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416
POEMS.
And we who have buried hopes and joys
On dark Oblivion’s shore,
Oh may not we, e’en we, arise
To live and praise once more?
Then fall, O snow, tired Nature’s sleep,
We’ll rest and forget while ’t is night;
But in winter’s slumber, calm and deep,
We’ll dream of the spring-tide bright.
December, 1847.
* THE CRIPPLE’S MISSION.
On bed of straw, all racked with pain,
A wretched woman lay;
For twenty years she thus had lain,
And suffered night and day:
With crippled limbs, with joints awry,
She writhed in bitter agony.
No friend or kin with watchful care
Her bed of pain did tend,
But she was wont in silence there
Her lonely hours to spend:
*T was but the hand of charity
At times would food or aid supply.
A worthy pastor heard one day
This tale of hopeless woe,
He took his staff and went his way
Some comfort to bestow :
And by her bed, in accents meek,
Of peace and love he fain would speak.
And when he saw her thus laid low,
All comfort he forgot,
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