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THE POEMS IN THIS VOLUME, SELECTED FROM WORKS PUBLISHED
BY FIELDS, OSGOOD & CO., ARE USED BY THEIR PERMISSION.
OUR POETICAL FAVORITES.
E count the broken lyres that rest
Where the sweet wailing singers slumber, But o'er their silent sister's breast
The wild-flowers who will stoop to number? A few can touch the magic string,
And noisy fame is proud to win them;
Alas for those who never sing,
But die with all their music in them!
Nay, grieve not for the dead alone
Whose song has told their hearts' sad story;
O'er Sappho's memory-haunted billow,
O hearts that break and give no sign
To every hidden pang were given,
OLIVER W. HOLMES.
The Songs of Our Fathers.
66 Sing aloud
Old songs, the precious music of the heart."
the upon sunny hills, When days are long and bright, And the blue gleam of shining rills
Is loveliest to the sight.
Sing them along the misty moor,
Where ancient hunters roved;
And swell them through the torrent's roarThe songs our fathers loved.
The songs their souls rejoiced to hear,
When harps were in the hall,
And each proud note made lance and spear Thrill on the bannered wall;
The songs that through our valleys green,
Sent on from age to age,
Like his own river's voice, have been
The peasant's heritage.
The reaper sings them when the vale
Is filled with plumy sheaves;
The woodman, by the starlight pale
Cheered homeward through the leaves:
And unto them the glancing oars
A joyous measure keep,
Where the dark rocks that crest our shores Dash back the foaming deep.
So let it be !- -a light they shed
A memory of the gentle dead,
THE DAY IS DONE.
Murmuring the names of mighty men,
And link high thoughts to every glen
Teach them your children round the hearth,
And on the hills of deer:
So shall each unforgotten word,
When far those loved ones roam,
The green woods of their native land
MRS. FELICIA HEMANS.
The Day is Done.
'HE day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wing of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
I see the lights of the village
Gleam through the rain and the mist; And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me, That my soul cannot resist ;
A feeling of sadness and longing,
As the mist resembles the rain.
Come,read to me some poem,
Not from the grand old masters,
For, like strains of martial music,
Read from some humbler poet,
Whose songs gushed from his heart, As showers from the clouds of summer, Or tears from the eyelids start;
Who, through long days of labor,
Such songs have power to quiet
Then read from the treasured volume
The poem of thy choice;
And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty of thy voice.