Long may you live, Prince, to frolic and gambol,
To hunt with your mistress the fern and the flower! And when your poor limbs no more here shall amble, May you find a new life in the heavenly bower.
Through the white gate, whenc all our saints go out (Leaving a cloud upon this earthly side.
Where once their gentle presence walked about),
To a new birth! say not that they have died!
But through that gate see rays of glory stream,
Gilding the pavements of earth's work-day floor!
Fairer than radiance of the poet's dream,-
Thence sweet sounds come that say, Forevermore.
Forevermore a new life they have found,
Forevermore new joy within them springs;
Not severed there the ties affection wound,
The faces loved on earth still, Memory brings.
Perhaps the painter's art may there recall
The loved ones, Time still holds from them apart;
The dear, old homestead, and the relics prized,
The outward symbols that bound heart to heart.
Perchance on unseen cords there, voices come,
E'en through the spaces vast of trackless air,
That, heard by finer sense, may tell of home,
And e'en day's tidings of the absent bear.
Whate'er the outward, still we know that thought
Goes forth to meet their kindred thought above.
But a few years divide—to be as nought;
When we, too, join the souls we miss and love.
THE UNKNOWN WORLD.
From some unknown existence do we come,
A little while to make this earth our home!
We oft bethink us of that unknown land,
That softer breezes all its shores have fanned;
O silent shores! from which no murmurs come,
The stars that circle round ye all are dumb.
O unknown Land! begirt by silent seas,
And swept by winds that keep thy mysteries.
We bring no memories of that early clime,
Whose years we mark not in our book of time;
But this we know, it is a sinless place,
For purity beams forth from every face
Of every babe, although its lips be dumb,
And cannot tell us of its former home;
But as it slowly learns the speech of earth,
Fade out the memories of an earlier birth.
Earth leads her children on to love her well;
Her birds, her flowers, that light each hill and dell;
Her clouds, her mountain tops, her sunset skies,
Her happy homes, this life's enthralling ties.
And some, aye some, they love her yellow gold-
Death's powerful hand alone can loose their hold.
While some e'en here, behold their goal afar;
Behold a clime where truer treasures are.
So pass we on. All gather what they prize
In this short journey 'neath these earthly skies.
And whither do we go? What chart has shown
The lines and bearings of that world unknown?
Afar from sight and sense its lonely seas
Bear from that world no sweet land-scented breeze.
Only above, an untranslated psalm,
The stars look down with everlasting calm
The many countless mansions that remain ;
Bright tents that stud Heaven's wide outstretching plain.
Stay-one bright Star across man's sight has shone,
Shines still, undimmed, though centuries have gone,-
Lighting our feet upon earth's devious road,
Going before us to His blest abode !
As one by one earth's pilgrims pass away,
It lights their footsteps on, to endless day.
THE NEW PEER.
"A man's a man for a' that."
A new era this, when the great ones of earth
(Whom God maketh great will always appear)
astoop from the royalty given them at birth!
CandGod me him a Poet! she makes him a peer!
We call to our minds the bold, sturdy Burns,
Who dealt with earth's nobles and gave tit for tat! We see the sweet Singer e'en now as he turns And thunders, “A man is a man for a' that."
Aye, what are the Crowns, albeit they're gold?
And what are the Thrones where idiots have sat?
Blood-stained, filled with vices that may not be told.-
But a poet's a man for a' that! for a' that!
O Queen! keep your Royalty, prize it as sweet.
You may live to see days when e'en royalty fails!
We are all peers this side and the title is meet,
When Labor and Freedom here set all the sails!
THE SEXTON'S DAUGHTER.
Little Flossie in the chancel
Would help papa with her broom;
Like a tiny, fair-haired angel,
Some old painter from his canvas
Dropped within the dim old room.
Peeped a sunbeam through the window,
Rested on a large, carved chair,
Wondering why the wingless cherub,
Little Flossie, should be there
With her broom poised in the air.
But from upper realms descending
Down the stairs and through the door Came such sounds of melody,
Heavenly music on its way,
As the child ne'er heard before.
"I dess dat muss be an angel!
Dess I better dō and see.
Will the angel leave off singing?
Will he fly away to heaven
If he knows 't's onney me?"
As the tiny thing went climbing,
Straying sunbeams kissed her hair,
Coming through the painted windows,
As with broom poised, slowly clambered
Panting Flossie up each stair.
But the organist, descending,
Passed out by the other door,
When, her pilgrimage just ending,
Flossie reached the upper floor,
Where her wonderings were o'er.
For flew through the open window
A bright dove so dazzling white,
Passing through another opening,
Sped away far out of sight.
Flossie laughed in her delight.
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