Our river by its valley-born Was never yet forgotten. The drum rolls loud, the bugle fills The summer air with clangor ; The war-storm shakes the solid hills Beneath its tread of anger: Young eyes that last year smiled in ours Now point the rifle's barrel, And hands then stained with fruits and flowers Bear redder stains of quarrel. But blue skies smile, and flowers bloom on, And rivers still keep flowing, The dear God still his rain and sun On good and ill bestowing. His pine-trees whisper, "Trust and wait!" His flowers are prophesying That all we dread of change or fate His love is underlying. And thou, O Mountain-born! We ask the wise Allotter Than for the firmness of thy shore, The calmness of thy water, The cheerful lights that overlay Thy rugged slopes with beauty, To match our spirits to our day And make a joy of duty. ANDREW RYKMAN'S PRAYER. A NDREW RYKMAN's dead and gone : You can see his leaning slate In the graveyard, and thereon Read his name and date. "Trust is truer than our fears," Runs the legend through the moss, "Gain is not in added years, Nor in death is loss." Still the feet that thither trod, Have a care for him. There the dews of quiet fall, Singing birds and soft winds stray: Shall the tender Heart of all Be less kind than they? What he was and what he is They who ask may haply find, If they read this prayer of his Which he left behind. Pardon, Lord, the lips that dare Shorn and beamless, cold and dim, And the solid shores of sense Melt into the vague immense, Father! I may come to Thee Even with the beggar's plea, As the poorest of Thy poor, Not as one who seeks his home And confirms the feeble knee; |