LINES

Addressed to one of his children by Victor Hugo.

[Translated from the French.]

She had taken a whim, this little one,

Into my chamber each morn to come.

I waited for her as for a ray

Of the golden sun at break of day,

She entered and said, "Good day, little pere;"
Sat down on my bed with a winning air;
She took up my pen, opened my books,
Tumbled my papers with laughing looks,
Then quick as a thought she went away,
Like a bird that flies at break of day.
Then my work interrupted I took once more;
With simple arabesques oft marked o'er;
Where her hands had tumbled the pages white,
There, I know not how, but at the sight
My sweetest verses would seem to flow.

She loved her God and the flowers that blow,

The stars, the green meadows, the waves that roll.
Ere being a woman she was a soul.

Her glance reflected her purity;
She every moment consulted me.

Oh! the winter evenings so charming and bright!
Around my knees in the warm fire-light
My four children clustered, their mother near,
Of hist'ry, of language, of grammar to hear;
Some friends who talked in the corner by,
Content with little this life passed by ;
And now she is dead! God aid my way!

When she was grieved, I never was gay;
I mourned in the joyous ball so bright,
If, going, I saw in her eyes no light.

THE EMPTY NEST.

Beneath her picture I had placed an empty nest.
I thought how one by one the songsters fled away.
And then I said, the good Lord knoweth best

If I must longer stay.

And then I thought me of the patient care

That wove those many threads to guard her young Weak children; - of the tender prayer,

The tireless watch, the holy psalm oft sung.

And then I wept - because the empty nest
Recalled those early joys, those spring-time lays.
But something said, He knew and loved thee best
Through all thy early days.

And though the songs she sang have ceased on earth
And through the distance faintly die away,
Yet thou shalt hear them at thy second birth
And greet each well known lay.

A little while and her ye shall not see

Be of good cheer, 'tis but a little while! For what is time to vast eternity

Beneath the Father's smile?

HEAVEN AROUND.

"Heaven lies around us in our infancy!"

Is it not round us now,

Where'er Love's voice is heard? Where'er its whisperings low

The heart's deep fount have stirred? Is it not round us in each kindly voice That bids a suffering spirit to rejoice?

Is it not round us still

Wherever Peace doth dwell? And men of war and ill

As things unknown do tell —

Where still the Angel's song sounds on the ear— And men as meekly as the Shepherds hear!

Is it not round us where,

With yearning all unstilled,

The heart sends up its prayer,

With childlike trusting filled?

Telling its hopes and fears, its joys and woes,

E'en as a child unto its father goes.

Heaven is around us yet

Where Pity's voice is heard,

And age and suff'ring get

The kind and healing word!

While earth's kind spirits like true Angels go,

Administ'ring to want, and soothing woe!

THE ARCHITECT.

Within his mind oft stealing,

Dreams of beauty strange would flit, Hiding now, now half revealing Springing arch and sculptured ceiling With a glory spread o'er it.

Gorgeous windows, brightly shaming
Rainbow hues and earthly flowers;
With the martyr's vict'ries flaming,-
Christ's great sacrifice proclaiming,
Bordered by repentant hours.

Airy stairs, still ascending,

That would seem to enter Heaven,-
Vistas grand, through which unending.
Rays of spirit light seemed wending,
By some unseen presence given.

Thus his thought would often ponder
Of a temple meet for God,
That should be a human wonder,
Cleaving old time styles asunder,
Fit to be by Angels trod.

Years passed on and left him dreaming,
Time came by and touched his hair,-
Till within his dark eye gleaming

Were the wildness and the seeming

Of a settled deep despair.

For the temple uncreated

Stood within his mind alone;

Like ship becalmed and richly freighted But for which the world still waited,— And the present could not own.

But unto his growing sadness,

Hope's bright angel whispered low, "Yield not to this spirit madness, Let thy heart renew its gladness, For the temple yet shall show!"

"What though never wond'ring mortals Shall pass through its pearly door? Angel feet shall tread the portals; Faces throng of bright Immortals, Hearts that never sorrow more."

"For thy soul shall be the temple;
Where artistic skill shall trace
Springing arch and mighty column,
That uphold a structure solemn,
Sculptured o'er with ev'ry grace."

So the artist bent his powers
To erect an inward fane,
Where in evening's coolest hours.
(As in Eden's sinless powers)

The Lord God should walk again.

So there shone indeed a glory

On the spirit's sculptured wall;