Thus lightly o'er the waves his bark goes on,
Hope for a beacon shining bright above.
While firmly at the helm stands fair Content
To steer him safely till he reach the shore.
And then, when Death's grim portals open wide,
And he has reached the Land he dreamed and sung,
Oh! bliss to wander o'er the streets of gold,
His harp-notes mingling with the choirs of Heaven!
His hopes all realized, "faith lost in sight"—
His life a poem which God Himself hath read!
MORNING.
The gladsome Morning looked across the hills,
Clad in his richly tinted robes; the opal dawn,
Faint blushing in the East, grew clear and brighter,
Till the resplendent sunrise decked the sky.
It shone upon the woods—the birds awoke
To chant their welcome to the god of day.
It shone upon the meadows, and the flowers
Ope'd their eyes, where the bright dew-tears glistened
As they had wept thro' the long hours of night,
Heedless of how the star-beams smiled and played;
And the pale, tender moon, with pitying ray,
Looked down upon their lowly, drooping heads,
Now lifted gladly to the morning light,
Till the warm sunshine kissed their tears away.
And clouds of fragrance from their beds arose,
That amorous zephyrs, as they wandered by,
Wafted, like sweetest incense, to the sky!
It shone upon the rivers, as they flowed
Through fertile meadow-lands, so rich in loveliness;
Sweet streams, that, rippling on in restful song,
Took up a tone more joyous in that hour;
And whispering leaves, and birds that, far and near,
From grove and hedgerow, warbling clear and sweet
In blending music, trembled in the air—
Like matin hymns, that on Creation's wings
Were upwards borne to the Creator's Throne!
ANOTHER YEAR.
Another year has well nigh passed,
With all its smiles and tears,
And joys and sorrows that are cast
In Time's great stream, whose waters vast
Roll to the ocean of the Past,
Bearing our hopes and fears,
Where 'neath its waves they mingle fast
With all our vanished years.
Another year! a span of Time,
That tells of lifework done;
A book, some pages dark with crime—
Some grand, and holy, and sublime;
A trumpet, telling every clime
Of battles lost and won:
A knell of woe—a joy-bell's chime,
Hope dead, and bliss begun!
Another year! In Spring's sweet hours
What blissful thoughts we knew!
What hopes, that came with opening flowers,
What visions, nurse in spring-wreathed bowers,
When Fancy lent her magic powers
To trace in brilliant hue
Castles of air, and dream-built towers
Too soon to fade from view!
Another year! and I can trace
Footprints o'er Summer's way,
But turn to find a vacant place,
Where once I met a cherished face,
And well-loved form of youth and grace,
Now pass'd from earth away—
This year the goal of one bright race,
The close of one fair day.
Autumn is dead. The year is old,
The dull November days are chill;
The bare woods dreary to behold;
The northern blast blows keen and cold,
Far sighing over waste and world,
O'er wintry vale and hill;
And in its moan are requiems told
For true hearts dead and still!
So must it be. Each passing year
Still bears some joy away;
Some darling treasure, held too dear,
In trembling bliss, in hope and fear,
Which we would fancy safe and near,
Departs, and seems to say—
"We have no lasting city here,
Earth's life is but a day!"