The way will open; Soul, be strong,
And rise to do thy best.
The shadows cannot last for long,
There’s roses in the west.
What matter is the tempest’s rage?
I’ve but to do my part,
’Tis love alone that can assuage
The tempest of the heart.
The way will open it is true
I’ve but to do my best,
I’ll do the things I find to do
And leave to God the rest.
SPRING.
Bright-eyed goddess,—witching spring,—as thy amber tresses glow,
Kindled to immortal flame
Is the breath of honor,—fame.
Well may poets hymn thy praise,—fancy flutter to and fro,—
To a measure full and fleet, to a measure stately, slow;
Thence with heaven for an aim,
Rushing on with glad acclaim:
Hearken to the strain and know, blessed Beulah here below,
Wake! The living notes prolong in a symphony of song,
Floating on the perfumed air
In the angel arms of prayer;
Welcome goddess, spring divine; beauty visions ’round thee twine;
Violets and blossoms sweet
Nestle fondly at thy feet.
VICTORIA.
When have men or nations seen
A life, to rival England’s queen?
What vital interests compressed
Within its span, what truths confessed,
A long, a useful, noble reign.