6
POEMS BY MISS ELIZA JANE STEPHENS.
And they no more may know of earth, Each throbbing pulse forever stilled.
And soft the evening shadows foll Across the hill and o'er the plain—And hushed to silence every song, But with the dawn they'll rise again.
But desolate that lovely home, Its light and joy forever fled,For those who glad went forth at morn, At night were sleeping with the dead.
BEAUTIFUL LIVES.
Oh beautiful lives some are living, Unheeded, it may be unknown,That will never be written in story, Or graven on standard or stone.
So quietly doing their duties, So patient with burdens to bear,That smother whatever of gladness Their spirits could otherwise share.
And such have I seen, so devoted To one who had blighted their life,Had wasted of talent and fortune In vice and dishonor and strife.
Had made an abode of stern sorrow What once was a beautiful home;Had broken the heart of the mother And driven the children to roam,
And yet when by reason of weakness, His steps he no longer could guide,These friends gave an arm to support him And never a word that would chide.
And watched with a pleasure unfeigned, Each slight indication of thought,Well knowing that his was a ruin, That selfish indulgence had wrought.
And when at the last they had laid him To slumber beneath the green sod,They buried his faults and his follies, Commending his soul unto God.
Ah, these had the spirit of martyrs, And are to such nearly allied;They braved a whole host of misfortunes And conquered ambition and pride.
ARE THEY WITH US?
Are they with us, who can tell me If the friends we hell so dear,That have passed beyond our vision, Come in spirit to us here?
Do they leave the realms of glory, Mansions too of heavenly bliss,Where no pain or death can enter, To revisit scenes like this?
Leave companionship so blessed As the angel host above,Wishing still to linger near us, Watching over earthly love?
Have they known how we have missed them All these long and weary years?Known our heavy weight of sorrow, Measured not by sighs and tears.
'T would be sweet to know them near us, Though too pare for mortal sight;'T would dispel life's deepest shadows— Earth would still seem fair and bright.
THE SUNBEAM.
I am a ray of sunlight, A gorgeous dazzling thingAnd fit about for pastime, Like Lind upon the wing.
I rest upon the forest, And as the leaves untold,I give to them their colors, Of purest green and gold.
I glance upon the river Before as dark as night,Anon 'tis rolling onward A wondrous flood of light.
I dart within the lily To find the dew-drop there,And joy to make it sparkling As any jewel rare.
I tint the clouds of evening With deep and varied he,And every morning give them A shade of something new.
I burnish well the castle, The halls of wealth and pride,For what were all their splendors If they had naught beside!
I visit oft the cottage, And look in at the door,Because I know the children Are playing on the floor.
I gild the pagan temple— The Christian's house of prayer—The foulest, as the purest, Are objects of my care.
The aged and the infant— The cradle and the bier—I touch them all, but kindly, As well the smile and tear.
And love awhile to linger Upon the grassy sodThat hides the mortal vesture Of souls returned to God.
Oh mine's a pleasant mission, So full it is of loveAnd easily accomplished, While floating here above.
SUMMER IS COMING.
Over the hill and the valley, Over the mountain and plain,Joyfully summer is coming, Bringing her beauties again.
See she is laden with garlands, Flinging them low at your feet;Colors the purest and deepest, Odors refreshing and sweet.
Listen, for songs are her welcome, With thousands of voices in tuneWoodland and grove are resounding, Merrily ushering June.
Sunbeams are chasing the shadows, Off from the velvety lea,Dancing and flitting like fairies, Mirthful, exultant and free.
Stronger and fresher and lighter, Every heart beats to-day,Gently the spirit of summer Bids us be hopeful for aye.
