King Alfred died in the year 901; but as long ago as that is, his fame, and the love and gratitude with which his subjects regarded him, are freshly remembered to the present hour.—Charles Dickens.
A SONG
There is ever a song somewhere, my dear,
There is ever a something sings alway:
There’s the song of the lark when the skies are clear,
And the song of the thrush when the skies are gray.
The sunshine showers across the grain,
And the bluebird trills in the orchard tree;
And in and out, when the eaves drip rain,
The swallows are twittering carelessly.
There is ever a song somewhere, my dear,
Be the skies above or dark or fair;
There is ever a song that our hearts may hear—
There is ever a song somewhere, my dear—
There is ever a song somewhere!
There is ever a song somewhere, my dear,
In the midnight black or the midday blue:
The robin pipes when the sun is here,
And the cricket chirrups the whole night through;
The buds may blow and the fruit may grow,
And the autumn leaves drop crisp and sere:
But whether the sun or the rain or the snow,
There is ever a song somewhere, my dear.
—James Whitcomb Riley.
By permission of the publishers, The Bobbs-Merrill Company. Copyright, 1898.
BETTER THAN GOLD
Better than grandeur, better than gold,
Than rank and title a thousand fold,
Is a healthy body, a mind at ease,
And simple pleasures that always please;
A heart that can feel for a neighbor’s woe,
And share his joys with a genial glow;
With sympathies large enough to enfold
All men as brothers, is better than gold.
Better than gold is a thinking mind,
That in the realm of books can find
A treasure surpassing Australian ore,
And live with the great and good of yore:—
The sage’s lore and the poet’s lay,
The glories of empires passed away.
The world’s great dream will thus unfold
And yield a pleasure better than gold.
Better than gold is a peaceful home,
Where all the fireside charities come,—
The shrine of love and the haven of life,
Hallowed by mother, or sister, or wife.
However humble the home may be,
Or tried with sorrow by Heaven’s decree,
The blessings that never were bought or sold
And centre there, are better than gold.
—Mrs. J. M. Winton.