The American Library of Art, Literature and Song

THE LOST LEADER.

UST for a handful of silver Blot out his name, then; record one lost soul

he left us,

Just for a ribbon to stick

in his coat

Found the one gift of which Fortune bereft us,

Lost all the others she lets

us devote.

They, with the gold to give,

doled him out silver,

So much was theirs who so little allowed.

How all our copper had gone for his service! Rags were they purple, his heart had

been proud.

more,

One task more declined, one more footpath

untrod,

One more triumph for devils and sorrow for angels,

One wrong more to man, one more insult to God.

Life's night begins; let him never come back

to us:

There would be doubt, hesitation and pain,

Forced praise on our part-the glimmer of twilight,

Never glad, confident morning again.

We that had loved him so, followed him, Best fight on well, for we taught him; strike

Oh, she was more mild than the summer And I half forgot in that radiant clime

Was the spirit against whose love I sinned- But my whole life seemed, as the swift years The heart that was broken for me

Poor heart!

Cruelly broken for me!

I told her an artist should wed his art-
That only his love should be;

No other should lure me from mine apart,
I said; and my cold words chilled her
heart,

The heart that was breaking for me-
Poor heart!

Hopelessly breaking for me!

I spoke of the beautiful years to come
In the lands beyond the sea-
Those
years which must be so wearisome
To her; but her patient lips were dumb:
In silence it broke for me-

Poor heart!

Broke, yet complained not, for me!

I pressed her hand and rebuked her tears Lightly and carelessly;

I said my triumphs should reach her ears, And left her alone with the dismal years

rolled,

More hollow and vain to be: Fame's bosom at best is hard and cold; Oh, I would have given all praise and gold For the heart that was broken for mePoor heart!

Thanklessly broken for me!

Sick with longing and hope and dread,
I hurried across the sea;

She had wasted as though with grief, they

said

Poor child, poor child!—and was long since dead

Ah! dead for the love of me.

Poor heart!

Broken, and vainly, for me!

Weighed down by a woe too heavy to hold, She died unmurmuringly,

And I, remorseful and unconsoled,

I dream of the wasted days of old

And the heart that was broken for me

Poor heart!

Broken so vainly for me!

And

soul cries out in its bitter pain

For the bliss that cannot be—

For the love that never can come again,

Right merry was I
every day,
Fearless to run about and play

With sisters, brother, friends and all

For the sweet young life that was lived in To answer to their sudden call,

vain,

To join the ring, to speed the chase,

And the heart that was broken for To find each playmate's hiding-place

Poor heart!

Broken and buried for me!

ELIZABETH AKERS
(Florence Percy).

THE BLIND BOY'S SPEECH.

And pass my hand across his brow,
To tell him I could do it now.

Yet, though delightful flew the hours
So passed in childhood's peaceful bowers,
When all were gone to school but I,
I used to sit at home and sigh;

HINK not that blindness makes me And, though I never longed to view

THINK

sad:

My thoughts, like yours, are often glad;
Parents I have, who love me well:
Their different voices I can tell;
Though far away from them, I hear,

In dreams, their music meet my ear.
Is there a star so dear above
As the low voice of one you love?

I never saw my father's face,
Yet on his forehead, when I place
My hand and feel the wrinkles there—
Left less by time than anxious care-
I fear the world has sights of woe,
To knit the brows of manhood so;
I sit upon my father's knee:
He'd love me less if I could see.

I never saw my mother smile:
Her gentle tones my heart beguile;
They fall like distant melody,
They are so mild and sweet to me.
She murmurs not, my mother dear,
Though sometimes I have kissed the tear
From her soft cheek, to tell the joy
One smiling word would give her boy.

Beneath the blast the forests bend,
And thick the branchy ruin lies
And wide the shower of foliage flies;

The lake's black waves in tumult blend,
Revolving o'er and o'er and o'er
And foaming on the rocky shore,
Whose caverns echo to their roar.

The sight sublime enrapts my thought,
And swift along the past it strays
And much of strange event surveys-
What history's faithful tongue has taught,
Or fancy formed, whose plastic skill
The page with fabled change can fill
Of ill to good or good to ill.

But can my soul the scene enjoy
That rends another's breast with pain?
Oh, hapless he who, near the main,
Now sees its billowy rage destroy,
Beholds the foundering bark descend,
Nor knows but what its fate may end
The moments of his dearest friend.

JOHN SCOTT.

While rock and glen and cave and coast
Shook with the war-cry of that host,

The thunder of their feet;
He heard the imperial echoes ring-
He heard, and felt himself a king.

I saw him next alone, nor camp

Nor chief his steps attended; Nor banner blazed, nor courser's tramp With war-cries proudly blended. He stood alone whom fortune high So lately seemed to deify;

He who with Heaven contended Fled like a fugitive and slaveBehind, the foe; before, the wave.

He stood-fleet, army, treasure, gone― Alone, and in despair,

While wave and wind swept ruthless on For they were monarchs there,

And Xerxes in a single bark,

'Where late his thousand ships were dark,

Must all their fury dare. What a revenge, a trophy, this, For thee, immortal Salamis !

MISS M. A. JEWSBURY.

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The American Library of Art, Literature and Song, Volumen4