Lines

TO THE MEMORY OF "ANNIE," WHO DIED AT MILAN, JUNE 6, 1860.

"Jesus saith unto her, Woman, why weepest thou? whom seekest thou? She, supposing him to be the gardener, saith unto him, Sir, if thou have borne him hence, tell me where thou hast laid him."--JOHN xx. 15.

IN the fair gardens of celestial peace Walketh a Gardener in meekness clad; Fair are the flowers that wreathe his dewy locks, And his mysterious eyes are sweet and sad.

Fair are the silent foldings of his robes, Falling with saintly calmness to his feet; And when he walks, each floweret to his will With living pulse of sweet accord doth beat.

Every green leaf thrills to its tender heart, In the mild summer radiance of his eye; No fear of storm, or cold, or bitter frost, Shadows the flowerets when their sun is nigh.

And all our pleasant haunts of earthly love Are nurseries to those gardens of the air; And his far-darting eye, with starry beam, Watcheth the growing of his treasures there.

We call them ours, o'erwept with selfish tears, O'erwatched with restless longings night and day; Forgetful of the high, mysterious right He holds to bear our cherished plants away.

But when some sunny spot in those bright fields Needs the fair presence of an added flower, Down sweeps a starry angel in the night: At morn, the rose has vanished from our bower.

Where stood our tree, our flower, there is a grave! Blank, silent, vacant, but in worlds above, Like a new star outblossomed in the skies, The angels hail an added flower of love.

Dear friend, no more upon that lonely mound, Strewed with the red and yellow autumn leaf, Drop thou the tear, but raise the fainting eye Beyond the autumn mists of earthly grief.

Thy garden rose-bud bore, within its breast, Those mysteries of color, warm and bright, That the bleak climate of this lower sphere Could never waken into form and light.

Yes, the sweet Gardener hath borne her hence, Nor must thou ask to take her thence away; Thou shalt behold her in some coming hour, Full-blossomed in his fields of cloudless day.

THE CROCUS.

BENEATH the sunny autumn sky, With gold leaves dropping round, We sought, my little friend and I, The consecrated ground, Where, calm beneath the holy cross, O'ershadowed by sweet skies, Sleeps tranquilly that youthful form, Those blue unclouded eyes.

Around the soft, green swelling mound We scooped the earth away, And buried deep the crocus-bulbs Against a coming day. "These roots are dry, and brown, and sere; Why plant them here?" he said, "To leave them, all the winter long, So desolate and dead."

"Dear child, within each sere dead form There sleeps a living flower, And angel-like it shall arise In spring's returning hour." Ah, deeper down--cold, dark, and chill-- We buried our heart's flower, But angel-like shall he arise In spring's immortal hour.

In blue and yellow from its grave Springs up the crocus fair, And God shall raise those bright blue eyes, Those sunny waves of hair. Not for a fading summer's morn, Not for a fleeting hour, But for an endless age of bliss, Shall rise our heart's dear flower.

CONSOLATION.

WRITTEN AFTER THE SECOND BATTLE OF BULL RUN.

"And I saw a new heaven and a new earth: for the first heaven and the first earth were passed away; and there was no more sea."

AH, many-voiced and angry! how the waves Beat turbulent with terrible uproar! Is there no rest from tossing,--no repose? Where shall we find a haven and a shore?

What is secure from the loud-dashing wave? There go our riches, and our hopes fly there; There go the faces of our best beloved, Whelmed in the vortex of its wild despair.

Whose son is safe? whose brother, and whose home? The dashing spray beats out the household fire; By blackened ashes weep our widowed souls Over the embers of our lost desire.

By pauses, in the fitful moaning storm, We hear triumphant notes of battle roll. Too soon the triumph sinks in funeral wail; The muffled drum, the death march, shakes the soul!

Rocks on all sides, and breakers! at the helm Weak human hand and weary human eyes. The shout and clamor of our dreary strife Goes up conflicting to the angry skies.

But for all this, O timid hearts, be strong; Be of good cheer, for, though the storm must be, It hath its Master: from the depths shall rise New heavens, new earth, where shall be no more sea.

No sea, no tossing, no unrestful storm! Forever past the anguish and the strife; The poor old weary earth shall bloom again, With the bright foliage of that better life.

And war, and strife, and hatred, shall be past, And misery be a forgotten dream. The Shepherd God shall lead his peaceful fold By the calm meadows and the quiet stream.

Be still, be still, and know that he is God; Be calm, be trustful; work, and watch, and pray, Till from the throes of this last anguish rise The light and gladness of that better day.