A waking eye, a prying mind, My sprightly neighbor, gone before When from thy cheerful eyes a ray A bliss that would not go away, A sweet forewarning? CHARLES LAMB. ΤΗ They are all gone. HEY are all gone into the world of light, Their very memory is fair and bright, It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast, Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest I see them walking in an air of glory, Whose light doth trample on my days, THEY ARE ALL GONE. 243 O holy hope and high humility,- High as the heavens above! These are your walks, and you have showed them me To kindle my cold love. Dear, beauteous death, the jewel of the just, — Shining nowhere but in the dark! What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust, Could man outlook that mark! He that hath found some fledged bird's nest may know, At first sight, if the bird be flown; But what fair dell or grove he sings in now, And yet, as angels in some brighter dreams So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes, If a star were confined into a tomb, Her captive flames must needs burn there, O Father of eternal life, and all Created glories under thee! Resume thy spirit from this world of thrall Into true liberty. Either disperse these mists, which blot and fill Or else remove me hence unto that hill Where I shall need no glass. HENRY VAUGHAN. Ο Over the River. VER the river they beckon to me, Loved ones who 've crossed to the farther side, The gleam of their snowy robes I see, But their voices are lost in the dashing tide. There's one with ringlets of sunny gold, And eyes the reflection of heaven's own blue; And the pale mist hid him from mortal view. My brother stands waiting to welcome me. Over the river the boatman pale Carried another, the household pet; She crossed on her bosom her dimpled hands, We felt it glide from the silver sands, And all our sunshine grew strangely dark; We know she is safe on the farther side, Where all the ransomed and angels be: Over the river, the mystic river, My childhood's idol is waiting for me. For none return from those quiet shores, We hear the dip of the golden oars, And catch a gleam of the snowy sail; And lo! they have passed from our yearning heart, They cross the stream and are gone for aye; We may not sunder the veil apart That hides from our vision the gates of day; LONGING FOR HOME. We only know that their barks no more And I sit and think, when the sunset's gold And list for the sound of the boatman's oar; 245 NANCY PRIEST WAKEFIELD. A Longing for Home. SONG of a boat: There was once a boat on a billow: Lightly she rocked to her port remote, And the foam was white in her wake like snow, And her frail mast bowed when the breeze would blow, And bent like a wand of willow. I shaded mine eyes one day when a boat I marked her course till a dancing mote I pray you hear my song of a boat, For it is but short: My boat, you shall find none fairer afloat, Long I looked out for the lad she bore, And I think he sailed to the heavenly shore, There was once a nest in a hollow, Down in the mosses and knot-grass pressed, With buttercup-buds to follow. I pray you hear my song of a nest, You shall never light in a summer quest Shall never light on a prouder sitter, I had a nestful once of my own, Ah happy, happy I! Right dearly I loved them: but when they were grown They spread out their wings to fly – Oh, one after one they flew away Far up to the heavenly blue, To the better country, the upper day, I pray you, what is the nest to me, And what is the shore where I stood to see My boat sail down to the west? |