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But on a day of wintry skies
A withered rose slipped from my

book;

And as I caught its faint perfume The soul of summer straight forsook

The little tenement it loved,

And filled the world with song and bloom,

Missed, in their season, by my sense,

So found my heart its recompense.

Sir Robert Ayton.

FAIR AND UNWORTHY.

I DO confess thou'rt smooth and fair, And I might have gone near to love thee,

Had I not found the lightest prayer
That lips could speak, had power
to move thee:
But I can let thee now alone,
As worthy to be loved by none.

I do confess thou'rt sweet; yet find
Thee such an unthriftof thy sweets,

Thy favors are but like the wind,
That kisses everything it meets;

And since thou canst with more than one,

Thou'rt worthy to be kissed by none.

The morning rose that untouched stands

Armed with her briers, how sweetly smells!

But plucked and strained through ruder hands, No more her sweetness with her dwells,

But scent and beauty both are gone, And leaves fall from her one by one.

Such fate, erelong, will thee betide, When thou hast handled been awhile, — Like serve flowers to be thrown aside; And I will sigh, while some will smile,

To see thy love for more than one Hath brought thee to be loved by none.

Anna Letitia Barbauld.

THE SABBATH OF THE SOUL.

Sleep, sleep to-day, tormenting

cares,

Of earth and folly born;
Ye shall not dim the light that
streams
From this celestial morn.

To-morrow will be time enough
To feel your harsh control;

Ye shall not violate, this day,
The Sabbath of my soul.

Sleep, sleep forever, guilty thoughts,
Let fires of vengeance die;

And, purged from sin, may I behold A God of purity.

Mary A. Barr.

White rorriES.

O Mystic, mighty flower whose frail white leaves Silky and crumpled like a banner furled.

Shadow the black mysterious seed

that gives The drop that soothes and lulls a

restless world; Nepenthes for our woe, yet swift to

kill,

Holding the knowledge of both good and ill.

The rose for beauty may outshine thee far,

The lily hold herself like some sweet saint Apart from earthly griefs, as is a star

Apart from any fear of earthly taint;

The snowy poppy like an angel stands.

With consolation in her open hands.

Ere History was born, the poet sung

How godlike Thone knew thy compelling power, And ancient Ceres, by strange sortrows wrung. Sought sweet oblivion from thy healing flower. Giver of sleep! Lord of the Land of Dreams!

O simple weed, thou art not what man deems.

The clear-eyed Greeks saw oft their god of sleep wandering about through the black midnight hours, Soothing the restless couch with slumbers deep, And scattering thy medicated flowers,

Till hands were folded for their final rest.

Clasping white poppies o'er a pulseless breast.

We have a clearer vision; every hour

Kind hearts and hands the poppy juices mete, And panting sufferers bless its kindly power,

And weary ones invoke its peaceful sleep.

Health has its rose, and grape and

joyful palm, The poppy to the sick is wine and

balm.

I sing the poppy! The frail snowy

weed!

The flower of mercy! that within its heart

Doth keep "a drop serene" for human need, A drowsy balm for every bitter smart.

For happy hours the rose will idly

The poppy hath a charm for pain and woe.

Park Benjamin.

PRESS OA'.

Press on! there's no such word as fail!

Press nobly on! the goal is near, — Ascend the mountain! breast the gale!

Look upward, onward, — never fear!

Why shouldst thou faint? haven

smiles above, Though storm and vapor intervene; That sun shines on, whose name is

Love,

Serenely o'er Life's shadow'd scene.

Press on! surmount the rocky steeps, Climb boldly o'er the tr arch;

He fails alone who feebly creeps;
He wins, who dares the hero's
march.

Be thou a hero! let thy might
Tramp on eternal snows its way,

And through the ebon walls of night
Hew down a passage unto day.

Press on! if Fortune play thee false To-ilay, to-morrow she'll be true; Whom now she sinks she now exalts.

Taking old gifts and granting new. The wisdom of the present hour Makes up for follies past and gone, —

To weakness strength succeeds, and power

From frailty springs, — press on! press on!

Press on! what though upon the ground

Thy love has been poured out like rain?

That happiness is always found The sweetest, which is born of pain.

Oft 'mid the forest's deepest glooms, A bird sings from some blighted tree,

And, in the dreariest desert, blooms A never-dying rose for thee.

Therefore, press on! and reach the goal,

And gain the prize and wear the crown;

Faint not! for to the steadfast soul Come wealth and honor and renown.

To thine own self be true, and keep Thy mind from sloth, thy heart from soil;

Press l and thou shalt surely reap A heavenly harvest for thy toil!

Annie Berry Bensel.

THE LADY OF THE CASTLE,

See you yonder castle stately?

On the rocks it stands alone, Gleaming in the silver moonlight

Like a sentinel of stone.

Years ago in that old castle
Dwelt a lady, proud and grand;

Fairer than the fairest lady
You might find in all the land.

It was on her bridal morning —
So the gossips tell the tale —

Lady Hilda walked the garden,
Fairer than the roses pale.

Soon she reached the massive gateway,

And her dark eyes sparkled bright, As she saw a gay procession

Wending towards the castle height.

For she knew it was her lover,
With his merry comrades all;

Foremost in the glittering pageant
Rode Count Rupert, fair and tall.

Just between them and the castle
Lay a chasm wide and deep;

They must ride still further onward
O'er the bridge their road to keep.

But Count Rupert saw the lady
Standing by the gateway there,

Dauntlessiy he turned his charger.
Heeding not the cry, "Beware!"

"It is but a narrow chasm, Go you by the bridge," cried he,

"I will leap to yonder hillock, There my lady waits for me."

All in vain his comrades' warning,
Vain, alas, his page's criea;

Forward leaps the noble charger,
Lady Hilda veils her eyes.

One long cry of bitter anguish!

She who heard it, swooning, fell; Knowing by that single outcry

All the tale there was to tell.

Turn your eyes beyond the castle,
You will see a convent drear;

There the lady lived they tell me,
Just for one brief mournful year.

There within the lofty chapel
Is a quaint and carven tomb,

Lady Hilda — well beloved —

sleeps beneath the ghostly gloom.

No one dwells in that old castle.

Desolate it stands alone, Gleaming in the silver moonlight

Like a sentinel of stone.

John Stuart Blackie.

THE HOPE OF THE HETE11ODOX.

In Thee, O blessed God, I hope,

In Thee, in Thee, in Thee! Though banned by presbyter and pope,

My trust is still in Thee. Thou wilt not cast Thy servant out

Because he chanced to see With his own eyes, and dared to doubt

What praters preach of Thee.
Oh no! no! no!
For ever and ever and aye,
(Though pope and presbyter
bray)

Thou wilt not cast away
An honest soul from thee.

I look around on earth and sky,

And Thee and ever Thee, With open heart and open eyes

How can I fail to see? My ear drinks in from field and fell

Life's rival floods of glee: Where finds the priest his private hell When all is full of Thee? Oh no! not, no! though flocks of geese Give Heaven's high ear no peace: I still enjoy a lease Of happy thoughts from Thee.

My faith is strong; out of itself

It grows erect and free;
No Talmud on the Kabbi's shelf

Gives amulets to me.
Small Greek I know, nor Hebrew
much,
But this I plainly see:
Two legs without the bishop's crutch
God gave to thee and me.
Oh no! no! no!
The church may loose and bind,
But mind, immortal mind,
As free as wave or wind,
Came forth, O God, from Thee!

O pious quack! thy pills are good;

But mine as good may be,
And healthy men on healthy food

Live without yon or me.
Good lady! let the doer do!

Thought is a busy bee,
Nor honey less what it doth brew,
Though very gall to thee.
Oh no! no! no!
Though councils decree and de-
clare;

Like a tree in the open air,
The soul its foliage fair
Spreads forth, O God, to Thee!

Laman Blanchard.

WISHES OF YOUTH.

Gaylt and greenly let my seasons run:

And should the war-winds of the world uproot

The sanctity of life, and its sweet fruit

Cast forth as fuel for the fiery sun, —

The dews be turned to ice,—fair

days begun In peace, wear out in pain, and

sounds that suit Despair and discord, keep Hope's

harp-string mute, Still let me live as Love and Life were

one:

Still let me turn on earth a childlike gaze,

And trust the whispered charities

that bring Tidings of human truth; with inward

praise

Watch the weak motion of each common thing.

And find it glorious — still let me raise

On wintry wrecks, an altar to the Spring.

HIDDEN joys.

Pleasures lie thickest where no

pleasures seem: There's not a leaf that falls upon the

ground

But holds some joy, of silence or of sound.

Some sprite begotten of a summer dream.

The very meanest things are made supreme

With innate ecstasy. No grain of sand

But moves a bright and million

Seopled land,
its Edens and its Eves, I
deem.

For Love, though blind himself, a

curious eye hath lent me, to behold the hearts of

things,

And touched mine ear with power.

Thus far or nigh, Minute or mighty, fixed, or free with

wings,

Delight from many a nameless covert sly

Peeps sparkling, and in tones familiar sings.

THE ELOQUENT PASTOR DEAD.

He taught the cheerfulness that still is ours

The sweetness that still lurks in

human powers; If heaven be full of stars, the earth

has flowers.

His was the searching thought, the glowing mind;

The gentle will, to others soon resigned;

But, more than all, the feeling just and kind.

His pleasures were as mekdbs from reeds —

Sweet books, deep music and unselfish deeds,

Finding immortal flowers in human weeds.

True to his kind, nor of himself afraid,

He deemed that love of God was best arrayed

In love of all the things that God has made.

He deemed man's life no feverish

dream of care, But a high pathway into freer air, Lift up with golden hopes and duties

fair.

He showed how wisdom turns its

hours to years, Feeding the heart on joys instead of

fears,

And worships God in smiles, and not in tears.

His thoughts were as a pyramid uppiled,

On whose far top an angel stood and smiled —

Yet in his heart was he a simple child.

Wilfred Blunt

(PROTEUS).

TO ONE WHO WOULD MAKE A CONFESSION.

Oh! leave the past to bury its own dead;

The past is naught to us, the present all.

What need of last year's leaves to strew love's bed?

What need of ghosts to grace a festival?

I would not, if I could, those days recall,

Those days not ours. For us the

feast is spread, The lamps are lit, and music plays

withal.

Then let us love and leave the rest unsaid.

This island is our home. Around it roar

Great gulfs and oceans, channels,

straits, and seas. What matter in what wreck we

reached the shore, So we both reached it? We can

mock at these. Oh! leave the past, if past indeed

there be.

I would not know it. I would know but thee.

THE TWO HIGHWAYMEN.

I Long have had a quarrel set with Time,

Because he robbed me. Every day of life

Was wrested from me after bitter strife,

I never yet could see the sun go down

But I was angry in my heart, nor hear

The leaves fall in the wind without a tear

Over the dying summer. I have known

No truce with Time nor Time's accomplice, Death.

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