Careless of the voice of the morning. Exult then, O sun, in the strength of thy youth! 153. When the humid shadows hover over all the starry spheres, And the melancholy darkness gently weeps in rainy tears, What a bliss to press the pillow of a cottage-chamber bed, And lie listening to the patter of the soft rain overhead. 154. We come! we come! and ye feel our might, And ye look on our works, and own 'tis we; 155. Far in a wild, unknown to public view, Beside each fearful soul there walks The dim, gaunt phantom of uncertainty, 157. We knew and did not know, The nets that long ago Fate wove for you and me; The birds that sob and moan, I praise thee for the power to love the Right, 159. How calm and quiet a delight Is it, alone, To read, and meditate, and write By none offended, and offending none. Sitting his big bay horse astride. "Run for your lives to the hills!" he cried; "Run to the hills!" was what he said As he waved his hand and dashed ahead. "Run for your lives to the hills!" he cried, "Run to the hills! to the hills!" he cried; Stop him! he's mad! just look at him go! "Tain't safe," they said, "to let him ride so." "He thinks to scare us," said one, with a laugh, "But Conemaugh folks don't swallow no chaff. 'Tain't nothing, I'll bet, but the same old leak In the dam above the South Fork Creek." Blind to their danger, callous of dread, They laughed as he left them and dashed ahead. "Run for your lives to the hills!" he cried, Lashing his horse in his desperate ride. Down through the valley the rider passed, Of the million feet and the millions more God alone might measure the force Of the Conemaugh flood in its V-shaped course. On he sped in his fierce wild ride. "Run to the hills! to the hills!" he cried. Struck the bridge and swept it away Like a bit of straw or a wisp of hay. But over and under and through that tide The voice of the unknown rider cried. "Run to the hills! to the hills!" it cried"Run for your lives to the mountain-side!"' JOHN ELIOT BOWEN. -Harper's Weekly, June 15, 1889. ON LIFE'S BANQUET STAIRS. WE pass each other on Life's banquet stairs; New guests are mounting to the festal light While we descend together to the night, Close muffled 'gainst the outside wintry airs. They tread upon our shadows as they climb With quick strong steps to join the crowd and crush. We see, in sparkling eyes and speaking blush, How expectation gilds the coming time. Young forms go by us, tossing rosy sprays In brave apparel: tints of flower and bird, And blossom-patches by the summer stirr'd, With sheen of woven silk, and gems that scatter rays. Knew we such rest, true heart! when mounting up? Shall we stand by and carp at these-and say "Go giddy ones, and moth-like fire your wings,Pleasure is pain, and laughter sorrow brings." Shall we speak thus, who once were young as they? Nay-rather will we greet with smiles-our eyes. For me-ah true! I've sung 'neath Heaven's dome Sung at my work-and bask'd in kindly rays That seem, when gleaming out of memory's haze, The efflorescence of an unseen Home. And I have known mute days of gloom and cloud When copse and wood were voiceless in the Spring To my shut ears.-When hope, outrun, took wing, And sorrow swathed my soul as with a shroud. |