ALICE CAREY. I tell ye, banks of Krumley, The flowers that love her crowd to bloom O dim and dewy Krumley, O bold, bold winds of Krumley, O flower and bird, O wave and wind, 255 Then my heart said, Give o'er; The wind, the snow-storm, the wild hermit flower, The illuminated air, The pleasure after prayer, Proclaim the unoriginated Power! The mystery that hides him here and there. Opened her gorgeous missal in the sun, And thanked Him, soft and low, Whose gracious, liberal hand had clothed her so. When wearied, on the meadow-grass I sank; So narrow was the rill from which I drank, An infant might have stepped from bank to bank; And the tall rushes near Yet to the ocean joyously it went; For all the banks were spread With delicate flowers that on its bounty fed. The stately maize, a fair and goodly sight, With serried spear-points bristling sharp and bright, Shook out his yellow tresses, for delight, And every little bird upon the tree, Sang in the wild insanity of glee; And seemed, in the same lays, Calling his mate and uttering songs of praise. The golden grasshopper did chirp and sing; The plain bee, busy with her housekeeping, Kept humming cheerfully upon the wing, To the Creator lift a smiling face, Life's countless blessings was to live at all! So with a book of sermons, plain and true, Hid in my heart, where I might turn them through, I went home softly, through the falling dew, Still listening, rapt and calm, To Nature giving out her evening psalm. While, far along the west, mine eyes discerned, Where, lit by God, the fires of sunset burned, The tree-tops, unconsumed, to flame were turned; And I, in that great hush, Talked with His angels in each burning bush! NEARER HOME. ONE Sweetly welcome thought, Than I've ever been before; Nearer my Father's house Where the many mansions be; Nearer the Great White Throne, Nearer the Jasper Sea; Nearer that bound of life, Where we lay our burdens down, — Nearer leaving the cross, Nearer gaining the crown. But lying dimly between, Winding down through the night, Lies the dark and uncertain stream That leads us at length to the light. O LAND, of every land the best, - Take from your flag its fold of gloom, On mountain high, in valley low, Welcome, with shouts of joy and pride, Your veterans from the war-path's track; You gave your boys, untrained, untried; You bring them men and heroes back! And shed no tear, though think you must With sorrow of the martyred band; Not even for him whose hallowed dust Has made our prairies holy land. Though by the places where they fell, The places that are sacred ground, Death, like a sullen sentinel, Paces his everlasting round. Yet when they set their country free, And gave her traitors fitting doom, They left their last great enemy, Baffled, beside an empty tomb. 257 Not there, but risen, redeemed, they go Where all the paths are sweet with flowers; They fought to give us peace, and lo! They gained a better peace than ours. SYDNEY DOBELL. KEITH OF RAVELSTON. O HAPPY, happy maid, In the year of war and death She wears no sorrow! By her face so young and fair, By the happy wreath That rules her happy hair, She might be a bride to-morrow! She sits and sings within her moonlit bower, Her moonlit bower in rosy June, Like fragrance from some sweet nightblowing flower, Moves from her moving lips in many a mournful tune! She sings no song of love's despair, Has ever touched or bud or leaf Of her unblighted spring. She sings because she needs must sing; The murmur of the mourning ghost 66 The sorrows of thy line!" Ravelston, Ravelston, The merry path that leads Down the golden morning hill, And through the silver meads; Ravelston, Ravelston, The stile beneath the tree, The maid that kept her mother's kine, She sang her song, she kept her kine, Rode through the Monday morn ; His henchmen sing, his hawk-bells ring, His belted jewels shine! O Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line! Year after year, where Andrew came, Comes evening down the glade, And still there sits a moonshine ghost Where sat the sunshine maid. Her misty hair is faint and fair, The sorrows of thy line! I lay my hand upon the stile, Yet, stranger! here, from year to year, O Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line! Step out three steps, where Andrew stood: "T is not the burn I hear! She makes her immemorial moan, She keeps her shadowy kine; O Keith of Ravelston, THOMAS BURBIDGE. EVENTIDE. COMES Something down with eventide, Upon the river's rippling face, |