He has no thought of any wrong,
He scans me with a fearless eye;
Staunch friends are we, well tried and strong,
The little sandpiper and I.
Comrade, where wilt thou be to-night,
When the loose storm breaks furiously?
My driftwood fire will burn so bright;
To what warm shelter canst thou fly?
I do not fear for thee though wroth
The tempest rushes through the sky;
For are we not God's children both,
Thou, little sandpiper and I.
THE RIVER PATH.
No bird-song floated down the hill,
The tangled bank below was still;
No rustle from the birchen stem,
No ripple from the water's hem.
The dusk of twilight round us grew,
We felt the falling of the dew;
For from us, ere the day was done,
The wooded hills shut out the sun.
But on the river's farther side
We saw the hill tops glorified.
A tender glow, exceeding fair,
A dream of day, without its glare.
With us the damp, the chill, the gloom;
With them the sunset's rosy bloom;
While dark, through willowy vistas seen,
The river rolled in shade between.
From out the darkness where we trod,
We gazed upon those hills of God,
Whose light seemed not of moon or sun;
We spake not, but our thought was one.
We paused, as if from that bright shore
Beckoned our dear ones gone before ;
And still our beating hearts to hear
The voices lost to mortal ear!
Sudden our pathway turned from night ;
The hills swung open to the light;
Through their green gates the sunshine showed,
A long slant splendor downward flowed.
Down glade and glen and bank it rolled;
It bridged the shady stream with gold;
And, borne on piers of mist, allied
The shadowy with the sunlit side!
"So," prayed we, “when our feet draw near
The river, dark with mortal fear,
"And the night cometh, chill with dew, O Father! let thy light break through!
"So let the hills of doubt divide,
To bridge with faith the sunless tide!
"So let the eyes that fail on earth On thy eternal hills look forth!
"And in thy beckoning angels know The dear ones that we loved below."
THERE'S a gilded vane on the tall church spire,
Which glows by day like a hand of fire.
When slowly fades the lingering light,
And the setting sun has said good-night
To roof, and turret, and window-pane,
He lingers a moment and kisses the vane;
And at morn, when the town in shadow lies,
It catches the flush of the eastern skies,
And it glistens and gleams in the first bright ray
That heralds the dawn of hastening day.
All day over river and field it looks down
Like a silent sentinel guarding the town,
To watch, and to warn, if danger there be,
Threatening the folk by land or sea.
Over land and sea all day it peers,
And its gilded finger points and veers:
This is the way, it seems to say,
From over the hills, and far away,
The wind is coming to town to-day.
Orient, odorous, spice-laden air,
Sweet as the breath of a maiden fair,
And warm as love's first ardent vow;
From orange grove and blossoming bough,
From palms where chattering apes have swung,
And parrots, unlearned in the human tongue,
Their loves in a softer speech have told,
Where humming-birds, flaming in scarlet and gold,
And broad-billed toucan, and cockatoo,
Are brooding and building the whole year through,
From over the hills, and far away,
The south wind is coming to town to-day.
Fresh from fields of golden grain
That have surged and tossed, like a rolling main
Whose peaceful billows come and go,
Till the hand of the reaper lays them low,
Breathing the smoke that he caught as he went,
Over Indian's camp, and miner's tent,
From quiet pools, where the specked trout lies,
And foaming streams where the salmon rise,
From rocky cañon, and prairie wide,
From trackless forest, and mountain side,-
From over the hills, and far away,
The west wind is coming to town to-day.
Wrapped in fog and mist is he,
And his breath is damp with the salt, salt sea,
Dull, leaden clouds are in his train,
And the rain-drops plash on the window-pane;
From sandy beach, and wreck-strewn shore,
From the troubled ocean where tempests roar,
And laboring ships beat on their way,
With bending masts that creak and sway,
Where the stormy petrel flies skimming past,
And the sea-gull screams as he breasts the blast,-
From over the hills, and far away,
The east wind is coming to town to-day.
Cold and chill as the hand of death,
The bright flowers drooped as they felt his breath; He told his tale to the rain-cloud's ear,
And it paled, and whitened to snow with fear;
The clambering vine he roughly wooed,
And it blushes and faints at a touch so rude;
From frozen fields, and a land of snow,
From the ice-built hut of the Esquimaux,
Where the threatening bergs the secret keep
Of an unplowed ocean, an unknown deep,—
From over the hills, and far away,
The north wind is coming to town to-day.
So all day long the vane looks down
On the roofs of the quaint, old-fashioned town;
So all day long it shifts and veers,
And north, south, east and west it peers:
This is the way, it seems to say,
From over the hills, and far away,
The wind is coming to town to-day.
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