But He Was Already Gone Long Before That

Come, child, to prayer; the busy day is done.

A golden star gleams through the dusk of night;

The hills are trembling in the rising mist.

The rumbling wain looms dim upon the sight;

All things went home to rest; the roadside trees

Shake off their dust, stirred by the evening breeze.

The sparkling stars gush forth in a sudden blaze.

As twilight open flings the doors of night;

The fringe of carmine narrows in the west.

The rippling waves are tipped with silver light;

The bush, the path—all blend in one dull gray;

The doubtful traveller gropes his anxious way.

Oh, day! with toil, with wrong, with rife hatred;

Oh, blessed night! with sober calmness sweet,

The sad winds moaning through the ruined tower,

The age-worn hind, the sheep's sad broken bleat—

All nature groans oppressed with toil and care,

And wearied craves for rest, and love, and prayer.

At eve the babes with angels converse hold,

While we to our strange pleasures wend our way,

Each with its little face upraised to heaven,

With folded hands, barefoot, she kneels down to pray.

At the selfsame hour with the selfsame words they call.

On God, the common Father of them all.

And then they sleep, and golden dreams anon,

Born as the busy day's last murmurs die,

In swarms tumultuous flitting through the gloom

Their breathing lips and golden locks descry.

And as the bees o'er bright flowers joyous roam,

Around their curtained cradles clustering come.

Oh, prayer of childhood! simple, innocent;

Oh, infant slumbers! peaceful, pure, and light;

Oh, happy worship! ever gay with smiles,

Meet the prelude to the harmonies of night;

As birds beneath the wing enfold their head,

Nestled in prayer, the infant seeks its bed.

HENRY HIGHTON, M.A.

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To prayer, my child! and O, be thy first prayer

For her who, many nights, with anxious care,

Rocked thy first cradle; who took thy infant soul

From heaven and gave it to the world; then rife

With love, she still drank herself the gall of life.

And left for your young lips the honeyed bowl.

And then—I need it more—then pray for me!

For she is gentle, artless, and true, like thee;

She has a guileless heart, brow placid still;

Pity she has for all, envy for none;

Gentle and wise, she patiently lives on;

And she endures, nor knows who does the ill.

In culling flowers, her novice hand has never

Touched even the outer rind of vice; no snare

With a smiling show, he has lured her steps aside.

On her the past has left no staining mark;

Nor does she know aught of those bad thoughts, which, dark

Like shade on waters, o'er the spirit glide.

She knows not—nor mayest thou—the miseries

In which our spirits mingle: vanities,

Remorse, soul-gnawing cares, pleasure's false show:

Passions that float upon the heart like foam,

Bitter remembrances which o'er us come,

And Shame's red spot spread suddenly o'er the brow.

I know life better! when you're older grown

I'll tell you—it is needful to be known—

Of the pursuit of wealth—art, power; the cost.

That it is folly, nothingness: that shame

For glory is oft thrown us in the game.

Of Fortune; chances where the soul is lost.

The soul will change. Although of everything

The cause and end are clear, yet bewildering.

We roam through life (full of vice and error).

We wander as we go; we feel the load.

Of doubt; and to the briars upon the road

Man leaves his virtue, as the sheep its wool.

Then go, go pray for me! And as the prayer

Gushes in words, and this is the form they bear:

"Lord, Lord, our Father! God, my prayer attend;

Pardon! Thou art good! Pardon—thou art great!"

Let them go freely forth; fear not their fate!

Where thy soul sends them, thitherward they tend.

There's nothing here below that does not find

Its tendency. O'er plains the rivers wind,

And reach the sea; the bee, by instinct driven,

Finds out the honeyed flowers; the eagle flies

To seek the sun, the vulture where death lies,

The swallow to the spring; the prayer to Heaven!

And when thy voice is raised to God for me,

I'm like the slave whom in the vale we see.

Seated to rest, his heavy load laid by;

I feel refreshed—the load of faults and woe

Which, groaning, I drag with me as I go.

Thy winged prayer bears off rejoicingly.

Pray for thy father! that his dreams be bright

With visiting angels of forms of light,

And his soul burns as incense flaming wide,

Let thy pure breath all his dark sins efface,

So that his heart be like that holy place,

An altar pavement each eve purified

Tait's Magazine