« PreviousContinue »
Shall we not mid the silence
Hear voices, sweet and low,
Shall we not see dear faces,
Sweet smiling as of old,
Are sunset clouds of gold ?
O'er life's declining way,
MRS. C. F. ORNE.
A VOICE within us speaks the startling word,
Man, thou shalt never die!" celestial voices Hymn it unto our souls : according harps, By angel fingers touched, when the mild stars Of morning sang together, sound forth still The song of our great immortality.
ALL are architects of Fate,
Working in these walls of Time; Some with massive deeds and great,
Some with ornaments of rhyme.
Nothing useless is, nor low;
Each thing in its place is best, And what seems but idle show
Strengthens and supports the rest.
For the structure that we raise,
Time is with materials filled ; Our to-days and yesterdays
Are the blocks with which we build.
Truly shape and fashion these ;
Leave no yawning gaps between; Think not, because no man sees,
Such things will remain unseen. In the elder days of Art,
Builders wrought with greatest care Each minute and unseen part;
For the gods see everywhere.
Let us do our work as well,
Both the unseen and the seen;
Beautiful, entire, and clean.
Standing in these walls of Time -
Stumble as they seek to climb.
With a firm and ample base;
Shall to-morrow find its place.
Thus alone can we attain
To those turrets, where the eye
Young thoughts have music in them :- love And happiness their theme.
A Bright Chought.
I HAVE seen change—though youth is on my
brow, I have seen change. I've trod the glittering
way Of the loud throng—and lived in lighted halls; Fate too, has called me to another scene, And time has brought its trial. I have passed To life's extremest quiet, and laid down In thankfulness of spirit, that my heart Found joy in that sweet silence. I have said, Let the world heave on in its ocean-noise, I ask but friends and home-and if to these Heaven add the boon of love, my lot is full, And rapture yet may light my pilgrimage.
How sweet is woman's love, is woman's care! When struck and shattered in a stormy hour, We droop forlorn, and man, with Stoic air, Neglects, or roughly aids,—then, robed in
power,-Then Nature's angel seeks the mourner's bower.
Life is but a Gleam.
This life is but a gleam,
A fountain's spray,
One hour of day,
MRS. E. M. SIDNEY.