THE LITTLE LOST ONE.

297

THE LOST LITTLE ONE.

WE miss her footfall on the floor,
Amidst the nursery din,

Her tip-tap at our bedroom door,
Her bright face peeping in.

And when to heaven's high court above
Ascends our social prayer,

Though there are voices that we love,
One sweet voice is not there.

And dreary seems the hours, and lone,
That drag themselves along,
Now from our board her smile is gone,
And from our hearth her song,

We miss that farewell laugh of hers,
With its light joyous sound,
And the kiss between the balusters,
When good-night time comes round.

And empty is her little bed,

And on her pillow there

Must never rest that cherub head,
With its soft silken hair.

But often as we wake and weep,
Our midnight thoughts will roam,
To visit her cold, dreamless sleep,
In her last narrow home.

Then, then it is Faith's tear-dimm'd eyes
See through ethereal space,
Amidst the angel-crowded skies,

That dear, that well-known face,

With beckoning hand she seems to say
"Though all her sufferings o'er,
Your little one is borne away

To this celestial shore.

"Doubt not she longs to welcome you
To her glad, bright abode,
There happy endless ages through,
To live with her and God."

THE PETRIFIED FERN.

In a valley, centuries ago,

Grew a little fern-leaf, green and slender,
Veining delicate and fibres tender,

Waving, when the wind crept down so low.

Rushes tall, and moss, and grass grew round it;
Drops of dew stole in, by night, and crowned it;

But no foot of man e'er trod that way,

Earth was young, and keeping holiday.

Monster fishes swam the silent main;

Stately forests waved their giant branches;
Mountains hurled their snowy avalanches;
Mammoth creatures stalked across the plain;
Nature revelled in grand mysteries;
But the little fern was not of these,
Did not number with the hills and trees;
Only grew and waved its sweet, wild way;
No one came to note it, day by day.

Earth, one time, put on a frolic mood,

Heaved the rocks, and changed the mighty motion Of the deep, strong current of the ocean;

Moved the plain, and shook the haughty wood;

TUBAL CAIN,

Crushed the little fern, in its soft, moist clay,
Covered it, and hid it safe away.

Oh! the long, long centuries since that day!
Oh, the agony! oh, life's bitter cost!

Since that useless little fern was lost.

Useless ?-Lost? There came a thoughtful man,
Searching nature's secrets far and deep;
From a fissure in a rocky steep

He withdrew a stone, o'er which there ran
Fairy pencillings of quaint design,

Veinings, leafage, fibres, clear and fine;
And the fern's life lay in every line.
So, I think, God hides some souls away,
Sweetly to surprise us the last day.

299

TUBAL CAIN.

CHARLES MACKAY.

OLD Tubal Cain was a man of might
In the days when earth was young;
By the fierce red light of his furnace bright
The strokes of his hammer rung;

And he lifted high his brawny hand
On the iron glowing clear,

Till the sparks rush'd out in scarlet showers,
As he fashion'd the sword and spear.

And he sang: "Hurrah for my handiwork!
Hurrah for the spear and sword!

Hurrah for the hand that shall wield them well,
For he shall be king and lord!"

To Tubal Cain came many a one,
As he wrought by his roaring fire,

And each one pray'd for a strong steel blade
As the crown of his desire;

And he made them weapons sharp and strong,
Till they shouted loud for glee,

And gave him gifts of pearls and gold,
And spoils of the forest free.

And they sang: "Hurrah for Tubal Cain,
Who hath given us strength anew!
Hurrah for the smith, hurrah for the fire,
And hurrah for the metal true!"

But a sudden change came o'er his heart
Ere the setting of the sun,

And Tubal Cain was fill'd with pain
For the evil he had done;

He saw that

men, with rage

and hate, Made war upon their kind,

That the land was red with the blood they shed
In their lust for carnage, blind.

And he said: "Alas! that ever I made,

Or that skill of mine should plan,

The

spear and the sword for men whose joy

Is to slay their fellow-man!"

And for many a day old Tubal Cain

Sat brooding o'er his woe;

And his hand forbore to smite the ore,
And his furnace smoulder'd low.

But he rose at last with a cheerful face,
And a bright, courageous eye,

And bared his strong right arm for work,
While the quick flames mounted high.
"Hurrah for my handiwork!

And he sang:

And the red sparks lit the air;

"Not alone for the blade was the bright steel m

And he fashion'd the first plough-share!

And men, taught wisdom from the past,
In friendship join'd their hands,

Hung the sword in the hall, the spear on the
And plough'd the willing lands,

ade;"

wall,

And

SENT TO HEAVEN.

sang: "Hurrah for Tubal Cain! Our staunch good friend is he;

And for the plough-share and the plough
To him our praise shall be.

But while oppression lifts its head,
Or a tyrant would be lord,

Though we may thank him for the plough,
We'll not forget the sword!

301

SENT TO HEAVEN.

ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER.

(By permission of the Publishers.)

I HAD a message to send her,

To her whom my soul loved best;
But I had my task to finish,

And she was gone home to rest.

To rest in the far bright heaven :
Oh, so far away from here,
It was vain to speak to my

darling,

For I knew she could not hear!

I had a message to send her,

So tender, and true, and sweet,
I longed for an Angel to bear it,
And lay it down at her feet.

I placed it, one summer evening,
On a Cloudlet's fleecy breast;
But it faded in golden splendour,
And died in the crimson west.

I gave it the Lark next morning,
And I watched it soar and soar;
But its pinions grew faint and weary,
And it fluttered to earth once more.