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AT REST.
Ah, well! it is over. The fair skies are leaden,
The soft summer breezes are chill as the tomb;
I shiver with dread as they sweep through the tree-tops,
They strike to my heart like the voices of doom.
Oh, is there no balsam, no healing in Gilead?
No help for the anguish, no cure for the pain?
Can I never escape from the weight of this burden?
Shall I never come forth from the shadow again?
The soft summer breezes are chill as the tomb;
I shiver with dread as they sweep through the tree-tops,
They strike to my heart like the voices of doom.
Oh, is there no balsam, no healing in Gilead?
No help for the anguish, no cure for the pain?
Can I never escape from the weight of this burden?
Shall I never come forth from the shadow again?
AT REST.
IN MEMORY OF AGNES, AGED TWENTY-TWO.
Gather white lilies, emblems of her life,
Spotless and pure, and lay them on her brow;
She has passed upward from this restless strife,
And with the angels lifts her rare voice now!
Before her semblance left in mortal clay,
Oh, solemn gazer! in mute reverence bow.
Spotless and pure, and lay them on her brow;
She has passed upward from this restless strife,
And with the angels lifts her rare voice now!
Before her semblance left in mortal clay,
Oh, solemn gazer! in mute reverence bow.
Silent and pale she lies, with folded hands;
Touched is her forehead with celestial calm;
Smiling her lips, as if the heavenly lands
Burst on her vision with their airs of balm,—
Or as she heard, through boundless arches, swell,
The diapason of some grand sweet psalm.
Touched is her forehead with celestial calm;
Smiling her lips, as if the heavenly lands
Burst on her vision with their airs of balm,—
Or as she heard, through boundless arches, swell,
The diapason of some grand sweet psalm.
Utter no vain repinings o'er her clay;
Drop on her face no useless meed of tears;
Drop on her face no useless meed of tears;
