 | The Two Brothers, and other poems |  |
156
FRAGMENTS.
For though the skirts of the far tempest oft
Have fallen on my path, though I have proved,
At times, the bitterness of grief,—yet, when
The heart is all alone in suffering,
We scarce can say that we have suffer'd;—all
Seems centred so within us, and the waves
Swell in so narrow and so small a world,
That what hath moved us scarce can ask the name
Of suffering.
Have fallen on my path, though I have proved,
At times, the bitterness of grief,—yet, when
The heart is all alone in suffering,
We scarce can say that we have suffer'd;—all
Seems centred so within us, and the waves
Swell in so narrow and so small a world,
That what hath moved us scarce can ask the name
Of suffering.
Sunny hath been my home of childhood—strong
The links of love that bind our happy circle,—
No jarring note hath broken the sweet stream
Of music that hath linger'd, like the dove
Of peace, among us:—father, mother, children—
“Hearts of each other sure,” souls knit as one—
All wending in glad fellowship towards Heaven.
Heaven is our bourne, and its far hope hath lighted
Upon our ocean-pathway, beacon-like,
And caught the summits of the smallest waves
That rise and sink around us, telling still
Each bears us onward on its tremulous breast
To the still haven of eternal love.
Sometimes the distant clouds have threaten'd woe,
Their shadow fallen near us, but when we
Were striving to win over our sad hearts,
Unmurmuring to resign what Heaven hath given,
Perchance some floweret from our wreath of love,
Some emerald dew-drop from a cup o'erflowing,—
Then hath our God, our Father, with a smile
That told how He rejoiced in all our joy,
Return'd it to us lovelier, more beloved,
Because for one sad voiceless moment, fear
Had chill'd our hearts lest it should fade or fall.
The links of love that bind our happy circle,—
No jarring note hath broken the sweet stream
Of music that hath linger'd, like the dove
Of peace, among us:—father, mother, children—
“Hearts of each other sure,” souls knit as one—
157
Heaven is our bourne, and its far hope hath lighted
Upon our ocean-pathway, beacon-like,
And caught the summits of the smallest waves
That rise and sink around us, telling still
Each bears us onward on its tremulous breast
To the still haven of eternal love.
Sometimes the distant clouds have threaten'd woe,
Their shadow fallen near us, but when we
Were striving to win over our sad hearts,
Unmurmuring to resign what Heaven hath given,
Perchance some floweret from our wreath of love,
Some emerald dew-drop from a cup o'erflowing,—
Then hath our God, our Father, with a smile
That told how He rejoiced in all our joy,
Return'd it to us lovelier, more beloved,
Because for one sad voiceless moment, fear
Had chill'd our hearts lest it should fade or fall.
Watton, 1844.
| The Two Brothers, and other poems | |