Lost is that camp, and wasted all its fire;--
        And he who wrought that spell?
    Ah, towering pine and stately Kentish spire,
        Ye have one tale to tell!

    Lost is that camp! but let its fragrant story
        Blend with the breath that thrills
    With hop-vines’ incense all the pensive glory
        That fills the Kentish hills.

    And on that grave where English oak and holly
        And laurel wreaths entwine,
    Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly,
        This spray of Western pine!
         --FRANCIS BRET HARTE.




        HOME THEY BROUGHT HER WARRIOR


    Home they brought her warrior dead:
      She nor swoon’d, nor utter’d cry:
    All her maidens, watching, said,
      “She must weep or she will die.”

    Then they praised him, soft and low,
      Call’d him worthy to be loved,
    Truest friend and noblest foe;
      Yet she neither spoke nor moved.

    Stole a maiden from her place,
      Lightly to the warrior stept,
    Took the face-cloth from the face;
      Yet she neither moved nor wept.

    Rose a nurse of ninety years,
      Set his child upon her knee--
    Like summer tempest came her tears--
      “Sweet my child, I live for thee.”
         --ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.

       *       *       *       *       *

    The world goes up and the world goes down,
    And the sunshine follows the rain;
    And yesterday’s sneer and yesterday’s frown
    Can never come over again.
         --KINGSLEY.




        THE LOCKSMITH OF THE GOLDEN KEY


From the workshop of the Golden Key there issued forth a tinkling sound,
so merry and good-humored that it suggested the idea of some one working
blithely, and made quite pleasant music. _Tink, tink, tink_--clear as a
silver bell, and audible at every pause of the street’s harsher noises,
as though it said, “I don’t care; nothing
Lost is that camp, and wasted all its fire;-- 
         And he who wrought that while? 
     Ah, loom pine and stately Kentish spire, 
         Ye get one fib to tell! 

     Lost is that clique! but let its fragrant story 
         Blend with the breath that thrill 
     With hop - vines ’ incense all the pensive aura 
         That fills the Kentish hills. 

     And on that grave where English oak and holly 
         And laurel wreaths entwine, 
     Deem it not all a too assumptive folly, 
         This spray of westerly pine! 
          --FRANCIS BRET HARTE. 




         HOME THEY BROUGHT HER WARRIOR 


     base they fetch her warrior dead: 
       She nor swoon’d, nor utter’d cry: 
     All her maidens, watch, said, 
       “ She must weep or she will die. ” 

     Then they praised him, delicate and low, 
       Call’d him worthy to be loved, 
     Truest friend and noblest enemy; 
       Yet she neither spoke nor moved. 

     Stole a maiden from her place, 
       thinly to the warrior stept, 
     drive the face - cloth from the face; 
       Yet she neither moved nor wept. 

     Rose a nurse of ninety old age, 
       Set his child upon her knee-- 
     Like summer tempest come her tears-- 
       “ Sweet my child, I exist for thee. ” 
          --ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON. 

        *        *        *        *        * 

     The world goes up and the world goes down, 
     And the sunshine follows the rain; 
     And yesterday ’s sneer and yesterday ’s frown 
     Can never come all over again. 
          --KINGSLEY. 




         THE LOCKSMITH OF THE GOLDEN KEY 


 From the workshop of the Golden Key there issued forth a tinkling sound, 
 so merry and good - humored that it suggested the idea of some one working 
 blithely, and made quite pleasant music. _ Tink, tink, tink_--clear as a 
 silver medal bell, and audible at every pause of the street ’s harsh noises, 
 as though it said, “ I do n’t care; nothing
Losh is that camp, and wastea all its fire;--
        End he sho wroueht that spell?
    Ah, towerinj pibe ane stately Kentish spird,
        Je have obe tele to tell!

    Lost is tmct caji! but oet its fragrakt story
        Blend witv ghz breath that thrills
    With hop-vinqs’ incemsf all the pensyve bjory
        That fills the Kentish hilms.

    Aid on that gravr where English oak and hoply
        And laurel areaths entqine,
    Deem it nut all a too presumptukus folly,
        This spray of Destexn pine!
         --VTANCIS BRET IARTE.




        HOME BNEY BRMUGHT HRR WARRIOR


    Mome vhey brought her warrior vead:
      She nor swjon’d, nor gtcer’d cry:
    All her mqieens, fatcving, waia,
      “Ahe mudt xeep or she will die.”

    Then they praised hyn, soft and los,
      Cwll’d him worthy to be loved,
    Truest fgiens and noblest foe;
      Tet she neither spoke nor moveq.

    Stole a maiden from her place,
      Lightly tm the darxljf shept,
    Took the face-cloth from the face;
      Geu sme neither moved nor wept.

    Goxg a nurse of nknety vsads,
      Set his chlld upog her knee--
    Jike summer tempest came her teqrs--
      “Swevt mt child, I live for thee.”
         --AKFRED, LORD TENNYSON.

       *       *       *       *       *

    The world gues u[ and tht world goes down,
    And thx sunxhine fulloes the rain;
    Ajd yesterday’s sneer and jestetday’s xrown
    Cwn never come over again.
         --KINGSLEY.




        TVE LOCKSIITH PF THE GOLDEN KEY


From the wprkshop of tfe Golden Iey thece issued fowth a tinklinc sound,
so mercy and gojd-hunoree that kg suggested thr idea of some one qorking
blithely, anv maas quite pleasanc nusic. _Tink, tink, tivk_--cjewr af a
silver beln, ana ajcible at every pcure og the street’s harshes nojses,
as though it ssiq, “I don’t care; noehing
Lost is that camp, and wasted all And who wrought spell? Ah, towering Ye one tale to Lost is that but let its fragrant story Blend the breath that thrills With hop-vines’ incense all the pensive glory That fills Kentish hills. And on that grave where English oak and holly And laurel entwine, it all too presumptuous folly, This spray of Western pine! --FRANCIS BRET HARTE. HOME THEY BROUGHT HER WARRIOR they brought her warrior dead: She nor swoon’d, utter’d cry: All her watching, said, “She must weep she die.” Then praised soft low, Call’d him to be loved, Truest friend and noblest foe; Yet she neither spoke nor moved. Stole a maiden her place, the warrior Took face-cloth the face; Yet moved nor wept. Rose a nurse Set his child upon her knee-- Like summer came her “Sweet my child, I live for --ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON. * * * * * world goes up and the world goes down, And the sunshine follows the rain; And and yesterday’s frown Can come over again. THE OF GOLDEN From the of the Golden Key there issued forth a tinkling sound, so and good-humored that it suggested the idea of some one and quite pleasant music. tink, tink_--clear as a bell, audible at every pause street’s noises, said, don’t nothing
Lost is that camp, and wasted alL its fire;--
        AnD he whO wrOugHt That SpelL?
    Ah, towering pinE And sTately Kentish spire,
        Ye haVe one TaLE to tELl!

    lost iS that caMP! bUT Let ItS fRagRaNT sTory
        BLenD with thE breath thaT thRiLls
    With hop-viNEs’ Incense all The Pensive glory
        thaT fills ThE KeNTish hIllS.

    And oN that gRAve wheRe English OaK And holLY
        And lauREL wReatHs entwine,
    Deem it noT AlL A too presumptuoUs follY,
        THIs SPRay Of WEstern pine!
         --fRaNCIS brET HARTe.




        hOme thEY brOUGHT HER WARRiOR


    Home they BRouGht her WaRriOR dead:
      SHe nor SwOOn’d, Nor utter’d crY:
    All Her maidenS, watchINg, said,
      “SHE must weEp or shE wiLl dIe.”

    ThEN tHeY prAiSEd hIM, sOft ANd lOw,
      Call’d hIm WoRthy tO be lOVED,
    trueSt fRienD and nOblest foe;
      Yet sHe nEithER spOke noR moveD.

    StoLe A maidEn from Her plAcE,
      Lightly to the waRrioR stept,
    TooK thE fAce-ClOth frOM the faCe;
      YEt sHe neithEr moved NOr wEpT.

    rOSe A nurse of ninety yearS,
      SET HiS child upOn her kNEe--
    liKE summer tEmPesT camE HEr teaRs--
      “SwEEt My child, I Live foR ThEe.”
         --aLFRED, LoRd TENNYsOn.

       *       *       *       *       *

    ThE woRld goES up aNd the wOrld goes Down,
    AND the sunshine foLLows the rain;
    AnD YeSTErDAy’s sNeeR and yesterdAy’s fROwn
    CAn neVEr ComE Over aGain.
         --KiNgsLey.




        THE LOCKSMITH OF THE GoLdEN KEY


from tHe workshop of tHe Golden KeY THEre issueD forTH a TInkling sound,
so Merry And good-humORed that iT suggEsted the Idea of somE ONe workinG
blIthEly, And MADe Quite pleasant MUSic. _TInK, tink, tiNk_--cLear as a
SilVer BelL, anD aUdible at eVery pausE oF tHe StReeT’s harSHer noiseS,
aS thOuGh iT said, “i Don’t caRe; notHing
Lost is that camp, and was ted all it s fir e;- -
     And  he who wrough t  tha t spell?
    Ah, tower ing p in e  and st ately  Kentis h  s p i re, 
    Y ehaveone  tale t o tell!

  Lo st is that c a mp ! but letits  fragrant st ory 
      Bl e nd wi ththe b reatht hat th rills
   W i th hop - vines’i n ce nseall the pensive g l or y 
        Thatfillsth e  K e n tis h h ills.

   A nd on that gr a ve w h ere English oak a nd holly
     Andla ure l  wreat hs en tw i ne, 
    Deem i t no t all a t oo pre s umptuou s  folly, 
      Thi s sp r ay  o f W es t ern pi ne!         -- FR AN CIS B RETH A R T E.


       H OME THEY BROU GHT  HER WAR RIOR

   Hom etheybrough t her  w arrior dead:
    She nor s woo n’ d,no r utt e r’d cr y:   All he r maide n s,wa t c h in g, said,
      “Sh em u st  weep or  she w i ll  d i e.”

   T hen  the y prais ed h i m,  soft an d low,     Call’ dhim wo rt hytobe lo v ed,    Tr uest fri end a n d noblest foe;       Yet she ne i t he r  spo kenor moved.
  Stol e am ai den fromher p la c e,       Lightly to th ewarrio r ste pt,
    Tookthe face-c l o t h from t he f a ce ; 
      Yet she  neit her movedn or wept. 

   Rose anurse ofn i nety yea rs, 
    Se t hi s child uponh e r kn ee --
   Lik e summe r t emp est  ca me  her tear s--
    “S we et  my  chil d , I live  f orth ee. ”
       - -ALFR ED,LO RD TEN NYSON.    *      *      *    *      *
    Thewor l d go es  u p and t he world goes  d own,
    A nd  th e suns h i ne follo ws the rain;
    And ye s terday’ s s neerandyesterday ’sfrown  Can ne ver co me ov er  ag a i n.
    -- KINGSLEY.

     THELOCKSMI TH OF THE GOLDEN K E Y

From the wor ksh op o f th e G o ld e n K ey the r e  issued forth a  tinklingso u nd ,
so merry and  g ood-hum ored th at it suggest ed the id ea of som eonew o rki ng
blithel y, and m ade quite pleas a nt  musi c._Tink,  t ink , tin k_--cl e aras asilver  b ell, a nd au di ble at e very pause of the stree t’s ha rsher  no ises,
astho u ghit said,“I d on’t care;  no thi ng
Lost is_that camp,_and wasted all its_fire;--
 __ __  And_he who wrought_that spell?
  _ Ah, towering_pine_and stately Kentish spire,
        Ye have one_tale_to tell!

___ Lost is that camp!_but let its fragrant story
_ _     Blend with the_breath_that thrills
 _  With hop-vines’ incense all the pensive glory
_     _ That fills_the_Kentish_hills.

   _And on that grave where English_oak and holly
   _    And laurel wreaths_entwine,
    Deem it_not all a too presumptuous_folly,
 _    _ This spray_of Western_pine!
  _     _--FRANCIS BRET HARTE.




_     __HOME THEY BROUGHT_HER_WARRIOR


_ _ Home they_brought_her warrior_dead:
_     She_nor_swoon’d, nor utter’d cry:
   _All her maidens, watching,_said,
_   _ “She must weep or_she will die.”

   _Then they_praised him,_soft and low,
      Call’d him worthy_to be loved,
   _Truest friend and noblest_foe;
 __  _Yet_she neither_spoke nor moved.

    Stole_a maiden_from her place,
   _  Lightly to_the_warrior stept,
    Took_the face-cloth from the face;
 _    Yet_she_neither_moved nor wept.

  _ Rose a nurse of ninety_years,
  _   Set his child upon_her_knee--
    Like summer_tempest_came her tears--
   ___“Sweet my child, I live_for thee.”
    _    --ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.

  _  _ *   ___ *       * _ _  _*       *

  _ The world goes up and the_world goes down,
    And the sunshine follows the_rain;
    And yesterday’s sneer and_yesterday’s frown
    Can never_come over again.
 __      --KINGSLEY.




____  _ THE LOCKSMITH_OF THE GOLDEN_KEY


From the_workshop of the_Golden Key_there issued forth_a_tinkling sound,
so merry and good-humored that it suggested the idea of some one working
blithely, and made quite pleasant_music. _Tink, tink, tink_--clear as a
silver_bell, and audible at every_pause_of the street’s_harsher noises,
as though it_said, “I don’t care; nothing