St. Cloud Democrat

THE RIVER OF DEATH

There's many a holy rapturous strain
Floating o'er the River of Death.
To the weary who wait, like the ripened grain,
For the touch of the Reaper's breath.
There are flashes of light on each lifted wave,
As it glides from the further shore,
To the shadowy border our tear-drops lave,
In the lull of the water's roar.
They are harp strings, stirred by the perfumed
air,
And gushing with melody sweet.
Like the whispered notes of a child at prayer,
In the hush of the twilight deep.
They hear the low music so solemn and grand,
And heed not the eddying tide,
For they catch a gleam of the forms that stand
By the stream on the other side.
And we see a light on the calm white brow,
Like the glow of the crimson morn;
But we see not the lips on the lids of snow,
All the night we deem so long!
And we only know when we hear no more,
As we watch for the passing breath,
That an angel is swiftly bearing them down
The banks of the River of Death-
Only know that their footsteps are pressing the
sands
Of the shore that their brightness laves;
And over their bosoms fresh garlands we lay,
And a lily we twine in their hair-
Fit emblems of beauty, now blighted they say,
Those garlands and lily-buds are.
I call it not blighted-I deem them not dead
Who thus pass away in their bloom;
For they rest in their beauty where tears are
not shed
O'er the darkness and blight of the tomb.
And oft, as I sit at the casement alone,
I list, if perchance I may hear,
Through the stately pines as they sway and
moan.
Like a child at the shrouded bier,
The flutter of sails and the rushing of waves,
And the flash of a gilded oar,
As the reaper starts from his emerald caves
To carry me down to the shore;
And I wait for the swoop of an angel wing:
And the clasp of an angel hand,
For the sound of a harp and the chant of
hymn,
And the light of the glory land.
But alas! I listen and wait in vain;
Yet I know that my weary feet
Shall wander ere long from the valley of pain,
To the river so solemn and sweet.
I shall go with the Reaper, changeless and pale
And each woe that my heart has known.
Each agonized cry, each desolate wail,
Each fearful and piteous moan,
Shall be washed away by the murmurous
waves,
From my spirit so joyous and free,
When I see the smile of the lovely who wait
On the beautiful shore for me.