Good-night, sweet mother: call me before the day is born. But I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year, CONCLUSION. I THOUGHT to pass away before, and yet alive I am; O sweet is the new violet, that comes beneath the skies, And sweeter is the young lamb's voice to me that cannot rise, And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowers that blow, And sweeter far is death than life to me that long to go. It seem'd so hard at first, mother, to leave the blessed sun, peace. O blessings on his kindly voice and on his silver hair! O blessings on his kindly heart and on his silver head! He taught me all the mercy, for he show'd me all the sin. Now, tho' my lamp was lighted late, there's One will let me in: Nor would I now be well, mother, again if that could be, For my desire is but to pass to Him that died for me. I did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death-watch beat, There came a sweeter token when the night and morning meet: But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in mine, And Effie on the other side, and I will tell the sign. All in the wild March-morning I heard the angels call; It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all; The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll, And in the wild March-morning I heard them call my soul. For lying broad awake I thought of you and Effie dear And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind. I thought that it was fancy, and I listen'd in my bed, was said; For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my mind, And up the valley came again the music on the wind. But you were sleeping; and I said, "It's not for them, it's mine." And if it comes three times, I thought, I take it for a sign. And once again it came, and close beside the window-bars, Then seem'd to go right up to Heaven and die among the stars. So now I think my time is near. I trust it is. I know And say to Robin a kind word, and tell him not to fret; There's many worthier than I, would make him happy yet. If I had lived-I cannot tell—I might have been his wife; But all these things have ceased to be, with my desire of life. O look! the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in a glow He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know. And there I move no longer now, and there his light may shine Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine. O sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done The voice, that now is speaking, may be beyond the sun Forever and forever, all in a blessed home – And there to wait a little while till you and Effie comeTo lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast — And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest. THE LOTUS-EATERS. "COURAGE!" he said, and pointed toward the land, "This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon." In the afternoon they came unto a land, In which it seemed always afternoon. All round the coast the languid air did swoon, A land of streams! some, like a downward smoke, They saw the gleaming river seaward flow From the inner land: far off, three mountain-tops, Stood sunset-flush'd: and, dew'd with showery drops, The charmed sunset linger'd low adown In the red West: thro' mountain clefts the dale A land where all things always seem'd the saine! Dark faces pale against that rosy flame, Branches they bore of that enchanted stem, They sat them down upon the yellow sand, CHORAL SONG. 1. THERE is sweet music here that softer falls Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies And thro' the moss the ivies creep, And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep, And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep. 2. Why are we weigh'd upon with heaviness, And utterly consumed with sharp distress, We only toil, who are the first of things, Still from one sorrow to another thrown : Nor ever fold our wings, And cease from wanderings, Nor steep our brows in slumber's holy balm "There is no joy but calm!" Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things? 3. Lo in the middle of the wood, The folded leaf is woo'd from out the bud The flower ripens in its place, Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil, 4. Hateful is the dark-blue sky, Should life all labor be? Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast, And in a little while our lips are dumb. What is it that will last? All things are taken from us, and become In ever climbing up the climbing wave? All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave In silence; ripen, fall and cease: Give us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful ease. 5. How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream, With half-shut eyes ever to seem |