Sarab bammond Palfrey.

1830.

THE LIGHT-HOUSE.

O'er waves that murmur ever nigh
My window, opening toward the deep,
The light-house, with its wakeful eye,
Looks into mine, that shuts to sleep.

I lose myself in idle dreams,

And wake in smiles or sighs or fright,
According to my vision's themes,
And see it shining in the night.

Forever there, and still the same;
While many more beside me mark
On various course, with various aim,
That light that shineth in the dark.

It draws my heart towards those who roam Unknown, nor to be known by me;

I see it, and am glad at home,

They see it, and are safe at sea.

The common air has generous wings :
Songs make their way.

No messenger to run before,

Devising plan;

No mention of the place, or hour,
To any man;

No waiting till some sound betrays
A listening ear;

No different voice, no new delays,
If steps draw near.

"What bird is that? The song is good." And eager eyes

Go peering through the dusky wood
In glad surprise.

Then, late at night, when by his fire,
The traveller sits,

Watching the flame grow brighter, higher,
The sweet song flits

By snatches, through his weary brain,
To help him rest.

When next he goes that road again,
An empty nest

On leafless bough will make him sigh:
"Ah me! last spring,

Just here I heard, in passing by,
That rare bird sing."

But while he sighs, remembering

How sweet the song,

The little bird, on tireless wing,
Is borne along

In other air; and other men,
With weary feet,

On other roads, the simple strain

Are finding sweet.

The birds must know. Who wisely sings
Will sing as they.

The common air has generous wings:
Songs make their way.

A LAST PRAYER.

Father, I scarcely dare to pray,
So clear I see, now it is done,
That I have wasted half my day,
And left my work but just begun ;

So clear I see that things I thought
Were right or harmless were a sin ;
So clear I see that I have sought,
Unconscious, selfish aims to win;

So clear I see that I have hurt

The souls I might have helped to save,
That I have slothful been, inert,
Deaf to the calls Thy leaders gave.

In outskirts of Thy kingdoms vast,
Father, the humblest spot give me ;
Set me the lowliest task Thou hast,
Let me repentant work for Thee!

Unknown.

THE THRUSH.

Songster of the russet coat,

Full and liquid is thy note;

Plain thy dress, but great thy skill,
Captivating at thy will.

Small musician of the field,

Near my bower thy tribute yield,

Little servant of the ear,

Ply thy task, and never fear.

I will learn from thee to praise
God, the Author of my days;
I will learn from thee to sing,
Christ, my Saviour and my King;
Learn to labor with my voice,
Make the sinking heart rejoice.

Edmund Clarence Stedman.

1833.

THE SINGER.

O lark! sweet lark!

Where learn you all minstrelsy?

What realms are those to which you fly?
While robins feed their young from dawn till dark,
You soar on high,—

Forever in the sky.

O child! dear child!

Above the clouds I lift my wing

To hear the bells of Heaven ring;

Some of their music, though my flights be wild, To Earth I bring:

Then let me soar and sing!

FROM "THE ORDEAL BY FIRE."

Thou, who dost feel Life's vessel strand
Full-length upon the shifting sand,
And hearest breakers close at hand,

Be strong and wait! nor let the strife,
With which the winds and waves are rife,
Disturb that sacred inner life.