'LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 
 
 ;iF |op8rigii' I"- - 
 
 ^^u/ £...5. a. 
 
 UNITED STATES OP AMERICA.! 
 
|(cli(jtatt$ mt\ ^Witt 
 
 <t? 
 
 F61-- 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 BY 
 
 AMANDA M. EDMOND. 
 
 
 5><Kc 
 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 GS-OTTLD ^]Srr) LINCOLN-, 
 
 59 WASHINGTON STBEBT. 
 
 1872. 
 

 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1872, by 
 GOULD AND LINCOLN, 
 
 In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, 
 
 Rockwell & Churchill, Printers and Stereotypers, 
 122 Washington Street, Boston. 
 
IsrOTE OF E^TRODUCTIOIS". 
 
 t 
 
 ^J5^HE following Poems, most of which were written 
 ^1 J between fourteen and twenty years of age, have been 
 gathered from manuscript volumes, and are printed as 
 a keepsake for children, kindred, and fHends, with the earnest 
 hope that the same blessed Spirit which led the writer to 
 consecrate the powers of her mind to the service of her 
 Master, may influence all who may read fhem to a like 
 consecration. 
 
 They have been selected and arranged as affection guided, 
 without critical supervision or suggestion. 
 
 The stanza which follows was written on the fly-leaf of one 
 of Mrs. Edmond's manuscript volumes, at about the age of 
 fifteen years. J- ^• 
 
 BBOOKiilNE, June, 1872. 
 
C^^UE spell of song is on me, and the lyre 
 ^fr! ■ The heart's own music pours, but not to thee, 
 ^ -^ O earthly Fame, shall the glad ofi'ering be, — 
 
 ' Higher than this my spirit shall aspire. 
 For oh, what art thou but a fleeting breath 
 Bought by a weary life or early death ! 
 Sweeter to me the thought, in after days. 
 
 Cherished in loving hearts my name shall live, 
 Than blazoned on thy rolls, a theme of praise 
 
 'Mong those who oft but hollow flattery give. 
 Therefore these powers of mine thou shalt not claim, 
 
 For I will lay them on a holier shrine. 
 Whose sacred fires burn with celestial flame, — 
 
 Father in heaven ! on thine, and only thine I 
 
INTEODUCTION. 
 
 By S. F. smith, D.D. 
 
 CYj%OETRY is not external only; it is also and especially in- 
 * * ternal. It is subjective, — not merely objective. It 
 /Jl/ depends more upon the state of the soul than upon out- 
 J'l ward objects. And some men are poets and others are 
 not, because some men are so made that they are competent to 
 attain to that state of mind which involves the poetic gift, and 
 others are so made that they are not competent to attain to it. 
 It is a gift, — a divine gift. The gift is constitutional, not ac- 
 quired. Men may admire it, and reach after it, and acquire that 
 which mechanically resembles it. But there is a wide difference 
 between the gift itself and that which resembles it. The gift 
 cannot be counterfeited. That poetic power which is merely the 
 fruit of cultivation is always artificial, stiff and statue-like. It 
 lacks the breathing charms, the exquisite warmth, the divine 
 glow of nature. 
 
 The poetic mind is constitutionally different from other minds. 
 It sees, as it were, through other eyes and hears through other 
 ears. It communicates with the outer world through other and 
 higher senses. It receives from outward things more elevated 
 ideas. In external objects there is, to the poetic mind, a world 
 
 5 
 
6 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 within a world. They have a language for the poetic mind 
 which they have not for other minds. They reveal to these 
 favored priests of nature mysteries which are hidden from the 
 rest of mankind. Though in the very presence of the glorious 
 visions which through outward objects strike upon the poet's 
 eye, the unpoetic mind, seeing, sees not, and, hearing, hears not. 
 There is undoubtedly in the mind of the true poet a certain 
 deUcate organism, by virtue of which he discerns that to which 
 other men are blinded. Other men look upon a sunset scene ; 
 they discover in it colors and brightness, crimson and brilliancy, 
 and the declining of the orb of day. Perhaps they contemplate 
 the physical constitution of light, and philosophize on the causes 
 which give predominance to the red rays. They reason about 
 refraction, atmospheric vapors and optical illusions. And this is 
 all. The poet may have learned the same physical facts, and be 
 equally competent to arrange and discuss the natural phenomena. 
 But his mind, with its keen culture, its refinement, its delicate 
 sense of beauty, its characteristic elevation, springs above these 
 outward physical circumstances, leaps beyond the limits of time 
 and space, loses the sense of the real, as it were, and is at once 
 absorbed in the ideal. The poet analyzes, combines, arranges 
 these brilliant exhibitions, discerns in them relations to other 
 things, finds among these golden glories gateways opening into 
 heaven, discovers vistas of beauty stretching far inward and 
 revealing to him the throne of God and Him who sitteth thereon. 
 In the lily, the rose, or the violet, the common mind contemplates 
 only a flower, composed of pistHs, stamens, petals, calyx and 
 stem, — of a delicate color, and emitting an agreeable fragrance. 
 The poet instinctively dwells upon some sweet relations, inherent 
 in the flower or suggested by it. The rose is emblematic. Its 
 purity suggests a spotless life ; its delicacy, the extreme beauty 
 and tenderness of such a life ; its fragrance, enduring even in 
 death, the blessed memory of a life without a stain ; its growing 
 up out of the black earth, the beauty of Christian grace planted 
 
INTRODUCTION. 7 
 
 in a soul originally polluted. The rose set round with thorns 
 implies the frequent lot of virtue, to be encompassed with trials ; 
 its full-blown glory, a finished life ; its budding beauty, the 
 opening of a sweet and virtuous pilgrimage on earth, or the 
 beginning of a joyful career in heaven, destined ever to expand, 
 ever to grow more beautiful. The lily and the violet also have 
 their own heaven of beauty ; one is an emblem of purity, the 
 other of humility, and they both speak, not only to the eye, but 
 also to the soul. They reveal to the delicate mind sweet and 
 far-reaching relations. They live not alone in their bare forms 
 and colors ; they are part of a living world of inward loveliness 
 and inherent life and charms. 
 
 So everything in nature is to the eye of the poet far more than 
 it seems to be. Everything lives in a glorious intensity. The 
 days of sunshine wear a peculiar brilliancy. The broad, blue 
 canopy of heaven spreads itself out with a special glory. The 
 face of nature bears almost a human, almost an angelic smile. 
 The real world is only the outward symbol of the ideal world 
 which it suggests, and which encompasses, adorns and informs 
 it. 
 
 All this is true of the real, not of the artificial poet. Some 
 men profess to be admirers of poetry, and even undertake to 
 write it, who are not true poets. By a casual accident, by an 
 artificial, almost mechanical imitation, they may occasionally 
 strike out a scintillation of true poetic merit. But it is only an 
 outgrowth of other men's minds, a fruit of the culture of other 
 and richer souls. These are fliey who are caught by the jingle 
 of rhymes. These are they who delight in a sweetly-flowing 
 cadence and rhythm, who are captivated by sound, but who have 
 no feeling in their constitution for that in which true poetry con- 
 sists. If it is present, they do not perceive it; if it is absent, 
 they do not miss it. Hence it is that so much material finds cur- 
 rency in public prints and in the songs of children which has no 
 poetic merit ; which has the form of poetry, but not the spirit of 
 
8 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 it, — the measure and the rhyme, but not the breathing, inform- 
 ing soul. 
 
 The poet is the interpreter of nature. He not only perceives 
 where poetical thought exists, in relations and combinations, but 
 reveals it also to others. lie introduces men of grosser mould, 
 men of less perceptive genius, into the sacred retreats of poetic 
 thought and beauty. He opens the chambers of imagery, and 
 shows how the imagination is able to throw a robe of enchanting 
 glory over that which seems to the common mind only a com- 
 mon thing. He calls attention to that which has power to de- 
 light, attract and refine. He puts words and thought for men 
 into dumb matter, into nature, into landscapes, into scenery, into 
 the sunset clouds, the blue mountains, the tossing sea and the 
 distant horizon. He interprets the beauties of the full-blown 
 flower and of the blushing bud, the evergreen wreath and the 
 vernal resurrection. He searches out life, where he alone has 
 an eye to discover it and a heart to feel it, and helps others to 
 perceive it, to partake of it and to enjoy it. He is not only an 
 interpreter of beauty, but also, through the power of his gen- 
 ius, he becomes — as the name, in its etymological force, implies — 
 a creator. Introduced by the waving of his magic wand into the 
 temple of his adoration, men feel, as they catch his inspiration, 
 that he has laid his hand strangely on the common objects of 
 sense, with which all are familiar, and made all things new; that 
 he has opened new fountains in them, given them life, made 
 them express thought, and clothed them — once formless and 
 void — with affluence and beauty." 
 
 The true poet is not only thus master over that which is visi- 
 ble, but also over that which is invisible. His province reaches 
 into the realms of thought, and there, as in the outward world, 
 he culls the beauties which other minds never discern, and brings 
 out, almost as if he were the creator of them, new and hidden 
 relations, calculated to fill the soul with delight. Hence it is 
 that sometimes a master of thought thrills a public assembly 
 
INTRODUCTION, y 
 
 by his speech, or quickens and stirs the soul of his readers by 
 bringing to light some beautiful sentiment, lying, as it were, on 
 the surface and obvious to all, but which had never before been 
 observed. By pointing out some new relations of thought, 
 by a fresh and wonderful arrangement of terms or ideas, by the 
 infusion of a mysterious life, by calling into visibility that which 
 before was unseen, the poet starts a new pulse of life in the 
 reader who holds communion with him, and brings him, as it 
 were, into a new world of beauty and of love. 
 
 And the Christian poet has an advantage over other poets, in- 
 asmuch as he has a wider and a higher range of themes. He 
 has to do with a whole world of glorious ideas, present and eter- 
 nal, which the merely secular poet can never touch. His field 
 embraces both the finite and the infinite. His scope comprises 
 time and eternity. There are no mysteries to which he may not 
 aspire, no heights to which he may not soar, no depths which he 
 may not fathom, no expanse to which he may not reach. And, 
 such is the inspiring influence of Christian themes, that they 
 often bring out the most triumphant strains of the sacred artist. 
 He whose soul is impressed with the sublimity of the world to 
 come, who dwells upon the things which " eye has not seen nor 
 ear heard, neitlier have entered into the heart of man," finds a 
 range of poetic beauty which cannot be equa lied. He works a 
 mine which no diligence can exhaust. He sails on an ocean 
 which cannot be measured. He soars into an ethereal region 
 where the sunlight of heaven flashes on his wings and the glory of 
 God guides his flight. Sacred poetry, in its sublimity and power, 
 often excels all other poetry. Milton might never have reached 
 such excellence nor won such fame, if he had selected a topic 
 which afibrded no scope for religious inspiration. Montgomery's 
 most triumphant strains are those which he sings on the thresh- 
 old of the celestial Paradise. Watts treads on his most enchanted 
 ground when his harp vibrates with a divine harmony. Mrs. 
 
10 INTRODUCTION, 
 
 Barbauld is most inspired when she draws her inspiration from 
 the gospel and immortality. 
 
 The poems of Mrs. Edmond speak for themselves. Many of 
 them "come from the heart," as old divines used to say, "and 
 reach the heart." They have the true poetic fire, and establish 
 her claim to a place among those who sit on the heights of Par- 
 nassus. Some of her pieces have great sweetness and simplicity, 
 and will doubtless secure an immortal niche in our literature. 
 Now that " the seal" is on her virtues, they have an augmented 
 beauty and attractiveness. They will receive no finishing touch 
 from her pen. They have passed out of her portfolio, and must 
 remain her last bequest to her admiring friends. She is occupied 
 with higher work, for which the delicate polishing of a poetic 
 spirit has given her a nobler competency. Her hand holds the 
 harp of the immortals. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 RELIGIOUS POEMS. 
 
 PAQK 
 
 When is the Time to Die? 27 
 
 The Promises of the Spirit to the Seven Churches of Asia . 29 
 
 Assurance ^^ 
 
 " Put on the Whole Armor of God " 34 
 
 ♦' Casting all your Care upon Him, for he careth for you " . 37 
 
 Christ is Precious 38 
 
 Christian Hope . . ^^ 
 
 Our Earthly House '*2 
 
 'Tor here we have no Continuing City" .... 46 
 
 " I shall be Satisiied when I Awake in Thy Likeness " . 48 
 
 Sympathy ^^ 
 
 Seed Sown in Tears ^^ 
 
 11 
 
12 CONTENTS. 
 
 Paraphrase of the Eighty-fourth Psalm . . . .53 
 
 Bear ye one Another's Burdens 65 
 
 The Angel's Visit 57 
 
 These are They who came out of Great Tribulation . . 60 
 
 God my Refuge 63 
 
 Then all the Disciples forsook Him and fled ... 64 
 
 Departure 66 
 
 Be not Weary in Weil-Doing 67 
 
 The Answered Prayer 69 
 
 " I will give Myself unto Prayer " 70 
 
 The Dying Mother's Prayer for Her Children ... 72 
 
 The Cross 75 
 
 Heaven 76 
 
 The Song of the Dying Pilgrim 80 
 
 Prayer for the Absent ....... 83 
 
 The Sabbath Bell 84 
 
 Sunday School Anniversary Hymn 86 
 
 The Arm of the Lord 87 
 
 " I Would not Live Alway " 89 
 
 Death of a Missionary 92 
 
 Dedication of a Baptist Meeting-house, Brookline . . 95 
 Recognition of Rev. William Lamson, D.D., as Pastor of 
 
 the Baptist Church, Brookline 97 
 
CONTENTS* 13 
 
 " I am the Way, the Truth, and the Life " ... 98 
 
 The Reply of Ruth to Naomi 100 
 
 David's Lamentation for Saul and Jonathan . • . 103 
 
 Jephthah's Vow 106 
 
 " He Giveth His Beloved Sleep " . , . . .110 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 The Water-Lily .113 
 
 Music of the Sea 114 
 
 Moonlight upon the Waters 115 
 
 The Old Man sits at his Cottage Door . . . .117 
 
 The Crickets 118 
 
 The Departure of Summer 120 
 
 December 121 
 
 The Winter Serenade 123 
 
 The Snow 124 
 
 The Washington Monument 126 
 
 To a Lady 127 
 
 The Moon 129 
 
 Grace Darling 129 
 
 Gertrude Vender Wart 134 
 
14 CONTENTS, 
 
 Friendship 137 
 
 The Three Dreams 138 
 
 My Loved One on the Sea 139 
 
 Invocation to Spring 141 
 
 The Choice 143 
 
 June 144 
 
 The Prophetic Bark 145 
 
 Grave of an Indian Chief 147 
 
 The Old Man's Retrospect 151 
 
 The Slave's Prayer 153 
 
 Freedom's Champions 160 
 
 TempusFugit 163 
 
 Burial of the Immigrant's Child . . . . . . 165 
 
 Bright Fancy, Spread thy Pinions Wide .... 168 
 
 " Give Me Three Grains of Corn, Mother" . . .171 
 
 To the Memory of Margaret M. Davidson .... 174 
 
 Brookline Union Sabbath- School Picnic .... 178 
 
 ChUdhood's Sleep 179 
 
 The Frolic in the Snow 181 
 
 The Deformed Child 182 
 
 Stanzas Written on Board the Steamer Britannia, June 12, 
 
 1844 185 
 
 Sunset at Sea 187 
 
CONTENTS, 15 
 
 The Light-Ship 189 
 
 The Burial of Thomas Campbell in Westminster Abbey . 190 
 
 Abbotsford. 192 
 
 Melrose Abbey 195 
 
 Sonnet — - The Wind 197 
 
 Loch Leven Castle 197 
 
 Lines Written on Leaving Europe . . . , . . 199 
 
 Prayer at Sea During a Violent Storm .... 201 
 
 Meeting ofFriends 202 
 
 The New Year . . 204 
 
 Hark to the Sound of the Silver Bells . . . .206 
 
 Snow and Sunshine 208 
 
 Spring 209 
 
 June 212 
 
 The Ancient Elms 214 
 
 Boating Song 216 
 
 Lines Written in an Album 217 
 
 The Sunlight of Home 219 
 
 Evening Keflections 220 
 
16 CONTENTS , 
 
 HOME AND FAMILY MEMORIALS. 
 
 To the Memory of a Beloved Father 225 
 
 Grief 227 
 
 Lines Written on Revisiting a Favorite Hill . , . 230 
 
 To my Mother 232 
 
 The Absent 235 
 
 Return to my Bosom 237 
 
 Little Amy 238 
 
 Our Jenny 240 
 
 The Wild March Wind Sweeps down the Hill . . .242 
 
 Sunset 244 
 
 The Mourner's Vision 246 
 
 To James •. ... 248 
 
LETTEE FEOM MRS. LYDIA H, SIGOUENEY. 
 
 y>Bio 
 
 Hartford, October 21, 1845. 
 
 My dear Mrs. Edmond : — Accept my thanks for the beau- 
 tiful volume of your beautiful poems, which you had the good- 
 ness to send me. I have read them with pleasure, admiring 
 often their melodious numbers, and always their pure spirit. 
 One of them — ""When is the time to die?" — has long been a 
 favorite of mine, without knowing what lyre first awoke its 
 sweetly-plaintive music. I am happy to have it in my power to 
 thank the true author, and to congratulate her on the possession 
 of a gift which has such an affinity with inward joy, — and some- 
 times so strong an influence for the good of others. 
 
 I could not but feel quite a patriotic pleasure in the taste and 
 elegance with which the publishers have embellished your tune- 
 ful thoughts ; and with the best wishes for your health and happi- 
 ness, am very truly your friend, 
 
 L. H. SIGOURNEY. 
 
LETTER FROM JAMES MONTGOMERY TO 
 MRS, EDMOND. 
 
 The Mount, in Stafford, November 22, 1845. 
 
 Dear Madam : — Thank you sincerely for your friendly gift, 
 conyeyed to me through Mr. Brown of this place. Many pres- 
 ents of a similar kind come to me from young and inexperienced 
 poets, who little know 
 
 " How hard it is to climb 
 The Bteep where fame's proud temple shines afar." 
 
 But, having bravely adventured, and fondly imagined that 
 they have reached the pinnacle, they call upon me to "look how 
 high they are," — as children scrambling through briars and 
 boulders up a rough bank side are wont to challenge their com- 
 panions to wonder at their achievements. 
 
 In nine cases out of ten it is my mortification (and theirs 
 too), as candidly as I can, and as courteously as I may, to tell 
 them that verse is the least marketable of all literary commodi- 
 ties, and that, whatever be the merit of their compositions, if 
 they wish to insure themselves against pecuniary loss, they must 
 obtain a sufficient number of subscribers among their friends 
 and connections to cover the expense of printing, etc., before 
 they attempt to publish on their own account what no prudent 
 
 19 
 
20 LETTER FROM JAMES MONTGOMERY. 
 
 bookseller would undertake, at the risk of the cost of an edition, 
 under such circumstances. This occurs so often, that it would 
 save me much trouble, as well as pain, to have my counsel 
 lithographed or stereotyped, — with the variations of title, name 
 and place, for which blanks should be left, — the very same form 
 of words might be equally proper and equally unsatisfactory, 
 addressed to each correspondent. 
 
 Of course I dread the sight of' each new volume of rhyme 
 that breaks upon me out of the invisible world of poets yet un- 
 known, but who hope (ere long) to be never forgotten, if they 
 can but once obtain a hearing. Pray forgive this impertinence, 
 with which I would not have plagued you if I had not had some- 
 thing more pleasant to myself to say respecting your volume. 
 TJndazzled by the splendid exterior, I expected, as usual, speci- 
 mens of that provoking mediocrity against which and for 
 which nothing can be said. 
 
 I was, however, doomed to disappointment in this foregone 
 conclusion ; and now I am not ashamed to acknowledge that, 
 having rashly prejudged you, I revoke the unpronounced sen- 
 tence ; for the process was wholly a caprice, — the caprice of a 
 moment at sight of an elegant octavo, bound and gilt, with the 
 understood obligation that I must both read and acknowledge it. 
 I have read and now acknowledge that seldom has a volume 
 of more delightful verse been thrown upon my reluctant 
 acceptance. I have seen much of American poetry, and have 
 latterly rejoiced to perceive (or imagine that I have perceived) 
 the gradual improvement of the indigenous plants of Parnassus 
 in growth and vigor, as well as in beauty and fragrance, from 
 your native soil. Long, long the bards of transatlantic emi- 
 nence — not from want of talents, but of conscious power to 
 originate a national style in this the noblest species of litera- 
 ture — appeared to great disadvantage as having no school of 
 their own, but being, more or less, students and proficients in 
 one or another of the mother-country's schools, — those of Dry- 
 
LETTER FROM JAMES MONTGOMERY. 21 
 
 den and Pope especially, — the easiest to learn in the mechanical 
 art of stringing middling thoughts in smooth verbiage along 
 monotonous lines, — by perfection in which, however, the most 
 skilful adept might in vain hope to rival the admirable qualities 
 of those two greatest masters of rhyme in our language. You, 
 madam, and a few others among your contemporaries, have pro- 
 duced, not by imitation, but by the freedom which your country- 
 men boast of so largely in everything beside, — worthily exer- 
 cised in this more excellent way, — have produced verse, 
 especially in the lyric forms, which may well be classed with the 
 best British archetypes of the kind. I pretend not to equal you 
 and Mrs. Sigourney with our Felicia Hemans and Joanna Bail- 
 lie ; but in many of your respective compositions, you may, 
 without disparagement, gracefully and honorably compete with 
 them, and so far be said to resemble them " as becomes sisters " 
 of one lineage and family features. 
 
 Of your poems in this volume, I like that the least which 
 gives it the title. Home themes are the most delicate as well as 
 the most enduring and intelligible. (Home themes I mean.) 
 Such are poetry all the world over and for all time. The most 
 preciou-s parts of your volume are such. I can say no more 
 here, and nothing better if I had a fresh sheet to fill. 
 
 I am, truly, your obliged friend and servant, 
 
 J. MONTGOMERY. 
 
TO A. M. E. 
 
 The following lines first appeared in the " Watchman 
 and Reflector." Mrs. Edmond's contributions of 
 Poetry or Prose, for the press, were generally initialled 
 "A.M. E." 
 
 Unknown thy home — unseen thy smile — 
 But not unheard thy gentle lays : 
 
 A stranger's mind they oft beguile — 
 They move her to attempt thy praise. 
 
 Thine is the gift of ardent feeling, 
 And thought creative, too, is thine ; 
 
 And faith, the future joy revealing. 
 Inspires thy soul with hopes divine. 
 
 Thy song hath touched responsive chords 
 In many a heart unknown to thee, 
 
 And thoughts, unutterable in words, 
 Are stirred by thy sweet minstrelsy. 
 
 No earthly glories wake thy lyre, 
 Or swell its deep, melodious strains ; 
 
 But higher, holier thoughts inspire 
 Thy soul, where thy Eedeemer reigns. 
 
24 TO A. M, E. 
 
 I love thee for the spirit meek 
 That breathes through all thy gentle lay, 
 
 And those pure feelings, fervent, deep, 
 That bear thy heart from earth away. 
 
 "When on the evening star I gaze, 
 So glorious on the verge of heaven. 
 
 And fancy dreams its hallowed rays 
 To light the pilgrim's path were given, 
 
 I think that thou dost love its light. 
 
 And even then, perhaps, art dreaming 
 Of that fair land of glory bright. 
 To which faith points the wanderer's sight, 
 Above yon radiant planets beaming. 
 
 And oft at midnight's silent hour. 
 
 When earth in calm repose is sleeping. 
 
 Secure in heaven's protecting power. 
 Whose angels o'er us guard are keeping, 
 
 I've thought of thee, though all unknown. 
 
 As some blest spirit, heaven-ward turning. 
 To seek the everlasting throne 
 To which thy heart and hopes are flown, 
 Above yon orbs forever burning. 
 
 Though never in this earthly clime 
 
 Shall be my lot to meet with thee, 
 My soul a union feels with thine, 
 A friendship fervent and divine, 
 And lasting as eternity. 
 
 E. T. 
 
 East Bethant, N. Y. 
 
RELIGIOUS POEMS. 
 
RELIGIOUS POEMS 
 
 >J<K< 
 
 WHEN IS THE TIME TO DIE? 
 
 I j' ASKED a glad and happy child, 
 I* Whose hands were filled with flowers, 
 "^ Whose silvery laugh rang free and wild 
 Among the vine- wreathed bowers, — 
 I crossed her sunny path and cried, 
 
 " When is the time to die?" 
 " Not yet ! not yet ! " the child replied, 
 And swiftly bounded by. 
 
 I asked a maiden. Back she flung 
 
 The tresses of her hair ; 
 A whispered name was on her tongue. 
 
 Whose memory hovered there. 
 A flush passed o'er her lily brow, 
 
 I caught her spirit's sigh : 
 " Not now," she cried ; " oh, no ! not now! 
 
 Youth is no time to die." 
 
 27 
 
28 WHEN IS THE TIME TO DIE? 
 
 I asked a mother, as she pressed 
 
 Her first-bom in her arms, 
 As gently on her tender breast 
 
 She hushed her babe's alarms. 
 In shivering tones her answer came, — 
 
 Her eyes were dim with tears, — 
 "My hoy his mother's life must claim 
 
 For many, many years ! " 
 
 I questioned one in manhood's prime, 
 
 Of proud and fearless air, — 
 His brow was furrowed not by time. 
 
 Or dimmed by woe and care. 
 In angry accents he replied. 
 
 And gleamed with scorn his eye, — 
 " Talk not to me of death ! " he cried ; 
 
 '' For only age should die ' " 
 
 I questioned Age : for him the tomb 
 
 Had long been all prepared ; 
 But Death, who withers j^outh and bloom, 
 
 This man of years had spared. 
 Once more his nature's dying fire 
 
 Flashed high, as thus he cried, — 
 " Life^ only life is my desire ! " 
 
 Then gasped and groaned and died. 
 
THE PROMISES OF THE SPIRIT. 29 
 
 I asked a Christian, — " Answer thou, 
 
 When is the hour of death ? " 
 A holy calm was on his brow, 
 
 And peaceful was his breath ; 
 And sweetly o'er his features stole 
 
 A smile, a light divine ; 
 He spake the language of his soul, — 
 
 '•'• My Maker's time is mine!" 
 
 Dj«^C 
 
 THE PROMISES OF THE SPIRIT TO THE 
 SEVEN CHURCHES OF ASIA. 
 
 Rev. n, and rn. 
 
 E who the world o'ercometh, 
 The tempter and his snares, 
 Shall eat the fruit of paradise 
 Which God himself prepares ; 
 The fruit of those celestial trees 
 Where sweetest odors blend. 
 That o'er Immanuel's river 
 In fadeless beauty bend. 
 
 He who the world o'ercometh, 
 
 The enemy within. 
 Shall rise above the second death, 
 
 The bitter woes of sin ; 
 
30 THE PROMISES OF THE SPIRIT. 
 
 He is the Lord's beloved, 
 
 Beneath whose wings he hides, 
 
 When on avenging pinions forth 
 To judge the world He rides. 
 
 He who the world o'ercometh 
 
 Shall hosts unnumbered sway ; 
 His sceptre shall they reverence, 
 
 His voice shall they obey ; 
 The morning star so beautiful 
 
 With gems of high renown, 
 God's gift to every conqueror. 
 
 Shall glitter in his crown. 
 
 He who the world o'ercometh 
 
 Shall the hidden manna eat, — 
 The food of angel spirits, 
 
 Life-gi\ing, pure and sweet ; 
 A name shall be engraven 
 
 For him upon a stone. 
 To every one beside him 
 
 Mysterious and unknown. 
 
 He who the world o'ercometh 
 Shall put on the robe of white 
 
 They wear who walk with Jesus 
 In the shining realms of light ; 
 
THE PROMISES OF THE SPIRIT. 31 
 
 The robe to all the ransomed, 
 
 By the Lord who bought them, given ; 
 
 The token of their purity 
 Who win the bliss of heaven. 
 
 He who the world o'ercometh 
 
 Shall a mighty pillar stand, 
 Within the New Jerusalem, 
 
 Set up at God's right hand ; 
 Nought ever shall remove him 
 
 From that high and holy place, 
 Reflecting ceaseless glory 
 
 From the Lord Jehovah's face. 
 
 He who the world o'ercometh. 
 
 When his earthly bands are riven. 
 Shall sit with Jesus on the throne. 
 
 The great white throne of heaven. 
 Where angel legions bending, 
 
 Their loud ascriptions raise. 
 Ten thousand harps attuning 
 
 To songs of sweetest praise. 
 
 He who the world o'ercometh 
 And slays the hosts of sin, 
 
 Shall in yon realms of blessedness 
 These gifts of glory win. 
 
32 ASSURANCE, 
 
 Press on, O Christian champion ! 
 
 Thy troops to battle call, 
 From conquering to conquering, 
 
 Till thou hast won them all ! 
 
 3j*^C 
 
 ASSURANCE. 
 
 C/3h HAT I am thine, dear Jesus, thine, 
 The sweet assurance give ; 
 Submissive to thy will divine 
 Henceforth on earth I live. 
 
 1; 
 
 Oh, let me feel that I am bought 
 
 By thy redeeming blood. 
 That, thou hast my salvation wi'ought, 
 
 And made my peace with God ! 
 
 Oh, let me see that I may claim 
 
 Some portion of thy love. 
 Till burns my heart with sacred flame, 
 
 Enkindled from above. 
 
 Grant that my feet may never stray 
 
 In folly from thy side ; 
 Instruct me in the heavenly way 
 
 To where the blest abide. 
 
ASSURANCE. 33 
 
 My thoughts, that clung in days gone by 
 
 To earth's dekisive dreams, 
 Now heavenward, upward e'er shall flj, 
 
 And feast on nobler themes. 
 
 A purer bliss than earth affords 
 
 My longing soul shall fill, 
 Obedient to thy sacred words, 
 
 And set to do thy will. 
 
 United evermore to thee. 
 
 On thee my hope relies ; 
 Thy glory all my aim shall be. 
 
 Till summoned to the skies. 
 
 Oh, banish every doubt and fear ! 
 
 To heaven thy cross I bear ; 
 Thine, joyful in assurance here 
 
 Of dwelling with thee there ! 
 
34 " PUT ON THE WHOLE ARMOR OF GOD* 
 
 "PUT ON THE WHOLE ARMOR OF GOD." 
 
 IRD, soldier, gird thy armor on, 
 The armor of the Lord, 
 Take in thy hands the shield of faith, 
 The Spirit's mighty sword ; 
 And let the banner of the Cross 
 
 Wide o'er thee be unfurled ; 
 Thy foes the countless hosts of sin, 
 Thy battle-field the world. 
 
 Let not the world with winning smile. 
 
 And fair yet faithless charms, 
 A moment draw thee from the ranks, 
 
 Or tempt thee from thy arms ; 
 She will but lure thee on a while. 
 
 Then fill thee with dismay. 
 Cast forth in scorn to raging foes, 
 
 A weak, defenceless prey. 
 
 And tarry not where sparkling streams 
 
 Of earthly pleasure flow ; 
 Their waves though sweet will fill thy soul 
 
 With bitterness and woe. 
 Dash from thy lips the poisoned cup, 
 
 The treacherous draught disdain. 
 And seek the founts where they who drink 
 
 Shall never thirst again. 
 
'' rUT Oy THE WHOLE ARMOR OF GOD." 35 
 
 Sleep not, O soldier, at thy post, 
 
 But ceaseless vigil keep ; 
 'Tis death to those who mid the strife 
 
 Lie calmly down and sleep. 
 Thou shalt not wake again, for foes. 
 
 Thou canst not then control. 
 Will lull thy ear with charmed songs. 
 
 But wound and slay thy soul. 
 
 Unwearied watch at Z ion's gates. 
 
 Undaunted meet her foes ; 
 Rest not thy drooping limbs below, — 
 
 Above is thy repose. 
 And sweet, oh, sweet, that rest will be 
 
 To him who wins it here. 
 With faithful heart and fearless hand 
 
 Unscathed by guilt and fear. 
 
 And mid life's brightest, fairest scenes, 
 
 Then, soldier, then beware ! 
 Though flowers are blooming round thy path, 
 
 Dark foes are lurking there. 
 Great is their might and keen the wounds 
 
 Of each infuriate dart ; 
 But blood, from Calvary's sacred fount, 
 
 Will ease their bitter smart. 
 
36 "pot on the whole armor of god.^^ 
 
 Though sweet the voice of earthly fame, 
 
 And bright her laurels be, 
 111 heaven a sweeter voice is heard 
 
 With brighter wreaths for thee. 
 These shalt thou wear, a seraph thou, 
 
 When all thy fields are won, 
 And death, the last great foe, is slain, 
 
 Through God's Anointed Son. 
 
 Then, soldier, lay thy armor down. 
 
 Thy battles all are o'er ; 
 Eternal rest awaits thee then. 
 
 On Canaan's peaceful shore ; 
 Pass through the gloomy stream of death, 
 
 And join the victor throng. 
 And swell through heaven's bright sounding realms 
 
 The Conqueror's glorious song ! 
 
" CASTING ALL YOUR CARE UPON HIM." 37 
 
 CASTING ALL YOUR CARE UPON HIM, 
 FOR HE CARETH FOR YOU." 
 
 MORTAL, encumbered with care, 
 "With trial and sorrow and woe, 
 With burdens too heavy to bear 
 ' While journeying onward below ; 
 
 Whose heart is nigh failing through fears ; 
 
 Whose prospects are shrouded in gloom ; 
 Whose cheeks bear the traces of tears 
 For griefs that the spirit consume ; 
 Whose hopes fondly cherished have fled, 
 
 Fled never to cheer thee again ; 
 Whose spirit too often hath bled 
 
 When its love brought but sorrow and pain, 
 
 Look up, for a Helper is nigh. 
 
 His arm for th}' succor is strong, 
 Oh, cease to despairingly sigh, 
 
 Burst forth in thanksgiving and song. 
 He is ready to shield and to save, 
 
 And to lighten each burden of grief ; 
 His Son for thy ransom he gave, 
 
 His Spirit to bring thee relief. 
 Look up ! he will gladden thy heart. 
 
 From his lips consolation shall fall ; 
 He will bear of thy burdens a part. 
 
 Till forever thou droppest them all. 
 
38 CHRIST IS PRECIOUS. 
 
 Soon upward to mansions of rest 
 
 Tby soul he will summon to rise, 
 To shout the sweet songs of the blest 
 
 And to wear the white robe of the skies, 
 Where trials shall never be known. 
 
 Where sighing and weeping shall cease ; 
 For life's heavy cares shall be thrown 
 
 Aside at the spirit's release. 
 Thus shall it be with thee at last, 
 
 But now, ere life's journey be o'er, 
 On him let thy burdens be cast, 
 
 Till thou bearest those burdens no more. 
 
 3>*;c 
 
 CHRIST IS PRECIOUS. 
 
 CHRIST is precious ! O my soul, 
 Is he not to thee most dear, 
 Dost thou not his sweet control 
 ' Love to feel around thee here ? 
 Art thou burdened with thy fears ? 
 
 He can every fear allay ; 
 Dost thou shed the mourner's tears ? 
 He can wipe those tears away. 
 
 Christ is precious — yes, when pain 
 Racks this feeble frame of mine, 
 
 And my spirit would complain. 
 Murmur at the will divine : 
 
CHRIST IS PRECIOUS. 39 
 
 Then is my Redeemer nigh 
 
 To uphold me from despair, 
 Gently hush each rising sigh, 
 
 Aid me every pang to bear. 
 
 Christ is precious — 'tis his blood. 
 
 On the cross for sinners spilt, 
 Saves me from the wrath of God, - 
 
 Fearful punishment of guilt. 
 And when I in death lie down. 
 
 Joyful at his high command, 
 He shall my salvation crown 
 
 Glorious, at his own right hand. 
 
 Christ is precious — he forsakes 
 
 None who love to do his will, 
 All their streams of joy he makes 
 
 Sweeter, purer, deeper still ; 
 Every grief he softly soothes. 
 
 Aids in every trial given, 
 And the rugged pathway smooths 
 
 Till the pilgrim enters heaven. 
 
 Christ is precious — if in life 
 He is so, my soul, to thee. 
 
 What, in thy last mortal strife. 
 Shall the dear Redeemer be ? 
 
40 CHRISTIAN HOPE. 
 
 Hark ! an answer from the grave, 
 Hear the dying Christian sing, — 
 
 " Through His might who died to save 
 Death has lost his fearful sting ! " 
 
 3^<KC 
 
 v./ T 
 
 CHRISTIAN HOPE. 
 
 blissful hope ! Oh, hope divine, 
 Of resurrection from the tomb, — 
 That God will ope these eyes of mine, 
 
 Though death may seal them now in gloom. 
 
 What though this mortal part decay 
 Within the mouldering arms of earth ; 
 
 Unscathed the soul shall wing its way 
 Up to the land that gave it birth. 
 
 The sod that o'er me lies must break ; 
 
 The grave must wide her portals fling ; 
 This dust inanimate awake. 
 
 And rise to meet its Judge and King. 
 
 Thanks be to God, though sin and strife 
 Oppress us till our latest breath, 
 
 Life is not here our only life, 
 And death is not forever death. 
 
CHRISTIAN HOPE. 41 
 
 Pass on, pass on, thou angel. Time, 
 
 And bear my destined years away ; 
 My spirit longs for life sublime, 
 
 Released from sin, and earth, and clay. 
 
 I care not, Time, how swift thy flight. 
 
 Approved be all thy fleeting hours, 
 If in their moments brief, aright 
 
 Be trained my soul's immortal powers. 
 
 For every rose I cherish here 
 
 Thou crushest 'neath thy ruthless feet. 
 
 Faith sees a flower above appear 
 
 In bloom more beautiful, more sweet ! 
 
 For every broken earthly tie. 
 
 And wTcck of friendship's altar riven. 
 
 There is a union formed on high, 
 A more enduring shrine in heaven. 
 
 Though often here my aching head 
 
 On thorny pillow finds repose, 
 There shall a blissful couch be spread. 
 
 All undisturbed by mortal woes. 
 
 Immortal life, immortal bliss, 
 
 Awaits me in celestial realms ; 
 Whose prospect, in a world like this, 
 
 My longing soul with joy o'erwhelms. 
 
42 OUIt EARTHLY HOUSE. 
 
 My bark hath all her canvas furled, 
 Though stormy billows wildly roll ; 
 
 The day-star of that glorious world 
 Cheers sweetly on my steadfast soul. 
 
 Oh, joyful season ! welcome day, 
 That sees my earthly fetters riven ; 
 
 Speed, tardy hours, your dull delay. 
 Your faster flight, my sooner heaven. 
 
 OUPv EARTHLY HOUSE. 
 
 2 COH. V. 1. 
 
 i 
 
 (^7^ HIS house of clay ! this house of clay ! 
 How swiftly o'er it steals 
 The mournful shadow of decay, 
 When time its ruin seals. 
 
 The storms of life unceasing beat 
 
 Upon the haughty pile, 
 And prove its grandeur all as fleet 
 
 As sunset's transient smile. 
 
 Change comes, where mortal might defies, 
 
 Her fearful trace to leave ; 
 And morning's statel}^ mansion lies 
 
 A mouldering mass at eve. 
 
OUR EARTHLY HOUSE. 43 
 
 Wealth cannot stay destruction's hand, 
 
 Or bribe him from his toil, 
 Or pomp, or pride, or high command. 
 
 Deter him from his spoil. 
 
 Love cannot turn destruction's breath 
 
 From frames of dust away ; 
 She pleads, but yet the grasp of death 
 
 Is on the cherished prey. 
 
 Though learning summons art to aid, 
 
 With skill and power sublime, 
 Art's boasted prowess yields dismayed 
 
 To mighty change and time. 
 
 Oh ! frail this house of clay, so dear, 
 
 To which we fondly cling. 
 Immortal guests it tenants here, 
 
 But 'tis a mortal thing. 
 
 The spirit born for God, to God 
 
 Shall wing its final flight ; 
 Its mansion, level with the sod, 
 
 Mould in oblivion's night. 
 
 Oh ! why to gild this mortal frame 
 Waste youth and strength and bloom, 
 
 When soon its ashes, void of name. 
 Shall fill the yawning tomb ? 
 
44 OUR EARTHLY HOUSE. 
 
 Ye poor in earth, but rich in heaven, 
 Through Christ accounted just, 
 
 Mourn not this worthless mansion given 
 Back to its kindred dust. 
 
 Ye have a nobler in the skies, 
 Not built by human hands ; 
 
 Where everlasting pillars rise, 
 The promised dwelling stands. 
 
 Beyond, beyond the burning stars, 
 "Where reigns the King of kings, 
 
 No blighting change its beauty mars, 
 Decay no shadow flings. 
 
 Oh! if such glorious mansion lifts 
 
 Above its head sublime, 
 Ye heirs of God's eternal gifts, 
 
 Weep not the wrecks of time. 
 
45 
 
 "FOR HERE WE HAVE NO CONTINUING 
 CITY." 
 
 w 
 
 P ! weary pilgiim, up 1 and take 
 Thy staff and travel on ; 
 Earth is no resting-place for thee, 
 ' For thou art not her son. 
 
 Then sigh not o'er her ruined hopes, 
 
 Shed not one bitter tear, 
 Thy all is centred in the skies. 
 Thou hast no city here. 
 
 Let fleeting wealth for others spread 
 
 Her vain, delusive snares ; 
 Be thou not tempted by her charms. 
 
 Or burdened by her cares ; 
 Her treasures fly on eagle wings, 
 
 As adverse fortunes frown ; 
 Oh ! win them not to mourn their flight, 
 
 And weep their brief renown. 
 
 What though the world may pass thee by 
 
 In cold and cruel scorn? 
 What though the storms of life beat harsh 
 
 Upon thy head forlorn ? 
 Soon from thy Master's searching glance 
 
 Shall earth's proud children fly, 
 And soon the glorious rest of heaven 
 
 Shall sweetly meet thine eye. 
 
46 '''HERE WE HAVE NO CONTINUING ClTT.'^ 
 
 Thy Master ! ah ! when here he toiled, 
 
 "When here for man he bled, 
 No palace doors were open flung, 
 
 No costly feasts were spread ; 
 A manger was his cradle couch, 
 
 A weary life his doom, 
 A torturing cross his dying bed, 
 
 A borrowed rock his tomb. 
 
 His fare was e'er the poor man's fare, 
 
 His cot the poor man's cot ; 
 He had no realms, no city here, 
 
 He asked, he sought them not. 
 O pilgrim follower, cheer thy heart, 
 
 And wipe thy streaming eye ! 
 Beyond, beyond this heartless world 
 
 Tliy realms and city lie. 
 
 That city is no earthly one, 
 
 It bears no stains of sin, 
 And earthly pomp and earthly pride 
 
 Shall never enter in ; 
 There poverty's cold, crushing rain 
 
 Shall never, never fall, 
 Nor want, nor woe, nor wild despair 
 
 E'er spread their fearful pall. 
 
^^ HERE WE HAVE NO CONTINUING CITY'' 47 
 
 Night folds not there her ebon wings, 
 
 For night is all unknown, 
 And moon, and sun, for in the midst 
 
 Is God's eternal throne ; 
 And from the face of Him who sits 
 
 High on the sacred seat. 
 Celestial glories ceaseless beam 
 
 And light each shining street. 
 
 Then closer draw thy mantle's folds, 
 
 And tarrj'- not below ; 
 Fill high thy cup at Shiloh's fount 
 
 Where streams reviving flow, 
 And boldly face anew the hosts, 
 
 The frowning hosts of clay ; 
 Let not the foe o'ertake thee here, — 
 
 Up ! weary one ! away ! 
 
 Behold thy city in the skies. 
 
 Behold thy treasures there ; 
 The casket that contains them, faith, 
 
 The key, unceasing prayer. 
 Soon shall thy spirit upward soar, 
 
 And then, oh, then, for thee 
 Shall that bright city's golden gates 
 
 Through Christ wide open be ! 
 
48 " / SHALL BE SATISFIED 
 
 "I SHALL BE SATISFIED WHEN I AWAKE 
 IN THY LIKENESS." 
 
 Ps. xvn. 15. 
 
 HAT ! wake in the likeness of God ? 
 Shall a being created of clay, 
 When life's weary journey is trod, 
 And its vigor bows down to decay ; 
 A creature so prone to depart 
 
 From the pathway where duty appears ; 
 To yield to his wandering heart, 
 
 And give for its errors but tears ; 
 So burdened with sorrows and cares. 
 
 So pierced by adversity's thorn, 
 Corruptible garments who wears. 
 Soon put incorruptible on ? 
 
 Shall the dust that is mouldering wake 
 
 From its silence, inaneness, and gloom, 
 And the bars of its prison-house break, 
 
 The bonds of the desolate tomb ? 
 Shall it soar in the image divine 
 
 To yon blissful and glorious sphere, 
 And never lament or repine 
 
 O'er the ills that encompass it here ? 
 Shall it dwell in the presence of Him, 
 
 At whose sceptre the proudest must bow, 
 With a crown that shall never grow dim. 
 
 And the seal of the Lord on its brow ? 
 
WHEN I AWAKE IX THY LIKENESS." 49 
 
 Yea ! such are the hopes of the soul 
 
 That in Jesus, the ransom, confides ; 
 Though billows opposing may roll, 
 
 Life's ocean undaunted it rides. 
 Oh ! hinder me not on the way, 
 
 I am journeying on to the tomb ; 
 I welcome its dust and decay. 
 
 Its silence, inaneness, and gloom. 
 When the angel's loud trump to the skies 
 
 Shall summon the children of men. 
 In the image of Christ I shall rise. 
 
 Oh ! I shall be satisfied then ! 
 
 3j«;c 
 
 SYMPATHY. 
 
 ^^T HERE is a voice, the sweetest voice 
 That ever falls on mortal ear ; 
 It bids the drooping heart rejoice. 
 
 That throbs with grief or thrills with fear 
 
 The voice of God's dear angels, when 
 
 They whisper in the ears of men 
 
 Their heavenly Father's words of love 
 
 And promises of rest above. 
 
 % 
 
50 SYMPATHY. 
 
 There is a tear, a sacred tear ; 
 
 It shines a pearl in memorjr's chain, 
 And falls for those who suffer here 
 
 From want and wretchedness and pain. 
 Men often for themselves may weep, 
 In bitter tears their eyelids steep ; 
 But, oh, such tears are not like those 
 Shed for a fellow-creature's woes. 
 
 There is a smile, the loveliest smile 
 
 That wreathes a lip of mortal mould ; 
 It speaks a heart that glows the while 
 With love that never can grow cold ; 
 It flingeth o'er the human face 
 The light of beauty and of grace, 
 As summer sunset's golden ray 
 Gilds heaven's blue arch at closing day. 
 
 That sweetest voice, that sacred tear, 
 
 That loveliest smile, I fondly crave ; 
 Oh, I must ever have them here ! 
 
 Life's storms alone I could not brave. 
 Its ills alone I could not bear 
 Without one heart to soothe or share : 
 They must be mine till death shall come 
 To take me to my heavenly home. 
 
SEED SOWN IN TEARS. 51 
 
 Oh, when his pangs my frame shall shake, 
 And pale my cheek and dim my eye, 
 
 When one by one my life-cords break, 
 As faint I lay me down to die, 
 
 And human love avails no more 
 
 To soothe or cheer me or restore, — 
 
 How sweet, my soul, to thee shall be 
 
 Thy heavenly Father's sympathy. 
 
 SEED SOWN IN TEARS. 
 
 "He that ooeth forth and "Weepeth," etc. — Psalm cxxvi., 6. 
 
 O forth with fearless hand and heart. 
 For God will bless thy toil. 
 And life to every seed impart 
 Thou givest to the soil. 
 If thou hast faith to trust his word, 
 And wait the harvest long deferred. 
 
 What though as sterile as the rock 
 
 Thy garden's soil may be, 
 And seem thy very hopes to mock 
 
 Its fruitfulness to see? 
 Lo ! at His voice, mid briars and thorns, 
 The rose the wilderness adorns. 
 
52 SEED SOWN IK TEARS. 
 
 What though the clouds of heaven withhold 
 Their treasures from the plain ? 
 
 Ere long, as oft in days of old, 
 Shall fall the tardy rain, 
 
 And, drinking deep, glad mother earth 
 
 Shall give the parching embryo birth. 
 
 What though no gentle breezes blow. 
 
 No genial sunbeams warm ; 
 But rough winds sweeping to and fro 
 
 Bring oft-repeated storm ? 
 Jehovah bids the tempest cease. 
 And to the wild winds whispers peace. 
 
 What though rank weeds spring up beside 
 
 Thy nurslings of the soil, 
 And men, thy fellow-men, deride 
 
 Insultingly thy toil ? 
 The weed shall wither to be burned ; 
 The scorn of men to praise be turned. 
 
 Who sows in grief, in joy shall reap 
 
 In yon celestial sphere. 
 No more to toil, no more to weep. 
 
 Forgotten every tear. 
 Then weary not, to thee is given 
 To sow on earth, but reap in heaven. 
 
PARAPHRASE OF PSALM LXXXIV. 53 
 
 With thee, before thy Master's throne, 
 
 Thy golden sheaves shall stand, 
 Whose seed with sadness oft was sown 
 
 In earth's wild, barren land, 
 That bore, 'neath blessings from on high, 
 Immortal harvests for the sky. 
 
 Then sweetly on thy raptured ear 
 
 Thy Lord's approving voice 
 Shall fall, and banish every fear, 
 
 And bid thy heart rejoice, — 
 " O faithful servant ! reign with me. 
 Thy crown and kingdom wait for thee." 
 
 PARAPHRASE OF THE EIGHTY-FOURTH 
 PSALM. 
 
 OW pleasant are thy courts, O Lord ; 
 How sweet the music of thy word ; 
 My willing soul would oft repair. 
 And taste thy rich salvation there. 
 
 The swallow builds herself a nest ; 
 Thine altars are a sacred rest ; 
 Oh, blest are they who love thy ways, 
 Whose chief ambition is thy praise ; 
 
^4 PARAPHRASE OF PSALM LXXXIV. 
 
 Who, passing through a thirsty land, 
 Or o'er the desert's scorching sand. 
 Can find a living fountain nigh, 
 And drink from thence and never die. 
 
 For they shall go from strength to strength. 
 In Zion to appear at length, 
 And in the presence of their King 
 Shall sound his praise and sweetly sing. 
 
 Lord of hosts, hear thou my praj-er ; 
 Be thou the shield my soul shall wear ; 
 Look on the face of Christ thy Son, 
 Accept us for what he has done. 
 
 Thy smiles are sweeter far, O Lord, 
 Than all the joys earth can afford ; 
 And dearer far is thy retreat 
 Than where the wicked love to meet. 
 
 Oh, wilt thou shield me while I live. 
 For thou canst grace and glory give ; 
 And no good thing wilt thou withhold, 
 Great Shepherd, from thy ransomed fold. 
 
BEAR TE ONE ANOTHER* S BURDENS. 55 
 
 BEAR YE ONE ANOTHER'S BURDENS. 
 
 CHILD of God ! in pity bear 
 Thy brother's burdens here ; 
 His anguish soothe, his trials share, 
 And wipe his falling tear. 
 
 As oft he journeys on forlorn 
 
 By countless ills oppressed, 
 Let not thy coldness add a thorn 
 
 To pierce his wounded breast. 
 
 When faithless friends have all forgot, 
 
 Be thou his hope, his stay ; 
 And God, thy God, will leave thee not 
 
 In sorrow's darkest day. 
 
 Ask not if he deserve relief ; 
 
 Enough that from thy hand 
 His wretchedness, his want and grief, 
 
 Compassion's aid demand. 
 
 God questions not thy worthiness. 
 When, from his boundless stores, 
 
 His daily gifts to cheer and bless 
 Upon thy path he pours. 
 
56 BEAR YE ONE ANOTHER^ S BURDENS. 
 
 What though he may have injured thee, 
 
 E'en all beside above ; 
 Thy vengeance let thy kindness be, 
 
 Thy recompense thy love. 
 
 Degraded, outcast and oppressed, 
 
 E'en of a race accursed ; 
 Within compassion's feeling breast 
 
 Still be the sufferer nursed. 
 
 Oh, turn not from thy brother's woe. 
 
 Let heart and hand relieve ; 
 His weeping make thy tears o'erflow, 
 
 His grieving make thee grieve. 
 
 A few brief daj^s, and side by side 
 
 Ye shall move on no more ; 
 Death, the destroyer, shall divide 
 
 The twain that were before. 
 
 But while together on ye roam. 
 Ere parting hours draw nigh, 
 
 Link hand with hand and home with home 
 In one fraternal tie. 
 
 Enkindle pure affection's flame 
 For hearts by sorrow riven ; 
 
 So life shall yield thee sweetest fame, 
 And death shall brinsr thee heaven. 
 
THE angel's visit. 57 
 
 The eye that sheds not pity's tear, 
 
 The heart that scorns to bear 
 A weary brother's burdens here, 
 
 Shall find no entrance there. 
 
 3>0{C 
 
 THE ANGEL'S VISIT. 
 
 (T[ N angel from above the skies, 
 l3? The heavenly Eden's bowers, 
 
 CT V^ Came down, unseen by mortal eyes, 
 To view this world of ours ; 
 
 Sweet scenes he saw, that would recall 
 His own bright land again, 
 
 But sin's dark curse had marred them all, — 
 The fairest wore a stain. 
 
 Strange sights the angel saw below. 
 
 That stirred his bosom deep, 
 And made the founts of grief o'erflow. 
 
 For angels e'en may weep. 
 He saw his Master's holy cross 
 
 By mortal feet trod down ; 
 The deathless soul esteemed no loss 
 
 To win a fleeting crown. 
 
58 THE ANGELAS VISIT, 
 
 He passed by many a gorgeous fene 
 
 That human hands upraise, 
 Where dust o'er dust is proud to reign 
 
 A few brief passing days ; 
 The richest mansions earth has given, 
 
 To deck their little spot ; 
 But what were they, to those in heaven ? 
 
 The angel marked them not. 
 
 He heard the songs of festal mirth 
 
 They chant, who revel here ; 
 But, oh ! the sweetest strains of earth 
 
 Fell harshly on his ear ; 
 His thoughts went back to where ascends 
 
 The music of the skies, 
 Where love with purest rapture blends 
 
 In hearts whose voices rise. 
 
 But one thing here the angel saw 
 
 That could from heaven beguile, 
 And 'mid the scenes the just abhor 
 
 His pinions stay a while : 
 He saw contrition's earnest tear 
 
 Roll down a sinner's cheek, 
 That marked the spirit's grief sincere, 
 
 Grief lips can never speak. 
 
THE ANGELAS VISIT, 59 
 
 He saw sin's heavy burden borne 
 
 To Calvary's sacred tree ; 
 The soul, in chains it long had worn, 
 
 Pray that it might be free ; 
 And when he saw its letters riven, 
 
 Its load at Jesus' feet, 
 He stretched his wings and soared to heaven, 
 
 To bear the tidings sweet. 
 
 Then countless harps were quickly strung 
 
 Where golden streets are trod. 
 The victory of the Lamb was sung. 
 
 The sinner's birth to God ! 
 Ye sons of earth, if change like this 
 
 Moves heavenly beings so. 
 Oh, what must be the world of bliss, 
 
 And what the world of woe 9 
 
60 THEY WHO CAME OUT OF GREAT TRIBULATION, 
 
 THESE ARE THEY WHO CAME OUT OF 
 GREAT TRIBULATION. 
 
 Rev. vn. 13, 14. 
 
 HO are these in robes of white, 
 
 Rouud the great Eternal's throne ? 
 On their brows a seal of light, 
 Chanting with celestial tone : 
 " Glory, glory to the Lamb ! 
 
 Blessing to the King of Kings, 
 Honor to the great I Am ! " 
 
 Every tongue with rapture sings. 
 
 These are they who once below 
 
 Perished in the martyr's flame ; 
 Bade their blood for Jesus flow. 
 
 Dying, triumphed in his name. 
 These are they whose lives were crowned 
 
 With religion's holy zeal, 
 On the torturing rack who found 
 
 Peace theu' murderers could not feel. 
 
 These are they who cheerful dwelt 
 In the desert and the cave. 
 
 Where the love of God they felt. 
 Where they drank salvation's wave. 
 
THET WHO CAME OUT OF GREAT TRIBULATION. 61 
 
 These are they who bore the cross 
 
 Meekly, and with willing feet, 
 Counting all but heaven as dross, 
 
 Deeming death for Jesus sweet. 
 
 Oft their faith the brightest showed 
 
 'Mid the world's increasing gloom, 
 And their path with glory glowed 
 
 As they journeyed to the tomb. 
 Heavenly hopes devotion fired, 
 
 Tuned to rapture every tongue ; 
 Heavenly zeal their souls inspired, 
 
 Fear and doubt aside were flung. 
 
 Thus they sojourned here, till death 
 
 Set them from affliction free ; 
 Ever, to their latest breath, 
 
 Mighty God, adoring thee. 
 Now around thy throne they dwell. 
 
 Ne'er to sufier want and pain ; 
 Hark ! their songs triumphant swell, 
 
 Worthy is the Lamb to reign. 
 
 Thou dost lead these faithful ones 
 Through thy vast celestial realms, 
 
 Where beat down no scorching suns, 
 Where no raging storm o'erwhelms 
 
62 TREY WHO CAME OUT OF GREAT TRIBULATION. 
 
 Where eternal beauty reigns, 
 
 And purest crystal waters bound, 
 
 Sweetly flow o'er swelling plains 
 With immortal verdure crowned. 
 
 There the wicked vex no more, 
 
 And the weary are at rest ; 
 Persecution's reign is o'er, 
 
 Love and peace fill every breast. 
 Lo ! they are the conquerors now, 
 
 Once the victims of the sword. 
 And their haughty murderers bow 
 
 To the strong arm of the Lord. 
 
 Thou dost wipe away the tears 
 
 Gently from the mourner's eyes, 
 For the blight of pain and years 
 
 Give the bloom that never dies. 
 God of mercy ! may we so 
 
 Share the blessings of thy love, 
 As thou art our all below, 
 
 Be our all in heaven above ! 
 
GOD MY REFUGE, 63 
 
 GOD MY REFUGE. 
 
 % 
 
 ^^p'HOU canst not aid me, earth ; thy Maker, Lord, 
 My refuge is ; on his unfailing word 
 I lean, until to life and strength restored. 
 
 He is my fortress ; here will I abide. 
 Within the strong rock of my refuge hide, 
 Secure from sorrow's storm and passion's tide. 
 
 He is my keeper ; on his watchful eye 
 From night till morn, till night again is nigh, 
 No heavy dews of sleep overpowering lie. 
 
 The flaming sun shall smite me not b}^ day ; 
 Mild shall beat down his fiercest noontide ray. 
 When o'er wide deserts lies my toilsome way. 
 
 The moon's soft beams shall all my nights illume, 
 Brighten the tempest's swiftly gathering gloom. 
 Light my soul heavenward, shine upon my tomb. 
 
 No pestilential breath that round me springs. 
 
 No fatal dart the pale destroyer flings 
 
 Can harm me, hiding 'neath Jehovah's wings. 
 
 When locked in slumber, round my pillow stand 
 My Father's angels, — a commissioned band, — 
 While he extends his own protecting hand. 
 
64 ALL THE DISCIPLES FORSOOK HIM AND FLED, 
 
 Fearless and joyful, in and out I go 
 
 Through earth's wide region wandering to and fro, 
 
 The care of Heaven ; who dares to such be foe ? 
 
 Soon shall m}^ Master call me up on high, 
 Swift my freed spirit to his presence fly, 
 Where pain in bliss and death in life shall die. 
 
 THEN ALL THE DISCIPLES FORSOOK HIM 
 AND FLED. 
 
 HAT ! in that fearful hour 
 Did all forsake thee, Lord? 
 When men arose in scorn and power 
 With spear and stave and sword. 
 As if heaven's meekness would oppose 
 The sinful rage of earthly foes. 
 
 When, veiled in friendship's guise, 
 Came fawning treacher}^, where 
 
 Once from its lips were wont to rise 
 With thine, deep words of prayer ; 
 
 Were there no thoughts that burned within 
 
 The soul of that dark man of sin ? 
 
ALL THE DISCIPLES FORSOOK HIM AND FLED. 65 
 
 The torch its pale light threw 
 
 On thy majestic form 
 Alone, for each had proved untrue 
 
 And fled the coming storm ; 
 Even he who on that sacred spot 
 Had vowed till death to leave thee not ! 
 
 Oh, tell me not of grief 
 
 "When friends that grief may share ; 
 For other tears may bring relief, 
 
 Kind words may comfort bear ; 
 But when the last we love depart 
 Earth cannot heal the spirit's smart. 
 
 Such, holy Son of God, 
 
 Such was thy lot below ; 
 They who with thee life's journey trod 
 
 At last were first to go, — 
 To leave thee in thine hour of need ; 
 Such was thy grief, and grief indeed. 
 
 Ye followers of the cross, 
 
 To him who bore it dear, 
 Who vainly sorrow o'er the loss 
 
 Of earthly friendship here, — 
 Think, he whose death your ransom paid 
 Was once forsaken, scorned, betrayed. 
 
66 DEPARTURE. 
 
 What though it add a sting 
 
 To grief if borne alone, 
 When friends who soothed in life's sweet spring 
 
 With those blest days have flown, — 
 Though all earth's friendship ties be riven, 
 Nought breaks the golden chains of Heaven ! 
 
 3i«<c 
 
 DEPARTURE. 
 
 'OUNT, m}^ soul, from earth and time, 
 To thy mansion in the skies ; 
 Longing for those realms sublime, 
 Break thy fetters, upward rise. 
 Guardian angels hover nigh, 
 
 AYhispering oft in gentle tone. 
 Fearless with thine escort fly, 
 
 They shall lead thee to the throne. 
 
 Cling not to these mortal shores, 
 
 Doomed to darkness and decay. 
 While upon thy vision pours 
 
 Light from heaven's eternal day. 
 Thou shalt tread yon golden streets, 
 
 To the ransomed freely given. 
 Joyful quaff ten thousand sweets 
 
 From the blissful streams of heaven. 
 
BE NOT WEARY IN WELL-DOING. 67 
 
 Art thou shrinking from the tomb, 
 
 Shuddering at its chilling air? 
 Once, regardless of its gloom, 
 
 Christ, thy Saviour, slumbered there. 
 He hath risen, so thou shalt stay 
 
 Briefly 'neath the burial sod, 
 Rise from thence and soar away, 
 
 Up to thy Creator, God. 
 
 BE NOT WEARY IN WELL-DOING. 
 
 E not weary, be not weary. 
 
 Christian, in the field of toil, 
 Though the way be dark and dreary, 
 Hopeless seem the stony soil. 
 Seed that buried lies the longest, 
 
 Oft springs fairest from the sod, 
 
 And the weakest arm is strongest, 
 
 Through the holy might of God. 
 
 Linger not before the portal 
 
 Of a labor so sublime ; 
 Lo ! its fruits are life immortal 
 
 In the coming harvest-time. 
 Like the just, in days of olden, 
 
 Be thou faithful to the Word ; 
 Thou shalt bear a sheaf as golden 
 
 To the presence of thy Lord. 
 
68 BE NOT WEARY IN WELL-DOING. 
 
 Ever fondly, deeply cherish 
 
 Memory of thy Saviour's name, 
 
 Who, that thou shouldst never perish, 
 Died upon the cross of shame. 
 
 Shall the servant shrink to follow- 
 Where his bright examples shine, 
 
 Though the sinful world and hollow 
 Idle deem the work divine? 
 
 Be not weary, be not weary, 
 
 Heal the heart with anguish riven ; 
 To the home of sorrow dreary 
 
 Bear a radiant beam from heaven. 
 Lo ! the day of life is waning, 
 
 Swift the night of death comes on ; 
 Vain will be the heart's complaining 
 
 O'er the hours misspent and gone. 
 
 Cheerful toil, and never falter, 
 
 Till, commissioned from on high. 
 Icy death thy hand shall alter, 
 
 Blanch thy cheek, and dim thine eye. 
 Then thy toils forever ended, 
 
 By the Faithful owned and blest. 
 By thy Master's voice commended, 
 
 Rise to everlasting rest. 
 
THE ANSJVERED PRAYER > 69 
 
 THE ANSWERED PRAYER. 
 
 w1 
 
 spare my child ! " a mother cried, 
 "Oh, spare my darling child ! " 
 His dj^ing couch she sat beside, 
 Her eye with sorrow wild. 
 She cannot yield her treasure now^ 
 
 Her tear of anguish falls ; 
 Oh, wherefore, mother, weepest thou? 
 'Tis God thy loved one calls. 
 
 "Nay, for he must not, cannot die ; 
 
 O great and holy One, 
 Behold in mercy from on high 
 
 And spare my only son ! " — 
 Down from the regions of the blest 
 
 To her Inferior home. 
 Bright angels from the Father's breast • 
 
 On wings of healing come. 
 
 Unseen by mortal eye they breathe 
 
 Upon the sufferer fair, 
 And lo ! what living beauties wreathe 
 
 The marble features there. 
 The blue eyes ope, the young breast heaves 
 
 With motion soft and slow. 
 The damp of death the forehead leaves, 
 
 And life's warm currents flow. 
 
70 "7 WILL GIVE MYSELF UNTO PRAYER. 
 
 '' He lives ! he lives ! " the mother cries, 
 
 " My treasure back is given ; " 
 She hath forgot her prayers and sighs 
 
 Have won her babe from heaven. 
 The child, that else a cherub bright 
 
 Had soared to regions fair, 
 Is back returned to mortal sight, 
 
 In answer to her pra3^er. — 
 
 Years roll ; the boy to manhood grown 
 
 From paths of virtue strays. 
 And ends in shame and guilt alone 
 
 The remnant of his days. 
 Weary and worn the mother passed 
 
 From earth when life was done, 
 But in her heaven of bliss at last 
 
 Found not her only son. 
 
 5>®4C 
 
 «I WILL GIVE MYSELF UNTO PRAYER.' 
 
 f; 
 
 C^^O prayer! to prayer! the tempter's hand 
 Hath spread a net to lure my feet ; 
 Would'st thou, my soul, his might withstand ? 
 Oh, hie thee to the mercy-seat. 
 Pour forth in earnest tone thy voice, 
 And ask for aid on suppliant knee ; 
 Then in thy Maker's grace rejoice 
 
 O'er sin, that hath not conquered thee. 
 
"j WILL GIVE MYSELF UXTO PRAYER.'' 71 
 
 To prayer ! to prayer ! the church of God 
 
 Is slumbering o'er her toil forgot, 
 While stalks her direst foe abroad, 
 
 And weaves destruction's fearful plot. 
 On many a lofty wall and tower 
 
 The watchman's warning trump is dumb : 
 Wake, Zion, wake, for in this hour 
 
 Thy King to judgment forth may come. 
 
 To prayer ! to pra3"er ! from o'er the sea, 
 
 Where grossest errors hold their sway, 
 Comes back the heathen's earnest plea 
 
 For tidings of salvation's wa}- . 
 Who from these ranks of ours shall go, 
 
 A guide to brighter worlds on high ? 
 Would'st thou thy duty. Christian, know, 
 
 Lift up thy voice, Lord, is it I? 
 
 To praj^er ! to prayer ! the world around 
 
 Hath evil hid in ever}' place, 
 And feet are treading holj' ground, 
 
 That came not there through paths of grao^ 
 In Israel's army many fight 
 
 With carnal weapons in their hands, 
 And where her watch-fires fling their light, 
 
 Ofttimes the prince of darkness stands. 
 
72 THE DYING MOTHER* S PRAYER. 
 
 To prayer ! to prayer ! the time draws nigh 
 
 When ye shall cease to toil and pray ; 
 The angel's trump shall sound on high, 
 
 And men to judgment pass away. 
 Church of the living (Grod ! arise, 
 
 And do thy Master's holy will ; 
 Plead for his grace with tears and cries 
 
 Till every promise he fulfil. 
 
 3>#<C 
 
 THE DYING MOTHER'S PRAYER FOR HER 
 CHILDREN. 
 
 Kj/^ HE lingering sunbeams bathed her couch 
 44 . In floods of golden light ; 
 ^ But, oh, upon her brow there lay 
 
 A radiance far more bright. 
 The kindling of the passing soul 
 
 With heaven's undying fire 
 Told that the faint, dull lamp of clay 
 Forever should expire. 
 
 The dying mother oped her lips 
 
 In sweet and fervent prayer ; 
 Her little ones were gathered round, 
 
 And all save one was there : 
 
THE DYING MOTHER^ S PBAYER. 73 
 
 All, save the firstling of the flock, — 
 
 And where, oh, where was he? 
 Tossed by the tempest's angry blast 
 
 Upon the w^ild, dark sea. 
 
 Each childish sob was hushed the while, 
 
 Each broken voice was mute ; 
 Her words were breathed in soft, low tones. 
 
 Like echoes of the lute. 
 Clasped in her arms her infant lay, 
 
 And from its nestling place 
 Its blue eye wandered wonderingly 
 
 O'er that sweet, pallid face. 
 
 " O heavenly Father ! to thy care 
 
 These little ones I give ; 
 The flowers are frail, but thy blest smile 
 
 Can make them bloom and live. 
 Here let the dew of thy rich love 
 
 Fall like spring's gentle rain. 
 And for thy garden in the skies 
 
 These plants immortal train. 
 
 " And not alone for these I pray, 
 Now folded to my breast, — 
 
 My first-born ; oh, in blessing these 
 Dear ones, let him be blest. 
 
74 THE DYING MOTHER'S PRAYER. 
 
 Guide thou the wanderer safely o'er 
 
 Life's wild, tumultuous sea, 
 To glorious ports of endless peace, — 
 
 To heaven's bright world, — to thee. 
 
 " 'Tis thus I leave them to thy care, 
 
 The first-born and the last ; 
 My dying lips have said ' farewell/ 
 
 The parting hour is past. 
 Celestial music greets my ear, 
 
 Celestial glories shine : 
 I go, — sweet tones are calling me, — 
 
 My Father, they are thine ! " 
 
 She ceased ; a wail of orphan woe 
 
 Through death's sad chamber rung ; 
 Back from her cold and lifeless form 
 
 Fond hands the raiment flung. 
 In vain, — through those still veins no more 
 
 Swept life's inspiring tide, — 
 A rapturous smile seemed lingering still ; 
 
 But all had changed beside. 
 
THE CROSS. 75 
 
 THE CROSS. 
 
 HE Cross ! the Cross ! oh, evermore it shineth 
 Brightly and sweetly on the upward way 
 The pilgrim treads, who worldly state resigneth 
 For richer honors in the realms of da}^ ; 
 He folds his meek hands on his trusting breast, 
 His guide the Cross, and presses home to rest. 
 
 The Cross ! the Cross ! the Saviour's benediction 
 Floats on the breezes of its hallowed air ; 
 
 Children of grief, the cup of 3^our affliction 
 No more is bitter if yQ drink it there. 
 
 Upon the shades of sorrow's night it gleams 
 
 With hope unfading with celestial beams. 
 
 The Cross ! the Cross ! gather, ye poor and lowly, 
 Ye scorned of earth, around its glorious form ; 
 
 Fix j-e the ej-e of faith, sei-ene and holy. 
 
 On its bright head, sublime above the storm ; 
 
 Cling ye to this ; here shall ye safe abide 
 
 When the proud world in terror strives to hide. 
 
 The Cross ! the Cross ! ma}^ every pain and pleasure 
 Of thine, my soul, b}' this be sanctified ; 
 
 Place there thy hope, hoard only there thy treasure, 
 Quell wild ambition and subdue thy pride ; 
 
 Dash every idol from thy bosom down 
 
 By the remembrance of His thorn}^ crown. 
 
76 HEAVEN. 
 
 The Cross I the Cross ! the flame that gilds it burneth 
 Brightest and best when shrinks the fainting soul ; 
 
 Death's blackest night to noonday lightness turneth, 
 As through the vale its waves of radiance roll. 
 
 The dying Christian hails, with kindling eye, 
 
 The glowing guide to realms of bliss on high. 
 
 3.*:« 
 
 HEAVEN. 
 
 (^"^HERE is a river — o'er it bend 
 YY I ^o flowers that bloom to fade ; 
 ^^ Upon its sunny, verdant banks 
 ^ No blighting hand is laid ; 
 It is as pure as angel breasts, 
 
 And 'neath its waters lie 
 The richest, brightest gems e'er spread 
 To mortal's wondering eye. 
 
 No storm's dark mantle from above 
 
 Upon that stream is thrown ; 
 The azure vault that o'er it hangs 
 
 To storms is all unknown. 
 And every bark, howe'er so rich 
 
 Or poor the freight it bear, 
 May safely ride its peaceful waves, — 
 
 There are no shipwrecks there. 
 
HEAVEN, 77 
 
 There is a home where gentle peace 
 
 Reigns in the troubled breast ; 
 Where all the weary, worn-out frames 
 
 Of earth's forsaken rest ; 
 The friendship ties that bind their hearts 
 
 Are not earth's faithless ties ; 
 The love that on their trne hearts shines 
 
 Is love that neves dies. 
 
 No spoiler's hand can ever rend 
 
 That home's bright band in twain ; 
 They go not o'er the threshold there 
 
 TVho come not back again. 
 No mother e'er her darling child 
 
 The shroud's pale garment gave, 
 And the green earth is never oped 
 
 To make the loved a srave. 
 
 There is a throng, forever clothed 
 
 In beautiful array, 
 "Who sing with golden harps around 
 
 The altar night and day. — 
 Oh ! worthy, worthy is the Lamb, 
 
 The Lamb for sinners slain, 
 Who slew the powers of death and hell 
 
 Eternally to reign. 
 
78 HEAVEN. 
 
 The faces of this joyous throng 
 
 With dazzling beaut}^ shine, 
 And wreaths of amaranthine flowers 
 
 Their spotless foreheads twine. 
 They bear no marks of pale decay, 
 
 They breathe no mournful sighs, 
 A heavenly hand has wiped all tears 
 
 Forever from their eyes. 
 
 There is a land more beautiful 
 
 Than Eden in its prime, — 
 A land whose turf is never stained 
 
 By guilt and blood and crime. 
 No desert's scorching sands are there, 
 
 Or whirlwind's furious breath ; 
 The fields and flow'rets never fade 
 
 Beneath the feet of death. 
 
 That land has founts of joy and bliss 
 
 Men never find below, 
 Who drink, but drink to thirst again, 
 
 And mourn to find it so. 
 The waters of those fountains sweep 
 
 O'er many a golden plain, 
 And they who stoop to quench then- thirst 
 
 Need never thirst again. 
 
nEAVEN. 79 
 
 Where is that river o'er which bend 
 
 Sweet flowers that never fade ; 
 That home whose shrines of love and peace 
 
 Are ne'er in ruins laid ; 
 That throng to whom those golden harps 
 
 And deathless wreaths are given, 
 That beauteous land ? — oh ! not on earth, 
 
 For they are all of heaven. 
 
 Eye hath not seen, ear hath not heard, 
 
 The glories of that place, 
 Where Jesus to his faithful ones 
 
 Unveils his shining face ; 
 Where they who calmly, meekl}', here 
 
 For Christ their Lord were slain, 
 Now sitting at his own right hand, 
 
 With him triumphant reign. 
 
 Why should I count those charms to please 
 
 The worldling here emplo^^s. 
 When faith and hope would bear me up 
 
 To these immortal ]ojs ! 
 O Saviour, from a world like this 
 
 Grant I ma}^ e'er be free. 
 That sooner heavenly gales may waft 
 
 My longing soul to thee ! 
 
80 THE SONG OF THE DYING PILGRIM, 
 
 THE SONG OF THE DYING PILGRIM. 
 
 fll ! bury me her 
 O comrades, 
 Anrl sorrow vf» 
 
 here by the Holy Tomb, 
 bury me here ! 
 And sorrow ye not for the pilgrim's doom, 
 Or weep o'er his hallowed bier ! 
 
 I have travelled far from my father's lands, 
 And my bark hath the wild sea tossed, 
 
 I have traversed Arabia's burning sands, 
 And the waves of Jordan crossed. 
 
 My guide by day was a scorching sun, 
 
 And by night a feeble star ; 
 But I turned not back from the march begun, 
 
 From the journey rough and far. 
 
 Oft have I slept where the lion lay 
 
 Concealed in his fearful lair, 
 And the wolf growled o'er his struggling prey, 
 
 But there came no helper there ; 
 
 And shuddered oft o'er the bleaching bones 
 
 Of a hapless victim slain. 
 And carried them far from the rocks and stones, 
 
 And buried them on the plain. 
 
THE SONG OF THE DYING PILGRIM, 81 
 
 I pressed the cross to my burning brow, 
 
 And my wildly beating heart ; 
 And I felt that He who is with me now 
 
 Would ne'er from my side depart. 
 
 They say 'tis sweet on the field to die, 
 
 On the gory battle-field. 
 When the air resounds with the victors* cry, 
 
 And the foeman's doom is sealed. 
 
 But far more welcome is death to me 
 
 By my Master's Holy Tomb ; 
 No sting he bears, and no pang hath he. 
 
 And no shade of fear and gloom. 
 
 They say 'tis a proud and a deathless name 
 
 That an earthly conqueror bears ; 
 That heralds trumpet his deeds of fame, 
 
 And a jewelled crown he wears. 
 
 But sweeter b}^ far is the pure renown 
 
 To the pious pilgrim given ; 
 And richer and brighter by far the crown 
 
 That his Lord bestows in heaven. 
 
 The pilgrim's strife is no earthly strife, 
 
 And he bears no mortal arms ; 
 He warreth not for his brother's life, 
 
 And the vain world's victor palms. 
 6 
 
82 THE SONG OF THE DYING PILGRIM, 
 
 The foes of the pilgrim are within, 
 And fierce is the war they wage ; 
 
 But he boldly strives with the hosts of sin, 
 With their malice and their rage. 
 
 And e'er, when the contest rages high, 
 
 And he trembles in despair, 
 The hosts of his Lord to help are nigh. 
 
 If he lifts his heart in prayer. 
 
 They put in his hand a keen-edged sword, 
 Which they bid him fearless wield, 
 
 And they bring him the armor of the Lord, 
 And a never-failing shield. 
 
 Now fold m}^ hands on my aching breast, 
 
 For my battles all are won ; 
 And lift me up that my eyes may rest 
 
 On the tomb of God's holy Son. 
 
 Hark ! hark to the vesper bell's slow toll, — 
 
 It comes on my djing knell ! 
 One prayer, one prayer for my passing soul ; 
 
 Farewell to ye, brothers ! Farewell ! 
 
PEAYER FOR THE ABSENT. 83 
 
 PRAYER FOR THE ABSENT. 
 
 LESS thou the absent, O my God ! remember 
 Those whom I fondly cherish, far away ; 
 Some in the season of life's drear December, 
 Some in its summer, and its soft spring day 
 Kindly regard them, O thou Holy One, 
 For the dear sake of thine anointed Son ! 
 
 Bless thou the absent, when the light of morning 
 Flashes in splendor over land and sea, 
 
 When from the gorgeous clouds the east adorning 
 Breaks forth the golden sun sublimely free. 
 
 Scatter rich blessings on their devious way, 
 
 And guide their footsteps through the coming day. 
 
 Bles^ thou the absent, when the eve, returning, 
 Summons the wear^^ to a welcome rest ; 
 
 When night's first silver star is sweetly burning, 
 Gem-like and pure on heaven's cerulean breast. 
 
 Send them soft slumbers, soothing pain and care, 
 
 And let thine angels fold their pinions there. 
 
 Bless thou the absent, in the hour of trial, 
 Help them to battle in thy holy might, 
 
 Give back the tempter strong words of denial, 
 And victors stand upon the field of fight. 
 
 Cleanse them from every earthly stain and dross, 
 
 Teach them to seek the crown beneath the cross. 
 
84 THE SABBATH BELL. 
 
 Bless thou the absent, in the hour of sorrow, 
 
 When the wide world seems lonely, dark and drear 
 
 Rich consolation may they ever borrow 
 
 From thine own "Word, to thine own children dear. 
 
 There may each promise sweet, a healing balm, 
 
 The deep, keen anguish of the spirit calm. 
 
 Bless thou the absent ; guide and guard them ever 
 Through life, in death, and to that world on high, 
 
 Where care and grief and trial enter never, 
 Where death itself in endless life shall die ; 
 
 And the long-parted meet around thy throne. 
 
 Unknown to tears, to farewell words unknown. 
 
 ^^^c 
 
 THE SABBATH BELL. 
 
 ORNE on the summer breeze along. 
 Swelling and djing, a holy song. 
 It comes to the listening ears of men, 
 From city, and plain, and hill, and glen, 
 Flinging o'er earth a sacred spell. 
 For dear to God is the Sabbath bell. 
 
 It comes to the pilgrim old and gray. 
 And he leans awhile on his staff to pray ; 
 Then presses on in the narrow road 
 That hath its end in the saints' abode ; 
 
THE SABBATH BELL. 85 
 
 And he blesses God as he hears the swell, 
 The heavenly sound of the Sabbath bell. 
 
 It comes to the bright-eyed, joyful child, 
 With his bounding step and his laughter wild ; 
 The mirth is hushed on his lip so fair. 
 And his young feet turn with reverence where 
 Peal forth the notes that he knows so well, — 
 The summons sweet of the Sabbath bell. 
 
 It comes to the man of worldly care. 
 Calling him up to the house of prayer ; 
 But he hears the sound with an idle ear, - — 
 It hath no note to his spirit dear ; 
 Loving the things of the world too well, 
 He careth not for the Sabbath bell. 
 
 It comes to the Christian, journeying on 
 In the way that his risen Lord hath gone ; 
 He hails this day, with its hallowed strain. 
 As a golden link in the seven days' chain ; 
 And his soul is thrilled by the full, rich swell. 
 The deep-toned voice of the Sabbath bell. 
 
 Ye are passing fast, ye golden days. 
 Whose music peals to Jehovah's praise ; 
 But the ransomed soon to their God shall rise. 
 To a holier church in the heavenly skies. 
 And need ye not, with your sacred swell. 
 For the voice of the Lord is the Sabbath Bell. 
 
.86 SUNDAY SCHOOL ANNIVERSARY HYMN. 
 
 SUNDAY SCHOOL ANNIVERSARY HYMN. 
 
 CV^ AISE the song of jubilee ! 
 |5j| Let it echo loud and free ; 
 (^1 Unto God our praise shall be, — 
 God who dwells above. 
 Praise him with our j-outhful powers, 
 For these sweet and sacred hours ; 
 Blessings on our path he showers, — 
 Tokens of his love. 
 
 May we earlj^ seek his face, 
 Learn his will, adore his grace. 
 Children of a fallen race, 
 
 Saved through Jesus' name. 
 Light divine to us is given, — 
 Friends, who point the way to heaven ; 
 God's own truths, at morn and even, 
 
 Endless life reveal. 
 
 Shall his goodness be forgot, 
 Who hath cast our happ}^ lot 
 In this highly favored spot, 
 
 Free from error's sway? 
 Oh, may every j'outhful breast 
 Be with love for him possessed. 
 By his gifts so richly blessed. 
 
 In life's early day. 
 
THE ARM OF THE LORD. 87 
 
 Let not one of this dear band 
 Fail to reach the heavenly land, 
 Round the great white throne to stand, 
 
 Singing, God is love ! ' 
 Praise is there the sweet employ. 
 Bliss which sin can ne'er destroy ; 
 Perfect life and perfect joy 
 
 Fill the world above. 
 
 3><KC 
 
 <^^ <^ 
 
 THE ARM OF THE LORD. 
 
 the arm of the Lord is my shield and my sword ! 
 And I fear not though foemen are nigh ; 
 Their hosts will he smite by the blow of his might, 
 And the vanquished before him shall fly. 
 
 Though Satan may rage and new forces engage 
 
 To conquer my soul in the fray, 
 The strongest shall fail, for the Lord will prevail, 
 
 And win for his chosen the day. 
 
 Though the waters of woe may my spirit o'erflow, 
 They shall never, no, never destroy ; 
 
 I will lean on the Arm that shall quell my alarm. 
 And turn all my mourning to joy. 
 
88 THE ABM OF THE LORD. 
 
 Though I on the brink of despondency sink 
 
 At the sight of corruptions within , 
 From the depths of despair that Arm shall upbear 
 
 My spirit, and free it from sin. 
 
 Each burden shall roll like a weight from m}^ soul, 
 And strength shall my weakness renew ; 
 
 With joy the bright road to a blissful abode 
 My feet shall unfettered pursue. 
 
 That Arm is my hope when in darkness I grope. 
 And aside from life's pathway it throws 
 
 The briars and thorns, and the wild waste adorns 
 With the bloom of the myrtle and rose. 
 
 When pain and distress my spirit oppress. 
 
 That Arm, everlasting and sure, 
 Shall 'neath me be laid, imparting sweet aid 
 
 And grace to the end to endure. 
 
 When the angel of death shall enfeeble my breath. 
 
 And the valley I tremblingly tread, 
 The Arm of the Lord shall its succor afford. 
 
 And banish my terror and dread. 
 
 Blest Arm of the Lord ! be thou ever adored 
 
 Till my spirit no longer shall faint. 
 And thou makest the ground of death's vale to resound 
 
 With the shouts of a triumphing saint. 
 
/ WOULD NOT LIVE ALWAY.'' 89 
 
 I WOULD NOT LIVE ALWAY." 
 
 H, no ! I would not always live, 
 I could not bear to dwell 
 Forever where the curse of God 
 In awful justice fell ; 
 I would not always live where sin 
 
 Has made her dark abode, 
 Though dim the light to purer worlds. 
 And rough and wild the road. 
 
 Though swiftl}^ to earth's highest bliss 
 
 Might beat my youthful heart, 
 Still I should hear my secret soul 
 
 Exclaim, " I would depart." 
 The garlands of that bliss would fade, 
 
 And, dying, seem to say, — 
 All, all is vain and transient here. 
 
 And destined to decay. 
 
 I would not alwaj^s live where those 
 
 I love so soon depart ; 
 Too often o'er the coffined bier 
 
 There bends a breaking heart. 
 Too oft the language of the soul 
 
 Is sorrow's touching strain, 
 And words of mortal sympathy 
 
 She asks, but asks in vain. 
 
90 "/ WOULD NOT LIVE ALWAY," 
 
 And yet upon the cherished dead, 
 
 Released from earthly woes, 
 I love to gaze, and thmk how sweet, 
 
 How blest, is their repose. 
 Life's storms may gather o'er their graves, 
 
 But all is peace within ; 
 And they who wear the shroud sleep on, 
 
 Nor heed the tempest's din. 
 
 Oh, no ! I would not always live 
 
 Where friendship bears a thorn. 
 Where lips that wreathe in smiles to-day, 
 
 To-morrow curl in scorn. 
 And wasted love too oft returns 
 
 To wound the giver's heart. 
 While he who scorns the proffered gift 
 
 E'en triumphs o'er the smart. 
 
 Where life is but a weary chase 
 
 For phantoms seldom grasped ; 
 Whose stings, too late, are mourned, concealed 
 
 Beneath the treasure clasped ; 
 Where grovelling hope ne'er lifts the soul 
 
 To heaven's undying bliss. 
 But turns her wings from brighter worlds, 
 
 And chains them down to this ; 
 
 Where o'er life's way, too oft unchecked, 
 Fierce passions wildly sweep, 
 
" 1 WOULD NOT LIVE ALWAT" 91 
 
 Like angry billows mad career 
 
 Swift o'er the troubled deep. 
 Give me a calmer, purer sea, 
 
 Where barks in safety ride, 
 And reach the port and never wreck 
 
 On passion's raging tide. 
 
 I would not always have my heart 
 
 So darkly stained with guilt, 
 So reckless of the precious blood 
 
 On Calvary freely spilt, 
 Now yielding to the tempter's voice. 
 
 Now flying from his snare ; 
 Now living on in sinful ease. 
 
 Now roused to grief and prayer. 
 
 I would not always have my love 
 
 So trifling and so cold 
 For Christ, when his for me nor earth 
 
 Nor heaven can ever hold ; 
 'Tis fathomless as is the sea. 
 
 And countless as the sands 
 That sleep beneath the waves that dash 
 
 Along her mighty strands. 
 
 He left a throne, a glorious crown, 
 
 A shameful cross to bear. 
 The realms of bliss to win for man 
 
 A right to enter there. 
 
92 DEATH OF A MISSIONARY. 
 
 And can I e'er his love forget ? 
 
 Alas ! too oft below 
 The waters of its fount I drink, 
 
 But ask not whence they flow ! 
 
 Oh, no ! I would not always live 
 
 'Mid darkness, sin and strife ; 
 Thrice blessed be the golden hopes 
 
 Of pure, celestial life ; 
 And welcome death ! I fear thee not. 
 
 Earth I would glad resign, 
 Would alwaj^s live in heaven above ; 
 
 My God ! that life be mine ! 
 
 DEATH OF A MISSIONARY.* 
 
 c^ 
 
 fHERE comes a cry from a foreign soil. 
 On the spicy breezes sweeping ; 
 1 For death has darkened a field of toil. 
 And finished another's reaping. 
 
 Among the first in the faithful band, 
 With her precious sheaves around her. 
 
 And the keen-edged sickle in her hand, 
 At her Master's work he found her. 
 
 *Mrs. Sarah D. Comstock. 
 
DEATH OF A MISSIONARY, 93 
 
 She held it firm in her ceaseless clasp, 
 
 Till her labors all were ended ; 
 Then laid it down, with a shout, to grasp 
 
 The crown which her Lord extended. 
 
 There comes a cry o'er the swelling wave, 
 
 And the breath of bitter sighing ; 
 For a throng are pressing around the grave 
 
 Where a stranger's dust is lying. 
 
 They tell of the deeds the stranger wrought 
 
 In her heavenly love and kindness ; 
 They tell of the lamp of life she brought 
 
 To the heathen's world of blindness. 
 
 They tell of the glorious cross they greet, 
 
 She reared in that land of sorrow. 
 Where the guiltiest souls find pardon sweet. 
 
 And the saddest comfort borrow. 
 
 They tell of the freedom that cross reveals 
 
 To their wear}^, sin-bound nation ; 
 Of their idols crushed 'neath the mighty wheels 
 
 Of the car of Christ's salvation. 
 
 They mourn that her kindred were not nigh 
 When the death-stroke came to sever ; 
 
 That only one for the dim, dark eye 
 Could weep, as it closed forever. 
 
94 DEATH OF A MISSIONARY. 
 
 For a mother's hand, that softly smooths 
 
 For the loved the dying pillow, 
 And a sister's voice, that sweetly soothes, 
 
 Were far o'er the heaving billow. 
 
 "Well may they weep ; for it was for these. 
 
 Who whisper in tears her story. 
 She crossed the foam of the raging seas, 
 
 A herald of life and glory. 
 
 She came to tell to that strange, dark land. 
 Of His love who hath sweetly won them ; 
 
 To link their hearts to the Christian band. 
 With the seal of the Lord upon them. 
 
 And now the praise of her God is sung, 
 
 And his sacred ties are cherished 
 Where the chant of the senseless idol rung. 
 
 And the living victim perished. 
 
 But the voice that spake shall speak no more. 
 
 In its tone of triumph swelling ; 
 For the wail that echoes from that wild shore 
 
 Of the heathen's loss is telling. 
 
 Rest, loved one, rest, for thy work is done, — 
 Go, dust, to thy dreamless slumber ; 
 
 Mount, soul, to the crown and the white robe won, 
 And the bliss of the sainted number. 
 
DEDICATION OF A MEETING- HOUSE. 95 
 
 And ye, whose sorrow hath wrung your hearts 
 
 Till your tears like rain are falling, 
 Know ye, when the child of the cross departs, 
 
 It is at the Master's, calling ? 
 
 What though not back o'er the ocean tide 
 She came, to her home's glad greeting ; 
 
 The doors of a brighter opened wide. 
 And she waiteth there the meeting ! 
 
 3»<C 
 
 DEDICATION OF BAPTIST MEETING-HOUSE, 
 BROOKLINE, 
 
 Wednesday Evening, Dec. 1, 1858. 
 I' 
 C:^^TERNAL Father ! Sovereign Lord ! 
 T|^ We read, recorded in thy ^ord, 
 (j^ Thy servants built a house of prayer, 
 
 And thou didst meet and bless them there : 
 
 So, longing here thy face to see, 
 A temple, Lord, we build for thee ; 
 Oh, let the sacred fire appear 
 Upon the new-made altar here ! 
 
96 DEDICATION OF A MEETING-HOUSE. 
 
 Come, thou celestial Spirit ! come, 
 And make these earthly courts thy home ; 
 Here oft the burdened soul relieve. 
 And bid the mourner cease to grieve. 
 
 O Cross ! whereon to bleed and die 
 Our Ransom was uplifted high ; 
 The memory of the thorn, the spear, 
 Forever be exalted here ! 
 
 Here, Lord, may age grow ripe for heaven, 
 And manhood's strength to thee be given ; 
 Youth in its freshness seek thy face, 
 And childhood sing thy saving grace. 
 
 So shall these earthly courts prepare 
 Our souls for nobler worship, where 
 The temple of thy glory stands, — 
 The heavenly House not made with hands. 
 
RECOGNITION OF A PASTOR, 97 
 
 RECOGNITION OF REV. WILLIAM LAM- 
 SON, D.D., 
 
 As Pastor of the Baptist Church, Brooklinb, 
 
 Sabbath Evening, January 29, 1860. 
 
 ELCOME ! thou servant of the Lord ! 
 Welcome, this flock of God to lead 
 Through the rich pastures of his word, 
 And on his promises to feed. 
 
 Welcome, for us, with words divine 
 To break the sacramental bread, 
 
 And pour the emblematic wine, — 
 Type of the blood our Ransom shed. 
 
 Stand on our Zion's walls and lift 
 Before the mourner's weeping eye 
 
 Salvation's priceless, peerless gift. 
 The cross upreared on Calvary. 
 
 Welcome for souls to watch and pray. 
 
 With love that faith makes strong and bold, 
 
 While we thine hands unwearied stay. 
 As Aaron's hands were stayed of old. 
 
 Welcome our griefs and joys to share. 
 Thine shall be ours, and ours be thine ; 
 
 Each other's burdens will we bear 
 Before the throne of grace divine. 
 
98 THE WAT, THE TRUTH, THE LIFE, 
 
 Almighty God ! whose sovereign will 
 Ordains such unions here in thee, 
 
 Now with thyself this people fill, 
 So to thy glory it shall be ! 
 
 3>»<< 
 
 "I AM THE WAY, THE TRUTH, AND THE 
 LIFE." 
 
 L 
 
 U AM the Way ! I am the Way ! " 
 |T The holy Saviour meekly said ; 
 The sacred path, ye sons of clay. 
 
 With joy and loud thanksgiving tread. 
 " I am the road to endless peace, 
 The guide to purity and bliss. 
 When earthly cares and sorrows cease, 
 And sin that clouds a world like this. 
 By me may mortals hope to win 
 Eternal blessedness and rest, 
 By me alone to enter in 
 
 The sainted mansions of the blest. 
 
 " I am the Truth ! I am the Truth ! 
 
 A pure and never-failing spring ; 
 Come, weary age and buoyant youth, 
 
 And drink the waters which I bring. 
 
THE WAT, THE TRUTH, THE LIFE. 
 
 Ye in life's morn, come ere your lips 
 
 Have drank from error's gilded cup, 
 That death conceals for him who sips, 
 
 Yet lures the heart to drink it up ; 
 Oh ! from my fountain quench your thirst ! 
 
 Who drinks its waters never dies ; 
 In him shall springs life-giving burst 
 
 Whose waves are of the upper skies. 
 
 " I am the Life ! I am the Life ! 
 
 The living source of real joy, 
 That doubt and fear and woe and strife 
 
 And death itself can ne'er destroy ; 
 It is beyond the reach of time 
 
 That chills and withers joy below, 
 Transporting, lasting and sublime, 
 
 That saints and angels only know. 
 By me ye may, with peaceful breath. 
 
 Restore the dust from whence 'twas given, 
 Rise scatheless from the arms of death 
 
 To endless life and bliss in heaven. 
 
 " I am the Way, the Truth, the Life ! 
 
 Ye weary, heavy laden, come ; 
 Rest, sweetly rest from toil and strife 
 
 Forever in my glorious home ! " 
 'Twas thus the meek Redeemer spake. 
 
 And, burning on the sacred page, 
 His guiding beams to glory break. 
 
 Through darkness still from age to age. 
 
 99 
 
100 BEPLT OF RUTH TO NAOMI. 
 
 O Saviour ! we in early youth 
 
 Yield up to thee our hearts, our powers ; 
 We tread thy patli^ drink in thy truth, 
 
 Make thou thy life eternal ours I 
 
 THE REPLY OF RUTH TO NAOMI. 
 
 NTREAT me not ! entreat me not ! 
 I cannot go from thee ; 
 Oh, dreary, dreary is my lot, 
 If thou art not with me. 
 Why dost thou ask me ? have I e'er 
 
 Been less to thee than true ? 
 I, from whose heart thy image ne'er 
 A moment's absence knew ? 
 
 Hast thou forgot that age has set 
 
 His seal upon thy brow ? 
 Though beauty's traces linger yet 
 
 To show what once wert thou ; 
 Thy tottering step, thy trembling hand. 
 
 Thine ej^es he dim hath made ; 
 How wilt thou reach a stranger land 
 
 Without thy wonted aid ? 
 
REPLY OF RUrn TO NAOMI, 101 
 
 Hast thou forgotten her who gives 
 
 To thee the strength of youth, 
 As thou hast lived for her, who lives 
 
 For thee, thy faithful Ruth? 
 Hast thou forgotten her who sings 
 
 Thy griefs and cares away, 
 Till tardy moments spread their wings 
 
 And speed the closing day? 
 
 Thou shalt not wander forth alone 
 
 To toil, and beg for bread, 
 On changeful fortune's bounty thrown, 
 
 While I am richly fed. 
 No ! where thou goest I will go, 
 
 Where other mountains rise. 
 And other waters darkly flow, — 
 
 The world before us lies. 
 
 How could I love the light of home, 
 
 The hearth-stone kindling warm. 
 And know that thou wert forced to roam. 
 
 Exposed to every storm ? 
 Sleep would not come on wings of peace. 
 
 With wreaths of balmy flowers. 
 My soul to seek thee would not cease 
 
 All through the midnight hours. 
 
102 REPLY OF RUTH TO NAOMI. 
 
 And where thou livest I will live, 
 
 In some wild mountain cave, 
 Where passing storms a tribute give, 
 
 And gloom}'- cedars wave. 
 The hand that kindly succors thee 
 
 Shall for my wants provide ; 
 Thy home, though rough and rude it be, 
 
 Shall shelter me beside. 
 
 And where thou diest I will die, 
 
 Within our own sweet laud, 
 Or 'neath a sterner, colder sky. 
 
 Or on a burning sand. 
 Together may our fleeting breath 
 
 To Israel's God be given ; 
 Together may we sleep in death, 
 
 Together wake in heaven ! 
 
 Oh, let me share thy weight of woe. 
 
 The burden of thy care ; 
 My heart shall never weary grow. 
 
 Or shrink its load to bear. 
 I cannot, cannot part with thee. 
 
 Above, below the sod ; 
 Thy people shall my people be, 
 
 Thy God shall be my God ! 
 
LAMENTATION FOR SAUL AND JONATHAN. 10? 
 
 DAVID'S LAMENTATION FOR SAUL AND 
 JONATHAN. 
 
 2 Sam. I. 17-29. 
 
 'OW lieth the beauty 
 Of Israel now ; 
 Darkness hath shrouded 
 Her warrior's brow. 
 There's a stain on her banne- 
 
 A thorn in her crown, 
 A blight and a shade 
 On her peerless renown ; 
 A wail hath arisen from mountain and plain, — 
 The mighty have fallen, the valiant are slain ! 
 
 Hang on the dark willows 
 
 The timbrel and lute ; 
 Let the voice of rejoicing 
 
 In sorrow be mute ; 
 Let the land by the sound 
 
 Of our mourning be shaken ; 
 A dirge for the dead 
 
 Through the wide realm awaken ; 
 Send forth on the breezes a requiem strain, — 
 The mighty have fallen, the valiant are slain ! 
 
 The swifter than eagles 
 
 The slowest pass by, 
 The stronger than lions 
 
 All helplessly lie. 
 
104 LAMENTATION FOR SAUL AND JONATHAN. 
 
 Woe, woe to the slayer I 
 Accursed be the hand 
 That snatched for its victims 
 The pride of our land ! 
 A strength and a glory she ne'er shall regain, — 
 The mighty have fallen, the valiant are slain ! 
 
 Their sword from its scabbard 
 
 E'er fearlessly flew, 
 Their bow the swift arrow 
 
 UneiTingly threw ; 
 But their weapons unfailing 
 Are flung, as though vile, 
 On the broken, crushed arms 
 Of the massacred pile ; 
 And their plume-crested helmets the red dust shal 
 
 stain, — 
 The mighty have fallen, the valiant are slain ! 
 
 Like the cedars of Lebanon 
 
 Hewn in their pride. 
 By the blow of the spoiler 
 
 Our noblest have died ; 
 For a paean of triumph 
 
 There comes but a wail, 
 And the flushed cheek with sorrow 
 
 Turns fearfully pale ; 
 A host hath departed, a host in the twain, — 
 The mighty have fallen, the valiant are slain ! 
 
LAMENTATION FOR SAUL AND JONATHAN. 105 
 
 Weep, daughters of Judah ! 
 
 Unceasingly weep, 
 As the strings of your timbrels 
 
 Ye mournfully sweep ; 
 Hide gladness in anguish. 
 
 Veil beauty in tears, 
 The bright hopes have perished 
 
 Ye garnered for years ; 
 For a warrior's greeting ye tarry in vain, — 
 The mighty have fallen, the valiant are slain ! 
 
 "Wreathe, wreathe with the cypress 
 
 Your dwellings of woe ; 
 No more in the goblet 
 
 The red wine shall glow ; 
 The step of the dancer 
 
 Hath passed from the hall, 
 Where the feet of the mourner 
 
 Loud echoing fall ; 
 They have gone from the banquet who come not again, — 
 The mighty have fallen, the valiant are slain ! 
 
106 JEPHTRAEts row. 
 
 % 
 
 JEPHTHAH'S VOW. 
 Judges xi. 29-40. 
 
 C^^KE morning sun rose brightly, and dispelled 
 The gathered mists that darkly hung around 
 Judea's ancient mountains. Brightly, too, 
 It shone on Jephthah's cottage, aud its rays 
 Glanced with redoubled splendor from the arms 
 Of that brave warrior, as he stood arrayed 
 In all the fearful brilliancy of war. 
 His haughty step, and anxious, careworn brow, 
 And flashing eye, betrayed the restless fire 
 That burned within ; for long had Jephthah mused 
 On Israel's bondage, on his country's woes. 
 With earnest gaze he turned his eyes to heaven, 
 Then on the dewy sward sank reverently. 
 And raised his morning orisons to God : — 
 " O Thou, who art from everlasting King, 
 Of heaven's unnumbered hosts the great Supreme, 
 No less the Lord of man's rebellious race, — 
 Hear thou thy servant's prayer, and for the sake 
 Of thine Anointed my petition grant. 
 Weak though it be, my hope, my only hope. 
 On thee is stayed ; for who can aid like thee ? 
 So wilt thou grant that I return this day 
 A mighty victor from the battle-field ; 
 That I be crowned as Israel's loyal King. 
 Whate'er shall welcome me as conqueror home. 
 Shall first proclaim me chief o'er Israel's race, 
 
JEPHTHAE^S row, 107 
 
 That will I offer thee, — an offering meet for God, 
 For heaven." 
 
 He spake ; then, rising hastily, 
 His keen-edged sword he girded on, and left 
 His peaceful home and only child, to lead 
 The ranks of Israel forth to meet the foe. 
 Lo, far away on Judah's vine-clad hills. 
 Their fierce arms glistening in the morning sun, 
 Down to the plains descend the hostile band ; 
 With slow and solemn steps they near the ranks 
 Of Israel, and await the fearful signal. 
 Now face to face they close in long array. 
 Swords clash with swords, or, buried deep, drink in 
 The victim's blood, and snap life's cord in twain. 
 Brother and friend and foe lie side by side 
 To rise no more ; for death's dark, fearful pall 
 Is o'er them cast forever. 
 Amid the dust and furious din of war, 
 Trusting in God, the valiant Jephthah leads 
 On to the charge afresh his eager lines ; 
 And now their fainting foes are yielding, and. 
 In wild disorder, seek in speedy flight 
 The lives they else would lose. 
 
 Lo, Israel's ranks 
 From plain to plain triumphantly pursue ; 
 They conquer, and the Ammonites are slain ; 
 The die is cast, and Israel now stands foith 
 Unscathed and free. Rank after rank unites 
 To swell the song of gratitude to God, 
 
108 jephthah's vow. 
 
 Who bade them conquer ; who had still preserved, 
 Mid fearful dangers, his peculiar race. 
 The conflict ended, Jephthah fain would seek 
 His quiet home, yet trembles as he chides 
 His lingering footsteps, for his solemn vow, 
 Borne on the wings of morn to heaven, and there 
 By angels' pen recorded, still remains 
 Unchanged, and unforgotten. 
 
 Anxiously 
 He nears his cottage door ; but see who comes 
 To bid the mighty conqueror welcome home ; 
 It is, alas ! his only idol child ; 
 And joyously she welcomes him, in strains 
 Of sweetest music, as the nestling bird 
 Rejoices at its parent's glad return. 
 But who can paint that meeting ? who portray 
 The father's anguish ? for full well he knew 
 He soon must drink the bitter cup prepared. 
 On, on she came with childhood's bounding step 
 And sunny smile, yet wondering much that he 
 She loved should turn away when all seemed bright 
 And glorious, as if to hide his tears. 
 She sought the cause ; and childhood's joy was checked, 
 As thus the mourning warrior sadly spake : — 
 "Alas ! my daughter, thou hast brought me low, 
 And thou art one of those who trouble me ; 
 For I have vowed to God, the mighty God 
 Of Israel, and that vow I must fulfil. 
 Last night, when balmy sleep pressed heavily 
 
JEPHTHAE^S VOW. 109 
 
 Upon my wearied eyes, an angel came, 
 Clad in the brightness of the upper world, 
 And said, ' Fulfil thy vow ! ' " 
 
 He ceased ; the rose forsook the fair young cheek 
 Of her who stood before him, as she heard 
 The solemn tidings, for the fearful truth 
 Like lightning burst upon her buoyant mind. 
 She turned to weep ; but dashing off 
 The crystal drops, the maiden calmly spake : — 
 *'Fear not, my father, to fulfil thy vow. 
 And should there ought in it relate to me, 
 Lo ! I am thine, do with me as thou wilt." 
 The smitten parent bowed himself and wept 
 In agony of soul. The cherished bud 
 He long had fondly nurtured, now must die. 
 One long embrace, one silent kiss, betrayed 
 His bitter anguish ; then he led her forth 
 As oft he led the meek, devoted lamb, 
 A willing sacrifice, that he might keep 
 His solemn vow to God. 
 
 And far away. 
 In the lone stillness of the forest depths, 
 Whose dark recess no mortal e'er had trod. 
 And none save God's omniscient eye hath pierced, 
 Jephthah fulfilled his vow. 
 The willing spirit of his victim fled 
 To Him who gave it ; for life's golden bowl 
 Was broken. 
 
110 
 
 HE GIVETH HIS BELOVED SLEEP. 
 
 "HE GIVETH HIS BELOVED SLEEP." 
 
 EEP not, weep not the righteous dead, 
 Released from every ill ; 
 But let thy tears be freely shed 
 For those who yet to earth are wed, 
 Who sin and suffer still. 
 But when the joj^ful Christian dies, 
 When pale and changed his body lies, 
 And round his sable bier ye come 
 To take the claj^ unconscious home, 
 Hush every sob, check every sigh, — 
 Blest are the dead in Christ who die. 
 Let not a tear thine eyelids steep, 
 " He giveth his beloved sleep ! " 
 
MISCELLAJVEOUS POEMS. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 D>Q^C 
 
 Mh rpj 
 
 THE WATER-LILY. 
 
 the white water-lily that blooms on the wave ! 
 The sweetest and purest that nature e'er gave ; 
 It lifts its pale brow from the breast of the stream, 
 And its golden eye kindles at morning's first beam. 
 When tempest clouds gather and break in the sky, 
 And the dark tide quivers and wildly sweeps by, 
 It smiles on the waters the fierce winds that blow, 
 For the lily is anchored, fast anchored below. 
 
 Oh ! would that my bark on life's tremulous sea 
 Might sleep on the billows, sweet lily, like thee, 
 Unscathed by the rage of the tide and the storm. 
 Whose fury ne'er shatters thy beautiful form. 
 Firmly anchored below, I could smile at the strife 
 That troubles the skies and the waters of life ; 
 Like the pride of the streamlet, exultingly brave 
 The shock of the tempest, the wrath of the wave. 
 8 113 
 
114 MUSIC OF THE SEA. 
 
 
 MUSIC OF THE SEA 
 
 LOVE the sound ! I love the sound ! 
 
 The music of the sea ; 
 The murmuring of the mighty waves 
 
 That sweep so wild and free. 
 
 I love it best ! I love it best 
 
 Amid the gathering storm, 
 When lurid lightnings wreathe with flame 
 
 The quivering vessel's form. 
 
 I love it when the gloomy cloud 
 
 The fiery bolt has riven, 
 And the deep sea re-echoes back 
 
 The voice of God from heaven ; 
 
 When wildly on the rocky shore 
 
 The foaming billows leap. 
 And with a hoarse and sullen roar 
 
 Rolls on the troubled deep. 
 
MOONLIGHT UPON THE WATERS. 115 
 
 MOONLIGHT UPON THE WATERS. 
 
 lit 
 
 OONLIGHT upon the waters ! 
 How beautiful the scene, 
 (^^^V -^s dance a thousand silver gems 
 
 On waves of emerald green ; 
 Now glittering on the snowy crest 
 
 Of billows riding high, 
 Or gleaming from the hollow breast 
 Where calmer waters lie ! 
 
 Our bark sits lightly on the waves. 
 
 As sits the fearless bird 
 Whose home is on the wild, dark sea, 
 
 Forever, ever stirred 
 By the deep pulses of the tide, — 
 
 The giant tide and strong. 
 That rolls from shore to distant shore 
 
 Its waves with solemn song. 
 
 Moonlight upon the waters ! 
 
 How glorious, how sublime 
 To gaze upon a scene like this. 
 
 The same from ancient time:; 
 For thus old ocean rolled its wealth 
 
 Of waters to and fro, 
 And barks moved on like ours to-night 
 
 A thousand years ago ! 
 
116 MOONLIGHT UPON THE WATERS. 
 
 And pennons floated proud and high 
 
 Upon the breezes free ; 
 And hearts were thrilled like mine to watch 
 
 The moonlight on the sea ; 
 And not a sound disturbed the night, 
 
 Save the deep, solemn tone 
 Of restless billows hurrying on 
 
 Theu' liquid march unknown. 
 
 Moonlight upon the waters ! 
 
 The brightest fairy dream. 
 The glowing pictures fancy paints, 
 
 Not half so radiant seem. 
 Let others gaze where silver beams 
 
 Fall soft on flower and tree ; 
 But give to me the vessel's deck, 
 
 And moonlight on the sea. 
 
 I deem my life is like the scene ; 
 
 My heart is like the waves 
 That mirror back so fitfully 
 
 The light the sweet moon craves ; 
 For oft to gild its gloomy depths 
 
 Celestial beams are given. 
 And dark and troubled waters catch 
 
 The golden hues of heaven. 
 
THE OLD MAN AT HIS COTTAGE DOOR. 117 
 
 THE OLD MAN SITS AT HIS COTTAGE 
 DOOR. 
 
 % 
 
 HE old man sits at his cottage door, 
 In the warm September sun ; 
 His head with the frost of age is hoar, 
 While the little child who wreathes it o'er 
 Has scarcely her life begun. 
 
 He feels the breezes that gently pass 
 
 O'er the early autumn flowers ; 
 And he watches the shadows on the grass 
 Where the feet of his little grandchild pass, 
 
 And thinks of his childish hours. 
 
 His once strong arm is a withered limb, 
 And his hand is rough and brown ; 
 
 He knows that his eye is growing dim, 
 
 And life has little in store for him 
 As he passes the valley down. 
 
 But his heart goes back to his early days, — 
 
 To the golden days of yore. 
 When life seemed nought but a flowery maze, 
 And his step was light as the child's that plays 
 
 So merrily round the door. 
 
118 THE CRICKETS, 
 
 He muses a while, and a tear, perchance, 
 
 Drops down from his dim old e3''e ; 
 But the child whose pulses with pleasure dance, 
 Looks up in his face with a wondering glance, 
 And hushes the half-drawn sigh. 
 
 'Tis but for a moment ; the dream is o'er ; 
 
 And the warm September sun. 
 And the kisses of childish lips, restore 
 Sweet peace to his weary old heart once more, 
 Till he half forgets, as he }ias before, 
 
 That his sands are almost run. 
 
 THE CRICKETS. 
 
 tv^ HE birds have dropped their weary wings, 
 YY . And to their nests have flown ; 
 ^ No more the wild wood gayly rings 
 
 To melody its own. 
 The dew-drops glitter on the grass, 
 
 Like gems the fairies fling ; 
 And where their elfin footsteps pass 
 I hear the crickets sing 
 
 All through the warm midsummer night. 
 
 So beautiful and still. 
 Till morning comes with rosy light 
 
 Along the eastern hill. 
 
THE CRICKETS, 119 
 
 The moon comes up the azure sky, 
 
 The stars their lustre fling ; 
 And while they wax and wane on high, 
 
 I hear the crickets sing. 
 
 Where giant trees their branches toss 
 
 In grandeur to and fro, 
 And forest flowers and velvet moss 
 
 In wild profusion grow ; 
 And on the hillside green and fair, 
 
 And where the rushes spring. 
 Around, beneath, and everywhere, 
 
 I hear the crickets sing. 
 
 Dream-like unto my listening ear 
 
 Comes up their plaintive tone, 
 And visions of the past appear. 
 
 And early pleasures flown. 
 Oh ! when the dew lies on the flowers, 
 
 And folds the bh-d his wing. 
 It brings me back my childhood's hours 
 
 To hear the crickets sing. 
 
120 THE DEPARTURE OF SUMMER, 
 
 THE DEPARTURE OF SUMMER. 
 
 % 
 
 ^^^HE summer days ! the summer days ! 
 Oh ! they have hurried by, 
 And faded, like the gorgeous clouds 
 That wreathe the sunset sky ; 
 And summer birds have plumed their wings 
 
 For milder climes away, — 
 The swallow and the golden thrush 
 That twittered on the spray. 
 
 The shadows lengthen of the trees 
 
 That wave so free and high, 
 And lighter is the azure tinge 
 
 Of pale September's sky ; 
 And mournful is the brooklet's tone. 
 
 Whose chilh^ waters i^ass 
 Where every night the hoar-frost leaves 
 
 His white wreaths on the grass. 
 
 Across the sunbeam's colder track,- 
 
 With drooping wings and slow. 
 The golden-pinioned butterflies, 
 
 The summer's children, go. 
 They pine for her as pines a bird 
 
 For its own native bowers ; 
 For there is gloom around their haunts, 
 
 And death among their flowers. 
 
DECEMBER. 121 
 
 The summer flowers ! the summer flowers ! 
 
 How have they drooped and died ; 
 The last is scarcely lingering yet, 
 
 The scarlet meadow-pride. 
 The wild rose and the buttercup, 
 
 The clover's honeyed blow, 
 The lily and the columbine, 
 
 Have vanished long ago. 
 
 O Summer ! thou hast borne away 
 
 The loveliness of earth, 
 And in the wood and on the hill 
 
 Stilled nature's voice of mirth. 
 Farewell to thee, sweet season, till 
 
 Thou shalt return again, 
 With living gifts and beautiful, 
 
 To gladden field and plain. 
 
 D>JKC 
 
 DECEMBER. 
 
 IS the last of the year, 'tis the last of the j^ear ; 
 The woodland is silent, the landscape is drear ; 
 No bird in the forest, no flower on the plain. 
 Where soft fell the sunlight and glittered the rain. 
 
 There is snow on the mountain, and snow on the moor, 
 And snow in the valley, all wreathing it o'er ; 
 
122 DECEMBER. 
 
 It lies a white pall on the traveller's road, 
 
 And drifts through the fields where the rivulet flowed. 
 
 By the spell of the ice-king's all-powerful breath 
 The earth is as cold and as silent as death ; 
 And the trees, where the summer's green foliage hung, 
 With his gems and his diamonds are brilliantly strung. 
 
 'T is the last of the year, 't is the last of the year ; 
 The woodland is silent, the landscape is drear ; 
 But crown it with Christmas, the month, as it goes, 
 And the snows of December shall jdeld us a rose. 
 
 Oh, crown it with Christmas, that glorious time 
 When the angels rejoiced o'er an advent sublime ; 
 When to earth, by the love of its Maker, was given 
 A Saviour, Redeemer, and portal to heaven. 
 
 The months in their circles have many a day 
 
 Of peace and enjoyment as life wears away ; 
 
 But December, all wrapped in the snow like a pall, 
 
 Is crowned with glad Christmas, the best of them all. 
 
THE WINTER SERENADE, 128 
 
 THE WINTER SERENADE! 
 
 F all the strange freaks of a lover, 
 The funniest surely is this, — 
 Serenading a lady in winter. 
 With a snow-storm to heighten the bliss ! 
 In the midst of a raging north-easter, 
 
 That pitiless beats on his head, 
 
 Attempting with music to feast her 
 
 Who quietly sleeps in her bed. 
 
 In vain are the flute and the fiddle. 
 
 In vain the guitar he may play ; 
 The wind takes the notes in the middle. 
 
 And the breath from his body away. 
 The voice of the tempest prevailing, 
 
 Now sinks to a tremulous growl ; 
 Now rising and shrieking and wailing. 
 
 The chorus prolongs to a howl. 
 
 In vain for her waking he listens. 
 
 And opens his frost-bitten ears ; 
 While adown his mustachio there glistens 
 
 A something twin-sister to tears. 
 Closely shut is the snow-mantled casement, 
 
 No fair one is taking a peep, 
 The whole house from attic to basement 
 
 Is buried in silence and sleep. 
 
124 THE SNOW. 
 
 Oh, vain, persevering devotion ! 
 
 Regret sentimental deplores ; 
 Warm weather is best for emotion 
 
 That has to find vent out of doors. 
 Far better in season propitious, 
 
 By moonlight the strains to renew ; 
 Serenading is far more delicious 
 
 With your feet in a midsummer dew. 
 
 #!;, 
 
 THE SNOW. 
 
 the wintr}^ snow ! 
 When the north winds blow 
 On their pinions strong and high, 
 And the tempest shrouds 
 With its sullen clouds 
 The arch of the pleasant sky. 
 
 How soft and white. 
 
 Like a mantle light, 
 It falls on the hill and plain, 
 
 Where the flow'rets gay, 
 
 In the summer day. 
 Were gemmed with the soft, bright rain. 
 
THE SNOW, 125 
 
 Where sang the brook, 
 
 As its course it took 
 Through the meadow by the hill, 
 
 There comes no sound, 
 
 For the frozen ground 
 Hath silenced the joyous rill. 
 
 Where hummed the bee 
 
 On the flowery lea 
 He skimmed his waxen spoil ; 
 
 In an eddying whirl 
 
 The snow-flakes curl, 
 And bury the barren soil. 
 
 Fast, fast they come 
 
 From their northern home. 
 With a light and feathery form ; 
 
 Loud shrieks the blast 
 
 As it hurries past. 
 Like a spu-it of the storm. 
 
 The gladsome child. 
 With its laughter wild. 
 
 Looks up in the frowning sky ; 
 And the huge snow-drifts 
 And the wreaths and rifts 
 
 He hails with a gleaming eye. 
 
126 THE WASHINGTON MONUMENT. 
 
 Oh, a stirring sight 
 
 Is the tempest white 
 When the winds of winter blow ; 
 
 And the child leaps out, 
 
 With a merry shout, 
 On the newly-fallen snow. 
 
 3>»:c 
 
 THE WASHINGTON MONUMENT. 
 
 w 
 
 tOM New England's vales of beauty. 
 From the stern old gi-anite hills, 
 C^ Where in battle's stormy duty 
 
 Blood was poured like crimson rills ; 
 From the homes where freemen cherish 
 
 Like a household word Ms name, 
 Come, with gifts that shall not perish, 
 To adorn the Spire of Fame ! 
 
 From the South, whose broad dominions 
 
 Glbw beneath a warmer sun. 
 Where our eagle furls her pinions 
 
 O'er the grave of Washington ; 
 Where he fought who scorned to falter 
 
 In the darkest hour of strife, 
 Come, with offerings for his altar, — 
 
 His, who gave our freedom life. 
 
TO A LADY, 127 
 
 Genius of a mighty nation ! 
 
 Speed the work with earnest hand, 
 Till in one sublime creation 
 
 All the vast memorials stand 
 On the spire that points eternal 
 
 To the shining path he trod ; 
 Write his name forever vernal, 
 
 Freedom's son, the gift of God ! 
 
 3>»iC 
 
 TO A LADY. 
 
 ^|]%yHEN radiant morn to life awakes. 
 And leaves her shady bowers. 
 And with her rosy finger shakes 
 The dew-drops from the flowers ; 
 When countless minstrels sweetly sing 
 
 Wide o'er the earth in glee. 
 And gayly plume their freedom wing, 
 My heart is still with thee. 
 
 When gently dies the weary day, 
 
 And shines the evening star, 
 As twilight flings his mantle gray 
 
 O'er hill and dale afar ; 
 When strife and tumult softly cease. 
 
 From toil and care set free. 
 My spirit hails the blest release, — 
 
 My heart is still with thee. 
 
128 TO A LADY, 
 
 When gladness crowns my onward path 
 
 And lights the heart I bear, 
 And not a grief my spirit hath. 
 
 Or one corroding care ; 
 As deep I quaff the cup of bliss, 
 
 The sweetest poured for me, 
 Thy gentle voice, thy smile I miss, — 
 
 My heart is still with thee. 
 
 When adverse tempests* chilling rain 
 
 Beats harshly, coldly down, 
 And cherished hopes prove false and vain, 
 
 And changeful fortunes frown ; 
 Firm as a rock mid ocean waves 
 
 Thy hallowed memories be ; 
 Tliy sympathy my spirit craves, — 
 
 My heart is still with thee. 
 
 In joy or sorrow, bliss or woe, 
 
 Whatever lot be mine, 
 Thy image e'er shall brightly glow 
 
 Within my spirit's shrine. 
 Though distance holds me far from thee, 
 
 Communion sweet is given ; 
 Oh, heart to heart on earth we'll be, 
 
 And face to face in heaven ! 
 
THE MOON. 129 
 
 THE MOON. 
 
 Cii\ EAUTIFUL Moon ! — oh, how I love to hail 
 Thy glorious coming in the eastern sky, 
 When starry gems along thy pathway lie, 
 Trembling, and turning in thy presence pale, 
 Brightest adorner of night's pensive brow, 
 Fairest of all her radiant jewels, thou ! 
 
 Wreathing with light the fleecy cloud, that veils 
 With its thin mantle, for a little space, 
 The full-orbed lustre of thy beaming face ; 
 
 Casting thy splendor on the sleeping dales, 
 Fields, woods and waters that beneath thee rest, 
 With night's dark shadows on their peaceful breast. 
 Oh, I do love thee ! but the most, sweet Moon, 
 In the still hour of midnight's sacred noon ; 
 Calm then are spirits that with day have striven, 
 And earth's repose seems kin to that of heaven ! 
 
 GRACE DARLING. 
 
 LD ocean's waves rolled wild and high, 
 And angry surges roared. 
 While fiercely down a stormy sky 
 Unceasing torrents poured. 
 The lightning's fitful flashing showed 
 
 A wrecking vessel's form, 
 That tossed on giant billows rode, 
 A plaything of the storm. 
 
130 GRACE DARLING. 
 
 Her white sails rent are streaming high 
 
 Against the frowning skies, 
 And where the deep goes whirling by 
 
 Her fallen banner lies. 
 She reels, she plunges, bounds, recedes, 
 
 And now her towering masts 
 Bow meekly down, like bended reeds. 
 
 Before the mighty blasts. 
 
 Hark ! hark ! — a wail, a fearful cry, 
 
 To land the strong winds bear ; 
 In every tone is agony. 
 
 In every note despair ! 
 Death hovers round that bark of doom ; 
 
 He lingers for his prey ; 
 And 'neath his feet a j^awning tomb 
 
 The parting waves display. 
 
 They rear their foam-crests high. ; that crowd 
 
 Of living men they crave ; 
 And shall they in their watery shroud 
 
 Enfold the good, the brave? 
 Oh, who shall snatch them from the brink 
 
 "Where ruin opens wide? 
 The boldest landsmen shuddering shrink 
 
 To stem that awful tide. 
 
GRACE DARLING, 13] 
 
 Far, far away upon the shore 
 
 A simple maiden stands ; ' 
 Snatched from a boat, a slender oar 
 
 Lies in her folded hands. 
 Each rude breeze, as it hurries by. 
 
 Flings back her clustering hair. 
 While flashes from her earnest eye 
 
 A hope that scorns despair. 
 
 " My father ! shall that bark," she cries, 
 
 " Go down in yonder sea? 
 In vain for aid those prayers arise ? — 
 
 It must not, cannot be ! 
 Unmoor the boat ! away, away ! 
 
 I will not linger here ; 
 This is no season for delay, 
 
 No time for doubt and fear. 
 
 " I would be gone ; my father, dare 
 
 With me to succor fly, 
 To save yon helpless victims there. 
 
 To brave the flood or die ? 
 A few brief moments, arid each tongue 
 
 The choking wave shall hush, 
 And, where those cries and groans have rung, 
 
 Overwhelming waters rush. 
 
132 GRACE DARLING, 
 
 " Heed, heed that wail of dee^) distress 
 
 To us the tempest bears ; 
 Oh, let us prize our lives the less 
 
 Perchance to rescue theirs ! 
 Fear not for me ; my hand is strong, 
 
 My heart is stronger still ; 
 And God, to whom these waves belong, 
 
 Can quell them at his will." 
 
 She ceased ; her sire, inspired, unlashed 
 
 The boat and seized the oar. 
 And fearless o'er the billows dashed, 
 
 That laved the sheltering shore. 
 There stood an angel bright beside 
 
 The maiden at the helm ; 
 He stayed the flood, he soothed the tide, 
 
 Nor dared a wave o'erwhelm. 
 
 She gazed upon the skies above, 
 
 The lightning's blazing path, 
 With holy faith and hope and love, 
 
 That awed the storm-god's wrath ; 
 And safe they reached the sinking wreck, 
 
 Where raging tempest's blew, 
 And bore from off her briny deck 
 
 Her pale, despairing crew. 
 
GRACE DARLING. 133 
 
 Then swiftly through the breaking foam 
 
 The quivering boat scuds back, 
 And bears her burden safely home, 
 
 Though death is on the track. 
 Unhurt by wind and storm and wave. 
 
 Upon the beaten strand, 
 The rescued from a watery grave 
 
 With loud thanksgiving stand. 
 
 How felt she then, that noble one, 
 
 Whose aid deliverance wrought, 
 And ere destruction's work was done 
 
 The ark of safety brought? 
 Compassion's tears had ceased to flow, 
 
 Her beating heart was stilled ; 
 A joy as sweet as angels know 
 
 Her pure, young spirit filled. 
 
 Days passed ; a glorious meed of fame 
 
 Time to the maiden bore ; 
 And thousands breathed her hallowed name 
 
 Unheard, unknown before. 
 She cared not for the great world's praise. 
 
 Still nature's artless child, 
 And shrank from admiration's gaze, 
 
 A spirit undefiled. 
 
134 GERTRUDE YONDER WART. 
 
 But vain are wreaths to bind her brow, 
 
 Or song's sweet tributes given ; 
 The world's applause she heeds not now, 
 
 Grace Darling is in heaven ! 
 She hath reward, — the robe, the crown, 
 
 The harp of heavenly tone, 
 The smiles of God, the high renown 
 
 Of those around the throne. 
 
 And while its rest her spirit takes 
 
 In that pure, blissful sphere, 
 Her deed of noble daring makes 
 
 Her name immortal here. 
 The muse of England's poets, fired, 
 
 Shall waft it o'er the main, 
 And transatlantic bards, inspired, 
 
 EoU back the deathless strain ! 
 
 3j^C 
 
 GERTRUDE VONDER WART. 
 
 u/^ O watch beside the wheel of death 
 yJ I A lonely woman came ; 
 ^ With quivering lips and struggling breath 
 
 She called the sufferer's name. 
 Love's accents woke his slumbering ear, — 
 " Alas ! " he cried, " and art thou here? 
 
GERTRUDE YONDER WART. 135 
 
 " Away ! away ! lest soon for thee 
 
 The fearful wheel be bared ; 
 Oh, it were double death to me 
 
 To have these torments shared. 
 Behold the breaking of the day, — 
 Away from hence ! away, away ! " 
 
 " To die with thee I came," she cried, 
 
 " To die with thee I came ; 
 The love that life could ne'er divide, 
 
 In death is still the same. 
 What can j^on world to me be now ; 
 My world is here.^ for here art tlwu. 
 
 " Death on thy brow hath placed his seal ; 
 
 I will not, cannot go ; 
 Bound on the vile, accursed wheel, 
 
 O God ! to leave thee so ! 
 Nay, bid me not, nay, ask me not ; 
 All, all beside thee is forgot." 
 
 She wiped from off his straining face 
 The beaded drops that hung ; 
 
 Her white arms twined in soft embrace 
 His frame with anguish wrung ; 
 
 The night-wind laid his pale brow bare ; 
 
 She pressed her cold lips gently there. 
 
136 GERTRUDE YONDER WART. 
 
 The path of night with stars is strewn, 
 
 That, pit3'iDg, from above 
 Looked down upon that vigil lone, 
 
 That deep, undying love ; 
 On woman's strong, enduring faith. 
 And hope that wrestled e'en with death. 
 
 Each mournful breeze that hurried by. 
 
 Devotion's earnest strain, 
 Her lips poured forth to God on high. 
 
 Bore upward from the plain ; 
 Bright angels hovered o'er the spot, 
 And gave her strength to leave it not. 
 
 Pale grew the sufferer's cheek, and dim 
 
 His glazed and sunken eye, 
 And cold and stiff each tortured limb, 
 
 That told the end was nigh. 
 His faithful Gertrude's hand he grasped, 
 And love's last words convulsive gasped. 
 
 " This is thy love," he murmured, " this 
 
 Fidelity till death ; " 
 Then, with a smile of saintly bliss, 
 
 Resigned his struggling breath. 
 The work was done ; the spirit trod 
 Its shining pathway home to God. 
 
FRIENDSHIP. 137 
 
 And now beside the fearful wheel, 
 
 "Whence hope and life had fled ; 
 She stood, her loneliness to feel, 
 
 The living with the dead ; 
 Then, kneeling there, devoutly blest 
 The grave that had inspired her breast. 
 
 FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 OW vain are words the ties to tell 
 That heart to heart may bind ; 
 The strange, m3^sterious, mighty spell 
 Of mind on kindred mind ; 
 The light that comes the soul to fill 
 
 From friendship's altar shed. 
 That cheers the drooping spirit still, 
 When days, ay, years have fled ! 
 
 And when fate's stern and high decree 
 
 Hath borne the loved afar. 
 It flashes o'er life's storm}^ sea 
 
 A bright, unfailing star. 
 Till joined again are hearts and hands 
 
 In bonds of earthly love, 
 Or in the purer, holier bands 
 
 That bind the blest above. 
 
138 THE THREE DREAMS. 
 
 And oh, when death's cold hand hath torn 
 
 A wreath of friendship here, 
 And on the chaplet they who mourn 
 
 Bestow the bitter tear, — 
 How sweetly Faith triumphant cries, 
 
 Exulting o'er the sod : 
 '' Friendship is endless in the skies. 
 
 With loved ones gone to God ! " 
 
 jXKc 
 
 THE THREE DREAMS. 
 
 Y night upon a battle-field 
 A tented host were l3"ing ; 
 A warrior slumbered on his shield, 
 His banner o'er him flying ; 
 He dreamed he won a wreath of fame. 
 
 And round his brow he bound it ; 
 Death with the strife at morning came. 
 The warrior never found it. 
 
 A young girl slept within her bower, — 
 A smile her red lips parted : • 
 
 The vision of some brighter hour 
 Swift o'er her spirit darted ; 
 
MT LOVED ONE ON THE SEA. 139 
 
 Love*s cup of bliss her fancy grasped ; 
 
 Could aught destroy it ever ? 
 She woke to find the chalice dashed, 
 
 The treasure gone forever. 
 
 Weary and worn, a pilgrim lay 
 
 Where greenwood shades were blending 
 His soul in heavenly dreams awaj^ 
 
 The angel Sleep was sending. 
 Hours past and saw that pilgrim wake 
 
 To catch the real gleamings 
 Of worlds that on the vision break 
 
 Not in earth's brightest dreamings. 
 
 O 5 
 
 Unwise is he who dreams of fame, 
 Gone at his slumber's breaking ; 
 
 Then love, too, only proves a name. 
 But heaven is heaven on waking. 
 
 )><^c 
 
 MY LOVED ONE ON THE SEA. 
 
 ^^■^HE storm is raging loud to-night, 
 4^ . And darker grows the sk}", 
 ^-^ And like a giant in his might 
 * The wild March wind sweeps by. 
 
140 MY LOVED ONE ON THE SEA. 
 
 My heart is with the good, the brave, 
 Who ride the billows free, 
 
 With one whose home is ocean's wave, 
 My loved one on the sea. 
 
 Would I could bid the tempest cease 
 
 That hath the sky o'ercast. 
 And soothe to gentleness and peace 
 
 The wild and angry blast ! 
 How can I bear their wrath to mark 
 
 That death to him may be, — 
 A wanderer in a fragile bark. 
 
 My loved one on the sea ! • 
 
 We were a happy household band 
 
 In childhood's sunny hours ; 
 Our pathway Hope's own rosy hand 
 
 Strewed with her fairest flowers. 
 But now a change hath o'er us passed ; 
 
 The grave hides two from me, 
 And far away his lot is cast, — 
 
 My loved one on the sea. 
 
 Oh, is it strange that I should weep 
 To hear the tempest rise, 
 
 And know that o'er an angry deep 
 His rayless pathway lies ? 
 
INVOCATION TO SPRING. 141 
 
 O God ! my eyes with tears are dim ; 
 
 To thee I come, to thee ; 
 Hear thou my earnest prayer for him, — 
 
 My loved one on the sea. 
 
 Through every danger safely guide ; 
 
 Thy watch-care round him thrown, 
 Grant that his bark unscathed may ride 
 
 High o'er where wrecks are strown. 
 But oh, if there his own must lie, 
 
 If there his grave must be, 
 Grant I may meet again on high 
 
 M}^ loved one on the sea. 
 
 INVOCATION TO SPRING. 
 
 END hither thy pinions, O beautiful Spring ! 
 And scatter rich gifts from thy radiant wing ; 
 We watch for thy coming, we long for thee here, 
 Thou fairest and first in the swift-rolling year. 
 
 The birds of the woodland are chanting thy praise ; 
 
 The stillness of morning is broke by their lays ; 
 
 Sweet flowers are springing to life on the hill, 
 
 And low in the vale by the clear-flowing rill. 
 
142 mjyocATioN to spring. 
 
 Come, tarry no longer, O beautiful Spring ! 
 Bring hither thy favors, bend hither thy wing ; 
 Though soon thou wilt leave us and Summer will come, 
 And Autumn whose treasures the reaper bears home. 
 Yet while in thy presence we mortals delight, 
 "We heed not thy passing, nor dream of thy flight, 
 Nor think the sweet blossoms we welcome to-day 
 Are transient as fair, and soon doomed to deca3\ 
 
 Thou art like the season of childhood and youth. 
 When friendship and pleasure seem changeless as truth ; 
 When the free, happy spirit of sorrow ne'er dreams, 
 And the dimly-veiled future Hope gilds with her beams. 
 But soon these delusions so flattering fl}^ ; 
 Soon clouds of adversity darken the sky ; 
 And swiftly time bears us from bright youth to age, — 
 To age, the last drama on life's fleeting stage. 
 
 Oh, life hath its seasons, its sunny spring-time, 
 
 Its summer of glory, its autumn sublime, 
 
 And winter that veils like a mantle of snow 
 
 All the years that have passed, with their pleasure and 
 
 woe. 
 When the last from our vision has faded away, 
 And we silently slumber, inanimate clay. 
 Like thee, O sweet Spring ! may we wake from the tomb, 
 In God's own paradise ever to bloom ! 
 
THE CHOICE. 143 
 
 THE CHOICE. 
 
 H, cease and tempt me not ! 
 I dash the chalice down ; 
 Be mine the pure and humble lot 
 Unknown to high renown. 
 The richest boon that fame can give 
 
 Can buy no gifts like this, — 
 A heart where true affections live, 
 A perfect wealth of bliss. 
 
 Say not the paths are bright 
 
 That unto honor lead. 
 That rapture crowns ambition's height 
 
 As humbler joys recede. 
 Call not the towering steep sublime, 
 
 Ascended for a name ; 
 It is a weary thing to climb 
 
 For only, only fame. 
 
 And what is fame ? — a breath 
 
 They prize alone who crave ; 
 And what's ambition's meed ? — a wreath 
 
 That withers in the grave. 
 Who toils for these must toil alone ; 
 
 His ear shall praises greet ; . 
 But, oh ! not fond affection's tone, — 
 
 No music half so sweet. 
 
144 JUNE, 
 
 Then offer not to me 
 
 The gift that I resign ; 
 For others let ambition be, 
 
 But peace and love are mine. 
 The richest boon that fame can give 
 
 Can buy no gifts like this, — 
 A heart where true affections live, 
 
 A perfect wealth of bliss. 
 
 5><Kc 
 
 JUNE. 
 
 P among the daisies 
 
 That bloom on the green hill-side, 
 And down where the merry brooklet 
 ' Leaps on like a silver tide ; 
 
 And deep in the forest hidden. 
 
 Where the sunlight comes at noon, 
 Spread like a feast unbidden, 
 Are the glorious charms of June. 
 
 The wild bird chants its praises 
 
 From many a leafy bower ; 
 And the child a glad shout raises 
 
 As he gathers the new-blown flower. 
 His eye with delight is beaming, 
 
 As his eager footsteps pass 
 Where the scarlet strawberry gleaming 
 
 Nestles among the grass. 
 
 11 
 
THE PROPHETIC BARK, 145 
 
 Rest ye a while from labor, 
 
 Ye who are toiling on 
 For wealth, that perchance may perish 
 
 Ere the half of life be gone ; 
 Rest ye a while, refreshing 
 
 Your spirits at Nature's shrine ; 
 For she gives to her lovers a blessing 
 
 That strengthens the heart like wine. 
 
 THE PROPHETIC BARK. 
 
 [The Hindoo girls have a custom, when their lovers are ahsent, of launch- 
 ing tiny boats freighted with rice and other offerings to a deity, accompanied 
 with a small lighted taper, which, if extinguished by the waves of the 
 stream in consequence of the overturn of the boat, is the sure sign of the 
 death of the absent lover; on the contrary, if it gains some shore unextin- 
 guished, they with equal creduhty regard it as portending a safe and speedy 
 return. 1 
 
 O forth, my bark, upon the tide. 
 Thou child of hope and fear ; 
 Safe o'er the treacherous billows ride, 
 And I will watch thee here. 
 
 " If far adown the moonlit stream 
 
 Thy beacon light I view. 
 One whose sweet love seems like a dream 
 
 Shall come to prove it true. 
 10 
 
146 THE PROPHETIC BARK. 
 
 ••* But if the quenching wave shall roll 
 O'er that clear light of thine, 
 
 Hope finds a grave within ray soul, — 
 Despair and death are mine ! " 
 
 Thus spoke the Hindoo girl, and gave 
 The stream her fragile bark ; 
 
 And watched it, dancing o'er the wave, 
 Send forth its cheering spark. 
 
 A while its onward course it kept. 
 Safe in her straining view ; . 
 
 But dark clouds o'er the pale moon swept, 
 And wild winds harshly blew. 
 
 The frail light rocked upon the tide, — 
 Now brightened, now grew pale ; 
 
 The breathless maid the stream beside 
 Prayed that it might prevail. 
 
 But angry waves o'erwhelmed the boat. 
 
 The beacon disappeared ; 
 No more, upon their breast afloat. 
 
 Her throbbing heart it cheered. 
 
 A cry rose on the midnight air, 
 From pale, sad lips it burst, — 
 
 The mournful wailing of despair. 
 Whence hope's glad tones came first. 
 
GRAVE OF AN INDIAN CHIEF. 147 
 
 With bitter tears she turned away, 
 
 With grief all else above, 
 That deepened with each dawning day, — 
 
 The grief of hopeless love= 
 
 When next they came with anxious breath 
 
 To watch their frail bark's gleam. 
 There was one less to read of death 
 
 On that foreboding stream ! 
 
 >j*:c 
 
 I 
 
 GRAVE OF AN INDIAN CHIEF. 
 
 C% CHIEFTAIN'S grave ! 
 
 Deep in the wildwood, — lonely, dark 
 
 and drear, 
 A red man of the forest slumbers here, 
 Whose arm the death-blow gave, 
 In savage might, to many ar pale-faced foe, 
 Whose dust alike lies in the green earth low. 
 
 Meet burial-place 
 Is this for one like him who fills it now, 
 Beneath the dark shade of the hemlock's bough ; 
 
 The pine trees interlace. 
 Shutting out all the life-like glare of day. 
 Save here and there a faint and fleeting ray. 
 
148 GRAVE OF AN INDIAN CHIEF. 
 
 The night dews fall, 
 And fill, till eve returns, the pale flower's cup, 
 Save when the bee the pearly draught drinks up. 
 
 Where the green moss her pall 
 Of shining velvet fondly strives to spread 
 O'er the hushed relics of the mighty dead. 
 
 The silver stream 
 Winds through the dell, with softly murmuring sound, 
 As though the spot were consecrated ground ; 
 
 And the fleet wild deer seem. 
 While hurrying by the undisturbed retreat, 
 To press the soft greensward with lighter feet. 
 
 On the still air 
 Ring out no joyous voices ; seldom heard 
 Is the sweet strain of bright-eyed beauteous birds. 
 
 And flitting unaware 
 Thither, the golden butterfly turns back, 
 Till the warm sunshine cheers his gloomy track. 
 
 The sheltering vine 
 A shadowy arch high o'er the sleeper weaves. 
 Of purple fruit, mingled with broad, dark leaves ; 
 
 And its fond tendrils twine 
 Around the cold, gray headstone, as it stands 
 Rude monument reared by unskilful hands. 
 
GRAVE OF AN INDIAN CHIEF, 149 
 
 The breezes change 
 Then- glad, light tune to one of mournful note, 
 As o'er the warrior's resting-place they float 
 
 Through the tall, stately range 
 Of trees, whose dark boughs, sweeping to and fro. 
 Make dirge-like music for the dead below. 
 
 Far distant roars 
 A mighty cataract, furious waters form ; 
 Like the hoarse mutterings of some coming storm 
 
 Its wrathful thunder pours ; 
 But all unheeded ; like sound's feeblest breath 
 Fall the loud echoes on the ear of death. 
 
 Springs come and wane. 
 And summer gales, scent-laden, rustle by ; 
 Green leaves, bright flowers 'neath autumn's cold touch 
 die; 
 
 And snow and icy rain — 
 Stern winter's gifts — fall on the charnel-spot 
 Of the dead chieftain, but he marks them not. 
 
 Oh ! can it be. 
 That he who fills this lowly burial-place. 
 Was the proud leader of the might}^ race 
 
 That roamed unchecked and free 
 Through the deep forest, o'er the wide-spread plain. 
 Children of nature, owning but her reign ! 
 
150 GRAVE OF AN INDIAN CHIEF. 
 
 First in the fray, 
 Bravest amoDg the brave in wildest strife, 
 Last to desert the field with slaughter rife. 
 
 Mighty in council day, 
 Pouring in savage ears the soul's deep strains, 
 Was he of whom but dust, mute dust, remains. 
 
 Strong is thine arm, 
 O Death ! from life's gay, busy realms, to bear 
 Down to the grave's lone darkness and despair 
 
 Proud man ; and swift to calm 
 The wild, high beatings of his feverish heart. 
 Is the cold anguish of thy fearful dart. 
 
 The dust is thine, — 
 Heaven's is the spirit, — and the lofty name 
 It leaves behind, perchance in lists of fame. 
 
 Enrolled shall brightly shine. 
 Till Time's dark hand, of future moments born, 
 Blots out the record frail, — then all is gone. 
 
 Sleep, chieftain,. sleep. 
 While yet thou mayest, for the white man's plough 
 Shall soon the smooth turf where thou restest now 
 
 Eend, furrowing deep, 
 And, from the levelled forest's bosom riven. 
 Heave up thy relics to the glare of heaven ! 
 
THE OLD MAN^S RETROSPECT. 151 
 
 THE OLD MAN'S RETROSPECT. 
 ji 
 
 COME back to me, my early years, 
 Come back, my childhood's hours, 
 Ye scenes that ne'er were dimmed with tears, 
 Ye fair and thornless flowers ; 
 Ye joys so pure, ye hopes so bright, 
 Ye sunny days so slow of flight, 
 Return, return to me, I fain 
 Would be as once, a child again ! 
 
 Come back to me, ye woods and streams 
 
 Where joyfully I played. 
 Where morning shed her earliest beams. 
 
 And evening cast her shade. 
 Ye soft, sweet winds that fanned my brow. 
 Careworn and deeply furrowed now. 
 Again around my forehead play, 
 As in my careless boyhood's day. 
 
 Come back to me, O early friends ! . 
 
 The generous and the true. 
 Fond hope with sorrow sadly blends 
 
 Whene'er I turn to you. 
 Some of ye sleep 'neath ocean waves, 
 Some of ye rest in churchyard graves. 
 And some like me a wanderer roam. 
 The wide, bleak world your only home. 
 
152 THE OLD MAN^S RETROSPECT. 
 
 All, all have gone ; I call in vain, 
 
 In vain invoke the dead, 
 And wake fond memories again, 
 
 Realities have fled. 
 No mortal voice hath ever power 
 To summon from the past one hour. 
 And none life's path again may trace 
 Or run again its fleetins; race. 
 
 Change comes with ruthless hand to mar 
 
 All that we cherish here, 
 She darklj^ clouds life's brightest star. 
 
 And blights its hopes most dear. 
 And those who travel on life's way 
 She dooms to sorrow and decaj^. 
 Until her last chill touch they feel. 
 As death's embraces o'er them steal. 
 
 The world grows darker as it bears 
 
 Increasing weight of years. 
 And he from grief whom childhood spares, 
 
 Must give to age his tears. 
 In every season, every clime. 
 There follow in the track of time 
 Misfortune's footsteps long delayed. 
 Care's anxious form, and sorrow's shade. 
 
THE slave's peayeb. 153 
 
 Farewell ! farewell, my early years ! 
 
 Joys that shall ne'er return, 
 Yet oft, with mingled smiles and tears, 
 
 To Y/hich my soul shall turn. 
 Still, still a child am I, though age 
 Proclaims me on life's latest stage, 
 A child in wisdom — may I rise 
 To manhood in the upper skies ! 
 
 THE SLAVE'S PRAYER. 
 
 rtl SLAVE at prayer ; list, as his clasped hands 
 1^ clank 
 
 CT V Their iron bonds, and press his burning brow 
 
 That cruelty hath branded, — list ! his cry 
 Goes not unheeded up, shall not return 
 Unanswered, unregarded. 
 
 Day hath fled. 
 But still he lingers at his lengthened task. 
 Wet with dim evening's softly-falling dew, 
 To kneel a moment on the fresh damp earth, 
 Up to the God of bound and free to lift 
 His aching heart in deep devotion's strain. 
 No eye beholds him save the piercing eye 
 Of great Omniscience, and no ear but His 
 Can catch the earnest breathings of his soul 
 Pom-ed wildly forth upon the southern breeze ; 
 
154 THE SLAVEYS PRATER. 
 
 The tall, rank canes around him shut him out — 
 A friendly screen from ail of nature, save 
 The broad, blue arch above where gathering stars 
 Are twinkling palely, — for the conscious west 
 Still holds her crimson blushes, which the sun 
 Woke at his parting with her vine-clad hills ; 
 The sounds of wine-cup revelry and mirth 
 Are loudly echoing from the planter's halls, 
 Where the oppressor hath a while forgot 
 His tyrant sternness, and put on the robe 
 Of gayet}^, and wreathed with sweetest smiles 
 The lips that late with taunting words had mocked 
 The tears and anguish and the pleading cries 
 To God for mercy of his praying slave. 
 Mingled with these discordant sounds of joy 
 And idle merriment, the fettered Afric's prayer 
 Arose to heavenly ears approved, and woke 
 The slumbering vengeance of the planter's God 
 Insulted, long forgotten. 
 
 " O God ! regard a slave ; 
 Hear me in fetters praying, whose harsh sound 
 Rings in my ear and tells me I am bound, 
 Till, freed forever from oppressive sway, 
 The wreck of this my worn out frame I lay 
 
 Within the welcome grave. 
 
 "Was it thy holy will 
 I should be born, my body and my soul 
 To yield submissive to the vile control 
 
THE slave's prater. 155 
 
 Of fellow-mortals, who, with sordid gold, 
 The price of human flesh a brother's sold, 
 Would fain their coffers fill? 
 
 " No ! didst thou not create 
 Me as thy creature who hath bound me, free 
 For the wide waters of yon mighty sea. 
 Or the vast regions of my father's lands. 
 The palm-crowned mountains and the barren sands, 
 
 Unknown to wrong and hate ? 
 
 " Were it for crimes of mine 
 That men have chained me like a wild beast here, 
 My future evil deeds their righteous fear ; 
 Then to the scourge, the bonds, the deep disgrace 
 Of the ill-fated sons of Afric's race. 
 
 My soul would I resign. 
 
 " But blood hath never stained 
 These hands, or guilt this heart defiled. 
 Since on my birth the skies of Afric smiled, 
 And first before thy shrine, O God ! I knelt 
 In the rude cot where she who reared me dwelt, 
 
 And nouorht but freedom reiojned. 
 
 " When the bright glow of youth 
 Beamed from my eye, mantled my cheek and brow, 
 Giving them freshness lost forever now, 
 
156 THE slave's prayer. 
 
 From thine own word, by thine own servant brought, 
 Salvation's tidings to our race were brought, 
 And I drank in thy truth. 
 
 " I learned from thence to call 
 The children of this widely-peopled earth 
 Brothers and equals, save when rank of birth 
 Gives some precedence which the lack denies, 
 But 'mongst men only, for in thy pure eyes 
 
 All stand as equals, all. 
 
 " Of this far land I heard, 
 Where Gospel light o'er nature's darkness beamed. 
 Where Freedom dwelt whose rays celestial streamed. 
 And hearts once harboring hate and lust and wrong 
 Grew heaven-instructed, in all virtues strong. 
 
 Obedient to thy word. 
 
 " Is this the country? this 
 That hath such reverence for thy law and name, 
 And o'er the deep to Afric sends her fame. 
 Teems with a sister country's sons who toil, 
 
 Chained for her wealth and bliss ! 
 
 " Shall she preach freedom, yet 
 Let the foul winds of her distempered air 
 Up to the skies the groans of bondsmen bear, 
 
THE SLAVICS PRAYER. 157 
 
 The turf defiled of her once spotless ground, 
 Drink in the blood from manj^ a scourge-cut wound. 
 And Thou her crimes forget ? 
 
 " No ! for it cannot be ; 
 Just art Thou, and thy vengeance, though delayed, 
 Will to the guilty be in wrath repaid. 
 Oh ! haste to succor, to avenge the slave, 
 Whose only hope of rest is in the grave, 
 
 And only aid in Thee. 
 
 '' Grant me strength from on high 
 To meekly drink affliction's waters up 
 Thou hast allotted for life's bitter cup ; 
 Cheer my sad spirit in its shattered shrine, 
 With sweet assurance of Thy love divine, 
 
 As bound I live and die. 
 
 " Wipe out this foulest blot 
 On thy creation ; let our injured race 
 Burst their vile shackles ; quit their deep disgrace. 
 Grant us our birthright, and redress our wrong ; 
 Let not thy retributions linger long, 
 
 O God ! delay them not ! " 
 
 He ceased, and rose with spirit strengthened, firm. 
 
 Resigned e'en to the yoke of bondage, while 
 
 It seemed his Master's \\o\y will, and left 
 
 The oppressor's judgment to the oppressor's God. 
 
158 THE slave's prayer. 
 
 Day after day he toiled, and murmured not ; 
 Night after night regardless of the threats 
 Uttered in demon malice, threats of stripes, 
 Torture, imprisonment, starvation, death ; 
 Till each dark penalty by man enforced. 
 Saving the last which sets the spirit free. 
 There came an angel from, the world on high 
 And took the worn-out, suffering, dying slave 
 Home to the bosom of his God, to all. 
 Heaven glorious liberty. 
 
 Days passed. 
 And retribution came at last to him 
 Who had defied it long ; the spoiler, death, 
 Gathered the roses in the planter's bowers, — 
 The living roses which he long had nursed. 
 From the half-opened bud that just disclosed 
 Beauty's bright tokens yet in infancy 
 Concealed, up to the full-expanded flower 
 Of bloom mature. 
 
 The childless mother bowed 
 Her head in sorrow, and the same dark grave 
 That held her withered roses closed on her ; 
 And, 'mid the desolation of his silent halls, 
 The planter stood alone. 
 
 Yet was he unsubdued ; 
 His spirit raised and purified and taught 
 To yield obedience to the Eternal .Word 
 He scorned, and rudely trampled 'neath his feet 
 As worse than worthless. 
 
THE slave's prayer. 159 
 
 Unrelenting still, 
 E'en while the wounds death had inflicted yet 
 Rankled within, and pangs of parting pierced 
 His own unpitying bosom, forth he walked 
 And tore the infant from its mother's arms. 
 The hapless husband from his anguished wife, 
 Rending with ruthless hand those sacred ties 
 For purposes which cause far keener pangs 
 Than death can wake ; he cared not for their woe, 
 For in his sight they were but brutes, and brutes 
 Can never feel like men. 
 
 Again God came 
 In judgment, but he came not as before, 
 When merciful he strove, by bearing up 
 To heaven the idols which the planter long 
 Had fondly cherished, thither to attract, 
 Contrite and penitent, his spirit too. 
 But now he came in wrath. 
 
 The fierce, wild storm 
 Of civil strife rose in the planter's lands ; 
 The flames of hot revenge the spirit fired. 
 Long crushed and spurned beneath the oppressor feet, 
 To deeds of vengeance ; and the timid hand. 
 That had for years in sullen silence toiled. 
 Grew strong and fearless, and stretched boldly forth. 
 Asked blood for blood. 
 
 The glittering steel 
 Sought it and found it in the planter's heart ; 
 Pierced, at their feet who oft had vainly crouched 
 
160 freedom's champions. 
 
 Suing for mercy at his own, lie fell. 
 His struggling spirit passed away from earth, 
 And rose to meet, before the bar of God, 
 The wronged, scourged victims of its infamy, 
 And recognize among the shining ones, 
 Who gather closest round the Eternal Throne, 
 Bearing the likeness of the Father, clad 
 In all the brightness of the upper world, 
 His praying slave ! 
 
 FREEDOM'S CHAMPIONS. 
 
 €HILDIlEN.of a Southern soil. 
 Holders of unlawful spoil. 
 Ye whose groaning thousands toil 
 * In their hopeless misery, — 
 
 Hear ye not the battle cry 
 That proclaims the warfare nigh, 
 When the oppressor's rank shall lie 
 
 Slain by Freedom's champions ? 
 
 On they come in holy might. 
 Men of foulest crime to smite 
 With the keen-edged sword of Right, 
 And the steel of Liberty. 
 
FREEDOAfS CHAMPIONS. 161 
 
 Ye may draw the fetters strong 
 Round the victims of 3'Our wrong ; 
 Justice shall not linger long, 
 
 Vengeance cometh speedily. 
 
 God hath heard the cr}^ of him 
 With the mangled, fettered limb, 
 And the eye with weeping dim, 
 
 In the grasp of slavery. 
 
 God hath heard, and not in vain ; 
 For his fires of wrath shall rain 
 Death upon the Southern plain, — 
 
 Land of shame and cruelty. 
 
 Ye whose hearts some pity crave 
 For the scorned, degraded slave. 
 Longing for the quiet grave, 
 
 Haste, avenge his injuries. 
 
 Onward, brothers, hand in hand, 
 God shall aid his chosen band. 
 Drive the oppressors from the land ; 
 
 Onward, brothers, fearlessly. 
 
 Gathered from the East and West 
 And the North, the noblest, best, 
 From the South the rod we wrest 
 
 Of her shameful tyranny. 
 
162 FREEDOM^ S CHAMPIONS. 
 
 Craven hearts that shrink through fear, 
 Dare not in our ranks appear ; 
 What do we with cowards here, 
 
 Baser spirits wavering ! 
 
 What are ye but those in part 
 Who defend the human mart, 
 Though ye hold with such no part, 
 Kindred in their infamy ? 
 
 But the hold the true shall be, 
 In our strife on land and sea. 
 Ending not till earth is free, — 
 
 Ay, and free eternally 
 
 Men of single hearts and hands. 
 Fired with zeal, the cause demands ; 
 These shall make our stalwart bands, 
 
 Tliese shall conquer slavery. 
 
TEMPUS FUGIT. 163 
 
 TEMPUS FUGIT. 
 
 % 
 
 EMPUS FUGIT ! golden hours 
 
 Rapid flight are stealing, 
 Like the frost among the flowers 
 Changes sad revealing. 
 
 Tempus Fugit ! lo ! a child 
 
 By a streamlet pla3dng, 
 Or among the greenwoods wild, 
 
 Free and happy straying. 
 
 Tempus Fugit ! now a youth 
 Bounds with footsteps fleeting. 
 
 Deeming every promise truth, 
 Pleasure never cheating. 
 
 Tempus Fugit ! woe and care 
 Manhood's bloom are blighting, 
 
 Scenes and hopes once sweetly fair 
 Fortune stern is smiting. 
 
 Tempus Fugit ! hoary age 
 Childhood sadly blending. 
 
 Toys of infant years engage, 
 Downward swift descending. 
 
164 TEMPUS FUGIT. 
 
 Tempus Fugit ! lo ! a shroud, 
 And a grave preparing, 
 
 And the bier a sable crowd 
 Thither slow are bearing. 
 
 Tempus Fugit ! hark ! a bell 
 Solemnly is pealing ; 
 
 Strikes the ear a funeral knell 
 On the breezes stealing. 
 
 Tempus Fugit ! lo ! the end 
 Of the life ye covet ! 
 
 Ye whose spirits earthward bend, 
 Cease, oh ! cease to love it ! 
 
BUniAL OF THE IMMIGRANT' S CHILD. 165 
 
 BURIAL OF THE IMMIGRANT'S CHILD. 
 
 [The following lines are founded upon a touching incident which occurred 
 during the voyage of a poor Irish- female recently an immigrant to this coun- 
 try. She embarked with an only child for America. Soon after they set 
 sail, a malignant fever broke out among the passengers, owing to close con- 
 finement and scarcity of proper food. Many died and were hastily interred 
 in the sea, one after another as life became extinct. The poor woman was 
 in great fear lest her child should die also, and she could not bear the thought 
 of burying it in the sea. Her fears at last were realized; her child sickened 
 and died; but for three days and nights she concealed the fact of its death, 
 hoping land might appear where it could be buried. At the end of that time 
 she was obliged to reveal her loss, and the humane captain, on hearing of her 
 distress, kindly ordered the little corpse to be placed in a coffin in an open 
 boat attached to the stern of the ship, until land should be gained. In the 
 course of a day or two land was in sight; the ship was put about, the corpse 
 carried on shore by some of the crew and interred in a grave. The ship then 
 resumed her course towards the destined port. The grateful mother, who 
 related her simple story, will long remember the kindness of this benevolent 
 captain.] 
 
 k' 
 
 LEFT the land on my birth that smiled, 
 
 And was once my pride and joy ; 
 But the famine well-nigh drove me wild, 
 And I had no bread to give my child, — 
 My own, my fatherless boy. 
 
 I cared for nought in the world but him. 
 
 As over the sea we flew ; 
 But famine followed us, gaunt and grim, 
 And fever came, with the burning limb, 
 
 Till we were a ghastly crew. 
 
166 BUniAL OP THE IMMIGRANT'S CHILD. 
 
 I clasped my bo}^ to my breast, for he 
 Was my all in that wailing crowd ; 
 
 And oh, the thought ! it was agony, 
 
 To bury my darling in the sea, 
 With never a prayer or shroud ! 
 
 I looked on his face, but his lips were red, 
 
 And bright was his laughing eye ; 
 The hue of health on his cheek was spread. 
 And I, in the strength of my fond heart, said, 
 " He will not, cannot die." 
 
 Ah, me ! ah, me ! three days, three nights 
 
 Scarce over my head ha^ flown. 
 And he lay in my arms as still and white 
 As the snow that falls in the winter blight. 
 And cold as the church-yard stone. 
 
 Three daj^s, three nights yet more rolled by, 
 
 But I spake not of my woe ; 
 And I sat with a bright and tearless eye, 
 And a burning lip ail parched and dry. 
 Chanting an old, sweet lullaby, 
 
 That the truth they might not know. 
 
 I prayed for land, for the green, green land ; 
 
 For oh, could I have it be 
 That I should go to a foreign strand 
 With never a friend to clasp my hand, 
 
 And my darling in the sea ! 
 
BUBIAL OF THE IMMIGRANT'S CHILD. 167 
 
 My prayer was heard in the skies, I ween, 
 
 By the blessed saints so dear ; 
 For oh, the beautiful land so green. 
 With its blue hills far away, was seen. 
 
 And the ship was drawing near. 
 
 They bore my child to the pebbly shore, 
 
 And they made it there a grave. 
 Where the angry waters never pour. 
 And faintly echoes the ocean's roar. 
 
 And the grass and flowerets wave. 
 
 Sleep, baby mine, in the green earth sleep, 
 
 Awa}?- from the cruel sea ; 
 O mother Mary ! most holy ! keep 
 The boy who lies in his slumber deep, 
 
 The treasure I gave to thee. 
 
168 BRIGHT FANCY, SPREAD THY PINIONS WIDE. 
 
 BRIGHT FANCY, SPREAD THY PINIONS 
 WIDE. 
 
 RIGHT Fancy, spread thy pinions wide, 
 And let me soar with thee, 
 While fall the shades of eventide, 
 That darken land and sea ! 
 
 Oh, bear me to the muses' seat. 
 
 If such may there appear. 
 Where roll, in numbers wildly sweet, 
 
 Songs lost to mortal ear. 
 
 Say, is that seat on Ida's mount, 
 
 Where fadeless sunbeams glow, 
 Or where Castalia's silver fount 
 
 And sparkling waters flow ? 
 
 Where minstrels drank, in days of old, 
 
 The song-inspiring waves, 
 That came o'er sands of shining gold. 
 
 Deep in the mountain caves ; 
 
 Or, in Acadia's myrtle groves, 
 
 Whose leaves are never sere ; 
 Where Pan, perchance, still idly roves, 
 
 And charms the shepherd's ear ; 
 
BRIGHT FANCT^ SPREAD THY PINIONS WIDE. 169 
 
 Where Bacchus noisy revel held, 
 
 Crowned with the vine-leaves bright ; 
 
 And dancing satyrs wildly yelled, 
 And broke the peaceful night ; 
 
 When deigned great Jove his throne to leave, 
 
 And high Olympic's bowers, 
 And haughty Juno stooped to weave 
 
 A wreath of earthly flowers ? 
 
 Or is their seat beneath the deep, 
 
 Among its coral caves. 
 Where sea-gods mighty tridents keep 
 
 To lash rebellious waves ; 
 
 Where Neptune decks his palace o'er 
 
 With gems of brilliant hue. 
 And pearls along the polished floor 
 
 Lie thick as drops of dew ; 
 
 Where insects build their tiny cells 
 
 Rough billows never tear. 
 Where sea-nymphs wind their rosy shells, 
 
 Or braid their silken hair ; 
 
 Or wet with tears of pit}^ warm, 
 
 In some deep gloomy cave. 
 The shipwrecked sailor's lifeless form. 
 
 And grant him there a grave ; 
 
170 BRIGHT FANCY, SPUE AD TRY PINIONS WIDE, 
 
 Or gather sea-flowers pale and cold, 
 
 To wreathe his temples o'er, 
 Then bear his icy corse to mould 
 
 Upon the pebbly shore ; 
 
 Or is their seat on ocean's breast, 
 
 Where sea-birds swiftly skim, 
 When in the distant clouded west 
 
 The lamp of day burns dim ; 
 
 Or Triton, in his car of gold. 
 
 By shining dolphins drawn. 
 The waves upon their bosom hold. 
 
 To greet the blushing morn ; 
 
 Or on the wild and sea-girt strand, 
 
 Among the lofty rocks, 
 Where howls the breeze that sweeps to land, 
 
 Whose sound the water mocks ; 
 
 Or 'mong the silver stars, that light 
 
 The pensive gloom of even. 
 And shed a lustre mildly bright 
 
 Upon the darkened heaven ; 
 
 The fairest of the starry band. 
 
 Is tliat the muses' seat ; 
 Where land re-echoes back to land 
 
 Their numbers wildly sweet? 
 
" GlYB ME THREE GRAINS OF CORN." 171 
 
 Where gentler breezes sweep along, 
 
 And on their pinions bear 
 The softest, purest notes of song, — 
 
 It must, it must be there. 
 
 Oh, spread thy wings, bright Fancy, wide ! 
 
 And let me soar with thee. 
 While fall the shades of eventide, 
 
 That darken land and sea ! 
 
 "GIVE ME THREE GRAINS OF CORN, 
 MOTHER." 
 
 [The above words were the last request of an Irish lad to his mother, as 
 he was dying from starvation. She found three grains in a corner of his 
 ragged jacket and gave them to him. It was all she had; the whole family 
 were perishing from famine.] 
 
 /Jt IVE me three grains of corn, mother, 
 y^\ Only three grains of corn ; 
 " ^ It will keep the little life I have 
 Till the coming of the morn. 
 I am dying of hunger and cold, mother. 
 
 Dying of hunger and cold, 
 And half the agony of such a death 
 My lips have never told. 
 
It has gnawed like a wolf at my heart, mother, 
 
 Like a wolf that is fierce for blood, 
 All the livelong day, and the night beside. 
 
 Gnawing for lack of food. 
 I dreamed of bread in my sleep, mother, 
 
 And the sight was heaven to see ; 
 I woke with an eager, famishing lip. 
 
 But you had no bread for me. 
 
 How could I look to you, mother, 
 
 How could I look to you. 
 For bread to give to your starving boy. 
 
 When 5"ou were starving too ? 
 For I read the famine in your cheek, 
 
 And in your eye so wild. 
 And I felt it in your bony hand. 
 
 As you laid it on your child. 
 
 The Queen has lands and gold, mother. 
 
 The Queen has lands and gold ; 
 While you are forced to your empty breast 
 
 A skeleton babe to hold, — 
 A babe that is dying of want, mother. 
 
 As I am dying now. 
 With a ghastly look in its sunken eye, 
 
 And famine upon its brow. 
 
" GIVE ME THREE GRAINS OF CORN." 173 
 
 What has poor Ireland done, mother, 
 
 What has poor Ireland done, 
 That the world looks on and sees us starve, 
 
 Perishing one by one? 
 Do the men of England care not, mother, 
 
 Tlae great men and the high. 
 For the suffering sons of Erin's Isle, 
 
 Whether they live or die ? 
 
 There is many a brave heart here, mother, 
 
 Dying of want and cold. 
 While only across the channel, mother. 
 
 Are many that roll in gold. 
 There are rich and proud men there, mother, 
 
 With wondrous wealth to view. 
 And the bread they fling to their dogs to-night 
 
 Would give me life and you ! 
 
 Come nearer to my side, mother, 
 
 Come nearer to my side. 
 And hold me fondly as you held 
 
 My father, when lie died. 
 Quick, for I cannot see you, mother, 
 
 My breath is almost gone ; 
 Mother ! dear mother ! ere I die, 
 
 Give me three grains of corn ! 
 
174 MARGARET M, DAVIDSON, 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF MARGARET M. 
 DAVIDSON. 
 
 (T^YLING o'er the lyre a faded wreath, 
 ^'' And bid the voice of song 
 G^ Be mournful as the winds that sweep 
 
 The autumn leaves along. 
 There's darkness where the silver waves 
 
 Of sweet Castalia flow, 
 A harp is on the willows hung, 
 A minstrel's grave below. 
 
 There's grief among the sons of song, 
 
 They mourn a fallen gem, 
 And, oh, a peerless one is lost . 
 
 From song's bright diadem ; 
 For where, oh, where was light so pure. 
 
 So radiantly divine ? 
 And where, oh, where was loveliness, 
 
 Departed one, like thine ? 
 
 Thou wert so dear, so beautiful. 
 
 So very young, to die ; 
 So angel-like, I would have thought 
 
 That Death had passed thee by, 
 And with his icy hand forborne 
 
 To hush thy early lay. 
 And cast upon thy sunny brow 
 
 A shadow of depay. 
 
MAIiGAEET M, DAVIDSON. 175 
 
 There is a wail upon the breeze, 
 
 And on the soft, sweet air ; 
 A gathering round thy marble bed, 
 
 As if to see thee there. 
 There is a yearning for thy smile, 
 
 A longing for thy strain, 
 A listening for thy bounding step. 
 
 Though list'ning is in vain. 
 
 For thou hadst learned around our hearts 
 
 So closely to entwine. 
 That now that thou art gone, it seems 
 
 As they had gone with thine. 
 But, oh, we ask thee not again 
 
 To tread life's path of thorns ; 
 'Tis selfish sorrow prompts the wish, 
 
 Which true affection scorns. 
 
 There was too much of heaven in thee 
 
 For earth to keep thee long ; 
 And breathings of that blessed world 
 
 Have sanctified thy song, 
 And wreathed around thy memory here 
 
 A hallowed fame and pure. 
 Which, like the burning stars above, 
 
 Shall evermore endure. 
 
176 MARGARET M. DAVIDSON: 
 
 Thy numbers fell upon our ears 
 
 Like notes of starry bard, 
 The weary traveller oft beneath 
 
 Some shadowy grove hath heard ; 
 The music of a stranger dove, 
 
 Awhile that gladdened earth. 
 Then spread its radiant wings, and sought 
 
 The land that gave it birth. 
 
 While others toil till hoary age 
 
 To win an honored name, 
 A few brief years have won for thee 
 
 A glorious meed of fame. 
 But, oh, what is the poet's fame ? 
 
 'Tis oft a fleeting breath. 
 And purchased by a weary life, 
 
 Or by an early death. 
 
 The bard hath oft a longing here 
 
 For higher, nobler bliss, 
 A pining for a purer world, 
 
 A weariness of this. 
 'Twas thus with thee, O gentle one, 
 
 And now thou art away, 
 Where " songs of other lands are heard, 
 
 And other waters play." 
 
MARGARET M. DAVIDSON. 177 
 
 A voice was calling thee to join 
 
 A holier minstrel throng ; 
 A kindred spirit led the way 
 
 That oft inspired thy song. 
 Thy seraph sister welcomed thee 
 
 To yon celestial choir, 
 And taught thy trembling hand to sweep, 
 
 Like hers, a golden lyre. 
 
 And now thy dust, so beautiful^ 
 
 In earth's green bosom lies, 
 Thy memory in these hearts of ours, 
 
 While thou art in the skies. 
 Thy memory ! oh, a deathless one, 
 
 And glorious, here is thine. 
 For lo.ve and fame shall ever seek 
 
 And hail it as a shrine. 
 
 Farewell ! for us sweet hope shall rear 
 
 Her altar on thy tomb. 
 And burning there celestial fires, 
 
 Shall scatter all its gloom ; 
 Farewell ! for I can sing no more, 
 
 No more to me is given ; 
 The harp is far too earthly here 
 
 To sweep for thee in heaven ! 
 
178 BROOKLINE UNION PICNIC, 
 
 BROOKLINE UNION SABBATH-SCHOOL 
 PICNIC. 
 
 LL hail to the picnic ! and hail to the grove ! 
 'Mid scenes of enchantment delighted we rove ; 
 Dame Nature affords us a glorious hall, 
 And a carpet, the best in the world, for a ball. 
 
 All hail to the meeting of warm hearts and true, 
 To pastors and people, the Old church and New ! 
 Though varied the creed that our hearts may approve, 
 We have but one banner, the banner of love. 
 
 Here's a flock from the hill-top's magnificent edge. 
 Kept firm in their faith by an excellent Hedge; 
 Here is one from the vale, that's surprisingly grown. 
 When we know all the food which they get is from 
 Stone. 
 
 Here's another so fortunate lately to find 
 
 A well-polished Diamond (Diman) that cuts to their 
 
 mind ; 
 And the lovers of truth and the seekers of good. 
 That never need stray, while there's Hay in their wood. 
 
 And here are our friends that are zealous in soul 
 For the use of cold water applied as a whole ; 
 Let them grow in their faith, if they like, and be strong, 
 For if they are right, then some others are wrong. 
 
CHILDHOOD^S SLEEP. 179 
 
 All hail to the President ! safe o*er the track 
 His pass brought us here and will carry us back ; 
 Our thanks we'll pass him, — small pay it is true, 
 But he'll get something better when such bills become 
 due. 
 
 Oh, fill up the goblets with wine from the lake, 
 And sit at the banquet where all may partake ; 
 Here's beauty and eloquence, music and mirth, 
 Here's union and talent, and all kinds of worth. 
 
 Overflowing with pleasure, pure pleasure like this, 
 Let us pass round the cup, drinking deep of its bliss ; 
 Enjoy the bright moments, and when they are flown, 
 From the homes of the birds we'll depart to our own. 
 
 CHILDHOOD'S SLEEP. 
 
 LEEP on in innocence, fair child ! 
 Its seal is on thy brow ; 
 Sleep with a spirit undefiled, — 
 For this thou bearest now. 
 
 Thy busy thoughts are far away 
 
 In some familiar scene ; 
 And thou art by the brook at play, 
 
 Or on the hill-side green. 
 
180 CHILDHOOD* S SLEEP. 
 
 The woes and cares of coming years 
 Will bring thee many a night, 
 
 "Wien thou shalt wet thy couch with tears, 
 And long for morning light. 
 
 But now, ere those dark hours draw nigh, 
 
 Enjoy thy peaceful rest ; 
 Ho tear-drop in thy half-closed eye. 
 
 No sigh within thy breast. 
 
 Oh, beautiful is childhood's sleep, 
 And golden dreams it brings. 
 
 When guardian angels vigil keep, 
 And fold their shining wings. 
 
 But far more beautiful and pure, 
 In childhood's opening bloOm, 
 
 From all the woes of life secure, 
 The slumber of the tomb. 
 
 The frame that hath with anguish striven. 
 
 That sleep forever calms ; 
 While the young spirit wakes in heaven, — 
 
 Wakes in the Saviour's arms. 
 
THE FROLIC IN THE SNOW. 181 
 
 THE FROLIC IN THE SNOW. 
 
 'LAY on, play on while the feathery snow 
 From the sky comes whirling past ; 
 Thy cheeks are bright with a crimson glow, 
 The rose that blooms when the north winds blow, 
 Where the pulse of youth beats fast. 
 
 What dost thou heed, light-hearted child, 
 
 Who knowest no care nor pain ? 
 Though cold is the breath of the winter wild, 
 And the sun since yesterday hath not smiled 
 
 On the ice-bound hill and plain. 
 
 The hearth in thy home is bright and warm. 
 
 Unfelt is the piercing air ; 
 Oh ! naught to thee is the biting storm 
 Raging without, while a mother's form 
 
 Hovers in kindness there. 
 
 Play on ; for the days of youth are fleet, 
 
 From wearisome burdens free ; 
 Life's earliest cup is the cup most sweet. 
 And the merriest pulse is the first to beat, 
 
 As it beats to-day in thee. 
 
182 THE DEFORMED CHILD. 
 
 When the burdens of life thy heart appal, 
 
 As the years shall come and go, 
 And golden castles dissolve and fall, 
 With a sigh perchance thou wilt recall 
 Thy frolic amid the snow. 
 
 THE DEFORMED CHILD. 
 
 CHILD. 
 
 AMMA ! the children look at me 
 Whene'er I try to play, 
 And smile and whisper when they see 
 That I am not as they. 
 
 " We rambled not an hour ago 
 Upon the green hill-side ; 
 I cannot run, mamma, you know, 
 But, oh, how hard I tried ! 
 
 " Yet I was forced alone to sit, 
 And see them hurry by ; 
 I could not help but minding it, — 
 You know the reason why. 
 
 " We tried to catch the butterflies, 
 On pinions fleet and free ; 
 I fell, mamma, and scarce could rise ; 
 They would not wait for me. 
 
THE DEFORMED CHILD. 183 
 
 " I saw them turn and see me fall, 
 
 I heard them laughing, too, 
 
 And so I left them, one and all, 
 
 To come and sit with you. 
 
 *' I know that strange my form must be. 
 Unlovely, too ; but, oh, 
 'Tis hard to have them laugh at me, 
 When God has made me so ! 
 
 " I know for me 'tis all the best. 
 That 'twas his will divine 
 That I should differ from the rest, 
 And I would not repine. 
 
 " But in the world above, so fair, 
 Where no diseases swa}^. 
 Will angel children love me there, 
 Or turn, like these, away?" 
 
 MOTHER. 
 
 " Oh, no, my child ! weep not, for thou 
 Shalt be like those in heaven ; 
 A crown of light to deck thy brow 
 To thee shall there be given ; 
 
 " A form most beautiful and bright, 
 Bej^ond the fairest here, 
 Too dazzling for a mortal's sight. 
 Too pure for sin's dark sphere." 
 
184 THE DEFORMED CHILD. 
 
 The sorrowing child her eyes upraised ; 
 
 Grief's keenest pangs were o'er ; 
 Upon her mother's face she gazed, 
 
 And smiled, and wept no more. 
 
 The days of summer, bright and brief, 
 
 On rapid wings flew by. 
 And with the autumn's fading leaf 
 
 The child lay down to die. 
 
 And soon around her early grave 
 They came to weep in vain, 
 
 Who, mid their childish pastimes, gave 
 Her gentle spirit pain. 
 
 O ye who sport in life's glad morn ! 
 
 The Hand that moulded you. 
 The little ones ye dare to scorn 
 
 Hath wisely fashioned too ! 
 
 Let not one harsh, unkindly voice 
 Or look to them be given ; 
 
 So may ye o'er their graves rejoice, 
 With hope to meet in heaven. 
 
 'Tis but the mortal part ye see. 
 That moulders 'neath the sod ; 
 
 The soul most beautiful shall be 
 Before the throne of God. 
 
STANZAS WRITTEN AT SEA. 185 
 
 STANZAS, 
 Written on boakd the Steamer Britannia, June 12, 1844. 
 
 |OLL on ! roll on, ye giant waves, 
 In grandeur fierce and wild, — 
 Old ocean, though he madly raves, 
 Must own me as his child. 
 Roll on across our liquid path, 
 With hoarse and sullen roar. 
 And all your gathered wealth of wrath 
 In whitened vengeance pour. 
 
 I am as fearless as the bird 
 
 Who makes the wave her home. 
 And weaves her nest, with song unheard, 
 
 Amid the breaker's foam ; 
 Who boldly dips her snowy wing 
 
 In surge as purely white. 
 Then soars aloft in airy ring 
 
 With scream of wild delight. 
 
 Away ! and round yon distant rock 
 
 In stormy fury rave ; 
 Ye may the timid landsman shock, 
 
 But not the sailor brave. 
 
186 STANZAS WRITTEN AT SEA. 
 
 Our bold and gallant bark disdains 
 The might of raging tides ; 
 
 Swift o'er old Neptune's vast domains 
 A queen " Britannia" rides. 
 
 She scatters from her whirling wheels 
 
 The foam that marks her pace, 
 As hurls the war-horse from his heels 
 
 The dust of battle chase. 
 Her canvas to the breeze she flings, 
 
 As to the strong, free air 
 The eagle gives his noble wings 
 
 And leaves his mountain lair. 
 
 God shield the bark from every ill, 
 
 And bless her faithful crew, 
 Her officers of worth and skill, 
 
 Her Hewitt, brave and true ! 
 And bless the veteran known to fame. 
 
 Whom once the waters bore 
 To battle for his country's claim, — 
 
 The valiant " Commodo.e " ! 
 
 God bless the men and mighty lands 
 The ocean rolls between, — 
 
 The President, who ours commands. 
 And England's royal Queen ! 
 
SUNSET AT SEA. 187 
 
 May virtue each with glory crown, 
 May dark oppression cease, 
 
 And cry of battle never drown 
 The silver song of peace. 
 
 SUNSET AT SEA. 
 
 OW glorious, when like a crown, 
 Upon the western wave, 
 The golden sun goes calmly down 
 Into his ocean grave ! 
 
 But ere he hides his flaming head 
 Beneath the foaming crest, 
 
 A broad, deep glare of burning red 
 He flin2;s across its breast. 
 
 Then o'er his place of burial ride, 
 
 In majesty sublime, 
 The giant waves that have defied 
 
 For ages change and time. 
 
 Now night spreads wide her ebon wings. 
 
 Adorned with staiTy gems, 
 More radiant far than eastern kings' 
 
 Most brilliant diadems. 
 
188 SUKSET AT SEJ.. 
 
 Oh, sunset on the land is fair 
 When darker shadows fall, 
 
 And far away we see him beat 
 The light that gladdens all; 
 
 When evening zephyrs gently sweep 
 With fragrance of the rose, 
 
 And weary natnre sinks to sleep 
 In undisturbed repose. 
 
 But nobler, grander is the scene 
 The ocean world displays, 
 
 When in a grave of liquid green 
 He hides his golden rays ; 
 
 Where never-slumbering waters roll 
 
 In tireless fury by, 
 Whose wrath He only can control 
 
 Who formed the sea and oky. 
 
 Go ride where feet have never trod. 
 O'er wildest paths and free. 
 
 And worship nature's glorious God 
 At sunset on the sea ! 
 
c 
 
 THE LIGHT- SHIP. 189 
 
 THE LIGHT-SHIP. 
 
 HE light-ship ! how welcome the beacon to me, 
 When wild was the tempest and dark was the sea ; 
 It soothed my sad spirit's tumultuous fear, 
 And told me the haven I longed for was near. 
 
 Loud whistled the wind through the shivering sail, 
 The angel of death seemed abroad on the gale. 
 When wide o'er the billows, as wildly they passed, 
 The beams of the light-ship in crimson were cast. 
 
 Like a bird o'er the waters our proud vessel flew. 
 Her course was right onward, no terror she knew. 
 For the light-ship had shone on her pathway of foam. 
 Behind was the tempest, before her was home. 
 
 I saw it again, in the calm, silent hour. 
 When twilight descends with mysterious power. 
 And the moonlight fell soft on the eddying wave 
 That rolled o'er the mariner's sea-girted grave. 
 
 Then shone in the distance the light-ship afar. 
 And paled with its lustre the glow of the star, — 
 The small silver star that with tremulous eye 
 Looked down on the sea from its home in the skj^ 
 
190 BURIAL OF THOMAS CAMPBELL. 
 
 How glittered the waves in their stillness profound, 
 Like billows that circle the sunset around ! 
 While away in the distance the mariner's hand 
 Pointed out to my vision the cliffs of the strand. 
 
 How blest was the beacon ! how lovely it seemed, 
 As its watchfires of crimson unceasingly gleamed, 
 Sweet assurance of safety in moments of calm, 
 And in seasons of peril a safeguard from harm. 
 
 Oh, would that while sailing on life's stormy sea. 
 The star of Religion my beacon might be. 
 To warn me in danger, to soothe me in fear. 
 And tell me the haven I long for is near I 
 
 K>t»><X 
 
 THE BURIAL OF THOMAS CAMPBELL, IN 
 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 [The interment of this poet took place on the 3d of July, 1844, in that part 
 of the abbey called the " Poets' Corner."] 
 
 (!^^HERE came to the abbey a funeral train, 
 YY J The corse of a minstrel bearing ; 
 ^ Whom the hand of the spoiler. Death, had 
 slain, 
 While the laurel he yet was wearing. 
 
BURIAL OF THOMAS CAMPBELL. 191 
 
 His lyre was broken, his wreath was crushed, 
 
 And the flesh grew cold beneath it, 
 As the tuneful lip of song was hushed, 
 
 Which had fondly loved to breathe it. 
 
 They came with a solemn step, and slow, 
 
 With an aspect mute and lowly, 
 With a brow of grief and an eye of woe, 
 
 To the place of burial holy. 
 
 They oped a gi-ave in the charnel spot 
 
 Where the deathless poets slumber, 
 Whose lyres are broken, but not forgot, — 
 
 And they gave him to their number. 
 
 They laid him down by the side of those 
 
 Who are high in earthly glory ; 
 With the dust of the mighty, who repose 
 
 In the abbey old and hoary. 
 
 There monarchs lie ; but they have no crown 
 
 For their ghastly brow's adorning ; 
 Ah, little dreamed they, in their high renown, 
 
 The grave at their feet was yawning. 
 
 And gallant knights, with the arms they bore, 
 
 And their banners o'er them flying, 
 And the rusted helms and crests they wore 
 
 On their sculptured tombs are lying. 
 
192 ABBOTSFOBD. 
 
 Proud warriors sleep in the arms of fame, 
 With the lofty marble o'er them ; 
 
 But what care they for their sounding name, 
 Or the world that thither bore them ! 
 
 Hark ! hark ! for the tones of music float 
 Where the funeral train are kneeling, 
 
 And the echoes of many a requiem note 
 Are far through the dim aisles stealing. 
 
 Oh, many a glorious arch they fill. 
 As the mourners rise to sever ; 
 
 The souls of the Uvmg they wildly thrill, 
 But the dead ! they hear them never ! 
 
 3l«<C 
 
 ABBOTSFORD. 
 
 ll'T dawned on our vision, a beautiful spot, 
 Jfr The home of the poet, the dwelling of Scott ; 
 ^ And we thought, as we entered its precincts 
 profound. 
 We were treading where genius had hallowed the 
 
 ground. 
 And the tiniest wild-flower that sprang at our feet 
 Seemed blooming with fragrance more sacred and 
 sweet. 
 
ABBOTSFORD. 193 
 
 'T was a quaint massive building, 3^et stately in form ; 
 Though rude, it was noble, with nought to deform ; • 
 And man}^ a turret reared graceful and high 
 Its storm-beaten brow to the blue-arching sky ; 
 The gate of old Tolbooth was hung in the wall, 
 And the marble dog Maida guarded the hall.* 
 
 \Ye entered with feelings that deepened to awe 
 As the treasures the bard had collected we saw ; 
 There were knights in their armors and battle array, 
 But the lord of their castle was silent as they ; 
 There was many a relic, all rusty and old. 
 Yet dearer by far to his spirit than gold. 
 
 But, oh, not a sight to our eyes was so dear, 
 
 Or woke as a tribute a holier tear. 
 
 Than the room which they sought with a softlier tread, 
 
 And whispered, the way as they thitherward led : 
 
 'T was there that the poet had wielded the pen 
 
 That made him immortal forever with men. 
 
 It stood as the bard had deserted it last. 
 
 And the spell of his presence seemed over it. cast ; 
 
 * The strong iron portal of the old Tolbooth Jail, so renowned in the 
 •' Heart of Mid Lothian," was presented to Sir "Walter Scott, and by him firmly 
 secured high iip in the stone- work of the outside of his house, where it may 
 still be seen. The staute of Maida, a favorite dog of the poet's, finely 
 sculptured in marble, seems guarding the entrance. 
 
194 ABBOTSFORD. 
 
 There had nought been removed from its sacred repose, 
 The hand not a volume had dared to unclose ; 
 The table, the footstool were standing, and there, 
 All empty beside them, \A^ favorite chair I 
 
 'Twas here that his spirit held, purely and free, 
 Her closest communion, sweet fancy, with thee ; 
 'Twas here for the highland, and here for the plain. 
 And the silvery lake, that he warbled a strain 
 No child of Old Scotia will ever forget, 
 For her blue hills are full of the melody yet. 
 
 We had gazed on the seat where, in days of renown. 
 They brought to the monarch his sceptre and crown. 
 Where great men had lingered and warriors bled ; 
 But, oh, not a charm on the moment was shed 
 Enchanting as that which our fond bosoms thrilled 
 As we gazed on the chair which the minstrel had filled. 
 
 Sweet Abbotsford ! home of the poet ! to thee 
 Our spirits oft rove in their wanderings free. 
 And radiant scenes in the vision appear 
 To fond recollection still sacred and dear ; 
 But, oh, we have treasured as holiest there 
 That dim-lighted study ^ that favorite chair ! 
 
MELROSE ABBEY. 195 
 
 MELROSE ABBEY. 
 
 ;. 
 
 Ct Y OT by the moonlight wan and pale 
 T^iP I saw thee, Melrose fair ; 
 (^ V Night flung not down her ebon veil 
 
 In folds of darkness there ; 
 The ruddy light of morning bold 
 Streamed o'er the ruin gray and old, 
 
 With moss that had for ages lain 
 
 Upon ihj lofty brow, 
 The theme of many a stirring strain, 
 
 How beautiful wert thou ! 
 Amid the gloom of stern decay, 
 Too glorious to pass away. 
 
 There was the stillness of the grave 
 Within thy roofless walls. 
 
 Where brightly on the grassy pave 
 The golden sunlight falls, 
 
 And many a Gothic window throws 
 
 The shadow of its sculptured rose.* 
 
 * The stone-work of the windows is so cai-ved that it presents the appear- 
 ance of a rose, where each separate piece is joined. 
 
196 MELROSE ABBEY. 
 
 Oh, gorgeously the ivy weaves, 
 The broken arch to hide, 
 
 A robe of clarlc and shining leaves, 
 With fitful scarlet dyed ; 
 
 The light breeze waves it to and fro. 
 
 With rustling murmur, soft and low. 
 
 Not now the monk in sable stole 
 Glides through the cloister dim, 
 
 They come not now at vesper toll 
 With prayer and holy hymn ; 
 
 The chapel of the cross is bare. 
 
 And hoots the lonely owlet there. 
 
 * The monarch with his courtier train. 
 The knight with flashing spear, 
 And mitred abbots ne'er again 
 
 As once shall gather here 
 To tell their beads, with holy sign. 
 Before St. David's ruined shrine. 
 
 But thou hast garnered up their dust, 
 O Melrose, sad and fair ; 
 
 And sacred relics are thy trust. 
 And royal slumber there ; 
 
 And reverently above thy dead 
 
 The passing stranger's feet shall tread. 
 
LOCH LEVEN CASTLE, 
 
 197 
 
 SONNET — THE WIND. 
 
 ,1 ■' 
 
 \i LOVE the music of the rushing wind, — 
 ly Harp of a thousand strings, — whose wild, free 
 song, 
 When ocean's waves and cliffs the notes prolong, 
 Hath power in breathless awe my soul to bind. 
 Nor is the gentler breeze to me less sweet 
 
 That wafts the fragrance of the blooming flower, 
 And waves the gi'een boughs in the cool retreat 
 Of vine-wreathed arbor or of wild wood bower. 
 To me the loud blast and the whispering breeze 
 
 Alike are dear, for now a mood for this 
 My spirit hath, and now alone can please, 
 
 Soft stealing o'er my cheek, the zephyr's kiss ; 
 Tills stirs the life-stream through my breast that flows, 
 That calms the strife and lulls to sweep repose. 
 
 I 
 
 LOCH LEVEN CASTLE. 
 
 ■ROUD ruin on Loch Leven's stream, 
 Whose waters dance with silver gleam 
 Beneath the gentle breezes' swell 
 
 That bear upon their downy wing 
 The fragrance of the heather bell, 
 On ever}^ wild-hill blossoming. 
 
198 LOCH LEVEN CASTLE. 
 
 With ivied battlement and tower, 
 And remnant rude of kingly power, 
 Thou standest as in days of yore, 
 
 When pensive Mary,* Scotland's queen, 
 A prisoner on the castled shore, 
 
 Gazed on the lake of sparkling sheen. 
 
 Thy name with hers is woven yet, — 
 And who shall Mary's name forget. 
 
 Though thou mayst crumble from the view. 
 
 And Leven's waters cease to run, 
 Reflecting from their breast of blue 
 The silver moon and golden sun? 
 
 No warden's fire shall e'er again 
 
 Illume Loch Leven's bosom fair. 
 Nor clarion shrill of armored men 
 
 The breeze across the lake shall bear. 
 But while remains a stone of thine, 
 
 It shall be linked to royal fame ; 
 For there a Rose of Stuart's line 
 
 Hath left the fragrance of her name. 
 
 * Mary, Queen of Scots, was confined in this castle after her defeat at 
 Carberry Hill. 
 
ON LEAVING EUROPE. 199 
 
 LINES WRITTEN ON LEAVING EUROPE. 
 
 W'M pining for the birds and flowers 
 Sy Around my native home ; 
 '^ I'm pining for the wild-wood bowers 
 Through which I loved to roam, 
 And for the gentle summer breeze 
 That brought the earnest words 
 I fancied in the hum of bees 
 And silver song of birds. 
 
 Tm pining for the old green hill 
 
 That rises high and grand, — 
 The soil my /a^Aer used to till 
 
 With rough but honest hand ; 
 And for a dear, a hallowed spot, 
 
 Beyond the rolling wave, 
 My spirit never hath forgot, — 
 
 Tm pining for his grave ! 
 
 I'm pining for my mother's smile, 
 
 And for her gentle voice ; 
 The little ones^ whose sportive wile 
 
 Oft made my heart rejoice ; 
 A sister's welcome, warm and true, 
 
 A brother's greeting hand. 
 And all the dear old friends I knew 
 
 When in my native land. 
 
200 ON LEAVING EUROPE. 
 
 IVe gazed on Scotia's heathered hills, 
 
 In purple bloom arrayed, — 
 Her lakes of blue, her silver rills. 
 
 Her bard hath lovelier made ; 
 I've traversed Erin's emerald isle, 
 
 So beautiful, so fair, — 
 The contrast of her woe the while 
 
 M}^ spirit ill could bear ; 
 
 I've gazed on England's pomp and power, 
 
 Her cities known to fame. 
 Where palace proud and lofty tower 
 
 Bear high and royal name ; 
 And on that land of many lays. 
 
 The sunny land of France, 
 Where peasants in the harvest days 
 
 Upon the red grapes dance ; — 
 
 But oh, not Scotia, fresh and fair. 
 
 Not Erin, fairer still. 
 Nor England, with her riches rare. 
 
 Nor France with vine-clad hill, 
 Have aught so lovely and so grand, 
 
 So beautiful and wild. 
 As tliou^ my own, my native land, — 
 
 Tliou ! nature's fairest child ! 
 
PRAYER AT SEA. 201 
 
 PRAYER AT SEA DURING A VIOLENT 
 
 STORM. 
 
 i, 
 
 CT^^H'E night was dark, the storm was loud, 
 YY I The wind went wailing by, 
 ^ ^ And many a wild and fearful cloud 
 Swept o'er the starless sky ; 
 Around our bark huge billows rolled, 
 
 That tossed us to and fro, 
 And flung, with fury uncontrolled. 
 Afar their foam of snow. 
 
 And booming o'er the waters came 
 
 The thunder's heavy roar, 
 As lightning like a sheeted flame 
 
 Flashed the wide ocean o'er. 
 Fear, like an icy torrent, swept 
 
 O'er many a mortal form ; 
 And haughty spirits bowed and wept, 
 
 To hear that awful storm. 
 
 Rocked on the bosom of the deep, 
 
 To ocean's God we prayed, 
 Who hushed a wilder sea to sleep. 
 
 That fiercer storms had made ; 
 He sent his angel down, to calm 
 
 The tumult of our souls, 
 And bid us feel that nought could harm, 
 
 Where God himself controls. 
 
202 MEETING OF FRIENDS. 
 
 Oh, it was jo}^ to feel that he 
 
 Watched o'er that sea of foam ; 
 That 't was not there our graves should be, 
 
 Afar from friends and home. 
 Would that our hearts might ne'er forget 
 
 The sweet assurance given, 
 Till death's cold waves our lips shall wet. 
 
 And earth is changed for heaven ! 
 
 Oh, 'tis a blessed thing to pray, 
 'Mid pain, and fear, and strife ; 
 
 It brings us down the brightest ray- 
 That gilds the gloom of life. 
 
 No chill hath fear, no pang hath woe. 
 For hearts of faith and love : 
 
 Who hath no tongue for prayer below, 
 Hath none for song above. 
 
 5>5<0 
 
 MEETING OF FRIENDS. 
 
 OW sweet the hour, how passing sweet 
 The tide of moments flow. 
 When friends again with rapture meet, 
 Who parted long ago ! 
 
 And while far distant yet appear 
 
 The happy homes they fill ; 
 What expectation, hope, and feat 
 
 The inmost spirit thrill ! 
 
MEETING OF FRIENDS. 203 
 
 To expectation's music tongue 
 
 The heart beats swift and high, 
 While hope's enchanting bow is flung 
 
 Across a sunny sky. 
 
 Fear cometh, like a cloud, to hide 
 
 The brightness of the bow, 
 But, bursting forth on every side, 
 
 It gilds its gloomy foe. 
 
 And nearer as the objects be 
 
 Of fond, expecting love, .. 
 The spirit struggles to be free, 
 
 Like an imprisoned dove. 
 
 How tardily the moments seem 
 
 To urge their weary pace ! 
 How often in some midnight dream 
 
 The absent we embrace ! 
 
 Though many changes may have passed 
 
 O'er those we left behind, 
 'Tis only as we saw them last 
 
 They come before the mind. 
 
 Oh, joy for him, joy not of earth, 
 
 "Who gains his native land, 
 And finds around his glowing hearth 
 
 An undivided hand! 
 
204 THE NEW TEAR, 
 
 But woe for him who cometh back, 
 
 Across the billows' foam, 
 To gaze upon the spoiler's track 
 
 Within his happy home. 
 
 For bitter, bitter is the pain 
 The anguished heart must bear, 
 
 That finds, on clasping love's sweet chain, 
 A link is wanting there I 
 
 THE NEW YEAR. 
 
 LL hail to the year ! to the glad New Year ! 
 Oh, herald his march sublime ; 
 And twine a garland in hope and fear. 
 For the changeful brow of time. 
 
 And drop one tear for the Old Year's flight. 
 Whose moments none may restore ; 
 
 For the loved, whose life went out with its light, 
 To kindle on earth no more. 
 
 One sigh for the wreck of many a hope, 
 
 So fair when the j^ear was young. 
 And the sky, where clouds in darkness grope. 
 
 With a radiant bow was hung. 
 
THE NEW YEAR. 205 
 
 Then hail to the birth of the glad New Year, 
 
 And herald his march sublime ; 
 And twine a garland in hope and fear 
 
 For the changeful brow of time. 
 
 What hast thou brought for the sons of earth, 
 
 O New Year, young and gay ? 
 For they welcome thee with the voice of mirth, 
 
 Like the dawn of a festal day. 
 
 Hast thou brought the gifts, the glorious gifts 
 
 Of peace for the world abroad. 
 To scatter where many a nation lifts 
 
 The wail of its woe to God ? 
 
 Hast thou brought sweet freedom for those who sigh 
 
 In the bonds of a hapless race, — 
 A right for the many wrongs that lie 
 
 Like shadows on earth's fair face ? 
 
 Oh, many a change o'er earth shall pass 
 
 Ere thou shalt be waxing old, 
 And the sands of another twelve-month's glass 
 
 To the depths of the past have rolled ! 
 
 But whatsoever thou hast in store, 
 
 As the months their circles fill. 
 We know it is thine to yield no more 
 
 Than the measure of God's own will. 
 
206 THE SILVER BELLS. 
 
 HARK TO THE SOUND OF THE SILVER 
 BELLS. 
 
 ARK ! hark to the sound of the silver bells, 
 
 In the midnight still and clear ; 
 Wide over the land their music tells 
 The birth of the glad New Year. 
 
 Not on the wings of the beautiful spring, 
 
 As she glides on her radiant way ; 
 Not with the hours of the summer's flowers. 
 
 Comes the New Year young and gay ; 
 
 Not the time of the autumn's prime, 
 
 With a regal glory crowned ; 
 But wrapped in the folds of the vesture cold 
 
 Of the winter's depths profound. 
 
 All soft and white, like a mantle light, 
 
 On the landscape lies the snow ; 
 And the icy breeze through the forest trees 
 
 Sweeps drearily to and fro. 
 
 The fair child listens with earnest ear, — 
 
 A wondering heart hath he : 
 " Thou hast many a beautiful gift. New Year ! 
 
 Oh, what hast thou brought for me ? " 
 
THE SILVER BELLS. 207 
 
 The red rose mantles the maiden's brow, 
 
 And her heart is thrilled to hear ; 
 Life never before was so sweet as now, 
 
 For this is her bridal year. 
 
 The merchant wakes, in the midnight dim, 
 
 To muse on the fame and gold 
 Which the cu'cling months shall bring to him 
 
 Ere the New Year will grow old. 
 
 The Christian listens with hope and fear, 
 
 For an humble heart hath he, — 
 " "What can I do for my Lord this year, 
 
 Who hath done so much for me ? " 
 
 O ye to whom on the shores of time 
 
 Are the golden circles given. 
 Not unto self is the boon sublime. 
 
 But to work the will of Heaven. 
 
 So live that when all the years are past, 
 
 Which God in his grace shall send. 
 Eternity's joys shall crown the last 
 
 With a bliss that knows no end. 
 
208 SNOW AND SUNSHINE, 
 
 SNOW AND SUNSHINE. 
 
 ^N the silence of the night 
 Fell on earth a robe so white, 
 In the gray of morning light 
 Like a shroud it seemed ; 
 Till the bright and golden sun, 
 Coming from the east so dun. 
 Chased the storm clouds one by one, 
 And with splendor gleamed. 
 
 Like a river's rapid flow, 
 Freely poured his crimson glow 
 Far and wide athwart the snow. 
 
 Over vale and hill, 
 Till the robe like silver shone. 
 Which the storm o'er earth had thrown. 
 In the dreary hours and lone 
 
 Of the midnight chill. 
 
 Noiselessly, the busy day 
 Stole its march of hours away. 
 Till the noontide's blazing ray 
 
 On the landscape fell ; 
 Then like magic, moving slow, 
 Fled the white and shining snow, 
 Leaving on the turf below 
 
 Not a trace to tell. 
 
SPEING. 209 
 
 Musing on the earth forlorn, 
 Of her robe of beauty shorn, 
 Voices on the breeze were borne 
 
 To my ear, that said, — 
 " So the joys of earth, that bright 
 Shine in j^outh's exulting light. 
 Manhood's noon and age's night 
 
 Find forever fled." 
 
 Hopes to glory beckoning on, 
 Fade and perish one by one, — 
 Melt like snow before the sun, 
 
 In life's stern endeavor ; 
 While we gaze with raptured eye. 
 Fondly deem the treasures nigh. 
 Ruthless change comes sweepi^ig by, 
 
 And they pass forever. 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 ok SONG for thy return, O Spring,— 
 ZS? What shall the music be ? 
 
 CT Y^ For every bird hath one, whose wing 
 Sweeps through the blue air free. 
 
 His harp the poet cannot wake 
 To such melodious strain 
 
 As that whose notes the silence break 
 Of field, and hill, and plain. 
 
210 SPItING, 
 
 A tribute to thy scented breeze, 
 
 That sweepeth to and fro, 
 And shaketh from the old fruit trees 
 
 The blossoms white as snow, 
 And scatters them far o'er the grass, — 
 
 The soft, green grass, and bright. 
 Where feet of merry children pass. 
 
 With laugh of wild delight. 
 
 They hunt the blue-eyed violet, 
 
 In shady forest nook. 
 And snatch the golden cowslip, wet 
 
 With water from the brook. 
 They are as happy in their glee 
 
 As birds upon the wing ; 
 Sweet is the song they sing for thee, 
 
 For thy return, O Spring ! 
 
 A tribute to the fragrant flowers. 
 
 The beautiful, the gay. 
 Who slept the long, cold winter hours 
 
 Beneath the ground away. 
 They cared not for the icy rain. 
 
 The bleak wind and the snow ; 
 They knew that thou wouldst come again 
 
 With days of sunny glow. 
 
 They knew that thou wouldst call them up 
 
 From 'neath the lowly sod. 
 And bid each ope its tiny cup 
 
 Wide for the praise of God, — 
 
SPRING. 211 
 
 His praise, who bathes them in his dew, 
 
 Who pencils every leaf, 
 And gives to each its radiant hue, 
 
 And season, long or brief. 
 
 O Spring ! thrice welcome all thy gifts 
 
 So wondrous, fair, and sweet ; 
 The trees, the flowers, the grass that lifts 
 
 Its spires beneath our feet ; 
 Thou bringest to our memory 
 
 That brighter world on high. 
 Whose blossoms ope eternally. 
 
 Whose beauties never die. 
 
 And, as for thy return, sweet Spring ! 
 
 From Winter's dreary tomb, 
 Now nature wakes, thy praise to sing. 
 
 And with new life to bloom ; 
 So may our dust, which soon shall lie 
 
 With ashes kindred born, 
 Arise, and hail with joyful cry 
 
 The resurrection morn ! 
 
212 JUNE, 
 
 
 JUNE. 
 
 H, sing me a song for the month of June, 
 When linnet and robin their hearts attune ; 
 I care not now for the April sky, 
 When the clouds sweep fast, and the winds blow 
 high ; 
 I care not now for the budding May, 
 When the grass springs first where the streamlets play. 
 When the half-oped blossom that greets his eyes, 
 The child bears home as a costly prize ; 
 A sun with a steadier beam for me. 
 And a darker robe for the shadowy tree, 
 A deeper green for the winding vale. 
 And a rosier hue for the floweret pale. 
 A song, a song, for the month of June, 
 When linnet and robin their harps attune, 
 When the young bird comes, at the old bird's call, 
 From his lofty nest to the low stone wall. 
 Then plumes his wings for a bolder flight. 
 And proudly stoops from his airy height ; — 
 When the glow-worm walks by her fitful lamp 
 Where the gray owl hoots in the meadow damp. 
 And the saucy voice of the martin rings 
 From the barn-eaves high, where he sits and sings. 
 Or chatters fierce, as he builds his nest, 
 At the swallow clad in his yellow vest 
 
JUNE, 213 
 
 And dark-blue coat, who the barn within 
 
 Maintains Ms right with perpetual din. 
 
 When, the haunts of the wintry days forsook, 
 
 The glad frog sings by the sunny brook, 
 
 And children oft to the margin come 
 
 To mock the sound of his voice so grum. 
 
 Or praise the hue of his glossy throat. 
 
 And the polish bright of his mottled coat ; — 
 
 When the serpent creeps from his dark abode 
 
 To sun himself in the sandy road. 
 
 Or bend with his shining folds the grass, 
 
 Where the timid maiden shrinks to pass ; 
 
 When the green fields wave like the ruffled sea, 
 
 As the breezes sweep o'er their bosom free, — 
 
 When casements are open and doors are ajar, 
 
 And the scent of the red rose is wafted afar ; 
 
 When the school-boy turns from his wearisome page, 
 
 The deeds of the hero, the lore of the sage, 
 
 And wistfully gazes on pleasures forbidden, 
 
 Red fruit, by the foliage fitfully hidden. 
 
 And the green shady banks of the silvery pool. 
 
 And wonders what mortal invented a school, — 
 
 Then bending his elbows, hangs over his book 
 
 With a muttering tone and a half sullen look ; — 
 
 When the invalid sits in his pillowed chair, 
 
 And his limbs are braced by the fresh pure air, 
 
 And the hue of health o'er his pale cheek steals. 
 
 And his dim eye lights with the joy he feels. 
 
214 THE ANCIENT ELMS. 
 
 Oh, well do I love thee, beautiful June ! 
 The sweet, sweet harps which thy minstrels tune ; 
 Though other months may the bosom thrill, 
 As I love thee now I will love thee still. 
 
 THE ANCIENT ELMS.* 
 
 OW beautiful are the ancient elms 
 That over the wayside bend ; 
 In graceful draper}^, green and soft, 
 Their clustering leaves they blend ; 
 And thickl}^ over the gray, rough bark 
 
 Creepeth the yellow moss, 
 Up and around the branches dark, 
 Where the boughs each other cross ! 
 
 When spring returns with her blossoms gay, 
 
 And the earth in green appears. 
 The birds come carolling back to build 
 
 Where they have built for years ; 
 And children come with hoop and ball, 
 
 And a merry song of glee, 
 And loud and clear is their joyful call 
 
 From under each ancient tree. 
 
 * Elm Trees, near the corner of Cypress and Washington streets, 
 Brookline. 
 
THE ANCIENT ELMS, 215 
 
 Within tho lapse of fourscore years 
 
 That have glided onward fast, 
 Backward and forward beneath the elms 
 
 What varied feet have passed ! 
 The child, with his fleet and bounding step, 
 
 And his s]veet, far-ringing laugh. 
 The bride to the church, the bier to the grave. 
 
 And the old man with his staff. 
 
 His velvet cheek hath the young child pressed 
 
 To the bark so rough and gray. 
 As he leaned on its aged trunk to rest. 
 
 Wearied onl}^ with play ; 
 And years have passed, and that same child, 
 
 Tired of the life he proved, 
 Hath come, a man, to weep and gaze 
 
 On the trees his boyhood loved. 
 
 And dark and dismal pageantries 
 
 Of those whom grief o'erwhelms 
 Have wound along where mournfully 
 
 Droop the three ancient elms. 
 And oft who there in childhood played, 
 
 Now an old man has gone ; 
 The elms have outlived human life, 
 
 And their dark boughs wave on. 
 
216 
 
 BOATING SONG, 
 
 Thus age and childhood, life and death 
 
 Under the elms have passed, 
 And still shall pass for as many years 
 
 As the brave old trees shall last. 
 The hearts that beat to joy, and those 
 
 Whom the tide of grief o'er whelms, 
 And my own shall throb with bliss or woe 
 
 Under the ancient elms. 
 
 3^^C 
 
 BOATING SONG. 
 
 H, spread the sail to the summer gale ! 
 For a merry band are we ; 
 Our fairy boat like a bird shall float 
 On the lake, our mimic sea. 
 
 Hail to the bliss of a scene like this, — 
 
 The landscape's glorious view ! 
 In the noonday bright, or the soft moonlight, 
 
 Lovely and ever new. 
 
 From the distant land, where the tall trees stand. 
 
 Is wafted the sweet perfume 
 Of the new-mown grass, as the mowers pass, 
 
 And the clover's honeyed bloom. 
 
WRITTEN' IN AN ALBUM, 217 
 
 The lilies gleam in the sun's bright beam, 
 
 Like gems on the water's breast ; 
 Like flakes of snow where the ripples flow, 
 
 Their clustering petals rest. 
 
 Oh, the rolling ship her bows may dip 
 In the foam of the wild wide sea ; 
 
 But the pleasure boat, on the lake afloat, 
 Hath a greater charm for me. 
 
 Then spread the sail to the fragrant gale, 
 And bend to the graceful oar ; 
 
 Our bounding sea shall the blue lake be. 
 And our port the vine-clad shore. 
 
 LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM. 
 
 'ADY ! fair lady ! these lines shall tell 
 
 Though I knew thee not, that I wished thee 
 
 well. 
 As a friendship garland I sought to weave, 
 With a trembling hand on thy shrine to leave, 
 Hoping it might in thy bosom wake 
 One gentle thought for the giver's sake. 
 
218 WRITTEN IK AN ALBUM. 
 
 There's a brilliant Bow in the Christian's sky, 
 And its hues are all of the world on high ; 
 It brightens adversity's clouds of gloom, 
 And spans the arch of the rayless tomb, — 
 Hope's glorious token of love divine ; 
 Lady ! fair lady ! this bow be thine. 
 
 There's a Star that shines on the pilgrim's way, 
 
 Lighting him on with a fadeless ray, 
 
 As he treads the plain or the mountain side, 
 
 Or stems the billows of life's wild tide, 
 
 His glittering guide to a Saviour's shrine ; 
 
 Lady ! fair lady ! this star be thine. 
 
 There's an Arm that strengthens the fainting soul 
 That strives for freedom from sin's control ; 
 It holds it up from the depths of woe, 
 "When the waves of sorrow its path o'erflow ; 
 A helper in trouble — it hath been mine — 
 Lady ! fair lady ! this arm be thine. 
 
 There's a Home where the weary sweetly rest, 
 With a tearless eye and a peaceful breast ; 
 They go not forth from the fireside there 
 "Who come not back in its bliss to share ; 
 Death never withers the wreaths they twine, — 
 Lady ! fair lady ! this home be thine. 
 
THE SUNLIGHT OF HOME. 219 
 
 THE SUNLIGHT OF HOME. 
 
 OW beautiful ! how beautiful ! 
 The sunlight of our homes, 
 Ere death, with pinion wild and dark, 
 To dim its radiance comes ; 
 Ere fade the flowers afl*ection twines, 
 
 And one by one depart 
 The rays of that sweet star that shines 
 The brightest on the heart. 
 
 Whene'er the wanderer turns his feet 
 
 To seek his native glen, 
 It flashes forth a welcome sweet 
 
 To those he loves again. 
 It cheered him oft when far away 
 
 In other lands alone, — 
 From palace proud, or peasant cot, — 
 
 But ah ! 'twas not his own. 
 
 He heard the merry laugh ring out. 
 
 Oft as he passed them by, 
 And saw upon the happy hearth 
 
 The red fire blazing high ; 
 It woke a yearning in his breast 
 
 Until he ceased to roam. 
 And then it quickened ever}^ step 
 
 That brought him nearer home. 
 
220 EVENING REFLECTIONS. 
 
 Thanks be to God who gave it us, 
 
 He is a God of love ; 
 For oh, he made it like to that 
 
 Which gilds the home above ! 
 It is so pure and glorious. 
 
 And lighteth up the heart 
 With such a joy they scarce can bear 
 
 Who love it to depart. 
 
 EVENING REFLECTIONS. 
 
 HEN slow comes on the welcome eve, 
 And westward calmly sinks the sun, 
 And o'er the landscape darkly weave 
 A thousand shadows into one, — 
 
 My spirit feels that sacred power 
 
 Which unto eventide is given, 
 To warm devotion's hallowed hour, 
 
 And lead the mind from earth to heaven. 
 
 With joy I turn from every care 
 That on my path perchance may lie. 
 
 And, gazing on a world so fair, 
 
 Communion hold with earth and sky. 
 
EVENING REFLECTIONS. 221 
 
 O world below ! how wondrous bright 
 Thy beauties break upon our view ; 
 
 Yet are they transient as the light, 
 Or sunset clouds' resplendent hue. 
 
 But unto us a foretaste sweet 
 
 Thou art of that celestial sphere 
 Where all in high perfections meet, 
 
 That are but imperfections here. 
 
 O world above ! unseen, adored, 
 
 The wonderful, the undefined ! 
 Where dwells the everlasting Lord, 
 
 The Maker, and the Sovereign Mind. 
 
 Our souls surmount the things of sense, 
 The fading scenes of earth and time, 
 
 And Faith, exulting, bears us hence. 
 To regions holy and sublime. 
 
 Where all is purer, more divine 
 
 Than even Eden ere the fall ; 
 Where everlasting glories shine, 
 
 And God is greatest of them all. 
 
I 
 
HOME AJVD FAMIL Y MEMORIALS. 
 
FAMILY MEMORIALS. 
 
 3l*:c 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF A BELOVED FATHER. 
 
 H ! how it thrilled through my aching heart. 
 When they told me thou wert dying, — 
 That the mighty conqueror's icy dart 
 In thy throbbing breast was lying. 
 
 Thy hand was cold as the frozen snow, 
 
 And thy pulse had ceased its beating ; 
 For the crimson tide in thy veins ebbed low, 
 To its quivering source retreating. 
 
 I bent me down o'er thy dying bed, 
 
 To list to thy heavy breathing, 
 And my tears fell fast on thy pillowed head. 
 
 Which the mists of death were wreathing. 
 
 225 
 
226 TO THE MEMORY OF A BELOVED FATHER. 
 
 A change passed o*er thy face so pale, 
 As the last frail cord was riven ; 
 
 And thy spirit entered the gloomy vale, 
 With its angel guide to heaven. 
 
 A smile of joy o'er thy features passed, — 
 The smile of a raptured spirit, — 
 
 As the beaming glance of its eye was cast 
 Gn the bliss which the just inherit. 
 
 We bore thy clay to the burial earth, 
 To the sleep that knows no waking. 
 
 And came to our dreary house and hearth 
 With hearts that were well-nigh breaking. 
 
 Thy wide fields now with the harvest bloom. 
 
 But another hath thy reaping ; 
 For the hand that scattered the seed, yon tomb 
 
 Holds fast in her icy keeping. 
 
 Sleep, father, sleep in thy narrow home. 
 With the silent dead about thee, — 
 
 We onward still through the bleak world roam, 
 Alois I for we are witliout thee ! 
 
% 
 
 GRIEF. 227 
 
 GRIEF. 
 
 C^yupjJ sayest I should strive to calm 
 The wildness of my grief, 
 That time and change will come and bring 
 My throbbing heart relief. 
 Thou biddest me be joyful now : 
 
 How can I, when I crave 
 To wake that joy a father's love, 
 A father's in the grave ? 
 
 Thou sayest it is wrong to grieve 
 
 For him who takes his rest, 
 Weary and worn by earthly cares, 
 
 Upon the Saviour's breast ; 
 That never to the righteous dead 
 
 Should bitter tears be given. 
 To wet the cold, unconscious clay 
 
 Whose spirit is in heaven. 
 
 Thou whisperest, pointing to the skies 
 
 Where silvery torches burn. 
 That far beyond those glittering realms 
 
 Is he for whom I yearn, — 
 Who broke his earthly bonds, and trod 
 
 In manhood's middle day. 
 Escorted by seraphic guides, 
 
 The upward, shining way. 
 
228 GRIEF. 
 
 Thou sayest, let thy mourning heart 
 
 Its waters cease to pour 
 So freely, wildly forth for him 
 
 "Who shall return no more. 
 Chide not my weeping, though my eyes 
 
 May long with tears be dim ; 
 Would' st tliou not weep if in the grave 
 
 Lay one beloved like him ? 
 
 Thou knowest not that for the dead 
 
 Affection's wreath I twine ; 
 Thou knowest not how dear they are 
 
 To this fond heart of mine. 
 The love I gave to them in life 
 
 Mourns o'er their broken ties ; 
 Death only quickens it — 'tis love 
 
 That never, never dies. 
 
 I know affection bids thee seek 
 
 To soothe the grief I feel, 
 And o'er its dreariness and gloom 
 
 Bid hope's bright radiance steal. 
 But oh ! niou hast not ever lost 
 
 A friend so dear as he ; 
 Cease, cease thy kind but idle words ; 
 
 Thou canst not comfort me. 
 
ORJEF, 22f) 
 
 Nay, leave me now ; my aching heart 
 
 Some solitude would seek, 
 To nature and to nature's God 
 
 Alone its grief to speak. 
 Fear not ; no murmuring words shall fall ; 
 
 My lips shall not repine ; 
 For I am His who hath bereaved, 
 
 And He is truly mine. 
 
 A darkness o'er my spirit broods, 
 
 Whose dense and solemn shades 
 Are like to those which shroud at eve 
 
 The forest's deepest glades ; 
 There is no joy for me to-night ; 
 
 Away, away, I crave 
 A father's love, a father's smile, 
 
 Who slumbers in his grave ! 
 
230 ON REVISITING A FAVORITE HILL. 
 
 LINES WRITTEN ON REVISITING A 
 FAVORITE HILL,* 
 
 A Year from September, 18 — . 
 
 YEAR ago ! a year ago, 
 
 Old hill, I climbed thy brow ; 
 
 But bearing not the heart of woe 
 That beats within me now ! 
 
 The blossoms of my summer bowers 
 Lie withered 'neath my tread ; 
 
 I care not for the faded flowers, — 
 My heart is with the dead. 
 
 The dry leaves of the forest fall. 
 So late with beauty crowned ; 
 
 The greenwood's mantle, like a pall. 
 Lies on the chilly ground. 
 
 Rude is the breeze that hurries by. 
 And mournful is its tone. 
 
 As on it beareth nature's sigh 
 For brighter seasons flown. 
 
 ♦Corey's Hill, Brookline. 
 
ON- REVISITING A FAVORITE HILL. 231 
 
 The time has been when scenes like these, 
 
 Before my pensive view, 
 My spirit seldom failed to please. 
 
 The while they saddened too. 
 
 And this is all ; the time has been, — 
 
 / am still true to thee ; 
 But thou, old hill, canst ne'er again 
 
 Be what thou wert to me. 
 
 Though stranger feet ere long shall press 
 
 This hallowed tarf of thine, 
 I know I cannot love thee less 
 
 Than when I called thee mine. 
 
 But round thee hovers now a gloom, — 
 
 It meets me everywhere, 
 And whispers of the silent tomb. 
 
 And one who slumbers there. 
 
 'Tis not the gloom the passing year 
 
 Flings over nature's face ; 
 Oh, would that only such were here 
 
 In this deserted place ! 
 
 Ah ! no, 'tis not her djing breath 
 
 That saddens thus m^^ mind ; 
 It is the gloom the feet of death 
 
 Have darkly left behind. 
 
232 TO MY MOTHER. 
 
 'Tis for no changes here I mourn, 
 Though sadly they have come , 
 
 'Tis for the greater, which have torn 
 A cherished wreath of liome I 
 
 O Time ! the shadow of the wing 
 Is. dark, that beareth thee ; 
 
 Alas ! that e'er thy flight should wring 
 Such bitter tears from me ! 
 
 3>»iC 
 
 TO MY MOTHER. 
 
 OTHER ! dear mother ! a song for thee ; 
 Thou shalt the theme of the minstrel be ; 
 Thou who didst smile on the ruder lays 
 ^ I warbled first in my early days. 
 'Tis the hand of a daughter sweeps the lyre, 
 With a lip whose melody shall not tire. 
 Till the brow is cold and the eye is dim 
 Of her who carolled my cradle hymn. 
 
 Mother ! dear mother ! when I was a child, 
 I loved the hill and the greenwood wild. 
 Where the silver song of the soaring bird 
 And the circling insect's hum is heard ; 
 
TO MY MOTHER, 233 
 
 Dearer to me than my childish play 
 
 Were the haunts I sought in the summer day ; 
 
 But there was a greater love for thee 
 
 In the heart that clung to the flower and tree. 
 
 Mother ! dear mother ! as oft I strayed, 
 To muse alone in the woodland glade, 
 They called me gloomy, they called me strange, 
 But little dreamed they of the wondrous change 
 Which the spell of poesy, sweet and wild. 
 Soon wrought in the heart of thy pensive child ; 
 And little dreamed they of the lyre she swept. 
 Where the old oak's shade on the green turf slept. 
 
 Mother ! dear mother ! when years had past, 
 Sweet 3^ears, that fled on their pinions fast, 
 The angel of death his shadow flung 
 Where our silvery bow of Hope was hung ; 
 And we stood together, side by side. 
 Where a father sank in his manhood's pride ; 
 Together we caught the parting sigh. 
 As the soul was borne to the world on high. 
 
 Mother ! dear mother ! my spirit strays 
 Oft back to the scenes of my early days ; 
 And the brightest links that bind me there 
 Are the memories sweet of thy love and care ; 
 
234 TO MT MOTHER. 
 
 But, ah ! 'twas not till I fondly pressed 
 My own first-born to my yearning breast, 
 I dreamed of the hour of agony. 
 The sorrow which thou hadst borne for me. 
 
 Mother ! dear mother ! I watch thee now 
 With a beating heart and an anxious brow ; 
 I watch thy step as thou passest by ; 
 I mark the light of thy fading eye ; 
 For I know that Time is upon thy track, 
 And bears to the grave what he brings not back, 
 Spare, Father of mercy, my loved one spare, 
 A mother's life is a daughter's prayer. 
 
 Mother ! dear mother ! when death draws nigh, 
 And rends in thy breast each sacred tie ; 
 When the downward path thy feet shall tread 
 That leads to the mansions of the dead, 
 May the better world, like a glorious star, 
 Gleam through the mists of the vale afar ; 
 Thy guide may the precious Saviour be. 
 And the heavenly gates ope wide for thee. 
 
THE ABSENT. 235 
 
 THE ABSENT. 
 
 ^^HE friends of my bosom ! I cannot forget them ; 
 Through changes and seasons still cherished 
 
 ^J 
 
 'o" 
 
 they are ; 
 Bright gems, in the crown of affection I set them ; 
 And its brilliance is dim, though but one is afar. 
 
 The absent ! the absent ! their voice sweetly lingers 
 In my listening ear, yet I may hear not again ; 
 
 And the chords of my spirit, when memory fingers, 
 Give back, 'neath the pressure, a sorrowful strain. 
 
 When the shadows of eve are serenely descending, 
 And the last golden beams of the sunset appear. 
 
 And day with dim night in soft twilight is blending, 
 Oh, oft to my spirit the absent are here ! 
 
 When the weary world vexes the hushed soul no longer, 
 And the silver stars light the still earth with their 
 beams. 
 And fetters of slumber grow deeper and stronger. 
 They pass through the land, the bright land of my 
 dreams. 
 
 They glide o*er my vision, and bear the sweet token 
 Of friendship that soothed in the days that are flown : 
 
 The busy morn breaks, and the sleep-spell is broken, — 
 The dear phantoms vanish, and I am alone. 
 
236 THE ABSENT. 
 
 When the eager crowd toil in the strife of existence, 
 And throng after throng moves unceasingly by, 
 
 I fondly imagine the loved in the distance ; 
 
 But they wear the cold faces of strangers when nigh. 
 
 And my drooping heart sinks in its own desolation, 
 "Where loudest and deepest life's tumult may be ; 
 
 For it sickens and bleeds in its vain expectation 
 Of the distant, the absent, it yearneth to see. 
 
 Oh ! the cold world may meet, and meet only to sever. 
 And affection's torn wreath not a tear-drop may wet ; 
 
 But my heart, when it loves, must love onward forever, — 
 It cannot forget, no, it cannot forget. 
 
 In trial and pain, tribulation and sorrow. 
 
 Some soothing remembrance comes sweetly to cheer ; 
 Ah I worthless were friendship if nought she could bor- 
 row 
 
 Of comfort and hope when the loved are not here ! 
 
 Away, oh, away ! ye dark moments of sadness ! 
 
 And hail, blissful promise of mansions on high ! 
 Where the tear shall be dried in the sunshine of glad- 
 ness, 
 
 And the absent be present, eternally nigh I 
 
RETURN TO MT BOSOM. 237 
 
 RETURN TO MY BOSOM. 
 
 (^^ETURN to my bosom, beloved one, return ! 
 
 My heart for thy presence hath ceased not to 
 
 yearn ; 
 Mine eyes for thy coming are dim with their 
 strain, 
 And mine ear hath grown weary with waiting in vain. 
 
 Return to my bosom, — the toils of the day, 
 Its cares and its sorrows, are passing away ; 
 The last golden sunbeam has faded and gone, 
 And the shadows of even are fast stealing on. 
 
 Return to my bosom, — lo, yonder afar 
 There shines in the heaven a beautiful star ; 
 But ah ! not a charm in its lustre I see, 
 For the star of my home hath not risen on me. 
 
 Return to my bosom, — return to the rest 
 Thou often hast whispered thou lovest the best ; 
 As sweetly and purely I set on thy brow 
 A seal of affection that lingereth now. 
 
 Return to my bosom, — my heart is thine own ; 
 In youth thou hast won it, and round it hast thrown 
 A spell that shall linger till life's latest breath. 
 More sacred than friendship, and stronger than death. 
 
S38 LITTLE AMY. 
 
 Return to my bosom, — oh, tarry not long ; 
 My heart for thy presence is pining in song ; 
 Come, haste thee to gladden thy sorrowing dove, 
 Return to thy chosen, return to thy love ! 
 
 LITTLE AMY. 
 
 [" Two days before she died, she looked up into my face with a most touch- 
 ing and heavenly expression, and said, ' God loves your dear little Amy, 
 mother; when I was up in God's house, I said, one day, God, may I go 
 down and see mother a little while, and he said, Yes; so I came down.' 
 
 *'I do not know from whence she derived the idea; hut the words, and the 
 look that accompanied them, thrilled through my soul and brought a convic- 
 tion of the return which soon after took place."] 
 
 ACK to His House her spirit flew, 
 The bright and blest abode : 
 Ah me ! how well the way she knew, 
 Along the heavenly road ! 
 What life, what light, what joy was hers ! 
 
 The beauty how divine ! 
 What wild regret, what bitter tears, 
 What agony was mine ! 
 
 I watched her through the dreary night. 
 
 And every hour to me 
 Gave a sad foretaste in its flight 
 
 Of what the last would be. 
 
LITTLE AMY, 239 
 
 And when the cold, gray morn had come, 
 
 And turned to early day, 
 Her angel came, my lips were dumb, 
 
 I dared not answer, nay. 
 
 For while with grief my spirit shook. 
 
 That like a tempest thrilled, 
 Her eye sought mine with such a look. 
 
 The rising storm was stilled. 
 I gave her one fond kiss, the last. 
 
 Of my farewell the sign ; 
 Then from my arms to His she passed, 
 
 Who gave her first to mine. 
 
 Close nestled to my breast, she died, 
 
 Nor did it dying seem ; — 
 Awake, my soul ! awake ! I cried, 
 
 For thou dost only dream. 
 Oh ! mocking hope, as fleet as vain ! 
 
 Bewildered, bleeding, sore, 
 I laid my darling down again ; 
 
 For she was there no more. 
 
 Of all the prayers that test our faith, 
 This is the hardest one, — 
 
 To gaze on a dear face in death. 
 And say, " Thy will be done." 
 
240 
 
 OUR JENNY. 
 
 In the wild struggle nature fails, 
 And sinks, affrighted, down ; 
 
 A mortal grief o'er faith prevails, 
 The cross obscures the crown. 
 
 So fast, npon her pale, sweet clay, 
 
 Came down my blinding tears. 
 They veiled a while her shining way 
 
 To the celestial spheres. 
 O Thou who hast, with hand unseen, 
 
 Removed the loved to thee. 
 Come now, with helping grace, between 
 
 The little child and me ! 
 
 >>©ic 
 
 d 
 
 OUR JENNY. 
 
 y^ T midnight's hour, while others slept, 
 L ^ From troubled dreams we woke and wept, 
 (y \^ For death had o'er our threshold crept, — 
 ^ For little Jenny. 
 
 The watcher's lamp was burning low, 
 We could not see our loved one go ; 
 There was no sound, no cry, but oh, 
 
 " Our little Jenny ! 
 
OUR JENNY, 241 
 
 So still she lay, so very still, 
 White as the snow-flake on the hill ; 
 We touched her cheek, it gave a chill, - 
 
 Our darling Jenny. 
 
 Our hearts with grief were running o'er 
 For one we ceased not to deplore, 
 Who went a few brief days before 
 
 Our little Jenny. 
 
 And now another ! help us, Lord, 
 By the dear promise of thy word, 
 To drink this cup which thou hast poured 
 
 Of grief for Jenny. 
 
 We kissed and laid her from our sight, 
 In all her childish beauty bright, 
 Down in the grave's cold, quiet night, 
 
 Our precious Jenny. 
 
 'Twas hard to turn to life again ; 
 Through everything the ringing pain 
 Came back of looking all in vain 
 
 For little Jenny. 
 
 Then faith with sweet assurance said, 
 " Behold, the loved one is not dead ;" 
 Up with the angels overhead 
 
 Sings little Jenny. 
 
242 " THE WILD MARCH WIND." 
 
 And not alone her tiny feet 
 
 Went upward in the golden street, — 
 
 An angel child came forth to meet 
 
 Our darling Jenny. 
 
 Two little sisters, hand in hand, 
 In His dear presence joyful stand, 
 Who called them to his better land, 
 
 Amy and Jennj^ 
 
 3i«<C 
 
 THE WILD MARCH WIND SWEEPS DOWN 
 THE HILL. 
 
 % 
 
 C^ HE wild March wind sweeps down the hill. 
 Stirs the tall trees, unlocks the rill, — 
 Till in the valley, brown and sere, 
 The tender blades of grass appear. 
 
 Then softly falls the April rain, 
 And singing birds return again ; 
 And days and weeks successive bring 
 The pleasant sights and sounds of spring. 
 
 Within the graveyard's lonely keep. 
 Two little children softly sleep ; 
 Above their heads the swift winds pass, 
 The sunbeams fall, and waves the grass. 
 
" THE WILD MARCH IVIND." 243 
 
 All nature stirs, but they are still ; 
 The earth grows warm, but they are chill ; 
 And to our homes return no more 
 The household birds that sang before. 
 
 Oh ! what shall wake our dead beloved ? 
 Say, at whose touch shall they be moved? — 
 The wild March wind, the summer breeze, 
 The autumn gales ? — not these, not these. 
 
 The joj^s of spring shall come in vain. 
 And summer's glories wax and wane, 
 And autumn's wealth and winter's snow, 
 As months and years shall come and go ; 
 
 But never, in the grave so cold, 
 
 The little clasped hands shall unfold, — 
 
 The feet return, that early trod 
 
 But one brief path, and that to God. 
 
 O agony of parting pain ! 
 
 O yearning heart that yearns in vain ! 
 
 O weeping eye that tearful sees 
 
 The life that comes to all but these ! — 
 
 Behold a day, a glorious day, 
 When God shall wake their sleeping clay ! 
 His voice shall call thy dead beloved, 
 And at his touch shall they be moved ! 
 
244 SUNSET, 
 
 SUNSET. 
 
 C^^HE night, with a noiseless footstep, 
 Yy J Comes up from the beautiful vale, 
 ^ To the brow of the hill, where the sunlight 
 Still lingers so loving and pale. 
 
 I watch the shadows that deepen, 
 
 The shadows of many a tree 
 In the woodland that borders the meadow. 
 
 Dark cliff by an emerald sea. 
 
 No longer the sound of the sickle 
 Comes up from the field as at morn ; 
 
 The harvest lies low on the greensward. 
 And homeward the reaper has gone. 
 
 The wild bird has folded its pinion. 
 
 The lily her petals of snow ; 
 And peace from a region celestial 
 
 Is tranquilly falling below. 
 
 I turn me to gaze on the sunset, 
 
 My spirit is thrilled to behold ; 
 There are oceans of crimson and purple, 
 
 And rivers of silver and gold. 
 
SUNSET. 245 
 
 And anon, through the radiant vistas 
 My spirit looks wishfully through ; 
 
 I see, far awa}^ in the distance, 
 The beautiful, beautiful blue. 
 
 I think of the city celestial, — 
 
 The city with pearls for its walls, 
 Where sunlight nor moonlight are needed. 
 
 And the shadow of night never falls ; 
 
 The friends that have thither ascended, — 
 The friends that I loved long ago ; 
 
 The children that went in the winter. 
 
 When the landscape was covered with snow. 
 
 Oft-times to my spirit's wild longing 
 
 Their vision a moment is given ; 
 And the}' alwaj^ s seem nearest at sunset, 
 
 For sunset seems nearest to heaven. 
 
 I feel the sweet peace of their presence, 
 And my heart's swift beating it calms ; 
 
 I see the white robes of the angels 
 That bear my beloved in their arms. 
 
 O sun ! in thy splendor departing. 
 
 Fade out in thy shadowy bound ; 
 In a land where the light is immortal 
 
 I know that my lost will be found. 
 
246 THE MOURNER^S VISION, 
 
 
 THE MOURNER'S VISION. 
 
 STAND on the brink of a river, — 
 The River of Life to me, — 
 
 Where the billows of memory quiver, 
 And rise and fall like the sea. 
 
 I read in their tremulous motion 
 The records of many a year ; 
 
 And like voices that come from the ocean 
 Are the muffled words I hear. 
 
 Down under the waters gleaming 
 
 Are visions of long ago ; 
 There are forms of beautj^ beaming, 
 
 There are shadows dark and low. 
 
 There are scenes from life's fair morning, 
 That come like the break of day. 
 
 Or a beautiful landscape's dawning. 
 When the mists have cleared away. 
 
 I gaze on the sight Elysian, 
 With earnest and longing eyes, 
 
 Till my soul is stirred b}^ the vision 
 With raptures from Paradise. 
 
THE mourner's VISION. 2\1 
 
 I see the chain of a friendship 
 
 Death never had power to part , 
 One link is under the waters, 
 
 The other is round my heart. 
 
 I hear, from the depths of tlie river, 
 Sweet words that my spirit thrill ; 
 
 We are parted, but not forever, — 
 We are living and loving still ! 
 
 And my soul no more is lonely, 
 
 Nor throbs with a sense of pain ; 
 For the loved who were once mine only, 
 
 I know will be mine again. 
 
 O" 
 
 Dark waves may close o'er the vision, 
 Storms drive me away from the shore ; 
 
 But hope, like the lamp of a vestal. 
 Dies out in my soul no more. 
 
 Flow on, mysterious river ! 
 
 Flow on to eternity's sea ; 
 By faith and a holy endeavor, 
 
 The future hath bliss for me ! 
 
248 TO JAMES. 
 
 TO JAMES, 
 
 EEP me not here while I tremble and shiver, 
 < Stay not my feet where the dark waters be ; 
 I For over the river, just over the river, 
 Amy and Jenny are waiting for me. 
 
 Hark to the sound, the sweet sound of their voices, 
 Lovingly, tenderly, " Come, mother, come ! " 
 
 Oh, how my spirit exulting rejoices ! — 
 
 Darlings, I'm coming, I'm nearing my home. 
 
 Dearer than children, than father or mother, 
 Watching and waiting there's one by my side, — 
 
 Next to my Saviour, and next to no other, — 
 He who once won me, and made me his bride. 
 
 How can I leave thee, beloved of my bosom. 
 How can I leave thee to wander alone ? 
 
 Blessed Redeemer, oh, comfort the mourner ; 
 Fold thou his wounded heart close in thine own. 
 
 Children, dear children, so dear to me never, 
 
 Now is the cup of our agony given ; 
 Now must we part, but we part not forever, — 
 
 I have loved you on earth, I shall love. you in heaven. 
 
TO JAMES, 
 
 249 
 
 Friends, gentle friends, who have strewn my sick pillows 
 With blossoms of hope, of peace and of love, — 
 
 Sister, sweet sister, away on the billows. 
 Brothers beloved, I shall meet you above. 
 
 -=^, 
 
/"Wl 
 
 MES. AMANDA M. EDMOOT). 
 
 We find the following painful intelligence in the last issue of 
 the *' Witness," edited by Brother Clarke, formerly of the Taber- 
 nacle Church in this city. We heartily sympatliize with the feel- 
 ings expressed. — [Ei>-] * 
 
 The announcement of Mrs. Edmond's death will 
 cause a pang of anguish in many hearts. Those who 
 have read her sweet poems, and the children who have 
 been entertained and instructed by her stories of 
 "Willie Grant," "Over the Sea," "The Vase of 
 Flowers," "Early Days," "Philip Garland," ''The 
 Forget-me-not," etc., will all be mourners. Tliere was 
 an ease and vigor in Mrs. Edmond's compositions 
 which made them agreeable and impressive. There 
 was nothing careless, dashing, or overwrought in her 
 style, which kept the reader disputing every moment 
 with his reason and better judgment, but every scene 
 and illustration harmonized with, and deepened his 
 
 * Editor of the Philadelphia " Christian Chronicle." 
 
 230 
 
MES. AMANDA M. EDMOND, 251 
 
 convictions of, right. And best of all, her private 
 character was in harmony with the spirit her pen incul- 
 cated. The social and domestic pathway of her life 
 was kept constantly cheerful and happy. The follow- 
 ing letter, written by a valued correspondent of the 
 "Witness" in Brookline, Mass., gives the closing 
 scene of her useful life. But Mrs. Edmond still lives 
 in the hearts of her friends, and lives in her works. 
 
 '* Bkookline, June 1, 1862. 
 
 " My dear Mrs. Clarke : — This lovely first Sab- 
 bath in June has brought sorrow to many hearts, for 
 to-day our dear friend Mrs. Edmond has been borne 
 away to her long home. She had made every effort to 
 live, for the sake of her family, and until a week ago 
 had hoped to live till autumn, if not longer ; but when 
 the conviction fastened upon her that her days were 
 numbered, she cheerfully resigned herself, made all her 
 arrangements, gave her parting messages, took leave 
 of all her dear ones, and waited with longing hope the 
 hour of her release. Even so lately as last Sabbath, 
 she was carried out of doors in her rocking-chair, and 
 placed where she could see the trees, snow-white with 
 their profusion of blossoms, and she then expressed the 
 hope to be carried into church to-day after the sermon 
 was over, to partake once more of the communion. 
 She was carried in, but in her coflin. ' No, not she,' 
 said our pastor, ' only the tabernacle once made lovely 
 by her presence ; but she partakes to-day in the holy 
 services of the ransomed thronsj in heaven.' 
 
252 MRS. AMANDA M, EDMOND. 
 
 " She died on Friday morning about three o'clock. 
 A little before her death she was seized with a severe 
 distress for breath. The doctor gave her a quieting 
 draught ; she repeated these lines : — 
 
 " ' Sweet land of rest, for thee I sigh; 
 When will the moment come 
 "When I shall lay my armor by, 
 And dwell with Christ at home ? ' 
 
 "And then she fell asleep, and never woke again. 
 To a friend, the night before, she said, ' If any one 
 asks how I died, tell them I died in the full triumph of 
 hope in Christ.' 
 
 " Thus her lovely last hours have left precious memo- 
 ries. She never seemed to dwell upon herself or her 
 sickness to those who came in, but always thought of 
 others, and was interested in everj^thing. Her death 
 has left a void which no other life can fill. Her rare 
 qualities, aside from her Christian character, her ex- 
 cellent good sense, her genial disposition, her ready 
 wit, her flowing sympathy, make the bereaved heart 
 cry out in A^ain for a friend who could fill her place. 
 Since I was six years old I have known her, in school 
 and at home, in sickness and in health, in prosperity 
 and adversity, and I never saw her temper ruffled. 
 She has beei^ the first to die, of a class of six of us 
 Sunday-school scholars, who were baptized together 
 upwards of twenty years ago. 
 
 " It was heart-rendino: to see the stricken husband 
 
IN MEMORIAM. 253 
 
 and children as they took their final leave of their be- 
 loved one. God comfort them, for he alone can. 
 "Long ago she wrote thus of Christian hope : — 
 
 " 'Thanks be to God, though sin and strife 
 
 Oppress us till our latest breath ; 
 Life here is not our only life, 
 
 And death is not forever death. 
 O joyful season! welcome day I 
 
 That sees my earthly fetters riven ; 
 Speed, tardy hours, your dull delay, — 
 
 Your faster flight, my sooner heaven.' 
 
 " And in that heaven she worships to-daj^, while we 
 wait sorrowing a little longer. 
 
 " With love, yours truly, 
 
 " H. ^Y:* 
 
 The lines which follow, in memoriam of Mrs. Ed- 
 mond, were written by a dear friend and schoolmate 
 of Mrs. E., Miss Harriet F. Woods : — 
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 Spring comes ! The forms of life she loved 
 
 Begin to stir, 
 And not a butterfly or bird but brings 
 
 Memories of her. 
 All bright-hued flowers that bloom, — the pink, 
 
 The tulip, and the rose. 
 The sweet, wild beauties of the wood, beside 
 
 The brook that flows 
 
254 7iV MEMORIAM. 
 
 Through violet-scented meadows, and the breath 
 
 Of south winds o'er the hill, — 
 All earth awakening from its wintry death 
 
 llecalls her still. 
 "Whitsunday cometh silent, in the garb 
 
 Of fragrant May, 
 And incense- breathing orchards stand again 
 
 In white array. 
 Sacred its memory ever ; since her eyes 
 
 Looked forth in calm delight 
 On her last earthly Sabbath, — on the trees 
 
 Arrayed in white ; 
 And ere June dawned upon the waiting earth, 
 
 The summons given 
 Called her from their fresh beauties to the flowers 
 
 Fadeless in heaven. 
 
 Summer by sea and shore ; the dark blue waves 
 Capped with white foam-wreaths dancing ! 
 Low, lulling music on the sandy shore, 
 And rippling laughter where the brooklets pour. 
 Under the dark boughs glancing. 
 
 The sweet aroma of the wavy pines 
 
 The willing south wind beareth ; 
 The summer moonlight gleaming through the vines ; 
 Sweet breathe the one, brightly the other shines ; 
 
 But she no longer shareth. 
 
 The summer that she loved, — how linked with her 
 
 Its beauty and its voices ; 
 Setting the early memories all astir. 
 Leaving the sorrowing heart but lonelier, 
 
 When all the earth rejoices ! 
 
IN MEMORIAM. 255 
 
 Autumn is with us, — all his wealth 
 
 Of gold and russet-leaves, 
 His crimson hues of sunny health. 
 
 His yellow harvest sheaves. 
 I miss her in the chestnut woods, 
 
 And in the orchard glade, — 
 In all the lovely solitudes 
 
 "Whither we two have strayed. 
 
 The gleaming piles of ripening fruit. 
 
 The purple-clustered vine, 
 Bring memories of her childhood's days 
 
 With genial hours of mine ; 
 O friend beloved, whose heart of hearts 
 
 Loved all things fair and free, 
 Whither can we who love thee turn, 
 
 Nor pine for want of thee ? 
 
 Winter ! whose cheery festal days 
 
 To childhood's joys were given, 
 Till white-robed angels bore away 
 
 Her two sweet babes to heaven. 
 Thrice hallowed came the Christmas time, 
 
 And grave the glad New Year ; 
 Since for the angels heaven had gained, 
 
 Two less were singing here. 
 
 The days glide onward. Gleams the earth 
 
 White with its spotless snow, 
 And wakens memories into birth 
 
 Of one short year ago. 
 Her days and weary nights of pain ; 
 
 Her bright or patient smile ; 
 Her cheerful hope of health again. 
 
 Their languor to beguile. 
 
256 IN^ ME MORI AM. 
 
 Ilcr filial trust that only said, 
 
 " Thy will, not mine, be done ; " 
 While Love with clinging anguish plead, 
 
 " Spare us our precious one ! " 
 Yet still she faded, day by day, 
 
 As fade the wreaths of snow ; 
 And looking up the shining way, 
 
 Let all things earthly go. 
 
 The tomb had terrors once for thee, beloved, — 
 
 How sleepest thou there, — 
 Thy dear and lost ones near thee, and above, 
 
 The fading flowers so fair ? 
 Is there no coldness and no darkness left 
 
 Within the tomb ? 
 Or has the Lord, who slept there, thus bereft 
 
 It of its gloom ? 
 Stay ! idle questions all ! The silent clay 
 
 Resteth in peace ; 
 What are the shadows of the tomb ? The soul 
 
 Hath found release. 
 Yet, O beloved, thou oft hast gladdened us 
 
 With words of cheer : 
 Would thou could'st tell us what thou knowest there, 
 
 While blindly here 
 We grope yet longer, and uncertain stray, 
 
 Nor quite can know 
 Whether our steps are following on thy way, 
 
 Or whither go. 
 Oh, for thy light upon our night to shine, 
 
 Turning it into day ! 
 Oh, for the clasping of that hand of thine, 
 
 To lead the way ! 
 We see but darkly ; to thine unsealed eyes 
 
 Solved are the mysteries, 
 
MRS. AMANDA M. EDMUND, 257 
 
 While we, weak, staggering, faltering, only lean 
 
 Upon the promises. 
 So help us, God ! If love is but of earth, 
 
 'Tis a poor cheating thing ; 
 But 'tis of heaven, in heaven, — O God, thou'rt love ; 
 
 To thee we cling ! 
 
 The following beautiful and precious tribute is from 
 the pen of her pastor, Rev. William Lamson, D.D. : — 
 
 MRS. AMANDA M. EDMOND. 
 
 This is the name of one who, not quite a year since, 
 left us for her home above. She lives in the memory 
 of friends, enshrined in the affections of many loving 
 hearts, and needs for them no record of her virtues. 
 But it is never amiss to stop a moment beside the grave 
 of departed worth and recall the excellences of one 
 whom we have loved. It was on the first Sabbath of 
 last June that we bore her sleeping body to the sanc- 
 tuary in which she had delighted to worship, and thence 
 to its last, silent home. It seemed fitting that she who 
 had so loved nature — to whom every bud and blos- 
 som and spire of grass had a charm, — should see it, 
 for the last time, in its dress of beauty, and feel that 
 it smiled lovingly on her as she closed her eyes on it. 
 There is no gloom in such a burial. 
 
 Mrs. Edmond was the daughter of Elijah Corey, Jr., 
 and of his wife, Marj^ Corey, and was the wife of 
 James Edmond. She was born in Brookline, Mass., 
 Oct. 28, 1824. Early in life she was awakened to the 
 
258 MBS. AMANDA M. EDMOJSfD. 
 
 interests of her soul, and passed that great spiritual 
 change, which fixed her aims, and shaped the subse- 
 quent course of her life. At the age of fourteen she 
 was baptized by Dr. W. H. Shailer, now of Portland, 
 Me., and became connected with the church in her 
 native town. Her pietj^ from the first was marked hy 
 thoughtfulness, self-scrutiny and active zeal. Her 
 journal, written the year she united with the church, 
 shows how closel}^ she watched her own spirit, and how 
 severely she judged herself. These characteristics of 
 her early piety were prominent through life. Devoted 
 as a wife and a mother, no one could know her without 
 perceiving that the throne of her afi'ections was reserved 
 for Christ and his cause. Her heart never ceased to 
 throb with afi'ectionate interest for the church of her 
 choice till it ceased to beat. 
 
 When quite young, she developed an ability to write, 
 uncommon for her years ; and this ability grew till she 
 became an accomplished writer, widely known b}' the 
 productions of her pen. Thousands who never saw 
 her have been consoled or cheered by her sweet hymns, 
 or instructed and guided by her stories for the j^oung. 
 Besides the many fugitive pieces scattered through 
 papers and monthlies, she added ten choice volumes to 
 our Sunday-school literature, a volume to our religious 
 biograph}^, — the memoir of the missionary, Mrs. Com- 
 stock, her early friend, — and published a volume of 
 poems, entitled, from the principal piece in it, " The 
 Broken Vow." She also edited, for a series of years, 
 
MRS. AMANDA M. EDMOND. 259 
 
 that beautiful little annual, the " Ladies' Almanac." 
 It is with no little surprise that we look at the amount 
 of her productions, remembering that they were written 
 in the midst of domestic cares never neglected, and 
 many of them during j^ears of failing health. But she 
 had a rare facility of uniting literary labor with the 
 daily duties of life, — dropping her pen for the toil of 
 the kitchen, and returning to it at the first leisure, as 
 though there had been no interruption. 
 
 Whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth. Our friend 
 did not escape the discipline of sorrow. Within a few 
 weeks her Father saw fit to take to himself two pre- 
 cious jewels, which for a season he had loaned her, 
 and on which, perhaps, her heart had become too 
 strongly fixed. Little Amy and Jenny were getting 
 between her and her God, and he loved her too well to 
 permit it. It was a crushing blow. For a season she 
 refused consolation, — could not see the wisdom or the 
 goodness of the providence. All was fearfully dark ; 
 and her gentle spirit rose and murmured against God. 
 But it was only for a season. Faith gained the ascen- 
 dency, and she bowed with her whole heart lovingly, 
 submissively, to the Divine chastening. But she has 
 painted the struggle as no other could do it, in the ex- 
 quisite lines on little Amy : — 
 
 " Of all the prayers that test my faith, 
 This is the hardest one, 
 To gaze on that dear face in death, 
 And say, ' Thy will be done.' 
 
260 MRS. AMANDA M. EDMOND. 
 
 In the wild struggle nature fails, 
 
 And sinks, affrighted, down ; 
 A mortal grief o'er faith prevails, — 
 
 The cross obscures the crown. 
 
 '* So fast upon her pale, sweet clay, 
 
 Came down my blinding tears ; 
 They veiled a while her shining way 
 
 To the celestial spheres. 
 O Thou who hast, with hand unseen. 
 
 Removed the loved to Thee, 
 Come now, with helping grace, between 
 
 The little child and me J " 
 
 The helping grace came. God himself filled the 
 place made terribly vacant by that which he had taken 
 away. She lived to saj^ from a full heart, as did David, 
 " It is good for me that I have been afflicted." 
 
 Some four years since, her watchful friends began to 
 fear the approaches of that insidious and fatal disease 
 that every year desolates so many of our New England 
 homes. She, too, saw it, and set herself resolutely to 
 contend against it. She clung to life. It had been a 
 joy to her, and was still a joy. The future was full 
 of promise. " Why," said she, " should I not try to 
 live as long as I can, when I have everything to live 
 for ? " And right earnestly did she struggle, at times 
 seeming almost to have gained the victory. But in the 
 autumn of 1861, the indications of the approaching 
 end became more and more decisive. Yet during the 
 winter months which followed, chiefly for the sake of 
 
MRS. AMANDA M. EDMOND, 261 
 
 those she loved, we now think, did she talk cheerfully 
 and hopefully of her case. But when the Father's will 
 was too plain to be mistaken, she resigned herself at 
 once and wholly to his disposal. Every mortal wish 
 was hushed, and everj^ fear banished. With a thought- 
 ful solicitude for others, grateful for every human at- 
 tention, and overflowing with thankfulness to God, she 
 lingered for a few da3's at Heaven's portal, waiting the 
 summons to enter. It was dm-ing these days, in the 
 intervals of her suflering, that the moral and spiritual 
 beauties of her character shone most brightly. Her 
 farewells to husband and children and friends, and her 
 messages to the church and the Sabbath School, are 
 legacies more prized than gold. Two nights before 
 her death, while suffering extremely, and expecting 
 every hour would be the last, she said, " If any ask 
 how I died, tell them I died in the triumphs of faith 
 and hope, looking for salvation alone through my Lord 
 and Saviour, Jesus Christ." As the final hour drew 
 near, turning her e3^es to her physician, who stood by 
 her bedside, she thanked him for his kind attentions, 
 and then, with a clear, full voice, as in health, repeated 
 these lines : — 
 
 " Sweet land of rest, for thee I sigh; 
 When will the moment come 
 When I shall lay my armor by, 
 And dwell with Christ at home ? " 
 
 Weeks before she died, she had composed some 
 verses, retaining them in her memory to be committed 
 
262 MRS. AMANDA M. EDMOND. 
 
 to writing as the last act of life. They were written 
 out but two days before her death, and partly by the 
 hand of another, and then entrusted to a friend, with 
 specific directions when and how to present them to 
 her husband after she had gone. They seem almost 
 too sacred for the public eye, — and yet, when we re- 
 member how many will read them with a sad pleas^re, 
 and remember, too, that they are the last we shall ever 
 have from her pen, we are tempted to close this tribute 
 to her memory with them. It may be the partiality of 
 friendship, but we do not recall anything more tender 
 and beautiful, and withal thoroughly Christian, than 
 these farewell lines to husband and children and 
 friends : — 
 
 "Keep me not here while I tremble and shiver ; 
 Stay not my feet where the dark waters be ; 
 For over the river, just over the river, 
 Amy and Jenny are waiting for me. 
 
 " Hark to the sound, the sweet sound of their voices, 
 Lovingly, tenderly, ' Come, mother, come;' 
 Oh, how my spirit exulting rejoices, — 
 
 Darlings, I'm coming, I'm nearing my home ! 
 
 "Dearer than children, than father or mother, 
 Watching and waiting, there's one by my side, 
 Next to my Saviour, and next to no other, — 
 He who once won me, and made me his bride. 
 
 " How can I leave thee, beloved of my bosom; 
 How can I leave thee to wander alone ? 
 Blessed Redeemer, oh, comfort the mourner, 
 Fold thou his wounded heart close in thine own. 
 
MRS. AMANDA M. EDMOND, 263 
 
 " Children, dear children, eo dear to me never, 
 Now is the cup of our agony given ; 
 Now must we part, but we part not forever, — 
 
 I have loved you on earth, I shall love you in heaven. 
 
 "Friends, gentle friends, who have strewn my sick pillows 
 With blossoms of hope, of peace and of love, — 
 Sister, sweet sister, away on the billows. 
 Brothers beloved, I shall meet you above."