But colder still the cold winds blew, And deeper still the deep drifts grew, And his mare, a beautiful Morgan brown, At last in her struggles floundered down, Where a log in a hollow lay. In vain, with a neigh and a frenzied snort, She plunged in the drifting snow, While her master urged, till his breath grew short, With a word and a gentle blow; But the snow was deep, and the tugs were tight; His hands were numb and had lost their might; So he wallowed back to his half-filled sleigh, And strove to shelter himself till day, With his coat and buffalo. 'Tis the hour of midnight past; The old trees writhe and bend no more In the whirl of the rushing blast. The silent moon with her peaceful light Looks down on the hills with snow all white, And the giant shadow of Camel's But cold and dead by the hidden log And his beautiful Morgan brown, He has given the last faint jerk of In the wide snow-desert, far and the rein, To rouse up his dying steed; And the poor dog howls to the blast in vain For help in his master's need. For awhile he strives with a wistful cry To catch a glance from his drowsy eye, grand, With his cap on his head and the reins in his hand, The dog with his nose on his master's feet, And the mare half seen through the crusted sleet, Where she lay when she floundered down. GEORGE ELIOT (MARIAN EVANS CROSS). O MAY I JOIN THE CHOIR O MAY I join the choir invisible In minds made better by their presence; live In pulses stirred to generosity, In deeds of daring rectitude, in scorn Of miserable aims that end with self, In thoughts sublime that pierce the night like stars, And with their mild persistence urge men's minds To vaster issues. So to live is heaven: To make undying music in the world, Breathing a beauteous order, that controls With growing sway the growing life of man. So we inherit that sweet purity For which we struggled, failed and agonized With widening retrospect that bred despair. Rebellious flesh that would not be A vicious parent shaming still its Die in the large and charitable air. That watched to ease the burden of Laboriously tracing what must be, within A worthier image for the sanctuary, Divinely human, raising worship so Shall fold its eyelids, and the human Be gathered like a scroll within the This is life to come, Which martyred men have made more glorious For us, who strive to follow. May I reach That purest heaven,-be to other souls The cup of strength in some great agony, Enkindle generous ardor, feed pure love, Beget the smiles that have no cruelty, And in diffusion ever more intense! JANE ELLIOT. THE FLOWers of the forest. I'VE heard the lilting at our ewe-milking, But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning - At buchts, in the morning, nae blithe lads are scorning, Nae daffin', nae gabbin', but sighing and sabbing, In hairst, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering, At e'en, at the gloaming, nae swankies are roaming, Dool and wae for the order sent our lads to the border The Flowers of the Forest, that foucht aye the foremost, Because my home is near. Why come they not? They do not come My breaking heart to meet! Oh, yes, they come!-they never fail My poor heart brightens when it meets The sunshine of their eyes. Again they come to meet me,-God! Wilt thou the thought forgive? If 'twere not for my dog and cat, I think I could not live. This heart is like a churchyard stone; Are all the friends I have; And yet my house is filled with friends, But foes they seem, and are. RANCE; My heart grows faint when home I But oh! I sigh when home I come, May God the thought forgive! If 'twere not for my dog and cat, I think I could not live. THE PRESS. GOD said, "Let there be light!" Grim darkness felt his might, And fled away; Then startled seas and mountains cold Shone forth, all bright in blue and gold, And cried,-"Tis day! 'tis day!" RALPH WALDO EMERSON. ODE. O TENDERLY the haughty day The cannon booms from town to town, Our pulses are not less, For he that worketh high and wise, Will take the sun out of the skies THE PROBLEM. I LIKE a church; I like a cowl; The joy-bells chime their tidings I love a prophet of the soul; down, Which children's voices bless. For he that flung the broad blue fold The men are ripe of Saxon kind United States! the ages plead,- For sea and land don't understand, Nor skies without a frown See rights for which the one hand fights By the other cloven down. And on my heart monastic aisles Fall like sweet strains, or pensive smiles; Yet not for all his faith can see Would I that cowled churchman be. Why should the vest on him allure, Which I could not on me endure? Not from a vain or shallow thought His awful Jove young Phidias brought, Never from lips of cunning, fell Wrought in a sad sincerity; Be just at home; then write your scroll Himself from God he could not free; Of honor o'er the sea, And bid the broad Atlantic roll A ferry of the free. And, henceforth, there shall be no chain, Save underneath the sea He builded better than he knew;The conscious stone to beauty grew. Knowest thou what wove yon woodbird's nest Of leaves, and feathers from her breast? The wires shall murmur through the Or how the fish outbuilt her shell, main Sweet songs of Liberty. The conscious stars accord above, And under, through the cable wove, Painting with morn each annual cell? |