THE CRY OF THE HUMAN. "THERE is no God," the foolish saith, But none, "There is no sorrow;" And nature oft, the cry of faith, In bitter need will borrow: Eyes which the preacher could not school, By wayside graves are raised; That ne'er said, "God be praised." We sit together with the skies, The steadfast skies, above us: We look into each other's eyes, "And how long will you love us?" The eyes grow dim with prophecy, The voices low and breathless "Till death us part!"-O words to be Our best for love, the deathless! We tremble by the harmless bed We sit on hills our childhood wist, Woods, hamlets, streams, beholding; The sun strikes through the farthest mist, The city's spire to golden. The city's golden spire it was, When hope and health were strong- But now it is the churchyard grass And soon all vision waxeth dull- |