Imágenes de páginas
PDF
EPUB

HOW THE GATES CAME AJAR.

FROM THE ITALIAN.

It was whispered one morning in heaven

How the little child-angel, May, In the shade of the great, white portal,

Sat sorrowing night and day. How she said to the stately warden

Him of the key and bar — “O angel, sweet angel! I pray you,

Set the beautiful gates ajar Only a little, I pray you,

Set the beautiful gates ajar!
“I can hear my mother weeping;

She is lonely; she cannot see
A glimmer of light in the darkness,

Where the gates shut after me.
Oh! turn me the key, sweet angel,

The splendor will shine so far!”
But the warden answered: “I dare not

Set the beautiful gates ajar,”
Spoke low and answered: “I dare not

Set the beautiful gates ajar!”
Then rose up Mary the Blessed,

Sweet Mary, Mother of Christ : Her hand on the hand of the angel

She laid, and her touch sufficed ; Turned was the key in the portal,

Fell ringing the golden bar;

And lo! in the little child's fingers

Stood the beautiful gates ajar! In the little child-angel's fingers

Stood the beautiful gates ajar!

“And this key, for further using,

To my blessed Son shall be given ; Said Mary, Mother of Jesus —

Tenderest heart in heaven.
Now, never a sad-eyed mother

But may catch the glory afar;
Since safe in the Lord Christ's bosom,

Are the keys of the gates ajar;
Close hid in the dear Christ's bosom,

And the gates forever ajar!

GOOD CHEER.

CHARLOTTE BRONTÉ.

LIFE, believe, is not a dream,

So dark as sages say ;
Oft a little morning rain

Foretells a pleasant day.
Sometimes there are clouds of gloom,

But these are transient all :
If the shower will make the roses bloom,

Oh, why lament its fall ?
Rapidly, merrily,

Life's sunny hours flit by;
Gratefully, cheerily,

Enjoy them as they fly.

THE ROSE UPON MY BALCONY.

W. M. THACKERAY.

The rose upon my balcony, the morning air perfuming, Was leafless all the winter time and pining for the

Spring You ask me why her breath is sweet and why her cheek

is blooming, It is because the sun is out, and birds begin to sing.

The nightingale, whose melody is through the green

wood ringing, Was silent when the boughs were bare and winds

were blowing keen. And if, Mamma, you ask of me the reason of his singing,

It is because the sun is out and all the leaves are green. Thus each performs his part, Mamma, the birds have

found their voices, The blowing rose a flush, Mamma, her bonny cheek

to dye; And there's sunshine in my heart, Mamma, which wak

ens and rejoices, And so I sing and blush, Mamma, and that's the

reason why.

NESTS.

JOHN RUSKIN.

Make yourselves nests of pleasant thoughts! None of us yet know, for none of us have been taught in

early youth, what fairy palaces we may build of beautiful thoughts, proof against all adversity; bright fancies, satisfied memories, noble histories, faithful sayings, treasure-houses of precious and restful thoughts, which care cannot disturb, nor pain make gloomy, nor poverty take away from us; houses built without hands, for our souls to live in.

“ELIZABETH, AGED NINE.”

MAGARET E. SANGSTER.

Out of the way in a corner

Of our dear old attic room,
Where bunches of herbs from the hillside

Shake ever a faint perfume,
An oaken chest is standing

With hasp and padlock and key
Strong as the hands that made it

On the other side of the sea.

When the winter days are dreary,

And we're out of heart with life,
Of its crowding cares are weary,

And sick of its restless strife,
We take a lesson in patience

From the attic corner dim,
Where the chest holds fast its treasure,

A warder dark and grim :

Robes of an antique fashion

Linen and lace and silk
That time has tinted with saffron,

Though once they were white as milk : ; Wonderful baby garments,

Broidered, with loving care, By fingers that felt the pleasure

As they wrought the ruffles rare.

A sword, with the red rust on it,

That flashed in the battle-tide, When, from Lexington to Concord,

Sorely men's hearts were tried ;
A plumed chapeau and a buckle,

And many a relic fine;
And all by itself the sampler,

Framed in by berry and vine.

Faded the square of canvas,

Dim is the silken thread
But I think of white hands dimpled,

And a childish sunny head;
For here in cross and tent stitch,

In a wreath of berry and vine,
She worked it a hundred years ago,

“ Elizabeth, aged nine.”

In and out in the sunshine

The little needle flashed,
And out and in on the rainy day

When the sullen drops down plashed,

« AnteriorContinuar »