GREAT BINDWEED. 167 



And flowers are opening, and the pleasant wind 

 Is breathing round thee, and the doors are open 

 Of sacred fanes where holy men have knelt 

 On sabbath days, and oft, on week days too 1 

 Not mourning now the hours they loved to yield 

 To Him who saved them, who nor toil nor time 

 Spared for his brethren's sake, when on this earth 

 His weary steps were seen, and oft his tears 

 Fell fast for those who scorned his lowly guise. 

 Years have past since, and blessed ones have risen 

 From oflF this earth, and they are waiting now 

 The break of that glad morn, which soon shall rise 

 On sleeping, dreaming thousands ; ay, on those 

 Who dream no more, whose beds no kind hand 



makes, 

 No friend sits by, the lone, the dark, the chill. 

 Where all are equal, most forgotten lie 

 By those who loved them ; for the gates of death 

 Are oft oblivious, and few care to think 

 Of those whose spirits wait, and fondly hope. 

 For that bright morn, when He who came to save 



