I am a stranger in the land;
It gives no welcome dear;
Its lilies bloom not for my hand,
Its roses for my cheer.
The sunshine used to make me glad,
But now it knows me not;
This weight of brightness makes me sad—
It isolates a blot.
I am forgotten by the hills,
And by the river's play;
No look of recognition thrills
The features of the day.
Then only am I moved to song,
When down the darkening street,
While vanishes the scattered throng,
The driving rain I meet.
The rain pours down. My thoughts awake,
Like flowers that languished long;
From bare cold hills the night-winds break,
From me the unwonted song.
X.
I read the Bible with my eyes,
But hardly with my brain;
Should this the meaning recognize,
My heart yet reads in vain.
These words of promise and of woe
Seem but a tinkling sound;
As through an ancient tomb I go,
With dust-filled urns around.
Or, as a sadly searching child,
Afar from love and home,
Sits in an ancient chamber, piled
With scroll and musty tome,
So I, in these epistles old
From men of heavenly care,
Find all the thoughts of other mould
Than I can love or share.