THE RAIN-DROP.
BY MISS E. W. BARNES.
It quivered on a bended spray—
A rain-drop, bright and clear—
Though beautiful, it waked sad thoughts,
'Twas so like sorrow's tear.
And on its crystal surface lay
Reflected, calm as heaven,
The glories of the summer sky,
With purple tints of even;
And earth's transcendent loveliness
Was also on its breast,
As with her dewy smiles she made
The parting sunbeam blest.
I loved the rain-drop, as it hung
So trustingly the while—
The verdant earth, the glowing heaven
Reflected in its smile.
A symbol seemed it to mine eye
Of the loving human heart,
That lives but in the smile of God,
Which earth and heaven impart.
I gazed into its tiny sphere—
In miniature it lay,
A world of beauty, trembling there,
And soon to pass away—
To pass from earth, and leave no trace,
But the memory divine
Of beauty, which, within the heart,
Erects its own pure shrine.
The breeze passed by; it swayed the bough
Where the sweet gem was hung;
But, with tenacious grasp, it still
Fondly and closely clung.
Nor, till with a resistless power
The mighty wind swept by,
Did the frail thing, so beautiful,
In shattered fragments lie.
And thus, though moved by every breeze
That sweeps along our way,
Our hearts still cling to life, and still
The world asserts its sway.
But, like the rain-drop, pure and clear,
That hangs upon the bough,
Oh! soul of mine, give back earth's light,
Reflect its glories, thou!
Give back the summer's rosy tints,
The verdant tree, the flower;
Give back the mountain and the mead,
The summer sun and shower.
But ah! in thy far deeper depths
May heaven reflected lie;
Its holy calm—its voiceless wave,
Serene as yon soft sky.
Unruffled be those silent depths—
Calm, though the tempest lower.
My Saviour! walk thou on the wave,
And let it feel thy power.
Speak to the troubled waters, Peace,
And passion ne'er shall rise,
Nor doubt, nor care, to dim the light
That greets me from the skies.
A PLEA FOR A CHOICE PICTURE.
TO A GENTLEMAN WHO UNDERVALUED IT.
BY MISS L. S. HALL.
Nay, do not say my favourite is tame—
Her soul lies dreaming in its tranquil depths,
And 'tis not every passive breeze can wake
The slumberer from her peaceful reverie.
The sheltering wings of Faith, and Hope, and Love
Are folded round the temple of her heart,
Perpetual guardians of its altar place;
And they, of wingéd feet, who go and come,
Must pass beneath their penetrating gaze;
Unhallowed sentiments may enter not,—
Where these stand sentinels, 'tis hallowed ground.
Speak but a thrilling word, and you shall meet
In those so dreamy eyes, that heed you not,
The shadow of your own ecstatic thoughts,—
Those lips, so passive now, shall echo back
The earnest tones of your own eloquence.
But do not measure her internal strength
By any standard of man's magnitude.
Nor think to fathom what no eye can reach,—
She hath a woman's heart, and it hath been
The constant struggle of her watchful life,
To curb her will, and bend her energies,
And train her nature for her destiny;
And conscious that she hath a marshalled host,
Obedient to the mandates of her soul,
She wears a placid brow, and dreads no foe.
A thoughtless word upon affection's tongue,
A look of coldness from a cherished friend,
A hardened thought, that wrongs her of her due,
And makes her seem what she would scorn to be,
Imputing motives she would blush to own,—
Her spirit, safe from storms and rude alarms,
Is too susceptible to wounds like these;
But that calm face will ne'er reveal to thee,
Nay, from her dearest friends she'll most conceal,
The bitter anguish they can measure not.
Then do not say her tranquil brow is tame.
A passive soul hath ne'er the dignity
That sits, a queen, upon her passive face;
'Tis nobler far to rule the spirit realm,
Than gather laurels from the battle-field.