ONLY A SONG.

It was only a simple ballad, Sung to a careless throng; There were none that knew the singer, And few that heeded the song; Yet the singer's voice was tender And sweet as with love untold; Surely those hearts were hardened That it left so proud and cold. She sang of the wondrous glory That touches the woods in spring, Of the strange, soul-stirring voices When "the hills break forth and sing;" Of the happy birds low warbling The requiem of the day, And the quiet hush of the valleys In the dusk of the gloaming gray. And one in a distant corner— A woman worn with strife— Heard in that song a message From the spring-time of her life. Fair forms rose up before her From the mist of vanished years; She sat in a happy blindness, Her eyes were veiled in tears. Then, when the song was ended, And hushed the last sweet tone, The listener rose up softly And went on her way alone Once more to her life of labor She passed; but her heart was strong; And she prayed, "God bless the singer! And oh, thank God for the song!"