POETRY.

Globe, Volume XXIV, Issue 2650, 4 October 1882, Page 4

POETRY.

THE MORNING KISS. Up at the window a Lost of lace, Held aw;.y by a wee, white hand t Up at tho window a little face. Sweet r.s thought of fairy land. Down below i 1 the sleet and mew, Waiting a moment, s. marly form, Seedless of •■•iad» Hiai i.o anti fro Sullenly di-vu sue win tot stoim. Qaink ! the ca is coming in sight I Ore swift glunce at the face above, Dimpled now with a smile eo bright, Answering back that look of love._ *' Good-bye, papa ! " the darling cries, Wafting a kiss from her finger tips, Pure ss the light in her soft bias eyes, Sweat as tho bloom of hot dewy lips. Ho to the cob-webbed office dim. And to the cares of a busy day j She hsr lessons and morning hymn, Braided together by bits of play. Ha of many ft step afraid. In the slippery paths of town ; jgba with never a darker shade Than the fear of a mother’s frown. He in the restless race for gold, Down whore the money-changers meet, STeela the breath of the tempter bold. Sees the pitfalls near his feat. Well for him that the clouded skies Clear when he lifts the latch of homo ; Well that iato a paradise Never the tsmpter dares to come. Svc-'y night in her robe of waits, Low she kneels by Lev little bed ; 3 very night the tmgels bright, Haver rumen above her head. There is hia anchor ! God who hears That dear baby will hear him too ; Out of tho dust cf forgetful years Struggles his prayers to tho father true. Down in the street, in tho snow and sleet, Waits the man in Lis middle ago ; Up at the window, sheltered, sweet, _ Witches the child on her first white page. Ha to the cares of s busy day, Winning bread in the eager town ; She to her lesson and her play. After eho throws her ki«see down. —Mr* M. E. gangster. LET US ALL EE GIPSIES. is the wsy from the crowded city To t a land of shadow and hope and peace, TThtrs women esn levs and men can pity And tears from sorrowing eyes may cease ? Fcr the toiling town is harsh and hollow, And Hate points eastward, Envy west ; Though many may tail, yot some will follow To a home of dreams and the haven of rest, St;r the lovo of hiaven, stretch forth your hand, And point the way to Bohemia’s land. Whero are the fields and their emerald cover, The wayside flowore and their travailing csrt, Ska new found love and tte long, tried lover ? They ora better by for than our feverish art, Wo are sick unto death of Jealousy’s fettes, Tte arcret psin, the ceaseless strife; There’s triumph in fame, but freedom’s batter j So give us a taste of a wandering life, The tenses sicken as fancy's hand Faints endless love in Bohemia's land, Bohemia’s ways are strewn with flowers, Her children free from the revel of wine ; Her dust is slaked by tho sweetened showers, ’Neath covering trees they halt and dine. When care creeps oloso, why, away they wander To seek whatsoever the mind loves best ; For hope endures when tho heart sees yonder A brighter life and a surer rest. How many despise, but how few withstand Xho ceaseless joys of Bohemia’s land! Xo the fields away ! for nature presses On toiling foreheads a balmy kiss ; There’s nothing so sweet as her soft caresses, Nor love mors full to the lips than this, God grant, my brother*, when all is over, And holiday hours out short by fate, That the sense of flowers and scent of clover May soften sorrow and silence hate. Old Time coon measures the fatal sand, And the curtain falls on Bohemia’s land. —Clement Scott in tho * Boston Transcript.’