[In the day of health and prosperity everybody feels
like singing, but “in the night” of adversity
grace must produce the song of holy confidence and
hope. Such a song is the following, which has
probably been printed oftener than any other of Miss
JOHNSON’S poems. It has appeared in several
papers; finds a place in Dewart’s “Selections
from Canadian Poets”; was set to music by George
F. Root, and appears in his “School for the
Cabinet Organ.” With many it has been a
favorite.]
Mother, good night! my work is done,—
I go to rest with the setting sun:
But not to wake with the morning light,
So, dearest mother, a long good night!
Father, good night! the shadows glide
Silently down to the river’s side,—
The river itself with stars is bright,
So, dearest father, a long good night!
Sisters, good night! the roses close
Their dewy eyes for the night’s repose—
And a strange, damp mist obscures my sight,
So, dearest sisters, a long good night!
Brothers, good night! the sunset flush
Has died away, and a midnight hush
Has settled o’er plain and mountain height,
So, dearest brothers, a long good night!
Good night! good night! nay, do not weep:
I’m weary of earth, I long to sleep—
I shall wake again with the dawning light
Of eternal day—good night, good night!
I remember the time when we went forth arm in arm
over the newly mown fields, scaring the grasshoppers
from our pathway, with our baskets on our arms, to
gather the blueberries that hung in clusters on their
slender stalks. But thou art gone now to the fairer
fields of paradise, to pluck sweeter fruit than ever
ripened here. Thou art gone! The blueberry
bushes have fallen long ago before the scythe; the
field has changed its appearance; and as for me, the
breezes woo me forth in vain—I cannot go.
Sickness and sorrow have come between me and the love
of earth; they have cast a dark shadow over what I
once thought fair. But as there can be no shadow
without a light beyond it I have caught bright glimpses
of a better home—a land of life and glory.
[We have no clue to the time when this was written.
It is imperfect: the second verse is not complete
in the copy. But is it not true to life so far
as earthly hope is concerned? Of “the hope
of the gospel” our songstress would speak differently.]
What a syren is Hope—what a charming deceiver!
She whispers so blandly you can but believe her; The
garments of Truth and of Reason she stealeth And every
deformity thus she concealeth.
When down in the valley I’m talking with Sorrow
She comes with a song—all its burden to-morrow;
She mocks my companion....
Then she beckons me up to the top of a mountain;
She brings me a draught from a clear, sparkling fountain,
And talks of the beautiful prospect before us
Till ere I’m aware, the dark night settles o’er
us.
