THE ROSE. E. WALLER. Go, lovely rose! Tell her that wastes her time on me, That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be. Tell her that's young, And shuns to have her graces spied, That hadst thou sprung In deserts where no men abide, Thou must have uncommended died. Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retired, Suffer herself to be desired, And not blush so to be admired. Then die, that she, The common fate of all things rare How small a part of time they share That are so wondrous sweet and fair. (A lady of Cambridge, England, loaned Waller's poems to H. K. White, who added the following stanza to the above poem; thus illustrating the difference between earthly and heavenly inspiration:) "Yet, though thou fade, From thy dead leaves let fragrance rise; That goodness Time's rude hand defies; That Virtue lives when Beauty dies." Within the sun-flecked shadows of a forest glade, Flashed, like a jewel in the sunshine, by And, darting swiftly now that way, now this, "Forgive me, sweet!" he cried. "I swear to you, I only meant to spy a drop of dew From out the fragrant chalice of these roses bright, I saw your lily-face uplifted here, And thought your red, red lips were rosebuds, dear!" Tossing her sunny curls, she raised her head, As, with an air of queenly grace, she said: "This once I will forgive; but, pray, beware 31 How often you mistake for blossoms rare A maiden's lips!" She watched him flutter near. "To think mine, roses, you are welcome, dear. But," with a merry glance, half arch, half shy, "They do not bloom for every butterfly!" "TIRED." MISS HELEN BURNSIDE. "Tired!" Oh yes! so tired, dear. It has seemed so long since morning-tide, But they grew tired long ago, And I saw them sink to rest, With folded hands and brows of snow, Sing once again, "Abide with me," With never a dream, and never a fear To wake in the morning light. UNHEEDED PSALMS. God hath His solitudes, unpeopled yet, Save by the peaceful life of bird and flower, Where, since the world's foundation, He hath set The hiding of His power. Year after year His rains make fresh and green Year after year unnumbered forest leaves Amid the strong recesses of the hills, Fixed by His word, immutable and calm, The murmuring river all the silence fills From deep to deep the floods lift up their voice, Because His hand hath measured them of old; The far outgoings of the morn rejoice His wonders to unfold. |