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Than to doubt like mine a prey;
Turns my heart, for ever trying
Some new hope for each new day.
"When the shadows veil the meadows, And the sunset's golden ladders
Sink from twilight's walls of grey,—
Fades the fond delusive seeming,]
"When the growing dawn is showing,
Then I hush the thought, and say,
Ah! my heart, my heart is breaking
Look up, Martha! worn and swarthy,
O'er went wheel and reel together,
When such lovers meet each other,
Quench the timber's fallen embers,
But the hearth shall kindle clearer,
THE RIVER PATH.
No bird-song floated down the hill,
No rustle from the birchen stem,
The dusk of twilight round us grew,
For from us, ere the day was done,
But on the river's farther side
A tender glow, exceeding fair,
With us the damp, the chill, the gloom :
While dark, through willowy vistas seen,
From out the darkness where we trod,
Whose light seemed not of moon or sun.
We paused, as if from that bright shore Beckoned our dear ones gone before;
And stilled our beating hearts to hear
Sudden our pathway turned from night;
Through their green gates the sunshine showed.
Down glade and glen and bank it rolled;
"So," prayed we, when our feet draw near
"And the night cometh chill with dew,
So let the hills of doubt divide,
So bridge with faith the sunless tide!
"So let the eyes that fail on earth
"And in thy beckoning angels know
My heart was heavy, for its trust had been Abused, its kindness answered with foul wrong. So, túrning gloomily from my fellow-men,
One summer Sabbath-day I strolled among The green mounds of the village burial-place; Where, pondering how all human love and hate Find one sad level; and how, soon or late,
Wronged and wrongdoer, each with meekened face,
Our common sorrow, like a mighty wave,
ANOTHER hand is beckoning us,
And glows once more with angel-steps
Our young and gentle friend, whose smile
Amid the frosts of autumn time
No paling of the cheek of bloom
No shadow from the Silent Land
The light of her young life went down,
As sinks behind the hill
The glory of a setting star,
Clear, suddenly, and still.
As pure and sweet, her fair brow seemed
And like the brook's low song, her voice,
A sound which could not die.
And half we deemed she needed not
The changing of her sphere,
The blessing of her quiet life
Fell on us like the dew;
And good thoughts, where her footsteps pressed, Like fairy blossoms grew.
Sweet promptings unto kindest deeds
Were in her very look ;
We read her face, as one who reads
The measure of a blessed hymn
To which our hearts could move;
We miss her in the place of prayer,
There seems a shadow on the day
Alone unto our Father's will
One thought hath reconciled;
Fold her, O Father! in thine arms,
Our human hearts and thee.
Still let her mild rebuking stand
And her dear memory serve to make
And grant that she who, trembling, here
May welcome to her holier home