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SIGHS.

YIELD NOT, THOU SAD ONE, TO But the breeze, ere it ruffled the deep, Pervading the odorous bowers, Awaken'd the flowers from their

On yield not, thou sad one, to
sighs.

Nor murmur at Destiny's will.
Behold, for each pleasure that flies,
Another replacing it still.
Time's wing, were it all of onefeather,
Far slower would be in its flight:
The storm gives a charm to fine
weather,

And day would seem dark without
night.

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Oh,

blame not the change nor the flight

Of our joys as they're passing away, 'Tis the swiftness and change give delight[stay. They would pall if permitted to

Then yield not, thou sad one, to More gaily they glitter in flying,

sighs.

When we look on some lake that

repeats

The loveliness bounding its shore, A breeze o'er the soft surface fleets, And the mirror-like beauty is o'er.

They perish in lustre still bright, Like the hues of the dolphin, in dying.

Or the humming-bird's wing in its flight.

Then yield not, thou sad one, to sighs.

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The little bird sits at his door in the sun,

Atilt like a blossom among the leaves,

EARTH gets its price for what earth And lets his illumined being o'errun

gives us;

The beggar is taxed for a corner to die in,

The priest hath his fee who comes and shrives us,

We bargain for the graves we lie in;

With the deluge of summer it receives:

His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings,

And the heart in her lumb breast flutters and sings;

He sings to the wide world, and she Who knows whither the clouds have

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That dandelions are blossoming near, That maize has sprouted, that

streams are flowing, That the river is bluer than the sky, That the robin is plastering his house hard by;

And if the breeze kept the good news back,

For other couriers we should not lack; We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing,

And hark! how clear bold chanticleer, Warmed with the new wine of the year,

Tells all in his lusty crowing!

Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how;

Everything is happy now,

Everything is upward striving; 'Tis as easy now for the heart to be true

As for grass to be green or skies to be blue,-

'Tis the natural way of living:

fled?

In the unscarred heaven they leave no wake;

And the eyes forget the tears they have shed,

The heart forgets its sorrow and ache.

AFTER THE BURIAL.

YES, faith is a goodly anchor;
When skies are sweet as a psalm,
At the bows it lolls so stalwart,
In bluff, broad-shouldered calm.

And when over breakers to leeward
The tattered surges are hurled.
It may keep our head to the tempest,
With its grip on the base of the
world.

But, after the shipwreck, tell me
What help in its iron thews,
Still true to the broken hawser,
Deep down among sea-weed and
ooze ?

In the breaking gulfs of sorrow, When the helpless feet stretch out And find in the deeps of darkness No footing so solid as doubt,

Then better one spar of memory,
One broken plank of the past,
That our human heart may cling to,
Though hopeless of shore at last!

To the spirit its splendid conjectures,
To the flesh its sweet despair,
Its tears o'er the thin-worn locket
With its anguish of deathless hair!

Immortal? I feel it and know it,
Who doubts it of such as she?
But that is the pang's very secret;
Immortal away from me!

There's a narrow ridge in the graveyard

Would scarce stay a child in his race,

But to me and my thought, it is wider Than the star-sown vague of space.

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