THE voice which I did more esteem Than music in her sweetest key, Those eyes which unto me did seem
More comfortable than the day, Those now by me, as they have been, Shall never more be heard or seen; But what I once enjoyed in them Shall seem hereafter as a dream.
All earthly comforts vanish thus;
So little hold of them have we,
That we from them, or they from us,
May in a moment ravished be.
Yet we are neither just nor wise
If present mercies we despise ;
Or mind not how there may be made
A thankful use of what we had.
THE face which, duly as the sun,
Rose up for me with life begun,
To mark all bright hours of the day
With hourly love, is dimmed away,-
And yet my days go on,
The heart which, like a staff, was one
For mine to lean and rest upon,
The strongest on the longest day
With steadfast love, is caught away,
And yet my days go on,
And cold before my summer's done,
And deaf in Nature's general tune,
And fallen too low for special fear,
And here, with hope no longer here, --
While the tears drop, my days go on.
I sit and knock at Nature's door,
Heart-bare, heart-hungry, very poor,
Whose desolated days go on.
I knock, and cry, Undone, undone !
Is there no help, no comfort,— none?
No gleaning in the wide wheat-plains
Where others drive their loaded wains?
My vacant days go on, go on.
-A Voice reproves me thereupon, More sweet than Nature's when the drone Of bees is sweetest, and more deep Than when the rivers overleap
The shuddering pines, and thunder on.
God's Voice, not Nature's: night and noon
He sits upon the great white throne,
And listens for the creatures' praise.
What babble we of days and days?
The Day-spring He, whose days go on.
He reigns above, he reigns alone;
Systems burn out and leave his throne;
Fair mists of seraphs melt and fall
Around him, changeless amid all,-
Ancient of Days, whose days go on.
By anguish which made pale the sun,
I hear him charge his saints that none
Among his creatures, anywhere,
Blaspheme against him with despair,
However darkly days go on.
For us, whatever 's undergone,
Thou knowest, willest what is done.
Grief may be joy misunderstood;
Only the Good discerns the good:
I trust thee while my days go on.
I praise thee while my days go on;
I love thee while my days go on :
Through dark and dearth, through fire and frost,
With emptied arms and treasure lost,
I thank thee while my days go on.
Two angels, one of Life and one of Death,
Passed o'er our village as the morning broke;
The dawn was on their faces, and beneath,
The sombre houses hearsed with plumes of
smoke,
Their attitude and aspect were the same,
Alike their features and their robes of white; But one was crowned with amaranth, as with flame,
And one with asphodels, like flakes of light.
I saw them pause on their celestial way;
Then said I, with deep fear and doubt op-
"Beat not so loud, my heart, lest thou betray The place where thy beloved are at rest!"
And he who wore the crown of asphodels,
Descending, at my door began to knock,
And my soul sank within me, as in wells
The waters sink before an earthquake's shock.
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