Go forth, though ye be humble, Flowers spring up by the highway They need no learned gardeners And for earth's lowly children, -Thank God! when forth from Eden That unto earth, though cursed with thorns, That Eve, when looking downward, Thank God, that with the thistle And still for anxious workers, THE CHILD AND THE MOURNERS. By CHARLES MACKAY. A LITTLE child beneath a tree Sat and chanted cheerily A little song, a pleasant song, Which was-she sang it all day long "When the wind blows the blossoms fall: But a good God reigns over all." There pass'd a lady by the way, She stopp'd and listen'd to the child For she but a few sad days before And as they stood beneath the tree Death had bow'd the youthful head 344 And these three listened to the song, "When the wind blows the blossoms fall, The widow's lips impulsive moved; And though the child-if child it were, Who shall tell? They did not know. SAXON WORDS. By Mrs. CHARLES TINSLEY. OLD Saxon words, old Saxon words! your spells are round us thrown; Ye haunt our daily paths and dreams with a music all your own; Each one, in its own power a host, to fond remembrance brings The earliest, brightest aspect back of life's familiar things. Yours are the hills, the fields, the woods, the orchards, and the streams, The meadows and the bowers that bask in the sun's rejoicing beams: Mid them our childhood's years were kept, our childhood's thoughts were rear'd, And by your household tones its joys were evermore endear'd. We have roam'd since then where the myrtle bloom'd in its own unclouded realms But our hearts returned with changeless love to the brave old Saxon elms; Where the laurel o'er its native streams of a deathless glory spoke But we pass'd with pride to the later fame of the sturdy Saxon oak. We have marvelled at those mighty piles on the old Egyptian plains, And our souls have thrill'd to the loveliness of the lovely Grecian fanes; We have lingered o'er the wreck of Rome, with its classic memories crown'd But these touched us not as the mouldering walls with the Saxon ivy bound. Old Saxon words, old Saxon words! they bear us back with pride To the days when Alfred ruled the land by the laws of Him that died; When in one spirit, truly good and truly great, was shown What earth has owed, and still must owe, to such as him alone. There are tongues of other lands, that flow with a softer, smoother grace, But the old rough Saxon words will keep in our hearts their own true place; Our household hearths, our household graves, our household smiles and tears, Are guarded, hallow'd, shrined by them—the kind, fast friends of years. Old Saxon words, old Saxon words! your spells are round us thrown; Ye haunt our daily paths and dreams with a music all your own; Each one, in its own power a host, to fond remembrance brings The earliest, brightest aspect back of life's familiar things. THE WIDOWER. By SYDNEY YENDYS. In the most early morn I rise from a damp pillow, tempest-tost, That early hour I meet, Isabel. The daily vigil of my life to keep, Because there are no other lights so sweet, Or shades so long and deep, And best I think of thee Isabel. Beside the duskest shade and brightest sun, Outsmiled, outwept by none Isabel. Men said that thou wert fair: There is no brightness in the heaven above- Like thy warm love, Isabel. Men saw that thou wert bright: There is no wildness in the winds that blow There is no darkness in the winter's night, Like thy dark woe, And yet thy path did miss Isabel. Men's footsteps; in their haunts thou hadst no joy: And grief, for life too coy, Isabel. |