FERN LIFE.

I. Its Home.

Within a shadowy ravine
Far hidden from the sun,
A fern its wee, soft fronds of green
Unfolded, one by one.
From morn till eve no twittering flock
Nor insect hovered nigh:
Its cradle was the lichened rock,
The storm its lullaby.
By night above the dark abyss
The stars their vigils kept,
And white-winged mists stooped low to kiss
The baby, while it slept.

II. At School.

Weeks passed away; the tiny fern
Frond after frond unfurled,
And waited patiently to learn
Its mission in the world.
By fir-trees draped in mosses gray
The willing fern was taught,
And once each day a single ray
Its sunny greeting brought.

III. Asleep.

Her cradle songs the North Wind sung
And whispered far and wide,
Until a thousand harebells swung
Along the mountain side.
She sung of far-off twilight land,
Moss-muffled forests dim,
And, to her mountain organ grand,
The aged pine-trees’ hymn.

IV. A Cradle-Song of the Night Wind.

The pines have gathered upon the hill
To watch for the old-new moon;
I hear their murmuring—“Hush, be still!
’Tis coming—coming soon!”
The brown thrush sings to his meek brown wife
Who broods below on her nest:
“Of all the world and of all my life
’Tis you I love the best!”
But the baby moon is wide awake,
And its eyes are shining bright;
The pines in their arms this moon must take
And rock him to sleep to-night.

V. The Chime.

Softly swinging to and fro,
Harebells tinkle, sweet and low!
All the world is fast asleep,
Birds and folks and woolly sheep;
Far above us towers the mountain;
Far below, an unseen fountain
From its rocky cradle deep,
Like a child, laughs in its sleep.
All our faces shyly hidden,
As the fir-trees oft have bidden,
Softly bending, sweet notes blending,
Moonbeams climbing,
Wee bells chiming,
Harebells tinkle, star-gleams twinkle,
To and fro,
To and fro,
Sweet—sweet and low.

VI. The Hymn of the Northern Pines.

Sure—sure—sure—
Are the promises He hath spoken,
His word hath never been broken.
Pure—pure—pure—
Are the thoughts and the hearts of His chosen,
As crystals the North Wind hath frozen.
Strong—strong—strong—
Underneath are the arms everlasting;
On them our cares we are casting.
Long—long—long—
Have we sung of the life He doth give us—
His mercy and love shall outlive us.

VII. At Last.

Far from its mountain home the fern
Has found a resting-place;
A maiden has begun to learn
To love its winsome face.
But when at night the north winds smite
Against the frosty pane,
The fern is listening with delight
To hear their voice again.
For in their solemn murmuring
The pine-trees chant once more,
The harebells chime, the thrushes sing,
The mountain torrents roar;
Again the dark-robed fir-trees stand
About its mossy bed,
And hold aloft with trembling hand
Their crosses o’er its head.