O thou, recumbent traveller, note Approval of their simple ways, Who lighten toil with pious lays; 'Twere ill adown life's stream to float Without or work or praise. THE CHRISTIAN PILGRIM. Now the Christian pilgrim wanders 'Mid ravines of sin and care; On the craggy ledge he ponders, Probing all with staff of prayer. Freshened by the wayside fountain With the flag of peace still furled, Lo! he hails the shining mountain O'er the ruins of the world. There upon the heights of glory, Lettered on the golden clay, He shall read Earth's complex story And his banner float for aye. [Illustration] THE FORGET-ME-NOT. Among the meadow-grasses dank That fringe the running stream, This little flower begems the bank With turquoise-coloured gleam. Emblem of many a mortal's lot, Who, tracking bygone years, Still finds the sweet Forget-me-not Fast by the fount of tears. TEXTS ON TOMBSTONES. Where round our church the pious stones Watch the green pillows of the dead, Pass not, but read in reverent tones The silent Scripture overhead. From desert peak the storm-cloud poured Light on the tables of the Law, But sunshine here o'er flowers and sward Reveals the grace that softens awe. And faith will greet on many a tomb An emblem of His loving speech Who said, if every mouth were dumb The very stones His truth would teach. ROSE GARDEN AT ASHRIDGE. Softly at noontide one reposes When sunshine melts the thought to dream, Within this labyrinth of roses Whose centre is the fountain's gleam. We match our mortal life and beauty, With this ineffable array Of creatures free from sin and duty, Delicious even in decay; And love, in you, O blooms and fountain, A brilliant emblem here to own Of souls upon the shining mountain, Exulting round the Mercy throne, Where, lovelier than the loveliest flowers, And all like you in God's employ, They shine their everlasting hours, And shed around a glorious joy. [Illustration] THE HEIFER DEPRIVED OF HER MATES. For absent friends and interrupted loves See yonder solitary heifer mourn, As questing vainly round the close she roves, Of all her spotted yoke-fellows forlorn. Quickened like us this thing of kindred clay Frets with our passions, trembles with our fears, But lacking spirit-wings it finds no way To hopes that shine above the fount of tears. DUCKS AT PLAY. They flirt and flounce with many a quack and blow, Those ducks intoxicate with summer rain; Then deeply dive, and hidden long below, From unexpected places rise again. Thus our old playmates in life's widening stream, Amid the crossing currents disappear, Yet haply show again as in a dream With startling gladness after many a year. THE TAME HARE.