Canadian Wild Flowers Part 3

And even I renew my youth With each returning spring.

Oh, we may keep a fresh young heart Though outward beauty fade, If we but cherish there a love For all that G.o.d has made.

I do not call a happy man The man that's rich or great; Nor him, who stands with folded hands And says, "It is my fate!"

But he is blest who cheerfully Endures or does his part, And looks on earth, and sea, and sky With an adoring heart.

He wanders by the pebbly beach.

And by the summer brook, And thoughtfully he turns the leaves Of Nature's blessed book.

In forest shade, on hill, in vale, Where'er he walks abroad, There goes an humble wors.h.i.+pper-- A lover of his G.o.d.

The cares that trouble other men For him have little weight; He values glory at its worth, Nor cringes to the great.

His simple pleasures never fail, Nor make his nature cold,-- And though the years may come and go, He never can be old.

You call the picture overdrawn-- But such a man I know; Whose presence, like the morning sun, Dispels each cloud of woe.

And trustingly I cling to him As only true love can,-- My comforter, protector, guide,-- My love, thou art the man!

And you are teaching me to look On nature with your eyes; The pleasant change within my heart Each day I realize.

The world is brighter now to me, A holier thing is life.

Than even on that happy day When first you called me wife.

The trifles that perplexed me then Now leave my spirit calm,-- An for the deeper woes of life I have a healing balm.

I see the hand of G.o.d in all, I know that he is just; And where I cannot understand I've learned to wait and trust.

Oh, I remember well the day-- 'Twas in the month of June, When every tree was all in leaf, And every bird in tune,-- We walked together, arm in arm, As we are walking now, But I was young, and Time had left No traces on your brow.

I listened with a strange delight To every word you said, And then to hide the burning tears I turned away my head.

I dared not trifle with your love, Though till that magic hour I had not cared for aching hearts If they but owned my power.

I never felt so vile before-- So humbled in mine eyes; I wondered what you saw to love: I thought you must despise.

For I was gay, and you were grave, And I was vain and proud: You loved the meadow and the grove, And I the laughing crowd.

I told you frankly of my faults, You would not hear me through; You said you were an erring man, And earthly angels few.

But would I show my better side?

And would I deign to bless?

You held my hand--what _could_ I do?

And so I answered, "Yes."

Do I regret it? Nay, my love, For were I free as then The man I chose I still would choose Before all other men.

And I would say, For life or death, For happiness or woe, Where'er you dwell there I will dwell, Where'er you go, I go.

That was a day, and that a walk To be remembered long: It changed the current of my life, And made each thought a song.

There was a glory in the sky, A glory on the trees, And the perfumes of Paradise Were poured on every breeze.

I scarcely seemed to walk the earth, My spirit was so light; 'Twas easy then to shun the wrong, So easy to do right.

New hopes began to bud and bloom Like blossoms in the spring,-- My heart o'erflowed with tenderness For every living thing.

I was no more the thoughtless girl By idle fancy led; Life seemed to me reality, And yet I did not dread To walk along its roughest path: I should not walk alone,-- Another and a better life Was blended with mine own.

One blessing more and then, you said Our joy would be complete; Your prayer was answered when I sat At the Redeemer's feet.

And deeper, holier grew our love,-- Our union was to be Not only for a lifetime here, But for eternity.

Thus peacefully we pa.s.sed along Till that eventful day When all the labor of our hands Like chaff was swept away: We saw our home made desolate, Our pleasant cottage sold; Men called us poor, but we were rich In better things than gold.

For we had lived an honest life; We could look up and say: We never wronged a fellow-man, Nor turned the poor away.

We held a treasure in our arms Which every care beguiled; He never sorrowed, never sinned-- For Jesus took the child.

There is a little mound of earth Where, when the spring appears, We watch the budding violets, And water them with tears.

Oh, it were more than earthly love That soothed a parent's woe When there we laid our darling down, Full twenty years ago!

Sometimes my heart grows sad and sick When to the past I turn, And for a sweet and gentle voice To call me _mother_ yearn.

I see the silver in my hair, The lines upon your brow,-- And oh, I wish our boy had lived To be our comfort now!

One moment--then the wish is o'er: The sun begins to s.h.i.+ne; I lift my heart in thankfulness, And say, "Thy will is mine."

'Tis true, of poverty and pain We both have had our share, But do you think in all the world There is a happier pair?

I know the harvest-time is near,-- I know the Reaper stands Before us, and I tremble much Lest he unlock our hands But G.o.d will be our strength and s.h.i.+eld, Our refuge in that hour; And he will join our hands again Beyond the Reaper's power.

Now let me wipe away those tears; Forget my gloomy talk, And with your own improve the scene And sanctify our walk: So that with Nature's melody Our hearts may be in tune, And send up incense like the flowers This pleasant day in June!

AN EVENING MEDITATION.

How softly yonder pale star beams above my head to-night! How beautiful it appears in the azure vault of heaven where twilight holds the connecting link between day and night. Oh, if my soul were freed from its clayey fetters how swiftly it would fly (if such a journey were possible) to the boundaries of that sweet star! Can that fair planet, seemingly so pure and spotless, be inhabited by beings as frail and erring as ourselves? Can there be any sad souls there to- night-- any who are weeping over blighted hopes and blasted prospects?

It may be so; and yet perchance such a thing as a pang of sorrow and a burning tear are unknown, for it may be _sin_ has never entered there.

Vain, useless conjectures! But will the veil which hides the scenes of other worlds from our eyes never be withdrawn? ... Surely it is because G.o.d is merciful that I have been spared through another day. I cannot forbear wondering that I have been spared so long,--that I have not been cut down as a c.u.mberer of the ground. O G.o.d, according to thy loving-kindness preserve me. Grant that I may yet be an humble instrument in thy hand of doing something for the good of thy cause.

Forgive my numberless sins and at last receive me to glory.--July 20, 1852.

It is a lovely scene; the sun has set, But left his glory in the western sky Where daylight lingers, half regretful yet That sombre Night, her sister, draweth nigh, And one pale star just looketh from on high; 'Tis neither day nor night, but both have lent Their own peculiar charms to please the eye,-- Declining day its sultry heat has spent, And calm, refres.h.i.+ng night its grateful coolness lent.

The lake is sleeping--on its quiet breast Are clouds of every tint the rainbows wear, Some are in crimson, some in gold are dressed.

Oh, had I wings, like yonder birds of air, How I would love to dip my pinions there, Then mount exulting to the heavenly gate,-- A song of love and grat.i.tude to bear To Him who gives the lowly and the great, In earth, and sea, and sky, so glorious an estate.

It is the time when angels are abroad Upon their work of love and peace to men,-- Commissioned from the dazzling throne of G.o.d, They come to earth as joyfully as when The tidings ran o'er mountain and o'er glen, "A son is born, a Saviour and a King,"-- For they have tidings glorious as then, Since tokens from our risen Lord they bring, That life has been secured, and death has lost its sting.

The twilight deepens; o'er the distant hill A veil is spread of soft and misty grey; And from the lake, so beautiful and still, The images of sunset fade away; The twinkling stars come forth in bright array, Which shunned the splendor of the noontide glare,-- A holy calm succeeds the bustling day.

And gentle voices stealing through the air, Proclaim to hearts subdued the hour of grateful prayer.

NATURE'S RESURRECTION.

Hark! it is the robin crying, He has heard the voice of Spring; From the woods the crow is flying, And the jay is on the wing.

Slowly now the sun is ranging Each day nearer to the west; All things tell the year is changing, Nature wakens from her rest.