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 | The girl's reading-book ; in prose and poetry |  |
173
TEACHER'S EXCUSE.
WRITTEN IN SCHOOL.
My friend, I gave a glad assent
To your request at noon,
But now I find I cannot leave
My little ones so soon.
To your request at noon,
But now I find I cannot leave
My little ones so soon.
I early came, and as my feet
First entered at the door,
“Remember,” to myself I said,
“You must dismiss at four
First entered at the door,
“Remember,” to myself I said,
“You must dismiss at four
But slates, and books, and maps appear,
And many a dear one cries,
“Oh, tell us where that river runs,
And where those mountains rise;
And many a dear one cries,
“Oh, tell us where that river runs,
And where those mountains rise;
And where that blind old monarch reign'd,
And who was king before,
And stay a little after five,
And tell us something more.”
And who was king before,
And stay a little after five,
And tell us something more.”
And then my silent
darling comes,
And who unmoved can view,
The glance of that imploring eye,
“Oh, teach me something too.”
And who unmoved can view,
The glance of that imploring eye,
“Oh, teach me something too.”
174
Yet who would think, amid the toil,
(Tho' scarce a toil it be,)
That through the door, the muses coy
Should deign to look at me.
(Tho' scarce a toil it be,)
That through the door, the muses coy
Should deign to look at me.
Their look is somewhat cold and stern
As if it meant to say,
“We did not know you kept a school,
We must have lost our way.”
As if it meant to say,
“We did not know you kept a school,
We must have lost our way.”
Their visit was but short, indeed,
As these light numbers show;
But, oh! they bade me write with speed
“My friend, I cannot go.”
As these light numbers show;
But, oh! they bade me write with speed
“My friend, I cannot go.”
175
THE LADY BUG AND THE ANT.
The lady-bug sat in the rose's heart,
And smil'd with pride and scorn,
As she saw a plain-drest ant go by,
With a heavy grain of corn;
And smil'd with pride and scorn,
As she saw a plain-drest ant go by,
With a heavy grain of corn;
So she drew the curtains of damask round,
And adjusted her silken vest,
Making her glass of a drop of dew
That lay in the rose's breast.
And adjusted her silken vest,
Making her glass of a drop of dew
That lay in the rose's breast.
Then she laugh'd so loud that the ant looked up
And seeing her haughty face,
Took no more notice, but travell'd on
At the same industrious pace.
And seeing her haughty face,
Took no more notice, but travell'd on
At the same industrious pace.
But a sudden blast of autumn came,
And rudely swept the ground,
And down the rose with the lady-bug fell,
And scatter'd its leaves around.
And rudely swept the ground,
And down the rose with the lady-bug fell,
And scatter'd its leaves around.
Then the houseless lady was much amaz'd,
And knew not where to go,
For hoarse November's early blast
Had brought both rain and snow.
And knew not where to go,
For hoarse November's early blast
Had brought both rain and snow.
Her wings were chill, and her feet were cold,
And she wish'd for the ant's warm cell,
And what she did when the winter came,
I'm sure I cannot tell.
And she wish'd for the ant's warm cell,
And what she did when the winter came,
I'm sure I cannot tell.
176
But the careful ant was in her nest,
With her little ones by her side,
She taught them all like herself to toil,
Nor mind the sneer of pride.
With her little ones by her side,
She taught them all like herself to toil,
Nor mind the sneer of pride.
And I thought, as I sat at the close of day,
Eating my bread and milk,
It was wiser to work and improve my time.
Than be idle and dress in silk.
Eating my bread and milk,
It was wiser to work and improve my time.
Than be idle and dress in silk.
177
THE ARK AND DOVE.
“Tell me a story, please,” my little girl
Lisp'd from her cradle. So I bent me down,
And told her how it rain'd, and rain'd, and rain'd,
Till all the flowers were cover'd, and the trees
Hid their tall heads, and where the houses stood,
And people dwelt, a fearful deluge roll'd;
Because the world was wicked, and refus'd
To heed the words of God.
But one good man,
Who long had warn'd the wicked to repent,
Obey, and live, taught by the voice of heaven,
Had built an ark; and thither, with his wife
And children, turn'd for safety. Two and two
Of birds and beasts, and creeping things, he took,
With food for all; and when the tempest roar'd,
And the great fountains of the sky pour'd out
A ceaseless flood, till all beside were drown'd,
They in their quiet vessel dwelt secure.
Lisp'd from her cradle. So I bent me down,
And told her how it rain'd, and rain'd, and rain'd,
Till all the flowers were cover'd, and the trees
Hid their tall heads, and where the houses stood,
And people dwelt, a fearful deluge roll'd;
Because the world was wicked, and refus'd
To heed the words of God.
But one good man,
Who long had warn'd the wicked to repent,
Obey, and live, taught by the voice of heaven,
Had built an ark; and thither, with his wife
And children, turn'd for safety. Two and two
Of birds and beasts, and creeping things, he took,
With food for all; and when the tempest roar'd,
And the great fountains of the sky pour'd out
A ceaseless flood, till all beside were drown'd,
They in their quiet vessel dwelt secure.
And so the mighty waters bare them up,
And o'er the bosom of the deep they sail'd
For many days. But then a gentle dove
'Scap'd from the casement of the ark, and spread
Her lonely pinion o'er the boundless wave.
All, all was desolation. Chirping nest,
Nor face of man, nor living thing she saw,
For all the people of the earth were drown'd,
Because of disobedience.
Nought she spied,
Save wide, deep waters, and dark, frowning skies,
Nor found her weary foot a place of rest.
So, with a leaf of olive in her mouth,
Sole fruit of her drear voyage, which, perchance,
Upon some wrecking billow floated by,
With drooping wing the peaceful ark she sought.
The righteous man that wandering dove receiv'd,
And to her mate restor'd, who, with sad moan,
Had wondered at her absence.
Then I look'd
Upon the child, to see if her young thought
Wearied with following mine. But her blue eye
Was a glad listener, and the eager breath
Of pleas'd attention curl'd her parted lip.
And so I told her how the waters dried,
And the green branches wav'd, and the sweet buds
Came up in loveliness, and that meek dove
Went forth to build her nest, and thousand birds
Awoke their songs of praise, while the tir'd ark
Upon the breezy breast of Ararat
Repos'd, and Noah, with glad spirit, rear'd
An altar to his God.
Since, many a time,
When to her rest, ere evening's earliest star,
That little one is laid, with earnest tone,
And pure cheek press'd to mine, she fondly asks,
“The ark and dove.”
Mothers can tell how oft,
In the heart's eloquence, the prayer goes up
From a seal'd lip, and tenderly hath blent,
With the warm touching of the sacred tale,
A voiceless wish, that when that timid soul,
Now in the rosy mesh of infancy,
Fast bound, shall dare the billows of the world,
Like that exploring dove, and find no rest,
A pierc'd, a pitying, a redeeming hand,
May gently guide it to the ark of peace.
And o'er the bosom of the deep they sail'd
For many days. But then a gentle dove
'Scap'd from the casement of the ark, and spread
Her lonely pinion o'er the boundless wave.
All, all was desolation. Chirping nest,
Nor face of man, nor living thing she saw,
For all the people of the earth were drown'd,
Because of disobedience.
178
Save wide, deep waters, and dark, frowning skies,
Nor found her weary foot a place of rest.
So, with a leaf of olive in her mouth,
Sole fruit of her drear voyage, which, perchance,
Upon some wrecking billow floated by,
With drooping wing the peaceful ark she sought.
The righteous man that wandering dove receiv'd,
And to her mate restor'd, who, with sad moan,
Had wondered at her absence.
Then I look'd
Upon the child, to see if her young thought
Wearied with following mine. But her blue eye
Was a glad listener, and the eager breath
Of pleas'd attention curl'd her parted lip.
And so I told her how the waters dried,
And the green branches wav'd, and the sweet buds
Came up in loveliness, and that meek dove
Went forth to build her nest, and thousand birds
Awoke their songs of praise, while the tir'd ark
Upon the breezy breast of Ararat
Repos'd, and Noah, with glad spirit, rear'd
An altar to his God.
Since, many a time,
When to her rest, ere evening's earliest star,
That little one is laid, with earnest tone,
And pure cheek press'd to mine, she fondly asks,
“The ark and dove.”
Mothers can tell how oft,
In the heart's eloquence, the prayer goes up
From a seal'd lip, and tenderly hath blent,
179
A voiceless wish, that when that timid soul,
Now in the rosy mesh of infancy,
Fast bound, shall dare the billows of the world,
Like that exploring dove, and find no rest,
A pierc'd, a pitying, a redeeming hand,
May gently guide it to the ark of peace.
180
TO A DYING INFANT.
Go to thy rest, my child!
Go to thy dreamless bed,
Gentle and undefil'd,
With blessings on thy head.
Go to thy dreamless bed,
Gentle and undefil'd,
With blessings on thy head.
Fresh roses in thy hand,
Buds on thy pillow laid,
Haste from this fearful land
Where flowers so quickly fade,
Buds on thy pillow laid,
Haste from this fearful land
Where flowers so quickly fade,
Before thy heart might learn
In waywardness to stray,
Before thy feet could turn,
The dark and downward way;
In waywardness to stray,
Before thy feet could turn,
The dark and downward way;
Ere sin might wound the breast,
Or sorrow wake the tear,
Rise to thy home of rest,
In yon celestial sphere.
Or sorrow wake the tear,
Rise to thy home of rest,
In yon celestial sphere.
Because thy smile was fair,
Thy lip and eye so bright,
Because thy cradle-care
Was such a fond delight,
Thy lip and eye so bright,
Because thy cradle-care
Was such a fond delight,
Shall love with weak embrace
Thine upward flight detain?
No! seek thy blessed place
Amid the angel train.
Thine upward flight detain?
No! seek thy blessed place
Amid the angel train.
181
PROCRASTINATION.
“Live well to-day,” a spirit cries,
“To-day be good, to-day be wise;”
Why doth the loitering idler tell,
Another day will do as well?
“To-day be good, to-day be wise;”
Why doth the loitering idler tell,
Another day will do as well?
“Now is the time, the accepted time,”
Speaks audibly the page sublime;
Another creed is heard to say,
“Wait till a more convenient day.”
Speaks audibly the page sublime;
Another creed is heard to say,
“Wait till a more convenient day.”
Inquir'st thou which of these is truth?
Which to obey, unwary youth?
Go, ask of Nature in thy walk,
The rose-bud, dying on the stalk,
The scythe-shorn grass, the withering tree,
Are emblems of thy fate and thee.
Which to obey, unwary youth?
Go, ask of Nature in thy walk,
The rose-bud, dying on the stalk,
The scythe-shorn grass, the withering tree,
Are emblems of thy fate and thee.
Ask of the stream, or torrent hoarse,
To linger on their wonted course,
Ask of the bird its flight to stay,
Building its light nest on the spray,
And listen to their answering tone,
“A future day is not our own.”
To linger on their wonted course,
Ask of the bird its flight to stay,
Building its light nest on the spray,
And listen to their answering tone,
“A future day is not our own.”
And is it thine? Oh, spurn the cheat,
Resist the smooth, the dire deceit,
Lest while thou dream'st of long delay,
Thine hour of action pass away,
Thy prospects fade, thy joys be o'er,
Thy time of hope return no more.
Resist the smooth, the dire deceit,
Lest while thou dream'st of long delay,
Thine hour of action pass away,
Thy prospects fade, thy joys be o'er,
Thy time of hope return no more.
182
Ask of the Roman, pale with fear,
While judgment thunder'd in his ear,
Who to a mourning friend could say,
“I'll hear thee on a future day;”
Ask him if time confirm'd his claim,
Or that good season ever came?
While judgment thunder'd in his ear,
Who to a mourning friend could say,
“I'll hear thee on a future day;”
Ask him if time confirm'd his claim,
Or that good season ever came?
Go! ask yon dying man the price
Of one short hour of thoughtless vice;
What would he pay—what treasure give,
For one brief season more to live,
One hour to spend in anxious care,
In duty, penitence, and prayer?
Of one short hour of thoughtless vice;
What would he pay—what treasure give,
For one brief season more to live,
One hour to spend in anxious care,
In duty, penitence, and prayer?
Ask of the grave—how hoarse resounds
A voice from its sepulchral bounds,
‘With me no hope, or knowledge shine,
Nor wisdom, nor device are mine.”
A voice from its sepulchral bounds,
‘With me no hope, or knowledge shine,
Nor wisdom, nor device are mine.”
Delay no longer, lest thy breath
Should quiver in the sigh of death,
But inward turn thy thoughtful view,
And what thy duty dictates, do.
Should quiver in the sigh of death,
But inward turn thy thoughtful view,
And what thy duty dictates, do.
184
MORNING THOUGHTS.
Giver of light!—who point'st the glorious sun
His destin'd way, and callest every star
Forth by its name, and causest day and night
To know their order, and to speak thy praise,
All powerful One, to whom creation sings
Its early matin, may my humble prayer
Blend with that chorus, while the rising dawn
Dispels the shadows and the damps of night.
His destin'd way, and callest every star
Forth by its name, and causest day and night
To know their order, and to speak thy praise,
All powerful One, to whom creation sings
Its early matin, may my humble prayer
Blend with that chorus, while the rising dawn
Dispels the shadows and the damps of night.
Go forth my soul, on high devotion's wing,
And bear glad praises to thy Maker's ear,
Ere day awakes, or the rejoicing sun
Looks from his chamber on the blushing morn.
And bear glad praises to thy Maker's ear,
Ere day awakes, or the rejoicing sun
Looks from his chamber on the blushing morn.
Oh Thou, whose throne is in the circling heavens,
Where the veil'd seraphs stand, thou wilt not scorn
The incense of the heart, though feebly pour'd,
Or sometimes mix'd with tears, for thou dost know
My frame, and thou rememberest I am dust.
Where the veil'd seraphs stand, thou wilt not scorn
The incense of the heart, though feebly pour'd,
Or sometimes mix'd with tears, for thou dost know
My frame, and thou rememberest I am dust.
But yet thine hand did mould this mass of clay,
And thy breath quicken it, nor should I blush
To lift my face to thee, to speak thy name,
And call thee Father, had not sin so stain'd,
Marr'd, and defac'd thy work.
Yet hear my prayers,
And as a parent guides and guards a child
Oft wandering, yet belov'd, so guide thou me
This day.
From snares of youth, from hidden ills,
Fruitless resolves, and fancies roving wild,
From vanity and pride, and dark deceit,
Or whatsoever else might wake the sting
Of conscience, wound another's peace, or break
Thy holy law, save me this day, O God.
And thy breath quicken it, nor should I blush
To lift my face to thee, to speak thy name,
And call thee Father, had not sin so stain'd,
Marr'd, and defac'd thy work.
Yet hear my prayers,
And as a parent guides and guards a child
Oft wandering, yet belov'd, so guide thou me
This day.
185
Fruitless resolves, and fancies roving wild,
From vanity and pride, and dark deceit,
Or whatsoever else might wake the sting
Of conscience, wound another's peace, or break
Thy holy law, save me this day, O God.
And let a warning voice say to my soul,
The pure and watchful eye of the high Judge
Is on thy ways, and still a viewless pen
Moves, never weary, to record thy deeds,
Thy words, thy secret motives, on a page
Not perishable, which the flame that burns
The scorch'd and shrivel'd skies, shall so reveal,
That every eye may read.
Father, thou know'st
All my temptations, my adversities,
My weaknesses and errors; suit thy gifts
Unto my needs, and not to my deserts
Imperfect.
The pure and watchful eye of the high Judge
Is on thy ways, and still a viewless pen
Moves, never weary, to record thy deeds,
Thy words, thy secret motives, on a page
Not perishable, which the flame that burns
The scorch'd and shrivel'd skies, shall so reveal,
That every eye may read.
Father, thou know'st
All my temptations, my adversities,
My weaknesses and errors; suit thy gifts
Unto my needs, and not to my deserts
Imperfect.
Yet so guide me here on earth
That when I leave it, I may see thy face,
Where evil cannot come. So shall my prayer
Rise ceaseless to thee, and my soul shall rest
Upon thine arm of love, through every scene
Of this day's good or ill, or life or death.
That when I leave it, I may see thy face,
Where evil cannot come. So shall my prayer
Rise ceaseless to thee, and my soul shall rest
Upon thine arm of love, through every scene
Of this day's good or ill, or life or death.
And let my grateful strain, Giver of Good,
Rise with acceptance from this house of clay,
This brittle tenement, soon crush'd and broke;
Yea, bid me on the cold, dark flood of death,
Be joyful in thee,—bid me wake the harp
Of seraph rapture, hymning to the praise
Of Him who was, and is, and is to come,
When time shall be no more, and death shall die
Rise with acceptance from this house of clay,
This brittle tenement, soon crush'd and broke;
186
Be joyful in thee,—bid me wake the harp
Of seraph rapture, hymning to the praise
Of Him who was, and is, and is to come,
When time shall be no more, and death shall die
187
BIRTH-DAY REQUESTS.
Oh Thou, whose tireless, ever-watchful care,
Presents another year and wakes the prayer,
Guide thou my steps,—direct my doubtful course,
Crush vain resolves, and error's dangerous force,
Impart the meek desire, the hope sublime,
And thoughts that soar above the scenes of time.
Presents another year and wakes the prayer,
Guide thou my steps,—direct my doubtful course,
Crush vain resolves, and error's dangerous force,
Impart the meek desire, the hope sublime,
And thoughts that soar above the scenes of time.
Grant thou, the zeal that seeks another's good,
And sets the seal to duty understood,
The humble mind, the sympathy sincere,
For joy, the smile—for misery, the tear,
Balm for the wounded—for the drooping, aid,
A tranquil trust, when ills of life invade,
The conscience clear that soothes to sweet repose
And the warm thrill that pure devotion knows.
And sets the seal to duty understood,
The humble mind, the sympathy sincere,
For joy, the smile—for misery, the tear,
Balm for the wounded—for the drooping, aid,
A tranquil trust, when ills of life invade,
The conscience clear that soothes to sweet repose
And the warm thrill that pure devotion knows.
Let ardent love to those who kindly strew
My path with flowers, be every morning new,
And lead me onward thro' each fair degree,
Of gratitude to them and trust in Thee.
My path with flowers, be every morning new,
And lead me onward thro' each fair degree,
Of gratitude to them and trust in Thee.
What shall I ask, or what refrain to say?
Where shall I point, or how conclude my lay?
So much my weakness needs—so oft thy voice,
Assures that weakness, and confirms my choice.
Where shall I point, or how conclude my lay?
So much my weakness needs—so oft thy voice,
Assures that weakness, and confirms my choice.
Oh, grant me active days of peace and truth,
Strength to my heart, and wisdom to my youth,
A sphere of usefulness—a soul to fill
That sphere with duty, and perform thy will.
Strength to my heart, and wisdom to my youth,
188
That sphere with duty, and perform thy will.
But when, at last, the heavy shades shall fall
Of that dark night that comes but once to all,
Whether in youth, maturity, or age,
Let thy kind voice my rising pains assuage,
My hopes sustain, my gathering fears remove,
And fill my spirit with thy pardoning love.
Of that dark night that comes but once to all,
Whether in youth, maturity, or age,
Let thy kind voice my rising pains assuage,
My hopes sustain, my gathering fears remove,
And fill my spirit with thy pardoning love.
Then strong in faith, I'd dare the threatening tides
Which this dark world from that of bliss divides,
Raise the dim eye to drink the smile of heaven,
Nerve the faint heart that feels its sins forgiven,
Meet with calm brow the billows' deafening roar,
And land victorious on the eternal shore.
Which this dark world from that of bliss divides,
Raise the dim eye to drink the smile of heaven,
Nerve the faint heart that feels its sins forgiven,
Meet with calm brow the billows' deafening roar,
And land victorious on the eternal shore.
189
EXHIBITION OF A SCHOOL OF YOUNG LADIES.
How fair upon the admiring sight,
In Learning's sacred fane,
With cheek of bloom, and robe of white,
Glide on you graceful train!
In Learning's sacred fane,
With cheek of bloom, and robe of white,
Glide on you graceful train!
Blest creatures! to whose gentle eye
Earth's gilded gifts are new,
Ye know not that distrustful sigh
Which deems its vows untrue.
Earth's gilded gifts are new,
Ye know not that distrustful sigh
Which deems its vows untrue.
There is a bubble on your cup
By buoyant fancy nurst,
How high its sparkling foam leaps up!
Ye do not think 'twill burst:
By buoyant fancy nurst,
How high its sparkling foam leaps up!
Ye do not think 'twill burst:
And be it far from me to fling
On budding joys a blight,
Or darkly spread a raven's wing
To shade a path so bright.
On budding joys a blight,
Or darkly spread a raven's wing
To shade a path so bright.
There twines a wreath around your brow,
Blent with the sunny braid;
Love lends its flowers a radiant glow—
Ye do not think 'twill fade:
Blent with the sunny braid;
Love lends its flowers a radiant glow—
Ye do not think 'twill fade:
And yet 'twere safer there to bind
That plant of changeless dye,
Whose root is in the lowly mind,
Whose blossom in the sky.
That plant of changeless dye,
Whose root is in the lowly mind,
Whose blossom in the sky.
190
But who o'er Beauty's form can hang,
Nor think how future years
May bring stern Sorrow's speechless pang,
Or Disappointment's tears.
Nor think how future years
May bring stern Sorrow's speechless pang,
Or Disappointment's tears.
Unceasing toil, unpitied care,
Cold treachery's serpent-moan—
Ills that the tender heart must bear
Unanswering and alone.
Cold treachery's serpent-moan—
Ills that the tender heart must bear
Unanswering and alone.
But as the frail and fragrant flower,
Crush'd by the sweeping blast,
Doth even in death an essence pour
The sweetest and the last,
Crush'd by the sweeping blast,
Doth even in death an essence pour
The sweetest and the last,
So woman's deep, enduring love,
Which nothing can appal,
Her steadfast faith that looks above
For rest, can conquer all.
Which nothing can appal,
Her steadfast faith that looks above
For rest, can conquer all.
191
CHILD AT THE MOTHER'S GRAVE.
My mother's grave! 'Tis there beneath the trees.
I love to go alone, and sit, and think,
Upon that grassy mound. My cradle hours
Come back again so sweetly, when I woke
And lifted up my head, to kiss the cheek
That bowed to meet me.
I love to go alone, and sit, and think,
Upon that grassy mound. My cradle hours
Come back again so sweetly, when I woke
And lifted up my head, to kiss the cheek
That bowed to meet me.
And I seem to feel
Once more the hand that smooth'd my clustering curls,
And led me to the garden, pointing out
Each fragrant flower and bud, or drawing back
My foot, lest I should careless crush the worm
That crawl'd beside one.
Once more the hand that smooth'd my clustering curls,
And led me to the garden, pointing out
Each fragrant flower and bud, or drawing back
My foot, lest I should careless crush the worm
That crawl'd beside one.
And that gentle tone,
Teaching to pat the house-dog, and be kind
To the poor cat, and spare the little flies
Upon the window, and divide my bread
With those that hunger'd, and bow meekly down
To the gray-headed man, and look with love
On all whom God had made.
Teaching to pat the house-dog, and be kind
To the poor cat, and spare the little flies
Upon the window, and divide my bread
With those that hunger'd, and bow meekly down
To the gray-headed man, and look with love
On all whom God had made.
And then her hymn
At early evening, when I went to rest,
And folded closely to her bosom, sat
Joining my cheek to her's, and pouring out
My broken music, with her tuneful strain:—
Comes it not back again that holy hymn,
Even now upon my ear?
At early evening, when I went to rest,
And folded closely to her bosom, sat
Joining my cheek to her's, and pouring out
My broken music, with her tuneful strain:—
192
Even now upon my ear?
But when I go
To my lone bed, and find no mother there,
And weeping kneel to say the prayer she taught,
Or when I read the Bible that she lov'd,
Or to her vacant seat at church draw near,
And think of her, a voice is in my heart,
Bidding me early seek my God, and love
My blessed Saviour.—
To my lone bed, and find no mother there,
And weeping kneel to say the prayer she taught,
Or when I read the Bible that she lov'd,
Or to her vacant seat at church draw near,
And think of her, a voice is in my heart,
Bidding me early seek my God, and love
My blessed Saviour.—
Sure that voice is her's,—
I know it is, because these were the words
She us'd to speak so tenderly, with tears,
At the still twilight-hour, or when we walk'd
Forth in the Spring amid rejoicing birds,
Or whispering talk'd beside the winter fire.
I know it is, because these were the words
She us'd to speak so tenderly, with tears,
At the still twilight-hour, or when we walk'd
Forth in the Spring amid rejoicing birds,
Or whispering talk'd beside the winter fire.
—Mother! I'll keep these precepts in my heart,
And do thy bidding.
Then, when God shall say
My days are finish'd, will he give me leave
To come to thee? And can I find thy home,
And see thee with thy glorious garments on,
And kneel at the Redeemer's feet, and beg
That where the mother is, the child may dwell?
And do thy bidding.
Then, when God shall say
My days are finish'd, will he give me leave
To come to thee? And can I find thy home,
And see thee with thy glorious garments on,
And kneel at the Redeemer's feet, and beg
That where the mother is, the child may dwell?
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ON MEETING PUPILS AT THE COMMUNION TABLE.
When gathering round a Saviour's board,
Fair forms, and brows belov'd, I see,
Who once the paths of peace explor'd,
And trac'd the studious page with me,
Fair forms, and brows belov'd, I see,
Who once the paths of peace explor'd,
And trac'd the studious page with me,
Who from my side with pain would part,
My entering steps with gladness greet,
And pour complacent, o'er my heart,
Affection's dew-drops, pure and sweet,
My entering steps with gladness greet,
And pour complacent, o'er my heart,
Affection's dew-drops, pure and sweet,
When now, from each remember'd face
Beam tranquil hope, and faith benign,
When in each eye Heaven's smile I trace,
The tear of joy suffuses mine.
Beam tranquil hope, and faith benign,
When in each eye Heaven's smile I trace,
The tear of joy suffuses mine.
Father! I bless thy ceaseless care,
Which thus its holiest gifts hath shed,
Guide thou their steps through every snare,
From every danger shield their head.
Which thus its holiest gifts hath shed,
Guide thou their steps through every snare,
From every danger shield their head.
From treacherous error's dire control,
From pride, from change, from darkness, free;
Preserve each timorous, trusting soul,
That like the ark-dove flies to thee.
From pride, from change, from darkness, free;
Preserve each timorous, trusting soul,
That like the ark-dove flies to thee.
And may the wreath that cloudless days
Around our hearts so fondly wove,
Still bind us, till we speak thy praise,
As sister spirits, one in love,—
Around our hearts so fondly wove,
194
As sister spirits, one in love,—
One, where no lingering ill can harm,
One, where no stroke of fate can sever,
Where nought but holiness doth charm,
And all that charms shall live forever.
One, where no stroke of fate can sever,
Where nought but holiness doth charm,
And all that charms shall live forever.
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A FATHER, AND HIS MOTHERLESS CHILDREN.
Come, gather closer to my side
My little smitten flock,
And I will tell of him who brought
Pure water from the rock,
My little smitten flock,
And I will tell of him who brought
Pure water from the rock,
Who boldly led God's people forth
From Egypt's wrath and guile,
And once a cradled babe did float
All helpless on the Nile.
From Egypt's wrath and guile,
And once a cradled babe did float
All helpless on the Nile.
You're weary, precious ones, your eyes
Are wandering far and wide,—
Think ye of her who knew so well
Your tender thoughts to guide?
Are wandering far and wide,—
Think ye of her who knew so well
Your tender thoughts to guide?
Of her who could to wisdom's lore
Your fixed attention claim?
Ah! never from your hearts erase
That blessed mother's name.
Your fixed attention claim?
Ah! never from your hearts erase
That blessed mother's name.
'Tis time to sing your evening hymn,
My youngest infant dove,
Come press your velvet cheek to mine,
And learn the lay of love;
My youngest infant dove,
Come press your velvet cheek to mine,
And learn the lay of love;
My sheltering arms shall clasp you all,
My poor deserted throng,
Cling as you used to cling to her
Who sings the angel's song.
My poor deserted throng,
Cling as you used to cling to her
Who sings the angel's song.
200
Begin, sweet birds, the accustom'd strain,
Come, warble loud and clear;
Alas! alas! you're weeping all,
You're sobbing in my ear;
Come, warble loud and clear;
Alas! alas! you're weeping all,
You're sobbing in my ear;
Good night—go say the prayer she taught
Beside your little bed;
The lips that used to bless you there,
Are silent with the dead.
Beside your little bed;
The lips that used to bless you there,
Are silent with the dead.
A father's hand your course may guide
Amid the thorns of life,
His care protect those shrinking plants
That dread the storms of strife;
Amid the thorns of life,
His care protect those shrinking plants
That dread the storms of strife;
But who, upon your infant hearts,
Shall like that mother write?
Who touch the strings that rule the soul?
Dear, smitten flock, good night!
Shall like that mother write?
Who touch the strings that rule the soul?
Dear, smitten flock, good night!
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SCHOLAR'S TRIBUTE TO AN INSTRUCTOR.
As when an eye, accustomed to survey
The changeful aspect of an April day,
Turns back regretful to the purple dawn,
Or morning's rose-tint on the dewy lawn;
So I, from life's delusions, vain and wild,
Retrace the scenes that charm'd me when a child.
The changeful aspect of an April day,
Turns back regretful to the purple dawn,
Or morning's rose-tint on the dewy lawn;
So I, from life's delusions, vain and wild,
Retrace the scenes that charm'd me when a child.
Yet most I love those softly blending shades,
Where youth just glimmers, and where childhood fades;
And 'mid that cherish'd imagery I see,
Revered instructor, many a trace of thee,
Thy footsteps on the grass, all fresh with dew,
Thy gentle hands where early snow-drops grew.
Where youth just glimmers, and where childhood fades;
And 'mid that cherish'd imagery I see,
Revered instructor, many a trace of thee,
Thy footsteps on the grass, all fresh with dew,
Thy gentle hands where early snow-drops grew.
Too oft had critic rigour harshly doom'd
My buds of promise, withering ere they bloom'd,
Or cold neglect appall'd with freezing eye
A lonely mind, that shrank, it knew not why;
But thou didst stoop to shield that timid mind,
Wise as a teacher, as a parent kind,
With studious care, its wayward course to lead,
And nurse the music of the whispering reed.
My buds of promise, withering ere they bloom'd,
Or cold neglect appall'd with freezing eye
A lonely mind, that shrank, it knew not why;
But thou didst stoop to shield that timid mind,
Wise as a teacher, as a parent kind,
With studious care, its wayward course to lead,
And nurse the music of the whispering reed.
A plant of feeble stem, thou would'st not mock,
Rude as the flowers that clothe the Alpine rock,
Nor blight its tendrils with a causeless pang,
Nor scorn it, though from lowly bed it sprang;
But watch'd its rooting with a florist's care,
Rais'd its wan blossoms to a genial air,
And o'er its narrow leaves, and bending head,
Pure dews of knowledge and of virtue shed.
Rude as the flowers that clothe the Alpine rock,
Nor blight its tendrils with a causeless pang,
Nor scorn it, though from lowly bed it sprang;
202
Rais'd its wan blossoms to a genial air,
And o'er its narrow leaves, and bending head,
Pure dews of knowledge and of virtue shed.
Even now of stature frail, and low degree,
More weak and worthless than it ought to be,
It turns to him its shrinking buds that blest,
And pours fresh fragrance from a grateful breast.
More weak and worthless than it ought to be,
It turns to him its shrinking buds that blest,
And pours fresh fragrance from a grateful breast.
Yet more than what I speak, to thee I owe,
And richer gifts than strains so weak can show;
Thy warning voice allur'd my listening youth
To seek the path of piety and truth,
And heaven's first hopes, as vernal sunbeams roll,
Dawn'd from thy prayers upon my waiting soul.
And richer gifts than strains so weak can show;
Thy warning voice allur'd my listening youth
To seek the path of piety and truth,
And heaven's first hopes, as vernal sunbeams roll,
Dawn'd from thy prayers upon my waiting soul.
Oh, ever free from pain, and doubt, and strife,
Flow on the current of thy tranquil life,
Pure as the streams that o'er white pebbles glide,
And mix reproachless with a mightier tide,
Bright as the star, whose trembling lamp on high
Precedes the morn, and gilds the evening sky,
Till time's brief tide the eternal sea shall stay,
And earth's dim lights at glory's sun decay.
Flow on the current of thy tranquil life,
Pure as the streams that o'er white pebbles glide,
And mix reproachless with a mightier tide,
Bright as the star, whose trembling lamp on high
Precedes the morn, and gilds the evening sky,
Till time's brief tide the eternal sea shall stay,
And earth's dim lights at glory's sun decay.
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REMEMBER ME.
When morning from the damps of night
Beams o'er the eye in rosy light,
And calls thee forth with smile benign;
Ah think! whose heart responds to thine,
And still with sympathy divine,
Remember me.
Beams o'er the eye in rosy light,
And calls thee forth with smile benign;
Ah think! whose heart responds to thine,
And still with sympathy divine,
Remember me.
When gentle twilight, pure and calm,
Comes leaning on Reflection's arm;
When o'er the throng of cares and woes
Her veil of sober tint she throws,
Wooing the spirit to repose,
Remember me.
Comes leaning on Reflection's arm;
When o'er the throng of cares and woes
Her veil of sober tint she throws,
Wooing the spirit to repose,
Remember me.
When the first star, with cresset bright,
Gleams lonely o'er the arch of night,
When through the fleecy clouds that dance,
The moon sends forth her timid glance,
Then gazing on that pure expanse,
Remember me.
Gleams lonely o'er the arch of night,
When through the fleecy clouds that dance,
The moon sends forth her timid glance,
Then gazing on that pure expanse,
Remember me.
When mournful sighs the hollow wind,
And pensive thought enwraps the mind,
If e'er thy heart in sorrow's tone,
To musing melancholy prone,
Should sigh, because it feels alone,
Remember me.
And pensive thought enwraps the mind,
If e'er thy heart in sorrow's tone,
To musing melancholy prone,
Should sigh, because it feels alone,
Remember me.
204
When stealing to thy secret bower,
Devotion claims her holy hour,
When bowing o'er that sacred page
Whose spirit curbs affliction's rage,
Controls our youth, sustains our age,
Remember me.
Devotion claims her holy hour,
When bowing o'er that sacred page
Whose spirit curbs affliction's rage,
Controls our youth, sustains our age,
Remember me.
Oh! yet indulge the ardent claim,
While friendship's heart the wish can frame,
For brief and transient is my lay,
And mingling soon with kindred clay,
This silent lip no more shall say,
Remember me.
While friendship's heart the wish can frame,
For brief and transient is my lay,
And mingling soon with kindred clay,
This silent lip no more shall say,
Remember me.
And when in deep oblivion's shade
This breathless, mouldering form is laid,
If near that bed thy step should rove,
With one short prayer, by feeling wove,
One glance of faith, one tear of love
Remember me.
This breathless, mouldering form is laid,
If near that bed thy step should rove,
With one short prayer, by feeling wove,
One glance of faith, one tear of love
Remember me.
205
RECOLLECTIONS OF AN AGED PASTOR.
I do remember him. His saintly voice,
So duly lifted in the house of God,
Comes with the far-off wing of infant years,
Like solemn music.
Often have we hush'd
The shrillest echo of our holiday,
Turning our mirth to reverence as he past,
And eager to record one favouring smile,
Or word paternal.
At the bed of death
I do remember him; when one who bore
For me a tender love, did feel that pang
Which makes the features rigid, and the eye
Like a fix'd glassy orb. Her head was white
With many winters; but her furrow'd brow
To me was beautiful; for she had cheer'd
My lonely childhood, with a changeless stream
Of pure benevolence.
His earnest tone
Girding her from the armoury of God,
To foil the terrors of that shadowy vale
Through which she walk'd, doth linger round me still;
And by that gush of bitter tears, when grief
First came into my bosom; by that thrill
Of agony, which from the open'd grave
Rose wildly forth—I do remember him,
The comforter and friend.
When fancy's smile,
Gilding youth's scenes, and promising to bring
The curtain'd morrow fairer than to-day,
Did kindle wilder gayety than fits
Beings so frail—how oft his funeral prayer
Over some shrouded sleeper, made a pause
In folly's song, or warn'd her roving eye,
That all man's glory was the flower of grass,
Beneath the mower's scythe.
Thy fourscore years
Sat lightly on thee; for thy heart was glad,
Even to the latest pulse, with that fond love,
Home-nurtur'd, and reciprocal, which girds
And garners up in sorrow or in joy.
So duly lifted in the house of God,
Comes with the far-off wing of infant years,
Like solemn music.
Often have we hush'd
The shrillest echo of our holiday,
Turning our mirth to reverence as he past,
And eager to record one favouring smile,
Or word paternal.
At the bed of death
I do remember him; when one who bore
For me a tender love, did feel that pang
Which makes the features rigid, and the eye
Like a fix'd glassy orb. Her head was white
With many winters; but her furrow'd brow
To me was beautiful; for she had cheer'd
My lonely childhood, with a changeless stream
Of pure benevolence.
His earnest tone
Girding her from the armoury of God,
To foil the terrors of that shadowy vale
Through which she walk'd, doth linger round me still;
And by that gush of bitter tears, when grief
First came into my bosom; by that thrill
Of agony, which from the open'd grave
Rose wildly forth—I do remember him,
The comforter and friend.
206
Gilding youth's scenes, and promising to bring
The curtain'd morrow fairer than to-day,
Did kindle wilder gayety than fits
Beings so frail—how oft his funeral prayer
Over some shrouded sleeper, made a pause
In folly's song, or warn'd her roving eye,
That all man's glory was the flower of grass,
Beneath the mower's scythe.
Thy fourscore years
Sat lightly on thee; for thy heart was glad,
Even to the latest pulse, with that fond love,
Home-nurtur'd, and reciprocal, which girds
And garners up in sorrow or in joy.
I was not with the weepers, when the hearse
Stood all expectant at thy pleasant door,
And other voices from thy pulpit said,
That thou wert not; but yet the requiem-sigh
Of that sad organ, in its sable robe,
Made melancholy music for my dreams.
Stood all expectant at thy pleasant door,
And other voices from thy pulpit said,
That thou wert not; but yet the requiem-sigh
Of that sad organ, in its sable robe,
Made melancholy music for my dreams.
—And so, farewell, thou who didst shed the dew
Baptismal on mine infancy, and lead
To the Redeemer's sacred board a guest,
Timid and unassured, yet gathering strength
From the blest promise of Jehovah's aid
Unto the early seeker.
Baptismal on mine infancy, and lead
To the Redeemer's sacred board a guest,
Timid and unassured, yet gathering strength
From the blest promise of Jehovah's aid
Unto the early seeker.
When once more
My native spot unfolds that pictur'd chart
Unto mine eye, which in my heart I hold,
Rocks, woods, and waters, exquisitely blent,
Thy cordial welcome I no more can hear,
Father and guide; nor can I hope to win
Thy glance from glory's mansion, while I lay
This wild-flower garland on thine honour'd tomb
My native spot unfolds that pictur'd chart
Unto mine eye, which in my heart I hold,
207
Thy cordial welcome I no more can hear,
Father and guide; nor can I hope to win
Thy glance from glory's mansion, while I lay
This wild-flower garland on thine honour'd tomb
208
GRATITUDE.
Little plant, of slender form,
Fair and shrinking from the storm,
Lift thou here thy fragrant head,
Bloom in this uncultur'd bed.
Fair and shrinking from the storm,
Lift thou here thy fragrant head,
Bloom in this uncultur'd bed.
Thou, of firmer spirit, too,
Stronger texture, deeper hue,
Dreading not the blasts that sweep,
Rise, and guard its infant sleep.
Stronger texture, deeper hue,
Dreading not the blasts that sweep,
Rise, and guard its infant sleep.
Fear ye not the awful shade
Where the bones of men are laid;
Short like yours their transient date,
Keen has been the scythe of fate.
Where the bones of men are laid;
Short like yours their transient date,
Keen has been the scythe of fate.
Forth, as plants in glory drest,
They came, upon the green earth's breast,
Sent forth their roots to reach the stream,
Their blossoms toward the rising beam,
They drank the morning's balmy breath,
And sank at eve, in withering death.
They came, upon the green earth's breast,
Sent forth their roots to reach the stream,
Their blossoms toward the rising beam,
They drank the morning's balmy breath,
And sank at eve, in withering death.
Rest here, meek plants, for few intrude
To trouble this deep solitude;
But should the giddy footstep tread
Upon the ashes of the dead,
Still let the hand of rashness spare
These tokens of affection's care,
Nor pluck the tender leaves that wave
In sweetness o'er this sainted grave.
To trouble this deep solitude;
But should the giddy footstep tread
Upon the ashes of the dead,
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These tokens of affection's care,
Nor pluck the tender leaves that wave
In sweetness o'er this sainted grave.
White were the locks that thinly shed
Their snows around her honour'd head,
And furrows not to be effac'd,
Had age amid her features trac'd,
Before my earliest strength I tried
In infant gambols by her side;
But yet no grace or beauty rare
Were ever to my eye so fair.
Their snows around her honour'd head,
And furrows not to be effac'd,
Had age amid her features trac'd,
Before my earliest strength I tried
In infant gambols by her side;
But yet no grace or beauty rare
Were ever to my eye so fair.
Seven times the sun, with swift career,
Has mark'd the circle of the year,
Since first she press'd her lowly bier;
And seven times, sorrowing, have I come
Alone and wandering through the gloom,
To pour my lays upon her tomb:
And I have mourn'd, to see her bed
With brambles and with thorns o'erspread.
Has mark'd the circle of the year,
Since first she press'd her lowly bier;
And seven times, sorrowing, have I come
Alone and wandering through the gloom,
To pour my lays upon her tomb:
And I have mourn'd, to see her bed
With brambles and with thorns o'erspread.
Ah, surely, round her place of rest
I should not let the coarse weed twine,
Who so the couch of pain hath blest,
The path of penury freely drest,
And scatter'd such perfumes on mine:
It is not meet, that she should be
Forgotten or unblest by me
My plants, that in your hallow'd beds
Like strangers raise your trembling heads,
Drink the pure dew that evening sheds,
And meet the morning's earliest ray,
And catch the sunbeams when they play;—
And if your cups are fill'd with rain,
Shed back those drops in tears again;
Or if the gale that sweeps the heath,
Too roughly o'er your leaves should breathe,
Then sigh for her,—and when you bloom,
Scatter your fragrance o'er her tomb.
I should not let the coarse weed twine,
Who so the couch of pain hath blest,
The path of penury freely drest,
And scatter'd such perfumes on mine:
It is not meet, that she should be
Forgotten or unblest by me
210
Like strangers raise your trembling heads,
Drink the pure dew that evening sheds,
And meet the morning's earliest ray,
And catch the sunbeams when they play;—
And if your cups are fill'd with rain,
Shed back those drops in tears again;
Or if the gale that sweeps the heath,
Too roughly o'er your leaves should breathe,
Then sigh for her,—and when you bloom,
Scatter your fragrance o'er her tomb.
But should you, smit with terror, cast
Your unblown blossoms on the blast,
Or faint beneath the vertic heat,
Or fail when wintry tempests beat,
There is a plant of changeless bloom,
And it shall deck this honour'd tomb,
Not blanch'd with frost, or drown'd with rain,
Or by the breath of winter slain,—
But every morn its buds renew'd
Are by the tears of evening dew'd,—
This is the plant of gratitude.
Your unblown blossoms on the blast,
Or faint beneath the vertic heat,
Or fail when wintry tempests beat,
There is a plant of changeless bloom,
And it shall deck this honour'd tomb,
Not blanch'd with frost, or drown'd with rain,
Or by the breath of winter slain,—
But every morn its buds renew'd
Are by the tears of evening dew'd,—
This is the plant of gratitude.
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TO AN ABSENT CHILD.
Where art thou, bird of song,
Brightest one, and dearest?
Other groves among,
Other nests thou cheerest.
Brightest one, and dearest?
Other groves among,
Other nests thou cheerest.
Sweet thy warbling skill
To each ear that heard thee,
But 'twas sweetest still
To the heart that rear'd thee.
To each ear that heard thee,
But 'twas sweetest still
To the heart that rear'd thee.
Lamb!—where dost thou rest?
On stranger bosoms lying?
Flowers thy path that drest,
All uncropped are dying;
On stranger bosoms lying?
Flowers thy path that drest,
All uncropped are dying;
Streams where thou didst roam
Murmur on without thee,—
Lov'st thou still thy home?
Can thy mother doubt thee?
Murmur on without thee,—
Lov'st thou still thy home?
Can thy mother doubt thee?
Seek thy Saviour's flock,
To his blest fold going;
Seek that smitten rock
Whence our peace is flowing
To his blest fold going;
Seek that smitten rock
Whence our peace is flowing
Still would Love rejoice,
Whatsoe'er betide thee,
If that Shepherd's voice
Evermore might guide thee.
Whatsoe'er betide thee,
If that Shepherd's voice
Evermore might guide thee.
212
THE SIXTH BIRTH-DAY.
I think this morning of a feeble babe,
To whom the gift of life did seem a toil
It shrank to bear.—And I remember well,
The care that nurtur'd her, both night and day
When it would seem as if the fainting breath
Must leave her bosom, and her fair blue eye
Sank 'neath its lids, like some crushed violet.
To whom the gift of life did seem a toil
It shrank to bear.—And I remember well,
The care that nurtur'd her, both night and day
When it would seem as if the fainting breath
Must leave her bosom, and her fair blue eye
Sank 'neath its lids, like some crushed violet.
Six winters came, and now that self-same babe
Wins with her needle the appointed length
Of her light task, and learns with patient zeal
The daily lesson, tracing on her map
All climes and regions of the peopled earth.
With tiny hand, she guides the writer's quill,
Graving those lines through which the soul doth speak,
And pours in timid tones her hymn at eve.
Wins with her needle the appointed length
Of her light task, and learns with patient zeal
The daily lesson, tracing on her map
All climes and regions of the peopled earth.
With tiny hand, she guides the writer's quill,
Graving those lines through which the soul doth speak,
And pours in timid tones her hymn at eve.
She, from the pictur'd page, doth scan the tribes
That revel in the air, or cleave the flood,
Or roam the wild, delighting much to know
Their various natures, and their habits all,
From the huge elephant, to the small fly
That liveth but a day, yet in that day
Is happy, and outspreads a shining wing,
Exulting in the mighty Maker's care.
That revel in the air, or cleave the flood,
Or roam the wild, delighting much to know
Their various natures, and their habits all,
From the huge elephant, to the small fly
That liveth but a day, yet in that day
Is happy, and outspreads a shining wing,
Exulting in the mighty Maker's care.
She weeps that men should barb the monarch whale
In his wild ocean-home, and wound the dove,
And to the slaughter lead the trusting lamb,
And snare the pigeon hasting to its nest
To feed its young, and hunt the flying deer,
And find a pleasure in the pain he gives.
In his wild ocean-home, and wound the dove,
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And snare the pigeon hasting to its nest
To feed its young, and hunt the flying deer,
And find a pleasure in the pain he gives.
She tells the sweetly modulated tale
To her young brother, and devoutly cheers
At early morning, seated on his knee,
Her hoary grandsire from the Book of God,
Who meekly happy in his fourscore years,
Heeds not the dimness gathering o'er his sight,
But with a saintly kindness bows him down
To drink from her young lip the lore he loves.
To her young brother, and devoutly cheers
At early morning, seated on his knee,
Her hoary grandsire from the Book of God,
Who meekly happy in his fourscore years,
Heeds not the dimness gathering o'er his sight,
But with a saintly kindness bows him down
To drink from her young lip the lore he loves.
Fond, gentle child, who like a flower that hastes
To burst its sheath, hath come so quickly forth,
A sweet companion, walking by my side,—
In tender love, lift thy young heart to God—
That whatsoe'er doth please him in thy life
He may perfect, and by his Spirit's power
Remove each germ of evil, that thy soul,
When this brief discipline of time is o'er,
May rise to praise him with an angel's song.
To burst its sheath, hath come so quickly forth,
A sweet companion, walking by my side,—
In tender love, lift thy young heart to God—
That whatsoe'er doth please him in thy life
He may perfect, and by his Spirit's power
Remove each germ of evil, that thy soul,
When this brief discipline of time is o'er,
May rise to praise him with an angel's song.
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.
217
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.
219
LOUISA.
She was my idol. Night and day, to scan
The fine expansion of her form, and mark
The unfolding mind, like vernal rose-bud, start
To sudden beauty, was my chief delight.
The fine expansion of her form, and mark
The unfolding mind, like vernal rose-bud, start
To sudden beauty, was my chief delight.
To find her fairy footsteps following mine,
Her hand upon my garments, or her lip
Long seal'd to mine, and in the watch of night
The quiet breath of innocence to feel
Soft on my cheek, was such a full content
Of happiness, as none but mothers know.
Her hand upon my garments, or her lip
Long seal'd to mine, and in the watch of night
The quiet breath of innocence to feel
Soft on my cheek, was such a full content
Of happiness, as none but mothers know.
Her voice was like some tiny harp, that yields
To the slight-finger'd breeze, and as it held
Gay converse with her doll, or gently sooth'd
The moaning kitten, or with patient care
Conn'd o'er the alphabet—but most of all,
Its tender cadence in her evening prayer,
Thrill'd on the ear like some ethereal tone
Heard in sweet dreams.
To the slight-finger'd breeze, and as it held
Gay converse with her doll, or gently sooth'd
The moaning kitten, or with patient care
Conn'd o'er the alphabet—but most of all,
Its tender cadence in her evening prayer,
Thrill'd on the ear like some ethereal tone
Heard in sweet dreams.
But now alone I sit,
Musing of her, and dew with mournful tears
Her little robes, that once with curious pride
I wrought, as though there were a need to deck
A form that God had made so beautiful.
Sometimes I start, fancying her empty crib
Gives forth a restless sound, and softly say,
“Hush, hush, Louisa, dearest!”—then I weep.
As if it were a sin to speak to one
Whose home is with the angels.
Musing of her, and dew with mournful tears
Her little robes, that once with curious pride
I wrought, as though there were a need to deck
A form that God had made so beautiful.
Sometimes I start, fancying her empty crib
Gives forth a restless sound, and softly say,
“Hush, hush, Louisa, dearest!”—then I weep.
220
Whose home is with the angels.
Gone to God!
And yet I wish I had not seen the pang
That wrung her features, nor the ghastly white
Settling around her lips. I would that Heaven
Had taken its own, like some transplanted flower
Blooming in all its freshness.
And yet I wish I had not seen the pang
That wrung her features, nor the ghastly white
Settling around her lips. I would that Heaven
Had taken its own, like some transplanted flower
Blooming in all its freshness.
Gone to God!
Be still, my heart! what could a mother's prayer
In all the wildest ecstasy of hope,
Ask for its darling, like the bliss of heaven?
Be still, my heart! what could a mother's prayer
In all the wildest ecstasy of hope,
Ask for its darling, like the bliss of heaven?
221
THE OLD MAN.
Why gaze ye on my hoary hair,
Ye children, young and gay?
Your locks, beneath the blast of care,
Will bleach as white as they.
Ye children, young and gay?
Your locks, beneath the blast of care,
Will bleach as white as they.
I had a mother once, like you,
Who o'er my pillow hung,
Kiss'd from my cheek the briny dew,
And taught my faltering tongue.
Who o'er my pillow hung,
Kiss'd from my cheek the briny dew,
And taught my faltering tongue.
She, when the nightly couch was spread,
Would bow my infant knee,
And lay her soft hand on my head,
And bending, pray for me.
Would bow my infant knee,
And lay her soft hand on my head,
And bending, pray for me.
But then, there came a fearful day,
I sought my mother's bed;
Harsh voices warn'd me thence away,
And told me she was dead.
I sought my mother's bed;
Harsh voices warn'd me thence away,
And told me she was dead.
I pluck'd a fair white rose, and stole
To lay it by her side;
Yet, ah, strange sleep enchained her soul,
For no fond voice replied,
To lay it by her side;
Yet, ah, strange sleep enchained her soul,
For no fond voice replied,
That eve I knelt me down in wo,
To say a lonely prayer;
And still my temples seem'd to glow,
As if that hand was there.
To say a lonely prayer;
And still my temples seem'd to glow,
As if that hand was there.
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Years fled, and left me childhood's joy
Gay sports, and pastimes dear;
I rose a wild and wayward boy,
Who scorned the curb of fear.
Gay sports, and pastimes dear;
I rose a wild and wayward boy,
Who scorned the curb of fear.
Fierce passions shook me like a reed;
But ere, at night, I slept,
That soft hand made my bosom bleed,
And down I fell, and wept.
But ere, at night, I slept,
That soft hand made my bosom bleed,
And down I fell, and wept.
Youth came—the props of virtue reel'd:
Yet still, at day's decline,
A marble touch my brow congeal'd—
Blest mother, was it thine?
Yet still, at day's decline,
A marble touch my brow congeal'd—
Blest mother, was it thine?
In foreign lands I travell'd wide,
My full pulse bounding high:
Vice spread her meshes at my side,
And pleasure lured my eye.—
My full pulse bounding high:
Vice spread her meshes at my side,
And pleasure lured my eye.—
Even then, that hand, so soft and cold.
Maintain'd its mystic sway,
As when amid my curls of gold
With gentle force it lay;
Maintain'd its mystic sway,
As when amid my curls of gold
With gentle force it lay;
And with it sighed a voice of care,
As from the lowly sod,
“My son, my only one, beware!
Sin not against thy God.”
As from the lowly sod,
“My son, my only one, beware!
Sin not against thy God.”
Ye think, perchance, that age hath stole
My kindly warmth away,
And dimm'd the tablet of the soul;
Yet when with lordly sway,
My kindly warmth away,
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Yet when with lordly sway,
This brow the plumed helm display'd
That awes the warrior throng,
Or beauty's thrilling fingers stray'd
These manly locks among,
That awes the warrior throng,
Or beauty's thrilling fingers stray'd
These manly locks among,
That hallow'd touch was ne'er forgot;
And now, though time hath set
His seal of frost that melteth not,
My temples feel it yet.
And now, though time hath set
His seal of frost that melteth not,
My temples feel it yet.
And if I e'er in heaven appear,
A mother's holy prayer—
A mother's hand, and tender tear,
Still pointing to a Saviour dear,
Have led the wanderer there.
A mother's holy prayer—
A mother's hand, and tender tear,
Still pointing to a Saviour dear,
Have led the wanderer there.
224
BURIAL OF THE INDIAN GIRL.
“The only daughter of an Indian woman, in Wisconsin territory, died of lingering consumption, at the age of eighteen. A few of her own race, and a few of the whites, were at the grave; but none wept, save the poor mother.”
Herald of the Upper Mississippi.
A wail upon the prairies,—
A cry of woman's wo,—
That mingleth with the autumn blast,
All fitfully and low.
It is a mother's wailing!—
Hath earth another tone,
Like that with which a mother mourns,
Her lost, her only one?—
A cry of woman's wo,—
That mingleth with the autumn blast,
All fitfully and low.
It is a mother's wailing!—
Hath earth another tone,
Like that with which a mother mourns,
Her lost, her only one?—
Pale faces gather round her,—
They mark the storm swell high,
That rends and wrecks the tossing soul,
But their cold, blue eyes were dry.
Pale faces gazed upon her,
As the wild winds caught her moan,—
But she was an Indian mother,—
So, she wept those tears alone.
They mark the storm swell high,
That rends and wrecks the tossing soul,
But their cold, blue eyes were dry.
Pale faces gazed upon her,
As the wild winds caught her moan,—
But she was an Indian mother,—
So, she wept those tears alone.
Long, o'er that wasting idol,
She watch'd and toil'd and pray'd,
Though every dreary dawn reveal'd
Some ravage Death had made:
Till the fleshless sinews started,
And hope no opiate gave,
And hoarse and hollow grew her voice,
An echo from the grave.
She watch'd and toil'd and pray'd,
Though every dreary dawn reveal'd
Some ravage Death had made:
Till the fleshless sinews started,
And hope no opiate gave,
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An echo from the grave.
She was a gentle creature,
Of raven eye and tress,
And dovelike were the tones that breath'd
Her bosom's tenderness;—
Save when some quick emotion
The warm blood strongly sent
To revel in her olive cheek,
So richly eloquent.
Of raven eye and tress,
And dovelike were the tones that breath'd
Her bosom's tenderness;—
Save when some quick emotion
The warm blood strongly sent
To revel in her olive cheek,
So richly eloquent.
I said Consumption smote her,
And the healer's art was vain;
But she was an Indian maiden,
So none deplor'd her pain;—
None, save that widow'd mother,
Who now, by her open tomb,
Is writhing like the smitten wretch
Whom judgment marks for doom.
And the healer's art was vain;
But she was an Indian maiden,
So none deplor'd her pain;—
None, save that widow'd mother,
Who now, by her open tomb,
Is writhing like the smitten wretch
Whom judgment marks for doom.
Alas! that lowly cabin,
That couch beside the wall,
That seat beneath the mantling vine,
They're lone and empty all.
What hand shall pluck the tall, green corn,
That ripeneth on the plain,
Since she, for whom the board was spread,
Must ne'er return again?
That couch beside the wall,
That seat beneath the mantling vine,
They're lone and empty all.
What hand shall pluck the tall, green corn,
That ripeneth on the plain,
Since she, for whom the board was spread,
Must ne'er return again?
Rest, rest, thou Indian maiden!—
Nor let thy murmuring shade
Grieve that those pale-brow'd ones with scorn
Thy burial-rite survey'd;—
There's many a king, whose funeral
A black-rob'd realm shall see,
For whom no tear of grief is shed,
Like that which falls for thee.
Nor let thy murmuring shade
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Thy burial-rite survey'd;—
There's many a king, whose funeral
A black-rob'd realm shall see,
For whom no tear of grief is shed,
Like that which falls for thee.
Yes, rest thee, forest-maiden!
Beneath thy native tree;
The proud may boast their little day,
Then sink to dust like thee;
But there's many a one whose funeral
With nodding plumes may be,
Whom Nature nor affection mourn,
As now they mourn for thee.
Beneath thy native tree;
The proud may boast their little day,
Then sink to dust like thee;
But there's many a one whose funeral
With nodding plumes may be,
Whom Nature nor affection mourn,
As now they mourn for thee.
227
THE CREATOR EVER PRESENT.
See, how the year in changeful garb appears,—
First in its cloudy mantle, moist with showers,
Most like a timid child, 'mid smiles and tears;
Next, as a blooming maiden crowned with flowers;
Then like a matron lulling infant hours
To gentle sleep, with soft, melodious chime;
Then weak and hoary, with enfeebled powers,
And bent beneath the wintry hand of time;
And last, with magic strange, renews her early prime.
First in its cloudy mantle, moist with showers,
Most like a timid child, 'mid smiles and tears;
Next, as a blooming maiden crowned with flowers;
Then like a matron lulling infant hours
To gentle sleep, with soft, melodious chime;
Then weak and hoary, with enfeebled powers,
And bent beneath the wintry hand of time;
And last, with magic strange, renews her early prime.
But still, where'er the varying seasons tread,
Whether with songs of vernal birds they rove,
Or freshly deck the hillock's grassy head,
Or in the reaper's dance rejoicing move,
Or strew with falling leaves the solemn grove;
Still to the thoughtful eye their change is fair,
And still they claim the grateful lay of love
From the meek soul, that feels its Maker's care,
Beholds him in his works, and joys to praise him there.
Whether with songs of vernal birds they rove,
Or freshly deck the hillock's grassy head,
Or in the reaper's dance rejoicing move,
Or strew with falling leaves the solemn grove;
Still to the thoughtful eye their change is fair,
And still they claim the grateful lay of love
From the meek soul, that feels its Maker's care,
Beholds him in his works, and joys to praise him there.
Thou art in every place, Being Supreme!—
Best seen and worshipp'd in thy court above;
Yet here, on earth, thy countenance doth beam
With rays of terror, majesty, and love,
And joys unspeakable thy smile doth move;
Yet none may veil him from thy piercing sight,
Escape thy hand, or from thy presence rove,
Or hide in secret cells, close wrapp'd in night,—
For unto thee, the darkness shineth as the light.
Best seen and worshipp'd in thy court above;
Yet here, on earth, thy countenance doth beam
With rays of terror, majesty, and love,
And joys unspeakable thy smile doth move;
Yet none may veil him from thy piercing sight,
Escape thy hand, or from thy presence rove,
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For unto thee, the darkness shineth as the light.
Thou dwellest where the curtain'd whirlwinds hide,
Where the arm'd thunder walks its awful round,
Thou on the tempest of the night dost ride,
Flames mark thy path, and clouds thy car surround,
And winds are rais'd, and mighty billows sound,
While from thine eye the winged lightnings part;
Thou in the highest arch of heaven art found,
In the dark regions of the earth thou art,
And in the humble cell of the repentant heart.
Where the arm'd thunder walks its awful round,
Thou on the tempest of the night dost ride,
Flames mark thy path, and clouds thy car surround,
And winds are rais'd, and mighty billows sound,
While from thine eye the winged lightnings part;
Thou in the highest arch of heaven art found,
In the dark regions of the earth thou art,
And in the humble cell of the repentant heart.
If e'er the storms of life, with fearful rage,
Upon my lone, unshelter'd head should blow,
Or trembling down the slippery steep of age,
My weak and unsupported footsteps go,
My locks all white with weariness and wo,
Eternal Father, and Eternal Friend,
Still let my bosom at thy presence glow,
Still let my trusting prayer to thee ascend,
And ever to my wants thy kind compassions lend
Upon my lone, unshelter'd head should blow,
Or trembling down the slippery steep of age,
My weak and unsupported footsteps go,
My locks all white with weariness and wo,
Eternal Father, and Eternal Friend,
Still let my bosom at thy presence glow,
Still let my trusting prayer to thee ascend,
And ever to my wants thy kind compassions lend
229
THE VILLAGE.
The farmer, fill'd with honest pleasure, sees
His orchards blushing in the fervid breeze,
His bleating flocks, the shearer's care that need,
His waving woods, the wintry hearth to feed,
His patient steers, that break the yielding soil,
His hardy sons, who share their father's toil,
The ripening fields, for joyous harvest drest,
And the white spire that points a world of rest.
His orchards blushing in the fervid breeze,
His bleating flocks, the shearer's care that need,
His waving woods, the wintry hearth to feed,
His patient steers, that break the yielding soil,
His hardy sons, who share their father's toil,
The ripening fields, for joyous harvest drest,
And the white spire that points a world of rest.
His thrifty mate, solicitous to bear
An equal burden in the yoke of care,
With vigorous arm, the flying shuttle heaves,
Or from the press the golden cheese receives;
Her pastime, when the daily task is o'er,
With apron clean, to seek her neighbour's door;
Partake the friendly feast, with social glow,
Exchange the news, or make the stocking grow,—
Then hale and cheerful, to her home repair,
When Sol's slant ray renews her evening care,
Press the full udder for her children's meal,
Rock the tir'd babe, and wake the tuneful wheel.
An equal burden in the yoke of care,
With vigorous arm, the flying shuttle heaves,
Or from the press the golden cheese receives;
Her pastime, when the daily task is o'er,
With apron clean, to seek her neighbour's door;
Partake the friendly feast, with social glow,
Exchange the news, or make the stocking grow,—
Then hale and cheerful, to her home repair,
When Sol's slant ray renews her evening care,
Press the full udder for her children's meal,
Rock the tir'd babe, and wake the tuneful wheel.
See,—toward yon dome where village science dwells
When the church-clock its warning summons swells
What tiny feet the well-known path explore,
And gayly gather from each rustic door.
The new-wean'd child, with murmuring tone proceeds,
Whom her scarce taller baby-brother leads,
Transferr'd as burdens, that the housewife's care
May tend the dairy, or the fleece prepare.
When the church-clock its warning summons swells
What tiny feet the well-known path explore,
And gayly gather from each rustic door.
The new-wean'd child, with murmuring tone proceeds,
Whom her scarce taller baby-brother leads,
230
May tend the dairy, or the fleece prepare.
Light-hearted group, who carol loud and high,
Bright daisies cull, or chase the butterfly,
Till by some traveller's wheel arous'd from play,
The stiff salute with glance demure they pay,
Bare the curl'd brow, or stretch the sunburnt hand,
The simple homage of an artless land.
Bright daisies cull, or chase the butterfly,
Till by some traveller's wheel arous'd from play,
The stiff salute with glance demure they pay,
Bare the curl'd brow, or stretch the sunburnt hand,
The simple homage of an artless land.
The stranger marks amid their joyous line,
The little baskets whence they hope to dine,
And larger books, as if their dexterous art,
Dealt most nutrition to the noblest part:—
Long may it be, ere luxury teach the shame
To starve the mind, and bloat the unwieldy frame.
The little baskets whence they hope to dine,
And larger books, as if their dexterous art,
Dealt most nutrition to the noblest part:—
Long may it be, ere luxury teach the shame
To starve the mind, and bloat the unwieldy frame.
Scorn not this lowly race, ye sons of pride,
Their joys disparage, nor their hopes deride;
From germs like these have mighty statesmen sprung,
Of prudent counsel and persuasive tongue;
Unblenching souls, who ruled the willing throng,
Their well-braced nerves by early labour strong;
Inventive minds, a nation's wealth that wrought,
And white-haired sages, sold to studious thought;
Chiefs, whose bold step the field of battle trod,
And holy men, who fed the flock of God.
Their joys disparage, nor their hopes deride;
From germs like these have mighty statesmen sprung,
Of prudent counsel and persuasive tongue;
Unblenching souls, who ruled the willing throng,
Their well-braced nerves by early labour strong;
Inventive minds, a nation's wealth that wrought,
And white-haired sages, sold to studious thought;
Chiefs, whose bold step the field of battle trod,
And holy men, who fed the flock of God.
Here, 'mid the graves by time so sacred made,
The poor, lost Indian slumbers in the shade,—
He, whose canoe with arrowy swiftness clave
In ancient days yon pure, cerulean wave;
Son of that Spirit, whom in storms he traced,
Through darkness followed, and in death embraced,
He sleeps an outlaw 'mid his forfeit land,
And grasps the arrow in his mouldered hand.
The poor, lost Indian slumbers in the shade,—
He, whose canoe with arrowy swiftness clave
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Son of that Spirit, whom in storms he traced,
Through darkness followed, and in death embraced,
He sleeps an outlaw 'mid his forfeit land,
And grasps the arrow in his mouldered hand.
Here, too, our patriot sires with honour rest,
In Freedom's cause who bared the valiant breast;—
Sprung from their half-drawn furrow, as the cry
Of threatened liberty went thrilling by,
Looked to their God, and reared, in bulwark round,
Breasts free from guile, and hands with toil embrown'd,
And bade a monarch's thousand banners yield—
Firm at the plough, and glorious in the field;
Lo! here they rest, who every danger braved,
Unmarked, untrophied, 'mid the soil they saved.
In Freedom's cause who bared the valiant breast;—
Sprung from their half-drawn furrow, as the cry
Of threatened liberty went thrilling by,
Looked to their God, and reared, in bulwark round,
Breasts free from guile, and hands with toil embrown'd,
And bade a monarch's thousand banners yield—
Firm at the plough, and glorious in the field;
Lo! here they rest, who every danger braved,
Unmarked, untrophied, 'mid the soil they saved.
Round scenes like these doth warm remembrance glide,
Where emigration rolls its ceaseless tide,
On western wilds, which thronging hordes explore,
Or ruder Erie's serpent-haunted shore,
Or far Huron, by unshorn forests crowned,
Or red Missouri's unfrequented bound.
Where emigration rolls its ceaseless tide,
On western wilds, which thronging hordes explore,
Or ruder Erie's serpent-haunted shore,
Or far Huron, by unshorn forests crowned,
Or red Missouri's unfrequented bound.
The exile there, when midnight shades invade,
Couch'd in his hut, or camping on the glade,
Starts from his dream, to catch, in echoes clear,
The boatman's song that charmed his boyish ear;
While the sad mother 'mid her children's mirth,
Paints with fond tears a parent's distant hearth,
Or cheers her rustic babes with tender tales
Of thee, blest village, and thy velvet vales;
Her native cot, where luscious berries swell,
The simple school, and Sabbath's tuneful bell;
And smiles to see the infant soul expand,
With proud devotion for that father-land.
Couch'd in his hut, or camping on the glade,
Starts from his dream, to catch, in echoes clear,
The boatman's song that charmed his boyish ear;
While the sad mother 'mid her children's mirth,
Paints with fond tears a parent's distant hearth,
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Of thee, blest village, and thy velvet vales;
Her native cot, where luscious berries swell,
The simple school, and Sabbath's tuneful bell;
And smiles to see the infant soul expand,
With proud devotion for that father-land.
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THE EMIGRANT'S DAUGHTER.
“The way is long,”—the father said,
While through the western wild he sped,
With eager searching eye.
“Cheer ye, my babes,”—the mother cried,
And drew them closer to her side,
As frown'd the evening sky.
While through the western wild he sped,
With eager searching eye.
“Cheer ye, my babes,”—the mother cried,
And drew them closer to her side,
As frown'd the evening sky.
Just then, within the thicket rude,
A log rear'd cabin's roof they view'd,
And its low shelter blest;
On the rough floor their simple bed,
In haste and weariness, they spread,
And laid them down to rest.
A log rear'd cabin's roof they view'd,
And its low shelter blest;
On the rough floor their simple bed,
In haste and weariness, they spread,
And laid them down to rest.
On leathern hinge the doors were hung,
Undeck'd with glass the casement swung,
The smoke-wreath stain'd the wall;
Yet here they found their only home,
Who once had rul'd the spacious dome,
And pac'd the pictur'd hall.
Undeck'd with glass the casement swung,
The smoke-wreath stain'd the wall;
Yet here they found their only home,
Who once had rul'd the spacious dome,
And pac'd the pictur'd hall.
But hearts with pure affections warm,
Unmurmuring at the adverse storm,
Did in that cell abide;
And there the wife her husband cheer'd,
And there her little ones she rear'd,
And there in hope she died.
Unmurmuring at the adverse storm,
Did in that cell abide;
And there the wife her husband cheer'd,
And there her little ones she rear'd,
And there in hope she died.
The lonely man still plough'd the soil,
Tho' she, who long had sooth'd his toil,
No more partook his care,
But in her place a daughter rose,
As from some broken stem there grows
A blossom fresh and fair.
Tho' she, who long had sooth'd his toil,
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But in her place a daughter rose,
As from some broken stem there grows
A blossom fresh and fair.
With tireless hand the board she spread,
The Holy Book at evening read,
And when, with serious air,
He saw her bend so sweetly mild
And lull to sleep the moaning child,
He blest her in his prayer.
The Holy Book at evening read,
And when, with serious air,
He saw her bend so sweetly mild
And lull to sleep the moaning child,
He blest her in his prayer.
But stern disease his footstep staid,
And down the woodman's axe he laid—
The fever-flame was high;
No more the forest fear'd his stroke,
He fell, as falls the smitten oak,
The emigrant must die.
And down the woodman's axe he laid—
The fever-flame was high;
No more the forest fear'd his stroke,
He fell, as falls the smitten oak,
The emigrant must die.
His youngest girl, his fondest pride,
His baby when the mother died,
How desolate she stands;
While gazing on his death-struck eye
His kneeling sons with anguish cry,
And clasp his clenching hands.
His baby when the mother died,
How desolate she stands;
While gazing on his death-struck eye
His kneeling sons with anguish cry,
And clasp his clenching hands.
Who hastes his throbbing head to hold?
Who bows to chase his temples cold?
In beauty's opening prime;
That blessed daughter, meek of heart,
Who, for his sake, a matron's part
Had borne before her time.
Who bows to chase his temples cold?
In beauty's opening prime;
That blessed daughter, meek of heart,
Who, for his sake, a matron's part
Had borne before her time.
235
That gasp, that groan,—'tis o'er, 'tis o'er,
The manly breast must heave no more,
The heart no longer pine;
Oh, Thou, who feed'st the raven's nest,
Confirm once more thy promise blest,
“The fatherless are mine.”
The manly breast must heave no more,
The heart no longer pine;
Oh, Thou, who feed'st the raven's nest,
Confirm once more thy promise blest,
“The fatherless are mine.”
236
THE MOURNER.
Wheels o'er the pavement roll'd, and a slight form
Just in the bud of blushing womanhood
Reached the paternal threshold. Wrathful night
Muffled the timid stars, and rain-drops hung
On that fair creature's rich and glossy curls.
Just in the bud of blushing womanhood
Reached the paternal threshold. Wrathful night
Muffled the timid stars, and rain-drops hung
On that fair creature's rich and glossy curls.
She stood and shiver'd, but no mother's hand
Dry'd those damp tresses, and with warm caress
Sustain'd the weary spirit. No, that hand
Was with the cold, dull earth-worm.
Dry'd those damp tresses, and with warm caress
Sustain'd the weary spirit. No, that hand
Was with the cold, dull earth-worm.
Gray and sad,
The tottering nurse rose up; and that old man,
The soldier servant, who had train'd the steeds
Of her slain brothers for the battle field,
Essay'd to lead her to the couch of pain,
Where her sick father pined.
The tottering nurse rose up; and that old man,
The soldier servant, who had train'd the steeds
Of her slain brothers for the battle field,
Essay'd to lead her to the couch of pain,
Where her sick father pined.
Oft had he yearn'd
For her sweet presence; oft, in midnight's watch
Mus'd of his dear one's smile, till dreams restor'd
The dove-like dalliance of her ruby lip
Breathing his woes away.
For her sweet presence; oft, in midnight's watch
Mus'd of his dear one's smile, till dreams restor'd
The dove-like dalliance of her ruby lip
Breathing his woes away.
While distant far,
She, patient student, bending o'er her tasks,
Toil'd for the fruits of knowledge, treasuring still
In the heart's casket, a fond father's smile,
And the pure music of his welcome home,
Rich payment of her labours.
She, patient student, bending o'er her tasks,
Toil'd for the fruits of knowledge, treasuring still
In the heart's casket, a fond father's smile,
And the pure music of his welcome home,
Rich payment of her labours.
But there came
A summons of surprise, and on the wings
Of filial love she hasted.
—'Twas too late:
The lamp of life still burn'd, yet 'twas too late.
The mind had passed away, and who could call
Its wing from out the sky?
A summons of surprise, and on the wings
237
—'Twas too late:
The lamp of life still burn'd, yet 'twas too late.
The mind had passed away, and who could call
Its wing from out the sky?
For the embrace
Of strong idolatry, was but the glare
Of a fix'd, vacant eye. Disease had dealt
A fell assassin's blow. Oh God! the blight
That fell on those fresh hopes, when all in vain
The passive hand was grasp'd, and the wide halls
Re-echoed “father! father!”
Of strong idolatry, was but the glare
Of a fix'd, vacant eye. Disease had dealt
A fell assassin's blow. Oh God! the blight
That fell on those fresh hopes, when all in vain
The passive hand was grasp'd, and the wide halls
Re-echoed “father! father!”
Through the shades
Of that long silent night, she sleepless bent,
Bathing with tireless hand the unmoved brow,
And the death-pillow smoothing. When fair morn
Came with its rose-tint up, she shrieking clasp'd
Her hands in joy, for its reviving ray
Flush'd that worn brow, as if with one brief trace
Of waken'd intellect. 'Twas seeming all:
And Hope's fond vision faded as the day
Rode on in glory.
Of that long silent night, she sleepless bent,
Bathing with tireless hand the unmoved brow,
And the death-pillow smoothing. When fair morn
Came with its rose-tint up, she shrieking clasp'd
Her hands in joy, for its reviving ray
Flush'd that worn brow, as if with one brief trace
Of waken'd intellect. 'Twas seeming all:
And Hope's fond vision faded as the day
Rode on in glory.
Eve her curtain drew,
And found that pale and beautiful watcher there,
Still unreposing. Restless on his couch
Toss'd the sick man. Cold Lethargy had steep'd
Its last dead poppy in his heart's red stream,
And agony was stirring Nature up
To struggle with her foe.
And found that pale and beautiful watcher there,
Still unreposing. Restless on his couch
Toss'd the sick man. Cold Lethargy had steep'd
Its last dead poppy in his heart's red stream,
And agony was stirring Nature up
To struggle with her foe.
238
“Father in Heaven!
Oh, let him sleep!”—sigh'd an imploring voice;
And then she ran to hush the measur'd tick
Of the dull night-clock, and to scare the owl
That clinging to the casement hoarsely pour'd
A boding note. But soon from that lone couch
Thick-coming groans announce the foe that strikes
But once.
Oh, let him sleep!”—sigh'd an imploring voice;
And then she ran to hush the measur'd tick
Of the dull night-clock, and to scare the owl
That clinging to the casement hoarsely pour'd
A boding note. But soon from that lone couch
Thick-coming groans announce the foe that strikes
But once.
They bare the fainting girl away;
And paler than that ashen corse, her face,
Half by a flood of ebon tresses hid,
Droop'd o'er her nurse's shoulder. It was sad
To see a young heart breaking, while the old
Sank down to rest.
And paler than that ashen corse, her face,
Half by a flood of ebon tresses hid,
Droop'd o'er her nurse's shoulder. It was sad
To see a young heart breaking, while the old
Sank down to rest.
There was another change.
The mournful bell toll'd out the funeral hour,
And groups came gathering to the gate where stood
The sable hearse. Friends throng'd with heavy heart,
And curious villagers, intent to scan
The lordly mansion, and cold worldly men,
Even o'er the coffin and the warning shroud
Revolving selfish schemes.
The mournful bell toll'd out the funeral hour,
And groups came gathering to the gate where stood
The sable hearse. Friends throng'd with heavy heart,
And curious villagers, intent to scan
The lordly mansion, and cold worldly men,
Even o'er the coffin and the warning shroud
Revolving selfish schemes.
But one was there,
To whom all earth could render nothing back,
Like that pale piece of clay. Calmly she stood
As marble statue. Not one trickling tear,
Or quivering of the eye-lid, told she liv'd,
Or tasted sorrow. The old house-dog came,
Pressing his rough head to her snowy palm,
All unreprov'd.
To whom all earth could render nothing back,
Like that pale piece of clay. Calmly she stood
As marble statue. Not one trickling tear,
Or quivering of the eye-lid, told she liv'd,
Or tasted sorrow. The old house-dog came,
239
All unreprov'd.
He for his master mourn'd.
And could she spurn that faithful friend, who oft
His shaggy length thro' many a fireside hour
Stretch'd at her father's feet? who round his bed
Of sickness watch'd with wakeful, wondering eye
Of changeless sympathy? No, round his neck
Her infant arms had clasp'd, and still he rais'd
His noble front beside her, proud to guard
The last, lov'd relic of his master's house.
And could she spurn that faithful friend, who oft
His shaggy length thro' many a fireside hour
Stretch'd at her father's feet? who round his bed
Of sickness watch'd with wakeful, wondering eye
Of changeless sympathy? No, round his neck
Her infant arms had clasp'd, and still he rais'd
His noble front beside her, proud to guard
The last, lov'd relic of his master's house.
The deadly calmness of that mourner's brow
Was a deep riddle to the lawless thought
Of whispering gossips. Of her sire they spake,
Who suffer'd not the winds of heaven to touch
The tresses of his darling, and who dream'd
In the warm passion of his heart's sole love
She was a mate for angels. Bold they gaz'd
Upon her tearless cheek, and murmuring said,
“How strange that he should be so lightly mourn'd.”
Was a deep riddle to the lawless thought
Of whispering gossips. Of her sire they spake,
Who suffer'd not the winds of heaven to touch
The tresses of his darling, and who dream'd
In the warm passion of his heart's sole love
She was a mate for angels. Bold they gaz'd
Upon her tearless cheek, and murmuring said,
“How strange that he should be so lightly mourn'd.”
Oh woman! oft misconstrued! the pure pearls
Lie all too deep in thy heart's secret well,
For the unpausing and impatient hand
To win them forth. In that meek maiden's breast
Sorrow and loneliness sank darkly down,
Though the blanch'd lip breath'd out no boisterous plain
Of common grief.
Lie all too deep in thy heart's secret well,
For the unpausing and impatient hand
To win them forth. In that meek maiden's breast
Sorrow and loneliness sank darkly down,
Though the blanch'd lip breath'd out no boisterous plain
Of common grief.
240
Even on to life's decline,
Amid the giddy round of prosperous years,
The birth of new affections, and the joys
That cluster round earth's favourites, there walk'd
Still at her side, the image of her sire,
As in that hour when his cold glazing eye
Met her's, and knew her not. When her full cup
Perchance had foam'd with pride, that icy glance,
Checking its effervescence, taught her soul
The chasten'd wisdom of attemper'd bliss.
Amid the giddy round of prosperous years,
The birth of new affections, and the joys
That cluster round earth's favourites, there walk'd
Still at her side, the image of her sire,
As in that hour when his cold glazing eye
Met her's, and knew her not. When her full cup
Perchance had foam'd with pride, that icy glance,
Checking its effervescence, taught her soul
The chasten'd wisdom of attemper'd bliss.
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