Here, where sweep the prairies lone, Broad and beautiful in God's eyes, Here in this young land, all our own, The garner-house of the old world lies.
DAWN.
I cannot echo the old wish to die at morn, as darkness strays! We have been glad together greeting some new-born radiant days, The earth would hold me, every day familiar things Would weigh me fast, The stir, the touch of morn, the bird that on swift wings Goes flitting past. Some flower would lift to me its tender tear-wet face, and send its breath To whisper of the earth, its beauty and its grace, And combat death. It would be light, and I would see in thy dear eyes The sorrow grow. Love, could I lift my own, undimmed, to paradise And leave thee so! A thousand cords would hold me down to this low sphere, When thou didst grieve; Ah! should death come upon morn's rosy breast, I fear I'd crave reprieve. But when, her gold all spent, the sad day takes her flight, When shadows creep, Then just to put my hand in thine and say, "Good-night," And fall asleep.
THE CRICKET.
O the gayest of musicians! O the gladdest thing on earth, With its piping and its chirping, is the cricket on the hearth! There is magic in the music that he flings us with such zest: "Love's the only wealth that's lasting—who cares aught for all the rest? Never mind though ill-luck dog you, never mind though times are hard, Have you not the wife and bairns?" chirps the sweet, insistent bard— Chirps and chirps, until you heed him, till your heart is all aglow— "Love's the only wealth that's lasting, home's a bit of heaven below." O the gayest of musicians! O the gladdest thing on earth, With his piping and his chirping, is the cricket on the hearth!