IN REPLY TO "ALONE."
It is the joyous time of June,
And Nature glads the smiling land
Arrayed in garments gay and green
Bestowed by nature's lavish hand.
Oh! soft the lullaby of streams
'Neath shadow of o'er arching trees,
When all sweet, summer music seems
To float around us on the breeze.
It greets us in the greenwood glades—
By forest aisles and alleys lone,
Where, wandering in the twilight shades
The poet calls the hour his own.
Perchance he dreams some minstrel hand,
Wakes woodland harps to heavenly song,
While spirits from the golden land
On white wings bear the notes along.
But to thine eyes the world is grim,
And life is dark through falling tears;
Hath Hope's soft ray grown dull and dim
And paled the brightness of your years?
I know your woe—for I have knelt
Beside the new made, grassy mound—
The anguish of bereavement felt
And moaned beneath the piercing wound.
Through the soft azur veil of e'en
The stars look down with watching eyes,
Beacons to life our souls to heaven
And tell of love beyond the skies
To tell, tho' earth is bright and fair,
Still Heaven must be our lasting home;
A land untouched by sin and care
Where pain and parting never come.
Not far away; scarce out of sight,
A shadowy veil, a misty cloud,
Is roll'd between us and the light,
From mortal eyes the bliss to shroud.
Oh, thou whose poet-mind can feel
The magic spell of beauty's powers
Let these, His "meaner works" reveal
That fairer life that shall be ours.
Where we shall find in fadeless bloom
The love Time's withering blast had slain,
Restored from death and from the tomb
To life, immortal life again.
And while we weep for earth-joys fled,
Or sigh to feel ourselves "alone,"
While fragrant memories of the dead,
Like perfumes round our path are strewn;
Let us not think them wholly lost;—
These flowers that glad the wondering vision,
Slept 'neath the winter storm and frost
Then sprung to beauty half Elysian.
Fair blossoms deck the orchard bough
The promise-fruit of harvest hours;
Nought have we but that promise now,
Yet faith already shows it ours.
Oh! sweet the light around our tombs,
Where promise-buds in faith are sown;
Faith's eye descerns eternal blooms,
In stature of God's fullness blown.
Still ours—the true and tender heart,—
The form that trod these paths awhile;
We said "good-night" content to part
Until the morning light shall shine.
Oh! blessed hope! Oh! promise sweet
The harvest of the Lord is sure;
His Hand shall give the guerdon meet
To all that to the end endure!