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They shall not wander from that blessed way;
Trouble them more who once have entered in;
But all is rest to them whose world-worn feet
Thus the gates close and I behold no more,
And I am lonely also while I bow
And think of those dear souls whose world-worn feet
Tired, very tired!—but I will patient be,
Nor will I murmur at the weary way: I too shall walk beside the crystal sea,
And pluck the ripe fruit, all that God-lit day,
When thou, oh Lord, shalt let my world-worn feet
[Lines found under the pillow of a soldier who died in hospital at Port Royal.]
My good right hand forgets.
To march the weary march
I am not eager, bold,
Nor strong all that is past;
My half-day's work is done,
I give a patient God
And grasp his banner still,
CLOUD lay cradled near the setting sun,
O'er the still radiance of the lake below:
To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given, And by the breath of mercy made to roll
Right onward to the golden gates of heaven,
MY AIN COUNTREE.
My Ain Countree.
AM far from my hame an' I'm weary often whiles
I'll ne'er be fu' content until my een do see
The gowden gates o' heaven, an' my ain countree.
The earth is flecked wi' flow'rs, mony-tinted, fresh and gay, The birdies warble blithely, for my Father made them sae; But these sights and these soun's will as naething be to me, When I hear the angels singing in my ain countree.
I've his gude word of promise, that some gladsome day, the
To his ain royal palace his banish'd hame will bring;
My sins hae been mony, an' my sorrows hae been sair,
Like a bairn to its mither, a wee birdie to its nest,
For he gathers in his bosom, witless, worthless lambs like
An' he carries them himself to his ain countree.
He's faithfu' that has promised, he'll surely come again;
So I'm watching aye an' singing o' my hame as I wait,
NE sweetly solemn thought
Nearer my Father's house,
Where the many mansions be:
Nearer the bound of life,
Where we lay our burdens down;
Nearer gaining the crown!
But lying darkly between,
Winding down through the night,
Closer and closer my steps
Presses the awful chrism.
Father, perfect my trust!
Let me feel as I would, when I stand
THE GENIUS OF DEATH.
Feel as I would, when my feet
Are slipping over the brink; For it may be, I'm nearer home, Nearer now than I think.
The Genius of Death.
WHAT is Death? 't is to be free!
No more to love or hope or fear
To join the great equality:
All alike are humbled here!
The mighty grave
Nor pride nor poverty dares come
Spirit with the drooping wing,
Beneath thee strewed
Sink like waves upon the shore :
What's the grandeur of the earth
To the grandeur round thy throne?
To thy kingdom all have gone.
The wondrous band,
Bards, heroes, sages, side by side,