200 THE ROSE BY THE WAYSIDE.

'Tis not the wide phylactery,

Nor stubborn fast, nor stated prayers,
That makes us saints; we judge the tree
By what it bears.

And when a man can live apart
From works, on theologic trust,
I know the blood about his heart
Is dry as dust.

THE ROSE BY THE WAYSIDE.

D. A. DROWN.

A LITTLE rose bloomed in the way
In which I roamed one sunny day;
It looked so fair,

I wondered why alone it grew,
And why so long concealed from view
While nestling there.

Its blushing petals, wide outspread,
A richer perfume quickly shed,
Dripping with dew,

Which seemed in whispered tones to say,
As soon I put the thorns away,

"I bloomed for you.

"The sunshine kissed my lips at morn,

Soon as I peeped to hail the dawn,
With blushes red;

THE ROSE BY THE WAYSIDE. 201

I was content through day to day;
No roaming footsteps passed this way
By beauty led.”

I claimed the treasure, pure and fair,
As all mine own; with special care
I kept it long;

I said sweet sayings o'er and o’er:
But one bright morn it spoke no more;
Its leaves were gone.

Thus in the varied paths of life,
Amid its cares, its toils, its strife,

We often roam;

Then some sweet memories charm us here,
Some holy thoughts dispel all fear,
And guide us home.

And when earth's charms, like withered flowers, Amid affliction's darkest hours

No longer cheer,

A holy peace, a quiet joy,

Which unbelief can ne'er destroy,
Brings Heaven near.

202

LOVE AND REASON.

LOVE AND REASON.

MOORE.

"TWAS in the summer time so sweet,
When hearts and flowers are both in season,
That who, of all the world, should meet,
One early dawn, but Love and Reason!

Love told his dream of yesternight,

While Reason talked about the weather;
The morn, in sooth, was fair and bright,
And on they took their way together.

The boy in many a gambol flew,

While Reason, like a Juno, stalked,
And from her portly figure threw
A lengthened shadow as she walked.

No wonder Love, as on they passed,
Should find that sunny morning chill;
For still the shadow Reason cast

Fell on the boy, and cooled him still.

In vain he tried his wings to warm,
Or find a pathway not so dim,
For still the maid's gigantic form

Would pass between the sun and him!

"This must not be," said little Love -
"The sun was made for more than you."

So, turning through a myrtle grove,

He bade the portly nymph adieu.

LOVE AND REASON.

Now gladly roves the laughing boy

O'er many a mead, by many a stream, In every breeze inhaling joy,

And drinking bliss in every beam.

From all the gardens, all the bowers,

He culled the many sweets they shaded, And ate the fruits, and smelled the flowers, Till taste was gone and odor faded.

But now the sun, in pomp of noon,
Looked blazing o'er the parchéd plains;
Alas! the boy grew languid soon,

And fever thrilled through all his veins;

The dew forsook his baby brow,

No more with vivid bloom he smiled;
O, where was tranquil Reason now,
To cast her shadow o'er the child?

Beneath a green and aged palm,

His foot, at length, for shelter turning,

He saw the nymph reclining calm,

With brow as cool as his was burning.

"O, take me to that bosom cold,"
In murmurs at her feet he said;
And Reason oped her garment's fold,
And flung it round his fevered head.

He felt her bosom's icy touch,

And soon it lulled his pulse to rest; For, ah! the chill was quite too much,

And Love expired on Reason's breast.,

203

204

THE BRIDE'S FAREWELL.

THE BRIDE'S FAREWELL.

MRS. HEMANS.

WHY do I weep? to leave the vine
Whose clusters o'er me bend, -
The myrtle yet, O call it mine,
The flowers I loved to tend.

A thousand thoughts of all things dear
Like shadows o'er me sweep,
To leave my sunny childhood here;
O, therefore let me weep.

I leave thee, sister; we have played
Through many a joyous hour,

Where the silvery green of the olive shade
Hung dim o'er fount and bower;
Yes, thou and I, by stream, by shore,
In song, in prayer, in sleep,
Have been as we may be no more;
Kind sister, let me weep.

I leave thee, father; eve's bright moon

Must now light other feet,

With the gathered grapes, and the lyre in tune,

Thy homeward step to greet,

Thou in whose voice, to bless thy child,

Rang tones of love so deep,

Whose eye o'er all my youth hath smiled,
I leave thee; let me weep.