Viewing page 245 of 309

This transcription has been completed. Contact us with corrections.

440 LUCY HOOPER.

The harvest ripening in the autumnal sun,—
The golden fruit of suffering's weighty power
Within the soul;—like soft bells' silvery chime
Repeat the tones, if fame may not be won,
Or if the heart where thou shouldst find a shrine,
Breathe forth no blessing on thy lonely way.

Wait thou for Time—it hath a sorcerer's power
To dim life's mockeries that gaily shine,
To lift the veil of seeming for the real,
Bring to thy soul a rich or fearful dower,
Write golden tracery on the sands of life,
And raise the drooping heart from scenes ideal,
To a high purpose in a world of strife.
Wait thou for time!

Yea, wait for Time, but to thy heart take Faith,
Soft beacon-light upon a stormy sea;
A mantle for the pure in heart, to pass
Though a dim world, untouch'd by living death;
A cheerful watcher through the spirit's night,
Soothing the grief from which she may not flee;—
A herald of glad news — a seraph bright,
Pointing to sheltering havens yet to be.

Yea, Faith and Time, and thou that through the hour
Of the lone night hast nerved the feeble hand,
Kindled the weary heart with sudden fire,
Gifted the drooping soul with living power,
Immortal Energy! shalt thou not be,
While the old tales our wayward thoughts inspire,
Linked with each vision of high destiny,
Till on the fadeless borders of that land

Where all is known we find our certain way,
And lose ye, 'mid its pure effulgent light?

LUCY HOOPER. 441

Kind ministers, who cheer'd us in our gloom,
Seraphs who lighten'd griefs with guiding ray,
Whispering through tears of cloudless glory dawning,
Say, in the gardens of eternal bloom
Will not our hearts, when breaks the cloudless morning,
Joy that ye led us through the drooping night?

IT IS WELL.

Written after being shown the inscription on the grave of a child in the Brooklyn church-yard, bearing only the date, the age, and these simple words, [[italics]] "It is well." [[/italics]].

'T was a low grave they led me to, o'ergrown
With violets of the Spring, and starry moss,
And all the sweet wild flow'rets that discoles
Their hues and fragrance round the dreamless couch,
As if to tell how quietly the head
That here had throbb'd so feverishly, doth rest.
'T was a low grave, and the soft zephyrs play'd
Gently around it; and the setting sun
Gleam'd brightly on the marble at its head,
Bearing the date — the name — the few brief years,
Of one whose blessed lot it was to pass
To the fair Land of Promise, ere the chill
And blight of this dark world had power to cast
A shade on life's pure blossom; while the dew
Of morning was upon its leaves, and all
The outward world was beauty; ere the eye
Had ever wept in secret, or the heart
Grown heavy with a sorrow unconfess'd.
Was it a bitter lot? That one line it bore—
One brief inscription, thrilling the deep heart
Of those who, leaning o'er that narrow mound,
Mused over life's vain sorrow: