far away; Go with her, heart of mine, I pray; Pause where the Pilgrims' day is done, Where scrip and staff aside are laid, Go where her fluttering silver And, resting in the silent shade, pinions Follow the track of the crim son day. Is rest where cloudlets slowly creep, And sobbing winds forget to grieve, And quiet waters gently heave, As if they rocked the ship to sleep? Ah no! that southern vapor white Will bring a tempest ere the night, And thunder through the quiet heaven, Lashing the sea in its angry might. They watch the slowly sinking sun. Ah no! that worn and weary band Must journey long before they stand, With bleeding feet, and hearts rejoicing, Kissing the dust of the Holy Land. Then find a soul who meets at last A noble prize but hard to gain, Or joy long pleaded for in vain, Now sweeter for a bitter past. Ah no! for Time can rob her yet, And even should cruel Time forget, Then Death will come, and, unrelenting, Brand her with sorrowful long regret. Seek farther, farther yet, O Dove! Beyond the Land, beyond the Sca, There shall be rest for thee and me, For thee and me and those I love. I heard a promise gently fall, |