Footprints, that perhaps another, Sailing o'er life's solemn main, Let us, then, be up and doing, FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS. WHEN the hours of Day are numbered, Ere the evening lamps are lighted, Then the forms of the departed He, the young and strong, who cherished They, the holy ones and weakly, And with them the Being Beauteous, With a slow and noiseless footstep And she sits and gazes at me With those deep and tender eyes, Uttered not, yet comprehended, Oh, though oft depressed and lonely, If I but remember only Such as these have lived and died! THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS. THERE is a Reaper, whose name is Death, He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, "Shall I have nought that is fair," saith he; "Have nought but the bearded grain? Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me, I will give them all back again." He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes, He kissed their drooping leaves; It was for the Lord of Paradise He bound them in his sheaves. "My Lord has need of these flowerets gay," The Reaper said, and smiled; "Dear tokens of the earth are they, Where he was once a child. "They shall all bloom in fields of light, And saints upon their garments white, And the mother gave, in tears and pain, Oh, not in cruelty, not in wrath, The Reaper came that day; 'Twas an angel visited the green earth, And took the flowers away. THE LIGHT OF STARS. THE night is come, but not too soon; And sinking silently, All silently the little moon Drops down behind the sky. There is no light in earth or heaven, Is it the tender star of love? The star of love and dreams? And earnest thoughts within me rise, When I behold afar, Suspended in the evening skies, The shield of that red star. O star of strength! I see thee stand Within my breast there is no light, The star of the unconquered will, And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art, Oh, fear not in a world like this, FLOWERS. SPAKE full well, in language quaint and olden, Stars they are, wherein we read our history, Yet not wrapped about with awful mystery, Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous, Bright and glorious is that revelation, In these stars of earth,-these golden flowers. And the Poet, faithful and far-seeing, Of the self-same universal being Which is throbbing in his brain and heart. Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining, Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues, |