With even mind and tranquil breast,

I left my youthful sister then, And now in sweet religious rest I see my sister there again.

Returning from that stormy world,
How pleasing is a sight like this?
To see that bark, with canvass furled,
Still riding in that port of peace.

Oh, darling of a heart that still,
By earthly joys so deeply trod,

At moments bids its owner feel
The warmth of nature and of God.

Still be his care in future years

To learn of thee truth's simple way, And free from foundless hopes or fears, Serenely live, securely pray.

And when our Christmas days are past,
And life's long shadows faint and dim,
Oh, be my sister heard at last,

When her pure hands are raised for him!

GERALD GRIFFIN.

SONNET.

ADDRESSED TO A DISTINGUISHED AMERICAN

MINISTER.

LET the great nations mingle!-England, thou
To thy freed child extend a smile of love,
On her proud march with joy behold her move,
And midst the kingdoms raise her youthful brow!
And thou, America! in arts and arms

Revere thy mother!-read her scrolls of fame,
The high descent of many a stainless name,
Of heroes formed 'mid danger's wild alarms,
Of martyrs, statesmen, poets.-Still may come
Thy sons with kindly welcome to our shore,
Still will we hail the wind that wafts them o'er,
And with regretful blessing speed them home-
Charmed in their noble virtues, still to trace
The purity and pride of England's race!

F. HORNBLOWER.

THE VIOLET'S WELCOME.

THE world hath a welcome yet for thee,
Thou earliest born of flowers!-
Though many a golden hope was gone,
And dream that lighted her rosy dawn,
Ere the toil of these latter days came on;

And her weary children's steps have strayed
From their first green dwelling in the shade
Of Eden's blessed bowers,

Too far to find on our earth a track

That yet might guide the wanderers back.

But still from her bright youth's memory comes A voice to welcome thee:

It sounds in the song of the early bird,

Through waking woods by the south winds stirred,

When the steps of the coming Spring are heard;
It bursts from the heart of childhood, clear
As a stream from its native fount, that ne'er
Was aught but bright and free,

And feared no future winter's frost,

Nor the sands where mightier waves were lost.

And we, who look from the lattice pane

Or the lowly cottage door,

On lengthening eves and budding trees,—
As comes thy breath on the day's last breeze,
Bringing its dew-like memories

To the heart of toil and the brow of care,

Through the clouds which time hath gathered

there,

From green haunts sought no more, But ever known by the light that lies Upon them from life's morning skies,—

THE VIOLET'S WELCOME.

161

We know thy home, where the waving fern
With the moss-clad fountain chimes;
But we greet thee not with the joy of yore,
When our souls went forth to meet thee, o'er
Far hills which the earliest verdure wore:-
We have hoped in many a spring since then,
But they never brought to our hearts again
Those vanished violet times,

With their blooms, which it seemed no blight could mar,

The early shed and the scattered far!

Gather them back, ye mighty years,

That bring the woods their leaves !—
Back from life's unreturning streams-
Back from the graves that haunt our dreams,
And the living lost, from whose lips our names
Have passed-as the songs of greener bowers
And the tones of happier years from ours,-
From all the faith that cleaves

To the broken reeds of this changeful clime,
Gather them back, restoring Time!

Alas! the violets may return,

As in Springs remembered long;

But for us Time's wing can only spread
The snows that long on the heart are shed,
Ere yet their whiteness reach the head!

L

162 ARE THEY NOT ALL MINISTERING SPIRITS.

Thou comest to the waste and wold,

But not, like us, to grow sad and old,—
Wild flower of hope and song!

We bless thee for our childhood's sake,-
For the light of the eyes no more to wake,—
For memories green as a laurel crown,

That link thee to dreams like stars gone down,
And the spots we loved when our love was free,—
Each heart hath a welcome yet for thee!

FRANCES BROWN.

ARE THEY NOT ALL MINISTERING
SPIRITS?

WE see them not-we cannot hear
The music of their wing-

Yet know we that they sojourn near,
The angels of the spring!

They glide along this lovely ground
When the first violet grows:-
Their graceful hands have just unbound
The zone of yonder rose!

I gather it for thy dear breast,

From stain and shadow free,

That which an angel's touch hath blest
Is meet, my love, for thee!

R. S. HAWKER.