The old man laid his hand on her head, As the tear stole down from his half-shut eye, The house-dog lay stretched out on the floor, Where the shade after noon used to steal; The busy old wife, by the open door, Was turning the spinning-wheel; And the old brass clock on the mantel-tree Had plodded along to almost three. Still the farmer sat in his easy-chair, While close to his heaving breast The moistened brow and the cheek so fair Of his sweet grandchild were pressed; His head, bent down, on her soft hair lay: Fast asleep were they both, that summer day! CHARLES GAMAGE EASTMAN. NOT ONE TO SPARE. "WHICH shall it be? Which shall it be?" I looked at John John looked at me (Dear, patient John, who loves me yet As well as though my locks were jet); And when I found that I must speak, My voice seemed strangely low and weak: "Tell me again what Robert said.” And then I, listening, bent my head. "This is his letter: 'I will give A house and land while you shall live, Of poverty and work and care, His rough hand down in a gentle way, Athwart the boyish faces there, Could he be spared? Nay; He who gave, "And so," said John, "I would not dare And knelt by Mary, child of love. I said to John. Quite silently Across her cheek in wilful way, And shook his head: "Nay, love; not thee," The while my heart beat audibly. Only one more, our eldest lad, Trusty and truthful, good and glad Ere the world and its wickedness made me A partner of sorrow and sin, All my heart grows weak as a woman's, And the fountains of feeling will flow, When I think of the paths steep and stony, Where the feet of the dear ones must go ; Of the mountains of sin hanging o'er them, Of the tempest of Fate blowing wild; O, there's nothing on earth half so holy As the innocent heart of a child! FAITH AND HOPE. O, DON'T be sorrowful, darling! Time's wheels they heavily run ; But taking the year together, my dear, There is n't more cloud than sun. We're old folks now, companion, Our heads they are growing gray; And our roses, long ago; And the time of the year is come, my dear, For the long dark nights, and the snow. But God is God, my faithful, Of night as well as of day; Ay, God of night, my darling! Of the night of death so grim; And the gate that from life leads out, good wife, Is the gate that leads to Him. |