THE PRISONER OF HOPE.

THE PRISONER OF HOPE.

"Turn you to the strongholds, ye prisoners of hope."

A WORN and weary pilgrim on a dangerous path alone,
On a night of stormy darkness, I sadly struggled on;

Struggled on, though thorns and brambles scourged my feet and

barred my way,

Crying ever in my anguish, would to God that it were day.

A light broke through the darkness, 'twas the flash of angel wings,
And tones fell on my spirit's ear like a flute's low whisperings,
Saying, "Pilgrim, cease thy wailing, raise thine eyes, and thou wilt see
The palace refuge I have reared for weary ones like thee."

So potent were those gentle tones, that ere their echoes fled,
The storm-fiend shook his horrid wings and to his caverns sped:
In the thorny waste around me a thousand flowers were born,
And the skies grew irridescent with the glorious hues of morn.

I turned to see whence came the voice, and lo, a form I knew,
With floating locks of golden sheen and robes of heavenly blue;
I knew those fair far-looking eyes, that graceful buoyant form,
I knew the radiant presence that had smiled away the storm.

It was Hope, my life's sweet angel, dove of promise, aye returning,
Uttering her glad evangel, all the dark to brightness turning,
Pointing with her rosy finger to a mansion high and fair,
A rock-based mighty fortress, yet a palace rich and rare,

Glowing with supernal splendours, radiant with celestial flame, Flowing through its pearly portals streams of star-born music came; Deep were laid its firm foundations, but its summits towered afar Till they touched a world of beauty past the sphere of any star.

Shining ones on tireless pinions hovered round that palace home,
Saying with inviting gestures and beseeching voices, "Come;"
So I passed the odorous precints, stepped within the jasper hall,
Gazed upon its mystic beauty till each sense was held in thrall.

Pacing those ethereal chambers in the wondrous purple light,
All my being I surrendered as to an enchanter's might.

"Now," I cried, "the storms may hurtle, and the savage winds may roar, I am Hope's rejoicing captive, safe and happy evermore."

MEMORY.

SWEET Memory come, not as thou cam'st of late,
With glooming brow, dull eye, and temples crowned
With yellow leaves and cypress, but in state

Of joyance, bringing back to me the sound
Of singing birds and rills from frost unbound.
Come robed in sunny hues of all bright things
That I have looked upon, and loved, and found
To be the dearest, from the upwelling springs
Of the far past sweet draughts I pray thee ever bring.

MEMORY.

Come with the woodland moss upon thy feet;
Come garlanded with dewy forest flowers;
Bring dear familiar tones from fountains sweet;
Waft hither music from old wild-wood bowers;
I would live o'er again those golden hours

That I have spent in sporting 'mid the wild,
Drinking pure joy from nature, scorning towers
And palace splendours; I would be a child
Again, and wander free of every care beguiled.
Thou comest, Memory, I can feel the past

As if it were the present. Sun-bright days
Are passing o'er me; hours too bright to last;
Unclouded skies lit up with golden rays
Of summer's suns. I see an eye that says

All loving things. It is my Father's eye
Beaming with goodness. On his brow I gaze-

His clear calm brow-and clasp his form with high
Intense delight; too deep for words my inward joy.

I'm sporting in a meadow whose fresh streams
Are sparkling in the sunshine. Cradled there,
Wind-rocked to rest, the water lily seems

Even as things we dream of, passing fair.
What pleasant sounds are filling all the air!
Bleating of lamb and song of bird and bee-
Voices of happy things that know no care-

Uttering their guileless joys melodiously,

And soft low music comes from every breeze-loved tree.

The scene is changed; a prospect yet more fair,
And still more dearly loved, around me lies:
An ivy-girded ruin, tall cliffs bare,

Hoar waving woods and fern crowned hills arise; And near me sitteth one with gladsome eyes

And broad bright brow, and voice like softest tone Of the loved flute. Her soul is bound by ties

Of sympathetic feeling to mine own,

She loveth, e'en as I, the flowers, the zephyr's moan.

'Tis sabbath morning, holiest, dearest time!
I hail it joyously, and rise to look
Upon the new-born day, and list the chime
Of early bells, and read in sacred book
How He, the Lord of Life, our nature took,

Left his bright throne above the sapphire sky,

The bosom of his Father, God, forsook,

And on his own earth had not where to lie, And drained the cup of woe on dreadful Calvary.

Hark! 'tis my Teacher's voice in accents sweet

Proclaiming how he burst the sealed tomb

On that blest morn, that his celestial seat

Beyond the eternal hills he might resume;
She tells how they who trust in Him shall bloom
For aye in glory. Deeply in my heart
Her words have sunken, and the dreary gloom
That brooded o'er my spirit doth depart,

As through my soul the rays of truth divinely dart.

THE SEEN AND THE UNSEEN.

I am refreshed; thou, Memory, hast shewn

The pleasant spots, the scattered stars that gleam Bright through the mist of years. But I have known The darkness too, and I have drunk the stream

Of mingled sweet and bitter.

Of hope and joy hath faded.

Cold grave my father sleepeth.

Many a beam

In the drear

Like a dream

My youthful friend hath vanished. Still how dear The memory of joys that crowned each bygone year.

THE SEEN AND THE UNSEEN.

ON the wood-shadowed brow of a lone forest hill,
A maiden at sunset sat musingly still;

Companionless sat she, and yet not alone,

For the warm heart of nature beat close to her own; And she felt each wild throb in the depths of her soul, And it thrilled her with gladness no care could control.

And there, as she sat in that sylvan retreat,

The dark pine threw down its ripe cones at her feet, The moss made her cushion, the graceful larch spread Its fair fringéd canopy over her head,

And the little blue harebell in lovingest guise

Smiled up in her face with its innocent eyes.