Volume 6 / Part 2 — ISABELLA CRAIG.

Is our Helen very fair? If you only knew her You would doubt it not, howe'er Stranger eyes may view her. We who see her day by day Through our household moving, Whether she be fair or nay Cannot see for loving. O'er our gentle Helen's face No rich hues are bright'ning, And no smiles of feignèd grace From her lips are light'ning; She hath quiet, smiling eyes, Fair hair simply braided, All as mild as evening skies Ere sunlight hath faded. Our kind, thoughtful Helen loves Our approving praises, But her eye that never roves Shrinks from other gazes. She, so late within her home But a child caressing, Now a woman hath become, Ministering, blessing. All her duty, all her bliss, In her home she findeth, Nor too narrow deemeth this— Lowly things she mindeth; Yet when deeper cares distress, She is our adviser; Reason's rules she needeth less, For her heart is wiser. For the sorrows of the poor Her kind spirit bleedeth, And, because so good and pure, For the erring pleadeth. Is our Helen very fair? If you only knew her You would doubt it not, howe'er Stranger eyes may view her.

In that home was joy and sorrow Where an infant first drew breath, While an aged sire was drawing Near unto the gate of death. His feeble pulse was failing, And his eye was growing dim; He was standing on the threshold When they brought the babe to him. While to murmur forth a blessing On the little one he tried, In his trembling arms he raised it, Press'd it to his lips and died. An awful darkness resteth On the path they both begin, Who thus met upon the threshold, Going out and coming in. Going out unto the triumph, Coming in unto the fight— Coming in unto the darkness, Going out unto the light; Although the shadow deepen'd In the moment of eclipse, When he pass'd through the dread portal With the blessing on his lips. And to him who bravely conquers, As he conquer'd in the strife, Life is but the way of dying— Death is but the gate of life; Yet awful darkness resteth On the path we all begin, Where we meet upon the threshold, Going out and coming in.

We were baith neebor bairns, thegither we play'd, We loved our first love, an' our hearts never stray'd; When I got my young lassie her first vow to gie, We promised to wait for each ither a wee. My mother was widow'd when we should hae wed, An' the nicht when we stood roun' my father's death-bed, He charged me a husband and father to be, While my young orphan sisters clung weepin' to me. I kent nae, my Mary, what high heart was thine, Nor how brightly thy love in a dark hour wad shine, Till in doubt and in sorrow, ye whisper'd to me, "Win the blessing o' Heaven for thy Mary and thee." An' years hae flown by deeply laden wi' care, But Mary has help'd me their burden to bear, She gave me my shield in misfortune and wrong, 'Twas she that aye bade me be steadfast and strong. Her meek an' quiet spirit is aye smooth as now, Her saft shinin' hair meekly shades her white brow, A few silver threads 'mang its dark faulds I see, They tell me how lang she has waited on me. Her cheek has grown paler, for she too maun toil, Her sma' hands are thinner, less mirthfu' her smile; She aft speaks o' heaven, and if she should dee, She tells me that there she 'll be waitin' on me.

I will sing a song of summer, Of bright summer as it dwells, Amid leaves and flowers and sunshine, In lone haunts and grassy dells. Lo! the hill encircled valley Is like an emerald cup, To its inmost depths all glowing, With sunlight brimming up. Here I 'd dream away the day time, And let happy thoughts have birth, And forget there 's aught but glory, Aught but beauty on the earth. Not a speck of cloud is floating In the deep blue overhead, 'Neath the trees the daisied verdure Like a broider'd couch is spread. The rustling leaves are dancing With the light wind's music stirr'd, And in gushes through the stillness Comes the song of woodland bird. Here I 'd dream away the day-time, And let gentlest thoughts have birth, And forget there 's aught but gladness, Aught but peace upon the earth.