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There is a day of sunny rest
For every dark and troubled night ; And grief may bide an evening guest, But joy shall come with early light.
And thou, who, o'er thy friend's low bier,
Nor let the good man's trust depart,
Though life its common gifts deny,— Though with a pierced and bleeding heart, And spurned of men, he goes to die.
For God hath marked each sorrowing day
For all his children suffer here.
"NO MAN KNOWETH HIS SEPULCHRE."
WHEN he, who, from the scourge of wrong,
God made his grave, to men unknown,
And laid the aged seer alone
To slumber while the world grows old.
Thus still, whene'er the good and just Close the dim eye on life and pain, Heaven watches o'er their sleeping dust Till the pure spirit comes again.
Though nameless, trampled, and forgot,
A WALK AT SUNSET.
WHEN insect wings are glistening in the beam Of the low sun, and mountain-tops are bright, Oh, let me, by the crystal valley-stream,
Wander amid the mild and mellow light; And while the wood-thrush pipes his evening lay, Give me one lonely hour to hymn the setting day.
Oh, sun! that o'er the western mountains now Go'st down in glory? ever beautiful
And blessed is thy radiance, whether thou Colorest the eastern heaven and night-mist
Till the bright day-star vanish, or on high Climbest and streamest thy white splendors from mid sky.
Yet, loveliest are thy setting smiles, and fair,
Lingering and deepening at the hour of dews. Then softest gales are breathed, and softest heard
The plaining voice of streams, and pensive note of bird.
They who here roamed, of yore, the forest wide,
Felt, by such charm, their simple bosoms won ; They deemed their quivered warrior, when he
Went to bright isles beneath the setting