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^^^k//^()'7V/ golden meadows 
 .WPJ I' Of jair deli-^Kt, 
 M4, 4 UrvbOu^ht by iKadows, 
 ' '■ Undimmed by nii^hf, 
 
 'Sweet aoaOs to sin? you 
 
 Full jdin come we: 
 R<rd buds to bnii"^ you, 
 
 White pediii to !>ti-in<^ you 
 Of minjlreliiy. 
 
 Of cottaoe doliies 
 
 Ar\d iweet larK'b nott:. 
 Of 3ut\:iei: rnazes 
 
 With clouds d|KKvi . 
 T~ciir store we offer — 
 
 And &\\ tKe year 
 Fresh rosea proffer 
 
 From furve's "old coffer 
 
 To ^reet you here 
 
 HITLEN [. 
 
Sdtckd md Armn^'sd 
 
 ^y fiobed aike fflac 
 
 k 
 
 E- P- DUTTON &- CPnPAHY 
 3I-We5t Twenty -11\ird ^ti'e^t 
 

 3 
 
 The OrL<^inal Poems are by 
 Graham R.Tomson, TKeo. qijt, E.Nesbit, C,eo Clausen, 
 Clifton. Din<^Katu and Helen T. Wood. 
 
 TKe Illustrations are by TA.ardaret I.Dick?ee, Fred Hines.E M.3kipword\, 
 
 W.C.Addison, Geo. Clausen, loKn Lawson, 
 
 T. F Coodall, Herbert l^icksee, Mary Sutler, LiT^ye I^ack, 
 
 A Wilde Paoraons, Maud Goodman, 
 
 Eh^abetk Gulland, Robert Fllice ?A.ack and Julius Lut- 
 
 And tke took is produced and printed by 
 ILrnest Nister, of Ts(uremberd. 
 
 f Copyriokt. All ridhts reserved.^ 
 
SiWCOr J\c4TU7\0. 
 
 JH-Cj-JH dayi are lond, and 3ummer woods are cool 
 nd Atirred by happy birds on waverin.<^ wini^- 
 When all ni<?ht" lon<^ tKe ni<?htin<?ale doth sin's 
 With Nature's voice in every '^ra33-<?rown pool, 
 
 We lean to see her face ; 
 O'er dewy meads we speed to her embrace, 
 
 ■V\/Ken day5 are short, ary.d all the world 15 white. 
 
 And bare trees flin<? black arms athwart the sky. 
 When soft and still the snowy feathers fly, 
 She comes, with pearls aad diam-onds bedidht; 
 
 And Robin Redbrea^st leal 
 Attends her steps and chirps his pert appeal 
 
 No mortal maiden is ,50 passLna fair 
 
 As jMature, pray you now, for Ker Sweet sake 
 (aMI ye that love her) this rare ca-sket take 
 
 Vhere n-\&ny hands, with lovind toil and c&re, 
 Have "fathered up for you 
 
 ,5weet Nature's 'Jifts, for ever pure and new. 
 
 T-Ielln J. Wood. 
 
e^. HcA'K^&jST T>n^lM. 
 
 / . 
 
 H& ^^^ggori ^e-^ left the stubble at ld5t. 
 -^ A^nd we Kasp iKe 0^te till to-morrow morn.; 
 he tield. is silent, day's toil is past; 
 \ I here is nothiuO to rustle the un.cu.t corn.. 
 
 Yet- one of the re^ipers seenns lotK to oo - 
 He lingers watcKiag the loving sheaves . 
 
 And his heart is "^Is-d of the sunset olow. 
 
 Of the field's gold corn, and the wood's rt»d leaves. 
 
 Okeaf leans to sheaf on the Oolden Or-ound 
 
 /\s> though they Knew secrets too sweet to tell, 
 /\nd the evening's quiet and rest profourtd 
 
 i3rin.0s rest to the souls of mer\ as well. 
 
 lie dreairio a dream as he liuoers there — 
 
 OprirvO's time oi promise is over and done. 
 1 hat the surnnaer has passed with her blo5son\5 fair, 
 
 A.nd that life's fri-Lition is almost "^^on: 
 
d^ \Vt)LCO.^lt 
 
That Kis heart skall Kold testiv^al f-^U &\xd high. 
 
 WitK a harvest o£ love when the tinae has come. 
 That the hour of Kis festival d.raweth rvigh 
 
 WhicK shall welcome his heart to itb harvest home 
 
 He dreams of roses — a cottage gate — 
 
 Of a small bridht Oardei-t— and one most dear, 
 
 "Who will stand at evening and watcK and wait 
 With, eyes inat briuhten when he draws near. 
 
 A vision of home — of Kis own fireside. 
 
 Where children's voices make n\i.isic tKe best . 
 Shu-t 5a.fe from tKe cold of tKe world outside — 
 
 Of blessed labo-u.r an.d blessed rest. 
 
 J\. vision o£ summer — - of sweet- lioKt days, 
 
 VsAhere Love sKall hoKten and sweetei\ all. 
 
 A vision c)t sunrise witK rose-red rays, 
 And a (;>lorious Karvest festival. 
 
 But tKe su.n is setting, tKe year is old. 
 
 And still Life's Karvests ungarnered stay; 
 
 E>ut Love is a seed tKat bears flrain of dold. 
 
 And Ke vet may reap it — some day. sorrve day '. 
 
 B.A'eshif. 
 

 
 
 5u.jy[-yiCJ\_ 
 
 Hi 5<JiT<rner!5 the season for holiddy^. 
 When the earth Is aflowei-. artct the jkyi 
 Ablaze, 
 When the J^un.'ihinc 13 hot and the 
 
 :>Kddow5 cool . 
 J\nS the lliei are ikantiuno the ouict pool 
 
 Oh' then one can r-oam in the wood all 
 
 day, 
 Of tumble the warm 5weet heap5 ot hav I 
 Or watcK the ducks as they dive and 
 
 -Swii-u. 
 And the glow-worms that ^ileam when 
 the skies are dmi. 
 
 Vou may 3ay that the world is :>ad and 
 
 cold. 
 We may think 50, too, when we're tired 
 
 and old , 
 But all the world is a Sond and a play, 
 lo a little child on a-, .^umnier dav 
 ■^ 
 
 
-W£;£7" I secern [o see you yet? 
 I 5a.w you leaning there, 
 .>j///Xea5ing £>n[i your HafFy pet, 
 ■If' ^In the old cKintz- cushioned, ckair, 
 VlWilK a wavmd featker nxre. 
 Shot With 0old and violet. 
 Tell me, d.amsel d-eaxr and f&.\r 
 
 Were your e_ye3 one moment wet "^ 
 
 O'er the eager pe^wa and Fleet, 
 
 Olow you let the Feather stray 
 Were you 3orry hor me, sweet. 
 
 On that sleepy Summer day? 
 X)id you si.0h to say Kvm. nay. 
 
 That poor wooer at your reet ■ 
 But the Kvtten— well away'- 
 
 Pleased you better, Marguerite. 
 
 Ah vou would not u Ft vour eyeb. 
 
 And your lips conhrn\ed m_y rear. 
 Not For me so sweet a prize — 
 
 1 houdh , you could not love me. dear. 
 Let me Keep your portrait here. 
 
 Girl and Kitten still at play, — 
 .^tiU, through n\any & chanoeful year. 
 Fair and dainty — younp and d&y. 
 
^rrcS7\^v3 
 
'^i ZG/l'R and cool, clear and cool., 
 
 By lcXU<Jhin.<i ahallow, aad dreamin<^ pool, 
 Cool and ctea.r, cool and clea.r, 
 
 By shinirvO shirv^le, and foarnint? weir; 
 Onder tKe craO where tKe ouzel sinOa, 
 And the Ivied wall where the church bell rin'Js, 
 Undefiled, for the undefiled; 
 Play by n^e, baCKe in rri.e , nvotker and child: 
 
 StronO and free, 5f"ron<;| and free, 
 The flood-^ates are open, away to (he aea., 
 
 Free and stron"?, free anci stronO, 
 Cleansinrt rn^^ streams as 1 hurry alon<?, 
 
 To the polden se-nds and the ]eapin<^ bar. 
 And the taintless tide that awaits n^e ajar, 
 As I lose myseH in the infinite nnain, 
 Like a 3oul that has ginned and is pardoned 
 Unde-j'iled, -(^or the unde[iled, aOain, 
 
 Play by n-ie, bathe in nie, mother and child. 
 
 Charles Hinoiley. 
 
z^Wc^y TO 7H& ^Oc^T. 
 
/Cc/17{ see a tranquil 'garden. 
 Sheltered round by ivied wa.ll5. 
 \A/Kere old--fa5Kion.ed -flowers blossom. 
 And tke sualic^ht- 5o|t[y j-aLls. 
 I can see the old sun-dial. 
 
 And ren\embrance whispers low. 
 How it marked -for us the Olad hoars 
 In the "golden lon<J a<?o ! 
 
 There was one wKo walked beside me, 
 
 Ir\ that garden, louO a^o, 
 Heard with me the sweet birds sin^iin-J, 
 
 ASaw the *5unimer blossoms blow, 
 ©ut 1 turn away, rememb'rin<J 
 
 How the dial bv the <Jrass 
 Marked for us the bright hours on'y, 
 
 Let the dark uncounted pass ! 
 
 You are -far -from tkat sw-eet 'harden. ,_ 
 T^ewer hopes your dreamini? -fill ; 
 I^any times the flowers have blossomed 
 
 Stands the old Sun-dial still. 
 And 1 pra,y, love, your heart's garden 
 May beset with sweetest flow'r,s-, 
 That your life be liKe. the dial, 
 Tellin<> none but sunny hours 
 
 G. Clifton Eincha^^. 
 
c4 rJil'R QcA 
 
 ^ ^c/?5^&7X- 
 
o:a(P VOIC& jL&ss. 
 
 :?^55 liOhtly, O little children, tke threshold of tkose ^rey walb, 
 Wl:\ere hallowed is all the silence, and Oentle the 5uali<^Kt -falls; 
 \_ For the 5hd.dow3 be<^in to leather as the sun ^oe5 down in tke west. 
 And voices are softly 5in<?in<J tke strain that ke loved tke best. 
 
 They fell you he only slumbers, but you miss him in your play, 
 And you tkink of tke tkinOS he told you, and ask wky he went away; 
 ^you are youn<} and do not Know, dears, how tke shadows around us fall: 
 Tke anOels saw Ke was weary, and sent for kirn, tkat was all ! 
 
 Tkere is rest for him, after toilin<3, and peace -for kim, after pain-, 
 But we tkinK of hirA, little children, and renrvember his words a<^din- 
 And we speak o| him, but not sadly, as tke sun <Joes down in tke west 
 Tkere is one voice less witk tke 3in<^ers, one more in tke land of rest;. 
 
 9- CUFTON BlNOHAM. 
 
rhc Jcocjsp OF thg JiL^y, 
 
 H&Y ^rew in a -far-ojj <^arder\. 
 
 At the -foot of a valley ^air, 
 ^centind the lonely 5ilence 
 
 WitK tkeir -fragrance ricK and rare. 
 TKe 3outhwind brout^ht tKenr\ SunsKine, 
 
 And sent them Kis softest showers. 
 And none ever dared to Oather 
 
 The least of those lovely -flowers ! 
 
 At eve in that quiet harden, 
 
 The Master loved to w&lK, 
 And each ^air -flower as He passed it 
 
 Bent on its slender stalk. 
 But the J_ily was vain of her beouty, 
 
 And as His step drew near. 
 Stood proudly erect and Stately, 
 
 And sa^id, •'latn -fairest Were'" 
 
 'Yhe Master ^azed on it sadly. 
 
 In His '?axe ^^rief <>ath'rin<J slow, 
 Till the Lily bent before Hinn 
 
 The lowliest of the low. 
 And the tear that fell on its petals, 
 
 As the Master turned away, 
 Will be -found a <Jlean-\ind dewdrop 
 
 In the Lily's heart to-day '. 
 
 C Ci-iFTON Bingham. 
 
CJKere clamorous sea. mew5 5a.U\n.<} near 
 
 AAake mournful n-vu3ic to meet the tide. 
 
 ^ 
 
-^ r? 
 
 T lb better than <^ood wnen tVve heart is drear 
 5 To wander alone by the ocean's side ; 
 Where clamorous sea-mews sailin"? near 
 Make mournful music to meet tke tide. 
 Which rolls to the rocKs with a witless <^lide. 
 And roars, and batters fKe steadfast stone, 
 And broken jails as tKe boulders <iuide ; 
 While in creek and cavern the waters moan. 
 And the dunpeoned tempests howl and <Jroan. 
 
 0«r/ of '^oulhcik. 
 
CLGMCUKX<^7^ 3ClC7^CO. 
 
 HC 5U7^ climbs up in (Ke ^kies. 
 
 And a<^din in the water 15 drowned 
 And thaf' i5 because," say the wi5e, 
 "^The world "^oes <a Wheeling around " 
 
 jBuf- wKaf- n^dkes fke world to spin? 
 Well, only the wise Know 
 Tis the little or\&b living therein. 
 Who Set it a'dancinO 50. 
 
 'Ti3 the little children's feet, 
 
 A5 they dance o'er the daisied <^round; 
 And all thini^s little and sweet, 
 
 That make the old world <?o round- 
 
 'Tis the Kittens who jVisk and turn, 
 
 "Tis the lambs who <Jo dancind too, 
 'Tis the bunnies who stamp in the |ern — 
 
 But oh! children— its nnostl 
 
 y you ! 
 
g/it^ th& CHiL^r^?i^ nom^ 
 
 cACH day, when die <;ilow of sunsel: 
 
 "Fades in tke western sky, 
 And tke wee oaes, tired of pldyirvO 
 
 C^o trippind lightly by; 
 X stea.1 away from my husband, 
 
 Asleep ia Kis easy cbair, 
 And watcK frona tke open, doorway, 
 
 'Their faces fresh and. fair. 
 
 Alone ia tke dear old hon\estead, 
 
 That once was ftill of life; 
 ■Kin6in<i with <^irlisk lauoKter, 
 
 l£choia6 boyish strife, 
 Wc two are waitiag to<^ether 
 
 And, oft as the shadows come, 
 Witk ti^emulous voice he calls n\e 
 
 "It is ni<^ht ! Are tke ckildrea hon\e ? 
 
 Yes, love!" I answer him gently, 
 
 "They're all home long ago," 
 And Isin^, ia nay cjuavering treble, 
 
 A soni^ 3o soft and low, 
 Till tke old maa drops to slumber 
 
 With his head upon his hand, 
 And I tell to myself (he number 
 
 Home in tke better land. 
 
 J^ C W Lanys/er. 
 
TH& aSOAC9 of TH& "B'KOOK 
 
 STVCCT the 3on6 oj the ripplin6 brook, 
 .5inoin<^ alike to sun and moon ; 
 Dim, in the shade of willowy nook, ^^ 
 
 3rioht, in liciht of the Summer noon.^iMifiiHe.; 
 5oj't it 3i<^h5 and 5in<^s a^ it <^oes, 
 
 Leafy coppice, or lea to pa55, ^--^«Bf 
 ^Vhite and rose oj an orchard- close, 
 
 Withered <^old oj" the Autumn "^rass- 
 Ripplini^ down 
 3y meadow and town. 
 White -walled village, and roadway brown. 
 What does the brook 5ay ? 
 "Sweet is the brooks lay, 
 Pol low the brook's way, 
 Sorrow to drown. 1 " 
 
 "■■^"Still, a-t clo^e of a Sweet »5prLn^ day, 
 
 ■* Hand in hand, throudh the rustlin* ^edde, 
 Laa<^hin<3 lovers linderin'J ^tray, 
 
 Pluck blue buds by the water's ed<^e. 
 Should / follow the water-way 
 
 WKere midht it lead nrvy footsteps— where ? 
 3ack in the track of a by-^one day J 
 
 JBack to a. world that Idream.ed wa5-j^aJr? 
 R-ipplin<? down 
 By nr\eadow and town., 
 White-walled villa'Je, and roadway brown, 
 What does the brook 3ay ? 
 "3weet is tKe brook's la.y, 
 Tollow the brooks way 
 Sorrow to drown I ' 
 .V 
 
 -■^^Sftr 
 
 '^^SSBS^^ 
 
5ay, ^Kould I -find where tKe lonO reeds ^way, 
 
 Whitre buds blowin.<^ with "^old between? 
 White- win-Jed hope^ thc\t never would 5tay ? 
 
 Vanished <^old oj^ a rui^ht- have-been ? 
 >5ay, should 1 -find i[ I -followed •j^a.r, 
 
 Far and a.way to the survset there, 
 My sweet lost love with her face o| a 5tar, 
 
 And heaven's own 0old on her yellow hair? 
 Aye, rippling down 
 S>y meadow and town, 
 White-walled villa<^e and roadway brown, 
 What does the brook 5ay ? 
 "3weet is the brooks lay 
 Ah, -follow the brook's way, 
 /Sorrow to drown!" 
 A Helen T. ■Wood^ 
 
r07\^ 7H0^Zj cAT ^&cd. 
 
 6t\IZj3 are dim and the wind blow5 shrill; 
 Alas! for the rocKs end the [lyinO joam, 
 And ehe sKips tKat flee at fhe wild winds \vi 
 And those who weary and watch at home. 
 Sorrowful still the wild wind moans, 
 
 WutheriniJ over the ^torm-swept lea, 
 3ut solemn and sweet ri^e the ordan- tones. 
 And a pra.ye.r i^oes up for the ship5 .at sea. ■ 
 " Eternal Father, strond to save, 
 Whose arm hatK bound the. restless wave, 
 Who bid'st the nii<^hty ocean deep 
 Its own. appointed Unfits keep; 
 O, hear us, when we cry to Thee, 
 Per those in peril on. the sea '' 
 
 Gracious to hear, and stronO to save, 
 Hear our voice as we cry (-q Thee ; 
 Hear our prayer, thourtK the storm-winds, rave; 
 
 Father ! succour the ships at sea. 
 Many a heart with ours mi<?ht irea.k, 
 
 Sunk with a ship in anOry main^ 
 Father! speed, for a poor heart's Sake^ 
 All at sea to their homes a<?».in. 
 "Eternal Father, 3tron<^ to save, 
 Whose arm hath bound the restless wave, 
 Who bid'st the mi^^hty ocean deep 
 Its own appointed limits Keep; 
 O, hear us, when we cry to Thee 
 For those in peril on the sea." 
 
 JtleUn J. ]\'ood. 
 
rOT^ TH05& /3\( T&T^L. 
 
x^v~7 
 
 cvf'Sy, darling', wake and see' 
 
 Morning's come, my little rose; 
 Open eyes, and smile at me 
 \Jj '"*" Ere 1 catcK and Kiss yoi^i close! 
 I P)aby darlincJ, smile, for tKen 
 MotKer sees tKe sun aciain.! 
 
 Baby darliao.in tKe sun 
 
 Birds are sinOmO sweet and shrr 
 And my bird's the only one 
 
 That 15 nested softly still- 
 Baty, if you. only Knew. 
 All ttie birds are calling yovi. 
 
 Saty darling, all is bridKt! 
 
 God has brouoht the sunsKine Kere. 
 And the sleepy, silent ni^iht 
 
 CoiTies back soon enouoK, ray dear. 
 Wake, my darlino, night is done — 
 5un.beam.s call my httle one. 
 
 Baby darlind, sleep no more 
 
 All the other Plowrers have done 
 •"With their sleeping ; yobi my flower. 
 
 Are the only sleepy one. 
 All the pinK-Frilled daisies shout ; 
 Brine' cur little sister out ! " 
 
-yoa Tic/ii{^iJX9- 
 
7>/G ou:) jST^j7{Qr. 
 
 ^ ll 1 stands in the corner, there, always, 
 , ij Away jVonn. the ^lare and lidht , 
 
 And no one con-ie^ and upon it play3, 
 ^^ Or touches the Keys, once white. 
 Yet its stillness mute is eloauent, 
 I-.ike a voice that wKispers low, 
 O^ nnen and won-ien who canrve an,d went, 
 And -fashions that conrie and ^o. 
 
 And whenever the quaint carved lid I rai5e 
 
 I hear an old time 5train, 
 And white hands play a5 in lon<^ dead daya 
 
 The old spinet attain. ! 
 
 'Tis the courtly beat of some old Oavotte, 
 
 Or a stately mmuet. 
 J_ike the hand that plays i(. lono -|'or(;jot, 
 
 That Steals from the old spinet. 
 And lidht feet move o'er the oaKen floor 
 
 To its measured fall and rise, 
 Till I close the lid, and the dreanrv is o'er, 
 
 And the irvusic, fading, dies. 
 
 3ut whenever the c|uaint carved lid I raise 
 
 J hear an old time strain, 
 And white hands play as- in lonO dead dayi> 
 
 The old spinet aOain ! 
 
 C) ClITTON BlWCjHAM . 
 
/'T stole throuoh tKe Siil! 5weec Silence, 
 When the weary day had fled. 
 When the -flowers slept in. the mocr.'ir ]•.:, 
 
 And (he stars canae out o'erheoa . 
 'Tvva.s the sond oj cka distant C ;^ 
 
 The voice of its toilin<J thror..-. 
 Like sound of a -j^ar_of| river 
 With a nev'er- ceasini^ sotv^ ' 
 
 It came with its weariful burthen, 
 
 Out oj city, court, and street. 
 And blen.d.eci with calmer voices 
 
 Until it was softened and sweef. 
 Then it crept o'er meadow and moorland, 
 
 Borne on the Still ni^ht air 
 Like a son6 -jrom heaven, tellind 
 
 Oj" a distant City there ! 
 
 'Twas the son<^ of the distanf City — 
 The voice of its tni'^hty thron<^ ; 
 Each heart with its hopes ar\d visions. 
 
 Each soul with it5 secret sonO. 
 A voice (hat Shal) know not silence, 
 
 A Son<^ that shall never cease 
 Till the Qates oj" (he City are opened, 
 And C^od diveth His children peace ! 
 
 (^. CUftonSBindkam,. 
 
^£y cAT^D THt TO^TS. 
 
 GH&'J^j 15 Hay ia books fore^/er; 
 ]*ld.y will pd.rt jron\ Spenser never; 
 "Mayb in Milton, May's in Prior, 
 Mayb in Chaucer, Thon^son, Dyer; 
 T'\d.yb in all tKe Italian books; — 
 j5he has old and modern iiooks, 
 Where she sleeps with nymphs and elve^, 
 In happy places they ca.ll shelves, 
 And will rise and dress your rooms 
 With a drapery thick with blooms. 
 Come, ye rains, then if ye will. 
 May's at "home, and with me still; 
 3ut come rather, thou, <Jood weather, 
 And -find us in the -[ields together. 
 
 Mdlif. 
 
WC&T€>7\^ hKan voices in the scented hay, 
 
 Or la-u-^hia"* children ^leanino ea-rs that stray, 
 Or Christmas sonds that shake the ^now^ above, 
 Is the -first cuckoo, when he conr\es with love. 
 
 Sadder than birds in sunless summer eves, 
 
 Or drip of rain-di-ops on the -[alien leaves, 
 
 C^r wail of wintry waves on frozen shore, 
 
 Is 5prin<^ that conxes, but brings us love no m.ore. 
 
HV dost tKou. wildly 
 
 rush and roa.r, 
 Mad River, O Mad river ? 
 Wilt tKou not pa.u5e 
 
 and cee^se to pour 
 TKy hurrying, 
 
 Keadlon<? waters o'er 
 This rocky shelf forever ? 
 
 What secret trouble stirs thy breast ? 
 
 Why all this fret and flurry ? 
 IDost thou not know that what is best 
 In this too restless world is rest 
 
 Kron\ over-worl-<v and worry ? 
 
C//G old drey Alp Kas caught- the cloud. 
 And the torrent river sinQS aloud; 
 The ^Lacier- "^reen Rosarvna Sirxi^a 
 An orban SonO of its upper springs. 
 FoanrvinO under the tiers of pine, 
 I see it dash down the dark ravine, 
 And it tunibles the rocks in boisterous play, 
 With Sn earnest will to find its way 
 3Karp it throws out an emerald shoulder, 
 And, thunderin<;J ever of the mountain, 
 Olaps in sport Some oi^nt boulder, 
 And tops it in a silver -fountain. 
 
"DuHes enou^li, and Utile c«/n5.'^P>Ro\\'>fivc.. 
 
 ~V'ITCS> A sojourn -jbr dll to sKare, 
 jj ^oK\e -folks say 'tis not:Km<^ but cat-e, 
 
 JL — / "Nau<il\t but trouble and pain to meec ! 
 ■'Grown -folKs bicker and bairnies ■^reet," 
 But otkers laupK, sayind, "JDays are -^air 
 And life is Sweet." 
 
 J^ittle duty, and little care, 
 Pleasure to take, and pain to bear; 
 And dear 15 the sound of pattering feet, 
 And tKe 5u.r- sKines bri«^ht on home and street, 
 3ri<;Jhtej.t of all on a bairn's <3old hair ! 
 Yes— I_ife is sweet. 
 
 Helen J. Wood. 
 
 xircl5 zjrrL& a^<7^5. 
 
f tlij Mornind time b fresK and fair 
 With scent of flowers in the air, 
 Sut soon the morning, li'^Kt is past, 
 Or overcast. 
 
 2'plendid tKe Noon is witK the 5un, 
 But we are tired before 'tis done. 
 And long for evening's tender ^hade 
 Too lono delayed. 
 
 The Evening 15 tne tinne of peace, 
 When work is done and troubles cease. 
 And sunset lights our quiet way 
 At end of day. 
 
 The Ni<2^ht: ? My child —night is here none 
 Before we feel the ni^ht 'tis gone, 
 And melts into the i\ew Sunrise 
 Of Paradise. 
 
^WMMCR^ 1.&C/150. 
 
/HcJlD once a little bland, 
 One I called, ait le&st, my own; 
 Fust a tuft of i^r-ass and sedges, 
 
 With a willow-tree for throne. 
 The river -flowed around it. 
 
 Red loose strife bloonned between, 
 The wKite cup-lilies bound it 
 
 With belt o^ pearl and screen; 
 And Only we wKo -found it 
 
 ■Mi<^ht pass its verda-nt screen. 
 
 Tis years now since. 1 5aw it. 
 
 The -friends that once I bade 
 To rest beneath its willows, 
 
 Are dead, or chan<?ed, or stayed ; 
 yet itill anr\id the •world-j'ret, 
 
 The turmoil, and unrest, 
 I keep one isle o^ refuiJe 
 
 Tor all my heart loves best. 
 The war of life -flows round it, 
 
 The son<i and shout and cry 
 Of battliad hearts' surround it; 
 
 yet pass its cjuiet by • 
 For love and prayer have bound it, 
 
 God's wrea-th of lilied <;ireen i 
 And only He who -found it 
 
 For nne can pa?i3 the Screen. 
 
 Thco. qijt. 
 
Too i£HTG. 
 
c/iTG— too late— my bird is dead; 
 Vair\ 15 all that can be said — 
 All my tears are more than vain 
 To brin'^ back his Jife ai^ain. 
 
 Here he lies upon iWe. snow, 
 J_ittle bird that loved life so — 
 ■Never more to wake and 5in<> 
 In the buddin* days 6f 5prind. 
 
 I shall never hear him make 
 Music more -^or love's sweet sake — 
 Sin^in^ to his wee brown n\ate 
 In. the pear tree by the '^ate. 
 
 I will lay him in the earfh, 
 Where all shapes a[ life have birth ; 
 Whence the -flowers' will drew and brinO 
 Toy to other birds in Sprin.<>. 
 
 Never n:\ore, when winds of morn 
 Stir the <?reen and dewy corn, 
 And awake the dreaminp leaves, 
 Will he twitter 'neath the eaves. 
 
 I will lay him dovv'n to sleep, 
 Where the Summer wind ma.y heap 
 Dri|"ted rose leaves white and red 
 Over his <?reen- curtained bed. 
 
 Jl.'KcsBi'r. 
 
'I^ 5ick?-art sad? -art au<*ry witK the world' 
 
 'Do all -friends fail tKee ? Why, then, iJive tKyself 
 Ut\to the forests and the amtrosial fields : 
 Commerce with them, and with the eternal sky. 
 Despair not, fellow ! He who casts himsel-f 
 
 On. Nature's fair full bosom., and draws food, , , 
 JDrinks from a fountain that is never dry- 
 
 The poet haunts there. A/outh -Ihat ne'er 
 
 ^Dwells with Ker and Ker flowers -, <?row5 old 
 
 and Beauty sleeps 
 In her most <^reen recesses, 
 to be found 
 By all who seek Ker 
 truly. 
 
 _J5arry Cornzvall 
 
 
^ <y^-^l0ti>^. 
 
 W 
 
 ^HOUX^ darkness hides me, dearest. 
 
 And vvKen this tace; now dally in thy 
 Becomes a dream te Kaunt the silent nioht, -'^ 
 /\nd vs^nish whe.n the busy noon is clearest; 
 
 K( 
 
 Then, dear, the love I <?ave thee, 
 
 T! ■ . 
 
 Which ever -for thy comind lay in wait, 
 
 Exactin6 off-en and importunate, 
 
 Shall be a memory to bless and save thee. 
 
 Some little, -foolish saym<? 
 _* Will wander back unto thee -j-rom tke past, 
 
 Like a stray rose-branrh o'er thy pathway cast, 
 With -flowers ajvd thorrv^ thy careless steps 
 
 ^<iylbyit\'^. 
 
 June roses in December '- 
 X^ream- roses, yet their phantom thorns dive ppin 
 Somewhere, somehow, when we two meet adain, 
 J low much must we foroet, how much ren\ei-t\bei [ 
 
 %^ 
 
/GD by lib tributary rlU? 
 From distant" valleys with circlini? hills, 
 And travelliad seaward, merrily bravvlin'jj, 
 Wild, impa53ion.'d, rapid, and stron*, 
 With voice of power to the *reen woods calhno. 
 The impetuous river dashes alonO, 
 And is SweepiniJ, leapin<i, throu6h the meadows 
 Almost as fast as the drivin<^ shadows 
 Of clouds that fly before the wind, 
 IDown to the chasmy precipices. 
 There to burst in j"oamind fall;- 
 Ct bursts, it thunders, it roars, it hisses, 
 And iris is its coronal; 
 And the pendulous trees above it shiver, 
 Bathed by the rain of that rampant river. 
 
 And now the river spends its wrath, 
 The music sinks, the winds blow low; 
 Its bosom broad is a nation's path- 
 Smooth and pleasant is its -flow. 
 A boa.t shoots by with its rowers trim, 
 A ferryman plies Kis lazy oar; 
 And niiles adown,in the distance dim, 
 There stands a city on a shore. 
 
 C hex r lei 'Mackay. 
 
ThG . T^'JR^JVioacN^ 
 
THG "BcAY li5 'DOTip- 
 
 HZ) 'DAV is done, and the darkness 
 Falls from the W\x\<^5 o[ 'Nif^ht, 
 A'b a -feather is \vafted downwards 
 Trom an ea^le in its fii'^ht 
 
 I 5ee the lidhts of the village 
 
 Gleam throuoK the ra-in and the mist. 
 And & -feelind of sadness comes o'er me, 
 
 That Tuy 5oul cannot resist; 
 
 A feelinO of sadness and loni^in<^, 
 
 That is not aKln to pain, 
 And resembles sorrow only 
 
 As the mist resembles the rain. 
 
 Come, read to me some poem, 
 Some simple and heartfelt lay. 
 
 That shall ioothe this restless feelintJ, 
 And bani,sh the thouc^hts of Day. 
 
 Not from the "^rarid old masters. 
 
 Not from tke bards sublime, 
 Whose di.stan.t footsteps echo 
 
 ThrouOh the corridors of Time^ 
 
 Tor, like strains of martial music, 
 
 Their mi<Jhty tKouOhts suO<>est 
 Life's endless toil and endeavour; 
 
 And to-ni'?ht I lon<? for rest- 
 Read from aome humbler poet, 
 
 Whose son<?s "pushed from his hearty 
 As 5hower.5 from the clouds of Summer, 
 
 Or tesrs from the eyelids start; 
 
 Who throu<Jh lon<J days of labour, 
 
 And niohts devoid o| ease, 
 Still heard in- his soul the music 
 
 Of wonderful melodies. 
 
 Such sonOs have power to quiet 
 
 The restless pulse of care, 
 And come liKe the benediction 
 
 That fellows after pra-yer. 
 
 Then read from the treasured volume 
 
 The poem of thy choice. 
 And lend to the rhyme of the poet 
 
 The beauty of thy voice. 
 
 And the nidht shall be filled wifh music. 
 And the cares that infest the day, 
 
 Shall fold their -tents, like the Arabs, 
 And as silently steal away. 
 
THO DcflY l^ 1>0'Hp- 
 

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