"SAINT EMILY."
By E. F. Frye.
WHEN grass grows green in spring-time
And trees are budding gay,
When the breath of bursting lilacs
Makes sweet the air of May,
When cowslips fringe the brooksides,
And violets gem the dells,
And tremble mid the grasses
The wind-flower's slender bells,
When the fragrant lily rises
From its sheltering sheath of green,
In the city's narrow alleys
Saint Emily is seen.
A modest little maiden,
She walks secure from harm;
A basket, flower-laden,
Swings lightly on her arm,
And right and left she scatters,
Alike to bad and good,
The beauties of the garden,
The treasures of the wood.
When summer days drag slowly,
In languor, heat, and pain,
To those who lie in hospital,
Never to rise again,
Dreaming, with fevered longing,
Of shady country homes,
Where roses hang in clusters,
And honeysuckle blooms,
From cot to cot so softly
Moves dear Saint Emily;
And here a rose she proffers,
And there a bud lays she.
The close abode of sickness
She fills with fragrant bloom;
Her gentle presence passes
Like music through the room
And many a moaning sufferer
Hushes his sad complaint,
And follows with his weary eyes
The movements of this saint.
When autumn paints the woodlands
With scarlet and with gold,
When the blue gentian's lids unclose
In frosty meadows cold,
From the little troop of children
That crowd some Orphan Home
The joyous shout arises,
"Saint Emily has come!"
And round her close they gather,
An eager little band,
While from the well-stored basket
She fills each outstretched hand
With purple hillside asters,
And wondrous golden-rod,
And all the lingering flowers that love
To dress the autumn sod;
And pallid cheeks flush rosy,
And heavy eyes grow bright,
And little hearts forlorn and lone,
Stir with a deep delight.
And when the woods are naked,
And flowers no longer blow,
When the green nooks they love so well
Are buried in the snow,
Not quite unknown that presence
To children sick in bed,
Bearing bright wreaths of autumn leaves,
And strings of berries red.
A heaven-sent mission, surely,
To cheer the sick and poor
With bounties that the bounteous God
Has strewn beside our door—
To gladden little children,
To comfort dying hours,
To bear to wretched hearts and homes
The gospel of the flowers.
What marvel if glad blessings
Surround Saint Emily!
What marvel if some loving eyes
In her an angel see!—
And, too, what marvel if the thought
Is borne to me and thee,
That many a kindly boy and girl
As sweet a saint might be.
