 | The American common-place book of poetry |  |
To H---.—Christian Examiner.
Sweet child, that wasted form,
That pale and mournful brow,
O'er which thy long, dark tresses
In shadowy beauty flow—
That eye, whence soul is darting
With such strange brilliancy,
Tell us thou art departing—
This world is not for thee.
That pale and mournful brow,
O'er which thy long, dark tresses
In shadowy beauty flow—
That eye, whence soul is darting
With such strange brilliancy,
Tell us thou art departing—
This world is not for thee.
241
No! not for thee is woven
That wreath of joy and wo,
That crown of thorns and flowers,
Which all must wear below!
We bend in anguish o'er thee,
Yet feel that thou art blessed,
Loved one, so early summoned
To enter into rest.
That wreath of joy and wo,
That crown of thorns and flowers,
Which all must wear below!
We bend in anguish o'er thee,
Yet feel that thou art blessed,
Loved one, so early summoned
To enter into rest.
Soon shall thy bright young spirit
From earth's cold chains be free;
Soon shalt thou meet that Savior,
Who gave himself for thee.
Soon shalt thou be rejoicing,
Unsullied as thou art,
In the blessed vision promised
Unto the pure in heart.
From earth's cold chains be free;
Soon shalt thou meet that Savior,
Who gave himself for thee.
Soon shalt thou be rejoicing,
Unsullied as thou art,
In the blessed vision promised
Unto the pure in heart.
Yes, thou art going home,
Our Father's face to see,
In perfect bliss and glory;
But we, O, where are we?
While that celestial country
Thick clouds and darkness hide,
In a strange land of exile,
Still, still must we abide.
Our Father's face to see,
In perfect bliss and glory;
But we, O, where are we?
While that celestial country
Thick clouds and darkness hide,
In a strange land of exile,
Still, still must we abide.
O Father of our spirits,
We can but look to thee;
Though chastened, not forsaken,
Shall we thy children be.
We take the cup of sorrow,
As did thy blessed Son—
Teach us to say, with Jesus,
“'Thy will, not ours, be done!”
We can but look to thee;
Though chastened, not forsaken,
Shall we thy children be.
We take the cup of sorrow,
As did thy blessed Son—
Teach us to say, with Jesus,
“'Thy will, not ours, be done!”
| The American common-place book of poetry | |