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Father of all! in every age,

In every clime adored,
By saint, by savage, and by sage,

Jehovah, Jove, or Lord!

Thou great First Cause, least understood,

Who all my sense confined To know but this, that Thou art good, And that myself am blind;

Yet gave me, in this dark estate,

To see the good from ill;
And binding nature fast in fate.

Left free the human will.

What conscience dictates to be done,

Or warns me not to do, This, teach me more than hell to shun,

That, more than heaven pursue.

What blessings Thy free bounty


Let me not cast away;
For God is paid when man receives;
To enjoy is to obey.

Yet not to earth's contracted span
Thy goodness let me bound,

Or think Thee Lord alone of man,
When thousand worlds are round.

Mary N.


By the pleasant paths we know
All familiar flowers would grow,

Though we two were gone;
Moon and stars would rise and set,
Dawn the laggard night forget,

And the world move on.

Spring would carol through the wood, Life be counted sweet and good, Winter storms would prove their

While the seasons sped; [might, Winter frosts make bold to bite,

Clouds lift overhead.

Let not this weak, unknowing hand Presume thy bolts to throw,

And deal damnation round the land On each I judge Thy foe.

If I am right, Thy grace impart

Still in the right to stay; If I am wrong, oh, teach my heart

To find that better way!

Save me alike from foolish pride,

Or impious discontent,
At aught Thy wisdom has denied,

Or aught Thy goodness lent.

Teach me to feel another's woe,

To hide the fault I see: That mercy I to others show,

That mercy show to me.

Mean though I am, not wholly so,
Since quickened by Thy breath;

Oh, lead me wheresoe'er I go,
Through this day's life or death!

This day, be bread and peace my lot:

All else beneath the sun. Thou know'st if best bestowed or not,

And let Thy will be done.

To Thee, whose temple is all space,
Whose altar, earth, sea, skies!

One chorus let all Being raise!
All Nature's incense rise!


Still the sunset lights would glow,
Still the heaven-appointed bow

In its place be hung;
Not one flower the less would bloom,
Though we two had met our doom,

No song less be sung.

Other lovers through the dew
Would go, loitering, two and two,

When the day was done;
Lips would pass the kiss, divine,
Hearts would beat like yours and

Hearts that beat as one.


To-day the sunshine freely showers

Its benediction where we stand; There's not a passing cloud that lowers

Above this pleasant summer land; Then let's not waste the sweet today, — To-morrow, who can say?

Perhaps, to-morrow we may be,— Alas! alas! the thought is pain,—

As far apart as sky and sea, Sundered to meet no more again;

Then let us clasp thee, sweet today, — To-morrow, who can say?

The daylight fades; a purple dream Of twilight hovers overhead,

While all the trembling stars but seem
Like sad tears yet unshed;

Oh, sweet to-day, so soon away!
To-morrow, who can say?


Sound asleep! no sigh can reach Him who dreams the heavenly dream;

No to-morrow's silver speech
Wake him with an earthly theme.
Summer rains, relentlessly,
Patter where his head doth lie.
There the wild rose and the brake
All their summer leisure take.
Violets, blinded by the dew,
Perfume lend to the sad rue,
Till the day break fair and clear,
And no shadow doth appear.

Margaret Junkin Preston.


Just when we think we've fixed the golden mean, — The diamond point, on which to

balance fair Life and life's lofty issues, weighing there, With fractional precision, close and keen,

Thought, motive, word and deed,— there comes between Some wayward circumstance, some

jostling care, Some temper's fret, some mood's unwise despair, To mar the equilibrium, unforeseen, And spoil our nice adjustment! — Happy he, Whose soul's calm equipoise can know no jar, Because the unwavering hand that holds the scales, Is the same hand that weighed each steadfast star, — la the same hand that on the sacred tree [nails! Bore, for his sake, the anguish of the


Most perfect attribute of love, that knows

No separate self, — no conscious

mine nor thine; But mystic union, closer, more divine [close. Than wedded soul and body can disNo flush of pleasure on thy forehead glows,

No mist of feeling in thine eyes can shine,

No faintest pain surprise thee, but there goes The lightning-spark along love's viewless line, Bearing with instant message to my heart, Responsive recognition. Suns or showers

May come between us; silences may part; The rushing world know not, nor

care to know; — Yet back and forth the flashing secrets go, Whose sacred, only sesame is, ours 1 NATURE'S LESSON.

Pain is no longer pain when it is past;

And what is all the mirth of yesterday,

More than the yester flush that paled away, Leaving no trace across the landscape cast

Whereby to prove its presence there? The blast That bowed the knotted oak beneath its sway.

And rent the lissome ash, the forest may

Take heed of longer, since strewn leaves outlast Strewn sunbeams even. Be thou like Nature then,

Calmly receptive of all sweet delights,

The while they soothe and strengthen thee: and when The wrench of trial comes with swirl and strain, Think of the still progressive days and nights, That blot with equal sweep, both joy and pain.


Of all the attributes whose starry rays

Converge and centre in one focal light

Of luminous glory such as in sight

Can only look on with a blenched amaze,

None crowns the brow of God with purer blaze,

Nor lifts His grandeur to more infinite height,

Than His exhaustless patience. Let us praise

With wondering hearts, this strangest tenderest grace, Remembering, awe-struck, that the avenging rod

Of justice must have fallen, and mercy's plan

Been frustrate, had not Patience

stood between, Divinely meek: And let us learn

that man. Toiling, enduring, pleading, — calm,


For those who scorn and slight, is likest God.


It comes betwixt me and the amethyst

•Of yon far mountain's billowy range; — the sky, Mild with sun-setting calmness, to my eye

Is curtained ever by its haunting mist;

And oftentimes when some dear

brow I've kissed, My lips grow tremulous as it sweeps

me by.

With stress of overmastering agony that faith and reason all in vain resist.

It blurs my fairest books; it dims the page

Of the divinest lore; and on my tongue

The broken prayer that inward strength would crave,

Dissolves in sobs no soothing can assuage;

And this penumbral gloom, — this heart-cloud flung Around me is, the memory of a grave.


A Simple, sodded mound of earth,

Without a line above it; With only daily votive flowers

To prove that any love it: The token flag that silently

Each breeze's visit numbers, Alone keeps martial ward above

The hero's dreamless slumbers.

No name ?— no record? Ask the world;

The world has read his story: —

If all its annals can unfold

A prouder tale of glory; If ever merely human life

Hath taught diviner moral, — If ever round a worthier brow

was twined a purer laurel!

A twelvemonth only, since his sword

Went flashing through the battle, — A twelvemonth only, since his ear

Heard war's last deadly rattle, — And yet, have countless pilgrim feet

The pilgrim's guerdon paid him, And weeping women come to see

The place where they have laid

Contending armies bring in turn,

Their meed of praise or honor, And Pallas here has paused to bind

The cypress-wreath upon her: It seems a holy sepulchre,

Whose sanctities can waken Alike the love of friend or foe —

Of Christian or of pagan.

But who shall weigh the wordless grief

That leaves in tears its traces, As round their leader crowd again

The bronzed and veteran faces? The "Old Brigade" he loved so well —

The mountain men, who bound him

With bays of their own winning, ere A tardier fame had crowned him;

The legions who had seen his glance

Across the carnage flashing And thrilled to catch his ringing "charge"

Above the volley crashing; — Who oft had watched the lifted hand,

The inward trust betraying, And felt their courage grow sublime,

While they beheld him praying!

Bare fame! rare name! — If chanted praise,

With all the world to listen, — If pride that swells a nation's soul, — If foemen's tears that glisten, —

If pilgrim's shrining love, — if grief Which naught may soothe or sever, —

If these can consecrate, —this spot Is sacred ground forever!


There'll come a day when the supremest splendor Of earth, or sky, or sea, Whate'er their miracles, sublime or tender, Will wake no joy in me.

There'll come a day when all the aspiration. Now with such fervor fraught,

As lifts to heights of breathless exaltation,

Will seem a thing of naught.

There'll come a day when riches,

honor, glory, Music and song and art, Will look like puppets in a worn-out


Where each has played his part.

There'll come a day when human love, the sweetest Gift that includes the whole Of God's grand giving — sovereignest, completest — Shall fail to fill my soul.

There'll come a day — I will not care how passes The cloud across my sight, If only, lark-like, from earth's nested grasses, I spring to meet its light.



It Is enough: I feel, this golden morn,

As if a royal appanage were mine, Through Nature's queenly warrant of divine [born, Investiture. What princess, palaceHath right of rapture more, when skies adorn Themselves so grandly; when the

mountains shine Transfigured; when the air exalts like wine; When pearly purples steep the yellowing corn? So satisfied with all the goodliness Of God's good world, — my being to its brim Surcharged with utter thankfulness no less [glad Than bliss of beauty, passionately Through rush of tears that leaves the landscape dim,— "Who dares," I say, "in such a world be sad?"


I Press my cheek against the window-pane, And gaze abroad into the blank, black space



Afar in the desert I love to ride, With the silent bush-boy alone by my side.

When the sorrows of life the soul


And, sick of the present, I cling to the past;

When the eye is suffused with regretful tears,

From the fond recollections of former years;

And shadows of things that have long since fled

Flit over the brain, like the ghosts of the dead;

Bright visions of glory that vanished too soon;

Day-dreams that departed ere manhood's noon; [reft;

Attachments by fate or falsehood

Companions of early days lost or left—

Where earth and sky no more have any place, Wiped from existence by the expunging rain;

And as I hear the worried winds

complain, A darkness, darker than the mirk

whose trace Invades the curtained room, is on my


Beneath which, life and life's best ends seem vain. My swelling aspirations viewless sink

As yon cloud-blotted hills: hopes that shone bright As planets yester-eve, like them tonight

Are gulfed, the impenetrable mists before:

"O weary world!" I cry, "how dare I think Thou hast for me one gleam of gladness more?"


And my native land — whose magical name

Thrills to the heart like electric flame; The home of my childhood: the

haunts of my prime: All the passions and scenes of that

rapturous time When the feelings were young, and

the world was new, Like the fresh bowers of Eden unfolding to view; Ah — all now forsaken — forgotten —

foregone! l none —

And I — a lone exile remembered of My high aims abandoned — my good

acts undone — Aweary of all that is under the sun,— With that sadness of heart which no

stranger may scan, I fly to the desert afar from man.

Afar in the desert I love to ride, With the silent bush-boy alone by my side,

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