ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD.

* * * * *

VI.  CONSOLATION.

THE ANGEL OF PATIENCE.

     A FREE PARAPHRASE OF THE GERMAN.

To weary hearts, to mourning homes,
God’s meekest Angel gently comes: 
No power has he to banish pain,
Or give us back our lost again;
And yet in tenderest love our dear
And heavenly Father sends him here.

There’s quiet in that Angel’s glance,
There’s rest in his still countenance! 
He mocks no grief with idle cheer,
Nor wounds with words the mourner’s ear;
But ills and woes he may not cure
He kindly trains us to endure.

Angel of Patience! sent to calm
Our feverish brows with cooling palm;
To lay the storms of hope and fear,
And reconcile life’s smile and tear;
The throbs of wounded pride to still,
And make our own our Father’s will!

O thou who mournest on thy way,
With longings for the close of day;
He walks with thee, that Angel kind,
And gently whispers, “Be resigned: 
Bear up, bear on, the end shall tell
The dear Lord ordereth all things well!”

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

THEY ARE ALL GONE.

They are all gone into the world of light,
  And I alone sit lingering here! 
Their very memory is fair and bright,
    And my sad thoughts doth clear;

It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast,
  Like stars upon some gloomy grove,—­
Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest
    After the sun’s remove.

I see them walking in an air of glory,
  Whose light doth trample on my days,—­
My days which are at best but dull and hoary,
    Mere glimmering and decays.

O holy hope! and high humility,—­
  High as the heavens above! 
These are your walks, and you have showed them me
    To kindle my cold love.

Dear, beauteous death,—­the jewel of the just,—­
  Shining nowhere but in the dark! 
What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust,
    Could man outlook that mark!

He that hath found some fledged bird’s nest may know,
  At first sight, if the bird be flown;
But what fair dell or grove he sings in now,
    That is to him unknown.

And yet, as angels in some brighter dreams
  Call to the soul when man doth sleep,
So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes,
    And into glory peep.

If a star were confined into a tomb,
  Her captive flames must needs burn there,
But when the hand that locked her up gives room,
    She’ll shine through all the sphere.

O Father of eternal life, and all
  Created glories under thee! 
Resume thy spirit from this world of thrall
    Into true liberty.

Either disperse these mists, which blot and fill
  My perspective still as they pass;
Or else remove me hence unto that hill
    Where I shall need no glass.