[ 352 ] [OCT. 



OUll DAILY PATHS. 



Nought shall prevail against us, or disturb 

 Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold 

 Is full of blessings. WORDSWORTH. 



THERE'S Beauty all around our paths, if but our watchful eyes 

 Can trace it 'midst familiar things, and through their lowly guise ; 

 We may find it where a hedgerow showers its blossoms o'er our way, 

 Or a cottage-window sparkles forth in the last red light of day. 



We may find it where a spring shines clear, beneath an aged tree, 

 \Vith the foxglove o'er the water's glass borne downwards by the bee; 

 Or where a swift and sunny gleam on the birchen-stems is thrown, 

 As a soft wind playing parts the leaves, in copses green and lone. 



We may find it in the winter boughs, as they cross the cold blue sky, 

 While soft on icy pool and stream their pencilled shadows lie, 

 When we look upon their tracery, by the fairy frost-work bound, 

 Whence the flitting redbreast shakes a shower of crystals to the ground. 



Yes! Beauty dwells in all our paths but Sorrow too is there ; 

 How oft some cloud within us dims the bright still summer air ! 

 When we carry our sick hearts abroad amidst the joyous things 

 That through the leafy places glance on many-coloured wings. 



With shadows from the past we fill the happy woodland shades, 

 And a mournful memory of the dead is with us in the glades ; 

 And our dream-like fancies lend the wind an echo's plaintive tone, 

 Of voices, and of melodies, and of silvery laughter gone. 



But are we free to do ev'n thus to wander as we will 

 Bearing sad visions through the grove, and o'er the breezy hill ? 

 No ! in our daily paths lie cares, that oft-times bind us fast, 

 While from their narrow round we see the golden day fleet past. 



They hold us from the woodlark's haunts and the violet-dingles back, 

 And from all the lovely sounds and gleams in the shining river's track ; 

 They bar us from our heritage of spring-time hope and mirth, 

 And weigh our burdened spirits down with the cumbering dust of earth. 



Yet should this be ? Too much, too soon, despondingly we yield ! 

 A better lesson we are taught by the lilies of the field ! 

 A sweeter by the birds of heaven which tell us, in their flight, 

 Of One that through the desert air for ever guides them right ! 



Shall not this knowledge calm our hearts, and bid vain conflicts cease ? 

 Aye, when they commune with themselves in holy hours of peace, 

 And feel that by the lights and clouds through which our pathway lies, 

 By the Beauty and the Grief alike, we are training for the skies! 



F. H. 



