DANIEL GRAY. IF I shall ever win the home in heaven I shall be sure to find old Daniel Gray. I knew him well; in fact, few knew him better; Old Daniel Gray was not a man who lifted In the prayer meetings of his neighborhood. He had a few old-fashioned words and phrases, Linked in with sacred texts and Sunday rhymes; And I suppose that in his prayers and graces, I've heard them all at least a thousand times. I see him now his form, his face, his motions, DANIEL GRAY. I can remember how the sentence sounded - He had some notions that did not improve him, He never kissed his children so they say; And finest scenes and fairest flowers would move him Less than a horse-shoe picked up in the way. He had a hearty hatred of oppression, And righteous words for sin of every kind; Alas, that the transgressor and transgression Were linked so closely in his honest mind. He could see naught but vanity in beauty, Yet there were love and tenderness within him; And when they came to bury little Charley, And on his breast a rose-bud gathered early, And guessed, but did not know, who placed it there. THE THANKLESS LADY. Honest and faithful, constant in his calling, A practical old man, and yet a dreamer, He thought that in some strange, unlooked-for way His mighty Friend in Heaven, the great Redeemer, Would honor him with wealth some golden day. This dream he carried in a hopeful spirit The heaven of wealth long garnered up for him. So if I ever win the home in heaven For whose sweet rest I humbly hope and pray, In the great company of the forgiven I shall be sure to find old Daniel Gray. J. G. HOLLAND. THE THANKLESS LADY. IT is May, and the moon leans down all night Over a blossomy land, By her window sits the lady white, With her chin upon her hand. THE THANKLESS LADY. "O sing to me, dear nightingale, The song of a year ago; I have had enough of longing and wail, "O glimmer on me, my apple-tree, The dull odor swims; the cold blossoms gleam; And the bird will not be glad. The dead never speak when the living dream, — She listened and sate till night grew late, Bound by a weary spell; Then a face came in at the garden-gate, Uprose the joy as well as the love, In the song, in the scent, in the show! The moon grew glad in the sky above, The blossoms grew rosy below. May passed into June in the scent and the tune; They filled the veins of night; But they had no thanks for the granted boon, For the lady forgot them quite. GEORGE MACDONALD |