 | The poems of Mrs. Emma Catherine Embury |  |
PEACE.
“The Lord will bless his people with peace.”
O seek her not in marble halls of pride,
Where gushing fountains fling their silver tide,
Their wealth of freshness toward the summer sky;
The echoes of a palace are too loud,—
They but give back the footsteps of the crowd,
Who throng about some idol throned on high,
Whose ermined robe and pomp of rich array,
But serve to hide the false one's feet of clay.
Where gushing fountains fling their silver tide,
Their wealth of freshness toward the summer sky;
The echoes of a palace are too loud,—
They but give back the footsteps of the crowd,
Who throng about some idol throned on high,
Whose ermined robe and pomp of rich array,
But serve to hide the false one's feet of clay.
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Nor seek her form in poverty's low vale,
Where, touched by want, the bright cheek waxes pale,
And the heart faints with sordid cares opprest;
Where pining discontent has left its trace
Deep and abiding in each haggard face.
Not there, not there Peace builds her halcyon nest:
Wild revel scares her from wealth's towering dome,
And misery frights her from a lowly home.
Where, touched by want, the bright cheek waxes pale,
And the heart faints with sordid cares opprest;
Where pining discontent has left its trace
Deep and abiding in each haggard face.
Not there, not there Peace builds her halcyon nest:
Wild revel scares her from wealth's towering dome,
And misery frights her from a lowly home.
Nor dwells she in the cloister, where the sage
Ponders the mystery of some time-stained page,
Delving with feeble hand the classic mine;
O, who can tell the restless hope of fame,
The bitter yearnings for a deathless name,
That round the student's heart like serpents twine!
Ambition's fever burns within his breast;
Can Peace, sweet Peace, abide with such a guest?
Ponders the mystery of some time-stained page,
Delving with feeble hand the classic mine;
O, who can tell the restless hope of fame,
The bitter yearnings for a deathless name,
That round the student's heart like serpents twine!
Ambition's fever burns within his breast;
Can Peace, sweet Peace, abide with such a guest?
Search not within the city's crowded mart,
Where the low, whispered music of the heart
Is all unheard amid the clang of gold;
O! never yet did Peace her chaplet twine
To lay upon base mammon's sordid shrine,
Where earth's most precious things are bought and sold;
Thrown on that pile, the “pearl of price” would be
Despised, because unfit for merchantry.
Where the low, whispered music of the heart
Is all unheard amid the clang of gold;
O! never yet did Peace her chaplet twine
To lay upon base mammon's sordid shrine,
Where earth's most precious things are bought and sold;
Thrown on that pile, the “pearl of price” would be
Despised, because unfit for merchantry.
Go! hie thee to God's altar; kneeling there,
List to the mingled voice of fervent prayer
That swells around thee in the sacred fane,
Or catch the solemn organ's pealing note
When grateful praises on the still air float,
And the freed soul forgets earth's heavy chain;
And learn that Peace, sweet Peace, is always found
In her eternal home on holy ground.
List to the mingled voice of fervent prayer
That swells around thee in the sacred fane,
Or catch the solemn organ's pealing note
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And the freed soul forgets earth's heavy chain;
And learn that Peace, sweet Peace, is always found
In her eternal home on holy ground.
| The poems of Mrs. Emma Catherine Embury | |