In the hands of the Master, firmer and stronger;
And I could hear on the stilly air--
Now my ears were deafened by Mirth no longer--
The sounds of sorrow, and grief, and despair;
And my soul grew tender and kind to others,
My nature grew sweeter, my mind grew broad,
And I held all men to be my brothers,
Linked by the chastening rod.
My soul was lifted to God and heaven,
And when on my heart-strings fell again
The hands of Mirth and Pleasure, even,
There was never a discord to mar the strain,
For Pain, the musician, and soul-refiner,
Attuned the strings with a master hand,
And whether the music be major or minor,
It is always sweet and grand.
[THE DOOMED CITY'S PRAYER.]
I heard a low sound, like a troubled soul praying:
And the winds of the winter night brought it to me.
'Twas the doomed city's voice: "Oh, kind snow," it was saying,
"Come, cover my ruins, so ghastly to see.
I am robbed of my beauty, and shorn of my glory;
And the strength that I boasted--where is it to-day?
I am down in the dust; and my pitiful story
Makes tearless eyes weep, and unpious lips pray.
"I--I, who have reveled in pomp and in power,
Am down on my knees, with my face in the dust;
But yesterday queen, with a queen's royal dower,
To-day I am glad of a crumb or a crust.
But yesterday reigning, a grand mighty city,
The pride of the nation, the queen of the West;
To-day I am gazed at, an object of pity,
A charity child, asking alms, at the best.
"My strength, and my pride, and my glory departed,
My fair features scorched by the fire fiend's breath,
Is it strange that I'm soul-sick and sorrowful hearted?
Is it strange that my thoughts run on ruin and death?
Oh, white, fleecy clouds that are drooping above me,
Hark, hark to my pleadings, and answer my sighs,
And let down the beautiful snow, if you love me,
To cover my wounds from all pitying eyes.
"I am hurled from my throne, but not hurled down forever;
I shall rise from the dust; I shall live down my woes--
But my heart lies to-day, like a dumb, frozen river;
When to thaw out and flow again, God only knows.
Oh, sprites of the air! I beseech you to weave me
A mantle of white snow, and beautiful rime
To cover my unsightly ruins; then leave me
In the hands of the healer of all wounds--'Old Time.'"
[DAFT.]
In the warm yellow smile of the morning,
She stands at the lattice pane,
And watches the strong young binders
Stride down to the fields of grain,
And she counts the over and over
As they pass the cottage door:
Are they six? she counts them seven--
Are they seven? she counts one more.
When the sun swings high in the heavens,
And the reapers go shouting home,
She calls to the household, saying
"Make haste! for the binders have come!
And Johnnie will want his dinner--
He was always a hungry child;"
And they answer, "Yes, it is waiting;"
Then tell you, "Her brain is wild."