Page images
PDF
EPUB

COMFORT.

If there should come a time as well there may,
When sudden tribulation smites thine heart,
And thou dost come to me for help, and stay,
And comfort-how shall I perform my part?
How shall I make my heart a resting-place,

A shelter safe for thee when terrors smite?
How shall I bring the sunshine to thy face,

And dry thy tears in bitter woes' despite? How shall I win strength to keep my voice,

Steady and firm, although I hear thy sobs?
How shall I bid thy fainting soul rejoice,

Nor mar the counsel of mine own heart-throbs ?
Love, my love, teaches me a certain way,
So, if the dark hour comes, I am thy stay.

I must live higher, nearest the reach

Of angels in their blessed truthfulness, Learn their usefulness, ere I can teach

Content to thee whom I would greatly bless.
Ah, me! what woe were mine if thou should'st come,
Troubled, but trusting unto me for aid,
And I should meet thee, powerless and dumb,
Willing to help thee, but confused, afraid?

It shall not happen thus, for I will rise,
God helping me, to higher life, and gain

Courage and strength to thee counsel wise,

And deeper love to bless thee in thy pain. Fear not, dear love, thy trial hour shall be The dearest bond between my heart and thee.

[graphic]

LITTLE BROWN HANDS.

MARY H. KROUT.

[The following poem, written by MARY H. KROUT, of Crawfordsville, Ind., ten years ago, when its author was in her thirteenth year, is one of the most beautiful and expressive ever penned in the English language, and should find a place throughout the length and breadth of America wherever the dignity of labor is recognized:]

They drive home the cows from the pasture,

Up through the long, shady lane,

Where the quail whistles loud in the wheat field,

That is yellow with ripening grain.

They find, in the thick waving grasses,

Where the scarlet-lipped strawberry grows,

They gather the earliest snowdrops,

And the first crimson buds of the rose.

They toss the hay in the meadow,

They gather the elder bloom white,
They find where the dusky grapes purple
In the soft tinted October light.

They know where the apples hang ripest,
And are sweeter than Italy's wines;

They know where the fruit hangs the thickest,
On the long, thorny blackberry vines.

They gather the delicate seaweeds,

51

And build tiny castles of sand: They pick up the beautiful sea shellsFairy barks that have drifted to land. They wave from the tall, rocking tree tops, Where the Oriole's hammock nest swings, And at night time are folded in slumber By a song that a fond mother sings.

Those who toil bravely are strongest;

The humble and poor become great:
And from those brown-handed children
Shall grow mighty rulers of state.
The pen of the author and statesman,
The noble and wise of the land,
The sword and chisel and palette

Shall be held in the little brown hand.

[blocks in formation]
« ՆախորդըՇարունակել »