|
The slow hawk stoops
|
|
To his prey in the deeps;
|
|
The sunflower droops
|
|
To the lazy wave; the wind sleeps—
|
|
Then swirling in dazzling links and loops,
|
|
A riot of shadow and shine,
|
|
A glory of olive and amber and wine,
|
|
To the westering sun the colors run
|
|
Through the deeps of the ripening wheat.
|
|
|
|
O glorious land! My western land,
|
|
Outspread beneath the setting sun!
|
|
Once more amid your swells, I stand,
|
|
And cross your sod-lands dry and dun.
|
|
I hear the jocund calls of men
|
|
Who sweep amid the ripened grain
|
|
With swift, stern reapers; once again
|
|
The evening splendor floods the plain,
|
|
The crickets' chime
|
|
Makes pauseless rhyme,
|
|
And toward the sun,
|
|
The colors run
|
|
Before the wind's feet
|
|
In the wheat!
|
|
|
|
Hamlin Garland.
|
The Broken Pinion
Table of Contents
|
I walked through the woodland meadows,
|
|
Where sweet the thrushes sing;
|
|
And I found on a bed of mosses
|
|
A bird with a broken wing.
|
|
I healed its wound, and each morning
|
|
It sang its old sweet strain,
|
|
But the bird with a broken pinion
|
|
Never soared as high again.
|
|
|
|
I found a young life broken
|
|
By sin's seductive art;
|
|
And touched with a Christlike pity,
|
|
I took him to my heart.
|
|
He lived with a noble purpose
|
|
And struggled not in vain;
|
|
But the life that sin had stricken
|
|
Never soared as high again.
|
|
|
|
But the bird with a broken pinion
|
|
Kept another from the snare;
|
|
And the life that sin had stricken
|
|
Raised another from despair.
|
|
Each loss has its compensation,
|
|
There is healing for every pain;
|
|
But the bird with a broken pinion
|
|
Never soars as high again.
|
|
|
|
Hezekiah Butterworth.
|
Jamie Douglas
Table of Contents
|
It was in the days when Claverhouse
|
|
Was scouring moor and glen,
|
|
To change, with fire and bloody sword,
|
|
The faith of Scottish men.
|
|
|
|
They had made a covenant with the Lord
|
|
Firm in their faith to bide,
|
|
Nor break to Him their plighted word,
|
|
Whatever might betide.
|
|
|
|
The sun was well-nigh setting,
|
|
When o'er the heather wild,
|
|
And up the narrow mountain-path,
|
|
Alone there walked a child.
|
|
|
|
He was a bonny, blithesome lad,
|
|
Sturdy and strong of limb—
|
|
A father's pride, a mother's love,
|
|
Were fast bound up in him.
|
|
|
|
His bright blue eyes glanced fearless round,
|
|
His step was firm and light;
|
|
What was it underneath his plaid
|
|
His little hands grasped tight?
|
|
|
|
|
|
It was bannocks which, that very morn,
|
|
His mother made with care.
|
|
From out her scanty store of meal;
|
|
And now, with many a prayer,
|
|
|
|
Had sent by Jamie her ane boy,
|
|
