We paused, as if from that bright shore
Beckoned our dear ones gone before;
And stilled our beating hearts to hear
The voices lost to mortal ear!
Sudden our pathway turned from night
The hills swung open to the light;
Through their green gates the sunshine show'd,
A long slant splendor downward flowed.
Down glade and glen and bank it rolled;
It bridged the shaded stream with gold;
And, borne on piers of mist, allied
The shadowy with the sunlit side!
"So," prayed we, "when our feet draw near
The river dark with mortal fear,
And the night cometh, chill with dew,
O Father, let thy light break through!
So let the hills of doubt divide,
To bridge with faith the sunless tide!
So let the eyes that fall on earth
On thy eternal hills look forth,
And in thy beckoning angels know
The dear ones whom we loved below!"
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.
Stand here by my side and turn, I pray,
On the lake below thy gentle eyes;
The clouds hang over it, heavy and gray,
And dark and silent the water lies;
And out of that frozen mist the snow
In waving flakes begins to flow;
Flake after flake
They sink in the dark and silent lake.
See how in a living swarm they come
From the chambers beyond that misty veil;
Some hover a while in the air, and some
Rush prone from the sky like summer hail.
All dropping swiftly or settling slow,
Meet, and are still in the depths below;
Flake after flake
Dissolved in the dark and silent lake.
Here delicate snow-stars, out of the cloud,
Come floatly downward in airy play,
Like spangles dropped from the glistening crowd,
That whiten by night the Milky Way;
There broader and burlier masses fall;
The sullen water buries them all,-
Flake after flake,--
All drowned in the dark and silent lake.
And some, as on tender wings they glide
From their chilly birth-cloud, dim and gray,
Are joined in their fall and, side by side,
Come clinging along their unsteady way; As friend with friend, or husband with wife, Makes hand in hand the passage of life; Each mated flake
Soon sinks in the dark and silent lake.
Lo! while we are gazing, in swifter haste
Stream down the snows, till the air is white,
As, myriads by myriads madly chased,
They fling themselves from their shadowy height!
The fair, frail creatures of middle sky,
What speed they make with their grave so high;
Flake after flake
To lie in the dark and silent lake!
I see in thy gentle eyes a tear;
They turn to me in sorrowful thought; Thou thinkest of friends, the good and dear, Who were for a time, and now are not; Like these fair children of cloud and frost, That glisten a moment and then are lost,Flake after flake,—
All lost in the dark and silent lake.
Yet look again, for the clouds divide;
A gleam of blue on the water lies;
And far away on the mountain-side,
A sunbeam falls from the opening skies. But the hurrying host that flew between The cloud and the water no more is seen; Flake after flake
At rest in the dark and silent lake.
When leaves grow sear all things take sombre hue; The wild winds waltz no more the woodside through,
And all the faded grass is wet with dew.
A gauzy nebula films the pensive sky,
The golden bee supinely buzzes by,
In silent flocks the bluebirds southward fly.
The forest's cheeks are crimsoned o'er with shame, The synic frost enlaces every lane,
The ground with scarlet bushes is aflame!
The one we love grows lustrous-eyed and sad,
With sympathy too thoughtful to be glad,
While all the colors 'round are running mad.
The sunbeams kiss askant the sombre hill,
The naked woodbine climbs the window sill,
The breaths that noon exhales are faint and chill.
FROM POET, SAGE AND HUMORIST.
ripened nuts drop downward day by day, ading the hollow tocsin of decay,
bandit squirrels smuggle them away.
ue sighs and scents pervade the atmosphere, ads of invisible stirrings hum the ear, morning's lash reveals a frozen tear.
hermit mountains gird themselves with mail, king the threshers with an echo flail, while the afternoons grow rcisp and pale.
Home from the battle plain
They brought their bravest, slain.
Oh, not with muffled drum
In sadness did they come,
And not with measured tread
As those who bear the 'dead.
But like some Bacchic throng
Madly they rushed along
Waving their weapons high,
Shouting a battle cry.
"The city gates throw wide,
Let Victory in," they cried.
Forth poured in gladness then
The women and old men.
"All praise to these," they shout,
"Who put our foes to rout."
But why that sudden wail,
Turning flushed faces pale?
It was a voice that said:
"My love is dead, is dead!"
"Nay," quoth a warrior grim,
"Weep not, my child, for him.
In sad and desperate fray
His valor saved the day.
He fell upon the spears
With 'Victory!' in his ears.
He died with sword in hand,
The saviour of our land.
In fame to live and live,
This life who would not give?"
She answered him and said:
"But he is dead, is dead.
Spake then in bitter pain
The mother of the slain:
"And is he dead, my son,
My beauteous, peerless one?
Yet liefer would I know
That thus he lieth low,
Than if he lived to shame
And blight an honest name!"
"Aye," cried the slain one's sire,
Flushing with sudden fire,
"Glory now hath the boy;
I yield my all with joy!"
Still o'er the stretcher bent,
In grief's abandonment,
That young wife worldly fair,
Moaning in anguish there.
And this is all she said:
"My love is dead, is dead!"
Out stepped a poet then,
Great, though unknown of men.
"The task," he cried, "be mine
To sing this deed divine.
To tell its beauteous worth
For all the years of earth;
To wed it with sweet sound
While this dark world goes round.
So shall his name outlast
These walls and temples vast,
Yea, e'en his native land,
Though ages drift like sand.”
He ceased. The young wife said: "But he is dead, is dead."
Up then a sculptor spake:
"Why sorrow for his sake?
For I will shape his face
In marble's deathless grace.
And I will hew his form
In living curves and warm,
Showing all after days
This hero whom we praise."
The lone one answering said:
"But he is dead, is dead."
A painter next spake out:
"Mine be to show war's rout,
Wan hate and fury's spell,
The night and fire of hell,
And tall amidst the gloom
Our deathless dead shall loom,
Pointing the fearful way
Where fame and victory lay."
And then a gladsome cheer
Rose lusty, far and near.
From all but one, who said:
"My love is dead, is dead!"
Hundreds of years since then.
Full of forgotten men,
Have melted noiselessly,
Like snowdrops in the sea.
The song that poet sung
Yet lives in many a tongue;
The warrior's carven form
Still seems alert and warm;
Men thrill with pride to-day,
Seeing that painted fray.
But ah, from long ago
There drifts a sound of woe,
A weary, sad refrain,
Making all glory vain,
The voice of her who said:
"But he is dead, is dead!"
How sweet the chime of the Sabbath bells!
Each one its creed in music tells,
In tones that float upon the air
As soft as song, as pure as prayer:
And I will put in simple rhyme
The language of the golden chime;
My happy heart with rapture swells
Responsive to the bells, sweet bells!
"In deeds of love excel! excel!"
Chimed out from ivied towers a bell;
"This is the church not built on sands,
Emblem of one not built with hands;
Its forms and sacred rites revere;
Come worship here! Come worship here!
In rituals and faith excel!"
Chimed out the Episcopalian bell.
"Oh, heed the ancient landmarks well!"
In solemn tones exclaimed a bell.
"No progress made by mortal man
Can change the just, eternal plan;
With God there can be nothing new;
Ignore the false, embrace the true,
While all is well! is well! is well!"
Pealed out the good old Dutch Church bell.
"Ye purifying waters, swell!"
In mellow tones rang out a bell;
"Though faith alone in Christ can save,
Man must be plunged beneath the wave,
To show the world unfaltering faith
In what the Sacred Scriptures saith:
Oh, swell! ye rising waters, swell!"
Pealed out the clear-toned Baptist bell.
"Not faith alone, but works as well,
Must test the soul!" said a soft bell;
"Come here and cast aside your load,
And work your way along the road,
With faith in God, and faith in man,
And hope in Christ where hope began;
Do well! do well! do well! do well!"
Rang out the Unitarian bell.
"Farewell! farewell! base world, forever!"
In touching tones exclaimed a bell.
"Life is a boon to mortals given
To fit the soul for bliss in heaven;
Do not invoke the avenging rod,
Come here and learn the way to God!
Say to the world, Farewell! farewell!"
Pealed forth the Presbyterian bell.
"To all the truth we tell! we tell!"
Shouted in ecstacies a bell!
"Come, all ye weary wanders, see!
Our Lord has made salvation free!
Repent, believe, have faith, and then
Be saved, and praise the Lord, Amen!
Salvation's free, we tell! we tell!"
Shouted the Methdoistic bell.
"In after life there is no hell!"
In raptures rang a cheerful bell;
"Look up to heaven this holy day,
Where angels wait to lead the way.
There are no fires, no fiends to blight
The future life; be just and right.
No hell! no hell! no hell! no hell!"
Rang out the Universalist bell.
"The Pilgrim Fathers heeded well
My cheerful voice," pealed forth a bell;
"No fetters here to clog the soul;
No arbitrary creeds control
The free heart and progressive mind,
That leave the dusty path behind.
Speed well! speed well! speed well! speed well!" Pealed forth the Independent bell.
"No pope, no pope, to doom to hell
The Protestant!" rang out a bell.
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