With a slow and noiseless footstep And she sits and gazes at me, With those deep and tender eyes, Uttered not, yet comprehended, Oh, though oft depressed and lonely, If I but remember only Such as these have lived and died! HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. Heroes. 'HE winds that once the Argo bore THE Have died by Neptune's ruined shrines : And her hull is the drift of the deep-sea floor, Though shaped of Pelion's tallest pines. You may seek her crew on every isle Fair in the foam of Ægean seas; But out of their rest no charm can wile And Priam's wail is heard no more HEROES. On Ida's mount is the shining snow; But Jove has gone from its brow away; And red on the plain the poppies grow Where the Greek and the Trojan fought that day. Mother Earth, are the heroes dead? Do they thrill the soul of the years no more? Gone? In a grander form they rise! Dead? We may clasp their hands in ours, And catch the light of their clearer eyes, And wreathe their brows with immortal flowers. Wherever a noble deed is done, 'Tis the pulse of a hero's heart is stirred; Wherever the Right has a triumph won, There are the heroes' voices heard. Their armor rings on a fairer field Than the Greek or the Trojan ever trod : For Freedom's sword is the blade they wield, And the light above is the smile of God. So in his isle of calm delight Jason may sleep the years away; For the heroes live, and the skies are bright, And the world is a braver world to-day. EDNA DEAN PROCTOR. 14 349 A The Difference. LITTLE river with its rock-laid banks In sombre elm and laughing linden dressed, You must remember yet that fair June day! But more of newer sun and fresher dawn, You know we talked philosophy-or thought The untaught record of their simple page Whose footsteps paced with His the morning-land, As rude inscriptions of a younger age, Unworthy of the ripe world's freer hand. A whiter light should rise upon the years, But many suns since then have died in flame, MY PSALM. Much have we seen since then, and much outgrown; But while the world's great possible grows more, And suns set earlier now, and twilights have And we, apostles of the new time's youth, EVANGELINE M. JOHNSON, My Psalm. I MOURN no more my vanished years; Beneath a tender rain, An April rain of smiles and tears, My heart is young again, The west winds blow, and singing low, The windows of my soul I throw No longer forward nor behind The best of now and here. 351 I plow no more a desert land, To harvest weed and tare; The manna dropping from God's hand I break my pilgrim-staff, I lay The angel sought so far away The airs of spring may never play Yet shall the blue-eyed gentian look The woods shall wear their robes of praise, And sweet calm days in golden haze Not less shall manly deed and word The graven flowers that wreathe the sword But smiting hands shall learn to heal, To build as to destroy; Nor less my heart for others feel, All as God wills, who wisely heeds And knoweth more of all my needs Than all my prayers have told! |