Then when the bell’s faint chime Came floating gently on the burdened air, My heart went up to God in fervent prayer. And, mother, from that time My wild thoughts left me—hope returned once more— I felt that happiness was yet in store. Daily new strength was given. For the first time, since darkness on me fell, I passed with more of joy than words can tell Under the free blue Heaven. I bathed my brow in the cool gushing spring— How much of life those bright drops seemed to bring. I crushed the dewy leaves Of the pale violets, and drank their breath— Though I had heard that at each floweret’s death A sister blossom grieves. I did not care to see their glorious hues, Fearing the richer _perfume_ I might lose. Then in the dim old wood I laid me down beneath a bending tree, And dreamed, dear mother, waking dreams of thee. I thought how just and good The power that had so gently sealed mine eyes, Yet bade new pleasures and new hopes arise. For now in truth I find My Father all his promises hath kept; He comforts those who here in sadness wept. “Eyes to the blind” Thou art, oh, God! Earth I no longer see, Yet trustfully my spirit looks to thee. * * * * * MY LOVED—MY OWN. BY WILLIAM H. C. HOSMER. Nor the hush of the shadowy night. Nor the glare of the busy day, Nor the many cares of the world, from thee Ever lure my thoughts away. In dreams thou art by my side, With thy babe, a rose unblown, And thy voice for me breathes melody, My loved—my own! The page of the laureled bard Thrills me not, since thou art gone; And from earth below, and the sky above Is an olden charm withdrawn. Come back with thy beaming smile, For my heart is mournful grown— Fast the wild bird flies, when her sad mate cries, My loved—my own! I have prayed for a spell whereby I might question the wind of thee, And learn if thy cheek is flushed with health, Or wan, while afar from me: And I start when the casement jars, And I hear a hollow moan, But the churlish gale will tell no tale, My loved—my own! Not sooner the noon-parched flower Would revive in summer rain, Than a glimpse of thee and thy laughing boy Would my sick heart heal again. We have been, since wed, like leaves By the breath of Autumn blown; But home’s green bowers may yet be ours, My loved—my own! * * * * * THE DARKENED HEARTH. BY HENRY G. LEE.