Our hopes were centred all in him; We stood with bated breath As, pitiful and calm and grim, He fought and fought with Death.
We hung upon the desperate fight, And saw in him combined The tiger's stealth, the lion's might, The man's superior mind.
We saw the fearful hate he bore His old, relentless foe, His beautiful compassion for The one we cherished so.
No mortal ever waged alone A conflict so severe; The high-souled, stainless champion Finds heavenly succor near.
Legions of angels to his aid His pure devotion brought; Celestial strength his spirit swayed; 'Twas Life that in him fought.
The awful stillness of the night! The long and bitter hours!-- It seemed that Time had stayed his flight To watch the battling pow'rs.
And ere the ghastly night had fled He conquered in the strife, And gently took the slender thread, And drew her back to life.
O Dorothy, sweet Dorothy, You make my heart rejoice; Your presence is like Arcady, There's music in your voice; Heaven's purity is on your brow, Its light is in your eyne; I love you, and I ask you now To be my Valentine.
Your face is like the lily in The morning's ruddy light; Your dimpled cheeks and tiny chin Are blessings to my sight; Your lips are fairer than the rose And redder far than wine; Your teeth are whiter than the snows: You'll be my Valentine!
You are not quite so old as I, You've seen but summers three; And that's no doubt the reason why You are not coy with me. I'll come to you to-morrow, And on chocolates we'll dine; And you'll have no thought of sorrow When you are my Valentine.
"My never-failing friends are they, With whom I converse day by day." --_Southey_.
Some to and fro for converse flit And on their friends intrude, Or shun society and sit In cheerless solitude; But I can sit, when night descends, At home among a thousand friends.
The garish day is left behind, The scurry and the din; The hours of toil are out of mind, As if they had not been. No thought of morrow that impends Comes in between me and my friends.
We reck not of the flight of time, To them a subject strange; They pass their days in a sublime Indifference to change: Theirs is the life that never ends; Immortal beings are my friends.
They toil not, neither do they spin; Yet none is meanly drest; And some are clad in costly skin, And some in silken vest; And everyone who sees commends The decent habits of my friends.