| Say not the struggle nought availeth, |
| The labor and the wounds are vain, |
| The enemy faints not, nor faileth, |
| And as things have been they remain. |
| |
| If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars; |
| It may be, in yon smoke concealed, |
| Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers, |
| And, but for you, possess the field. |
| |
| For while the tired waves, vainly breaking, |
| Seem here no painful inch to gain, |
| Far back, through creeks and inlets making, |
| Comes silent, flooding in, the main, |
| |
| And not by eastern windows only, |
| When daylight comes, comes in the light, |
| In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly, |
| But westward, look, the land is bright. |
| |
| A.H. Clough. |
| There dwelt a miller, hale and bold, |
| Beside the river Dee; |
| He worked and sang from morn till night— |
| No lark more blithe than he; |
| And this the burden of his song |
| Forever used to be: |
| "I envy nobody—no, not I— |
| And nobody envies me!" |
| |
| "Thou'rt wrong, my friend," said good King Hal, |
| "As wrong as wrong can be; |
| For could my heart be light as thine, |
| I'd gladly change with thee. |
| And tell me now, what makes thee sing, |
| With voice so loud and free, |
| While I am sad, though I'm a king, |
| Beside the river Dee?" |
| |
| The miller smiled and doffed his cap, |
| "I earn my bread," quoth he; |
| "I love my wife, I love my friend, |
| I love my children three; |
| I owe no penny I cannot pay, |
| I thank the river Dee |
| That turns the mill that grinds the corn |
| That feeds my babes and me." |
| |
| "Good friend," said Hal, and sighed the while, |
| "Farewell, and happy be; |
| But say no more, if thou'dst be true |
| That no one envies thee; |
| Thy mealy cap is worth my crown, |
| Thy mill my kingdom's fee; |
| Such men as thou art England's boast, |
| O miller of the Dee!" |
| |
| Charles Mackay. |
| Take me back to the days when the old red cradle rocked, |
| In the sunshine of the years that are gone; |
| To the good old trusty days, when the door was never locked, |
| And we slumbered unmolested till the dawn. |
| |
| I remember of my years I had numbered almost seven, |
| And the old cradle stood against the wall— |
| I was youngest of the five, and two were gone to heaven, |
| But the old red cradle rocked us all. |
| |
| And if ever came a day when my cheeks were flushed and hot, |
| When I did not mind my porridge or my play, |
| I would clamber up its side and the pain would be forgot, |
| When the old red cradle rocked away. |
| |
| It has been a hallowed spot where I've turned through all the years, |
| Which have brought me the evil with the good, |
| And I turn again to-night, aye, and see it through my tears, |
| The place where the dear old cradle stood. |
| |
| By its side my father paused with a little time to spare. |
| And the care-lines would soften on his brow, |
| Ah! 't was but a little while that I knew a father's care, |
| But I fancy in my dreams I see him now. |
| |
| By my mother it was rocked when the evening meal was laid, |
| And again I seem to see her as she smiled; |
| When the rest were all in bed, 'twas there she knelt and prayed, |
| By the old red cradle and her child. |
| |
| Aye, it cradled one and all, brothers, sisters in it lay, |
| And it gave me the sweetest rest I've known; |
| But to-night the tears will flow, and I let them have their way, |
| For the passing years are leaving me alone. |
| |
| And it seems of those to come, I would gladly give them all |
| For a slumber as free from care as then, |
| Just to wake to-morrow morn where the rising sun would fall |
| Round the old red cradle once again. |
| |
| But the cradle long has gone and the burdens that it bore, |
| One by one, have been gathered to the fold; |
| Still the flock is incomplete, for it numbers only four, |
| With one left out straying in the cold. |
| |
| Heaven grant again we may in each other's arms be locked, |
| Where no sad tears of parting ever fall; |
| God forbid that one be lost that the old red cradle rocked; |
| And the dear old cradle rocked us all. |
| |
| Annie J. Granniss. |