And for him who sat by the chimney lug, A manly form at her side she saw, Then she took up her burden of life again, Alas for maiden, alas for Judge, For rich repiner and household drudge! God pity them both! and pity us all, For of all sad words of tongue or pen, Ah, well! for us all some sweet hope lies And, in the hereafter, angels may Roll the stone from its grave away! GONE. ANOTHER hand is beckoning us, Another call is given; And glows once more with Angel-steps Our young and gentle friend whose smile Amid the frosts of autumn time Has left us, with the flowers. GONE. No paling of the cheek of bloom No shadow from the Silent Land The light of her young life went down, As sinks behind the hill The glory of a setting star Clear, suddenly, and still. As pure and sweet, her fair brow seemed- And like the brook's low song, her voice- And half we deemed she needed not To give to Heaven a Shining One, The blessing of her quiet life Fell on us like the dew; And good thoughts, where her footsteps pressed, Like fairy blossoms grew. Sweet promptings unto kindest deeds Were in her very look; We read her face, as one who reads The measure of a blessed hymn, To which our hearts could move; We miss her in the place of prayer, Once more her sweet "Good-night!" There seems a shadow on the day, A dimness on the stars of night, Alone unto our Father's will One thought hath reconciled; That He whose love exceedeth ours Hath taken home His child. Fold her, oh Father! in thine arms, A messenger of love between Our human hearts and Thee. Still let her mild rebuking stand And her dear memory serve to make And, grant that she who, trembling, here Distrusted all her powers, May welcome to her holier home The well beloved of ours. ONCE upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary, Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain This it is and nothing more.” Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing. Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, "Tis the wind and nothing more." Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore. |