| O blessed angel of the All-bounteous King, Where dost thou stay so long? Our sad hearts pine, Our spirits faint, for thee. Our weary eyes Scan all the blue expanse, where not a cloud Floats low to rest our vision. In vain we turn Or East or West, no vap'rous haze, nor view Of distant panorama, wins our souls To other worlds. All, all is hard and scant. Thy brother Spring is come. His favourite haunts the sheltering woods betray— The woods that, dark and cheerless yet, call thee. Tender hepaticas peep forth, and mottled leaves Of yellow dog's tooth vie with curly fronds Of feathery fern, in strewing o'er his path; The dielytra puts her necklace on, Of pearly pendants, topaz-tipped or rose. Gray buds are on the orchard trees, and grass Grows up in single blades and braves the sun. But thou!—O, where art thou, sweet early Rain, That with thy free libations fill'st our cup? The contemplative blue-bird pipes his note From off the ridge cap, but can find no spot Fit for his nest. The red-breast on the fence Explores the pasture with his piercing eye, And visits oft the bushes by the stream, But takes no mate. For why? No leaves or tuft Are there to hide a home. Oh what is earth Without a home? On the dry garden bed, [!-- Begin Page 111 --] The sparrow—the little immigrant bird— Hops quick, and looks askance, And pecks, and chirps, asking for kindly crumbs— Just two or three to feed his little mate: Then, on return from some small cunning nook Where he has hidden her, he mounts the wires, Or garden fence, and sings a happy song Of home, and other days. A-missing thee The husbandman goes forth with faltering step And dull sad eye; his sweltering team pulls hard The lab'ring plough, but the dry earth falls back As dead, and gives nor fragrant fume, nor clogs The plough-boy's feet with rich encumb'ring mould. The willows have a little tender green. And swallows cross the creek—the gurgling creek Now fallen to pools—but, disappointed, Dart away so swift, and fly so high We scarce can follow them. Thus all the land Doth mourn for thee. Ah! here thou comest—sweet Rain. Soft, tender Rain! benison of the skies! See now, what transformation in thy touch! Straight all the land is green. The blossoming trees Put on their bridal wreaths, and veil their charms From the too ardent sun, beneath thy gift Of soft diaphanous tissue, pure and white As angel's raiment. Little wood children Deck all the path with flowers. The teeming earth Offers rich gifts. The little choristers Sing ceaseless hymns, and the glad husbandman Adds his diapason. Bright fountains wake And mingle with the swift roulade of streams. The earth is full of music! Thou dost swing Thy fragrant censer high, and dwellers in The dusty city raise their toil-worn heads From desk and bench, and cry "Summer is here!" [!-- Begin Page 112 --] And straight they smell new hay and clover blooms; And see the trout swift-darting in the brooks: And hear the plover whistling in the fields. And little children dream of daisy chains; And pent-up youth thinks of a holiday; A holiday with romps, and cream, and flowers. O, Rain! O, soft, sweet Rain! O liberal Rain! Touch our hard hearts, that we may more become Like that Great Heart, whose almoner art thou. |
[REMONSTRANCE WITH "REMONSTRANCE."
(IN "CANADIAN MONTHLY," APRIL, 1874.)]
| Why now, sweet Alice, though thy numbers ring Like silver bells, methinks their burden wrong. For if 'tis right, then were the hermits right, And all recluses. And He was wrong Who gave to Adam, Eve: and leaned upon The breast of John the loved. So was He wrong To love the gentle home at Bethany. The sisters, and their brother Lazarus. So was He wrong to weep at Lazarus' grave, Pity's hot tears for Sin, and Death, and Woe. And in that awful hour when manhood failed And God forsook, He still was wrong to think With tenderest solicitude and care Upon his mother, and leave her in the charge Of John. And He was wrong who gave us hearts To yearn, and sensibilities to meet Those "clinging tendrils" thou wouldst have us cut. If thou art right, sweet Alice, There were no ties of infancy, or age; Of consanguinity: or noble bond Of wide humanity, or sacred home: For without love,—e'en our poor earthly love,— The world were dead. Love is the silver cord, that, being loosed, The fabric of humanity falls wide In hopeless wrack. Well for us it is That when our nature, hurt, falls, shrieking, down, The Great Physician's hand may raise it up [!-- Begin Page 114 --] And bind the wound. But what mad folly 'twere Did we, like peevish child, beat down the hand, And tear afresh the wound. And this we do When of our morbid selves we idols make, And cry "No sorrow like to mine." O rather should we turn our tenderer hearts— Made gentler by our griefs—to gentle cares For weak Humanity, and, knowing what woe Our sinful nature brings upon itself, With God-like pity love it but the more. |
[THE ABSENT ONES.]
| How I miss their faces! Faces that I love. Where I read the traces Heart and soul approve. Traces of their father Scattered here and there; Here a little gesture, There a twist of hair. Brave and generous Bertie, Sweet and quiet Fred, Tender-hearted Jackie, Various, but true-bred. How I miss their voices Raised in laughter gay; And in loving blessing When they go to pray. Even of their quarrels Miss I now the noise, Angry or disdainful, (What are they but boys?) Shouting in the garden, Spurring on the game, Calling a companion By some favourite name. How I miss the footsteps, Lightsome, loud, or slow; Telling by their echo How the humours go. [!-- Begin Page 116 --] Lagging when they're lazy. Running when they're wild. Leaping when they're gladsome, Walking when they're mild. Footsteps, voices, faces, Where are ye to-night? Father, keep my darlings Ever in Thy sight. |