What Is Your Life?

Why do we mourn? why do we sigh? We who may to-morrow lie With folded hands and death-sealed eye?

A brave and gallant heart I knew: Like some young sturdy oak he grew Nursed by the sun, refreshed by dew.

His hopes were bright and high their aim: Above reproach or fear of shame None ever lightly spoke his name.

He left our cottage blithe and gay, And as he left we heard him say, "I will return at close of day."

We watched him as he passed along, He was so manly, brave and strong, Oh, was the pride we cherished wrong?

We thought of him as one designed To bless and elevate mankind,-- And it was well that we were blind!

We did not see the gathering frown,-- But long before the sun went down, A dreadful rumor filled the town.

They told us gently he was dead,-- I would not credit what they said: But when I knew it reason fled.

I woke to real life once more; My dream of happiness was o'er-- I stood upon a desert shore.

All day I heard the billows moan, All night I answered groan with groan, For I was desolate and lone.

There came no message o'er the sea, No message from the lost to me, And I repined at God's decree.

The bolt was spared--and o'er my head The bow of mercy shone instead, And I at last was comforted.

Now when the billows rage and roar, I think it shortly will be o'er,-- 'Tis calm upon the other shore.

I look at Time as one who sees A pale leaf floating on the breeze Amid a grove of noble trees.

It fills awhile a little nook; To-day it is--to-morrow, look! The great white Throne! the open Book!

We stand upon a narrow space, Eternity rolls on apace-- Where next shall be our resting-place?

LIFE.

As when the graceful bark, with spreading sails, Glides from the port into the open sea, Wafted along by soft and prosperous gales, Just as the rising sun bids darkness flee; So, like that bark, in early youth are we, When first we launch upon the sea of life-- Our hopes as bright, our youthful souls as free, The scene around with love and beauty rife. And all unknown to us its griefs, its cares and strife.

The bark glides on; but, see, the azure sky With dark and angry clouds is soon o'ercast; The thunders roar, the forked lightnings fly, The billows beat, and howls the midnight blast! The trembling vessel, with dismantled mast, The maddened waves have in their fury tossed, Until she lies a helpless wreck at last, Her plans all thwarted, and her hopes all crossed, Her guiding star obscured, and her direction lost.

'Tis thus with life; at times deemed most secure, When all seems calm, and beautiful, and fair, Dark rocks concealed, the easier to allure, The fragile bark in youth's bright morn ensnare; And storms arise, and fierce the lightnings glare, And wild and high the raging billows roll, While sinks the heart a wreck in deep despair, Till, brightly o'er the dark and dreary pole, The Morning Star appears to the benighted soul!

It guides the bark across life's troubled sea,-- It points the way unto the destined shore, Till, anchored in a blest eternity, It buffets with the howling storm no more. Be ours that star to guide us safely o'er! To us, oh, may its precious light be given! And though the tempests beat and billows roar, And though we now by adverse winds are driven, We'll safely anchor soon in the blest port of Heaven!

THE SILENT ARMY.

Life is the road to death. No one can lose the way--'tis sure and plain. Whatever paths we take all end the same. Some walk in sunshine, and some beneath a cloud; some gather flowers and some the thorn; but at the gate all stand alike: nor poverty, nor wealth can enter there.

To those who smile, and those who weep, To those who sing, and those who sigh, There comes the same long final sleep,-- There comes the time when each must die.

We watch the faces as they pass-- We say of some, "How very fair": Nor think how soon the churchyard grass Will thrive upon the beauty there.

The objects of our love we take Close to our hearts and call them ours! They are the gods we ne'er forsake, But crown them every morn with flowers.

We dip them o'er and o'er again In love's immortal fount; but when We find that all has been in vain, God shield us in our anguish then.

The Death-drum beats, the roll is called, New names are on the list to-day: Some answer calm and unappalled As if 'twere pleasure to obey.

For life to them was full of pain, Death opened wide the only door, While others weep and plead in vain For just one little moment more.

Through all the springs that come and go, At noon, at night, at early dawn, Through summer's heat and winter's snow, That silent army marches on!

On, on forever to the tomb! They pitch no tents along the way; On, on, it is the common doom, There's no return and no delay.

They take no purse nor scrip with them However rich they were before; The brow of beauty wears no gem, And slaves are men--and kings no more.

From every land, and sea, and clime, Through all the ages that are gone, Through all the years of future time, That host has marched--will still march on.

And shall we of to-morrow boast? This very night may seal our doom And find us with that shadowy host, Whose line of march is for the tomb!

Death and the tomb! our hearts rebel, And wonder why such things should be; Great God, who doeth all things well, We leave these mysteries with Thee!

Thou knowest why, and we shall know When raised in triumph from the grave, Redeemed from death, and sin, and woe, Through Him who hath the power to save.

THE DYING WARRIOR.

A warrior lay, with a heaving breast, On the field of the dying and dead; His cheek was pale and his lips compressed, And the fading light from the distant west Shone o'er his gory bed.

The night came on, and the moon arose With her soft and tremulous glow; She shed her light o'er friends and o'er foes, All sleeping together in dull repose On the battle-field below.

The warrior gazed with a mournful sigh On the blue and the star-spangled dome; While tears shone bright in his sunken eye, And vivid thoughts like the lightning fly To his childhood's distant home.

He thought of the mother who used to bend O'er his couch, when in sorrow and pain-- Who to his complaints an ear would lend; But alas! he knew that that dearest friend Would never bend o'er him again.

He thought of the scenes where once he strayed With his brothers in days of yore; He thought of the stream, the peaceful glade, The cottage that stood in the dark green shade, With the vines around the door.

He thought, with a pang of dark despair, 'Twas the hour they all used to meet With grateful heart for the evening prayer; He thought of the group that were gathered there; He thought--of a vacant seat.

He knew that a fervent prayer would rise For the loved and the long-absent one; He knew that the tears would flow from their eyes, And his father's voice would be choked with sighs, As he prayed for his erring son.

He knew for him they would all implore A renewed and a sanctified heart; That when the toils of this life were o'er They all might embrace each other once more, Never, no never to part!

One trembling hand to his brow he pressed, And the tears of contrition he shed; He implored for pardon, a home with the blest; Then he wrapped his cloak round his gory breast, And the warrior's spirit fled!