Until I Come

The following beautiful poem was written by the late Henry W. Longfellow soon after the death of his wife in 18öl . Aiona I walked the peopled city, Wherc each seerns happy with his owu; Ob! friends, I ask not for your pity- 1 walk alone. ♦ No more formo yon lake rejoices, Though moved by loving airs of June. Oh! blrds, your sweet and piping voices Are out oftuue. In vain for me the elra tree arches ltsptnmes in many a feathery spray. Invtün tne evenlng'sstarry marches And sunlit day. In vain your beauty, suramer flowers: Ye cannot greet these cordial eyes; They gaze on other fleld than onrs- On other skies. The gold is rifled from the coffer, The blade is stolen from the sheath; Life has but one more boon to offer, And that is- Death. Yet well I know the voiec of duty. And therefore, life and health munt erave, Thou"h ahe who gave the world its beauty Is in her grave. I live, 0 lost one! for the living Vü drew thelr earliest life frora thee, And walt, until with glad thanksgiving I shall be free. For life to me is as a station Whereln apart a travelier stands- One absent long from home and uation In othor lands; And I, as he who stands and listens, Amld ihetwilight's ohill and gloom, To hear, approaohing in the distance, The train for home. For death#haH bringanother matins, Beyond the Bhadows of the tomb, On y onder shore a bride In waitlng ITntil I come. In yonder field are children playlng, And there- oh! visión oldeliïni!- I Beethe chlld and mother straylng In robes of white. Thou, then, the longing heart that breakest, Stealingtüe tre sures one by one. ril cali Thee bletsed when thou rrjakest The parted- one.