THE CROWDED STREET. LET me move slowly through the street, Amid the sound of steps that beat How fast the flitting figures come! The mild, the fierce, the stony face: Some bright with thoughtless smiles, and some Where secret tears have left their trace! They pass to toil, to strife, to rest: To halls in which the feast is spread, And some to happy homes repair, Where children, pressing cheek to cheek With mute caresses, shall declare The tenderness they cannot speak. And some, who walk in calmness here, THE CROWDED STREET. Youth, with pale cheek and slender frame, Keen son of trade, with eager brow, Who of this crowd to-night shall tread Who writhe in throes of mortal pain? Some, famine-struck, shall think how long And some, who flaunt amid the throng, Each where his tasks or pleasures call, These struggling tides of life, that seem That rolls to its appointed end. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. A DEAD ROSE. O ROSE! Who dares to name thee? No longer roseate now, nor soft, nor sweet; The breeze that used to blow thee Between the hedgerow thorns, and take away If breathing now, unsweetened would forego thee. The sun that used to smite thee, And mix his glory in thy gorgeous urn, Till beam appeared to bloom and flower to burn, The dew that used to wet thee, And, white first, grew incarnadined, because If dropping now, would darken where it met thee. The fly that lit upon thee To stretch the tendrils of its tiny feet Along the leaf's pure edges after heat, If lighting now, would coldly overrun thee. THE MOTHER'S FIRST GRIEF. The bee that once did suck thee, And build thy perfumed ambers up his hive, The heart doth recognize thee, Alone, alone! The heart doth smell thee sweet, Doth view thee fair, doth judge thee most complete, Though seeing now these changes that disguise thee. Yes, and the heart doth owe thee More love, dead rose, than to such roses bold As Julia wears at dances, smiling cold. Lie still upon this heart, which breaks below thee! ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. THE MOTHER'S FIRST GRIEF. SHE sits beside the cradle, And her tears are streaming fast, For she sees the present only, O those happy, happy moments! THE MOTHER'S FIRST GRIEF. For she bends above the cradle, There are words of comfort spoken, And of all that might have been. For a little vacant garment, Or a shining tress of hair, Tells her heart, in tones of anguish, She sits beside the cradle, But her tears no longer flow, And the Voice that hushed the sea "Suffer them to come to Me." And while her soul is lifted On the soaring wings of prayer, Heaven's crystal gates swing inward, And she sees her baby there! ROBERT SMYTH CHILTON. |