I know that in a better world
I shall look back and say
I never could have reached my home
By any other way.
And such a home! no frightful dreams,
No wakings to despair—
No cries of—God remove the cup,
Or give me strength to bear!
No pillows wet with burning tears,—
No longings wild and vain
To wander in the pleasant fields,
Or dear old woods again!
But love and peace, and endless joy,
And rest to me how strange!
Lord give me patience to await
The happy, happy change!
Joy and sorrow, are they not mingled in every cup?
We call some happy, others unfortunate; and so they
appear to us. But could we draw aside the curtain
that conceals the mysteries of the human heart what
problems would be solved, and how often we should be
lead to exclaim, “God dealeth justly: pain
and pleasure are more equally distributed than we
imagined”! But this may not be. We
judge according to appearances, and this is one great
source of misery; for, in our grief, we imagine others
are more favored than we, and for the blessings we
do enjoy we are not thankful. Oh, the great mercy
of God! What a wonder it is that he does not
smite us to the earth when we dare murmur at his dealings!
When the flowers of Summer die,
When the birds of Summer fly,
When the winds of Autumn sigh,
I
shall depart.
When the mourning Earth receives
Last of all the faded leaves,—
When the wailing forest grieves,
I
shall depart.
When are garnered grain and fruit,
When all insect life is mute,
I shall drop my broken lute;
I
shall depart.
When the fields are brown and bare,
Nothing left that’s good or fair,
And the hoar-frost gathers there,
I
shall depart.
Not with you, O songsters, no!
To no Southern clime I go,—
By a way none living know
I
shall depart.
Many aching hearts may yearn,
Many lamps till midnight burn,
But I never shall return,
When
I depart.
Trembling, fearing, sorely tried,
Waiting for the ebbing tide,
Who, oh! who will be my guide
When
I depart?
Once the river cold and black
Rolled its waves affrighted back,—
I shall see a shining track
When
I depart.
There my God and Saviour passed,
He will be my guide at last,—
Clinging to his merits fast,
I
shall depart.
—Written in 1858.
Tears are coming, years are going,
Be they fraught with joy or pain,—
Like a river they are flowing
To the everlasting main!
On the banks are thorns and roses,
And we take of both a share
Till the ocean round us closes,
And we drop our anchor—where?
