OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. ROBINSON OF LEYDEN. HE sleeps not here; in hope and prayer His wandering flock had gone before, But he, the shepherd, might not share Their sorrows on the wintry shore. 221 Still cry them, and the world shall hear, Ye dwellers by the storm-swept sea! Ye have not built by Haerlem Meer, Nor on the land-locked Zuyder-Zee! Before the Speedwell's anchor swung, THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE; : "Men, brethren, sisters, children dear! God calls you hence from over sea; Ye may not build by Haerlem Meer, Nor yet along the Zuyder-Zee. "Ye go to bear the saving word To tribes unnamed and shores untrod: Heed well the lessons ye have heard From those old teachers taught of God. "Yet think not unto them was lent All light for all the coming days, And Heaven's eternal wisdom spent In making straight the ancient ways: "The living fountain overflows For every flock, for every lamb, Nor heeds, though angry creeds oppose, With Luther's dike or Calvin's dam.' He spake with lingering, long embrace, With tears of love and partings fond, They floated down the creeping Maas, Along the isle of Ysselmond. They passed the frowning towers of Briel, The "Hook of Holland's" shelf of sand, And grated soon with lifting keel The sullen shores of Fatherland. No home for these!- too well they knew The mitred king behind the throne;The sails were set, the pennons flew, And westward ho! for worlds unknown. -And these were they who gave us birth, The Pilgrims of the sunset wave, Who won for us this virgin earth, And freedom with the soil they gave. The pastor slumbers by the Rhine, — 66 ONE-HOSS SHAY." A LOGICAL STORY. HAVE you heard of the wonderful onehoss shay, - That was built in such a logical way Seventeen hundred and fifty-five. Now in building of chaises, I tell you what, There is always somewhere a weakest spot, In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill, Find it somewhere you must and will, But the Deacon swore (as Deacons do, With an "I dew vum," or an "I tell yeou") He would build one shay to beat the taown 'n' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun'; It should be so built that it could n' break daown: "Fur," said the Deacon, "'t's mighty plain Thut the weakes' place mus' stan' the Little of all we value here Never an axe had seen their chips, Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips; Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide Do! I tell you, I rather guess She was a wonder, and nothing less! Colts grew horses, beards turned gray, Deacon and deaconess dropped away, Children and grandchildren,-where were they? But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake-day! EIGHTEEN HUNDRED;-it came and found The Deacon's masterpiece strong and sound. Eighteen hundred increased by ten;- Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year Without both feeling and looking queer. In fact, there's nothing that keeps its youth, And the panels just as strong as the floor, And the floor was just as strong as the sills, And the back-crossbar as strong as the fore, And the whippletree neither less nor more, And spring and axle and hub encore. And yet, as a whole, it is. past a doubt In another hour it will be worn out! The parson was working his Sunday's text, Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed - First a shiver, and then a thrill, Then something decidedly like a spill, And the parson was sitting upon a rock, At half past nine by the meet'n'-house clock, Just the hour of the Earthquake shock! What do you think the parson found, When he got up and stared around? The poor old chaise in a heap or mound, As if it had been to the mill and ground! You see, of course, if you 're not a dunce, How it went to pieces all at once, – Built up its idle door, UNDER THE VIOLETS. HER hands are cold; her face is white; But not beneath a graven stone, ;-- To plead for tears with alien eyes; Shall say, that here a maiden lies And gray old trees of hugest limb To make the scorching sunlight dim That drinks the greenness from the ground, And drop their dead leaves on her mound. When o'er their boughs the squirrels run, And through their leaves the robins call, And, ripening in the autumn sun, Stretched in his last-found home, and For her the morning choir shall sing knew the old no more. Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, Child of the wandering sea, Cast from her lap, forlorn! From thy dead lips a clearer note is born Than ever Triton blew from wreathéd horn! While on mine ear it rings, Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings: Its matins from the branches high, When, turning round their dial-track, At last the rootlets of the trees Build thee more stately mansions, O my And bear the buried dust they seize soul, As the swift seasons roll! In leaves and blossoms to the skies. So may the soul that warmed it rise! If any, born of kindlier blood, That tried to blossom in the snow, JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. [U. S. A.] THE HERITAGE. THE rich man's son inherits lands, And tender flesh that fears the cold, The rich man's son inherits cares; The bank may break, the factory burn, A breath may burst his bubble shares, And soft, white hands could hardly earn A living that would serve his turn; A heritage, it seems to me, One scarce would wish to hold in fee. The rich man's son inherits wants, His stomach craves for dainty fare; With sated heart, he hears the pants Of toiling hinds with brown arms bare, And wearies in his easy chair; A heritage, it seems to me, One scarce would wish to hold in fee. What doth the poor man's son inherit? Stout muscles and a sinewy heart, A hardy frame, a hardier spirit; King of two hands, he does his part A heritage, it seems to me, What doth the poor man's son inherit? What doth the poor man's son inherit? A patience learned by being poor, Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it, A fellow-feeling that is sure To make the outcast bless his door; A heritage, it seems to me, A king might wish to hold in fee. O rich man's son! there is a toil, But only whiten, soft, white hands,- O poor man's son! scorn not thy state; There is worse weariness than thine, In merely being rich and great; Toil only gives the soul to shine, And makes rest fragrant and benign; A heritage, it seems to me, Worth being poor to hold in fee. JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 225 Thet's Northun natur', slow an' apt to | In ellum shrouds the flashin' hang-bird doubt, But when it does git stirred, there's no gin-out! Fust come the blackbirds clatt'rin' in tall trees, An' settlin' things in windy Congresses, — Queer politicians, though, for I'll be skinned Ef all on 'em don't head against the wind. 'Fore long the trees begin to show belief, The maple crimsons to a coral-reef, Then saffron swarms swing off from all the willers, So plump they look like faller caterpillars, Then gray hosschesnuts leetle hands unfold Softer 'n a baby's be a' three days old: Thet 's robin-red breast's almanick; he knows Thet arter this ther' 's only blossom come, Suddin, in one gret slope o' shedderin foam, Jes' so our Spring gits everythin' in tune An' gives one leap from April into June; Then all comes crowdin' in; afore you think, Young oak-leaves mist the side-hill woods with pink; The cat-bird in the laylock-bush is loud; The orchards turn to heaps o' rosy cloud; Red-cedars blossom tu, though few folks know it, An' look all dipt in sunshine like a poet: The lime-trees pile their solid stacks o' shade clings, Gladness on wings, the bobolink, is here; Half hid in tip-top apple-blooms he swings, Or climbs aginst the breeze with quiv erin' wings, Or, givin' way to 't in a mock despair, Runs down, a brook o' laughter, thru the air. THE COURTIN'. GOD makes sech nights, all white an' still Zekle crep' up quite unbeknown An' peeked in thru the winder, An' there sot Huldy all alone, 'Ith no one nigh to hender. A fireplace filled the room's one side There warnt no stoves (tell comfort died) The wa'nut logs shot sparkles out Towards the pootiest, bless her, Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung, Fetched back from Concord busted. An' drows'ly simmer with the bees' sweet | The very room, coz she was in, trade; Seemed warm from floor to ceilin', |