Poems

Front matter

by

MRS. ANNIE LANMAN ANGIER

ppoem|{sm} Wild flowers from my heart's garden,

My Muse

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How varied her themes! One moment she sings Of honey-drops, bubbles, and all such bright things; Then she changes her tune; more plaintive her moan, Of life's disenchantments, and youth's visions flown— How holy each lesson! good and true she must be, The friend, who is ever thus singing to me.

I welcome her presence, as welcomes the flower The soft breath of summer, the dew and the shower; Should these be withheld, every blossom must die, And my heart would grow sad, should this sweet singer fly. So I watch for her coming, as waiteth the bee For the first rose of June,—she brings June to me.

Then say, is there no one who kindly will tell The name of this sibyl who weaveth her spell O'er all things around me, beneath me, above, And warbles sweet music wherever I rove— And breathes over all a moral so pure— Hark! a soft voice replies—'tis an angel, I'm sure.

Yes, my muse is an angel, no mortal hath skill Thus to play on my heart-harp, and tune it at will To strains which can strengthen, and solace, and cheer, Bid the face beam with smiles, check the fast-falling tear. Since my songster a friend from the skies proves to be, No more need I ask—who is singing to me?

Bubbles

Some bubbles there are which float longer in air, While most only linger a brief second there; Each bursting at length, there only remains A bitter reward for our labor and pains.

Thus all blow their bubbles, and all see them burst Like those which in childhood we blew at the first; But something is gained, for a moral was found Where our first bubbles broke on touching the ground.

The lesson is this—let your aims be so high That naught this side heaven shall the soul satisfy; Then so far above earth will your strong bubbles rise, They shall bear up their blowers—nor burst in the skies.

Harps and Hearts

Then strike these harps daily, By deed, look, and word; Hearts around us are sighing for aid; And since some are sad, Whom a word can make glad, Say, shall not the kind word be said?

Though countless the stars, Heart-harps are not less, They are playing below and above; But wherever they be, They have one master-key— And the name of that one key is love.

The Death of Moses

He fell not by pestilence, famine, or sword, The dart from Death's quiver was, "Thus saith the Lord:" All power of the tyrant was broken and slain By Him who once died, but now liveth again.

For us in life's desert, life's wilderness road, From the bare, flinty rock hath no crystal stream flowed? Hath no rod of chastisement budded and blown? Through no burning bush hath our Father's face shone?

Then let the stern messenger come when he will, On land or broad ocean, in valley, on hill; We'll welcome the mandate to Moses once given, Yield flesh to the dust, and the spirit to heaven.

The Martyr

He only asks the cause to see Why honest thought should shrink, To side with one, whoe'er he be, That dares to speak and think.

Then be a martyr-spirit thine Which aims the age to guide; That bids the sun of Progress shine. And seeks no wrong to hide; But be thy weapons gentle words, Thy shield, a heart that's brave; No spot more sacred blesses earth Than the humble martyr's grave.

The Ocean's Dead

They heed no more the tempest's shock Or billows dashing wild.

There sleeps the sire whose head was bowed Beneath the weight of years, Whose furrowed cheek the traces wore Of cares, and griefs, and tears.

The blooming maiden lately decked For bridal and for ball; A blue wave is her winding-sheet, The rolling surf her pall.

And manhood, to whose beaming eye The future brightly shone, There lies in dreamless slumber locked, Hope's fairy visions flown.

The haughty monarch and his slave, They sleep there, side by side; One has his sorrows all forgot, The other all his pride.

The noble from his princely hall, The peasant from his cot, On the same pillow rest their heads, And share one common lot.

The pen of man may freely trace The story of the land; But who thy mystery, O Sea, Can fully understand?

O Deep! thy fearful history Will never all be read, Till He who sees thy darkest caves Shall wake thy countless dead.

Life's Similes

O! Life should be like some fixed star, That shines not with a wavering light; But points the wayworn traveller far Beyond the gloom of this world's night.

Since Life should be like dream, flower, rill, Like song-bird and like fixed star; Let each his holy task fulfil, And human hearts shall wear no scar.

Then be our daily life like this— And Death will but a friend appear; A white-robed messenger of bliss, To bear us to a brighter sphere.

The Old Maid

She dwelt in a small town, 'tis now a city— That time will work such changes, more's the pity— Alas! for romance, when the conquering car Of Progress doth such quiet beauty mar.

Now, if at sunset through some shady grove Young maidens with their lovers chance to rove To some sequestered spot, they're sure to hear A factory wheel or locomotive near.

Dost ask this old friend's name? Guess what you will— A flower still blooms, exhales its fragrance still, Though we should call it violet, daisy, rose, Or any plant which in our garden grows,

We called her Fanny, and in days of yore She might have numbered suitors half a score, If bright blue eyes and cheeks of rosy hue Have any power man's hard heart to subdue.

In early life she learned the useful art, A dress to make, from this she "took a start;" And daily went for fifty years her round. Till all confessed her good works did abound.

For she, like Dorcas, coats and garments made, (Kind angels deign to smile upon the trade), And now that Fanny walks no more below, Those whom she served, her "coats and garments show."

But not alone her fingers were employed— Her mind well stored, no useless trash e'er cloyed; She sparkling waters drew from Truth's deep well, As all who heard her talk could quickly tell.

Of priest and sage, of poet grave or gay, Historian, artist, she could "say her say;" Their gems of thought her mental storehouse graced, Once entered there, no line could be erased.

In politics she sided with the right, Her "sober second thought" ne'er shunned the light; In heart a patriot, she could brave a host, Though calm, stern, silent as was Banquo's ghost.

In church, no less than State, she had her choice— The good old prayer-book did her heart rejoice;

Her faith was simple, and her soul sincere, Her trust the merits of a Saviour dear.

She never prated much of "woman's right," Of spirit-rappings, which weak souls affright; The law sustained, nor did that code contemn Which bids us praise the good, the bad condemn.

She bore no malice, but was gentle-souled, Though some the story tell that she could scold; If graceless urchin from her work-room drew Her scissors, thread, bag, pincushion, or threw

Her pieces round, or snarled her basting-thread— That child must straightway from the room be led, Reproved, chastised, till with repentance meek It sought a kiss of pardon on its cheek.

And then the culprit, it must be confessed, Was always in the wrong, for " she knew best;" As all unmarried folks the world can show What children should, and what they should not do.

Her own neat wardrobe cost her little thought, She toiled for others, planned, contrived, and wrought:

In her trained fingers many a dress has grown From scanty pattern, which fact, if not known,

Would make the wearer own the magic skill Which could, from almost nothing, at her will, Evolve a Sunday gown, with "pieces good to mend," In case this wondrous garment chanced to rend.

She met life's changes with undaunted heart. With customs old and tried would seldom part; But fifty cents a day would she receive, Though on it many said they could not live.

I say she abjured changes, could not stand The thought of railroad passing through her land; Yet freely did she yield the cherished right That no one else should suffer, though she might.

Had this good dame been selfish, ne'er would she Have shared the treasures of that apple-tree, Which for a hundred years, beside her door, Did on the ground its golden treasures pour.

That old tree stood apart, no friendly neighbor near— For others leaved and blossomed, year by year;

In Twenty Years

Would'st learn the happiest way to live? Thy ills forget, thy wrongs forgive; Think on them as will one day seem Thy whole of life—a checkered dream In twenty years, ah! twenty years, In less, perhaps, than twenty years.

Our Father's home hath "no more sea;" There mansion fair is waiting thee— Thy bark e'en now the bright shore nears, It moored may be in twenty years: In twenty years, ah! twenty years, In less, perhaps, than twenty years.

Gather the Roadside Flowers

In the gardens of God above: Then gather the roadside flowers, O! gather the roadside flowers.

O! gather the roadside flowers, Not long may we linger here; For shining bands, With outstretched hands, Are calling in words of cheer— Come, gather our roadside flowers, Then gather the roadside flowers, O! gather the roadside flowers.

Give us Sympathy

From each soul's inner chamber Comes forth the ceaseless cry— But give us sympathy, we live, Withhold it, and we die.

'Tis like the gentle dew and sun On tender grass and flower; Like hope to the despairing one In sorrow's darkest hour; An anchor to the mariner Upon life's stormy sea; A star, whose light will brighter shine Throughout eternity.

Thrice happy they who heed the call, And yield the boon thus sought; 'Tis in this way that we obey The holy precept taught. And bearing others' burdens, We lighter make our own— Earth will be more like heaven When this is better known.

Spero Meliora

Spero Meliora—then banish despair, Give thy fears to the winds, for life's battle prepare.

Spero Meliora! an anchor will prove On our voyage through time to the haven above; And Spero Meliora—our motto shall be, When we launch our frail bark on eternity's sea.

Live Like the Angels

Should sickness and want, twin daughters of woe, A dwelling invade, with tread stealthy and slow, O! there be thou found, like an angel of love, To whisper sweet thoughts of a bright home above.

Let good-will to all be the theme of thy song, For justice and truth be thou valiant and strong; To aims high and holy each energy given, This, this is to live like the angels in heaven.

Then seek out the sad ones, when over Hope's tomb Lean sorrow-bowed mourners in silence and gloom; And glide like a sunbeam through cottage and hall, With heart-cheer for each, and a blessing for all.

Be Lovely

Be lovely—when duty to God and to men Is cheerfully done, and we cease to complain; When the spirit at peace with its Maker can say— I have not a wish but Thy will to obey; When all shall thus live, but to scatter good seed, Then will each human being be lovely indeed.

Song for the Flail

Oh! not to destroy, the flail I employ— Far sweeter this voice than the birds To the Husbandman dear, the wheat need not fear— Heart-cheering and precious the words.

Then a song for the flail, the smooth-handled flail-— And a song for the laborer, too; For while threshing his grain, he has threshed out, 'tis plain, A moral for me and for you.

Rabboni

Mary! Rabboni! ah, those words— They touch the bosom's tenderest chords, They tell of life beyond the grave— Of hope through Him who came to save. Rabboni.

Half a Loaf is better than no Bread

And how was her soul Of its sorrow beguiled; When for bread, she was paid In the life of her child!

Be it ever so humble, The gift you bestow, To the heart of the giver A blessing must flow; So long as 'tis true What the proverb hath said— "A half of a loaf Is worth more than no bread."

Norah Nohone

And she yearns for a country, By sin undefiled, Where the sorrow-bowed spirit Is glad as a child.

But she cheerfully waiteth Her summons to go; That home, O! how sweet, Where the bright waters flow; There loved ones yet live, Though they've left her alone; She knows they keep watch Over Norah Nohone.

The Ruminal Fig Tree

All blighted, battered, blackened, bare, It stood, an emblem of despair; We viewed the wreck with silent awe, And from the scene did moral draw; The tree seemed fruitful in its blight, And we were wiser for the sight.

Long, changeful years have passed since then; We've battled in the strife of men, Life's journey trod with wounded feet, Tasted the bitter cup and sweet, Seen blooming hopes fade one by one, Till like that tree we've stood alone.

O! would there were no sadder scene Than blighted trees that once were green— But some are found by sorrow bowed, Dark palls of gloom their lives enshroud; Too oft neglected, blamed, and feared, They stand like trees by lightning seared.

But guard thou, as some holy thing, The heart where grief has left its sting; Deal gently, be he friend or foe, With one who feels heaven's chastening blow; Give love, alms, tears, heart's dew and rain, And Hope's dead tree shall live again.

My World

Unwelcome foe may ne'er intrude The soul's deep peace to mar; Nor doth one cloud of doubt enshroud Faith's ever-beaming star.

No setting sun, no waning moon, In this my world are seen; Among the flowers, in these fair bowers, No serpent's trail hath been.

Through this my world a healing stream Of heaven-born pity flows; Green on its banks the tree of Hope Yields balm for heaviest woes.

I leave my world as quits the bird Its quiet, downy nest, To cheer with song the darkened home, And gladden some sad breast.

For sight of sorrow lends a charm To every poet's lay; And human harps yield sweetest strains When Grief's pale fingers play.

From venom nectar I distil, And sparkling honey-dew;

Then hive them in ray own bright world, Where poison-flower ne'er grew.

The loved seem never lost to me, For in my world they dwell Whom some call dead are living here, Where sounds nor dirge nor knell.

The poet's world—a beauteous world— Would it to all were given; But each may share a home more fair Than his faint type of heaven.

Trials a Blessing

The soul may cast anchor on Him who once said To the sea—Be thou calm; to the tempest—Be stayed. Thus sweet shall our slumber be, tranquil our rest, As an infant's first sleep on a fond mother's breast.

Be calm then, my spirit! Let murmuring cease. There is One at the helm who will guide thee to peace; His word the proud waves in their fury obey; His voice through the storm whispers sweetly to-day— No harm shall befall thee, thy bark is but driven By tempests of earth to the haven of heaven.

Everything Speaks to Me

Bright hues of autumn, That smile at decay; And, saint-like, seem glad To be passing away.

Teachers so gentle, Lessons so wise; Who can resist them? Who dare despise? E'en sages in wisdom, To Nature's book turn; From insect and lily Bid ignorance learn.

Song of the whip-poor-will; Buzz of the bee; Coo of the ring-dove, Flower on the lea; Bird, breeze, and blossom, Stars gemming night's pall; Everything speaks to me, Voices have all.

Passed On

The song-bird tunes its lay Beside the cottage door, Then soaring far away, Its form is seen no more; Safe in a peaceful nest It finds a welcome rest— Hope dawned when they appeared, For thus they sung and cheered; They have passed on— Our holy dead.

The blue and sparkling wave Doth gently kiss the strand, Then distant shores to lave It hasteth from the land; A blessing to bestow Thus onward did they go; Now, like that wavelet bright, They shine in heaven's own light; They have passed on— Our holy dead.

The grain to the scythe doth yield, Or the sower had lost his toil; No sigh is heard when it quits the field At his will, the lord of the soil. The reaper's shout was loud, When they to his sickle bowed;

Now the glad Harvest Home is sung, For they are bound the sheaves among; They have passed on— Our holy dead.

Oh! they soothed like the south-wind, They sung like the bird. Like the wave's gentle murmur Their voices were heard; They were ripe like the grain, Then thy sorrow restrain; For to them with the wheat a place hath been given, And they are now safe in the garner of heaven; They have passed on— Our holy dead.

Since death's dark shadow flings Its pall o'er human love, Who doth not sigh for wings, For wings to soar above? Who doth not long to go? For none true bliss can know, Till of them it is said, As of our holy dead— They have passed on Our holy dead.

Faith

Faith bids us learn "In all things to rejoice;" Faith is an altar, Where doubt must be laid, Faith says in the tempest, "Be not afraid;" Faith is a refuge From every snare, Faith nerves us with courage The burden to bear; Faith is a well-spring Of peace to the mind, Faith opens closed lids, Gives eyes to the blind, In Faith's gallant vessel We sail o'er life's wave, Faith flings a halo Where Hope finds a grave; Faith is ours for the asking, Then let none despair, Faith plucks from the bosom The arrows of care; Faith lifts the dark curtain That covers the tomb, And Faith's kindly lamp Enlightens its gloom;

Faith triumphs o'er all Nor is vanquished by Death; But the grim King of Terrors Is conquered by Faith. Then pray that this boon To all hearts may be given, Till Faith turns to sight 'Mid the glories of heaven.

Counsels

Be calm, my pulse, now cool and slow Should be thy crimson current's flow— Be calm, my pulse.

Be glad, my soul, on Time's fleet wing Thou'rt nearing an eternal spring, When Hope's fair buds shall know no blight, And sunniest day need fear no night, And Wrong no more shall conquer Right Be wise, be strong, be calm, be glad, Stand for life's conflict armor-clad. Be wise, be strong.

Go, Tell it to Jesus

Go, tell it to Jesus, Ne'er closed is His ear; E'en the cry of the raven He deigneth to hear. His pity will soothe thee, His pardon shall save, His grace bid thee triumph O'er death and the grave Go, tell it to Jesus.

A Farewell to Youth

Then breathe not a sigh, though the years passing by From thy form rob the grace, steal the light from thine eye; Though Time on thy brow leave the traces of care, And his fingers silver threads twine in thy hair.

No cloud on the spirit, no tear on the cheek, A peace in the soul which the lips cannot speak; With faces all radiant, beaming and bright, Thus kindred hearts greet in the fair land of light.

Hark! voices are telling of bloom that fades never— And sweet visions come of a blissful forever. O! home of eternal youth, holy and free, Heaven grant all at last may find shelter in thee.

Sunny Spots

If thou hast dried the widow's tear, Pitied the orphan's lot, Then thou hast felt, amid the gloom, There was a sunny spot.

If to the humble couch of pain Aid thou hast kindly brought; And poured upon a wounded heart The balm it vainly sought; If thou in prayer hast meekly bent, Within thy lowly cot, Then thou hast in life's desert proved Thyself a sunny spot.

Then, what though down the stream of Time Thy bark be rudely driven? The Pilot's hand is ever near, To guide thee safe to heaven. Earth's weary children then shall find, When every care forgot, They calmly rest, secure from fears, The grave a sunny spot.

Christmas Carol

In poverty, sickness, death, sorrow, and care, The servant doth only the Master's lot share.

To Bethlehem's stable we come not to-day, With gold and frankincense, our tribute to pay; Each heart is an altar—the pure sacrifice Of spirits meek, contrite. He ne'er will despise.

His love—it is changeless, his hand will uphold His arms bear in safety the lambs to His fold; The Good Shepherd giveth his life for the sheep; Then say—shall we doubt Him, or murmuring weep?

No! grateful and glad His sweet will to obey, In our hearts we'll enthrone Him, and welcome His sway; And trust in His promise, so graciously given, The faithful on earth shall be crowned His in heaven.

Then a greeting to all—on this bright Christmas Day— And O! as we joyfully speed on our way, May Peace on our souls fall like dew on the flowers, And Faith's lamp illumine life's dark, wintry hours.

Watch and Wait

Hath fickle Fortune faithless proved, And closed her liberal hand? Are laurels drooping on thy brow By Fame's soft breath once fanned? Watch and wait.

True Virtue, in her conscious worth. Both sneer and frown defies; When her pure gaze is heavenward turned Bright grow her tear-dimmed eyes. Watch and wait.

To gray-haired matron, hoary sage, Alike to small and great; 'Tis wisdom's voice through Nature speaks, And bids us watch and wait. Watch and wait.

Then be thy motto—watch and wait— Be strong to bear, to dare, And Hope shall tinge with rainbow hues The night of thy despair. Watch and wait.

Meet Me in Heaven

To bid adieu to care and fear, Exchange for smiles each burning tear, To wear a crown, to share a throne, To call an angel's bliss our own: Nor is this all—who join the blest, And—meet in heaven—shall know the rest.

Guardian Angels

They whisper in the dull, cold ear, Kind words of peace, and hope, and cheer; Then heavenward the freed spirit bear.

Say, would'st thou share their mission blest, Who guide earth's weary ones to rest? This holy task is given to thee, For ere Death's hand shall set thee free, A guardian angel thou may'st be.

Our Secret

And up in those bright mansions, Where all is pure and fair; We'll break our long kept silence, And tell our secret there!

Just Seventeen

Can friendship ask for more than this— The smile of God thou ne'er may'st miss; That bud to beauteous rose may grow, Rill merge in river's peaceful flow.

And then at last in yonder heaven, To stream and flower may place be given, For all that's beauteous, bright, and free, A fitting emblem finds in thee.

A song for thee, thou maiden fair, Of graceful form and shining hair, Of birdlike voice and footstep light, A sons for thee this festal night.

Heart Yearnings

Such humble boons arc all I ask, They're boons that each can give; These boons bestow, and earth shall know That not in vain you live.

These yearnings of the human heart, Oft breathed in tears and sighs, When met will lo these homes of ours Restore lost Paradise.

The Berry Harvest

It matters but little what garment is worn, Ten chances to one that the dress will be torn, For coat, hat, and bonnet, the worst ones will do, But guard well the feet, or this tramp you may rue.

Thus clad, sally forth, and the forest will smile, Gray rocks shall re-echo your glad song the while, The old will grow young as the past is lived o'er, When some joined their sport who will share it no more.

No daintier meal for the best need be spread, Than berries and milk, with good old-fashioned bread; How oft when a child, followed supper like this, A kind father's good-night and a fond mother's kiss.

Alike for us all, both the great and the small, Is heard in the soft breath of summer the call— My fruit-feast is ready, wide-open the door, For low and for high, for the wealthy and poor.

Then hie to the harvest, boy, matron, and maid, Of viper or vermin let none be afraid; And gear up the horse for the sickly and old, For berry-time, sure, is our true age of gold.

The Child Seers

Human flowers of mould celestial, Rare mimosas seem they such, With their lightest tendril trembling At good spirits' slightest touch.

To the poor man's humble dwelling, And to homes of wealth and care, Come these beaming forms of beauty, Like God's angels, unaware.

Not found by Scottish burn alone, On Irish moor, in English glen, But in all climes are child-seers known To cast their sacred spell o'er men.

Links uniting earth to heaven— Things above with things below— Of the child-seer's holy mission This, and this is all we know!

The Dying Husband to his Wife

Crown, harp, and raiment spotless, white, Will soon be mine, in the land of light; Then wear no mourning robes for men White, like thy soul, let thy garments be."

A look, a smile, a murmured prayer, And those pale lips closed, but the hallowed air Still echoed the dear, familiar tone, "In heaven the true heart claims its own."

The uncaged spirit upward sprung, While its "welcome home" was by angels sung; And now, beside the crystal sea, He watching waits, dear heart for thee.

A Vision

Who, who is this visitant? softly she sighed, Then paused, yet no lips to her question replied, But the veil gently lifted, revealing to view Her own radiant form, while a voice she well knew—

Said—This crown is heaven's guerdon, the conqueror's sign, On the brow of the faithful till death it shall shine; Still, still uncomplaining thy daily cross bear, Through that if thou conquer this crown thou shalt wear!

Like a white lily bending, so holy and meek, The dew on its petals, heaven's breath on its cheek; The sleeper awoke, to her soul had been given A glimpse of their rapture who waken in heaven.

Bay View

Tall trees, pointing upward, breathe softly of heaven, While from scent-laden breezes this message is given: Come, worship in Nature's grand temple to-day, On her moss-covered altars thy thank-offering lay.

Oh! fair Winnisquam, in thy waves' gentle flow, I seem to hear voices I heard long ago; They whisper of crystal sea, laving that shore, "Where the loved from the loving ones part nevermore.

Our Birthdays

Our birthdays benedictions are, A consecrated boon; Thrice welcome, like the mellow light Of Autumn's harvest-moon.

Our birthdays! happy birthdays, They friendly beacons prove To cheer the world-worn traveller, And chide him should he rove; They speak, as did the burning bush, To listening prophet's car; And wise are they who reverent turn As well to heed as hear.

Our birthdays! solemn birthdays, Time's sentinels they stand, While each from out his watch-tower cries The foe is close at hand; These mentors mark Death's onward march, Monition kindly given; Life's mile-stones—may they record bear We're one year nearer heaven.

Name Not the Dead

Oh! never say, name not the dead, It soothes the sufferer's lot To whisper in the dying ear "Thou shalt not be forgot."

Name not the dead! Oh, speak not so, The low voice seems to say, Of one who like a dream of bliss Passed from our earth away.

Then never say, name not the dead, Their memory is given To link the chain good spirits weave Between our souls and heaven.

No! never say, name not the dead, These gentle accents come From lips long since in silence sealed, The silence of the tomb.

The Walk to Emmaus

"Brother! thou dost remember well The words the Prophet spake; That on this day from death's dark sleep To life He would awake.

'Tis true, in Joseph's new-made tomb, Where his loved form had lain, The search the holy women made For their dear Lord was vain.

Yet some who curse His holy name— Ah! I have heard them say That hands of those He called His friends Have borne Him hence away.

And so, with doubts my mind is torn, When fain I would believe; What think'st thou, brother, can it be That He would thus deceive?"

While these dark fears their bosoms swell, More thoughtful grows their mood; When on a sudden, by their side A meek-eyed stranger stood.

With gentle voice He asked them why With tears their eyes were dim? Why on the balmy breath of eve Was borne no sacred hymn?

Then one the simple truth explained, That Christ, their Lord, was dead, And they had seen the sepulchre In which their Hope was laid.

Then nearer to their side He drew, Soft were His words and mild, As on their ears the tale He poured Of Mary's sinless child.

'Twas meet that He should drain the cup That to His lips was given. For with His dying groan He cried— "I ope the way to heaven"?

And now the sun's last golden beams Are fading in the west, And they have reached their village home And gained their place of rest.

With haste the table soon is spread, Though frugal be their fare; They turn to bid their Guest partake, When lo! what sight was there!

Where just before the stranger stood, Disguised in humble mien, A form more bright, a seraph form, With radiant brow was seen.

He takes the bread, a blessing craves In tones more sweet and clear Than ever fell from human lips, Or broke on mortal ear.

There lingers on the hallowed air A voice, 'tis Mercy's own; And while they breathless pause to hear The stranger-Guest is flown.

But ever in their glowing hearts, Did they the story bear Of a risen Saviour's dying love, That day recorded there.

A Dream

Infant sister, infant brother, Yet one more, and still another— Severed links of houshold chain, When will they unite again? Hears the soul this answer given— They shall meet who live for heaven.