Turn thy fair face to Faith's rosy sky,
Soul so white that lone night hath kept
Sighing for spirits sin-bound that lie;
Wrong has ruled right, and the truth has slept;
The dawn shall show thee a host ere long,
Planting sweet roses abqve the mould;
The sun of righteousness beameth strong,
And sin's night grows old.
Turn thine eyes to the burnished zone
From out of thy nest neath darkened eaves,
Oh bird, who hast mingled thy plaintive moan
With sobbing winds through quivering leaves;
From thy heart, by light which groweth strong,
Draw out the thorns that pierced on the world;
Glinteth the day up merry and long,
And the night grows old.
Turn thy sad eyes to God's summerland,
Mourner, who waileth some love laid past,
Some bark that has anchored on foreign strand
And left her sailors free from the blast;
They are not here where the grass grows long,
They are not down in the red-brown mould;
Heaven's day is coming up fair and strong,
And earth's night grows old.
The Wife's Watch.
Sleep on, my darling, sleep on,
I am keeping watch by your side,
I have drawn in the curtains close,
And banished the world outside;
Rest as the reaper may rest,
When the harvest work is done
Rest as the soldier may rest,
When the victor's work is won.
You smile in your happy sleep:
Are the children with you now?
Sweet baby Willie, so early called,
And Nellie with thoughtful brow,
And May, our loving daughter.
Ah, the skies grew dark, my love,
When the sunshine of her presence
Vanished to Heaven above.
While you're resting, my darling,
I dream of the shadowy hour,
When one of us looks the last
On the light of its household bower,
Then a sad sigh heaves my breast,
And tears from my eyelids burst,
As I ask of the future dim,
"Which shall be summoned first?"
Sometimes I pray in terror
That you may be first to go,
Never again to sorrow,
Or to feel one throb of woe,
Beyond the mists of the river,
Where mystic shadows weave,
I have no fears, my beloved,
In One we both believe.
But I, oh I so lonely,
Could I look as I look now,
If this was thy last long sleep,
The ice of death on thy brow;
In sight of the holy angels,
I offer my earnest plea,
I cry to my God and pray,
"If one goes first, take me."
Our lives have been happy dear,
I fancy the tears we shed,
By our lost children's coffins.
On faces white and dead,
Are counted as dew drops now,
On the flowers early sown
In the gardens of Paradise,
The Lord's, and still our own.