Spread,—­void of living sight or sound. 
And here, while the night-winds round me sigh,
And the stars burn bright in the midnight sky,
As I sit apart by the desert stone,
Like Elijah at Horeb’s cave, alone,
“A still small voice” comes through the wild
(Like a father consoling his fretful child),
Which banishes bitterness, wrath, and fear,
Saying,—­Man is distant, but God is near!

THOMAS PRINGLE.

SAD IS OUR YOUTH, FOR IT IS EVER GOING.

Sad is our youth, for it is ever going,
Crumbling away beneath our very feet;
Sad is our life, for onward it is flowing
In current unperceived, because so fleet;
Sad are our hopes, for they were sweet in sowing,—­
But tares, self-sown, have overtopped the wheat;
Sad are our joys, for they were sweet in blowing,
And still, O, still their dying breath is sweet;
And sweet is youth, although it hath bereft us
Of that which made our childhood sweeter still;
And sweet is middle life, for it hath left us
A nearer good to cure an older ill;
And sweet are all things, when we learn to prize them,
Not for their sake, but His who grants them or denies them!

AUBREY THOMAS DE VERE.

MY WIFE AND CHILD.[5]

The tattoo beats,—­the lights are gone,
  The camp around in slumber lies,
The night with solemn pace moves on,
  The shadows thicken o’er the skies;
But sleep my weary eyes hath flown,
  And sad, uneasy thoughts arise.

I think of thee, O darling one,
  Whose love my early life hath blest—­
Of thee and him—­our baby son—­
  Who slumbers on thy gentle breast. 
God of the tender, frail, and lone,
  O, guard the tender sleeper’s rest!

And hover gently, hover near
  To her whose watchful eye is wet,—­

To mother, wife,—­the doubly dear,
  In whose young heart have freshly met
Two streams of love so deep and clear,
  And cheer her drooping spirits yet.

Now, while she kneels before thy throne,
  O, teach her, Ruler of the skies,
That, while by thy behest alone
  Earth’s mightiest powers fall and rise,
No tear is wept to thee unknown,
  No hair is lost, no sparrow dies!

That thou canst stay the ruthless hands
  Of dark disease, and soothe its pain;
That only by thy stern commands
  The battle’s lost, the soldier’s slain;
That from the distant sea or land
  Thou bring’st the wanderer home again.

And when upon her pillow lone
  Her tear-wet cheek is sadly pressed,
May happier visions beam upon
  The brightened current of her breast,
No frowning look or angry tone
  Disturb the Sabbath of her rest!

Whatever fate these forms may show,
  Loved with a passion almost wild,
By day, by night, in joy or woe,
  By fears oppressed, or hopes beguiled,
From every danger, every foe,
  O God, protect my wife and child!