A Song of Hope. Her pallid face the wintry morn upreared— Oh, face of silence, with the drooping lid, In wreathing mist thy mocking beauties hid ; So young, and yet with aspect chill and weird ! My heart sank in my breast, I looked afar, The icy vapour did all heaven bar ; On one gaunt tree there sat a tiny bird, That chirped, and chirped, each note a cheery word : “ Hope for thee, Hope for me, The sap’s but sleeping in the tree.” I sat, and watched the brasen sun arise ; It glared all redly, but no vivid beam Could pierce the mist-wraith with a single gleam, To fling its glittering radiance in mine eyes. And yet my heart rose up ; the light was there, Had somehow struggled through the frigid air ; And that brave bird, alone of all the throng, Still chirped, and chirped, a very hero-song : “ Hope for thee, Hope for me, The buds are swelling on the tree.” Some later day, my spirit whispering says, When from her face the rimy tears have rolled, And sunlight tipped her dewy locks with gold, This wintry morn will claim her song of praise. Then, in my thought, my leaping heart will prize The silent drooping of her filmy eyes ; My voice will join the bird’s exultant throat, Who’ll chirp, and chirp, with ever clearer note : “ Hope for thee, Hope for me, The fruit is ripening on the tree.” William Duthie.