Mourn not, my friends, that we are growing old:
A fresher birth brings every new year in.
Years are Christ's napkins to wipe off the sin.
See now, I'll be to you an angel bold!
My plumes are ruffled, and they shake with cold,
Yet with a trumpet-blast I will begin.
—Ah, no; your listening ears not thus I win!
Yet hear, sweet sisters; brothers, be consoled:—
Behind me comes a shining one indeed;
Christ's friend, who from life's cross did take him down,
And set upon his day night's starry crown!
Death, say'st thou? Nay—thine be no caitiff creed!—
A woman-angel! see—in long white gown!
The mother of our youth!—she maketh speed.
ORGAN SONGS.
TO A. J. SCOTT
WITH THE FOLLOWING POEM.
I walked all night: the darkness did not yield.
Around me fell a mist, a weary rain,
Enduring long. At length the dawn revealed
A temple's front, high-lifted from the plain.
Closed were the lofty doors that led within;
But by a wicket one might entrance gain.
'Twas awe and silence when I entered in;
The night, the weariness, the rain were lost
In hopeful spaces. First I heard a thin
Sweet sound of voices low, together tossed,
As if they sought some harmony to find
Which they knew once, but none of all that host
Could wile the far-fled music back to mind.
Loud voices, distance-low, wandered along
The pillared paths, and up the arches twined
With sister arches, rising, throng on throng,
Up to the roof's dim height. At broken times
The voices gathered to a burst of song,