>• :-i^^/.^■■.•,^v^>r.(>^'>f>'^^>^^.'>W>'>^>>f>w^ Poems Annie E.Argall THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES THE Inspiration of Song, AND OTHER POEMS BY ANNIE E. ARGALL. lEniered at Stationers' Hall.} TRURO: NETHERTON AND WORTH LEMON STREET, 1894. PREFACE. The collection of many of these Poems in book-form was first undertaken at the request of numerous friends. The venture has since assumed a more general signification in view of the growing interest in Cornish and other verse, but the Author looks only for the support and criticism which can be rightfully accorded. All the Poems must stand on their own merits and unity of purpose. Annie E. Argall, Truro, March, 1894. 960G44 CONTENTS, PAGE The Inspiration of Song - i Nature's Sympathy - - 14 With the Flowing of the) Tide I '5 The First Spring Flowers 17 Earth's Ever - Changing | o Canopy ) The Torn Portrait - - - 20 A Picture ----- 23 The Face of Love - - - 25 Buttercups 26 The Song of Faith - - - 27 The Flower Star of Spring 29 Newquay 31 Morning Sunshine - - 32 Lent Lilies 33 Among the Primrose 1 Gatherers - - - - ) -^5 Fancies 36 The Hawthorn - - - 38 The Convict's Baby - - 39 Treasures of Darkness - 42 Wild Flowers - - . - 44 A Song of Love - - - 45 The Child-heart within us 46 Forget-Me-Not - - - 47 Our Sweet English Rhine ) -TheFal - - - | ^^ Reflected Light - - - 50 The Murder of Cleitus- - 53 Fame 55 Summer's Dawn - - - 57 Manhood 58 An English Landscape - 59 The Unknown Song- - 61 Legend of the Carnations - 63 Sailing 67 Who shall Separate ? - - 68 Follow Me 70 One Tenth for the Lord - 72 Whither? What? When? 74 A Sketch 76 Life's Secret 77 PAGE Mangolds 79 Among the Shadows - - 81 Why should we Live ? - 83 " There hath not failed " - 84 After many Days - - - 87 The Home of Childhood - 88 Mysterious Love - - - 90 The Power of a Song - - 93 Our Rocky Cornish Coast 94 The Charm of Beauty - - 95 A Birthday Greeting'- - 97 Night on the Harbour - 98 Summer's Passing - - 99 Our Creator's Love - - loi Fatherhood - - - - 103 Chiysanthemums - - - 109 The Approach of Winter 1 1 1 The Last Word - - - - 112 The Dead and the Living 1 14 Evening Thoughts - - - 1 16 A Problem 118 Clouds 120 As the World grows old 122 The Coming of the Storm 123 Below and Beyond - - 125 Life is Worth Living - - 127 The Supremacy of Man 129 Christmas Wishes - - - 132 The Evening Bell - - 134 " Entered into Rest " - - 135 Christmas Melody - - 137 A Farewell 138 Story ofthe Christmas Rose 139 A Beam of Light - - - 142 Winter Reveries - - - 144 TheOld Year and the New 146 Baby is in Heaven ! - - 147 The Opium Slavery - - 148 The Shadow ofthe Cross 150 The Flight of Time - - 152 "And there was no more) ,,, Sea" M54 JTAe Jnspiration of S^^S* TN a wild and lonely desert, Eve crouched low in heart-full grief, Where the sobbing of the night-wind formed the only sad rehef To the dull monotonous silence of the long and barren plain And accorded in its sorrow with her spirit's deep refrain. The day of toilsome journeying had drifted to its close, And Adam, worn with travel, lay enwrapt in sound repose, But Eve, though sadly weary, was too wrought with grief to sleep. So the night passed with her wakefulness, for Eve had but to weep. Through the day her woman's nature checked the sad tears' overflow And a half sweet smile would light her face, and hide her inmost woe ; In Adam's grief his comforter could bravely crush her sighs, B 2 The Inspiration of Song. If but to him she might bring back the Hfe-look of his eyes ; And the bitterness of longing, and the sadness of regret Found in her no outward token while the daylight lingered yet ; But at night when all was silence, and the still world doubly lone, Eve poured out all the agony a human soul could own- Not a selfish, earth-soiled longing, but a great and deep remorse ; Not a simple, childish yearning, but the full and anguished force Of a fallen human spirit in repentance true and strong, One who knows the height of pureness and the depth of graceless wrong — Such the anguish of her spirit who had once the purest joy God could give His Own created — treasure cast with none alloy — Such her woe, who soiled the treasure with the sin- stain of man's fall ; And in justice was her anguish, who in sinning brought to all, All earth's children through the Future, one great heritage of gloom ; Yet as life is Heaven's grand dower, so the ever- pending doom Was in gracious part averted by the promise in her grief rOf a sure and Faith-surrounded source of God's Divine relief. The Inspiration of Song. And the night-wind sighed an answer to Eve's deepest sorrow there, Till the lonely soul of woman lent itself to humble prayer, As the stillness of the desert wooed her into purer calm, And upon her bruised spirit fell a soft refreshing balm. There was not a need of language her petition to express, No words could clothe the agony her soul had to confess ; A breathing of repentance took the prayer right into Heaven, And, before it seemed to enter, the blessing had been given. The breaking of the day-dawn bathed the wilderness in light. But the fairest beams of brilliance broke in glory through the night ; In the darkness of deep sorrow, woe the loneliest of earth, The noblest of all poems had received its troubled birth : In a lonely woman's sorrow human hearts had learnt to pray. And this prayer of deep repentance is our heritage to-day ; — The poem still expressing the experience of all Time, The word of hope in mercy, and faith in love sublime. ■:o:- The Inspiration of Song. They had reached a hardy manhood, those first sons of Adam's race, In person fully equalling their father's supple grace, But in heart and inner consciousness fair types of that mankind We know in present circumstance, of both qualities combined. Tall Cain the swarthy gardener, by many a sun embrowned, Was the haughtiest of earth's masters, this tiller of the ground ; His eyes would flash out anger where Abel's smiled a charm More potent than those fire-sparks so fraught with careless harm ; The one would strive in passion, where the other sought to please ; Yet they lived, those early brothers, no life of spoiling ease, For their father's curse was on them, an inheritance of sin, And they worked with strong endeavour God's esteemed regard to win. Abel, the true and manly, was a noble without peer, Pure, earnest toiling shepherd, who knew no coward fear, Accepted by his Maker, for his lonely generous heart ; But hated by his brother in a jealous anger's smart. Not at once, as little children, had they drifted each from each, The Inspiration of Song. But along the years of boyhood, far as either ken might reach, There was just the creeping envy, with its slimy noisome trail, To disturb the peace between them. Love's enlighten- ment to pale. In Cain's heart the tiny envy grew to bitter awful hate. Soiling, searing all his life-work with the grimness of its fate ; And the gentler speech of Abel, or the pureness of his life, Was but fuel piled to augment the fierce tumult of Cain's strife ; Till there dawned the saddest epoch of a world's disturbed records. When the long-pent fire of passion overturned its smouldering hoards. And the history of earth's people was imbued with blood and crime. To be passed along the ages to the end of finite Time. How the elder slew the younger in a moment of fierce ire ; — How the murderer had his sentence of desolation dire ; — How the wrath of the Almighty poured itself in punishment On the head of Cain the hater, Cain the saddest miscreant — Is a tale the years have carried down to us in clear terse writ ; The Inspiration of Song. And the lives of all the nations have been ever closely knit With the dull, dark strand of murder, and the darker one of vi^oe — The hate that leads to bloodshed from the envy lying low — And the first-born of true Poetry received a sad baptism, A brother's hate, a brother's crime, its carmine-flowing chrism. :o: The glittering sheen of luxury had turned to tawdry dross, The sense of rich possession to a worn heart's greatest loss; From the height of wealth's abundance to the depth of shame debased, A fallen, guilty woman lay in woeful grief disgraced. A faithless wife and mother, she had cast aside all peace. And lived her life of lawlessness in open careless ease, Till her beauty lost its loveliness, as her heart had lost its bloom, And the world she lived to conquer filled the measure of her doom. Forsaken in her sinning by all who might have stayed To help her to repentance, they, the Pharisees, delayed. To load her with reproaches that fell with scanty grace From lips of those who uttered them — the hypocrites, the base. The Inspiration of Song. What wonder that she met them with the scorn they well deserved ? Were they so fully righteous ? Had they never weakly swerved From the narrow path of honour, that they spoke such taunts to her, — She, who knew them, knew their actions which not any dare aver — ? But they silenced her with roughness such as only man would use, With the coarsest taunts and censure, her yet hard'ning heart to bruise. As they led her to the Temple, in her mask of bitter scorn, To defile its sacred precincts with their oaths so foully sworn. She entered boldly, proudly, 'spite the sinking of her heart. Where a mingling of emotions surged with many a new-felt smart. The surroundings of the Temple had recalled the lovely dream Of those fairest hours of childhood, ere the troubled, muddy stream Of temptations never conquered soiled the current of her days. And the shadow of transgression dimmed the bright- ness of Love's rays, For the annals of her girlhood had been fair and pure, as Love 8 The Inspiration of Song. Makes of life the best and purest when admitted from Above — But she cast aside these heart throes, and upheld her worn, proud head, Stepped between the Temple portals with a firm and noiseless tread, Mocking with her faded beauty those real charms that once had been. As the stormy shades of Winter mock the Summer's brilliant sheen. Her accusers faced the Master, and she too upraised her eyes, Meeting His, so full of knowledge, yet in sweet compassion's guise ; And a flush of shame and sorrow swept the scorn from all her brow. Shook the pride from her demeanour, led her bur- dened soul to bow In repentance, in contrition at the feet of mercy's King, To pour out her mute confession with its inner self-made sting. Her accusers told their story ; true, though ill of grace in them, As they waited, eager, ruthless, for the Master to condemn ; Waited, yet in vain expectance, lingered but to hear returned Stern reproach for their accusings, inner heart intents discerned. *' He among you who is faultless," spake the Master's true clear tones, Tlie Inspiration of Song. " Shall by right of his own virtue, cast the first death- winged stones ! " In the shame of deep conviction crept they forward, one by one, Till th' accused was with the Master left in penitence alone. Left with her awakened conscience to receive her due reward. Left to know her soul's Redeemer, earth's one Judge and Heaven's Lord. " Woman, where are thine accusers ? " spake the ringing Voice again ; " Was there no one to condemn thee ? " and, in whispered words of pain, She replied with anguished sobbings, those the flood- gates of new grief; "No man, Lord" And lo, the Master, ever swift to grant relief, Answered gently, with forgiveness pent in every glance He bore, "Neither then do I condemn thee; go thy way, and sin no more." Wondrous grace of boundless mercy ! in thy full free overflow Poetry, the life of genius, had its further dower below. To mature its growing beauty, to prepare the buds of Spring For the fuller growth the Summer of accomplishment should bring. :o: 10 The Inspiration of Song. At the base of Olive's mountain as the shades of evening closed, When the ceasing of the daylight in sweet peace and rest reposed, O'er the flowing brook of Kidron went they forth, a gentle band, With the echoes of their evening hymn still whisp'ring through the land. To the Garden of Gethsemane they trode the quiet way, Where the calm of Nature's solitude had marked the twilight grey. Where the still leaves drooped in silence, and the dewy-laden flowers Hung their brilliant heads lamenting for the noontide's brighter hours. There the weary travellers halted; the disciples to find rest In the old and lovely garden, which of all they loved the best ; There they sat in quiet converse, — all but One who toiled in prayer — , Till deep slumber took them gently to its fancy- curtained snare ; And they slept, the weary resting, every sorrow cast aside ; They had peace : but He, their Master, Brother, Friend, and constant Guide, Toiled in agonized petitions born of sorrows long and deep; He was weary past all knowledge, yet had but to pray and weep. The Inspiration of Song. 11 Why ? Because His Love was winning yet another glorious fight ; And because that Love was victor, so He toiled the long, dark night, Till the dawn of morning found Him conqueror, though doomed to die, Found Him in the Hall of Judgment — pale His face, but calm His eye- Lonely, and in noble silence; but not thus His suffering less, Still a type of pain-wrung manhood, though Divine in righteousness ; Standing there, a King derided, and unflinching in the broil Of a thousand mocking voices in their fierce insane turmoil. Now, a pause ; as Pontius Pilate nervously proscribes his peace, Giving to a murd'rous robber an unmerited release, Doing, with his passive judgments, an injustice and a crime, Scarcely equalled in the records of the history of all Time, To a son of spotless manhood, to the only type on earth Of the highest in all virtue, honour, love, and mental worth. Yet another scene of sorrow, and the darkest ever known ; 12 The Inspiration of Song. On the Cross a King is dying, in His self-sought death alone, With the heavy crushing burden of a world's dark sins to bear, And no light divine of Heavenly love His lonely grief to share ; With no aid nor hope to sweeten the cup of woe He drinks In that moment of long agony the human spirit shrinks, And trembles at the darkness of the sins it bears away Into the deep oblivion of a never reckoned day. Oh ! those pangs of awful anguish, human only in their pain, Far above all common sorrows in their spirit-rending strain, And Divine in their accomplishment, soul-victory over death, Transcendant in the mighty Peace made ours with every breath ! The darkness grows more potent, the Cross is lost in gloom, As the Soul of earth's one Saviour stoops to meet her threatened doom ; One thrill of fearful agony that shakes a frightened world. One stifled moan of anguish, and the load of sin is hurled Far below th' abyss engulfing thought of memory's stern school. Far beyond the yawning chasm where bold death holds gruesome rule, The Inspiration of Song. 13 Far beyond, "and ever further from the rays of earth's fair light, To th' unfathomable chaos of the darkest, deepest night. Swiftly from the bounds of darkness comes the Spirit back to Heaven ; One last whisper : " It is finished ! " and a doomed world is forgiven Through the glorious atonement of a dying Saviour's blood ; Man made one with his Redeemer in unceasing Brotherhood ; Christ th' Incarnate Lord surrendered at the sacrificial shrine, Man, the guilty, fallen, dying, — saved by might of Love Divme. :o:- Laud it over all the ages as the theme of fairest praise; This the boundless Love inspiring every Poet's highest lays; This the Love, itself a poem sweet and tender, true and strong, Which alone is the Eternal Inspiration of all song ! ^,>- '^^« ^!^^^^X^^^^^^<^-^^^^^^^^^^'^^^^ J^atuTQ'Q SiT^^^'^^-^lT' '^^HJ^- ^ HE world is beautiful! And with a beauty that can change To suit our every mood, As if it understood Our vagaries, so fleeting and so strange ; As if the green-clad trees, Their branches swaying in the summer breeze, Were fitted for our life's most brilliant hours, While chilly snow-laid fields, with gloomy skies. Make Winter's first, chief prize. Where in the death-cold gloom the sad heart cowers. The innate sympathy By every budding flower expressed. In every cloud confined. And whispered by the wind, Is beautiful, and in its beauty blest. The wood-bird's happy trills Are but an echo of the joy which thrills Our own glad hearts, in days of deepest peace. And lonely, restless Ocean's heaving sobs Blend with our own heart throbs, Our grievous sighs and murm 'rings for release. NaUiris Sympathy. 15 The sunshine's radiance Holds kinship with the love so bright, That cheers our onward way, And bids the clouds delay, The clouds of fear which make our darkest night. So every bird that sings, And every insect with his varied wings, Have a sweet message given them to outroll ; Or with a silence that is deep content, Nature gives kind assent To those great feelings which uplift the soul. -»-X- ••)!(••••)!(— )f(:--X--!- ^X^ifK the flowing of the ^ide. "^ATHERE the merry bright-hued ripples mark the flowing of the tide. Where the sunshine o'er the ocean lingers fair in gracious pride, Where the heavy-freighted vessels sail in majesty along, Flows the burden of my song. 1 6 With the Flowing of the Tide. There beside the weed-laid margin of the smooth shell-spangled sand, Where the murmur of the ocean echoes deep along the strand, The resounding of the billows far across the spacious bay Is refrained in ocean spray. There the sea-breeze brought a message from the kingdoms of the west, To a weary heart a message of eternal happy rest, Which the stately, heaving ocean, in its boundless azure brings On the morning's silver wings. And a tired heart found comfort in the gently-sweet repose, That only from the restlessness of the ocean-spirit flows ; So the merry sun bathed ripples, dancing carelessly along, Brought me peace to end my song. ^^ •JTAs ^irst ZpririQ ^loiOers. --ir-- "LJ ALF-BLOVVN wreaths of Laurestinus Blushing fair amid the green, Nodding such a glad'ning welcome In their modest, graceful mien ; And they tell me Spring is coming. Spring is coming ! Spring, my queen ! While the sweet white-robed Narcissus Gently waves his golden bells, And the proudly-smiling floweret Still the same glad chorus swells; Still the glad refrain is pealing : Spring is coming through the dells ! Sweetest heralds of the Springtide, With their songs of trust and hope, How they still the moans despondent Of my heart where sorrows grope, And there dawns a new, bright gladness, With its miseries to cope ; And the sunshine through the tree-tops Takes a fresh inspiring power; While the passing of the daylight Bears this burden in each hour : Spring is coming in its glory. With its wealth of bud, and flower ! 18 The First Spring Flo7vers. Spring is coining with its promise Of the fuller glories there, When the brilliance of achievement Shall adorn the Summer air, And the measure of true beauty Shall fulfil the promise fair. -••••X-X--X--X- -X-i- Qarth's Qver ^hanging Qano'pi^. ..-~sats^ A S changing and as beauteous as the sea So vast, so buoyant, deep, and wildly free, The sky is still more fathomless and vast ; Its often radiant, rainbow tinted hue, Its frequent aspects of unrivalled blue, All charm us with their beauty unsurpassed. The brilliance of the sun's awakening beams, The sky's deep purple lit with golden gleams As night's shade brightens into dazzling day ; The startling splendour of the early dawn. To our dim sight becomes a veil half-drawn A glimpse of ideal glories to display. Earf/is Ever Changi?ig Canopy. 19 The fleecy clouds like winged angels fair Constrain us still to breathe a humble prayer, To raise our souls towards Heaven's high Mercy-Seat ; Uplifted from our weariness and pain, Our song ascends, a glad and thankful strain, Far through the sky, earth's holy incense sweet. The storm clouds which the lightning fierce reveals, (Our awe increased by solemn thunder peals), Have fearful grandeur fraught with danger's gloom ; And as the mighty echoes strike our ears. Filling each heart with haunting unknown fears. The answering winds in mockery shriek our doom. The beauty of the evening, calm and still. The Sun's reflection, from the Western hill Spreading an orange glow across the blue, Strangely enthrals our senses as we gaze Until the glow is lost in twilight haze ; So rapidly it passes from our view. But even Sunset, richly warm and bright, Cannot excel the moon-lit clouds of night, When lovely Luna, consort of the Sun, Looks earthward from her airy throne of state. To gladden hearts that bend 'neath sorrow's weight, To cheer us when our daily tasks are done. ^Ae ^orn 'portrait. TT was sadly torn and injured \Vhere destroying hands had lain ; All the wrappings of the figure Were as spent links of a chain ; And the ruined twisted fragments, Lying scattered all around, Were belike the leaves of Autumn On the forest's verdured ground. All the beauty of the features In their grace was marred and bent, And the lip's fair bloom had faded As culled roses lose their scent ; Ev'n the forehead, with its power, Its clear signs of inward thought, Lay a crushed and battered emblem Of what spoiling Time hath wrought. But the eyes — ? Ah, here the vandal Trembling failed, and incomplete Left the work of his poor malice, Brooking only forced defeat ; And amid the scattered fragments Gleamed there forth with life-like fire, Eyes to melt in sweetest pity. Eyes to flash with sudden ire. The Torn Portrait. 21 Living orbs, wherein the Spirit Looks beyond its home of clay Into Hfe's great consummation, Dawning in Eternal Day. There they rest, those painted mirrors Where the soul was pencilled deep, Truly showing each expression Into which life's light may creep ; There reflecting, what the Spirit Else must veil in silence long, Shadowing, in misty colours. Purple depths of feeling strong, Writing, in strange hieroglyphics. Traces of the heart's long strife, Giving to the true receiver All the outlines of a life. So they lay, unshattered symbols Of the soul they shadow forth, (As the clear sun of the midnight. In the deep sky of the North, Is an emblem, fair and brilliant. Of the same which gives our day) And the symbols of the Spirit In its clothing of frail clay. Are as lasting, as triumphant Over death's destroying power; When the Soul shall find its future After dissolution's hour, 22 The Torn Tort rait. When the shadows of death's valley Roll beyond the brilliant heights Of the Life that Soul shall welcome, As it ends its wayward flights. It shall live, this lonely Spirit, Wearied now with prison bars ; It shall gain its best existence, Freed from all these bondage scars ; It shall live of Life the highest In fair liberty's domain, Where the shades of sin and sorrow Never cast the whitest stain. It shall live, and in its living Cease to know the bonds once worn ; Liberty! Where ev'n memory Fails to bring a Past we mourn. In the life of only pureness All unrighteousness must flee. When the Soul, enslaved no longer, Lives in grandest Verity. ^ picture. A belt of sky, a strip of sea, The blue waves rolling wild and free, Foam crested billows tossing high ; A fair expanse of sea and sky. The azure margin of the strand Contrasting with its shining sand And forming one fair harmony, The pcean of the flowing sea. One shaded, shimmering, drifting cloud Hov'ring above, a spirits shroud ; The spirit of a Summer's dream Floating across Time's sunlit stream. The snowy wing-spread seagulls rest. The sunbeams glancing o'er each breast, Midway between the sky and shore. The plumaged guards of cerial store. A Picture ? Nay ; a poet's song, An inspiration of the soul. The whisper of the laureate throng, The echo of a minstrel's dole. 24 J Picture. A picture ? Yes ; the fairest art That blent a poem in each wave, That speaks rare gifts to every heart, And hides itself in what it gave. A picture ? Yes ; an earth-born child. But bearing Nature's stamp alone, And as she sweetly danced and smiled, The artist made her grace his own. A picture ? Yes ; a living sweep Of hallowed sky and throbbing sea, The noblest rendering of the deep, A bright inspiring symphony. The Pace of Love. 25 ^Ixe JTace of ]|^ot>e. T5EF0RE me in the shadows of a dream I see one face outlined, a sweet young face, Resplendent, glowing with the fairest grace In which the deep lights of the pure soul gleam. There where the shadows cast their misty veils O'er the far past, where even memory fails. Where scarce one ray may shed its dim, faint beam, I see it in the shadows of a dream : That one pure Spirit-face. I have no written word, nor short nor long, Of what those tender lips might once express, I have no memory ev'n of one caress. Nor one brief echo of a sweetest song ; Only I know, I feel it in my heart. Where every reason fails to take its part, I know that in that face, so pure, so strong, One message only bore its charm along : The charm of perfect Love. And in the dear dream face I see it still : The Love that lives through all the lapse of years, The Love that conquers legion doubts and fears. And bravely bears itself through every ill. In shadows I must see it now, but soon. When draws to night life's present afternoon. And night to endless day, that Love shal fill My soul with satisfying joy, until I too shall learn to love. buttercups. T saw some golden buttercups, And they grew in a London field, When the grass was rank, and their stems were lank, But their beauty was unconcealed. As a fair emblazoned shield. I saw some golden buttercups ; They were clasped by a childish hand, And a face was bright with a happy light, As if caught from the glory-land, Where the white-robed angels stand. I saw some golden buttercups, Where they bloomed on a turf-laid wall ; And each yellow head to the sun was spread, Whose bright rays shone over them all, I noted the glad beams fall. I saw some golden buttercups ; They were crushed in an old cracked jar, But they lit the gloom of a dreary room. Like the gleam of a heavenly star Thrown down from its seat afar. Buttercups. 27 I saw-some golden buttercups, Which were sketched with an artist's skill ; In each fair wee flower was its brilliant dower, Confined by the sheeny frill ; And their beauty lingers still. Whene'er I view the buttercups, With their wonderful golden sheen ; It just seems to me that there may not be A lovelier sight to be seen, In the empires of the green. 4X--X-X-X- -X-i' 5^Ae S'^'^3 ®/ ^aith. T^HE morning dawned with a dismal chill, The sky was heaped with its clouds of grey The mists crept over the field-laid hill, Dark'ning the promise of perfect day; The cold wind shivered about the trees, Scathingly biting the new- formed leaf; The clouds rolled on till they met the seas, And stranded oil the horizon reef 28 The Song of Faith. The dawn was dull, and my heart was sad, Till a wee bird flew to my window pane, A songster, not of the brightest clad, But trilling songs of the sweetest strain. The clouds passed on in forebodings deep, And the bird still warbled his joyous lays ; The fears in my heart were lulled to sleep By th' echoes there of that song of praise. I watched the hill with its misty dress, I scanned the grey of the dull, dark sky, I felt the breeze's enchilled caress, But over all was that joyful cry ; And I knew that noon would be fair and bright, I trusted still in the God-given song, And waited there for the pure sunlight To gleam when the clouds had swept along. In hope I watched till the gloom had passed. Till the breeze had taken a warmer drift, Till the sun shone fair o'er the hill at last, And gaily scattered his morning gift; And amid the beams of the glowing sun, Chasing the mist to the valley's close, My Faith increased in the hope begun, And doubts lay wrapt in their noon repose. J^Ae ^loiOer S^*^ ®/ Zp^'^^S- (^H, why do they call thee the emblem of sadness, Pale, sweet, modest primrose, ah, canst thou say why ? When our eager glance rests on thy fair soothing beauty. And we willingly gather thy morsels of fragrance. Is aught in that beauty to sadden the eye, Or cast down our spirits, or call forth a sigh ? No, not when we plucked thee, as free and light-hearted We joyously rambled through woodland and dell ; Quite content to exi'^t in the joy of the moment. All enrapt with our simple discernment of Nature, Uncritical, pleasing. Heigho ! we know well The pleasures of childhood we grasped ere they fell. Is part of thy mission, fair primrose, beloved, To bring to remembrance the days of lost youth ? Oh, is this the lone cause of the mist o'er our vision, And the tear trembling over the sad drooping eyelash? Aye, utter it softly, but whisper the truth. If grace may incline to a thing so uncouth. 30 The Fhnver Star of Sj)riiig. But, blossom, we miss now the pride of thy beauty ; As resting in state on the dais of green, Thou hast budded and bloomed in thy fair woodland palace, While distributing gifts in a measure unbounded ; Sweet miniature sovereign, thy kingdom, we ween, Is spacious to boast such a shy little queen. To-day we admire, although in thy dominion To trace willing footsteps falls not to our share; It may be that we traverse the streets of a city, 'Mid the whirl of its turmoil and business-bound pressure. And read thy sweet message displayed even there ; What wonder, that reading, a sigh moves the air? The sadness is transient, a fleeting emotion, But not the less truly a genuine regret ; Those the brightest and best of the days of our spring- time. With the years are now passing for once and for ever ; Ah ! Primrose, their memory we would not forget, And thus for remembrance, fair flow'r, we have met. J^eiOqua'ij. KT EWQUAY, Bride of Northern Cornwall, Plighted by the grand old sea, With the music of the breakers For a full and glorious anthem ; And the Heaven's wide canopy, To supply the dimmer arches Of our lesser, sculptured fanes ; While the low voice of the breezes. With its soft, subduing strains, Give a choir's rich refrains. As a maiden for her bridal Is bedecked with robe and band. So our Newquay wears a garment — Crossed by many a rocky girdle, — Of the sweeping, shining sand ; And a veil of misty splendour Morn and Even give the bride ; While the showers of wedding favours Are the treasures of the tide, Scattered round on every side. 32 Neivquay. Can we give a greater blessing To our favourite of the shore, Than already she possesses In her ocean-bound dominion ? We can grant her nothing more Than our full and free affection ; Just the bond we vassals pay To our royal, noble lady, And her liege, the warrior grey, Of our land the rocky stay. ••)<••••)!(••••)«(• •X--)i(-i- J^QTnina^ '^v.n^TxinQ , r^LORIOUS, ever-welcome sunshine Brightening all the morning hours, Sunshine gladdening all the meadows, Sunbeams dancing o'er the flowers, Gleaming through the budding tree-tops. Sparkling on the dew-moist lawn. Sketching fair in glowing colours All the beauties of the dawn. Lent Lilies. 33 Fairest gleams of fairest brilliance Shining through each rifted cloud ; Sweetest arrows tipped with radiance Darting o'er the still night's shroud; Heralds bright in gold and silver, Heralds of the gladsome day, Dawning in its purest robing. Clad in simple, sweet array. Merry, merry dancing sunbeams ! Happy, happy rays of hope ! Bringing gladness o'er the hillside, Scattering jewels down the slope ; Chanting silent songs of pleasure, Breathing joy's supreme delight ; Welcome ! Glad and happy sunshine, Fully welcome, gladly bright. -!"X"X-X—X- ••)!(■••!- ^ent "^^iliQS, 'T'HE yellow heads toss in the wind; The golden bells glisten with dew ; Come love, we will gather the daffodils sweet, And the best shall be, Baby, for you. D 34 Lent Lilies. The fairest and best we can seek, To match with each bright, golden lock, To vie with the loveliest blossom of all That across the green meadowland rock. The daffodils, lilies of Lent, Betoken regard, the folks say, And so 1 will pluck a big posy of love To deliver my message to-day. The yellow heads toss in the wind, And play with wild March's rough breeze, All nodding and shaking in frolicsome glee. As if seeking the sun to displease. Their antics are merry and gay. Their beauty a brilliant delight, But after all, dearest, what else can compare With her baby to mother's fond sight ? My Lent Lily, darling, are you ; You came, in the Spring's early hours. To gladden the garden of Mother's own love With the fairest of all the bright flowers. The daffodils, baby, are sweet ; You love them, and so, dear, do I ; But one little flow'ret I love, oh far more Than all others beneath the blue sky. ^mong tho "J^rimrose Qathorers. -«sytit5- — 'Y\/'ITH loud merry laughter and shrill happy song The children go joyfully dancing along, While the fatherly sun his warm rays o'er them sheds, On their bright careless faces, and rough tangled heads. Through lanes and green meadows they wander at will, Their hands always busy, their feet never still ; And the old battered baskets, so dirty and frail, Grow resplendent and fragrant with primroses pale. One lithe handsome youngster, decked gaily with fern And golden-eyed blossom, no artist could spurn, For the lad makes a picture of pure healthy glee That the older heart longs in its seared bloom to see. Then joyously tripping beside this gay youth Is a maiden in whose azure eyes we read truth ; And there rests a stray lock of her long golden hair 'Mong her flowers, and lingers so radiant there. Two babies are playing across the soft grass ; And, guarded from harm by a motherly lass. They are tumbling and rolling their dear tiny selves, Without trouble or hurt, the wee mischievous elves. 36 Fancies. It is such a fair scene with th' children and flowers So freely enjoying the short, blissful hours, That I long for the talent to faithfully trace An immutable sketch of its beauty and grace. But little feet tire, and the baskets are filled, The sun sinks away, tiny fingers grow chilled ; And at last I am left in the dim silent lane In the twilight, to ponder alone once again. It ever is thus in our changeable world ; The sails of existence so swiftly are furled. All our pleasures soon cease, and our sorrows are brief, We are weary ; Death's night brings us rest and relief. -i-X—X-X ■••)!(■• X •!- fancies. "\A7'E close our eyes to beauty. And say to ourselves with a sigh : Our life has no brightness, no pleasure ; We only are left to die. We people earth with phantoms, The spirits of doubt and of fear, And groan in our weakness and blindness No comforting faith is here. Fancies. 37 We clothe each hour with shadows Of sorrow, and desolate care, And murmur : Existence is dreary, A desert where joy is rare. We bow our heads in sickness, And whisper with fluttering breath : We are tired of life and its conflict, And long for thy call, O Death. We fill the air with fancies. Till the day grows as dark as night ; But one breath of God's happy favour Turns gloom into gladdest light. The dreams are grim and fearsome. And the fanciful hides the true ; But their antidote is in loving faith. And the will and power to do ; To do the good that's nearest With a trusting and kindly heart, Till the gloomy clouds of our dreary lives In cheeriness drift apart. ^"Kq J^auofhovn. "pTAIR Hawthorn and Hope ! the words go together, Speaking of joy and the warm sunny weather. How blithely we welcome this flower of the May, Transforming the earth with apparel so gay ; The gleam of its petals all shimmering white, Its fair lovely foliage, so green and so bright. The scent of its perfume — all tell us again, While the breeze in its boughs sings the same sweet strain : The Spring is among us ! In splendour appearing, Its wonders are ours, and the Summer is nearing. Fair Hawthorn and Hope, sweet symbols of gladness ; Aye, vanish all grief and sorrow and sadness ! The lovely May-blossom is shining around, A message from Heaven where e'er it is found. Impassive, unclosed, through the evening's dim hours, Spread out to the sky are its pale, graceful flowers ; Awaiting in hope till the night-curtains, drawn By the clouds, shall open to welcome the dawn ; Expecting, in confidence, daylight's approaching, And greeting the sun o'er the hill-side encroaching. The Convict's Baby. 39 Hawthorn, the Springtide's particular glory, Shed o'er all meadpwland, telling her story ;— The tale of how Winterdom drew to its close, And how her own empire with majesty rose ; Revealing in beauty the dreams of a seer. Foretelling the Summer-green soon to appear ; Hawthorn, the minstrel and prophet of Spring, The pride of all Nature, the work of a King, Its wonderful blossoms we joy in displaying, And give ourselves up to the pleasures of Maying -5-X--X—X—X •X- ^Ae (^onvict's ^abx^. "T-IE'S dying!" then shortly they add, "He is dead ! " But never a tear o'er the still form is shed. And why ? It were folly to grieve at his gain, The poor child who had borne such a life of pain ; And well do they know it, those folks we term hard, As they calmly discuss " the poor little card." 40 The Convict's Baby. Yes, dead ! Of neglect and starvation he died, for want of the care which we Christians denied " We never refused ! " do I hear all around ? No ; we only pass heedless where sorrows abound, Reproaching the poor who lack leisure to weep O'er the baby who rests in his last sweet sleep. But wan faces light up as the words pass on : " He died of starvation, the baby has gone ! " Bleared eyes grow more fiery, rough tones become loud, Till it ends in an angry, riotous crowd, All fiercely demanding redress of their wrongs. Asserting the right which to England belongs. There are cries of "A riot !" Policemen march out, And speedily put the insurgents to rout. The leaders are led to the gaol, one by one, A result of the death of the factory-girl's son ; The police do their duty, receive their reward, But ah, can that baby's frail life be restored ? His father ? A felon of noted ill-fame ; Yet should the child starve for his parent's bad name? His mother is only a convict's young wife, Who once helped her husband to save his weak life An "accomplice" finds work so hard to procure, To live is a struggle, and just means endure. The Convict's jBaby. 41 So th' baby was starved, while our guardians stand by And proclaim that the workhouse is always nigh. That wife was a mother with fond, loving heart, Who felt that she could not so readily part With her only child. But alas ! for her grief, Her babe has now passed beyond earthly relief. She was willing to toil, and did her work well, But her wage was a fraud, her work-room a hell ; The girl wife and mother was honest and brave, Yet the baby now lies in a starveling's grave ; She carries a grief-stricken heart in her breast, But her toil must go on without change, without rest. The sigh of that mother, the wail of her boy, Shall mingle for ever with anthems of joy. May they reach every heart, that we all may hear, From the tradesman's lad to the cynical peer. That desolate sigh, and the starving child's moan, As they blend with the rioters' sullen groan ; Till all, moved by pity and love, are impelled To stop the oppression and tyranny held Over workmen by masters, by rich over poor, To grant bread to the wee hungry babes who implore By their weak, feeble cries, the succour and aid Of every true parent the Father hath made. / lOill givs thee the trsasxires of darKiiQss. (Isaiah xlv, 3). ^hou hast set ttitj feet in a large room, (Psalm xxxi, 8). HTHE weary shadows press; the deepening gloom O'erhanging all, subdues my inmost sense; And in the darkness of my soul's close room, Where in the shade I read an awful doom, My spirit falters in the twilight dense ; There in deep cloud I stumble, vainly grope, ■ Yet of myself may find no cord of Faith, no light of Hope. Only of God is light. He sends to me The faith I need, and faith brings hopeful trust; And from the darkness is my spirit free, Loosed from the bonds of sin, and hell's decree. Which bound me down, a slave to tyrant dust Of doubt, despair and all-despondent sin. Thank God ! He sent me loving faith, and hope-light flooded in. I will ^^ive thee the treasures of darkness. 43 And from th^ darkness of my gloomy soul Rich, heavenly treasures have been brought to light. He set them there, who made my spirit's whole ; He set them deep, below the angry roll Of sinful passions in my nature's night ; And now, in His Own time, He calls them out-^ The treasures of His Love, set there beyond all sin and doubt. So where His light reveals the inmost deep Of this my soul, I find it close no more ; For only where doubt's darkest shadows creep, And only where sin's dust piles many a heap, Can aught confine the spirit's threshing-floor ; So where God's light of Love dispels all gloom, My soul has rest where He has set me in His Own " large room." 44 Wild Floivers. IJOild ^loxoers. A splendid bouquet of wild treasures they brought me, Fresh and sweet from the hedgerow, the marsh, and the brake, Which lavish such fragrance and splendour around me That I cannot but love them for fair Beauty's sake. Osmunda ! Thou king of all ferns, celebrated And long-honoured by minstrel in ballad and rhyme; How welcome thy shade near the cool, rippling streamlet, 'Neath the tall leafy trees in the warm summer time ! Not less art thou welcome 'mid Orchis and Iris, Brilliant blossoms, thy emerald beauty to grace : And with more of thy kin, though none like thee so royal. Is the tall stately Fox-glove in dignity's place. Fair starred Marguerita and sweet Honey-suckle Nestle closely together in mutual bliss, And the frail Briar-roses with pure perfumed petals, To my fancy seem fit for an angel's soft kiss. Yet far more do I love them, th' sweet silent flow'rets For the message of patience and love which they bear, A God-given example of trust in His mercy, A full proof that our Father for all things doth care. ^ S^^3 ®/ T^ove. T OVE is the key of richest treasure, Unlocking youth's fair house of pleasure, The gem which brightens every dream. The sunlight of life's flowing stream, The heaping of every measure. Ah, love is fair and love is golden ; The ever new and the grandly olden ! Love is a kingdom's jewelled crown, A prince's couch of the softest down, Where rest is never with-holden. Love is a song of Angel's chanting, Our brightest hopes in nothing daunting ; For love we dare our valour's best. Nor ever dream of award less blest Than love which is ever haunting. Love is the great Eternal Dawning, When Earth's deep shades shall yield to morning, The fears of sin and doubt be past, And loving faith gleam fair at last. All lesser love-beams scorning. ^"Kq (^hild* heart toifhi-n. us. 'T^HE child-heart within us Prompts the happy, merry smile, As the moments to beguile, We have lingered with the children, And have joined their hearty glee. With a zest so fully free. That our eager smiles and laughter Chase some clouds of life away. Till the children's happy play Holds for us the deepest plea. The child-heart within us Gives the gentle tears which flow, As we hear the tale of woe From some half-forgotten school-friend. Or the playmate of past years ; And these sympathetic tears Check the growing rise of chillness, Of indifference in our lives, And the warmer influence strives, Till sweet victory appears. Forget- Me- Not. 47 The child-heart within us Is the rich and flowing source Of our sympathy's deep force, And the smiles and tears of manhood Are the outcome of that spring ; And its blessings hold no sting In their pure and healthful moisture, Only drops of loving peace, Such as ever may increase For the praise-cup of our King. -i-X--X--X"-X"-i- 5iorgst-J)7e*JYot. T^HEY have sent me the sweetest flowerets seen. Some pink and blue starlets, a few sprigs of green; And each has its whisper, a faint tiny plea. Just made known in silence to you and to me. Away from the wood where the wild flowers blow, And missing the dell where all sweet blossoms grow; This the first message my posy has spread : "Forget not the charm of my old mossy bed." With much patient waiting we yet may hear more, The fairest remembrance of scenes passed before ; In gardens of beauty we ramble again, And away through the woods and the dear old green lane. 48 Forget-Me-Not. In dreams 'neath the trees of the orchard we sit, And mark the bright splendour the warm sun has lit ; Or slowly we pause in the soft moonlight fair, And gather a few of the small florets there. With every new fancy the souvenirs sigh : — " Ah, never let aught of such sweet memories die, But keep them for ever locked close in your breast. And the treasures will prove to be doubly blest. " The world will seem hard if the heart shall grow cold. Its pleasures and joys turn to bitters untold ; Prize youth's cheery gladness and make it your own, Life's harvest shall treble the pleasure thus sown. " Keep every bright memory of days long ago ; A token, however unmeaning or slow. May tender you comfort on some future day And chase a few moments of sorrow away. "And th' sadder remembrance of soul-sickness past, Must live with the rest in Life's treasure-house vast ; Though you often may ponder why this should live on. To grieve your poor heart for the years that are gone ; " But oh, though so sad, it has reason to be, The tide of those griefs flows towards the great sea. And the memory, deterrent, leads many a soul In darkness, in safety, to Life's final goal ! " Our Sweet English Rhine— The Fal. 49 (Jur S"^sst Qnglish J^hine'^'^'^he ^al. -'■viSAs-~ — (2) lovely Fal, whose wooded banks To thy fair self give wondrous grace, Of thee, loved stream, I fain would speak, And having power thy path would trace As flowing onward, day by day. Gently thou glideth on thy way. Thou, changing ever, yet the same To me, whose memory loves to rove Along thy winding silvery course ; Around thy path I oft have wove Sweet thoughts of pleasures past and gone. When love's fair sunlight o'er me shone. As I, in frail and simple craft, Down on thy heaving breast did glide, In the glad transport of those hours T dreamt not of what might betide, I had no thought for care or grief, Or that Life's joys would be but brief; But those were days that now are past, Though ling'ring in my memory yet ; Sweet joyous hours of honeyed bliss That could I, I would ne'er forget, For they are graven on my heart And in my dreams still bear a part. 50 Reflected Light. List ! gentle river, to my song, And bear it onward toward the sea, Accept the tribute I would bring, The meed of praise I grant to thee ; Flow on, O Fal, with this refrain, Ye rippling waves, take up the strain. -i-X- ••)!(•• -X-i- ^Q fleeted "^ight. 'T'HE birds flew out from the waving trees Up to the blue of the peaceful sky, Soared in the drifts of a south borne breeze Under the gleam of the sun's bright eye, Over the hills with their robes of green Trimmed with the softest red of the plough, Into the heights of expanse serene. Beneath the snow of a cloudlet's brow. The wind sang on in its woodland haunt. The whispered tales of the forest swept Like the soft refrain of an evening chaunt. Over the mead where the willows wept. All Nature's treasures displayed her best, Beneath the veil of a modest grace, To woo one's soul to an earthly rest, To loose the spurs of life's eager race ; Reflected Light. 51 But th' birds continued their eager flight Up to the wreath of the nearest cloud, Bathing their wings in the sunbeam's Hght, Shrined in the glory the sun avowed ; And the glowing sheen of its glory rare Was borne to me by those dazzling wings, As always the glow of brilliance fair Must be th' reward which such seeking brings. I could not see, from my shaded seat, The radiant source of the reflex beams, And so the birds from their high retreat Diffused the gift of those joyous gleams. They winged their flight, but the joy they won Was not theirs only to spend or keep, They gained the light of the high fair sun To share with me, in true service deep. The soarers too, in the field of life. May wing their flight with a ceaseless toil. And wrestle long with the earthly strife Our nature winds as a lengthy coil About the path of the restless wings, Longing to rise to a purer height, When the darker dust of a sin-world clings To turn the soul from its destined flight ; But coils once rent, and the earth-mould lost, As the old time chain of a freed-man's past, The soul may rise though at earnest cost, Up to the sunshine of life at last, 52 Reflected Light. Above the whirl of unsettled din Into the peace of expansive thought, Beyond the mesh of the tyrant sin Into the joy of a victory wrought ; And th' sunshine gained of life's purer sky In plenitude may be cast below, To shed some joy where the shadows lie Deep in the kingdom of sin and woe. The peace and joy that have thus been reached Must live to scatter their beams again, As an old world maxim often preached Starts into some thought of the newest strain. No man may live to his higher needs, Retrieve the ills of our Parents' Fall, Without achieving the creed of creeds, The truest lesson of Life for all ; He learns in rising of Wisdom's best, The purest life and the strongest love. And the world receives as his last bequest A fuller gleam of the Life above. ~^s^^^^*i^(V,,,^^M^W/ ^^^^^IM ^H W^^M BLv^ IH W'yW^^ '^&^^m {■W^v^^^^Sl^^^i^S^ ^ ^1^^^^ ^ /vAX V^teg^fe ^^^^^^^ ^^^S ^Ae Jfl-v^rdQT of (Sleitus. --^«<&fer- HTHE gorgeous hall of feasting is bedecked in good array ; The rich and heavy curtains relegate the light of day ; A full and varied banquet overlays the mighty board, Till every dish is raided by the hearty practised horde. The company is various, and numerous as great, The king, his lords and warriors, the people of the state, And Alexander heads the board with sumptuous, royal grace, But foolish words are on his lips, the wine-flush on his face. No victor is the monarch as he drinks the fiery wine, Debased by weakest passions, he makes merriment for swine ; He jests in mocking anger, or, convulsed with demon glee, He shouts his loudest battle song in liquor minstrelsy. 54 The Murder of Cleitus. The strife and noise grow wilder, hot ambition starts aflame Burning with raging eagerness to prove its own dear fame. The rival merits of the gods, the claims of jealous man Make the conflicting elements in each discursive plan ; And Cleitus roused vehemently, defies his monarch's word, Defies it at the gleaming point of out-stretched, unsheathed sword. They part the angry combatants, and Cleitus steps aside. And with a touch of pained regard convicting greater pride, He says in gentlest reference to Granica's dark fray : *' 'Twas this hand, Alexander, that preserved thee on that day." But his sovereign scorns the soft reproof shot from those noble eyes, And murmurs scathing, taunting words in whispered, secret guise ; And Cleitus hears the whispers, and he notes the scornful voice ; His blood is raised to fiercest wrath ; he makes no lengthened choice ; He turns and meets his monarch with a sternest, inmost hate. And not a tithe of fixed disdain those burning orbs abate \ He wastes no words of passion, all his weapons lie in rest ; He stands in every dignity of heart and nature drest. Fame. 55 The reeling king arises in a transport of blind rage, Excited further by that hate no drunken smiles assuage; Excited to a maddening heat of uncontrolled desire, He fiercely yields to vengeance in the violence of his ire. One thrust, a flash of sparkling steel, a last-expiring breath. And Cleitus lies in grim repose, the slave of silent death. -i-X- •X—X—X-X"!- Jtaate. pAME ! Man's supreme desire; yet what is Fame? A strange uncertain light, whose fitful gleams Shine on but few of Fortune's many sons, A faint and feeble glimmer lighting up The top-most peak of that great mount, Ambition. Steep is the winding path, and rough, and long. By which earth's sons may reach th' illumined height; Though one may sometimes gain the lofty goal By straighter, shorter ways, all others strive, And often vainly struggle many a year, Sometimes a weary lifetime, but to fall At last into th' abyss of deep oblivion, Or, deeper still, disgrace. And oft when reached, 56 Fame. What is this Fame which men pursue till death Or imbecility may overtake them ? What does it prove but bright illusion's snare, Among whose chilly shade lurks disappointment ? The glowing light whose radiance seemed a charm, When noticed from within the humble vale Of steady labour, unassuming toil, Takes but a tawdry glare when seen aloft, When the calm eye of him who won its gifts Can analyse, with all a critic's skill, Its meanly kindled fire and glittering shams. Delusive Fame ! Ah, none enjoy o'ermuch Of its unfrequent joys, for 'tis but scarce Enjoyment that is granted to its slaves ; And foolish they who trifle with the peace A humble busy life may give with gain, Who spurn the joys they hold, with thoughtless strife To struggle after mean, half-paltry Fame, And in the struggle risk their earthly all. ^# ^ ^^^A ^^^m '^ ^ ^^^^^m^^ j5^u2M7Mer's ^a\Dn, 'X'HE Spring of the year is passing, With its promise fair and sweet, To be soon fulfilled, or blighted, In the blaze of Summer's heat ; And the Spring of youth is speeding To the dawn of manhood near, The Summer of life with its fuller blooms, The crown of existence here. The Summer is crowned with flowers, And we would adorn thy days With the best of Life's sweet blossoms To gladden the Future's ways ; In affection's smoothest meadow, By the rippling brook of Love, We would have thee walk, 'neath the holy light Of the smile of One above. JflanKooB., r^H, be a man, my brother, A man in deed and truth, A noble 'mongst the noblest. The Flower of flowery youth. Strike out one line of action, With effort true and strong ; Be earnest in its purpose. And swerve not to a wrong. Be steadfast in your life-work ; Aim high and work and wait ; 'Tis not the idle dreamer Shall o'erleap Fortune's gate. To be a man, my brother, Is not to hold a name For honour, love and patience, Yet undeserve its fame ; The youth wins fairest manhood, Not when he gains its years, But when he holds it stainless Amid earth's fouler smears, And when he counts his honour Dearer than life or love. Deeming all vices handled, Crimes to his God above. An English Landscape. 59 And such a man, my brother, Owns but a Father's hand As Agent in his Future, Its import to command. From God he takes all mercies, With thanks for Heavenly care ] Gives with his cup of sorrow A strength-beseeching prayer. He traces God's own power In records of the past, And trusts alone in Jesus Foi peace while life shall last. -!-X—X- ■•X--X--J- ^n Qnglish 'landscape. T UST a bit of lovely woodland, With a background of low hills ; To the right the straggling village. To the east a stretch of green sward Which the foreground also fills. By the wood the little river Meekly winds its onward way. Takes the mill stream in its running Starts the several brooks with vigour, Winds its course toward the bay. 60 An English Landscape. At the outskirts of the village Stands the ancient steepled church, Half-concealed by verdant ivy, And encircled with the linden, With the oak and silver birch. On the hillside rests the manor, — Home of many an honoured squire, Past and present — and its gables, Fair and noble architecture, Mark fresh beauty in the shire. Right before you is a farmhouse, With its garden, gay with flowers. With its orchard and its dairy. And the fields wherein the cattle Pass the summer's drowsy hours. Just a rural English landscape, Have I pictured it aright ? Can you fancy all its details, And its gentle, soothing beauty. Full of calm and sweet delight ? Just a country sketch from Britain, But to Englishmen more dear Than all Jura's snowy summits, Or Italia's ancient grandeur. Of dead hopes the mighty bier. What are treasures oriental To the admired haunts at home ? What are France's brilliant vineyards, Or the Fatherland's quaint cities Of the spire and the dome ? The Unkno7vn Song. 61 Even Norway's midnight splendour, Lofty mountains, deep-set lakes, Rushing cascades, lonely canons, Fall below our own loved standard That no loyal heart forsakes. England's home-marked happy pictures Are enshrined in all our hearts ; Every son who calls her mother Loves no other land the better. Never from his love departs. -•••X-X--)*;--X--)!<-8- ^As "[^nAnoiOn ^onq. T heard a strange sweet sighing in the trees, And the breeze It answered with a cadence low and long, Like the softly dying echo of a song Borne afar across the quiet Summer seas. The deep mysterious rhythm touched my heart With the gently healing spell of lovely peace, And the spirit's rival conflicts fell apart Beneath the influence of this sweet increase. 62 The Unknown Song. The meaning of that song I did not know Long ago, But a simple thought came to me in a dream, On the fair unknown to cast a feeble gleam, A little spark from Wisdom's fuller glow. The meaning of that song I still but guess, And feel my thought is scanty to express The deeper mystery of the holy chant Whose very depth of meaning may but daunt My restless yearning, e'er returning, To solve the problem of the song I hear. So hard to understand, so sweetly clear. The secret is a knowledge from Above, A little kindling, and from Heaven's own light, Borne on the wings of vision's silver dove, And guided by its aid, serenely bright Amid the night That ignorance had bound within my soul, Again the soft, pure harmonies outroll, I hold their import in the one word, Love. '-^0*^ ^"he "legend of fhe Qo^rnations. "prAIR Lois of Flora's meynie Went tripping down the glade, Tripping, skipping, skipping, tripping. Beneath the forest shade. As fair a lovely maid As any of the glade. She reached to pluck a blossom, The sweet and wild dog-rose, Swaying, playing, blithely swaying With every wind that blows. With every beam that glows, The fragrant briar rose. She gently pulled the cluster, With pleased and smiling face, Blushing, flushing, coyly blushing With shy and careless grace, A child of Ceres' race. With th ' goddess' fair face. 64 The Legend of the Carnations. But smiles gave way to sorrow, The face grew wet with tears ; Sighing, crying, crying, sighing. Her fingers torn with spears. The thorns of rosy peers, Lois dewed her face with tears. The blood-drops dyed the greensward, Rose-petals strewed the ground. Glowing, blowing, sweetly glowing The green-clad earth around, As queenly Flora found In Cypra's forest-ground. Fair Lois sat a weeping, But Flora bade her rise, — Queenly standing, all-commanding — And dry her tear-moist eyes, To cease her childish sighs, And watch what might arise. They gathered up the rose-leaves, And laid them in a wreath, Sprinkled, wrinkled, blood-besprinkled. The red-dyed sward beneath, A grounding to bequeath The fragrant, tear-dewed wreath. While yet the teardrops glistened, Queen Flora made few signs, Telling, spelling, softly telling Some strangely mystic lines From magic fairy mines Of cabalistic signs. The Legend of the Carnations. 65 The rose wreath, and the carmine, The tear-dews, gleaming bright, Twining, shining, all combining, Soon disappeared from, sight In blaze of sunny light, Magnificently bright. The circle glowed with brilliance, The grasses bent aside. Quaking, shaking, shaking, quaking, As if in shame to hide Their nodding heads of pride, A fairer grace beside. The sweetest, little spikelets Of softest azured-green Peeping, creeping, shyly peeping Above the ground were seen, Their new electric sheen A wondrous shade of green. They grew, and bloomed in splendour ; The blossoms deeply red Fading, shading, gently fading Into the whitest head ; Their intermedium spread With various tones of red. The crimson held the blood-drops From Lois' fingers fair. Glancing, dancing, dancing, glancing. Within the sunlight's glare, A blossoming as rare As Flora's beauty fair. P 66 The Legend of the Carnations, The palest were the tear-stained ; The roses hid their scent, Hiding, gliding, gliding, hiding Among the petals bent. At Flora's bidding pent To yield their perfect scent. The edge of every blossom Was pinked to match the leaf Coyly flirting, self-asserting, Along the briary reef, The cause of Lois' grief. The rose's thorn and leaf. The pretty, fragile spikelets Were fashioned as the thorn. Rasping, grasping, cruelly rasping. Whence maiden-hands were torn That sunny Summer morn ; Oh ! naughty, harmful thorn ! Lois called her flowers Carnations At Flora's sweet command. Holding, folding, folding, holding Still her wounded hand, Whose deep-red scars yet stand. The blossoms' long birth-brand. Sailing. 67 failing. -««<**; CATLING on where the snowy foam Crests the blue of the rising waves, Where the beat of the tide of home Echoes far from the deep-laid caves ; Sailing over the restless blue, Far away from dear England's strand ; Sailing fair with a noble crew Into the haunts of a distant land. Sailing on to the shores unknown, 'Set with many a danger snare, Where the noise of the wind's dull moan Wanders over the storm-god's lair ; Sailing still with a calm, sure heart, Calm and sure till the voyage end. Bravely taking the fiercest dart Winds may hurl, or the billows send. Sailing on, so the true brave soul Calmly sails to the journey's close, Undeterred by the surging roll, Undismayed by the greatest foes ; Sailing on, though the adverse fates Wrest the sails of her faith away ; Sailing still, while the harbour waits Past the surf and the wind-lashed spray. 68 JVAo shall separate! Sailing on, and when life is fair, Holding still to her earnest toil, Working yet for the night of care, Bravely 'quipped for a storm turmoil ; Sailing on, and when darkness falls, Shrouding the sky in sudden gloom, Sailing straight 'mid the angry squalls That mark the track of th' thunder's boom. Calmly on ; so the soul's sure craft Sails secure to the end of life, Not unharmed by the stormy shaft Flung from the bow of earthly strife; Not unharmed, but to Peace at last The soul shall traverse life's short sea. When storms shall sink in th' silent past That hides itself in Eternity. XiD-^® ^'^'^^ separate ? "OOWED in the darkness of silent grief, Torn with the conflict of inward strife, Where is the joy of the Christian's life In such pain as this, and such bitter woe ? Sad and weary our lot below ; Never a helper and never relief? Who shall separate 'i 69 Over the strife of the long commotion, Over the waves of Life's heaving ocean, Borne on the wings of a sorrow-wind, Comes this message to all mankind : Who shall separate, who shall sever Us from the Love that is ours forever ? Shall we lose it ? Ah, never, never ! The Love of Christ it is great indeed, Mighty to vanquish a host of ills. Gracious to render the Will of wills The grand perfection of Right divine, Where Justice, kneeling at Mercy's shrine. In kindness succours our human need. Purely true is the old world story Telling in beauty and royal glory The endless work of eternal Love Resting beneath us, around, above ; And nothing of Heaven nor earth shall sever Our souls from th' Love that is conquered never, The Love of Christ Who is King for ever ! 70 Follotv Me.