Page:The Poets and Poetry of the West.djvu/677

1850-60.] LOUISA A. McGAFFEY. 6(J1 But only that fresh blooms may spring, More fadeless and more fair than they ; But only that our souls may sing A deeper, more inspiring lay ; Outside youth's barred and crystal gates, Rise deeper flood-tides of the soul, Larger the destiny that awaits, Wider the waters round us roll. Lo ! part way up the steep ascent, 'Mid fates of ice and fire, we stand, Three in one mystic union blent, An angel guide on either hand. How can we fear, how shall we fear. With mercies showering from above, And voices whispering far and near, " God's providence is always love ? " Soon shall the prospect wider grow, New worlds spring up beneath our gaze, And airs instinct with sweetness blow Along the flow'ry mountain ways. While looking back, the rugged plain O'er which we come shall seem so fair, We only see its gulfs of pain O'erflow with purple morning air. How beautiful our upward path. With God to grant our daily need ! Our guardian angels, Hope and Faith, The white-browed innocent we lead. Whose sweet, wide eyes of wonder are Wells of delight, brimful of joy. Wherein, as in the morning star, Heaven's light reflects without alloy. The summit gained, how wide the view, How fairer than our fairest dreams I How melt the morning tops in blue. How rich the light that round us streams ! Our passions lay themselves to sleep, The shade is cool, the wind is balm, And all our world lies tranced in deep And holy hush of noonday calm. Not long we linger ; time cries " On ! " And onward with the waning day. With faltering steps we go, and wan, But love immortal leads the way ; We shall not fear the dense white vail, That shrouds the valley at our feet. For underneath that phantom pale, Hides Mirza's Vision grand and sweet. So from these autumn ripened hours, I've drawn these fancies to beguile, With their symbolic fruits and flowers. Our downward way for many a mile. But come, the day wanes on apace. The evening wind begins to blow. The way is rough in many a place. The valley darkens ; let us go. MORNING IN THE CITY. Cold and clear o'er roof and spire The morning light is breaking. And like a giant in its might. The city is awaking. No choral greeting from the birds, No sound of cattle lowing. No swift, free winds on tireless wings. O'er field and woodland blowing. But faintly on the frosty air, A low and distant humming. That growing near and nearer still. Proclaims the day is coming. Through wide, still streets, with merry clang. The morning bells are pealing. Through murky lanes, where misery bides, A cold gray light is stealing. Now poui's the human tide along, Old man and maiden tender. Grave manhood and youth's happy face, In the early morning splendor.