We place our heart's best treasure, trustingly,
In the safe keeping of a thing of clay;
The trust is broken. Though we do not die,
Our faith in human love shows slow decay.
We tread the earth to find, where'er we roam,
Lips fair but subtle, heart-beats quick but cold;
Lightnings in eyes which only seem love's home,
And treachery even in the hand we hold.
But is this all of friendship, love? Ah, no!
These well-wrought counterfeits from Satan's hand
To me conclusive evidence do show
That the pure coin is still in good demand.
And if we seal our hearts, rolling the stone
Of cold distrust firmly against the door,
The whitest angel near love's pearly throne
Can roll that stone away, ah! nevermore.
So, after all, 't is better that we err
In loving overmuch, though oft deceived,
Than make our heart a sealed sepulchre
From which the angel turns away aggrieved.
I WAS not patient in that olden time
When my unchastened heart began to long For bliss that lay beyond its reach; my prime Was wild, impulsive, passionate, and strong. I could not wait for happiness and love,
Heaven-sent, to come and nestle in my breast; I could not realize that time might prove
That patient waiting would avail me best. "Let me be happy now," my heart cried out, "In mine own way, and with my chosen lot; The future is too dark and full of doubt
For me to tarry, and I trust it not. Take all my blessings, all I am and have, But give that glimpse of heaven before the grave.”
"Ah me!" God heard my wayward, selfish cry,
And, taking pity on my blinded heart,
He bade the angel of strong grief draw nigh,
Who pierced my bosom in its tenderest part.
I drank wrath's wine-cup to the bitter lees,
With strong amazement and a broken will;
Then, humbled, straightway fell upon my knees,
And God doth know my heart is kneeling still;
I have grown patient, seeking not to choose
Mine own blind lot, but take that God shall send,
In which, if what I long for I should lose,
I know the loss will work some blessed end, —
Some better fate for mine and me than I
Could ever compass underneath the sky.
HE that holds fast the golden mean,
And lives contentedly between
The little and the great,
Feels not the wants that pinch the poor,
Nor plagues that haunt the rich man's door,
Embittering all his state.
A WINTER RAMBLE REeverie.
THE road was straight, the afternoon was gray,
The frost hung listening in the silent air;
On either hand the rimy fields were bare;
Beneath my feet rolled out the long white way,
Drear as my heart, and brightened by no ray
From the wide winter sun, whose disk reclined
In distant, copper sullenness, behind
The broken network of the western hedge-
A crimson blot upon the fading day.
Three travellers went before me,—one alone,
Then two together, who their fingers nursed
Deep in their pockets, and I watched the first
Lapse in the curtain the slow haze had thrown
Across the vista which had been my own;
Next vanished the chill comrades, blotted out
Like him they followed; but I did not doubt
That there beyond the haze the travellers
Walked in the fashion that my sight had known.
Only "beyond the haze;" oh, sweet belief!
That this is also death; that those we 've kissed
Between our sobs are just "beyond the mist;'
An easy thought to juggle with to grief!
The gulf seems measureless, and Death a thief.
Can we, who were so high and are so low,
So clothed in love, who now in tatters go,
Echo serenely, "Just beyond the haze,"
And of a sudden find a trite relief?
My heart and I but lately were at strife.
She fell a-longing for a certain thing
The which I could not give her, and my life
Grew sick and weary with her clamoring.
God knows I would have given my youth's wide scope
To buy my heart but one brief, blessed day
Of the blind bliss she coveted; but hope,
When I appealed to it, turned, dumb, away.
Until hope failed, I did not chide my heart,
But was full tender to her misery, -
I knew how hard and bitter was her part;
But when I saw that good was not for me,
I felt that time and tears were vainly spent ;
"Heart," said I, "hope is silent; be content."
Poor heart! She listened, earnest, humble-wise,
While my good angel gave her counsel strong,
Then from the dust and ashes did arise,
And through her trembling lips broke forth a song,
A soothing song, that grew into a strain
Of praise for bliss denied as well as given:
She sang it then to charm a lingering pain,
She sings it now for gladness, morn and even.
She sings it, seeing on life's garden wall
Love's deep red roses in the sunshine stir,
And singing, passes, envying not at all,
Content to feel that love is not for her.
The roses are another's, bloom and scent,
My heart and I have "heart's-ease "- and content.
THE banks are all a bustin', Nance, an' things is goin' to smash;
The people sold fur credit whar they'd oughter sell fur cash,
An' winter's bringin' poverty to everybody's door;
The rich can stand it pretty well-hit 's orful on the poor.
The workin'man 's the sufferer, Nance, he's got no work to do
An' folks are goin' to suffer what sufferin' never knew;
An' them that's always "showin' off " to poor folks what they've
got,
You'll find, perhaps, that they'll turn out the poorest of the lot.
I've just been thinkin', Nancy Jane, about the awful muss,
How folks had better live an' raise thar children jist like us;
For as I told old Deacon Smith, he seed it all was true;
He never in his life had seed two folks like me an' you.
Our home's an old log cabin, Nance, half hidden in the woods; Our family's rich in life an' health, but poor in this "world's goods."
We hain't no fine lace curtains, or no carpet on the floor,
But the sun is always shinin' through the window an' the door.
Our farm is small-we've got a spring, an' horses, hogs, an' cows; We've gals to milk, an' cook, an' sew, an' boys to tend the ploughs,
We've got no gold in banks that bust, nor owe no man a cent;
I tell you, Nance, the Lord is good, an' we should feel content.
We're plain an' honest country folks, an' know no "city airs;"
We read the Bible every night before we kneel in prayers;
We go to church on Sunday, Nance, an' walk jist like the rest,
An' live like Christian people ought we try to do what's best.
Our boys are not like city boys, who from their duty shirk,
Whose parents raise 'em up to think 't is a disgrace to work;
Our gals ain't like them city gals you will so often meet,
Who ought to help their mothers more, an' run less on the street.
You don't see Thomas Henry pushin' billiards every night,
Or loafin' 'bout the tavern gittin' treated till he's tight;
You don't find him a runnin' round to catch some damsel's eye,
Or courtin' of some gal that's rich, whose daddy's about to die.
Ah, Nance, the time has come at last when pride must have a fall,
The folks will find the workin'man 's the life an' prop of all;
The farmer's independent, Nance, his trade will never spoil
So long as he is able with his sons to till the soil.
The proud aristocratic folks, who sot in fortune's door,
Who thought they'd never come to want, are busted up an' poor;
Their servants gone, their horses sold, their houses an' their
An' everything, except their lives, is in the sheriff's hands.
Old woman, put your knittin' up; it's gittin' purty late,
I'll read about two chapters in the Bible if you 'll wait;
We'll pray to God before we sleep, as every Christian ought;
An' thank him not for what we want, but what we've had an' got.
WILL S. HAYES.
WHETHER my heart be glad or no,
The summers come, the summers go,
The lanes grow dark with dying leaves,
Icicles hang beneath the eaves,
The asters wither to the snow;
Thus doth the summer end and go,
Whether my life be glad or no.
Whether my life be sad or no,
The winters come, the winters go,
The sunshine plays with baby leaves,
Swallows build about the eaves,
The lovely wild flowers bend and blow;
Thus doth the winter end and go,
Whether my life be sad or no.
Yet Mother Nature gives to me
A fond and patient sympathy;
In my own heart I find the charm
To make her tender, near, and warm;
Through summer sunshine, winter snow,
She clasps me, sad or glad or no.
NELLY M. HUTCHINSON.
WHERE Moss-made beds are brightest by the river,
And curtained round with wondrous-woven vines,
I lie and watch the water-lilies quiver
In the soft shadow of the haunted pines, -
Lie, as in dreams, amidst the languid laughter
Of waves at play upon the harbor bar,
And hear the sound of wings that follow after
The wind who knoweth where the bird-nests are.
So sweet the hour, I cannot well remember
If care has been, or wearying toil or pain,
Or life low leaning to a drear December,
Or vision tortured by a teary rain;
The eyes of sorrow have been kissed to sleeping
By lips where many a tender mystery hides,
Like music in the merry waters, keeping
My feet from climbing up the mountain sides.
Upon my book unread a bee sits sipping
Wild honey from the fragrant wild-rose mark,
And, listening, I can hear the dipping, dipping
Of light oars piloting a home-bound bark.
A new life flows through all the aisles of being;
I seem a pulsing portion of the haze
That floats and floats where saints sing softlier, seeing
The dawn of heaven's own Indian summer days.
And once again, oh, once again is lying
Upon my heart a dainty, dimpled cheek,
For whose young bloom my lips were ever crying
In the old time of which I cannot speak.
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