'Twas hard; and yet I'll soon forget Those ills and cures distressing; One's future lies 'neath gorgeous skies When one is convalescing! So now, good-by To drugs say I-- Good-by, thou phantom Sorrow! I am up to-day, And, whoop, hooray! I'm going out to-morrow.

THE SLEEPING CHILD

My baby slept--how calm his rest, As o'er his handsome face a smile Like that of angel flitted, while He lay so still upon my breast!

My baby slept--his baby head Lay all unkiss'd 'neath pall and shroud: I did not weep or cry aloud-- I only wished I, too, were dead!

My baby sleeps--a tiny mound, All covered by the little flowers, Woos me in all my waking hours, Down in the quiet burying-ground.

And when I sleep I seem to be With baby in another land-- I take his little baby hand-- He smiles and sings sweet songs to me.

Sleep on, O baby, while I keep My vigils till this day be passed! Then shall I, too, lie down at last, And with my baby darling sleep.

THE TWO COFFINS

In yonder old cathedral Two lovely coffins lie; In one, the head of the state lies dead, And a singer sleeps hard by.

Once had that King great power And proudly ruled the land-- His crown e'en now is on his brow And his sword is in his hand.

How sweetly sleeps the singer With calmly folded eyes, And on the breast of the bard at rest The harp that he sounded lies.

The castle walls are falling And war distracts the land, But the sword leaps not from that mildewed spot There in that dead king's hand.

But with every grace of nature There seems to float along-- To cheer again the hearts of men The singer's deathless song.

CLARE MARKET

In the market of Clare, so cheery the glare Of the shops and the booths of the tradespeople there; That I take a delight on a Saturday night In walking that way and in viewing the sight. For it's here that one sees all the objects that please-- New patterns in silk and old patterns in cheese, For the girls pretty toys, rude alarums for boys, And baubles galore while discretion enjoys-- But here I forbear, for I really despair Of naming the wealth of the market of Clare.

A rich man comes down from the elegant town And looks at it all with an ominous frown; He seems to despise the grandiloquent cries Of the vender proclaiming his puddings and pies; And sniffing he goes through the lanes that disclose Much cause for disgust to his sensitive nose; And free of the crowd, he admits he is proud That elsewhere in London this thing's not allowed; He has seen nothing there but filth everywhere, And he's glad to get out of the market of Clare.