"Tis sweet, when year by year we lose
Friends out of sight, in faith to muse
How grows in Paradise our store!"--KEBLE.
His Birthday! but to-night there is no gladness,
As in the bright old days forever flown;
And in my heart one aching thought of sadness
Seems ever whispering, Alone! Alone!
The darkness gathers round, and, wan and olden,
The worn day paler grows, and dies away,
And all life's light and brightness now seem folden
Beneath the twilight's dusky mantle gray.
The old church tower, amid the shadows looming,
Stands grim and sombre in the dying light;
The trees with leafless branches shiver, moaning,
As the sad winds sigh softly through the night.
Weird looks the ruined church, where ivy creeping
Decks the old walls fast mouldering in decay;
And peace rests o'er the graves in whose calm keeping,
In quiet safety, sleeps the treasured clay.
Here in this corner, where his grave is lying,
The fir trees throw deep shade, and soft and low,
When summer eve or winter day is dying,
The winds seem ever sighing songs of woe!
Oh! cherished spot! beloved beyond all measure,
Your holy peace that brings a balm so blest!
When turning from the world, in grief or pleasure,
I seek your calm, and hunger for your rest!
How feeble, then, seem all the ties that bound me
To this world's ways, that held such charms for me
And heaven-born dreams and holy thoughts surround me
Until from earth's vain things my soul is free!
Then do I feel this wound of Mercy's giving
Draws all my hopes from earth to holier love.
An e'en while here, sin-stained and lonely living,
My heart is with my treasure fixed above!
Still, looking upward to the Heavenly Mansion,
Where he abides--where we shall meet him there--
Where soul with soul shall blend in the expansion
Of that world's higher life, immortal, fair!
That land of beauty, where the Lamb in glory
Gathers His own to perfect bliss and peace,
Where all the ransomed sing Redemption's story
In joys celestial that can never cease.
Thrice happy lot was thine, oh, blessed spirit!
So early called from this dark vale of woe--
From chequered scenes of warfare--to inherit
That perfect love that God's own favoured know.
Then could we wish thee back to dwell with mortals
And bear those storms that toss Time's troubled sea?
No! from that home beyond the pearly portals
Thou canst not come, but we will go to thee!