THE NAMELESS GUEST.
BY JAMES CLARENCE HARVEY.
I wonder if ever the Angel of Death
Comes down from the great Unknown,
And soars away, on the wings of night,
Unburdened and alone!
I wonder if ever the angels' eyes,
Are filled with pitying tears,
As they grant to the souls, unfit for flight,
A few more weary years!
For it seems, at times, when the world is still,
And the soft night winds are whist,
As though some spirit were hovering near,
In folds of dream-like mist,
And I feel, though mortals are nowhere near,
That I am not quite alone,
And, with dreary thoughts of dying and death,
My heart grows cold as stone.
But whether 'tis death that hovers near,
And knocks at the door of my heart,
Or whether 'tis some bright angel, come
To be of my life a part,
I cannot tell, and I long in vain,
The secret strange to know,
While the moments of mirth and grief and pain,
Move on in their ceaseless flow.
And at night, when I kneel to a Higher Power
And ask His tender care,
One yearning cry of a wayward life
Is the burden of my prayer,
That I may bend, with willing lips,
To kiss the chastening rod,
And learn the way, through the golden gate,
To the great white throne of God.