Page images


I wander in a city, tranquil, fair,

I can but think, of all earth's joy 'twere best To sleep amid so much of beauty there,

Resigning all on Nature's tender breast, Far from the strife of worlds that do and dare!

O blest foreshadow of most perfect rest! O heights of God—the soul's eternal share!

O POET, crowned with song's supremest powers,

Who, in that realm from sin and death apart,

Dost link responsive to our yearning heart The Infinite with some stray chord of ours! As longing Nature greets the sky-born showers,

Bidding a barren earth in verdure start,

Oh, would that we by thine inspiring art Might weave thee garlands eloquent in flowers!

And June is here, - Interpeter, who fled,

Her halo still upon thy laureled head, Divinely bright while countless ages roll,

Thy pure eyes glow a June-day's ardent fire;

June symphonies awake within the lyre A June of transport to enthrall our soul!


Who knows the inmost heart of the rose,

Treasure hidden of sun and dew? Knows ere the wizard Junes unclose

Its magical meaning, who? Ere the eager, lightsome wind doth woo, And waft its fragrance, -heart of the rose,

Who knows?


Art thou a dream? When fled to thine
This dark imprisoned heart of mine,
Thy soul ordained from its high throne
Warm life unto the willing stone;-
Henceforth to breath the air divine.

Altho' in my heart thy beauty grows,

Purely my Love, and still more true, Not yet of thy deepest heart disclose,

Till I, of the longing view, May wear thee worthily, without rue; My June, -the fairest that Nature knows,

My Rose!

Thy presence holdeth love's rich wine, Around thyself my thoughts entwineSo sure to sweet support is grown,

Art thou a dream.


(Pressed in a favorite volume of the In Memoriam of


Thine absence ne'er to me is known,
Where'er on earth is beauty shown
I see thee! Ah, Pygmalion, mine
Thou art, as thou hast made me thine!
But thou, dread silence of the stone,

Art thou a dream!

Is aught so sweet as is this faded rose ?

But for its fragrance I had passed it by.
In this forgotten corner, wreathed in snows,

Shrouded in damask, lost and left to die,
It lay, till haply did its heart unclose

Her sorrow to a tender-hearted breeze. And in that self-same corner there mused I

All in a waste of thoughts like unto these: All glory in oblivion must lie,

All beauty know consuming earth and cease.


I WANDER in a city, tranquil, fair,

Upon whose towers the sun's departing beam Bespeaks the sweet surcease of human care;

Below, the music of a winding stream; Above, bird songs in the rich, dreamy air,

And still above, blue heavens of which we dream, And souls of them who sleep the glory wear.

They sleep, to wake unfettered of the clay

Dear forms who bore unknown, life's better part And softly stole upon the heavenly way;

The brave, enshrined within a nation's heartAre they unmindful of our love to-day?

Each soul, well-rounded howso'er thou art, Eternity be good to thee, we pray!

And then that breeze love-blown sighed softly

near, Inside my window, tenderest breath that blows Rose of the ruin and the dust of here,

And minded me of that neglected rose; I found, I clasped it with a hungry cheer,

I buried it, a death that was a life, Atween the lines of this immortal song,

And be, to whomso reads, this meaning rise, This added grace, if aught so sweet belong

To earth or heav'n as is a faded life!

[graphic][merged small][merged small]


The loving thoughts we shelter in the heart,

Upspringing there, the blades of good shall grow, Which kept by watchful care from weeds apart,

The evil thoughts which we too often sow,


Shall flourish, grow in strength, and soon increase,

And we in Life's last days the fruit shall see, Reward of life well spent, -eternal peace,

For “as our sowing, shall our reaping be.”


The Frost-King lays his icy hand
On garden, field and tree;

Crushed by his grasp the flowers fade,

The leaflets wither in the glade, And over all the barren land

He holds supremacy.


Littleton, Mass., December 29th, 1853. Her parents were Robert Dunn Gilson and Lydia Gilson. There were nine children in the family, of whom Mrs. Hager was the youngest. Heavy and peculiar trials attended her childhood, which were calculated to expel poetic aspirations from a mind less delicately and sensitively organized, supplanting them by practical thoughts and tendencies, yet these circumstances deepened and intensified her poetical nature, while the mor practical side of her character was strongly developed. She had a thirst for knowledge and used all available means to satisfy it. Having entered the Normal School in Framingham, Mass., in 1875, she was recalled to her home during the first weeks of the school year, and her studies were exchanged for days of patient watching with the sick, or such employment as she could obtain near her home.

Her first poems appeared at that time. With such private instruction as her country home afforded, she again took up her studies, becoming in time a successful teacher of country schools and later a book-keeper. In October, 1882, her marriage to Mr. Simon B. Hager occurred. She has one child, a boy. Most of her poems have appeared over the name “Lucie C. Gilson."

She has also written a number of short prose stories. Her estimate of her own work is modest in the extreme and she has done little to bring herself before the public. Mrs. Hager has recently written and published a very interesting history of the town in which she resides, Roxborough, a New England Town and its People.”

J. M. R.

But in my sunny windows bloom
Petunia, pink and rose,

While heliotrope, whose fragrance sweet

My every entrance seems to greet, In spite of all the outer gloom

In modest beauty grows.

So, if we cherish in the heart
The flowers of faith and love,

The world's dread frown can never blight,

Or cast a shadow o'er the light That bids the wintry gloom depart,

The light from heaven above.


YONDER from a vine-clad dwelling,

Strains of music softly come, Like to angel voices, swelling

On the night air; “Almost Home.”


In spring we plough the field and till the soil,

And sow the tiny seeds on either hand, And soon, repaying, as it were, our toil,

The blades of green begin to clothe the land.

Almost Home!” The brooklet fleetly,

Glideth o'er its bed of stone; And it seems to murmur sweetly

To my sad heart, “Almost home.

Then carefully we work, we watch, we wait,

While nourished by the summer sun and rain, Till ’neath the autumn skies with hearts elate,

We gather in at last the ripened grain.

Dark the valley lies before me,

“Can I enter it?" I moan; “Hush!" the night winds whisper o'er me,

“Courage take, thou'rt Almost Home."

And so, if we, in Life's fair autumn days,

Would garner in the fruit of loving deeds, Of Christian word and work, in all our ways,

We must in early springtime sow the seeds.

Though no earthly ray may brighten

The dark vale thou tread'st alone, Yet His love the gloom shall lighten

Till is gained thy Heavenly Home."

Sometimes in the earth-strife, weary,

Cheered not by kind look or tone, We forget Life's journey, dreary,

Leadeth daily nearer Home.

We forget no crown is given

Him who doth the cross disown; Brighter, that for which we've striven,

When at last we're gathered Home.

Sweet the rest enjoyed at even,

When the laborer's toil is done, Sweeter far the rest of Heaven,

When the Father calls, “Come Home."

One short year ago and round me

Friendship bound her silken thread; O'er my shadowy way her radiance

Like a living glory spread. And the rocky path and thorny

Smoother grew beneath my feet, And beside it, just beyond me,

Bloomed hope's flowerets, fair and sweet. But the springtime merged in summer,

And the autumn days drew near; And the heavens grew dark and threatening,

And the leaves fell brown and sere. Winter came, and o'er life's landscape

Fell a mantle cold and white,
All the radiance and the beauty

Shut forever from my sight.
Spring brings not to me the friendship

That the winter stole away,
But the frail, sweet springtime blossoms

Changeless come to cheer each day.

“Almost Home!” O, Father guide me

Upward till I reach Thy throne; From earth's bitter tempests hide me,

Take my hand and lead me home.



A LITTLE weeping over glad hopes perished,

A little laying down of work begun, A little giving up of treasure cherished,

A little mourning o'er the task undone.
A little bearing of the burdens, resting

In Him who ever doeth what is best,
A little longer here, the billows breasting,

Which else would bear us farther from our rest.

Glad sunshine clothes the world to-day,
And, as we feel its cheering ray,
So full of light and warmth, we say,
“Oh, would 'twere always thus to stay!
The hills and vales are glorified;
O, that no cloud might never hide
This flood of light, this glorious tide
Of sunshine, sweeping far and wide."
But ah! if clouds ne'er hid from sight

The sunny heavens so high,
We might not think to prize the light

That floods the cloudless sky.

And there beside the quiet crystal river,

'Mid pastures green and fair shall we repose; No tears shall dim the eyes nor sorrow ever

Shall enter there nor aught of human woes; The Savior's presence makes the whole land

glorious, And there at last, we'll see Him face to face, When over all these earthly things victorious

We enter into Heaven, our dwelling place.

So earthly friends are near to-day,
And as we feel Love's cheering ray
Diffused from heart to heart, we say,
“Would life were full of joy alway.
Let not Oblivion's depths ne'er hide
A love which has so beautified
And quickened all the sluggish tide
Of hearts to friendship ne'er allied.”
And yet, if friendship ne'er took flight,

If friends ne'er passed us by,
We might forget to prize the light

That rists the clouded sky.


On a brown and sheltered hillside,

'Neath the trees with leaflets sere, 'Mid the mosses and the litchens,

In the morning of the year, While the wind of early springtime

Through the pine grove sobs and grieves, Gathered we the pale sweet flowers

From their nest beneath the leaves.
Fragrant, frail arbutus blossoms,

Waxen, spotless as the snow;
Just as sweet, and pure, and fragrant,

As they were a year ago.

The day with its cares is closing,
And the twilight shades enfold

The grey old hills,

The rocks and rills,
And the pines beyond the wold.

- Work for God.

« PreviousContinue »