I would be joyful as my days go by,
Counting God's mercies to rue. He who bore
Life's heaviest cross is mine forever-more,
And I who wait his coming, shall not I
On his sure word rely?
And if sometimes the way be rough and steep,
Be heavy for the grief he sends to me,
Or at my waking I would only weep,
Let me remember these are things to be,
To work his blessed will until he comes
To take my hand, and lead me safely home.
ANSON D.F. RANDOLPH.
* * * * *
SIT DOWN, SAD SOUL.
Sit down, sad soul, and count
The moments flying;
Come, tell the sweet amount
That's lost by sighing!
How many smiles?--a score?
Then laugh, and count no more;
For day is dying!
Lie down, sad soul, and sleep,
And no more measure
The flight of time, nor weep
The loss of leisure;
But here, by this lone stream,
Lie down with us, and dream
Of starry treasure!
We dream: do thou the same;
We love,--forever;
We laugh, yet few we shame,--
The gentle never.
Stay, then, till sorrow dies;
Then--hope and happy skies
Are thine forever!
BRYAN WALLER PROCTER. (_Barry Cornwall_.)
* * * * *
IT KINDLES ALL MY SOUL.
"Urit me Patriae decor."
It kindles all my soul,
My country's loveliness! Those starry choirs
That watch around the pole,
And the moon's tender light, and heavenly fires
Through golden halls that roll.
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