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IF I had known in the morning
How wearily all the day
The words unkind would trouble my
That I said when you went away,
I had been more careful, darling,
Nor given you needless pain;

But we vex our own with look and
tone

We may never take back again.

For though in the quiet evening

You may give me the kiss of peace, Yet it well might be that never for me The pain of the heart should cease! How many go forth at morning

Who never come home at night! And hearts have broken for harsh words spoken,

That sorrow can ne'er set right.

We have careful thought for the stranger,

And smiles for the sometime guest; But oft for our own the bitter tone, Though we love our own the best. Ah! lips with the curve impatient,

Ah! brow with the shade of scorn, 'T were a cruel fate, were the night too late

To undo the work of the morn!

SUFFICIENT UNTO THE DAY. BECAUSE in a day of my days to

come

There waiteth a grief to be, Shall my heart grow faint, and my lips be dumb

In this day that is bright for me?

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Sooner the sunflower might forget to waken

When the first radiance lights the eastern hill,

Than I, by daily thoughts of thee forsaken,

Feel, as they kindle, no expanding thrill.

Oft, when at night the deck I'm pacing lonely

Or when I pause to watch some fulgent star,

Will Contemplation be retracing only Thy form, and fly to greet thee, though afar.

The winds rise wildly, and thick clouds are rearing

Their ebon flags, that hasten on the night,

Farewell! The pilot leaves us; seaward gliding,

Our brave ship dashes through the foamy swell;

But Hope, forever faithful and abiding,

Hears distant welcomes in this last farewell!

A THOUGHT OF THE PAST.

When storms unleashed, with fearful I WAKED from slumber at the dead

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A dream of boyhood's season of delight;

It flashed along the dim shapes of the past;

And, as I mused upon its strange appeal,

Thrilling me with emotions undefined,

Old memories, bursting from Time's icy seal,

Rushed, like sun-stricken fountains on my mind.

Scenes where my lot was cast in life's young day;

My favorite haunts, the shores, the ancient woods,

Where, with my schoolmates, I was wont to stray;

Green, sloping lawns, majestic solitudes

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A few white vapory bars the zenith fleck;

And lo! along the horizon, bold and high,

The purple hills of Cuba! Hail, all hail!

Isle of undying verdure, with thy sky

Of purest azure! Welcome, odorous gale!

O scene of life and joy! thou art arrayed

In hues of unimagined loveliness. Sing louder, brave old mariner! and aid

My swelling heart its rapture to express; [more For, from enchanted memory, never Shall fade this dawn sublime, this fair, resplendent shore.

MINOT JUDSON SAVAGE.

PESCADERO pebbles.

WHERE slopes the beach to the setting sun,

On the Pescadero shore,
For ever and ever the restless surf
Rolls up with its sullen roar.

And grasping the pebbles in white hands,

And chafing them together,
And grinding them against the cliffs
In stormy and sunny weather,

It gives them never any rest;
All day, all night, the pain
Of their long agony sobs on,

Sinks, and then swells again.

And tourists come from every clime To search with eager care,

For those whose rest has been the least:

For such have grown most fair. But yonder, round a point of rock, In a quiet, sheltered cove, Where storm ne'er breaks, and sea ne'er comes,

The tourists never rove.

For they miss the beat of angry storms,

And the surf that drips in tears.

The hard turmoil of the pitiless sea
Turns the pebble to beauteous gem,
They who escape the agony
Miss also the diadem.

LIFE IN DEATH.

NEW being is from being ceased;
No life is but by death;
Something's expiring everywhere
To give some other breath.

There's not a flower that glads the spring

But blooms upon the grave
Of its dead parent seed, in which
Its forms of beauty wave.

The oak, that like an ancient tower
Stands massive on the heath,
Looks out upon a living world.
But strikes its roots in death.

The cattle on a thousand hills Clip the sweet buds that grow

The pebbles lie 'neath the sunny sky Rank from the soil enriched by herds Quiet forevermore;

In dreams of everlasting peace

They sleep upon the shore.

But ugly, and rough, and jagged still, Are they left by the passing years;

Sleeping long years below.

To-day is but a structure built

Upon dead yesterday;

And Progress hews her temple-stones From wrecks of old decay.

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