Grown weary and worn with the conflict of creeds,
I had sought a new faith for the soul with its needs,
When the love of the Beautiful guided my feet
Through a leafy arcade to a sylvan retreat,
Where the oriole sung in the branches above,
And the wild roses burned with their blushes of love,
And the purple-fringed aster, and bright golden-*rod,
Like jewels of beauty adorned the green sod.
O, how blesséd to feel from the care-laden heart
All the sorrows and woes that oppressed it depart,
And to lay the tired head, with its achings, to rest
On the heart of all others that loves it the best;
O, thus is it ever, when, wearied, we yearn
To the bosom of Nature and Truth to return,
And life blossoms forth into beauty anew,
As we learn to repose in the Simple and True.
No longer with self or with Nature at strife,
The soul feels the presence of Infinite Life;
And the voice of a child, or the hum of a bee—
The somnolent roll of the deep-heaving sea—
The mountains uprising in grandeur and might—
The stars that look forth from the depths of the night—
All speak in one language, persuasive and clear,
To him who in spirit is waiting to hear.
There is something in Nature beyond our control,
That is tenderly winning the love of each soul;
We shall linger no longer in darkness and doubt,
When the Beauty within meets the Beauty without.
Sweet Spirit of Nature! wherever thou art,
O, fold us like children, close, close to thy heart;
Till we learn that thy bosom is Truth’s hallowed shrine,
And the Soul of the Beautiful is—the Divine.
MARGERY MILLER.
Old Margery Miller sat alone,
One Christmas eve, by her poor hearthstone,
Where dimly the fading firelight shone.
Her brow was furrowed with signs of care,
Her lips moved gently, as if in prayer—
For O, life’s burden was hard to bear.
Poor old Margery Miller!
Sitting alone,
Unsought, unknown,
Her friends, like the birds of summer had flown.
Full eighty summers had swiftly sped,
Full eighty winters their snows had shed,
With silver-sheen, on her aged head.
One by one had her loved ones died—
One by one had they left her side—
Fading like flowers in their summer pride.
Poor old Margery Miller!
Sitting alone,
Unsought, unknown,
Had God forgotten she was his own?