Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,

Learn to labor and to wait.

THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS.

THERE is a Reaper, whose name is Death,
And, with his sickle keen,

He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,
And the flowers that grow between.

"Shall I have naught that is fair?" saith he;
"Have naught but the bearded grain?
Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me,
I will give them all back again."

He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes,

He kissed their drooping leaves.

It was for the Lord of Paradise

He bound them in his sheaves.

"My Lord hath need of these flowerets gay," The Reaper said, and smiled;

"Dear tokens of the earth are they,

Where he was once a child.

*

"They shall all bloom in fields of light,
Transplanted by my care,

And saints, upon their garments white,
These sacred blossoms wear."

And the mother gave, in tears, and pain,
The flowers she most did love;

She knew she should find them all again
In the fields of light above.

O, not in cruelty, not in wrath,

The Reaper came that day;

'Twas an Angel visited the green earth, And took the flowers away.

FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS.

'HEN the hours of Day are numbered,
And the voices of the Night

Wake the better soul that slumbered,
To a holy, calm delight;

Ere the evening lamps are lighted,
And, like phantoms grim and tall,
Shadows from the fitful firelight
Dance upon the parlor-wall:

Then the forms of the departed
Enter at the open door,·
The beloved, the true-hearted,

Come to visit me once more.

He, the young and strong, who cherished.
Noble longings for the strife,

By the roadside fell and perished,
Weary with the march of life!

They, the holy ones and weakly,
Who the cross of suffering bore,
Folded their pale hands so meekly,
Spake with us on earth no more!

And with them the Being Beauteous
Who unto my youth was given,
More than all things else to love me,
And is now a saint in heaven.

With a slow and noiseless footstep
Comes that messenger divine,
Takes the vacant chair beside me,
Lays her gentle hand in mine.

And she sits and gazes at me

With those deep and tender eyes, Like the stars, so still and saint-like, Looking downward from the skies.

Uttered not, yet comprehended
Is the spirit's voiceless prayer,
Soft rebuke, in blessing ended,
Breathing from her lips of air.

O, though oft depressed and lonely,
All my fears are laid aside,

If I but remember only

Such as these have lived and died.

THE RAINY DAY.

THE
HE day is cold, and dark, and dreary ;
It rains, and the wind is never weary ;
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,

And the day is dark and dreary.

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary ;
It rains, and the wind is never weary ;
My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past,
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,
And the days are dark and dreary.

Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all,

Into each life some rain must fall,

Some days must be dark and dreary.

I

GOD'S-ACRE.

LIKE that ancient Saxon phrase which calls
The burial-ground God's-Acre! It is just;

It consecrates each grave within its walls,
And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust.

God's-Acre! Yes, that blessed name imparts
Comfort to those who in the grave have sown
The seed that they had garnered in their hearts;
Their bread of life, alas! no more their own.
Into its furrows shall we all be cast,

In the sure faith that we shall rise again
At the great harvest, when the Archangel's blast
Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain.
Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom,
In the fair gardens of that second birth;
And each bright blossom mingle its perfume

With that of flowers which never bloomed on earth.
With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod,
And spread the furrow for the seed we sow;
This is the field and Acre of our God,

This is the place where human harvests grow!

THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD.

The last four stanzas.

ERE half the power that fills the world with terror,

WERE

Were half the wealth bestowed on camps and courts,

Given to redeem the human mind from error,

There were no need of arsenals or forts.

The warrior's name would be a name abhorred!
And every nation, that should lift again
Its hand against a brother, on its forehead
Would wear for evermore the curse of Cain!

Down the dark future, through long generations,
The echoing sounds grow fainter, and then cease;
And like a bell, with solemn sweet vibrations,

I hear once more the voice of Christ say, "Peace!"

Peace and no longer from its brazen portals
The blast of War's great organ shakes the skies!
But beautiful as songs of the immortals,

The holy melodies of love arise.

RESIGNATION.

THERE is no flock, however watched and tended,

But one dead lamb is there!

There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended,
But has one vacant chair.

The air is full of farewells to the dying,
And mournings for the dead;

The heart of Rachel, for her children crying,
Will not be comforted!

Let us be patient! These severe afflictions
Not from the ground arise,

But oftentimes celestial benedictions

Assume this dark disguise.

We see but dimly through the mists and vapors ;
Amid these earthly damps,

What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers

May be heaven's distant lamps.

There is no Death! what seems so is transition;
This life of mortal breath

Is but a suburb of the life elysian,

Whose portal we call Death.

She is not dead, - the child of our affection, —
But gone unto that school

Where she no longer needs our poor protection,
And Christ himself doth rule.

In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion,
By guardian angels led,

Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollutions,
She lives whom we call dead.

Day after day we think what she is doing
In those bright realms of air;

Year after year, her tender steps pursuing,
Behold her grown more fair.