Part 3

THE dim gray dawn, upon the eastern hills, Brings back to light once more the cheerless scene; But oh! no morning in my Father's house Is dawning now, for there no night hath been.

Ten thousand thousand now, on Zion's hills, All robed in white, with palmy crowns, do stray, While I, an exile, far from fatherland, Still wandering, faint along the desert way.

O home! dear home! my own, my native home! O Father, friends! when shall I look on you? When shall these weary wanderings be o'er, And I be gathered back to stray no more?

O Thou, the brightness of whose gracious face These weary, longing eyes have never seen,-- By whose dear thought, for whose belovéd sake, My course, through toil and tears, I daily take,--

I think of thee when the myrrh-dropping morn Steps forth upon the purple eastern steep; I think of thee in the fair eventide, When the bright-sandalled stars their watches keep.

And trembling hope, and fainting, sorrowing love, On thy dear word for comfort doth rely; And clear-eyed Faith, with strong forereaching gaze, Beholds thee here, unseen, but ever nigh.

Walking in white with thee, she dimly sees, All beautiful, these lovely ones withdrawn, With whom my heart went upward, as they rose, Like morning stars, to light a coming dawn.

All sinless now, and crowned and glorified, Where'er thou movest move they still with thee, As erst, in sweet communion by thy side, Walked John and Mary in old Galilee.

But hush, my heart! 'T is but a day or two Divides thee from that bright, immortal shore. Rise up! rise up! and gird thee for the race! Fast fly the hours, and all will soon be o'er.

Thou hast the new name written in thy soul; Thou hast the mystic stone He gives his own. Thy soul, made one with him, shall feel no more That she is walking on her path alone.

VII.

WHEN I AWAKE I AM STILL WITH THEE.

STILL, still with Thee, when purple morning breaketh, When the bird waketh and the shadows flee; Fairer than morning, lovelier than the daylight, Dawns the sweet consciousness, _I am with Thee_!

Alone with Thee, amid the mystic shadows, The solemn hush of nature newly born; Alone with Thee in breathless adoration, In the calm dew and freshness of the morn.

As in the dawning o'er the waveless ocean The image of the morning star doth rest, So in this stillness Thou beholdest only Thine image in the waters of my breast.

Still, still with Thee! as to each new-born morning A fresh and solemn splendor still is given, So doth this blessed consciousness, awaking, Breathe, each day, nearness unto Thee and heaven.

When sinks the soul, subdued by toil, to slumber, Its closing eye looks up to Thee in prayer; Sweet the repose beneath the wings o'ershading, But sweeter still to wake and find Thee there.

So shall it be at last, in that bright morning When the soul waketh and life's shadows flee; O, in that hour, fairer than daylight dawning, Shall rise the glorious thought, _I am with Thee_!

PRESSED FLOWERS FROM ITALY.

A DAY IN THE PAMFILI DORIA.

THOUGH the hills are cold and snowy, And the wind drives chill to-day, My heart goes back to a spring-time, Far, far in the past away.

And I see a quaint old city, Weary and worn and brown, Where the spring and the birds are so early, And the sun in such light goes down.

I remember that old-times villa, Where our afternoons went by, Where the suns of March flushed warmly, And spring was in earth and sky.

Out of the mouldering city, Mouldering, old, and gray, We sped, with a lightsome heart-thrill, For a sunny, gladsome day,--

For a revel of fresh spring verdure, For a race 'mid springing flowers, For a vision of plashing fountains, Of birds and blossoming bowers.

There were violet banks in the shadows, Violets white and blue; And a world of bright anemones, That over the terrace grew,--

Blue and orange and purple, Rosy and yellow and white, Rising in rainbow bubbles, Streaking the lawns with light.

And down from the old stone pine-trees, Those far off islands of air, The birds are flinging the tidings Of a joyful revel up there.

And now for the grand old fountains, Tossing their silvery spray, Those fountains so quaint and so many, That are leaping and singing all day.

Those fountains of strange weird sculpture, With lichens and moss o'ergrown, Are they marble greening in moss-wreaths? Or moss-wreaths whitening to stone?

Down many a wild, dim pathway We ramble from morning till noon; We linger, unheeding the hours, Till evening comes all too soon.

And from out the ilex alleys, Where lengthening shadows play, We look on the dreamy Campagna, All glowing with setting day,--

All melting in bands of purple, In swathings and foldings of gold, In ribands of azure and lilac, Like a princely banner unrolled.

And the smoke of each distant cottage, And the flash of each villa white, Shines out with an opal glimmer, Like gems in a casket of light.

And the dome of old St. Peter's With a strange translucence glows, Like a mighty bubble of amethyst Floating in waves of rose.

In a trance of dreamy vagueness We, gazing and yearning, behold That city beheld by the prophet, Whose walls were transparent gold.

And, dropping all solemn and slowly, To hallow the softening spell, There falls on the dying twilight The Ave Maria bell.

With a mournful motherly softness, With a weird and weary care, That strange and ancient city Seems calling the nations to prayer.

And the words that of old the angel To the mother of Jesus brought, Rise like a new evangel, To hallow the trance of our thought.

With the smoke of the evening incense, Our thoughts are ascending then To Mary, the mother of Jesus, To Jesus, the Master of men.

O city of prophets and martyrs, O shrines of the sainted dead, When, when shall the living day-spring Once more on your towers be spread?

When He who is meek and lowly Shall rule in those lordly halls, And shall stand and feed as a shepherd The flock which his mercy calls,--

O, then to those noble churches, To picture and statue and gem, To the pageant of solemn worship, Shall the _meaning_ come back again.

And this strange and ancient city, In that reign of His truth and love, Shall _be_ what it _seems_ in the twilight, The type of that City above.

THE GARDENS OF THE VATICAN.

SWEET fountains, plashing with a dreamy fall, And mosses green, and tremulous veils of fern, And banks of blowing cyclamen, and stars, Blue as the skies, of myrtle blossoming, The twilight shade of ilex overhead O'erbubbling with sweet song of nightingale, With walks of strange, weird stillness, leading on 'Mid sculptured fragments half to green moss gone, Or breaking forth amid the violet leaves With some white gleam of an old world gone by. Ah! strange, sweet quiet! wilderness of calm, Gardens of dreamy rest, I long to lay Beneath your shade the last long sigh, and say, Here is my home, my Lord, thy home and mine; And I, having searched the world with many a tear, At last have found thee and will stray no more. But vainly here I seek the Gardener That Mary saw. These lovely halls beyond, That airy, sky-like dome, that lofty fane, Is as a palace whence the king is gone And taken all the sweetness with himself. Turn again, Jesus, and possess thine own! Come to thy temple once more as of old! Drive forth the money-changers, let it be A house of prayer for nations. Even so, Amen! Amen!

ST. PETER'S CHURCH.

HOLY WEEK, APRIL, 1860.

O FAIREST mansion of a Father's love, Harmonious! hospitable! with thine arms Outspread to all, thy fountains ever full, And, fair as heaven, thy misty, sky-like dome Hung like the firmament with circling sweep Above the constellated golden lamps That burn forever round the holy tomb. Most meet art thou to be the Father's house, The house of prayer for nations. Come the time When thou shalt be so! when a liberty, Wide as thine arms, high as thy lofty dome, Shall be proclaimed, by thy loud singing choirs, Like voice of many waters! Then the Lord Shall come into his temple, and make pure The sons of Levi; then, as once of old, The blind shall see, the lame leap as an hart, And to the poor the Gospel shall be preached, And Easter's silver-sounding trumpets tell, "The Lord is risen indeed," to die no more. Hasten it in its time. Amen! Amen!

THE MISERERE.

NOT of the earth that music! all things fade; Vanish the pictured walls! and, one by one, The starry candles silently expire!

And now, O Jesus! round that silent cross A moment's pause, a hush as of the grave. Now rises slow a silver mist of sound, And all the heavens break out in drops of grief; A rain of sobbing sweetness, swelling, dying, Voice into voice inweaving with sweet throbs, And fluttering pulses of impassioned moan,-- Veiled voices, in whose wailing there is awe, And mysteries of love and agony, A yearning anguish of celestial souls, A shiver as of wings trembling the air, As if God's shining doves, his spotless birds, Wailed with a nightingale's heart-break of grief, In this their starless night, when for our sins Their sun, their life, their love, hangs darkly there, Like a slain lamb, bleeding his life away!

Cambridge: Electrotyped and Printed by Welch, Bigelow, & Co.

End of Project Gutenberg's Religious Poems, by Harriet Beecher Stowe