“With You Alway.”

Why seek ye for Jehovah Mid Sinai’s awful smoke? The burning bush now shelters A sparrow’s humble folk; The curve of God’s sweet heaven Is the curve of the leaf of oak; The Voice that stilled the tempest To little children spoke,-- The bread of life eternal Is the bread He blessed and broke.

DECEMBER 31.

Another year! What is the story by the twelve-month told? What treasure doth its memory enfold,-- Base coin, or gold? Sternly hath it hard lessons taught, Hath it new cares, new joys, new burdens brought? Few smiles, and many a tear?

Another year! What good and perfect gifts have gently come-- Knowing not whence, we have been blind and dumb! We ate the crumb Without the sparrow’s faith, but still, Father of Lights, Thou shinest on, and will, Thy frightened birds to cheer.

Another year! The sunlight pours its blessings as of old, Into the lap of each dear day,--its gold, Its wealth untold. As lessons new and sweet we gain, Still hoping to the highest to attain, We trust, and never fear.

Another year! But to the brave and true, lo, time is not! A thousand years are as a day, forgot The hardest lot, To those who walk beside their God, Loving the path His patient feet have trod, Knowing that He is near.

IN MY ARM-CHAIR.

Flickers the ruddy firelight on the wall; Now here, now there, the shadows restlessly Dance in and out among the gleaming bars That prison many a glimpse of sea and sky Upon the pictured canvas. Brightly falls The cheerful light upon familiar forms Of volumes clothed in sober garb and gay, Whose very names, in golden characters, Invite to solace sweet, and peace of mind. Footfalls incessant in the rainy street Mingle their dreary cadence with the roll And rhythmic echo of the iron wheel, Half muffled by the storm’s dull monotone. Within, the gentle presence of the flame, With its soft rustle ever and anon, Serves but to take away the very pain Of silence absolute. It is the hour For contemplation meet. The air is thronged With thoughts innumerable, fancies light, That flit about on airy wing, or play Among the fireborn shadows on the wall; Till, touched by the Promethean glow, they take A seeming form substantial, animate. From out their thin octavo cells pour forth The shapes ethereal of poet, sage, Philosopher, and man of God, whose words Make wisdom beautiful, and beauty wise. Silent they rise before me, one by one, E’en as the fabled genius, close involved Within the tiny casket, gained at last His proper self, and towered high above His liberator. But of other mien Are these strange forms around my hearth to-night. With aspect grave, yet kind, they gaze on me As old companions might on one they loved, Who loved them in return. I know each one, And recognize the habit of his life. Old Gilbert White--whose flowing locks, and dress Of quaint antiquity, precise and neat, Recall his quiet walks in Selborne wood-- Has paused with curious, meditative eye, Before an owl upon my mantle shelf, And rapidly, in shadowy script, records The sapient bird’s presentment. Near at hand, A man of kindly countenance and mild, Impressed with lines of pure and noble thought, Bends low in prayer; ere long resumes his pen, And adds one more sweet hymn to those that bear George Herbert’s name. Anon appears a face More gentle than the rest, it seems, with eyes Of deep and tender yearning. Silently The figure turns aside, and by the hearth Remains aloof, with dreamy gaze intent Upon the glowing coals. What fantasies Are imaged there, reflected from his mind, And striving for the elixir of his touch And wondrous pen, that give eternal life To such as they! Lo, built of candent fire The Old Manse drops its Mosses at his feet; Italia’s strange physician whispers now Of potent herb and flower. The Puritan, His wonted sternness softened, deigns to tell Of old-time guilt--the Scarlet Letter’s brand-- Till, glancing up, he shudders at the approach Of stricken Hester, with her demon child.

So wanes the night. In quick succession move Shades of the mighty dead before my eyes. Again is played the Comedy Divine, And gloomily the awful form of him Whose mind such Titan offspring bore, attends The movement of each scene. The cowl and robe, Close at his side, betray that zealous monk Whose life was Imitation of the Christ. Amid the still increasing throng, behold Sage Izaak Walton, creel and rod in hand; But while I gaze upon his visage mild, Expectant half to hear his counsel how The wily carp to ensnare, the fiery bridge O’er which my fancy boldly trod, and found Her way to realms unreal, topples down With mimic crash, and lies a ruined mass Upon the hearth. Yet by its waning glow I see the hurried parting of my guests, Retreating each within his narrow cell; As when beneath a monastery roof The low, sweet chant of vespers dies away,-- The last faint echoes lingering still within The moonlit cloisters,--silently the forms Of holy men glide to and fro among The shadows, till the hush of night descends With brooding wings, and gathers all to rest.

THE END.