POETRY.

Globe, Volume XXIV, Issue 2472, 9 March 1882, Page 4

POETRY.

WHAT WE SNOW NOT NOW.

les, but the weary waiting, The sickness of hope deferred, The anguish of praying, and praying When prayers seem not to bo heard. Whan the heaven is brass above us, When the beauty of the day, And the goodness and glory of living, Are shut from our eyes away. The long, long nights or darkness, Those silent and awful nights, When memory lights up tho past time With her flickering ghastly lights. Wo see each hope that has withered, We see each joy that has died, And tho friends we have lov’d and trusted Are once more by our side. We look for some indication Of the point at which we strayed, And whore was the rift in the music, That such awful discord made. And we cannot see the reason For the wrongs we have to bear, Wo cannot see why our pathway Is so thickly set with care.

And we long to pierce tho future, We long to rend in twain The veil that lies on our pathway ; It is shaken by us in vain. We live in the present moment, Only tho present one, Tho life that has lasted the longest, Moment by moment was inn. Only the present moment May we ever call our own; The future is in GKid’a keeping, The past has for over flown. And what the next will bring us The Lord alone can say, For we see but ono step before u» On life’s mysterious way. O, but the weary waiting, Tho sickness of hope deferred, The dangers that may bo coming, With never a warning word. O, it is hard when life’s anguish Is wringing the heart and brow. It is hard to wait till hereafter For the mysteries of now. It is hard to wait in the darkness. With the light so near at hand, Hard, when one look would assure us. In uncertainty to stand. Ah-! but the joy of knowing When‘the.griefs of life are pwt, When we stand ’mid the shining angels On the golden streets at last. The joy of knowing the reason, Of seeing spread out to view, Hike a grand completed picture, The way that wo have passed through. Of knowing why we were troubled, Why our wishes wore denied, Why the fairest hopes of our lifetime, Like untimely blossoms, died. Why the sunshine came so rarely, Why flowers were so seldom seen, Why we were surrounded by deserts Instead of the smiling green. O, the rare, sweet joy of knowing All that we know not now. Of reaching life’s hidden secrets In eternity’s golden glow. Of seeing that storm or sunshine, Whatever came, was best; Of knowing, and living, and loving In heaven’s unending rest. Agnes Neaib. A NEW LOCHNIVAR. Oh, where is tho hero like Young Loohinvar, When he is a-straddlo his bicycle bar ? He rolls o’er the ground like a Centaur of old. For his hand it is strong and his heart it is bold! He mounts his wild war horse, a bicycle bar, Ho sallies forth gaily, and he travels afar ; He travels to Putney, that land of the free, He travels to Putney his charmer to see. Oh ! her pa is unwilling, her ma is adverse, Her brother is ugly, her sister is worse ; But what recks a hero like Young Loohinvar, While ho is a-straddle his bicycle bar ? He seizes the maiden. What hero e’er failed To seize on tho maid when the farm was entailed ? When his arm’s round her waist Loohinvar doesn’t wait, ■But they mount tho bicycle just outside the gate. Them gaily they start with a parson in view, Tho old man and old woman them quickly pursue ; The bicycle smashes, too weak are the wheels, And the maid and the lover then take to their heels.