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There was no time to spare: a wave

E'en then broke growling at my feet; One last look to the sky I gave,

Then sprang my eager foes to meet. Loud rang the fray above our grave I felt the vessel downward reel

As my last thrust met thrusting steel.

I heard a roaring in my ears;

A green wall pressed against my eyes;
Down, down I passed; the vanished years
I saw in mimicry arise.
Yet even then I felt no fears,

And with my last expiring breath
My past rose up and mocked at death.

SLEEP

IN a tangled, scented hollow,
On a bed of crimson roses,
Stilly now the wind reposes;
Hardly can the breezes borrow
Breath to stir the night-swept river.
Motionless the water-sedges,
And within the dusky hedges
Sounds no leaf's impatient shiver.
Sleep has come, that rare rest-giver.

Light and song have flown away
With the sun and twilight swallow;
Scarcely will the unknown morrow
Bring again so sweet a day.
Song was born of Joy and Thought;
Light, of Love and her caress.
Nothing's left me but a tress;

Death and Sleep the rest have wrought — Death and Sleep, who came unsought.

HIS QUEST

WHAT Seek'st thou at this madman's pace?
"I seek my love's new dwelling place:
Her house is dark, her doors are wide,
There bat and owl and beetle bide,
And there, breast-high, the rank weeds
grow,

And drowsy poppies nod and blow.
So mount I swift to ride me through
The world to find my love anew.
I have no token of the way;
I haste by night, I press by day.
Through busy cities I am borne,
On lonely heights I watch the morn
Climb
up
the east, and see the light
Of waning moon gleam thwart my flight.
Sometimes a light before me flees;
I follow it, till stormy seas

Break wide before, then all is dark. Sometimes on plains, wide, still, and stark,

I hear a voice; I seek the sound,
And ride into a hush profound.
To find her dwelling I will ride
Worlds through and through, whate'er
betide."

To find her dwelling rode he forth,
In vain rode south, in vain rode north;
In vain in mountain, plain, and mart
He searched, but never searched his heart.

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The blood in Pickett's heart

Was of a ruddier hue

Than the reddest bloom whose petals part
To welcome heaven's dew.

I think the fairest flowers that blow
Should greet the life-stream shed
In that historic long ago

By this historic dead.

The immemorial years

Such valor never knew

As poured a flood of crimson blood
At Gettysburg with you.

Living and dead, in faith the same,
I see you on that height,

Crowned with the rosy wreath of fame
Won in the fatal fight.

Not these had made afraid

King Arthur's mystic sword
Not Bayard's most chivalric blade,
Nor Gideon's, for the Lord.

Yours was the strain of high emprise,
Yours the unfaltering faith, -
The honor lofty as the skies,
The duty strong as death.

When Douglas flung the heart
Of Bruce amid his foes,

And said: "He leads. We do not part:
I follow where he goes,"

No mightier impulse stirred his soul
Than that which up yon height
Moved you with Pickett toward the
goal

Of freedom in that fight.

The fair goal was not won,
The famous fight was lost;
But never shone the all-seeing sun
On more heroic host.

Your deeds of mighty prowess shame
All deeds of derring-do

With which Time's bloody pages flame.
- Hail and farewell to you!

Unto the dead farewell!

They are hid in the dark and cold; And the broken shaft and the roses tell What is left of the tale untold.

They are deaf to the martial music's call

Till a judgment dawn shall break, When the trumpet of Truth shall proclaim to all:

"They perished for my sake!"

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A sinless touch, austere yet warm,

Around her girlish figure pressed, Caught the sweet imprint of her breast, And held her, surely clasped, from harm.

Truer than work of sculptor's art

Comes this dear maid of long ago, Sheltered from woeful chance, to show A spirit's lovely counterpart,

And bid mistrustful men be sure

That form shall fate of flesh escape, And, quit of earth's corruptions, shape Itself, imperishably pure.

A LITTLE BROTHER OF THE
RICH

To put new shingles on old roofs;
To give old women wadded skirts;
To treat premonitory coughs

With seasonable flannel shirts;
To soothe the stings of poverty
And keep the jackal from the door,
These are the works that occupy

The Little Sister of the Poor.

She carries, everywhere she goes,

Kind words and chickens, jams and coals;

Poultices for corporeal woes,

And sympathy for downcast souls: Her currant jelly, her quinine,

The lips of fever move to bless; She makes the humble sick-room shine With unaccustomed tidiness.

A heart of hers the instant twin
And vivid counterpart is mine;

I also serve my fellow-men,

Though in a somewhat different line. The Poor, and their concerns, she has Monopolized, because of which It falls to me to labor as

A Little Brother of the Rich.

For their sake at no sacrifice
Does my devoted spirit quail;
I give their horses exercise;

As ballast on their yachts I sail.
Upon their tallyhos I ride

And brave the chances of a storm; I even use my own inside

To keep their wines and victuals warm.

Those whom we strive to benefit
Dear to our hearts soon grow to be;

I love my Rich, and I admit

That they are very good to me. Succor the Poor, my sisters, - I,

While heaven shall still vouchsafe r health,

Will strive to share and mollify
The trials of abounding wealth.

EGOTISM

WITHOUT him still this whirling earth Might spin its course around the sun, And death still dog the heels of birth, And life be lived, and duty done.

Without him let the rapt earth dree
What doom its twin rotations earn;
Whither or whence, are naught to me,
Save as his being they concern.

Comets may crash, or inner fire
Burn out and leave an arid crust,

Or earth may lose Cohesion's tire,
And melt to planetary dust.

It's naught to me if he 's not here,
I'll not lament, nor even sigh;
I shall not feel the jar, nor fear,
For I am he, and he is I.

Lizette Woodworth Hecse

LYDIA

BREAK forth, break forth, O Sudbury town,
And bid your yards be gay
Up all your gusty streets and down,
For Lydia comes to-day!

I hear it on the wharves below;
And if I buy or sell,

The good folk as they churchward go
Have only this to tell.

My mother, just for love of her,
Unlocks her carved drawers;
And sprigs of withered lavender
Drop down upon the floors.

For Lydia's bed must have the sheet
Spun out of linen sheer,
And Lydia's room be passing sweet
With odors of last year.

The violet flags are out once more
In lanes salt with the sea;

The thorn-bush at Saint Martin's door
Grows white for such as she.

So, Sudbury, bid your gardens blow,
For Lydia comes to-day;

Of all the words that I do know,
I have but this to say.

ANNE

SUDBURY MEETING-HOUSE, 1653 HER eyes be like the violets,

Ablow in Sudbury lane;

When she doth smile, her face is sweet As blossoms after rain;

With grief I think of my gray hairs, And wish me young again.

In comes she through the dark old door
Upon this Sabbath day;

And she doth bring the tender wind
That sings in bush and tree;
And hints of all the apple boughs
That kissed her by the way.

Our parson stands up straight and tall,
For our dear souls to pray,
And of the place where sinners go
Some grewsome things doth say:
Now, she is highest Heaven to me;
So Hell is far away.

Most stiff and still the good folk sit
To hear the sermon through;
But if our God be such a God,

And if these things be true,
Why did He make her then so fair,
And both her eyes so blue?

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