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Unshaded smites the summer sun,

Unchecked the winter blast;
The school-girl learns the place to shun.

With glances backward cast.

For thus our fathers testified—
That he might read who ran—

The emptiness of human pride,
The nothingness of man.

They dared not plant the grave with flowers,

Nor dress the funeral sod,
Where, with a love as deep as ours,

They left their dead with God.

The hard and thorny path they kept

From beauty turned aside;
Nor missed they over those who slept

The grace to life denied.

Yet still the wilding flowers would blow.

The golden leaves would fall, The seasons come, the seasons go,

And God be good to all.

Above the graves the blackberry hung
In bloom and green its wreath,

And harebells swung as if they rung
The chimes of peace beneath.

The beauty Nature loves to share,

The gifts she hath for all,
The common light, the common air,

O'ercrept the graveyard's wall.

It knew the glow of eventide.

The sunrise and the noon, And glorified and sanctified

It slept beneath the moon.

THE OLD BURYING-GROUND. 363

With flowers or snow-flakes for its sod,

Around the seasons ran. And evermore the love of God

Rebuked the fear of man.

We dwell with fears on either hand,

Within a daily strife,
And spectral problems waiting stand

Before the gates of life.

The doubts we vainly seek to solve,

The truths we know, are one;
The known and nameless stars revolve

Around the Central Sun.

And if we reap as we have sown,

And take the dole we deal, The law of pain is love alone,

The wounding is to heal.

Unharmed from change to change we glide,

We fall as in our dreams; The far-off terror at our side

A smiling angel seems.

Secure on God's all-tender heart

Alike rest great and small; Why fear to lt>se our little part,

When he is pledged for all?

O fearful heart and troubled brain!

Take hope and strength from this,— That Nature never hints in vain,

Nor prophesies amiss.

Her wild birds sing the same sweet stave,

Her lights and airs are given Alike to playground and the grave;

And over both is Heaven.

THE PIPES AT LUCKNOW.

Pipes of the misty moorlands,

Voice of the glens and hills;
The droning of the torrents,

The treble of the rills 1
Not the braes of broom and heather,

Nor the mountains dark with rain,
Nor maiden bower, nor border tower, .

Have heard your sweetest strain 1

Dear to the Lowland reaper,

And plaided mountaineer,-— To the cottage and the castle

The Scottish pipes are dear;— Sweet sounds the ancient pibroch

O'er mountain, loch, and glade; But the sweetest of all music

The Pipes at Lucknow played.

Day by day the Indian tiger

Louder yelled, and nearer crept; Round and round the jungle-serpent

Near and nearer circles swept. "Pray for rescue, wives and mothers,—

Pray to-day !" the soldier said; "To-inorrow, death's between us

And the wrong and shame we dread."

Oh! they listened, looked, and waited,

Till their hope became despair; And the sobs of low bewailing

Filled the pauses of their prayer. Then up spake a Scottish maiden.

AVith her ear unto the ground: "Dinna ye hear it ?—dinna ye hear it?

The pipes o' Havelock sound 1"

THE PIPES AT LUCKNOW. 865

Hushed the wounded man his groaning;

Hushed the wife her little ones;
Alone they heard the drum-roll

And the roar of Sepoy guns.
But to sounds of home and childhood

The Highland ear was true ;—
As her mother's cradle-crooning

The mountain pipes she knew.

Like the march of soundless music

Through the vision of the seer, More of feeling than of hearing,

Of the heart than of the ear, She knew the droning pibroch,

She knew the Campbell's call: "Hark ! hear ye no' MacGregor's,—

The grandest o' them all!"

Oh ! they listened, dumb and breathless,

And they caught the sound at last; Faint and far beyond the Goomtee

Rose and fell the piper's blast! Then a burst of wild thanksgiving

Mingled woman's voice and man's; "God be praised !—the march of Havelock!

The piping of the clans!"

Louder, nearer, fierce as vengeance,

Sharp and shrill as swords at strife, Came the wild MacGregor's clan-call.

Stinging all the air to life. But when the far-off dust-cloud

To plaided legions grew, Full tenderly and blithsomely

The pipes of rescue blew!

Round the silver domes of Lucknow,
Moslem mosque and Pagan shrine,
Breathed the air to Britons dearest,

The air of Auld Lang Syne. O'er the cruel roll of war-drums

Rose that sweet and homelike strain; And the tartan clove the turban,

As the Goomtee cleaves the plain.

Dear to the corn-land reaper

And plaided mountaineer,— To the cottage and the castle

The piper's song is dear. Sweet sounds the Gaelic pibroch

J'er mountain, glen, and glade; But the sweetest of all music

The Pipes at Lucknow played I

MY PSALM.

I Mourn no more my vanished years:'

Beneath a tender rain,
An April rain of smiles and tears,

My heart is young again.

The west winds blow, and, singing low,
I hear the glad streams run;

The windows of my soul I throw
Wide open to the sun.

No longer forward nor behind

I look in hope or fear;
But, grateful, take the good I find,

The best of now and here.

I plough no more a desert land,
To harvest weed and tare;

The manna dropping from God's hand
Rebukes my painful care.

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