Golden-haired and dewy-eyed, Prattling all the day, Was the baby, first that died; O ’twas hard to lay Dimpled hand and cheek of snow In the grave so dark and low! Smiling back on all who smiled, Ne’er by sorrow thralled, Half a woman, half a child, Was the next God called: Then a grave more deep and wide Made they by the baby’s side. When or where the other died Only heaven can tell; Treading manhood’s path of pride Was he when he fell: Haply thistles, blue and red, Bloom about his lonesome bed. I am for the living three Only left to pray; Two are on the stormy sea. Farther still than they, Wanders one, his young heart dim, Oftenest, most, I pray for him. Whatsoe’er they do or dare, Wheresoe’er they roam, Have them, Father, in thy care, Guide them safely home; Home, O Father, in the sky, Where none wander and none die. * * * * * FRAGMENTS OF AN UNFINISHED STORY. BY FRANCES S. OSGOOD. “A friend!” Are you a friend? No, by my soul! Since you dare breathe the shadow of a doubt That I am true as Truth: since you give not Unto my briefest look—my gayest word— My faintest change of cheek—my softest touch— Most sportive, careless smile, or low-breathed sigh— Nay, to my voice’s lightest modulation, Though imperceptible to all but you,— If you give not to these, unquestioning, A limitless faith—the faith you give to Heaven— I will not call you “friend.” I would disdain A seraph’s heart, as yours I now renounce, If such the terms on which ’twere proffered me. Deny me Faith—that poor, yet priceless boon— And you deny the very soul of love. As well withhold the lamp, whose light reveals The sculptured beauty latent in its urn, As proffer Friendship’s diamond _in the dark_. What though a thousand seeming proofs condemn me? If my calm image smile not clear through all, Serene, and without shadow on your heart— Nay, if the very vapors that would veil it, Part not, illumined by its presence pure, As round Night’s tranquil queen the clouds divide, Then rend it from that heart! I ask no place, Though ’twere a throne, without the state becomes me— Without the homage due to royal Truth. And should a world betide pronounce me false, You are to choose between the world and me. If _I_ be not more than _all_ worlds to you, I will not stoop to _less_! I will have _all_— Your proudest, purest, noblest, loftiest love— Your perfect trust—your soul of soul—or nothing! Shall I _not_ have them? Speak! on poorer spirits— Who are content with less, because, forsooth, The whole would blind or blight them, or because They have but less to give—will you _divide_