The tri-weekly standard. [volume] (Raleigh, N.C.) 1866-1868, 1867-01-15

MIR. Hill IS QeSCll1eO, IL Ills uittouD'oN. s.
Nus is fully cultivated and encouraged. TO
AXE very high stand among American
Poets.
RoRy JANUARY 18TH, 1868. DIED JUNE OATH. 1866.
Cots finger touched him, 6tnd he slept"
P .. I'm MEMoRIAM.
THE THINGS he used to play with
Lie in the corner there;
And yonder hangs the worsted cap
That he was wont to wear;
Beneath his dimpled chin 1 see
Its crimson tassels tied,
And clasp once more with fond caress
Our & little boy that died.
- I hear the restless rosy feet.
That patter on the stair,
And now he runs to Mammals seat
To nestle fondly there:
He climbs upon my knee again,
Or, on my foot astride,
1 toss the darling of my heart
Who clamors for ride.
The labor of the day is DONE
Home to a glowing hearth,
I hasten, ere the set of sun,
The happiest man on earth:
A mother, standing at the door,
Looks out, adown the street,
Elate with JOY. as runs her boy
His father first to greet.
"
All, then right merrily we romp
And noisy is our glee,
For each, to please the household pet,
Must horse or driver be:
He brings 6 his blocks" and begs Papa,
"a church" for him to rear,
But knocks the fabric down before
The steeple can appear.
His marbles next, and then his ball,
Till, weary of our play,
He sups on mothers lap, and folds
His little hands to pray:
And Nov 1 lay me down to Sleep
That immemorial prayer
In faltering phrases soft and sweet,
Makes musical the air.
He sleeps: the fire is burning low,
And shadows on the WALL
Like those he wondered at and feared,
Grotesquely rise and fall:
Night-rayless night oerwhelms my SOUL
And yet, in my despair,
sometimes almost smile to think
There is no shadow there!
tbs Summertime again, and 1
Sit mourntully for hours,
And watch the painted butterflies
That WOO his favorite flowers;
They hover unmolested here,
Yet-dreaming of the chase
see the hunters flashing eyes
His flushed and eager face!
How oft I've seen the jocund boy
Return from garden-play,
His Summer-hat of plated straw
With Larkspur blossoms gay;
The hand that decked it thus need not
Renew the garland now,
For seraphim and cherubim
Irvine amaranth for his brow!
Strange silence broods DER all the house
From dawn to close of day;
The little drummer beats no more
Tattoo or Reveille;
His teathered cap, and plaided Cloak
And broken drum remain
But he who wore them once may meier
Come back to US again.
x
It almost breaks nv heart to see
The dog he daily fed.
Crouch at my feet and mutely ask
The living for the dead
cannot harshly drive him out,
Though keener grief than mine
Bursts forth afresh each time she hears
His wistful-piteous whine.
XII
But wouldst thou call him back to earth
Have him again to wear
The crimson-tasselled worsted can
Upon his golden hair9
Wouldst have thine angel lay aside
His diadem of light
Change crown for cross, and blindly grope
Beside thee, through the night2 2"
y" Ask me no more:" for flesh is weak ::
Our idol was part
vi every earth born hope that blessed
Mine, and his Mothers heart
Ask me no more:'' help us, o God,
This bitter loss to bear
10 kiss thy Christening rod, and live
To find {" our treasure" there!
- Ask me no more, lest I should bid him Ice
Ask me no more"
THE PprlCrsc