Agnes! Agnes! is it thus
Thou, at last, dost come to us?
From the land of balm and bloom,
Blandest airs and sweet perfume,
Where the jasmine’s golden stars
Glimmer soft through emerald bars,
And the fragrant orange flowers
Fall to earth in silver showers,
Agnes! Agnes!
With thy pale hands on thy breast,
Comest thou here to take thy rest?
Agnes! Agnes! o’er thy grave
Loud the winter winds will rave,
And the snow fall fast around,
Heaping high thy burial mound;
Yet, within its soft embrace,
Thy dear form and earnest face,
Wrapt away from burning pain,
Ne’er shall know one pang again.
Agnes! Agnes!
Nevermore shall anguish vex thee,
Nevermore shall care perplex thee.
Agnes! Agnes! wait, ah! wait
Just one moment at the gate,
Ere your pure feet enter in
Where is neither pain nor sin.
Thou art blest, but how shall we
Bear the pang of losing thee?
List! _we love thee!_ By that word
Once thy heart of hearts was stirred.
Agnes! Agnes!
By that love we bid thee wait
Just one moment at the gate!
Agnes! Agnes! No! Pass on
To the heaven that thou hast won!
By thy life of brave endeavor,
Up the heights aspiring ever,
Whence thy voice, like clarion clear,
Rang out words of lofty cheer;
By thy laboring not in vain,
By thy martyrdom of pain,
Our Saint Agnes—
From our yearning sight pass on
To the rest that thou hast won!
“INTO THY HANDS”
Into thy hands, O Father! Now at last,
Weary with struggling and with long unrest,
Vext by remembrances of conflicts past
And by a host of present cares opprest,
I come to thee and cry, Thy will be done!
Take thou the burden I have borne too long.
Into thy hands, O mighty, loving One,
My weakness gives its all, for thou art strong!
For life—for death. I cannot see the way;
I blindly wander on to meet the night;
The path grows steeper, and the dying day
Soon with its shadows will shut out the light.
Hold thou my hand, O Father! I am tired
As a young child that wearies of the road;
And the far heights toward which I once aspired
Have lost the glory with which erst they glowed.
Take thou my life, and mold it to thy will;
Into thy hands commit I all my way;
Fain would I lift each cup that thou dost fill,
Nor from its brim my pale lips ever stay.
Take thou my life. I lay it at thy feet;
And in my death my sure support be thou;
So shall I sink to slumber calm and sweet,
And wake at morn before thy face to bow!