Thompson, Priscilla Jane
|GLEANINGS OF QUIET HOURS.|
|ADOWN THE HEIGHTS OF AGES|
A DOWN the heights of Ages,
Where mist oft dims the view,
Where blinding chaos rages,
Whilst sweet peace mingles, too,
A caravan e'er moves along,
A fast increasing, fitful throng,
To whom we've said adieu.
Oft, through the mist, seclusive,
Familiar forms, appear;
And from their realm, exclusive,
Their joys and griefs, we hear;
A bright ray, oft, lights up the mist,
And flash us back a loving kiss;
Or counsel we hold dear.
And often, in the young night,
When memories, beguile,
We drift behind the foot-lights,
And play with them awhile;
'Tis then we press that hand, again,
And hear that voice, that thrills to pain,
And drink again that smile.
Then stroll we through the wildwood,
Down to the meadow brook,
And with the joy of childhood,
We ply our fishing hook;
Or, in the country school, once more,
We take our places, "on the floor,"
Intent with slate and book.
Or else, with joy and laughter,
We join the social feast,
Which brings the smile long after,
The hour of mirth has ceased;
We catch those love-lit eyes, as bright,
As e'er they shone that long fled night,
And feel our glad heart leap.
And so we drift, forgetful,
Of all except the past,
'Til with a start, regretful,
We find ourselves, at last;
The drama fades before our eye;
We yield our loved ones, with a sigh,
Back, to relentless past.
Thus down the heights of Ages,
A mere yote in the throng,
All that our life engages,
Moves speedily, along;
Small, small, indeed, the part we play,
The hour glass wastes the sand away,
Ere half is sung, Life's song.