THOUGHT.
Thought alone is eternal.—Young.
’Tis the whisp’ring of angels, the brush of their wings;
’Tis the flight of a soul from its fetters of clay
To the lighthouse of gold where the seraph Hope sings
And flings out its notes on life’s billowed bay.
’Tis the touch of Christ’s hand that upraiseth the dead;
’Tis the breath breathed of God in the nostrils of man;—
The stream that shall rise from its mould-made bed
And join with the clouds whence in rain-drops it ran.
Tinged with sadness of mortals, it smells of the grave;
But the Childhood of Faith and the Mother of Hope,
It beckons to fields where the palm-groves wave
And the joy-studded gates of Jerusalem ope.
WHITE-ENTHRONED ABOVE ME.
(ON A SMALL WHITE-ROSE BOUQUET PRESENTED BY A LADY AND PLACED IN PALGRAVE’S “GOLDEN TREASURY,” OPPOSITE “THE SLEEPING BEAUTY.”)
White roses, sweet white roses
Fair Leda smiles atween,
No soul your lily-light encloses
So pure as hers, I ween.
Here lie and dream, sweet, pure white roses
That blessed the heart of June,
And ope the budding love that closes
Around her soul aboon.