There are birds in the woodland bowers,
Voices in lonely dells,
And streams that talk to the listening hours
In earth's most secret cells.
There is life on the foam-flecked sand
By ocean's curling lip,
And life on the still lake's strand
'Mid flowers that o'er it dip;
There is life in the tossing pines
That plume the mountain crest,
And life in the courser's mane that shines
As he scours the desert's breast.
But go to the crowded mart,
'Mid the sordid haunts of men,
Go there and ask thy heart,
What answer makes it then?
Go where the wine-cup's gleaming,
In hall or festal grot;
Where love-lit eyes are beaming,
But Love himself is not!--
Go--if thou wouldst be lonely--
Where the phantom Pleasure's wooed,
And own that there--there only--
'Mid crowds is Solitude.
THE BRAVE.
BY J. G. BROOKS.
Where have the valiant sunk to rest,
When their sands of life were numbered?
On the downy couch? on the gentle breast
Where their youthful visions slumbered?
When the mighty passed the gate of death,
Did love stand by bewailing?
No! but upon war's fiery breath
Their blood-dyed flag was sailing!
Not on the silent feverish bed,
With weeping friends around them,
Were the parting prayers of the valiant said,
When death's dark angel found them.
But in the stern and stormy strife,
In the flush of lofty feeling,
They yielded to honour the boon of life,
Where battle's bolts were pealing;
When the hot war-steed, with crimsoned mane
Trampled on breasts all stained and gory,
Dashed his red hoof on the reeking plain,
And shared in the rider's glory.
Or seek the brave in their ocean grave,
'Neath the dark and restless water;
Seek them beneath the whelming wave,
So oft deep dyed with slaughter.
There sleep the gallant and the proud,
The eagle-eyed and the lion-hearted;
For whom the trump of fame rang loud,
When the body and soul were parted.
Or seek them on fields where the grass grows deep,
Where the vulture and the raven hover;
There the sons of battle in quiet sleep:
And widowed love goes there to weep,
That their bright career is over.
MORNING.
BY LUCRETIA M. DAVIDSON.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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