Not long ago we trod the selfsame way;
Thou knewest how, from day to fleeting day;
Our souls were vexed with trifles, and our feet
Were lured aside to by-paths which seemed sweet,
But only served to hinder and to tire.
Lean down and lift me higher.
Thou hast gone onward to the heights serene
And left me here, my loved one, Josephine.
I am content to stay until the end,
For life is full of promise; but, my friend,
Canst thou not help me in my best desire?
O! lean, and lift me higher.
Frail as thou wert, thou hast grown strong and wise,
And quick to understand and sympathize
With all a full soul's needs. It must be so;
Thy year with God hath made thee great, I know.
Thou must see how I struggle and aspire;
Oh, warm me with a breath of heavenly fire.
And lean and lift me higher.
[A TRIBUTE TO VINNIE REAM.]
All hail to Vinnie Ream!
Wisconsin's artist daughter,
Who stands to-day crowned with the fame
Her noble work has brought her.
Lift up your brows, hills of the West,
And tell the winds the story,
How she, our fairest, and our best,
Has climbed the heights of glory.
Three cheers for Vinnie Ream!
Who fought with tribulation,
And brought from death, to lasting life,
The martyr of our Nation.
Oh, Spite and Envy, flee in shame!
And hide your head, black Malice!
She sips, to-day, the sweets of Fame,
From Fame's emblazoned chalice.
Thank God for Vinnie Ream!
The peerless Badger maiden,
Who stands a nation's pride, to-day
With a nation's honors laden.
Ay! crown her Queen at every feast,
And strew her path with flowers,
Ye people of the South and East,
But remember, she is ours!
Bring gifts to Vinnie Ream!
I have no gift to offer,
Only a little gift of song,
And that I humbly proffer;--
Only this little gift to lay
Before Columbia's daughter,
Who stands crowned with the fame, to-day,
That her noble work has brought her.
[THE LITTLE BIRD.]
The father sits in his lonely room,
Outside sings a little bird.
But the shadows are laden with death and gloom,
And the song is all unheard.
The father's heart is the home of sorrow;
His breast is the seat of grief!
Who will hunt the paper for him on the morrow
Who will bring him sweet relief
From wearing thought with innocent chat?
Who will find his slippers and bring his hat?
Still the little bird sings
And flutters her wings;
The refrain of her song is, "God knows best!
He giveth his little children rest."
What can she know of these sorrowful things?