Act Square. (continued 3)

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They oppened it wi' tremblin hands, An when they saw the treasure; 'Twor hard to say which filled 'em mooast, Astonishment or pleasur. Ther wor a letter for 'em too, An this wor ha it ended,— "You once helped me, may this help you,— From one you once befriended,"

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They nivver faand aght who he wor, Altho' they spared noa labor; But for his sake they ne'er refuse To help ther needy naybor.

Fugitive poems.

By John Hartley.

Not written in the Yorkshire Dialect.

Angels of Sunderland. In Memoriam, June 16th, 1893.

On the sixteenth of June, eighteen eighty-three, The children of Sunderland hastened to see, Strange wonders performed by a mystic man, Believing,—as only young children can. And merry groups chattered, as hand in hand, They careered through the streets of Sunderland.

In holiday dress, and with faces clean, And hearts as light as the lightest, I ween;— The hall was soon crowded, and wondering eyes, Expressed their delight at each fresh surprise; The sight of their bright, eager faces was grand,— Such a mass of fair blossoms of Sunderland.

With wonder and laughter the moments fly, And the wizard at last bade them all good-bye, But not till he promised that each one there, In his magical fortune should have a share;— Such a wonderful man with such liberal hand, Had never before been in Sunderland.

They danced, and they shouted, and full of glee, They rushed to find out what these presents could be, And the sea of young faces was borne along, Until checked by a barrier, stout and strong; And then the bright current was brought to a stand, And a heart piercing shriek rang through Sunderland.

Then the hearts of the little ones filled with fear, With a sickening sense of a danger near; And with frantic efforts they strove to flee, To the homes where they knew there would safety be; And deaf alike to request or command, Rushed to death,—the sweet flowers of Sunderland.

Swift flew the alarm from street to street, And swiftly responded the hurrying feet. Fathers and mothers with grief gone wild, Cried as they ran, "Oh, my child! my child!" Women half fainting, and men all unmanned,— 'Twas a sad, sad day for Sunderland.

Pen cannot tell what keen anguish wrung, Their bleeding hearts, as the fair and young, Were dragged from the struggling, groaning mass, Mangled, disfigured and dead, Alas! And offers of help came from every hand, For they were the children of Sunderland.

Quickly and tenderly, one by one, They were brought to light, till the task was done; The wounded were tended with kindness and skill; Side by side lay the dead,—all so ghastly and still;— What a terrible tale told that silent band, As the Sabbath sun rose over Sunderland.

In the promise of beauty and strength cut down, Two hundred spirits from earth had flown; Two hundred frail caskets that love could not save, Awaiting their last earthly home in the grave; And a crowd of white angels expectant stand, To welcome the angels from Sunderland.

Woe in the cottage, and woe in the hall;— Woe in the hearts of the great and the small;— Woe in the streets,—in the houses of prayer; Woe had its dwelling place everywhere. Suffering and sorrow on every hand,— Woe-woe-woe throughout Sunderland.

Who can give comfort in grief such as this? Man's arm is helpless,—no power is his. There is but One unto whom we can flee, One who in mercy cries, "Come unto me." One who in pity outstretches His hand, To the heart-broken mourners of Sunderland.

Sad will the homes be for many a day, Where the light of the household has been snatched away; But through the dull cloud of our sorrow and pain, Shines the hope that at last we may meet them again; For on the bright shores of the 'better land,' Are gathered the treasures of Sunderland.

Trusting Still.

When shall we meet again? One more year passed; One more of grief and pain;— Maybe the last. Are the years sending us Farther apart? Or love still blending us Heart into heart? Do love's fond memories Brighten the way, Or faith's fell enemies Darken thy day? Oh! could the word unkind Be recalled now, Or in the years behind Buried lie low, How would my heart rejoice As round it fell, Sweet cadence of thy voice, Still loved so well. Sometimes when sad it seems Whisperings say: "Cherish thy baseless dreams, Yet whilst thou may, Try not to pierce the veil, Lest thou should'st see, Only a dark'ning vale Stretching for thee." But Hope's mist-shrouded sun Once more breaks out, Chasing the shadows dim, Heavy with doubt. And far ahead I see, Two rays entwine; One faint, as soul of me, One bright like thine. And in that welcome sign, Clearly I view, Proof of this trust of mine,— Thou art still true.

Shiver the Goblet.

Shiver the goblet and scatter the wine! Tempt me no more with the sight! I care not though brightly as ruby it shine, Like a serpent I know it will bite. Give me the clustering fruit of the vine,— Heap up my dish if you will,— But banish the poison that lurks in the wine, That dulls reason and fetters the will.

Oft has it lured me to deeds I detest,— Filled me with passions debased; Robbed me of all that was dearest and best, And left scars that can ne'er be effaced. Oh! that the generous rich would but think, As they scatter their wealth far and wide, Of the evil that lives in the ocean of drink, Of the thousands that sink in its tide.

They give of their substance to help the poor wretch, The victim of custom and laws; But never attempt the strong arm to outstretch, To try to abolish the cause. The preacher as well may his eloquence spare, Nor his tales of "glad tidings" need tell, If by precepts he urge them for heaven to prepare, Whilst his practice leads downward to hell.

Erect new asylums and hospitals raise,— Build prisons for creatures of sin;— Can these be a means to improve the world's ways? Or one soul from destruction e'er win? No!—License the cause and encourage the sale Of the evil one's strongest ally, And in vain then lament that the curse should prevail,— And in vain o'er the fallen ones sigh.

Strike the black blot from the laws of the land! And take the temptation away; Then give to the struggling and weak one's a hand, To pilot them on the safe way. Can brewers, distillers, or traffickers pray For the blessing of God, on the seed Which they sow for the harvest of men gone astray? Of ruin, the fruit of their greed?

No bonds can be forged the drink-demon to bind, That will hinder its power for ill; For a way to work mischief it surely will find, Let us watch and contrive as we will. Then drive out the monster! The plague-breathing pest; And so long as our bodies have breath, Let us fight the good fight, never stopping for rest, Till at last we rejoice o'er its death.

Little Sunshine.

Winsome, wee and witty, Like a little fay, Carolling her ditty All the livelong day, Saucy as a sparrow In the summer glade, Flitting o'er the meadow Came the little maid. A youth big and burly, Loitered near the stile, He had risen early, Just to win her smile. And she came towards him Trying to look grave, But she couldn't do it, Not her life to save. For the fun within her, Well'd out from her eyes, And the tell-tale blushes To her brow would rise. Then he gave her greeting, And with bashful bow, Said in tones entreating, "Darling tell me now, You are all the sunshine, This world holds for me; Be my little valentine, I have come for thee." But she only tittered When he told his love, And the gay birds twittered On the boughs above; He continued pleading, Calling her his sun— Said his heart was bleeding,— Which seemed famous fun. Then he turned to leave her. But she caught his hand, And its gentle pressure Made him understand, That in spite of teasing, He her heart had won, And through life hereafter, She would be his sun.

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Now they have been married Twenty years or more, But she's just as wilful As she was before. And she's just as winsome In his eyes to-day, As when first be met her, Mischievous and gay. Will the years ne'er tame her? Will she ne'er grow old? Does the grave man blame her? Does he never scold? Does he never weary Of her ready tongue? Does he love her dearly As when he was young? Yes—she was the sunshine Of his youthful day, And her light laugh cheers him Now he's growing gray. Happy little woman, That time cannot tame; Happy sober husband, Loving still the same. Happy in her lightness When life's morn was bright, Happy in her brightness As draws on the night.

Passing Events.

Passing events,—tell, what are they I pray? Are they some novelty?—Nay, nay, nay! Ever since the world its course began, Since the breath of life was breathed into man, Still rolling on with the wane of time, Through every nation, in every clime; In every spot where man has his home, Ever they long for events to come.

Hours or days or years it may be, Before hopes realization they see; And no sooner it comes than it hastes away, And others rush after no longer to stay. And there scarcely is time to know its in sight, E'er its found to be leaving with marvellous flight, And what had been longed for with eager intent, Is chronicled but as a passing event.

Hope's joys are uncertain;—anxiety rules, Expectancy's paradise, peopled by fools; And the present has oft so much bustle and care, That the joys spread around we have no time to share. He is surer of peace who leaves future to fate, And the present joy snatches before it's too late; But he's safest by far, who in mem'ry holds fast, The sweet tastes and joys of events that are past.

Those Days have Gone.

Those days have gone, those happy days, When we two loved to roam, Beside the rivulet that strays, Near by my rustic home. Yes, they have fled, and in the past, We've left them far behind, Yet dear I hold, those days of old, When you were true and kind.

You dreamed not then of wealth or fame, The world was bright and fair, I seldom knew a grief or game, That you, too, did not share. And though I mourn my hapless fate, In mem'ry's store I find, And dearly hold those days of old, When you were true and kind.

Say, can the wealth you now possess, Such happiness procure, As did our youthful pleasures bless, When both our hearts were pure? No,—and though wandering apart, I strive to be resigned; And dearer hold those days of old, When you were true and kind.

And if your thoughts should turn to me, With one pang of regret, Know that this heart, still beats for thee, And never will forget; Those tender links of long ago Are round my heart entwined, And dear I hold those days of old, When you were true and kind.

I'd a Dream.

I'd a dream last night of my boyhood's days, And the scenes where my youth was spent; And I roamed the old woods where the squirrel plays, Full of frolicsome merriment. And I walked by the brook, and its silvery tone, Seemed to soothe me again as of yore; And I stood by the cottage with moss overgrown And the woodbine that trailed round the door.

No change could I see in the garden plot, The flowers bloomed brightly around, And one little bed of forget-me-not In its own little corner I found. The sky had a home-look, the breeze seemed to sigh, In the strain I remembered so well, And the little brown sparrows looked cunning and shy, As though anxious some story to tell.

But as quietness reigned and a loneliness fell, O'er the place that had once been so gay; Its sunlight had saddened since I bade farewell, And left it for lands far away. The door stood ajar and I sought for a face, Of the dear ones I longed so to see; But others I knew not were now in the place, And their presence was painful to me.

A pang of remorse seemed to shoot through my heart, As I left with a sorrowing tread, From all the familiar objects to part; For I knew that the loved ones were dead. The home once my own, now knows me no more, The treasures that bound me all gone, And I woke with cheeks tear-stained, and heart sadly sore, To find that a home I had none.

To my Harp.

Wake up my harp! thy strings begin to rust! Has the soul fled that once within thee dwelt? Idle so long, shake off that coat of dust! Are there no souls to cheer, no hearts to melt? Are there no victims under tyrants' yoke, Whose wrongs thy stirring music should proclaim? Or have the fetters of mankind been broke? Or are there none deserving songs of fame?

Awake! awake! thy slumber has been long! And let thy chords once more arouse the heart; And teach us in thy most impassioned song, How in our sphere we best may play our part. Tell the down-trodden, who with daily toil, Wear out their lives, another's greed to fill; That they have rights and interests in the soil, And they can win them if they have the will.

Tell the high-born that chance of birth ne'er gave To them a right to carve another's fate; Nor yet to make the humbler born a slave, Whose heart with goodness may be doubly great. Tell the hard-handed poor, yet honest man, That though through roughest ways of life he plod, Nature hath placed upon his birth no ban,— All men are equal in the sight of God.

And yet a softer, pitying strain let pour, To soothe the anguish of the troubled soul, And fill the heart bereaved, with hope once more, And from the brow the heavy grief-cloud roll. Cheer on the brave who struggle in the fight,— And warn oppression of the gathering storm, And drag the deeds of false ones to the light,— And herald in the day of true reform.

Nor leave the gentler, loving themes, unsung, Compassionate the maiden's tender woes, Revive the faint who are with fears unstrung, And solace them who writhe in suffering's throes. Awake! awake! there's need enough of thee, Nor let again such sloth enchain thy tongue, And may thy constant effort henceforth be, To plant the right, and to uproot the wrong.

Backward Turn, Oh! Recollection.

Backward turn, oh! recollection! Far, far back to childhoods' days; To those treasures of affection, 'Round which loving memory plays Show to me the loving faces Of my parents, now no more,— Fill again the vacant places With the images of yore.

Conjure up the home where comfort Seemed to make its cosy nest; Where the stranger's only passport, Was the need of food and rest. Show the schoolhouse where with others, I engaged in mental strife, And the playground, where as brothers Running, jumping, full of life.

Now I see the lovely maiden, That my young heart captive led; Like a sylph, with gold curls laden, And her lips of cherry red. Now fond voices seem to echo, Tones as when I heard them last; And my heart sighs sadly, Heigh, ho! For the joys for ever past.

From the past back to the present, Come, ye wandering thoughts again; Memories however pleasant, Will not rid to-day of pain, Now we live, the past is buried,— We are midway in life's stream; Onward, onward! ever hurried,— And the futures but a dream.

Alice.

Dear little Alice lay dying;— I see her as if 'twas to-day, And we stood round her snowy bed, crying, And watching her life ebb away.

'Twas a beautiful day in the spring, The sun shone out warmly and clear; And the wee birds, their love songs to sing Came and perched on the trees that grew near.

In the distance, the glistening sea, Could be heard in a deep solemn tone, As if murmuring in sad sympathy, For our griefs and our hopes that had flown.

The windows, wide open, allowed The soft wind to fan her white cheek, As with uncovered heads, mutely bowed, We stood watching, not daring to speak.

We were only her playmates,—no tie Of relationship drew us that way, We'd been told that dear Alice must die, And she'd begg'd she might see us that day.

We were all full of sorrow, and tears We all shed,—but not one showed surprise; Of her future we harboured no fears, For we knew she was fit for the skies.

Ever gentle and kind as a dove, To each one she knew she had been; She had ruled her dominion by love, And we all paid her homage as Queen.

Her strange beauty, now, as I look back, I can see as I ne'er saw it then; But words to describe it I lack, It could never be told by a pen.

Half asleep, half awake, as she lay, With her golden curls round her pale face; A smile round her lips 'gan to play, And her eyes gazed intently on space.

With an effort she half raised her head, And looked lovingly round us on all, Then she motioned us nearer the bed; And we silently answered her call.

Then she put out her tiny white hand, The friend nearest her took it in his; And so faintly she whispered "Good-bye," As he printed upon it a kiss.

One by one, boy and girl, did the same, And she bade them 'farewell' as they passed Calling everyone by their name, 'Till it came to my turn;—I was last,

"Good-bye, Harry," she breathed very low, And her eyes to my soul seemed to speak; And she strove not to let my hand go, Till I stooped down and kissed her pale cheek.

Then she wearily laid down her head, And she closed her blue eyes with a sigh;— "Don't forget me, dear Harry, when dead, But meet me in Heaven by-and-bye."

And that whisper I never forgot, And her hand's dying clasp I feel still; For I swore, that whatever my lot, I'd be true to that child,—and I will.

It may be a foolish conceit, But it oft is a solace for me, To think, when life's troubles I meet, There's an angel in Heaven cares for me.

Friends deplore my lone bachelor state, Some may pity, and others deride; But they know not for Alice I wait, Who took with her my heart when she died.

Looking Back.

I've been sitting reviewing the past, dear wife, From the time when a toddling child,— Through my boyish days with their joys and strife,— Through my youth with its passions wild. Through my manhood, with all its triumph and fret, To the present so tranquil and free; And the years of the past that I most regret, Are the years that I passed without thee.

It was best we should meet as we did, dear wife,— It was best we had trouble to face; For it bound us more closely together through life, And it nerved us for running the race. We are nearing the end where the goal is set, And we fear not our destiny, And the only years that I now regret, Are the years that I passed without thee.

'Twas thy beauty attracted my eye, dear wife, But thy goodness that kept me true; 'Twas thy sympathy soothed me when cares were rife, 'Twas thy smile gave me courage anew. Thy bloom may be faded by time, but yet, Thou hast still the same beauty to me, And no part of my past do I now regret, Save the years that I passed without thee.

We have struggled and suffered our share, dear wife, But our joys have been many and sweet; And our trust in each other has taken from life, The heartaches and pangs others meet. I still bless the day, long ago, when we met, And my prayer for the future shall be, That when the call comes and thy life's sun has set, I may never be parted from thee.

I Know I Love Thee.

I shall never forget the day, Annie, When I bid thee a fond adieu; With a careless good bye I left thee, For my cares and my fears were few. True that thine eyes seemed brightest;— True that none had so fair a brow,— I thought that I loved thee then, Annie, But I knew that I love thee now.

I had neither wealth nor beauty, Whilst thou owned of both a share, I bad only a honest purpose And the courage the Fates to dare. To all others my heart preferred thee, And 'twas hard to part I know; For I thought that I loved thee then, Annie, But I know that I love thee now.

Oh! what would I give to-night, love, Could I clasp thee once again, To my heart that is aching with loving,— To my heart where my love does reign. Could I hear thy voice making music, So gentle, so sweet and so low, I thought that I loved thee then, Annie, But I know that I love thee now.

I have won me wealth and honour,— I have earned a worldly regard, But alas they afford me no pleasure, Nor lighten my lot so hard. Oh come for my bosom yearneth, All its burden of love to bestow,— Once I thought that I really loved thee, But I know that I love thee now.

Canst thou ever forgive me the folly, Of failing to capture the prize, Of thy maiden heart, trustful and loving, That shone thro' thy tear bedimmed eyes. But I knew not until we had parted, How fiercely love's embers could glow; Or how truly I loved thee then, Annie, Or how madly I'd love thee now.

Bachelors Quest.

She may be dark or may be fair, If beauty she possesses; But she must have abundant hair— I doat on flowing tresses. Her skin must be clear, soft and white Her cheeks with health's tints glowing, Her eyes beam with a liquid light,— Red lips her white teeth showing. She must be graceful as a fawn, With bosom gently swelling, Her presence fresh as early dawn,— A heart for love to dwell in. She must be trusting, yet aware That flatterer's honey'd phrases Are often but a wily snare, To catch her in love's mazes. Accomplishments she must possess, These make life worth the having; And taste, especially in dress Yet still inclined to saving. In cookery she must excel, To this there's no exception, And serve a frugal meal as well As manage a reception. Untidyness she must abhor, In every household matter; And resolutely close the door To any gossip's chatter. She must love children, for a home Ne'er seems like home without 'em. And women seldom care to roam, Who love their babes about 'em, Should she have wealth, she must not boast Or tell of what she brought me; Content that I should rule the roost,— (That's what my father taught me.) If I can find some anxious maid Who all these charms possesses, I shall be tempted, I'm afraid, To pay her my addresses.

Waiting at the Gate.

Draw closer to my side to-night, Dear wife, give me thy hand, My heart is sad with memories Which thou canst understand, Its twenty years this very day, I know thou minds it well, Since o'er our happy wedded life The heaviest trouble fell.

We stood beside the little cot, But not a word we said; With breaking hearts we learned, alas, Our little Claude was dead, He was the last child born to us, The loveliest,—the best, I sometimes fear we loved him more Than any of the rest.

We tried to say "Thy will be done," We strove to be resigned; But all in vain, our loss had left Too deep a wound behind. I saw the tears roll down thy cheek, And shared thy misery, But could not speak a soothing word, I could but grieve with thee.

He looked so calm, so sweet, so fair Why should we stand and weep? Death had but paused a moment there, And put our pet to sleep. The weary hours crept sadly on, Until the burial day; Then in the deep, cold, gravel grave, We saw him laid away.

His little bed was taen apart, His toys put out of sight; His brother and his sister soon Grew gay again and bright. But we, dear wife, we ne'er threw off, The sorrow o'er us cast; And even yet, at times, we grieve, Though twenty years have passed.

We know he's in a better land, A heaven where all is bliss; Nor would we try if we'd the power To bring him back to this. Draw closer to my side, dear wife, And wipe away that tear, Heaven does not seem so far away, I seem to feel him near.

He'll come no more with us to dwell, For our life's lamp burns dim; But He who doeth all things well, Will draw us up to Him. Come closer, wife, let us not part, We have not long to wait; A something whispers to my heart, "Claude's waiting at the Gate."

Love.

Love—love—love—love,— A tiny hand in a tiny glove; A witching smile that means,—well,—well, Whether little or much its hard to tell. A tiny foot and a springy tread, Short curls running riot all over her head; A waist that invites a fond embrace, Yet by modesty girt seems a holy place; Not a place where an arm should be idly thrown, But should gently rest, as would rest my own. An angel whose wings are but hid from view, Whose charms are many and faults so few, As near perfection as mortal can be, Is the one that I love and that loves but me. They tell me that love is blind,—.oh, no! They can never convince a lover so; Love cannot be blind for it sees much more, Then others have ever discovered before. Oh, the restless night with its pleasing dreams, Sweet visions through which her beauty beams; The pleasant pains that find vent in sighs,— And the hopes of a earthly paradise Where we shall dwell and heart to heart In unison beat. Of the world a part Yet so full of our love for each other that we Shall sail all alone on life's troublesome sea, In a charmed course, of perpetual calm, Away from all danger, sccure from harm.

Ah, yes,—such is love to the maiden and youth, That have implicit trust in each others truth;— Such love was mine, but alas, alas! The things I had hoped for ne'er came to pass. But I thank the star of my destiny, That guided a true plain woman to me; That amid the bustle and worry and strife, Has proved a good mother and faithful wife, Though the fates did not grant me an angel to wed, They gave me a woman for helpmate instead.

Do your Best and Leave the Rest.

As through life you journey onward Many a hill you'll have to climb; Many a rough and dang'rous pathway, You'll encounter time and time. Now and then a gleam of sunshine, Will bring hope to cheer your breast; Then press onward,—ever trusting,— Do your best and leave the rest.

Though your progress may be hindered, By false friends or bitter foes; And the goal for which you're striving, Seems so far away,—who knows? You may yet have strength to reach it, E'er the sun sinks in the west; Ever striving,—still undaunted;— Do your best and leave the rest.

If you fail, as thousands must do, You will still have cause for pride; You will have advanced much further, Than if you had never tried. Never falter, but remember, Life is not a foolish jest; You all are in the fight to win it;— Do your best and leave the rest.

If at last your strength shall fail you, And your struggles have proved vain; There is One who will sustain you;— Soothe your sorrow,—ease your pain, He has seen your earnest striving, And your efforts shall be blest; For He knows, that you, though failing, Did your best,—He'll do the rest.

To my Daughter on her Birthday.

Darling child, to thee I owe, More than others here will know; Thou hast cheered my weary days, With thy coy and winsome ways. When my heart has been most sad, Smile of thine has made me glad; In return, I wish for thee, Health and sweet felicity. May thy future days be blest, With all things the world deems best. If perchance the day should come, Thou does leave thy childhood's home; Bound by earth's most sacred ties, With responsibilities, In another's life to share, Wedded joys and worldly care; May thy partner worthy prove,— Richest in thy constant love. Strong in faith and honour, just,— With brave heart on which to trust. One, to whom when troubles come, And the days grow burdensome, Thou canst fly, with confidence In his love's plenipotence. And if when some years have flown, Sons and daughters of your own Bless your union, may they be Wellsprings of pure joy to thee. And when age shall line thy brow, And thy step is weak and slow,— And the end of life draws near May'st thou meet it without fear; Undismayed with earth's alarms,— Sleeping,—to wake in Jesus' arms.

Remorse.

None ever knew I had wronged her, That secret she kept to the end. None knew that our ties had been stronger, Than such as should bind friend to friend. Her beauty and innocence gave her Such charms as are lavished on few; And vain was my earnest endeavour To resist,—though I strove to be true.

She had given her heart to my keeping,— 'Twas a treasure more precious than gold; And I guarded it, waking or sleeping, Lest a strange breath should make it grow cold. And I longed to be tender, yet honest,— Alas! loved,—where to love was a sin,— And passion was deaf to the warning, Of a still small voice crying within.

I feasted my eyes on her beauty,— I ravished my ears with her voice,— And I felt as her bosom rose softly, That my heart had at last found its choice. 'Twas a wild gust of passion swept o'er us,— Just a flash of tumultuous bliss;— Then life's sunlight all vanished before us, And we stood by despair's dark abyss.

'Tis past,—and the green grass grows over, The grave that hides her and our shame; None ever knew who was her lover, For her lips never uttered his name. But at night when the city is sleeping, I steal with a tremulous tread, And spend the dark solemn hours weeping, O'er the grave of the deeply wronged dead.

My Queen

Annie—Oh! what a weary while It seems since that sad day; When whispering a fond "good bye," I tore myself away. And yet, 'tis only two short years; How has it seemed to thee? To me, those lonesome years appear Like an eternity.

We loved,—Ah, me! how much we loved; How happy passed the day When pouring forth enraptured vows, The charmed hours passed away. In every leaf we beauty saw,— In every song and sound, Some sweet entrancing melody, To soothe our hearts we found.

And now it haunts me as a dream,— A thing that could not be!— That one so pure and beautiful Could ever care for me. But I still have the nut-brown curl, Which tells me it is true; And in my fancy I can see The brow where once it grew.

Those eyes, whose pensive, loving light, Did thrill me through and through: Still follow me by day and night, As they were wont to do. Thy smile still haunts me, and thy voice, At times I seem to hear; And when the scented zephyrs pass I fancy thou art near.

'Twill not be long, dear heart, (although It will seem long to me;) Until I clasp thee once again; To part no more from thee. Though storms may roar, and oceans rage And furies vent their spleen;— There's naught shall keep me from my love; My beautiful;—my queen!

Now and Then.

Did we but know what lurks beyond the NOW; Could we but see what the dim future hides; Had we some power occult that would us show The joy and sorrow which in THEN abides; Would life be happier,—or less fraught with woe, Did we but know?

I long, yet fear to pierce those clouds ahead;— To solve life's secrets,—learn what means this death. Are fresh joys waiting for the silent dead? Or do we perish with am fleeting breath? If not; then whither will the spirit go? Did we but know.

'Tis all a mist. Reason can naught explain, We dream and scheme for what to-morrow brings; We sleep, perchance, and never wake again, Nor taste life's joys, or suffer sorrow's stings. Will the soul soar, or will it sink below? How can we know.

"You must have Faith!"—How can a mortal weak, Pin faith on what he cannot comprehend? We grope for light,—but all in vain we seek, Oblivion seems poor mortal's truest friend. Like bats at noonday, blindly on we go, For naught we know.

Yet, why should we repine? Could we but see Our lifelong journey with its ups and downs! Ambition, hope and longings all would flee, Indifferent alike to smiles and frowns. 'Tis better as it is. It must be so. We ne'er can know.

The Open Gates.

My heart was sad when first we met; 'Yet with a smile,— A welcome smile I ne'er forget, Thou didst beguile My sighs and sorrows;-and a sweet delight Shed a soft radiance, where erst was night.

I dreamed not we should meet again;— But fate was kind, Once more my heart o'er fraught with pain, To joy inclined. It seemed thy soul had power to penetrate My inmost self, changing at will my state.

Then sprang the thought:—Be thou my Queen! I will be slave; Make here thy throne and reign supreme, 'Tis all I crave. Let me within thy soothing influence dwell, Content to know, with thee all must be well.

I knew not that another claimed By prior right, Those charms that had my breast inflamed With fancies bright. Ah! then I recognized my loneliness:— My dreams dispelled;—still I admired no less.

Time wearily dragged on its way,— We met once more, And thou wert free! Oh, happy day! As sight of shore Cheers the worn mariner;—so sight of thee, Made my heart beat with sweet expectancy.

Is it too much to hope,—someday This heart of mine, That beats alone for thee,—yet may Thy love enshrine? All things are said to come to him who waits, I'm waiting, darling.—Love, opes wide the gates.

Blue Bells.

Bonny little Blue-bells Mid young brackens green, 'Neath the hedgerows peeping Modestly between; Telling us that Summer Is not far away, When your beauties blend with Blossoms of the May.

Sturdy, tangled hawthorns, Fleck'd with white or red, Whilst their nutty incense, All around is shed. Bonny drooping Blue-bells, Happy you must be With your beauties sheltered 'Neath such fragrant tree.

You need fear no rival,— Other blossoms blown, With their varied beauties But enhance your own. Steals the soft wind gently, 'Round th' enchanted spot, Sets your bells a-ringing Though we hear them not.

Idle Fancy wanders As you shake and swing, Our hearts shape the message We would have you bring. Dreams of happy Springtimes We hope yet to share; Vague, but pleasant visions All to melt in air.

Children's merry voices Break your witching spells, Chubby hands are clasping Languishing Blue-bells. Gay and happy children Hop and skip along, With their ringing laughter, Sweet as skylark's song.

Slowly soon I follow Through the rustic lane, But the sight that greets me Gives me pang of pain. Strewed upon the pathway, Fairy Blue-bells lie, Trampled, crushed and wilted, Cast away to die.

Yet they lived not vainly Though their life was brief, Shedding gleams of gladness O'er a world of grief. And they taught a lesson,— Rightly understood; By their mute endeavour Striving to do good.

A Song of the Snow

Oh the snow,—the bright fleecy snow! Isn't it grand when the north breezes blow? Isn't it bracing the ice to skim o'er, With a jovial friend or the one you adore? How the ice crackles, and how the skates ring, How friends flit past you like birds on the wing. How the gay laugh ripples through the clear air, How bloom the roses on cheeks of the fair! Few are the pleasures that life can bestow, To equal the charms of the beautiful snow.

Oh, the snow,-the pitiless snow! Cruel and cold, as the shelterless know; Huddled in nooks on the mud or the flags, Wrapp'd in a few scanty, fluttering rags. Gently it rests on the roof and the spire, And filling the streets with its slush and the mire, Freezing the life out of poor, starving souls, Wild whirling and drifting as Boreas howls. Hard is their lot who have no where to go, To shelter from storm and the merciless snow.

Oh, the snow,-the treacherous snow! Up in a garret on pallet laid low! Dying of hunger,—oh, sad is her fate;— No food in the cupboard,—no fire in the grate. A widening streak of frost crystals are shed, Through the window's broke pane on the comfortless bed, And the child that she clasps to her chill milkless breast, Has ended its troubles, and gone to its rest. Husbandless,—childless, and friendless.—Go slow,— She sleeps with her babe, and their shroud is the snow.

Oh, the snow, the health-giving snow! Setting the cheeks of the children aglow, Father and mother,—well fed and well clad, Join in the frolic like young lass and lad. Little they dream of the suffering and woe, Of those shivering outcasts with nowhere to go. Then they read from their paper with quivering breath, Accounts of poor wand'rers found frozen to death, And their hearts with pure pity perchance overflow, But it vanishes soon, like the beautiful snow.

Hide not thy Face.

Hide not Thy face,—and though the road Be dark and long and rough, With cheerfulness I'll bear my load, Thy smile will be enough. All other helps I can forego, If with Faith's eye I trace, Through earthly clouds of grief and woe, The presence of Thy face.

Hide not Thy face;—weak, worn and Oppressed with doubt and fear; Still will I utter no complaint,— Content if Thou art near. Thy loving hand my steps shall guide, And set my doubts at rest; In loving trust, whate'er betide, For Thou, Lord, knowest best.

Hide not Thy face;—the tempter's wiles Around my feet are spread; The world's applause,-the wanton's smiles, Beset the path I tread. Alone, too weak to fight the host Of Pleasure's vicious train, 'Tis then I need Thy succour most;— Let me not seek in vain.

Hide not Thy face, but day by day, Shine out more clearly bright; Until this narrow, thorny way, Shall end in Death's dark night. Then freed from all the taints of sin, Through Thine abundant Grace; The crown of righteousness I win, And see Thee face to face.

In my Garden of Roses.

Oh! Come to me, darling! My Sweet! Here where the sunlight reposes; Pink petals lie thick at my feet, Here in my garden of rose's.

Oh! come to my bower! My Queen! Sweet with the breath of the flow'rs; Shaded with curtains of green;— Here let us dream through the hours.

The sky is unfleck'd overhead,— Trees languish in Sol's fervid ray,— The earth to the heavens is wed, And robin is piping his lay.

Lost is their sweetness upon me; Vainly their beauties displaying;— Cheerless I wander, and lonely,— Hoping and longing and praying.

Oh! come to me, Queenliest flower! Reign in my garden of roses; Humbly we bow to thy power, Loving the sway thou imposes.

Hark! 'Tis her tinkling footfall! Robin desist from thy singing; Mar not those sounds that enthrall,— Faint as a fairy bell's ringing.

She cometh! My lily! my rose! Queenlier,—purer, and sweeter! Haste, every blossom that blows, Pour out your perfumes to greet her!

Panting she rests in my arms;— Now is my bower enchanted! Essence of all this world's charms;— My heart has won all that it wanted.

The Match Girl.

Merrily rang out the midnight bells, Glad tidings of joy for all; As crouched a little shiv'ring child, Close by the churchyard wall. The snow and sleet were pitiless, The wind played with her rags, She beat her bare, half frozen feet Upon the heartless flags; A tattered shawl she tightly held With one hand, round her breast; Whilst icicles shone in her hair, Like gems in gold impressed, But on her pale, wan cheeks, the tears That fell too fast to freeze, Rolled down, as soft she murmured, "Do buy my matches, please."

Wee, weak, inheritor of want! She heard the Christmas chimes, Perchance, her fancy wrought out dreams, Of by-gone, better times, The days before her mother died, When she was warmly clad; When food was plenty, and her heart From morn to night was glad.

Her father now is lying sick, She soon may be alone; He cannot use his spade and pick, As once he could have done. The workhouse door stands open wide, But should he enter there, They'd tear his darling from his side And place her anywhere. They'd call it charitable help, Though breaking both their hearts; But then, when in adversity Folks have to bear the smarts.

Some carriages go rolling by, Gay laughter greets her ears; She envies not their better lot, She only sheds more tears, And now and then a passing step, Will cause the tears to cease; As fainter, fainter, comes the plaint, "Do buy my matches, please."

Darker the sky, colder the wind,— The bells are silent now;— She creeps still closer to the wall, And sinks upon the snow. The sound of revelry no more Disturbs her weary ear, Sleep conquers cold and pain and grief;— Oblivion shuts out fear. The snow drifts to the churchyard wall, The graves with white are spread; But those gray walls do not enclose All of the near-by dead.

The wind has ta'en the snowflakes, And gently as it might, Has spread a shroud o'er one more lost And hid it from the sight.

I would not wake her if I could, 'Twas well for her she died; Her spirit floated out upon The bells of Christmastide, She breathed no prayer, nor thought of Heaven,— Her last faint words were these;— As time merged in eternity, "Do buy my matches, please."

But surely angels would be there, To shield her from all harm; And in Christ's loving bosom, She could nestle and get warm.

The wifeless, childless, stricken man, Lies moaning in his pain— "Come, let me bless thee e'er I die!" But she never came again.

De Profundis.

Down in the deeps of dark despair and woe;— Of Death expectant;—Hope I put aside; Counting the heartbeats, slowly, yet more slow,— Marking the lazy ebb of life's last tide. Sweet Resignation, with her opiate breath, Spread a light veil, oblivious, o'er the past, And all unwilling handmaid to remorseless Death, Shut out the pain of life's great scene,—the last.

When, lo! from out the mist a slender form Took shape and forward pressed and two bright eyes Shone as two stars that gleam athwart the storm, Grandly serene, amid the cloud-fleck'd skies. "Not yet," she said, "there are some sands to run, Ere he has reached life's limit, and no grain Shall lie unused. Then, when his fight is done, Pronounce the verdict,—be it loss or gain."

I felt her right hand lightly smooth my brow, Her left hand on my heart; and a sweet thrill Swept all the strings of being, and the flow Of a full harmony aroused the dormant will. Death slunk away, sweet Resignation paled, And Hope's bright star made all the future bright; The clouds were rent;—a woman's love prevailed, And dragged a sinking soul once more to love and light.

Angels there are who walk this troublous world, Whose wings are hid beneath poor mortal clay, Lest their effulgence to man's eyes unfurled, Might scare the timid-hearted ones away. The whispered word, the smile, the gentle tone, Love-prompted from a woman's heaving breast, Enforce her claim to make the world her throne, Beyond compare,—of all God's gifts the best.

Nettie.

Nettie, Nettie! oh, she's pretty! With her wreath of golden curls; None compare with charming Nettie, She's the prettiest of girls. Not her face alone is sweetest,— Nor her eyes the bluest blue, But her figure is the neatest Of all forms I ever knew. But she has a fault,—the greatest That a pretty girl could have; When she's looking the sedatist, And pretending to be grave,— You discover, 'spite of hiding, What I feel constrained to tell; That she knows she is a beauty,— Knows it,—knows it,—aye, too well. May be when the bloom has vanished; Which we know in time it will; And her foolish fancies banished, May be, she'll be lovely still. For though Time may put his finger, On her dainty-fashioned face; There will still some beauty linger, Round her form so full of grace. And her heart,—the priceless treasure, Which so many long to win, Still shall prove a fount of pleasure, To the love that enters in. Pity 'tis that fairest blossoms Must in time fall from the tree; Pity 'tis that snow-white bosoms Must yield up their symmetry. Brightest eyes will lose their love-light, Fairest cheeks grow pale and gray;— Golden locks will lose their sunlight, And the loveliest limbs decay. But whilst life is left we hunger For a taste of earthly bliss; But the man need seek no longer, Who can call sweet Nettie his.

The Dean's Brother.

A little lad, but thinly clad, All day had roamed the street; With stitled groans and aching bones, He beg'd for bread to eat.

The wind blew shrill from o'er the hili, And shook his scanty rags; Whilst cold and sleet benumbed his feet, As plodding o'er the flags.

The night drew on with thick'ning gloom,— He hailed each passer by, For help to save, but nought they gave,— Then he sat down to cry.

It was a noble portico, 'Neath which the beggar stept, And none would guess, one in distress There shiv'ring sat and wept.

But soon the door was open thrown,— The Dean, a goodly man; Who lived within, had heard a moan, And came the cause to scan.

"Ah, little boy, what want you here, On such a bitter night? Run home at once, you little dunce, Or you'll be frozen quite."

The boy looked at his cheery face, Yet hid his own in dread; "I meant no harm, the place was warm, And I am begging bread;

"And if you can a morsel spare, I'll thank you, oh! so much, For all day long I've begged and sung, And never had a touch."

"Step in," then said the kindly man, "And stand here in the hall, You shall have bread, poor starving child, I promise you you shall."

And off he went, and soon returned With a thin, tempting slice, And little Jemmy dapt his hands And cried, "Oh, Sir, that's nice!"

"And what's your name, come tell me that?" "My name is Jimmy Pool." "And do you always beg all day Instead of going to school?

"And can you read, and can you write?" Poor Jimmy shook his head, "No, sir, I have to beg all day, At night I go to bed.

"My mother lays me on the floor, Upon a little rug; And I ne'er think of nothing more, When I'm so warm and snug.

"Sometimes I wake, and when I do, Unless it's almost day, She's always there, upon her chair, Working the night away.

"It isn't much that she can make,— Sometimes I think she'd die, But for her little Jimmy's sake,— There's only her and I."

"And do you ever pray, my boy?" "No, sir, I never tried, I never heard a praying word Since my poor Daddy died."

"Then let me teach you, little boy, Just come now, let me see,— I know you'll manage if you try,— Now say it after me.

"Our Father,"—"Our Father,"—"right," "That art in heaven," "go on!" Jimmy repeated every word, Until the prayer was done.

Then turning up his hazel eyes, Which questioning light shone through, He said, "that prayer sounds very nice,— Is He your Father too?"

"Yes, He is mine as well as yours, And Lord of all you see." "Far as I know, if that be so, My brother you must be."

"Yes we are brethren, every one, All equal in His sight." "Well, I will try to think so, sir, But I can't believe it quite.

"It seems so strange that you should be Akin to such as me, For you are rich, and great, and grand And I'm so poor you see."

"But it is true, my little lad, And if to Him you pray, He'll make your little heart feel glad,— He'll turn you not away."

"Well, if that's so, I'll learn to pray, I'll take your kind advice,— But if you are my brother, Give me just one thicker slice.

"And if He's Father of us all,— Now, as I'm going home, From your big share perhaps you'll spare Your widowed sister some?"

The Dean's face wore a puzzled look, And then a look of joy; Then said, "'tis you the teacher are, I am the scholar, boy."

That night the widow's eyes were wet, But they were tears of joy,— 'When she beheld the load of things Brought by her little boy.

And Jimmy danced upon the flags, And cried, "there's few have seen, And ever thought that in these rags, Stands brother to a Dean."

I Would not Live Alway.

"I would not live alway," Why should I wish to stay, Now, when grown old and grey, Enduring slow decay? When power to do has fled, 'Twere better to be dead— The tree that's ceased to bear, Has no right to be there. Who cares to keep a bird Whose note is never heard? Yet many things abound, Encumbering the ground; Useless, unsightly wrecks, That only serve to vex The sight of those who boast All that those wrecks have lost.

If God gave me this life,— Now, when worn out with strife, May I not give it back And move from out the track?

This world is not for drones! The right to live each owns; But he to earn that right Must work with all his might.

When power to do has fled, 'Twere better to be dead. The dog has had its day;— "I would not live alway."

Too Late.

How should I know, That day when first we met, I Would be a day I never can forget? And yet 'tis so. That clasp of hands that made my heartstrings thrill, Would not die out, but keeps vibrating still? How should I know?

How should I know, That those bright eyes of thine Would haunt me yet? And through Grief's dark cloud shine, With that same glow? That thy sweet smile, so full of trust and love, Should, beaming still, a priceless solace prove? How should I know?

How should I know That one so good and fair, Would condescend To spare a thought, or care, For one so low? I dared not hope such bliss could be in store;— How dare I who had known no love before? How should I know?

But now I know— Too late, alas! the prize Can ne'er be mine, Yet do I hug the pain, And bless the blow, Knowing I love, and am loved in return, Is bliss undying whilst Life's lamp shall burn. Yes, now I know.

On the Banks of the Calder.

On Calder's green banks I stroll sadly and lonely, The flowers are blooming, the birds singing sweet, The river's low murmur seems whispering only, The name of the laddie I came here to meet. He promised yestre'en, by the thorn tree in blossom, He'd meet me to-night as the sun sank to rest, And a sprig of May blossom he put on my bosom, As his lips to my hot cheeks he lovingly prest.

Oh, where is my laddie? Oh, where is my Johnnie? Oh, where is my laddie, so gallant and free? He's winsome and witty, his face is so bonny, Oh, Johnnie,—my Johnnie,—I'm waiting for thee.

The night's growing dark and the shadows are eerie, The stars now peep out from the blue vault above; Oh, why does he tarry? oh, where is my dearie? Oh, what holds him back from the arms of his love? I know he's not false, by his kind eyes so blue,— And his tones were sincere when he called me his own; Oh, he promised so fairly he'd ever be true,— But why does he leave me to wander alone?

Oh, where is my laddie? Oh, where is my Johnnie? Oh, where is my laddie so gallant and free? He's winsome and witty, his face is so bonny, Oh, Johnnie,—my Johnnie, I'm waiting for thee.

The moon now is up,—the owl hoots in the wood, The trees sigh and moan, and the water runs black; The tears down my cheeks roll a sorrowful flood,— And my heart throbs to tell me he'll never come back. Oh, woe, woe is me! Did he mean to betray? Must my ruin the price of his perfidy be? No, the river shall hide me and bear me away; Cold Calder receive me, I'm coming to thee.

Oh, where is her laddie? Oh, where is her Johnnie? Oh, where is her laddie that treated her so? But the voice of the river shall haunt him for ever, And his base heart shall never more happiness know.

Lines on Receiving a Bunch of Wild Hyacinths by Post.

Sweet, drooping, azure tinted bells, How dear you are; Bringing the scent of shady dells, To me from far; Telling of spring and gladsome sunny hours,— Nature's bright jewels!=-heart-refreshing flowers!

Oh, for a stroll when opening day Silvers the dew, Kissing the buds, whilst zephyrs play As though they knew Their gentle breath was needed, just to shake Your slumbering beauties, and to bid you wake.

Far from the moilding town and trade, How sweet to spend An hour amid the misty glade, And find a friend In every tiny blossom, and to lie, And dream of Him whose love can never die.

Ye are Gael's messengers, sent here To make us glad; Mute, and yet eloquent, to cheer The heart that's sad; To turn our thoughts from sordid earthly gains, To that bright home where peace for ever reigns.

How dare we murmur, when around On every side, Such proofs of His great love abound, O'er the world wide? Faith cannot die within these hearts of ours, If we but learn the lessons of the flowers.

Thanks to the one whose kindly heart Was moved to send This gift, when we were far apart, To cheer a friend. Sweet meditation now my mind employs; A pleasure pure, and one which never cloys.

November's Here.

Dullest month of all the year,— Suicidal atmosphere, Everything is dark and drear, Filling nervous minds with fear, Skies are seldom ever clear, Fogs are ever hov'ring near,— 'Tis a heavy load to bear.

Were it not that life is dear, We should wish to disappear, For it puts us out of gear.

But in vain we shed the tear, We must still cling to the rear Of the year that now is near.

Though our eyes begin to blear, With fogs thick enough to shear, And we feel inclined to swear, At the month that comes to smear All things lovely, all things dear; We must bear and yet forbear.

But some thoughts our spirits cheer, Christmas time will soon be here, Then at thee we'll scoff and jeer, Smoke our pipes and drink our beer,— Sit until brave chanticleer Tells us that the morn is here.

Do thy worst, November drear! We can stand it, never fear,— Christmas time will soon be here.

Mary.

My Mary's as sweet as the flowers that grow, By the side of the brooklet that runs near her cot; Her brow is as fair as the fresh fallen snow, And the gleam of her smile can be never forgot. Her figure is lithe and as graceful I ween As was Venus when Paris awarded the prize, She's the wiles of a fairy,—the step of a queen, And the light of true love's in her bonny brown eyes.

To see was to love her,—to love was to mourn,— For her heart was as fickle as April days When you'd given her all and asked some return, You got but a taste of her false winsome ways. You never could tell, though you knew her so well, That her sweet fascinations were nothing but lies, Like a fool you loved on when of hope there was none And your heart sought relief in her bonny brown eyes.

Yet 'tis sad to relate, though unhappy my fate, I would sacrifice all that on earth I hold dear, If she would but consent to be true, and content, With the heart that is faithful when distant or near. Through pleasure and pain we together again, May never commingle our smiles and our sighs, But when sleeping or waking, I struggle in vain, To forget the sweet maid with the bonny brown eyes.

Oh, Mary, my love! with the coo of the dove, I would woo thee to win thee, and ever to live, Where thy bright loving face and thy figure of grace, Could surround me with joys that none other can give. Oh, say but a word, and I'll fly like a bird, To the one whom my heart will beat for till it dies, Bid me come to my home, bid me come, bid me come, And bask in the light of thy bonny brown eyes.

When Cora Died.

Bells ring out a joyful sound, Old and young alike seem gay; One more year has gone its round, Again we greet a New Year's Day. Whilst to some they tell of cheer, Other hearts may grief betide, For 'twas in the glad New Year When our darling Cora died.

Like a snowdrop, pure and fair, She had blossomed in our home; Her we nursed with tender care, Lest Death's blighting frost should come. And we prayed to keep her here, But our pleading was denied;— Early in the glad New Year, Little darling Cora died.

Death had taken some before, Some from whom 'twas hard to part; And their voices now no more, Come to cheer the longing heart. In that one frail blossom dear, Centered all our hope and pride; Alas! Then came the sad New Year, When our darling Cora died.

Since that time the pealing bells Wake sad echoes in the heart; And the grief that in us dwells Makes the tears unbidden start. Though they ring so loud and clear, Flinging gladness far and wide, They to me recall the year, When our darling Cora died.

The Violet.

Little simple violet, Glittering with dewy wet, Hidden by protecting grass All unheeded we should pass Were it not the rich perfume, Leads us on to find the bloom Which so modestly does dwell, Sweetly scenting all the dell.

Simple little violet;— Lessons I shall ne'er forget By thy modest mien were taught,— Rich in peace,—with wisdom fraught. Oft I've laid me down to rest, With thy blossoms on my breast; Screen'd from noontide's sunny flood, By some monarch of the wood.

I have thought and dreamed of thee, Clad in such simplicity; Yet so rich in fragrance sweet, That exhales from thy retreat; And I've seen the gaudy flower Blest alone with beauty's dower;— Have looked,—admired,—then bid them go,— Violet,—I love thee so.

Rival, thou hast none to fear, For to me thou art most dear;— Buttercups and daisies vie, 'With thy charms to please the eye, Roses red and lillies white, All enchanting to the sight; Yield me joys sincere, but yet Thou'rt my favorite,—Violet.

Repentant.

Oh lend me thy hand in the darkness, Lead me once more to the light, Bear with my folly and weakness, Point me the way to do right. Long have I groped in the shadow Of error, temptation and doubt, In the maze I've strayed hither and thither, Vainly seeking to find a way out.

When I grasp thy firm hand in the darkness, Courage takes place of my fear; No more do I shudder and tremble, When I know that my loved one is near. From sorrow and trouble, oh, lead me;— From dangers that sorely affright, Till at last every terror shall leave me, And I rest in thine own loving light.

Rest! Aye, rest! If I have thy forgiveness, If thy strong arm about me is twined; Let the past, like a horrible vision, Be for ever cast out of thy mind. When I wilfully all my vows slighted, And sought joy in a glittering sin, I found but two lives that were blighted, Two hearts filled with ruin within.

Oh, take me again to thy bosom, With a kiss, tho' it be on my brow; And forgive one who wayward and sinful, Ne'er knew how she loved thee till now. And keep me away from the darkness, Let thy hand lead me on evermore, Let me cling to thee, bless thee, and love thee, As no loved one was e'er loved before.

Sunset.

Last eve the sun went down Like a globe of glorious fire; Into a sea of gold I watched the orb expire. It seemed the fitting end For the brightness it had shed, And the cloudlets he had kissed Long lingered over head.

All vegetation drooped, As if with pleasure faint: The lily closed its cup To guard 'gainst storm and taint. The cool refreshing dew Fell softly to the earth, All lovely things to cheer, And call more beauties forth.

And as I sat and thought On Nature's wond'rous plan, I felt with some regret, How small a thing is man. However bright he be, His efforts are confined, Yet maybe, if he will, Leave some rich fruits behind.

The sun that kissed the flowers, And made the earth look gay, Was culling, through the hours, Rich treasures on his way. And when the day was dead, His stored up riches fell, And to the moon arose Incense from hill and dell.

And when our span of life Is ended, will it be Through such a glorious death We greet Eternity? What have we said or done In all the long years passed! And may not such as me, Forgotten, die at last?

Poetry and Prose.

Do you remember the wood, love, That skirted the meadow so green; Where the cooing was heard of the stock-dove, And the sunlight just glinted between. The trees, that with branches entwining Made shade, where we wandered in bliss, And our eyes with true love-light were shining,— When you gave me the first loving kiss?

The ferns grew tall, graceful and fair, But none were so graceful as you; Wild flow'rs in profusion were there, But your eyes were a lovelier blue; And the tint on your cheek shamed the rose, And your brow as the lily was white, And your curls, bright as gold, when it glows, In the crucible, liquid and bright.

And do you remember the stile, Where so cosily sitting at eve, Breathing forth ardent love-vows the while, We were only too glad to believe? And the castles we built in the air, Oh! what glorious structures were they! No temple all earth was so fair,— But alas! they all vanished away.

And do you remember the time, When cruel fate forced us apart, When with resignation sublime We obeyed, though with pain in each heart. Then years dragged their wearisome round, And we ne'er again met as of yore,— But we did meet at last and we found, Things were not as they had been before.

You'd a child on your rough sunburned arm, And your husband had one on his knee, And I had my own little swarm, For I was the father of three. And I know we both thought of the days When love and romance filled each heart, Now, we both have our children to raise,— You're washing,—I'm driving a cart.

Years Ago.

Annie I dreamed a strange dream last night, At my bedside, I dreamed, you stood clad in white; Your dark curly hair 'round your snow-white brow,— (Are those locks as raven and curly now?) And those rosebud lips, which in days lang syne, I have kissed and blest, because they were mine. And thine eyes soft light, Shone as mellow and bright, As it did years ago,— Years ago.

And I fancy I heard the soft soothing sound Of thy voice, that sweet melody breathed all around, Whilst enraptured I gazed, and once more the sweet smile, Made sunshine, my sorrowing heart to beguile, And thy milkwhite hands stroked my heated brow;— (Oh! what would I give could I feel them now!) But alas! Woe is me! No more can it be, As it was years ago,— Years ago.

I awoke with a gnawing pain at my heart, The vision had vanished,—but oh, the smart Of the wound, which no time can ever heal, Was a torment, which only lost souls can feel. Yet in spite of the pain, the woe, the despair, I dote, as I look on a lock of dark hair, That I culled from the head, Of the loveliest maid; Many long years ago,— Years ago.

Will fate ever bring us together again? Will my heart never know a surcease from pain? Are the dark locks I worshipped, now mingled with grey? Has Time stolen brightness and beauty away? I care not,—for years have but made thee more dear; But my longing is vain, Thou wilt ne'er come again. Lost,—lost,—years ago,— Years ago.

Somebody's.

Oh, isn't it nice to be somebody's?— Somebody's darling and pet, To be shrined in the heart of a dear one, Whose absence fills soul with regret? To be dreamed of, and longed for, and courted, As the Queen whom his heart holds in thrall,— As the one—the great one, priceless jewel, That outweighs and outvalues them all?

Oh,—I'd rather my head should be resting, On the breast of the man that I love; And my hand in his strong grasp be nestling, And bask in the light of his love:— I would rather,—far rather, my darling Should be loving, and faithful, and brave, Than be titled, and wealthy, and fickle;— E'en though poverty held him a slave.

Oh, my heart yearns for one that is noble,— In mind, not in riches or birth, Who would love me, and value my love too, Then my lot would be heaven on earth. But where, alas, where shall I find him? This man, that my heart longs for so? This idol I picture and dream of,— Does he live? I'm inclined to say, no.

He is merely a fanciful hero, That my heart has pictured so fair: I must stoop from my realm of wild fancy, And take what may fall to my share. Some plain, honest, working mechanic, May be the prize I may call mine, But if shaped like a man he'll be better, Nor be left lonely, without Valentine.

Claude.

I named him Claude, 'twas a strange conceit, 'Twas a name that no relatives ever bore; Yet there lingered around it a mem'ry sweet, Of a face and a voice I miss evermore.

I was pacing the deck of a captive ship, That was straining its cables to get away, From the parched up town, and its crowded slip, To its home on the wave and its life in the spray.

When I saw the beautiful, sorrowful dame,— And never, oh, never, shall I forget The sweet chord struck as she spoke the name, That thrilled through my being and lingers yet.

'Twas a winsome woman with raven hair, And a lovely face, and a beaming eye, With a smile that of joy and sorrow had share, And her form had the charms for which sculptors vie.

I never had seen such a lovely hand, As the one that she pressed to her snowy brow; And her parted lips, showed a glistening band, Of pearly teeth in an even row.

A fragrant scent like a rose's breath, Hung round her and seemed of herself a part, And a bouquet of lillies as pale as death, Drooped sadly above her beating heart.

She only uttered the one word, "Claude," But oh! 'twas so touchingly, sweetly said;— A volume of grief expressed in a word, As she stedfastly gazed through the void overhead.

Then I noticed the sombre garments she wore, And I knew the grim reaper had gathered her flower 'Twas the sense of the heart-crushing sorrow she bore, Invested that name with such marvellous power.

She went ashore, and we sailed away, 'Twas the first and the only time ever we met, But my memory limns her as lovely to-day, As she was on that day I can never forget.

Months after, my baby boy came unto me, And I gave him the name she had breathed in her sigh, He was fair and sweet as the bloom on the tree, Yet he never felt mine, though I could not tell why.

But that musical note floated round in the air,— "Claude!—Claude!" sang the zephyrs that softly sped by, And his eyes had a far-a way look, as if there, Far beyond, he could see what I failed to descry.

One eve, in the gloaming, I hushed him to rest, And the trees whispered "Claude" as they waved overhead, He smiled as he nestled more close to my breast,— And I wept,—for I knew that my darling was dead.

All on a Christmas Morning.

The wind it blew cold, and the ice was thick, Deeper and deeper the snowdrifts grew; A young mother lay in her cottage, sick,— Her needs were many, her comforts few. Clasped to her breast was a newborn child, Unknowing, unmindful of weal or woe; And away, far away, in the tempest wild, Was a husband and father, kneedeep in the snow. All on a Christmas morning, long ago.

The lamp burned low, and the fire was dead, And the snow sifted in through each crevice and crack: As she tossed and turned in her lowly bed, And murmured, "Good Lord, bring my husband back." The clocks in the city had told the hour With a single stroke, for young was the day But no swelling note from the loftiest tower, Could reach that lone cot where a mother lay. All on a Christmas morning, long ago.

High on the moorland that crowned the hill, Bewildered, benumbed, midst the snow, so deep, Fighting for life with a desperate will, Lost,—wearied and worn, and oppressed with sleep, Was the husband and father, with grief almost wild, Bearing cordials and medicine safely bestowed, That he'd been to obtain for his wife and child;— Then exhausted he sank.—And it snowed,—and it snowed. All on a Christmas morning, long ago.

The sun arose on a world so white, That glistened and sparkled beneath his ray: And the children's faces looked just as bright, As they cried, "What a glorious Christmas day!" In a lowly cot lay a stiff white form,— And all was still, save a pitiful wail;— No more should that mother fear sickness or storm;— Together, two spirits sped through the dark vale. All on a Christmas morning, long ago.

Friends who were coming to bring good cheer, Found a young babe sucking a cold white breast. Noiselessly, reverently, gathering near, The orphan to full hearts was lovingly pressed. The parents were laid side by side in the grave, And the babe grew in beauty of face and of form; And they still call her Snowdrop, the name that they gave,— Sweet Snowdrop,—the frail little flower of the storm. All on a Christmas morning, long ago.

Once Upon a Time.

When dull November's misty shroud, All Nature's charms depress, Flinging a damp, dark, deadening cloud, O'er each heart's joyousness. Our fancies quit their lighter vein, And out from Memory's shrine, We marshal thoughts of grief and pain, Known,—once upon a time.

'Tis then that faces, long forgot, In shadows reappear;— Voices, that once we heeded not, Come whispering in the ear; And ghosts of friends whom once we met, When life was in its prime, Recall acts we would fain forget, Done,—once upon time.

Regretfull sighs for thoughtless deeds, That worked another wrong; Vows that we broke, like rotten reeds Like spectres glide along; Tears naught avail to heal the smart, We caused—nor deemed it crime, Whilst selfishly we wrung a heart, Loved,—once upon a time.

Oh, could we but, as on we go, Care more for other's weal, Nor deem all joys earth can bestow, Are but for us to feel; Then howe'er humble, howe'er poor, Our lives would be sublime, Nor should we dread to ponder o'er, Days,—once upon a time.

Nearing Home.

We are near the last bend of the river, Soon will the prospect be bright; Already the waves seem to quiver, As touched with celestial light. Since first we were launched on its bosom, Strange hap'nings and perils we've passed, But we've braved and endured them together And we're nearing the haven at last.

We are near the last bend of lifes river, Around, all is tranquil and calm; The tempests that passed us can never, Again strike our souls with alarm. We are drifting,—unconsciously gliding, Down Time's river—my darling and me. And soon in love's sweet trust abiding, We shall sail on Eternities sea.

Oh, how the soul strains with its yearning To see what is hid beyond this, This life, with its pain and heartburning— The beyond, where is nothing but bliss. Our life's Sun has touched the horizon, It will speedily dip out of sight, And then what? Will a new morn be rising? Or will it for ever be night?

Those Tiny Fingers.

She has gone for ever from earth away, Yet those tiny fingers haunt me still; In the silent night, when the moons pale ray, Silvers the leaves on the window sill. Just between sleeping and waking I lie, Makebelieve feeling their velvet touch, Darling! My darling! Oh, why should you die! Leaving me lonely, who loved so much?

Those tiny fingers that used to stray Over my face which is wrinkled now; Those little white hands—how they used to play, With the wanton curls round my once fair brow. Thy soft blue eyes and thy dimpled cheeks, I seem to see now as I saw them then; And a whispering voice to my sad heart speaks,— 'Thou shalt meet her again,'—but when? oh, when?

Deep in the grave was the coffin laid, And buried with it was my purest love; Oh, how I'd hoped, and watched, and prayed, That Death would pass by and spare my dove, Was it in mercy God took thee hence? Was it because I had worshipped thee so? Was my devotion to thee an offence? I was thy mother,—and God must know.

If it were sinful, my tears have atoned; At last I can murmur, "Thy will be done," Sweet little cherub, to me but loaned, Now safe at home, far beyond the sun. Soon the dark river I too shall cross, And hopefully climb up that golden stair, And all this world's riches will be but dross, If those tiny fingers beckon me there.

Lilly-White Hand.

Place thy lilly-white hand in mine, Maid with the wealth of golden hair;— Tresses, that gleaming like gold, entwine, Round about a sweet face so fair.

Sweetheart, oh! whisper once more the words, That came from those coral lips of thine, And bound thee to me by those silken cords,— And place thy lilly-white hand in mine,

Place thy lilly-white hand in mine, That its gentle pressure may tell my heart That the idol round which I had reared a shrine, Is mine,—mine,—never from me to part.

Sweetest and fairest of woman kind! Gentlest, kindest, lovingest, best,— Virtues with beauties are so combined, That manhood pays homage at love's behest.

Place thy lilly-white hand in mine, Let its velvet touch on my horny palm, Comfort, encourage, embolden, refine,— This grosser clay, by its subtle charm.

Long as life lasts let me clasp thy hand, As a pledge of our oneness, existing now; And when I depart for the better land, Let it rest for a while on my death-cold brow.

Falsehood, treachery, sickness, pain,— I have endured, yet hopefully stand Strong in the thought I have lived not in vain. Had I won but this treasure,—this lilly-white hand.

Shut Out.

"The drunkard shall not enter the Kingdom of Heaven."

Far, far beyond the skies, The land of promise lies; When Death our souls release, A home of love and peace, Has been prepared for all, Who heed the gracious call, Drunkards that goal ne'er win,— They cannot enter in.

Time noiselessly flits by, Eternity draws nigh; Will the fleet joy you gain, Compensate for the pain, That through an endless day, Will wring your soul for aye? Slave to beer, rum, or gin, You cannot enter in.

Dash down the flowing bowl, Endanger not thy soul; Ponder those words of dread, That God Himself has said. Hurl the vile tempter down, And win and wear the crown, Drunkard, forsake thy sin, Thou mayst then enter in.

Charming May.

"O! charming May!" That's what they say. The saying is not new,— The saying is not true;— O! May!

Bare fields and icebound streams, Sunshine in fitful gleams, May smile Beguile, And dispel poets' dreams.

Was ever May so gay As what the poets say? If so, We know, We live not in their day.

A cosy coat and wrap, You may not find mishap— Propo You know When comes the next cold snap.

A heavy woollen scarf, Strong boots that reach the calf,— Away we go Through snow and slush and wet,— And can we once forget 'Tis May? Oh, no!

Best is the old advice Which we so oft despise, "Cast not a clout Till May goes out." May like a maiden, lies.

A Maypole dance.—O, my! Such sport is all "my eye," Just try, I tried it and I know, The snow, the blow, The aching toes, the smarting nose.

I all defied, And loudly cried "Come on, Each one, Be gay! be gay!—'Tis May! Tis May" They laughed and shook the head, And this is what they said, "Old Skunk, he's drunk."

Still we do love her so,— Her truth? O, no! She's like some fancy fickle, She lands you in a pickle, You grin and bear, Maybe you swear In manner most alarming, And yet—Sweet May is charming.

Who Cares?

Down in a cellar cottage In a dark and lonely street, Was sat a widow and her boy, With nothing left to eat.

The night was wild and stormy, The wind howl'd round the door, And heavy rain drops from above Kept dripping to the floor.

They had no candle burning, The fire was long since dead, A wretched heap of straw was all They had to call a bed.

They nestled close together, On the cold and dampy ground, And as the storm rush'd past them, They trembled at the sound.

"Mother," the poor boy whispered, "May I not go again? I do not heed the wind, mother, I'm not afraid of rain.

"May I not go and beg, mother, For you are very ill; Some one will give me something, Mother, I'm sure they will?

"Do let me go and try, mother, You know I won't be long; I did feel weak and tired, mother, But now I feel quite strong.

"Give me a kiss before I go, And pray whilst I'm away, That I may meet some Christian friend, Who will not say me nay."

"Dear boy, the night is stormy, Your ragged clothes are thin, And soon the heavy rain-drops Will wet you to the skin.

"I would go out myself, boy, But, oh! I cannot rise, I am too weak to dry the tears That roll down from my eyes.

"I fear I soon must go, love, And leave my boy alone. And oh! what can you do, love, When I am dead and gone?"

"Mother, you set me weeping, Don't talk in such a strain, Your tears are worse for me to bear Than all the wind and rain.

"Wait till I'm rather bigger, And then I'll work all day, And shan't we both be happy When I bring you home my pay?

"Then you shall have some tea, mother, And bread as white as snow; You won't be sickly then, mother, You'll soon get well, I know.

"And when that time shall come, mother, You shall have some Sunday clothes, Then you can go to church, mother— You cannot go in those.

"And then I'll take you walking, And you shall see the flowers, And sit upon the sweet green grass Beneath the trees for hours.

"But I will haste away, mother, I won't be long—good bye!" "Farewell, my boy," she murmured, Then she laid her down to die.

—————

The lamps were dimly shining, And the waters in a flood, Came rolling o'er the pavement, Where the little beggar stood.

He listened for a footstep, Then he hurried on the street, But the wind roared with such fury, Till he scarce could keep his feet.

A few there were who passed him, But they had no time to stay; They did not even stop to look, But hurried quick away.

He passed the marts of business, Where the gaslights were ablaze, And saw the countless heaps of things Displayed to meet the gaze.

One window held him spell-bound— From end to end 'twas piled With loaves of bread a tempting sight To a half-famished child.

He clapped his little cold wet hands, And almost danced for joy, It seemed a glimpse of paradise To that poor hungry boy.

With timid step he ventured in, And, trembling, thus began:— "Please, sir, I've come to beg for bread— Do help me if you can.

"I do not want it for myself, My mother, too, shall share; Do give me just one little crust, If you've a crust to spare."

"Give!" cried the shopman in a rage— "What shall we live to see? Go tell your mother she must work, And earn her bread, like me."

"But mother, sir, is very sick, She cannot work, I'm sure; Father died some months ago, And left us very poor.

"She has not tasted food for days. And die I fear she must. Unless you'll help us, Christian sir; Do spare a little crust!"

"I'll spare you nothing, saucy imp! Away this moment! run! And tell your sickly mother I cannot thus be done!"

He left the shop, and in the street He sat him down to cry, He heard the trampling of the feet Of those who passed him by.

He could not ask another, For his every hope had fled,— ('Tis sad that in a land like this A child needs beg for bread.)

Wet, cold, and faint, he reached his home, No richer than before, And noiselessly he entered in, And gently closed the door.

There is no sound, the mother sleeps— Then groping for the bed, He bent his weak and stiffened knees, And bowed his weary head,

And pray'd "that God would grant them help, And bring them safely through." The whisper'd prayer was borne above, Was heard, and answered too:

And when the morning's sun looked in, And filled the place with light, Two lifeless bodies on the straw Was all that met the sight.

Thus were they found, alone, and dead, No reason left to show How they had come to that sad end; And no one cared to know.