We are all here! Even they, the dead,-though dead, so dear, Fond Memory, to her duty true, They're round us, as they were of old. We are all here, Father, mother, Sister, brother, You that I love with love so dear. CHARLES SPRAGUE. THE POET'S BRIDAL-DAY SONG. Oн, my love's like the steadfast sun, Or streams that deepen as they run; Nor hoary hairs, nor forty years, Nor moments between sighs and tears— Nor nights of thought, nor days of pain, Nor dreams of glory dream'd in vainNor mirth, nor sweetest song that flows To sober joys and soften woes, Can make my heart or fancy flee One moment, my sweet wife, from thee. Even while I muse I see thee sit In maiden bloom and matron wit- Fair, gentle as when first I sued, Yet my heart leaps as fond for thee As when, beneath Arbigland tree, Though I see smiling at thy feet Oh, when more thought we gave of old At times there come, as come there ought, ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. OLD FOLKS AT HOME. 'WAY down upon de Swannee Ribber, Far, far away,— Dare's wha my heart is turning ebber,— All up and down de whole creation We stay'd and woo'd, and thought the Still longing for de old plantation, moon Set on the sea an hour too soon; Or linger'd 'mid the falling dew, When looks were fond and words were few. And for de old folks at home. All de world am sad and dreary Eb'rywhere I roam; Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows weary, Far from de old folks at home! All 'round de little farm I wander'd When I was young; Den many happy days I squander'd,Many de songs I sung. When I was playing wid my brudder, Happy was I; Oh, take me to my kind old mudder! All de world am sad and dreary Eb'rywhere I roam; Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows weary, One little hut among de bushes,— Still sadly to my mem'ry rushes, No matter where I rove. When will I see de bees a-humming All round de comb? When will I hear de banjo tumming All de world am sad and dreary Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows weary, SONGS OF SEVEN. SEVEN TIMES ONE. EXULTATION. THERE'S no dew left on the daisies and clover, There's no rain left in heaven: I've said my "seven times" over and over, Seven times one are seven. I am old, so old, I can write a letter; The lambs play always, they know no better; They are only one times one. I hope if you have you will soon be forgiven, And shine again in your place. O velvet bee, you're a dusty fellow, O columbine, open your folded wrapper, And show me your nest with the young ones in it; I will not steal them away; I am old! you may trust me, linnet, linnet, I am seven times one to-day. SEVEN TIMES TWO. ROMANCE. You bells in the steeple, ring, ring out your changes, How many soever they be, And let the brown meadow-lark's note as he ranges Come over, come over to me. Yet bird's clearest carol by fall or by swelling No magical sense conveys, And bells have forgotten their old art of telling The fortune of future days. "Turn again, turn again," once they rang cheerily, While a boy listen'd alone; Made his heart yearn again, musing so wearily All by himself on a stone. O moon! in the night I have seen you Poor bells! I forgive you; your good sailing And shining so round and low; days are over, And mine, they are yet to be; You were bright! ah bright! but your No listening, no longing shall aught, aught light is failing, You are nothing now but a bow. discover: You leave the story to me. You moon, have you done something The foxglove shoots out of the green mat wrong in heaven That God has hidden your face? ted heather, Preparing her hoods of snow; She was idle, and slept till the sunshiny | You glow-worms, shine out, and the path way discover To him that comes darkling along the rough steep. Ah, my sailor, make haste, "Too deep for swift telling; and yet, my one lover, I've conn'd thee an answer, it waits thee to-night." By the sycamore pass'd he, and through the white clover, Then all the sweet speech I had fashion'd took flight; But I'll love him more, more SEVEN TIMES FOUR. HEIGH-HO! daisies and buttercups, Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall! When the wind wakes how they rock in the grasses, And dance with the cuckoo-buds slender and small! Here's two bonny boys, and here's mother's own lasses, Eager to gather them all. Hush nightingale, hush! O sweet night- Heigh-ho! daisies and buttercups! ingale, wait Till I listen and hear If a step draweth near, "The skies in the darkness stoop nearer and nearer, A cluster of stars hangs like fruit in the tree, Mother shall thread them a daisy chain; Sing them a song of the pretty hedge sparrow, That loved her brown little ones, loved them full fain; Sing, "Heart, thou art wide, though the house be but narrow," Sing once, and sing it again. The fall of the water comes sweeter, comes Heigh-ho! daisies and buttercups, A sunshiny world full of laughter and leisure, And fresh hearts unconscious of sorrow and thrall! Send down on their pleasure smiles passing its measure, God that is over us all! SEVEN TIMES FIVE. WIDOW HOOD. I SLEEP and rest, my heart makes moan Before I am well awake; "Let me bleed! oh let me alone, Since I must not break!" For children wake, though fathers sleep I lift mine eyes, and what to see I have not wish'd it to mourn with me- Oh, what anear but golden brooms, I shall not die, but live forlorn; Oh, to meet thee, my love, once more! No more to hear, no more to see; Oh, that an echo might wake, And waft one note of thy psalm to me I should know it how faint soe'er, Or once between the gates of gold, SEVEN TIMES SIX. To bear, to nurse, to rear, To bear, to nurse, to rear, To watch, and then to lose: This have I done when God drew near Among his own to choose. To hear, to heed, to wed, And with thy Lord depart In tears that he, as soon as shed, Will let no longer smart; To hear, to heed, to wed, This while thou didst I smiled, For now it was not God who said, "Mother, give ME thy child." Oh, fond, oh, fool, and blind, To God I gave with tears; But when a man like grace would find, My soul put by her fears. Oh, fond, oh, fool, and blind, God guards in happier spheres; That man will guard where he did bind Is hope for unknown years. To hear, to heed, to wed, Fair lot that maidens choose, Thy mother's tenderest words are said. She doth in naught accuse; SEVEN TIMES SEVEN. LONGING FOR HOME. A SONG of a boat: There was once a boat on a billow: Lightly she rock'd to her port remote, And the foam was white in her wake like snow, And her frail mast bow'd when the breeze would blow, And bent like a wand of willow. I shaded mine eyes one day when a boat Went curtseying over the billow, I mark'd her course till a dancing mote She faded out on the moonlit foam, And I stay'd behind in the dear loved home; And my thoughts all day were about the boat And my dreams upon the pillow. I pray you, what is the nest to me, And what is the shore where I stood to see Can I call that home where I anchor Though my good man has sail'd? THE QUAKER WIDOW. THEE finds me in the garden, Hannah,— The still and quiet company a peace may But blessed is the single heart that comes to us at need. Come, sit thee down! Here is the bench He loved to smell the sprouting box, and Go humming round the lilacs and through the apple trees. I think he loved the spring: not that he And in the spring (it happen'd so) our He was but seventy-five: I did not think In Kennett graveyard, where at Monthly The Father's mercy shows in this: 'tis Pick'd out to bear the heavy cross-alone in age-than he. We've lived together fifty years: it seems but one long day, One quiet Sabbath of the heart, till he was call'd away; Can I call that home where my nest 'was And as we bring from Meeting-time a set, Now all its hope hath fail'd? Nay, but the port where my sailor went, And the land where my nestlings be,— sweet contentment home, So, Hannah, I have store of peace for all the days to come. There is the home where my thoughts I mind (for I can tell thee now) how hard it was to know If I had heard the Spirit right, that told me I should go; |