Book 2 — A THOUGHT OF THE FUTURE.
Reading edition
Do we not all, sometimes, desire to look into the future, but is it not well for us, that it is hidden from our view? S. D. S.
Couldst thou have looked beyond the mist that veiled
The unseen Future from thy longing sight,
Would not thy courage in that hour have failed,
To see the shadows of Death’s coming night?
Wouldst thou have grieved that nevermore for thee
Would the clear waters gush, the sweet flowers bloom?
That more than one fond heart would homeless be,
When thou wert gone in silence to the tomb?
What didst dream of? when the rose-lip smiled,
And bade thee welcome to the social hearth,
Where voices low and sweet the hours beguiled—
Were they not dear, those fireside hours of mirth?
What didst thou hope for? with thy kindling eye,
And thoughtful brow, that wore the laurels well;
As thou wert climbing to the temple high,
Not hearing on the winds the passing knell!
Till ah! one morn, thy throbbing heart grew chill,
And from thy pale lip faintly came the breath;
We saw thee slumbering beautiful and still,
And knew it was the dreamless sleep of death!
Through the “dark valley,” and the “shadows” dim,
Thy Father’s “rod and staff” did comfort thee!
Meekly didst thou repose thy trust in Him,
And launch thy frail bark on Eternity!
Could some bright spirit, from a distant sphere,
Bend down to listen to our feeble wail,
To our vain longings with a pitying ear,
And for one moment raise the mystic veil!
That we might see, though rocking on the tide,
If our frail barks would gain the port at last;
If sailing on Life’s ocean far and wide
We’d gain the haven when the storm was past.
Oh! looking backward on our dreary way—
Recalling all our dreams of love and truth,
And the “green spots” wherein we might not stay,
Far back upon the “fairy isle” of Youth—
And thinking of the hours of grief and pain,
Of all the bitter tears that we have shed,
That only ceased awhile, to flow again,
Above the loved, the beautiful, the dead!
Would we not close our eyes, nor dare the sight?
The many blighted hopes, the cares, the fears—
The fond eyes closed, that round us shed their light,
The clouds that hang above our coming years?
Would not a fearful shriek then pierce the sky,
Sent up by thousands from this erring world
Would they not then for pardon wildly cry,
Ere in the whirlpool of Destruction hurled?
’Tis “hidden from our view,” and it is well!
But traveling through this vale of sin and strife,
Should not thy memory be to us a spell,
Thy pure and holy thoughts, thy blameless life?
They who above thy grave so sadly wept
Shall change as other years roll swiftly by—
And look upon the tokens they have kept,
Scarce yielding thee the tribute of a sigh.
Oh what is Life? We live a few short hours.
Eternal joy or pain hang on a breath;
We pass from earth, as fade the summer flowers,
Wither and die away—and this is Death!
Cora