held to her true heart he closed his eyes,
In quietest rest that ever he had known.

THE DEACON'S DAUGHTER.

The spare-room windows wide were raised,
  And you could look that summer day
On pastures green, and sunny hills,
  And low rills wandering away.
Near by, the square front yard was sweet
  With rose and caraway.

Upon a couch drawn near the light,
  The Deacon's only daughter lay,
Bending upon the distant hills
  Her eyes of dark and thoughtful gray;
The blue veins on her forehead shone
 'Twas wasted so away.

She moved, and from her slender hand
  Fell off her mother's wedding-ring;
She smiled into her father's face—
  "So drops from me each earthly thing;
My hands are free to hold the flowers
  Of the eternal spring."

She had ever walked in quiet ways,
  Not over beds of flowery ease,
But Sundays in the village choir
  She sweetly sang of "ways of peace,"
Of "ways of peace and pleasantness,"
  She trod such paths as these.

No sweeter voice in all the choir
  Praised God in innocence and truth,
The Deacon in his straight-backed pew
  Had dreams of her he lost in youth,
And thought of fair-faced Hebrew maids—
  Of Rachel, and of Ruth.

But she had faded, day by day,
  Growing more mild, and pure, and sweet,
As nearer to her ear there came
  A distant sea's mysterious beat,
Till now this summer afternoon,
  Its waters touched her feet.

Upon the painted porch without
  Two women stood, and whispered low,
They thought "she'd go out with the day,"
  They said, "the Deacon's wife went so."
And then they gently pitied him—
  "It was a dreadful blow."

"But she was good, she was prepared,
  She would be better off than here,"
And then they thought "'twas strange that he,
  Her father, had not shed a tear,"
And then they talked of news, and all
  The promise of the year.

Her father sat beside the bed,
  Holding her cold hands tenderly,
And to the everlasting hills
  He mutely turned his eyes away:
"My God, my Shelter, and my Rock,
  Oh shadow me to-day!"

He knew not when she crossed the stream,
  And passed into the land unseen,
So gently did she go from him
  Into its pastures still and green;
Into the land of pure delight,
  And Jordan rolled between.

Then knelt he down beside his dead,
  His white locks lit with sunset's flame:
"My God! oh leave me not alone—
  But blessed be Thy holy name."
The golden gates were lifted up
  The King of Glory came.

SONGS OF THE SWALLOW.

SPRING.

The sides of the hill were brown, but violet buds had started
  In gray and hidden nooks o'erhung by feathery ferns and heather,
And a bird in an April morn was never lighter-hearted
  Than the pilot swallow we saw convoying sunny weather,
And sunshine golden, and gay-voiced singing-birds into the land;
  And this was the song—the clear, shrill song of the swallow,
That it carolled back to the southern sun, and his brown
        winged band,
  Clear it arose, "Oh, follow me—come and follow—and follow."

A tender story was in his eyes, he wished to tell me I knew,
  As he stood in the happy morn by my side at the garden-gate;
But I fancy the tall rose branches that bent and touched his brow,
  Were whispering to him, "Wait, impatient heart, oh, wait,
Before the bloom of the rose is the tender green of the leaf;
  Not rash is he who wisely followeth patient Nature's ways,
The lily-bud of love should be swathed in a silken sheaf,
  Unfolding at will to summer bloom in the warm and perfect days."

So silently sailed the early sun, through clouds of fleecy white;
  So stood we in dreamy silence, enwrapped in a tender spell;
But the pulses of soft Spring air were quickened to fresh delight,
  For I read in his eye the story sweet, he longed, yet feared
        to tell;
It spoke from his heart to mine, and needed no word from his mouth,
  And high o'er our heads rang out the happy song of the swallow;
It cried to the sunshine and beauty and bloom of the South,
  Exultingly carolling clear, "Oh, follow me—oh, follow."

SPRING SONG OF THE SWALLOW.

         Oh, the days are growing longer;
So rang the jubilant song of the swallow;
  I come a-bringing beauty into the land,
The sky of the West grows warm and yellow,
  Oh, gladness comes with my light-winged band,
         And the days are growing longer.

         Oh, the days are growing longer,
The wavy gleam of fluttering wings,
  Touching the silent earth so lightly,
Will wake all the sleeping, beautiful things,
  The world will glow so brightly—brightly;
         And the days are growing longer.

         Oh, the days are growing longer,
All the rivulets dumb will laugh, and run
  Over the meadows with dancing feet;
Following the silvery plough of the sun,
  Will be furrows filled with wild flowers sweet:
         And the days are growing longer.

         Oh, the days are growing longer;
Over whispering streams will rushes lean,
  To answer the waves' soft murmurous call;
The lily will bend from its watch-tower green,
  To list to the lark's low madrigal,
         And the days are growing longer.

         Oh, the days are growing longer;
When they lengthen to ripe and perfect prime,
  Then, oh, then, I will build my happy nest;
And all in that pleasant and balmy time,
  There never will be a bird so blest;
         And the days are growing longer.

* * * * *

SUMMER.

Now sinks the Summer sun into the sea;
  Sure never such a sunset shone as this,
  That on its golden wing has borne such bliss;
              Dear Love to thee and me.

Ah, life was drear and lonely, missing thee,
  Though what my loss I did not then divine;
  But all is past—the sweet words, thou art mine,
              Make bliss for thee and me.

How swells the light breeze o'er the blossoming lea,
  Sure never winds swept past so sweet and low,
  No lonely, unblest future waiteth now;
              Dear Love for thee and me.

Look upward o'er the glowing West, and see,
  Surely the star of evening never shone
  With such a holy radiance—oh, my own,
              Heaven smiles on thee and me.

SUMMER SONG OF THE SWALLOW.

You will journey many a weary day and long,
  Ere you will see so restful and sweet a place,
As this, my home, my nest so downy and warm,
  The labor of many happy and hopeful