Ah! many springs have come and gone, And called me forth in vain; Now winter folds the winding-sheet Round nature's breast again.

Young hands have gathered bright, wild flowers, Young feet have trod the gra.s.s, But I have watched in solitude The mournful shadows pa.s.s.

Young hands have gathered brighter flowers From wisdom's pleasant tree-- But darker still the shadows fall, There are no flowers for me!

No flowers! where shadows deepest lie Amid the wint'ry gloom, Thank G.o.d, I see with kindling eye The Rose of Sharon bloom!

It is enough--my earthly hopes Are fading one by one; My G.o.d and my Redeemer lives, And may his will be done.

I know that in a better world I shall look back and say I never could have reached my home By any other way.

And such a home! no frightful dreams, No wakings to despair-- No cries of--G.o.d remove the cup, Or give me strength to bear!

No pillows wet with burning tears,-- No longings wild and vain To wander in the pleasant fields, Or dear old woods again!

But love and peace, and endless joy, And rest to me how strange!

Lord give me patience to await The happy, happy change!

THE MIXED CUP.

Joy and sorrow, are they not mingled in every cup? We call some happy, others unfortunate; and so they appear to us. But could we draw aside the curtain that conceals the mysteries of the human heart what problems would be solved, and how often we should be lead to exclaim, "G.o.d dealeth justly: pain and pleasure are more equally distributed than we imagined"! But this may not be. We judge according to appearances, and this is one great source of misery; for, in our grief, we imagine others are more favored than we, and for the blessings we do enjoy we are not thankful. Oh, the great mercy of G.o.d!

What a wonder it is that he does not smite us to the earth when we dare murmur at his dealings!

I SHALL DEPART.

When the flowers of Summer die, When the birds of Summer fly, When the winds of Autumn sigh, I shall depart.

When the mourning Earth receives Last of all the faded leaves,-- When the wailing forest grieves, I shall depart.

When are garnered grain and fruit, When all insect life is mute, I shall drop my broken lute; I shall depart.

When the fields are brown and bare, Nothing left that's good or fair, And the h.o.a.r-frost gathers there, I shall depart.

Not with you, O songsters, no!

To no Southern clime I go,-- By a way none living know I shall depart.

Many aching hearts may yearn, Many lamps till midnight burn, But I never shall return, When I depart.

Trembling, fearing, sorely tried, Waiting for the ebbing tide, Who, oh! who will be my guide When I depart?

Once the river cold and black Rolled its waves affrighted back,-- I shall see a s.h.i.+ning track When I depart.

There my G.o.d and Saviour pa.s.sed, He will be my guide at last,-- Clinging to his merits fast, I shall depart.

--_Written in 1858._

TIME FLIES.

Tears are coming, years are going, Be they fraught with joy or pain,-- Like a river they are flowing To the everlasting main!

On the banks are thorns and roses, And we take of both a share Till the ocean round us closes, And we drop our anchor--where?

If the future were uncertain, If across the mighty deep, Brus.h.i.+ng back the misty curtain Angel pinions did not sweep,--

If there were no bright to-morrow For our day of toil and strife, Burdened with its weight of sorrow, What a curse were human life!

Locks are whitening, cheeks are paling, With each month and year that flies; Youth and vigor both are failing, But the spirit never dies!

Short indeed is our probation, Dark and certain is the tomb,-- But the Lamp of revelation Dissipates the fearful gloom.

Oh, we take our life too sadly, Ever grieve and mourn too much, Turn to ashes what would gladly Turn to gold beneath our touch.

'Tis because that in our blindness We imagine G.o.d is blind,-- 'Tis because we doubt his kindness, That we cannot be resigned.

Nature cries amid the trials That beset our th.o.r.n.y path: "G.o.d outpoureth all the vials Of his anger and his wrath!"

Such complaints are more surprising Since the declaration runs: "If ye be without chastising, Then indeed, ye are not sons."

All our future course He seeth Better than we see our past, And whatever he decreeth We shall understand at last.

Let us then in our affliction Meekly trust our gracious Lord,-- Well a.s.sured his benediction Will ere long be our reward.

Let us beautify the present,-- There is much we all can do That will make the year more pleasant, For ourselves and others too.

A VOICE FROM A SICK-ROOM.

[At one time Miss Johnson seems to have entertained the idea of writing for publication a series of articles ent.i.tled "Voices from a Sick-room." Whether she ever wrote more than one or not I cannot say.

The following is the only one we can find among her ma.n.u.scripts, and it is so thrillingly interesting as to make us wish for more. It is dated Sept. 5, 1859.]

Draw the curtains--shut out the light of heaven; the inner world is so full of darkness that the suns.h.i.+ne of the outer world becomes painful by contrast. Hush, little bird! don't sing to-day. There--all is dark and still. Now, O wretched heart, exult in thy wretchedness; draw the dark, heavy curtains of despair around thee; shut out the light of hope and love; hush the voice of praise and thanksgiving. Think of all thou hast suffered; think of thy present misery; crowd the future with black-robed phantoms; people every nook and corner with horrible faces, and over all let the thunder crash and bellow, and the winds moan and shriek, as they moan and shriek only when the great are dying.