JAMES MONTGOMERY

Fairest and best adorned is she Whose clothing is humility.

'Tis human actions paint the chart of time.

Hope against hope, and ask till ye receive.

Eternity: a moment standing still for ever.

Blue thou art, intensely blue; Flower, whence came thy dazzling hue?

The Dove, on silver pinions, winged her peaceful way.

Joys too exquisite to last, And yet more exquisite when past.

Here hyacinths of heavenly blue, shook their rich tresses to the morn.

Eagle of flowers! I see thee stand, And on the sun's noon-glory gaze; With eye like his, thy lids expand, And fringe their disk with golden rays: Though fix'd on earth, in darkness rooted there, Light is thy element, thy dwelling air, Thy prospect heaven.

There is a calm for those who weep, A rest for weary pilgrims found, They softly lie and sweetly sleep Low in the ground.

Yet nightly pitch my moving tent, a day's march nearer home.

Songs of praise the angels sang, Heav'n with alleluias rang, when creation was begun, when God spoke and it was done.

There is a world above, Where parting is unknown; A whole eternity of love, Form'd for the good alone; And faith beholds the dying here Translated to that happier sphere.

When evening closes Nature's eye, The glow-worm lights her little spark To captivate her favorite fly And tempt the rover through the dark.

Who that hath ever been Could bear to be no more? Yet who would tread again the scene He trod through life before?

Night is the time to weep,To wet with unseen tearsThose graves of memory where sleepThe joys of other years.

The tulip's petals shine in dew, All beautiful, but none alike.

Prayer is the soul's sincere desire, Uttered or unexpressed, The motion of a hidden fire That trembles in the breast. Prayer is the burden of a sigh, The falling of a tear, The upward glancing of an eye When none but God is near.

A mother's love — how sweet the name! What is a mother's love? — A noble, pure and tender flame, Enkindled from above, To bless a heart of earthly mould; The warmest love that can grow cold; This is a mother's love.

Dark-green and gemm'd with flowers of snow, With close uncrowded branches spread Not proudly high, nor meanly low, A graceful myrtle rear'd its head.

When the good man yields his breath (For the good man never dies).

The Dead are like the stars by day; Withdrawn from mortal eye, But not extinct, they hold their way In glory through the sky.

To-morrow — oh, 'twill never be, If we should live a thousand years! Our time is all to-day, to-day, The same, though changed; and while it flies With still small voice the moments say: "To-day, to-day, be wise, be wise.