Popping Corn [pp. 458]

THE LADIES REPOSITORY.
Sandaled his feet with the pine-tree gum,
And wearily followed the polar star.
Here on the verge of that awful waste,
So filled with the scenes of wild despair,
Our hearts were raised in thankfulness
To Israel's God, who heard the prayer,
The moaning and groaning from dying lips,
And once again, with his mighty wanld,
Parted the waves of the swelling sea,
And led them forth to the promised land.
TI MIE.
YET why muse
Upon the past with sorrow? Though the year
Has gone to blend with the mysterious tide
Of old Eternity, and borne along
Upon his heaving breast a thousand wrecks
Of glory and beautytv, yet why mourn
That such is destiny? Another year
Succeedeth to the past; in their bright round
The seasons come and go; the same blue arch
That hath hung o'er us will hang o'er us yet;
The same pure stars that we have loved to watch
Will blossom still at twilight's gentle hour
Like lilies on the tomb of Day; and still
Man will remain to dream as he hath dreamed
And mark the earth with passion. Love will spring
From the lone tomb of old Affections: Hope,
And Joy, and great Ambition will rise up
As they have risen, and their deeds will be
Brighter than those engraved on the scroll
Of parted centuries. Even now the sea
Of coming years, beneath whose mighty waves
Life's great events are heaving into birth,
Is tossing to and fro as if the winds
Of Heaven were prisoned in its soundless depths
And struggling to be free.
Weep not that time
Is passing on; it will ere long reveal
A brighter era to the nations. Hark
Along the vales and mountains of the earth
There is a deep, portentous murmuring,
Like the swift rush of subterranean streams,
Or like the mingled sounds of earth and air
A hen the fierce Tempest, with sonorous wing,
Hleaves his deep folds upon the rushing winds,
And hurries onward with his night of clouds
Against the eternal mountains.'T is the voice
O()f infant freedom: andl her stirring call
Is heard and answered in a thousand tones
Froim every hill-top of her Western home;
And lo! it breaks across old Ocean's flood,
And "Freedom! freedom!" is the answering shout
Of nations starting from the spell of years.
The day-spring!-see,'t is bright'ning in the heavens!
The watchmen of the night have caught the signFrom tower to tow-er the signal fires flash fl-ee,
And the deep watch-word, like the rush of seas
That heralds the volcano's bursting flame,
Is sounding o'er the earth. Bright years of hope
And life are on the wing. Yon glorious bow
Of Freedom, bended by the hand of God,
Is spanning Time's dark surges. Its high arch,
A type of Love and Mercy on the cloud,
Tells that the many storms of human life
Will pass in silence, and the sinking waves,
Gathering the forms of glory and of peace,
Reflect the undimmed brightness of the heavens.
"POPPING CORN."
THE roof-tree that shows in the attic
Its arms bar-e, and leafless, and brown
To the eyes of the dear little children,
Is reaching all tenderly down
With fruitage; they troop there and always
Bring treasure. To-nighlt in the dusk
They come and bring corn silver-kerneled,
Each ear tied by silklen-white husk.
The tiny ears shelled, now the children
Are gathered around in the glow
To see how the small kernels blossom
To leaves that are white as the snow.
The eyes that are watching are eager;
The myst'ry to them is as new
As if ne'er before in the fire-heat
Leaf on leaf frail white blossoms grew.
And only "the baby" is silent,
With chubby hands crossed, looking wise
No laughter can break the sweet quiet
That sleeps'neath the great, sober eyes.
He's reasoning-mayhap he is solving
Just how the small kernels can throw,
In a moment, sutch beautiful leafage,
As white as the new-fallen snow.
Sweet picture! 0, baby, fold softly
The small, dimpled hands, till we take,
In careless and beautiful grouping
The hand of no artist could make,
Till our heart holds the tiny "home picture"
Of faces agleam, till for aye
W\e learn how a simple homie pleasure
May brighten a long "rainy day,"
Till we learn how little it taketh
To make a child merry and glad.
Let us hold the sweet picture still longer,
For we should grow thoughtful and sad.
God hides near our hand, "for the children,"
Pure treasure, and gives us the key.
How seldom we open! how seldom
We pause in our toilings to see
The blank little faces turned slowly
And sadly awlay! May we learn
}low often and often before us
"The little ones" hunger and yearn,
When a moment had opened rich treasure,
And brightened a long, rainy day O, life has so many!-lbe tender,
And gladden the child while you may!
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