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Dear Charles,—Keen is hypercritical. He wishes to
know if “sweet” is the author's favorite epithet, and if the
author thinks it renders his verses “luscious?” If the
sonnets please him, let him change the words for some synonym.
As he gets the things for nothing, let him tinker them
to his purpose.

You wish, however, articles more decidedly religious, as
your magazine is intended for the religious world. I have
no leisure just now to do any thing new in that way, so I
send you three that have already appeared in religious journals.

Yours ever,

R. Carlton.

STANZAS.

Sung at the dismission of a School. after the death of a Pupil.

Sweet repose! all tasks are ended!
Home's bright vision thrills the heart!
Yet our souls with other blended,
Feel the pang when call'd to part!
Ever thus midst this world's pleasures,
Steals some pain to mar the joy;
Seek we then the blood-bought treasures,
Where is found no base alloy.
Time! how swift thy onward flying,
Since was spoke the last adieu!
Wise to keep the hour of dying,
E'en amid our joys in view!
One, alas! snatch'd from this number,
Sings no more its farewell song!
No voice wakes his dreamless slumber
In the silent church-yard throng.
Far beyond this shadowy dwelling,
When we cease the songs of earth,
May we join in anthems swelling,
Brothers made by heav'nly birth!
Hope like this will pleasure heighten,
Nerve for every work of life,
Darkness on the pathway brighten,
Conquer in the final strife!

219

LINES,

At the return of a Missionary's Wife from Africa, immediately after
burying her Husband, who died in a few months after he had
commenced there his labors.

Come, thou bereav'd one! Christian love spreads wide
Her arms to fold thee near our tend'rest hearts!
There rest thy head, while with thy sorrow's tide
Our grief commingles: thine, fresh gushing, starts,
For thou, Naomi-like, art widow'd come,
So stricken back, to seek thy childhood's home!
Sister! tears sadden'd, late, thy farewell hour;
Yet buoy'd with hope, and strong in faith, and warm
With heav'nly zeal, thou shedd'st a sunlit shower—
Joy so gleam'd mid tears; and firmly on th' arm
Of warrior true—but not to shed men's blood—
Trustful inclin'd, thou daredst the billowy flood.
Sister! that youth was 'listed for the life!
Sworn at thy bridal his, for weal or woe,
Thou wast, the campaign through, a soldier's wife;
And bless'd wast thou, when bid of God to go,
Tho' thy sole task to stay his fainting breast
With words of Christ, and see him pass to rest.
Sister! how soon the call for battle came
With the grim foe! How soon, alas! 'twas thine,
Though not amid the tented field of fame,
Where men of strife, gory and gash'd, recline
On honor's bed, yet still to see him slain!
But conq'ror then, he found death's dart was vain.
Sister! thy soul in that sad hour was rent
With keenest pangs! Yet with thy bitter cries
Rose mingled thanks to God, that thou wast sent
To that far land, to shut those darken'd eyes,
The death-damps from that changing face to lave,
And lay thy lov'd one in that strange, lone grave!
Sister! oh! sob no more, as tho' the strings
Burst from thy swelling heart! From Afric's shores
Heav'nward bend thy thoughts:—see! on seraph wings
Triumphing, he, thro' burning hosts, upsoars,
Eyeing that crown, gift of redeeming love!
Oh! stay thy tears! He reigns with Christ above!

220

Sister! thy husband's God will ever shield
His wife. Faith, zeal, and toil for pagan lands,
From love of souls, or mid the scorching field,
Or ocean's waste, Christ graves upon his hands!
The honor'd spouse that shar'd dear Alward's fight,
Shares joy and praise, when faith is lost in sight.

LUTHER AT THE DIET OF WORMS.

“Hier stohe ich: ich kan nicht anders: Gott helfe mir!”

Thou there! but yesterday the cloister's cell
Echoed thy groans, and thy crushed spirit fell
E'en at a zephyr's breath!
Thou there alone against the world! O sight
For angels! Lo! thy weakness chang'd to might
That braves all forms of death,
And bids defiance unto Hell! God's power,
O man of faith! doth help thee in this hour.
Yes! there thou art! Awe-struck the gods, intent,
Both sceptered king and mitred priest are bent
Tow'rd thee with steadfast gaze!
'Tis Heaven's own grandeur stamped upon that brow,
That shames all pride and pomp of pageant now.
So looked men at the rays
From prophet's unveiled face, till at the sight
Appalled they fled, blind with celestial light.
What though the mighty ones are sworn and met,
With vengeful soul, an empty seal to set
On thine eternal fate?
What though is broke the hush of solemn spell
By muttered threat and curse of earth and hell,
And taunt of scorn and hate?
Thou moveless art, mid storm of fiercest ire,
As that famed rock that bears the beacon fire.
Vain hope! to weave for thee the darkest maze
Of cunning toils. Thou walkest mid full blaze
That streams from upper throne.
No lure to thee is bribe of rank and gold;
Like Him to whom long since by tempter bold
This world's whole pomp was shown,
Due price for homage done, stern dost thou say
To timid friends and treacherous foes—Away!

221

Stand deathless on thy lofty mountain height—
A glory sent our lower world to light,
Till heaven and earth are past!
Ever thy words shall stir the deep profound
Of inmost soul, and bid the bosom bound
With thought for speech too vast!
O Rome! for thee that voice has mystic tone
With this prophetic knell—“Fall'n is thy throne!”