'Tis woman rules the whole world still, Though faults the critics say she has; She smiles her smile and works her will-- 'Tis just a little way she has.

THE CRITICISM.

The great man came to the country place, To preach to farmers st.u.r.dy; He said: "I'm in my happiest vein, I'll be eloquent and wordy."

"Not often a great man like myself Comes here to do the teaching-- A big event in these quiet lives-- They'll not forget my preaching."

The great man found him a text at length In Ezekiel's ponderous pages; From point to point of his sermon long He travelled at easy stages.

He soared up high in the realms of thought, Was rich in allegory.

"I have," said he, as he sat him down, "Covered myself with glory.

"These simple rustics are overcome With my rhetoric and power, They're used to a sprinkling of thought And I've given them a shower."

The great man got a terrible shock As, the long service over, He walked with a farmer grave and staid Home through the fields of clover.

"Your people--ah--were they much impressed With my sermon?" he queried.

"Preaching with earnestness, power and force Has left me sadly wearied."

"A worse would a done us country folks"-- The farmer's tone a terse one-- "That is," reflectively, "if you Happened to have a worse one."

JESSIE.

You miss the touch of her dear hand, Her laughter gay and sweet, The dimpled cheek, the sunny smile, The patter of her feet.

The loving glances she bestowed, The tender tales she told-- The world, since she has gone away, Seems empty, drear and cold.

Dear, oft you prayed that G.o.d would give Your darling joy and grace, That pain or loss might never dim The brightness of her face.

That her young heart might keep its trust, Its purity so white, Its wealth of sweet unselfishness, Her eyes their radiant light,

Her fair, soft face its innocence Of every guile and wrong, And nothing touch to mar the joy And gladness of her song.

G.o.d heard the prayer; His answer came-- Now, cease thy murmuring, cease-- "Come, little one, come home," He said, "Unto the Land of Peace!"

You sheltered her upon your breast, The child so quaint and wise, To-day, where sorrow is unknown, She walks in paradise.

Her eyes have learned the mystery, Her feet the vale have crost, But, friend of mine, you'll find again The treasure you have lost.

Your arms will surely clasp once more The little fair-haired girl Who waits for you within the gates Of jasper and of pearl.

POYNINGS.

Do you remember that June day among The hills, the high, far-reaching Suss.e.x hills?

Above, the straggling flocks of fleecy clouds That skipped and chased each other merrily In G.o.d's warm pasturage, the azure sky; Below, the hills that stretched their mighty heads As though they fain would neighbor with that sky.

Deep, vivid green, save where the flocks showed white; The wise ewes hiding from the glow of noon In shady spots, the short-wooled lambs at play, And over all the stillness of the hills, The sweet and solemn stillness of the hills.

The shepherds gave us just such looks of mild Surprise as did the sheep they shepherded.

"Ye are not of the hills," so said the looks, "Not of our kind, but strangers come from out The busy, bustling world to taste the sweets Of silence and of peace. We wish you well."

In eager quest of what the hills might hide, Some valley of content, some spring of youth, Some deep, enchanted dell filled to the brim With subtle mysteries, allurement rare, We followed down a path, a little crooked, Wand'ring path that lost itself and found itself So oft we knew it for the playmate of the stream That went with us and sang a clamorous song-- A never-ending song of flock and fold Of sea-mist and of sun--until at length We came into a valley warm and wide, A cradle 'mong the hills. In it there lay No infant hamlet, but one gray and old That dozed and dreamed the soft June hours away.

Gardens there were with fragrant wall-flowers filled, And daffodils, and rhododendrons pale, And sweet, old-fashioned pinks, phlox, rosemary; An avenue of elms, with cottages, And barefoot children sporting on the green.

"'Tis Poynings," said the rustic, "see, the church Lies yonder, and the graveyard just beyond; This path will lead you straight to it."

Do you remember--rather, will you e'er forget?-- That gray church built, how many centuries Ago? The worn stone steps, the oaken door, The crumbling walls, the altar carved, The stories told by stained-gla.s.s windows set Deep in the walls; the ivy, thick and green, Which crept and hid the grayness quite from sight.

Within, the smell of roses from the sheaf Of scarlet bloom before the altar laid, Close mingled with the mould and must of age; On wall and floor memorials to the dead, Who, unafraid, had slumbered there so long.

And then the graveyard out among the trees-- No graveyard, but a garden, flower filled-- Moss roses white as moth wings in the night, And lilies sorrowful but very sweet, Low-growing violets in gra.s.ses hid, And rue which spoke of some heart's bitterness.

Old Time had decked the stones with lichens rare, Rubbed out with careless hand the lettering: In memory of someone's life and love Each stood, but whose we might not know.

And while we lingered in the perfumed gloom, And watched the golden sunshine smite the hills, An English blackbird straight began a song So sweet, so high, so shrill, so wondrous clear, That! listening, our eyes grew dim the while Our hearts did thrill. Whoe'er has heard the song An English blackbird carols forth in June Knows well the power it has, the wondrous charm!

Strangers were we within the gates, and so He gave us welcome, clearer, warmer still, A welcome to the beauty and the bloom, The silence of the churchyard old and gray, A welcome to the gra.s.ses and the brook, The shade of feathery elm trees, and the glow Of sunlight quivering, golden on the sward, A welcome to the valley dim, and to The hills, the high, far-reaching Suss.e.x hills.

SONG OF THE GOLDEN SEA.

Sing, ye ripening fields of wheat, Sing to the breezes pa.s.sing by, Sing your jubilant song and sweet, Sing to the earth, the air, the sky!

Earth that held thee and skies that kissed Morning and noon and night for long, Sun and rain and dew and mist, All that has made you glad and strong

The harvest fields of the far, far west Stretch out a shimmering sea of gold!

Every ripple upon its breast Sings peace, and plenty, and wealth untold!

Far as the eye can reach it goes, Farther yet, 'till there seems no end, Under a sky where blue and rose With the gold and turquoise softly blend.

Here, where sweep the prairies lone, Broad and beautiful in G.o.d's eyes, Here in this young land, all our own, The garner-house of the old world lies.

DAWN.

I cannot echo the old wish to die at morn, as darkness strays!