For all in gloom is shrouded;
They never see the flowers that bloom
As on Life's road they ramble,
But in the darkest paths of gloom
Are seeking for a bramble.

The pleasures of this life do not
Depend on its surrounding,
But if the heart's trained as it ought,
Content will be abounding;
The silent heart's the seat of joy,
And by continual training
Life's trials scarcely will annoy
The soul where peace is reigning.

Then tell me not Fate made them so,
And they cannot avoid it,
That all their life is doomed to woe,
And they have not alloyed it;
For all the while they court their grief,
Unwilling to forsake it,
And in the way they seek relief,
Their life is what they make it.

* * * * *

The atmosphere may be redolent
With fragrance from some happy soul
Whose unconscious influence has sent
Attractive power, like magnetic pole,
Till laugh of bright eyes is contagious,
Infectious, the mirth of a smile,
And the ominous brow umbrageous,
Casts aside its lowerings vile.

THE LONE BIRD.

A solitary bird was seen by the writer, making its toilsome flight
against a strong storm-wind. The peculiar undulating flight, the
gathering darkness of the night, and the portentous indications of storm
suggested this:

Whither away on such winged undulations,
Breasting the winds and the tempests wild glee,
Lifting your form in graceful vibrations
As onward you move like a billowy sea?

Alone, all alone, on wing wide extended,
Nerved for the tempest that sounds not afar,
Night her dark mantle o'er earth has suspended,
Thro' which may not shine e'en the light of one star.

Stop, lonely wanderer, and tell me why mateless,
Tell me the story of your solitude;
God, e'en a bird has not left so fateless
But somewhere there lives a companion for you.

Tell me if death has robbed you of treasures
That sweetened the tone of your vesper song;
Tell me if fears have destroyed all the pleasures
Which justice and right say to you should belong.

Tell me, yes, tell me, and tell me most truly,
Is there just cause why your flight is alone?
Is there some stain whereby you are duly
Debarred from the pleasures that should be your own?

Still but your wing a