“When the Spring-time comes”-- Let us live well the hours, God’s spring within the heart Will wreathe them all with flowers. And when the snow has fallen over hand and heart and brain, Some few may say above our graves “Let us be like to them, And though we may not see them when the Spring-time comes again, We hold their memory more dear than gold or precious gem. And at the great Spring day, When melted are the powers That hide our souls in clay, As winter hides the flowers, May we wreathe amaranths with them in Eden’s choicest bowers.” HOPE. She touched me in my sorrow; I awoke. Her kind hands broke the fetters of my grief; The light of smiles shone round me, as she spoke: “I come, my friend, to bring thee sweet relief. Of those that minister, I am the chief, To man’s sick heart; I made the tears of Eve Bright with the hues of Heaven, when loth to leave The joys her disobedience made so brief. I sailed with Noah o’er the buried earth, I sat with Hagar by the new-found well, I solaced Joseph in his lonely cell, I filled sad David’s soul with songs of mirth.” Much more she whispered, till my heart grew bright And sorrow vanished, as at dawn, the night. DOMINION DAY. JULY, 1st, 1867. I. Our land is flushed with love; through the wealth of her gay-hued tresses From his bright-red fingers the sun has been dropping his amorous fire, And her eyes are gladly oppressed with the weight of his lips’ caresses, And the zephyr-throbs of her bosom keep time with the voice of his lyre. II. ’Tis the noon of the sweet, strong summer, the king of the months of the year, And the king of the year is crowning our Land with his glory of love, And the King of all kings, in whose crown each gem is the light of a sphere, Looks smilingly down on our Land from the height of His heaven above. III. For to-day she breathes what to her is the first of a nation’s breath, As she lies ’neath the gaze of the sun, as a bride, or a child new-born, Lies with fair motionless limbs in the beautiful semblance of death, Yet awake with the joy of a bird that awakes with the whisper of morn. IV. And her soul is drinking the music that flows through the golden lyre, From the deeps of the woods and waters and wonderful hearts of men, From the long-hushed songs of the forest, the wild, primeval choir, Till she feels the breath of the Spirit move over her face again. 1.