THE LIVING LOST.

Whispering, hoarsely, "Fishermen,
Have you, have you heard of Ben?"
Old with watching,

Hannah's at the window, binding shoes.

Twenty Winters

Bleach and tear the ragged shore she views:
Twenty seasons;

Never one has brought her any news.
Still her dim eyes silently

Chase the white sails o'er the sea.
Hopeless, faithful,

Hannah's at the window, binding shoes.

LUCY LARCOM.

THE LIVING LOST.

MATRON, the children of whose love,

Each to his grave, in youth have passed,
And now the mould is heaped above
The dearest and the last!

Bride, who dost wear the widow's veil
Before the wedding flowers are pale!
Ye deem the human heart endures
No deeper, bitterer grief than yours.

Yet there are pangs of keener woe,

Of which the sufferers never speak,

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THE LIVING LOST.

Nor to the world's cold pity show
The tears that scald the cheek,
Wrung from their eyelids by the shame
And guilt of those they shrink to name,
Whom once they loved with cheerful will,
And love, though fallen and branded, still.

Weep, ye who sorrow for the dead:

Thus breaking hearts their pain relieve;
And reverenced are the tears ye shed,

And honored ye who grieve.
The praise of those who sleep in earth,
The pleasant memory of their worth,
The hope to meet when life is past,
Shall heal the tortured mind at last.

But ye, who for the living lost
That agony in secret bear,
Who shall with soothing words accost
The strength of your despair?
Grief for your sake is scorn for them
Whom ye lament and all condemn ;
And o'er the world of spirits lies
A gloom from which ye turn your eyes.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

SIR MARMADUKE was a hearty knight: Good man! old man!

He's painted standing bolt upright,

With his hose rolled over his knee;

His periwig's as white as chalk,
And on his fist he holds a hawk;

And he looks like the head

Of an ancient family.

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I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER.

His dining-room was long and wide:
Good man! old man!

His spaniels lay by the fireside;
And in other parts, d'ye see,
Crossbows, tobacco-pipes, old hats,

A saddle, his wife, and a litter of cats;
And he looked like the head

Of an ancient family.

He never turned the poor

Good man! old man!

from the gate:

But was always ready to break the pate

Of his country's enemy.

What knight could do a better thing

Than serve the poor, and fight for his king?

And so may every head

Of an ancient family.

GEORGE COLMAN, "the younger."

I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER.

I REMEMBER, I remember

The house where I was born,

The little window, where the sun

Came peeping in at morn;

He never came a wink too soon,

Nor brought too long a day;
But now, I often wish the night
Had borne my breath away!

I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER.

I remember, I remember

The roses, red and white,
The violets, and the lily-cups,
Those flowers made of light!

The lilacs, where the robin built,
And where my brother set

The laburnum on his birthday;
The tree is living yet!

I remember, I remember

Where I was used to swing,

And thought the air must rush as fresh
To swallows on the wing;

My spirit flew in feathers then,

That is so heavy now,

And summer pools could hardly cool

The fever on my brow!

I remember, I remember

The fir-trees, dark and high;

I used to think their slender tops

Were close against the sky.

It was a childish ignorance;
But now 'tis little joy

To know I'm farther off from Heaven

Than when I was a boy.

THOMAS HOOD.

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