Imatges de pÓgina

Surely, thou hast another lot;

There is some home for thee,
Where thou shalt rest, rememb’ring not

The moaning of the sea.


Snhusan Barker.
The trees are a glory and joy to the sod,

With the rustle of leaves and their boughs, As they wave them in air, like the banners of

God, Bidding Nature be true to her vows; As they rise in glad clusters from out of the vale, And echo the steps of the wandering gale,

In the glorious midsummer pride; Or cluster, like locks o'er the brow of the hill, Or shadow quaint forms in the glass of the rill,

As they droopingly hang o’er its tide.

But the trees are too proud and majestic for me,

Great earth-nurtured kings as they are; Though useful and grand in their pride they

may be,

There's something that's better by far; For it grows on the mountain, and dingle and

dell, And patiently bears the rough winter as well

As its joys, in the glad summer air;

For tho' there's no one single blossom to

see, Though the frost has eloped with the leaves of

the tree, The grass is still lingering there.


It fringes the stream, and cushions the flower,

And hugs the soft root to its breast; And flies that have wetted their wings in the

shower, Here shelter and build them a nest. And in hedge-guarded field or furze-covered

heath, Where the rabbit makes hollows and burrows

beneath, And timidly flees as we pass ; The bee who's been tuning his bugle in fun, The cricket that's chirrup'd all day in the

sun, Each finds a glad home in the grass.

When the grave hath received its poor dweller

at last, And a heart hath at length found its rest; No matter what life its sad tenant hath past,

How good or ungodly his breast. The grass springeth up in its freshest of

green, With a flow'ret or two just to sparkle between,

And scent all around and above.

And that perfume, bequeathed to the light of

the sun,

May be incense to God for the evil that's

done In the sight of sweet mercy and love.


What a desert-like place would this world of

ours be, If its acres were barren and bare, And the beautiful green at the foot of the

tree Did not grow in humility there. What a desert-like spot would this life of ours

be, If amid sands of sin no glimpse could we see

Of some green-knotted garland of grass ; Some oasis bright, a glad hope to impart, That the sun of the sky and the sun of the

heart Still abide in the road we must pass.


Thy fruit full well the schoolboy knows,

Wild bramble of the brake;
So put thou forth thy small white rose ;

I love it for his sake.

Though woodbines flaunt and roses glow

O'er all the fragrant bowers,
Thou need'st not be ashamed to show

Thy satin-threaded flowers.

For dull the eye—the heart is dull,

That cannot feel how fair, Amid all beauty beautiful,

Thy tender blossoms are. How delicate thy gauzy frill,

How rich thy branchy stem; How soft thy voice when woods are still,

And thou sing'st hymns to them ;
While silent showers are falling slow,

And 'mid the general hush,
A sweet air lifts the little bough

Lone whispering through the bush.
The primrose to the grave is gone,

The hawthorn flower is dead ;
The violet by the mossed gray stone

Hath laid her weary head.
But thou, wild bramble! back dost bring,

In all their beauteous power, The fresh green days of life's fair spring,

And boyhood's blossomy hour.
Scorned bramble of the brake! once more

Thou bidd'st me be a boy,
To gad with thee the woodlands o'er,

In freedom and in joy.




The grave it is deep and soundless,

And canopied over with clouds; And trackless, and dim, and boundless,

Is the unknown land that it shrouds.

In vain may the nightingales warble

Their songs—the roses of love, And friendship grow white on the marble

The living have reared above.

The virgin bereft at her bridal

Of him she has loved, may weep; The wail of the orphan is idle,

It breaks not the buried one's sleep.

Yet everywhere else shall mortals

For peace unavailingly roam; Except through the shadowy portals,

Goeth none to his genuine home.

And the heart that tempest and sorrow

Have beaten against for years, Must look for a sunnier morrow,

Beyond this temple of tears.


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