Part 34 (1/2)

AUTUMN.

The autumn winds are moaning round And through the branches sighing, And autumn leaves upon the ground All seared and dead are lying.

The summer flowers have ceased to bloom For autumn frosts have blighted, And laid them in a cheerless tomb By summer sun unlighted.

Thus all our ”fondest hopes decay”

Beneath the chill of sorrow, The joys that brightest seem to-day Are withered by the morrow.

But there are flowers that bloom enshrin'd In hearts by love united, Unscathed by the autumn wind, By autumn frost unblighted.

And there are hearts that ever thrill With friends.h.i.+p warm and glowing, And joys unseared by sorrow's chill With hallowed truth o'erflowing.

MARY'S GRAVE.

In a quiet country churchyard From the city far away, Where no marble stands in mockery Above the mould'ring clay; Where rears no sculptured monument-- There gra.s.s and flowers wave 'Round a spot where mem'ry lingers-- My once-loved Mary's grave.

They laid her down to slumber In this lonely quiet spot, They raised no stone above her, No epitaph they wrote; They pressed the fresh mould o'er her As earth to earth they gave-- Their hearts with anguish bursting, They turned from Mary's grave.

She knew not much of grief or care Ere yet by Death's cold hand, Her soul was s.n.a.t.c.hed from earth away To join the spirit band: Her mild blue eye hath lost its gleam, No more her sufferings crave The hand of pity, but the tear Falls oft o'er Mary's grave.

I too would pay my tribute there, I who have loved her well.

And drop one silent, sorrowing tear This storm of grief to quell; 'Tis all the hope I dare indulge, 'Tis all the boon I crave, To pay the tribute of a tear, Loved Mary, o'er thy grave.

TO ANSELMO.

Anselmo was the nom de plume of David Scott, of James.

I know thee not, and yet I fain Would call thee brother, friend; I know that friends.h.i.+p, virtue, truth, All in thy nature blend.

I know by thee the formal bow, The half deceitful smile Are valued not; they ill become The man that's free from guile.

I know thee not, and yet my breast Thrills ever at thy song, And bleeds to know, that thou hast felt The weight of ”woe and wrong.”

'Tis said the soul with care opprest Grows patient 'neath the weight, And after years can bear it well E'en though the load be great.

And, that the heart oft stung by grief Is senseless to the pain, And bleeding bares it to the barb, To bid it strike again.

I care not if the heart has borne All that the world can give, Of ”disappointment, hate and scorn;”

In hope 'twill ever live,

And feel the barb'd and poison'd stings Of anguish, grief and care, As keenly as in years gone by, When first they entered there.