Sometimes I find, in tatters Like a beggar, form as fair As ever gave to Heaven The treasure of a prayer; And words all dim and faded, And obliterate in part, Grow into fadeless meanings That are printed on the heart. Sometimes a childish jingle Flings an echo, sweet and clear, And thrills me as I listen To the laughs I used to hear; And I catch the gleam of faces, And the glimmer of glad eyes That peep at me expectant O'er the walls of Paradise. O syllables of measure! Though you wheel yourselves in line, And await the further order Of this eager voice of mine; You are powerless to follow O'er the field my fancy maps, So I lead you back to silence Feeling you are only scraps. AUGUST A day of torpor in the sullen heat Of Summer's passion: In the sluggish stream The panting cattle lave their lazy feet, With drowsy eyes, and dream. Long since the winds have died, and in the sky There lives no cloud to hint of Nature's grief; The sun glares ever like an evil eye, And withers flower and leaf. Upon the gleaming harvest-field remote The thresher lies deserted, like some old Dismantled galleon that hangs afloat Upon a sea of gold. The yearning cry of some bewildered bird Above an empty nest, and truant boys Along the river's shady margin heard-- A harmony of noise-- A melody of wrangling voices blent With liquid laughter, and with rippling calls Of piping lips and thrilling echoes sent To mimic waterfalls. And through the hazy veil the atmosphere Has draped about the gleaming face of Day, The sifted glances of the sun appear In splinterings of spray. The dusty highway, like a cloud of dawn, Trails o'er the hillside, and the passer-by, A tired ghost in misty shroud, toils on His journey to the sky. And down across the valley's drooping sweep, Withdrawn to farthest limit of the glade, The forest stands in silence, drinking deep Its purple wine of shade. The gossamer floats up on phantom wing; The sailor-vision voyages the skies And carries into chaos everything That freights the weary eyes: Till, throbbing on and on, the pulse of heat Increases--reaches--passes fever's height, And Day sinks into slumber, cool and sweet, Within the arms of Night. DEAD IN SIGHT OF FAME DIED--Early morning of September 5, 1876, and in the gleaming dawn of "name and fame," Hamilton J. Dunbar. Dead! Dead! Dead! We thought him ours alone; And were so proud to see him tread The rounds of fame, and lift his head Where sunlight ever shone; But now our aching eyes are dim, And look through tears in vain for him. Name! Name! Name! It was his diadem; Nor ever tarnish-taint of shame Could dim its luster--like a flame Reflected in a gem, He wears it blazing on his brow Within the courts of Heaven now.