. Ballads of life. down by grief or care;Lifes sweetest cup is mingled with bitterest drops of gall,And dreary, rainy days will come iipon the paths of all. But if all that seemeth lovely, unselfish, pure and , true and tender, in full-orbed womanhood;Might win the fairest human lot our Father could assign,That peace, that joy, that portion fair, would certainly be thine. A DAUGHTERS LOVE AT FOURTEEN YEARS. .How majestic he looks, his fine light hair, I would with no one the floss of silk so soft and clear, His locks in ringlets I stroke them and then
. Ballads of life. down by grief or care;Lifes sweetest cup is mingled with bitterest drops of gall,And dreary, rainy days will come iipon the paths of all. But if all that seemeth lovely, unselfish, pure and , true and tender, in full-orbed womanhood;Might win the fairest human lot our Father could assign,That peace, that joy, that portion fair, would certainly be thine. A DAUGHTERS LOVE AT FOURTEEN YEARS. .How majestic he looks, his fine light hair, I would with no one the floss of silk so soft and clear, His locks in ringlets I stroke them and then he smiles so calm. And calls me his darling Grace;They are not black, nor gold nor brown, Then what is the shade, now guess? His bearing, his looks are those of a king. His majesty goes to my heart;And when he frowns I tremble with fear. And sometimes the tear-drops his features light up with a smile, As cheery as conscience clear;Then I even love on the stool to kneel. And bathe his hands with a Sometimes in the evenings golden haze,At the garden gate I^stand; I see him coming amid the trees,And I go and take his BALLADS OF LIFE. 57 I awoke this morn at the earliest dawn, In the suns early light I hied,And joyfully skipping took my way To the banks by the fountains strawberries found like rubies bright, See how in the basket they smile;Ill place them neath his plate out of sight, For hell dine in a little while. •JSometimes in the evenings golden haze, At the garden gate I stand;I see him coming amid the trees, And I go and take his hand;He calls me his joy, his hope, his pride, Ofttimes he gives me a kiss;Por he is my father so true and tried, And I am his darling Grace. A FALLEN ONES LAMENT. Where is the promise of my years, Once written on my l)row?Ere errors, agonies and fearsBrought with them all that speaks in I had sunk beneath my peers? Where sleeps that promise now? Naught lingers to redeem those hours, Still, still to memo
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