The lilac has a load of balm

For every wind that stirs,

And the larch stands green and beautiful

Amid the sombre firs.

There's perfume upon every wind

Music in every tree

Dews for the moisture-loving flowers

Sweets for the sucking bee;

The sick come forth for the healing breeze, The young are gathering flowers;

And life is a tale of poetry,

That is told by golden hours.

If 'tis not true philosophy,

That the spirit when set free

Still lingers about its olden home,
In the flower and the tree,

It is very strange that our pulses thrill
At the tint of a voiceless thing,

And our hearts yearn so with tenderness

In the beautiful time of Spring.

ON WITNESSING A BAPTISM.

SHE stood up in the meekness of a heart
Resting on God, and held her fair young child
Upon her bosom, with its gentle eyes
Folded in sleep, as if its soul had gone
To whisper the baptismal vow in heaven.
The prayer went up devoutly, and the lips
Of the good man glowed fervently with faith
That it would be, even as he had pray'd,
And the sweet child be gather'd to the fold
Of Jesus. As the holy words went on
Her lips mov'd silently, and tears, fast tears,
Stole from beneath her lashes, and upon
The forehead of the beautiful child lay soft
With the baptismal water. Then I thought

That, to the eye of God, that mother's tears
Would be a deeper covenant, which sin

And the temptations of the world, and death,
Would leave unbroken, and that she would know
In the clear light of heaven, how very strong
The prayer which press'd them from her heart had

been

In leading its young spirit up to God.

THE ANNOYER.

"Common as light is love,

And its familiar voice wearies not ever."

LOVE knoweth every form of air,
And every shape of earth,
And comes, unbidden, everywhere,
Like thought's mysterious birth.
The moonlit sea and the sunset sky
Are written with Love's words,
And you hear his voice unceasingly,
Like song in the time of birds.

He

peeps into the warrior's heart

SHELLEY.

From the tip of a stooping plume,

And the serried spears, and the many men
May not deny him room.

He'll come to his tent in the weary night,

And be busy in his dream ;

And he'll float to his eye in morning light
Like a fay on a silver beam.

He hears the sound of the hunter's gun,
And rides on the echo back,

And sighs in his ear, like a stirring leaf,

And flits in his woodland track.

The shade of the wood, and the sheen of the river
The cloud, and the open sky-

He will haunt them all with his subtle quiver.
Like the light of your very eye.

The fisher hangs over the leaning boat,

And ponders the silver sea,

For Love is under the surface hid,

And a spell of thought has he,

He heaves the wave like a bosom sweet,

And speaks in the ripple low,