Who tranquilly in Life's great task- | When, in calm trust, the pure and tran field wrought, And, side by side with evil, scarcely quil-hearted Lay down to die. I will not mock thee with the poor world's common A true and brave and downright honest Nor man! And heartless phrase, wrong the memory of a sainted And, while "Lord, Lord!" the pious Yet, Who, in the poor, their Master crucified, in the shadow of a great afflic tion, The soul sits dumb! would I say what thy own heart approveth: Our Father's will, Calling to Him the dear one whom He She walketh yet; I lean my heart unto thee, sadly folding Still with the baptism of thy self-denial Her locks are wet. Up, then, my brother! Lo, the fields of harvest Lie white in view! I never knew, like thee, the dear de- She lives and loves thee, and the God parted; I stood not by thou servest To both is true. THE LAKE-SIDE. Thrust in thy sickle ! - England's toil- | We miss her in the place of prayer, worn peasants Thy call abide ; And she thou mourn'st, a pure and holy presence, Shall glean beside ! GONE. ANOTHER hand is beckoning us, Our young and gentle friend, whose smile Made brighter summer hours, Amid the frosts of autumn time Has left us with the flowers. No paling of the cheek of bloom Forewarned us of decay; No shadow from the Silent Land Fell round our sister's way. The light of her young life went down, As pure and sweet, her fair brow seemed And like the brook's low song, her voice, A sound which could not die. And half we deemed she needed not The blessing of her quiet life And good thoughts, where her footsteps pressed Like fairy blossoms grew. Sweet promptings unto kindest deeds The measure of a blessed hymn, To which our hearts could move ;The breathing of an inward psalm; A canticle of love. 139 And by the hearth-fire's light; We pause beside her door to hear Once more her sweet "Good-night!" There seems a shadow on the day, Alone unto our Father's will One thought hath reconciled; That He whose love exceedeth ours Hath taken home his child. Fold her, O Father! in thine arms, Our human hearts and thee. Still let her mild rebuking stand And grant that she who, trembling, here May welcome to her holier home THE LAKE-SIDE. THE shadows round the inland sea They chase the lessening light. Lake of the Hills! where, cool and sweet, Thy sunset waters lie! Along the sky, in wavy lines, O'er isle and reach and bay, Green-belted with eternal pines, The mountains stretch away. Below, the maple masses sleep Where shore with water blends, While midway on the tranquil deep The evening light descends. So seemed it when yon hill's red crown, Of old, the Indian trod, And, through the sunset air, looked down Upon the Smile of God.47 To him of light and shade the laws He saw these mountains in the light His loving voice he heard, Thanks, O our Father! that, like him, In radiant hill and woodland dim, THE HILL-TOP. THE burly driver at my side, We slowly climbed the hill, I felt the cool breath of the North; And, glimmering through the sun-haze With many a nameless slide-scarred crest And pine-dark gorge between. Beyond them, like a sun-rimmed cloud, The great Notch mountains shone, Watched over by the solemn-browed And awful face of stone! "A good look-off!" the driver spake : "About this time, last year, I drove a party to the Lake, And stopped, at evening, here. "A lady, who, from Thornton hill, And, as a pleasant woman will, Had cheered the long, dull ride, "On yonder mossy ledge she sat, I never saw a prettier sight "As good as fair; it seemed her joy His manhood did not shame : "I dare say, sir, you may have knownHe named a well-known name. Then sank the pyramidal mounds, miles Kind voices cheered, sweet human smiles Shone warm into my heart. We journeyed on; but earth and sky ALL day the darkness and the cold But now my torpid fancy wakes, Below me roar the rocking pines, Before me spreads the lake I hear the wild Rice-Eater thresh I hear the far-off voyager's horn; By forest, lake, and waterfall, He's whittling by St. Mary's Falls, I hear the mattock in the mine, I see the swarthy trappers come Behind the scared squaw's birch canoe, Above old Indian graves. I hear the tread of pioneers Of nations yet to be; 141 The first low wash of waves, where soon The rudiments of empire here Is rounding into form! Each rude and jostling fragment soon Its fitting place shall find, The raw material of a State, Its muscle and its mind! And, westering still, the star which leads Has tipped with fire the icy spears The snowy cones of Oregon Are kindling on its way; Then blessings on thy eagle quill, Yet, welcomer than regal plumes, Thy free and pleasant thoughts, chance sown, Like feathers on the wind. Thy symbol be the mountain-bird, In thee, let joy with duty join, And strength unite with love, So, when in darkness sleeps the valę MEMORIES. A BEAUTIFUL and happy girl, With step as light as summer air, Eyes glad with smiles, and brow of pearl, Shadowed by many a careless curl Of unconfined and flowing hair; A seeming child in everything, As Nature wears the smile of Spring Leaf after leaf, dew-moist and bright, Unfolding like a morning flower: How thrills once more the lengthening chain Of memory, at the thought of thee ! Its fulness of the heart is mine, I hear again thy low replies, I feel thy arm within my own, With soft brown tresses overblown. Ere this, thy quiet eye hath smiled My picture of thy youth to see, When, half a woman, half a child, Thy very artlessness beguiled, And folly's self seemed wise in thee; I too can smile, when o'er that hour The lights of memory back ward stream, Yet feel the while that manhood's power Is vainer than my boyhood's dream. Years have passed on, and left their trace, Of graver care and deeper thought; And unto me the calm, cold face Of manhood, and to thee the grace Of woman's pensive beauty brought. More wide, perchance, for blame than praise, The school-boy's humble name has flown; And wider yet in thought and deed Diverge our pathways, one in youth; Thine the Genevan's sternest creed, While answers to my spirit's need The Derby dalesman's simple truth. For thee, the priestly rite and prayer, And holy day, and solemn psalm; For me, the silent reverence where My brethren gather, slow and calm. Yet hath thy spirit left on me An impress Time has worn not out, Lingering, even yet, thy way about; Not wholly can the heart unlearn That lesson of its better hours, Not yet has Time's dull footstep worn To common dust that path of flowers. Thus, while at times before our eyes The shadows melt, and fall apart, And, smiling through them, round us lies The warm light of our morning skies, In founts of feeling which retain Their pure, fresh flow, we yet may find Our early dreams not wholly vain! THE LEGEND OF ST. MARK.48 THE day is closing dark and cold, With roaring blast and sleety showers; And through the dusk the lilacs wear The bloom of snow, instead of flowers. I turn me from the gloom without, By dreaming monk or abbess told. On Tintoretto's canvas lives That fancy of a loving heart, In graceful lines and shapes of power, And hues immortal as his art. In Provence (so the story runs) There lived a lord, to whom, as slave, A peasant-boy of tender years The chance of trade or conquest gave. |