JOY AND SORROW. "Thus doth the ever-changing course of things Run a perpetual circle ever turn ing; And that same day, that highest glory brings, Brings us unto the point of back returning." DANIEL. So runs the tale of life from day to day." POEMS OF JOY AND SORROW. GOOD NEWS, OR BAD? OOD news or evil, sunshine or shadowWhat is the message the postman bore, Meeting a lassie midway in the meadow, Bringing a letter from distant shore? "Wounded to death!"-so ran the letter"Wounded to death in the front of the fray!" Dying right nobly surely is better Than living to bask in life's sunniest ray! "Wounded to death!-Aye, almost to dying, But the great God gave back the life that seemed lost, And even now while the maiden was sighing, The far-stretching leagues of the ocean were crossed; And just when the sky seemed most cloudy and dreary, And all was as dark as a dull autumn day, The soldier was back with his own little dearie, And the sunshine burst forth with a glad summer ray. GEORGE WEATHERLY. UNDER MY WINDOW. LINDER my window, under my window, my unr weather, Three little girls, with fluttering curls, There's Belle with her bonnet of satin sheen, Under my window, under my window, Merry and clear, the voice I hear Of each glad-hearted rover. Ah! sly little Kate, she steals my roses, Full of quips and wiles, Now so round and rich, now soft and slow, And the while the bonny bird did pour 'Neath the morning skies, In the little childish heart below, All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow, From the blue, bright eyes. Down the dell she tripped and through the glade; And Maude and Belle twine wreaths and Peeped the squirrel from the hazel shade, posies, As merry as bees in clover. And from out the tree Swung and leaped and frolicked, void of fear; hear; "Little Bell," piped he. Little Bell sat down amid the fern; Up away the frisky squirrel hies, Great ripe nuts, kissed brown by July sun, 66 Little Bell looked up and down the glade; Down came squirrel eager for his fare; And the while these frolic playmates twain 'Neath the morning skies, In the little childish heart below By her snow-white cot at close of day, Knelt sweet Bell, with folded palms, to pray; Rose the praying voice to where, unseen, "What good child is this," the angel said, "That with happy heart beside her bed Prays so lovingly?" Low and soft, oh, very low and soft, Crooned the blackbird in the orchard croft, "Bell, dear Bell," crooned he. "Whom God's creatures love," the angel fair Murmured, "God doth bless with angels' care; Child, thy bed shall be Folded safe from harm. Love, deep and kind, Shall watch around and leave good gifts behind, Little Bell, for thee!" THOMAS WESTWOOD. BABIE BELL'S COMING. (From "The Ballad of Babie Bell.") AVE you not heard the poets tell The gates of heaven were left ajar; She saw this planet, like a star, O'er which the white-winged angels go, She touched a bridge of flowers, those feet Of the celestial asphodels; They fell like dew upon the flowers: Then all the air grew strangely sweet; COMPANIONSHIP WITH CHILDREN. (From 'Little Annie's Ramble" in "Twice-Told Tales.") WEET has been the charm of childhood on my spirit, throughout my ramble with little Annie! Say not that it has been a waste of precious moments, an idle matter, a babble of childish talk, and a reverie of childish imaginations about topics unworthy of a grown man's notice. Has it been merely this? Not so; not so. They are not truly wise who would affirm it. As the pure breath of children revives the life of aged men, so is our moral nature revived by their free and simple thoughts, their native feeling, their airy mirth, for little cause or none, their grief, soon roused and soon allayed. Their influence on us is at least reciprocal with ours on them. When our infancy is almost forgotten, and our boyhood long departed, though it seems but as yesterday; when life settles darkly down upon us, and we doubt whether to call ourselves young any more, then it is good to steal away from the society of bearded men, and even of gentler women, and spend an hour or two with children. After drinking from those fountains of still fresh existence, we shall return into the crowd, as I do now, to struggle onward and do our part in life, perhaps as fervently as ever, but, for a time, with a kinder and purer heart, and a spirit more lightly wise. All this by thy sweet magic, dear little Annie! NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. |