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ORIGINAL POEMS.
WHITHER? O WHITHER?
WHITHER, O whither, now all things are over?
We to our journey and he to his home;
Eyes cannot pierce through the veil that must cover
Him whom we’ve laid in the still silent tomb.
He hath but ended his journey before us,
We for a season are sojourning still
On the same earth with the same heaven o’er us,—
Turn we, O turn we, our tasks to fulfil!
Whither, O whither, now all things are ended?
We to our labour and he to his rest;
Let not the heart by its woe be offended,
Man seeks the pleasant, but God gives the best.
