"NATURE HAS A THOUSAND CHOIRS."

Nature has a thousand choirs Singing in the sylvan shadows, And the music of her lyres Echoes in the merry meadows; Always glad with golden glee Sounds her happy melody, Swelling wild in fairy measure With the songs of purest pleasure.

Where the dancing fountains play Winding warbles shake and shiver, And soft carols rise alway From the ripples of the river; Sweetest voices fondly call From the fleecy waterfall, And the joyful chimes are creeping Where the lovely lake is sleeping.

Raptures echo in the wood, Where the pimpernel reposes; Gladness fills the solitude Where the blushes kiss the roses; Sunny beam and somber gloom Utter hymns from bowers of bloom, Where the vernal winds are crying And the vocal birds are flying.

O'er the smiling scenes of earth Nature throws no sullen weather; All her soul is full of mirth, Song and springtime walk together; For the harps of happy days Wake the woodlands with their lays, And where lilies white are springing Gentle melodies are ringing.

O, wild Nature, from thy soul Fill the human hearts with gladness, Till their lives shall gladly troll Songs that banish all their sadness!

Bathe their b.r.e.a.s.t.s with songs of love From the Edens found above, Till their lips shall sing the story Of their happiness and glory!

THE WORKINGMAN.

G.o.d bless the brawny arms of toil, The n.o.ble hearts and royal hands, That plow the plain and seed the soil, And grow the grains of laughing lands!

King in the blessed vales of life Where perfect pleasures first began, May blessings come with raptures rife To crown the humble workingman!

His kingdoms wave with bannered corn And meadows bright with fairy bloom, While duties of his heart are born Where sylvan shadows hide the gloom; Sweet Nature fills his heart with health, While rustic warbles lead his soul Where rill and fountain sing by stealth And breezes soft with music roll.

He lives where simple wishes throng, And give contentment to his breast, While tender lullabies of song Bring angel gladness to his rest; No praises linger o'er his name Where he in silence works apart, And honor never links with fame The modest glories of his heart.

He needs no kiss of royal crown To wield the axe or guide the plow, Or woo the smiles of heaven down To cling in cl.u.s.ters on his brow; But in the sacred shine of love, With humble deeds he lives his days, And, drinking from the founts above, He scatters gladness o'er his ways.

Proud monarch of the tattered vest, Thy toil is fraught with greater gains Than his that bleeds where warrior crest Slays thousands on the battled plains!

Thy duty prompts to build, to grow, The forest fell, the city plan And scatter seeds of love below, Where'er thou art, O, workingman!

GIVING AND FORGIVING.

'Tis not by selfish miser's greed The great rewards of love are given; 'Tis not the cynic's haughty creed Which gladly makes this world a heaven; But tender word and loving deed Increase the angel joys of living, And mortals gain life's grandest meed By acts of giving and forgiving.

Let warriors bold with armies fight Their awful battles brave and gory, To reap the harvest of their might And fill a gaping world with glory!

The humble heroes, out of sight, Where hidden tears and woes are striving, Win victories for truth and right By deeds of giving and forgiving.

Let mighty kings of loyal lands Despise the faithful sons of duty, And with the swords of vandal hands Destroy the homes of joy and beauty; The honest lords of low commands Will find a n.o.bler way of thriving, In lonely vales where sorrow stands, By sweets of giving and forgiving.

Let rich men with their heaps of gold Be servants of the shining splendor, And crush the bosom, poor and old, That lives by mercies pure and tender; But still the soul with saints enrolled Will keep its charity surviving, And have its humble glory told In tales of giving and forgiving.

O, helping hands and Christian hearts, Twin parents of the race's gladness, G.o.d speed the time when your sweet arts Shall banish every sign of sadness!

When mournful cries, when pain's wild darts, Shall cease to curse the days of living, And Heaven's love to man imparts The joys of giving and forgiving.

"O, SACRED SOULS THAT GRANDLY SING."

O sacred souls that grandly sing The secret songs of human hearts, Where your wild music madly starts, The sorrows into raptures spring!

Within the warbles of your chimes Man reads the longings of his days, And finds, amid your lofty lays, Glad music for his gloomy times.

How sweet the mute, melodious cries Which only lives like yours may hear, Where pleasures thrill the singer's ear With laughing strains of lullabies!

You know soft voices, rich with love, That mingle in the fields and woods, To bless the silent solitudes With carols coming from above.

Your golden harps resound alway, Where valley bound with blossom lies, And rugged mountains highest rise, And silver fountains softly play; While in the gladness of your songs The fainting bosoms hope again, And toil among their fellow men, Forgetful of their ancient wrongs.

You sport with singing meadows bright, With fragrant winds and scented gales, Where shine and shadow kiss the vales In fairy fondness of delight; For where the meads and forests blend, The sweetest songs of life are found, And where the lonely hills abound The soul of music meets a friend.

Glad hearts that warble songs divine, Sweet singers of a mourning race, The ages long your brows shall grace With crowns where bays and laurels twine!

For man the grandest garland brings, To bless the tender lives that tell, And with their mystic music swell, The lays that Nature fondly sings!

CHRISTMAS TIME.

How sweet the brazen belfries chime Across the hills and through the dales, And o'er the b.r.e.a.s.t.s of meadowed vales, Beneath the smiles of Christmas time!

Rough sorrow's th.o.r.n.y fingers grow As soft and waxen as a child's, And balmy pleasures o'er the wilds Chant music to the drifting snow.

Ah, scattered locks that fringe my face, With wintry wisps of white and gray!

Ah, sad, dimmed eyes that look away To artless childhood's tender grace!

To-night those years with joys sublime Steal over me and fill my soul With lullabies of bliss that roll The golden glees of Christmas time.

Again I live in wondrous days, When baby hands with chubby glee Plucked gladness from the loaded tree Where loving burdens bent the sprays; The sunny songs of that sweet clime Sing softly in my soul again, Till I forget the ways of men And laugh and shout at Christmas time.

Angelic joys that died in pain, Sweet raptures from the days of bliss, Your loving lips with clinging kiss Thrill all my heart and soul and brain; And turning from my weary rhyme To count my sorrows o'er and o'er, I'd give my life to know once more Those wondrous days of Christmas time.

Ring, laughing bells, ring out to-night!

From happy years that now are fled, You bring the faces of the dead, And bless me with a deep delight!

Away, away, these thoughts of men, These toils of mine, that sadness give; My heart grows young and I would live My Christmas pleasures o'er again!

TRUEST HEROES ARE UNKNOWN.

All worthies are not sung in song.

That live their lives and do their deeds Where wounded nature writhes and bleeds Beneath the savage blows of wrong; From humble duties tender grown, The truest heroes are unknown.

The heart that toils where none may know And uncomplaining conquers care, To save his loved ones or to spare His fellows from the pangs of woe, Is more the hero than who shields His country on the bleeding fields.