| Little lass of Plymouth,—gentle, shy, and sweet; |
| Primly, trimly tripping down the queer old street; |
| Homespun frock and apron, clumsy buckled shoe; |
| Skirts that reach your ankles, just as Mother's do; |
| Bonnet closely clinging over braid and curl; |
| Modest little maiden,—Plymouth's Pilgrim girl! |
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| Little lad of Plymouth, stanchly trudging by; |
| Strong your frame, and sturdy; kind and keen your eye; |
| Clad in belted doublet, buckles at your knee; |
| Every garment fashioned as a man's might be; |
| Shoulder-cloak and breeches, hat with bell-shaped crown; |
| Manly little Pilgrim,—boy of Plymouth town! |
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| Boy and girl of Plymouth, brave and blithe, and true; |
| Finer task than yours was, children never knew; |
| Sharing toil and hardship in the strange, new land; |
| Hope, and help, and promise of the weary band; |
| Grave the life around you, scant its meed of joy; |
| Yours to make it brighter,—Pilgrim girl and boy! |
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| Helen L. Smith. |
| Work! |
| Thank God for the might of it, |
| The ardor, the urge, the delight of it, |
| Work that springs from the heart's desire, |
| Setting the brain and the soul on fire— |
| Oh, what is so good as the heat of it, |
| And what is so glad as the beat of it, |
| And what is so kind as the stern command, |
| Challenging brain and heart and hand? |
| |
| Work! |
| Thank God for the pride of it, |
| For the beautiful, conquering tide of it, |
| Sweeping the life in its furious flood, |
| Thrilling the arteries, cleansing the blood, |
| Mastering stupor and dull despair, |
| Moving the dreamer to do and dare— |
| Oh, what is so good as the urge of it, |
| And what is so glad as the surge of it, |
| And what is so strong as the summons deep, |
| Rousing the torpid soul from sleep? |
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| Work! |
| Thank God for the pace of it, |
| For the terrible, swift, keen race of it, |
| Fiery steeds in full control, |
| Nostrils a-quiver to reach the goal. |
| Work, the power that drives behind, |
| Guiding the purposes, taming the mind, |
| Holding the runaway wishes back, |
| Reining the will to one steady track, |
| Speeding the energies, faster, faster, |
| Triumphing ever over disaster; |
| Oh, what is so good as the pain of it, |
| And what is so great as the gain of it, |
| And what is so kind as the cruel goad, |
| Forcing us on through the rugged road? |
| |
| Work! |
| Thank God for the swing of it, |
| For the clamoring, hammering ring of it, |
| Passion of labor daily hurled |
| On the mighty anvils of the world. |
| Oh, what is so fierce as the flame of it? |
| And what is so huge as the aim of it? |
| Thundering on through dearth and doubt, |
| Calling the plan of the Maker out, |
| Work, the Titan; Work, the friend, |
| Shaping the earth to a glorious end, |
| Draining the swamps and blasting hills, |
| Doing whatever the Spirit wills— |
| Rending a continent apart, |
| To answer the dream of the Master heart. |
| Thank God for a world where none may shirk— |
| Thank God for the splendor of Work! |
| |
| Angela Morgan. |
| You say I have asked for the costliest thing |
| Ever made by the Hand above— |
| A woman's heart and a woman's life, |
| And a woman's wonderful love. |
| |
| That I have written your duty out, |
| And, man-like, have questioned free— |
| You demand that I stand at the bar of your soul, |
| While you in turn question me. |
| |
| And when I ask you to be my wife, |
| The head of my house and home, |
| Whose path I would scatter with sunshine through life, |
| Thy shield when sorrow shall come— |
| |
| You reply with disdain and a curl of the lip, |
| And point to my coat's missing button, |
| And haughtily ask if I want a cook, |
| To serve up my beef and my mutton. |
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| 'Tis a king that you look for. Well, I am not he, |
| But only a plain, earnest man, |
| Whose feet often shun the hard path they should tread, |
| Often shrink from the gulf they should span. |
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| 'Tis hard to believe that the rose will fade |
| From the cheek so full, so fair; |
| 'Twere harder to think that a heart proud and cold |
| Was ever reflected there. |
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| True, the rose will fade, and the leaves will fall, |
| And the Autumn of life will come; |
| But the heart that I give thee will be true as in May, |
| Should I make it thy shelter, thy home. |
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| Thou requir'st "all things that are good and true; |
| All things that a man should be"; |
| Ah! lady, my truth, in return, doubt not, |
| For the rest, I leave it to thee. |
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| Nettie H. Pelham. |