Relic on the Lethe

As usual, the People's Voice of May 1, 1880 starts off with a poem, titled Buried Gems: How many gems of thought beneath  The dust of toil lie buried;  How many o’er the bridge of sighs  To silent tombs are carried,  And never see the light of day—  Tho’ their’s is matchless beauty;  For hands that hold the richest gifts, Must closest cling to duty.  How many hands ne’er dare to pluck  From life the wayside flowers;  How many feet must bleed and ache  In this bright world of ours;  While others sing the gayest songs,  And pluck the brightest roses;  For them the opening of each hour,  Some new found joy discloses.  How many sweet songs well to lips  That may not pause to sing them;  And sweet bells chime in many a heart  But there’s no one to ring them.  God pity such whose rounded years  Are filled with care and trials,  Whose daily life is constantly  Made up up self...

I visited one of my favorite places to find unusual history today, the Virginia Chronicle. A new newspaper was added to the collection since the last time I checked in, and the paper started with a poem:   The Storm.  The tempest rages wild and high,  The waves lift up their voices and cry  Fierce answers to the angry sky:  Miserere Domine!    Through the black night and driving rain  A ship is struggling, all in vain,  To live upon the stormy main;  Miserere Domine!    The thunders roar, the lightnings glare,  Vain it is now to strive or dare;  A cry goes up of great despair;  Miserere Domine!    The stormy voices of the main,  The moaning wind and pelting rain,  Beat on the nursery window pane,  Miserere Domine!    Warm curtain'd was the little bed,  Soft pilow'd was the little head;  "The storm will wake the child," they said;  Miserere Domine!  ...