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PROPHECY.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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PROPHECY.

No great sea lifts its angry waves
Between me and the friend most dear,
And over all our household graves
The grass has grown for many a year.
With all that makes the heart rejoice,
The days of summer go and come;
No feeble step, no failing voice,
Saddens the chambers of our home.

435

Yet, though I know, and feel, and see,
God's blessings all about my way,
The burden of sad prophecy
Lies heavy on my soul to-day.
These awful words of destiny
Are sounding in my heart and brain:
“Not an unbroken family
Shall summer find us here again!”
O God! if this indeed be so,
Whose pillow then shall be unprest?
Whose heart, that feels life's pleasant glow,
Shall faint, and beat itself to rest?
Eternal silence makes reply,
We may not, cannot, know our doom;
No voice comes downward from the sky,
No voice comes upward from the tomb.
Yet this I would not ask in vain:
Hide from my wretched eyes the day
When by our household graves again
The turf is lightly put away!
First from our home, though all descend
At last to that one place of rest,
O solemn Earth! O mighty Friend!
Take me and hide me in thy breast!