There are things of which I may not speak,
There are dreams that cannot die;
There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak,
And bring a pallor to the cheek
And a mist before the eye.
Deering's Woods are fresh and fair,
And with joy that is almost pain
My heart goes back to wander there,
And among the dreams of the days that were,
I find my lost youth again.
O little feet! that such long years
Must wander on through hopes and fears,
Must ache and bleed beneath your load;
I, nearer to the wayside inn,
Where toil shall cease and rest begin,
Am weary, thinking of your road.
O little hands! that, weak or strong,
Have still to serve or rule so long,
Have still so long to give or ask;
I, who so much with book and pen
Have toiled among my fellow-men,
thinking of your task.
My life is cold and dark and dreary,
It rains, and the wind is never weary :
My thoughts still cling to the mouldering past,
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,
And the days are dark and dreary.
Be still, sad heart! and cease repining,
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life some rain must fall,
Some days must be dark and dreary.
There is a Reaper whose name is Death,
And, with his sickle keen,
He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,
And the flowers that grow between.
"Shall I have nought that is fair,” saith he—
"Have nought but the ripened grain ?
Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me,
I will give them all back again."
And the Mother gave, in tears and pain,
The flowers she most did love;
She knew she would find them all again
In the fields of light above.
Oh not in cruelty, not in wrath,
The Reaper came that day;
'Twas an angel visited the green earth, And took the Flowers away.
There is no flock, however watched and tended,
But one dead lamb is there!
There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended,
But has one vacant chair!
The air is full of farewells to the dying,
And mournings for the dead;
The heart of Rachel, for her children crying,
Will not be comforted! ...
I stood on the bridge at midnight,
As the clocks were striking the hour,
And the moon rose o'er the city,
Behind the dark church tower.
And like those waters rushing
Among the wooden piers,
A flood of thoughts came o'er me,
That filled my eyes with tears.
For my heart was hot and restless,
And my life was full of care,
And the burden laid upon me
Seemed greater than I could bear.
But now it has fallen from me,
It is buried in the sea;
And only the sorrow of others
Throws its shadow over me.
Yet whenever I cross the river,
On its bridge with wooden piers, Like the odour of brine from the ocean Comes the thought of other years. And I think how many thousands Of care-encumbered men, Each bearing his burden of sorrow, Have crossed the bridge since then.
I see the long procession
Still passing to and fro,
The young heart hot and restless,
And the old subdued and slow,
For ever and for ever,
As long as the river flows,
As long as the heart has passions,
As long as life has woes.
DEDICATION HYMN.
The perfect world by Adam trod
Was the first temple,-built by God;-
His fiat laid the corner-stone,
And heaved its pillars one by one.
He hung its starry roof on high,—
The broad illimitable sky;
He spread its pavement, green and bright,
And curtained it with morning light.
The mountains in their places stood,-
The sea, the sky,-and "all was good;
And when its first pure praises rang,
The "morning stars together sang.
Lord! 'tis not ours to make the sea
And earth and sky a house for thee;
But in thy sight our offering stands,
A humbler temple, " made with hands."
From THE TORN HAT.
There's something in a noble boy,
A brave, free-hearted, careless one,
With his unchecked, unbidden joy,
His dread of books and love of fun,
And in his clear and ready smile,
Unshaded by a thought of guile,
And unrepressed by sadness-.
And yet it is not in his play,
When every trace of thought is lost, And not when you would call him gay,
That his bright presence thrills me most.
His shout may ring upon the hill,
His voice be echoed in the hall,
His merry laugh like music trill,
And I unheeding hear it all—.
But when, amid the earnest game,
He stops, as if he music heard,
And, heedless of his shouted name
As of the carol of a bird,
Stands gazing on the empty air
As if some dream were passing there..
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.
From THE ETERNAL GOODNESS.
O Friends! with whom my feet have trod
The quiet aisles of prayer,
Glad witness to your zeal for God
And love of man-I bear. .
But still my human hands are weak
To hold your iron creeds;
Against the words you bid me speak
My heart within me pleads.
Not mine to look where cherubim
And seraphs may not see,
But nothing can be good in Him
Which evil is in me.
The wrong that pains my soul below
I dare not throne above;
I know not of his hate,-I know
His goodness and his love. .
I know not what the future hath
Of marvel or surprise,
Assured alone that life and death
His mercy underlies.
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