COMFORT. If there should come a time as well there may, A shelter safe for thee when terrors smite? 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? Nor mar the counsel of mine own heart-throbs ? 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. It shall not happen thus, for I will rise, 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. 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 know where the apples hang ripest, They know where the fruit hangs the thickest, 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: Shall be held in the little brown hand. |