What hope is here for modern rhyme These mortal lullabies of pain May bind a book, may line a box, May serve to curl a maiden's locks, Or when a thousand moons shall wane, A man upon a stall may find, And, passing, turn the page that tells But what of that? My darkened ways Ring out the old, ring in the new, Ring out the grief that saps the mind Ring out a slowly dying cause, And ancient forms of party strife; Ring out the want, the care, the sin, Ring out false pride in place and blood, Ring out old shapes of foul disease; Ring out the narrowing lust of gold; Ring out the thousand wars of old; Ring in the thousand years of peace. Ring in the valiant man and free, The larger heart, the kindlier hand; Ring out the darkness of the land,Ring in the Christ that is to be. The churl in spirit, up or down The churl in spirit, howe'er he veil His want in forms for fashion's sake, For who can always act? But he, Best seemed the thing he was; and joined Each office of the social hour To noble manners, as the flower And native growth of noble mind. Nor ever narrowness or spite, Or villain fancy fleeting by, Drew in the expression of an eye And thus he bore without abuse ALFRED TENNYSON. "Softly woo away her breath." SOFTLY WOO AWAY HER @OFTLY woo away her breath, Let her leave thee with no strife, She hath done her bidding here, Bear her perfect soul above, Forever, evermore! BRYAN W. PROCTER. PARTING AND DEATH. (From Michael Angelo.") ARTING with friends is temporary death, A THE PHANTOM. GAIN I sit within the mansion, As all death is. We see no more their And shade and sunshine chase each other faces, Nor hear their voices, save in memory; But messages of love give us assurance No message of remembrance? It may be Sudden as inspiration, are the whispers As quiet as the lake that lies beneath me, O'er the carpet at my feet. But the sweet-brier's arms have wrestled upwards In the summers that are past, And the willow trails its branches lower They strive to shut the sunshine wholly To fill the house, that once was joyful, And many kind, remembered faces They sing, in tones that are as glad as ever, And still, her footsteps in the passage, Of heaven among the blessed souls ascended, Her timid words of maiden welcome, Who living in the faith and dying for it, HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. Come back to me once more. And, all forgetful of my sorrow, Unmindful of my pain, I think she has but newly left me, She stays without, perchance, a moment, I hear the rustle of her garments, O fluttering heart! control thy tumult, She tarries long; but lo! a whisper And, gliding through the quiet sunshine, Ah! 'tis the whispering pine that calls me, But my heart grows sick with weary waiting, Her foot is ever at the threshold, BAYARD TAYLOR. his anger; Only, alas! the poor, who had neither friends nor attendants, Crept away to die in the almshouse, home of the homeless. Then in the suburbs it stood, in the midst of meadows and woodlands; Now the city surrounds it; but still, with its gateway and wicket, Meek, in the midst of splendor, its humble walls seem to echo Softly, the words of the Lord: "The poor ye always have with you." Thither, by night and day, came the sister of Mercy. The dying Looked up into her face, and thought, indeed, to behold there Gleams of celestial light encircle her forehead with splendor, Such as the artist paints o'er the brows of saints and apostles, Or such as hangs by night o'er a city seen at a distance. Unto their eyes it seemed the lamps of the city celestial, Into whose shining gates their spirits ere long would enter. Thus, on a Sabbath morn, through the streets, deserted and silent, Wending her quiet way, she entered the door of the almshouse. Sweet on the summer air was the odor of flowers in the garden, That the dying once more might rejoice in their splendor and beauty. Then, as she mounted the stairs to the corridors, cooled by the east wind, Distant and soft on her ear fell the chimes Sounds of psalms that were sung by the Something within her said: "At length thy trials are ended;" And, with light in her looks, she entered the chambers of sickness. Noiselessly moved about the assiduous, careful attendants, Moistening the feverish lip, and the aching brow, and in silence Closing the sightless eyes of the dead, and concealing their faces, Where on their pallets they lay, like drifts of snow by the roadside. Many a languid head, upraised as Evangeline entered, Turned on its pillow of pain to gaze while she passed, for her presence Fell on their hearts like a ray of sun on the walls of a prison. And, as she looked around, she saw how Death, the consoler, Laying his hand upon many a heart, had healed it forever. Many familiar forms had disappeared in the night time; Vacant their places were, or filled already by strangers. Suddenly, as if arrested by fear or a feeling of wonder, Still she stood, with her colorless lips apart, while a shudder Ran through her frame, and, forgotten, the flowers dropped from her fingers, And from her eyes and cheeks the light and bloom of the morning; Then there escaped from her lips a cry of such terrible auguish That the dying heard it and started up from their pillows. On the pallet before her was stretched the form of an old man ; And she paused on her way to gather the fair- Long, and thin, and gray, were the locks that est among them, shaded his temples; |