Laura Secord, the heroine of 1812 Part 22

TO A CHILD

SINGING "JESUS LOVES ME, THIS I KNOW."

Sing, little darling, sing, And may thy song be everlasting!

Not all the learning wits and sages boast Can equal the sweet burden of thy song;-- Can yield such rest amid life's noisiest strife;-- Such peace to still the spirit's wildest wars;-- Such hope to stem the most tumultuous wave May threat to overwhelm.

The love of Jesus,-- Sweet, having this thou risest far above All this world's clouds, and catchest glimpse of Heaven.

Did He who blest That infant band that crowded round His knee, See, in a face like thine, a tender memory Of that dear home He left for our sakes?

It may be; nay, it must: "Of such," He said, "My Father's kingdom." And His great heart Went out in fondest tones: His soft embrace Encircling such as thou, thrilled out that love That vibrates yet, and still enfolds so warm His tender lambs.

Sing, little darling, sing, And may thy song be everlasting.

HOME.

The morning sun shone soft and bright, The air was pure and clear, My steady steps fell quick and light, Nor knew my soul a fear.

For though the way was long and cold, The end I knew not where, Hope's vivid pictures made me bold To wait, or do, or dare.

But ah, the change when evening gray Curtained a cloudy sky, And languid, I retraced the way My feet could scarce descry!

By rugged care my heart was bruised, Hope's rainbow tints were gone; To this world's watch and ward unused, I could but stumble on.

The rough wind's breath, the dark sky's frown Fell like the stroke of wrath, When--from above a star looked down-- A ray beamed on my path.

The light of Home--oh, blessed light-- To weary wanderers dear!

The light of Heaven, oh, glorious light To souls that stumble here!

What matters now the weary road, My toil shall soon be o'er; And, oh, at last, at home with G.o.d Life's cares shall cark no more.

Be this my hope! Be this my aim!

Though rough the road may be, Thy feet, blest Jesus, trod the same, And I would follow Thee.

LOST WITH HIS BOAT.

Alone--alone! I sit, and make my moan.

The fire burns low, the candle flickers dim.

Alone--alone! I rock, and think of him.

Of him who left me in the purple pride Of early manhood. _Yestermorn_ he went.

The sun shone bright, and scintillant the tide.

O'er which the sea-mew swept, with dewy drops besprent.

Before he went he kissed me; and I watched His boat that lay so still and stately, till Automaton she seemed, and that she moved To where she willed of her own force and law.

But I knew better: _his_ was the will That set the pretty sprite a-going.

His arms controlled her to obedience: Those arms that lately clasped me.

No alarms Chilled my fond heart, nor dimmed my vision.

As I saw the fair white messenger move off On fleecy puffs of cloud into the blue; My nearest thought to trim my hearth, and make, A dainty dish would please my darling's taste On his return. And all day long, and through The dreamy summer day, my thoughts were full Of many a gay return; my ears reheard The cheery word and joke were wont to mark them.

Nor when the sun went down in wrack and mist-- A mist that gathers who knows how or where?-- Feared I of aught. My little hearth burned bright.

The kettle sang, and p.u.s.s.y purred and napped; And--rocking to and fro, as I do now, I hummed a little song; one _he_, had sung In other days, and with the manly tones Had stolen my heart away.

The hearth burned low; I ate my meal alone, And something like a fear I chased away, Despite the deepening surges of the wind That scurried round our cot.

I slept: and waked What time the summer storm, that rose and fell In sullen gusts, flew by; and slept again, And dreamed a glad return. When morning broke A glorious day begun. The storm was gone: The sparkling waves toyed with the lilting breeze; The merry sun shone bright; and all the blue Was decked with tiny flecks of feathery white.

A gladsome morn! But I, I missed my love.

_And now they say he's dead_. Lost, with his boat, In that short summer storm of yesternight.

Lost! _lost_! my love is lost! No more may I Welcome his step, hear his glad voice, and kiss His laughing lips. I may not even clasp His cold dead form in one long, last embrace!

And here I sit alone.-- I drove them all away, their words but maddened me.

Alone I sit, And rock, and think,--I cannot weep-- And conjure up the depths, those cruel depths That chafe and fret, and roll him to and fro Like a stray log:--he, whose dear limbs should lie Peaceful and soft, in rev'rent care bestowed.-- Or in the sunken boat, gulfed at his work, I see his blackened corse, even in death Faithful to duty. O that those waves, That with their gentle lullaby mock my wild woe, Would rise in all their might and 'whelm me too!

Oh, love!--oh, love!--my love!

LIFE IN DEATH.

On her pale bier the baby lay, And healthy children from their play, With tip-toe awe and bated breath, Came gently in to look on Death.

One touched the flowers that decked the bier; Another dropped a little tear; One stroked the cheek so waxy white; And one cowered weeping with affright.

But one fair boy won Life from Death By that quick faith that childhood hath; And cried, with gaze past present things, "P'raps baby's trying her new wings."

INVOCATION TO RAIN.

MAY, 1874.

O blessed angel of the All-bounteous King, Where dost thou stay so long? Our sad hearts pine, Our spirits faint, for thee. Our weary eyes Scan all the blue expanse, where not a cloud Floats low to rest our vision. In vain we turn Or East or West, no vap'rous haze, nor view Of distant panorama, wins our souls To other worlds. All, all is hard and scant.

Thy brother Spring is come.

His favourite haunts the sheltering woods betray-- The woods that, dark and cheerless yet, call thee.

Tender hepaticas peep forth, and mottled leaves Of yellow dog's tooth vie with curly fronds Of feathery fern, in strewing o'er his path; The dielytra puts her necklace on, Of pearly pendants, topaz-tipped or rose.

Gray buds are on the orchard trees, and gra.s.s Grows up in single blades and braves the sun.

But thou!--O, where art thou, sweet early Rain, That with thy free libations fill'st our cup?

The contemplative blue-bird pipes his note From off the ridge cap, but can find no spot Fit for his nest. The red-breast on the fence Explores the pasture with his piercing eye, And visits oft the bushes by the stream, But takes no mate. For why? No leaves or tuft Are there to hide a home. Oh what is earth Without a home? On the dry garden bed, The sparrow--the little immigrant bird-- Hops quick, and looks askance, And pecks, and chirps, asking for kindly crumbs-- Just two or three to feed his little mate: Then, on return from some small cunning nook Where he has hidden her, he mounts the wires, Or garden fence, and sings a happy song Of home, and other days. A-missing thee The husbandman goes forth with faltering step And dull sad eye; his sweltering team pulls hard The lab'ring plough, but the dry earth falls back As dead, and gives nor fragrant fume, nor clogs The plough-boy's feet with rich enc.u.mb'ring mould.

The willows have a little tender green.

And swallows cross the creek--the gurgling creek Now fallen to pools--but, disappointed, Dart away so swift, and fly so high We scarce can follow them. Thus all the land Doth mourn for thee.

Ah! here thou comest--sweet Rain.

Soft, tender Rain! benison of the skies!

See now, what transformation in thy touch!

Straight all the land is green. The blossoming trees Put on their bridal wreaths, and veil their charms From the too ardent sun, beneath thy gift Of soft diaphanous tissue, pure and white As angel's raiment. Little wood children Deck all the path with flowers. The teeming earth Offers rich gifts. The little choristers Sing ceaseless hymns, and the glad husbandman Adds his diapason. Bright fountains wake And mingle with the swift roulade of streams.

The earth is full of music! Thou dost swing Thy fragrant censer high, and dwellers in The dusty city raise their toil-worn heads From desk and bench, and cry "Summer is here!"

And straight they smell new hay and clover blooms; And see the trout swift-darting in the brooks: And hear the plover whistling in the fields.

And little children dream of daisy chains; And pent-up youth thinks of a holiday; A holiday with romps, and cream, and flowers.

O, Rain! O, soft, sweet Rain! O liberal Rain!

Touch our hard hearts, that we may more become Like that Great Heart, whose almoner art thou.