THE EVE OF ELECTION.

145

Till in the sight

Of thy pure light

Our mean self-seekings meaner seem.

Shame from our hearts

Unworthy arts,

To fraud designed, the purpose dark;
And smite away

The hands we lay

Profanely on the sacred ark.

To party claims.

And private aims

Reveal that august face of Truth,

Whereto are given

The age of Heaven,

The beauty of immortal youth.

So shall our voice

Of sovereign choice

Swell the deep bass of duty done,

And strike the key

Of time to be,

When God and man shall speak as one.

JOHN G. WHITTIER.

146

A WORD FOR THE MOTHER.

A WORD FOR THE MOTHER.

SEND the children to bed with a kiss and a smile;
Sweet childhood will tarry at best but awhile;
And soon they will pass from the portals of home,
The wilderness ways of their life-work to roam.

Yes, tuck them in bed with a gentle "good-night!"
The mantle of shadows is veiling the light;
And maybe-God knows-on this sweet little face
May fall deeper shadows in life's weary race.

Yes, say it: "God bless my dear children, I pray!"
It may be the last you will say it for aye!
The night may be long ere you see them again;
And motherless children may call you in vain!

Drop sweet benediction on each little head,
And fold them in prayer as they nestle in bed;
A guard of bright angels around them invite,
The spirit may slip from the mooring to-night.

SUNSHINE AND SHADOW.

147

SUNSHINE AND SHADOW.

IF all our life were one broad glare
Of sunlight clear, unclouded;
If all our path were smooth and fair,
By no deep gloom enshrouded;

If all life's flowers were fully blown
Without the slow unfolding,

And happiness, mayhap, was thrown
On hands too weak for holding;

Then we should miss the twilight hours,
The intermingling sadness,

And pray, perhaps, for storms and showers
To break the constant gladness.

If none were sick and none were sad,

What service could we render?

I think if we were always glad

We hardly could be tender.

Did our beloved never need

Our loving ministration,

Life would grow cold, and miss, indeed,
Its finest consolation.

148

THE UNATTAINED.

If sorrow never smote the heart,
And every wish were granted,
Then faith would die, and hope depart,

And life be disenchanted.

And if in heaven is no more night,

In heaven no more sorrow,
Such unimagined pure delight

Fresh grace from pain will borrow.

As the poor seed that underground
Seeks its true life above it,
Not knowing where it will be found
When sunbeams touch and love it;

So we in darkness upward grow,
And look and long for heaven;
Yet cannot reach it here below,
Till more of light be given.

THE UNATTAINED.

WHY thus longing, thus forever sighing,
For the far off, unattained and dim;
While the beautiful, around thee lying,
Offers up its low, perpetual hymn?

THE UNATTAINED.

Wouldst thou listen to its gentle teaching,

149

All thy restless yearning it would still; Leaf and flower, and laden bee are preaching, Thine own sphere, though humble, first to fill.

Poor, indeed, thou must be, if around thee

Thou no ray of light and joy canst throw, If no silken cord of love hath bound thee

To some little world, through weal and woe;

If no dear eyes thy fond love can brighten—
No fond voices answer to thine own;
If no brother's sorrow thou canst lighten,
By daily sympathy and gentle tone.

Not by deeds that win the world's applauses,
Not by works that give the world-renown,

Nor by martyrdom, or vaunted crosses,

Canst thou win and wear the immortal crown.

Daily struggling, though unloved and lonely,
Every day a rich reward will give;
Thou wilt find, by hearty striving only,
And truly loving, thou canst truly live

Dost thou revel in the rosy morning,
When all nature hails the lord of light,