Rensselaer Republican, Volume 27, Number 40, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 11 June 1896 — A Symphony Song. [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

A Symphony Song.

A Song; of Faith. There’s a joy that- comes out of the pastime, Like a star in a cloud-shadowed night; And it lingers with all to the last time, And beautifies life with its liiht; Though time in its changes diurnal, Dims the beauty of amethyst skies, Star-like from the darkness eternal That joy will arise! Thotigh we dwell inthe ways that are lowly— ' Where bloom not, the flowers that are sweet; In paths that the Master made holy By the print of his beautiful feet; That joy shall make sorrow seem lighter, And take from affliction its sting; And close to the life it makes brighter Its tendrils will cling! And what is that joy and its mission? What kind stars.looked down on its birth? Does it seek us in every condition? Does it reach to the ends of the earth? O friends, from each other divided, It is this: In far sun-lighted lands, Whep the tides of the years have sub- • sided, We shall meet and clasp hands! - - « ' f "ft Why wander in pathways uncertain, Where no rose and no lily invites? Why shudder to ring down the curtain And stand in the blaze of God’s lights? t —— ... Time tells in his starry evangels, That when life and its cares are laid down. We shall lay at the feet of the angels The cross for the crown! —Frank L. Stanton, in Atlanta Constitution. At Twilight. I hear the sound of a soft footfall/ ~. A laugh that is elfin sweet, A lisping word and a cooing call, As down the length of the shadowy hall Falter her baby feet. She pauses a-tiptoe at the door, With her bonny eyes ashine. Her face holds wisdom beyond my stare, And I clasp her close, to my heart once —— — more, ——— — With her fair little cheek to mine. But my arms clasp only the empty air. The lullaby dies unsung, I lose the gleam of her golden hair. And the little face, so childish fair. And the lisp of her baby tongue. And then I remember; she lies asleep, Her story has all been told, And whether I wake or whether I weep, There still is a mystery strange and deep, Which Time can never uufold. But I sometimes fancy I_catch the gleam Of her hair, in the still of the night, , And the lilt of her hand in a pale moonbeam, Or her eyes meet mine in a waking dream As I sit in the dim twilight, • ’Tis then, I fancy, she turns her face That has grown so heavenly fair, From where she stands in that shining place, And looks toward me through the starry space With the smile that the angels wear. —Dorothy Deane, in Baltimore American. The Dying Rose. See, one by one, they fall— The rose-leaves from their stem. Can nothing yet recall The quben’s lost diadem? Ah! one by one, they go— The smiles that sweeten life; As wavelets swiftly flow, Unseen in ocean’s strife. -— ; — Urionnscibns breath remains . In you bereaved plant, That many hues contains The vision to enchant. So when our dreams are dead, , Aud buried in the ground, New fragrance may be shed, In holier gardens found. —Edward Octavus Flagg, in New York Home Journal. O, Summer Night. O, summer night, so clear and bright, Far hills in purple shadows dight, .-AntLmeadpws bathed in silvery light. O, summer night o.' long ago, Again I see the old hedgerow, And hear the brooklet’s murmuring flow. night so fraught with pain; We meet no more on earth again, Dear eyes that smiled their disdain. O, summer night, the fur leagued sea Rolls now between u» sobbiugly. Between my lony lost love and me. O, summer night, the moop doth wane, From yonder ancient ivibd sane, The chimes ring out the matiii strain. —Caroline Wethereil, in Boston Courier. The Mother Day. Ah, what if Night forget her promises, And leave thee, restless, comfortless, to share With starless skies the burden of thy dare? / Her long, still hours, ah, what if their caress Brings thee no respite from the fears that press, And from the doubts that would thy soul ensnare? Sweet, holy night-shrines, If ye fail, ah, where V Shall we, sad penitents, our woes confess? The Day is pitiful and kind, most kind; She opens wide her strong, brown arms, and sings Her songs of toil to thee, so sorely pressed. Dear souls and brave, I know not If ye find Such blessed peace as earnest labor brings— After your nights of mourning, such sweet rest. —Frank Walcott Hutt, In Boston Transscript.