Alice Wellington Rollins. BRUTUS AT PHILIPPI. Rome, for whose haughtier sake proud Cæsar made Denied him when her gods let Casca's blade Pierce him who learned to make her legions his. Her people murmur for great Cæsar slain; Their greater cause lost on Philippi's plain. THE DIFFERENCE. One day I heard a little lady say, "O morning-glory, would that I were you! Twining around the porch that lovely way, Where you will see my dear one coming through. So fair you are, he'll surely notice you, I heard the little lady's lover say, Breathing your half-crushed, fainting life away She turned to see in pitying distress, With murmured words of sorrowing tenderness Close to her lips your bruised leaves she will press;— O drooping daisy, would that I were you!" INDIAN SUMMER. Linger, O day! Let not thy purple haze Fade utterly away. The Indian summer lays Her tender touch upon the emerald hills. Of delicate gladness fill the blue-veined air. The passionate sweetness that is everywhere. Touch with the charm of coming changefulness O linger, day! Let not the dear Delicious languor of thy dreamfulness Vanish away! Serene and clear, The brooding stillness of the delicate air, Still let me keep One little hour longer tryst with thee, Lean down to me, In tender beauty of thy amethyst haze. Rich clinging clusters of the ripening grape Hang silent in the sun, But in each one Beats with full throb the quickening purple wine, I hear the murmuring bee and gliding stream; While soul released from sense, With quick exultant quiver in its wings, Escapes the unthinking breast; Pierces rejoicing through the shining mist, By burning stars; delirious foretaste Of joys the soul-too eager in its haste To grasp ere won by the diviner right Of birth through death—is far too weak to bear. Slipping down slowly through the shining air, And as my senses wake, The beautiful glad soul again to take, A lonely wood-thrush calls "Where hast thou been to-day, O soul of mine?" I wondering question her. She will not answer while the light winds stir And rustle near to hear what she may say. Thou needst not linger, day! My soul and I Would hold high converse of diviner things Than blossom underneath thy tender sky. Unfold thy wings; Wrap softly round thyself thy delicate haze, And gliding down the slowly darkening ways, Vanish away! WHITMAN'S RIDE. (AFTER "PAUL REVERE.") Listen, my children, and you shall hear A midnight ride? Nay, child, for a year Eighteen hundred and forty two; No railroad then had gone crashing through To the Western coast; not a telegraph wire Had guided there the electric fire; But a fire burned in one strong man's breast For a beacon-light. You shall hear the rest. He said to his wife: "At the fort to-day, That a hundred British men had crossed The mountains; and one young, ardent priest Shouted, Hurrah for Oregon! The Yankees are late by a year at least!' They must know this at once at Washington. Some one must ride, to give the alarm, In an hour's delay; and only I Can make them understand how or why Twenty-four hours he stopped to think. Might need for the outfit on his way. Fame for the man who rode that day Into the wilds at his country's call: And for her who waited for him a year On that wild Pacific coast, a tear! Then he said "Good-by!" and with firm-set lips Silently rode from his cabin door, Just as the sun rose over the tips Of the phantom mountains that loomed before The woman there in the cabin door, |