'Tis past; and on Arabia's coast The tribes of Israel stand, While fierce and fast Egyptia's host Approach that quiet strand;-- Though darkness, like a funeral pall, Hangs o'er that dreary path, Still on they desperately press In bitterness and wrath.

Then slowly, once again, arose The Hebrew prophet's hand, And o'er the waiting deep outstretched Once more that awful wand;-- The rushing waters closed in might Above that pathway lone, And Pharaoh, in his haughty pride, And all his hosts were gone!

Wail, Egypt, wail!--thy kingly crown Is humbled in the dust!

And thou, though late, art forced to own That Israel's G.o.d is just!

And thou, O Israel, lift thy voice In one triumphant song Of praise to Him in whom alone Thy feeble arm is strong!

THE WAY-SIDE ELM

Standing alone by the highway side, Stately, and stalwart, and tempest-tried, Staunch of body and strong of bough, Fronting the sky with an honest brow, King of the forest and field is he-- Yon way side watcher--the old Elm tree.

When kindly Summer, with smile serene, Drapes branch and bough in her robe of green, Ever the joyous, wild birds come And sing 'mid the cl.u.s.tering leaves at home; Ever the soft winds, to and fro, Steal through the branches with music low, And golden sunbeams sparkle and play, And dance with shadows the livelong day.

Up to his forehead undimmed by time, The morning sun-ray is first to climb, With the tender touch of its earliest beam To break the spell of his dewy dream; And there the longest, when daylight dies, The rosy l.u.s.tre of sunset lies, As loath to fade on the distant sea, Without an adieu to the old Elm tree.

And grand it is, when the wintry blast With shout and clamor is sweeping past, To watch the stately and stern old tree As he battles alone on the wintry lea, With leafy crown to the four winds cast, And stout arms bared to the ruffian blast; Or fiercely wrestles with wind and storm, Unbowed of forehead, unbent of form.

O proud old tree! O loneliest tree!

Thy strong-limbed brothers have pa.s.sed from thee;-- One by one they've been swept away, And thou alone--of the centuries grey That have come and gone since thy hour of birth, And left their scars on the patient earth-- Remainest to speak to the world and me Of h.o.a.rded secrets that dwell with thee.

What of thy birth-hour? what of thy prime?

Who trod the wastes in that olden time?

Who gathered flowers where thy shadows lay?

Who sought thy coolness at noon of day?

What warrior chieftains, what woodland maids, Looked up to thee from the dusky glades?

Who warred and conquered, who lived and died In those far off years of the forest's pride?

No voice, no answer! So I, too, speak, Yet mine, as the insect's call, is weak To break thy silence, thou lonely tree, Or win a whispered reply from thee.

Yet, teacher mine, thou hast taught my heart What soon from its records will not depart-- A lesson of patience, a lesson of power, Of courage that fails not in danger's hour, Of calm endurance through winter's gloom, Of patient waiting for summer's bloom, And, heavenward gazing, through storm and night, Like thee to watch for the dawning light.

DROWNED

[Footnote: In the Grand River, at Brantford, July 30th, 1875, Miss Jessie Hamilton, adopted daughter of C.H. Waterous, Esq., Brantford, aged 14 years and 3 months, and Miss Ella E. Murton, only daughter of John W. Murton, Esq., Hamilton, aged 14 years.]

The morning dawned without a cloud, But evening came with pall and shroud,-- With m.u.f.fled step, and bated breath, And mournful whisperings of--_death!_

Young lips, that in the morning sung The summer's opening flowers among, Were hushed and cold;--young, laughing eyes, That met the dawn with sweet surprise, Were darkly sealed;--young feet, that pressed The dewy turf with glad unrest, Were cold and stirless, never more To tread the paths they trod before;-- And they, who in the morning strayed In fawn-like freedom down the glade, In solemn, dreamless slumber lay, To wake no more, at fall of day!

O stern, remorseless, sullen Tide!

O dark Flood, never satisfied!

Couldst thou not pity, when, to thee Those young lambs sped so trustingly?

Nay, nay;--the tempest's stormy wrath Spares not the lily in its path!-- The tameless river will not rest, To heed the rose-leaf on its breast!-- A moment, and the quiet sh.o.r.e Heard a low wail, and heard no more;-- And then, with calm, unaltered mien, The river glided on serene-- With what a weight of anguish fraught!-- Unconscious of the woe it wrought.

"Dust unto dust!" O G.o.d, thy way Strange and mysterious seems to-day, As, in the darkness of the tomb, What but an hour ago was bloom And beauty, now we hide away, And leave to silence and decay!

Aid us in lowliness to bow, And own how just and good art thou, And, though thou hidest still thy face, Trust the great love we may not trace!

MY BROTHER JAMES AND I

WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF A BEREAVED BROTHER.

We were playmates long together, By the brook and on the hill, In the golden, summer weather, When the days were long and still; We were playmates in the firelight While the winter eyes went by, And we shared one couch at midnight-- My brother James and I!

We were schoolmates, too, together, In the after years that came, And in toil, or task, or pleasure, Ours was still one heart, one aim; Hand in hand we struggled sunward Toward fair Science' temple high Aiding each the other onward-- My brother James and I!

We were men at last together-- Oh, the well remembered time, When we left the dear, old homestead In our early manhood's prime!

Even then not disunited, Went we forth with courage high To one aim and effort plighted-- My brother James and I!

But at length there came a shadow Dark with signs of change and blight Deep'ning silently but surely To a long and tearful night, And beside a lonely river That went darkly rushing by Parted we--but not forever-- My brother James and I!

Not forever! not forever!

Though the stream is dark and wide He is beck'ning to me ever From the sun lit, summer side, There the glory fadeth never, And I know that by and by We shall tread that sh.o.r.e together-- My brother James and I!

IDLE

"Work to-day in my vineyard!"

Hast thou, then, been called to labor In the vineyard of thy Lord, With the promise that, if faithful, Thou shall win a sure reward?-- Look! the tireless sun is hasting Toward the zenith, and the day, Which in vanity thou'rt wasting, Speedeth rapidly away!

Lo! the field is white for harvest, And the laborers are few; Canst thou, then, oh, slothful servant!

Find no work that thou canst do?

Sitting idle in the vineyard!

Sleeping, while the noon-day flies!

Dreaming, while with every pulse-beat Some unsaved one droops and dies!

Waken! overburdened lab'rers, Fainting in the sultry ray, Cry against thee to the Master As thou dream'st the hours away Waken! patient angels bearing Home Earth's harvest, grieving see One by one the bright hours waning, And no sheaf secured by thee!

And at last, when toil is ended, And the blessed "Harvest home,"

By exulting angels chanted, Cheers the lab'rers as they come, What wilt _thou_ do, slothful servant, With no gathered sheaf to bring?

How canst thou stand, empty-handed, In the presence of thy King?

Lo! the field is white for harvest, And the laborers are few; Canst thou, then, oh, slothful servant.