University of Virginia Library

ZINZENDORFF.

Twas Summer in Wyoming.—
Through the breast
Of that fair vale, the Susquehannah roam'd,
Wearing its robe of silver, like a bride.
Now, with a noiseless current, gliding slow
'Mid the rich velvet of its curtaining banks,
It seem'd to sleep,—o'erwearied with the toil
By which its roughly-guarded

The Susquehanna, after entering Luzerne county, Penn., breaks into the valley of Wyoming, near the mouth of the Lackawanna, through a narrow mountain chasm, rendered rugged by perpendicular rocks, and after pursuing a serpentine course, for twenty miles, breaks again out of the valley, at a similar pass, called the “Nanticoke gap.”

pass was won;—
Then hasting on, refreshing and refresh'd,
Vaunting the glories of its sylvan home,
It spread a mirror to the changeful cloud
In chrystal beauty.—
From the towering hills.
That revel in the sunbeams, or retire
Shrouded in mist, the gazing traveller drinks
Such deep delight, as only Nature gives,
When in her garb of loveliness, she mocks
Pencil, and power of speech.—Yon pictur'd chart
Of lawn, and stream, and mountain's shadowy height,
And rocks in quiet verdure meekly bower'd,
Rebukes the pomp of cities, and the strife
Of competition, and the lust of gold.
—The landscape

The battle fought on the 3d of July, 1778, between the Americans, under the command of Col. Zebulon Butler, and the British, led on by Col. John Butler, and a Chieftain of mixed blood, named Brandt, is sometimes styled both in history and poetry, the “Wyoming massacre.”

hath a legend: hurrying steps
Of stately warriors,—valor, prompt and proud
To guard its nested loves,—the fatal wile
Of Indian ambuscade,—the madden'd shout
Of massacre,—the flight of timid forms,
And moan of sireless orphans.
History's hand,
And minstrel's art have glean'd these glowing tints,
And wrought them deftly, like a crimson thread
Into their tissues. 'Tis not mine to choose
A theme so bold,—though I have trod the turf
Whose greenness told what moisture nourish'd it,
And ponder'd pensive o'er that monument,
Where the last relics

“The occasion of our assembling in this spot, is one of no common interest: to witness the re-interment of the mutilated bones of our ancestors, and to perform the grateful duty of laying the corner-stone of their monument. This work of gratitude is destined, in the language of the eloquent Webster, to ‘rise till it meet the sun in his coming,—till the earliest light of morning shall gild it, and the parting day linger and play upon its summit.’”—Oration of Chester Butler, Esq., on laying the corner-stone of the Wyoming Monument, July 3, 1833.

of the fallen brave
Were gathered by their sons. Yes, I have mus'd
'Mid that enchanted scenery, while the thrill
From kindred bosoms, and the vision'd past
Was strong within my soul. Yet, 'tis not meet
That I should tell of war, or woo the tones
Of that high harp, which, struck in England's halls,
Hath made the name of Gertrude, and the lore
Of sad Wyoming's chivalry, a part
Of classic song.
A wilder scene I seek,
Ancient and barren, where the red man reign'd
Sole lord, before the usurping plough had dar'd
A trace of subjugation, or the eye
Of Science, in its darkling bed discern'd
The slumbering

The beautiful vale of Wyoming is distinguished by the anthracite coal formation. This valuable mineral, as exhibited in that region, is unsurpassed in richness and brilliancy, and in quantity apparently inexhaustible.

Anthracite, which now doth draw
Exploring thousands to its ebon throne,
Like a swarth king of Afric. The high arch
Of the cloud-sweeping forest, proudly cast
A solemn shadow, for no sound of axe
Had taught the monarch Oak dire principles
Of revolution, or brought down the Pine,
Like haughty baron from his castled height.
Thus dwelt the kings of Europe,—ere the voice
Of the crusading monk, with whirlwind tone
Did root them from their base, with all their hosts,
Tossing the red-cross banner to the sky,
And pouring like a torrent o'er the wilds
Of wondering Asia.
The rude native tribes,
Fast by the borders of the gentle stream
Carv'd out their heritage, with rival heart,
And hand uncourteous. There the Shawanese
With surest arrow stay'd the flying deer,
And the bold Delaware with giant arm
Impell'd his swift canoe. In feudal pride
Oft the fierce chieftains led their eager hosts
To savage battle, or with oathless truce
Drew back in transient brotherhood, the hordes
Of wrathful warriors. In their coue-roof'd homes
Some budding virtues sprang as best they might,
Beneath the chill and baleful atmosphere
Of savage life. The dusky mother prest
Her new-born infant with a rapturous thrill
Of unimagin'd love, and the glad sire
Saw his young boy with eager skill maintain
Against the opposing stream a venturous path,
Or firmer knit his sinews in the chase.
The lip of woman told the treasur'd lore
Of other times, and 'mid the tasks and toils
Of vassalage kept bright the historic chain,
As the sad vestal nurs'd the sacred fire,
—The young kept silence, while the old man spake,
And bowing down before the hoary head,
Rever'd the wisdom that doth wait on time.
—But still the cloud of paganism did blight
The blossom of their virtues, brooding dark
With raven pinion o'er the gloomy soul.
—I said that Summer glow'd.—
And with her came
A white-brow'd

Count Zinzendorff, a nobleman of Saxony, the restorer of the ancient church of the United Brethren, or Moravians, performed a mission to the Indians of Wyoming, in the year 1742. He is asserted to have been the first white person who had ever, visited that portion of the Shawanese and Delaware tribes, who held dominion in the valley.

stranger. Open as the day
Was his fair, noble forehead, and his voice
In its sweet intonations, threw a charm
O'er rudest spirits. Not with more surprise
Gaz'd the stern Druid, 'mid his mystic rites,
On good Augustine, preaching words of peace,
What time with hatred fierce and unsubdued,
The woad-stain'd Briton in his wattled

The boats of the ancient Britons were composed of basket-work, covered with the skins of beasts. So much were these baskets admired in Rome, and such quantities were exported there, that one of their satirical poets ridicules them as among the luxuries of his countrymen, more than a hundred years after the conquest of the British isles.

boat
Quail'd 'neath the glance of Rome.
Thus fixed the eye
Of jealous chieftains and their wandering clans
On Zinzendorff.—Sought he to grasp their lands?
To search for gold? to found a mystic throne
Of dangerous power? Where the red council-fire
Disturb'd the trance of midnight,—long they sate
Weighing his purpose with a cautious tone
In grave debate. For scarce they deem'd it truth
That from a happy home, o'er Ocean's wave,
He thus should come to teach a race unknown
Of joys beyond the tomb. Their fetter'd minds
Still blindly ruled by groping ignorance,
Sank at the threshhold of such bold belief,
And with the skeptic doubt of modern times,
The Missionary scann'd.
Yet some there were
Who listen'd spell-bound to his charmed words;
The sick man drew them as the dew of heaven
Into his fever'd bosom, while the hymn
That swell'd melodious o'er the open grave,
Sooth'd the sad mourner 'mid his heathen woe.
Young children gather'd at his beaming smile,
And learn'd the name of Jesus,—pressing close
To touch his garments, or to feel his hand
Resting upon their heads. Such power hath love
O'er sweet simplicity, ere Sin hath taught
Suspicion's lesson.
By the bed of death
The Teacher stood, where the grim Sachem fear'd
By many tribes, found in his latest foe
The first that conquer'd him. The man of might
Stretch'd on his couch of skins, supinely lay,
With every nerve unstrung. Around his hut,
The deer's proud antler, and the wampum belt
Dispos'd 'mid gaudy implements of war,
The well-fill'd quiver, and the feathery plume,
Show'd that pre-eminence which rank doth claim
'Mid penury and pain. One youthful form,
A lonely daughter, last of all his flock,
Tended his dying pillow, with the care
Of native tenderness. The water-gourd
She wept as he rejected,—and her eye
Gleam'd through its tears so beautiful, that none
Who gazed remembered that her cheek was dark.
She was a gentle creature, and she rose
Parting the raven tresses from her brow,
And bowing down with reverent grace, to meet
The Man of God.
He mark'd the mortal strife
Draw near its close. Cold dews of suffering stood
Upon the rigid temples, and the breath
Was like that sob, with which the swimmer breasts
The surge that whelms him. Then, a tone subdued
And tremulous with pity and with zeal,
Breath'd in his ear.
“Chieftain! the ice of death
Is in thy breast. Doth aught disturb the soul,
Or make its passage fearful?”
—No reply,
Save one impatient gesture from the hand
That seemed a skeleton's.
“Hast thou not been
A man of blood?—Repent thee! Speak the name
Of Jesus the Redeemer. Let thy thought
Ascend with mine, my brother, while I plead
Acceptance for thee at the gate of heaven,
Through Him, who from the tyrant Death did wrest
The victory.”
But then a hollow voice
Brake forth, like smother'd thunders.
“Go thy way
Thou Christian Teacher! I can deal with Death
Alone. Hence! Hence! I charge thee bring no soul
That thou hast nurtur'd to the red man's heaven,
For we will drive it thence. My glorious sires!”
—And then he murmur'd what they could not hear,
But ever and anon, he fiercely rais'd
His clenching hand as in the battle strife,
To draw the arrow to its utmost head,
Or sway the cleaving hatchet. All in vain;
Like Priam's dart the airy weapon fell,
For cold paralysis did work within
The citadel of life.
There was a pause
Of awful stillness. Had the flickering lamp
Fail'd in that passion-gust?
The daughter bent
In agonizing dread, and wiped the dew
That stood like drops of rain, and laid her cheek
Close by the ghastly sleeper,—hoping still
To hush him gently to a peaceful dream,
As the meek mother lulls her troubled child.
But when no more the gasp, or fitful sigh
Stole on her, breathless listening,—starting up,
She threw the casement higher, and the breeze
Blew freshly o'er his brow, while grey-rob'd dawn
Did faintly struggle with the stars, to force
Her way, the gentle minister of peace
To an ungrateful world. Then first the pang
Of poignant grief that rives the proudest soul
Came over that young creature, and she cried
With a loud voice of misery, to him
Who pray'd the Christian's prayer, that he would lift
The voice of supplication for her sire,
Ere it should be too late. There was a sound
From that low couch,—a sudden gush of breath,
As if the grave did chafe with prison'd winds,
Driving them thence. The eye unsealing, flash'd
Strange fires, like frost-bound Hecla. Anger rush'd
In furious storm-cloud o'er that tortur'd brow,
Making Death horrible.
“And art thou false,
False to our own Great Spirit? Thou, the last
Of all my nested warblers,—dost thou turn,
And pluck the wing that shelter'd thee? I would
That He who hurls the lightning!”—but the curse
Froze on his lip, and with a hideous groan
As if in combat with some giant-foe,
Who to his lion heart had found the way,
He wrestled and fell back, to rise no more.
—Then rose the sob of weeping, and the prayer
Of earnest faith. It was a fearful scene,—
Death, and young sorrow, and unearthly zeal,
Dividing that low mansion. But the space
Was brief for such companionship. The tramp,
And heavy tread of many hasting feet
Came echoing o'er the threshhold; for the throng
Who held their Sachem as a god, did shrink
To see him die. But now the deed was done,
And the stern Chief lay as the powerless babe,
They who would tremble at his awful glance,
And do his bidding with a spaniel's dread,
Now casting off their abject terror, stood
Closest beside him. From the weaker sex
Burst forth a tide of sympathy, to soothe
The orphan maid: for pity cannot quit
Her hold on woman, whatsoe'er her garb
Or lineament may be, howe'er the sun
Hath burnt dark tints upon her, or the yoke
Of vassalage and scorn have bow'd her low,
Still doth her spirit at another's pain
Vibrate, as the swept lyre.
'Twas sad to see
Those hoary elders pacing one by one,
So slow and mournful from their fallen chief,
And ranging in mute circle on the lawn
Beside his dwelling. There a towering line
Of warriors gather'd, such as ne'er had blench'd
To follow where he pointed, tho' the earth
Were saturate with blood, or the keen lance
Of ambush glitter'd thro? the quivering leaves.
Now, sad of heart, with heads declin'd they stood,
As men who lose the battle. Flocking still,
Came mothers with their sons. A nation mourn'd
Like one vast family. No word was spoke,
As when the friends of desolated Job,
Finding the line of language all too short
To fathom woe like his, sublimely paid
That highest homage at the throne of Grief,
Deep silence.
Now the infant morning rais'd
Her rosy eyelids. But no soft breeze mov'd
The forest lords to shake the dews of sleep
From their green coronals.
The curtaining mist
Hung o'er the quiet river, and it seem'd
That Nature found the summer night so sweet,
That 'mid the stillness of her deep repose
She shunn'd the wakening of the King of Day.
—But there, beneath a broad and branching Elm
Stood forth the holy man, in act to speak.
There was a calmness on his pallid brow,
That told of heaven: His stainless life had flow'd
Pure as his creed. Had the whole warring world
With passion quaked, he would have made himself
A green oasis 'mid the strife of tongues,
And there have dwelt secure.
Strong words, whose power
Can tame the sinful heart, he boldly spake,
And show'd to penitence, the faith which heals
The barb of anguish and the sting of death,
And rooting by the lowly cross, sheds forth
Such fragrance as immortal spirits breathe
In cloudless climes. The Gospel's glorious hope,
Its rule of purity, its eye of prayer,
Its foot of firmness on temptation's steep,
Its bark that fails not 'mid the storm of death,
He spread before them, and with gentlest tone,
Such as a brother to his sister breathes,
His little sister, simple and untaught,
Did urge them to the shelter of that ark
Which rides the wrathful deluge.
Not a breath
Disturb'd the tide of eloquence. So fix'd
Were that rude auditory, it would seem
Almost as if a nation had become
Bronz'd into statues. Now and then a sigh,
The unbidden messenger of thought profound,
Parted the lip; or some barbarian brow
Contracted closer in a haughty frown,
As scowl'd the cynic, 'mid his idol-fanes,
When on Mars-Hill the inspired Apostle preach'd
Jesus of Nazareth.
The furrow'd soil
Was soft with sorrow. So the rain of heaven
Sank deeper in. What seed was sown that hour,
Eternity can tell. Brief human breath
Pour'd on the wind-harp of a hallow'd lip,
What marvels hath it wrought! and stranger still,
One ink-drop on a solitary thought,
Hath stirr'd the mind of millions.
Where a cliff
Doth beetle rudely from the mountain's breast,
And dripping with a chilly moisture, make
Perpetual weeping,—was a lonely cave
Rock-ribbed and damb.—There dwelt an aged man,
Fear'd as a prophet by the unletter'd race
Who sought his counsel, when some work of guilt
Did need a helper. Wondrous tales they told
Of dark communion with a shadowy world,
And of strange power to rule the demon shapes
That shriek'd and mutter'd in his cell, when storms
At midnight strove. Of his mysterious date
The living held no record. Palsying Age
The elastick foot enchain'd, which erst would climb
The steep unwearied—and the wither'd flesh
Clos'd round each sinew with a mummy's clasp;
As if some gaunt and giant shape, embalm'd
At Thebes or Memphis, when the world was young,
Should from its stain'd sarcophagus, protrude
The harden'd limb, and send a grating sound
From the cold, lungless breast.
And there he dwelt,
Austere,—in such drear hermitage, as seem'd
Most like a tomb, gleaning from roots and herbs
Scant nutriment. Fierce passions, brooding dark
In solitude and abstinence, had made
A hater of mankind. But when he heard
Of the white stranger, with his creed of love
Seducing red men's hearts, hot seeds of wrath
Smoulder'd within his bosom,—like a fire
Fed in some charnel house. Revenge he vow'd,
And every day was one long troubled pause
Of meditation, on that dire resolve.
—Thus he, who taught to Earth the taste of blood,
Ere scarce that music of the stars was hush'd,
Which joyous o'er creation's cradle flow'd,
Cover'd the thought of murder in his heart,
Till his red eye-balls started, and like flame
Glar'd on his shepherd-brother, as he led
On by the living streams, his trusting flock.
—So strong in that misanthrope's bosom wrought
A frenzied malice, that his cavern's bound
Oft echoed to hoarse shouts, as fancy drew
The image of his enemy, and rais'd
A mimick warfare. Then uplifting high
The tomahawk, he impotently dream'd
To have his will,—but at each foil'd attempt
Cursing the weakness of his blasted arm,
He struck his bony hand against his breast
In self-consuming madness. Every night
Was one wild, tossing vision,—acting o'er
The deed of murder, with a baffled aim,
And deeming at each random stroke, the foe
Did multiply himself.
At length, strong hate
Wrought out its likeness in the savage breast
Of three grim warriors. Listening oft and long
To his dire incantations, forth they went,
Once, when the pall of darkness veil'd the scene,
To do his purpose. Keenly were they arm'd,
And inly fortified by every spell
Which that dire necromander could devise,
To bind obedience. Eagerly they sought
The abode of Zinzendorff. His lonely tent
Rear'd its white bosom thro' embowering shades
As if some remnant of the wintry snow
Did linger there. The earliest cluster'd grape
Was in its purple flush,—and twilight's breath
Betray'd a chill, prelusive of the sway
Of sober autumn.
Through a narrow chasm
In his slight screen, glar'd the assassins' eyes,
As when the fierce and fell hyena finds
A fleshless carcass. Stern, and hard of heart!
How can ye cleave the breast that thrills for you
With generous sympathy? But what know they
Of soft compunction?—train'd from youth to tear
The scalp fresh bleeding from the tortur'd brain,
To mock the victim, writhing at the stake,
Or hurl the mother, with her wailing babe
Into the wigwam's flame.
Slow midnight came,
In dark companionship with sullen storms,
The red pine blazes in the old man's cave,
And every moment mov'd with leaden feet,
To him who traced it on the dial-plate
Of mad impatience and unresting sin.
At length, above the tempest's groan, is heard
The sound of rushing steps. His blood-shot eyes
Look'd fiery glad,—as when a tiger marks
The unwary traveller near his jungle draw.
And as the mother of Herodias snatch'd
The reeking charger, and the sever'd head
Of John the Baptist,—so he thought to grasp
The expected trophy of that soft, brown hair,
Sprinkled with early grey. The warriors spake
With troubled tone.
“Father and Prophet, hear!
We found him in his tent. Alone he sat,
Like some unwelcom'd stranger. Pity came
Into our breasts, so mournful was his brow.
Still was his death-doom deep within our souls,
For so we promis'd thee. But then he bow'd
His knee to earth, and with a tender voice
Did pray for Indians.
To the white man's God
He bore our nation, with a brother's heart:
Yea, even for our little ones besought
A place in heaven. But still we firmly grasp'd
The murderous knife, for so we promis'd thee.
Then, with a feathery instrument, he trac'd
That speaking leaf, by which the pale-fac'd men
Bewitch and bow the mind. On the white page
He seem'd to press his soul, and pour it out,
As the bruis'd plant doth give its essence forth
From every leaf and fibre. While we gaz'd,
Lo! the dread king of venomous serpents came,
The fatal rattle-snake.

The boats of the ancient Britons were composed of basket-work, covered with the skins of beasts. So much were these baskets admired in Rome, and such quantities were exported there, that one of their satirical poets ridicules them as among the luxuries of his countrymen, more than a hundred years after the conquest of the British isles.

So then we saw
That our Great Spirit sent Death's messenger,
To punish him. We waited to behold
His swollen visage, and his eyes suffus'd
With mortal pain.
Prophet! we speak the truth!
Believe our words. Close coiling at his feet,
With brightening tints, and wrath-enkindled eyes,
The reptile lay. But then, as if subdued
By the meek magic of his beaming smile,
Drew back the forked tongue, that quivering long'd
To dart the o'erflowing poison,—and with crest
Erect and sparkling, glided slow away.
Doubtless he is a god. We dared not raise
The hand against him. For the power forsook
Our limbs, and scarcely have we totter'd here
To bring thee tidings. Prophet! bid no more
His blood be shed. The deadly snake disarm'd,
The might departing from our warrior-hearts
That never blench'd in battle, or turn'd back
From mortal man, bear witness, he is god.”
—A shriek rose sharply o'er the warring winds,
“Hence,—curs'd and woman-hearted! Would this arm
Might but one moment claim its ancient strength,
And lay yellow. Hence! See my face no more!”
—And so he drove them forth, tho' sounding rains
Did roar like torrents down the rifted rocks,
And lightnings cleaving wide the trembling cloud,
Blacken'd the forest-pines.
Time sped his wing,
And on the Lehigh's solitary banks
The Missionary stood. O'er that smooth tide
The pensive moon wrote out in pencil'd rays,
The same deep language, which his boyhood read
Upon the billowy Rhine. Mild evening's breeze,
Stirring the interlacing of the elms,
And the slight reeds that fring'd the river's brink,
Pour'd the same soul-dissolving sighs that swept
His own Lusatian forests. And the voice—
The writing, were of God.
Serene he mus'd,
And felt that every spot on earth's wide breast
Was home to him, for there his Father dwelt,
And all men were his brethren. On that hour
Of high devotion, had the Spoiler stole,
His step had been mistaken for the sound
Of the soft rustling of angelic wings;
And the soul's welcome to the stroke that rends
Its fond yet strange affinity with clay,
Had been sublime.
To the believer, Death
Is like the lion which the strong man slew,
And the sweet bees did with their waxen robe
And food ambrosial, cover.
He who found
This blest enthusiasm nerve his weary heart,
Like manna in the wilderness,—now toil'd
As a colonial sire, and thoughtful plann'd
'Mid shelter'd vallies, and aspiring hills,
Fit refuge for his brethren. Hence arose
Fair Bethlehem,

Zinzendorff, during his second voyage to America, founded the colony of Bethlehem,—a spot celebrated both for its beauty of scenery, and its school, where the elements of piety are blended with the whole process of education, and presented to the young mind, as the source of daily serenity and joy, as well as of future felicity.

with all its pure retreats
And peaceful hearths; and still its classic dome,
Where Education with the plastic mind
Of childhood, mingleth holiest elements,
Doth venerate his name.
But now the hour
That took the shepherd from his simple flock
Drew swiftly on: for still the cherish'd form
Of her

His wife, the sister of the Prince of Reuss, was distinguished for every excellence, and during his absence, took charge of his estates, and devoted their surplus income to the works of Benevolence in which he delighted.

whose cheek was pallid for his sake,
Blent with his every dream,—and thoughts of home,
Sweet household music, long-remember'd tones,
The far-off echoes of his stately halls,
Had like the voice of many waters, been
Strong in his inmost soul, even while he spake
Salvation's message to the forest-child.
—His work of mercy done, the white sail spreads
From that broad city's queenly breast, which bears
The filial impress of the Man of Peace,
Who on the blended rivers bas'd her throne,
And grav'd upon his signet-ring her name
Of love fraternal.
But behold! a throng
In uncouth garments, and with savage port
Invade the parting scene. With wondering eye,
But lip immoveable, they scan the domes,
And groves, and gardens. Native pride restrain'd
The voice of admiration, but the seal
Of abject wretchedness seem'd deeper stamp'd
Upon their forehead, as they mark'd a pomp
Ill understood, and felt in their own realm
Their sceptre broken. Not more wildly gleam'd
The tangled elf-locks of the astonish'd Gauls,
Who, trampling on the majesty of Rome,—
Saw her grave

When the victorious Gauls, under Brennus, entered Rome, they found the ancient Senators sitting in their order, in the Forum, undaunted and unmoved. Their splendid habits, their majestic gravity, and venerable countenances, awed the barbarians into reverence, and they offered them adoration, as tutelar deities.

Senate in their curule chairs,
And deem'd them demi-gods.
The red-brow'd sues,
And the sad mothers with their little ones
Fast by their side, and on their shoulders bound
Their helpless infants, throng'd to deprecate
The Teacher's absence, and with tears implore
A parting blessing. Kneeling on the strand
His tender supplication, by their sobs
Oft interrupted, sought the ear of heaven.
—Long with despairing eye, they watch'd the bark
Cutting its watery path. Methought their brows
By misery furrow'd o'er, in strongest lines,
Like some deep-trac'd phylactery, reveal'd
Prophetic sentence of their fated race,
Which unrelenting Destiny should waste,
Till like the mighty Mastodon, it leave
Nought save its bones among us.
In the heart
Of Zinzendorff, their murmur'd farewell tones
Dwelt,—a perpetual cadence, prompting oft
The interceding prayer. It duly rose
Ere the bright morn sprang up from Ocean's bed,
Or when amid his garniture of clouds
Purple and gold, the gorgeous Sun retir'd
Into his kingly chamber. Then a voice
As of a father for an outcast son,
O'er whom his pity yearns, blent with the sigh
And surging thunder of the sleepless wave,
Bearing the sorrows of the wandering tribes
To Mercy's ear.
Nor were their souls forgot
By their kind shepherd, 'mid the joys of home,
While 'neath his own

When the victorious Gauls, under Brennus, entered Rome, they found the ancient Senators sitting in their order, in the Forum, undaunted and unmoved. Their splendid habits, their majestic gravity, and venerable countenances, awed the barbarians into reverence, and they offered them adoration, as tutelar deities.

baronial shades, he sought
To spread a banner o'er the sect he lov'd,—
That peaceful sect, which like the man who lean'd
On Jesus' breast at supper, best imbib'd
The spirit of his love.
Hail ye who went
Untiring teachers to the heathen tribes,
And kneeling with your barbarous pupils, shap'd
Their rude articulations into prayer.
Ye fear'd nor tropic suns, nor polar ice,
Nor subterranean cell. Ye did not shrink
To plant the Tree of Life 'mid arctic frosts,
That the poor Greenlander

The centennial anniversary of the Moravian missions in Greenland, was celebrated on the 20th of January, 1833, with great joy and gratitude among the different congregations, established by those devoted servants of the cross in that inclement clime.

might taste its fruits,
And 'mid his rayless night, devoutly bless
The Sun of Righteousness. Yet did not shun
The savage in his ignorance, or loathe
To share his hut.
The passport to your care
Hath been the sign of deepest wretchedness,
The Ethiop forehead,

More than 40,000 of the converts, connected with the 214 mission stations maintained by the United Brethren, in different parts of the globe, are either dwellers in Africa or slaves in the West India Islands.

and the name of slave.
—Teach us your self-denial,—we who strive
To pluck the mote out of our brother's creed,
Till Charity's forgotten plant doth ask
The water-drop, and die. With zeal we watch
And weigh the doctrine, while the spirit 'scapes;
And in the carving

“Antoninus Pius, from his desire to search into the least differences, was called ‘cumini sector,’—the carver of cummin-seeds.”—Fuller's Holy State.

of our cummin-seeds,
Our metaphysical hair-splittings, fail
To note the orbit of that star of love
Which never sets.
Yea, even the heathen tribes
Who from our lips, amid their chaos dark,
First heard the “fiat lux,”—and joyous came
Like Lazarus from his tomb, do wilder'd ask
What guide to follow; for they see the men
They took for angels, warring in their paths
For Paul, and for Apollos, till they lose
The certainty that they are one in Christ,—
That simple clue, which thro' life's labyrinth
Leads to heaven's gate.
Each differing sect, whose base
Is on the same Pure Word, doth strictly scan
Its neighbor's superstructure,—point and arch,—
Buttress and turret,—till the hymn of praise,
That from each temple should go up to God,
Sinks in the critic's tone. All Christendom
Is one eternal burnishing of shields,
And girding on of armor. So the heat
Of border warfare checks Salvation's way.
The free complexion of another's thought
Doth militate against him, and those shades
Of varying opinion and belief,
Which sweetly blended with the skill of love,
Would make the picture beautiful, are blam'd
As features of deformity.
We toil
To controvert,—to argue,—to defend,
Camping amidst imaginary foes,
And vision'd heresies. Even brethren deem
A name of doctrine, or a form of words
A dense partition-wall,—tho Christ hath said,
“See, that ye love each other.”
So, come forth,
Ye, who have safest kept that Saviour's law
Green as a living germ within your souls,
Followers of Zinzendorff, stand meekly forth,
And with the gentle panoply of love,
Persuade the sister churches to recall
Their wasted energies, and concentrate
In one bright focal point, their quenchless zeal,
Till from each region of the darken'd globe,
The everlasting Gospel's glorious wing
Shall wake the nations to Jehovah's praise.

NIAGARA.

Flow on forever, in thy glorious robe
Of terror and of beauty.—Yea, flow on
Unfathom'd and resistless.—God hath set
His rainbow on thy forehead: and the cloud
Mantled around thy feet.—And he doth give
Thy voice of thunder, power to speak of Him
Eternally,—bidding the lip of man
Keep silence—and upon thy rocky altar pour
Incense of awe-struck praise.
Ah! who can dare
To lift the insect-trump of earthly hope,
Or love, or sorrow,—'mid the peal sublime
Of thy tremendous hymn? Even Ocean shrinks
Back from thy brotherhood: and all his waves
Retire abash'd. For he doth sometimes seem
To sleep like a spent laborer,—and recall
His wearied billows from their vexing play
And lull them to a cradle calm:—but thou,
With everlasting, undecaying tide,
Dost rest not, night or day,—The morning stars,
When first they sang o'er young creation's birth,
Heard thy deep anthem, and those wrecking fires
That wait the archangel's signal to dissolve
This solid earth, shall find Jehovah's name
Graven, as with a thousand diamond spears
On thine unending volume.
Every leaf
That lifts itself within thy wide domain,
Doth gather greenness from thy living spray,
Yet tremble at the baptism.—Lo!—yon birds
Do boldly venture near, and bathe their wing
Amid thy mist and foam. 'Tis meet for them,
To touch thy garment's hem and lightly stir
The snowy leaflets of thy vapor wreath,
For they may sport unharmed amid the cloud,
Or listen at the echoing gate of heaven,
Without reproof. But as for us, i seems
Scarce lawful, with our broken tones, to speak
Familiarly of thee.—Methinks, to tint
Thy glorious features with our pencil's point,
Or woo thee to the tablet of a song
Were profanation.
Thou dost make the soul
A wondering witness of thy Majesty,
But as it presses with delirious joy
To pierce thy vestibule, dost chain its step,
And tame its rapture, with the humbling view
Of its own nothingness, bidding it stand
In the dread presence of the invisible,
As if to answer to its God, through thee.

DEATH OF THE REV. DR. CORNELIUS.

[The Lord is on his holy throne]

THE DEAD HORSEMAN.

THE TOMB OF JOSEPHINE.

JOY IN BELIEVING.

Man asketh homage. When his foot doth stand
On earth's high places, he exacteth fear
From those who serve him. His proud spirit loves
The quick observance of an abject eye
And cowering brow. His dignity he deems,
Demands such aliment,—and he doth show
Its evanescence, by the food he seeks
To give it nutriment. Yea, more than this—
He o'er his brother rules, with scourge and chain,
Treading our Nature's charities, till life
To madness tortur'd, or in misery crush'd,
Goes, an accusing spirit, back to God.
—But He, the Eternal Ruler, willeth not
The slavery of the soul. His claim is love,
A filial spirit, and a song of praise.
It doth not please him, that his servants wear
The livery of mourning. Peace is sown
Along their pilgrim path,—and holy hopes
Like birds of Paradise, do sweetly pour
Melodious measures,—and a glorious faith
Springs up o'er Jordan's wave. Say, is it meet
For those who wear a Saviour's badge, to sigh
In heathen heaviness, when earthly joys
Quench their brief taper? or go shrinking down
As to a dungeon, when the gate of Death
Opes its low valve, to show the shining track
Up to an angel's heritage of bliss?

FAITH.

THE INDIAN'S WELCOME TO THE PILGRIM FATHERS.

DEATH AMONG THE TREES.

Death walketh in the forest.
The tall pines
Do woo the lightning-flash, and through their veins
The fire-cup, darting, leaves their blackened trunks
A tablet, for ambition's sons to read
Their destiny. The oak, that centuries spared,
Grows grey at last, and like some time-worn man
Stretching out palsied arms, doth feebly cope
With the destroyer, while its gnarl'd roots
Betray their trust. The towering elm turns pale,
And faintly strews the sere and yellow leaf,
While from its dead arms falls the wedded vine.
The sycamore uplifts a beacon brow,
Denuded of its honors, and the blast,
Swaying the withered willow, rudely asks
For its lost grace, and for its tissued leaf,
With silver lined.
I knew that blight might check
The sapling, ere kind Nature's hand could weave
Its first spring-coronal, and that the worm,
Coiling itself amid our garden plants,
Did make their unborn buds its sepulchre.
And well I knew how wild and wrecking winds
Might take the forest-monarchs by the crown,
And lay them with the lowliest vassal-herb;
And that the axe, with its sharp ministry,
Might, in one hour, such revolution work,
As all Earth's boasted power could never hope
To re-instate. And I had seen the flame
Go crackling up, amid yon verdant boughs,
And with a tyrant's insolence dissolve
Their interlacing, till I felt that man,
For sordid gain would make the forest's pomp
Its, heaven-raised arch and living tracery,
One funeral-pyre.
But, yet I did not deem
That pale Disease amid those shades would steal
As to a sickly maiden's cheek, and waste
The power and plenitude of those high ranks,
Which in their peerage and nobility,
Unrivalled and unchronicled, had reigned.
And so I said if in this world of knells
And open tombs, there lingereth one whose dream
Is of aught permament below the skies,
Even let him come and muse among the trees,
For they shall be his teachers; they shall bow
To Wisdom's lessons his forgetful ear,
And, by the whisper of their faded leaves,
Soften to his sad heart the thought of death.

THE TEST OF LIFE.

[Oh Thou, who bounteous to their need]

Oh Thou, who bounteous to their need,
Dost all earth's thronging pilgrims feed,
Dost bid for them in every clime,
The pregnant harvest know its time,
The flocks in verdant pastures dwell,
The corn aspire, the olive swell,
Fain would we bless that sleepless Eye,
That doth our hourly wants descry.
—Thou pour'st us from the nested grove,
The minstrel-melody of love.
Thou giv'st us of the fruitage fair
That summer's ardent suns prepare,
Of honey from the rock that flows,
And of the perfume of the rose,
And of the breeze, whose balm repairs
The sickening waste of toil and cares.
—And tho', perchance, the ingrate knee
Bends not in praise, or prayer to thee,
Tho' Sin that stole with traitor-sway
Even Peter's loyalty away
May strongly weave its seven-fold snare,
And bring dejection and despair;
Yet not the morn with cheering eye
More duly lights the expecting sky,
Nor surer speeds on pinion light
Each measur'd moment's trackless flight,
Than comes thy mercy's kind embrace
To feeble man's forgetful race.

FUNERAL OF DR. MASON F. COGGSWELL.

There was a throng within the temple-gates,
And more o' sorrow on each thoughtful brow
Than seem'd to fit the sacred day of praise.
Neighbor on neighbor gaz'd, and friend on friend,
Yet few saluted; for the sense of loss
Weigh'd heavy in each bosom. Even the dirge
Breath'd tremulous—for heavy music moan'd
A smitten worshipper. Grave, aged men
Bow'd down their reverend heads in wondering woe,
That he who so retain'd the ardent smile
And step elastic of life's morning prime,
Should fall before them. Stricken at his side
Were friendships of no common fervency
Or brief endurance; for at his glad tone
And the warm pressure of his hand, awoke
Fond recollections, scenes of boyhood's bliss,
And the unwounded trust of guileless years,
Glassing themselves in each congenial breast.
—The men of skill, who cope with stern disease,
And wear Hygeia's mantle, offering still
Fresh incense at her shrine, with sighs deplore
A brother and a guide: while yon mute train,
Whose speech is in the eye pour forth their tears,
As o'er a father lost. Say,—can ye tell
How many now amid this gather'd throng
In tender meditations deeply muse,
Coupling his image with their gratitude?
He had stood with them at the gate of Death,
And pluck'd them from the Spoiler's threatening grasp,
Or when the roses from their pilgrimage
Were shorn, walk'd humbly with them 'neath the cloud
Of God's displeasure. Such remembrances
Rush o'er their spirits with a whelming tide,
Till in the heart's deep casket, tribute tears
Lie thick, like pearls. And doubt not there are those
'Mid this assembly, in the scanty robes
Of penury half wrapt, who well might tell
Of ministrations at their couch of woe,
Of toil-spent nights, and timely charities,
Uncounted, save in heaven.
'Tis well!—'Tis well!
The parted benefactor justly claims
Such obsequies. Yet let the Gospel breathe
Its strain sublime. A hallow'd hand hath cull'd
From the deep melodies of David's lyre,
And from the burning eloquence of Paul,
Balm for the mourner's wound. But there 's a group
Within whose sacred home, yon lifeless form
Had been the centre of each tender hope,
The soul of every joy. Affections pure
And patriarchal hospitality,
Like household deities, presiding spread
Their wings around, making the favour'd cell
As bright a transcript of lost Eden's bliss,
As beams below. Now round that shaded hearth
The polish'd brow of radiant beauty droops,
Like the pale lily-flower, by pitiless storms
Press'd and surcharg'd. There too are sadden'd eyes
More eloquent than words and pursting hearts;
Earth may not weigh such grief. 'Tis heal'd in Heaven.

THOUGHTS FOR MOURNERS.

Ye say 'tis Mercy that doth rend
Of Hope the healthful root?
The visitation of a Friend
That blights affliction's fruit?
A tender florist's care, that pours
The riven blossoms round,
And strews the richest, fairest flowers
To perish on the ground?
Yon tree, that from the noon-day heat
Did shield the traveler's head,
And when the tempest fiercely beat
A sheltering shadow spread,
Whose boughs reviving fragrance cast
O'er all the sons of ill,
Behold it smitten 'neath the blast,
Say ye 'twas Mercy still?
Yea Mercy! Not that erring love
Which man to man extends,
But His high discipline above
Who pain with wisdom blends.
Beyond the cloud, the pang, the tomb
Of this terrestrial clod,
Where trees of glory ever bloom
Fast by the throne of God,
Ye in the page of Heaven may read
With seraph students blest,
How Sorrow's sternest teachings lead
To everlasting rest.

MEETING OF THE SUSQUEHANNAH WITH THE LACKAWANNA.

POETRY.

THE COMING OF CHRIST.

ON THE CLOSE OF THE YEAR 1832.

LADY JANE GREY.

On seeing a picture representing her engaged in the study of Plato.

FEMALE EDUCATION.

Addressed to a South American Poet.

THE HALF-CENTURY SERMON.

Look back, look back, ye gray-hair'd worshippers,
Who to this hill-top, fifty years ago
Came up with solemn joy; withdraw the folds
Which curtaining Time hath gather'd o'er the scene,
And show its coloring. The dark cloud of war
Faded to fitful sun-light, on the ear,
The rumor of red battle died away,
And there was peace in Zion. So a throng
O'er a faint carpet of the Spring's first green
Were seen in glad procession hasting on,
To set a watchman on these sacred walls.
Each eye upon his consecrated brow
Was fondly fix'd, for in its pallid hue,
In its deep, thought-worn, spiritual lines,
They trac'd the mission of the Crucified,
The hope of Israel. High the anthem swell'd,
Ascribing glory to the Lord of Hosts,
Who in his bounteous goodness thus vouchsaf'd
To beautify his temple.
The same strain
Riseth once more; but where are they who pour'd
Its tones melodious, on that festal day?
Young men and maidens of the tuneful lip,
The bright in beauty, and the proud in strength,
With bosoms fluttering to illusive hope,
Where are they? Can ye tell, ye hoary Ones,
Who few, and feebly leaning on your staves
Bow down, where erst with manhood's lofty port
Ye tower'd as columns? They have sunk away,
Brethren and sisters, from your empty grasp
Like bubbles on the pool, and ye are left,
With life's long lessons furrow'd on your brow
Change worketh all around you. The lithe twig
That in your boyhood ye did idly bend
Maketh broad shadow, and the forest-king
Arching majestic o'er your school-day sports,
Mouldereth, to sprout no more. The little babe,
Ye as a plaything dandled, of whose frame
Perchance ye spake, as most exceeding frail
And prone to perish like the flower of grass,
Doth nurse his children's children on his knee.
—But still your ancient Shepherd's voice ye hear,
Tho' age hath quell'd its power, and well those tones
Of serious, saintly tenderness do stir
The springs of love and reverence. As your guide
He in the heavenward path hath firmly walk'd
Bearing your joys and sorrows in his breast,
And on his prayers. He at your household hearths
Hath spoke his Master's message, while your babes
Listening imbib'd, as blossoms drink the dew;
And when your dead were buried from your sight,
Was he not there?
His scatter'd locks are white
With the hoar-frost of time, but in his soul
There is no Winter. He, the uncounted gold
Of many a year's experience richly spreads
To a new generation, and methinks
With high prophetic brow doth stand sublime
Like Moses 'tween the living and the dead
To make atonement. God's unclouded smile
Sustain thee Patriarch! like a flood of light
Still brightening, till with those whom thou hast taught
And warn'd in wisdom and with weeping love
Led to the brink of Calvary's cleansing stream,
Thou strike the victor-harp o'er sin and death.

DEATH OF THE WIFE OF A CLERGYMAN, DURING THE SICKNESS OF HER HUSBAND.

AGRICULTURE.

DEATH OF BEDA.

MISSIONS TO AFRICA.

THE ORDINATION.

Up to thy master's work! for thou art sworn
To do His bidding, till the hand of Death
Strike off thine armor.—Not among the gaudes,
And pomps and pleasures of this fleeting world
Is thy vocation.—Thy deep vow denies
To hoard its gold,—or truckle for its smile,
Or bind its blood-stain'd laurel on thy brow,—
—A nobler field is thine.—The soul!—The soul!—
That is thy province,—that mysterious thing,
Which hath no limit from the walls of sense.—
No chill from hoary Time,—with pale decay
No fellowship,—but shall stand forth unchang'd
Unscorch'd amid the resurrection fires,
To bear its boundless lot of good or ill,
And thou dost take authority to aid
This pilgrim-essence to a throne in Heaven
Among the glorious harpers, and the ranks
Of radiant seraphim and cherubim,
Thy business is with that which cannot die,—
Whose subtle thought the untravel'd universe
Spans on swift wing, from slumbering ages sweeps
Their buried treasures, scans the vault of Heaven,
Weighing its orbs of light, and pointing out
Their trackless pathway through the blue expanse,
Foils the red comet in its flaming speed,
And aims to read the secrets of its God,
—Yet thou a son of clay, art privileg'd
To make thy Saviour's image brighter still,
In this majestic soul.
Give God the praise
That thou art counted worthy,—and lay down
Thy lip in dust.—Bethink thee of its loss,—
For He whose sighs on Olivet, whose pangs
On Calvary, best speak its priceless worth
Saith that it may be lost. Should it sin on
Till the last hour of grace and penitence
Is meted out, ah! what would it avail
Though the whole world with all its pomp and power
And plumage, were its own? what were its gain
When the brief hour-glass of this life shall fail
And leave remorse, no grave,—despair, no hope?
—Up, blow thy trumpet, sound the loud alarm
To those who sleep in Zion—Boldly warn
To 'scape their condemnation, o'er whose head
Age after age of misery hath roll'd
Who from their prison-house look up and see
Heaven's golden gate—and to its watchmen cry
“What of the night?” while the dread answer falls
With fearful echo down the unfathom'd depths:
“Eternity.”
Should one of these lost souls
Amid its tossings utter forth thy name,
As one who might have pluck'd it from the pit,
Thou man of God! would there not be a burst
Of tears in Heaven?
Oh! live the life of prayer.
The life of faith in the meek Son of God
The life of tireless labor for His sake.
So may the angel of the Covenant bring
Thee to thy home in bliss, with many a gem
To glow forever in thy Master's crown.

THE CHRISTIAN GOING HOME.

FRIENDSHIP WITH THE DEAD.

DEATH OF THE REV. GORDON HALL.

IMPRISONMENT FOR DEBT.

Why do ye tear
Yon lingering tenant from his humble home?
His children cling about him, and his wife
Regardless of the wintry storm, doth stand
Watching his last, far footsteps with a gaze
Of speechless misery. What is his crime?
The murderer's steel in headlong passion rais'd?
Or the red flame, in stealthy malice touch'd
To some unguarded roof? Ah no, ye say
His crime is poverty.
Disease perchance,
Hath paralyzed his arm, or adverse skies
Withheld his harvest, or the thousand ills
That throng the hard lot of the sons of toil
Drank up his spirit. Ye indeed may hold
His form incarcerate, but will that repair
The trespass on your purse? To take away
The means of labor, yet require the fruits
Savoreth, methinks, of Pharaoh's policy:
Doth Themis sanction what the code of Christ
Condemns? “How readest thou?” Are there, who deem
The smallest portion of their drossy gold
Full counterpoise for liberty and health,
And God's free air, and home's sweet charities!
'Mid the gay circle round their evening fire
Sit they in luxury, while warbled song,
And guest, and wine-cup speed the flying hours,
Unmindful of the prison'd one who droops
Within his close barr'd cell, or of the storm
That hoarsely round his distant dwelling sweeps,
Where she who in a lowly bed hath laid
Her famish'd babes, kneels shivering at their side,
Mingling the tear-gush with her lonely prayer?
—Revenge may draw a subsidy from pain,
Wringing stern usury from woman's woe,
And infancy's distress; but is it well
For souls that hasten to a dread account
Of motive and of deed at Heaven's high bar,
To break their Saviour's law?
Up, cleanse yourselves
From this dark vestige of a barbarous age,
Sons of the Gospel's everlasting light!
Nor let a brother of your own blest clime
Rear'd in your very gates, participant
Of freedom and salvation's birthright, find
Less favor than the heathen.
It would seem
That man who for the fleeting breath he draws
Is still a debtor and hath nought to pay,
He, who to cancel countless sins expects
Unbounded clemency, 'twould seem that he
Might to his fellow-man be pitiful,
And show that mercy which himself implores.

SABBATH EVENING IN THE COUNTRY.

Suggested by a Picture.

['Tis said that hearts have albums. On their page]

'Tis said that hearts have albums. On their page
Strong Memory writeth with a diamond pen,
And Hope and Fancy throw their pencil tints,
And Love his bright creations. It were rash
To trust such tablet to the careless hand,
For Vanity's inscription. Blot or stain
Were fearful there, since pausing Penitence
Must with her bitter waters cleanse it out.
—The deep impressions on those mystic leaves
Possess mysterious power. Back they recall
From time's dim sepulchre lost Friendship's smile,
Bid Grief's long-slumbering tides suffuse the eye
Or wake the cold pulse to the thrill of joy.
—Guard thy heart's Album. Of its slightest trace
Who knoweth the full import? It may help
To fashion motive, and to color fate;
Nor canst thou tell how strong a thread it weaves,
Into the web of deathless destiny
Till at that solemn audit thou dost stand
Where deed and thought shall find their perfect weight,
And just reward.

MISTAKEN GRIEF.

THE DEAF, DUMB AND BLIND GIRL OF THE AMERICAN ASYLUM AT HARTFORD, CON.

THE COMMUNION.

They knelt them side by side; the hoary man
Whose memory was an age, and she whose cheek
Gleam'd like that velvet, which the young moss-rose
Puts blushing forth, from its scarce sever'd sheath
There was the sage,—whose eye of science spans
The comet in his path of fire,—and she
Whose household duty was her sole delight,
And highest study. On the chance clasp'd,
In meek devotion, were those bounteous bands
That scatter thousands at the call of Christ,
And his, whose labor wins the scanty bread
For his young children. There the man of might
On bended knee, fast by his servant's side,
Sought the same Master,—brethren in the faith,
And fellow-pilgrims.
See, yon wrinkled brow
Where care and grief for many a year have trac'd
Alternate furrows,—near that ruby lip,
Which but the honey and the dew of love
Have nourish'd. And for each, eternal health
Descendeth here.
Look! Look! as yon deep veil
Is swept aside, what an o'erwhelming page
Disease hath written with its pen of pain.
Ah, gentle sister, thou art hasting where
No treacherous hectic plants its funeral rose:
Drink thou the wine-cup of thy risen Lord,
And it shall nerve thee for thy toilsome path
Through the dark valley of the shade of death.
—'Tis o'er. A holy silence reigns around.
The organ slumbers. The sweet, solemn voice
Of him who dealt the soul its heavenly food
Turns inward, like a wearied sentinel,
Pillowing on thought profound.
Then every head
Bows down in parting worship, mute and deep,
The whisper of the soul. And who may tell
In that brief, silent space, how many a hope
Is born that hath a life beyond the tomb.
—So hear us, Father! in our voiceless prayer,
That at thy better banquet, all may meet.
And take the cup of bliss, and thirst no more.

NAPOLEON'S EPITAPH.

And who shall write thine epitaph? thou man
Of mystery and might.
Shall orphan hands
Inscribe it with their fathers' broken swords?
Or the warm trickling of the widows' tear,
Channel it slowly 'mid the rugged rock,
As the keen torture of the water-drop
Doth wear the sentenc'd brain?
Shall countless ghosts
Arise from Hades, and in lurid flame,
With shadowy finger trace thine effigy,
Who sent them to their audit unanneal'd,
And with but that brief space for shrift or prayer,
Given at the cannon's mouth?
Thou who didst sit
Like eagle on the apex of the globe,
And hear the murmur of its conquered tribes,
As chirp the weak-voic'd nations of the grass,
Why art thou sepulchred in yon far Isle,
Yon little speck, which scarce the mariner
Descries mid ocean's foam? Thou who didst hew
A pathway for thy host above the cloud,
Guiding their footsteps o'er the frost work crown
Of the thron'd Alps,—why dost thou sleep unmark'd,
Even by such slight memento as the hind
Carves on his own coarse tomb-stone!
Bid the throng
Who pour'd thee incense, as Olympian Jove,
And breath'd thy thunders on the battle field,
Return, and rear thy monument. Those forms
O'er the wide vallies of red slaughter spread,
From pole to tropic, and from zone to zone,
Heed not thy clarion call. But should they rise;
As in the vision that the prophet saw,
And each dry bone its sever'd fellow find,
Piling their pillar'd dust, as erst they gave
Their souls for thee, the wondering stars might deem
A second time the puny pride of man
Did creep by stealth upon its Babel stairs,
To dwell with them. But here unwept thou art,
Like a dead lion in his thicket-lair,
With neither living man, nor spirit condemn'd,
To write thine epitaph.
Invoke the climes,
Who serv'd as playthings in thy desperate game
Of mad ambition, or their treasures strew'd
Till meagre famine on their vitals prey'd,
To pay thy reckoning.
France! who gave so free
Thy life-stream to his cup of wine, and saw
That purple wintage shed o'er half the earth,
Write the first line, if thou hast blood to spare.
Thou too, whose pride did deck dead Cæsar's tomb,
And chant high requiem o'er the tyrant band
Who had their birth with thee, lend us thine arts
Of sculpture and of classic eloquence
To grace his obsequies, at whose dark frown
Thine ancient spirit quail'd; and to the list
Of mutilated kings, who glean'd their meats
'Neath Agag's table, add the name of Rome:
—Turn Austria! iron-brow'd and stern of heart,
And on his monument, to whom thou gav'st
In anger, battle, and in craft a bride,
Grave Austerlitz, and fiercely turn away.
—As the rein'd war-horse snuffs the trumpet-blast,
Rouse Prussia from her trance with Jena's name,
And bid her witness to that fame which soars
O'er him of Macedon, and shames the vaunt
Of Scandinavia's madman.
From the shades
Of letter'd ease, Oh Germany! come forth
With pen of fire, and from thy troubled scroll
Such as thou spread'st at Leipsic, gather tints
Of deeper character than bold romance
Hath ever imag'd in her wildest dream,
Or history trusted to her sybil-leaves.
—Hail, lotus crown'd; in thy green childhood fed,
By stiff-neck'd Pharaoh, and the shepherd kings,
Hast thou no tale of him who drench'd thy sands
At Jaffa and Aboukir? when the flight
Of rushing souls went up so strange and strong
To the accusing Spirit?
Glorious Isle!
Whose thrice enwreathed chain, Promethean like
Did bind him to the fatal rock, we ask
Thy deep memento for this marble tomb.
—Ho! fur-clad Russia! with thy spear of frost,
Or with thy winter-mocking Cossack's lance,
Stir the cold memories of thy vengeful brain,
And give the last line of our epitaph.
—But there was silence: for no sceptred hand
Receiv'd the challenge.
From the misty deep
Rise, Island-spirits! like those sisters three,
Who spin and cut the trembling thread of life;
Rise on your coral pedestals, and write
That eulogy which haughtier climes deny.
Come, for ye lull'd him in your matron arms,
And cheer'd his exile with the name of king,
And spread that curtain'd couch which none disturb;
Come, twine some trait of household tenderness
Some tender leaflet, nurs'd with Nature's tears
Around this urn. But Corsica, who rock'd
His cradle at Ajacio, turn'd away,
And tiny Elba, in the Tuscan wave
Threw her slight annal with the haste of fear,
And rude Helena sick at heart, and grey
'Neath the Pacific's smiting, bade the moon
With silent finger, point the traveler's gaze
To an unhonor'd tomb.
Then Earth arose,
That blind, old Empress, on her crumbling throne,
And to the echoed question, “who shall write
Napoleon's epitaph?” as one who broods
O'er unforgiven injuries, answer'd, “none.”

THE FRIENDS OF MAN.

THE FLOWERS OF SPRING.

Friend! around whose couch of pain,
Fond Hope lingereth not in vain,
Thou, whom strong and saintly prayer
Still imploreth Heaven to spare,
Thou hast watch'd our wild retreats,
Thou hast priz'd our simple sweets,
Long our voiceless lore hast known,
Listen to our whisper'd tone,
Come back to us!
Love, with warmth that ever glows,
Speaketh through our lips of rose,
Friendship, to our dewy sighs
Trusts her hoarded memories,
Gratitude, with Penury pale,
Hasting to our native vale,
Bade us fervent, for their sake,
Plead, and no denial take,
Come back to us.
Tardy Spring hath held us long,
From thy bowers of light and song,
Now on vine, and shrub, and tree,
See! we bloom to welcome thee,
For thy tasteful eye we pine,
Wilt thou teach us where to twine?
Nesting birds with tenderest lay,
Swell their chorus, as we say
Come back to us.
Take our message to thy breast,
Let us on thy pillow rest,
From blest clime, and seraph song,
We will not detain thee long,
For Earth's most protracted day
Like our blossom fleets away,
Friend to us, and Nature's smile,
Only for a little while
Come back to us.

DEATH OF MRS. HARRIET W. L. WINSLOW MISSIONARY TO CEYLON.

Thy name hath power like magic. Back it brings
The earliest pictures hung in Memory's halls,
Tinting them freshly o'er:—the rugged cliff,
The towering trees, the wintry walk to school,
The page so often conn'd, the needle's task
Achiev'd with weariness, the hour of sport
Well earn'd and dearly priz'd, the sparkling brook
Making its slight cascade, the darker rush
Of the pent river through its rocky pass,
Our violet-gatherings 'mid the vernal banks,
When our young hearts did ope their chrystal gates
To every simple joy.
I little deem'd
'Mid all that gay and gentle fellowship
That Asia's sun would beam upon thy grave,
Tho' even then, from thy dark, serious eye
There was a glancing forth of glorious thought
That scorn'd earth's vanities. I saw thee stand
With but a few brief summers o'er thy head,
And in the consecrated courts of God
Confess thy Saviour's name. And they who mark'd
The deep devotion and the high resolve
Of that young half-blown bud, did wondering ask
What its full-bloom must be. But now thy couch
Is with thine infant train, where the sad voice
Of the poor Ceylon mother tells her child
Of all thy prayers and labors. Yes, thy rest
Is in the bosom of that fragrant isle
Where heathen man with lavish nature strives
To blot the lesson she would teach of God.
Thy pensive sisters pause upon thy tomb
To catch the spirit that did bear thee through
All tribulation, till thy robes were white,
To join the angelic train. And so farewell,
My childhood's playmate, and my sainted friend,
Whose bright example, not without rebuke
Admonisheth, that home and ease and wealth
And native land, are well exchang'd for Heaven.

ESTABLISHMENT OF A FEMALE COLLEGE IN NEW-GRENADA, SOUTH AMERICA.

Ye have done well, my brethren. Thus to cast
The balm of healing at the fountain's head
Was wisely done. For on the thousand streams
That murmur freshly round your hallowed homes
Its blessedness shall flow. Well have ye scanned
With philosophic eye, their latent worth,
Who in the weakness of a tender frame,
And shrinking consciousness of ill, might seem
Of little import. Yet those fragile forms,
Now trembling in their beauty and their fear,
Shall kindle with new energies: high hope
And martyr-like endurance, and deep strength
To toil untired, to suffer and be still,
And all those deathless sympathies that spring
Up from a mother's love. These shall be theirs;
And what you trust to them of mental wealth,
Knowledge, or virtue, or the truth of God,
Shall blossom round the cradle of your sons,
And bear rich harvest in your country's fame.
Realms there have been, which, like your own did rend
A despot's shackles from their giant-breast,
And rush to freedom. But the baneful breath
Of ignorance, or luxury, or sin,
Swept o'er them as a siroch, and they sank
Amid the waste of ages. They, perchance,
Did look on woman as a worthless thing,
A cloistered gem, a briefly-fading flower,
Remembering not that she had kingly power
O'er the young soul. They deem'd not that those lines,
Grav'd so indelibly, that all the storms.
And water-floods of Time erase them not,
Which even stern Death peruses when he seals
The scroll of life up for the judgment-bar,
Were from a mother's pencil.
Ye have judged,
That 'mid a nation's elements, her hand
Might cast a healthful leaven, and her lip,
Even from the mouldering pillow of the grave,
Reach with its dove-like, heaven-taught eloquence,
A race unborn. According to your faith
Be your reward. And may the glorious voice
Of liberty, from Andes' cloud-wreath'd crown,
Through every region whence your rivers hoard
Their ocean tribute, go with god-like strength,
Wakening new nations to Jehovah's praise.

LADY ROSSE.

THE PHOLAS.

DEATH OF A YOUNG WIFE.

Why is the green earth broken? You tall grass
Which in its ripeness woo'd the mower's hand,
And the wild rose, whose young buds faintly bloom'd,
Why are their roots uptorn. Why swells a mound
Of new-made turf among them?
Ask of him
Who in his lonely chamber weeps so long
At morning's dawn and evening's pensive hour,
Whose bosom's planted hopes might scarcely boast
More firmness, than you riven flower of grass.
Yet hath not Memory stores whereon to feed,
When Joy's young harvest fails as clings the bee
To the sweet calyx of some smitten flower?
—Still is remembrance,—grief. The tender smile
Of young, confiding Love, its winning tones,
Its self-devotion, its delight to seek
Another's good, its ministry to soothe
The hour of pain, come o'er the hermit heart
To claim its bitterest tear.
But that meek Faith,
Which all distrustful of its holiest deeds
So strongly clasp'd a Saviour's feet, when Death
Rang the crush'd heart-strings like a broken harp,
That Hope which shed its seraph-benison
On all who wept around, that smile which left
Heaven's stainless semblance on the breathless clay,
These are the tokens to the soul bereav'd,
To gird itself invincibly, and seek
A deathless union with the parted bride.

CHRISTIAN HOPE.

QUEEN ELIZABETH AND THE COUNTESS OF NOTTINGHAM.

THE LOST SISTER.

They wak'd me from my sleep, I knew not why,
And bade me haste where a pale midnight lamp
Gleam'd from an inner chamber. There she lay,
With livid brow who yestermorn breath'd forth
Through joyous smiles her superflux of bliss
Into the hearts of others. By her side
Her hoary sire, with speechless horror gaz'd
Upon the stricken idol, all dismay'd
Beneath his God's rebuke. And she who nurs'd
That fair young creature at her gentle breast,
And oft those sunny locks had deck'd with buds
Of rose and jasmine, shuddering wip'd the dews
Which death distils.
The sufferer just had given
Her long farewell, and for the last, last time
Press'd with cold lips his cheek who led so late
Her footsteps to the altar, and receiv'd
In the deep transport of an ardent heart
Her vow of love. And she had softly press'd
That golden circlet with her bloodless hand
Upon his finger, which he kneeling gave
On the bright, bridal morn. So, there she lay
In calm endurance, like the smitten lamb
Wounded in flowery pastures, from whose breast
The dreaded bitterness of death had past.
—But a faint wail disturb'd the silent scene,
And in its nurse's arms, a new-born babe
Was borne in utter helplessness along,
Before that dying eye.
Its gather'd film
Kindled one moment, with a sudden glow
Of tearless agony,—and fearful pangs
Racking the rigid features, told how strong
A mother's love doth root itself. One cry
Of bitter anguish, blent with fervent prayer
Went up to Heaven,—and as its cadence sank,
Her spirit enter'd there.
Morn after morn
Rose and retir'd,—Yet still as in a dream
I seem'd to move. The certainty of loss
Fell not at once upon me. Then I wept
As weep the sisterless. For thou wert fled
My only, my belov'd,—my sainted one,
Twin of my spirit! and my number'd days
Must wear the sable of that midnight hour
Which rent thee from me.

DEATH OF A WIFE DURING THE ABSENCE OF HER HUSBAND.

THE SEA BOY.

“Up the main top-mast,—ho!”
The storm was loud,
And the deep midnight muffled up her head,
Leaving no ray. By the red binnacle
I saw the sea-boy. His young cheek was pale,
And his lip trembled. But he dared not hear,
That hoarse command repeated. So he sprang,
With slender foot, amid the slippery shrouds.
He, oft, by moonlight-watch, had lured my ear
With everlasting stories of his home
And of his mother. His fair brow told tales
Of household kisses, and of gentle hands
That bound it when it ached, and laid it down
On the soft pillow, with a curtaining care.
And he had sometimes spoken of the cheer
That waited him, when wearied from his school,
At winter's eve, he came. Then he would pause
For his high-beating bosom threw a chain
O'er his proud lip, or else it would have sighed
A deep remorse for leaving such a home.
And he would haste away, and pace the deck
More rapidly, as if to hide from me
The gushing tear. I marked the inward strife
Unquestioning, save by a silent prayer,
That the tear wrung so bitterly, might work
The sea-boy's good and wash away all trace
Of disobedience. Now the same big tear
Hung like a pearl upon him, as he climbed
And grappled to the mast. I watched his toil,
With strange foreboding, till he seemed a speck
Upon the ebon bosom of the cloud.
And I remembered that he once had said,
“I fear I shall not see my home again:”
And sad the memory of those mournful words,
Dwelt with me, as he passed above my sight
Into thick darkness.
The wild blast swept on,
The strong ship tossed.
Shuddering, I heard a plunge
A heavy plunge—a gurgling 'mid the wave:
I shouted to the crew. In vain! In vain!
The ship held on her way. And never more
Shall that poor, delicate sea-boy raise his head
To do the bidding of those roughened men,
Whose home is on the sea. And never more
May his fond mother strain him to her breast,
Weeping that hardship thus should bronze the brow
To her so beautiful—nor the kind sire
Make glad, by his forgiveness, the rash youth
Who wandered from his home, to throw the wealth
Of his warm feelings on the faithless sea.

CHRISTMAS HYMN.

[Alone he sat, and wept.—That very night]

Alone he sat, and wept.—That very night
The ambassador of God, with earnest zeal
Of eloquence had warn'd him to repent,—
And like the Roman at Drusilla's side
Hearing the truth, he trembled.—Conscience wrought,
And sin allur'd. The struggle shook him sore.
The dim lamp wan'd, the hour of midnight toll'd;
Prayer sought for entrance,—but the heart had clos'd
Its diamond valve. He threw him on his couch,
And bade the spirit of his God depart.
—But there was war within him, and he sigh'd
“Depart not utterly, thou Blessed One!
Return when youth is past, and make my soul
Forever thine.” With kindling brow he trod
The haunts of pleasure, while the viol's voice
And beauty's smile his fluttering pulses woke.
To Love he knelt, and on his brow she hung
Her freshest myrtle-wreath. For gold he sought,
And winged Wealth indulg'd him,—till the world
Pronounc'd him happy. Manhood's vigorous prime
Swell'd to its climax, and his busy days
And restless nights swept like a tide away.
When lo?—a message from the Crucified,
“Look unto me, and live.” But Care had struck
Deep root around him,—and its countless shoots
Still striking earthward like the Indian tree
Barr'd out, with woven shades, the eye of Heaven
—Twice warn'd, he ponder'd:—then impatient spake
Of weariness, and haste, and want of time,
And duty to his children, and besought
A longer space to do the work of Heaven.
—God spake again, when Age had shed its snows
Upon his temples, and his weary hand
Shrank from gold-gathering. But the rigid chain
Of Habit bound him, and he still implor'd
A more convenient season.
“See,—my step
Is firm and free, my unquench'd eye delights
To view this pleasant world,—and life with me
May last for many years. In the calm hour
Of lingering sickness, I can better fit
For long Eternity.”
—Disease came on,
And Reason fled. The maniac strove with Death,
And grappled like a fiend, with shrieks and cries,
Till darkness smote his eye-balls and thick ice
Settled around his heart-strings. The poor clay
Lay vanquish'd and distorted. But the soul,
The soul whose promis'd season never came
To hearken to its Maker's will, had gone
To weigh His sufferance with its own abuse
And bide the audit.

A DREAM.

Loud howl'd the storm of Winter's ire
As pensive by my evening fire,
Thought, long involv'd in reverie deep,
Sank wearied in the arms of sleep.
—Methought a rushing wing swept by,
And hoary Time himself stood nigh
Who scythe and hour-glass casting down,
And smiling thro' a wrinkled frown
A tube display'd, whose power sublime
Could bring before the eye
Past ages, and remotest climes
With graphic imagery.
Some distant land I sought to see
When the last century shone,
Ere the blest Gospel's ministry
On mission-wings had flown:
And through that tube my glance he led
Where northern seas their limits spread,
Where the rough ice-berg shocks the pole,
And wintry midnight chains the soul.
There in a subterranean cell
Her watch a Greenland mother kept,
And while the lamp's faint radiance fell
Over her dying infant wept.
But when beneath the snowy mound
Its narrow, noteless grave was found,
Wild were her shrieks of woe severe,
No voice from Heaven, her pangs to cheer.
—Where the red tropic fiercely burn'd
To dark-brow'd Afric next we turn'd,
But she, to nameless miseries left,
Despis'd,—degraded, crush'd, bereft,
Beheld the slave-ship's tireless sail,
And heard her fetter'd offspring wail,
With gaze forever on the main,
Watch'd for their hop'd return, in vain;
Night told to night her sleepless care,
And ages mock'd her fix'd despair,
While her loud anguish woke the wave,
Invoking gods that could not save.
—Where Ganges rolls his worshipp'd tide,
Or glittering Hoogly's waters glide,
With lip comprest, and stifled groan
The Fakir hardens into stone,
While throngs exulting cry,
And pilgrims' bones are heedless strown
Beneath a torrid sky.
What means you reeking, reddening pile?
And whence that widow's madden'd smile?
As towards the martyr-couch she goes,
Regardless of her children's woes.
Away!—I would not longer gaze
On barbarous Superstition's maze.
—Time chang'd his glass, and bade me see
The deeds of heaven-born Charity,
When fir'd with zeal her heralds found
The farthest globe's benighted bound.
And lo! upon the frost-bound shore
Of sun-forsaken Labrador,
The heaven-ward spire, the sacred song,
The Pastor and his listening throng,
With Christian hope and love supplied
The gifts that rigorous Earth denied.
And from the classic clime, behold!
The cloud of Moslem wrath had roll'd
Yet no proud lay of Attic lore
Nor bacchanal with maddening roar
Peal'd from that sunny coast,
But infant voices lisping came
Of knowledge, and a Saviour's name,
Winning for Greece a higher fame
Than heathen annals boast.
Thou too, Oh Afric? undismay'd,
Reclining 'neath thy palm-trees' shade,
Dost mark with rapture's thrilling tide,
Enfranchis'd thousands seek thy side,
With filial hand thy tears to dry
And found an empire for the sky.
—Sad Zion! doth thy footstep stray
Far from thy temple-shrine away?
Sweet is the breath of Sharon's rose,
In limpid silver Siloah flows,
And Hermon woos the scented air,
Where art thou, blinded exile! where?
Return, thou homeless and opprest,
And 'neath Messiah's sceptre rest.
On waken'd India's sultry shore,
The Suttee's flame aspires no more,
And idol-ear, and thundering gong
And haughty priest, and pagan throng
Recede, as darkness fades away
Before the morning's golden ray.
—In Burmah's dew-besprinkled soil
How blest the laborer's arduous toil;
'Mid danger's blast their seed was sown,
The harvest-fruits are God's alone:
Press on, firm band! the martyr's sigh
On fields like these, is victory.
—'Mid China's vale, serenely bold,
Their way Salvation's heralds hold,
While millions pale with penury's strife,
Hear wondering of the bread of life.
Broad Ocean's isles in loud acclaim
Extol the blest Redeemer's name,
And Earth with countless tongues doth pour
The echoing praise from shore to shore.
—Time pois'd his wing, as if for flight,
But of my native land a sight,
With patriot ardor I besought,
And toward the west, his tube he brought.
I look'd, and skies, and vales, and streams
Were bright with nature's glorious beams,
And from each haunt came swelling by
The shout of boasted Liberty;
Yet other sounds were on the gale,
Of Afric's sons, the bitter wail,
The scourge, the chain, the bitter tear
Of slavery's lot, what do they here!
—I sought the red-brow'd race, who bore
Dominion o'er this ancient shore,
But lofty king, and chieftain grave,
Had vanish'd like the crested wave;
Where are those warriors brave and free?
The hoarse tomb answer'd “here with me.”
Time saw their heart-stones cold and void,
Their ancient sepulchres destroy'd,
Resum'd his scythe, in anger dread,
And broke my vision, as he fled.

ON READING THE MEMOIRS OF MRS. JUDSON.

I saw her on the strand. Beside her smil'd
Her land of birth, and her beloved home,
With all their pageantry of tint and shade,
Streamlet and vale.
There stood her childhood's friends,
Sweet sisters, who her inmost thoughts had shar'd,
And saint-like parents, whose example rais'd
Those thoughts to Heaven. It was a strong array,
And the fond heart clung to its rooted loves.
But Christ had given a panoply, which Earth
Might never take away. And so she turn'd
To boisterous Ocean, and with cheerful step,
Though moisten'd eye, forsook the cherish'd clime
Whose halcyon bowers had rear'd her joyous youth.
—I look'd again. It was a foreign shore.
The tropic sun had laid his burning brow
On twilight's lap. A gorgeous palace caught
His last red ray. Hoarsely the idol-song
To Boodh, mingled with the breeze that curl'd
Broad Irrawaddy's tide. Why do ye point
To yon low prison? Who is he that gropes
Amid its darkness, with those fetter'd limbs?
Mad Pagans! do ye thus requite the man
Who toils for your salvation?
See that form
Bending in tenderest sympathy to soothe
The victim's sorrow. Tardy months pass by,
And find her still intrepid at the post
Of danger and of disappointed hope.
Stern sickness smote her, yet with tireless zeal,
She bore the hoarded morsel to her love,
Dar'd the rude arrogance of savage power,
To plead for him, and bade his dungeon glow,
With her fair brow, as erst the angel's smile
Arous'd imprison'd Peter, when his hands
From fetters loos'd, were lifted high in praise.
—There was another scene, drawn by his hand
Whose icy pencil blotteth out the grace
And loveliness of man. The keenest shaft
Of anguish quivers in that martyr's breast,
Who is about to wash her garments white
In her Redeemer's blood, and glorious rise
From earthly sorrows to a clime of rest.
—Dark Burman faces are around her bed,
And one pale babe is there, for whom she checks
The death-groan, clasping it in close embrace,
Even till the heart-strings break.
Behold, he comes!
The wearied man of God from distant toil.
His home, while yet a misty speck it seems,
His straining eye detects, but marks no form
Of his beloved, hasting down the vale,
As wont, to meet him.
Say, what heathen lip
In its strange accents told him, that on earth
Nought now remain'd to heal his wounded heart,
Save that lone famish'd infant? Days of care
Were meted to him, and long nights of grief
Weigh'd out, and then that little, wailing one
Went to her mother's bosom, and slept sweet
'Neath the cool branches of the Hopia- tree.
'Twas bitterness to think that bird-like voice,
Which sang sweet hymns to please a father's ear,
Must breathe no more.
This is to be alone?
Alone in this wide world.
Yet not without
A comforter. For the true heart that trusts
Its all to Heaven, and sees its treasur'd things
Unfold their hidden wing, and thither soar,
Doth find itself drawn upward in their flight,
And poising higher o'er this vale of tears,
And gathering bright revealings of its home,
Doth from its sorrows weave a robe of praise.

THE SABBATH.

BURIAL OF TWO YOUNG SISTERS, THE ONLY CHILDREN OF THEIR PARENTS.

They're here, in this turf-bed—those tender forms,
So kindly cherished, and so fondly loved—
They're here:
Sweet sisters! pleasant in their lives,
And not in death divided. Sure 'tis meet
That blooming ones should linger here and learn
How quick the transit to the silent tomb.
I do remember them, their pleasant brows
So mark'd with pure affections, and the glance
Of their mild eyes, when in the house of God,
They gathered up the manna, that did fall,
Like dew, around.
The eldest parted first—
And it was touching even to tears, to see
The perfect meekness of that child-like soul
Turning 'mid sorrow's chastening to its God,
And loosening every link of earthly hope,
To gird an angel's glorious garments on.
The younger lingered yet a little while,
Drooping and beautiful. Strongly the nerve
Of that lone spirit clasped its parent-prop;
Yet still in timid tenderness embraced
The Rock of Ages—while the Saviour's voice
Confirmed its trust: “Suffer the little ones
To come to me.”
And then her sister's couch
Undrew its narrow covering—and those forms,
Which side by side, on the same cradle-bed,
So often shared the sleep of infancy,
Were laid on that clay pillow, cheek to cheek
And hand to hand, until that morning break,
Which hath no night.
And ye are left alone,
Who nurtured those fair buds, and often said
Unto each other, in the hour of care—
“These same shall comfort us for all our toil.”
Yes, ye are left alone. It is not ours
To heal such wound. Man hath too weak a hand—
All he can give, is tears.
But he who took
Your treasures to his keeping: He hath power
To bear you onward to that better land,
Where none are written childless, and torn hearts
Blend in a full eternity of bliss.

VÆ VOBIS.

THE BIBLE CLASS IN THE CONNECTICUT STATE PRISON.

DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY AT THE RETREAT FOR THE INSANE.

INTRODUCTION TO AN ALBUM.

Gleaner! the field's before thee. Many a sheaf
Whiteneth the ground, which thou may'st freely take
Into thy garner. Friendship's clusters bend
In ruddy ripeness, and the flowers of Love
Breath fresh perfume for thee. Go ask of Wit.
His sparkling diamond, win from Fancy's hand
Her frost-work talisman, from Mirth require
Such garland as she weaves in Music's bower,
And search for gold in Wisdom's heaven wrought mine.
Perchance the hoary Sage a gem may grant
Of rich experience, or some timid child
In tender meekness deck thy penoil'd vase.
And as the Gleaner from the fruitful fields
Of Boaz, gathering where the reapers strew'd,
Came to her Mother at the close of day
With welcome store and brightly glowing smile
So bring thy gifts to Memory's treasure-shrine.

DEATH OF A SON OF THE LATE HONORABLE FISHER AMES.

“THEY SAID SHE WAS ALONE.”

They said she was alone,—and that she stood
Amid the corpses of her three fair babes,
And by his side who to her heart had been
Lover and comforter for many a year,
And that he too was dead. Amaz'd I look'd
To see if it were so,—and on his lip
There was no breath, and in his eye no light.
—They said she was alone. And many wept
In company with her. For he had fallen
Who was their guide to everlasting life,
Their oracle in doubt, the friend who pour'd
The interceding prayer when death was nigh,
Or the tomb open'd, for its “dust to dust.”
—They said she was alone. But when I turn'd
To look upon her,—in her breast there lay
A tender blossom of mortality
New-born and beautiful. Methought the babe
Did bear the features of its buried sire,
And at the moaning of its timid voice,
Or its appealing smile, the lonely heart
Rose in its brokenness, and took the joy
That pays a mother's care. And so I thank'd
The Father of our Mercies, who doth watch
Our frames so tenderly, and prop the strength
Of those he smiteth, and infuse the drops
Of holy healing in the cup of grief,
That none may sink beneath his keen rebuke,
But walk in patience and in chastened hope
On to the land which hath no need that pain
Should be the teacher of its sinless host.

FAREWELL.

ON THE DEATH OF A LADY AT HAVANA, WHITHER SHE WENT FOR HER HEALTH.

DEATHS CHOSEN ALLY.

The shadowy Monarch frown'd upon his throne,
O'erwearied and displeased.—“Behold, my task,
Since him of Eden felt a brother's hate,
Down to the brow that blanches as I speak,
Hath known no respite. Would that there were one
With whom to trust my cares awhile, and snatch
One moment of repose. Ho! ye who wait!
Give notice, that with him most worthy found
By previous deeds to waste the race of man,
The King of Terrors will delight to share
The glory of his kingdom.
Mighty winds
Swollen up to earthquake violence, and tones
Of many waters, like wild, warring seas,
Clamor'd the edict, while the lightning's spear
Wrote it in flame on every winged cloud;
Yea, with such zeal the elements conspir'd
To publish the decree, methought there lurk'd
In each, some latent, lingering hope, to win
The promis'd regency.
The passions came,
Thron'd on their storm-clouds, and with varied voice,
Thundering or eloquent, as best beseem'd
Their several natures, boasted how to staunch
Life's countless springs. But to their claims pale Death
Gave credence cold.
Next, fleshless Famine rose
Up like a charnel-ghost, while Pestilence
Came stalking on, with quiver ever full;
And ever in her ears a mournful sound,—
The weeping of the nations.
Loudly shriek'd
A martial trump, and on his banner'd car
War like a sovereign came. Unnumber'd spoils
Were strew'd around him, and the blood of men
Flow'd as a river, 'neath his chariot wheels.
His eagle eye the promis'd honor scann'd,
As an undoubted right. But still stern Death
Ponder'd, and spake not, till, with haughty pride,
The candidate withdrew, and trembling Earth
Shrank at his kindled rage.
There was a pause,
As if none dare in that foil'd champion's steps
Essay to tread. At length, a bloated form
Mov'd slowly on, with mix'd and maddening bowl;
But ere the footstool of the throne he press'd,
Death, with a father's fondness, hasting down,
Embraced, and in the seat of empire plac'd.
Great was the wonder, but none dare gainsay;
And with a fearful shout all Nature's foes,
Diseases, passions, wars and sins, pronounced
Intemperance their king; and at his feet
Their boasted, time-cemented trophies cast.

[“Is it well with the child?”—And she answer'd “'Tis well,”]

THE BABE BEREAVED OF ITS MOTHER.

FUNERAL IN A NEW COLONY.

DEATH OF THE REV. ALFRED MITCHELL.

So near thy home, blest saint? Thy Father's house
Hath many mansions, if it were not so
He would have told thee, who hath there prepar'd
A place for thee, his servant. Earth's array
Of charms was strong to tempt thy lingering love.
The fond communings round thy native hearth,
Where 'mid the honor'd and the blest did blend
Soul deep with soul, thy own unclouded home,
Thy answer'd sympathies, thy hallow'd hopes,
A parent's joys close clustering round thy heart,
The flock that gather'd near thee, pleas'd to learn
From thy mild eye and lip benign, the will
Of the Chief Shepherd—ties like these were thine.
—And one there is, who with a widow'd heart
Through the lone shadows of life's pilgrim-path,
Will follow in thy footsteps, even as thou
Didst follow Christ.
Thy pleasant spot of birth
Is sad without thee, and an ancient head
Circled with years and blessings as a crown
Bows low with the first pang thou e'er didst cause
A father's bosom. Ah! and there are tears
Of tender love in many an eye for thee,
Sackcloth and ashes in the house of God.
'Tis well. Pure spirits should not pass unmourn'd,
This earth is poor without them. But a view
Of better climes broke on thee, and thy soul
Rose o'er its stricken tent with outspread wing
Of seraph rapture: for to reach a home
Where is no restless hope, no vain desire,
No film o'er faith's bright eye, for love no blight,
Is glorious gain: and lo! that home is thine.

“DEPART, CHRISTIAN SOUL.”

DEATH OF THE REV. W. C. WALTON.

So, from the field of labor, thou art gone
To thy reward,—like him who putteth off
His outer garment, at the noon-tide hour,
To take a quiet sleep. Thy zeal hath run
Its course untiring, and thy quicken'd love
Where'er thy Master pointed, joy'd to go.
—Amid thy faithful toil, his summons came,
Warning thee home,—and thou didst loose thy heart
From thy fond flock, and from affection's bonds
And from thy blessed children's warm embrace
With smiles, and songs of praise.
Death smote thee sore,
And plung'd his keen shaft in the quivering nerve,
Making the breath that stirr'd life's broken valve,
A torturing gasp, but with thy martyrdom,
Were smiles, and songs of praise.
And thou didst rise
Above the pealing of these Sabbath bells
Up to that glorious and unspotted Church,
Whose worship is eternal.
Would that all
Who love our Lord, might with thy welcome look
On the last foe, not as a spoiler sent
To wreck their treasures, and to blast their joys,
But as a friend, who wraps the weary clay
With earth, its mother, and doth raise the soul
To that blest consummation, which its prayers
Unceasingly besought, tho' its blest hopes
But faintly shadow'd forth.
So, tho' we hear
Thy voice on earth no more, the holy hymn
With which thou down to Jordan's shore didst pass,
To take thy last, cold baptism, still shall waft
As from some cloud its echo'd sweetness back,
To teach us of the melody of Heaven.

“IT IS FINISH'D.”

“SHE IS NOT DEAD, BUT SLEEPETH.”

THE JOURNEY WITH THE DEAD.

PRISONERS' EVENING HYMN.

THE HUGUENOT PASTOR.

Behold him on the ruins,—not of fanes
With ivy mantled, which the touch of time
Hath slowly crumbled,—but amid the wreck
Of his own temple, by infuriate hands
In shapeless masses, and rude fragments strown
Wide o'er the trampled turf. Serene he stood,
A pale, sad beauty on his youthful brow,
With eyes uprais'd, as if his stricken soul
Fled from material things. Where was the spire
That solemn through those chestnut trees looked forth?
The tower, the arch, the altar whence he bless'd
A kneeling throng? the font where infancy
Rais'd in his arms to God was consecrate,
An incense-breathing bud? Not on such themes
Dar'd his fond thoughts to dwell, but firm in faith
He lifted up his voice, and spake of Heaven
Where desolations come not.
Midnight hung
Dreary and dense around, and the lone lamp
That o'er his Bible stream'd, hung tremulous
Beneath the fitful gale.
There, resting deep
Upon the planted staff, were aged men,
The grave's white tokens in their scatter'd hair,
And youthful forms, with gaze intensely fix'd
On their beloved Pastor, as he taught
Of Christ their righteousness, while here and there
A group of mourning mothers from whose arms
Their babes by persecution's rage were torn
Blent with their listening, the low sob of grief.
Close by their fathers' knees, young children cower'd
And in each echoing footstep fear'd a foe.
—It was a time of trouble, and the flock
Came hungering for that heavenly bread which gives
Strength to the heavy laden. 'Twas a scene
That France might well have wept with tears of blood
But in the madness of a dire disease
She slew her faithful sons, and urg'd the sword
'Gainst her own vitals.
Lo! the dawn is out,
With her grey banner, and the parting flock
Seek their own homes, praising the Hand that spares
Their faithful shepherd. Silent evening wakes
Far different orgies. Yonder mangled form
Sinking 'neath murderous fury, can ye trace
Its lineaments of beauty, 'mid the wreck
Of anguish and distortion? Son of God!
Is this thy messenger, whose voice so late
Thrill'd with an angel's sweetness, as it pour'd
Thy blessing on the people?
Yet, be still,
And breathe no bitter thought above his dust,
Who served the Prince of Peace. The spirit of love
Did make that lifeless breast its temple-shrine,
Offend it not. But raise with tender hand
Those blood-stain'd curls, and shed the pitying tear.
—That marble lip no more can bless its foes,
But from the rack of martyrdom, the soul
Hath risen in radiance, o'er the strife of man.

HOME MISSIONS.

“THIS IS NOT YOUR REST.”

ON THE UNION OF LADIES OF GREAT BRITAIN, WITH THOSE OF AMERICA, IN PLANS OF BENEVOLENCE FOR AFRICA.

UZZIAH.

II. Chronicles, Chap. 26.

[Thou hast a fair domain]

“REDEEMING THE TIME.”

Why break the limits of permitted thought
To revel in Elysium? thou who bear'st
Still the stern yoke of this unresting life,
Its toils, its hazards, and its fears of change?
Why hang thy frost work wreath on Fancy's brow,
When labor warns thee to thy daily task
And Faith doth bid thee gird thyself to run
Thy thorny journey to the gate of Heaven?
Up, 'tis no dreaming-time! awake! awake!
For He who sits on the high Judge's seat,
Doth in his record note each wasted hour,
Each idle word. Take heed, thy shrinking soul
Find not their weight too heavy, when it stands
At that dread bar, from whence is no appeal.
Lo, while ye trifle, the light sand steals on
Leaving the hour-glass empty, and thy life
Glideth away,—stamp wisdom on its hours.

THE GRAVE.

Who in a faithful breast our frailties hides
Breathing them not to the invidious ear,
But with oblivion's mantle covering all?
Friendship?
Alas! Her most immaculate shrine
Hath sometimes yielded to the traitor's key,
And she with Luna's ever-varying phase
Reveal'd her own infirmity. The Grave,
The voiceless Grave shall be to thee a friend
Who breaks no promise and no trust betrays.
—What hand our virtues decks with fadeless bloom,
Throwing fresh fragrance o'er their timid buds?
Memory?
—Ah, no!—She like a reaper blind,
Or impotent with age, oft gathereth tares
Into her garner, and doth leave the wheat
To moulder all unbound. The Grave alone
Shall do this office for us. Why, O Grave!
Giver of rest to Earth's o'erladen ones,
Whose love doth shame our friendship, and whose care
Treasureth what Memory scatters,—why with haste
Of bitter loathing, turn we from thine arms?

ON THE CELEBRATION OF WASHINGTON'S BIRTH DAY AT ROME, BY AMERICANS.—

There is a festive strain within the walls
Of the Eternal City, and high praise
Unto the glorious dead. Beauty doth twine
Her votive wreath, and Eloquence and Song
In eulogy burst forth. To whom, O Rome,
Mid all thy heroes, all thy demi-gods,
Thy purple-rob'd and mitred ones, to whom
Riseth this homage? But she wav'd her hand
And pointed me in silence as of scorn
Unto a stranger-band. Yes, there they stood,
The children of that Western Clime which slept
In embryo darkness, when tiara'd Rome
In all the peevish plenitude of power
Call'd Earth her footstool. There they stood serene,
True sons of that fair realm which needeth not
The faded pomp of royal pageantry
To trick her banner. Wheresoe'er they roam
Whether 'mid Andes canopy of cloud,
Or the sunk cells of groping Labrador,
Or the broad seas, or the bright tropic-isles
Where Nature in her noon-day faintness holds
A long siesta, still their hearts enshrine
Liberty as a God. There, 'neath the shade
Of the Collisseum vaulting up to Heaven,
The time-spar'd arch, the mighty Basilic,
Palace, and pantheon, and monument,
Where throng a wondering world in pilgrimage,
They bow no knee to Cesar, but compel
The kingly Tiber to pronounce the name
Of their own Washington. Sublime they pour
Warm Memory's incense to their Country's Sire
He, who in pliant infancy was train'd
By Spartan nurture first to rule himself,
And then a young, embattled host to lead
Through toil and terror, to a glorious seat
Among the nations. Then when every eye
Of every clime was bent on him with awe
Like adoration, from his breast he rent
The adhesive panoply of power, retir'd
From the loud peans of a world, to sleep
Uncrown'd, uncoronetted, 'mid the soil
His hands had till'd. Henceforth let none decry
The majesty of virtue, since she stands
Simply on the high places of the earth,
Her open forehead to the scanning stars,
And the pure-hearted worship her, while Pride
And tyrant power and laurell'd Victory
Do give their sculptur'd trophies to the owl,
And noisome bat, and to the shades pass on
With such memorial as ne'er wrung a tear.

[Hope sheds on man's first waking hours]

THE DAUGHTER.

Wheels o'er the pavements roll'd, and a light form
Just in the bud of blushing womanhood
Press'd the paternal threshhold. 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
Dried those damp tresses, and with warm caress
Sustain'd the weary spirit. No, that hand
Was with the cold, dull earth-worm.
—Grey 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. 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. But 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 guerdon of her labors.
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 past 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, while the wide halls
Echoed to “father! father!”
—Through the shades,
Of that long, silent night, she sleepless bent,
Bathing with tireless hand the unmov'd 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 wan brow, as if with one brief trace
Of waking intellect. 'Twas seeming all,
And Hope's fond visions faded, while 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,
The last wan poppy in his heart's red stream,
And Agony was stirring Nature up
To struggle with her Spoiler.
“Oh my God!
Would he could sleep!” sigh'd a low, silver voice,
And then she ran to hush the measur'd tick
Of the dull night-clock, and to scare the owl
Which clinging to the casement, hoarsely pour'd,
A boding note. But ah! from that lone, couch
Thick-coming groans announc'd the foe who strikes
But once. They bare the fainting child away,
And paler than that ashen corse, her face,
Half by a flood of ebon tresses hid,
Droop'd o'er the old nurse's shoulder. It was sad,
To see a young heart bursting, while the old
Sank to its rest.
There came another change;
The mournful bell toll'd out the funeral hour,
And many a foot throng'd where the sable hearse
Tarried. Friendship was there, with heavy heart,
Keen Curiosity intent to scan
The lofty mansion,—and gaunt Worldliness
Even o'er the coffin and the warning shroud,
Revolving his vile schemes.
And one was there
To whom this earth could render nothing back
Like that pale piece of clay. Calmly she stood,
As marble statue. The old house dog came,
Pressing his rough head to her snowy palm,
All unreprov'd. He for his master mourn'd,
And could she spurn that faithful friend, who oft
His shaggy length through many a fire-side hour
Stretch'd at her father's feet, and round his bed
Of death had watch'd, with wondering, wishful eye,
In fear and sympathy? No! on his neck
Her orphan tear had fallen, and by her side
His noble front he rear'd, as proud to guard
The last lov'd relic of his master's house.
There was a calmness on that mourner's brow,
Ill understood by many a lawless glance
Of whispering gossip. Of her sire they spake,
Who suffered scarce the breath of heaven to stir
The tresses of his darling, and who deemed
In the deep passion of his heart's sole love,
She was a mate for angels. Then they gaz'd
Upon her tearless cheek, and murmuring said
“How strange that he should be so slightly 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,
While the blanch'd lip breath'd out no boisterous plaint
Of common grief.
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 favorites, there walk'd
Still at her side, the image of her Sire,
As in that hour when his cold, glazing eye
Met hers, 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.

THE FIRST MORNING OF SPRING.

Break from your chains, ye lingering streams,
Rise, blossoms from your wintry dreams,
Drear fields, your robes of verdure take,
Birds, from your trance of silence wake
Glad trees resume your leafy crown,
Shrubs, o'er the mirror brooks bend down,
Bland zephyrs, wheresoe'er ye stray,
The Spring doth call you—come away.
—Thou too, my soul, with quicken'd force
Pursue thy brief, thy measur'd course,
With grateful zeal each power employ,
Catch vigor from Creation's joy,
And deeply on thy shortening span,
Stamp love to God, and love to man.
—But Spring with tardy step appears,
Chill is her eye, and dim with tears,
Still are the founts in fetters bound,
The flower-germs shrink within the ground,
Where are the warblers of the sky?
I ask,—and angry blasts reply.
—It is not thus in heavenly bowers,
Nor ice-bound rill, nor drooping flowers,
Nor silent harp, nor folded wing
Invade that everlasting Spring,
Toward which we look with wishful tear
While pilgrims in this wintry sphere.

THE SOAP BUBBLE.

Bright Globe! upon the sun-beam tost,
Pure, sparkling, then for ever lost,
No crested wave that glittering breaks,
Nor pearl that Wealth admiring takes,
Nor diamond from Golconda's coast
Can half thy changeful brilliance boast
—Hast thou a voice, to bid us see
An emblem of our infancy,
Our reckless youth, our manhood's strife,
And all the painted gaudes of life?
—Hope spreads her wing of plumage fair,
Rebuilds her castle bas'd on air,
Its turrets crown'd with frost-work bright,
Its portals filled with rosy light,
A breath of Summer stirs the tree,
Where is that gorgeous dome?—with thee.
—Behold! array'd in robes of light
Young Beauty charms the gazer's sight,
Fast in her steps the graces tread,
The roseate chaplet decks her head,
But the brief garland fades away,
The bubble bursts,—and she is clay.
—Dilate once more thy proudest size,
And deck thee in the rainbow's dyes,
Thy boldest flight aspiring dare,
Then vanish to thy native air;
Love dazzles thus with borrow'd rays,
And thus the trusting heart betrays.
—Again it swells, that chrystal round,
Soars, shines, expands, and seeks the ground,
Save, save that frail and tinted shell!
Where fled its fragments? who can tell?
Thus, when the soul from dust is free,
Thus shall it gaze, oh Earth! on thee.

[When kneeling round a Saviour's board]

“TO DIE IS GAIN.”

Say'st thou, 'tis gain to die? And may I ask
How thou hast weigh'd and by what process brought
The Apostle's answer to thy sum of life?
Where are thy balances, and whose firm hand
Did poise therein thy talents and their use
To show such blest result? Time's capital
Needs well be husbanded, to leave the amount
Of gain behind when at a moment's call
The spirit fleets, and the dissolving flesh
Yields to the earth-worm's fang.
Say, hath thy lip
Too often satiate, loath'd the mingled cup
So madly fill'd at Pleasure's turbid stream?
Or hath thine ear, the promises of hope
Drank on in giddy sickness, till the touch
Of grave philosophy, their emptiness
Detected, and to their thin element
Of air, reduc'd? Or doth thy cheated heart,
Sowing its warm affections on the wind
And reaping but the whirlwind, turn with scorn
From every harvest which these changeful skies
Can ripen or destroy? Then hast thou prov'd
The loss of life, but not the gain of death.
But hast thou by thy ceaseless prayers obtain'd
Such token of acceptance with thy Lord,
So fill'd each post of duty, so sustain'd
All needful discipline, so deeply mourn'd
Each burden of iniquity, that Death
Comes as a favor'd messenger to lead
To its bright heritage, the willing soul?
—Searcher of hearts, thou knowest! Thou alone
The hidden thought dost read, the daily act
Note unforgetful. Take away the dross
Of earthly principle, the gather'd film
Of self-deluding hope, the love and hate
Which have their root in dust, until the soul
Regarding life and death with equal eye
Absorbs its will in thine.

THE REV. LEGH RICHMOND, AMONG THE RUINS OF IONA.

PEACE.

LAZARUS.

“THERE GO THE SHIPS.”

[Man hath a voice severe]

FILIAL CLAIMS.

Who bendeth with meek eye, and bloodless cheek
Thus o'er the new-born babe? content to take
As payment for all agony and pain,
Its first soft kiss, its first breath on her brow,
The first faint pressure of its tiny hand?
It is not needful that I speak the name
Of that one being on this earth, whose love
Doth never falter.
Answer me, young man,
Thou, who thro' chance and change of time hast trod
Thus far, when some with vengeful wrath have mark'd
Thy way wardness, or in thy time of woe
Deserted thee, or with a rainbow smile
Lur'd and forsook, or on thine errors scowl'd
With unforgiving memory,—did she?
Thy Mother?
Child! in whose rejoicing heart
The cradle-scene is fresh, the lulling hymn
Still clearly echoed, when the blight of age
Withereth that bosom, where thine head doth lay,
When pain shall paralyze the arm that clasps
Thy form so tenderly, wilt thou forget?
Wilt thou be weary, tho' long years should ask
The patient offices of love to gird
A broken mind?
Turn back the book of life
To its first page. What deep trace meets thee there?
Lines from a Mother's pencil. When her scroll
Of life is finish'd and the hand of Death
Stamps that strong seal, which none but God can break,
What should its last trace be?
Thy bending form
In sleepless love, the dying couch beside,
Thy tender hand upon the closing eye,
Thy kiss upon the lips, thy prayer to Heaven,
The chasten'd rendering of thy filial trust,
Up to the white-wing'd angel ministry.

SAILOR'S HYMN.

SUNSET ON THE ALLEGHANY.

I was a pensive pilgrim at the foot
Of the crown'd Alleghany, when he wrapp'd
His purple mantle gloriously around,
And took the homage of the princely hills,
And ancient forests, as they bow'd them down,
Each in his order of nobility.
—And then, in glorious pomp, the sun retir'd
Behind their solemn shadow. And his train
Of crimson, and of azure and of gold
Went floating up the zenith,—tint on tint,
And ray on ray,—till all the concave caught
His parting benediction.
But the glow
Faded to twilight, and dim twilight sank
In deeper shade, and there that mountain stood
In awful state, like dread ambassador
'Tween earth and heaven. Methought it frown'd severe,
Upon the world beneath, and lifted up
The accusing forehead sternly toward the sky
To witness 'gainst its sins. And is it meet
For thee, swell'd out in cloud-cap'd pinnacle
To scorn thine own original, the dust
That feebly eddying on the angry winds
Doth sweep thy base? Say, is it meet for thee,
Robing thyself in mystery, to impeach
This nether sphere, from whence thy rocky root
Draws depth and nutriment?
But lo! a star
The first meek herald of advancing night,
Doth peer above thy summit, as some babe
Might gaze with brow of timid innocence
Over a giant's shoulder. Hail, lone star!
Thou friendly watcher o'er an erring world,
Thine uncondemning glance doth aptly teach
Of that untiring mercy, which vouchsafes
Thee light,—and man salvation.
Not to mark
And treasure up his follies, or recount
Their secret record in the court of Heaven,
Thou coms't. Methinks, thy tenderness would shroud
With trembling mantle, his infirmities.
The purest natures are most pitiful.
But they who feel corruption strong within,
Do launch their darts most fiercely at the trace
Of their own image, in another's breast.
—So the wild bull, that in some mirror spies
His own mad visage, furiously destroys
The frail reflector. But thou, stainless Star!
Shalt stand a watchman on Creation's walls,
While race on race their little round shall mark,
And slumber in the tomb. Still point to all,
Who thro' this evening scene may wander on,
And from yon mountain's cold magnificence
Turn to thy milder beauty, point to all,
The eternal love that nightly sends thee forth,
A silent teacher of its boundless lore,

DEATH OF A FORMER PUPIL.

I saw her toiling for the unclad poor
With tireless zeal, and bending o'er the sick
Through the long watches of the winter night.
Why laid she thus their burdens to her heart
Forgetful of youth's pleasures? Did some voice
Prophetic warn her of that hasting clime
Where are no sick to comfort, and no poor
To need a garment? Felt she that her step
Was near that threshhold where the weary rest?
—We may not say what light was in her soul,—
For that Blest Book which speaks the Eternal Mind
Was her close counseller, and night and day
She woo'd its wisdom with a childlike love,
'Till the wild gladness of her nature took
A deeper and a holier tint, like one
Who girds his Sabbath-mantle meekly on,
To tread God's courts.
Come! 'tis a holy hour,
For Easter-morn is purpling the far hills,
And She, our Church, a weeping pilgrim long,
Fast by the footsteps of her suffering Lord,
Up to his cross, and downward to his tomb,
Doth hail his rising. Lo! her feast is spread,
And her anointed herald hath announc'd.
In “Christ's behalf,” the invitation blest—
Come, thou art bidden, daughter.'Twas thy prayer
To lift thy young heart's banner up this day,
Before his altar, and to join the host
Who follow him to death. Behold, they kneel
With meek obedience to their Master's voice,
And through the consecrated emblems seek
Remission of their sins. Why lingerest thou?
—They pointed to a chamber and a couch,
Where fever with its red and quenchless fires
Wrought in Life's citadel. Yet 'mid the pain
And tossing of that sleepless agony
When every nerve was quivering, and the veins
Shrank from the lava-tide that thro' them flow'd
There rose a prayer to Jesus, and those lips
So parch'd and pallid, spake the words of Heaven.
Death drew the curtain, and she slept in peace:
But tears are flowing 'mid the pleasant halls
Where her affections rested, shedding forth
Fresh brilliance, like some never-setting star.
—Yes, there are lingering sighs of mournful thought
Where Poverty doth trim its naked hearth,
And frequent lispings of her name from babes
Who by the robes that shield them from the storm,
And by the holy lessons that she taught
Upon the day of God, remember her.
But keener grief doth dwell in one lone heart,
Which by the strongest links of earthly hope
Had bound her to its love, so that each scene
Of bright futurity, the Pastor's home,
Altar and flock, and household hymn at eve
Came coupled with her image.
—Of such woe
Weak language speaketh not. But ye who give
Your angel-welcome to each happy guest
That from time's a tribulation riseth pure,
Vouchsafe some echo from your thrilling harps,
That at Heaven's bliss, these woes of earth may fade.

FAREWELL OF A MISSIONARY TO AFRICA, AT THE GRAVE OF HIS WIFE AND CHILD.

EXPOSTULATION.

“I WILL ARISE AND GO UNTO MY FATHER.”

VOICE FROM THE GRAVE OF A SUNDAY-SCHOOL TEACHER.

[Lamb! in a clime of verdure]

RELIGIOUS TRACTS.

EDUCATION OF PIOUS AND INDIGENT YOUNG MEN.

DEATH OF A YOUNG MUSICIAN.

Music was in thy heart, and fast entwin'd,
And closely knotted with its infant strings,
Were the rich chords of melody. When youth
And Science led thee to their classic bower
A pale and patient student, the lone lamp
Of midnight vigil, found thee pouring out
Thy soul in dulcet sound. In Memory's cell,
Still live those thrilling tones, as erst they broke
Beguiling with sweet choral symphonies
The festal hour. But lo! while thou didst wake
The solemn organ to entrancing power,
Tracing the secret spells of harmony,
On through deep rapture's labyrinthine maze,
Devotion came, and breath'd upon thy brow,
And made her temple in thy tuneful breast.
So, Music led thee to thy Saviour's feet,
Serene and true disciple, and their harps
Who fondly hold untiring guardianship
O'er frail man's pilgrim-path, were tremulous
With joy for thee.
Nor vainly to thy soul
Came Heaven's high message wrapp'd in minstrelsy,
For to its service, with unshrinking zeal
The blossom of thy life was dedicate.
Thy hand was on God's altar, when a touch
Sudden and strange and icy-cold, unloos'd
Its fervent grasp. Thy gentle heart was glad
With the soft promise of a hallow'd love.
But stern Death dash'd it out. Now there are tears
In tenderest eyes for thee.
—Yet we, who know
That Earth hath many discords for a soul
Fine-ton'd and seraph strung, and that the feet
Which fain would follow Christ, are sometimes held
In the dark meshes of a downward course
Till strong repentance turn them back with tears,
Do feel thy gain.
'Tis well thou art at home,
Spirit of melody and peace and love.

TO THE EVENING STAR.

THE DYING BOY.

His pure cheek pressed the pillow, and its hue
So late like the fresh rose's heart, was pale,
While 'mid the clustering curls, those chill dews hung
Which fall but once.
Still o'er that beauteous brow
Where fatal languor settled, flashed the light
Of intellect, as a faint cry burst forth,
“Oh! mother!—mother!”
Then there was a pair
A pang too deep for words.
“Your mother sleeps
In her cold grave, my son. You stood with me
Beside its brink. Your little hand clasped mine
Convulsively, at those sad, solemn words,
Ashes to ashes!—when the clods fell down
Upon the coffin lid. Two months have past,
And every night your cheek was wet with tears,
For that dear mother. Say, have you forgot?
Or roves your mind in dreams? Speak, dearest one.”
—And then the father rais'd that drooping head,
And laid it on his bosom, and bow'd down
A listening ear close to those murmuring lips:
But till their last faint whisper died away,
There was no sound of answer to his voice,
Save “mother! mother!”
Deem ye not he err'd!
For she who at his cradle caught the flame
Of that deep love, which time may never quench,
Perchance, was nearer to her son, than you
Who smooth'd the pillow for his fever'd head,
Calling yourselves the living, tho' ye dwell
In death's own realm, beneath his lifted dart.
Ye gave his mother to the earth-worm's bed,
But can ye say that her seraphic smile
Beam'd not upon him, as he struggling lay
In the last mortal agony?
Her lip
Hail'd her frail first-born to this world of tears
With rapture's speechless kiss. Know ye, how warm,
How eloquent its welcome to that clime
Which hath no death-pang?
If celestial bands
Feel for the unknown habitants of clay,
A hallowed train of guardian sympathies,
And fold their wings around them as they run
Time's slippery course, with what a flood of joy,
With what refin'd, exulting intercourse,
At Heaven's bright threshold, when all ills are past,
A mother greets her child!
'Tis o'er! 'Tis o'er!
All earthly strife in that soft sigh doth end.
Wrap the white grave-robe o'er that stainless form,
And lay it by her side, whose breast so long
Was the fond pillow for his golden hair.
Write o'er his narrow tomb, “'tis well! 'tis well!”
Then turn away and weep:—for weep we must,
When our most beautiful and treasur'd things
Fleet from this shaded earth.
How can we see
Our rifled bowers of rest in ruin laid
Without a tear? Yet He, who wills the wound,
Can shed such balm-drops o'er the riven heart,
That its most poignant and deep-rooted grief
Shall bear blest fruit in Heaven.

FILIAL GRIEF.

“TROUBLE NOT YOURSELVES, FOR HIS LIFE IS IN HIM.”

DEATH OF MR. OLIVER D. COOKE.

Death's shafts are ever busy. The fair haunts
Where least we dread him, and where most the soul
Doth lull itself to fond security
Reveal his ministry; and were not man
Blind to the future, he might see the sky
Even in the glory of its cloudless prime
Dark with that arrow-flight.
They deemed it so,
Who marked thee like a stately column fall,
And in the twinkling of an eye yield back
Thy breath to Him who gave it. Yes,—they felt,
Who saw thy vigorous footstep strangely chained
Upon the turf it traversed, and the cheek
Flushed high with health, to mortal paleness turn'd,
How awful such a rush from time must be.
Thy brow was calm, yet deep within thy breast
Were ranklings of a recent grief for her
The idol of thy tenderness, with whom
Life had been one long scene of changeless love.
Yea, thou didst watch the winged messenger
In sleepless agony, that bore her hence,—
And when the eye did darken, from whose beams
Thine own had drank from youth its dearest joy,
Upraised thine hands and gave her back to God
Bowing thy spirit to His righteous will,
The bleeding of thy heart-strings was not staunched,
Nor scarce the tear-gush dried, ere Death's dire frost
Congeal'd the fount of life.
Thy toil had been
In that brief interval, to bear fresh plants
From the sweet garden which she loved to tend,
And bid them on her burial-pillow bloom.
But ere the young rose, or the willow-tree
Had taken their simplest rooting, thou wert laid
Low by her side. It was a pleasant place
Methought to rest,—earth's weary labor done
Fanned by the waving of those drooping boughs,
And in her company, whom thou didst choose
From all the world, to travel by thy side,
Confidingly,—by deep affection cheer'd,
And in thy faith a sharer.
From the haunts
Of living men thine image may not fleet
Noteless away. They will remember thee,
By many a word of witness for the truth,
And many a deed of bounty. In the sphere
Of those sublimer charities that gird
The mind—the soul—thine was the ready hand:
And for the hasting of that day of peace
Which sheathes the sword, thine was the earnest prayer.
In thine own house and in the church of God
There will be weeping for thee. Thou no more
Around thine altar, shalt delight to see
Thy children, and thy children's children come
To take thy patriarch blessing,—and no more
Bring duly to you consecrated courts
Thy Sabbath offering. Thou hast gained the rest
Which earthly Sabbaths dimly shadow forth,
And to that ransomed family art risen,
Which have no need of prayer.
But thou, oh man!
Whose hold on life is like the spider's web,
Who hast thy footing 'mid so many snares,
So many pitfalls, yet perceivest them not,—
Seek peace with Him who made thee,—bind the shield
Of faith in Christ more firmly o'er thy breast,
That when its pulse stands still, thy soul may pass
Unshrinking, unreluctant, unamazed,
Into the fullness of the light of Heaven.

“LET THERE BE LIGHT.”

A Mission Hymn.

THE DEFECTION OF THE DISCIPLES.

ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND.

She passeth hence,—a friend from loving friends,
A mother from her children. Time hath shed
No frost upon her, and the tree of life
Glows in the freshness of its summer prime.—
Yet still she passeth hence: Her work on earth
Soon done and well. Hers was the unwavering mind,
The untiring hand in duty. Firm of soul
And pure in purpose, on the eternal Rock
Of Christian trust her energies reposed,
And sought no tribute from a shadowy world.
Her early hope and homage clave to God,
When the bright skies, the untroubled founts of you
With all their song-birds, all their flowers rose up
To tempt her spirit. So, in hours of pain
He did remember her, and on her brow
And in her breast the dove-like messenger
Found peaceful home.
Oh thou whom grieving love
Would blindly pinion in this vale of tears,
Farewell! It is a glorious light for faith
To trace thy upward path, above this clime
Of change and storm. We will remember thee
At thy turf-bed,—and 'mid the twilight hour
Of solemn musing, when the buried friend
Comes back so visibly, and seems to fill
The vacant chair, our speech shall be of thee.

CHILD LEFT IN A STORM.

Adapted to a painting of Sully.

Why dost thou sport amid these swelling waves,
Child of the frolic brow? The billows roll
Foaming and vexing with a maniac's wrath,
To do unuttered deeds,—and the wild clouds
Muster and frown, as if bold Midnight reared
Her throne at noon-day. Hearest thou not the winds
Uttering their ruffian threats? Is this a time
To lave that snowy foot? Away! Away!
—What! have all fled?—and art thou left alone
By those who wandered with thee on the beach
In the fair sun-light of a summer's morn?
Forgotten thus! Hadst thou a mother,—sweet?
Oh!—no—no—no, She had not turned away,
Though the strong tempest swelled to tenfold wrath,—
She had not fled without thee, had not breathed,
In safety or at ease, save when she heard
Thy murmured tone beside her,—had not slept
Until thy drenched and drooping curls were dried,
In her fond bosom. Nature never made
A mother to forget. Why, she had dared
Yon fiercest surge to save thee, or had plunged,
Clasping thee close and closer, down, down, down,
Where thou art going.
Lo, the breakers rush,
Bellowing to demand thee. Shrink not child!
Innocence need not fear. Go to thy sleep
'Mid Ocean's sunless flowers. The lullaby
Of the mermaiden shall thy requiem be,
And the white coral thou dist love to mix
Among thy penciled shells, shall lightly rear
A canopy above thee. Amber drops
Shall gem thy golden tresses, and thy ear
No more the echoes of the warring main
Appalled shall hear. Thy God shall guard thy rest.

THE PESTILENCE.

I hear it on the blast. There is a sound
Of heavy pinions on the midnight cloud,
A wailing riseth from the strong man's couch:
He with the busiest of the throng did mix
When morning shone, and now ere set of sun,
The gasp and death-cry warn thee where he lies.
—Death treadeth on the heels of buoyant health,
Leaving no interval for shift or prayer.
The hearse doth meet us whereso'er we turn,
And pass unheeded, like a household thing.
The angel of Destruction walks his round,
At noon-day in the city, and the tomb
Doth gather riches till its treasure-vaults
O'erflow. Around their mournful board at eve,
The stricken and diminished circle draw,
Each on the other fixing that sad glance
Which asks, “who next?” While every heart responds,
“Lord is it I?” But 'mid the mournful homes
Where pallid fear and agony chastise
Each wonted joy,—say, are there none who read
In all earth's change the counsels of the skies?
None, who, close wrapped in panoply divine,
Show their faith's value in this hour of need?
Up, ye who follow with unshrinking step
Him who o'ercame the grave,—up, trim your lamp,
And do his holy will. Amid the haunts
Of poverty and pain, with angel-step
Send forth your bounty. On the cherished field
Where God hath given you nurture, fix the eye,
As one who soon may leave it. Lurks there aught
Of tare or bramble, in your hallowed bower?
Amid the vineyard of your dearest hopes,
Lurks there no root of bitterness?—no seed
Of truth unsown, which you would fain have watched
Unto the harvest? Are there olive-plants
Around your table, and do baleful weeds
Corrupt their root, or with their blossoms twine?
Go to your work with diligence, as one
Whose time is short. Strike to the secret heart
A searching glance,—and if aught linger there,
Though shrouded cunningly,—one evil germ,—
Be firm in extirpation, and invoke
The aid of that pure spirit, who doth deign
To dwell in fleshly temples and prepare
Equal for life or death, the trusting soul.

GARAFILIA MOHALBY.

[Behold, the day of rest. The purple morn]

Behold, the day of rest. The purple morn
As if baptiz'd in purer light, doth spread
Its banner forth. Toil wears a cheerful smile,
And Piety, in silent prayer reclines,
Pondering the page inspir'd.
There was a Seer,
Who 'neath Beersheba's groves, in ancient days,
Dwelt as a prince. Once, towards Moriah's mount,
To do a strange and fearful sacrifice,
He journey'd with his son. Just where its base
Sprang steeply from the valley's breast, he paus'd,
And to his servants spake,—“Abide ye here,
While we ascend and worship.” Thus our souls
Would charge the busy cares that thro' the week
Held them in bondage,—“Enter not the bound
Of consecration; ye are of the earth,
Here rest, till we return.”
Thou! who didst rise
O'er the seal'd sepulchre, the Roman guard
Rigorous and vigilant, so grant us grace,
To rise, on this thy day. And when we come
Down from the mount of blessing, to our paths
Of daily care and duty, should we ask
Imperative, our happiness from Earth,
Send us that message which the angels spake
To those who mournful search'd thy vacant tomb,
“Not here, but risen.”
So give us power to walk
Even till another Sabbath, with a heart
Full of sublime remembrances, a brow
Bearing them brightly forth, like him who learn'd
On Sinai's cliff, the language of the skies.

ON SEEING A LADY'S GOLD CHAIN AMONG THE OFFERINGS AT A TEMPERANCE SOCIETY.

Would that thou hadst a voice, thou graceful toy,
To tell me of the giver. Fancy paints
A young and radiant brow, and a clear eye
Kindling with holier light, as thou wert thrown
Off from the polish'd neck. Thou wert, perchance,
Some favor'd gift, the talisman of Love,
Or Friendship's bright memento. Still 'tis well,
That thou art here. Henceforth that Love shall be
Remember'd by the hallow'd deeds that bless
And save mankind; nor could pure Friendship ask
A truer token than the heaven-wrought links
That bind the soul to virtue.
So go forth,
Thou glittering gift, well barter'd for the wealth
Of changeless memory. She who wore thee once,
With the fond thrill of vanity, hath found.
A better ornament, than gold or pearls,
Or rich array.
Blest stranger still be true
To mercy's angel-prompting. What thine hand
Can do for other's good, do with the might
Of woman's tenderness. With flowery links
Of soft persuasion, draw the erring soul
Back from that beetling precipice, where foams
The fiery flood of ruin: Toil to uproot
Those weeds of Vice, that by the wayside spring,
Or in the garden, 'mid its choicest flowers,
Unblushingly intrude. Serenely show
In thine own saintly life, the blessedness
Of that meek mind, which Temperance and Peace
Fair-handed sisters, guide in duty's path,
And crown with beauty, that survives the tomb.

DEATH OF AN AGED MAN.

“THY WILL BE DONE.”

DEATH OF WILBERFORCE.

I heard loud praise of heroes. But I saw
The blood-stain on their tablet. Then I marked
A torrent rushing from its mountain height,
Bearing the uptorn laurel, while its strength
Among the arid sands of Vanity
Did spend itself, and lo! a warning voice
Sighed o'er the Ocean of Eternity,
“Behold the warrior's glory.”
History came,
Sublimely soaring on her wing of light,
And many a name of palatine and peer,
Monarch and prince on her proud scroll she bore,
Blazoned by fame. But 'mid the sea of time,
Helmet, and coronet and diadem
Rose boastful up, and shone, and disappeared,
Like the white foam-crest on the tossing wave,
Forgotten, while beheld.
I heard a knell
Toll slow amid the consecrated aisles
Where slumber England's dead. A solemn dirge
Broke forth amid the tomb of kings, and said
That man was dust. And then a nation's tears
Fell down like rain, for it was meet to mourn.
But from the land of palm-trees, where doth flow
Sweet incense forth from grove, and gum, and flower,
Came richer tribute, breathing o'er that tomb
A prostrate nation's thanks.
Yes, Afric knelt,
That mourning mother, and thoughout the earth
Taught her unfettered children to repeat
The name of Wilberforce, and bless the spot
Made sacred by his ashes. Yea, the World
Arose upon her crumbling throne, to praise
The lofty mind that never knew to swerve
Though holy truth should summon it to meet
The frown of the embattled universe.
And so I bowed me down in this far nook
Of the far West, and proudly traced the name
Of Wilberforce upon my country's scroll,
To be her guide, as she unchained the slave,
And the bright model of her sons who seek
True glory. And from every village-haunt
And school, where rustic Science quaintly reigns,
I called the little ones, and forth they came
To hear of Afric's champion, and to bless
The firm in purpose and the full of days.

THE CHRISTIAN MOURNER.

I saw a dark procession slowly wind
'Mid funeral shades, and a one mourner stand
Fast by the yawning of the pit that whelm'd
His bosom's idol.
Then the sable scene
Faded away, and to his alter'd home
Sad Fancy follow'd him, and saw him fold
His one, lone babe, in agoniz'd embrace,
And kiss the brow of trusting innocence,
That in its blessed ignorance wail'd not
A mother lost. Yet she who would have watch'd,
Each germ of intellect, each bud of truth,
Each fair unfolding of the fruit of Heaven
With thrilling joy, was like the marble cold.
—There were the flowers she planted, blooming fair,
As if in mockery,—there the varied stores
That in the beauty of their order charm'd
At once the tasteful, and the studious hour,
Pictures, and tinted shells, and treasur'd tomes,
But the presiding mind, the cheerful voice,
The greeting glance, the spirit-stirring smile,
Are fled forever.
And he knoweth all!
Hath felt it all, deep in his tortur'd soul,
Till reason and philosophy did faint,
Beneath a grief like his. Whence hath he then
The power to comfort others, and to speak
Thus of the resurrection?
He hath found
That hope, which is an anchor to the soul,
And with a martyr-courage holds him up
To bear the will of God.
Say, ye who tempt
The sea of life, by summer-gales impell'd,
Have ye this anchor? Sure a time will come
For storms to try you, and strong blasts to rend
Your painted sails, and shred your gold like chaff
O'er the wild wave; and what a wreck is man
If sorrow find him unsustain'd by God.

[Where'er thine earthly lot is cast]

JUDGE TRUMBULL.

I saw him in his reverie. Night had drawn
Dense curtains o'er the slumbering, snow-rob'd earth,
And a lone lamp its fitful lustre threw
Upon his musing brow. 'Twas mark'd by age,
And thought profound, perchance, with sadness ting'd,
Yet from the piercing eye that beauty beam'd
Which wrinkled Time respecteth.
This was he,
Whose shaft of Wit had touch'd the epic strain
With poignant power, the father of the harp,
In his own native vales. He seem'd to muse
As if those lov'd retreats did spread themselves
Again before his eye. The sighing wind
Through the long branches of those ancient trees
Where first his boyhood lisp'd the lore of song,
Doth lull his soul. Then brighter visions come,
A sound of music rises. 'Tis thy voice
Connecticut! as when by vernal rains
Surcharg'd, it swell'd in tuneful murmurs round
The vine-clad mansion, where his children grew.
But lo! the clangor of yon mighty lakes
Holding hoarse conflict with the winged storm
Breaks up the melody. And is it so?
That in the feebleness of four score years,
Thou, with unshrinking hand dost pitch thy tent
Near the rude billows of the Michigan,
And mark in that far land, young life start forth
In vigor and in beauty and in power,
Where erst the Indian and the panther dwelt,
Sole lords? It was a bold emprise to change
The robe of science and of minstrelsy,
Worn from thy cradle onward, for the staff
Of the rough emigrant.
Again I look'd,
His lamp had faded, and the learned page
Was closed within his study. The blest book
Of God's great love to man, was open still:
Where was the eye that ponder'd it? the heart
That priz'd it more than Greek or Roman lore?
—There was a shroud, a pall, a tender sigh
Of Woman's grief, and 'neath the broken sods
Of that New World, the patriarch poet lies,
“And ‘dust to dust’ concludes our noblest song.”
—Master and friend? until this feeble lyre
In silence moulders, till my heart forget
The thrill of gratitude, the love of song,
The praise of virtue, shall thine image dwell
Bright with the beauty of benignant age
In my soul's temple-shrine.

PRAYER.

He slept between two soldiers, bound with chains,
Waiting the hour, when wily Herod's hand
Should point his martyr-doom. Yet still, he slept,
Peaceful as the young babe. And lo! a light
Gleam'd o'er the dungeon-darkness, and a voice
Not of this earth, poured forth the high command,
“Peter,—arise.”
Then the investing chains
Melted from off his limbs, and he arose
And rob'd himself, and girt his sandals on,
And follow'd where the wondering messenger
Guided, with shining track. The iron gate,
That guarded portal of the City's wall,
As if it knew Heaven's high ambassador,
Turn'd on its massy hinge. So, on they past,
Free and unquestion'd, till the seraph's wing
Outspread, in parting flight. With snowy trace
Awhile it hover'd,—then, like radiant star
From its bright orbit loos'd, went soaring up,
High o'er the arch of night.
Then Peter knew,
The Angel of the Lord,—for he had deem'd
Some blessed vision held his tranced sight,
In strange illusion.
With the voice of praise,
His joyous steps a well known threshhold sought,
The home of Mary. Midnight reign'd around,
And heavy sleep hung o'er Jerusalem.
Yet here they slumber'd not. A sigh arose
Of ardent supplication, for the friend
In durance and in chains. But can ye paint
The astonish'd gaze, with which those tearful eyes
Did fasten on his features, as he stood
Sudden, amid the group?
High Heaven had heard
The prayer of faith. And heard it not the breath
Of gratitude, from every trembling lip,
Ascribing glory to the Lord of Hosts,
Whose holy angel had his servant freed
From the high-handed malice of the Jews,
And from the wrath of Herod?
Ye, who held
The key of prayer, that key which entereth Heaven,
How long will ye be doubtful? and how long
Seek from brief Earth, the help she cannot give,
Choosing her broken cisterns? Say! how long?

THE BROKEN VASE.

So, here thou art in ruins, brilliant Vase,
Beneath my footsteps. 'Tis a pity, sure,
That aught so beautiful, should find its fate,
From careless fingers.
Fain would I divine
Thy history. Who shap'd thy graceful form,
And touch'd thy pure, transparent brow with tints
Of varied hue, and gave the enamel'd robe,
Deep-wrought with gold?
Thou wert a costly gift.
Perchance, a present to some fair young bride,
Who 'mid her wedding treasures nicely pack'd
Thee in soft cotton, that the jarring wheel
O'er the rough road careering, might not mar
Thy symmetry. Within her new abode,
She proudly plac'd thee, rich with breathing flowers,
And as the magic shell from ocean borne
Doth hoard the murmur of its coral-caves,
So thou didst tell her twilight reverie, tales
Of her far home, and seem to breathe the tones
Of her young, sporting sisters.
'Tis in vain!
No art may join these fragments, or cement
Their countless chasms.
And yet there's many a wreck
Of costlier things, for which the wealth of Earth
May yield no reparation.
He, who hangs
His all of happiness on beauty's smile,
And 'mid that dear illusion, treads on thorns,
And feels no wound, or climbs the rocky steep
Unconscious of fatigue, hath oft-times mark'd
A dying dolphin's brightness at his feet.
And found it but the bubble of his hope,
Disparting like the rainbow.
They who run
Ambition's race, and on their compeers tread
With fever'd eagerness to grasp the goal,
Oft see the envied prize, like waxen toy
Melt in the passion-struggle.
He, who toils
Till lonely midnight, o'er the waning lamp,
Twining the cobweb of poetic thought,
Or forging links from Learning's molten gold,
Till his brain dazzles, and his eye turns dim,
Then spreads his gatherings with a proud delight
To the cold bosom'd public, oft perceives
Each to his “farm and merchandise” return
Regardless of his wisdom, or perchance
Doth hear the hammer of harsh criticism,
Grinding his ore to powder, finer far
Than the light sand of Congo's yellow stream.
—Yea, 'mid earth's passing pilgrims, many a one
Of its new-gained possessions, fondly proud,
Doth like the Patriarch, find his seven years' toil
Paid with a poor deceit.
Crush'd Vase, farewell.
I thank thee for thy lesson. Thou hast warn'd
That the heart's treasures be not rashly risk'd
In earthern vessels, but in caskets stor'd,
Above the wrecking ministry of Time.

THE TOWER AT MONTEVIDEO.

Full many a year hath past away,
Thou rude, old Tower, so stern and grey,
Since first I came, enthusiast lone,
To worship at thy hermit throne.
—Tho' wintry blast, and sweeping rain
Have mark'd thee with their iron stain,
Yet freely springing at thy feet,
New beauties wreathe their garland sweet.
Young flowers the ancient wilds perfume,
In tangled dells, fresh roses bloom,
And foliage wraps with mantle deep,
The trap-rock ledges, harsh and steep.
—Still spreads the lake its mirror clear,
The forest-warblers charm the ear,
The glorious prospect opens wide
Its varied page in summer's pride,
And tasteful hands have deftly wove
Enchantment's spell o'er vale and grove.
Farewell old Tower! thou still shalt be
Remember'd as a friend by me,
Who bring'st from time's recorded track
The buds of joy profusely back,
And sweetly from thy turrets hoar
The song of gratitude dost pour,
Nor spare around my path to fling,
Young Memory's brightest blossoming.
—When next we meet, perchance, the trace
Of age shall tint thy tottering base,
And I, with added plainness show
The wrinkled lines that cares bestow,
But Nature still serene and fair,
No thread of silver in her hair,
No furrow'd mark on brow or cheek,
The same rich dialect shall speak,
With silent finger upward pointing,
And forehead pure with Heaven's anointing,
And smile more eloquent than speech,
The lessons of her Sire shall teach.

BIRTH-DAY VERSES TO A LITTLE GIRL.

NATURE'S BEAUTY.

DEATH OF DR. TODD, THE PRINCIPAL OF THE RETREAT FOR THE INSANE, IN CONN.

Few have been mourned like thee. The wise and good
Do gather many weepers round their tomb,
And true Affection makes her heart an urn
For the departed idol, till that heart
Is ashes. With such sorrow art thou mourned,
And more than this. There is a cry of woe
Within the halls of yon majestic dome—
A tide of grief, which Reason may not check,
Nor Faith's deep anchor fathom.
Straining eyes
That gaze on vacancy, do search for thee,
Whose wand could put to flight the fancied ills
Of sick imagination. The wrecked heart
Keepeth the echo of thy soothing voice
An everlasting sigh within its cells,
And morbidly upon that music feeds.
Mind's broken column 'mid its ruins bears
Thy chiselled features. Thy dark eye looks forth
From Memory's watch-tower on the phrenzy dream,
Ruling its imagery, or with strange power
Controlling madness, as the shepherd's harp
Subdued the moody wrath of Israel's king.
Even where the links of thought and speech are broke,
'Mid that most absolute and perfect wreck,
When throneless Reason flies her idiot-foe,
Thou hast a place. The fragments of the soul
Do bear thine impress—shadowy, yet endeared,
And multiplied by countless miseries.
Beside some happy hearth, where fire-side joys
And renovated health, and heaven-born hope
Swell high in contrast with the maniac's cell,
Thou art remembered by some grateful heart,
With the deep rapture of that lunatic,
Whom Jesus healed.
But there's a wail for thee
From throngs whom this unpitying world doth cast
Out of her company, the scorned, the banned,
The excommunicate. Thou wert their friend—
Thy wasting midnight vigil was for them:
The toil, the watching, and the stifled pang
That stamped thee as a martyr, were for them.
They could not thank thee, save with that strange shriek
Which wounds the gentle ear. Yet thou didst walk
In thy high ministry of love and power,
As a magician 'mid their spectre-foes
And burning visions. Thou didst mark sublime
Death's angel sweeping o'er thy studious page,
And, at his chill monition, laying down
The boasted treasures of philosophy
Didst clothe thyself in meekness as a child
Waiting the father's will.
And so farewell,
Thou full of love to all whom God hath made,
Thou tuned to melody, go home! go home!
Where music hath no dissonance, and Love
Doth poise forever on her perfect wing.

LAFAYETTE.

LAST HOURS OF THE HON. WILLIAM WIRT.

ON READING THE DESCRIPTION OF POMPEII, IN THE “REMAINS OF THE REV. E. D. GRIFFIN.”

PARTING HYMN OF MISSIONARIES TO BURMAH.

ON THE DEATH OF THE REV. SAMUEL GREEN OF BOSTON.

[“Peace” was the song the Angels sang]

DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY.

APPEAL FOR FEMALE EDUCATION IN GREECE.

THE WESTERN EMIGRANT.

An ax rang sharply 'mid those forest shades
Which from creation toward the skies had tower'd
In unshorn beauty—There, with vigorous arm
Wrought a bold Emigrant, and by his side
His little son with question and response,
Beguil'd the toil.
“Boy, thou hast never seen
Such glorious trees. Hark, when their giant trunks
Fall, how the firm earth groans. Rememberest thou
The mighty river, on whose breast we sail'd
So many days, on toward the setting sun?
Our own Connecticut, compar'd to that,
Was but a creeping stream.”
“Father, the brook
That by our door went singing, where I launch'd
My tiny boat, with my young playmates round
When school was o'er, is dearer far to me,
Than all these bold, broad waters. To my eye
They are as strangers. And those little trees
My mother nurtur'd in the garden bound,
Of our first home, from whence the fragrant peach
Hung in its ripening gold, were fairer sure
Than this dark forest, shutting out the day.”
—“What, ho!—my little girl,” and with light step
A fairy creature hasted toward her sire,
And setting down the basket that contain'd
His noon-repast, look'd upward to his face
With sweet, confiding smile.
“See, dearest, see,
That bright-wing'd paresquet, and hear the song
Of yon gay red-bird, echoing thro' the trees,
Making rich music. Didst thou ever hear
In far New-England, such a mellow tone?”
—“I had a robin that did take the crumbs
Each night and morning, and his chirping voice
Did make me joyful, as I went to tend
My snow-drops. I was always laughing then
In that first home. I should be happier now
Methinks, if I could find among these dells
The same fresh violets.”
Slow night drew on,
And round the rude hut of the Emigrant
The wrathful spirit of the rising storm—
Spake bitter things. His weary children slept,
And he, with head declin'd, sat listening long
To the swoln waters of the Illinois,
Dashing against their shores.
Starting he spake,—
“Wife! did I see thee brush away a tear!
'Twas even so. Thy heart was with the halls
Of thy nativity. Their sparkling lights,
Carpets, and sofas, and admiring guests,
Befit thee better than these rugged walls
Of shapeless logs, and this lone, hermit home.”
“No—no. All was so still around, methought
Upon mine ear that echoed hymn did steal,
Which 'mid the Church where erst we paid our vows,
So tuneful peal'd. But tenderly thy voice
Dissolv'd the illusion.”
And the gentle smile
Lighting her brow, the fond caress that sooth'd
Her waking infant, reassur'd his soul
That wheresoe'er our best affections dwell,
And strike a healthful root, is happiness.
Content, and placid, to his rest he sank,
But dreams, those wild magicians, that do play
Such pranks when reason slumbers, tireless wrought
Their will with him.
Up rose the thronging mart
Of his own native city,—roof and spire,
All glittering bright, in fancy's frost-work ray.
The steed his boyhood nurtur'd proudly neigh'd,
The favorite dog came frisking round his feet,
With shrill and joyous bark,—familiar doors
Flew open,—greeting hands with his were link'd
In friendship's grasp,—he heard the keen debate
From congregated haunts, where mind with mind
Doth blend and brighten,—and till morning rov'd
'Mid the lov'd scenery of his native land.

FAREWELL OF THE SOUL TO THE BODY.

Companion dear! the hour draws nigh,
The sentence speeds,—to die, to die.
So long in mystic union held,
So close with strong embrace compell'd,
How canst thou bear the dread decree,
That strikes thy clasping nerves from me?
—To Him who on this mortal shore,
The same encircling vestment wore,
To Him I look, to Him I bend,
To Him thy shuddering frame commend.
—If I have ever caus'd thee pain,
The throbbing breast, the burning brain,
With cares and vigils turn'd thee pale,
And scorn'd thee when thy strength did fail,—
Forgive!—Forgive!—thy task doth cease,
Friend! Lover!—let us part in peace.
—That thou didst sometimes check my force,
Or trifling stay mine upward course,
Or lure from Heaven my wavering trust,
Or bow my drooping wing to dust,—
I blame thee not, the strife is done,
I know thou wert the weaker one,
The vase of earth, the trembling clod,
Constrain'd to hold the breath of God.
—Well hast thou in my service wrought,
Thy brow hath mirror'd forth my thought,
To wear my smile thy lip hath glow'd,
Thy tear to speak my sorrows flowed,
Thine ear hath borne me rich supplies
Of sweetly varied melodies,
Thy hands my prompted deeds have done,
Thy feet upon mine errands run,—
Yes, thou hast mark'd my bidding well,
Faithful and true! farewell, farewell.
—Go to thy rest. A quiet bed
Meek mother Earth with flowers shall spread,
Where I no more thy sleep may break
With fever'd dream, nor rudely wake
Thy wearied eye.
Oh quit thy hold,
For thou art faint, and chill, and cold,
And long thy gasp and groan of pain
Have bound me pitying in thy chain,
Tho' angels urge me hence to soar,
Where I shall share thine ills no more.
—Yet we shall meet. To soothe thy pain,
Remember,—we shall meet again.
Quell with this hope, the victor's sting,
And keep it as a signet-ring,
When the dire worm shall pierce thy breast,
And nought but ashes mark thy rest,
When stars shall fall, and skies grow dark,
And proud suns quench their glow-worm spark,
Keep thou that hope, to light thy gloom,
Till the last trumpet rends the tomb.
—Then shalt thou glorious rise, and fair,
Nor spot, nor stain, nor wrinkle bear,
And I, with hovering wing elate
The bursting of thy bonds shall wait,
And breathe the welcome of the sky,—
“No more to part, no more to die,
Co-heir of Immortality.”

THE GARDEN.

Is't not a holy place, thy Garden's bound,
Peopled with plants and every living leaf
Instinct with thought, to stir the musing mind?
—Where was it that our Mother wandering went,
When 'mid her nursling vines and flowers, she met
The gliding serpent, in his green and gold,
And rashly listen'd to his glozing tongue,
Till loss of Eden and the wrath of God
Did fade from her remembrance? Was it not
A garden, where this deed of rashness check'd
The stainless blossom of a world unborn?
—Still, tread with trembling. Hast thou nought to fear?
No tempter in thy path, with power to sow
Thy Paradise with thorns, if God permit?
So, hold thy way amid the sweets of earth
With cautious step, and have thy trust above?
—Is't not a holy place, thy Garden's bound,
When at the cool close of the summer's day
Thou lingerest there, indulging sweet discourse
With lips belov'd? Then speak of him who bare
Upon his tortur'd brow, strange dews of blood
For man's redemption.
Bring the thrilling scene
Home to thine inmost soul:—the sufferer's cry,
“Father! if it be possible, this cup
Take thou away.—Yet not my will but thine:”
The sleeping friends who could not watch one hour,
The torch, the flashing sword, the traitor's kiss,
The astonish'd angel with the tear of Heaven
Upon his cheek, still striving to assuage
Those fearful pangs that bow'd the Son of God
Like a bruis'd reed. Thou who hast power to look
Thus at Gethsemane, be still! be still!
What are thine insect-woes compared to his
Who agonizeth there? Count thy brief pains
As the dust-atom on life's chariot wheels,
And in a Saviour's grief forget them all.
—Is't not a holy place, thy Garden's bound?
“Look to the Sepulchre!” said they of Rome,
“And set a seal upon it.” So, the guard
Who knew that sleep was death-stood with fix'd eye
Watching the garden-tomb, which proudly hid
The body of the crucified.
Whose steps
'Mid the ill-stifled sob of woman's grief
Prevent the dawn? Yet have they come too late,
For He is risen,—He hath burst the tomb,
Whom 'twas not possible for Death to hold.
Yea, his pierced hand did cleave the heavens, to share
That resurrection, which the “slow of heart”
Shrank to believe.
Fain would I, on this spot,
So holy, ponder, till the skies grow dark,
And sombre evening spreads her deepest pall.
—Come to my heart, thou Wisdom that dost grow
In the chill coffin of the shrouded dead,
Come to my heart. For silver hairs may spring
Thick o'er the temples, yet the soul fall short
Even of that simple rudiment, which dwells
With babes in Christ. I would be taught of thee,
Severe Instructor, who dost make thy page
Of pulseless breasts and unimpassion'd brows,
And lips that yield no sound. Thou who dost wake
Man for that lesson, which he reads but once,
And mak'st thy record of the sullen mounds
That mar the church-yard's smoothness, let me glean
Wisdom among the tombs, for I would learn
Thy deep, unflattering lore. What have I said?
No! not of thee, but of the hand that pluck'd
The sceptre from thee.
Thou, who once didst taste
Of all man's sorrows, save the guilt of sin,—
Divine Redeemer! teach us to walk
In these our earthly gardens, as to gain
Footing at last, amid the trees of God,
Which by the Eternal River from His Throne
Nourish'd, shall never fade.

DREAMS.

Revere thyself! for thou art wonderful
Even in thy passiveness. Hail, heir of Heaven!
Immortal mind! that when the body sleeps
Doth roam with unseal'd eye, on tireless wing,
Where Memory hath no chart, and Reason finds
No pole-star for her compass. Guest divine!
Our earthly nature bows itself to thee,
Putting its ear of clay unto the sigh
Of thy disturbed visions, if perchance
It win some whisper of thy glorious birth,
And deathless heritage.
Oh, dreams are dear
To those whom waking life hath surfeited
With dull monotony. 'Tis sweet when Day
Hath been a weariness, and Evening's hand
Like some lean miser, greedily doth clutch
The flowers that Morning brought us, to lie down,
And breathe a fragrance that they never knew,
Pressing our fingers to the thornless Rose,
That springs where'er we tread.
'Tis very sweet
To 'scape from stern Reality, who sits
Like some starch beldame, all precise and old,
And sheer intolerant, and on the wing
Of radiant Fancy, soar unblam'd and wild,
And limitless. When niggard Fortune makes
Our pillow stony, like the patriarch's bed
Who slept at Bethel, gentle dreams do plant
An airy ladder for the angels' feet,
Changing our hard couch for the gate of Heaven.
They feed us on ambrosia, till we loath
Our household bread.
To traverse all untir'd
Broad realms, more bright than fabled Araby,
To hear unearthly music, to plunge deep
In seas of bliss, to make the tyrant-grave
Unlock its treasure-valve, and yield the forms
Whose loss we wept, back to our glad embrace,
To wear the tomb's white drapery, yet to live,
And hold unshrinking pastime with the dead,
To catch clear glimpses of fair streets of gold,
Aud harpers harping on the eternal hills,
These are the gifts of dreams, and we would speak
Most reverently of their high ministry.
—See, life is but a dream. Awake! Awake!
Break off the trance of vanity, and look
With keen, undazzled eye, above the cloud
That canopies man's hopes. Yea! hear the voice
Of Deity, that 'mid his hour of sleep,
In the still baptism of his dewy dreams,
Doth bear such witness of the undying soul
As breath'd o'er Jordan's wave, “Behold my Son!”

THE GRAVE OF THE QUEEN OF PRUSSIA.

THE MUFFLED KNOCKER.

THE DEATH OF THE MOTHERLESS.

THE DEPARTURE OF MISS HANNAH MORE, FROM BARLEY WOOD, APRIL 18, 1828, AT THE AGE OF EIGHTY-THREE.

THE JEWS.

FOREIGN MISSIONS.

SEAMEN.

CRY OF THE CORANNAS.

We see our infants fade. The mother clasps
The enfeebled form, and watches night and day
Its speechless agony, with tears and cries,
But there's a hand more strong than her despair
That rends it from her bosom. Our young men
Are bold and full of strength, but something comes
We know not what, and so they droop and die.
Those whom we lov'd so much, our gentler friends,
Who bless our homes, we gaze and they are gone.
Our mighty chiefs, who in the battle's rage
Tower'd up like Gods, so fearless, and return'd
So loftily, behold! they pine away
Like a pale girl, and so, we lay them down
With the forgotten throng who dwell in dust.
They call it death, and we have faintly heard
By a far echo o'er the distant sea.
There was a life beyond it. Is it so?
If there be aught above this mouldering mound
Where we do leave our friends,—if there be hope
So passing strange, that they should rise again
And we should see them, we who mourn them now,
We pray you speak such glorious tidings forth
In our benighted clime. Ye heaven-spread sails
Pass us not by! Men of the living God!
Upon our mountain heights we stand and shout,
To you in our distress. Fain would we hear
Your wondrous message fully, that our hearts
May hail its certainty before we go,
Ourselves to those dark caverns of the dead,
Where everlasting silence seems to reign.

ANACHARSIS, THE PHILOSOPHER.

From Scythia's wilds, the Sage to Athens came,
In search of wisdom, not allur'd by fame,
But there, his uncouth mien provok'd, the proud,
And mov'd the laughter of a thoughtless crowd,
Who saw not through a veil so coarsely wove,
And upright soul, that heaven itself might love.
—“Think ye I draw no glory from my birth,
My simple manners, and my native earth?
Yet say what honor can your country claim,
From sons unworthy of her ancient name?
Say, which is best, to shine with borrow'd rays,
Or rear that column which the word shall praise.”
—A scroll from Lydia's king,—“Come, nobly wise!
Thou whom the triflers of the age despise,
Come view my riches and my royal train,
Nor count the labor of thy journey vain;
Not now I boast my gifts, but thou shalt find
The monarch Crœsus of no niggard mind,
Come, Scythian sage! and be content to bring
Unportion'd wisdom, to a judging king.”
—Then spake the man, who scorn'd the charms of gold,
With soul indignant and in language hold,
—“Think'st thou I wander'd from my Scythian home
For glittering dust, or polish'd stones to roam?
I sought the gem of wisdom where it shines,
With gather'd brightness in the Grecian mines.
Happy, might I such sacred prize attain,
And reach in peace my lowly roof again,
And yet preserve in purity refin'd
The chrystal treasure of a virtuous mind.”

HARVEST HYMN.

“THE DEAD PRAISE NOT THE LORD.”

MORAVIAN MISSIONS TO GREENLAND.

FUNERAL AT SEA.

The deep sea took the dead. It was a babe
Like sculptur'd marble, pure and beautiful
That lonely to its yawning gulphs went down.
—Poor cradled nursling,—no fond arm was there
To wrap thee in its folds; no lullaby
Came from the green sea-monster, as he laid
His shapeless head thy polished brow beside,
One moment wondering at the beauteous spoil
On which he fed. Old Ocean heeded not
This added unit to his myriad dead.
But in the bosom of the tossing ship
Rose up a burst of anguish, wild and loud,
From the vex'd fountain of a mother's love.
—The lost! The lost! Oft shall her startled dream,
Catch the drear echo of the sullen plunge
That whelm'd the uncoffin'd body,—oft her eye
Strain wide through midnight's long unslumbering watch,
Remembering how his soft sweet breathing seem'd
Like measur'd music in a lily's cup,
And how his tiny shout of rapture swelled,
When closer to her bosom's core, she drew
His eager lip.
Who thus, with folded arms,
And head declin'd doth seem to count the waves,
And yet to heed them not? The sorrowing sire,
Doth mark the last, faint ripple, where his child
Sank down into the waters. Busy thought
Turns to his far home, and those little ones,
Whom sporting 'mid their favorite lawn he left,
And troubled fancy shows the weeping there,
When he shall seat them once more on his knee,
And tell them how the baby that they lov'd,
Hid its pale cheek within its mother's breast,
And pin'd away and died,—yet found no grave
Beneath the church-yard turf, where they might plant
The lowly mound with flowers.
What lifts the heart.
Up from its bitter sadness? Hark! His voice
That o'er the thundering wave, doth pour sublime
Such words, as arch the darkest storm of life
With faith's perennial bow.
Thou, who dost speak
Of His eternal majesty, who bids
Both earth and sea to render up their dead,
Know'st thou how soon thy tomb shall drink the tears
Of mourning kindred? Thou, who thus dost stand
Serene in youthful beauty, to yield back
What God hath claim'd,—know'st thou how full the tide
Of sympathy, that now thy bosom thrills
For strangers,—in thine own paternal halls
Shall flow for thee?
And if thou could's, the flush
Would not have faded on thy glowing cheek,
For thou had'st made the countenance of death
Familiar as a friend, through Him who pluck'd
The terror from his frown, and from his sting,
The venom. At thine early tomb we bend,
Taking that deep monition to our souls,
Which through embowering verdure seems to sigh
On every breeze—how frail is earth's best hope,
And how immortal that, which roots in Heaven.

“HINDER THEM NOT.”

SALE OF ARDENT SPIRITS BY CHRISTIANS.

There rose a cry of violence and pain,
And of the earth I ask'd—if nought remained
Amid her moral lazar-house, to cleanse
This vital taint, and make the leprous whole?
—“Yea, she replied, The followers of Christ!—
They are the purifying principle,
The salt of earth.”
Then I beheld a flood
Of dark corruption.—Far and wide it spread,—
And many sported on its fatal brink,
Who never more to health and life return'd;
For he who plung'd, did strait forget his God,
And curse himself, and die. Amaz'd I marked
Some, who profess'd Christ's name, with eager toil
Forming new channels for that baleful tide,
As if to irrigate the scorching land
With Etna's lava. Not of the dire fount
They drank themselves,—nor to their offspring gave,—
The pestilential draught;—they only prest
Its venom to their weaker neighbor's lip
Till the red plague-spot rankled in his soul.—
Still from their household altars, morn and even,
Duly arose the prayer that God would change
The sinner's heart,—and turn those erring feet
Whose steps take hold on hell.
I saw the shroud
Of pagan darkness, from the breast of earth
Begin to melt away.
“Who holds the lamp,
Thus to illume thy midnight?”—and again
She answered, “Christians!—for their master saith
That like a city set upon a hill,
Their light may not be hid.”
I look'd,—and lo!
With warm, untiring zeal, they spread the wing
Of strong benevolence, to bear the gift
Of mercy to the heathen,—and to fill
The idol-temples with Jehovah's praise.
Yet some, while mov'd with purpose so sublime,
Expansive and seraphic,—strangely sold
A poison to their brother,—though it sent
Despair's cold shuddering through the partner's heart
Who wak'd and wept for him,—and on his babes
Entail'd worse woes than orphanage.
Oh Thou!
Who giv'st us skill to read thy holy word,
Grant us a heart to understand and feel
That wealth obtain'd without the fear of God
Is but an ill inheritance, and he
Who hasteth to be rich, doth oft times fall
'Mid hurtful snares, that drown the priceless soul
In dark perdition. Break the dangerous chain
Of Mammon from our spirit, that in love
To all mankind, as well as love to Thee,
With hands outstretch'd to pluck our brother's feet
From the destroyer's net, and with the prayer,
The never-ceasing prayer of penitence
For our own errors, we may safely pass
On through this evil world, to thy right hand.

HYMN FOR A CHARITABLE ASSOCIATION.

THOUGHTS ON RETURNING FROM CHURCH.

ON READING THE “REMAINS” OF REV. EDMUND D. GRIFFIN.

THE BRIDE.

I came, but she was gone.
In her fair home,
There lay her lute, just as she touch'd it last,
At summer twilight, when the woodbine cups
Fill'd with pure fragrance. On her favorite seat
Lay the still open work-box, and that book
Which last she read, its pencil'd margin mark'd
By an ill-quoted passage,—trac'd, perchance,
With hand unconscious, while her lover spake
That dialect, which brings forgetfulness
Of all beside. It was the cherish'd home,
Where from her childhood, she had been the star
Of hope and joy.
I came,—and she was gone.
Yet I had seen her from the altar led,
With silvery veil but slightly swept aside,
The fresh young rose-bud deepening in her cheek,
And on her brow the sweet and solemn thought
Of one who gives a priceless gift away.
And there was silence mid the gather'd throng.
The stranger, and the hard of heart, did draw
Their breath supprest, to see the mother's lip
Turn ghastly pale, and the majestic sire
Shrink as with smother'd sorrow, when he gave
His darling to an untried guardianship,
And to a far off clime.
Haply his thought
Travers'd the grass-grown prairies, and the shore
Of the cold lakes; or those o'erhanging cliffs
And pathless mountain tops, that rose to bar
Her log-rear'd mansion from the anxious eye
Of kindred and of friend. Even triflers felt
How strong and beautiful is woman's love,
That taking in its hand its thornless joys,
The tenderest melodies of tuneful years,
Yea! and its own life also,—lays them all,
Meek and unblenching, on a mortal's breast
Reserving nought, save that unspoken hope
Which hath its root in God.
Mock not with mirth,
A scene like this, ye laughter-loving ones;—
The licens'd jester's lip, the dancer's heel—
What do they here?
Joy, serious and sublime,
Such as doth nerve the energies of prayer,
Should swell the bosom, when a maiden's hand,
Fill'd with life's dewy flow'rets, girded on
That harness, which the ministry of Death
Alone unlooseth, but whose fearful power
May stamp the sentence of Eternity.

DEPARTURE OF MISSIONARIES FOR CEYLON.

CHRISTIAN SETTLEMENTS IN AFRICA.

DEATH.

MIDNIGHT MUSIC.

FORBEARANCE WITH FRAILTY.

BURIAL OF ASHMUN, AT NEW-HAVEN, AUG. 1828.

TOMB OF A YOUNG FRIEND AT MOUNT AUBURN.

I do remember thee.
There was a strain
Of thrilling music, a soft breath of flowers
Telling of summer to a festive throng,
That fill'd the lighted halls. And the sweet smile
That spoke their welcome, the high-warbled lay
Swelling with rapture through a parent's heart,
Were thine.
Time wav'd his noiseless wand awhile,
And in thy cherish'd home once more I stood,
Amid those twin'd and cluster'd sympathies
Where the rich blossoms of thy heart sprang forth,
Like the Moss Rose. Where was the voice of song
Pouring out glad and glorious melody?—
But when I ask'd for thee, they took me where
A hallow'd mountain wrapt its verdant head
In changeful drapery of woods and flowers
And silvery streams, and where thou erst didst love,
Musing to walk, and lend a serious ear
To the wild melody of birds that hung
Their unharm'd dwellings 'mid its woven bowers.
Yet here and there, involv'd in curtaining shades
Uprose those sculpur'd monuments, that bear
The ponderous warnings of Eternity.
So, thou hast past the unreturning gate,
Where dust with dust doth linger, and gone down
In all the beauty of thy blooming years
To this most sacred city of the dead.
The granite obelisk and the pale flower
Reveal thy couch. Fit emblems of the frail,
And the immortal.
But that bitter grief
Which holds stern vigil o'er the mouldering clay,
Keeping long night-watch with its sullen lamp
Had fled thy tomb, and Faith did lift its eye
Full of sweet tears: for when warm tear-drops gush
From the pure memories of a love that wrought
For other's happiness and rose to take
Its own full share of happiness above,
Are they not sweet?

NAHANT.

When fervid summer crisps the shrinking nerve,
And every prismed rock doth catch the ray
As in a burning glass, 'tis wise to seek
This city of the wave. For here the dews
With which Hygeia feeds the flower of life
Are ever freshening in their secret founts.
Here may'st thou talk with Ocean, and no ear
Of gossip islet on thy words shall feed.
Send thy free thought upon the winged winds,
That sweep the castles of an older world,
And what shall bar it from their ivyed heights?
—'Tis well to talk with Ocean. Man may cast
His pearl of language on unstable hearts,
And thriftless sower! reap the winds again.
But thou, all-conquering element, dost grave
Strong characters upon the eternal rock,
Furrowing the brow that holdeth speech with thee
Musing beneath yon awful cliffs, the soul,
That brief shell-gatherer on the shore of time,
Feels as a brother to the drop that hangs
One moment trembling on thy crest, and sinks
Into the bosom of the boundless wave.
—And see, outspreading her broad, silver scroll,
Forth comes the moon, that meek ambassador,
Bearing Heaven's message to the mighty surge.
Yet he, who listeneth to its hoarse reply,
Echoing in anger through the channel'd depths.
Will deem its language all too arrogant,
And Earth's best dialect too poor to claim
Benignant notice from the star-pav'd skies,
And man too pitiful, to lift himself
In the frail armor of his moth-crush'd pride,
Amid o'ershadowing Nature's majesty.

THE CONQUERORS OF SPAIN.

THE NEW-ZEALAND MISSIONARY.

“GO, TELL PETER.”

FELICIA HEMANS.

Nature doth mourn for thee.
There is no need
For Man to strike his plaintive lyre and fail,
As fail he must, if he attempt thy praise.
The little plant that never sang before,
Save one sad requiem, when its blossoms fell,
Sighs deeply through its drooping leaves for thee,
As for a florist fallen. The ivy wreath'd
Round the grey turrets of a buried race,
And the tall palm that like a prince doth rear
Its diadem 'neath Asia's burning sky,
With their dim legends blend thy hallow'd name.
Thy music, like baptismal dew, did make
Whate'er it touch'd most holy. The pure shell,
Laying its pearly lip on Ocean's floor,
The cloister'd chambers, where the sea-gods sleep,
And the unfathom'd melancholy main,
Lament for thee, through all the sounding deeps.
Hark! from the snow-breasted Himmaleh, to where
Snowdon doth weave his coronet of cloud,
From the scath'd pine tree, near the red man's hut,
To where the everlasting banian builds
Its vast columnac temple, comes a moan
For thee, whose ritual made each rocky height
An altar, and each cottage-home, the haunt
Of Poesy.
Yea, thou didst find the link
That joins mute Nature to ethereal mind,
And make that link a melody.
The couch
Of thy last sleep, was in the native clime
Of song and eloquence and ardent soul,
Spot fitly chosen for thee. Perchance, that isle
So lov'd of favoring skies, yet bann'd by fate
Might shadow forth thine own unspoken lot.
For at thy heart, the ever-pointed thorn
Did gird itself, until the life-stream ooz'd
In gushes of such deep and thrilling song,
That angels poising on some silver cloud
Might linger 'mid the errands of the skies,
And listen all unblam'd.
How tenderly
Doth Nature draw her curtain round thy rest,
And like a nurse, with finger on her lip,
Watch lest some step disturb thee, striving still
From other touch, thy sacred harp to guard.
Waits she thy waking, as the Mother waits
For some pale babe, whose spirit sleep hath stolen
And laid it dreaming on the lap of Heaven?
We say not thou art dead. We dare not. No.
For every mountain stream and shadowy dell
Where thy rich harpings linger, would hurl back
The falsehood on our souls. Thou spak'st alike
The simple language of the freckled flower,
And of the glorious stars. God taught it thee.
And from thy living intercourse with man
Thou shalt not pass away, until this earth
Drops her last gem into the doom's-day flame.
Thou hast but taken thy seat with that blest choir,
Whose hymns thy tuneful spirit learn'd so well
From this sublunar terrace, and so long
Interpreted.
Therefore, we will not say
Farewell to thee; for every unborn age
Shall mix thee with its household charities.
The sage shall greet thee with his benison,
And Woman shrine thee as a vestal-flame
In all the temples of her sanctity,
And the young child shall take thee by the hand
And travel with a surer step to Heaven.