Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

The world is full of lovely things;
We need not borrow Fancy's wings
To waft us through the sky
In quest of change, through any dearth
Of glorious objects here on Earth
To feed our inward eye.

II

Nor deem I that all-bounteous Heaven
Hath, to the poet only, given
A power which doth reveal,
In Nature's every sound and sight,
Deeper and more intense delight
Than common souls can feel.

III

'Tis holy Love—'tis Faith and Hope,
Which Beauty's secret chambers ope
To minds of humblest mould;
And paths of heavenly light are trod
On Earth by every child of God,
Which no gross eyes behold.

172

IV

And he—there's not a spot so sad
But he can make it bright and glad;
No scene so dark and drear,
But he therein doth well discern
Celestial lights, which blaze and burn
Through its thick atmosphere.

V

In towns or woods, on towers or trees,
The impress of God's hand he sees,
And hears his well-known voice;
In hope and fear, in woe and weal,
His presence doth he ever feel,
And in His smile rejoice.

VI

With searching glance 'tis his to scan
The deep, mysterious heart of man—
Its secret movements trace;
The spirit's silent growth to mark,
And track, through windings dim and dark,
The wondrous stream of grace.

VII

The griefs and joys which others feel
More closely to his heart appeal
Than godless minds can guess;
'Tis his with all to smile and weep,
And share, with fevour kind and deep,
Their joy and their distress.

VIII

And thus,—whate'er his walk may be,—
Full of sweet sympathies is he
With pleasure and with pain;
Wherever human hearts are found,

173

Feeling and thought for him abound;—
The world is his domain.

IX

In court or camp, in hall or cot,
Rich contemplations fail him not;—
A peasant at the plough—
A soldier—or a merchant grave—
A monarch—or a menial slave—
His heart hath range enow.

X

And yet, methinks, one task there is
More sweetly and more truly his
Than other tasks can be;—
The gospel message to convey
To souls from Heaven still far astray;—
The task assign'd to me.

XI

To us, and to our pastoral care,
Is many a human heart laid bare
In many a varying mood;
All human sorrows, doubts and fears,
All cares and troubles, smiles and tears,
Supply our mental food.

XII

To us the wounded spirit flees
For words of comfort to appease
Its own afflictive smart;
The penitent, by fears opprest,
Comes to us, and asks ease and rest
For his o'er-burden'd heart.

XIII

Our aid is lent, our prayers are said
By saint and sinner's dying bed

174

To us, in life's last hour,
Confidingly both young and old
The soul's mysterious depths unfold—
Its weakness and its power.

XIV

Then, if I may revive once more
The powers, which, ere life's spring was o'er,
Were mine, or seem'd to be,—
What need to urge, beyond the sphere
Of vision which surrounds me here,
My light-wing'd phantasy?

XV

Nought care I for heroic strains;—
I leave to bolder hearts and brains
The lofty epic style;
Enough for me what I can win
Of calm and tender thought, within
The space of one square mile!

XVI

Here, in this quiet shelter'd spot,
Where Providence hath cast my lot,
In love and peace, so long,—
This spot, which saw my children's birth—
Here, by my own still blissful hearth,
Shall be my world of song.

XVII

From things which gladden or which grieve
Familiar hearts, my Muse shall weave
Such garlands as she can;
Noting, in this her narrow sphere,
All storms which shake, all gleams which cheer
The troublous soul of Man.

175

XVIII

So now to hearts of gentle mould
A simple tale will I unfold—
A tale of humble love,
Of suffering long and faith intense,
In one who late departed hence
To dwell with Christ above.

XIX

Of humble parentage was she,
And yet not born in poverty,
No child of want or shame;
Her parents still in comfort dwell,
And earn a decent living well,
And bear an honest name.

XX

Herself—in sooth I would not speak
Of beaming eye or blooming cheek,
Fine form, or noble mien,
Had such been hers:—'twould suit as well
The unromantic tale I tell,
Had she an Ethiop been.

XXI

There are, whose chance-caught looks express
An intellectual loveliness,
Which makes us turn and start,
Even when no outward sign we trace
Of beauty in the form and face—
Looks kindled from the heart.

XXII

But such were not her looks or mien—
No token in her face was seen

176

Of genius rich and rare;
Even though you sought, you scarce would find
A symptom of superior mind,
Or high-wrought feeling there.

XXIII

She was a meek and simple maid
As ever roam'd in greenwood shade,
Or sat in summer bower;
Though little of green shades or woods,
Lone dells or silent solitudes,
Knew she, or felt the power.

XXIV

Scant store of sentiment refined
Had she—her pure but humble mind
Small culture e'er had known;
Few were her books, nor much she sought,
Through knowledge gain'd of others' thought,
To elevate her own.

XXV

So fares it oft with those design'd
The loftiest place 'midst human kind
In other worlds to hold;
Though here they seem, to human eye,
Compass'd with much infirmity—
The feeblest of the fold.

XXVI

We see not how their spirits grow,
We know not whence the breezes blow
Which life to them convey;
Through what dim workings of the thought
The silent work of grace is wrought,
And error purged away.

177

XXVII

But mark them well—in lowliest hut,
Or, poorest among paupers, shut
Within a workhouse walls;
And you will own that heavenly light,
In streams of glory pure and bright,
On their weak spirits falls.

XXVIII

No doubts have they through learned pride;
They hear God's promise and confide,—
Their faith is faith indeed;
And thus from height to height they go
Of hope and love, while we, below,
Plod on with laggard speed.

XXIX

Yet was not she, of whom I speak,
Left all her little lore to seek,
Or rear her own poor thought;
But placed beneath the Christian rule
Of one who kept a daily school,
And Christ's pure lessons taught.

XXX

Nor may we deem the years mis-spent,
In which, from day to day, she went
To that instructress kind;
Though then no goodly growth was rear'd,
No promise of rich grace appear'd
To blossom in her mind.

XXXI

Her teacher plough'd the virgin ground,
And scatter'd in its soil profound
The seed of truth divine;
Which there unseen, unnoticed lay,

178

Till on her heart, with quickening ray,
Religion's sun should shine.

XXXII

And thus her tender years were past—
Until the time arrived at last
When she, a woman grown,
Should, as the Church's laws allow,
Renewing the baptismal vow,
Confirm it as her own.

XXXIII

A blessed time is that to me,—
Of all my pastoral ministry,
To toil most pleasant given;
When, face to face, in conference sweet,
The younglings of my flock I meet,
To speak of Christ and Heaven.

XXXIV

A blessed time, when heavenly truth
Press'd firmly on the mind of youth
In many a close appeal,
Lays bare undreamt-of depths within,
And the whole mystery of sin
Doth startlingly reveal.

XXXV

A time of fresh and fervent thought,
When Heaven and Hell at once are brought
Before the young mind's eye;
And the thick veil is rent in twain
Which on the wondrous world had lain
Of immortality.

XXXVI

So fell it in that maiden's case;
The deep, mysterious work of grace

179

Seem'd then, in her, begun;
The seeds, in childhood sown, then first
To life and sudden vigour burst,
Beneath religion's sun.

XXXVII

With thoughtful brow and tearful eye
She heard, and in her heart laid by
The lessons then instill'd;
Truths known, but never felt before,
Which now she ponder'd o'er and o'er,
Through soul and spirit thrill'd.

XXXVIII

And when the holy rite was done,
And from the altar, one by one,
Her young companions pass'd,
Whatever thoughts in them might stir—
Some had, that day, been waked in her,
Which would for ever last.

XXXIX

The emptiness she now had learn'd
Of things below—had well discern'd
The worth of things not seen,
And, in the Everlasting arms,
From Earth's temptations, Hell's alarms,
Received and shelter'd been.

XL

Strange passage! from youth's dreams of bliss
Investing such a world as this
With glory most untrue,
To calmest faith and sober love,
Which almost bring the world above
Within the Christian's view.

180

XIL

Strange passage!—and to her most blest!—
For so she found a place of rest
And comfort all her own,
When on her gentle head did rain
A storm of such fierce grief and pain
As few on Earth have known.

XLII

When summer leaves were on the boughs,
She ratified her Christian vows,
Began her Christian race;
But long ere winter's icy chain
Was broke, disease and bitterest pain
Had paled her patient face.

XLIII

She came to church on Christmas Day,
The homage of her love to pay,
And celebrate His birth,
Who, eighteen hundred years ago,
Exchanged Heaven's bliss for human woe,
And dwelt with Man on Earth.

XLIV

That morn what peaceful joy was hers,
As with his chosen worshippers
She at his altar knelt!
But ere another Sabbath day,
Ah me! how like a corpse she lay!
And yet what anguish felt!

XLV

Hard lot, ye think, my readers young,
While every heart and every tongue
Save hers was full of glee,
And friends and neighbours vied in mirth

181

By well-spread board and blazing hearth,
To groan with agony.

XLVI

Hard lot, ye think, was that for her;
And yet was she (I dare aver)
Far happier where she lay,
Than could the loudest laugher be
Of any joyous company
Which then kept holiday.

XLVII

Far happier—for her Saviour stood
Beside her in her solitude,—
Beside her stood and smiled;
And sounds were to her soul convey'd,
Which seem'd to say “Be not afraid,
Mine own adopted child.”

XLVIII

A peace seraphic, night and day,
Upon her gentle spirit lay,—
Peace, sent her from above,
Which told that nought which might betide
Thence-forward should her soul divide
From Heaven's eternal love.

XLIX

And think ye, while she felt this peace,
Nor fear'd lest it should ever cease—
That she could wish to be
Once more with a light-hearted crowd,
Midst roars of laughter long and loud,
And boisterous revelry?

L

Would she one glimpse of Heaven forego
For all Earth's merriment?—ah, no!

182

Her ties to Earth are burst;
She listens to the angels' song,
In draughts of rapture, deep and long,
She slakes her spirit's thirst.

LI

Whoso had look'd on that sick bed
With thoughtful eye, must needs have said
A contrast strange was there;
Disease and racking pain without—
Within—a soul from fear and doubt
Made free as summer air.

LII

And yet 'twas pitiful to see
With what extreme severity
Heaven chasten'd its dear child;
What pangs did that weak frame devour,
From day to day, from hour to hour,
Made fiercer and more wild.

LIII

In sooth but slender skill have I
In phrase of learn'd anatomy;
Nor know I how to name
Whatever tortures urge the pulse
To wildest throbbings, or convulse
Our sinful human frame.

LIV

Yet I may say no limb was free
From its peculiar agony,
But, downward from the face,
Through all her frame convulsions went,
Which every separate fibre rent
In swift and ceaseless race.

183

LV

From year to year did she sustain
A dread diversity of pain,
Still gathering more and more;
And this physicians did declare—
That all which flesh and blood can bear
Their gentle patient bore.

LVI

So three years pass'd;—the fourth begun—
We deem'd that now her race was run,
Her conflict nearly o'er;
For then a storm of pain did pierce
Each part, more fiery and more fierce
Than she had felt before.

LVII

Nor was this all;—the light of day
Was now for ever swept away,
And ceaseless night began;
Her eyelids closed, nor might she trace
Thenceforward any friendly face
Or form beloved of Man.

LVIII

You deem perhaps that then she found
Some compensation from the sound
Of living voices near;
That friends would from a distance walk,
With pleasant and familiar talk
Her loneliness to cheer.

LIX

And that beside her dying bed
From morn to night her sisters read
Sweet words of truth divine;
And prayers were said, and hymns were sung,

184

And comfort dropp'd from many a tongue
More eloquent than mine.

LX

Ah, no!—so fierce her tortures were
That she could now no longer bear
The softest human tone;
A footstep, though it trod on down,—
The rustle of a silken gown
Thrill'd through her to the bone.

LXI

And thus they lay (her pain and she)
In sorrowful society,
While twelve months more roll'd by;
She wasting silently away
With imperceptible decay,
And yet too strong to die.

LXII

'Twas the meek patience of her heart
Which, through such fierce and fiery smart,
Her life did long sustain;
And had her faith and love been less,
She had escaped the bitterness
Of many a month of pain.

LXIII

Throughout that time full oft did I
For entrance to her room apply,
Which mostly was denied;
Such were her pangs, she could not bear
A soothing word, a whisper'd prayer
Put up at her bedside.

LXIV

At last the final conflict came,
Each part of her exhausted frame

185

Had borne its share of woe;
The lungs with inflammation dire
Were last attack'd, and raging fire
In every vein did glow.

LXV

Then 'twas that me they came to call
In her last tranquil interval
Of partial rest from pain;
Such rest as lulls the wintry deep,
When the spent storms at evening sleep,
Ere morn to wake again.

LXVI

I came;—her quick and struggling breath
Told of the near approach of death,
As by her side I stood;
Her painful toil was nearly done,
The conflict o'er, the victory won,
The sinful soul renew'd.

LXVII

A glorious sight it is to see
A dying saint's felicity,
When death draws gently nigh,
And no sharp pangs disturb the peace
Preceding the glad soul's release,
Or clog the parting sigh.

LXVIII

A glorious sight!—for then Heaven's field
Seems to be visibly reveal'd
To faith's expiring gaze;
And we almost can hear the hymn
Which cherubim and seraphim
For its new inmate raise.

186

LXIX

But deaths like this, I deem, are rare,
For mortal weakness, pain and care,
Cleave to us to the last;
And few of saintliest souls there be
From all life's galling bonds set free
Till life itself is past.

LXX

O! shame! eternal shame to them
Who would the penitent condemn
In his expiring hour,
Because his fainting soul is toss'd
By waves of doubt, nor yet hath lost
All sense of hellish power.

LXXI

O! shame to such! they little know
The warfare to be waged below,—
The mystery, dark and strange,
Of inextinguishable sin,
Subjecting the whole world within
To doubt and fear and change.

LXXII

By many a death-bed have I stood
Both of the wicked and the good,
And this will I maintain,—
That while the former smile on death,
The latter oft yield up their breath
In trouble, fear, and pain.

LXXIII

But such was not our sister's doom:—
Strong pains she had, but care and gloom
And fear had fled for aye;
One toilsome fight was still to win,

187

And then—farewell to grief and sin!
And welcome endless day!

LXXIV

And yet no rapturous flights had she
Of feeling or of phantasy,
No visions heavenly-bright;
'Twas patience all, and faith and love,
Which with her giant sufferings strove,
And triumph'd through God's might.

LXXV

Once, as I bent above her bed—
“Now, Mary, you approach,” I said,
“Death's dark and shadowy vale;”—
“It is not dark”—was her reply,
And a faint smile pass'd radiantly
Across her features pale.

LXXVI

No more she spoke;—her anguish grew
Fiercer and fiercer, till we knew
The final strife was come;
At length the web of life was rent,
And, with a sigh, her spirit went
To its eternal home.

LXXVII

But was this all?—to mortal eye
No more 'twas granted to descry;
And yet the soul within
Had felt a more stupendous strife,—
The struggle between death and life,
Heaven's grace and human sin.

LXXVIII

By prayer intense and fervent thought,
Strange transformation had been wrought

188

In all the inner man;
And ever, as the flesh decay'd,
The spirit was more heavenly made,
A steadier race she ran.

LXXIX

Yet think not that her sainted soul
Of peace and joy attain'd the goal
By easy steps and few;
Or that from height to height she went
With swift and regular ascent,
As happy angels do.

LXXX

Ah, no!—though now, for many a year,
She to her Saviour had been dear,
And in his flock received,—
The Tempter's power was not yet past,
But still assai'd her to the last,
As ere she first believed.

LXXXI

Full surely, all the time, he knew
That all his legions were too few,
His subtlest efforts vain,
The ranks of that bright host to stir,
Invisibly encamp'd round her,
As on a battle plain.

LXXXII

Yet though he could not overcome,
Nor lure her from her heavenly home,
Dread power he wielded still;
Power to disturb, to haunt, to vex,
Confuse and fearfully perplex
With dreams obscure of ill.

189

LXXXIII

The sin which still was unsubdued,
In many a dark and dreary mood,
He show'd to her mind's eye
In frightful forms and hues intense,
O'erwhelming her bewilder'd sense
With fear and agony.

LXXXIV

Doubts and dark thoughts did he suggest,
Robbing her soul of peace and rest;—
“O am I christ's indeed,—
So weak of faith, so cold in love?—
Could he who lives and reigns above
For such a sinner bleed?—

LXXXV

“Hath all this sharp and bitter pain,
Borne for long years, been borne in vain?—
Is all this woe for nought?—
Is this vile heart e'en now unchanged?
From Him—from hope—from Heaven estranged?”
—Thus darkly fancy wrought.

LXXXVI

But soon such terrors pass'd away,
And then in bliss untold she lay,
Though still in grievous pain;
Heaven's gates once more were open thrown,
And Faith and Hope and Love came down
To dwell with her again.

LXXXVII

Nor lack'd she, ere her anguish grew
Too deadly, friends, nor cold nor few,
Who daily to her came,
Spake with her of Christ's dying love,

190

And soar'd with her, in thought, above
This world of sin and shame.

LXXXVIII

And blest, to her, those seasons were,
When to her chamber did repair
Souls touch'd by grace divine;
And the Lord's table there we spread,
And bless'd and brake the living bread,
And shared the mystic wine.

LXXXIX

Thus joy and grief together wrought
To purify her springs of thought,
Her heart for Heaven to train;
Thus was her spirit cleansed from guilt,
And God therein a temple built
Where He might ever reign.

XC

Nor did her faith and patience (shown
Thus sweetly) to herself alone
Most rich in blessing prove;
For few to her sick chamber came
In whom she kindled not the flame
Of her celestial love.

XCI

The careless, when her pangs they view'd
So meekly borne, with hearts subdued
And sadden'd went away;
The weak grew strong, the timid bold,
Her patient warfare to behold
With suffering and decay.

XCII

She was a silent preacher, sent
(Silent, but O! most eloquent!)

191

To teach us how to die;
Showing o'er what fierce depths of pain
A tender maiden's soul can gain,
Through faith, the victory.

XCIII

But little now remains to say;
She died ere dawn upon the day
Of last St. Valentine;
And on the following Monday morn,
With reverence, to her grave was borne;—
The last sad office mine.

XCIV

Few mourners at her burial were,
In truth, the day was far from fair;
And while along the street
The scant and slow procession pass'd,
The thickening clouds pour'd down full fast
A storm of rain and sleet.

XCV

Yet One there was whom all respect,—
A man of noblest intellect,
Great heart, and station high,
Who, that day, all his toils forsook,
And on her funeral came to look
With sad and reverent eye.

XCVI

For service high perform'd to truth,
For Christian lessons taught to youth,
Deep thanks to him are due;
And I, for one, may truly say
How happy I esteem the day
When first his worth I knew.

192

XCVII

Yet ne'er, methinks, for him I felt
Respect so deep as when we knelt
Together by her bier,
And I beheld him not too proud,
Amidst the meanest of the crowd,
To drop a parting tear.

XCVIII

To him, with cordial heart, to-day,
I dedicate this humble lay,
Which he will not despise,
But treasure as a record true
Of one whose faith on earth he knew,
Now throned above the skies.

Written in 1834.