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Ever dwells the lesser in the greater;

In God's love the human: we by these

Know he holds Love's simplest stammering sweeter Than cold phrase of wordy Pharisees.

Anna Lynch Botta.


The honey-bee that wanders all day long

The field, the woodland, and the garden o'er,

To gather in his fragrant winter store;

Humming in calm content his quiet song,

Seeks not alone the rose's glowing breast,

The lily's dainty cup, the violet's lips, But from all rank and noxious weeds he sips.

The single drop of sweetness closely pressed

Within the poison chalice. Thus, if we,

Seek only to draw forth the hidden sweet

In all the varied human flowers we meet

In the wide garden of humanity, And, like the bee, if home the spoil we bear.

Hived in our hearts, it turns to nectar there.


Go forth in life, O friend! not seeking love,

A mendicant that with imploring


And outstretched hand asks of the passers-by The alms his strong necessities may move:

For such poor love, to pity near allied, Thy generous spirit may not stoop and wait,

A suppliant whose prayer may be denied [ gate:

Like a spurned beggar's at a palaeeBut thy heart's affluence lavish uncontrolled, — The largest of thy love give full and free,

As monarchs in their progress scatter gold;

And be thy heart like the exhaustless sea,

That must its wealth of cloud and

dew bestow. Through tributary streams or ebb or


Francis W.


The night has a thousand eyes,

And the day has but one; Yet the light of the bright world dies

With the dying sun.

The mind has a thousand eyes,

And the heart but one;
Yet the light of a whole life dies

When its day is done.



For Love I labored all the day, Through morning chill and midday heat,

For surely with the evening gray,
I thought, Love's guerdon shall be

At eventide, with weary limb,
I brought my labors to the spot

Where Love had bid me come to him;
Thither I came, but found him not.

For he with idle folks had gone
To dance the hours of night away;

And I that toiled was left alone,
Too weary now to dance or play.


Sweeter than voices in the scented hay,

Or laughing children gleaning ears that stray,

Or Christmas songs that shake the

snows above, Is the first cuckoo, when he comes

with love.

Sadder than birds in sunless summer eves,

Or drip of rain-drops on the fallen leaves,

Or wail of wintry waves on frozen shore,

Is spring that comes, but brings us love no more.

William Lisle Bowles.


0 Time! who know'st a lenient hand

to lay

Softest on sorrow's wound, and

slowly thence — Lulling to sad repose the weary

sense —

The faint pang stealest, unperceived away;

On thee I rest my only hope at last, And think when thou hast dried

the bitter tear That flows in vain o'er all my soul

held dear,

I may look back on every sorrow past, And meet life's peaceful evening with

a smile — As some lone bird, at day's departing hour, [ shower,

Sings in the sunbeam of the transient

Forgetful, though its wings are wet the while:

Yet, ah! how much must that poor heart endure

Which hopes from thee, and thee alone, a cure!


Oh! when 'tis summer weather,
And the yellow bee, with fairy

The waters clear is humming round,
And the cuckoo sings unseen,
And the leaves are waving green,—
Oh! then't is sweet,
In some retreat,
To hear the murmuring dove,
With those whom on earth alone we

And to wind through the greenwood together.

But when 't is winter weather,
And crosses grieve,
And friends deceive,
And rain and sleet
The lattice beat,—
Oh! then't is sweet,
To sit and sing

Of the friends with whom, in the days of Spring,

We roamed through the greenwood together.

Anna C. Brackett.


Is it not possible that all the love

From all these million hearts, which breathless turns

To one hushed room where silent footsteps move,

May have some power on life that feebly burns?

Must it not have some power in some strange way,

Some strange, wise way, beyond our tangled ken,

When far and wide, from sea to sea to-day,

Even in quiet fields, hard-handed men

Pause in their toil to ask the passer-by

"What news?" and then, "We cannot spare him yet!"

Surely no tide can powerless rise so high.

Bear on, brave heart! The land does not forget.

Thou yet shalt be upborne to life and strength again

On this flood-tide of love of millions of brave men.

Mary E. Bradley.


There was a time when death and 1
Met face to face together:

I was but young indeed to die,
And it was summer weather;

One happy year a wedded wife,

Yet I was slipping out of life.

You knelt beside me, and I heard,
As from some far-off distance,

A bitter cry that dimly stirred
My soul to make resistance.

You thought me dead: you called

my name,
And back from Death itself I came.

But oh! that you had made no sign,
That I had heard no crying!

For now the yearning voice is mine,
And there is no replying:

Death never could so cruel be

As Life — and you — have proved to me!

John G. C.


I Saw two clouds at morning,

Tinged by the rising sun,
And in the dawn they floated on,

And mingled into one; [blest, I thought that morning cloud was It moved so sweetly to the west.

I saw two summer currents
Flow smoothly to their meeting,

And join their course with silent force,
In peace each other greeting;


Calm was their course through banks

of green.

While dimpling eddies played between.

Such be your gentle motion,

Till life's last pulse shall beat; Like summer's beam, and summer's stream, Float on, in joy, to meet A calmer sea, where storms shall cease —

A purer sky, where all is peace.

Mary Boli


In a valley, centuries ago, Grew a little fern-leaf, green and slender,

Veining delicate and fibres tender; Waving when the wind crept down so low;

Rushes tall, and moss, and grass

grew round it. Playful sunbeams darted in and

found it,

Drops of dew stole in by night,

and crowned it, But no foot of man e'er trod that


Earth was young and keeping holiday.

Monster fishes swam the silent main, Stately forests waved their giant

branches, Mountains hurled their snowy avalanches.

Mammoth creatures stalked across

the plain; Nature revelled in grand mysteries; But the little fern was not of these. Did not number with the hills and


Only grew and waved its wild

sweet way. No one came to note it day by day.

Es Branch.

Earth, one time, put on a frolic mood,

Heaved the rocks and changed the

mighty motion Of the deep, strong currents of the


Moved the plain and shook the

haughty wood, Crushed the little form in soft

moist clay, Covered it, and hid it safe away, O, the long, long centuries since

that day! O, the agony, O, life's bitter cost, Since that useless little fern was


Useless! Lost! There came a thoughtful man Searching Nature's secrets, far and deep;

From a fissure in a rocky steep He withdrew a stone, o'er which

there ran Fairy pencillings, a quaint design, Veinings, leafage, fibres clear and


And the fern's life lay in every line!

So, I think, God hides some souls away.

Sweetly to surprise us the last day.

Anne Bronte.


O Got>! if this indeed be all

That life can show to me;
If on my aching brow may fall

No freshening dew from Thee; — If with no brighter light than this

The lamp of Hope may glow,
And I may only dream of bliss,

And wake to weary woe! —
If friendship's solace must decay

When other joys are gone,

And love must keep so far away,

While I go wandering on,— Wandering and toiling without gain.

The slave of others' will, With constant care and frequent pain,

Despised, forgotten still.
Grieving to look on vice and sin,

Yet powerless to quell
The silent current from within,

The outward torrent's swell;
While all the good I would impart

The feelings I would share,

Are driven backward to my heart And turned to wormwood there; —

If clouds must ever keep from sight the glories of the sun,

And I must suffer winter's blight

Ere summer is begun; —
If life must be so full of care,

Then call me soon to Thee!
Or give me strength enough to bear

My load of misery.

Charlotte Bronte.


Life will be gone ere I have lived;

Where now is life's first prime? I've worked and studied, longed and grieved

Through all that busy time.

To toil, to think, to long, to grieve —

Is such my future fate? The morn was dreary, must the eve

Be also desolate? Well, such a life at least makes Death

A welcome, wished-for friend; Then aid me, Reason, Patience, Faith,

To suffer to the end.



No coward soul is mine, No trembler in the world's stormtroubled sphere: I see heaven's glories shine, And Faith shines equal, arming me from fear.

O God within my breast, Almighty, ever present Deity!

Life — that in me has rest, As I — undying Life — have power in thee!

Vain are the thousand creeds That move men's hearts; unutterably vain

Worthless as withered weeds, Or idlest froth amid the boundless main,

To waken doubt in one
Holding so fast by thine infinity;

So surely anchored on
The steadfast rock of immortality.

With wide-embracing love
Thy spirit animates eternal years,


Pervades and broods above, Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates, and rears.

Though earth and man were gone,

And suns and universes ceased to be,

And Thou wert left alone, Every existence would exist in Thee.

There is not room for Death, Nor atom that his might could render void:

Thou — Thou art Being and

And what Thou art may never be destroyed.


Colt> in the earth — and the deep snow piled above thee,

Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave! [thee,

Have lforgot, my only Love, to love

Severed at last by Time's all-severing wave?

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