I see not a step before me,

As tired of sin as any child
As I tread on another year;

Was ever tired of play,
But the past is still in God's keeping, When evening's hush has folded in

The future his merey shall clear, The noises of the day;
And what looks dark in the distance
May brighten as I draw near.

When just for very weariness

The little one will creep For perhaps the dreaded future

Into the arms that have no joy
Has less bitter than I think;

Like holding him in sleep;
The Lord may sweeten the waters
Before I stoop to drink,

And looking upward to thy face,
Or, if Marah must be Marah,

So gentle, sweet, and strong, He will stand beside its brink.

In all its looks for those who love,

So pitiful of wrong,
It may be he keeps waiting
Till the coming of my feet

I pray

thee turn me not away, Some gift of such rare blessedness, For, sinful though I be, Some joy so strangely sweet,

Thou knowest everything I need, That my lips shall only tremble

And all my need of thee. With the thanks they cannot speak.

And yet the spirit in my heart O restful, blissful ignorance !

Says, Wherefore should I pray "T is blessed not to know,

That thou shouldst seek me with thylovo, It holds me in those mighty arms

Since thou dost seek alway;
Which will not let me go,
And hushes my soul to rest

And dost not even wait until
On the bosom which loves me so!

I urge my steps to thee;

But in the darkness of my life
So I go on not knowing;

Art coining still to me?
I would not if I might;
I would rather walk in the dark with I pray not, then, because I would ;

I pray because I must;
Than go alone in the light;

There is no meaning in my prayer I would rather walk with Him by faith, But thankfulness and trust. Than walk alone by sight.

I would not have thee otherwise My heart shrinks back from trials

Than what thou ever art:
Which the future may disclose, Be still thyself, and then I know
Yet I never had a sorrow

We cannot live apart.
But what the dear Lord chose ;
So I send the coming tears back, But still thy love will beckon me,
With the whispered word,

And still thy strength will come,

In many ways to bear me up

And bring me to my home.
And thou wilt hear the thought I mean,

And not the words I say ;
JOHN W. CHADWICK, Wilt hear the thanks among the words

That only seem to pray ;
[U. S. A.]

As if thou wert not always good,

As if thy loving care

Could ever miss me in the midst
O LOVE DIVINE, of all that is

Of this thy temple fair.
The sweetest still and best,
Fain would I come and rest to-night For, if I ever doubted thee,
Upon thy tender breast;

How could I any more!

6. HE

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And the great sky, the royal heaven | There came no murmur from the streams, above,

Though nigh flowed Leither, Tweed, Darkens with storms or melts in hues and Quair.

of love;
While far remote,

The days hold on their wonted pace, Just where the sunlight smites the

And men to court and camp repair, woods with fire,

Their part to fill, of good or ill,
Wakens the multitudinous sylvan While women keep the House of Quair.

Their innocent love's desire

And one is clad in widow's weeds,

And one is maiden-like and fair, Poured in a rill of song from each harmonious throat.

And day by day they seek the paths

About the lonely fields of Quair. My walls are crumbling, but immortal looks

To see the trout leap in the streams, Smile on me here from faces of rare The maiden loves in pensive dreams

The summer clouds reflected there, books: Shakespeare consoles

To hang o'er silver Tweed and Quair. My heart with true philosophies; a balm Within, in pall-black velvet clad, of spiritual dews from humbler song

Sits stately in her oaken chair --
or psalm

A stately dame of ancient name-
Fills me with tender calm,

The mother of the House of Quair. Or through hushed heavens of soul Milton's deep thunder rolls !

Her daughter broiders by her side, And more than all, o'er shattered and listens to her frequent plaint,

With heavy drooping golden hair, wrecks of Fate,

“Ill fare the brides that come to Quail, The relics of a happier time and state, My nobler life

“For more than one hath lived in pine, Shines on unquenched! O deathless And more than one hath died of care love that lies

And more than one hath sorely sinned, In the clear midnight of those passion Left lonely in the House of Quair.

ate eyes!

Joy waneth! Fortune flies! “Alas! and ere thy father died What then? Thou still art here, soul of I had not in his heart a share, my soul, my Wife!

And now -- may God forfend her ill

Thy brother brings his bride to Quair.” She came; they kissed her in the hall,

They kissed her on the winding stair,

They led her to the chamber high,

The fairest in the House of Quair.

They bade her from the window look, BALLAD OF THE BRIDES OF QUAIR. And mark the scene how passing fair,

Among whose ways the quiet days A STILLNESS crept about the house, Would linger o'er the wife of Quair.

At evenfall, in noontide glare; Upon the silent hills looked forth “'T is fair,” she said on looking forth, The many-windowed House of Quair. “But what although ’t were bleak and

bareThe peacock on the terrace screamed ; She looked the love she did not speak,

Browsed on the lawn the timid hare; And broke the ancient curse of Quair. The great trees grew i' the avenue, Calm by the sheltered House of Quair. “Where'er he dwells, where'er he goes,

His dangers and his toils I share." The pool was still ; around its brim What need be said, --- she was not one The alders sickened all the air;

of the ill-fated brides of Quair.




Still there's a sense of blossoms yet un,


In the sweet airs of morn ; (U. S. A.)

One almost looks to see the very street

Grow purple at his feet. SPRING IN CAROLINA. Spring, with that nameless pathos in the At times a fragrant breeze comes floating air

by, Which dwells with all things fair,

And brings, you know not why, Spring, with her golden suns and silver A feeling as when eager crowds await rain,

Before a palace gate Is with us once again.

Some wondrous pageant; and you scarce

would start, Out in the lonely woods the jasmine burns If from a beech's heart, Its fragrant lamps, and turns

A blue-eyed Dryad, stepping forth, should Into a royal court with green festoons

say, The banks of dark lagoons.

“Behold me! I am May!”

we find

In the deep heart of every forest tree
The blood is all aglee,
And there's a look about the leafless

As if they dreamed of flowers.

[U. S. A.) Yet still on every side we trace the hand Of Winter in the land,

TACKING SHIP OFF SHORE. Save where the maple reddens on the lawn,

The weather-leech of the topsail shivers, Flushed by the season's dawn;

The bow-lines strain, and the lee-shrouds

slacken, Or where, like those strange semblances The braces are taut, the lithe boom quivers,

And the waves with the coming squall

cloud blacken. That age to childhood bind, The elm puts on, as if in Nature's scorn, Open one point on the weather-bow, The brown of autumn corn.

Is the lighthouse tall on Fire Island

Head? As yet the turf is dark, although you There's a shade of doubt on the captain's know

brow, That, not a span below,

And the pilot watches the heaving lead. A thousand gerins are groping through the gloom,

I stand at the wheel, and with eager eye And soon will burst their tomb.

To sea and to sky and to shore I gaze,

Till the muttered order of " Full and by" In gardens you may note amid the dearth, Is suddenly changed for“ Full for stays! The crocus breaking earth; And near the snowdrop's tender white The ship bends lower before the breeze, and green,

As her broadside fair to the blast shelays, The violet in its screen.

And she swifter springs to the rising seas,

As the pilot calls, “ Stand by for stays.'" But many gleams and shadows need must pass

It is silence all, as each in his place, Along the budding grass,

With the gathered coil in his hardened And weeks go by, before the enamored hands, South

By tack and bowline, by sheet and brace, Shall kiss the rose's mouth.

Waiting the watchword impatient stands.

And the light on Fire Island Head draws | What matters the reef, or the rain, or the near,

squall? As, trumpet-winged, the pilot's shout I steady the helm for the open sea; From his post on the bowsprit's heel I The first mate clamors, “Belay there, hear,

all !" With the welcome call of, Ready! And the captain's breath once more comes About!"


sca ;


And so off shore let the good ship fly; No time to spare! It is touch and go; And the captain growls, “ Down, helm! In my fo'castle bunk, in a jacket dry;

Little care 1 how the gusts may blow, hard down! As my weight on the whirling spokes 1 Eight bells have struck, and my watch is

below. throw, While heaven grows black with the stormcloud's frown.

HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD. High o'er the knight-heads flies the spray, As we meet the shock of the plunging

(v. S. A.] And my shoulder stiff to the wheel I lay,

HEREAFTER. As I answer,

Ay, ay, sir! Ha-a-rd a lee!"

LOVE, when all these years are silent,

vanished quite and laid to rest, With the swerving leap of a startled steed When you and I are sleeping, folded The ship flies fast in the eye of the wind, breathless breast to breast, The dangerous shoals on the lee recede, When no morrow is before us, and the And the headland white we have left long grass tosses o’er us, behind.

And our grave remains forgotten, or by

alien footsteps pressed, The topsails flutter, the jibs collapse, And belly and tug at the groaning cleats; Still that love of ours will linger, that The spanker slats, and the mainsail flaps ; great love enrich the earth, And thunders the order, Tacks and Sunshine in the heavenly azure, breezes sheets."

blowing joyous mirth ;

Fragrance fanning off from flowers, Mid the rattle of blocks and the tramp Sparkle of the spicy wood-fires round the

melody of summer showers, Hisses the rain of the rushing squall:

happy autumn hearth. The sails are aback from clew to clew, And now is the moment for, "Mainsail

, That 's our love. But you and I, dear, haul!"

- shall we linger with it yet, Mingled in one dewdrop, tangled in one

sunbeam's golden net, And the heavy yards, like a baby's toy, On the violet's purple bosom, I the By fifty strong arms are swiftly swung : sheen, but you the blossom, She holds her way, and I look with joy Stream on sunset winds and be the haze Forthe first white spray o'er the bulwarks with which some hill is wet? tlung

Or, beloved, -- if ascending, - when we Let go, and haul!" 'Tis the last com

have endowed the world mand,

With the best bloom of our being, whither And the head-sails fill to the blast once will our way be whirled,

Through what vast and starry spaces, Astern and to leeward lies the land,

toward what awful holy places, With its breakers white on the shingly With a white light on our faces, spirit shore.


over spirit furled ?

of the crew,


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