The heated brow and dewless air-- The river suits them best; But graced awhile her golden hair, As dove would silken nest. Frail like the lilies, too, was Nell. The fever's scorching blast Swept by, and my fair flowerette fell, And to the dust was cast. But now she blooms in glory land, Close by the tree of Life; Better to bloom at God's right hand Than in this world of strife. I hope some day to meet her there, And as in days of yore We plucked the lilies, pure and fair, Up there we'll gather more. GATHER THE WAYSIDE FLOWERS 'Tis well to have a goal in mind, A life-aim, high and true; Clear as the day, and well defined, And ever kept in view. But God has strewn along the way Bright flowers of every hue. Gather the brightest while you may, For they were meant for you. Heaven's joy transcends the joys of earth, But if earth's joys be pure They must have had a heavenly birth, And bless while they endure; So pluck the flower before it fades-- Drink from the purling stream; Nor look for sorrow's darkening shades, But for the morning gleam. Life's burdens lose full half their weight If gay our spirits be; The rest beyond we antedate, And serve, though ever free. Our lamentations all will end, Exchanged for smile and song, And men will mark our upward trend By joy-points all along. The poet wrote, "no room for mirth;" Much less for sigh and frown. "A vale of tears" may be this earth-- 'Tis so to every clown. The desert blossoms as the rose, And joy flows everywhere; The star of hope in brightness glows, No room for dark despair. Before we reach God's heaven above, Enjoy His heaven below; And by the ministries of love A Christlike nature show; For he who lives a selfish life Must lose the joy of this; For highest good, vain is our strife, If man share not our bliss. HIDE THEIR SCARS! A painter, high in worldy fame, Was sought to reproduce by art A likeness of the man whose name Sent darts of anguish through the heart Of mighty monarchs in his day; For he by arms subdued the world. Kingdoms and empires owned his sway And bowed beneath his flag unfurled. But Alexander bore a scar, Deep marked upon his royal brow; To paint him thus would greatly mar The monarch's beauty; as a slough Would mar the beauty of a lawn, Where queenly feet are wont to tread; Or like the cloud at early dawn, Which hides some glory 'neath its spread. To leave it out would not be true, For Alexander bore the scar; The painter this resolved to do, Which would be true, yet would not mar: To paint the monarch's head reclined, With his fore-finger on his brow; And thus much grace with art combined, Like ornament on vessel's prow.