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, Many-colored zephyr ball, And she stitched away, On a motto for the wall. One by one the letters spelt "God Bless our Home," she 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,— Holy words upon the wall. Then I heard her softly say, 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, Far beyond her mate's recall, And faded flowers strown, Mock the motto on the wall. Birds no more for me will sing, 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, Or strike the chords of sinking sadness! For I am tossed on waves of madness, Like harp within my home forsaken, 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, Yet, while my heart like harp is broken, That prayer was by an angel spoken, Which hangs upon the wall. DAWN. AND Night, who treads the vaulted dome, threw o'er And left me groping at her temple door. 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. |