220 LIGHT ON THE MOUNTAIN-TOPS.

LIGHT ON THE MOUNTAIN-TOPS.

IN Alpine valleys, they who watch for dawn
Look never to the east; but fix their

eyes

On loftier mountain-peaks of snow, which rise
To west or south.

Before the happy morn
Has sent one ray of kindling red, to warn
The sleeping clouds along the eastern skies
That it is near--flushing, in glad surprise,
These royal hills, for royal watchmen born,
Discover that God's great new day begins,
And, shedding from their sacred brows a light
Prophetic, wake the valley from its night.
Such mystic light as this a great soul wins,
Who overlooks earth's wall of griefs and sins,
And steadfast always, gazing on the white
Great throne of God, can call aloud with deep,
Pure voice of truth, to waken them who sleep.

H. H.

TIME TO GO.

221

TIME TO GO.

THEY know the time to go!

The fairy clocks strike their inaudible hour
In field and woodland, and each punctual flower
Bows at the signal an obedient head

And hastes to bed.

The pale Anemone

Glides on her way with scarcely a good-night;
The Violets tie their purple night-caps tight;
Hand clasped in hand, the dancing Columbines,
In blithesome lines,

Drop their last courtesies,

Flit from the scene, and couch them for their rest; The Meadow Lily folds her scarlet vest

And hides it 'neath the Grasses' lengthening green, Fair and serene.

Her sister Lily floats

On the blue pond and raises golden eyes
To court the golden splendor of the skies.
The sudden signal comes, and down she goes

To find repose

222

TIME TO GO.

In the cool depths below.

A little later, and the Asters blue.

Depart in crowds, a brave and cheery crew;

While Golden Rod, still wide awake and gay,.
Turns him away,

Furls his bright parasol,

And, like a little hero, meets his fate.

The Gentians, very proud to sit up late,

Next follow.

Every Fern is tucked and set

'Neath coverlet,

Downy and soft and warm.

No little seedling voice is heard to grieve
Or make complaints the folding woods beneath;
No lingerer dares to stay, for well they know
The time to go.

Teach us your patience, brave,

Dear flowers, till we shall dare to part like you, Willing God's will, sure that His clock strikes true, That His sweet day augurs a sweeter morrow,

With smiles, not sorrow.

SUSAN COOLIDGE.

SOME MURMUR.

223

SOME MURMUR.

SOME murmur when their sky is clear,
And wholly bright to view,

If one small speck of dark appear

In their great heaven of blue.
And some with thankful love are filled,
If but one streak of light,
One ray of God's good mercy, gild

The darkness of their night.

In palaces are hearts that ask,
In discontent and pride,
Why life is such a dreary task,
And all good things denied.
And hearts in poorest huts admire

How love has in their aid

(Love that not ever seems to tire)

Such rich provision made.

R. C. TRENCH..

224

THE WOUNDED CURLEW.

THE WOUNDED CURLEW.

By yonder sandy cove where, every day,
The tide flows in and out,

A lonely bird in sober brown and grey
Limps patiently about;

And round the basin's edge, o'er stones and sand,

And many a fringing weed,

He steals, or on the rocky ledge doth stand,
Crying, with none to heed.

But sometimes from the distance he can hear

His comrades' swift reply;

Sometimes the air rings with their music clear,
Sounding from sea and sky.

And then, O then his tender voice, so sweet,
Is shaken with his pain,

For broken are his pinions strong and fleet,
Never to soar again.

Wounded and lame and languishing he lives,

Once glad and blithe and free,