THE FUTURE.

This earth is a place of probation,A school wherein man may secureA knowledge of his true relation,To the noble, the true, and the pure.

I know not what the futureMay have in store for me,I only know that God is GodAnd He may trusted be.The past with all its pleasureAnd all its sorrow too,Has been but a probationTo prove me false or true.If in my earthly missionNo progress has been madeToward a higher spirit—No growth of soul displayed—Then dark, sad, and forebodingThe future must appear,The soul must shrink in terrorWhen death's hour draweth near.If in the past no brotherHas felt my outstretched hand,To aid him on his pilgrimageToward a better land,No word of mine brought solaceTo a weary careworn soul;No hand of mine has pointedTo the Christian's heavenly goal;No thought, or word, or actionTo lead to better life;No balm to heal deep anguish;No anodyne for strife;Then shall I hear the sentence,"You did it not to me,"Come from the sacred TeacherWho taught in Gallilee.If I have wronged my brother,In action or in thought;Have forced him into sorrow,Or counted him as naught,Have borne false witness of himOr robbed him of his peace;Unjustly taken from himOr hindered his increase,The words of condemnation,"You did it unto me,"Will fill my soul with terror,Distress, and misery.My soul has wronged no beingOf just and honest part;But on this sole relianceIt would not dare depart.Not in its own weak merit,Not in itself alone,But in the great redemptionOf Him who did atoneFor man, and bid him enter,The gates of joy and rest,Through faith, and prayer, and penitence,Upon a Savior's breast.I shrink not at the futureWhatever it may be,But joy in full assuranceOf faith's expectancy.

I know not what the futureMay have in store for me,I only know that God is GodAnd He may trusted be.

The past with all its pleasureAnd all its sorrow too,Has been but a probationTo prove me false or true.

If in my earthly missionNo progress has been madeToward a higher spirit—No growth of soul displayed—

Then dark, sad, and forebodingThe future must appear,The soul must shrink in terrorWhen death's hour draweth near.

If in the past no brotherHas felt my outstretched hand,To aid him on his pilgrimageToward a better land,

No word of mine brought solaceTo a weary careworn soul;No hand of mine has pointedTo the Christian's heavenly goal;

No thought, or word, or actionTo lead to better life;No balm to heal deep anguish;No anodyne for strife;

Then shall I hear the sentence,"You did it not to me,"Come from the sacred TeacherWho taught in Gallilee.

If I have wronged my brother,In action or in thought;Have forced him into sorrow,Or counted him as naught,

Have borne false witness of himOr robbed him of his peace;Unjustly taken from himOr hindered his increase,

The words of condemnation,"You did it unto me,"Will fill my soul with terror,Distress, and misery.

My soul has wronged no beingOf just and honest part;But on this sole relianceIt would not dare depart.

Not in its own weak merit,Not in itself alone,But in the great redemptionOf Him who did atone

For man, and bid him enter,The gates of joy and rest,Through faith, and prayer, and penitence,Upon a Savior's breast.

I shrink not at the futureWhatever it may be,But joy in full assuranceOf faith's expectancy.

Let me pass away when my work is done,Like a cloudless day whose setting sunLeaves a smile on the evening sky;Let this transient clay when deprived of breath,With the earth yet stay, it alone knows death,Myself must live on and cannot die.

Ere I lay me down the burdenThat my soul on earth hath worn,Let me feel before departing,That my tree of life hath borneFruitage that shall ever onwardMove mankind along the road,Toward the haven of the blessedToward the city of my God.Let some word that I have spokenOr some act performed by me,Sound aloud thro' coming agesMaking captive souls more free;Not to bring me earthly gloryNor to win me empty fame,But to prove the mighty powerIn a risen Savior's name.Let my work be all completedWhen the summons comes to go;Let there be no cause for weeping,Let there be no sound of woe,When the spirit from my FatherBeckons me from duty done,To appear at His tribunal,And receive the crown that's won.Let there be a joyous sunset,Lighting all the realm aboveWith the radiance and the gloryOf a Savior's dying love;Let my faith be firm, unshaken,Let His hand be clasped in mine,Let me cross the mystic river,Leaning on His breast divine.

Let some word that I have spokenOr some act performed by me,Sound aloud thro' coming agesMaking captive souls more free;Not to bring me earthly gloryNor to win me empty fame,But to prove the mighty powerIn a risen Savior's name.

Let my work be all completedWhen the summons comes to go;Let there be no cause for weeping,Let there be no sound of woe,When the spirit from my FatherBeckons me from duty done,To appear at His tribunal,And receive the crown that's won.

Let there be a joyous sunset,Lighting all the realm aboveWith the radiance and the gloryOf a Savior's dying love;Let my faith be firm, unshaken,Let His hand be clasped in mine,Let me cross the mystic river,Leaning on His breast divine.

The sky that was blue and sunny,Has changed to a granite gray,The sun that was soft and cheery,Refuses it mellow ray;On the distant tree-top, cawing,Sits a solitary crow;These and the shivering childrenBetoken the coming snow.Soon the flakes will be falling,Like down from an angel's wing,That is sent from the starry regionsFor Nature's covering;The trees, the plants, the grasses,With rev'rence bow their heads,For the pure and fleecy mantleThat God above them spreads.

Soon the flakes will be falling,Like down from an angel's wing,That is sent from the starry regionsFor Nature's covering;The trees, the plants, the grasses,With rev'rence bow their heads,For the pure and fleecy mantleThat God above them spreads.

How strange are the stories we sometimes readIn faces we meet by the way,They unconsciously tell of motive or deedThat the tongue would refuse to betray.Each lineament is a page set apartTo be studied and understoodBy the shade that reflects the mind and heart,In their varied forms and mood.The eye oft reflects the secrets of soulThat are occult to all beside,And form of the mouth defying controlBetrays what the heart fain would hide.The quivering chin and tear-bedewed eyeThat respond to a kindred wordThat unconsciously fell from a tongue passing by,Oft betrays how th' heart has been stirred.There are fountains so deep in some human livesThat from them no draught can be drawn,Save the perfect mirage the face ever givesOf the soul when reflections dawn.How varied the pages we daily read—Some are joyous and full of glee,While others may tell of brave hearts that bleed,And then break in deep misery.The facial page to me hath a charmThat no printed book can impart,'Tis no fancied tale, 'tis no false alarm,But stern truths from the human heart.Pencils write plainly each act, on the face,Each motive indulged is seen there,No after decision can fully eraseThe masks faces ever must wear.If the face would be fair and bright and young,Wear a charming, a joyous hue,To truth and to right heart-strings must be strung,Every thought, every act must be true.Let the pencil of truth inscribe on the face,Let honor illumine the eye,Let generous thoughts and acts ever graceThe face-page the world shall descry.

How strange are the stories we sometimes readIn faces we meet by the way,They unconsciously tell of motive or deedThat the tongue would refuse to betray.

Each lineament is a page set apartTo be studied and understoodBy the shade that reflects the mind and heart,In their varied forms and mood.

The eye oft reflects the secrets of soulThat are occult to all beside,And form of the mouth defying controlBetrays what the heart fain would hide.

The quivering chin and tear-bedewed eyeThat respond to a kindred wordThat unconsciously fell from a tongue passing by,Oft betrays how th' heart has been stirred.

There are fountains so deep in some human livesThat from them no draught can be drawn,Save the perfect mirage the face ever givesOf the soul when reflections dawn.

How varied the pages we daily read—Some are joyous and full of glee,While others may tell of brave hearts that bleed,And then break in deep misery.

The facial page to me hath a charmThat no printed book can impart,'Tis no fancied tale, 'tis no false alarm,But stern truths from the human heart.

Pencils write plainly each act, on the face,Each motive indulged is seen there,No after decision can fully eraseThe masks faces ever must wear.

If the face would be fair and bright and young,Wear a charming, a joyous hue,To truth and to right heart-strings must be strung,Every thought, every act must be true.

Let the pencil of truth inscribe on the face,Let honor illumine the eye,Let generous thoughts and acts ever graceThe face-page the world shall descry.

An honest man with noble mind,With heart sincere, true, and refined,Who lives for God and all mankind,Who cares for rich and poor,And opens wide his soul to seeThe sweet designs of Deity,Yet from all prejudice is free,Is character I much adore.The man who all his rights will claim,But gives another just the same,And shares with equity the blameOf faults done long before,Who will not shrink when sorely tried.But firmly by the truth abide,E'en when his own faults are allied,Is character I much adore.A man who will not plead a causeThat violates the nation's laws,Or seek to give Justice a pause,For gold or worldly store,But Pallas-like will e'er defend,Alike for foe, or trusted friend,The rights on which morals depend,Is character I much adore.A man who rises by his worthAnd not through fortune-favored birth,Who owns himself, though all the earthMay bribes around him pour,Who wears distinction's jeweled crown,But not from trampling others down,Or acts that cause Justice to frown,Is character I much adore.The teacher who sees soul and mindIn pleasing harmony combinedWithin the clay to be refined,And scans it o'er and o'er,That through instruction, skill, and love,It may expand and so improve,To honor earth and heaven above,Is character I much adore.The man of God who feels no lossTo bear the burden of the crossThough waves of fury round him toss,That sometimes hide the shore;Who guides alike the rich and poorToward Him who said, "I am the Door,"And bids them come though sick and sore,Is character I much adore.The man who fills a humble lotAs best he can, and murmurs notAt what he has, or has not got,But uses all his powerTo elevate his work and life,And knows no mean ignoble strife,With which the world is too much rife,Is character I much adore.A faithful wife bent low in prayerO'er suffering one in wild despair,While tender hands relief prepareUpon th' uncovered floorOf him who cursed her life by drinkAnd caused her trusting heart to sinkUpon Despair's cold, cheerless brink,Is character I much adore.

The man who all his rights will claim,But gives another just the same,And shares with equity the blameOf faults done long before,Who will not shrink when sorely tried.But firmly by the truth abide,E'en when his own faults are allied,Is character I much adore.

A man who will not plead a causeThat violates the nation's laws,Or seek to give Justice a pause,For gold or worldly store,But Pallas-like will e'er defend,Alike for foe, or trusted friend,The rights on which morals depend,Is character I much adore.

A man who rises by his worthAnd not through fortune-favored birth,Who owns himself, though all the earthMay bribes around him pour,Who wears distinction's jeweled crown,But not from trampling others down,Or acts that cause Justice to frown,Is character I much adore.

The teacher who sees soul and mindIn pleasing harmony combinedWithin the clay to be refined,And scans it o'er and o'er,That through instruction, skill, and love,It may expand and so improve,To honor earth and heaven above,Is character I much adore.

The man of God who feels no lossTo bear the burden of the crossThough waves of fury round him toss,That sometimes hide the shore;Who guides alike the rich and poorToward Him who said, "I am the Door,"And bids them come though sick and sore,Is character I much adore.

The man who fills a humble lotAs best he can, and murmurs notAt what he has, or has not got,But uses all his powerTo elevate his work and life,And knows no mean ignoble strife,With which the world is too much rife,Is character I much adore.

A faithful wife bent low in prayerO'er suffering one in wild despair,While tender hands relief prepareUpon th' uncovered floorOf him who cursed her life by drinkAnd caused her trusting heart to sinkUpon Despair's cold, cheerless brink,Is character I much adore.

Nature has printed the largest bookThat eye has ever seen,And filled it with colored pictures fair,In white and gray and green.She offers it free to all mankind—Noble, generous deed—But few there are in its pages rare,Have ever learned to read.

The seeming saint with long drawn face,Who thinks that he has so much graceHe should be throned on highest placeTo which saints may aspire,And yet, when dealing with a man,Will use some vicious, subtle planBy which a vantage he may gain,Is character I can't admire.The zealot who thinks God has givenA delegated power from heavenTo him, to see that men are drivenTo escape a burning fire,Yet draws no souls by filial love,But deems the world can never moveBy holy influence from above,Is character I can't admire.The man whose prayer is long and loud,Whose knee is bent, whose head is bowed—With worldly goods richly endowedWith all man can desire,Yet sees aworthybrother fall,Without responding to his callFor aid to soothe starvation's gall,Is character I can't admire.The teacher who devoid of heart,Unskilled in pedagogic art,With looks and acts severely tartWould loathesome tasks require,Of pupils dulled by daily grind,Or stirred by words unjust, unkind,Which leave a canker in the mind,Is character I can't admire.The mother who aspires to beA beacon light of charity,Regardless of the nurseryWhereof she seems to tire,Who thinks her husband needs no care,But drives him wildly toward despairBy meagre love, and frigid fare,Is character I can't admire.The husband who spends days and nightsIn low resorts, mid brawls and fights,In which his heart greatly delights,But stops not to inquire,If wife and child have needed care,Or from his draughts he may not spareThe pittance they should justly share,Is character I can't admire,The millionaire who doth obtainHis wealth by brawn and muscle strainOf those he poorly doth maintainThrough scanty meed and hire,Who will not justly, freely giveA recompense whereby may liveIn health, the man who makes him thriveIs character I can't admire.The man who feels no poignant ruthAt the dethronement of a truth,That to old age from tender youthHas felt no fervid ireWhen hate and envy swayed the tongue,And took no pride in checking wrong,No matter where it may belong,Is character I can't admire.The man who lives for self alone,The man whose truth and honor 've flown,The man who hears a fellow groanOr sees a soul expire,And lifts no friendly hand to aid,No sympathy of soul betrayed,No fevered brow with balm allayed,Are characters I can't admire.

The zealot who thinks God has givenA delegated power from heavenTo him, to see that men are drivenTo escape a burning fire,Yet draws no souls by filial love,But deems the world can never moveBy holy influence from above,Is character I can't admire.

The man whose prayer is long and loud,Whose knee is bent, whose head is bowed—With worldly goods richly endowedWith all man can desire,Yet sees aworthybrother fall,Without responding to his callFor aid to soothe starvation's gall,Is character I can't admire.

The teacher who devoid of heart,Unskilled in pedagogic art,With looks and acts severely tartWould loathesome tasks require,Of pupils dulled by daily grind,Or stirred by words unjust, unkind,Which leave a canker in the mind,Is character I can't admire.

The mother who aspires to beA beacon light of charity,Regardless of the nurseryWhereof she seems to tire,Who thinks her husband needs no care,But drives him wildly toward despairBy meagre love, and frigid fare,Is character I can't admire.

The husband who spends days and nightsIn low resorts, mid brawls and fights,In which his heart greatly delights,But stops not to inquire,If wife and child have needed care,Or from his draughts he may not spareThe pittance they should justly share,Is character I can't admire,

The millionaire who doth obtainHis wealth by brawn and muscle strainOf those he poorly doth maintainThrough scanty meed and hire,Who will not justly, freely giveA recompense whereby may liveIn health, the man who makes him thriveIs character I can't admire.

The man who feels no poignant ruthAt the dethronement of a truth,That to old age from tender youthHas felt no fervid ireWhen hate and envy swayed the tongue,And took no pride in checking wrong,No matter where it may belong,Is character I can't admire.

The man who lives for self alone,The man whose truth and honor 've flown,The man who hears a fellow groanOr sees a soul expire,And lifts no friendly hand to aid,No sympathy of soul betrayed,No fevered brow with balm allayed,Are characters I can't admire.

I stood upon the slender linkThat joins two cities into one,And saw from thence the storm-clouds drinkTheir moisture from the sun.I watched their lowering, frowning edge,Girt round with silver band,Saw castles tall and towering ledgeAssume their forms so grand.I saw the marshalled hosts of heavenJoin for the mighty fray,Their ranks by tempest-winds were drivenAlong their dark highway.High in the heavens the giant formsOf chariots, horsemen, towers stand,Whose home is ever 'mid the storms—When chaos reigns, most grand.I saw the fragments of the cloudJoin with the nucleus form,Cirrus to Nimbus quickly bowed—Sure harbinger of storm.These were but outward signs I saw,Portending danger, strife, and fear,Yet still I knew by Nature's law,Beyond the clouds, 'twas clear.In spite of cloud and storm and strife,Of tempests wild, severe,There's sunshine in our daily life,If one true heart is near.No battle vanquishes thetrue,E'en thought of death is sweetTo him whose soul would e'er subdueThe scorpion-sting—deceit.One trusting, true, and tender heartCan cure a thousand ills,Extract the poison from the dartOf malice e'er it kills.Oh, marshalled hosts of warring clouds!Teach me this truth to know,There's light beyond, though trouble shroudsThe valley here below.

I stood upon the slender linkThat joins two cities into one,And saw from thence the storm-clouds drinkTheir moisture from the sun.

I watched their lowering, frowning edge,Girt round with silver band,Saw castles tall and towering ledgeAssume their forms so grand.

I saw the marshalled hosts of heavenJoin for the mighty fray,Their ranks by tempest-winds were drivenAlong their dark highway.

High in the heavens the giant formsOf chariots, horsemen, towers stand,Whose home is ever 'mid the storms—When chaos reigns, most grand.

I saw the fragments of the cloudJoin with the nucleus form,Cirrus to Nimbus quickly bowed—Sure harbinger of storm.

These were but outward signs I saw,Portending danger, strife, and fear,Yet still I knew by Nature's law,Beyond the clouds, 'twas clear.

In spite of cloud and storm and strife,Of tempests wild, severe,There's sunshine in our daily life,If one true heart is near.

No battle vanquishes thetrue,E'en thought of death is sweetTo him whose soul would e'er subdueThe scorpion-sting—deceit.

One trusting, true, and tender heartCan cure a thousand ills,Extract the poison from the dartOf malice e'er it kills.

Oh, marshalled hosts of warring clouds!Teach me this truth to know,There's light beyond, though trouble shroudsThe valley here below.

Let melancholy mortals grieveAnd tell their tale of sorrow,Their gloomy spirits to relieve,But all returns to-morrow;For all the while they court their grief,Unwilling to forsake it,And in the way they seek relief,Their life is what they make it.They brood o'er sorrow day by day,With dreams they are affrighted,But never strive to cast awayWhat most their spirits blighted;And if fair fortune chance to smileAnd give no cause for sorrow,They're not content to rest awhile,But off they go and borrow.Avoiding all life's pleasant waysTheir life is always clouded,They see no happy sunny days,For all in gloom is shrouded;They never see the flowers that bloomAs on Life's road they ramble,But in the darkest paths of gloomAre seeking for a bramble.The pleasures of this life do notDepend on its surrounding,But if the heart's trained as it ought,Content will be abounding;The silent heart's the seat of joy,And by continual trainingLife's trials scarcely will annoyThe soul where peace is reigning.Then tell me not Fate made them so,And they cannot avoid it,That all their life is doomed to woe,And they have not alloyed it;For all the while they court their grief,Unwilling to forsake it,And in the way they seek relief,Their life is what they make it.

They brood o'er sorrow day by day,With dreams they are affrighted,But never strive to cast awayWhat most their spirits blighted;And if fair fortune chance to smileAnd give no cause for sorrow,They're not content to rest awhile,But off they go and borrow.

Avoiding all life's pleasant waysTheir life is always clouded,They see no happy sunny days,For all in gloom is shrouded;They never see the flowers that bloomAs on Life's road they ramble,But in the darkest paths of gloomAre seeking for a bramble.

The pleasures of this life do notDepend on its surrounding,But if the heart's trained as it ought,Content will be abounding;The silent heart's the seat of joy,And by continual trainingLife's trials scarcely will annoyThe soul where peace is reigning.

Then tell me not Fate made them so,And they cannot avoid it,That all their life is doomed to woe,And they have not alloyed it;For all the while they court their grief,Unwilling to forsake it,And in the way they seek relief,Their life is what they make it.

The atmosphere may be redolentWith fragrance from some happy soulWhose unconscious influence has sentAttractive power, like magnetic pole,Till laugh of bright eyes is contagious,Infectious, the mirth of a smile,And the ominous brow umbrageous,Casts aside its lowerings vile.

A solitary bird was seen by the writer, making its toilsome flight against a strong storm-wind. The peculiar undulating flight, the gathering darkness of the night, and the portentous indications of storm suggested this:

Whither away on such winged undulations,Breasting the winds and the tempests wild glee,Lifting your form in graceful vibrationsAs onward you move like a billowy sea?Alone, all alone, on wing wide extended,Nerved for the tempest that sounds not afar,Night her dark mantle o'er earth has suspended,Thro' which may not shine e'en the light of one star.Stop, lonely wanderer, and tell me why mateless,Tell me the story of your solitude;God, e'en a bird has not left so fatelessBut somewhere there lives a companion for you.Tell me if death has robbed you of treasuresThat sweetened the tone of your vesper song;Tell me if fears have destroyed all the pleasuresWhich justice and right say to you should belong.Tell me, yes, tell me, and tell me most truly,Is there just cause why your flight is alone?Is there some stain whereby you are dulyDebarred from the pleasures that should be your own?Still but your wing and confide me the story,Chant it to me in a short plaintive song;Perhaps it may speak of a sweet transient gloryThat faded and died 'mid disaster and wrong.Perhaps I may speak some word that has healingFor solitude's wounds, e'en sweet tho' they be,For sorrows augment by sacred concealing,And steal from the heart ev'ry wish to be free.Dear blessed bird! you have stopped at my pleading,My soul aids my ears to catch your sweet tone:"If life is not sweetened by presence and breeding,'Tis better by far to travel alone."I have learned as my wings have borne me thro' grovesWhere gods their ambrosial nectar sip,That the heart's best experience ever proves,Joy comes not frompresence, butcompanionship."

Whither away on such winged undulations,Breasting the winds and the tempests wild glee,Lifting your form in graceful vibrationsAs onward you move like a billowy sea?

Alone, all alone, on wing wide extended,Nerved for the tempest that sounds not afar,Night her dark mantle o'er earth has suspended,Thro' which may not shine e'en the light of one star.

Stop, lonely wanderer, and tell me why mateless,Tell me the story of your solitude;God, e'en a bird has not left so fatelessBut somewhere there lives a companion for you.

Tell me if death has robbed you of treasuresThat sweetened the tone of your vesper song;Tell me if fears have destroyed all the pleasuresWhich justice and right say to you should belong.

Tell me, yes, tell me, and tell me most truly,Is there just cause why your flight is alone?Is there some stain whereby you are dulyDebarred from the pleasures that should be your own?

Still but your wing and confide me the story,Chant it to me in a short plaintive song;Perhaps it may speak of a sweet transient gloryThat faded and died 'mid disaster and wrong.

Perhaps I may speak some word that has healingFor solitude's wounds, e'en sweet tho' they be,For sorrows augment by sacred concealing,And steal from the heart ev'ry wish to be free.

Dear blessed bird! you have stopped at my pleading,My soul aids my ears to catch your sweet tone:"If life is not sweetened by presence and breeding,'Tis better by far to travel alone.

"I have learned as my wings have borne me thro' grovesWhere gods their ambrosial nectar sip,That the heart's best experience ever proves,Joy comes not frompresence, butcompanionship."

O who has not felt his gay heart beat with gladness,As forth he has wandered some morning in May?It drives away care and relieves us from sadness,It cheers the lone heart and makes us feel gay.We see how all Nature rejoices around us,The plants as they spring from the earth seem to smile,The fresh growing leaves of the groves now surround us,And soft sounds of Spring-time unite to beguile.The earth is now teeming with bright vegetation,The early spring flowers are now in their bloom,And where'er we look there appears animationJust bursting the cells of the last winter's tomb.The soft breeze of May-day, we welcome it near us,As filled with rich fragrance it comes thro' the trees,And the bright feathered songsters apparently fear usNo more than the odors that float on the breeze.They tune their sweet voices and sing their devotion,Their hearts seem so light, so merry and free,That ideal beauty graces each motion,While they playfully dart from bush and from tree.Our hearts beat with rapture too great for expressionWhile viewing sweet Nature, so lovely, so gay,And hearing those sweet lulling sounds in succession,We wished in our joy it always were May.Thus tempted to linger and spend one short hour,In looking around us in bliss most supreme,We found a choice spot in a fine shady bower,Where near it there murmured a bright silver stream.From this lovely spot we intently were watchingThe scenes that surround us on this merry May,Every strain of grove-music our ears were now catching,And we saw every movement that came in our way.A sweet, tiny bird on a twig near the river,Was warbling softly his choice matin lay,While near on a branch we soon did discoverA serpent preparing to make him his prey.Then glancing the eye to a branch that was near them,We saw there a nest that contained a young brood;While this parent bird was singing to cheer them,The other returned to the nest with their food.The worm which she held in her beak she soon gave them,Then off in the thicket she darted again,To seek for their food, and from hunger relieve them;But on her return how great was her pain!For while she had wandered, this serpent intruderHad charmed her loved mate, as he sat on the spray,His sweet song had ceased, and his notes became ruder,But his fluttering wings could not bear him away.We flew to the rescue—struck down the invaderBefore the sweet songster had yielded his life,Put an end to this cunning and mischievous raider,And quieted all of the songster's great strife.We learned from the scenes of this morning's rambleThat moments of happiness soon may decay;While plucking the flowers to beware of the bramble,Which hid among blossoms may sadly betray.We learned that the joys of this world are not lasting;That what we call pleasure may be a vain show;While joys seem the sweetest they only are blasting,And happiness frequently ends in great woe.We learned that when Nature seems most to invite us,To build some fond hope on some loved scheme of ours,That there may be sadness preparing to blight us,Which evades all our watchings, defies all our powers.

O who has not felt his gay heart beat with gladness,As forth he has wandered some morning in May?It drives away care and relieves us from sadness,It cheers the lone heart and makes us feel gay.

We see how all Nature rejoices around us,The plants as they spring from the earth seem to smile,The fresh growing leaves of the groves now surround us,And soft sounds of Spring-time unite to beguile.

The earth is now teeming with bright vegetation,The early spring flowers are now in their bloom,And where'er we look there appears animationJust bursting the cells of the last winter's tomb.

The soft breeze of May-day, we welcome it near us,As filled with rich fragrance it comes thro' the trees,And the bright feathered songsters apparently fear usNo more than the odors that float on the breeze.

They tune their sweet voices and sing their devotion,Their hearts seem so light, so merry and free,That ideal beauty graces each motion,While they playfully dart from bush and from tree.

Our hearts beat with rapture too great for expressionWhile viewing sweet Nature, so lovely, so gay,And hearing those sweet lulling sounds in succession,We wished in our joy it always were May.

Thus tempted to linger and spend one short hour,In looking around us in bliss most supreme,We found a choice spot in a fine shady bower,Where near it there murmured a bright silver stream.

From this lovely spot we intently were watchingThe scenes that surround us on this merry May,Every strain of grove-music our ears were now catching,And we saw every movement that came in our way.

A sweet, tiny bird on a twig near the river,Was warbling softly his choice matin lay,While near on a branch we soon did discoverA serpent preparing to make him his prey.

Then glancing the eye to a branch that was near them,We saw there a nest that contained a young brood;While this parent bird was singing to cheer them,The other returned to the nest with their food.

The worm which she held in her beak she soon gave them,Then off in the thicket she darted again,To seek for their food, and from hunger relieve them;But on her return how great was her pain!

For while she had wandered, this serpent intruderHad charmed her loved mate, as he sat on the spray,His sweet song had ceased, and his notes became ruder,But his fluttering wings could not bear him away.

We flew to the rescue—struck down the invaderBefore the sweet songster had yielded his life,Put an end to this cunning and mischievous raider,And quieted all of the songster's great strife.

We learned from the scenes of this morning's rambleThat moments of happiness soon may decay;While plucking the flowers to beware of the bramble,Which hid among blossoms may sadly betray.

We learned that the joys of this world are not lasting;That what we call pleasure may be a vain show;While joys seem the sweetest they only are blasting,And happiness frequently ends in great woe.

We learned that when Nature seems most to invite us,To build some fond hope on some loved scheme of ours,That there may be sadness preparing to blight us,Which evades all our watchings, defies all our powers.

Nine months after writing this poem, my mother died, Dec. 21st, 1894.

My vision eye beholds a form,Bent low by years of life's fierce storm,That moves with feeble tread;Though time has worn that weary frameThe heart still keeps its sacred flameTrue, undiminished.No power but Death can ever quell—No mortal tongue can ever tellA mother's boundless love;'Tis shadowed in the secret sigh,Or in the moisture of the eye—E'en silence, it may prove.Itself and I had but one birth,It came from heaven to gladden earth—And brighten man's abode;To feel the magic of its powerIs richer boon than any dowerThe earth has yet bestowed.Favored in this has been my lot;Relentless Death has robbed me not—Though fifty years have flown,Of all the ecstasy and joyThat came to me when but a boy,Or since to manhood grown,Of that benign maternal smile,Whose magic influence can beguileMy heart from worldly care,And lead me toward that beacon-lightOf motive pure and act aright,No matter when or where.O blessed influence of the past!May all my mother's counsels lastUntil my heart shall ceaseTo send its crimson current roundThe tenement wherein 'tis bound,And Death shall bring release.Still let these visions come to meOf her I would so gladly seeThough far from her I roam;They bring sweet memory of the past,Which but a few more years may last,Of happiness and home.

My vision eye beholds a form,Bent low by years of life's fierce storm,That moves with feeble tread;Though time has worn that weary frameThe heart still keeps its sacred flameTrue, undiminished.

No power but Death can ever quell—No mortal tongue can ever tellA mother's boundless love;'Tis shadowed in the secret sigh,Or in the moisture of the eye—E'en silence, it may prove.

Itself and I had but one birth,It came from heaven to gladden earth—And brighten man's abode;To feel the magic of its powerIs richer boon than any dowerThe earth has yet bestowed.

Favored in this has been my lot;Relentless Death has robbed me not—Though fifty years have flown,Of all the ecstasy and joyThat came to me when but a boy,Or since to manhood grown,

Of that benign maternal smile,Whose magic influence can beguileMy heart from worldly care,And lead me toward that beacon-lightOf motive pure and act aright,No matter when or where.

O blessed influence of the past!May all my mother's counsels lastUntil my heart shall ceaseTo send its crimson current roundThe tenement wherein 'tis bound,And Death shall bring release.

Still let these visions come to meOf her I would so gladly seeThough far from her I roam;They bring sweet memory of the past,Which but a few more years may last,Of happiness and home.

Dear Brother, how the time speeds onAnd leaves its trace upon our forms;The days of sunny youth are goneAnd age unfits us for the stormsThat gather oft for you and me—To-morrow you'll be fifty-three.It seems but yesterday since youthWas all aglow within our hearts,But still we recognized the truth,Old age has pierced us with his dartsUntil from pains we are not free—To-morrow you'll be fifty-three.Long years of toil and anxious careHave left their records all too plain;The failing eye, the snowy hair,The limbs and body racked with pain,Tell tales that all the world can see—To-morrow you'll be fifty-three.Still on life's battlefield we'll fightAnd win such victories as we may,Believing still that right is mightAnd faithful hearts shall win the day;Then let us shout and sing with glee—To-morrow you'll be fifty-three.And when a few more days are pastAnd we are bowed with years and care,The cheerful sunshine still may lastTo make declining years more fair;Ah! much I hope that this may be—To-morrow you'll be fifty-three.'Tis sweet to think of boyhood's daysAnd all the happiness they gave,To summon back life's earliest playsAnd call lost childhood from its grave;Thus memory gives us victory—To-morrow you'll be fifty-three.Since manhood's form was given meUntil this hour, our ways have beenIn different lines of industry,And scarce have we each other seen;Your birthday's held in memory—To-morrow you'll be fifty-three.

It seems but yesterday since youthWas all aglow within our hearts,But still we recognized the truth,Old age has pierced us with his dartsUntil from pains we are not free—To-morrow you'll be fifty-three.

Long years of toil and anxious careHave left their records all too plain;The failing eye, the snowy hair,The limbs and body racked with pain,Tell tales that all the world can see—To-morrow you'll be fifty-three.

Still on life's battlefield we'll fightAnd win such victories as we may,Believing still that right is mightAnd faithful hearts shall win the day;Then let us shout and sing with glee—To-morrow you'll be fifty-three.

And when a few more days are pastAnd we are bowed with years and care,The cheerful sunshine still may lastTo make declining years more fair;Ah! much I hope that this may be—To-morrow you'll be fifty-three.

'Tis sweet to think of boyhood's daysAnd all the happiness they gave,To summon back life's earliest playsAnd call lost childhood from its grave;Thus memory gives us victory—To-morrow you'll be fifty-three.

Since manhood's form was given meUntil this hour, our ways have beenIn different lines of industry,And scarce have we each other seen;Your birthday's held in memory—To-morrow you'll be fifty-three.

Fifty-eight to-day, fifty-eight to-day!How years of your life have sped away,And left in the brown of the dying yearA quiet content, devoid of fearAt the onward march of Time's noiseless feet,Which ever advance, but ne'er retreat,As they bear you on to that silent shore,From which earth's mortals return no more.With the night of time come the sunset cares,The faltering step, the snowy hairs,The tottering frame, and the stifled breath,Sure harbingers of approaching death,That bring with their train a tranquil reposeUnknown to the tears and sighs and woesThat belong to scenes of an active life,Whose atmosphere breathes of toil and strife.As glorious day dies out in the westAnd sinks in crimson splendor to rest,While the stars of heaven come one by oneWith reflected light from th' sinking sun,So may life with you in its late decline,Leave a trail of light that yet may shineTo illumine the path that others tread,And cheer the way of the vanquished.

With the night of time come the sunset cares,The faltering step, the snowy hairs,The tottering frame, and the stifled breath,Sure harbingers of approaching death,That bring with their train a tranquil reposeUnknown to the tears and sighs and woesThat belong to scenes of an active life,Whose atmosphere breathes of toil and strife.

As glorious day dies out in the westAnd sinks in crimson splendor to rest,While the stars of heaven come one by oneWith reflected light from th' sinking sun,So may life with you in its late decline,Leave a trail of light that yet may shineTo illumine the path that others tread,And cheer the way of the vanquished.

Died Jan. 4th, 1893, aged 11 years.

Darling of my bosom,Pride of my loving heart,Hopes were sorely shatteredWhen I saw your life depart;In you I saw my future,Cheered by your smile and voice,Sorrow ceased its frowning,My spirit would rejoice.Life was made much brighterBy your presence sweet;At your cheery comingHeart-shadows would retreat;Soulful songs with meaningsBeyond your years were sung;To chords of sweetest raptureYour heart-strings e'er were strung.From out the realms of heav'nStill you speak to me,And fancy draws the curtainThat I your face may see;Perhaps in the hereafterI yet may fully knowThe purpose of your going,Your mission here below.

Life was made much brighterBy your presence sweet;At your cheery comingHeart-shadows would retreat;Soulful songs with meaningsBeyond your years were sung;To chords of sweetest raptureYour heart-strings e'er were strung.

From out the realms of heav'nStill you speak to me,And fancy draws the curtainThat I your face may see;Perhaps in the hereafterI yet may fully knowThe purpose of your going,Your mission here below.

To me comes a voice that none otherHath power to hear or to know,Its cadence so sweet and consolingIs a whisper so gentle and low,That the flight of an angel might covetThe silence it bears in its tone;It speaks to me often, to comfortMy heart when I sit all alone.I oft close my eyes at the twilightAnd that voice comes floating to meLike the song of some fairy creatureThat dwells in a pearl-lighted sea;When the shades of midnight infold meThat voice lulls me gently to rest,And tells me the time is not distantWhen my spirit shall dwell as its guest.When shadows of night are departingAnd smiling Aurora appears,That voice of sweet invitationFalls soothingly into my ears;A form that I fondly cherishLike a vision of beauty I see,That comes on an angelic missionWith counsel and solace for me.How sweet is the voice that is calling—Is calling in rapture to meAnd leading me close to the borderWhere into its home I can see!It tells me the land is not distant,That soon when my boat I must launch,I shall know the voice that is calling,Is the voice my lost darling Blanche.

I oft close my eyes at the twilightAnd that voice comes floating to meLike the song of some fairy creatureThat dwells in a pearl-lighted sea;When the shades of midnight infold meThat voice lulls me gently to rest,And tells me the time is not distantWhen my spirit shall dwell as its guest.

When shadows of night are departingAnd smiling Aurora appears,That voice of sweet invitationFalls soothingly into my ears;A form that I fondly cherishLike a vision of beauty I see,That comes on an angelic missionWith counsel and solace for me.

How sweet is the voice that is calling—Is calling in rapture to meAnd leading me close to the borderWhere into its home I can see!It tells me the land is not distant,That soon when my boat I must launch,I shall know the voice that is calling,Is the voice my lost darling Blanche.

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