KATE KEARNEY

OH! DID you ne'er hear of Kate Kearney?
She lives on the banks of Killarney:
From the glance of her eyes, shun danger and fly,
For fatal's the glance of Kate Kearney.

For that eye is so modestly beaming,
You ne'er think of mischief she's dreaming:
Yet, oh! I can tell, how fatal's the spell,
That lurks in the eyes of Kate Kearney.

O should you e'er meet this Kate Kearney,
Who lives on the banks of Killarney,
Beware of her smile, for many a wile
Lies hid in the smile of Kate Kearney.

Though she looks so bewitchingly simple,
Yet there's mischief in every dimple,
And who dares inhale her sigh's spicy gale,
Must die by the breath of Kate Kearney.

--Sady Morgan

MIDSUMMER

YOU LOVED me for a little,
Who could not love me long;
You gave me wings of gladness
And lent my spirit song.

You loved me for an hour
But only with your eyes;
Your lips I could not capture
By storm or by surprise.

Your mouth that I remember
With rush of sudden pain
As one remembers starlight
Or roses after rain . . .

Out or a world of laughter
Suddenly I am sad. . . .
Day and night it haunts me,
The kiss I never had.

--Sydney King Russell

REWARD OF SERVICE

THE SWEETEST lives are those of duty wed,
Whose deeds both great and small
Are close-knot strands of an unbroken thread,
Where love ennobles all.
The world may sound no trumpets, ring no bells,
The Book of Life the slurring record tells.

Thy love shall chant its own beatitudes,
After its own like working. A child's kiss
Set on thy singing lips shall make thee glad;
A poor man served by thee shall make thee rich;
A sick man helped by thee shall make thee strong;
Thou shalt be served thyself by every sense
Of service which thou renderest.

--Elizabeth Barrett Browning

MY LIFE A BOWL

MY LIFE is a bowl which is mine to brim
With loveliness old and new.
So I fill it's clay from stem to rim
With you, dear heart, With you.

My life is a pool which can only hold
One star and a glimpse of blue.
But the blue and the little lamp of gold
Are you, dear heart, Are you.

My life is a homing bird that flies
Through the starry dusk and dew
Home to the heaven of your true eyes,
Home, dear heart, To you.

--May Riley Smith

AND THEN NO MORE

I SAW her once, one little while, and then no more:
'Twas Eden's light on earth awhile, and then no more.
Amid the throng she pass'd along the meadow-floor:
Spring seem'd to smile on earth awhile, and then nor more;
But whence she came, which way she went, what grab she wore,
I noted not; I gazed awhile, and then no more.

I saw her once, one little while, and then no more:
'Twas Paradies on earth awhile, and then no more:
Ah! what avail my vigils pale, my magic lore?
She shone before mine eyes awhile, and then no more.
The shallop of my peace is wreck'd on Beauty's shore;
Near Hope's fair isle it rode awhile, and then no more.

I saw her once, one little while, and then no more.
Earth looked like heaven a little while, and then no more.
Her presence thrill'd and lighted to its inner cor
My desert breast a little while, and then no more.
So may, perchance, a meteor glance at midnight o'er
Some ruin'd pile a little while, and then no more.

I saw her once, one little while, and then no more.
The earth was peri-land awhile, and then no more.
On, might I see but once again, as once before,
Through chance or wile, that shape awhile, and then no more!
Death soon would heal my griefs! This heart now sad and sore
Would beat anew alittle while, and then no more.


--Friedrich Rueckert
Translated by James Clarence Mangon

SONG

HOW PLEASANt it is that always
There's somebody older than you-
Someone to pet and caress you,
Someone to scold you, too!

Someone to call you a baby,
To laugh at you when you're wise;
Someone to care when you're sorry,
To kiss the tears from your eyes;

When life has begun to be weary,
And youth to melt the dew,
To know, like the little children
Somebody's older than you.

The path cannot be so lonely,
For someone has trod it before;
The golden gates are the nearer,
That someone stands at the door.

I can think of nothing sadder
Than to feel, when days are few,
There's nobody left to lean on,
Nobody older than you!

The younger ones may be tender
To the feeble steps and slow;
But they can't talk the old times over-
Alas, how should they know!

'Tis a romance to them-a wonder
You were ever a child at play;
But the dear ones waiting in heaven
Know it is all as you say.

I know that the great All-Father
Loves us, and the little ones too;
Keep only childlike-hearted-
Heaven is older than you!

--Florence Smith