Page:Littell's Living Age - Volume 138.pdf/587

OUR CHILDREN.

BY HOPE BEVAN.

O sweet young faces! turning eagerly
To gaze adown the path that you must tread,
And smiling as you count its pleasures o'er,
Green grass beneath and blue sky overhead;
Oh! shall we tell you that the way is long
And weary, and temptation sharp and strong?

O bright young eyes! that see the flowers alone,
Unwitting of the piercing thorns below;
That fearlessly flash back the sunshine's joy,
Nor dread the autumn cloud and winter snow;
Oh! shall we tell you that the falling tears
Will dim your brightness in the coming years?

O brave young hearts! that burn to meet the foe,
And rouse the echoes with your battle-cry,
Fain to be champions of the good and true,
And wave abroad the palms of victory;
Oh! must we warn you that defeat is near,
And bid your courage change to doubt and fear?

We dare not, and we would not. Blessed light
From heaven that shines upon your onward way!
No words of ours shall dim its radiance sweet,
You could not hear our warning voice today.
Each soul God sends to earth must pass through pain
And darkness, and so back to God again.

O darling children! Love may watch and pray,
It cannot save you from life's toils and care,
And hearts would sink but that we have a word
That bids us cast them all on One to bear.
We take our treasures to the strong, true Friend;
He knows the way, the dangers, and the end.

Sunday Magazine.

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AFTER THE STORM.

Fair rises the morning with rosy beams
Cresting the wave-tips with golden gleams.
The tempest has lulled, as a child at rest
Sobbing to sleep on its mother's breast.
Birds with their snow-white plumage fair
Skim o'er the waters, and sport in the air.
The young waves are laughing along the shore,
Tossing the tangled weeds o'er and o'er,
Caressing the rocks in wild, glad glee,
Triumphant in boundless liberty;
With joy and mirth they sparkle and quiver —
Theirs is not the sound of death's dark river —
The voices of merry children at play:
The fisher boy's song, as he steers his way
O'er the dancing waves in the sunny glow,
Breathes not an echo of dark, wild woe!

Then is it a dream of the silent night
Dispelled forever at morning light,
That here was fought a terrible strife
'Twixt angry billows and fainting life?
Did no one hear the cries of despair
Borne on the moaning midnight air?
None see the dim forms so wildly strain
To grasp their hold of life again?

0 sunlit ocean! and can it be
They fought their agony even with thee?
And canst thou laugh, and murmur and play
O'er golden youth and manhood grey?
I may not help, but weep awhile,
And turn a moment away from thy smile.
Nought does the sorrowful story unfold,
Ocean alone does the secret hold!
Life plays again on the busy shore,
Smoothly the waters ripple once more,
But they smile for the living, and breathe not the tale
Of the sea-bound home of those sleepers pale.

Golden Hours.M.

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LONG AFTER.

Does he remember that fair evening plucked
Out of the very heart of gracious June:
We walked through silent lanes and meadows bathed
In the white glory of the summer moon?

The cottage, half in shadow, where the scent
Of honeysuckle grew so subtly sweet,
And how the watch-dog bayed, and suddenly
The crickets loudly chirped beneath our feet?

Just where the little trembling stream
Splashed its white feathers o'er the rocky ledge,
He stopped to pull me roses, wild and sweet,
Trailing in thorny garlands from the hedge.

And there we lost the quiet evening's peace,
With angry eyes averted homeward came;
Yet though I was so troubled, did he know
I closely clasped his roses all the same?

And when our good-night came, I could not bear
In such unkind displeasure thus to part;
And longing so for peace, I nearer drew
And laid my drooping flowers upon his heart.

And as those roses on that summer eve
Told what my lips could never, never say,
Forth from the silence and the pain of years
My heart goes out and claims his heart today.

Good Words.C. Brooke.