Give me the grasp that is honest and hearty,
Free as the breeze, and unshackled by party;
Let Friendship give me the grasps that become her,
Close as the twine of the vines in the summer.
Give me the hand that is true as a brother;
Give me the hand that has wrong'd not another;
Soft palm or hard palm, it matters not-never,
Give me the hand that is friendly for ever!
OH, YE TEARS! OH, YE TEARS!
[Music by Sir H. R. BISHOP.
Oh, ye tears! oh, ye tears! that have long refus'd to flow,
Ye are welcome to my heart, thawing like the snow; The ice-bound clod has yielded, and the early snowdrops spring,
And the healing fountains gush, and the wilderness shall sing.
Oh, ye tears! oh, ye tears! I am thankful that ye
Though ye come from cold and dark, ye shall glitter in the sun;
The rainbow cannot cheer us, if the showers refuse to
And the eyes that cannot weep are the saddest eyes of
Oh, ye tears! oh, ye tears! ye relieve me of my
And the barren rock of Pride has been stricken once
Like the rock the prophet open'd, 'mid the desert's burning sand,
It shall yield the living stream to make gladness in the land.
Oh, ye tears! oh, ye tears! there is sunshine in my
And the leaf and fruit of life shall not utterly depart; Ye restore to me the freshness and the bloom of long ago.
Oh, ye tears! happy tears! I am thankful that ye flow.
[Music by S. GLOVER.
I heard the trailing garments of the night
Sweep through the marble halls!
I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light
From the celestial walls!
I felt her presence, by its spell of might,
Stoop o'er me from above:
The calm majestic presence of the night,
As of the one I love.
I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight,
The manifold soft chimes,
That fill the haunted chambers of the night,
Like some old poet's rhymes.
From the cool cisterns of the midnight air
My spirit drank repose;
The fountain of perpetual peace flows there,
From those deep cisterns flows.
O holy night! from thee I learn to bear
What man has borne before!
Thou lay'st thy finger on the lips of care,
And they complain no more.
Peace! peace! Orestes-like I breathe this pray 'r!
Descend, with broad-wing'd flight,
The welcome, the thrice pray'd for, the most fair,
The best beloved night.
THERE IS SOMETHING YE MAY DO!
Brethren, in this life's existence,
Though but humble be your parts,
Let not fear upbuild resistance,
To the dictates of your hearts.
Fear of ridicule and scorning,
Of oppression's thralling band;
For a better time is dawning,
Brighter moments are at hand.
Come they fast, or come they slowly,
It depends alone on you;
If ye are but somewhat lowly,
There is something ye may do.
Something while one tithe of grieving
Through the land its shadows casts,
While one burden wants relieving,
While one hungry being fasts.
While there is one spirit striving
Truth's progression to resist,
Or a varnish'd cheat is living,
Or a blazon'd wrong exist.
Single hand would move but slowly,
Many are begot of few;
Though ye are but somewhat lowly,
There is something ye may do.
Something, if your hand is willing,
While they robe fair Truth in shame,
While Oppression's wholesale killing
Taints and blots a nation's name.
Waves combined create an ocean,
Forests are but single leaves,
Gather'd winds a tempest's motion,
Single ears make harvest's sheaves.
Thus each deed shall prove-though slowly,
Time may give its work to view,-
Thus, in fellowship, though lowly,
There is something ye may do.
Every little act is telling,
In the giant scale of time;
And, however small, is swelling
High each bulwark against crime.
Every truthful deed is tending,
In its moving, still to prove
The all-linking, all-defending
Power and majesty of love.
Speed ye then! and let the holy
Zeal for right, each deed imbue,
Ye shall be, however lowly,
Working good in what ye do.
THE BLIND BOY'S BEEN AT PLAY, MOTHER.
The blind boy's been at play, mother,
And merry games we had;
We led him on our way, mother,
And every step was glad.
But when we found a starry flower,
And praised its varied hue,
A tear came trembling down his check,
Just like a drop of dew.
We took him to the mill, mother,
Where falling waters made
A rainbow o'er the rill, mother,
As golden sun-rays played;
But when we shouted at the scene,
And hailed the clear blue sky,
He stood quite still upon the bank,
And breathed a long, long sigh.
We asked him why he wept, mother,
Whene'er we found the spots
Where periwinkle crept, mother,
O'er wild forget-me-nots:
"Ah, me !" he said, while tears ran dowi
As fast as summer showers,
"It is because I cannot see
The sunshine and the flowers."
Oh, that poor sightless boy, mother,
Has taught me I am blest,
For I can look with joy, mother,
On all I love the best.
And when I see the dancing stream,
And daisies red and white,
I'll kneel upon the meadow sod;
And thank my God for sight.
I WOULD NOT FORGET.
[FREDERICK ENOCH.]
I would not forget the dear scenes of my youth,
For all the relief that forgetfulness gives,
But cling to each dream of that season of truth,
Although with a semblance of sorrow it lives;
I know that through sorrows the bright pathway lies,
As beams on that pathway I look back to them;
Each thought that I see from those moments arise,
But turns every tear, with its light, to a gem.
I would not forget the dear scenes of
my youth,
Though each vision, new-gazed on, is dim with my
For I know o'er the tempest of anguish the truth
Has built up an azure no cloud ever sears:
Thus finding that sorrow but chastens-not mars-
I would not give life, by one soft'ning of pain,
An eve with no sunbeams to thread the first stars,
Or token the rise of its lustre again.
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