III. THE ACHING VOID. "Nothing speaks our grief so well As to speak nothing." RICHARD CRASHAW. O it was rare! O it was rare To smooth the folds of her chestnut hair, O it is sad! O it is sad To think of the joys that once I had : MORTIMER COLLINS. I MOURN for thee, sweet sister, When the wintry hours are here; But when the days grow long and bright, That thou art with the dead. When autumn winds were high— Thy life had taught us how to live, And then we learned to die. ALICE CAREY. All night long I talk with the dead, W. C. BRYANT. Poems. (K. Paul.) GONE. [EXTRACT.] WE miss her in the place of prayer, Once more her sweet "Good-night !" A dimness on the stars of night, Like eyes that look through tears. Alone unto our Father's will One thought hath reconciled; Fold her, O Father! in thine arms, A messenger of love between J. G. WHITTIER A CHAIR is vacant at our hearth, And up and down the house I go, Oft in the night a well-known cry And she is calm: though oft I see Still ask for Time's all-blessed hand J. A. LANGFORD. SHE is in her grave, and, ah, W. WORDSWORTH. OH that they would not comfort me! Must not be wisdom preached. Deep grief is better let alone; A silent look will soothe it more F. W. FABER. TEARS driven back upon the fountain-head, And Sorrow's voice supprest, Heave, while in quiet sleep repose the dead... Ah! when will they too rest! W. S. LANDOR. Works. (Chapman and Hall.) O My lost friends! why were ye once so dear! Till half the months at last shall take, with me, Works. (Chapman and Hall.) Amy. My heart is shivered as a fallen cup, SYDNEY DObell. Balder: Poetical Works, Vol. II. (Smith, Elder, and Co.) FRIEND of my youth! though younger yet my guide, I shaped my way of life for many a year, WE garland the urn with white roses, Burn incense and gums on the shrine, Play old tunes with the saddest of closes, Dear tunes that were thine! But in vain, all in vain; Thou art gone-we remain ! R. H. STODdard. (From "Deep Grief.") DEEP grief is not a past event, It is a life, a state, Which habit makes more terrible, And age more desolate. But am I comfortless? Oh no! Art Thou, my dearest God! Good is that darkening of our lives, NEVER again. Oh, dearest, do you know All the long mournfulness of such a word? And even you who smile now on my pain May seek some day for love lost long ago, And sigh to the long echo faintly heard, Never again, never again. AUGUSTA WEBSTER. wwwwww ALICE. CLEAR, truthful eyes, whose sunny radiance made The light of life to those who loved her best ;Though often-times unconsciously a shade Of wistful pathos filled them when at rest, As if they saw far off, in mist arrayed, Some vision of the blest; A pleading childlike mouth, whose curves unbent A nature quick to praise, and slow to blame, Lilies of peace bloomed on her upward path, Seemed purposed for her in the thoughts of God, Springtime of bloom, and lingering aftermath Upon the autumn sod! Alas, we knew not! chilling mists arose And touched our dear one ere the noontide heat; In wondering dread we saw the blossoms close, The meek pale lilies droop beside her feet; While she went calmly on, the last of foes Unfalteringly to meet. Her pathway narrowed to that darkened vale Within whose shade the most fine gold is dim; But she could hear already, through the veil, The thrilling chant of sweet-voiced seraphim; For One was there whose guidance could not fail, And she was safe with Him. The shadows we so dreaded for her sake, In troubled eddies, where the amaranth clings; But oh, for us, between this darkened now And all the golden past that went before, There lies, unchanged by stormy ebb and flow, An aching sea of silence evermore ; Where freighted ships of memory come and go, But never reach the shore! At times the yearning of our dreams is crossed In happy chiding that implies no wrong, "From the far outlook of the heavenly hil What have you learned of mysteries sublime? Hath the bright spirit opened to fulfil Its earthly promise in celestial prime? 'Mid speech of angels, do you cherish still The songs of olden time?" Oh, child of peace, with tender, earnest eyes, YOUR life lies out before you like a field Wherein you have but paced a little way; What matter if you stumbled? Stand upright, M. B. SMEDLEY. Lady Grace, Act II., Sc. 5-Poems. (Strahan.) |