Bowing then his head, he listened
For an answer to his prayer;
No loud burst of thunder followed,
Not a murmur stirred the air;
But the tuft of moss before him
Opened while he waited yet,
And, from out the rock's hard bosom,
Sprang a tender violet.
"God, I thank thee!" said the prophet,
"Hard of heart, and blind was I,
Looking to the holy mountain
For the gift of prophecy.
Still thou speakest with Thy children—
Freely as in old sublime;
Humbleness and love and patience
Still give empire over time.
Had I trusted in my nature,
And had faith in lowly things,
Thou thyself wouldst then have sought me,
And set free my spirit's wings.
But I looked for signs and wonders
That o'er men should give the sway;
Thirsting to be more than mortal,
I was even less than clay
Ere I entered on my journey,
As I girt my loins to start,
Ran to me my little daughter,
The beloved of my heart.
In her hand she held a flower,
Like to this as like may be,
Which, beside my very threshold,
She had plucked and brought to me.
THE SUNRISE NEVER FAILED US YET.
PON the sadness of the sea
The sunset broods regretfully,
From the far, lonely spaces, slow
Withdraws the wistful after-glow.
So out of life the splendour dies;
So darkens all the happy skies;
So gathers twilight, cold and stern ;-
But overhead the planets burn.
And out the east another day
Shall chase the bitter dark away,
What though our eyes with tears be wet?
The sunrise never failed us yet.
The blush of dawn may yet restore
Our light, and hope, and joy once more.
Sad soul, take comfort, nor forget
The sunrise never failed us yet.
F all amusements for the mind,
From logic down to fishing,
There isn't one that you can find
So very cheap as "wishing."
A very choice diversion, too,
If we but rightly use it,
And not, as we are apt to do,
Pervert it, and abuse it.
I wish-a common wish indeed-
My purse were somewhat fatter,
That I might cheer the child of need,
And not my pride to flatter;
That I might make Oppression reel,
As only gold can make it,
And break the Tyrant's rod of steel,
As only gold can break it.
I wish that Sympathy and Love,
And every human passion,
That has its origin above,
Would come and keep in fashion;
That Scorn, and Jealousy, and Hate,
And every base emotion,
Were buried fifty fathoms deep
Beneath the waves of ocean!
I wish that friends were always true,
And motives always pure;
I wish the good were not so few,
I wish the bad were fewer;
I wish that parsons ne'er forgot
To heed their pious teaching;
I wish that practising was not
So different from preaching!
I wish that modest worth might be
Appraised with truth and candour;
I wish that innocence were free
From treachery and slander;
I wish that men their vows would mind;
That women ne'er were rovers ;
I wish that wives were always kind,
And husbands always lovers!
I wish-in fine-that Joy and Mirth,
And every good Ideal,
May come erewhile, throughout the earth,
To be the glorious Real;
Till God shall every creature bless
With His supremest blessing,
And Hope be lost in Happiness,
And Wishing in Possessing!
THE FIRST SWALLOW.
HE gorse is yellow on the heath,
The banks with speedwell flowers are gay,
The oaks are budding, and, beneath,
The hawthorn soon will bear the wreath-
The silver wreath of May.
The welcome guest of settled spring,
The swallow, too, has come at last;
Just at sunset, when thrushes sing,
saw her dart with rapid wing,
And hailed her as she past.
Come, summer visitant, attach
To my reed roof your nest of clay,
And let my ear your music catch,
Low twittering underneath the thatch
At the grey dawn of day.
URN, gentle hermit of the dale,
And guide my lonely way,
To where yon taper cheers the vale,
With hospitable ray.
For here forlorn and lost I tread,
With fainting steps and slow;
Where wilds, immeasurably spread,
Seem lengthening as I go."
'Forbear, my son," the hermit cries,
"To tempt the dangerous gloom;
For yonder phantom only flies
To lure thee to thy doom.
Here, to the houseless child of want,
My door is open still:
And though my portion is but scant,
I give it with good will.
Then turn to-night, and freely share
Whate'er my cell bestows;
My rushy couch and frugal fare,
My blessing and repose.
No flocks that range the valley free,
To slaughter I condemn;
Taught by that power that pities me
I learn to pity them.
But from the mountain's grassy side,
A guiltless feast I bring-
A scrip, with herbs and fruits supplied, And water from the spring.
Then, Pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego;
All earth-born cares are wrong:
Man wants but little here below,
Nor wants that little long."
Soft as the dew from heaven descends,
His gentle accents fell;
The modest stranger lowly bends,
And follows to the cell.
Far in a wilderness obscure,
The lonely mansion lay;
A refuge to the neighbouring poor,
And strangers led astray.
No stores beneath its humble thatch
Required a master's care;
The wicket, opening with a latch,
Received the harmless pair.
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