Poetic Pearls: With Notes and Illustrations

THE BEAUTIFUL CITY.

Where lies it? We question and listen;
We lean from the mountain, or mast,
And see but dull earth, or the glisten
Of seas inconceivably vast:

The dust of the one blurs our vision

The glare of the other our brain, Nor city nor island elysian

In all of the land or the main !

We kneel in dim fanes where the thunders
Of organs tumultuous roll,

And the longing heart listens and wonders,
And the eyes look aloft from the soul,
But the chanson grows fainter and fainter,
Swoons wholly away and is dead;

And our eyes only reach where the painter
Has dabbled a saint overhead.

The Beautiful City! O mortal,

Fare hopefully on in thy quest,
Pass down through the green grassy portal
That leads to the valley of rest,
There first passed the One who, in pity
Of all thy great yearning, awaits

To point out the Beautiful City,
And loosen the trump at the gates

EXAMPLE.

J. KEBLE.

We scatter seeds with careless hand,

And dream we ne'er shall see them more:
But for a thousand years

Their fruit appears,

In weeds that mar the land

Or healthful store.

In deeds we do, the words we say,
Into still air they seem to fleet;
We count them ever past;
But they shall last-

In the dread judgment they
And we shall meet.

I charge thee by the years gone by,

For the love of brethren dear,

Keep, then, the one true way

In work and play,

Lest in the world their cry

Of woe thou hear.

NOTHING IS LOST.

Nothing is lost; the drop of daw
Which trembles on the leaf or flower,
Is but exhaled to fall anew

In summer's thunder shower;
Percharce to shine within the bow
That fronts the sun at fall of day;
Perchance to sparkle in the flow
Of fountains far away.

Nothing is lost; the tiniest seed

By wild birds borne, on breezes blown,
Finds something suited to its need,
Wherein 'tis sown and grown.

The langunge of soine household song,
The perfume of some cherished flower,
Though gone from outward sense, belong
To memory's after hour.

So with our words-or harsh or kind,
Uttered, they are not all forgot;

"They leave their influence on the mind,
l'ass on, but perish not.

So with our deeds-for good or ill,

They have their power, scarce understood;
Then let us use our better will

To make them rife with good!

-Woman.

LEFT UNDONE.

MARGARET E. SANGSTER.

It isn't the thing you do, dear,
It's the thing you've left undone,
Which gives you a bit of heartache
At the setting of the sun.
The tender word forgotten.

The letter you did not write,

The flower you might have sent, dear,
Are your haunting ghosts tonight.

The stone you might have lifted

Out of a brother's way.

The bit of heartsome counsel

You have hurried too much to say;
The loving touch of the hand. dear,

The gentle and winsome tone,

That you had no time nor thought for,
With troubles enough of your own.

The little acts of kindness,

So easily out of mind;

Those chances to be angels
Which every mortal finds-
They come in night and silence-

Each chill, reproachful wraith-
When hope is faint and flagging,
And a blight has dropped on faith.

For life is all too short, dear,

And sorrow is all too great,
To suffer our slow compassion

That tarries until too late.
And it's not the thing you do, dear,
It's the thing you leave undone,
Which gives you the bit of heartache
At the setting of the sun.