 | Three hours ; or, the vigil of love : and other poems |  |
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MY OWN THOUGHTS.
“Father, who art in heaven”—I hear
Low lisped as to a parent's ear,
And in the confidence and love
As He were bending from above—
I would, my child, that I could pray
In such a trusting tone!
I would, that with the closing day,
My cares, like thine, were done!
Low lisped as to a parent's ear,
And in the confidence and love
As He were bending from above—
I would, my child, that I could pray
In such a trusting tone!
I would, that with the closing day,
My cares, like thine, were done!
Yet who that dwells on earth can be,
What the sick heart will pine for—free!
The cords of life around us wind,
Its clouds will gather o'er the mind;
Oh, happy if they rest not there!
If faith's pure, quenchless star
Can struggle through the misty air,
Heavenward, though faint and far.
What the sick heart will pine for—free!
The cords of life around us wind,
Its clouds will gather o'er the mind;
Oh, happy if they rest not there!
If faith's pure, quenchless star
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Heavenward, though faint and far.
Without, the sound of hasty feet
Comes upward from the bustling street,
Like rush of brook, that plashes o'er
The pebbles on its rocky shore:
Glides one among that crowd but bears
His weight of grief or pain?
Is there a soul but hath its cares?
—Then let me ne'er complain.
Comes upward from the bustling street,
Like rush of brook, that plashes o'er
The pebbles on its rocky shore:
Glides one among that crowd but bears
His weight of grief or pain?
Is there a soul but hath its cares?
—Then let me ne'er complain.
The evening's silent hour shall hear
Not murmurs—no—the silent tear
May fall—but thanks for blessings given,
This grateful heart shall breathe to heaven.
And sure, if aught of human rise,
From feeling's altar, there,
The spotless glory of the skies
Will shrine the mother's prayer;—
Not murmurs—no—the silent tear
May fall—but thanks for blessings given,
This grateful heart shall breathe to heaven.
And sure, if aught of human rise,
From feeling's altar, there,
The spotless glory of the skies
Will shrine the mother's prayer;—
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The prayer for those whose weal is all
Of price, of hope her own to call—
My treasures; God! be thou their way,
And never let their footsteps stray;—
I will not fear, I will not sigh,
But on thy promise rest—
The world is thine, and thou'lt supply
All that thou seest is best.
Of price, of hope her own to call—
My treasures; God! be thou their way,
And never let their footsteps stray;—
I will not fear, I will not sigh,
But on thy promise rest—
The world is thine, and thou'lt supply
All that thou seest is best.
| Three hours ; or, the vigil of love : and other poems | |