More drear than a desert Where never is heard The singing of waters, Or carol of bird, Are homes in this dark world of sorrow and sin Uncheered by the music of childhood within. And round one frail blossom Your hopes were entwined— One daughter of beauty Affection made blind; Before her ye saw a bright future outspread But dreamed not of dirge-note or shroud for the dead. Oh! blest is the spirit Unstained by the clod, That mounts, in the morn, Like a sky-lark to God: A glittering host the new-comer surround, And _welcome_ the harp-strings of Paradise sound. Ye Stricken! oh think, While your wailing is wild That, above this dim orb, It is _well with the child_! And pray for reunion with her ye have lost, Where love knows no heart-ache, the blossom no frost. * * * * * SUNSET IN AUTUMN. BY HARRIET MARION WARD. Didst ever note how pleasantly the sun of Autumn dies, Leaving a gorgeous legacy upon the evening skies? While quietly the gathering clouds, come trooping wave on wave, To weave bright bowers, with blushing flowers, above the proud one’s grave. Now here—now there, they flit around, with lithesome, witching grace, Their shadowy forms, like loving hearts, melting in sweet embrace; Now bending down with flashing lips they kiss the waters bright, Till waves have caught the gleam they sought, and murmur wild delight. And now they build a path of gold across the deep blue skies, All spanned and arched with Iris bows in ever-changing dies; While ghosts of clouds in silver shrouds, a world of fairy things, Are grouped around that flowery ground, like doves with snowy wings. Now silently they melt away amid the starry showers, Weaving the while their train of lace festooned with buds and flowers, Gathered in rolls and crimson folds they sweep night’s palace through, Like islands bright with liquid light, drifting in seas of blue. Now all are gone, and in their stead a calm and cloudless heaven, Dimpled with stars whose placid light to earth is freely given, To blend with heart-imaginings in the still evening air, Soft and subdued, with love imbued, an everlasting prayer. So much of faith—so much of hope—so much of trusting love, Seems stereotyped in glowing words on the bright page above, That glad earth grows less beautiful—less mighty in its power, And thoughts of death come soothingly in that calm, holy hour.