»«4a POEMS LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. [P(Q)EKfc© a POEMS LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY PUBLISHED BY JOHN LOCKEN, JVo. 311 Market Street. 1842. 3 -* fe£T.f •t>3 Entered according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1841, by JOHN LOCK EN, in the clerk's office of the District Court of the . , .eastern district .0,? Pennsylvania Stereotyped by Murray & Joyce, 21 Minor Street. Printed by T. K. & P. G. Collins, 1 Lodge Place. V3 to- fc CONTENTS. * J PAGE The First Morning of Spring 13 " Not Dead, but Sleepeth" .... 15 The Communion 17 Thoughts at the Funeral of a Friend . . 20 On a Picture of Penitence ... .23 Rome 24 Departure of Mrs. Hannah More from Barley Wood 27 Peace 32 Tomb of a Young Friend at Mount Auburn . . 33 Midnight Music ........ 35 Trust in God 36 The Christian Mourner ..... 40 Faith 42 The Dying Mother's Prayer .... 44 Consecration of a Church 4G The Christian Going Home . . . . 4S Waiting upon the Lord 50 V1U CONTENTS. PAGE Death-Bed of the Rev. Dr. Payson . . . 52 Mission Hymn 54 On Meeting Several Former Pupils at the Com- munion Table 56 The Lost Sister 58 Mistaken Grief 60 Departure of Missionaries for Ceylon . . .62 Cry of the Corannas 61 Gift of a Bible 66 Home Missions 68 On the Death of a Friend 69 The Journey with the Dead . . • . . 71 Prisoners' Evening Hymn. Written for the Females in the Connecticut State Prison . 74 The Huguenot Pastor 76 "This is not your Rest" 79 The Second Birth-day 81 Death of a Clergyman 83 " Depart, Christian Soul" 85 The Forest Tribes 87 Death of a Distinguished Man .... 89 Parting Hymn of Missionaries to Burmah . . 92 Babe Bereaved of its Mother .... 91 " Whither shall I flee from Thy Presence V* . 96 The Indian's Welcome to the Pilgrim Fathers . 98 Birth-day of the First-born 100 The Half-century Sermon 101 CONTENTS. IX PAGE Death of a Beautiful Boy 104 Foreign Missions 106 Evening Thoughts 107 The African Mother at her Daughter's Grave . 109 To Mourning Parents 112 Sailor's Funeral 113 Christian Hope . . . . . • .116 Lady Jane Grey. On seeing a Picture repre- senting her engaged in the study of Plato 118 Death of a Missionary in Africa . . . .122 Dirge 123 Vas Vobis 125 Boy's Last Bequest 127 "Hinder them not" 129 Moravian Missions to Greenland . . .131 Paul at Athens 133 The Muffled Knocker 136 Changes ? ... 138 On Reading the Memoir of Mrs. Judson J. . 140 Tribute to the Rev. Dr. Cornelius . . . .143 Charity Hymn 147 Picture of a Sleeping Infant watched by a Dog . 149 On Returning from Church . . . .151 The Baptism 152 Death of the Wife of a Clergyman . . .156 Christmas Hymn . . . . . . .159 Death of the Rev. Gordon Hall .... 160 X CONTENTS. PAGE Tomb of Absalom 162 Death of a Young Lady at the Retreat for the Insane 165 The Tower at Montevideo 167 Birth-day Verses to a Little Girl . . .169 Farewell to the Aged 171 "Thy Will be Done" 173 Death of Mrs. H. W. Winslow, Missionary in Ceylon 174 "I will Arise and go unto my Father" . . 170 Voice from the Grave of a Sunday-school Teacher 178 On the Death of a Member of the Infant School 179 Death of a Young Musician .... 181 The South-American Statues . . . .183 Agriculture 187 Funeral of a Physician 189 Nature's Royalty 192 Sentiment in a Sermon 194 The Power of Friendship. An Ancient Legend ofFranconia 195 The Garden 202 Vice 206 The Swedish Lovers 207 To the Moon 218 To the Evening Primrose 221 Imitation of Parts of the Prophet Amos . . 222 CONTENTS. XI PAGE Death of the, Principal of a Retreat for ths Insane 230 Legh Richmond among the Ruins of Iona . 233 Marie of Wurtemburg 235 Zama 238 Pilgrim Fathers 241 "Weep not" 243 On the Death of a Former Pupil : . . .245 The Sleeping Infant 248 The Orphan's Trust 249 The Ordination 251 The Host of Gideon 254 Farewell : 256 POEMS BY LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. THE FIRST MORNING OF SPRING. Break from your chains, ye lingering streams ;. Rise, blossoms, from your wintry dreams ; Drear fields, your robes of verdure take ; Birds, from your trance of silence wake ; Glad trees, resume your leafy crown ; Shrubs, o'er the mirror-brooks bend down ;. Bland zephyrs, wheresoe'er ye stray, The Spring doth call you, — come away. Thou too, my soul, with quicken' d force- Pursue thy brief, thy measur'd course; 14 THE FIRST MORNING OF SPRING. With grateful zeal each power employ ; Catch vigour from Creation's joy ; And deeply on thy shortening span Stamp love to God and love to man. But Spring, with tardy step, appears, Chill is her eye, and moist with tears ; Still are the founts in fetters bound, — The flower-germs shrink within the ground. Where are the warblers of the sky ? I ask, — and angry blasts reply. It is not thus in heavenly bowers : — Nor ice-bound rill, nor drooping flowers, Nor silent harp, nor folded wing, Invade that everlasting Spring Toward which we look with wishful tear, While pilgrims in this wintry sphere. 15 'NOT DEAD, BUT SLEEPETH.' Not dead ? A marble seal is prest, Where her bright glance did part, A weight is on the pulseless breast, And ice around the heart ; No more she wakes with greeting smile, Gay voice, and buoyant tread, But yet ye calmly say the while, She sleeps, she is not dead. If thou dost mourn for ashes cold, — A voice from heaven replied, " Then be thine anguish uncontroll'd, Thy tears a heathen tide ; Thine idol was that vestment fair Which wraps the spirit free, Earth, air, and water, claim their share, Say I which shall comfort thee ? But the strong mind whose heaven-born thought No earthly chain could bind, 16 "NOT DEAD, BUT SLEErETH. The holy heart divinely fraught With love to all mankind, The humble soul whose early trust Was with its God on high, These were thy sister, who in dust May sleep, but cannot die." 17 THE COMMUNION. Master ! it is good to be here." Mark, ix., 5. They knelt them side by side ; the hoary man Whose memory was an age, and she whose cheek Gleam' d like that velvet, which the young moss- rose Puts blushing forth from its scarce sever'd sheath. There was the sage, — whose eye of science spans The comet in his path of fire, — and she Whose household duty was her sole delight And highest study. On the chancel clasp'd, In meek devotion, were those bounteous hands Which pour forth charities, unask'd, untir'd, — And his which roughly win the scanty bread 2 18 THE COMMUNION. For his young children. There the man of might On bended knee, fast by his servant's side, Sought the same Master, — brethren in one faith, And fellow-pilgrims. See yon wrinkled brow, Where care and grief for many a year have trac'd Alternate furrows, — bow'd so near those lips, Which but the honey and the dew of love Have nourish'd. And, for each, eternal health Descendeth here. Look! look! as yon deep veil Is swept aside, what an o'erwhelming page Disease hath written with its pen of pain. Ah, suffering sister, thou art hasting where No treacherous hectic plants is funeral rose : Drink thou the wine-cup of thy risen Lord, And it shall nerve thee for thy toilsome path Through the dark valley of the shade of death. — 'Tis o'er. A holy silence reigns around. The organ slumbers. The sweet, solemn voice Of him who dealt the soul its heavenly food Turns inward, like a wearied sentinel, Pillowing on thought profound. Then every head Bends low in parting worship, — mute, and deep, The whisper of the soul. And who may tell THE COMMUNION. 19 In that brief, silent space, how many a hope Is born that hath a life beyond the tomb. — So hear us, Father ! in our voiceless prayer, That at thy better banquet all may meet, And take the cup of bliss, and thirst no more. 20 THOUGHTS AT THE FUNERAL OF A FRIEND. That solemn knell, whose mournful call Strikes on the heart, I heard ; I saw the sable pall Covering the form revered. And, lo! his fathers' race, the ancient and the blest, Unlock the dim sepulchral halls, where silently they rest, And to the unsaluting tomb, Curtained round with rayless gloom, He entereth in, a wearied guest. To his bereaved abode, the fire- side chair, The holy, household prayer, Affection's watchful zeal, his life that blest, The tuneful lips that soothed his pain, With the dear name of "Father" thrilling through his breast, He cometh not again. THOUGHTS AT THE FUNERAL OF A FRIEND. 21 Flowers in his home bloom fair, The evening taper sparkles clear, The intellectual banquet waiteth there, Which his heart held so dear. The tenderness and grace That make religion beautiful still spread Their sainted wings to guard the place- Alluring friendship's frequent tread. Still seeks the stranger's foot that hospitable door, But he, the husband and the sire, returneth never more. His was the upright deed, His the unswerving course, 'Mid every thwarting current's force, Unchanged by venal aim, or flattery's hollow reed : The holy truth walked ever by his side, And in his bosom dwelt, companion, judge, and guide. But when disease revealed To his unclouded eye The stern destroyer standing nigh, Where turned he for a shield 1 Wrapt he the robe of stainless rectitude Around his breast to meet cold Jordan's flood? Grasped he the staff* of pride His steps through death's dark vale to guide? 22 THOUGHTS AT THE FUNERAL OF A FRIEND. Ah no ! self-righteousness he cast aside, Clasping, with firm and fearless faith, the cross of Him who died. Serene, — serene, — He press' d the crumbling verge of this terrestrial scene, Breath' d soft in childlike trust The parting groan, — Gave back to dust its dust,— To Heaven, its own. ON A PICTURE OF PENITENCE. Yes ! look to Heaven. Earth scorns to lend Refuge, or ray thy steps to guide ; Bids pity with suspicion blend, And slander check compassion's tide. We will not ask, what thorn hath found Admittance to thy bosom fair, — If love hath dealt a traitor's wound, Or hopeless folly woke despair : — We only say, that sinless clime, To which is raised thy streaming eye, Hath pardon for the deepest crime, Though erring man that boon deny : — We only say, the prayerful breast, The gushing tear of contrite pain, Have power to ope that portal blest, Where vaunting pride must toil in vain. 24 ROME. 'Tis sunset on the Palatine. A flood Of living glory wraps the Sabine hills, And o'er the rough and serrate Appenines Floats like a burning mantle. Purple mists Rise faintly o'er the grey and ivied tombs Of the Campagna, as sad memory steals Forth from the twilight of the heart, to hold Its mournful vigil o'er affection's dust. Was that thy camp, old Romulus, where creeps The clinging vine-flower round yon fallen fanes And mouldering columns ? Lo ! thy clay-built huts, And band of malcontents, with barbarous port, Up from the sea of buried ages rise, Darkening the scene. Methinks I see thee stand, Thou wo If- nursed monarch, o'er the human herd Supreme in savageness, yet strong to plant Barrier and bulwark, whence should burst a might And majesty by thy untutored soul ROME. 25 Unmeasured, unconceived. As little dreams The careless boy, who to the teeming earth Casts the light acorn, of the forest's pomp, Which, springing from that noteless germ, shall rear Its banner to the skies, when he must sleep A noteless atom. Hark ! the owlet's cry, That, like a muttering sybil, makes her cell 'Mid Nero's house of gold, with clustering bats, And gliding lizards. Tells she not to man, In the hoarse plaint of that discordant shriek, The end of earthly glory ? With mad haste No more the chariot round the stadium flies ; Nor toil the rivals in the painful race To the far goal ; nor from yon broken arch Comes forth the victor, with flushed brow, to claim The hard-earned garland. All have pass'd away, Save the dead ruins, and the living robe That nature wraps around them. Anxious fear, High-swollen expectancy, intense despair, And wild exulting triumph, here have reigned, And perished all. 26 ROME. 'Twere well could we forgei How oft the gladiator's blood hath stained Yon grass-grown pavement, while imperial Rome With all her fairest, brightest brows, looked down On the stern courage of the wounded wretch Grappling with mortal agony. The sigh Or tone of tender pity were to him A dialect unknown, o'er whose dim eye The distant vision of his cabin rude, With all its echoing voices, all the rush Of its cool, flowing waters, brought a pang To which keen death was slight. But now the scene Once proudly peopled with the gods of earth Spreads unempurpled, unimpassion'd forth, While, curtain'd with her ancient glory, — Rome Slumbereth, like one o'erwearied. 27 DEPARTURE OF MRS. HANNAH MORE FROM BARLEY WOOD. It was a lovely scene, That cottage 'mid the trees, And peerless England's shaven green, Peep'd, their interstices between, While in each sweet recess, and grotto wild, Nature convers'd with art, or on her labours smil'd. It seem'd a parting hour, And she whose hand had made That spot so beautiful with woven shade And aromatic shrub and flower, Turn'd her from those haunts away, Tho' spring relum'd each charm, and fondly woo'd her stay. 28 DEPARTURE OF MRS. HANNAH MORE. Yon mansion teems with legends for the heart : There her lov'd sisters circled round her side, To share in all her toils a part, There, too, with gentle sigh Each laid her down to die : Methinks their beckoning phantoms glide, Twining with tenderest ties Of hoarded memories, Green bower, and quiet walk,and vine wreath'd spot : Hark ! where the cypress waves Above their peaceful graves, Seems not some echo on the gale to rise ? " O, sister, leave us not !" Her lingering footstep stays Upon that threshold stone, And o'er the pictur'd wall, her farewell gaze Rests on the portraits, one by one, Of treasur'd friends, before her gone To that bright world of bliss where partings are unknown. The wintry snows That fourscore years disclose, When slow to life's last verge, Time's lonely chariot goes, Are on her temples ; and her features meek DEPARTURE OF MRS. HANNAH MORE. 29 Subdued and silent sorrow speak ; Yet still her arm in cheerful trust doth lean On faithful friendship's prop, — that changeless evergreen. Like Eve, from Paradise, she goes, Yet not by guilt involv'd in woes, Nor driven by angel bands, — The flaming sword is planted at her gate By menial hands : Yes, those who at her table fed Despise the giver of their daily bread, And from ingratitude and hate The wounded patron fled. Think not the pang was slight That thus within her uncomplaining breast She cover' d from the light : Tho' knowledge o'er her mind had pour'd The full, imperishable hoard, Tho' virtue, such as dwells among the blest. Came nightly, on reflection's wing, to soothe her soul to rest, Tho' Fame to farthest earth her name had borne, These brought no shield against the envious thorn : Deem not the envenom' d dart Invulnerable found her thrilling woman's heart. 30 DEPARTURE OF MRS. HANNAH MOKE. Man's home is everywhere. On ocean's flood, Where the strong ship with storm -defying tether Doth link, in stormy brotherhood Earth's utmost zones together, Where'er the red gold glows, the spice-trees wave, Where the rich diamond ripens, 'mid the flame Of vertic suns that ope the stranger's grave, He, with bronz'd cheek and daring step doth rove ; He with short pang and slight Doth turn him from the chequer' d light Of the fair moon thro' his own forests dancing, Where music, joy, and love, Were his young hours entrancing ; And where ambition's thunder-claim Points out his lot, •Or fitful wealth allures to roam, There, doth he make his home, Repining not. It is not thus with Woman. The far halls, Though ruinous and lone, Where first her pleased ear drank a nursing- mother's tone, — The home with humble walls, Where breath'd a parent's prayer around her bed — The valley, where with playmates true, She cull'd the strawberry, bright with dew, — DEPARTURE OF MRS. HANNAH MORE. 31 The bower, where Love her timid footsteps led — The hearth-stone where her children grew, — The damp soil where she cast The flower-seeds of her hope, and saw them bide the blast, — Affection, with unfading tint recalls, Lingering round the ivied walls, Where every rose hath in its cup a bee, Making fresh honey of remember' d things, Each rose without a thorn, each bee bereft of stings. 32 PEACE. Peace I leave with you."— John, xiv.,27. "Peace" was the song the angels sang, When Jesus sought this vale of tears, And sweet that heavenly prelude rang, To calm the wondering shepherds' fears : — " War," is the word that man hath spoke, Convuls'd by passions dark and dread, And vengeance bound a lawless yoke Even where the Gospel's banner spread. " Peace, 11 was the prayer the Saviour brenthed When from our world his steps withdrew, The gift he to his friends bequeathed With Calvary and the cross in view : — And ye whose souls have felt his love, Guard day and night this rich bequest, The watch-word of the host above, The passport to their realm of rest. 33 TOMB OF A YOUNG FRIEND AT MOUNT AUBURN. I do remember thee. There was a strain Of thrilling music, a soft breath of flowers Telling of summer to a festive throng, That fill'd the lighted halls. And the sweet smile That spoke their welcome, the high warbled lay Swelling with rapture through a parent's heart, Were thine. Time wav'd his noiseless wand awhile, And in thy cherish'd home once more I stood, Amid those twin'd and cluster'd sympathies Where the rich blessings of thy heart sprang forth, Like the moss rose. Where was the voice of song Pouring out glad and glorious melody ? — But when I ask'd for thee, they took me where A hallow' d mountain wrapt its verdant head In changeful drapery of woods, and flowers, 3 34 TOMB OF A YOUNG FRIEND. And silver streams, and where thou erst didst love, Musing to walk, and lend a serious ear To the wild melody of birds that hung Their unharm'd dwellings 'mid its woven bowers. Yet here and there, involv'd in curtaining shades Uprose those sculptur'd monuments that bear The ponderous warnings of eternity. So, thou hast pass'd the unreturning gate, Where dust with dust doth linger, and gone down In all the beauty of thy blooming years To this most sacred city of the dead. The granite obelisk and the pale flower Reveal thy couch. Fit emblems of the frail And the immortal. But that bitter grief Which holds stern vigil o'er the mouldering clay, Keeping long night-watch with its sullen lamp Had fled thy tomb, and faith did lift its eye Full of sweet tears : for when warm tear-drops gush From the pure memories of a love that wrought For others happiness, and rose to take Its own full share of happiness above, Are they not sweet ? 35 MIDNIGHT MUSIC* What maketh music, when the bird Doth hush its merry lay ? And the sweet spirit of the flowers Hath sighed itself away ? What maketh music when the frost Enchains the murmuring rill, And every song that summer woke In winter's trance is still ? ♦ "The Rev. Mr. George Herbert, in one of hi8 walks to Salisbury to join a musical society, saw a poor man, with a poorer horse, which had fallen under its load. Putting off his canonical coat, he helped the poor man to unload, and raise the hoise, and afterwards to load him again. The poor man blessed him for it, and he blessed the poor man. And so like was he to the good Samaritan, that he gave him money to refresh both himself and his horse, ad- monishing him also, 'if he loved himself, to be mer- ciful to his beast.' Then, coming to his musical friends at Salisbury, they began to wonder that Mr. George Herbert, who used to be always so trim and neat, should come into that company so soiled and 36 MIDNIGHT MUSIC. What maketh music when the winds In strong encounter rise, When ocean strikes his thunder-gong, And the rent cloud replies ? While no adventurous planet dares The midnight arch to deck, And, in its startled dream, the babe Doth clasp its mother's neck ? And when the fiercer storms of fate Wild o'er the pilgrim sweep, And earthquake-voices claim the hopes He treasur'd long and deep, When loud the threatening passions roar Like lions in their den, And vengeful tempests lash the shore, What maketh music then? discomposed. Yet, when he told them the reason, one of them said that he had ' disparaged himself by so mean an employment.' But his answer was that, the thought of what he had done, would prove music to him at midnight, and that the omission of it would have made discord in his conscience, whenever he should pass that place. 'For if,' said he, 'I am bound to pray for all that are in distress, I am surely bound, so far as is in my power, to practise what I pray for. And though I do not wish for the like oc- casion every day, yet would I not willingly pass one day of my life without comforting a sad soul, or showing mercy, and I praise God for this opportunity. So now let us tune our instruments.' " MIDNIGHT MUSIC. The deed to humble virtue born, Which nursing memory taught To shun a boastful world's applause, And love the lowly thought, This builds a cell within the heart, Amid the blasts of care, And tuning high its heaven-struck harp, Makes midnight music there. 38 TRUST IN GOD. "And David said, Let me now fall into the hand of the Lord, for his mercies are great,— and let me not fall into the hand of man."— 2 Sam. xxiv., 14. Man hath a voice severe, His neighbour's fault to blame, A wakeful eye, a listening ear To note his brother's shame. He, with suspicious glance The curtain' d breast doth read, And raise the accusing balance high, To weigh the doubtful deed. Oh Thou, whose piercing thought Doth note each secret path, For mercy to Thy throne, we fly, From man's condemning wrath. Thou, who dost dimness mark In Heaven's resplendent way, TRUST IN GOD. And folly in that angel host Who serve thee night and day. How fearless should our trust In thy compassion be, When from our brother of the dust We dare appeal to Thee. 40 THE CHRISTIAN MOURNER. I saw a dark procession slowly wind 'Mid funeral shades, and a lone mourner stand Fast by the yawning of the pit that whelm'd His bosom's idol. Then the sable scene Faded away, and to his alter' d home Sad fancy follow' d him, and saw him fold His one, lone babe, in agoniz'd embrace, And kiss the brow of trusting innocence, That in its blessed ignorance wail'd not A mother lost. Yet she who would have watch'd Each germ of intellect, each bud of truth, Each fair unfolding of the fruit of Heaven, With thrilling joy, was like the marble cold. — There were the flowers she planted, blooming fair, As if in mockery, — there the varied stores That in the beauty of their order charm'd At once the tasteful and the studious hour, Pictures, and tinted shells, and treasur'd tomes ; the ciikistta:: mourner. 41 But the presiding mind, the cheerful voice, The greeting glance, the spirit-stirring smile, Fled, fled for ever. And he knoweth all ! Hath felt it all, deep in his tortur'd soul, Till reason and philosophy grew faint, Beneath a grief like his. Whence hath he then The power to comfort others, and to speak Thus of the resurrection ? He hath found That hope which is an anchor to the soul, And with a martyr- courage holds him up To bear the will of God. Say, ye who tempt The sea of life, by summer-gales impell'd, Have ye this anchor ? Sure a time will come For storms to try you, and strong blasts to rend Your painted sails, and shred your gold-like chaff O'er the wild wave ; and what a wreck is man If sorrow find him unsustain'd by God. 42 FAITH. Wrapt in the robe of Faith, Come to the place of prayer, And seal thy deathless vows to Him Who makes thy life his care. Doth he thy sunny skies O'ercloud with tempest gloom ? Or take the idol of thy breast, And hide it in the tomb? Or bid thy treasur'd joys In hopeless ruin lie ? Search not his reasons, — wait his will ; The record is on high. For should he strip thy heart Of all it boasts on earth, And set thee naked and alone, As at thy day of birth, He cannot do thee wrong, Those gifts were his at first, — 43 Draw nearer to his changeless throne, Bow deeper in the dust. Calls he thy parting soul Unbodied from the throng ? Cling closer to thy Saviour's cross, And raise the victor song. 44 THE DYING MOTHER'S PRAYER. I heard the voice of prayer— a mother's prayer — A dying mother for her only son. Young was his brow, and fair. Her hand was on his head, Her words of love were said, Her work was done. And there were other voices near her bed- Sweet, bird-like voices — for their mother dear Asking, with mournful tear. Ah, by whose hand shall those sad tears be dried, When one brief hour is fled, And hers shall pulseless rest, low with the silent dead? Yes, there was death's dark valley, drear and cold! And the hoarse dash of an o'erwhelming wave Alone she treads : is there no earthly hold, No friend — no helper — no strong arm to save ? THE DYING MOTHER'S PRATER. 45 Down to the fearful grave, In the firm courage of a faith serene, Alone she press' d — And as she drew the chord That bound her to her Lord More closely round her breast, The white wing of the waiting angel spread More palpably, and earth's bright things grew pale. Even fond affection's wail Seemed like the far-off sigh of spring's forgotten gale. And so the mother's prayer, So often breathed above, In agonizing love, Rose high in praise of God's protecting care. Meek on his arm her infant charge she laid, And with a trusting eye, Of Christian constancy, Confiding in her blest Redeemer's aid, She taught the weeping band, Who round her couch of pain did stand, How a weak woman's hand, Fettered with sorrow and with sin, Might from the king of terrors win The victory. 46 CONSECRATION OF A CHURCH. " Lift up your heads, ye hallowed gates, and give The King of Glory room." And then a strain Of solemn trembling melody inquired, " Who is the King of Glory." But a sound Brake from the echoing temple, like the rush Of many waters, blent with organ's breath, And the soul's harp, and the uplifted voice Of prelate, and of people, and of priest, Responding joyously — " The Lord of Hosts, He is the King of Glory." Enter in To this his new abode, and with glad heart Kneel low before his footstool. Supplicate That favouring presence which doth condescend, From the pavilion of high heaven to beam On earthly temples, and in contrite souls. Here fade all vain distinctions that the pride Of man can arrogate. This house of prayer CONSECRATION OF A CHURCH. 47 Doth teach that all are sinners — all have strayed Like erring sheep. The princely, or the poor, The bright or ebon brow, the pomp of power, The boast of intellect, what are they here ? Man sinks to ndthing,while he deals with God. Yet, let the grateful hymn of those who share A boundless tide of blessings — those who tread Their pilgrim path, rejoicing in the hope Of an ascended Saviour— through these walls For ever flow. Thou dedicated dome ! May'st thou in majesty and beauty stand: Stand, and give praise, until the rock-ribbed earth In her last throes shall tremble. Then dissolve Into thy native dust, with one long sigh Of melody, while the redeemed souls That, 'neath thine arch, to endless life were born, Go up, on wings of glory, to the "house Not made with hands." 48 THE CHRISTIAN GOING HOME. Occasioned by the words of a dying friend,— "Be- fore morning, I shall be at home." Home ! home ! its glorious threshold Through parted clouds I see, Those mansions by a Saviour bought, Where I have longed to be, And, lo ! a bright unnumbered host O'erspread the heavenly plain, Not one is silent — every harp Doth swell the adoring strain. Fain would my soul be praising Amid that sinless throng, Fain would my voice be raising Their everlasting song, — Hark ! hark ! they bid me hasten To leave the fainting clay, Friends ! hear ye not the welcome sound ? " Arise, and come away." THE CHRISTIAN GOING HOME. 49 Before the dawn of morning These lower skies shall light, I shall have joined their company Above this realm of night, Give thanks, my mourning dear ones, Thanks to the Eternal King, Who crowns my soul with victory And plucks from Death the sting. 50 WAITING UPON THE LORD. "I will wait upon the Lord, that hideth his face.' Isaiah. Where'er thine earthly lot is cast, Whate'er its duties prove, To toil 'neath penury's piercing blast, Or share the cell of love, Or 'mid the pomp of wealth to live, Or wield of power the rod, Still as a faithful servant strive To wait alone on God. Should disappointment's blighting sway Destroy of joy the bloom, Till one by one thy hopes decay In darkness and the tomb, Should Heaven its cheering smile withhold From thy disastrous fate, And foes arise like billows bold, — Still, on Jehovah wait. WAITING UPON THE LORD. 51 When timid dawn her couch forsakes, Or noon-day splendours glide, Or eve her curtain'd pillow takes, While watchful stars preside, Or midnight drives the throngs of care Far from her ebon throne, Unwearied in thy fervent prayer Wait thou on God alone. But should He still conceal his face Till flesh and spirit fail, And bid thee darkly run the race Of Time's receding vale, With what a doubly glorious ray His smile will light that sky Where ransom'd souls rejoicing lay Their robes of mourning by. 52 DEATH-BED OF THE REV. DR. PAYSON. "The eye spoke after the tongue became motion- less. Looking on his wife, and glancing over the others who surrounded his bed, it rested on his eldest son, with an expression which was interpreted by all present to say, as plainly as if he had uttered the words of the beloved disciple,— ' Behold thy mo- ther!' " Memoir of the Rev. Edward Payson. What said the eye ? The marble lip spake not, Save in that quivering sob with which stern death Crusheth life's harp-strings. Lo ! again it pours A tide of more than uttered eloquence — " Son! look upon thy mother," — and retires Beneath the curtain of the drooping lids To hide itself for ever. 'Tis the last, Last glance ! and, ah! how tenderly it fell Upon that loved companion, and the groups DEATH-BED OF THE REV. DR. PAYS0N. 53 Who wept around. Full well the dying knew The value of those holy charities Which purge the dross of selfishness away ; And deep he felt that woman's trusting heart Rent from the cherished prop which, next to Christ, Had been her stay in all adversities, Would take the balm-cup best from that dear hand Which woke the sources of maternal love ; That smile whose winning paid for sleepless nights Of cradle-care — that voice whose murmured tones Her own had moulded to the words of prayer. How soothing to a widowed mother's breast, Her first-born's sympathy. Be strong, young man ! Lift the protector's arm, the healer's prayer — Be tender in thine every word and deed. A spirit watcheth thee ! Yes, he who pass'd From shaded earth up to the full-orbed day, Will be thy witness in the court of Heaven, How thou dost bear his mantle. So, farewell, Leader in Israel ! Thou whose radiant path Was like the angel's standing* in the sun, Undazzled and unswerving. It was meet That thou should' st rise to light without a cloud, * Revelations, xix., 17. 54 MISSION HYMN. Onward ! onward ! men of heaven, Rear the Gospel's banner high ; Rest not, till its light is given, — Star of every pagan sky. Bear it where the pilgrim-stranger Faints 'neath Asia's vertic ray ; Bid the red-browed forest-ranger Hail it, ere he fades away. Where the arctic ocean thunders, — Where the tropics fiercely glow, Broadly spread its page of wonders, Brightly bids its radiance flow. India marks its lustre, stealing, Shivering Greenland loves its rays, Afric, 'mid her deserts kneeling, Lifts the untaught strain of praise. Rude in speech, or grim in feature, Dark in spirit though they be, Show that light to every creature, — Prince or vassal, — bond or free. — MISSION HYMN. 55 Lo ! they haste to every nation ; Host on host the ranks supply ; Onward ! Christ is your salvation, — And your death is victory ! 56 ON MEETING SEVERAL FORMER PUPILS AT THE COMMUNION TABLE. "I have no greater joy than to see my children walk in the truth." — St. John. When kneeling round a Saviour's board Fair forms, and brows belov'd, I see, Who once the paths of peace explor'd, And trac'd the studious page with me, — Who from my side with pain would part ; My entering step with gladness greet, And pour complacent, o'er my heart, Affection's dew-drops, pure and sweet, When now, from each remember' d face Beam tranquil hope and trust benign, When in each eye Heaven's smile I trace, The tear of joy suffuses mine. MEETING- AT THE COMMUNION TABLE. 57 Father ! I bless thy ceaseless care, Which thus its holiest gifts hath shed ; Guide Thou their steps through every snare, From every danger shield their head. From treacherous error's dire control, — From pride, from change, from darkness free, Preserve each timorous, trusting soul, That, like the ark-dove, flies to Thee. And may the wreath that cloudless days Around our hearts so fondly wove, Still bind us till we speak Thy praise, As sister spirits, one in love ; — One, where no lingering ill can harm ; One, where no stroke of fate can sever; Where nought but holiness doth charm, And all that charms shall live for ever. 58 THE LOST SISTER. They wak'd me from my sleep, I knew no1 why, And bade me hasten where a midnight lamp Gleam' d from an inner chamber. There she lay, With brow so pale, — who yester-morn breath'd forth Through joyous smiles her superflux of bliss Into the hearts of others. By her side Her hoary sire, with speechless sorrow, gazed Upon the stricken idol, — all dismay' d Beneath his God's rebuke. And she who nurs'd That fair young creature at her gentle breast, And oft those sunny locks had deck'd with buds Of rose and jasmine, shuddering wip'd the dews Which death distils. The sufferer just had given Her long farewell, and for the last, last time Touch' d with cold lips his cheek who led so late Her footsteps to the altar, and receiv'd In the deep transport of an ardent heart Her vow of love. And she had striven to press THE LOST SISTER. 59 That golden circlet with her bloodless hand Back on his finger, which he kneeling gave At the bright, bridal morn. So, there she lay In calm endurance, like the smitten lamb Wounded in flowery pastures, from whose breast The dreaded bitterness of death had pass'd. — But a fault wail disturb' d the silent scene, And, in its nurse's arms a new-born babe Was borne in utter helplessness along, Before that dying eye. Its gather' d film Kindled one moment with a sudden glow Of tearless agony, — and fearful pangs, Racking the rigid features, told how strong A mother's love doth root itself. One cry Of bitter anguish, blent with fervent prayer, Went up to Heaven, — and, as its cadence sank, Her spirit enter' d there. Morn after morn Rose and retir'd ; yet still as in a dream I seem'd to move. The certainty of loss Fell not at once upon me. Then I wept As weep the sisterless. — For thou wert fled, My only, my belov'd, my sainted one, — Twin of my spirit ! and my number' d days Must wear the sable of that midnight hour Which rent thee from me. 60 MISTAKEN GRIEF. "There the wicked cease from troubling, and there the weary are at rest." Job. We mourn for those who toil, The wretch who ploughs the main, The slave who hopeless tills the soil Beneath the stripe and chain ; For those who in the world's hard race, O'erwearied and unblest, A host of gliding phantoms chase ; Why mourn for those who rest ? We mourn for those who sin, Bound in the tempter's snare, Whom syren pleasure beckoneth in To prisons of despair, — Whose hearts, by whirlwind passions torn, Are wreck'd on folly's shore, But why in anguish should we mourn For those who sin no more ? MISTAKEN GRIEF. 61 We mourn for those who weep, Whom stern afflictions bend, Despairing o'er the lowly sleep Of lover or of friend ; But they who Jordan's swelling tide No more are call'd to stem, Whose tears the hand of God hath dried, Why should we mourn for them ? 62 DEPARTURE OF MISSIONARIES FOR CEYLON. Wave, wide Ceylon, your foliage fair, Your spicy fragrance freely strew, See, ocean's threatening surge we dare, To bear salvation's gift to you. And, ye who long with faithful hand Have fondly till* d. that favour' d soil, We come, we come, a brother-band To share the burden of your toil. Land of our birth ! we may not stay The ardour of our hearts to tell, Friends of our youth ! we dare not say How deep within our souls ye dwell. But when the dead, both small and great, Shall stand before the Judge's seat, When sea, and sky, and earthly state, All like a baseless vision fleet, DEPARTURE OF MISSIONARIES FOR CEYLON. 63 The hope that then some heathen eye Thro' us, an angel's glance may raise, Bids us to vanquish nature's tie, And turn her parting tear to praise. 64 CRY OF THE CORANNAS. " Missionaries are going far beyond us,— but they come not to us. We have been promised a mission- ary, but can get none. God has given us plenty of corn, but we are perishing for want of instruction. Our people are dying every day. We have heard there is another life after death, but we know no- thing of it." We see our infants fade. The mother clasps The enfeebled form, and watches night and day Its speechless agony, with tears and cries, But there's a hand more strong than her despair, That rends it from her bosom. Our young men Are bold and full of strength, but something comes, We know not what, and so they droop and die. Those whom we lov'd so much, our gentler friends, Who bless our homes, we gaze, and they are gone. CRY OF THE CORANNAS. 65 Our mighty chiefs, who in the battle's rage Tower'd up like gods, so fearless, and retum'd So loftily, behold ! they pine away Like a pale girl, and so, we lay them down With the forgotten throng, who dwell in dust. They call it death, and we have faintly heard By a far echo o'er the distant sea There was a life beyond it. Is it so ? If there be aught above this mouldering mound Where we do leave our friends, — if there be hope, So passing strange, that they should rise again And we should see them, we who mourn them now, We pray you speak such glorious tidings forth In our benighted clime. Ye heaven-spread sails Pass us not by ! Men of the living God ! Upon our mountain-heights we stand and shout To you in our distress. Fain would we hear Your wondrous message fully, that our hearts May hail its certainty, before we go Ourselves to those dark caverns of the dead, Where everlasting silence seems to reign. 66 GIFT OF A BIBLE. Behold the book, — o'er which, from ancient time, Sad penitence hath poured the prayerful breath, And meek devotion bowed with joy sublime, And nature armed her for the strife of death, And trembling hope renewed her wreath divine, And faith an anchor gained : — that holy book is thine. Behold the book, — whose sacred truths to spread Christ's heralds toil beneath a foreign sky, Pouring its blessings o'er the heathen's head, A martyr- courage kindling in their eye. Wide o'er the globe its glorious light must shine, As glows the arch of heaven : — that holy book is thine. Here search with humble heart, and ardent eye, Where plants of peace in bloom celestial grow; GIFT OF A BIBLE. 67 Here breathe to mercy's ear the contrite sigh, And bid the soul's unsullied fragrance flow To Him who shuts the rose at even- tide, And opes its dewy eye when earliest sunbeams glide May Heaven's pure Spirit touch thy soften' d heart, And guide thy feet through life's eventful lot : That when from this illusive scene I part, And in the grave lie mouldering and forgot, This, my first gift, like golden link, may join Thee, to that angel-band around the Throne Divine. 68 HOME MISSIONS. Tukn thee to thine own broad waters, Labor in thy native earth, Call salvation's sons and daughters From the clime that gave thee birth. Here are pilgrim-souls benighted, Here are evils to be slain, Graces in their budding blighted, Spirits bound in error's chain. Raise the Gospel's glorious streamer Where yon cloud-topp'd forest waves, Follower of the meek Redeemer Serve him 'mid thy father's graves. ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND. She passeth hence, — a friend from loving friends, A mother from her children. Time hath shed No frost upon her, and the tree of life Glows in the freshness of its summer prime. — Yet still she passeth hence : her work on earth Soon done, and well. Her's was the unwavering mind, The untiring hand in duty. Firm of soul And pure in purpose, on the Eternal Rock Of Christian trust, her energies reposed, And sought no tribute from a shadowy world. Her early hope and homage clave to God, When the bright skies, the untroubled founts of youth, With all their song-birds, all their flowers, rose up To tempt her spirit. So, in hours of pain, He did remember her, and on her brow And in her breast, the dove-like messenger Found peaceful home. O thou, whom grieving love Would blindly pinion in this vale of tears, 70 ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND. Farewell ! It is a glorious flight for faith To trace thy upward path, above this clime Of change and storm. We will remember thee At thy turf-bed, — and, 'mid the twilight hour Of solemn music, when the buried friend Comes back so visibly, and seems to fill The vacant chair, our speech shall be of thee. 71 THE JOURNEY WITH THE DEAD. They journey 'neath the summer sky, A lov'd and loving train, But Nature spreads her genial charms To lure their souls in vain, Husband and wife and child are there, Warm-hearted, true and kind, Yet every kindred lip is seal'd, And every head declin'd. Weary and sad, their course is bent To seek an ancient dome, Where hospitality hath made A long-re member' d home ; And one with mournful care they bring Whose footstep erst was gay Amid'these halls ; why comes she now In sorrow's dark array ? Here fell a sainted grandsire's prayer Upon her infant rest, And with the love of ripen' d years The cherish' d haunt was blest ; 72 JOURNEY WITH THE DEAD. Here was the talisman that bade Her heart's blood sparkle high, Why steals no flush across her cheek ? No lightning to her eye ? They bear her to the house of God, But though that hallow' d spot Is fill'd with prayer from lips she lov'd Her voice respondeth not, She heedeth not, she heedeth not, She, who from early days Had joy'd within that holy Church, To swell Jehovah's praise. Then onward toward a narrow cell They tread the grass-grown track, From whence the unreturning guest Doth send no tidings back ; There sleeps the grandsire high and brave In freedom's battles tried,* With him whose banner was the cros3 Of Jesus crucified. Down by those hoary chiefs she laid Her young, unfrosted head, To rise no more, until the voice Of Jesus wakes the dead, * General Putnam. JOURNEY WITH THE DEAD. 73 From her own dear, domestic bower, From deep, confiding love, From earth's unshaded smile, she turn'd To purer bliss above. 71 PRISONERS' EVENING HYMN. WRITTEN FOR THE FEMALES IN THE CONNECTI- CUT STATE PRISON. The silent curtains of the night Our lonely cell surround, God's dwelling is in perfect light, His mercy hath no bound. Still on the sinful and the vile His daily bounties fall, And still his sun with cheering smile Dispenses good to all. The way of wickedness is hard, Its bitter fruits we know, Shame in this world is its reward, And in the future, woe. But Thou ! who see'st us while we pay The penance of our guilt, Cast not our souls condemn'd away, Christ's blood for us was spilt. prisoners' evening hymn. 75 Deep root within a soil subdued Let true repentance take, "And be its fruits a life renew' d, For the Redeemer's sake. Uplift our spirits from the ground, § Give to our darkness, light. Oh thou! whose mercies have no bound, Preserve us safe this night. 76 THE HUGUENOT PASTOR. During the persecution of the Huguenots in France, soon after the revocation of the edict of Nantz, one of their ministers, possessed of great learning and piety, having witnessed the demolition of his own Church at Montpelier, was induced by the solicita- tions of his people, to preach to them in the night, upon its ruins. For this offence, he was condemned to be broken on the wheel. Behold him on the ruins, — not of fanes With ivy mantled, which the touch of time Hath slowly crumbled, — but amid the wreck Of his own temple, by infuriate hands In shapeless masses, and rude fragments strown Wide o'er the trampled turf. Serene he stood, A pale, sad beauty on his youthful brow, With eyes uprais'd, as if his stricken soul Fled from material things. Where was the spire That solemn through those chestnut trees looked forth ? The tower, the arch, the altar, whence he bless' d THE HUGUENOT PASTOR. - 77 A kneeling throng? the font where infancy Rais'd in his arms to God was consecrate, An incense-breathing bud ? Not on such themes Dar'd his fond thoughts to dwell, but firm in faith He lifted up his voice and spake of Heaven, Where desolations come not. Midnight hung Dreary and dense around, and the lone lamp That o'er his Bible stream' d, hung tremulous Beneath the fitful gale. There, resting deep Upon the planted staff, were aged men, The grave's white tokens in their scatter'd hair, And youthful forms, with gaze intensely fix'd On their beloved Pastor, as he taught Of Christ their righteousness, while here and there A group of mourning mothers from whose arms Their babes by persecution's rage were torn Blent with their listening, the low sob of grief. Close by their father's knees young children cower' d And in each echoing footstep fear'd a foe. — It was a time of trouble, and the flock Came hungering for the heavenly bread which gives Strength to the heavy laden. 'Twas a scene That France might well have wept with tears of blood 7b THE HUGUENOT PASTOR. But in the madness of a dire disease She slew her loyal sons, and urg'd the sword ' Gainst her own vitals. Lo ! the dawn is out, With her grey banner, and the parting flock Seek, their own homes, praising the Hand that spares Their faithful shepherd. Silent evening wakes Far different orgies. Yonder mangled form Sinking 'neath murderous fury, can ye trace Its lineaments of beauty, 'mid the wreck Of anguish and distortion ? Son of God ! Is this thy messenger, whose voice so late Thrill'd with an angel's sweetness, as it pour'd Thy blessing on the people ? Yet, be still, And breathe no bitter thought above his dust, Who served the Prince of Peace. The spirit of love Did make that lifeless breast its temple-shrine, Offend it not. But raise with tender hand Those blood-stain'd curls, and shed the pitying tear. — That marble lip no more can bless its foes, But from the wreck of martyrdom, the soul Hath risen in radiance, o'er the strife of man. 79 THIS IS NOT YOUR REST." When Heaven's unerring pencil writes, on every pilgrim's breast, Its passport to Time's changeful shore, " lo, this is not your rest" Why build ye towers, ye fleeting ones? why bowers of fragrance rear ? As if the self-deceiving soul might find its Eden here. In vain ! In vain ! wild storms will rise and o'er your fabrics sweep, Yet when loud thunders wake the wave, and deep replies to deep, When in your path, Hope's broken prism doth shed its parting ray, Spring up and fix your tearful eye on undeclining day. If like an ice-bolt to the heart, frail Friendship's altered eye Admits those rosy wreaths are dead, it promis'd could not die, 80 "this is not your rest." Lift, lift to an Eternal Friend, the agonizing prayer, The souls that put their trust in Him, shall never know despair. If Fancy, she who bids young Thought, its freshest incense bring, By stern reality rebuk'd, should fold her stricken wing, There is a brighter, broader realm than she has yet reveal'd, From flesh-girt man's exploring eye, and anxious ear conceal' d. Earth is Deatlis palace : to his court he sum- mons great and small, The crown'd, the homeless and the slave, are but his minions all ; We turn us shrinking from the truth, the close pursuit we fly, But faulter on the grave's dark brink, and lay us down and die. £1 THE SECOND BIRTH-DAY. Thou dost not dream, my little one, How great the change must be, These two years, since the morning sun First shed his beams on thee ; Thy lktle hands did helpless fall, As with a stranger's fear, And a faint wailing cry was all That met thy mother's ear. But now the dictates of thy will Thine active feet obey, And, pleased, thy busy fingers still Among thy playthings stray; And thy full eyes delighted rove The pictured page along, And, lisping to the heart of love, Thy thousand wishes throng. Fair boy ! the wanderings of thy way, It is not mine to trace : Through buoyant youth's exulting day, Or manhood's bolder race : 6 82 THE SECOND BIRTH-DAY. What discipline thy heart may need, What clouds may veil thy sun, The eye of God alone can read— And let his will be done. Yet might a mother's prayer of love Thy destiny control, Those boasted gifts that often prove The ruin of the soul, Beauty and fortune, wit and fame, For thee it would not crave, But tearful urge a fervent claim To joys beyond the grave. O ! be thy wealth an upright heart, Thy strength the sufferer's stay, Thine early choice, that better part, Which cannot fade away ; Thy zeal for Christ a quenchless fire, Thy friends the men of peace, Thy heritage an angel's lyre, When earthly changes cease. S3 DEATH OF A CLERGYMAN. So, from the field of labour thou art gone To thy reward, — like him who putteth off His outer garment, at the noontide hour, To take a quiet sleep. Thy zeal hath run Its course untiring, and thy quicken' d love, Where'er thy Master pointed, joy'd to go. —Amid thy faithful toil, His summons came, Warning thee home, — and thou didst loose thy heart From thy fond flock, and from affection's bonds, And from thy blessed children's warm embrace, With smiles and songs of praise. Death smote thee sore, And plung'd his keen shaft in the quivering nerve, Making the breath that stirr'd life's broken valve A torturing gasp, but with thy martyrdom Were smiles and songs of praise. 84 DEATH OF A CLERGYMAN. And thou didst rise Above the pealing of these sabbath bells Up to that glorious and unspotted church Whose worship is eternal. Would that all Who love our Lord might with thy welcome look. On the last foe, — not as a spoiler, sent To wreck their treasures and to blast their joys, But as a friend, who wraps the weary clay With earth, its mother, and doth raise the soul To that blest consummation, which its prayers Unceasingly besought, — tho' its best hopes But faintly shadow'd forth. So, tho' we hear Thy voice on earth no more, — the holy hymn With which thou down to Jordan's shore didst go To take thy last, cold baptism, still shall waft As from some cloud, its echoed sweetness back To teach us of the melody of heaven. 85 DEPART, CHRISTIAN SOUL. Depart ! depart ! the silver cord is breaking, The sun-ray fades before the darken' d sight, The subtle essence from the clod is taking, 'Mid groans and pangs, its everlasting flight ; Lingerest thou fearful ? Christ the grave hath bless'd, He in that lowly couch did deign to take his rest. Depart ! thy sojourn here hath been in sorrow, Tears were thy meat along the thorn-clad path, The hope of eve was but a clouded morrow, And sin appall' d thee with thy Maker's wrath, Earth gave her lessons in a tempest- voice. Thy discipline is ended. Chasten'd one, re- joice ! Thou wert a stranger here, and all thy trouble To bind a wreath upon the brow of pain, 8b "DEPART, CHRISTIAN SOUL. To build a bower upon the watery bubble, Or strike an anchor 'neath its depths, was vain; Depart ! depart ! all tears are wiped away, The seraph -marshall'd road is toward the realm of day. 87 THE FOREST TRIBES. Where are they, the forest-rangers, Children of this western-land ? Who, to greet the pale-fac'd strangers, Stretch'd the unsuspecting hand ? Where are they, whom passion goaded Madly to the unequal fight, Tossing wild the feathery arrow 'Gainst the girded warrior's might? Were not these their own bright waters ? Were not these their native skies ? Rear'd they not their red- brow' d daughters Where our princely mansions rise? From the vale their roofs have vanish'd, From these streams their slight canoe ; Chieftains and their tribes have perish'd, Like the thickets where they grew. Though their blood, no longer gushing, Wakeneth war's discordant cry, 88 THE FOREST TRIBES. Stains it not the maple's flushing When sad Autumn's step is nigh ? — None are living to deplore them, — None survive their names to tell, — But the sad breeze murmuring o'er them, Seems to sigh " farewell — farewell." 69 DEATH OF A DISTINGUISHED MAN. Death's shafts are ever busy. The fair haunts Where least we dread him, and where most the soul Doth lull itself to fond security, Reveal his ministry ; and, were not man Blind to the future, he might see the sky, Even in the glory of its cloudless prime, Dark with that arrow-flight. They deemed it so Who marked thee like a stately column fall, And in the twinkling of an eye, yield back Thy breath to Him who gave it. Yes, — they felt, Who saw thy vigorous footstep strangely chained Upon the turf it traversed, and the cheek, Flushed high with health, to mortal paleness turn'd, How awful such a rush from time must be. Thy brow was calm, yet deep within thy breast Were ranklings of a recent grief for her, 90 DEATH OF A DISTINGUISHED MAN. The idol of thy tenderness, with whom Life had been one long scene of changeless love* Yea, thou didst watch the winged messenger In sleepless agony that bore her hence, — And, when that bright eve darken' d from whose beams Thine own had drank from youth its dearest joy, Upraised thine hands and gave her back to God. The bleeding of thy heart-strings was not stanched, Nor scarce the tear-gush dried, ere death's dire frost Congeal' d thy fount of life. Thy toil had been, In that brief interval, to bear fresh plants From the sweet garden which she loved to tend, And bid them on her burial-pillow bloom. But, ere the young rose, or the willow-tree, Had taken their simplest rooting, thou wert laid Low by her side. It was a pleasant place Methought to rest, — earth's weary labour done, Fanned by the waving of those drooping boughs, And in her company whom thou didst choose, From all the world, to travel by thy side, Confidingly, — by deep affection cheer'd, And in thy faith a sharer. From the haunts Of living men, thine image may not fleet Noteless away. They will remember thee, DEATH OF A DISTINGUISHED MAN. 91 By many a word of witness for the truth, And many a deed of bounty. In the sphere Of those sublimer charities that gird The mind — the soul — thine was the ready hand : And for the hasting of that day of peace Which sheathes the sword, thine was the earnest prayer. In thine own house and in the church of God There will be weeping for thee. Thou no more Around thine altar shalt delight to see Thy children, and thy children's children, come To take thy patriarch blessing, — and no more Bring duly to yon consecrated courts Thy sabbath offering. Thou hast gained the rest Which earthly sabbaths dimly shadow forth, And to that ransomed family art risen Which have no need of prayer. But thou, man ! Whose hold on life is like the spider's web, Who hast thy footing 'mid so many snares, So many pitfalls, yet perceivest them not, — Seek peace with Him who made thee, — bind the shield Of faith in Christ more firmly o'er thy breast, That, when its pulse stands still, thy soul may pass, Unshrinking, unreluctant, unamazed, Into the fulness of the light of Heaven. PARTING HYMN OF MISSIONARIES TO BURMAH. Native Land ! in summer smiling, — Hill and valley, grove and stream,— Home ! whose nameless charms beguiling Peaceful lull'd our infant dream, — Haunts ! thro' which our childhood hasted Where the earliest wild-flowers grew, Church ! where God's free grace we tasted, Gems on Memory's breast,— adieu. Mother ! who hast watch' d our pillow, In thy tender, sleepless love, — Lo, — we dare the crested billow, — Mother ! — put thy trust above ; — Father ! from thy guidance turning, O'er the deep our way we take, — Keep the prayerful incense burning On thine altar for our sake. Brothers ! sisters ! more than ever Seem our clinging heart-strings twin'd, PARTHIG HYMN OF MISSIONARIES. 93 As that hallow'd bond we sever Which the hand of nature join'd : But the cry of pagan anguish Thro' our inmost hearts doth sound, Countless souls in misery languish, We would haste to heal their wound. Burmah ! we would soothe thy weeping, Take us to thy sultry breast, Where the sainted few are sleeping, Let us share a kindred rest : Friends ! our span of life is fleeting, Hark ! the harps of angels swell, Think of that eternal meeting Where no voice shall say farewell. BABE BEREAVED OF ITS MOTHER. Fair is the tint of bloom, That decks thy brow, my child ; And bright thine eye looks forth from sleep, Still eloquent and mild ; But she, who would have joy'd Those opening charms to see, And clasp' d thee in her sheltering arms With rapture — where is she ? To heed thine every want The watch of Love is near, And all thy feeble plaints are heard With sympathy sincere ; Yet she, to whom that care Had been most deeply dear, Who bare thee on her ceaseless prayer, The mother — is not here. Soon will these lips of rose Their new-born speech essay, But when thy little hopes and fears Win forth their lisping way, BABE BEREAVED OF ITS MOTHER. 95 The ear that would have lov'd Their dove-like music best, Lies mouldering in the lowly bed Of death's unbroken rest. Babe ! — tho' thou may'st not call Thy mother from the dead, Yet canst thou learn the way she went, And in her footsteps tread ; For sure that path will lead Up to a glorious home, Where happy spirits never part, And evil cannot come. ■ Her's was the hope that glows Unwavering and serene, The chasten' d spirit's meek repose In every changeful scene ; Her's was the victor-power When mortal anguish came, — Child ! — be thy holy trust thro' life, Thy peace in death, the same. 96 "WHITHER SHALL I FLEE FROM THY PRESENCE."— David. Take morning's wing, and fly from zone to zone, To earth's remotest pole, and, ere old Time Can shift one figure on his dial-plate, Haste to the frigid Thule of mankind, Where the scant life-drop freezes. Or go down To Ocean's secret caverns, 'mid the throng Of monsters without number, which no foot Of man hath visited, and yet returned To walk among the living. Or the shroud Of midnight wrap around thee, dense and deep, Bidding thy spirit slumber. Plop' st thou thus To 'scape the Almighty, to whose piercing eye Morn's robe and midnight's vestments are the same? Spirit of truth !— - why should we seek to hide Motive or deed from thee ? — why strive to walk In a vain show before our fellow- men ? Since at the same dread audit each must stand, "WHITHER SHALL I FLEE.' VI And with a sun-ray read his brother's breast While his own thoughts are weighed ? Search thou my soul ! And, if aught evil lurks securely there Like Achan's stolen hoard, command it thence, And hold me up in singleness of heart, And simple, child-like confidence in Thee, Till time shall close his labyrinth, and ope Eternity's broad gate. THE INDIAN'S WELCOME TO THE PILGRIM FATHERS. " On Friday, March 16th, 1622, while the colonists were busied in their usual labors, they were much surprised to see a savage walk boldly towards them, and salute them with, 'much welcome, English, much welcome, Englishmen.' " Above them spread a stranger sky Around, the sterile plain, The rock-bouhd coast rose frowning nigh, Beyond, — the wrathful main : Chill remnants of the wintry snow Still chok'd the encumber' d soil, Yet forth those Pilgrim Fathers go, To mark their future toil. 'Mid yonder vale their corn must rise In summer's ripening pride, And there the church-spire woo the skies Its sister-school beside. the Indian's welcome. 99 Perchance 'raid England's velvet green Some tender thought repos'd, — Though nought upon their stoic mien Such soft regret disclos'd. When sudden from the forest wide A red-brow' d chieftain came, With towering form, and haughty stride, And eye like kindling flame : No wrath he breath' d, no conflict sought, To no dark ambush drew, But simply to the Old World brought, The welcome of the New. That welcome was a blast and ban Upon thy race unborn. Was there no seer, thou fated Man ! Thy lavish zeal to warn ? Thou in thy fearless faith didst hail A weak, invading band, But who shall heed thy children's wail, Swept from their native land ? Thou gav'st the riches of thy streams, The lordship o'er thy waves, The region of thine infant dreams, And of thy father's graves, But who to yon proud mansions pil'd With wealth of earth and sea, Poor outcast from thy forest wild, Say, who shall welcome thee ? 100 BIRTH-DAY OF THE FIRST-BORN. Thy first-born's birth-day. Mother! That well-remember'd time Returneth, when thy heart's deep joy Swell' d to its highest prime. Thou hast another treasure, There in the cradle-shrine, And she who near its pillow plays, With cheek so fair, is thine. But still, thy brow is shaded, The fresh tear trickleth free, Where is that first-born darling? Young Mother, where is she ? And, if she be in heaven, She, who with goodness fraught, So early on her Father- God Repos'd her trusting thought, And, if she be in heaven, The honour how divine, To yield an angel to his arms Who gave a babe to thine. 101 THE HALF-CENTURY SERMON. Look back, look back, ye grey-hair'd worship- pers, Who to this hill-top fifty years ago Came up .with solemn joy. Withdraw the folds Which curtaining time hath gather 1 d o'er the scene, And show its colouring. The dark cloud of war Faded to fitful sun-light, — on the ear, The rumour of red battle died away, And there was Peace in Zion. So a throng O'er a faint carpet of the spring's first green Were seen in glad procession hasting on, To set a watchman on these sacred walls. Each eye upon his consecrated brow Was fondly fix'd, for in its pallid hue, In its deep, thought-worn, spiritual lines, They trac'd the mission of the crucified, The hope of Israel. High the anthem swell' d, Ascribing glory to the Lord of Hosts, Who in his bounteous goodness thus vouchsaf d To beautify his temple. 102 THE HALF- CENTURY SERMON. The same strain Riseth once more ; but where are they who pour'd Its tones melodious, on that festal day ? Young men and maidens of the tuneful lip, The bright in beauty, and the proud in strength, With bosoms fluttering to illusive hope, Where are they ? Can ye tell, ye hoary ones, Who, few, and feebly leaning on the staff, Bow down, where erst with manhood's lofty port Ye tower' d as columns? They have sunk away, Brethren and sisters, from your empty grasp, Like bubbles on the pool, and ye are left, With life's long lessons furrow' d on your brow. Change worketh all around you. The lithe twig That in your boyhood ye did idly bend Maketh broad shadow, and the forest-king, Arching majestic o'er your school-day sports, Mouldereth, to sprout no more. The little babe Ye as a plaything dandled, of whose frame Perchance ye spake as most exceeding frail And prone to perish like the flower of grass, Doth nurse his children's children on his knee. — But still your ancient shepherd's voice ye hear, THE HALF-CENTURY SERMON. 103 Tho' age hath quell'd its power, and well those tones Of serious, saintly tenderness do stir The springs of love and reverence. As your guide He in the heavenward path hath firmly walk'd, Bearing your joys and sorrows in his breast, And on his prayers. He at your household hearths Hath spoke his Master's message, while your babes, Listening, imbibed as blossoms drink the dew ; And when your dead were buried from your sight, Was he not there ? His scatter' d locks are white With the hoar-frost of time, but in his soul There is no winter. He, the uncounted gold Of many a year's experience richly spreads To a new generation, and methinks With high prophetic brow doth stand sublime Like Moses 'tween the living and the dead, To make atonement. God's unclouded smile Sustain thee, patriarch ! like a flood of light Still brightening, till, with those whom thou hast taught And warn'd in wisdom, and with weeping love Led to the brink of Calvary's cleansing stream, Thou strike the victor harp o'er sin and death. ]04 DEATH OF A BEAUTIFUL BOY. I saw thee at thy mother's side, when she was marble cold, And thou wert like some cherub form, cast in ethereal mould ; But, when the sudden pang of grief oppressed thine infant thought, And 'mid thy clear and radiant eye a liquid crystal wrought, I thought how strong that faith must be that breaks a mother's tie, And bids her leave her darling's tears for other hands to dry. I saw thee in thine hour of sport, beside thy father's bower, Amid his broad and bright parterre, thyself the fairest flower, I heard thy tuneful voice ring out upon the summer air, As though some bird of Eden poured its joyous carol there, DEATH OF A BEAUTIFUL BOY. 105 And lingered with delighted gaze on happy childhood's charms, Which once the blest Redeemer loved, and folded in his arms. I saw thee scan the classic page, with high and glad surprise, And saw the sun of science beam, as on an eaglet's eyes, And marked thy strong and brilliant mind arouse to bold pursuit, And from the tree of knowledge pluck its richest, rarest fruit ; Yet still from such precocious power I shrank with secret fear, A shuddering presage that thy race must soon be ended here. I saw thee in the house of God, and loved the reverent air With which thy beauteous head was bowed low in thy guileless prayer, Yet little deemed how soon thy place would be with that blest band Who ever near the Eternal Throne, in sinless worship, stand; Ah, little deemed how soon the tomb must lock thy glorious charms, And wing thine ardent soul to find a sainted mother's arms. 106 FOREIGN MISSIONS. Up, at the Gospel's glorious call! Country and kindred what are they ? Rend from thy heart, these charmers, all, Christ needs thy service, hence away. Tho' free the parting tear may rise, Tho' high may roll the boisterous wave, Go, find thy home 'neath foreign skies, And shroud thee in a stranger's grave. Perchance, the HinaWs languid child, The infant at the Burman's knee, The shiverer in the arctic wild, Shall bless the Eternal Sire for thee. And what hath Earth compar'd to this ? Knows she of wealth or joy like thine ? The ransom'd heathen's heavenly bliss, The plaudit of the Judge divine ? 107 EVENING THOUGHTS. * Come to thy lonely bower, thou who dost love The hour of musing. Come, before the brow Of twilight darkens, or the solemn stars Look from their casement. 'Mid that hush of soul, Music from viewless harps shall visit thee, Such as thou never heard' st amid the din Of earth's coarse enginery, by toil and care Urged on, without reprieve. Ah! kneel and catch That tuneful cadence. It shall wing thy thought Above the jarrings of this time-worn world, And give the key-tone of that victor-song Which plucks the sting from death. How closely wrapt In quiet slumber are all things around ! The vine-leaf and the willow-fringe stir not, Nor doth the chirping of the feeblest bird, Nor even the cold glance of the vestal moon, Disturb thy reverie. Yet dost thou think To be alone ? — In fellowship more close 108 EVENING THOUGHTS. Than man with man, pure spirits hover near, Prompting to high communion with the Source Of every perfect gift. Lift up the soul, For 'tis a holy pleasure thus to find Its melody of musing so allied To pure devotion. Give thy prayer a voice, Claiming Heaven's blessing on these sacred hours, Which, in the world's warped balance weighed, might yield But sharp derision. Sure they help to weave Such robes as angels wear ; and thou shalt taste In their dear, deep, entrancing solitude Such sweet society, that thou shalt leave " Signet and staff," as pledges of return. 109 THE AFRICAN MOTHER AT HER DAUGHTER'S GRAVE. Some of the pagan Africans visit the burial-places of their departed relatives, bearing food and drink ;-~ and mothers have been known, for a long course of years, to bring, in an agony of grief, their annual oblation to the tombs of their children. " Daughter ! I bring thee food ; The rice-cake, pure and white, The cocoa, with its milky blood, Dates, and pomegranates bright, The orange, in its gold, Fresh from thy favourite tree, Nuts, in their ripe and husky fold, Dearest ! I spread for thee. " Year after year, I tread Thus to thy low retreat, — But now the snow-hairs mark my head, And age enchains my feet. 110 THE AFRICAN MOTHER. ! many a change of woe Hath dimmed thy spot of birth, Since first my gushing tears did flow O'er this thy bed of earth. " There came a midnight cry ; Flames from our hamlet rose ; A race of pale-browed men were nigh, They were our country's foes: Thy wounded sire was borne By tyrant force away, Thy brothers from our cabin torn, While in my blood I lay. 11 1 watched for their return, Upon the rocky shore, Till night's red planets ceased to burn, And the long rains were o'er. Till seeds, their hands had sown, A ripened fruitage bore, The billows echoed to my moan, Yet they returned no more. " But thou art slumbering deep, — And to my wildest cry, When, pierced with agony, I weep, Dost render no reply. Daughter ! my youthful pride, The idol of my eye ; — THE AFRICAN MOTHER. Ill Why didst thou leave thy mother's side, Beneath these sands to lie ?" Long o'er the hopeless grave Where her lost darling slept, Invoking gods that could not save, That pagan mourner wept. O ! for some voice of power, To soothe her bursting sighs : — " There is a resurrection hour ; Thy daughter's dust shall rise !" Christians ! ye hear the cry From heathen Afric's strand, — Haste ! lift salvation's banner high O'er that benighted land : With faith that claims the skies, Her misery control, And plant the hope that never dies Deep in her tear-wet soul. 112 TO MOURNING PARENTS. Tender guides, in sorrow weeping, O'er your first-born's smitten bloom, Or fond memory's vigil keeping Where the fresh turf marks her tomb, Ye no more shall see her bearing Pangs that woke the dove-like moan, Still for your affliction caring, Though forgetful of her own. Ere the bitter cup she tasted, Which the hand of care doth bring, Ere the glittering pearls were wasted, From glad childhood's fairy string, Ere one chain of hope had rusted, Ere one wreath of joy was dead, To the Saviour, whom she trusted, Strong in faith, her spirit fled. Gone — where no dark sin is cherished, Where no woes nor fears invade, Gone — ere youth's first flower had perished, To a youth that ne'er can fade. 113 SAILOR'S FUNERAL. The ship's bell tolled, and slowly o'er the deck Came forth the summoned crew. — Bold, hardy men, Far from their native skies, stood silent there, With melancholy brows. From a low cloud That o'er the horizon hovered, came the threat Of distant, muttered thunder. Broken waves Heaved up their sharp white helmets o'er the expanse Of ocean, which in brooding stillness lay, • Like some vindictive king who meditates On hoarded wrongs, or wakes the wrathful war. The ship's bell tolled ! — And, lo, a youthful form Which oft had boldly dared the slippery shrouds At midnight watch, was as a burden laid Down at his comrades' feet. Mournful they gazed Upon his hollow cheek ; and some there were Who in that bitter hour remembered well The parting blessing of his hoary sire, 8 114 sailor's funeral. And the fond tears that o'er his mother's cheek Went coursing down, when his gay, happy voice Left its farewell. But one who nearest stood To that pale shrouded corse remembered more ; — Of a white cottage with its shaven lawn, And blossomed hedge, and of a fair-haired girl Who, at a lattice veiled with woodbine, watched His last far step, and then turned back to weep. And close that comrade in his faithful breast Hid a bright chesnut lock, which the dead youth Had severed with a cold and trembling hand In life's extremity, and bade him bear With broken words of love's last eloquence To his blest Mary. Now that chosen friend, Bowed low his sun-burnt face, and like a child Sobbed in deep sorrow. But there came a tone Clear as the breaking moon o'er stormy seas- "lam the resurrection." — Every heart Suppressed its grief, and every eye was raised. There stood the chaplain, his uncovered brow Unmarked by earthly passion, while his voice, Rich as the balm from plants of paradise, Poured the Eternal's message o'er the souls Of dying men. It was a holy hour ! There was a plunge ! — The riven sea com- plained, sailor's funeral. 115 Death from her briny bosom took his own. The troubled fountains of the deep lift up Their subterranean portals, and he went Down to the floor of ocean, 'mid the beds Of brave and beautiful ones. Yet to my soul, 'Mid all the funeral pomp with which this earth Indulgeth her dead sons, was nought so sad, Sublime, or sorrowful, as the mute sea Opening her mouth to whelm that sailor youth. 116 CHRISTIAN HOPE. *'If ye then be risen with Christ, seek those things that are from above, where Christ sitteth on the right hand of God. Set your affections on things above ; for ye are dead, and your life is hid with Christ in God."— St. Paul. If with the Lord your hope doth rest, With Christ who reigns above, Loose from its bonds your captive breast, And heavenward point its love. Yes, heavenward. Ye're of holy birth, Bid your affections soar Above the vain deights of earth, Which, fading, bloom no more. Seek ye some pure and thornless rose ? Some friend with changeless eye ? Some fount whence living water flows ? Go, seek those things on high. CHRISTIAN HOPE. 117 Thither bid Hope a pilgrim go, And Faith her mansion rear, Even while amid this world of woe Ye shed the stranger's tear. If folly tempts, or sin allures, Be deaf to all their art, So, shall eternal life be yours When time's brief years depart. 118 LADY JANE GREY. ON SEEING A PICTURE REPRESENTING HER GAGED IN THE STUDY OF PLATO. So early wise ! Beauty hath been to thee No traitor-friend to steal the key Of knowledge from thy mind, Making thee gorgeous to the eye, Flaunting and flushed with vanity, Yet inly blind. Hark ! the hunting-bugle sounds, Thy father's park is gay, Stately nobles cheer the hounds, Soft hands the coursers sway, Haste to the sport, away ! away ! Youth, and mirth, and love, are there, Lingerest thou, fairest of the fair, In thy lone chamber to explore Ancient Plato's classic lore ? Grave Roger Ascham's gaze Is fix'd on thee with fond amaze ; LADY JANE GREY. 119 Doubtless the sage doth marvel deep, That, for philosophy divine, A lady could decline The pleasure 'mid yon pageant-train to sweep, The glory o'er some five-barr'd gate to leap, And, in the toil of reading Greek, Which many a student flies, Find more entrancing rhetoric Than fashion's page supplies. Ah, sweet enthusiast ! happier far for thee Had' st thou thy musing intellectual joy Thro' life indulg'd without alloy, In solitary sanctity, — Nor dar'd ambition's fearful shrift, Nor laid thy shrinking hand on Edward's fatal gift. The crown ! the crown ! It sparkles on thy brow, I see Northumberland with joy elate, And low thy haughty sire doth bow, Honouring thy high estate, She, too, the austerely beautiful, whose eye Check'd thy timid infancy, Until thy heart's first buds folded their leaves to die, Homage to her meek daughter pays : Yet, sooth to say, one fond embrace, One kiss, such as the peasant-mother gives 120 LADY JANE GREY. When on its evening bed her child she lays, Had dearer been to thee, than all their courtly phrase. The tower ! the tower ! thou bright-hair' d beau- teous one ! There, where the captive's breath Hath sigh'd itself in bitterness away, Where iron nerves have withered one by one, And the sick eye, shut from the glorious sun, Grop'd mid those chilling walls till idiocy Made life like death, — There must thy resting be ? Not long ! Not long ! What savage band 'Neath thy grated window bears His headless form, his lifeless hand The magic of whose love could charm away thy cares ? Guildford ! thy husband ! yet the gushing tear Scarce flows to mourn his fate severe, Thy pious thought doth rise To those unclouded skies, Where he, amid the angel train, Doth for thy coming wait, to part no more again. The scaffold ! Must it be '.—Stern England's Queen, Hast thou such doom decreed ? Dwells Draco's soul beneath a woman's mein ? LADY JANE GREY. 121 Must guileless youth and peerless beauty bleed ? Away ! Away ! I will not see the deed ! Fresh drops of crimson stain the new-fall' n snow, The wintry winds wail fitfully and low ; — But the meek victim is not there, Far from this troubled scene, High o'er the tyrant queen, She finds that crown which from her brow No envious hand may tear. 122 DEATH OF A MISSIONARY IN AFRICA. There is a sigh from Niger's sable realm, A voice of Afric's weeping. One hath fallen, Who, with the fervour of unresting love, Allur'd her children to a Saviour's arms. Alone he fell, — that heart so richly fill'd With all affection's brightest imagery, In its drear stranger-solitude endured The long death-struggle, and sank down to rest. Say ye, alone he fell ? It was not so, There was a hovering of celestial wings Around his lowly couch, a solemn sound Of stricken harps, such as around God '5 throne Make music night and day. He might not tell Of that high music, for his lips were sealed, And his eye closed. And so, ye say, — he died ? But all the glorious company of heaven Do say, — he lives, and that your brief farewell, Uttered in tears, was but the prelude tone Of the full welcome of eternity. 123 DIRGE. Mourn for the living, and not for the dead." Hebrew Dirge. I saw an infant, marble cold, Borne from the pillowing breast, And, in the shroud's embracing fold, Laid down to dreamless rest ; And, moved with bitterness, I sighed,- Not for the babe that slept, But for the mother at its side, Whose soul in anguish wept. They bore a coffin to its place,- I asked them. " Who was there ?" And they replied, "A form of grace ; The fairest of the fair." But for that blest one do ye moan, Whose angel- wing is spread? No ; for the lover, pale and lone, — His heart is with the dead. 124 DIRGE. I wandered to a new-made grave, And there a matron lay, — The love of Him who died to save, Had been her spirit's stay. Yet sobs burst forth of torturing pain ; — Wail ye for her who died ? No ; for that timid, infant train, Who roam without a guide. Why should we mourn for those who die,- Whose rise to glory's sphere ? The tenants of that cloudless sky Need not our mortal tear. Our woe seems arrogant and vain; Perchance it moves their scorn, As if the slave, beneath his chain, Deplored the princely born. We live to meet a thousand foes ; We shrink with bleeding breast,— Why should we weakly mourn for those Who dwell in perfect rest ? Bound, for a few sad, fleeting years, A thorn-clad path to tread, O ! for the living spare those tears Ye lavish on the dead. 125 VM VOBIS.* " Vcb Vobis," ye whose lip doth lave So deeply in the sparkling wine, Regardless though that passion- wave Shut from the soul, Heaven's light divine, " V