O Weariness. LITTLE feet! that such long years Must wander on through hopes and fears, Where toil shall cease and rest begin, O little hands! that weak or strong, Have still so long to give or ask ; Am weary thinking of your task. O little hearts! that throb and beat Such limitless and strong desires; Now covers and conceals its fires. O little souls! as pure and white And crystalline as rays of light Direct from heaven, their source divine; Refracted through the mist of years, How red my setting sun appears, How lurid looks this soul of mine! HENRY W. LONGFELLOW PRESUMPTION AND DESPAIR. 289 Presumption and Despair. ON NE time I was allowed to steer My heart one time the rivers fed, Which shall not pass away; But when I lay upon the shore, Nailed to the ground and fastened there, And when my very heart seemed dried, No hope had I, no trust That any power again could bless But if both hope and fear were vain, Two lessons we from this may gain, RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH. Extreme Unction. O! leave me, Priest; my soul would be Far sadder eyes than thine will see This crumbling clay yield up its breath : These shriveled hands have deeper stains Than holy oil can cleanse away— Hands that have plucked the world's coarse gains, As erst they plucked the flowers of May. Call, if thou canst, to these gray eyes Some faith from youth's traditions wrung; This fruitless husk which dustward dries, Has been a heart once,, has been young; On this bowed head the awful Past Once laid its consecrating hands; The Future in its purpose vast Paused, waiting my supreme commands. But look! whose shadows block the door? God bends from out the deep and says-- Are not my earth and heaven at strife? I gave thee of my seed to sow, Bringest thou me my hundred-fold?" Can I look up with face aglow, And answer, "Father, here is gold ?" EXTREME UNCTION. I have been innocent; God knows, When first this wasted life began, When this fast-ebbing breath shall part? What bands of love and service bind Christ still was wandering o'er the earth He shared my cup and broke my bread; Upon the hour when I was born, God said, "Another man shall be;" And the great Maker did not scorn As effortless as woodland nooks Send violets up and paint them blue. Yes, I who now, with angry tears, Have borne unquenched for fourscore years And to what end? How yield I back 291 Men think it is an awful sight To see a soul just set adrift On that drear voyage from whose night A helpless infant newly born, Mine held them once; I flung away But clutch the keys of darkness yet;- Into God's harvest; I, that might O glorious Youth, that once was mine! Ye enter at this ruined shrine Whence worship ne'er shall rise again; The bat and owl inhabit here, The snake nests in the altar-stone, The sacred vessels moulder near, The image of the god is gone. - JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. From the Persian. ON parent knees, a naked, new-born child, Weeping thou sat'st while all around thee smiled, So live that, sinking to thy last long sleep, Calm thou may'st smile, while all around thee weep! SIR WILLIAM JONES. |