IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 I.! '-IM ■ 50 '""^= ^ 1^ 2.5 2.2 M L8 \M llA. ill 1.6 *^ VW / '<3 ^m ^? ^^'^ /;=% J o;;> Photographic Sciences Corporation m h s n un seui cliche, il est film6 d partir de I'angle supdrieur gauche, de gauche d droite, et de haut en bas, en prenant le nombre d'images ndcessaire. Les diagrammes suivants illustrent la mdthode. rata 3 telure, I d 3 32X 1 2 3 1 2 3 4 5 6 ■— w /^// A W^REATH OF WILD FLOWERS ■.*«- Bf ^ M. J. THAYERS. ftis TORONTO: PRINTED BY MOBTON & CO., 40 CHURCH STHRBT. 1877. PREFACE. It was the intention of the writer of these poems to have issued a book of larger size, but circumstances have prevented her from doing so ; hence many pieces have been withheld which would otherwise have ap- peared ; but she trusts these few " wild flowers from thought's wild field " will be looked on w ith a kindly eye by the indulgent reader. A fairer wreath I would have brought, * A garland beautiful. Without a weed, where ne'er a leaf Would wither or grow dull. But say not these which now I bring Have all been twined in vain. For most were gathered in dark days, And wove in hours of pain. ^■: Toronto, April, 1877. M. J. T. •^ m *;-:» / . 1. ' 1 1 i 'J: , J ''''■.* . 't<-. MOTHER'S ROOM. ■J, ,i:- Bright, airy rooms and spacious halls, ^ i And beautiful emblazoned walls. Sweet scenes of every shade were there, And all was beautifully fair Around my childhoods's home. Ii . ' My heart clings round the dear old times, . When sitting 'neath the shady limes .. ,- Watching the white swans glide away, , Or listening to the fountains play, A happy boy at home. f .-,■, .[ j* But sweeter far than all the rest One spot there was I loved the best ; t In every nook were books and flowers. And there I passed my brightest hours. It was my Mother's Room. * And rocking-horse, hoops, bats and balls. Kites, spades, and toys round play-room walls, I'd leave them all and steal away, :,. / E'en story-books aside I'd lay To find my Mother's Room. A smile, a kiss would welcome me, And then I'd climb upon her knee, My little head lean on her breast, And never long for sweeter rest. Than found in mother's room. A WREATH OF WILD FLOWERS. My little sorrows she would hear. And kiss away the falling tear, Then I would never more feel dull, All was so bright and beautiful In Mother's little room. In gentle voice she often read, What our Lord Jesus did and said. And then I'd kneel low at her side, While she asked God to guard and guide My life in that dear room, ' • - ^ ■ My boyhood's days are gone, are fled, And mother slumbers with the dead ; And other scenes now greet my eyes. And round my heart cling tender ties ; But, oh ! that little room. ■ . ; .■ . , 1, ,. ,. 'Tis held in fond remembrance dear, For every gentle word and prayer. Forget that room I never can, " For if aught's noble in the man, \^-- *Twas wrought in childhood there. ' No spot on earth can be so dear; '^ -* With gentle tread I enter there, For mother's hand was on my head, '■ When voices whispered, " She is dead," And bore me from the room. ^'^ 7/ 'Tis guarded now with sacred care, oT We seem to feel her presence there ; Fresh flowers do every morning fill The vases on her table still ; And when our hearts with grief are riven, Or if we want to think of Heaven, We go to Mother's Room. A WREATH OF WILD FLOWERS. OH! LEAVE ME NOT YET. Oh ! stay awhile ; stay awhile ; don't go away ; Kind, beautiful birdies, I've something to say. I love all that is lovely, pure and true. My soul is now longing to chatter with you. So many dear friends have gone my heart loved. Whose friendship I've tested, who faithful have proved. Then, sweet, timid treasures, a little while stay ; I love you, I love you — oh ! don't go away. The pale summer roses have faded and fled, The jessamine blossoms lie scattered and dead, And all the fair flowers are saying good-bye, , And some of your mates no longer are nigh. Yellow leaves are lying all withered and sere I Though Autumn's soft footsteps are scarcely here. * At the loss of these friends, my eyelids are wet, ,<; Then, beautiful songsters, oh ! leave me not yet. • For life is so chequered, true friends are so few. My heart-strings are twisted and twined about you ; E'en grief falls asleep 'neath your soft, soothing lay, Then, dear little birdies, oh! don't go away. And yet it is selfish to ask you to stay , " --^ When I owe you far more than I ever can pay ; But, birdies, sweet birdies, my bosom doth swell, Oh! I feel it is hard to bid you farewell. ^' '■:'" ^"" But should I be gone when next you appear, One cherished request I ask with a tear ; Will you find out the spot where they give me a grave, And sing o'er my dust, 'tis all that I crave. V \ ¥: 8 A WREATH OF WILD FLOWERS. A BROTHER'S LOVE, OR THE CAT'S RAPHAEL. >i Silent and coIH the poor young artist sat, The easel SLu*.iding close beside his chair, i ; A weeping boy, bending o'er a dead cat, - Stood on the canvass, freshly painted there. Bending in sorrow o'er the much-loved dead, , ■ In silent grief the artist's brother stood, With lips pressed close, close to the cold forehead, And then he wept, wept tears like unto blood. My brother! oh! my brother! can it be ' That I have found thee thus, he murmured low ; Oh! Gotfried, would, would I had died for thee, Then I had never felt this crushing blow. I know thy name will live while artists be. Lovers of art will twine thy wreath of fame ; But, Oh ! my brother, what is that to me ? For it will only gild a dead man's name. ' ' But could'st thou smile again, and feel the kiss ' Which now I press, press on thy cold, dead brow? Oh ! Gotfried, this would give me deeper bliss : ' Than all the flowers Fame's hand may offer now. The world thy name at one time never knew, But as a poor, a poor, half-witted boy ; But we, we two in love, together grew. No mother's smile did fill our hearts with joy. ' We knew she died, and slept low in the grave ; ' ■ That she had loved us ; but we knew no more. Oft, hand in hand, we watched the grass there wave, There oft we wept, because we were so poor. A WREATH OF WILD FLOWERS. 9 But now thy name will pass from tongue to tongue, Another Raphael will the world now see ; But I must weep and sigh, and sorrow long : Fame will not give my brother back to me. She cannot light again those faded eyes, To rest in Love's soft radiance on me. This dear, dear hand, cold, motionless it lies — She cannot make the blood run v/arm and free. Thy voice, so mute, she cannot let me hear ; She cannot bring the smile I loved to see ; She cannot make thee feel thy brother near. Nor can she tell what grief is his for thee. My brother — thou'rt dead — all else is blank to me. "A LITTLE CHILD SHALL LEAD THEM." i brow ? i; r now. oy. A child rose from her slumbers. And bowed her sunny head, Folded her little fingers Beside her snowy bed. For blessings through the night, Her simple thanks did pay, And prayed the Angels might Protect her through the day. The sceptic father heard The little lisper's prayer. And all his views absurd Were buried then and there. " A little child shall lead them;" The Bible tells us so. - ^ lO A WREATH OF WILD FLOWERS, •Ui A dying child moaned low,,, ; y£^r4<^,-| t«j|| "Oh! father do not sin, God's kingdom, pa, you know, , ,,, , ,: g Will take no drunkards in." ,/ tnnj.'! And written on her brow >.tf ],-,#! «!t'. ^iA(^ Was infantine despair ; w? v, ,; * ! E'en Death softened his brow, j*j;1 T Touched by the dying prayer. The pearly gates of light /y^^^v-^'kiiV' Opened, and she passed in, ;;ir"f.'> kd^l And on the self-same night r> jo: n^v *wi ■; The father ceased to sin. " "A little child shall lead them;" . "■' The Bible tells us so. ^ ■'t'^. t ■ A tender mother lay ] Upon her dying bed. And found it hard to say, *' God's will be done," she said. The struggle lasted long, • Then came deep inward peace ; 'Twas by a soft sweet song ^ Our Father sent release — i. . i ,l'i Sung by her own dear child — The theme — " God's Fatherhood :'* The dying parent smiled, ,. And left her babe to God. *-r^-i^ ••A little child shall lead them;" — The Bible tells us so. A WREATH OF WILD FLOWERS. V u BE KIND TO THE LOVED ONES AT HOME. oit.n Reserve your best smiles deep down in your heart, When you with acquaintances roam, And when you have done with the world's busy mart, Go lavish them freely at home. Retain your best looks whoever you meet, And however life s billows may foam ; Oh ! cherish sweet love, for life-joys are so fleet, For the dear ones toiling at home. ■ i ■J As actions speak louder than words anyway, Then scatter sunshine and not gloom, 'Mong the loved ones who study your comfort by day, And at eve make cheery your room. * Press gently the hand or give a soft look, ^ 1 For your favourite tasty repast, » A richer reward than trinket or book, "•- --j To keep a heart warm to the last. / - Your home may be lowly and you may be poor. And far from the land of your birth. But if love's golden star shines in at your door, 'Tis the brightest abode upon earth. Oh ! cherish the loved ones that walk by your side, While over life's desert you roam ; If they should go first o'er death's waiting tide, And enter the bright, better home; 'Twill cheer you to think, when left alone sad, And pining for those who made your heart glad, You were kind when they were at home. ■■«'* ■.X- S5 i is : 12 A WREATH OF WILD FLOWERS. ;:lUO] COME AND SHELTER HERE. >t W . ,jU\:r- J..< - ,/!:: (THE BOYS' HOME, TORONTO.) - Come, friendless, homeless orphans, Dry the scalding tear. For tender, loving voices Bid you welcome here. ' •' '■(< " *%*'? i ,1 Come, poor, neglected children, From sad haunts of sin ; ' : Here hearts brimful of pity Wait to take you in. , - r ■ Come, little, wandering outcasts. Frozen with the cold : O ! come and find warm shelter In this welcome fold. Come, destitute and helpless. Sorrowful and sad ; You, who have had no childhood, •■^ O! come and be made glad. •' Come, ragged, hungry, dirty. No harsh words you'll hear, , ; Love, sympathy and comfort. Food and raiment here. f Come, lonely and forsaken, ' Poor, deserted boys ; O! come and share Home's blessinsfs. And all her offered joys. Come, kindly hands will guide you To a nobler road, Which leads to honour, happiness. And finally to God. A'. ' ■ 1 jt» A WREATH OF Wn_D FLOWERS. Followers of Him who came - . , , To seek and save the lost ; ■ * .' Fulfil His blessed will, , And keep his sacred trust. , > Gather the outcasts in, And win a star-gemmed crown ; , Do it alone for Him, Who for the lost came down. ^ Soon will this life be o'er ; Soon will your race be run ; - - -^^ ; Soon will you hear your Saviour's voice Pronounce the glad, " Well done." " Because ye did it unto these, The very least, for me : Come V'p, ye blessed, enter in, ' ' . ,' ' And all My glory see." 13 '.e: f,', 1 ,• X ^ '. p. ^ ;. ^ , J*) t / "" ; 1" THE WANDERER. He bent low o'er the burial stone Of her who loved him best ; Hot tears were falling one by one, Down where her head did rest.' Mother, he murmured, sad and low. Oh ! would I now could rest My aching head, my throbbing brow, Once more upon your breast. For you would draw me close, and kiss Away this burning pain ; Would love me still ; yes, even bless Your binning boy again. i:: 14 A WREATH OF WILD FLOWERS. You, mother, would not Albert say ; But Birtie — my pet name — My mother, you would kneel and pray, Not tell me of my shame. Oh ! would I were again a boy, ' And hear you fondly say : " Bertie, my sunshine, pride and joy ;" But, oh ! 'tis passed away. They're gone, they're gone, those precious days Forever passed away ; Oh, mother ! mother ! Bertie prays To sleep low with thy clay. How oft we sat, those bright, bright days, Beside your white-rosed tree, Where still the sparkling fountain plays, I nestling on your knee. You spoke so tender, soft, and low. Called me a treasure rare, When stooping down to kiss my brow, And stroke my curly hair. Oh ! could I but those days recall, So full of bliss to me. Such beauty through the wide-world all I ne'er again shall see. ^H^'p' Come back to find my mother dead ! Dead ! all my heart did crave. Nowhere to lay my weary head 4.^,/^' But on my mother's grave. i^t, / A WREATH OF WILD FLOWERS.^ Oh! mother, mother, now above, - In everlasting joy, ^, Oh ! will you not look down in love ' . On your repentent boy. Blest spirit, O ! Methought you could Calm my wild grief to peace ; Henceforth I'll walk where walk the good, By help of God's free grace. Sweet angel mother! be my guide, f Till life's last path is trod — ,,, Until I find me by thy side, | In the pure light of God. . ti ON THE DEATH OF THE REV. GEO. LEWIS, p. M MINISTER, TORONTO. ONT. Tears are falling, hearts are sighing, For a noble life is gone ; For a Prince in Israel's fallen. Fallen with his armour on. Fallen, and the Church is mourning O'er her great, her gifted son ; Fallen, doing glorious battle, And the victory's early won. Fallen — but attending angels ' -"* Bore the spirit home to God ; Borne on snowy wings of Seraphs, To its pure, its blest abode. Hosts of worthies now made perfect. Hail him welcome to the skies ; From the highest courts of Heaven, Soft, sublimer notes arise. mi I 1 6 A WREATH OF WILD FLOWERS. As the great, the grandest plaudit Comes from Jesus' lips, "Well done," v' Enter rrood and faithful servant, Tako the crown so nobly won. Brethren, weep, but gather nearer , The great shadow of the cross ; Lift the blood-stained banner higher, For the Church ill spares her loss. Widow, clad in sable robes. Mourning now in sorrow deep, Lean upon the arm of God, Faithful will his promise keep. . I Husband tender be to thee, ,.SW Father to thy darling child, •Through the darkness safely guide, To the palace undefiled. There to find your precious dead, Never more to say farewell ; i ?! Ji There to prove thy loss was gain, i And He doeth all things well. Parents, mourning o'er the grave Of your cherished much-loved son. Heaven the mist will clear away. Why his work so soon was done. Why so early sink to rest. Why first go the brightest, best. Heaven the great grand truth will tell, He liveth long who liveth well ; How deeds are measured and not years, Will all be seen when Christ appears, To meet the rising dead. ! * A WREATH OF WIjlD FLOWERS. ,47 ON THE DEATH OF MR. D. LEWIS,* ( Who Died While Stiulvii,« for the P. M. Ministry.) ' He sleeps in death's deep solemn sleep • _^^;^^dow and fond parents weep ; While orphan-babes look on and si^h And ask. Why did our father die ? \ He sleeps, and will no longer rule Christ's nursery— the Sabbath-school— No more the church his aid will share— '^ No more will hear him plead in prayer. ^^ He sleeps ; but 'tis a blessed sleep ; .V So calm, so pure, that angels keep 1 heir station round the sleepers tomb, Sheding soft sunlight 'midst the gloom. He sleeps ; and all life's toil is done ; r 1 he battle's fought, the crown is won ; l^aith gently draws the veil aside. And bids you look o'er Jordan's tide. " She smiles, and pointing up on high, ' Whispers— he lives, no more to die- He lives where sorrow ne'er shall reign :— He lives, and you will meet again ''ill'i'l 1 8 A WREATH OF WILD FLOWERS. TO THE MOON ON A MISTY NIGHT. Why dost thou veil thy face, Beautiful Queen of night ? Why hid'st thou thy calm, soft smile, Beautiful Orb of light ? O beautiful, pale moon ! Would'st thou a lesson teach To us poor mortals who oft crave For things beyond our reach ? Or dost thou shade thy brow, That we may look beyond The fading joys and hopes of earth, Of which we grow too fond ? And would'st thou bid us look Through sorrow's veil of night To scenes of radiant, rapturous joy ; And floods of sweet delight ? :! Would'st speak of yonder land. To our benighted minds. Where beams of purer, rarer light Than thy fair radiance shines. ■f I r » i 1 ill r !. , , .' I - THE RAILROAD. Two children — a boy and girl — Both full of life and glee, ^ The little boy some six years old. The baby-girl just three. " Sis," said the bright-eyed laughing lad, " Let us at railroad play, I'll be conductor, engine too. The gaiiie will be so gay. -'*v?m A WREATH OF WILD FLOWERS. This low foot-stool shall be the car, And you the passenger, And when I puff and scream and shout, Sit still and do not stir. Get in — sit so — now, we will start ; But mark you what I say — Don't speak until I name the place ^r Where you intend to stay." A puff, the stool flew o'er the floor, And then stopp'd with a jerk ; >* And with a voice full loud the boy Named his first place — "New York." Backwards and forwards went the stool Across the play-room floor, He shouting places till he found He had no more in store. All towns and cities — all he knew — Not many had been given ; Then, as a last resource, he stopped, And cried out loudly, — " Heaven." And then the little passenger, In lisping tones, but clear, Said : " Dis must be the nicest pace ; I des I'll det out here." Oh, would we larger children learn, -'^'^ When gracious calls are e^iven To leave earth's gay pleasure car, ^"^ Which oft leads far from Heaven : Hear, 'mid the empty songs of earth, Strains from the higher sphere, *^' And bid the driver stop, and say, " I guess I'll get out here !" w^ 20 A WREATH OF WILD FLOW KRS. SONS OF THE SEA-GIRT ISLE. (Respectfully dedicated to the Sonn of England Bent'volent Society.) From whence came ye ? Who were your sires ? Can ye true kindred claim With that brave race and glorious land Which heads the scroll of fame ? Can you call that proud land your own Which gave those heroes birth ;—''^'* • A land whose light illumes the world, And gladdens all the earth; — " <.,<' ■'' A land of happy cottage homes, And proud ancestral halls ; — jM A land on which the smile of God Serenely, softly falls ; — A land that's blessed with Bible-light, And Heaven's most gracious smile, — Upheld by good and righteous laws. Is Britain's sea-girt isle. * , Standing beneath the red-cross flag — Whose glory gilds a world — -; Peace, happiness and love abound Wher'ere it is unfurled. Beneath that grand old glorious flag, — Beneath its folds of light Well may ye boast of pride of birth. And glory in your right. Beneath its wide, w ide sheltering folds, From every clime and tongue, Outcasts and homeless wanderers May find redress for wrong ; A WREATH OF \\ IH) FLOWERS. Borne high by liberty, it waves A welcome full and free; Tho' old and battle-worn, it is The pride of land and sea. My brethren! have you ere forgot ^ '' Where first you knelt in prayer, Where first you saw a mother's smile, And felt a fi^ither's care ? Have you forgot those temples fair Which stud the God-blest soil, Tfi:> Where voices blend and prayers ascend, From peers and heirs of toil ? ."^ i Can ye forget those classic halls, That grace your native land, • '•': Whence culture sendeth forth her sons, A royal, noble band ? Can ye forget those graves where lie The great, the wise, the good — The brave, large-hearted ones who gave For freedom's cause their blood ? 31 Can ye forget those deathless names, That beams on glory's scroll, — Those names that cannot but inspire, Nobility of soil. Then, oh ! my brother Englishmen, Your birth-right ne'er disgrace ; Remember, ye are offsprings of A noble, generous race ! Remember ! that your glorious sires Were men of truth and might. Stand to their motto, nobly stand — " For God— God and the Right !" 22 A WREATH OF WILD FLOWERS. Uphold, ye Sons of England, >; . Your country's world-wide fame ; .,. Walk worthy of the land you love,- Worthy the land you claim. IN BETTER CARE. I loved him too fondly, I loved him too well, With a wild idolatrous love ; God removed him and gave him in tenderest care, To a better child-lover above. I Friends folded his robes, and gathered his toys, And put them all gently away ; And I thought that the sun had forever gone down, And not left behind him a ray. And I stole to the room, away to my dead, And kissed the beautiful clay; *.. Then fell on my knees, and leaned my lone head On the little white coffin, to pray. And slowly my tears fell on the fair buds That gleamed in the soft, sunny hair, And rolled on the shroud, and the dear little hands So cold and unearthly fair. And I vowed by the side of my beautiful dead. Where I read Death's message so plain. That I never would worship unlawfully more, And never make idols again. ^ ■ And I thought, as I kissed the sleeper's pale lips, They whispered " Amen " to my prayer. And the rose-buds that circled the beautiful head Smiled sweeter and lovelier there. A WREATH OF WILD FLOWERS. ONE OF GOD'S HEROES. 33 .-•J. ; Close the door softly, — come gently away ; He is resting forever ; my son ; He was one of God's heroes that poor peasant lad, And his heaven-wrought crown is now won. Yes ; one of God's heroes ; He has many down here Both strong to suffer and bear, Who struggle and win in the battle q( life, * But their brows are unlaurelled down here. , 1 5 /, They follow their Leader— Christ Jesus, our Lord ; You heard his name often to-day ; 'Twas last on the lips of that sufiering lad. Who has just passed from sorrow away. w as They are true noble heroes ; God's heroes, my son, Tho' their names the world may not hear ; They are written in tears— oft written in blood- On a scroll that surpasses all here. God's heroes are found in every land, No matter what name or what race ; They fight and they conquer, they suffer and do, Through the strength of His matchless grace. .jy— m;^to;.i.'^.;yyj,^ ^-^^.^ .^ ^ . ,i^0ffj-jj-fii^if^ 24 A WREATH OF WILD FLOWERS. YEARNINGS.* Oh, how I long to wander in the woods, And sit beneath some sheltering, shady tree. To bend and kiss the beautiful spring buds, Then gaze around, and God in Nature see. av^ ^<).^ Oh! how I yearn to tread the mossy dell, *^*' And nestle on the fair, green, grassy sod, ?' ■ And revel 'mid the scenes I love so well. Beauties admire, where I in health oft trod. Oh! must I never, never rove again At silent eve, and view the sleeping flowers ? Must, must I linger on this couch of pain, Far from those beautiful sweet shady bowers ? If so, then Father! give, oh give thy child — ''^^ Thy wandering, faithless, erring one, A tem.per meek, and resignation mild ; Oh ! help my heart to say, " Thy will be done." *Writtfn (Iniing affliction. a:« & ctO THEY BROUGHT HIM ON HIS SHIELD. They raised the youthful warrior from The blood-stained, gory field. And laid the brave, dead soldier boy, Down on his battered shield. And e'en in death, the lad's proud eye Seemed to retain its fire. As though the fatal blow had raised His daring courage higher. A WREATH OF WILD FLOWERS. 25 And tho' the blood-bespattered brow No frown wore now 'twas cold, A flush of joy seemed resting on His cheek of Grecian mould. And round the beautiful carved lips, Curled something like a sneer, To let his Spartan Mother know. Her boy had known no fear. .f{^-,. And if no glossy laurel twined Around the pale young brow ; Dark crimson drops had left their stains, A prouder wreath to show. The mother, bending o'er the form, Dead on the shield she gave, Read in the features at her feet, Her cherished boy died brave. Long, long and silently she gazed. And kissed, with a sad smile, The gift, the noble gift which Heaven J* Had sent her for awhile. f -/i tl 'f-*^ THE DYING SAILOR BOY. Tbv y bore him from the deck, and laid ;: Him in his hammock low. And his bronzed brow, where smiles oft played, Looked pale and solemn now. They tliought their favourite was dead, And all stood silent round ; But when they raised his wounded head He faintly breathed, they found. M tt$ A WREATH OF WILD FLOWERS. When conscious, he looked all around, And drew from 'neath his head • A Bible, very neatly bound, And, smiling, calmly said : — " This precious book my mother gave To me before she died, She said, would I be good and brave, This book must be my guide. " I took it from her dying hand — So very white and fair — Meet me. my boy, in yon blest land, Was mother's dying prayer. " She drew me close to fondly press Her pale lips on my brow, And passed away with that last kiss,- I feel its impress now. ./A " Ernest, I'll give this book to you ; Prize it wher'ere you roam ; You'll find its every promise true ; 'Twill guide the soul safe home. " When I fell down from yonder mast. All fear it chased away, And now this hour has come —my last- Its truths are all my stay. "Just read about those mansions fair — The chapter's marked in John — I'd like to hear those words— so rare — Of Christ's ere I am gone. A WREATH OF WILD FLOWERS. Thank you ; don't cry ; Vm going home — Home to those mansions fair, ^.. And you'll come, Ernest, won't you come ? Oh! say you'll meet me there. " Hush, Ernest, hush, my mother's come ! ^ Look ! 'tis no time for tears. Her robe is bright with Eden's bloom ; V^ See ! what a smile she wears. # " You cannot see her ? She doth bend Low o'er my hammock now. Ernest, do look; love, beauty, blend ij..^ y ^. Around her saintly brow. " O mother, angel-mother mine !" (No other words were said). And with a smile so pure, divine. Low drooped his curly head. No waving plume, no tolling bell, No stately mouring car ; No empty ^^aei, but hot tears fell O'er that young British tar. > .: In silence bent they o'er the dead ; '' Blanched was each sun-scorched brow ; The glory of the wave they spread, And all was ready now. r Then gently — as with woman's hand — They raised the lifeless form ; — A shudder passed through that brave band That never feared a storm. 28 A WREATH OF WILD FLOWERS. The waves were still ; the wind just sighed- In keeping with his sleep — With quivering lips they let him glide Low down into the deep. A dull, sad sound ; — then all was o'er ; He found a sailor's grave ; They gazed, and saw ; but saw no more — A ripple on the wave. HE SLEEPS WITH ENGLAND'S DEAD. He sleeps with England's great and good, With England's noble dead ; Where could her favourite statesman* sleep But in a royal bed ? His name had been a tower of strength — When foe's the land did dread ; Where could she lay his head to rest But with her mighty dead ? Familiar he with every court, Each cabinet well he read ; Well worthy now a name and place With England's princely dead. The lowly and uhe noble born Wept when he bowed his head. And cried his resting-place must be With England's glorious dead. *Lord Palmerstou. ,. ., , » , . ■;,* A WREATH OF WILD FLOWERS. At home, abroad, his deeds were known, World-wide his greatness spread, And so they laid him gently down With England's matchless dead ! ON THE DEATH OF THE REV. WM. LYLE, P. M. MINISTEK, TORONTO. '•-.J. No hostile foes were nigh, '* % No sound of battle-cry, • ' t ;; l ;$ But calm the warrior lay, viewing the sunlit shore, Where white-robed victors stood, waiting his com- ing o'er, And angels standing by, ; . : To bear his soul on high. . ' ' ' Music, sweev, soft and clear, -- . - Falls on his dying ear, — A holy smile illumes the conqueror's face. And beams from glory-land enlightens all the place, A grand, sweet scene is here. Too sacred for a tear. Then came the last fond look, '--^ .- f : And the last words were spoke " *' " ' To dear ones gathered round. — ■ -v ?^^ This was the last request his quivering lips let fall : — " Speak not of me, but Him ; say Christ is all in all," And then Heaven's glory broke; The ransomed spirit took Flight to celestial ground. 30 llln it If i 7 A WREATH OF WILD FLOWERS. BEAUTIFUL TREES. mj: Ye beautiful whispering, towering trees, > How sweet to the soul is such company ,' Softly I list for your voice in the breeze Bringeth no mystic language to me, Beautiful, waving, rustling trees. Lifting your crown-crested heads to the skies, With soul enrapt I tearfully gaze, Yet with wondering awe and trembling, I List to your musical anthem of pr^^Ise, Beautiful, soul-inspiring trees !J ' ^'^ Whilst I, poor I, so erring, so weak, J Too often forget your Maker and mine, '* "^ For mercies and blessings so seldom I speak, And your hymn of praise is almost divine, ! . Beautiful, grand, melodious trees ! Beautiful, beautiful soul-stirring trees! i'M Teach whilst I rest 'neath your sweet,gentle shade, A hymn of true thanks, our Maker to please, v From the lips of the heart to be paid, Beautiful teachers, glorious trees !| Sing on fair trees, sing on, Your song enraptures me. My sou) is catching every note Of your grand melody. The cloudlets o'er your heads Pause in their airy flight. To harken to your thrilling notes, Then smile and pass from sight A WREATH OF WILD FLOWERS. E'en birds refuse to sing, Silent they perch to-day, To Hsten to your rapturous strain. Spell-bound on branch and spray. ; The flowers at your feet, Look up with lovelier smile, The murmur of the brooks is still, All nature lists awhile. ^ Sing on fair trees, sing on, And charm e'en misery. Sing on and cause some saddened soul To sing in harmony. Sing on, fair trees, sing on. Pour forth your music free. Till old and young join in the strain Of nature's wondrous glee, Sing on, fair trees, sing on. 31 ON THE BURIAL OF HENRY D'ARCY BOULTON, GRAND MASTEH OF L. O. A 0^ BRITISH AMERICA, Who Died at Toronto, February 15th, aged 50 years (f)edkkted to tl^e r - Around the spirit-brow Fair leaves and sweet celestial flowers, Which bloom with deathless glow. Ye maidens fair of Canada, '' ' ^^ • Of you a boon we crave — A boon ye cannot well deny — Weep for the young, the brave. Go, gather blue " Forget-Me-Nots " And sprays of laurel green For him who shed his young life's blood, And died for England's Queen. TO THE LADIES OF THE GIRLS' HOMEJ GERRARD STREET, TORONTO. [On seeing a letter in the '• Leader," of August 27th, 1875, signed] by " G. E. S.," asking for flowers and books for the sick.] Dear Ladies, — I read in the " Leader " last night A letter from one '' G. E. S," This writer I thought has a beautiful soul, And a heart that can feel for distress. m And I felt very sad because I was poor. And owned so few books, and less flowers ; For I have been sick, hence know how to prize Good volumes and beautiful flowers ; And the writer speaks truth, when he — or she — says, Two things can enliven a room, [hear*" Can soothe the pain-stricken, and cheer the lone And rob the sick chamber of gloom. A WREATH OF WILD FLOWERS. 47 y HOME, TO. 1875, signed] bo sick.] iast night ul, )wers ; to prize she — says,| [hear<-| ;er the lonel Flowers, beautiful flowers, can speak to the soul, In language so tenderly sweet, Next to God's blessed word, they bid us to lay Our troubles all down at Christ's feet. Our murmurs they hush, and bury our sighs Deep down in the cells of the heart, : • And make us feel sure our Father, our God, The rod in pure love doth impart. They brighten dim eyes, and wreath pallied lips, And bring pleasing thoughts in dull hours ; Weak, thin hands they cause to fold in true thanks To the Maker and Giver of flowers. Oh! sisters I wish I had plenty of books. And a plot of beautiful flowers. To aid on your sweet, gentle mission of love, And help to make brighter dark hours. A tear or two fell on the letter I read — The letter but yesterday penned ; And I laid the " Leader " aside with a sigh. Because I had nothing to send. TO A HYACINTH. (Standing by my sick couch.) Welcome, thou lovely, charming flower, Again thou com'st to cheer my room ; Thy beauty gilds the passing hour. Thy sweetness drives away the gloom. Emblem of hope, thou fairest flower — ;,, Perfect in form and full of grace, Beautiful thing, in gentle power Thou tell'st of love, of joy, and peace. 48 A WREATH OF WILD FLOWERS. Thou speak'st of summer joys to come — In gentle tones sweet tidings bring, More dear to me than rose in bloom, Thou sweet, thou lovely child of spring. Beautiful gem of Flora's train, I cannot help but love thee best, - ^'^jv For thou did'st come when grief and pain Both dimmed my eye and heaved my breast. I hail with joy thy sweet return ; Thou'st won my heart, sweet pretty flower J; I love, love well all Flora's train, But thou must be my favourite flowerj Dear flower — of pale sweet lavender. Rising 'mid tapering leaves of green, I bless the hand that sent thee here, — A tender comforter thou'st been. THE PICTURE. H! I:' ^ ,»*: i (Taken from a small Photograph.) - Yes, 'tis thyself, my gentle boy. Those lips, those eyes are thine ; The same fair brow, round which I saw The flowers of genius twine. The same fair brow these lips have kissed. And yearn to kiss again ; The same sweet look that gave me joy, Now gives me heartfelt pain. How oft, oft have I seen thee look As thou art looking now, — Thy hair brushed back — a crown of light Wreathing thy lovely brow. ing. A WREATH OF WIx D FLOWERS The self-same little classic head That leaned upon my breast, The same soft cheek of rarest mould, This hand so oft caressed. »am breast. flowerg; )wer;. r, 2en, LW The dimpled chin so small and fair, ' . All, all is just the same As when the hours flew joyously, , ' And grief put in no claim. Those bright, those happy byegone days Can ne'er forgotten be ; How many sources of delight ;, i They brought to thee and me. Those soft, brown eyes, they follow me Whene'er I pass thee by, And oft I think those precious lips Do quiver with a sigh. When musing on thee, oft I think '> ' Thou speakest from the wall, ' ' ' And on thy little pictured cheek " ^ ' I see a tear-drop fall. '.' - s\ti .-' { I i'-\ issed, Sometimes thou smilest lovingly, And then my heart feels glad,' And I forget thou art away, Or ever wast made sad. 1^ light Not all the wealth the world doth own Not all its mines of jo}^, Could buy the picture of my dear— My gentle-hearted boy. i li III \n 50 ' / A WREATH OF Wll-D FLOWERS. TO MAY— 1875. Sweet, beautiful May comes smiling this year, How she carries me back to the land 1 love dear, And brings in fuli view the kind ones at home And each lovely spot where my footsteps would roam, To the neat house of prayer commodious and light, With its minister's desk of pure snowy-white. And blue-velvet pannels with wreaths of gilt leaves, Where the pure-hearted men dropped the seed for their sheaves. Then she gently leads me away with soft tread To a beautiful place where sleepeth my dead ; And I kneel me down low by mounds of soft grass. And look through the d' as if it were glass. On calm pallid brows a 'ustering hair — Some glossy and dark, some wondrously fnir, And 1 view pale fingers which oft I have pressed — They seem to touch lightly each flower-wreathed breast, ■..-■• 'H'^?-' v'^--^ -. Dear eyes — I remember each glance and each hue, Altho' they are closed and hidden from view. Deep down in my heart is a feeling of pain — A yearning to see them all open again, And falls on the ground a sad bitter tear, While rises a pang and a dread, dread fear — That more of my loved ones may be with them laid When I kneel again here in memory's shade. May, beautiful May! thy smile cd[\ make glad. But oh ! thou can'st whisper so mournfully sad. For when thou appeared in the year sixty-nine Old England looked gay in that first smile of thine, But my heart and others were fearfully sad. Thy soft soothing voice could not make us feel glad Tho' thou did'st thy best, sweet, beautiful May ! And my thanks at thy feet I tenderly lay, NoJ The But • » r, kar, le .lid roam, d light, -» It leaves, d for their 'cad d; 3ft grass, ss, )ressed — r-wreathed ach hue, ew, A WREATH OF WILD FLOWERS, 5 1 The' six years have passed, I remember all yet — Thy gentle sweet kindness I ne'er can forget, Thou camest on the deck and stood by my side, , That morn I left England, and so gently thou tried In thine own sweet way to make it appear That the scenes I was leaving might all be found here; But sweet, lovely May I cannot here find The beauty, the bliss I then left behind. The " Alexander Marshall " on which we then stood, Thou smilingly said'st all about her was good. And a ray of thy smile fell soothingly soft [On her "stars and stripes" waving high up aloft; jO yes! thou wast kind to me, beautiful May! I And kind to the weeping ones — now far away. And kind to th( oved ones who stood by my side, As we looked our last on the land of true pride, And I thank thee again, mild, generous May IFor striving to cheer us so gently that day. P ! I hail thy return with thankfulness true, Iln thy soft fleecy robes of silver and blue. • ' M' h them laid de. glad, Y sad, y-nine e of thine, ad, THE DENIAL. No, Freddie, I could not give you that top, Nor yet that little round ball, ^ : Tho' it grieves me, child, to deny you a gift ' That seems so triflingly small. | But, there is nothing upon the what-not so dear As that top and companion — the ball. us feel gladi ^^^^ Freddie, I can't look at either at times 1 May ! Without letting many tears fall. P A WREATH OF WILD FLOWERS. But you can't understand how a top and a ball To me should be preciously dear, How two such small things can mo.ke my heart sad Or cause me a sigh or a tear. I- ';■ ::«, -ill I :.i;l ir'iiil But should you from boyhood to manhood grow up, And lose a treasure, a joy. You will know why I prize with the tenderest care Such things as a child's common toy. You will know why I cannot allow you to touch — Except with the gentlest care — That barrow which stands in the corner, or e'en To sit in that little low chair. . ' You will know why I keep locked up in a drawer,] Some things that are sacred to me — Which would puzzle your brains very long to find out] Where their worth or beauty could be. Oh ! the hand that has spun that top. And tossed that little red ball, Has nestled so often in mine, I have kissed those fingers small ; ' , ■ - ■ -,■ - ' ■ - >..,•-■ '•. ,1 It has shaded a little bowed head, Whilst I sent up on high a low prayer That the owner of that little hand r : Might have Heaven's tenderest care. It has passed along my brow — ""'^^ ~ y^ Its touch was familiar tliere ; j.^ _' It has softly carressed my cheek '■"" And played with my unbound hair. in a drawer, ig to find out] be. A WREAIH OF WILD FLOWERS. 53 I have felt it cu;ound my neck At evening, morning and noon ; Oh ! I thought it a beautiful hand ! And treasured it as a sweet boon. The tiniest bit of soft moss, A leaf by the summer breeze fanned, A flower, a blade of green grass Can talk of that dear little hand ; 'Twould throw down the top or the ball, To smilingly, gleefully bring. And lay softly down in my lap An offering of Autumn or Spring. Tis the hand of my living-lost* boy. Who visits me only in dreams ; I fondle and gaze on it still Through memory's wonderful gleams. Oh ! that beautiful, beautiful hand ! I pressed it last with heart-pain, And God only knows if on earth I ever shall press it again. •An adopted child who was taken from us under very painful eircumstances. ^er ELLIE'S FLOWER. Pale, lovely flower, I've come again, To talk with thee awhile, For naught remindeth me like thee How Ellie used to smile. Sweet, fragrant gem ! how beautiful Thou lookest and smilest now ; Ah ! just such pure, sweet light as thine Once wreathed our Ellie's brow. . l!'':l!..i • UUi\: H' '-Mi 54 A WREATH OF WILD FLOWERS. The fragrance of thy breath brings back Her tender grace of mind, 'Twas thy soft voice when Ellie died ' ' ' Which made me feel resigned. " Oh ! had'st thou faded when she drooped And passed with her away, I could not come and talk with thee Of her this summer day. - ' I never should have named this spot My " Resignation Bower," Nor changed thine own sweet name to that We call thee " Ellie,s Flower." Oh! had'st thou died when Eilie died, Naught had been beautiful, E'en songs of birds, of brooks, and trees, All music had been dull. But O thou livest yet, sweet flower, And talkest oft to me — In Ellie's voice — of joys gone by, And joys which are to be. SHE FADED WITH THE FLOWERS. She faded when the flowers died. Our loved, our beautiful ; Drooped in full beauty by our side Just as the days grew dull. „ „ Her brow so spiritually fair, ^ Looked beautiful in death. No shade of sorrow lingered there, No stain from evil's breath. A WREATH OF WILD FLOWERS. 55 , back ed ,■' irooped ee )0t . ' le to that iied, d trees, WERS. de e, The Iashes^K)oping kissed her cheek, And veiled her death-dim eyes,— That beamed with soul-light, soft and meek, Blue as the azure skies. And round her shoulders fell her hair In waves of glossy brown, Fair myrtle-leaves — so very fair, Composed love's woven crown. A beauteous smile which oft did play Around her lips before, , ■; Now settled sweetly on her clay More beauteous than of yore. Her last song lay upon the bed. The pencil by its side, We raised them reverently and read — '• The Robe awaits the bride." We copied out with trembling hand, That last soul-thrilling lay, Then passed it round the household band, E'er we knelt down to pray. 'Twas moistened with the dew of grief. When it was gently laid — Wreathed round with choicest flower and leaf Away within the shade. Pencil and poem, long so long — Have lain with oii'" sweet dead, - - But oh ! the music oi that song Has never, never fled. ■ii ill if! iU ,. • ■ i i il u 56 A WREATH OF WILT) FI.OWERS. 'Twas meet that she, our gentle one, Should die when died the flowers, Should droop when summer-scenes \^ ere gone, And leave life's wintry hours. II 'M ^i\ iiii ■III 'ii'l. ■i'. '■' 1 B' ir HAVE 1 NO THANKS TO BRING? (Written after being restored from a long Affliction.) Father ! have I no thanks to bring ? — No song of gratitude to sing For all thy tender, matchless care, Thy gracious answers unto prayer ? My heart, I know, is prone to sin, But has it no, no cord within To raise one thankful hymn of praise For blessings that illume dark days ; No grateful throb, Father, to Thee For boundless mercies unto me ? In pain Thy messengers were near - Were sent to stay the starting tear ; They softly smoothed my weary bed. And gently raised my drooping head. Whispered sweet tidings in my ear. And bade me trust Thee and not fear. And now Thou hast removed the rod, Accept my thanks, tho' poor, O God, I bring on bended knee. Father ! with reverence I kneel, Accept the thankfulness I feel For blessings great to me. A WREATH OF WILD FLOWERS. LETTERS FROM HOME. 57 Letters from home! kiss after kiss Falls on each written sheet; The dear, dear hands which traced the lines My dim eyes plainly greet. Letters from home ! large tear drops fall, And roll upon the page, And time seems to retrace her steps To youth and childhood's stage. Letters from home! Oh! how they bring Forgotten things to mind ; Forgotten ? nay, they but untie What memory's cord doth bind. Letters from home ! O treasures rare. Bedewed with many a tear ; How sweet, how sacred to converse With those far off, yet near ! How sweet to know a father's hand And heart sends what I hold ; And that a generous brother's love To me doth wide unfold The secret chambers of his soul, The store-room of his heart. That he may add unto my joy. And in my grief take part. With these dear letters in my lap. My brow within my hand, I sit and ponder till I think I'm in my own dear land. A WREATH OF WILD FLOWERS. HE'S A MOTHERLESS BOY. 1 1 Oh ! speak to him gently, he's a motherless boy ; No soft, tender hand his footsteps have led ; Oh ! use him not rudely, no harshness employ, For no mother's breast hath pillowed his head. Oh ! think he'd no mother to teach him to pray. He never knelt down night and morn at her knee;| No voice in soft tenderness taught him to say. Father in Heaven, from evil guard me. Oh ! think, only think of his sad cheerless hours ; A bright sunny childhood never was his ; Tears have stood on his cheeks like dew on the flowers As he sighed — but in vain — for one gentle kiss. No mother to soothe in sorrow and blame ; No soft-loving hand to cool his hot head ; No voice in love's accents to murmur his name ; No mother to kneel and pray by his bed. No mother ! oh, chide him not ; cast 'back your mind ; Your childhood was bright with pleasure and bliss Deal tenderly with him, be lovingly kind. No mother ! what loss can be equal to this ? TO GRACE. Dear Grace, I do not like to hear Such sounding words from you ; Oh ! let us still be girls in heart, As simple and as true. WREAIPI OF WirjJ FLOWERS. 59 less boy ; ve led ; employ, i his head. 1 to pray, at her knee; to say, le. 2SS hours ; his ; n the flowers gentle kiss. ime ; head ; lis name ; bed. : your mind ; ure and bliss. nd. :o this ? Address me as in days gone by, Write in the plain old way, This new — but far from improved style Drop altogether, pray. I cannot think why Gracie writes Me in this high-toned strain. For hers is not a shallow mind, Nor was she ever vain. Though she has passed youths' boundary line, And entered on wifehood. Her simple, gentle, graceful ways Will ever stand her good. Dear Gracie, think of Ella's home- Lit up with love-light sweet — O what a lovely flower-clad bower . ^ For childhood's tender feet ! How swiftly Frank's feet homeward bends When office-hours are o'er. He never fails to meet a kiss And smile at his own door. And all this pure domestic bliss, ' Which Ella's home contains. Is that those gentle, lovely traits Her girlnood had remains. ;! [i ■.-*-'■--— '^Hr^^r -K-.-^^^^-:- THOUGHTS OF AN ABSENT FRIEND. Oh ! Ella, would I had thee here, True friend of heart and mind. We'd roam o'er poesy's thornless fields. And choicest flowers find. 60 A WREATH OF WILD FLOWERS. Oh ! for a pure, whole-hearted friend, My Ella, just like thee, ■ . To cheer me up when I am sad, , , i Or join me in my glee. Come, soothing tears, my heart feels lone, Flow, softly flow, kind tears, . . Come, dew of sympathy — Oh ! come, Dissolve these inward fears. ■rf) Roll, slowly roll, and bring relief, r. ' iii^Or bear away the pain — The longing, yearning, deep desire To see my friend again. iliii iir i ^ 1 ^i Come, as I kneel me lowly down, With brow bowed in my hands. And tell me there's another heart That fully understands. O precious drops! kind, fiiendly tears, To thus, thus freely roll, - * - How tenderly you've soothed my heart, And comforted mxy soul. Each drop has whispered sweetly soft, And has a token given That I shall find some Ellas here , And hosts of them in Heaven. m i ' 4 A WREATH (>ij;^VVILI) K[.OVVERS. < 'TIS THUS THEY GO. $1 ») [On seeing a beautiful flower scatter its unfaded leaves on my flower-Btand.' 'Tis thus our household flowers fall, 'Tis thus our friends depart, Ere life has blighted, beauty fled. Or grief has caused a smart. Tis thus our dearest treasures go, Love's chosen, sacred band ; 'Tis thus they drop into the grave, Touched by an unseen hand. Sweet flower ! 1 gazed on thee this morn With glad admiring eves ; I look on thee this afternoon With sorrowful surprise. , ' f '' '-*■•;■-■ Like thee, our hopes droop and decay. Our idols turn to dust ; They have to fade away and die, To teach our hearts to trust In One — our elder Brother, Friend, Whose all-surpassing love Transplants our drooping, fading flowers To deathless bowers above. There we shall find them, every one, Renewed in loveliness, / > Smiling in sweet celestial bloom, 'Mid Eden's blessedness. i 62 A WREATH OF WILD FLOWERS. THE CHILD VIOLINIST— JAS. G. SPEIGHT. (His laBtPray(^r: — " Merciful Gmi. imiko rocini for u little fellow.") ■t\, I flinll "''^k^: Dying in the dark and gloom, Eather sleeps and cannot see, God of Mercy ; Oh ! make room Eor a little one like me. Dying, dying all alone ; God of Mercy, look and see — Find a spot near Thy white throne For a little one like me. God of Mercy, Oh 1 make room 'Mong yon bright, yon happy band, Where there is no night, no gloom, Let a little fellow stand. God of Mercy, Oh ! make room Near those angels, harp in hand. Where those deathless flowers bloom, Let a Httle fellow stand. God of Mercy, Oh ! make room 'Mong yon blessed company ; Let a little fellow roam With them by yon glassy sea. Let a little fellow stand Near yon fair musicians there, Let him join yon choral band Let him learn their notes so rare. Gracious God, Oh ! let him come, Earth is all too dark for me. Let some angel bear me home ; God of Mercy ! send for me. SPEIGHT. little fellow.") 11 A WREATH OF WILD FLOWERS. ON THE SAME. A child's last dying prayer Which nightly watchers bring— rails on the Father's ear From off the seraphs wing, A prayer so beautiful sublime, It echoes through the sinless clime It charms the dwellers there. 1 63 one ^ band, 00m, 1^ and, bloom, m ea. ere, i o rare. ome, le, ^ [le ; le. The white-robed harpers pause. Pause in their mighty song;' The angels' wings fold close. They wait the answer, Come. It rolls swift o'er the plains of light Haste ! bear the child from earth's dark ni^ht Ve shining ranks, make room ! ' The pearly gates give w^y, And music's favourite child Enters without delay The palace undefiled, And throngs of bright ones crowd to see The young immortal just set free, And joyfully make room. Then scenes surpassing bright Attract his wondering gaze, Absorbed in glorious light, - And Heaven's sublimer rays, As angel-fingers touch the lyre, And hallowed strains rise sweeter, higher. ' To greet the child of song. ^ ^ A WREATH OF WILD FI.OVVERS. Beautiful gifted boy ! Found everlasting rest, And deep unsullied joy, ' ■ . Upon the Saviour's breast. Close folded in those loving arms, No pain, no night, no death alarms, Secure forever there. TO A REJECTED POEM. iiif 1|: Don't blush and hide thy face from me, My child, my slighted one ; Let all the blame be cast on me, For I the ill have done. 'Tis sad my errors, child, should fall On thy defenceless head ; Ah ! how it proves how very far One sinner's guilt ma> spread. Thou'st been a favourite child, e'en from The moment of thy birth, _^-^^ And, like a foolish mother, I Proclaimed thy fancied worth ; And sent thee forth that all the world . Might see thee as I see ; But, Ah ! the cruel editor And I could not agree. A WREATH OF WILD FLOWERS. TO AN EDITOR. Sir, I am sorry that Tgave Vou trouble to return iHose verses, which you seem f„ .k- ■ - Are only fit to burn. """'' ; Ar^:^:i!n:-'^ '— ea TWfi^iy conscious that it would ' Have to submit sometime tor sendmg Mr. Editor . ^ome trashy, senseless rhyme. P.S.-By all that's noble, sir, in 'men Look o'er the folly of my Cn On promise that you nevefs"; Another line from M. J. T. 65 tt TO A CANARY. [After hearing it sin?.] Fair lovely little s'^.ter, HJ^.h^"'"""'' ^^'^^ song H^ called a tear up from my heart And w,th it came along ' A host of tender, varied thoughts Some pleasing, and some sad Aiao' that soft, sweet hy of thine Was sung to make all glad 66 A WREATH OF .VILD FLOWERS. It makes me sad to see thee hang In this dark, dreary room, If thou wer't mine, sweet warbler. Thou would'st not know such gloom. But thou should'st have the sunniest spot. Free from all dust and dross ; I'd wreath thy cage around with flowers, And carpet it with moss. A beauteous palace it should be, Fit for so fair a king ; And I would sit enrapt to hear My little monarch sing! And, when thou sang so sweet a lay As thou hast just now sung, A lump of sugar thou should'st have. And pet words from my tongue. Yes, birdie, I would give thee praise, — Not any (lattery ; I'd tell thee how thy native lay Had wondrous charms for me. Whil'st thou wast singing, pretty one. Some passed and repassed thee, But not one word of thanks thou got'st For all thy melody ! I Bi H, T I Bu 'Twas this that maoo me feel so sad, And drew that tear along ; And makes me chatter to thee now In words akin to song. - * A WREATH OF WILD FLOWERS. Ah ! birdie ; ah ! another tear, And now my thoughts rest on Some other singers, sweet as thou, Not missed till they were gone ! 67 NAUGHTY PUSSY! Oh, kitty ! now this is really too bad ; Ah, well may you scamper and run ; But, pussy, you don't know how sorry I feel At this new piece of mischief you've done. My beautiful fuchsia ! oh, pussy how could You knock it down thus on the floor ? The ladder is broken, the tender young buds — Here are more than a dozen, I'm sure. Lying scattered about. Oh, k'tty, I loved That fuchsia, because it could bring Back the glad look of my boy, when he chose And bore it home for me, last spring. Yes, kitty, it brought the sweet look of content He wore when I gave him a kiss. I was angry, kitty, when you knocked my ink o'er ; But, oh ! that was nothing to this. Had Jabez not told me, a few months ago, To keep you alone for his sake, I would give you away, you naughty young puss ; But now you don't get e'en a shake ! THiL SOLDIER'S FUNERAL. Follow him gently, Drop a tear on his breast ; He d!ed for his country, With the bravest, the best ; its 68 A WREATH OF WILD FLOWERS'. With the greenest of leaves Let his armour be bound, And carefully wrap Our banner around. The gallant old flag O'er his coffin let fall ; He has nobly won Such a funeral pall. Then bear him on slowly, To the beat of the drum. And lay him down gently By the marble column. Oh ! carry him softly Where tears strew the ground, And flowers bloom fair On the warrior's mound. And touch the sod lightly, As ye cover his breast, And leave him to sleep Where the bravest do rest. m ■|r Then solemnly place A slab at his head. To tell how for Honour — And Freedom he bled ! . ,Ui,> id. A WREATH OF VVI.o K.OWEHS. SING, GENTLE BREEZE. Sing, gentle breeze I n • O.Wtnie one low note OUellmroftL ,"°'■''^'''««ll,• ^ome, caim, sweet ^^rh; , ^" voice d,virc^:,t:'p-"g '"■'^'^^^' And fan in deepest Sdy ■^Pon my waiting ear; ^nd tell me hn«, fi, Th n";-^ ;i;r;r' --er^notes " tne days gone by. Oft hast thou sweetly sung Of beauties 'neath the sf v ■ iiut now I cravp , I T- y ' A n^ I M^ ^ "o''er lav And I w,ll tell thee why^' 69 II I- iv! :|1 m m ill:; 70 A WREATH OF WII.D FLOWERS. KISS HER SOFTLY.* Oh, kiss her ! kiss softly her poor withered cheek, Nor think her desire is a maniac's freak. A kiss, gentle maiden, in pity impart, She asks from the depth of her poor bleeding heart ; She asks not a flower, she craves but a bud From the tree that alone can do her real good ; She looks through the misty veil of her tears. To the days, the weeks, the months and long years, When she had not to ask for a bud or a ^lower ; They were lavishly brought from garden and bower. The sweetest perhaps came from her own cherished boy, The pride of her heart, the life of her joy, When he climbed in her lap to reach mamma's brow- It was not pain-penciled with sorrow as now — She may see his fair curls as they carelessly spread Blending with smiles on her darling's forehead : Then grant her request — one — only one kiss ; And give her, oh, give her a rrjoment of bliss ! The green shrub of love in Eden was found. It throws its rare fragrance the wide world around, Then, spare a sweet bud to each wounded one here And life will not seem so terribly drear ; For the bud you now drop, a flower will be given To cheer you below, and delight you in Heaven ! *(A yoiing lady passing through a ward in a certain Lunatic As; lum, was asked by an aged patient for a kiss, whereupon all in t ward craved the same favour.) '--'v-i ■M?*i.' zr 1 A WREATH OF WILD FLOWERS. THE SPANISH GH^SY GH^L. 71 cheek, iing heart;] id good; sars, long years, ^iower ; and bower.I m cherished! ima's brow— low — sly spread 'ehead ". kiss ; bliss ! und, rid around, ed one here ii be given L Heaven! irtain Lunatic Asj jreupon all in t^ Queen of Spain's wandering tribe was she, With soft, sad eyes of brillancy. Dark as the raven's wing. Her step came gentle, soft and slow, Her voice, so mellow, sweet and low. Did music with it bring. The jest was hushed when she drew near, And softer look each brow would wear. Her presence mildness lent ; Her pure sweet smile and graceful mein, Were lovely traits, and oft were seen On some sweet mission bent. She wandered to an artist's room. How could such beauty and such bloom Escape an artist's eye ; Beauty his aim, his soul's delight, Beauty in every form and light Must to his canvas fly. Painting was he an altar-piece. She sat her down with grace and ease. And watched his moving hand, Day after day she silent sat ; She ne'er had seen a face like that In Spain's fair sunny land. " Whose can it be ?" at length she said, " That beautiful, that thorn-crowned head ; Signor, who can he be ? Why wears he thorns on brow so fair ? What mean those cruel, blood-drops there '" Beauty in agony ! 72 A WREATH OF WILD pLOWERS. " That look, it makes my bosom swell, What love, deep, tender love doth dwell In his dim glazing eye ! Tell me, Signer, who can it be, What means that look of agony, Why dying thus, oh why ?" " Why, 'tis the Saviour — Christ," he said, " Of course, you know that, in our stead, He died on Calvary." " I never heard the name before. Oh, Signor, you must tell me more. His life, his history. " Died in our stead ; why, Signor, why-- How can it be that he should die, And thus for you and me ? Signor, you must it all explain. I think you said Christ was his name, Tell me who Christ can be? *' But did he wear a look so rare ? . What deep compassion dwelleth there. Yet grief intense I see ; Thorns must have caused him pain most keen, But oh, what can that death-scene mean. And where is Calvary ? " Tell me, Signor, oh tell me why That gentle one should suffer, die. On a rude cross for me. I would have kissed that bleeding brow ! Oh, Signor, tell, and tell me now. Why did lie die for me?" ^^ ^ A WREATH OF WILD FLOWERS. The artist's hand fell at his side ; He gazed upon the Crucified As he ne'er gazed before ; Then read the words his hand had traced Words that shall never be erased, But live when time's no more. 73 It was one verse, and only one — The sixteenth of the third of John, Placed 'neath his work now done. lie read, and read, and read it o'er — " So loved the world ;" could God do more Than give His only Son ? Light broke, bright, glorious light divine, He looked away from Mary's shrine To Christ, and Christ alone. A new-born joy beamed in his eye ; Christ-Jesus, Prince of Life, did die, Did for all sin atone. most keen, mean, He ne'er had deeply thought before ; For fame he worked, for nothing more, Now fame for Christ must fly. Turning, he saw the girl's dark eye Fixed on his work, and heard her sigh, " Will he not tell me why ?" f -'. '* Tell thee ; O yes, I'll gladly try To tell of Him, how, where and why For a lost world he died ; Redemption's plan for Adam's fall, With soul new-born, he saw it all, —-- And loved the Crucified. " 74 A WREATH OF WILD FLOWERS. With burning zeal, heart filled with love, He told how Christ came from above, Christ spotless, undefiled ; How the incarnate Son of God The path of toil, of suffering trod. And how He was reviled. Weary and worn, went doing good, Wept, groaned and prayed, then shed His bloc And in a grave did lie. The cross he bore, with all its shame, 'Twas thus he did the world reclaim, Now^ all may live — none die. Tear after tear ran down her face — Joy-drops did one another chase, " Thank you, Signor," she said, " I understand it, every part ; A heavy load has left my heart, I feel for me he bled. 'Tis such a wondrous story all. Our father Adam's sin and fall, And Christ our Saviour's birth, Signor, I'll love Him while I've breath, And think of His grand life and death. Long as I live on earth. "He lives, you say, no more to die, Not thorned but glory-crowned on high, _^ A mighty Victor-king ; Worshipped, adored by seraphs there ; Yet stoops to hear the faintest prayer i; That broken-hearts may bring. " M RS. A WREATH OF WILD FLOWERS. 75 h love, ove, So now I need not sigh and weep, Nor dread that cold, deep solemn sleep Which I have feared so long. Now peace, sweet peace pervades my brer st, On Him that died I now will rest, His love shall be my song." )d, shed His bloc ime, lim, die. And now the veil of gloom was rent ; She spoke of Christ where'er she went, Told of His matchless love ; The touching story of the cross Refined her soul of all its dross, Did all her actions move. e s aid, 's birth, ; breath, d death, 3 die, d on high. And thus time fled with rapid wing. The girl her deep, sweet joys did sing As she now dying lay ; Softer and brighter grew her eye. And oft she whispered, " He did die, And bore my sins away." More beautiful her smile became, More sweetly whispered she his name. In tranquil, holy glee; Twas on her lips, both night and day, 'Twas heard just as she passed away, — " Christ Jesus died for me." ■ii' J II •i is there ; - : prayer -^ ly bring. '" 76 A WREATH OK WILD 'MOWERS. TO FREDERICK. (A young poetical friend.) I've read your last most carefully, And more than ever plainly see It takes two minds alike, my friend, In fullest sympathy to blend. The yearnings of a poet's soul To some must seem a blotted scroll, 'Tis fine formed temperaments like thine Can only sound his heart's deep mine, A flower, a shrub, wave of the sea, Can touch, and turn the mystic key, Unlock the cabinets of his soul, ''"hen joy or sorrow forth will roll, av cloudy or sunshiny day Will tune his harp, inspire his lay, 'Tis when far from the noisy throng, He warbles forth his sweetest song. You say you never wrote a poem To satisfy your mind. Well, what of that ? a friend of yours Tells me she cannot find A verse, nay not a single line She owns that pleases well. Eut then I think among our class One thought is to excel ; That is, I mean, by word excel, Clear fitting words to find. To clothe the new-born glowing thoughts Upspringing from the mind. What wonder then. Dear Fred, you think So meanly of your song. When offsprings of a mind like yours Demand an angel's tongue ! RS. nd, 'ol],