Here, clad in burning robes, are laid Nay, take the cup of blood-red wine, Our hearts can boast a warmer glow, Filled from a vintage more divine, — Calmed, but not chilled by winter's snow! To-night the palest wave we sip Rich as the priceless draught shall be That wet the bride of Cana's lip, The wedding wine of Galilee ! WHAT WE ALL THINK. THAT age was older once than now, That babes make love and children wed. That sunshine had a heavenly glow, Which faded with those "good old days" When winters came with deeper snow, And autumns with a softer haze. That - mother, sister, wife, or child The "best of women " each has known. Were schoolboys ever half so wild? How young the grandpapas have grown! That but for this our souls were free, And but for that our lives were blest; That in some season yet to be Our cares will leave us time to rest. Whene'er we groan with ache or pain, That when like babes with fingers burned That when we sob o'er fancied woes, That when we stand with tearless eye “Ah, had I but one thousand more!” Though temples crowd the crumbled brink O'erhanging truth's eternal flow, Their tablets bold with what we think, Their echoes dumb to what we know ; That one unquestioned text we read, Can burn or blot it: GOD IS LOVE! SPRING HAS COME. INTRA MUROS. THE sunbeams, lost for half a year, Slant through my pane their morning rays; For dry northwesters cold and clear, The east blows in its thin blue haze. And first the snowdrop's bells are seen, The tulip's horn of dusky green, The peony's dark unfolding ball. The golden-chaliced crocus burns ; To light her blue-flamed chandelier. |