Often together have we talked of death; All doubtful things made clear! To view the depth of heaven! And think that thou art there, Unfettered as the thought that follows thee. And we have often said how sweet it were, Sure I have felt thy presence! Thou hast given Hast kept me from the world unstained and pure. Edmund! we did not err! Our best affections here They are not like the toys of infancy; We do not cast them off; O, if it could be so, It were, indeed, a dreadful thing to die! Not to the grave, not to the grave, my soul, Follow thy friend beloved! But in the lonely hour, But in the evening walk, Think that he companies thy solitude; Think that he holds with thee Mysterious intercourse; And, though remembrance wake a tear, GOOD THE BEGINNING, GOOD THE END. HERE we see The water at its well-head; clear it is, Not more transpicuous the invisible air ; Pure as an infant's thoughts; and here to life And good directed all its uses serve. The herb grows greener on its brink; sweet flowers Bend o'er the stream that feeds their freshened roots; The redbreast loves it for his wintry haunts, And, when the buds begin to open forth, Builds near it, with his mate, their brooding nest; The tainted stream; corrupt and foul it flows Through loathsome banks and o'er a bed impure, So is it With the great stream of things, if all were seen; The good end happier. Ages pass away, Mrs. Southey. THERE IS A TONGUE IN EVERY LEAF. THERE is a tongue in every leaf, A voice that speaketh everywhere, In flood and fire, through earth and air! A tongue that's never still. 'Tis the Great Spirit wide diffused Through everything we see, That with our spirits communeth Of things mysterious Life and Death, Time and Eternity! I see Him in the blazing sun, When winds are piping loud. I see Him, hear Him, everywhere, I feel Him in the silent dews, I feel Him in the gentle showers, The soft south wind, the breath of flowers, The sunshine and the shade. And yet (ungrateful that I am), I've turned in sullen mood From all these things, whereof He said, My sadness on the loveliest things Yet was He patient slow to wrath, Though every day provoked By selfish, pining discontent, Acceptance cold or negligent, And promises revoked; |