eir thanks on bended knee.
Hidden faces! there ye found her
Mute as death, and staring wild
At the shadow waxing round her
Like the presence of her child--
Of her drenched and drowning child!

Dark thoughts live when tears won't gather;
Who can tell us what she felt?
It was human, O my Father,
If she blamed Thee while she knelt!
Ever, as a benediction
Fell like balm on all and each,
Rose a young face whose affliction
Choked and stayed the founts of speech--
Stayed and shut the founts of speech!

Often doth she sit and ponder
Over gleams of happy hair!
How her white hands used to wander,
Like a flood of moonlight there!
Lord--our Lord! Thou know'st her weakness:
Give her faith that she may pray;
And the subtle strength of meekness,
Lest she falter by the way--
Falter, fainting, by the way!

"Darling!" saith she, wildly moaning
Where the grass-grown silence lies,
"Is there rest from sobs and groaning--
Rest with you beyond the skies?
Child of mine, so far above me!
Late it waxeth--dark and late;
Will the love with which I love thee,
Lift me where you sit and wait--
Darling! where you sit and wait?"

Eighteen Hundred and Sixty-Four

I hear no footfall beating through the dark,
A lonely gust is loitering at the pane;
There is no sound within these forests stark
Beyond a splash or two of sullen rain;

But you are with us! and our patient land
Is filled with long-expected change at last,
Though we have scarce the heart to lift a hand
Of welcome, after all the yearning past!

Ah! marvel not; the days and nights were long
And cold and dull and dashed with many tears;
And lately there hath been a doleful song,
Of "Mene, Mene," in our restless ears!

Indeed, we've said, "The royal son of Time,
Whose feet will shortly cross our threshold floor,
May lead us to those outer heights sublime
Our Sires have sold their lives to see before!

We'll follow him! Beyond the waves and wrecks
Of years fulfilled, some fine results must lie;
We'll pass the last of all wild things that vex
The pale, sad face of our Humanity!"

But now our fainting feet are loth to stray
From trodden paths; our eyes with pain are blind!
We've lost fair treasures by the weary way;
We cry, like children, to be left behind.