ill glides on, And we who mourn thee with it glide. On all thou lookest we shall look, And to our gaze erelong shall turn That page of God's mysterious book We so much wish yet dread to learn. With Him, before whose awful power Thy spirit bent its trembling knee; Who, in the silent greeting flower, And forest leaf, looked out on thee, We leave thee, with a trust serene, Which Time, nor Change, nor Death can move, While with thy childlike faith we lean On Him whose dearest name is Love!
To J. P.
John Pierpont, the eloquent preacher and poet of Boston. not as a poor requital of the joy With which my childhood heard that lay of thine, Which, like an echo of the song divine At Bethlehem breathed above the Holy Boy, Bore to my ear the Airs of Palestine,— Not to the poet, but the man I bring In friendship's fearless trust my offering: How much it lacks I feel, and thou wilt see, Yet well I know that thou hast deemed with me Life all too earnest, and its time too short Fo