112
PAST AND PRESENT
Thy lip so sadly sweet, thy brow serene!
There is no expectation in thy mien,
For thou hast done with dreams. Nor joy nor pain
Can e'er disturb thy placid calm again.
What is this veil that hides thee from our sight?
Breathe it away, thou spirit darkly bright!
It may not be! Our eyes are dim,
Perhaps with age, perhaps with tears;
We hear no more the choral hymn
The angels sing among the spheres.
Weary and worn and tempest-tossed,
Much have we gained—and something lost—
Since in the sunbeams golden glow,
The rippling river's silvery flow,
The song of bird or murmuring bee,
The fragrant flower, the stately tree,
The royal pomp of sunset skies,
And all earth's varied harmonies,
We saw and heard what nevermore
Can Earth or Heaven to us restore,
And felt a child's unquestioning faith
In childhood's mystic lore!
There is no expectation in thy mien,
For thou hast done with dreams. Nor joy nor pain
Can e'er disturb thy placid calm again.
What is this veil that hides thee from our sight?
Breathe it away, thou spirit darkly bright!
It may not be! Our eyes are dim,
Perhaps with age, perhaps with tears;
We hear no more the choral hymn
The angels sing among the spheres.
Weary and worn and tempest-tossed,
Much have we gained—and something lost—
Since in the sunbeams golden glow,
The rippling river's silvery flow,
The song of bird or murmuring bee,
The fragrant flower, the stately tree,
The royal pomp of sunset skies,
And all earth's varied harmonies,
We saw and heard what nevermore
Can Earth or Heaven to us restore,
And felt a child's unquestioning faith
In childhood's mystic lore!
·······
Yet could our voices reach the slumbering dead
Who rest so calmly in yon grass-grown bed,
This truth would seem with greatest wonder fraught—
That they are heroes to our eyes and thought.
For they were men who never dreamed of fame:
They did not toil to make themselves a name;
They little fancied that when years had passed,
And the long century had died at last,
Another age should make their graves a shrine,
And humble chaplets for their memory twine.
Who rest so calmly in yon grass-grown bed,
This truth would seem with greatest wonder fraught—
That they are heroes to our eyes and thought.
For they were men who never dreamed of fame:
They did not toil to make themselves a name;
They little fancied that when years had passed,
And the long century had died at last,
Another age should make their graves a shrine,
And humble chaplets for their memory twine.
