| Come to me, O ye children! |
| For I hear you at your play, |
| And the questions that perplexed me |
| Have vanished quite away. |
| |
| Ye open the eastern windows, |
| That look towards the sun, |
| Where thoughts are singing swallows |
| And the brooks of morning run. |
| |
| In your hearts are the birds and the sunshine, |
| In your thoughts the brooklet's flow |
| But in mine is the wind of Autumn |
| And the first fall of the snow. |
| |
| Ah! what would the world be to us |
| If the children were no more? |
| We should dread the desert behind us |
| Worse than the dark before. |
| |
| What the leaves are to the forest, |
| With light and air for food, |
| Ere their sweet and tender juices |
| Have been hardened into wood,— |
| |
| That to the world are children; |
| Through them it feels the glow |
| Of a brighter and sunnier climate |
| Than reaches the trunks below. |
| |
| Come to me, O ye children! |
| And whisper in my ear |
| What the birds and the winds are singing |
| In your sunny atmosphere. |
| |
| For what are all our contrivings, |
| And the wisdom of our books, |
| When compared with your caresses, |
| And the gladness of your looks? |
| |
| Ye are better than all the ballads |
| That ever were sung or said; |
| For ye are living poems, |
| And all the rest are dead. |
| |
| Henry W. Longfellow. |
| There was a sound of revelry by night, |
| And Belgium's capital had gathered then |
| Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright |
| The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men. |
| A thousand hearts beat happily; and when |
| Music arose with its voluptuous swell, |
| Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, |
| And all went merry as a marriage bell; |
| But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell. |
| |
| Did ye not hear it?—No; 'twas but the wind, |
| Or the car rattling o'er the stony street: |
| On with the dance! let joy be unconfined; |
| No sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet |
| To chase the glowing hours with flying feet— |
| But, hark!—that heavy sound breaks in once more, |
| As if the clouds its echo would repeat |
| And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! |
| Arm! arm! it is—it is the cannon's opening roar. |
| |
| Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, |
| And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, |
| And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago |
| Blush'd at the praise of their own loveliness; |
| And there were sudden partings, such as press |
| The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs |
| Which ne'er might be repeated: who could guess |
| If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, |
| Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise! |
| |
| And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed, |
| The mustering squadron, and the clattering car |
| Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, |
| And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; |
| And the deep thunder, peal on peal afar; |
| And near, the beat of the alarming drum |
| Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; |
| While thronged the citizens with terror dumb, |
| Or whispering with white lips, "The foe! they come! they come!" |
| |
| Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, |
| Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay, |
| The midnight brought the signal sound of strife, |
| The morn the marshaling in arms,—the day |
| Battle's magnificently stern array! |
| The thunder clouds close o'er it, which when rent |
| The earth is covered thick with other clay, |
| Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent, |
| Rider and horse—friend, foe—in one red burial blent. |
| |
| Lord Byron. |
| This is the land where hate should die— |
| No feuds of faith, no spleen of race, |
| No darkly brooding fear should try |
| Beneath our flag to find a place. |
| Lo! every people here has sent |
| Its sons to answer freedom's call, |
| Their lifeblood is the strong cement |
| That builds and binds the nation's wall. |
| |
| This is the land where hate should die— |
| Though dear to me my faith and shrine, |
| I serve my country when I |
| Respect the creeds that are not mine. |
| He little loves his land who'd cast |
| Upon his neighbor's word a doubt, |
| Or cite the wrongs of ages past |
| From present rights to bar him out. |
| |
| This is the land where hate should die— |
| This is the land where strife should cease, |
| Where foul, suspicious fear should fly |
| Before the light of love and peace. |
| Then let us purge from poisoned thought |
| That service to the state we give, |
| And so be worthy as we ought |
| Of this great land in which we live. |
| |
| Denis A. McCarthy. |