Page:Littell's Living Age - Volume 135.pdf/459



THE ANGELS' GREETING.

⁠Come to the land of peace!
Come where the tempest hath no longer sway,
The shadow passes from the soul away,
⁠The sounds of weeping cease.

⁠Fear hath no dwelling there!
Come to the mingling of repose and love,
Breathed by the silent spirit of the dove
⁠Through the celestial air.

⁠Come to the bright and blest,
And crown’d forever! Midst that shining band,
Gather'd to heaven's own wreath from every land,
⁠Thy spirit shall find rest.

⁠Thou hast been long alone:
Come to thy mother! On the Sabbath shore,
The heart that rock'd thy childhood, back once more
⁠Shall take its wearied one.

⁠In silence wert thou left:
Come to thy sisters! Joyously again,
All the home voices, blent in one sweet strain,
⁠Shall greet their long bereft.

⁠Over thine orphan head
The storm hath swept, as o'er a willow's bough:
Come to thy father! It is finish'd now;
⁠Thy tears have all been shed.

⁠In thy divine abode,
Change finds no pathway, memory no dark trace,
And, oh! bright victory, death by love no place.
⁠Come, spirit! to thy God.

School and Home.

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DEAD, YET SPEAKING.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN."

"I have been dying for years; now I shall begin to
live." These were almost the last words of the Rev.
James Drummond Burns, minister of the Presbyterian
Church at Hampstead, who died of consumption abroad,
in 1865, deeply beloved and lamented.

Dead, and alive again. Alive to us,
⁠Who through the long, long lapse of years still mark
The after-glow thy sunset luminous
⁠Threw back upon our dark.

Alive to God, and to his work divine,
⁠Though in what sphere we know not, nor need know:
Content to follow those dear steps of thine,
⁠And where thou goest to go.

The blessings of the happy and at rest,
⁠The sorrowful, and those whose sorrows cease,
Blossom, like April daisies, on thy breast,
⁠Sleeping the sleep of peace!

But far beyond all sound of earthly strife,
⁠Or silent slumber 'neath this long-green sod,
Thou art passed, triumphant, into perfect life,
⁠The soul's true life in God.

Sunday Magazine.

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BIDE A WEE, AND DINNA FRET.

⁠Is the road very dreary?
⁠Patience yet!
Rest will be sweeter if thou art aweary,
And after night cometh the morning cheery,
⁠Then bide a wee, and dinna fret.

⁠The clouds have silver lining,
⁠Don't forget;
And though he's hidden, still the sun is shining;
Courage! instead of tears and vain repining,
⁠Just bide a wee, and dinna fret.

⁠With toil and cares unending
⁠Art beset?
Bethink thee, how the storms from heaven descending
Snap the stiff oak, but spare the willow bending,
⁠And bide a wee, and dinna fret.

⁠Grief sharper sting doth borrow
⁠From regret;
But yesterday is gone, and shall its sorrow
Unfit us for the present and the morrow?
⁠Nay; bide a wee, and dinna fret.

⁠An over-anxious brooding
⁠Doth beget
A host of fears and fantasies deluding;
Then, brother, lest these torments be intruding,
⁠Just bide a wee, and dinna fret.

Leisure Hour.S. E. G.

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GATHERED ROSES.

Only a bee made prisoner,
⁠Caught in a gathered rose!
Was he not 'ware, a flower so fair
⁠For the first gatherer grows?

Only a heart made prisoner,
⁠Going out free no more!
Was he not 'ware, a face so fair
⁠Must have been gathered before?

Spectator.F. W. B.