AFTER LONG GRIEF AND PAIN.

There is a place hung o'er with summer boughs

And drowsy skies wherein the gray hawk sleeps;

Where waters flow, within whose lazy deeps,

Like silvery prisms that the winds arouse,

The minnows twinkle; where the bells of cows

Tinkle the stillness, and the bob-white keeps

Calling from meadows where the reaper reaps,

And children's laughter haunts an old-time house;

A place where life wears ever an honest smell

Of hay and honey, sun and elder-bloom —

Like some dear, modest girl — within her hair:

Where, with our love for comrade, we may dwell

Far from the city's strife whose cares consume —

Oh, take my hand and let me lead you there.