Through the sounds of war and labour She had warbled all day long, While the Angels leant and listened But the starry night was coming; From the mountain top the Angels Slowly passed away. GOLDEN DAYS. OLDEN days-where are they? Cry; if we could find them We would pause and rest: We would pause and rest a little From our long and weary ways:— Where are they, then, where are they— Golden days? Golden days-where are they? Ask of childhood's years, Still untouched by sorrow, Still undimmed by tears: Ah, they seek a phantom Future, Crowned with brighter, starry rays; Where are they, then, where are theyGolden days? Golden days-where are they? Near our hearth to dwell? Insecure are all her treasures, Restless is her anxious gaze Where are they, then, where are they— Golden days? Golden days-where are they? Farther up the hill I can hear the echo Faintly calling still: Faintly calling, faintly dying, Where are they, then, where are they— PHILIP AND MILDRED. INGERING fade the rays of daylight, and the listening air is chilly; Voice of bird and forest murmur, insect hum and quivering spray, Stir not in that quiet hour: through the valley, calm and stilly, All in hushed and loving silence watch the slow departing Day. Till the last faint western cloudlet, faint and rosy, ceases blushing, And the blue grows deep and deeper where one trembling planet shines, And the day has gone for ever—then, like some great ocean rushing, The sad night wind wails lamenting, sobbing through the moaning pines. Such, of all day's changing hours, is the fittest and the meetest For a farewell hour-and parting looks less bitter and more blest; Earth seems like a shrine for sorrow, Nature's mother voice is sweetest, And her hand seems laid in chiding on the unquiet throbbing breast. Words are lower, for the twilight seems rebuking sad repining, And wild murmur and rebellion, as all childish and in vain ; Breaking through dark future hours clustering starry hopes seem shining, Then the calm and tender midnight folds her shadow round the pain. So they paced the shady lime-walk in that twilight dim and holy, Still the last farewell deferring, she could hear or he should say; |