THE MINSTREL.

Saturday Advertiser, Volume III, Issue 125, 1 December 1877, Page 3

THE MINSTREL.

If I had known in the mornings * r-* #~ lhe Wb&Wbkffid“ !! ‘ f UK Z . ..;fr A ?• u h> eh*.Woiilii‘ , feduhle i my f nKntf/ ?V \ ? " " 4 -i. i)j,u -liftra.toeitteift fit ■*• Wdhe f eh^6i;e^aref „ j - -SI -' 'y-NW given you heieHiyss iwti'h" ' rf* .' ur:i oJßufr we'jvex’“'©in*'o*«Ti J r ._ r V' ' 4 JiWiiH‘lp6k''a ; nd' ! tone‘' ! , ~7 j jj.n - ■ ' -n ‘Wte may nAver;take fia'ck again.' E "'. V,, 40 IrMO oii-Tw: v«iH •-qFor,though'in the quiet evening 1 1 may-give‘yoiv the kiss of ■p'eabe> i; * u ‘ : ' J ’! • i ,-H' i Yetfit might be kaoimAt q il.« ft*. S«j ... That neTer for me/* ll^1 - ; n o:? nooiu. : ; -The pain at’fche heart should cease !' ,U ' J v How manyigO; forth in the liiorriiag :UK:,f j' ; That never go home at nightl y v . 1j 7; j.u fine And hearts liavo been broken By harsh words spoken, ■•■! !> That sorrow'cau ho’er set right; ; ‘ * ’•:;i fit/! ’io jr,'jiii ‘uaUiawf :;dl t*«in yiitos'i'iwt- ; h!: We have- careful thought for the stranger, jlnd smiles for the isbxnetiinesguest; 1 !; ‘ I But oft for “ our own” -j" r hi --The bitter, tone,-i.:;.o’’ s h.Gwh'4 acvtL Y Though we love “ our own” the’ best.'"; (Ah ! v lips, with curse impatient! ’ J: = ' 5 Ah! brow with that look of-scorn !; ji i’Twcre a cru. 1 fate, < -r-,.;/: fififtl ao'l , ; :!!' i iJWere the night too late, ' i f,m: To undo the (work of the morn. !r 1

■ ;; ! RE C O a : N ( Selected .) ’ .eirag How stall I know tliee in the sphere which keeps The disembodied spirits of the dead,. - *< [ When all of thee that time could wither sleeps And perishes among the, dust w.e tread ?A . ; For I shall feel the sting of useless pain . If there I meet thy gentle presence’not,. ; <( Nor hear the voice 1 love, nor read again ' . ' In thy serenest eyes the tender thoughtr. r . Will not thy own meek heart demand me there ? Thafrh eart whose fondest th robs to me were given. My name on earth was ever in thy prayer, And wilt thou never utter ii in heaven ? 'l , •<: 'j i '.I ! ‘ ‘ i The love that lived through all the stormy past And meekly with my harsher nature bore, And deeper grew, and tender to the last, Shall it expire with life and be no mere ? Shalt thou not teach me in that calmer home, The wisdom that I earned so well in this— The wisdom which is love —till I become Thy fit companion in that land of bliss ? William Cullen Bryant.