There is a farewell word love fain would speak,
A tender thought love labors to translate
In earnest words, whose memory through the years
Shall calm thy soul and dry thy dropping tears.
If in thy garden, when the roses blow,
Or by the shelter of thine evening fire,
In any winter gloom or summer glow,
Thy soul floats seaward with a fond desire
(Fonder and stronger than thy tender use),
Think thou," One longs for me across the foam;"
And if, sweet-falling like the evening dews,
A special peace enfolds that heart and home,
Then say thou, dear, with softly bated breath,
"In some lone wilderness beyond the sea,
Whether in light of life, or gloom of death,
My lover's spirit speaks to God for me!"
Kiss me, beloved, without doubt or dread;
We are not sundered, though farewell be said.
All the Year Round.
GOOD-NIGHT, dear friend! I say good-night to thee
Across the moonbeams, tremulous and white,
Bridging all space between us, it may be.
Lean low, sweet friend; it is the last good-night.
For, lying low upon my couch, and still,
The fever flush evanished from my face,
I heard them whisper softly, ""Tis His will;
Angels will give her happier resting-place!"
And so from sight of tears that fell like rain,
And sounds of sobbing smothered close and low,
I turned my white face to the window-pane,
To say good-night to thee before I go.
Good-night! good-night! I do not fear the end,
The conflict with the billows dark and high;
And yet, if I could touch thy hand, my friend,
I think it would be easier to die;
If I could feel through all the quiet waves
Of my deep hair thy tender breath athrill,
I could go downward to the place of graves
With eyes ashine and pale lips smiling still;
Or it may be that, if through all the strife
And pain of parting I should hear thy call,
I would come singing back to sweet, sweet life,
And know no mystery of death at all.
It may not be. Good-night, dear friend, good-night!
And when you see the violets again,
And hear, through boughs with swollen buds awhite,
The gentle falling of the April rain,
Remember her whose young life held thy name
With all things holy, in its outward flight,
And turn sometimes from busy haunts of men
To hear again her low good-night! good-night!
HESTER A. BENEDICT.
I STOOD and watched my ships go out,
Each, one by one, unmooring, free,
What time the quiet harbor filled
With flood-tide from the sea.
The first that sailed, her name was Joy;
She spread a smooth, white, shining sail,
And eastward drove with bending spars
Before the sighing gale.
Another sailed, her name was Hope,
No cargo in her hold she bore;
Thinking to find in western lands
Of merchandise a store.
The next that sailed, her name was Love;
She showed a red flag at her mast,
A flag as red as blood she showed,
And she sped south right fast.
The last that sailed, her name was Faith;
Slowly she took her passage forth,
Tacked and lay to; at last she steered
A straight course for the north.
My gallant ships, they sailed away
Over the shimmering summer sea;
I stood at watch for many a day —
But one came back to me.
For Joy was caught by pirate Pain;
Hope ran upon a hidden reef,
And Love took fire and foundered fast
In whelming seas of grief.
Faith came at last, storm-beat and torn-
She recompensed me all my loss;
For, as a cargo safe, she brought
A crown linked to a cross.
His hand at last! By his own fingers writ,
I catch my name upon the wayworn sheet:
His hand-oh, reach it to me quick! And yet,
Scarce can I hold, so fast my pulses beat.
O feast of soul! O banquet richly spread!
O passion-lettered scroll from o'er the sea!
Like a fresh burst of life to one long dead,
Joy, strength, and bright content come back with thee,
Long prayed and waited for through months so drear;
Each day methought my waiting heart must break;
Why is it that our loved ones grow more dear
The more we suffer for their sweetest sake?
His hand at last! each simple word aglow
With truthful tenderness and promise sweet.
Now to my daily tasks I'll singing go,
Fed by the music of this wayworn sheet.
As two proud ships upon the pathless main
Meet once and never hope to meet again,
Meet once with merry signallings, and part,
Each homeward bound to swell the crowded mart,
So we two met, one golden summer day,
Within the shelter of life's dreaming bay,
And rested, calmly anchored from the world,
For one brief hour, with snowy pinions furled;
But when the sun sank low along the west,
We left our harbor, with its peaceful rest,
And floated outward in life's tangled sea
With foam-kissed waves between us, wild and free.
As two ships part upon the trackless main,
So we two parted. Shall we meet again?
THOUGH LOST TO SIGHT, TO MEM'RY DEAR.
SWEETHEART, good-by! The fluttering sail
Is spread to waft me far from thee,
And soon before the fav'ring gale
My ship shall bound upon the sea.
Perchance, all desolate and forlorn,
These eyes shall miss thee many a year,
But unforgotten every charm,-
Though lost to sight, to mem'ry dear.
Sweetheart, good-by! one last embrace !
O cruel Fate, true souls to sever!
Yet in this heart's most sacred place
Thou, thou alone shalt dwell forever!
And still shall recollection trace,
In Fancy's mirror, ever near,
Each smile, each tear, that form, that face,—
Though lost to sight, to mem'ry dear.
(Verses written in an old memorandum-book.
The author unknown.)
MARJORIE, with the waiting face,
Marjorie, with the pale brown hair,
She sits and sews in the silent place,
She counts the steps on the outer stair.
Two, three, four they pass her door,
The patient face droops low again,
Still it is as it was before -
Oh! will he come indeed no more,
And are her prayers all prayed in vain?
Through the warm and the winter night,
Marjorie, with the wistful eyes,
She keeps her lonely lamp alight
Until the stars are dim in the skies.
Through the gray and the shining day
Her pallid fingers, swift and slim,
Set their stitches, nor one astray,
Though her heart it is far away,
Over the summer seas with him.
Over the distant summer seas
Marjorie's yearning fancies fly;
She feels the kiss of the island breeze,
She sees the blue of the tropic sky.
Does she know, as they come and go,
Those waves that lap the island shore, That under their ceaseless ebb and flow Golden locks float to and fro,
Tangled locks she will comb no more?
Many a hopeless hope she keeps,
Marjorie with the aching heart;
Sometimes she smiles, and sometimes she weeps, At thoughts that all unbidden start.
I can see what the end will be:
Some day when the Master sends for her, A voice she knows will say joyfully,
"God is waiting for Marjorie,'
And her lover will be his messenger.
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