AT THE GRAVE OF A YOUNG MOTHER
A transient day,
A troubled night,
The swift decay,
The certain blight,
And death and dust;—
And are these all?—
Nay: those are past;
And she who sleeps
Shall wake at last
Among the just!
GO, DREAM NO MORE
Go, dream no more of a sun-bright sky
With never a cloud to dim!—
Thou hast seen the storm in its robes of night,
Them hast felt the rush of the whirlwind's might,
Thou hast shrunk from the lightning's arrowy flight,
When the Spirit of Storms went by!
Go, dream no more of a crystal sea
Where never a tempest sweeps!—
For thy riven bark on a surf-beat shore,
Where the wild winds shriek, and the billows roar,
A shattered wreck to be launched no more,
Will mock at thy dream and thee!
Go, dream no more of a fadeless flower
With never a cankering blight'—
For the queenliest rose in thy garden bed,
The pride of the morn, ere the noon is fled,
With the worm at its heart, withers cold and dead
In the Spoiler s fearful power!
Go, dream no more—for the cloud will rise,
And the tempest will sweep the sea,
Yet grieve not thou, for beyond the strife,
The storm and the gloom with which Earth is rife,
Gleam out the light of a calmer life,
And the glow of serener skies!
COME HOME
Come home! come home! O loved and lost, we sigh
Thus, ever, while the weary days go by,
And bring thee not. We miss thy bright, young face,
Thy bounding step, thy form of girlish grace,
Thy pleasant, tuneful voice,—
We miss thee when the dewy evening hours
Come with their coolness to our garden, bowers,—
We miss thee when the warbler's tuneful lay
Welcomes the rising glories of the day
And all glad things rejoice!