ALEXANDER SMITH

All things have something more than barren use ;

There is a scent upon the brier, A tremulous splendour in the autumn dews,

Cold morns are fringed with fire.

The clodded earth goes up in sweet-breath'd flowers ;

In music dies poor human speech, And into beauty blow those hearts of ours

When Love is born in each.

Daisies are white upon the churchyard sod, Sweet tears the clouds lean down and give.

The world is very lovely. O my God, I thank Thee that I live!

��778. Barbara

ON the Sabbath-day, Through the churchyard old and gray, Over the crisp and yellow leaves I held my rustling way ; And amid the words of mercy, falling on my soul like balms, 'Mid the gorgeous storms of music in the mellow organ- calms,

'Mid the upward-streaming prayers, and the rich and solemn psalms,

I stood careless, Barbara.

My heart was otherwhere, While the organ shook the air, And the priest, with outspread hands, bless' d the people

with a prayer ;

But when rising to go homeward, with a mild and saint like shine

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