From Heaven what fancy stole
The dream of some good spirit, aye at hand,
The seraph whispering to the exile soul
Tales of its native land?
Who to the cradle gave
The unseen watcher by the mother's side,
Born with the birth, companion to the grave,
The holy angel-guide?
Is it a fable?—"No,"
I hear Love answer from the sunlit air,
"Still where my presence gilds the darkness—know
Life's angel-guide is there?"
Is it a fable?—Hark,
Faith hymns from deeps beyond the palest star,
"I am the pilot to thy wandering bark,
Thy guide to shores afar."
Is it a fable?—sweet
From wave, from air, from every forest tree,
The murmur spoke, "Each thing thine eyes can greet
An angel-guide can be.
"From myriads take thy choice,
In all that lives a guide to God is given;
Ever thou hear'st some angel guardian's voice
When Nature speaks of Heaven!"
THE LOVE OF MATURER YEARS.
Nay, soother, do not dream thine art
Can altar Nature's stern decree;
Or give me back the younger heart,
Whose tablets had been clear to thee.
Why seek, fair child, to pierce the dark
That wraps the giant wrecks of old?
Thou wert not with me in the ark,
When o'er my life the deluge roll'd.