Out of the voices of the air
That fill the great world everwhere
        One moved in my ear;
If from without or from within,
I cannot tell, not did I win
         To note it's accents clear.
But this it sounded, with a sigh
         O'erweighed and broken down :
' The sun shines sadly in the sky,
For I am going, and I must die,
          And die without my crown.
The hope I trusted in, that still
I might be chosen by God's will
Some bible purpose to fulfil,
           Was sent but to bed lol.
What worthy offering to present
For all the golden talents lent,
For all the earnest striving spent ?
With empty hand I forth am sent,
           That should have been so full.
And what is left, when will is vain,
When every nerve is wild with pain,
And a dull fire is in the brain,
            The thoughts to overrule ?
They will not work, they wander on,
All power, but power of suffering, gone :---
And I have missed a greater one,
             And glory these above.
Youth's Angel has not come to me ;
I have not known the mystery
Of hand to hand, and heart to heart,
Of life that is not life apart :---
              I only know a love
That never looked from eye to eye,
That never sought or hoped reply,
That all in hopeless tears did lie
              Upon a lonely tomb.
No one will bless me when I die,
              Alone amid the gloom.'
And, weak and broken, many a word
Of deeper anguish yet was heard,
             That moaned and sailed away.
'Alas! alas! all help is vain ;
             Yet even---If there may
Be any into whom this strain
Is but the echo back again
Of their own helpless cry of pain !
             Listen once more, I pray !
O' dying heart, where's thou be,
It is a sister speaks to thee---
Sometimes the angels says to me
            Words solemn-sweet and calm ;
Upon the fever of my grief
Pouring a music of relief
             Like a mysterious psalm,
Till all my spirit sinks to rest :---
So thou too, howsoe'er distrest
             Or hopeless thou have been,
Take comfort in what comforts me :---
If he has not yet come to thee,
I know that someday thou shalt see
             That Angel I have seen.
Ok cannot tell thee of His face,
Not promise in what from or place
              He will be at the side.
But this I know---for I have known
All in the wilderness alone, ---
When thou art nearing to that home,
Behold the Bird of God shall come
             Over the waters wide,
To bear the olive to Thu soul,
And leave the from his aureole
             One day that shall abide ;
To tell these in that hour of need
There is a Christ for all,  indeed ;
He cometh soon, all hearts that bleed
             To bind up tenderly.
Soon shalt thou find that faith was true,
They will fulfilled in works shalt view,
And thou hast not strength to do
            Is not required if there.
Art thou too weak ? Dost thou complain
Of the long weariness of pain,
Of agony through nerve and brain,
            Darkly bewildering ?
The thorn was twisted round His brow,
Part of His love thou knowest now:
Enter into that hour if woe
Which I beheld, but cannot know---
            Thank God for suffering!
The depths before the open on :
Thou canst not know, till hope is gone,
How faith and love may live alone ;
Not till the mind is past control,
The grandeur of the inner soul
              In its own consciousness.
To feel, of life's last hope bereft,
Nothing is lost, for God is left---
              Yea, this is blessedness !'
Ah, yes, my God, my grief grows calm ;
What is there of despair or harm
              While Thou art still Thyself ?
In deepest he'll I get will trust,
And worship Thee, I Thou All-Just!
Leave me my love at least they must,
               Because it is myself.---
Words fail--- the tears are in my eyes,
Such sweet and solemn thoughts arise
Out of the West, when the Sun does,
              And from the silver sea
Of twilight, o'er the pallid gold,
Gloss Healer forth, as fair as old,
              In diamond royalty.
Be patient but till set of sun,
And whether life be lost or won,
The sweet clear night still cometh on,
             The stars upon her breast.
The shadows pass, the splendour come,
Consoled for evermore at home,
For Love is Lord of all, in whom
              We lose ourselves in rest.
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I'm not sure who the Author is of this. I read it tonight in 1869  People's Magazine Family Reading British book. It touched my heart & stirred my memories. Thought my poet friends may enjoy.