SILVER THREADS.

TO MRS. JOHN FARNSWORTH, FORT SCOTT, KANSAS.

How sad the years do beckon back

Our thoughts along Life's beaten track;
And visions of the long ago

Float round us as they come and go,
And sacred memories linger there,
When silver threads come in the hair.

And sad the song old Ocean sings,
As homeward he our cargo brings,

To find our ships were tempest tossed,
And our fond hopes were sunk and lost,
And promised wealths were buried there,
When silver threads come in the hair.

And sad our souls are bowed in grief,
As we turn over, leaf by leaf,

The sacred book our lives have made,
To find therein less light than shade,
And long-lost hearts and faces fair,
When silver threads come in the hair.

Yet sweet it is for us to know,

That flowers do live beneath the snow;

And Winter always hath its Spring,

When flowers will bloom and birds will sing;

And souls we love will grow more fair,

When silver threads come in the hair.

WHAT IS THE WORLD TO ME?

WHAT is the world to me without
One loving heart to cherish;
Who ne'er my faithful love will doubt,
Though other faiths may perish?-
For it's a phantom flitting past

That says: No faith nor love shall last.

What is the world to me, when no

Soft lips, with their caressing, Invite my soul to stay, and go

Not elsewhere for its blessing?-
For it's no phantom of the air
That makes those lips destroy my care

What is the world to me, when those
Bright eyes the fairies lend her,
To light my soul to its repose,

Shine not for me in splendor?-
For 't was a phantom of the mind
That painted Eros young and blind.

What is the world to me, if there
Be not one fond and certain
To veil me with her silken hair,
A soft, disheveled curtain?-
For she's no phantom of the night
Who veils my soul in soft delight.

What is the world to me, although

My praise be world-wide spoken, Without some one to say, I know

His pledge was never broken?— For piping phantoms never voice That praise which makes my heart rejoice.

What is the world to me, with all
Its gilded pomp and pleasure,
Without some dearest one to call

My own, my heart's sweet treasure?
I'll have no phantom in my grasp,
But one soul's wealth of love to clasp!

"THE MAPLES."

NAME of my home, at Mound City. Suggested by MRS. ELLA C. PORTER.

YE village of the Maple hills,
I sing thy song,-

Bowed in the shadows of the past,
I plaint thy wrong;—

Let every sense that beauty thrills
Thy praise complete !

For Nature brings her gifts to cast
Them at thy feet.

Ye Maples of the towering hills
And flowery glade!

How thy tall trunks and branches cast
The somber shade!

And while my soul thy beauty thrills,
Thy shadows creep-

For in the shadows of the past,
My hopes do sleep.

Dear Maples! now thy shimmering leaves
For loving kiss,

Turn throbbing to the evening breeze

With floating bliss.

How oft beneath thy dripping eaves,
In summer shower,

Have warblers of the summer trees
Enjoyed thy bower!

How doth my soul the shimmering leaves
Of Memory kiss!

How oft my heart doth throbbing seize
The floating bliss!

When baby arms, in snow-white sleeves,
Did bless the Power

That spread the shadows of the trees,
For summer hour.

Sweet Maples! Now your saddening shade
Doth crape my head;

As reverently I lowly bow
Unto my dead.

Two sister hearts are lowly laid,

Both safe and sweet:

"The Maples" cast their shadows now, Close to their feet.