THE FIRST FROST

"A rose's brief bright life of joy,
Such unto him was given !—
Go, thou must play alone, my boy!
Thy brother is in heaven."

"And has he left the birds and flowers?
And must I call in vain ?

And, through the long, long summer hours,
Will he not come again?

"And by the brook, and in the glade,
Are all our wanderings o'er ?
Oh! while my brother with me played,
Would I had loved him more !"

HEMANS.

73

THE FIRST FROST.

WHAT triumph hath old Winter won!
What work of ruin hath he done!
The breathing of one deadly frost
Fell calmly o'er the flowery host,
And in the morning all are gone!
Sing, plaintive robin, sing o'er them
A melancholy requiem!

So let it come to Winter's ear
How widely wept, for oh! how dear
The lovely things he could condemn!

F

L. T.

BUSY BEE.

How doth the little busy bee
Improve each shining hour,
And gather honey all the day,
From every opening flower.

How skilfully she builds her cell,
How neat she spreads the wax,
And labours hard to store it well
With the sweet food she makes.

AFTER SUNSET.

In works of labour or of skill,

I would be busy too;

For Satan finds some mischief still

For idle hands to do.

75

WATTS.

AFTER SUNSET.

THE sun has set, the sky is calm,
And yonder uplands dim,
With all the little trees, stand out
A sharp and fringe-like rim.
A roll of clouds like indigo
Hangs in the lower sky,

All edged above with crimson fire,
And piled up gloriously.

And far behind are flakes and flaws

And streaks of purest red;

And feathery dashes, paling slow,
Still linger overhead.

And far, far off-how far it looks!
The sky is green and clear,
And still in front a little flight

Of black clouds saileth near.

Oh! wondrous sight! oh! joyous hour!
Ye workmen passing by,

Why stay ye not your boisterous mirth
To gaze upon the sky?

76

THE SANDAL TREE.

Ye merry children playing near,
Why stop ye not your play,
To see how God with glory crowns
The closing of the day?

Oh! would that they whose weary
The things of sense enthral,
Upon whose life but scanty rays
Of grace and beauty fall,—

minds

Would that they knew what noble store
Of purest joy and lɔve,

Is given to bless the poor man's lot,

And lift his heart above!

W. W. H.

THE SANDAL TREE.

OH! many a lesson we may learn,

E'en from the flowers and trees
That bloom beside the gentle burn,
And bend to evening breeze.

The modest lily of the vale
Whispers of humble worth;
The sandal in the Indian dale
May teach the sons of earth.

ON A BEAUTIFUL DAY IN MARCH.

When wounded, in return it throws
A balmy fragrance round,

And perfumes every breeze that blows
Across the Indian ground.

Would men but learn of that fair tree
The gentle law of love,

Soon this fair earth of ours would be
More like our home above,

ON A BEAUTIFUL DAY IN MARCH.

WHO deems not winter far away,
When bright as summer glows the day,
And birds in every bush are singing,
And flowers on every bank are springing,―
Who deems not now his empire gone,
And gentle spring upon the throne ?

Too soon, alas! the stormy North
May call the sleeping tyrant forth,
With icy sway to rule the hours;
And silent birds and drooping flowers
Will sternly then the warning bring,
"One sunny day makes not the spring!"

L. T.

77