I see how to peoples and times
The life of the Singer leaps on,
And gladdens the welcoming climes,
Like Spring-bursts of blossom and sun.

I ache with the stress and the strain-
Its music and wildness and heat;
Yet pressed on the heart of my pain
Are the lips of its prophecy sweet.

And singing myself I go—

Unconscious of frown or of rod-
To the work whose choruses flow
With the joy and the praises of God.

CHIMNEY SWALLOWS.

I slept in an old homestead by the sea;
And in their chimney-nest,

At night, the swallows told home-lore to me,
As to a friendly guest.

A liquid twitter, low, confiding, glad,

From many glossy throats,

Was all the voice, and yet its accents had

A poem's golden notes.

Quaint legends of the fire-side and the shore,

And sounds of festal cheer,

And tones of those whose tasks of love are o'er,

Were breathed into mine ear;

And wondrous lyrics felt, but never sung—

The heart's melodious bloom;—

And histories whose perfumes long had clung About each hallowed room.

I heard the dream of lovers as they found

At last their hour of bliss,

And fear, and pain, and long suspense were drowned In one heart-healing kiss.

I heard the lullaby of babes, that grew

To sons and daughters fair;

And childhood's angels singing as they flew,
And sobs of secret prayer.

I heard the voyagers who seemed to sail
Into the sapphire sky,

And sad, weird voices in the Autumn gale,

As the swift ships went by;

And sighs suppressed, and converse soft and low

About the sufferer's bed,

And what is uttered when the stricken know

That the dear one is dead;

And steps of those who in the Sabbath light

Muse with transfigured face;

And hot lips pressing through the long, dark night

The pillows' empty place;

And gracious greetings of old friends whose path

In youth had gone apart,

But to each other brought life's aftermath,

With uncorroded heart.

The music of the seasons touched the strain,

Bird-joy and laugh of flowers,

The orchards' bounty and the yellow grain,
Snow-storm and sunny showers:

And secrets of the soul that doubts and yearns, And gropes in regions dim,

Till meeting Christ, with raptured eye, discerns Its perfect life in Him.

So thinking of the Master and His tears,
And how the birds are kept,

I sank in arms that folded me from fears,
And, like an infant, slept.

ONE YEAR.

A year of sweets—a little year

That vanished with our darling's breath:

So strange! it doth not yet appear

What is the blessing hid in death.

One little year, yet oh! how long,

With such a love as made our light:

Each day was a delicious song,

Whose rapture lasted through the night.

There came with him the keener sense
Of what the perfect life may be;
And sad years had their recompense
In what he gave unknowingly.

The household voices caught his glee,

The tasks of home were changed to play:

The freshness of his infancy

On every pleasant prospect lay.

How restful the contented heart

Held his rare sweetness to its core, And turned from empty shows apart― Rich in his riches more and more.

O shining brow and golden hair

And eyes that looked beyond the blue! Dear face, that grew from fair to fair,

The same, yet always something new!

A sweeter dream who ever dreamed

Than came with his soft lips to ours? Blent with his life, our being seemed Drowned in the glowing soul of flowers.

All through the years his beauty shone;
His path and ours appeared the same;
And every good we called our own
Was linked with his beloved name.

O heart of God that pities all!

O Love that gives and takes away! Confused and faint, on Thee we fall,

Yet know not how we ought to pray,

Save this, that in our doubt and fear
We wait as loving children should.

We cannot see nor far nor near,

But trust that somehow all is good.

Marplant J. Preston

THE LADY HILDEGARDE'S WEDDING.

A BALLAD.

"I dare not doubt his word,”—she said,
With steadfast voice and clear;
"For sure as knight did ever plight
True faith, he will be here.

-Sir Walter dallies with his blade,
And his steel eyne grew wroth:
Nay, sweetheart, see!--it cannot be:
Thy knight hath broke his troth."

Out spake the Lady Hildegarde
With grieved, reproachful air:
"None other may such slander say,—
My father only dare!

"My bower-maids all await my call,
My bridesmen will be here;

And merry throngs with wedding-songs
Shall bide at Lyndismere."