LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. ©|ap Snjt^ritf^ !f n. Shelf. '.J^. 73/ UNITED STATES OP AMERICA. JU[ §*> ,^r>> POEMS OF MRS. JANE E. D. CONKLIN. Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel above the crowd ; Thy wheel and thou are shadows in the cloud ; Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate, — Tennyson. Vv^;;y^^ NEW YORK : PRESS OF J. J. LITTLE & COMPANY, Nos. lo TO 20 AsTOR Place. 1884. rS /3r7 Copyright, 1884, By Mrs. JANE E. D. CONKLIN. FIRST LINES. PAGE " Once upon a time, " what magic 9 Down from the cloud-capped mountain, down I2 O, hill-encircled Binghamton i6 'Tis beautiful on " Sunny Side " 20 We live but in the past 22 Where art thou now ? mom's rosy beams 24 Pale stars are gleaming, love 26 We meet to-night to honor one 28 My friends we've come, since Matthew calls 31 The north winds from the hills swept down 34 I am sitting alone in the twilight 37 The wintry sun has set, love 39 6 FIRST LINES. PAGE The harvest moonbeams glimmer down 41 The weary day at last is done 43 The year was dying, one by one 46 I came once more to my native town 49 How shall we tread again those sacred courts 53 Sweet be their slumbers, calm their sleep 55 We gather once more around the graves 57 Her little crib is vacant 59 There's another grave in the lone churchyard 61 Are you still in this wearisome world, Cousin 63 I dreamed that it was Summer Time 65 Tis morn, the cock's shrill voice is heard 67 The latest gleam of purple light 69 Once more the chiming church-bells tell 71 It was an humble house of prayer 73 The words of blessing die away 75 Again, rude March, thy hoarse wild voice 77 The dew upon the daisies 79 The apple-boughs are drooping 81 FIRST LINES. 7 PAGE The flowers are gone from the mountains 84 How beautiful is spring-time S6 It may be where calm waters sleep 88 He cometh, on the Eastern hills 90 Now turn we from the joyful song 92 Once more our Holy Mother Church 94 He is not here, the silent gloom 96 O who can picture the wondrous sight 98 There is no spot so passing fair lor Put all thy armor on 103 *' The Lord is my shepherd," 'twas so they sang 105 Hast ever seen at morn 107 The heaven of heavens cannot contain 109 Where through the lofty arches ring 112 When sweet church bells with solemn chime 115 Although the bitter cup 118 Not when morning light is breaking 120 Across yon river's shining waves 122 Not to the rich who had much goods 124 8 FIRST LINES. PAGE Forth from their homes, ere yet the mist 127 Is it within the gates of pearl 129 Beloved friend, in this sad hour 131 We may not idle, for alas 133 Only a little while 135 Ah ! who may v/hisper words of cheer 137 It was tossed aside with a careless fling 139 What shall I choose for a New Year's gift 142 Come back, since thou art gone, the sun 144 Sawney, your verses made me cantie 146 Among the pleasures and the joys 149 POEMS ONCE UPON A TIME. " Once upon a time ; ** what magic In that little sentence dwells, What sweet memories of childhood Like forgotten music swells. How the weary heart turns backward To those happy days of yore, When we listened to the stories Of old legendary lore. 10 ONCE UPON A TIME. Listened to the weird recital, Till, amid the coming gloom, We could fancy there were fairies Flitting through the shadowed room. How, in early summer mornings, We went softly out to peep In the chalice of the lily. Where they said the fairies sleep. But we never found the places Where they hid, those laughing fays ; Yet they linger with the flowers. Like the memory of those days. There is not a pulse but quickens. As the past comes back again ; Tones, and looks, and loving voices Echoing the sweet refrain. ONCE UPON A TIME. 11 Oh, what volumes of deep feeling Vibrate to the waking chime, Calling up the sweet remembrance Of that once upon a time. DOWN FROM THE MOUN- TAIN. Down from the cloud-capped mountain, down, By the winding foot-path into the town. Down through the woodland, cool and sweet. With the slippery pine leaves beneath the feet. Down by the quarry's shelving ledge, Where gentian and peppermint fringe the edge. Down through the meadows, shining bright With the dew-drop tears of the gloomy night. DO WN FROM THE MO UNTAIN. 1 3 Down through the fields where the waving corn Glints in the light of the early morn. Down through the groves where the whispering breeze Tells its love-tale to the answering trees. Over the plank that bridges the brook, Where urchins are angling with pin for a hook. Down past that silent town where, you know, "The houses are all alike in a row." Down where the orchard's bending boughs Droop to the reach of the dappled cows. And so by the foot-path winding down, The traveler comes to the bustling town. The town with its pavements' burning glow. Where so little is real, and so much is show. 14 -DO WJ^ FROM TEE MO UNTAIN. The town where the only birds that sing, Are those that never have freedom of wing. The town where the rich, if not happy, are gay. And the poor toil on in their plodding way. Where the poet dreams within attic bounds, And heaps up words into shapely mounds. Where the painter pictures, in colors bright. The scenes that never have greeted his sight. Where the bride, as she turns from the sacred fane, Meets at the door a funeral train. Where riches and squalor alike abide, And but few may walk the patrician side. The busy town where the buzz of mill And the hum of steam are never still. DO WN FROM THE MO UNTAIN. 15 Where the streets are filled with a merry throng, And the air is astir with music and song. And so, from the heaven-kissed mountain down. The traveler passed through the dusty town ; — The town with its sights, its clatter and heat, Its palace-like mansions, its home-lawns neat. He thought of the hillside's daisied bloom. The clover and sweet-brier's wild perfume. These he matched with the town's unsavory smells, The mountain's springs, with its covered wells. And of noisy town, or country's rest. The traveler pondered which was best. CENTE NNIAL. O hill-encircled Binghamton ! A hundred years ago, Few of thy house-tops, domes, and spires Gave back the sunset's glow. Frail were the bridges then that spanned Thy rivers, deep and wide ; Thy steamer was a birch canoe, On Susquehanna's tide. The water-mains were tinkling rills, That trickled down the rocks ; The treasures of thy gas-works then Lay hid in sable blocks. CENTENNIAL. 17 No rattling train on iron rail The solemn stillness broke ; No screaming locomotive's shriek Chenango's echoes woke. Not then upon the fragrant air Rang out the Sabbath bell, Nor from the distant hills returned The faintly answering swell. No " Shepherd's House " invitingly, With wide-spread, open door, Stood ready to receive the sick, The suffering and poor. No sheltering " Home " had then been reared. The orphan's head to shield, Our nation's legacy, bequeathed On many a battle-field. 18 CENTENNIAL. Not then did telegraphic lines . Run thread-like through the tangled vines That wreathed round elm and oak ; Then, for the hum and busy strife That now makes up thy daily life, The wigwam's curling smoke. And red-browed hunters chased the deer, Or sought the fish in waters clear. And dark-haired maidens sang Their low-toned love songs soft and sweet, Just where these shining rivers meet. And thou, fair city ! sprang. While to thy beauty, year by year. Thy sons have added worth, Until thy name has come to be A proverb on the earth. CENTENNIAL. 19 O Binghamton ! the beautiful, In centuries to come, When other tongues shall sing thy praise, Our lovely valley home — Let not thy mother-heart forget The firstlings of thy nest. But shrine their names in memory, Their ashes in thy dust. SUNNY SIDE. TiS beautiful on " Sunny Side '* When first the day is dawning, And myriads of tuneful birds Bid welcome to the morning. When just above the eastern hills, The golden sunshine streaming, Awakens on Chenango s breast The ripples from their dreaming. 'Tis brightest when the sun has kissed The dew-drops from the flowers, And in resplendent glory shines The glowing noonday hours. suwjsrr side. 21 And fair it is at day's decline, When kine are homeward wending, And purple, gold, and crimson clouds Their hues with sunset blending. And fine it is when night has wrapped The silent hills in shadow. To watch the city lights come out, Like fire-flies o'er a meadow. *Tis weird to see, at midnight hour, Far up Mount Prospect creeping. The phantom forms of warrior chiefs, Their silent watch-fires keeping. Until from out the neighboring barns, Some crowing notes of warning, Send back the red men to their graves, As breaks another morning. LONG AGO. We live but in the past ; The happy long ago, When hearts were light, and hopes were bright, Undimmed by coming woe. The present has no joys, No pleasures, no sweet flowers, Of fragrant air, or bloom as fair, As those of by-gone hours. The future cannot paint Friendships with half the glow Of those that dwell in memory's cell, The loved of long ago. LONG AGO. 23 The present is too near, For us to know its bliss ; The "yet to come," oh ! who can sum The mystery of this? We live but in the past ; What happiness we know. Is treasured there, with miser's care, The blessed long ago. LINES. Where art thou now ? morn's rosy beams Call mortals from the world of dreams ; And shining dew-drops deck the lea — Say, art thou thinking now of me ? Where art thou now? noon's sultry glow Has hushed all hum of life below, Save the soft murmur of the bee ; And art thou thinking now of me ? Where art thou now ? the stars are set In evening's sable coronet ; Night deepens over land and sea ; Tell me, art thinking now of me ? LINES. 25 Where art thou now? the midnight hour Comes softly with its mystic power. I wake, dear one, to think of thee ; O, art thou thinking now of me ? SONG. Pale stars are gleaming, love, Soft winds are sighing. Sweet music afar, love, In echo is dying. TwiHght is deepening, love. On the blue river, In the light zephyrs, love, Aspen leaves quiver. On the smooth lakelet, love. Silver beams slumber ; And in its clear depths, love ; The white pebbles number. SONG. 2? Still I am waiting, love, Wearying never ; Through the dim shadows, love, Seeking thee ever. ROBERT BURNS. Once more we meet to honor him Whom men will ne'er forget ; The songs he sang by Ayr and Doon, Are echoing there yet ; The daisies bloom as when his plow Upturned the " bonnie gem," The mouse still builds its " silly walls ' Beside the barley's stem. And even yet o'er gauze and lace The " crowlin ferlies " creep, And on occasions often serve His memory to keep. ROBERT B URNS. 29 And Bruar water still laments Her lack of bloom and shade, The spreading thorn, and fragrant birk. For which she humbly prayed. He lives in every flower that blows Beneath the Scottish sky ; We hear him 'mong the '* barley rigs And " coming through the rye." The " skimming swallows " swiftly fly O'er ripening fields, as when, With Peggy on that summer's eve, He viewed the charming scene. He taught that rank is but the stamp. And man the gold's true worth ; And many a home is better for His lowly Cotter's hearth. 30 ROBERT B URNS. Kirk Alloway's old ruined walls His deathless name enshrine, The very '* Brigs of Ayr " recall The bard of '' Auld Lang Syne." As long as Scottish tongues shall sing, Or Scottish poets dream, The name of Robert Burns will be The all-inspiring theme. BURNS. My friends, we've come, since Matthew calls. To keep once more in Matthew's halls The memory of Burns. Bard of the heart, than his, what name Has lived so lovingly in fame A hundred years and more. Is there a soul, or high or low, That thrills not with a warmer glow At mention of his rhymes? Who has not let the starting tear Unheeded fall in record dear Of his fair Highland Mary? 32 BURJS'S. What *' brother of the mystic tie *' Recalls but with a " brimful eye " That mason's last request? And where is there poetic sage Speaks with such pathos as the page Lamenting Earl Glencairn ? And who of any clime or name, Did ever such petitions frame, As his faith-speaking prayers ? Such love he for Auld Scotland bare. The rough burr-thistle he would spare, The nation's symbol dear. His tender heart could even mourn The cruel plowshare that had shorn And ruined mouse and daisy. BURNS. 33 Who that has felt the torturing twang, But echoes all that Robbie sang About the toothache? Who could like him find fitting phrase To speak that " pudding-chieftain's " praise The rich, warm Haggis? And where the wit so bright, so keen, To mark so piercingly between Worth and hypocrisy? Bright in the record-book of fame There shines full many an honored name. To memory most dear. But loved in palace, cot, and hall, One bears the gree aboon them all, The name of Robert Burns. 2* THE BIRTHDAY OF BURNS. The north winds from the hills swept down, As in the dark we struggled on, Through the bleak streets of Binghamton, Toward the lighted hall. Where met a merry social throng, To read, to speak, to sing a song, Of him the honored bard who long Shall be remembered. We sang again of bonnie Doon, And heard Bruar water's mournful croon. Whose channel the fierce heat of noon Was '' scorching up so shallow.' TEE BIBTHDAT OF BURNS. 35 With Tarn O'Shanter, on a night, We left the landlord's presence bright, For Alloway's uncanny light, And dance of witches. We spake about his Cotter's hearth. His grief when that bit mound of earth, Was by the plowshare made no worth, Poor mousie's dwelling. We sang Auld Scotia's woes and wars. Of Camerons brave, of Douglas' scars, Wallace and Bruce, who shine as stars In Scottish story. The feast was spread with generous cheer, No tempting viand but was there, Crowned with that dish to Scotchmen dear, A noble Haggis. 36 TEE BIRTHDAY OF BURNS. And when the keystone hour had rung, With one voice " Auld Lang Syne " we sung, Until the very rafters swung In Hlting chorus. Spirit of Burns ! if aught can cheer The gloom that broods above thy bier, The fealty that *s paid thee here, Must make thee blest. ALONE. I AM sitting alone in the twilight, And watching the shadows gray, That are creeping over the tree-tops, And chasing the light away. While the dear ones fondly remembered, Gather around in the gloom. And memory's beautiful pictures Are filling my little room. I am listening again to the voices That charmed me in days of yore ; " The shadow goes back on the dial," And I am a child once more. ALONE. And I stand in the dear old home again, With a loving hand in mine, Where the crimson roses are blending Their bloom with the fragrant vine. Once more — but the vision has faded, Those voices are hushed in the tomb ; Dear forms and loved faces have vanished, Alone, alone in the gloom. 'WATCHING. The wintry sun has set, love, Behind the western hills. The frost-king's icy fingers Have chained the dancing rills, The stars are coming out to hold Their silent jubilee, And in the gathering twilight I'm watching, love, for thee. The moonbeams through the pines, love, In silvery arrows fall. The night wind stirs the woodbine That still clings to the wall ; 40 WATCHING. In vain beside the old white gate I seek thy face to see, And while the shadows deepen round, I'm watching, love, for thee. The old clock still ticks on, love, Marking time's silent flight. Its slow and measured beating Mocks my unrest to-night ; I cannot read, my favorite book Has now no charm for me, My work-box lies unopened still, — I'm watching, love, for thee. THE OLD GATE. The harvest moonbeams glimmer down Through maple, ash, and pine, And the dark myrtle's glossy leaves Beneath its cold rays shine. The weeping-willow*s bending boughs Wave in its silvery light, But brighter than on aught it glows On the old gate to-night. What greetings gay, what parting words,- Fond words remembered well, — What whispered vows, and soft replies. Might not that old gate tell. THE OLD GATE. Once thence passed out a funeral train, In all its sad array, — 'Twas my first grief, the first dark cloud That crossed my life's glad way. Dear blessed one, whose spirit pure Among the stars of even, Still watches o'er my earthly way. From her bright home in heaven. Oft have I stood beside that gate With dear friends by my side, — Friends scattered like the autumn leaves The winds have swept aside. Yet still in some glad future hour. With patient hope I wait. To see them face to face within The golden city's gate. IN MEMORIAM. Miss Rebecca R. Dickens. Died, January, 1864. The weary day at last is done, And now amid the gloom And shadows of this place of rest, A pilgrim wayworn and oppressed. Seeks here a narrow room. It was a morn in summer time When she set out. The sun Sent forth his arrowy beams of light. To tell the flowers that the night Was gone, and day begun. The murmur of the rippling stream Fell softly on her ear. 44 /iV MEMOBIAM. Like some sweet melody of old, Some story which, though often told, Becomes each time more dear. And as she journeyed on, dear friends Came round her one by one. And love and friendship whiled away The hours of that summer's day. Until she reached life's noon. That noonday sun had parched the flowers That made her pathway bright, And as the lengthening shadows grew, Friends passed away, not one she knew Had journeyed on till night. Some sought a nearer way to reach The city's golden gate. Some laid them down beneath the trees That quivered in each passing breeze, The coming eve to wait. m MEMOBIAM. 45 Some, turning back their weary gaze, Grieved for the morning hours. That were unheeded flung aside. Borne onward by time's rapid tide. With all life's fairest flowers. She comes alone, no mourner's tear Falls her low bed above. None weep for her who wept for all, Whose heart responded to each call, For sympathy and love. She scattered flowers on every grave. None bloom above her own. What matters it — since she has won, For all eternity, a crown — That she comes here alone. FOUR YEARS AGO TO- DAY. 1864. The year was dying, one by one The dead leaves dropped away, And floated sadly to their graves, Four years ago to-day. Behind the gold-edged, purple clouds The autumn sun went down, And in its soft reflected light The broad blue river shone. As on that river's grassy bank The twilight gathered fast. They pause, that little group, to take One lingering look — the last, FOUR YEARS AGO TO-DAY, 47 For never when the crimson leaves Are falHng in the glen, Will they beside that river watch The sunset fade again. One, sees far brighter sunsets glow On fair Italian shores, One, slumbers in a dreamless sleep Where proud Niagara roars ; And one, a pale young widow now, Oft strays beside the stream ; Where, just four years ago to-day. Began her life's brief dream. One, fills a soldier's honored grave Beneath Virginia's sod, Above him waves the dear old flag, For which he shed his blood. One, where the lurid camp fires burn. Paces his lonely way. Beyond the Mississippi's wave, On picket guard to-day. 48 FOUR YEARS AGO TO-DAY. One, watches still the fading light Pale in the purple west, When gold and crimson autumn leaves Float softly to their rest ; Until they meet by fairer streams, Once more, that little band. Where shining waves gleam in the light Of yonder better land. AFTER MANY DAYS. In Forest Hill Cemetery, Utica. I CAME once more to my native town, And I traversed the well-known street, And I marked how the pavement was scarred and worn With the treading of many feet. I marveled much at the spreading trees That lined the beautiful way, For I saw my father set them out, And it seemed but the other day. I came again to the low-roofed cot Where once was Miss Dickens* school, Ah ! the daisies have bloomed these seven years Over her who there held rule. 50 AFTER MANY DA T8. As I lingered, the little room seemed filled With the faces and forms of yore, And I almost heard the busy hum As of old through the open door. And then I came to the dear old church, Where I used in my early days To hear of the beauty of holiness, And the peace of wisdom's ways. But the white-robed priest in the chancel fair. Was not the loved rector of old. And strangers were in the well-known pews, And their voices were harsh and cold. And then I came to the sacred spot Where my own happy home had been — Oh ! words cannot picture the feelings that rushed On the flood-tide of memory then. AFTER MANY DA Y8. 51 I paused in my way, and gazed up through my tears At those few tall old forest trees ; Of all the bright things of my beautiful home, There only remained to me these. And next I came to that silent town Which lies just over the hill, Where we carry our loved ones to lay them at rest, When the brain and the fingers are still. Ah ! here were my friends, so said many a stone, The teacher with most of her class. And the rector I'd missed in yon little brown church. All slumbering under the grass. And here rests my own blessed mother, the clasp That held the charmed circle of home. Asleep in the Lord, in His likeness to rise, When Christ in His kingdom shall come. 52 AFTER MANY DA TS. The old doctor is here, and the deacon close by, And the young girl who sang in the choir, And the soldier who perished amid the dark waves, In sight of the enemy's fire. Oh ! the sadness and pain overbalance the joy, When we come after many days. To miss the loved faces and wander alone In the dear — the familiar old ways. IN MEMORIAM. Rev. Charles H. Platt. Died i86g. How shall we tread again those sacred courts Where echo still his words ; and he not there To sing with us the songs of praise he loved, Or join his voice with ours in common prayer? How shall we kneel beside the chancel rail, A mournful weeping, sorely stricken band. Knowing that never more shall we again Receive the bread of life from that dear hand ? Who now shall pour the bright baptismal drops, With faithful prayer, upon our children's brows ? And who for them shall clasp the marriage band, Or bless with holy words the plighted vows ? 54 I^ MEMORIAM. Ah ! who like him can comfort those who mourn, Or speak sweet words of peace to souls distressed ? Who kneel beside the Christian's dying bed. Or point the weary to a place of rest ? And he, for whom our earnest prayers went up From the home altar daily morn and night, That blessings with the sunshine and the dew Might ever make our Pastor's pathway bright. Needs then no more the sunshine and the dew, Alike unheeded gem his lowly bed, Unfinished. GLENVS^OOD CEMETERY. BiNGHAMTON. Sweet be their slumber, calm their sleep, Who lie within this shade. Where for the weary ones of earth A resting-place is made. Here shall the earliest buds of spring First waken into bloom. To typify the life that yet Shall blossom from the tomb. Here age, and youth, and manhood's prime, Alike shall find repose, Unharmed by summer's burning heat, Unchilled by winter's snows. 56 OLEJSrWOOD CEMETERY. Beneath this daisy-sprinkled sod, The infant form shall rest As safely as if pillowed on The tender mother's breast. Here shall the war-worn soldier sleep, Forgetful of his wounds, Where viewless sentinels are set To guard these hallowed grounds. Here shall no evil spirits come, No formless phantom dread, But only star-crowned angels keep Their vigils o'er our dead. Here, when the bugle sounds retreat. From toil and care set free, We'll leave our loved ones to await The final reveille. MEMORIAL DAY. We gather once more around the graves Of comrades who fell at our side ; Comrades who loved the dear old flag, And for that dear flag they died. These are they, who left home and loved ones, With all that those precious words hold, For the terrors of war, and those prisons, Whose horrors can never be told. They have camped with us many a night, They have marched with us many a day- Been with us on guard, in tent, and field. And many a bloody fray. 68 MEMORIAL DAY. As green as the grass is above them, So green shall their memory be ; As long shall they live in story, As rivers run to the sea. We deck their low beds with fair flowers, The types of our dead comrades' lives ; The dew-drops that nourished these blossoms, Are tears of their orphans and wives. We mourn for the hearts that are silent. We mourn that their blood had need flow ; But we glory that though they are fallen. They fell with the face to the foe. Sleep on in your honored graves, comrades. The flag that you perished to free, Shall guard, through the storm and the sun- shine, Your rest till the last reveille. THE DEATH OF LEDA Her little crib is vacant, Her little voice is hushed, They've laid thy darling Leda Down in the silent dust. An unseen hand has beckoned Thy little one away ; A band of angels led her To realms of endless day. No sunshine there is needed, For all is glorious light, In that far world where flowers Bloom ever fair and bright. 60 THE DEATH OF LED A. O mourn not for thy darling, Though in the tomb she sleep. For o'er her holy angels Their constant vigils keep. ANOTHER GRAVE. There's another grave in the lone church-yard, And the chilling autumn rain Falls coldly over the pulseless heart That will never more know pain. And the dreary November day has closed In another darkened home, Whose hope and joy and light are quenched In the midnight of the tomb. And the hopes of years were crushed when to-day The sleeper in yonder row, Came where the houses are all alike, The houses of high and low. 62 ANOTHER GRA VE. And a grave was made in a stricken heart When they bore the lifeless clay Out through the cheerless November rain, From the house across the way. TO D. M. Are you still in this wearisome world, cousin, Or have crossed to the shining shore. And singing the songs of the angels With those whom you loved of yore ? Have you clasped on the other side the hands Of father, of mother, of wife. Of kindred, of neighbors, and children, Whose love was the sunshine of life ? Have you found the rest that remaineth, The peace that no mortal may know ? Have you tasted the living waters Of streams that in Paradise flow ? 64 TO D. M, Or still are you watching and waiting, 'Till the golden gates shall unfold, And you enter through death's dark portals On joys that no tongue has told ? Oh ! cousin dear, send me some message. By mortal or *' medium " hand. Tell me, have you crossed the dark river, Or linger still on the strand ? I DREAMED THAT IT WAS SUMMER TIME. I DREAMED that it was summer time, And you and I together Had wandered down a country lane, In June's unrivalled weather. And now and then we lingered where The grass and ferns grew brightest, Or strayed within the meadow's bounds Where clover blooms were whitest. And when on sunny slopes we found The fragrant pink May-flower, You twined its blossoms in my hair, To grace the passing hour. ee I DREAMED THAT IT WAS SUMMER TIME, And then you whispered in my ear Soft words of such sweet meaning, As stirred my heart to quicker throbs, . That woke me from my dreaming. THE MORNING SUN Tis morn, the cock's shrill voice is heard, The sunshine gilds each spire, The burnished emblem on yon dome Looks like a cross of fire. Through crimson folds the softened light On the rich carpet falls. And lovingly it lingers round The pictures on the walls. It shines through the uncurtained pane Upon the poor man's floor. And dances merrily about The humble cottage door THE MORNING SUN. To happy homes and joyous hearts The golden sunbeams come, And through the prisoner's window streams To cheer his narrow room. To the wan invalid's pale lips, Its presence brings a smile, And even makes the mourner's heart Forget its griefs awhile. Praise to the great All Father's care, Who makes the glad sun rise Upon the evil and the good, The simple and the wise. A DAY'S RECORD. The latest gleam of purple light Upon the hills has died away, And with that fading glow has gone The record of a day. How often through this day has he Whose pen records good actions done, Borne tidings of some pious deed Up to the great white Throne? And in that other book, just closed, As daylight darkens into gloom. What countless sins are written down To wait the day of doom ? 70 A DATS RECORD. What misspent time, what idle words, What want of charity is there, How oft the thoughts were wandering while The lips breathed words of prayer. The firm resolve so soon forgot. The broken vow recalled with shame, Just when we thought ourselves most strong Temptation overcame. How careless words have grieved the heart We would have died to shield from pain. How sins that easily beset. Have triumphed once again. O, who unfalt'ringly may read The fearful record of a day, Where no repenting tears have washed A single line away? THE HOUSE OF PRAYER. Once more the chiming church bells tell Of one blest day in seven, And bid us leave the world's fierce strife, Forget our weary path of life, And think awhile of heaven. Once more the Temple's hallowed courts Are thronged with eager feet, Once more its sleeping echoes wake, While holy prayers the silence break. Where Christian brethren meet. The sorrow-laden soul finds here A balm for all its woes, 72 THE HO USE OF PR A YER. And here repenting sinners bend, And to the contrite sinner's Friend Their every grief disclose. Here, too, the joyous hearts whose cup With blessings runneth o'er, Find fitting words to speak His praise Whose loving hand has crowned their days, Whose angels guard their door. O Thou by whom these precious hours For holy rest are given. Grant us to offer in this place, Such worship that each day of grace May bring us nearer heaven ! THE CHURCH IN THE FOREST. It was an humble house of prayer Among the forest trees, The only sound that stirred the air The rustling leaves that whispered there, And quivered in the breeze. No pealing organ's swelling note, No marble font was there, No painted window veiled the light, No costly carpet met the sight. No carving quaint and rare. Beside the rude uncushioned desk The aged pastor waits, 74 THE CBURCH IN THE FOREST. Whose silvered hair and dimming eye Tell that his steps are drawing nigh The golden city's gates. He prayed the same dear prayers the Church For centuries has prayed. Anthem, and chant, and hymn were sung, While through the woods the echoes rung, And sacred creed was said. And then he told in simple words The story of the Cross, And of His love who for our sake A lowly place on earth could take. Despising shame and loss. No studied rhetoric was his. No speech well framed with art, And yet his words were eloquent, And zeal a holy fervor lent. That touched each listening heart. i^y^j AFTER SERVICE. The words of blessing die away In transept, nave, and aisle, And one by one the worshipers Have left the sacred pile. And all is shadowed now in gloom, Save where in silvery ray, The moonbeams through some broken arch Or painted window stray. Yet comes no silence in this place, For all the hallowed air Is fragrant with the incense-breath Of many an earnest prayer. 76 AFTER SERVICE. And still around the ancient font Lingers the solemn vow, Was registered when those bright drops Fell on each infant brow. Here echo still the holy words Of that thrice blessed hymn, Where, in the church on earth, they sang The song of Seraphim. Anthem, and chant, and sacred creed, And prayer, and psalm divine, Here mingle in one ceaseless strain Before the altar's shrine. MARCH. Again, rude March, thy hoarse, wild voice Roars through the forest bleak; * The hollow echoes from the hills. The waking of the mountain rills, Of Spring's glad coming speak. The dripping eaves, the blackened lines That mark the beaten way, Innumerable streams that flow In zigzag channels through the snow, And o'er the foot-paths stray. Old chanticleer's shrill clarion That wakes the morning air. 78 MARCH. The softened glow that lights the west When fading sunbeams sink to rest, Tell us of days more fair. Of days when singing birds shall come, And zephyr's call shall bring The hyacinth and primrose bloom, And sweet blue violet's perfume, To welcome back the Spring. MAY. The dew upon the daisies, The buds on spray and bough, The robin seeking insects In the furrows of the plow. The snowy cherry-blossoms, The crimson-flowered vine, That wreathes its glowing colors With the twining dark woodbine. The purple clustered lilacs, The murmur of the bee. The fragrant lily of the vale. Speak, lovely Spring ! of thee. 80 MAY. The tiny streamlet gliding Along its sunny way, The incense-breathing flowers That deck the brow of May. The tinkle of the rain-drops Upon the sloping roof, The nest beneath the shadow Of the maple's leafy woof. The group of merry children Beside the cottage door, Rejoice that butterflies have come, And winter is no more. The little happy faces, The joyous shouts that ring, All join the swelling chorus That welcomes thee, O Spring ! SEPTEMBER. The apple-boughs are drooping With their wealth of red and gold, Where the sunshine and the shadows Weave a network on the mould ; The glow of early autumn Has purpled o'er the hills, And a dewy mist is veiling The river and the rills. The humming-bird and blue-bird With the wren have flown away, And the robin only lingers While the bending branches sway, 82 SEPTEMBER. With their weight of crimson clusters, Where the mountain ashes grow, And the elderberries ripen On the sunny slope below. The yellow grain is gathered, And the maize its countless ears O'er all the plain is shooting up, Like stacks of golden spears ; From barn to barn is echoed The sound of the busy flail, And from the distant fields is heard The cry of the lonely quail. The chestnut boughs are studded With the thickly bristling burrs, And dying maple leaves float down. With the lightest breeze that stirs ; The purple deepens daily, As the grapes swell on the vine. And with scarlet-bloom and gentians, The woods and brooksides shine. SEPTEMBER. 83 And other fruits have ripened With the summer's waning sun, Where, day-by-day, God's husbandmen Their work have nobly done ; Countless golden sheaves are garnered In the great barns of the sky, Waiting for the Master's summons To the *' Harvest Home" on high. NOVEMBER. The flowers are gone from the mountains, Their fragrance is lost in the vale, Now hushed is the play of the fountain, And withered leaves float on the gale. The rose by the river is faded, They've garnered the bright golden grain, The bloom of fair summer is shaded. And chill falls the drear autumn rain. Brown nuts in the forest are falling. Red apples lie heaped near the mills. The bleak northern wind is now calling Through lone vales and o'er the bare hills. ^ 84 NOVEMBER. 35 Soon snow-wreaths of winter will cover With beautiful garment the plain, But from those sad days we shall ever Look for the sweet summer again. Not so in the heart's sad December; When hope's cherished flowers are gone, No spring comes, we only remember The beautiful past that has flown. THE SEASONS. How beautiful is springtime, When gold-green feathery shoots Veil, with a beauty all their own, Old mosses' matted roots ; When pearly snowdrops gem the sod, And young grass lines the way, While fragrant fruit-trees' radiant bloom Gleams bright on every spray. How beautiful is summer. With the birds' wild burst of song. The insects' hum, the summer sounds, That lure the hours along. THE SEASONS. 37 She scatters roses at our feet, And gold among the grain ; She gathers odors on the breeze, And sunshine to the plain. How beautiful is autumn, With its gorgeous tinted leaves, Its crimson apples heaped in mounds, Its gathered golden sheaves, Its purple grapes, its falling nuts. Its short grass crisp and brown, Its mellow light, while sum.mer sounds Grow silent one by one. But winter with its ice-bound rills — Earth 'neath its funeral pall — Winter is to the trusting heart Most beautiful of all ; For looking up through leafless trees, We see in heaven's deep blue. As we could never see till now The bright stars shining through. HOMEV^TARD. It may be where calm waters sleep Beneath the quiet sky, With many an island green and fair, And many a star reflected there. Thy bark glides smoothly by. It may be where the crested waves Fling back the beaded spray, Where sunken rocks on every side Lie hid beneath the foaming tide. Along the dreary way. It may be where wild tempests rave. And surging billows roar, HOMEWARD. 39 While deepest blackness hides the hand That guides thy vessel to the strand And brings thee safe to shore. " So," whether on the sunlit lake. Or on the stormy main, Yet even so. He bringeth thee Safe to the port where thou wouldst be, The haven thou wouldst gain. ADVENT. He Cometh ! on the eastern hills Breaks the graylight of morn, And from the far off mountain, sounds Of chariot wheels are borne. Uncertain, low, and distant, yet They not less truly tell How far the night is spent, how soon The trumpet's call may swell. Long was the night, six thousand years, Darkened with sin and woe, Since angels sang in songs of praise A perfect world below. ADVENT. 91 He Cometh ! still the waiting Church Her Advent vigils keep, Lest, coming suddenly. He find The sentinels asleep. He Cometh ! when, we may not know, Yet watch we year by year. The fading stars whose lessening glow Tells us the day is near. LENT. Now turn we from the joyful song That waked our Christmas morn When angels brought to earth the news, " The Saviour, Christ, is born." Turn we to the lone wilderness, On the steep mountain side. Where vainly on the Lord of life The tempter's arts were tried. " The fairest kingdoms of the earth,'* " Ambition's highest tower," The answer, *' It is written," thrice Defied the tempter's power. LENT. 93 Turn we to search our hearts and find, Hidden and cherished there, Some sin that only goeth out By fasting and by prayer. Turn we to Him who in His wrath Remembers mercy still. And who with penitential joy. The contrite heart can fill. Turn we in deep humility, To mourn and fast and pray. That His fierce anger may be stayed. His judgments turned away. O ! lead us to the mount apart. Where Faith's clear eye may see The glory of thy presence, Lord. As did the favored three. LENT. Once more our Holy Mother Church Calls us to fast and pray — To leave the flower-bordered path, The pleasant, sunny way, And walk awhile with her apart Where Lenten shadows lie, And trace the Master's steps along The road to Calvary. Gladly we followed her in feast. And joyous festive days. When Easter morn and Whitsun-tide Awoke our songs of praise. LENT 95 We listened to the merry chime When Christmas bells were rung, And heard, beneath the cedar boughs, The Christmas carols sung. We watched with her the light that beamed On Gentile lands afar. When eastern Magii first beheld The glory of that star. And still we follow where she leads. Where holy men of yore, Apostles, martyrs, saints, have walked Whose earthly work is o'er. And now in sorrow, as in joy, She gathers home her own, For only they who bear the cross Can ever wear the crown. EASTER. He is not here ! the silent gloom That gathers now in Joseph's tomb Shrouds not the crucified ; Ye seek in vain for him who said : " Only three days among the dead " The Son of Man shall bide ! " The Lord is risen ; now no more The thronging crowd on Jordan's shore Shall listen to His word ; No more in lone Gethsemane, Or on thy blue waves, Galilee, That gracious voice be heard. EASTER. 97 Impotent now, the swelling tide Of blinded zeal and Jewish pride That still refuse to own In the meek, lowly Nazarene Of gentle voice and humble mien, King David's royal son. The dawn of that first Easter Day Saw angels roll the stone away And our Redeemer rise ; Soon the last Easter morn shall break, And all his ransomed ones awake, To dwell in Paradise. WHEN THE DEAD RISE O ! WHO can picture the wondrous sight Where the dead in Christ shall rise And hasten forth from their long, long sleep, When He cometh from the skies? When the sea shall bring from its slimy depths The forms it so long has hid, And the churchyard bones will stir to life 'Neath the crumbling coffin-lid ? Then up from chancel, abbey and aisle, Shall bishop and baron spring, And the dust that has slept a thousand years In the catacombs, shall sing. WHEN THE DEAD BI8E. 99 The mother will fold in her arms the babe That was hers for a little time, And the father will meet the son who went down To the grave in manhood's prime. The ashes that lie beneath these sods, Shall then change into living men, And the parted hands which the priest had joined, Will meet and clasp again. The bitterest grief that earth can give Shall then at last be healed For the MOTHER will smile on her orphaned ones When they wake in the burial-field. O ! the wondrous sight in that blessed day, When Christ's redeemed shall rise With glorified bodies to meet their Lord When He cometh from the skies. 100 WHEN TEE DEAD BI8E. That last great day when the Lord will come, Shall a day thrice blessed be, For these waiting eyes will then behold The Saviour who died for me. THE REST THAT RE- MAINETH. There is no spot so passing fair In all earth's vine-wreathed bowers, That sin's dark shadow may not fall O'er all its beauty, as the pall Shuts some dear face from ours. Only in yonder world above, No mourner's sigh is heard ; Sin lurks not there with poisoned breath, No cold, dark grave is there, no death, Nor any parting word. No withered leaves, no fading flower, No sunset's dying glow. 103 THE REST THAT REMAINETH. No evening shades, no midnight gloom, In that bright land beyond the tomb, As in this world below. No sunken cheek, no furrowed brow, No aching heart is there, No form bowed down with grief and years, No pale, sad eye grown dim with tears, No sorrow-laden prayer. There, only there, is perfect peace, There only, rest for those Who, weary with the toils of life. Its ceaseless cares, and endless strife, Endure unto the close. BAPTISM. Put all thy armor on, For thou wilt need it now, Before thee is the crown, The cross is on thy brow. Take up the burnished shield, The breastplate and the sword, To serve thee in the field, Sworn soldier of thy Lord. Neglect not to be shod With words of Gospel peace ; Rough is the narrow road, And thorny till it cease. 104 BAPTISM. Pray for strength from on high, Still striving, pressing on, Nor lay thine armor by, Until the crown be won. CONFIRMATION. May 24, 1871. " The Lord is my Shepherd," 'twas so they sang, And one by one arose The sheep who had strayed from that Shepherd's fold And wandered among His foes. " The Lord is my Shepherd," the lambs came too, For they knew His loving care Had guarded their brief young lives thus far, And they came to confess Him there. And they all knelt down where the holy Dove Abides in the temple here, And asked for the spirit of counsel, and strength. And knowledge, and holy fear. 106 ' CONFIRMATION. Then a voice, so gentle it almost seemed The Shepherd's very own, Prayed, " Ever, Lord, defend Thy child," And blessed them every one. Then they all went forth on their different ways. While echoed, the aisles along, " The Lord is my Shepherd, my shield and strength, My salvation and my song." May He be their song all their days on earth, Till they say with their latest breath, "The Lord is my Shepherd, He leadeth me now Through the valley and shadow of death." AT EVENING TIME IT SHALL BE LIGHT. ZECH. XIV. 7. Hast ever seen at morn Cloud after cloud arise, Until one leaden hue Was spread o'er all the skies ? Hast watched the ceaseless storm Throughout the weary day, While through the mist and gloom Came not one cheering ray ? Hast watched, through wind and rain And clouds, the coming night, Till in the west has glowed A sudden blaze of light ? 108 AT EVENING TIME IT SHALL BE LIGHT. So life may be all dark, While storms and clouds betide, Yet He has said, '' It shall Be light at evening tide." CONSECRATION OF A CHURCH. The heaven of heavens cannot contain Thy glorious majesty ; And yet a temple made with hands, We build, O Lord, for thee. Oh ! let Thy never-sleeping eye Be open day and night Toward this place, and let its walls Be precious in thy sight. When famine, pestilence, or drouth. Or enemies invade. And in this place Thy people pray. Hear, Lord, and lend them aid. 110 CONSECRATION OF A CHURCH. When here they bring their children, Lord, To shelter in Thy fold. Receive and bless them as Thou didst Those little ones of old. When here, the bridegroom and the bride Make solemn vows to Thee, Be present, Lord, as thou wast with That pair in Galilee. When here they bring the coffined dust With bitter grief and pain, Be theirs the promise Martha heard, *' Thy dead shall rise again." And hear, when in this house they meet. To mourn, and fast, and pray. That for our great high-priest's dear sake, Thy wrath may turn away. CONSECRATION OF A CHURCH. HI Grant, Lord, that when Thy sacred word Is spoken in this place, All those who hear may feel its truth And triumph in Thy grace. And hearken when their songs of praise Their grateful thanks proclaim. And let this be Thy dwelling place. Where Thou wilt write Thy name. OUR FATHER. Where through the lofty arches ring The swelling organ's tone, While hundreds in the grand old church Kneel at the mercy throne. Where some more humble temple tells Of hope beyond the tomb, Or where but two or three are met In some small upper room. Whene'er from contrite hearts ascends The incense-breath of prayer, First, as our blessed Saviour taught, Our Father's name is there. OUR FATHER. II3 It trembles on the lips of age Whose hold of earth is gone, Who feels, but for that Fathers love, Forsaken and alone. Tis whispered where that little group Of weeping mourners bend To Him who hears the fatherless. And is the widow's friend. In broken accents childhood lisps With its first prayer, His name. To whom in humble faith we come A Father's care to claim. Where bright baptismal waters flow, Or wedding guests are met. Or where on some pale sufferer's brow The seal of death is set. lU OUR FATHER. Where'er our holy Church is found, She bids her children say — As once the Master bade the twelve- ** Our Father," when they pray. W^HERE ARE THE NINE? LUKE, XVII. 17. When sweet church bells with solemn, chime Bid to the house of prayer, How few from out the great world come To seek a blessing there ; How few will hear the Saviour's call, Or heed His voice divine, And when but two or three are met He asks, " Where are the nine ? " When humbly kneeling at the font Repenting sinners bend, 116 WHERE ARE THE NINE? And in His own appointed way- Seek Jesus for their friend, How many turn their steps aside Nor heed the sacred shrine, He asks who shed His precious blood For all, '* Where are the nine ? " When holy hands in prayer are laid On those sworn soldiers true. Who come, their early vows to pay, Their promise to renew. All are not there upon whose brows Was sealed the sacred sign ; In the dark wilderness of sin Still stray the thankless nine. When at the table of their Lord Adoring Christians meet. Where are all those who should have come To worship at His feet ? WHERE ARE TEE miSfE? 117 And when at last the Lord of Hfe Shall in full glory shine, And call His faithful children home, O ! where will be the nine ? IT MUST NEEDS BE. Although the bitter cup Is brimming o'er with woe, And through the dark'ning sorrow-cloud, No ray of light may glow, The great All-Father sees That so " it must needs be," He knows the rough and thorny road, The safest path for thee. Is it some narrow mound, Just heaped above the heart So dear, so loved, it almost seemed Of thy own life a part ? IT MUST NEEDS BE. ng Or deeper still the wound, Coldly has turned away Some cherished one with whom is gone The sunshine of thy day ? There was a "must needs be/' Lest to an earthly one We give the worship of a heart Should be the Lord's alone. Or is it thine to bear Disease and slow decay, While sleepless nights, and days of pain, Pass wearily away? Yet so "it must needs be," Here firmly let us rest. He does not send one needless pang To any human breast. STARLIGHT. Not when morning light is breaking Over river, hill, and plain. And the woodland echoes answer To the song-bird's sweetest strain. Not while noonday's glowing sunlight Makes our pathway bright and fair, And the fragrance of the flowers Perfumes all the summer air. Not until the evening shadows Deepen in the midnight sky. Do we see the silver brightness Of the shining stars on high. 8TARLIGHT. 121 So in life's bright day of gladness, We see not hope's pale starlight, Those sweet words of holy promise Only come in sorrow's night. ACROSS THE RIVER Across yon river's shining waves, I've watched the golden light, That slumbers on the purple hills And on the mountain's height. Full well I know beyond those hills A fairer city lies — With towers, minarets, and walls — Than ever met mine eyes. My thoughts were wont to linger there, For on that other side, Dwelt many friends, who long ago Had crossed the swelling tide. ACROSS THE RIVER. ij^ But now I feel an interest there I never felt before, For all that made life beautiful Is on that farther shore. The jeweled links that bound me here Have fallen one by one, And now the chain is worthless quite. The precious clasp is gone. Fain would I climb the distant hills Which hide that city fair, For all my treasure, all my hope. And all my heart is there. THE V^^IDOW OF SA- REPTA. Not to the rich who had much goods Laid up for many years, Not unto those for whom the drouth And famine had no fears ; But to the widow's lowly home, Of poor and humble name, According to the Lord's command, Of old the prophet came. Gladly she ran to fetch a cup Of water from the rill, That once had been a broad, deep stream, Beneath the vine-clad hill. TEE WIDOW OF SAREPTA. 125. But when he bade her dress for him Her scanty store of food, What wonder if the widow paused, And half reluctant stood. She looked abroad, the smiling fields Where once the bending grain Ripened beneath the summer's sun, Were now a barren plain. Oft had she gleaned the purple grapes On yonder hillside fair. But now the vineyard was laid waste, The brown hill parched and bare. No longer springs the tender grass Where once whole herds were fed ; Where, then, in all this dreary land, Should she find daily bread ? 126 THE WIDOW OF 8ABEPTA. " Thus saith the Lord, until the earth Shall teem with life again, Thou shalt not lack for corn or oil. Thy household to sustain." O for that widow's trusting faith. To help the poor distressed. Well knowing what we give will bring A blessing on the rest. LINES. THE SUN WAS RISEN UPON THE EARTH WHEN LOT ENTERED INTO ZOAR. — GENESIS XIX. 23. Forth from their home, ere yet the mist Had climbed the mountain's side, Ere yet upon the folded flowers The last night's dew had dried. Nor might they give one backward glance, Or linger in the plain. Where on their kindred and their home Fast fell the fiery rain. With hastening steps and aching hearts Up the steep way they fled ; While all that made life beautiful Lay ruined, crushed, and dead. 128 LINES. And yet the shining river sang And rippled on its way, And birds and bees woke with the dawn That brightened into day. And sunrise with its golden beams Gave to the earth new life ; And with the hum of summer sounds The fragrant air was rife. Thus in our saddest, darkest days, The sunshine gleams as bright As if there were no stricken hearts Shrouded in sorrow's night. WHAT IS HEAVEN? Is it within the gates of pearl To walk the golden street ? Is it beside the stream of life Death-severed friends to meet ? Is it to wear a martyr's crown ? To share a judge's throne ? To have a new name graved by God Upon a pure white stone ? With David, Noah, Daniel, Job, And faithful Abraham, And Mary, Lazarus, and John, Beloved of the Lamb, 6* 130 WIIA T IS HE A YEN. To sing the song of Seraphim ? To strike an angel's lyre ? To hear the Master's welcome voice Bidding us " go up higher" ? To be forever free from sin And sorrow, with the blest, Where pain and death come not, and where The weary are at rest ? Is it among the saints to wear A robe of spotless white ? To dwell in that bright world of day- A day that has no night ? All this were bliss beyond compute, The glorious gift of Grace, But, oh ! the joy of heaven is this — That " we shall see his face." TO REV. DR. VAN D E U- SEN. ON THE DEATH OF HIS DAUGHTER. Beloved friend, in this sad hour We too, though far away, Mingle our tears and prayers with theirs Who for their Pastor pray. And we may weep — the Master wept — For human hearts are flesh, And wounds, however kindly given. Will bleed when they are fresh. I know the hope beyond the grave Is all the mourner's stay. Yet well I know that sympathy Cheers somewhat the dark day ; 132 TO REV. DR. VAN DEUSEN. Never forgetful of the time When we, too, felt the smart, And that dear Pastor's words were balm To the torn bleeding heart. We pray the blessed Comforter To lighten day by day The heavy cloud that darkens now Our honored Pastor's way, Until on that bright " other side," Each severed link and strand. In reunited order makes One whole unbroken band. GO V/ORK TO-DAY IN MY VINEYARD. We may not idle, for, alas ! The laborers are few ; The Master bids us work to-day, And there is much to do. To speak kind words to those who faint Beside the narrow way, To bring back those whose erring feet Have wandered far astray. To weep with those whose stricken hearts Are of all joy bereft. To comfort those to whom no hope Save that of heaven is left. 134 00 WOEK TO-DAT m MY VINETABD. To pray for those who never pray, To watch our hearts with care, Lest in an evil hour the thief May find an entrance there. O think not they alone are called, Who preach the sacred word. There's work enough for all who seek To labor for the Lord. A LITTLE WHILE Only a little while, To bear this heavy load ; Only a little while, To tread this weary road. A little while to strive With sorrow, sin, and loss ; Unmurm'ring to endure Our heaven-appointed cross. Submissively to bow Beneath the chast'ning rod, And follow day by day The steps our Saviour trod. 136 A LITTLE WHILE. A little while to wait, In His good time and way The night of grief will end In everlasting day. BEREAVEMENT. Ah ! who may whisper words of cheer Where all the light of life is gone : Words that sound cold and harsh to those Who listen for one voice alone. Our aching hearts, our streaming tears, Are vain to soothe their grief and pain, And all our sympathy and love Cannot bring back the lost again. O Thou All-wise, whose chastening hand Has laid their treasure in the dust, Speak comfort to that mourning band. In Thee, O Lord, alone they trust. 138 BEEEA VEMENT. Almighty Father, it is Thine Alone to bid their sorrows cease ; Lift up Thy countenance on them, O Gracious God, and give them peace. ^V&o/^ LAST YEAR'S ALMANAC It was tossed aside with a careless fling, When the old year had passed away, Unheeded its record of shine and shade That brightened or saddened each day. And yet hath it many a tale to tell Of hope, of joy, and of sorrow. Of many a clouded and sad to-day. With a rainbow-hued to-morrow. It tells of a day when a bridal wreath Had been twined for a fair young brow. When, hand clasping hand, two loving hearts Had been joined in a holy vow. 140 LAST TEAR'S ALMANAC. It tells of a day when a widow's tears Fell like rain o'er the lifeless clay Of her only son, whose strong young arm Should have been her prop and stay. It tells of a day when a strange, sweet sound In the quiet old house was heard, When the faint, weak cry of that young new voice The heart's deepest feelings had stirred. It tells of a day when the harvest was done, And they reckoned the yield of the land. And grain and the fruit of the plentiful year. For the Lord has withheld not His hand. It tells of a day when the busy hands Of the mother lay folded in rest. When the sheltering love of her tender heart Had been torn from the sweet home-nest. LAST EAR 'S ALMANAC. 141 And it tells of many a weary watch By the bedside where death hovered near; It tells of glad meetings, and partings sad, That scroll of the just dead year. And yet you will firid, if you only read Its true record of days aright. In the hours that made up the year that is gone There wasn't more darkness than light. NEW^ YEAR'S- GREETING. What shall I choose for a New Year's gift To my very dearest friend? I find but one thing in all this town, That is good enough to send. And that is a cluster of blossoms bright, A rose, and a lily's bell, A violet sweet, an evergreen wreath, And forget-me-not to tell, In the mystic language of flowery love. The words that my heart would say ; But I cannot trust such delicate things To the chill of this wintry day. JVBW TEAR'S GREETING. 143 Then what shall I send to my dearest friend, To tell how truly I wish Her a year brimful of happiness — I will send her a loving kiss. wSS« m RECALL. Come back ! since thou art gone the sun Shines with but half its glory, And without thee I find no charm In picture, song, or story. Come back ! the fragrance and the bloom Is half gone from the flowers, And without thee, how slowly creep The leaden-footed hours. Come back ! the house is desolate, The silent rooms are lonely, I miss the charm that lingers in Thy gentle presence only. RECALL. 145 Come back ! thy absence strips my life Of beauty, grace, and lustre. For O ! so much that makes that life A joy, about thee clusters. TO A FRIEND, Sawney, your verses made me cantie, Ye roose me routh, an' I am vauntie. Sae, ye '' ken na my face," och-on, och-rie ! That I should live to see the day Ye'd grown sae great wi' news-folk, Sawney. Ye wad forget your lang syne crony. Hae ye forgotten Tullochgorum ? Where dwelled a squire o* the quorum ? Ye mind Jock Dunn, wha, was precentor In Abernethy kirk ae winter? TO A FRIEND. 147 Ye ken Kate Stewart, an' John M'Nab, Ye canna hae forgot daft Rab ? Where Liunac water tumblin' fa's Near Rothemurchus ancient wa's. And Jean Ross, wha's true love was drowned Aboon the ford in Frazer's pond : Fair Jean was for the bridal dressed, Ca'd was ilk friend an' wedding-guest. The parson came in bands an' gown, But Tarn came not, an' time wore on. Puir tremblin' Jean breathed mony a prayer She kenned death only kept Tarn fra her. O how her waefu' heart was torn, When through the yett his corse was borne ; 148 TO A FRIEND. A parcel was clutched in his grasp, Which his twa death-cauld hands did clasp^ His braw new wedding claes were there, A ribbon bright, for Jeanie's hair, A wee bit casket, too, did hold The wedding-ring o' shining gold. Sawney, has na that auld tale brought Back to your mind sic swirls o' thought, Ye couldna, if ye wad, forget A' that is worth remembering yet r Then, Sawney, speir through memory's glen, Ye'll aiblins find your lang syne friend. LINES. WRITTEN IN A YOUNG FRIEND'S ALBUM. Among the pleasures and the joys Your future may unfold, This blessing I would ask for you, When youth's bright days are told, That you may have one faithful friend To love you when you're old.