'Tis hard to change so late in life, but we must be resign'd: The Lord looks down contentedly upon a willing mind. BAYARD TAYLOR. MY OLD KENTUCKY HOME. THE sun shines bright in our old Kentucky home; "Tis summer, the darkeys are gay; The corn top's ripe and the meadows in the bloom, While the birds make music all the day; The young folks roll on the little cabin floor, All merry, all happy, all bright; By'm by hard times comes a-knockin' at the door, Then, my old Kentucky home, goodnight! Weep no more, my lady; O, weep no more to-day! We'll sing one song for the old Kentucky home, For our old Kentucky home far away. A few more days to tote the weary load, Weep no more, my lady; O, weep no more to-day! We'll sing one song for the old Kentucky home, For our old Kentucky home far away. STEPHEN COLLINS FOSTER. THE HOUSEHOLD WOMAN. And lovely, too, when o'er the strings As if from heaven to claim the tone. And fair is she when mental flowers But never, in her varied sphere, CAROLINE GILMAN. LEMUEL'S SONG. WHO finds a woman good and wise, To live by spoil he needeth not. No wrong she willingly will do; For wool and flax her searches be, And cheerful hands she puts thereto. The merchant-ship, resembling right, Her loins with courage up she ties; Her arms with vigor strengthened are. If in her work she profit feel, By night her candle goes not out: She puts her finger to the wheel, Her hand the spindle turns about. To such as poor and needy are Her hand (yea, both hands) reacheth she. The winter none of hers doth fear, For double clothed her household be. She mantles maketh, wrought by hand, And silk and purple clothing gets. Among the rulers of the land (Known in the gate) her husband sits. For sale fine linen weaveth she, And girdles to the merchant sends. The law of grace her tongue hath learned; Her husband thus applaudeth her, "Oh, thou hast far surpassed them all, Though many daughters thriving are!" Deceitful favor quickly wears, And beauty suddenly decays; But, if the Lord she truly fears, That woman well deserveth praise, The fruit her handiwork obtains: Without repining grant her that, And yield her when her labor gains, To do her honor in the gate. GEORGE WITHER. THE SAILOR'S WIFE. PART I. I'VE a letter from thy sire, He is sailing o'er the sea, He's been parted from us long, But if hearts be true and strong, Baby mine, They shall brave Misfortune's blast, For all pain and sorrow pass'd, Oh, I long to see his face, Like the rose of May in bloom, Thou wilt see him and rejoice, Baby mine, baby mine; By his love-looks that endear, I'm so glad I cannot sleep, He is sailing o'er the sea, PART II. O'er the blue ocean gleaming As small to view As the white sea-mew Whose wings in the billows dip. "Blow, favoring gales, in her answering sails, Blow steadily and free! Rejoicing, strong, Singing a song Her rigging and her spars among, And waft the vessel in pride along That bears my love to me." Nearer, still nearer driving, The pennant flies, And the flag she knows so well. 'Blow, favoring gales, in her answering sails. Waft him, O gentle sea! And still, O heart, Why throb and beat as thou wouldst When all so happy and bless'd thou art? He comes again to thee!" The swift ship drops her anchor, To the music of the oar. "And art thou here, mine own, my dear, Blow, tempests, blow; my love has To teach them.-It stings there! I made them, indeed, Speak plain the word country. I taught them, no doubt, That a country's a thing men should die for at need. I prated of liberty, rights, and about And when their eyes flashed, - oh, my beautiful eyes!— I exulted; nay, let them go forth at the wheels Of the guns, and denied not. But, then, the surprise When one sits quite alone! Then one weeps, then one kneels! God, how the house feels! At first, happy news came, in gay letters mailed With my kisses,—of camp-life and glory, and how They both loved me; and, soon coming home to be spoiled, In return would fan off every fly from my brow With their green laurel-bough. Then was triumph at Turin: "Ancona was free!" And some one came out of the cheers in the street, With a face pale as stone, to say something to me. My Guido was dead! I fell down at his feet, While they cheered in the street. I bore it; friends soothed me; my grief | looked sublime To the face of Thy mother! consider, I pray, As the ransom of Italy. One boy re- How we common mothers stand desolate, Ah, ah, ah! when Gaeta's taken, what then? When the fair wicked queen sits no more at her sport Of a presence that turned off the balls, Of the fire-balls of death crashing souls out But the birth-pangs of nations will wring! And one-o'er her the myrtle showers us at length Into wail such as this-and we sit on for lorn When the man-child is born. Its leaves, by soft winds fann'd ; She faded midst Italian flowers The last of that bright band. And parted thus they rest, who play'd Beneath the same green tree; Dead! One of them shot by the sea in the Whose voices mingled as they pray'd East, And one of them shot in the West by the sea. Both both my boys! If in keeping the feast You want a great song for your Italy free, Let none look at me! ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD. THEY grew in beauty, side by side, The same fond mother bent at night O'er each fair sleeping brow; One, 'midst the forests of the West The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one- He was the loved of all, yet none One sleeps where southern vines are drest Ile wrapt his colors round his breast On a blood-red field of Spain. Around one parent knee! They that with smiles lit up the hall. FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS. WHEN SHE COMES HOME AGAIN. WHEN she comes home again: a thousand ways I fashion, to myself, the tenderness Of my glad welcome. I shall trembleyes; And touch her, as when first in the old days I touched her girlish hand, nor dared upraise Mine eyes, such was my faint heart's sweet distress. Then silence: and the perfume of her dress; The room will sway a little, and a haze To know that I so ill deserve the place note I stay with kisses, ere the tearful face JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY. |