Isabella Craig is a native of Edinburgh, where she has continued to reside. Her educational advantages were limited. To the columns of the Scotsman newspaper she has for several years contributed verses. In 1856 she published a collection of her poetical compositions, in a duodecimo volume, with the title, "Poems by Isa." She contributes to the periodicals.
OUR HELEN.
Is our Helen very fair?
If you only knew her
You would doubt it not, howe'er
Stranger eyes may view her.
We who see her day by day
Through our household moving,
Whether she be fair or nay
Cannot see for loving.
O'er our gentle Helen's face
No rich hues are bright'ning,
And no smiles of feignÈd grace
From her lips are light'ning;
She hath quiet, smiling eyes,
Fair hair simply braided,
All as mild as evening skies
Ere sunlight hath faded.
Our kind, thoughtful Helen loves
Our approving praises,
But her eye that never roves
Shrinks from other gazes.
She, so late within her home
But a child caressing,
Now a woman hath become,
Ministering, blessing.
All her duty, all her bliss,
In her home she findeth,
Nor too narrow deemeth this—
Lowly things she mindeth;
Yet when deeper cares distress,
She is our adviser;
Reason's rules she needeth less,
For her heart is wiser.
For the sorrows of the poor
Her kind spirit bleedeth,
And, because so good and pure,
For the erring pleadeth.
Is our Helen very fair?
If you only knew her
You would doubt it not, howe'er
Stranger eyes may view her.
GOING OUT AND COMING IN.
In that home was joy and sorrow
Where an infant first drew breath,
While an aged sire was drawing
Near unto the gate of death.
His feeble pulse was failing,
And his eye was growing dim;
He was standing on the threshold
When they brought the babe to him.
While to murmur forth a blessing
On the little one he tried,
In his trembling arms he raised it,
Press'd it to his lips and died.
An awful darkness resteth
On the path they both begin,
Who thus met upon the threshold,
Going out and coming in.
Going out unto the triumph,
Coming in unto the fight—
Coming in unto the darkness,
Going out unto the light;
Although the shadow deepen'd
In the moment of eclipse,
When he pass'd through the dread portal
With the blessing on his lips.
And to him who bravely conquers,
As he conquer'd in the strife,
Life is but the way of dying—
Death is but the gate of life;
Yet awful darkness resteth
On the path we all begin,
Where we meet upon the threshold,
Going out and coming in.
MY MARY AN' ME.
We were baith neebor bairns, thegither we play'd,
We loved our first love, an' our hearts never stray'd;
When I got my young lassie her first vow to gie,
We promised to wait for each ither a wee.
My mother was widow'd when we should hae wed,
An' the nicht when we stood roun' my father's death-bed,
He charged me a husband and father to be,
While my young orphan sisters clung weepin' to me.
I kent nae, my Mary, what high heart was thine,
Nor how brightly thy love in a dark hour wad shine,
Till in doubt and in sorrow, ye whisper'd to me,
"Win the blessing o' Heaven for thy Mary and thee."
An' years hae flown by deeply laden wi' care,
But Mary has help'd me their burden to bear,
She gave me my shield in misfortune and wrong,
'Twas she that aye bade me be steadfast and strong.
Her meek an' quiet spirit is aye smooth as now,
Her saft shinin' hair meekly shades her white brow,
A few silver threads 'mang its dark faulds I see,
They tell me how lang she has waited on me.
Her cheek has grown paler, for she too maun toil,
Her sma' hands are thinner, less mirthfu' her smile;
She aft speaks o' heaven, and if she should dee,
She tells me that there she 'll be waitin' on me.
A SONG OF SUMMER.
I will sing a song of summer,
Of bright summer as it dwells,
Amid leaves and flowers and sunshine,
In lone haunts and grassy dells.
Lo! the hill encircled valley
Is like an emerald cup,
To its inmost depths all glowing,
With sunlight brimming up.
Here I 'd dream away the day time,
And let happy thoughts have birth,
And forget there 's aught but glory,
Aught but beauty on the earth.
Not a speck of cloud is floating
In the deep blue overhead,
'Neath the trees the daisied verdure
Like a broider'd couch is spread.
The rustling leaves are dancing
With the light wind's music stirr'd,
And in gushes through the stillness
Comes the song of woodland bird.
Here I 'd dream away the day-time,
And let gentlest thoughts have birth,
And forget there 's aught but gladness,
Aught but peace upon the earth.
