What to thee is shadow, to Him is day, And not on a blind and aimless way Man sees no future-a phantom show Past Time is dead, and the grasses grow, Nothing before, nothing behind: Fall on the seeming void, and find The Present, the Present is all thou hast Why fear the night? why shrink from Death, There is nothing in Heaven or earth beneath Peopling the shadows we turn from Him Like warp and woof all destinies Are woven fast, Linked in sympathy like the keys Pluck one thread, and the web ye mar; Of a thousand keys, and the paining jar Oh, restless spirit! wherefore strain Heaven and hell, with their joy and pain, Back to thyself is measured well Thy neighbor's wrong is thy present hell, And in life, in death, in dark and light, Sound the black abyss, pierce the deep of night, All which is real now remaineth, And fadeth never: The hand which upholds it now, sustaineth The soul forever. Leaning on him, make with reverent meekness His own thy will, [ness And with strength from Him shall thy utter weak. Life's task fulfil; And that cloud itself, which now before thee Lies dark in view, Shall with beams of light from the inner glory And like meadow mist through Autumn's dawi Its thickest folds when about thee drawn Let sunlight in. Then of what is to be, and of what is done, The past and the time to be are one, TO A FRIEND, ON HER RETURN FROM EUROPE. How smiled the land of France Old walls of chateaux gray, Now midst the brilliant train Of the wild Alpine range, Vales, soft Elysian, Like those in the vision Of Mirza, when, dreaming, He saw the long hollow dell, With its isles teeming. Cliffs wrapped in snows of years, Autumn's blue heaven: Downward, storm-driven ! Rhine stream, by castle old, Sweeping through vineyards green, Or, where St. Peter's dome Oh, as from each and all In the mind's gallery Dim phantoms beckon thee O'er that old track again ? New forms thy presence haunt- New faces greet thee! Pilgrims from many a shrine And when such visions come Unto thy olden home, Will they not waken Deep thoughts of Him whose hand Led thee o'er sea and land Back to the household band Whence thou wast taken? While, at the sunset time, While to thy spirit's eye Prompter of silent prayer, So, when the call shall be Still may that picture live, THE ANGEL OF PATIENCE. A FREE PARAPHRASE OF THE GERMAN. To weary hearts, to mourning homes, There's quiet in that Angel's glance, |