"I hold it true, with one who sings
To one clear lute of divers tunes.
That men may rise on stepping-stones
Of their dead selves to higher things."--TENNYSON
Lo! the sunset fire is burning in the roseate sky of evening
Where grand in dying glory sinks the god of day to rest
And wide o'er the dewy meadows lie the golden lights and
shadows,
Like gleams that come to cheer us from the regions the
blest!
Slow the fiery orb is sinking down below the purple
mountains;
Still the splendour of his radiance lingers round us for a
while;
And the peaceful country bowers, and the stately run towers,
Are rejoicing in the beauty of the glad, refulgent smiles.
From the trees and from the meadows the bird-song wild and
tender,
In sweet and mingled chorus, like vesper songs, arise
With the evening zephyrs blending, on their airy wings
ascending,
Like anthems of thanksgiving they are ringing thro' the
skies.
The children's happy voices from the village playground
stealing,
With the cadence of their laughter, come floating through
the air;
And the face of Nature smiling, every thought of care
beguiling,
Soothes my restless soul to musing in the twilight calm and
fair,--
Keeps my soul in peaceful musing, 'mid the tranquil summer
gloaming,
When the cares of day are ended, and its labours all are
done;
When the Dove of Peace is stealing o'er the valleys, bringing
healing
On her white wings to the weary, with the rest that they
have won.
Here let me sit and ponder on life's long and varied story,
On the things that are, and have been, and the times that
are to be;
Of the past and of the present, of the darksome days and
pleasant,
And the future years, still hidden, that are kept in store
for me.
But, the past--should I deplore it? All my longing can't
restore it;
Still it lies beyond my reaching, to come back to me no
more;
It is right to keep and cherish, or to let its memory perish,
Like a dream to be forgotten, when the hours of sleep are
o'er?
Like a dream to be forgotten, like a phantom, a delusion
That but lured away our moments with its subtle, witching
powers,
Till it sinks our souls in sadness with the dreams of
gladness,
And the thoughts of vanished pleasures that can ne'er again
be ours.
Let me cease this idle longing for the days that have
departed,
It is worse than useless wishing for a light grown dim and
dead:
For joy so lovely seeming, when we clasp them in our
dreaming,
And know we must awaken and remember all is fled.
Let past failures be our beacon through the breakers spread
around us,
To show where danger meets us on life's rough and troubled
main--
Where earth's joys like billows meeting, on the rock's care
are beating,
And we see them dashed and shattered where they can not
rise again.
Let me wake, and cease repining; let me learn life's sternest
lesson--
Joys when born of earth are earthy, and must therefore fade
and die;
Let me feel new knowledge glowing, on my opening eye
bestowing
The experience that will lead me to a fairer, by-and-by.
'Tis our past has made our present, so our present makes our
future,
Let us work, and cease of wishing--let us _do_, not
_dream_ through life;
Ever mindful, never straying, with our earnest hearts still
praying
For the guerdon of the worker, and the winner in the
strife.