With queenly motions of a bridal mood, Through the wide spaces of infinitude. ELLIS GRAY. SUNSHINE. I SAT in a darkened chamber, Near by sang a tiny bird; All rayed and crowned, I miss Through all my deep pain and sad- No queenly state until the summer That shall give the play of blending lights From the porphyry rock on the pool below? Or the bird-shadow traced on the sunlit heights Of golden rose and snow ? You say 'tis a fact that the books exist, Printed and published in Mudie's list, Some in two volumes, and some in one Autobiographies plenty. But look! And join them together, What if we went in the sweet May weather To a wood that I know which hangs on a hill, sings the flowers to sleep at night, And calls them again with the earliest light. Under the delicate flush of green. The mossy stumps where the Wide clouds of bluebells stretch away, And primrose constellations rise,— Some new loveliness meets our eyes. The first white butterflies flit around, Bees are murmuring close to the ground, The cuckoo's happy shout is heard. Was it echo, or was it bird? To merriest twitter and marvellous trill, Every one sings at his own sweet will, True to the key-note of joyous love. Well, it is lovely! is it not? But we must not stay on the fairy spot, So we gather a nosegay with care: A primrose here and a bluebell there, And something that we have never seen, Probably therefore a specimen rare; Stitchwort, with stem of transparent green, The white-veined woodsorrel, and a spray Of tender-leaved and budding May. We carry home the fragrant load, In a close, warm hand, by a dusty road; The sun grows hotter every hour; Already the woodsorrel pines for the shade; Then the anemones, can they survive? Even now they are hardly alive. At last we come in with the few that are left, Of freshness and fragrance bereft; "Here is the wood where we rambled to-day? See, we have brought it to you; This is the wood!" do we say? Dying in darkness, with none to see. The rotting trunk of a willow tree, Leafless, ready to fall from the bank; A poisonous fungus, cold and white, And a hemlock growing strong and rank. A tuft of fur and a ruddy stain, Where a wounded hare has escaped the snare, Only perhaps to be caught again. Ah no! We write our lives indeed, Bring wisdom old and new; We wait the all-declaring day, Till then, the secrets of our lives are ours and God's alone. SONG FROM "RIGHT." LIGHT after darkness, Gain after loss, Strength after suffering, Crown after cross. Sweet after bitter, Song after sigh, Home after wandering, Praise after cry. Sheaves after sowing, Calm after blast, |