And thus prepared, Perception’s polished plates receive The artist’s dream, that seems with pulsing life aglow, And o’er it Fancy’s magic fingers silent weave Her draperies so real— We seethe dimpling lake—we hear the streamlets liquid flow, And shadowed coolness feel. The Christian’s Armor. _For the Band of Hope._ Firmly stand, unyielding wrestle, All ye noble, earnest, youth,— You are soldiers—God is calling, Gird yourselves about with truth. Wear the helmet of Salvation— Let your feet with peace be shod, Turn the fiery darts of evil With the shield of “Faith in God.” Arm you with the Spirit’s weapon, ’Tis God’s blessed, holy word,— With the breast-plate of the righteous You shall conquer Satan’s horde. Then with earnest supplication Hold the way to Heaven’s throne; By the spirit’s true devotion God will know and bless his own. To My Friend, MRS. ANNA PRICHARD. And is time old? How swift he runs! His months like birds of passage fly. How slow he rolled a year of suns When we were children, you and I, How far away the spring time seemed When winter wore his angry frown— An age, when apple blossoms gleamed Ere they would drop their fruitage down. Then childhood’s eager heart was waiting For expectations to unfold, And churlish time seemed years belating The wished-for blessings to withhold; Then Fancy’s fingers held the brush And painted all the future bright; Its clouds but showed the rosy flush Each dawn had woven with its light. Impatient then, our youthful feet To climb the distant sun clad hills Where Pleasure, from her vintage sweet, For each, a golden chalice fills—To stand beneath the shining arch, By rainbow-tinted promise spanned:— What fine advance, in Life’s grand march, Our strong, young courage planned. But ah! in life’s late afternoon, No worldly wealth, no laurels won— I grieve that time has fled so soon With so much planned, left all undone; The barren years, like surf-worn sand, With glints of sun and shadow flecked, Are strewn with fragments as the strand And show where Hope’s rich cargoes wrecked. No mould of sloth lies o’er the years— No waste of dissipation’s fire Is smoldering in regrets and tears, Yet youth’s fond dream—intense desire A cruel fate has still denied; Or, was it Heaven’s kind decree That set that cherished wish aside To bring a richer gift to me? There’s naught in God’s infinitude Of gifts for us, like home and wife, And happy, blessed motherhood, The crowning gift of woman’s life. These gifts transmute to dear delight Each humble task, all toil and care, And keep home’s sacred altar bright With love’s sweet offerings there.