'Tis sweet, so sweet, when work is o'er,
At eve, to hear the voice of love
Shout welcome from the cottage door,
Embowered on the hill above.

From furrowed field, where all the day
You toil and sweat for little bread,
'Tis sweet to see the child at play
Drop toys and come with arms outspread.

'Tis sweet, so sweet, when work is o'er,
At eve, to hear the voice of love
Shout welcome from the cottage door,
Embowered on the hill above.

From furrowed field, where all the day
You toil and sweat for little bread,

I ask no more of life than sunset's gold;
A cottage hid in songbird's neighborhood,
Where I may sing and do a little good,
For love and pleasant mem'ries when I'm old.

If life hath this in store for me—
A spot where coarse souls enter not,
Or strife—I'm sure there cannot be
On earth a fairer heaven sought.

I ask no more of life than sunset's gold;
A cottage hid in songbird's neighborhood,
Where I may sing and do a little good,
For love and pleasant mem'ries when I'm old.

If life hath this in store for me—

Her lap is full of dead; the tears
Wash down her graying cheek;
Unto her riven heart the years
No comfort speak.

She holds them close, the flowers, the leaves,
Her yearly loved and dead;
The universal Rachel grieves

Then first from Love, in Nature's bowers,
Did Painting learn her fairy skill,
And cull the hues of loveliest flowers,
To picture woman lovelier still.
For vain was every radiant hue,
Till Passion lent a soul to art,
And taught the painter, ere he drew,
To fix the model in his heart.

Thus smooth his toil awhile went on,
Till, lo, one touch his art defies;
The brow, the lip, the blushes shone,
But who could dare to paint those eyes?
'Twas all in vain the painter strove;
So turning to that boy divine,

T HERE'S a song of the olden time,
Falling sad o'er the ear,
Like the dream of some village chime,
Which in youth we loved to hear.
And even amidst the grand and gay,
When Music tries her gentlest art
I never hear so sweet a lay,
Or one that hangs so round my heart,
As that song of the olden time,
Falling sad o'er the ear,
Like the dream of some village chime,
Which in youth we loved to hear,

And when all of this life is gone,—
Even the hope, lingering now,
Like the last of the leaves left on
Autumn's sere and faded bough,—

At Derby Haven, in the sweet Manx land,
A little girl had written on the sand
This legend:—“God is love.” But when I said:—
“What means this writing?” thus she answered:—
“It's father that's at say,
And I come here to pray,
And. . . . God is love.” My eyes grew dim—
Blest child! in Heaven above
Your angel sees the face of Him
Whose name is Love!

He loves! If in the bygone years
Thine eyes have ever shed
Tears—bitter, unavailing tears,
For one untimely dead—
If in the eventide of life
Sad thoughts of her arise,
Then let the memory of thy wife
Plead for my boy—he dies!

He dies! If fondly laid aside
In some old cabinet,
Memorials of thy long-dead bride
Lie, dearly treasured yet,
Then let her hallowed bridal dress—
Her little dainty gloves—
Her withered flowers—her faded tress—
Plead for my boy—he loves!

Near the banks of that lone river,
Where the water-lilies grow,
Breathed the fairest flower that ever
Bloomed and faded years ago.

How we met and loved and parted,
None on earth can ever know—
Nor how pure and gentle-hearted
Beamed the mourned one years ago!

Like the stream with lilies laden,
Will life's future current flow,
Till in heaven I meet the maiden
Fondly cherished years ago.

Hearts that love like mine forget not;
They're the same in weal or wo;
And that star of memory set not
In the grave of years ago.

I NEVER have been false to thee!—
The heart I gave thee still is thine;
Though thou hast been untrue to me,
And I no more may call thee mine!
I 've loved, as woman ever loves,
With constant soul in good or ill:
Thou 'st proved as man too often proves,
A rover—but I love thee still!

Yet think not that my spirit stoops
To bind thee captive in my train!—
Love's not a flower at sunset droops,
But smiles when comes her god again!
Thy words, which fall unheeded now,
Could once my heart-strings madly thrill!
Lovely golden chain and burning vow

Blossoms culled, more posies bloom,
Pansies plucked, more pansies grow,
Streams that feed insatiate seas,
Still gain volume as they flow.

Souls that share their gifts with all,
Garner love to share again—
They radiate their fragrance, like
Full-blown roses after rain.