Books by Mary Baker Eddy

page 857


Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer.
                                        - Moore.

Was that fold for the lambkin soft
     virtue's repose,
Where the weary and earth-stricken
     lay down their woes, - 
When the fountain and leaflet are frozen and
And the mountains more friendless, - their
     home is not here?

When the herd had forsaken, and left them
     to stray
From the green sunny slopes of the woodland
Where the music of waters had fled to the sea,
And this life but one given to suffer and be?

Was it then thou didst call them to banish
     all pain,
And the harpstring, just breaking, reecho
To a strain of enchantment that flowed as
     the wave,
Where they waited to welcome the murmur
     it gave?

PO 42

Oh, there's never a shadow where sunshine
     is not,
And never the sunshine without a dark spot;
Yet there's one will be victor, for glory and
Without heart to define them, were only a

Lynn, Mass., February 19, 1868.

PO 43

Next Page

|| - page index - || - chapter index - || - download - || - Exit - ||





 (c) Copyright 1998 - Rolf Witzsche
Published by Cygni Communications Ltd. North Vancouver, Canada