Page:The Poets and Poetry of the West.djvu/357

 1840-50.] LEWIS J. CIST. 341 While day shall chase night's gloom, While time endures ! God of the high and free ! Our fathers' God — to thee Our thanks be given ; Thanks for the (rue and brave — Sires of all that sons might crave — Their forms are in the grave, Their souls in heaven ! THE BLIND GIRL TO HER SISTER. Come home, dear sister ! Sad and lonely- hearted, As o'er another ray of light withdrawn. As for the sunshine of her home departed, The blind girl sits and weeps, to mourn thee gone. Gone ! — the companion of her mirth and sadness, The friend and playmate of her childish years ; Life, in thy absence, loseth half its glad- ness. And this deep darkness doubly dark ap- pears : The long, long day is more than night without thee — Thrice welcome night ! for all sweet dreams about thee ! Come home, sweet sister ! Ah, how much I miss thee — All thy kind shielding from life's rude alarms — From day's first dawn, when erst I sprang to kiss thee, Till night still found me nestling in thine arms. My lips may speak not ; but the heart's deep feeling. The spirit's sadness, and the low-voiced tone. The round full drops that will not brook concealing, These tell of one deep grief — I am alone ! Alone ! — Without thee, dearest, what to me Were even life's best gift — the power to see! Come home, dear sister ! Can the far-off stranger. How kind soever, yield thee love like mine ? Can fairest scenes, through which thou rov'st, a ranger. Give to thee joys like those which home enshrine ? Think how for thee my lonely spirit pineth. Through the long weary hours, as day by day. Slowly the sun down yonder west declineth. Whilst thou, my sun of life, art far away ! Thou canst not dream how this full heart is yearning For that blessed day which sees thee home returning ! Come home, sweet sister! Like a dove, all lonely, My heart sits brooding in its silent nest. O'er joys departed. Come ! thy presence only Can make our home with cloudless sun- shine blessed ! E'en as the bird, whose gentle mate has perished, Droopeth, no more to notes of rapture stirred — So I pine now, amid the scenes we've cher- ished ; I cannot sing, where ever once were heard Our strains commingled, ere thy steps did roam ; My song is hushed ! Sister, sweet mate, come home !