AT LAST.

What though upon a wintry sea our life bark sails,
What though we tremble ’neath its cruel gales,
            Its icy blast;
We see a happy port lie far before,
We see its shining waves, its sunny shore,
Where we shall wander, and forget the troubled past,
            At last.

No storms approach that quiet shore, no night
Falls on its silver streams, and valleys bright,
            And gardens vast;
Within that pleasant land of perfect peace
Our toil-worn feet shall stay, our wanderings cease;
There shall we, resting, all forget the past,
            At last.

The sorrows we have hid in silent weariness,
As birds above a wounded, bleeding breast,
            Their bright plumes cast;
The griefs like mourners in a dark array,
That haunt our footsteps here, will flee away,
And leave us to forget the sorrowful past,
            At last.

Voices we loved sound from those far-off lands,
And thrill our hearts; life’s golden sands
            Are dropping fast;
Soon shall we meet by the river of peace, and say,
As the night flees before the eye of day,
So faded from our eyes the mournful past,
            At last.

TWILIGHT.

Draped in shadows stands the mountain
  Against the eastern sky,
Above it the fair summer moon
  Looks downward tenderly;
And Venus in the glowing west,
  Opens her languid eye.

Now the winds breathe softer music,
  Half a song, and half a sigh;
While twilight wraps her purple veil
  Around us silently,
And our thoughts appear like pictures,
  Pictures shaded wondrously.

Quiet landscapes, sweet and lonely,
  Silvery sea, and shadowy glade,
Forest lakes by man forsaken,
  Where the white fawn’s steps are stayed;
And contadinos straying
 ’Neath the Pantheon’s solemn shade.

And we see the wave bridged over
  By the moonlight’s mystic link,
Desert wells by tall palms shaded,
  Where dusky camels drink;
While dark-eyed Arab maidens
  Fill their pitchers at the brink.

And secluded convent chapels,
  Where veiled nuns kneel to pray,
With a dim light streaming o’er them
  Through arches quaint and gray,
While down the long and winding aisles
  Low music dies away.

There is a starry twilight
  Of the soul, as sadly fair,
When our wild emotions are at rest,
  Like the pale nuns at prayer;
And our griefs are hushed like sleepers,
  And put off the robes of care.

THE SEWING-GIRL.