And sometimes, when our hearts grow faint
Amid temptations fierce and deep, Or when the wildly raging waves
Of grief or passion sweep,
We feel upon our fevered brow
Their gentle touch, their breath of balm; Their arms enfold us, and our hearts
Grow comforted and calm.
And ever near us, though unseen,
The dear, immortal spirits tread; For all the boundless universe
Is life—there are no dead.
JAMES L. M'CREERY.
1863.
Going—the great round Sun,
Dragging the captive Day Over behind the frowning hill,
Over beyond the bay,— Dying: Coming—the dusky Night,
Silently stealing in, Wrapping himself in the soft warm couch
Where the golden-haired Day hath been Lying.
Going—the bright, blithe Spring;
Blossoms! how fast ye fall, Shooting out of your starry sky
Into the darkness all Blindly! Coming—the mellow days:
Crimson and yellow leaves; Languishing purple and amber fruits
Kissing the bearded sheaves Kindly!
Going—our early friends;
Voices we loved are dumb; Footsteps grow dim in the morning dew;
Fainter the echoes come Ringing: Coming to join our march,—
Shoulder to shoulder pressed,— Gray-haired veterans strike their tents
For the far-off purple West— Singing!
Going—this old, old life;
Beautiful world, farewell! Forest and meadow! river and hill!
Ring ye a loving knell O'er us! Coming—a nobler life;
Coming—a better land; Coming—a long, long, nightless day;
Coming—the grand, grand Chorus!