ONE SWALLOW.

We are very glad to-day and lift our praises,

For, with eyes that lookt out long and anxiously, While the cutting wind blew sharp against our faces, This one swallow did we see.

O thou blessed swallow, matter not thou reach us Travel-faint and tir'd, with draggled plumage wet; Through the winter-a we thou comest now to teach us Of a spring we know not yet.

Yes, to-day has set us free from that oppressive
Going softly we had kept so very long,

And we loose the strain of new-born joy excessive
In a rain of tears and song.

But "One Swallow does not make a Summer," say ye,
"Earth in dreary twilight lieth veil'd as yet;
Many a weary wind must blow its blast ere may ye
Seek the nascent violet."

Would ye quench with that drear adage joy that quickens
In a triumph through our whole lives once again;
Till the spirit, shorn of comfort, quails and sickens
For your biting frost and rain?

Nay, ye cannot take our holy joyaunce from us;
Nay, ye cannot make the anointed eyesight dim
Of the trustful eyes that waited God's good promise
Which they had received of Him.

Ye have only seen to-day one swallow flying

;

From the sunny southern land where Summer is But we know they come in flights with that undying Summer greater far than this.

O the beauty and the joy that passeth telling!
O the time of singing birds that soon shall come,
When the trees put forth their leaves of fairest smelling,
And the brooks no more are dumb!

Oh, we take the blessed guerdon none receiveth
Save whose soul 'gainst doubting's bitter breath can

prove

That sweet grace which all things hopeth and believeth, Not credulity, but love.

AFTER THE DAY-WORK.

DARLING, to-night I claim of you
That which so often I have claim'd;
Look my whole spirit through and through
With eyes that will not make asham'd
As the calm eyes of angelhood,

Never bedimm'd with weeping, would.

Dear, life is short and art is long,
And I am weak who should be strong,
Restless who perfect calm should know,
And empty who should overflow:

Just a tir'd child to you I come,

O more than mother, more than home.

Kiss me upon the weary eyes,
Tir'd after day-work's stress and strain;
I shall see clear when I arise,

I shall be young and strong again ;

For there was none but you could lull
Thus into rest, my beautiful

LOVE-SONG.

I KNOW not whether to laugh or cry,
So greatly, utterly glad am I :
For one, whose beautiful love-lit face
The distance hid for a weary space,
Has come this day of all days to me
Who am his home and his own country.

What shall I say who am here at rest,
Led from the good things up to the best?
Little my knowledge, but this I know,
It was God said "Love each other so."
O love, my love, who hast come to me,
Thy love, thy home, and thy own country.

A SONG OF THE UNSUNG.

I WOULD give anything

Of all that I hold most dear

If I could only sing

'The beautiful songs I hear. Who is it sings them? you say. My darling, how can I tell? I hear them the livelong day, And often at night as well. Songs of such comforting,

So tender and sweet and true,

That I would give anything

Could I only sing them for you.