This historic book may have numerous typos and missing text. Purchasers can download a free scanned copy of the original book (without typos) from the publisher. Not indexed. Not illustrated. 1870 Excerpt: ...what to sing. Golden words they were, and worthy Nobler harps of nobler tone; Golden words of comfort, speaking All the music of thine own. Golden words of truth and comfort, Breathing through the mystic years, Sunshine after days of darkness, Morning after night of tears! Storm-clouds ranged athwart the heavens, ...
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This historic book may have numerous typos and missing text. Purchasers can download a free scanned copy of the original book (without typos) from the publisher. Not indexed. Not illustrated. 1870 Excerpt: ...what to sing. Golden words they were, and worthy Nobler harps of nobler tone; Golden words of comfort, speaking All the music of thine own. Golden words of truth and comfort, Breathing through the mystic years, Sunshine after days of darkness, Morning after night of tears! Storm-clouds ranged athwart the heavens, Making gloomy all the view, But--behind--the silver lining, And God's endless meads of blue! Fainting pilgrims climbing, footsore, Up the steep hill's stony side, But--above--the wished-for hostel Flinging doors of welcome wide! Weary travellers belated Wandering deep in darksome wood, But--beyond--unhid the moonlight Gleams to Cheer their solitude! Heath and woodland, fern and flow'ret Dying in the cold and rain, But--stern Winter gone--the Springtime Gives them happy life again! # # # # Golden words to light the pathway, Newly entered on this day, With the hopes and wishes for thee, And the prayers of those away. Small their worth, and feebly spoken, Faltering numbers though they be, Haply they will make one ripple In thy Life's unfathomed sea: One small wave to help to bear thee Safe, through shadows, on its breast To the shore of that far country, Where the end of all is rest. 1869. IN MEMORIAM BEATRICE MONCK. I Would not tread that still, sad room, Where wakes and sleeps your holy woe I might not hope to check the flow Of tears, or banish aught of gloom. But, trembling stranger as it is, My song shall stand without the door, No entrance ask; ask nothing more Save kind forgiveness unto this: What though the flower you held so dear, Set by the Gardener of fair earth, Hath marred the promise of its birth, And gone, and left the garden drear, --O deem not but that He, whose hand Did set and tend it here awhile--Knowing heaven might not always smile...
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