Poems

Front matter

BY

ALICE E. ARGENT.

ppoem|{sm} Short swallow-flights of song, that dip Their wings in tears and skim away {sc}>>Tennyson.

On a Portrait of the Bishop of St. Albans, taken with his Dog "Sheira"

.

Howe'er it be, the page is opened wide In the firm grasp that holds it either side. A mirthful twinkle round the scholar's lips Steals yet a march on age and time's eclipse

Dear venerable form, And "good gray head"! long may'st thou live to bless All such as cling to thee in tenderness, Thine own who hold thee dearest here below, Whose lives have mixed with thine in joy and woe. Truly a shepherd of Christ's flock art thou Whose seal Divine is graven on thy brow!

Early Spring in London

The flower girls gather thick and strong "Neath baskets heavy laden, Within each blossom lies a song Heard by the town-bred maiden.

Beneath the monumental stone The arch of marble beauty, The gurgling fountain breathes a tone Of love, and faith and duty!

And where the smoky shadows lie Thick through the noisome alley, One meets beneath an alien sky The lily of the valley.

There, purely white, its blossoms shed From out their leafy cover, A fond remembrance for the dead, Or, fairy gift for lover.

"O buy, O buy whate'er you will, Sweet lilybells or pansy," A maiden calls,—and calm and still Her voice wins on your fancy.

Sweet Spring! the grand old city feels Your blue eyes bend above her, Across your noble front she steals Until you truly love her.

And glancing idly on the tide With crested waves enfolden, The stately swans swim side by side On through the lilies golden,

And past historic mansions dim Half hid in ivy tresses, Where fleeting song-birds fleet and slim From sylvan tendernesses,

Alight on turret, dome and spire, From haunted lone recesses, Swift catching from the sunset's fire A glow of soft caresses.

Great Paul booms out the hour of ten, I hear his voice sonorous, Loud mingling with the march of men In one tumultuous chorus!

The good old Abbey firm and fast Stands like a giant bolden, What victories of mind have passed Within its portals olden.

And on the mighty bridge that spans The river wide, stupendous, One marvels at the work of man's Huge force and power tremendous!

Sweet Spring that lets her beauty slip Upon the girlish faces, That pass with sunny smile on lip And dainty wealth of graces.

And still through countless ages rolls Life's folly and its fashions, Its precious freight of human souls Their mysteries and passions!

Yet once again Spring's gladness streams In all her wonted splendour, Filling the human heart with dreams And memories, sweet and tender!

A Beautiful Old Age

tpp|A BEAUTIFUL OLD AGE.|{sm}

"Serene and bright

And lovely as a Lapland night." {sc}>>Wordsworth. >><< DEAR placid hands! Crossed gently now in calm and restful life, Hands that have known their share of toil and strife, And yet have faltered not in youth or age To give both help and comfort,—now, a page In their life's history is turned, and they Are folded peacefully at close of day.

Sweet eyes serene!

With light of heaven reflected in their beams, Crowned with an aureole of far-off dreams, Eyes that still smile and smile, and weep and weep With others' joys and woes,—Time still doth keep Their youthful lustre, yet a pensive hue From other worlds dwells in their sunny blue.

Dear silvery hair!

That once was golden, nay, its beauty now Is undisputed, snows that veil the brow |end=follow

With purity's soft haze, it is in truth More touching than the rippling locks of youth, That fluttered in the sunshine and the air And caught the laughing sunbeams' feet so fair.

Dear heart, still young! As true hearts are, Time cannot touch the spring Th' eternal verdure that with thee doth cling, Around each human object that hath need Of pitying kindness in word or deed. Dear loving heart in Life's sweet eventide But brighter for the fires that purified.

Some few more years We pray be thine, for those who love thee so, Who hold thee dearest of the dear below, And then the rapture of a fairer shore, The meeting of thy loved ones gone before. Here, beautiful thine age serene and bright, There, lovelier than the poet's Lapland night!

Lord! grant that I May be like her, a virgin lily crowned, With peace and hope encircling all around, With oil of joy and garments of pure grace, A fair faint shadow of the Master's face. Thy lily, Lord, one day with tender love To be transplanted to the realms above!

Twin Souls

tpp|TWIN SOULS.|{sm} But thou and I are one in kind

As moulded like in Nature's mint,

And hill and wood and field did print

The same sweet forms in either mind." {sc}<>Tennyson. >><< THERE are two souls who seldom meet,

So far apart

Their lines in life, and yet they are

True friends in heart.

One moves in noble rank—but still

A woman sweet,

Who holds not such as all in all

On earth complete.

A good Samaritan who sees

Her neighbour's need,

Who from her place looks down and helps

In word and deed.

No greater joy has she, I ween,

Than each to bless,

There is no limit to her thoughts

Of tenderness.

The evening-time is drawing near

Her footsteps now,

But she has caught soft lights of heaven

Upon her brow.

|end=stanza

The poor, the helpless, and the sad, With stricken breast, Cling to her lovingly, as if Her touch brought rest.

Dear saintly woman, loved by all, Who long hath trod Life's pathway—she, our Dora, is The gift of God!

The other soul of whom I write Is lowly born, A violet in a shady nook, Just kissed by morn.

She fills her place as best she may With loving zeal, A woman of self-sacrifice Whose faith is real!

In friendship's bonds these two are knit, Their minds are one, The selfsame beauty breathes for them In flower and sun.

Position's gulf seems stranded o'er By outstretched hands. Love parts the icy barrier with Strong arms and bands!

What though the violet lives and moves In paths unknown, Save by the few who love and shield Her as their own.

An angel with soft folded wings, All unaware, She sits beside us—and her name On earth is Clare!

And these twin-souls who seldom meet, Whose lives apart Are often sundered, keep for aye True friends in heart!

Lux in Tenebris

Who see through faith, (though tears their eyes enshroud), The silver lining breaking through the cloud.

And there be some Sweet patient souls who dwell in narrow ways To whom the pearl of health doth seldom come, So full of suffering are all their days; And yet within them burning clear and bright A voice that says "Behold! I am thy light!"

There are, I ween, Some hidden corners in the woods and lanes Unguessed by man, for thickly by a screen Of leafy banners, and mute summer rains They fail our vision—but the light they win In the green silence is by God closed in.

But it is there, Invisible unto the human eye Accustomed to the sunshine lying fair In undulating waves o'er sea and sky. The shades of evening and their dying rays Point to the sun who lights the woodland ways.

No perfect song But has a touch of sadness in its strain, An undercurrent moving swift and strong, That takes us captive o'er and o'er again. No lovely picture but a shade of night Was blended softly to throw up its light.

So, likewise we In thoroughfares of keen perplexèd thought Glance upwards, till our souls are taught to see The mingled blessings joy and grief have wrought In our lives' patterns—then we know that love Wielded both lights and shadows from above!

Granny's Boy

tpp|GRANNY'S BOY.| {sm}<>(LITTLE KINGSLEY.)

HE has wayward tossing curls And a mouth of sweetest pearls, Oriental in their hue, Dazzling with their lustre new: And his laughter breaks in words Like the twitterings of birds.

He has eyes so brown and bright Full of innocence and light, With long lashes sweeping o'er Their unfathomed childish lore. Oh! he is a thing of joy, Strong and bonnie, Granny's boy!

In the garden running wild He is Nature's darling child, And the butterflies and bees Try their winsome way to please, Lighting on the choicest flowers To attract this boy of ours. |end=stanza

Nought he teases in his play, Nought he hurts in any way, He has far too kind a heart In such pastime to take part; For God's creatures great and small Granny's boy doth love them all

Granny, with her snow-white hair Beautiful beyond compare, Dearly loves him, and 'tis sweet In her ears to hear his feet Pattering where'er she goes, He a rosebud, she a rose!

Kissing lovingly her lips, Clinging with warm finger-tips To her neck all tender wise, As she bends her wistful eyes On the dear child face that beams From life's floating sea of dreams.

When the evening draweth near He will ask in accents clear, For a game of "hide and seek" Till like damask glows his cheek: But, a romp in the old hall Granny's boy loves best of all.

Chivalry will far and wide Flourish where child hearts abide

Where the gold head and the gray Mingle brightly day by day. Oh! the world is full of joy When it loves as Granny's boy!

Incurable

And the young lambs in the meadows that go bounding o'er the lea, Oh! I have loved and watched them for the thoughts they brought to me.

I am lying here in London and my own are far away, Many thousand miles asunder, yet I wonder day by day,

If they think of me and miss me in the dear old ingle nook, Rocking baby in her cradle, crooning from some fairy book?

Does my father in the gloaming when he drives the cattle home, Wish his little maid were with him when the shades of evening come?

Oh! I see him looking vainly when the Sabbath morn doth rise Out into the misty headlands with his true and honest eyes.

Hand in hand we walked together, father's eager little maid, In the beauteous summer weather, in the pleasant autumn shade.

Still I hear his voice ascending in the chancel broad and dim, Joining in the plaintive cadence of the dear old evening hymn!

Mother, father, sisters, brothers, I am joining you in part, I am listening in the silence, but I hear you in my heart.

I am dying, mother, dearest, yet you must not grieve for me, For a blighted little blossom dropping from its parent tree.

But to day the doctor told me with a kind hand on my brow, He had tried his best to cure me, but that nought could save me now.

So many weary weeks have passed since in the darkening street The big dray horses knocked me down and crushed me 'neath their feet.

Mother, darling, I shall never see the flowers bloom wild again, I am stricken down with sickness and with long, long hours of pain.

Though the nurse is good and gentle and doth talk so calm and wise, Yet I fain would have you near me, there are none like mother's eyes!

Oft I dream that you are holding just my two hands close and tight, As you used when I was little in the starless winter's night.

Oh! I dream me ever daily I am wandering as of old In the orchard and the meadows starred with buttercups of gold.

There I pluck the pink-tipped daisies, pull the fair faint cuckoo flower, Twine the honeysuckle gaily round about our garden bower.

Dreaming still, I see the wind-flower blowing down the woodlands cool, And the lovely water-lily floating idly on the pool.

Oh! I pine me for the roses, crimson, yellow, sunny-eyed, Nestling 'neath a hundred leaflets dancing gaily in their pride.

Here, I never see a primrose nor a fairy daffodil, Like the ones that grow and flourish by our cottage near the hill,

Will you come and see me, mother, only once before I die? I should love to feel your kisses, and to bid you dear, good-bye.

Ere I travel through the valley of the shadow that doth wait On my footsteps struggling upwards to the shining Golden Gate!

Will you come and see my grave, mother, and a rosy garland bring Just to crown it with the brightness from the coronal of spring?

For, may be, that I shall feel it, on my still and peaceful breast, Where the noise of the great city jars not on its hard-won rest.

You will think of me, my mother, yet you must not sigh or weep, For you know the tender Shepherd folds me in His arms to sleep!

In the Avenue

And multitudes of humming bees Take their most comfortable ease Upon the sweet wild flowers.

The long lake through the avenue Reflects the heavens so deeply blue, And throws a sudden gleam Across the lilies as they grow And flutter idly to and fro, Within the water's tranquil flow, Their petals whiter than the snow, More fair than earthly dream!

Within the distance graze the deer, With antlered heads, and far and near, The slender fawns at play. Oh! beauteous creatures slim and fair, That sportive sniff the free fresh air, Unfettered in your grassy lair, May cruel huntsmen never dare To harm you any way.

A boat is drifting on the lake, A double boat it seems to make, Slow sailing at its will. Oh! what a vision of delight Must be the dawn of morning bright,— The moonlit radiance of the night That bursts upon the startled sight, O'er valley and o'er hill.

And sweet the pleasant sense of rest The whole scene stamps upon the breast, Within this shadowy place. Away from all the city's din, One marvels that a thought of sin Should from the heart a conquest win, With God and Nature close shut in And speaking face to face!

Unrest

tpp|UNREST.|{sm} Music that gentlier on the spirit lies Than tir'd eyelids on tir'd eyes."—Tennyson. >><< ING me a song to-night,

Unearthly, calm and bright,

With nothing sad to mar its upward strain.

Open the casement wide,

Let in the warm sun tide,

The gentle murmur of the slumb'rous main.

Touch with your fingers fair

Some dim and tranquil air,

That like a spirit seems to float around,

Carrying upon its wings

A thought of better things,

Dreams that are like the angels, golden crowned.

Majestic, full and long,

Must be to-night your song,

If you would soothe my heart's unquiet rest. |end=follow

A breathing all divine At some old master's shrine, To linger lovingly within my breast.

Sing me to realms away, Where sunlight crowns the day, And prints a kiss upon the mountain's height! Waft me where Alpine snows Glitter 'mid roseate glows, To leave a radiance ever pure and bright!

Take me where valleys green Bask in a silver sheen, And morning wakes in bud and blossom gay, Where knots of happy flowers Perfume the fleeting hours, To sleep with folded heads at close of day.

Then on where billows roar, And dash along the shore, In foaming curdles and in thund'rous might, Where ocean weeps and raves, In rough and rolling waves, That fill one with a vague and fierce delight.

O music, thine the power To quell a restless hour, Oh! what upon this earth so wond'rous sweet Greatest of things that be, To last eternally, I bow me down before thy charméd feet.

No human heart can be Untouched, methinks, by thee, For, like some holy white-winged angel guest, To-night thy spirit fair Hath robbed me of all care, And smoothed away a sick soul's wide unrest!

Farinelli's Triumph

And power to act; for me there gleams the dawn Of reason in a mind for long time weak.

That sound again! Whence comes it? 'tis like rivers running through A sea of meads where flow'rets bud and bloom, As clear as sunlight on a sky of blue That holds no cloud of dark prophetic gloom.

Sing on, sing on, Sweet singer, for 'tis passing strange once more To realise my kingly state and crown, But ah! that regal weight hath pressed full sore Until I longed to lay the sceptre down.

Prythee sing on, Oh! greatest singer of the world, nor stay Those thrilling tones and melting notes of art, With thoughts ineffable they charm away The dark forebodings in a monarch's heart.

Prythee sing on, The while I gaze upon thy matchless grace And statuesque repose, the brow that gleams And crowns the perfect grandeur of a face, The ideal beauty of a poet's dreams.

Sing on, sing on, Thy greatest triumph this, to know a King Hath by thy magic strains won back his might, And by a voice borne on an angel's wing, His power to govern, as is just and right.

But He who gave Such high gifts to thee, will reward thee best, He knows the yearnings of thine artist's soul, He understands the song but half expressed To mortal ears, that fail to catch the whole.

Take all of wealth And earthly honours that are mine to give, Oh, Farinelli! at whose master touch My soul awakened as it were to live, I cannot recompense thee over much!

Lilies

tpp|LILIES.|{sm} "My beloved is gone down into his garden—to gather lilies." {sc}>>Solomon's Song. >><< BESIDE the garden's sunny wall

My tall white lilies rise,

Whereon the sunbeams love to fall

From far-off orient skies;

And, stainless as the dazzling snow, They wave their blossoms to and fro.

I watch my lilies day by day

Unfold their buds of white,

And dearest in the garden gay

Are these my flowers of light,

All radiantly they ever dwell On thoughts and prayers invisible! |end=stanza

Their odour scatters through the air A soft thanksgiving psalm, In which I fain would come and share Such high and lofty calm. My grateful lilies! that do give Their fullest every day they live.

What purity and love they teach In garments without spot, As with meek looks they seem to reach Where sorrow cometh not. My virgin lilies fair and tall That grow beside the garden wall.

I wonder not on them was laid The emblem sweet of old, And chosen type for saintly maid On whom the manifold, Great love of God was shower'd upon,— The maiden meek who bore God's Son.

Madonna-like these blossoms speak Unto each human breast, And in sad hearts with anguish weak Whisper eternal rest. Oh! pure my lilies, blowing sweet With lifted eyes and patient feet.

Within the garden wilds on earth, Where noisome weeds and roots Choke the poor flowers that spring to birth, Oh! spare the tender shoots!

The young, young lilies of the land Who need the Master's strengthening hand.

Dear Lord, I would that I might be Within Thy garden ground, A chaste white lily grown for Thee And hedged all safe around. Oh! might I in Thy fields divine With Christ's own light reflected shine!

Growing Old

The first fresh radiance of the spring, The beauty of its noon Which sets in autumn, seems too fair To fade and die so soon. Yet underneath the dark moist earth The buds are waiting second birth,

Not very far old Winter stands In garments grim and grey, With hoary locks and sceptre dim Of ice which wields his sway, Yet bursting from his chilly snows He brings a gift, the Christmas rose!

And kindly is the phantom smile That flickers o'er his face, His heart is full of kindly warmth, His welcome breathes in grace, Doth he not open wide the door Of human hearts in rich and poor?

My joyous spring of youth is past, Its wealth of sunny hours Are gone for ever! they have died, As die the spring's dear flowers, Yet in God's sky the stars still shine, The stars of love, and they are mine.

The fuller life of summer, too, Has passed away and fled,

Into the tract of Time's wide sea, The sea that holds the dead, Yet o'er me still the same sun gleams, And keeps for me my summer dreams.

And now the autumn of my life, Its tranquillising light, Is round me, but I do not fear The dark that brings the night: For fairer than the silver ray Of yonder moon is promised Day!

The Return of Spring

And from the trees perpetual ran The message of God's love to man

The limpid waters of the pool, Whereon the floating lily cool

Lay 'twixt green leaves half hid from view, Looked shyly up into the blue

Of matchless beauty overhead, That smiled upon his tranquil bed.

The Spring, all garlanded and gay, Tripped out from blooms of fragrant may,

And like a maiden crowned with flowers, She stepped coquettish, bathed in showers;

Upon the wind her tresses bold Streamed from laburnum's locks of gold;

And through all distance far and near Her clarion voice fell loud and clear,

As, shouting out in tones of mirth, She said, "Rejoice once more, O earth!

For from on high God sent me down," To shine on country and o'er town!

A Dream of Home

It should be where the waving forest arches Meet high in air (as kindred spirits meet), Where the sweet music of a thousand larches Whisper their faint, fair songs of solace sweet.

I know the spot right well; all day serenely The glorious hills encircle it around, And whitely bloom the water-lilies queenly With God's own mystic meaning o'er them crowned.

The busy din of cities, vast, stupendous, The fretful jar of men who lose their soul In gaining money by a force tremendous, As if life ended at so poor a goal,

Should not come near to vex me with its sadness, But this dear river, at its "own sweet will," Should bring to me its message of pure gladness, Its lofty watchword to go "onward" still!

If I might choose! within these sloping meadows Where nature heals the spirit's inner moan, My friends should walk within the lovely shadows, The ones who love me for MYSELF alone,

Should walk beside me with kind arms enfolden Round me by reason of their love divine, And, like the ancients in the ages olden, Should worship God 'neath Nature's leafy shrine!

Not like a hermit would I live to ponder, For friendship with her steady torch should burn

Within my walls, where those I loved should wander, And to whose hearts mine own would gladly turn.

The heart must crave a heart to rest on sweetly, The soul, a soul, to feed its higher fires, And kindred spirits to make up completely All that a human creature most desires!

If I might choose, the summer should reign ever, A peerless bride 'mid snowy belts of flowers, And winter, robed in ice and snow, should never Come to displace her bright voluptuous hours.

Myrtles should bloom within my garden closes, The bee's low murmur float upon the air From morn till eve, and the soft-scented roses Should blow for ever beautiful and fair.

What care I for Society's harsh uses, The cold restraint, the feelings tired and old? The frigid handshake, and the fierce abuses Of souls all bartered for the lust of gold?

The hollow mask, Frivolity's last fashion, The life without an aim? the careless throng, Unheeding of the tide of human passion, The undercurrent moving swift and strong?

Away! away! all these I'd fly to-morrow If I might choose wherein to find true rest; The grand old hills would smile away my sorrow, Keep watch and ward above a wearied breast.

Sweet Nature, with your myriad cheerful changes, Your waving tresses in laburnum trees, Your stately heathers and your moated granges, Your rocky coasts and your tremendous seas!

Your hoary oaks, the aspen's painful quiver, The river grasses that my spirit hears Upon the reedy banks of yonder river, That drowns itself in jets of pearly tears.

I care not for the world, the gorgeous city That lies all rotten at its inmost care, But that I feel within a deep, deep pity Of what must be, till "time shall be no more."

The stillness of the country and its beauty, The little lives that burst upon our sight, The sense of peace and pleasant round of duty— All these sum up a life serenely bright.

If I might choose the spot where I would solely Rest with a sense of happiness to come, It should be in the country rapt and holy, A spot a wearied spirit might call—Home.

Cathedral Chimes

tpp|CATHEDRAL CHIMES.|{sm} "Bells—the music nighest bordering upon heaven." >>C. Lamb. >><< FAR away I heard them

Through the tranquil air,

In the distance pealing, Like sweet voices stealing

Through a world so fair.

|end=stanza

Beautiful and wondrous Was that ringing chime, In the twilight dying, Falling softly, sighing To a mystic rhyme.

All was still around me By the river dim, As I stood and listened By the waves that glistened Round its utmost rim.

In the wind's low murmur Through the leafy trees, Louder came the measure Of that tuneful pleasure, 'Cross the sleeping seas!

Like a white-winged angel, Down from starry skies, Those sweet chimes came o'er me, Upwards, onward bore me Through life's mysteries.

All in silver shadows Lay the waters wide, Through the meadows gleaming Fitful rays went streaming Idly o'er the tide.

Mingling all in chorus, Bird and bell and bee,

All the earth in singing Joined in that grand ringing, Subtlest melody!

Till my soul was wakened To a higher power, Life seemed not so dreary, Heart and brain less weary, For that calm, bright hour.

Such a calm as angels, In the fields above, Feel with untold gladness, Ne'er a thought of sadness In their perfect love.

Far away I heard them, Beautiful and fair, In the distance pealing, Like sweet voices stealing Through the tranquil air!

Floating Feather

His nostrils they were thin and fine, His pedigree was olden.

He scorned the whip, the spur and rein, Unrivalled were his paces; Across the heather and the hills He showed a thousand graces!

His eyes were beautiful and soft, Affection's rays were gleaming In their dark depths, as if the stars Had come there and lay dreaming.

Those eyes, they took you captive quite, A something almost human Flashed from them like the beauteous light One sees in gentle woman!

Oh! we have roamed full many a mile Through vale, up hill together; All tireless as the mountain breeze, In spite of wind or weather.

On through the air like to a bird, Or, very Atalanta, He's borne me on the wildest night With gallop, trot and canter.

His silky mane and flowing tail, Tossed here and there in wonder, His hoofs re-echoing far and wide Like mimic claps of thunder.

His nostrils sniffed and snorted fire, And full of satisfaction, He seemed to know we all admired And loved him to distraction.

In truth, a little steed that none Could beat in any weather, The daintiest spirit creature he: Well named a floating feather!

Though twenty years have come and gone, Within the grassy meadow, No sign of age doth he display, He laughs at Time's weird shadow.

He comes to all to be caressed And rubs his nose so tender Upon your shoulder just to show How great is still his splendour!

I almost think "Pegasus" dwells Within this steed so sprightly, He must have sure some hidden wings To make him move so lightly.

The years may come, the years may go, Their flight he fails to measure, He canters still with buoyant step, As if it were a pleasure.

Then wonder not the fattest oats And sweetest heads of clover

Within his manger you shall find Of such he is a lover.

Commingling with a warm soft bed Of straw and hay together, For where on earth shall mortal find Another Floating Feather?

The Orchard of Palms

The glorious oak and sycamore, With myrtle, bay, Arbutus, jessamine, perfume The air each day.

And through the slanting sunlight runs The river bright, Crowned with a lustrous pyramid Of starry light.

And ships in endless motion glide With rarest freight, Like white swans floating side by side In regal state!

Close underfoot the tender grass Of vivid green, Far famed in Syria throughout Each varied scene.

The Syrian sky in hazy warmth, O'er land and sea, Scatters a thousand purple hues Unceasingly.

Surpassing beautiful the fields And birds of song, That warble in enchanted groves The whole day long,

Through sunny gardens where the spray Of fountains drip

Their cooling waters on the ear And brow and lip.

The orchard of the spreading palms Opens to view, Magnificently beneath the sky Of Syrian blue!

The docile camels stoop to drink, With bended head, In the pellucid lake that winds By grassy bed.

Here soars the palm with lofty crest And brave and bold, So broad of branch, so wide of girth, And years untold.

Each branch is perfected with fronds Plumy and soft: Wax-like and brilliant high they stand And wave aloft!

Heavy with luscious dates, they drop Their manna sweet, Throwing both food and shelter round The traveller's feet.

What magic lingers in a palm! The Eastern world Unfolds before one's gaze, as flags With awe unfurled!

"The Master is Come and Calleth for Thee"

To meekly follow where His feet have trod The thorny furrows that lead up to God; To stretch a hand where aid is needed most To such as err and count themselves as lost.

Sometimes He calls for thee To give up all thy earthly dreams, that dim The narrow way that leads at last to Him; To lose and suffer, and to count but vain Earth's passing joys to heaven's eternal gain. It may be in the silence and the shade Thou best shalt hear His voice, "Be not afraid!"