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Peace, troubled heart ! life's ever mocking seeming,
Life's weary dearth, life's aching sense of loss,
MARY CLEMMER AMES.
I SHALL BE SATISFIED
Fade into mocking sands as we draw near;
I shall be satisfied — but oh! not here.
Where the worn spirit never gains its goal;
Across us floods of bitter memory roll. There is a land where every pulse is thrilling
With rapture earth's sojourners may not know, Where heaven's repose the weary heart is stilling,
And peacefully life's time-tossed currents flow. Far out of sight, while yet the flesh enfolds us,
Lies the fair country where our hearts abide, And of its bliss is naught more wondrous told us
Than these few words — “I shall be satisfied.” Satisfied ! satisfied ! the spirit's yearning
For sweet companionship with kindred minds —
The inspiration which no language finds —
The aching void which nothing earthly fills ?
As I look upward to the heavenly hills ! Thither my weak and weary steps are tending –
Savior and Lord ! with thy frail child abide ! Guide me towards home, where, all my wanderings ending, I then shall see Thee, and “be satisfied.”
THIS WORLD IS ALL A FLEETING SHOW
This world is all a fleeting show,
For man's illusion given;
There's nothing true but heaven!
And false the light on glory's plume,
As fading hues of even;
There 's nothing bright but heaven!
From wave to wave we 're driven,
Far in undiscovered tropic seas;
Where no breath of men, no leaf of trees
By the hearth, their list of fancies through,
Till he cries at last, “ I too! I too !”
I have life, and life must have its way;
Why should shadows cloud my little day?
Souls of kings are worth no more than mine ;
While my heart and I together pine ?
Fullest joys: the one-day's butterfly
Has the whole of life ere it doth die.
With thy full contentment thou dost coo; Yet, must man cry for a dove's life, saying,
“Make me as a dove — I too ! I too!" Nay, for something moves within — a spirit
Rises in his breast, he feels it stir ;
Should be his to feel ; yet, why defer
All his longings for a present bliss ?
From that world's great stores one taste for this !
Hungry stands he by his empty table,
Thirsty waits beside his empty well —
One full joy to catch where hundreds swell
Once again his poor life through and through
CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON.
THE BIRD, LET LOOSE IN EASTERN SKIES
The bird, let loose in eastern skies,
When hastening fondly home,
Where idle warblers roam;
Above all low delay,
Nor shadow dims her way.
And stain of passion free,
To hold my course to thee!
My soul, as home she springs ; -
· THOMAS MOORE.
O brimming tears that ne'er are dried !
As though they had not died !
The dead live — nevermore to die !
They never were so nigh!
Or sleep within the churchyard dim —
God's children go to him !)
Yet every grave gives up its dead
Ere it is overgrown with grass ;
Or need we cry, “ Alas ” ?
And like a sorrowing mourner craped,
Whose captives have escaped ?
Whene'er the summer grass appears ;
We only lose — our tears !
By bending forward where they are ;
Communes with them afar.
And we shall find them all once more ;
Yes, to the very end.
From morn to night, my friend.
A roof for when the slow dark hours begin.
You cannot miss that inn.
Those who have gone before.
They will not keep you standing at that door.
Of labor you shall find the sum.
CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI.
That the next sun
For any one,
What should I do?
But just go on,
Aught that is gone;
For one more day.
Say in that ear
How should I fear ?
Do thou thy will.”
My soul would lie
Flushed o'er the sky,
“ It is His day.”
Held out a scroll
What should I do?
Other than this :
Nor fear to miss
While led by Thee ?
Or heavens serene,
Thy love decay.