And they tell him; yes, they tell him,
All in accents sweet and clear,
Of the beautiful Hereafter
That is ever drawing near.
There are loved ones, waiting, waiting,
For his footfall on the shore;
They will welcome his appearing—
They will greet him o'er and o'er.
SANSON.
TO SANSON
Oh, would the fairies to her whisper
The truths which they to him impart,
Teach her a beautiful hereafter,
A Heaven to bless a tired heart.
Yet thinks she that the dear ones waiting
Would envy not the boon she craves—
To rear fair friendship's sacred alter
Where love and hope sleep in their graves.
She knows not that a loving welcome
Will wait her in a realm of light,
Nought of a future meeting whispers,
No faith illumes her soul's dark night.
But oh! she knows, has by experience,
The saddest of all lessons learned;
Knows that she gathered dead-sea apples,
Which in her hands to ashes turned.
She knows into a trammelled torrent,
Is changed her life's free flowing tide;
Knows that her hand no oar is holding,
With which her drifting bark to guide.
She knows, yes, knows that, like the mirage,
Which for the thirsty traveler gleamed,
The sweet ideal she fondly cherished
Was never there; it only seemed.
If what she knows is to her proven
A false, deluding, fleeting show,
Can she, generous spirit, can she
Trust blindly what she does not know?