Page:Littell's Living Age - Volume 126.djvu/76

 II.

The flower of purest whiteness, That blooms in a lonely dell, Wastes not its heavenly brightness, Though none of its beauty may tell, A spirit its life has tended, And guarded its home with love, And when its time is ended Shall bear it to bloom above.

The songs that the skylark singeth When no one is nigh to hear Are not lost as she heavenwards wingeth, Though heard by no mortal ear. The Spirit of Music has stayed them As they fled on the wings of the breeze, And among her best treasures has laid them With stream-songs and sighs of the trees.

E'en so the love that unfailing Yet finds no response on earth, Shall not die all unavailing Though no one may learn its worth. The angels themselves shall claim it When its trial-time here is past, And Heaven, where nought shall shame it, Shall answer its hope at last.

III.

Brightest dreams may be forgotten And fade from out the heart. Love by earthly thoughts engendered Soon faints when lovers part. Dearest hopes may be despaired of, And beauty lose her art: These are earthborn, and must fade In Lethe with the bliss they made.

Hopes that are in Heaven sealed There shall perish never, Love that springs from souls' divineness Floweth on forever. Purer spirits knit by loving Nought on earth shall sever. Till together as they roam They reach their everlasting home.

IV.

Beings drawn to one another Join by Nature's law at last. Lovers earnest to each other Meet before all hope is past. Somehow in time fitting Before their souls are flitting, Or elsewhere—who can tell? Soon after the passing-bell.

Nought is lost which has existence. Even a careless thought of wrong; Though its work be in the distance Fruit will come, for laws are strong; Glorious thoughts seem wasted. Longed-for joys untasted. — 'Tis not so. Time goes on: Eternity's not done.

'Tis not that which seems most cheerful To our feebly groping minds: Often 'tis a lot more tearful Which the skein of fate unwinds: Often 'tis a kindness We see not through our blindness. So are we wroth at pain And notice not our gain.

Love is far too great a wonder. Is it pain or is it joy? Lovers moan when they're asunder; Are their sweets without alloy? Yet 'twill bloom in season: Want of trust is treason: Somehow in time fitting Before our souls are flitting. Or after—who can tell What is beyond that passing-bell?

V.

When May is blooming fair, love, And sweet birds all are singing; When May is blooming fair, love, And buds are all outspringing, We'll seek some quiet bank of thyme Where lights and shadows play, And think upon our love's first prime Till falling of the day.

When summer suns are bright, dear. And fields with gold are glowing; When summer suns are bright, dear, And gay flowers are a-blowing. We'll rest beside some merry stream In a deep bowery wood. And muse upon the tender dream That fills our souls with good.

When silent winter sleepeth. And hoar-frost sparkles brightly; When the year dying weepeth. And snows lie gleaming whitely. We'll say, "'Tis time to pass away. For death in love is sweet; It is but birth to brighter day Which we should gladly greet — To find beyond that opening door Our love unchanged forevermore."

VI.

The light of evening fadeth fast, The sun's bright ray no longer glows; The daily toil of earth is past, And weary hearts may seek repose: May no sound mar their sleep Who only thus may cease to weep.

E'en so with kindly hand may death. When age's twilight falleth round us. Our eyelids close, and still our breath. And with the veil of sleep surround us, Until the dawn shall come And wake us in a painless home. C. H. H. P.