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What to thee is shadow, to Him is day,

And the end He knoweth,
And not on a blind and aimless way

The spirit goeth.
Man sees no future—a phantom show

Is alone before him ;
Past Time is dead, and the grasses grow,

And flowers bloom o'er him.

Nothing before, nothing behind:

The steps of Faith
Fall on the seeming void, and find

The rock beneath.

The Present, the Present is all thou hast

For thy sure possessing;
Like the patriarch's angel hold it fast

Till it gives its blessing.
Why fear the night ? why shrink from Death,

That phantom wan? There is nothing in Heaven or earth beneath

Save God and man.

Peopling the shadows we turn from Him

And from one another;
All is spectral and vague and dim

Save God and our brother!

Like warp and woof all destinies

Are woven fast,
Linked in sympathy like the keys

Of an organ vast.

Pluck one thread, and the web ye mar;

Break but one
Of a thousand keys, and the paining jar

Through all will run.

Oh, restless spirit ! wherefore strain

Beyond thy sphere ? -
Heaven and hell, with their joy and pain,

Are now and here.

Back to thyself is measured well

All thou hast given;
Thy neighbor's wrong is thy present hell,

His bliss, thy heaven.
And in life, in death, in dark and light,

All are in God's care;
Sound the black abyss, pierce the deep of night,

And He is there!

All which is real now remaineth,

And fadeth never:
The band 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

Be stricken through.

And like meadow mist through Autumn's dawi

Uprolling thin,
Its thickest folds when about thee drawn

Let sunlight in.
Then of what is to be, and of what is done,

Why queriest thou ?
The past and the time to be are one,

And both are now !

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How smiled the land of France
Under thy blue eye's glance,

Light-hearted rover!
Old walls of chateaux gray,
Towers of an early day,
Which the Three Colors play

Flauntingly over.
Now midst the brilliant train
Thronging the banks of Seine:

Now midst the splendor
Of the wild Alpine range,
Waking with change on change
Thoughts in thy young heart strange,

Lovely, and tender.

Vales, soft Elysian,
Like those in the vision

Of Mirza, when, dreaming,
He saw the long hollow dell,
Touched by the prophet's spell,
Into an ocean swell

With its isles teeming.

Cliffs wrapped in snows of years,
Splintering with icy spears

Autumn's blue heaven :
Loose rock and frozen slide,
Hung on the mountain side,
Waiting their hour to glide

Downward, storm-driven !

Rhine stream, by castle old,
Baron's and robber's hold,

Peacefully flowing ;
Sweeping through vineyards green,
Or where the cliffs are seen
O'er the broad wave between

Grim shadows throwing.

Or, where St. Peter's dome
Swells o'er eternal Rome,

Vast, dim, and solemn,-
Hymns ever chanting low-
Censers swung to and from
Sable stoles sweeping slow

Cornice and column!

Oh, as from each and all
Will there not voices call

Evermore back again ?
In the mind's gallery
Wilt thou not always see
Dim phantoms beckon thee

O’er that old track again ?

New forms thy presence haunt-
New voices softly chant-

New faces greet thee !-
Pilgrims from many a shrine
Hallowed by poet's line,
At memory's magic sign,

Rising to meet thee
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,
Swells the cathedral's chime,

Yet, in thy dreaming,
While to thy spirit's eye
Yet the vast mountains lie
Piled in the Switzer's sky,

Icy and gleaming :

Prompter of silent prayer,
Be the wild picture there

In the mind's chamber,
And, through each coming day
Him, who, as staff and stay,
Watched o'er thy wandering way,

Freshly remember.

So, when the call shall be
Soon or late unto thee,

As to all given,

may that picture live,
All its fair forms survive,
And to thy spirit give

Gladness in Heaven!



To weary hearts, to mourning homes,
God's meekest Angel gently comes :
No power has he to banish pain,
Or give us back our lost again ;
And yet in tenderest love, our dear
And Heavenly Father sends him here.
There's quiet in that Angel's glance,
There's rest in his still countenance!

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