Tho' a many Winters whiten,
I go Maying all the year.
And my proud heart will be praying
Blessings on the day,
When I met you, Sweet, a-Maying,
In that merry, merry May.
In this dim world of clouding cares,
We rarely know, till wildered eyes
See white wings lessening up the skies,
The Angels with us unawares.
And thou hast stolen a jewel, Death!
Shall light thy dark up like a Star,
A Beacon kindling from afar
Our light of love, and fainting faith.
Thro' tears it gleams perpetually,
And glitters thro' the thickest glooms,
Till the eternal morning comes
To light us o'er the Jasper Sea.
With our best branch in tenderest leaf,
We've strewn the way our Lord doth come;
And, ready for the harvest-home,
His Reapers bind our ripest sheaf.
Our beautiful Bird of light hath fled:
Awhile she sat with folded wings-
Sang round us a few hoverings-
Then straightway into glory sped.
And white-winged Angels nurture her;
With heaven's white radiance robed and crown'd, And all Love's purple glory round,
She summers on the Hills of Myrrh.
Thro' Childhood's morning-land serene
She walkt betwixt us twain, like Love;
While, in a robe of light above,
Her better Angel walkt unseen,
Till Life's highway broke bleak and wild;
Then, lest her starry garments trail
In mire, heart bleed, and courage fail,
The Angel's arms caught up the child.
Her wave of life hath backward roll'd
To the great ocean, on whose shore
We wander up and down, to store
Some treasures of the times of old :
And aye we seek and hunger on
For precious pearls and relics rare, Strewn on the sands for us to wear At heart, for love of her that's gone.
O weep no more! there yet is balm
In Gilead! Love doth ever shed
Rich healing where it nestles,-spread
O'er desert pillows some green palm!
God's ichor fills the hearts that bleed;
The best fruit loads the broken bough; And in the wounds our sufferings plough, Immortal Love sows sovereign seed.
Now Autumn's fire burns slowly along the woods, And day by day the dead leaves fall and melt, And night by night the monitory blast
Wails in the key-hole, telling how it pass'd
O'er empty fields, or upland solitudes,
Or grim wide wave; and now the power is felt
Of melancholy, tenderer in its moods
Than any joy indulgent summer dealt.
Dear friends, together in the glimmering eve,
Pensive and glad, with tones that recognise
The soft invisible dew on each one's eyes,
It may be, somewhat thus we shall have leave
To walk with memory, when distant lies
Poor Earth, where we were wont to live and grieve.
"GET thee back, Sorrow, get thee back!
My brow is smooth, mine eyes are bright,
My limbs are full of health and strength,
My cheeks are fresh, my heart is light.
So, get thee back! oh, get thee back!
Consort with age, but not with me;
Why shouldst thou follow on my track?
I am too young to live with thee."
"O foolish Youth, to scorn thy friend!
To harm thee wherefore should I seek?
I would not dim thy sparkling eyes,
Nor blight the roses on thy cheek.
I would but teach thee to be true;
And should I press thee overmuch,
Ever the flowers that I bedew
Yield sweetest fragrance to the touch."
"Get thee back, Sorrow, get thee back!
I like thee not; thy looks are chill.
The sunshine lies upon my heart,
Thou showest me the shadow still.
So, get thee back! oh, get thee back!
Nor touch my golden locks with grey;
Why shouldst thou follow on my track?
Let me be happy while I may."
"Good friend, thou needest sage advice; I'll keep thy heart from growing proud, I'll fill thy mind with kindly thoughts, And link thy pity to the crowd.
Wouldst have a heart of pulseless stone?
Wouldst be too happy to be good?
Nor make a human woe thine own,
For sake of human brotherhood?"
"Get thee back, Sorrow, get thee back!
Why should I weep while I am young?—
I have not piped-I have not danced-
My morning songs I have not sung:
The world is beautiful to me,
Why tarnish it to soul and sense?
Prithee begone! I'll think of thee
Some half a hundred winters hence."
"O foolish Youth, thou know'st me not;
I am the mistress of the earth-
'Tis I give tenderness to love;
Enhance the privilege of mirth;
Refine the human gold from dross;
And teach thee, wormling of the sod,
To look beyond thy present loss
To thy eternal gain with God."
"Get thee back, Sorrow, get thee back!
I'll learn thy lessons soon enough;
If virtuous pleasure smooth my way,
Why shouldst thou seek to make it rough?
No fruit can ripen in the dark,
No bud can bloom in constant cold-
So, prithee, Sorrow, miss thy mark,
Or strike me not till I am old."
"I am thy friend, thy best of friends;
No bud in constant heats can blow-
The green fruit withers in the drought,
But ripens where the waters flow.
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