But he who burns with pure desire,
With chastened love and sacred fire,
With soul and being all a-glow
Life's holiest mystery to know,
Shall see the goblet flash and gleam
As in the glory of a dream;
And from its starry lip shall drink
A bliss to lift him on the brink
Of mighty rapture, joy intense,
That far outlives its subsidence.
The draught shall strike Life's narrow goal,
And make an outlet for his soul,
That down the ages, broad and far,
Shall brighten like a rising star.
In other forms his pulse shall beat,
His spirit walk in other feet,
And every generous hope and aim
That spurred him on to honest fame,
To other hearts give warmth and grace,
And keep on earth his honored place,
Become immortal in his race.
THE day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.
I see the lights of the village
Gleam through the rain and the mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me, That my soul cannot resist
A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles rain.
Come read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling
And banish the thoughts of day.
Not from the grand old masters,
Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of time;
For, like strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life's endless toil and endeavor,
And to-night I long for rest.
Read from some humbler poet,
Whose songs gushed from his heart, As showers from the clouds of summer, Or tears from the eyelids start; –
Who through long days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,
Still hear in soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.
Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.
Then read from the treasured volume
The poem of thy choice,
And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty of thy voice.
And the night shall be filled with music,
And the cares, that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.
We do not make our thoughts; they grow in us, Like grain in wood; the growth is of the skies, Which are of nature; nature is of God.
The world is full of glorious likenesses.
I STAND on the brink of a river,
The River of Life to me,
Where the billows of memory quiver,
And rise and fall like the sea.
I read in their tremulous motion
The records of many a year,
And like voices that come from the ocean
Are the muffled words I hear.
Down under the waters gleaming,
Are visions of long ago;
There are forms of beauty beaming,
There are shadows dark and low.
There are scenes from life's fair morning,
That come like the break of day,
Or a beautiful landscape's dawning,
When the mists have cleared away.
I gaze on the sight Elysian,
With earnest and longing eyes, Till my soul is stirred, by the vision, With raptures from Paradise.
I see the chain of a friendship
Death never had power to part;
One link is under the waters,
The other is round my heart.
I hear, from the depths of the river,
Sweet words that my spirit thrill;
We are parted, but not forever;
We are living and loving still!
And my soul no more is lonely,
Nor throbs with a sense of pain,
For the loved, who were once mine only,
I know will be mine again.
Dark waves may close o'er the vision,
Storms drive me away from the shore;
But hope, like the lamp of a Vestal,
Dies out in my soul no more.
Flow on, mysterious river,
Flow on to eternity's sea;
By faith and a holy endeavor,
The future hath bliss for me.
THERE are gains for all our losses,
There are balms for all our pain ;
But when youth, the dream, departs,
It takes something from our hearts,
And it never comes again.
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