Against the melting clouds, behold
  The lofty arch, the beauteous bow,
The sacred sign to saints of old,
  As bright as when first seen below,
  How fair the matchless colors glow
        After the cooling shower.

Washed by the countless, crystal drops,
  Awhile from swarming insects free,
The cattle clip the clover tops
  Forth wandering o’er the fertile lea,
  The birds sing with unusual glee
        After the drenching shower.

Over the hills and valleys green
  Wild flowers are blooming fresh and fair,
In cottage lawns and yards are seen
  The good results of woman’s care,
  Tulips and pinks and lillies rare
        Fresh from the timely shower.

A TRIBUTE

TO THE MEMORY OF DAVID SCOTT (OF JOHN.)

I weep for the loss of a leader in thought,
Whose lessons of truth, with simplicity taught,
Have bless’d and encouraged the humble and poor,
Who always were welcomed with joy at his door.

How happy the hours when we gathered around,
To hear his solutions of problems profound;
And bright through my mem’ry what pleasure returns
When I think of his rendering of Byron and Burns.

The “Saturday Night,” and “To Mary in Heaven,”
With true Scottish accent were touchingly given,
And reckless “Don Juan’s” most comical plight,—­
And pathos of “Harold” he gave with delight.

The pages of Hebraic sages divine,
Made vocal by him with new beauties did shine;
His choice conversation with children and men,
Was often enriched with a song from his pen.

In public debate, whosoever arose,
His well-grounded argument firm to oppose,
Though sharp the contention, was forced to declare,
That he was an honorable champion there.

And, those he offended, as everyone must,
Whose thoughts are progressive, whose actions are just,
With kindness he reasoned all errors to show,
And made a staunch friend of a bickering foe.

He owned like a hero the penalty dread—­
“By the sweat of thy brow shalt thou earn thy bread,”
And his toil through summer, and mid-winter snows,
Has made the wild wilderness bloom as the rose.

The choicest of fruits in profusion appeared,
On trees that he planted, and vines that he reared;
And few things delighted him more than to send,
A rare little treat to an invalid friend.

He scorned false pretences and arrogant pride,
The follies of fashion he loved to deride;
But acknowledged true merit wherever ’twas shown,
By a serf in his hut, or a king on his throne.

His faults be forgotten, we’ve all gone astray,
Lord, show us in mercy, the straight, narrow way,
Peace, peace to his ashes, and sweet be his rest,
With angels of light, in the home of the blest.

SPRING.