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, Glows a face of manhood worthy : "Martha!" all they say. "Robert!" 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 e; 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; The shadowy with the sunlit side. 'So," prayed we, "when our feet draw near "And the night cometh chill with dew, "So let the hills of doubt divide, "So let the eyes that fail on earth "And in thy beckoning angels know FORGIVENESS. My heart was heavy, for its trust had been Abused, its kindness answered with foul wrong. So, turning 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, GONE. ANOTHER hand is beckoning us, And glows once more with angel-steps Our young and gentle friend, whose smile 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, To give to Heaven a Shining Oné, 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 Like eyes that look through tears. 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 grant that she who, trembling, here May welcome to her holier home The well-beloved of ours. |