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IN MEMORIAM W. W. A.
HE shattered water plashes down the ledge;
Of shelvy rock, in thin and foamy falls,—
With the same streaming light and numerous sound,
Up by this path along the streamlet's brink,
In sadness of the wealthy days of yore,
When love, and hope, and youth before us boundless lay.
He was a kind of genius of the glen,
The soul of sunshine in its heart of gloom; Nature's great mansion, wide to other men,
Here for the gentlest guest reserved a room, Where she, in secret from the general throng, Welcomed him fleeing oft, and cheered him lingering long.
But hospitable Nature seeks him now,
Through her wide halls or cloistered cells in vain ; The wistful face, the early-wrinkled brow,
The peace that touched and purified the pain, The slender form, dilate with noble thought,
The woman's welcoming smile for all fair things he brought;
The light, quick step, elastic but not strong,
Alert with springing spirit and tempered nerveType of the heart direct that sped along
Swiftly where duty led, and did not swerve For count of odds, or dread of earthly loss,
Buoyed with the costliest strength to bear the heaviest cross;
These tokens of that gracious presence here,
Concerning him that helps our loss be borne-
HEN the morning, half in shadow,
Not enough of earth for sinning,
When the morning, half in shadow,
Now the litter she doth lie on,
The River Path.
NO bird-song floated down the hill,
The tangled bank below was still;
No rustle from the birchen stem,
The dusk of twilight round us dread,
THE RIVER PATH.
For, from us ere the day was done,
But on the river's farther side,
A tender glow, exceeding fair,
With us the damp, the chill, the gloom;
While dark, through willowy vistas seen,
From out the darkness where we trod,
Whose light seemed not of morn or sun;
We paused, as if from that bright shore
And stilled our beating hearts to hear
Sudden our pathway turned from right;
Through their green gates the sunshine showed,
Down glade and glen and bank it rolled:
And, borne on piers of mist, allied
"And the night cometh, chill with dew,
"So let the hills of doubt divide,
"So let the eyes that fail on earth
"And in thy beckoning angels know
JOHN G. WHITTIER.
The Golden Street.
HE toil is very long and I am tired: Oh, Father, I am weary of the way ! Give me that rest I have so long desired; Bring me that Sabbath's cool refreshing day, And let the fever of my world-worn feet Press the cool smoothness of the golden street.
Tired, very tired!
And I at times have seen,
When the far pearly gates were open thrown
At last wave over those whose world-worn feet
When the gates open, and before they close-
Before the throne, and sadly have I sighed
To think how long until my world-worn feet