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GRACE OF CLYDESIDE.
- AH, little Grace of the golden locks,
- The hills rise fair on the shores of Clyde.
- As the merry waves wear out these rocks
- She wears my heart out, glides past and mocks:
- But heaven’s gate ever stands open wide.
- The boat goes softly along, along,
- Like a river of life glows the amber Clyde;
- Her voice floats near me like angel’s song,—
- Ah, sweet love‐death, but thy pangs are strong!
- Though heaven’s gate ever stands open wide.
- We walk by the shore and the stars shine bright,
- But coldly, above the solemn Clyde:
- Her arm touches mine—her laugh rings light—
- ONE hears my silence: His merciful night
- Hides me—Can heaven be open wide?
- I ever was but a dreamer, Grace:
- As the gray hills watch o’er the sunny Clyde,
- Standing afar, each in his place,
- I watch your young life’s beautiful race,
- Apart—until heaven be opened wide.
- And sometimes when in the twilight balm
- The hills grow purple along the Clyde,
- The waves flow softly and very calm,
- I hear all nature sing this one psalm,
- That “heaven’s gate ever stands open wide.”
- So, happy Grace, with your spirit free,
- Laugh on! life is sweet on the banks of Clyde;
- This is no blame unto thee or me;
- Only God saw it could not be,
- Therefore His heaven stands open wide.
