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POEMS BY MISS ELIZA JANE STEPHENS.
CHILDREN.
How glad are tho homes when the children are born There's thankfulness, feasting and mirth, As each little mortal, a being to love, Awakes to the beauties of earth.
And glad are the hearts if the children prove fair, Have cheeks that with roses can vie,Hive brows that are lofty and lips that are curved, Are thoughtful and dreamy of eye.
But great the rejoicing if too they are good, And loving what's noble and pure, For brow, cheek and lips are soon blighted by time, But goodness may ever endure.
WINTER.
The snow lies deep o'er vale and hill, For not a trace of earth is seen, Save just a circle brown and dark, Beneath some stately evergreen; And compensation then is made For leaving bare the trunk below; By giving to each stooping bough A gentle drift of fleecy snow.
The torrent we were wont to see Its foaming waters grandly pour Adown the crags and o'er the rocks, Is hushed as if forevermore,And like a castle hung in air It glitters in the morning sun, With lofty icy battlements, And crystal turrets quaintly done.
And beautiful the clouds of frost That hover 'round the mountain's brow, At first a thin and silvery veil, But tinted like the rainbow now. How well their beauty does accord, As gracefully they float along, With music wafted through the pines Which seems the spirit of a song.
What myriads of travelers too There is abroad both day and night,Though footprints left are all the proof That often greets the human sight,But thick beneath the sturdy oak. And 'round about the chestnut tree, And among the gardens withered weeds, The tracks are wonderful to see.
And paths are hard on many hills, Worn smooth as glass by tiny feet, For sure, without the ice and snow, The children's joys were ne'er complete, With rosy cheeks and flashing eyes, With merry laugh and shout and song, Now first they learn to prize their time, For quite too swift it speeds along.
They must divide the precious hours Between the sports of skate and sled,And half the figures they can make Upon the ice would turn your head. They leave the hill and seek the pond, Then hie again from pond to hill, And though to labor not a friend, Are laboring with an earnest will.
But many joys the winter beings For those long past their youthful years,Of quiet ease, and plenty joined, And friendly intercourse that cheers, And though it has a chilling voice, A grasp that often makes us start,There is no winter we should dread Unless 'tis winter of the heart.
But if the wealth of love is hid, And checked the flow of feeling warm The souls best attributes are dead, And living is a useless form.
BELIEVING.
Be sure there's some believe in good, That faithfully perform their part,And would rejoice if all were blest, And peace enthroned in every heart.
That steadfast hold the ancient faith That each will meet their just reward, And reverence still the sacred word As revelation from the Lord.
And strive to keep alive the hope The world grows better day by day, That all grow wise with wisdom learned Each in their own peculiar way.
And some there are with souls so great They live all selfishness above,And laboring for the good of all They triumph by the power of love.
SELF.
He turned aside from aught of pain, Nor lent a listening ear to grief,In old or young such heartlessness Was strange, almost beyond belief.
He gave no alms to those in need, No sympathy for all their woe,Not even kindly words he said, That bless the heart from whence they flow.
And love, his love was all for self, His heart had no responsive chords, He longed for praise, for flattery, The meed a trifling world awards.
But when misfortune came to him He wondered that his friends wore few, He had not seen as others saw, The world was wiser than he knew.
TRIALS.
The way is lonely; friends we loved, The friends who made our journey bright Have suffered, and have passed beyond The farthest range of mortal sight.
Our paths are rough, and we forlorn Have sought for aid on every side; But when misfortune's torrent sweeps, Neglect will surely swell the tide.
And we have toiled with all our strength For what we've seen our fellows gain; To them it came unsought, unasked, But all our patient toil was vain.
In sickness and in sore distress We've found that sympathy was rare; Companions asked why should we fret, For we the common lot must share.
And so it is; why should we fret At sickness, sorrow, pain or loss, Since none can hope to win a crown Who faint and falter 'neath a cross.
