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EYOND these chilling winds and gloomy skies,-
There is a land where beauty never dies,
And love becomes immortal.
A land whose light is never dimmed by shade,
Where nothing beautiful can ever fade,
We may not know how sweet its balmy air,
We may not hear the songs that echo there,
The city's shining towers we may not see,
For Death, the silent warder, keeps the key
But sometimes, where adown the western sky
Its golden gates swing inward noiselessly,
And while they stand a moment half ajar,
Stream lightly through the azure vault afar,
O land unknown! O land of love divine !
Guide, guide these wandering, way-worn feet of mine
Unto those pastures vernal.
NANCY A. W. PRIEST..
I KNOW THOU HAST GONE.
Thou art gone to the Grave.
HOU art gone to the grave-but we will not deplore thee;
Though sorrows and darkness encompass the tomb, The Saviour has passed through its portals before thee, And the lamp of his love is thy guide through the gloom.
Thou art gone to the grave--we no longer behold thee,
Thou art gone to the grave—and its mansion forsaking,
Thou art gone to the grave-but 't were wrong to deplore thee,
When God was thy ransom, thy guardian, thy guide; He gave thee, and took thee, and soon will restore thee, Where death hath no sting, since the Saviour hath died. BISHOP HEBER.
I know Thou hast Gone.
KNOW thou hast gone to the house of thy rest,
I know thou hast gone where the weary are blest,
And the mourner looks up and is glad!
Where Love has put off, in the land of its birth,
And Hope, the sweet singer that gladdened the earth,
I know thou hast gone where thy forehead is starred
I know thou hast drunk of the Lethe that flows
In thy far-away dwelling, wherever it be,
And the love that made all things a music to me
In the hush of the night, on the waste of the sea
I have ever a presence that whispers of thee,
Mine eye must be dark, that so long has been dim, Ere again it may gaze upon thine:
But my heart has revealings of thee and thy home,
I never look up with a vow to the sky,
And I hear a low murmur like thine in reply,
And though, like a mourner that sits by a tomb,
Yet the grief of my bosom—oh, call it not gloom,— Is not the black grief of despair;
By sorrow revealed, as the stars are by night,
And Hope, like the rainbow, a creature of light,
Is born, like the rainbow, in tears.
THOMAS K. HERVEY.
IDE by side we are still, though a shadow
We are parted, yet are not parted,
For still you are round and about me,
Though I miss the old pleasant communion
And I long to hear what you are seeing,
Since the earth faded out from your vision,
Since you dropped off the darkening fillet
Though little my life has accomplished,
Since the time when our path grew so narrow
That I turned back from following after,
And you went on alone.
For we speak of you cheerfully, always,
Not as one who is dead do we name you-
For how could we speak of you sadly,
Do we call the star lost that is hidden
Do we fashion a shroud for the young child
Yet behold! this were wise to their folly
A Year in Heaven.
AYEAR uncalendared; for what
Hast thou to do with mortal time? Its dole of moments entereth not
That circle, mystic and sublime,
As but an everlasting now.
Too far,-beyond my love and tears; Ah, let me hold thee as I may,
And count thy time by earthly years!