DANIEL GRAY.

I can remember how the sentence sounded —

66

Help us, O Lord, to pray and not to faint!"

And how the "conquering-and-to-conquer" rounded
The loftier aspirations of the saint.

He had some notions that did not improve him,
He never kissed his children so they say;
And finest scenes and fairest flowers would move him
Less than a horse-shoe picked up in the way.

He had a hearty hatred of oppression,

And righteous words for sin of every kind; Alas, that the transgressor and transgression Were linked so closely in his honest mind.

He could see naught but vanity in beauty,
And naught but weakness in a fond caress,
And pitied men whose views of Christian duty
Allowed indulgence in such foolishness.

Yet there were love and tenderness within him;
And I am told that when his Charley died,
Nor nature's need nor gentle words could win him
From his fond vigils at the sleeper's side.

And when they came to bury little Charley,
They found fresh dew-drops sprinkled in his hair,

And on his breast a rose-bud gathered early,

And guessed, but did not know, who placed it there.

THE THANKLESS LADY.

Honest and faithful, constant in his calling,
Strictly attendant on the means of grace,
Instant in prayer, and fearful most of falling,
Old Daniel Gray was always in his place.

A practical old man, and yet a dreamer,

He thought that in some strange, unlooked-for way His mighty Friend in Heaven, the great Redeemer, Would honor him with wealth some golden day.

This dream he carried in a hopeful spirit
Until in death his patient eye grew dim,
And his Redeemer called him to inherit

The heaven of wealth long garnered up for him.

So if I ever win the home in heaven

For whose sweet rest I humbly hope and pray, In the great company of the forgiven

I shall be sure to find old Daniel Gray.

J. G. HOLLAND.

THE THANKLESS LADY.

IT is May, and the moon leans down all night

Over a blossomy land,

By her window sits the lady white,

With her chin upon her hand.

THE THANKLESS LADY.

"O sing to me, dear nightingale,

The song of a year ago;

I have had enough of longing and wail,
Enough of heart-break and woe.

"O glimmer on me, my apple-tree,
Like the birthplace of the snow;
Let odor and moonlight and melody
In one old harmony flow."

The dull odor swims; the cold blossoms gleam;

And the bird will not be glad.

The dead never speak when the living dream, —
They are too weak and sad.

She listened and sate till night grew late,

Bound by a weary spell;

Then a face came in at the garden-gate,
And a wondrous thing befell.

Uprose the joy as well as the love,

In the song, in the scent, in the show! The moon grew glad in the sky above, The blossoms grew rosy below.

May passed into June in the scent and the tune;

They filled the veins of night;

But they had no thanks for the granted boon,

For the lady forgot them quite.

GEORGE MACDONALD

WHEN stars are in the quiet skies,

Then most I pine for thee; Bend on me then thy tender eyes,

As stars look on the sea.

For thoughts, like waves that glide by night, Are stillest when they shine;

126

AT LAST.

Mine earthly love lies hushed in light
Beneath the heaven of thine.

There is an hour when angels keep

Familiar watch o'er men,

When coarser souls are wrapped in sleep;
Sweet spirit, meet me then!

There is an hour when holy dreams
Through slumber fairest glide,
And in that mystic hour it seems
Thou shouldst be by my side.

My thoughts of thee too sacred are
For daylight's common beam;
I can but know thee as my star,
My angel and my dream!
When stars are in the quiet skies,
Then most I pine for thee;

Bend on me then thy tender eyes,

As stars look on the sea.

AT LAST.

EDWARD BULWER LYTTON.

O, THE years I lost before I knew you,

Love!

O, the hills I climbed and came not to you,

Love!