HIS LOVE WILL CARRY ME.
Though from my gaze earth's light is fading fast,
Yet from the gathering darkness doth arise
A land, in solemn beauty unsurpassed,
Opening before mine eyes.
I see the goodly city clearer grow,
With jasper walls and pearl gates opening wide;
Lo! from its towers a heavenly strain doth flow,
And over me doth glide.
There dwell the saints of old, who yearned to see
Those tearless mansions! and through fiery flame
Have passed triumphant, bearing willingly
The cross for His dear name.
And other blessed sights I see, too fair
For mortal tongue to say: the voice grows cold,
And vainly tries those glories to declare,
Which now to me unfold!
But fairest, brightest to mine eye doth rise
The Lamb once slain, in glorious beauty crowned;
Wiping away the tears from weeping eyes,
Healing His people's wound.
There, O beloved ones, my place shall be,
Close by His side, in deepest love to sweep
My golden harp-strings through eternity
In songs so full and deep!
Say, would ye wish me back again from this
All-blessed life? nay, let your tears cease;
He calleth me at last to rest and bliss,
Let me depart in peace.
Golden Hour.
THE OLD FRIENDS.
Where are they scattered now,
The old, old friends?
One made her dwelling where the maples glow,
And mighty streams through solemn forests flow,
But never, from that pine-crowned land of snow,
A message sends.
Some meet me oft amid
Life's common ways;
And then, perchance, a word or smile declares
That warm hearts throb beneath their load of cares;
For love grows on, like wheat among the tares,
Till harvest days.
"But some are fall'n asleep;"[1]
The words are sweet!
Oh, friends at rest beneath the blessed sod,
My feet still tread the weary road ye trod
Ere yet your loving souls went back to God!—
When shall we meet?
Oh, thou divinest Friend,
When shall it be
That I may know them in their garments white?
And see them with a new and clearer sight,
Mine old familiar friends — made fair and bright,
Like unto Thee!
- Sunday Magazine.Sarah Doudney
Violet delicate, sweet,
Down in the deep of the wood,
Hid in thy still retreat,
Far from the sound of the street,
Man and his merciless mood:—
Safe from the storm and the heat,
Breathing of beauty and good
Fragrantly, under thy hood
Violet.
Beautiful maid, discreet,
Where is the mate that is meet,
Meet for thee—strive as he could—
Yet will I kneel at thy feet,
Fearing another one should,
Violet!
Spectator.W. C. Monkhouse
Rose, in the hedgerow grown,
Where the scent of the fresh sweet hay
Comes up from the fields new-mown,
You know it—you know it—alone,
So I gather you here to-day!
For here—was it not here, say?—
That she came by the woodland way,
And my heart with a hope unknown
Rose?
Ah, yes!—with her bright hair blown,
And her eyes like the skies of May,
And her steps like the rose-leaves strown
When the winds in the rose-trees play,—
It was here,—O my love, my own
Rose!
Spectator.Austin Dobson
