Canadian Wild Flowers Part 17

"WE SORROW NOT AS OTHERS WITHOUT HOPE."

While looking over an old ma.n.u.script, written by one who is long since pa.s.sed from time into eternity, I met with the following lines: "It is six years to-day since my Elsa died, and five months since my Amanda left me forever. They sleep in the grave, and there they will remain through endless years." He then went on, in strains mournful and tender, and with all a father's sorrow deplored his loss. I could not wonder that he wept the tears of anguish and despair if, as he said, they are to remain in the dark tomb through endless years. The glorious Resurrection morning was unknown to him. He saw only the tomb, and considered not that there is One who holds the keys of the grave, and who will soon burst the icy bars of death and bring forth the righteous to immortality. Truly that morning has charms for the Christian. G.o.d grant that if I am called to slumber for a while I may "have part in the first resurrection."--_June_ 22, 1852.

THE MESSENGER BIRD.

Oh, fly away to the better land, Thou bird of the snowy wing!

Oh, fly away to the blood-washed band, And hear the songs they sing!

But bear a message from us, O dove, To that bright and happy throng; For we have friends whom we dearly love, Who swell the Conqueror's song.

Oh tell them our hearts are sad and lone, Our homes not bright as of yore; For we miss the soft, the soothing tone Of the friends we loved before.

Oh tell them we sigh for the better land, For earth has grown sad and chill; And we long rejoicing with them to stand On the heights of Zion's hill.

Oh tell them we long to share their rest, Afar from all earthly strife; We long to lean on our Saviour's breast, And roam by the tree of life.

Oh tell them our fondest hopes are there, For our earthly hopes are o'er; And we sigh for the land all bright and fair-- We sigh for the deathless sh.o.r.e.

Then fly away to the better land, Thou bird of the snowy wing!

Oh fly away to the blood-washed band, And hear the songs they sing.

And then return with the speed of love, When the night grows dark and chill, And tell us, oh, tell us, thou white-winged dove!

Do they love, do they love us still?

We know there is One, in that blissful home, Who loves and remembers us yet; Though weary and sorrowful now we roam, We know that he will not forget.

We'll trust him then, the great and the strong; By his own almighty hand He'll bring us soon with the blood-washed throng To the bright, the better land.

OUR s.h.i.+P IS HOMEWARD BOUND.

What though the angry waves are high, And darkness reigns around?

Let hope be bright in every eye, Our s.h.i.+p is homeward bound!

What though nor moon nor stars appear Amid the gloom profound, Why should we yield a place to fear?

Our s.h.i.+p is homeward bound!

What though the lightnings glare above, And deaf'ning thunders roar, When with the eye of faith and love We view the distant sh.o.r.e?

We know that friends are waiting there We loved in life before; And angel forms all bright and fair Line the eternal sh.o.r.e.

We've often longed with them to bow At our Redeemer's feet,-- He loved us first, we love Him now, Then let the billows beat!

And let them bear our hopes away, Although they once were sweet, We catch a glimpse of coming day-- Oh, let the billows beat!

The coward peers with trembling form Into the gloom profound, But we can smile to view the storm, Our s.h.i.+p is homeward bound!

And though for us on life's dark wave No anchorage be found,-- Oh, let our hearts be true and brave, Our s.h.i.+p is homeward bound!

MIDNIGHT.

Shades of night have gathered round, 'Tis the hour of gloom profound; 'Tis the hour when many sleep, 'Tis the hour when many weep, Over pleasures buried deep.

Faces smiling through the day, Lips that told a spirit gay, Eyes that beamed _as with_ delight, Now concealed from human sight, Put aside the mask to-night.

Tossing on the couch of pain, Seeking rest but all in vain, With the dark and dreary tomb Oft appearing through the gloom, Weary sufferers wait their doom!

Bright and golden dreams have some: On their airy wings they come, Giving fancy leave to soar To the happy scenes of yore,-- Or to some untraveled sh.o.r.e.

By the hearth he holds so dear, Softly ringing in his ear Gentle voices, faces bright Bursting on his gladdened sight,-- Sits the wanderer to-night.

Clasping hands in holy trust Long since mouldered into dust,-- Gazing into death-sealed eyes, With a look of sweet surprise, Every tear the mourner dries.

From some rugged mountain high Making journeys through the sky, Or in amaranthine bowers Talking with the birds and flowers, Poets spend the midnight hours.

Phantoms that by day elude, Flying ever when pursued,-- Like the desert mirage bright, Filled with joy and with delight Dreamers fondly clasp to-night.

Oh, that morning's early beam Should dissolve the blissful dream!

Oh, that love and hope should fly Like the mist in yonder sky, When the burning sun is high!

There's a morning yet to break, When the sleepers shall awake From the couch and from the grave, From the mountain and the cave, From beneath the ocean wave.

Then the _dream_ of life is o'er, Then they wake to sleep no more; Then all earthly hopes shall fly Like the mist in yonder sky,-- And that morning draweth nigh!

EASTER SUNDAY.

The old, the young, and the middle-aged all meet to-day in the house of prayer. From a thousand churches in our own and other lands the voice of praise and thanksgiving goes up to heaven--_"The Lord is risen!"_ Oh glorious tidings! "The Lord is risen indeed," and hath appeared to Peter! aye, and to Mary also,--the poor sinner whose touch would have been profanation to the Pharisees of our own times. And still more wonderful, He hath appeared to Thomas--to Thomas the infidel, who laughed at the story of the resurrection!