Within, the master's desk is seen, Deep scarred by raps official; The warping floor, the battered seats, The jack-knife's carved initial; The charcoal frescos on its wall; Its door's worn sill, betraying The feet that, creeping slow to school, Went storming out to playing! Long years ago a winter sun Shone over it at setting; Lit up its western window-panes, And low eaves' icy fretting. It touched the tangled golden curls, And brown eyes full of grieving, Of one who still her steps delayed When all the school were leaving. For near her stood the little boy Her childish favor singled: His cap pulled low upon a face Where pride and shame were mingled. Pushing with restless feet the snow To right and left, he lingered;-- As restlessly her tiny hands The blue-checked apron fingered. He saw her lift her eyes; he felt The soft hand's light caressing, And heard the tremble of her voice, As if a fault confessing. "I 'm sorry that I spelt the word I hate to go above you, Because,"--the brown eyes lower fell,-- "Because you see, I love you!" Still memory to a gray-haired man That sweet child-face is showing. Dear girl! the grasses on her grave Have forty years been growing! He lives to learn, in life's hard school, How few who pass above him Lament their triumph and his loss, Like her,--because they love him. MY BIRTHDAY. Beneath the moonlight and the snow Lies dead my latest year; The winter winds are wailing low Its dirges in my ear. I grieve not with the moaning wind As if a loss befell; Before me, even as behind, God is, and all is well! His light shines on me from above, His low voice speaks within,-- The patience of immortal love Outwearying mortal sin. Not mindless of the growing years Of care and loss and pain, My eyes are wet with thankful tears For blessings which remain. If dim the gold of life has grown, I will not count it dross, Nor turn from treasures still my own To sigh for lack and loss. The years no charm from Nature take; As sweet her voices call, As beautiful her mornings break, As fair her evenings fall. Love watches o'er my quiet ways, Kind voices speak my name, And lips that find it hard to praise Are slow, at least, to blame. How softly ebb the tides of will! How fields, once lost or won, Now lie behind me green and still Beneath a level sun. How hushed the hiss of party hate, The clamor of the throng! How old, harsh voices of debate Flow into rhythmic song! Methinks the spirit's temper grows Too soft in this still air; Somewhat the restful heart foregoes Of needed watch and prayer. The bark by tempest vainly tossed May founder in the calm, And he who braved the polar frost Faint by the isles of balm. Better than self-indulgent years The outflung heart of youth, Than pleasant songs in idle ears The tumult of the truth. Rest for the weary hands is good, And love for hearts that pine, But let the manly habitude Of upright souls be mine.