SHADOW AND SHINE.

They will find in this life who are grieved with its gladness No songs for the heart and no hopes for the soul, But will faint in the glooms where the dirges of sadness In tremulous murmurs of wretchedness roll; For the sweets of this earth never lavish their kisses Where lives in the valleys of rapture repine; In the tortures they mourn who denounce all the blisses,-- They weep in the shadow that rail at the shine.

In the fields that are fair with the blooms of the clover, No garlands are grown for the arbors of shade Where the woes of the wood in their darkness hang over The gra.s.ses that wave with the winds of the glade; From the chimes of the breezes there echo no measures That gladden the gale with a music divine; In the troubles they languish who shrink from the pleasures, They weep in the shadow that rail at the shine.

Ah, the world is abounding with wonderful glories And wild are the warbles that sweeten its ways While the songs of the land sing their beautiful stories, And scatter their melodies over the days!

There are smiles, there are joys, never mingled with sorrow, O, man, in return for the tears that are thine, And the soul never sobs that has hopes for the morrow, Nor weeps in the shadow nor rails at the shine!

THE GROWTH OF SONG.

A tender song in shadows grew, And humble hearts were homes it knew.

But through its wondrous music stole The longings of the human soul;

The hopes of hosts unsatisfied Within its numbers wandered wide;

And strangely wet with toilsome tears It held the yearnings of the years;

Till millions with their woes oppressed, Proclaimed the song of peace and rest;

Till nations in their troubled ways Found comfort in the joyous lays,

And all the halting race of wrong Exalts the loving might of song!

Ah, song that soothes our many cries With fondness of thy lullabies,

We love, we bless, we scepter thee Proud empress of the hearts that be!

SPRING AND MUSIC.

Spring, among her sylvan shades, And the gladness of her glades, Once in dreamy hours was straying, Where sweet Music with her throngs Of glad melodies and songs In the happy vales was playing.

Pan beheld the fairy maids As they gamboled in the shades, And he swore they should not sever.

But that o'er the blooming land, Heart to heart and hand in hand, They should wander on forever.

Thus when come the gentle days O'er the wildwood's tangled ways, There is found no gloomy weather; For among the leafy bowers And the valleys bright with flowers Spring and Music walk together!

COMPENSATION.

The softest beams of the stars are born in the farthest skies, And fairest rays of the sun where evening shadows rise; The sweetest songs of the bird are sung in the darkest days, And rarest blooms of the spring are found in the wildest ways.

The brightest blush of the rose is blown as the petals fade.

The greenest gra.s.s of the earth is grown in the hidden glade; The fondest rhyme of the rill is heard in the secret vale, And lightest lays of the breeze are borne from the dying gale.

The highest hopes of the heart in saddest of sorrows grow, The purest pleasures of joy arise in the wane of woe; The gladdest smiles of the lips are seen in the hours of pain, And proudest days of the free are spent by the broken chain.

The grandest deeds of the race are writ on the faded scroll, The truest rivers of good from villainous fountains roll; The perfect raptures of life are reared in the arms of care, And Hope with her joys dispels the darkness of our despair.

MY MOLLIE, O!

'Twas in the summer's sweet perfume, When roses bloomed and holly, O, That in the brightness of her bloom, I first did meet my Mollie, O.

Although she said for lives to love Was nothing but pure folly, O, My heart was lit with light above, And I true loved my Mollie, O.

O, swift and fast the days did flee And seemed most bright and jolly, O, For evermore was near to me My fair and lovely Mollie, O.

Now I doth sit through all the day And nurse my melancholy, O, For from me she has turned away, O, false and fickle Mollie, O!

SING NOT OF BEAUTY.

Sing not of beauty's grace to me; Its very name a story tells Of doubly dark inconstancy, Love falser than a hundred h.e.l.ls.

Its face is often but a screen To hide a devil's heart of guile, Of thoughts and deeds of shameful mien, By winning looks of heartless wile.

Its laughing smile is but the gleam That springs from dross of foulest make; It stirs a sweet but idle dream, Then leaves the trusting heart to break.

Sing not of beauty's grace to me; I can not bear to hear the name; For, oh! Too oft in it I see A soul of falsehood and of shame!

AT EVENTIDE.

At eventide, when glories lie In crimson curtains hung on high, And all the breast of heaven glows With mingled wreaths of flowers and snows, The dearest dreams of life draw nigh.