Do ye hear us when we call you,—do ye heed the tears we shed,—
Oh beloved!—oh immortal!—oh ye dead who are not dead!
Speak to us across the darkness,—-wave to us a glimmering hand,—
Tell us but that ye remember, dwellers in the silent land!
But the sunset clouds have faded, arch and capital are gone,
And the regal night is glorious, with the starlight overblown;—
Life is labor and not dreaming, and I have my work to do,
Ere within those happy valleys I shall wear the lilies too.
THE SABBATH OF THE WOODS
Sundown—and silence—and deep peace,—
Night's benediction and release;—
The tints of day die out and cease.
This morn I heard the Sabbath bells
Across the breezy upland swells;—
My path lay down the woodland dells.
To-day, I said, the dust of creeds,
The wind of words reach not my needs;—
I worship with the birds and weeds.
From height to height the sunbeam sprung,
The wild vine, touched with vermeil, clung,
The mountain brooklet leapt and sung.
The white lamp of the lily made
A tender light in deepest shade,—
The solitary place was glad.
The very air was tremulous,—
I felt its deep and reverent hush,—
God burned before me in the bush!
And nature prayed with folded palm,
And looks that wear perpetual calm,—
The while glad notes uplifted psalm.