Miscellaneous Poems.

THE PRAYER UPON THE WALL.

TO MRS. ELIZABETH H. ROSS, OF CHICAGO, ILL., THIS POEM IS DEDICATED. JULY 25, 1888.

I. UNDER THE LIGHTS.

AS I SAT within my home,
Turning o'er some ancient tome,
Mousing at the musty lore,
There beside me on the floor
Sat my wife, with a

Many-colored zephyr ball,

And she stitched away,

On a motto for the wall.

One by one the letters spelt
A prayer, asking Him who dwelt
In the high cerulean dome,
Every day to bless our home.

"God Bless our Home," she
There with threads of zephyr ball,
Like skilled Arachne,

Wrought this motto for the wall.

Humming to herself the while,

"Spicy breath", and "Ceylon's isle❞— Scent of flowers and song of birds Blended with the holy words.

Thus her hand unsought,

All my senses did enthrall,—
Hand that deftly wrought,

Holy words upon the wall.

Then I heard her softly say,
In her quiet, tuneful way:
"Have I inwrought God's design,
With this needle here of mine
Into every strand;

And will now a blessing fall

From the heavenly Hand,

For this motto on the wall?"

II. WITHIN THE SHADOWS.

Dimmed the eyes that brightly shone! Hushed the voice of sweetest tone! Gone the hand that deftly wrought, Letters for a blessing sought!

On the threshold lie

My griefs; and I there recall

Her sweet prayer, by

The silent motto on the wall.

Trees and flowers and grassy lawn,
Greet the birds at break of dawn;
And within the somber shade,
Still the nest of love is made;
But my bird is flown,

Far beyond her mate's recall,

And faded flowers strown,

Mock the motto on the wall.

Birds no more for me will sing,
Flowers bloom not in the spring,
Home shall be no home to me,
Blessings shall I never see;
Sad I sing my lays,

For the charming life of all

Haunts me as I gaze

On her prayer upon the wall.

Still I sit within my home, Turning o'er the ancient tome; Searching for the hidden lore, That, may stricken hearts restore. Nor healing heavenly dew,

Nor Gilead's balm let fall,

Can bless like one who

Placed her prayer upon the wall.

III. THE BROKEN HARP.

Touch not the harp! its chords are broken,

Its sweetest tones are dead;

Like holy words of love unspoken,
It is a prayer unsaid.

Or strike the chords of sinking sadness!
Responsive to my soul;

For I am tossed on waves of madness,
And wild the billows roll.

Like harp within my home forsaken,
My life is all unstrung;

Or like the voice no harp can waken,

It is a song unsung.

The soul that now is touched with sorrow,

Is like a flower unblown;

Its hopes are rainbows of to-morrow,
Which span the great unknown.

Yet, while my heart like harp is broken,
I sometimes think withal,

That prayer was by an angel spoken,

Which hangs upon the wall.

DAWN.

AND Night, who treads the vaulted dome, threw o'er
My soul the shadow of her lifted hand,
Veiling my vision from her starry land;
And closed from my fond hope that golden shore,
Whose spangled pathways I should walk no more.
Then did the heavens recede, and all the grand
Infinities of worlds that there expand,

And left me groping at her temple door.
Then I flung down my faith in man and God;

But when I turned to drink from Lethe's cup, Prophetic DAWN, whose feet are sandal-shod With heavenly light, forbade my soul to sup,She chased the shadows with her roseate rod, And led the Morn to lift my spirit up.