We are not always glad when we smile!-- But the conscience is quick to record, All the sorrow and sin We are hiding within Is plain in the sight of the Lord: And ever, O ever, till pride And evasion shall cease to defile The sacred recess Of the soul, we confess We are not always glad when we smile. A SUMMER SUNRISE AFTER LEE O. HARRIS The master-hand whose pencils trace This wondrous landscape of the morn, Is but the sun, whose glowing face Reflects the rapture and the grace Of inspiration Heaven-born. And yet with vision-dazzled eyes, I see the lotus-lands of old, Where odorous breezes fall and rise, And mountains, peering in the skies, Stand ankle-deep in lakes of gold. And, spangled with the shine and shade, I see the rivers raveled out In strands of silver, slowly fade In threads of light along the glade Where truant roses hide and pout. The tamarind on gleaming sands Droops drowsily beneath the heat; And bowed as though aweary, stands The stately palm, with lazy hands That fold their shadows round his feet. And mistily, as through a veil, I catch the glances of a sea Of sapphire, dimpled with a gale Toward Colch's blowing, where the sail Of Jason's Argo beckons me. And gazing on and farther yet, I see the isles enchanted, bright With fretted spire and parapet, And gilded mosque and minaret, That glitter in the crimson light. But as I gaze, the city's walls Are keenly smitten with a gleam Of pallid splendor, that appalls The fancy as the ruin falls In ashen embers of a dream. Yet over all the waking earth The tears of night are brushed away, And eyes are lit with love and mirth, And benisons of richest worth Go up to bless the new-born day. DAS KRIST KINDEL I had fed the fire and stirred it, till the sparkles in delight Snapped their saucy little fingers at the chill December night; And in dressing-gown and slippers, I had tilted back "my throne"-- The old split-bottomed rocker--and was musing all alone. I could hear the hungry Winter prowling round the outer door, And the tread of muffled footsteps on the white piazza floor; But the sounds came to me only as the murmur of a stream That mingled with the current of a lazy-flowing dream. Like a fragrant incense rising, curled the smoke of my cigar, With the lamplight gleaming through it like a mist-enfolded star;-- And as I gazed, the vapor like a curtain rolled away, With a sound of bells that tinkled, and the clatter of a sleigh. And in a vision, painted like a picture in the air, I saw the elfish figure of a man with frosty hair-- A quaint old man that chuckled with a laugh as he appeared, And with ruddy cheeks like embers in the ashes of his beard.