Surely, thou hast another lot; There is some home for thee, Where thou shalt rest, rememb'ring not GRASS. Sahusan Barker. THE trees are a glory and joy to the sod, Bidding Nature be true to her vows; As they rise in glad clusters from out of the vale, Or cluster, like locks o'er the brow of the hill, 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. THE BRAMBLE FLOWER. Ellint. Thy fruit full well the schoolboy knows, So put thou forth thy small white rose; Though woodbines flaunt and roses glow For dull the eye-the heart is dull, Thy tender blossoms are. How rich thy branchy stem; While silent showers are falling slow, But thou, wild bramble! back dost bring, The fresh green days of life's fair spring, And boyhood's blossomy hour. Scorned bramble of the brake! once more To gad with thee the woodlands o'er, THE GRAVE. Sermis. THE grave it is deep and soundless, In vain may the nightingales warble The virgin bereft at her bridal It breaks not the buried one's sleep. Yet everywhere else shall mortals And the heart that tempest and sorrow |