THE COMPLAINT.

By Helen Mar Johnson

Ah! many springs have come and gone,

And called me forth in vain;

Now winter folds the winding-sheet

Round nature's breast again.

Young hands have gathered bright, wild flowers,

Young feet have trod the grass,

But I have watched in solitude

The mournful shadows pass.

Young hands have gathered brighter flowers

From wisdom's pleasant tree —

But darker still the shadows fall,

There are no flowers for me!

No flowers! where shadows deepest lie

Amid the wint'ry gloom,

Thank God, I see with kindling eye

The Rose of Sharon bloom!

It is enough — my earthly hopes

Are fading one by one;

My God and my Redeemer lives,

And may his will be done.

I know that in a better world

I shall look back and say

I never could have reached my home

By any other way.

And such a home! no frightful dreams,

No wakings to despair —

No cries of — God remove the cup,

Or give me strength to bear!

No pillows wet with burning tears,—

No longings wild and vain

To wander in the pleasant fields,

Or dear old woods again!

But love and peace, and endless joy,

And rest to me how strange!

Lord give me patience to await

The happy, happy change!