Gems In Verse

1 told mine enemy the truth. His brow At first grew stern, and from his angry eye The lightnings flashed. But Boon he epake: " 'Tis now 1 see I judgcd you falsely. Wrong was I! Forgive nie for the past, and let us forth To roam thro' peaceful meads, all strife at endl" So arm in arm we went- no longer wroth- The truth had made mine enemy a friendl Í told my friend the truth. He bravely sinilod, And with a gracious courtesy averred, Your candor pleases yet 'neath hls mild And glad exterior a something stírred, Which plainer eaid than words: "We are estranged Forevermore. Your lance batb wounded me Past all redressP Love had to hatred changed; The truth bad made my friend an enemyl - Eleanor G. Donnelly. My Psalm. I mocrn no more my vanished years Beneath a tender rain- An April rain of smiles and tears- My heart is young again. The weat winds blow, and singing low I hear the glatl streams run. The windows of my soul I throw Wide open to the sun. No longer forward nor behind I look in hope or fear, But, grateful, take the good I find- The best of now and here. I plow no more a desert land To harvest weed and tare. The manna dropping from God's hand Rebukes my painfnl care. 1 break my pilgrm staff; I lay Aside the loiling oar; The angel sought so fár away I welconie at my door. The airs of Bpiing may never play Amonsr the Kpetlihg rorn, Nor freshness of the tiowers of May Blow through the antumn mom. Vet Bhall the blue eyed gentian look Through fringed Uda To heaven, And the pale aster in the brook Shall eee its image given. The woods shall wear their robes of pralse, The south wind softly sigh. And sweet, calm daya in golden haze Melt down the amber sky. Not less shall manly deed and word Rebuke an age of wrong; The graven flowers that wreathe thesword Make not the blade less strong. But smiting hands sball learn to heal- To build as to destróyer less my heart for others feel That 1 the more enjoy. All as tiod wllls, who wisely heeds To give or to withhold. And kooweth more of all my needs Than all my prayers have toldl Enough that blessings andeserved Have marked my erring track; That wheresoe'er my feet have ewerved HU chastening turned me back; That more and more a Providence üf love is understood, Making the springs of time and sense Sweet with eternal good: That death seems bat a covered way Which opens into Iight, Wherein no blinded chiltl can Btray Beyond the Father's sight; That care and trial seem at last, Through Memory's sunset air, Like mountain rauges overpast In purple distance fair; That all the Jarring notes of life Seem blending in a psalm. And all the angles of its strif Slow rounding into calm. And so the nhadows faü apart. And so the west winds play, And all the Windows oí' my heart I open to the day. - Whittier. Hamlet on the Wardrobe. All the world's a wardrobe. And all the girls and women merely wearers. They have their fashions and their phantasiea. And one nhe In her time wears many garmenta Throughout her seven stages. First the baby, Befrilled and broidered, in her nurse's arms; And then the trim hosed schoolgirl with her fiounces. And email-boy scorning face, tripping, ekirt waggling, Coqnettishly to school. And then the flirt, Ogling like Circe, wíth a business eülade Kept on her low cut corset. Then a bride, Full of Btrange flnery, vestured like an angel, Veiled vaporously, yet vigilant of glance. Seeking the wonian's heaven- admiration- Even at the altar's steps. And then the matron. In fair, rich velvet, with suave, satin lined, With eyes severe and skirts of youthful cut, Full of dress saws and modish instauces, To teach her girls their part. The siïth age shifts lnto the gray yet gorgeous grand mamma, With gold pincenez on nose and fan at side. Her youthful tastes still strong, aud worldly I wise In sumptuary law, her quavering voice Prosing of fashion and Le Follet pipes, üf robes and bargains rare. Last scène of all, That ends the sex's mode-swayed historyi is seeond childishness and sheer oblivlon Of youth, taste, passion- all save love of dress. The Happiest Time. Whenever life's song is out of rhyme. And fate and my plans won't thrivë, Then I love to mase on that glorions time- The time when I wasn't alive. Those dear old daysl How they haunt me yet With dreamsof content and Lliss, When there wasn't a hart I could possibly get Xor a joy 1 could lose nor miss- When 1 let the years and the ages flee In the most unaccounted way. And never looked in the glass to see If my hair were growiug gray. Theymay prateof the wondrousthings thatare Which existenoe alone can give, Bul 1 kuow that my happfestdays by far Were ihe daya when I didn't live. Nor woulri 1 compare the pleasure shown ín the present frivolous sc-ene With (he endless raptures that were tuit known. The hl iss that bas never been. VVhat wonder that stil I 1 love lo speak Of this kingdom grand and f ree, l'hat vaniKtied away at the first wild shriek ot the inf&ni kliown as me! i dunt care a jol fortune tiows To the men nu rach akte of me. Cor the fellow 1 euvy the most are Utose Who have not bevuil to be. - Madeline S. bridges. Tear. fJot in the time ot lileasure Hope doth set htr bow, But in the sky of sorrow. Over the vale of woe. Through gloom and sbadow look we On beyoDd the yeara. The soul would have no rain bow Had t he eyes uo tears. - Century. Io Voor Best. Let eaoh man think himself an act of God, Hls mind a thought. hh life a breath of God, And leteach try. by reat thoughts and good deeds, To show the most of heaven he hath in him. - Bailey. The joys of meeting pay the pangs of absence, Else who could bear it? -Rowe. Vote far Chas. E. Hisoock.