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THAT shall I do with all the days and hours
That must be counted ere I see thy face? How shall I charm the interval that lowers
Between this time and that sweet time of grace? Shall I in slumber steep each weary sense,
Weary with longing? Shall I flee away Into past days, and with some fond pretence
Cheat myself to forget the present day? Shall love for thee lay on my soul the sin
Of casting from me God's great gift of time? Shall I, these mists of memory locked within,
Leave and forget life's purposes sublime? O, how or by what means may I contrive
To bring the hour that brings thee back more near? How may I teach my drooping hope to live
Until that blessed time, and thou art here?
I'll tell thee: for thy sake I will lay hold
Of all good aims, and consecrate to thee, In worthy deeds, each moment that is told
While thou, beloved one! art far from me. For thee I will arouse my thoughts to try
All heavenward flights, all high and holy strains; For thy dear sake I will walk patiently Through these long hours, nor call their minutes
I will this dreary blank of absence make
A noble task-time; and will therein strive
So may this doomed time build up in me
A thousand graces, which shall thus be thine; So may my love and longing hallowed be,
And thy dear thought an influence divine.
BURIAL OF LINCOLN. Reprinted with permission. By RICHARD HENRY STODDARD.
EACE! Let the long procession come,
For hark!—the mournful, muffled drum,
And see! the awful car!
And go, thou sacred car,
Bearing our woe afar!
To honor, all they can,
The dust of that good man!
The just, the wise, the brave
Attend thee to the grave!
Salute him once again,
Your late commander,-slain!
Your country needs you now
So sweetly, sadly, sternly goes
Beneath no mighty dome,
The churchyard where his children rest, The quiet spot that suits him best,
There shall his grave be made,
And there his bones be laid! And there his countrymen shall come, With memory proud, with pity dumb,
And strangers, far and near,
For many and many a year!
The virtues shall enroll
IT NEVER COMES AGAIN. Reprinted with per. mission. By RICHARD HENRY STODDARD.
HERE are gains for all our losses,
There are balms for all our pain,
And it never comes again.
Under manhood's sterner reign;
And will never come again.
And we sigh for it in vain;
But it never comes again.