The American Library of Art, Literature and Song

The fragrance and the beauty of the rose Delight me so slight thought I give the

thorn,

And the sweet music of the lark's dear song Stays longer with me than the night-hawk's

cry.

And even in this great throe of pain called Life

I find a rapture linked with each despair Well worth the price of anguish. I detect More good than evil in humanity.

Love lights more fires than hate extinguishes,

And men grow better as the world grows old.

THE

DRINKING.

ELLA WHEELER.

FROM THE GREEK OF ANACREON.

HE thirsty earth soaks up the rain,
And drinks, and gapes for drink again;
The plants suck in the earth, and are,
With constant drinking, fresh and fair;
The sea itself, which one would think
Should have but little need of drink,
Drinks ten thousand rivers up
So filled that they o'erflow the cup;
The busy sun (and one would guess,
By's drunken fiery face, no less)
Drinks up the sea; and when he's done,
The moon and stars drink
up the sun;
They drink and dance by their own light,
They drink and revel all the night;
Nothing in nature's sober sound
But an eternal health goes round.
Fill the bowl, then-fill it high;
up

Fill all the glasses there; for why
Should every creature drink but I?
Why, man of morals? Tell me why.

Translation of ABRAHAM COWLEY.

And quick as a flash she turned, and made For that willer-bank on the right.

There was runnin' and cursin', but Jim yelled

out

Over all the infernal roar,

"I'll hold her nozzle agin the bank

Till the last galoot's ashore!"

Through the hot black breath of the burnin' boat

Jim Bludso's voice was heard,
And they all had trust in his cussedness

And knowed he would keep his word.
And, sure's you're born, they all got off
Afore the smokestacks fell,
And Bludso's ghost went up alone
In the smoke of the Prairie Belle.

He weren't no saint, but at jedgment
I'd run my chance with Jim
'Longside of some pious gentlemen

That wouldn't shook hands with him.
He seen his duty-a dead-sure thing—
And went for it thar and then;
And Christ ain't a-going to be too hard
On a man that died for men.

Arouse, arouse, my gawky friend,
And shake your spider legs!
What though you're awkward at the trade?
There's time enough to learn;
So lean upon the rail, my lad,

And take another turn.

They've built us up a noble wall
To keep the vulgar out;
We've nothing in the world to do

But just to walk about.

So faster, now, you middle men,

And try to beat the ends; It's pleasant work to ramble round Among one's honest friends.

Here! tread upon the long man's toes:
He sha'n't be lazy here;
And punch the little fellow's ribs

And tweak that lubber's ear:
He's lost them both. Don't pull his hair,
Because he wears a scratch,
But poke him in the further eye,

That isn't in the patch.

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I once had a little brother

With eyes that were dark and deep:
In the lap of that old dim forest
He lieth in peace asleep.
Light as the down of the thistle,

Free as the winds that blow,

We roved there the beautiful summers-
The summers of long ago;

But his feet on the hills grew weary,

And, one of the autumn eves,

I made for my little brother
A bed of the yellow leaves.

Sweetly his pale arms folded

My neck in a meek embrace As the light of immortal beauty Silently covered his face;

And when the arrows of sunset
Lodged in the treetops bright,
He fell, in his saintlike beauty,
Asleep by the gates of light.
Therefore, of all the pictures

That hang on Memory's wall,
The one of the dim old forest
Seemeth the best of all.

AGE.

ALICE CARY.

FROM THE GREEK OF ANACREON.

FT am I by the women told,

Poor Anacreon, thou growest old;
Look! how thy hairs are falling all!
Poor Anacreon, how they fall!"
Whether I grow old or no

By the effects I do not know.
This I know without being told:
'Tis time to live if I grow old;
'Tis time short pleasures now to take,
Of little life the best to make,
And manage wisely the last stake.

Translation of ABRAHAM COWLEY.

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That spirit hath fled, and we yield him to | How closely he twineth, how close he clings, thee; To his friend the huge oak tree! His ashes be spread, like his soul, far and And slyly he traileth along the ground, free.

O fire! we commit his dear reliques to thee,
Thou emblem of purity, spotless and free;
May his soul, like thy flames, bright and
burning arise

And his leaves he gently waves,
As he joyously hugs and crawleth round.
The rich mould of dead men's graves.
Creeping where grim Death has been,
A rare old plant is the ivy green.

To its mansion of bliss in the star-spangled Whole ages have fled and their works de

skies.

cayed,

And nations have scattered been,

O water! receive him. Without thy kind But the stout old ivy shall never fade

aid

He had parched 'neath the sunbeams or mourned in the shade;

Then take of his body the share which is thine,

For the spirit hath fled from its mouldering

shrine.

LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON.

From its hale and hearty green.
The brave old plant, in its lonely days,
Shall fatten on the past;

For the stateliest building man can raise
Is the ivy's food at last.

Creeping on where Time has been,
A rare old plant is the ivy green.

CHARLES DICKENS.

And the mouldering dust that years have made Till war, their coming joys to blight,

Is a merry meal for him.

Creeping where no life is seen,

A rare old plant is the ivy green.

Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings,

And a staunch old heart has he;

Called him away from love to glory.

Young Henry met the foe with pride;

Jane followed, fought. Ah! hapless story!

In man's attire, by Henry's side,
She died for love, and he for glory.

CHARLES DIBDIN.

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The American Library of Art, Literature and Song, Volume 2