Page:The Poets and Poetry of the West.djvu/629

 1850-60.] GORDON A. STEWART, 613 And there are times, on this mundane sphere, When the weary soul can distinctly hear The rustling robes of an angel near ! Ah, one who on earth did pain endure. One who has made her calling sure, One who has kept her election pure. Comes to me now, and stands by my side; She, who was once my earthly bride, She, who is now my spiritual guide. Her delicate form I plainly trace, I see a smile on her love-lit face, And I fold her again in love's embrace! Her head once more I have gently press'd Close to my throbbing, aching breast — There, God, could she ever rest ! To me now she is more than ever divine ! Her sweet soft eyes looking into mine. Drunken my soul with delicious wine ! God once gave me a joy like this ! I lave again in His bountiful bliss. And raise her lips for a melting kiss ! But she has eluded my fond embrace. And stands by my side with a sorrowful face. Saying, " Come to God's merciful throne of grace ; " Christ will bind up thy broken heart. And a new life to thy soul impart ; Come to Him, husband, just as thou art ! " I am holding again her proffered hand, — I hear the songs of the angel band, For we are near to the heavenly land ! Again we are standing, side by side, I, a mortal groom — she, a spirit-bride. Awaiting the flow of Eternity's tide ! JUNE. A BREEZY landscape from my window lies, — The woods and fields all dress'd in richest green, Tremblingly glisten in the morning sheen. And fleecy clouds afloat the azure skies. Now and anon there steals into my room The pure breath of the morning, full and sweet With fragrance of the wheat and clover bloom ; Then passing, like an angel, through the street, It whispers to the poor unhungered soul Of harvests, rich, and bountiful, and rare. That soon shall ripen, and by manly toil Gladden the hearts of thousands every- where. Such are the scenes that tell us June is here. The month of flowers, the promise of the year. AFTER-BLOOM. We treasure the flowers of old summers. Their fragrance is haunting the room ; We gaze at the vase on the mantle. Around it float airs of lost bloom. Though we rise out of grief's dark winter. Though joy kisses sorrow through tears ; Yet we sigh for the rose-lipped pleasures We pluck with the flowers of lost years. But never returns the last summer. Though spring kisses winter away ; — Our hearts are renewed with the fragrance Of flowers that we gather to-day. The flowers of to-day are the purer. Baptised with love's morning dew; And the lingering perfume of old ones Is lost in the sweets of the new.