Peace, troubled heart! life's ever mocking seeming, MARY CLEMMER AMES. I SHALL BE SATISFIED Not here! not here! not where the sparkling waters Not here! where every dream of bliss deceives us, There is a land where every pulse is thrilling With rapture earth's sojourners may not know, Where heaven's repose the weary heart is stilling, And peacefully life's time-tossed currents flow. Far out of sight, while yet the flesh enfolds us, Lies the fair country where our hearts abide, And of its bliss is naught more wondrous told us Than these few words "I shall be satisfied. Satisfied! satisfied! the spirit's yearning For sweet companionship with kindred minds The silent love that here meets no returning The inspiration which no language finds Shall they be satisfied? the soul's vague longing - Thither my weak and weary steps are tending Guide me towards home, where, all my wanderings ending, ANONYMOUS. THIS WORLD IS ALL A FLEETING SHOW THIS world is all a fleeting show, For man's illusion given; The smiles of joy, the tears of woe, There's nothing true but heaven! And false the light on glory's plume, And love, and hope, and beauty's bloom From wave to wave we 're driven, THOMAS MOORE, I TOO "LET us spread the sail for purple islands, And I, too, O my Father! Thou hast made me Souls of kings are worth no more than mine ; Meanest things that breathe have, with no asking, Finds its rose, and, in the sunshine basking, With thy full contentment thou dost coo; a spirit From that world's great stores one taste for this! Hungry stands he by his empty table, One full joy to catch where hundreds swell Once again his poor life through and through- Up his cry, "O Lord! I too! I too!" CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON. THE BIRD, LET LOOSE IN EASTERN SKIES Ne'er stoops to earth her wing, nor flies But high she shoots through air and light, Where nothing earthly bounds her flight, So grant me, God! from every care THOMAS MOORE. ALL BEFORE O HEARTS that never cease to yearn! The living are the only dead; nevermore to die! And often when we mourn them fled, And though they lie beneath the waves, Yet every grave gives up its dead Or why should Memory, veiled with gloom, Whose captives have escaped? 'Tis but a mound, and will be mossed Nay, Hope may whisper with the dead The joys we lose are but forecast, And we shall find them all once more; But lo! 't is all before! ANONYMOUS. UP-HILL DOES the road wind up-hill all the way? Yes, to the very end. Will the day's journey take the whole long day? But is there for the night a resting-place? A roof for when the slow dark hours begin. Shall I meet other wayfarers at night? Then must I knock, or call when just in sight? Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak? Will there be beds for me and all who seek? CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI. WHEN If I were told that I must die to-morrow, That the next sun Which sinks would bear me past all fear and sorrow All the fight fought, all the short journey through, I do not think that I should shrink or falter, Doing my work, nor change nor seek to alter But rise and move and love and smile and pray And, lying down at night for a last sleeping, Which harkens ever : Lord, within thy keeping And when to-morrow brings thee nearer still, I might not sleep for awe; but peaceful, tender, All the night long; and when the morning splendor I think that I could smile- could calmly say, "It is His day." But if a wondrous hand from the blue yonder On which my life was writ, and I with wonder To a long century's end its mystic clue, What could I do, O blessed Guide and Master, Still to go on as now, not slower, faster, The road, although so very long it be, Step after step, feeling thee close beside me, Thro' thorns, thro' flowers, whether the tempest hide thee, Or heavens serene, Assured thy faithfulness cannot betray, Thy love decay. |