Page:Littell's Living Age - Volume 129.djvu/202

TO THE EMPRESS.

AFTER BEN JONSON'S "QUEEN AND HUNTRESS,
CHASTE AND FAIR."

Queen and empress, — here and there, —
English pride is laid to sleep,
Seated in th' imperial chair,
State in brand-new fashion keep!
India entreats thy light,
Empress, excellently bright.

England, let not thy dull shade
Dare itself to interpose,
India's diadem was made
Queens to cheer as day does close.
Dazzle, then, with Dizzy's light,
Empress, excellently bright.

Lay th' historic crown apart,
Mindful of thy teeming quiver;
Give to the grand-duchess' heart
Joy of pride, how short soever.
Make of princely darkness light,
Empress, excellently bright.

Spectator.

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ONE DAY OUT OF SEVEN.

Birds cannot always sing;
Silence at times they ask, to nurse spent feeling;
To see some new, bright thing,
Ere afresh burst of song, fresh joy revealing.

Flowers cannot always blow;
Some sabbath-rest they need of silent winter;
Ere from its sheath below
Shoots up a small, green blade, brown earth to splinter.

Tongues cannot always speak;
O God! in this loud world of noise and clatter,
Save us this once-a-week,
To let the sown seed grow, not always scatter.

B.

Spectator.

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THE LATEST GRAVE OF THE ABBEY.

Within her well-loved abbey's utmost corner,
Ensculptured and secluded, low she lies,
Whose head at highest bent to every mourner,
Whose eyes to all sad eyes.

This niche is lovely with the people's sorrow,
Her grave is blossoming with all loves today;
Princes and toilers were at one to borrow
Earth's flowers for earth's clay;

Also, Christ's lambs, whom she forbade not, bringing
Their cross of white, and scholars of the school,
And they that tend the sick, and they whose singing
Fills the great church heart-full.

Violets and ivy, lily and rose together,
In cross and chaplet, laid together down,
Make fair the place, and Arctic mosses feather, —
The faithful servant's crown.

March 18. Spectator.

Spectator.

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AT REST.

Slow creep the shadows through the curtained room,
As dies the crimson sun from out the west,
And round the sleeper falls a solemn gloom.
Rest, baby, rest!

Hush! for the wind moans through the branches hoar,
And snowflakes' wings against the pane are prest.
Hush! for an angel's step hath passed the door.
Rest, baby, rest!

Hush! for a sound of tears that needs must flow
Filleth the air, with stillness else opprest,
As wild a wounded heart sobs out its woe.
Rest, baby, rest!

Around thee fairest flowers will soon be spread,
Their blossoms breathing sweetness on thy breast —
Flowers that are sacred to the early dead.
Rest, baby, rest!

Paler than those pale flowers is thy calm brow,
And cold as mountain snow-wreath's frozen crest,
For in the shadowy vale thy spirit now
Doth rest, doth rest!

B.

Spectator.