THE WANDERER.
Far from my home I wander,
Forgotten by all my kin;
Heart-heavy and tired, I wonder
Is it purgatory caused by sin?
Once rich, envied and courted,
Admired, welcomed and praised;
Now, poor, neglected and shunned,
Dead to friends of former days.
How lond must I wander and sigh,
Hiding pride under mantle of want?
Oh, would that the end were nigh!
As for rest I eagerl p(?)nt.
I've battled in many a land;
I've crossed the angriest seas;
I've bled with sword in hand,
'Neath Algeria's sun-dried trees.
I've sought for the dull, red gold;
I've caught the untamed steed;
Gathered sheep to the squatter's fold,
And starved in the hour of need.
'Neath heaven I've slumbered for years,
A stone my pillow of woe;
My bread has been wet with tears,
By the watch-fire's ruddy glow.
I've wandered through Italy and France,
Africa's sun has browned my cheek,
With Spain's pretty maidens I've danced,
And I've smoked with the lively Greek.
Madeira's wine I have quaffed,
On Madeira's own sunny shore;
With joyous Teuton I've laughed,
While my heart ached to the core.
In India the tiger I've slain,
In Britain the fox have chased,
Crossed Sahara's burning plain;
Both Arab and Moor have faced.
Yet my heart longs for those days,
When I knew nothing of care and sorrow,
Cared not for the world and its ways,
And had not a thought for to-morrow.
Who'll weep by the wanderer's grave?
Who'll think of him when dead?
For home I now fondly crave,
While hope from my heart has fled.
Though wild, wanderer, and rough,
I still clin to my only boast,
I ne'er shunned a friend out of luck,
Or betrayed the trust of my host.
WILLIAM HARDING.
My Valentine.
ONCE, on a frosty winter morn,
'Twas ears and ears ago,
With listless step I wandered forth
Upon the crusted snow.
The sun was bright: adorned with pearls
And diamonds was each tree;
But all the spledors earth could boast
Were little worth to me.
Since, in my sorrowing soul there dwelt,
The doubt that brings despair,
That steals the bloom from beauty's cheek,
That marks the brow with care.
The hours and days had grown to weeks,
Had snail-like crept along;
No message came, and from my life
Had died youth's joyous song.
Mechanically I sought the spot
Where letters came and went;
What was it to my cheek and brow
The crimson blushes sent?
A valentine. I broke the seal.
The dainty, perfumed thing
Was spangled o'er with lovely flowers,
With Cupids on the wing.
But, on a wreath of roses red,
A word was traced in gold,
That, to my anxious, waiting heart,
Far more than volumes told.
Then to my daily task I went,
With firm, elastic tread;
The sunlgith all along my way
A golden radiance shed.
My eyes, no longer dimmed with tears,
Beheld each sparkling gem
That brilliant, scintillating, shone
In nature's diadem.
Although, few silver threads, as yet,
Link 'mid my shining hair.
The tell-tale looking-glass reveals
A face less fresh and fair.
My rosy, blue-eyed boy and girl
Climb on a father's knee,
While tender, loving looks proclaim
That sweet word "constancy."
No more, indeed, they come to me,
Frail messengers of bliss.
Yet, 'mong my treasures valued most,
I always reckon this.
And think, how many cheeks will glow,
How many bright eyes shine,
As trembling fingers loose the seal
Of some dear valentine.
M. L. W. E.
ANGEL OR MORTAL?
I have oft been told that the angels come,
Sometimes, to the heart they love,
And shed, o'er the sorrows of earthly life,
A balm from the world above.
And it may be so, for sitting last night
In the gloom of a darkened room,
There came a visitor pure and bright
And fair as the lily's bloom.
The Goddess of Silence reigned supreme,
Not a word did the presence speak, -
There was only the pressure of sweet warm lips,
And a touch of soft hair on my cheek.
And that nameless light that has never shone
On the sea or the land, was there;
And the fragrance of flowers and songs birds
Seemed to float on the evening air.
Now, what is it you say? "'Twas no angel that came
To brighten the gloom of that hour;
But only some woman who sought to try,
On the heart of the dreamer, her power."
Well, perhaps you are right, for many before
Have been deceived by a woman,
And awakended from dreams that were blissful and bright
To find that their angels were human.
But, celestial or mortal, I hope she will come
Again when the night-shadows gather,--
And then I'll return all the kisses she gave,
And keep her near me forever.
EDWARD LIVINGSTON.
SWEET SIXTEEN.
Of all lovely spectacles, can we better behold
Than a group of young girls, none of them bold?
Sweet sixteen their ages, happy and gay;
Eyes bright as diamonds, cheeks like roses in May.
Life's inspiration in innocence they enjoy;
Bright are their hopes-- no grief to destroy
The castles of air and fortunes of wind,
Worlds of soft dreams, happiness undimmed.
Girlhood's a buds blossoming a rose's charm,
With fragrant leaves resplendent, unconscious of harm,
Though the canker-worm may the petals conceal,
And the hand that pluck it the next hour reveal.
Who can fortell what their future will be?
Who into Fate's book their end can forsee?
Will all feel love's raptures and tender jot?
Will none by fierce passion their future destroy?
Hail, glorious spring of girlhood's day!
May never-ending happiness hold its sway
Throughout your bright and sweet career,
Adding joy to joy from year to year. E. G. RIDEOUT.
Written after reading an editorial entitled "Sweet Sixteen,"
The Amateur Farmer.
I DREAMT of a beautiful time
When the world shall happy be,
When the elephant and hyenas
Shall blossom on every tree;
When tamarinds and potatoes
Shall cease their dreadful roar;
When turnip trees shall blossom
In the garden forevermore.
I dreamt of a great republic
When the people shall all go West,
Sow plums andreap tomatoes
In the land they love the best;
When pig iron and molasses
Shall bloom on every hill,
And chickens low in the barnyard,
While gooseberries toll at the mill.
I'm weary of seeing the cabbage
Handle the rake and the hoe:
I'm weary of watching and waiting
For the grasshopper bush to grow:
I long for the time when spinach
Shall come with bread and milk;
When hens shall they potatoes,
And horses spin raw silk.
Oh, sweet were the vanished hours
When I wandered down the glen.
And wreathed my brow with tomatoes,
Or plucked the ripened hen:
When the donkey twined up the trellis,
And the cucumber chirped in the grass,
And the sweet potato whistled
To its mate in the mountain pass.
But gone are the days of childhood,
And manhood's dream are mine;
Yet I long for the by-gone hours,
As I sit 'neath this Turkish vine.
Oh, wreath your blossoms about me,
And sooth my acting breast,
While the zooseberry plaintively warbies
And lulls me into rest.
