 | Forest buds, from the woods of Maine |  |
200
DESTINED.
I leave my wreath half-twined;—its blossoms lie
Unbound and withering, in the wayside dust,
Crushed by the rude feet of the passers by,—
And gird me to fulfil a loftier trust.
Unbound and withering, in the wayside dust,
Crushed by the rude feet of the passers by,—
And gird me to fulfil a loftier trust.
I leave my Eden,—my enchanted land,—
The pleasant ways which I have loved to tread,
And kneel while Duty's stern untrembling hand
Places her thorny crown upon my head.
The pleasant ways which I have loved to tread,
And kneel while Duty's stern untrembling hand
Places her thorny crown upon my head.
I leave my early hopes, my morning dreams,
My high aspirings, all, all unfulfilled,
And follow Destiny's far guiding beams,
With tearless eyes, and steady heart unchilled.
My high aspirings, all, all unfulfilled,
And follow Destiny's far guiding beams,
With tearless eyes, and steady heart unchilled.
I leave thy grave, oh, best beloved one!
The home to which my heart turns yearningly;—
The hope so long and fondly nursed is done,
I shall not claim the vacant place by thee!
The home to which my heart turns yearningly;—
The hope so long and fondly nursed is done,
I shall not claim the vacant place by thee!
201
And yet I leave thee not;—thou art not dead
To me, although thou sleepest cold and low,—
Thy love illumes the rugged way I tread,
And thy dear voice hath softly bid me,—“Go!”
To me, although thou sleepest cold and low,—
Thy love illumes the rugged way I tread,
And thy dear voice hath softly bid me,—“Go!”
For thou art always with me; though unseen,
I feel thy presence ever,—trustingly
On thee, in weakness and in woe I lean,
Hearing the sweet words—“I am still with thee!”
I feel thy presence ever,—trustingly
On thee, in weakness and in woe I lean,
Hearing the sweet words—“I am still with thee!”
I turn my lips from Love's detaining kiss,
I break the grasp of Friendship's clasping hand,
And pleading words, and tones of tenderness
Fall on my ear like rain on desert-sand.
I break the grasp of Friendship's clasping hand,
And pleading words, and tones of tenderness
Fall on my ear like rain on desert-sand.
I say no farewell word,—I drop no tear,—
I tremble not, whatever doom may wait
Upon my future;—I but breathe one prayer,
And go forth quietly to meet my fate.
I tremble not, whatever doom may wait
Upon my future;—I but breathe one prayer,
And go forth quietly to meet my fate.
| Forest buds, from the woods of Maine | |