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When the battle-field is silent,
You can go with careful tread,
You can cover up the dead.
Do not then stand idly waiting
For some greater work to do,
She will never come to you.
Do not fear to do or dare,
You can find it anywhere.
THE ISLE OF LONG AGO.
nu, a wonderful stream is the river of Time,
As it runs through the realm of tears, With a faultless rhythm and a musical rhyme, And a boundless sweep and a surge sublime,
As it blends with the Ocean of Years.
How the winters are drifting, like flakes of snow,
And the summers, like buds between; And the year in the sheaf—so they come and they go, On the river's breast, with its ebb and flow,
As it glides in the shadow and sheen.
There's a magical isle up the river of Time,
Where the softest of airs are playing; There's a cloudless sky and a tropical clime, And a song as sweet as a vesper chime,
And the Junes with the roses are staying.
And the name of that Isle is the Long Ago,
And we bury our treasures there;
There are trinkets and tresses of hair ;
There are fragments of song that nobody sings,
And a part of an infant's prayer,
And the garments that she used to wear.
There are hands that are waved, when the fairy shore
By the mirage is lifted in air; And we sometimes hear, through the turbulent roar, Sweet voices we heard in the days gone before,
When the wind down the river is fair.
Oh, remembered for aye be the blessed Isle,
All the day of our life till night-
B. F. TAYLOR.
THE DIFFICULTY OF RHYMING.
TE parted by the gate in June,
That soft and balmy month,
And (wonth-hunth-sunth-bunth–I can't find a rhyme to month).
Years were to pass ere we should meet;
A wide and yawning gulf
While (ulf-sulf-dulf—mulf-stuck again; I can't get any rhyme to gulf. I'm in a gulf myself).
Oh! how I dreaded in my soul
To part from my sweet nymph,
Before (hymph—dymph-symph–I guess I'll have to let it go at that).
Beneath my fortune's stern decree
My lonely spirits sunk,
And a (hunk-dunk-runk--sk-That will never do in the world).
She buried her dear lovely face
Within her azure scarf,
As well as (parf-sarf—darf-harf-and-harfThat won't answer either).
Oh, I had loved her many years,
I loved her for herself;
And also for her (welf-nelf-helf-pelf—no, ao; not for her pelf).
I took between my hands her head,
How sweet her lips did pouch!
I kissed her lovingly and said(bouch-mouch-louch-ouch; not a bit of it did I say ouch!)
I sorrowfully wrung her hand,
My tears they did escape,
And I was but a (sape_dape--fape-ape; well, perhaps, I did feel like an ape).
I gave to her a fond adieu,
Sweet pupil of love's school;
And always be a (dool-sool-mool-fool; since I come to think of it, I was a fool, for she fell in love with another fellow, before I was gone a month).
YOU PUT NO FLOWERS ON MY PAPA'S
W ITH sable-draped banners, and slow-measured
Ended at last is the labor of love;
move A wailing of anguish, a sobbing of grief, Falls low on the ear of the battle-scarred chief; Close crouched by the portals, a sunny-haired child Besought him in accents which grief rendered wild :
“Oh! sir, he was good, and they say he died brave
His grave is so humble, no stone marks the spot,