The oriole, flitting stoops and sips Whether the oriole stops and thinks, Or whether he simply stoops and drinks, This who can tell? We marvel whither this life-stream tends, A kiss is all ;-a sip and a song, JAMES HERBERT MORSE. CONSTANCY. I AM but constant as yon constant rocks, That yield no piteous span, receive no score, Though ships make thither, waves deal shocks on shocks. I am but constant as the sea, whose flocks, How wide soe'er they wander, evermore Morning and evening crowd the vacant shore, As beck of her who smiles through silvery locks; Constant, but as the oak now bare and dry, To greet the coming springtime, as before. EDITH M. THOMAS. BEST. MOTHER, I see with your nursery light, To their sweet rest; Christ, the Good Shepherd, carries mine to-night, And that is best. I cannot help tears, when I see them twine But the Saviour's is purer than yours or mine, You tremble each hour because your arms My darlings are safe, out of reach of harms, You know, over yours may hang even now Mine in God's gardens run to and fro, You know that of yours, your feeblest one Unloved, unblest; Mine are cherished of saints around God's throne, And that is best. You must dread for yours the crime that sears, And unconfessed; Mine entered spotless on eternal years, But grief is selfish; I cannot see But I know that, as well as for them, for me God did the best! HELEN HUNT JACKSON. TO-MORROW'S NEWS. THERE will be news to-morrow: Maybe; hard, and sharp, and cutting; Off a breath of sweetness; Life's completeness Shattering further: Clashing hard on one another Hope and faith; but God will choose The wisest news. If I to-night, Were given to write, By my own will, the words to shape Of my light heart be bound. God ordereth things. Shape Thou my destiny, Or, let me lie quite still Within Thy hand. The news Will be as God shall choose. GEORGE KRingle. IN REVERIE. IN the west, the weary Day Folds its amber wings and dies; Rest more precious than a sleep, Silence sweeter than a dream,— Idle waif on idle stream. In the rippling trees I hear Flowing waves and dipping oars ; Seem to steal from fading shores. Fainter, fainter, fainter still, By no breath of passion crossed, Out to sea-and all is lost. HARRIET MCEWEN KIMBall. KNOWING. ONE summer day, to a young child I said, "Write to thy mother, boy." With earnest face, And laboring fingers all unused to trace The mystic characters, he bent his head (That should have danced amid the flowers instead) Over the blurred page for a half-hour's space; Then with a sigh that burdened all the place Cried, "Mamma knows!" and out to sunshine sped. O soul of mine, when tasks are hard and long, And life so crowds thee with its stress and strain That thou, half fainting, art too tired to pray, Drink thou this wine of blessing and be strong! God knows! What though the lips be dumb with pain, Or the pen drops? He knows what thou wouldst say. JULIA C. R. DORR. COUNSEL. If thou shouldst bid thy friend farewell, -But for one night though that farewell should be Press thou his hand in thine; how canst thou tell How far from thee |