The echoes of voice and step are gone, There is silence still and deep; Yet we know she sings by God's bright throneThen wherefore do we weep? The cheek's pale tinge, the lid's dark fringe, That lies like a shadow there, Were beautiful in the eyes of all, And her glossy golden hair! But through that lid may never wake From its dark and dreamless sleep; She is gone where young hearts do not break— Then wherefore do we weep? That world of light with joy is bright This is a world of wo: Shall we grieve that her soul hath taken flight, Because we dwell below? We will bury her under the mossy sod, And one long bright tress we'll keep; We have only given her back to God, Ah! wherefore do we weep? THE LILY OF THE VALLEY. BISHOP MANT. FAIR flower, that lapt in lowly glade, Dost hide beneath the greenwood shade, Than whom the vernal gale None fairer wakes on bank or spray, Our England's Lily of the May, Our Lily of the vale! Art thou that "Lily of the field" He show'd to our mistrustful kind, An emblem to the thoughtful mind Of God's paternal care? Not thus I trow; for brighter shine Those children of the East! More frequent than the host of night, Their brilliant disks unfold; Fit symbol of imperial state, And crowns of burnish'd gold. But not the less, sweet springtide's flower! Our western valleys' humbler child, What though nor care nor art be thine, Of thy twin leaves the embow'd screen, Thy arch'd and purple-vested stem, Instinct with life, thy fibrous root, Which sends from earth the ascending shoot, As rising from the dead And fills thy veins with verdant juice, Charged thy fair blossoms to produce, And berries scarlet red; I The triple cell, the twofold seed, While Spring shall weave her flowery crown, Who forms thee thus with unseen hand? Who at creation gave command, And will'd thee thus to be; And keeps thee still in being through But the Great God is He? Omnipotent, to work his will; "There is no God," the wicked say; Of feeble faith and frail The mourner breathes his anxious thought; By Thee a better lesson taught, Sweet Lily of the vale! Yes! He who made and fosters thee, In Reason's eye perforce must be Of majesty divine; Nor deems she, that His guardian care Will He in man's support forbear, Who thus provides for thine. "JUDGE NOT." EDMUND PEEL. In many a mould the potter casts the clay, To Him whose beams on good and evil shine The Eternal Father, Lord of all that lives, By Him created, as by Him preserved, His amaranth of Deity, and died; On all, who seek assistance from above, The Eternal Spirit lights-for God is love! |