We are not strangers now; from heart to heart
The electric chords of mutual sorrow thrill.
And clasping hands across the miles apart,
We stand resolved, to “suffer and be still.”
OUT IN THE RAIN
The night is dark and cold, a beating rain
Falls ceaselessly upon the dripping roof;
The dismal wind, with now a fierce, wild shriek,
And now a hollow moan, as if in pain,
Circles the eaves, and bends the tortured trees that wring
Their long, bear hands in the bleak blast.
Within
Our chamber all is bright and warm. The fire
Burns with a ruddy blaze. The shaded lamp
Softens the pictures on the wall, and glows
Upon the flowers in the carpet, till they seem
All fresh and fragrant. Stretched upon the rug,
His collar gleaming in the fire-light, little Pip
Is sleeping on, defiant of the storm without.
The very furniture enjoys the warmth,
And from its sides reflects the cheerful light.
Up in its painted cage, the little bird,
His yellow head beneath his soft, warm wing,
Is hiding. Oh! my God, out in the storm
Our little yellow head is beaten by the rain.
So lonely looks that precious little face
Up at the cold, dark coffin’s lid above,
In the bleak graveyard’s solitude!
Oh! Ethel darling, do you feel afraid?
Or is Christ with you in your little grave?
When last we gazed upon those lovely eyes
They looked so tranquil, in their last repose,
We knew that Christ’s own tender hand had sealed
Their lids with His eternal peace.
Oh! darling, are you happy up in heaven?
And do the angels part that golden hair
As tenderly as we? O Saviour dear,
Thou knowest childhood’s tenderness. Amid
The care of countless worlds, sometimes descend
From thine almighty throne of power, and find
That little yellow head, and lay it on thy breast,
And smooth her brow with thine own pierced hand;
She’ll kiss the wound and try to make it well.
And tell her how we love her memory here;
And let her sometimes see us, that she may
Remember us. O Jesus, we can trust
Her to thy care; and when we lay us down
To rest, beside that lonely, little grave,
Oh! let her meet us with her harp.
God help us both to make that meeting sure!
THE LILY AND THE DEW-DROP
Deep in a cell of darkest green,
Rayless and murky with unbroken gloom,
With downcast head and shrinking, modest mien,
A lily of the valley shed her rare perfume,
Breathed softly, as a sea shell’s murmur, from her bloom
An odor so exquisite, none can tell,
If ’tis an odor or a whispered sigh
That like the dying echoes of a bell
Falls on the raptured sense so dreamily,
The soul swoons in the tearful clasp of memory.
So when an old man hears a harvest song
He used to sing, or smells the new-mown hay,
A host of saddened recollections throng
The dusty chambers of his heart, and play
Upon the cobwebs there a soft Æolian lay.
(Unfinished.)