A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE. THIS is the place. Stand still, my steed, And summon from the shadowy Past The Past and Present here unite Here runs the highway to the town; Through which I walked to church with thee, The shadow of the linden-trees Lay moving on the grass; Between them and the moving boughs, A shadow, thou didst pass. Thy dress was like the lilies, And thy heart as pure as they: One of God's holy messengers Did walk with me that day. I saw the branches of the trees 66 Sleep, sleep to-day, tormenting cares, On that sweet Sabbath morn. Through the closed blinds the golden sun By Jacob in his dream. And ever and anon, the wind, Turned o'er the hymn-book's fluttering leaves Long was the good man's sermon, Long was the prayer he uttered, But now, alas! the place seems changed; Thou art no longer here: Part of the sunshine of the scene Though thoughts, deep-rooted in my heart, Subdue the light of noon, and breathe A low and ceaseless sigh; This memory brightens o'er the past, Behind some cloud that near us hangs, THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD. THIS is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling, Ah! what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary Will mingle with their awful symphonies! I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus, On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer, Through Cimbric forest roars the Norseman's song, And loud, amid the universal clamor, O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong. I hear the Florentine, who from his palace Beat the wild war-drums made of serpent's skin; The tumult of each sacked and burning village; The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder, |