And many a passing traveller

Paused at the old inn-door, But the bride, so fair and blooming,

The bride returned no more.

One winter morning, Maurice, Watching the branches bare, Rustling and waving dimly

In the gray and misty air, Saw blazoned on a carriage Once more the well-known shield,

The stars and azure fleurs-de-lis Upon a silver field.

He looked-was that pale wo

man,

So grave, so worn, so sad, The child, once young and smiling, The bride, once fair and glad? What grief had dimmed that glory,

And brought that dark eclipse Upon her blue eyes' radiance, And paled those trembling lips?

What memory of past sorrow,

What stab of present pain, Brought that deep look of anguish,

That watched the dismal rain, That watched (with the absent spirit

That looks, yet does not see) The dead and leafless branches Upon the Judas-Tree?

The slow dark months crept onward

Upon their icy way,

47

Till April broke in showers, And Spring smiled forth in May;

Upon the apple-blossoms

The sun shone bright again, When slowly up the highway Came a long funeral train.

The bells tolled slowly, sadly,

For a noble spirit fled; Slowly, in pomp and honor,

They bore the quiet dead. Upon a black-plumed charger

One rode, who held a shield, Where stars and azure fleurs-delis

Shone on a silver field.

'Mid all that homage given

To a fluttering heart at rest, Perhaps an honest sorrow

Dwelt only in one breast. One by the inn-door standing Watched with fast - dropping tears

The long procession passing, And thought of bygone years.

The boyish, silent homage

To child and bride unknown, The pitying, tender sorrow

Kept in his heart alone, Now laid upon the coffin

With a purple flower, might

be

Told to the cold, dead sleep

cr;

The rest could only sce A fragrant purple blossom. Plucked from a Judas-Tree.

48

VOICES OF THE PAST.

You wonder that my tears should flow

In listening to that simple strain;

That those unskilful sounds should fill

My soul with joy and pain: How can you tell what thoughts it stirs

Within my heart again?

You wonder why that common phrase,

So all unmeaning to your car, Should stay me in my merriest mood,

And thrill my soul to hear: How can you tell what ancient charm

Has made me hold it dear?

You marvel that I turn away From all those flowers so fair

and bright,

And gaze at this poor herb, till

tears

Arise and dim my sight: You cannot tell how every leaf Breathes of a past delight.

You smile to see me turn and speak

With one whose converse you despise ;

You do not see the dreams of old

That with his voice arise: How can you tell what links have made

Him sacred in my eyes?

Deaf to the claim of God,

Or kindly human heart; Voices of earth and heaven

Call, but they turn away, And Love, through such black night

Can see no hope of day; And yet our eyes are dim, And thine are keener far: Then gaze till thou canst see The glimmer of some star. The black stream flows along Whose waters we despise, Show us reflected there

Some fragment of the skies; 'Neath tangled thorns and briers, (The task is fit for thee,) Seek for the hidden flowers,

We are too blind to see;
Then will I thy great gift
A crown and blessing call;
Angels look thus on men,
And God sees good in all !

A FIRST SORROW.

ARISE! this day shall shine, Forevermore,

To thee a star divine,

On Time's dark shore.

Till now thy soul has been

All glad and gay:

Bid it awake, and look

At grief to-day!

No shade has come between Thee and the sun;

49

Like some long childish dream
Thy life has run :

But now the stream has reached
A dark, deep sea,
And Sorrow, dim and crowned,
Is waiting thee.

Each of God's soldiers bears
A sword divine:
Stretch out thy trembling hands
To-day for thine!

To each anointed Priest

God's summons came:
O Soul, he speaks to-day,
And calls thy name.

Then, with slow reverent step,
And beating heart,
From out thy joyous days

Thou must depart.

And, leaving all behind,

Come forth alone,
To join the chosen band
Around the throne.

Raise up thine eyes — be strong,
Nor cast away

The crown that God has given Thy soul to-day!

MURMURS.

WHY wilt thou make brigh m sic

Give forth a sound of pain? Why wilt thou weave fair flowers Into a weary chain?

Why turn each cool gray shadow

Into a world of fears? Why say the winds are wailing? Why call the dew-drops tears? The voices of happy nature,

And the Heaven's sunny gleam,

Reprove thy sick heart's fancies, Upbraid thy foolish dream.

Listen, and I will tell thee

The song Creation sings, From the humming of bees in the heather,

To the flutter of angels' wings.

An echo rings forever,

The sound can never cease; It speaks to God of glory,

It speaks to Earth of peace.

Not alone did angels sing it

To the poor shepherds' ear; But the sphered Heavens chant it,

While listening ages hear.

Above thy peevish wailing

Rises that holy song; Above Earth's foolish clamor, Above the voice of wrong.

No creature of God 's too lowly

To murmur peace and praise: When the starry nights grow silent,

Then speak the sunny days.

So leave thy sick heart's fancies,

And lend thy little voice To the silver song of glory

That bids the world rejoice.

GIVE.

SEE the rivers flowing

Downwards to the sea,
Pouring all their treasures
Bountiful and free:
Yet to help their giving
Hidden springs arise;
Or, if need be, showers

Feed them from the skies Watch the princely flowers Their rich fragrance spread, Load the air with perfumes, From their beauty shed: Yet their lavish spending

Leaves them not in dearth, With fresh life replenished

By their mother earth!

Give thy heart's best treasures.
From fair Nature learn;
Give thy love- and ask not,

Wait not a return!
And the more thou spendest

From thy little store,
With a double bounty,
God will give thee more.