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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!
She is lonely; she cannot see
Where the gates shut after me.
The splendor will shine so far!”
Set the beautiful gates ajar,”
Set the beautiful gates ajar!”
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.
But may catch the glory afar;
Are the keys of the gates ajar;
And the gates forever ajar!
LIFE, believe, is not a dream,
So dark as sages say ;
Foretells a pleasant day.
But these are transient all :
Oh, why lament its fall ?
Life's sunny hours flit by;
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
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,
Shake ever a faint perfume,
With hasp and padlock and key
On the other side of the sea.
When the winter days are dreary,
And we're out of heart with life,
And sick of its restless strife,
From the attic corner dim,
A warder dark and grim :
Robes of an antique fashion
Linen and lace and silk
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 ;
And many a relic fine;
Framed in by berry and vine.
Faded the square of canvas,
Dim is the silken thread
And a childish sunny head;
In a wreath of berry and vine,
“ Elizabeth, aged nine.”
In and out in the sunshine
The little needle flashed,
When the sullen drops down plashed,