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Nor let the good man's trust depart,
Though life its common gifts deny,– Though with a pierced and broken heart,
And spurned of men, he goes to die.
For God has marked each sorrowing day
And numbered every secret tear, And heaven's long age of bliss shall pay
For all his children suffer here.
When he, who, from the scourge of wrong,
Aroused the Hebrew tribes to fly,
And bowed him on the hills to die ;
God made his grave, to men unknown,
Where Moab's rocks a vale infold,
To slumber while the world grows old.
Thus still, whene'er the good and just
Close the dim eye on life and pain,
Till the pure spirit comes again.
Though nameless, trampled, and forgot,
His servant's humble ashes lie,
To call its inmate to the sky,
A WALK AT SUNSET.
WHEN insect wings are glistening in the beam
Of the low sun, and mountain-tops are bright, Oh, let me, by the crystal valley-stream,
Wander amid the mild and mellow light; And while the wood-thrush pipes his evening lay, Give me one lonely hour to hymn the setting day.
Oh, sun! that o'er the western mountains now
Goest down in glory! ever beautiful And blessed is thy radiance, whether thou
Colourest the eastern heaven and night-mist cool, Till the bright day-star vanish, or on high Climbest and streamest thy white splendours from mid-sky.
Yet, loveliest are thy setting smiles, and fair,
Fairest of all that earth beholds, the hues That live among the clouds, and flush the air,
Lingering and deepening at the hour of dews. Then softest gales are breathed, and softest heard The plaining voice of streams, and pensive note of biril.
They who here roamed, of yore, the forest wide,
Felt, by such charm, their simple bosoms won; They deemed their quivered warrior, when he died,
Went to bright isles beneath the setting sun ; * Where winds are aye at peace, and skies are fair, And purple-skirted clouds curtain the crimson air.
So, with the glories of the dying day,
Its thousand trembling lights and changing hues, The memory of the brave who passed away
Tenderly mingled ;-fitting hour to muse On such grave theme, and sweet the dream that shed Brightness and beauty round the destiny of the dead.
For ages, on the silent forests here,
Thy beams did fall before the red man came To dwell beneath them ; in their shade the deer
Fed, and feared not the arrow's deadly aim. Nor tree was felled, in all that world of woods, Save by the beaver's tooth, or winds, or rush of floods.
Then came the hunter tribes, and thou didst look,
For ages, on their deeds in the hard chase,
Took the first stain of blood ; before thy face
Now they are gone, gone as thy setting blaze
Goes down the west, while night is pressing on, And with them the old tale of better days,
And trophies of remembered power, are gone. Yon field that gives the harvest, where the plough Strikes the white bone, is all that tells their story now
I stand upon their ashes in thy beam,
The offspring of another race, I stand,
And where the night-fire of the quivered band
Farewell! but thou shalt come again—thy light
Must shine on other changes, and behold The place of the thronged city still as night
States fallen-new empires built upon the oldBut never shalt thou see these realms again Darkened by boundless groves, and roamed by savage men