God knows best — he was somebody's


Somebody's heart enshrined him


Somebody wafted his name above Night and morn on the wings of prayer.

Somebody wept when he marched away

Looking so handsome, brave, and grand;

Somebody's kiss on his forehead lay,

Somebody clung to his parting hand.

Somebody's waiting and watching for him —

Yearning to hold him again to the heart;

And there he lies with his blue eyes dim,

And the smiling, childlike lips apart .

Tenderly bury the fair young dead, Pausing to drop on his grave a tear;

Carve on the wooden slab at his head,—

"Somebody's darling slumbers here."

Albert Laighton.


Oft have I walked these woodland paths,

Without the blest foreknowing That underneath the withered leaves the fairest buds were growing.

To-day the south-wind sweeps away The types of autumn's splendor,

And shows the sweet arbutus flowers, Spring's children, pure and tender.

O prophet-flowers! — with lips of bloom,

Outvying in your beauty
The pearly tints of ocean shells,—

Ye teach me faith and dutyl

"Walk life's dark ways," ye seem to say,

"With love's divine foreknowing, That where man sees but withered leaves,

God sees sweet flowers growing."


Sweet winter roses, stainless as the snow,

As was thy life, O tender heart and true!

A cross of lilies that our tears bedew, A garland of the fairest flowers that grow,

And filled with fragrance as the

thought of thee, We lay, with loving hand, upon thy


Wrapt in the calm of Death's great mystery;

Ours still to feel the pain, the unlan

guaged woe, The bitter sense of loss, the vague


And wear unseen the cypress-leaf and rue,

Thinking, the while, of lovelier flowers that blow In everlasting gardens of the blest, That wither not like these, and never shed

Their rare and heavenly odors for the dead.

Charles Lamb.


I Have had playmates, I have had companions,

In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days;

All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I have been laughing, I have been

carousing, Drinking late, sitting late, with my

bosom cronies; All, all are gone, the old familiar


I loved a love once, fairest among women;

Closed are her doors on me, I must

not see her; All, all are gone, the old familiar


I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man;

Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly —

Left him to muse on the old familiar faces.

Ghost-like I paced round the haunts

of my childhood. Earth seemed a desert I was bound

to traverse, Seeking to find the old familiar


Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother.

Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling?

So might we talk of the old familiar faces —

How some they have died, and some

they have left me, And some are taken from me; all are


All, all are gone, the old familiar faces!


When maidens such as Hester die,
Their place ye may not well supply,
Though ye among a thousand try,
With vain endeavor.

A month or more has she been dead,
Yet cannot I by force be led
To think upon the wormy bed
And her together.

A springy motion in her gait,
A rising step, did indicate
Of pride and joy no common rate,
That flushed her spirit:

I know not by what name beside
I shall it call; — if 'twas not pride,
It was a joy to that allied,
She did inherit.

Her parents held the Quaker rule,
Which doth the human feelings cool;
But she was trained in nature's
Nature had blessed her.

A waking eye, a prying mind,
A heart that stirs, is hard to bind;
A hawk's keen sight ye cannot
Ye could not Hester.

My sprightly neighbor, gone before
To that unknown and silent shore!
Shall we not meet t heretofore
Some summer morning;

When from thy cheerful eyes a ray Hath struck a bliss upon the day, — A bliss that would not go away, — A sweet forewarning?


The frugal snail,with forecast of repose,

Carries his house with him where'er he goes;

Peeps out, — and if there comes a

shower of rain, Retreats to his small domicile


Touch but a tip of him, a horn,—'tis well, —

He curls up in his sanctuary shell. He's his own landlord, his own tenant; May

Long as he will, he dreads no quarter-day.

Himself he boards and lodges; both invites

And feasts himself; sleeps with himself o' nights.

He spares the upholsterer trouble to procure [ture,

Chattels; himself is his own furni

And his sole riches. Wheresoe'erhe roam,—

Knock when you will, — he's sure to be at home.

Letitia Elizabeth Landon.


Few know of life's beginnings —

men behold The goal achieved; — the warrior,

when his sword Flashes red triumph in the noonday


The poet, when his lyre hangs on the palm;

The statesman, when the crowd proclaim his voice,

And mould opinion on his gifted tongue:

They count not life's first steps, and

never think Upon the many miserable hours When hope deferred was sickness to

the heart. They reckon not the battle and the


The long privations of a wasted youth;

They never see the banner till unfurled.

What are to them the solitary nights Passed pale and anxiously by the

sickly lamp, Till the young poet wins the world at


To listen to the music long his own? The crowd attend the statesman's

fiery mind That makes their destiny; but they

do not trace Its struggle, or its long expectancy.

Hard are life's early steps; and, but

that youth Is buoyant, confident, and strong in


Men would behold its threshold, and despair.


She had lost many children — now The last of them was gone:

And day and night she sat and wept Beside the funeral stone.

One midnight, while her constant tears

Were falling with the dew, She heard a voice, and lo! her child Stood by her, weeping too!

His shroud was damp, his face was white;

He said — "I cannot sleep, Your tears have made my shroud so wet;

O mother, do not weep!"

Oh, love is strong! — the mother's heart

Was filled with tender fears; Oh, love is strong!—and for her child

Her grief restrained its tears.

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And win the few unwon before,
I sought the flowers you love to wear,
O'erjoyed to see them in your hair,
Upon my grave, I pray you set
One primrose or one violet.
. . . Stay ... I can wait a little yet.


Ah, what avails the sceptred race?

Ah, what the form divine? What every virtue, every grace?

Rose Aylmer, all were thine.

Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes

May weep but never see,
A night of memories and of sighs
I consecrate to thee.


My pictures blacken in their frames

As night comes on, And youthful maids and wrinkled dames

Are now all one.


Even song.

Look off, dear Love, across the saltlow sands, And mark yon meeting of the sun and sea;

How long they kiss in sight of all the lands! Ah, longer, longer we.

Now in the sea's red vintage melts the sun,

As Egypt's pearl dissolved in rosy wine,

And Cleopatra Night drinks all. 'Tis done I

Love, lay thy hand in mine.

Death of the Day! a sterner Death

Did worse before; The fairest form, the sweetest breath,

Away he bore.


I Will not love! These sounds have often

Burst from a troubled breast; Rarely from one no sighs could soften,

Rarely from one at rest.


The place where soon I think to lie, In its old creviced nook hard by,

Rears many a weed: If parties bring you there, will you Drop slyly in a grain or two

Of wallflower seed?

I shall not see it, and (too sure!)
I shall not ever hear that your

light step was there;
But the rich odor some fine day
Will, what I cannot do, repay
That little care.


Come forth, sweet stars, and comfort heaven's heart; Glimmer, ye waves, round else unlighted sands; O Night, divorce our sun and moon apart,— Never our lips, our hands.


What heartache,— ne'er a hill! Inexorable, vapid, vague and chill, The drear sand-levels drain my spirit low,

With one poor word they tell me all they know;

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