NEAR SHORE. THE seas of thought are deep and wide; Or plummet-line; A blank of waters all around,- An infinite of nothing found, Whence faith has filed. The Name that we with reverence speak They hear it not. The shores give back its sweetest sound Earth is our little island home, And heaven the neighbouring continent, Whence winds to every inlet come With balmiest scent; And tenderest whispers thence we hear From mountain slopes of breeze and balm, What memories ripple through the calm! By sweet home instincts wafted on, By all the hopes that life has nursed, We hasten where the loved have gone, Who landed first. 419 If God be God, then heaven is real : Dreamy and dim. He cheats not any soul. He gave Each being unity like His; Dear friend, we will not drift too far Moving toward heaven, we'll meet half-way Tread the firm land. Then onward and for ever on Toward summits piled on summits bright. The lost are found, and we have won The Land of Light! God is that country's glory: He Yet we, for love of those who bend From yon clear heights, passed on before To wait our coming,-we, dear friend, Will keep near shore. ACROSS THE RIVER. Shall I miss the loved and known? Mid the crowd that come to meet Spirits sin-forgiven,Listening to their echoing feet Down the streets of heaven,— Then will one approach the brink One whose thoughts I loved to think Saying "Welcome ! we have died, Saying "I will go with thee, That thou be not lonely, Can the bonds, that make us here Know ourselves immortal, What is holiest below I shall love the angels well, But at first, without surprise, Step by step our feet must go We shall have a song to learn. He who on our earthly path Made our Elder Brother- Therefore dread I not to go Through the waters, to the shore THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. [Born about 1835. Son of James Aldrich, himself a writer of some poetic repute]. Dreaming of two graves lying The other, alas! the pillows Theirs the heroic story,- Mine to linger and languish Ah faint heart! in thy anguish, Only the sea intoning, Only the wainscot-mouse, Only the wild wind moaning THE MOORLAND. THE moorland lies a dreary waste; O sobbing rain outside my door, O wailing phantoms, make your moan; Go through the night in blind despair,— Your shadowy lips have touched my own. No more the robin breaks its heart Of music in the pathless woods: The ravens croak for such as I, The plovers screech above their broods. |