 | Hagar |  |
246
ONE DAY IN JUNE.
We wandered out in summer time,
One cloudless day in June;
When earth and sky, and blooming flowers
Seemed set to some sweet tune.
There were Nell and Kate and Sue and Belle
And little Mary Bray:
And we were young and gay and blithe
As was the summer day.
We wandered thro' the grand old woods;
And gathered ferns and flowers,
And bits of moss and lichens gray,
While swiftly flew the hours.
Wearied at last of rambling far,
We sought the beech trees shade;
And Sue and Belle, a story told
Of a wandering gypsy maid,
Who lived beneath the forest trees
A life so wild and free,
Free as the bird, who flies where'er
It wishes most to be.
The story done, Nell sang a song
Of flowers and humming bees;
And clear and sweet her words rang out,
Among the listening trees.
Then Kate rose up—all pale and shy,
She loved the rhymer's art;
And pitied the oppressed and weak,
With all her loving heart.
With voice that trembled, she began
To read a mournful lay,
Of children pent in city courts
Where sun-light lost its way.
Their darkened lives bereft of love,
No gleam of hope within;
The comrades of their tender years,
Were want, and pain, and sin!
So lost to peace and innocence,
And love that children crave;
Their ministering angels fold their wings,
All powerless to save!
She told of angels—earthly ones—
Who filled with love Divine,
And moved by pity, fearlessly
Sought the dark haunts of crime,
And brought the helpless little ones;
From the city's stifling heat,
Out to the free, wide country—
Where the air was pure and sweet.
Where they might see the meadows green,
Where the restless swallows fly;
And the clover thick with honey bees,
Beneath the dark blue sky.
When they might feel that He who made
A world so bright and fair,
Has for His earthly children all
A tender Father's care!
I listened while she spoke and gazed
Upon sweet Mary Bray—
As wrapt in childhood's dreamless sleep,
Within my arms she lay.
She was the child of charity,
Poor, friendless and alone;
With all her beauty rare and grace,
None claimed her for their own.
But to one true, one motherly heart,
Was given the power to win—
This little waif, thrown on the tide
From want, and woe, and sin.
One cloudless day in June;
When earth and sky, and blooming flowers
Seemed set to some sweet tune.
There were Nell and Kate and Sue and Belle
And little Mary Bray:
And we were young and gay and blithe
As was the summer day.
We wandered thro' the grand old woods;
And gathered ferns and flowers,
And bits of moss and lichens gray,
While swiftly flew the hours.
Wearied at last of rambling far,
We sought the beech trees shade;
And Sue and Belle, a story told
Of a wandering gypsy maid,
Who lived beneath the forest trees
A life so wild and free,
Free as the bird, who flies where'er
It wishes most to be.
The story done, Nell sang a song
Of flowers and humming bees;
And clear and sweet her words rang out,
Among the listening trees.
Then Kate rose up—all pale and shy,
She loved the rhymer's art;
And pitied the oppressed and weak,
With all her loving heart.
247
To read a mournful lay,
Of children pent in city courts
Where sun-light lost its way.
Their darkened lives bereft of love,
No gleam of hope within;
The comrades of their tender years,
Were want, and pain, and sin!
So lost to peace and innocence,
And love that children crave;
Their ministering angels fold their wings,
All powerless to save!
She told of angels—earthly ones—
Who filled with love Divine,
And moved by pity, fearlessly
Sought the dark haunts of crime,
And brought the helpless little ones;
From the city's stifling heat,
Out to the free, wide country—
Where the air was pure and sweet.
Where they might see the meadows green,
Where the restless swallows fly;
And the clover thick with honey bees,
Beneath the dark blue sky.
When they might feel that He who made
A world so bright and fair,
Has for His earthly children all
A tender Father's care!
I listened while she spoke and gazed
Upon sweet Mary Bray—
As wrapt in childhood's dreamless sleep,
Within my arms she lay.
248
Poor, friendless and alone;
With all her beauty rare and grace,
None claimed her for their own.
But to one true, one motherly heart,
Was given the power to win—
This little waif, thrown on the tide
From want, and woe, and sin.
The lay was done, and silent we,
The place grew strangely still;
We heard the twittering of a bird,
And the murmur of the rill.
Then something stirr'd my heart, I breath'd
A silent, grateful prayer;
Remembering how my life had been
So blest with tenderest care.
The place grew strangely still;
We heard the twittering of a bird,
And the murmur of the rill.
Then something stirr'd my heart, I breath'd
A silent, grateful prayer;
Remembering how my life had been
So blest with tenderest care.
The sun is set in a flood of gold,
And the distant hills were grey;
As laden with the forest spoils,
We took our homeward way,
Across the meadow—by the brook,
And over fields—new mown—
Where serried swarths of fragrant hay,
Upon the ground were strown.
Ah! years have passed since then, and we
Have long been women grown:
And some are wed, and some have lads
And maidens, of their own.
But cherished in our memories still,
Is that fair day in June;—
When earth, and sky, and we ourselves,
Seemed set to some sweet tune.
And the distant hills were grey;
As laden with the forest spoils,
We took our homeward way,
Across the meadow—by the brook,
And over fields—new mown—
Where serried swarths of fragrant hay,
Upon the ground were strown.
Ah! years have passed since then, and we
Have long been women grown:
And some are wed, and some have lads
And maidens, of their own.
But cherished in our memories still,
Is that fair day in June;—
When earth, and sky, and we ourselves,
Seemed set to some sweet tune.
| Hagar | |