Library of the best American literature: Containing the lives of our authors in story form, their portraits, their homes, and their personal traits, how they worked and what they wrote; choice selections from eminent writers, embracing great American poets and novelists, foremost women in American letters, distinguished critics and essayists, our national humorists, noted journalists and magazine contributors, popular writers for young people, great orators and public lecturers
General
Library of the best American literature: Containing the lives of our authors in story form, their portraits, their homes, and their personal traits, how they worked and what they wrote; choice selections from eminent writers, embracing great American poets and novelists, foremost women in American letters, distinguished critics and essayists, our national humorists, noted journalists and magazine contributors, popular writers for young people, great orators and public lecturers
American literature
I once had a little brother,
With eyes that were dark and deep――
In the lap of that old dim forest
He lieth in peace asleep:
Light as the down of the thistle,
Free as the winds that blow,
We roved there the beautiful summers,
The summers of long ago;
But his feet on the hills grew weary,
And, one of the autumn eves,
I made for my little brother
A bed of the yellow leaves.
Sweetly his pale arms folded
My neck in a meek embrace,
As the light of immortal beauty
Silently covered his face:
And when the arrows of sunset
Lodged in the tree-tops bright,
He fell, in his saint-like beauty,
Asleep by the gates of light.
Therefore, of all the pictures
That hang on Memory’s wall,
The one of the dim old forest
Seemeth the best of all.
* * * * *
NOBILITY.
(ALICE CARY.)
HILDA is a lofty lady,
Very proud is she――
I am but a simple herdsman
Dwelling by the sea.
Hilda hath a spacious palace,
Broad, and white, and high;
Twenty good dogs guard the portal――
Never house had I.
Hilda hath a thousand meadows――
Boundless forest lands:
She hath men and maids for service――
I have but my hands.
The sweet summer’s ripest roses
Hilda’s cheeks outvie――
Queens have paled to see her beauty――
But my beard have I.
Hilda from her palace windows
Looketh down on me,
Keeping with my dove-brown oxen
By the silver sea.
When her dulcet harp she playeth,
Wild birds singing nigh,
Cluster, listening, by her white hands――
But my reed have I.
I am but a simple herdsman,
With nor house nor lands;
She hath men and maids for service――
I have but my hands.
And yet what are all her crimsons
To my sunset sky――
With my free hands and my manhood
Hilda’s peer am I.
* * * * *
THE GRAY SWAN.
(ALICE CARY.)
(_From the Poetical Works of Alice and Phœbe Cary, 1876._)
OH tell me, sailor, tell me true,
Is my little lad, my Elihu,
A-sailing with your ship?”
The sailor’s eyes were dim with dew,――
“Your little lad, your Elihu?”
He said with trembling lip,――
“What little lad? what ship?”
“What little lad! as if there could be
Another such an one as he!
What little lad, do you say?
Why, Elihu, that took to the sea
The moment I put him off my knee!
It was just the other day
The _Gray Swan_ sailed away.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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