O’er lapse of time and change of scene,—
The weary waste which lies between
Thyself and me, my heart I lean.
Thou lack’st not Friendship’s spell-word, nor
The half-unconscious power to draw
All hearts to thine by Love’s sweet law.
With these good gifts of God is cast
Thy lot, and many a charm thou hast
To hold the blessed angels fast.
If, then, a fervent wish for thee
The gracious heavens will heed from me,
What should, dear heart, its burden be?
The sighing of a shaken reed,—
What can I more than meekly plead
The greatness of our common need?
God’s love,—unchanging, pure, and true,—
The Paraclete white-shining through
His peace,—the fall of Hermon’s dew!
With such a prayer, on this sweet day,
As thou mayst hear and I may say,
I greet thee, dearest, far away!
John Greenleaf Whittier.
MY VIOLET.
WHEN violets blue begin to blow
Among the mosses fresh and green,
That grow the woodbine roots between,
I take my Violet out, and, oh!
Those cunning violets seem to know
A sweeter than themselves is nigh;
They greet her with a beaming eye,
And brighten where her footsteps go.
When summer glories light the glade
With gloss of green and gleam of gold,
And sunny sheens in wood and wold,
She loves to linger in the shade;
And such sweet light surrounds the maid,
That, somehow, it is fairer far
Where she and those dim shadows are,
Than where the sunbeams are displayed.