Nevertheless all merrily

We bounded onward, Youth and I,

Leashed closely in a silken tether:
(Well-a-day, well-a-day!)

Ah Youth, ah Youth, but I would fain
See thy sweet foolish face again!

It came to pass, one morn of May,

All in a swoon of golden weather, That I through green leaves fluttering Saw Joy uprise on Psyche wing: Eagerly, too eagerly

We followed after-Youth and I

Till suddenly he slipped the tether:
(Well-a-day, well-a-day!)

"Where art thou, Youth?" I cried. In vain; He never more came back again.

Yet onward through the devious way

In rain or shine, I recked not whether,
Like many another maddened boy
I tracked my Psyche-winged Joy;
Till, curving round the bowery lane,
Lo-in the pathway stood pale Pain,

And we met face to face together:
(Well-a-day, well-a-day!)

"Whence comest thou?"-and I writhed in vain

"Unloose thy cruel grasp, O Pain!"

But he would not. Since, day by day
He has ta'en up Youth's silken tether

And changed it into iron bands,
So through rich vales and barreu lands
Solemnly, all solemnly

March we united, he and I;

And we have grown such friends together (Well-a-day, well-a-day !)

I and this my brother Pain,

I think we'll never part again.

All the mysteries of the churches,

All the troubles of the stateWhom child-smiles teach "God is loving," And child-coffins, "God is great: " Laborare est orare:

We too at His footstool wait.

Laborare est orare;

Hear it, ye of spirit poor,

Who sit crouching at the threshold
While your brethren force the door;
Ye whose ignorance stands wringing
Rough hands, seamed with toil, nor dares
Lift so much as eyes to heaven-

Lo! all life this truth declares,
Laborare est orare;

And the whole earth rings with prayers.

A SILLY SONG.

"O HEART, my heart!" she said, and heard
His mate the blackbird calling,
While through the sheen of the garden green
May rain was softly falling-
Ay, softly, softly falling.

The butter-cups across the field

Made sunshine rifts of splendor:

The round snow-bud of the thorn in the wood
Peeped through its leafage tender,
As the rain came softly falling.

"O heart, my heart!" she said and smiled, "There's not a tree of the valley,

Or a leaf I wis which the rain's soft kiss
Freshens in yonder alley,

Where the drops keep ever falling,—

"There's not a foolish flower i' the grass,
Or bird through the woodland calling,
So glad again of the coming of rain
As I of these tears now falling-
These happy tears down falling."

LABOR IS PRAYER.

LABORARE est orare:

We, black-visaged sons of toil,

From the coal-mine and the anvil

And the delving of the soil

From the loom, the wharf, the warehouse, And the ever-whirling mill,

Out of grim and hungry silence

Raise a weak voice small and shrill ;Laborare est orare:

Man, dost hear us? God, He will.
We who just can keep from starving,
Sickly wives-not always mild:
Trying not to curse Heaven's bounty
When it sends another child-
We who, worn out, doze on Sundays
O'er the Book we strive to read,
Cannot understand the parson

Or the catechism and creed.
Laborare est orare :-

Then, good sooth, we pray indeed. We, poor women, feeble-natured,

Large of heart, in wisdom small, Who the world's incessant battle Cannot understand at all,

AN HONEST VALENTINE.

Returned from the Dead-Letter Office.

THANK ye for your kindness,
Lady fair and wise,

Though love's famed for blindness,
Lovers-hem! for lies.
Courtship's mighty pretty,
Wedlock a sweet sight;-
Should I (from the city,

A plan man, Miss-) write,
Ere we spouse-and-wive it,
Just one honest line,
Could you e'er forgive it,
Pretty Valentine?

Honey-moon quite over,

If I less should scan You with eye of lover

Than of mortal man?

Seeing my fair charmer

Curl hair spire on spire,
All in paper armour,

By the parlor-fire;
Gown that wants a stitch in
Hid by apron fine,
Scolding in her kitchen-
O fie, Valentine!

Should I come home surly
Vexed with Fortune's frown,
Find a hurly-burly,

House turned upside down, Servants all a-snarl, or

Cleaning steps or stair: Breakfast still in parlor, Dinner-anywhere: Shall I to cold bacon Meekly fall and dine? No-or I'm mistaken

Much, my Valentine.

What if we should quarrel?

-Bless you, all folks do:

Will you take the war ill,
Yet half like it too?
When I storm and jangle,
Obstinate, absurd,
Will you sit and wrangle

Just for the last word,-
Or, while poor Love crying
Upon tiptoe stands,
Ready plumed for flying-

Will you smile, shake hands, And the truth beholding,

With a kiss divine

Stop my rough mouth's scolding?-
Bless you, Valentine!

If, should times grow harder,
We have lack of pelf,
Little in the larder,
Less upon the shelf;
Will you, never tearful,

Make your old gowns do,
Mend my stockings, cheerful,
And pay visits few ?
Crave nor gift nor donor,

Old days ne'er regret,
Seek no friend save Honor,
Dread no foe but Debt;
Meet ill-fortune steady,

Hand to hand with mine,
Like a gallant lady-

Will you, Valentine?
Then, whatever weather
Come-or shine, or shade,
We'll set out together,
Not a whit afraid.
Age is ne'er alarming-
I shall find, I ween,

You at sixty charming

As at sweet sixteen: Let's pray, nothing loath, dear, That our funeral may Make one date serve both, dear, As our marriage-day. Then, come joy or sorrow, Thou art mine-I thine. So we'll wed to-morrow, Dearest Valentine.

BY THE ALMA RIVER.

toy:

WILLIE, fold your little hands;
Let it drop, that "soldier
Look where father's picture stands-
Father, who here kissed his boy
Not two months since-father kind,
Who this night may- Never mind
Mother's sob, my Willie dear,
Call aloud that He may hear
Who is God of battles, say,
"Oh, keep father safe this day
By the Alma River.".

Ask no more, child. Never heed

Either Russ, or Frank, or Turk, Right of nations or of creed,

Chance-poised victory's bloody work: Any flag i' the wind may roll

On thy heights, Sebastopol;

Willie, all to you and me

Is that spot where'er it be,

Where he stands-no other word!

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Stands-God sure the child's prayer heardBy the Alma River.

Willie, listen to the bells

Ringing through the town to-day.
That's for victory. Ah, no knells
For the many swept away-
Hundreds-thousands! Let us weep,
We who need not-just to keep
Reason steady in my brain
Till the morning comes again,
Till the third dread morning tell
Who they were that fought and fell
By the Alma River.

Come, we'll lay us down, my child,
Poor the bed is, poor and hard;
Yet thy father, far exiled,

Sleeps upon the open sward,
Dreaming of us two at home:
Or beneath the starry dome
Digs out trenches in the dark,
Where he buries-Willie, mark-
Where he buries those who died
Fighting bravely at his side
By the Alma River.

Willie, Willie, go to sleep,

God will keep us, O my boy;
He will make the dull hours creep
Faster, and send news of joy,
When I need not shrink to meet
Those dread placards in the street,
Which for weeks will ghastly stare
In some eyes- Child, say thy prayer
Once again; a different one;
Say, "O God, Thy will be done
By the Alma River."

ROTHESAY BAY.

Fu' yellow lie the corn-rigs
Far doun the braid hill-side;
It is the brawest harst-field

Alang the shores o' Clyde

And I'm a puir harst-lassie

That stan's the lee-lang day Shearing the corn-rigs of Ardbeg Aboon sweet Rothesay Bay.

OI had ance a true-love

Now, I hae nane ava; And I had ance three brithers, But I hae tint them a'. My father and my mither

Sleep i' the mools this day. I sit my lane amang the rigs Aboon sweet Rothesay Bay.

It's a bonnie bay at morning,

And bonnier at the noon,

But it's bonniest when the sun draps
And red comes up the moon;
When the mist creeps o'er the Cumbrays,
And Arran peaks are gray,

And the great black hills, like sleepin' kings,
Sit grand roun' Rothesay Bay.

Then a bit sigh stirs my bosom,

And a wee tear blin's my e'eAnd I think o' that far Countrie What I wad like to be! But I rise content i' the morning To wark while wark I may I' the yellow harst-field of Ardbeg Aboon sweet Rothesay Bay.

Nay, sometimes seems it I could even bear
To lay down humbly this love-crown I wear,
Steal from my palace, helpless, hopeless, poor,
And see another queen it at the door-
If only that the king had done no wrong,
If this my palace, where I dwelt so long,
Were not defiled by falsehood entering in:
There is no loss but change, no death but sin,
No parting, save the slow corrupting pain
Of murdered faith that never lives again.

O live!

(So endeth faint the low pathetic cry
Of love, whom death has taught love cannot
die.)

And I can stand above the daisy-bed,
The only pillow for thy dearest head,
There cover up forever from my sight
My own, my earthly all of earth delight;
And enter the sea-cave of widowed years,
Where far, far off the trembling gleam appears
Through which thy heavenly image slipped away,
And waits to meet me at the open day.
Only to me, my love, only to me.

This cavern underneath the moaning sea;
This long, long life that I alone must tread,
To whom the living seem most like the dead-
Thou wilt be safe out on the happy shore:
He who in God lives, liveth evermore.

LIVING:

AFTER A DEATH.

"That friend of mine who lives in God."

O LIVE!

(Thus seems it we should say to our belovedEach held by such slight links, so oft removed ;) And I can let thee go to the world's end,

All precious names, companion, love, spouse, friend,

Seal up in an eternal silence gray,
Like a closed grave till resurrection-day:
All sweet remembrances, hopes, dreams, de-
sires,

Heap, as one heaps up sacrificial fires:
Then, turning, consecrate by loss, and proud
Of penury-go back into the loud

Tumultuous world again with never a moanSave that which whispers still, "My own, my own,"

Unto the same broad sky whose arch immense
Enfolds us both like the arm of Providence:
And thus, contented, I could live or die,
With never clasp of hand or meeting eye
On this side Paradise-While thee I see
Living to God, thou art alive to me.

O live!

And I, methinks, can let all dear rights go,
Fond duties melt away like April snow,

And sweet, sweet hopes, that took a life to

weave,

Vanish like gossamers of autumn eve.

IN OUR BOAT.

STARS trembling o'er us and sunset before us,
Mountains in shadow and forests asleep;
Down the dim river we float on forever,
Speak not, ah breathe not-there's peace on
the deep.

Come not, pale Sorrow, flee till to-morrow,
Rest softly falling o'er eyelids that weep;
While down the river we float on forever,
Speak not, ah breathe not, there's peace on
the deep.

As the waves cover the depths we glide over,
So let the past in forgetfulness sleep,
While down the river we float on forever,
Speak not, ah breathe not, there's peace on
the deep.

Heaven shine above us, bless all that love us,
All whom we love in thy tenderness keep!
While down the river we float on forever,
Speak not, ah breathe not, there's peace on
the deep.

THE NIGHT BEFORE THE MOWING.

ALL shimmering in the morning shine
And diamonded with dew,
And quivering in the scented wind
That thrills its green heart through-
The little field, the smiling field
With all its flowers a-blowing,
How happy looks the golden field
The day before the mowing!

All still 'neath the departing light,

Twilight, though void of stars, Save where, low westering, Venus hides From the red eye of Mars; How quiet lies the silent field

With all its beauties glowing: Just stirring-like a child asleepThe night before the mowing.

Sharp steel, inevitable hand,

Cut keen, cut kind! Our field We know full well must be laid low Before its wealth it yield: Labor and mirth and plenty blest

Its blameless death bestowing: And yet we weep, and yet we weep, The night before the mowing.

OCTOBER.

It is no joy to me to sit

On dreamy summer eves,

When silently the timid moon

Kisses the sleeping leaves,

And all things through the fair hushed earth Love, rest-but nothing grieves.

Better I like old Autumn

With his hair tossed to and fro, Firm striding o'er the stubble-fields When the equinoctials blow.

When shrinkingly the sun creeps up
Through misty mornings cold,
And Robin on the orchard-hedge
Sings cheerily and bold,
While heavily the frosted plum

Drops downward on the mould-
And as he passes, autumn

Into earth's lap does throw
Brown apples gay in a game of play,
As the equinoctials blow.

When the spent year its carol sinks
Into a humble psalm,

Asks no more for the pleasure-draught,
But for the cup of balm,

And all its storms and sunshine bursts
Controls to one brave calm-

Then step by step walks Autumn,

With steady eyes that show

Nor grief nor fear, to the death of the year, While the equinoctials blow.

PLIGHTED.

MINE to the core of the heart, my beauty!
Mine, all mine, and for love, not duty:
Love given willingly, full and free,
Love for love's sake-as mine to thee.

Duty's a slave that keeps the keys,
But Love, the master, goes in and out
Of his goodly chambers with song and shout,
Just as he please-just as he please.

Mine, from the dear head's crown, brown-golden,
To the silken foot that 's scarce beholden;

Give a few friends hand or smile,
Like a generous lady, now and awhile,

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But the sanctuary heart, that none dare win, Keep holiest of holiest evermore;

The crowd in the aisles may watch the door,
The high-priest only enters in.

Mine, my own, without doubts or terrors,
With all thy goodnesses, all thy errors,
Unto me and to me alone revealed,

A spring shut up, a fountain sealed."
Many may praise thee-praise mine as thine,
Many may love thee-I'll love them too:
But thy heart of hearts, pure, faithful and true,
Must be mine, mine wholly, and only mine.

Mine! God, I thank Thee that Thou hast given

Something all mine on this side heaven:
Something as much myself to be

As this my soul which I lift to Thee:
Flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone,
Life of my life, whom Thou dost make

Two to the world for the world's work's sake

But each unto each, as in Thy sight, one.