Sidor som bilder
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Through places that summer had made so

sweet

With a glamour but briefly lent.

I trod upon something soft and dry,

For my eyes were full on the flaming west;

And just where the grass was thick and high

Was lying-an empty nest.

Oh, what visions of faded spring;

Oh, what memories of silenced song,
Of brooding breast, and of glancing wing,
To an empty nest belong!

And the thought that suddenly came to me,
Close to the water, facing the west,
Was of some singing that used to be
In another forsaken nest.

There were two birds that began to sing
Low in the fields of yellow corn-
Not for the heed their song should bring,
But for love of the dewy morn.

Birds of one feather and sister birds,
Crowded out of a roof-tree nest,
Hatched within sound of lowing herds,
But flying away from the west.

Birds of one feather fare best together:

Singing, they built them another nest, Sat in it and sung in the worst of weather, Each loving the other best.

But we who listened one morning knew
That only one bird was left to sing:
They never had sung apart, the two,
And we talked of a broken wing.

Now, should you chance to pass that way,
You would vainly listen for any song;
But what regrets for the vanished lay
To this empty nest belong!

THE FIELDS ARE GRAY WITH IMMORTELLES.

THE sheep are sheltered in the fold,
The mists are marshalled on the hill,
The squirrel watches from his lair,

And every living thing is still :
The fields are gray with Immortelles !
The river, like a sluggish snake,

Creeps o'er the brown and bristly plain;
I hear the swinging of the pines
Betwixt the pauses of the rain
Down-dripping on the Immortelles !
And think of faces, slimy cold,

That flinch not under falling tears; Meek-mouthed and heavy-lidded, and With sleek hair put behind the ears, And crowned with scentless Immortelles! The partridge hath forgot her nest Among the stubble by the rill; In vain the lances of the frost

Seek for some tender things to kill: They can not hurt the Immortelles !

Sad empress of the stony fell!
Gray stoic of the blasted heath!
Dullest of flowers that ever bloomed,
And yet triumphant over death,
O, weird and winged Immortelle !
Lie lightly upon Nature's breast,
And cover up her altered face,
Lest we should shiver when we see
The brightness of its vernal grace
Grown grayer than the Immortelles !
The wind cries in the reedy-marsh,
And wanders, sobbing, through the dell ;
Poor, broken-hearted lover, he

For violets finds the Immortelle !
The Immortelle! The Immortelle

ENTRE NOUS.

As we two slowly walked that night,
Silence fell on us-as of fear;

I was afraid to face the light,

Lest you should see that I loved you, dear. You drew my arm against your heart,

So close I could feel it beating near; You were brave enough for a lover's partYou were so sure that I loved you, dear. Then you murmured a word or two,

And tenderly stooped your listening ear; For you thought that all that you had to do Was to hear me say that I loved you,

dear.

But, though your face was so close to mine That you touched my cheek with your chestnut hair,

I wouldn't my lips to yours resign:
And yet I loved you-I loved you, dear.
And all at once you were cold and pale,
Because you thought that I did not care;
I cried a little behind my veil-

But that was because I loved you, dear. And so you thought 'twas a drop of rain That splashed your hand? But 'twas a tear;

For then you said you'd never again

Ask me to say that I loved you, dear. Well! I will tell-if you'll listen now:

I thought of the words you said last year; How we girls weren't coy enough, and how There were half a dozen that loved you, dear.

And I was afraid that you held me light, And an imp at my shoulder said, "Beware! He's just in a wooing mood to-night.'

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So I wouldn't say that I loved you, dear. Not though I thought you the Man of men, Chiefest of heroes, brave and rare; Not though I never shall love again Any man as I loved you, dear.

I have suffered, and so have you ;

And to-night, if you were but standing here,

I'd make you an answer straight and true, If you'd ask again if I loved you, dear.

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My Saviour said: "Take up thy cross
And follow me where I may lead;
Count every earthly treasure dross,
And, losing, find thy life indeed."
I raised my burden; it was light:
Alas! how heavy it has grown!
O toilsome way! O cruel height !
Lord, can I bear my cross alone?
My foes, unnumbered and unseen,
Press madly round me day and night;
I have no friend on whom to lean;
I sink in sorrow and affright!

O blessed Voice! . . . I hear Him say:
"Lo, I am with thee till the end;
Thy strength shall fail not through thy day,
And I am thy Eternal Friend."

The burdens of the world He bore,

And shall I shrink from bearing mine?
Alone He walked in anguish sore,

But me upholds with love divine.
His grace can smooth the roughest road;
The way He hallowed I will take:
How heavy, yet how light the load
That I must bear for His dear sake!
Through tribulation though He lead,
He maketh self-denial sweet;
My life I lose each day indeed

To find it at my Saviour's feet!

MY KNOWLedge.

THOUGH men confront the living God With wisdom than His Word more wise, And leaving paths apostles trod,

Their own devise;

I would myself forsake and flee,

O Christ, the living Way, to Thee!

I know not what the schools may teach,
Nor yet how far from truth depart;
One lesson is within my reach-

The Truth Thou art:

And learning this, I learn each day
To cast all other lore away.

I cannot solve mysterious things,

That fill the schoolmen's thoughts with strife;

But oh what peace this knowledge brings, Thou art the Life;

Hid in Thy everlasting deeps,
The silent God His secret keeps.

The Way, the Truth, the Life Thou art!
This, this I know; to this I cleave;
The sweet new language of my heart-
"Lord, I believe:"

I have no doubt to bring to Thee;
My doubt has fled, my faith is free!

PRAYING IN SPIRIT.

"But thou, when thou prayest, enter into thy closet, and whe thou hast shut thy door, pray to thy Father which is in secret.”— ST. MATT. vi, 6.

I NEED not leave the jostling world,
Or wait till daily tasks are o'er,
To fold my palms in secret prayer
Within the close-shut closet door.
There is a viewless, cloistered room,

As high as heaven, as fair as day,
Where, though my feet may join the throng,
My soul can enter in and pray.
When I have banished wayward thoughts,
Of sinful works the fruitful seed,
When folly wins my ear no more,
The closet door is shut, indeed.
No human step approaching breaks
The blissful silence of the place;
No shadow steals across the light
That falls from my Redeemer's face!
And never through those crystal walls
The clash of life can pierce its way,
Nor ever can a human ear

Drink in the spirit-words I say.

One hearkening, even, cannot know
When I have crossed the threshold o'er,
For He, alone, who hears my prayer.
Has heard the shutting of the door!

HUMBLE SERVICE.

IT is an easy thing to say,

"Thou knowest that I love Thee, Lord!" And easy in the bitter fray

For His defence to draw the sword.

But when at His dear hands we seek
Some lofty trust for Him to keep,

To our ambition vain and weak

How strange His bidding, "Feed my sheep."

"Too mean a task for love," we cry; Remembering not if, in our pride.

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O Father! help us to resign

For not more solemn the holy chimes, In other times,

That helped the faithful to pray aright,

Our hearts, our strength, our wills to Thee; And put the spirits of air to flight!

Then even lowliest work of Thine

Most noble, blest, and sweet will be!

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MY FRIEND.

I WILL not wrong thee, O To-day,
With idle longing for To-morrow;
But patient plough my field, and sow
The seed of faith in every furrow.

Enough for me the loving light

That melts the cloud's repellent edges; The still unfolding, bud by bud,

Of God's most sweet and holy pledges.

I breathe His breath; my life is His;

ALL'S WELL.

THE day is ended. Ere I sink to sleep My weary spirit seeks repose in Thine: Father! forgive my trespasses, and keep This little life of mine.

With loving kindness curtain Thou my bed;

And cool in rest my burning pilgrim-feet;

The hand He nerves knows no defraud-Thy pardon be the pillow for my head—

ing,

The Lord will make this joyless waste

Wave with the wheat of His rewarding.

Of His rewarding! Yes; and yet

Not mine a single blade or kernel; The seed is His; the quickening His; The care, unchanging and eternal. His, too, the harvest song shall be, When He who blest the barren furrow Shall thrust His shining sickle in,

And reap my little field To-morrow.

So shall my sleep be sweet.

At peace with all the world, dear Lord, and

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THE GUEST.

"Behold, I stand at the door, and knock : if any man hear my voice, and open the door. I will come in to him, and wil! sup with him, and he with me."-Rev. iii. 20.

SPEECHLESS Sorrow sat with me;
I was sighing wearily!
Lamp and fire were out: the rain
Wildly beat the window-pane.
In the dark we heard a knock;
And a hand was on the lock;
One in waiting spake to me,
Saying sweetly,
"I am come to sup with thee!"

All my room was dark and damp;
"Sorrow!" said I. " trim the lamp;
Light the fire, and cheer thy face;
Set the guest-chair in its place."
And again I heard the knock:
In the dark I found the lock :-
"Enter! I have turned the key!-
Enter, Stranger!
Who art come to sup with me."

Opening wide the door, he came;
But I could not speak his name:
In the guest-chair took his place;
But I could not see his face!
When my cheerful fire was beaming
When my little lamp was gleaming,
And the feast was spread for three,
Lo! my MASTER

Was the Guest that supped with me!

EMMA LAZARUS.

IN THE JEWISH SYNAGOGUE AT NEWPORT.

HERE, where the noises of the busy town, The ocean's plunge and roar can enter not,

We stand and gaze around with tearful awe,
And muse upon the consecrated spot.
No signs of life are here: the very prayers
Inscribed around are in a language dead;
The light of the "perpetual lamp" is spent
That an undying radiance was to shed.
What prayers were in this temple offered up,
Wrung from sad hearts that knew no joy
on earth,

By these lone exiles of a thousand years, From the fair sunrise land that gave them birth!

Now as we gaze, in this new world of light,
Upon this relic of the days of old,
The present vanishes, and tropic bloom,

And Eastern towns and temples we behold.
Again we see the patriarch with his flock
The purple seas, the hot blue sky o'erhead,
The slaves of Egypt,-omens, mysteries,-
Dark fleeing hosts by flaming angels led.
A wondrous light upon a sky-kissed mount,
A man who reads Jehovah's written law,
'Midst blinding glory and effulgence rare,
Unto a people prone with reverent awe.
The pride of luxury's barbaric pomp,

In the rich court of royal Solomon-
Alas! we wake: one scene alone remains,-
The exiles by the streams of Babylon.
Our softened voices send us back again
But mournful echoes through the empty
hall;

Our footsteps have a strange unnatural sound,
And with unwonted gentleness they fall.
The weary ones, the sad, the suffering,
All found their comfort in the holy place,
And children's gladness and men's gratitude
Took voice and mingled in the chant of
praise.

The funeral and the marriage, now, alas!
We know not which is sadder to recall;
For youth and happiness have followed age,
And green grass lieth gently over all.

Nathless the sacred shrine is holy yet,

With its lone floors where reverent feet once trod.

Take off your shoes as by the burning bush, Before the mystery of death and God.

ON A TUFT OF GRASS.

WEAK, slender blades of tender green,
With little fragrance, little sheen,

What makes ye so dear to all?
Nor bud, nor flower, nor fruit have ye,
So tiny, it can only be

'Mongst fairies ye are counted tall.
No beauty is in this,-ah, yea,
E'en as I gaze on you to-day,

Your hue and fragrance bear me back
Into the green, wide fields of old,
With clear, blue air, and manifold

Bright buds and flowers in blossoming track.

All bent one way like flickering flame,
Each blade caught sunlight as it came,

Then rising, saddened into shade;
A changeful, wavy, harmless sea,
Whose billows none could bitterly
Reproach with wrecks that they had
made.

No gold ever was buried there
More rich, more precious, or more fair

Than buttercups with yellow gloss.
No ships of mighty forest trees
E'er foundered in these guiltless seas

Of grassy waves and tender moss.
Ah, no! ah, no! not guiltless still,
Green waves on meadow and on hill,
Not wholly innocent are ye;
For what dead hopes and loves, what graves,
Lie underneath your placid waves,

While breezes kiss them lovingly! Calm sleepers with sealed eyes lie there; They see not, neither feel nor care

If over them the grass be green. And some sleep here who ne'er knew rest, Until the grass grew o'er their breast,

And stilled the aching pain within.
Not all the sorrow man hath known,
Nor all the evil he hath done,

Have ever cast thereon a stain.
It groweth green and fresh and light,
As in the olden garden bright,

Beneath the feet of Eve and Cain.

It flutters, bows, and bends, and quivers,
And creeps through forests and by rivers,
Each blade with dewy brightness wet,
So soft, so quiet, and so fair,
We almost dream of sleeping there,
Without or sorrow or regret.

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