The Old Ravine.

JUST back of my dear old home it rolled,

With many a crumpled and rocky fold,

Hedged ’round with cherry and locust trees

Their strong arms toyed with the breeze—

Like knights arrayed for march or fight

They stood with waving plumes of white.

And O! that valley’s inmost room

Was a mass of ivy and violet bloom;

The larkspur shook from its purple crest

A dew-drop down on the lily’s breast;

The blue-bell dozed on the rivulet’s brink,

And the myrtle leaned o’er the edge to drink.

Even now, as I write, through the open door

I catch a sound of the cataract’s roar,

And see the girls just out from school

Knee-deep in the ravine’s limpid pool;

And the boys, ah, me! how plain can I see

Them stealing the bark from the slippery tree.

The door slams back, it is scarce apart;

With steady eye and fluttering heart,

I watch the girls up the valley turn,

In search of peppermint and fern;

And the boys are waving their caps to me,

As they stand in that ragged and torn old tree.

In some wild way, I never knew how,

I climbed to the swing on that elm tree’s bough;

Was twitt’ring a song as I used to do,

And counting the clouds in the sky’s soft blue,

When the girls came out from the valley’s shade,

And earth into heaven seemed then to fade.

’Twas the Eden of old, and I was a child

(I have thought of it since and often have smiled);

Sitting there in the swing, with the girls at my feet,

And the boys overhead—my joy was complete;

What a mockery, then, to awaken and part

With the happy illusion—how hollow my heart!

Some Day You’ll Wish for Me.
FOR —— ——

SOME day, my darling, when the rose has died,

That on your pathway throws its petals sweet,

When the sharp thorn is springing near your side

And nettles pierce the mould beneath your feet,

You’ll wish for me.

Some day, my darling, when the crystal cup

Of Beauty shattered lies, and spilled its wine;

When Pleasure’s urn denies your lips one sup,

And you drink deep of Disappointment’s brine,

You’ll wish for me.

Some day the wreath will wilt upon your head;

You’ll smell the bud and find a worm within.

Some day, my darling, when your friends have fled,

And strangers mock your frequent tears, ah! then

You’ll wish for me.

Some day, my darling, when Death’s dews fall cold

Upon your brow, you’ll gladly let me come—

When dreams present the shroud that must enfold

Your limbs, and your sweet lips grow chill and dumb,

You’ll wish for me.

You’ll long for him whose hands were oft denied

To pluck a rose lest they the bush pollute—

Yet he would come and stand a slave aside.

To grasp the bramble and the thorn uproot,

If you but wished for him.

He’d kiss your limbs the hidden briar had torn,

And bathe the wounds with Pity’s saddest tear;

He’d close your eyes that ne’er till death had worn

For him one look of love, and at your bier

He’d kneel and pray

For strength to watch you hidden from his sight,

For strength to turn aside and leave you there

Clasped in the arms of everlasting night;

And yet, my darling, not as great despair

He’d feel than now.

To Hallie.
WRITTEN FOR ——

SAD and cheerless stands the homestead

In its grandeur as of old;

’Tis a casket—lost, the jewel;

’Tis a mine without its gold.

Once a sunbeam at the doorway

Gilded room and gladdened hall;

Making life a golden summer,

Full of joy for each and all.

But the sunshine that has vanished

Ne’er can brighten o’er us more,

Though I bow in meek submission

Yet my heart is sad and sore.

I have lost my life’s sweet treasure,

Earth holds nothing dear for me;

“Upward, onward,” be my motto,

Onward, upward, still to thee.

Hallie! be my guarding angel,

Teach my footsteps not to stray;

Spread your sainted wings above me,

Lead me in “the narrow way,”

So that you can come and meet me—

Waft me heavenward on your breast,

“Where the wicked cease from troubling,

And the weary are at rest.”