The Vine.

PART I.

VINE went wandering o'er the ground,

Half-choked with weeds, oft smeared with dust;

Chance dews it turned to mould and rust, And nought but leaves was on it found

Till in its path an Oak-tree stood,

And round his trunk it skyward twined,

To learn that oaks were strong and kind, And feel that higher air was good.

Yet all its bliss it could not know,

Till helped by timely suns and showersIts fair new life burst forth in flowers, And tiny fruit began to show.

The spheres expanded hour by hour,

The green through pink to purple grew, And, borne on every breeze that blew, The fragrance sweetened wold and bower.

Yet never boasted once the vine,

"This is my doing; come and see!" But to the Oak clung gratefully,

And whispered,-"Be the glory thine!

"For had'st thou left me to my will;
My devious path, my careless ways,
My scanty share of dews and rays,
I should be wandering worthless still."

PART II.

Sun after sun brings vintage-time.

The Vine is left all brown and bare,

Naked to meet a chillier air,

Empty-to dream of vanished prime.

"Bereaved! bereaved!" she moans dismayed,-

"My very life-blood slow withdrawn!

And every day a later dawn,

And every night a longer shade!

"What boots it from that hapless past

To climb to higher air and worth, And gracious bloom and fruit bring forth, Since to this blank all comes at last?

"If bliss be open door to pain,

If most they lose who most possess,

No more I ask for happiness,Give back my ignorance again!"

"Nay," said the Oak, "not for thine own, But others' weal, thou bearest fruit; Thy gain is in thy deeper root,

In twining branches stronger grown;

And richer store of sap to thrill

Into new fruitage year by year.

And though the Wintry days be drear, Does not my strength support thee still?"

Only a Letter.

NLY a letter that came last night,

A dear, little love-bird, winged with white,
That whispered the words in a maiden's ear
Of the sweetest song that a maid could hear.
And sang it over and over again,

Aye! the charmed din, and the soft refrain,
And the burden was this-so old, so new,
"Do
you love me as I love you?"

Only a letter, by Cupid sent,

That maketh the maiden's heart content,
That bringeth the blushes sweet and shy,
And the tell-tale light to her azure eye!

A missive read in the shadiest nook

And dearer far than the choicest book,
Then hid with the precious things and few,

Tied with a band of love's own blue!

*

Only a letter that came this morn

With the heaviest weight that could be borne,

And yet it seemed, to the man in gray,
But a trifle light as he passed his way.

A wife is stunned by the sudden blow,

A mother's heart is filled with woe,
For the bird of omen tells a tale

That would make the stoutest spirit quail.

Only a letter, thin and white,

That has robbed a home of its joy and light,
That has hung, by the cruel news it bore,
The funereal crape on the outer door!
A missive clutched with hopes and fears,
And drenched with the mourner's scalding tears;
Read and re-read, with lips grown white,
Then laid, with a shudder, out of sight!

Oh! news of joy! Oh! news of pain!
Ye are mingled here like the sun and rain!
And joyous hearts in this world below
Must sometime feel the weight of woe!

Ring on, sweet wedding-bells to-day!

And fresh young hearts be glad and gay;

It is time enough to think of ill

When our light is dimmed by the Father's will.