Went drearily singing the chore-girl small, For I knew she was telling the bees of one Haply her blind old grandsire sleeps The fret and the pain of his age away." But her dog whined low; on the doorway sill, The old man sat; and the chore-girl still And the song she was singing ever since 66 Stay at home, pretty bees! fly not hence: THE RIVER PATH. No bird-song floated down the hill, For from us, ere the day was done, But on the river's farther side A tender glow, exceeding fair, With us the damp, the chill, the gloom: While dark, through willowy vistas seen, From out the darkness where we trod, Whose light seem'd not of moon or sun. We paused, as if from that bright shore And still'd our beating hearts to hear Sudden our pathway turn'd from night; Through their green gates the sunshine show'd, Down glade and glen and bank it roll'd; The shadowy with the sunlit side. "So "-pray'd we- "when our feet draw near The river dark, with mortal fear, "And the night cometh chill with dew, "So let the hills of doubt divide, "So let the eyes that fail on earth "And in thy beckoning angels know The dear ones whom we loved below!" IN SCHOOL-DAYS. STILL sits the school-house by the road- Within, the master's desk is seen, The charcoal frescoes on its wall; It touch'd the tangled golden curls, For near her stood the little boy Where pride and shame were mingled. Pushing with restless feet the snow The blue-check'd apron finger'd. He saw her lift her eyes; he felt "I'm sorry that I spelt the word: Because," the brown eyes lower fell, Long years ago a winter sun Still memory to a gray-hair'd man WILLIAM D. GALLAGHER. Born at Philadelphia 1808. AUGUST. DUST on thy mantle! dust, Bright Summer! on thy livery of green. A tarnish, as of rust, Dims thy late-brilliant sheen ; And thy young glories,-leaf, and bud, and flower,- Thee hath the August sun Scarce whispering in their pace, The half-dried rivulets, that lately sent Flame-like the long mid-day! Dozing away the hot and tedious noon, Seeds in the sultry air, And gossamer web-work on the sleeping trees; Their plumes to catch the breeze The slightest breeze from the unfreshening westPartake the general languor and deep rest. Happy, as man may be, Stretch'd on his back, in homely bean-vine bower, While the voluptuous bee Robs each surrounding flower, And prattling childhood clambers o'er his breast,— The husbandman enjoys his noonday rest. Against the hazy sky The thin and fleecy clouds, unmoving, rest; In the dim distant west, The vulture, scenting thence its carrion-fare, Soberly, in the shade, Repose the patient cow, and toil-worn ox,- Shelter'd by jutting rocks; The fleecy flock, fly-scourged and restless, rush Tediously pass the hours; And vegetation wilts, with blister'd root, Where the slant sunbeams shoot: Faster along the plain Moves now the shade, and on the meadows' edge: The kine are forth again, The bird flits in the hedge. Now in the molten west sinks the hot sun. |