ADELINE D. T. WHITNEY. - NANCY A. W. PRIEST. 277 "I WILL ABIDE IN THINE HOUSE." AMONG SO many, can He care? Over; but in? The world is full; So many, and so wide abroad: We watched it glide from the silver sands, ¦ A scar, brought from some well-won field, And all our sunshine grew strangely Where thou wouldst only faint and yield. dark. We know she is safe on the farther side, Where all the ransomed and angels be; Over the river, the mystic river, My childhood's idol is waiting for me. For none return from those quiet shores, Who cross with the boatman cold and pale; We hear the dip of the golden oars, And catch a gleam of the snowy sail, And lo! they have passed from our yearning heart; They cross the stream, and are gone for aye; We may not sunder the veil apart, That hides from our vision the gates of day. We only know that their barks no more May sail with us o'er life's stormy sea; Yet somewhere, I know, on the unseen shore, They watch, and beckon, and wait for me. And I sit and think, when the sunset's gold, Is flushing river, and hill, and shore, I shall one day stand by the water cold, And list for the sound of the boatman's Do not cheat thy heart, and tell her Tell her, if you will, that Sorrow Tell her that the lesson taught her Cheat her not with the old comfort Bid her not seek other pleasures, Bid her rather go forth bravely, Not as foe, with shield and buckler, Bid her with a strong grasp hold her By the dusky wings, And she 'll whisper, low and gently, Blessings that she brings. Sailed slowly by, passed noiseless out of sight. Amid all this, in this most cheerless air, And where the woodbine shed upon the porch On slumb'rous wings the vulture held Its crimson leaves, as if the Year stood his flight; The dove scarce heard its sighing mate's complaint; And like a star slow drowning in the light, The village church-vane seemed to pale and faint. The sentinel-cock upon the hillside crew, Crew thrice, and all was stiller than before, Silent till some replying warder blew His alien horn, and then was heard no more. Where erst the jay, within the elm's tall crest, Made garrulous trouble round her unfledged young, there While yet her cheek was bright with summer bloom, Her country summoned and she gave her all; And twice War bowed to her his sable plume, Regave the swords to rust upon her wall. Regave the swords, but not the hand that drew And struck for Liberty its dying blow, Nor him who, to his sire and country true, Fell mid the ranks of the invading foe. Long, but not loud, the droning wheel went on, Like the low murmur of a hive at noon; Long, but not loud, the memory of the gone Breathed through her lips a sad and tremulous tune. At last the thread was snapped: her head was bowed; Life dropt the distaff through his hands serene; And loving neighbors smoothed her careful shroud, While death and winter closed the autumn scene. JEAN INGELOW. Floweth, floweth, From the meads where melick groweth Faintly came her milking song. "Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, "For the dews will soon be falling; Leave your meadow grasses mellow, Mellow, mellow; Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow; Quit the stalks of parsley hollow, Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow, Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow. If it be long, aye, long ago, When I beginne to think howe long, THE HIGH TIDE ON THE COAST OF Againe I hear the Lindis flow, LINCOLNSHIRE. Swift as an arrowe, sharp and strong; And all the aire it seemeth me Bin full of floating bells (sayth shee), That ring the tune of Enderby. Alle fresh the level pasture lay, And not a shadowe mote be seene, Save where full fyve good miles away The steeple towered from out the greene. The swannerds where their sedges are And my sonne's wife, Elizabeth; |