112

UPWARD AND ONWARD.

Linger not in thy low dwelling,
Where no prospect thou canst see,
Save one dead unvarying level,

Which seems all the world to thee.

Up, and climb the steep before thee,
With a strength till then unfelt,
Looking down with grateful wonder

At the spot where thou hast dwelt.

Thou wilt see thy brother told thee
No wild fancy of his brain,
When he said the sun was rising,
Shedding light on hill and plain.

Thou wilt feel the bracing current
Give new life to ev'ry limb;
And, instead of gloomy murmuring,
Thou wilt now rejoice with him.

Toiling on, though rough the road be,
Work and prayer divide the day;
Thou wilt find no time to idle,
Or mark out a brother's way.

If he stumble, pause and stay him;
Help him grasp the nearest limb;

Haply ere the journey's ended

Thou mayst need such aid from him.

THE FRUIT OF SORROW.

Thorns may tear thee, footing fail thee,

Sliding back a little space;

Heed not, take the next step firmer,
Thou wilt reach a resting place.

Worn and wearied, here repose thee;
Still awhile thy panting breast;
Higher peaks are yet before thee,
This is not thy final rest.

Still as higher thou ascendest,

Plainer seems the path thou'st trod, And the prospect lies before thee, Resting in the light of God.

THE FRUIT OF SORROW.

Do NOT cheat thy heart and tell her, “Grief will pass away;

Hope for fairer times in future,

And forget to-day."

Tell her, if you will, that sorrow

Need not come in vain;

Tell her that the lesson taught her

Far outweighs the pain.

113

S.

114

ARE THE CHILDREN AT HOME?

Cheat her not with the old comfort,
"Soon she will forget;"

Bitter truth, alas! but matter
Rather for regret.

Bid her not "Seek other pleasures,
Turn to other things;"

Rather nurse her caged sorrow,
Till the captive sings.

Rather bid her go forth bravely,
And the stranger greet;

Not as foe, with spear and buckler,
But as dear friends meet.

Bid her with a strong clasp hold her,
By her dusky wings,

Listening for the murmured blessing
Sorrow always brings.

A. A. PROCTOR.

ARE THE CHILDREN AT HOME?

EACH day when the glow of sunset
Fades in the western sky,

And the wee ones, tired of playing,
Go tripping lightly by,

ARE THE CHILDREN AT HOME? 115

I steal away from my husband,
Asleep in his easy chair,

And watch from the open doorway
Their faces fresh and fair.

Alone in the dear old homestead
That was once so full of life,
Ringing with girlish laughter,
Echoing boyish strife,

We two are waiting together;

And oft, as the shadows come, With tremulous voice he calls me,

"It is night! are the children home?"

"Yes, love!" I answer him, gently,
"They're all home long ago;"-
And I sing, in my quivering treble,
A song so soft and low,

Till the old man drops to slumber,
With his head upon his hand,
And I tell to myself the number
Home in a better land.

Home, where never a sorrow

Shall dim their eyes with tears!
Where the smile of God is on them

Through all the summer years!

116

ARE THE CHILDREN AT HOME?

I know!—yet my arms are empty,
That fondly folded seven,

And the mother heart within me
Is almost starved for heaven.

Sometimes in the dusk of evening,
I only shut my eyes,

And the children are all about me,
A vision from the skies;
The babes whose dimpled fingers.
Lost the way to my breast,
And the beautiful ones, the angels,
Passed to the world of the blessed.

A breath, and the vision is lifted
Away on wings of light,
And again we two are together,
All alone in the night.

They tell me his mind is failing,
But I smile at idle fears;

He is only back with the children,
In the dear and peaceful years.

And still as the summer sunset
Fades away in the west,

And the wee ones, tired of playing,

Go trooping home to rest,