THE LOSS OF THE EMIGRANTS.
89
They looked their last, wet-eyed, on Swedish hills,
On German villages and English dales;
Like brooks that grow from many mountain rills
The peasant-stream flowed out from Irish vales.
Their grief at parting was not all a grief,
But blended sweetly with the joy to come.
When from full store they spared the rich relief
To gladden all the dear ones left at home.
"We thank thee, God!" they cried; "the cruel gate
That barred our lives has swung beneath Thy hand;
Behind our ship now frowns the cruel fate,
Before her smiles the teeming Promised Land!"
Alas! when shown in mercy or in wrath,
How weak we are to read God's awful lore!
His breath protected on the stormy path.
And dashed them lifeless on the promised shore!
