Then we will hunt the loamy swale
And trail
The snipe, their cunning wiles o'ercoming;
And oft will flush the bevied quail,
And hear the partridge slowly drumming
Dull echoes in the leaf-strewn dale.
When wooded hills with crimson light
Are bright,
We'll stroll where trees and vines are growing,
And see birds warp their southern flight
At sundown, when the Day King's throwing
Sly kisses to the Queen of Night.
FRANK H. SELDEN.
WHY STRIK'ST THOU ME?
Why dost thou strike me?--Ever faithful
In service to thee do I live;
And often when thou wert in peril
My very utmost would I give;
My life I would lay down for thee!
Why strik'st thou me?
In blustering storm and cruel Winter,
In murky night or through the day,
Obedient I have trotted by thee
And guarded thee along the way.
I've watched thee and protected thee:
Why strik'st thou me?
When flashed the robber's steel against thee,
When thou wert threatened by his arm,
And thou didst call for aid and rescue,
Who saved thee then from mortal harm?
My blood flowed on the sand for thee:
Why strik'st thou me?
When down the sheer walls of the chasm
That glooms the torrent thou didst slide,
Thou there had perished maimed and helpless
Had I not sought thee far and wide.
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