POETRY.
A " PARSON'S PLEASURE "-GROUND. I RAVE a garden filled with sound Of thrushes ; paths that circle round; And one straight walk more sweetly set With lavender and mignonette,
Sweet herbs of grace, whose scent lives on Like virtue, after life is gone ; My sanctuary ! for so I call That long straight path beneath the wall.
There do I muse,—how Nature's self Moves upward ; how, from shelf to shelf Ennobled, through perpetual strife She issues in a grander life.
And as I think how one small bud Engrafted tames the wildest wood, Sweet fruitage for man's use to bear, And of its sweetness leave an heir; Seems it—ah, may my faith be true— Grace has its power in Nature too. 'Tie grace that lurks in kindly soil; 'Tis grace attends the tiller's toil ; Grace works in every flower that blows; And in each briar there lives a rose.
Thus as I ponder, lo! a knell Comes o'er me : 'tis the passing-bell. Then think I of—beneath the sod— Those sleeping : Are they all with God P That one so wilful ? This who died In passion's youth unsanctified? Can God accept them? Can He prove To those who loved not, God of love? I know not. But beneath this wall, Hearing the glad-voiced thrushes call; On my straight path so sweetly set With lavender and mignonette; I think, if we poor men below
Can of such wildness beauty grow, Sure, He bath better means to try, That mightier Gardener in the sky ; Who, while brief life our work doth end, Hath all of Time His work to mend ; Unnumbered worlds beyond our ken ; Fresh soil for souls, fresh chance for men; Angels of love to graft His grace ; Perchance, 0 heaven ! to see His face.
And then I thought—as in the trees Life murmured with the auickeniog breeze-- Sadly I thought ; not they alone Were sinners; half the sin my own.
Had I more faithful preached the word, Perchance they might have better heard; Have risen on wings, and out of clay Uplifted, soared to heavenly day.
So trust I, God will not condemn Those who not Him, but man contemn. A. G. B.
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