From Poems by Alice McClure Griffin.

The Spring Queen of the Vale.

~ by Addie Glenmore

There is mist upon the mountain,

There are shadows on the hill,

And the frost-imprisoned fountain

Sighs in murmurs low and chill.

The maple boughs are bending

'Neath the weight of drifted snow,

While from every spray depending

Prisomed icy stickles glow.

The moonlight's chilly glimmer

On the glassy river plays,

And the waves' reflected shimmer

Faintly answers to its rays.

The plaintive winds are sighing

Sadly round the bending eaves.

Like a suffering mortal dying

For the charity none gives.

Thus the outer world is clouded

With the heaviness of gloom;

And the cold earth lies enshrouded

As apparelled for the tomb.

But the Winter King, whose minions

Are the frosty wind and hail,

Soon shall yield his wide dominions

To the Spring Queen of the Vale.

On her fairy pinions fleetly

She is coming to the bowers.

With her sunny tresses sweetly

Wreathed in dewy wild-wood flowers.

Ah ! her loving smiles of gladness

Will erase from every heart

Every trace of gloomy sadness,

And blissful joys impart.

pp. 33-34

Crushed Roses.

I love the pleasant odors

Wafted on the breeze of morn,

From the dewy cells of violets sweet,

Or the fragrant, blooming thorn.

'Tis sweet to catch the passing breath

Of hyacinths in bloom.

When gentle winds disseminate

Their delicate perfume.

There's inspiration in the scent 

Of thyme and wild-wood flowers;

And prophesying dreams are lent

To slumber 'neath their bowers.

But sweeter than the violet.

Or thyme, or blooming thorn,

Is the perfume of crushed roses.

On the evening breezes borne.

p. 89

The Sensitive Heart.

Why art thou sad? Why sittest pale melancholy ever brooding on thy brow? Look around thyself. Behold the clustering blessings with which thou art surrounded. E'en joy, rich joys, are hovering to greet thee, while the sunny smile of love and approbation make luminous the sphere of thy association. Still thou art sorrowful; still the mantle of gloom encircles thee like a shroud, and the bending shadows of the darkened tomb are girt about thee. Alas! thine is the fate of the too sensitive. Bowed down by the sorrows of many, e'en when thine own star is brightest, — melting, with its rich effulgence, the heart to thankfulness, — then does thine eye wander to the cloud which is shadowing the less glorious planet of thy friends or neighbors. And thus art thou drooping ever beneath sorrows not thine own, — turning listlessly from the bright flowers which adorn thy path, because others may not bask in the sunshine of their beauty, or taste the rich breath of their sweet perfume.

p. 107

Aspiration.

My spirit seeks a wider, higher sphere

Than the small limit given to action here.

Not e'en the star-crowned heaven's ethereal arch

Gives space sufficient to the onward march 

Of my aspiring soul! but high above, 

It soars and revels in the realms of love; 

Bathing its plumage in the ambient flood 

Of glory, beaming from the Eternal Good.

More fleet than time, bright fancy's pinions are 

Attracted onward by ambition's star; 

And barriers that would sober reason fright. 

Seem but slight hindrances to her wild flight.

p. 112

~ Griffin, Alice McClure, Poems, published in 1864.