Yesterdays Part 11

(But what is sadder than the sweets that cloy.)

My heart is green with leaf.a.ge; come and wake The old-time echoes with the songs of glee, For only echoes now are left to me, Though bloom and beauty cling to bush and brake.

A CRUSHED LEAF

An hour ago when the wind blew high At my lady's window a red leaf beat.

Then dropped at her door, where, pa.s.sing by, She carelessly trod it under her feet.

I have taken it out of the dust and dirt, With a tender pity but half defined.

Ah! poor bruised leaf, with your stain and hurt, 'A fellow-feeling doth make us kind.'

On winds of pa.s.sion my heart was blown, Like an autumn leaf one hapless day.

At my lady's window with tap and moan It burned and fluttered its life away.

Bright with the blood of its wasting tide It glowed in the sun of her laughing eyes.

What cared she though a stray heart died-- What to her were its sobs and sighs.

The winds of pa.s.sion were spent at last, And my heart like the leaf in her pathway lay; And under her slender foot as she pa.s.sed, My lady she trod it and went her way.

So I picked the leaf from its dusty place, With a tender pity--too well defined.

And I laid it here in this velvet case, Ah! a fellow-feeling doth make us kind.

A CURIOUS STORY

I heard such a curious story Of Santa Claus: once, so they say, He set out to see what people were kind, Before he took presents their way.

'This year I will give but to givers, To those who make presents themselves,'

With a nod of his head old Santa Claus said To his band of bright officer-elves.

'Go into the homes of the happy Where pleasure stands page at the door.

Watch well how they live, and report what they give To the hordes of G.o.d's suffering poor.

Keep track of each cent and each moment; Yes, tell me each word, too, they use: To silver line clouds for earth's suffering crowds, And tell me, too, when they refuse.'

So into our homes flew the fairies, Though never a soul of us knew, And with pencil and book they sat by and took Each action, if false, or if true.

White marks for the deeds done for others-- Black marks for the deeds done for self.

And n.o.body hid what he said or he did, For no one, of course, sees an elf.

Well, Christmas came all in its season, And Santa Claus, so I am told, With a very light pack of small gifts on his back, And his reindeers all left in the fold, Set out on a leisurely journey, And finished ere midnight, they say.

And there never had been such surprise and chagrin Before on the breaking of day,

As there was on that bright Christmas morning When stockings, and cupboards, and shelves Were ransacked and sought in, for gifts that were not in-- But wasn't it fun for the elves!

And what did _I_ get? You confuse me-- _I got not one thing_, and that's true; But had I suspected my actions detected I would have had gifts, wouldn't you?

JENNY LIND

There was a something in your song, men say No later singer voices: some strange power Like to the essence in a rare June day, Or like the subtle perfume of a flower.

Awed and inspired, your listeners turned away, Baptized in your sweet music's holy shower.

For through that music shone the glorious dower Of your great soul: here all the secret lay.

Not for the honours of this earth you sang-- Not for its gold or glory, not for art, Not for the fortunes at your fair feet hurled.

The love of G.o.d through all your measures rang, And each pure note bespoke a n.o.ble heart.

When worth weds genius, lo! they rule the world.

LIFE'S KEY

The hand that fas.h.i.+oned me, tuned my ear To chord with the major key, In the darkest moments of life I hear Strains of courage, and hope, and cheer From choirs that I cannot see.

And the music of life seems so inspired That it will not let me grow sad or tired.

Yet through and under the major strain, I hear with the pa.s.sing of years, The mournful minor measure of pain, Of souls that struggle and toil in vain For a goal that never nears.

And the sorrowful cadence of good gone wrong, Breaks more and more into earth's glad song.

And oft in the dark of the night I wake And think of sorrowing lives, And I long to comfort the hearts that ache, To sweeten the cup that is bitter to take, And to strengthen each soul that strives.

I long to cry to them 'Do not fear, Help is coming and aid is near.'

However desolate, weird, or strange Life's melody sounds to you, Before to-morrow the air may change, And the Great Director of music arrange A programme perfectly new.

And the dirge in minor may suddenly be Turned into a jubilant song of glee.

BRIDGE OF PRAYER

The bridge of prayer from heavenly heights suspended Unites the earth with spirit-realms in s.p.a.ce.

The interests of those separate worlds are blended For those whose feet turn often toward that place.

In troubled nights of sorrow and repining, When joy and hope seem sunk in dark despair, We still may see above the shadows s.h.i.+ning, The gleaming archway of the bridge of prayer.

From that fair height, our souls may lean and listen To sounds of music from the farther sh.o.r.e, And through the vapours, sometimes dear eyes glisten Of loved ones who have hastened on before.

And angels come from their Celestial City-- And meet us half way on the bridge of prayer.

G.o.d sends them forth, full of divinest pity To strengthen us for burdens we must bear.

Oh! you whose feet walk in some shadowed by-way, Far from the scenes of pleasure and delight, Still free to you hangs this suspended highway, Where heavenly glories dawn upon the sight.