LINKS.

No death our homes o'ershading,

Shall e'er our harps unstring,
For all is life unfading,

In presence of our King.

LINKS.

259

ARE there not voices, strangely sweet,
And tones of music strangely dear;

So lovingly the soul they greet,

So kindly steal they on the ear.

We know not why they strike so deep,
We can not tell the secret spring

Within us, which they wake from sleep,

Nor how such thoughts their notes can bring.

We ask not why nor how they thrill

So keenly through the inmost soul; And why, when ceased, we listen still, As though they yet upon us stole.

We feel the sweetness of the voice;
We love the richness of the tone;
It makes us sorrow or rejoice,
Compelling us its power to own.

Are there not words, too, strangely sweet, Thoughts, musings, memories, strangely dear? So lovingly the soul they greet,

So gently steal they on the ear!

Common the words may be and weak,
The passing stranger owns them not;
To other ears in vain they speak,
Unknown, unrelished, or forgot.

Rich in old thoughts, these words appear,
Part of our being's mighty whole;
Linked with our life's strange story here,
Knit to each feeling of our soul.

Linked with the scenes of days gone past,
With all life's earnest hopes and fears;
Linked with the smiles that did not last,

The joys and griefs of faded years.

LINKS.

Linked with old dreams once dreamt in youth,
When dreams were gladder, truer things;
When each night's vision of bright truth,
Lent to each buoyant day its wings.

Linked with the whisper of the trees,
When summer eves were fair and still;

Set to the music of the breeze,

Or murmur of the twilight rill.

Linked with some scene of sacred calm,
Of holy places, holy days;

Linked with the prayer, the hymn, the psalm,
The multitude's glad voice of praise.

Linked with the names of holy men,
Martyr, or saint, or brother dear;
Some parted, ne'er to meet again,
Some still our fellow-pilgrims here.

Linked with that name of names, the name
Of Him who bought us with his blood;
Who bore for us the wrath and shame,

The Virgin's Son, the Christ of God.

261

THE RESURRECTION OF THE JUST.

AUTUMN has come at last; and nature now
Binds up her summer tresses and disrobes,
That she may lay herself in silence down
Upon her winter's couch, and thereby sleep,
Repair her worn-out energies, and draw
New life into her veins, that when the sun
Flames out again, and the long-silent voice
Of happy birds and happier children wakes
Spring's first glad matin song, she may arise
Girt with new strength and with fresh beauty clothed.
Thus comes life's autumn, and the happy spirit,
Calmly disrobing, lays its garments down

Upon the leaf-strewn soil of this old earth,
Committing them, in quiet confidence

To the safe keeping of the trusty tomb,

Till death's brief winter shall have passed away.

Then these old robes with which she walked the earth,

Purged from each stain of vile mortality

By the all-cleansing winter of the grave,

THE PRAYER.

And blanched to glorious whiteness by its gloom,
Shall shine in fairer, fresher purity,

When earth's long-promised spring at last arrives,
And the unsetting sun smiles down in peace
O'er a new paradise of love and joy.

THE PRAYER.

FETCH me the lightning from yon frowning cloud,
With fiery force to break or melt this heart,—
A heart all earthly, foolish, vain, and proud;
In unbelief and hate that bids its God depart.

263

Fetch me a beam from yon clear star of night;
Or yet a warmer ray from day's bright sun,
To kindle into heat, and glow, and light,

This soul of gloom and death, whose day seems scarce begun.