And Thought hath bent its wing
From its high journeying, awhile to sit
Within its gilded cage; a captive thing,
Pleased with the trifles that before it flit.
And from the harp of life
Grief hath her wild, discordant measures wrung;
She saw death conquer in the fearful strife,
And on the air her notes of sadness flung.
Even as the withered flower
Looks up for evening's damp, reviving breath,
So in this calmly bright and solemn hour
My spirit struggles with the bands of death.
From thy resplendent throne
Eternal Father! grant one lucid ray
Upon the path which I must tread alone,
Unless thy smile illume the clouded way.
To thy returning child
Bend a propitious ear! Accept my prayer,
Through Christ the crucified, the undefiled,
Whose cry of anguish rent the midnight air.
And now the stars look down
With softer glances, and the dew-drops roll
With ringing melody from night's pale crown:
These are Thy smiles to my awakened soul!
Boston, Mass.
H. J. W.