THE GREATEST GRIEF.
FROM THE FRENCH OF MARIE JENNA.
Yes, Father! on the altar of the past
We may lay down a joy, too sweet to last;
See the flowers wither that our pathway strewed,
Incline our brows beneath the tempest rude,
Behold the rainbow glory fade away
That made fair promise for our opening day:
And yet, like that poor stricken plant, survive,
Blighted by frost, half dead and half alive,
Give to the desert winds our morning dream,
And still support our agony supreme!
We may behold, stretched on a bed of pain,
The form to which we minister in vain—
The last, the dearest, the consoling friend—
Count every moment of his weary end,
Kiss the pale brow, and watch each wavering breath;
Close the cold eyelids, murmur, "This is death!"
And still once more to life and hope belong.
O God! thou knowest through faith the heart grows strong
But, ah! another human soul to love
So fondly that we tremble as above
Its purity and beauty we incline,
Then suddenly to mark its depths divine
Shadowed and chilled, and from our Paradise
Perceive an icy, vaporous breath arise,
Whence blew sweet zephyrs, odorous with grace!
To seek in vain religion's luminous trace
Amid the ashes of her ruined shrine,
To pray, to weep, to doubt, to hope, divine
All but the truth; and at the last to dare
The long, deep look that tells us our despair,
Revealing vacancy, a faith withdrawn
Without a glance towards the retreating dawn,
Without a cry of grief, a sigh, a prayer—
O God! that loss is more than we can bear!