KINDRED HEARTS.
OH! ask not, hope not thou too much
Of sympathy below!
Few are the hearts whence one same touch
Bids the sweet fountains flow-
Few-and by still conflicting powers
Forbidden here to meet :
Such ties would make this life of ours
Too fair for aught so fleet.
It may be that thy brother's eye
Sees not as thine, which turns
In such deep reverence to the sky,
Where the rich sunset burns :
It may be that the breath of spring
Born amidst violets lone,
A rapture o'er thy soul can bring—
A dream, to his unknown.
The tune that speaks of other times-
A sorrowful delight!
The melody of distant chimes,
The sound of waves by night,
The wind that with so many a tone
Some chord within can thrill,—
These may have language all thine own,
To him a mystery still.
Yet scorn thou not, for this, the true
And steadfast love of years;
The kindly, that from childhood grew,
The faithful to thy tears!
If there be one that o'er the dead
Hath in thy grief borne part,
And watched through sickness by thy bed,—
Call his a kindred heart!
But for those bonds all perfect made
Wherein bright spirits blend,
Like sister flowers of one sweet shade,
With the same breeze that bend-
For that full bliss of thought allied
Never to mortals given,
Oh! lay thy lovely dreams aside,
Or lift them unto heaven.
THE WIFE'S HOLIDAY.
FAIR May unveils her ruddy cheek,
And decks her brow with daisies;
And scatters blossoms as she goes
Through fields and forest mazes.
The fragrant hawthorn, white with bloom,
Fills all the uplands airy;
The grass is dry, the sky is clear--
Let's go a-maying, Mary!
I dearly love, in days like this,
When birds make music o'er us,
To roam with thee through wild-wood paths
And listen to the chorus ;
To help thee over crags and stiles,
And take thy hand in leaping,
And out and in to see thy face
Through leaves and branches peeping.
Ten years have passed since first I saw
Thy fresh and budding beauty;
And love has ripened with the years,
And linked itself with duty.
In life's young spring I swore to thee
A truth that should not vary;
And now, in summer of my days,
I love thee better, Mary!
Time lays his finger light on thee;
Thy cheeks are red as peaches;
Thine eyes are bright as first they glowed
To hear my youthful speeches.
Thine eldest boy is nine years old,
Thy youngest babe two summers;
And thou art blooming like a girl,
'Mid all the little comers.
Bring all the four into the woods-
We'll set them gathering posies
Of harebells blue and pimpernels,
Instead of garden roses.
Beneath the trees we'll have one day
Of frolicsome employment ;
And birds shall sing and winds shall blow,
To help us to enjoyment.
Leave home affairs to shift awhile-
Leave work, and care, and sorrow;
We'll be the merrier to-day,
And happier to-morrow.
I would not greatly care for life,
If Fate and Toil contrary,
Could not afford me now and then
A holiday with Mary.
And Fate is kind to those who strive
To make existence pleasant,
With harmless joys and simple tastes,
And kindness ever present.
We'll not complain; so come away,
And when we want a treasure,
We'll use these May-day memories
To buy forgotten pleasure.
'GIRLS AND BOYS, COME OUT TO PLAY.'
'GIRLS and boys, come out to play,'
And play as long as ye can;
For the lad and the lass see greener grass
Than grows for the woman and man.
The tuffets of golden palm are born;
The spice-wreath crowns the knotted thorn;
The lark and the leveret trample the corn;
And the month is merrie young May.
The moth is full drest, and the bee is about;
The lambs chase each other with scampering rout;
All nature is crying, ' Come out! come out!
Come out in the sun to play!'
'Girls and boys,' come out in your glee,
And leap in the glorious light;
Come, dance in the bloom-kissing wind, and be
As fresh, and as free, and as bright.
The daisies have speckled the upland plain;
The rooks in the dark elms are cawing again;
The bluebell and cowslip are scenting the lane ;
The swallows are flying this way.
The brook ripples faster-all earth tells its joys
In one loud-swelling echo of jubilant noise,
Breathing forth the old chorus of 'Girls and boys,
Come out in the sun to play!'
'Girls and boys, come out to play
And come with a right good will;
Away to the thickening woods-away;
Go, race on the breezy hill.
The blackbird is piping—go, rival his throat;
The cuckoo is talking-go, mimic his note;
There's the field for your bat, and the stream for
your boat,
'Neath the flash of the spring-tide ray.
The primrose is mingling its odorous breath
With the luscious, young violet, hiding beneath;
And the song of the mountain, the valley, and heath,
Is 'Come out in the sun to play!'
Sweet season of promise, of mirth and love!
Oh! shed on our wisdom and age,
A glimpse of the time when we carolled this rhyme,
And the world was a fairy-tale page.
For blessed it is when the heart can bring
The memories back of childhood's spring;
When our spirit went forth on butterfly wing,
And life was one merrie young May.
Oh dear is the vision of music and flowers
That carries our thoughts to the bygone hours,
And whispers again in Fancy's bowers,
'Come out in the sun to play!'
COME all you weary wanderers
Beneath the wintry sky,
This day forget your worldly cares,
And lay your sorrows by:
Awake and sing,
The church bells ring,
For this is Christmas morning!
With grateful hearts salute the morn,
And swell the streams of song,
That laden with great joy are borne,
The willing air along:
The tidings thrill
With right good will,
For this is Christmas morning!
We'll twine the fresh green holly wreath, And make the yule-log glow;
And gather gaily underneath
The winking mistletoe;
All blithe and bright
By the glad fire-light,
For this is Christmas morning!
Come, sing the carols old and true,
That mind us of good cheer,
And, like a heavenly fall of dew,
Revive the drooping year ;
And fill us up
For this is Christmas morning !
To all poor souls we'll strew the feast,
With kindly heart, and free:
One Father owns us, and, at least,
To-day we'll brothers be.
Away with pride
This holy tide;
For it is Christmas morning!
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