My good right-hand forgets
Its cunning now; To march the weary march
I know not how.
I am not eager, bold,
Nor strong,—all that is past; I am ready not to do,
At last, at last.
My half-day's work is done,
And this is all my part,— I give a patient God
My patient heart;
And grasp his banner still,
Though all the blue be dim; These stripes as well as stars
Lead after him.
MARY WOOLSEY HOWLAND.
I think it is over, over,
I think it is over at last: Voices of foemen and lover,
The sweet and the bitter, have passed:
Life, like a tempest of ocean
Hath outblown its ultimate blast:
There's but a faint sobbing seaward
While the calm of the tide deepens leeward,
And behold! like the welcoming quiver
Of heart-pulses throbbed through the river,
Those lights in the harbor at last, The heavenly harbor at last!
I feel it is over! over!
For the winds and the waters surcease; Ah, few were the days of the rover
That smiled in the beauty of peace, And distant and dim was the omen
That hinted redress or release!
From the ravage of life, and its riot,
What marvel I yearn for the quiet
Which bides in the harbor at last,— For the lights, with their welcoming quiver
That throb through the sanctified river,
Which girdle the harbor at last, This heavenly harbor at last?
I know it is over, over,
I know it is over at last! Down sail! the sheathed anchor uncover,
For the stress of the voyage has passed:
Life, like a tempest of ocean,
Hath outbreathed its ultimate blast: There's but a faint sobbing seaward,
While the calm of the tide deepens leeward;
And behold! like the welcoming quiver
Of heart-pulses throbbed through the river,
Those lights in the harbor at last, The heavenly harbor at last!
PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE.