Abbildungen der Seite
PDF

We paused, as if from that bright shore
Beckoned our dear ones gone before ;

[ocr errors]

Sudden our pathway turned from night;
The hills swung open to the light;

Through their green gates the sunshine showed, A long, lant splendor downward flowed.

Down glade and glen and bank it rolled;
It bridged the shaded stream with gold ;

[ocr errors]

“So,” prayed we, “when our feet draw near The river, dark with mortal fear,

“And the night cometh chill with dew, O Father ! let thy light break through!

"So let the hills of doubt divide,
So bridge with faith the sunless tide!

“So let the eyes that fail on earth On thy eternal hills look forth ;

And in thy beckoning angels know
The dear ones whom we loved below!”

7. G. Whittier.

1860.

[merged small][ocr errors][ocr errors][ocr errors]

Then keep we on, with hope unchilled,

By faith and not by sight,
And we shall own His word fulfilled, -
At eve it shall be light!

Bernard Barton.

[ocr errors]

All our hopes on thee reclining,

Peace companion of our way, May our sun, in smiles declining,

Rise in everlasting day.

[ocr errors]

DE ATH.

EVENING LIGHT.

PEHOLD the western evening light!

It melts in deepening gloom : So calmly Christians fink away,

Descending to the tomb.

The winds breathe low; the withering leaf

Scarce whispers from the tree : So gently flows the parting breath,

When good men cease to be.

How beautiful on all the hills

The crimson light is shed ! 'T is like the peace the Christian gives

To mourners round his bed.

How mildly on the wandering cloud

The sunset beam is cast! 'T is like the memory left behind,

When loved ones breathe their last.

And now above the dews of night

The vesper-star appears :
So faith springs in the heart of those

Whose eyes are bathed in tears.

But soon the morning's happier light

Its glory shall restore,
And eyelids that are sealed in death
Shall wake to close no more.

W. B. 0. Peabody.

1840.

IN VIEW OF DEATH.

THE hour, the hour, the parting hour,

1 That takes from this dark world its power, And lays at once the thorn and flower

On the same withering bier, my soul !
The hour that ends all earthly woes,
And gives the wearied soul repose, –
How soft, how sweet, that last long close

Of mortal hope and fear, my soul !

How sweet, while on this broken lyre
The melodies of time expire,
To feel it strung with chords of fire

To praise the Immortal One, my soul!

« ZurückWeiter »