HOPE
A little Kirk, beneath a steep green hill,
With a grey spire that peeps o'er tall elm-trees,
In a still, pastoral land of brook and rill,
And broomy knoll, and sleepy, dripping mill,
Far from the stir of cities and of seas:
And near the Kirk, low nestling in the copse,
With honeysuckle clad, and roses red,
A little Manse, whose sweet-flowered garden slopes
Down to the river where the river drops,
With murmuring ripple, o'er a pebbly bed.
How happily the days and years might flow
Among the silent shepherds brooding long,
In pious labour, studious to know,
And patient service, till their life should grow
From thoughtful silence into thoughtful song;
To pass from house to house in visit free,
Welcome as sunshine at the smoking hearth,
To take the little children on the knee,
And bless them, as He did in Galilee
Who came with blessing unto all the earth;
To speak to them of Duty and of God,
And of the Love that clasped the bitter Cross,
And of the health and comfort of His rod,
And go before them on the way He trod,
Who found Life's glory and fulness in its loss;
To share in all the joys and griefs they have,
To bless the bridal, not else thought complete,
To stand beside the cradle and the grave,
And tell them how the meek and true and brave
Turn graves to cradles where the sleep is sweet.
O happy lot! with one, to brighten life,
Smiling soft-eyed beside the evening fire,
Sharing the sorrow, sweetening all the strife,
And leaning on her lord, a loving wife,
And cherished by her lord with fond desire.
Dream of the golden morning of the day!
Dream of the night beneath the folding star!
Dream of the hungry heart that in me lay!
Dream by the river rippling soft away
Into the tremulous moonshine—which dreams are.
