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N

COT the ship that swiftest saileth,

But which longest holds her way

Onward, onward, never faileth,
Storm and calm, to win the day ;
Earliest she the haven gains,
Which the hardest stress sustains.

O'er life's ocean, wide and pathless,

Thus would I with patience steer ;
No vain hope of journeying scatheless,

No proud boast to face down fear ;
Dark or bright His Providence,
Trust in God be my defence.

222

SPEED THE PROW.

Time there was,—'tis so no longer,

When I crowded every sail,
Battled with the waves, and stronger

Grew, as stronger grew the gale;
But my strength sunk with the wind,
And the sea lay dead behind.

There my bark had founder'd surely,

But a power invisible
Breathed upon me ;—then securely,

Borne along the gradual swell,
Helm, and shrouds, and heart renew'd,
I my humbler course pursued.

Now, though evening shadows blacken,

And no star comes through the gloom, On I move, nor will I slacken

Sail, though verging tow'rds the tomb: Bright beyond,-on heaven's high strand, Lo, the lighthouse —land, land, land!

Cloud and sunshine, wind and weather,

Sense and sight are fleeing fast;

SPEED THE PROW.

223

Time and tide must fail together,

Life and death will soon be past ; But where day's last spark declines, Glory everlasting shines.

MONTGOMERY.

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NE year ago,—a ringing voice, a clear blue

eye, And clustering curls of sunny hair, too fair

to die.

Only a year,-no voice, no smile, no glance of

eye, No clustering curls of golden hair, fair but to die !

One year ago,—what loves, what schemes far into

life!

What joyous hopes, what high resolves, what

generous strife !

The silent picture on the wall, the burial-stone,
Of all that beauty, life, and joy remain alone !

ONLY A YEAR.

225

One year,-one year,—one little

year,

and so much gone! And yet the even flow of life moves calmly on.

The grave grows green, the flowers bloom fair,

above that head : No sorrowing tint of leaf or spray says he is dead.

No pause or hush of merry birds, that sing above, Tells us how coldly sleeps below the form we love.

Where hast thou been this year, beloved ? what'

hast thou seen ? What visions fair, what glorious life, where thou

hast been ?

The veil ! the veil! so thin, so strong ! 'twixt us

and thee; The mystic veil ! when shall it fall, that we may see?

Not dead, not sleeping, not even gone, but present

still, And waiting for the coming hour of God's sweet

will.

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