Sweet primroses! I hold you dear,
That heedless are of me;
You have no ears, my words to hear,
No eyes, my gaze to see.
You love the rain, that swells each bud;
The sun, that bids you blow;
The breeze, that calms your gentle blood,
And sways you to and fro.
But I am least of all to you;
For what have I to give?
What can I add of pleasure new
To your one joy, — to live?
And yet the sunshine finds no bliss,
To smile, and win your smiles;
The breeze is careless of the kiss,
It takes or gives by whiles.
While I, who love, must yearn in vain,
For all I take of you,
To give to you such joy again,
As gives one drop of dew.
And you, fair flowers of joy and light,
Blessed above all remain,
To give such delicate delight,
And take no gift again!
A RHYME OF ONE.
You sleep upon your mother's breast,
Your race begun,
A welcome, long a wish'd-for guest,
Whose age is One.
A baby-boy, you wonder why
You cannot run;
You try to talk — how hard you try! —
You're only One.
Ere long you won't be such a dunce;
You'll eat your bun,
And fly your kite, like folk, who once
Were only One.
You'll rhyme, and woo, and fight, and joke,
Perhaps you'll pun;
Such feats are never done by folk
Before they're One.
Some day, too, you may have your joy,
And envy none;
Yes, you, yourself, may own a boy
Who isn't One.
He'll dance, and laugh, and crow, he'll do
As you have done:
(You crown a happy home, tho' you
Are only One.)
But when he's grown shall you be here
To share his fun,
And talk of days when he (the dear!)
Was hardly One?
Dear child, 'tis your poor lot to be
My little son;
I'm glad, though I am old, you see, —
While you are One.
If there should come a time, as well there may,
When sudden tribulation smites thine heart,
And thou dost come to me for help, and stay,
And comfort — how shall I perform my part?
How shall I make my heart a resting-place,
A shelter safe for thee when terrors smite?
How shall I bring the sunshine to thy face,
And dry thy tears in bitter woe's despite?
How shall I win the strength to keep my voice
Steady and firm, although I hear thy sobs?
How shall I bid thy fainting soul rejoice,
Nor mar the counsel by mine own heart-throbs?
Love, my love teaches me a certain way,
So, if thy dark hour come, I am thy stay.
I must live higher, nearer to the reach
Of angels in their blessed trustfulness,
Learn their unselfishness, ere I can teach
Content to thee whom I would greatly bless.
Ah me! what woe were mine if thou shouldst come,
Troubled, but trusting, unto me for aid,
And I should meet thee powerless and dumb,
Willing to help thee, but confused, afraid!
It shall not happen thus, for I will rise,
God helping me, to higher life, and gain
Courage and strength to give thee counsel wise,
And deeper love to bless thee in thy pain.
Fear not, dear love, thy trial hour shall be
The dearest bond between my heart and thee.
All The Year Round.
DAWN IN THE MOUNTAINS OF THE
That peerless moment ere the sun is born,
How fresh the breeze as he the horizon nears,
The trill of waking birds, the distant horn,
A warning voice among these mountaineers.
The violet glow upon the mountain crest,
Where vagrant foot of man has seldom trod
The golden glory broadening in the east,
Proclaims the advent of the type of God.
As royally he sails into the blue,
A friendly cedar veils his glowing face
And spares the flowers for a little space;
A little longer to imbibe the dew.
The bugle's shrill réveillée from the height
Recalls the drowsy soldier to the light.