Poetry.

Waikato Times, Volume XXXI, Issue 2519, 1 September 1888, Page 1 (Supplement)

Poetry.

A SILVERY LINING TO EVERY CLOUD. Tho' the world may be dark, and our footsteps be lone, No sunshine to gladden or cheer us, When the hearts that are round ua are cold as a stone, . And no loving bosom be near us, Tho' fortune may frown on our desolate path, And no ray of light be seen shining, Still joy, tho' unseen, hovers over the hearth, For each cloud has a silvery lining. Tho' friends may forsake us, or treat us with scorn. Yet still we must try to remember That the eloomiest night has a radiant morn, And the flowers bloom in spite of December. And what tho' the joys of our youth should depart. They will not be restored by repining, For hope yet remains to enliven the heart, And each cloud has a silvery lining. Tho' the winter be o'er us and all may seem draar, And the birds e'en their nests have forsaken, Yet comfort's at hand, for the spring-time is near; Let your confidence never be shaken. As the ivy clings to the oak's crumbling bark, So round hope your heart should be twining; And when you look up, tho' the sky may bo dark. Think each cloud has a silvery lining. When trial and conflict would render you sad, When your pleasure is mingled with care, Then siiiile on your fortune, and try to be Rind, But, oh, never give way to despair ! And when the rough gales of the winter are o'er, And the bright sun above us is shining, You'll find that your sorrows have all gone before, And each cloud has a silvery lining. —By F. Hauvet. [APPRECIATION, Thrice blest is he whom God ondows With truest gifts of seeing, Who feels each beauty day by day Throughout his inmost being; Who reads tho language of the breeze, The brooklet's rippling laughter. Who hears the whispers in the trees, And bird songs coming after; Who notes each blossom on the ground, Each grass plume graceful bending, Each hnppy floweret all around Its incense upward sending. The myriad voices of the night, The insect's drowsy humming, The wind announcing through the leaves The tempest chariot's coming ; The gentle music of the waves, The ocean's varied voices, The zephyr which o'er toilers' graves or peace and rest rejoices ; Who sees the sunbeam through the cloud, The hope through gloom ur sadness, The deep soul •murmurs low or loud Of Nature in her gladness. Who knows each beauty half revealed In every dell or dingle, And every vision half concealed Where night and morning mingle; Knows well each grace and marvel caught By moonbeams softly shining, And loves the pictures deftly wrought By shadows intertwining. —I. Kodak Josm, in American Migazine