110 CHRIST'S AGONY IN THE GARDEN. It pass'd not-though the stormy wave It pass'd not-though to Him the grave But there was sent Him from on high And was His mortal hour beset With anguish and dismay? -How may we meet our conflict yet, In the dark, narrow way? How, but through Him, that path who trod? Save, or we perish, Son of God! * "And there appeared an angel unto him from heaven, strengthening him." St. Luke, xxii. 43. THE SUNBEAM. THOU art no lingerer in monarch's hall, A bearer of hope unto land and sea- Thou art walking the billows, and Ocean smilesThou hast touch'd with glory his thousand islesThou hast lit up the ships, and the feathery foam, And gladden'd the sailor, like words from home. To the solemn depths of the forest-shades, Thou art streaming on through their green arcades, And the quivering leaves that have caught thy glow, Like fire-flies glance to the pools below. I look'd on the mountains-a vapor lay I look'd on the peasant's lowly cot- To the earth's wild places a guest thou art, Thou tak'st through the dim church-aisle thy way, And its pillars from twilight flash forth to day, And its high pale tombs, with their trophies old, Are bath'd in a flood as of burning gold. And thou turnest not from the humblest grave, Where a flower to the sighing winds may wave; Thou scatterest its gloom like the dreams of rest, Thou sleepest in love on its grassy breast. Sunbeam of summer, oh! what is like thee? The faith, touching all things with hues of Heaven. THE TRAVELLER AT THE SOURCE OF THE NILE. IN sunset's light o'er Afric thrown, The cradle of that mighty birth, So long a hidden thing to earth. He heard its life's first murmuring sound, A low mysterious tone; A music sought, but never found By kings and warriors gone; He listen'd-and his heart beat high- The rapture of a conqueror's mood Rush'd burning through his frame, The depths of that green solitude Though stillness lay, with eve's last smile, Night came with stars :-across his soul A shadow dark and strange, Breath'd from the thought, so swift to fall O'er triumph's hour-And is this all? No more than this!-what seem'd it now A thousand streams of lovelier flow Bath'd his own mountain land! Whence, far o'er waste and ocean track, They call'd him back to many a glade, They call'd him, with their sounding waves, Back to his fathers' hills and graves. |