Dryburgh Abbey and other poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

From the anguish of the spirit
Came a moan,—
A moan of utter dreariness,
A sigh of inward weariness,
Of confidence o'erthrown!
“When—when shall man have rest?” it cried;
And through the dark on every side,
A voice, half heard, half lost, replied,
In syllables sublime—
“When thy Faith hath wings to waft her,—
Light to climb,
Rest shall meet thy soul hereafter!—
Wait thy time!”

From the giant head of Alps,
Bearded by the avalanche,
Thousands winters yet shall blanch,
Came a moan;
And the torrents leapt aside,
As above them still replied,
High in solitude sublime,
“Rest is in the Great hereafter!
Wait thy time!”

From the broad Atlantic ocean,
With an everlasting motion,
As in pain,
Swept that wandering voice, distrest,—
“When—oh! when—shall Man have rest?”
And above the raging blast,
That, 'mid clouds, the billows cast,
Rose a strain,
Higher than the storm could climb,—
“Rest is for the Great Hereafter,
Wait thy time!”

Then the darkness stept aside,
And the glory multiplied,
As an avenue of light
Shewed an angel to the sight:
Slowly to the spirit, chained
Unto sorrow, that complained,—
She approached—and as she trod,
Comfort, like a breath of God,
Fell upon that spirit bent,
In its own abandonment;
And those eyes, with sudden grace,
Turned upon that angel-face
With a perfect hope, and said,
“Blessed be the Holy One!
Blessed,—may His will be done.”

And before the words were gone,
Suddenly the angel fled;—
But within that heart renewed,
Like a chime,
Rang the melody sublime,—
“When thy Faith hath wings to waft her,—
Light to climb,
Rest shall meet thy soul Hereafter!—
Wait thy time.”