All sinless now, and crowned and glorified, Where'er thou movest move they still with thee, As erst, in sweet communion by thy side, Walked John and Mary in old Galilee. But hush, my heart! 'Tis but a day or two Divides thee from that bright, immortal shore. Rise up! rise up! and gird thee for the race! Fast fly the hours, and all will soon be o'er. Thou hast the new name written in thy soul; Thou hast the mystic stone He gives his own. Thy soul, made one with him, shall feel no more That she is walking on her path alone. VII WHEN I AWAKE I AM STILL WITH THEE Still, still with Thee, when purple morning breaketh, When the bird waketh and the shadows flee; Fairer than morning, lovelier than the daylight, Dawns the sweet consciousness, _I am with Thee_! Alone with Thee, amid the mystic shadows, The solemn hush of nature newly born; Alone with Thee in breathless adoration, In the calm dew and freshness of the morn. As in the dawning o'er the waveless ocean The image of the morning star doth rest, So in this stillness Thou beholdest only Thine image in the waters of my breast. Still, still with Thee! as to each new-born morning A fresh and solemn splendor still is given, So doth the blessed consciousness, awaking, Breathe, each day, nearness unto Thee and heaven. When sinks the soul, subdued by toil, to slumber, Its closing eye looks up to Thee in prayer; Sweet the repose beneath the wings o'ershading, But sweeter still to wake and find Thee there. So shall it be at last, in that bright morning When the soul waketh and life's shadows flee; O in that hour, fairer than daylight dawning, Shall rise the glorious thought, _I am with Thee_! PRESSED FLOWERS FROM ITALY A DAY IN THE PAMFILI DORIA Though the hills are cold and snowy, And the wind drives chill to-day, My heart goes back to a spring-time, Far, far in the past away. And I see a quaint old city, Weary and worn and brown, Where the spring and the birds are so early, And the sun in such light goes down. I remember that old-times villa, Where our afternoons went by, Where the suns of March flushed warmly, And spring was in earth and sky. Out of the mouldering city, Mouldering, old, and gray, We sped, with a lightsome heart-thrill, For a sunny, gladsome day,-- For a revel of fresh spring verdure, For a race 'mid springing flowers, For a vision of plashing fountains, Of birds and blossoming bowers. There were violet banks in the shadows, Violets white and blue; And a world of bright anemones, That over the terrace grew,-- Blue and orange and purple, Rosy and yellow and white, Rising in rainbow bubbles, Streaking the lawns with light.