THE air has borne some tender words, 

As sweet as melodies of birds, 

And benedictions soft and clear 

Have trembled on the waiting ear; 

But never sweeter accents fell 

Than Faith has uttered, "It is well." 

Hope sits thro' each today and waits 

The opening of tomorrow's gates, 

And Patience wearily abides 

The veil that each tomorrow hides; 

But whether good or ill foretell, 

Faith sweetly whispers, "It is well." 

As soothing as a soothing balm, 

A grand and yet a tender psalm 

Is floating ever on the air, 

Is blending with the mourner's prayer; 

And saddest plaints that ever fell 

Find answer in the "It is well." 

Rural Home.