Part 15 (1/2)
Ah! many springs have come and gone, And called me forth in vain; Now winter folds the winding-sheet Round nature's breast again.
Young hands have gathered bright, wild flowers, Young feet have trod the gra.s.s, But I have watched in solitude The mournful shadows pa.s.s.
Young hands have gathered brighter flowers From wisdom's pleasant tree-- But darker still the shadows fall, There are no flowers for me!
No flowers! where shadows deepest lie Amid the wint'ry gloom, Thank G.o.d, I see with kindling eye The Rose of Sharon bloom!
It is enough--my earthly hopes Are fading one by one; My G.o.d and my Redeemer lives, And may his will be done.
I know that in a better world I shall look back and say I never could have reached my home By any other way.
And such a home! no frightful dreams, No wakings to despair-- No cries of--G.o.d remove the cup, Or give me strength to bear!
No pillows wet with burning tears,-- No longings wild and vain To wander in the pleasant fields, Or dear old woods again!
But love and peace, and endless joy, And rest to me how strange!
Lord give me patience to await The happy, happy change!
THE MIXED CUP.
Joy and sorrow, are they not mingled in every cup? We call some happy, others unfortunate; and so they appear to us. But could we draw aside the curtain that conceals the mysteries of the human heart what problems would be solved, and how often we should be lead to exclaim, ”G.o.d dealeth justly: pain and pleasure are more equally distributed than we imagined”! But this may not be. We judge according to appearances, and this is one great source of misery; for, in our grief, we imagine others are more favored than we, and for the blessings we do enjoy we are not thankful. Oh, the great mercy of G.o.d!
What a wonder it is that he does not smite us to the earth when we dare murmur at his dealings!
I SHALL DEPART.
When the flowers of Summer die, When the birds of Summer fly, When the winds of Autumn sigh, I shall depart.
When the mourning Earth receives Last of all the faded leaves,-- When the wailing forest grieves, I shall depart.
When are garnered grain and fruit, When all insect life is mute, I shall drop my broken lute; I shall depart.
When the fields are brown and bare, Nothing left that's good or fair, And the h.o.a.r-frost gathers there, I shall depart.
Not with you, O songsters, no!
To no Southern clime I go,-- By a way none living know I shall depart.
Many aching hearts may yearn, Many lamps till midnight burn, But I never shall return, When I depart.
Trembling, fearing, sorely tried, Waiting for the ebbing tide, Who, oh! who will be my guide When I depart?