"What is this life? and what to us is death? Whence came we? whither go? and where are those Who, in a moment stricken from our side, Passed to that land of shadow and repose? "And are they all dust? and dust must we become? Or are they living in some unknown clime? Shall we regain them in that far-off home, And live anew beyond the waves of time? "O man divine! on thee our souls have hung; Thou wert our teacher in these questions high; But, ah, this day divides thee from our side, And veils in dust thy kindly-guiding eye. "Where is that Charmer whom thou bidst us seek? On what far shores may his sweet voice be heard? When shall these questions of our yearning souls Be answered by the bright Eternal Word?" So spake the youth of Athens, weeping round, When Socrates lay calmly down to die; So spake the sage, prophetic of the hour When earth's fair morning star should rise on high. They found Him not, those youths of soul divine, Long seeking, wandering, watching on life's shore-- Reasoning, aspiring, yearning for the light, Death came and found them--doubting as before. But years passed on; and lo! the Charmer came-- Pure, simple, sweet, as comes the silver dew; And the world knew him not--he walked alone, Encircled only by his trusting few. Like the Athenian sage rejected, scorned, Betrayed, condemned, his day of doom drew nigh; He drew his faithful few more closely round, And told them that _his_ hour was come to die. "Let not your heart be troubled," then he said; "My Father's house hath mansions large and fair; I go before you to prepare your place; I will return to take you with me there." And since that hour the awful foe is charmed, And life and death are glorified and fair. Whither he went we know--the way we know-- And with firm step press on to meet him there. PILGRIM'S SONG IN THE DESERT. 'Tis morning now--upon the eastern hills Once more the sun lights up this cheerless scene; But O, no morning in my Father's house Is dawning now, for there no night hath been. Ten thousand thousand now, on Zion's hills, All robed in white, with palmy crowns, do stray, While I, an exile, far from fatherland, Still wandering, faint along the desert way. O home! dear home! my own, my native home! O Father, friends, when shall I look on you? When shall these weary wanderings be o'er, And I be gathered back to stray no more? O thou, the brightness of whose gracious face These weary, longing eyes have never seen,-- By whose dear thought, for whose beloved sake, My course, through toil and tears, I daily take,--