O Doubting Heart. WHERE are the swallows fled? Frozen and dead, Perchance, upon some bleak and stormy shore.— O doubting heart! Far over purple seas They wait in sunny ease, The balmy southern breeze To bring them to their northern homes once more. Why must the flowers die? Prisoned they lie In the cold tomb, heedless of tears or rain.— O doubting heart! They only sleep below The soft, white, ermine snow While winter winds shall blow, To breathe and smile upon you soon again. The sun has hid its rays These many days; Will dreary hours never leave the earth? O doubting heart! The stormy clouds on high Veil the same sunny sky That soon, for spring is nigh, Shall wake the summer into golden mirth. Fair hope is dead, and light Is quenched in night: What sound can break the silence of despair?— O doubting heart! The sky is overcast, Yet stars shall rise at last, Brighter for darkness past, And Angels' silver voices stir the air. ADELAIDE A. PROCTER. Wrapping himself in the soft warm couch Where the golden-haired Day hath been Going the bright, blithe Spring; Into the darkness all Blindly! Coming-the mellow days: Crimson and yellow leaves; Languishing purple and amber fruits Kissing the bearded sheaves Kindly! Going-our early friends; Voices we loved are dumb; Footsteps grow dim in the morning dew; Fainter the echoes come Coming to join our march, Shoulder to shoulder pressed,— Gray-haired veterans strike their tents For the far-off purple West-- Going this old, old life; Beautiful world! farewell! Forest and meadow! river and hill! Ring ye a loving knell O'er us! Coming-a nobler life; Coming-a better land; Coming-a long, long, night ess day; Coming-the grand, grand Chorus ! EDWARD A. JENKS. The Future Life. OW shall I know thee in the sphere which keeps The disembodied spirits of the dead, When all of thee that time could wither sleeps And perishes among the dust we tread? For I shall feel the sting of ceaseless pain, In thy serenest eyes the tender thought. Will not thy own meek heart demand me there! In meadows fanned by heaven's life-breathing wind, The love that lived through all the stormy past, And deeper grew, and tenderer to the last, LINES WRITTEN IN A CHURCHYARD. 421 A happier lot than mine, and larger light, Await thee there; for thou hast bowed thy will For me, the sordid cares in which I dwell, Shrink and consume my heart, as heat the scroll; Yet though thou wear'st the glory of the sky, Shalt thou not teach me, in that calmer home, The wisdom which is love-till I become WILLIAM C. BRYANT. Lines written in a Churchyard. "It is good for us to be here. If thou wilt, let us make here threber nacles; one for thee, and one for Moses, and one for Elias." METHINKS it is good to be here; If thou wilt, let us build—but for whom? Nor Elias nor Moses appear; But the shadows of eve that encompass with gloom Shall we build to Ambition? Ah no! Affrighted he shrinketh away; For see, they would pen him below In a small narrow cave and begirt with cold clay, To Beauty? Ah no! she forgets The charms which she wielded before; Nor knows the foul worm that he frets The skin which but yesterday fools could adore, Shall we build to the purple of Pride? To the trappings which dizen the proud? Alas! they are all laid aside, And here 's neither dress nor adornment allowed, Who hid, in their turns have been hid: And here in the grave are all metals forbid, To the pleasures which Mirth can afford, The revel, the laugh, and the jeer? Ah! here is a plentiful board! But the guests are all mute as their pitiful cheer, Shall we build to Affection and Love? Ah no! they have withered and died, Friends, brothers, and sisters are laid side by side, Unto Sorrow?-the dead cannot grieve; Not a sob, not a sigh meets mine ear, Which compassion itself could relieve.. |