Изображения страниц
PDF
EPUB

THE RIVER PATH.

For, from us ere the day was done,
The wooded hills shut out the sun.

But on the river's farther side,
We saw the hill-tops glorified,—

A tender glow, exceeding fair,
A dream of day without its glare,

With us the damp, the chill, the gloom;
With them the sunset's rosy bloom;

While dark, through willowy vistas seen,
The river rolled in shade between.

From out the darkness where we trod,
We gazed upon those hills of God,

Whose light seemed not of morn or sun;
We spake not, but our thought was one.

We paused, as if from that bright shore
Reckoned our dear ones gone before;

And stilled our beating hearts to hear
The voices lost to mortal ear!

Sudden our pathway turned from right;
The hills swung open to the light;

Through their green gates the sunshine showed,
A long slant splendor downward flowed.

Down glade and glen and bank it rolled:
It bridged the shaded stream with gold:

And, borne on piers of mist, allied
The shadowy with the sunlit side!

"So,” prayed we, "when our feet draw near The river dark with mortal fear,

405

"And the night cometh, chill with dew,
O Father, let thy light break through!

'So let the hills of doubt divide,
To bridge with faith the sunless tide!

"So let the eyes that fail on earth
O'er thy eternal hills look forth:

"And in thy beckoning angels know
The dear ones whom we loved below!"

JOHN G. WHITTIER.

THE

The Golden Street.

HE toil is very long and I am tired:
Oh, Father, I am weary of the way !

Give me that rest I have so long desired;
Bring me that Sabbath's cool refreshing day,

And let the fever of my world-worn feet

Press the cool smoothness of the golden street.

Tired, very tired! And I at times have seen,
When the far pearly gates were open thrown
For those who walked no more with me, the green
Sweet foliage of the trees that there alone

At last wave over those whose world-worn feet
Press the cool smoothness of the golden street.

When the gates open, and before they close-
Sad hours but holy--I have watched the tide
Whose living crystal there forever flows
Before the throne, and sadly have I sighed

To think how long until my world-worn feet
Press the cool smoothness of the golden street.

REST.

They shall not wander from that blessed way;
Nor heat, nor cold, nor weariness, nor sin,
Nor any clouds in that eternal day
Trouble them more who once have entered in;

But all is rest to them whose world-worn feet
Press the cool smoothness of the golden street.

Thus the gates close and I behold no more,
Though, as I walk, they open oftener now
For those who leave me and go on before;
And I am lonely also while I bow

407

And think of those dear souls whose world-worn feet
Press the cool smoothness of the golden street.

Tired, very tired!—but I will patient be,
Nor will I murmur at the weary way:

I too shall walk beside the crystal sea,

And pluck the ripe fruit, all that God-lit day,

When thou, oh Lord, shalt let my world-worn feet
Press the cool smoothness of the golden street.
WILLIAM O. STODDARD.

Rest.

[Lines found under the pillow of a soldier who died in hospital at Port

Royal.]

LAY me down to sleep,

With little care
Whether my waking find

Me here, or there.

A bowing, burdened head

That only asks to rest,
Unquestioning, upon
A loving breast.

My good right hand forgets

Its cunning now;

To march the weary march

I know not how.

I am not eager, bold,

Nor strong all that is past;

I am ready not to do

At last, at last.

My half-day's work is done,
And this is all my part—

I give a patient God

My patient heart;

And grasp his banner still,

Though all the blue be dim;
These stripes as well as stars
Lead after him.

The Cloud.

A CLOUD lay cradled near the setting sun,

A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow;
Long had I watched the glory moving on,
O'er the still radiance of the lake below:
Tranquil its spirit seemed, and floated slow,
E'en in its very motion there was rest,

While every breath of eve that chanced to blow,
Wafted the traveler to the beauteous west,

Emblem, methought, of the departed soul,

To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given,

And by the breath of mercy made to roll
Right onward to the golden gates of heaven,
While to the eye of faith it peaceful lies,
And tells to man his glorious destinies.

JOHN WILSON.

MY AIN COUNTREE.

409

I

My Ain Countree.

AM far from my hame an' I'm weary often whiles

For the longed-for hame-bringing, an' my Father's welcome smiles;

I'll ne'er be fu' content until my een do see

The gowden gates o' heaven, an' my ain countree.

The earth is flecked wi' flow'rs, mony-tinted, fresh and gay, The birdies warble blithely, for my Father made them sae; But these sights and these soun's will as naething be to me, When I hear the angels singing in my ain countree.

I've his gude word of promise, that some gladsome day, the King,

To his ain royal palace his banish'd hame will bring;

Wi' een an' wi' heart running oure we shall see "The King in his beauty," an' our ain countree.

My sins hae been mony, an' my sorrows hae been sair,
But there they'll never vex me, nor be remembered mair;
His bluid has made me white, his hand shall wipe mine ee,
When he brings me hame at last to my ain countree.

Like a bairn to its mither, a wee birdie to its nest,

I wud fain be ganging noo unto my Saviour's breast;

For he gathers in his bosom, witless, worthless lambs like

me,

An' he carries them himself to his ain countree.

He's faithfu' that has promised, he'll surely come again;

He'll keep his tryst wi' me, at what hour I dinna ken;

But he bids me still to watch, an' ready ay to be

To gang at ony moment to my ain countree.

« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »