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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: