Over the silver mountains, The bowl of bliss; And drink mine everlasting fill My soul will be a-dry before; More peaceful pilgrims I shall see, To quench their thirst And taste of nectar suckets, At those clear wells Where sweetness dwells Drawn up by saints in crystal buckets. And when our bottles and all we Then the blessed paths we'll travel, No conscience molten into gold, No forged accuser brought or sold, No cause deferred, no vain-spent journey; And when the grand twelve-million jury Gainst our souls black verdicts give, Be thou my speaker, taintless pleader, And this is mine eternal plea To him that made heaven, earth, and sea, That, since my flesh must die so soon, And want a head to dine next noon, Just at the stroke, when my veins start and spread, Set on my soul an everlasting head. Then an I ready, like a palmer fit; To tread those blest paths which before I writ In the Victorian poems the note of exultation and hallelujah has changed to a more sublime and somber one with a touch of sadness and at times of doubt. The mater ial reward is changing to a spiritual reward. AT HOME IN HEAVEN, By Montgomery. (Vic. An. page 168) "Forever with the Lord! Amen, so let it be; Life from the dead is in that word, Here in the body pent, Yet nightly pitch my moving tent My Father's house on high, Yet clouds will intervene, Anon the clouds dispart, The winds and waters cease, Then, then I feel that he, The Lord is never far from me, Though I perceive him not." The Island of love, tranquillity, and peace is Heaven. In the following poem the note of triumph has softened to a whisper of love. THE ISLAND OF SHADOWS By Richard Garnett (Vic. An. page 330). "For Love dwells with the dead, though more Chasten'd, and mild it seems; While Avarice, Envy, Jealousy, and Hate, No word has pass'd thy lips, but yet I know We leave the worn-out world - is it not so?- To cross, and gain some isle in whose sweet shade And careless Care on smoothest rose-leaves laid Seclusion, quiet, silence, slumber, dreams, The same still image on the same still streams, ་་ In the beautiful little poem entitled "Let me be with Thee," by Charlotte Elliott (see Vic. An., page 169), earthly joys and earthly love have all been lost in the love for the Divine Saviour. |