Secular Poems

BELLS AT EVENING.

I TURNED from the crowded city,

And strolled by myself alone, Languidly musing, and humming a tune

In a dull and drowsy tone,
Till I came to a lovely village

That nestled among the dells; Then my heart leaped up with a strange, wild thrill

At the sound of the evening bells, —

Now bursting in sudden clangor,

Now melting in softer strains, Till I felt the power of my soul entranced,

Held fast by unyielding chains;
E’en now I can hear the echo

That floated among the dells; And I weep as then I wept for joy

At the sound of the evening bells.

Ah me, it is bright as ever,

The close of a halcyon day That down in the vault of a moldering past

I thought I had laid away;

But the same warm gush of feeling

Again in my bosom swells; And I wonder if still from the old church spire

Ring out those evening bells.

I think of that rustic village,

Secluded as once it stood, With its dwellings so unpretending,

That sheltered the pure and good; And a lone, sweet voice is blending

With the echoes among the dells; And a form trips by with a fairy tread,

As I list to the evening bells.

I stand where a whitethorn blossoms,

But not by myself alone; I am looking into a girlish face,

And catching her every tone; And this is our young love’s dawning;

What rapture its memory tells! And our hearts keep time with the mellow chime,

The chime of the evening bells.

O throb of a passing moment!

O bliss that will come no more!
We met, and too soon we parted;

The dream of my life is o’er; The bells of my heart are silent;

She sleeps in that distant clime; But I sometimes ask if her soul can hear

The bells at the evening time.

The bells of my heart are silent,

The springs of my youth are dry; And yet in my lonely musings

I long like a bird to fly; I yearn for one look at the village

That nestles among the dells; Then to pass away in the gloaming

‘Mid the chiming of evening bells.

GREETING TO THE CITIZENS OF
BRIDGEPORT.

Friends, around your growing city,

Rich in beauty, wealth and art, Cling the best and purest feelings

Ever wakened in my heart. Dear to me each laughing brooklet,

Dear to me each mossy rill,
And the home of my adoption,

May I call it, if I will? Home is where our memory lingers,

And our thoughts a vigil keep O’er the graves our tears have hallowed,

Tears that only love can weep.
Rural cot and stately villa

Nestle ‘mid your groves so fair; And in summer, O how sweetly

Comes the cool and fragrant air!

Once at close of day I wandered,

Musing on your wave-girt shore, Through your seaside park so lovely,

Where the crested billows roar; And I thought the birds sang sweeter

Than they ever sang before.
Then I saw in queenly beauty,

Radiance flashing from her eye, Freedom’s goddess bending graceful

From her chariot in the sky;
And she said in solemn accents,

While she held our banner bright, Crimson with the blood of martyrs,

Gleaming in the rosy light:
From this patriotic city,

When the battle cry was heard,
And the fire of indignation

Every loyal bosom stirred — From this patriotic city,

Rank by rank and corps by corps, Rushed they on with lion courage;

Some, alas! returned no more. But their names are not forgotten;

On this monument they stand,
Wreathed in amaranthine laurels

Twined by love’s immortal hand. Then she smiling laved her pinions

In the white foam’s dashing spray, Blessed the monument she guarded,

Spread her wings and soared away.

Then a burst of choral music,

Whence I knew not, filled the air; Were those patriot souls departed

Hovering in the sunset there? In that crimson, cloudless sunset

That before me shone so bright,
Did they vanish when its glory

Passed forever from my sight?

Friends, your city, from my girlhood,

Was a treasured spot to me;
Many a summer’s glad vacation

‘Mid its wilds ’twas mine to see. Time has added to its beauty,

Changed the haunts I still recall, But a light from past enjoyment

Is reflected over all.
I can see the picnic gathered

On the beach at evening time;
I can see the full moon rising

In her majesty sublime;
And the fairy boat so graceful

As it glided from the shore,
Till we scarcely heard the echo

Of its lightly dipping oar. Ah, perchance those simple customs

Are not held so dear as then,
But have dwindled into shadows

Of the things that once have been.

They were pleasant in their nature,

They were social of their kind, And they left a healthful pleasure

In the young and eager mind.
Oft I clasp the hands of many

That in early days I met
When I hither came to visit

Mother, sisters, spared me yet; But some tender links have parted

From the chain affection wove, And their hallowed dust is sleeping

In your lovely Mountain Grove. And my full heart bending o’er them

Weeps not hopeless where they lie, But believing through the Saviour

I shall meet them by and by — Meet them in the soul’s hereafter,

Meet them on the palmy shore,
In the sunny land of roses,

In the Christian’s evermore. Once I stood beside their gravestones,

When the leaves around me fell, And the branches swayed above me,

And their moan was like a knell; For a funeral train passed near me

To a grave but newly made,
And an infant in its beauty

Like a lily there was laid. What a calm steals o’er my spirit

While in pensive thought I rove

Through the shaded walks that circle Round your quiet Mountain Grove.

It was well and wisely chosen; And, when future years have fled,

Let no changes that may follow
E’er disturb the silent dead.

O’er your city may the blessing

Of the holy One descend;
May its onward march continue,

And its commerce wide extend;
And among its sweet environs

May the yearly fruits abound; With the smiles of peace and plenty

May the farmer’s toil be crowned.

THE RAINDROP.

A golden cloud came flitting by

On the clear blue arch of a summer’s sky;

And a crystal drop, as it lightly fell,

Like an orient pearl in a lily bell,

Had stolen a blush from the cheek of day

That lingered there in its idle play,

And spangled the raindrop pure and white

With the wavy tints of its crimson light,

Then flitted away in its sportive glee

To a star that rose o’er the twilight sea.

Twas only its mirrored glance that shone,

Like the memory sweet of some whispered tone,

And the beautiful raindrop looked in vain For the beam that had gone to its source again, Then turned to the bosom that loved it best, And sighed as it wearily sank to rest.

And the lily smiled as it lingered there

And nestled soft in her petals fair,

And drank of the snowy cup she filled

With the balmy breath from her heart distilled;

But a zephyr came, and it murmured low

As the tender cadence of streams that flow

Where the date tree bends like a stately queen

Her leaf-crowned head to the olive green;

And aromas sweet from the flowers it bore,

That bloom in the vales of that far-off shore,

And the last wild song of a woodland bird,

And a sigh that a maiden’s heart had stirred,

And a silver note as it lightly fell

From a lover’s lute in a fairy dell;

But while with the lily it seemed to play,

It wooed from her bosom the drop away

Ere the rosy morn from the dewy steep

Awakened the birds from their dreamy sleep;

On her slender stem she had pined alone;

Her heart and her life with that drop had flown.

And where was the truant? O’er hill and glade

With the zephyr it passed through the forest shade

To a couch where a dying infant lay,

And a pale young mother had knelt to pray;

And it moistened the lips that with fever burned, And a light to the half-closed eyes returned; And it cooled his brow, and lulled his pain, And dimpled his cheek with a smile again. A warrior looked on his blushing bride As she drew for a moment her veil aside. And it shone on a wreath like a diamond rare, ‘Mid the clustering curls of her auburn hair. But dreary and sad was its fate at last, For the roses died and the summer passed; And the zephyr, too, on its idle wing Had left it alone like a blighted thing; And the frost spirit came when the night was still, And it froze at the touch of his fingers chill; And the tale of the raindrop, bright and brief, Is heard in the moan of the autumn leaf.

THE VIOLET’S ANSWER.

“Little violet, thou art lonely;

Wilt thou come and bloom with me? All thy sister flowers have faded;

None are left to care for thee.” “No,” she answered,” let me rather

In this quiet valley stay; Near the graves of those I cherish

Let me live my life away,

Till I wither and decay.”

THE MAIDEN AND HER CANOE.

Speeding along so fleetly

Over the waters blue,
Who is that dark-eyed maiden

Guiding her bark canoe?
Swiftly the tide is flowing;

Is there no danger near,
Danger to her now gliding

Over the waters clear?
Ah, she has reached the forest,

Gayly she drops the oar;
Now like a fawn we see her

Leap to the emerald shore;
Laughing, she hurls an arrow

Quick from her painted bow;
Is it a promised signal?

Where will the arrow go?
Yonder a stalwart hunter

Peers through the deepening shade, Catches the lover’s token,

Welcomes the gentle maid.
Now in her queenly beauty

Rises the summer moon; All the young flowers are sleeping,

All the sweet flowers of June;
What doth the hunter whisper

Soft in the maiden’s ear?
Why is her warm cheek blushing?

Say, shall we pause and hear?

Ah, there are vows repeated,

Pledges of love are given,
Pure as the stars that glisten

Bright in the arch of heaven.
Now to her home returning

Over the waters blue,
Lightly the happy maiden

Sings in her bark canoe.
Wind of the east, old Wabun,

Wake from thy drowsy sleep,
Scatter the breath of lilies

Over the crystal deep;
Touch not the maiden’s tresses;

Love hath her heart beguiled;
Spirits of air, watch o’er her,

Rose of the forest wild.

MINNIE’S BIRTHDAY.

I SAT in the soft gray twilight,

And mused on a single star That shone like a sparkling jewel

And scattered its beams afar;
I sat by a murmuring brooklet,

And, low on a mossy bed
That cradled a pure white lily,

I pillowed my weary head;
A balmy sleep stole o’er me,

And lightly I sped away

Where a social group had gathered

On a maiden’s natal day; And the maiden was young and happy;

And her mild eyes seemed so bright, I thought they had caught a luster

From the star that had blessed my sight; I saw it ere slumber wooed me;

And now to that rustic bower It came with the smile of the angel

That guarded that festive hour.

I sat in the soft gray twilight,

Unseen by that goodly throng, And I heard their voices blending

In many a joyous song; And the maiden was young and gentle;

So gentle was she and kind,
The lily beside the brooklet

Was still with my dream entwined; And many a wish was tendered,

And sealed with affection’s tears, That the roses which then were budding

Might bloom in her after years;
And a mother’s heart beat fondly

As she looked on her daughter fair, And the dewy breeze bore upward

A sigh and a fervent prayer — A prayer that no lips but a mother’s

With feelings so warm can breathe — A prayer that a Saviour’s blessing

Might follow that birthday eve.

Like the parting of summer wavelets

As they sink to a calm repose, Were the sweet good-byes that were spoken

At that festive evening’s close; But the star of the soft gray twilight

Will ne’er from the maiden part,
And the lily beside the brooklet

Will live in her guileless heart.

What meaneth this play of fancy?

And who can the maiden be? Say, Minnie, canst thou not guess it?

I’ll help thee, for thou art she; And I pray that thy life may ever

Flow onward as calmly bright As the star and the smile of the angel

That rest on thy brow to-night.

NANNETTE. TlS years since first she came to me In all her merry girlish glee; And yet my fancy now can trace Her sylphlike form, her modest grace, Her dimpled cheeks of rosy hue, Her coral lips, and eyes so blue That from their azure depths serene The lovelight of her soul was seen. O never can my heart forget Our little Queen of May, Nannette.

How timid, when we chose her queen,

And crowned her on the village green!

Yet in a moment, self-possessed,

A few brief words her thanks expressed,

And then in song and artless play

The hours went by till close of day.

And Harry Lee remembers yet

Our little Queen of May, Nannette;

He sought her ‘neath a rustic shade

To which from mazy dance she strayed;

And, not unwilling, did she hear

His honest vows of love sincere;

Nor was it strange ere set of sun

Their hearts had melted into one.

Three happy summers came and went, And Harry all his powers had bent To one great object, which had proved How hard he toiled, how deep he loved. ‘Twas gained at last; he saw complete A simple dwelling, plain and neat, And dear Nannette, his loving bride, Its happy mistress and its pride. I know he never will forget Our little Queen of May, Nannette.

TO A BIRD.

The dewdrops are melting away, my bird, The sunbeams are kissing the flowers;

And hast thou no greeting, no song of delight, To welcome these lovely hours?

0 why art thou drooping and sad, my bird? And why dost thou cease to sing?

Wouldst thou fly to the groves of thine own fair isle? Art thou eager to spread thy wing?

And what if I let thee go, my bird?

How heartless I then should be; For the journey is long, and thy strength would fail;

Thou wouldst never come back to me.

1 will give thee a glad surprise, my bird; Thou shalt play with the laughing breeze;

I will hang thy cage in a shady nook; It shall swing in the leafy trees.

Ah, now thou art happy again, my bird,

And thy voice rings out so clear That the robin, the wren, and the bluebird, too,

Are coming its thrill to hear.

Ah, yes, thou art happy again, my bird,

And lonely thou ne’er shalt be; I will make thy life like a sweet spring day,

If still thou wilt carol for me.

VOICE OF THE NIGHT WIND.

VOICE of the night wind, mournfully stealing

Forth from the depths of thy dark ocean cave, Shrieking in terror, wailing in pity,

Chanting a dirge o’er the mariner’s grave, — What art thou saying? eager, I listen,

Catching each note of thy tremulous moan, While my worn spirit, pining with anguish,

Sighs for the friends that have left it alone.

Voice of the night wind, speak to me gently,

Tell of the days that were cloudless and bright; Bring, if thou canst, the fond hopes I have cherished,

Clothe them in beauty and deck them with light; Still thou art sighing, drearily sighing,

Fitfully breathing thy desolate moan, While my worn spirit, crushed and forsaken,

Weeps for the friends that have left it alone.

THE OLD YEAR.

Shall I weep for thee, Old Year?

I rejoiced when thou wert born; And, with mirth and festive cheer,

How I hailed the blushing morn, Cold and crisp, and yet so clear!

Shall I weep for thee, Old Year?

Thou art dying, and the bell
Soon will toll thy parting knell
Through the lonely, silent dell,

Where, with footstep light and free,

When the dew was on the lea,
And the violets came in spring,
Like a bird I used to sing;

But the winter now is here;

Shall I weep for thee, Old Year?

O the winter of the heart

When it hears the stormwinds blow, When it sees each flower depart,

When it lays them ‘neath the snow,

‘Neath the white and feathery snow!

How it longs like thee to go! For its days are dark and drear; Shall I weep for thee, Old Year?

Thou art gone, and in thy place,
With a bright and smiling face,

Comes the New Year, fair as thou,

With a chaplet on his brow; And his voice is sweet and clear; Shall I weep for thee, Old Year?

But the spring will come ere long, And my heart will then be gay,

When I hear the wild bird’s song
As in many a bygone day,

And the sky will be as clear

As thine own, O vanished year.

AMERICAN HEARTS AND HOMES.

Ye may sing of the palmy isles that sleep

Like pearls on the ocean’s breast, Where the spirits of beauty their vigil keep,

And the oriole builds her nest; Ye may tell of the classic founts that flow

In the sweet Arcadian bowers, Where the mellow tints of the sunlight glow

As they play with the rosy hours.

But give me the land of the rocking pine

And the brave old forest oak, That rang with the lofty strains sublime

That our Pilgrim Fathers woke, When their barque was moored and its anchor cast

‘Mid the glow of the setting sun, When the storms of the troubled deep were passed,

And their weary voyage was done.

There was joy in the hearts of our Pilgrim Sires

As on Plymouth Rock they stood, And the welcome light of their crackling fires

Loomed up through the forest wood; And they praised the Lord and adored His grace

Who had brought them o’er the sea; For now they had found a resting place,

And to worship Him were free.

Though dreary and wild was that wave-girt shore, And cold was the wintry air,

The voice of the tyrant was heard no more;

The angel of peace was there; And a radiant gem from her crown she set

In the path where the moonlight roams — A star that in glory is shining yet

O’er American hearts and homes.

O, that beacon of hope in the darkest hour

That hung o’er oppression’s night, Was the guard of the brave; and they felt its power

As they looked on its steady light; But over each link of the tyrant’s chain

The surge of old ocean foams, And Freedom the goddess that dwells and reigns

In American hearts and homes.

Now the Stars and Stripes of our country wave

Far, far o’er the distant sea, And herald the deeds of the gallant brave,

And tell of the noble free; And the lonely exile worn with grief,

As weary and sad he roams, May find for each sorrow a sweet relief

In American hearts and homes.

Let me die in the land where my native streams

In their stately grandeur flow; Where the tender smile of affection beams,

And the skies in their beauty glow;

On the standard of Freedom my eyes would rest Ere my spirit heavenward roams;

I would give the last sigh of a faithful breast To American hearts and homes.

THANKSGIVING DAY.

“They’re coming home to-morrow night;

A happy time ‘twill be;” The old man wiped his spectacles,

And rubbed his hands with glee;” We’ll have the candles lighted,

And burning in the hall; They’re coming home to-morrow night,

The little ones and all.

“Now, Susie, don’t be idle;

There’s heaps of work to do; The pumpkin pies are yet to make,

The tarts and doughnuts, too;
Your limbs are young and supple,

And therefore you should be
As nimble as a cricket,

And busy as a bee.

“Poor grandma can’t do everything,

For she is growing old;
And yet, for all, I tell you

She’s worth your weight in gold.

There, grandpa was not scolding;

Don’t cry, but run away; They’re coming home to-morrow night,

To spend Thanksgiving Day.

“I am too harsh with Susie;

I wish I was not so;
She always tries to please me,

And does her best, I know;
She left her home and parents,

And came with us to stay; Well, she shall have a brand-new comb

To wear Thanksgiving Day.

“Ah, there she comes with grandma,

As chipper as a bird, Her face all smiles and sunshine;

She has not told a word;
She never tells, but hides them,

The cruel words I say;
But she’ll not be the loser

On next Thanksgiving Day.

“They’re coming home to-morrow night,

Ruth, Phoebe, Grace, and Ann,
Josiah, David, Benjamin,

Luke, Abel, Nate, and Dan, Their children, wives, and husbands, too;

Some now are on their way; They’ll all be home to-morrow night,

To spend Thanksgiving Day.

“Our Dan is Susie’s father;

A likely boy was he;
He married very early;

His wife was Patience Lee,
The finest girl in Springfield,

And well-to-do beside; The Worcester folks turned out, I guess,

When Dan brought home his bride.

“Our children are not handsome,

But, like their mother, good; She never spared the rod on them,

But trained them as she should;
They’re every one a credit;

And proud am I to say, They’re coming home to-morrow night,

To spend Thanksgiving Day.”

Up rose that stalwart farmer

Of threescore years and ten,
And one might almost fancy

He was growing young again;
He stepped around so quickly;

And oft was heard to say,” They’re coming home to-morrow night,

To spend Thanksgiving Day.”

He walked about the farmyard,

Among the poultry there, And looked to see that all were fed,

With more than usual care;

And then he met a neighbor,
And stopped him just to say,

44 They’ll all be home to-morrow night, To spend Thanksgiving Day.”

At length the morrow’s morning

Broke cloudless and serene,
And Farmer Jones was early

A watcher of the scene;
His consort, too, had risen;

And Susie, glad and gay, Called out,” Good morning, grandpa;

I’m just fifteen to-day.”

44 Then you shall have a present,”

Her grandpa smiling said; 4< What shall I bring you, Daisy?”

He stroked her glossy head;
She looked at him and answered,

Through tears that glistened bright, 4< O love me just a little

When they all come home to-night.”

And long before the shadows

Had gathered in the west,
The baking was completed,

The poultry killed and dressed;
The pretty comb was purchased,

And Susie heard to say, 44 Dear grandpa, how I thank you;

You’ve cheered my heart to-day.”

Soon wagon after wagon

Rolled up before the door;
The house was filled with music

And merriment once more;
The candles, too, were lighted,

And burning in the hall, And Farmer Jones was shaking hands

With little ones and all.

The evening meal concluded,

The children snug in bed,
The older ones grew thoughtful,

And then a prayer was said;
And Farmer Jones with reverence

Did not forget to say,” I praise Thee, Lord, that all are here,

To spend Thanksgiving Day.”

And once again ’twas morning;

In health they all arose;
Beneath their own paternal roof

How tranquil their repose!
The day was soft and balmy,

And all to church had gone,
Except the little ones they left

To play upon the lawn.

The sermon was impressive,
It spoke of by-gone years;

And all the congregation
Were melted into tears —

Glad tears they were, and grateful

To Him who from above Had blessed their yearly harvest,

And crowned it with His love.

A simple prayer was offered,

And then the Pastor came,
Shook hands with all so warmly,

And greeted each by name;
The poor were not forgotten,

Nor slighted by the way,
But shared his benediction

On that Thanksgiving Day.

Home went our friends delighted;

The hour was somewhat late; The large, old-fashioned table groaned

Beneath its heavy weight
Of poultry, pies, and puddings,

Of every name and kind,
And fragrant tea that so revives

And renovates the mind.

And thus the day wore onward,

Till all its joys were passed;
The stars came out at twilight,

The evening closed at last;
And, when to rest retiring,

They all were heard to say, 44 God bless our dear New England

For such a glorious day.”

CORA LEE: A CHRISTMAS STORY.

FOR CHILDREN.

‘TWAS Christmas Eve, and from the street

Was heard the tread of merry feet,

And happy voices. All were glad;

How could a single heart be sad

When such a festival was near,

The greatest one of all the year?

The bells gave out a clearer tone,

The lamps with dazzling beauty shone

From windows filled with costly toys,

Inviting groups of girls and boys

To come and purchase if they would;

And wealth and want together stood —

The one with lavish hand to buy,

The other with a wishful eye

To gaze, admire, and turn away

Dejected from that bright array.

Now busy toil gave place to rest, And homes were brilliant, churches dressed With evergreens, festooned with flowers, To greet the blessed Christmas hours; And children’s parties, too, there were, And trees all hung with presents rare, And cherry lips that pouting said, As wearily the golden head

Dropped on its pillow soft and white, “O nurse, my stocking is so small That, when old Santa comes to-night, He will not know it’s there at all; I want a bigger one than this;” And then, in sweet forgetfulness, How soon beneath each silken lid Those lovely, laughing orbs were hid!

“Joy! joy! mamma,” cried Cora Lee, 44 Look what papa has brought for me — A set of jewels, pin and rings, A pair of bracelets, just the things; See how they glitter in the light; I know I’ll be a belle to-night; These jewels make my dress complete; Mamma, do you not think them sweet? “Her mother shook her head and sighed; 44 Why, Cora, darling,” she replied, 44 1 thought your dress complete before; It really needed nothing more; Papa’s indulgent love, I fear, Has made you proud and vain, my dear; Now while your gathering ought to be A scene of gay festivity, While every face with joy should glow, No time your vanity to show; Remember why this eve we keep, And, ere you close your eyes to sleep, Kneel down, my child, and ask of Heaven That this your fault may be forgiven.”

That moment, by her conscience swayed,

Had Cora listened and obeyed,

The evening pleasantly had passed;

But now a shade is o’er it cast;

With marked displeasure on her face,

That pained her mother’s heart to trace,

She sought her room, and closed the door,

And in the mirror o’er and o’er

Surveyed her form, indulged her pride,

And yet, with all dissatisfied,

She would have given worlds to feel

One loving arm around her steal;

But merry voices from below

Were calling her, and she must go.

She met her friends, and tried to say

As many cheerful things as they;

Her mother joined the happy throng,

And led them in a choral song;

And Santa Claus in furs arrayed

His annual Christmas visit paid,

And, as he many times had done,

A present gave to everyone;

‘Twas strange that Cora’s gift should be

A book, its name “Humility.”

With wishes for the coming day,

The guests delighted went away;

And Cora in her room once more

Took up her book and looked it o’er.

She knew who Santa Claus had been,

And needed not to ask again

What mamma meant; she knew it all;

And sadly did her thoughts recall

Her ill-timed anger when reproved,

And justly, too, by one she loved.

And now that little work explained

Humility, and how ’twas gained

By sacrifice of worldly pride,

And, taken as our only guide,

The words of Him who came on earth,

Despised, oppressed, of lowly birth,

And bore our sins upon the tree

That cleansed from sin we all might be.

And, as she read, the midnight bell

Upon the air like music fell;

Then, kneeling there, she asked of Heaven

That all her faults might be forgiven.

O, did a voice to hers reply?

Was Bethlehem’s star in yonder sky?

And did its glory shine again

As when it rose on Bethlehem’s plain,

While multitudes of angels sang,

And heaven with hallelujahs rang?

Too happy she for sleep that night,

But with the blush of morning light

She told her parents what had passed,

And how her faith had found at last

A jewel, fadeless, priceless, rare,

That in her soul she meant to wear,

Till, in her crown of life divine,

Its luster should forever shine.

BID ME GOOD NIGHT.

Bid me good night with those eloquent eyes, Blue as the depths of the star-jeweled skies, Pure as the soul that looks out in their gaze; Blame not, O blame not my tribute of praise; Come, for the moments are speeding their flight; Bid me good night, darling, bid me good night.

Bid me good night with a smile that will say More than thy language can ever portray; Then let me carry that smile in my heart, Changed to a pearl by love’s magical art; Come, for the moments are speeding their flight; Bid me good night, darling, bid me good night.

Bid me good night with a sigh that will tell Every sweet impulse thou knowest so well, All thy affection confided to me, All the fond vows I have whispered to thee; Come, for the moments are speeding their flight; Bid me good night, darling, bid me good night.

Bid me good night with a word that can speak All I am hoping and all that I seek; Wishing my dreams may be happy and bright, Bid me good night, darling, bid me good night; Come, for the moments are speeding their flight; Bid me good night, darling, bid me good night.

A TRIBUTE TO CINCINNATI.

What? forget thee, Cincinnati,

Lovely city of the West?
Never till the pulse of feeling

Throbs its last within my breast. I have spent such days of pleasure,

O, such months of joy in thee,
That the very thought of leaving

Brought unwelcome tears to me. I can see thy stately buildings;

They are all before me yet;
I can see thy fountain goddess

Throw aloft a spray of jet;
Taste, magnificence and splendor

In that work of art are shown,
Far exceeding in impression

Anything I e’er have known. Churches, Sunday-schools and missions

Do thee credit, every one;
For the humble and the lowly

Thou a noble work hast done. In a church I heard, one Sabbath —

And it seemed to me sublime — Fifteen hundred children singing

“Precious Name” in perfect time. Thou canst boast a hall of learning

Filled with books of endless store; And that Wesleyan College numbers

Half a century and more.

What a glorious scene to view it

Grouped with girls of talents rare, Poring o’er its ponderous volumes —

Not a moment wasted there!
And, among thy sweet environs,

Pleasant thoughts are clinging still Round the names of dear Mount Auburn,

Clifton Park, and Corryville. There’s a dwelling on Mount Auburn

That my heart remembers well;
I ascend to its veranda,

And my hand is on the bell.
Just the same as when I left it,

Comes the old familiar sound;
Now the door flies quickly open,

And I enter with a bound. I must calm this burst of transport,

I must stay its sudden flight,
For my brain is growing giddy

‘Mid a whirl of gay delight. With the first warm greeting over,

Up the easy stairs I glide; By a cheerful grate they place me,

All my wrappings thrown aside.
Then begins a conversation,

And the time flies quick and fast; By and by a summons calls us

To the closing day’s repast.
This is not a dreamy picture

Drawn from fancies floating free;

That Mount Auburn home is real,

True to life as truth can be.
What? forget thee, Cincinnati,

Lovely city of the West?
Never till the pulse of feeling

Throbs its last within my breast.

POETS’ CORNER.

THOMAS MOORE. O BARD of Erin, who like thee Could paint that boat on Omar’s sea; Those frightful rocks where, blade in hand, Around their chief the Ghebers stand; The unequal strife, the flames that rise Where Hafed vanquished falls and dies, While Hinda, shrieking for the brave, Is lost forever ‘neath the wave?

ALFRED TENNYSON.
Among thy rich, prolific lays,
I most of all admire and praise
King Arthur’s passing; this has won
Thy brightest laurels, Tennyson.

MRS. HEMANS.

Canst thou behold, from yonder sky, Where once the breaking waves dashed high On rock-bound coast, and, midst their roar Upon the wild New England shore, While night hung heavy, cold and dark, A band of exiles moored their barque?

ELIZA COOK.
I treasure yet the old armchair,
And on my heart its memory bear;
And still Britannia loudly cheers
Thy banner of a thousand years.

JAMES MONTGOMERY.

Prayer was thy burden of a sigh,

The upward glancing of thine eye,

Thy vital breath, thy native air,

And thou did’st enter Heaven with prayer.

HORATIUS BONAR. Thy harp was made and tuned above; Its songs are of a Saviour’s love, Of palm and crown, and city fair, And spotless robes the righteous wear.

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

Sweet Laughing Water! dear to me

That Indian tale will ever be,

So blent with every witching art

That lures the sense and charms the heart.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

Didst hear thy summons when it came, When soft the angel breathed thy name? Didst round thee fold thy drapery white, And, bidding all the world good night, Beneath that star from heaven that beams, Didst lay thee down to pleasant dreams?

J. G. WHITTIER. I would be Snow Bound many a day If I could sit and hear thee say, “Of all sad words of tongue or pen The saddest are these, it might have been.”

N. P. WILLIS. Thy Hagar when the tent she left, Of all except her pride bereft, Thy leper cleansed by power divine — All at this moment round me twine; O Willis, would thy muse were mine.

LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY.

What transport in my heart awoke When first I heard thy Charter Oak! That seemed an inspiration given By Him who called thee home to heaven.

GEORGE P. MORRIS. Yes, poet, yes, I weep for thee; Parted for aye on earth are we, Like mountain streams that shall unite In that vast river of delight Which hath its source in yonder clime WThere bells of joy forever chime.

FRANCES R. HAVERGAL.

Dear sister, o’er the wave-girt sea A kindred spirit yearns for thee, And longs in heart to clasp thy hand, And greet thee in her native land, —

To mingle friendship’s tones with thine, To kneel with thee at that loved shrine Where both, perchance, at evening meet, And hold with God communion sweet.

You from whose garners I have gleaned Such precious fruit, the task has seemed So pleasant that my humble pen Would fain resume its work again; In your bright realms ‘twere bliss to stay; But time forbids, and I obey.

THE MONARCH AND THE MINSTREL. “Peace, minstrel, peace; I’ll hear no more;

I have been weary long;
There is no music in thy heart,

Nor passion in thy song; Back to thy dungeon; thou hast failed

To give me what I crave; Go, wear thy chains; they suit thee well;

Go, thou art still a slave; What care I for thy prosy tales?

They have no charm for me; I want the strains of bards that lived

In times of chivalry, When cross and crescent lit a spark

That fired the daring brave; But, like a statue, thou art dumb,

And thou should’st die a slave.

“Thou knowest naught of Palestine,

Or of the bold crusade Against the rude and savage hordes

On eastern fields arrayed.
I’ve stood upon the very spot;

E’en now in thought I stand
Where lion-hearted Richard stood

Among his trusty band
Of noble warriors clad in steel,

And proof against the foe; Their glittering swords where’er they came

Struck death at every blow. Thy words are false; thou canst not sing

Their deeds, those champions brave; But thou shalt quail beneath my wrath,

And be tenfold a slave.
I had, and well I mind him now,

A page of talent rare,
A slender boy of graceful mien,

And like a maiden fair;
He had the skill to comprehend

What pleased his monarch best, And when that monarch’s heart grew faint,

He hushed its care to rest; His lute (methought the gods had tuned

Its wild, ecstatic thrill) Could soothe me in my fiercest moods,

And bend me to its will; He sang of beauty, fame, and love,

Of victory and the brave;

He sang as thou canst never sing; No, thou shalt die a slave.”

“Hold, monarch, hold,” the minstrel cried,

With bloodless lip and cheek, 11 Thou art unjust to blame me thus;

My fettered limbs are weak; How can I wake my lute’s proud strings

To victory and the brave? How can I sing the song thou lov’st

When I am but a slave?
Remove these cruel manacles,

Unclasp this heavy chain, And let me breathe the blessed air

Of freedom once again. I’ve seen thy colors o’er and o’er

In many a battle wave; I was thy pampered favorite then,

But now Tm but thy slave. Thou drov’st me hence; dost thou forget

The wrong I bore from thee? Did’st thou not brand me with a crime

Of which my soul was free?
Though but a humble peasant boy,

I ne’er purloined thy ring; And now, a prisoner, and thy slave,

I have no heart to sing. Why did’st thou bear me from the field

Where sick and faint I lay? For life and song in one brief hour

Would both have passed away.

Unknown to thee, above my head

I saw thy dagger wave; Far better thou had’st slain me then

Than let me live thy slave.”

“Take heed, take heed,” the monarch said;

M Play thou no prank with me,
For by my sword and by my crown

Thy skill shall tested be.”

His chains fell off, and o’er the lute

His fingers quickly ran,
And sang he of the glorious time

When Richard ted the van. 91 ‘Tis he! ’tis he!” the monarch cried,

And clasped him to his heart; M O minstrel, minstrel, thou art free,

From me thou ne’er shalt part. Forgive me, boy, forgive thy liege,

And grant the boon I crave; Be thou my pampered favorite still,

My minstrel, not my slave.”

THE SOLDIER’S GRAVE.

With starry flag and sable plume
They bore him to his rest,

And laid the green and fragrant sod Upon the warrior’s breast;

And slowly, softly, chanted they

A requiem o’er the brave, Then left the watchers in the sky

To guard the soldier’s grave.

He stood among the shattered ranks

On that dread field afar, Where with the dawning Sabbath shone

The panoply of war; And foaming steeds dashed madly on

With hot and fiery breath, Whose riders, e’er the twilight came,

Were cold and still in death.

The vulture to its ghastly prey

Flew screaming through the air,
Its cruel talons buried deep

In many a victim there; And, all that ne’er forgotten night,

Sad wail and bitter groan Came struggling up from anguished hearts

That broke and died alone.

The soldier’s grave — how sweet to think

He saw his home once more; And though he had but strength to reach

The threshold of its door,
The tender light of kindred eyes

His soul a comfort gave; He knew that love would gather flowers

To deck the soldier’s grave.

The soldier’s grave — disturb it not,

But let one grateful tear
Drop gently o’er the sacred urn

Of him who slumbers here;
Touch not a leaf on yonder tree

Whose branches o’er him wave; By friendship’s hand ’twas planted there

To grace the soldier’s grave.

Though on no sculptured monument

Is carved his well-earned fame,
And only on a simple stone

We read his age and name, — Yet they who saw him wield his sword

With arm so strong and brave Will hallow with their hearts’ best tears

The comrade soldier’s grave.

Alas! that noble, honest worth

Should thus unhonored sleep,
With only those who know it best

Above its dust to weep, While vaunting, boasting, selfish pride,

To cowardice a slave,
Oft wears a wreath it never won,

And shares a patriot’s grave!

Yet in that great decisive day
When right shall claim its own,

When every thought and word and work Now hidden shall be known, —

When peace shall hush the clang of war, And love her standard wave, —

Then, with the palms they died to win, Shall truth reward the brave.

ONLY A LEAF.

‘TlS only a leaf, a withered leaf,

But its story is fraught with pain; ‘Twas the gift of one who is far away,

And will never return again; ‘Tis only a leaf, a withered leaf,

And yet I prize it so, For it brings to my memory the brightest hour

I ever on earth shall know.

Ah, smile if you will; your lot is cast

Where pleasures around you twine, And your heart in its gladness can never know

The grief that is breaking mine; You have wealth and friends and a happy home,

With never a thought of gloom; But my life is cold, and its hopes are dead,

And my heart is a living tomb.

He was all I had in the world to love,

He was all who cared for me; And I watched his boat till I saw it sail

Like a speck on the broad blue sea;

And there came a voice, ’twas a dirgelike voice,

Out of the deep, dark wave; And it told of one in a stranger land

That would sleep in a stranger’s grave.

And I closed my eyes, and hid my face,

And uttered a low, sad cry, As I laid me down on that lonely shore

And prayed that I might die; And though my prayer was a selfish prayer,

I know it was all forgiven, For a beam shot down that illumed my soul

From a pitying eye in heaven.

‘Twas only a leaf, a withered leaf,

But I gaze on it o’er and o’er, And I think of a hand that held it first,

A hand I shall clasp no more; I know not how, but a message came,

A message that briefly said,” Farewell, my own, it is over now;

The dream of our youth has fled.”

I pressed the scroll to my burning lips,

And the leaf to my lonely breast That beat and throbbed with an aching throb,

And was filled with a wild unrest; And I still live on, like a captive bird

That pines in its cage so fair, And longs for a breath from the orange groves,

And thinks that its mate is there. S

Tis only a leaf, a withered leaf,

But its story is fraught with pain; ‘Twas the gift of one who is far away,

And will never return again; He will never return; but I feel ere long

My spirit with his shall be, And the old-time love shall be sweeter there

Where I know that he waits for me.

CORA BELL.

Where the brooklet from the hillside

Laughs and sparkles on its way,
And the downy crested robin

Trills and carols all the day, — Where the springtime lingers longest,

And the summer loves to dwell, Where the autumn fruits are sweetest,

Bloomed our darling Cora Bell.

Chorus:

There was gladness in her footstep,

And her song was like a spell;
Every birdling in the valley

Knew the voice of Cora Bell.

Now among the roses hiding,

Now, in merry childish glee, Breathing strains our lips had taught her,

O, ’twas joy her form to see;

What a treasure heaven had lent us!

How we loved her none can tell; Sweetest bird that ever blossomed

Was our darling Cora Bell.

Silent, voiceless, to our dwelling

Came a stranger wan and pale,
Laid his cold and icy fingers

On our lily of the vale; While we watched her drooping, fading,

O’er our hearts a sorrow fell, And the zephyr, moaning, sighing,

Called in vain our Cora Bell.

Where the brooklet from the hillside

Wanders on its pretty way, And the ringdove for its playmate

Sits and pines the long, long day, — There we laid a broken casket,

But the soul we know full well Through the gate of life has entered;

There we’ll meet our Cora Bell.

OUR BABY.

You have never seen our baby,

Never felt our Dottie’s kiss
From her pretty lips of coral,

Or your heart would thrill with bliss;

You may think your own a treasure, And the fairest of your flowers;

Though she may be all you paint her, She’s not half so sweet as ours.

No, you never saw our baby,

And her laugh you never heard;
She is winsome, she is playful,

Ever cooing like a bird; And her brow is white as snowflakes,

Rosy dimples on her cheek; And her brown eyes, bright as diamonds,

How they sparkle when we speak!

O, you ought to see our baby;

She is growing every day;
Every moment she beguiles us

With some artless, winning way; And we know the angels guard her,

And a loving watch they keep;
And we fancy ’tis their whisper

Makes her smile when fast asleep.

O, you should have seen our baby

Only just an hour ago,
Dancing in our arms so lightly

While her face was all aglow;
While her little chubby fingers

Tried to catch a sunlit ray
As it darted through the window,

And as quickly ran away.

Would you like to see our baby?

Like a lily she is fair; Would you throw your arms around her?

Would you kneel with us in prayer That the God of love and mercy

Would protect her for our sake? For should aught betide our darling,

I am sure our hearts would break.

Did you say, “God bless our baby?”

How we thank you for the word;
And the best and purest feelings

In our bosoms you have stirred; Did you say, “God keep our baby?”

We’ll remember you for this, And our Dottie, when she sees you,

Will reward you with a kiss.

THE SOLDIER’S REVERIE.

How the ever fleeting seasons

Like an arrow speed away!
What! another year departed,

And another floral day! Wheel my chair beside the window,

That my eyes may look once more
On the few surviving comrades

Who will pass my cottage door.

They are coming in the distance,

With a slow and measured tread; They are coming with their garlands

For our country’s hallowed dead; And how oft I sit and wonder,

When my form entombed shall be,
If, among those noble veterans,

There’ll be one to care for me!

In the foremost of the battle,

‘Mid the scream of shot and shell, Side by side we fought together

For the flag we loved so well; But those dreadful scenes are over,

And their gloom has passed away; There’s no North nor South, but Union,

In our native land to-day.

O that sound of martial music!

How it thrills me with its strain, Bringing back my soldier courage

And my patriot pride again! Though the sands of life are ebbing,

And I have not long to stay,
Yet I love the sacred memories

Of this grand Memorial Day.

When the march of life is ending, And its closing hour draws near,

When before our great Commander
We are summoned to appear, —

To the roll-call that shall echo
Like a trumpet through the sky,

May we each of us be ready
With the answer, “Here am I.”

THE HEART. The heart! the heart! O wound it not,

That fond yet fragile thing; Whose tendrils, like the clustering vine,

Around thine own would cling.

Though sunny beams may o’er thee play, And smiles thy lip may wreathe,

And tender blossoms, pure and white, Their dewy fragrance breathe, —

Thou canst not tell in after years

How dark thy fate may be; Then spurn thou not the trusting heart

That warmly beats for thee.

The heart! the heart! O crush it not;

‘Tis but a fragile thing; An altered look, a chilling word,

Might break its sweetest string.

When, one by one, thy treasured hopes Like withered leaves shall fall,

Then wilt thou mourn, alas, too late, What tears can ne’er recall.

TWILIGHT HOUR.

Voice of the twilight hour,

How sweet is thy sound to me! For my soul is entranced by thy soothing power,

And its sorrows are lost in thee; Thou art heard in the trembling strings

Of the harp which the breezes wake; In the bird, as her farewell note she sings To the golden hues which the sunset flings

O’er the breast of the silver lake.

THEY ARE GONE.

They are gone, those bright and blissful hours When the soft wind laughed ‘mid the greenwood

bowers, And the night bird caroled her pensive lay As faded the crimson tints of day;

And the dewdrops came at the evening’s close To sleep on the breast of the mountain rose; They are gone; those blissful hours are past, And a snow-white robe on the earth is cast.

And O, when our friends beloved have fled To the cold, cold mansions of the dead, Like the fragrant flowers may we cease to bloom, And sleep with them in the peaceful tomb.

SPEAK NOT HARSHLY.

Speak not harshly when reproving Those from duty’s path who stray;

If we would reclaim the erring,
Kindness must each action sway.

Speak not harshly to the wayward; — Win their confidence — their love;

They will feel how pure the motive That hath led us to reprove.

Speak not harshly to the stranger, Though he comes in humble guise;

Think how slight a thing would kindle Gladness in a stranger’s eyes.

Speak not harshly to the felon,
Though like adamant his heart;

Touch one chord of fond affection, And the scalding tear may start.

Speak not harshly to the orphan, He has borne of grief his share;

Add not to his heavy burden,
Add not to corroding care.

Speak not harshly, was the precept Which to man the Saviour taught; —

May that precept ever guide us — Gentle words will cost us naught.

MAMMA’S LULLABY.

Tired, so tired, my baby, thou art, Beautiful sunbeam, the joy of my heart; Tired, so tired, but why dost thou weep? Mamma will rock thee and sing thee to sleep; Lullaby, lullaby, hush thee to rest, Pillowed so gently and warm on my breast; Love o’er thy cradle a vigil will keep, Mamma will rock thee and sing thee to sleep.

Dear little baby, so lovely and fair, Sweet Easter lily, my treasure and care, Mamma will rock thee through all the long hours, Mamma will sing thee of fairies and flowers; What though the twilight is stealing away All the young birdlings that carol to-day? What though the shadows around thee may

creep? Mamma will rock thee and sing thee to sleep.

Hide ‘neath their lashes those pretty blue eyes, Till in its splendor the morning shall rise; Angels above thee their bright watches keep; Mamma will rock thee and sing thee to sleep; Lullaby, lullaby, hush thee to rest, Tenderly guarded and fondly caressed; Child of affection so hallowed and deep, Mamma will rock thee and sing thee to sleep.

LUCY’S AND EMMA’S CONQUEST.

LUCY and Emma, two bright little girls,

With brown, glossy ringlets and teeth white as

pearls, Stood watching a butterfly busy at play Among the sweet clover that grew in their way, Along a green meadow that led to their home, And where, after school, ’twas their custom to

roam. The school was just out, and the teacher had said To Lucy and Emma, a hand on each head, * My children, your parents to-night you must tell How happy I am you are learning so well; And if you continue I am sure you will be A credit to them and an honor to me.” “We thank you,” said Lucy,” both Emma and I; We hope to be teachers like you by and by; But, sir, you’ll not think we are going to tease If we ask you to write in a note, if you please, What you told us just now about being so good; Twould look better written; don’t you think it

would? Besides, ‘twould be something our parents could

keep, And read it together when we were asleep.” “I’ll write it with pleasure,” the teacher replied,” I am glad my remark did not waken your pride; And now, in a word, this advice I will give, Remember it, children, as long as you live,

E’en though you come down to life’s short winter

days, — Do right for the sake of the right, not for praise.” The note was concluded, directed, and sealed; A sweet satisfaction their faces revealed, Not lost on the teacher, who inwardly prayed That these dear little lambs in the fold might be

stayed Where the eyes of the Shepherd a watch ever

keep, The Shepherd who laid down his life for the

sheep.

And now to the meadow these bright little girls Went dancing, and skipping, and shaking their

curls, And thinking of all their dear parents would say, Till they came to the butterfly busy at play. “O Lucy,” cried Emma, u did ever you see Such beautiful wings? Won’t you catch him for

me? “” O, no,” answered Lucy;” the poor, helpless

thing Would die in your hand if you crippled his wing; Why, not for the world would I catch him for you; Let’s watch him a moment and see what he’ll do.”

Will Blair and Frank Ellis, two boys from the

school, Who boasted so oft that they ne’er kept a rule,

Sprang over the fence, and, on mischief intent, Toward Lucy and Emma their footsteps they

bent. Their coming was seen, but the girls never

stirred, Though they knew very well all they said had

been heard. “So, so, we have found you,” cried Will with a

sneer;” What’s this you are guarding so carefully here? Frank, lend me your kerchief; but stay, never

mind, An easier way to entrap him I’ll find.” M Please, Willie,” said Lucy, her mild, pleading

eyes As soft in their light as the blue ether skies, 14 Please, Willie, don’t harm that poor innocent

thing, But leave him to sport on his beautiful wing; For if you should hurt him how cruel ‘twould be, And how you would pain sister Emma and me; She is talking to Frank; there’s a blush on his

cheek; And there’s good in your heart; let me just hear

you speak, And say you will never be naughty again, But always obey our kind teacher, and then How happy you’ll make us; come, Will, won’t

you try?” The boy hung his head, but he could not reply;

He was conquered, subdued, and resolved from

that day To lead a new life and to find the good way; While Frank, whom the kindness of Emma had

won, Was equally sorry for what he had done, And promised henceforth to be honest and true, And love in his heart everyone that he knew.

The butterfly left, for his mission was o’er; They searched through the clover, but saw him

no more; The girls hastened home to their parents, and then Their note was read over and over again; The teacher dropped in while they sat at their

tea; By parents and children right welcome was he; He sat down among them, delighted to share The real enjoyment that greeted him there.

It happened, years after, when Willie and Frank, Whose names were enrolled in the school’s highest rank, Had finished their studies, and then settled down Among the most worthy young men of the town — It happened, we say, that two bright, merry girls With brown, glossy ringlets, and teeth white as

pearls, Our Lucy and Emma, were chosen their wives, To cherish and love for the rest of their lives.

[Written in answer to the question, Do you love children ?]

DO YOU LOVE CHILDREN?

Love the children? What a question!

Cold indeed the heart must be
That can turn without emotion

From their laughter gushing free; Yes, with all my heart I love them;

Bless the children, every one!
I can be a child among them,

And enjoy their freaks and fun.

Quick, impulsive, and confiding,

Innocent without disguise,
Faces all aglow with pleasure,

Mischief dancing in their eyes — In my garden of affection

They will share the greenest spot; And I say without compunction,

Woe to those who love them not!

They are buds of hope and promise,

Blessed by Him whose name is Love; Lent us here to train and nourish

For a better life above;
Tender plants by angels guarded,

Clinging vines the children are; Jewels in our hearts to glisten,

Precious treasures, O how fair!

Parents, on your own example

That your children daily see, On your patient, careful training,

Rests their future destiny;
Though responsible for service,

God will surely bring you through; Go to Him for strength and guidance;

He is wiser far than you.

Are your children sometimes wayward?

Teachers, are your scholars wild? Do not blame them, but remember

Each of you was once a child;
Learn to govern with discretion,

Govern with a loving hand; Ne’er correct them in your anger,

Learn with mildness to command.

Do not crush their tender feelings;

Win their confidence, their trust; Treat them kindly, and be always

Merciful as well as just; Pastors, don’t forget the children;

They are looking up to you;
By a word of admonition,

There is much that you can do.

O how many are neglected!

And your sympathy they claim; Wretchedness their sole companion,

Home to them is but a name;

Seek them out, and, when you find them, Show their feet the narrow way;

Feed their souls and clothe their bodies; All you give the Lord will pay.

Love the children? I can never,

Never pass them in the street
But my every pulse awaking

Thrills with love to all I meet; I have heard the children singing

When my heart was lone and sad; I have heard them in the distance,

And their music made me glad.

But their voices cheer and charm me In the Sabbath homes they love;

And I think they will be sweetest In the saintly choirs above.

TWILIGHT.

O twilight! ever welcome hour, That by a strange, mysterious power Brings back the past, and bids me feel Its happy sunshine o’er me steal, Till all the buds and blossoms fair That memory’s garland used to bear Are fresh and blooming as they seemed When first my heart of friendship dreamed.

O twilight! let me dream once more, Dream all my early pleasures o’er,

And give me, just a little while,

The earnest clasp, the heart-warm smile,

Of those whose dust I hallow yet,

Of those too sacred to forget.

CONFIDENCE.

The trust another hath reposed in thee

Is sacred as thy life, whate’er it be;

And in the promise which thy lips have given,

If thou shalt fail, thou wilt be judged of Heaven.

Betray it not, nor to thy interest use

What thou hast heard, nor confidence abuse;

However trivial, by a look or tone

Betray it not; ’twas for thine ear alone;

Forget or hide it in thy inmost heart;

Do anything but act the cruel part

To wrong thy friend, who, seeking thy relief,

Has come, and in the bitterness of grief

Would pillow on thy breast an aching brow,

And whisper all, yea, e’en the broken vow

Of recreant love, young hope forever crushed,

Its lamp gone out, its tender music hushed.

What! canst thou listen and a traitor be,

Revealing what hath been revealed to thee

In strictest faith? Then thou art not sincere,

And all to trust and counsel thee should fear.

It was a secret in a cloister told,

And should be guarded like a purse of gold,

Not thine, but in thy keeping, and no right

Hast thou to ope or bring it to the light,

Nor take one coin, though hundreds thou shouldst

gain; As thou receivest it let it still remain. So guard thy trust, and in thy heart’s deep cell, Untold, unheard, let every secret dwell. There be the urn where others’ tears may fall, And love keep faithful vigil o’er them all, And thou shalt live a comfort in thy day, And scatter flowers o’er many a thorny way.

A SONG.

0 COME, if thou art true to me,
If yet thou lov’st me well,

And meet me at our trysting place

Within the mossy dell; Yes, meet me as when first we met

Beneath a summer sky, Long, long before our lips had learned

That cruel word, good-bye.

There’s not a rose on yonder bush, Nor flower we used to twine;

The birds have left that rural spot; Perhaps the fault is mine;

1 know my looks were cold and stern,

A frown was on my brow;

But I regret that fatal hour;
Wilt thou forgive me now?

O come, and let us plight once more

The faith of other years, And bathe each link of sacred love

In sweet repentant tears;
Yet not one shadow would I cast

Around thy peerless name; Mine, mine the wrong; I’ll bear it all,

And I deserve the blame.

SEEKING FOR VIOLETS.

Roaming all day in the meadow so green,

Seeking for violets, art thou, my queen?

Where have you hid them? Down deep in your

heart? Why are you blushing? And why do you start? Seeking for violets? When do they grow? Think you to find them in summer? No, no; Not such a thought ever entered your head, Nor is there a truth in a word you have said.

Seeking for violets? happy excuse Thus to avoid me; and yet, ’tis no use; Cupid, I fancy, has lent to these hours Something more pleasant than searching for flowers;

What is that something, you shy little fay? Naught in your looks will the secret betray; Ah. but you wish me, and that I can trace Plainly enough in each line of your face, Out on the ocean, or some other place.

Merry your laugh as a clear ringing bell; Laugh with the lightest; ’tis all very well; Only be candid, for I should regret If I should find you a heartless coquet; Is there another more favored than I? One who is dearer? Then why not reply? If your affections have wandered away, Not for the world would I ask you to stay.

No, it were better to part with you here Seeking for violets all the long year; Better to bless you, and leave you alone Seeking for violets withered and strown; What do you ask as you whisper my name? Will I forgive and receive you again? Love you as fondly and true as of yore? Yes, and more fondly than ever before.

If in the future you promise to be Loving and constant and faithful to me, Then I will bury this scene with the past; Over its memory a veil will I cast. Seeking for violets? — daisies, I mean; Here are the fairest that ever were seen;

Take the sweet nosegay; ’twas gathered for you; Come, I will show you the spot where they grew, Down where I met you one morn in the lane; Say, were you seeking for violets then?

TO BESSIE.

What disturbed thee, pretty one,
Woke thee e’er thy dream was done?
Did some quick and sudden start
Rouse the pulses of thy heart?
Hush thee, darling, sleep once more,
Dream the happy vision o’er;
Dream as only dreams can be
In thy guileless infancy.

There are lakes that murmur low

‘Neath the calm cerulean skies,
Where the sweetest lilies grow,

Where their beauty never dies;
Odors from their leaves so fair

Come across the jasper sea;
Balm and music fill the air,

Felt and heard alone by thee.

Angel forms, to whom ’tis given
To behold our Father’s face,

And perform his will in heaven, Round thy cradle have their place; ‘Tis their pinions fan thy brow; Hush thee, darling, slumber now; Sleep as only sleep can be In thy guileless infancy.

Thou art smiling, pretty one; Ah, ’tis well; thy dream is done; Did thy spirit leave its home For a little while to roam Where the chime of Eden’s bells On the breeze forever swells? Did’st thou catch some thrilling air From the children singing there?

Thou art smiling, pretty one;
Yes, thy halcyon dream is done;
Other thoughts thy mind employ,
Other scenes of mirth and joy
Call thee now from sleep away;
Just begun thy life’s young day;
Bright as days can only be
In thy guileless infancy.

Darling Bessie, He whose eye
Numbers all the stars on high,
Counts the waves upon the sea,
Watcheth o’er and loveth thee
And amid this world of ours
Thou wilt gather buds and flowers,
Sweet as flowers can only be
In thy guileless infancy.

BELLS AT EVENING.

When from childhood thou art grown, When thine artless years have flown, May the prayer once learned by thee Kneeling at a mother’s knee, And the words thy father said When he laid thy infant head On his breast with fondest love, Lead thy soul to things above.