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Ah! the mystical seed, it has grown,

it has spread! — But the sharp star-points they are

piercing my brow, And the rosy home-faces grow livid

and dead

In the terrible color the fire-blossoms shed —

lam reaping my harvest in now!

The horrible color — the color of flame!

The hot sun has overflowed from his

broken urn — O thou pitiless sky! wilt thou show

me my shame? While the cursed gold clings to my

fingers like name — And glitters only to burn!


How pleasant it is that always
There's somebody older than you—

Some one to pet and caress you,
Some one to scold you too!

Some one to call you a baby,

To laugh at you when you're wise;

Some one to care when you're sorry,
To kiss the tears from your eyes.

When life has begun to be weary,
And youth to melt like the dew,

To know, like the little children,
Somebody's older than you!

The path cannot be so lonely.
For some one has trod it before;

The golden gates are the nearer,
That some one stands at the door!

— I can think of nothing sadder Than to feel, when days are few,

There's nobody left to lean on,
Nobody older than you!

The younger ones may be tender

To the feeble steps and slow; But they can't talk the old times over —

Alas! how should they know!

'Tisa romance to them —a wonder You were ever a child at play;

But the dear ones waiting in Heaven
Know it is all as you say.

I know that the great All-Father
Loves us and the little ones too;

Keep only child-like hearted —
Heaven is older than you!


I Cannot love thee, but I hold thee dear —

Thou must not stay — I cannot bid thee go!

I am so lonely, and the end draws near —

Ah, love me still, but do not tell me so!

'Tis but a little longer — keep thy faith!

Though love's last rapture I shall never know, I fain would trust thee even unto death;

Ah, love me still, but do not tell

me so!

I am so poor I have no self to give, And less than all I will not offer, no!

I die, but not for thee — fain would I live —

Ay! love me still, but do not tell me so!

Like a strange flower that blossoms in the night, And dies at dawn, love faded long ago —

Born in a dream it perished with the light —

Lov'st thou me still? Ah, do not tell me so!

Let me imagine that thou art my friend —

No less — no more I ask for here below!

Be patient with me even to the end— Loving me still, thou wilt not tell me so!

Those words were sweet once—never more again! — I thought my dream had vanished, let it go! I dreamed of joy — I woke, it turned to pain— [so! Ah, love me still, but never tell me

I cannot lose thee yet, so near to heaven!

There with diviner love all souls shall glow;

There is no marriage bond, no vows are given — Thou'lt love me still, nor need to tell me so!

Ah! I am selfish, asking even this — I cannot love thee, nor yet bid thee go!

To utter love is nigh love's dearest bliss —

Thou lov'st me still, and dost not tell me so!

Horace Smith

Hymn To The Flowers.

Dat-stars! that ope your eyes with morn to twinkle From rainbow galaxies of earth's creation,

And dew-drops on her lonely altars sprinkle

As a libation!

Ye matin worshippers! who bending lowly

Before the uprisen sun — God's liilless eye— [holy Throw from your chalices a sweet and Incense on high!

Ye bright mosaics! that with storied beauty

The floor of Nature's temple tessellatc,

What numerous emblems of instructive duty

Your forms create!

'Neath cloistered boughs, each floral bell that swingeth And tolls its perfume on the passing air,

Makes sabbath in the fields, and ever ringeth

A call to prayer.

Not to the domes where crumbling arch and column Attest the feebleness of mortal hand,

But to that fane, most catholic and solemn,

Which God hath planned;

To that cathedral, boundless as our wonder.

Whose quenchless lamps the sun and moon supply — Its choir, the winds and waves ; its organ, thunder;

Its dome the sky.

There—as in solitude and shade I wander

Through the green aisles, or, stretched upon the sod, Awed by the silence, reverently ponder

The ways of God —

Your voiceless lips, O flowers, are living preachers, Each cup a pulpit, and each leaf a book,

Supplying to my fancy, numerous teachers

From loneliest nook.

Floral apostles! that in dewy splendor

"Weep without woe, and blush without a crime," O may I deeply learn, and ne'er surrender,

Your lore sublime!

"Thou wert not, Solomon! in all thy glory.

Arrayed," the lilies cry, "in robes like ours; How vain your grandeur! Ah, how transitory

Are human flowers!"

In the sweet-scented pictures, Heavenly Artist! With which thou paintest Nature's wide-spread hall, What a delightful lesson thou impartest

Of love to all.

Not useless are ye, flowers! though made for pleasure: Blooming o'er field and wave, by day and night, from every source your sanction bids me treasure

Harmless delight.

Ephemeral sages! what instructors hoary

For such a world of thought could furnish scope? Each fading calyx a memento mori, Yet fount of hope.

Posthumous glories! angel-like collection!

Upraised from seed or bulb interred in earth,

Ye are to me a type of resurrection, And second birth.

Were I, O God, in churchless lands remaining, Far from all voice of teachers or divines.

My soul would find in flowers of thy ordaining.

Priests, sermons, shrines!


And thou hast walked about, (how strange a story!) In Thebes's streets three thousand years ago,

When the Memnonium was in all its glory,

And Time had not begun to overthrow

Those temples, palaces, and piles stupendous,

Of which the very ruins are tremendous.

Speak! for thou long enough hast acted dummy; Thou hast a tongue — come — let us hear its tune; Thou'rt standing on thy legs, above ground, mummy! Revisiting the glimpses of the moon —

Not like thin ghosts or disembodied

creatures, But with thy bones, and flesh, and

limbs, and features.

Tell us — for doubtless thou canst recollect — To whom should we assign the Sphinx's fame? Was Cheops or Cephrenes architect Of either Pyramid that bears his name?

Is Pompey's Pillar really a misnomer? Had Thebes a hundred gates, as sung by Homer?

Perhaps thou wert a mason, and forbidden

By oath to tell the secret of thy trade —

Then say what secret melody was hidden

In Memnon's statue, which at sunrise played;

Perhaps thou wert a priest — if so, my struggles

Are vain, for priestcraft never owns its juggles.

Perhaps that very hand, now pinioned flat, ha hob-a-nobbed with Pharaoh, glass to glass;

Or dropped a half-penny in Homer's hat:

Or doffed thine own, to let Queen Dido pass;

Or held, by Solomon's own invitation, A torch at the great Temple's dedication.

I need not ask thee if that hand, when armed. M any Roman soldier mauled and knuckled; For thou wert dead, and buried, and embalmed, Ere Romulus and Remus had been suckled;

Antiquity appears to have begun Long after thy primeval race was run.

Thou could'st develop — if that withered tongue Might tell us what those sightless orbs have seen —

How the world looked when it was fresh and young, And the great Deluge still had left it green; (pages

Or was it then so old that history's

Contained no record of its early ages?

Still silent, incommunicative elf! Art sworn to secrecy? then keep thy vows; But prythee tell us something of thyself — Reveal the secrets of thy prisonhouse;

Since in the world of spirits thou

hast slumbered — What hast thou seen — what strange

adventures numbered?

Since first thy form was in this box

extended We have, above ground, seen some

strange mutations; The Roman empire has begun and


New worlds have risen—we have

lost old nations: And countless kings have into dust

been humbled, While not a fragment of thy flesh has


Didst thou not hear the pother o'er
thy head,
When t he great Persian conqueror,
Marched armies o'er thy tomb with
thundering tread —
O'erthrew Osiris, Orus, Apis,

And shook the Pyramids with fear

and wonder, When the gigantic Memnon fell


If the tomb's secrets may not be confessed,

The nature of thy private life unfold:

A heart has throbbed beneath that

leathern breast, And tears adown that dusky cheek

have rolled; Have children climbed those knees

and kissed that face; What was thy name and station, age

and race?

Statue of flesh! Immortal of the


Imperishable type of evanescence! Posthumous man, who quit' st thy narrow bed, And standest undecayed within our presence! Thou wilt hear nothing till the Judgment morning, When the great trump shall thrill thee with its warning.

Why should this worthless tegument endure.

If its undying guest be lost forever?

Oh! let us keep the soul embalmed

and pure In living virtue— that when both

must sever. Although corruption may our frame

consume, The immortal spirit in the skies may


May Riley Smith.


If, sitting with this little worn-out shoe

And scarlet stocking lying on my knee,

I knew his little feet had pattered through

The pearl-set gates that lie 'twixt heaven and me, I should be reconciled and happy too, and look with glad eyes toward the jasper sea.

If, in the morning, when the song of birds.

Reminds me of lost music far more sweet,

I listened for his pretty broken words. And for the music of his dimpled feet,

I could be almost happy, though I heard

No answer, and I saw his vacant seat.

I could be glad if, when the day is done.

Aml all its cares and heart-aches laid away, [sun, I could look westward to the hidden And, with a heart full of sweet yearnings, say — "To-night I'm nearer to my little one By just the travel of a single day."

If he were dead, I should not sit today

And stain with tears the wee sock

on my knee; I should not kiss the tiny shoe and say, "Bring back again my little boy

to me!"

I should be patient, knowing it was
God's way,
And wait to meet him o'er death's
silent sea.

But oh! to know the feet, once pure
and white,
The haunts of vice have boldly ven-
tured in!

The hands that should have battled for the right Have been wrung crimson in the clasp of sin! And should he knock at Heaven's gate to-night, I fear my boy could hardly enter in.


Sometime, when all life's lessons have been learned, And sun and stars forevermore have set,

The things which our weak judgments here have spurned, The things o'er which we grieved with lashes wet,

Will flash before us out of life's dark night,

As stars shine most in deeper tints of blue;

And we shall see how all God's plans are right.

And how what seemed reproof was love most true.

And we shall see how, while we frown and sigh, God's plans go on as best for you and me;

How, when we called, He heeded not our cry,

Because His wisdom to the end could see. And e'en as prudent parents disallow

Too much of sweet to craving babyhood.

So God, perhaps, is keeping from us now

Life's sweetest things, because it seemeth good.

And if, sometimes, commingled with

life's wine. We find the wormwood, and rebel

and shrink, Be sure a wiser hand than yours or


Pours out the potion for our lips to drink;

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