THE SUNBEAM’S WOOING.
A fickle sunbeam fell in love
With a little flower;
He scattered sunshine in her path,
And tarried in her bower.
The little flower returned his love,
Her heart was filled with pride
To be the chosen flower of love;
To be the sun-god’s bride.
For bridal robe on wedding day
She chose her richest gown,
And donned a veil of sunshine bright,
And dew-drops for her crown.
Then up the aisle of sunbeams swept,
A queen of beauty she.
The sunbeam never brighter was.
In gorgeous dress was he.
Most proud he was of his fair bride,
So beautiful, and pure;
And thought, as he had found his mate,
His love would aye endure.
But sunbeams are not always true.
In glancing round one day,
He saw another little flower,
And by her wished to stay.
His chosen bride deprived of love,
Soon faded, withered, died.
A poor forsaken flower of earth
For love now vainly cried.
Alas for her! His love had cooled;
He hid behind a cloud.
He hid his face from his first love
Her bridal veil was shroud.
THE PROGRESSION OF THE ROSE.
The rose, when born, was purest white,
And of her beauty never thought.
The sun began to smile on her,
Then a great change in her was wrought.
The sun looked down admiringly.
She of her beauty ’gan to think;
Some one in passing, gave her praise,
And she then blushed a rosy pink.
The moss-rose next sprang into life,
With beauty rare, and fragrance sweet.
So modest was this little rose,
The public gaze she feared to meet.
She was so timid, and so shy,
She hid her face in veil of green;
It was a crown of beauty rare,
More beautiful had never queen.
She longed though for companionship.
She wished full oft to tell her woes.
So chose a mate among the flowers,
And then became a bridal rose.
She now ambitious was to rise,
And with disdain looked on the earth;
She then sent many tendrils out,
And then the climbing rose had birth.
She now was filled with greatest pride,
And struggled hard to reach the skies,
But Nature sent her edict forth
That she no higher e’er should rise.
The rose with anger now was filled,
For glancing down upon her bed,
She saw a worm coiled ’mong her roots,
And then she turned an angry red.
And now was born the bright red rose,
And though its beauty came from hate.
No one disputes its right to reign
A royal queen in regal state.
ALL LIFE HATH SOUL.
The running brook is never straight;
A pebble oft will change its course;
A tiny twig, a little sand
Is oft to it sufficient force
To send it dancing on its way
To reach its home, the sparkling sea.
So with our lives, from birth to death,
We’re struggling ever to be free.
A little word, a little thought
Will change our course, will change our way.
For life doth run in devious paths,
E’en tiny twig it must obey.
Alas! Our soul wings have been bound,
Or we would soar beyond the clouds;
And know the destiny of man,
And why a pall his life enshrouds.
We’re reaching up to even God.—
For we would know life’s meaning now;
Free from the shard that binds our thoughts,
And if with soul, God doth endow
The lower animals as we.
And if all life hath mind, hath soul?
Whatever God hath made, hath life,
And mind doth ever life control.
All living things; the trees, the flowers,
The ocean, mountain, and the sea;
The pebbles on the ocean beach,
And also grass upon the lea.—
We are as sand upon Life’s hill,
And but as grass, we live and grow,
“Tomorrow in the oven cast;”
For Death each day the grass doth mow.
IT MATTERS NOT.
What matters it what we may think,
Or what is our belief;
’Tis worthless straw thrashed o’er and o’er,
No wheat is in the sheaf.
’Tis what we are, ’tis what we do
That makes of life a song.
We may believe that black is white,
And though we are quite wrong:
It matters little to the world;
For we are as a drop
Of water in Life’s ocean broad;
Life’s tide will never stop
To see if we are in our place,
Or what we mean to do;
It comes, and goes without our help,
Would not our death e’en rue.
We are of little consequence,
Although perhaps we think
The world would be a barren waste,
If we perchance should sink
Beneath the waves of Life’s great sea.
Or on its shores be tossed.
But not a ripple would there be
E’en though our lives were lost.
The world would e’er go on the same.
Life’s tides would come and go;
Regardless of our happiness,
Regardless of our woe.
And yet we have our little place,
That little place is ours.
None other could our life work do,
Nor pluck for us Life’s flowers.
“WHAT IS MAN THAT THOU ART MINDFUL OF HIM?”
O man with all thy knowledge,
Dost know what brought thee here?
Dost know the law of living?
To die is not more drear
Than living on uncertain
Of what the future state.
Is death annihilation?
Is it to be our fate?
O th’ myst’ry of our coming!
From what were we evolved?
O th’ myst’ry of our going!
Will it be ever solved?
We’re filled with dark forebodings,
We know not what our end.
Is there a power that governs?
If so, we to it bend.
Shall we e’er know the myst’ries,
The problems that we meet
At every stage of living;
With fear we e’er them greet.
What may be in the future?
The present we deplore.
The past hath been a failure,
With shadows e’er before.
An angel heard my questions,
And sorrowed at my fears.
“O know that God is mindful
Of man; though it appears
That man is aye complaining,
Not trusting to the Power
That gave to him existence,
And blessings on him shower.”