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MY ANGEL GUIDE.

185

My Angel Guide.

I

GAZED down life's dim labyrinth,

A wildering maze to see,
Crossed o'er by many a tangled clue,

And wild as wild could be ;
And as I gazed in doubt and dread,

An angel came to me.

I knew him for a heavenly guide,

I knew him even then,
Though meekly as a child he stood

Among the sons of men ;
By his deep spirit loveliness

I knew him even then.

And as I leaned my weary head

Upon his proffered breast,
And scanned the peril-haunted wild

From out my place of rest,
I wondered if the shining ones

Of Eden were more blest.

For there was light within my soul,

Light on my peaceful way; And all around the blue above

The clustering starlight lay ; And easterly I saw upreared

The pearly gates of day.

So, hand in hand we trod the wild,

My angel-love and I-
His lifted wing all quivering

With tokens from the sky,
Strange, my dull thought could not divine

'Twas lifted—but to fly!

Again down life's dim labyrinth

I grope my way alone,
While wildly through the midnight sky

Black hurrying clouds are blown,
And thickly, in my tangled path,

The sharp, bare thorns are sown.

Yet firm my foot, for well I know

The goal cannot be far;
And ever through the rifted clouds

Shines out one steady star-
For when my guide went up he left
The pearly gates ajar.

EMILY C. JUDSON.

old Follcs.

H! don't be sorrowful, darling,

And don't be sorrowful, pray; Taking the year together, my dear,

There isn't more night than day,

'Tis rainy weather, my darling,

Time's waves, they heavily run;
But taking the year together, my dear,

There isn't more cloud than sun.

We are old folks now, my darling,

Our hearts, they are growing gray; But taking the year all round, my dear,

You will always find the May.

We have had our May, my darling,

And our roses long ago, And the time of the year is coming, my dear,

For the silent night and the snow.

THE LAST LEAF.

187

And God is God, my darling,

Of night as well as of day,
And we feel and know that we can go

Wherever He leads the way.

Ay! God of the night, my darling,

Of the night of death so grim;
The gate that leads out of life, good wife,
Is the gate that leads to Him.

ANONYMOUS.

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The mossy marbles rest
On the lips that he has pressed

In their bloom;
And the names he loved to hear
Have been carved for many a year

On the tomb.

My grandmamma has said-
Poor old lady! she is dead

Long ago
That he had a Roman nose,
And his cheek was like a rose

In the snow.

But now his nose is thin,
And it rests upon his chin

Like a staff,
And a crook is in his back,
And a melancholy crack

In his laugh.

I know it is a sin
For me to sit and grin

At him here :
But the old three-cornered hat,
And the breeches, and all that,

Are so queer!

And if I should live to be
The last leaf upon the tree

In the spring-
Let them smile, as I do now,
At the old forsaken bough
Where I cling

OLIVER W. HOLMES.

WHAT THE END SHALL BE.

189

What the End shall be. WHEN another life is added

To the heaving, turbid mass; When another breath of being

Stains creation's tarnished glass ; When the first cry, weak and piteous,

Heralds long-enduring pain, And a soul from non-existence

Springs, that ne'er can die again; When the mother's passionate welcome,

Sorrow-like, bursts forth in tears,
And a sire's self-gratulation
Prophesies of future years, –

It is well we cannot see
What the end shall be.

When across the infant features

Trembles the faint dawn of mind, And the heart looks from the windows

Of the eyes that were so blind; When the inarticulate murmurs

Syllable each swaddled thought, To the fond ear of affection

With a boundless promise fraught; Kindling great hopes for to-morrow

From that dull, uncertain ray,
As by glimmering of the twilight
Is foreshown the perfect day,–

It is well we cannot see
What the end shall be.

When the boy, upon the threshold

Of his all-comprising home, Puts aside the arm maternal

That enlocks him ere he roam;

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