At dawn sweet flushes softly creepAlong the brightening sky,Pale watchers whom lone vigils keepPerceive the sign, and cry,The night is gone, the bright day comes,And gladsome light the East illumes!
Bright blossoms on the branches burst,Then Autumn fruits grow there;So, dreams that sickly hope had burstGrown real, make life fair.And dreams we prize as holy thingsThat haunt our path on mystic wings.
And so, across life's weary road,Made dark by many a woe,We hear the tender words of God,"Come, follow where I go!"And listening to that gentle voiceIs fixed the best and earliest choice.
First, we must pray, and watch, and wait,And bear the daily cross,And, till we reach the Master's gate,Count earthly gain as lost,Then hear, "good servant, nobly done,"By patience hath the crown been won.
It is the joyous time of June,And Nature glads the smiling landArrayed in garments gay and greenBestowed by nature's lavish hand.Oh! soft the lullaby of streams'Neath shadow of o'er arching trees,When all sweet, summer music seemsTo float around us on the breeze.It greets us in the greenwood glades—By forest aisles and alleys lone,Where, wandering in the twilight shadesThe poet calls the hour his own.Perchance he dreams some minstrel hand,Wakes woodland harps to heavenly song,While spirits from the golden landOn white wings bear the notes along.
But to thine eyes the world is grim,And life is dark through falling tears;Hath Hope's soft ray grown dull and dimAnd paled the brightness of your years?I know your woe—for I have kneltBeside the new made, grassy mound—The anguish of bereavement feltAnd moaned beneath the piercing wound.
Through the soft azur veil of e'enThe stars look down with watching eyes,Beacons to life our souls to heavenAnd tell of love beyond the skiesTo tell, tho' earth is bright and fair,Still Heaven must be our lasting home;A land untouched by sin and careWhere pain and parting never come.
Not far away; scarce out of sight,A shadowy veil, a misty cloud,Is roll'd between us and the light,From mortal eyes the bliss to shroud.
Oh, thou whose poet-mind can feelThe magic spell of beauty's powersLet these, His "meaner works" revealThat fairer life that shall be ours.Where we shall find in fadeless bloomThe love Time's withering blast had slain,Restored from death and from the tombTo life, immortal life again.And while we weep for earth-joys fled,Or sigh to feel ourselves "alone,"While fragrant memories of the dead,Like perfumes round our path are strewn;Let us not think them wholly lost;—These flowers that glad the wondering vision,Slept 'neath the winter storm and frostThen sprung to beauty half Elysian.Fair blossoms deck the orchard boughThe promise-fruit of harvest hours;Nought have we but that promise now,Yet faith already shows it ours.Oh! sweet the light around our tombs,Where promise-buds in faith are sown;Faith's eye descerns eternal blooms,In stature of God's fullness blown.Still ours—the true and tender heart,—The form that trod these paths awhile;We said "good-night" content to partUntil the morning light shall shine.Oh! blessed hope! Oh! promise sweetThe harvest of the Lord is sure;His Hand shall give the guerdon meetTo all that to the end endure!