peace below;
So, in the world to follow this,
May each repeat, in words of bliss,
We're all-all here.

Charles Sprague (1791-1875]

THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS

We walked along, while bright and red
Uprose the morning sun;

And Matthew stopped, he looked, and said,
"The will of God be done!"

A village schoolmaster was he,
With hair of glittering gray;
As blithe a man as you could see

On a spring holiday.

And on that morning, through the grass,

And by the steaming rills,

We traveled merrily, to pass
A day among the hills.

"Our work," said I, "was well begun; Then, from thy breast what thought, Beneath so beautiful a sun,

So sad a sigh has brought?"

A second time did Matthew stop;
And fixing still his eye

Upon the eastern mountain-top,

To me he made reply:

"Yon cloud with that long purple cleft

Brings fresh into my mind

A day like this which I have left

Full thirty years behind.