id="Page_20" class="x-ebookmaker-pageno" title="[Pg 20]"/> Saying, O where is Norma now,
Where is my sweetheart now?

O Youth, my daughter is not here—
She waited, waited long
To hear the voice she held more dear
Than all the rest—nor could we cheer
Her with another song;
But many hear her sing
By the island,—sing so sweet
That never, never can they bring
The song to me complete.

The lover sadly turned away
And vowed that he would know
The song complete e'er dawn of day
And followed where the moonpath lay
Upon the lake below,
Where Norma sang of love
On the island dark with trees
That cast deep shadows on the cove,
And his heart was ill at ease.

At midnight o'er the moonlit wave
He bent his little boat,
Till he heard the song the soft winds gave,
But if his life that song might save,
He could not tell a note!
He could not learn a note!
Tho' many, and many, and many a night
In the lovely moonpath gleaming bright
He listened from his boat.

But the song he never, never knew
Altho' he listened long,
And so it is—is ever true
When hearts withhold a love long due;
For Love sings one sweet song,
One sweet familiar song,
At thy heart's door today,
And knocking, waits, but waiting long
Forever turns away.

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[Pg 21]

Plant a Tree

he Past unto the Present cries—
Arise, ye more than blind, arise!
For I who fell the forest low
Would now another forest grow,
But what is done I cannot mend,
So unto you a message send—
Much did I do for you, for me
Plant a tree,
Plant a tree.

The Present, waking from its sleep,
Across the hills began to creep,
And saw where Past had fallen far
A noble forest, with a scar
On many a wounded mountain side
That from the elements would hide—
And answered:—Past, I will for thee
Plant a tree,
A forest tree.

The feeling Future, yet unborn,
Heard Present echoing her horn,
And stirring somewhat in Life's cell
Did try her dearest wish to tell,
Whispering in an undertone:
I—I shall reap as ye have sown,
O heed the Past! and—thanks to thee—
Plant a tree,
Plant a tree.

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Maid of Shehawken

aid of Shehawken, kind and true,
I sing a fond farewell,
But, maiden, though I sing adieu,
My love I cannot tell—
My love I cannot tell to thee
For parting gives me pain,
Oh may I in the days to be
Meet with thee once again.

Maid of Shehawken, sweet and fair,
Accept my humble praise,
And may thy path be free from care,
Full happy be thy days,
And ever mid the lure of life
Where e'er thy lot may be,
In pleasant paths or weary strife—
Remember, I love thee.

Maid of Shehawken, kind and true,
Tho' far away we roam,
Few places will we find, O few
As sweet as our highland home,
And tho' Life's pathway lead along
The shining streets of gold,
Our lips will never know a song
As sweet as the songs of old.

Maid of Shehawken, dearer far
Than any that I know,
Lighting my pathway like a star,
Afar from thee I go,
But tho' I leave the Hills of Wayne
My heart is still with thee,
O maiden, may we meet again
In the days that are to be.

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To the Delaware

ease thy murmuring, Delaware,
For thy many braves so fair
Who are sleeping by thy stream—
Rouse them not—there let them dream.
For upon that silent shore
Indian's cry shall sound no more.
There, where still the owlets cry
And the solemn night-winds sigh,
Let the victor's head remain
With the spirits of the slain,
Leave the warriors fast asleep
Where the willows o'er them weep,
For thy murmuring, Delaware,
Cannot wake those sleeping there,
For thy voice deep in the foam
Cannot ever call them home.

There, where low and high degree
Sleep beneath the self-same tree,
And where warriors small and great,
Share in death a common fate,
Leave the pale-face and the braves
Side by side within their graves.

There, where ridges lifting high
Try to bridge the endless sky,
And where willows bend like lead
O'er the footprints of the dead—
To each brother slumbering there,
Sing sweet songs, my Delaware.

Requiem:

Brave!—thy happy days have fled
Into silence with the dead;
Thy canoe, thy well-worn way,
And thy bow are in decay.
And no more thy camp-fires gleam
By thy sweet, complaining stream;
And I mourn thy ruthless fate;
Weeping am I—but too late—
For upon that silent shore
Indian's cry shall sound no more.

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[Pg 24]

Starlight