HARVESTS.

Other harvests there are than those that lie Glowing and ripe 'neath an autumn sky, Awaiting the sickle keen, Harvests more precious than golden grain, Waving o'er hillside, valley or plain, Than fruits 'mid their leafy screen.

Not alone for the preacher, man of G.o.d, Do those harvests vast enrich the sod, For all may the sickle wield; The first in proud ambition's race, The last in talent, power or place, Will all find work in that field.

Man toiling, lab'ring with fevered strain, High office or golden prize to gain, Rest both weary heart and head, And think, when thou'lt shudder in death's cold clasp, How earthly things will elude thy grasp, At that harvest work instead!

Lady, with queenly form and brow, Gems decking thy neck and arms of snow, Who need only smile to win; 'Mid thy guests, perchance the gay, the grave, Is one whom a warning word might save From folly, sorrow or sin.

Let that word be said, thine eyes so bright Will glow with holier, softer light For the good that thou hast done; And a time will come when thou wilt reap From that simple act more pleasure deep Than from flatt'ring conquests won.

Young girl in thy bright youth's blushing dawn, Graceful and joyous as sportive fawn, There is work for thee to do, And higher aims than to flirt and smile, And practise each gay, coquettish wile, Admiring glances to woo.

Ah! the world is full of grief and care, Sad, breaking hearts are every where, And thou can'st give relief; Alms to the needy--soft word of hope That a brighter view may chance to ope To mourners bowed by grief.

That gauzy tissue yon bud or flower That tempt thee at the present hour, To be worn, then cast aside, Bethink thee, their price might comfort bring, Fuel or food to the famishing And help to the sorely tried.

Such harvest fruits are most precious and rare, Worthy all toil and patient care, Think of the promised reward!

Not earthly gains that will pa.s.s away Like morning mist or bright sunset ray, But Christ Himself, our Lord!

A WORLDLY DEATH-BED.

Hush! speak in accents soft and low, And treat with careful stealth Thro' that rich curtained room which tells Of luxury and wealth; Men of high science and of skill Stand there with saddened brow, Exchanging some low whispered words-- What can their art do now?

Follow their gaze to yonder couch Where moans in fitful pain The mistress of this splendid home, With aching heart and brain.

The fever burning in her veins Tinges with carmine bright That sunken cheek--alas! she needs No borrowed bloom to-night.

The ma.s.ses of her raven hair Fall down on either side In tangled richness--it has been Through life her care and pride; And those small perfect hands on which Her gaze complacent fell, Now, clenched within her pillow's lace, Of anguish only tell.

Sad was her restless, fev'rish sleep, More sad her waking still, As with wild start she looks around Her chamber darkened--still; Its silence and the mournful looks Of those who stand apart, Some awful fear seem to suggest To that poor worldly heart.

"Doctor, I'm better, am I not?"

She gasps with failing breath-- Alas! the answer sternly tells That she is "ill to death."

"What! dying!" and her eyes gleam forth A flashing, fearful ray, "I, young, rich, lovely, from this earth To pa.s.s so soon away?

"No, no, it must not, cannot be, Surely your skill can save-- Can stand between me and the gloom, The horrors, of the grave!"

Breathless she listens, but no word Breaks that dull pause of grief,-- Her pitying listeners turn away, They cannot give relief

Tossing aloft, in fierce despair, Her arms, with frenzied cry, She gasps forth, "Save me--help, O help!

I must not, will not die."

But One can grant that wild appeal, Can stay her failing breath-- Of Him she never thought in life Nor thinks she now in death.

Without one prayer, one contrite tear, For past faults to atone-- For wasted talents, misspent life, She's gone before G.o.d's throne!

Prying that wilful, wayward heart That leaned on G.o.ds of clay, For calmer, holier death than hers With solemn heart we pray.

THE CHOICE OF SWEET SHY CLARE.

Fair as a wreath of fresh spring flowers, a band of maidens lay On the velvet sward--enjoying the golden summer day; And many a ringing silv'ry laugh on the calm air clearly fell, With fancies sweet, which their rosy lips, half unwilling, seemed to tell.

They spoke, as maidens often speak, of that ideal one By whom the wealth of their warm young hearts will at length be wooed and won-- Fond girlish dreams! and half in jest and half in serious strain, Each told of the gifts that could alone the prize of her love obtain.

The first who spoke was a bright-eyed girl, with a form of airy grace, Mirth beaming in every dimple sweet of her joyous smiling face: "I ask not much in the favor'd one who this dainty hand would gain;-- No ordeal long would I ask of him--no hours of mental pain.

"Let him but come in the pomp of rank, endowed with wealth and pride, To woo to a lofty palace home his youthful, worshipped bride, Heaping my path with presents rare, with radiant jewels and gold,-- Love's flame 'neath poverty's breath, 'tis said, soon waxes faint and cold."

Outspoke another, with proud dark eye, and a stately, regal mien: "Thou saidst thou wast easily pleased, May, and so thou art, I ween, Thou askest paltry rank and wealth--aim higher would be mine!

Rare mental gold--the priceless fire of genius divine."

"And I," said a third, with soft sweet voice, "would exact still less than ye, No need for glitter of lofty state, no gold or jewels for me; Nor ask I that genius' lofty power in his ardent soul should dwell, Enough, if he love but me alone, and love me only well!"

Another said that her choice would fall on manly beauty and grace, That he she would love must matchless stand, the n.o.blest of his race, Excelling in sports of flood and field, and as lion brave in war, Yet, with hand and voice, in lady's bower, attuned to light guitar.

And now, with one accord, they turned to a dove-like maiden mild, With a seraph's purity of look, and soft graces of a child; "Speak out, speak out now, sweet shy Clare, we anxious wait for thee, Coy, gentle one! fear not to say what thy heart's young choice will be."

A moment paused she, and then a flush, like sunset, dyed her brow, And softly she murmured "Sisters, dear, I have made my choice ere now, And the rarest gifts that you could name, be they earthly or divine.

In strange perfection--G.o.d like grace--will be found all, all in mine."

She ceased, and a thoughtful silence stole o'er those youthful brows of mirth, They knew she spoke of the Bridegroom King--the Lord of Heaven and earth; And e'er fleet time of another year had sounded the pa.s.sing knell, The maiden Clare and her Bridegroom fair were wedded in convent cell.

TRIBUTE TO THE MEMORY OF THE REV. SISTER THE NATIVITY, FOUNDRESS OF THE CONVENT OF VILLA MARIA (MONKLANDS.)

Oh, Villa Maria, thrice favored spot, Unclouded sunshine is still thy lot Since first, 'neath thy mortal old, The spouses of Christ--working out G.o.d's will, Meekly entered, their mission high to fill 'Mid the "little ones" of His fold.

But grief's dark hour, that to all must come, At length is on thee, and as a tomb, Hushed, joyless, art thou to-day, For the lofty mind that thy councils led, To womanly sweetness so closely wed, Has been called by death away.

"One 'mid a thousand!" no words could tell The peerless worth that, like holy spell, Won all souls to saintly love; And that knowledge rare of the human heart That, with heavenly patience and gentle art, The coldest breast could move.

Oh! girlish natures, good blended with ill, That she trained with such watchful, wondrous skill To be n.o.ble women and true-- The bliss of those households whose hope you are, Where your worth shines steady as vesper star, Unto her is surely due.

And those chosen souls, called to holier state, That on the Heavenly Bridegroom wait, Their cell an Eden below, Whom she guided safely through wile and snare, Making virtue appear so divinely fair, How much unto her they owe!

And many now sleeping 'neath churchyard sod, But whose souls are reigning on high with G.o.d Through her teachings true and blessed-- With what strains of rapture, ravishing, sweet, Their teacher and guide did they once more meet, As she entered on her rest.

When to Villa Maria will come again Spring, with opening buds and gentle rain, Though her place be vacant there, The spirit of her teachings will ever dwell In the earthly home she loved so well, Treasured with sacred care.

The winds of winter, with sob and sigh, And dirge-like voices go wailing by, Waking echoes in every breast.