So the ivy thrives from morn to morn,
Its leaves all turned to the light;

And it gladdens my soul with its tender green,
And teaches me day and night.

What though my lot is in lowly place,
And my spirit behind the bars;
All the long day I may look at the sun,
And at night look out at the stars.

What though the dust of earth would dim,
There's a glorious outer air

That will sweep through my soul if I let it in,
And make it fresh and fair.

Dear God! let me grow from day to day,
Clinging and sunny and bright!

Though planted in shade, Thy window is near,
And my leaves may turn to the light.

THERE'S A WEDDING IN THE ORCHARD.

There's a wedding in the orchard, dear,
I know it by the flowers:

They're wreathed on every bough and branch, Or falling down in showers.

The air is in a mist, I think,

And scarce knows which to beWhether all fragrance, clinging close, Or bird-song, wild and free.

And countless wedding-jewels shine,
And golden gifts of grace:

I never saw such wealth of sun
In any shady place.

It seemed I heard the fluttering robes
Of maidens clad in white,

The clasping of a thousand hands
In tenderest delight;

While whispers ran among the boughs

Of promises and praise;

And playful, loving messages

Sped through the leaf-lit ways.

Then were there swayings to and fro;
The weeds a-tiptoe rose ;

And sang the breeze a sudden song
That sank to sudden close.

And just beyond the wreathèd aisles
That end against the blue,
The raiment of the wedding-choir
And priest came shining through.

And though I saw no wedding-guest.
Nor groom, nor gentle bride,
I know that holy things were asked,
And holy love replied.

Soon will the lengthening shadows move

Unwillingly away,

Like friends who linger with adieux

Yet are not bid to stay.

I follow where the blue-bird leads,
And hear its soft "Good-night,"
Still thinking of the wedding scene
And aisles of flowery light.

Margaret Elizabeth Sangster.

1838.

OUR OWN.

If I had known, in the morning,
How wearily all the day

The words unkind would trouble my mind
That I said when you went away,

I had been more careful, darling,

Nor given you needless pain;

But-we vex our own with look and tone We might never take back again.

For though in the quiet evening.
You may give me the kiss of peace,
Yet it well might be that never for me
The pain of the heart should cease!
How many go forth at morning

Who never come home at night,

And hearts have been broken for harsh words

spoken

That sorrow can ne'er set right.

We have careful thought for the stranger,

And smiles for the sometime guest,

But oft for our own the bitter tone,
Though we love our own the best.
Ah, lip with the curve impatient,

Ah, brow with the shade of scorn,
'T were cruel fate were the night too late
To undo the work of morn.

Edna Dean Proctor.

1838.

TAKE HEART.

All day the stormy wind has blown
From off the dark and rainy sea;
No bird has past the window flown,
The only song has been the moan
The wind made in the willow-tree.

This is the summer's burial-time ;

She died when dropped the earliest leaves;
And, cold upon her rosy prime,
Fell down the autumn's frosty rime;

Yet I am not as one that grieves,—

For well I know o'er sunny seas

The bluebird waits for April skies;
And at the roots of forest trees

The May-flowers sleep in fragrant ease,
And violets hide their azure eyes.

O thou, by winds of grief o'erblown

Beside some golden summer's bier,-
Take heart! Thy birds are only flown,
Thy blossoms sleeping, tearful sown,
To greet thee in the immortal year!

Egbert Phelps.

1838.

SUNBEAMS.

A baby sat on his mother's knee,

On the golden morn of a summer's day, Clapping his tiny hands in glee,

As he watched the shifting sunbeams play.

A sunbeam glanced through the open door, With its shimmering web of atoms fine, And crept along on the sanded floor

In a glittering, glimmering, golden line.

The baby laughed in his wild delight,

And clutched at the quivering golden band; But the sunbeam fled from his eager sight,

And naught remained in the dimpled hand.