AS often I pass the roadside, 

 When wearily falls the day, 

I turn to look from the hill-top 

At the mountains far away.

The red sun through the forests 

Throws hither his parting beams,

And far in the quiet valley 

The happy village gleams.

There the lamp is lit in the cottage 

As the husbandman's labors cease,

And I think that all things are gathered 

And folded in twilight peace.

But the sound of merry voices

Is heard in the village street, 

While pleased the grandam watches

The play of the little feet.

And at night to many a fireside

The rosy children come; 

To tales of the bright-eyed fairies

They listen, and are dumb.

Then seems It a joy forever

To labor and to learn, 

For love with an eye of magic

Is patient to discern.

And the father blesses the mother, 

And the children bless the sire,

And the cheer and joy of the hearthstone 

Is as light from an altar fire.

Oh, flowers of rarest beauty

In that green valley grow; 

And whether 'twere earth or Heaven

Why shouldest thou care to know?

Save that thy brow is troubled, 

And dim is thy helpmate's eye;

And graves are green in the valley, 

And stars are bright in the sky.

 Scribner's Monthly.