KIDD'S OWN JOUKNAL. 



47 



DOMESTIC LAYS— No. III. 



TO AN ABSENT WIFE. 



Thou bad'st me, dearest, string my harp, 



And wake a song for thee ; 

 But ah ! I want thy look of love 



To set its numbers free ; 

 I want affection's smile and blush, 



Its meed of gentle praise ; 

 Thy lute-like voice's silver gush, 



My drooping soul to raise. 



I want to hear thee softly creep 



To mark each tender line ; 

 To feel thee o'er my shoulder peep, 



And lay thy cheek to mine ; 

 I want the twilight's silent hour, 



The spell of star and tree, 

 The perfume of the shutting flower, 



To breathe my love for thee. 



I want the atmosphere of home 



To melt the icy chain 

 Around my heart — to see the bloom 



On thy dear cheek again. 

 I want the music of thy tone, 



The honey of thy kiss ; 

 And yet, how should I feel alone 



With memories like this ? 



By Babel's stream the exiled Jews 



Hung up their harps, and wept ; 

 While in each breast the heavenly muse 



In voiceless sorrow slept. 

 Thus o'er my spirit falls a gloom 



Which chains both heart and hand ; 

 How shall /sing " a song of home," 



When in a stranger-land ? 



The palm-tree 'mid the desert waste 



Points out the spring below, 

 And bids the fainting pilgrim haste 



Where crystal waters flow. 

 Like him I fly to that dear home, 

 Whose joy-springs never cease ; 



Where gentlest feelings bud and bloom 

 Beneath the sun of peace ! 



PROCRASTINATIONS. 



BY DOCTOR MACKAY. 



If Fortune, with a smiling face, 



Strew roses on our way, 



When shall we stoop to pick them up ? 



To-day, my love, to-day. 

 But should she frown with face of care, 

 And talk of coming sorrow, 

 When shall we grieve, if grieve we must ? 



To-morrow, love, to-morrow. 



If those who've wronged us own their faults, 



And kindly pity pray, 



When shall we listen and forgive ? 



To-day, my love, to-day. 

 But if stern Justice urge rebuke, 

 And warmth from Memory borrow, 

 When shall we chide (if chide we dare) ? 



To-morrow, love, to-morrow. 



If those to whom we owe a debt 



Are harmed unless we pay, 



When shall we struggle to be just ? 



To-day, my love, to-day. 

 But if our debtor fail our hope 

 And plead his ruin thorough, 

 When shall we weigh his breach of faith ? 



To-morrow, love, to-morrow. 



If Love, estranged, should once again 



Her genial smile display, 



When shall we kiss her pi-offered lips ? 



To-day, my love, to-day. 

 But, if she would indulge regret, 

 Or dwell with bygone sorrow, 

 When shall we weep (if weep we must) ? 



To-morrow, love, to-morrow. 



For virtuous acts and harmless joys 



The minutes will not stay ; 



We've always time to welcome them, 



To-day, my love, to-day. 

 But care, resentment, angry words 

 And unavailing sorrow, 

 Come far too soon, if they appear, — 



To-morrow, love, to-morrow ! 



FRIENDS IN WINTER. 



The rose is for the nightingale, 



The heather for the lark ; 

 But the holly greets the redbreast, 



'Mid winter drear and dark. 

 And the snow-drop, wakened by his song, 



Peeps tremblingly forth — 

 From her bed of cold, still slumber, 



To gaze upon the earth. 



For the merry voice above her, 



Seemed a herald of the Spring, 

 As o'er the sleeping flowers 



Blithe robin came to sing — 

 11 Up, up, my lady snow-drop, 



No longer lie in bed ; 

 But dance unto my melody, 



And wave your graceful head." 



The bulbul woos the red, red rose ; 



The lark, the heathery dell ; 

 But the robin has the holly-tree, 



And the snow-drop's virgin-bell, 

 The snow-drop timidly looked out ; 



But all was dim and drear, 

 Save robin's merry song that sought 



Her loneliness to cheer ! 



And presently the crocus heard 



Their greeting, and awoke ; 

 And donned with care her golden robe, 



And em'rald-colored cloak. 

 Then springing from her russet shroud, 



Stepped forth to meet the sun, 

 Who broke the clouds with one bright glance, 



And his jocund race begun. 



The crocus brought her sisters too, 



The purple, pied, and white ; 

 And the redbreast warbled merrily 



Above the flow'rets bright. 

 Oh ! the nightingale may love the rose, 



The lark the summer's heather ; — 

 But the robin's consort flowers come, 



And leave the wintry heather. 



