Chapter V: Act III (2)

And to her service bowed your strength,
Took labour for your shield and crest;
See where upon a nation's brow
Her diadem, ye proudly test!

ON QUEENSTON HEIGHTS.

I stood on Queenston Heights; And as I gazed from tomb to cenotaph, From cenotaph to tomb, adown and up, My heart grew full, much moved with many thoughts. At length I cried: "O robed with honour and with glory crowned, Tell me again the story of yon pile." And straight the ancient, shuddering cedars wept, The solemn junipers indued their pall, The moaning wind crept through the trembling oaks And, shrieking, fled. Strange clamour filled the air; The steepy hill shook with the rush of arms; Around me rolled the tide of sudden war. The booming guns pealed forth their dreadful knell; Musketry rattled; shouts, cries, groans, were heard; Men met as foes, and deadly strife ensued. From side to side the surging combat rolled, And as it rolled, passed from my ken. A silence! On the hill an alien flag Flies flaunting in the wind, mocking the gun. Dark forms pour o'er the heights, and Britain's day Broods dark. But hark! a ringing cheer peals up the height Once more the battle's tide bursts on my view. Brock to the rescue! Down goes the alien flag! Back, back the dark battalions fall. On, on The "Tigers" come. Down pours the rattling shot From out the verdant grove, like sheets of hail. Up, up they press, York volunteers and all. Aha! the day is ours! See, where the hero comes In conquering might, quick driving all before him! O brave ensample! O beloved chief! Who follows thee keeps ever pace with honour. Shout Victory! Proud victory is ours! Ours, noble Brock!

Ours? DEATH'S! _Death wins;_ THE DAY IS HIS.

Ah! shudder still ye darkling cedars, Chant yet your doleful monotone, ye winds; Indue again your grey funereal pall, Ye solemn junipers; for here he fell, And here he lies,--dust; ashes; nothing.

Such tale the hill-side told me, and I wept. Nay! I wept _not!_ The hot, indignant thoughts That filled my breast burned up the welling tears Ere they had chance to flow, and forward Hate Spake rashly. But calm Reflection Laid her cool hand upon my throbbing brow And whispered, "As up the misty stream The _Norseman_ crept to-day, and signals white Waved kind salutes from yon opposing shore; And as ye peered the dusky vista through, To catch first glimpse of yonder glorious plinth, Yet saw it not till _I_ your glance directed,-- So high it towered above the common plane;-- So, towering over Time, shall Brock e'er stand.-- So, from those banks, shall white-robed Peace e'er smile.

_October 12, 1881_.

NEW ORLEANS, MONROE, MAYOR, APRIL 29, 1862.

* * * * *

THE HAULING DOWN OF THE STATE FLAG FROM OVER THE CITY HALL.

"The crowd flowed in from every direction and filled the street
in a compact mass both above and below the square. They were silent,
but angry and threatening. An open way was left in front of the hall,
and their force being stationed, Captain Bell and Lieutenant Kantz
passed across the street, mounted the hall steps and entered the
Mayor's parlour. Approaching the Mayor, Captain Bell said: "I have
come in obedience to orders to haul down the State flag from this
building." ... As soon as the two officers left the room Mr. Monroe
also went out. Descending the front steps he walked out into the
street, and placed himself immediately in front of the howitzer
pointing down St. Charles Street. There, folding his arms, he fixed
his eyes upon the gunner who stood, lanyard in hand, ready for action.
Here he remained without once looking up or moving, until the flag
had been hauled down by Lieutenant Kantz, and he and Captain Bell
reappeared.... As they passed out through the Camp Street gate,
Mr. Monroe turned towards the hall, and the people, who had hitherto
preserved the silence he had asked from them, broke into cheers for
their Mayor."
MARION A. BAKER, _in July (1886) Century_.

A noble man! a man deserving trust. A man in whom the higher elements Worked freely. A man of dignity; On whom the robes and badge of state sat well Because the majesty of self-control, And all its grace, were his. I see him now-- Pale with the pallor of a full, proud heart-- Descend those steps and take his imminent place Before the deadly piece, as who should say "'Ware ye! these people are my people; such Their inward heat and mine at this poor deed That scarce we can control our kindled blood. But should ye mow them down, ye mow me too. 'Ware ye!" O men for whose dear sake he stood An offering and a hostage; on that scroll Old Chronos doth unfold along the years Are writ in gold names of undaunted Mayors, Pepin and Charlemagne, and Whittington And White. Did not your fathers know them? And shall not he, your Mayor of 'Sixty-two, Monroe, stand side by side with them?

THE EMIGRANT'S SONG.

I.

No work, no home, no wealth have I,
But Mary loves me true,
And, for her sake, upon my knees
I'd beg the wide world through:
For her sweet eyes look into mine
With fondness soft and deep;
My heart's entranced, and I could die
Were death a conscious sleep.

II.

But life is work, and work is life,
And life's the way to heaven,
And hand-in-hand we'd like to go
The road that God has given.
And England, dear old Motherland,
Has plenty mouths to feed
Without her sons and daughters fair,
Whose strength is as their need.

III.

To Canada! To Canada!
To that fair land I'll roam,
And till the soil with heart of grace,
For Mary and a home.
Hurrah for love! Hurrah for hope!
Hurrah for industry!
Hurrah for bonnie Canada,
And her bonnie maple tree!

TO THE INDIAN SUMMER.

And art thou come again, sweet Indian maid! How beautiful thou art where thou dost stand, With step arrested, on the bridge that joins The Past and Future--thy one hand waving Farewell to Summer, whose fond kiss hath set Thy yellow cheeks aglow, the other stretched To greet advancing Winter! Nor can thy veil, tissue diaphanous Of crimsoned haze, conceal thy lustrous eyes;-- Those eyes in whose dark depths a tear-drop lurks Ready to fall, for Beauty loved and lost. From thy point gazing, maiden, let us, too, Once more behold the panorama fair Of the lost year. See where, far down yon slope That meets the sun, doth quick advance gay Spring, His dainty fingers filled with swelling buds: O'er his wreathed head, among the enlacing trees, The merry birds flit in and out, to choose A happy resting-place; and singing rills Dwell on his praise. Gladly his laughing eyes Rest on fair Summer's zone set thick with flowers, That chide their own profusion as, tiptoe, And arm outstretched, she reaches to restore The fallen nestling, venturous and weak: While many a nursling claims her tender care. Beneath her smile all Nature doth rejoice, And breaks into a song that sweeps the plain Where now the swarthy Autumn, girded close, Gathers his yellow sheaves and juicy fruit To overflowing garners; measure full, And blest to grateful souls. Through the low air A myriad wings circle in restless sort; And from the rustling woods there comes a sound Of dropping nuts and acorns--welcome store To little chipmunk and to squirrel blithe: Dependants small on Nature's wide largesse. How doth the enchanting picture fill our souls With faith! Sweet Indian maid, we turn with thee And greet gray Winter with a trustful smile.

IN JUNE.

I cannot sleep, and morning's earliest light, All soft and rosy, tempts my restlessness To ask from Nature what of peace she gives. I gaze abroad, and all my soul is moved At that strange calm that floats o'er earth at rest. The silver sickle of the summer moon Hangs on the purple east. The morning star, Like a late watcher's lamp, pales in the dawn. Yonder, the lake, that 'neath the midday sun All restless glows and burns like burnished shield, Lies as a child at rest with curtain drawn. The forest trees are still. The babbling creek Flows softly through the copse and glides away; And the fair flowers, that lie as thick and sweet As posies at a bridal, sleep quietly. No early breeze his perfumed wings unfolds. No painted butterfly to pleasure wakes. The bees, whose busy hum pervades the hours Through all the sultry day, keep yet the hive. And, save the swallow, whose long line of works Beneath each gable, points to labours vast, No bird yet stirs. Upon the dewy mead The kine repose; the active horse lies prone; And the white ewes doze o'er their tender lambs, Like village mothers with their babes at breast. So still, so fair, so calm, the morning broods, That, while I know the gairish day will come, And bring its clouds of gnat-like stinging cares, Rest steals into my heart, and gentle peace.

LIVINGSTONE.

OBIT MAY 1ST, 1883.

Sleep now and take thy rest, thou mighty dead! Thy work is done--thy grand and glorious work. Not "Caput Nili" shall thy trophy be. But _broken slave-sticks and a riven chain_. As the man Moses, thy great prototype, Snatched, by the hand of God, his groaning millions From out the greedy clutch of Egypt's despot; So hast thou done for Afric's toiling sons: Hast snatched its peoples from the poisonous fangs Of hissing Satan, veiled in commerce foul. For this thy fame shall ring; for this thy praise Shall be in every mouth for ever. Ay, Thy true human heart hath here its guerdon-- A continent redeemed from slavery.-- To this, how small the other! Yet 'twas great. Ah, not in vain those long delays, those groans Wrung from thy patient soul by obstacle, The work of peevish man; these were the checks From that Hand guiding, that led thee all the way. _He_ willed thy soul should vex at tyranny; Thine ear should ring with murdered women's shrieks, That torturing famine should thy footsteps clog; That captive's broken hearts should ache thine own. And Slavery--that villain plausible-- That thief Gehazi!--He stripped before thine eyes And showed him all a leper, foul, accursed. _He_ touched thy lips, and every word of thine Vibrates on chords whose deep electric thrill Shall never cease till that wide wound be healed. And then He took thee home. Ay, home, great heart! Home to _His_ home, where never envious tongue, Nor vile detraction, nor base ingratitude, Nor cold neglect, shall sting the quiv'ring heart. Thou endedst well. One step from earth to Heaven, When His voice called "Friend, come up higher."

ON SEEING THE ENGRAVING

"THE FIRST VISIT OF QUEEN VICTORIA TO HER WOUNDED SOLDIERS ON THEIR RETURN FROM THE CRIMEA."

Yes, go to them, the brave, the tried, the hurt-- 'Tis very fitting so! _We_ cannot go-- Some scores of million souls--to tell them all We think and feel: To ease the burden of our laden hearts; To give the warm grasp of our British hands In strong assurance of our praise and love; Of our deep gratitude, to them, our friends, Our _brothers_, who for us toiled, suffered, bled: And left, as we, their dead upon the field, Their comrades tried and true, around Scutari. Go to them, then, dear Queen,'tis very fitting so! _Thy_ hand can clasp for _ours. Thy_ voice express _Our_ hearts. We send thee as our _best_, as so we ought; We send thee as our _dearest_, as thou art; We send thee our _elect_, perfect to fill The office thou hast chosen for our sakes. A gentle woman thou, and therefore tender:-- A loving wife, and therefore sympathetic:-- A mother, thou, and therefore patient:-- Is there a son among those wounded men Has made his mother sad? Thy tear will soften him. Is there a husband kept from wife and bairns? Thy smile will comfort him. Is there a lonely one with none to love? He'll warm beneath thy glance, his dear Queen's glance; And--soldiers all--they'll all forget their pains, And long to fight again, even to fall, for thee. And if for thee, for us; us, who would clasp Their thin worn hands in ours, and smile our thanks, And speak our praise of them, and heal their wounds With gentlest care, each, for himself, if so We might thus ease our o'er-full hearts. Yet happy are we still in this, nay, happier,-- Thou being that _our best; our dearest;_ _Our elect; perfect epitome_ _Of all we would_--that thou dost go to them.

_Great Western Hotel, Liverpool, June 9, 1880_.

TO A CHILD

SINGING "JESUS LOVES ME, THIS I KNOW."

Sing, little darling, sing, And may thy song be everlasting! Not all the learning wits and sages boast Can equal the sweet burden of thy song;-- Can yield such rest amid life's noisiest strife;-- Such peace to still the spirit's wildest wars;-- Such hope to stem the most tumultuous wave May threat to overwhelm. The love of Jesus,-- Sweet, having this thou risest far above All this world's clouds, and catchest glimpse of Heaven.

Did He who blest That infant band that crowded round His knee, See, in a face like thine, a tender memory Of that dear home He left for our sakes? It may be; nay, it must: "Of such," He said, "My Father's kingdom." And His great heart Went out in fondest tones: His soft embrace Encircling such as thou, thrilled out that love That vibrates yet, and still enfolds so warm His tender lambs. Sing, little darling, sing, And may thy song be everlasting.

HOME.

The morning sun shone soft and bright,
The air was pure and clear,
My steady steps fell quick and light,
Nor knew my soul a fear.
For though the way was long and cold,
The end I knew not where,
Hope's vivid pictures made me bold
To wait, or do, or dare.

But ah, the change when evening gray
Curtained a cloudy sky,
And languid, I retraced the way
My feet could scarce descry!
By rugged care my heart was bruised,
Hope's rainbow tints were gone;
To this world's watch and ward unused,
I could but stumble on.

The rough wind's breath, the dark sky's frown
Fell like the stroke of wrath,
When--from above a star looked down--
A ray beamed on my path.
The light of Home--oh, blessed light--
To weary wanderers dear!
The light of Heaven, oh, glorious light
To souls that stumble here!

What matters now the weary road,
My toil shall soon be o'er;
And, oh, at last, at home with God
Life's cares shall cark no more.
Be this my hope! Be this my aim!
Though rough the road may be,
Thy feet, blest Jesus, trod the same,
And I would follow Thee.

LOST WITH HIS BOAT.

Alone--alone! I sit, and make my moan. The fire burns low, the candle flickers dim. Alone--alone! I rock, and think of him. Of him who left me in the purple pride Of early manhood. _Yestermorn_ he went. The sun shone bright, and scintillant the tide. O'er which the sea-mew swept, with dewy drops besprent. Before he went he kissed me; and I watched His boat that lay so still and stately, till Automaton she seemed, and that she moved To where she willed of her own force and law. But I knew better: _his_ was the will That set the pretty sprite a-going. His arms controlled her to obedience: Those arms that lately clasped me. No alarms Chilled my fond heart, nor dimmed my vision. As I saw the fair white messenger move off On fleecy puffs of cloud into the blue; My nearest thought to trim my hearth, and make, A dainty dish would please my darling's taste On his return. And all day long, and through The dreamy summer day, my thoughts were full Of many a gay return; my ears reheard The cheery word and joke were wont to mark them. Nor when the sun went down in wrack and mist-- A mist that gathers who knows how or where?-- Feared I of aught. My little hearth burned bright. The kettle sang, and pussy purred and napped; And--rocking to and fro, as I do now, I hummed a little song; one _he_, had sung In other days, and with the manly tones Had stolen my heart away. The hearth burned low; I ate my meal alone, And something like a fear I chased away, Despite the deepening surges of the wind That scurried round our cot. I slept: and waked What time the summer storm, that rose and fell In sullen gusts, flew by; and slept again, And dreamed a glad return. When morning broke A glorious day begun. The storm was gone: The sparkling waves toyed with the lilting breeze; The merry sun shone bright; and all the blue Was decked with tiny flecks of feathery white. A gladsome morn! But I, I missed my love.

_And now they say he's dead_. Lost, with his boat, In that short summer storm of yesternight. Lost! _lost_! my love is lost! No more may I Welcome his step, hear his glad voice, and kiss His laughing lips. I may not even clasp His cold dead form in one long, last embrace! And here I sit alone.-- I drove them all away, their words but maddened me. Alone I sit, And rock, and think,--I cannot weep-- And conjure up the depths, those cruel depths That chafe and fret, and roll him to and fro Like a stray log:--he, whose dear limbs should lie Peaceful and soft, in rev'rent care bestowed.-- Or in the sunken boat, gulfed at his work, I see his blackened corse, even in death Faithful to duty. O that those waves, That with their gentle lullaby mock my wild woe, Would rise in all their might and 'whelm me too! Oh, love!--oh, love!--my love!

LIFE IN DEATH.

On her pale bier the baby lay, And healthy children from their play, With tip-toe awe and bated breath, Came gently in to look on Death.

One touched the flowers that decked the bier; Another dropped a little tear; One stroked the cheek so waxy white; And one cowered weeping with affright.

But one fair boy won Life from Death By that quick faith that childhood hath; And cried, with gaze past present things, "P'raps baby's trying her new wings."

INVOCATION TO RAIN.

MAY, 1874.

O blessed angel of the All-bounteous King, Where dost thou stay so long? Our sad hearts pine, Our spirits faint, for thee. Our weary eyes Scan all the blue expanse, where not a cloud Floats low to rest our vision. In vain we turn Or East or West, no vap'rous haze, nor view Of distant panorama, wins our souls To other worlds. All, all is hard and scant. Thy brother Spring is come. His favourite haunts the sheltering woods betray-- The woods that, dark and cheerless yet, call thee. Tender hepaticas peep forth, and mottled leaves Of yellow dog's tooth vie with curly fronds Of feathery fern, in strewing o'er his path; The dielytra puts her necklace on, Of pearly pendants, topaz-tipped or rose. Gray buds are on the orchard trees, and grass Grows up in single blades and braves the sun. But thou!--O, where art thou, sweet early Rain, That with thy free libations fill'st our cup? The contemplative blue-bird pipes his note From off the ridge cap, but can find no spot Fit for his nest. The red-breast on the fence Explores the pasture with his piercing eye, And visits oft the bushes by the stream, But takes no mate. For why? No leaves or tuft Are there to hide a home. Oh what is earth Without a home? On the dry garden bed, The sparrow--the little immigrant bird-- Hops quick, and looks askance, And pecks, and chirps, asking for kindly crumbs-- Just two or three to feed his little mate: Then, on return from some small cunning nook Where he has hidden her, he mounts the wires, Or garden fence, and sings a happy song Of home, and other days. A-missing thee The husbandman goes forth with faltering step And dull sad eye; his sweltering team pulls hard The lab'ring plough, but the dry earth falls back As dead, and gives nor fragrant fume, nor clogs The plough-boy's feet with rich encumb'ring mould. The willows have a little tender green. And swallows cross the creek--the gurgling creek Now fallen to pools--but, disappointed, Dart away so swift, and fly so high We scarce can follow them. Thus all the land Doth mourn for thee. Ah! here thou comest--sweet Rain. Soft, tender Rain! benison of the skies! See now, what transformation in thy touch! Straight all the land is green. The blossoming trees Put on their bridal wreaths, and veil their charms From the too ardent sun, beneath thy gift Of soft diaphanous tissue, pure and white As angel's raiment. Little wood children Deck all the path with flowers. The teeming earth Offers rich gifts. The little choristers Sing ceaseless hymns, and the glad husbandman Adds his diapason. Bright fountains wake And mingle with the swift roulade of streams. The earth is full of music! Thou dost swing Thy fragrant censer high, and dwellers in The dusty city raise their toil-worn heads From desk and bench, and cry "Summer is here!" And straight they smell new hay and clover blooms; And see the trout swift-darting in the brooks: And hear the plover whistling in the fields. And little children dream of daisy chains; And pent-up youth thinks of a holiday; A holiday with romps, and cream, and flowers. O, Rain! O, soft, sweet Rain! O liberal Rain! Touch our hard hearts, that we may more become Like that Great Heart, whose almoner art thou.

REMONSTRANCE WITH "REMONSTRANCE."

(IN "CANADIAN MONTHLY," APRIL, 1874.)

Why now, sweet Alice, though thy numbers ring Like silver bells, methinks their burden wrong. For if 'tis right, then were the hermits right, And all recluses. And He was wrong Who gave to Adam, Eve: and leaned upon The breast of John the loved. So was He wrong To love the gentle home at Bethany. The sisters, and their brother Lazarus. So was He wrong to weep at Lazarus' grave, Pity's hot tears for Sin, and Death, and Woe. And in that awful hour when manhood failed And God forsook, He still was wrong to think With tenderest solicitude and care Upon his mother, and leave her in the charge Of John. And He was wrong who gave us hearts To yearn, and sensibilities to meet Those "clinging tendrils" thou wouldst have us cut. If thou art right, sweet Alice, There were no ties of infancy, or age; Of consanguinity: or noble bond Of wide humanity, or sacred home: For without love,--e'en our poor earthly love,-- The world were dead. Love is the silver cord, that, being loosed, The fabric of humanity falls wide In hopeless wrack. Well for us it is That when our nature, hurt, falls, shrieking, down, The Great Physician's hand may raise it up And bind the wound. But what mad folly 'twere Did we, like peevish child, beat down the hand, And tear afresh the wound. And this we do When of our morbid selves we idols make, And cry "No sorrow like to mine." O rather should we turn our tenderer hearts-- Made gentler by our griefs--to gentle cares For weak Humanity, and, knowing what woe Our sinful nature brings upon itself, With God-like pity love it but the more.

THE ABSENT ONES.

How I miss their faces!
Faces that I love.
Where I read the traces
Heart and soul approve.
Traces of their father
Scattered here and there;
Here a little gesture,
There a twist of hair.
Brave and generous Bertie,
Sweet and quiet Fred,
Tender-hearted Jackie,
Various, but true-bred.

How I miss their voices
Raised in laughter gay;
And in loving blessing
When they go to pray.
Even of their quarrels
Miss I now the noise,
Angry or disdainful,
(What are they but boys?)
Shouting in the garden,
Spurring on the game,
Calling a companion
By some favourite name.

How I miss the footsteps,
Lightsome, loud, or slow;
Telling by their echo
How the humours go.
Lagging when they're lazy.
Running when they're wild.
Leaping when they're gladsome,
Walking when they're mild.
Footsteps, voices, faces,
Where are ye to-night?
Father, keep my darlings
Ever in Thy sight.

AWAY.

Oh, where are all the madcaps gone? Why is the house so drear and lone? No merry whistle wakes the day, Nor evening rings with jocund play. No clanging bell, with hasty din, Precedes the shout, "Is Bertie in?" Or "Where is Fred?" "Can I see Jack?" "How soon will he be coming back? Or "Georgie asks may I go out," He has a treasure just found out." The wood lies out in all the rain, No willing arms to load are fain The weeds grow thick among the flowers, And make the best of sunny hours; The drums are silent; fifes are mute; No tones are raised in high dispute; No hearty laughter's cheerful sound Announces fun and frolic round. Here's comic Alan's wit wants sport; And dark-eyed Bessie's quick retort Is spent on Nellie, mild and sweet; And dulness reigns along the street. The table's lessened numbers bring No warm discussion's changeful ring, Of hard-won goal, or slashing play, Or colours blue, or brown, or gray. The chairs stand round like rows of pins; No hoops entrap unwary shins; No marbles--boyhood's gems--roll loose; And stilts may rust for want of use; No book-bags lie upon the stairs; Nor nails inflict three-cornered tears. Mamma may lay her needle down, And take her time to go up town; Albeit, returning she may miss The greeting smile and meeting kiss.

But hark! what message cleaves the air. From skies where roams the Greater Bear! "Safe, well, and happy, here are we, Wild as young colts and just as free! With plenteous hand and kindly heart, Our hosts fulfil a liberal part. Nor lack we food to suit the mind, Our alma-mater here we find, And in her agricultural school We learn to farm by modern rule; Professor Walter fills the chair, But teaches in the open air. And by his side we tend the stock, Or swing the scythe, or bind the shock. Nor miss we academic lore, We walk where Plato walked before, And eloquent Demosthenes, Who taught their youth beneath the trees; Here with sharp eyes we love to scan The rules that point Dame Nature's plan, We mark the track of bear and deer, And long to see them reft of fear.-- Though well they shun our changeful moods, Taught by our rifle in the woods. Yet we may tell of mercy shown, Power unabused, the birdling flown,-- When caught by thistly gossamer-- Set free to wing the ambient air. Cautious we watch the gliding snake, 'Neath sheltering stone, or tangled brake, And list the chipmunk's merry trill Proclaim his wondrous climbing skill. The bird; the beast; the insect; all In turn our various tastes enthrall; The fish; the rock; the tree; the flower; Yield to quick observation's power. And many a treasure swells our store Of joys for days when youth is o'er. Our glowing limbs we love to lave Beneath the lake's translucent wave, Or on its heaving bosom ride In merry boat; or skilful guide The light canoe, with balanced oar, To yonder islet's pebbly shore. Sometimes, with rod and line, we try The bass's appetite for fly; Well pleased if plunge or sudden dart Try all our piscatorial art; And shout with joy to see our catch Prove bigger than we thought our match. Oft when the ardent sun at noon Proclaims his power, we hide full soon Within the cool of shady grove, Or, gathering berries slowly rove And often when the sun goes down, We muse of home, and you in town; And had we but a carrier dove We'd send her home with loads of love."

POOR JOE.

He cannot dance, you say, nor sing,
Nor troll a lilting stave;
And when the rest are cracking jokes
He's silent as the grave.

Poor Joe! I know he cannot sing--
His voice is somewhat harsh:
But he can whistle loud and clear
As plover in the marsh.

Nor does he dance, but he would walk
Long miles to serve a friend,
And though he cares not crack a joke,
He will the truth defend.

And so, though he for company
May not be much inclined,
I love poor Joe, and think his home
Will be just to my mind.

FRAGMENTS.

* * * * *

"I WISH YOU A HAPPY NEW YEAR."

A happy year, sweet as the breath of flowers:
A merry year, glad as the song of birds,
A jocund year, gay as brown harvest hours;
A prosperous year, rich, as in flocks and herds.

* * * * *

THE LIFE-BOAT MAN.

When the loud minute gun alarms the night, And plunging waters hide the bark from sight, When lurid lightnings threat, and thunders roll. And roaring tempests daunt the trembling soul-- 'Tis thine, O Life-boat Man, such fears to brave, And snatch the drowning from a watery grave.

* * * * *

"I am learning the stitch," the lover said As over her work he bent his head. But the scene spake plain to the mother's eye "I am watching these busy fingers ply." And ever anon when a stitch she'd miss, 'Twas because he bent lower her hand to kiss. Oh tender lover, and busy maid, May the sweet enchantment never fade; Nor the thread of life, though a stitch may miss, Know a break that may not be joined by a kiss.

* * * * *

THE SWEET GIRL GRADUATE.

A COMEDY IN FOUR ACTS.