| I cannot sleep, and morning's earliest light, All soft and rosy, tempts my restlessness To ask from Nature what of peace she gives. I gaze abroad, and all my soul is moved At that strange calm that floats o'er earth at rest. The silver sickle of the summer moon Hangs on the purple east. The morning star, Like a late watcher's lamp, pales in the dawn. Yonder, the lake, that 'neath the midday sun All restless glows and burns like burnished shield, Lies as a child at rest with curtain drawn. The forest trees are still. The babbling creek Flows softly through the copse and glides away; And the fair flowers, that lie as thick and sweet As posies at a bridal, sleep quietly. No early breeze his perfumed wings unfolds. No painted butterfly to pleasure wakes. The bees, whose busy hum pervades the hours Through all the sultry day, keep yet the hive. And, save the swallow, whose long line of works Beneath each gable, points to labours vast, No bird yet stirs. Upon the dewy mead The kine repose; the active horse lies prone; And the white ewes doze o'er their tender lambs, Like village mothers with their babes at breast. So still, so fair, so calm, the morning broods, That, while I know the gairish day will come, And bring its clouds of gnat-like stinging cares, Rest steals into my heart, and gentle peace. |
[LIVINGSTONE.
OBIT MAY 1ST, 1883.]
| Sleep now and take thy rest, thou mighty dead! Thy work is done—thy grand and glorious work. Not "Caput Nili" shall thy trophy be. But broken slave-sticks and a riven chain. As the man Moses, thy great prototype, Snatched, by the hand of God, his groaning millions From out the greedy clutch of Egypt's despot; So hast thou done for Afric's toiling sons: Hast snatched its peoples from the poisonous fangs Of hissing Satan, veiled in commerce foul. For this thy fame shall ring; for this thy praise Shall be in every mouth for ever. Ay, Thy true human heart hath here its guerdon— A continent redeemed from slavery.— To this, how small the other! Yet 'twas great. Ah, not in vain those long delays, those groans Wrung from thy patient soul by obstacle, The work of peevish man; these were the checks From that Hand guiding, that led thee all the way. He willed thy soul should vex at tyranny; Thine ear should ring with murdered women's shrieks, That torturing famine should thy footsteps clog; That captive's broken hearts should ache thine own. And Slavery—that villain plausible— That thief Gehazi!—He stripped before thine eyes And showed him all a leper, foul, accursed. He touched thy lips, and every word of thine Vibrates on chords whose deep electric thrill [!-- Begin Page 102 --] Shall never cease till that wide wound be healed. And then He took thee home. Ay, home, great heart! Home to His home, where never envious tongue, Nor vile detraction, nor base ingratitude, Nor cold neglect, shall sting the quiv'ring heart. Thou endedst well. One step from earth to Heaven, When His voice called "Friend, come up higher." |
[ON SEEING THE ENGRAVING
"THE FIRST VISIT OF QUEEN VICTORIA TO HER WOUNDED
SOLDIERS ON THEIR RETURN FROM THE CRIMEA."]
| Yes, go to them, the brave, the tried, the hurt— 'Tis very fitting so! We cannot go— Some scores of million souls—to tell them all We think and feel: To ease the burden of our laden hearts; To give the warm grasp of our British hands In strong assurance of our praise and love; Of our deep gratitude, to them, our friends, Our brothers, who for us toiled, suffered, bled: And left, as we, their dead upon the field, Their comrades tried and true, around Scutari. Go to them, then, dear Queen,'tis very fitting so! Thy hand can clasp for ours. Thy voice express Our hearts. We send thee as our best, as so we ought; We send thee as our dearest, as thou art; We send thee our elect, perfect to fill The office thou hast chosen for our sakes. A gentle woman thou, and therefore tender:— A loving wife, and therefore sympathetic:— A mother, thou, and therefore patient:— Is there a son among those wounded men Has made his mother sad? Thy tear will soften him. Is there a husband kept from wife and bairns? Thy smile will comfort him. Is there a lonely one with none to love? He'll warm beneath thy glance, his dear Queen's glance; And—soldiers all—they'll all forget their pains, And long to fight again, even to fall, for thee. [!-- Begin Page 104 --] And if for thee, for us; us, who would clasp Their thin worn hands in ours, and smile our thanks, And speak our praise of them, and heal their wounds With gentlest care, each, for himself, if so We might thus ease our o'er-full hearts. Yet happy are we still in this, nay, happier,— Thou being that our best; our dearest; Our elect; perfect epitome Of all we would—that thou dost go to them. |