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peace, among us : — father, mother, children “ Hearts of each other sure," souls knit as oneAll wending in glad fellowship towards heaven. Heaven is our bourne, and its far hope hath lighted Upon our ocean-pathway, beacon-like, And caught the summits of the smallest waves That rise and sink around us, telling still Each bears us onward on its tremulous breast
To the still haven of eternal love.
Sometimes the distant clouds have threaten'd woe,
SUFFERING for thee, sweet sister — and sharp pain
For thee, the gentlest of earth's gentle ones?
So darkly, and yet no repining tones?
She, as a babe upon a mother's breast,
A child within a father's sheltering arms, Unconsciously is lying; — the unrest,
Brother, is thine -thine all those rude alarms. Still thy heart's beatings where she hers hath stilld, Believing all is best that He hath will’a.
Yet was our me so bright, so passing fair,
Some faint, dim semblance of a home above; And she the tenderest loveliest angel there,
Around whom cluster'd all our dreams of love: We thought that grief might never shadow long What seem'd the fittest haunt for praise and song.
And was it but a dream ? and has the cloud
Once and again pass’d by us, threatening woe And shedding tears ? and has its darkness bow'd
Our hearts once more in struggling sorrow low? And has the sunshine of affection's mirth Pass'd ever, sleep-like, from this beautiful earth ?
Nay, check your tears, sad sisters, pause and linger,
And check, sad brother, thy wild wayward words; Grief takes thy lyret from thee, and her finger
Sweeps somewhat rudely o'er the trembling chords. Ye must not, when beneath the cloud, forget That He, whose love is sunshine, loves ye yet.
Methinks I hear His voice of pity saying,
“Ye clung too closely to your lovely home; Your sister's spirit, dear children, is delaying,
To teach ye of a better rest to come :
HE GIVETH HIS BELOVED SLEEP.”
Oh, tread lightly - she is weary,
She hath suffer'd all day through,
If she wake and suffer too:
Silently the stars are keeping
Their sweet vigils o'er her,
That to-morrow is before her.
Break it not, that spell of slumber,
Waveless, beautiful as heaven, 'Mid the sharp gusts without number,
And the clouds, of tempests driven. Weep not, sister ; sister, cheer thee;
Yet she will not hear thee weep: She is weary, very weary,
Only let her sleep.
I could fancy, gazing on her,
She had pass'd her night of sighs ; And that heaven's own light upon her,
Waits to greet her opening eyes. Silence on each word of sorrow,
On a thought that would repine ; For there shall be such a morrow,
And for thee, sweet sister mine.
Ah! I know it, that reposing
'Tis her Father bade it come