Poems of the late Francis S. Key, Esq., .

O say, can you see, by the dawn's early light,
What so proudly we hailed, at the twilight's last gleaming?
Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous fight,
O'er the ramparts we watched, were so gallantly streaming;
And the rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting in air,
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there:
O say, does that Star Spangled Banner yet wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?

II.

On that shore, dimly seen through the mists of the deep,
Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes,
What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep,
As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now discloses?
Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam,
In full glory reflected now shines in the stream:
'Tis the Star Spangled Banner; O long may it wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!

III.

And where are the foes who so vauntingly swore
That the havoc of war, and the battle's confusion,
A home and a country should leave us no more:
Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps' pollution;

No refuge could save the hireling and slave
From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave;
And the Star Spangled Banner in triumph doth wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!

IV.

O thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand
Between their loved homes and the war's desolation;
Blest with victory and peace, may the heav'n-rescued land
Praise the Power that hath made and preserved us a nation!
Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just,
And this be our motto, “In God is our trust;”
And the Star Spangled Banner in triumph shall wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!

Song.

When the warrior returns, from the battle afar,
To the home and the country he nobly defended,
O! warm be the welcome to gladden his ear,
And loud be the joy that his perils are ended;
In the full tide of song let his fame roll along,
To the feast-flowing board let us gratefully throng,
Where, mixed with the olive, the laurel shall wave,
And form a bright wreath for the brows of the brave.

Columbians! a band of your brothers behold,
Who claim the reward of your hearts' warm emotion,
When your cause, when your honor, urged onward the bold,
In vain frowned the desert, in vain raged the ocean:

To a far distant shore, to the battle's wild roar,
They rushed, your fair fame and your rights to secure:
Then, mixed with the olive, the laurel shall wave,
And form a bright wreath for the brows of the brave.

In the conflict resistless, each toil they endured,
'Till their foes fled dismayed from the war's desolation;
And pale beamed the Crescent, its splendor obscured
By the light of the Star Spangled flag of our nation.
Where each radiant star gleamed a meteor of war,
And the turbaned heads bowed to its terrible glare,
Now, mixed with the olive, the laurel shall wave,
And form a bright wreath for the brows of the brave.

Our fathers, who stand on the summit of fame,
Shall exultingly hear of their sons the proud story:
How their young bosoms glow'd with the patriot flame,
How they fought, how they fell, in the blaze of their glory,
How triumphant they rode o'er the wondering flood,
And stained the blue waters with infidel blood;
How, mixed with the olive, the laurel did wave,
And formed a bright wreath for the brows of the brave.

Then welcome the warrior returned from afar
To the home and the country he nobly defended;
Let the thanks due to valor now gladden his ear,
And loud be the joy that his perils are ended.
In the full tide of song let his fame roll along,
To the feast-flowing board let us gratefully throng,
Where, mixed with the olive, the laurel shall wave,
And form a bright wreath for the brows of the brave.

To My Sister.

I think of thee—I feel the glow
Of that warm thought—yet well I know
No verse a brother's love may show,
My sister!

But ill should I deserve the name
Or warmth divine, that poets claim,
If I for thee no lay could frame,
My sister!

I think of thee—of those bright hours
Rich in life's first and fairest flowers,
When childhood's gay delights were ours,
My sister!

Those sunny paths were all our own,
And thou and I were there alone,
Each to the other only known,
My sister!

In every joy and every care,
We two, and we alone, were there,
The brightness and the gloom to share,
My sister!

As changing seasons o'er us flew,
No changes in our love we knew,
And there our hearts together grew,
My sister!

And then there came that dreaded day
When I with thee no more must stay,
But to the far school haste away,
My sister!

Sad was the parting—sad the days,
And dull the school, and dull the plays,
Ere I again on thee may gaze
My sister!

But longest days may yet be past,
And cares of school away be cast,
And home and thee be seen at last,
My sister!

The mountain top, the meadow plain,
The winding creek, the shaded lane,
Shall shine in both our eyes again,
My sister!

Who then shall first my greeting seek?
Whose warm tear fall upon my cheek?
And tell the joy she cannot speak?
My sister!

My sister!—those bright days are gone,
And we through life have journeyed on,
With hearts, which still, as then, are one,
My sister!

A parting hour again must come,
Again to meet, beyond the tomb—
O! let us then make heaven our home,
My sister!

Written To Mr. Key,

BY A LADY IN ALABAMA.

Thanks, gentle fairy—now my album take
And place it on his table ere he wake,
Then whisper, that a maiden all unknown,
Claims from the poet's hand a trifling boon;
Trifling perchance to him, but oh! not so
To her whose heart has thrilled long, long ago,
As his inspiring lays came to her ear,
Lending the stranger's name an interest dear.
A timid girl may yet be bold t' admire
The poet's fervor, and the patriot's fire;
But 'tis not these—though magical their power,
They cannot brighten woman's saddened hour,
And she, the happiest, has saddened hours,
When all life's pathways are bereft of flowers,

And her bowed spirit feels, as felt by thee,
That to “live always” on this earth would be
For her, for all, no happy destiny.

Poet and Patriot! thou may'st write for fame,
But by a tenderer and holier name
I call thee—Christian! Write me here one lay,
For me to read and treasure when thou'rt away.

To Miss ---.

And is it so?—a thousand miles apart,
Has lay of mine e'er touched a gifted heart?
Brightened the eye of beauty? won her smile?
Rich recompense for all the poet's toil.
That fav'ring smile, that brightened eye,
That tells the heart's warm ecstasy,
I have not seen—I may not see—
But, maiden kind! thy gift shall be
A more esteemed and cherished prize
Than fairest smiles or brightest eyes.
And this rich trophy of the poet's power
Shall shine through many a lone and distant hour:
Praise from the fair, howe'er bestowed, we greet;
In words, in looks outspeaking words, 'tis sweet;

But when it breathes in bright and polished lays
Warm from a kindred heart, this, this is praise.

We are not strangers; in our hearts we own
Chords that must ever beat in unison;
The same touch wakens them: in all we see,
Or hear, or feel, we own a sympathy;
We look where nature's charms in beauty rise,
And the same transport glistens in our eyes.
The joys of others cheer us, and we keep
A ready tear, to weep with those who weep.
'Tis this, that in the impassioned hour,
Gives to the favored bard the power,
As sweetly flows the stream of song,
To bear the raptured soul along,
And make it, captive to his will,
With all his own emotions thrill.
This is a tie that binds us; 'tis the glow,
The “gushing warmth” of heart, that poets know;

We are not strangers—well thy lines impart
The patriot feeling of the poet's heart.
Not even thy praise can make me vainly deem
That 't was the poet's power, and not his theme,
That woke thy young heart's rapture; when from far
His song of vict'ry caught thy fav'ring ear:
That victory was thy country's, and his strain
Was of that starry banner that again
Had waved in triumph on the battle plain,
Yes, though Columbia's land be wide,
Though Chesapeake's broad waters glide
Far distant from the forest shores
Where Alabama's current roars;
Yet over all this land so fair
Still waves the flag of stripe and star:
Still on the Warrior's banks is seen,
And shines in Coosa's valleys green,
By Alabama's maidens sung
With patriot heart, and tuneful tongue.

Yes, I have looked around me here
And felt I was no foreigner;
Each friendly hand's frank offered clasp
Tells me it is a brother's grasp:
My own I deem these rushing floods,
My own, these wild and waving woods,
And—to a poet, sounds how dear!—
My own song sweetly chanted here.
The joy with which these scenes I view
Tells me this is my country too;
These sunny plains I freely roam;
I am no outcast from a home,
No wanderer on a foreign strand,
“This is my own, my native land.”
We are not strangers: still another tie
Binds us more closely, more enduringly;
The poet's heart, though time his verse may save,
Must chill with age, and perish in the grave.
The patriot too must close his watchful eye

Upon the land he loves: his latest sigh
All he has left to give it, ere he die.
But when the Christian faith in power hath spoke
To the bowed heart, and the world's spell is broke,
That heart transformed, a never dying flame
Warms with new energy, above the claim
Of death t' extinguish;—oh! if we have felt
This holy influence, and have humbly knelt,
In penitence, for pardon; sought and found
Peace for each trouble, balm for every wound;
For us, if Faith this work of love hath done,
Not alike only are our hearts—they're one:
Our joys and sorrows, hopes and fears, the same—
One path our course, one object all our aim;
Though sundered here, one home at last is given,
Strangers to earth, and fellow heirs of heaven.

Yes! I will bear thy plausive strain afar,
A light to shine upon the clouds of care,

A flower to cheer me in life's thorny ways,
And I will think of her whose fav'ring lays
Kind greeting gave, and in the heart's best hour
For thee its warmest wishes it shall pour.

And may I hope, when this fair volume brings
Some thought of him who tried to wake the strings
Of his forgotten lyre, at thy command—
Command that warmed his heart, and nerved his hand—
Thou wilt for one, who in the world's wild strife
Is doomed to mingle in the storms of life,
Give him the blessing of a Christian's care,
And raise in his defence the shield of prayer.

Tuscaloosa, Alabama, Dec. 13, 1833.

Written in Miss Triplet's Album.

You ask, fair maiden, for one line, but I must give you three,
For a couplet at the least, for the rhyme's sake, there must be,
And a Triplet for your name's sake therefore take from
F. S. Key, Who hopes that thus, hereafter, whate'er your wishes be,
Thrice more and better than you ask may be given unto thee!

On Visiting the Pennsylvania Hospital.

Whose fair abode is this? whose happy lot
Has drawn them in these peaceful shades to rest,
And hear the distant hum of busy life?
The city's noise, its clouds of smoke and dust,
Vainly invade these leafy walls that wave
On high around it, sheltering all within,
And wooing the scared bird to stay its flight
And add its note of joy to bless the scene:
The city's toils, and cares, and strifes are, sure,
Alike excluded here—Content here smiles
And reigns, and leads her vot'ries through the maze
Of flower-embroidered walks to bowers of bliss:

O! 't is a sight to warm the heart of him
Who feels for man, and shares the joys he sees.

My feet have pierced these shades, and I have seen,
Within what seemed so fair, this mansion's tenants:
O! 't is a sight to chill, to freeze the heart
Of him who feels for man, who pitying views
The wreck of human bliss, and sighs to see
That he can only pity griefs past cure,
And sorrows that no sympathy can soothe.
Here Pleasure never comes, Hope never smiles
But to delude to a more deep despair;
Here are shut out all joys that sweeten life,
Here are shut in, life's outcasts; Madness here,
Monarch of terrors, holds his awful court;
On high-piled human skulls his throne is fixed,
His bursting brows a burning iron crown
Confines, and blends its fires with fiercer flames
That from his ghastly eye-balls wildly glare;

A robe of straw his giant form conceals;
His hand a leaden sceptre wields, each point
With terrors armed. Ice, never melting, gleams
From the one; from the other, fire unquenchable:
Each, as it points to his devoted prey,
With cold, or heat, or freezes or inflames
The chambers of the brain, and stupefies
And chills to dullest idiocy, or fires
To frenzy's wild unutterable rage.
Such are the throng that here around him wait,
Showing, in all their sad variety,
The awful visitations of his power;
Here the cold gaze of fixed fatuity
Tells that no feeble ray of thought e'er gleams
O'er the wide waste of desolated mind;
Here the wild raving and the maniac yell
Reveal a phantom seated on the throne
Wrested from reason, ruling all within,
Exulting in the never ceasing storm.

I had not sought this scene—my thoughtless steps
Had brought me, where, I knew not, till the sights
And sounds of woe revealed its awful terrors;
The sudden shock o'ercame me and awakened
A host of these wild fearful images;
A moment's struggle, and my mind gave way,
And my soul sickened at the awful thought
That I was mad. I groped in vain to find
Some ray of reason that might light up thought
And consciousness, but all was dark as night:
The horrors of that darkness none can tell;
Could I recall them all, an age would not
Suffice to tell, what seemed for ages borne.
Man's frail abode in this sad world of change
Is often sung, and heard but as a song:
Death's touch oft wakes his victim to its truth.
As frail as life is reason: both depend
On him who gave them, who can take away
From both, or either, his sustaining arm:

Fear then, thou thankless boaster! fear the stroke
That throws thy body to the worms, and calls
Thy soul to answer for abused mercies—
Yet fear, still more, the still more fearful doom
That takes the richest of heaven's slighted gifts,
And leaves thy body and thy soul in darkness
To roam the earth a senseless corpse, or gives thee,
Before thy time, to the tormenting fiends.
Such was my crime—with life, health, reason blest,
And heart with rapture glowing, I looked round
On this fair seeming world, and chose its joys
For my sole portion; scorning all beyond it
As vain and visionary, no warm thought
Of love to him who made me what I was,
E'er kindled its pure flame within my breast,
That burned with earthly and unholy fires;
I thought not of him, but in doubt or fear;
I spoke not of him but in jest or wrath.
Such was my punishment; the beam from heaven,

That pours its light into the mind of man,
Was suddenly extinguished, and a shroud,
Darker than that of death, enveloped all
Within me and around me. In this gloom,
Peopled with spectres, filled with scenes terrific,
How long I lived—if the dread agony
Could life be called—I know not. To the dead
And the condemned, Time measures not his steps,
And every moment seems eternity.

The last verse of John Anderson my jo.

“John Anderson, my jo, John, we clamb the hill thegither,
And mony a canty day, John, we've had wi' ane anither;
Now we maun totter down, John, but hand in hand we'll go,
And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson, my jo.”

THERE OUGHT TO BE ANOTHER:

John Anderson, my jo, John, from that sleep again we'll wake,
When anither day's fair light on our opened eyes shall break,

And we'll rise in youth and beauty to that bright land to go,
Where life and love shall last for aye, John Anderson, my jo.

OR:

John Anderson, my jo, John, one day we'll waken there,
Where a brighter morn than ever shone our opened eyes shall cheer,
And in fresh youth and beauty to that blest land we'll go,
Where we'll live and love forever, John Anderson, my jo.

Pipe Creek, October 13th, 1842.

A Riddle.

I made myself, and though no form have I,
Am fairer than the fairest you can spy;
The sun I outshine in his mid-day light,
And yet am darker than the darkest night;
Hotter I am than fire, than ice more cold,
Richer than purest gems or finest gold,
Yet I am never either bought or sold;
The man that wants me, never yet was seen;
The poor alone possess me; yet the mean
And grudging rich oft give me to the poor,
Who yet are not made richer than before;
The blindest see me, and the deafest hear,
Cowards defy me, and the bravest fear:

If you're a fool, you know me; if you grow
In knowledge, me you will soon cease to know.

Now catch me if you can—I'm sometimes caught,
Though never thought worth catching, never sought.
Am I still hid? then let whoever tries
To see me, give it up, and shut his eyes.

Get me—and low and poor thy state will be;
Forget me—and no equal shalt thou see.

Another Riddle,

MADE FOR OUR AMUSEMENT ONE EVENING.

There was a little maiden,
And cross and proud was she,
And I loved her very much,
And she loved me!

She determined to live single,
And I begged and prayed her not,
So at last she married me,
And I pitied her hard lot.,

There was another maiden
Who hated me, and I
Hated her—she loved her lover
Always best when I was by.

When he told his love, to have
Me present he took care;
And she always answered kindly
If I was there to hear.

O! many a soft and tender thing
Was said by lip and eye,
That never had been thought of
If I had not been nigh.

And now, ye lovely maidens,
With my presence and advice
You may always turn your lovers
Into husbands in a trice.

When these love tales you hear, and wish
To make a kind reply—
Tell all to me, and when you meet
Take care that I am by.

Now I must tell you who I am,
Lest some mistake there be:
I am the one that those soft scenes
You wish should always see.

Lines,

WRITTEN IN MISS SARAH GAYLE'S ALBUM.

Thine hand, dear little maiden! let me see:
How run the mystic lines of destiny?
The face, too, I must look upon, for there
I used to read more plainly of the fair.
With face and hand, those tell-tales of the heart,
If I have not forgotten all my art,
I may some secrets of thy fate impart.

Now my divining's done—list to the lay
That tells the fortune of thy future day.

Sarah Gayle! thou wilt be fair,
So a thousand youths shall swear;

And beloved thou shalt be,
And be-rhymed incessantly;
Light the task for lover pale
To sing of lovely Sarah Gayle:
Never will his numbers fail
To tell the charms of Sarah Gayle.
See, they come o'er hill and dale
To gaze in love on Sarah Gayle,
And teach each Alabamian vale
To echo to the name of Gayle.
From distant lands they'll spread the sail,
Hoping to catch a favoring Gayle;
In summer's heat they'll wish a Gayle,
And e'en in winter's storm and hail
They'll still desire to have a Gayle.
If thou should'st frown, they'll sadly wail
With broken hearts for Sarah Gayle;
And many a heavy cotton bale
They'll count light price for smile of Gayle.

Sarah Gayle! thou wilt be kind,
And perhaps one day inclined
To take a name more to thy mind
Than one that is so much be-rhymed.

Sarah Gayle! be wise as fair;
E'er thou make that change, beware,
And when thou giv'st away thy name,
Give thy heart also to the claim
Of one who comes with heart as pure
As that he seeks, and name as sure
Unstained and honored to endure.
Sarah Gayle! be good as fair:
Look to heaven—thy home is there;
May this be proph'cy—'t is my prayer.

To my Cousin Mary,

FOR MENDING MY TOBACCO POUCH.

My conscience has given me several twitches
For not having thanked my fair coz. for her stitches;
The pouch that contains the best part of my riches
She has made safe and sound by her excellent stitches;
And whenever I take it from waistcoat or breeches,
I enjoy my quid and admire the stitches.
She has sent me a note all in rhyme also, which is
Still more to be praised than these praise-worthy stitches.
I sometimes have seen “few and far between” stitches,
The stitchers of which should be thrown in the ditches,

For no one need care where such vile things he pitches,
And nothing's more vile than such stitchers and stitches;
Such stitchers were taught in a time scarce of switches,
Or they ne'er would have stitched such detestable stitches;
For this saying, I'm told, a sort of distich is
Among the most eminent teachers of stitches:
That experience proves “few and far between” switches
Will always produce “few and far between” stitches.
But my sweet cousin's skill so much me bewitches,
I must give her a sonnet in praise of her stitches:

Thy stitches are not “few and far between,”
As other stitches very often are,

And many things beside, as I have seen,
In this sad world where good things are so rare;
But they are even, neat, and close enough
My treasured sweets to hold in purest plight;
To keep tobacco safe, and even snuff,
And thus at once eyes, nose, and mouth delight.

They're like thy smiles, fair cousin, frequent, bright,
They're like the rows of pearl those smiles display;
They're like the fingers that did make them, white
And delicate, but not so long as they.

OR:

They're like thy smiles, fair cousin, frequent, bright,
And ever bringing pleasure in their train;
They're like thy teeth of pearl, and their pure white,
Like them, shall never know tobacco's stain.

Then let me view my stores, and all the while
Look on thy stitches, thinking on thy smile—
But ah! those smiles in distance far are hid,
But here the stitches are—and I will take a quid.

To Mary.

Frown on, ye dark and angry clouds;
And, Winter, blow that blast again,
That calls thy wrathful host to pour
Their fury on the wasted plain.

'Tis thus I choose my way to win
To her whose love my bosom warms;
And brighter seems the prize I seek
Seen through the gloom of clouds and storms.

Let colder lovers shrink from these,
And calmly wait for peaceful skies;
Be mine, through toil and pain to win
The beam of Mary's gladdened eyes.

Perhaps she'll value more my love,
Perhaps give more of her's to me,
Perhaps may greet me with a smile
More sweet, if smile more sweet can be.

O! Mary, could'st thou know this heart,
Could words or deeds its truth declare,
'T would higher raise love's flame in thine,
Or light it, if it be not there.

To Delia.

Let others heap on heaps their useless ore,
And view with sparkling eyes th' increasing store;
Let others toil, with ceaseless care, to gain
The rich productions of the boundless plain,
And own, each night passed sleepless by their fears,
That wealth has for its joys a thousand cares;
For Fortune's fickle smiles let others pine;
Delia, thy smile, thy witching smile, be mine.
Content, though poor, each easy idle day,
Cheered by that smile, steals unperceived away.
With thy fond arm in mine, when Spring's soft power
First bursts the bud of every blushing flower,

Then let me guide thy light steps o'er the green,
And show thee all the beauties of the scene;
Or when the sultry suns of Summer pour
A warmer ray, then many a rapturous hour
Awaits us, where the beech-tree's arching shade
Has formed a secret bower for lovers made:
That beech, whose tender rind didst first impart
To Delia the soft secret of my heart—
Carved on whose trunk the faithful vows appear
Which Delia heard not with disdainful ear;
There, by the riv'let's side, we'll careless lay,
And think how transient is a lover's day;
There, will thy swain with fondest zeal prepare
A flowery garland for thy tangled hair;
And thou, with playful hand, a wreath shall join,
And round thy poet's brow thy gift entwine.
With Autumn's ripened fruit when every tree
And shrub hangs loaded, Delia, then for thee
Up to each tall tree's topmost bough I'll spring,
And the full basket to our cottage bring.

To Cowper.

Cowper! who loves not thee deserves not love
From God or man, or aught that God hath formed.
Eloquent pleader for the works of God!
Pleading for all that breathes—from the poor worm
“That crawls at evening in the public path,”
To man, that treads the earth, and looks to heaven.
To the mute wonders of the Almighty hand,
As seen in mountain, valley, field, and flood,
Thou, too, hast given a voice of praise and love;
They speak to all unutterable things,
Till the full heart o'erflows, and pours “the tears
Of holy joy” into the glistening eye
Of him to whom they say—“We all are thine—
Works of a Father's hand, for thee, a child—

And given thee but as earnest of the gifts,
Richer than all thy thoughts, that now await
Thy joyful coming to a Father's home.

“O! worship then with us, while here below,
In this, the vestibule of heaven's high fane,
Whose outer lamps gild the blue vault above thee,
Whose inner courts shall call forth all thy praise.”

On Reading Fawcett's Lines

ON REVISITING SCENES OF EARLY LIFE.

So sings the world's fond slave! so flies the dream
Of life's gay morn; so sinks the meteor ray
Of fancy into darkness; and no beam
Of purer light shines on the wanderer's way.

So sings not he who soars on other wings
Than fancy lends him; whom a cheering faith
Warms and sustains, and whose freed spirit springs
To joys that bloom beyond the reach of death.

And thou would'st live again! again dream o'er
The wild and feverish visions of thy youth
Again to wake in sorrow, and deplore
Thy wanderings from the peaceful paths of truth!

Yet yield not to despair! be born again,
And thou shalt live a life of joy and peace,
Shall die a death of triumph, and thy strain
Be changed to notes of rapture ne'er to cease.

To Mrs. Eleanor Potts,

FOR MANY YEARS AFFLICTED WITH BLINDNESS, ON HEARING HER PLAY ON THE GUITAR.

I sat beside an aged saint;
It was a pleasure there to be,
Her kind and gentle words to hear,
The calm contented face to see.

She sat in darkness—day's fair light
Had often come and gone,
Gilding the scenes she long had loved:
No more for her they shone.

And fond, familiar voices paid
Affection's homage there;
And as their words of love and truth
Fell on her charmed ear,

She could but think how great the bliss
If she again could ever trace
The looks of love she knew were there
Upon each well-remembered face.

But she had long since felt and said
Of all this—“It is well;”
And the bowed spirit rose, sustained,
Its peace and hope to tell.

She sat in darkness; but the gloom
Was only in the body's eye,
And covered with the clouds of night
Only the objects that were nigh.

But the mind's eye that cloud could pierce,
And things far off descry,
Beyond the bounds of this dull earth
And its encircling sky.

She sat in darkness; but a light
Was hers of heavenly ray,
Shining upon a home on high,
And lighting all her way.

The “light of other days” was hers,
Of happy days now past and gone;
It called up friends long loved and mourned,
And sweetly round her shone.

'Twas then, as by her side I sat,
She softly touched the light guitar,
And tones, that had my childhood charmed,
Fell, in sweet sadness, on my ear.

I had not heard them since; the sounds
Thrilled through my quiv'ring frame,
And scenes, and friends, and joys long past,
Quick at their bidding came.

Those sounds called up a mother's form,
Her voice, her love, and care,
When at her feet, a happy child,
I drank with greedy ear

The songs she loved, of power to charm
And to exalt the heart,
That thoughts and feelings like her own
They might to me impart.

And if the magic power of song
Its influence o'er me ever threw,
And haply some small meed of fame
To lay of mine be ever due,

These early teachings at her knee,
To these, the high-prized boon I owe,
With all the blessings I have known,
And all I ever hope to know.

I could but thank her for the strain
That called up these forgotten lays,
And kindly bade me share with her
“The light of other days.”

And I prayed that the light of the days to come
Might brighter and brighter prove,
And the gloom of this darkened world be lost
In the light of the world above.

Pipe Creek, October 22d, 1840.

Hymn

FOR THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1832.

Before the Lord we bow—
The God who reigns above,
And rules the world below,
Boundless in power and love.
Our thanks we bring,
In joy and praise,
Our hearts we raise
To heaven's high King.

The nation thou hast blest
May well thy love declare,
Enjoying peace and rest,
Protected by thy care.

For this fair land,
For this bright day,
Our thanks we pay—
Gifts of thine hand!

Our fathers sought thee, Lord!
And on thy help relied;
Thou heard'st and gav'st the word,
And all their need supplied.
Led by thy hand
To victory,
They hailed a free
And rescued land.

God of our sires! that hand
Be now, as then, displayed
To give this favored land
Thy never-failing aid.

Still may it be
Thy fixed abode!
Be thou our God!
Thy people we!

May every mountain height,
Each vale and forest green,
Shine in thy word's pure light,
And its rich fruits be seen!
May every tongue
Be tuned to praise,
And join to raise
A grateful song!

Earth! hear thy Maker's voice,
The great Redeemer own;
Believe, obey, rejoice:
Bright is the promised crown.

Cast down thy pride,
Thy sin deplore,
And bow before
The crucified.

And when in power he comes,
O, may our native land,
From all its rending tombs,
Send forth a glorious band!
A countless throng
Ever to sing,
To heaven's high King,
Salvation's song!

A Bear Story.

WRITTEN AT THE SALT SULPHUR SPRING.

There was a Bear—alas! that we must bear
The loss of such a bear. He was the pet
And plaything of the children, men, and maids;
The ladies, too, wept briny tears for him,
'Till all the springs were salt. For much he loved
To play his tricks before them, and to take
From their fair hands the dainties they would bring;
And they would stroke his sable fur, and feel
His velvet paws; and then he licked his paws,
And paws so touched, he could have licked, and lived
Long on such licking. But, alas! he died.—
Now a bare bear-skin, and some bare bear bones,

Are all that's left of Bruin—save at night
When blaze the lights upon the mountain side,
And music o'er the valley floats, and calls
The bright-eyed maidens to the sprightly dance—
Upon the glossy curls that shade the cheek
And brow of beauty, Bruin's fat is there,
Soft'ning and polishing the silken locks.
Bruin, thy chops were savory—so said
The chaps that did thereon their chops regale;
The ladies ate thee not—they would not feed
Upon a tame and educated bear;
Nor me, could steak or cutlet, fried or broiled,
Stewed paw, or garnished head, tempt to that feast;
For I had seen thy death. It was a death
Unseemly for a bear, unworthy of thy race.
But had'st thou died among thy native wilds,
When hound, and horse, and horn, had from thy lair
Aroused thee, and thou nobly stood'st at bay,
And many a fierce foe howled his last, within

100

Thy perilous embrace, and gallant hunters
Closed round thee slowly, marking thy dread glance,
Admiring thy stern courage, giving death
In honorable wounds;—then had'st thou died
A death of glory, and had I been one
Of that proud ring, I could have joined the feast
Won by fair chase, and combat—eat thy steaks
And picked thy bones unscrupulous. Alas!
Far other was thine end; a felon's death
The cowards gave thee; threw around thy neck
A noose, and thrice essayed to drag thee back
As a vile prisoner.
Once when escaped, I marked
His noble bearing, when his fierce pursuers
Fled from his glance. He looked upon the mountain,
And I then hoped to see him climb its top
And turn, and growl defiance. One there was
Of courage dauntless in the crowd of foes,

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Cæsar by name, Cæsar by nature too.
He calls to Bruin as he slow retires,
In words of scorn and menace. Quick he turns—
They meet—they close—more doubtful conflict never
Did battle-field display. Well were they matched:
Both brave, both black, and equal both in height,
For Bruin boldly raised himself erect
Upon his hinder limbs, and brandished high
And huge as giant's arms, his fierce fore-paws.
Soon Cæsar, seized with dext'rous jerk, the rope
Pendant from Bruin's neck—as soon, the paws
Of Bruin, o'er the shoulders broad, and back
Of Cæsar, closed in deadly grip: that hug
There was no standing, and so Cæsar tripped him—
For Bruin, though he stood on two feet well,
Had never practiced one in his gymnastics:
He falls, Cæsar above him; still the strife
Is desperate. And lo! now Bruin turns

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Upon him with a growl, and fiercer grasp.
Now, Cæsar! ply thy rope—thy life depends
Upon the hold it takes; thy foe's strong throat
Must be compressed that not a breath may pass.
Thy ribs now almost touch, the heart scarce beats
Between them, quivers, and must soon be still.
One other little breath, one other strain
Of those strong arms—and Cæsar is no more.
That other breath comes not; one desperate pull,
And the rope closed the passage. See—he gasps;
One last convulsive struggle ends the strife.
Those mighty paws, now weak as baby's hands,
Cæsar has thrown aside. His heart has room
Again to beat—he rises conqueror.
Such was the end of Bruin. Yet before
That fierce encounter, other means were tried
To lure him back to bondage. It was said
“Music had charms to soothe the savage breast,”
And that he often seemed, when the full tones

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Of richest harmony flowed from the lips
Of his kind mistress, to drink in the sounds
With rapture, like all other listeners.
Music was therefore tried. The band was called,
And captivating were the strains they poured
In Bruin's ears; but it was vain, for he
Would not be captivated. Then they called
Two of that band, with voices sweet as notes
Of nightingale, of power to charm the ear
Of every listener, and calm the heart
With all the magic influence of song.
They came and breathed in sweetest melody
A plaintive ditty to this angry bear,
Beseeching him to lay aside his wrath,
Resume his chain, and live among his friends.
He heard, and heeded not. And when you hear
The song that he received so sullenly,
You'll wonder that the bear was such a brute,
And think he justly died. The song ran thus

104

SONG.

O, Bruin! O, Bruin! come back to thy chain,
Nor seek thy far home o'er the mountain again,
For the mother that bore thee will know thee no more,
And thy brother cubs drive thee away from the door.

Why would'st thou return where thou nightly must howl
In thy hunger, as through the dark forest you prowl
To fight the wild bees for their hoard of sweet food,
Or spoil thy teeth cracking the nuts of the wood?
What a life thou hast led since thou haply wast caught,
And here to this sweet little valley wast brought!

105

Its blest waters thy drink, its rich dainties thy fare:
What more could be wished for man, woman, or bear?

It is true you are tied; but, Bruin, you know
It is all for your good that you are kept so;
How many are here who would gladly agree
To be tied to a tree, could they fatten like thee.

We have tamed you, and fed you, and now, you are here,
Your polite education engages our care;
Your manners are mended, some clever things taught,
But greater attainments are still to be sought.

Carusi is here, and shall teach you to dance,
How to enter the ball-room, and bow, and advance
To the ladies, who sit in a beautiful row,
Each waiting to see if the bear 'll be her beau.

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Then the waltzing—O, Bruin! think only of that,
Of a lady's bare arms with thy bear arms enwrapt;
Thy bear-skin, her bare skin shall touch; O! what bear
Can bear any pleasure with this to compare?

And think of thy paws—when the dancing is done,
And the summer is o'er, and the ladies are gone,
Through the long winter nights, when the snow flakes fall thick,
Thy lady-pressed paws will be luscious to lick.

August 25th, 1838.

107

Creation.

“Tous ces vastes pays d'azure et de lumière
Tirés du sein du vide, formés sans matière,
Arrondis sans compas, et tournants sans pivot,
Ont à peine coutés la depense d'un mot.”
Voltaire.

“By night the atheist half believes a God.”

From the dark depth of nature's void arise
Unnumbered worlds, and glitter in the skies.
No bright materials the vast orbs demand,
Nor rule, nor compass, nor a forming hand;
Self-poised their axes, self-sustained their poles,
A universe of wonders o'er us rolls.
They were not, and were called; were called and heard,
And cost, and scarcely cost, the effort of a word.

108

Written for the Coronation

OF THE TWELFTH-NIGHT QUEEN.

Here is a crown, but where is the Queen
With brow of beauty, and grace of mien,
And worthy such gift to demand?
Whose power all hearts shall ever confess,
Whose smile shall bless and frown depress,
And every look command?

Such is the Queen to whom we bow;
Thine, fair Catherine, is the brow
To adorn the crown we bring,
And she shall reign our chosen Queen,
With her brow of beauty and grace of mien,
Till she chooses to take a king.

109

Here's crown and Queen, but where shall she reign?
What loyal subjects and fair domain
Shall we to our Queen impart?
Her empire shall be
O'er the land and the sea,
And her throne in every heart.

111

To a Rose-bud.

Ah! why so tardy, timid Rose,
Thy opening beauties to display?
Ah! why within their mossy cell
So long thy shrinking petals stay?

Full many a morn, and many an eve,
Thy gently swelling bud I've seen,
And fondly strove, with many a kiss,
To wake thee from thy bed of green.

When, scarcely formed, you first appeared,
I marked thee with a lover's eye,
And doomed thee to an envied fate—
On Delia's breast to live and die.

112

Spring's golden smile now gilds the plain,
And chases Winter's frown away;
To thee, O Rose! she fondly calls,
And pours on thee her warmest ray.

Already doth her golden smile
My Delia's glowing beauties grace;
Already hath her pencil bright
Tinged with its radiant hue her face.

With that same hue, O happy Rose,
She longs thy velvet leaves to tip,
And breathe on them the same perfume
She breathed on Delia's dewy lip.

Near thee the lately wakened bees,
Anxious to taste thy beauties, stay;
With me thy promised bloom they wait,
And wonder at thy long delay.

113

Then haste, and when, with anxious step,
Thy growth to mark, I next shall walk,
Then let me see thy blushing head
Bend with its dewy weight thy stalk.

114

To a Golden Key.

Long had a golden key concealed
The treasures of my Delia's breast;
Treasures one half so sweet and rich
Sure never key before possessed.

The ponderous key that guards his wealth,
If the rich miser would bestow,
Gladly the proffered boon I'd seize,
'Tis almost all I wish below.

But ah! that litle golden key,
Could I but dare unlock its store,
And with the trembling hand of Love
Those treasures, long concealed, explore,

115

In vain would then the miser's wealth,
In vain the wealth of worlds would bribe me
To break the silken ties with which
The little urchin Love has tied me.

Delia! too long upon that heaven
Hath slept th' unconscious key of gold,
Enjoyed a bliss it cannot feel—
For, trust me, Delia, it is cold.

Then take another, who would prize
That heaven as a monarch's throne,
A key who, by thy goodness chained,
Forever will his bondage own.

O! let me be the happy key
To guard the treasures of thy heart,
And from its fondly treasured trust
That key shall never, never part.

116

Stanzas.

Farewell, ye once delightful scenes! farewell!
No more your charms can soothe my aching heart;
These long-drawn sighs, these flowing tears, can tell
How much I grieve, sweet scenes! from you to part.

For once these glassy streams, these smiling plains,
The little sorrows of my soul could ease,
But now each long-known spot augments my pains,
From sad remembrance how it once could please.

117

Oft in the glistening dews that gemmed yon mead,
Blithesome I've bathed my tiny, truant feet,
When some wild gambol lured my jocund tread,
To seek from tyrant eyes some lone retreat.

Here sported I, when, on swift pinions borne,
The airy minutes of my childhood flew;
And here arose my youth's effulgent morn,
And not a threatening cloud appeared in view.

But soon, ah soon! misfortune's blackest gloom
The radiance of the opening dawn o'ercast,
Nor left one ray of comfort to illume
The horrors of the melancholy waste.

Here first—incautious fool to bless the day—
I saw my Delia bounding o'er the plains:
I saw, and gave my soul a willing prey
To Love's soft bondage, and embraced my chains.

118

On her the potent queen of love bestowed
Her own sweet smile, her own soul-stealing grace;
Her warm heart with its soft emotion glowed,
And shone in every feature of her face.

A vivid rose-bud opening to the view
Then did she shine, in life's and beauty's morn.
With the rash hand of eager youth I flew,
Snatched at the flower, regardless of the thorn.

But ah! too late I felt the bitter smart,
Too deep I feel it in each throbbing vein;
Far hence, alas! I bear a bleeding heart,
Nor hope to find a solace for my pain.

For nature cursed me not with soul so cool
That time or absence can its griefs remove;
No—reason's cold and unimpassioned rule
Sways not a bosom fired with luckless love.

119

No, Delia! by those soft and tender sighs
Which pity drew from that soft breast of thine,
By that fair hand which wiped my streaming eyes,
And by those eyes which mixed their tears with mine—

By these I swear thy image from my breast
No time, no absence, ever shall remove;
Where'er I rove, with thy remembrance blest,
I'll doat upon the agonies of love.

120

To my Steed.

'Tis sweet to breathe freely the balmy air,
And walk where we will, at morn, eve, or noon,
When the step keeps time with the bounding heart,
And the strings of life are all in tune.

'Tis sweet to be rocked on the ocean's swell
When the fresh breeze fills the sail,
And the light bark leaps o'er the dancing waves,
And laughs at the rising gale.

But give me the steady and fearless seat
On the back of the gallant steed
That knows no check to his flying feet
But the hand that rules his speed!

121

Written at the White Sulphur Springs.

A word of advice about matters and things
May be useful to people who come to these springs:
First, there's a bell in the morning that rings
To awaken the people who come to the springs,
And the folks fix their ribbons and tie up their strings,
And look very beautiful here at the springs.

There's an insect or two, called a flea, that here stings
The skins of the people who stay at the springs;
There's a broom and a half here, for nobody brings
Such implements here, to sweep out the springs;

122

There's a maid and a half, too, for one of them swings
Rather much to one side; for she's lame at the springs.

There's a bawling all day—but the ball at night clings
The most to my fancy of all at the springs—
To conclude, though some things here might do e'en for kings,
If you wish to fare well, say farewell to the springs.

123

Petition for a Habeas Corpus.

To the Honorable James Sewall Morsell, one
Of the Judges of the county of Washington:

May it please your honor to hear the petition
Of a poor old mare in a miserable condition,
Who has come this cold night to beg that your honor
Will consider her case and take pity upon her.
Her master has turned her out in the street,
And the stones are too hard to lie down on, or eat;
Entertainment for horses she sees every where,
But, alas! there is none, as it seems, for a mare.
She has wandered about, cold, hungry, and weary,
And can't even get in the Penitentiary,

124

For the watchmen all swear it is more than they dare,
Or Mr. Edes either, to put the mayor there.
So she went to a lawyer to know what to do,
And was told she must come and lay her case before you,
That you an injunction or ha. cor. would grant;
And if that means hay and corn, it is just what I want.
Your petitioner, therefore, prays that your honor will not fail,
To send her to a stable and her master to jail;
And such other relief to grant as your honor may think meet,
Such as chopped straw or oats, for an old mare to eat.
With a trough full of these and a rack full of hay,
Your petitioner will ever, as in duty bound, pray.

125

Philip Barton Key,

WHO DEPARTED THIS LIFE JULY THE 18TH, 1815.

If nature's richest gifts could ever,
If genius, wit, and eloquence, could charm,
If grief of sorrowing friends, or anguish wild
That wrings the widow's and the orphan's heart,
Could sooth stern death, and stay th' uplifted stroke,
Long had this victim of his wrath been spared.

Mourning survivors! let all care give place
To that great care that most demands your thoughts:
The care that brings the troubled soul to Christ;
Fix there your hopes. There is, beyond the grave,
A life of bliss, where death shall never more
Part you from joys that know no bound nor end.

126

William Hemsly, Esq.,

WHO DIED IN 1826.

Here lies a man whose life proved and adorned
The faith by which he walked. By all esteemed,
By many loved, hated or feared by none,
He moved, secluded from the world's vain gaze,
Within a narrow, but a glorious sphere
Of Christian duty, shedding love and peace
Around his path, where many an eye that once
Beheld and blessed him, now is dim with tears.
Reader! if thou dost know the grace of God,
Thank Him for this His gift; and pray that thou
May'st live, like Hemsly, to thy Maker's praise,
And, like him, die with steadfast hope in Christ,
The victor, not the victim, of the grave!

127

Isabella M. Steele,

WHO DEPARTED THIS LIFE IN 1825.

Why must the grave hide one whose light would shine
To bless the world? Why friends and kindred mourn?
And this cold stone—why must it vainly strive
To tell a mother's love, a mother's grief?

The grave must hide the young, the fair, the good,
To prove the grave to be the gate of life
Through which they pass to joys that bloom not here.
Kindred and friends must mourn, that they may long

128

To meet again, where they shall part no more.
A mother's heart must bleed that He who wounds
Only to heal, may call its hopes from earth
To fix them with a sainted child in heaven.
When graves give up their dead, O! then may all
Who weep o'er this, reap blessings from their tears.

129

Sarah M. Steele,

WHO DEPARTED THIS LIFE APRIL 10TH, 1828, IN THE 23D YEAR OF HER AGE.

All that the world can promise to the hope
Of the young heart was hers, and in her heart
Dwelt every gentle and endearing virtue
That gives to life its bliss. The summons came
To call her from her mother's arms, to lie
By a loved sister's grave, whose peaceful death
Shone as a light to guide her through the gloom
Of the dark path she was so soon to tread.

And shall we mourn o'er relics such as these?
And fear this earth will not give up her dead?
Hath He not risen victor of the grave?
Shone not this hope upon her parting hour?
“Lord! we believe; help thou our unbelief.”

130

Mrs. Mary Ann Morsell,

WHO DEPARTED THIS LIFE, APRIL 1831, IN THE 32D YEAR OF HER AGE.

“A little while,” this narrow house, prepared
By grief and love, shall hold the blessed dead;
“A little while,” and she who sleeps below
Shall hear the call to rise and live forever;
“A little while,” and ye who pour your tears
On this cold grave, shall waken in your own,
And ye shall see her, in her robes of light,
And hear her song of triumph. Would ye then
Partake with her the bliss of that new life?
Tread now the path she brightly marked before ye!
Choose now her Lord! live now her life! and yours
Shall be her hope and victory in death.

131

George Murdock,

WHO DIED IN 1812.

A life beneficent, mild, useful, just,
Marked him who rests below; the warm good-will
Of all who knew him, and the tear that springs
E'en now at memory's bidding from the heart,
Warmly attest his worth. His, too, at death—
Rich fruit of such a life—was the calm hour
When conscience breathes that whisper to the soul
Which speaks of peace, and prompts the humble hope
Of heaven's benign acceptance. Thus to live,
And thus to die, O, reader! be thy care.

132

Johannes I. Sayrs.

INSCRIPTION IN ST. JOHN'S CHURCH, GEORGETOWN.

“Hujus ecclesiæ rector primus hic quo,
Christi servus, fideliter ministrabat,
Sepultus, jacet.”

Here once stood forth a man who from the world,
Though bright its aspect to the youthful eye,
Turned with affection ardent to his God,
And lived and died an humble minister
Of His benignant purposes to man.
Here lies he now; yet grieve not thou for him,
Reader! He trusted in that love where none
Have ever vainly trusted. Rather let
His marble speak to thee; and should'st thou feel
The rising of a new and solemn thought,

133

Waked by this sacred place and sad memorial,
O, listen to its impulse!—'tis divine—
And it shall lead thee to a life of peace,
A death of hope, and endless bliss hereafter.

134

Lines given to William Darlington,

A DEAF AND DUMB BOY.

The dumb shall speak, and the deaf shall hear,
In the brighter days to come,
When they've passed through the troubled scenes of life
To a higher and happier home.

They shall hear the trumpet's fearful blast,
And the crash of the rending tomb,
And the sinner's cry of agony,
As he wakes to his dreaded doom.

And the conqueror's shout, and the ransomed's song,
On their opened ears shall fall;
And the tongue of the dumb, in the chorus of praise,
Shall be louder and higher than all.

135

O, Thou! whose still voice can need no ear
To the heart its message to bear!
Who canst hear the unuttered reply of the heart,
As it glows in the fervor of prayer,

Speak in thy pity and power to these
Who only Thee can hear;
And bend, to the call of their speaking hearts,
Thine ever-listening ear.

136

Home.

O! where can the soul find relief from its foes,
A shelter of safety, a home of repose?
Can earth's brightest summit, or deepest hid vale,
Give a refuge no sorrow nor sin can assail?
No, no, there's no home!
There's no home on earth; the soul has no home.

Shall it leave the low earth, and soar to the sky,
And seek an abode in the mansions on high?
In the bright realms of bliss shall a dwelling be given,
And the soul find a home in the glory of heaven?
Yes, yes, there's a home?
There's a home in high heaven; the soul has a home!

137

O! holy and sweet its rest shall be there,
Free forever from sin, from sorrow and care;
And the loud hallelujahs of angels shall rise
To welcome the soul to its home in the skies.
Home, home, home of the soul!
The bosom of God is the home of the soul.

140

The Nobleman's Son.

“Yesterday, at the seventh hour, the fever left him.”—
St. John, iv., 52.

There's a lordly hall on Capernaum's heights,
Magnificent, costly, and fair,
And within and without the gay delights
Of the rich and the great are there.

But the dwellings of earth, whether high or low,
Or mighty and massive their walls,
Cannot keep in joy, or keep out woe—
They must open when misery calls.

And sorrow, and sickness, and death will come
When sent, and with step as sure
They pass through the gates of the gilded dome
As the cottager's open door.

141

That courtly hall its gay light throws
No more on Capernaum's hill;
All dark and sad in the gloom of its woes,
The songs of its gladness still.

In a lonely chamber a fair child lies,
Of that noble house the loved heir,
The joy and pride of a mother's eyes,
And a father's fondest care.

And that mother is there, with looks that now
Of a mother's agony speak;
And her hand oft presses his throbbing brow,
And her lips his burning cheek.

And the father is gone, in his fear and his grief,
The pitying aid to implore
Of Him, who has never refused relief
To the cry of the wretched and poor.

142

Through the night, through the day, she has watched; to his home
He returns not: the faint hope is gone
That the mighty One he seeks will come
To heal her dying son.

To her fond caress there is no return,
Yet her arms she around him folds,
And the quickening pulses beat and burn
In the little hand she holds.

Now she holds that hand, and she looks, in her fear,
In the face of her dying boy,
And there falls in its burning palm a tear—
She has started with sudden joy,

For on that hand she clasped, so dear,
A healthful coolness came;
It seemed as if the mother's tear
Had quenched the fever's flame.

143

To the face on which she so tearfully gazed
The wondrous change extends,
As his head from his pillow he gently raised,
And his eye on his mother bends.

On his rosy lips she kisses the dew,
And his forehead calm and fair,
And she sees that the light, in his eyes of blue,
Of love alone, is there.

It was not the tear, by a mother shed,
That the pains of that sickness allayed:
“Go thy way, thy son liveth!” the Lord had said,
Was believed, and the fever obeyed.

O! ye, in unbelieving fear,
Who weep o'er those you love,
When sickness, pain, or death appear,
Your faith and trust to prove;

144

O! know ye how and where to seek
That mighty One, who here
Vouchsafed these words of life to speak,
And heard this father's prayer?

His heart is still soft pity's throne,
His ear as open stands,
His hand as strong, and still alone
His word the world commands.

And He is nigh thee! on thy heart
That pitying hand is laid,
And every wish thy lips impart
Is to that ear conveyed.

“Ask what thou wilt,” commands He still;
Fear not, thou shalt be heard;
Only believe—He can, He will
Speak the life-giving word.

145

It may not be that life that spends
In care and pain its breath,
That runs its weary course, and ends
At last, and soon, in death.

But a gift beyond thy poor request
May to thy prayers be given:
A life to be spent in the mansions of rest,
And the endless bliss of heaven.

January, 1843.

146

Written for the Bethel Church at Havre.

To thee, O God! whose awful voice
Earth, sea, and air obey,
This humble house of prayer we raise,
And here our homage pay.

Its Bethel flag floats in the breeze,
Its stars on the ocean shine,
And the weary mariner's heart is cheered,
As he hails the holy sign.

The ship at rest, their perils past,
The joyous seamen come
Where the Bethel flag its welcome waves—
The flag of their distant home.

147

O God! if the heart's warm thanks to thee
A grateful offering prove,
If prayer and praise can rise on wings
Of gratitude and love,

Here in this house high hymns of joy
Thy rescued sons shall raise,
And glowing hearts and ready tongues
Their great Protector praise.

They've seen thy works upon the sea,
Thy wonders in the deep,
When thou didst loose the stormy winds
O'er the raging waves to sweep.

They sunk to the ocean's lowest depths,
They rose on the mountain wave,
They hung on the brink of the dread abyss,
That yawned as an open grave.

148

They called on thee, and the raging sea
Sunk down at thy command,
And the angry rush of the winds was hushed
In the grasp of thy mighty hand.

O! let them come, and this holy flag
Shall float in sainted air,
As high they raise the hymn of praise,
And the heart's ascending prayer.

And the breath of heaven shall fill their sails
Wherever a breeze shall blow,
And they shall bear the gospel's light
Wherever a wave shall flow.

And thus, O God! the boundless sea
Thy glory shall proclaim,
And its distant isles' lone shores resound
With the Redeemer's name.

March, 1841.

149

Sunday School Celebration,

JULY FOURTH, 1833.

Sing, all ye nations! the arm of the Lord
Is revealed in its power, fulfilling His word.

Ye watchmen of Zion, the glory beholding,
Long promised, now dawning to gladden our eyes,
Shout aloud, through all lands the bright vision unfolding,
And call Zion's hosts to awake, and arise!
Sing, all ye nations, etc.,

Roll on, thou glad Earth, thy dark places are gleaming
With light from on high, and the new-risen ray

150

On thy far distant mountains and lone isles is beaming,
And the nations awaken, and hail the bright day.
Sing, all ye nations, etc.

Roll on in thy path, till the radiance, increasing,
Its noon-day effulgence around thee shall fling,
And thy people all join in hosannas unceasing,
To praise their Creator, Redeemer, and King!
Sing, all ye nations, etc.

Thou shalt shine in that light, and the beams of thy splendor
The far wilds of the west shall exultingly see;
Thou shalt join in that song, the loudest to render
Thy rapturous homage, fair land of the free!
Sing, all ye nations, etc.

Fair land of the free! thou wast made to be ever
A refuge and home for the poor and oppressed,

151

And thy welcome and blessing denied shall be never
To the wanderer who flees to thy bosom for rest.
Sing, all ye nations, etc.

Fair land of the free! the lamp thou hast lighted
Still sheds its pure lustre on Liberty's shrine;
And the nations awaken, enlightened, united,
To partake of thy bliss, in thy triumph to join.
Sing, all ye nations, etc.

Fair land of the free! may that light that for ever
Gives freedom and life, pour its brightness on thee!
Shed around thee the light of salvation, and never
Be darkness in thee, thou fair land of the free.
Sing, all ye nations, etc.

152

The Lord Will Hear Thee.

“Will the Lord cast off for ever? and will he be favorable no more?

“Is his mercy clean gone for ever? doth his promise fail for evermore?

“Hath God forgotten to be gracious? hath he in anger shut up his tender mercies?

“And I said, This is my infirmity; but I will remember the years of the right hand of the Most High.

“I will remember the works of the Lord: surely I will remember thy wonders of old.”

—Psalm lxxvii.

Will God absent himself for evermore,
Nor hear again my supplicating cry?
Is mercy gone for ever? and the day
Of his felt presence utterly passed by?

153

Hath he resolved his wonted grace no more
Shall wait upon his people's earnest prayer?
His loving kindness turned to wrath, and man
But left to pray and perish in despair?

This cannot be, O thou of little faith;
'Tis thine own weakness that suggests thy fears:
The God thou seek'st can know no change, his truth
Steadfast abides through everlasting years.

And if before his face erect in hope
Thou can'st not stand, then prostrate fall and pray,
And then his hands shall raise thee up, and soon
The clouds of doubt and fear shall roll away.

Call to remembrance former days, and see
If faithful heart e'er offered fruitless prayer;
If God, commanding all to seek his face,
E'er turned from any with unpitying ear.

154

And look through time to that eternal day
When high shall sound the rapturous hymn of praise,
“Thou doest all things well, O Lord! and just
And true, O King of kings, are all thy ways.”

Thou in that song shalt join; the darkness past
That from thy view the answering God concealed,
The unheeded blessings of his unseen hand,
And all the wonders of his love revealed.

Then shalt thou see a Father's tender care
Displayed alike in all withheld and given:
Given—to increase thy love, and fix thy trust;
Withheld—to wean from earth and fit for heaven.

Then shalt thou see how every prayer was heard:
The ill thy blindness asked, refused; the good
Delayed, to keep thee waiting on his word;
Thy waiting blest—the blessing then bestowed.

155

Then fear not; that petition that so oft
And warmly thou hast pressed, is not cast out;
Still wait on God! still seek, and hope, and trust,
Till light shall shine through every shade of doubt.

Though rich the boon, to which thy heart aspires,
'Tis not too vast from boundless power to flow;
Nor canst thou fear to ask what boundless love
Can never be unwilling to bestow.

Then press thy suit undoubtingly to God,
Who best knows when to grant—when to refuse;
And leave the way, and time, and all to him—
Let not thy folly, but his wisdom, choose.

And rest in this, that whatsoe'er thy prayer
Humbly and faithfully of God requires,
He will fulfil—or otherwise bestow
A gift still richer than thy prayer desires.

156

Would'st thou rejoice t'obtain whate'er thou seek'st?
Nor more rejoice, if from his boundless store,
Kind, above all that thou canst ask or think,
Thy Father in his bounty gives thee more.

'Tis true thou art unworthy to be heard,
But make thy want, and not thy worth, thy plea;
There is One worthy all that thou canst ask,
Who gives himself, and all his worth, to thee.

Then come, come boldly, to the throne of grace:
There stands an Advocate thy cause to gain;
Ask in his name—ask what thou wilt—his love
Assures thee that thou shalt not ask in vain.

162

The Worm's Death-Song.

O! let me alone—I've a work to be done
That can brook not a moment's delay;
While yet I breathe I must spin and weave,
And may rest not night nor day.

Food and sleep I will never know
Till my blessed work be done;
Then my rest shall be sweet, in the winding-sheet
That around me I have spun.

I have been a base and grovelling thing,
And the dust of the earth my home,
But now I know that the end of my woe,
And the day of my bliss, is come.

163

In the shroud I make, this creeping frame
Shall peacefully die away,
But its death shall be new life to me,
In the midst of its perished clay.

I shall wake, I shall wake, a glorious form
Of brightness and beauty to wear;
I shall burst from the gloom of my opening tomb,
And breathe in the balmy air.

I shall spread my new wings to the morning sun,
On the summer's breath I'll live;
I will bathe me where, in the dewy air,
The flowers their sweetness give.

I will not touch the dusty earth,
I'll spring to the brightening sky,
And, free as the breeze, wherever I please,
On joyous wing I'll fly.

164

And wherever I go, timid mortals may know
That, like me, from the tomb they shall rise;
To the dead shall be given, by signal from heaven,
A new life, and new home in the skies.

Then let them, like me, make ready their shrouds,
Nor shrink from the mortal strife,
And like me they shall sing, as to heaven they spring,
Death is not the end of life.

January 31st, 1841.

165

“All things are yours.”

1 Corinthians iii. 21.

Behold the grant the King of kings
Hath to his subjects given:
“All things are yours,” it saith; all things
That are in earth and heaven.

The saints are yours, to guide you home,
And bless you with their prayers;
The world is yours, to overcome
Its pleasures and its cares;

And life is yours, to give it all
To works of faith and love;
And death is yours, a welcome call
To higher joys above;

166

All present things are yours: whate'er
God's providence decreed,
Is from his treasures culled with care,
And sent to suit thy need;

And things to come are yours; and all
Shall ever ordered be,
To keep thee safe, whate'er befall,
And work for good to thee;

And Christ is yours—his sacrifice,
To speak your sins forgiven;
His righteousness the only price
That thou canst pay for heaven.

Thus God is yours—thus reconciled,
His love your bliss secures,
The Father looks upon the child
And saith, “All things are yours.”

167

Efficacy of Prayer.

“When I called upon thee thou heardest me, and enduedst my soul with much strength.”—

Psalm ciii, 3.

When troubles, wave on wave, assailed,
And fear my soul appalled,
I knew the Lord would rescue me,
And for deliverance called.

Still onward, onward came the flood;
Again I sought the Lord,
And prayed that he the waves would still
By his resistless word.

But still they rushing came; again
Arose my earnest prayer,
And then I prayed for faith and strength
Whate'er he willed, to bear.

168

Then his felt presence was my strength,
His outstretched arm was nigh;
My head he raised, my heart he cheered,
“Fear not,” he said, “'tis I.”

Strong in that strength, I rose above
The tempest's fierce alarms;
It drove me to a port of peace,
Within a Saviour's arms.

169

Life.

If life's pleasures cheer thee,
Give them not thy heart,
Lest the gifts ensnare thee
From thy God to part:
His praises speak, his favor seek,
Fix there thy hopes' foundation;
Love him, and he shall ever be
The rock of thy salvation.

If sorrow e'er befall thee,
Painful though it be,
Let not fear appal thee:
To thy Saviour flee:

170

He, ever near, thy prayer will hear,
And calm thy perturbation;
The waves of woe shall ne'er o'erflow
The rock of thy salvation.

Death shall never harm thee,
Shrink not from his blow,
For thy God shall arm thee,
And victory bestow:
For death shall bring to thee no sting,
The grave no desolation;
'Tis gain to die, with Jesus nigh,
The rock of thy salvation.

171

Hymn.

Lord, with glowing heart I'd praise thee
For the bliss thy love bestows,
For the pardoning grace that saves me,
And the peace that from it flows.
Help, O God! my weak endeavor,
This dull soul to rapture raise;
Thou must light the flame, or never
Can my love be warmed to praise.

Praise, my soul, the God that sought thee,
Wretched wanderer, far astray;
Found thee lost, and kindly brought thee
From the paths of death away.

172

Praise, with love's devoutest feeling,
Him who saw thy guilt-born fear,
And, the light of hope revealing,
Bade the blood-stained cross appear.

Lord! this bosom's ardent feeling
Vainly would my lips express;
Low before thy foot-stool kneeling,
Deign thy suppliant's prayer to bless.
Let thy grace, my soul's chief treasure,
Love's pure flame within me raise;
And, since words can never measure,
Let my life show forth thy praise.

173

Heaven.

“Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither have entered into the heart of man, the things which God hath prepared for them that love him.”—

1 Cor. ii. 9.

With many a bright and beauteous scene
The earth's fair bosom charms the sight,
And brighter still the gems of heaven
Shine in the starry train of night.

Warm are the transports that the ear
Does to the bounding heart convey,
When the bard pours the stream of song,
And music floats the soul away.

And the mind's eye, by fancy's flight,
Far fairer visions can behold
Than ever gladdened earthly eye,
Or ever earthly poet told;

174

But far above what eye, or ear,
Or fancy's soaring flight can yield,
Shine the rich treasures of the skies,
The glory yet to be revealed.

To tell of those high seats of bliss,
The seraph's song imperfect proves,
Their builder is the mighty God—
The mansions are for those he loves.

175

Psalm xvi.

O! bright and happy is my lot,
And sweet the path of life to me;
All praise to thee, eternal King!
Whose favor fixed the fair decree.

He guides me through the busy day,
And through the long and lonely night;
Fills me with hope and holy joy,
And guards me with his matchless might.

My mind, in all I act or plan,
Looks to my God, and his commands;
And, to uphold my feeble steps,
Protector, by my side, he stands.

176

My heart shall beat with grateful joy,
My ready tongue thy praise proclaim;
For thy benignant grace shall still
Preserve and bless this mortal frame.

And thou this warm, aspiring soul,
That breathes its humble vows to thee,
From hell's dread gloom wilt kindly save,
And from the grave's corruption free.

Thou the bright way to heaven wilt show,
Thy blissful courts the just receive,
Thine hand bestow celestial joys
No tongue can tell, no heart conceive.

177

“Our Father who art in Heaven.”

Father in heaven! does God who made
And rules this universal frame—
Say, does he own a father's love,
And answer to a father's name?

Saviour divine! cleanser of guilt,
Redeemer of a ruined race!
These are thy cheering words, and this
The kind assurance of thy grace.

My God! my Father! may I dare—
I, all debased, with sin defiled—
These awful, soothing, names to join;
Am I thy creature and thy child?

178

Art thou my Father? then no more
My sins shall tempt me to despair;
A father pities and forgives,
And hears a child's repentant prayer.

Art thou my Father? let me strive
With all my powers to do thy will,
To make thy service all my care,
And all thy kind commands fulfil.

Art thou my Father? teach my heart
Compassion for another's woe,
And ever, to each child of thine,
A brother's tenderness to show.

Art thou my Father? then I know
When pain, or want, or griefs oppress,
They come but from a father's hand,
Which wounds to heal, afflicts to bless.

179

Art thou my Father? then in doubt
And darkness when I grope my way,
Thy light shall shine upon my path,
And make my darkness like thy day.

Art thou my Father? then no more
Tremble, my soul, at death's alarms:
He comes a messenger of love,
To bear me to a Father's arms.

My God! my Father! I am vile,
Prone to forget thee, weak, and blind:
Be thou my help, my strength, my trust,
Hope of my heart! light of my mind!

180

Help in Trouble.

“Call upon me in the time of trouble, so will I hear thee and thou shalt praise me.”—

PSALM 1, 50.

Thy trial day on earth must bring
Trouble in mercy given,
To fit thee for thy conflicts here,
And for thy crown in heaven.

But when they come, remember then
A promised help is nigh;
A Father's kind and pitying ear
Is open to thy cry.

Then may the light of these blest words
On all thy pathway shine:
“I will, thou shalt;” the hearing ear
Be his, the praise be thine.

181

Man.

“The days of man are but as grass; for he flourisheth as a flower of the field.

“For as soon as the wind goeth over it, it is gone, and the place thereof shall know it no more.

“But the merciful goodness of the Lord endureth forever and ever upon them that fear him, and his righteousness upon children's children;

“Even upon such as keep his covenant and think upon his commandments to do them.

“The Lord hath prepared his seat in heaven, and his kingdom ruleth over all.”—

Psalm ciii.

Such are thy days—so shall they pass away—
As flowers that bloom at morn, at eve decay;
But then, there comes a life that knows no end—
Rich in unfading joys that far transcend
Thy highest thoughts or warmest wishes—given
To those whose days on earth have fitted them for heaven.

182

There is a covenant—it is sealed with blood;
A risen Saviour—a forgiving God:
These all are thine; may these thy thoughts employ,
Thy days all pass in peace, and end in joy.

July 20th, 1842.

183

Note to Mrs. Key.

Mrs. Key will hereby see
That Judges two or three,
And one or two more,
So as to make exactly four,
Will dine with her to-day;
And as they cannot stay,
Four o'clock the hour must be
For dinner, and six for tea
And toast and coffee.

So saith her humble servant,

F. S. Key.

University of Virginia Library

The Star Spangled Banner.

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