 | The girl's reading-book ; in prose and poetry |  |
216
ALICE.
[_]
A very interesting young lady, deprived of the gifts of hearing and speech, cherished a most ardent affection for her father. At his death, she said in her strong language of gesture, that “her heart had so grown to his, that it could not be separated.”—In a few days she was called to follow him.—From those happy mansions where we trust she is received, may we not imagine her thus addressing the objects of her earliest affections?
Sisters! there's music here,
From countless harps it flows,
Throughout this bright celestial sphere
Nor pause nor discord knows.
From countless harps it flows,
Throughout this bright celestial sphere
Nor pause nor discord knows.
The seal is melted from my ear
By love divine,
And what through life I pined to hear,
Is mine! Is mine!
The warbling of an ever-tuneful choir,
And the full, deep response of David's sacred lyre
By love divine,
And what through life I pined to hear,
Is mine! Is mine!
The warbling of an ever-tuneful choir,
And the full, deep response of David's sacred lyre
Did kind earth hide from me
Her broken harmony,
That thus the melodies of Heaven might roll
And whelm in deeper tides of bliss, my rapt, my wondering soul?
Her broken harmony,
That thus the melodies of Heaven might roll
And whelm in deeper tides of bliss, my rapt, my wondering soul?
Joy!—I am mute no more,
My sad and silent years,
With all their loneliness, are o'er;
Sweet sisters, dry your tears.
My sad and silent years,
With all their loneliness, are o'er;
Sweet sisters, dry your tears.
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Listen at hush of eve,—listen at dawn of day—
List at the hour of prayer, can ye not hear my lay?
Untaught, unchecked it came,
As light from chaos beam'd,
Praising his everlasting name,
Whose blood from Calvary stream'd,
And still it swells that highest strain, the song of the redeem'd.
List at the hour of prayer, can ye not hear my lay?
Untaught, unchecked it came,
As light from chaos beam'd,
Praising his everlasting name,
Whose blood from Calvary stream'd,
And still it swells that highest strain, the song of the redeem'd.
Brother!—my only one,
Belov'd from childhood's hours,
With whom, beneath the vernal sun,
I wandered when our task was done,
And gathered early flowers;
I cannot come to thee,
Though 'twas so sweet to rest
Upon thy gently-guiding arm—thy sympathizing breast:
'Tis better here to be.
Belov'd from childhood's hours,
With whom, beneath the vernal sun,
I wandered when our task was done,
And gathered early flowers;
I cannot come to thee,
Though 'twas so sweet to rest
Upon thy gently-guiding arm—thy sympathizing breast:
'Tis better here to be.
No disappointments shroud
The angel-bowers of joy,
Our knowledge hath no cloud,
Our pleasures no alloy.
The angel-bowers of joy,
Our knowledge hath no cloud,
Our pleasures no alloy.
The fearful word—to part,
Is never breathed above;
Heaven hath no broken heart—
Call me not hence, my love.
Is never breathed above;
Heaven hath no broken heart—
Call me not hence, my love.
Oh mother! He is here
To whom my soul so grew,
That when Death's fatal spear
Stretch'd him upon his bier,
I fain must follow too.
To whom my soul so grew,
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Stretch'd him upon his bier,
I fain must follow too.
His smile my infant grief restrain'd—
His image in my childish dream
And o'er my young affections reign'd
With gratitude unuttered, and supreme.
But yet till these refulgent skies burst forth in radiant glow,
I know not half the unmeasured debt a daughter's heart doth owe.
His image in my childish dream
And o'er my young affections reign'd
With gratitude unuttered, and supreme.
But yet till these refulgent skies burst forth in radiant glow,
I know not half the unmeasured debt a daughter's heart doth owe.
Ask ye, if still his heart retains its ardent glow?
Ask ye, if filial love
Unbodied spirits prove?
'Tis but a little space, and thou shalt rise to know.
Ask ye, if filial love
Unbodied spirits prove?
'Tis but a little space, and thou shalt rise to know.
I bend to soothe thy woes,
How near—thou canst not see;
I watch thy lone repose,
Alice doth comfort thee;
To welcome thee, I wait—blest mother! come to me.
How near—thou canst not see;
I watch thy lone repose,
Alice doth comfort thee;
To welcome thee, I wait—blest mother! come to me.
| The girl's reading-book ; in prose and poetry | |