WHEN I shall stand before the judgment throne,
At that last hour when all things pass away,
And see beneath me there the vast array
Of souls who wait their life deeds to atone,
And there before the face of God, alone
Appear, and hear His awful voice then say,
“Throughout thy life, until thy dying day,
Is there not any good deed thou hast done?”
And I shall answer, “Nay, I cannot tell;
But this there is: I loved with all my heart,
Above mine own, one soul; was that not well?
On earth my love brought only bitter smart,
And there I felt the pangs of Thy dread Hell;
From her, my Heaven, bid me not now depart!”
William C. Hall.
THE OLD IS BETTER.
ALONE, alone, thro’ the sunny street,
In the shadow of a dream,
The forms and faces I pass and meet
In a mist and darkness seem.
The old gray houses stand a-row,
Their windows blink and stare,
The sparrows chirp on the lilac bough
From the garden in the square.
The busy mower whets his scythe,
He hums a cheery rhyme;
The wild bees murmur, and drowse and dive
In the blossom of the lime.
The forms and faces that come and go,
They flicker and wane and gleam,
As I walk through the streets of long ago
In the shadow of a dream.
The faces waver and fade away;
While under the lilac bough
Upspringeth the aspect, bright and gay,
Of a face I used to know.
I see her stand, and she calls my name,
And my heart and pulses glow
As the old life starts like a buried flame,
And the new life flickers low.