LAMENT FOR LAFAYETTE

AUTHOR UNKNOWN

All lonely and cold, in the sepulchre slumbers
The giant of freedom, the chosen of fame!

Too high in the theme for my harp's lowly numbers;
Yet fain would I twine me a wreath for that name
Which proudly shines forth in the tablet of glory,
Unsullied by faction, untarnished by guile;
The loftiest theme for the bard's raptured story;

The name by which freemen met death with a smile.

Then arise, ye proud bards! give our hearts' mighty sadness

A voice not unworthy a theme so sublime,

For him, the bright day-star of freedom and gladness, Whose memory will glow through the far flight of time!

He is gone, and forever! the pride of our nation,
That bright sun of freedom in glory hath set;
The heroes who bled for our country's salvation
Now joy in thy presence, O brave Lafayette!

Thou camest to our shore when the day-star of freedom
Was proudly dispelling dark tyranny's night,
When millions awoke to the rank she decreed them,
And the millions of despots were scattered in flight;
When the star-spangled banner waves sheen in the
morning

The heart of the freeman will bound at thy name; Thou champion of freedom! fell tyranny scorning, One world was too small for the blaze of thy fame!

Bright, bright is the path thou hast left of thy glory,
Amid the world's darkness, which ne'er shall decline,
For the light of thy fame on the ages before thee,
With splendor unsullied, forever will shine;
When freedom's bright fabric lay blackened in ruin,
While bloodthirsty tyrants usurped the dread sway
At the roots of the proud tree of liberty hewing,

All hopes for the land of thy love died away.

Thou art gone! thy pure soul on its voyage hath started;

From its ashes the phoenix of freedom hath flown, To join the bright phalanx of heroes departed,

Who dwell in the light of a fame like thine own.
Farewell, thou last star of that bright constellation
Of heroes whose glory can never depart;

Thy fame hath no limit of kindred or nation;
Thy name is enshrined in each patriot's heart.

With Washington's blended, for ever the glory

Shall form the proud theme of our bard's burning lays,

While the banner of freedom shall proudly wave o'er

thee,

Thou mighty departed! thou light of our days; But still! my wild harp, all in vain we lament him; His praise must be sung by some loftier lyre;

Let the soul-raptured bard use the gift heaven hath lent him,

And weave for our hero a requiem of fire!

LINES ON THE DEATH OF BABY

B. H.

One little bud the less,

In nature's garden grows.
One tiny voice more, hush'd
In death's deep calm repose.

Th' prattling birdie sleeps,
Sleeps quietly alone,
While o'er his form th' wind
A requiem low doth moan.

In Paradise will bloom
And beauteously grow
Th' bud cut short and chill'd
By piercing winds below.

Close in his Maker's arms
The little one is press'd,
His playmates seraphim,

A cherub 'mong the bless'd.

LOOK AHEAD

AUTHOR UNKNOWN

Whatever you do in this wonderful world,
In business, in church, or at play;
Whatever of gain or of loss you have met
With the others who go your way,

Keep out of the past

From the first to the last,

And away from its worries stay; The present has wealth you would never suspect, If prudent you are, and wisely elect

To live in the light of to-day.

The things that are past did very well once;
To-day they are rusty and stale.

That trouble you had with your fellow man
Did you struggle in vain and fail?
What of it, indeed?

There is all the more need

That you start on a different trail.

Don't take to the woods whatever you do,
Just look right ahead; there's a fortune for you
In keeping a well-trimmed sail.

So cramped can we be in our mental states,
So burdened with might-have-beens,

That life will become a woful waste

For its many outs and ins.

But stop and reflect

You will never be wrecked

By your own or another's sins,

If the past you will keep in its proper place And meet what is yours with a candid face'Tis the man of to-day who wins.

LINES ON THE DEATH OF BABY

B. H.

One little bud the less,

In nature's garden grows.
One tiny voice more, hush'd
In death's deep calm repose.

Th' prattling birdie sleeps,
Sleeps quietly alone,

While o'er his form th' wind
A requiem low doth moan.

In Paradise will bloom
And beauteously grow
Th' bud cut short and chill'd
By piercing winds below.

Close in his Maker's arms
The little one is press'd,
His playmates seraphim,

A cherub 'mong the bless'd.

LOOK AHEAD

AUTHOR UNKNOWN

Whatever you do in this wonderful world,
In business, in church, or at play;
Whatever of gain or of loss you have met
With the others who go your way,

Keep out of the past

From the first to the last,