Oh, pleasant is the voice of youth, O'er evening prayer and page; But woe for the hearth that heareth nought The glow is gone from our winter blaze, But a wakening music seems to flow As thy babe's first words come sweet and clear Ere thine eye grew dim with tears or pain, Alas! for the widow'd eyes that trace Their early-lost in that orphan face What after-light will his memory mark, Like the dove that in spring-time sought her arh For long in that far and better land Were her spirit's treasures laid; And she might not stay from its golden strand For the love of hearts that fade. But woe for her on whose path may shine The light of no mother's love but mine; Oh, well if that lonely path lead on To the land where her mother's steps have gone The land where the aged find their youth, And the young no whit'ning hair: Oh! safe, my child, from both time and death- THE FRIEND OF OUR DARKER DAYS. BY FRANCES BROWN. "Twas said, when the world was fresh and young, That the friends of earth were few; And shrines have blazed, and harps have rung, And say, when the furrowing tracks of time It may be found, like the aloe's bloom But if, through the mists of wintry skies, What star in the summer heavens will rise We know there are hands and smiles to greet But lone are the climber's weary feet, Where the steep lies bleak and bare. For some have gain'd far heights and streams, But the sunrise shed on their hearts' first dreams, Yet, O for the bright isles seen afar, And, O for the voice that spake in love, Ere we heard the cold world's praise; Alas! we have missed pure gems that lay Till the thorns grow up and the tangled tares The shrines of our household gods, perchance We have seen their brightness wane; And the love which the heart can give but once But still from the graves of better hopes- One blessing springs to the heart and lips, WE ARE GROWING OLD. BY FRANCES BROWN. We are growing old-how the thought will rise On some long-remembered spot that lies It may be the shrine of our early vows, But it seems like a far-off isle to u In the stormy sea of years. Oh wide and wild are the waves that part Our steps from its greenness now' And we miss the joy of many a heart, And the light of many a brow; Have the whelming billows rolled, O'd in the dimness and the dust Which our burdened memory bears. But oh! the changes we have seen The graves in our path that have grown green The winters still on our own may spare The sable or the gold; But we saw their snows upon brighter hairAnd, friends, we are growing old! We have gain'd the world's cold wisdom not We have learn'd to pause and fear; But where are the living founts, whose flow We have won the wealth of many a clime, But where is the hope that saw in Time Will it come again when the violet wakos, And our souls might joy in the spring-time thes, For it ne'er could give us the youth again SONGS OF OUR LAND. BY FRANCES BROWN. Songs of our land, ye are with us forever; The power and the splendor of thrones pass away, But yours is the might of some far-flowing river, Through summer's bright roses or autumn's decay. Ye treasure each voice of the swift-passing ages, And truth, which Time writeth on leaves or on sand; Ye bring us the bright thoughts of poets and sages, And keep them among us, old songs of our land! The bards may go down to the place of their slumbers, Her breathings are heard in the songs of our land! For they keep a record of those, the true-hearted, Of love that grew cold, and the hope that was vain. The page may be lost, and the pen long forsaken And weeds may grow wild o'er the brave heart and hand But ye are still left, when all else hath been taken, Like streams in the desert, sweet songs of our land! |