Yorkshire Lyrics Part 54

You need fear no rival,-- Other blossoms blown, With their varied beauties But enhance your own.

Steals the soft wind gently, 'Round th' enchanted spot, Sets your bells a-ringing Though we hear them not.

Idle Fancy wanders As you shake and swing, Our hearts shape the message We would have you bring.

Dreams of happy Springtimes We hope yet to share; Vague, but pleasant visions All to melt in air.

Children's merry voices Break your witching spells, Chubby hands are clasping Languishing Blue-bells.

Gay and happy children Hop and skip along, With their ringing laughter, Sweet as skylark's song.

Slowly soon I follow Through the rustic lane, But the sight that greets me Gives me pang of pain.

Strewed upon the pathway, Fairy Blue-bells lie, Trampled, crushed and wilted, Cast away to die.

Yet they lived not vainly Though their life was brief, Shedding gleams of gladness O'er a world of grief.

And they taught a lesson,-- Rightly understood; By their mute endeavour Striving to do good.

A Song of the Snow

Oh the snow,--the bright fleecy snow!

Isn't it grand when the north breezes blow?

Isn't it bracing the ice to skim o'er, With a jovial friend or the one you adore?

How the ice crackles, and how the skates ring, How friends flit past you like birds on the wing.

How the gay laugh ripples through the clear air, How bloom the roses on cheeks of the fair!

Few are the pleasures that life can bestow, To equal the charms of the beautiful snow.

Oh, the snow,-the pitiless snow!

Cruel and cold, as the shelterless know; Huddled in nooks on the mud or the flags, Wrapp'd in a few scanty, fluttering rags.

Gently it rests on the roof and the spire, And filling the streets with its slush and the mire, Freezing the life out of poor, starving souls, Wild whirling and drifting as Boreas howls.

Hard is their lot who have no where to go, To shelter from storm and the merciless snow.

Oh, the snow,-the treacherous snow!

Up in a garret on pallet laid low!

Dying of hunger,--oh, sad is her fate;-- No food in the cupboard,--no fire in the grate.

A widening streak of frost crystals are shed, Through the window's broke pane on the comfortless bed, And the child that she clasps to her chill milkless breast, Has ended its troubles, and gone to its rest.

Husbandless,--childless, and friendless.--Go slow,-- She sleeps with her babe, and their shroud is the snow.

Oh, the snow, the health-giving snow!

Setting the cheeks of the children aglow, Father and mother,--well fed and well clad, Join in the frolic like young la.s.s and lad.

Little they dream of the suffering and woe, Of those shivering outcasts with nowhere to go.

Then they read from their paper with quivering breath, Accounts of poor wand'rers found frozen to death, And their hearts with pure pity perchance overflow, But it vanishes soon, like the beautiful snow.

Hide not thy Face.

Hide not Thy face,--and though the road Be dark and long and rough, With cheerfulness I'll bear my load, Thy smile will be enough.

All other helps I can forego, If with Faith's eye I trace, Through earthly clouds of grief and woe, The presence of Thy face.

Hide not Thy face;--weak, worn and Oppressed with doubt and fear; Still will I utter no complaint,-- Content if Thou art near.

Thy loving hand my steps shall guide, And set my doubts at rest; In loving trust, whate'er betide, For Thou, Lord, knowest best.

Hide not Thy face;--the tempter's wiles Around my feet are spread; The world's applause,-the wanton's smiles, Beset the path I tread.

Alone, too weak to fight the host Of Pleasure's vicious train, 'Tis then I need Thy succour most;-- Let me not seek in vain.

Hide not Thy face, but day by day, Shine out more clearly bright; Until this narrow, th.o.r.n.y way, Shall end in Death's dark night.

Then freed from all the taints of sin, Through Thine abundant Grace; The crown of righteousness I win, And see Thee face to face.

In my Garden of Roses.

Oh! Come to me, darling! My Sweet!

Here where the sunlight reposes; Pink petals lie thick at my feet, Here in my garden of rose's.

Oh! come to my bower! My Queen!

Sweet with the breath of the flow'rs; Shaded with curtains of green;-- Here let us dream through the hours.

The sky is unfleck'd overhead,-- Trees languish in Sol's fervid ray,-- The earth to the heavens is wed, And robin is piping his lay.

Lost is their sweetness upon me; Vainly their beauties displaying;-- Cheerless I wander, and lonely,-- Hoping and longing and praying.

Oh! come to me, Queenliest flower!

Reign in my garden of roses; Humbly we bow to thy power, Loving the sway thou imposes.

Hark! 'Tis her tinkling footfall!

Robin desist from thy singing; Mar not those sounds that enthrall,-- Faint as a fairy bell's ringing.

She cometh! My lily! my rose!

Queenlier,--purer, and sweeter!

Haste, every blossom that blows, Pour out your perfumes to greet her!

Panting she rests in my arms;-- Now is my bower enchanted!

Essence of all this world's charms;-- My heart has won all that it wanted.

The Match Girl.

Merrily rang out the midnight bells, Glad tidings of joy for all; As crouched a little shiv'ring child, Close by the churchyard wall.

The snow and sleet were pitiless, The wind played with her rags, She beat her bare, half frozen feet Upon the heartless flags; A tattered shawl she tightly held With one hand, round her breast; Whilst icicles shone in her hair, Like gems in gold impressed, But on her pale, wan cheeks, the tears That fell too fast to freeze, Rolled down, as soft she murmured, "Do buy my matches, please."

Wee, weak, inheritor of want!

She heard the Christmas chimes, Perchance, her fancy wrought out dreams, Of by-gone, better times, The days before her mother died, When she was warmly clad; When food was plenty, and her heart From morn to night was glad.