The forest minstrel :: :: University of Virginia Library

My heart was breaking then—but the strong Soul
Put bonds upon the trembler, and stood up
Shaming its anguish with a scornful smile,
And proudly spurning Sorrow's tearful cup.

Weak one! she cried, wilt thou be so subdued?
And bend abjectly thus to gilded Pride?
Hast thou no wealth or worth in thy deep mines,
That thou shouldst faint, this tinsel god beside?

Go down, and from thy burning depths bring up
The native melodies that nestle there;
Set those wild prisoners free, and let them spread
Their vocal pinions to the native air.

Ay—send the timid creatures out, to brave
The winds that heave and plume the surging waste
Of this world's deluge, where the Dove of heaven
Has sought, and socks in vain, a place of rest.

And some amongst the number will return
With Trophies of green leaves from living trees,
Whose glorious heads, with never-fading wreaths
O'ertop the foam-crests of the billowy seas.

And each such Trophy shall be unto thee
More precious than Golconda's richest gem,
And o'er thy brow shall shed a purer light
Than empires' most resplendent diadem.

And it shall dim the shine of yellow gold,
As day's broad glory hides the feeble star;
And thy name written on each radiant leaf,
Shall down time's shadowy valley flash afar.

Ah! thou shalt stand before the scorner then,
In that effulgent light; and he shall own
The majesty of the immortal wreath
By thy high heart and dauntless spirit won.

Then he shall feel how worthless and how base
Appear the restless treasures of the mine,
Beside those living gems, which shall endure
To distant ages—and be always thine.

My heart responded to that spirit voice,
And sent its timid angels, one by one,
Out o'er the world's cold billow, list'ning long
To each wild echo of their native tone.

My heart grew faint with watching, day by day,
For the returning of the mission'd birds,
While on the calm of cold indifference came
Reproachful whisperings and derisive words.

O there were deep and wringing agonies—
Regret, and bitterness, and burning tears,
Yet still I hoped—and lo! my wandering doves
Came home triumphant after many years.

And then I turned, to dazzle with my gems
The eyes that once had scorned me. Holy heaven!
Those eyes are dark and soulless,—Ah! 'tis true
The heart is ruined, and the spirit riven.

The haughty soul is quenched; and in the halls
Where intellect sat, proud in godlike might,
The gibbering phantoms of insanity
Hold hideous revel in eternal night.

And where is now my triumph? Ah, Lord God!
For what ignoble ends we waste our life,
And thy most precious gifts, when human pride
And human passions urge us to the strife!

When gems that should be consecrate to Thee
Are vainly offered at a mortal shrine,
Till the poor idols, crumbling back to dust,
Mock the weak faith which fancied it divine;

And falls like charnel-dust, so cold and foul
Upon the heart that madly worshipped there,
And lies above its beauty and its hopes,
The black corroding ashes of despair.

O heavenly Father! may I now presume
To lay my worthless Trophies on Thy shrine?
Behold! I cast them at Thine altar's foot,
And my heart with them.—Father! make them Thine!

THE THREE MARY'S.

They stood beside the cross—the cruel cross,
That instrument of agony and death,
So dreadful, so protracted, so intense,
So mingling with intolerable pain,
The mad'ning thirst of fever and the weight
Of weariness,—until the victim sends
Each sobbing breath out, with a groaning prayer
That God will let him die.
'Twere terrible
To stand beside the cross, though on it hung
The veriest fiends that ever cursed the earth
With power to sin and suffer. Oh! the soul
Grows faint and sick, and shrinks into itself,
If bold imagination shadow forth
Such scene of torment. Weak humanity
Would veil such hideous picture; but the voice,
The weary husky voice, struggling at times
Into a piercing scream of such distress
As speaks the fiercest form of agony—
This voice is in the soul.
The cross! the cross!
Fond woman oft has stood beside the cross,
With heart and spirit dying with the pain
That wore away the life of her belov'd,

Her good, her beautiful, her precious one.—
They stood beside the cross,—beneath the cross
On which the object of their love, their faith,
Their worship, was expiring.
Many hearts
Had built their faith and ardent hopes on him;
Had followed as he tracked the rugged ways
From city unto city;—witnessing
The deeds that proved his mission.—Where were they?
Oh coward hearts! They had not strength to be
Beside the cross.—They had not nerve to bear
The sympathy of such exquisite wo;—
They had not courage to acknowledge him,
Who was despised, condemned, and crucified,
Their Friend, their Lord, and Master. Even those
Who had professed to him so earnestly:
We will not be offended, or deny
That we are thine, though we should die with thee,—
Even these forsook him in his hour of need,
And fled. One only of that craven band,
The youngest, tenderest-hearted, best beloved,
Stood with a heart like woman's, strong in love,
Beside the cross that day. But they were there,
The women, in whose bosoms earnest faith
Leaned on adoring love.—No fear of death,
Of shame or pain, could keep them from his side.
Devoted woman in her calendar
Reads no such words, as “Hide thyself for fear!”—
She cannot say, “I do not know the man,”
When danger gathers round a friend she loves;
But closer still she nestles to his side,
And gentler flow her words, as with soft hand
She seeks to lay sweet balm on every wound

That malice may inflict. She cannot save—
But she will soothe, and solace, and sustain
With strength that never fails—the strength of love.
They knew that he was great; that he had pow'r
To bind the viewless pinions of the wind,
The free strong wind—that he had pow'r to hush
The frantic billows of the stormy sea,
As with calm majesty he waved his hand
And uttered his commandment, “Peace—Be still”
That he controlled the fiercest of the fiends
That torture human nature; that disease
Was subject to him; that the spring of life
Gushed up afresh within the silent heart,
And poured its thrilling current, warm and free,
Along the trembling nerves at his command.
They knew that he was worthy to be feared,
And knelt unto in worship. Man knew this.—
But there's a holier chord in woman's heart,
A quick perception of the good, the pure,
The great, the spiritually beautiful,
Which, with the distant homage of the soul,
Blends the near worship of the ardent heart—
The heart, which asks no questions of the past,
Which knows no future, never dreams of self;
The present with the object it adores
Is its eternity. The heart is blind,
And deaf to all dictation, and doth cling
Unto its love, with a tenacity
Regardless of proud reason's scornful taunt,
Or cold derisive smile. The heart is strong,—
Its very weakness is to it a might,
A strength invincible. There cannot be
Of things created aught so beautiful

As a true woman's fervent, faithful heart,
In the devotion of its earnest love.
And these all loved the sufferer with a love
Warm as its fountain, as its object pure.
But wherefore were they there? They had no hope
That they could save the victim, or subtract
One drop of bitterness from that keen cup
Of mingled agony, drugged deep with death.
They could not give him ease, or life, or hope;
Then wherefore stood they agonizing there?
The heart constrained them. They could prove at least
Their love and steadfast confidence in him.
The thousands upon whom he had bestowed
Such precious gifts as healing to the sick,
Sight to the blind, and hearing to the deaf;
Strength to the feeble, to the crippled power
To walk and leap for joy; to the possess'd
Deliverance from their demons;—where were they?
Ay, where was Lazarus, and the widow's son,
Those whom his voice had called again from death?
We see them not.—Their faith may be as great
As woman's faith,—their love is not so strong.

The fervent-hearted Mary, kneeling there,
Pressed her pale forehead on the senseless wood,
And lo! there is a stain upon her brow,
A blood-drop from the feet, which she did long
To wash again with her warm flowing tears,
And dry with the soft tresses of her hair.
Which joyfully she would anoint again
With precious spikenard, and the healing balm.
Oh! how his words now tremble in her soul,
“She hath anointed me for burial.”

Ay—all his words were written in her heart,
And she had treasured them; as like a child
She sat at those dear feet. Ah, she is there,
The tender and the beautiful, whose soul,
In its young dreams of bliss, had sought to find
One worthy of its love, who would give back
The wealth of its affection—one to whom
She might unveil deep feelings' holy shrine
Fearless of sacrilege, whose ardent soul
Could understand and answer all her thoughts;
Whose nerves would thrill with hers at every touch
Of joy or sorrow; one whose breast to her
Should be a pillow, where no single thorn
Should wound her spirit or disturb her rest.
But she had chased a shadow, and had found
Those isles of beauty by her fancy spread
Upon the smiling ocean of delight,
Cold icebergs glitt'ring to the setting sun,
And floating on a frigid polar sea.
And they had lured her to the very brink
Of deep perdition. Then, with spirit stained,
Soul outraged, heart despoiled of half its wealth,
Like some young fledgeling bird, which spreads its wings
To seek the bright groves of the balmy south,
And meets the storm-winds of the equinox,
Which toss it at their pleasure, till its plumes
Are wet and ruffled, and its tender form
All bruised and weary; then with drooping head,
And pinions hanging listless by its sides,
It sits alone in some cold darksome nook,
And thinks of all the joys it left behind
For wild unreal hopes. So she looked back

Upon her wasted youth. Oh! mournfully
Lay scattered here and there along the path,
Amongst rank pois'nous weeds, the broken hopes
That she had chased, and caught, and thrown aside;
The withered buds, and severed leaves of flowers,
That she had worn on brow and breast awhile,
And thrown away with loathing. Fearful thoughts
Awoke within her then, blasphemous thoughts,
Of Him who had created this fair world,
With all its wealth of intellectual life,
And spirits longing for some real good
To fill their vast capacities for bliss,
For such unworthy ends; and she became
Reckless, and half a maniac, and pursued
The stream of bitter waters, which but mocked
And tantalized her burning heart and lips,
'Till her brain maddened.
Then the Crucified
Met her, and pitied, and with gentle voice
Reproved her wayward wanderings. Kindly then
He led her to the pure and pleasant spring
Of everlasting life. She knelt, and touched
The living waters, and her thirst was gone,
Her spirit healed, her heart made whole and pure,
Her brain so calm, that she sat meekly down
At her Deliverer's feet and drank his words,
Until the blessed balm of holy peace
Lay on her spirit, like the dew of heaven
On Sharon's velvet rose. And she loved much,
For she had sinned, and she had suffered much,
And had been freely, lovingly forgiven.—
Oh! she loved much! And therefore she was there
Beside the cross, to prove that earnest love

By fond devotion, fearless sympathy,
And faith that wavered not.
Beside her stood
The Magdalen.—Magnificent of form,
Of princely rank, sustained by princely wealth,
Was this devoted Mary; and her mind
Was capable of high and glorious things.
The fire of Genius burned in her dark eye,
Like the aurorean glory of the north
Deep in the midnight azure of the heavens.
Her brow was radiant with the august light
Of living Science, and her perfect lips
Were eloquent of most entrancing words,
Wildering the hearer with a height, a depth,
A poetry of such exalted thought
As made his spirit dizzy. Still, she yearned
For deeper draughts of wisdom, and resolved
To drain the goblet and possess the pearl
Of perfect knowledge, which for ever lies
Sparkling beneath the waters. She was one
To dare almighty vengeance, as did Eve
To taste forbidden knowledge.
All the lore
Of Nature, with her many-graded life,
Sentient, instinctive, intellectual,
Was unto her familiar as the path
O'er which she sported in her infancy.
And vegetable nature was to her
Like her own robe and maiden ornaments.
She knew how slept the life within the germ
Of seed, the most minute, a glorious life
Of might and beauty, carefully enclosed
In fitting envelope, and laid to sleep

Perchance for years, awaiting but the touch
Of quick'ning influence, to burst forth, and show
Its infant loveliness.—And how the earth
Gave substance to its form, and how it drank
The gaseous spirits of the living air,
And breathed the subtle light, acquiring thus
The fairest forms, and most entrancing hues.
She knew how fibres of peculiar form
Absorbed the mineral spirits of the earth,
Which, blending with the creatures of the air,
Became strong powers of healing, or of death
To animated things. But in her soul
The tree of knowledge blossomed rank with pride,
And promised fruits of power. Oh! she would climb
To heaven, and range the glowing firmament,
Walk the bright Zodiac, and grasp the stars,
Search out their natures, analyze their fires,
And find the secret influence which dwelt
In each peculiar star, and how it flowed
From its far fountain, to the pulsing heart
Of pregnant Nature.—She would find the powers
That govern all things. She would grasp the wand
Of sovereign Destiny. She would find out
How life is generated; whence the soul
Receives its parts and passions; how the mind
Is joined to matter. She would touch the spring
Which moves this vast machinery, from the globe
Of this great Earth down to the atom heart
Of the minutest insect. She would reach
The wondrous lever which has power to move
That active mystery, the human will.
She would unwind the mystic chain of Fate,
And penetrate the misty veil that lies

O'er all the future, and survey the path
Of destiny, down to the guarded gate
Of the eternal bourne. She would command
All spirits; she would know the height, and depth,
And breadth, of all the knowledge that men deem
Dark, magic, and forbidden. From height to height
Her daring spirit climbed the fearful steep,
Wreathing its garlands with the rarest buds
That bloom in reach of the adventurous mind,
Which may grasp all things—save Omnipotence.
But still she laid her spoils upon the shrine
Of pride and human glory, while the powers
And spirits of the universe obeyed
Her sovereign mandate. Adding strength to strength,
And wielding all the powers thus made her own,
At length she wakened demons, which refused
To yield obedience, or return again
To their fierce element. With horror then
She found herself in their infernal power
Condemned to torture, and all frenzied forms
Of agony, which their malevolence
And vengeance could inflict. Oh! terrible
Was her condition then. Yet still through all
She was the Magdalen, magnificent
Amid the writhings of her baffled pride,
The crushing tortures of her deep despair.
When those fierce demons, with their taunting eyes,
Wrung all her soul to madness, and shrieked forth
Their mocking laughter on the shuddering air,
And told of tortures more tremendous still,
Ay, past the pow'r of nature to conceive,
With which they would afflict her writhing soul
For ever and for ever;—while they mocked

They feared the mighty sceptre of her power,
And held her trembling, lest her peerless mind
Should break their burning shackles, and avenge
Itself for all its sufferings. Horrible
Were her fierce strivings, and the frenzied rage
Of her tormented spirit. Such was once
This proud exalted woman. She had climbed
Above the grade of human intellect,
Above the reach of human sympathy.
The soul of man did homage to her sway,
And spirits bowed before her, till her pride
Outgrew her power, and she became the slave
Of fiends, too fierce, and fearful, for the sway
Of her vast knowledge. Fearful fiends they were,
And fearful were her torments.
Now she stood
With folded arms, and brow bent meekly down
Beside the cross; and when from time to time
She raised her dark wet eyes, Oh! what a light
Of holy worship and adoring love
Lay deep within them. Though her Saviour hung
Upon that cross of torture, well she knew
That he was self-devoted; that no power
Of man could bind him, whom the elements
Did homage to; that devils had not strength
To baffle him, who by a word subdued
The mighty fiends that had possessed her soul.
She knew those fiends had scoffed at every power
Beneath the might of the Omnipotent,
And he had conquered them; not by deep spells
Or incantations,—he had merely said:
Depart! and they obey'd him. Surely then
He wielded the almighty power of God.

And she had faith in Him, which nought on earth
Or in the glorious spirit-land could shake.
So she stood meekly, calmly, by the cross,
With heart o'erflowing with its grateful love,
And waiting with a strong expectant hope
That he would triumph gloriously o'er all
The powers of wicked men, of death, and hell.

And there beside her, weeping on the ground
In all the deep abandonment of grief,
Was that same Mary, whom the angel hailed
As blessed amongst women. O how far
She seemed from blessed then. The dark red drops
Of wringing torture, falling one by one,
So heavily and slowly at her feet,
Seemed each to waste the being of her soul
With the dear sufferer's life. Yet there she sat,
Her woman heart, with yearning tenderness,
Drinking the bitterness of all the shame
And agony of him she loved so much.
Her mother-heart, to which his every sigh
Came like the wind to the Æolean harp,
Which, stirring thrillingly the sentient string,
Awakes a mournful melody of sound
Which voices all its breathings. Human love!
Can angels comprehend thy mysteries—
Thy hopes, for which man perils his soul's life;
The deep despair, from which he deems the grave,
Ay, hell itself, a refuge! The delights
Which mingle all that spirits know of bliss
With human nature's thrilling ecstacies!
And that word, mother! O it comprehends

The all of love, the all of suffering,
That thread their fibres through the universe.
As if the heart maternal were a point
In which all centred, and which answers back
If any, even the least of all, be stirred.
How throbbed that mother's heart beside the cross
On which its love, its hope, its pride, its faith,
Were languishing to death? A mother's hopes
Are holy, and are planted by the spring
Of life within her heart. Their tendrils cling
Around the purest fibres of her soul,
And earth has nothing great or beautiful
Which they embrace not, while the topmost buds
Are flashing in the radiant light of heaven.
But she had hopes such as no woman's heart,
Save hers, had dared to cherish. Hopes brought down
By God's own angel, from the throne of truth,
And planted in her heart. Hopes cherished there
By blessed men and women, on whose souls
The Holy Spirit shed prophetic light.
She knew his being was a mystery,
Accomplished by the Highest. She was sure
That he was the Messiah—promised long,
And wailed for by Israel. She believed
That he should “save his people from their sins,”
And sit upon his father David's throne,
A glorious king for ever. She had watched
The early dawning of his intellect,
And knew that all within his perfect form
Was holiness and beauty. She had marked
The truth and wisdom of the earliest words
That trembled on his lips. She had observed

The earnest spirit of benevolence
That shone in all his actions. She had kept
Within the treasury of her mother-heart
The records of his life, from that blest day
In which, as she was breathing unto God
The aspirations of her pure young heart,
For her afflicted people, as she knelt
Within her chamber, where the gathered flowers
Poured out their sweet perfume, an incense meet
To mingle with a pure young maiden's prayer;—
O are they not alike—the holy flowers
With breath of fragrance, and the gentle girl
With voice of earnest prayer? Oh beautiful,
And innocent of heart, was Mary then.
The angel of the human sympathies,
As yet, had never troubled the clear pool
Of her affections, where the holy heavens
Lay mirrored gloriously. She was all pure,
Trustful, and truthful. Never yet on earth
Was aught so beautiful as that fair child,
As with clasped hands, and head bowed meekly down,
She prayed for fallen Israel, and implored
Jehovah to fulfil his prophet's words,
And send the promised Saviour. Then there came
A voice of softest music, and the words,
“Hail! highly favoured!” thrilled her startled soul.

How throbbed the heart in her young bosom then,
With awe, and fear, and joyful gratitude!

And when she saw her son, at twelve years old,
Within the temple at Jerusalem,
Amongst th' assembled Doctors of the Law,

Not only understanding all their words,
But asking questions, with such depth of thought
As made them marvel—'twas a glorious sight
For that exulting mother, her young boy
Seated amongst those rev'rend white-haired men,
The nation's best and wisest; his fair brow
Raised with attention; his expressive eyes
Beaming and flashing with the spirit's light;
While his smooth cheek was eloquently flushed
With the heart's throbbings, and the radiant curls,
Thrown back from brow and temple, seemed a wreath
Of heavenly glory, brighter than the gold
That sheathed so sumptuously the sacred walls,
And formed with its exquisite ornaments
A background to the picture. Mary gazed
Upon that beautiful and august scene,
And her prophetic heart saw plainly there
The Immanuel of the better covenant,
Amongst the august representatives
Of the old law, of cold but gorgeous forms.
O, vividly appeared before her then,
In those old men, so gloriously arrayed,
So wise, so proud, and yet so near the grave,—
The Jewish church, just verging to its fall;—
While from its princely stock, a verdant branch,
The purer kingdom of that holy child
Should grow with fruits of peace and blessedness,
Fill all the earth, and blossom up to heaven,
And so endure through time and without end.

And she had gazed upon him, when his form
Had ripened into manhood; when he seemed

A being all too pure, too beautiful,
Too wise, too good, to dwell upon the earth.
She saw him when he sat upon the mount,
Surrounded by a mighty multitude,
Who gazed and listened with astonishment,
While from his lips, in glowing melody
Of perfect eloquence, flowed precepts pure
And beautiful as incense, wreathing up
From golden censer, in the holiest place.
Precepts of piety—of humble trust
And perfect faith in God—of tenderness,
Benevolence, and mercy—purity
Of heart, and word, and life. Of charity
And free forgiveness of all enemies.
Of love for bitter hatred, and good deeds
For all malicious evil. Earnest prayer
For those unhappy ones, whose souls were vexed
With gnawing envy, and the torturing rage
Of persecuting passions.—When he taught
That earnest, lofty, comprehensive prayer,
Gift of his love to man, which ever since
Has been a daily sacrifice to God,
From those who follow Jesus. Which to-day
Has risen up from myriad earnest hearts,
A cloud of incense, shadowing the world
With fragrant blessing. Certainly that prayer,
Breathed by humility, and winged with faith,
Must reach the throne of heaven. For God will hear
The prayer himself dictated, from the lips
Of his incarnate Word, with the command,
“When ye pray, say, Our Father.”
She had seen
His matchless form, surrounded by a sea

Of heaving bosoms, while with word of power
And touch omnipotent, he loosed the bonds
Of fierce diseases, of demoniac ire,
And dull infirmity; so that the sick
Sprang from their beds rejoicing, the possessed
Felt the return of sanctity and peace,
And looked up with delighted hope to heaven.
The lame stood up, and leaped, and walked, and ran,
With wonder and delight. The deaf stood mute
With rapture, while their grateful souls drank in
The harmony of sound, and tasted first
That sweetest melody, the human voice,
As loved ones spake unto them joyously,
And thanked the giver of such priceless gift.
The dumb poured out their gratitude in words
Of eloquent thanksgiving; and the blind—
How reeled their spirits, as they looked on earth,
With all its forms and hues of loveliness,
And majesty, and terror, in the light
Of the sublime blue ocean of wide space,
With its intensely glorious mariners.
But 'midst those scenes of rapture, while the healed
Knelt down and worshipped, or with selfish joy
Hurried away exulting, while glad friends
Clasped their restored with smiles, and tears, and shouts,
And grateful adoration, she had seen
The pale cold shrouded dead awake to life,
And cling with warm affection to the breast
Which swelled beneath the pressure, with a flood
Of almost insupportable delight.
Amid these scenes of triumph, still her eyes
Dwelt with a mother's earnest love and pride
Upon that beaming face, now eloquent

With such compassion as he needs must feel
Who knows the frailty, suffering, and wo,
Of weak humanity; now lighted up
With a serene authority; now raised
With pleading look to heaven; now terrible
With stern command; now fearful with reproof;
Now bright with approbation;—beautiful,
In all beyond description, or the power
Of pencil to delineate. Then she thought:
O nobly wilt thou fill King David's throne,
And sway the sceptre o'er a happy land,
Freed by thy wisdom, by thy power sustained,
And so established that it shall endure
For ever.—It was thus the angel said,
“Of his dominion there shall be no end.”

But now,—O now, he hung upon the cross,
Between two thieves; as if malicious hate
Would drug the cup of death with every pang
That man can suffer. Ah! those blessed feet,
To which the toilsome steeps of Judah's hills
Were all familiar ways, as patiently
He went from place to place, with precious gifts
For an ungrateful world; those beauteous feet,
Look how they quiver with the agony
That wrings the nerves, from where the rugged nails
Are rusting in their wounds. Those perfect hands,
So rich, so liberal of their priceless wealth;
Which never once withheld the precious boon
From suppliant creature; which were never raised
Except to scatter blessings; they are pierced,
And bear upon the rough transfixing nails
The languid body's weight.

Are all his deeds
Of mercy, all his precepts good, and wise,
And loyal, quite forgotten? Does no voice
In that vast concourse speak of his good deeds,
His blameless life, his perfect innocence?
Ah yes. The rulers hiss amongst the mob
In mocking tones of gratified revenge,—
“He saved others, but himself—himself
He cannot save.” And then they cried to him:
“If thou indeed art Christ, the Son of God,
The King of Israel, come down the cross,
And then we will believe.” He heeded not,—
His eyes were heavenward, and his trembling lips
Were full of blessings still.
Oh arrogant
And blind presumptuous man! If he who then
Could send one prayer to heaven, which should bring down
Ten legions of strong angels, prompt to act
At his command, possessing will and power
To execute whate'er he should require,—
If he, amidst those fearful agonies,
Had felt one throb of self within his heart,—
That heart, which shrined within its holy depths
The ruined myriads of the human race,
With love so strong, so warm, so wonderful,
That angels, with the highest seraphim
That burn with ardent worship, still bow down
Their radiant heads in wonder, and adore
Love, even to them incomprehensible,
Which held Immanuel on the cross that day—
Ay, taunters! if he had indeed come down,

And dashed that cup of torture from his lips,
Its bitterness had overwhelmed the world
With everlasting death and misery;
And ye would have believed, with such belief
As makes the devils tremble! He had power
To save himself—but 'twas his will of love
To save his torturers.
“Father!” he cried, “forgive them;
For they know not what they do.”
And one poor wretch, who languished at his side,
Said with derision, in the anguished tone
That struggled hoarsely from his guilty breast:
“If thou be Christ, save thyself and us.”
But there came no reply from that meek heart,
And his poor fellow-sufferer turned his face,
Ghastly with misery, and rebuked the wretch
For such unseasonable levity.
And then, with humble penitence and faith,
He said to Jesus, “Lord, remember me
When thou shalt reign in glory.” Unto him
There came an answer, O so full of love,
So overflowing with sustaining hope,—
“Thou shalt be with me, certainly, to-day
In Paradise.”
'Twas noontide, and the crowd
Grew faint beneath the fierce meridian sun,
Which aggravated to intensity
The thirst and fever of the crucified.
But lo! there comes a darkness o'er the earth,
As if the shade of the death-angel's wing
Lay heavily upon it. 'Tis high noon,
And yet the sun is hidden, and the chill
And blackness of deep midnight veils the world.

Cold horror filled all hearts, and silent fear
Lay on all spirits, like a shroud of ice,
And they crouched down, expectant, and afraid
Of some impending terror. Can it be
That nature is expiring with the life
Of him who said—I am the Son of God?
Lo! on that sullen stillness, came a voice
Of most intense and bitter agony,
As if a miserable universe
Were gathered in one heart, and its despair
Expressed by that one voice, which cried aloud:
Eloi! Eloi! Lama! Sabacthani!
A murmur of derision, like the hiss
Of fiendish serpents, answer'd from the gloom,
And all was still again. So still, so dark,
It seem'd that Nature held her breath, and hid
Her eyes from sight so dread. Three fearful hours
This heavy darkness lasted, and despair
Was gathering round all hearts her frigid pall,
When from the Sufferer on the cross there came
A voice so deep, so thrilling, that it seem'd
To startle earth and heaven, as piercingly
He utter'd: “It is finished!” and bow'd down
His mighty head in death.
One short quick breath
It seem'd that Nature drew, and then gave forth
A groan of mortal anguish. This strong earth,
Rock-built, and iron-sinew'd, groaned and shook
With horrible convulsion. Fearful chasms
Were open'd in her bosom. Mountain rocks
Rent from their bases, with the stunning shock
Of quick explosion, adding to the crash
Loud detonations. Palaces and towers

Shook like the summer blossoms in a storm;
The glorious temple of the Holy One—
That august pile of marble and pure gold—
Reeled from its deep foundations, and the veil
That closed the entrance of the holiest place
Was rent from top to bottom, as if God
Design'd no longer to conceal himself
In gorgeous myst'ry of imposing forms
And human workmanship. One piercing scream
From man, and beast, and bird, went quivering up,
Prolonging Nature's groan of agony,
And then dumb silence wrapp'd the world again.
The bold centurion of the Roman guard,
Who watch'd the sufferers on the cross that day,
Gave his confession to the listening world,
And thus proclaim'd his faith: Most certainly,
This was the Son of God.

O Mary, of the warm and tender heart!
How seem'd thy very soul to melt in tears,
As o'er this scene of sorrow, and the wreck
Of an astonished world, the sun look'd out,
And show'd that glorious form droop'd heavily,
The bright eyes dim, the perfect features fix'd
And seal'd with Death's cold signet. But her love
Is undiminished. He was innocent;
He spake the words, and work'd the works of God;
Heaven has attested it, and earth has borne
Audible evidence that he was true
And worthy of heart-worship. That cold form
Should be embalm'd with cost and pious care,
And honourably buried. And his name
Should live for ever. While the soul endures,

His deeds should be remember'd,—and his words
Are graven on the altar-piece of Truth,
And shall not be forgotten while the sun
And earth remain, or while intelligence
Is bodied in quick matter. Shame nor death
Could conquer in that trusting woman's heart
The strong devotion of adoring love,
Which dwelt with Memory on the blessed past,
And walk'd with Hope a bright futurity
Of blessed and eternal intercourse
And holy worship in the spirit-land,
Where sin and death come not.
Can tongue express
The mother's sufferings in those fearful hours
Of darkness, death, and horror? Now indeed
The sword pass'd through her soul. Where was her faith,
Her hope for erring Israel? They had thrown
Their Saviour from them. They had crucified
Their King, who would have saved them from their sins
And from oppression. They had cast away
Healing and honour, freedom, and the meed
Of an eternal kingdom. Now their fate
Was seal'd. They had rejected and despised
The King, whose coming they had look'd for long,
And now they were undone. With broken heart
She bow'd her head. She knew that God is wise
And merciful, but Israel was undone;—
Her Son is crucified—she hopes no more.

But Magdalen, her strong and trusting soul
Clings to its cherish'd hopes. She knew, she knew
That He was the Immanuel, who should live

And reign for ever. Heaven, in blackness veil'd,
Earth, groaning and convulsed, bear evidence
Of His divinity. She feels assured
That this is not the sequel, and looks up
To greet a glorious future.
Magdalen!
Strong was thy faith and great was its reward!
When drawn by faith and love at early morn
Into the garden of the sepulchre,
First of the sisterhood who came with myrrh
And all embalming spices to preserve
That form so dearly loved—the risen Lord,
In all the glory of immortal life,
But half reveal'd in morning's misty light,
Stood near thee, and inquired: “Why weepest thou?
Whom seekest thou?” Then, to thine earnest plea:
“If thou hast borne him hence, O tell me where
He lies, and I will take him now away;”
He merely answer'd: “Mary!” in that tone
So well remembered, and so dearly loved.
O what a thrill of deep ecstatic joy
Pervaded all thy being, and burst forth
In that one word, Rabboni! Then thy soul
Was fill'd with blissful triumphs. Christ, the Lord,
Had conquer'd all—even the cold still powers
Of shadowy Hades and the sepulchre.
Thou seest thy Lord triumphant, and thy soul
Drinks in the mystery of Almighty love,
The incarnation of th' eternal Word,
Why he was born, why he had lived, and died.
The book of prophecy is open now,
It is thy Lord of whom Isaiah sang:
“He was despised, rejected, intimate

With grief and sorrow. We hid as 'twere
Our faces from him. Surely he hath borne
Our bitter grief, and carried in his heart
Our heaviest sorrows; yet we blindly deem'd
That God had smitten and afflicted him.
For our transgressions he was wounded thus;
These bruises are for our iniquities;
On him was the chastisement of our peace;
And by his cruel stripes our wounds are healed.”
Yes, Mary, thou wert healed, thy soul was well,
And full of joy and glory. Magdalen!
Thy name became thee well. Magnificent
Thou wast in mind and person, and thy fame
Shall live throughout all ages. Ay, as long
As ransom'd souls adore th' Incarnate God.
Woman! There is a lesson for thee here;
Come now and let us scan it narrowly.
Our hearts are form'd for reverence, for love,
For hope, and strong confiding; and in these
We find our bliss, our honour, and our fame.
Our beauty perishes, our brightest gifts
Of genius but endure a little while;
At best, no longer than the hearts we love
May cherish our remembrance. Wisdom's lore
And all the wealth of learning is to us
A glittering and uneasy coronet,
Which keeps our temples from their longed-for rest,
And tempts the shaft of envy, and the pangs
Of venomous detraction; and too oft
Infects the heart with pride—a dire disease,
Which mildews all its beauty, all its worth,
And ends in shame and ruin. If our soul
Be strong and stern, to battle and endure,

And we attain the height, and write our name
On Fame's bright altar, lo! the wither'd flowers
Of feminine affection, and the buds
Of tenderness and beauty, that were crush'd
By our ambition, droop their mournful heads,
And half conceal the record of our name
And high achievements. Love, and love alone,
The humble, fervent love, which of itself
Is purity, and faith, and truth, and hope,
And strong endurance—this is woman's worth,
Her happiness, her fame, in earth and heaven.
It was not gold, or beauty, or the gems
Of intellectual riches, or the lore
Of treasured learning, or the magic might
Of mystic science—it was none of these,
And Mary Magdalen possess'd them all,
Which won her favour, happiness, or fame.
'Twas warm devoted love, and ardent faith,
Which filled her being full of happiness,
Which won for her the favour of the Lord,
Which brought her earliest to the sepulchre,
And made her with her sisters, living gems
On the black waste of man's depravity.
Which made their name a beautiful relief
Upon the record of the direst deed
That sin has goaded man to perpetrate.
That through all ages, while the faltering tongue
Of man or angel shall recount, or read,
The story of the fearful sacrifice
That made atonement for a world of sin,
Their name shall mingle in the mournful strain
Its tone of sweetly soothing melody.
Yes, woman's love is the alone bright spot

In all that horrid story. Woman's love—
The soul of her religion—the deep life
Of faith and hope within her;—this it was,
With its sustaining strength and holy zeal,
Which bound these blessed Mary's to their Lord;
Which made them follow him from place to place,
Like angels, ministering to all his wants;
Which kept them agonizing at his cross,
And led them early to the sepulchre;
Which gave them first to greet a risen God,
And taste the purest, most exalted joy,
That ever trembled through the human heart;
And wrote their name upon a glorious page,
To live as long as God himself endures.

THE LORD'S PRAYER.

Our Father, God who art in Heaven,
Hallowed be thy name;
Thy kingdom come; thy will be done,
In heaven and earth the same.

Give us this day our daily bread;
And oh! forgive our sins,
As every one who injures us
A ready pardon wins.

Oh! do not lead us in the paths
In which temptations lie;
And when beset with evil, still
Be thy deliv'rance nigh.

Thine is the kingdom; heaven and earth
With all their hosts are thine;
Who should oppose thy sovereign sway,
Or at thy deeds repine?

Thine is the power, and we rejoice,
All goodness as thou art,
That thou hast power in earth, and heaven,
And o'er the treacherous heart.

Thine is the glory! Worlds on worlds
Through all the depth of space,
With their uncounted forms of life
Are vocal in thy praise.

Thine is the glory! angels sing
In high and rapturous strain,
Thine is the glory! we reply,
For ever more.—Amen.

VOICE OF THE LORD.

“The voice of the Lord shaketh the wilderness.”
Psalm xxix. 8.

God speaketh in the wilderness. His voice
Is ever audible in the lone bowers
Of this old giant forest. Even now
I hear it, with a low and solemn tone
Of breezy melody, moving the boughs
And lifting up the foliage, which appears
Like myriad wings, all fluttering with delight
That God should talk with them.
The summer flowers
That grow beneath upon the mossy banks,
Incline their heads and worship; while the birds,
Waked by the holy breathing, dress their plumes,
And lifting up their shining heads, reply
In strains of perfect rapture.
Oh! how sweet
That balmy voice, that living breath of life,
As soft it bathes the aching upraised brow,
And whispers peace. The anguished soul is soothed,
Earth, sense, and sin, and sorrow are forgot,
As that pure breathing stirs the spirit's lyre
To holy converse with Divinity.

God speaketh in the wilderness at eve,

What time the moon looks down with radiant brow,
And every leaf that catches her sweet smile
Grows brilliant with delight. While dell and bower
Beneath are wrapped in shadow, and the brook
Steals silently along, save where it meets
Her bright eye peeping through the emerald screen;
When, dimpling with delight, it gives her back
Her radiant smile, and with a silvery tone
Of joyous greeting, dances gaily on.
Hark! a majestic sound fills earth and heaven;
All Nature listens with deep reverence,
Silent and motionless. The Lord has made
Of the dark waters and thick clouds of heaven
His glorious pavilion. Beautiful
The silvery summits tower, in glittering piles
From the green bosom of the clustering wood.
Oh! what a gush of light,—as if the Lord
Waved his bright hand and bade the earth attend:
Then bursts again that awe-inspiring voice,
Shouting, I am! and there is none beside.
All nature hears and trembles; every voice
Is silent now, and every heart is faint,
While God rides forth upon the cherubim,
Winged with the winds, along the sounding sky.
The white moon veils her face, and the bright stars
Hide from his presence. Earth wraps o'er her breast
Her darkest mantle, and with trembling awe
Awaits his rushing chariot.
Lo, he comes!
His voice in the loud thunder and wild winds
Shaking the wilderness. The tall trees bow
In graceful adoration. Hark! That crash!
His finger touched a tall pine on the hill,

And it was broken. The firm wood is riven,
And thrown in splints like arrows through the shade.
The birds cower closer in their leafy screens;
The wild deer bound in terror from the spot,
And crouch down in the thicket.
Earth, and air,
And winds, and waters,—all are echoing now
The august voice of the eternal God:—
Let finite man be silent.

GOD IS HERE.

Where the spring-flower peeps,
With dew diadem crown'd,
And the little rill creeps,
With its silvery sound;
Where the young grass appears,
And the white lambs play,
And the child of few years
Delights to stray;
Where song-birds are fluttering,
With notes sweet and clear,
Soft voices seem uttering,
God is here!

When the storm-spirit springs
From the dark northern caves,
And spreads his wild wings
O'er the land and the waves;

When the forests bow down
As he passes by;
When, afraid of his frown,
The billows fly;
When thunders are uttering
Their voices of fear,
Deep echoes seem muttering,
God is here!

Where the rough mountain glows
In the summer sun sheen,
Or the clear river flows
Through its valley of green;
Where the healthful breeze
Waves the pliant grain,
Or sports with the trees
Along the plain;
Where cattle are lowing,
And flocks sporting near,
Each soft sound is echoing,
God is here!

Where the hurricane raves
Round the rock's shatter'd crest,
And the pine foliage waves
Round the strong eagle's nest;
Where, with joyous leap
And stunning sound,
Down the fearful steep
Wild waters bound;
Dread spirits supernal,
With voices of fear,
Are shouting eternally,
God is here!

The young beautiful heart,
In its innocent mirth,
Ere it learneth the art
Or the sorrow of earth;
When light from above
Bathes the buds of hope,
And the blooms of love
Untarnished ope;
Sees earth all loveliness,
All hearts sincere,
And cries in its blessedness,
God is here!

To the soul that has known
Every sorrow and ill,
That is joyless and lone,
Stricken, blighted, and chill;
That sees joy a shade,
And all earth's flowers
Frail things that will fade
In stormy hours;
Sweetly the voice of grace
Sounds in that ear,
Come to the hiding-place,
God is here!

The spirit that feels
All its errors forgiven,
To which Jesus reveals
The pure glories of heaven;
Though it feels the warm glow
Of life depart,
And the blood creep slow
Through the bursting heart;

Even in that agony,
Knoweth no fear,
But crieth exultingly,
God is here!

RUTH.

“Thy God shall be my God!” Strong was the faith
Of that young Moabitess, who forsook
Her native country and her father's house
For Israel's God. There is no spot on earth
Where sunshine is so bright, the dew so pure,
The grass so green, the summer flowers so sweet,
The birds so blithe, as in our native land.
Beside our father's hearthstone gushes up
The only spring of human tenderness
In which the heart can bathe without a fear
Of falsehood, treachery, or forgetfulness.
But Ruth had heard of God. She could not stay
Where men bow down to demons; so she broke
All her heart's idols, and went trembling forth,
Poor, and a widow, to a stranger land,
To seek the living God. No dream of love,
Of wealth, or fame, allured her. Meek of heart
Was that fair gentle creature, who went forth
To be a gleaner in the field of him
With whom she should find grace. Well didst thou prove,
Thou young devoted proselyte to God,

That he is a rewarder of all those
That diligently seek him.
Couldst thou then,
While gleaning barley o'er the stubble-field,
Have look'd beyond the impenetrable mist
That hides the vista of futurity
From our presumptuous vision, thou hadst seen
Love, wealth, and princely honours waiting thee;
And thy descendants, an illustrious line
Of kings and princes, reaching down to Him,
Of whose dominion there shall be no end,
And thy name written for posterity,
And honoured to the latest hour of time.

TO A LOCK OF HAIR.

Oh, bright brown curl!
Twining in silken rings, so soft and bright,
Thou bringst fond memories of a gentle girl,
Like passing spirits in a summer night.

Oh, she was fair,
My beautiful companion, all day long;
I loved her hazel eye, her shining hair,
And lips that breathed the incense of sweet song.

Ay, now I see
The summer flush upon her cheeks of pearls,
As resting 'neath the old familiar tree,
She threw aside the rich dishevelled curls.

And then the breeze,
That kisses all the beautiful of earth,
Forgot its converse with the whispering trees,
And touched the living rings with tender mirth.

Full many a scene
Of childish happiness is present now,
The blossom'd orchard and the hillside green,
Where sweet wild jessamine bound the laurel bough.

The limpid brook,
In which we laved our little feet so oft,
While o'er our heads the willow branches shook,
'Neath feather'd bills, with love-notes wild and soft.

The chamber neat,
Where my red cheek press'd hers so pure and fair,
And while her breathing made my slumber sweet,
Those dark curls mingled with my sunny hair.

Oh, precious curl!
Cherished memento of the blessed past,
How far from those dear scenes, and that fair girl,
Sever'd and rest alike our lot is cast!

Oh, never more
On her fair temple shalt thou rest again;
Alas! the weary years, in passing o'er,
Have bow'd that graceful head with care and pain.

Thou wouldst not be
At home, amid the thin and white-streak'd hair,
Which now is comb'd so smooth and carefully,
And bound beneath such cap as widows wear.

Nor should I find
My home amid those scenes to memory dear,
For time, and change, and death, have all combined
To render all those places cold and drear.

How desolate
Would be the weary lot of such as me,
Far from a blessed home, and doom'd by fate
To wrestle with a bitter destiny;

But for the faith
That points us to a home beyond the tomb,
Where mildews never canker love's bright wreath,
And youth and purity for ever bloom.

A holy home,
Where those who sought the footprints of the Lord,
Along the paths of pain, and care, and gloom,
Shall find the rest of heaven a rich reward.

MUSINGS.

This morning, oh! how glorious was the scene
In this old wintry forest. Every tree
All sheathed in lucid ice, and feathered o'er
With the inimitably fibred frost.
Along the swelling hills the forest lay,
Like groups of glittering angels that await
The bidding of Jehovah, silent all,
And still, save as the morning wind came by
And touched the branches, giving to the groups
A lifelike motion, as of waving wings.

The sun arose, and then the orient clouds
Grew crimson with his glory, and their hue
Touched first the summits of the plumy hills,
With delicate beauty, melting slowly down
Into the valleys, while a crown of gold
Fell on the summits, like a wreathen work
Of most amazing splendour. Every height
Was then a monarch, with its diadem,
And robe of kingly purple.
Then a shower
Of glory, like innumerable gems,
Descended suddenly, and every spray
All robed with jewels, ruby, diamond,
Beryl, and amethyst, and hyacinth,

Braided with golden chains, and strings of pearl,
Seemed worth an empire.
But the sun grew high,
The frost-work melted, the bright hues were gone,
Yet still the glory stayed. One might have deemed
That the innumerable stars of heaven
Had wearied of the fields of azure light,
And congregated in the wilderness,
To crown the old gray trees with majesty,
That well might lure the angel messengers
Who trace the bright paths of the zodiac
To turn aside, and linger o'er a scene
So like a universe in miniature,
A glorious illusion.
But the rays
That gave those ice-gems all their brilliancy
Dissolved them into tears, and long e'er noon
The panorama wept itself away;
And the old forest from its tresses gray
Shook the last big cold drops.
Such unto me
Has been the dream of life. At early morn
The world was full of angels, and arrayed
In lustre pure as heaven. Where'er I turned,
The glittering groups were waiting, with closed wings,
As if they had no wish to leave a world
So well adapted to their purity.
But reason dawned; and fancy caught her light
And threw it on the landscape; then appeared
The glittering pageantry of fairy land,
In all its changing beauty: forms of heaven
Arrayed in all the glorious hues of earth,
Crowned and adorned with gems, moving in light,

'Mid bowers and arches, wreathed and studded o'er
With flowers and foliage of bright gold and gems.

The fairy pageant passed; but high romance
Retained the dazzling splendours, and displayed
All heaven's rich hosts, wreathed into coronets,
And plumes, and sceptres, for the hand and brow
Of Genius; which despises all earth's gifts,
And claims its meed from heaven. Oh! high, and bright,
And full of glory, were life's visions then.
Her friendships, loves, and joys seemed all so pure,
That I believed the angels might mistake
This world for their own bright and holy home.

But reason's sun grew high; and long e'er noon
The glories faded, and the radiant gems
Were melted by their own intensity,
And all dissolved to tears.
Now, life to me
Is like this naked wintry wilderness,
Joyless, and cold, and traversed by wild winds,
Which waken strange and dreamy melodies,
And sigh themselves away.

AWAKE! THOU THAT SLEEPEST.

Sleeper, awake! Beneath thy pillow
Lie serpents coiled, with deadly fangs,
While o'er the deep and sullen billow,
On the cliff's edge, thy bower hangs.

Sleeper, awake! The blossoms round thee
Breathe venom with their rich perfume,
And poisoned thorns to pierce and wound thee,
Beset the stalk of every bloom.

A deathful darkness gathers o'er thee,
Life-chilling dews around thee weep,
Voices from earth and heaven implore thee,
To rouse thee from this fatal sleep.

Sleeper! The hurricane is coming;
The serpents' fangs are near thy brow;
The giant waves come swelling, foaming;
Death waits! Oh, sleeper! waken now.

TO THE “WEEKLY MESSENGER.”

On receiving the first number (1836).

Welcome to the weary breast,
Messenger of Peace,
Bidding care's wild billows rest,
And worldly sorrows cease—
Bidding bleeding hearts like mine,
Seek the balsam from above;
Bearing from the Fount Divine,
Messenger of Love.

This poor heart has fondly clung
To many an earthly joy,
Then with bitter anguish wrung,
Mourned o'er the broken toy.
I have watch'd the budding flower,
And fondly hoped to see it blow,
But the storm, the frost, or shower,
Has ever laid it low.

I have lent a willing car
To Hope's delusive strain:
And shed full many a bitter tear,
To find her promise vain.

I have sought perennial flow'rs
Along life's painful thorny way;
And mourned beneath the rifled bow'rs
To see them fall away.

I have learn'd what restless things
Earth's joys and treasures are;
Seen them spread their phantom wings,
And vanish into air.
All the love and joys of earth
Are like the bubbles on the stream;
All its honour, fame, and mirth,
The meteor's flitting gleam.

Welcome! then, fair Messenger,
Of more substantial bliss;
Pointing to a holier
And happier world than this;
Speak thy Message near and far,
That Christ will give the weary rest;
Show the beams of Bethlehem's Star,
To the benighted breast.

THE SPIRIT OF POESY.

A seraph of the highest heaven,
Who dared to touch forbidden fire,
An exile from her home was driven,
Bereft of all, except her lyre.

Amongst the spheres she wander'd long,
And sought to join the hymns they pour,
But wept to find her lyre unstrung,
And chording with such strains no more.

Yet dearly cherish'd was that lyre,
For though its loftiest chords were riven,
And strangely bright its fitful fire,
'Twas all she now retain'd of heaven.

Thus all through space the lost one roved,
With half seraphic changeful strain,
And eyes raised tow'rd that home of love,
To which she might not turn again.

Her bitter tears fell on the strings,
And quench'd in part their fervent fire;
Then sweetly plaintive murmurings
Came trembling from the angel lyre.

Weary and sad she came to earth,
And pleased the seraph was to find,
Amongst the souls of lower birth,
Some traces of the seraph mind;

Some spirits wrapp'd in mortal clay,
That seem'd close kindred to her lyre,
Who madden'd at her fitful lay,
And kindled with her ardent fire.

O'er these she spread her flashing wings,
And catching the ecstatic flame,
Wild, ardent, inconsistent things,
Her restless votaries they became.

Enchain'd to earth by pow'rful ties,
Round its frail loves they fondly twined,
And wailed that holy sympathy
Dwells not in man's imperfect mind.

Unfit for heaven, unfit for earth,
The wand'ring spirit's tuneful train
Have ever scorned their mortal birth,
And sought immortal bliss in vain.

Wo! that this spirit ever came
To spread her mania o'er our mind;
That her impassion'd, fitful flame
Should e'er have touch'd the human kind.

That we, who are enchain'd to earth,
Should hope to clasp celestial love,
And madly ask of mortal birth
The bliss that only lives above.

Should feel our kindred with the fire
That thrills the pure seraphic train,
And hope to tune an earth-strung lyre
In chorus with that perfect strain.

Then disappointed, sad, and lone,
Heart-wrung, and weeping o'er the strings,
Pour forth in broken, sobbing tone,
Our deep, despairing murmurings.

Wo! that the seraph exile came
With flashing wing and madd'ning glance;—
Ah, wo! that Poesy's meteor flame
Should wrap a mortal in its trance.

CHILD OF SORROW.

Child of sorrow!—Child of sorrow,—
Murmur not beneath the rod,
There may be a joyful morrow
Treasured up for thee with God.

When thy night of pain is darkest,
When thy path is cold and drear,
Trust in God—He surely marketh
Every pang and every tear.

If thy spirit bow before Him,
With a heartfelt, humble prayer,
If thy fervent faith adore Him,
He will banish thy despair.

He will teach thee resignation,
He will give thee heartfelt peace,
Blessed hope, and consolation,
Riches and immortal bliss.

THE SPIRIT OF BEAUTY.

The spirit of beauty is all abroad,
Earth feels her influence bright,
And heaven is filled with a radiant flood
Of melody, love, and light.

She lives in the eye of the simplest flower
That lifts its white hands to heaven,
She hallows the mountain eagle's bower
In the old pine, lightning riven.

She smiles in the sleepy eye of morn,
In the noonday flood of light;
And the cluster'd diamonds, meekly worn,
By the still and holy night.

She is felt in the breeze that awakes the day,
With garlands of dewy flowers,
She is heard in the zephyrs that love to play
In the fragrant twilight bowers.

The spirit of beauty is every where—
In the ocean-anthem's swell,
In the song of the brooklet, cool and clear,
That lives in the shadow'd dell.

She tinges the feathery clouds that swim
On the sunset ethereal sea,
Like plumes from the wings of the cherubim,
That flit through immensity.

She sitteth sublime on the thunder's throne,
While Nature bends down in awe;
Her music is blent with the august tone
Of the elements' glorious war.

She lies in her splendour divinely bright
In the rainbow's jewell'd form,
Like the crown of the Glorious, shadow'd in light,
On the wing of the passing storm.

The spirit of beauty is all abroad,
And her wings are bathed in love,
And life's wild harp, by her breathing stirr'd,
Pours forth a hymn to her glorious Lord,
The Immortal, in beauty above.

QUEEN MARY'S MUSINGS.

When will the morning dawn? And yet to me
What can avail the dawning? Desolate,
Deserted, and bereft of every stay;
Victim of falsehood, treachery, and fraud,
With many a bitter pain and bitterer wo,
I pass my weary hours.
Year after year
Creeps by these cold stone walls, and brings no change,
Except a deeper curtain of dark green
Around the mossy arch and ivied tower.

For me there is no hope. When in the spring
Jehovah writes on every hill and plain,
In colours bright and balmy, fresh from heaven,
His promises of plenty, wealth, and joy,
Which glad the very lowliest heart that reads,
With gratitude and hope—ay, even the slave
Hath hope, and liberty to walk abroad,
And feel the beauty and the balm of spring;
But I—who, by the right men call divine,
Am mistress of a kingdom—I, whose heart
Should feel the glow of a whole nation's hopes,
And garner up its joys—I, who should be
Free as the wind on my own mountain-tops,
And every where at home in freemen's hearts,
Am lingering here, an outcast from my own;

A captive in the toils of treachery;
Deserted by the people whom I love,
Betray'd by those on whom I lean'd for aid;
Heart-wrung, insulted, tortured, with all wrongs
That treachery marshals on her catalogue
When she would break the heart.
Tears! burning tears!
Well—let them flow,—there are none here to mock
The agony of fallen majesty.
Oh, there is balm in tears. How sweet they gush
From out the fountain of the swollen heart,
Relieving it, and dropping like soft rain
Upon the weary spirit, as it lies
Crush'd down and wounded, like a trampled flower,
Which ne'er shall raise its jewell'd head again,
Or shake the dust from off its velvet robes,
On which the careless passer sets his foot,
While he adores a far inferior bloom,
Which sits in pride on her imperial stem,
And scorns her injured sister.
Oh, that sleep
Would lay her hand upon my weary eyes,
And shut this dark world out, that I might dwell
A little while with loving memories,
Unhaunted by the never-ceasing knell
Of death, and pain, and sorrow!
Give me back
The vine-encumber'd hills of sunny France,
Where simple gatherers of the purple grapes
Made labour pleasant with their joyful songs
Of liberty and love. Oh give me back
The royal halls, where sweeping tapestries
Of purple velvets and rich azure silks

Outvied the splendour of the Fleur de lis,
Beneath the shade of which my girlhood pass'd,
So like a dream of Eden, with its wreaths
Of voiced and living flowers, that drink the dews
And wear the radiance of celestial love.
Then, hundreds of brave hearts throbb'd quick and high
For Mary—Dauphiness of royal France,
Queen of fair Scotland, and apparent heir
To England's diadem;—a hundred swords
Leapt flashing from their scabbards at the name
Of Scotland's Mary,—and high chivalry
Sought for no richer altar under heaven,
On which to pour his blood, than Mary's cause.
Fairest of all the fair, was Mary then,
Empress of every elegance and grace
That gems a lady's chaplet. Then my breast
Lock'd in its treasury the noble heart
Of my young kingly Francis.
Let me feel
Once more the throbbings of that truthful heart
Amongst my life-strings, thrilling them to bliss,—
The perfect bliss of young and holy love,
That lies upon the spirit as the dew
Of heaven lies trembling on the fragrant heart
Of summer's velvet rose, which locks it in,
Folding around it all her loveliness,
Her softness, and her glory.
Give me back
The bliss of one glad morning, when all France
Pour'd one united pæan; when her hills,
And vales, and streams, and cities, all were glad,
And crown'd with bridal garlands; when the souls
Of all the people were alive with joy;

When even sorrow put aside her veil,
And watch'd the general gladness with a smile;
The myriad-hearted city felt one tide
Of rapture, moving every sentient pulse;
But her proud heart—the palace of her kings—
Was all alive with joy. In one young breast
Lived deep and still the spring of all the bliss
That flooded this broad land. I was a bride—
The love that was my life was crown'd and blest;
I was a royal bride—and earth had nought
That I had cause to covet. All was heaven,
Around, above, within me. Was there one
Who would have augur'd from that glorious morn
A day of mourning, blackness, and despair,
Captivity and shame?
Ah! now they come—
The dark and adverse days,—a mournful train,
Hurrying along to strange discordant sounds,
Woven with death-knells, groans, and taunting words,
Into a horrid march. My spirit shrinks
From these appalling spectres as they pass.
Oh! here are agonies that well might wring
The warrior's heart of iron, till red blood
Gush'd from the bursting portal.
Every ill
That woman's heart has known since time began,
Has fallen upon mine. The loneliness
Of infant orphanage, when the young eye
Turns tearful from the cold unloving gaze
Of guardian and domestic; while the soul
Is yearning for that dew of blessedness—
A mother's soothing love. Young widowhood,
With its wild, sobbing grief, and long, lone nights,

And dark and cheerless mornings. Truthfully
I wept my young heart's lord, upon whose tomb
Lay reft and broken my fair coronet
Of royal lilies. I had lost my love,
My royal husband, and the crown of France.
Oh doubly, trebly, was my soul bereaved!
Oh, Francis! if thy Mary could have died,
And fill'd one grave with thee. That first keen grief!
Oh, it was but a drop, one little drop,
Compared with the wide ocean, to the wo
That I have since endured. Wave after wave
Has dash'd upon my spirit; I have drain'd
That keenest of all cups—ingratitude,
Embittered by the heaviest injuries—
Hatred, and wrong, and scorn, and vile abuse
From those I loved and trusted. I have been
The poor neglected wife, who weeps by night,
While memory repeats fond words of love,
Sweet promises, and softly-whisper'd hopes,
That were all breathed in vain, and then thrown back,
With bitter scorn, upon the wither'd heart
Which gave them as rich treasures. Oh how thick
The groups of misery gather! Let me hide
From those dark, treacherous, and accusing eyes;
Vindictively they lour on every side,
With mutterings of vile things, the very thought
Of which is ignominy. Oh, great Lord!
Thou know'st I never did such horrid things
As they accuse me of. I am a queen,
Too proud to do dishonourable deeds,
Too conscious of the dignity of kings,
To stain th' escutcheon of a royal race.

And yet I am a woman, warm of heart,

Of kind, forgiving nature. I have been
In some things weak, in many things abused,
In all misrepresented. Above all,
Betray'd and made a captive, and detained
In bold defiance of the sacred laws
Of faith and honour. Vile hypocrisy
Of mine oppressor! How can woman's heart
Be such a tissue of unlovely thoughts
Towards a hapless sister? Could our fates
Have been reversed, the Lord of mercy knows
That Queen Elizabeth had never lain
A prisoner all these years in Mary's realm.
Oh, no! I would have raised the drooping head,
And soothed the troubled spirit. It had been
My bliss to have restored to her her rights.
How can Elizabeth, the strong, the wise,
The noble-hearted, manly-spirited,
Allow base jealousy and low revenge
To tarnish thus the lustre of her name?—
A name which through all time must stand alone,
Last on the record of a noble race
Of kings, and queens, and mighty conquerors,
That with her death becomes extinct.
The thought
That Mary has a son, on whom the eyes
Of England rest in hope, adds bitterness
To all the hatred which she lavishes
On my devoted head. Yet if she knew
How like a burning coal deep in my heart
Lies even that holy word,—Maternity,—
Her barren breast perchance would feel a joy
In having poison'd thus the sweetest spring
Of human happiness. Oh deep and keen

My quivering soul has felt the barbed shaft
Of cruel treatment from a cherish'd child,
For whom I would at any time have died.
His youthful brain was poisoned by the streams
That gush'd from the foul bosoms of my foes,
And, falling constantly upon his heart,
Have petrified the chords of filial love,
So that his eye and voice are icy cold,
And his car callous. Oh 'tis agony
To feel that he has power to break these chains
And punish mine oppressors, while I groan
And cry for aid in vain. My son! my son!
How is it possible that thy young heart
Could heed the whispers of malevolence,
And close against thy mother, unto whom
Thou art sole hope and pride? It is for thee
That I endure this long captivity,
And wear a crown, to me all valueless;
Guarding its rights with most religious care;
That of its honours, not a single leaf
Should wither, or be wanting when it lies
Upon my coffin, thence to be transferr'd
To shed its glories on thy royal brow,
Which yet shall wear proud England's diadem.
God grant that crowns sit easier on thy brow
Than mine. The thistle and the rose
Compose the wreath, and I have worn the thorns
All next my bleeding brow. Yet be assured
That I have rifled it of no one gem,
Nor shalt thou find a stain upon its gold,
Except it be my blood.
Hark! The dull chime
Peals out the matin hour. To my wrung heart

There is a soothing in the solemn chime,
Which falls like holy dew upon my soul.
How sweet the soothing that religion brings
In her rich offices. The holy church
Hath not cast off her daughter. Still she gives
Peace, hope, and consolation, and her hand
Lifts the dark scenery of the stage of life,
And points me to the glories of that world
In which the weary find eternal rest.

The world is false. Its honours and its wealth
Are snares and burdens to the weary soul;
And human love—oh! what a fading flower!—
Its beauty and its fragrance pass away,
But never fail to leave the venom'd thorns
Within the bleeding bosom. Loyalty!—
What is it, but a fawning sycophant
That follows power, and worships at the feet
Of popularity! And friendship, too,—
The holiest of the human sympathies,
Is fickle, and a traitor unto me;—
And my own child,—he, whom I fondly bore
Upon my bosom, and against my heart,—
He leaves me to the malice of my foes,
And I must die!
But I will die a queen,
A martyr, and a Christian. I have hope,—
A strong, sustaining hope,—which stands sublime
Upon the wreck of empire, fame, and life,
In hearing of the symphonies of heaven,
And, catching the entrancing melody,
Repeats the soothing numbers, which sink down
Into my spirit like the summer dew

Upon the fainting flower. It fills my soul
With peace and consolation.
Gracious Lord!
I bow before thee, and, with humbled heart,
Say, “All THY WILL BE DONE.”

TO THE “HARTFORD COLUMBIAN.”

Thou comest as the carrier-dove,
That seeks the exile's lonely cell,
Awaking shades of hope and love
That Memory knows too well.

Ay, now before my spirit rise
Rough summits, crested with green trees,
Whence nature's holy melodies
Float out upon the breeze,

Which lingers on the green hill's breast,
To play at billows with the grain;
Then fondly whispering, breaks the rest
Of flowers upon the plain.

Dear land, on which the radiance bright
Of childhood's blessed memory lies,
Which gilds all objects with the light
Of its own laughing eyes;—

Dear land of my nativity!
Sweet home of innocence and love!
Earth hath no spot which unto me
So dear a home can prove.

Ah! now I see thy broad bright stream;—
Has earth another stream so bright?
How free and pure those waters seem,
Beneath the lunar light.

Oh! many a time, by that clear ray,
I watched upon thy noble tide,
The gallant vessel on her way
To ocean, dark and wide:

And thought of Oriental lands,
With all their fabled joys and loves,
Where rivers sleep on golden sands,
Beneath the orange groves.

And then I idly wished to roam
By fairy isle, and South Sea strand;
But now—oh! give me back my home,
I ask no fairer land.

Oh! give me back New England's hills,
Her meadows, and enamelled vales,
Her rivers, and her living rills,
Snow wreaths and wintry gales.

Oh! give me back the holy hush
Of Sabbath 'neath New England's sky,
Where e'en the breeze and fountain's gush
Speak low and reverently.

Oh! let me hear the Sabbath bells,
Peal forth the solemn call to prayer;
Where pure devotion's anthem swells,
Oh! let me worship there.

It may not be—it may not be—
Land of tried hearts and truthful lore,
The daughter who so longs for thee,
Shall breathe thine air no more.

My home, thy noble stream beside,
Is filled with stranger voices now,
My own sweet flowers are wreathed in pride
Upon a stranger's brow.

And those who made that home so blest
Are scattered from its haunts away,
Some to a home of perfect rest,
Beyond life's chequered way:

And some, like me, to other lands,
More fair perhaps, but oh! less dear;—
Oh, home! though midst the deserts sands,
Thou hast thine exile's tear.

We dream that young life's guilelessness,
Its fervent love, and holy trust,
Are garnered there, to soothe and bless
The heart, whose hopes are dust.

Oh! how the spirit clings to earth,
Where no abiding-place is given,
Forgetful of the mystic birth
That makes it heir of heaven.

THE THREE CROWNS.

She wore the crown of Beauty,
A queen of hearts was she;
And proud and strong men at her feet
Adored on bended knee;
She seemed a thing to worship,
So regal was her grace,
And such a seal of majesty
Impressed her perfect face.

Her cheeks were red with beauty,
Her smile was rich with pearls,
Her white brow shone like purity
Amid her golden curls.
Her eyes were like deep fountains
Beneath the southern skies,
In which the richest blue of heaven
In pure reflection lies.

Her voice was like the wild bird's,
That sings her hymn at even;
Her radiant smile came o'er the soul
So like a dream of heaven.
She wore the crown of Beauty,
But wore it in her pride,
And Envy with her withering breath
Walked ever by her side.

She wore the crown of Genius,—
She ranged the field of thought;
She studied nature's beauteous book,
With holy lessons fraught;
And tomes, that are to others
Impenetrably sealed,
Unclasping at her magic touch,
Their precious lore revealed.

With footsteps like the zephyr,
She climbed Parnassus' height,
And from its rainbow coronet,
Wove garlands of delight;
By Helicon's pure fountain
She often paused to drink,
To cull the never-fading flowers
That clustered on its brink.

Her mind was like pure waters,
Where richest pearls abound;
Her fancy strung them playfully,
And threw them flashing round;
She wore the crown of Genius,
To which earth's monarchs bow;
But it was fever to her heart,
And ice upon her brow.

She wore Religion's circlet,—
A thorny crown it seemed,
From which no sheen of yellow gold,
No diamond lustre gleamed;
But from its pure white blossoms
Exhaled a fragrant balm,
That lay upon her heart and life,
A blessing and a charm.

Above her fair young forehead
It shone serenely bright,
And Beauty's rose and Genius' gem
Grew glorious in its light;
That crown of holy meekness
She wore in perfect peace;
It shed a light of truth and love,
And filled her soul with bliss.

Wo to the crown of Beauty!
Its flowers grew pale and sere,
And its adorers fled like birds,
When autumn days are drear;
Wo to the crown of Genius!
'Twas cold upon her brow;
Alas! 'tis only o'er the grave
Its living jewels glow.

All hail! Religion's chaplet,—
We bless its heavenly power;
There's healing in each verdant leaf,
And balm in every flower;
No blight, no change, no withering,
Comes ever to that wreath;
It blooms, a balm, a bliss in life,
A glorious hope in death.

A DREAM.

I dreamed—
And lo, I lay upon the bed of pain,
In bitter agony; a torturing fire
Of fever scorched my brain and dimmed mine eyes,
Though on my forehead lay big icy drops;
I would have wiped them, and I raised my hand,
But it was powerless, white, and cold as snow.

Each pulse was but a throb of agony,
As painfully I felt life's crimson tides
Curdling along their channels. Heavily
My heart was beating, and my tongue lay cold
And languid in the hall of melody.
My soul was suffocating, and I felt
Impatience of the close and narrow room,
That seemed to shut out the sweet breath of life.
My children wept all wildly round my bed,
With broken supplication unto God,
That he would spare a life so dear to them;
But I was weary of it, and my prayer,
Wrung out by agony, was, “Let me rest!”

I knew that death was present, and I ceased
To struggle with him, and the conqueror pressed
His icy hand upon my shuddering heart,
And tore away the life-strings.

Then I lay
A spiritual essence on the air,—
A balm, a beauty, an ecstatic bliss,
Living in its own wealth of blessedness.

I looked upon the clay that had so long
Held me a prisoner. Where were now the pangs
That wrung its nerves? Oh mystery of death!
All calmly beautiful in its pale sleep,
It lay before me. Death, which lay concealed
In its first germ, which all its weary life
Had dwelt within it, gnawing at its heart,
And thrilling it with pangs, and dire disease,
And slow decay, weakness, anxiety,
And tears, and sighing, so that all its joys
Were mixed with agony;—Death now was dead;
And that calm clay and the immortal mind
Were freed from him for ever.
Then I looked
Upon my weepers, in their bitterness
Clinging round that cold clay, or sobbing deep
Upon each other's neck; and yet I felt
No sympathy; not for my tenderest child;
But said, with placid joy, “If ye could know
What peace, what bliss is mine, ye would not weep.”

Now came a strain of music, like a breeze
Bearing me upward with its ravishment
Through the ethereal ocean, till at length
I rose above this cloudy atmosphere,
To the celestial radiance of God's day;
And this great world rolled from beneath my feet,
With mighty rushing sound of melody
Along its shining path; apparent now

Its sound and motion, as with majesty
It marched along. In rapturous amaze
I looked upon the shining hosts of worlds,
The infinitely vast and beautiful
Creations of Jehovah. Every where
Wheeled the bright orbs, each floating in its own
Peculiar atmosphere of streaming light,
And uttering unto God a glorious voice.
My being was all wonder and delight,
As floating in this boundless wilderness
Of rolling orbs, flashing their wings of flame,
And speeding on their errands, I drank in
The power and glory of Omnipotence.
And there were groups of spirits, radiant
With perfect loveliness, moving in bands,
Or resting on their broad and silvery wings,
In pure communion. Every perfect face
Illumed with love and dazzling with delight;
And as I passed they waved their glittering hands,
And bade me speed my way, in words that came
In swells of fragrant music. Oh, the bliss
That filled my being! Was there aught on earth
That could have won me to assume again
My mortal prison, with its painful life
Of weakness and pollution. What to me
Were its affections, with their doubts and fears,
Their thrilling joys, and bitter agonies?
I had escaped them, and I was all bliss.
Onward I passed—and now the atmosphere
Became a crimson glory, every where
Radiant with angel faces and bright forms,

Gleaming amid the wreaths of wavy light,
That seemed the glowing vapours of perfume
From myriad censers, burning heavenly balm,
And breathing, with the incense, holy hymns
Of sweetness ravishing.
“Speed! sister, speed!”
I heard sweet voices singing—“Speed thy course
To Him who has redeemed thee from the earth,
To whom be glory!” And the wide immense
Re-echoed “Glory! Glory!” and a flood
Of spirit-dazzling glory was revealed,
And such an ecstacy of pure delight
Burst on my spirit, that I joined the hymn,
And with a shout of “Glory!” broke the spell
Of that delightful visionary sleep,
And the bright dream departed.

The above Dream was written (I think) in the spring of 1842, and sent to a newspaper for publication. The editor kept it, and published a prose article, entitled, Dr. Watts' Dream, and the week after gave mine; whether he thought that my Dream was a plagiarism on the Doctor's, or only wished to have it so appear, I never inquired. However, I positively assert that when I wrote my Dream I had never seen or heard of Dr. Watts', and had no idea that any such composition was in existence. And yet there is between the two dreams a most striking similarity—sufficient to establish a belief in a candid mind that one was only a different version of the other. Thus, no doubt, many authors are convicted of plagiarism. That the same objects or circumstances, should awaken the same feelings and images in minds similarly constituted, is by no means wonderful; but that imagination should present scenes purely ideal, in such striking sameness of contour and colouring to different minds, is certainly a wonder, and is incomprehensible.—It is nevertheless, in the present instance, solemnly true—I have never imitated any writer, male or female,—and if ever in my wanderings beside the sweet waters, I have picked up shells or gathered flowers, similar to those appropriated by any who have preceded me; I certainly did not steal them from their cabinet, but found them myself, and they are mine.

THE WIND.

Oh, wind! where is thy home,
Thy resting-place?
Where dost thou plume thy wings to roam
In pathless fields of space?
Thou comest with viewless wing
And mystic voice,
And leaves, and blossoms, and glad birds of spring,
Awaken and rejoice.

Whence comest thou with thy songs
That glad the earth,
And call her myriad infant throngs
Of beauty into birth?
All nature's precious balm
From southern shores,
All pleasant sounds, all sights, and scents that charm,
Thou makest ours.

Whence is thy strength, that bows
The forest down,
And dashes from the mountain brows
The ancient emerald crown?
That lifts the eternal rock
From its strong rest,
And hurls it rudely with tremendous shock,
From ledgy crest?

That levels with the dust
The castled tower,
And many a pile which mortals boast,
As monuments of power?
Whence thy tremendous power,
That crests the waves,
And heaves them, shouting, on the sounding shore,
Or marble caves?

Cradled amid thy plumes
The lightnings sleep,
Till on thy breath through surging glooms
The glittering terrors sweep.
The thunder's fearful sound
Is born of thee,
Which leaping onward rends the dark profound,
And shakes immensity.

Where is thy home, oh! wind!
Hark! the reply—
“I dwell with the Immortal Mind—
Type of His majesty;—
Invisible and free,
With hymning flight,
I range the solid earth and rolling sea,
Diffusing life and light.

“Ye hear my rushing sound,
But cannot know
From whence I run my glorious round,
Or to what realms I go.
All nature owns my sway,
And loves my voice;

The earth, the waters, and the clouds obey,
And in my power rejoice.

“Ye tremble at my might,
And yet I come
Diffusing fragrance and delight,
Beauty, and bliss, and bloom.
O'er earth, and all her train
Of living things,
A quickening spirit of all life I reign,
With all-pervading wings.

“God fills infinity
With life and bliss,
Life, that endureth to eternity,
And everlasting peace;
And unto me 'tis given
To shadow forth
The Power that fills, and rules, and gladdens heaven,
As I pervade the earth.”

TO THE SEDOLEO.

Sweetest of the hymning band,
That come on spirit wing,
Chaunting through the listening land
The presence of the spring.

When the soft blue eye of day
First opens on thy nest,
Lighting with its emerald ray
The forest's leafy crest,

Softly through the spirit streams
Thy mellow joyous lay,
Mingling with our troubled dreams,
And melting them away.

Like a tuneful angel's hymn,
Thrilling through the soul,
Ere life's cares and shadows dim
Assert their stern control;

Bearing up the soul to God,
Source of joy and light;
In one full melodious flood,
Drowning all of night.

When the busy burning day,
With his toil and care,
Passes to the west away,
And lingers smiling there;

Free from toil and turmoil now,
In the blessed calm,
Gratefully we bathe the brow
In evening breath of balm.

While the fevered pulse subsides,
And the mind grows still,
While gray evening's drapery hides
All of earthly ill;

Then thy plaintive flute-like lay,
From the shadowy trees,
Fills with soothing melody
The cool refreshing breeze.

Sweetest of the birds of spring!
Oft at dreamy even
I have thought thy damask wing
Came fresh and pure from heaven;

That thou wert a spirit bright,
Missioned from above,
Plumed with joy's own rosy light,
And voiced with holy love.

Seraph of the twilight hour,
Sure of heaven thou art,
Hushing with melodious power
The wrung and throbbing heart.

MY OLD LETTERS.

One hour amongst my treasures! Oh 'tis sweet—
Mournfully sweet—to this o'erburdened heart,
To turn from all life's present cares and toils,—
Injustice, bitterness, and agony,—
To pass one hour amid the treasured gems,
Which I have gathered in life's weary ways,
Since first in childhood's morn my little heart
Was made to understand such bitter words
As parting—absence—sorrow—and vain hope,—
Till now, that I have gained the rugged steep
Of life's meridian, whence the earnest eye
Looks down the shadowy path, which hath no bourne,
Except the cold, dark grave.—Oh, there is peace,
And rest, for all the weary!
Some of those
Whose pledges of a never-dying love
Perfume these faded leaflets of their souls,
Have gone down there to sleep; and I have wept,
And counted them, the lost. But 'tis not so;
The truthful breathings of their loving souls
Live on these written sheets, where here and there
A tear, that gushed up warm from the live heart,
Lies where it fell, more precious than the pearl
That's purchased with a kingdom. They are lost
Who live and have forgotten! Unto them

Be joy, and wealth, and honour. 'Tis enough
That I am sorrowful, and feel the bond
Of absence always straining at my heart.
I will not now weep o'er the registers
Of such unstable minds; though broken buds,
And withered leaves, that grew in my warm heart,
Upon the trees that Hope had planted there,
Are folded up within them. Let them rest;—
I would not now disturb them, and inhale
Their breath, so faint, so withering to the soul.
Sad records of the weakness of the mind,
The faithlessness of poor humanity,
Go to your hiding-place, while I unfold
The leaves of these unwilted flowers of Truth,
That breathe so rich an odour. Fresh and sweet
They lie before me. The white jessamine buds
Of pure young girlhood's offering; the white rose
Of womanhood's devotion; myrtle leaves
And sprigs of green geraniums from the stems
Of manhood's hardier friendship; and a few
(Oh dearly they are treasured) red rose leaves,
Rich with the breathings of a fervent love.
Where are the hands that wrote these living lines
So many years ago? Where are the eyes
That bent their burning beams or tearful gaze
Along the rapid tracery? Where the hearts
That throbbed with yearning tenderness the while;
Now trembling with emotion, pausing now
With doubt, or apprehension, or cold fear;
Or agonizing with the hope deferred,
That seems so long in coming? Years,—and change,—
And death,—can ye not answer?—No reply

Do ye vouchsafe to any. Death, and change,
And time, are silent spoilers. All in vain
The hearts that ye have robbed shriek out, and plead
For restitution, or one little word,
To calm their burning anguish. Ye are deaf
To all entreaty, and, since time began,
Have never answered to the earnest prayer
That knocked in agony at the cold gates
Of your mysterious, silent palaces.
But o'er these precious treasures of my heart
Ye have no power. The rapid lapse of years,
The stern mutations of all things that feel
The tide of life, the hand that breaks the heart
And crushes loveliness, and over all
Spreads charnel mould and ashes,—none of these
Can touch the pure affections of the soul,
That God has made immortal, and which live
For me, for ever, in these written sheets.
Here are the careless folded sheets, and scraps
Impressed so lightly by the little hand
Of my first correspondent, while her breast
Was spotless of a stain, before her heart
Had known the blight of sorrow, or the joy
That lies so heavily within the heart,
And, like the nectar in the blossom's cup,
Bends down the head with sweetness. She was fair,
Rich in a loveliness of form and mind,
If not unequalled, never yet excelled;
And these sweet records of her young, pure soul
Breathe round me, ever spring's own atmosphere
Of light, and song, and odour. Hope stood by

When these glad lines were written; and no shade
Of pain or sorrow mingled with the hues
Upon the bright cartoon on which her hand
Had sketched our drama of futurity.
Her lines are sweet enchantment; like the song
Of some caged bird, which (if we shut our eyes)
Transports us to the green and flower-wreathed grove
In which it caroled to the loving mate
That hears its song no more.
No more!—Ah me!
Who sings that dirge-like word so mournfully
Along the heart-strings? searing with its tone
The bright-eyed memories that were singing there.
I know that girlhood with its laughing joys
Can come to me no more,—that my schooled heart
Can dance to hope's ecstatic hymn no more;
And that the wreath's sweet, perfect flowers,
That spent their fragrance on my breast and brow,
Can bloom for me no more; that I can feel
The blissful confidence with which young life
Relies on human worth and purity
No more; that all the sweet and beautiful,
That bloomed and faded in the pleasant ways
Of young life's mazy wanderings, can return
To cheer my steps no more. Yet sing ye on,
Sweet, faithful memories, till my soul forgets
The present in the music of the past.
Sing on, and spread your tableaux; I will deem
Myself a child again, and range with her
The well-remembered scenes.

Spring is in the soft blue sky,
Smiling, silvery clouds between,
As a loving azure eye
'Twixt the pearly lids is seen.

Spring is in the balmy air,
As it gaily coquets by,
Touching all the sweet and fair
With a kiss of melody.

Spring is in the river's song,
As it proudly marches by,
Bearing on its breast along
Ships that ride right gallantly.

Spring is in the rivulet's hymn,
Where it gushes from its source;
Spring awakes the thickets dim,
All along its tuneful course.

Spring is in the dewy eye
Of each fresh and fragrant flower;
While the birds that nestle by,
Call her name from bower to bower.

We are roving by the brook,
Where the early violets grow,
Searching thicket, bank, and nook,
Where all buds of April blow.

We are shouting in our glee,
As we break the slender stems;
Or we praise, on bended knee,
Him who gives the floral gems.

We are seated 'neath the thorn,
Gaily braiding for our brows
Flowers of balm and beauty born
With the slender willow boughs.

Now our song is on the air,
Blending with the blue-bird's lay;
All that lives is sweet and fair,
All that breathes is melody.

We are weary of our play,—
'Tis the pleasant eventide;
We have thrown our crowns away,
And are seated side by side.

See, within the ancient room,
Filling settee, chair, and stool,
Smiling through the mellow gloom,
Are the loved, the beautiful.

Now the father, whom we love,
Leaning on his wonted chair,
To our Father—God above—
Offers up the evening prayer.

Pale and reverend is his brow,
Slow and solemn is his tone;—
Ah, the tears are gushing now—
Memory's vivant scenes are flown.

But that prayer—it seemeth still
Rising to the Mercy Seat;
Winning thence, to guard from ill,
Holy angels, fair and sweet.

Oh how kind their voices are,
When the heart has erred and feared,
Answering ever to despair,
There is mercy—we are heard.

'Tis very sweet to dream that those who led
Our infant feet in good and pleasant ways,
Who brought us, while our hearts were yet untouched
By this world's mildew, to a Saviour's feet,
And showed us where to find a hiding-place
From all the tempests of this changing world;
Who bore us in the arms of earnest prayer
Up to the throne of heaven,—who led the way,
And left their footprints all along the path
Of peace, which leads to God,—'tis sweet to dream
That they are watching with their loving eyes
Our struggles with the spirits that would lure
Our faltering steps to their enticing bowers
Of smiling agony, and death disguised
In bridal robes and garlands. It is good
To lean upon them then, and ask our hearts
If those who look upon us from on high,
Approve our words and deeds. They seem so near,
Our souls can almost touch them, and we lean
So naturally on their love and care—
Oh who should throw the clear, cold light of truth
Into the temple where fond nature shrines
These beautiful illusions, which so aid
Our trembling spirits through the labyrinth
That lies between the cradle and the grave!

Dear guardians of my childhood! if 'tis true
That ye in heaven remember me no more,
Ye are my guardians still. Your loving words
Of sweet encouragement, of kind advice,

Of earnest sympathy, of mild reproof,
Of spiritual communion,—they are here,
To aid, uphold, and solace this poor heart
In its extremest need. And when my day
Is dark as midnight, and I stand alone,
Amid the desert of a weary life,
With none to cheer me, none to guide my steps,
Or bring me consolation;—when no voice
Of hope cries, “Courage, sister! help is near,
Press on and win the prize!”—still ye are near;
I feel your presence, and ye point away
To that far land, where living waters flow,
And joy-buds bloom for ever. Blessed lines!
Traced by those reverend and sustaining hands,
I would not change ye for the title-deeds
Of earth's most glorious empire.

“Your ever-loving mother.”
Blessed words,
Almost effaced with tears, which dim mine eyes
Whene'er they rest upon that signature,
So beautifully written by the hand
That was my providence in infancy
And early childhood; that directed first
My young eyes unto heaven; that led me forth
Amid the glorious works of nature's God,
And, pointing to the pure and beautiful,
Taught me to love and worship; that sustained
My weakness with unwearied tenderness;
That made my bed in sickness, lifted up
My aching head, and held to my parched lips
The cup of healing; that has done for me
That which no other hand on earth has done;

That which no other hand on earth can do.
My “loving mother.”—Thou art far away;
I may not clasp thy hand, or hear thy voice,
Or look into thy beautiful mild eyes;
But I can read these letters, which thy hand
Has written to me, which thine eyes have read,
With tears of tender feeling, while thy heart,
Thy mother-heart, was throbbing for thy child,
Thy desolate and solitary child,
The dweller of the forest; she for whom
Thou dost so without ceasing offer prayer.
Mother! dear mother! though we dwell apart,
Thy loving words are with me evermore—
Thy precious loving words. Thy hand, and heart,
And earnest soul of love, are here impressed,
For me, a dear memorial through all time.
Mother! I cannot recompense thy love,
But thy reward is sure, for thou hast done
Thy duty perfectly, and we rise up
And call thee blessed; and the Lord shall give
Thy pious cares and labours rich reward.

Ah! here are missives that came unto me
Like messengers from heaven; seeking me out
In this old forest, where my lot was cast
In early womanhood, away from all
That makes life beautiful, that fills the soul,
Or lifts the heart from earth,—except the voice
Of nature in her wildest, sternest forms.
Yes, even here thy warm and pious heart
Pursued the child of thy pastoral care
With godly counsel, urging her to hope,
To walk in the undeviating path

Of truth and duty, with the heart and eye
Fixed ever on the shining gate of heaven,
With faith and humble confidence in Him
Who dwells not in the temple's gorgeous pile,
But in the heart, the pure and earnest heart
That offers incense unto Him alone.
My dear and reverend friend, thou didst not know
What joy these letters brought me;—how I wept
For very gladness, ere I broke their seals;—
How my soul drank their contents, and looked up
Refreshed and strengthened, with a grateful hymn
To God, for such a friend, and unto thee
For thine unceasing care, until I seemed
To hear the music of the Sabbath bells,
And stand amongst the worshippers, who felt
The import of those solemn words,—“The Lord
Is in his holy temple,”—and bow down
In silent awe before the majesty
Of Him whose glorious presence fills all space.

Mine ever-honoured Pastor, though no more
My voice shall murmur its response to thine,
Or join the solemn chaunt; though never more
My heart shall tremble while thou dost unfold
The Gospel message of eternal life,
Still I will hope that in the august day
Which wakes a world to judgment, I may be
A living leaf amongst the gems that form
The crown of thy rejoicing.

My brother! best and dearest, these are thine,
And they are fragrant with the purest love
That hath its sources at the gushing spring
Of human tenderness. My sisters, too,

Here are their precious offerings. Oh 'tis sweet
To taste the fulness of this perfect love,
Until the heart forgets its weariness,
And all its scars and mildews, and goes back
To that most holy refuge this side heaven,
Our father's house. Oh, sweet the echoes come
Through the dim distance and long lapse of years,
From that dear sanctuary of holy love.
How pleasantly they touch my heart-strings now,
To melting music, mellowed down by time
To plaintive sweetness! 'Tis our mother's voice,
Which calleth at the pleasant evening time,
“Come, children! take your seats beside the fire.”

The fire is blazing on the ample hearth,
Diffusing comfort through the antique room,
And we are watching in our simple mirth
The giant shadows starting from the gloom.

With seeming menace and imperious air
They seem to beckon with their wavering hands,
And flit away. We wonder whence they are,
And seek to reason of the ghostly bands.

But at our mother's voice we leave our play,
And crowd our low seats close around her chair;
Each prompt to meet the loving smiles that play
Upon her lips and brow so purely fair.

Her beautiful white hand forsakes awhile
The task by love made pleasant for our sake,
To rest a moment with caressing wile,
On brows that 'neath that pressure could not ache.

Her clear eyes rest with proud yet troubled joy
Upon the blue-eyed treasures at her feet;
The rosy girl, the noble-hearted boy,
The little smilers, with their prattle sweet.

All good and happy, through her pious care,
Loving and well-beloved, a blessed band,
All leaning on her love, rejoiced to share
The blessing of her voice, her love, her hand.

Ay, now, our father, who, the whole day long,
Had plied the art by which he earns us bread,
With glance of pleasure on his own glad throng,
Sits down to taste the feast for reason spread.

His much-loved book—the poet's lofty lay,
The traveller's tale of strange and far-off lands,
The voyager's story of the mighty sea,
The attention of the little group commands.

We listen, full of wonder and delight,
Until the witching volume is laid by,
And loving voices breathe the kind “Good night!”
And light lids close above each sleepy eye.

Sweet were our slumbers then. We laid us down
With faith in God, and in our parents' care,
No sorrow held us waking, no deep grief
Took form of fearful dreams, and made our sleep
More painful than our hours of waking wo.
We slept the dewy sleep of innocence,
And woke to love and peace, while on us all
Our parents smiled at once. Oh, long ago

Those blessed days departed, we are rest
And scattered like the leaves of some fair rose,
That fall off one by one upon the breeze,
Which bears them where it listeth. Never more
Can they be gathered and become a rose,
And we can be united never more
A family on earth. Alas! that death,
And love, and sorrow, have so scattered us
Abroad upon the world, that there remains
No tie between our souls, but memory,
Linked to the yearning heart, and kept alive
By these frail messengers, which come and go,
Bearing a world of love, or joy, or grief,
Beneath their brittle seals, from West to East,
From North to South, around the peopled globe,
So that the very pulsings of the heart,
Which stamps itself upon the written sheet,
Are felt, despite the distance. Oh, the heart!
It mocks at distance, and smiles scornfully
When fate builds up her everlasting wall
Between it and its loves. It heareth still
The voices of its kindred, and it feels
The slightest tremor of the hidden strings
That bind each unto each. It feels, it knows
The love, the joy, the fear, the agony
That thrill its own, though it be prisoned far
Beyond the mountains; though the billowy sea
Divide it from the bosom which enshrines
Its sympathizing mate; ah, though the grave
Be closed above it, still it seems to lie
Against its fellow, with a cold still weight,
Benumbing to the centre all its tides
Of happiness; and when corroding time

Has worn its form away, the sable dust,
The poor remains of all corporeal things,
Is strewn o'er all the buds of tenderness
That struggle up and seek to blossom there,
Still marring all their beauty.
Here they lie—
The little packets tied around with black;
Volumes of love, from hearts and hands that lie
Down in the narrow chamber.
These are thine,
Companion of my childhood, gentle girl
Of deep dark eyes, so eloquent of love,
And grief, and sympathy. Thy lot was sad
And meekly borne. The canker of disease
Fell on thee in the morning of thy years,
And gnawed life's healthy stamen; but thy form
Acquired a holy beauty from the blight;
And thy young spirit, feeling how the ties
That held it earthward perished, and became
Attenuated, looked with firmer trust
And holier hope to heaven, and so became
A very angel, save the sympathies
And weariness of life, the love that yearned
To see its object happy, and put on
A radiant smile to hide the burning seal
Which marked the young fair forehead for the grave.
And thou wouldst speak so sweetly, while thy breast
Was tortured with the gnawing of the death
That fed upon thy being. It was sad
To see thee in thy beauty bending down
With such a gentle patience to the grave,
Which pale consumption with her meagre hand
Was digging at thy feet. But that is past—

100

Thy soul is ransomed, and thou art at rest;
Peace to thy spirit. Though we wept for thee,
Thy lot was more desirable than mine;
Thy bark was safely anchored, ere the storm
Had burst upon it; ere the thunderbolt
Had riven its heart to splinters; ere its hull
Was shattered on the treacherous lurking shoals,
To which sweet sirens, in their floating bowers,
Allured it with their tuneful witcheries;
Ere its white sails were mildewed; ere its chart
Was soiled and torn; before its compass lost
The fine attraction to the steady pole,
Which marked its course aright, in storm or calm.
Before the stream of life, which at its source
Was pure and narrow, and pursued its way
Through sunny valleys, smiling with the buds
And balmy flowers of spring, grew wide and deep,
And rolled its turbid volume through a land
Of rock and sandy desert, where green trees
Are seldom seen, and every herb and flower
Accounted as a blessing; ere the wreaths
Culled gayly from the banks of the young stream
Had lost their bloom and fragrance; ere the barks
That sported round us in their trim array,
With pennons, songs, and gladness, covering
The tide with joy and beauty, are all lost,
So that the weary eyes look back in vain,
To catch one sail of all the brilliant group,
Till they are dimmed with tears.
Ah, wo is me!
That my poor bark is shattered and alone
Upon the dark wide stream, which marches on
Still farther every moment from the shore,

101

Where youth and joy were dancing to the songs
Of bright-eyed innocence, so long ago,
That now some trembling echoes of the strain,
With now and then a soft and silvery gush
Of distant laughter, floating on the tide
All faintly to mine ears, declare how far
The waves have borne me from those blessed bowers.
And still I am their sport; while thou art safe
In that fair country, where immortal bliss
Blooms in the sunlight of eternal love.
Eternal love! As if there were a love
That is not everlasting, that can change,
And die, like summer flowers. Oh Love, forgive
The seeming treason! This poor heart of mine
Is not so unfamiliar with thy power,
As to believe thee mortal, born of earth,
And passing with its shadows. Love is pure,
And dwelleth ever with the beautiful.
Love never changeth,—Beauty will endure
As long as any thing that God has made
Shall wear the impress of his perfect hand.
But we are changing, and our beauty's bloom
Fades even in the bud. Our souls are weak,
And bend like rushes to the fitful gusts
Of passions all unholy; and we burn
Strange incense, kindled with unhallowed fire,
Upon the holiest altar of our hearts,
Within the temple consecrate to Love,
And he deserts the desecrated shrine.
Though he may pity our wild agony,
He will not stay to soothe us. 'Tis not meet
That he should nestle in the earth-born wreaths
With which we seek to bind him, and remain

102

When they are withered, and the canker-worms
Apparent in their heart. Yet Love is true,
And hath eternal life; and all the pure,
And all the beautiful, are full of Love,
Linked by a chain of holy sympathies
To Love's immortal heart, which pulses bliss
Through all the braided chain, till every link
Rings forth a living voice of melody;
These blessed voices, blending like the chime
From myriad golden bells, rise up to God,
And mingle with the harmony of heaven.
Heaven! Love!—Oh heaven is love, and love is heaven,
And every heart that proves the power of love,
Has felt the bliss of heaven, and can attest
That Love is an eternity of bliss,
Which raises, purifies, and fills the soul,
And knits its sympathies all unto God.
But this world hath a heavy atmosphere,
Oppressed with darkness, frost, and stormy winds,
And poor humanity is sick, and weak,
And purblind in her vision, and her ear
Is dull of hearing, and the iron chain
Of nature lieth on her quivering wing
With weight of doubt and sorrow. Yet we shrink
And shudder, when the gentle hand of death
Would set us free, and bear us to the world
Of beauty, love, and glory.—
Oh forgive,
My loved, and loving, that I sometimes weep,
And count ye lost to me. 'Tis when my soul
Is darkened by the shadows that obscure
The narrow windows of its house of clay,
And I forget how bright, how beautiful,

103

How blessed, and how perfect, ye are now;
And that your love is all divinely pure,
And fervent, as the fire that hallows heaven.
But thou wert very pure, my gentle friend,
Almost a seraph, in thy mortal form,
And thou hast left sweet records of thy love,
Traced by thy slender fingers, even when death
Was busy at their nerves, and those dark eyes,
Though strangely lustrous with the hectic fire,
Unsteady in their light, and often dimmed
By the near shadow of the coffin lid.
Ah me! I cannot now restrain my tears,
As I peruse these lines, which long ago
I blotted with such drops, which neither Time,
With his slow opiate, nor Philosophy,
With his cold torpor, nor Religion's voice
Of balmy soothing, can forbid to flow,
Whene'er, amongst the treasures of the past,
I meet these leaflets of my broken rose.
Oh here are well-known seals, that came to me
Like angel messengers, each with its gifts
Of thrilling joy. Mine eyes can beam no more
With such a greeting as they gave to these;
My heart can feel no more the bounding bliss
That blest it, as I pressed them to my lips.
They waken now a mournful memory,
Which lives within my spirit as a thing
Enshrined, and sacred, which no mortal eye
May ever look upon.
My soul is sad
Amid its richest treasures. Though they breathe
The sweetest music, still my spirit hears,

104

Amidst their loftiest hymn, an under-tone,
Which wails of absence, death, and lovely hopes
That perished in the bosom of the years
That will return no more. Return no more!
However carelessly we touch the string
That choruses the music of the past,
It answers mournfully: No more!—No more!
My loved, my absent, and my glorified,
Though we in this fair world may meet no more,
Still I possess the impress of your souls
In these dear letters,—and I sometimes bless
The fate that led me to this solitude,
To which the earnest heart of faithful love
Pursues me with its blessed messengers.
These are my consolation, when my feet
Are weary, in the thorny path of life;
And when my heart, my timid woman-heart,
Is yearning for a word of sympathy,
A glance of kind approval, or one drop
Of earnest consolation, then 'tis good
To turn me to these angels, which my lot,
My isolated and peculiar lot,
Has won from great and good and tender hearts,
Which thus have poured the treasures of their thoughts
Into my bosom,—compensation rich
For all my loneliness; a living balm
For all the painful bruises of my heart;
A breastwork of defence against the shafts
Of cruelty's sharpshooters; and a stay
On which I may rely, when bitter words
Fall on my head and heart, till I grow faint,
And almost doubt myself. Oh then 'tis sweet
To feel that ye who knew my inmost soul,

105

Ye who were pure, and competent to judge,
Too good and wise to flatter or deceive,
Spake thus to her, whose heart, and soul, and mind,
And words, and actions, even the warmest leaf
Of fond affection's dearly-cherished rose,
Were to your spirits as an open book.
Yes, here is comfort. But, dear comforters,
The cares of life, a stern and clamorous throng,
Are waking now. Go to your sanctuary,—
And when my heart is heavy unto death,
Again your kind communing and soft balm
Shall soothe it to the meek and grateful frame
Which sits down patiently at Jesus' feet.

SING ON!

“Sing on!—You will win the wreath of Fame: if not in life, it will bloom gloriously over your tomb.”

Friendly Correspondence.

'Tis not for Fame: I know I may not win
A wreath from high Parnassus, for my name
Is written on the page of humble life,
From which the awarders of the laurel wreath
Avert their eyes with scorning.
I have felt
The mildew of affliction, the east wind
Of withering contempt, the pelting storms
Of care, and toil, and bitterness, and wo,
In almost every form. I too have known

106

The darkness of bereavement, and keen pangs
Which woman may not utter, though her heart
Consume amid their fierceness, and her brain
Burn to a living cinder; though the wound
Which is so hard to bear, lie festering deep
Within her outraged spirit; though her sighs
Disturb the quiet of the blessed night,
While sweet dews cool and soothe the fevered breast
Of every other mourner; though she pour
The flood of life's sweet fountain out in tears,
Along her desert pathway; while the blooms
Of health, and hope, and joy, that should have fed
Upon its gushing waters and rich dew,
Lie withered in her bosom, breathing forth
The odours of a crushed and wasted heart,
That cannot hope for soothing or redress,
Save in the quiet bosom of the grave,
And in the heaven beyond.
'Tis not for Fame
That I awaken with my simple lay
The echoes of the forest. I but sing
As sings the bird, that pours her native strain,
Because her soul is made of melody;
And lingering in the bowers, her warblings seem
To gather round her all the tuneful forms,
Whose bright wings shook rich incense from the flowers,
And balmy verdure of the sweet young spring,
O'er which the glad day shed his brightest smile,
And night her purest tears. I do but sing
Like that sad bird, who in her loneliness,
Pours out in song the treasures of her soul,
Which else would burst her bosom, which has nought

107

On which to lavish the warm streams that gush
Up from her trembling heart, and pours them forth
Upon the sighing winds, in fitful strains.

Perchance one pensive spirit loves the song,
And lingers in the twilight near the wood,
To list her plaintive sonnet, which unlocks
The sealed fountain of a hidden grief.—
That pensive listener, or some playful child,
May miss the lone bird's song, what time her wings
Are folded in the calm and silent sleep,
Above her broken heart. Then, though they weep
In her deserted bower, and hang rich wreaths
Of ever-living flowers upon her grave,
What will it profit her who would have slept
As deep and sweet without them?
Oh! how vain,
With promised garlands for the sepulchre,
To think to cheer the soul, whose daily prayer
Is but for bread and peace!—whose trembling hopes
For immortality ask one green leaf
From off the healing trees that grow beside
The pure bright river of Eternal Life.

108

DREAMS.

How sweet the dreams of joy and love,
That visit our repose!
Like gentle spirits from above,
With balsam for our woes.

How soft the dreaming angels come,
And lay their shadowy wings
O'er all the sorrows of my lot,
And all unpleasant things.

Then cares and pains of recent years,
And darker things are hid;
While tenderly they kiss the tears
From off the trembling lid.

And then from Memory's treasured wreath,
They cull the holiest flowers;
And build, and deck in richest bloom,
A thousand fairy bowers;

And tenant them with fair bright things,
That long from me have fled,
Some, on their own inconstant wings,
Some, to the dreamless bed.

109

My early home, with all its joys,
Is spread before me then,
And tender tones and beaming eyes
Speak to my soul again.

Again the garden, field, and grove,
Are rich with fruits and flowers;
And birds are singing in their love,
In all the breezy bowers.

And voices, sweeter than the birds,
More fragrant than the flowers,
With melody of gentle words,
Enchant the joyous hours.

Then every tone, and glance, and smile,
Is innocence and truth;
And earnest hearts unite the while,
In firmest faith of youth.

Affections long since wrecked, or dead,
Are warm and trusted then;
And beauteous, from the grass-grown bed,
My lost ones come again.

Oh! where have young life's dear delights
Found an abiding home?
From whence to bless these joyless nights,
Their dreamy spirits come?

110

HYMN FOR CHRISTMAS.

Hail! holy morn, above all others blessed,
Day heralded by angels from above,
With hymns of glory unto God on high,
And promises to men of peace and love.

Hail, holy morning! Birthday of the King
Of Life, of Peace, and Glory! Joy to earth!
We come with palms, and songs, and offerings,
To keep the festival of Jesus' birth.

When first upon the dark chaotic mass
Moved God's Creative Spirit, bringing forth
Order, and light, and beauty, and young life,
'Till in its orbit hung the perfect Earth;—

When scents and colours in the flowers had birth,
And myriad forms of life began to move;
When in his Maker's image man was made,
In beauty perfect, animate with love;

Then heaven was vocal with the choral hymn
Of radiant morning stars, and this glad earth
Echoed the shouts with which the sons of God
Poured forth their wondering joy at Nature's birth.

111

If there was such rejoicing, when a world
Was born to death, and man to guilt and wo,
What songs, what joy should hail the better morn
That saw Immanuel cradled here below!

Ay, cradled in a manger,—sleeping there
The soft unconscious sleep of infancy,
Watched by his fair young mother's dewy eyes,
While angels sung the Christ's nativity.

Glory to God! in highest, gladdest strains,—
Peace upon earth, and good will unto men!
“Glory to God!” the holy seraphs sung,
“Glory to God!” let earth reply again.

Joy to the world! The Babe of Bethlehem
Is now the King of glory, throned above;
He has redeemed his people from their sins,
With mighty sufferings, and surpassing love.

Oh! come, and let us worship, bending low
With tearful penitence, and humble joy;
Let every heart adore, and every voice
Hymn forth a song of grateful melody.

Come to his temple, where the living greens
Are twined to do him honour; where his name
Swells on the pealing anthem, till all hearts
Are full of heaven—devotion's ardent flame.

Come to his holy temple—He is there,
To bless the souls that seek him. Let us bring
Our evergreen faith, hope, and charity,
In humble offering. Let us kneel and sing:—

112

Hail, day of solemn gladness! Through all time
Highest and holiest. Angels shout again,
To you is born a Saviour, Christ, the Lord!
Glory to God!—Peace and good will to men!—

Saviour of man—Eternal Son of God,
Who once in Bethlehem's lowly manger lay,
Oh! throne thyself in every humble heart,
That comes to celebrate thy natal day!

LIFE'S CHANGES.

I saw her in her sunny loveliness,
In ripened beauty, both of form and face;
The morning flush of girlhood was no more,
With careless tone, free step, and merry laugh;
The sun of love had melted these away.
As day dispels the glitter of the dew,
And melts away the crimson morning cloud
That veils the deep bright azure of the heaven,
Revealing all its ocean-flood of light,
So shone the soul of woman all unveiled
In its deep love and truth upon her face,
And 'mongst the gentle creatures that looked out
From those clear eyes, a trembling spirit lay,
Which told that she would sleep the careless sleep
Of girlhood never more. Yet such a smile
Of holy tenderness was on her lips
As never graced the face of maidenhood,
For on her bosom slept her own young babe,

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Her first, her precious one. The dewy rose
Of love maternal, sweetest bloom of earth,
Lay in her bosom, with the wakeful cares
That grow in thorny clusters on its stem.
But Hope stood smiling by;—her sunny hair
Wreathed with the brightest buds and flowers of spring;
Her magic harp displayed the morning star,
And such a trancing melody she sung,
As wrapped the mother's heart in trembling bliss,
As closer to her heart she hugged the babe,
And pressed upon its cheek a warmer kiss.

Again I saw that mother. Beautiful
She was, like summer when the flowers are gone,
And deep green garland glittering to the sun,
Like brooding pinions tremble o'er the spring.
Her eyes were full of joy, a pure, proud joy,
For they were fixed in love upon her child,
A maid of perfect beauty and rich mind,
Yet meek and gentle as the petted lamb.
She sat upon a sofa, and the book
In which the humble find eternal life,
Lay open on her knees, and her sweet voice
Pronounced its treasured words so feelingly,
That the delighted mother's soul went out
To that sweet pious child with tender bliss.

Hope still was there, with wreaths of fragrant flowers,
And her emblazoned harp, crowned gloriously
With blossomed laurel from the Muses' hill,
Fresh with the dew that heaven benignly weeps
On Zion's holy mountain. Still a tear
Stood in her azure eye, for she perceived,
Amid the garlands that she gloried in,

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Some pale and drooping flowers, and well she knew
That the insidious canker of disease
Lay in their velvet bloom, eating their life,
And with her song was blent a low sad strain,
So sweet and dirgelike, filling every pause,
That those who listened wept, they knew not why.

Once more I saw that mother—but her cheek
Was pale and hollow, and upon her brow
Was written deep the tracery of care.
Amid the locks combed smoothly o'er her brow
Were many threads of white, and her blue eyes
Were dim and full of tears. Her form was bent,
As if her heart was broken, and her soul
Crushed down and longing for the quiet grave—
That holy chamber, where no pain, or fear,
Or sorrow, enters with its bitterness,
To agitate the still and silent heart.
The daughter she had so entirely loved,
Her only joy—the tender fragrant rose,
Whose balmy beauty had been all her bliss,
Lay there before her, still and beautiful,
All robed in white and crowned with pale sweet flowers.
Is she a bride to-day? If it be so,
Why is her cheek so white, and wherefore lie
The soft brown lashes of her heavy eyes
So fixedly upon her velvet cheek?
And why is there no motion to disturb
The thin transparent hands, that lie so still
Upon her bosom? Wherefore is the smile
Upon her lips so fixed, so spiritless?
And why is her pure brow so marble-like
And mute in its expression? She is dead!

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And ready to be carried to the grave!
The mother's eye, which for so many years
Had turned for all its joy-beams unto her,
Must see the coffin closed, and the cold sods
Heaped over the fine form, concealing it
For ever—oh, for ever!—from her view.
How shall she bear it? How shall she endure
This bitter breaking of the tenderest tie
Amongst her heart-strings? Oh, delusive Hope!
Where now are all thy brilliant promises?
And where thy fragrant garlands? Where art thou?
Oh, meek and ever-present comforter!
Sweet solace of all ills, behold she stands
Supporting the bereaved so tenderly;
Her earth-born flowers lie withered at her feet,
And wet with tears—but o'er her placid brow
Is twined fresh balm of Gilead, and her harp
Wears, like a coronet, the bow of heaven.
The living laurel, late its glorious crown,
Hangs on the everlasting arch of Fame,
Where cloudless sunshine and the purest dew,
Will rest on it for ever. Blessed Hope!—
She sings so softly now, and points away
To ever-blooming gardens of delight,
Where, 'midst ten thousand young and lovely forms,
By Mercy taken from life's wilderness
Before the mildew or the canker-worm
Had touched their tender beauty,—wrapped in bliss,
Which fills the spirit, so that it hath nought
To wish or hope for, yet increases still,
Expanding with the soul's capacities,
And filling them for ever—that sweet child
Lives, radiant with immortal happiness.

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And canst thou wish her back to earth? she asks,
Where thou shalt linger but few years at most.
No, rather let me lead thee to the gate
Of her bright resting-place—the gate at which
I take my leave of all earth's travellers;
I have no place in the eternal world;
The dwellers in the bright land need me not,
And at the gate of everlasting night
Despair forbids my entrance.
Yet on earth
I live, sustain, and soothe, and sing of heaven.

“Oh, blessed, holy Hope!” the mourner sighed,
“I do not mourn as those who see thy lyre
Unstrung and crushed, amid thy perished flowers;
I know—I know! that my Redeemer lives,
That in his presence I shall meet my child,
In deathless joy and beauty.”

JESUS WALKING ON THE WATER.

“And in the fourth watch of the night, Jesus went unto them, walking on the sea.”—

Mark xiv. 26.

When life's clear untroubled waters,
In the morning sunlight flowed,
In the barge of girlish gladness
Down the pleasant stream I rode.

All the shores were green with bowers,
Where the wild birds sung of love,

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Every breeze waved wreaths of flowers,
Silver-pebbled strands above;

While in rich and languid beauty,
Still by creek and shallow bay,
Trembling on the dimpling waters,
Wreaths of lotus-lilies lay.

Variegated birds were sporting
'Mid the blossoms on the tide,
Life, and love, and joy, and beauty,
Dressed the scene on every side.

Friendship o'er the chart presided,
Hope sat smiling at the oar,
Love and Joy, with siren voices,
Sung the bliss of flood and shore.

But the whirlwinds of affliction
Woke me from my sweet repose,
And the heavy clouds of sorrow
On the stormy gale arose.

Then upheaved the crested billow,
Tossing with exulting howl,
As the lion, roused from slumber,
Shakes his mane with threatening growl.

All my sea-birds, wild with terror,
Sprang, shrill shrieking from the flood,
Meteors seemed their flashing pinions,
As above the surge they rode.

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And the pearly water-lilies,
From their oozy beds uptorn,
Were in wrecked and broken beauty
By the conquering billows worn.

While, with hoarse and angry chiding,
On the shore, the driving spray
Swept the bird's nest and the blossoms
From the ruined bower away.

One wild scene of desolation
Spread its forms by land and tide,
One deep voice of utter anguish
Moaned around on every side.

O'er the glad day's radiant features
Twilight spread her mantle dark,
Blackness, death, and deep destruction,
Gathered round my shuddering bark.

In that hour of night and horror,
While despair rode on the storm,
Walking on the rolling billows,
I beheld a shining form.

Oh, how dreadful was his presence,
As he walked the waves alone,
In the pure and radiant glory
That around his person shone.

Nearer came the august vision;
Burst my fears in one wild cry;

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Then he spake in tones of music:
“Be not fearful—It is I!”

Then I knew him—It was Jesus,
He, whom winds and waves obey,
He, who o'er the fiercest spirits,
Rules with calm and potent sway.

Help, Lord! help me, or I perish!
See, my bark is all a wreck;
Jesus heard, and, touched with pity,
Stepped upon the wave-washed deck.

Instantly the winds subsided,
And the billows sunk to rest;
Rose the sun, and showed before me
Scenes in heavenly beauty drest.

Lord! I pray thee, guide my vessel
Down this swift and treacherous flood,
To the land where peace eternal
Smiles around the throne of God.

HE DIED.

He died!—This sentence hath a fearful sound
To every mortal ear; He died! He died!
Is written on the page of history,
From Adam, downward, to the present day.
The consummation of the lot of man,
With all his years, his good and evil deeds,
His hopes, his fears, and joys, is this—He died.

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The hero lived; he conquered states and kings,
He rased the stately city to the ground;
He led his myriads to the battle-field,
And made earth fat with blood—at length he died!
Fame blazons forth his acts, but Pity weeps,
And kind Humanity conceals her face,
While Virtue blushes o'er his epitaph.

The monarch swayed the sceptre of a realm;
His will was law; he held the destinies
Of many millions. He was honoured, feared,
Perchance beloved. The wide world knew his name,
His fellow-men knelt to him; yet he died!
His name is written for posterity,
Who bless or curse his memory, as his deeds
Seem good or evil in their partial eyes.

He died. The old man, with his snowy hair,
His trembling hands, his weak and weary feet,
And tottering frame, is ready for the grave.
And who is he, who lies outstretched before us?
He has been—
All that we now are who surround his grave;
A fair young mother's joy, a father's care,
Their hope and pride, a happy cherished child.
He, too, has climbed the steep and arduous path
Of literary fame with ardent zeal,
And eye fixed on the ever-verdant wreath
That glory proffers to young Genius' brow.
His hopes were high, were realized, or crushed—
It matters nothing now. And he has been
The warm and faithful lover. He has known
The purest, sweetest passion of the heart—

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The bliss of virtuous love, with full returns.
She was as faultless as a mortal maid
Could be;—as beautiful as aught of earth
Has ever been;—as fond as woman's love—
Her young, confiding, earth-untainted love—
Has ever proved itself. And he had sense
To see her worth; to lock her whole fond heart
Safely within his own; to keep untouched
The treasure of her confidence in him;
And they were wholly happy. That is past—
Long years ago he laid her in the grave,
And all his gladness with her. He has been
A kind and tender father. He has seen
His sons and daughters at his loved one's breast,
In their first infancy; while her bright eye
Turned from her babe to him, from him to heaven.
He saw them flourish, beautiful and strong,
Like olive plants, around his ample board,
And poured his thanks to God. Where are they now?
Scattered to every clime—save that grave man,
Whose hair is dashed with silver, and who looks
With swimming eye down into the deep grave.
This is the youngest of the little band
That used to gambol round him; yet he stands
With children and grandchildren dressed in weeds
For this their patriarch father. He has been
A father to his people,—honoured, loved,
Consulted, and believed. A nation's heart
Has bowed before his virtues. Yet he died!—

She died!—the young, the loved, the beautiful,
The wife, the mother died. Fierce agonies

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Were preying on her vitals. Cruel pangs
Racked every nerve; each pulse beat fitfully;
Her hands were cold, her eyes were wild and dim,
Yet tears were streaming o'er her death-white cheek,
Upon the little face that fondly still
Was pressed against her bosom. One pale arm,
With strong and stiffening grasp was twined around
Her sobbing husband's neck, while broken words,
Uttered at intervals amidst her pangs,
Commend her infant to its father's care;
And every word and agonizing look
Proved how love triumphs in a woman's heart
O'er agony and death; though every throb
Was but a death-pang, and its strings were racked
With life's last tension, and the blood grew cold,
And curdled painfully within its cells,
Still—still it overflowed with tender care
And love toward its treasures. Oh, how high
That heart has danced to bliss; what thrilling hopes
Have played amongst its young elastic strings,
Making joy's melody! Ah, she has been
The happy, careless girl, the worshipped bride,
The fond expectant mother, with her wealth
Of treasured hopes and pictures of high joys
Along a sunny future. And—she died!
Her widowed husband's heart will heal ere long,
And find another treasure; and the child,
For which her dying heart so agonized,
Will never know its loss. Though haply, when
Earth's cold reality comes with its blight
O'er young life's joyous fancies, it may say,
“Had my own mother lived, I should have had
One friend at least, and these things had not been.”

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He died! The miserable vagabond
Has found a home at last. No weepers stand
Around his open grave, and none inquire
What variegated scenes of good and ill
His path has led him through; what varied climes
His weary pilgrim feet have traversed o'er;
How madly he has loved; how bitterly
Cold Disappointment, with her iron hand,
Has wrung his heartstrings; how Bereavement stood
For ever in his path, till manhood's pride
Ceased to contend with fate, and he became
A hopeless, reckless, houseless fugitive,
For Scorn's hard eye to smile at. Yet even then,
While braving the proud world, and rushing on
To ruin and perdition, one kind word,
One look of humid sympathy, could reach
The buried spring of feeling in his breast,
Which, gushing forth, proclaimed him still a Man!
None care for these things. 'Tis enough—he died!

He died! The feeble infant of an hour
Has passed the pangs of death. A few fond hopes
Are buried with it, and a mother's heart
Alone re-echoes to the words—he died!

He died!—She died!—has been pronounced of all
The by-past human race; and soon these words
Will be our sad memorial. We must die
Must! There is no reprieve. 'Tis God's decree.
All that has life must die, and be dissolved
Into its native elements. The form
That seems so passing fair, is so beloved,
And clings so fondly, by a thousand ties,

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Around its loved ones, soon will pass away.
Is there a heart that will not pause and shrink,
Though throbbing e'er so high with hope and joy,
When this appalling doom rings through the ear,
Along its shivering strings? that will not turn
And seek instinctively with shuddering dread
Some refuge—some avenue of escape?
But Nature points to none. Her proudest light
Could never pierce the loathsome shade of death;
Her hand still writes on all things—Man must die!

Hail glorious light
Of Revelation! Brightly beaming forth
From the Eternal Mind.—Pure Nature, rise!
Throw off thy shuddering despondency;
Look through this heavenly beam to future life—
To realms of blessed immortality,
Where pain, and age, and agony, and tears,
And death, and parting, never can intrude
On that sweet rest, which God through Jesus gives.
Read and believe;—We die—to live again!

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A THOUGHT OF GOD.

God! Fearful majesty is in the sound
Of that dread syllable. The soul bows down
At its enunciation, filled with awe,
Of Him who is incomprehensible;
Who fills immensity, whose name is God;
Who is from everlasting, and who knows
Nor past, nor future; living through all time,
In one eternal now. To whom all space
Illimitable is a single point,
An ever present here. Immensity
Was full of Him, while yet he dwelt alone,
The perfect light, life, love, and happiness,
Defying diminution or increase.
God! who in his omnipotence arose
And spake void chaos into solid forms
And thin vacuity. God! who in light
Went forth, and filled the boundless universe
With such a flood of glory that the spheres
Awoke, and with adoring melody
Commenced the movements of the radiant dance,
Of which the mystic mazes, until now
They braid, in perfect order, shining each
And singing with the splendour and the bliss
Caught in that earliest morning of God's light.

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God! who walked through his universe in life,
While vegetation in its myriad forms
Sprang from the dust, each catching from the light
The hue or softened tint its texture loved.
And living creatures, strong and beautiful
In sentient life, walked gravely on the earth,
Swam in the floods, or floated on the air.
God; who in love touched every sentient chord,
Attuning them to bliss, so that each thread
And fibre of his animated works
Felt his exalted touch, and gave its tone
To the full chorus of the raptured hymn.

Oh, can these finite instruments of praise,
By searching, find out God? Can we, whose feet
Cleave to our parent-earth, whose utmost stretch
Of vision is a point on this small globe,
This speck amongst his works; whose longest time
Is less than nothing, measured on the scale
Of his eternity; whose holiest thoughts
Are dim and feeble rays, that struggle forth
Into the darkness of a stormy night,
From the immortal lamp, that burns within
The earthen lantern of mortality:—
Shall man in pride presume to search out God,
The Everliving, the Omnipotent,
The Omnipresent, the creating God,
Who keeps the innumerable hosts of worlds
All balanced in their orbits, and to whom
The smallest creature in the universe
Is equally apparent, equally

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An object of his care, with those great globes
That rush, with streaming light and mighty sound,
Sweeping wide circles through immensity?

Shall man, who seeks in vain to understand
How the small ray of God within himself,
Communes with the brute matter of his form,
Question of God? presuming God within
The narrow compass of his feeble mind?
Amazing pride of bloated ignorance!
That he, who cannot analyze one drop
Of summer rain, should think to lay the whole
Of the vast ocean with its mysteries
So open that an infant's intellect
Might count its atoms, comprehend and tell
The wonders over which unfathomed depths
Have rolled in darkness since the world was made.

God has revealed sufficient of himself
To fill the intellect he gave and bend
The spirit down before him.
Let not pride
Attempt to climb upon a beam of light
Up to the centre of the burning sun,
And search its intense nature.
Equally
Vain and presumptuous is the hope to scan
The nature or the perfect ways of God.

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THE SHIPWRECK.

The ship was sweeping homeward in her pride,
With white sails swelling o'er the deep green sea,
On which the spirits of the moonlight danced
In wavering cotillions, to the tones
Of glad old ocean's everlasting song
The night sat still and silent, 'neath the arch
Of her blue airy temple, whence the meek,
And deep bright glances of heaven's watchers look
On all earth's deeds. Oh! if heaven registers
But half the acts they witness, what a score
Will blast the conscience of a guilty world,
When doomsday's book is opened!
But the ship,
In majesty of motion riding on,
Bore in her bosom many living souls,
Of various tempers, fortunes, hopes, and aims.
First were the gallant crew. The officers,
Each steady to his trust, and well aware
That this fair vessel's destiny, the fates
Of all on board, depended on their care.
The brave tars next, each to his duty true,
Stood firmly at his post, or climbed the shroud,
Or held the flying tackle; ready still
To catch and execute the master's word.

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These fearless men had whole and noble hearts,
That proudly spurned at danger, and they seemed
To have no thought or purpose, separate
From that fair moving palace. Yet the eye
That looks into the spirit, could discern
Deep thoughts of home, with its rich holy loves,
Playing around their hearts, as silently
They paced the deck, or cast along the wave
The tender anxious glance, or look toward heaven,
With supplication on the sunburnt face.
Ah, yes, the roving sailor has a heart;
His steel-cased breast is full of tenderness,
Which gushes ever at the blessed word, Home.
And these were dreaming, sleeping or awake,
Of joys and welcomes waiting for them there.

Yet one stood gazing o'er the vessel's side,
Who had no home in all the joyous earth.
He knew not where his infancy was passed,
Nor did the image of a mother live
Amid the cherished memories of his soul.
His earliest recollections hovered round
A thin and pale though noble-looking man,
Who used to look with fond but restless eye
Upon his childish sports; and on his mind
A broken dreamy recollection dwelt,
Of a confused and agitated scene,
When that pale man lay moaning on a couch,
And said, as one supported his weak form,
“Come, kiss your dying father, Isadore.”
And he remembered, too, how he had shrunk
With childhood's sobbing terror, from the glance
Of a white-headed and hard-featured man,

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Who sternly said, “Bow to your grandfather!”
And there were none to love him, none to press
The warm fond kiss upon his little brow;
To clasp him fondly to affection's breast;
To soothe his little woes and guide his sports.
And he was lonely, for his spirit lacked
The living balsam of parental love,
Which heals the wounds that otherwise remain
To ache, and fester, and embitter life.
So he became a sad and moody boy,
Misanthropic e'en from his infancy.
And he had been a wanderer on the earth,
Displeased, and cavilling at all he met;
Distrustful where he might have well relied;
Reserved when friendship wooed him; cold and sad
Where all around was happiness and joy.

One lone bright star had beamed upon his path,
For he had loved, had worshipped;—all his heart,
Soul, and affections centered round the form
Of one fair fragile girl, whose very life
Was confidence, and happiness, and love.
But death's cold angel snatched her from his breast,
And laid her in the bosom of the earth.
And now his sighs blent sadly with the breeze,
And big bright tears were dropping one by one,
Upon the bosom of the cold salt sea,
Which feels and heeds them, just as this cold world
Feels sorrow's tear, or heeds the bitter drops
That she herself wrings from the feeling heart.

Slow pacing to and fro, with measured tread,
And eye that seemed to study on the deck
Some Euclid problem, a rich merchant walked.

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His brain was busy, not with thoughts of love,
Or nature's fond affections; yet he had
A sweet and peaceful home, a gentle wife,
And children, who were daily asking, “When
Will our dear father come?” And when the storm
Was howling round their dwelling, they would say:
“Dear mother, does it storm so on the sea?”
And then her woman heart would palpitate
With all the phantoms of the billowy deep.
But his heart was not with them. He has made
A prosperous voyage, and his tutored mind
Luxuriates in his gains, and he is now
Contriving speculations, that shall swell
Another hundred-fold, his mammoth wealth.
Leaning against a mast, with folded arms,
And dark eyes fixed upon the smiling moon,
Whose melting light lay cradled with the beams
Of sad and tender thought within their depths,
A pale youth stood. His treasure and his heart
Were far beyond the billows, in the home
Of that fair girl, with whom, from infancy,
He blended soul and mind. Yet three long years
Had ocean billows, with their foamy crests,
Heaved fearfully between them, and he felt,
Now that he voyaged homeward, all the pangs
Of hope, and fear, and fond mortality.
Would Laura greet him with a joyous smile,
And hide her blushing face upon his breast?
And would he find upon her trembling hand
The ring he gave at parting? Is she fair,
And innocent, and pure, as when they roved

132

The spring-clad hills together? Is her heart
Untouched by pride or flattery? Does she love
As fondly now as when he kissed the tears
From her pale cheek at parting, while her form
Shook like an aspen? Or was he no more
The loved of her affections? Or had death
Proved a dire rival, and made her his bride?
Oh! for the strong wings of the gull, to fly
And end these agonizing doubts at once.
Within the cabin of that fated ship,
Beat many an anxious bosom. There was one
Who long ago forsook his native land,
To woo the goddess Fortune. He had sought,
By nights of watching, days of toil and care,
Stern self-denial, and the sacrifice
Of every generous impulse, to obtain
Her gracious golden smile; and he had won
The envy-moving treasure; he was rich!
And his heart swelled with triumph, as he dwelt
Upon the consequence, the lordly pomp,
The proud superior air he would assume
Amongst his schoolday equals. Oh, how vain!
Beside him sat his young and lovely wife,
Busied with other thoughts; for she had left
Youth's consecrated home, and fond regrets
Were shadowing forth the memories of days,
And joys, and loved ones, that would never more
Come sweetly to her spirit; she had left
Her all for one whom she had never loved,
Who wooed and won her, as the fowler takes
The wild bird in his net, and who would keep

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His bright-winged pet a captive, to adorn
His splendid mansion, and to pour her tones
Of mellow sweetness only on his ear.

Near them, upon a couch, a feeble girl,
With hectic cheek and fever-flashing eye,
And soft low moan of pain and weakness, lay.
Her mother sat beside her, whose deep sobs
Came painfully upon her thrilling ear.
“Dear mother, do not weep so,” murmured forth
The dying maiden; but the mother's grief
Became more wild and deep. “Oh, Rosabel!
My child, my only one! how can I live,
And see thee sink and die? Oh, how shall I,
To whom thou hast been all in all so long,
Exist without thee? When thy gentle voice
No more shall greet me, or thy radiant smile
Shed sunlight through my heart? What shall I do,
When thou requirest my fond care no more,
Ay, when thou art no more? Oh, Rosabel,
In all my sorrows, thou hast been to me
Heaven's gift of consolation. When I knelt
Beside thy father's couch, when his thin cheek
And sunken eyes were lighted up like thine;—
Oh, 'tis the sunset glory of the west,
Sure harbinger of darkness!—then, when first
I felt the frailty of all earthly good,
And felt my young heart breaking! Oh, that scene!
Thine arms were round my neck, and thy red lips
Pressed to my forehead, while thy little heart
Poured forth its simple soothing, till at length,
As wholly heedless of thee, I wept on,
Thou laidst thy little hand upon my neck,

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And sobb'dst out, ‘Mother loved poor Rosa once,
But now she will not hear her.’ Then I felt
'Twas cruelty to cloud the sunny morn
Of childhood with the shadow of my grief,
Or tinge thy rich young spirit with the gloom
Of death and mourning; and for thy sweet sake,
I struggled to support a weary life,
Assumed a calm demeanour, ay, and smiled,
Lest thy young heart should languish, till at length
My soul grew tranquil in reality.
And when that scene was past, and I became
A widow! then I wore a cheerful mien
Above a blighted heart, lest thy young soul
Should grow familiar with the tones of wo,
And feel the weight of sadness, which bends down
The feeling spirit in its early bloom!
Oh, I have loved thee solely! and I hoped
That thou wouldst solace my declining years;—
But it is over now—a few days more
It may be mine to watch the waning light
Of thy pure spirit; then the sea! the sea!—
I cannot yield thee! Oh, the ocean grave!”—

“Dear mother, do not, I beseech thee, weep
So bitterly. What boots the marble tomb,
Or grave of earth? The wave will just as well
Conceal the loathsomeness of flesh's decay;
I care not where my worn-out garment lies.
Do, mother, banish these afflicting thoughts,
And look away to heaven. There's comfort there—
Rich consolation and eternal peace.

“My soul is grateful for the love and care
Which thou hast lavished on me, and which I
Can never now return, since every day

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Makes my debt greater and my means more scant.
Dear mother, be content to let me go
A little while before thee. Look to God;
He will not leave his children comfortless.”

Who interrupts the sobbing parlance now?
A meagre-looking, tearful little girl
Advances, with a timid courtesy,—
“Madam,” she said, “you weep, and you can feel
For my poor mother's sorrow. Come, I pray,
And look upon her; she is very ill.”

“Go with her, mother;” whispered Rosabel,
“The Lord perchance has sent her to divert
The selfish current of our bitterness.”

Deep in the ship's side, in a wretched berth,
Was laid the mother of that hapless child,
Writhing and groaning with a fierce disease.
Her husband left his country for the land
Of equal rights, three weary years before;
And he had gained a comfortable home
For his dear wife and child, and they were now
Upon their voyage to rejoin him there.
His heart was yearning to embrace once more
The idol of his young and faithful love,
To clasp the sweet child, who in infancy
Sat cooing on his knee, or twined his neck
So lovingly with her soft little arms;
While Mary spread the neat but humble board.
His heart was masculine; it did not dwell,
Like woman's, on the dangers of the sea,
O'er which his loved ones journeyed. Could he now

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Have stood beside that berth, how had his hopes
And glad heart-beatings died in pain away.

The murmuring widow gazed upon the scene;
And her heart smote her as she looked upon
Affliction so much bitterer than her own.
Beside that sufferer's bed no gentle friend
Stood, prompt to do the ministry of love;
And that poor little child, whose trembling hand
Held the cold water up to her parched lips,
Oh, how her sobs of childish agony
Convulsed the mother's heart! “Oh, Emeline!
Who will protect thee?—who will comfort thee,
And lead thee to thy father?” she exclaimed.
“I will protect thy child,” the widow said,
“And serve thee to the utmost of my power.”
“My God, I thank thee! Thou hast heard my voice,
My cares are all removed,—I die in peace!”

In her own cabin, heedless of these scenes
Of death and sorrow, lay a simple maid,
Weeping in bitterness the night away,
Ay, supplicating heaven for death's relief.
Yet neither pain nor sickness agonized
Her youthful person, and she was possessed
Of riches, beauty, dear and gentle friends.
What then was her affliction? Why the child
Had listened to the flatteries of a man,
Whom her young heart deemed faultless, for he seemed
Disinterested, generous, noble-souled,
And so devoted—could she doubt his truth?
Then he was handsome, graceful, and genteel;
Her eye was dazzled, and her simple heart

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Quite captivated; and she thought that earth
Had not another like him, or held aught
That could compensate for her loss of him.

Her father saw him in another light;
A libertine, a base, designing knave,
A fortune-hunter, a low grovelling soul,
The old man's keen and well-experienced eye
Discovered him to be. He loved his child,
And sought to save her from the bitter years
Of bootless, keen repentance and distress.
This was the sorrow that so frenzied her.

Screened by the damask curtains of her bed,
A lady, her companion, knelt in prayer.
She knew affliction; she had been abroad
With her young husband, who went forth to seek
The restoration of his shattered health.
But all her cares and watchings had been vain,
And her last hope was to conduct him home,
That he might look on his own land once more,
And sleep within its bosom. But the Lord
Had otherwise determined. She had watched
All the long lonely night beside his couch,
Still prompt to minister and soothe his pain,
And she had closed the eyes from which her soul
Had drank the purest, sweetest happiness
Of earth's affection; and she then composed,
For the last time, those black and glossy curls,
Which she so loved to comb and to arrange
Upon his noble brow. And she had seen
That form, so beautiful, so much beloved,
Sink down to the low caverns of the deep,
For ever, from her sight. Oh, that was grief;

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And she wept wildly, for she did not boast
That fortitude which some admire so much,
But which exists with apathy alone.
Feeling will gush; no high, no proud resolve
Can choke the utterance of the gushing heart.
And Emma wept, but she forgot not God.
She wept with resignation, and poured out
The humble breathing of a broken heart;
And He who shook her idol from its throne,
Gave her the presence of a God instead,
And she bowed down and worshipped.

Other sounds
Than voice of grief, or prayer, or dying pain,
Rose on the night air from that gallant bark.
Forth from the cabin swelled the patriot song,
With loud and stirring chorus, as the bowl,
Which makes the dastard brave, went freely round.
Card-tables there, and dice, and chess, were spread;
And sleight-of-hand and secret villany
Defrauded the poor dupes who vainly thought
That hoodwinked fortune had presided there;
And oaths and imprecations fierce and loud
Burst from hot lips, which, ever and anon,
Were bathed in flashing wine, and cursed alike
Success or disappointment.
Oh, great God!
That fearful shock; that wild and shrieking cry
That sprang at once toward heaven from all on board,
As the broad bottom of that plated hull
Struck on the lurking reef! Another shock!
“We are all lost!” exclaimed a shrieking voice,

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Which pierced the cabins with its knell of death;
And one wild swell of horror and despair
Swept o'er each pausing heart, and washed away
All sense of other wo.
Ha! where had fled
The deep and varied passions, that but now
Held strong dominion in those awe-struck breasts?
Death!—Death is present! What availeth now
The home that waits the wanderer, with its smiles,
And warm embrace of love? What boots it now
To the warped heart of the misanthrope,
That life is not all sunlight? Gloriously
Breaks forth its parting beam. Oh, earth is fair!
And life is sweet, now that Eternity
Comes booming on the waves—sweeping away
All but the bare reality of things.

Who now is brooding over luckless love?
Who reckons up, and glories in his gains?
Who thinks of pale consumption and disease?
Who dwells with sad regretful memories
Of loved ones, who have passed the cold dark porch
Of the eternal city, at whose gates
They all stand shuddering? Where is now the flush
Of the wine fever? Where the vivid glow
Of proud success? Where has the dark hue fled
Which gushes from the baffled writhing heart
Up to the gambler's brow?
Each cheek is pale,
And every spirit passionless and faint
With cold death-sickness.
Through the shattered hull
The wild relentless waters rushed and roared,

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As the fierce armies of the olden time
Rushed shouting through the breaches in the wall
Of some proud kingly city.
To the boats!
All life's fond hopes are with them! and Despair
To that frail refuge turned her piercing eyes—
But they were filled, and paddled from the wreck,
And lay—aghast with terror, as it were—
Watching the fearful issue. Even those
Who proved victorious in the fearful strife
To reach the boats—even they, with wide still eyes
Looked back upon the death whose certainty
They hardly had eluded. While their loved
And loving ones shrieked, with extended arms,
To them for succour—while it seemed that heaven
Could not now save them. Every buoyant thing
From off those decks now rides upon the wave,
Each freighted with a life; and God alone
Can see the sharp and varied agonies
Of those half-frantic souls, that cling to life,
Even on the icy bosom of Despair—
Or those that still remain upon the wreck.

Yet even here, amid these fearful scenes,
Peace lay beneath the brooding wing of death.
Ay, even here was peace, the peace of God,
Which nature seeks in vain to comprehend;
It passes understanding, and pervades
The humble souls which glow with love divine.

Yes, in that vessel were some humble souls,
To whom death came in angel loveliness,—
A messenger of mercy. Staid and calm
Their hearts were beating, and their eyes were raised,

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With holy hope and confidence, toward heaven.
“Thy will be done,” they murmured,—while a yell
Of deep fierce agony swelled madly up,
As closed the waters o'er that peopled ship,
And down! down! down! it sunk, to the dark bed
Of the hoarse moaning waves.

The scene is closed.—
The winds, and sea, and sky, are still and bright,
And nature looks all glorious, as the morn
Comes gladly forth, as if no heart was cold,
No spirit broken, no bright eye sealed up
In ever-during darkness,—none consigned
To wet and weary watching for the form
It never more will rest on. These shall mourn
As if nor light nor joy remained on earth;
Yet nature, with her melody and bloom,
Shall hold her course rejoicing, no more moved
That his proud ship is lost, than if a swarm
Of painted insects had been swept away
By chilly night-winds.
Even the mourners' hearts—
Ay, these will cease to throb. Oh, earth! Oh, life!
Who could endure your ills, your bitter pangs,
Your heartless apathy and fickleness,
With the eternal shipwreck of your hopes,
But for the steady light of Faith, which beams
Upon the Holy Page, reflecting thence
Hope, peace, and consolation, which no gloom
Amongst the shadows of this opaque earth
Can ever quench! Oh! not the cloud that lies
O'er death's lone valley, or the fearful shade
That wraps the impenetrable eve of Time,

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And hides the dayspring of Eternity,
Can cloud the beam of Faith. Oh! gloriously
'Twill light the spirit, in the dreadful wreck
Of this stupendous ship—the peopled earth.

TO A BROKEN TULIP.

It is not for thee that I weep,
Thou beautiful perishing flower,
Though I've watched thy bright bud, since I first saw it peep,
The loveliest gem in my bower.
It is not for thee that I mourn,
Though spoilers have broken thy stem,
And crushed on the earth the rich robes thou hast worn,
And trampled thy bright diadem.

But thou, my poor perishing flower,
With treasures of dying perfume,
Hast gathered around, with a magical power,
The memories that dwell in the tomb.
Their voices are sweet to mine ear,
Though sad as the dove's dying moan,
Their hands and their eyes are surpassingly dear,
And bright lips that whisper “My own.”

I seek with a thrill of delight
To clasp the dear shades to my heart,
Then with eyes dim and closed, cheeks and lips cold and white,
In coffins and shrouds, they depart.

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I clasp my hands then, and I weep—
As I wept when we parted at first,—
When the dear ones went down to the long lonely sleep,
And anthems pealed forth—Dust to dust!

Alas! for his pitiless powers,
Whose palace of state is the tomb;
Who breaks down the dearest, and loveliest flowers,
And gathers them into the gloom.
'Tis piteous to see the young head
Bow down, when life's stamen is broke;
'Tis mournful to breathe the sweet incense they shed,
As meekly they yield to the stroke.

But lo! a bright Conqueror stands
Amid the rapt seraphs above;
And sweet buds and blossoms, in beautiful bands,
Rejoice in the light of his love.
He hath rifled the palace of death,—
He hath borne the pale flowers from the gloom;
They live in his presence, a beautiful wreath,
Immortal in fragrance and bloom.

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THE ANGEL OF THE PAST.

When fainting in life's desert way,
The weary heart sits down to rest,
Afflicted, wrung, and desolate,
With bitter ills oppressed;
When cold chill mildews of despair
Upon the lonely spirit creep;
When Hope forgets her ministry,
And turns away to weep;

The pale sweet Angel of the Past,
With dewy eye, and drooping mien,
Comes o'er the naked wild to cast
Her tableau vivant scene.
Grouped by her Witch-of-Endor hand,
They come, a fair and smiling train,
From every bright and pleasant land
Through which our path has lain.

Memories from Friendship's blessed vale,
Proffer again the dear caress;
But in the background stand Deceit,
Or cold Forgetfulness.

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Shadows from Love's delightful bowers,
With red-rose wreaths and golden lyres,
Present their precious offerings,
And touch their altar fires.

But Sorrow, with her sable-train,
The coffin, shroud, and rigid clay,
Pass slow before the joyous group;—
We groan, and turn away.
Thus gather all the hopes and joys,
That dazzled and deceived our youth;
But now upon them, cold and clear,
Lies the stern light of Truth.

At length appears a radiant train,—
Memories of childhood pure and sweet;
On brow and breast there is no stain,
No soil upon their feet.
They seek no wealth beyond the flowers
That live beside the valley brook;
That on the mountain make their bowers,
Or in some rocky nook.

They ask no joys, but such as live
In love around a father's hearth;
They worship only God in heaven,
And mother upon earth.
Their gentle voices are more sweet
Than softest songs of summer birds;
And flattery, sorrow, and deceit
Are never in their words.

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TO THE MEMORY OF T. W. WHITE,

LATE EDITOR OF THE SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.

And has the Southern Muse no votive wreath
To lay upon thy tomb? No pensive lyre,
A living requiem to thy name to breathe,
Long as the winds of heaven shall wake the wire?

Shall Southern genius build for thee no tomb
From her rich treasury of native gems?
Shall Southern kindness braid no funeral crown,
From her rich wilderness of flow'ring stems?

Oh, ardent friend and lover of the Muse?
Generous embalmer of her native lay,
Thou, who didst never falter or refuse
To aid young Genius in her upward way!

Thou of the kindly heart, the generous breast,
The spirit willing every wo to share;
The grass is green above thy place of rest,
And none has laid a grateful offering there!

The Muse thou fosteredst, could she weave no lay,
To drape with honour thy last resting-place?
The land thou lovedst, could she bring no bay
Of evergreen and tear-gemmed memories?

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I never heard thy voice, or saw thy face,
But I have proved thy friendship; and my hand
Has wreathed these pale flowers of the wilderness,
With living laurel of this Northern land;

And I have brought my offering, with its dew,
From the deep fountain of a stricken heart;
To which thy warm and generous nature knew
The holy balm of friendship to impart.

Oh, let my tribute lie above thy breast;—
Could thy cold heart but feel the balmy flowers!—
Far holier garlands in the Land of Rest
Shed round thy spirit now their blissful powers.

THE DYING SOLDIER.

Night gathers slowly round me; the long night
Of darkness and of death. Within mine eye
The light of life is fading, as the day
Is slowly melting from the darkening sky.

See, from the wood that borders this foul plain,
Creep slowly forth the shadows; night is there,
And her dim hosts march slowly—slowly on,—
So silently—Oh, terrible they are!

All forms of darkness, doubt, and mystery,
Sad, hideous, and fantastic, form that wreath
Of cold black horror. Oh, I feel it now!
It stifles my warm soul,—it cramps my breath;

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The red blood flows no longer from my wound,—
I feel the warm tide trickle down no more;
There is no pain, but oh, an iciness,
A horrid stiff'ning of the curdling gore,

More terrible than all the agonies
That have convulsed me since I weltered here;
It is not ease or sleep. Oh, Death! thou soul
Of darkness—thou embodiment of fear—

How nature doth abhor thy cold embrace,
And cling to life's warm bosom. Life! oh, life!
Though thou art passion, weariness, and pain,
We cling to thee with agonizing strife.

I would prolong thy parting bitterness;
I gasp to taste once more thy warm sweet breath;
But icy daggers pierce my vitals through,—
My brain grows torpid with the weight of death.

Yet I shall live for ever in the light
Of my proud country's glory! and my grave
Shall be a holy altar, where the free
Shall celebrate the worship of the brave.

And this is death in glory! with the wreath
Of victory's laurel fresh upon my brow;
Oh, ardently I sought for such a death;
Life! life!—oh for thy humblest station now!

Oh, for the blessings I have thrown away,—
Warm being, with its pulses of delight,
Its tendrils of delicious sympathy,
Embracing all the beautiful and bright.

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Its clinging thrilling loves. Oh, Geraldine,
The blissful bands that hold thee to my heart,
Now shivering with intensest agony
Of painful tension, cannot, cannot part.

Death hath no power to rend those holy ties;
The bonds of our communion must remain,
To change the blessed intercourse of bliss
Which has been ours, to cold and lingering pain.

Our hearts are wedded, and for ever more
Must nestle to each other. Wo to thine,
Doomed in its young warm tenderness to bear
The icy and death-stricken weight of mine.

The mysteries of love are now revealed,
The preciousness of life, the priceless worth
Of its enjoyments.—Oh, for warmth, for light,
For strength, once more to range the glorious earth!

Oh, for the hope of immortality,
The humble Christian's hope of life to come!
Of friendship, love, and joy, all purified,
And bound in wreaths of never-fading bloom.

The veriest slave who feels that blessed hope,
Hath life eternal flowing round his heart;
Round mine now closes black and crushing ice—
Doubt, horror!—Death! oh, terrible thou art!

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CALISTA.

Yes, thou art gone down to the still, cold grave
To hide thy broken heart. The dim-eyed world
Says, that consumption drank the fountain dry
Of thy young joyous life. Well, be it so!
That world would scoff, perhaps, if it should know
The hidden agony that burned away
Thy spirit's silver spring, and left thy heart,
Thy woman-heart, to waste by sure decay,
Till, like a lily withered at the root,
Thou droopedst to the earth. Consumption! Ay,
Came the destroyer ever unto her,
Who wore within her heart no secret grief?
Oh, woman, woman! if thy history
Were written by th' impartial pen of truth,
The world would start away in dumb surprise
From the revealings of the agonies
Which thou hast borne in silence, while they gnawed
Thy heart away, and fed upon thy brain
Like fiery vipers, or consumed away
Thy very soul within thee!
Thy young heart,
My poor Calista, was an open book to me,
From our glad childhood. Every throb,
And wish, and feeling, pleaded unto me
For sympathy and shelter; and the doom

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That parted us in girlhood was like death.
The paper missive passing to and fro,
And burdened with the yearnings of the soul,
Still formed a chain between us, but alas!
How cold is such communion to the hearts
That long to give each other throb for throb
In love's unchecked embrace; while full deep eyes
Pour forth the treasures of each ardent soul,
In language that needs not the form of words,
But is itself the eloquence of truth.
Thy spirit was so formed for confidence,
It could not live without a present friend,
With whom it might commingle every tone
Of its wild melody. And there was one
Whose spirit seemed attuned to blend with thine
Every harmonious tone. He seemed like thee,
Pensive and pious, intellectual;
All poetry, and gentleness, and love.
He called thee sister, and was unto thee
All that the fondest brother could have been;
And thou didst lean on him confidingly,
And listen to the dreamy sophistries
Of “pure platonic love.” Ah me, that dream
Of passionless affection! Many a heart
Has trusted in it, and awoke too late,
Pierced through with many sorrows. Earnestly
I gave my warning. But the heart—the heart!
When did it list to reason? 'tis so sweet
To rest the heart in perfect confidence
On one that feels and feeds its sympathies
With fond devotion; and to deem that flame,
Burning in earthen censers, high and pure
As the devotion of the raptured love

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That wreaths its incense in the spirit-land.
Such love is pure, but 'neath its placid tide—
Ah, poor humanity!—a current runs,
Silent and strong, which the heart recks not of,
Till it is undermined, and borne away
Wrecked and undone for ever. So it was
With thee, Calista. Placid were thy dreams
As the sweet bird's, who sings herself to sleep,
Where trembling radiance of the evening star
Illumes the pinions of the summer winds,
That kiss the fragrant flowers and rock her nest.
As breaks upon the slumber of that bird
The voice of the tornado, as he bends
His black breast on the forest, with a crash
That makes earth shudder, while his sounding wings
Strike the strong trees to splinters, as aghast,
Wounded and helpless, rest and desolate,
She flutters to the earth in agony,—
So to Calista came from Henry's lips
The words—“I love—not with a brother's love,
But passionately, with a burning heart,
One whom I long have known, who will be mine
In wedlock's holy bondage. A few days,
And I will bring a sister to your arms,
And we shall be so happy.”
So it was—
Here was the secret of the holy love,
The placid tenderness, the platonism,
That bound him to Calista. His young heart,
With its wild flood of passion, had been given
Unto another ere he saw her face;
And she had been to him a sweet relief
To absence, doubt, and sorrow, while her heart

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And soul, and being, mingled into his,
With holy worship of a maiden's love,
Guiltless of passion,till that fatal word,
“I love another,” opened to her view
The deep springs of her heart. She could have lived
For ever happy in her gentle dream
Of pure fraternal love, if Henry's heart
Had owned no other. But to hear him say,
“Rejoice, sweet spirit-sister! for the maid
Whom I have loved so many weary years
With passionate devotion, is mine own.”
Oh, 'twas too deadly bitter to her soul!
Yet still she smiled—that smile which woman's pride
Throws o'er the ruin of a broken heart,
Like sunlight flitting o'er a sepulchre.

Of what could she complain? He was not false;
He never sought the love that she had given;—
So in the deep recesses of her soul,
She hid her shame and sorrow, and stood by,
While to another he pledged earnestly
All that she valued or desired on earth.
But from that day she drooped, fading away
Like summer twilight, which goes sweetly out,
With dying melody and closing flowers,
Into the world of sleep.
Around her bier
The weepers stood, and chided at the fate
Which gave so lovely and beloved a maid
To pitiless consumption.

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JESUS, FRIEND OF SINNERS!

Jesus, friend of sinners! see in adoration
Low at thy footstool I bend down before thee,
Praising thy mercy for the blest permission
Thus to adore thee.

Jesus, friend of sinners! give me grace to offer
Such an oblation as thou canst approve of,
Even my fervent penitent affections,
Laid on thine altar.

Jesus, friend of sinners! 'grave upon my spirit,
While I bow down imploringly before thee,
That the unholy cannot look upon thee,
Throned in thy mercy.

Jesus, friend of sinners! let me not approach thee
Hiding my sins like nestlings in my bosom,
Crying for mercy, while I feel their writhings
Torture my spirit.

Jesus, friend of sinners! take away my idols;
Help me to look upon them with abhorrence,
Then pour in mercy on my bleeding bosom,
Thy consolation.

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Jesus, friend of sinners! keep me ever near thee;
Save me from sin, the source of keenest sorrows;
Grant me the peace that passes understanding,
Now and for ever.

TO THE BANNER OF THE CROSS.

Ay, lift the banner high,
And let it stream afar;
While on it rests the radiancy
Of Bethlehem's holy star.

Embroider on its field
“The Spirit's peaceful Dove,”
Defended by the ample shield
Of perfect fervent Love.

Upon its border write
“Holiness to the Lord!”
While all its folds, in lines of light
Display his written word.

Ay, raise the banner high,
The Banner of the Cross!
Beneath which, earth is vanity,
And all its treasures dross.

March on, from sea to sea,
And o'er the isle-set wave,
Till all the human family
Know Him, who came to save!—

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Till every spirit feels
Devotion's sacred flame,
Till every living creature kneels
To our Redeemer's name;

Till heedless of earth's fame,
Her avarice and her pride,
We glory but in Jesus' name,
In Christ, the crucified.

Then lift his banner high,
And pray, thy kingdom come;
'Tis crowned with joy and victory,
He leads his armies home.

THE HUNTER.

The weary hunter paused upon the hill
What time the sun lay smiling in the west;
The winds were sleeping, and the mountain rill
Seemed lingering in the silent bowers to rest.

He doffed his cap, and wiped his sunburnt brow,
Leaned on his gun, and scanned the scene around;
His noble dog approached him, crouching low,
And lay down wearily upon the ground.

'Twas autumn, and the forests were arrayed
In kingly costume, purple and bright gold;
While here and there, a deep green cluster stayed,
And lingering flowers their fragrant silks unrolled.

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Ripe nuts were strewn profusely on the ground,
Tall trees were bending 'neath the clustered vine,
Even rugged rocks with berried garlands crowned,
Could boast their blessing from the hand Divine.

The hunter looked to heaven with humid eye,
Then sat him down upon the mountain's brow,
And gazed, with drooping mien and many a sigh,
Upon the pleasant vale that lay below.

“Twelve years!”—he said at length—“oh! what a change
Twelve years have wrought in this soft vale and me;
The very spot I called my own is strange,—
I look in vain e'en for my favourite tree.

“Oh, happy were the seasons when I roved
A careless boy along that river's side;
And happier far, when with the maid I loved,
I watched the moonlight trembling on the tide;

“Or marked young love's pure spirit on her face,
Weaving his rosy garland of delight,
Where neither grief or care had left a trace,
Or crossed one joy-beam with the shade of night.

“There stands the noble elm that threw its shade
So many summers at my father's door;
Its limbs are broken now, its heart decayed,
And the green foliage crowns its head no more.

“And she who loved me with a mother's love,
Who 'neath that elm-tree sung her lullaby,
From that loved home, long since compelled to rove,
I saw her in a land of strangers die.

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“Those black and crumbling ruins mark the spot
Of my own household hearth, my blessed home
Of treasures that can never be forgot,
While in the wilderness of life I roam.

“There's happiness in that rich valley now,
And glad hearts cluster round each household stone,
While, I, a lone thing on the mountain's brow,
Have neither house or hearth to call my own.

“Oh, desolation! how thine icy seal
Lies like a leaden tomb upon my breast,
Crushing a heart, no balm can soothe or heal;
Wearing a spirit that can never rest.”

He paused, and bowed his face upon his knee,
And his clasped hands dropped listless from his brow,
While big tears fell so slow and silently,
As from the fountain of a deep-felt wo.

Poor Ponto, wondering why his master grieves,
Licks kindly from his hand the falling tears;—
Hark! There's a distant rustle of the leaves,
The dog starts forward, and erects his ears.

The practised hunter soon detects the sound,
And his keen eye is watching for the game,
When from the cover of a verdant mound,
Amid the clustering greens, an object came.

He raised his trusty rifle to his eye,—
A spotted fawn appears; the hills resound;
What means that wild and agonizing cry?
A human creature has received the wound.

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With terror wild he hastened to the place,
And there, apparently in death, was laid
A young and lovely girl of Indian race,
In fawnskin mantle tastefully arrayed.

He stooped to aid her, but she shrank away,
And shrieked and struggled with intense alarms,
Till, overcome with fear and agony,
She hid her face, and fainted in his arms.

“Oh, I have murdered her!” the hunter said,
As o'er his arm her head drooped languidly;
And her rough mantle, falling back, displayed
Her arms and bosom, white as ivory.

Rich curls of bright brown hair were clustered round
Her polished shoulder, where the warm red blood
Was leaping from a wide and rugged wound,
Like the impetuous gushing of a flood.

He probed its depth, and his despairing heart
Leaped up, as hope awoke amid his fears;
The girl revived, as he essayed his art
To staunch her blood and soothe away her fears.

And like the captured fawn, that artless maid
Soon ceased to fear her captor, spoke and smiled,
And poured her thanks for his assiduous aid,
With all the simple fervour of a child.

“Thy heart is like the red man's heart,” she said;
“It melts with pity for a helpless maid,

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So when the warriors of my people bled,
The tomahawk above my brow was stayed;

“And Wonah bore me in his arms away
To the bright border of the silver lake;
And I was happy there, oh, many a day,—
Yet sometimes then my little heart would ache,

“With misty memories of a lovely vale,
And tall flowers clustering on a river's side,
Fair fruit-trees bending to the fragrant gale,
And cultured fields, and meadows smooth and wide;

“And of a dwelling, where a gentle one,
With soft blue eyes, smiled ever on my play,
And soothed my sorrow with such balmy tone,
Who nursed, and watched, and taught me, night and day;

“And of a scene of tumult, blood, and fire,
A hideous mingling of shouts, shrieks, and groans;
I saw my dear and gentle nurse expire,
And heard my name amid her latest moans.

“Then I was borne away.” The maiden ceased,
The hunter's hand had clutched with sudden clasp
A bracelet, which her perfect arm embraced,—
Gazed on it, and sunk back with deathlike gasp.

Alarmed, she raised his head upon her knee,
And warm tears fell like rain-drops on his brow,
A trembling hope,which panted fearfully,
Was waking in her heaving bosom now.

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“My child! my own sweet child!” the hunter cried.
“Oh, God be praised, that thou art spared to me!
His Providence has been thy guard and guide,
For he alone could have protected thee.

“How cam'st thou hither, angel of my life,
To meet thy wandering father, who has come
To weep above the ashes of his wife,
And mourn above his desolated home?”

“Father! I could not wed the Indian chief,
Though he has been my brother, kind and true;
I could not bear to see his bitter grief;
I fled, and God directed me to you.”

“And blessed be his name. By yon fair flood,”
The hunter said, “I'll build my bower again,
Plant my young rose-tree, where her mother stood,
And in its balmy shade forget my pain.

“Ah, little thought I, when love's diadem
Was torn by savage warriors from my brow,
That their rough hands had saved the precious gem
Which sheds such blessed radiance o'er me now.”

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TO ANNA ---.

Shall that light heart, that bounds to joy,
Be ever sad and dreary?
And can that brilliant, laughing eye,
Be downcast, wet, and weary?
Oh, can the hopes that swell thy breast,
Be wholly wrecked and broken?
And shalt thou seek in vain for rest,
Where words of peace are spoken?

Ah! shall thy brilliant beauty be
Like some poor broken flower,
That droops its fair head piteously
Beneath the driving shower?
Alas! that such should be thy doom,
And none to sorrow o'er thee!
Yet many a bright and fragrant bloom
Has died unwept before thee.

Oh, who would rob us of the faith
That smooths the path of sorrow,
And cheers the night of pain or death
With promise of to-morrow?
Oh, wring my soul, or wreck my peace,
Or make me broken-hearted;
But leave untouched my hopes of bliss,
When life's frail strings are parted.

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THE HOUR OF PRAYER.

'Tis now the hour of prayer,—
The world is still and calm,
And all the trembling air
Is like a cloud of balm;
From valley, plain, and hill,
No busy voices come;
The flocks and herds are still,
The labourer is at home.

The moon in holy light
Walks down the spangled sky,
The dewy leaves are bright
Beneath her radiant eye;
The birds, that all the day
Made field and forest ring,
Sleep each upon his spray,
With head beneath the wing.

Even childhood's voice of joy
Is bound in sweet control,
And dreams of bliss employ
The young and harmless soul.
No sound is on the air,
To tempt the mind astray;—
In such an hour of prayer
How sweet it is to pray!

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No thoughts of sorrow now
Exert their dark control;
The moon shines on the brow,
And peace is in the soul;
No weight is on the mind,
In this sweet hour of prayer;
The world is left behind,
With all its chains of care.

How blessed now to kneel
All humbly on the sod;
To look to heaven and feel
The presence of our God;
To feel the spirit melt
With love's redeeming ray,
From Him who often knelt
In night's calm hour to pray;—

To feel the Spirit of grace,
With soft mysterious sway,
Shed o'er the soul that peace,
Which nought can take away.
Oh! sweet indeed it were,
With such communion blest,
At this calm hour of prayer
To pass to endless rest.

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WINTER.

The Winter has come from the dark wild caves
In the barren hills of the dreary North,
Where the sea lies bound in his frozen waves,
And the snows of eternity shroud the earth.

Realms that the sunlight has never seen,
Where brood the pinions of endless night,
Save where the borealean sheen
Waves her wild banners of lurid night.

Where the ice with the snow-drifts from the bowers,
Where the weary-winged tempests retire to sleep,
And the hoar frost spangles the waste with flowers,
Fairer than any where night dews weep.

There Winter asserts his eternal reign,
In the terrible gloom, for his spirit meet;
And hither he sends on a long campaign
His forces of hurricane, snow, and sleet.

The Summer has fled to the land of flowers,
Where the verdure is budding the whole year long;
And the sweet birds live in the changeless bowers,
And carol an everlasting song;—

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Where the blossoms are heavy with honey dew,
And the fruits with their nectar juices swell;
Where Plenty and Beauty profusely strew
Their richest of gifts, like a magic spell;—

The Zephyrs have gone to that land of love,
With the hues and the scents of our leaves and flowers;
The beautiful birds of our summer groves
Are resting their wings in those blessed bowers.

All desolate now is the field and wood,
Late glowing with beauty, and voiced with love,
And Winter has prisoned the hymning flood,
Spread snow-drifts around us, and clouds above.

Oh! for the joys of our summer hours,
When the earth was all fair, and the sky serene,
When pleasures were sporting in balmy bowers,
Like butterflies spangling a fairy scene.

Oh! for the days that will come no more,
The days of summer, of song, and glee,
When sunlight gladdened the sea and shore,
And lay in its brightness on you and me.

Oh! is there no South, where the light of peace
And summer of happiness may endure;
No land, where the beauty so brief in this,
May bloom to eternity fair and pure?

Yes, there is a country where living streams
Through bowers of blessedness ever glide,

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Where love may embody its holiest dreams,
And beauty immortal and bliss abide.

Then why, in the winter of pain and wo,
Cling wailing around the pale buds of time,
When even the sparrow and wild-dove know
The way to a beautiful summer clime?

SPRING.

“Earth breaks forth into singing;” for the Spring,
So like an infant with its angel smile,
Reclines upon her bosom, and the sun
Looks lovingly upon her, and his gifts
Of joy and beauty deck her gloriously.
Behold the bright green mantle, rich with flowers
Of every form and hue, which he has thrown
So bounteously around her!—See the plumes
Of leafy beauty, of a thousand shades,
Red, brown, and yellow, mingled here and there
With silvery clusters of the trembling asp,
All merging to the pale and tender green
Of the advancing foliage of the Spring!
The diamond waters sparkle in rich chains
Upon her bosom, mingling with her wreaths;
And music, from a thousand living bells,
Gushing in chorus to the sacred song
Which winds and waters chaunt continually
To Him who gave them voices.
Look abroad!—
All life is full of gladness. See the sports

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Of the young innocents!—Behold the joy
Of fond maternal hearts, of speechless things,
To which Spring brings the younglings! Beautiful,
And sweet, and thankful; full of songs and bliss
The wide earth seemeth now. The placid heaven
Bends over, as if gazing with delight
And listening joyously. Gracefully now
The white cloud veils the azure, and bright drops
From the dark fringe are falling, as if heaven
Looked on the fair earth, as a mother looks
Upon her happy children, with soft tears
Upon her smiling beauty, as she feels
That there must come a day when all this joy
And tender beauty will have passed away.
The air is gently flowing o'er the earth,
Like living waves of melody and balm,
Laving her gems of every splendid tint,
Which give back every kiss, with incense sigh.
Earth, air, and water—all is melody,
And light, and balm, and beauty.
How unlike
The cold white drifts, dark clouds, and piercing winds
That formed the train of Winter!
Who has wrought
This glorious change? Who sent the gentle Spring
To wake and warm the silent frozen earth,
And deck her thus in beauty? Who attuned
The wild bird's song of love? Who wove the flowers,
And touched their wondrous texture with rich hues,
As if the glorious arch o'er which the shower
Pursues his sounding march, what time the sun
Looks on the triumph of his streaming plumes,
Had melted in the beam, and every gem

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That glittered in the arch had found a home,
A calm, sweet home of love, within the breast
Of its own chosen blossom? Who has brought
From tomb and winding-sheet, in which the worm
Lay powerless, sightless, senseless, seemingly
Inanimate, these splendid butterflies,
Which look as if their wings and velvet coats
Were braided of the brightest tints of earth,
Dipped in the radiance of the sunny heaven?
It is Jehovah!—He who framed the earth,
And all the worlds that fill infinity—
Who wrought the mystery of the human mind,
And gives it food for all its godlike powers,
In this profusion of his glorious works,
This treasury of beauty, melody,
Fragrance, and glory, and intelligence,
From man, in his perfection, to the least
Of living things which float upon one ray
Of the diffusive sunlight.
Oh, it seems
To fill the soul, and bring it near to God,
In this soft springtime to observe his hand
In each awakening blessing; and to muse
Upon that spring when we shall all awake,
Changed, like the worms that burst their tombs, to float
On wings of glory o'er the spring-clad earth,
Upon the balmy breezes. Then shall death
Be “swallowed up in victory.” Then shall He
Who walked the darkest pathway to the tomb,
And wrenched away its black and massive bars,
And burst its bonds asunder, call his own
From out the shattered prison.

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Then shall rise
A glorious Anthem of immortal songs,
To Him who is the Sunlight of this Spring
Of Everlasting Life.

COME TO THE WOODS.

Come to the woods in June,
'Tis happiness to rove
When Nature's lyres are all in tune,
And life all full of love.
Come, when the morning light,
Advancing from afar,
Veils, with a glory soft and bright,
Her smiling favourite star.
While from the dewy dells,
And every wild-wood bower,
A thousand little feathered bells
Ring out the matin hour.

Come, when the sun is high,
And earth all full in bloom,
When every passing summer sigh
Is languid with perfume;—
When by the mountain brook
The watchful red-deer lies;
And spotted fawns, in mossy nook,
Have closed their wild, bright eyes;—

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While from the giant tree,
And fairy of the sod,
A dreamy wind-harp melody
Speaks to the soul of God,
Whose beauteous gifts of love,
The passing hours unfold,
Till e'en the sombre hemlock boughs
Are tipped with fringe of gold.

Come, when the sun is set,
And see along the west
Heaven's glory, streaming through the gate
By which he passed to rest.
While brooklets, as they flow
Beneath the cool sweet bowers,
Sing fairy legends, soft and low,
To groups of listening flowers;
And creeping formless shades
Make distance strange and dim,
And with the daylight softly fades
The wild bird's evening hymn.

Come, when the woods are dark,
And winds go fluttering by,
While here and there a phantom bark
Floats in the deep blue sky;
While gleaming far away
Beyond th' aerial flood,
Lies in its starry majesty
The city of our God.

Come to the dim path now,
'Tis sweet to wander long,

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With spirit mingling in the flow
Of lone Edoleo's song.
No human heart is near,
To give us sigh for sigh,
But blending with the living air,
Sweet spirits hover nigh.
Softly they bid us kneel
Upon the mossy sod,
Then, smiling, draw aside the veil
That shuts the soul from God.

Come to the forest now,
If thou art fair and gay,—
Here are bright chaplets for thy brow,
And songs of love all day.

Come, if thy heart is lone,
Here are pale wreaths for thee,
Soft twilight, and the soothing tone
Of nature's melody.

Come, if thy soul is wrung
And feels the need of grace,
Soft voices, the dark woods among,
Say, God is in this place!

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THE SISTER TO THE BRIDE.

Sister! my dear, my only one!
And has the moment come,
In which thou for a stranger's love
Wilt leave thine early home?
Ah, sister, in this home of thine
There lives a fount of love,
So deep, so pure, thou canst not hope
Its like on earth to prove.

A mother's and a sister's love,—
Ah, thou may'st seek in vain
To find in this cold selfish world
Such holy love again.
Man cannot love as woman loves,
His stern and haughty soul
Knows not the gentle sympathies,
And spurns e'en love's control.

There is in man a principle
Which ever seeks its own;
Unselfish love has made its nest
In woman's heart alone.
Could he be blessed without her love,
Her tenderness and care,
She might appeal to him in vain,
However fond or fair.

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My sister, thou must henceforth make
Thy husband's will thy bliss,
Nor hope for happiness or peace,
Or honour, but in his.
My words are truth; though haply he
To whom thy heart is given
Has taught thee to expect with him
The happiness of heaven.

Alas! for such as hope to find
A Paradise below,
Where e'en the sweetest, fairest flowers
On thorny branches grow.
Where e'en if heaven should ever smile
O'er flowers of deathless bloom,
Ourselves must change, and pale, and fade,
And ripen for the tomb.

While cruel fiends are ever near
To steal or blight our joy,
Where strong disease and death will come,
Our treasures to destroy.
This life, with all its tinsel joys,
Is but a weary round,
In which no bright and holy spot
Save childhood's home is found.

Yet, sister, there's a talisman,
Which, worn within thy breast,
Will keep thy spirit calm and pure,
And give thee peace and rest.
'Tis meek Religion's precious gift;
Oh, be the treasure thine;

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All other lustres time may dim,—
This hath a light divine.

With chastened hopes and pure desires,
To God supremely given,
This world is beautiful, and love
A bliss allied to heaven.
Go forth, then, in thy bridal joy,
I would not have thee sad;
Hope whispers that thy life shall be
Contented, bright, and glad.

Go forth, and be thy happiness
Calm, rational, and deep;
I would not thou shouldst ever think
Of girlhood's home and weep.
Yet, sister, I am sorrowful,
My heart is lone and drear;
Thine absence is a darkened spot
On all the bright things here.

All grief will wear a darker hue,
No longer shared by thee,
And every sorrow, every pain,
Be heavier far to me.
Yet, sister, go, as from the sky
Departs the smiling sun,
Which, though it leaves us cold and dark,
Speeds brightly, gladly on.

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THE PITCHER-PLANT.

The song-bird came, with weary wing,
From breezy blossomed groves,
Where fountains flow, and blossoms spring,
And happy creatures rove.

All heedlessly the wild thing strayed
Along the desert plain,
And sought the fruit, the breezy shade,
And cooling stream in vain.

His little throat grew swollen and dry,
His voice was faint and low,
And dim and heavy grew his eye
In day's meridian glow.

With drooping plumes he fluttered round;
No kind relief was nigh;
He dropped exhausted on the ground,
And closed his wings to die;

But near him, on the burning waste,
In lonely beauty grew,
A plant with pearly blossoms graced,
Which lived upon the dew.

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With quivering form and panting breath,
He crept beneath the shade;
And there upon the naked earth
His little head was laid.

Above him drooped the slender boughs,
With humble blossoms hung;
Oh, how unlike the rich red rose
His native bowers among!

Ah, sadly beautiful they come
Before his closing eyes,
Shades of his dear deserted home,
Where living fountains rise.

But hark! a wandering zephyr shakes
The plant 'neath which he lies,
And on his ear a murmur breaks,—
“Rise, weary wanderer, rise!”

Then trembling o'er his aching head,
Low drooped the blossomed bough,
And clear and cooling drops were shed
Upon his burning brow.

It was the Pitcher-Plant that grew
Above his desert bed,
And grateful was the shower of dew,
Its generous blossoms shed.

He rose, he drank, he dressed his wings,
And smoothed his ruffled plumes;
And soon, with grateful carollings,
His onward flight resumes.

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But still around that lonely tree
The breezy angel stayed,
And thus, in balmy tones, to me
The desert blessing said:

“Art thou a wanderer from the bowers
Of beauty, love, and truth,
Where songs, and dews, and balmy flowers,
Were clustered round thy youth?

“And hast thou found life's onward way
A desert, dry and drear?
Where no sweet streams of blessing stray,
No fruits or flowers appear?

“And art thou weary, sad, and faint,
And dost thou wish to die?
Look up! there is a Pitcher-Plant,
With consolation nigh.

“Look up! it offers unto thee
The dew of holy love;
Accept the gift, 'tis pure and free,
A treasure from above.

“Drink, and rejoice beneath the shade,
And plume thy drooping wing;
Then journey where thy path is laid
Toward the Living Spring.

“Ay, onward to the verdant shore,
With songs, pursue thy way;
That blessed home, whence never more
The bird shall wish to stray.”

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FORGOTTEN.

Forgotten! 'Tis a cold and fearful word,
And sends a thrill of anguish through the heart,
That there will come a day in which our face,
Our voice, our deeds, our love, our very name,
Will be forgotten. When the beaming eyes
That greet us now will all be dark in death;—
When souls that now respond to all our words,
As the Æolian answers to the wind,
Shall have forgotten the familiar tone;—
When those for whom we now act zealously,
Shall need our aid no more, and think no more
Of all that we did for them;—when no trace
Or footprint shall remain to tell of us,
Around the spot where now we toil and rest,
The spot we fondly call our pleasant home;—
When of the hearts that throb reply to ours,
And deem our love the treasure of their lives,
Not one shall be remaining;—when the name
To which we answer, though it may be known,
And call reply from thousands, shall awake
In no one heart on earth a thought of us;
That of the busy hundreds who will throng
The city or the country where we dwelt,
Not one will think of us; and that of those

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Who haply occupy the very house
That we have builded, eat the ripened fruit
From off the trees we planted, draw and drink
Cool water from the well that we have dug,
And bless the habitation, the broad tree,
And living water, none will know or care
To whom they are indebted.
Thoughts like these
Lie cold and heavy on the shuddering heart,
What time the shadows of this lower world
Shut from its hemisphere the light of heaven.
To die, to be incorporate—this fair form
Dissolved and mingled with the elements
Of which it is so wondrously composed,
Till even the grave itself retains no trace
Of that which weeping love deposited
Within its sacred bosom. Nature shrinks
From such a terrible nonentity,
And thinks to bribe a nation's gratitude—
To win the admiration of the world—
To add a plume to honour's coronet—
To fix its features on the plastic heart
Of fond enduring love, that some of these
May write its name upon the corner-stone
Of Memory's sacred temple, on the rock
O'er which oblivion's dark and silent sea
Has never heaved its billows. Vain device!
What boots it that a name shall be preserved,
When we ourself, our face, our voice, our love,
Shall be remembered by no living thing!

The heart hath built a refuge for itself,
From thoughts so full of sadness. It hath reared

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A temple of the bright but withered buds
Of human tenderness; in which young Hope
Sits, ever singing to her golden lyre:—

Love liveth ever,
Time's shore beyond;
Death cannot sever
Love's beautiful bond.
Love is a spirit,
Immortally bright;
Love must inherit
Eternal delight.

Truth is undying,
Love is the truth;
Fondly relying
In bosom of youth;
Rich rapture bringing
All through life's day,
Faithfully clinging
In age or decay.

Love is a treasure,
Filling the soul;
Love hath no measure,
Owns no control;
Nobly it shieldeth,
Guardeth its own;
Love never yieldeth
Its idolized one.

When death is nearest,
Love's spirit-light,

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Strongest and clearest,
Beams on the night;
Love is immortal,—
O'er his bright chain
Death's heavy portal
Closeth in vain.

Still the tie bindeth,
Strong and unriven,
Till the soul findeth
The lost one in heaven.
Look ye to heaven,
Heaven is Love's home;
There never riven,
His garlands shall bloom.

Thus hope consoleth hearts that weep or bleed
O'er broken ties, in desolated bowers,
With beautiful delusion that the loves
Of earth are holy, and survive in heaven,
Where love hath but one altar, one pure fire,
And God is “all in all.” Oh, blessed dream!
It lies so soothingly upon the soul!
And we go down so calmly to the grave,
Trusting so earnestly that human love
Will wear us in its bosom evermore.
'Tis sweet to rest us on a chosen breast,
And listen to the pulsing heart within,
While tender accents win us to believe
That every throb is warm with love for us,
And must be always so. Ah, fond, fond heart!
Such trust is sweet; oh, wrap it in strong faith,
And lock it in thine inmost sanctuary,

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Where doubt may never find it—where distrust
Can never enter, or experience come
To leave her naked footprints—where the winds
That walk the world and converse with mankind
May find no ingress. In such holy place
Thou mayst preserve it, and with earnest soul
Pay adoration to its holiness;
And it shall be a blessing to thy life,
A joy, a beauty to thee all thy days;
And thou mayst die, believing that thy love
Will live in one devoted tender heart,
Until its latest throb.
But if thy soul
Hold converse with experience, it must learn
That this poor fading, changing, dying heart,
Hath no meet chamber for eternal things.
The holiest tablet of its altar-piece
Is of such frail material, that the waves
Of Time, which break upon it evermore,
Wear out whatever is inscribed thereon,
E'en though the hand of Love hath graved it deep,
With Sorrow's iron pen. There was a time
When I believed in never-dying love;
But I have seen the end of love, as strong,
As warm, as perfect, as has ever burned
Within the heart of man.
I had a friend,—
An innocent and gentle-minded girl,
With form, and face, and eye, and heart, and soul,
As near perfection as 'tis possible
For aught on earth to be. She was beloved,
Ay, tenderly and well beloved by one,
Of whom the wisest of the wise ones said,

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That he was worthy of her. They were wed,—
Not merely linked by law, but as it seemed,
Made one by the perfecting of a bond,
Which some mysterious power of destiny,
Had braided of all tender sympathies
Around their hearts, which nestled each to each,
And felt, and throbbed as one.
Oft as I marked
How like a flash of the electric fire,
A thrill of feeling waking in one heart
Passed through the other,—how each beaming face
Was but the other's mirror, faithfully
Reflecting every change of light or shade
That shadow joy or sorrow;—as I marked
This perfect oneness, I believed and said,
Change cannot come between them, or the pow'r
Of death itself divide hearts so entwined,
For surely one cannot be torn away,
And leave one lifestring of the other whole.
They had a child,—a treasure, a delight,
A thing of life, and joy, and loveliness,
A blending of their beings, heart and soul,
A visible and everlasting tie,
The tenderest and dearest link of love;
And their affections, sympathies, and hopes
Seemed gathered in a love-knot in their boy.

But Mary died. I saw her in her shroud,
With death's seal set upon her. The fixed eyes
Gleamed darkly from beneath the heavy fringe
Of the half-open and discoloured lids.
The lips were livid, and the placid smile,
Left by the happy spirit as it passed,

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Like radiance left by the departing sun
Upon the western clouds, was fading out
From the unseemly company of death.
The widowed husband sat beside the bier,
In broken-hearted sorrow, with the child
Close nestled to his bosom. I observed
How pale, how very wretched he appeared,
And thought, how soon that hapless little one
Will be without a father, all alone
In this wide world, which mocks the desolate
With clustered flowers and wreaths of kindred hearts,
And clinging sympathies.
Time sped along—
The mourner lived, ay, lived for that sweet child,
And kept the mem'ry of the dear departed fresh
Within his heart and green around his home.
Whatever she had loved or touched, remained
A sacred treasure; and the sodded grave
In which she slept beside the garden wall,
Was bright with garlands all the summer through.
A weeping willow, trained with pious care,
Was sighing there for ever, and the spot
Was guarded from all sacrilegious feet
By high strong paling—and no evening passed,
That did not see the widower, with his child,
Kneeling beside that grave.

But I went forth,
A wanderer o'er the world, and came again
When scarce ten years had glided by.
Oh, treacherous Time!
How dost thou change all things in this false world!
I passed along the once familiar street,

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And paused to look a moment on the home
Of Mary living, and of Mary dead.
Oh, what a change was there! a stately front
Concealed the cottage, where my friend had dwelt
In such contented bliss. A columned porch
Was built, where grew her favourite trees and flowers;
Her garden was included in the lawn
That stretched before the mansion, and her grave
Was overgrown with briers and flowers run wild,
That mingled with the swaying willow-boughs.
The fence was broken, and the little gate
Lay almost prostrate, and the yellow rust
Upon the hinges, proved that many a year
It had remained unopened.
While I gazed,
A happy group approached along the lawn,
A gentleman and lady, with a band
Of sportive children. Near that lonely grave,
The lady paused, and in a mournful tone,
Addressed a bright-haired boy—“Here, Theodore,
Is your own mother's grave.” And that boy smiled,
As he replied—“I know it, dear mamma!”
Then turning to her husband, she went on:
“It makes me sad, to look on Mary's grave;—
It wakes a thought that I, like her, may die,
And be, like her, forgotten.”
“Dear Lenore!”
The husband said, in half reproachful tones,
“Dream not that you can ever be forgot;
You make us all so happy with your love,
That we can find no moment for regret
Or mournful memories. But, if that lone grave
Awakes sad feelings in your gentle breast,

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It shall be newly fenced and beautified,
And you may rear a monument of flowers,
Meet emblems of your own sweet sympathies,
Above the silent sleeper.”

Sick at heart,
I turned away and wept.
And yet 'tis well
And wisely ordered that the wounds of wo
Should cease to bleed, and that the blighted heart
Should bud and bloom afresh. 'Tis wise and well;
But oh, it dissipates the bright romance
Of Love's fond dreaming, with the clear cold truth,
That even the good, the loving, and beloved,
Before ten summers shine upon their graves,
May be forgotten.

MARAH.

It was a fountain clear and deep,
And grateful to the view;
Yet on its brink no fragrant shrubs
Or balmy blossoms grew.

A few rank weeds, with thorny stems,
Were darkly tangled there,
And threw their rank and baleful breath
On summer's sultry air.

The weary bird, with trembling wing,
Alighted on the brink,
Just dipped her beak, wailed mournfully,
And died; she could not drink.

188

The thirsty traveller's burning gaze
Upon that fountain fell,
And gratefully he bent his knees
Beside the limpid well,

And stooped to drink—ha, bitterness!
How nauscous was the taste,
He cursed the spring, and turned away,
To perish on the waste.

Yet was that fountain clear and cool,
And tempting to the sight;
And mirrored in its bosom lay
Heaven's own effulgent light.

And murmuring forth a restless song,
Its waters gushed away,
And held a fitful wandering course,
Like some glad child at play.

But all along its winding course
The earth was bare and dry,
And shining fish, from other streams,
But touched those waves—to die.

A prophet of the mighty God
Unto that fountain came,
Threw into it a curse of salt,
And blessed it in God's name.

Oh, what a change! That bitter well
Was filled with life and health,
And sweet and pure its waters flowed,
A living stream of wealth.

189

Soon clustering verdure crowned the banks,
And on the balmy air
Rich roses blended their perfume
With breath of lilies fair;

And luscious fruits and clustered vines,
Grew up amongst the flowers;
And many a joyous bright-winged bird,
Was nestling in the bowers.

And there the pilgrim paused at noon,
His burning brow to lave,
Allayed his thirst, refreshed his soul,
And blessed the healthful wave.

The human heart is such a spring,
So bitter at its source,
And thus its stream diffuses death
Along its poisonous course.

And while the bitter waters gush
In streams of sin and wo,
We know the fountain is not healed
From which such waters flow.

But touched by Grace, how pure and sweet
The living waters spring,
And make along life's barren way
The sweetest verdure spring.

All pure and gentle charities,
That bless the fireside home,
Awake in beauty, life, and joy,
Where'er its waters come.

190

FRIEND OF THE FRIENDLESS.

Friend of the friendless! Oh! to thee,
With bleeding heart I turn;
Thy sunny world is dark to me,
And evermore I mourn;
The friends I loved—oh! where are they?
Dead, faithless, cold, or far away;—
But Thou art kind, and ever near,
To soothe the sigh and dry the tear.

Hope of the hopeless! see the last
Of my fond hopes is gone;
A thousand brilliant dreams were past
And this remained alone!
Deep in my secret soul it lay,
My dream by night, my bliss by day;
'Tis broken;—oh! 'twas vanity!
Eternal Hope! I fly to thee.

Joy of the joyless! see how low
My full-blown joys are laid;
Where are the precious idols now
That my fond heart had made?
See how it bleeds, yet madly clings
Around the dear but ruined things;
Help me to cast them from thy throne,
And kneel and worship Thee alone.

191

THE VIOLET.

My garden boasts of many a flower,
And garlands crown the field and grove;
But here, beneath the hawthorn bower,
I've found the flower I dearly love.

Ah! meekly droops its fragrant head
Upon the green earth's genial breast;
And yet it seems that heaven has shed
Its purest azure on its crest.

And deep within its dewy eye
A radiant sunbeam always lies,
And from its bosom to the sky
Its balmy breathings ever rise.

And sometimes, when, at dreamy even,
I've sought my favourite flower in vain,
I fancied that the radiant heaven
Had claimed its starry blue again.

I oft have deemed this gentle flower
In Flora's crown the sweetest gem,
Like Piety with fragrant power,
Adorning beauty's diadem.

192

The richest beauty yields to death,
And Genius' light will fade away,
Fame may be blighted by a breath,
And love and friendship own decay;—

But Piety, divinely pure,
However humble be its lot,
Will shed, as long as life endure,
A joy, a fragrance round the spot;

And calmly pass away to live
Where purity and beauty reign,—
As dying violets seem to give
Their azure back to heaven again.

COME UNTO ME!

“Come unto me, all ye who labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.”

Matthew xi. 28.

“Come to me!” the Saviour cried,
Thou with toil and care oppressed;
Come, ye heavy laden ones,
And I will give you rest.
Weary mortal, worn with pain,
Bending 'neath the load of wo,
Sweet and lasting is the rest
That Jesus will bestow.

193

Child of meagre poverty,
Toiling for thy daily bread,
Many a bitter heart-wrung tear
It has been thine to shed;
Cold and weary is thy lot,
By want, and care, and scorn oppressed,
Bring thy burden to the Lord,
And He will give thee rest.

Mourner! with the broken heart,
Sobbing o'er the sable bier,
Lies thy loved and loving one
In death's cold ruin here?
Kneel and pray; there is a balm
Of power to soothe and heal thy breast;
Jesus died—and rose again,
And He will give thee rest.

Weary exile! all alone,
Wandering in life's toilsome way,
Has this world of love and joy
No home, no hope for thee?
Jesus, once a wanderer,
Hath marked a path to mansions blessed;
Follow meekly with thy cross
And He will give thee rest.

Rich man! art thou weary too
Of fashion, pomp, and wakeful care?
Hast thou learned that pride is pain,
And gold a shining snare?
Make the wealth that burdens thee
Blessing to the poor, distressed;

194

Jesus then will smile, and give
His faithful steward rest.

Humble sinner! kneeling low,
Who dar'st not lift thine eyes to heaven,
Though thy wickedness be great,
It may be all forgiven;
Do not suffer dark Despair
To wind her chain about thy breast,
Jesus is the sinner's friend,
And He will give thee rest.

Christian! with the death-damp brow,
Fitful pulse, and sobbing breath,
Struggling with the piercing pangs,
And bitterer fears of death;
Now, in thine extremest need,
Oh, sweet the invitation blessed,
Come, oh weary one, to me,
In Everlasting Rest!

195

THE SISTERS.

Ann moved the reigning beauty
Of the gorgeous lighted hall,
Where incense, mirth, and melody
Combined their magic thrall;
Where smiles and silvery voices,
And soft and flashing eyes,
And wreaths, and plumes, and flashing gems,
Formed pleasure's paradise.

Where glittering forms were braiding
The graceful, dreamy dance;
And light feet flashed as mirrored stars
On rippling waters glance.
Amid this world of beauty,
Queen-like she seemed to move,
The spirit of its melody,
The soul of health and love.

That night, within her chamber,
I heard that maiden say,
“Take these detested ornaments,
This torturing dress away;
Wash from my cheek the carmine,
The pearl-white from my neck;
How sallow is my bosom now,
How very pale my cheek!

196

“Now bring my box of medicines,
The drops of opiate tell;
Oh, would this cup contained a draught
From Lethe's fabled well,
That so I might forget the pangs
That pierced my heart to-night,
As eyes that I would fain have filled,
Turned elsewhere for their light.

“For heaven's sake, do not tease me
With tales of want and wo;
I paid my milliner so much,
I've nothing to bestow;
There may be young hearts breaking,
There may be widows poor,
But oh! they cannot feel the pangs,
The sickness, I endure.”

Grace walked that pleasant evening
Amid the dewy flowers,
While birds with vesper melody
Were gathering to their bowers;
The evening star was beaming
Upon the quiet scene,
With softened lustre,like a gem
Through trembling waters seen.

The peace of dewy twilight
Lay soft o'er Nature's breast,
And all the sweet and innocent
Were sinking to their rest;
The fragrant winds were breathing
A soft and balmy hush,

197

And peace had spread her brooding wings
Where all pure fountains gush.

And she, that white-robed maiden,
With bright brown, braided hair,
The meekest and the sweetest flower,
Where all were meek and fair,
Is stealing to the dwelling
Where want and sickness lie—
A blessing to the weary heart,
A joy-beam to the eye.

She beareth consolation,
She gives the hungry bread,
And blessings from the comforted
Are on her spirit shed.
She seems an angel presence,
A form of hope and love,
To all the wretched ministering
Sweet comforts from above.

Fair sisters and young brothers
Flock round her for a kiss;
She knows the key to each young heart,
And tunes them all to bliss.
Crowned with her parents' blessing,
She lays her down to sleep,
And health and peace beside her bed
Their pleasant vigils keep.

199

THE ROSE AND MAIDEN.

With dew-drops on her diadem,
The rose sat queenlike in her bower,
And round her, on their pensile stems,
Hung many a sweet young flower;
And 'mongst those blooms a maiden stood
In radiant beauty's morning pride,
With dewy glances worshipping
The lover at her side.
And there was music on the wind,
And beauty in the earth, and sky,
And with the living tide of bliss,
All life seemed throbbing high.

200

The rose's spray was dry and bare,
And broken stalks around her lay;
The rose, and her companions fair,
Has passed in tears away;
And in that life-deserted bower
I saw a pale and drooping girl,
Whose dim eye shed upon the earth
Full many a liquid pearl.
And there was wailing on the wind,
And in her breast a grief untold;
Where vanished love had left behind
His shadow black and cold.

The virgin snow-wreath, chill and white,
Lay glistening on the frozen spray,
And like pure marble monuments,
O'er all the blossoms lay;
And then beside the open grave,
Wrapped in the shroud that maiden lay;
The lashes of her leaden eyes
Shadowing the cheek of clay;
And there were anthems on the wind,
And agony in many a breast,
As, earth to earth, they there consigned,
The broken heart to rest.

201

ONE DAY IN THY COURTS IS BETTER THAN A THOUSAND.

One day in thy courts, oh, thou glorious King!
Where thine honour is dwelling, in mercy arrayed,
Where the wounded in spirit their sacrifice bring,
And the poor broken heart on thine altar is laid;
One day in thy courts, where the humble are kneeling,
With tears of deep penitence silently stealing,
The wound of the penitent spirit revealing,
And the voice of the pleaders ascends to thy throne,
In the name of thy Son, our Redeemer alone.

One day in thy courts, where thy minister stands,
In vestments that shadow the pure mind within,
While sweet on the penitent spirit descends
Thy message of gracious deliverance from sin;
One day in thy courts, where the ransomed are bending,
Hearts, spirits, and voices, in harmony blending,
In faith that the Teacher divine is attending;
Oh, surely the prayer by Immanuel given,
When uttered by Faith, must find favour in heaven.

One day in thy courts, where the anthem of praise
To Maker, Redeemer, and Comforter rise,
While organ's deep tones swell the triumphant lays
That seem but to echo the hymns of the skies;
One day in thy courts, where thy servant is reading
The pure word of life, and thy chosen flock feeding;
With sinners, thy mercy and faithfulness pleading,
Still pointing to Jesus on Calvary bleeding,

202

From whose wounded side flows the water and blood
Which cleanse from all guilt and redeem us to God.

One day in thy courts, when thy table is spread,
And the pure in heart bidden to feast with the Lord,
Where Immanuel's body is broken in bread,
Where his covenant blood in the wine-cup is poured;
One day in thy courts, where the rich bread of heaven,
To comfort and cheer the poor pilgrim is given,
Where the well of salvation, with streams ever living
Invites us to drink, with a hymn of thanksgiving,
Remem'bring with transports of sorrow and love,
The crucified Lord who now reigneth above.

One day in thy courts, where the fir and the pine,
With Lebanon's glory, the cedar's dark green,
While glittering leaves of the box-tree combine
Their beautiful garlands the branches between,
Fulfilling the anthem thy prophet was singing,
Who saw far away the clear Gospel-day springing,
With “Glory to God,” from angelic hosts ringing;
And men crown'd with peace,with glad hosannah's bringing
The evergreen branches, from valley and hill,
The place of thy feet with their glory to fill.

One day in thy courts!—oh, how good to the soul
Which has longed weary years in those courts to appear;
In a dry barren land, where no bright waters roll,
No cooling spring gushes, the weary to cheer;
Which has wept day and night, while the taunters were saying,
“Where now is thy God, thou forsaken and straying?”

203

One day in thy courts, where the blessed are staying,
With holiday gladness rejoicing and praying,
Is better, oh better, than thousands could be,
Where all this world's treasures were garnered and free.

THE WINTER WIND.

Thou hast a mournful voice, oh, Winter Wind!
A mournful voice and dirgelike melody;
And deeper sadness penetrates the mind,
As with thy wailing song thou lingerest by.

There is a pleading sadness in thy tone,
As with thy wing thou beatest at the door,
Or shak'st the shutters, chaunting in the tone
Of wild and fitful minstrelsy of yore.

I listen to thy harpings, and at times
Distinctly catch the burden of thy lay;
Some tale of human suffering, wreathed in rhyme,
That wakens the deep heart of sympathy.

Oh, mournful are thy stories, Winter Wind,
And few there be that love thy truthful lay;
Wild fiction better suits the general mind,—
The viol pleases best the rich and gay.

The happy do not heed thee; but the poor,
The weeping widow, and the orphan child,
The lone wife listening at the cottage door,
The silent mourner, and the weeper wild;—

204

These hear thy sobbing voice, and sadly blend
Their sighs and wailing with thy plaintive lay;
Oh, sadder words than romance ever penned,
Compose the chorus of thy minstrelsy.

Moans of the perishing, who, all life long,
Have struggled with misfortune's cruel sway;
Who might have won the richest meed of earth,
Had one Samaritan came by that way.

Of some who lie beneath the crushing weight
Of scorn, and poverty, perchance of crime;
Who, raised and cheered by generous sympathy,
Had won the proudest height the soul can climb.

Oh, bitter voices mingle in thy hymn;
For bitter is the voice of that despair
Which will not sue to man, and has not faith
To offer to the Merciful one prayer.

And painful are thy sobbing cadences,
The mournful sighing of the desolate,
In whose cold hearts the last dear bud of hope
Lies withered by the wintry blast of fate.

Oh, Winter Wind, thou hast a mournful voice
Of mingled shrieks and wailings, sighs and moans;
The poor and wretched understand thy song,
And feel, ah, keenly feel, thy piercing tones.

205

THE CHURCH.

Rage on, vain world; and thou, Fanaticism,
Brandish thy noisy weapons, and shout forth
Thy maddest war-cry, while low Ignorance
Projects his weapons, clay and clods of earth.

Ye rage in vain, ay, though the infernal gate
Swing wide, and vomit fiendish malice out,
The Church is safe, she fears no mortal arm,
No demon ire, no threat, no battle shout;

The Church is safe; on the eternal Rock,
On which Immanuel laid her corner-stone,
She sits secure, nor fears the battle shock,
Though all the adverse powers unite as one.

Ye cannot mar her beauty, or efface
Her builder's signet from her guarded door,
Or break one stone of her pure polished wall,
With gracious promises engraven o'er.

The storm may beat, the sea may roll his surge,
The world may rage, and hell its powers combine,
The Church is safe upon her living Rock,
And heaven's celestial glories round her shine,

206

And grace and honour bind the rev'rend brows
Of those, who at her sacred altars wait,
And they are safe, and blest for evermore,
Who find their rest within her guarded gate.

For He, the First, the Last, th' Almighty God,
Is ever near, to succour and defend;
This is his promise, written on her towers:
“Lo, I am with you always, to the end!”

FAME.

Imperial Goddess of the air,
Enthroned in intellectual light,
Thy signet kings are proud to wear,
And Virtue deems it bright.

But Genius worships at thy feet,
With burning heart upraised to thee,
While on its coals, like incense sweet,
His life consumes away.

He feels the dying embers glow
Without one pang of fond regret,—
Content if on his death-white brow
Thy signet may be set.

More precious than the purest gem
From ocean cave, or mountain mine,
More glorious than the diadem,
Is that bright seal of thine.

207

No power of darkness can conceal,
No flood can quench its living ray:
Its lustre is the earthly seal
Of immortality.

Once uttered by thy voice divine,
A name must live for evermore—
An anthem of the sea of Time,
Along the sounding shore.

But why should Woman kneel to thee,
And ask the gift that men adore?
Why should she wish to have her name
Remembered evermore?

The meekness of a holy love
Should shed its radiance on her brow,
With Piety, a gem above
Thy meteoric glow.

One loving heart alone should bear
The living impress of her name,
And children, trained with tender care,
Should be her all of Fame.

The heart is sick; it hath no rest,
Where Woman's sacred rest should be,
If in its yearnings to be blest
It wildly follows thee.

But oh! to Woman's soul thou art
A mirage on life's desert sand,
Luring the weary, burning heart
As to a heavenly land.

208

But when she thinks to wear thy flowers,
To rest beside thy fountain fair,
And banquet in thy vocal bowers—
The hot dry sand is there.

LIFE.

Like a strain of melody,
Gushing from an angel lyre,
With a wild and tuneful wail,
Breaking from the quivering wire;

Ruffling with its viewless wing,
One small billow of the air;
Then with cadence of a sigh,
Passing—no one knoweth where.

Such is Life—and even so
Passeth it from earth away;
Where it findeth place of rest,
Echo cometh not to say.

Yet Faith heareth far away,
Where no venturous foot hath trod,
Floods of perfect melody,
Living round the throne of God.

209

TO HIM WHO SAID, “GOD BLESS YOU!”

“God bless you!” Oh, I thank thee for thy prayer,
It falls so like a balm-leaf on my heart,
My weary heart, which beats so heavily,
And needs the blessing which those words impart,
God bless you!

When I am lone, and drooping, and oppressed
With griefs which woman trusts not to the air,
My trembling spirit shall ascend to heaven,
And hear thy voice of music pleading there,
God bless you!

And when my heart is glad with joy or hope,
Or Friendship's blissful presence, sweetly then
Will Memory point my trembling thought to thee,
And hear repeated, with a glad Amen,
God bless you!

No incense breath of flattery or applause,
Nor voice of Fame, which man will die to hear;
Or Love, earth's echo to the pulse of heaven,
Could touch my spirit like that earnest prayer,
God bless you!

210

God bless you!—May the prayer thy heart sent up,
To plead with God for one of earth unblest,
Return with blessings bright and warm from heaven,
And lay them all upon thy brow and breast.
God bless you!

THE RUINED HEART.

There is a noble temple, which of yore
Was glorious, with a sumptuous garniture
Of shining tapestry, embroidered o'er
With ever-changing magic portraiture.

All lovely and exalted things of earth,
Each touched with glory beaming from on high,
Shifting in beauty, as the gorgeous folds
Were moved by breezes voiced with melody.

And there was wreathing up for evermore
Rich incense from pure censers of fine gold,
Where all sweet thoughts assembled to adore,
And touch the sacred fire with bliss untold.

Then in that temple all was light and joy,
And melody and beauty mingled there;
Now, come and look how dark, how desolate,
How cold, how voiceless, all its chambers are!

Long since the bitter waters of despair
Quenched out the fire upon that altar-stone,
And mourning spread her pall of midnight there,
And music died in one low quivering moan.

211

Yet oft at nightfall to the bolted door
Sweet shadowy groups of spirit memories come,
The dear familiar faces shaded o'er
With tender sadness by the twilight gloom.

They linger sadly round the ruined place,
And plead for entrance with a low sweet tone;
But angels cross that threshold never more,
And Echo answers—“I am here alone!”

TO MRS. S---.

A COMMENT ON HER WORDS, “MY FIRST-BORN SON,” IN A LETTER TO THE AUTHOR. (1838.)

“My first-born son!” If aught there is
That touches all affection's chords,
And stirs the deepest fount of bliss,
It lives in these endearing words.

How many thrilling cares and fears
Are born with that one helpless child,
Is witnessed by the throbs and tears
With which his new-named parents smiled.

From the deep spirit gushes forth
A spring of love unknown before,
And there's no power, no spell of earth,
Can keep that spring from running o'er.

212

Dear madam, may no bitter drop
Dash that sweet fountain in thy breast;
No cruel canker blight thy hope,
No mildew on thy young bud rest.

But may he flourish, strong and fair,
A beautiful and blessed child,
That thou mayst feel no bitter care
For that fair form and spirit mild;

But even in his infant breast,
May Jesus plant his love divine,
And grace upon his spirit rest,
To shed the dew of peace on thine.

So shall he be the glorious flower,
That crowns with joy the parent tree,
And bless thee in thine autumn hour,
With ripe fruits of felicity.

And when at length the snows of age
Lie cold and heavy on thy head,
His piety shall pain assuage,
And smiling comfort round thee spread.

Thus would I bless thee in thy son,—
But, lady! He, who knoweth best,
May choose to take thy little one
To his celestial home of rest.

Remember, when thy warm heart clings
Fondly around thy infant boy,
That death may break those twining strings,
And rob thee of a parent's joy.

213

Then do not fondly idolize
The treasure lent thee from above,
But hold it as a sacred trust
From Him who claims supremest love.

Then should his tender mercy free
From earth and sin that darling child,
Thou wilt escape the agony
That tortures th' unreconciled.

CENTENARY HYMN.

COMPOSED FOR THE CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION OF THE GERMAN REFORMED CHURCH. (1841.)

Thou who art enthroned in Glory,
Crowned with Love and robed in Grace,
Lo! we humbly bow before Thee,
Off'ring up our songs of praise.
Mighty God and gracious Saviour!
Spirit of enduring grace!
Come, in thine especial favour,
With thy Glory fill this place.

See the star whose rising splendour
Heralded a Saviour's birth,
Now in its meridian grandeur,
Smiles upon the joyous earth;
Heart, and hand, and effort blending,
In its radiance now we meet;
And our mingled pray'rs ascending
Seek thee on thy mercy-seat.

214

We would celebrate the changes
Which a Hundred Years have made,
Since our fathers—poor and strangers—
Sought the Western forest's shade.
From Helvetia's vine-clad mountains
Came a little friendless band;
By the rich Rhine's infant fountains,
Others left their father-land.

Germany's bright streams are flowing
Through the vales where others dwelt;
Or her mountain winds are blowing
Past the altars where they knelt.
Thou wert with them o'er the ocean,
To these wilds where freedom stray'd,
'Neath her bowers, with true devotion,
First these grateful pilgrims pray'd.

Here the little vine, increasing,
Spread its branches green and fair;
Now, by thine especial blessing,
See how wide thy vineyards are!
Come and take the ripen'd cluster—
All the vintage, Lord, is thine;—
But let mercy temper justice,
Where thou meet'st a fruitless vine.

Humble are the gifts we offer,
Bless them in thy grace divine;
Thou wilt not despise the proffer,
Though the universe is thine.
Make our gifts a rich oblation
Many a mourning heart to cheer,

215

While the light of thy salvation
Gilds each penitential tear.

Let our institutions flourish,
Sending forth a pious band,
With the words of life to nourish
All who hunger through the land.
Zion spreads her hands before Thee;
Come, and in her temples reign,—
While we give all praise and glory
To the triune God.—Amen!

SUMMER, FAREWELL!

Sweet Summer! fare thee well!
I hear thy passing sigh
Sweep fitfully along the dell,
Where the last fainting blossoms lie.
The tulip's reign is o'er,
The rose has passed away,
The snowy lily blooms no more,
The honeysuckle owns decay.

Sweet Summer, fare thee well!
Thy long bright days are past;
The rays that on earth's bosom fell
Now all aslant the zone are cast.
The seraphs of the earth
Have ceased the hymning lay,
And from the bowers of their birth
Are flitting silently away.

216

Sweet Summer, fare thee well!
Thy bowers are growing drear,
While thick upon the fitful gale
Flutters the foliage rest and sere.
While, writhing in the blast,
The strong and stately trees
Bow meekly to the storm, and cast
Their glorious chaplets on the breeze.

Sweet Summer, fare thee well!
By forest, stream, or grove,
Thy joyous notes no longer swell
To ecstacy and holy love.
Alas, the joyous time
Of flow'rs, and glittering wings!
Alas, the Summer's balmy prime,
And all her rich and glorious things!

Sweet Summer! fare thee well!
Winter will build thine urn,
And wildly shriek thy funeral knell,—
Yet thou wilt joyfully return.
I will not weep for thee,
Or my own summer fled;—
Thou wilt return triumphantly,
And I arise rejoicing from the dead

217

THE MAIDEN TO HER MOTHER.

Oh, let me die, dear mother,
With my head upon thy breast,
Thus sinking in thy loving arms
To sweet unbroken rest.
Look on me with thy loving eyes,
Thou need'st not hide the tears,
But let me see the loving smile
That blessed my sunny years.

Oh, bless thee for the sorrow
That heaves thy gentle heart,
I would not have thee cold and calm
The while my lifestrings part;
No—let me feel the tear and smile
That speak thy yearning love,—
A love almost as pure as that
To which I now remove.

But do not mourn, dear mother,
When all my pains are o'er,
And grief, and wrong, and bitterness,
Can come to me no more.
Oh, never wish me back to earth,
Where all sweet blossoms fade,
And where the brightest form of joy
Is followed by a shade.

218

I would not stay, dear mother,
Till blight and sorrow come,
Till disappointment, care, and pain,
Have made my breast their home;
Then let me die now, mother dear,
Encircled by thy love,
And pass from thy sweet home below,
To God's pure home above.

THE WOMAN TO HER GRAND-DAUGHTER.

Oh, bless thee, dearest daughter,
Of my youngest, dearest child,
Thou hast thy gentle mother's voice,
So musically mild;
I deem that thou art like her, too,
In beauty's maiden grace,
Though these dim eyes could never read
The features of thy face.

But in my soul she liveth,
My beautiful young dove,
And thou art like her, for thou hast
Her voice and heart of love.
Once more arrange the pillows for
This weak and weary head,—
Thank God, who gave me such a child,
To smooth my dying bed!

Nay, do not weep, my darling,
'Tis time that I should die,

219

The chill of death is in my veins,
Its darkness on mine eye;
And unto me so many years
Have been in mercy given,
That I am ready for the grave,
And wait and long for heaven.

My life has not been weary
In useful labour spent,
With cheerful service in my hands,
And in my heart content;
And love—the truest human love—
Has walked beside me still,
A light, a joy, a comforter,
Through scenes of good and ill.

Though of the dear and loving,
To me in kindness given,
Some in their youth and loveliness
Have passed away to heaven;
I never have been left alone,
For still around me grew
A cluster of devoted hearts,
The tender, tried, and true.

Though now the dim land's shadow
Hath closed before mine eyes,
Deep treasured in my spirit's shrine,
A blazoned volume lies;
And Memory turneth leaf by leaf,
Before my mental sight,
And all the pictures of the past
Are lifelike in her light.

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I never have been lonely,
In my darkness and my pain,
With past and present tenderness,
To solace and sustain;
And now the future lies revealed,
In light and joy divine,
By the sure mercies of my God,
Through Christ's redemption, mine.

ON HEARING A BLUEBIRD SING.

Thou Giver of all perfect gifts,
I thank Thee for the singing bird,
Since by her voice devotion's strings
Within my heart are stirred.

Oh, what a loving joyous hymn
She singeth from the leafless tree,
She hath no sorrow, feels no care,
But gladly trusts in Thee.

Her carol melts the heavy ice
Of unbelief that chained my soul,
As sunbeams break the icy bands
Of Winter's long control.

I thank Thee for the singing bird,
Thine angel to this cold world given,
With azure wing and song of love,
To lift the heart to heaven.

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Oh, were I like that trusting bird,
That sings beneath the sunny sky,
And meekly folds her wings, and waits
Till night and storm pass by;

That joys to build her little nest,
And dwell in woodlands wild and free,
And warble out her little soul
In melody to Thee.

Thou Giver of all perfect gifts,
I thank Thee for the singing bird,
Since by her voice the holy springs
Of love and faith are stirred.

TO HIM WHO PRESENTED TO ME A PEN.

Dear friend, till now I had not dipp'd in ink
The diamond point of this, thy gift to me,
And now my hand and heart would dedicate
The earliest tracery of thy gift to thee.

Oh, that my soul were worthy of thy gift,
Then would I register immortal lays,
And set thy name in pure and dazzling gems,
Amid a trophy of Parnassian bays.

But 'tis not mine—my friend, it is not mine,
To charm in living numbers, from the lyre,
Such words as burn themselves into the soul,
And live for ever, like heaven's altar-fire;

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Nor may I hope to write the hymn that flows
With murmur of sweet music, evermore,
Like clear cold waters with their silvery tone,
And holy blessing to the flowery shore.

It needs no lay of mine to keep thy worth
Green in the temple of immortal fame,
For thou hast placed it where it shall endure
When earth has lost the echo of my name.

But with thy precious gift, my generous friend,
I grave thy memory in the spirit-shrine,
Where Gratitude shall wreath it with her hymn
Of living incense, to the Friend divine.

THE ANGEL'S VISIT.

My head was weary, and my heart was faint
With toil, and care, and sorrow, and I lay
In dreamy musing, while the holy moon
Poured o'er my pillow her celestial day.

A gentle murmur, as of waving wings,
Which shed a soothing balm upon the air,
Now filled my chamber. 'Tis the angel Sleep,
I said; she comes in answer to my prayer;

And I will see her beauty, and will gaze
Into the poppies on her brow and breast,
And watch the dreamy spirits braid the spells
That shed enchantment o'er the hour of rest.

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I looked;—there stood an angel by my bed,
But 'twas not Sleep with heavy-lidded eyes,
With slumbrous wreaths, and sceptre of such down
As o'er the bosom of the cygnet lies.

But looking down upon me, with such eyes
As make the spirit conscious of their power
To search the springs that move its deepest chord,
And read the heart-leaf of its inmost flower;

With neither badge or emblem, there she stood,
The holy moonlight resting on her brow,
And draping her fair form;—with trembling voice,
I murmured, “Heavenly creature! who art thou?”

Then came a voice, still as an infant's sleep,
Yet thrilling as the trumpet's tone of fear;
My soul grew faint, and trembled as she spake,—
“I am the Spirit of the passing year.

“Lo! I have walked beside thee many days,
With ministry of mercy; now I go
To Him who sent me, for the New Year comes,
I hear his footsteps in the drifting snow.

“Search now amid my precious gifts to thee,
Some gem that hath received no earthly stain,
Which I may bear with me to Heaven, a pledge
That I have not been sent to thee in vain.

“And it shall be an evidence for thee,
When thou shalt stand before the judgment seat,
Where years misspent, and gifts unsanctified,
In dark array thy naked soul shall meet.”

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“What shall I give?” I asked. And she replied,
“Bring me the days that have been well employed,
The blessings worthily and purely used,
The hallowed griefs, bliss blamelessly enjoyed.”

I searched the days, but not a single gem
Of all the chain was perfect in its light,
My heart was fainting as I marked the stains,
On things that came from heaven, so pure and bright.

And then I scanned the deeds that I had done,
For one so pure that it might speak to God;
I might as well have sought the morning star
Amongst the fragile blossoms of the sod.

I turned me to the precious things of life,
And sought one leaf that was not touched of earth,
But Truth, and Hope, and Faith, and Charity,
Ah me! and yet they were of heavenly birth.

But Love and Friendship—I have kept them pure
In my heart's holiest chamber. Look! I cried,
How perfect, how divinely beautiful,
How long enduring and how sorely tried!

Yes, they shall be my pleaders. So I laid
My priceless jewels in the moon's cold ray,
And looked upon them,—oh! the dear frail things!
I hid them in my heart, and turned away.

“Go, bring thy lyre,” the pitying angel said,
“It hath perchance some high and holy hymn,
Which may be offered at the Throne of Heaven,
And mingled with the living seraphim.”

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I brought the harp, and as I touched the strings,
Each threw its holiest gem upon my breast,
But as I looked upon them, I beheld
My heart—my heart on every one impressed.

“Give me a prayer,” she said, “one earnest prayer
That hath upon its wing no human stain.”
“Yes! I can find a sinless prayer,” I said;
And sought it with a prayer, but sought in vain.

“I have no pure memento then,” I sighed,
“Which may in Heaven's bright treasury be kept;—
Thou hast been mine in vain, departing year!
Oh, lost for ever!”—Bitterly I wept.

And then the angel smiled. “Thou'st found the gift,”
She whispered. “These are penitential tears;
I bear the humble pleaders up to God,
With better promise for the future years.”

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THE REVELATION.

The world was gathered at Beth-araba,
Beyond the Jordan, in the wilderness,
Attracted thither by the Messenger
Whom God had sent before Immanuel's face,

Was preaching fearlessly—exclaiming still,
“Repent ye, for the kingdom of our God
Is now at hand; repent, and bring such fruits
As may avert the near impending rod.

“Renounce all wicked ways, and be baptized
For the remission of your many sins;
Flee from the wrath to come, before the day
That burns with fire unquenchable begins.

“I baptize you with water, but there comes
One after me, far mightier than I;
He shall baptize you with the Holy Ghost,
And fire from the pervading flame on high.”

His words fell on the multitudes with power,
Convincing them of sin, abasing pride,
And moving hundreds to confess their guilt
And seek remission at the cleansing tide.

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Then Jesus came, with unpretending mien,
From Galilee to Jordan, unto John,
To be baptized of him, and thus fulfil
All righteousness, and put his mission on.

The rite was finished, and as Jesus came
Up from the water, lo! a voice, so clear,
Distinct, and soul-pervading, came from heaven,
And fell distinctly on the startled ear,

Proclaiming:—“This is my beloved Son,
In whom I am well pleased!”—the while a dove
Descended swiftly from the open heaven,
And closed above his brow its wings of love.

Thus stood Immanuel, with the Holy Ghost
Brooding upon him, while from heaven pealed
The undoubted voice of the Eternal God,
And thus, the Triune Godhead was revealed.

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TO MRS. SIGOURNEY, (1844.)

To me thou seem'st a beauteous shell,
Thrown out upon some fairy isle,
In whose deep heart a spirit band
Are hymning all the while.
Rich music, wreathed of sun and shade,
Of love and grief, of joy and wo,
A thrilling of all tender chords
That human bosoms know;
And woven through each mellow lay
The same rich tone for ever rings,
The music of the ocean lyre
Swept by ethereal wings.
Yes, though upon the mountain top
The shell of ocean seems to sleep,
Still murmurs from its inmost cell
The music of the deep.

And I have deemed thee like a bird
Brought from some far-off sunny land,
Where sport in never-fading groves
The tuneful-hearted band;
Where melody the whole day long
Lies languid on the scented air,
And purple evening bears to heaven
Rich wreaths of chaunted pray'r.

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Though captive in this wintry clime,
And taught full many a foreign song,
Which thy rich mellow cadences
Delightfully prolong;
The native notes, so wild and sweet,
That dwell in thy deserted home,
Gush forth unbidden from thy heart,
Where'er thy pinions roam.

For all the breathings of thy lyre,
Whate'er the lay, whate'er the theme,
Be it the moan of chill despair,
Or young life's passion dream;
Or if maternity's deep love
Gush tremblingly o'er the thrilling string,
Or maidenhood's pure trust and truth,
And fervent worshipping;
Or the low wail above the bier
Where the heart's jewels broken lie;
Or the sweet hymn of holy Hope
That bears the soul on high;—
All breathe of heaven; a gentle strain
Of pure and earnest piety;
The music of thy spirit-home
Pervades thy minstrelsy.

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THE BATTLE-FIELD.

It is the field of battle, overspread
With hideous mangled remnants of the dead;
Tread warily, for look! the beaten sod
Is foul with dark coagulated blood;
Foxes, and dogs, and loathsome birds of prey,
Feasting with joy on poor mortality;
Sucking the blood, tearing the hero's breast,
Eating the patriot's heart. Ha! horrid feast—
Yet not an arm is tossed to fright away
The sated rovers from the gory prey;
And not a sound awakes the tainted air,
Though even the tongue the glutted vultures tear.

And can these be the remnants of the bands
By honour's voice impelled from distant lands,
Who yestermorning gloried in their might,
And stamped the earth, impatient for the fight?
Who vowed to win a laurel and a name,
Meet for the altar of immortal fame?
Yet there's no wreath upon the ghastly brow,
And who will name these festering relics now?
While all that Fame with brazen tongue can tell
Is, that they marched to battle, fought, and fell;
And Honour, if a garland she bestow,
Will bind it proudly round the general's brow;

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While over these, an undistinguished heap,
Even their country will not pause to weep.

Is this the fame, the honour, and the meed,
For which the iron-hearted soldiers bleed?
Can this be man's unenviable lot,
To perish like a dog and be forgot?
Forgot? Oh, no! For though his country shed
No tears, no honours, on his lowly bed,
Still each has left in some dear distant home,
The tree of memory in its richest bloom,
Whose strong and tender tendrils are entwined
Round every fibre of some gentle mind;
Some woman's heart, that cherishes its bloom,
And feeds her spirit with its rich perfume.

Look here! This severed hand belongs to one
Who was a widowed mother's only son;
She now sits lonely in her cottage home,
And looks, and longs, to see her darling come.
By her, affliction, poverty, and scorn,
Have been with fortitude and meekness borne;
Her children faded in their infant bloom,
And one by one sunk smitten to the tomb;
Yet then a soothing light from Paradise,
Shone through the tears that filled her clouded eyes.
And when adversity, with iron hand,
Shook her, an exile from her native land,
She clung the closer with a woman's truth
To him on whom she hung the trust of youth.
But when with broken spirit he bent down,
'Neath fortune's blow and the world's scornful frown;

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When all her tender soothing proved in vain,
And even her smile but added to his pain;
When on his cheek consumption's hectic bloom
Began to wreath the garland of the tomb;
Then with a fond and faithful Christian's care
She fled to God with agonizing prayer,
Lest doubt should hang her pall above his tomb,
And shroud her mourning spirit in its gloom.
But when the peace and happiness of heaven,
To his subdued and humble soul were given,
When love divine, with its triumphant ray,
Scattered the clouds of guilt and doubt away,
With joy she heard the parting spirit sing,
“Grave! where's thy victory? Death! where is thy sting?”
And in the bliss of his eternal gain,
Almost forgot her widowhood and pain.
Yet now her dwelling was an humble shed,
And her own hand procured her daily bread;
No wonder that her heart, so wrung and reft,
Clung fondly to her only treasure left;
The little boy, who, when his father died,
Kissed her pale cheek to soothe her while she cried—
No wonder that she watched him day and night,
And could not trust her treasure from her sight;
No wonder that her eye had learned to seek
Its hope's assurance on his ruddy cheek;
That her ear tingled, and her heart grew faint,
If from his lips escaped the least complaint;
That she abridged her wardrobe and her bread,
That he might be with classic treasures fed;
And that as age made brain and eye grow dim,
She leaned for light and comfort all on him.

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How came he here? Alas! the youthful mind
To chivalry and daring deeds inclined;
With ardent heart he joined the patriot band
That loved the honour of their native land;
And though he thought upon his mother's tears,
And knew how age increases love's fond fears,
His young heart knew not—oh, it could not know—
The depth of that fond widowed mother's wo;
But thought with fame and honour to return,
And bid her heart with pride and rapture burn.
He left her on her knees, and, night and day,
Her whole employment was to weep and pray.
But He who would possess her heart alone
Has stricken her dear idol from its throne.
Now when the tidings pierce through her dull ears,
And her dim eyes pour forth their bitterest tears,
With broken heart descending to the tomb,
While no loved face illumes that path of gloom,
Her wounded heart will meekly turn to God,
And learn to bless his name, and kiss his rod.

Here lies a ghastly head, with here and there,
Amongst the thick dark curls, a silver hair,
Even through the shades of death, the eye can trace
Manhood's full ripen'd beauty in the face;
But the wide eyes are passionless and dim,
As if no feeling e'er had swayed with him.
Yet he has felt, as few are form'd to feel;
And loved—but few have ever loved so well;
And she, who was the centre of his bliss,
Was worthy of a love and truth like his.
And there were joys within his humble home,
Such as have seldom blest the lordly dome;

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For love, with full confiding, nestled there,
And health and industry excluded care;
And they were happy in a conscious pride,
That all the other's bliss on each relied;
And oh, how dear was every blooming child,
That on that happy mother's bosom smiled.
Those who live only for domestic joys,
Unvex'd by pride, or fashion's empty toys;
Who pass long years in one sweet blessed home,
Where anguish and bereavement never come,
Where wild ambition never lights his fires,
Where avarice never comes with mean desires,
Where this one wish pervades each pious breast,
To see its loved ones all supremely blest;—
He only unto whom it has been given
To live the lord of such a perfect heaven,
Has felt the poignant pang of agony,
With which this slaughtered one came forth to die,
While on his bosom big bright tear-drops shone,
Wrung from a heart that worshipp'd him alone;
And a cold, trembling hand's long lingering press,
Was thrilling every nerve of tenderness.
“Oh God! to thy protection I confide
My widow and my fatherless,” he cried;
“Farewell! I shall return to you no more—
And now the bitterness of death is o'er.”

Bravely he stood upon this battle-field,
His country's honour and her rights to shield;
He fell, and with him died the heavenly bloom
Of happiness within his darken'd home.
If the bright orb of light and warmth were riven
From his high centre, in the glowing heaven,

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The planets that now dance around his throne,
Receiving light and life from him alone,
In cold chaotic death and darkness left,
Would shadow forth the home whence he was reft.

Pause here a moment—here lies one who died
In the full bloom of manhood's morning pride,
How calm, how still, how placid, seems his sleep;
Come, look upon this marble brow, and weep.
Here lies the blood all clotted on his breast,
And here's the ball-hole in the broider'd vest.
His hand is thrust within,—let's view the wound;—
Oh look! see what a treasure I have found!
See what a brilliant miniature is pressed,
By these stiff fingers to the cold white breast.
Was this the idol of his latest thought,
Pressed to a heart with early passions fraught?
Or did he, as his lifestrings, one by one,
Relaxed their shivering hold, or lost their tone,
As the last fervent pray'r arose to heav'n,
Winged with the consciousness of sin forgiven,
Entreat rich consolation from above,
For the wrung spirit of his gentle love?
Or, as in agony his languid head
Sunk down upon his cold wet dying bed,
Perhaps he felt it sad to die alone,
And grasp'd the shadow of that lovely one,
As if its bright and loving smile had power
To soothe the bitterness of such an hour.
Or were she present! The fair girl who lies
With anxious heart, and weary waking eyes,
Unmindful of the splendour round her thrown,
Musing upon her distant love alone;

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'Twould well become that generous heart to break,
Which could relinquish all for his dear sake.
She is a rich man's daughter, yet her soul
Has never own'd the enervate control
Of wealth or fashion; guileless is her heart,
And her whole character untouch'd by art.
And as the rich and native incense flows
From the deep bosom of the open rose,
So from the spirit comes each word and tone,
That form the language of this gentle one;
While feelings that her tongue is loath to speak,
Look from the clear blue eye and changing cheek,
Which vary, to the heart's emotions true,
From the cold marble to the carmine hue.
Oh, it has been the joy of these closed eyes
To watch the bright'ning beams, and varying dyes,
Which answer'd still to his impassion'd words,
Like faithful echoes from affection's chords.
While her heart felt as if her girlhood's joys,
And rich home's treasures, were but childish toys,
Which it could freely, cheerfully resign
For the full heart he offered at her shrine.—
But that is past, and she must suffer now
The pangs that only woman's heart can know;
The utter desolation and despair
Which only woman's heart is formed to bear.

Here lies a calm-faced corpse, with silver hair,
And hands close clasped as if in fervent pray'r;
He was a Christian, and his latest breath
Was joyful triumph o'er the conqueror, Death.
His eldest son fell nobly at his side;
He felt death's anguish when the brave boy died;

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And now his house is of all stay bereft,
For girls and stripling boys alone are left.
Yet, e'en for these, his soul on God relied,
And full of peace, and hope, and joy, he died.
His wife and children, in their peaceful home,
Even now expect the war-worn one to come;
And each has something treasured up to prove
The fond remembrance of assiduous love.
The girls, with industry and nicest care,
Have manufactured garments for his wear,
And each glad boy preserved from field and grove,
The choicest fruits as offerings of love.
While she who loved him more than all the rest,
Has tender treasures hoarded in her breast;
Each touching incident of household joy,
And filial breathing of his fair young boy;
Whate'er has given a bliss to her staid heart,
And every incident that caused a smart,
Are written in the sanctuary there,
Half felt, till he returns, the thrill to share.
Yet long and vainly shall they watch for him,
Till all hearts faint and every eye grows dim;
Anguish shall canker each fair daughter's bloom,
While moths her offering of love consume.
Each young boy's face shall beam with saddened ray,
While all untasted his rich fruits decay,
And in the widow's heart the unshared store
Must lie a canker at its inmost core.

They do not murmur at their God's decree,
They bend them down in meek humility;
But they have met the blight of mental pain,
And the seared heart will never bloom again.

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So I have seen the lovely fragile flower
Bend meekly down, beneath the driving shower,
And when the winds were hushed, the clouds gone by,
Raise up tow'rd heaven again its humid eye.
But though its wonted hue the flow'ret wore,
And shed its incense richly as before,
Its bloom was touched, and premature decay
In the bruised stem and shivered leaflets lay.

Full many a human flow'r of richest bloom,
Have war's fierce storms crushed early to the tomb,
While thousands fall upon the field of blood,
And pour life out at once in sanguine flood,
Thousands are slain, who linger on for years,
And waste life, drop by drop, in bitter tears.
Those who lie low on this polluted plain,
By war's dire implements of butchery slain,
Are happier far than those whose spirits feel
The wound that none can bear, that naught can heal,
Which knows no solace, and can find no calm,
Except in meek Religion's soothing balm.

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THE LITTLE BROOK.

From a neat cottage by a brook,
Beneath embowering trees,
The lullaby of a mother's love
Came sweetly on the breeze;
And by that brook, so clear and bright,
The early primrose grew,
And bird-songs mingled with the light,
And with the evening dew.
And round that humble cottage door
A little maiden played,
Whose voice was blither than the birds
Beneath her native shade;
And as she cropped the primrose sweet,
And laughed with infant glee,
I thought that earth had naught so glad,
So beautiful as she!

Again I saw, beside that brook,
And 'neath the same rich shade,
Watching the setting summer sun,
A young and blooming maid:
Her soft blue eyes were full of hope,
Her cheek was rosy bright,
And round her lip danced all the smiles
And dimples of delight!

240

A new-blown lily's fragrant head
Was nestling on her breast;—
I said that earth had naught like her,
So blooming and so blest!

'Twas evening by that little brook,
And soft the clear moon shone,
While winds came courting to the flow'r,
With the Edolian tone—
And 'mid the music, light, and bloom,
In full-blown beauty's pride,
A maiden stood, but not alone,—
Her love was by her side.
And he was beautiful and strong,
Brave, excellent, and free;
And told his tale of love and truth,
In all sincerity.
I heard him ask, in soft low tone,
If she would be his bride;
Her eyelids veiled a world of bliss,
As trembling she replied;
Her cheek was brighter than the rose
That blushed upon her brow;
And then I thought, earth has no gift
That she can covet now!

Years passed; and still that little brook
Flowed bright and glad along,
And young primroses by its side
Were list'ning to its song;
And glancing wings, and joyous lays,
Were floating through the shade;

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But where was she of other days,
The little laughing maid?
Or where was she, within whose breast
The lily sought to hide?
Whose maiden blush of love and joy
The bright red rose outvied?

Lo! seated on a primrose bank,
Where bending osiers sigh,
A lady sits, mature of years,
With intellectual eye;
Fashion has aided wealth to form
Her costume, rich and rare,
Bright gold and gems adorned her brow,
But, O! 'twas marked with care!
Yet she was beautiful, and blest
With genius, wealth, and pow'r;
And she had been in classic lands,
And trod each famous shore.
Now she had come to sit once more
Beneath the whispering trees
That nodded o'er the little brook,
Conversing with the breeze;
And see, she traces as she sits
Warm feelings as they rise,
And bending o'er the written page,
She reads with tearful eyes:

“Dear little primrose-border'd brook,
To thee the wanderer came,
And thou of all she left behind,
Remainest still the same!

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Death, time, and change have touched all else,
But thou art glittering here,
With the same glad and holy hymn
That soothed my infant ear!
Long years have passed since, full of hope,
I left these simple bowers,
To dance along life's golden path,
Amongst exotic flowers!
And I have won each brilliant boon
That woman e'er can gain,
And each has left within my breast,
A canker or a stain!
Where celebrated waters flow,
And classic wreaths entwine,
I've found no stream as bright as thou,
No flowers so sweet as thine!
And memory turns from gilded halls
And fame's luxuriant bowers,
To dwell with childhood's purity,
And nature's own sweet flowers.
Genius, and all the gems and plumes
Of honour I resign;
Let piety's sweet living stream
And humble flowers be mine!”

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LINES,

ON THE DEATH OF HIS MOTHER.

Mourner! shall I bid thee dry
The tears of filial grief?
Shall I bid thee check the sigh
That gives thy heart relief?
Oh, I cannot! for I know
That resignation's silent tears
Are balsam to the wounds of wo,
Cool balm to cankering cares.

Thou wilt find no love so pure
As hers whose love is past;
None that can so long endure,
So fervent to the last.
Oh, how a pious mother's love
Will fondly agonize and bear,
Presenting at the Throne above
The object of its care.

Never more to that kind breast
Wilt thou confide thy cares—

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That unwearied home of rest
Of thine infantine years,
That fond breast will throb no more
With hopes, and fears, and cares for thee;
Even the latest pang is o'er
Of poor humanity.

Closed for ever are those eyes,
Whose beams of love and joy
Heightened all the ecstacies
Of her light-hearted boy;
Thou wilt meet the sunny beam
Of her approving love no more,
Or bathe in that consoling stream
Thy heart with anguish sore.

Yet, reflect, those eyes have shed
Full many a tear for thee,
And many a night beside thy bed,
Have watched with agony.
All their watchings now are o'er,
Their latest tears are dried away;
And they shall wake to weep no more
At the last joyful day.

Though thou never more may'st hear
Her kind consoling voice,
Whispering softly hope and cheer,
When blighted are thy joys;
Though thou ne'er shall clasp again
The hand that stayed thine infant head,
Ministered to all thy pain,
And smoothed thy cradle bed;

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Yet, reflect, while in the tomb
Her mortal body lies,
The spirit in immortal bloom
Is blessed in Paradise—
In that holier world above,
Where no care, no stain can come;
All her pure and tender love
Lives in heavenly bloom.

Wouldst thou call her back again
From Heaven's ecstatic bliss,
To feel the grief, the care, and pain
Of such a world as this?
All such selfish grief repress,
And follow to the bright abode,
Where thou mayst share her blessedness,
Before the Throne of God.

TO ANN.

Look unto God, our Saviour!
He careth for thee still,
Though dark around thee gather
The spectre forms of ill;
Though all thy joys are faded,
Though all thy springs are dry,
Though hope's sweet harp is broken,
And storms are drifting nigh.

I know thy heart is breaking,
I know thy brain is wrung,

248

Though not a word of bitterness
Has fallen from thy tongue;
I see thee fading meekly,
Like some bright summer flower,
The stalk of which is wounded
Past Nature's healing power.

Of hearts that thou hast cherished
In sunny days of old,
I know that some have perished,
And some are false and cold;
I know that fickle fortune
Has frowned upon thy way,
That envy and malevolence
Have marked thee for their prey.

I know thou sometimes dreamest
Of the white stone by the brook,
O'er which the ancient cedar
Its heavy branches shook;
While on the moss beneath it,
A few small rays of light,
Like diamonds on a velvet robe,
Lay flashing, purely bright.

For ever it was hymning
A dreamy minstrelsy,
Like answer of deep waters
When winds sigh lovingly;
And softly from its bosom
The gentle mourning dove
Poured forth her pensive music
Of sorrow and of love.

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And in thy dream thou thinkest
Of summer evenings still,
When the silence of the moonlight
Lay bright on stream and hill,
And the star that loves the evening
Lay trembling in the west,
Like the first holy thought of love
In a young maiden's breast.

Oh, pleasant are thy dreamings,
For one is with thee there,
In pride of manly beauty,
And brow untraced by care;
And, hand and heart united,
Full oft in that sweet bower,
Ye watched the changing loveliness
Of twilight's tender hour.

Ye watch'd the pencilled glories,
Till every gorgeous hue
Was changed to mourning drapery,
Or melted into dew—
And then bright hope were gilding
The west of future years,
Deemed ye they too would melt away
To mourning and to tears?

He who was then thy lover
Is on a foreign shore,
The plumes of that old cedar tree
Shall beckon thee no more;—
And thou mayst sit at nightfall
Beneath a greener tree,

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But the greenness of the guileless heart
Can come no more to thee.

'Tis vain to weep for pleasures
That never can return;
O'er broken hopes and buried joys
'Tis vanity to mourn.
Still onward time is speeding
Along a flow'ry shore;
Oh, why look backward weeping
And miss the joys before?

Why do we seek to garner
The bliss that cannot stay,
And wail for buds of beauty
That bloom but to decay?
Why do we think of naming
The summer birds our own,
And rail at heaven in autumn
That such bright things are flown?—

'Twere kind to use earth's treasures
As wild bees court the flowers,
To draw from each a honeyed drop
To cheer the wintry hours;
We know that death, and sorrow,
And chance, and change will come,
That we are only travellers
To an eternal home.

Then look to God our Savir,ti
And leave the world behind;
Its brightest things are vanity,
They cannot fill the mind;

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The loves of earth are fleeting,
And death is ever nigh,
Its richest joys, its sweetest ties
Dissolving with a sigh.

ON THE NEW YEAR.

'Tis past!—Another year has signed and sealed
Its complement of days. We sigh in vain,
And send regret to plead with the dim past;—
They never will return to us again.

Each came from heaven a radiant messenger,
Sent by our holy Father from above,
To lead us with a gentle discipline,
Toward the home of holiness and love.

Have we obeyed the angel ministers,
And suffered each to bring us nearer heaven?—
Or have we, with a grave hypocrisy,
Walked in the way with only one in seven?

Or did we turn our backs upon them all,
Using their precious gifts with thankless breast,
And throwing from us, most ungraciously,
Each wholesome fruit that had a bitter taste?

And wrestling with them, when by gentle force
They sought to turn our faces toward the way,
Ay, wrestling! and with most rebellious words
Chiding the God whose mandate they obey?

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Or did we take the precious things they brought,
And give them to the idols we adore?
To Pleasure—to Ambition—unto Pride,
Or add them unto Avarice's cankered store?

If so, they will be ever unto us
Accusing spirits, haunting all our ways,
With mournful mien, and sad reproachful eyes,
Casting their shadows on each sunny place.

And in the blessed night, when we would rest
Upon the balmy bosom of sweet sleep,
Their shades will pass before our weary souls,
And come in restless visions till we weep.

And there's no angel, by kind Mercy sent,
To kiss away the tears of that regret;
They dim the eye—they eat into the cheek—
The hair grows gray on pillows they have wet.

And they will point us to the dread abode,
Where all the unransomed of the earth must go;
Where deep Despair gnaws ever at the heart,
And Deathless! is the word of deepest wo.

Alas! that misspent days should haunt us thus,
Mingling remorse with all our present hours;
Blending low wailing notes with Hope's sweet song,
And twining nightshade with all Memory's flowers,

Yet still they walk beside us. Still we hear
Their voices in our dreams. We plead in vain—
In vain we weep. The irrevocable Past
Will never give one moment back again.

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No,—though with that one moment, we might buy
Eternal happiness. Our struggling prayer
Returns from the inexorable gate,
To crush us with one cold word, despair!

But Jesus pleads with Justice. Let us come
With penitence, and humble trust, and lay
Our misspent days before him—pleading there
That he will hide them from the judgment day.

Ay—leave the Past with Jesus—and go forth
To hail the New Year, with an humble joy.
He comes with precious gifts of other days,
Which we may be permitted to enjoy.

But whether few or many shall be ours
Is only to the gracious Giver known,—
Oh! let us then improve the precious hours,
And make the proffered blessings all our own.

Yes, let us make them messengers of joy
To every child of sorrow, pain, or care;
Send them with Gospel light to death-dark souls,
And unto God, with thankfulness, and prayer.

Ah! let us fill their bosoms with warm love,
For those to whom our love is happiness;
And if one creature hate us, let them bear
To him kind words of brotherhood and peace.

So shall they walk beside us with sweet smiles,
To soothe and cheer us through all time to come;
Each with a band of gentle memories,
And pointing to our Father's heavenly home.

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And when we lie upon the bed of pain,
Our future with dim shadows overcast,
Our present agony—Oh! sweetly then
Will come these smiling angels of the past,

To hover round our pillow all day long,
And chase the phantoms from our reeling brain,
To weave their form in all our fever dreams,
And tell us that we have not lived in vain.

And they will stand beside us at the day
Of judgment, when all hearts shall fail with fear;
When heaven shall roll together like a scroll,
And the Eternal Majesty appear.

Then Jesus, who shall judge the quick and dead,
Shall hear and answer to their humble plea,—
“Come, blessed of my Father, reign in bliss,
For ye have ministered to mine—and Me.”

Let us secure, against that solemn day,
A crowd of these most blessed witnesses;
Earth has no ransom for the sinful soul,
No pleaders, but the voice of well-spent days.

And oh! may every day the New Year gives,
Be added to our angels, with its wreath
Of Faith, and Hope, and fervent Charity,
Which make our happiness, in life, or death.

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DEATH.

Death! 'tis a fearful word
To those who have no God;
No interest in a risen Lord,
And his redeeming blood.

'Tis dread to lie at night,
By conscience sore oppressed;
With everlasting wo in sight,
Its tortures in the breast.

Death! word of cold deep gloom
To beings who profess
To hope for nought beyond the tomb,
But night and nothingness.

To die and pass away
From this bright joyous sphere,
To rottenness and foul decay,
Ha! what a sting is here.

Death! 'tis no thought of joy
To souls of sins forgiven;
Who trust that they have but to die
To pass from earth to heaven.

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For oh! the clinging ties,
The child, the infant dear,
The clasping hands, the grief-dim eyes—
How they would bind us here.

Yet Christians fear not death;
They lay them down in peace,
Give God their friends, with dying breath,
And pass where sorrows cease.

THE SABBATH SCHOOL TEACHERS. (1838.)

Who are these? a peaceful band,
Meekly moving through the land;
With hand unwearied, foot untired,
And heart with humble fervour fired;
With heavenward eye and placid cheek,
Where no resentment dares to speak,
Even when derided and reviled,
Or met by passions fierce and wild;
And when from falsehood's burning lips
The cankering stream of malice drips,
Although the heart may writhe with pain,
It sends a blessing back again;
And anger lives not in the eye
Though on its lid the tear-drops lie.

Patiently they trace the road
To penury's obscure abode,
And seek for precious treasures in
The vile and loathsome haunts of sin.

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Who are these so mild and meek?
What rich treasures do they seek?
Are they in quest of high renown?
Or would they win a regal crown?
Or do they seek the airy bays
That float upon the poet's lays?
Or is it gold or worldly gain
For which they feel contempt and pain.

Ah! these are worthless in their eyes;
They seek a nobler, holier prize.
They are followers of Him
Whose eyes with tears were often dim,
As o'er life's rugged ways he crossed
Intent to seek and save the lost.

They seek the young immortal mind,
The uncultured germs of human kind;
The precious gems whose radiant light
Lies hid in ignorance and frigid night.
They seek the wretched widow's sons,
The untaught labourer's little ones;
The loathsome drunkard's wretched child,
Whose haggard brow, and features wild,
And shrinking form, and timid eye,
Betrays wild fear and misery.
Whose tattered garb, and naked feet,
As stealthily it tracks the street,
Betray the parent's sin and shame,
And stamp it on the poor child's name.

Of all the black and baleful clouds
That wrap life's morn in mourning shrouds,

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The parent of inebriate thirst
Entails upon his child the worst.
For though its guileless bosom feel
The keen contempt like barbed steel;
Though it resolve to shun the fire
That tortures the infuriate sire;
Though Genius' germs are in the mind,
And the young nature warm and kind;
Though oft the little bosom ache
As if the swelling heart would break;
Still, still, in visitation dread
Upon the drooping helpless head,
In scorn, contempt, derision, lies
The burden of iniquities.

Some who have hearts to feel for grief,
Whose hands are prompt to give relief,
Pass such as vile, polluted things,
Who merit all their sufferings;
While happy children, from their play
Will drive the ragged one away.
And if in after life their name
Ring from the brazen trump of Fame,
Detraction in her hissing tone
Will answer, “Ah! the drunkard's son!”

Ye who are bartering all for drink,
Pause, I beseech you! pause and think;
Look at your child, and think how deep
The guilt for which you ought to weep.
Its heart is crushed, its name is soiled,
It is the drunken—'s child.
Its freeborn spirit is bent down,
Debased by thine unnatural frown;

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Like guilty slave it walks the streets,
Shunning the eyes of all it meets;
Black guilt pollutes its tender years;
Profanity is in its ears;
Its face is pale for lack of bread,
And hopeless tears its young eyes shed.
Alas! for such, the orphan state
Were better than their cruel fate.

These the kind friends of Mercy seek,
With hand so strong, and heart so meek,
To lead them from their native night
Into the dawn of science' light.
To place their little timid feet
Within her gate, where brightly meet
The toilsome paths, so steep and bright,
So glorious to young Genius' sight;
Which lead to Wisdom's reverend mount,
To Poesy's enchanted fount,
To glorious Fame's resplendent gate,
And all that life has, rich or great.
To point them to the narrow road
That leads the humble soul to God;
To teach the spirit how to trace
The path of happiness and peace;
Fondly the infant soul to bear,
Upon the breast of ardent pray'r,
To Him who bids the little one
Come fearlessly before his throne,
And ask the grace which freely given
Sheds o'er the earth the light of heaven;
Enabling e'en the drundkard's child
To bear its lot with spirit mild,

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And when reviled with words profane,
Give no reviling word again,
But cheerfully obedient still,
Seek to perform a parent's will;
Touching the heart of all who see
Such patience and humility;
And haply from destruction's road
Winning a parent back to God.

Who are these, again I ask,
Who thus perform this blessed task?
The toil, the burden, lies on those
Who leave the bosom of repose,
While early morning in the east
Proclaims the holy day of rest;
Whose rich instructions, gently given,
Fall like the balmy dews of heaven,
Which come with still, but life-fraught pow'r,
Waking to bloom each embryo flow'r.
The laurel wreath, and voice of fame,
Confer no honours on their name,
No shining coin their toil repays,
Nor wear they yet poetic bays.
It is enough for them to know
They follow Jesus' steps below;
And they receive a rich reward
In the approval of the Lord,
And the bright hope that many a soul
Will ever bless the Sabbath School.

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TO THE BRITISH QUEEN. (1838.)

Queen of the ocean! Thing of power,
Beauty, and majesty combin'd;
Speeding thy course from shore to shore,
With soul of fire, and wing of wind;

Riding upon the billowy deep,
And proudly buffeting the waves;
As fearless of the storm-wind's sweep,
The waterspout, the whirlpool's cave.

Thou glorious creature, speaking forth,
The infinite majesty of mind;
Which gave thy wond'rous fabric birth,
And bade thee rule the waves and wind.

Thou now art bathing in the sea,
Where rolled our Fulton's little boat;
How had he smiled triumphantly,
To see thy perfect fabric float!

Poor Fulton, while his spirit mourned,
Waking by night, toiling by day;
Derided, pitied, sneered at, scorned,
Adventurous Genius' destiny;

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Deem'd he, amid his hopes and fears,
That every lake and noble stream
Of this broad land, ere thirty years,
Should own the potent power of steam?

That such a glorious thing as thou,
Of peerless mould and royal name,
Shouldst cross the ocean to bestow
A splendid laurel to his fame?

Yet so it is. In bed of sand
Soft Indolence his name may trace;
Poor Genius, with a weary hand,
Inscribed the everduring brass!

Proud floating castle of the deep,
Heaven speed thee on thy homeward way;
For even thee, His hand must keep
Who holds the reins of destiny.

Rich emblem of the royal maid,
Whose blazoned title suits thee well,
A songstress from Columbia's shade,
A warbler of the wild-wood dell,

I bid thee God speed, and with thee bear
To her who rules by land and flood,
The echo of a woman's prayer,
Breathed in the free, eternal Wood.

That she may find the gallant bark,
Whose onward course 'tis hers to guide

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Along the current, strong and dark,
Of Time's resistless billowy tide,

Able to baffle wind and wave,
With mighty engine, gallant crew,
Impervious hull, and rigging brave,
And gilding glorious to the view;

Steady and upright on her way,
Queen of the Ocean, as of yore;
Obedient to her gentle sway,
And bright with honour, evermore.

May He who rules o'er ships and worlds,
Smooth the rough ocean for her prow,
And guide her safe o'er shoal and whirl,
When breakers roar beneath her bow.

For pilot's care, and helmsman's skill,
And sails and anchors, all are vain,
Unless His hand be present still,
To guide the vessel o'er the main.

God speed thee! Britain's royal maid,
Thou young and lovely Queen of Hearts!
Give thee his wisdom to thine aid,
And shield thee from misfortune's darts.

Make peace and joy thy diadem,
And wreath it high with power and fame,
While piety's resplendent gem,
Sheds o'er thy brow its heavenly flame.

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Preserve thee humble, pure, and good,
While long and glorious years of time
Shall waft thee o'er life's stormy flood
To joy's serene and holy clime.

THE END.

University of Virginia Library

MY TROPHIES.