And aye we seek and hunger on
For precious pearls and relics rare,
Strewn on the sands for us to wear
At heart, for love of her that's gone.
O weep no more! there yet is balm
In Gilead! Love doth ever shed
Rich healing where it nestles-spread
O'er desert pillows some green palm!
Strange glory streams through life's wild rents,
And through the open door of death
We see the heaven that beckoneth
To the beloved going hence.
God's ichor fills the hearts that bleed;
The best fruit loads the broken bough;
And in the wounds our sufferings plough,
Immortal love sows sovereign seed.
IN youth I died, in maiden bloom;
With gentle hand Death touch'd my cheek,
And with his touch there came to me
A spirit calm and meek.
He took from me all wish to stay;
He was so kind, I fear'd him not;
My friends beheld my slow decline,
And mourn'd my joyless lot.
They saw but sorrow, I descried
The bliss that never fades away;
They felt the shadow of the tomb,
I mark'd the heavenly day.
I heard them sob, as through the night
They kept their watch; then on my ear,
Amid the sobbing, fell a voice
Their anguish could not hear.
"Come and fear not!" it softly cried; "We wait to lead thee to thy home:" Then leapt my spirit to reply,
"I come! I long to come!"
I heard them whisper o'er my
"Another hour and she must die!"
I was too weak to answer them,
That endless life was nigh.
Another hour, with bitter tears
They mourn'd me as untimely dead,
And heard not how I sang a song
Of triumph o'er their head.
They bore me to the grave, and thought
How narrow was my resting-place;
My soul was roving high and wide
At will through boundless space.
They clothed themselves in robes of black,
Through the sad aisles the requiem rang,
Meanwhile the white-robed choirs of heaven
A holy pæan sang.
Oft from my Paradise I come
To visit those I love on earth;
I enter, unperceived, the door;
They sit around the hearth,
And talk in sadden'd tones of me,
As one that never can return;
How little think they that I stand
Among them as they mourn!
But Time will ease their grief, and Death
Will purge the darkness from their eyes;
Then shall they triumph when they learn
Heaven's solemn mysteries.
Footsteps of the Angels.
WHEN the hours of Day are number'd,
And the voices of the Night
Wake the better soul, that slumber'd,
To a holy, calm delight;
Ere the evening lamps are lighted,
And, like phantoms grim and tall,
Shadows from the fitful fire-light,
Dance upon the parlour wall;
Then the forms of the departed
Enter at the open door;
The beloved, the true-hearted,
Come to visit me once more;
He, the young and strong, who cherish'd
Noble longings for the strife,
By the road-side fell and perish'd,
We
eary with the march of life!
They, the holy ones, and weakly,
Who the cross of suffering bore,
Folded their pale hands so meekly,
Spake with us on earth no more;
And with them the being beauteous
Who unto my youth was given,
More than all things else to love me,
And is now a saint in heaven.
With a slow and noiseless footstep,
Comes that messenger divine,
Takes the vacant chair beside me,
Lays her gentle hand in mine ;
And she sits and gazes at me
With those deep and tender eyes,
Like the stars, so still and saint-like,
Looking downward from the skies.
Utter'd not, yet comprehended,
Is the spirit's voiceless prayer;
Soft rebukes, in blessings ended,
Breathing from her lips of air.
O, though oft depress'd and lonely,
All my fears are laid aside,
If I but remember only
Such as these have lived and died!
THOSE halting tones that sound to you,
Are not the tones I hear;
But voices of the loved and lost
Then meet my longing ear.
I hear my angel mother's voice-
Those were the words she sung;
I hear my brother's ringing tones,
As once on earth they rung;
And friends that walk in white above
Come round me like a cloud,
And far above those earthly notes
Their singing sounds aloud.
There may be discord as you say;
Those voices poorly ring;
But there's no discord in the strain
Those upper spirits sing.
For they who sing are of the blest,
The calm and glorified,
Whose hours are one eternal rest
On heaven's sweet floating tide.
Their life is music and accord;
Their souls and hearts keep time
In one sweet concert with the Lord-
One concert vast, sublime.
And through the hymns they sang on earth,
Sometimes a sweetness falls
On those they loved and left below,
And softly homeward calls.
Bells from our own dear fatherland,
Borne trembling o'er the sea-
The narrow sea that they have cross'd,
The shores where we shall be.
Oh sing, sing on! beloved souls;
Sing cares and griefs to rest;
Sing, till entranced we arise
To join you 'mid the blest.
THOU art not dead; thou art not gone to dust;
No line of all thy loveliness shall fall
To formless ruin, smote by Time, and thrust
Into the solemn gulf that covers all.
Thou canst not wholly perish, though the sod
Sink with its violets closer to thy breast;
Though by the feet of generations trod,
The head-stone crumble from thy place of rest.
I keep for thee the living love of old,
And seek thy place in nature as a child
Whose hand is parted from his playmates' hold,
Wanders and cries along some dreary wild.
When in the watches of my heart I hear
The messages of purer life, and know
The footsteps of thy spirit lingering near
The darkness hides the way that I should go.
Canst thou not bid the empty realms restore
That form, the symbol of thy heavenly part?
Or in the fields of barren silence pour
That voice, the perfect music of thy heart?
Oh, once! once bending to these widow'd lips
Take back the tender warmth of life from me;
Oh, let thy kisses cloud with swift eclipse
The light of mine, and give me death with thee!
BAYARD TAYLOR.
IN the silence of my chamber
When the night is still and deep,
And the drowsy heave of ocean
Mutters in its charmed sleep,
Oft I hear the angel-voices
That have thrill'd me long ago—
Voices of my lost companions,
Lying deep beneath the snow.
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