I tell ye, banks of Krumley, ALICE CAREY. 'T is not your sunny days That set your meadows up and down With blossoms all ablaze. The flowers that love her crowd to bloom O dim and dewy Krumley, O bold, bold winds of Krumley, Do ye mean my heart to break, O flower and bird, O wave and wind, 255 Sang in the wild insanity of glee; And seemed, in the same lays, Calling his mate and uttering songs of pre. The golden grasshopper did chirp and sing; To the Creator lift a smiling face, Life's countless blessings was to live at all! So with a book of sermons, plain and true, Hid in my heart, where I might turn them through, I went home softly, through the falling dew, Still listening, rapt and calm, To Nature giving out her evening psalm. While, far along the west, mine eyes discerned, Where, lit by God, the fires of sunset burned, The tree-tops, unconsumed, to flame were turned; And I, in that great hush, Talked with His angels in each burning bush! NEARER HOME. ONE Sweetly welcome thought, I'm nearer home to-day Than I've ever been before; Nearer my Father's house Where the many mansions be; Nearer the Great White Throne, Nearer the Jasper Sea; Nearer that bound of life, Where we lay our burdens down, — Nearer leaving the cross, Nearer gaining the crown. But lying dimly between, Winding down through the night, Lies the dark and uncertain stream That leads us at length to the light. Feel as I would, were my feet : Even now slipping over the brink, — For it may be I am nearer home, Nearer now, than I think! PEACE. O LAND, of every land the best, — For the great festival of peace: Take from your flag its fold of gloom, And let it float undimmed above, Till over all our vales shall bloom The sacred colors that we love. On mountain high, in valley low, A redder glory than the morn. Welcome, with shouts of joy and pride, Your veterans from the war-path's track; You gave your boys, untrained, untried; You bring them men and heroes back! And shed no tear, though think you must With sorrow of the martyred band; Not even for him whose hallowed dust Has made our prairies holy land. Though by the places where they fell, The places that are sacred ground, Death, like a sullen sentinel, Paces his everlasting round. Yet when they set their country free, And gave her traitors fitting doom, They left their last great enemy, Baffled, beside an empty tomb. 257 Not there, but risen, redeemed, they go Where all the paths are sweet with flowers; They fought to give us peace, and lo! They gained a better peace than ours. SYDNEY DOBELL. KEITH OF RAVELSTON. O HAPPY, happy maid, In the year of war and death She wears no sorrow! By her face so young and fair, By the happy wreath That rules her happy hair, She might be a bride to-morrow! Her moonlit bower in rosy June, Moves from her moving lips in many a mournful tune! She sings no song of love's despair, No fond peculiar grief Has ever touched or bud or leaf Of her unblighted spring. She sings because she needs must sing; The murmur of the mourning ghost "O Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line!" Ravelston, Ravelston, The merry path that leads Down the golden morning hill, And through the silver meads; Ravelston, Ravelston, The stile beneath the tree, The maid that kept her mother's kine, She sang her song, she kept her kine, His henchmen sing, his hawk-bells ring, His belted jewels shine! O Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line! Year after year, where Andrew came, Comes evening down the glade, Her misty hair is faint and fair, The sorrows of thy line! I lay my hand upon the stile, Yet, stranger! here, from year to year, O Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line! Step out three steps, where Andrew stood: "T is not the burn I hear! She makes her immemorial moan, She keeps her shadowy kine; O Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line! THOMAS BURBIDGE. EVENTIDE. COMES Something down with eventide, Upon the river's rippling face, |