JEjVlS ^ NlNIE • ],.ANMAN • ANGIER •.O.V. 1 '^4r?r>-r .■>,".?'« v;^:*j.AH -, v.- . .?»**,Vv?5W ^^'S^^^y itr-'. ni xV- POEMS MRS. ANNIE LANMAN ANGIER Wiltl flowers from my lieart's garden, I fling tliem to the wind: May human bees, on every leaf, A drop of honey find. BOSTON A. WILLIAMS AND COMPANY ©Iti Corner Boofestorc 1883 Copyright, 1882, By Anxie Lanman ANorEK. All rirjhts reserved. ELECTEOTYPED. BOSTON STEREOTYPE FOUNDRY, No. 4 Peakl Stkket. CONTENTS. PAGE My Muse 1 Dkops of Honey 4 Bubbles 5 Harps and Hearts 7 The Death of Moses 9 The Martyr 11 The Ocean's Dead 13 Life's Similes 16 A Mother's Prayer 18 The Old Maid 19 In Twenty Years 25 Angel Whispers 27 Gather the Roadside Flowers 29 Give us Sympathy 31 Spero Meliora 33 Live Like the Angels 35 Be Lovely 37 • Song for the Flail 39 Thy Will be Done 41 Rabboni 42 Hope's Song of Patience 44 Half a Loaf is better than no Bread ... 45 norah nohone 47 Epithalamium 49 The Ruminal Fig Tree 50 IV CONTENTS. The Treasure Trove 52 Mt World 53 Trials a Blessing 56 Everything Speaks to Me 58 Tassed On 60 Faith 63 ■The Heart's Garden 66 Counsels 67 Go, Tell it to Jesus 69 Silence Speaking 70 A Farewell to Youth 71 Sunny Spots 73 Christmas Carol 75 Our Rose 77 Watch and Wait 78 Meet Me in Heaven 80 Guardian Angels 82 Our Secret 84 Just Seventeen 86 Heart Yearnings 88 The Berry Harvest 90 Fear Not 92 The Child Seers 94 Some One is Prating for Me 96 My Wee Bit Sang 97 The Dying Husband to his Wife .... 98 A Vision 100 Something for Somebody 102 Bay View 103 Our Birthday's 105 Name Not the Dead 107 The Walk to Emmaus 109 A Dream 113 After the Storm 115 t-: CONTENTS. V How Do I TniNK of Thee? 116 The Sacrifice of Elijah 117 Courage 119 Little Nothings 122 Ode to Robert Burns 124 Song of the Disenchanted 126 NoRAH and the Angels 129 The Blind Mother 131 Tears 133 Spells 135 Saint Agnes 137 Song of the Contented One 140 ESTELLE 143 The Old-Fashioned Fire 144 The Broken Lyre and the Key . . . ,146 The Good Time Come 148 The Riddle Solved 151 Song of Peace 154 The Dead 155 Why Should I Stay ? 157 The Old Hearth-Rug 159 Live by the Day 162 Her Birthday in Heaven 164 Beautiful Incident 166 A Mystery 168 The Mount 169 The Emigrant's Grave 171 Venus 173 Not My Way, Lord 175 My Dove 177 The Prison Born 179 Wonderings 181 Only Listen 183 A Foe and a Friend 185 Vi CONTENTS. The Circassian Slave 187 The ISIaniac's Song 190 Little Follies 193 My Mentor 195 Song for Thanksgiving 197 Song of the Voices 200 Fancy and Fact 202 The Answer 205 A Eeverie 207 Melody of Nature 209 King Death 211 Natal Song ...... . . 214 J. B. F. (April 11) 215 Life's Duties 217 The Veiled Hope 218 The Tree's Lesson 220 A Carol for Time 223 Glimpses 226 My Song 228 In Memoriam 230 Questionings 231 Mizpah 234 Which is Best ? 236 If Thou Knewest 238 Euthanasia 240 Pedigree . . 243 POEMS POEMS. MY MUSE. I QUIETLY sit, with my work on my knee, When a, sweet little songster comes singing to me ; I hear not her wings, but I hear a soft voice, And my needle flies quickly ; my heart cries, rejoice ; My burdens grow lighter, my spirit more free, While this kind little songster is sinsi-ins; to me. But who is this singer — can any one tell? Of what hue is her plumage, and where doth she dwell? She seems to be near, but I see not her form ; Pier notes, they ai'e welcome in sunlight or storm ; Yet in vain do I seek her in cage or on tree ; Say, who can this warbler, this sweet warbler be ? 2 POEMS. How varied lier themes ! One moment she sings Of honey-drops, bubbles, and all such bright things ; Then she changes her tune ; more plaintive her moan, Of life's disenchantments, and youth's visions flown — How holy each lesson ! good and true she must be, The friend, who is ever thus singing to me. I welcome her presence, as welcomes the flower The soft breath of summer, the dew and the shower ; Should these be withheld, every blossom must die, And my heart would grow sad, should this sweet singer fly. So I watch for her coming, as waiteth the bee For the first rose of June, — she brings June to me. Then say, is there no one who kindly will tell The name of this sibyl who weaveth her spell O'er all things around me, beneath me, above. And warbles sweet music wherever I rove — And breathes over all a moral so pure — Hark ! a soft voice replies — 'tis an angel, I'm sure. MY MUSE. 3 Yes, my muse is an angel, no mortal hath skill Thus to play on my heart-harp, and tune it at will To strains which can strengthen, and solace, and cheer, Bid the face beam with smiles, check the fast- falling tear. Since my songster a friend from the skies j^roves to be, No more need I ask — who is sinsinsr to me ? DROPS OF HONEY. Dkops of honey — let them fall From the lip and from the pen ; Scatter them at sorrow's call, Stay not, asking where or when ? Let them fall, these droj^s of honey, The poor need them, who've no money. Drops of honey — hmnan bees Cluster round us, daily craving Just one drop, a sweet heart's-ease. For him who life's storm is bi-aving. Then let fall these drops of honey, They may prize them who have money. Drops of honey — kindly words, Haste to breathe them every hour ; Sweeter than the song of birds. Rich and poor both feel their power. And all can give these drops of honey, Which some hearts value more than money. BUBBLES. There are blowers of bubbles, whose names might be told, Did we not deem it wiser the same to withhold ; Since the sport which so pleases in life's early stage, A charm hath for manhood, for youth, and for age. A grave joolitician blows bubbles so large. They float o'er his mind like some gay Venice barge ; While a shrewd-looking captain sits guiding the helm, Who smiles as he sees himself peer of the realm. The scene is soon changed to a sorrowful sight, That bubble has burst, every smile of last night Has gone from the lip, like the stars from the sky — There is naught left the blower but one wish — to die. 6 POEMS. Some bubbles there are which float longer in air, While most only linger a brief second there ; Each bursting at length, there only remains A bitter reward for our labor and pains. Thus all blow their bubbles, and all see them burst Like those which in childhood we blew at the first ; But something is gained, for a moral was found Where our first bubbles broke on touching the ground. The lesson is this — let your aims be so high That naught this side heaven shall the soul satisfy ; Then so far above earth will your strong bubbles rise, They shall bear up their blowers — nor burst in the skies. HARPS AND HEARTS. There are harps in our breasts Of most delicate make, And many the tones which are heard ; Now plaintive, now gay, Now so soft is their lay. The notes seem like those of a bird. These harps God has tuned. Though broken they seem, They respond to their Maker's command ; And mortals, too, play them, Words, deeds, and looks sway them, A breath hath these instruments fanned. Our hearts are these harps — How sweet are their strains When sympathy touches the chords ; Then such melody's given, 'Tis echoed in heaven, Though whispered on earth are the words. POEMS. Then strike these harps daily, By deed, look, and Av^ord ; Hearts around iis are sighing for aid ; And since some are sad, Whom a word can make glad, Say, shall not the kind word be said? Though countless the stars. Heart-harps are not less, They are playing below and above ; But wherever they be, They have one master-key — And the name of that one key is love. THE DEATH OF MOSES. How stately his step, and how princely liis mien, A conqueror's form on IVIount Nebo is seen ; No weapon he bears, though liis foe is a king, The dark King of Terrors, with broad, sable wing. Where monarchs have trembled, and heroes have quailed. His footstep ne'er faltered, his faith never failed ; He thought of the rock, and the bush, and the rod, Gave his flesh to the dust, and his sj^irit to God. On his brow the cold dewdrops are gatliering fast. His pulses beat slow, one more throb, 'tis the last ; He heeds not that struggle, for angels are near To bear him in triumi^h far, far from all fear. 10 POEMS. He fell not by pestilence, famine, or sword, The dart from Death's quiver was, " Thus saith the Lord : " All power of the tyrant was broken and slain By Him who once died, but now liveth again. For us in life's desert, life's wilderness road, From the bare, flinty rock hath no crystal stream flowed ? Hath no rod of chastisement budded and blown ? Through no burning bush hath our Father's face shone ? Then let the stern messenger come when he will, On land or broad ocean, in valley, on hill ; We'll welcome the mandate to Moses once given. Yield flesh to the dust, and the spirit to heaven. THE MARTYR. Not only is the martyr one Who seals his faith with fight ; Who yields his life without a groan, When battling for the right ; The anxious heart a martyr is, The soul cast down with fear. Lest some who should the truth receive The truth refuse to hear. A martyr will the sooner bear To feel the scorching flame, Or rack that waits his flesh to tear, Than yield to wrong or shame ; The seeming martyr will conceal Those secrets of the mind, Which Pleaven may to the sight reveal. As light breaks on the blind ; The rea? martyr will not hide The sacred rays of truth ; He'll brave the scorn, contempt, and i)ride Of old age and of youth. 12 POEMS. He only asks the cause to see Why honest thought should shrink, To side with one, whoe'er he be, That dares to speak and think. Then be a martyr-si^irit thine Which aims the age to guide ; That bids the sun of Progress shine. And seeks no wrong to hide ; But be thy weapons gentle words. Thy shield, a heart that's brave ; No spot more sacred blesses earth Than the humble martyr's grave. THE OCEAN'S DEAD. Who with a careless hand would rend The veil of mystery ; And have unfolded to his view The secrets of the sea ? The waters foam and dash, then rest As calmly as before ; And leave no shadow of a wreck Of what they proudly bore. But precious things we know are hid Beneath the ocean wave ; And costly pearls and gems bedeck The mermaid's shining cave ; But treasures richer far than these Are buried in the sea ; Loved ones, whose names we fondly keep Green in our memory. There, in one cradle-bed are rocked The mother and her child : 14 POEMS. They heed no more the tempest's shock Or billows dashing wild. There sleeps the sire whose head was bowed Beneath the weight of years, Whose furrowed cheek the traces wore Of cares, and griefs, and tears. The blooming maiden lately decked For bridal and for ball ; A blue wave is her winding-sheet. The rolling surf her i^all. And manhood, to whose beaming eye The future brightly shone. There lies in dreamless slumber locked, Hope's fairy visions flown. The haughty monarch and his slave, They sleep there, side by side ; One has his sorrows all forgot, The other all his pride. The noble from his princely hall. The peasant from his cot, On the same pillow rest their heads. And share one common lot. THE OCEAN'S DEAD. 15 The pen of man may freely trace The story of the land ; But who thy mystery, O Sea, Can fully understand ? O Deep ! thy fearful history "Will never all be read, Till He who sees thy darkest caves Shall wake thy countless dead. LIFE'S SIMILES. ! Life should be like some sweet dream — Thoughts, words, and deeds should flow. As wave meets wave on some clear stream Whose surface shows no rocks below. O ! Life should be like some fair flower — Whose sweet breath cheers the saddened heart, Whose welcome fragrance hath the power To soothe our griefs, and hoj^e impart. O ! Life should be like some song-bird, That loves to greet us with its lay ; That asks but only to be heard While singing gayly on his way. O ! Life should be like some bright rill, That waters deserts, else how drear ; Whose verdant margin shows it still Hath ceaseless flowed the scene to cheer. LIFE'S SIMILES. 17 O ! Life should be like some fixed star, That shines not with a wavering light ; But points the wayworn traveller far Beyond the gloom of this world's night. Since Life should be like dream, flower, rill, Like song-bird and like fixed star ; Let each his holy task fulfil, And human hearts shall wear no scar. Then be our daily life like this — And Death will but a friend appear; A white-robed messenger of bliss, To bear us to a brighter sphere. A MOTHER'S PRATER. Maker I Saviour! Father! Friend! Thine ear to my petition lend, And let the holy Three in One Vouchsafe to guide and bless my son. For him I ask not fame or wealth, Xor length of days, nor even health ; These are but fleeting boons of earth, Though valued much, they're little worth Far higher blessings would I crave For him — a hope beyond the grave. That when on life's rough ocean driven His anchor-hold may ne'er be riven ; That wings of love may shield my child When storms are raging fierce and wild ; That rays of light may beam on him When faith is weak and sight grows dim ; That all may wiser, better be. By his example led to thee ; His time thus spent, fulfilled Life's task. Then orrant him heaven — 'tis all I ask. THE OLD MAID. "I never join in the cry against the nohle sisterhood; but rather echo Sharon Turner's benediction, ' Heaven bless old maids.' " A PORTRAIT. I sixG of modest worth, of talent too, Of virtues many, and of foibles few ; Or, if jiossessed, it cannot be denied That e'en her " failings leaned to virtue's side." She lived a maiden, and a maid she died, This was a fact she never sought to hide ; Why should she blush to see her name enrolled With Leslie, Bremer, Sedgwick, and Miss Gould, And Mary Lyon, who with lamblike heart In all life's duties meekly bore her part ? Such single women long shall live in story While many a wife may sigh in vain for glory. 20 P0EM8. She dwelt in a small town, 'tis now a city — That time will work such changes, more's the pity — Alas ! for romance, when the conquering car Of Progress doth such quiet beauty mar. Now, if at sunset through some shady grove Young maidens with their lovers chance to rove To some sequestered spot, they're sure to hear A factory wheel or locomotive near. Dost ask this old friend's name? Guess what you will — A flower still blooms, exhales its fragrance still, Though we should call it violet, daisy, rose, Or any plant which in our garden grows, We called her Fanny, and in days of yore She might have numbered suitors half a score, If bright blue eyes and cheeks of rosy hue Have any power man's hard heart to subdue. In early life she learned the useful art, A dress to make, from this she " took a start ; " And daily went for fifty years her round. Till all confessed her good works did abound. THE OLD MAID. 21 For she, like Dorcas, coats and garments made, (Kind angels deign to smile upon the trade), And now that Fanny walks no more below, Those whom she served, her "coats and gar- ments show." But not alone her fingers were employed — Her mind well stored, no useless trash e'er cloyed ; She sparkling waters drew from Truth's deep well, As all who heard her talk could quickly tell. Of jjriest and sage, of poet grave or gay. Historian, artist, she could "say her say ;" Their gems of thought her mental storehouse graced, Once entered there, no line could be erased. In politics she sided with the right. Her " sober second thought " ne'er shunned the light ; In heart a j^atriot, she could brave a host. Though calm, stern, silent as was Banquo's ghost. In church, no less than State, she had her choice — • The good old prayer-book did her heart rejoice ; 22 POEMS. Her faitli was simple, and her soul sincere, Her trust the merits of a Saviour dear. She never prated much of "woman's right," Of spirit-rappings, which weak souls affright ; The law sustained, nor did that code contemn Which bids us jiraise the good, the bad condemn. She bore no malice, but was gentle-souled, Though some the story tell that she could scold ; If graceless urchin from her work-room drew Her scissors, thread, bag, pincushion, or threw Her pieces round, or snarled her basting-thread — That child must straightway from the room be led, Reproved, chastised, till Avith repentance meek It sought a kiss of pardon on its cheek. And then the culprit, it must be confessed, Was always in the Avrong, for " she knew best ; " As all unmarried folks the world can show What children should, and what they should not do. Her own neat wardrobe cost her little thought. She toiled for others, planned, contrived, and wrouo;ht : TEE OLD MAID. 23 In her trained fingers many a dress has grown From scanty jjattern, which fact, if not known, Would jnake the wearer own the magic skill Which could, from almost nothing, at her will. Evolve a Sunday gown, with " pieces good to mend," In case this wondrous garment chanced to rend. She met life's changes with undaunted heart. With customs old and tried would seldom part ; But fifty cents a day would she receive, Though on it many said they could not live. I say she abjured changes, could not stand The thouglit of railroad passing through her land ; Yet freely did she yield tlie clierished right Tliat no one else should suffer, though she might. Had this good dame been selfish, ne'er would she Have shared the treasures of that apple-tree, Which for a hundred years, beside her door, Did on the ground its golden treasures j^our. That old tree stood apart, no friendly neighbor near — For others leaved and blossomed, year by year ; 24 POEMSy Its solitude forgot, while bright things played, Birds in its branches, children in its shade. The tree has died, and she has passed away. Both served their generation and their day ; And now, when modest worth and talent too we see. Our thoughts, good maiden Fanny, ever turn to thee. Let each the mission high fulfil — Go forth and labor, weary never — The field's the world, good deeds the seed, And harvest time shall be forever ! IN TWENTY YEARS. Ix twenty years, ah ! twenty years — Be calm, be brave, bid back tliy tears. These cankering cares, corroding fears, Will cease to vex in twenty years ; In twenty years, ah ! twenty years, In less, perhaps, than twenty years. Where are the bitter grief and woe That thine were in the long ago? Their memory dim and vague appears, 'Twill dimmer seem in twenty years : In twenty years, ah ! twenty years, In less, perhaps, than twenty years. The tongue that stung with venomed word. No more in hate or love is stirred ; And hands that once aimed poisoned dart May powerless lie on pulseless heart. In twenty years, ah ! twenty years. In less, i:)erhaps, than twenty years. 26 POEMS. Would'st learn the happiest way to live ? Thy ills forget, thy wrongs forgive ; Think on them as will one day seem Thy whole of life — a checkered dream In twenty years, ah ! twenty years, In less, perhaps, than twenty years. Our Father's home hath " no more sea ; " There mansion fair is waiting thee — Thy bark e'en now the bright shore nears, It moored may be in twenty years : In twenty years, ah ! twenty years, In less, perhaps, than twenty years. ANGEL WHISPERS. Birdie's nest is full of snow, But she left it long ago ; How did little birdie know ? Did the watching angels say — Here it is not safe to stay, Gentle birdie, fly away ? Did they tell her storms will come. Laying waste the pleasant home ; Making birdie's nest a tomb ? WhisiDCred they of clime more fair, Soft blue sky and balmy air ? Birdie sings now sweetly there. Angel one, that art to be, What do voices say to thee. When thou bowest head and knee ? 28 POEMS. Banish anxious care and feaj*, Check tlie murmur, dry the tear, Be thy watchwords hope and clieer. Brood not o'er the cold, dead past, In the bright beyond tliou hast Summer that shall always last. Earth-built nests will fill with snow, God's time is the best to go ; And the whispering angels know. Time brings to all cares, sorrows, fears, And private griefs, and secret tears; But God's heart pities, his ear hears, And each life-bark the haven nears ! GATHER THE ROADSIDE FLOWERS. O ! GATHER the roadside flowers, Though life be a thorny way ; There spring at our feet, With fragrance sweet. Bright blossoms wherever we stray ; Then gather the roadside flowers, O ! gather the roadside flowers. O ! gather tlie roadside flowers, A word, a look, a smile ; These all can give, 'Tis the way to live. Our toils and our ills to beguile : Then gather the roadside flowers, O ! gather the roadside flowers. O ! gather the roadside flowers, Of Hope, and Trust, and Love ; Tend them with care. For fruit they bear 30 POEMS. In the gardens of God above : Tlien gather the roadside flowers, O ! gather the roadside flowers. O ! gatlier the roadside flowers, Not long may we linger here ; For shining bands. With outstretched hands. Are calling in words of cheer — Come, gather our roadside flowers, Then gather the roadside flowers, O ! oather the roadside flowers. GIVE US SYMPATHY. This is the cry from every heart, In cottage and in hall ; It comes up from the busy mart, 'Tis echoed in the ball ; When smiles are dancing on the face, And feet trip o'er the floor, We hear this cry from every heart, If we listen at its door. From lips of lonely widow, From some despairing wife ; From trembling age, and manhood, too, In the dusty paths of life ; From merchant at his ledger. From maiden at her task ; From statesman, and from preacher grave, Though all may wear a mask, To hide this earnest craving. This yearning of the breast ; This longing for the unattained. This burden of unrest : 32 POEMS. From each soul's inner chamber Comes forth the ceaseless cry — But give us sympathy, we live, Withhold it, and we die. 'Tis like the gentle dew and sun On tender grass and flower ; Like hope to the despairing one In sorrow's darkest hour ; An anchor to the mariner Upon life's stormy sea ; A star, whose light will brighter shine Throughout eternity. Thrice haj^py they who heed the call. And yield the boon thus sought ; 'Tis in this way that we obey The holy precept taught. And bearing others' burdens, We lighter make our own — Earth will be more like heaven When this is better known. SPERO MELIORA. (I hope better things.) Spero Meliora ! though trouble be near, This motto the sorrow-bowed spirit can cheer ; Spero Meliora — this watchword will give Fresh courage to labor, new motive to live. Spero Meliora ! when billows run high, From thy tempest-tossed ark bid Hope's messen- ger fly ; And she will return with a green branch of peace. Sure pledge that the storm is beginning to cease. Spero Meliora ! the promise of good, Was writ in the rainbow o'erarching the flood. A light in the cloud could the old prophet see. What that sign was to him be this motto to thee. Spero Meliora ! this watchword hath power To nerve for the struggle in trial's dark hour ; 34 POEMS. Spero Meliora — then banish despair. Give thy fears to the winds, for life's battle prej^are. Spero Meliora ! an anchor will prove On our voyage through time to the haven above ; And Spero Meliora — our motto shall be, When we launch our frail bark on eternity's sea. LIVE LIKE THE ANGELS. Go, glide like a sunbeam through cottage and hall, With heart-cheer for each, and a blessing for all ; And seek out the sad ones, when over Hope's tomb Lean sorrow-bowed mourners in silence and gloom. Olasp childhood's soft hand, teach the selfish and rude That best of all lessons, the way to be good ; The footsteps of age in meek tenderness lead. Prove friend to the friendless in time of their need. Bid wayward youth penitent, tearfully turn To Virtue, mild mentor, wise lessons to learn ; How the tempted and tried may in triumph defy The soft syren Vice, with her basilisk eye. 36 POEMS. Should sickness and want, twin daughters of woe, A dwelling invade, with tread stealthy and slow, O ! there be thou found, like an angel of love, To whisper sweet thoughts of a bright home above. Let good-will to all be the theme of thy song. For justice and truth be thou valiant and strong ; To aims high and holy each energy given. This, this is to live like the angels in heaven. Then seek out the sad ones, when over Hope's tomb Lean sorrow-bowed mourners in silence and gloom ; And glide like a sunbeam through cottage and liall. With heart-cheer for each, and a blessing for all. BE LOVELY. " If man, or woman either, wishes to realize the full power of personal beauty, it must be by cherishing noble hopes and pur- poses, by having something to do, and something to live for, which is worthy of humanity, and which, by expanding the capacities of the soul, gives expansion and symmetry to the body — T. C. Upham. I SPEAK not of features, of figm-e, or skin, But of beauty of soul, which beams from within ; It shines in the face of the maiden and sage. And lights uj) the brow of manhood and age ; When the banner of Love o'er the heart is unfurled. And the fervent " God bless you " is breathed for the world. Though the form may be bowed, and whitened the hair. The cheek may be furrowed with traces of care ; Though the eye lose its lustre, the voice its sweet tone, All the charms of life's morning be faded and flown ; Thou still raay'st be lovely, be lovely to all. If the kind benediction from heart and lip fall. 38 POEMS. Be lovely — when duty to God and to men Is cheerfully done, and we cease to complain ; When the sj^irit at peace with its Maker can say — I have not a wish but Thy will to obey ; When all shall thus live, but to scatter good seed, Then will each human being be lovely indeed. v^ SONG FOR THE FLAIL. A SONG for the flail, the smooth-handled flail, As stroke after stroke it comes down ; While golden grains fly, wheat, barley, and rye, The toil of the farmer to crown. The useful and useless he thus will divide. And gathering each in their turn. The former with care, for the garner he'll S23are, The latter he'll scatter or barn. And what is earth more than a 2:rand threshino;- floor. With the wrong and the right thickly strewn ? But Truth's iron flail them both shall assail. To the winds then shall Falsehood be thrown. Should Adversity's flail thy spirit assail. Bid welcome the Love-guided blow ; Be every stroke heeded, not one falls unneeded, Our idols to shatter, our pride to lay low. 40 POEMS. Oil ! not to destroy, the flail I employ — Far sweeter this voice than the birds To the Husbandman dear, the wheat need not fear — Heart-cheering and i)recious the words. Then a song for the flail, the smooth-handled flail-— And a song for the laborer, too ; For while threshing his grain, he has threshed out, 'tis plain, A moral for me and for you. THY WILL BE DONE. Thy will be done — yes, Father, be it so, — What thougli thy hand be raised to strike the blow? Close, closer to Thy side Thy child would press. My eyes to Thee upturned, in my distress — Thy will be done. Thy will be done. Physician, give the cup, — Since Love hath mixed it, let me drink it up ; The bitter draught to me new strength will give, With courage nerve, for Thee alone to live. Thy will be done. Thy will be done. Good Shepherd, lead thy sheep Through thorny vale, up rugged mountain steep ; What though the way be dark, and drear, and cold? All shall be well, when safe within the Fold. Thy will be done. Thy will be done. Kind Elder Brother, Friend, Teach me with Thine, my own wild will to blend ; As melt the snow-flakes in the boundless sea, I losing all, find all, my God, in thee. Thy will be done. RABBONI. Mary ! Rabboni ! ah, those words, The heart with gladness filling ; They check the tear, calm every fear, Each throb of anguish stilling. Rabboni. Grief's surging sea, ah, who but He Could stay its wild commotion ? What voice but Thine can bid light shine On life's dark, troubled ocean ? Rabboni. Mary ! Rabboni ! buried love Here finds a resurrection ; No more need gloom enshroud the tomb When angels lend i:>rotection, Rabboni. Mary ! Rabboni ! mourner, know The one you've lost, and longed for so, May linger near, as by the side Of Mary stood the crucified Rabboni. RABBONI. 43 Mary ! Rabboni ! ah, those words — They touch the bosom's tenderest chords, They tell of life beyond the grave — Of hope through Him who came to save. Rabboni. HOPE'S SONG OF PATIENCE. A beautiful answer was given by a little Scotch girl, when her class at school was examined : she replied to the question, What is patience ? — " Wait a wee and dinna weary." Wait a wee, and dinna weary — 'Tis a tender, sweet refrain, When the way seems dark and dreary ; Sing it o'er and o'er again : A bahn doth Patience bring for jDain — Then wait a wee, and dinna weary. Dinna weary, wait a wee — A brighter day will shine for thee. E'en now its rosy dawn I see. Hope bids me whisper this to thee — Then dinna weary, wait a wee, O ! dinna weary, wait a wee. "HALF A LOAF IS BETTER THAN NO BREAD." Give what you can, Be it little or much ; A word, look, or smile Or the friendly hand's touch, And never forget That the i3roverb hath said, " A half of a loaf Is worth more than no bread." There are some who have only A piece to bestow ; Their means are but small. Though the heart may o'erflow ; But such will increase Both their oil and their meal. If others' wants cause them To act and to feel. A famine was raging, The jDrophet apjilied For food, to the widow, Nor was he denied ; 46 POEMS. And how was her soul Of its sorrow beguiled ; When for bread, she was paid In the life of her child ! Be it ever so humble, The gift you bestow, To the heart of the giver A blessing must flow ; So long as 'tis true What the proverb hath said — " A half of a loaf Is worth more than no bread." NORAH NOHONE. She pensively sitteth, This Norah Nolione, But she peevishly mourns not The days that are gone ; There is hope in her heart, Though I hear a low sigh ; As softly she murmurs, « Joys brightened to fly." When first her bark floated O'er life's shining wave, To one skilful Pilot The rudder she gave : He has guided her safely Through tempest and calm ; When billows dashed round her He shielded from harm. Her lot has been woman's, Her fate, that of all ; The light and the shadow, The sunshine and pall ; 48 POEMS. And she yearns for a country, By sin undefiled, Where the sorrow-bowed spirit Is glad as a child. But she cheerfully waiteth Her summons to go ; That home, O ! how sweet. Where the bright waters flow ; There loved ones yet live, Though they've left her alone ; She knows they keep watch Over Norah Nohone. EPITHALAMIUM. Cloudless ray and carol gay Welcomed in our wedding-day ; Calm life's ocean spread before us ; Benedicite, was the chorus As we sped our onward way. Skilful pilot, prosperous gale, Ne'er was rent the silken sail ; For one breath hath fanned it ever, Bark thus borne becalmed is never ; The breeze true love — this cannot fail. Content the name we early gave To our frail craft, which Time's rough wave Hath ploughed for years with steady keel ; And now, though age doth o'er us steal, We shrink not, though the tempest rave. For Death, with cold, yet friendly hand, But steers us to a pleasant land. The port of Peace, called Heaven ! Hail to the storm, if there we're driven, To furl our sail on that bright strand. THE RUMINAL FIG TREE. (The Euminal Fig Tree, near Curtian Lake, in the Forum at Rome, having been touched by lightning, was hekl sacred. — "Know that the Ughtuing sanctifies below." — Bykon'S Childe Harold.) Once in the clays of Rome's renown, When laurel did the victor crown, Within the Forum's classic shade A fig tree reared its verdant head ; * Among its boughs, by Curtian lake, Gay birds did sweetest music make. But storm-clouds gathered in the sky, The temj^est's voice rose hoarse and high ; Both man and beast before it quailed — Then bolt from heaven the tree assailed ; And from that hour a sacred thing Was that scarred tree by Curtian spring. Doth not thy memory restore ^ A rural spot in days of yore ; Perchance from moonlight walk returning, Hojie's light undimmed in Youth's lamp burning — Some lightning-scathed and withered tree, Whose hollow trunk bore thought for thee ? TEE RUMINAL FIG TREE. 51 All blighted, battered, blackened, bare, It stood, an emblem of despair ; We viewed the wreck with silent awe, And from the scene did moral draw ; The tree seemed fruitful in its blight, And we were wiser for the sight. Long, changeful years have passed since then ; We've battled in the strife of men. Life's journey trod with wounded feet, Tasted the bitter cup and sweet, Seen blooming hopes fade one by one, Till like that tree we've stood alone. O ! would there were no sadder scene Than blighted trees that once were green — But some are found by sorrow bowed. Dark palls of gloom their lives enshroud ; Too oft neglected, blamed, and feared. They stand like trees by lightning seared. But guard thou, as some holy thing. The heart where grief has left its sting ; Deal gently, be he friend or foe. With one who feels heaven's chastening blow ; Give love, alms, tears, heart's dew and rain, And Hope's dead tree shall live again. THE TREASURE TROVE. A TALE is told of ancient chest, Where maiden for lier bridal drest, Arrayed in garments pure and white, Would hide her from the loved one's sight. In this strange coffin she lay hid. Till hand of childhood raised the lid. 'Twas thus with Truth, that maid most fair She shrunk from error's gaze and glare And sought, long since, with modest grace, Like young Ginevra, hiding-place, Till men with guileless heart should come, In childlike faith, to unlock her tomb. Then, springing from her dark retreat, She smiling hastes the soul to greet ; Unfolds to earth celestial love. And guides in paths unseen before, In wisdom's book inscribes our name, And leads to heaven, from whence she came. MY WORLD. "What a resource," said the ill-fated Marie Antoinette, "amid the casualties of life, is a well-cultivated inind. One can then be one's own companion and find society in one's own thoughts." I HAVE a world,