SONNET: DECEMBER MORNING. ANNA SEWARD (LICHFIELD, ENGLAND-1747-1809). I love to rise ere gleams the tardy light, SONG OF DEATH. ANONYMOUS (BRITISH-19TH CENTURY). Shrink not, O human Spirit, The Everlasting Arm is strong to save! Quickly goes down the sun; Fruitless endeavor, hope deferred, and strife! One pang, and then is o'er All the long, mournful, weariness of life. Come now and look your last! And his last blessing hear, See how he loved you who departeth now! Whose breast he leaned upon, Receive his parting breath! The fluttering spirit panteth to be free, Hail, hail, enfranchised Spirit! Thou that the wine-press of the field hast trod! No more art trammelled by the oppressive clay, Of truths sublime, up Heaven's crystalline way. This city's name is Rest; Here shall no fear appal; Here love is all in all; Here shalt thou win thy ardent soul's desire; And this fair shining band Are spirits of thy land! And these who throng to meet thee are thy kin, Who have awaited thee, redeemed from sin! -The city's gates unfold-enter, oh! enter in! SONNET: COMPARISON. ANONYMOUS (BRITISH-19th Century). The lake lay hid in mist, and to the sand The little billows hastening silently Came sparkling on, in many a gladsome band, O Thou who weighest the waters in thine hand, THE CROCUS'S SOLILOQUY. Miss Hannah Flagg Gould (1789-1865), by whom the following little poem was written, was a native of Lancaster, Vt., but subsequently resided in Newburyport, Mass. A volume of her poems appeared in 1832; another in 1836; and a third in 1841. Down in my solitude under the snow, Where nothing cheering can reach me, Here, without light to see how to grow, I'll trust to nature to teach me. I will not despair, nor be idle, nor frown, My leaves shall run up, and my roots shall run down, Soon as the frost will get out of my bed, From this cold dungeon to free me, I will peer up with my little bright head; All will be joyful to see me. Then from my heart will young petals diverge, I from the darkness of earth will emerge, Gayly arrayed in my yellow and green, When to their view I have risen, Will they not wonder that one so serene Came from so dismal a prison? Many, perhaps, from so simple a flower THE MANAGING MAMMA. ANONYMOUS (BRITISH-19TH CENTURY). She walketh up and down the marriage mart, She tries each would-be suitor in the scale- A RIDDLE ON THE LETTER H. MISS CATHERINE M. FANSHAWE (ENGLAND-1764-1834). 'Twas whispered in heaven, 'twas muttered in bell, And echo caught faintly the sound as it fell; On the confines of earth 'twas permitted to rest, And the depths of the ocean its presence confessed. "Twill be found in the sphere, when 'tis riven asun der, Be seen in the lightning, and heard in the thunder, crowned. Without it the soldier, the seaman may roam, But woe to the wretch who expels it from home. In the whispers of conscience its voice will be found, Nor e'en in the whirlwind of passion is drowned. "Twill not soften the heart; and though deaf be the ear, It will make it acutely and instantly hear. Yet in shade let it rest like a delicate flower, Ah, breathe on it softly-it dies in an hour. |