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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.
A”. 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.
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.
SAW him once before,
As he passed by the door,
The pavement stones resound,
As he totters o'er the ground
With his cane.
They say that in his prime,
Ere the pruning-knife of Time
Cut him down,
Not a better man was found
By the crier on his round -
Through the town.
But now he walks the streets,
And he looks at all he meets
Sad and wan,
And he shakes his feeble head,
That it seems as if he said,
“They are gone.”
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
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
HEN 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;