Part 44 (2/2)

We shall see the blossoms swelling, Watch the spring-bird build his dwelling, See the dead leaves downward sailing, While the Autumn winds are wailing, For the last, last time.

We shall hear the song of pleasure, Join the dance's merry measure; Shrink and dread the form of sorrow, Which may meet us on the morrow, For the last, last time.

We shall feel hates' venomed dart Aimed to pierce the inmost heart; We shall know love's sweet caressing, Breathed from lips our own are pressing, For the last, last time.

But in that land where we are going, Where the skies are ever glowing; In that fair and fadeless clime, Never comes the last, last time.

ONLY A SIMPLE MAID!

And this is the end of it all!

It rounds the years completeness, Though only a walk to the stile Through fields a-foam with sweetness.

Only the sunset light, Purple and red on the river, Only a calm ”good night,”

That means good bye forever!

I can only go back to my simple ways-- To my homely household cares; And yet,--and yet--in after days I shall think of you in my prayers.

We can bear so much in youth; Who cares for a swift sharp pain?

The two-edged sword of truth Cuts deep, but leaves no stain, And over the ways we have trod together, My foot shall fall as lightly, As though my heart were a feather.

Only a woman's heart, strong to have and to keep; Patient when children cry, Soft to lull them to sleep; Glad when another delving hand Finds a gem to wear on the breast, While hers found only sand; Good bye, but as oft as the blossoms come, The peach with its waxen pink, The waving snow of the plum; I shall think how I used to wait And watch--so happy to see you pa.s.s, I could almost kiss your shadow As it fell on the dewy gra.s.s.

A love is but half a love, That contents itself with less Than love's utmost faith and truth And love's unwavering tenderness.

Only this walk to the stile-- This parting word by the river; It seems to me whatever shall go or come-- Memory shall hold forever!

Sweetheart, good bye, good bye, After all--drear poverty and toil For the rich, red flower of love to grow, Were but a cold and barren soil: And so, good bye, good bye!

THE MYSTIC CLOCK.

A NEW YEAR'S POEM.

”Warden, wind the clock again!

Mighty years are going on Through the shadows, joy and pain, And the happy hearted dawn.”

High within Time's temple h.o.a.r Doth this mystic timepiece stand, And when'er twelve moons have vanished The clock is wound by unseen hand; But we hear the pinions rus.h.i.+ng Through the storied air o'erhead, And our hearts grow sick and silent With throbs of fear and dread; For the temple seemeth crowded With still forms all white and shrouded, Like the pale, uncoffined dead; Stirs the startled soul within With a grief too deep for tears, Bowing with a mighty anguish-- O'er our dead and wasted years.

”Warden, wind the clock again!”

O'er the horologe's mystic dial, Watch the sweep of shadowy ages Ere the pens of seers and sages Wrote men's deeds on fadeless pages.

But lo! the warden winds again-- And see yon radiant star arise Flaming in the Orient skies; Hear the grand, glad, chorus ringing, Which the joyous hosts are singing, To the humble shepherds, keeping Patient watch, while kings are sleeping!

See the wise men in the manger, Bow before the Heavenly stranger!

Lowliest born beneath the sun!

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