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' errata d to It e pelure, ;on d n 32X 1 2 3 1 K 2 3 4 5 6 . ; .. w^ ■:A STKAT LEAVES. i ^TUAT ZEM:fESi A COLLECTION OF- POEMS. BY MRS. J. P. GRANT i^ t PRINTED AND PUBLISHED BY JOHN LOYELL. 1865. ?G ?'■' V ? 3 ^ng 152949 1 i ! i :a V ■I CONTENTS. m PA'iK Prefack '^ Address to the Old Year <^'2 Affliction 87 A Legend of Courtney Hall H Angels ^^ Anotlier Life 51 Bella 132 Canadian Amusements: — Sleighing — Skating — Snow-shoeing — Tobogging l'^^ Charity 44 Childhood 42 Christmas Hymn ^^ Clouds «7 Earth 4(3 Eden • • . 'J9 England '-^^ Farewell to the Flowers 70 Footprints of Christ 5)4 " He tempers the wind." 101 Home 74 VI CONTENTS. l'.VeJxi«ilM$n fwll I ■i WAS evening— and athwart a grand old room, 'The darkening shadows cast a solemn gloom ; No tinted twilight breathing peace and rest, No golden glory lingering in the west, But dark and lowering, shutting out the day, And barricading with black clouds the way, Whilst angry winds in fitful gusts swept by, And distant thunder muttered round the sky ; The tender flowers stood trembling in the gloom. And the tall poplars waved their hearse-like plumes. At the carved lattice, two fair maidens stood. And anxious eyed the distant darkening wood, 12 STRAY LEAVES. With arms entwined, as if or love, or fear. In close companionship had drawn them near ; — One, soft and timid, with a shrinking grace, That from the storm would still avert her face ; The other, with her dark impassioned ejcs, Seemed scarcely conscious of those threatening skies, But still gazed onward through the shadows dark To the small pathway winding through the park : And when the lightning leapt from out the cloud. And the torn forest seemed to groan aloud. When peal on peal, with scarce a moment's space. Shook the old mansion to its very base. And Ida, trembling, murmured in dismay : *' Dear Anabel, my sister, come aAvay !" She turned indeed, but not in fear or dread, And in a hoarse and shuddering accent said : " Oh ! Ida, Ida, what the tempest's rage To the wild warfare that the heart must wa^-e. When all is staked below, and Heaven above, On the weak tenure of a human love ! A LEGEND OF COURTNEY HALL. 13 Nature in any aspect seems more fair Than the low threatenings of that heart's despair. To-night the shadows of this stifling room Seem to enclose me in a living tomb ; Our mother's pictured face upon the wall No pleasant memories to-night recall, — Those soft pure eyes seem ever on me bent, A solemn meaning in their sadness blent ; And though has passed the sun's last lurid rays, I still can fool their ever watchful gaze. Why ! I could almost join the vulgar throng, Who deem our father's wondrous wisdom wrong :- The science dark, o'er which we see him pore, Is it indeed, some foul, forbidden lore ? And are there signs, and influence, and spell. And awful warnings, who can say or tell ? No, no ! 'tis but the dream, that Hdeous dream, That even fled not at the morning's beams, And, Sancta Maria ! still so real seems— V 14 STRAY LEAVES. That nOAY, when I would tell the horror wrung, A chain seems laid upon my heart and tongue ! But you shall hear it ! — Was not that a sigh ? Come nigh SAveet sister, ever, ever nigh." She turned, and locked that soft hand in her own, And thus continued in half-whispered tone : " I dreamed, dear Ida, 'twas my wedding morn, — Perhaps because I think 'twill ne'er be born ! — My spirit, saw myself robed as a bride. And Herbert standing proudly by my side ! I wore that veil bordered with soft seed pearl, That Herbert says, makes me a Spanish girl ! — The veil I stole from you long months ago. Because he praised it, and admired it so ! The Lady Ursel's jewels on my head. Oh ! I would sooner circle it with lead. What could possess me e'er to dream of them, But they were there, each sin-accursed gem ; — I shudder to recall her hideous fate. Or pass her picture if the hour be late ; .1 A LEGEND OF COUllTNEY HALL. 15 M * For though 'tis veiled, I fancy I can hear The sound of rustling garments s^Yeeping near; And e'en our father though sore pressed >vith need, For jewels his experiments to speed, Would rather his life's dream should end in nought, Than its success by those cursed gems be bought, — ^VcU — and my veil was down, and on my feet Were jewelled shoes, and flowers pure and sweet Lay on my breast — and Herbert, too, he smiled That buoyant smile that oft my heart beguiled : Oh! Ida, think you he will still love on, Still pour the wealth of his dear love on one So brown and homely. Were I fair like thee, I could not doubt his fond heart's constancy. You were not there ; in vain I sought to see Our father, bridemaids, priests on bended knee ; The church was empty, silent as a grave, Though tapers gleamed, and flowers strewed the nave ; The six great candles on the altar shone, — Before it I and Herbert stood alone ! 16 STRAY LEAVES. I I saw him press my hand, and stoop quite near, Murmuring some sweet assurance in my ear ; I saw my curls stirred by his perfumed breath, But all around was still and cold as death ! When lo ! a chasm in the pavement yawned. And some dread voice from out the chasm warned ; And when I looked again, all, all were gone. Bride, bridegroom, altar, flowers, there were none ! Only upon the Lady Ursel's tomb — Where gaped that chasm, with its awful gloom ; Lay a few bones, mixed with some jewels old, And a worn rosary, green and damp with mould ! And then I heard a laugh, distant and low, And tread of heavy feet far down below ! But what is stranger still, through all the day The hateful vision wull not pass away ! Still I can see those few poor bleached remains. The gems and rosary still my eye retains. And still that laugh, those heavy steps I hear As if of feet carrying an unknown bier. s A LEGEND OF COURTNEY HALL. 17 Heaven shield my Herbert ! what a storm, what rain ! He will not come to-night, to hope were vain, If only I e'er look on him again. i Ida sat still and silent for a space, Then wistful looked into her sister's face ; " Your fancy, Anabel, is all distrought, The foolish dream, believe me, it is nought But this poor feverish pulse that throbs and beats. I shall call Marion, with her old receipts, — She shall prescribe — but no ; for only see Yonder his horse, glancing beneath the tree. Oh ! Love is swifter than his promise true, And you must read your omens all anew ! Gently, sweet sister, or that heart will die Of rapture — ere to calm it he is nigh ! I warrant with such ecstasy elate. You scarce will tarry till they ope the gate. And dreams and fears, and all love's fond alarms. Be quite forgotten in his sheltering arms. B 11 18 STRAY LEAVES. Wuxi ^mml Christmas had come — for Time's sw And in her chamber Ida sat alone, — Sat gazing in the fire, whose flickering flame Cast trembling shadows as it went and came ; Now momentary light in each recess, And now a pall, with startling suddenness ; Bat in the red light glowing softly there, Ida's transcendent beauty showed more fair ! Her pearly skin, the blush that rose and fell, As some repressed emotion it would tell, — Her long and golden hair that floated round In careless beauty, unadorned, unbound. Touched by the fitful firelight's pleasant glow. In shining ripples o'er her shoulders flow ! But who shall tell the glance that light revealed. Remorse and rapture, both but half concealed : The troubled eye, the red lips quivering there. The soft hands clasped, as if in mute despair ; wines had flov*n, M ^ I A LEGEND OF COUliTXEY HALL. 10 A breviary ]ay forgotten on Iicr knee, All objects lost in that strange reverie. Nor (lid the entrance of her sister seem To rouse her from that deep bewildering dream ! In truth that maiden's step though firm was light, And noiseless, as a murderer's in the night. " We wait," she said, in a deep, quiet tone, " Your presence now, is all we need alone. She touched her sister's shoulder, as she spoke, — Oh Avhat a shudder that slight pressure Avoke ! And Ida, though her soft frame shrank and shook. Rose without word, or questioning, or look. And followed silent, the long corridor, Till Anabel flung wide a heavy door ; — 13ut there she paused in fixed and still surprise. For a strange group met her inquiring eyes. At a small table in that vast old room. Lit by a lamp, that scarce could pierce the gloom, ^hc saw their father, old Sir Courtney, stand, A parchment trembling in his feeble hand ; 3f »■ I I 41 20 STRAY LEAVES. But though m person present on the scene, To close observer, it might well bo seen His thoughts already from the group had flown Back to his studies, and his chamber lone. Another nobleman stood at his side, Older, and with an aspect differing wide — Their father, learned, visionary wild. In worldly wisdom simple as a child ! Lord Orde, — if rumour and report spoke true, — That world, with all its vices, too well knew ; A saffron coloured, deeply withered check, A small dead greedy eye, with age now weak ; Lips, that in vain essayed to meet or close The gumless teeth, would still themselves disclose, But o'er his shoulders, scented love-locks flowed, And rare rich gems upon his doublet glowed ; Whilst on his hands so shrunken, long and lean. Great costly rings on every joint were seen. He stood, propped on a staff, curiously wrought. A LEGEND OF COURTNEY HALL. 21 Some rare sea-monster, from a distance brought, And had, 'twas said, with a great price been bought. At the quaint table, 'fore a parchment wide, With pens and ink-horn ready at his side. Sat a young scribe, as if, his labour o'er, He only waited for that opening door, — And Anabcl, with face of livid hue. Her wondering sister to the table drew. Dipping a pen in the bronze standish near, She placed it in her hand, and whispered clear, Though that low whisper came both harsh and grating : " Sign, Ida, sign ! you should not keep them waiting!" And Ida wrote her name in the blank space ; Her sister's steady finger, marked the place. Then Anabel one moment seemed to pause, A spasm sharp, her brow contracts and draws. She clears it with her hand — the colour came. Slow and deliberately she traced her name ; Then old Lord Orde, in cracked discordant tone, Muttered some tender words, and all was done. 1^. 99 STRAY LEAVES. ! The clerk scaled up the pfirclunont, ^^atliering all, With his employer left the gloomy hall ; Their father, through the scene, nor spoke, nor stirred. Rose and retired, without a sign or word. Anabel turns, as the last footfall dies, — A vengeful triumj)h, leaping to her eyes ; " Now, sister, stay — have you no news to break. No sweet confessions blushingly to make ; Say, shall I speak, or listen first for thine, Thy tale of love, or [Jnsi" '^' i 'Ml li $m\mi U m\j Mml H Y art thou sad, my soul — wliy ever seek A solitude, by sorrow only trod ? Why pour griefs fountain down my faded cheek. Why timid shrink beneath afflictions rod ? Think, there's a time — nor is that time remote When toil, and all anxiety shall cease, Slander, forbear her heart corroding note, And sorrow's bleakest storms be hushed to p^vnce. Yes — there's a time, when free from yearnings vain To happier regions, thou shalt joyous rise. There dwell forever free from grief and pain A happy inmate of the blissful skies. Peace, then, my troubled soul, dismiss thy care. For all life's blighted hopes are 1}looming there. 'V ■' 1' ? j, ■ I iii. *'i l! h Sto i!jtm^ dt n $mMt f''£>'^'^ HOSE is that nameless grave, unmarked by simple flower or stone, Why lies it in that dreary spot, desolate and alone, Beneath the frown of those dark trees, whose heavy branches fling Around the dark deserted spot a gloomy shadowing ? Why lies it thus apart from all those little mounds, that seem Smiling together peacefully, beneath the summer beam ? Oh why is it excluded from the very smile of heaven, As if to its repose alone no latent hope were given ? That lone grave does not coyer one, who in the yellow leaf, Dropped from the stalk of human life to find in death relief ; THE GIJLAVE OF A SUICIDE. 41 Nor hides it one whose infancy became the spoiler's prey, The bud of promise and of hope, untimely snatched away ; Nor is it the last home of her, whose lovely pleasant life Shed happiness and love around — a mother and a wife. 'T is the memorial of a soul, that perished in its pride, Of one who dug with her own hands, her grave, and wretch- ed died. Who recklessly lay down without the hope to Christians given Of wakening from that sleep of death, to happier life in heaven, Unlike the dead whoso virtues still by memory are cherished, Oh truly may wc say that her memorial with her perished. ,''. i in I i i:i i M t i^:: i i 'V»» H U T, joyous little cliildren, — shout, And clap your hands with mirth, Send bursts of ringing laughter out Over the bright green earth. On you the angel's nature rests, Not yet — not yet 'tis fled ; Upon your pure and sinless breasts Is perfect joy still shed. I! Shout, joyous children, shout, — be glad. Ere the dark days creep on. When sounds of mirth seem strange and sad, Or like a dream that's gone CHILDHOOD. When your sweet voices shall grow low, With sorrow in their tones, Resembhng in their mournful flow The wind's deep wailing moans. Drink of youth's sparkling waters, ere Is broke the crystal bowl ; Never again such fountain fair Shall bless the thirsting soul. When day is past, calm lights will rise ; But shine they e'er so bright, The heart, the weary heart still sighs. And feels, alas ! tis night. Thus, when life's glorious morn is past. Though many a bliss remain. Yet pure, unmixed, unclouded joy We never taste a^irain. 43 I '! \. ! ii! ■ I i !9 I EAL gently with thy fellow-man, However lost — however low ; His inner life thou mayst not scan, His bosom's working never know : Condemn him not — thou canst not tell How oft temptation he withstood, From what unguarded height he fell, Or what his yearning still for good. Oh, scorn him not ! 'mid passions wild. May yet remain some holy spot, — The treasured memory of a child. Or mother's prayer, still unforgot ; Perchance some true, unbroken chord May thrill, and vibrate in his heart. That but a sympathetic word To a full heavenly tone might start. III; CHARITY. Despise him not — nor e'er despair ; Be ours the faith that may not doubt That the sweet germ of good is there, Could human eye but trace it out, — That the dull soil, so hard above, Touched by the sunshine and the rain. Warmed in an atmosphere of love. Will yield and soften yet again. To few, if dark temptations lower, The firm and steadfast strength is given Still to resist the evil power : One did it — but He came from Heaven. And ah ! if He, the pure and true. Could hope in every sinner see. Shall we, who stand, because not tried. Forget his God-like charity ? 45 1 1 ':'!'' I !, ( » i 1 i- 1 ■ ■ ■ II 1 I ; ; : 1 r I ,1 ■ '■ ■ . i I '■-■ \\ jk II pleasant Eartli ! still fresh as on the morn 'When angels sang for joy that thou -wert born, Thy balmy breath, thy green and dewy sod. Still fragrant, as if newly come from God, Thy soft and azure sky, stream, momitain, wood, Lovely, as when His voice pronounced thee good ; Sweet native country, of our very soul. Where first we live, and learn life's heavenly goal. Where first our spirit, higher spirits feel. And He the highest, deigns himself reveal, — Scene of our w^orthy toil, our hopes and fears. Bright with our love, and sanctified by tears. EARTH. No aliens wc, thy sacred breast to tread, With mingled hate, hostility and dread. But faithful citzens, that own thy claims, Pledged by sweet memories to yet higher aims ; And thou, no place for exiled hellish things, Usurped by Satan, fanned by baleful wings. No vengeance in thy happy sunlight burns, That paints the grass, and fruit to golden turns ; No threatcnings flash from out the starry eyes That keep their silent -watch, from nightly skies, On thy dear breast, as pure to kneel and pray, As any pavement in the milky way, " Holy of holies" now, we seek to see In what is like, not opposite to thee : ISio strain of Heaven, can wake our hearts to prayer. If thy home music finds no echo there, And saintly spirits throng around in vain, If earthly duties unfulfilled remain ; No stern antagonism may we see Between thy life, and that which is to be, 47 iii I . in] . ^' 48 STRAY LEAVES. Whilst higher states of holiness and bliss Arc but the sequel to the plan of this. Yes, nursery of our souls — loved mother Earth, 'Twas Heavenly Wisdom called thee into birth ; And should that wisdom have decreed the day When thou in ruin shall be swept away, 'Tis not because thy failure was complete. Warped from the purpose, that lie deemed thee meet. But that thy course, full well and nobly run. His plan accomplished, thy long task was done. !l w v^ 1 1! w m IIEN soft, and still, and peacefully, The shades of cvenhig fall. Thy image to my memory How fondly I recall. But not alone at close of day My thoughts shall dwell with thee,- In every moment, sad or gay, Thou 'It ever present be. ' ,j ri^: When in my heart is happiness. And pleasure fills mine eye, I'll pause amid my joyousness To wish that thou wert nigh. n .;*■■ ■)() STRAY LEAVES. Ami wlieii my spirits sink, oppressed, Foreboding sorrow near, Thy image, rising in my breast, Shall cheek the falling tear. And when at night, with sweet emotion. To Heaven I bend the knee, Thou'lt mingle in my deep devotion. And I will pray for thee. fii VI ( If ' 1 1. ^M-Wm m(. c ^.! ^C^X^i ^^ NOTIIER life, aiiotlier life, '^yj^^^^ To heal tlic avouikIs of this, J^^^ %^ Another life to n-athcr up 'N'>/-^ Our shattered dreams of l)Hss : Another life to sweep away Earth's toil, chimeras, fears. To shroud tlic scene where nought is true Or permanent, save tears : V t Another life — hut oh ! so stron"" The chains that bind us here, We only ask that life, in hopes Those dreams will reappear. if .]i .1 b ': o2 STRAY LEAVES. The mother craves her erring child, Caught in some fatal snare, She thinks but of his 07ice pure eye, Her baby's golden hair. The widow still in anguish seeks The lover of her youth ; Remembers not the drunkard's grave, But his first vows of truth. The maiden asks that wondrous light, That once such rapture shed, The youth recalls some fragrant lip. Some smile forever fled. Yes ! all demand some treasure lost, Some blighted faith restored, The broken cisterns, into which Love was so freely poured. ANOTHER LIFE. And was it all poured out in vain, Nought but a piteous dream, Whose very memory must be steeped In Lethe's dreary stream ? 53 Jl i And is not still that memory Sweeter than pictured bliss ? Can any paradise allure, Bought at the price of this ? Ah no ! but God those broken links Will bind, no more to sever, Can they to the dear Father die. Who live to us for ever. > :i 't i ; i if . I' If I % ''■ ll!^ ^mi^;^ ]0w iln '&mm\xlm\mj $t Mi^^pmL EAR, lialloAvcd shade ! so great tliy mighty name, Memorials seem but mockery of thy fame, — Fame, that shall live untouched by time's decay, ^C^'^'^ When pyramids in dust are blown awav, ""^ \ No stone, no marble, no insensate thing, On thy renown can added lustre fling, But living hearts, -warmed by thy spirit's light, From age to age shall keep thy memory bright. We live and move beneath the sun's bright blaze, Nor dream of trophy to record his praise, — So thy great genius needs no sordid pelf. Varied, munificent as Nature's self, That pours forth flower, and herb, and grain, and root, Scoops lovely valleys at the mountain's foot ; Embosoms in the Ocean's raL>;ini!; breast Islands that breathe of Paradise and rest. LINES ON THE TERCENTENARY OF SHAKSPEARi;. And over all — the lowly and the grand — Pours floods of beauty with a lavish hand. Great, and akin to Nature as thou art, We can but brin"; the homaire of the heart, — That heart, whose red leaves thou so well couldst read ; Its throbbing pulses, and its aching need. Its love, ambition, ecstasy, despair, — All the wild passions glowing, seething, there ; Whose every phase thy hand could bring to view. Holding " the mirror up to Nature " true. To day when Nations in their ardour vie. To celebrate thy birth with pi\3ans high ; When statesman, poet, orator, and peer, With holy reverence at thy shrine appear. Vain and presumptuous seems this weak essay, But the great subject will embalm the lay ; And one, — who in thy ever wondrous page, Could weary toil, or bitter grief assuage, — One heart, thou still canst elevate and raise, Here drops its mite of gratitude and praise. •y>) w 111 m i ii- 1 • 1 ,1 1 jl ; i' i r ■11 ■5 Hi ^ HEY say no angels, as of yore. Seek our abodes of care ; We entertain them now no more All unawares. Yet well I know one came to me, Fresh from the happy skies ; And I too dull to pierce or see The thin disguise. I thought him a dear child of earth. Although a gift divine ; And wildly claimed him from his birth As mine, all mine. ANGELS. 57 i- ; And busy thoughts, my burning heart Would ever more engage, How he should act a glorious part On Life's great stage ; How he should climb the starry heights Of science or of song ; Or nobly stem the mighty stream Of vice and wrong. I thought his mission and his fame Should spread o'er land and sea ; How could I dream an angel came To teach but me ? He left a little grassy mound. With hallowed memories here ; He took a wrung, but chastened heart Up to a better sj^here. u >■ I'. 'it ;l| t J ill I W r " Ai'e not our days Days of unsatisfying listlessuess?" — Shelley. IIAT ! and do all God's precious gifts But vain and empty prove ? Shall no true joy the bright eye lift In happy grateful love ? Because some little lamp goes out, Shall we not see the sun — Despise the pure gems spread about, If one prove false when won ? What though some little fount run dry, Shall we forget free springs — One folse note mar the harmony, That through the glad earth rings ? HUMAN LIFE. h[) All ! God be praised, there arc true hopes That never may take wing ; And flowers of joy in human hearts, For ever blossoming; : .i\ And there are ever burning lights, So warm, and true, and high, That sin, and death, and sorrow's night Their living rays defy : \ . w And there are true and fervid souls. Who all his bounties feel, — Hands that are clasped to thank His love. And hearts that grateful kneel. I'!,!l 'm I iH\ It 1 J Wmt^ U u '^im0n. C>'po EAR girl, thou askest mo to write, And something say of thee ; I do it with sincere deHght, — Best wishes it shall he. Perchance, thou mayst be doomed to know What sorrow waits on life ; The numerous ills of want and woe. And passion's ceaseless strife. Thou yet mayst have to writhe in pain At slander's poisoned tale ; Thou yet mayst suffer pride's disdain, And tearful tread life's vale. LINES TO A DAUGHTER. But oh ! dear child, mayst thou ne'er feel Those pangs that conscience brings ; That dcadhcst grief, howc'er concealed, Dread guilt's envenomed sting. 61 :^tf; il It Whate'er thy doom, let open truth And innocence be thine ; Let Virtue guide thy early youth, To fair Religion's shrine : There thou wilt find thyself secure, As placed upon some rock ; Whence thou canst smile at siren lure, Nor fear the billows' shock. 1 (E And let this maxim, ever true, Sink deep thy soul within ; Few mortals real sorrow knew, Till they had first known sin. • i lii. >■ if ^'j. f 1 1 ' 1 ■ t- ! 1 ') ^i-i Eilili^i^i^S t;i 1ibt &U ^iltiit II TJ good old year, linger, oli lliiger yet ! How can wo sec thee part Avitlioiit regret ? Didst thou not bring us gifts of priceless worth- Joy to the heart, and summer to the earth V Hast thou not shared in all our hopes and fears, Witnessed alike bright smiles and secret tears ? Within thy old and withered breast there lies A world of sweet and sacred memories. And can we see thee part without regret ? Thou kind old year, linger, oh linger yet ! With thee has many a sunny day been spent ; With thee has mirth, and joy, and song been blent ; Friendship has made thy passing hours all bright ; And love has tinged them with a holier light. ADDRESS TO THE OLD YEAR. G8 But more tlian all, thou hast calm seasons brought Of high resolve, and deep and solemn thought, When goodness seemed to kneel within the heart, And supplicate she never might depart. .! I Yes, precious hours were thine, thou good old year. And even sorrow makes thee but more dear ; Whatever blessings may be yet in store. Thy pleasant face w^c never shall sec more. Let others hail the advent of the new. And eagerly its promised joys pursue ; But I still turn to thee with fond regret : Thou kind old year ! linger, oh linger yet I I it ('] >i •r^ I r£\ more the toil-worn face is pale ; Upon licr sun-burnt brow 2^0 troubled tliouglit of want or woe Is lingering now : Her youthful heart is far away, (Toil, travail, are forgot), Wandering in golden Fairy-land, Where grief is not. -t; She's dreaming youth's delicious dreams. That come alike to all. Whilst hope, with soft and siren voice. Answers her call. With busy, moving life around, She sits entranced and still, Wrapt in soft magic scenes, that all Her senses fill. ON SEEING A TOOR GIRL READING A FAIRY TALE. 05 1:8 • Poor toll-doomed dreamer ! must thou "wake- Aiid must thy spirit sail Into dull years, when even these Sweet visions fail ? Are youth's hright fancies all the joy Thy hrcast ean ever know, And never stream of real bHss That heart o'erflow ? Not so, not so ! Though dark thy lot, Thou child of toil and care, There is a land, than poet's dream More bright and fair, — A land of pure undying joy, Richer than fairy ground ; Eye hath not seen, nor heart conceived, What joys abound : i>! And its deep peace is not alone For rich, and wise, and great, But every simple, earnest heart Of low estate ; 68 STRAY LEAVES. <■ ^ i I m > 1 - iSIot for the gay and world-renowned, Who proud on earth have trod ; But for the meek and poor, who walk Humbly with God. i It ,! ■dv ELL me, dear mother, what are clouds, So wondrous strange they seem, -floating across the summer sky As noiseless as a dream ? " I watched one rising slowly up, Of thick and inky hue, That over all the landscape fair A gloomy shadow threw. " But as I mourned the sudden change, And brightness passed away — A breeze sprung up, and o'er the cloud There glanced a sunny ray. '! j .1 ! ) n> \ I,; 'I ■' \ 68 STRAY LEAVES. " And lo ! what seemed so dull before, No longer shadow flings, But, touched with light and glory, turns To angel's snowy wings." " My child," the gentle mother said, With a quick starting tear, " Clouds, both to young and old alike, Dark mysteries appear. " But oh, beloved one! mayst thou still, Yutli pure undoubting eyes. Through earth's dark storms, howevci' Avild, God's angels recognize." ' '3 Sli^ "^m t DWARD E. was in affluent circumstances, surrounded by friends who admired and esteemed liim, not only for the wit and talent with which he was gifted, but what was of infi- nitely more importance, the sterling qualities of his heart. He had lately married that one only being who alone could make him happy, and she was all that his idolizing love had imagined. With such prospects, who would not have prognosticated for him a long-continued scene of uninterrupted love and happiness ; who would not have said, his life will be a bright exception to the general rule, that " man's days are full of evil ?" But alas for human hopes and anticipations ! Edward E.'s page of prosperity was short, whilst his chapter of adversity proved long and bitter. 70 STRAY LEAVES. i I i.i 1 ■I ■ ' Gradually, and by almost imperceptible degrees, he became addicted to the heart-hardening, soul-killing, vice of intem- perance. In vain his friends warned, remonstrated, entreated. He either could not, or would not, release himself from the iron grasp of his tenacious enemy. In a few short years he had lost a lucrative situation, was deserted by his warmest friends, and the fate seemed inevitable, that he must even- tually fill a drunkard's grave. But there was one gentle being who, unlike all the rest, still remained true to the lost, wretched Edward — one who loved him with that true love " that hopeth all things, believeth all things, that suffcreth long, and is kind." It was his own meek, uncomplaining wife, who thus hoped, thus believed. She had again and again been entreated to return to her father's house, where she could again enjoy those comforts and luxuries to which from her youth she had been accustomed : but what to Mary was comfort and luxury without him who alone formed her happiness? " No," she would reply to all their persuasions ; " am I not his own wedded wife ? have I not sworn to love him through everything, and Edward will yet be reclaimed. THE TEMPERANCE PLEDGE. 71 I know he will!'* And oh ! blessincrs on that fond, trustini]; woman's heart ! Edward was at length reclaimed, and through her gentle influence and instrumentality. True, she had to go through long years of humiliation and suffering ; true, she had to endure poverty, pride's neglect, and the world's scorn, but it was for his dear sake ; and God, who holds in His hands the hearts of men, had prepared for her a rich reward, even the consummation of that for which alone she lived. It was a dark, rainy night in November. In an upr)er apartment of a small house, situated in the suburbs of the town, sat Mary — still lovely, though the bright bloom of health seemed to have faded forever from her fair vounp; check. The room was poorly furnished, but scrupulously clean and neat ; a small fire burned cheerfully in the grate, and on a table placed near it was a scanty supper, apparently for one. Mary was seated near a cradle, which ever and anon, as Its little inhabitant moved, she would bend over or rock witli her foot. She had been for some time absorbed in deep, and it would seem, troubled thought, for as she gazed in the fire, a large tear had gathered in her eye, and hung heavy on the i 72 STRAY LEAVES. !! long dark lash. " I am afraid he will not come," at length she murmured ; " and yet he promised so foithfully he would." Mary sank upon her knees ; her lips moved not in prayer, but there was more of beseeching, imploring earnestness in those raised eyes than any language could have expressed. At that moment a low knock was heard at the street door. Mary sprang up, rushed to the top of the stairs, and stood leaning eagerly forward to catch the first sound ; it was indeed his voice, and the step seemed steady as it ascended : she returned to the room and stood leaning against the wall for support. Edward entered, not with his usual flushed face, unsteady gait, and excited manner, — his face was animated, it is true, but it was the animation of an approving conscience, and the consciousness of having gained a greater victory than earth's conquerors ever achieved— namely, a victory over himself and the demon of intemperance. He advanced to Mary ; and, placing his arm round her waist, he began, " My own Mary" — and his voice was soft and low, and to her ear as musical as in happy years long since flown — " my own Mary," he went on," my guardian angel, whose love has ^iii I; THE TEMPERANCE PLEDGE. 73 been a sweet unquenchable light in my dark path of sin and degradation, ever alluring me back to virtue, let this" — and as he spoke he placed the temperance pledge in her hand, — " which I have this night signed, and which, with God's blessing, I hope to keep, be to us a pledge of returning happiness." Oh "vvho can paint the love, joy, gratitude, that leaped into those late melancholy eyes, or the bright blood that suddenly crimsoned cheek, neck, brow, and as quickly ebbed back to her too happy heart, as she hid her face in his throbbing breast and wept aloud! Edward E , is now a doting husband, an affectionate father, a steady, industrious man, and I have no doubt, will soon be a prosperous one. For " I have been young, and am now old, yet have I never seen the righteous man forsaken, or his seed begging their bread." i ! i '.^1 & , ' 'I HEN evening flings her dusky shade O'er day's departing close, When labour drops the pen or spade, For pleasure or repose, With hasty step, and gladsome heart, I seek my much loved home, — A cot that boasts no builder's art, An unaspiring dome. Yet here the virtues, with their train Of social joys, resort. Here health, and peace, and freedom reign, Fair exiles from a court. HOME. 76 When heard my swift a[)proaehing feet, What transports stir within ; Aifection tunes her welcome sweet, A ha[>py joyous din. i My children spring to share my kiss, A lovely, smiling group ; Here centred is a mother's bliss, And all a father's hope. My loving partner, in her turn. Anticipates desire ; And oft, as if it would not burn, She trims the kindling fire. And round that warm, and smiling: hearth. How sweet the moments glide ; Converse and books, and song, and mirth. The happy hours divide. J. ? ' «■ ! ^*l 7G STRAY LEAVES. Hi As thus continual pleasures rise, To gild my dear abode, To Heaven I lift my grateful eyes, And thank a bounteous God. I ! ?Chw? to ;Hm\\}, m E A C E rest upon tlicc, lovely one ; '^ Around thy sunny Avay, Spring flowers of hap[!iuess alone, Ne'er to decay. Far, far from Fanny's gentle breast Be sorrow's withering blight ; The gloom of woe-destroying rest, Misfortune's night. 1-1 m Unknown to her the bitter sigh, The sadly aching heart ; The tears that, to the mournful eye. Unbidden start. 78 STRAY LEAVES. Her fairy dreams of early youth, let not time destroy ; Hope's whis])crs be the voice of truth, Foretelling joy. All sweet affections may she know, Fair friendship's ray divine ; And love's more fervent, holy glow. Around her shrine. Her cup of happiness be full. Whilst on her gentle brow May peace sit ever beautiful And fair as now. C;'»»' tU U th ^'' '?* AREWELL, sweet flowers, farewell ! Your brief, bright reign, is past, And the heart sighs the old regret. O'er joy that may not last — Sighs that for all that's beautiful, But one sad emblem's found ; The grass that flourishes to-day. To-morrow strews the ground. Farewell ! sweet, smiling summer days- " Ethereal softness " fled ; How loath the heart to link thee with The lost — the past — the dead ! If. if 11 I h^l I i 1.i« '4 80 STRAY LEAVES. I V * And yet, sweet evanescent gems, Your mission was not vain ; In thousand hearts your beauty woke, Thou;ihts that will still remain. When Jesus spoke, how short the space His accents thrilled the air ; And yet what everlastingness In every word wai there ! A few low sounds in Galileo, Long centuries ago. Are echoing still o'er all the earth, And shall for ever flow. And so your beauty, summer flowers, When summer days depart. Still leave their pleasant memory To linger in the heart. FAREWELL TO THE ILOWEKS. 81 And when wo only hear Ills voice 111 wintry storm and hail, We'll think how late He spoke in flowers, Nor doubt His love can fail. t I mt§ m\ Hit 0imm^ &i u €hmk r !l! It; 'i I 1: 11 AT altar could we raise, God ! What temple worthy thee ? not the whole adorned earth Thy holy sanctuary ? Are not the portals of the east Its wide and lofty door ; And field, and stream, and sun, and shade, Its tessellated floor ? ^"h The crimson clouds that float at eve, A gori^eous dra})cry spread ; And sun and moon, tli^ golden lamps, Undying lustre shed. ON THE OPENING OF A CHURCH. And yet, Great God, Eternal One, Inhabiting all space, Wilt thou thy special presence deign. To bless this humble place ? Here may the yearning spirit hold Sweet intercourse with Thee ; And here the meek and contrite find Thy mercy full and free. Here let the high resolve be made, — The song of praise ascend ; And in the prayer of earnest love, Spirit with spirit blend. Here let us sit at Jesus' feet. The way, the truth to learn ; Whilst, as of old, at that loved voice, " Our hearts within us burn." 83 ;;■■! n I ; 84 STRAY LEAVES. .M ill' I ■Jl And when at length these walls decay, Grant, for His sake divine, We may have joined that blessed church Which is for ever Thine. 11 -I la .!m &-^ li I S sweet to watch the Queen of night rf'Tw Wade through the stormy sky, Vapours and mist obscure her light — Clouds on her pathway lie. Yet calmly she pursues her course, 'Mid all their dark array ; With firm, untiring, gentle force, She braves the troubled way. Image of patient virtue, firm, Life's duties to fulfil. Treading truth's high and holy path, Through good report and ill ; iV> 8<> Hi STRAY LEAVES. Having within herself a power — A pure and heavenly light — That calumny and sorrow's hour, May hide, but cannot blight ; That yet shall stream througli endless sky, Shall onward fearless move, Radiant with immortality. And holy faith and love. affiirfion, o FFLICTION solemn, dark and dread, Wli}^ dost tliou haunt the paths avc tread. — ij^ Why, with a stern persistent malice, Press to our lips thy nauseous chalice ? Were not humanity more blest, If sorrow could not tear the breast. If cold indifference e'er reijined. If grief ne'er stung nor juty pained, — Would not that soul most ha})py be, Who, upon pleading misery, Could look without a sigh or tear. Callous alike to grief or fear ? Ah, no ! thou dark-robed angel, no ! Better to drain thy cup of woe, i i 4 88 STRAY LEAVES. 1 ' Better thy most envenomed dart, Than thus to ossify the heart. Softened and moved, the anguish deep Loads us to " weep with those that weep," Whilst virtues, that in day ne'er bloom, Shed in thy night a rich perfume. But more than all, dark shade ! 'twas tliine, To wake the Poet's art divine ; He learned, beneath thy rugged sway, To pour his sorrows in the lay, And as more keen he felt thy goad. The tender note more sweetly flowed ; Refined by thee, e'en grief could please. And from the tear-drop he extracted ease. iS^i ' ! PI ^tol^tmn^ §^tl3)ni. PON Judca's wide-spread plains, Midnight and silence hung ; O'er palm and stream, and olive grove, The stars soft radiance flung ; Whilst gentle flocks at rest appear, Watched by the Syrian Shepherds near. When lo ! what brightly flashing light Above the scene is spread. Now glancing o'er the distant hills. Now o'er the Shepherds' head ! It is some glorious meteor born. Or golden beams of coming:; morn ! r> u i j'i 90 STRAY LEAVES. Hark ! 'wliat celcstuil l)rc;itliing strains Fall sot'tlj f>u the ear ; The clouds roll hack, angelic forms, Bending ahove, a[)pear, Whilst swells the sweet triumphant hymn Of Cheruh and of Seraphim. *' Peace, peace on earth !" the angels sung Lon"! centuries ajzo : Yet still the sword our Saviour sheathed Is steeped in hlood and woe ! Still wars and strife and tears remain : Was the sweet Anthem sung in vain ? Oh ! come, thou Prince of love and peace, Assert thy righteous sway ; Oh ! come, thou kingdom of our God, For which we daily pray ! Ages of peace predicted long, Dawn on our world of strife and wrong. 11 LINES ADDRESSED TO 4 '^]u l^vinte ^i ^iV.alc^. WHILE ON HIS VISIT TO CANADA. fO palaces, " no cloud-cai)t towers," No antique fanes arc licro. No serried ranks of martial po^Yers, No proud star-breasted peer. No poet with a lip of fire — No orator divine, And yet, thou well-beloved Prince, No welcome grand as thine. f 'K ^ .VU. "^^V \a1 IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-S) /. «5|- 1.0 l^|28 |2.5 Ui 12.2 Sui ■ I.I I "^ M^ 1.8 11-25 11111.4 11.6 P> vl /a , • ,^'"' ^>' 7 Photographic Sciences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 (716) 872-4503 it ^ w 1 ■ 11 II W^ I ' 92 STRAY LEAVES. Rivers that sweep o'er half a world, Shall proudly hear thee on, The harmony of cataracts, Thy grand triumphal song. Primeval forests, open wide, A broad and proud highway. Yielding their ancient, solemn realm, To Briton's mightier sway. Whilst skies all glorious as the scope, Of Empire they embrace. And blue as Saxon's maiden's eyes. Thy youthful presence grace. And gifts whose priceless worth surpass Rich argosies at sea — Or all the gems of all the mines. Our shores shall proffer thee ! LINf:S ADDRESSED TO THE PRINCE OF WALES. 93 i Thousands of hearts resolved and true, Hands ready and prepared ! Old England's biddmg well to do, Her sacred throne to guard ! " IcH Dten !" serve only right, young Prince ; God grant the world may see A mother's and a nation's prayers Richly fulfilled in thee ! .: ';« ir j0,0t])rfnl^ ^t (ijlmi It is a tradition of the early Catholic ages that, a cbapel being built on the spot from which Christ ascended, it was found impossible either to pave the place on which he last stood, and where the marks of his feet remained, or to close the roof over that place, and which was the path of his ascent.] I S an old legend, and though bora In superstition's night, Its import's beautiful and true To those who read it right. For the dear footprints of our Lord, Nor time nor art efface ; Still over earth's dark wilderness His glorious steps we trace. rOOTPRINTS OF CHRIST. And the bright path of his ascent Into the peaceful skies, — Oh ! what shall veil it to our hope, Or close it from our eyes. 95 t oil tlier 3 of hicli Life has wild tracts where we should sink In anguish and dismay, Had not ^ 'is patient footsteps passed. And sanctified the ^vay. !-.; And death ! Before its portals dark, How should we trembling stand. Did not that glorious path reveal Jesus at God's risht hand. blessed Saviour ! tender guide, — Humanity's sweet friend ; In life or death thou, only thou Canst solace or defend. »♦ ^ ! H U glorious land ! whose very name Wakens a proud exultant flame, Swaying from thy small island space, The destinies of all the race. Scattering the seeds of empires vast, On shores undreamed of in the past, Leaving memorials of thy hand On every sea and every land, — Thou classic ground of liberty. Where mind and body both are free. School of all science, knowledge, song, Mart of all trade where nations throng ; Before whose arms, victorious, proud, Wrong and oppression ever bowed. ENGLAND. 97 Enthroned on thy fair ishmd homo, Greater than once imperial Rome : For shouhl thy sceptre pass away, Thy power and freedom know decay ; Should the brave hearts that rule the waves, Degenerate to timid slaves ; Thy cities, ruins of the past, Tliy river of ten thousand masts, A solitary stream that wets Some naked fisher's drifting nets,— Were these annihilated, yet Thy sun of glory could not set. Wherever meets a faithful band. In freedom's cause to make a stand ; Where'er the martyr spirit burns, And intellectual slavery spurns, There thy great spirit still will lead To noble thought and mighty deed. Where'er, by solitary lamp. In chamber lone, or dungeon damp, '■■i!l II a I 9d STRAY LEAVES. Science still works, or bears the brand Inflicted by the bigot's hand, — Thy influence shall waken there, The zeal to toil, the strength to bear. And oh ! where literature consoles, From the meridian to the poles ; Where'er it soothes the grief and fears Of hearts that fail with wakeful tears. Or brings a joy to eyes that weep For the dark house and the long sleep, — There shall thy Sponsors, Shakspeares rise, Thy Mil tons sing of Paradise, And there, in rich and noblest form. Thy soul shall bless thy genius warm. Fresh in eternal youth, dear land. Thy glory shall forever stand. Thy power, thy mission, thy control. Imperishable as the soul. u / H, there are times when the worn heart, Weary and tempest-tossed, Will pause amidst life's pain and strife To mourn on Eden lost. Tired of tumult, sick of guilt, Wounded in hope and love ; Trcmhling in faith, it eager asks The swift wings of the dove, To hear it to some happier sphere, Some safer home than this — Weeps, wildly weeps, lost Paradise, With all its tranquil bl: 3. 100 STRAY LEAVES. ii ■ ! ■: t And wc will ■vvecp, — but yet again Renew our mighty powers ; An Eden's happiness is poor, To what may yet be ours, — The happiness of virtuous deeds, The moral victory gained ; The fight, the race, the glorious crown, The heaven to be attained. Yes, sweet Avas Eden's vernal air, Its rose without a thorn. Its shad}'- bowers, its tranquil joys. Of innocency born. *' I k But sweeter far, when trial o'er. And the long race is run. To hear the Master's voice proclaim, " Faithful and true, well done.' >» mST' ^,t ^smpK ih ^iitijii" My •PON tlie hard and sterile rock The velvet moss still clinurs ; Around the naked ruin's wall The ivy beauty flings. Clasping the bare and blasted oak, The mistletoe is found ; And pine and cedar flourish fair, When all is dead around. And, God be praised ! the human heart, When wrapt in sorrow's gloom, Still finds some tender tie to life, Some 20urd with sudden bloom. fir's! 102 STRAY LEAVES. I Love's deathless tendrils still Avill twine Its ruined arches o'er, Cover the wounds they may not heal, Its broken shrines restore. Yes, none so desolate and lost, But still on earth will find That to the shorn and trembling lamb " He tempers the rough wind." ml mr* WEEP not now, as once I wept, Nor breathe the frantic prayer That the same pall that covered him Might shelter my despair. Too saintly now my lost one seems, For him such grief to pour ; And if the yearning heart still bleeds, Its bitterness is o'er. At first my darling disappeared In darkness and in night ; But now I know 't was blinding tears That hid him from my yight. 104 STRAY LEAVES. And, as I wipe those tears away, And through the years look back, A vanished angel he appears, Leavin": a shinin"; track, — A shining track, that through life's skies. By cloud or tempest rent, Smiling and peaceful still points on The way my treasure went. E holy and unchanging stars, Like fond eyes o'er me bent, Watching with looks of love afar, Silent, yet eloquent, — Are your bright orbs, soft shining tlicre. Seen e'en by mortal eye. Those future realms of beauty, Avlierc Sorrow and sadness die ? Are ye indeed that land where joys In copious torrents roll, Where love, without one dark alloy, Can satisfy the soul, — \ ,; , 1 1 1 H i i; ■':■ 8 * * i l'€6 STRAY LEAVES. That land where pleasures, as thej fly, On golden harps are hymned, Where bhssful bosoms never sigh. Where eyes are never dimmed ? Oh, thrilling thought ! my heart would rise, Would leave this heavy clay, Yearning to spring to those calm skies. Where our beloved stay. But no : enough that unto me The blessed boon is given. On this dark pilgrimage, to see Glimpses of their bright heaven ; — Enough to know the stars of night, Whate'er their orbs may be. Are, my God, sweet beacon lights To point us unto thee, — STARS. 107 To feel assured that thou wilt still Some blessed place prepare, Where all, Avho humbly do thy will, Shall meet in rapture there. i^. ii; itv > ■ mwu o APi L K of Venus reclined in her pearl-glcamin.u; shell, Jonie gracefully on by the ocean's proud swell. Shedding rapture and glow o'er the foamy sea, — No doubt 'twas a picture delightful to see. But ah ! there is one both sweeter and dearer, And at all events it is very much nearer ; 'Tis our own charming girls, fresh, lovely, and ga-y, Reclining with us in the ermine-lined sleigh ; Gliding along through the feathery snow, The bells, like her laugh, ringing sweet as we go, W! CANADIAN AMUSEMENTS. 109 Whilst veiling her face, and her bright sunny glance, Soft clouds, as in heaven, her beauty enhance. Old winter may storm, but the heart cannot freeze, If we only may figure in pictures like these. .v.a, 'Mid varied joys, the Skating Rink behold, The scene of pleasure yet unsung, untold ; Here youthful hearts in merry concord meet, To chase old winter with their flying feet ; Here gay flirtations, innocent and bright, Unmixed with envy, gossiping, or spite. See the young beauty, in her flying grace, Challenge and tempt the lover to a race : With streaming hair, and coral lips apart, The fairy vision still before hin.i darts. Like Atalanta, skimming o'er the plain, He follows fast, but follows her in vain. * !J ^i STRAY LKAVKS. No time for words — but flashing eyes can speak, — Victorious roses flame across her cheek : Eager she bends — ah'cady in her soul She seems to touch the anticipated goal, — One moment here, another she is gone ! Makes one grand curve, approaches like a swan, Takes his strong hand, and, glancing, seems to say, " Just such the race I'll lead you some fine day !" Mm - Mm IP :: Tramping fearless, forth we go Over the pathless wilds of snow — Over the billowy ridges white, Scaling the mountain's towering height ; Where human foot could never dare, We leave the track of our snow-shoe there ,- A track that, seen in later age, Would puzzle sore the wisest sage. CANADIAN AMUSEMENTS. Ill How geology would be stirred, — Was it a beast, or was it a bird ? Whilst some Cuvier would declare, After much research and care, He thought it the seat of a cane-bottom chair ,- But why at measured distance placed, Or why the mountain top it graced, He 'd leave by others to be traced. But what care we for sages' lore ; Tramping light, the snow drifts o'er. Our stainless path all dazzling white. Flinging back the sunbeams' light, Whilst piled up clouds of mimic snow Seem resting on the earth below, — Or, like huge icebergs sailing slow, Across the sky's blue depths they go. To interpose their giant form Between us and the sunbeam warm. But cloud, nor cold, nor storm, can damp The merry heart on snow-slioc tramp : a 112 STRAY LEAVES. 'H The only evil we can know Is meeting with an overthrow ; For oh ! the struggle long and vain To get upon one's legs again ; And as misfortune's cup you quaff, To hear the world's unfeeling laugh ! But e'en this pang we soon console In another warmer howl, When the merry tramp is ended Sugar, whiskey, lemon blended, With song, and mirth, and genial smiles We loose the straps, and boast the miles- •! I. Tobogging with frolic rife, Type of the ups and downs of life, The easy sloping, slippery plain. The toilsome marching up again, CANADIAN AMUSEMENTS. iia Man still, as ever, bound to steer The lady with a secret fear. Long endless centuries have r-un Since Phaeton tried to guide the sun, Since with the flaming car of day, The immortal coursers ran away. The world was saved from wreck and fire ; But what can quench the wild desire That still in every man remains To seize the whip and grasp the reins, Still the ambition of his life, To rule his horses, or his wife. But see them now about to start, — She, with her trembling fluttering heart,. Heroically hides the fear That ever makes her cling more near^ In the mean time he, with no notion Of immolation or devotion, Begins to set the bark in motion, Ready with outstretched guiding foot, The lady with her eyes tight shut, III (l II ill '% in tl 114 STRAY LEAVES. Poised for one moment o'er the steep, Down which the next, they headlong sweep. As some proud ship, slips from the stocks, Glides swiftly, without jars or shocks. Rushing to find her realm and rest Upon the waters' heaving breast, So they as light and graceful sweep, To find the plain as she the deep. And now in triumph they return, Her recent fears, the fair one spurns, Whilst guiding this small craft aright. Has only whet his appetite ; So, as they mount the steep ascent, He hints, how well he'd bo content To take so sweet a freight in toAV, Not for one hour, and through the snow. But through a life long voyage, all bright With love's young dream and warm delight. Scouting the thought of wreak or fear, With her to bless, and he to steer. ■ • 44 mU mi npn ih ^im wlun it 1^ §^1/' E L L me not wine, with its ruby light, Will increase our love, our mirth ; To me it speaks of affection's blight, And the desolated hearth. Say not each bubble that springs to the top, Is a spirit of social glee ; To me it emblems the sad tear-drop On the cheek of misery. Mi And the spirits round that festive board, To me are a ghastly host ; Silent they enter and take their seats Like the murdered Banquo's ghost. 116 STRAY LEAVES. There arc hoary heads, bowed down >vith caro, That on tender filial breasts, Honored, and peacefully pillowed there, Should have sunk to holy rest. I i; There are children, such as Jesus loved, Squalid, neglected, and wan. No sunny light in their eyes or hair, *' Of such is the kingdom " — gone; And women, hardened, and coarse and lost, All vestige of womanhood dead ; Once tender as those who clasped the cross, From which man, dismayed, had fled ; And youth, -with its energy, power, and light, But its glorious promise o'er ; On every promise and gift a blight, More deadly than leper's sore. ' Hi " LOOK NOT UPON THE W[NE WHEN IT IS RED." 117 And 'mid the toast and jiii^^ling ;^lasg, Their groans and si^hs seem deeper ; And vain, and vain, the Cain-like thought, *' Am I my brother's keeper ?" For in every blighted, wasted life, In each anguisht;d face I scan, There breathes tlio prophct'j^ awful words, " Thou art the very man." I.i k I .ifil 5 ! ( 1 r #w tto §al& 0f ^j. |. fli. Id it not more beautiful for the young- clieek to be blanched by death than life ? — From the German ofRichter. OT yet the summer's bloom is o'ev, Not yet the rose has fled, But oh ! a brighter, dearer spring, A sweeter flower is dead. Why wert thou giver to the earth, To blossom for a day, And then in all thy loveliness Untimely snatched away ? ON THE DEATH OF H. l\ C. 1!1» Still, still to catch thy graceful form, In many a scene we turn And start from yearning dreams of thee, Alas, to clasp thy urn ! r^ Yet thou art happy, blessed child. In thy fresh bloom to die, To carry that pure gentle heart, Untainted, to the sky, — To pass from youth's unclouded scene To regions yet more fair, — From bright, but fleeting joy below, To bhss eternal there. Spared the dark pilgrimage of life, Untouched by grief or sin, 'T was easy, thou beloved one, For thee to 'enter in.' 1i '^^ V S, til I t •H| 120 STRAY LEAVES. But ours the clanger, ours the loss, To work and to endure, — To make, with fear and trembUng, Our own election sure. If in this cold, ungenial clime For thee to die was gain. Yet darker, lonelier is the path To those that must remain. But we will take thy angel life As a sweet holy spell, For nought but pure and peaceful thoughts Can with that memory dwell. n ■ ■ Wm$. i-' H E trees, tlie trees, the beautiful trees, Waving about in the summer breeze. Some tossing proud like a warrior's plume, Some sweeping low, o'er that warrior's tomb, Some trailing their pendent branches green. With gothic arches traced between ; Some spreading vistas of green arcades Peopled by poet with dryad or maids ; Some swaying dark, majestic and slow, Some dancing in breezy mirth below, — All in their graceful foliage drest. Waving or dancing, but never at rest. I I 122 STRAY LEAVES. The trees, the trees, the colourless trees, Stiflf and stark in the wintry breeze, Bare in their winding sheets of snow. Shrouding the lifeless forms below, Each outstretched branch and twig defined Sharp on the leaden sky behind. And all around, a cold still breath, Thrilling the heart, like a thought of death, — Death, in its still impassive form, No trembling now to breeze or storm. No graceful swaying, to and fro. The south may kiss, or the north wind blow ; Even the sunshine no life can bring, — They wait, like the dead, for another spring. The trees, the trees, the colourless trees. Stark and stiff in the wintry breeze. \Al ©to Mm% joI WiumtL H, please, sir," said a pale, thin boy, *' Please, did you get the place ? " And as he spoke, an eager light Flashed o'er the poor, -wan face. " Why, no," the man of leisure said, " But you shall have it soon ; Perhaps, about it, I'll drop in This very afternoon." Time sped ; the man of leisure dined After a solemn grace ; Again was heard the painful voice, " Please, did you get the place ? " 11 'I mi 1 illl ■ 124 STRAY LEAVES. " Why, no," the man of leisure cried ; " How could I so forget ? I'll see about it, my poor boy, And you shall have it yet." Long weeks wore on, the pale boy stood Brushing a glossy coat ; A deeper shadow in his eye The man of leisure smote. " Oh, I must really stir myself, And see about that place." No sickly light of " hope deferred" Now flashes o'er the face. The poor lip quivers, tears gushed forth ; With choking voice he said, " Oh, please, sir, never mind it now, For mother, sir, is dead." CVii. IIE spirit of the Pilgrim Fathers -wakes At freedom's call ; its lengthened skmber breaks ; Again the latent energy has blazed, That in a wilderness an empire raised, Which though to exile and to death resigned, Would brook no fetters on the free-born mind. That spirit, that a Washington inspired, And 'gainst oppression a whole nation fired ; That spirit that awakes the lofty trust, " Thrice is he armed who hath his quarrel just ; — ITiat glorious spirit once again prevails. And dark oppression's bristling front assails : On Southern arrogance its hand is laid ; Its voice bids slavery's bloody waves be stayed. i ' ' !l 126 STRAY LEAVES. Once more the great Republic rises, proud, Freed from the curse 'neath Avliich she long had bovv'd, That made her blush, the butt of every sneer, Her shame abroad, her degradation near ; Sternly resolving to assert tiie power, To give to all her children man's best dower, For the great struggle, summoning her best. With their life's blood, her honour to attest ; Steeping her soil in blood, and tears, and strife, But, in return, bestowing more than life, — The promise of a flag without a blot ; Expunged forever slavery's damning spot ; And like the land from whence her children spring, From weeping slaves the cursed shackles fling. For such an end, and in his countrv's cause, What heart so dastard as to stand or pause ? Who would not spring all ardent to oppose His glowing breast a bulwark to her foes. Deeming for her no sacrifice a pain. No death untimely, and no ofiering vain ? ©Iw l^lwlcin |]0«MU §\m. HE modern young man is a puzzle, a wonder, 'E'en Cupid himself is obliged to " knock under ;" Now only presuming to level his dart At woman's more soft and susceptible heart. He will flirt in a charming indefinite way, But to really make love, why the thing " would not pay ;" If he talks of himself, or tells you a story, 'Tis not, as of old, about honour and glory; Not of hunting, or shooting, or danger to seek, But how many dollars he made in a week ; Not cricket, or boating, or wit at the board, But how close o'er the leaves of his ledger he poured. If you talk of a girl as pretty and good. He asks if her fortune is well understood ; ; 1: Hi l-f 'r 11: id : Tjtii ir ' 128 STRAY LEAVES. What licr station in fashion's rickctty scale, If her uncle or brother last year did not fail. Should you hint in herself a rich fortune he'd win, He says, " 'Tis no go," and " you can't take him in.'* Speak of children as sun-beams that spring-time renew, In the darkest of storms their sweet light glistening through, He vows, " olive branches, if valued of yore. Are now below par and a deuce of a bore." Should you ask has he seen the latest Review, He tells you " he's something better to do ;" That literature some people's joys may enhance. But that he keeps his eye upon the " main cliance." He boasts " that his faith in most things is small ; His belief is in figures — and that's about all. All generous affections seem withered and dead. His heart has turned grey ere the locks on his head ; For the follies of youth, he has not enougi, fire To make them temptations, or kindle desire ; Whilst still in his mind a fear's lurking dim That all the fair sex have designs upon him THE MODERN YOrNO MAX. \-2\i So he makes them clearlj and well lUKlcrstiin'l 'T would be useless to hope or to sue for hi> nd. Oh, well may the girls their lost empire dej.lo e ! And sigh for the chivalrous days of yore, When a man was a man— warm, daring and hold. Who imperilled his soul for her love — not for ''old. Who, whatever his blunders in thought, word, or deed» Made love his religion, and woman his creed ; Who thought it the aim of his turbulent life To adore the whole sex, and taJcc one for a ivlfe. II' f^ C' t N each scene of man's life to age from a child, Not to have but to hope is his doom ; He pursues a vain phantom that ever beguiles, And sighs for the joys yet to come. In boyhood, though happy, he still will complain, And look with disgust at the ferrule and sum, He longs to be freed from the pedagogue's chain, And sighs for the joys yet to come. P'i: In the fair spring of youth, in the morning of life, When each pleasure presents its first bloom. He looks forward to manhood, the ])abe, and the wife, And sighs for the joys yet to come. HOPE. 181 But life has ita trials, it is not all fair ; Each (Jay brin^rg its stnig^rle or '^hmi : He pftoturcs old ag(3 free from from toil iu its chair, And si^'hs for the joys yet to come. Yet a^'o has its cares ; the pleasures all fly, And nought now remains but the tomb ; Stili hope with sweet solace points up to the sky, And sighs for the joys yet to come. i ' Mill ELLA, with the summer's dawn Upon her blushing cheek ; Bella, with its tender starhght In her eyes so meek. Bella, with the lights and shadows Flitting through her breast ; Ecstasies and tender dreaming, Undefined, yet blest. Bella, simple, sweet, and calm, In her maiden grace ; Yet impassioned prophecies Mantling o'er her face. it '(. BELLA. Bella, with her future path Like a landscape fair. Knows not of the hidden graves, Flower-covered there, — Knows not of the wintry blast Or the sun's eclipse ; Dreams not darker smiles than her's Part the trembling lips. May the darling never know Aught of grief or sin ; Calm be her pilgrimage below, And sweet the " enter ifi.'* 133 I ; I : I*' 0l m #tilq cf M* IS sun has sunk ere noon ; The young frcslilife all suddenly lias closed. The life, on Avhich so many a hope reposed, Has sunk too soon. Too soon, too soon, we say, If we take counsel only with the heart, That clings so Avildly to the outward part,- The earthly clay. Too soon, if we demand The sweet continuance of those tender ties, — The living light, that shone in those closed eyes, The clasping hand. losed. oscd, eyes, ON TTIR DEATH OF AX OXLY SOX. 1:}."] Too soon, if we recall The earthly promises that life contained. The noble possibilities that waned Beneath his pn]]. But not too soon when seen From a soroner and a lii.i2;her plane, When the soul's vision reaches him a:;ain. No tears between. When through our grief, at last, We can perceive the shining golden sliore, Death but the prelude, and the opening door Through which he passed. What, though he passed ere noon ! The Reaper found him for tlio harvest mete, No ravelled shapeless life, though sliort, complete- Then not too soon. ^l 1 1 IfJI) STRAY LEAVE?. Yet still our tears will fiow ; We must ]iavc patience with tlic poor frail lioart, That cannot sec afar, and feels to part Is boundless woe ; That has not faith's strong win,i];s. But in unutterable anp^uish voarn^, And ever to its carthlj treasure turns, And blindly clinp;s. And life to him was fair ; All its best gifts for him were rielily ^torod : Wealth, happiness, and tender i.)vc w.-.-e j^oured All fondly there. Ah ! we should say too soon, Did we but hsten to our treacherous heart . (Jod chose for Willie the " far hotter part " His last best boon. '^M • ^MMm. A STJRY FOR BOYS. Eton and Harrow, Rugby, — all To fun are well inclined ; And Iver, equal in all else, Is not in this behind. i HAPPY day is Wednesday, As all the boys can tell. Who prize a holiday, and love The game of cricket ■well. rr iliiMli If :. hi ,! ■ i 1 ', 1 ; "'If','!! 138 STRAY LEAVES. vii Twas Wednesday, then, — a lovelv day,- Cool was the pleasant air ; The sun all smilingly shone fortli, The glass was at " set fair," When out the boys from Iver school Sallied in wild array ; Each beaming face, each bounding step, Proclaimed " half-holiday !" Behold their earnest, active gait ; No doubt the game is cricket, For bats are shouldered gallantly, And EdAvard has the wicket. What wild confusion, and what noise ! Some laugh, some scream, some call ; " Has any body brought the bails ? And who has got the ball ?" THE HALF-HOLIDAY. i:;i> To Gimtsraore now thej bend tlieir steps All hastily ; and hark ! That laugh and hearty shout announce That they are in the park. The owner of that fair domain lias kindly said that they Are welcome on his good grecn-sward, Their merry games to play. Yet oft it wonders me that he His ground should thus have lent ; For he must know that school-boys are On mischief ever bent. " But wise men are not always wise ;" * And often we may find Some failing or some Aveakness lurk Within the stronii-est mind. I * " Nemo raortalium omnibus horis sapit." < -Si 140 STRAY LEAVES. An ovor-tenderness, which oft Around the kind heart clinjis. Will make the wisest and the best Do many foolish things. And some such weakness, doubtless, moved The heart of Mr Power ; He yielded to soft Nature's touch In an unlucky hour. But, hark ! the boys impatient grow ; " Do let the game begin : Come, Harrison, what are you at ? Let you and I pick in." The sides are chosen, all are pleased ; Their forces they review ; " We'll win," says Cameron, " for ours Are all ' cood men and true.' " \ THE HALF-HOLIDAY. la " We've Herbert, and we've Harrison, Who is in bowling strong ; We've Gamier for the back-stop, And Thompson for the long." " Don't boast," sajs Dutton, " all our men To yours at least ai*e equal ; We HI show you all the way to win ; Wait till you see the sequel." " Come on !" " Yet stay," says Perceval, " I will not long detain ; Trotter, just lend me your new knife ; I'll give it you again." " What you can want, now, with a knife, I cannot understand," Says Fred, but still, good-naturedly, He placed it in his hand. 142 STRAY LEAVES. f l.,. I Ifeii H \ i til i ;-M «li! Hard was tlio contest, and so well Each side its part maintained, 'T was long before a welcome shout Announced the victory gain'd. And then the chattering all at once, Such boastings of the winnings ; iSuch causes why the others lost, Such countings of the innings. All the delight which battle-plains To knights and warriors yield. Is theirs, who gallantly have won That ^' well-contested field." " A jolly game ! I never had A better in my life ; Give me my jacket ; let 's go home ; Percival, where 's my knife ?" f THE TIALF-irOLIDAY. " Your kiiifo ! oh dear, I quite forget ; AVhcre is it ? Let mo sec — I had it, now I recollect, As I stood near that tree." No common knife was this, I ween, As all the hoys could say, Who saw it when it first arrived, On Frederick's last hirth-dav. A knife it seem'^d, with two good hlades, Just as its name profess'd, But lo ! what properties besides This wondrous knife possess'd ! A hook, stiletto, gimlet, saw, In turns were brought to view ; Pincers and tweezers, toothpick, and A capital corkscrew. U^\ I « I ) m liii ( ' it) bM. It 1 J t STRAY LEAVKS. A very cutler's shop it seeinM, And gaiu'd great admiration ; No wonder, then, its sudden loss Occasioned a sensation. All clustor'd round the tree, all eyes Were peering on the ground, And long they sought, but search was vain ; No knife was to be found. Poor Perceval now ask'd " to think," And now, " the place to show," Could only answer mournfully : " I'm sure I do not know." This tree was large and hollow, and A hole within its side Allow'd the prying eye to range Its cavern deep and wide. \ X i, / '> Tlir: HALF-HOLIDAY. And 'twas ivuicinburVl, IVrccval Just at tlio openin;^; stood, Cutting, in idle li.stlo.ssiu'SH, Sonic portions of the wood. llf) " And don't you tliink, as tliat's the case, You might have droppM it tlien V" I must, I tliiiik, liavc dropp'd it, Ijut I'm sure, I can't tell ivlwtiy a Of "• such strange ahsenco of the mind,"' They ne'er l)efore had heard ; " It must have fallen in the tree," Thev one and all averred. Yes, it was in that dark ahj'ss, There could not he a douht. And the consideration next Was, how to get it out. K J' 146 STRAY LEAVES. " 'Tis vain to peer into the dark, One cannot get a sight, It is so gloomy all within ; I wish we had a lijiht." " A light ! a light ! yes that's the thing ! Let's burn a piece of paper ! nonsense ! that will never do : Has nobody a taper ?" Contrivances are plentiful ; A light is found, and quick. By active fingers, carefully 'Tis fastened to a stick. Then cautiously the torch is lower'd. And steadily it burns, While every head of every boy Peeps in the tree by turns. ' THE HALF-HOLIDAY. There lie display'd the wither'd leaves Of many by-gone years ; But of the lost unlucky knife, Alas ! no trace appears. " 'Tis gone, indeed !'* and now the hope Which had each boy inspired, Like the exhausted torch first waned, Then totally expired. *' Yes, it is gone ! our longer stay, Or further search is vain ; 'Tis certain we shall never see The birthday knife again !" 'Twas growing late, and towards their home The baffled heroes sped. And soon their murmurs and regret Are calm'd and hush'd in bed. 147 L 148 STRAY LEAVES. J;' ' 1 ni .1 b ?art ^mml 'Tis night: her curtain nature draws Around the earth ; on high The stars peep forth, the pensive moon In beauty walks the sky. She shines upon the village street, Silvering the old church tower ; She looks within the casements low, And cheers the midnight hour. In: Radiant she smiles o'er Guntsmore park, Tinging the leaves with white ; And calm and still the mansion stands. Bathed in her lovely light. I THE HALF-HOLIDAY. 149 CI How sweet the scene ! how silently Creation sleeps around ; But, hark ! upon the startled ear Breaks forth a sudden sound. It scar'd the feather'd songsters all, Within their leafy bower ; It roused the deer in wild alarm ; It wakened Mr. Power. Again it comes, and louder still ! What strange unseemly riot Livades the peaceful harmony Of nature's holy quiet ? Now many mingled voices rise. The tumult draws more near ; And speeding towards the mansion, see, Two breathless men appear. 150 STRAY LEAVES. They leap the shrubs, they reach the house ; At once they loudly shout ; ' Now lights are seen, a window opes, And then a head comes out. 'Tis Mr. Power, in angry mood. And spirits all perturbed, Demanding who, at such an hour, His slumbers have disturbed. With wild and hurried gestures, both. Regardless of his ire. Exclaim, " sir, within your park A noble tree's on fire ! h; All Ivor's up, the engine's there ; But, sir, I greatly doubt. Do what they will, it blazes so. They'll never put it out." THE HALF-HOLIDAY. 1 . > I And so it proved ; their efforts all To quench the fatal fire, Seemed only to increase the flame, And make it blaze the hidier. And fierce displeasure burned within The breast of Mr. PoAver ; Indignant anger, just and stern, Upon his brow did lower. " I'll know who did this wicked deed, Wait but the morning light ; I'll teach the scoundrels how on me They dare to vent their spite. " As I am magistrate myself, I can, with perfect ease. Punish the rascals, one and all, Exactly as I please." t: ft 1 t Nn 3'^- STKAY LEAVES. While Mr. PoAver still seeks the rogues. Inquiries still pursuing, Turn we to Ivor school, and see What our young friends are doing. Ah ! happy age, the glowir^g sun Which sheds his morning ray, Commences not his daily course More cheerfully than they. Within the spacious school-room, hear What mirth and wit abound, And from the merry playground near, Laughter and noise resound. Unconscious of the evil done, With spirits all elate. They see, on horseback, Mr. Power Galloping to the gate. 1 THE HALF-HOLIDAY. 15:J I Some idly tlieii* opinion give, " Think he is early out," While some, more curious, " wonder much What he has come about." r)at soon a rumour, vague and strange. Excites surmises strong : Wliitmore, " believes all is not right," Woodgate " that something's wrong." Misgivings rise in every breast ; And on each earnest face Both curiosity and fear. And anxious doubt, we trace. And now in groups they whispering stand ; Says Muchell, " can it be That, yesterday, we dropped a spark In that old hollow tree ?" 154 STRAY LEAVES. ■-!3 i fi' 1 'fit B!i l^i ,: ' 5 fiti- To say what really is amiss Kilcoursie " won't engage," But asks the nature of tliat place, In Iver term'd the " cage." And now, assembled in the school, All anxiously they wait From Mr. Chase's lips to learn Their greatly dreaded fate. With awful brow the truth he states ; And then, in tone severe, A dreadful catalogue of all Their many faults they hear, — Their mischief, its enormity — He stops, for all the while. Prodigious efforts ho has made. To check a risins: smile. 4 I'i <^ THE HALF-HOLIDAY. 1 i')'} But come it ivill, the urclihis quick The hopeful sign discern ; And, freed from half their load of care, Venture to smile in turn. And soon they learn that Mr. Power, Having with patience heard, Exactly, every circumstance. And how the case occurred, Has kindly said he will, this once, Their carelessness forgive But hopes, 'twill prove a lesson, they Will think on while they live ; Desiring only, that the men Who through the night have striven To save the burning tree, should have Some compensation given. *. 150 STllAY LEAVES. The boys acknowledge the demand Is reasonable (luite ; Indeed, they inwardly admit The penalty is light. Then straight dismissing every care, With spirits light and gay. They laugh, and sport, and then discuss The question, " who's to pay ?" Some jokingly on Frederick call. While some more justly say, As Perceval occasioned all. He surely ought to pay. Young Barlow laughingly declares " He thinks it is but right The sum should be produced by him Who first procured the light." J THE IIALF-IIOLTDAY. Finch thinks " more reasonable far It surely is, that ho Should pay, who so imprudently Had poked it in the tree." 1 " "> Then Mr. Floyd, in playful mood, Begs they will " silence keep," While he proposes every boy Should pay who got a peep. But Fortune ever favoring rogues, Still these sad boys befriends. Kind Mr. Chase has paid the whole, And so the matter ends. " Hurrah !" cries Goodricke, and the shout Is echoed all around ; " We've had a right good jolly spree. And Fred's new knife is found !" IAS STRAY LEAVES. Meanwhile, abroad tlie adventure spreads ; The villagers perplexed, Shru;.!;ging their shoulders, all exclaim, " What will the boys do next?" What will they do ? wo too may ask, 'T were vain to prophesy ; But if they study to be wise. And to their books apply, — If they but diligently strive All knowledge to acquire, — Why, who can tell, but some of them May " set the Tliames on fire ?" ®Iw |]j)img &m c)*«''^ A STORY FOR CHILDREN. NTENSE iiricf lias been known to turn the head gray in a few hours, to silver over in single day the l)right locks of the heautirul and the young. ' No doubt some of you, my young readers, will remember the sad history of the unhappy Queen of Scots, or the more recent and dreadful late of the lovely and unfortunate Marie Antoinette, upon whom one night of unutterable grief did the work of years, and sprinkled her fair tresses with time's untimely snow. The tale I am about to relate is an humbler history, but one that I think will excite the sympathy of your young hearts, being both true and pitiful. '« Mother," said Allen to his wife, as he stood outside the cottage door, setting his teeth hard against the north wind. ItJO STllAY LEAVES. r ■ ! i>'' y I " I am thinking that to-night, if not before, wi shall have some wild weather ; it's bre wing-up down westward ; and look, there goes a pair of sea gulls ; and such a sudden thaw. If rain comes on, the water will rise. That path by the ford is a nasty bit of road. Best let the children stay from school to-day. " Do, mother, do, " said the two quick-eared little girls clinging to their father, and looking from his to the mother's face, but denial Avas there. "No harm will come to them," she said ; the mistress lets them out early these short days, and our Martha is so good and steady, that she may be well trusted to take care of herself and Lizzy too ; and so she ought, for she is a great girl, now, almost eight years old ; besides, they give the Christmas prizes at the school to-day." The mother's will was law. She cannot err, thought Allen, so hugging his fair- haired Lizzy once more to his heart, and patting the demure little Martha's head, with a tender "God bless the darlings," went cheerily on his way to his daily toil. There is something exceedingly touching in the look of early tlioughtfulness, seen often on some childish little face among the poor, not the unnatural suffering of the factory child, r THE YOUNO GRAY HEAD. 161 but a staid quietness betokening in the depths of those young eyes a sense of life's cares without its miseries. The docile little Martha was one of this stamp ; and nr>w, proud of her age and the praise just bestowed by her mother, doubly attentive as wishing to justify her confidence, and holding Lizzy's hands, they stood, — and a lovelier pair was never sketched by paint- er,— the little one with large blue eyes and fair silken ringlets by the side of the nut-brown Martha, her smooth parted hair, sable and glossy as the raven's wing, and dark lustrous eyes full of serious yet innocent thought. " Now mind and bring Lizzy safe home ; don't stop to pull a bough or berry by the way ; and when you come to cross the ford, be very careful ; that plank is so crazy, and the step- ping stones, if not overflowed, will be slippery ; but you are good children and steady as old folk, — I know I may trust you. " Thus warning and encouraging, Martha's gray cloak was tied lovingly on, and the mother's own warm shawl wrapt around little Lizzy. " Be sure to knot it tight like this when you come home, just leaving one hand free, to hold by ; and now one kiss and then away !" Ah, was there no sinking iVil I 1G2 STRAY LEAVES. at that mother's heart as they turned to leave her, had she in* foreboding of ill as she watched them down the lane, turn- ing every now and then to give a loving smile, or shout another, " good bye, mother." Perhaps there Avas, for surely that day seemed unusually long and lonely. Three miles lay between Allen and his cottage door that evening — and a rough and Avet evening it was ; he had worked all day at a great clearing, stroke upon stroke, till his back ached and his arm dropped almost nerveless. But what did Allen care now, all was forgotten as he approached that dear and quiet resting-place, his home ; and there was a treasure hidden in his hat, a plaything for the children — a dormouse nest that he had found, the living ball coiled round for its long winter's sleep : and his thoughts, as he trudged stoutly on, w^as of Lizzie's shout r>+' wonderment, and the quiet sur- prise in Martha's grave eyes, Avhen by guesses and kisses they should win him to bring forth the little frozen captive. He has reached the lane, and there stands the dear cottage, the light streaming from the open door, warms him but to look at — and Sambo comes boundinii to meet him with a 'I w> n 'ii THE YOUXG CllAY 1IE.\D. Oo VI U short quick 1)ai-k. But where arc the tiny feet that alwaj'S vied -with Sambo's in their liaste to greet him, the ringing voices, — like sweet silver bells, — and the soft little hands clasping each of his to lead him in in triumph ? His heart has sunk already. VVho's flitting round the peat-stack in such weather ? " Mother, is that you ! where are the children ? have they come ?" The huslrv hurried answer Avas " No ! oh no !" To throw down his tools, hastily unhook the old cracked lantern, and while he lit it, speak a cheering word that almust choked him, — and was unheard by the distracted mother — was the work of a moment, and he was gone to where a fearful presentiment led him ; passing a neighbouring cot- tage in which he called for Mark to bear him com[>any — for who could say what need there miglit be, — they struck into the path the children should take coming back from school, and many a call and shout was sent through the pitchy dark- ness ; and tlie lantern peered hi to every road-side thicket, hole, or nook, till suddenly something l)rushed past them — it was Sam])o. " Hold the light low down ; he is making for the water. Hark ! I know that whine, the dog has found tliem.*' 164 STRAY LEAVES. \r'^ r So, speaking breathlessly, he hurried on towards the old crazy footbridge ; but all that the dull contracted light could show was that it was gone ; yet there was life somewhere more than Sambo's whine ; a low sob came faintly on the car, almost lost in the sobbing gust. Quick as thouglit, Allen leapt into the stream ; he caught fast hold of something ; the water was scarcely knee deep for a tall man ; and half above it, propped by some ragged side piles, that had stopped endways the broken plank which had given way with the two little ones, clung Martha. There she crouched, with face white as a sheeted corpse, and rendered even more ghastly in the flick- ering light, with pale blue lips wide apart, and showing the pearly teeth, her eyes fixed like stone upon some object un- derneath ; and, washed by that turbid water, one little arm and hand stretched out, and rigid, still tightly grasped her sis- ter's frock. There lay Lizzie di'owned! How could the doting father sustain that shock ! Oh ! the flinty rock cannot endure such blasting, as that soft, sentient thing, the human heart, is sometimes doomed to bear. They lifted her from her watery bed. Its covering gone, the graceful head hung like II I THE YOUNG GRAY HEAD. 105 VI a broken snow-drop, and one small hand that was free, too. The mother's shawl was wrapped and tied according to the last injunction, fast and warm, alas, too well obeyed, too fjist ; a fatal hold it had afforded to some rough crag that had pinned her to the river's bed, while thi'ough the reckless water her life's breath bubbled up. They had raised her now, and parted the soft wet curls from her brow. To the cold lips the father pressed his warm ones, ere they again wra|»}>cd the shawl — now her winding sheet — around the precious clay. From Allen's cottage all that night there shone a fitful light : above and below, all were watchers there, save one sound sleeper, for her parental care could avail no more — but in the young survivor's throbbing brow and wandering eyes delirious fever raged, and she would moan piteously '' Indeed, indeed, I kept fiist hold — she won't move ! I tied the shawl quite fast ! Oh, I am so weary ! She can't be cold. If father were but here !" Broken sentences, but showing the agony she had suifercd. And lo ! when morn- ing broke all bright, as if in mockery of their grief, a strange sight was there ; that young head's raven hair was streaked im STRAY I.KAVKS. with white. Life struggled long with death in her suuill frame. She at length recovered, in part, and all went on as before. No! not as before — there was a vacant place in the cottage, a haunting memory in the heart, never to be filled or effaced. '1 imo. fore. ago. I or