Calm me, my God, and keep me Calm in the sufferance of wrong, calm, Let thine outstretchèd wing Be like the shade of Elim's palm Beside her desert spring. Like Him who bore my shame, Calm mid the threatening, taunting Yes, keep me calm, though loud and Calm when the great world's news rude. The sounds my ear that greet, Calm in the hour of buoyant health, with power My listening spirit stir; Let not the tidings of the hour E'er find too fond an ear; Calm as the ray of sun or star And her heart, with its sweet secret Through our voices runs the tender THE honey-bee that wanders all day | Go forth in life, O friend! not seeking love, A mendicant that with imploring eye And outstretched hand asks of the passers-by The alms his strong necessities may move: Seeks not alone the rose's glowing| For such poor love, to pity near allied, Thy generous spirit may not stoop and wait, breast, The lily's dainty cup, the violet's lips, But from all rank and noxious weeds he sips, The single drop of sweetness closely pressed Within the poison chalice. Thus, if we, Seek only to draw forth the hidden sweet In all the varied human flowers we In the wide garden of humanity, Hived in our hearts, it turns to nec- O TIME! who know'st a lenient hand On! when 'tis summer weather, The faint pang stealest, unperceived away; On thee I rest my only hope at last, And think when thou hast dried the bitter tear That flows in vain o'er all my soul held dear, I may look back on every sorrow past, To hear the murmuring dove, And to wind through the greenwood And meet life's peaceful evening with But when 't is winter weather, a smile And crosses grieve, The lattice beat, Oh! then 't is sweet, the friends with whom, in the roamed through the greenwood together. ANNA C. BRACKETT. IN GARFIELD'S DANGER. Is it not possible that all the love From all these million hearts, which breathless turns "What news?" and then, We cannot spare him yet!" Bear on, brave heart! The land does not forget. MARY E. BRADLEY. BEYOND RECALL. THERE was a time when death and I You thought me dead: you called Met face to face together: I was but young indeed to die, And it was summer weather; You knelt beside me, and I heard, my name, And back from Death itself I came. MARY BOLLES BRANCH. THE PETrified fERN. IN a valley, centuries ago, Grew a little fern-leaf, green and slender, Veining delicate and fibres tender; Waving when the wind crept down so low; Rushes tall, and moss, and grass grew round it, Playful sunbeams darted in and found it, Drops of dew stole in by night, and crowned it, But no foot of man e'er trod that way; Earth was young and keeping holiday. Monster fishes swam the silent main, Stately forests waved their giant branches, Mountains hurled their snowy avalanches, Mammoth creatures stalked across the plain; Nature revelled in grand mysteries; But the little fern was not of these, Did not number with the hills and trees. Only grew and waved its wild sweet way, No one came to note it day by day. ANNE BRONTÉ. IF THIS BE ALL. O God! if this indeed be all And wake to weary woe!- And love must keep so far away, With constant care and frequent pain, The silent current from within, The outward torrent's swell; While all the good I would impart The feelings I would share, |