But swiftly we're drifting, we cannot tell where,
The current moves onward regardless of gloom,
We raise our weak voices and utter a prayer
That God in His mercy is drifting us home.
The silver stream by the farmhouse door
Flows on and on forever,
But the feet that trod its oaken floor
Have crossed the mystic river,
And no wind kissed by a vernal sun
Can return them e'er again;
Their earthly pilgrimage is done,
They dwell in a new domain.
KINDRED SPIRITS.
Oh, give me some heart of a kindred spirit
That smiles when I smile, or that weeps when I weep,
Whose solace is greater by far to inherit
Than the wealth of the mines or the gems of the deep.
Some heart that will echo response to my feeling,
That thrills with delight when I speak of my joy;
That sorrows with sorrow too deep for concealing,
When cankering griefs make my own heart's alloy.
Some heart that appreciates each little kindness,
That knows all my feelings, tho' oft unexpressed,
That sees not my faults with a passionate blindness,
But clings to my soul when 'tis sorely distressed.
Some heart whose affection can never be blighted,
That beats all in concert with that of my own,
That revels in pleasures with which I'm delighted,
And grieves at the sorrows which cause me to moan.
Some heart that can never be swerved from its mooring,
Though tempests may thunder and billows may roar,
That espouses my fate in spite of such roaring,
And when trials are sorest will trust even more.