Majestical forest!—Asylum of REST, Where the crowd-jostled soul is ineffably blest— Where primeval old trees, in their grandeur and might, Guard Solitude’s shrine, from the vandal-world’s sight; Where spice-bearing shrubs, and the sweet-scented ferns Float odors as rich as when frankincense burns, And the praise-breathing song of the thrush, from the boughs, Wakes worship unknown thro’ the low-muttered vows. “First temples of God!”—and still nearest His throne, Where the spirit may drink, at the fountain, alone, Receiving His blessing through the still, small voice, While Nature’s true Acolytes whisper—rejoice. Unforgiven. Ah! that “Past”—that bitter parting, Long ago, yet vivid seems— Oft in midnight’s black arms folded I have lived it o’er in dreams; As a presence it has shadowed Every path of life I’ve tried— If I joined the festive circle It was stalking by my side. If I sat at hush of even With a sense of love and trust, It would come and stand before me, Hissing out the word—unjust; It has stretched its ghostly fingers For all blessings to destroy, And has poured its gall and wormwood In each lifted cup of joy. Had you winged a sweet forgiveness, Sent it o’er the “silent line,” It had proved a benediction Falling on your life and mine. Through the years that phantom presence, Like a black bird o’er my door, Seemed to say, by silent glowering, “I will leave thee nevermore.” _You_ can drive this haunting demon, Send in place a snowy dove— Only breathe the longed for blessing, Not youth’s fervent tale of love, And on friendship’s sacred altar Light a pure and holy flame, That may burn before the angels Without blanch or blush of shame. The Evening and the Morning. “At Evening time it shall be light.”—Bible. “The evening twilight of this life meets the morning twilight of the next and they kiss each other.”—L. H. F. When Life’s evening twilight gathers Darkling shadows from the tomb, Then a bright celestial morning Kisses back the gathering gloom; Robed in beauty’s bright adorning This aurora—dawning glory, Kisses back the gathering gloom. When the crimson tide is throbbing With the hopes that wildly mount, And the sensuous soul is drinking From enjoyment’s sparkling fount, Then the thoughts will turn with shrinking From the coming of life’s gloaming— Death seems then a Stygian fount. But when life’s weary day is closing— When the lengthening shadows fall, Sweetly singing angel voices Come with blessing in their call! The departing soul rejoices With prevision, of Elysian, Gladly welcoming the call.