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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
"So,” prayed we, "when our feet draw near The river dark with mortal fear,
"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:
Give me that rest I have so long desired;
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,
At last wave over those whose world-worn feet
When the gates open, and before they close-
To think how long until my world-worn feet
They shall not wander from that blessed way;
But all is rest to them whose world-worn feet
Thus the gates close and I behold no more,
And think of those dear souls whose world-worn feet
Tired, very tired!—but I will patient be,
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
LAY me down to sleep,
With little care
Me here, or there.
A bowing, burdened head
That only asks to rest,
My good right hand forgets
Its cunning now;
To march the weary march
I know not how.
I am not eager, bold,
Nor strong all that is past;
I am ready not to do
At last, at last.
My half-day's work is done,
I give a patient God
My patient heart;
And grasp his banner still,
Though all the blue be dim;
A CLOUD lay cradled near the setting sun,
A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow;
While every breath of eve that chanced to blow,
Emblem, methought, of the departed soul,
To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given,
And by the breath of mercy made to roll
MY AIN COUNTREE.
My Ain Countree.
AM far from my hame an' I'm weary often whiles
For the longed-for hame-bringing, an' my Father's welcome smiles;
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 King,
To his ain royal palace his banish'd hame will bring;
Wi' een an' wi' heart running oure we shall see "The King in his beauty," an' our ain countree.
My sins hae been mony, an' my sorrows hae been sair,
Like a bairn to its mither, a wee birdie to its nest,
I wud fain be ganging noo unto my Saviour's breast;
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;
He'll keep his tryst wi' me, at what hour I dinna ken;
But he bids me still to watch, an' ready ay to be
To gang at ony moment to my ain countree.