A MAIDEN’S WISH.

Globe, Volume XXIII, Issue 2398, 9 December 1881, Page 3

A MAIDEN’S WISH.

“O my hands are tired, my heart is sad,” She sighed as she stood in the rosy light Of a bright June morning. “ The birds are glad— The swallow soars up where the skies sro bright; The creeping shadows have nothing to do But kiss the rill as it ripples along : O I wish that I could be idle too— Had nothing to do but sing happy songs; “Could wander along under cloudless skies And no one to care when I came or went. Ah! I’d find the hills where the sunset dies, And my days would bo filled with sweet content. And I would forget all these tangled threads That I must unravel from day to day; My life is so full of hard knots,” she said—“l wish the thread I could break some way.” An Angel looked down, with pitying smile, In the tearful eyes of the upturned face. And said —“You shall sleep for a little while, And wander in dreams with me through all space.” Then her sou! wont out over land and sea. Where the sun shone bright and the days wore long. . “Too long!” she cried. “I am tired—ah me ! So tired of singing this endless song.”

Then her young eyes beheld a form so grand. Bedecked with satins and jewels so rare ; She cried —"She’s a Princess of this fair land; Her days must be sweet, with never a oaree.” But the fair face wore such a tired smile That the dreamer could only question, « Why ?” She sighed—“ I’m bo sick of this magical isle, . Where there’s nothing to do but Bing and sigh.” " The breezes whispered as. they came this way, Drifting along over sweet, sunny lands, Of a maiden who sighs to come this way, And in idleness ever feldsher hands. Go tell her that busy life is most sweet— It’s so good to toil for those that we love ; Life’s path is so long to the weary feet Who have nothing to do but idly rove. “ I hate the long days, and I hate the night, Eor I’ve nothing to do but wait and sleep. Long ago, when I toiled, my days were bright ; But now I have nothing to do but weep. I am doomed to roam in this dreamy land A thousand long years for wailing at Fate, Because at my birth she had filled my hands With unceasing toil, both early and late. " If I could take up my work again, While my life-pulses beat so fresh and strong, . I think I should never murmur at pain. Nor evermore think that the days were long ; But I am doomed to room here year after year, . Hating the flowers, and hating the sun: If we only look up through blinding tears, Flowers or thorns, why, they are but as one. ” Then the Angel opened the dreamer’s eyes, And she started up with a happy shout, And she cried, “ What a careless girl am I To leave my tasks and go wandering about, Over the face of this beautiful land, Trying to find me a happier nest. ’Twas a dream—a dream! O, I understand; But dreams sometimes teach us what is best.” 1 —Mrs. O. B. Hewett, in the “ Ob.oago Tribune.”