Where'er a human spirit strives After a life more true and fair, There is the true man's birthplace grand, His is a world-wide fatherland! Where'er a single slave doth pine, Where'er one man may help another, Thank God for such a birthright, brother, That spot of earth is thine and mine! There is the true man's birthplace grand, His is a world-wide fatherland! THE FORLORN. THE night is dark, the stinging sleet, Swept by the bitter gusts of air, Drives whistling down the lonely street, And glazes on the pavement bare. The street-lamps flare and struggle dim Through the gray sleet-clouds as they pass, Or, governed by a boisterous whim, Drop down and rustle on the glass. One poor, heart-broken, outcast girl Faces the east-wind's searching flaws, And, as about her heart they whirl, Her tattered cloak more tightly draws. The flat brick walls look cold and bleak, Her bare feet to the sidewalk freeze; Yet dares she not a shelter seek, Though faint with hunger and disease. The sharp storm cuts her forehead bare, She lingers where a ruddy glow Streams outward through an open shutter, Adding more bitterness to woe, More loneness to desertion utter. One half the cold she had not felt She hears a woman's voice within, Singing sweet words her childhood knew, MIDNIGHT. THE moon shines white and silent O'er the wide marsh doth glide, A vague and starry magic Makes all things mysteries, The fireflies o'er the meadow The dreaming cock doth crow. All things look strange and mystic, From childhood known so well. The snow of deepest silence O wild and wondrous midnight, A PRAYER. GOD! do not let my loved one die, But rather wait until the time O, let her stay! She is by birth We need her more on our poor earth Than thou canst need in heaven with She hath her wings already, I Then, God, take me! We shall be near, THE HERITAGE. THE rich man's son inherits lands, And he inherits soft white hands, And tender flesh that fears the cold, A heritage, it seems to me, The rich man's son inherits cares; The bank may break, the factory burn, A breath may burst his bubble shares, And soft white hands could hardly earn A living that would serve his turn; The rich man's son inherits wants, His stomach craves for dainty fare; What doth the poor man's son inherit ? What doth the poor man's son inherit? What I through death must learn to A heritage, it seems to me, be; A king might wish to hold in fee. What doth the poor man's son inherit ? To make the outcast bless his door; A heritage, it seems to me, A king might wish to hold in fee. O rich man's son ! there is a toil Foam and spray drive back to leeward, And the gale, with dreary moan, Drifts the helpless blossom seaward, Through the breakers all alone. II. Stands a maiden, on the morrow, Musing by the wave-beat strand, Half in hope and half in sorrow, Tracing words upon the sand: hands,-"Shall I ever then behold him That with all others level stands; Large charity doth never soil, But only whiten, soft white This is the best crop from thy lands; A heritage, it seems to me, Worth being rich to hold in fee. O poor man's son ! scorn not thy state; Toil only gives the soul to shine, A heritage, it seems to me, Both, heirs to some six feet of sod, Are equal in the earth at last; THE ROSE: A BALLAD. I. In his tower sat the poet Gazing on the roaring sea, "Take this rose," he sighed, "and throw it Where there's none that loveth me. On the rock the billow bursteth And sinks back into the seas, Ugly death stands there behind, And with bitter smile did mark How the surly tempest whirled it Swift into the hungry dark. Who hath been my life so long, Mine with love forevermore !" But, with omen pure and meet, Brings a little rose, and throws it Humbly at the maiden's feet. Full of bliss she takes the token, And, upon her snowy breast, Soothes the ruffled petals broken With the ocean's fierce unrest. "Love is thine, O heart! and surely Peace shall also be thine own, For the heart that trusteth purely Never long can pine alone." III. In his tower sits the poet, Blisses new and strange to him Fill his heart and overflow it With a wonder sweet and dim. Up the beach the ocean slideth With a whisper of delight, And the moon in silence glideth Through the peaceful blue of night. Rippling o'er the poet's shoulder Flows a maiden's golden hair, Maiden lips, with love grown bolder, Kiss his moon-lit forehead bare. "Life is joy, and love is power, Death all fetters doth unbind, Strength and wisdom only flower When we toil for all our kind. Hope is truth,- the future giveth More than present takes away, And the soul forever liveth Nearer God from day to day." Not a word the maiden uttered, Fullest hearts are slow to speak, But a withered rose-leaf fluttered Down upon the poet's cheek. |