* * * * *

=_Harriet Beecher Stowe._= (Manual, p. 484.)

From the “Religious Poems.”

=_389._= THE PEACE OF FAITH.

  When winds are raging o’er the upper ocean,
    And billows wild contend with angry roar,
  ’Tis said, far down, beneath the wild commotion,
    That peaceful stillness reigneth evermore.

  Far, far beneath, the noise of tempests dieth,
    And silver waves chime ever peacefully,
  And no rude storm, how fierce soe’er it flieth,
    Disturbs the Sabbath of that deeper sea.

  So to the heart that knows Thy love, O Purest! 
    There is a temple, sacred evermore,
  And all the babble of life’s angry voices
    Dies in hushed stillness at its peaceful door.

  Far, far away, the roar of passion dieth,
    And loving thoughts rise calm and peacefully,
  And no rude storm, how fierce soe’er it flieth,
    Disturbs that soul that dwells, O Lord, in Thee.

  O Rest of rests!  O Peace, serene, eternal! 
    Thou ever livest, and Thou changest never;
  And in the secret of Thy presence dwelleth
    Fullness of joy, for ever and for ever.

* * * * *

=_390._= “ONLY A YEAR.”

  One year ago,—­a ringing voice,
      A clear blue eye,
  And clustering curls of sunny hair,
      Too fair to die.

  Only a year,—­no voice, no smile,
      No glance of eye,
  No clustering curls of golden hair,
      Fair but to die!

  One year ago,—­what loves, what schemes
      Far into life! 
  What joyous hopes, what high, resolves,
      What generous strife!

  The silent picture on the wall,
      The burial stone,
  Of all that beauty, life, and joy
      Remain alone!

  One year,—­one year,—­one little year,
      And so much gone! 
  And yet the even flow of life
      Moves calmly on.

  The grave grows green, the flowers bloom fair,
      Above that head;
  No sorrowing tint of leaf or spray
      Says he is dead.

  No pause or hush of merry birds
      That sing above,
  Tells us how coldly sleeps below
      The form we love.

  Where hast thou been this year, beloved? 
      What hast thou seen? 
  What visions fair, what glorious life,
      Where thou hast been?

  The veil! the veil! so thin, so strong! 
      ’Twixt us and thee;
  The mystic veil! when shall it fall,
      That we may see?

  Not dead, not sleeping, not even gone,
      But present still,
  And waiting for the coming hour
      Of God’s sweet will.

  Lord of the living and the dead,
      Our Saviour dear! 
  We lay in silence at thy feet
      This sad, sad year!

* * * * *