Poems

Life,—whence flows eternal beauty, Inspiration, faith, and duty,— Frame our thoughts aright, that we Emblem of that Life may be. Truth—may Thy fair buds, unfolding Round our pathway, help in moulding, Until, full perfection given, Taught by Thee, the clouds are riven, Heralding the dawn of Heaven.

A crimson rose, that in a garden grew, One summer day upraised its fragrant head; And looking proudly round: "What should I do, If I were not a lovely flower?" it said. "Sad must it be to fill a humble place, And live unnoticed throughout all your days, Gifted with neither loveliness nor grace, Nor anything that calls for words of praise.

Have all the songs been said? Are all the singers dead? Is all the music fled?— The sum and aim of life, One dreary struggle, rife With greed and sordid strife?— Man but a dull machine, Living a vast routine Of narrow purpose mean? Oh! while one leaf swings high Against an azure sky— In springtime's ecstasy, There breathes yet the sublime, There beats yet living rhyme, 'T is still the young world's prime. Nature has high commands, Bears gifts with lavish hands, To him who understands!

May we peaceful be; May we error flee! May we Life pursue; May we death subdue! May we Truth defend; May we gain Heaven's end! May we Love secure; May we all be pure!

Hear our prayer, oh gracious Father, Author of celestial good, That Thy laws, so pure and holy, May be better understood. As the dew, before the sunlight, Melts, and fadeth from our sight, So may every doubt and error Fade before Eternal Light.

I will not leave you comfortless; I will come to you. —Jesus.

O'er the hushed harpstrings of the mind,      There sweeps a strain— Low, sad, and sweet, whose measures bind      The power of pain; And wake a white-winged angel-throng      Of thoughts, illumed By faith, and breathed in raptured song,     With love perfumed. Oh, in His unveiled presence grow      Life's burdens light; We kiss the cross, and wait to know      A world more bright.

[ Boston Traveller. ] Outdoors the white rain coming down Made rivers of the streets in town, And where the snow in patches lay It washed the Winter's signs away.

Nor can the eternal roll of praise regret Those unconforming; whom one vigorous day Drives from their cares, a voluntary prey To poverty and grief and disrespect, And some to want—as if by tempest wrecked On a wild coast; how destitute! did they Feel not that conscience never can betray, That peace of mind is virtue's sure effect, Their altars they forego, their homes they quit, Fields which they love, and paths they daily trod, And cast the future upon Providence; As men the dictate of whose inward sense Outweighs the world; whom self-deceiving wit Lures not from what they deem the curse of God. WORDSWORTH.

     Nor can the vain toil cease, Till, in the shadowy maze of life, we meet One who can guide our aching, wayward feet, To find Himself—our Way, our Life and Peace. In Him the long unrest is soothed and stilled,      Our hearts are filled?      O power to do! O baffled will! O prayer and action! ye are one.