If justice throw athwart our way,
    A deepening eve of fear and sorrow,
    Hope, like the moon, reflects the ray
    Of the bright sun that shines to-morrow.

    And mercy gilds with stars the night;
    Sweet music plays through weeping willows;
    The blackest cave with gems is bright,
    And pearls illume the ocean billows.

    The very grave, though clouds may rise,
    And shroud it o’er with midnight gloom,
    Unfolds to faith the deep blue skies,
    That glorious shine beyond the tomb.

The Mountain Stream.

    One summer morn, while yet the thrilling lay,
    Of the dew-loving lark was full and strong,
    Trampling the wild flowers in my careless way,
    Up the steep mountain-side I strode along—­
    My only guide, a brook whose joyous song,
    Seemed like a boy’s light-hearted roundelay,
    As down it rushed, the leafy bowers among,
    Scattering o’er bud and bloom its pearly spray—­
    A beauteous semblance of life’s opening day.

    And looking back to that all-gladdening morn,
    When I was free and sportive as the stream—­
    When roses blushed with no suspected thorn,
    And fancy’s sunlight gilded every dream—­
    While hope yet shed its sweet delusive beam,
    And disappointment still delayed to warn—­
    With fond regret, I still pursued the theme—­
    With clambering step still up the steep was borne,
    Too sad to smile, too pleased perchance to mourn.

    And now I stood beside that rivulet’s spring,
    That came unbidden with a bubbling bound—­
    And stealing forth, a gentle trembling thing,
    It seemed an infant fearing all around—­
    Yet clinging to its mother’s breast—­the ground. 
    But soon it bolder grew, and with a wing
    It went:  its carol was a joyous sound,
    Making the silent woods responsive ring,
    And the far forest-echoes, sighing, sing.

    And now I stood upon the mountain’s height—­
    Like a wide map, the landscape lay unrolled—­
    There could I trace that rivulet’s path of light,
    From the steep mountain to the sea of gold;
    Now leaping o’er the rocks like chamois bold,—­
    Now like a crouching hare concealed from sight,—­
    Now hid beneath the willow’s bowering fold,
    As if they sought to stay its arrowy flight,
    Then give it forth again more swift and bright.

    ’Twas changeful—­beautiful; now dark, now fair—­
    A tale of life, from childhood to the tomb—­
    Its birth-place near the skies, in mountain air,
    Where wild flowers throw around their sweet perfume,
    Like the blest thoughts that often brightly bloom,
    At home, beneath a mother’s culturing care—­
    Its form now hid in shadows, such as gloom
    Our downward way—­its grave in ocean, where
    It mingles with the wave—­a dweller there!