BEYOND . - OUR LOOKING
ROBIN .
437
Harry Everett did not do that meanest of all
things for a man, under such circumstances,
put her on her good behavior, and so arouse her
obstinacy. He just said, like the straightforward, impulsive fellow that he was,
I love you better than ever, my darling! Whoever has been to blame, I have been most so! Only just try me once more, and I promise not to be so overbearing and disagreeable."
Of course, that melted Kate completely ; and she could not think herself half worthy of him, and for some time would not listen to any idea of making herself and him happy.
But the season came to an end, and Kate married Everett ; and they spent a quiet but delightful summer at Harry's old country- place, where the people had idolized his father, and were ready to cast the mantle of reflected glory on him.
So the husband and wife met half way ; Kate gave up ambitious dreams on her own account, and Harry developed a talent for politics, and allowed his old neighbors to run him for Congress, and was elected by a majority as tremendous as even Kate could have desired.
All these things happened several years ago; and at present the Everetts are as happy a couple as I know, and Kate is in a fair way to have her old dream of being a Senator's wife speedily realized.
LOOKING BEYOND.
BY CLARA AUGUSTA.
WHAT is there in the Summer air to-night,
That minds me of a sweet day long o'er past?
What is there in this waning crimson light,
That brings old memories to me thick and fast?
Is it the scent of purple heliotrope,
That steals to me up from the garden-bed,
Or the white clover on the meadow slope,
Or the lush strawberries, glowing ripe and red ?
Oh, life! Oh, death ! Oh, mystic veil of sense!
That stretches 'tween this life and that to come!
Will that life be sufficient recompense
For what we suffer here in silence dumb?
Our deepest sorrows never can be told ;
The ghastliest wounds we cover up from sight;
The griefs that make our youthful brows grow old,
Are those we hide in silence and in night.
I wonder if the dead have hope, or thought,
For us who sorrow on in mortal clay?
I wonder if their Heavenly lives have brought
Them so much joy, they never look away?
Away to earth, where those they loved are still
Breasting the stormy waves of adverse fate ;
Looking with eyes, so mutely pitiful,
For the unfolding of the Golden Gate?
I am so weary, sometimes, it would be
Sweet as a mother's kiss upon my brow,
To know that those who've crossed the shoreless sea
Those that I loved, have pity for me now.
To know that when I sorrow, they look down
With tender eyes from immortality;
To know that those who wear the fadeless crown
In Heaven's glory, still have care for me!
ROBIN.
BY A. F. ADAMS.
WHEN borne on airy pinions by,
The fleecy snow is flying;
And through the dark old mountain-pines
The Wintry winds are sighing;
When night with sable curtain hides
The sun's last glittering rays,
And our home-circle gathers round
The hearth-stone's cheering blaze;
We listen to the Storm-king's voice,
O'er lake and forest ringing:
And wonder in what distant land
Our Robin now is singing.
In pleasant Summers past and gone,
Now nearly half a score,
His home has been the maple-tree
That stands beside our door.
Each Summer-day his matin lay,
At early dawn, did waken
Sweet music 'mid the branches green,
Which now look so forsaken ;
And we have burned, in early Spring,
To hail with joy his coming;
And ask in what fair, sunny cline
He has so long been roaming.
And though old Time, with ruthless hand,
Has touched our maple-tree;
Though withered branches now appear
Where green ones used to be,
We hope and trust that it may stand,
With form so trim and sturdy,
And still afford, for many years,
A shelter for our birdie.
