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Company for their permission to use the poem by R. W. Gilder; to Charles Scribner's Sons, for their permission to use the poems of R. H. Stoddard, Sidney Lanier, and J. G. Holland; to J. B. Lippincott & Co., for the use of the poem by George Henry Boker; to S. C. Griggs & Co., for the use of poems of Benjamin F. Taylor, and to W. S. Gottsberger & Co., for use of poems by Rose Terry Cooke.
The poems by H. W. Longfellow, T. B. Aldrich, R. W. Emerson, E. R. Sill, E. C. Stedman, Bayard Taylor, Celia Thaxter, Oliver Wendell Holmes, W. D. Howells, Lucy Larcom, James Russell Lowell, John G. Whittier, Charles Henry Webb, and James T. Fields are used by permission of and by arrangement with Houghton, Mifflin & Co., publishlishers of their books.
The editor also gratefully acknowledges the kindness and courtesy of the authors who have permitted him to use their
A TREASURY OF
THE DAY IS DONE.
The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night,
From an eagle in his flight.
I see the lights of the village
Gleam through the rain and the mist:
That my soul cannot resist :
A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
As the mist resembles the rain.
Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
And banish the thoughts of day.
Not from the grand old masters,
Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of Time.
For, like strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest Life's endless toil and endeavor;
And to-night I long for rest.
Read from some humbler poet,
Whose songs gush'd from his heart, As showers from the clouds of summer,
Or tears from the eyelids start;
Who, through long days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease, Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.
Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care, And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.
Then read from the treasured volume
The poem of thy choice;
The beauty of thy voice.
And the night shall be fill’d with music,
And the cares, that infest the day, Shall fold their tents like the Arabs, And as silently steal away.
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. TO MEMORY.
O MEMORY! thou fond deceiver,
Still importunate and vain,
And turning all the past to pain ;
Thou, like the world, the opprest oppressing,
Thy smiles increase the wretch's woe;
In thee must ever find a foe.
THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES.
I HAVE had playmates, I have had companions,
I have been laughing, I have been carousing, Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies ; All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
I loved a love once, fairest among women:
I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man;