And what a hope is that! I look above, Again I gaze upon the boundless deep: In tranquil majesty it meets my view, While peace lies pillow'd on its heavenly blue- Then, Nature's Lord! though Nature well might weep EVENING PRAYER AT A GIRLS' SCHOOL. 66 FELICIA HEMANS. Now in thy youth, beseech of Him Who giveth, upbraiding not, That His light in thy heart become not dim, And thy God, in the darkest of days, will be BERNARD BARTON. HUSH! 'tis a holy hour! The quiet room And the sweet stillness, down on fair young heads, With all their clust'ring locks, untouch'd by care, And bow'd, as flowers are bow'd with night, in prayer. Gaze on 'tis lovely! Childhood's lip and cheek Mantling beneath its earnest brow of thought. Gaze!—yet what see'st thou in those fair, and meek, And fragile things, as but for sunshine wrought? Thou see'st what grief must nurture for the sky, What death must fashion for eternity! O joyous creatures! that will sink to rest, As birds with slumber's honey-dew opprest, Though fresh within your breasts th' untroubled springs And o'er your sleep, bright shadows from the wings Her lot is on you-silent tears to weep, And patient smiles to wear through suffering's hour, And sumless riches from affection's deep, To pour on broken reeds—a wasted shower! Her lot is on you to be found untired, Watching the stars out by the bed of pain, With a pale cheek, and yet a brow inspired, And a true heart of hope, though hope be vain; Meekly to bear with wrong, to cheer decay, And oh! to love through all things-therefore, pray! And take the thought of this calm vesper time, TO A WATERFOWL. W. C. BRYANT. WHITHER, midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way? Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, Seek'st thou the plashy brink Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide ? There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast- Lone wandering, but not lost. All day thy wings have fann'd At that far height the cold thin atmosphere, And soon that toil shall end Soon shalt thou find a summer-home, and rest, And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend Soon o'er thy shelter'd nest. Thou'rt gone!—the abyss of heaven Hath swallow'd up thy form; yet on my heart Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, And shall not soon depart. He who from zone to zone Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, In the long way that I must tread alone, Will lead my steps aright. |