New Orleans daily crescent. [volume] ([New Orleans, La.]) 1851-1866, 1857-01-26
Neh OrIsans Bully Uttstent.
POETRY, MISCELLANEOUS AND TALES.
n AL w Ak.

BY REVEREND r. HEMPsTEAD.
Some silver lines begin to show
Amidst the brown like threads Of snow
Along December hills,
While every bright-eyed bird that sings
Has flown, to break with dappled wings
The glass of southern rils.
All, thirty-four, brave thirty.four
One green, revolving summer more
Will set my hurrying feet
Upon the midway, rounding slope
OF seventy years, while radiant Hope
And pensive Memory meet.
o, fleeting months! 0, wasting years!
Sad days! and nights Of haunting fears!
Ye brought and broke some blessed dreams,
Ye dried some cool, refreshing streams,
And left thu. dusty stone I!
Backward-my path lies dim in storms!
Dark-muffling pals and spectral forms
And poison'd blossoms wave;
Still, as I count each VANISHED foe
And seyering hand, grieve to know
The worst was not the grave.
Not saddest are the bells that toll
Some patient, lov'd and lovely soul
Back to its mansion fed;
Grief hath a deeper grief than all
The grave can bring-the heavy pail
That wraps the living dead
True, there are spots like myrtle isles,
That bloom and send their golden smiles
Down DER the surging storms,
Green banks and vales--the whispering grove,
And flowers of woman's holer love,
And childhood's lilly forms.
A falling eye, sweet, young face,
A soft tone in shady place
Girt by jasmine wall s
The trance Of quiet Sabbath hours
All, royal gems, dear, painted flowers,
Trampled and wither,d all
Yet who laments that all are gone?
Pours on the cold, memorial stone
Grief's wild, tumultuous tide?
What soul so hopeless, poor and vain
To tread life's weary road again
For all the gems it hides!
To drink the scorn, to feel the shame
That eats away the heart like fame,
With not face to love;
To hear a thousand clarions call
Away to Glory's crowning hail.
Without the power to move?
I crave it not! yet thanks to Thee,
Lord of the lily heart and sea,
For life, though held in pain;
yearn, am blind, faint, pine,
Yet, yet the glorious task is mine
better land to gain.
Green spread for me the summer hills,
Soft hangs the bridal blue that fills
The moons imperial arch,
Mine are the songs of bird and blast,
The softer memories of the past
The stars triumphal march.
IT'S mine the brooklet's maze to trace,
Look on the regal human face
Still redolent of God;
In gentle word and quiet deed,
To sWathe some hearts that ache or bleed,
uproot the thistle and venomus weed,
And strew the olive and myrtle seed,
As violets strew the sod.
For these, to Thee, be incense given,
First, Highest, Brightest, King of Heaven,
And Lord of quick and dead!
Thanks, for the deserts wasted springs,
As for the fount that nearest sings,
And to the soft winds idle wings,
Dissolves in diamond whorls and rings,
AS if it heard Thy tread!
Thanks for the glory Of the rose
The mantle Of the mountain SHOWS
Thanks! for the tyrant's brazen blows,
And for the scOrner's scorn;
Thanks when the good and lovely bow
In death, as for the Blessed Brow
That wore the Grown Of Thorn!
In the lash slaves unpitied groans,
In rooms where the starv'd orphan means,
In the hearts crushing stone
Yea, in the mighty sobs that knoll
The breaking of the Golden Bowl,
Great God, Thy will is done
LITcHF1ELD, CoNN.
Townsville ,Jourpa