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 SEP 28 19ft 
 
 SELECTIONS 
 
 b 
 
 FROM THE 
 
 POETICAL WRITINGS 
 
 OF 
 
 JANE LEWERS GRAY. 
 
 PRINTED FOR PRIVA TE DISTRIBUTION. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 
 1872. 
 
 D 
 
i 
 
 Printed by Eeward O. Jenkins, 
 
 for 
 Anson D. F. Randolph & Co. 
 
 g 
 
Introductory Note. 
 
 JANE LEWERS GRAY, daughter of Wil- 
 liam Lewers, Esq., of Castle-Blayney, Ireland, 
 was born August 2, 1796. On her mothers 
 side she was connected with several distinguished 
 officers of the British army ; among them Major- 
 General Sir Thomas Browne, of the East India 
 Company's Service ; while on that of her father 
 she could claim relationship with several patriots 
 of the American Revolution. She was educated 
 at the celebrated Moravian Seminary of Grace 
 Hill, near Belfast, and at an early age was married 
 to the Rev. John Gray, of the County Monaghan. 
 In 1820 she embarked with her husband for 
 America, and after a stormy passage of more than 
 six months, during which she suffered many and 
 great perils, landed on the island of Bermuda, 
 from which they subsequently sailed for the British 
 province of New Brunswick. After a residence 
 there of eighteen months, they removed to the 
 city of New York. In September, 1822, Mr. 
 
 (iii) 
 
IV 
 
 IN TROD UCTOR V NO TE. 
 
 Gray was called to the pastorate of the First 
 Presbyterian Church, at Easton, Pennsylvania, 
 which important position he continued to occupy 
 for forty-five years. His death occurred on the 
 1 2th of January, 1868, and four years later, on the 
 1 8th of November, 1 871, Mrs. Gray, at the ripe age 
 of seventy-five years, calmly fell asleep in Jesus. 
 
 The simple records of such a life afford little 
 material to interest the general reader. Her days 
 were spent in the performance of domestic duties, 
 to which were added those incident to her hus- 
 band's profession. The Christian mother, and the 
 Pastors wife, — these two relations imposed re- 
 sponsibilities which, however exacting, attracted 
 little, if any, of the world's attention to win its 
 applause ; and yet, in their wise and patient dis- 
 charge, she won the lasting affection of human 
 hearts, and trained children for immortality. 
 Fifty years of such a life — privately, and yet 
 in a sense, publicly — passed in one place, 
 
 44 Where none knew her but to love her, 
 None named her but to praise," 
 
 is the unwritten testimony — far better than that 
 graven in brass or marble — of a life of Faith and 
 Good Works. 
 
INTROD UCTOR Y NO TE. v 
 
 For many years, Mrs. Gray's name was favor- 
 ably known to the readers of the religious press. 
 She wrote much, and many of her poems obtained 
 a wide circulation at home and abroad, some of 
 them being translated into foreign languages. 
 The poem entitled " Morn," which may be re- 
 garded as a fitting sequel to Montgomery's 
 " Night," was by some reviewers attributed to 
 that poet, who subsequently, in a letter addressed 
 to the Rev. Dr. Gray, wrote as follows : " The 
 critics who have mistaken these beautiful stanzas 
 for mine have done me honor ; but I willingly 
 forego the claim, and am happy to recognize a 
 sister poet in the writer." 
 
 She wrote with great facility, but always with 
 much feeling, and without studied elaboration. 
 Her work was the reflex of her own experience, 
 revealing a delicate perception of the beautiful, 
 and warm and generous affections. The afflictions 
 of neighbors and friends; the pleasing incidents 
 of domestic life ; and occasions of public interest, 
 readily awakened her sympathies, and inspired her 
 pen. Much that she wrote was never designed 
 for publication, but a wise and loving purpose was 
 always manifest in the composition. 
 
vi INTRODUCTORY NOTE. 
 
 Though often urged to collect her poems in a 
 volume, she uniformly declined to do so. During 
 the last year of her life, however, she placed them 
 at the disposal of her children, and these selec- 
 tions have been made as a Memorial Volume, for 
 private distribution among those who knew and 
 loved her best. 
 
 The writer has done little more than arrange the 
 poems for the press ; but he now remembers, with 
 peculiar interest, that more than a quarter of a 
 century ago, while traveling by packet-boat on the 
 Juniata, he first heard, from the lips of a student in 
 the college at Easton, of Mrs. Gray in her social 
 relations. The young man was warm in his 
 praises of one who had evidently gained his heart 
 Ours was but the passing evening talk of travel- 
 ers, who parted a few days later, and the incident 
 is here recalled as illustrating the winning influ- 
 ence of Mrs. Gray, and as showing how lttle 
 cither of us then thought, that in after years one 
 would be called to the service now performed ; 
 and in which I have been brought to realize 
 something of the charm which invested her life, 
 and endeared her to all who knew her. 
 
 A. D. F. R. 
 
A LETTER IN RHYME. 
 
 MY DEAR HUSBAND:— 
 
 TOU know I hate prosing, nor yet have I time, 
 To write a prose letter — so take it in rhyme. 
 The children to bed have all quietly gone, 
 While I silently sit in the study alone. 
 I know not, I 'm sure, what I better can do, 
 Than take up my pen and hold converse with you. 
 You may say it is strange — when you 're far away, 
 And nought in return to my prattle can say, 
 That I talk of conversing — yet remember, my dear, 
 That I often converse all alone when you 're here. 
 And though all I say may be very well heard, 
 Yet you do not answer me, love, with a word ; 
 We '11 not talk of that now — from my subject I wan- 
 der. 
 Your letter came safe by your friend, Alexander. 
 I did all you asked, and was civil and kind, 
 And found him a youth very much to my mind : 
 Polite and good-natured, nor wanting in knowledge, 
 
 (3) 
 
ft 
 
 4 A LETTER IN RHYME. 
 
 But I did not go up with him, dear, to our college ! 
 Because he preferred having Mary and Susan, 
 Who both were delighted to walk with their cousin: 
 He bought them ice-cream and some mineral waters, 
 So your wife gladly gave up her place to your daugh- 
 ters. 
 There was one thing I did not much like in your 
 
 letter, 
 It said you were sick, but I hope, love, you 're better. 
 The lines which you offer, I gratefully take them, 
 What I wish them to be, I can very soon make them ; 
 They are just what I wanted, so strong and so good, 
 Why if you had not written them, surely /should : 
 I'll repay them in kind, you may call them but lent, 
 How clever it was in you, dear, to consent ! 
 But who talks of poetry ? — sure you forget, 
 I have not got through with my house-cleaning yet. 
 But your books and your papers we righted them up, 
 And settled your study from bottom to top ; 
 And first we with water made ample ablution, 
 Where potash and soap-fat were held in solution ; 
 Then our maid unbidden did cheerfully bring 
 Pure water, and fresh from our Fermer street spring ; 
 Which she dashed all about, in her lawful vocation, 
 'Till down to the floor flowed the copious libation. 
 Then, with a clean towel, I polished the glasses, 
 While she took out the windows, and scrubbed well 
 the sashes ; 
 
r> 
 
 A LETTER IN RHYME. 
 
 5 
 
 And to give to each object a rich tint and mellow, 
 We white-washed the walls with the best chromic yel- 
 low : 
 And it looked like a picture — pray don't think me 
 
 vain — 
 A time-ripened picture, the work of Lorraine. 
 The desk with your papers — no room we had for it, 
 So we stowed it securely away in the garret. 
 Come, chase from your brow, love, that gathering 
 
 frown, 
 If we brought the desk up, can't we bring the desk 
 
 down ? 
 But for litter and literature that is the spot : 
 The Muses still kindest are there, are they not ? — 
 But we will bring it down again, dearest, you know, 
 And before you return, too, if you but say so. 
 Deep down in the earth lies a miserly elf, 
 Who would gladly appropriate all to himself: 
 He long from the sight of each sage lay concealed, 
 In a garden at length, all his tricks were revealed. 
 Where he stole from a tree a fine apple or pear, 
 And thought no one saw him — but Newton was 
 
 there. 
 When your desk we brought up, he tried hard to 
 
 prevent us, 
 But when coming down, all his aid will be lent us. 
 You met him, no doubt, on the road as you went, 
 He often helps travelers on the descent. 
 
6 A LETTER IN RHYME. 
 
 But remember, my dear, from the garret De Foe 
 Delighted the world with his matchless Crusoe. 
 And Goldsmith, our countryman, ne 'er was so great 
 As when warmed by the sunbeams that shone on the 
 
 slate. 
 And Savage, poor fellow ! would often retire 
 To his garret, though warmed not by sunbeam or 
 
 fire. 
 And Burns would have written in a garret, I ween, 
 In the house where he lived, if a garret had been. 
 The good Ettrick Shepherd — you dined with him 
 
 once — 
 For a modern, you know, was not reckoned a dunce ; 
 You found him, I think, in the midst of his lore, 
 In the room next the thatch, — though upon the 
 
 ground floor. 
 Why, Shakespeare himself, yes, immortal old Will, 
 In a garret oft plied his poetical quill. 
 And Byron, Lord Byron, as great as he was, 
 Stewart says, that a garret in Newstead he chose. 
 Great Newton who shed on the world so much light, 
 Xo doubt on the house-top spent many a night. 
 The wisest and best, you may take my word for it, 
 When they wrote the sublime, always wrote in a 
 
 garret. 
 Nor indeed is it strange — from Parnassian height, 
 Where the Muse comes, wing-worn, with the length 
 
 of her flight — 
 
A LETTER IN RHYME. j 
 
 Poor thing, out of breath, and just ready to drop, 
 Why, where should she light but upon the house-top ? 
 What bard through his skylight beholding her there, 
 Would not bid her step in, and present her a chair ? 
 And she in his garret reclining the while, 
 Say, could she do less than upon him to smile ? 
 Some think that the sun from his home in the sky, 
 In the mine forms each metal, — so, dearest, think I; 
 And makes the rough pebble a diamond, whose ray 
 Is only eclipsed by the brilliance of day. 
 Now just only think, if his power is so great 
 As to make gems of jack-stones and gold out of slate, 
 And that through a mountain, whose pale frozen brow 
 Is covered, I know not how deep down, with snow — 
 Just think what a change upon what you have writ, 
 He might work if his beams should converge upon it. 
 If with matter so brilliant, his light should com- 
 mingle, 
 With nothing between them, you know, but a shingle, 
 He might burnish and brighten, correct and refine, 
 'Till like some mighty star it would twinkle and 
 
 shine. 
 But enough of this nonsense — I would not, you know, 
 Plant a thorn in your breast, or a curve on your 
 
 brow ; 
 Too long we have lived, my dear husband, together, 
 To quarrel at last for the work of a feather. 
 For you, I left country and kindred and friend, 
 
f 
 
 8 A LETTER IN RHYME. 
 
 And would go with you now to the very land's end. 
 I have nursed you in sickness, and cheered you in 
 
 health, 
 And spent my full share— have I not — of your wealth ? 
 But between me and you, if a quarrel must come — 
 Don't frown on me, dearest ; don't till you come 
 
 home ! 
 Oh, not like a bullet, a frown can be spent, 
 For it wounds still the deeper the farther 'tis sent ! 
 
 You say Mr. B is at Pittsburgh, my dear ; 
 
 I beg, I entreat you, don't let him come near ; 
 But if the advice of a friend you will take, 
 Keep always between you some body opaque ; 
 And those that are made of impervious stuff, 
 You will find them, I doubt not, in Pittsburgh enough. 
 Don't let him extinguish the light of my sun, 
 Nor leave me to grope in this dark world alone. 
 You may tell Doctor Junkin and Colonel McKeen, 
 Their wives are as well as they ever have been. 
 The children are well — sometimes bad, sometimes 
 
 good — 
 I praise when obedient, and chide them when rude. 
 Little Tom goes to infant-school, blithesome and 
 
 clever, 
 And Meg is as queer and as bookish as ever. 
 But farewell, now, dearest, believe me you share, 
 Each day in my thoughts, and each night in my 
 
 prayer. 
 
ON THE BIRTHDAY OF MY DAUGHTER. g 
 
 In health, or in sickness, by night and by da}', 
 Believe me, your loving wife — Jane Lewers Gray. 
 
 Easton, May 18, 1835. 
 
 ON THE BIRTHDAY OF MY DAUGHTER. 
 
 IT is thy birthday, daughter ! 
 Full fourteen years have sped, 
 Since first 1 asked of heaven to bless, 
 
 Thy little flaxen head. 
 And I have watched thee, many a night, 
 
 And nursed thee many a day, 
 And well hast thou repaid my care, 
 My daughter, Mary Gray. 
 
 II. 
 
 I know thou art not beautiful, 
 
 Thy face it is not fair, 
 Nor are thy limbs symmetrical, 
 
 Nor graceful is thine air — 
 The only ornament thou hast, 
 
 Time cannot steal away 
 A meek and quiet spirit's thine, 
 
 My daughter, Mary Gray. 
 
10 ON THE BIRTHDAY OF MY DAUGHTER. 
 
 III. 
 
 Thou dost obey thy brother's voice, 
 
 And hear thy sister's call, 
 And on the wing- from morn till night, 
 
 The willing- slave of all — 
 Thou wilt the little treat prepare, 
 
 Then silent shrink away — 
 And eat the fragments of the feast, 
 
 My daughter, Mary Gray. 
 
 IV. 
 
 And if perchance thou dost receive, 
 
 An apple, peach, or pear; 
 Thou wilt hoard the luscious treasure up, 
 
 With all a miser's care ; 
 Yet, when the little group are met, 
 
 Thou wilt thy wealth display, 
 And mark no portion as thine own ; 
 
 My daughter, Mary Gray. 
 
 V. 
 Yet some may think, that thou art not 
 
 What I have said thou art ; 
 And that a mother's ardent love, 
 
 Has prejudiced my heart; 
 But I have others well-beloved, 
 
 And fairer far they say — 
 I would that they were like to thee, 
 
 My daughter, Mary Gray. 
 
ON THE BIRTHDAY OF MY DAUGHTER. n 
 
 VI. 
 
 And think net, love, I can forget 
 
 Affliction's bitter hour — 
 When heaven withheld its healing light, 
 
 And earth its balmy flower — 
 And thou did'st soothe the restless night, 
 
 And cheer the clouded day — 
 May blessings cluster round thy path, 
 
 My daughter, Mary Gray. 
 
 VII. 
 
 And if — (oh, distant be the day,) 
 
 If, daughter, thou shouldst wed ; 
 And from thy parents' sheltering roof, 
 
 Shouldst be by stranger led ; 
 May heaven, to cheer thine earthly lot, 
 
 Thy filial love repay, 
 Grant thee a daughter like thyself, 
 
 My gentle Mary Gray. 
 
 VIII. 
 And now, one other better boon, 
 
 My heart would seek for thee ; 
 To heaven, each morning raise my voice, 
 
 Each evening bend my knee ; 
 May Jesus shine upon thy soul, 
 
 Take every stain away ; 
 And stamp his image on thy breast, 
 
 My daughter, Mary Gray ! 
 
c 
 
 I2 A CHILD'S EXCUSE TO HER TEACHER. 
 
 A CHILD S EXCUSE TO HER TEACHER. 
 
 DEAR Madame, I'm glad you are come back again, 
 Our dear little Borough to brighten ; 
 And I'm sorry indeed, I'm not one of the train, 
 Which you by your labors enlighten. 
 
 The cause I'll explain. T'was a night in last May, 
 When the stars in the heavens were beaming; 
 
 And I on my pillow sound slumbering lay, 
 Of what was to come little dreaming. 
 
 A helpless poor creature, all sobbing and sad, 
 
 Came suing to us for our favor ; 
 No home, and no friends, and no clothing she had — 
 
 Nor kindred ; if we would not have her. 
 
 What land she had lived in, it did not appear, 
 She no word from our language could borrow; 
 
 A stranger she seemed, from some happier sphere; 
 Just arrived in our region of sorrow. 
 
 Tho' fair was the season, and calm was the night, 
 And the brilliant stars beaming above her; 
 
 Had we left her to wander, how wretched her plight, 
 With no one on earth, that would Love her! 
 
 C 
 
& 
 
 A CHILD'S EXCUSE TO HER TEACHER. 13 
 
 But her eloquent pleadings Ave did not resist, 
 Nor refuse in her need to befriend her ; 
 
 And I in the labor of kindness assist, 
 And stay out of school to attend her. 
 
 And she's growing in beauty, and stature, and grace, 
 And her sweet pretty tricks give us pleasure ; 
 
 Oh ! I'm glad she came here while seeking a place, 
 For I love her, the dear little treasure. 
 
 And soon she '11 be able to walk all alone, 
 
 Nor be to her mother much trouble ; 
 How merrily then, to my school, I'll be gone, 
 
 My diligence determined to double. 
 
 I'll read, and I'll write, and I'll parse, and I'll spell, 
 And compute both by pound and by dollar ; 
 
 And all that I do, I will try to do well, 
 In hopes to become a good scholar. 
 
 And now my dear Madame, I bid you adieu, 
 
 Nor farther excuse will be making, 
 For what I am doing, I'm sure you would do y 
 
 Or, I must be greatly mistaken. 
 

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 14 TALK OF A LITTLE BOY AND LI IS MOTHER. 
 
 TALK OF A LITTLE BOY AND HIS 
 
 MOTHER. 
 
 HV yT Y little Son, be still, I pray, 
 
 -LVJ- For this is God's own Sabbath-day ; 
 
 3 
 
 
 
 
 You may not work, you must not play, 
 
 
 
 Nor may you read your week-day books, 
 
 
 
 For God into the chamber looks 
 
 
 
 Where you are sitting all alone, 
 
 
 
 And all you do to him is known. 
 
 
 
 Oh, Mother, is He then so near 
 
 
 
 That he my very thoughts can hear? 
 
 
 
 Each naughty look, each wicked word, 
 
 
 
 His eye hath seen, his ear hath heard. 
 
 
 
 He sits upon a throne on high, 
 
 
 
 By the blue curtain of the sky 
 
 
 
 Hid from your view ; but yet his eye 
 
 
 
 Looks through its lustrous canopy. 
 
 
 
 That little sparrow sitting there 
 
 
 
 He condescends to make his care ; 
 
 
 
 The very hairs upon your head 
 
 
 
 Are marked, and known, and numbered. 
 
 
 c 
 
 You cannot from his presence fly, 
 
 1 
 
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TALK OF A LITTLE BOY AND HIS MOTHER. 15 
 
 Night cannot hide you from his eye ; 
 Where e'er you go, where e'er you stay, 
 His hand upholds, or guides your way. 
 Oh, think, my son ! that piercing Eye 
 Which hateth all impurity 
 Sees, hears, and knows your every thought : 
 You cannot be where God is not. 
 Thus ever think, then will you fear 
 To say what God abhors to hear. 
 
 Mother, I've often lain at night, 
 And wondered if each star so bright 
 Was not an angel's glittering eye, 
 Watching our earth so steadfastly ; 
 Nor ever turns that gaze away, 
 From evening, till the break of day. 
 Slowly and faint, at morning's dawn, 
 As if reluctant, one by one, 
 Seem they to go, yet till the last 
 Each sorrowing look is downward cast ; 
 So soft, so mournful, and so fair, 
 They fade, and mount, and disappear, 
 Leaving me doubtful, as I gaze, 
 If tears or distance, dim their blaze. 
 Are they not sentinels who keep 
 Watch over man, awake, asleep ? 
 Their duty o'er, at dawn of day 
 They spread their wings, and soar away, 
 
 D 
 
a 
 
 7 
 
 1 6 TALK OF A LITTLE BOY AXD HIS MOTHER. 
 
 To tell before God's spotless throne 
 
 Of all by every mortal done. 
 
 Oh ! who would go at dead of night, 
 
 By the faint star's uncertain light, 
 
 To do a deed of blood and crime ? 
 
 Oh ! let him choose the noonday prime. 
 
 Though thousands cluster round his path, 
 
 He might escape their kindled wrath. 
 
 Oh, to go out beneath the skies 
 
 And meet those watchful, sleepless eyes, 
 
 And feel those very eyes may be 
 
 Weeping that moment tears for me ! 
 
 Oh, thus to think at dawn of day 
 
 They'll fly away, away, away, 
 
 Up to the throne, and there give in 
 
 The dreadful record of my sin ! 
 
 No, little son, those stars are bright, 
 
 Yet are not angels' eyes of light, 
 
 But beauteous orbs, which had their birth 
 
 Perhaps before our native earth : 
 
 Unstained and pure they nobly stand 
 
 As when they left their Maker's hand. 
 
 'Tis said, among them, when at first 
 
 Our world a newborn planet burst, 
 
 A younger sister to them given, 
 
 Glowing, and pure, and warm, from heaven, 
 
 So pure, that, e'en at God's command, 
 
r 
 
 TALK OF A LITTLE BOY AX J) HIS MOTHER 
 
 It bounded, finished from his hand, 
 He gazed upon it as it stood, 
 And, solemnly, pronounced it good ! 
 Tis written, when thus suddenly 
 It lighted up the eastern sky, 
 The morning stars which saw it come, 
 Burnished, and brilliant, from its home, 
 And heard the Sons of God on high 
 Shout loud and long their notes of joy, 
 They, too, in sweet harmonious measure, 
 Gave utterance to their boundless pleasure. 
 Years sped, alas ! how many fall ; 
 Alas ! how changed, how silent all 
 Move round and round this faded ball ! 
 Night after night no voice is heard, 
 No song of joy, no cheering word ; 
 But even seem they from the skies 
 To bend on earth their pensive eyes, 
 And gaze in mournful stillness now 
 Upon their sister's altered brow. 
 Our lovely orb, alas ! my son, 
 Its flowers are fading every one ! 
 Our God, who made this world so fair, 
 Made man a sinless being there ; 
 He placed him in a bright abode 
 He gave him access to his God, 
 And flowers he gave of every hue, 
 And fruits in rich abundance, too; 
 
 17 
 
1 8 TALK OF A LITTLE BOY AND HIS MOTHER. 
 
 And every beast to him he gave, 
 And every fish beneath the wave; 
 One tree alone, he said, " Touch not ;" 
 But man that warning voice forgot: 
 He plucked, he ate; all nature groaned, 
 Pierced by a deep and cureless wound ; 
 And God, from his abode on high, 
 Said man for his offense should die. 
 
 But why, dear mother, tell me why, 
 When thousand stars were in the sky, 
 All pure and beautiful and bright, 
 The glittering dew-drops of the night, 
 Why should a world like ours be made 
 So bright, so fair, and just to fade? 
 For God, whose piercing eye can see 
 All round and round eternity, 
 He must have seen, have known it all, 
 Its rise, its radiance, and its fall, 
 Its short-lived hour of glory o'er, 
 Its light put out, to shine no more. 
 
 8 
 

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 JOHN JAMES GRA Y. jq 
 
 JOHN JAMES GRAY. 
 
 AN ACROSTIC ON HIS BIRTH-DAY. 
 
 JOHNNY, little Johnny, I love you very well; 
 *J Oh! for her babe a mother's love, what tongue 
 
 3 
 
 
 
 
 its depths can tell ! 
 
 
 
 H ope springeth in her bosom while gazing on thy 
 
 
 
 brow. 
 
 
 
 N e'er disappoint that hope, my love ; be good as 
 
 
 
 thou art now. 
 
 
 
 J ust like an opening blossom expanding in the sun, 
 
 
 
 A bud of peerless beauty, art thou, my little one ; 
 
 
 
 M oist with the dews of heaven, and sparkling in its 
 
 
 
 ray, 
 
 
 
 E re aught of earth has stolen one precious gem away ; 
 
 
 
 S till like thy morning promise be thy advancing day. 
 
 
 
 G entle little Johnny, what shall I seek for thee ? 
 
 
 
 Rank, riches, honor, and renown? Such things de- 
 
 
 
 ceitful be ! 
 
 
 
 A round thy brow may innocence a lasting garland 
 
 
 
 twine ; 
 
 
 
 Y oung shrine of all my fondest hopes, may Jesus' 
 
 
 € 
 
 love be thine ! 
 
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 2o A QUESTION AND AN ANSWER. 
 
 j 
 
 
 E arth cannot rob my darling of that which he bc- 
 
 
 
 A jewel ever brilliant, a never-fading rose; [stows — 
 
 
 
 S ecure, though all the world conspire to steal that 
 
 
 
 gem away, 
 
 
 
 T hat rose shall bloom and shed perfume on life's 
 
 
 
 most wintry day. 
 
 
 
 O h ! may my little lamb be led within thy fold to rest ; 
 
 
 
 N earthly bed so soft, so safe, as the Redeemer's 
 
 
 
 breast ! 
 
 
 
 March, 1838. 
 
 
 
 A OUESTION AND AN ANSWER* 
 
 
 
 6 £ nr^y O we miss you ?" Is that what you're asking ? 
 
 
 
 J ' Yes, Honey, that's just what we do ; 
 
 
 
 And our hearts and our thoughts are this moment 
 
 
 
 All wandering away after you. 
 
 
 
 Oh ! the chain that unites us together 
 
 
 
 But strengthens the farther you roam, 
 
 
 
 And we whisper at night, noon and morning, 
 
 
 
 " Oh, would he were with us at home !" 
 
 
 
 When the sunset is hid by the mountain, 
 
 
 
 And gaslight like his tries to glow ; 
 
 
 
 * Written to my Son in reply to a letter containing the lines, " Do 
 
 
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 They Miss Me At Home /" 
 
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cfi 
 
 A QUESTION AND AN ANSWER. 21 
 
 When your sisters sit down to their music, 
 And sing us, " The songs that you know ;" 
 When, though other friends may be round us 
 Whose voices accord with the strain, 
 Yet one pleasant tone still is missing — 
 <; Oh, would you were with us again !" 
 
 And ever at morning we miss you, 
 When smoketh the hot buckwheat cake, 
 And Mary Fitzgerald keeps counting 
 How many she has not to bake ; 
 When cake after cake disappearing, 
 In rapid succession, we see, 
 Such scenes, my dear boy, I assure you, 
 Most strongly remind us of thee. 
 
 And at dinner, when around us is floating 
 The fragrance of turkey or chick, 
 We sigh, as we send from the table 
 Some joint which we know you could pick. 
 Yes, we miss your quick wit and gay laughter, 
 Our nectar more brisk than champagne, 
 And our tears and our smiles melt together, 
 Like Spring's mingled sunshine and rain. 
 
 We miss you, macree and mavourneen, 
 
 Thou light of the home and the heart, 
 
 And we chide them, these slow-moving moments, 
 
 That keep loving kindred apart, 
 
 D 
 
22 YOU ASA' ME FOR MY DAUGHTER. 
 
 So just come, — and as soon as convenient, 
 Though shortly again you must roam ; 
 And the kiss and the smile and the welcome 
 Shall tell if we miss you at home. 
 
 YOU ASK ME FOR MY DAUGHTER. 
 
 YOU ask me for my daughter! 
 But oh ! she is to me 
 What fragrance is unto the rose, 
 
 What bark is to the tree, 
 What rain is to the thirsty ground, 
 
 What dew is to the flower — 
 A beam of sunshine to my heart 
 In sorrow's darkest hour. 
 
 You ask me for my daughter ! 
 
 Oh ! ask the merchant's wealth ; 
 Ask from the long-afflicted one 
 
 His late recovered health ; 
 Ask of the blind, who long has walked 
 
 Bereft of heaven's own light, 
 That gift, the dearest, sweetest, best, 
 
 His just-returning sight. 
 
 You ask me for my daughter, 
 And say, " You are not alone ; 
 
r 
 
 
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 F<9£/ ASK ME FOR MY DA UGHTER. 23 
 
 She is not fairest of the flock, 
 
 And not the only one." 
 Oh ! choose then, choose, the fairest flower 
 
 That blooms around my cot, 
 To be transported to thy bower, 
 
 And I'll refuse it not. 
 
 You say you love my daughter ! 
 
 Alas ! I know you do ; 
 And she is just as dear to me, 
 
 As she can be to you — 
 My joy. my comfort, and my stay, 
 
 My sweetest earthly hope : 
 How can I part with what I prize? 
 
 How give my darling up ? 
 
 You fain would have my daughter. 
 
 Oh ! can I let her go ? 
 Each shrinking fibre of my frame 
 
 In anguish answers, No ! 
 Heaven gave this little gem to me 
 
 To light my pathway dim ; 
 How can I yield His precious gift, 
 
 Save only unto Him ? 
 
 * 
 
 Oh ! seek some other s daughter 
 
 Within thy bower to shine, 
 More stately, gay, and beautiful, 
 
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 And not so loved as mine ; 
 
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 24 TO MY ONLY SISTER. 
 
 You're worthy of a worthier maid, 
 If maid may worthier be : 
 
 Oh ! seek a richer, brighter bride, 
 And leave my cliild witJi me ! 
 
 TO MY ONLY SISTER. 
 
 WE are old and gray, we are old and gray, 
 And our light is the light of the sunset ray ; 
 Our feet are weary, our blood is cold, 
 Our limbs are feeble — yes, yes, we are old, 
 And none remain, who, in childish glee, 
 Once frolicked and laughed with you and me. 
 
 We are old and gray, we are old and gray, 
 And weak and helpless ; but where are they ? 
 In the lone church-yard they have found a bed, 
 With a marble canopy overhead ; 
 They sleep, they rest, and toil and care 
 Disturb no more the sleepers there. 
 
 They all have gone ; yes, they all have gone ; 
 
 Friends, parents, kindred, one by one 
 
 Have laid them down, and we wait in vain — 
 
 They come not, they come not to us again ; 
 
 But from that far-off spirit-land 
 
 They beckon to us with a pale cold hand. 
 
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 TO MY ONLY SISTER. 2 $ 
 
 We may not linger, we must not stay, 
 
 We cannot tarry upon our way ; 
 
 To the land we are leaving we look not back, 
 
 Nor turn us again on our downward track; 
 
 But onward, onward, onward go, 
 
 Till we sleep where those sleepers sleep below. 
 
 And wherefore weep, and wherefore weep ? 
 
 Would we break the rest where our dearest sleep ? , 
 
 Would we wake them up in a world of pain, 
 
 And bind them around with our mortal chain, 
 
 When the weary voyage of life is o'er, 
 
 And each bark safe-moored on the shining shore ? 
 
 No, sister, no ; we are old and gray, 
 Nor far is the end of our wearisome way ; 
 For the silver cord is loosening fast, 
 Each strand unwinding must break at last; 
 And the golden bowl is day by day 
 Wasting the oil of our life away ! 
 
 Remember we not, remember we not, 
 Our childhood's home, that dearest spot — 
 How a mother's love, and a father's care, 
 Guided and guarded, and blessed us there ; 
 And though oft ungrateful, willful, wild, 
 They chided, yet pardoned each wayward child. 
 
 Ah ! no, we were not what we ought to be ; 
 There were faults and follies in you and me, 
 
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 26 
 
 TO MY ONLY SISTER. 
 
 
 Unlearned lessons, and tasks undone ; 
 Neglected duties at set of sun ; 
 Yet, when faults and' follies were all confessed, 
 Were we ever spurned from our father's breast? 
 
 Ah ! no, for the kind good-night was said, 
 And the blessing asked on each bowed head, 
 And the parting kiss was fondly pressed 
 On each young brow ere we sought our rest ; 
 And with pardon sealed, and faults forgiven, 
 Our sleep was sweet, our dreams were heaven. 
 
 And oh ! shall an earthly father's love 
 
 Transcend His mercy who reigns above ? 
 
 When we kneel at His footstool with penitent tears, 
 
 Confessing the sins and the follies of years, 
 
 With nothing to offer, and nothing to claim, 
 
 But faith in our Saviour, and hope in his name? 
 
 And as once we knelt at our father's knee 
 In the loving faith of our infancy ; 
 So come let us kneel to our Father above, 
 So plead for his pardon, so trust in his love ; 
 And meekly, humbly, hand in hand, 
 Retire to rest in the better land. 
 
LITTLE MAGGY. 
 
 27 
 
 LITTLE MAGGY. 
 
 WRITTEN ON HER SIXTH BIRTHDAY, AT HER OWN REQUEST. 
 
 DID you ever see our Maggy? 
 She's a puny little thing : 
 Her feet are very, very long, 
 And her legs are very thin. 
 
 Her eyes are blue as indigo, 
 
 Her face is small and white ; 
 "And she will be full six years old, 
 At half-past ten to-night. 
 
 Though stockings blue she sometimes wears, 
 
 She knows not how to spell ; 
 But she can say her alphabet, 
 
 And knows each letter well. 
 
 Though she has gone to infant school, 
 
 She scarce can say a rhyme ; 
 But then for learning and such things, 
 
 There's plenty yet of time. 
 
 We measured her this morning, 
 
 As sure as you 're alive, 
 The little, fair-haired, slender thing, 
 
 Was only three feet five. 
 
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 28 LITTLE MAGGY. 
 
 Oft will the tear unbidden start, 
 
 To Maggy's azure eye ; 
 Oh, shame that any girl so tall 
 
 Should for a trifle cry ! 
 
 Oh, Maggy ! I remember well, 
 The time that thou wert born ; 
 
 The sky was dark with many a cloud, 
 And bitter blew the storm. 
 
 Those tears, my little tender one, 
 Thy young pale cheeks that wet, 
 
 Betoken stormy days, I fear, 
 In store for Maggy yet. 
 
 Ah, Maggy ! I remember well, 
 When oped thine infant eye ; 
 
 'Twas clear and bright as any orb, 
 That sparkled in the sky. 
 
 I watched its wandering glances, 
 Though it did not glance on me ; 
 
 I thought it was as sweet an eye, 
 As ever eyes did see. 
 
 Ah, Maggy ! I remember well, 
 Just here upon my breast ; 
 
 I lulled my little stranger-girl, 
 To her first of earthly rest. 
 
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 LITTLE MAGGY. 2 Q 
 
 And watched the blue veins wandering 
 
 Upon her slumbering brow ; 
 Come hither, darling, let me see, 
 
 Can mother trace them now ? 
 
 • Why, yes, the rogues are hiding here, 
 Beneath the flaxen hair ; 
 And there is one across her nose 
 And there, and there, and there ! 
 
 I Ve heard it said, my Maggy ! 
 
 'Twas folly, I suppose ; 
 That never maid with bright blue veins 
 
 Should wear her wedding clothes. 
 
 Ah ! well-a-day, my Maggy, 
 
 If it should be thy lot — 
 To lie in yonder lone church-yard, 
 
 By all but me forgot. 
 
 What ! get a shroud for thee, my love ! 
 
 A coffin long and thin ! 
 And make a deep, dark, lonely grave, 
 
 And lay my Maggy in ! 
 
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 Come, darling, nearer, nearer yet, 
 And let thy sweet, warm breath 
 Chase from my soul these visions strange 
 
 Of sickness, woe, and death. 
 
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 20 FATE OF JENNY GEDDES. 
 
 
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 For I have seen the darkened room, 
 
 
 • 
 
 
 Where thou, my child, wert lying; 
 
 
 
 
 And watched thee till the spirit's light 
 
 
 
 
 Was from thy blue eye flying. 
 
 
 
 
 But no, my little Maggy, 
 
 
 
 
 I shall not see thee die ; 
 
 
 
 
 This gentle hand of thine must close 
 
 
 
 
 Thy dying mother's eye. 
 
 
 
 
 And thou must see her laid to rest, 
 
 
 
 
 Beneath some willow tree ; 
 
 
 
 
 And shed as kind a tear for her, 
 
 
 
 
 As she would shed for thee. 
 
 
 
 . 
 
 FATE OF JENNY GEDDES. 
 
 
 
 
 I. 
 ~T)OOR Jenny ! she is dead and gone, 
 -L And laid beneath the clay ; 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Her coat was speckled black and brown, 
 
 
 
 
 Or yellow, tinged with gray. 
 
 
 
 
 She was a fair and comely cat, 
 
 
 
 
 Though some pronounced her plain ; 
 
 
 
 
 Alas ! / feel, " we ne 'er shall look 
 
 
 
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 Upon her like again." 
 
 
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 FATE OF JENNY GEDDES. 3 1 
 II. 
 
 You ask me of poor Jenny's death, 
 
 Each fact I will display, 
 The time, the circumstance record, 
 
 The reason and the way. 
 It happened on a night in June, 
 
 When fragrant flowers appear, 
 At Easton, Pennsylvania, 
 
 The 1850th year. 
 
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 1 
 
 III. 
 Now, Jenny had been sick, all day, 
 
 And often did she come, 
 And lay her down beside my chair, 
 
 All in the dining-room. 
 And told me of her grief and pain, 
 
 As plain as cat could speak ; 
 Till tears came starting to my eye, 
 
 And rolling down my cheek. 
 
 IV. 
 
 And thus I, unto her, did say, 
 " You 're sick as cat can be ; 
 
 So up, unto the garret come, 
 I '11 make a bed for thee." 
 
 And up the stairs together, then, 
 We went, the cat and I, 
 
 A box, I got, and in it laid, 
 
 
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 Some flannel, soft, and dry. 
 
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 32 /./r^ <9^ JENNY GEDDES. 
 
 V. 
 
 But oh ! poor Jenny she would not 
 
 Within the box abide, 
 And as I walked adown the stairs, 
 
 She trotted by my side. 
 Then unto Mary's little room, 
 
 Full hastily she sped, 
 And jumped on the white counterpane 
 
 That covered Mary's bed. 
 
 
 3 
 
 
 VI. 
 
 
 1 
 
 
 " Oh ! Jenny, Jenny," I did cry, 
 
 
 
 
 " This may not, must not be ; 
 
 
 
 
 This room I did not paper new, 
 
 
 
 
 Nor make that bed for thee. 
 
 
 
 
 Get out, get out, you saucy cat." 
 
 
 
 
 She heeded not my cry ; 
 
 • 
 
 
 
 But on the snow-white counterpane 
 
 
 
 
 She lay determinedly. 
 
 
 
 
 VII. 
 
 
 
 
 With that my anger did arise, 
 
 
 
 
 And like a lion bold, 
 
 
 
 
 I shook the cover, stamped my foot, 
 
 
 
 
 And eke began to scold, 
 
 
 
 
 While Jenny, up unto my face, 
 
 
 
 
 She raised her pleading eye, 
 
 
 
 
 Which told me, though I heeded not, 
 
 
 
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 That she would shortly die. 
 
 
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FATE OF JEXXY GEDDES. 33 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Oh, Jenny, Jenny ! had I dreamed 
 
 That such a thing could be ; 
 The very best bed in the house 
 
 I would have spread for thee. 
 My eye was blind, my heart was hard, 
 
 For I the truth will tell ; , 
 So loudly raising up my voice, 
 • I shouted, " Isabelle." 
 
 IX. 
 
 And she, though deaf at other times, 
 
 My mandate did obey ; 
 And thus, that cruel serving-maid, 
 
 Relentlessly did say : 
 " There is a box, a lidless box, 
 
 The dining-room above, 
 I '11 put her in, and then its mouth, 
 
 Up to the wall I '11 shove." 
 
 x. 
 
 And so she took poor Jenny up, 
 
 Without or stop or stay, 
 And in her strong and sinewy arms, 
 
 She bore her straight away, 
 But I relenting cried, " Stop, stop, 
 
 Until a bed I make*; 
 Don't hurt her, now, good Isabelle, 
 
 Oh, don't, for pity's sake !" 
 
34 FATE OF J EX NY GEDDES. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Now, Jenny Geddes, whom you know 
 
 Was no mean sneaking cat, 
 Resolved to die, as she had lived, 
 
 A right-down democrat. 
 The more she put her in the box, 
 
 The more she would not stay ; 
 The more she laid her on the bed, 
 
 The more she would not lay. 
 
 XII. 
 
 But Isabelle was Irish born, 
 
 And fresh from Donegal ; 
 And would she let a Yankee cat, 
 
 " Bate her at all, at all." 
 And fierce and high the conflict rose, 
 
 But Erin won the day ; 
 And Jenny, in the lidless box, 
 
 Was stowed secure away. 
 
 XIII. 
 But oh ! her spirit it would not 
 
 Abide the box within, 
 So she began to jump and scratch, 
 
 And make a mighty din ; 
 While we, regardless of her woes, 
 
 Went down the kitchen stair, 
 And left without a sigh or tear, 
 
 The wretched captive there. 
 
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 FATE OF JENNY GEDDES. 35 
 XIV. 
 
 The sun was hastening to his bed ; 
 
 The stars came peeping out, 
 And winking to each other asked, 
 
 " What's all that noise about?" 
 Each little zephyr pressed his nose 
 
 Against the window pane, 
 But seeing that he could not see, 
 
 He fluttered off again. 
 
 XV. 
 Oh ! such a screaming, scratching time, 
 
 I trow, you never heard ; 
 Meek, passive, Mrs. Workheiser, 
 
 Got rily, on my word, 
 And shaking little Martin up, 
 
 Thus dreamily she says : 
 " I vanders fat dat noise can pe, 
 
 In der at Dr. Crays." 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Now Tom came from the College down, 
 
 A tired and weary wight, 
 And sped him to his bed amain, 
 
 For it was late at night? 
 He went to bed, as I have said, 
 
 But not a wink could sleep ; 
 For why ? Poor Jenny in the box, 
 
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o£ FATE OF JEN XV GEDDES. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 So up again from sleepless bed, 
 
 He started angrily, 
 And ran into the outer room, 
 
 To see what there might be. 
 A lamp was burning in his hand, 
 
 Wrath burned within his eye : 
 " Now, be ye spuke, or robber bold, 
 
 I'm bound to do, or die." 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 The lamp he held above his head, 
 
 And peered the room around ; 
 But all was hushed ; deep silence reigned ; 
 
 He heard nor voice, nor sound. 
 As even you cat's back have seen, 
 
 When stranger dog was there ; 
 So rose upon his reeking brow, 
 
 Each red particular hair. 
 
 XIX. 
 You '11 think it strange, when nought was there, 
 
 That he should frightened be ; 
 But that was just the reason that 
 
 A frightened man was he. 
 Show but an object real to fear, 
 
 And man will fear it not ; 
 While foolish tales, or ghost, or fay, 
 
 Are never quite forgot. 
 
FATE OF JENNY GEDDES. 37 
 
 XX. 
 
 But 'twas not long till up arose 
 
 Again that horrid din, 
 And Tom perceived the cause concealed 
 
 That fatal box within ; 
 So plucking up his courage then, 
 
 He ventured dauntlessly 
 To pull the box out from the wall, 
 
 To see what he could see. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Now Jenny, glad to be released, 
 
 Came bouncing on the floor ; 
 The window up this youth he threw, 
 
 Forgetful of the door, 
 And out into the yard let fall 
 
 Poor Jenny there and then : 
 Alas ! alas ! instead of ink, 
 
 Let tears supply my pen. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Sad mewings woke the slumbering morn, 
 
 From rosy-curtained bed ; 
 She pulled her cloudy nightcap off, 
 
 And scratched her shining head. 
 And when her radiant fingers passed, 
 
 How gloriously unrolled 
 Her ringlets bright, of dazzling light, 
 
 Like clouds of wavy gold. 
 
 & 
 
38 FATE OF JENNY GEDDES. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Alas ! her shrinking eye beheld 
 
 A sad and doleful sight : 
 Poor Jenny, wet with dewy tears, 
 
 Wept by the pitying night. 
 A veil of mourning, inky hue, 
 
 A piece of thunder-cloud 
 Concealed each tear, yet might you hear 
 
 Her waitings long and loud. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 But Jenny lay in dying state, 
 
 Throughout the live-long day ; 
 We strove, alas ! we strove in vain 
 
 To find a remedy. 
 We brought her food, we brought her drink, 
 
 We stroked her tenderly, 
 But she from all our kindness turned 
 
 Away indignantly. 
 
 xxv. 
 
 But passed away, that long, long day, 
 
 And passed away the night, 
 And still poor Jenny lived, and lived 
 
 On, on till dawning light. 
 Oh ! glassy, glassy grew her eye, 
 
 Her bosom ceased to beat ; 
 She died as every cat must die. 
 
 Just as the clock struck eight. 
 
TO DEAR A UNT HANNAH. 39 
 
 TO DEAR AUNT HANNAH. 
 
 MY dearest aunt Hannah and sweet cousin Sue, 
 I long have been thinking of writing to you ; 
 But now that my pen in my hand I have got, 
 What to say, how to say it, indeed I know not. 
 
 In making excuse I'm not very well versed, 
 But still I must tell you what hindered me first: 
 I woke up one morning with headache and fever, 
 Each hour, as it passed, proved me sicker than ever. 
 
 Night came, and next morning, just think of my plight, 
 Your poor little Lizzie looked just like a fright — 
 Face, hands, feet, and head, breast, body, and shoulder, 
 With chicken-pox covered, you 'd start to behold her ! 
 
 But still I felt better, though worse I did seem. 
 I thought of dear Susan, and longed for ice cream. 
 But all that is passed, save some spots, just to tell 
 Where the chickens have picked me, and now I am 
 well. 
 
 A prisoner, however, I day after day 
 Up in the third story obliged was to stay, 
 
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 40 
 
 TO DEAR AC XT HAWAII. 
 
 Lest dear little Jeannie, my cousin, you see, 
 Should pick up the spots as they faded from me. 
 
 Yet up at the window I sat half the day, 
 Whilst she in the garden would frolick and play. 
 I was not quite lonely while Jane T could see, 
 Her golden curls tossing in pastime for me. 
 
 There's one thing, however, I want just to tell, 
 How sorry I am I said not farewell 
 To friends who so gently and constantly strove 
 To comfort and cheer by their kindness and love 
 A poor, helpless, troublesome, lame little creature, 
 With nought to commend her in form or in feature. 
 
 But I know that you love me, and surely I do, 
 Deep, deep in my heart, feel how much I love you ; 
 But all I can offer, and all I can say, 
 Is I think of your kindness by night and by day. 
 
 Farewell, dear aunt Hannah; farewell, cousin Sue; 
 Forget not to come, I'll keep looking for you ; 
 And where 'er I may be, in the country or town, 
 I am still your affectionate Lizzie Rush Browne. 
 
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DEAR COUSIN SUE. 
 
 41 
 
 DEAR COUSIN SUE. 
 
 MY dear Cousin Susan, I beg you '11 excuse 
 My seeming neglect, nor a pardon refuse ; 
 I showed Ma your letter, and so all is righted ; 
 When her girl is preferred she ne'er deems herself 
 
 slighted. 
 But an answer to hers she may still be expecting, 
 So just set that thing down as worth recollecting. 
 Your questions are leaders suggestive and nice, 
 And I'll ansAver them all, if I can, in a trice. 
 
 Alas ! my dear father is far, far away, 
 
 And farther and farther, each night and each day, 
 
 On the wild-rolling ocean which every wind vexes, 
 
 Still onward and onward away unto Texas, 
 
 And the poor little girl — for I know whom you mean — 
 
 May look for his coming, and long look in vain. 
 
 The photographs next is in order, I see ; 
 
 We have got them all right, many thanks unto thee. 
 
 Ma thinks them the best he has ever had taken, 
 
 So like and so true they could not be mistaken ; 
 
 So like, so unlike ; it is Pa in each feature ; 
 
 But oh ! how unlike in its essence and nature ! 
 
 They give us no smile, they return no caress ; 
 
 Unmoved he beholds us in joy or distress. 
 
42 DEAR COUSIN SUE. 
 
 It is, and it is not, my own darling father, 
 And my heart from the shadow small solace can 
 gather. 
 
 father, my father, come 1 back unto me ! 
 
 Oh, to rest on your bosom, to sit on your knee ! 
 Oh, to hear your dear voice and to see your dear face, 
 And to feel your arms clasp me in loving embrace ! 
 Come back ! oh, come back to your poor little girl! 
 And I care not for glory or jewel or pearl. 
 
 1 want your own self, kind, loving, and true, 
 
 And I want— I want all things just while I want you. 
 
 Excuse me, dear Cousin, for almost I thought 
 I was writing to Pa, but find I am not. 
 I have many kind friends and I ought not to say, 
 Nor think I want all things, because Pa is away. 
 
 The next is the fair ; well, 'tis over and past, 
 
 And well I attended from first unto last. 
 
 We had all things the nicest— such cakes, white as 
 
 snow, 
 All covered with ice made of sugar, you know ; 
 And the sewing-doll, she was the wonder of all, 
 And most came to see her, some great and some small ! 
 A right model sewing-girl, busy and clever, 
 Uncomplaining, untiring, working for ever. 
 Ma was her exhibitor till she got weary, 
 Then I took her up, and she worked like a fairy. 
 
DEAR COUSIN SUE. 
 
 43 
 
 Some said we should sell her, but grandma said 
 
 Never ! 
 She's Cousin Sue's babe, and we '11 keep her forever. 
 The money she earned was just — let me see, 
 Two dollars a-day, and she worked for us three ! 
 She was almost worn out ; so we laid her to rest 
 Above in the garret, in grandmamma's chest. 
 And there let her sleep, free from labor and care, 
 Till we want her to work when we next have a fair. 
 
 3 
 
 I am glad Cousin Alice has got so much better — 
 You mention that fact at the end of your letter ; 
 And poor Maggie Wilson, I'm happy to hear, 
 Rolls hoop for her pastime ; I wish I could see her, 
 And share in her sport ; Cousin Jeannie can play, 
 But I, Cousin Sue, never have rolled it a day. 
 We all send of the best of good wishes to you 
 And Aunt Hannah ; and now, dearest Cousin, Adieu ! 
 
II. 
 
 RELIGIOUS POEMS. 
 
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THE CHURCH. 
 
 WHO cometh from Bozrah with garments of 
 red? 
 Like his in the wine-press accustomed to tread ? 
 From Edom who cometh ? the mighty to save ; 
 His raiment is wet with the blood of the brave. 
 
 But where are the legions that fought in the war ? 
 The horsemen of Zion, the death-dealing car? 
 The great and the mighty ? he helper had none, 
 Majestic in glory, he conquered alone. 
 
 And who on his bosom leans feeble and fair, 
 Reclining in beauty and confidence there? 
 'Tis the bride, the beloved, on her heavenward road, 
 The ransomed from ruin, the chosen of God. 
 
 He shed his best blood for her sins to atone, 
 He died to redeem her, to make her his own ; 
 Defilement and sin from her soul he transfers, 
 Though red be his raiment, unspotted is hers. 
 
 (47) 
 
4 8 
 
 HYMN. 
 
 Go forth with thy strong one, thou beautiful bride, 
 Still lean on his bosom, still cling to his side ; 
 Go forth in thy beauty supported and blest, 
 Till the pearl gates of glory unfold for thy rest. 
 
 HYMN* 
 
 IN wrapt adoration, O come let us raise, 
 To God, our salvation, an anthem of praise- 
 On earth, be our faint song of gratitude given, 
 Till holier hymns have been taught us in heaven. 
 
 When hearts have been fainting, and friends have 
 
 been few, 
 And hope in our bosoms just whispering adieu; 
 Thy spirit has beamed on the gloom of our night, 
 And the darkness of doubt has expired in light. 
 
 To God who has reared this fair edifice up, 
 Our help in the past — in the future our hope — 
 He laid the foundation — He raised the top stone, 
 To him be the glory, the work is his own. 
 
 * Sang at the Commencement of the first Collegiate Term, in the 
 new building of Lafayette College. 
 
HYMN. 
 
 49 
 
 And all that is bright in this building shall be, 
 Great Architect, consecrate wholly to thee ; 
 Our chaplets of fame shall be counted but loss, 
 Till we see them bedewed with the blood of the cross. 
 
 To Calvary's mountain shall genius repair, 
 And lay all his talents devotedly there ; 
 The fire of his muse, shall be fire from above, 
 And the soul of his song, the sweet story of love. 
 
 And science and learning, shall bring as is meet, 
 Their bright meed of honor to lay at Thy feet ; 
 Their garlands of glory adoringly fling, 
 O'er the thorn-woven crown of our crucified King. 
 
 Enkindle, great God, in our bosoms a fire, 
 
 That shall brilliantly burn when yon sun shall expire ; 
 
 A spark from thine altar in heaven bestow, 
 
 To light in our hearts such an altar below. 
 
 From this fair hill of science, oh, let us but see, 
 Moriah's bright summit, we '11 go there with thee, 
 And labor for laurels to strew in thy road, 
 And shout our Hosannas of glory to God ! 
 
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 50 
 
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 A SUNDA Y- SCHOOL HYMX. 
 
 A SUNDAY-SCHOOL HYMN. 
 
 ONCE we loved the Sabbath-day, 
 Not to read, or praise, or pray ; 
 But that we might wander free, 
 Swim the river — climb the tree; 
 Steal the apple, peach or pear, 
 For we knew not God was there. 
 
 Well the parent bird might fly, 
 When she heard our footsteps nigh ; 
 We would steal the unfledged young, 
 Careless of her grief-taught song — 
 Then we had not learned to read, 
 God for sparrows taketh heed. 
 
 Absent from our parents' sight, 
 
 We would sometimes cheat and fight ; 
 
 Breaking with our converse rude 
 
 Holy Sabbath quietude — 
 
 Ah ! we had not then been taught 
 
 What the Sabbath breakers' lot. 
 
 Now how changed ! how blessed we ! 
 When the Sabbath sun we see , 
 
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 A SUNDAY-SCHOOL HYMN. qi 
 
 Joyfully we leav r e our home — 
 Joyful to our school we come ; 
 Warm with love our bosoms glow, 
 We are happy children now. 
 
 Happy in our changed lot, 
 On the Sabbath wandering not ; 
 Taught to read, to sing, to pray, 
 Taught salvation's glorious way ; 
 And the Christian's golden rule 
 We have learned at Sunday-school. 
 
 Teachers! will you thanks receive? 
 All we children have to give ; 
 Gladly will we meet you here, 
 Every Sabbath in the year ; 
 Lessons learn, and mind each rule 
 Taught us in the Sunday-school. 
 
 And when Sabbaths here are o'er; 
 When our souls to glory soar, 
 We shall meet and spend above, 
 One long Sabbath-day of love; 
 Every soul with rapture full — 
 Joys begun in Sunday-school. 
 
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 THE GOSPEL INVITATION ACCEPTED. 
 
 THE GOSPEL INVITATION ACCEPTED* 
 
 AM I called ? and can it be ! 
 Has my Saviour chosen me? 
 Guilty, wretched as I am, 
 Has He named my worthless name? 
 Vilest of the vile am I ! 
 Dare I raise my hopes so high ? 
 
 Am I called ? I dare not stay, 
 May not, must not disobey ; 
 Here, I lay me at thy feet, 
 Clinging to the mercy-seat ; 
 Thine I am and thine alone, 
 Lord, with me thy will be done. 
 
 Am I called ? What shall I bring 
 As an offering to my King? 
 Poor and blind, and naked, I 
 Trembling at thy footstool lie ; 
 Nought but sin I call my own, 
 Nor for sin can sin atone. 
 
 * In the collection of hymns for public and private worship in the 
 Evangelical Lutheran Church, this hymn is erroneously attributed to 
 Charles Wesley, 
 
MISSION A RY H YMN. 5 3 
 
 Am I called ? an heir of God ! 
 Washed, redeemed by precious blood ! 
 Father, lead me in thy hand, 
 Guide me to that better land, 
 Where my soul shall be at rest 
 Pillowed on my Saviour's breast. 
 
 MISSIONARY HYMN. 
 
 SIGHS are floating on the gale, 
 Sadly to our souls they come, 
 Swelling every snowy sail, 
 That wafts our foreign treasures home ; 
 Sighings sad, whose mournful breath, 
 Tells of death, eternal death. 
 
 From the dark and frozen North 
 Bursts a deep despairing moan — 
 From the West it echoes forth — 
 From the parched torrid zone ; 
 Hark ! it comes a wailing cry, 
 An oft told tale of agony. 
 
 Various tongues have told the grief — 
 Various winds have borne it o'er — 
 

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 5 4 JIIISSIOA r A K V II 1 'MN. 
 
 Shall we still deny relief? 
 O Columbia! favored shore, 
 Land of other lands the light, 
 Send a ray to gild their night. 
 
 Afric's sable arms are spread — 
 Christians, have we hearts of steel ? 
 See the marks our chains have made ! 
 We have smitten, w r e must heal. 
 All she asks is ours to give 
 Balm of life that she may live. 
 
 Freely has the gift been given — 
 Freely send the boon abroad — 
 Let every land beneath the heaven, 
 Know, and own, and worship God ; 
 Blessings rich, abundant, free, 
 Shall return again to thee. 
 
 Be the brilliant lamp of truth, 
 
 But the light of every home ; 
 
 Let the aged and the youth, 
 
 Learn to pray " Thy kingdom come I" 
 
 Shall not earth's united cry, 
 
 Bring millenial glory nigh. 
 
 Forward press our noble youth, 
 
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 Firm in soul prepared to go, 
 
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THE OFFERING OF THE WISE MEN. 55 
 
 Strong to bear that lamp of truth, 
 Shall we stop their progress ? No ! 
 Let every darkened nation see 
 The glorious light of Calvary. 
 
 THE OFFERING OF THE WISE MEN OF 
 
 THE EAST. 
 
 A BABE was in a manger laid, 
 His nature, name, to earth unknown ; 
 In simple swaddling bands arrayed, 
 The Virgin Mother wrapped her son. 
 
 And why should men from foreign land, 
 Bring gifts to such an one as he ? 
 Round his rude cradle wondering stand? 
 Or bend to him tbe adoring knee? 
 
 They came directed from afar, 
 By heaven's own pure unerring ray ; 
 Their guide a bright benignant star, 
 And wisest Eastern sages they ! 
 
 And who was he? The King of kings! 
 A mortal unto mortals given ! 
 

 
 7 
 
 5 6 THE OFFERING OE THE WISE MEN. 
 
 Borne to the earth on angel's wings, 
 The brightest, purest, gift of heaven ! 
 
 Aye, bring your gifts : Myrrh, Incense, Gold, 
 The best, the richest earth can yield — 
 The promised sacrifice behold ! 
 Jehovah in a babe concealed. 
 
 Bring Myrrh — a man of sorrows He; 
 A bitter cup of gall and tears, 
 Shall his unchanging portion be, 
 Through the long lapse of thirty years. 
 
 And Incense — bring the choicest, best, 
 That e'er perfumed earth's diadem ; 
 To grace this undeserved guest, 
 Thy God, the babe of Bethlehem ! 
 
 And Gold, which thou dost higher prize, 
 Pure, burnished, bright, unperishing ; 
 All treasures, precious in thine eyes, 
 Lay at the feet of Christ tlie King ! 
 
 My soul, thy gifts, oh ! bring them here, 
 Thy Myrrh — the deep, repentant tear ! 
 Thine Incense — praise; for I can claim, 
 An interest in that Infant's name ; 
 Thy Gold, all things most dear to thee, 
 I [e gave his very life for me. 
 
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 CHRIST THE REFUGE. 57 
 
 CHRIST THE REFUGE. 
 
 WHEN I behold my heart, 
 With sin's deep stain impressed, 
 Fain would I draw a curtain dark 
 Across my guilty breast ; 
 Hiding from all, but most from thee, 
 My God, its vast iniquity 3 
 
 ! could I mount the wing 
 Of the ascending morn, 
 
 And be to earth's remotest ring 
 Ere close of evening borne, 
 
 1 'd haste, I 'd fly o'er land and sea, 
 To hide me from myself and thee. 
 
 Alas ! how vain the thought ! 
 The power that guides the sun, 
 Must bear the flying fugitive ; 
 And when the day is done, 
 Within thy hand must be my bed, 
 Beneath thy wing must rest my head. 
 
 O ! whither shall I fly, 
 Omniscient God, from thee ? 
 
5S SACRAMENTAL HYMN. 
 
 Within the deep impervious folds 
 
 Of night's dark canopy ? 
 
 'T were vain, I could not 'scape thy sight, 
 
 For thou thyself my God art light. 
 
 Jesus, to thee I fly, 
 
 In thine embrace to rest ; 
 
 O ! shield me from thy Father's frown, 
 
 Within thy sheltering breast ; 
 
 But no ! within that hiding-place, 
 
 Frowns turn to smiles, and wrath to grace. 
 
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 SACRAMENTAL HYMN. 
 
 SINNERS, we are sent to bid you 
 To the gospel-feast to-day ; 
 Will you slight the invitation ? 
 Will you, can you, yet delay? 
 
 Jesus calls you ; 
 Come, poor sinners, come away. 
 
 Come, oh, come ! all things are ready, 
 Bread to strengthen, wine to cheer : 
 If you spurn this blood-bought banquet, 
 Sinners, can your souls appear 
 
 Guests in heaven, 
 Scorning heaven's rich bounty here? 
 

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 SACRAMENTAL HYMN. \ 
 
 Come, oh, come ! leave father, mother ; 
 To your Saviour's bosom fly : 
 Leave the worthless world behind you, 
 Seek for pardon, or you die : 
 "Pardon, Saviour!" 
 Hear the sinking sinner cry. 
 
 Even now the Holy Spirit 
 Moves upon some melting heart, 
 Pleads a bleeding Saviour's merit ; 
 Sinner, will you say " Depart ?" 
 
 Wretched sinner, 
 Can you bid your God depart ? 
 
 What are all earth's dearest pleasures, 
 Were they more than tongue could tell? 
 What are all its boasted treasures, 
 To a soul once sunk in hell ? 
 Treasure ! pleasure ! 
 No such sounds are heard in hell. 
 
 Fly, oh, fly ye to the mountain ! 
 Linger not in all the plain ! 
 Leave this Sodom of corruption, 
 Turn not, look not back again ; 
 
 Fly to Jesus, 
 Linger not in all the plain. 
 
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6o CRDIXATIOX I/YMX. 
 
 ORDINATION HYMN. 
 
 HOVERING angels wait around ! 
 Christians, this is holy ground ! 
 Pray the prayer, repeat the vow, 
 Give yourselves to Jesus now. 
 
 Here before his altar kneel ; 
 Here the sacred covenant seal ; 
 Let each contrite bosom be, 
 A living temple, Lord, for thee. 
 
 Shepherd, in whose watchful care, 
 These immortal beings are, 
 Dost thou faint beneath the load? 
 Roll the burden on thy God. 
 
 Chide the erring — cheer the saint, — 
 Guide the wandering, raise the faint, 
 With the bread of life divine, 
 Feed this little flock of thine. 
 
 Fly to God when troubles press, 
 Tell him all thy soul's distress : 
 In deep effectual fervent prayer 
 Pour forth all thy sorrows there. 
 
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 THE D YING YEAR. 
 
 As thy flock still upward rise, 
 
 61 
 
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 Pressing on to win the prize, 
 Point not thou, but lead the way, 
 
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 To glory's everlasting day. 
 
 
 
 
 Dwell, oh Lord ! each heart within, 
 
 
 
 
 Cleanse our souls from every sin — 
 
 
 
 
 May this shepherd and his flock 
 Rest beneath th' eternal Rock. 
 
 
 
 
 THE DYING YEAR. 
 
 
 
 
 T | THE parting year is dying, 
 JL Its latest hour is flying ; 
 
 
 
 
 Upon my brow 
 I feel it now, 
 
 
 
 
 Its last breath coldly sighing. 
 
 
 
 
 The clock its knell is ringing, 
 
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 The wind its requiem singing ; 
 At dead of night 
 
 
 
 
 It takes its flight, 
 
 
 
 
 To heaven its message bringing. 
 
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 Oh ! sad and melancholy 
 Its tale of sin and folly :» 
 
 
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 j THE DYIXG YEAR. 
 
 O'er misspent years, 
 How many tears 
 Are shed by eyes unholy ! 
 
 And many a withering story 
 It tells the Lord of glory, 
 
 Of ruined maid, 
 
 Of trust betrayed, 
 And murder foul and gory. 
 
 Like wave of passing river, 
 'Tis gone, and gone forever ; 
 
 Away it flies 
 
 With all its joys ; 
 Return they? Never, never! 
 
 Alas ! not thus its sorrow, 
 'T will visit us to-morrow 
 
 Again, again, 
 
 Regret and pain, 
 We from the past may borrow. 
 
 Ah ! many a one is weeping, 
 Sad memory's vigil keeping ; 
 
 We love to sow 
 
 The seeds of woe, 
 
 
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 But love not sorrow's reaping. 
 Some weep o'er mercies slighted, 
 
 
 
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 Some mourn their fond hopes blighted ; 
 
 
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 THE DYING YEAR. 
 
 And many a one 
 Beloved is gone, 
 In whom our hearts delighted. 
 
 And oh ! Almighty Father, 
 When time his years shall gather, 
 
 And thou unroll 
 
 Each guilt-stained scroll, 
 How sinners' hearts shall wither ! 
 
 They scorned thy Gospel given, 
 Despised the blood of heaven ; 
 
 Each unwashed heart 
 
 Must then depart, 
 To hell's dark dungeons driven : 
 
 But oh ! thou gracious Saviour, 
 Thy ransomed ones shall never 
 
 Know grief or pain ; 
 
 They live and reign, 
 And praise and love forever ! 
 
 63 
 
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 64 THE SPIRITUAL HARVEST. 
 
 THE SPIRITUAL HARVEST. 
 
 " Lift up your eyes, and look on the fields : for they are white al- 
 ready to harvest." 
 
 THE harvest is coming — the harvest is near — 
 Nay, look ! for the harvest already is here ; 
 The golden grain, bending, on valley and hill, 
 Is ripe and is ready ; let reap it who will. 
 
 'Tis harvest, 'tis harvest! the fields waving white 
 Demand the sharp sickle, the reaper invite ; 
 The autumn winds whistle, and sere are the leaves, 
 Yet no man is filling his bosom with sheaves. 
 
 See, see ! how the birds to the banquet repair; 
 See the beast of the forest is ravaging there ; 
 And the blast, as it sweeps over mountain and plain, 
 Is wasting each moment the fast-falling grain. 
 
 Oh! look on this harvest field ; what see you there 
 But blight and destruction, but sin and despair? 
 Alas! 'tis God's heritage wasted and wild, 
 By Satan polluted, and trampled and spoiled ! 
 
 When he calls for his reapers, how soon they appear ! 
 Intemperance hasteth and Murder is near ; 
 
THE SPIRITUAL HARVEST. 65 
 
 Death, followed by Hell, in glad unison go, 
 To gather the ripe for the regions below. 
 
 God called for his servants ; but did they obey ? 
 The reapers for Zion, alas ! where are they? 
 On the valley or mountain-top lonely we see 
 A Smith or a Judson, Lord, lab'ring for thee ! 
 
 God called : do the blushes not burn on thy brow ? 
 He called you; you came not; oh! will you come 
 
 now ? 
 Again he invites to the field while you may ; 
 The shadows are length 'ning, far spent is the day. 
 
 Up, up from your slumbers ! awake every one ! 
 Come gird up your garments, the work must be done. 
 Woe, woe to the reaper who, sickle in hand, 
 Can idly to-day in the market-place stand ! 
 
 And woe to the sluggard ! confusion and shame 
 Shall blast all his projects and blacken his name ; 
 His wealth to the seed of the just shall be given, 
 His soul find no place 'midst the glories of heaven. 
 
 Then hasten, ye faithful, to work for the Lord ! 
 Short, short is your service, and sure your reward. 
 Go, trust to his guidance, be strong in his strength, 
 And his grace shall conduct you to glory at length. 
 
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66 O SUN OF RIGHTEOUSNESS t COME FORTH! 
 
 Jehovah has promised, and promised it long, 
 
 That the prey of the mighty, the spoil of the strong, 
 
 By the strength of his arm from their teeth should be 
 
 riven, 
 As brands from the pile that is blazing to heaven. 
 
 And wilt thou not, Mightiest, thy promise perform ? 
 Thou Ruler of whirlwinds and Guide of the storm ! 
 Oh ! wilt thou not come in thy majesty forth, 
 And gather thine own from the South and the North ? 
 
 O SUN OF RIGHTEOUSNESS ! COME FORTH ! 
 
 OS UN of Righteousness ! come forth ; 
 Spread thy beams from South to North ; 
 To their light let nations come 
 Like doves that fondly hasten home. 
 Loudly let the anthem ring ; 
 Laud our Jesus, Saviour, King ; 
 And when loudest notes shall rise, 
 Piercing through the bending skies, 
 Our raptured souls perchance may hear 
 The well-known strains, so loved, so dear; 
 And seizing harps attuned and sweet, 
 For high peculiar worship meet, 
 Heaven may unite with earth, and raise 
 One rapturous song of glorious praise! 
 
INVITATION TO THE YOUNG. 6 J 
 
 INVITATION TO THE YOUNG. 
 
 COME, youthful sinners, come, haste to the Sav- 
 iour ! 
 Come, ye young wanderers, cling to his side ; 
 Kneel at his mercy-seat, sue for his favor, 
 Lambs of his bosom, for whom he hath died. 
 
 Come to his temple-gate, come in life's morning, 
 Give up your souls to the Guide of your youth. 
 
 How fair is grace the young bosom adorning ! 
 What robe so pure as the raiment of truth ? 
 
 Can you find pleasure in pathways unholy ? 
 
 Hope ye for wisdom in wandering from God ? 
 Sorrow and shame wait the votaries of folly ; 
 
 Earth has no comfort not found in his blood. 
 
 Has He not died for you ? Look to Moriah : 
 There see the tokens of sorrow and love ; 
 
 Lives He not now for you? Jesus the Saviour 
 Bled and ascended to crown you above. 
 
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 53 THE PASSION-FLOWER. 
 
 THE PASSION-FLOWER. 
 
 THINK'ST thou the Scripture's sacred page 
 Records the love of heaven, alone? 
 Fair nature's brilliant pencil, too, 
 
 The mystery hath shown. 
 Come tread the garden's maze with me 
 At dewy morning's perfumed hour, 
 And seek, upon its slender stem, 
 The lovely passion flower. 
 
 Upon its breast distinctly trace 
 Each token to the Christian dear — 
 The thorny crown, the purple robe, 
 
 The cord, the nails, the spear, 
 The cross which bore our dying Lord, 
 The scourge which ploughed its furrows deep, 
 And, ranged around, the sorrowing band, 
 
 That waited but to weep. 
 
 Whence came this strange, mysterious plant, 
 
 With symbols unmistakable ? 
 
 Sprung it from earth's blood-sprinkled breast, 
 
 Or from the heavens fell? 
 Some think, when flowed a Saviour's blood, 
 Slow-trickling to the troubled earth, 
 
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THE PA SSION-FL WER. 69 
 
 On Calvary's mount, beneath the cross 
 The flow'ret had its birth. 
 
 While some, from heaven's blue dome descending, 
 When angel-hosts the song began, 
 In numbers sweet, and never ending, 
 
 Of God's good-will to man, 
 They wrote on revelation's page, 
 Alone, the precious prophecy ; 
 Leaving with men that sacred pledge, 
 
 They winged them to the sky. 
 
 As from her bosom borne afar, 
 Each swift departing seraph flew, 
 And 'mid the boundless fields of air, 
 
 Receded from her view, 
 Earth groaned, " Shall I no token keep? 
 May no memorial be mine 
 Of Him who bled on Calvary's steep, 
 
 The Prince of Jesse's line?" 
 
 High in mid heaven, that angel band 
 A moment paused to hear her prayer ; 
 Then, smiling, wove a matchless flower 
 
 Of clouds and sunbeams there. 
 Fair was the gift and beautiful, 
 Meet for an angel's last bequest, 
 And soft descending from the sky, 
 
 It fluttered to her breast. 
 
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 THE PA SSIOX-FL 1 VER. 
 
 " Bloom there," the pitying spirits said ; 
 " O Earth ! bear witness of the deed ; 
 Let man, among thy blossoms bright, 
 
 The sacred lesson read. 
 From rosy morn till dewy ev r e, 
 This open page before him place ; 
 Renew it still, that he anew, 
 
 The holy truth may trace." 
 
 The gift was frail ; a single day 
 Beholds it bud, and bloom, and die ; 
 Child of the Sun, it fades away 
 
 When he forsakes the sky. 
 And droops not thus the Christian's heart, 
 When God, his Sun, withdraws his ray ? 
 And needs not thus, his failing faith, 
 
 Renewing day by day ? 
 
 A thousand blossoms, blooming fair, 
 May gayly round my pathway shine, 
 Admired while youth and hope are bright, 
 
 And earthly joys are mine. 
 But oh ! when sinks life's fading light, 
 I ask no wreath from rosy bower; 
 Bring then to bless my failing sight, 
 
 One holy passion-flower. 
 
 My soul would trace anew the spear, 
 The thorny crown, the weeping train, 
 
CHRIST FEEDING THE MULTITUDE. 
 
 And faith would all my guilt transfer 
 
 To that dear Head again. 
 To Calvary's mount my soul would fly, 
 Beneath thy smile kneel humbly down, 
 Assured, as thou didst bear the cross, 
 
 That I shall wear the crown. 
 
 71 
 
 CHRIST FEEDING THE MULTITUDE. 
 
 nHHE sun was hot on Galilee, 
 -L No breeze the foliage stirred, 
 And multitudes had gathered there 
 
 To hear Messiah's word. 
 For he had taught the lame to walk, 
 
 The dumb to seek his praise, 
 And blinded eyes, unused to light, 
 
 To bless the solar rays. 
 
 But brave, although the spirit be, 
 
 The flesh is frail and weak, 
 And want unnerves the strongest frame 
 
 And pales the rosiest cheek. 
 And Christ, our Elder Brother's heart 
 
 With soft compassion glowed 
 For that long-fasting multitude 
 
 That thronged around his road. 
 
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 J2 CHRIST FEEDING THE MULTITUDE. 
 
 " Bring forth the food, for we must share 
 
 With these distressed and lorn, 
 These toilers up the mountain steep 
 
 Since morning's earliest dawn. 
 Nay, loiter not, though small and few 
 
 Your loaves and fishes be, 
 Yet bring them hither, grudging not — 
 
 Let alms be ever free." 
 
 And at his feet their store they laid 
 
 Of loaves and fishes small : 
 " Oh, what will be this scant supply 
 
 •Among this people all?" 
 He, the Redeemer, blest the bread; 
 
 It grew beneath his hand ; 
 A thousand, and a thousand-fold, 
 
 At his divine command. 
 
 And all did eat, and all were filled, 
 
 For Christ had blest the bread ; 
 And needful strength and joyful life 
 
 O'er all the people spread. 
 And the disciples gathered up, 
 
 Of wasted fragments, more 
 Than at the first were found within 
 
 The basket and the store. 
 
 Ye servants of the living God, 
 Why faint your hearts with fear? 
 
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 A PARAPHRASE. 73 
 
 Bring forth your fishes and your loaves — 
 
 Remember, Christ is near. 
 The bread of life break freely, then ; 
 
 'T will grow beneath your hand, 
 A thousand, and a thousand-fold, 
 
 At Christ, your Lord's command. 
 
 A PARAPHRASE. 
 
 A FOOLISH man his house did build 
 Upon the moving sand, 
 And trusted that the edifice 
 
 For many an age would stand ; 
 But soon the roaring wind did blow, 
 
 The rushing rain did fall, 
 His labor and his cherished hopes 
 
 Were wrecked and ruined all ; 
 His house was great, his hopes were high 
 
 And mighty was their fall ! 
 
 Where shall I find a spot secure 
 
 My corner-stone to lay, 
 Where storm and flood may never come 
 
 To sweep my works away, 
 Though earth herself should tottering reel 
 
 And sicken and decay p 
 
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 74 ONCE, THOU DEAR DESERTED SAVIOUR. 
 
 O Rock of Ages ! upon thee, 
 
 Let my foundation rest, 
 And be the top-stone of my hopes 
 
 By thy approval blest. 
 So when Earth's final pang shall come, 
 
 Her trembling frame be riven, 
 Her mightiest monuments, like chaff, 
 
 Be by the whirlwind driven, 
 My soul, may find a home secure, 
 
 A mansion-house in heaven. 
 
 ONCE, THOU DEAR DESERTED SAVIOUR. 
 
 * 
 
 ONCE, thou dear, deserted Saviour — 
 Once this heart was all thine own. 
 Have these moments fled for ever? 
 
 Has sin usurped Immanuel's throne? 
 Then I loved thee most supremely ; 
 Every comfort flowed from thee ; 
 Now I struggle, ah ! how vainly, 
 As I once have been, to be. 
 
 Sin, repented, not forsaken, 
 
 Prayed against, yet present still — 
 
 Oh ! my very soul is shaken, 
 
 Striving 'gainst that monster's will. 
 
 * Written during a season of spiritual darkness. 
 
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ONCE, THOU DEAR DESERTED SAVIOUR. 75 
 
 Thus forsaken by the spirit, 
 
 Thus conflicting every hour ; 
 Feeling all a Saviour's merit, 
 
 Yet obeying Satan's power. 
 
 Tell me, ye who share the favor 
 
 Of the blessed King above, 
 Tell me where to seek the Saviour, 
 
 Object of your changeless love. 
 Oh ! this sin-sick soul would find him, 
 
 At his feet to weep and pray. 
 How my circling arms should bind him, 
 
 How my soul would urge his stay ! 
 
 Bible ! book of consolation, 
 
 Can thy precious page afford 
 No sweet promise of salvation 
 
 Perfected in Christ the Lord ? 
 O'er the sacred record turning, 
 
 Nought but threat'nings can I see ; 
 Fires of wrath forever burning, 
 
 Quenchless flames for guilty me. 
 
 Seek I not with tears, repentance ? 
 
 Yet, like Esau, seek in vain ? 
 Have thy lips pronounced the sentence, 
 
 Dooming me to endless pain ? 
 Bless me, also, O my Father! 
 
 Though my birthright sold have I ; 
 
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 -6 ONCE, THOU DEAR DESERTED SAVIOUR. 
 
 Clouds of vengeance o'er me gather ; 
 Bless me, save me, or I die ! 
 
 See this bruised and broken spirit — 
 
 See this sin-abhorring soul : 
 Saviour, for thy sufferings' merit 
 
 Bind my bosom, make me whole! 
 Nothing can I bring before thee 
 
 But my sorrowing soul's distress ; 
 Can I vow to still adore thee, 
 
 Feeling hopeless guiltiness ? 
 
 See, a beam from heaven is stealing 
 
 To my sin-bewildered sight ! 
 This sacred promise, *t is revealing : 
 
 " At evening time it shall be light." 
 O'er this sacred anchor bending, 
 
 Now my sinking soul I stay, 
 Longing for the brilliant ending, 
 
 Of this dark and cloudy day. 
 
 Easton, Pa., 1834. 
 
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THE WIDO W OF NAIN. 
 
 77 
 
 THE WIDOW OF NAIN. 
 
 " When he came nigh to the gate of the city, behold, there was a 
 dead man carried out, the only son of his mother, and she a widow." 
 
 WHAT volumes of unutterable woe 
 In that short sentence writ ! A widow she — 
 A childless widow, lonely now and sad, 
 Bowed down beneath a load of grief and years. 
 How changed, since in the pride of youth she stood 
 Before the altar, lovely and beloved, 
 A bright, young, blushing bride ! the future all 
 One sunny scene of happiness and love. 
 Methinks I see her. One is by her side — 
 The exulting bridegroom — one who would have died 
 To shield her bosom from impending woe. 
 As the fond ivy to the strong oak clings, 
 So clung she to him, beautifully weak, 
 Trembling at her own blessedness, and fain, 
 Beneath the rosy veil of bashfulness, 
 To hide the current of unbounded joy. 
 
 But the destroyer came ; the strong oak fell ; 
 The tendrils of her love, all rent and torn, 
 Must find another prop, and one was near. 
 From the seared root a lovely scion sprung, 
 
73 
 
 THE WIDOW OF NAIN. 
 
 And round it soon and close twined every fibre 
 Of her bleeding heart. 
 
 She loved that child : — what had she else to love? 
 
 Others have many jewels, she but one : — 
 
 Oh, how she loved him ! On her soft, warm breast 
 
 She laid the tiny nursling, rocked his sleep 
 
 By her own bosom's heavings, while her voice, 
 
 Love-tuned, became a perfect melody, 
 
 Soft as the breathings of ^Eolian lyre, 
 
 When summer zephyrs light upon its strings. 
 
 Thus sung she him to rest; then silently 
 Listened to his sweet breath, that, soft and low, 
 Made music in return. What sound more loved, 
 What music sweeter to a mother's ear? 
 Thus happily she lay, till, overcome 
 By that dear lullaby, soft slumbers stole, 
 Weighing her eyelids down ; but sleepless love 
 Still taught her arms to clasp her little one ; 
 While dreams of hope and happiness came fast, 
 And beautiful, mingling and changing, 
 Fanciful and true, like atoms thick 
 Floating in summer beams, earthly, confused, 
 Intangible and frail, yet brilliant all, 
 When illumined by light from heaven. 
 
 lie grew apace ; and by his little hand 
 She led him to the temple of her God, 
 
THE WIDO W OF NAIN. 
 
 And taught his infant lip to whisper praise, 
 
 And told him of the claims he held on heaven; 
 
 For God is father of the fatherless. 
 
 He grew apace — to full perfection grew, 
 
 A tall, fair youth, her bosom's hope and pride. 
 
 A change is on him. Wherefore is it thus ? 
 His step less buoyant, and his voice less gay. 
 And yet how fair, how passing fair he is ! 
 A rose is on his cheek, a deep, red rose, 
 Such as the hand of health hath never drawn; 
 And, on his brow and temples, each blue vein 
 Meanders fair, exquisitely distinct. 
 He holier grew, and lovelier, every hour, 
 As autumn's foliage brightens in decay. 
 
 She watched him long, each remedy applied 
 With anxious hand. Hope, trembling, smiled ; 
 Conviction closed her eye, and would not see 
 The form attenuate that daily grew 
 More and more helpless. 
 
 Onward with steady pace the spectre came. 
 Why tell the parting sad, the last wild kiss, 
 The last faint pressure felt, the cherished tone 
 That never more shall fill the listening ear, 
 Yet vibrates still, an echo wandering sad 
 Through each lone chamber of the ruined heart ; 
 
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 80 
 
 THE WIDOW OF XAIX. 
 
 Distant, and low, and mournful, as the voice 
 Of ocean wailing for its absent shell. 
 
 The last long look is taken. Sad, and slow, 
 From the lone widow's door her child is borne. 
 Moves, in procession vast, that funeral train, 
 For he was loved, and she was pitied much. 
 Bowed down with grief and watching, lo ! she comes. 
 Hark to that sob of anguish short and low ! 
 She hath no tears to shed — not one, not one ; 
 Grief, burning grief, hath dried each healing spring 
 In her seared heart. 
 
 Forth from the city's gate they wend their way. 
 Who speaks? What voice was that? ''Young man, 
 
 arise ! 
 Perhaps the winged soul of that loved youth 
 Still lingered near the sorrowing mother's form, 
 Heedless, though angels on their burnished wings 
 Were waiting to convoy him safe to heaven. 
 " Young man, arise !" Who speaks ? Is he a God ? 
 Who but a God dare speak such words as these? 
 See! the still bosom heaves, the heart beats light, 
 The stagnant blood through vein and artery springs, 
 The eye uncloses, and the pallid lip 
 Assumes its wonted hue. " Young man, arise !" 
 That still, small voice, strong as the archangel's trump, 
 Pierces the car of death. Casting; aside 
 
THE DEATH OF THE CHRISTIAN. 
 
 The cerements of the grave, instant erect, 
 Restored to health and happiness, he stands ! 
 
 No shout of exultation rent the air; 
 
 Deep, holy fear held mute the wondering crowd : 
 
 Each, feeling God's presence, bowed, convinced 
 
 It was indeed Messiah, veiled, not hid. 
 
 Nor he alone who lay on the cold bier 
 
 Was raised that hour to life, but souls redeemed, 
 
 A numerous host, exulting now in heaven. 
 
 He gave him to his mother. Her delight ! 
 
 An angel's pen alone can picture that. 
 
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 THE DEATH OF THE CHRISTIAN. 
 
 WHY should angels bend their flight 
 From realms of uncreated light ? 
 Why forsake their native sky ? 
 
 Can they wonder 
 Christians should triumphant die? 
 
 Know they not the happy land, 
 By the breeze of heaven fanned, 
 Where the saints at God's right hand 
 Boundless blessings shall enjoy ? 
 
 Can they wonder, 
 When they see a Christian die ? 
 
82 THE DEA Til CF THE CHRISTIAN. 
 
 Come they ? Yes, but 'tis to wait 
 11 Till the good man meets his fate," 
 Then to heaven's glorious gate 
 Bear his soul triumphantly, 
 
 Not to wonder 
 That the saint should calmly die ! 
 
 Why should fiends from hell below, 
 In wonder to his death-bed go ? 
 They may envy, for they know, 
 Heaven's eternal weight of joy. 
 
 Would they wonder 
 Though the saints should long to die? 
 
 Burning memory points to where 
 Life's pure river sparkles there ; 
 Trees, whose boughs luxuriant, bear 
 Fruits of immortality. 
 Can they wonder, 
 Should the Christian love to die ? 
 
 They who once from heaven fell 
 Down into the deepest hell ; 
 Whose tortured tongues alone can tell 
 An angel's woe, an angel's joy — 
 
 Can they wonder 
 Ransomed Christians long to die? 
 
 Christian, bought by priceless blood, 
 Welcome to the throne of God, 
 

 THE DEA TH OF THE CHRISTIAN. 
 
 Though your head beneath the sod, 
 In corruption mouldering lie ! 
 
 Happy Christian, 
 'Tis your privilege to die ! 
 
 Will the weary wanderer weep, 
 When his couch is spread for sleep ? 
 Will the runner slack his speed, 
 When he sees the glittering meed ? 
 Will the warrior trembling fly, 
 When the shout is Victory ? 
 Child of earthly misery, 
 Heir of heaven's un withering joy ! 
 
 Oh ! the wonder, 
 Should the Christian shun to die ! 
 
 «3 
 
 -i---i-imriT— J11 
 
ON THE DEATH OF A BABE. 
 
 I. 
 
 PAST the struggle — past the pain — 
 Cease to weep, for tears are vain ; 
 Calm the tumult of the breast 
 He who suffered is at rest. 
 
 II. 
 Still the polished marble brow, 
 Ever free from anguish now ; 
 Gone the soul with Christ to reign ; 
 Would you wish it back again ? 
 
 ill. 
 Give your precious baby up ; 
 Sorrow, not bereft of hope ; 
 Back to your embraces given, 
 You shall clasp your child in heaven. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Didst thou hope he might proclaim 
 Far thy glorious Master's name ? 
 Already has he learned to raise 
 Endless anthems to his praise. 
 
 (87) 
 
88 MIBXIGIIT MUSINGS IN A GRA VE-YARD. 
 
 V. 
 
 Gently from his mother's breast 
 Lay him in his bed of rest ; 
 In this chamber silent deep, 
 Undisturbed her babe shall sleep. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Leave we here this lovely dust ; 
 Grave, be faithful to thy trust ; 
 Purified, oh let it rise, 
 Fitted for its home, the skies. 
 
 MIDNIGHT MUSINGS IN A GRAVE-YARD. 
 
 * 
 
 TiniS past, 'tis o'er, my beautiful hath faded ; 
 
 -JL The grave now holds my treasure, and the sod 
 Rests on this bosom's idol ! Have I made it 
 My soul's deep worship, and forgot my God ? 
 If so, O Mightiest ! to Thy chastening rod 
 I bow submissive ! 'Neath this church-yard stone 
 'Tis well that thus my prized, my gifted lies, 
 Down in that dark, cold, silent bed, alone, 
 
 * In the grave yard of the First Presbyterian Church in Easton, 
 Pennsylvania, is a simple, modest tombstone with the inscription, 
 " Our Little Johnny." This tomb, which marks the resting-place of a 
 sweet, precious boy, is the scene of the above poem. 
 
MIDNIGHT MUSINGS IN A GRA VE- YARD. go 
 
 Mourned by the night-wind's sad and fitful sighs ; 
 Watched by the wakeful stars' soft, pitying, passive 
 eyes. 
 
 O ye pure orbs, why steal ye thus at even 
 So voiceless and so mournful ? Have you all 
 Forgot the exulting shout that rang through heaven, 
 When first among you rolled this glowing ball, 
 Warm from God's hand ? Where now the joyous call 
 Of His glad sons ? Ye bright ones, that adorn 
 Yon cloudless firmament, my anxious ears 
 List for your hymns in vain ; and coming morn, 
 In her bright robe, that hides your fading spheres, 
 Shows me Earth's graves all wet, all glittering with 
 your tears. 
 
 Why weep you thus for her in night and sadness ? 
 Are there no graves but hers ? Has she alone 
 Lost her primeval lustre ? Shall not gladness 
 Visit again this lone, this stricken one ? 
 How is her beauty changed, her splendor gone ! 
 Daughter of heaven, thy glorious brow is clouded — 
 Tombs are thy children's birthright — death their 
 
 dower ! 
 O lost, degenerate one ! in darkness shrouded, 
 Dimmed is thy gold, bright pageant of an hour : 
 And sin's dread serpents hiss within thy fairest 
 
 bower. 
 
n 
 
 8 
 
 90 
 
 MIDNIGHT MUSINGS IN A GRA VE- YARD. 
 
 Weep on, ye pitying orbs, though vain your weep- 
 
 With tears her graves bedew, she, only she, 
 Mourns her departed. None with you are sleeping — 
 You have no vault, no tomb, no cemetery ; 
 Sinless, immortal, deathless, strong and free ! 
 Can ye give nought but tears? Have you no power 
 To heal the griefs ? — no balm to soothe her pain ? 
 Oh for some mighty hand, some favoring hour ! 
 Descend, descend, and break this torturing chain, 
 Bind up your bleeding heart, and bid her smile 
 
 again. 
 
 Weep not, thou stricken one, though darkness o'er 
 
 thee, 
 And sin, and hell, have cast this mournful pall ; 
 Fair, bright, unnumbered years are yet before thee ; 
 Arise, and shine, thou holiest of them all ! 
 Thy very dust shall live. Faith from the thrall 
 Of the dark tomb thy slumbering ones shall rise ! 
 Hark ! the Archangel's voice, the trumpet's call ! 
 Earth shall be made a heaven, the joy of joys, 
 The ransomed of her God, the wonder of the skies ! 
 
I HEARD A VOICE OE SORROW. q T 
 
 I HEARD A VOICE OF SORROW.* 
 
 I 
 
 HEARD a voice of sorrow, 
 A wailing o'er the clay, 
 And my spirit paused a moment 
 
 Upon its heav'nly way. 
 A moment paused, to sympathize 
 
 With dear ones left on earth, 
 Dear ones who could not realize 
 
 My new, immortal birth. 
 But angels were around me, 
 
 With wings, bright wings, for me, 
 And mingling with the sobs of earth 
 
 Came heavenly harmony. 
 And louder grew the melody, 
 
 And fainter came the cry, 
 As upward, on my new-found wings, 
 
 I hastened through the sky. 
 Oh weep not, weep not, dear ones ! 
 
 'Twas but a moment's pain ; 
 I sank beneath the waters deep, 
 
 But soon I rose again. 
 No eye hath seen, no heart conceived, 
 
 No mortal ear hath heard, 
 
 * Written on the 26th of April, the death-day of my dear little son. 
 
fi= 
 
 92 
 
 ON SEEING A LITTLE BABE'S FUNERAL. 
 
 How bright the srlorious home for me 
 
 My Father hath prepared — 
 For me, a child of dust and clay, 
 
 A sinful little boy, 
 Who sighed on this dark earth to stay, 
 
 And feared so soon to die. 
 But oh ! I would not change my home 
 
 For earth's most bright abode ; 
 Escaped, through death, from sin and tears, 
 
 And safe at home with God. 
 
 ON SEEING A LITTLE BABE'S FUNERAL. 
 
 I SAW a sweet babe in a coffin, 
 Pass on to the church-yard this morn, 
 And a sad and a sorrowing mother, 
 
 From whom that fair daughter was borne. 
 
 And I followed them on in their sorrow, 
 A»d tears came unbid to my eye, 
 
 And I felt that perchance ere to-morrow, 
 I, too, might be called on to die. 
 
 And I stood by that grave deep and lonely, 
 Where cradled the baby should rest ; 
 
 The cold earth its bed, and that only 
 The cover, to wrap its young breast. 
 
ON SEEING A LITTLE BABE'S FUNERAL. 93 
 
 And I heard, oh ! I shuddered to hear it, 
 
 The clods on the black coffin lid, 
 And watched as I lingered still near it,- 
 
 Till that coffin was covered and hid. 
 
 And I waited till all had departed, 
 
 Till father and mother had gone, 
 And the poor little baby, deserted, 
 
 Was left with the dead all alone. 
 
 But they said, that not always forsaken 
 It should slumber thus under the clay ; 
 
 That a sweet voice would come and awaken 
 And call it to heaven away. 
 
 My Father once cast in earth's bosom 
 
 A seed in his garden so fair, 
 Which sprang up a beautiful blossom, 
 
 When summer birds came to sing there. 
 
 Let us go where the green grass is springing, 
 Called forth by the sunshine and rain, 
 
 And see if the summer birds' singing 
 Has waked up that baby again. 
 
 For surely its mother could never 
 
 Have dried up the tears which she shed, 
 
 If she felt that her babe would forever 
 Remain in the home of the dead. 
 
94 
 
 DBA TH OF A BRIDE OF SIX WEEK'S. 
 
 Ah, darling ! the sunshine and showers 
 Which spread o'er your garden its bloom, 
 
 The warblers that sang in your bowers 
 Awake not the flowers of the tomb. 
 
 Yet to them shall a spring-time be given, 
 They, too, shall arise from the sod, 
 
 And, mounting on bright wings to heaven, 
 Appear in the presence of God. 
 
 And the mother may dry up her sadness, 
 And smile in the midst of her pain, 
 
 For she hopes in that bright world of gladness 
 To embrace her own darling again. 
 
 DEATH OF A BRIDE OF SIX WEEKS. 
 
 MODEST and beautiful, gentle and fair, 
 The bride, like a lily, stands droopingly there, 
 Not purer the robe that around her is prest, 
 Than the pure thoughtful spirit that dwells in her 
 
 breast ; 
 The mild eye looks languid, the dark brow beneath, 
 And the bosom heaves quick with the oft-coming 
 
 breath ; 
 The tint of the rose to that fair cheek is given, 
 But fitful and faint as the last hues of heaven — 
 
fl 
 
 
 DEA TH OF A BRIDE OF SIX WEEKS. 95 
 
 Advancing, receding-, one moment as bright 
 
 As the rosiest cloud that foretells of morn's light; 
 
 Then, like the pale twilight at closing of day, 
 
 Fades, fades till all color has faded away. 
 
 Nay ! gaze not upon her, not long shall she be 
 
 A comfort, a joy, and a solace to thee. 
 
 Long, long ere she wed thee, another had thrown 
 
 His magic around her, and marked her his own. 
 
 Aye ! bear her away, he will follow thee still, 
 
 And tread in thy footsteps, advance as you will. 
 
 He'll watch by her pillow when slumber has thrown 
 
 A veil o'er the eyes of thy beautiful one. 
 
 His place by her side at the banquet shall be ; 
 
 Thou art close to her bosom, but closer is he. 
 
 He will watch her forever by night and by day, 
 
 And steal from thy bosom its treasure away. 
 
 Thou'lt follow her sad to her resting place lone, 
 
 Untenanted save by thy beautiful one. 
 
 Oh ! earth's choicest blossoms but bloom to decay, 
 
 And earth's treasures melt like the dew-drops away, 
 
 The fairest first fading ; the brightest, the best, 
 
 Light up like a meteor one moment the breast ; 
 
 Ah ! darker and deeper the gloom that is thrown 
 
 O'er the heart when that light of a moment is gone. 
 
 Yet why o'er the graves of our loved should we 
 
 weep ? — 
 Why verdant with tears make the beds where they 
 
 sleep ? 
 
1 
 
 9 6 
 
 A HAPPY X i:\V- YEAR. 
 
 Soon as peaceful, as gentle, as calm, shall we rest, 
 As softly shall lie the green sod on our breast, 
 For the lone one now weeps not, reclining beside 
 The cold placid breast of his beautiful bride , 
 Ah ! never again from his loved one to sever, 
 United on earth, and in heaven, forever. 
 
 A HAPPY NEW-YEAR.* 
 
 A HAPPY New-Year to you, Annie, 
 The brightest you ever have passed, 
 Safe, safe from a world full of sorrow, 
 Secure from its storm and its blast ; 
 Though fair were the prospects around you, 
 And cloudless your future might seem ; 
 Ah ! life is a wearisome journey, 
 Its hope but a vapor — a dream ! 
 
 With angels, this fair New-Year's morning, 
 An angel, immortal and free; 
 Though cold be thy bed place, sweet Annie, 
 Who would not change pillows with thee? 
 
 ■ The subject of the following stanzas was interred this morning. 
 She died at the early age of twenty one years, and a married life of 
 
 less than six months. It is no undeserved eulogy to say that she 
 w.is beautiful, both morally and physically, and it was this twofold 
 ini ss ivhi( h prompted these lines. 
 
D 
 
 A HAPP Y NE IV- YEAR. 
 
 Then rest thee, beloved and lovely, 
 Rest as the redeemed ones rest, 
 The arms of thy Saviour around thee, 
 Thy head pillowed soft on His breast. 
 
 And oh ! to the sad and the lonely, 
 Who miss vou at eve and at morn, 
 Shall we say, Do not weep for the flowerlet 
 From fond hearts so recently torn ? — 
 Yes, weep, for your light has departed, 
 Your sun set ere noontide had come ; — 
 Yes, weep, for the fair, the light-hearted, 
 Lies silent and cold in the tomb ! 
 
 97 
 
 O ! tears are a solace for sorrow — 
 Nor hopeless the tears which you weep ; 
 She sleeps, but there cometh a morrow 
 To wake her again from her sleep ; 
 Then lift up your eyes to the heaven, 
 Behold her both faithful and true, 
 Not weeping, where tears are forbidden, 
 But lovingly smiling on you. 
 
9 8 
 
 THE DEA TH OF MRS. CAMILLA IL VRIE. 
 
 THE DEATH OF MRS. CAMILLA ILVRIE. 
 
 I. 
 
 THEY laid her in the coffin ; there was weeping — 
 Deep sobs burst forth from many a mourning 
 breast, 
 While she, like cradled babe, lay sweetly sleeping ; 
 No sound of sorrow broke her holy rest ; 
 Her loved, her lovely children round her prest ; 
 Deep was their grief, and bitter was their cry, 
 Their tears bedewed, their little hands caressed — 
 She lay unmoved amid their agony, 
 Though he, her best beloved, stood, in his sadness, b}\ 
 
 II. 
 They bore her to the grave ; the poor attended ; — 
 For she had been a helper to the poor ; — 
 The sad, the sick, the helpless, the unfriended 
 Sought not in vain her hospitable door ; 
 Free hand and liberal heart, and ample store, 
 Blessings thrice blessed, the choicest gifts of heaven, 
 Were hers. Oh ! well, ye poor, may you deplore 
 I ler loss, who made your hearth burn bright at even, 
 And freely gave to you what God to her had given. 
 
FUNERAL DIRGE. 
 
 99 
 
 in. 
 Go to thy place ; — spirit from earth departed ; — 
 Speed to the rest that waiteth thee above ; 
 Angels shall guard the home thou hast deserted ; 
 God shall protect the objects of thy love ; 
 He shall a kinder, gentler guardian prove ; — 
 Go ; let no thought of earth thy bliss alloy ; 
 Through fields of never-fading verdure rove, 
 Where every tear is wiped from every eye ; 
 Speed thee from earth to heaven — there worship and 
 enjoy. 
 
 FUNERAL DIRGE. 
 
 H 
 
 ARK to the solemn bell, 
 Mournfully pealing ! 
 What do its wailings tell, 
 
 On the ear stealing ? 
 Seem they not thus to say, 
 Loved ones have passed away f 
 Ashes with ashes lay, 
 List to its pealing. 
 
 Earth is all vanity, 
 
 False as 'tis fleeting ; 
 Grief is in all its joy, 
 
 Smiles with tears meeting : 
 
a 
 
 ioo 
 
 FUNERAL DIRGE. 
 
 Youth's brightest hopes decay, 
 Pass like morn's gems away, 
 Too fair on earth to stay, 
 Where all is fleeting. 
 
 When in their lonely bed, 
 
 Loved ones are lying ; 
 When joyful wings are spread, 
 
 To heaven flying : 
 Would we to sin and pain, 
 Call back their souls again, 
 Weave round their hearts the chain 
 
 Severed in dying ? 
 
 No, dearest Jesus, no ; 
 
 To Thee, their Saviour, 
 Let their free spirits go, 
 
 Ransomed forever ; 
 Heirs of unending joy, 
 Theirs is the victory ; 
 Thine let the glory be, 
 
 Now and forever. 
 
 C 
 
A FA MIL Y IN HE A VEN. ioi 
 
 A FAMILY IN HEAVEN.* 
 
 WE saw thee in thy early bloom, 
 A young and gentle bride ; — 
 We saw thee when thy first-born son 
 Lay helpless by thy side ; — 
 We saw thee in thy loveliness, 
 A widow left to weep ; 
 And soon we saw thy woes forgot, 
 In death's long dreamless sleep ! 
 
 Thy babes were left in orphan state . 
 Yet never did they know 
 The sorrows of the fatherless, 
 Or feel the orphan's woe ; 
 Yet if the spirits of the just, 
 From their abodes of bliss, 
 May minister to those they love 
 Left sojourning in this, — 
 
 No doubt thy spirit, in its care, 
 To earth has often fled, 
 To watch thy children's daily path, 
 Or guard their slumbering bed ; 
 
 * Written on the death of two orphan children, which occurred soon 
 after the death of their mother. 
 

 
 ^ 
 
 
 5 c_ 
 
 
 ( 
 
 
 > 
 
 t 
 
 IQ 2 A FAMIL Y IN HE A VEN. 
 
 And when thy youngest, fairest one 
 Had laid him down to die, 
 Say, was not thy maternal form 
 Unseen, yet hovering by ? — 
 
 To mark the eye's last lingering beam, 
 
 And watch the struggling breath, 
 
 And clasp the spirit as it passed 
 
 The cold dark porch of death ? 
 
 And when at length thy eldest hope 
 
 On dying bed was laid ; 
 
 When tears were shed and prayers were 
 
 breathed, 
 And science lent its aid — 
 
 For what ? — to bind a mounting soul 
 
 To bondage and to clay ! 
 
 And clip the fluttering pinions spread 
 
 To seek celestial day ! 
 
 Didst thou not smile, while others wept, 
 
 In joyful consciousness 
 
 That earth contained no cordial drop 
 
 To stay a soul from bliss ? 
 
 The last, last link is broken now, 
 Then hie thee to the blest, — 
 Secure within thy Father's arms, 
 
 j 
 
 c 
 
 Thy loved ones sweetly rest, — 
 
 I 
 
 ( 
 
 
 ) 
 
 J 
 
 — a c — 
 
 j 
 
a 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF A CHRISTIAN STATESMAN. 103 
 
 And lift aloud thy matchless voice 
 Amid the spirits free, 
 And strike the harp — thy golden harp — 
 In boundless ecstacy. 
 
 At home ! at home ! most joyful sound ! 
 
 Sin, sickness, death, o'ercome ! — 
 
 Unmatched, unutterable bliss, 
 
 When wanderers meet at home ! 
 
 If praise, transcending, heavenly praise 
 
 To Christ the Lamb be given, 
 
 'Tis sung when kindred spirits meet 
 
 A family in heaven. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF A CHRISTIAN 
 STATESMAN. 
 
 H 
 
 E has gone — he has gone — and the tears that 
 we shed 
 
 Are shed that from earth a bright spirit has passed ; 
 That a star from our zenith of freedom has fled ; 
 That the gem of our diadem 's fallen at last. 
 His dust to embalm, from the east shall we bring 
 Her gems and her spices, most precious and rare, — 
 The odors of Edom around shall we fling, 
 Or load with the sweets of Arabia the air? 
 
io4 
 
 ON THE DEA Til OF A CHRISTIAN ST A TESMAN. 
 
 CI 
 
 C 
 
 Ah ! vain is the task to bring perfumes from far 
 To hallow the grave where the wicked may rest ; 
 But the deeds of the righteous, how fragrant they 
 
 are, 
 More pure than the incense of Araby's breast ! 
 We need not her spices to sweeten thy bed ; 
 We need not her balm to be treasured for thee ; 
 Thy name shall be verdant with tears that we shed ; 
 Thy memory embalmed with the sighs of the free. 
 
 No urn from afar shall thy ashes enshrine ; 
 
 No tomb of a tyrant dishonor thy rest ; 
 
 Thy country's kind bosom shall close over thine, 
 
 And; fondly she'll fold her green robe round thy 
 
 breast. 
 There, honored and loved, let thy relics be laid — 
 A resting-place meet for the great and the free ; 
 And a shrine shall the heart of each freeman be made, 
 Where memorv in secret shall sorrow for thee. 
 
n 
 
 D 
 
 WEEP, SISTER, WEEP. 105 
 
 WEEP, SISTER, WEEP.* 
 
 WEEP, sister, weep, for thou hast cause of 
 weeping ; 
 Mourn, in tears of deepest sorrow, mourn ; 
 Yet canst thou not awake the loved one sleeping, 
 Nor bid the winged soul to earth return ; — 
 Nor wouldst thou ; he is gone — all storms above ; — 
 'Balmed by a nation's tears, shrined in his country's 
 love. 
 
 But let us weep for thee ; — for thy departed 
 Was ours — a people's proudly chosen chief; — 
 We shared thy triumphs ; shalt thou be deserted 
 In thy lone luxury of silent grief?. 
 We come, we come, a sorrowing family, 
 We gather round his tomb to weep our tears with 
 thee. 
 
 See ! how he resteth on his march of glory — 
 Reposing on his hard-won couch of fame ! 
 When History's pen records our country's story, 
 Proudly she'll dwell on Taylor's honored name ; — 
 Resaca de la Palma, Monterey, 
 And Buena Vista's voice shall speak his eulogy. 
 
 * Addressed to Mrs. President Taylor on the death of her husband. 
 
c: 
 
 1 06 
 
 WEEP, SISTER, WEEP. 
 
 Wake, sleeper, wake ! behold the nation's crisis ! 
 The billows fret against the sounding shore ; 
 Contention's waves are up ; the tempest rises ; 
 Deep calleth unto deep with angry roar ; 
 What hand but thine — but hush, our God is here ! 
 His hand is on the helm, our bark hath nausrht to 
 fear ! 
 
 All feeling, save of woe, be dead, and shrouded, 
 Hid 'neath the pall that shades our hero's clay ; 
 There let it rest ; the nation's heart is crowded 
 With none save pure and loving thoughts to-day ! 
 O patriot, father, warrior ! who would now 
 Pluck one green laurel-leaf from thine illustrious 
 brow ? 
 
 Her words of consolation Earth hath spoken ; 
 Hath brought her balm thy bruised heart to heal ; 
 But hast thou not some fondly-cherished token — 
 Some Hope's sure anchor cast within the veil ? 
 Oh memories sweet ! of mercies asked and given ! 
 Angels, on love's bright wings, wafting our hopes to 
 heaven ! 
 
METHOUGHT AS I SLEPT. 
 
 Written on the ocean,* January 4, 1821. 
 
 METHOUGHT as I slept on the tempest-tost 
 wave, 
 I returned to green Erin, romantic and fair, 
 And bright was the vision my wild fancy gave, 
 And loved were the faces that smiled on me there. 
 
 Soon, soon I arrived at the home of my youth, 
 
 And with rapture was pressed to my fond mother's 
 heart ; 
 And I knew that each eye spoke the language of 
 truth ; 
 Every look, every lip bade me not to depart. 
 
 I was blest, for my father's eye beamed on his child ! 
 
 . And oh ! but his look and his greeting were bland ; 
 
 I was blest, for my fond sister kissed me and smiled, 
 
 And welcomed me back to my own native land ! 
 
 * The thoughts occurred in the visions of the night, just as here re- 
 lated, and were written on awaking, in the midst of the ocean, in the 
 depths of a most stormy winter, eighty-three days at sea, on short al- 
 lowance both of food and water, and with no prospect soon, if ever, 
 of making land. 
 
 (109) 
 
i 
 
 no 
 
 J/OA'X. 
 
 Even she, whom the church-yard had treasured so 
 long, 
 
 All blooming" arose from her cold dreary grave, 
 And smiled in her beauty amid the loved throng, 
 
 And welcomed the wanderer back from the wave ! 
 
 Stay, stay, blessed spirit, oh ! still let me joy 
 
 In the smile of thy modest eye, beaming and blue ; 
 
 Thou art going, sweet angel, — oh ! fain would I fly, 
 To the home of the blessed ones guided by you. 
 
 She is gone ! — I awake — all is horror and fear ; 
 
 The tempest is up and the wild waters burn ; 
 No father — no mother — no sister is near, 
 
 Ah ! vainly they wish for the wanderer's return. 
 
 MORN. 
 
 MORN is the time to wake, 
 The eyelids to unclose, 
 Spring from the arms of sleep, and break 
 
 The fetters of repose ; 
 Walk at the dewy dawn abroad, 
 And hold sweet fellowship with God. 
 
 Morn is the time to pray ; 
 How lovely and how meet, 
 
fi 
 
 MORN. 1 1 I 
 
 To send our earliest thoughts away, 
 
 Up to the mercy-seat ! 
 Ambassadors, for us to claim 
 A blessing in our Master's name. 
 
 Morn is the time to sing ; 
 
 How charming 'tis to hear 
 The mingling notes of nature ring 
 
 In the delighted ear ; 
 And with that swelling anthem raise 
 The soul's fresh matin-song of praise ! 
 
 Morn is the time to sow 
 
 The seeds of heavenly truth, 
 While balmy breezes softly blow 
 
 Upon the soil of youth ; 
 And look to thee, nor look in vain, 
 Our God, for sunshine and for rain. 
 
 Morn is the time to love : 
 
 As tendrils of the vine, 
 The young affections fondly rove, 
 
 And seek them where to twine ; 
 Around thyself, in thine embrace, 
 Lord, let them find their resting-place. 
 
 Morn is the time to shine, 
 When skies are clear and blue, 
 
112 
 
 MORN. 
 
 Reflect the rays of light divine, 
 As morning drops of dew ; 
 Like earl) 7 stars be early bright, 
 And melt away like them in light. 
 
 Morn is the time to weep 
 O'er morning hours misspent ; 
 Alas ! how oft from peaceful sleep, 
 
 On folly madly bent, 
 We've left the straight and narrow road, 
 And wandered from our guardian God ! 
 
 Morn is the time to think, 
 While thoughts are fresh and free, 
 Of life, just balanced on the brink 
 
 Of dark eternity ; 
 And ask our souls if they are meet 
 To stand before the judgment-seat. 
 
 Morn is the time to die, 
 
 Just at the dawn of day, 
 When stars are fading in the sky, 
 
 To fade like them away ; 
 But lost in light more brilliant far, 
 Than ever merged the morning star. 
 
 Morn is the time to rise, 
 The resurrection morn ; 
 
 C 
 
a 
 
 WINTER— A FRAGMENT. 113 
 
 Upspringing to the glorious skies, 
 On new-found pinions borne, 
 To meet a Saviour's smile divine ; 
 Be such ecstatic rising mine ! 
 
 WINTER— A FRAGMENT. 
 
 NOW winter's rude fetter has silenced each rill, 
 And the songsters have flown from the heath 
 and the hill, 
 And nought do we hear but the winter winds blow, 
 And nought do we see but the fast-falling snow. 
 Ah ! woe to the wight who must write in such wea- 
 ther, 
 Few words can he find that will jingle together; 
 His thoughts, like the waters, are frozen and chill, 
 And the muses are coy let him do as he will. 
 Oh ! were it but summer, when birds are a-singing, 
 And butterflies bright o'er the meadows are winging, 
 When the apple's white blossom gives forth its sweet 
 
 balm, 
 And the hill yields repose to the young mountain 
 
 lamb, 
 And the small brilliant humming-bird stoopeth to sip 
 The sweet honey-dew from the woodbine's red lip ; 
 
& 
 
 ii4 
 
 POE TR Y A XD DE I '0 TIOX. 
 
 When the murmurs of waters at twilight will come, 
 With the song of the honey-bee hieing him home ; 
 When all that is balmy, melodious, and bright, 
 Come breathing around him by day and by night, 
 The harp of the minstrel unbidden must ring, 
 The air which he breathes will awaken its string. 
 
 POETRY AND DEVOTION. 
 
 YOUNG Poetry, a spirit pure and holy, 
 Tuned her sweet harp among the angels bright, 
 Till on a fatal day, and melancholy, 
 She saw and loved an earth-born child of night — 
 He lured her from those bowers of calm delight, 
 Where all is pure, unmixed, unending pleasure, 
 This dark and ruined world with him to roam — 
 He taught her many a wild and fitful measure, 
 Now mournful, and now gay. In yon bright dome, 
 None such were ever heard, her pure, immortal home. 
 
 Earth hailed with joy the beauteous stranger, glow- 
 ing 
 And warm from heaven, all light and melody, 
 Who came with liberal hand, on man bestowing 
 Gifts which no toil can earn, no gold can buy — 
 
POETRY AND DEVOTION. 
 
 115 
 
 The skill to weave celestial poetry, 
 
 To catch the lightning thoughts that brightly play 
 
 The mental heaven so gracefully along, 
 
 And, lest the glittering truants flit away, 
 
 To bind them fast in fetters soft and strong, 
 
 Immortal, bright, and fair, the golden chains of song. 
 
 But ah ! her thoughts were upward, upward spring- 
 ing 
 To those fair fields where she was wont to roam ; 
 And ever, mid her earth-degraded singing, 
 Such wild, sad, mournful melodies would come, 
 Such wailings for her lost celestial home, 
 The listening angels almost wept to hear — 
 So tearful rose the penitential strain — 
 And thought how well those wondrous notes, so 
 
 clear, 
 So long drawn out, ay, loudest of their train, 
 Might fill the broad expanse of heaven's vast dome 
 again. 
 
 Sweet, but erratic strains ! now broken-hearted ; 
 Now wild, like joyous laughter ; now like sighs 
 Low-breathed for heaven, so fatally deserted — 
 Her sinless home in yon blue, boundless skies ! 
 Who held her place among the tuneful choir? 
 Upon her glorious throne, ah ! who might sit ? 
 And then her holy, pure, forsaken lyre, 
 
n 
 
 ft, 
 
 I 1 6 POK TR ) ' AND DE I '0 TION. 
 
 Round which such winged sweetness used to flit, 
 What hands, save hers alone, could win the soul 
 from it ? 
 
 Thus sped she on, till in a temple holy, 
 Awhile she paused in contemplation lone — 
 Could tears have washed away her sin and folly, 
 No stain had rested on that stricken one ; 
 But tears, alas ! for guilt can ne'er atone. 
 Hark to that rustling wing ! A being bright, 
 Pure as the first young beam of rising day, 
 And girded round with robes of dazzling light, 
 Wide flowing, sweeps adown the orient way, 
 Alights beside the maid, and thus to her doth say : 
 
 " Oh, hapless one ! though deep, though dark, thy 
 sinning, 
 
 From yonder realms of bliss I come to thee, 
 
 Long loved, long mourned for, from the fair begin- 
 ning 
 
 Of life's young dawn, my destined bride to be ; 
 
 Fair mourner, dry those tears ; thou yet may'st 
 see 
 
 Long years with happiness and hope complete. 
 
 Devotion I ! To me the bliss is given, 
 
 To ope for thee fair glory's pearly gate ; 
 
 Behold thy earth-wove chain is rent and riven ! 
 
 Oh ! fly with me away to yon blue, shining heaven !" 
 
 9 
 
LIFE'S VOYAGE. 
 
 117 
 
 Blushing- and trembling, like the crimson blossom 
 
 While listening to young Zephyr's first love-tale, 
 
 Over the keeping maiden's brow and bosom, 
 
 By unseen hands was thrown Love's rosy veil ; 
 
 Ah, covering beautiful, but far too frail ! 
 
 What boots to tell of love's divine emotion, 
 
 Or purest joys from pardoned guilt that spring — 
 
 Young Poetry, on wings of pure Devotion, 
 
 Arose to heaven, oh happiness ! to sing, 
 
 Among its glorious hosts the praises of their King ! 
 
 LIFE'S VOYAGE. 
 
 SET the sail and trim the boat, 
 Softly blow the breezes ; 
 Let the bright bark onward float, 
 Where the zephyr pleases. 
 
 Though the mountain's ponderous brow, 
 
 Casts its shadow o'er us ; 
 Yet the valley's sunny glow, 
 
 Is beaming bright before us. 
 
 See, our sail is filling fast ! 
 
 Unlash the cords that bind her ; 
 Our graceful skiff with slender mast, 
 
 Soon leaves the shore behind her ! 
 
F 
 
 ._3 
 
 , 1 
 
 n 
 
 c 
 
 
 : 
 
 i 
 
 I i 8 LIFE'S VOYAGE. 
 
 Hill and dale and shady bower, 
 
 
 j 
 
 
 To our view advancing ; 
 
 • 
 
 
 
 Lowly hovel, lordly tower, 
 
 
 
 
 In the sunbeam glancing:. 
 
 
 
 
 Now we hear the jocund song, 
 
 
 
 
 Of the lusty reaper ; 
 
 
 
 
 Now from yonder mournful throng, 
 
 
 
 
 Waitings of the weeper. 
 
 
 
 
 See yon gay and beauteous bower, 
 
 
 
 
 In the sunlight glowing ; 
 
 
 
 
 And the fragrant shrub and flower, 
 
 
 
 
 In its shadow growing. 
 
 
 
 
 Oh ! ye breezes cease to blow ! 
 
 
 
 
 Stay, O rippling river ! 
 
 
 
 
 Though fain to linger, on we go, 
 
 
 
 
 'Tis gone, 'tis gone forever ! 
 
 
 
 
 Thus adown the stream of life, 
 
 
 
 
 Time our bark is guiding ; 
 
 
 
 
 Through scenes of pleasure or of strife, 
 
 
 
 
 Onward, ceaseless, gliding ! 
 
 
 
 
 On alike through weal and woe — 
 
 
 
 
 On through joy and sorrow — 
 
 
 
 
 How quickly come ! how quickly go, 
 
 
 
 C 
 
 Noon and night and morrow ! 
 
 
 » 
 
 ( 
 
 
 j 
 
 u 
 
 9 
 
 
 
 y 
 
LIFE'S VOYAGE. 119 
 
 Come we to some fragrant vale, 
 
 Fondly would we linger ; 
 But the fresh winds press the sail ; 
 
 Time's relentless finger 
 
 Onward points — and as we go, 
 
 Memory's pencil only 
 Can faintly paint the gorgeous glow, 
 
 Of scenes so loved and lonely. 
 
 Hill and dale, how soon they're gone, 
 
 In this ceaseless motion ! 
 Winds and waves still urge us on, 
 
 Onward to the ocean ! 
 
 Thus along life's gliding wave, 
 
 Morn and noon and even, 
 To the dark insatiate grave, 
 
 Forward all are driven. 
 
 Nor stop we there : still on we go, 
 
 Never, never ceasing — 
 On in joy, or on in woe ; 
 
 In infinite progression. 
 
 Soon our bounding bark will pass, 
 
 To the gulph of wailing ; 
 Or soon be on the " sea of glass," 
 
 In heaven's own sunshine sailing. 
 
120 SABBA Til REMINISCENCES, 
 
 Gracious spirit, in this vale, 
 Give us favoring breezes; 
 
 Mighty Maker, trim our sail ; 
 Hold the helm, O Jesus ! 
 
 SABBATH REMINISCENCES. 
 
 I REMEMBER, I remember, when Sabbath morn- 
 ing rose 
 
 We changed, for garments neat and clean, our soiled 
 and week-day clothes ; 
 
 And yet no gaud nor finery, no brooch nor jewel rare, 
 
 But hands and faces polish'd bright, and smoothly- 
 parted hair. 
 
 'Twas not the decking of the head, my father used to 
 say, 
 
 But careful clothing of the heart, that graced that 
 holy day ; 
 
 'Twas not the bonnet nor the dress ; — and I believed 
 it true, 
 
 But those were very simple times, and I was simple 
 too. 
 
 I remember, I remember, the parlor where we met ; 
 Its paper'd walls, its polished floor, and mantel black 
 as jet ; 
 
SABBA TH REMINISCENCES. \ 2 1 
 
 'Twas there we raised the morning hymn, melodious, 
 sweet and clear, 
 
 And joined in prayer with that loved voice which we 
 no more may hear. 
 
 Our morning sacrifice thus made, then to the house 
 of God, 
 
 How solemnly, and silently, and cheerfully we trod ! 
 
 I see e'en now its low-thatched roof, its floor of trod- 
 den clay, 
 
 And our old Pastor's time-worn face, and wig of sil- 
 ver gray. 
 
 I remember, I remember, how hush'd and mute we 
 
 were, 
 While he led our spirits up to God, in heart-felt 
 
 melting prayer ; 
 To grace his action or his voice, no studied charm 
 
 was lent, 
 Pure, fervent, glowing from the heart, so to the heart 
 
 it went. 
 Then came the sermon long and quaint, but full of 
 
 gospel truth, — 
 Ah me ! I was no judge of that, for I was then a 
 
 youth ; 
 But I have heard my father say, and well my father 
 
 knew, 
 In it was meat for full-grown men, and milk for chil- 
 dren too. 
 
 *HJ 
 
I 22 
 
 SABBA Til REMINISCENCES, 
 
 I remember, I remember, as 'twere but yesterday, 
 
 The Psalms in Rouse's version sung, a rude but love- 
 ly lay ; 
 
 Nor yet, though fashion's hand has tried to train my 
 wayward ear, 
 
 Can I find aught in modern verse so holy or so dear ! 
 
 And well do I remember, too, our old precentor's 
 face, 
 
 As he read out and sung the line with patriarchal 
 grace ; 
 
 Though rudely rustic was the sound, I'm sure that 
 God was praised, 
 
 When David's words to David's* tune, five hundred 
 voices raised. 
 
 I remember, I remember, the morning sermon done, 
 The hour of intermission come, we wander'd in the 
 
 sun ; — 
 How hoary farmers sat them down upon the daisy 
 
 sod, 
 And talk'd of bounteous nature's stores, and nature's 
 
 bounteous God ; 
 And matrons talk'd, as matrons will, of sickness and 
 
 of health, 
 Of births, and deaths, and marriages, of poverty and 
 
 wealth ; 
 
 * St. David's was one of the few tunes used by the congregation al 
 hided to. 
 
SABBATH REMINISCENCES. 
 
 123 
 
 And youths and maidens stole apart, within the 
 shady grove, 
 
 And whisper'd 'neath its spreading boughs, per- 
 chance some tale of love. 
 
 I remember, I remember, how to the church-yard 
 
 lone 
 I've stolen away, and sat me down beside the rude 
 
 grave-stone, 
 Or read the names of those who slept beneath the 
 
 clay-cold clod, 
 And thought of spirits glittering bright before the 
 
 throne of God ; 
 Or where the little rivulet danced sportively and 
 
 bright, 
 Receiving on its limpid breast the sun's meridian 
 
 light, 
 I've wander'd forth, and thought if hearts were pure 
 
 like this sweet stream, 
 How fair to heaven they might reflect heaven's un- 
 created beam. 
 
 I remember, I remember, the second sermon o'er, 
 
 We turn'd our faces once again to our paternal door ; 
 
 And round the well-fill'd, ample board, sat no reluc- 
 tant guest, 
 
 For exercise gave appetite, and loved ones shared 
 the feast. 
 
fi= 
 
 j 2 a SA BBA Til REMINISCENCE S. 
 
 Then ere the sunset hour arrived, as we were wont 
 
 to do, 
 The catechism's well-conn'd page, we said it through 
 
 and through, 
 And childhood's faltering tongue was heard to lisp 
 
 the holy word, 
 And older voices read aloud the message of the Lord. 
 
 Away back in those days of yore, perhaps the fault 
 
 was mine, 
 I used to think the Sabbath-day, dear Lord, was 
 
 wholly thine ; 
 When it behoved to keep the heart, and bridle fast 
 
 the tongue, 
 But those were very simple times, and I was very 
 
 young ; — 
 The world has grown much older since those sun- 
 bright Sabbath days, 
 The world has grown much older since, and she has 
 
 changed her ways ; 
 Some say that she has wiser grown, — ah cue ! it may 
 
 be true, 
 As wisdom comes by length of days — but so does 
 
 dotage too. 
 
 Oh ! happy, happy days of youth, how beautiful, 
 
 how fair, [ways arc ! 
 
 To memory's retrospective eye, your trodden path- 
 
 8 
 
CLOSE OF A YEAR. \ 2 ^ 
 
 The thorns forgot, remember'd still the fragrance 
 and the flowers, 
 
 The loved companions of my youth, and sunny Sab- 
 bath hours ! 
 
 And onward, onward, onward still successive Sab- 
 baths come, 
 
 As guides to lead us on the road to our eternal home, 
 
 Or like the vision'd ladder once to slumbering Jacob 
 given, 
 
 From heaven descending to the earth, led back from 
 earth to heaven ! 
 
 CLOSE OF A YEAR. 
 
 DEPARTED, departed ! Oh ! yes, it is gone, 
 And many may weep in their sadness alone ; 
 For hearts that beat warmly and high at its birth, 
 Now pulseless and cold are laid low in the earth ! 
 And cheeks that were rosy and eyes that were bright, 
 Are faded and quenched in the darkness of night. 
 Ah ! few can look round in the home-nursed parterre, 
 And miss not some blossom that once flourished 
 
 there ; 
 Some dear one decaved, that no sunshine or rain 
 Can restore to its bloom or its beauty again. 
 
126 CLOSE OF A YEAR. 
 
 Or if none have been taken, perchance there may be 
 Some lovely fair floweret that droops on the tree ; 
 Some withering rose-bud we fondly would save, 
 More lovely, more prized as it ripes for the grave. 
 Oh ! weep not, for yet that fair blossom may be 
 Restored to expand on its own native tree ; 
 Or safely removed, where no blighting can come, 
 In the garden of God in its fragrance to bloom — 
 To cheer and refresh you when you too shall go 
 From a world that is fruitful in weeping and woe. 
 Sweet, sweet is the promise the gospel has given, 
 Earth's tears shall be dried in the sun-light of heaven ! 
 
 And where is the mother can lift up the lid 
 
 From the casket where home's brightest jewels are 
 
 hid, 
 And miss not some gem that a twelvemonth ago 
 Has cheered her fond heart with its brilliance and 
 
 glow ! — 
 Some sweet little diamond that sparkled and shone, 
 The choicest, the rarest, her dearest, her own ! 
 Yet weep not, O mourner ! more lustrous its ray, 
 'Midst the treasures of heaven laid safely away ; 
 Undimmed by the tear-drops of sin and of care, 
 Which tarnish the brightness of all that is here; 
 Restored and reset it may glitter and shine, 
 In the crown of rejoicing that yet shall be thine ! 
 
 
 
THE HOME MISSIONARY. i 2 J 
 
 THE HOME MISSIONARY; 
 
 OR, 
 
 WORSHIP IN THE WILDERNESS. 
 
 TO our lowly sanctuary, 
 Reared amid the cooling shade, 
 Comes, to-day, the missionary, 
 Here to break the living bread. 
 
 Seldom drops the dew of Hermon 
 On this thirsty forest ground, 
 
 Seldom doth a song of praises 
 
 Through these sylvan arches sound. 
 
 Seldom moves the healing waters, 
 By the living preacher stirred ; 
 
 Seldom is the gospel message, 
 By these forest children heard. 
 
 Spread the tidings, spread the tidings ! 
 
 Tell the story far and wide ! 
 Come from valley, glen and mountain, 
 
 Come from hill and dingle side. 
 
 <sr 
 
128 THE HOME MISSIONARY. 
 
 Come, though humble be our temple; 
 
 Come, though rude its shrine may be; 
 Contrite hearts are holy altars ; 
 
 Sweet their incense, Lord, to thee. 
 
 Hunter of the tangled thicket, 
 Hither with thy children come ; 
 
 Lead them to this open fountain ; 
 Guide them to a heavenly home. 
 
 Mother, on thy tender bosom 
 
 Bring the babe that God hath given ; 
 
 Here present thy cherished blossom, 
 Sign and seal its name for heaven. 
 
 Grandsire old, and weak, and weary, 
 Tottering down life's pligrimage ; 
 
 Hear once more the life-fraught message ; 
 Listen to the sacred page. 
 
 Man of God, no longer tarry, 
 
 Come, thy waiting flock to greet ; 
 
 Feed them with the heavenly manna ; 
 Lead them to the Mercy-seat. 
 
 Ah! thou comest, weary stranger! 
 
 Traveller of a thorny road ; 
 Yet is thine a glorious calling, 
 
 Servant of a faithful God. 
 
c 
 
 THE HOME MISSIONARY. 129 
 
 What, though toil and want depress thee ; 
 
 What, though darkening clouds may lower; 
 This is not thy home, my brother, 
 
 Traveller of a stormy hour. 
 
 Christ, thy master and thy pattern, 
 
 Had not where his head to rest ; 
 Roll on him thy care, thy sorrow ; 
 
 Lean, when fainting, on his breast. 
 
 This is not thy home, my brother ! 
 
 Soon a welcome voice shall come, 
 Well done, servant good and faithful, 
 
 Leave thy labors, hasten home. 
 
 Home, to that bright world above thee ; 
 
 Home, where saints and martyrs be ; 
 Home, with Christ, thy elder brother, 
 
 There remains a rest for thee. 
 
 Earth receding, heaven appearing, 
 Peace and joy, and Eden's bowers ; 
 
 Oh ! to die as doth the righteous ; 
 Be like his my closing hours. 
 
 As weary stars, their night-watch ended, 
 Steal to sleep in sunbeams bright, 
 
 So to heaven the saint retireth, 
 Paling, fading, lost in light. 
 
1 30 ANNIVERSARY HYMN. 
 
 ANNIVERSARY HYMN.* 
 
 ON a mount, whose far summit o'erlooked the 
 dark wave 
 Of the Delaware, rolling majestic away — 
 Where the Lehigh its tribute of bright waters gave, 
 And the Bushkill leaped forth like a child at its 
 play. 
 Alone in his sadness a desolate sagfe 
 
 Looked down on the scene thro' the mist of his 
 tears ; 
 Tho' furrowed, his brow was not furrowed by age ; — 
 Tho' many his sorrows, yet few were his years. 
 
 And weary and far was the way he had trod — 
 
 And long had he labored ; alas, it was vain ! 
 He led the dark sons of the forest to God, 
 
 But oh ! they had turned to their idols again. 
 He knelt in the depths of his agony there ; 
 
 And bitter and sad were the tears that he shed, 
 As he poured forth his soul to the Hearer of prayer, 
 
 That his spirit might breathe on the desolate dead. 
 
 •Written by request for an anniversary meeting of the Brain ard 
 Sot iety ol Lafayette College, 
 
ANNIVERSARY HYMN. 
 
 131 
 
 For the heathen he wept ; for the heathen he prayed ; 
 
 And a rapture of peace to his bosom was given ; 
 While the finger of sleep on his eyelids was laid, 
 
 The veil of the future before him was riven — 
 And fair was the vision that rose on his sight, 
 
 And soft were the voices that whispering stole ; 
 Like dew when it falls on the flowers at night, 
 
 Reviving they fell on his sorrowing soul. 
 
 Oh ! then, had some pitying angel been sent, 
 
 A messenger missioned to dry up his tears — 
 To show him the shade of each coming event, 
 
 And point him away through the vista of years — 
 Had he seen on the spot by his sorrow bedewed, 
 
 This temple majestic in beauty arise ; 
 And heard in the tenantless lone solitude, 
 
 Your anthems of glory ascend to the skies ! 
 
 Though little his joy to have known that you bear 
 
 His name on the banner your faith has unfurled — 
 But O ! had he known you to be what you are, 
 
 The heralds of hope to a perishing world, — 
 In holiest rapture, his soul at the sight, 
 
 Like Simeon's, had longed to be rid of its clay ; 
 Forgetful of earth in its boundless delight, 
 
 Would gladly have soared to its glory away. 
 
 On you rests his mantle — on you rests his name ; 
 The fervor and hope of his spirit be yours ; 
 
1 T >2 INDIAN SERENADE. 
 
 Like his be your courage in glory or shame, 
 And faith in his Saviour your triumph secures ! 
 
 Then, Brainards, arise ! 'tis that Saviour alone, 
 
 Commands you to gird on the conquering sword ; 
 
 And fear not — the heart of the fierce and the proud 
 Shall bow at the feet of your crucified Lord ! 
 
 INDIAN SERENADE. 
 
 A POETICAL TRANSLATION. 
 
 FLOWER of the forest, awaken, awaken! 
 Beautiful bird of the prairie, arise ! 
 Like the eyes of the fawn, when her covert is shaken, 
 So wild and so bright is the glance of thine eyes. 
 
 Like some drooping flower, which the evening is 
 stealing 
 
 To cheer and to cherish with life-giving dew, 
 Art thou, my beloved, thus thy kindness revealing— 
 
 I am the faint blossom ; the dew-drop are you. 
 
 The breath from thy lips all the fragrance discloses, 
 Of buds that still glitter with morn's dewy tear ; 
 
 Sweet, sweet as the perfume exhaling from roses, 
 When they breathe their last sigh upon autumn's 
 cold bier. 
 
 c 
 
INDIAN SERENADE. 133 
 
 As springs to the sunshine the young fountain gush- 
 
 incr 
 
 Or sparkles and sports in the moonbeam at night, 
 So the blood from my heart, at thy bright presence 
 rushing, 
 Springs joyful to blush in thy life-giving light. 
 
 As branches that dance, when the zephyrs at even 
 Sing to them sweet strains, as they wander along, 
 
 So joy to my soul by thy coming is given, 
 So dances my heart to the voice of thy song. 
 
 Dost thou frown, my beloved ! — as the fair-shining 
 river 
 
 Is darkened by clouds in the heavens above, 
 Thus shadows are thrown o'er my happiness ever, 
 
 If clouds should o'ercast our bright heaven of love. 
 
 Dost thou smile — how my troubled heart brightens 
 and dances, 
 
 Like that stream when the sunshine is on it anew ; 
 And the ripple of sorrow, how gayly it glances 
 
 In the sunbeam of pleasure it catches from you. 
 
 My own self! Behold me ! My life-blood, my treas- 
 ure ! 
 Earth, heaven, and waters, are smiling and gay ; 
 But / cannot smile, for the sunshine, the pleasure, 
 From life hath departed since thou art away. 
 
 8 
 
134 
 
 THE CO U LIN. 
 
 Then flower of the forest, awaken ! awaken ! 
 
 Beautiful bird of the prairie, arise ! 
 Like the timid young fawn when her covert is shaken, 
 
 Come forth, for I live in the light of thine eyes. 
 
 THE CCULIN.* 
 
 OH ! where shall the bosom with sorrow op- 
 pressed, 
 For its woe find a balm, for its weariness rest ? — 
 When the wine-cup is sparkling, and fragrant, and 
 
 bright, 
 Go seek for lost peace amid social delight, 
 
 Or where the bright eyes of the beautiful shine, 
 Where lips are more rosy, more fragrant than wine ; 
 Go seek for a solace mid pleasure's gay train, 
 'Till joy shall revisit thy bosom again. 
 
 Ah me ! I have sped to the banquet and ball ; 
 And life's choicest pleasures, I've tasted them all ; 
 And gazed upon beauty when brightest in bloom, 
 'Till fading it sunk in the night of the tomb ! 
 
 * One of the most touching and exquisitely beautiful melodies ex- 
 tant, is the old Irish air called "The Coulill." 
 
 The principal aim of the present writer was to accommodate the 
 language to the slow and sad character of the music, and make it suffi 
 
 ciently brief for singing as an accompanimenl to an instrument. 
 
fl 
 
 THE FAIR AT W YOMING. \ 3 5 
 
 Then tell me of something more lasting, more fair — 
 Of pleasures less fleeting than earth's pleasures are ; 
 Like the shelter of Jonah, her comforts decay ; — 
 When our need is the sorest they wither away ! 
 
 THE FAIR AT WYOMING.* 
 
 TO THE LADIES OF "THE WYOMING MONUMENTAL 
 
 ASSOCIATION." 
 
 The Ladies of Easton send greeting : 
 
 Dear Sisters, — 
 
 WE beg you accept of the gift we bestow, 
 For the object we greatly approve ; 
 The names to exalt of the dead who lie low, 
 'Neath the soil of the valley you love. 
 
 A valley baptized in the blood of the brave, 
 Meetest spot on the earth for a warrior's grave ; 
 The hero who sleeps 'neath its blood-bedewed sod, 
 Is the hero who fought for his hearth and his God. 
 
 Let the sons of those sires forget, if they may, 
 The men and the means that ennoble their clay ; 
 
 * The gentlemen of the Valley of Wyoming having failed in their 
 endeavors to procure the requisite means to finish the monument to 
 the memory of those who were massacred on the memorable 3d of 
 July, 177S, the ladies some time since took the task upon themselves, 
 and after some months of energetic endeavor, displayed the fruits of 
 their industry and skill at a grand fair, which they held for three days 
 in the Court House at Wilkesbarre. 
 
J 
 
 136 THE FAIR AT WYOMING, 
 
 Let the State that reaps laurels from fields of their 
 Refuse e'en a wreath to encircle their name ; [fame, 
 Yet arise, O ye Gertrudes ! and honor the spot, 
 Lest the days and the deeds of the dead be forgot. 
 
 As we claim to be sisters, we claim, too, a share, 
 In the mound of the brave which is raised by the fair. 
 Oh, may hearts as heroic the weak ever save, 
 And fair ones as grateful embellish their grave ! 
 
 Yet judge not the heart by the trifle it sends, 
 
 But take it just as its intended ! 
 Could we send you a ready-built monument, friends, 
 
 Believe us, we'd cheerfully send it. 
 
 There 's a Basket of Fruit, ripe, ruddy and fair, 
 
 Yet hardly as fair as the donor ; 
 And a Pair of Cloth Slippers for gentleman's wear, 
 
 Which must be made up by the owner. 
 
 There are Cushions to set on your toilet so neat, 
 There 's a Basket of Shells from the ocean ; 
 
 And two Boxes embroidered with roses so sweet, 
 Well fitted to hold any notion. 
 
 There are Lamp-stands and Lamp- lighter Boxes to boot, 
 
 And Bags fit for ladies to carry, 
 And ten " I lard-times Pocket-books" — Say, will they 
 
 The beaux who reside in Wilkcsbarrc ? [suit 
 
ou. 
 
 THE FAIR AT WYOMING. 
 
 137 
 
 We send you a Lady, her name is Ruth Prim, 
 
 A pattern of neatness and beauty ; 
 Let some bachelor take her, she'll be unto him 
 
 A model of silence and duty! 
 
 There 's a Cart and a Wheelbarrow, both to assist 
 
 In raising your monument higher ; 
 And two handsome Card Baskets, none can resist 
 
 Their neatness and grace to admire ! 
 
 There 's a Basket of Coral, a Harp, a Guitar, 
 
 And Slippers, for fairies intended ; 
 There 's an Apron of Silk for a lady to wear, 
 
 And if torn, there are Needles to mend it. 
 
 There 's a Bag that was made by a neat little girl, 
 Her years, as you see, are not many ; 
 
 Of crewel 'tis worked, of the color called pearl, 
 And we call her our dear little Annie. 
 
 If aught is forgotten, pray pardon the muse — 
 To err, like her sex, she 's addicted ; 
 
 Her mite to contribute, how could she refuse ? 
 Though in time she was greatly restricted. 
 
 On Behalf of the Ladies of Easton. 
 June 25, 1841. 
 
138 
 
 THE MUSE'S QUARREL. 
 
 THE MUSE'S QUARREL. 
 
 DEAR LEO, I've had such a time, 
 I'll strive to tell you all in rhyme, 
 But first, the piece you must excuse, 
 For I have quarreled with the muse. 
 Up to Parnassus' summit steep, 
 I stole and found her fast asleep ; 
 Ere I came near, I heard her snoring-, 
 But thought it was old Boreas roaring ; 
 For in the caverns thereabout 
 He sometimes keeps his revel rout ; 
 I waked her, softly saying, Dear 
 Le' Heckman 's brought her album here, 
 She wished that I a piece would write, 
 And so I will, if you indite ; 
 But the vexed vixen, 'cause I woke her, 
 Was stiff as if she'd eat the poker, 
 And albums all, such was her fury, 
 Condemned without a judge or jury — 
 Called them abominable things, 
 With their gay backs and paper wings, 
 And painted doves, more like the raven, 
 None such ere winged the azure heaven ! 
 
 A 
 
 C 
 
THE MUSE'S QUARREL. j^g 
 
 And vases looking more like glue-pots ! 
 
 And then their Cupids ! — oh their Cupids ! ! 
 
 The little thick-legged funny creatures, 
 
 With snubby noses, vulgar features, 
 
 Painted, no doubt, by maid or wife, 
 
 Who ne'er saw Cupid in her life ! 
 
 Their verses ! — there her choler rose up, 
 
 And at the rhyme she turned her nose up, 
 
 Vowed they had heaped reproach upon her, 
 
 Covered her calling with dishonor. 
 
 Attribute them to her — indeed ! 
 
 She wrote them not nor would she read — 
 
 You'd scarce believe me, I'm afraid, 
 
 If I should tell you all she said ; 
 
 I tried to soothe, said all was true, 
 
 Yet begged she'd write one verse for you ; 
 
 Said I, the maid, you know, is fair, 
 
 And light and bright and debonair, 
 
 And then, dear Muse, from me and you, 
 
 Why anything almost will do — 
 
 Some wondrous tale of maiden bright, 
 
 Who with her eye-beams slew a knight — 
 
 Or fairies, who by thousands dwell 
 
 Within the tiny heather bell — 
 
 Or dewy morning's rising ray — 
 
 Or twilight sinking soft away — 
 
 Or zephyr in the moonlit bowers, 
 
 Dancing all night with bright young flowers, 
 
140 
 
 THE MUSE'S QUARREL. 
 
 Who might have better slept, you know, 
 
 Than waste their midnight moments so — 
 
 Or maidens, whose black brilliant eyes 
 
 Make hearts evaporate in sighs — 
 
 Or blue-eyed beauty's milder ray, 
 
 That melts them into tears away — 
 
 Or cavern deep — or mountain high — 
 
 Or stars careering through the sky — 
 
 Or bachelor, who dwells alone 
 
 In some snug cottage of his own — 
 
 Or ancient maid, who sighs to share 
 
 His cottage home and cottage fare — 
 
 In short, I touched on every theme — 
 
 The waking thought — the midnight dream — 
 
 Down to the deeps where sea-nymphs dwell, 
 
 I went in fancy's diving bell ; 
 
 Stept in and spent a pleasant night 
 
 With Neptune and his Amphythrite. 
 
 The kind old lady showed me all 
 
 The wonders of her ocean-hall ; 
 
 Walked with me in the coral groves, 
 
 Where blushing mermaids tell their loves ; 
 
 Shewed me the rocks where, buried deep, 
 
 Pearls in their oysters snugly sleep ; 
 
 I saw the Mother-Cary's chicken, 
 
 Quite tame around their barn-yard picking — 
 
 A shark ! — the air became exhausted ; 
 
 I gave the signal to be hoisted ; 
 
* 
 
 _3 
 
 THE MUSE'S QUARREL. 141 
 
 But though I stoutly pulled the rope, 
 
 The gypsy would not help me up ; 
 
 But when I rose, as when I sank, 
 
 The Muse sat stubborn, silent, blank. 
 
 I next tried politics — the nation — 
 
 The railroad cars and gravitation — 
 
 Mechanic powers I brought to view 
 
 The axle, lever, wedge and screw — 
 
 I talked of comets in their courses — 
 
 Circassian maids, and Arab horses — 
 
 Feared that the moon to earth might fall, 
 
 Compelled by force centripetal — 
 
 I spoke of pyramids and kings, 
 
 Egyptian mummies and such things — 
 
 Of Lafayette and Washington — 
 
 The brilliant star — the glorious sun — 
 
 I even spoke of hanging — drowning — 
 
 And slightly mentioned Major Downing — 
 
 Brought forth the microscope and prism, 
 
 And caviled at materialism — 
 
 At length I cried, if all things fail, 
 
 Let's write a sonnet to a whale ! — 
 
 Indignant then, she turned her shoulder, 
 
 And spread her wings ; 'twere vain to hold her, 
 
 But looking back amidst her flight, 
 
 She bade me, once for all, good-night. 
 
 ■fi ^j=> 
 
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 142 
 
 THE LAST OF SALADIN. 
 
 
 THE LAST OF SALADIN. 
 
 WHO lieth there so pale and meek, 
 With death-stamp, moist'ning brow and 
 cheek, 
 And faltering voice, so low and weak, 
 
 Can this be Saladin ? 
 O monarch of the deathless name, 
 Fair favorite child of boasting fame ! 
 A mightier comes, thy throne to claim ; 
 Thy crescent bright, to win. 
 
 No sound of martial melody, 
 No war-steed prancing gallantly, 
 No glittering pomp or panoply 
 
 To wake thy spirit's ire. 
 Oh ! stealthily, at dead of night, 
 By the dim taper's shaded light, 
 Death comes — oh soul-appaling sight ! 
 
 To light thy funeral pyre. 
 
 Behold the hour-glass in his hand ; 
 See, falling fast thy glittering sand ; 
 
THE LAST OF SALADIN. 
 
 And hark ! that voice whose stern command, 
 
 Escape no mortal may ; 
 Prepare to meet the all-conquering foe ; 
 Review the past, the weal or woe 
 That wait upon the future know, 
 
 For thou must die to-day. 
 
 The Sultan heard, and silent long 
 
 He lay, while thoughts, a countless throng, 
 
 Came o'er his soul — foul deeds of wrong 
 
 Swept past in dark array ; 
 He tried in vain to think of fame, 
 Of glorious wreath which bound his name, 
 But many a bleeding spectre came 
 
 To chase bright hopes away. 
 
 H3 
 
 The musing monarch raised his head, 
 Faint was the voice which feebly said, 
 Bring forth the sheet, which wraps the dead ; 
 
 Unfold my banner bright, 
 That dread of Banded Christendom, 
 Round which my dauntless guards have come, 
 When booming loud the signal drum, 
 
 Gave warning of the fight, 
 
 Remove these glittering folds, he said, 
 Attach that winding sheet, instead, 
 So soon to wrap the sleeping dead ; 
 Now call my minstrels in, 
 
144 TIIE LAST OF SALADIX. 
 
 With funeral dirges, sad and slow, 
 And waitings wild, of deepest woe, 
 Go forth, and to my subjects show 
 This robe of Saladin. 
 
 Say, " Earthly pomp is all & dream ; 
 Her power, a meteor's passing gleam ; 
 Her joy, the evening's parting beam, 
 
 Which sinks in endless night." 
 Proclaim, " The monarch's state is gone — 
 His gorgeous robes, his glittering throne ;- 
 Remains for Saladin, alone 
 
 This cold fair sheet of white." 
 
 Twas done ; by that strange banner led, 
 Was heard the warriors' measured tread — 
 The long loud waitings for the dead — 
 
 The requiem's solemn tone. 
 They paused, and loud and fearfully 
 Arose the herald's mournful cry, 
 Proclaiming, sad and dolefully, 
 
 The monarch's power was gone. 
 
 Again moved on the dread array, 
 
 Again arose the solemn lay, 
 
 As through the city's streets, a way, 
 
 Did that sad pageant win, 
 And pointing to that banner fair, 
 Whose white folds fanned the morning air. 
 
 5 
 

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 THE LAST OF SALAD IN. 
 
 " Behold the robe that all must wear — 
 The robe of Saladin." 
 
 That mournful meeting o'er, the morn 
 Saw weeping warrior hosts return, 
 But Saladin had crossed the bourn 
 
 Whence none return again ; 
 Robed in that winding sheet of snow, 
 Was laid the mighty monarch low, 
 While mournful music, soft and slow, 
 
 Gave forth its solemn strain. 
 
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 145 
 
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 Where doth that famous warrior sleep ? 
 
 
 - 
 
 
 Around what chamber silent, deep, 
 
 
 
 
 Do wakeful guards sad vigils keep, 
 
 
 
 
 O'er sacred dust within ? 
 
 
 
 
 Alas ! long years have rolled away, 
 
 
 
 
 And clay hath mingled so with clay, 
 
 
 
 
 That none on earth may dare to say, 
 
 
 
 
 " Here sleepeth Saladin." 
 
 
 
 
 Come, then, ye great, a lesson learn, 
 
 
 
 
 List to a teacher, dark and stern, 
 
 
 
 
 Who often comes when most ye yearn 
 
 
 
 
 For Earth's gay pageantry, 
 
 
 
 
 To tell you that Earth's hopes are vain ; 
 
 
 
 
 Her woes, the worst, a transient pain, 
 
 
 
 
 And dust to dust must end the strain 
 
 
 
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 Of life's best melody. 
 
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I46 TWO HUNDRED YEARS AGO. 
 
 9 
 
 TWO HUNDRED YEARS AGO.* 
 
 TWO hundred years, two hundred years, our 
 bark o'er billowy seas 
 Has onward kept her steady course, through hurri- 
 cane and breeze ; 
 Her Captain was the Mighty One — she braved the 
 
 stormy foe, 
 And still He guides who guided her two hundred 
 yeas ago. 
 
 Her chart was God's unerring Word, by which her 
 course to steer, 
 
 Her helmsman was the risen Lord, a helper ever near; 
 
 Though many a beauteous boat has sunk the treach- 
 erous wave below, 
 
 Yet ours is sound as she was built, two hundred 
 years ago. 
 
 The wind that fill'd her swelling sheet, from many a 
 
 point has blown, 
 Still urging her unchanging course through shoals 
 
 and breakers on ; 
 
 * Written for the Hi-centennial Celebration of the Theological Stan- 
 dards of the illustrious Westminster Assembly of Divin s. 
 
T WO H UN D RED YEARS AGO. j 47 
 
 Her fluttering pennon still the same, whatever breeze 
 
 might blow ; 
 It pointed, as it does, to heaven, two hundred years 
 
 ago. 
 
 When first our gallant ship was launch'd, although 
 
 her hands were few, 
 Yet dauntless was each bosom found, and every heart 
 
 was true ! 
 And still, though in her mighty hull unnumber'd 
 
 bosoms glow, 
 Her crew is faithful, as it was two hundred years ago ! 
 
 True, some have left this noble craft to sail the seas 
 alone, 
 
 And made them, in their hour of pride, a vessel of 
 their own ; 
 
 Ah me ! when clouds portentous rise, when threat- 
 ening tempests blow, 
 
 They'll wish for that old vessel built two hundred 
 years ago ! 
 
 For onward rides our gallant bark, with all her can- 
 vas set, 
 
 In many a nation, still unknown, to plant her stan- 
 dard yet ; 
 
 Her flag shall float where'er the breeze of freedom's 
 breath shall blow, [years ago ! 
 
 And millions bless the boat that sail'd two hundred 
 
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 *— 
 ^ 
 
 148 TWO HUNDRED YEARS AGO. 
 
 On Scotia's coast, in days of yore, she lay almost a 
 wreck, 
 
 Her mainmast gone, her rigging torn, the boarders 
 on the deck, 
 
 There Cameron, Cargill, Cochran, fell, there Ren- 
 wick's blood did flow, 
 
 Defending our good vessel, built two hundred years 
 ago! 
 
 Ah ! many a martyr's blood was shed, we may not 
 
 name them all ; 
 They tore the peasant from his hut, the noble from 
 
 his hall ; 
 Then, brave Argyle, thy father's blood for faith did 
 
 freely flow, 
 And pure the stream, as was the fount two hundred 
 
 years ago ! 
 
 Yet onward still our vessel pressed, and wcather'd 
 
 out the gale ; 
 She clear'd the wreck, and spliced the mast, and 
 
 mended every sail ; 
 And swifter, stauncher, mightier far, upon her course 
 
 did go ; [dred years ago ! 
 
 Strong hands and gallant hearts had she two hun- 
 
 And sec her now, on beam-ends cast, beneath a north- 
 west storm, [from harm ; 
 I leave- overboard the very bread to save the ship 
 
TWO HUNDRED YEARS AGO. 149 
 
 She rights ! she rides! hark how they cheer, — All's 
 
 well ! above, below ! 
 She 's tight as when she left the stocks two hundred 
 
 years ago. 
 
 True to that guiding star which led to Israel's cra- 
 dled hope, 
 
 Her steady needle pointeth yet to Calvary's bloody 
 top ! 
 
 Yes, there she floats, that good old ship, from mast 
 to keel below 
 
 Sea- worthy still, as erst she was two hundred years 
 years ago ! 
 
 Not unto us, not unto us, be praise or glory given, 
 
 But unto Him who watch and ward hath kept for 
 us in heaven ; 
 
 Who quelled the whirlwind in its wrath, bade tem- 
 pests cease to blow, 
 
 That God who launched our vessel forth two hun- 
 dred years ago ! 
 
 Then onward speed thee, brave old bark, speed on- 
 ward in thy pride, 
 
 O'er sunny seas and billows dark, Jehovah still thy 
 guide ; 
 
 And sacred be each plank and spar, unchanged by 
 friend or foe, ago ! 
 
 Just as she left Old Wesminster, two hundred years 
 
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 150 WELCOME, WELCOME I BABY, DEAR' 
 
 WELCOME, WELCOME! BABY, DEAR! 
 
 TO A BABE BORN FIRST OF JANUARY. 
 
 TTTELCOME, welcome! baby, dear! 
 
 » V First best gift of all the year ; 
 Gladly would we twine a wreath 
 For thee, of flowers that bloom and breathe ; 
 But the muse can cull no flowers 
 From the snow-embosomed bowers; 
 O'er the earth stern winter casts 
 Sparkling ice, and piercing blasts ; 
 Bee and butterfly have fled ; 
 Flowers have sought their winter bed ; 
 Birds to milder climates flown ; 
 Autumn's latest leaf is gone ; 
 We no wreath can twine for thee, 
 But the wreath of poesy. 
 Were it spring-time, we could bring, 
 Blossoms redolent of spring ; 
 If 'twere summer, we would spread 
 Roses round thy cradle bed ; 
 Or in autumn, we might twine 
 
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 Breathing blossoms of the vine ; 
 
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 WELCOME, WELCOME! BABY, DEARt 151 
 
 Nothing lovely now is seen, 
 Save the deathless evergreen ; — 
 Far too cold its verdant bough, 
 For the baby's tender brow ; 
 We can twine no wreath for thee, . 
 But the wreath of poesy. 
 
 Take, till summer blossoms blow, 
 
 Thoughts that breathe and words that glow, 
 
 Wishes warm that heaven may shed 
 
 Blessings on fair Sarah's head ; 
 
 Hopes that still her life may be 
 
 Like the snow in purity ; 
 
 And her actions brilliant, all, 
 
 As the sparkling icicle ; 
 
 Faith, and hope, and virtue, bright 
 
 As the planets of the night ; 
 
 Like the light with which they glow, 
 
 Be thy brightness, borrowed too ; 
 
 Shining fair till life shall be 
 
 Merged in immortality. 
 
 Welcome, welcome ! baby, dear ! 
 Winter rose-bud, welcome here ! 
 Thou shalt never feel the storm ; 
 Hearts are kind and hearts are warm ; 
 Closely to our bosoms cling, 
 Lovely, helpless, little thing ! 
 
152 WINTER ROSE-BUD, SUMMER BLIGHTED. 
 
 Summer flowers may spring around, 
 Disregarded from the ground, 
 But the plants we nurse with care, 
 Ever prized and precious are ; 
 May thy bloom each care repay, 
 Blossom of a winter day. 
 
 WINTER ROSE-BUD, SUMMER BLIGHTED.* 
 
 DIED, AGED 20, IN MIDSUMMER. 
 
 WINTER rose-bud, summer blighted, 
 Short thy fragrant stay on earth : 
 Alas! the voice thy requiem singeth, 
 Which first sang thy wintry birth — 
 
 Words of welcome, words prophetic, 
 Shadowing forth thy transient stay ; 
 
 Little thought the aged minstrel 
 Thou shouldst fade so soon away. 
 
 Sudden came that hasty message, 
 Without sound of warning given, 
 
 Softly whispering, " Come, beloved, 
 Thou art wanted up in heaven." 
 
 * Although this properly belongs to the Elegiac Poems, it is placed 
 here as a sequent e to the preceding, both relating to the same subject. 
 
WINTER ROSE-BUD, SUMMER BLIGHTED. 153 
 
 Ready, thou ; no darkened chamber, 
 
 No disease thy dross to fine ; 
 Lamps all trimmed and brightly burning, 
 
 Glowing clear with light divine. 
 
 Angel hands undid the vesture 
 
 Which must needs aside be thrown — 
 
 Loosed thy sandals earth defiled, 
 Bound thy heavenly garments on — 
 
 Broke from thee each mortal fetter, 
 
 Balm upon thy spirit laid, 
 Round thee cast thy robe immortal, 
 
 Led thee where no roses fade ; 
 
 Forth from sin and mortal bondage 
 Spread their wings to speed thy way, 
 
 Upward, upward, blessed, redeemed, 
 Upward to eternal day. 
 
 There to meet the dear departed, 
 
 There to sing as seraphs sing, 
 " Glory in the highest, glory," 
 
 Glory to the Saviour King. 
 
 We hailed thee to this world of sorrow. 
 
 We hail thee now to worlds of joy, 
 Oh to live as live the righteous ! 
 
 Oh to die e'en as they die ! 
 
154 T0 MY FRIEND M. J. 
 
 TO MY FRIEND M. J. 
 
 DEAR MAGGIE, for all things there cometh a 
 time, 
 And the period has come to address you in rhyme : 
 I am sitting alone and the rain is down pouring — 
 The wind through our button-wood's blustering and 
 
 roaring. 
 Mr. G. 's in the city — the children asleep, 
 Thro' the glass of my fancy I'll just take a peep 
 At all our dear friends in the Miami College, 
 That famed mart of morals and arsenal of knowledge. 
 Now I make no pretences to somnambulism, 
 But will steadily look thro' my memory's prism, 
 Which shall trick you all out with each lustrous hue, 
 From gorgeous amber to pale azure blue. 
 The taper is lighted — the table is set — 
 Even dear little Julia is not gone to bed yet — 
 Let me see ; — Is there missing a single loved face ? — 
 No ; bright as the past, the gay present I trace. 
 There 's Willie and Nelly their lessons a conning ; 
 Stay — surely that is not bright George that is yawn- 
 
 ing! 
 
 There 's Joseph and John, but I cannot make out 
 What cither the one or the other's about;— 
 
TO MY FRIEND M. J. 
 
 155 
 
 That s right, trim the taper — I thank you, dear Ellen, 
 For throwing more light round the walls of your 
 
 dwelling. 
 Oh, I see, 'tis the night of the Inauguration ! 
 Your father was brilliant upon the occasion ; 
 He 's weary, and sits from the others apart — 
 Some project of usefulness swelling his heart — 
 He brushes his brow — Is't to drive away care, 
 Or to rouse up the lion of intellect there? 
 Your mother is sealing a packet, I see, 
 All letters for Easton, but not one for me ! 
 Now Julia is nodding her dear little head — 
 There, carry the slumberer softly to bed. 
 What, letters ! more letters ! is every one writing, 
 And signing, and sealing, whole pages inditing? 
 Hark ! hark to that sound ! 'tis a knock at the door! 
 Why, there 's Mrs. Moffatt herself, to be sure ! 
 Dear Ellen, how are you ? — Alas ! can it be 
 There are miles full five hundred between you and me? 
 You hear not the greeting, you see not the eye, 
 That by fancy's strong telescope brings you so nigh ; 
 But seal up your letters, it surely is right, 
 To have everything ready in order to-night ; 
 Mr. Scott, the professor, has just given warning, 
 He will start for dear Easton by dawn in the morning; 
 I, too, must be going. Beloved one, good-night; 
 May your slumbers be healthful, your visions be 
 bright ! 
 
156 A BIRTH DA Y ODE. 
 
 A BIRTHDAY ODE. 
 
 MY FRIEND, if you that name admit, 
 I come, your humble laureate, 
 To wish you health and peace and plenty, 
 And youth's delights, although twice twenty 
 Years have fled since first your eyes 
 Beheld the light of yonder skies. 
 You justly claim a rhyme from me, 
 My friend in all necessity, 
 You who have taught me how to bake, 
 To make a cap, and ice a cake, 
 I feel myself in debt to thee, 
 For pattern and for recipe ; 
 Your cider, too, at Christmas time, 
 Alone might claim a poet's rhyme. 
 Ah ! little thought I, far away, 
 Upon St. Patrick's joyful day, 
 In my own western island-home, 
 When far my wandering feet should roam, 
 That heaven would for my comfort send, 
 In distant lands, so kind a friend ; 
 That March contained a fairer day 
 Than ever smiled in blooming May ; 
 And Erin's patron's day should be 
 Displaced by one more dear to me ! 
 

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 MAR Y STE WAR T. \ 5 7 
 
 Whether at morning or at night, 
 By candle dim or sunbeam bright, 
 Your form first blest a mother's sight, 
 It was an hour of fond delight — 
 An hour of pure unsullied pleasure, 
 When first she clasped so rich a treasure. 
 Nor was that hour to her alone 
 A joyful and a happy one, 
 For many a baby then unborn 
 Has blest that joyful night or morn, 
 And I, my friend, with rhyme and reason, 
 Will ever hail that happy season. 
 
 > 
 
 
 And now, dear Deborah, farewell ! 
 
 * 
 
 
 May every blessing with you dwell, 
 
 
 
 May all your children live to be, 
 
 
 
 A comfort and a joy to thee ! 
 
 
 
 May you have happiness and health, 
 
 
 
 And always just enough of wealth, 
 
 
 
 And when you die, for all must die, 
 
 
 
 May you be happier far on high. 
 
 
 
 MARY STEWART. 
 
 
 
 "A IT ARY STEWART ! That name alone, 
 -L-V.-L Might bid the muses wake and sing ; 
 
 
 
 
 
 Might lure from harps their richest tone ; 
 
 
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 Might nerve the hand and tune the string. 
 
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 158 MARY STEWART. 
 
 Mary Stewart ! Ah ! who art thou, 
 That comes unbidden at my call? 
 
 A diadem upon thy brow ; 
 Around thy form a blood-stained pall ! 
 
 I know thee well ; away ! away ! 
 
 Thy history in blood is writ; 
 Thy bones are mouldering to decay, 
 
 Thou beautiful, unfortunate ! 
 
 Mary Stewart ! Again, again, 
 A phantom rises to my view, 
 
 Of peerless form and graceful mien, 
 And eyes, bright, beautiful and blue ! 
 
 Mary Stewart of Torwood lee, 
 Just waking up to joy and life ; 
 
 The shroud, the coffin ; yes, 'tis she ! 
 A rescued bride, a happy wife ! * 
 
 Mary Stewart, the young, the fair, 
 
 Who lives and breathes among us now; 
 
 Sweet lily of the Delaware, 
 
 Hast thou heard and comest thou ? 
 
 Happier be thy humble lot 
 
 Than hers who held old Scotia's helm ; 
 
 
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 * See the legend on this subject. 
 
 
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VALENTINE TO ISABELLE. 
 
 Thy wide domains some lovely cot ; 
 A husband's heart, thy boundless realm 
 
 Mary Stewart, when thou shalt die, 
 Oh may thy latest waking be 
 
 More full of life, and hope, and joy, 
 Than hers who woke on Torwood lee ! 
 
 Oh ! we may part, yet when thine eye 
 Along thine album's page shall stray, 
 
 Then let thy bosom heave one sigh, 
 For " Auld lang syne" and Mary Gray. 
 
 Easton, Pa., Sept. 13, 1842. 
 
 159 
 
 VALENTINE TO ISABELLE. 
 
 ALAS ! alas ! my charming Bell, 
 Ah, well aday for me, Bell ! 
 There 's not a belle in all the town, 
 I wish so much to see, Bell. 
 
 The birds are out on every spray, 
 
 For this is Valentine, Bell, 
 They choose their mates, 'tis said, to-day, 
 
 I wish I could choose mine, Bell. 
 
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 1 60 VALENTINE TO ISA BELLE. 
 
 The red, red roses are in bloom, 
 
 At least they bloom in paper, 
 And little snow-white lambs have come 
 
 Among the flowers to caper. 
 
 All winter long, whene'er I heard 
 The sweet and merry sleigh-bell, 
 
 Your name, your voice, they brought to mind, 
 But you were far away, Bell. 
 
 The college bell at five o'clock, 
 It wakes me from my sleep, Bell, 
 
 Ah, me ! it makes me think of thee, 
 And then it makes me weep, Bell. 
 
 We've bells enough in our town, 
 
 Of every size and tone, Bell, 
 But ah ! these bells are nought to me, 
 
 I cannot have my own Bell. 
 
 We've belles that flaunt about the streets, 
 
 And bells to warn the sinner, 
 And bells whose long and welcome call 
 
 Tells folks to come to dinner. 
 
 We've morning bells and evening bells, 
 And rhyming belles to sing them, 
 
 And belles that fain would go to church, 
 If beaux would go and bring them. 
 
r*> 
 
 VALENTINE TO ISA BELLE. i6l 
 
 Oh ! who at first invented bells? — 
 
 It surely was a shame, Bell, 
 Ah, me ! he meant to break my heart 
 
 By ringing o© your name, Bell. 
 
 I often wish the winter o'er, 
 
 That sleighing may be past, Bell, 
 
 And I forgetting and forgot, 
 May rest in peace at last, Bell. 
 
 But spring will come and dews will fall, 
 
 At evening and at dawn, Bell. 
 And daisies sweet and butter-cups 
 
 Will speckle all the lawn, Bell. 
 
 The blushing rose, the lily pale, 
 
 The hyacinth might do, Bell, 
 And I, perchance, upon them look 
 
 And never think of you, Bell. 
 
 But then there are so many bells. 
 
 So beautiful, so sweet, Bell ; 
 Where'er I rove at eve or morn, 
 
 They cluster round my feet, Bell. 
 
 I cannot, oh ! I can't forget, 
 
 While flowers remain to bloom, Bell, 
 
 Or while in valley or on hill 
 A bell is left to boom, Bell. 
 
l62 O'ER THINE ALBUM* S PAGES, WHITE. 
 
 But then the Canterbury-bell, 
 The heath-bell and the blue-bell, 
 
 The hare-bell and the heather-bell, — 
 So modest, just like you, Bell. 
 
 My Isabelle ! she is a belle ! 
 
 And oh ! long may it be, Bell, 
 Before the words, tl She was a belle," 
 
 Shall be applied to thee, Bell. 
 
 And now I'll say farewell to thee, 
 Return me but a line, Bell, 
 
 And I'll remain, the live-long year, 
 Your faithful Valentine, Bell. 
 
 A 
 
 O'ER THINE ALBUM'S PAGES, WHITE. 
 
 O'ER thine album's pages, white, 
 Let the young, the gay, the fair, 
 Lays of love and friendship w T rite ; 
 Let their names be graven there. 
 
 And when years have passed away, 
 
 Look upon its leaves again ; 
 List to what its pages say, 
 
 Speak they now of joy or pain? 
 
 * Written for Miss M. E. B. 
 
 -::- 
 
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 O'ER THINE ALBUM'S PAGES, WHITE. ^3 
 
 Wilt thou not in silence bend 
 
 O'er its page with dewy tears — 
 Weep for many an absent friend 
 
 Passed away with passing years? 
 
 Will not memory, too, recall, 
 
 Hours of mirth and revelry — 
 Flower-crowned banquet, festive hall, 
 
 Smiles and mirth and melody ? — 
 
 3 
 
 
 Cheeks that bloomed, no longer fair — 
 
 « 
 
 
 Eyes that shone, no longer bright ? — 
 
 
 
 Where the curls of auburn hair — 
 
 
 
 Where the fairy footsteps light? — 
 
 
 
 Where the bosom's peerless snow — 
 
 
 
 Where the brow, untouched by care, 
 
 
 
 And the heart's gay laughter now ? — 
 
 
 
 Ask the past, for all are there. 
 
 
 
 Close the book — let years roll on — 
 
 
 
 Look ! thine eye is dim with age ; 
 
 
 
 Graved upon the church-yard stone, 
 
 
 
 Read each name that graced thy page ! 
 
 
 
 All in dust are mingled now ; 
 
 
 
 Weary ones have sunk to rest ; 
 
 
 
 Clods are on the brightest brow ; 
 
 
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 Worms embrace the fairest breast. 
 
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 164 CHILDREN PLEADING FOR THEIR BIBLES. 
 
 Is there nothing - , then, but this — 
 
 Is death man's certain destiny ? 
 Well, we'll sip life's transient bliss, 
 
 And catch its pleasures ere they fly. 
 
 But years roll on — earth trembling groans, 
 
 Too aged to retain her trust; 
 Strange shakings toss the mouldering bones — 
 
 Strange dreams disturb the slumbering dust. 
 
 It comes — it comes — that dreadful day ! 
 
 The dead awake ; the tombs are riven ! 
 Earth sinks in funeral fires away, 
 
 And naught remains but hell and heaven ! 
 
 CHILDREN PLEADING FOR THEIR BIBLES. 
 
 OUR Bibles ! oh, our Bibles ! 
 We heard our teachers say 
 Rude men would come soon, very soon, 
 
 And take them all away ; 
 But was not this the precious Book, 
 
 By God to children given, 
 To lead our vain and wayward hearts 
 To yon blue shining heaven? 
 
CHILDREN PLEADING FOR THEIR BIBLES. 165 
 
 Perhaps they never read our Book, 
 
 And that may be the cause — 
 Perhaps they never have been taught 
 
 Its practice or its laws ; 
 But sure it would be most unjust, 
 
 As every one must know, 
 Untried, our Bibles to condemn ; 
 
 Dear teachers, tell them so. 
 
 What does our Bible teach us, then? 
 
 It teaches us that we 
 Should never hate nor injure once 
 
 Our greatest enemy ! 
 But take away this precious guide, 
 
 And what would then befall? 
 Untaught b}' God's restraining word, 
 
 We'd learn to hate you all ! 
 
 It teaches to be holy, just, 
 
 Obedient, gentle, kind ; 
 To aid the sick, to help the weak, 
 
 To cheer and lead the blind ; 
 To shun all evil company, 
 
 Nor converse with the rude ! 
 Oh read it once, just only once ! 
 
 And you'll pronounce it good. 
 
 And oh ! it tells of Jesus Christ, 
 And how he came to be 
 

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 1 66 CIHT.DREX PLEADING FOR THEIR BIBIES. 
 
 A sin-atoning sacrifice, 
 
 To ransom you and me ; 
 And when upon the cross, he prayed 
 . For those who nailed him there, — 
 " Father, forgive them !" We for you 
 
 Can pray his dying prayer. 
 
 It tells us, too, of Antichrist, 
 
 Of men with sword and crown, 
 Who soul and body both would bind, 
 
 And trample freemen down ; 
 Then if you take away our Book, 
 
 And freedom drive from home, 
 We may be yet as Egypt was, 
 
 Or, worse, like priest-rid Rome ! 
 
 And father, when it speaks of you, 
 
 It tells your sons to be 
 In every thought, and word, and deed, 
 
 Obedient still to thee ; 
 But if they take our Guide away, 
 
 When you are old and poor, 
 Your sons may drive your wasted form, 
 
 Unpitied, from the door. 
 
 Don't take away our Bibles, don't! 
 
 We need them every hour, 
 To tell us how we may escape 
 
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 From sin and Satan's power; 
 
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CHILDREN PLEADING FOR THEIR BIBLES. 167 
 
 We're bad and thoughtless and unkind, 
 
 We feel it every day, 
 But we'll be worse a thousand times — 
 
 Don't take our Book away. 
 
 Before you take our Bibles, then, 
 
 Just read them through and through, 
 And if you find them wicked books, 
 
 We'll give them up to you ; 
 But sure they bid us seek the good, 
 
 And flee from all that 's ill ; 
 Do read them once, just only once, 
 
 Then take them if you will. 
 
 Indeed, indeed, we cannot give 
 
 Our precious Bibles up ; 
 Take all beside, but let us keep 
 
 This soul-sustaining prop ! 
 O fathers, Christians, rulers, friends ! 
 
 You sure have power to say, 
 That none shall come by fraud or force, 
 
 To take our Books away. 
 
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 1 68 WILLIAM, THE NEGRO BOY. 
 
 WILLIAM, THE NEGRO BOY. 
 
 IT once befel upon a day, when chilling winds did 
 blow, 
 And winter had his mantle on, of white and dazzling 
 
 snow, 
 And every pond and rivulet were bound in icy chain, 
 And boys were out, well pleased, to sport upon the 
 
 glassy plain. 
 Oh many a mother's pride went forth with kerchief 
 
 round his chin, 
 And mittens on his little hands, and caps of sable 
 
 skin, 
 And there was many a gentle youth of parents rich 
 
 and high, 
 There, too, was William Patterson, a simple negro 
 
 boy. 
 Oh, but they were a jolly crew, and pleasant 'twas to 
 
 sec 
 How gracefully upon the ice they went, and merrily : 
 Now here, now there, now up, now down, 
 While laugh and joke and shout 
 Were heard upon the sparkling ice and echoed round 
 
 about. 
 
:id 
 
 WILLIAM, THE NEGRO BOY, 
 
 169 
 
 Alas ! for in the very hight of all their sport and glee, 
 The treacherous support 'neath their feet had broken 
 
 suddenly. 
 Down, down, there went seven precious souls beneath 
 
 the ice-bound wave. 
 Ah ! who, of all that shared their sport, will risk his 
 
 life to save ? — 
 On Patterson, Will Patterson, in agony they cry,— . 
 Our comrades, come, oh quickly come, save them or 
 
 they die, — 
 He heard, he flew, small need had they to call upon 
 
 him twice, 
 Like lightning's flash on summer's eve, 
 He 's down beneath the ice, 
 And soon unto the slippery verge 
 His sable arms upbore 
 Two shivering lads. The rescued ones are carried 
 
 safe to shore. 
 I'll save them all— I'll save them all— the youthful 
 
 hero cried. 
 Again the generous boy went down beneath the chil- 
 ling tide, — 
 R ose — missed the opening — sunk — arose — then 
 
 struggled — sunk and died. 
 Vain were thy efforts, noble boy, thou'st died but 
 
 could not save, 
 And many a mourning mother's pride lies with thee 
 
 'neath the wave. 
 
c 
 
 i;0 WILLIAM, TLIE NEGRO BOY. 
 
 Ah ! changed scene — for laugh and shout, for frolic 
 
 and for glee 
 Are heard around that fatal spot wild shrieks of ag- 
 ony. 
 Alas ! young Jacob Durbrow and Theodore were 
 
 there 
 Clasped in each other's arms, they lay a loved and 
 
 loving pair. 
 Will Haskell and young Valentine no more their 
 
 friends shall see, 
 And Payne, thy widowed mother weeps her only 
 
 son in thee. 
 And dare we woo the muse for thee, dark Afric's 
 
 sable son, 
 Thy name might shine in glowing lines engraved in 
 
 lasting stone, 
 For bold and fearless was thy heart, tho' black might 
 
 be thy skin, 
 With generous love it beats no more thy pulseless 
 
 breast within, 
 And soon unto his mother's home — he left so blithe 
 
 at morn — 
 A stiff, cold corse her darling boy was sadly, slowly 
 
 borne, 
 She laid him in his wintry grave — her earthly stay is 
 
 gone ; 
 Poor woman ! now God pity her, she has lost a noble 
 
 son. 
 
n 
 
 C 
 
 COLUMBIA. 171 
 
 And now to all who may have read my short and 
 simple lay, 
 
 A word or two before we part, an humble bard 
 would say, 
 
 Oh ! life is short and death is sure, think of the judg- 
 ment day. 
 
 COLUMBIA. 
 
 # 
 
 I. 
 
 COLUMBIA ! Columbia ! 
 Why weepest thou now — 
 Why bind with dark cypress 
 
 Thy beautiful brow ? 
 This day of rejoicing, 
 The laurel might be 
 More fitting adornment, 
 Young nation, for thee ! 
 
 II. 
 Oh look in thy grandeur 
 
 Rejoicingly forth, 
 The winds waft the treasure 
 
 From South and from North ; 
 
 * Writen for the Lafayette Societies. 
 
H 
 
 M 
 
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 ( 
 
 
 
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 t 
 
 172 
 
 COLUMBIA. 
 
 Thou hast mines in thy mountains 
 And flocks on the plain, 
 
 And thy navies float proudly, 
 At home on the main ! 
 
 III. 
 Thy harvests are bending 
 
 Like gold in the breeze ; 
 Thy fruits in their fragrance 
 
 Hang bright on the trees ; 
 Thy daughters are lovely, 
 
 Thy sons they are free ! 
 And despots may tremble 
 
 While gazing at thee. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Oh ! tidings, sad tidings ! 
 
 Have come to our shore 
 The friend of our need, 
 
 Lafayette, is no more. 
 When foes were around us, 
 
 And help we had none, 
 He flew to our rescue 
 
 Unaided, alone ! 
 
 v. 
 Great sun of two worlds, 
 
 • 
 
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 c 
 
 
 Shall thy freedom-lit ray 
 
 
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 COLUMBIA. 173 
 
 Unheeded, unsung, 
 
 Pass in brilliance away ? 
 While nations awaiting 
 
 Have seen by its light 
 That chains were around them, 
 
 And blushed at the sight. 
 
 VI. 
 
 And shall not a tear 
 
 * 
 
 To his memory be given — 
 The angel of freedom, 
 
 Vouchsafed us by heaven ? 
 In midst of our triumphs, 
 
 Oh shall there not be 
 
 ne moment held sacred 
 
 To sorrow and thee? 
 
 VII. 
 
 Yes, Columbia shall weep 
 
 For the generous, the brave — 
 The tears of her freemen 
 
 Shall hallow his grave. 
 May we be forgotten, 
 
 If thee we forget, 
 Thou friend of the friendless, 
 
 Beloved Lafayette ! 
 
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 174 CARRIERS 1 ADDRESS OF 1861 
 
 CARRIERS' ADDRESS OF i86l. 
 
 A HAPPY New Year, kind friends to you all, 
 -£j- And joy at this season, whatever befall; 
 The present is ours ; the future— 'tis vain 
 To sigh for those secrets we cannot obtain ; 
 And trouble and care, and weeping and sorrow, 
 No one that is wise from the future would borrow, 
 Let's be thankful to-day and have faith for to-morrow. 
 Our kindly old Borough jogs on as of old ; 
 Our weather still changes from temperate to cold ; 
 Our crops, as you know, have been plenty and good, 
 And man, beast and fowl are provided with food. 
 Oh let us be grateful and ever remember, 
 The hand which sustains us in June and December! 
 
 Ah, me ! the horizon is threatening and dark, 
 The billows are boist'rous and rock our poor bark, 
 But let us stand firm, we the storm yet may weather, 
 A long pull, a strong pull, a pull altogether! 
 Oh ! had such been our conduct in days which are 
 
 past, 
 Our ship had been stauncher, less furious the blast- 
 But stand up for the Union ! Steady, boys, steady ! 
 Be watchful, be careful, courageous and ready ; 
 
CARRIERS' ADDRESS OF 1861. 175 
 
 Be Justice our motto, and Union our strength, 
 And the God of our fathers will save us at length. 
 The heavens shall clear and the ocean grow calm, 
 Contention subside. Oh apply but the balm 
 Of brotherly-kindness to passions that boil — 
 On billows discordant cast plenty of oil — 
 Our fair Southern sister grown friendly again, 
 Shall meet us and greet us, and kindness shall reign ! 
 
 Columbia ! our country, the happy, the free, 
 
 Shall the demon of discord have rule over thee ? 
 
 The flag of the Union ! Oh long let it cast 
 
 Its broad shadow o'er us, in sunshine or blast ! 
 
 The flag of our Union ! — no rent in its seam — 
 
 No stain on its surface — no shade on its gleam ! — 
 
 "E Pluribus Unum," its motto; its crest 
 
 An Eagle, far-spreading its wings East and West ; 
 
 Her strong talons grasping the South and the North, 
 
 All equal, beloved, and prized for their worth ; 
 
 A nation united ; of brothers a band ; 
 
 All proud to die for thee, O dear native land ! 
 
 But shall brother meet brother as foeman in wrath — 
 
 Shall the red-blood of kindred flow warm in our path? 
 
 Forbid it, high heaven ! oh breathe not the name 
 
 Of the wretch who would build on her ruins his 
 
 fame ; 
 Let his memory be lost ; let his name be a scorn ; 
 Let the country disown him wherein he was born ; 
 
176 
 
 CARRIERS' ADDRESS OF 1861. 
 
 An Arnold, a traitor, the scoff of the free ; 
 A nation's disdain shall be heaped upon thee ! — 
 " E Pluribus Unum," why, why should we sever 
 The flag of our Union for ever and ever? 
 
 Not very long since as I sat at my table, 
 
 At home, all alone, I met with a fable 
 
 So pat to my purpose, I thought I could do 
 
 No better than cast it in metre for you ; 
 
 Which, when you have time, you may read at your 
 
 leisure, 
 And finding the moral, apply at your pleasure. 
 In the heart of our country, contented and calm, 
 Lives an honest old farmer we call Uncle Sam ; 
 For ever unmoved, he had lived by his toil, 
 And shunned all contention, commotion and broil; 
 A most excellent farm the old man he had gotten, 
 fie raised his own corn and he wove his own cotton; 
 And when in the evening he smoked his own pipe, 
 His farm gave the " baccy," so fragrant and ripe ; 
 Far stretched out his land o'er valley and dale, 
 He had game for the shooting, and grain for the flail ; 
 With meadow-land, coal-land, and wood-land in store, 
 And horses and oxen enough, yes, and more! 
 And plenty of all things found just at his door! 
 Was the old farmer happy ? Alas ! he was not ! 
 What! not happy with all th' abundance he got? 
 Now 1*11 tell you the reason but don't let it out, 
 
CARRIERS' ADDRESS OF 1861. iyy 
 
 There is no use in buzzing one's troubles about ; 
 'Twas his sons — he had plenty, strong, sturdy lads 
 
 all, 
 Well fitted to handle the axe and the mall, 
 But prone to contention and haughty in spirit, 
 Which trait from their mother the boys did inherit. 
 Now to make them more peaceful, more gentle, po- 
 lite, 
 Was the farmer's endeavor by day and by night ; 
 But vain were his counsels ; his bickering boys 
 Were always on hand with their uproar and noise, 
 'Till the heart-broken farmer, as counsel was vain, 
 Resolved, by example, their strife to restrain. 
 So he called up his youngest, a sensible lad, 
 And asked, if of faggots a bundle he had? 
 The boy answered, yes, sir ; — then bring them here 
 
 straight, 
 And call in the lads — they are out at the gate, 
 All fighting as usual ; — so in came the boys — 
 A moment suspending their clamor and noise. 
 Come break me this bundle. Here, Jack, you're the 
 
 strongest. 
 Jack tried it in vain. Now, Ben, you're the longest. 
 Tom, Harry and Dick at the bundle did strain, 
 Putting forth all their strength, but their efforts were 
 
 vain. 
 Now give me the heap, the old farmer he said, 
 And the tough, stubborn bundle before him was laid ; 
 
ft 
 
 j^8 CARRIERS' ADDRESS OF 1861. 
 
 The string he undid, and each rod which was in it, 
 He bade his sons try it, was broke in a minute. 
 Oh ! boys, said the farmer, now list to the moral, 
 Tis wrong, very wrong, for you brothers to quarrel. 
 United, no effort can sever or break you, 
 No foe can prevail, and no mischief overtake you ; 
 Divided and parted, and foes to each other, [er. 
 
 You are weak as that twig in the hands of your broth- 
 
 In Union is strength ! oh unite then for good ; 
 If the rich band together, the poor shall have food ; 
 A mite from each coffer, full, full to o'erflowing, 
 Will foot up a sum to set cold hearts a glowing, 
 " The poor you have always," and never before 
 Did want plead this promise more close to your door, 
 What you give to the needy is lent to the Lord, 
 He owns to the debt, he has pledged you his word, 
 And will surely repay you full measure and more, 
 Filled up and packed down, and yet still running 
 
 o'er — 
 The investment is good and the payment secure— 
 His means are unbounded, his promise is sure. ■ 
 
 But now I must onward this cold winter day, 
 
 And with thanks for your kindness, I speed on my 
 
 way — 
 Merely stopping to say that our little " Express" 
 Will wax bigger and brighter the more you caress. 
 
 C 
 
ON THE LOSS OF THE STEAMER PRESIDENT. iyg 
 
 And we, if our hearts through our pockets are filled 
 up— 
 
 With dimes and with dollars so burdened and piled 
 up 
 
 That the tongue cannot tell, while the heart can't re- 
 press it, 
 
 We'll call upon Howard & Co. to express it. 
 
 ON THE LOSS OF THE STEAMER 
 PRESIDENT. 
 
 OH sing ! thou muse of sorrow, woe and death ! 
 Saw you that gallant steamship take her path 
 Across the Atlantic ? — Boldly forth she went, 
 Strong, beautiful and swift, and redolent 
 Of confidence and hope ; — her gallant crew 
 Rejoicing in her might ; — but ah, how few 
 Among them deeming of a mightier power, 
 Even an Omnipotent, who in that hour 
 Had marked her for destruction ! On, secure, 
 She wends her trackless way, and on as sure, 
 As swift, and mightier far, with steady wing, 
 That mighty messenger was following — 
 Harmless till the appointed hour — then hurled 
 The bolt that hid her from a wondering world. 
 
i8o 
 
 HAR VEST-HOME. 
 
 HARVEST-HOME. 
 
 ALL hail ! delightful season ! 
 We come, we come, we come- 
 To raise our diapason, 
 
 And shout for harvest home ! 
 Behold our streaming banner, 
 With ears of ripened grain ; 
 Let heaven's sweet breezes fan her, 
 And earth rejoice amain ! 
 
 Oh ! never shall the blessings 
 
 Our Father's hand hath given, 
 Be changed to that which mocketh* 
 
 The bounteous boon of heaven ; 
 A pure, unmixed libation 
 
 Of praises would we bring, 
 Forth from our full hearts gushing, 
 
 Like water from a spring. 
 
 Then let our pledge be water, 
 Pure, sparkling, fresh and free ; 
 
 For earth's fair, fabled daughter, f 
 What meeter pledge have we ? 
 
 * Wine is a mocker, strong drink is raging. — Prov. xx. i. 
 f Ceres, the goddess of harvest. 
 
HARVES T-HOME. \ 8 1 
 
 It waked her from her slumbers 
 
 Beneath the parched sod ; 
 And bade her rise in beauty, 
 
 The generous gift of God. 
 
 Come, then, each youth and maiden ; 
 
 Come, hoary sire and dame, 
 With years and blessings laden, 
 
 Come, laud our Maker's name. 
 He blest the hopeful seed-time — 
 
 He gave the needful rain — 
 And crowned the glorious harvest 
 
 With heaps of golden grain ! 
 
 Behold ! the fields are lonely — 
 
 The merry reapers gone — 
 And there the bright birds only 
 
 Keep jubilee alone ! — 
 Our barns contain the treasure 
 
 Which late enriched the sod ; 
 May hearts in equal measure 
 
 Be filled with praise to God ! 
 
 Then hail ! delightful season ! 
 
 We come, we come, we come 
 To raise our diapason, 
 
 And shout for harvest home ! 
 
1 82 THE CROCODILE AND THE ICHNEUMON. 
 
 Behold our streaming banner, 
 With ears of ripened grain ! 
 
 Let heaven's sweet breathings fan her, 
 And earth rejoice. Amen ! 
 
 THE CROCODILE AND THE ICHNEUMON. 
 
 ON the banks of the fertile and many-mouthed 
 Nile, 
 A long time ago lived a fierce crocodile, 
 Who round him was spreading a vast desolation, 
 For bloodshed and death seemed his chief occupation ; 
 'Twas easy to see no pity had he ; 
 His tears were but water — there all would agree. 
 
 The sheep he devoured, and the shepherd, I ween ; 
 The herd feared to graze in the pasture so green, 
 And the farmer himself, should he happen to meet. 
 
 him, 
 The monster ne'er scrupled a moment to eat him. 
 There never before was panic so sore 
 On the banks of the Nile as this creature spread o'er. 
 
 Wherever he went all were flying before him, 
 • ugh : 
 him, 
 
 Though some in their blindness thought fit to adore 
 
 & 
 
Z> 
 
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 THE CROCODILE AND THE ICHNEUMON. 183 
 
 But as they came near, each his suit to prefer, 
 This god made a meal of his base worshiper. 
 By day and by night it was his delight 
 His votaries to eat — it was serving them right. 
 
 Grown proud of his prowess, puffed up with success, 
 The reptile must travel — how could he do less ? 
 So one fine summer morning he set out by water 
 On a pleasure excursion — his pleasure was slaughter, 
 To Tentyra's isle, to visit awhile, 
 The careless inhabitants there to beguile. 
 
 Though the Tentyrites thought themselves able be- 
 fore 
 To conquer each monster that came to their shore, 
 Yet now they with horror were fain to confess, 
 That this crocodile gave them no little distress. 
 So in great consternation a grand consultation 
 Was called to convene, of the heads of the nation. 
 
 It met ; but, alas ! such the terror and fright, 
 
 They failed to distinguish the wrong from the right ; 
 
 When just at this crisis an ichneumon small 
 
 Stepped forth on the platform in front of them all. 
 
 With modesty winning, to give his opinion 
 
 Of measures and means to secure the dominion. 
 
 " Grave sirs," said he, bowing, " I see your distress, 
 And your griefs are, I fear me, past present redress ; 
 
6 
 
 184 THE CROCODILE AND THE ICHNEUMON. 
 
 Yet still, if to listen should be your good pleasure, 
 I think I can help you, at least in a measure ; 
 For 'tis my impression a little discretion 
 Than valor itself is a far greater blessing. 
 
 " No doubt 'tis a noble and great undertaking, 
 Great war on a mighty great foe to be making ; 
 But still, I assure you, 'tis better by far 
 Not to let this great foe become mighty for war; 
 While the crocodile lies in an egg of small size, 
 To crush him at once you should never despise. 
 
 " You see me before you a poor feeble creature ; 
 Yet I cope with this monster, for such is my nature ; 
 And while you have met here in grand consultation, 
 This one crocodile to expel from the nation, 
 I thought it a treat for my breakfast to eat 
 A dozen or more which I happened to meet." 
 
 And now that my fable is pretty near ended, 
 
 I think there should be a brief moral appended : 
 
 Beware how you let evil habits grow up ; 
 
 While feeble and young, you to crush them may 
 
 hope, 
 But let them remain till strength they attain, 
 You may find your best efforts to conquer them vain. 
 
 ni 
 
FRANCES DILL. 
 
 I8 5 
 
 FRANCES DILL. 
 
 A TALE TOO TRUE. 
 
 WHO is that maiden tall and fair, 
 With eyes so brightly blue — 
 For wife or child, full well I know, 
 
 Heaven never gave to you ? 
 A lovelier maid I have not seen 
 
 On valley, plain, or hill, 
 Than she whose smiles illume your home- 
 Say who is Frances Dill ? 
 
 Nay, ask me not that tale to tell, 
 
 'Tis full of grief and pain, 
 And I would fain forget it all, 
 
 Recall it not again. 
 Yet, if you feel in mournful mood, 
 
 Come sit beside this rill, 
 And I'll recount the history 
 
 Of lovely Frances Dill. 
 
 When I was journeying in the West, 
 
 Some fifteen years ago, 
 Amid a forest vast and dark, 
 
 I found a cottage low ; 
 
 D 
 
1 
 
 ft 
 
 1 86 FRANCES DILL. 
 
 The moss grew on its broken roof, 
 Its hearth was cold and chill, 
 
 Yet found I there this lovely flower, 
 My peerless Frances Dill. 
 
 Her mother was a woman pale, 
 
 And sad of heart was she, 
 And tears oft wet the baby's face 
 
 That slumbered on her knee — 
 A poor deserted stricken wretch, — 
 
 With time to weep at will, — 
 No joyful voice was in the home 
 
 Of little Frances Dill. 
 
 As nurtured by these mournful showers, 
 
 The baby grew apace, 
 I know not how she learned to smile, 
 
 Yet smiling was her face. 
 Her eyes were bright as wintry sky 
 
 Which glittering starlights fill, 
 And sunny ringlets clasped the brow 
 
 Of pretty Frances Dill. 
 
 She looked upon her mother's face, 
 Where all was gloom and care, 
 
 She wandered to the river's bank 
 To seek for sunbeams there. 
 
 c 
 
FRAXCES DILL. 
 
 And playing with the truants bright 
 Beside the sparkling rill — 
 
 There first I heard the ringing laugh 
 Of sweet young Frances Dill. 
 
 I wondered how that mother's brow 
 
 Could be so stern and cold, 
 While like a fairy round her played 
 
 Her child — now three years old. 
 I marveled what deep fount of grief 
 
 Her aching heart could fill, 
 Too dark, too turbid to reflect 
 
 The smiles of Frances Dill. 
 
 But when I heard that woman pale 
 
 Her tale of sorrow tell, 
 I only wondered how she bore 
 
 Her bitter lot so well. 
 Remorse and shame were in the past- 
 
 The future darker still — 
 All, all that brightened life was gone, 
 
 Save only Frances Dill. 
 
 187 
 
 With many a sad, wild burst of woe, 
 With many a blush of shame, 
 
 She told me of her early days — 
 Her country and her name. 
 
fi= 
 
 X 88 FRANCES DILL. 
 
 With bitter burning agony — 
 That haunts my memory still — 
 
 She made me swear I would protect 
 Her little Frances Dill. 
 
 A merchant rich her father was, 
 
 His only child was she, 
 For he beneath the sod had laid 
 
 Her little brothers three. 
 Indulgent, kind and gentle too, 
 
 He never crossed her will — 
 Save that he frowned upon the love 
 
 She bore for Arthur Dill. 
 
 A dark-browed man, revengeful, fierce, 
 
 With crime familiar grown — 
 A hypocrite who feigned to love, 
 
 Yet loved her gold alone. 
 And gave she him her heart and soul, 
 
 A bond-slave to his will, 
 Alas ! she lived to rue the day 
 
 She trusted Arthur Dill. 
 
 Her much loved sire a bleeding corpse 
 Was found at early morn ; 
 
 At eve to prison, fettered, bound, 
 Was that false husband borne ; 
 
 C 
 
FRANCES DILL. 189 
 
 A felon's death of shame he died, 
 
 And she — she loved him still — 
 And half the tears that daughter shed, 
 
 Were shed for Arthur Dill. 
 
 With that lone, friendless, stricken one, 
 
 I could not choose but weep, 
 I sought my inn, I sought my bed, 
 
 But sought in vain to sleep. 
 At early dawn I took my way — 
 
 Upon that moss-grown sill 
 An orphan — by her mother's hand — 
 
 Alone wept Frances Dill. 
 
 In that lone cottage where she died, 
 
 We dug a grave unblessed, 
 And laid that mangled body there, 
 
 For that at least might rest. 
 The weeping one in my embrace 
 
 I strove to soothe and still, 
 And to my own bright southern home 
 
 I bore young Frances Dill. 
 
 And she has been my hope and star — 
 
 My comfort and my stay — 
 Thy brightness of my lonely lot — 
 
 The light to guide my way. 
 
190 
 
 THE SONG OE THE FREE. 
 
 In infancy my plaything sweet, 
 In youth my solace still, 
 
 I bless the day, I bless the hour, 
 I found sweet Frances Dill. 
 
 THE SONG OF THE FREE. 
 
 THEY are gone, all gone, who in danger's hour 
 Plighted their lives 'gainst the tyrant's power ; 
 And the green turf lies on each noble breast, 
 And the brave have gone to their honor'd rest ; 
 They are gone, all gone, these old vet'rans gray, 
 They have passed like a summer cloud away, 
 But their mem'ry shall shine like a star o'er the wave, 
 And beauty shall weep o'er the patriot's grave. 
 
 They are gone, all gone, yet they lived to see 
 All their own loved land from her base bonds free ; 
 The tyrants who trampled her soil had fled, 
 Then they lay down in peace to sleep with the dead ; 
 They are gone, all gone, shall tyrant's again 
 Pollute our free shores with their galling chain ? 
 Oh ! the last warm blood from our hearts shall flow, 
 Ere we yield to the bonds of a foreign foe ! 
 
fl 
 
 THE PASTOR'S FUNERAL. 
 
 I 9 I 
 
 THE PASTOR'S FUNERAL. 
 
 A STRANGER paused in our village street, 
 Before the church-yard gate, 
 For the sexton there, with his thin gray hair, 
 
 On a funeral seemed to wait ; 
 And the wailing swell of the solemn bell 
 
 Sent forth its mournful tone — 
 " And who is dead?" the stranger said, 
 
 " And who to his rest hath gone ? 
 For fair, I ween, the fame hath been 
 
 Of that departed one." 
 
 The old man dashed from his eye a tear, 
 
 As he leaned on his earth-worn spade, 
 " Ah ! one is gone whom all bemoan," 
 
 The old man sadly said. 
 " Oh ! suddenly, suddenly called to rest 
 
 Hath our pastor passed away, 
 And his people come, in tears and gloom, 
 
 To bury his honored clay ; 
 For a faithful friend was he to them, 
 
 A laborer night and day. 
 
f 
 
 1 92 THE PA S TOR 'S Fl '.VENAL. 
 
 " They gather, they gather from hut and hall, 
 
 They gather from vale and hill, 
 And the house is full, and the porch is full, 
 
 And yet they are gathering still ! 
 And the solemn hearse, with its nodding plume, 
 
 And its trappings rich and rare ; 
 And the steed in vain that scorns the rein, 
 
 Stands proudly chafing there — 
 Oh ! fair the pastor's life hath been, 
 
 His funeral shall be fair." 
 
 Now the stranger went in to a lowly room, 
 
 The face of the dead to see, 
 And the furniture scant, it spoke of want, 
 
 And it whispered — poverty ; 
 And the pastor lay there in his thin white shroud, 
 
 With his hands on his moveless breast ; 
 And oh ! his brow is as placid now 
 
 As a babe in its cradled rest — 
 He care and woe no more shall know 
 
 For his home is with the blest. 
 
 And the widow, she sat by that coffin head, 
 With a young child on her knee, 
 
 But she bowed so low, 'neath her load of woe, 
 That her face he could not see. 
 
 A little girl leaned on her mother's lap, 
 She had sobbed herself to sleep ; 
 
 8 
 
THE PASTOR'S FUNERAL. 
 
 193 
 
 And a boy of four sat on the floor 
 
 And wept to see them weep ; 
 And ever the knell of that funeral bell 
 
 Boomed sad in the silence deep. 
 
 And they bore him forth from the parsonage gate 
 
 To his bed in the church-yard cold ; 
 And all spoke well of the pastor gone, 
 
 And all of his virtues told ; 
 And his children fair, they followed there ; 
 
 And his widow — oh, sad to see ! 
 The gathering crowd spoke praises loud, 
 
 But not one word spoke she ! 
 For by her side the children cried, 
 
 And sobbed convulsively. 
 
 The grief of the crowd is high and loud, 
 
 But her's is silent and deep ; 
 Her stay, her prop, her youth's fair hope, 
 
 Now sleeps his dreamless sleep ! 
 Oh where shall she for shelter flee 
 
 When the funeral pomp is o'er ? 
 The home that there his hands made fair, 
 
 Her home shall be no more ; 
 Another's tread shall sound instead 
 
 On that dear cottage floor ! 
 
 The stranger he mingles with the throng, 
 That to the church-yard sped, 
 
1 94 THE PASTOR 'S Fl r NERAL. 
 
 And he hears them speak of a monument, 
 
 To honor their pastor dead ; 
 Of a marble stone of sculpture rare, 
 
 With an epitaph fair to see, 
 But no one spoke of the widowed one, 
 
 And the poor little orphans three ; 
 Alas ! that in our Christian land 
 
 Such thoughtless hearts should be ! 
 
 " And was he faithful," the stranger said, 
 
 " To give you the bread of life, 
 And can you let his children want, 
 
 Nor help his helpless wife ? 
 By night and day I hear you say, 
 
 He made your wants his care ; 
 By the sick-bed's gloom, in the darkened room, 
 
 Where grief and sorrow were, 
 And want and pain held fearful reign, 
 
 Your minister was there. 
 
 " In time of health, ye gathered wealth, 
 
 But he had none to spare ; 
 You doled, 'tis said, his daily bread, 
 
 As his daily wantings were. 
 No trophy he needs that your hands can raise, 
 
 For he owns a crown and a throne ! 
 Oh, cheer the life of his widowed wife ; 
 
 Oh, hush his orphan's moan ; 
 
r 
 
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 TIME.—FRA GMEN T. \ g 5 
 
 Nor be it said, they cried for bread, 
 And that you gave — a stone ! " 
 
 Now was there one among the throng — 
 
 I may not name his name — 
 For the generous blush for generous deeds, 
 
 Though the vile blush not for shame — 
 And he took her as John did Mary take, 
 
 A boon by his Master given, 
 For the homeless ones a home he found, 
 
 And balm for the bosom riven : 
 May blessings cluster round his path ; 
 
 May he find rest in heaven ! 
 
 3 
 
 
 TIME.— FRAGMENT. 
 
 
 
 A RABIA'S sand-bright deserts ne'er 
 -£-^- Did such a fiery courser bear, 
 
 
 
 
 
 As that which Father Time hather found, 
 
 
 
 To speed him in his annual round. 
 
 
 
 Hours, weeks, and months, have come, have past, 
 
 
 
 The year's last sands are falling fast ; 
 
 
 
 Improve the fleeting moments given, 
 
 
 t 
 
 To balance its accounts with heaven. 
 
 1 
 
 
 
 
 u 
 
 Q — 
 
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ft 
 
 196 
 
 FRAXKLIX. 
 
 FRANKLIN. 
 
 FRANKLIN, our own beloved and fearless son, 
 Entered the very chamber where, exposed, 
 The infant lightning, cradled in a cloud, 
 Rocked by surrounding tempests, lulled to sleep 
 By the low murmuring of the thunder's voice, 
 Meet music for such babe, whose lullaby, 
 Oft louder than was suited for repose, 
 Roused the young nursling instant from his sleep ; 
 Who, gayly gamboling, leaped from cloud to cloud, 
 Or, flitting round the dark and dusky screen, 
 The thick black curtain of his lofty bed, 
 Came peeping brightly forth, or, passing swift 
 Beyond, you might discern 
 The brilliant border of his burnished robe. 
 Yet he, that gay wild wayward dangerous one, 
 The slightest feather of whose lurid wing 
 Brought death to all it touched ; yet he was tamed — 
 Aye, taught to be a common errand-boy, 
 To fly from town to town on rapid wing ; 
 The messenger of maidens, taught to tell 
 Love tales, and whisper softly of the fall 
 Of ruined merchants; or announce the approach, 
 With trumpet-tongue, of battle, blood and war. 
 
 C 
 
MEMORIES OF THE HEART. 
 
 I 9 7 
 
 C 
 
 MEMORIES OF THE HEART. 
 
 TO FANNY. 
 
 TES, Fanny, I remember well thy mother's gen- 
 tle mien, 
 The broad expanse of that fair brow, all passionless, 
 
 serene ; 
 The blue eye's lengthened languish, the cheek's soft, 
 
 peach-like hue ; 
 Yes, I remember she was fair, yet not so fair as you. 
 
 I see her now as I was wont, that dark brown glossy 
 hair 
 
 So modestly and smoothly combed upon her fore- 
 head fair ; 
 
 The smile so transient, yet so sweet, that o'er her 
 features moved, 
 
 The voice so soft, the words so kind, all loved, for all 
 were loved. 
 
 The very robe that wrapped her form seemed made 
 
 the heart to win, 
 For purity and grace without, forth figured grace 
 
 within, 
 
!q8 memories of the heart. 
 
 No glittering diamond decked her brow, no gem her 
 
 finger bore, 
 A meek and quiet spirit was the ornament she 
 
 wore. 
 
 ■ 
 
 Oh, Fanny ! when that loving lip was first to thine 
 
 impressed, 
 She fondly thought of years to come in shadeless 
 
 pleasure dressed ; 
 Her fancy brightly pictured thee to woman's stature 
 
 grown, 
 In all thy youth and loveliness — her beautiful — her 
 
 own. 
 
 When on thy infant face she gazed, in rapture's fond- 
 est mood, 
 
 She thought of many a blandishment to lure thee to 
 be good ; 
 
 Of many a gentle, kind reproof, of warnings to be 
 given, 
 
 Of flowers to strew along the path she trod with thee 
 to heaven. 
 
 Yet when she heard her Saviour's voice in sweetest 
 
 accents say, 
 " Come, my beloved !" she rose in haste to take her 
 
 heavenward way; 
 
 C 
 
fl 
 
 MEMORIES OF THE HEART. 
 
 I99 
 
 Ol^, if there was one earthly grief her joyful spirit 
 
 knew, 
 One tear to dim her closing eye, that tear was shed 
 
 for you. 
 
 When severed were the links that bound the spirit 
 
 and the clay, 
 And the light wing was gladly poised to bear the 
 
 soul away ; 
 Yet was one silken tie unloosed, one golden band un- 
 
 riven, 
 Maternal love, a lengthening chain, connected earth 
 
 and heaven. 
 
 Perhaps when others sleep she comes upon thy brow 
 
 to gaze, 
 And watches all thy slumbering thoughts and all thy 
 
 waking ways ; 
 When devious, to the right or left thy wandering 
 
 footsteps stray, 
 She longs to breathe a warning word, and point the 
 
 narrow way. 
 
 No form I see, no voice I hear, nor sigh nor sound 
 
 reveal 
 The pure emotions undefined that o'er my spirits 
 
 steal ; 
 
 CT 
 
1 
 
 c 
 
 2 do MEMORIES OF THE HEART. 
 
 Thoughts high, unutterable, vast, to my rapt soul 
 are given, 
 
 Revealings bright, communings sweet, strange inter- 
 course with heaven. 
 
 Oh can it be her soul and mine that meet and minirle 
 now ? 
 
 Is this her soft, ethereal wing that fans my fevered 
 brow ? 
 
 With the dim, distant spirit-land can such commun- 
 ings be ? 
 
 Her hovering shade indite the lines my fingers write 
 for thee ? 
 
 Oh, cause of many an anxious thought, of many a 
 
 tender tear, 
 Of sorrow and of happiness, of mingling hope and 
 
 fear; 
 From earth's temptations, sins, and fears, fly to the 
 
 Saviour's breast, 
 There, only there, is safety found, and blessedness 
 
 and rest. 
 
 Oh ! beauty fadeth as the flower upon the frail May 
 
 rose ; 
 Favor is transient as the stay of April's falling 
 
 snows; 
 
WEEP WE FOR THE SUMMER FLED? 
 
 2CI 
 
 But she whose willing feet delight to tread fair Wis- 
 dom's ways, 
 
 Whose thoughts are pure, whose actions right, oh ! 
 she shall have the praise. 
 
 Now blame not, praise not, that for you I write these 
 
 warning words ; 
 My passive harp was tuned and strung — another 
 
 touched the chords ; 
 Hopes cherished by thy cradle-bed, prayers that thou 
 
 didst not hear, 
 Breathed by her spirit to my soul, I whisper in thine 
 
 ear. 
 
 WEEP WE FOR THE SUMMER FLED? 
 
 WEEP we for the summer fled — 
 Weep we for the flow'rets dead ? 
 Summer's sun shall shine again — 
 Summer's blossoms deck the plain — 
 Summer birds shall sing and soar, 
 High and happy as before ; 
 Rivers from their fettters free, 
 Roll in wonted majesty ! 
 
 Smiling, dimpling, brightly glancing, 
 To its own sweet music dancing, 
 
c: 
 
 202 WEEP WE FOR THE SUMMER FLED? 
 
 Shall leap the little rill along, 
 Full of life, and light, and song, 
 Mocking at each flow'ret fair, 
 That would seek a mirror there ! 
 
 Soothed by genial sun and shower, 
 Forest oaks shall frown no more — 
 Weep not, then, for tears are vain, 
 Summer's sun shall shine again ! 
 
 But what sun-beam shall illume 
 The dark, dark mansion of the tomb ? 
 What spring-time melt the frozen urn, 
 And bid the dead to life return ? 
 Shall not pensive memory weep, 
 O'er the beds of some who sleep ? 
 Flowers which spring, or sun, or shower, 
 Shall awake to life no more ? 
 But He, our refuge and our stay — 
 He whose words the seasons swa) r — ■ 
 He who heeds the mourner's sighs, 
 He shall bid the buried rise ! 
 Weep not, then, for tears are vain, 
 Our faded flowers shall spring again, 
 Bloom on heaven's own sacred sod, 
 And perfume the throne of God ! 
 
 c 
 
AN AGED POET'S DESIRE. 
 
 203 
 
 AN AGED POET'S DESIRE.* 
 
 WHEN past is life's morn, and its sunset is near, 
 And the shadows of eve gather o'er me, 
 I should like to possess just enough of earth's gear 
 
 To brighten the pathway before me — 
 A cot and a garden, an acre or more, 
 
 And a neighbor to lend to and borrow, 
 And a heart both to succor and pity the poor, 
 And enough for to-day and to-morrow. 
 
 Some books on my table, pens, paper, and ink, 
 
 To read or to write at my leisure, 
 And a head not too dull or too stupid to think, 
 
 And a heart not too frigid for pleasure ; 
 A measure of health if my Maker sees best, 
 
 If not, calm submission in sorrow ; 
 And a couch and a pillow, when wearied, to rest, 
 
 And a hope for a brighter to-morrow. 
 
 Nor let me repine that my spring-time is past, 
 
 That my youth and vigor are over ; 
 These blessings I knew were too fleeting to last, 
 
 And I ask not their loss to recover. 
 
 * Written at the advanced age of seventy-five years, and the au- 
 thor's last poem. 
 
A 
 
 204 AN AGED POET'S DESIRE. 
 
 I can look in the glass tho' my tresses be gray, 
 Nor shrink at each time-written furrow, 
 
 When I know that this fabric, a ruin to-day, 
 May become a fair temple to-morrow. 
 
 I would smile with the young — let them dance, let 
 them sing — 
 
 For I was once young, I remember ; 
 And why should the fair, budding blossoms of Spring 
 
 Be blighted by blasts of December? 
 Let the aged consider the days that are past, 
 
 When the light heart beat reckless of sorrow, 
 And the young that the spring-time of life cannot 
 last, 
 
 For old age is approaching to-morrow. 
 
 And grant me a friend, tried, trusted and true, 
 
 Too long, too well known to deceive me ; 
 And a conscience as pure and as stainless as dew, 
 
 Tho' of all other gifts you bereave me. 
 Let no memory of fraud, of deception, of wrong, 
 
 No mortal by me doomed to sorrow, 
 Steal forth in the night-time to sadden my song, 
 
 Or shadow my sunshine to-morrow. 
 
 Yet each thought of my heart I submit to Thy will, 
 Each wish of my soul to Thy keeping ; 
 
 A shield and a buckler be Thou to me still, 
 Mv guardian when waking or sleeping. 
 
 c 
 
cfcf ^> 
 
 AN AGED POET'S DESIRE. 20$ 
 
 Naught of all that I wish for my spirit would claim, 
 
 Unless I Thy sanction can borrow, 
 All glory and praise I ascribe to Thy name, 
 
 Whatever my portion to-morrow. 
 
 Thus calm let me pass through the twilight of life 
 
 Thus calm let me rest when it closes, 
 And feel that the world has no glory or strife ■ 
 
 For a soul that on Jesus reposes ; 
 On Him, my Redeemer, my trust, and my stay, 
 
 Let me roll all my sin and my sorrow, 
 And cheerfully watch for the dawning of day — 
 
 A bright, everlasting to-morrow. 
 
 r= ^ 
 
206 IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 THE reaper Death has broken another silver 
 chord — 
 A mortal angel-pinioned is immortal with the Lord ; 
 A pitcher at the fountain has in fragments broken fell, 
 And we see the grave and coffin and hear the tolling 
 bell. 
 
 Ah ! was the shock so fully ripe, the reaper could 
 
 not spare ? 
 Was there in Heaven a white robe — one wanted it to 
 
 wear? 
 Was earth too cold, too damp, too drear, to nourish 
 
 such a flower — 
 That angel bands came to transplant unto the 
 
 Heavenly bower ? 
 
 Must such a bright and lovely star, be lost in Death's 
 
 dark night — 
 Or is she near the ones beloved — a minister of light ? 
 Methinks I hear the rustling now, of pinions in the 
 
 air, 
 And hear the songs the angels sing and see the 
 
 crowns they wear. 
 
IN MEM OR I AM. 20J 
 
 To earth they come, to guard, to cheer, to comfort 
 
 and sustain, 
 As falls upon the drooping flowers, the summer 
 
 evening's rain ; 
 As to the Arab's sight appears, the fair oasis' palm, 
 So give they to the heart a joy, a quietude, a calm. 
 
 We know the pearly gates received her spirit -from 
 
 its flight — 
 We know she treads the golden streets where Jesus 
 
 is the light — 
 And there possessed of diadem, a golden crown and 
 
 lyre, 
 She sings the holy " Song of love " with all the saintly 
 
 choir. 
 
 She is not dead — she liveth yet — renewed by 
 
 Heavenly life, 
 Her bark is safely moored at last from tempest, 
 
 clouds and strife — 
 We would not mourn — we would not weep — our 
 
 loss must be her joy, 
 While she keeps hourly vigils by the father and his 
 
 boy. 
 

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