Ballads | Page 2

always!
"He scatters blessings in our paths, He giveth us increase, He crowns us with His kindnesses, and granteth us His peace.
"Unto himself, our wandering feet, we pray that He may draw, And may we strive, with faithful hearts, to keep His holy law!"
His simple words in silence died: a moment's hush. And then From all the listening hearts there rose a solemn-voiced Amen !
ST. NICHOLAS.
In the far-off Polar seas,?Far beyond the Hebrides,?Where the icebergs, towering high,?Seem to pierce the wintry sky,?And the fur-clad Esquimaux?Glides in sledges o'er the snow,?Dwells St. Nick, the merry wight,?Patron saint of Christmas night.
Solid walls of massive ice,?Bearing many a quaint device,?Flanked by graceful turrets twain,?Clear as clearest porcelain,?Bearing at a lofty height?Christ's pure cross in simple white,?Carven with surpassing art?From an iceberg's crystal heart.
Here St. Nick, in royal state,?Dwells, until December late?Clips the days at either end,?And the nights at each extend;?Then, with his attendant sprites,?Scours the earth on wintry nights,?Bringing home, in well-filled hands,?Children's gifts from many lands.
Here are whistles, tops and toys,?Meant to gladden little boys;?Skates and sleds that soon will glide?O'er the ice or steep hill-side.?Here are dolls with flaxen curls,?Sure to charm the little girls;?Christmas books, with pictures gay,?For this welcome holiday.
In the court the reindeer wait;?Filled the sledge with costly freight.?As the first faint shadow falls,?Promptly from his icy halls?Steps St. Nick, and grasps the rein:?And afar, in measured time,?Sounds the sleigh-bells' silver chime.
Like an arrow from the bow?Speed the reindeer o'er the snow.?Onward! Now the loaded sleigh?Skirts the shores of Hudson's Bay.?Onward, till the stunted tree?Gains a loftier majesty,?And the curling smoke-wreaths rise?Under less inclement skies.
Built upon a hill-side steep?Lies a city wrapt in sleep.?Up and down the lonely street?Sleepy watchmen pace their beat.?Little heeds them Santa Claus;?Not for him are human laws.?With a leap he leaves the ground,?Scales the chimney at a bound.
Five small stockings hang below;?Five small stockings in a row.?From his pocket blithe St. Nick?Fills the waiting stockings quick;?Some with sweetmeats, some with toys,?Gifts for girls, and gifts for boys,?Mounts the chimney like a bird,?And the bells are once more heard.
Santa Claus! Good Christmas saint,?In whose heart no selfish taint
Findeth place, some homes there be?Where no stockings wait for thee,?Homes where sad young faces wear?Painful marks of Want and Care,?And the Christmas morning brings?No fair hope of better things.
Can you not some crumbs bestow?On these Children steeped in woe;?Steal a single look of care?Which their sad young faces wear;?From your overflowing store?Give to them whose hearts are sore??No sad eyes should greet the morn?When the infant Christ was born.
BARBARA'S COURTSHIP.
'Tis just three months and eke a day,?Since in the meadows, raking hay,?On looking up I chanced to see?The manor's lord, young Arnold Lee,?With a loose hand on the rein,?Riding slowly down the lane.?As I gazed with earnest look?On his face as on a book,?As if conscious of the gaze,?Suddenly he turned the rays?Of his brilliant eyes on me.?Then I looked down hastily,?While my heart, like caged bird,?Fluttered till it might be heard.
Foolish, foolish Barbara!
We had never met before,?He had been so long away,?Visiting some foreign shore,?I have heard my father say.?What in truth was he to me,?Rich and handsome Arnold Lee??Fate had placed us far apart;?Why, then, did my restless heart?Flutter when his careless glance?Fell on me by merest chance?
Foolish, foolish Barbara!
There are faces--are there not?-?That can never be forgot.?Looks that seen but once impress?With peculiar vividness.?So it was with Arnold Lee.?Why it was I cannot say?That, through all the livelong day?He seemed ever near to me.?While I raked, as in a dream,?Now the same place o'er and o'er,?Till my little sister chid,?And with full eyes opened wide,?Much in wonder, gently cried,?"Why, what ails thee, Barbara?"
I am in the fields again;?'Tis a pleasant day in June,?All the songsters are in tune,?Pouring out their matin hymn.?All at once a conscious thrill?Led me, half against my will,?To look up. Abashed I see?His dark eyes full fixed on me.?What he said I do not know,?But his voice was soft and low,?As he spoke in careless chat,?Now of this and now of that,?While the murmurous waves of sound?Wafted me a bliss profound.
Foolish, foolish Barbara!
Am I waking? Scarce I know?If I wake or if I dream,?So unreal all things seem;?Yet I could not well forego?This sweet dream, if dream it be,?That has brought such joy to me.?He has told me that he loves me,-?He in rank so far above me;?And when I, with cheeks aglow,?Told him that it was not meet?He should wed with one so low,?He should wed with one so low,?Then he said, in accents sweet,?"Far be thoughts of rank or pelf;?Dear, I love thee for thyself!"
Happy, happy Barbara!
THE CONFESSION.
I am glad that you have come,?Arthur, from the dusty town;?You must throw aside your cares,?And relax your legal frown.?Coke and Littleton, avaunt!?You have ruled him through the day;?In this