THE PAUPER'S DEATH-BED BY CAROLINE ANNE BOWLES SOUTHEY Tread softly, bow the head, In reverent silence bow, No passing-bell doth toll, Yet an immortal soul Is passing now. Stranger! however great, With lowly reverence bow; There's one in that poor shedOne by that paltry bedGreater than thou. Beneath that beggar's roof, Lo! Death doth keep his state. Enter, no crowds attend; Enter, no guards defend This palace gate. That pavement, damp and cold, One silent woman stands, No mingling voices sound, A sob suppressed, — again That short deep gasp, and then — The parting groan. THE BOYS THAT RUN THE FURROW You can write it down as gospel, Are the boys that rule the world! It is written on the hilltops, In the fields where blossoms blend: Where the furrow has an end! The glory of the battle, Of clashing swords blood-red, Is nothing to the warfare Of the battle-hosts of bread! The waving banners of the fields O'er the broad land unfurled The boys that run the furrow Are the boys that rule the world! A LITTLE HAND BY FRANK L. STANTON Perhaps there are tenderer, sweeter things But I thank the Lord for His blessing, A little hand that softly stole When I needed the touch that I loved so much, Softer it seemed than the softest down It seemed to say in a strange, sweet way, And calmed my fears as my hot heart tears Perhaps there are tenderer, sweeter things THE DOORSTEP BY EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN The conference-meeting through at last, Not braver he that leaps the wall But no; she blushed and took my arm! I can't remember what we said, 'Twas nothing worth a song or story; Yet that rude path by which we sped Seemed all transformed and in a glory. The snow was crisp beneath our feet, The moon was full, the fields were gleaming; By hood and tippet sheltered sweet, Her face with youth and health was beaming. The little hand outside her muff O sculptor, if you could but mould it! So lightly touched my jacket-cuff, To have her with me there alone, 'T was love and fear and triumph blended. At last we reached the foot-worn stone Where that delicious journey ended. The old folks, too, were almost home; Yet on the doorstep still we lingered. She took her ringlets from her hood, And with a "Thank you, Ned," dissembled; But yet I knew she understood With what a daring wish I trembled. A cloud past kindly overhead, The moon was slyly peeping through it, Yet hid its face, as if it said, Come, now or never! do it! do it!" My lips till then had only known The kiss of mother and of sister, But somehow full upon her own Sweet, rosy, darling mouth I kissed her! Perhaps 'twas boyish love, yet still, To feel once more that fresh, wild thrill I'd give but who can live youth over? |