When man for manhood more shall strive,
And less for greed and gain,
The humble poor may nobly live,
And feel not hunger's pain.
These walls are sacred unto me,
For thought here learned to soar
And build the ark of liberty
I love, exalt, adore.
NATURE'S VOICE.
Every tree and plant, every tiny flower
That grows in wood or field,
Hath a voice that calls aloud to me,
And a beauty half concealed,
That draw my ears to hear a strain
Of music sweet and low,
And paint for me far richer hues
Than the sunset's evening glow;
They speak to me as no tongue can speak;
Their voices are sweeter far
Than the tones that fall from human lips,
Or strains of sweet music are.
POUNDRIDGE, N. Y.
Perhaps no spot upon this sphere,
Has charms for me more sacred, dear,
Than those of old Poundridge;
I love her hills, her lakes, her streams,
Her rural haunts, where Nature teems
With joys naught can abridge.
Her dew-bespangled meadows shine
With gems of radiance so divine,
When touched by matin sun,
That myriad pendant drops of dew,
Lend to the mead a brilliant hue
Like earth with diamonds strown.
The woods that sleep on distant hills,
Or watch o'er gently murmuring rills,
Seem restful to the soul;
Their silence brings sweetest repose,
A panacea for the woes
That spurn M. D.'s control.