No pillows wet with burning tears,—
No longings wild and vain
To wander in the pleasant fields,
Or dear old woods again!
But love and peace, and endless joy,
And rest to me how strange!
Lord give me patience to await
The happy, happy change!
THE MIXED CUP.
Joy and sorrow, are they not mingled in every cup? We call some happy, others unfortunate; and so they appear to us. But could we draw aside the curtain that conceals the mysteries of the human heart what problems would be solved, and how often we should be lead to exclaim, "God dealeth justly: pain and pleasure are more equally distributed than we imagined"! But this may not be. We judge according to appearances, and this is one great source of misery; for, in our grief, we imagine others are more favored than we, and for the blessings we do enjoy we are not thankful. Oh, the great mercy of God! What a wonder it is that he does not smite us to the earth when we dare murmur at his dealings!
I SHALL DEPART.
When the flowers of Summer die,
When the birds of Summer fly,
When the winds of Autumn sigh,
I shall depart.
When the mourning Earth receives
Last of all the faded leaves,—
When the wailing forest grieves,
I shall depart.
When are garnered grain and fruit,
When all insect life is mute,
I shall drop my broken lute;
I shall depart.
When the fields are brown and bare,
Nothing left that's good or fair,
And the hoar-frost gathers there,
I shall depart.
Not with you, O songsters, no!
To no Southern clime I go,—
By a way none living know
I shall depart.