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?
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.
