POEMS, TALES, AND SONGS. Thus, like a calm to stormy path, May come relief and rest ; But where's the help for him who hath His burden in his breast? Is there not ONE of power supreme 'T is not the rumour of a dream, That saith-for holy mercy's sake Come-I will give you rest,— Will freely and for ever take The burden from the breast." SONG OF LIGHT. PLEASANT the light-the light of morn; Pleasant the light, when suns set soon,- 201 Fringing the cloud with silvery wings; Pleasant the light as light of morn,— A CORNFIELD CAROL. UP! Let us in the light of morn Up! Let the joy-toned trumpet sound, Tell how the spirit of the Spring Did, hope-like, near the sower hover, Into good hands thou giv'st the grain; Faith finds the Fatherland of gain; Tell how the Summer spirit came, Bidding the sunborn bloom unfold, In quiet vales, or rude hills hoary; Singing "I come with songs of gold!" Till the fair listening fields-behold, Have changed from grace to glory! Away with melancholy rhyme! Rear a triumphal column! Is it a day for doleful strains, Because the Summer-day is dying? THE BILBERRY MOORS. DIDST ever go and gather berries blue? Prevented even him. Ere the grey mist In the low vale had seen a streak of glory, Or the vast bulk of cloud along the hill Had seen the smile of morning; or had heard The first note of the skyward warbler sung; Even, ere then, we wander'd forth afar, Over the hills, to gather moorland fruit, Hoping for cheerful weather, and success. But not for us would always smile the day; For while we gather'd berries blue, the clouds Would gather blackness, and toss out the storm! And were we wretched then? I tell thee, friend, There were not merrier children in the world! SONG. COME! will you not go where the bilberries grow, On their beautiful bushes of green; Whose ruby bells smiled, in the desolate wild, On the far away, moorland scene ? We are up and away, at the dawn of the day, Ere the dawn of the day we are up and away— With basket and tin, with provision therein, And light of heart, ready for song; Like the birds of the air, in our freedom from care, Right merrily move we along. Nor future, nor past, bringeth shadow or blast; And what if the bright call us boors? We need no police to look after the peace, As we march to the bilberry moors. The wealthy man's wall bounded not what we call His broad-acred lot-nay, we covet it not— But the bilberry blue oweth nothing to you; It grows for the rich and the poor: Oh! mean were the might that would question our right To roam on the bilberry moor. |