« PreviousContinue »
Whose voices blend in a mysterious hymn
Could gaze upon forever, and not tire.
At her side
A fair ethereal creature held her way;
locks Were thickly gemm’d with tears, and deep sad
sighs Were breathing round her, like the atmosphere Which the green nightshade gathers round its
bower. Her ample robe, which had been purely white, Was written o’er with myriad tales of sin, And dark deceit, and suffering, and woe; While glittering here and there, like radiant
gems, Amid the dross and blackness of the mine, Worthy and generous deeds were chronicled, And penitential tears were sprinkled o’er, In beautiful relief to the dark lines That spoke of shame and wrong. She bore a
vase, Filled with sweet faded flowers which she had
torn From many a bleeding stem.
Hark! A deep peal Startled the dreaming midnight, and a sigh Heaved the dark bosoms of the solemn wood, And died in cold dark silence. Lo! a sound, And a young regal spirit was display'd
In robes of glistening white. A radiant smile Play'd o'er her features, like the morning
beam Upon the robe of May. Her right hand bore A dewy cluster of the richest balm That ever grew on Gilead. But a sword, Keen as the quivering lightning, graced her
left. “Sister!" she cried, as the Old Year advanced, “God calls thee to thy rest. I come to bring Healing unto the wounds that thou hast made, And to inflict others as dread and deep.” They joined their hands a moment, while the
winds Paused on their moonlit pinions. Then young
Hope Came with her magic smile, and golden curls, Gemm'd with sweet dewy buds from the wild
rose; Her silver lute was perfectly in tune, And warbled symphony to all her songs Of soul-enthralling promise. Gracefully She led the welcome New Year. But I saw Time walking still beside them, unperceived By those who revell’d in their joyousness. The Old Year dropp'd the pale flowers from her
grasp; Gather'd her robe of record round her form,
And the pavilion of Eternity
flowers, Wreath'd them in garlands for her breast and
brow, And sung such sweet sad legends of their
bloom, Mingling their incense with her tuneful song, That the pent waters of my swollen heart
gushed And flowed in cooling drops o'er all the wounds That burned within my bosom. Memory! How kind thou art, thus to preserve life's flow
ers, And soothe the mourning spirit with thy hymn, When years have past, and Hope sped gayly
by, To dwell with young glad hearts.
MRS. L. J. PEIRSON.
The days of youthful friendship,
More beautiful than strong;
MRS. A. M. WELLS.
I am now