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TELL me, O mother! when I grow old, Calm thy young thoughts, my own fair Will my hair, which my sisters say is like child ! gold,
The fancies of youth and age are beguiled; Grow gray as the old man's, weak and poor, Though pale grow thy cheeks, and thy hair Who asked for alms at our pillared door?
turn gray, Shall I look as sad, shall I speak as slow, Time cannot steal the soul's youth away! As he, when he told us his tale of woe? There's a land, of which thou hast heard Will my hands then shake, and my eyes be me speak, dim?
Where age never wrinkles the dweller's Tell me, O mother, shall I grow like him? cheek;
But in joy they live, fair child, like theeHe said--but I knew not what he meant- It was there the old man longed to be! That his aged heart with sorrow was rent. He spoke of the grave as a place of rest, For he knew that those with whom he had Where the weary sleep in peace, and are played, blest;
In his heart's young joy, 'neath their And he told how his kindred there were cottage shadelaid,
Whose love he shared, when their songs And the friends with whom in his youth he and mirth played;
Brightened the gloom of this sinful earthAnd tears from the eyes of the old man fell, Whose names from our world had passed And my sisters wept as they heard his away, tale!
As flowers in the breath of an autumn
day;He spoke of a home, where in childhood's He knew that they, with all suffering done, glee
Encircled the throne of the Holy One! He chased from the wild flowers the singing bee;
Though ours be a pillared and lofty home, And followed afar, with a heart as light Where Want, with his pale train, never As its sparkling wings, the butterfly's may come, flight;
Oh, scorn not the poor with the scorner's And pulled young flowers, where they grew
jest, 'neath the beams
Who seek in the shade of our hall to rest! Oi the sun's fair light, by his own blue For He who hath made the poor may soon streams :
Darken the sky of our glowing noon, Yet he left all these, through the world to And leave us with woe, in the world's bleak roam !
wild: Why, O mother ! did he leave his home?”- Oh, soften the griefs of the poor, my child !
WILLIAM P. BROWX.
BIRDS OF PASSAGE.
BIRDS ! joyous birds of the wandering wing ! We have swept o'er cities in song reWhence is it ye come with the flowers of nowned spring?
Silent they lie with the deserts around! “We come from the shores of the green We have crossed proud rivers, whose tide old Nile,
hath rolled From the land where the roses of Sharon All dark with the warrior blood of old; smile,
And each worn wing hath regained its From the palms that wave through the home, Indian sky,
Under peasant's roof-tree or monarch's From the myrrh-trees of glowing Araby.
And what have ye found in the monarch's A change we have found there--and dome,
many a change! Since last ye traversed the blue sea's foam? Faces, and footsteps, and all things strange! We have found a change, we have found Gone are the heads of the silvery hair, a pall,
And the young that were have a brow of And a gloom o'ershadowing the banquet's care, hall,
And the place is hushed where the children And a mark on the floor, as of life-drops played spilt
Nought looks the same, save the nest we Nought looks the same, save the nest we made!” built !”
Sad is your tale of the beautiful earth, Oh, joyous birds ! it hath still been so; Birds that o'ersweep it in power and Through the halls of kings doth the tem
mirth! pest go!
Yet, through the wastes of the trackless air, But the huts of the hamlet lie still and deep, Ye have a Guide, and shall we despair? And the hills o'er their quiet a vigil keep; YE over desert and deep have passed,Say what have ye found in the peasant's cot, So may we reach our bright home at Since last ye parted from that sweet spot? last!
Thou art no lingerer in monarch's hall; But a gleam of thee on its casement fell,
To the earth's wild places a guest thou art,
Flushing the waste like the rose's heart; Thou art walking the billows, and Ocean And thou scornest not, from thy pomp, to smiles
shed Thou hast touched with glory his thousand A tender light on the ruin's head.
isles ! Thou hast lit up the ships and the feathery | Thou takest through the dim church-aişle · foam,
thy way, And gladdened the sailor like words from And its pillars from twilight flash forth to home.
And its high pale tombs, with their trophies To the solemn depths of the forest shades old, Thou art streaming on through their green Are bathed in a flood as of burning gold.
arcades; And the quivering leaves that have caught | And thou turnest not from the humblest thy glow,
grave, Like fire-flies glance to the pools below. Where a flower to the sighing winds may
wave; I looked on the mountainsma vapour lay Thou scatterest its gloom like the dreams Folding their heights in its dark array:
of rest, Thou brokest forth, and the mists be- Thou sleepest in love on its grassy breast.
came A crown and a mantle of living flame! Sunbeam of Summer! oh, what is like thee?
Hope of the wilderness, joy of the sea ! I looked on the peasant's lowly cot, One thing is like thee, to mortals given-Something of sadness had wrapped the The Faith, touching all things with hues spot;
THE TIME FOR PRAYER.
WHEN is the time for prayer?
Then let thy prayer arise With the first beams that light the morning For those who in thy joys and sorrows sky,
share Ere for the toils of day thou dost prepare,
Eve is the time for prayer !
And when the stars come forth,Commend thy loved ones to His watchful
When to the trusting heart sweet hopes Morn is the time for prayer!
And the deep stillness of the hour gives And in the noontide hour,
birth Il worn by toil or by sad cares opprest,
To pure bright dreams of heaven, Then unto God thy spirit's sorrow pour, Kneel to thy God, ask strength life's ills And He will give thee rest :
to bear :-
fields of air:
When is the time for prayer?
In every hour, while life is spared to thee When the bright sun hath set,
In crowds or solitude---in joy or careWhilst yet eve's glowing colours deck the Thy thoughts should heavenward flee. skies,
At home--at morn and eve—with loved When with the loved, at home, again thou'st
Be kind to the old man, while strong in Be kind to the hardened who never hath thy youth
prayed; Be kind, not in seeming alone, but in truth; Be kind to the timid who still is afraid ! He once was as young and as hopeful as thou,
The injured, who down by oppression is With a bosom as light, as unwrinkled a
The slighted who withers; the victim of Be kind to the poor man, and give of thy The flattered who topples aloft but to fall; bread,
The wronger and wronged-oh, be kindly With shelter and pillow to comfort his head; to all ! His lot and thine own may be one ere he dieth,
For vast is the world of the generous mind, Or neighbour to thine the low grave where And narrow the sphere to the selfish he lieth!
And clear is the path of the warm and the Be kind to the crooked, the lame, and the true blind;
Of the haughty and vain, how delusive the What's lacked in the body they feel in the view !
mind; And while virtue through trial and pain Then unto the old show respect while thou cometh forth,
mayestIn the mind, not the body, is man's truest The poor, while to Him who gives all worth.
things thou prayest-
The weak or the lost, 'neath the load of Be kind to the fallen who lives but to his sorrowmourn;
And thine own cup of joy shall o'erflow Be kind to the outcast who seeks to return; cre the morrow!
THE BENDED BOW.
THERE was heard the sound of the coming Though the mead be foaming bright, foe,
Though the fires give ruddy light, There was sent through Britain a bended Leave the hearth and leave the hallbow,
[far, Arm thee! Britain's foe must fall." And a voice was poured on the free winds And the chieftain armed, and the horn was As the land rose up at the sign of war.
Prince ! thy father's deeds are told
Where the goatherd's lay is sung, Arm! ere Britain's turf grows red !” Where the minstrel's harp is strung! And the reaper armed like a foeman's son, Foes are on thy native seaAnd the bended bow and the voice passed Give our bards a tale of thee!" on.
And the prince came armed like a leader's
son, Hunter ! leave the mountain chase,
And the bended bow and the voice passed Take the falchion from its place!
on. Let the wolf go free to-day, Leave him for a nobler prey !
Mother ! stay thou not thy boy! Let the deer ungalled sweep by
He must learn the battle's joy; Arm thee! Britain's foes are nigh !” Sister ! bring the sword and spear, And the hunter armed ere his chase was Give thy brother words of cheer; done,
Maiden ! bid thy lover part, And the bended bow and the voice passed Britain calls the strong in heart !” on.
And the bended bow and the voice passed
on, Chieftain ! quit the joyous feast,
And the bards made song for a battle Stay not till the song hath ceased !
Now, if I fall, will it be my lot
But revive when the sunbeams are yellow To be cast in some low and lonely spot,
and warm, To melt, and to sink unseen or forgot? And the flowers from my bosom are And then will my course be ended ?"
peeping. 'Twas thus a feathery Snow-flake said, As down through the measureless space it And then thou shalt have thy choice to be strayed;
Restored in the lily that decks the lea, Or as, half by dalliance, half afraid, In the jessamine bloom, the anemone, It seemed in mid air suspended.
Or aught of thy spotless whiteness;
To melt and be cast in a glittering bead, “O no," said the Earth, thou shalt not | With pearls that the night scatters over the lie,
mead, Neglected and lone, on my lap to die, In the cup where the bee and the firefly feed, Thou pure and delicate child of the sky; Regaining thy dazzling brightness.
For thou wilt be safe in my keeping : But, then, I must give thee a lovelier Or wouldst thou return to a home in the form;
skies, Thou'lt not be a part of the wintry storm, To shine in the Iris, I'll let thee arise,
And appear in the many and glorious dyes They rise and will live, from thy dust set A pencil of sunbeams is blending.
free, But true, fair thing, as my name is Earth, To the regions above returning. I'll give thee a new and vernal birth, When thou shalt recover thy primal worth, And if true to thy word, and just thou And never regret descending !”
Like the spirit that dwells in the holiest Then I will drop," said the trusting heart, Flake;
Unsullied by thee, thou wilt let me deBut bear in mind that the choice I make part, Is not on the dew in the flowers to And return to my native heaven : awake,
For I would be placed in the beautiful Or the mist that shall pass with the bow, morning :
From time to time, in thy sight to glow; For things of thyself, they expire with thee; So thou may'st remember the flake of But those that are lent from on high, snow,
By the promise that God hath given.”
WHAT IS TIME?
I ASKED an aged man, a man of cares, And they replied (no oracle more wise): Wrinkled and curved, and white with hoary “'Tis folly's blank and wisdom's highest hairs :
prize." “Time is the warp of life,” he said ; "oh, tell
I asked a spirit lost---but, oh, the shriek The young, the fair, the gay, to weave it That pierced my soul! I shudder while I well!”
It cried, “A particle, a speck, a mite
Of things inanimate my dial I
Consulted, and it made me this reply: “Time sowed the seeds we reap in this
"Time is the season fair of living well, abode!”
The path to glory, or the path to hell.” I asked a dying sinner, ere the stroke Of ruthless death life's “golden bowl” had
I asked my Bible, and methinks it said, broke;
“Thine is the present hour; the past is fled: I asked him What is Time? “Time!” he Live, live to-day; tomorrow never yet replied,
On any human being rose or set.” "I've lost it oh, the treasure !”-and he died.
I asked old Father Time himself at last,
But in a moment he flew swiftly past; I asked the golden sun and silver spheres, His chariot was a cloud, the viewless wind Those bright chronometers of days and His noiseless steeds, that left no trace years :
behind. They answered, "Time is but a meteor's glare,” —
I asked the mighty Angel, who shall stand And bade me for Eternity prepare.
One foot on sea, and one on solid land:
“By heaven's great King, I swear the I asked the seasons, in their annual mystery's o'er! round,
Time was,” he cried, “but Time SHALL BE Which beautify or desolate the ground;