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God's-Acre! Yes, that blessed name imparts
Comfort to those, who in the grave have sown The seed, that they had garnered in their hearts,
Their bread of life, alas! no more their own.
Into its furrows shall we all be cast,
In the sure faith, that we shall rise again
Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain.
Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom,
In the fair gardens of that second birth ; And each bright blossom mingle its perfume
With that of flowers which never bloomed on earth.
With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod,
And spread the furrow for the seed we sow; This is the field and Acre of our God,
This is the place, where human harvests grow!
RIVER! that in silence windest
Through the meadows, bright and free, Till at length thy rest thou findest
In the bosom of the sea !
Four long years of mingled feeling,
Half in rest, and half in strife, I have seen thy waters stealing
Onward, like the stream of life.
Thou hast taught me, Silent River!
Many a lesson, deep and long; Thou hast been a generous giver;
Oft in sadness and in illness,
I have watched thy current glide, Till the beauty of its stillness
Overflowed me, like a tide.
And in better hours and brighter,
When I saw thy waters gleam,
And leap onward with thy stream.
Not for this alone I love thee,
Nor because thy waves of blue From celestial seas above thee
Take their own celestial hue.
Where yon shadowy woodlands hide thee,
And thy waters disappear,
And have made thy margin dear.
More than this;—thy name reminds me
Of three friends, all true and tried; And that name, like magic, binds me
Closer, closer to thy side.
Friends my soul with joy remembers !
How like quivering flames they start, When I fan the living embers
On the hearth-stone of my heart!
'Tis for this, thou Silent River!
That my spirit leans to thee; Thou hast been a generous giver,
Take this idle song from me.
Blind Bartimeus at the gates
The thronging multitudes increase ;
Then saith the Christ, as silent stands
THE GOBLET OF LIFE.
Filled is Life's goblet to the brim;
With solemn voice and slow.
No purple flowers, —no garlands green,
Thick leaves of mistletoe.
This goblet, wrought with curious art,
Are running all to waste.
And as it mantling passes round,
And give a bitter taste.
Above the lowly plants it towers,
Lost vision to restore.
It gave new strength and fearless mood; And gladiators, fierce and rude,