VERSE:  A LAMENT FOR THE SUMMER

Moan, oh ye Autumn Winds! 
Summer has fled,
The flowers have closed their tender leaves and die;
The Lily’s gracious head
All low must lie,
Because the gentle Summer now is dead.

Grieve, oh ye Autumn Winds! 
Summer lies low;
The rose’s trembling leaves will soon be shed,
For she that loved her so,
Alas, is dead! 
And one by one her loving children go.

Wail, oh ye Autumn Winds! 
She lives no more,
The gentle Summer, with her balmy breath,
Still sweeter than before
When nearer death,
And brighter every day the smile she wore!

Mourn, mourn, oh Autumn Winds,
Lament and mourn;
How many half-blown buds must close and die;
Hopes with the Summer born
All faded lie,
And leave us desolate and Earth forlorn!

VERSE:  THE UNKNOWN GRAVE

No name to bid us know
Who rests below,
No word of death or birth,
Only the grass’s wave,
Over a mound of earth,
Over a nameless grave.

Did this poor wandering heart
In pain depart? 
Longing, but all too late,
For the calm home again,
Where patient watchers wait,
And still will wait in vain.

Did mourners come in scorn,
And thus forlorn,
Leave him, with grief and shame. 
To silence and decay,
And hide the tarnished name
Of the unconscious clay?

It may be from his side
His loved ones died,
And last of some bright band,
(Together now once more,)
He sought his home, the land
Where they had gone before.

No matter—­limes have made
As cool a shade,
And lingering breezes pass
As tenderly and slow,
As if beneath the grass
A monarch slept below.

No grief, though loud and deep,
Could stir that sleep;
And earth and heaven tell
Of rest that shall not cease,
Where the cold world’s farewell
Fades into endless peace.

VERSE:  GIVE ME THY HEART

With echoing steps the worshippers
Departed one by one;
The organ’s pealing voice was stilled,
The vesper hymn was done;
The shadows fell from roof and arch,
Dim was the incensed air,
One lamp alone with trembling ray,
Told of the Presence there!

In the dark church she knelt alone;
Her tears were falling fast;
“Help, Lord,” she cried, “the shades of death
Upon my soul are cast! 
Have I not shunned the path of sin,
And chosen the better part?”
What voice came through the sacred air?—­
“My child, give me thy Heart!”

“Have I not laid before Thy shrine
My wealth, oh Lord?” she cried;
“Have I kept aught of gems or gold,
To minister to pride? 
Have I not bade youth’s joys retire,
And vain delights depart?”—­
But sad and tender was the voice—­
“My child, give me thy Heart!”