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322
WHEN ROSES BLOW, ETC.


WHEN ROSES BLOW.

It was the time when roses blow,
The sweetest time in all the year;
'Twas when the sun was red and low,
And when the skies were warm and clear.
I met a maiden by the gate
That led into a field of corn;
To see her I was proud to wait.
For fairer girl was never born.

I saw a blush upon each cheek,
A bashful gleam was in her eye;
I'd yearned to see her, hear her speak,
Soon as the day began to die.
For love its secret longs to hide
Beneath green leaves when day's no more
And when its faltering words have died,
It turns its idol to adore.

We lingered long beside the gate.
And all our love was slowly told —
Until the happy hours grew late
And stars appeared like drops of gold.
Rare odours seemed with us to stay,
Faint music reached us from a rill;
We loved the night more than the day.
So lone, so beautiful, and still!

Night is the time for love to spring
Beneath a blue and star-lit sky;
When every zephyr seems to ring
With music as it wantons by.
Then hearts in union gladly beat.
And eyes with rarest brightness glow;
For there's no other time so sweet
For love, as that when roses blow!

H.
Graphic.




LOVE AND DEATH.

When the end comes, and we must say good-bye
And I am going to the quiet land;
And sitting in some loved place hand in hand.
For the last time together, you and I,
We watch the winds blow, and the sunlight lie
Above the spaces of our garden home.
Soft by the washing of the western foam.
Where we have lived and loved in days past by:
We must not weep, my darling, or upbraid
The quiet death who comes to part us twain;
But know that parting would not be such pain
Had not our love a perfect flower been made.
And we shall find it in God's garden laid
On that sweet day wherein we meet again.

Argosy.




IN THE LANE.

The daisies star the summer grass;
And, with the dancing leaves at play,
Adown this lane the breezes pass,
In pleasant music, all the day.

I love the sweet, sequestered place,
The gracious roof of gold and green.
Where arching branches interlace,
With glimpses of the sky between.

I see the drooping roses trail
From tangled hedgerows to the ground;
I hear the chanting swell and fail.
Of fond love-lyrics, all around.

And here, adown the shady walk.
In days divine now passed away.
Entranced, I listed to the talk.
That ever held my heart in sway.

In days when birds began to sing,
Because they found the earth was fair;
In halcyon days of happy spring,
None aught but us our joys to share.

But pleasure past is present pain;
The petals of the rose are shed;
The piercing thorns alone remain;
I live to sorrow for the dead.

Chambers' Journal.




SNOWDROPS.

O snowdrops, do not rise,
Because the happy eyes
That loved you once, now underneath you lie;
Let not your buds appear,
Each seems a frozen tear,
That never drops, and yet is never dry.

Such useless tears they seem.
As in a heavy dream,
We pour about our griefs to make them grow;
When all the lights are pale,
And all the cruses fail.
And all the flowers are underneath the snow.

M. B. Smedley.




THE POET'S LAST SONG.

FROM THE DANISH OF HANS ANDERSEN.

Like to the leaf which falleth from the tree,
O God, such only is my earthly life.
Lord, I am ready when Thou callest me.
Lo! Thou canst see my heart's most bitter strife —
'Tis Thou alone canst know the load of sin.
Which this my aching breast doth hold within.

Shorten the pains of death, shake off my fear,
Give me the courage of a trusting child.
Father of Love, I fain would see Thee near.
In pity judge each thought and act defiled —
Mercy, I cry! dear Lord, Thy will be done,
Save me I pray, through Jesus Christ Thy Son.

A.W.
Temple Bar.