1844- RELIGIOUS AND ELEGIAC. POEMS, RELIGIOUS AND ELEGIAC. MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY. " If we listen to David s harp, we shall hear as many hearse-like har monies as carols ; and the pencil of inspiration hath more laboured to describe the afflictions of Job than the felicities of Solomon." LORD BACON. LONDON: ROBERT TYAS, 8, PATERNOSTER ROW. LOAN STACK LONDON : CLARKE, PRINTERS, SILVER STREET, FALCON SQUARE. CONTENTS. Ps PAGE THE SUNDAY SCHOOL ...... 1 THE LOST DARLING ..... 3 FA1TH ..... 5 THE LAST SUPPER . . . . . . . . 7 THE RIGHTEOUS DEAD ...... 10 JOY IN BELIEVING ...... 12 A MOTHER S COUNSELS ..... 14 THE TIME TO DIE ..... J6 "THIS is NOT YOUR REST" ..... 18 ON READING THE MEMOIRS OF MRS. JUDSON . 20 THE BABE BARZILLAI THE GILEADITE 23 TO THE MEMORY OF A YOUNG LADY ... 25 28 DEATH OF AN AGED CHRISTIAN .... 30 NEW ZEALAND MISSIONARY .... 32 DEATH OF A SISTER, AT SCHOOL ... 34 ON THE LOSS OF A BEAUTIFUL CHILD AT TRENTON FALLS . . 36 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN AGED PASTOR . . 33 THE HOPIA TREE ..... MISTAKES .... SILENT DEVOTION .... DEATH OF A YOUNG WIFE THE SICK CHILD .... THE BITTERNESS OF DEATH PASSING AWAY ... re BURMANS AND THEIR MISSIONARY . . 57 APPEAL OF THE BLIND .... 59 BENEVOLENCE ... . - . 61 A FATHER TO HIS MOTHERLESS CHILDREN . . 63 THE WIDOW OF ZAREPHATH .... 65 DIVINE GOODNESS .... gg THE CONSUMPTIVE GIBL ... 71 TO A DYING INFANT .... 74 THE TOMB ...... 7 g DEATH OF THE EMIGRANT . 70 vi CONTENTS. METHUSELAH . CHRISTIAN SETTLEMENTS IN AFRICA WAITING UPON THE LORD THE MOHEGAN CHURCH FUNERAL OF A PHYSICIAN BIRTH-DAY OF THE F1RST-EORN ON THE DEATH OF DR. ADAM CLARKE MARRIAGE HYMN . PARTING OF THE MISSIONARY S BRIDE . .. CHRISTIAN HOPE WILBERFORCE . ANNIVERSARY OF THE DEATH OF A FATHER . . . 94 THE CHRISTIAN MOURNER 101 BAPTISM OF AN INFANT AT ITS MOTHER S FUNERAL . . . 103 105 SABBATH MORNING . CONTENTMENT . . . 110 TWAS BUT A BABE . . . . Ill THE ANGELS SONG . THE KNELL THE MOTHER . DREAM OF THE DEAD ..... 115 117 119 ONLY THIS ONCE". .....- 122 124 127 THE HALF-CENTURY SERMON . TRIBUTE TO THE REV. DR. CORNELIUS . .131 DEATH OF THE WIFE OF A CLERGYMAN . . . 134 LOVE NOT THE WORLD . 1 3C THE COMMUNION l3 ? CHRISTMAS HYMN ... .139 BURIAL OF TWO YOUNG SISTERS HO THE BAPTISM THOUGHTS AMONG THE TREES H(5 MISSIONS TO AFRICA l48 THE ORDINATION 1</5 THE CHRISTIAN GOING HOME HEAVEN S LESSON THE BUBBLE . ATTENDING A FORMER PUPIL TO THE GRAVE MISTAKEN GRIEF ....... 1C! CONTENTS. Vll PAGE DEATH OF MRS. H. W. L. WINSLOW, MISSIONARY IN CEYLON . . 163 "SHOW us THE FATHER" .... .165 THE LOST SISTER .... ... 167 THE DEPARTED NEIGHBOUR .... . . 169 THE CONVENIENT SEASON . .... 1 72 THE AMERICAN BISHOP . . 175 POWER OF THE ALMIGHTY . . . . . . . 178 IS IT WELL WITH THE CHILD* ..... 180 MONODY TO MRS. SARAH L. SMITH . . . . . . 182 "DEPART, CHRISTIAN SOUL" ...... 185 DEATH OF A CLERGYMAN . . . . . . 186 A MOTHER S TEACHING . . . 188 "TO DIE is GAIN" . . . . . . . 190 UZZIAH ......... 192 OUR TEACHERS ......... 194 THE FIRST MORNING OF SPRING ...... 197 DEATH OF THE PRINCIPAL OF A RETREAT FOR THE INSANE . . 199 THE REV. LEGH RICHMOND AMONG THE RUINS OF IONA . . 202 TRUE WISDOM ......... 204 ON MEETING SEVERAL FORMER PUPILS AT THE COMMUNION TABLE 205 DEATH OF A YOUNG MUSICIAN ...... 207 JOTHAM S PARABLE . . . . . . . . 209 THE DYING BOY "........ 213 WIFE OF A MISSIONARY AT THE GRAVE OF HER HUSBAND . . 216 PRAYER ......... 219 PEACE .......... 221 TOMB OF A YOUNG FRIEND AT MOUNT AUBURN . . . 222 MIDNIGHT MUSIC . . . . . . . 224 EVENING BY THE SEA-SHORE ...... 227 AFRAID TO DIE ......... 229 DEPARTURE OF MISSIONARIES FOR CEYLON .... 231 CRY OF THE CORANNAS ....... 232 GIFT OF A BIBLE ........ 234 ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND . . . . . . 236 THE OLD MAN ........ 238 DEATH OF A DISTINGUISHED MAN . . . . . . 242 " NOT DEAD, BUT SLEEPETH " . . . . 245 PRAISE . . 247 Vlll CONTENTS. PAGE FOLL? ....! 248 THE AGED CLERGYMAN 250 PARTING HYMN OF MISSIONARIES TO BURMAH . .252 "WHITHER SHALL i FLEE FROM THY PRESENCE . . . 254 DEATH OF A BEAUTIFUL BOY . . 256 EVENING THOUGHTS . . . 258 AFRICAN MOTHER AT HER DAUGHTER S GRAVE . 260 DEATH-BED OF THE REV. DR. PAYSON . ... 263 MISSION HYMN . .... 265 " BLESSED ARE THE DEAD " . . ... 267 TO MOURNING PARENTS ....... 269 SAILOR S FUNERAL ..... . 270 THE DYING MOTHER S PRAYER . .... 273 DEATH OF A MISSIONARY IN AFRICA . . . 275 DIRGE ..... . 276 BOY S LAST BEQUEST ... . . 278 THE PILGRIM . . 280 TO THE MEMORi OF MISS HANNAH ADAMS . . 282 THE DEPARTED FRIEND . . . 284 CONSECRATION OF A CHURCH . 287 THE SACRED MINSTREL . . 289 "CHARITY BEARETH ALL THINGS" . . 292 THE RUINS OF HEROD S PALACE ... . 294 THE TOMB OF ABSALOM . . . 297 THE WIDOW S PRAYER . . . . . . .300 DEATH OF A MISSIONARY AT THE WEST . . . 302 " KEEP SILENCE " . . 304 THE LIBRARY ......... 306 SABBATH MEDITATIONS . ... 308 DEATH OP A POET . . ... 310 LIFE S EVENING ... ... .311 A DOOR OPENED IN HEAVEN . . . . . 313 THOUGHTS AT THE FUNERAL OF A FRIEND .... 315 MONODY TO MRS. HEMANS . . . . . . 318 FAREWELL OF THE SOUL TO THE BODY ..... 321 ZINZENDORFF .... .... 325 NOTES ..... . 349 POEMS, RELIGIOUS AND ELEGIAC. THE SUNDAY SCHOOL. GROUP after group are gathering, such as prest Once to their Saviour s arms, and gently laid Their cherub heads upon his shielding breast, Though sterner souls the fond approach forbade ; Group after group glide on with noiseless tread, And round Jehovah s sacred altar meet, Where holy thoughts in infant hearts are bred, And holy words their ruby lips repeat, Oft with a chasten VI glance, in modulation sweet. Yet some there are, upon whose childish brows Wan poverty hath done the work of care ; 1 THE SUNDAY SCHOOL. Look up, ye sad ones ! tis your Father s house, Beneath whose consecrated dome you are ; More gorgeous robes ye see, and trappings rare, And watch the gaudier forms that gaily rove, And deem, perchance, mistaken as you are, The " coat of many colours " proves His love, Whose sign is in the heart, and whose reward above. And ye, blest labourers in this humble sphere, To deeds of saint-like charity inclined, Who, from your cells of meditation dear, Go forth to guide the weak, untutor d mind Yet ask no payment, save one smile refined Of grateful love, one tear of contrite pain. Meekly ye forfeit to your mission kind The rest of earthly sabbaths. Be your gain A sabbath without end, mid yon celestial plain. THE LOST DARLING. SHE was rny idol. Night and day, to scan The fine expansion of her form, and mark The unfolding mind, like vernal rose-bud, start To sudden beauty, was my chief delight. To find her fairy footsteps following mine, Her hand upon my garments, or her lip Long sealed to mine, and in the watch of night The quiet breath of innocence to feel Soft on my cheek, was such a full content Of happiness, as none but mothers know. Her voice was like some tiny harp that yields To the slight fingered breeze, and as it held Brief converse with her doll, or playful soothed The moaning kitten, or with patient care Conned o er the alphabet but most of all, Its tender cadence in her evening prayer Thrilled on the ear like some ethereal tone Heard in sweet dreams. But now alone I sit, Musing of her, and dew with mournful tears 1 b 4 THE LOST DARLING. Her little robes, that once with woman s pride I wrought, as if there were a need to deck What God had made so beautiful. I start, Half fancying from her empty crib there comes A restless sound, and breathe the accustomed words, " Hush ! Hush thee, dearest." Then I bend and weep As though it were a sin to speak to one Whose home is with the angels. Gone to God ! And yet I wish I had not seen the pang That wrung her features, nor the ghastly white Settling around her lips. I would that heaven Had taken its own, like some transplanted flower, Blooming in all its freshness. Gone to God ! Be still, my heart ! what could a mother s prayer, In all the wildest ecstacies of hope, Ask for its darling like the bliss of heaven. FAITH. WRAPT in the robe of Faith, Come to the place of prayer, And seal thy deathless vows to Him Who makes thy life his care. Doth he thy sunny skies O ercloud with tempest gloom ? Or take the idol of thy breast, And hide it in the tomb ? Or bid thy treasur d joys In hopeless ruin lie ? Search not his reasons, wait his will ; The record is on high. For should he strip thy heart Of all it boasts on earth, And set thee naked and alone, As at thy day of birth, FAITH. He cannot do thee wrong, Those gifts were his at first, Draw nearer to his changeless throne, Bow deeper in the dust. Calls he thy parting soul Unbodied from the throng ? Cling closer to thy Saviour s cross, And raise the victor song. THE LAST SUPPER, A PICTURE BY LEONARDI DA VINCI. BEHOLD that countenance, where grief and love Blend with ineffable benignity, And deep, un uttered majesty divine. Whose is that eye which seems to read the heart, And yet to have shed the tear of mortal woe ? Redeemer ! is it thine ? And is this feast Thy last on earth ? Why do the chosen few, Admitted to thy parting banquet, stand As men transfix d with horror ? Ah ! I hear The appalling answer, from those lips divine, " One of you shall betray me." One of these ? Who by thy hand was nurtured, heard thy prayers, Received thy teachings, as the thirsty plant Turns to the rain of summer ? One of these ! Therefore, with deep and deadly paleness droops The loved disciple, as if life s warm spring Chilled to the ice of death, at such strange shock THE LAST SUPPER. Of unimagined guilt. See, his whole soul Concentred in his eye, the man who walked The waves with Jesus, all impetuous prompts The horror-struck inquiry " Is it I ? Lord ! is it I ? " while earnest pressing near, His brother s lip, in ardent echo seems Doubling the fearful thought. With brow upraised, Andrew absolves his soul of charge so foul ; And springing eager from the table s foot, Bartholomew bends forward, full of hope, That by his ear, the Master s awful words Had been misconstrued. To the side of Christ, James, in the warmth of cherished friendship clings, Still trembling as the traitor s image steals Into his throbbing heart; while he, whose hand In sceptic doubt was soon to probe the wounds Of Him he loved, points upward to invoke The avenging God. Philip, with startled gaze, Stands in his crystal singleness of soul, Attesting innocence and Matthew s voice, Repeating fervently the Master s words, Rouses to agony the listening group, Who, half incredulous, with terror, seem To shudder at his accents. All the twelve With strong emotion strive, save one false breast By Mammon seared, which, brooding o er its gain, THE LAST SUPPER. Weighs thirty pieces with the Saviour s blood. Son of perdition ! dost thou freely breathe In such pure atmosphere ? And canst thou hide, Neath the cold calmness of that settled brow, The burden of a deed whose very name Strikes all thy brethren pale ? But can it be That the strange power of this soul-harrowing scene Is the slight pencil s witchery ? I would speak Of him who pour d such bold conception forth O er the dead canvass. But I dare not now Muse of a mortal s praise. Subdued I stand In thy sole, sorrowing presence, Son of God I feel the breathing of those holy men, From whom thy Gospel, as on angel s wing, Went out through all the earth. I see how deep Sin in the soul may lurk, and fain would kneel Low at thy blessed feet, and trembling ask " Lord! is it I." For who may tell, what dregs Do slumber in his breast. Thou, who didst taste Of man s infirmities, yet bar his sins From thine unspotted soul, forsake us not In our temptations ; but so guide our feet, That our last supper in this world may lead To that immortal banquet by thy side, Where there is no betrayer. THE RIGHTEOUS DEAD. YON pilgrim see, in vestments grey, Whose bleeding feet bedew his way, O er arid sands, with want opprest, Who, toiling, knows no place of rest : Mourn ye, because the long-sought shrine, He clasps in ecstacy divine, And lays his load of sin and gloom Repentant on a Saviour s tomb ? Behold yon ship, with wrecking form, That bows her proud mast to the storm, Rude winds and waves, with headlong force, Impel her on her dangerous course ; The pallid crew their hope resign, And powerless view the surging brine : Mourn ye, because the tempest dies, And in the haven moor d she lies ? Emerging from the field of strife Where slaughter d thousands waste their life, Yon warrior see, with gushing veins, Who scarce his frantic steed restrains ; THE RIGHTEOUS DEAD. I 1 The death-mist swims before his eyes As toward the well-known spot he flies, Where every fond affection lies. Mourn ye, because to home restor d, Woman s white arms enwrap her lord, And tears and smiles, with varying grace, Fleet o er his cherub children s face ? Yet on his path of toil and woe, The pilgrim from the shrine must go, The ship amid the billows strain, The warrior seek the field again, But he, whose form to death has bow d, Whose spirit cleaves the ethereal cloud, From him hath change and sorrow fled, Why mourn ye, then, the righteous dead ? JOY IN BELIEVING. God desireth to have no slaves in his family." REV. DR. HAWES. MAN asketh homage. When his foot doth stand On earth s high places, he exacteth fear From those who serve him. His proud spirit loves The quick observance of an abject eye And cowering brow. His dignity, he deems, Demands such aliment and he doth show Its evanescence, by the food he seeks To give it nutriment. Yea, more than this He o er his brother rules, with scourge and chain, Treading out Nature s charities, till life To madness tortur d, or in misery crush d, Goes, an accusing spirit, back to God. But He, the Eternal Ruler, willeth not The slavery of the soul. His claim is love, A filial spirit, and a song of praise. It doth not please Him, that his servants wear The livery of mourning. Peace is sown Along their pilgrim path and holy hopes JOY IN BELIEVING. 13 Like birds of Paradise, do sweetly pour Melodious measures and a glorious faith Springs up o er Jordan s wave. Say, is it meet For those who wear a Saviour s badge, to sigh In heathen heaviness, when earthly joys Quench their brief taper ? or go shrinking down As to a dungeon, when the gate of Death Opes its low valve, to show the shining track Up to an angel s heritage of bliss ? A MOTHER S COUNSELS. DAUGHTER, the Book Divine, To which we turn for aid, When prosperous skies unclouded shine, Or dark-wing d storms invade, Is ever open to thine eye, Imprint it on thy soul, And wisdom that can never die Shall thy young thoughts control. Sweetest, the cheek of bloom, Alas ! how soon twill wear The clay-cold colouring of the tomb : Then while thine own is fair, Low at His feet imploring fall, Who loves the humble mind, And whose high promise is, that all Who early seek shall find. Come, ere thy hand hath wove The first, fresh wreaths of Spring, A MOTHER S COUNSELS. 15 Come, ere a worn and wither d love Is all thou hast to bring, Remember thy Creator s power, While life from care is free, That, when the days of darkness lower, He may remember thee. Yes, give thy heart to Him, While budding Hope is green, And when thy mother s eye is dim To every earthly scene, When this fond arm that circles thee Must chill and powerless lie, Our parting tear, the pledge shall be Of union in the sky. THE TIME TO DIE. There is a time to die." KING SOLOMON. I HEARD a stranger s hearse move heavily Along the pavement. Its deep gloomy pall No hand of kindred or of friend upbore. But from the cloud that veiled his western couch, The lingering sun shed forth one transient ray, Like sad and tender farewell to some plant Which he had nourished. On the giddy crowd Went dancing in their own enchanted maze, Drowning the echo of those tardy wheels Which hoarsely warn d them of a time to die. I saw a sable train in sorrow bend Around a tomb. There was a stifled sob, And now and then a pearly tear fell down Upon the tangled grass. Bat then there came The damp clod harshly on the coffin lid, Curdling the life-blood at the mourner s heart, While audibly it spake to every ear, " There is a time to die." THE TIME TO DIE. 17 And then it seemed As if from every mound and sepulchre In that lone cemetery from the sward Where slept the span-long infant to the grave Of him who dandled on his wearied knee Three generations from the turf that veil d The wreck of mouldering beauty, to the bed Where shrank the loathed beggar rose a cry From all those habitants of silence tf Yea ! There is a time to die." Methought that truth, In every tongue, and dialect, and tone, Peal d o er each region of the rolling globe ; The simoon breathed it, and the earthquake groan d A hollow, deep response ; the avalanche Wrote it in terror on a snowy scroll ; The red volcano belch d it forth in flames ; Old Ocean bore it on his whelming surge ; And yon, pure, broad, cerulean arch grew dark With death s eternal darts. But joyous man, To whom kind heaven the ceaseless warning sent, Turn d to his phantom pleasures, and deferr d, To some convenient hour, the time to die. "THIS IS NOT YOUR REST." THE PROPHET MICAH. THE vines are wither d, O, my love, That erst we taught to tower, And in a mesh of fragrance wove, Around our summer-bower. The ivy on the ancient wall Doth in its budding fade ; The stream is dry, whose gentle fall A lulling murmur made. The tangled weeds have chok d the flowers; The trees, so lately bright, In all the pomp of vernal hours Reveal a blackening blight ; There is a sigh upon the gale That doth the willow sway, A murmur from the blossoms pale, " Arise, and come away." "THIS IS NOT YOUR REST." 19 So, when this life in clouds shall hide Its garland fair and brief, And every promise of its pride Must wear the frosted leaf; Then may the undying soul attain That heritage sublime, Where comes no pang of parting pain, Nor change of hoary time. 2 h ON READING THE MEMOIRS OF MRS. JUDSON. I SA.W her on the strand. Beside her smil d The land of birth, and the beloved home, With all their pageantry of tint and shade, Streamlet and vale. There stood her childhood s friends, Sweet sisters, who her inmost thoughts had shar d, And saint-like parents, whose example rais d Those thoughts to heaven. It was a strong array, And the fond heart clung to its rooted loves. But Christ had given a panoply, which earth Might never take away. And so she turn d To boisterous ocean, and with cheerful step, Though moisten d eye, forsook the cherish d clime Whose halcyon bowers had rear d her joyous youth. I look d again. It was a foreign shore. The tropic sun had laid his burning brow On twilight s lap. A gorgeous palace caught His last red ray. Hoarsely the idol-song To Boodh mingled with the breeze that cuvl d Broad Irrawaddy s tide. Why do ye point To yon low prison ? Who is he that gropes Amid its darkness, with those fetter d limbs ? ON READING THE MEMOIRS OF MRS. JUDSON. 21 Mad Pagans ! do ye thus requite the man Who toils for your salvation ? See that form Bending in tenderest sympathy to sooth The victim s sorrow. Tardy months pass by, And find her still intrepid at the post Of danger and of disappointed hope. Stem sickness smote her, yet, with tireless zeal, She hore the hoarded morsel to her love, Dar d the rude arrogance of savage power, To plead for him, and bade his dungeon glow, With her fair brow, as erst the angel s smile Arous d imprison d Peter, when his hands, From fetters loos d, were lifted high in praise. There was another scene, drawn by his hand Whose icy pencil blotteth out the grace And loveliness of man. The keenest shaft Of anguish quivers in that martyr s breast, Who is about to wash her garments white In a Redeemer s blood, and glorious rise From earthly sorrows to a clime of rest. Dark Burman faces are around her bed, And one pale babe is there, for whom she checks The death-groan, clasping it in close embrace, Even till the heart-strings break. Behold he comes ! The wearied man of God from distant toil. 22 ON READING THE MEMOIRS OF MRS. JUDSON. His borne, while yet a misty speck it seems, His straining eye detects, but marks no form Of his most lov d one, hasting down the vale, As wont, to meet him. Say, what heathen lip In its strange accents told him, that on earth Nought now remain d to heal his wounded heart, Save that lone famish d infant ? Days of care Were meted to him, and long nights of grief Weigh d out, and then that little, wailing one, Went to her mother s bosom, and slept sweet Neath the cool branches of the hopia-tree. Twas bitterness to think that bird-like voice, Which sang sweet hymns to please a father s ear, Must breathe no more. This is to be alone, Alone in this wide world. Yet not without A comforter. For the true heart that trusts Its all to Heaven, and sees its treasur d things Unfold their hidden wing, and thither soar, Doth find itself drawn upward in their flight. THE BABE. I HAD a little tender flower, I nurs d it in my summer bower, No storm disturbed the guest ; And even if the pearly dew Hung heavy on its head, I flew To warm it in my breast. To this fond toil my days were given, For this, my nightly prayer to heaven Its tearful ardour spent; A nameless pleasure soothed my care, I lov d the plant, I saw twas fair, And knew by God twas lent. Yet, while I watch d its balmy rest, And warmly clasp d it to my breast With rapture s thrilling tone, Stern Death, whose form I did not see, Still nearer sat and watch d with me, And claim d it for his own. 24 THE BABE. He bore it to his dreary home, That narrow house where all must come ; Its cheek how deadly pale ! On me, its eye imploring roll d To save it from a grasp so cold, Ah ! what could that avail ? Yet though he tore it from my arms, And blanch d its bloom, and crush d its charms, And o er it heap d the clods, And dimm d the clear eyes violet ray, And gave the form to worms a prey, It was not his, but God s. TO THE MEMORY OF A YOUNG LADY- BRILLIANT and beautiful ! And can it be That in thy radiant eye there dwells no light Upon thy cheek no smile ? I little deemed At our last parting, when thy cheering voice Breathed the soul s harmony, what shadowy form Then rose between us, and with icy dart Wrote, " Ye shall meet no more." I little deemed That thy elastic step, Death s darkened vale Would tread before me. Friend, I shrink to say Farewell to thee. In youth s unclouded morn, We gaze on friendship as a graceful flower, And win it for our pleasure, or our pride. But when the stern realities of life Do clip the wings of fancy, and cold storms Rack the worn cordage of the heart, it breathes A healing essence, and a strengthening charm, Next to the hope of heaven. Such was thy love, Departed and deplored. Talents were thine, Lofty and bright, the subtle shaft of wit, And that keen glance of intellect which reads, 26 TO THE MEMORY OF A YOUNG L.ADY. Intuitive, the deep and mazy springs Of human action. Yet such meek regard For other s feelings, such a simple grace And singleness of purpose, such respect To woman s noiseless duties, sweetly bow d And tempered those high gifts, that every heart, Which feared their splendour, loved their goodness too, I see thy home of birth. Its pleasant halls Put on the garb of mourning. Sad and lone Are they who nursed thy virtues, and beheld Their bright expansion through each ripening year. To them the sacred name of daughter blent All images of comforter and friend, The fire-side charmer and the nurse of pain, Eyes to the blind, and, to the weary, wings. What shall console their sorrow, when young morn Upriseth in its beauty, yet no smile Of filial love to mark it ? when slow eve Sinks down in silence, and that tuneful tone, So long the treasure of their listening heart, Uttereth no music ? Ah ! so frail are we So like the brief ephemeron that wheels Its momentary round, we scarce can weep Our own bereavements, ere we haste to share The clay with those we mourn. A narrow point Divides our grief-sob from our pang of death. TO THE MEMORY OF A YOUNG LADY. 27 Down to the mouldering multitude we go, And all our anxious thoughts, our fevered hopes The sorrowing burdens of our pilgrimage In deep oblivion rest. Then let the woes And joys of earth be to the deathless soul Like the swept dew-drop from the eagle s wing, When, waking in his strength, he sunward soars. BARZILLAI THE GILEADITE. " Let me be buried by the grave of my father and of my mother. 2 SAMUEL, xix., 87. SON of Jesse ! let me go, Why should princely honours stay me ? Where the streams of Gilead flow, Where the light first met mine eye, Thither would I turn and die ; Where my parents ashes lie, King of Israel ! bid them lay me. Bury me near my sire revered, Whose feet in righteous paths so firmly trod, Who early taught my soul with awe To heed the Prophets and the Law, And to my infant heart appeared Majestic as a God : Oh ! when his sacred dust The cerements of the tomh shall burst, Might I be worthy at his feet to rise, To yonder blissful skies, Where angel-hosts resplendent shine, Jehovah ! Lord of Hosts, the glory shall be thine. BARZILLAI THE GILEADITE. 29 Cold age upon my breast Hath shed a frost like death, The wine-cup hath no zest, The rose no fragrant breath ; Music from my ear hath fled, Yet still one sweet tone lingereth there, The blessing that my mother shed Upon my evening prayer. Dim is my wasted eye To all that beauty brings, The brow of grace the form of symmetry Are half-forgotten things ; Yet one bright hue is vivid still, A mother s holy smile, that soothed my sharpest ill. Memory, with traitor- tread, Methinks, doth steal away Treasures that the mind had laid Up for a wintry day. Images of sacred power, Cherished deep in passion s hour, Faintly now my bosom stir, Good and evil like a dream Half obscured and shadowy seem, et with a changeless love my soul remembereth her, Yea it remembereth her : Close by her blessed side, make ye my sepulchre. DEATH OF AN AGED CHRISTIAN. I THOUGHT that death was terrible. I ve seen His ministry in the distorted brow, The glazing eye, the struggle and the groan, With which the heart-strings break. Yet here was one Whose summoned breath went forth as peacefully As folds the spent rose when the day is done. Still life to her was dear ; for, with strong root That charity, whose fruit is happiness, Did grow and blossom in her ; and the light Of her own cheerful spirit flowing out, Tinged earth s brief rain-drops with the bow of heaven. Time had respected her, had spared her brow Its beauty, and her heart the unchilled warmth Of those affections, gentle and sublime, Which make the fire-side holy. Hand in hand With those her care had nurtured, and who joyed To pay their debt of gratitude, she past, Benign and graceful, down the vale of age, Wrapped up in tender love. Without a sigh, A change of feature, or a shaded smile, She gave her hand to the stern messenger, DEATH OF AN AGED CHRISTIAN. 31 And, as a glad child seeks its father s house, Went home. She in her Saviour s ranks had done A veteran s service, and, with Polycarp, Might say to death, " For more than fourscore years He was my Lord shall I deny him now ? " No ! No ! Thou could st not turn away from him Who was thy hope from youth, and on whose arm Thy feebleness of hoary hairs was staid. Before his Father and the angel host He will adjudge thee faithful. So, farewell, Blessed, and full of days. No more thy prayer Up through the solitude of night shall rise To bless thy children s children nor thy soul Yearn for re-union with those kindred ones Who went to rest before thee. Twas not meet That thou should st longer tarry from that bliss Which God reserveth for the pure in heart. NEW ZEALAND MISSIONARY. "We cannot let him go. He says he is going to return to England the ship is here to take him away. But no we will keep him and make him our slave not our slave to fetch wood and draw water, but our talking- slave. Yes he shall be our slave, to talk to and to teach us. Keep him we will." Speech of Rev. Mr. Yeates, at the Anniversary of the Church Missionary Society, London, May, 1835. TWAS night, and in his tent he lay, Upon a heathen shore, While wildly on his wakeful ear The ocean s billows roar ; Twas midnight, and the war-club rang Upon his threshold stone, And heavy feet of savage men Came fiercely tramping on. Loud were their tones in fierce debate : The chieftain and his clan, " He shall not go he shall not go, That missionary man ; For him the swelling sail doth spread, The tall ship rides the wave, But we will chain him to our coast, Yes, he shall be our slave : THE NEW-ZEALAND MISSIONARY. " Not from the groves our wood to bear, Nor water from the vale, Nor in the battle-front to stand, Where proudest foe-men quail, Not the great war-canoe to guide, Where crystal streams turn red : But he shall be our slave to break The soul its living bread." Then slowly peer d the rising moon, Above the forest-height, And bathed each cocoa s leafy crown In tides of living light ; To every cabin s grassy thatch A gift of beauty gave, And with a crest of silver cheer d Pacific s sullen wave. But o er that gentle scene a shout In sudden clangour came, " Come forth, come forth, thou man of God, And answer to our claim : " So down to those dark island-men, He bow d him as he spake, " Behold, your servant will I be, For Christ, my master s sake." DEATH OF A SISTER, AT SCHOOL. SWEET sister! is it so ? And shall I see Thy face on earth no more ? And didst thou breathe The last sad pang of agonizing life Upon a stranger s pillow ? No kind hand, Of parent or of sister near, to press Thy throbbing temples, when the shuddering dew Stood thick upon them ? And they say my name Hung on thy lips mid the chill, parting strife. Ah ! those were hallowed memories that could stir Thy bosom thus in death. The tender song Of cradle-nurture the low, lisping prayer, Learned at our mother s knee the childish sport, The gift divided, and the parted cake Our walk to school amid the dewy grass Our sweet flower-gatherings all those cloudless hours Together shared, did wake a love so strong That time must yield it to eternity For its full crown. Would it had been my lot But with one weeping prayer to gird thy heart For its last conflict. Would that I had seen DEATH OF A SISTER, AT SCHOOL. 35 That peaceful smile which death did leave the clay After his conquest o er it. But the turf On thy lone grave was trodden, while I deemed Thee meekly musing o er the classic page, Loving and loved, amid the studious band As erst I left thee. Sister ! toils and ills Henceforth are past for knowledge without pain, A free translucent, everlasting tide, O erflows thy spirit. Thou no more hast need Of man s protecting arm, for thou may st lean On His unchanging throne who was thy trust, Even from thine early days. Tis well ! tis well ! Saviour of souls ! I thank thee for her bliss. ON THE LOSS OF A BEAUTIFUL CHILD AT TRENTON FALLS. No cloud upon the summer air, The forest-houghs are green and fair, And Trenton s foaming waters throw Their freshness on the vales below, And joyous spirits tread The slippery margin of the tide That on from plunge to plunge doth glide, So beautiful and dread ; Hark ! to a cry of wild despair Echoing from yon guarded dell, Where the imprison d flood doth to fierce madness swell. Where is that lovely one, Of fawn-like step, and cherub air, And brow that knew no care ? Fearful torrent ! tell me where ! She mark d thee with admiring eye, LOSS OF A CHILD AT TRENTON PALLS. 37 Thy fringed shore, thy craggy steep, Thy boiling eddies, bold and deep, Thy white inists curtaining to the sky ; Where is she now ? with sorrow wild, I hear a mother s voice lamenting for her child. Thou terrible in beauty ! hold thy way, Foaming and full of wrath. Thy deeds shall be Grav d on yon altar-piece of rugged rock, And every worshipper who bows to thee Shall read the record, and, indignant, mock Thy siren charms. And, henceforth, she who guides Some darling child along thy treacherous tides, Marking this trophy thou hast torn From the fond parents heart, shall haste away and mourn. RECOLLECTIONS OF AN AGED PASTOR. I DO remember him. His saintly voice, So duly lifted in the house of God, Comes, with the far-off wing of infant years, Like solemn music. Often have we hush d The shrillest echo of our holiday, Turning our mirth to reverence as he pass d, And eager to record one favouring smile, Or word paternal. At the bed of death I do remember him ; when one, who bore For me a tender love, sustain d that pang Which makes the features rigid and the eye Like a fix d glassy orb. Her head was white With many winters but her furrow d brow To me was beautiful for she had cheer d My lonely childhood with a changeless stream Of pure benevolence. His earnest tone, Girding her from the armory of God To foil the terrors of that shadowy vale Through which she walk d, doth linger round me still ; And by that gush of bitter tears, when first RECOLLECTIONS OF AN AGED PASTOR. Grief came into my bosom by that thrill Of agony, which from the opened grave Rush d wildly forth I do remember him, The comforter and friend. When fancy s smile Gilding youth s scenes, arid promising to bring The curtain d morrow fairer than to-day, Enkindled wilder gaiety than fits Beings so frail how oft his funeral prayer Over some shrouded sleeper made a pause In folly s song, or warn d her roving thought That all man s glory was the flower of grass Beneath the mower s scythe. His fourscore years Sat lightly on him for his heart was glad, Even to its latest pulse, with that fond love, Home-nurtur d and reciprocal, which girds And garners up, in sorrow and in joy. I was not with the weepers when the hearse Stood all expectant at his pleasant door, And other voices from his pulpit said That he was not : but yet the requiem sigh Of that sad organ, in its sable robe, Made melancholy music in my dreams. And so, farewell, thou who didst shed the dew Baptismal on mine infancy, and lead 40 RECOLLECTIONS OF AN AGED PASTOR. To the Redeemer s sacred board, a guest Timid and unassur d yet gathering strength From the blest promise of Jehovah s aid Unto the early seeker. When again My native spot unfolds that pictur d chart Unto mine eye, which in my heart I hold, Rocks, woods, and waters, exquisitely blent, Thy cordial welcome I no more shall hear Father and guide nor can I hope to win Thy glance from glory s mansion while I lay This wild-flower garland on thine honour d tomb. THE HOPIA TREE, PLANTED OVER THE GRAVE OF MRS. ANN H JUDSON. " REST ! Rest ! the hopia tree is green, And proudly waves its leafy screen Thy lowly bed above, Arid by thy side, no more to weep, Thine infant shares the gentle sleep, Thy youngest bud of love. " How oft its feeble wailing cry Detain d unseal d thy watchful eye, And pain d that parting hour When pallid Death, with stealthy tread, Descried thee on thy fever-bed, And proved his fatal power. " Ah ! do I see with faded charm, Thy head reclining on thine arm, The Teacher * far away ? * " The last day or two of her life she lay almost motionless, on one side, her head reclining on her arm. Sometimes she said, The teacher is long in coming, and the new missionaries are long in coming. I must die alone." Knotvles s Memoir. 42 THE HOPIA TREE. But now, thy mission-labours o er, Rest, weary clay, to wake no more, Till the Great Rising-Day." Thus spake the traveller, as he staid His step within that sacred shade : A man of God was he, Who his Redeemer s glory sought, And paused to woo the holy thought Beneath that hopia tree. The Solwen s tide went rushing by, And Burmah s cloudless moon was high, With many a solemn star ; And while he mus d, methought there stole An angel s whisper o er his soul, From that pure clime afar, Where swells no more the heathen sigh, Nor neath the idol s stony eye Dark sacrifice is done, And where no more, by prayers and tears, And toils of agonizing years, The martyr s crown is won. Then visions of the faith that blest The dying saint s rejoicing breast, And sets the pagan free, THE HOPIA TREE. 43 Caine thronging on, serenely bright, And cheer d the traveller s heart that night, Beneath the hopia tree. MISTAKES. "Every thing that is high is not holy; nor every desire pure; nor all that is sweet, good; nor every thing that is dear to man, pleasing to God." THOMAS A KEMPIS. MIGHT we but view the shore Of this dim world, as from heaven s hill it gleams, How should we blame the tear unduly shed, And tax the truant joy ! How should we see, Amaz d, our own mistakes : the lowly tomb Of our lost idols blooming thick with flowers Such as the seraph s bosom wears above ; The slippery cliff where we have madly blown Ambition s victor-trump, with storm-clouds crownM To wreck the unwary soul ; wealth s hoarded gold, Eternal poverty ; and the meek prayer Of Him who knew not where to lay his head, An heritage of glory. Each desire Fed to fruition, till the satiate heart Is gorg d with richness, sows it not the seeds Of sickness there ? while He whose only rest MISTAKES, Was on a spear-point, who might ask for bread Only to find a stone, gain d He not thus A mansion in the amaranthine bowers Of love divine ? Prosperity, alas ! Is often but another name for pride, And selfishness, which scorns another s woe, While our keen disappointments are the food Of that humility which entereth heaven, Finding itself at home. The things we mourn Work our eternal gain. Then let our joys Be tremulous as the mimosa s leaf, And each affliction with a serious smile Be welcom d in at the heart s open door, As the good patriarch met his muffled guests, And found them angels. 45 SILENT DEVOTION. " The Lord is in his holy temple ; let all the earth keep silence before him THE Lord is on his holy throne, He sits in kingly state ; Let those who for his favour seek, In humble silence wait. Your sorrows to his eyes are known, Your secret motives clear ; It needeth not the pomp of words, To pour them on his ear. Doth Death thy bosom s cell invade ? Yield up thy flower of grass ; Swells the world s wrathful billow high ? Bow down, and let it pass. Press not thy purpose on thy God, Urge not thine erring will, SILENT DEVOTION. 47 Nor dictate to the Eternal inind, Nor doubt thy Maker s skill : True prayer is not the noisy sound That clamorous lips repeat, But the deep silence of a soul That clasps Jehovah s feet. DEATH OF A YOUNG WIFE. WHY is the green earth broken ? Yon tall grass, Which in its ripeness woo d the mower s hand, And the wild rose, whose young buds faintly bloom d Why are their roots uptorn ? Why swells a mound Of new-made turf among them ? Ask of him Who in his lonely chamber weeps so long At morning s dawn, and evening s pensive hour, Whose bosom s planted hopes might scarcely boast More firmness than yon riven flower of grass. Yet hath not memory stores whereon to feed, When joy s young harvest fails ? as clings the bee To the sweet calyx of some smitten flower ? Still is remembrance grief. The tender smile Of young, confiding love, its winning tones, Its self-devotion, its delight to seek Another s good, its ministry to sooth The hour of pain, come o er the hermit heart. To claim its bitterest tear. But that meek Faith, Which, all distrustful of its holiest deeds, DEATH OF A YOUNG "WIFE. 49 So strongly clasp d a Saviour s feet, when Death Rang the crush d heart-strings like a broken harp, That hope which shed its seraph-benisori On all who wept around, that smile which left Heaven s stainless semblance on the breathless clay, These are the tokens to the soul bereav d, To gird itself invincibly, and seek A deathless union with the parted bride. THE SICK CHILD. THY fever d arms around me, My little, suffering boy Tis better thus with thee to watch, Than share in fashion s joy. The pale nurse-lamp is waning Upon the shaded hearth, And dearer is its light to me Than the gay flambeau s mirth. I ve lov d the merry viol That spurs the dancer s heel, And those soft tremblings of the lute O er summer s eve that steal, But when hath richest music Been to my soul so dear As that half-broken sob of thine, Which tells that sleep is near ? I knew not half how precious The cup of life might be, THE SICK CHILD. 51 Till o er thy cradle-bed I knelt, And learn d to dream of thee ; Till at the midnight hour I found Thy head upon my arm, And saw thy full eye fix d on mine, A strong, mysterious charm ; Till, at thy first faint lisping, That tear of rapture stole, Which ever as a pearl had slept Deep in the secret soul. A coffin small, and funeral, With all their sad array, Gleam, as my broken slumbers fleet On sable wing away ; I see those dark-rob d visions The heated brain that sear, And still a baby s heavy knell Comes booming o er my ear. Cling closer, round my bosom Thy feeble arms entwine, And, while the life-throb stirs thy heart, Be as a part of mine. 4 b THE SICK CHILD. That start, that cry, that struggle ! My God, I am but clay ! Have pity on a bruised reed, Give thy compassions way ; Or send thy strength to gird me ; Impart a power divine, To wring out sorrow s dregs, and say, " Lord ! not my will, but thine." THE BITTERNESS OF DEATH. " death ! how bitter is the remembrance of thee to a man that is at ease in his possessions." Ecclesiasticus, iv., 1. THE rich man moved in pomp. His soul was gorged With the gross fulness of material things, So that it spread no pinion forth to seek A better world than this. There was a change, And in the sleepless chamber of disease, Curtained and nursed, and ill-content he lay. He had a wasted and an eager look, And on the healer s brow he fixed a glance, Keen yet imploring. What he greatly feared Had come upon him. So he went his way The way of all the earth and his lands took Another s name. Why dost thou come, Death ! To print the bridal chamber with thy foot, And leave the ruin of thy ministry, Where love, and joy, and hope, so late had hung Their diamond cressets ? To the cradle side Why need st thou steal, changing, to thine own hue 54 THE BITTERNESS OF DEATH. Of ghastly pale, the youthful mother s hrow ; And, for her nightly watching, leaving nought In payment but a piece of marble clay, And the torn heart-strings in her bleeding breast ? Come to the aged, he hath sorely trod Time s rugged road, until his staff is broke, And his feet palsied, and his friends all gone ; Put thy cold finger on life s last faint spark, And scarcely gasping he shall follow thee. Come to the saint, for he will meekly take Thy message to his soul, and welcome thee In Jesus name, and bless the shadowy gate Which thou dost open. Wait awhile, O Death For those who love this fleeting world too well ; Wait, till it force their hearts to turn away From all its empty promises, and loathe Its deep hypocrisy. 0, wait for those Who have not tasted yet of Heaven s high grace, Nor bring them to their audit, all unclothed With a Redeemer s righteousness. PASSING AWAY. The fashion of this world passeth away." 1 Corinthians, vii., 81. A ROSE upon her mossy stem, Fair Queen of Flora s gay domain, All graceful wore her diadem, The brightest mid the brilliant train ; But evening came, with frosty breath, And, ere the quick return of day, Her beauties, in the blight of death, Had pass d away. I saw, when morning gemmed the sky, A fair young creature gladly rove, Her moving lip was melody, Her varying smile the charm of love ; At eve I came but on her bed She drooped, with forehead pale as clay - " What dost thou here ? " she faintly said, lt Passing away." 56 PASSING AWAY. I looked on manhood s towering form Like some tall oak when tempests blow, That scorns the fury of the storm And strongly strikes its root below. Again I looked with idiot cower His vacant eye s unmeaning ray Told how the mind of godlike power Passeth away. O earth ! no better wealth hast thou ? No balsam for the heart that bleeds ? Fade all thy brightest things away ? Fail all thy props like bruised reeds P The soul made answer " Hopes are mine To dwell in realms of changeless day, Where lips have never breathed the sound, " Passing away. " BURMANS AND THEIR MISSIONARY. "Are you Jesus Christ s man? Give us a writing that tells about Jesus- Christ." Letter of Rev. Dr. Judson. THERE is a cry in Burmah, and a rush Of thousand footsteps from the distant bound Of watery Siam, and the rich Cathay. From the far northern frontier, pilgrims meet The central dwellers in the forest-shades, And on they press together. Eager hope Sits in their eye, and on their lips the warmth Of strong request. Is it for bread they seek, Like the dense multitude, which, fainting, hung Upon the Saviour s words, till the third day Closed in, and left them hungering ? Not for food Or raiment ask they. Simply girding on The scanty garment o er the weary limb, They pass unmarked, the lofty domes of wealth Inquiring for a stranger. There he stands ; The mark of foreign climes is on his brow ; He hath no power, no costly gifts to deal Among the people, and his lore perchance 58 BURMANS AND THEIR MISSIONARY. The earth-bowed worldling with his scales of gold, Accounteth folly. Yet to him is raised Each straining eye-ball, "Tell us of the Christ! " And like the far-off murmur of the sea Lashed by the tempest, swelled their blended tone, " Yea. Tell us of the Christ. Give us a scroll Bearing his name." And there that teacher stood, Far from his native land amid the graves Of his lost infants, and of her he loved More than his life, yes, there he stood alone, And with a simple, saint-like eloquence, Spake his Redeemer s word. Forgot were all Home, boyhood, Christian-fellowship the tone Of his sweet babes his partner s dying strife Chains, perils, Burman dungeons, all forgot, Save the deep danger of the heathen s soul, And God s salvation. And methought that earth In all she vaunts of majesty, or tricks With silk and purple, or the baubled pride Of throne and sceptre, or the blood-red pomp Of the stem hero, had not aught to boast So truly great, so touching, so sublime, As that lone missionary, shaking off All links and films and trappings of the world, And in his chastened nakedness of soul Rising to bear the embassy of heaven. APPEAL OP THE BLIND, Sung at an Exhibition of Blind Boys. YE see the glorious sun The varied landscape light, The moon, with all her starry train, Illume the arch of night, Bright tree, and hird, and flower, That deck your joyous way, The face of kindred and of friend, More fair, more dear than they. For us there glows no sun, No green and flowery lawn ; Our rayless darkness hath no moon, Our midnight knows no dawn ; The parent s pitying eye, To all our sorrows true, The brother s brow, the sister s smile, Have never met our view. 60 APPEAL OF THE BLIND. We have a lamp within, That knowledge fain would light, And pure Religion s radiance touch With beams for ever bright ; Say, shall it rise to share Such radiance full and free ? And will ye keep a Saviour s charge, And cause the blind to see ? BENEVOLENCE. The silver is mine, and the gold is mine, saith the Lord of Hosts." THE PROPHET HAGGAI. WHOSE is the gold that glitters in -he mine ? And whose the silver ? Are they not the Lord s ? And, lo ! the cattle on a thousand hills, And the broad earth with all her gushing springs, Are they not His who made them ? Ye who hold Slight tenantry therein, and call your lands By your own names, and lock your gathered gold From him who in his bleeding Saviour s name Doth ask a part, whose shall those riches be When, like the grass-blade from the autumn-frost, You fall away ? Point out to me the forms That in your treasure-chambers shall enact Glad mastership, and revel where you toiled Sleepless and stern. Strange faces are they all. O man ! whose wrinkling labour is for heirs, 62 BENEVOLENCE. Thou knowest not who, thou in thy mouldering bed, Unkenned, unchronicled of them, shall sleep ; Nor will they thank thee that thou didst bereave Thy soul of good for them. Now, thou mayest give The famished food, the prisoner liberty, Light to the darkened mind, to the lost soul A place in heaven. Take thou the privilege With solemn gratitude. Speck as thou art Upon earth s surface, gloriously exult To be co-worker with the King of Kings. A FATHER TO HIS MOTHERLESS CHILDREN. COME, gather closer to my side, My little smitten flock, And I will tell of him who brought Pure water from the rock Who boldly led God s people forth From Egypt s wrath and guile, And once a cradled babe did float, All helpless on the Nile. You re weary, precious ones, your eyes Are wandering far and wide Think ye of her who knew so well Your tender thought to guide ? Who could to wisdom s sacred lore Your fixed attention claim ? Ah ! never from your hearts erase That blessed mother s name. Tis time to sing your evening hymn, My youngest infant dove, 64 A FATHER TO HIS MOTHERLESS CHILDREN. Come, press your velvet cheek to mine, And learn the lay of love ; My sheltering arms can clasp you all, My poor deserted throng, Cling as you used to cling to her Who sings the angel s song. Begin, sweet birds, the accustomed strain, Come, warble loud and clear ; Alas ! alas ! you re weeping all, You re sobbing in my ear ; Good-night go, say the prayer she taught, Beside your little bed, The lips that used to bless you there Are silent with the dead. A father s hand your course may guide Amid the thorns of life, His care protect those shrinking plants That dread the storms of strife ; But who, upon your infant hearts, Shall like that mother write ? Who touch the strings that rule the soul ? Dear, smitten flock, good-night ! THE WIDOW OF ZAREPHATH. THERE fell no rain on Israel. The sad trees, Reft of their coronets, and the crisp vines, Aud flo\yers, whose dewless bosoms sought the dust, Mourned the long drought. The miserable herds Pined on, and perished mid the scorching fields ; And, near the vanished fountains where they used Freely to slake their thirst, the moaning flocks Laid their parched mouths and died. A holy man, Who saw high visions of unuttered things, Dwelt, in deep musing solitude, apart Upon the banks of Cherith. Dark winged birds, Intractable and fierce, were strangely moved To shun the hoarse cries of their callow brood, And night and morning lay their gathered spoils Down at his feet. So, of the brook he drank, Till pitiless suns exhaled that slender rill Which, singing, used to glide to Jordan s breast. Then, warned of God, he rose and went his way Unto the coast of Zidon. Near the gates Of Zarephath he marked a lowly cell, Where a pale, drooping widow, in the depth Of desolate and hopeless poverty, Prepared the last scant morsel for her son, That he might eat and die. 5 66 THE WIDOW OF ZAREPHATH. The man of God, Entering, requested food. Whether that germ Of self-denying fortitude, which stirs Sometimes in woman s soul, and nerves it strong For life s severe and unapplauded tasks, Sprang up at his appeal or whether He Who ruled the ravens wrought within her heart, I cannot say ; but to the stranger s hand She gave the bread. Then, round the famished boy Clasping her widowed arms, she strained him close To her wan bosom, while his hollow eye Wondering and wistfully regarded her, With ill-subdued reproach. But blessings fell From the majestic guest, and every morn The empty store which she had wept at eve, Mysteriously replenished, woke such joy As ancient Israel felt when round their camp The manna lay like dew. Thus many days They fed, and the poor famine-stricken boy Looked up with a clear eye, while vigorous health Flushed with unwonted crimson his pure cheek, And bade the fair flesh o er his wasted limbs Come like a garment. The lone widow mused On her changed lot, yet to Jehovah s name Gave not the praise ; but when the silent moon Moved forth all radiant, on her star-girt throne, Uttered a heathen s gratitude, and hailed, THE WIDOW Of ZAREPHATH. 67 In the deep chorus of Zidonian song, " Astarte, Queen of Heaven ! " But then there came A day of woe. That gentle boy, in whom His mother lived, for whom alone she deemed Time s weary heritage a blessing, died. Wildly the tides of passionate grief broke forth, And on the prophet of the Lord her lip Called with indignant frenzy. So he came, And from her bosom took the breathless clay And bore it to his chamber. There he knelt In supplication that the dead might live. He looked upon the child. Unchang d that cheek Of marble meekly on the pillow lay, While round the polished forehead, sunny curls Clustered redundantly. So sweetly slept Beauty and innocence in death s embrace. It seemed a mournful thing to waken them. Another prayer arose and he whose faith Had power o er nature s elements, to seal The dripping cloud, to wield the lightning s dart, And soon, from death escaping, was to soar On car of flame up to the throne of God, Long, long, with labouring breast, and lifted eyes, Solicited in anguish. On the dead Once more the prophet gazed. A rigour seemed 5 b 68 THE WIDOW OF ZAREPHATH. To settle on those features, and the hand, In its immoveable coldness, told how firm Was the dire grasp of the insatiate grave. The awful seer laid down his humbled lip Low in the dust, and his whole being seemed With concentrated agony to pour Forth in one agonizing, voiceless strife Of intercession. Look upon the boy ! There was a trembling of the parted lip, A sob a shiver from the half-sealed eye A flash like morning and the soul came back To its frail tenement. Ah, who shall set Limits to prayer, if it hath entered heave And won a spirit down to its dense robe Of earth again. The holy prophet raised The renovated child, and on that breast Which gave the life-stream of its infancy Laid the fair head once more. If ye would know Aught of that wildering trance of ecstacy, Go, ask a mother s heart, but question not So poor a thing as language. Yet the soul Of her of Zarephath, in that blest hour, Believed and with the kindling glow of faith Turned from vain idols to the living God. DIVINE GOODNESS. : Thy mercies are new every morning and fresh every moment." DAVID. OH Thou, who, bounteous to their need, Dost all earth s thronging pilgrims feed, Dost bid for them, in every clime, The pregnant harvest know its time, The flocks in verdant pastures dwell, The corn aspire, the olive swell, Fain would we bless that sleepless eye That doth our hourly wants descry. Thou pour st us, from the nested grove, The minstrel melody of love, Thou giv st us of the fruitage fair That summer s ardent sons prepare, Of honey from the rock that flows, And of the perfume of the rose, And of the breeze whose balm repairs The sick ning waste of toil and cares. 70 DIVINE GOODNESS. And though, perchance, the ingrate knee Bends not in praise or prayer to Thee, Though sin that stole, with traitor-sway, E ven Peter s loyalty away, May strongly weave its seven-fold snare, And bring dejection and despair ; Yet not the morn with cheering eye More duly lights the expecting sky, Nor surer speeds on pinion light Each measur d moment s trackless flight, Than comes thy mercy s kind embrace To feeble man s forgetful race. THE CONSUMPTIVE C-IRL. From a Picture. THOU may st not raise her from that couch, kind nurse, To bind those clustering tresses, or to press The accustomed cordial. Thou no more shalt feel Her slight arms twining faintly round thy neck To prop her weakness. That low whispered tone No more can thank thee, but the earnest eye Speaks, with its tender glance, of all thy care By night and day. Henceforth thy mournful task Is brief: to wipe the cold and starting dew From that pure brow, to touch the parching lip With the cool water-drop and guide the breeze That, fragrant, through her flowers, comes travelling on Freshly to lift the poor heart s broken valve, Which, gasping, waits its doom. Mother ! thy lot Hath been a holy one ; upon thy breast To cherish that fair bud, to share its bloom, Refresh its langour with the rain of Heaven, And give it back to God. The hour is come ; Thy sleepless night-watch o er her infancy 72 THE CONSUMPTIVE GIRL. Bore its own payment. Thou hast never known For her, thy child, burden, or toil, or pang, But what the full fount of maternal love Did wash away, leaving those diamond sands Which memory from her precious casket strews. Behold, her darkening eye doth search for thee As the bowed violet through some chilling screen Turns toward the sun that cheered it. Well, thine heart Hath read its language from her cradle-hour ; What saith it to thee ? " Blessed one, farewell ! I go to Jesus. Early didst thou teach My soul the way, from yonder Book of Heaven. Come soon to me, sweet guide." Ah, gather up The glimmering radiance of that parting smile Prolong the final kiss hang fondly o er The quivering pressure of that marble hand, Those last, deep tokens of a daughter s love. Weep, but not murmur. She no more shall pine Before thine eyes in smothered agony, And waste away, and wear the hectic flush That cheats so long, to wake a keener pain. Beside thy hearth she is a guest no more ; But in heaven s beauty shalt thou visit her, In heaven s high health. Call her no longer thine, Thou could st not keep Consumption s moth away THE CONSUMPTIVE GIRL. 73 From her frail web of life. Thou could st not guard Thy darling from the lion. All thy love, In the best armour of its sleepless might, The spoiler trampled as a reed. Give thanks That she is safe with Him who hath the power O er pain, and sin, and death. Mourner, give thanks. TO A DYING INFANT. Go to thy rest, my child ! Go to thy dreamless bed, Gentle and undefiled, With blessings on thy head ; Fresh roses in thy hand, Buds on thy pillow laid, Haste from this fearful land, Where flowers so quickly fade. Before thy heart might learn In waywardness to stray, Before thy foot could turn The dark and downward way ; Ere sin might wound the breast, Or sorrow wake the tear, Rise to thy home of rest, In yon celestial sphere. Because thy smile was fair, Thy lip and eye so bright, TO A DYING INFANT. 75 Because thy cradle-care Was such a fond delight, Shall Love, with weak embrace, Thy heavenward flight detain ? No ! Angel, seek thy place Amid yon cherub-train. THE TOMB. So parted they ; the angel up to heaven, And Adam to his bower." MILTON. THIS is the parting place ; this narrow house, With its turf roof and marble door, where none Have entered and returned. If earth s poor gold E er clave unto thee, here unlade thyself; For thou didst bring none with thee to this world, Nor may st thou bear it hence. Honours hast thou,- Ambition s shadowy gatherings ? Shred them loose To the four winds, their natural element. Yea, more, thou must unclasp the living ties Of strong affection. Hast thou nurtured babes ? And was each wailing from their feeble lip A thorn to pierce thee ? every infant smile, And budding hope, a spring of ecstacy ? Turn, turn away, for thou henceforth to them A parent art no more ! Wert thou a wife ? And was the arm on which thy spirit leaned Faithful in all thy need ? Yet must thou leave This fond protection, and pursue alone Thy shuddering pathway down the vale of death. THE TOMB. 77 Friendship s free intercourse the promised joys Of soul-implanted, soul-confiding love, The cherished sympathies which every year Struck some new root within thy yielding breast, Stand loose from all, thou lonely voyager Unto the land of spirits. Yea, even more ! Lay down thy body ! Hast thou worshipped it With vanity s sweet incense, and wild waste Of precious time ? Did beauty bring it gifts, The lily brow, the full resplendent eye, The tress, the bloom, the grace, whose magic power Woke man s idolatry ? lay it down, Earth s reptile banqueters have need of it. Still may st thou bear, o er Jordan s stormy wave, One blessed trophy, if thy life hath striven By penitence and faith such boon to gain, The victor palm of Christ s atoning love : And this shall win thee entrance when thou stand st A pilgrim at heaven s gate. DEATH OF THE EMIGRANT. " THE way is long," the father said, While through the western wild he sped, With eager, searching eye ; " Cheer ye, my babes," the mother cried, And drew them closer to her side, As frown d the evening sky. Just then, within the thicket rude, A log-rear d cabin s roof they view d, And its low shelter bless d, On the rough floor, their simple bed, In weariness and haste they spread, And laid them down to rest. On leathern hinge the doors were hung, Undeck d with glass the casement swung, The smoke-wreath stain d the wall ; And here they found their only home, Who once had rul d the spacious dome, And pac d the pictur d hall. DEATH OF THE EMIGRANT. 79 But hearts with pure affections warm, Unmurmuring at the adverse storm, Did in that cell ahide, And there the wife her hushand cheer d, And there her little ones she rear d, And there in hope she died. Still the lone man his toil pursued, While neath his roof so low and rude, A gentle daughter rose, As peering through some rifted rock, Or blooming on a broken stock, The blushing sweet-briar grows. With tireless hand, the board she spread, The Holy Book at evening read, And when, with serious air, He saw her bend so sweetly mild, And lull to sleep the moaning child, He bless d her in his prayer. But stern disease his footsteps staid, And down the woodman s axe he laid, The fever-flame was high ; No more the forest fear d his stroke, He fell, as falls the rugged oak, Beneath the whirlwind s eye. 80 DEATH OF THE EMIGRANT. His youngest girl, his fondest pride, His baby, when the mother died, How desolate she stands ! While, gazing on his death-struck eye, His kneeling sons with anguish cry, And clasp his stiffen d hands. Who hastes his throbbing head to hold ? Who bows to chafe his temples cold, In beauty s opening prime ? That blessed daughter, meek of heart, Who for his sake a matron s part Had borne before her time. That gasp, that groan, tis o er, tis o er, The manly breast must heave no more, The heart no longer pine : Oh, Thou who feed st the raven s nest, Confirm once more thy promise blest, " The fatherless are mine." METHUSELAH. "And all the days of Methuselah were nine hundred sixty and nine years and he died. Genesis. AND was this all ? He died ! He who did wait The slow unfolding of centurial years, And shake that burden from his heart which turns Our temples white, and in his freshness stand Till cedars mouldered and firm rocks grew grey Left he no trace upon the page inspired, Save this one line He died ! Perchance he stood Till all who in his early shadow rose Faded away, and he was left alone, A sad, long-living, weary-hearted man, To fear that Death, remembering all beside, Had sure forgotten him. Perchance he roved Exulting o er the ever- verdant vales, While Asia s sun burned fervid on his brow ; Or neath some waving palm-tree sate him down, And in his mantling bosom nursed the pride G 82 METHUSELAH. That mocks the pale destroyer, and doth think To live for ever. What majestic plans, What mighty Babels, what sublime resolves, Might in that time-defying bosom spring, Mature, and ripen, and cast off their fruits For younger generations of bold thought To wear their harvest diadem, while we, In the poor hour-glass of our seventy years, Scarce see the buds of some few plants of hopes, Ere we are laid beside them, dust to dust. Yet whatsoe er his lot, in that dim age Of mystery, when the un wrinkled world had drank No deluge-cup of bitterness, whate er Were earth s illusions to his dazzled eye, Death found him out at last, and coldly wrote, With icy-pen on life s protracted scroll, Nought but this brief unflattering line He died. Ye gay flower- gatherers on time s crumbling brink This shall be said of you, howe er ye vaunt Your long to-morrows in an endless line Howe er amid the gardens of your joy Ye hide yourselves, and bid the pale king pass, This shall be said of you at last He died ; Oh, add one sentence more He lived to God. CHRISTIAN SETTLEMENTS IN AFRICA, WINDS ! what have ye gather d from Afric s strand, As ye swept the breadth of that fragrant land ? The breath of the spice-bud, the rich perfume Of balm, and of gum, and of floweret s bloom ? " We have gather d nought, save a pagan prayer, And the stifling sigh of the heart s despair." Waves ! what have ye heard on that ancient coast Where Egypt the might of her fame did boast, Where the statue of Memnon saluted the morn, And the pyramids tower in their giant scorn ? " We have heard the curse of the slave-ship s crew, And the shriek of the chain d as the shores withdrew. Stars ! what have ye seen with the glancing eye, From your burning thrones in the sapphire-sky ? " We have mark d young hope as it brightly glow d On Afric s breast, whence the blood-drop flow d, And we chanted the hymn which we sang at first. When the sun from the midnight of chaos burst." 6 b ON THE DEATH OF DR. ADAM CLARKE, KNOW ye a prince hath fallen ? They who sit On gilded throne, with rubied diadem, Caparisoned and guarded round, till death Doth stretch them neath some gorgeous canopy, Yet leave no foot-prints in the realm of mind Call them not kings they are hut crowned men. Know ye a prince hath fallen ? Nature gave The signet of her royalty, and years Of mighty labour won that sceptred power Of knowledge, which from unborn ages claims Homage and empire, such as time s keen tooth May never waste. And the high grace of God So witnessed with his spirit, so impelled To deeds of Christian love, that there is reared A monument for him, which hath no dread Of that fierce flame which wrecks the solid earth. I see him mid the Shetlands, spreading forth The riches of the Gospel kneeling low To light its lamp in every darkened hut : Not in the armour of proud learning braced, ON THE DEATH OF DR. ADAM CLARKE. 85 But with a towel girded as to wash The feet of those whom earthly princes scorn. I see him lead the rugged islander Even as a brother, to the Lamb of God, Counting his untaught soul more precious far Than all the lore of all the lettered world. I hear his eloquence but deeper still, And far more eloquent, there comes a dirge O er the hoarse wave : " All that we boast of man Is as the flower of grass." Farewell Farewell ! Pass on with Wesley, and with all the great And good of every nation. Yea ! pass on Where the cold name of sect, which sometimes throws Unholy shadow o er the heaven-wanned breast. Doth melt to nothingness and every surge Of warring doctrine, in whose eddying depths, Earth s charity was drowned, is sweetly lost In the broad ocean of eternal love. MARRIAGE HYMN. NOT for the summer-hour alone, When skies resplendent shine, And youth and pleasure fill the throne, Our hearts and hands we join ; But for those stern and wintry days Of peril, pain, and fear, When Heaven s wise discipline doth make This earthly journey drear. Not for this span of life alone, Which as a blast doth fly, And, like the transient flower of grass, Just blossom, droop, and die ; But for a being without end, This vow of love we take : Grant us, God ! one home at last, For our Redeemer s sake. PARTING OF THE MISSIONARY S BRIDE. THE time had come. The stern clock struck the hour, Each long-lov d haunt had drank her mute farewell. The vine-wrapp d walk, the hillock s tufted crown, The nurtur d plants, that in the casement sinil d, Had taken a blessing from her loving eye For the last time. But now the climax came. And so she rose, and with a fond emhrace Folded her gentle sister, who had been A second self, up from the cradle dream, And hung upon her brother s neck as one Who neath the weight of love s remembrances Doth look on language as a powerless thing. Methought she linger d long, as if to gain Respite from some more dreaded pang, that frown d Appalling, though unfelt. For, near her side, With eye close following where her darling mov d, The widow d mother stood. And so she laid Her head on that dear breast where "every pain Of infancy was sooth d. And there arose 88 PARTING OF THE MISSIONARY S BRIDK, A wild, deep sob of weeping such as breaks Upon tbe ear of death, when he doth rend The nerve, fast rooted in the fount of life. Tis o er. That bitterness is past. Young bride, No keener dreg shall quiver on thy lip, Till the last ice-cup cometh. Then she tum d To him who was to be sole shelterer now, And plac d her hand in his, and raised her eye One moment upward, whence her strength did come, And with a steadfast step passed forth to take Her life-long portion in a heathen clime. O Love and Faith ! twin-sentinels, who guard, One this drear earth, and one the gate of heaven, How glorious are ye, when in woman s heart Ye make that trembling hold invincible ! Ye both were there and so she went her way A tearful victor. Yet to me it seem d Thus, in the flush of youth and health, to taste Death s parting, was a strange, unnatural thing ; And that the lofty martyr, who doth yield His body to the fire s fierce alchymy But one brief hour, hath lighter claim on heaven, For high endurance, than the tender bride Who from her mother s bosom lifts her head To bide the buffet of a pagan clime ; PARTING OF THE MISSIONARY S BRIDE. 89 And nurse her frail babes neath the bamboo thatch, Bearing the sorrow of her woman s lot Perchance for many years. Thus must it seem To the trim worldling, in the broad green way Loitering, and reckless where that way may lead. Heart, is it thus with thee ? Go, pour thyself In penitence to Him who heeded not The cross on Calvary, so the lost might live : Look to thine own slack service, meted out And fashion d to thine ease, and let the zeal That nerv d the parting of that pale young bride Be as a probe, to search thy cold content. CHRISTIAN HOPE. " If ye then be risen with Christ, seek those things that are from above, where Christ sitteth on the right hand of God. Set your affections on things above ; for ye are dead, and your life is hid with Chiist in God." ST. PAUL IF with the Lord your hope doth rest, With Christ who reigns above, Loose from its bonds your captive breast. And heavenward point its love. Yes, heavenward. Ye re of holy birth, Bid your affections soar Above the vain delights of earth, Which, fading, bloom no more. Seek ye some pure and thornless rose ? Some friend with changeless eye ? Some fount whence living water flows ? Go, seek those things on high. Thither bid Hope a pilgrim go, And Faith her mansion rear, CHRISTIAN HOPE. 91 Even while amid this world of woe Ye shed the stranger s tear. If Folly tempts, or sin allures, Be dead to all their art, So shall eternal life be yours When time s brief years depart. WILBERFORCE. I HEARD loud praise of heroes. But I saw The blood-stain on their tablet. Then I marked A torrent rushing from its mountain height, Bearing the uptorn laurel, while its strength Among the arid sands of Vanity Did spend itself, and, lo ! a warning voice Sighed o er the ocean of Eternity, " Behold the warrior s glory." History came, Sublimely soaring on her wing of light, And many a name of palatine and peer, Monarch and prince, on her proud scroll she bore, Blazoned by fame. But mid the sea of time, Helmet and coronet and diadem Rose boastful up, and shone, and disappeared, Like the white foam-crest on the tossing wave, Forgotten, while beheld. I heard a knell Toll slow amid the consecrated isles Where slumber England s dead. A solemn dirge Broke forth amid the tomb of kings, and said WILBERFORCE. 93 That man was dust. And then a nation s tears Fell down like rain, for it was meet to mourn. But from the land of palm-trees, where doth flow Sweet incense forth from grove, and gum, and flower, Came richer tribute, breathing o er that tomb A prostrate nation s thanks. Yes, Afric knelt, That mourning mother, and throughout the earth Taught her unletter d children to repeat The name of Wilberforce, and bless the spot Made sacred by his ashes. Yea, the World Arose upon her crumbling throne, to praise The lofty mind that never knew to swerve Though holy truth should summon it to meet The frown of the embattled universe. Arid so I bowed me down in this far nook Of the far West, and proudly traced the name Of Wilberforce upon my country s scroll, To be her guide, as she unchained the slave, And the bright model of her sons who seek True glory. And from every village-haunt And school, where rustic science quaintly reigns, I called the little ones, and forth they came To hear of Afric s champion, and to bless The firm in purpose and the full of days. ANNIVERSARY OF THE DEATH OF A FATHER. SHALL we not render thanks for him Whose sorrows all are o er ? Whose footsteps leave the storm-wash d sands Of this terrestrial shore ? Who to the garner of the blest, In yon immortal land, Was gather d, as the ripen d sheaf Doth meet the reaper s hand ? Yet precious was that reverend man, And to his arm I clung, Till more than fourscore weary years Their shadows o er him flung ; Not lonely or unlov d he dwelt, Though earliest friends had fled, For sweet affections sprang anew When older roots were dead. There lies the Holy Book of God, His oracle and guide, ANNIVERSARY OF THE DEATH OF A FATHER. 95 Where last my children read to him, The page still open wide, Yet where he bent to hear their voice Is but a vacant chair, A lone staff standing by its side. They call he is not there ! He is not there, my little ones ! So suddenly he fled, They cannot bring it to their minds That he is of the dead. Yet oft the hymns he sang with them, So tunefully and slow, Shall wake sad echo in their souls, Like^parting tones of woe. There was his favourite noon-day seat, Beneath yon trellis d vine, To mark the embryo clusters swell, The aspiring tendrils twine ; Or, lightly leaning on his staff, With vigorous step he went A little way among the flowers, With morning dews besprent. How dear was every rising sun That cloudless met his eye ; And, nightly, how his grateful prayer Rose upward, warm and high, 96 ANNIVERSARY OF THE DEATH OF A FATHER. For freely to his God he gave The blossom of his prime, So He forgot him not amid The water-floods of time. The cherish d memories of the past, How strong they burri d, and clear, Prompting the tale the listening boy Still held his breath to hear, How a young cradled nation woke To grasp the glittering brand, And strangely raise the half-knit arm, To brave the mother-land. Those stormy days ! those stormy days ! When, with a fearful cry, The blood-stain d earth at Lexington Invok d the avenging sky, When in the scarce-drawn furrow The farmer s plough was staid, And for the gardener s pruning-hook Sprang forth the warrior s blade. The glorious deeds of Washington, The chiefs of other days ! Another lip is silent now, That us d to speak their praise ; Another link is stricken From the living chain that bound ANNIVERSARY OF THE DEATH OF A FATHER. 97 The legends of an ancient race Our thrilling hearts around. We gaze on where the patriarchs stood, In ripen d virtue strong, How shall we dare to fill the place That they have fill d so long ? How on the bosoms of our race Enforce the truths they breath d, Or wear that mantle of the skies They to our souls bequeath d ? But ah ! to think that breast is cold, Whose sympathetic tone Responded to my joys and woes, As though they were its own, To know the prayer that was my guard, My pilot o er the sea, Must never, in this vale of tears, Be lifted more for me. There was no frost upon his hair, No anguish on his brow, Those bright, brown locks, my pride and care, Methinks I see them now, Methinks that beaming smile I see, In love and patience sweet, father ! must that smile no more My entering footsteps greet ? 98 ANNIVERSARY OF THE DEATH OF A FATHER. Yet wrong we not that messenger Who gathered back the breath, Calling him ruthless spoiler, stern, And fell destroyer, death ? His touch was like the angel s Who comes at close of day To lull the willing flowers asleep Until the morning ray. And so they laid the righteous man Neath the green turf to rest, And blessed were the words of prayer That fell upon his breast, For sure it were an ingrate s deed To murmur or repine, That such a life, my sire, was clos d By such as death as thine. But thou, our God, who know st our frame, Whose shield is o er us spread, When every idol of our love Is desolate and dead ; Father and mother may forsake, Yet be Thou still our trust, - And let thy chastenings cleanse the soul From vanity and dust. THE CHRISTIAN MOURNER. I SAW a dark procession slowly wind Mid funeral shades, and a lone mourner stand Fast by the yawning of the pit that whelm d His bosom s idol. Then the sable scene Faded away, and to his alter d home Sad fancy follow d him, and saw him fold His one, lone babe, in agoniz d embrace, And kiss the brow of trusting innocence, That in its blessed ignorance wail d not A mother lost. Yet she who would have watch d Each germ of intellect, each bud of truth, Each fair unfolding of the fruit of Heaven, With thrilling joy, was like the marble cold. There were the flowers she planted, blooming fair, As if in mockery, there the varied stores That in the beauty of their order charm d At once the tasteful and the studious hour, Pictures, and tinted shells, and treasur d tomes ; But the presiding mind, the cheerful voice, 7 b 100 THE CHRISTIAN MOURNER. The greeting glance, the spirit-stirring smile, Fled, fled for ever. And he knoweth all ! Hath felt it all, deep in his tortur d soul, Till reason and philosophy grew faint, Beneath a grief like his. Whence hath he then The power to comfort others, and to speak Thus of the resurrection ? He hath found That hope which is an anchor to the soul, And with a martyr-courage holds him up To bear the will of God. Say, ye who tempt The sea of life, by summer-gales impell d, Have ye this anchor ? Sure a time will come For storms to try you, and strong blasts to rend Your painted sails, and shred your gold like chaff O er the wild wave ; and what a wreck is man If sorrow find him unsustain d by God. WAITING UPON THE LORD. " I will wait upon the Lord, that hideth his face." ISAIAH. WHERE ER thine earthly lot is cast, Whate er its duties prove, To toil neath penury s piercing blast, Or share the cell of love, Or raid the pomp of wealth to live, Or wield of power the rod, Still as a faithfirt servant strive To wait alone on God. Should disappointment s blighting sway Destroy of joy the bloom, Till one by one thy hopes decay In darkness and the tomb, Should Heaven its cheering smile withhold From thy disastrous fate, And foes arise like billows bold, Still, on Jehovah wait. When timid dawn her couch forsakes, Or noon-day splendours glide, 102 WAITING UPON THE LORD. Or eve her curtain d pillow takes, While watchful stars preside, Or midnight drives the throngs of care Far from her ebon throne, Unwearied in thy fervent prayer Wait thou on God alone. But should He still conceal his face Till flesh and spirit fail, And bid thee darkly run the race Of Time s receding vale, With what a doubly glorious ray His smile will light that sky Where ransom d souls rejoicing lay Their robes of mourning by. BAPTISM OF AN INFANT AT ITS MOTHER S FUNERAL. WHENCE is that trembling of a father s hand, Who to the man of God doth bring his babe, Asking the seal of Christ ? Why doth the voice That uttereth o er its brow the Triune Name Falter with sympathy ? And, most of all, Why is yon coffin-lid a pedestal For the baptismal font ? Again I asked. But all the answer was those gushing tears Which stricken hearts do weep. For there she lay, The fair, young mother in that coffin-bed, Mourned by the funeral train. The heart that beat With trembling tenderness, at every touch Of love or pity, flushed the cheek no more. Tears were thy baptism, thou unconscious one, And Sorrow took thee at the gate of life Into her cradle. Thou may st never know The welcome of a nursing mother s smile, When, in her wondering ecstacy, she marks 104 BAPTISM OF AN INFANT. A thrilling growth of new affections spread Fresh greenness o er the soul. Thou may st not share Her hallowed teaching, nor suffuse her eye With joy, as the first germs of infant thought Unfold, in lisping sound. Yet wilt thou walk Even as she walked ? breathing on all around The warmth of high affections purified, And sublimated by that Spirit s power Which makes the soul fit temple for its God ? Then may st thou, in a brighter world, behold That countenance which the cold grave did veil Too early from thy sight, and the first tone That bears a mother s greeting to thine ear Shall be Heaven s minstrelsy. THE MOHEGAN CHURCH. A remnant of the once-powerful tribe of Mohegan Indians have their residence in the vicinity of the city of Norwich, Connecticut ; and, on the ruins of an ancient fort in their territory, a small church has been erected principally through the influence of benevolent females. ONCE o er those hills, with verdure spread, The red-browed hunter s arrow sped, And on those waters, sheen and blue, He freely launch d his light canoe, While through the forests glanced like light The flying wild deer s antler bright. Ask ye for hamlet s peopled bound, With cone-roofed cabins circled round ? For chieftain grave for warrior proud, In nature s majesty unbowed ? You ve seen the fleeting shadow fly, The foam upon the billows die, The floating vapour leave no trace Such was their path that fated race. Say ye that kings, with lofty port, Here held their stern and simple court ? 106 THE MOHEGAN CHURCH. That here, with gestures rudely bold, Stern orators the throng controlled ? Methinks, even now, on tempest wings, The thunder of their war-shout rings, While upward floats, in dazzling spire, The redness of their council fire. No ! no ! in darkness rest the throng, Despair hath checked the tide of song, Dust dimmed their glory s ray. But can these stanch their bleeding wrong ? Or quell remembrance, fierce and strong ? Recording angel say ! I marked where once a fortress frowned, High o er the blood-cemented ground, And many a deed that savage tower Might tell to chill the midnight hour. But now, its ruins strangely bear Fruits that the gentlest hand might share ; For there a hallowed dome imparts The lore of heaven to list ning hearts ; And forms like those which lingering staid Latest neath Calvary s awful shade, And earliest pierced the gathered gloom To watch a Saviour s lowly tomb, Such forms have soothed the Indian s ire, And bade for him that dome aspire. THE MOHEGAX CHURCH. 107 Now, where tradition, ghostly pale, With ancient horrors loads the vale, And, shuddering, weaves, in crimson loom, Ambush, and snare, and torture-doom, There shall the peaceful prayer arise, And tuneful hymns invoke the skies. Crush d race ! so long condemned to moan, Scorn d rifled spiritless and lone, From pagan rites, from sorrow s maze, Turn to these temple-gates with praise ; Yes, turn, and bless the usurping band That rent away your fathers land ; Forgive the wrong suppress the blame, And view, with Faith s fraternal claim, Your God your hope your heaven the same. SABBATH MORNING. SEE ! heaven wakes earth. There is an answering sigh From the soft winds, as they unfurl their wings Impalpable, and touch the dimpling streams Which the lithe willows kiss, and through the groves Make whispering melody. Methinks the sea Murmureth in tone subdued, and nature smiles As if within her raptured breast she caught The breath of Deity. Hail ! hallowed morn, That binds a yoke on vice. Drooping her head, She by her quaint hypocrisy doth show How beautiful is virtue. Eve will light Her orgies up again but at this hour She trembleth and is still. Humility, From the cleft rock where she hath hid, doth mark The girded Majesty of God go by, And, kneeling, wins a blessing. Grief foregoes Her bitterness and round the tear-wet urn Twines sweet and simple flowers. But, most, firm faith SABBATH MORNING. 109 Enjoys this holy season. She doth lift Her brow, and talk with seraphs, till the soul That by the thraldom of the week was bowed, And crushed, and spent, like the enfranchised slave, Doth leap to put its glorious garments on. CONTENTMENT. THINK ST thou the steed that restless roves O er rocks and mountains, fields and groves, With wild, unbridled bound, Finds fresher pasture than the bee On thymy bank, or vernal tree, Intent to store her industry Within her waxen round ? Think st thou the fountain, forc d to turn Through marble vase, or sculptur d urn, Affords a sweeter draught Than that which, in its native sphere, Perennial, undisturb d, and clear, Flows, the lone traveller s thirst to cheer, And wake his grateful thought ? Think st thou the man whose mansions hold The worldling s pomp, and miser s gold, Obtains a richer prize Than he who in his cot, at rest, Finds heavenly peace a willing guest, And bears the promise in his breast Of treasure in the skies ? TWAS BUT A BABE. I ASKED them why the verdant turf was riven From its young rooting ; and with silent lip They pointed to a new-made chasm among The marble-pillared mansions of the dead. Who goeth to his rest in yon damp couch ? The tearless crowd pass d on " Twas but a babe. A babe ! and poise ye, in the rigid scales Of calculation, the fond bosom s wealth ? Rating its priceless idols as ye weigh Such merchandise as moth and rust corrupt, Or the rude robber steals ? Ye mete out grief, Perchance, when youth, maturity, or age, Sink in the thronging tomb ; but when the breath Grows icy on the lip of innocence Repress your measured sympathies, and say " Twas but a babe." What know ye of her love Who patient watcheth, till the stars grow dim Over her drooping infant, with an eye Bright as unchanging hope, if his repose ? What know ye of her woe who sought no joy 112 TWAS BUT A BABE. More exquisite than on his placid brow To trace the glow of health, and drink at dawn The thrilling lustre of his waking smile ? Go, ask that musing father, why yon grave, So narrow, and so noteless, might not close Without a tear ? And though his lip be mute, Feeling the poverty of speech to give Fit answer to thee, still his pallid brow, And the deep agonizing prayer that loads Midnight s dark wing to Him, the God of strength, May satisfy thy question. Ye, who mourn Whene er yon vacant cradle, or the robes That decked the lost one s form, call back a tide Of alienated joy, can ye not trust Your treasure to His arms, whose changeless care Passeth a mother s love ? Can ye not hope, When a few hasting years their course have run, To go to him, though he no more on earth Returns to you ? And when glad faith doth catch Some echo of celestial harmonies, Archangels praises, with the high response Of cherubim and seraphim, think Think that your babe is there. THE ANGELS SONG. They heard a voice from heaven, saying, Come up hither. " YE have a land of mist and shade, Where spectres roam at will, Dense clouds your mountain-cliffs pervade, And damps your valleys chill, But ne er has midnight s wing of woe Eclipsed our changeless ray ; Come hither, if ye seek to know The bliss of perfect day. " Doubt, like the bohan-upas, spreads A blight where er ye tread, And hope, a wailing mourner, sheds The tear o er harvests dead ; With us no traitorous foe assails Where love her home would make ; In heaven the welcome never fails, Come, and that warmth partake. 8 1 14 THE ANGELS SONG. "Time revels mid your boasted joys, Death dims your brightest rose, And sin your bower of peace destroys Where will ye find repose ? Ye re wearied in your pilgrim-race, Sharp thorns your path infest, Come hither, rise to our embrace, And Christ shall give you rest." Twas thus, methought, at twilight hour, The angels lay came down, Like dews upon the drooping flower, When droughts of summer frown ; How richly o er the ambient air Swelled out that music free ! Oh ! when the pangs of death I bear, Sing ye that song to me. THE KNELL. A SILVER sound was on the summer air, And yet it was not music. The sweet birds Went warbling wildly forth, from grove and dell, Their thrilling harmonies ; yet this low tone Chimed not with them. But in the secret soul There was a deep response, troubling the fount Where bitter tears are born. Too well I knew The tomb s prelusive melody. I turned, And sought the house of mourning. Ah, pale friend, Who speak st not look st not dost not give the hand Hath love so perished in that pulseless breast, Once its own throne ? Thou silent, changeless one, The seal is on thy virtues now no more Like ours to tremble in temptation s hour, Perchance to fall. Fear hath no longer power To chill thy life-stream, and frail hope doth fold Her rainbow wing, and sink to rest with thee. How good to be unclothed, and sleep in peace ! 8 b 116 THE KNELL. Friend ! Friend ! I grieve to lose thee. Thou hast been The sharer of my sympathies, the soul That prompted me to good, the hand that shed Dew on my drooping virtues. In all scenes Where we have dwelt together walking on In friendship s holy concord, I am now But a divided being. Who is left To love as thou hast loved ? Yet still, to share A few more welcomes from thy soft blue eye, A few more pressures of thy snowy hand, And ruby lip, could I enchain thee here To all that change and plenitude of ill Which we inherit ? Hence, thou selfish grief ! Thy root is in the earth, and all thy fruits Bitter and baneful. Holy joy should spring When pure hearts take their portion. Go, beloved ! First, for thou wert most worthy. I will strive, As best such frail one may, to follow thee. THE MOTHER. " It may be autumn, yea, winter with the woman but with the mother, as a mother, it is always spring." Sermon of the Rev. Thomas Cobbett, at Lynn, 1665. I SAW an aged woman bow To weariness and care, Time wrote his sorrows on her brow, And mid her frosted hair. Hope from her breast had torn away Its rooting, scathed and dry ; And on the pleasures of the gay She turned a joyless eye. What was it that like sunbeam clear O er her wan features run, As, pressing towards her deafened ear, I named her absent son ? What was it ? Ask a mother s breast, Through which a fountain flows 118 THE MOTHER. Perennial, undisturb d, and blest, By winter never froze. What was it ? Ask the King of kings, Who hath decreed, above, That change should mark all earthly things, Except a mother s love. DREAM OF THE DEAD. SLEEP brought the dead to me. Their brows were kind, And their tones tender, and, as erst, they blent Their sympathies with each familiar scene. It was my earthliness that robed them still In their material vestments ; for they seemed Not yet to have put their glorious garments on. Methonght, twere better thus to dwell with them Than with the living. Twas a chosen friend, Beloved in school-day s happiness, who came, And put her arm through mine, and meekly walked, As she was wont, where er I willed to lead, To shady grove, or river s sounding shore, Or dizzy cliff, to gaze enthralled, below, On wide-spread landscape and diminished throng. One, too, was there, o er whose departing steps Night s cloud hung heavy ere she found the tomb ; One, to whose ear no infant lip, save mine, E er breathed the name of mother. In her hour Of conflict with the spoiler, that fond word 120 DREAM OF THE DEAD. Fell with my tears upon her brow in vain She heard not, heeded not. But now she flew, Upon the wing of dreams, to my embrace, Full of fresh life, and in that beauty clad Which charmed my earliest love. Speak, silent shade ! Speak to thy child ! But with capricious haste Sleep turned the tablet, and another came, A stranger-matron, sicklied o er and pale, And mournful for my vanished guide I sought. Then, many a group in earnest converse flocked, Upon whose lips I knew the burial clay Lay thick; for I had heard its hollow sound, In hoarse reverberation, " Dust to dust ! " They put a fair, young infant in my arms, And that was of the dead. Yet still it seemed Like other infants. First, with fear it shrank, And then in changeful gladness smiled, and spread Its little hands in sportive laughter forth. So I awoke, and then those gentle forms Of faithful friendship and maternal love Did flit away, and life, with all its cares, Stood forth in strong reality. Sweet dream, And solemn ! let me bear thee in my soul Throughout the live-long day, to subjugate My earth-born hope. I bow me at your names, DREAM OF THE DEAD. 121 Sinless, and passionless, and pallid train ! The seal of truth is on your breasts, ye dead ! Ye may not swerve, nor from your vows recede, Nor of your faith make shipwreck. Scarce a point Divides you from us, though we fondly look Through a long vista of imagined years, And, in the dimness of far distance, seek To hide that tomb whose crumbling verge we tread. "ONLY THIS ONCE. EXODUS, x., 17. " ONLY this once." The wine-cup glowed All sparkling with its ruby ray, The bacchanalian welcome flowed, And folly made the revel gay. Then he, so long, so deeply warned, The sway of conscience rashly spurned, His promise of repentance scorned, And, coward-like, to vice returned. " Only this once." The tale is told He wildly quaffed the poisonous tide ; With more than Esau s madness, sold The birth-right of his soul and died. I do riot say that breath forsook The clay, and left its pulses dead, But reason in her empire shook, And all the life of life was fled. "ONLY THIS ONCE." 123 Again his eyes the landscape viewed, His limbs again their burden bore, And years their wonted course renewed, But hope and peace returned no more, Then angel-eyes with pity wept When he whom virtue fain would save, His sacred vow so falsely kept, And strangely sought a drunkard s grave. " Only this once." Beware beware ! Gaze not upon the blushing wine, Repel temptation s siren snare, And, prayerful, seek for strength divine. FUNERAL OF A PHYSICIAN. THERE was a throng within the temple-gates, And more of sorrow on each thoughtful brow Than seem d to fit the sacred day of praise. Neighbour on neighbour gaz d, and friend on friend, Yet few saluted ; for the sense of loss Weigh d heavy in each bosom. Aged men Bowed down their reverend heads in wondering woe,. That he who so retain d the ardent smile And step elastic of life s morning prime, Should fall before them. Stricken at his side Were friendships of no common fervency Or brief endurance ; for his cheering tone And the warm pressure of his hand, restor d Young recollections, scenes of boyh ood s bliss, And the unwounded trust of guileless years. The men of skill, who cope with stern disease, And wear Hygeia s mantle, offering still Fresh incense at her shrine, with sighs deplore A brother and a guide. But can ye tell How many now amid this gather d throng FUNERAL OF A PHYSICIAN. 125 In tender meditations deeply muse, Coupling his image with their gratitude ? He had stood with them at the gate of death, And pluck d them from the spoiler s threatening grasp, Or, when the roses from their pilgrimage Were shorn, walk d humbly with them neath the cloud Of God s displeasure. Such remembrances Rush o er their spirits with a whelming tide, Till in the heart s deep casket tribute tears Lie thick, like pearls. And doubt not there are those Mid this assembly, in the scanty robes Of penury half wrapt, who well might tell Of ministrations at their couch of woe, Of toil-spent nights, and timely charities, Uncounted, save in heaven. Tis well ! Tis well ! The parted benefactor justly claims Such obsequies. Yet let the Gospel breathe Its strain sublime. A hallow d hand hath cull d From the deep melodies of David s lyre, And from the burning eloquence of Paul, Balm from the mourner s wound. But there s a group Within whose sacred home yon lifeless form Had been the centre of each tender hope, The soul of every joy. Affections pure And patriarchal hospitality, Like household deities, presiding, spread Their wings around, making the favour d cell 126 FUNERAL OF A PHYSICIAN. As bright a transcript of lost Eden s bliss, As beams below. Now round that shaded hearth The polish d brow of radiant beauty droops, Like the pale lily-flower, by pitiless storms Press d and surcharg d. There too are sadden d eyes More eloquent than words, and bursting hearts ; Earth may not heal such grief. Tis heard in heaven. BIRTH-DAY OF THE FIRST-BORN THY first-born s birth-day, Mothei ! That well-remember d time Returneth, when thy heart s deep jo v Swell d to its highest prime. Thou hast another treasure, There in the cradle-shrine, And she who near its pillow plays ; With cheek so fair, is thine. But still, thy brow is shaded, The fresh tear trickleth free, Where is that first-born darling ? Young Mother, where is she ? And, if she be in heaven, She, who with goodness fraught, So early on her Father-God Repos d her trusting thought, And, if she be in heaven, The honour how divine, To yield an angel to His amis Who gave a babe to thine. THE HALF-CENTURY SERMON. LOOK back, look back, ye grey-hair d worshippers, Who to this hill-top fifty years ago Came up with solemn joy. Withdraw the folds Which curtaining time hath gather d o er the scene, And show its colouring. The dark cloud of war Faded to fitful sun-light, on the ear, The rumour of red battle died away, And there was peace in Zion. So a throng O er a faint carpet of the spring s first green Were seen in glad procession hasting on, To set a watchman on these sacred walls. Each eye upon his consecrated brow Was fondly fix d, for in its pallid hue, In its deep, thought-worn, spiritual lines, They trac d the mission of the crucified, The hope of Israel. High the anthem swell d, Ascribing glory to the Lord of Hosts, Who in his bounteous goodness thus vouchsafd To beautify his temple. The same strain Riseth once more ; but where are they who pour d THE HALF-CENTURY SERMON. 129 Its tones melodious, on that festal day ? Young men and maidens of the tuneful lip, The bright in beauty, and the proud in strength, With bosoms fluttering to illusive hope, Where are they ? Can ye tell, ye hoary ones, Who, few, and feebly leaning on the staff, Bow down, where erst with manhood s lofty port Ye tower d as columns ? They have sunk away, Brethren and sisters, from your empty grasp, Like bubbles on the pool, and ye are left, With life s long lessons furrow d on your brow. Change worketh all around you. The lithe twig That in your boyhood ye did idly bend Maketh broad shadow, and the forest-king, Arching majestic o er your school-day sports, Mouldereth, to sprout no more. The little babe Ye as a plaything dandled, of whose frame Perchance ye spake as most exceeding frail And prone to perish like the flower of grass, Doth nurse his children s children on his knee. But still your ancient shepherd s voice ye hear, Tho age hath quell d its power, and well those tones Of serious, saintly tenderness do stir The springs of love and reverence. As your guide He in the heavenward path hath firmly walk d, Bearing your joys and sorrows in his breast, 9 130 THE HALF-CENTURY SERMON. And on his prayers. He at your household hearths Hath spoke his Master s message, while your babes, Listening, imbibed as blossoms drink the dew ; And when your dead were buried from your sight, Was he not there ? His scatter d locks are white With the hoar-frost of time, but in his soul There is no winter. He, the uncounted gold Of many a year s experience richly spreads To a new generation, and methinks With high prophetic brow doth stand sublime Like Moses tween the living and the dead, To make atonement. God s unclouded smile Sustain thee, patriarch ! like a flood of light Still brightening, till, with those whom thou hast taught And warri d in wisdom, and with weeping love Led to the brink of Calvary s cleansing stream, Thou strike the victor-harp o er sin and death. TRIBUTE TO THE KEY. DR. CORNELIUS. " All ye that were about him, bemoan him, and all ye that know his name, say, how is the strong staff broken, and the beautiful rod?" THE PROPHET JEREMIAH. AND can it be, and can it be, that thou art on thy bier ? But yesterday in all the prime of life s unspent career ! I ve seen the forest s noblest tree laid low, when lightnings shine, The column in its majesty torn from the temple-shrine, Yet little deem d that ice so soon would check thy vital stream, Or the sun that soar d without a cloud, thus veil its noon day beam. I ve seen thee in thy glory stand, while all around was hush d, And seraph-wisdom from thy lips in tones of music gush d, For thou with willing hand didst lay, at morning s dewy hour, Upon the altar of thy G od thy beauty and thy power ; Thou, for the helpless sons of woe, didst plead with words of flame, And boldly strike the rocky heart in thy Redeemer s name. 9 b 132 TRIBUTE TO THE REV. DR. CORNELIUS. And, lo ! that withering race who fade as dew neath summer s ray, Who, like uprooted weeds, are cast from their own earth Who trusted to a nation s vow, yet found that faith was vain, And to their fathers sepulchres return no more again ; They need thy blended eloquence of lip, and eye, and brow, They need the righteous for a shield ; why art thou ab sent now ? Long shall thine image- freshly dwell beside their native streams, And, mid their wanderings far and wide, illume their alien dreams, For Heaven to their sequester d haunts thine early steps did guide, And the Cherokee hath heard thy prayer his cabin-hearth beside, The Osage orphan sadly breath d her sorrows to thine ear, And the stern warrior knelt him down with strange. repentant tear. I see a consecrated throng of youthful watchmen rise, Each girding on for Zion s sake their heaven-wrought panoplies j These, in their solitudes obscure, thy generous ardour sought, And gathering with a tireless hand, up to the temple brought. TRIBUTE TO THE REV. DR. CORNELIUS. 133 These, while the altar of their God they serve with hallow d zeal, Shall wear thy memory on their heart, an everlasting seal. I hear a voice of wailing from the islands of the sea, Salvation s distant heralds mourn on heathen shores for thee; Thy constant love, like Gilead s balm, refresh d their weary mind, And with the blessed Evart s name thine own was strongly twin d, But thou, from this illusive scene, hast like a vision fled, Just wrapp d his mantle o er thy breast, then join d him with the dead. Farewell ! we yield thee to the tomb, with many a bitter tear, Tho twas not meet a soul like thine should longer tarry here, Fond, clustering hopes have sunk with thee, that earth can ne er restore, Love casts a garland on thy turf, that may not blossom more ; But thou art where each dream of hope shall in fruition fade, And love, immortal and refin d, glow on without a shade. DEATH OF THE WIFE OF A CLERGYMAN DURING THK SICKNESS OF HER HUSBAND. DARK sorrow brooded o er the pastor s home, The prayer was silent, and the loving group That sang their hymn of praise at even and morn Now droop d in pain, or with a noiseless step Tended the sick. It was a time of woe : Days measur d out in anguish, and drear nights Mocking the eye that waited for the dawn. They who from youth, by hallow d vows conjoin d. Had borne life s burdens with united arm, And, side by side, its adverse fortunes foil d, Apart, an agonizing warfare wag d With nature s stern destroyer. Tidings pass d From couch to couch, how stood the doubtful strife Twixt life and death. They might not lay their hand Upon each other s throbbing brow, or breathe The words of comfort, for disease had set A gulf between them. Hark ! what sound appall d The suffering husband ? Twas a mourner s sob Beside his bed. DEATH OF THE WIFE OF A CLERGYMAN. 135 " My mother will not speak, They say she s dead." Art thou the messenger, Poor pallid boy ! that the dear love which sooth d The cradle moan, and on thro all thy life Would still have clung to thee untired, unchang d, Is blotted out for ever ? Thou dost tell A loss thou canst not measure. She, the friend, The mother, imag d in those daughters hearts, First, dearest, best beloved, who joy d to walk The meek companion of a man of God, Hath given her hand to that destroyer s grasp Who rifleth the clay cottage, sending forth The immortal habitant. Fearless she laid Earth s vestments by. And thou, whose tenderest trust With an unwounded confidence was seal d In that cold breast so long, lift up thy soul, " She is not here, but risen." Show the faith Which thou hast preach d to others, by its power In the dark night of trouble. Take the cross, And from thy stricken heart pour freshly forth The spirit of thy Lord, teaching thy flock To learn Jehovah s lessons, and be still. LOVE NOT THE WORLD. To gain the friendship of the world, How vain the ceaseless strife ; We sow the sand, we grasp the wind, We waste the life of life. Perchance some giddy height we gain, Some gilded treasure show, The footing fails, the shadow scapes, We sink in deeper woe. Yet, baffled, still the toil we try, The eager chase renew, Even though the portals of the grave Yawn on our startled view. But Thou whose pitying mercy s tide Is like the unfathom d sea, Thy love was waiting for our souls, That would not turn to Thee ; Thy hand was stretch d, Thy voice was heard, Thy fold was open wide, Ah ! who the straying sheep can save That shuns the Eternal Guide ? THE COMMUNION. " Master ! it is good to be here." MARK, is., 5. THEY knelt them side by side ; the hoary man Whose memory was an age, and she whose cheek Gleam d like that velvet which the young moss-rose Puts blushing forth from its scarce sever d sheath. There was the sage, whose eye of science spans The comet in his path of fire, and she Whose household duty was her sole delight And highest study. On the chancel clasp d, In meek devotion, were those bounteous hands Which pour forth charities, unask d, untir d, And his which roughly win the scanty bread For his young children. There the man of might On bended knee, fast by his servant s side, Sought the same Master, brethren in one faith, And fellow-pilgrims. See yon wrinkled brow, Where care and grief for many a year have trac d Alternate furrows, bow d so near those lips, Which but the honey and the dew of love 138 THE COMMUNION. Have nourish d. And, for each, eternal health Descendeth here. Look ! look ! as yon deep veil Is swept aside, what an o erwhelming page Disease hath written with its pen of pain. Ah, suffering sister, thou art hasting where No treacherous hectic plants its funeral rose : Drink thou the wine-cup of thy risen Lord, And it shall nerve thee for thy toilsome path Through the dark valley of the shade of death. - Tis o er. A holy silence reigns around. The organ slumbers. The sweet, solemn voice Of him who dealt the soul its heavenly food Turns inward, like a wearied sentinel, Pillowing on thought profound. Then every head Bends low in parting worship, mute, and deep, The whisper of the soul. And who may tell In that brief, silent space, how many a hope Is born that hath a life beyond the tomb. So hear us, Father ! in our voiceless prayer, That at thy better banquet all may meet, And take the cup of bliss, and thirst no more. CHRISTMAS HYMN, THOU who, once an infant stranger, Honour d this auspicious morn, Thou who, in Judea s manger, Wert this day of woman born, Thou whom wondering sages offer d Costly gifts, and incense sweet, Take our homage, humbly proffer d, Grateful kneeling at thy feet. Thou whose path a star of glory Gladly hasted to reveal, Herald of salvation s story, Touch our hearts with equal zeal : Thou at whose approach was given Welcome from the angels lyre, Teach our souls the song of heaven, Ere we join their tuneful choir. BURIAL OF TWO YOUNG SISTERS, THK ONLY CHILDREN OF THEIR PARENTS THEY RE here, in this turf-hed those tender forms, So kindly cherish d, and so fondly loved, They re here. Sweet sisters ! pleasant in their lives, And not in death divided. Sure tis meet That blooming ones should linger here and learn How quick the transit to the silent tomb. I do remember them, their pleasant brows So mark d with pure affections, and the glance Of their mild eyes, when, in the house of God, They gathered up the manna that did fall, Like dew, around. The eldest parted first, And it was touching, even to tears, to see The perfect meekness of that child-like soul, Turning, mid sorrow s chastening, to its God, And loosening every link of earthly hope, To gird an angel s glorious garments on. The younger lingered for a little while, BURIAL OF TWO YOUNG SISTERS. 141 Drooping and beautiful. Strongly the nerve Of that lone spirit clasped its parent-prop, Yet still in timid tenderness embraced The Rock of Ages while the Saviour s voice Confirmed its trust : " Suffer the little ones To come to me." And then her sister s couch Undrew its narrow covering and those forms Which, side by side, on the same cradle-bed So oft had shared the sleep of infancy, Were laid on that clay pillow, cheek to cheek And hand to hand, until the morning break Which hath no night. And ye are left alone, Who nurtured those fair buds, and often said Unto each other, in the hour of care, " These same shall comfort us for all our toil." Yes, ye are left alone. It is not ours To heal such wound. Man hath too weak a hand, All he can give is tears. But He who took Your treasures to His keeping, He hath power To bear you onward to that better land, Where none are written childless, and torn hearts Blend in a full eternity of bliss. THE BAPTISM. TWAS near the close of that blest day, when, with me lodious swell, To crowded mart and lonely vale, had spoke the sabbath bell, While on a broad, unruffled stream, with fringed verdure bright, The westering sunbeam richly shed a tinge of crimson light. When, lo ! a solemn train appeared, by their loved pastor led, And sweetly rose the holy hymn, as toward that stream they sped ; And he its cleaving, crystal breast, with graceful move ment trod, His steadfast eye upraised, to seek communion with its God. Then, bending o er his staff, approached that willow- shaded shore, A man of many weary years, with furrowed temples hoar; THE BAPTISM. 143 And faintly breathed his trembling lip " Behold, I fain would be Buried in baptism with my Lord, ere death shall summon me." With brow benign, like Him whose hand did wavering Peter guide, The pastor bore his tottering frame through that trans lucent tide, And plunged him neath the shrouding wave, and spake the Triune name, And joy upon that withered face, in wondering radiance came. And then advanced a lordly form, in manhood s towering pride, Who from the gilded snares of earth had wisely turned aside, And, following in His steps who bowed to Jordan s startled wave, In deep humility of soul, this faithful witness gave. Who next ? A fair and fragile form, in snowy robe doth move, That tender beauty in her eye that wakes the vow of love 144 THE BAPTISM. Yea, come, thou gentle one, and arm thy soul with strength divine, This stern world hath a thousand darts to vex a breast like thine. Beneath its smile a traitor s kiss is oft in darkness bound Cling to that Comforter who holds a balm for every wound ; Propitiate that Protector s care who never will forsake, And thou shalt strike the harp of praise, even when thy heart-strings break. Then, with a firm, unshrinking step, the watery path she trod, And gave, with woman s deathless trust, her being to her God; And when all drooping from the flood she rose, like lily- stem, Methought that spotless brow might wear an angel s diadem. Yet more ! Yet more ! How meek they bow to their Redeemer s rite, Then pass with music on their way, like joyous sons of light; THE BAPTISM. 145 Yet lingering on those shores I staid, till every sound was hushed, For hallowed musings o er my soul, like spring-swollen rivers rushed. Tis better, said the voice within, to bear a Christian s cross, Than sell this fleeting life for gold, which death shall prove but dross Far better, when yon shrivelled skies are like a banner furled, To share in Christ s reproach, than gain the glory of the world. 10 THOUGHTS AMONG THE TREES. "The retiring of the mind into itself is the state most susceptible of divine impressions." LORD BACON. How beautiful you are, green trees ! green trees ! How nobly beautiful ! Fain would I rest Neath the broad shadow of your mantling arms, And lose the world s unquiet imagery In the soft mist of dreams. Your curtaining veil Shuts out the revelry, and toil, that chafe The city s denizens. Man wars with man, And brethren forage on each other s hearts, Throwing their life-blood in that crucible Which brings forth gold. Unceasingly we strive, And gaze at gaudes, and cling to wind-swept reeds, Then darkly sink, and die. But here ye stand, Your moss-grown roots by hidden moisture fed, And on your towering heads the dews that fall THOUGHTS AMONG THE TREES. 147 From God s right hand. I love your sacred lore, And to the silence you have learn d of Him Bow down my spirit. Not a whispering leaf Uplifts itself, to mar the holy pause Of meditation. Doth not wisdom dwell With silence and with nature ? From the throng Of fierce communings, or of feverish joys. So the sweet mother of the Lord of life Turn d to the manger, and its lowly train, And, mid their quiet ruminations, found Refuge and room. Methinks, an angel s wing Floats o er your arch of verdure, glorious trees ! Luring the soul above. O, ere we part, For soon I leave your blessed company, And seek the dusty paths of life again, Give me some gift, some token of your love, One holy thought, in heavenly silence born, That I may nurse it till we meet again. 10 b MISSIONS TO AFRICA. O AFRIC ! famed in story, The nurse of Egypt s might, A stain is on thy glory, And quenched thine ancient light Stern Carthage made the pinion Of Rome s strong eagle cower, But brief was her dominion, And lost her trace of power. And thou, the stricken-hearted, The scorned of every land, The diadem departed, Dost stretch thy fettered hand ; How long shall misery wring thee, And none arise to save ? And every billow bring thee Sad tidings from the slave P Is not thy night of weeping, Thy time of darkness, o er ? Is not Heaven s justice keeping- Its vigil round thy shore ? MISSIONS TO AFRICA. 149 I see a watch-light hurning High on yon wave-girt tower, To guide thy sons, returning In freedom s glorious power. Thy pyramids, aspiring, Unceasing wonder claim, And still the world, admiring, Demands their founder s name ; But more enduring glory Shall settle on his head Who blest Salvation s story Shall o er thy desert spread. THE ORDINATION. UP to thy Master s work ! for thoti art sworn To do his bidding, till the hand of death Strike off thine armour. Thy deep vow denies To hoard earth s gold, or truckle for its smile, Or bind its blood-stain d laurel on thy brow. A nobler field is thine. The soul ! the soul ! That is thy province, that mysterious thing, Which hath no limit from the walls of sense, No chill from hoary time, with pale decay No fellowship, but shall stand forth unchanged, Unscath d amid the resurrection fires, To bear its boundless lot of good or ill. And dost thou take authority to aid This pilgrim-essence to a throne in heaven Among the glorious harpers, and the ranks Of radiant seraphim and cherubim ? Thy business is with that which cannot die, Whose subtle thought the untravell d universe THE ORDINATION. 151 Spans on swift wing, from slumbering ages sweeps Their buried treasures, scans the vault of heaven, Poises the orbs of light, points boldly out Their trackless pathway through the blue expanse, Foils the red comet in its flaming speed, And aims to read the secrets of its God, - Yet thou, a son of clay, art privileg d To make thy Saviour s image brighter still In this majestic soul ! Give God the praise That thou art counted worthy, and lay down Thy lip in dust. Bethink thee of its loss, For He whose sighs on Olivet, whose pangs On Calvary, best speak its priceless worth, Saith that it may be lost. Should it sin on Till the last hour of grace and penitence Is meted out, ah ! what would it avail Though the whole world, with all its pomp, and power, And plumage, were its own ? What were its gain If the brief hour-glass of this life should fail, And leave remorse no grave, despair, no hope ? - Up, blow thy trumpet, sound the loud alarm To those who sleep in Zion. Boldly warn To scape their condemnation, o er whose head Age after age of misery hath roll d, Who from their prison-house look up and see Heaven s golden gate, and to its watchmen cry, 152 THE ORDINATION. " What of the night ? " while the dread answer falls With fearful echo down the unfathom d depths : " Eternity ! " Should one of those lost souls Amid its tossings utter forth thy name, As one who might have pluck d it from the pit, Thou man of God ! would there not be a burst Of tears in heaven ? 0, live the life of prayer, The life of faith in the meek Son of God, The life of tireless labour for His sake : So may the Angel of the covenant bring Thee to thy home in bliss, with many a gem To glow for ever in thy Master s crown. THE CHRISTIAN GOING HOME. Occasioned by the words of a dying friend, " Before morning I shall be at home. HOME ! home ! its glorious threshold Through parted clouds I see, Those mansions by a Saviour bought, Where I have long d to be, And, lo ! a bright unnumbered host O erspread the heavenly plain, Not one is silent every harp Doth swell the adoring strain. Fain would my soul be praising Amid that sinless throng, Fain would my voice be raising Their everlasting song, Hark ! hark ! they bid me hasten To leave the fainting clay, Friends ! hear ye riot the welcome sound P " Arise, and come away." 154 THE CHRISTIAN GOING HOME. Before the dawn of morning These lower skies shall light, I shall have joined their company Above this realm of night, Give thanks, my mourning dear ones, Thanks to the Eternal King, Who crowns my soul with victory And plucks from Death the sting. HEAVEN S LESSON. HEAVEN teacheth thee to mourn, thou fair, young bride. Thou art its pupil now. The lowest class, The first beginners in its school, may learn How to rejoice. The sycamore s broad leaf, Thrill d by the breeze, the humblest grass-bird s nest, Murmur of gladness, and the wondering babe, Borne by its nurse out in the open fields, Leameth that lesson. The wild mountain-stream That throws by fits its gushing music forth, The careless sparrow, happy, tho the frosts Nip his light foot, have learn d the simple lore, How to rejoice. Mild Nature teacheth it To all her innocent works. But God alone Instructed! how to mourn. He doth not trust This highest lesson to a voice, or hand, Subordinate. Behold ! He cometh forth ! sweet disciple, bow thyself to learn The alphabet of tears. Receive the lore, Sharp though it be, to an unanswering breast, 156 HEAVEN S LESSON. A will subdued. And may such wisdom spring From these rough rudiments, that thou shall gain A class more noble, and, advancing, soar Where the sole lesson is a seraph s praise. Ah, be a docile scholar, and so rise Where mourning hath no place. THE BUBBLE. OUT springs the bubble, dazzling bright, With ever-changing hues of light, And so amid the flowery grass Our gilded years of childhood pass. Yet bears not each with traitor sway, Beneath its robe, some gem away ? Some bud of hope, at morning born, Without the memory of the thorn ? Some fruit that ripen d, free from care ? Where are those vanish d treasures ? where ? Then knowledge, with her letter d lore, Demands us at the nursery-door, Reproves our love of vain delights, And on the brow, "sub jugum," writes. But the sweet joys of earliest days, The buoyant spirits, wing d for praise, Escape, exhale. We thought them seal d, For wintry days, their charm to yield. Where have they fled ? Go, ask the sky, Where fleet the dews, when suns are high. 158 THE BUBBLE. Upborne by history s arm, we tread The crumbling soil, o er nations dead. The buried king, the mouldering sage, The relics of a nameless age, We summon forth, with vain regret ; And in that toil our heart forget, Till, warn d, perchance, by wayward deeds, How much that realm a regent needs, Renew, with pangs of contrite pain, The study of ourselves again. While thus we roam, the silver hair Steals o er our temples here and there, And beauty starts, amaz d to see The ploughshare of an enemy. What is that haunt, \vhere willows wave That yawning pit ? The grave ! the grave ! The turf is set, the violets grow, The throngs rush on, where we lie low. Our name is lost, amid their strife, The bubble bursts, and this is life ! ATTENDING A FORMER PUPIL TO THE GRAVE. DAUGHTER. I will not leave thee. Thou vvert wont To sit so close beside me with thy task, And lift thy little book, and scan my face, Timing thy question wisely to my cares, And thou would st gently put thy hand in mine When summer-school was o er, and strive to lead To thine own pleasant home, bespeaking still For me such things as unto thee were dear, Thy white-hair d grandsire s kindness, or the walk In the sweet plat of flowers, until I felt That, of a pupil, I had made a friend. I will not leave thee, now that thou must take Thy journey to thy sepulchre. I know How timid thou wert ever, and would st cling Unto my arm, when childhood s little fears Or troubles daunted thee. But now, behold, 160 ATTENDING A FORMER PUPIL TO THE GRAVE Thou on thy low and sable carriage lead st And marshall st us the way where we must go, Each for himself. Stranger and friend sweep on In long procession. Daughter, I am near In this most solemn hour. I ll stay and hear The, " Dust to dust" that turns the cheek so pale Of mourning love. Till the green turf is laid, The last sad office of affection o er, I will not leave thee, sweetest. No, I ll wait Till every lingerer hasteth to his home, And then I ll breathe a prayer beside thy bed, Thou, who so oft hast pour d thy prayer with me. I ll be the last to leave thee. 0, be first To welcome me above, if, thro the trust In my Redeemer s strength, I thither rise from dust. MISTAKEN GRIEF. There the wicked cease from troubling, and there the weary are at rest. JOB. WE mourn for those who toil, The wretch who ploughs the main, The slave who hopeless tills the soil Beneath the stripe and chain ; For those who in the world s hard race, O erwearied and unblest, A host of gliding phantoms chase; Why mourn for those who rest ? We mourn for those who sin, Bound in the tempter s snare, Whom syren pleasure beckoneth in To prisons of despair, Whose hearts, by whirlwind passions torn Are wreck d on folly s shore, But why in anguish should we mourn For those who sin no more ? 11 162 MISTAKEN GRIEF. We mourn for those who weep, Whom stern afflictions bend, Despairing o er the lowly sleep Of lover or of friend ; But they who Jordan s swelling tide No more are call d to stem, Whose tears the hand of God hath dried, Why should we mourn for them ? DEATH OF MRS. H. W. L. WINSLOW, MISSIONARY IN CEYLON. THY name hath power like magic. Back it brings The earliest pictures hung in memory s halls, Tinting them freshly o er : the rugged cliff, The towering trees, the wintry walk to school, The page so often conn d, the hour of sport Well earn d and dearly priz d, the sparkling brook Making its slight cascade, the darker rush Of the pent river through its rocky pass, The violet-gatherings mid the vernal banks, When our young hearts did ope their crystal gates To every simple joy. I little deem d, Mid all that gay and gentle fellowship, That Asia s sun would beam upon thy grave, Tho , even then, from thy dark, serious eye There was a glancing forth of glorious thought, That scorn d earth s vanities. I saw thee stand With but a few brief summers o er thy head, 11 b 164 DEATH OP MRS. H. W. L. WINSLOW. And in the consecrated courts of God Confess thy Saviour s name. And they who mark d The promise of that opening bud did ask What its full bloom must be. But now thy couch Is where the Ceylon mother tells her child Of all thy prayers and labours. Yes, thy rest Is in the bosom of that fragrant isle Where heathen man with lavish Nature strives To blot the lesson she would teach of God. Thy pensive sisters pause upon thy tomb To catch the spirit that did bear thee through All tribulation, till thy robes were white, To join the angelic train. And so farewell, My childhood s playmate, and my sainted friend, Whose bright example, not without rebuke, Admonisheth, that home, and ease, and wealth, And native land, are well exchanged for heaven. "SHOW US THE FATHER." JOHN, iv., 8. HAVE ye not seen Him, when through parted snows Wake the first kindlings of the vernal green ? When neath its modest veil the arbutus blows, And the pure snow-drop bursts its folded screen ? When the wild rose, that asks no florist s care, Unfoldeth its rich leaves, have ye not seen Him there ? Have ye not seen Him, when the infant s eye, Through its bright sapphire -windows shows the mind ? When, in the trembling of the tear or sigh, Floats forth that essence, trembling and refined ? Saw ye not Him the author of our trust, Who breathed the breath of life into a frame of dust ? Have ye not heard Him, when the tuneful rill Casts off its icy chains, and leaps away ? In thunders echoing loud from hill to hill ? In songs of birds, at break of summer s day ? Or, in the ocean s everlasting roar, Battling the old grey rocks, that sternly guard his shore ? 166 " SHOW US THE FATHER." Amid the stillness of the sabbath-morn, When vexing cares in tranquil slumber rest, When in the heart the holy thought is born, And Heaven s high impulse warms the waiting breast, Have ye not felt Him, while your kindling prayer Swelled out in tones of praise, announcing God was there P Show us the Father ! If ye fail to trace His chariot, where the stars majestic roll, His pencil mid earth s loveliness and grace, His presence in the sabbath of the soul, How can you see Him till the day of dread, When to assembled worlds the book of doom is read ? THE LOST SISTER. THEY wak d me from my sleep, I knew not why, And bade me hasten where a midnight lamp Glearn d from an inner chamber. There she lay, With brow so pale, who yester-morn breath d forth Through joyous smiles her superflux of bliss Into the hearts of others. By her side Her hoary sire, with speechless sorrow, gazed Upon the stricken idol, all dismay d Beneath his God s rebuke. And she who nurs d That fair young creature at her gentle breast, And oft those sunny locks had deck d with buds Of rose and jasmine, shuddering, wip d the dews Which death distils. The sufferer just had given Her long farewell, and for the last, last time Touch d with cold lips his cheek who led so late Her footsteps to the altar, and receiv d In the deep transport of an ardent heart Her vow of love. And she had striven to press That golden circlet with her bloodless hand Back on his finger, which he kneeling gave 168 THE LOST SISTER. At the bright, bridal morn. So, there she lay In calm endurance, like the smitten lamb Wounded in flowery pastures, from whose breast The dreaded bitterness of death had pass d. But a faint wail disturb d the silent scene, And, in its nurse s arms a new-born babe Was borne in utter helplessness along, Before that dying eye. Its gather d film Kindled one moment with a sudden glow Of tearless agony, and fearful pangs, Racking the rigid features, told how strong A mother s love doth root itself. One cry Of bitter anguish, blent with fervent prayer, Went up to Heaven, and, as its cadence sank, Her spirit enter d there. Morn after morn Rose and retir d ; yet still as in a dream I seem d to move. The certainty of loss Fell not at once upon me. Then I wept As weep the sisterless. For thou wert fled, My only, my belov d, my sainted one, Twin of my spirit ! and my n umber d days Must wear the sable of that midnight hour Which rent thee from me. THE DEPARTED NEIGHBOUR. AH ! can that funeral knell be thine, Thou, at whose image kind So many long-remembered scenes Come rushing o er my mind ? Thy rural home, behind the trees, Thy bovvers, with roses drest, And the bright eye, and beaming smile, That cheer d each entering guest. There, when our children, hand in hand, Pursued their earnest play, It drew our hearts more closely still, To see their own so gay, And hear their merry laughter ring Around the evening hearth, While the loud threat of winter s storm Broke not their hour of mirth. Tis strange, that I should seek in vain That mansion, once so fair, 170 THE DEPARTED NEIGHBOUR. And find the spot where erst it stood All desolate and bare, Its smooth green bank, on which so thick The dappled daisies grew, How passing strange, that from its place Even that has vanish d too. But thou, whatever change or cloud Deform d this lower sky, Hadst still a fountain in thy heart Whose streams were never dry, A fountain of perennial hope, That never ceased to flow, And give its sky-fed crystals forth To every child of woe. Thy frequent visits to my couch, If sickness paled my cheek, And all thy sympathetic love, Which language cannot speak, How strong those recollections rise To wake the grateful tear, For deeds like these more precious grow With every waning year. I cannot think that bitter grief Would please thy happy soul, THE DEPARTED NEIGHBOUR. 171 Rais d, as thou art, to that blest world Where tempests never roll ; But may thy dearest, and thy best, The children of thy care, Walk steadfast in thy chosen path, And joyful meet thee there. THE CONVENIENT SEASON. " Go thy way for this time, when I have a convenient season I will call for thee." Acts. ALONE he sat, and wept. That very night The ambassador of God, with earnest zeal Of eloquence, had warn d him to repent, And, like the Roman at Drusilla s side, Hearing the truth, he trembled. Conscience wrought And sin allur d. The struggle shook him sore. The dim lamp wan d, the hour of midnight toll d ; Prayer sought for entrance, but the heart had clos d Its diamond valve. He threw him on his couch, And bade the spirit of his God depart. But there was war within him, and he sigh d, " Depart not utterly, thou Blessed One ! Return when youth is past, and make my soul For ever thine." With kindling brow he trod The haunts of pleasure, while the viol s voice THE CONVENIENT SEASON. 173 And beauty s smile his fluttering pulses woke. To love he knelt, and on his brow she hung Her freshest myrtle-wreath. For gold he sought, And winged wealth indulg d him, till the world Pronounc d him happy. Manhood s vigorous prime Swell d to its climax, and his busy days And restless nights swept like a tide away, When, lo ! a message from the crucified, " Look unto me, and live." But care had twin d Strong tendrils round him, and its countless shoots Still striking earthward, like the Indian tree, Barr d out, with woven shades, the eye of Heaven. Twice warn d, he ponder d : then impatient spake Of weariness, and haste, and want of time, And duty to his children, and besought A longer space to do the work of Heaven. God spake again, when age had shed its snows Upon his temples, and his weary hand Shrank from gold-gathering. But the rigid chain Of habit bound him and he still implor d A more convenient season. " See, my step Is firm and free, my unquench d eye delights To view this pleasant world, and life with me May last for many years. In the calm hour 174 THE CONVENIENT SEASON. Of lingering sickness, I can better fit For long eternity." Disease came on. And reason fled. The maniac strove with death, Till darkness smote his eye-balls, and thick ice Settled around his heart-strings. The poor clay Lay vanquish d and distorted. But the soul, The soul, whose promis d season never came, Where was it? THE AMERICAN BISHOP. A scene at the closing of a Convention in Virginia, by the venerable Bishop Moore. THEY cluster d round, that listening throng, The parting hour drew nigh, And heighten d feeling, deep and strong, Spoke forth, from eye to eye, For reverend in his hoary years, A white-rob d prelate hent, And trembling pathos wing d his words,, As to the heart they went. With saintly love, he urg d the crowd Salvation s hope to gain, While, gathering o er his furrow d cheek, The tears fell down like rain ; He wav d his hand, and music woke A warm and solemn strain, His favourite hymn swell d high, and fill d The consecrated fane. 176 THE AMERICAN BISHOP. Then from the hallovv d chancel forth, With faltering step, he sped, And fervent laid a father s hand On every priestly head, And breath d the blessing of his God, And, full of meekness, said, " Be faithful in your Master s work, When your old bishop s dead. " For more than fifty years, my sons, A Saviour s love supreme, Unto a sinful world, hath been My unexhausted theme ; " Now, see, the blossoms of the grave Are o er my temples spread, Oh ! lead the seeking soul to Him, When your old bishop s dead." Far wan d the holy sabbath-eve On toward the midnight hour, Before that spell-bound throng retir d To slumber s soothing power, Yet many a sleeper, mid his dream, Beheld, in snowy stole, That patriarch-prelate s bending form, Whose accents stirr d the soul. THE AMERICAN BISHOP. 177 In smiles the summer-morn arose, And many a grateful guest, Forth from those hospitable domes, With tender memories, press d. While o er the broad and branching bay, Which like a heart doth pour A living tide, in countless streams, Through fair Virginia s shore - O er Rappahannock s fringed breast, O er rich Potomac s tide, Or where the bold, resistless James Rolls on, with monarch-pride, The boats that ask nor sail, nor oar, With speed majestic glide, And many a thoughtful pastor leans In silence o er their side , And, while he seems to scan the flood In silver neath him spread, Revolves the charge " Be strong for God, When your old bishop s dead." 12 POWER OP THE ALMIGHTY. GOD of the chainless winds, that wildly wreck The moaning forest, and the ancient oak Rend like a sapling spray, and sweep the sand O er the lost caravan, that trod with pride Of tinkling bells, and camel s arching neck, The burning desert, a dense host at morn, At eve, a bubble, on the trackless waste : God of the winds ! can st thou not rule the heart, And gather back its passions, when thou wilt, Bidding them, " Peace be still ! " God of the waves, That toss and mock the mightiest argosy, As the gay zephyr frets the thistle-down, Until the sternest leader s heart doth melt Because of trouble, Thou who call st them back From their rough challenge to the muffled sky, And bidd st them harmless lave an infant s feet That seeketh silver shells, canst Thou not curb The tumult of the nations, the hot wrath Of warring kings, who, like the babe, must die ; POWER OF THE ALMIGHTY. 179 Vaunting this day in armour, and the next, Unshrouded, slumbering on the battle-field ? God of the unfathom d, unresisted deep ! We trust in Thee, and know in whom we trust. God of the solemn stars, that tread so true The path by thee appointed, every one, From the slight asteroid to the vast orb That lists the watch-word, or the music-march Of farthest planets round their monarch suns, Marshall d in glorious order, lead our souls From system unto system up to Thee; That when, unbodied from this lower world, Trembling, they launch, they may not lose the clue That guides from sun to sun, thro boundless space, The stranger-atom to a home with Thee. 12 b "IS IT WELL WITH THE CHILD/ " Is it well with the child ? And she answered, It is well. " 2 KINGS, iv., 26. "Is it well with the child?" And she answer d, " Tis well;" But I gaz d on the mother who spake, For the tremulous tear, as it sprang from its cell, Bade a doubt in my bosom awake ; And I mark d that the bloom from her features had fled, So late in their loveliness rare, And the hue of the watcher that bends o er the dead Was gathering all languidly there. " Is it well with the child ?" And she answer d, " Tis well. But I thought of its beauty and grace, When the tones of its laughter would merrily swell At affection s delighted embrace : And thro their long fringe, as it rose from its sleep, Its eyes beam d a rapturous ray, And I wonder d that silence should settle so deep O er the home of a being so gay. "IS IT WELL WITH THE CHILD." 181 " Is it well with the child ? " And she answer d, " Tis well. No more will it shudder with pain, Of the pang and the groan, and the gasp it might tell, It never will suffer again. In my dreams, as an angel, it stands by my side, In the garments of beauty and love ; And I hear its glad lays to the Saviour who died, Mid the choir of the blessed above." MONODY TO MRS. SARAH L. SMITH. So, Asia hath thy dust, thou, who wert born Amid my own wild hillocks, where the voice Of falling waters, and of gentle gales, Mingle their music. How thy soft dark eye, Thy graceful form thy soul-illumin d smile, Gleam forth upon me, as I muse at eve, Mid the bright imagery of earliest years. Hear I the murmur d echo of thy name, From yon poor forest race ? Tis meet for them To hoard thy memory, as a blessed star, For thou didst seek their lowly homes, and tell Their sad-brow d children of a Saviour s love, And of a clime where no oppressor comes. Cold winter found thee there, and summer s heat, With zeal unblenching. Tho , perchance, the sneer Might curl some worldling s lip, twas not for thee To note its language, or to scorn the soul Of the neglected Indian, or to tread Upon the ashes of his buried kings As on a loathsome weed. Thine own fair halls Lur d thee in vain, until the hallow d church MONODY TO MRS. SARAH L. SMITH. 183 Rear d its light dome among them, and the voice Of a devoted shepherd, day by day, Call d back those wanderers to the sheltering fold Of a Redeemer s righteousness. And, then, Thy path was on the waters, and thy hand Close clasp d in his who bore so fearless forth The glorious Gospel to those ancient dimes Which in the darkness, and the shade of death, Benighted dwell. Strong ties detain d thee here, Home father sightless mother sister dear, Brothers and tender friends, a full array Of hope and bliss. But what were those to thee, Who on God s altar laid the thought of self ? What were such joys to thee, if duty bade Their crucifixion ? Oh ! Jerusalem ! Jerusalem ! Methinks I see thee there, Pondering the flinty path thy Saviour trod, And fervent kneeling where his prayer arose, All night on Olivet, or with meek hand Culling from pure Siloam s marge a flower, Whose tender leaflets drink as fresh a dew As when unhumbled Judah wore the crown Of queenly beauty ; or with earnest eye Exploring where the shepherd-minstrel kept His father s flock, before the cares that lodge 184 MONODY TO MRS. SARAH L. SMITH. Within the thorn-wreath d circlet of a king Had turn d his temples grey ; or with sweet smile Reposing, wearied, in thy simple tent By turbid Jordan, or the bitter wave Of the Asphaltites. Back to thy place, Amid the Syrian vales, to thy lov d toils For the forsaken Druses, and the throng Of heathen babes, who on thine accents hang As on a mother s. Lo ! the time is short. Perils upon the waters wait for thee, And then another Jordan, from whose flood Is no return. But thou, with lip so pale, Didst take the song of triumph, and go down Alone, and fearless, thro its depths profound. Snatches of heavenly harpings made thee glad, Even to thy latest gasp. Therefore, the grief Born at thy grave is not like other grief. Tears mix with joy. We praise our God for thee. DEPART, CHRISTIAN SOUL/ DEPART ! depart ! the silver cord is breaking, The sun-ray fades before thy darken d sight, The subtle essence from the clod is taking, Mid groans and pangs, its everlasting flight ; Lingerest thou fearful ? Christ the grave hath bless d, He in that lowly couch did deign to take his rest. Depart ! thy sojourn here hath been in sorrow, Tears were thy meat along the thorn- clad path, The hope of eve was but a clouded morrow, And sin appall d thee with thy Maker s wrath, Earth gave her lessons in a tempest- voice. Thy discipline is ended. Chasten d one, rejoice ! Thou wert a stranger here, and all thy trouble To bind a wreath upon the brow of pain, To build a bower upon the watery bubble, Or strike an anchor neath its depths, was vain ; Depart ! depart ! all tears are wiped away, Thy seraph -in arshall d road is toward the realm of day. DEATH OF A CLERGYMAN. So, from the field of labour thou art gone To thy reward, like him who putteth off His outer garment, at the noontide hour, To take a quiet sleep. Thy zeal hath run Its course untiring, and thy quicken d love, Where er thy Master pointed, joy d to go. Amid thy faithful toil, His summons came, Warning thee home, and thou didst loose thy heart From thy fond flock, and from affection s bonds, And from thy blessed children s warm embrace, With smiles and songs of praise. Death smote thee sore, And plung d his keen shaft in the quivering nerve, Making the breath that stirr d life s broken valve A torturing gasp, but with thy martyrdom Were smiles and songs of praise. And thou didst rise Above the pealing of these sabbath bells Up to that glorious and unspotted church Whose worship is eternal. Would that all Who love our Lord might with thy welcome look DEATH OF A CLERGYMAN. 187 On the last foe, not as a spoiler sent To wreck their treasures, and to blast their joys, But as a friend who wraps the weary clay With earth, its mother, and doth raise the soul To that blest consummation which its prayers Unceasingly besought, tho its blest hopes But faintly shadow d forth. So, tho we hear Thy voice on earth no more, the holy hymn With which thou down to Jordan s shore didst pass, To take thy last cold baptism, still shall waft, As from some cloud, its echoed sweetness back, To teach us of the melody of heaven. A MOTHER S TEACHING. THE boy sat listening to the words That from his mother fell, Pure lessons, wrapp d in gentle tones, Like music s softest swell. And oft he mark d her musing brow, With holy silence bright, And bless d its placid smile, and deem d That angels lov d the sight Yet when that mother laid her down To rest in mouldering clay, The world s temptations o er him roll d, And swept his faith away. Like bird that scorns the fowler s snare, He trifled with his fate, Forgot to seek the Spirit s aid, Or for its teachings wait. A MOTHER S TEACHING. 189 Yet once, as in his midnight watch, The lonely deck he pac d, With nought hut solemn stars above, And, round, old Ocean s waste, Methought her warning voice, who long Neath the cold sods had slept, Spake forth from every rushing wave That on resistless swept ; Methought a tear-drop, like her own, Fell from the gathering cloud, That round the slowly-rising moon Had wreath d its silver shroud ; Methought the searching eye of God Flam d in his secret soul ; Arid down the proud man how d, with tears, To own its strong control; The Saviour s lowly yoke he took ; His flinty heart was riven, And so the seed his mother sow d Brought forth rich fruit for Heaven. TO DIE IS GAIN/ SAY ST thou, tis gain to die ? And may I ask How thou hast weigh d, and by what process brought The apostle s answer to thy sum of life ? Where are thy balances, and whose firm hand Did poise therein thy talents and their use To show such blest result ? Time s capital Needs well be husbanded, to leave the amount Of gain behind, when at a moment s call The spirit fleets, and the dissolving flesh Yields to the earth-worm s fang. Say, hath thy lip, Too often satiate, loath d the mingled cup So madly fill d at Pleasure s turbid stream ? Or hath thine ear, the promises of hope Drank on in giddy sickness, till the touch Of grave philosophy their emptiness Detected, and to their thin element Of air reduc d ? Or doth thy cheated heart, Sowing its warm affections on the wind, And reaping but the whirlwind, turn with scorn " TO DIE IS GAIN." 191 From every harvest which these changeful skies Can ripen or destroy ? Then hast thou prov d The loss of life, but not the gain of death. But hast thou by thy ceaseless prayers obtain d Such token of acceptance with thy Lord, So fill d each post of duty, so sustain d All needful discipline, so deeply mourn d Each burden of iniquity, that death Comes as a favour d messenger to lead, To its bright heritage, the willing soul ? Searcher of hearts, thou knowest ! Thou alone The hidden thought dost read, the daily act Note unforgetful. Take away the dross Of earthly principle, the gather d film Of self-deluding hope, the love and hate Which have their root in dust, until the soul, Regarding life and death with equal eye, Absorbs its will in thine. UZZIAH. 2 CHRON., xxvi. THE star of Judah s king rode high in plenitude of power, And lauded was his sceptre s sway, in palace and in bower, Fresh fountains in the desert waste, up at his bidding sprung, And clustering vines o er Camel s breast, a broader mantle flung, He hied him to the battle-field, in all his young renown, And wild Arabia s swarthy host like blighted grass fell down. Yet, when within his lifted heart the seeds of pride grew strong, And unacknowledg d blessings led to arrogance and wrong, Even to the temple s holy place, with impious step, he hied, And with a kindling censer stood fast by the altar s side ; But he whose high and priestly brow the anointing oil had bless d Stood forth majestic to rebuke the sacrilegious guest. UZZIAH. 193 " Tis not for thee," he sternly said, "to tread this hallow d nave, And take that honour to thyself which God to Aaron gave, Tis not for thee, thou mighty king, o er Judah s realm ordain d, To trample on Jehovah s law, hy whom thy fathers reign d. Go hence ! " And from his awful eye there seein d such ire to flame As mingled with the thunder-blast when God to Sinai Then loud the reckless monarch storm d, and with a daring hand He swung the sacred censer high above the trembling band, But, where the burning sign of wrath did in his forehead flame, Behold I the avenging doom of heaven, the livid plague- spot came ; And low his princely head declin d, in bitterness of woe, While from the temple-gate he sped, a leper, white as snow. 13 OUR TEACHERS. " I feel that the dead have conferred a blessing on me, by helping me to think of the world rightly." REV. ORVILLE DEWEY. SAY ST thou the dead are teachers ? Must we come, And sit among the clods, and lay our ear To the damp crannies of the loathsome tomb, And listen for their lore ? There comes no sound From all those stern and stone-bound sepulchres. Grass-blades are here, and flowers, and now and then A mother-bird doth cheer her callow young With chirping strain, while the low winds that sweep The shivering harp-strings of yon ancient pines Make sullen undulation. Still thou say st The silent dead are teachers. Stretch your hands, And on our tablets write one pencil-trace, That we may hoard it in our heart of hearts. All motionless ! All passionless ! All mute ! OUR TEACHERS. 195 O silence ! twin with wisdom ! I would press My lip upon yon cradled infant s grave, And drink the murmur of its smitten bloom. A mother s young pride in her beautiful, Her darling ministries from eve to morn, Laid low ! Laid low ! How slight the aspen stem Round which her heart s joys twin d. Yet all are frail, All like the crisp stalk in the reaper s path. Read I thy lesson right, my little one ? - See, by thy side, the strong man sleepeth well. The tall, proud man, who tower d, like Israel s king, With head above the people. Yet his wail, Was it not weak as thine, when death launch d home The fatal dart ? Humility befits The born of earth, the crush d before the moth; And the deep teaching of such lowly creed Best cometh from the dead. Ah ! let me kneel Here on this mound, where sleeps my early friend, And wait her words in lowliness of soul. Thou speak st not to me ! thou whose silver tone Did lead the way, in all our sweet discourse, When, lost in lonely haunts, we wander d long, Shunning the crowd. Twin-soul, thou wert with mine. Yet still I think I lov d thee not enough When thou wert with me. Thy clear, welcome voice., Thy soft caress at meeting, it would seem 13 b 196 OUR TEACHERS. That sometimes clouds around my spirit hung, Checking the fond response. Beloved one, Was it not so ? And there were tender words I might have said to thee, and said them not. And there were higher flights of glorious thought, And nobler trophies on life s rugged steep, To which I might have urg d thee. Was it so P Make answer from thy pillow. Blind and weak ! I thought to have thee ever by my side. And so the hours swept by, till thou didst spread A sudden wing, and prove thine angel-birth. O, by the keen regret of those lost hours, Pure spirit, teach me, with firm grasp to seize The passing moment, not with duty s deed, Or the defrauded sympathies of love, To load the uncertain future ; but with prayer Turn unto Him who metes our fleeting days, And teacheth wisdom from the voiceless tomb. THE FIRST MORNING OF SPRING. BREAK from your chains, ye lingering streams; Rise, blossoms, from your wintry dreams ; Drear fields, your robes of verdure take ; Birds, from your trance of silence wake ; Glad trees, resume your leafy crown ; Shrubs, o er the mirror-brooks bend down ; Bland zephyrs, wheresoe er ye stray, The Spring doth call you, come away. Thou too, my soul, with quicken d force Pursue thy brief, thy measur d course ; With grateful zeal each power employ ; Catch vigour from Creation s joy; And deeply on thy shortening span Stamp love to God and love to man. But Spring, with tardy step, appears, Chill is her eye, and dim with tears; Still are the founts in fetters bound, The flower-germs shrink within the ground. Where are the warblers of the sky ? I ask, and angry blasts reply. 198 THE FIRST MORNING OF SPRING. It is not thus in heavenly howers : Nor ice-bound rill, nor drooping flowers, Nor silent harp, nor folded wing, Invade that everlasting Spring Toward which we look with wishful tear, While pilgrims in this wintry sphere. DEATH OP THE PRINCIPAL OE A RETREAT FOR THE INSANE. FEW have been mourned like thee. The wise and good Do gather many weepers round their tomb, And true affection makes her heart an urn For the departed idol, till that heart Is ashes. With such sorrow art thou mourned, And more than this. There is a cry of woe Within the halls of yon majestic dome A tide of grief, which reason may not check, Nor faith s deep anchor fathom. Straining eyes, That gaze on vacancy, do search for thee, Whose wand could put to flight the fancied ills Of sick imagination. The wrecked heart Keepeth the echo of thy soothing voice An everlasting sigh within its cells, And morbidly upon that music feeds. Mind s broken column mid its ruins bears Thy chiselled features. Thy dark eye looks forth 200 DEATH OF THE PRINCIPAL OF From memory s watch-tower on the phrenzy-dream, Ruling its imagery, or with strange power Controlling madness, as the shepherd s harp Subdued the moody wrath of Israel s king. Even where the links of thought and speech are broke, Mid that most absolute and perfect wreck, When throneless reason flies her idiot-foe, Thou hast a place. The fragments of the soul Do bear thine impress shadowy, yet endeared, And multiplied by countless miseries. Beside some happy hearth, where fire-side joys And renovated health, and heaven-born hope, Swell high in contrast with the maniac s cell, Thou art remembered by some grateful heart, With the deep rapture of that lunatic Whom Jesus healed. But there s a wail for thee From throngs whom this unpitying world doth cast Out of her company, the scorned, the banned, The excommunicate. Thou wert their friend Thy wasting midnight vigil was for them : The toil, the watching, and the stifled pang That stamped thee as a martyr, were for them. They could not thank thee, save with that strange shriek Which wounds the gentle ear. Yet thou didst walk In thy high ministry of love and power, As a magician mid their spectre-foes And maniac visions. A RETREAT TOR THE INSANE. 201 Thou didst mark sublime Death s angel sweeping o er thy studious page, And, at his chill monition, laying down The boasted treasures of philosophy, Didst clothe thyself in meekness as a child Waiting the father s will. And so farewell, Thou full of love to all whom God hath made, Thou tuned to melody, go home ! go home ! Where music hath no dissonance, and love Doth poise for ever on her perfect wing. THE REV. LEGH RICHMOND AMONG THE RUINS OF IONA. WHERE old lona s ruins spread In shapeless fragments round, And where the crovvn d and mighty dead Repose in cells profound ; Where o er Columba s buried towers The shrouding ivy steals, And moans the owl from cloister d bowers, A holy teacher kneels. Rocks spring terrific to the sky, Rude seas in madness storm ; And grimly frowns on Fancy s eye The Druid s awful form, With multer d curse, and reeking blade, And visage stern with ire ; Yet mid that darkly-blended shade Still bends the stranger sire. He prays, the father for his child, The distant and the dear ; THE REV. LEGH RICHMOND. 203 And when yon abbey o er the wild Upraised its arches drear, When at high-mass, or vesper-strain, Rich voices fill d the air, From all that cowl d and mitred train Rose there a purer prayer ? His name is on a simple scroll With Christian ardour penn d, Which, thrilling, warns the sinner s soul To make his God a friend ; But, when the strong archangel s breath Yon ancient vaults shall rend, And, starting from the dust of death, These waken d throngs ascend, Meek saint ! the boldest of the bold That sword or falchion drew, Barons, whose feudal glance controll d Vassal and monarch too, Proud heroes of the tented field, Kings of a vaunted line, May wish their blood-bought fame to yield For honours won like thine. TRUE WISDOM. " So teach us to number our days that we may apply our hearts unU wisdom." DAVID. WHY break the limits of permitted thought, To revel in Elysium ? thou who bear st Still the stern yoke of this unresting life, Its toils, its hazards, and its fears of change ? Why hang thy frost-work wreath on fancy s brow, When labour warns thee to thy daily task, And faith doth bid thee gird thyself to run A faithful journey to the gate of heaven ? Up, tis no dreaming-time ! awake ! awake ! For He who sits on the High Judge s seat, Doth in his record note each wasted hour, Each idle word. Take heed, thy shrinking soul Find not their weight too heavy, when it stands At that dread bar from whence is no appeal. Lo, while we trifle, the light sand steals on, Leaving the hour-glass empty ; so thy life Glideth away, stamp wisdom on its hours. ON MEETING SEVERAL FORMER PUPILS AT THE COMMUNION TABLE. " I have no greater joy than to see my children Tvalk in the truth." ST. JOHN*. WHEN kneeling round a Saviour s board Fair forms, and brows belov d, I see, Who once the paths of peace explor d, And trac d the studious page with me, Who from my side with pain would part ; My entering step with gladness greet, And pour complacent, o er my heart, Affection s dew-drops, pure and sweet, When now, from each remember d face Beam tranquil hope and trust benign, When in each eye Heaven s smile I trace, The tear of joy suffuses mine. Father ! I bless thy ceaseless care, Which thus its holiest gifts hath shed ; 206 MEETING AT THE COMMUNION TABLE. Guide Thou their steps through every snare, From every danger shield their head. From treacherous error s dire control, From pride, from change, from darkness free, Preserve each timorous, trusting soul, That, like the ark-dove, flies to Thee. And may the wreath that cloudless days Around our hearts so fondly wove Still bind us till we speak Thy praise, As sister spirits, one in love ; One, where no lingering ill can harm ; One, where no stroke of fate can sever ; Where nought hut holiness doth charm, And all that charms shall live for ever. DEATH OF A YOUNG MUSICIAN. Music was in thy heart, and fast entwin d, And closely knotted with its infant strings, Were the rich chords of melody. When youth And science led thee to their classic bower, A pale and patient student, the lone lamp Of midnight vigil found thee pouring out Thy soul in dulcet sound. In memory s cell Still live those thrilling tones, as erst they broke, Beguiling with sweet choral symphonies The festal hour. But, lo ! while thou didst wake The solemn organ to entrancing power, Tracing the secret spells of harmony, On through deep rapture s labyrinthine maze Devotion came, and breath d upon thy bro\v ; And made her temple in thy tuneful breast. So, music led thee to thy Saviour s feet, Serene and true disciple, and their harps Who fondly hold untiring guardianship O er frail man s pilgrim-path were tremulous With joy for thee. 208 DEATH OF A YOUNG MUSICIAN. Nor vainly to thy soul Came Heaven s high message wrapp d in minstrelsy ; For to its service, with unshrinking zeal, The blossom of thy life was dedicate. Thy hand was on God s altar, when a touch, Sudden and strange and icy cold, unloos d Its fervent grasp. Thy gentle heart was glad With the soft promise of a hallow d love. But stern death dash d it out. Now there are tears In tenderest eyes for thee. Yet we who know- That earth hath many discords for a soul Fine ton d and seraph-strung, and that the feet Which fain would follow Christ are sometimes held In the dark meshes of a downward course, Till strong repentance urge them back with tears, Do feel thy gain. Tis well thou art at home, Spirit of melody and peace and love. JOTHAM S PARABLE. THE trees of Israel once conven d In conclave, strange and bold, To choose a ruler, though the Lord Had been their king of old. And, first., the homage of their vow They to the Olive paid, But she the nattering suit repelFd, And lov d the peaceful glade. Next, to the fruitful Fig they turn d, On Shechem s shadowy height, And spread the gilded lures of power Before her dazzled sight ; But shivering low, in every leaf, As the light breeze swept by, Ambition s sinful thought she spurn d, And rais d to Heaven her eye. So then the lowly Vine they sought, That, round her trellis bound, 14 210 JOTHAM S PARABLE. In sweet contentment humbly dwelt, Belov d by all around ; Yet, hiding neath her clusters broad, With unobtrusive smile, And, clinging closer to her prop, She scap d th insidious wile. Then up the thorny Bramble spake To every lofty tree, 11 Come, put your trust beneath my shade, And I ll your ruler be." " The Bramble-shade ! the Bramble-shade ! Have ye forgot the day When Midian s old, oppressive yoke Was nobly rent away. " My glorious sire ! Have ye forgot How in God s strength he rose ? And took his dear life in his hand, And triumph d o er your foes ? So now, if with my father s house Ye have dealt well and true, Rejoice ye in your new-made lord, While he exults in you. " But, if my slaughter d brethren s blood Still from the dust doth cry, JOTHAM S PARABLE. 211 And echo in that Judge s ear, Who rules both earth and sky, Then from the bramble, where ye trust, Break forth, at midnight hour, The o ervvhelming and vindictive flame, And all your host devour." That voice the ingrate people heard With deep remorse and dread, And deem d some spirit, strong in wrath, Had risen from the dead ; For there, on Gerizzim, he stood, Amid its cedars bright, And frown d one moment on the throng, Then vanish d from their sight. But fearful was the fiery doom On Shechem s leaguer d tower, When fierce Abimelech arose, With war s disastrous power. Each soldier bore a sever d bough, And rear d a mighty pile, From whence the wild, unpitying flame Consum d the men of guile. And on that tyrant s head there fell A weight of wrath and pain, 14 b 212 JOTHAM S PARABLE. Dire judgment for usurping guilt, And for his brethren slain. The mill-stone, by a woman thrown, A servant s deadly thrust, Aveng d the usurper s ruthless deed, Arid crush d him to the dust. THE DYING BOY. His pure cheek pressed the pillow, and its hue, So late like the fresh rose s heart, was pale, While mid the clustering curls those chill dews hung Which fall but once. Still o er that beauteous brow Where fatal languor settled, flashed the light Of intellect, as a faint cry burst forth, " Oh ! mother ! mother ! " Then there was a pause, A pang too deep for words. " Your mother sleeps In IIQT cold grave, my son. You stood with me Beside its brink. Your little hand clasped mine Convulsively, at those sad, solemn words, * Ashes to ashes ! when the clods fell down Upon the coffin-lid. Long months have pass d, And every night your cheek was wet with tears For that dear mother. Say, have you forgot ? Or roves your mind in dreams ? Speak, dearest one." And then the father rais d that drooping head, 214 THE DYING BOY. And laid it on his bosom, and bovv d down A listening ear close to those murmuring lips. But, till their last faint whisper died away, There was no sound of answer to his voice, Save, " Mother ! mother ! " Deem ye not he err d ! For she who at his cradle caught the flame Of that deep love which time may never quench, Perchance, was nearer to her son than you Who smooth d the pillow for his fever d head, Calling yourselves the living. Ye, indeed, Have laid her in the grave, but can ye say That her seraphic, soul-sustaining smile Beam d not upon him ? Can ye tell how warm, How early was her welcome to that clime Which hath no death-pang ? If celestial bands Feel for the unknown habitants of clay A hallowed train of guardian sympathies, And fold their wings around them as they run Time s slippery course, with what a flood of joy, At Heav n s bright threshold, when all ills are past, A mother greets her child ! Tis o er! Tis o er! All earthly strife in that soft sigh doth end. Wrap the white grave-robe o er the stainless form. And lay it by her side whose breast so long THE DYING BOY. 215 Was the fond pillow for his golden hair. Write o er his narrow tomb, " Tis well I tis well ! " Then turn away and weep : for weep we must, When our most beautiful and treasur d things Fleet from this shaded earth. How can we see Our rifled bowers of rest in ruin laid Without a tear ? Yet He who wills the wound Can shed such balm -drops o er the riven heart That its most poignant and deep-rooted grief Shall bear blest fruit in heaven. WIFE OF A MISSIONARY AT THE GRAVE OF HER HUSBAND. THERE was a new-made grave, On a far heathen shore, Where lonely slept a man of God, His mission-service o er ; There, when the setting sun Had tinged the west with flame, A tender infant in her arms, A mournful woman came. Her youthful cheek was pale, Her fair form bending low, As thus upon the fitful gale She poured her plaint of woe, " Friend of my inmost soul, The turf is on thy breast, And here amid the stranger s land Thy precious dust must rest. " Our helpless babe I bring, Who knew no father s love, WIFE OF A MISSIONARY, ETC. 217 Who looked not on this world of pain, Till thou had st risen above ; I lay him on thy bed, Unconscious tears to weep, Before our last farewell we take, And dare the faithless deep. " Oh, when the mountain wave Shall be our venturous path, And the loud midnight tempest howls In terror and in wrath, Thy manly arm no more My dearest prop must be, Nor thy strong counsel nerve my soul To brave the raging sea. " But, if our native coast Once more these feet should tread, And thou, the life of all my joys, Be absent with the dead, While each remembered scene Shall with thine image glow, And friend and parent name thy name, How shall I bear the woe ? " Is it thy voice, my love, That bids me bear the rod, And stay my desolated heart Upon the widow s God ? 218 WIFE OF A MISSIONARY, ETC. Say st thou, when every ray Of hope is quench d and dim, The widow and the fatherless Should put their trust in Him ? " How blest that Word Divine, On which my soul relies, The resurrection of the just, The union in the skies ! " Faith came with heavenly light, Her struggling grief to quell, And in the holy words of prayer She spake her last farewell. PRAYER. " Pctur, therefore, was kept in prison, but prayer was made, without ceasing, of the church unto God for him." Acts, xii., 5, He slept between two soldiers, bound with chains, Waiting the hour when wily Herod s hand Should point his martyr-doom. Yet still, he slept, Peaceful as the young babe. And, lo ! a light Gleam d o er the dungeon-darkness, and a voice, Not of this earth, poured forth the high command, " Peter, arise." Then the investing chains Melted from off his limbs, and he arose And rob d himself, and girt his sandals on, And follow d where the wondering messenger Guided, with shining track. The iron gate, That guarded portal of the city s wall, As if it knew Heaven s high ambassador, Turn d on its massy hinge. So, on they pass d, Free and unquestion d, till the seraph s wing Outspread, in parting flight. With snowy trace Awhile it hover d, then, like radiant star 220 PilAYER. From its bright orbit loos d, went soaring up High o er the arch of night. Then Peter knew The angel of the Lord, for he had deem d Some blessed vision he]d his tranced sight In strange illusion. With the voice of praise, His joyous steps a well-known threshold sought, The home of Mary. Midnight reign d around, And heavy sleep hung o er Jerusalem. Yet here they slumber d not A sigh arose Of ardent supplication, for the friend In durance and in chains. But can ye paint The astonish d gaze with which those tearful eyes Fix d on his well-known features, as he stood, Sudden, amid the group ? High Heaven had heard The prayer of faith. And heard it not the breath Of gratitude, from every trembling lip, Ascribing glory to the Lord of Hosts, Whose holy angel had his servant freed From the high-handed malice of the Jews, And from the wrath of Herod ? Ye, who hold The key of prayer, that key which entereth heaven, How long will ye be doubtful of its power ? And choose earth s broken cisterns ? Say! how long PEACE. Peace I leave with you. JOHN, siv., 27. " Peace," was the song the angels sang, When Jesus sought this vale of tears, And sweet that heavenly prelude rang, To calm the wondering shepherds fears. " War" is the word that man hath spoke, Convuls d by passions dark and dread, And vengeance bound a lawless yoke Even where the Gospel s banner spread. " Peace," was the prayer the Saviour breathed When from our world his steps withdrew, The gift He to his friends bequeathed With Calvary and the cross in view : And ye whose souls have felt his love, Guard day and night this rich bequest, The watch-word of the host above, The passport to their realm of rest. TOMB OF A YOUNG FRIEND AT MOUNT AUBURN. I DO remember thee. There was a strain Of thrilling music, a soft breath of flowers Telling of summer to a festive throng, That fill d the lighted halls. And the sweet smile That spoke their welcome, the high warbled lay Swelling with rapture through a parent s heart, Were thine. Time wav d his noiseless wand awhile, And in thy cherish d home once more I stood, Amid those twin d and cluster d sympathies Where the rich blossoms of thy heart sprang forth, Like the moss rose. Where was the voice of song Pouring out glad and glorious melody ? But when I ask d for thee, they took me where A hallow d mountain wrapt its verdant head In changeful drapery of woods, and flowers, And silver streams, and where thou erst didst love, Musing, to walk, and lend a serious ear TOMB OF A YOUNG FRIEND. 223 To the wild melody of birds that hung Their unhann d dwellings mid its woven bowers. Yet here and there, involv d in curtaining shades Uprose those sculptur d monuments that bear The ponderous warnings of eternity. So, then hast pass d the unreturning gate, Where dust with dust doth linger, and gone down In all the beauty of thy blooming years To this most sacred city of the dead. The granite obelisk and the pale flower Reveal thy couch. Fit emblems of the frail And the immortal. But that bitter grief Which holds stern vigil o er the mouldering clay, Keeping long night-watch with its sullen lamp, Had fled thy tomb, and faith did lift its eye Full of sweet tears : for when warm tear-drops gush From the pure memories of a love that wrought For others happiness, and rose to take Its own full share of happiness above, Are they not sweet ? MIDNIGHT MUSIC. WHAT maketh music, when the bird Doth hush its merry lay ? And the sweet spirit of the flowers Hath sigh d itself away ? * " The Rev. Mr. George Herbert, in one of his walks to Salisbury to join a musical society, saw a poor man, with a poorer horse, which had fallen under its load. Putting off his canonical coat, he helped the poor man to unload, and raise the horse, and afterwards to load him again. The poor man blessed him for it, and he blessed the poor man. And so like was he to the good Samaritan, that he gave him money to refresh both himself and his horse, admonishing him also, if he loved himself, to be merciful to his beast Then, coming to his musical friends at Salisbury, they began to wonder that Mr. George Herbert, who used to be always so trim and neat, should come into that company so soiled and discomposed. Yet, when he told them the reason, one of them said that he had disparaged himself by so mean an employment. But his answer was that, the thought of what he had done would prove music to him at midnight, and that the omission of it would have made discord in his conscience, whenever he should pass that place. For if, said he, I am bound to pray for all that are in distress, I am surely bound, so far as is in my power, to practise what I pray for. And though I do not wish for the like occasion every day, yet would I not willingly pass one day of my life without comforting a sad soul, or showing mercy, and I praise God for this opportunity. So now let us tune our instruments. " MIDNIGHT MUSIC. 225 What maketh music when the frost Enchains the murmuring rill, And every song that summer woke In winter s trance is still ? What maketh music when the winds In strong encounter rise, When ocean strikes his thunder-gong, And the rent cloud replies ? While no adventurous planet dares The midnight arch to deck, And, in its startled dream, the babe Doth clasp its mother s neck ? And when the fiercer storms of fate Wild o er the pilgrim sweep, And earthquake-voices claim the hopes He treasur d long and deep, When loud the threatening passions roar Like lions in their den, And vengeful tempests lash the shore, What maketh music then ? The deed to humble virtue born, Which nursing memory taught To shun a boastful world s applause, And love the lowly thought, 15 226 MIDNIGHT MUSIC. This builds a cell within the heart, Amid the blasts of care, And timing high its heaven-struck harp, Makes midnight music there. EVENING BY THE SEA-SHORE. WHEN fervid summer crisps the shrinking nerve, And every prisrned rock doth catch the ray As in a burning glass, tis wise to seek This city of the wave. For here the dews With which Hygeia feeds the flower of life Are ever freshening in their secret founts. Here may st thou talk with the ocean, and no ear Of gossip islet on thy words shall feed. Send thy free thought upon the winged winds, That sweep the castles of an older world, And what shall bar it from their ivied heights ? - Tis well to talk with Ocean. Man may cast His pearl of language on unstable hearts, And, thriftless sower ! reap the winds again. But thou, all-conquering element, dost grave Strong characters upon the eternal rock, Furrowing the brow that holdeth speech with thee. Musing beneath yon awful cliffs, the soul, That brief shell-gatherer on the shores of time, Feels as a brother to the drop that hangs One moment trembling on thy crest, and sinks Into the bosom of the boundless wave. 15 b EVENING BY THE SEA-SHORE. - And see, outspreading her broad, silver scroll. Forth comes the moon, that meek ambassador, Bearing Heaven s message to the mighty surge. Yet he, who listeneth to its hoarse reply, Echoing in anger through the channel d depths, Will deem its language all too arrogant, And earth s best dialect too poor to claim Benignant notice from the star-pav d skies, And man too pitiful to lift himself In the frail armour of his moth-crush d pride, Amid o ershadowing nature s majesty. AFRAID TO DIE. 4i And deliver them who, through fear of death, were all their lifetime subject to bondage." Hebrews, ii., xv. AFRAID to die ! afraid to sleep In earth, our mother s tranquil breast, Where snares and troubles vex no more, And all the weary are at rest ? Afraid to die ! afraid to take His hand who trod the shadowy vale, And leads us on to pastures green, And living streams that never fail ? Afraid to die ! afraid to bear The pang that but a moment tries, And, o er the sway of pain and care, Ascend to mansions in the skies P Afraid to die ! afraid to leave The cradle, and the worthless toy, 230 AFRAID TO DIE. And take our ripen d being s crown, And soar to consummated joy ? Afraid to die ! afraid to trust His promise who shall burst the tomb, And raise the renovated dust More glorious from its transient gloom ? Afraid to die ! afraid to meet The guardian bands who watchful wait, And spread their radiant pinions wide To bear us through salvation s gate ? Afraid to die ! prefer to be A stranger in these courts below, A pilgrim, when the lights of home Bright through our Father s windows glow ? Afraid to die ! ah ! what avails, Whether by sickness, storm, or fire ; The ethereal essence finds its place, And rises to the Eternal Sire ? Afraid to die ? grant us grace, Thou who didst dare the spoiler s strife. Calmly to meet his cold embrace, And soar to everlasting life. DEPARTURE OF MISSIONARIES FOR CEYLON. WAVE, wide Ceylon, your foliage fair, Your spicy fragrance freely strew, See, ocean s threatening surge we dare, To bear salvation s gift to you. And, ye who long with faithful hand Have fondly till d that favour d soil, We come, we come, a hrother-band To share the burden of your toil. Land of our birth ! we may not stay The ardour of our hearts to tell, Friends of our youth ! we dare not say How deep within our souls ye dwell. But when the dead, both small and great, Shall stand before the Judge s seat, When sea, and sky, and earthly state, All like a baseless vision fleet, The hope that then some heathen eye Thro us, an angel s glance may raise, Bids us to vanquish nature s tie, And turn her parting tear to praise. CRT OF THE CORANNAS. "Missionaries are going far beyond us, but they come not to us. We have been promised a missionary, but can get none. God has given us plenty of corn, but we are perishing for want of instruction. Our people are dying every day. We have heard there is another life after death, but we know nothing of it." WE see our infants fade. The mother clasps - The enfeebled form, and watches night and day Its speechless agony, with tears and cries, But there s a hand more strong than her despair, That rends it from her bosom. Our young men Are bold and full of strength, but something comes, We know not what, and so they droop and die. Those whom we lovM so much, our gentler friends, Who bless our homes, we gaze, and they are gone. Our mighty chiefs, who in the battle s rage Tower d up like Gods, so fearless, and return d So loftily, behold ! they pine away Like a pale girl, and so, we lay them down With the forgotten throng who dwell in dust. They call it death, and we have faintly heard By a far echo o er the distant sea CRY OF THE CORANNAS. 233 There was a life beyond it. Is it so ? If there be aught above this mouldering mound Where we do leave our friends, if there be hope, So passing strange, that they should rise again And we should see them, we who mourn them now, We pray you speak such glorious tidings forth In our benighted clime. Ye heaven-spread sails Pass us not by ! Men of the living God ! Upon our mountain-heights we stand and shout To you in our distress. Fain would we hear Your wondrous message fully, that our hearts May hail its certainty before we go Ourselves to those dark caverns of the dead Where everlasting silence seems to reign. GIFT OF A BIBLE. BEHOLD the book, o er which, from ancient time, Sad penitence hath poured the prayerful breath, And meek devotion bowed with joy sublime, And nature armed her for the strife of death, And trembling hope renewed her wreath divine, And faith an anchor gained : that holy book is thine. Behold the book, whose sacred truths to spread Christ s heralds toil beneath a foreign sky, Pouring its blessings o er the heathen s head, A martyr-courage kindling in their eye. Wide o er the globe its glorious light must shine, As glows the arch of heaven : that holy book is thine. Here search with humble heart, and ardent eye, Where plants of peace in bloom celestial grow ; Here breathe to mercy s ear the contrite sigh, And bid the soul s unsullied fragrance flow To Him who shuts the rose at even-tide, And opes its dewy eye when earliest sunbeams glide. GIFT OF A BIBLE. 235 May Heaven s pure Spirit touch thy soften d heart, And guide thy feet through life s eventful lot ; That when from this illusive scene I part, And in the grave lie mouldering and forgot, This, my first gift, like golden link, may join Thee to that angel-band around the Throne Divine. ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND. SHE passeth hence, a friend from loving friends, A mother from her children. Time hath shed No frost upon her, and the tree of life Glows in the freshness of its summer prime. Yet still she passeth hence : her work on earth Soon done, and well. Hers was the unwavering mind, The untiring hand in duty. Firm of soul And pure in purpose, on the Eternal Rock Of Christian trust, her energies reposed, And sought no tribute from a shadowy world. Her early hope and homage clave to God, When the bright skies, the untroubled founts of youth, With all their song-birds, all their flowers, rose up To tempt her spirit. So, in hours of pain, He did remember her, and on her brow And in her breast, the dove-like messenger Found peaceful home. O thou, whom grieving love Would blindly pinion in this vale of tears, ON THE DEATH OF A YRIEND. 237 Farewell ! It is a glorious flight for faith To trace thy upward path, above this clime Of change and storm. We will remember thee At thy turf-bed, and, mid the twilight hour Of solemn music, when the buried friend Comes back so visibly, and seems to fill The vacant chair, our speech shall be of thee. THE OLD MAN. WHY gaze ye on my hoary hairs, Ye children, young and gay ? Your locks, beneath the blast of cares, Will bleach as white as they. 1 had a mother once, like you, Who o er my pillow hung ; Kiss d from my cheek the briny dew, And taught my faltering tongue. She, when the nightly couch was spread, Would bow my infant knee, And lay her soft hand on my head, And, bending, pray for me. But then there came a fearful day, I sought my mother s bed ; Harsh voices warn d me thence away, And told me she was dead. THE OLD MAN. 239 I pluck d a fair white rose, and stole To lay it by her side, And found strange sleep enchain d her soul, For no fond voice replied. That eve I knelt me down in woe, And said a lonely prayer ; Yet still niy temples seem d to glow, As if that hand was there. Years fled, and left me childhood s joy, Gay sports, and pastimes dear ; I rose a wild and wayward boy, Who scorn d the curb of fear. Fierce passions shook me like a reed ; But ere, at night, I slept, That soft hand made my bosom bleed, And down I fell, and wept. Youth came, the props of virtue reel d, Yet still, at day s decline, A marble touch my brow congeal d, Blest mother, was it thine ? In foreign lands I travell d wide, My full pulse bounding high ; 240 THE OLD MAN. Vice spread her meshes at my side, And pleasure lur d my eye ; Yet still that hand, so soft and cold, Maintain d a mystic sway, As when amid my curls of gold With gentle force it lay ; And with it sigh d a voice of care, As from the lowly sod, " My son, my only one, beware ! Sin not against thy God." Ye think, perchance, that age hath stole My kindly warmth away, And dimm d the tablet of the soul ; Yet when, with lordly sway, This brow the plumed helm display d, That awes the warrior throng ; Or beauty s thrilling fingers stray d These manly locks among. That hallow d touch was ne er forgot ; And now, though Time hath set That seal of frost which melteth not, My temples feel it yet. THE OLD MAN. 241 And, if I e er in heaven appear, A mother s holy prayer, A mother s hand, and tender tear, Still pointing to a Saviour dear, Have led the wanderer there. 16 DEATH OF A DISTINGUISHED MAN, DEATH S shafts are ever busy. The fair haunts Where least we dread him, and where most the soul Doth lull itself to fond security, Reveal his ministry ; and, were not man Blind to the future, he might see the sky, Even in the glory of its cloudless prime, Dark with that arrow-flight. They deemed it so Who marked thee like a stately column fall, And in the twinkling of an eye yield back Thy breath to Him who gave it. Yes, they felt, Who saw thy vigorous footstep strangely chained Upon the turf it traversed, and the cheek, Flushed high with health, to mortal paleness turn d, How awful such a rush from time must be. Thy brow was calm, yet deep within thy breast Were ranklings of a recent grief for her, The idol of thy tenderness, with whom Life had been one long scene of changeless love. Yea, them didst watch the winged messenger In sleepless agony that bore her hence, DEATH OF A DISTINGUISHED MAN. 24 And, when that bright eye darken d from whose beams Thine own had drank from youth its dearest joy, Upraised thine hands and gave her back to God. The bleeding of thy heart-strings was not stanched,, Nor scarce the tear-gush dried, ere death s dire frost Congeal d thy fount of life. Thy toil had been, In that brief interval, to bear fresh plants From the sweet garden which she loved to tend, And bid them on her burial-pillow bloom. But, ere the young rose, or the willow-tree, Had taken their simplest rooting, thou wert laid Low by her side. It was a pleasant place Methought to rest, earth s weary labour done, Fanned by the waving of those drooping boughs, And in her company whom thou didst choose, From all the world, to travel by thy side, Confidingly, by deep affection cheer d, And in thy faith a sharer. From the haunts Of living men, thine image may not fleet Noteless away. They will remember thee, By many a word of witness for the truth, And many a deed of bounty. In the sphere Of those subliiner charities that gird The mind the soul thine was the ready hand : And for the hasting of that day of peace Which sheathes the sword, thine was the earnest prayer 16 b 244 DEATH OF A DISTINGUISHED MAN. In thine own house and in the church of God There will be weeping for thee. Thou no more Around thine altar shalt delight to see Thy children, and thy children s children, come To take thy patriarch blessing, and no more Bring duly to yon consecrated courts Thy sabbath offering. Thou hast gained the rest Which earthly sabbaths dimly shadow forth, And to that ransomed family art risen Which have no need of prayer. But thou, O man ! Whose hold on life is like the spider s web, Who hast thy footing mid so many snares, So many pitfalls, yet perceivest them not, Seek peace with Him who made thee, bind the shield Of faith in Christ more firmly o er thy breast, That, when its pulse stands still, thy soul may pass, Unshrinking, unreluctant, unamazed, Into the fulness of the light of Heaven. NOT DEAD, BUT SLEEPETH. : Not dead? A marble seal is prest, Where her bright glance did part, A weight is on the pulseless breast, And ice around the heart ; No more she wakes with greeting smile, Gay voice, and buoyant tread, But yet ye calmly say the while, She sleeps, she is not dead. " Mourn st than for clay alone ? " Behold A voice from heaven replied, " Then be thine anguish uncontroll d, Thy tears a heathen tide ; Thine idol was that vestment fair Which wraps the spirit free, Earth, air, and water, claim their share, Say ! which shall comfort thee ? But the strong mind whose heaven-born thought No earthly chain could bind, 246 " NOT DEAD, BUT SLEEPETH." The holy heart divinely fraught With love to all mankind, The humble soul whose early trust Was with its God on high, These were thy sister, who in dust May sleep, but cannot die" PRAISE. PUT forth your leafy lutes, ye wind swept trees ! For well the sighing summer gales do love To play upon them. Often have I heard, When in fresh sweetness came the gentle shower, That pensive music at the fall of eve, And bless d it in my loneliness of soul. Call forth, thou peopled grass, the weak- voiced tribes That dwell beneath thy lowly canopy, To wake their chirping chorus, while thy sigh, Waving in the soft breeze, the cadence fills. Utter your oral melody, ye streams, As, swift of foot, your mazy course you run, To the cool pillow of some mightier tide. And thou, old ocean ! robed in solemn state, Yield thy deep organ to the tempest s will, And, with the surges and the sweeping blasts, Pour such bold voluntary that the stars, Stooping to listen to thy thunder-hymn, Shall tremble in their spheres. Heart ! strike thy harp, Join the full anthem of creation s praise, Ere thou shall pour thy life-breath on the winds, And sleep the sleep of silence and the grave. FOLLY. The fool hath said in his heart, there is no God " Psalm xii " No God f no God ! " The simplest flower That on the wild is found Shrinks as it drinks its cup of dew, And trembles at the sound. " No God ! " Astonished echo cries From out her cavern hoar, And every wandering bird that flies Reproves the atheist-lore. The solemn forest lifts its head, The Almighty to proclaim, The brooklet, on its crystal urn, Doth leap to grave his name, High swells the deep and vengeful sea, Along his billowy track, And red Vesuvius opes his mouth, To hurl the falsehood back. FOLLY. 249 The palm-tree, with its princely crest, The cocoa s leafy shade, The bread-fruit, bending to its lord, In yon far island-glade ; The winged seeds that, borne by winds, The roving sparrows feed, The melon on the desert- sands, Confute the scorner s creed. " No God ! " With indignation high The fervent sun is stirr d, And the pale moon turns paler still At such an impious word ; And, from their burning thrones, the stars Look down with angry eye, That thus a worm of dust should mock Eternal Majesty. THE AGED CLERGYMAN. You will not see him more. You whose young thoughts Blent with his image, who to manhood grew Beneath the shelter of his saintly shade, Bringing your tender infants to his hand For the baptismal water, who liv d on Amid his teachings, till the silver hairs Came all unlook d for, stealing o er your brow, You will not see him more. There was a place Where, duly as the day of God returned, His solemn voice held converse with the skies For you and yours, till more than fourscore years Swept in deep billows o er him. You will hear That voice no more. There stands his ancient house, Where, with the partner of his heart, he shar d Affection s joys so long, and fondly mark d His children and his children s children rise Clustering around his board. Remember ye His cordial welcome ? how he freely dealt THE AGED CLERGYMAN. 251 A patriarch s wisdom, in monitions kind To all who sought him ? how, with hallow d grace Of bounteous hospitality, he gave Example of those virtues, pure and sweet, Which, round the hearth-stone rooting, have their fruit Where men are judg d ? He linger d with you late, Till all the lov d companions of his youth Had gone to rest. Yet so he lov d your souls, That, for their sakes, he willingly sustain d Life s toil and cumbrance, and stood forth alone, An aged oak, amid the fallen grove. His Master call d. It was the sabbath morn : And he had girded up his loins to speak A message in the temple. Time had strown The almond -blossom, and his head was white As snows of winter, yet within his heart Glow d the same temperate and unwavering zeal That nerv d his youth. But, lo ! the Master call d. So, laying down the Bible that he lov d, That single weapon he so meek had borne Thro all life s tribulation, he gave back The spirit to its Giver, and went home, Yes, full of honours as of days, went home. PARTING HYMN OF MISSIONARIES TO BURMAH. NATIVE land ! in summer smiling, Hill and valley, grove and stream, Home ! whose nameless charms, beguiling, Peaceful lull d our infant dream, Haunts ! through which our childhood hasted, Where the earliest wild-flowers grew, Church ! where God s free grace we tasted, Gems of memory s wealth, adieu ! Mother ! who hast watched our pillow In thy tender, sleepless love, Lo, we dare the crested billow, Mother ! put thy trust above ! Father ! from thy guidance turning, O er the deep our way we take, Keep the prayerful incense burning On thine altar, for our sake. PARTING HYMN OF MISSIONARIES. 253 Brothers ! sisters ! more than ever Seem our clinging heart-strings twin d, As that hallow d bond we sever Which the hand of nature join d : But the cry of pagan anguish Thro our inmost hearts doth sound, Countless souls in misery languish, We would haste to heal their wound. Burmah ! we would sooth thy weeping, Take us to thy sultry hreast, Where the sainted few are sleeping, Let us share a kindred rest : Friends ! our span of life is fleeting, Hark ! the harps of angels swell, Think of that eternal meeting Where no voice shall say farewell. WHITHER SHALL I FLEE FROM THY PRESENCE. 55 DAVID. TAKE morning s wing, and fly from zone to zone, To Earth s remotest pole, and, ere old Time Can shift one figure on his dial-plate, Haste to the frigid Thule of mankind, Where the scant life-drop freezes. Or go down To Ocean s secret caverns, mid the throng Of monsters without number, which no foot Of man hath visited, and yet returned To walk among the living. Or the shroud Of midnight wrap around thee, dense and deep, Bidding thy spirit slumber. Hop st thou thus To scape the Almighty, to whose piercing eye Morn s robe and midnight s vestment are the same ? Spirit of truth ! why should w^e seek to hide Motive or deed from thee ? why strive to walk In a vain show before our fellow-men ? Since at the same dread audit each must stand, "WHITHER SHALL i FLEE FROM THY PRESENCE." 255 And with a sun-ray read his brother s breast While his own thoughts are weighed ? Search thou my soul ! And, if aught evil lurk securely there Like Achan s stolen hoard, command it thence, And hold me up in singleness of heart, And simple, child-like confidence in Thee, Till time shall close his labyrinth, and ope Eternity s broad srate. DEATH OF A BEAUTIFUL BOY. I SAW thee at thy mother s side, when she was marble cold, And thou wert like some cherub form, cast in ethereal mould ; But, when the sudden pang of grief oppressed thine infant thought, And mid thy clear and radiant eye a liquid crystal wrought, I thought how strong that faith must be that breaks a mother s tie, And bids her leave her darling s tears for other hands to dry. I saw thee in thine hour of sport, beside thy father s bower, Amid his broad and bright parterre, thyself the fairest flower, I heard thy tuneful voice ring out upon the summer air, As though some bird of Eden poured its joyous carol there, And lingered with delighted gaze on happy childhood s charms, Which once the blest Redeemer loved, and folded in his arms. DEATH OF A BEAUTIFUL BOY. 257 I saw thee scan the classic page, with high and glad surprise, And saw the sun of science beam, as on an eaglet s eyes, And marked thy strong and brilliant mind arouse to bold pursuit, And from the tree of knowledge pluck its richest, rarest fruit ; Yet still from such precocious power I shrank with secret fear, A shuddering presage that thy race must soon be ended here. I saw thee in the house of God, and loved the reverent air With which thy beauteous head was bowed low in thy guileless prayer, Yet little deemed how soon thy place would be with that blest band Who ever near the Eternal Throne, in sinless worship, stand ; Ah, little deemed how soon the tomb must lock thy glo rious charms, And wing thine ardent soul to find a sainted mother s arms. 17 EVENING THOUGHTS. COME to thy lonely bower, thou who dost love The hour of musing. Come, before the brow Of twilight darkens, or the solemn stars Look from their casement. Mid that hush of soul. Music from viewless harps shall visit thee, Such as thou never heard st amid the din Of earth s coarse enginery, by toil and care Urged on, without reprieve. Ah ! kneel and catch That tuneful cadence. It shall wing thy thought Above the j airings of this time-worn world, And give the key-tone of that victor-song Which plucks the sting from death. How closely wrapt In quiet slumber are all things around ! The vine-leaf and the -willow-fringe stir not, Nor doth the chirping of the feeblest bird, Nor even the cold glance of the vestal moon, Disturb thy reverie. Yet dost thou think To be alone ? In fellowship more close EVENING THOUGHTS. 259 Than man with man, pure spirits hover near, Prompting to high communion with the Source Of every perfect gift. Lift up the soul, For tis a holy pleasure thus to find Its melody of musing so allied To pure devotion. Give thy prayer a voice, Claiming Heaven s blessing on these sacred hours, Which, in the world s warped balance weighed, might yield But sharp derision. Sure they help to weave Such robes as angels wear ; and thou shalt taste In their dear, deep, entrancing solitude Such sweet society, that thou shalt leave " Signet and staff," as pledges of return. AFRICAN MOTHER AT HER DAUGHTER S GRAVE. Some of the pagan Africans visit the burial-places of their departed relatives, bearing food and drink ; and mothers have been known, for a long course of years, to bring, in an agony of grief, their annual oblation to the tombs of their children. " DAUGHTER ! I bring thee food ; The rice-cake, pure and white, The cocoa, with its milky blood, Dates, and pomegranates bright, The orange, in its gold, Fresh from thy favourite tree, Nuts, in their ripe and husky fold, Dearest ! I spread for thee. " Year after year, I tread Thus to thy low retreat, But now the snow-hairs mark my head, And age enchains my feet. O ! many a change of woe Hath dimmed thy spot of birth, AFRICAN MOTHER AT HER DAUGHTER S GRAVE. 261 Since first my gushing tears did flow O er this thy hed of earth. " There came a midnight cry ; Flames from our hamlet rose ; A race of pale-browed men were nigh, They were our country s foes: Thy wounded sire was home By tyrant force away, Thy brothers from our cabin torn, While in my hlood I lay. " I watched for their return, Upon the rocky shore, Till night s red planets ceased to bum, And the long rains were o er. Till seeds, their hands had sown, A ripened fruitage bore, The billows echoed to my moan, Yet they returned no more. " But thou art slumbering deep, And to my wildest cry, When, pierced with agony, I weep, Dost render no reply. Daughter! my youthful pride, The idol of my eye ; Why didst thou leave thy mother s side, Beneath these sands to lie ? " 262 AFRICAN MOTHER AT HER DAUGHTERS GRAVE. Long o er the hopeless grave Where her lost darling slept, Invoking gods that could not save, That pagan mourner wept. O ! for some voice of power, To sooth her bursting sighs : " There is a resurrection hour ; Thy daughter s dust shall rise ! " Christians ! ye hear the cry From heathen Afric s strand, Haste ! lift salvation s banner high O er that benighted land : With faith that claims the skies, Her misery control, And plant the hope that never dies Deep in her tear- wet soul. DEATH-BED OF THE REY. DR. PAYSON. " The eye spoke after the tongue became motionless. Looking on his wife, and glancing over the others who surrounded his bed, it rested on his eldest son, with an expression which was interpreted by all present to say, as plainly as if he had uttered the words of the beloved disciple, Behold thy mother ! " Memoir of the REV. EDWARD PAYSOX. WHAT said the eye ? The marble lip spake not, Save in that quivering sob with which stern death Crusheth life s harp-strings. Lo ! again it pours A tide of more than uttered eloquence " Son ! look upon thy mother," and retires Beneath the curtain of the drooping lids To hide itself for ever. Tis the last, Last glance ! and, ah ! how tenderly it fell Upon that loved companion, and the groups Who wept around. Full well the dying knew The value of those holy charities Which purge the dross of selfishness away ; And deep he felt that woman s trusting heart, Rent from the cherished prop which, next to Christ, Had been her stay in all adversities, Would take the balm-cup best from that dear hand 264 DEATH-BED OF THE REV. DR. PAYSON. Which woke the sources of maternal love ; That smile whose winning paid for sleepless nights Of cradle-care that voice whose murmured tones Her own had moulded to the words of prayer. How soothing to a widowed mother s breast, Her first-born s sympathy. Be strong, young man ! Lift the protector s arm, the healer s prayer Be tender in thine every word and deed. A spirit watcheth thee ! Yes, he who pass d From shaded earth up to the full-orbed day, Will be thy witness in the court of Heaven, How thou dost bear his mantle. So, farewell, Leader in Israel ! Thou, whose radiant path Was like the angel s standing* in the sun, Undazzled and unswerving. It was meet That thou should st rise to light without a cloud. * Revelations, xix., 17. MISSION HYMN. ONWARD ! onward ! men of heaven, Rear the Gospel s banner high ; Rest not, till its light is given, Star of every pagan sky. Bear it where the pilgrim-stranger Faints neath Asia s vertic ray ; Bid the red-brewed forest-ranger Hail it, ere he fades away. Where the arctic ocean thunders, Where the tropics fiercely glow, Broadly spread its page of wonders, Brightly bid its radiance flow. India marks its lustre, stealing, Shivering Greenland loves its rays, Afric, mid her deserts kneeling, Lifts the untaught strain of praise. Rude in speech, or grim in feature, Dark in spirit though they be, 266 MISSION HYMN. Show that light to every creature, Prince or vassal, bond or free. Lo ! they haste to every nation ; Host on host the ranks supply ; Onward ! Christ is your salvation, And your death is victory ! "BLESSED ARE THE DEAD." COME, gather to this burial-place, ye gay ! Ye, of the sparkling eye, and frolic brow, I bid ye hither. She, who makes her bed This day neath yon damp turf, with spring-flowers sown, Was one of you. Time had not laid his hand On tress or feature, stamping the drear lines Of chill decay, till death had nought to do, Save that slight office which the passing gale Doth to the wasted taper. No, her cheek Shamed the young rose-bud ; in her eye was light By gladness kindled ; in her footsteps grace ; Song on her lips ; affections in her breast, Like soft doves nesting. Yet, from all she turned, All she forsook, unclasping her warm hand From friendship s ardent pressure, with such smile As if she were the gainer. To lie down In this dark pit she cometh, dust to dust, Ashes to ashes, till the glorious mom Of resurrection. Wondering do you ask, 268 " BLESSED ARE THE DEAD." Where is her blessedness ? Go home, ye gay, Go to your secret chambers, and kneel down, And ask of God. Urge your request like him Who, on the slight raft, mid the ocean s foam, Toileth for life. And when ye win a hope That the world gives not, and a faith divine, Ye will no longer marvel how the friend, So beautiful, so lov d, so lured by all The pageantry of earth could meekly find A blessedness in death. TO MOURNING PARENTS. TENDER guides, in sorrow weeping, O er your first-born s smitten bloom, Or fond memory s vigil keeping Where the fresh turf marks her tomb, Ye no more shall see her bearing Pangs that woke the dove-like moan, Still for your affliction caring, Though forgetful of her own. Ere the bitter cup she tasted, : Which the hand of care doth bring, Ere the glittering pearls were wasted, From glad childhood s fairy string, Ere one chain of hope had rusted, Ere one wreath of joy was dead, To the Saviour, whom she trusted, Strong in faith, her spirit fled. Gone where no dark sin is cherished, Where nor woes nor fears invade, Gone ere youth s first flower had perished, To a youth that n er can fade. SAILOR S FUNERAL. THE ship s bell tolled, and slowly o er the deck Came forth the summoned crew. Bold, hardy men., Far from their native skies, stood silent there, With melancholy brows. From a low cloud That o er the horizon hovered, came the threa Of distant, muttered thunder. Broken waves Heaved up their sharp white helmets o er the expanse Of ocean, which in brooding stillness lay, Like some vindictive king who meditates On hoarded wrongs, or wakes the wrathful war. The ship s bell tolled ! And, lo, a youthful form Which oft had boldly dred the slippery shrouds At midnight watch, was as a burden laid Down at his comrades feet. Mournful they gazed Upon his hollow cheek ; and some there were Who in that bitter hour remembered well The parting blessing of his hoary sire, And the fond tears that o er his mother s cheek SAILOR S FUNERAL. 27 \ Went coursing down, when his gay, happy voice Left its farewell. But one who nearest stood To that pale shrouded corse remembered more ; Of a white cottage with its shaven lawn, And blossomed hedge, and of a fair-haired girl Who, at a lattice veiled with woodbine, watched His last far step, and then turned back to weep. And close that comrade in his faithful breast Hid a bright chesriut lock, which the dead youth Had severed with a cold and trembling hand In life s extremity, and bade him bear With broken words of love s last eloquence To his blest Mary. Now that chosen friend, Bowed low his sun-burnt face, and like a child Sobbed in deep sorrow. But there came a tone, Clear as the breaking moon o er stormy seas " I am the resurrection." Every heart Suppressed its grief, and every eye was raised. There stood the chaplain, his uncovered brow Unmarked by earthly passion, while his voice, Rich as the balm from plants of paradise, Poured the Eternal s message o er the souls Of dying men. It was a holy hour ! There was a plunge ! The riven sea complained, Death from her briny bosom took his own. 272 SAILOR S FUNERAL. The troubled fountains of the deep lift up Their subterranean portals, and he went Down to the floor of ocean, mid the beds Of brave and beautiful ones. Yet to my soul, Mid all the funeral pomp with which this earth Indulgeth her dead sons, was nought so sad, Sublime, or sorrowful, as the mute sea Opening her mouth to whelm that sailor youth. THE DYING MOTHER S PRAYER. I HEARD the voice of prayer a mother s prayer A dying mother for her only son. Young was his brow, and fair. Her hand was on his head, Her words of love were said, Her work was done. And there were other voices near her bed Sweet, bird-like voices for their mother dear Asking, with mournful tear. Ah, by whose hand shall those sad tears be dried, When one brief hour is fled, And hers shall pulseless rest, low with the silent dead ? Yes, there was death s dark valley, drear and cold 1 And the hoarse dash of an o erwhelming wave Alone she treads : is there no earthly hold, No friend no helper no strong arm to save ? Down to the fearful grave, 18 274 THE DYING MOTHER S PRATER. In the firm courage of a faith serene, Alone she press d And as she drew the chord That bound her to her Lord More closely round her breast, The white wing of the waiting angel spread More palpably, and earth s bright things grew pale. Even fond affection s wail Seemed like the far-off sigh of spring s forgotten gale, And so the mother s prayer, So often breathed above, In agonizing love, Rose high in praise of God s protecting care. Meek on his arm her infant charge she laid, And, with a trusting eye, Of Christian constancy, Confiding in her blest Redeemer s aid, She taught the weeping band, Who round her couch of pain did stand, How a weak woman s hand, Fettered with sorrow and with sin, Might from the king of terrors win The victory. DEATH OF A MISSIONARY IN AFRICA, THERE is a sigh from Niger s sable realm, A voice of Afric s weeping. One hath fallen, Who, with the fervour of unresting love, Allur d her children to a Saviour s arms. Alone he fell, that heart so richly filled With all affection s brightest imagery, In its drear stranger-solitude endured The long death-struggle, and sank down to rest. Say ye, alone he fell ? It was not so, There was a hovering of celestial wings Around his lowly couch, a solemn sound Of stricken harps, such as around God s throne Make music night and day. He might not tell Of that high music, for his lip was sealed, And his eye closed. And so, ye say, he died ? But all the glorious company of heaven Do say, he lives, and that your brief farewell, Uttered in tears, was but the prelude-tone Of the full welcome of eternity. 18 b DIRGE. Mourn for the living, and not for the dead." HEBREW DIRGE. I SAW an infant, marble cold, Borne from the pillowing breast, And, in the shroud s embracing fold, Laid down to dreamless rest ; And, moved with bitterness, I sighed, Not for the babe that slept, But for the mother at its side, Whose soul in anguish wept. They bore a coffin to its place, I asked them, " Who was there ? " And they replied, " A form of grace ; The fairest of the fair." But for that blest one do ye moan, Whose angel-wing is spread ? No ; for the lover, pale and lone, His heart is with the dead. DIRGE. 277 I wandered to a new-made grave, And there a matron lay, The love of Him who died to save, Had been her spirit s stay. Yet sobs burst forth of torturing pain ; Wail ye for her who died ? No ; for that timid, infant train, Who roam without a guide. Why should we mourn for those who die, Who rise to glory s sphere ? The tenants of that cloudless sky Need not our mortal tear. Our woe seems arrogant and vain ; Perchance it moves their scorn, As if the slave, beneath his chain, Deplored the princely born. We live to meet a thousand foes ; We shrink with bleeding breast, Why should we weakly mourn for those Who dwell in perfect rest ? Bound, for a few sad, fleeting years, A thorn-clad path to tread, ! for the living spare those tears Ye lavish on the dead. BOY S LAST BEQUEST. HALF-RAISED upon his dying couch, his head Drooped o er his mother s bosom, like a bud Which, broken from its parent stalk, adheres By some attenuate fibre. His thin hand From neath the downy pillow drew a book, And slowly pressed it to his bloodless lip. " Mother, dear mother, see your birth-day gift, Fresh and unsoiled. Yet have I kept your word, And ere I slept each night, and every morn, Did read its pages, with my humble prayer, Until this sickness came." He paused for breath Came scantily, and with a toilsome strife. " Brother or sister have I none, or else I d lay this Bible on their hearts, and say, Come, read it on my grave, among the flowers : So you who gave it must take it back again, And love it for my sake." " My son! my son, " Murmured the mourner, in that tender tone BOY S LAST BEQUEST. 279 Which woman in her sternest agony Commands, to sooth the pang of those she loves "The soul! the soul! to whose charge yield you that ? " " Mother ! to God who gave it." So that soul With a slight shudder, and a lingering smile, Left the pale clay for its Creator s arms. THE PILGRIM. " I am not far from home, therefore I need not make much provision for the way." I HEAR the rising tempest moan, My failing limbs have weary grown, The flowers are shut, the streams are dried, The arid sands spread drear and wide, The night dews fall, the winds are high, How far from home, O Lord, am I ? I would not come with hoards of gold, With glittering gems, or cumhrous mould, Nor dim my eyes with gather d dust Of empty fame, or earthly trust, But hourly ask, as lone I roam How far from home ? how far from home ? Not far ! not far ! the way is dark, Fair hope hath quench d her glow-worm spark, The trees are dead, beneath whose shade My youth reclin d, my childhood play d, THE PILGRIM. 281 Red lightning streaks the troubled sky, How far from home, my God, am I ? Oh, find me in that home a place Beneath the footstool of thy grace; Tho sometimes mid the husks I fed, And turn d me from the children s bread ; Still bid thine an gel -harps resound, The dead doth live, the lost is found. Reach forth thy hand, with pitying care, And guide me through the latest snare ; Methinks, even now, in bursting beams The radiance from thy casement streams, No more I shed the pilgrim s tear ; I hear thy voice, my home is near. TO THE MEMORY OF MISS HANNAH ADAMS. She was the author of a " View of Religious Opinions," " History of the Jews," and other works. She died, respected and beloved, at the age of seventy-six ; and was the first who was buried in the Mount Auburn Cemetery, near Boston. GENTLE and true of heart ! I see thee still, Abstractly bending o er the storied tome, While the deep lines of meditation steal, Unfrowning, o er thy brow. I see thee still, Thine eye uprais d at friendship s sacred smile, Pouring the heart s warm treasures freely forth, In guileless confidence. Methinks I hear That eloquence which sometimes bore thy soul High o er its prison-house of timid thought, And round the ancient people of thy God, And on the hill of Zion, joyed to bind Its choicest wreath. Thy stainless life was laid A gift on virtue s altar, and thy mind, Commingling wisdom with humility, Passed on its sheltered pilgrimage in peace, Lonely but not forgot. When thou didst mourn One generation of thy friends laid low, TO THE MEMORY OF MISS HANNAH ADAMS. 283 Another caine. Most fair and youthful forms, Such as man worshippeth, in the fond hour Of love s idolatry, did turn aside To seat them at thy feet, and strew thy home With offerings of fresh flowers. Twas sweet to see Beauty, and grace, and wealth, such tribute pay At wisdom s lowly shrine. Yes, they who moved On the high places of the earth came down To do thee honour, and to comfort thee With an untiring ardour. Say no more That humble merit, fashionless and poor, Hath none to lift it from its upas-shade, And guard its welfare with unswerving zeal Through the long vale of helplessness and age. It is not so. Thy grateful shade responds, It is not so. Farewell. Thy rest shall be In such companionship as thou hast loved Even from thy being s dawn ; pure-breathing plants, Soft melodies of waters and of trees, The brightest, holiest charms of earth and sky : Nor yet unchronicled, or unbeloved, Of faithful memory, shall be thy sleep, Meek worshipper of nature and of God. THE DEPARTED FRIEND. O FRIEND ! the light is dead In thy fair mansion, where in bright array Love mov d with buoyant tread, And childhood s merry laughter, day by day, Made the heart glad, and music lent its zest, And hospitable smiles allur d the welcome guest. And in the holy place A brow of beautiful and earnest thought, A form of manly grace, Are missing, and we gaze with sorrow fraught Upon that vacant seat where beam d for years That spirit-speaking eye, the pastor s toil that cheers. And from the couch of pain, The cell of want, a voice hath pass d away, Which sooth d the suffering train ; And warn d the smitten sinful man to pray ; Which, till the verge of life, with accents clear, Told how a Christian s faith the hour of death can cheer. THE DEPARTED FRIEND. 285 O Friend! how great thy gain, Thus borne in manhood s vigour to the skies, Ere age, or wasting pain, Had chill d the full fount of thy sympathies, Those sympathies that still with ardent glow Joy d at another s joy, ormourn d for other s woe. Hast thou embrac d them there, Thy kindred, tenants of yon world of bliss ? O, say, do angels share The sympathies so sweetly sown in this ? The nurtured neath one roof, one native sky, Meet they with changeless love where every tear is dry ? Ah ! hast thou seen his face Whom thy young hand with tender zeal did lead To seek a Saviour s grace ? That brother, who, God s flock ordain d to feed, Touch d with pure lip, the altar s living fire, And earlier found his place with Heaven s immortal choir. Say, at the pearly gate Hail d she thy coming, with a fond acclaim, She who, with hope elate, Taught thy young lisping tongue the Almighty s name And he, whose life clos d like a hymn of praise, Thy patriarchal sire, serene, and full of days ? 286 THE DEPARTED FRIEND. Be silent, ask no more, Bow in deep reverence to the sacred dead, No mortal thought may soar To their high ecstacy, unnam d, and dread; Wait till the temple s veil is rent for thee, And let God s will be thine, heir of eternity. CONSECRATION OF A CHURCH. " LIFT up your heads, ye hallowed gates, and give The King of Glory room." And then a strain Of solemn, trembling melody inquired, " Who is the King of Glory." But a sound Brake from the echoing temple, like the rush Of many waters, blent with organ s breath, And the soul s harp, and the uplifted voice Of prelate, and of people, and of priest, Responding joyously " The Lord of Hosts, He is the King of Glory." Enter in To this his new abode, and with glad heart Kneel low before his footstool. Supplicate That favouring presence which doth condescend, From the pavilion of high heaven, to beam On earthly temples, and in contrite souls. Here fade all vain distinctions that the pride Of man can arrogate. This house of prayer Doth teach that all are sinners all have strayed 288 CONSECRATION OF A CHURCH. Like erring sheep. The princely or the poor, The bright or ebon brow, the pomp of power, The boast of intellect, what are they here ? Man sinks to nothing while he deals with God. Yet, let the grateful hymn of those who share A boundless tide of blessings those who tread Their pilgrim path, rejoicing in the hope Of an ascended Saviour through these walls For ever flow. Thou dedicated dome ! May st thou in majesty and beauty stand : Stand, and give praise, until the rock-ribbed earth In her last throes shall tremble. Then dissolve Into thy native dust, with one long sigh Of melody, while the redeemed souls That, neath thine arch, to endless life were born, Go up, on wings of glory, to the " house Not made with hands." THE SACRED MINSTREL. THE King of Israel sat in state, Within his palace fair, Where falling fountains, pure and cool, Assuag d the summer air ; But shrouded was the son of Kish, Mid all his royal grace ; The tempest of a troubled soul Swept flashing o er his face. In vain were pomp, or regal power, Or courtier s flattering tone, For pride and hatred basely sat Upon his bosom s throne. He call d upon his minstrel-boy, With hair as bright as gold, Reclining in a deep recess, Where droop d the curtain s fold. 19 290 THE SACRED MINSTREL. Upon his minstrel-boy he call d, And forth the stripling came, Bright beauty on his ruddy brow, Like morn s enkindling flame. o " Give music," said the moody king, Nor rais d his gloomy eye, " Thou son of Jesse, bring the harp, And wake its melody." He thought upon his father s flock, Which long, in pastures green, He led, while flow d, with silver sound, Clear rivulets between. He thought of Bethlehem s star-lit skies, Beneath whose liquid rays He gaz d upon the glorious arch, And sang its Maker s praise. Then boldly o er the sacred harp He pour d, in thrilling strain, The prompting of a joyous heart, That knew nor care nor pain. The monarch, leaning on his hand, Drank long the wondrous lay ; And clouds were lifted from his brow, As when the sunbeams play. THE SACRED MINSTREL. 291 The purple o er his heaving breast, That throbb d so wild, grew still, And Saul s clear eye glanc d out, as when He did Jehovah s will. O ye who feel the poison-fumes Of earth s fermenting care Steal o er the sky of hope, and dim What Heaven created fair, Ask music from a guileless heart, High tones, with sweetness fraught, And. by that amulet divine, Subdue the sinful thought. 19 b "CHARITY BEARETH ALL THINGS. ST. PAUL. THE lion loves his own. The desert sands, High tossed beneath his burning foot, attest The rage of his bereavement. With hoarse cries, Vindictive echoing round the rocky shores, The polar bear her slaughtered cub bewails ; While, with a softer plaint, where verdant groves Responsive quiver to the evening breeze, The mother-bird deplores her ravaged nest. The savage loves his own. His wind-rocked babe, So rudely cradled mid the fragrant boughs, Or on its toiling mother s shoulders bound ; His forest sports, and fathers graves, are dear. The heathen loves his own. The faithful friend Who by his side the stormy battle dares, The chieftain, at whose nod his life-blood flows, His native earth, and simple hut, are dear. The Christian loves his own. But is his God Content with this, who, full of bounty, pours His sun-ray on the evil and the good, And, like a parent, gathereth round his board "CHARITY BEARETH ALL THINGS." 293 The thankless with the just ? Shall man, who shares This unrequited banquet, sternly bar From his heart s brotherhood a fellow-guest ? Or hide revengeful poison, when the smile Of Heaven doth win him to the deeds of love ? Speak ! servants of that Blessed One who gave The glorious precept, " Love your enemies." Is it enough that ye should love your friends, Even as the heathen do ? God of strength, Be merciful ! and, when we duly kneel Beside our pillow of repose, and say, " Forgive us, Father, even as we forgive," Grant that the murmured orison seal not Our condemnation. THE RUINS OF HEROD S PALACE, THE traveller sat upon a stone, A broken column s pride, And o er his head a fig-tree spread Its grateful umbrage wide, While round him fruitful valleys sinil d, And crystal streams ran by, And the far mountain s forehead, hoar, Rose up, tween earth and sky. But on a ruin d pile he gaz d, Beneath whose mouldering gloom The roving fox a shelter found, And noisome bats a tomb. " Ho, Arab ! " for a ploughman wrought The grassy sward among, With marble fragments richly strew d, And terrac d olives hung. " Say, canst thou tell what ancient dome In darkness here declines, THE RUINS OF HEROD S PALACE. 295 And strangely lifts its spectral form Among the matted vines? " He stay d his simple plough, that trac d Its crooked furrow nigh, And, while his oxen cross d the turf, Look d up with vacant eye. " It was some satrap s palace, sure, In old time, far away, Or, else, of some great Christian prince, I ve heard my father say." <e Arab ! it was king Herod s dome ; Twas there he feasted, free, His captains, and the chief estates, And lords of Galilee; " Twas there the impious dancer s heel Lur d his rash soul astray." But, ere the earnest tale was told, The ploughman turn d away. ruthless king ! thy vaunted pomp And power avail thee not, Who here, beside thy palace-gates, Art by the serf forgot : But he whose blood in prison -cell By thy decree was spilt, 296 THE RUINS OF HEROD S PALACE. Whose head, upon the charger brought, Appeas d revengeful guilt, His name, amid a deathless page, Gleams forth like living gern, Touch d with those glorious rays that gild The Star of Bethlehem. TOMB OF ABSALOM. Is this thy tomb, amid the mournful shades Of the deep valley of Jehoshaphat, Thou son of David ? Kidron s gentle brook Is murmuring near, as if it fain would tell Thy varied history. Methinks I see Thy graceful form, thy smile, thy sparkling eye, The glorious beauty of thy flowing hair, And that bright eloquent lip whose cunning stole The hearts of all the people. Didst thou waste The untold treasures of integrity, The gold of conscience, for their light applause, Thou fair dissembler ? Say, remeinberest thou When o er yon flinty steep of Olivet A sorrowing train went up ? Dark frowning seers, Denouncing judgment on a rebel prince, Pass d sadly on ; and next a crownless king, Walking in sad and humbled majesty, While hoary statesmen bent upon his brow 298 THE TOMB OF ABSALOM. Indignant looks of tearful sympathy. What caused the weeping there ? Thou heard st it not ; For thou within the city s walls didst hold Thy revel, brief and base. And could st thou set The embattled host against thy father s life, The king of Israel, and the lov d of God ? He, mid the evils of his changeful lot, Saul s inoody hatred, stern Philistia s spear, His alien wanderings, and his warrior toil, Found nought so bitter as the rankling thorn Set, by thy madness of ingratitude, Deep in his yearning soul. What were thy thoughts When in the mesh of thine own tresses snared Amid the oak, whose quiet verdure mocked Thy misery ? Wert thou forsook by all Who shared thy meteor-greatness, and constrained To learn, in that strange solitude of agony, A traitor hath no friends ? What were thy thoughts When death, careering on the triple dart Of vengeful Joab, found thee ? To thy God Rose there one cry of penitence, one prayer For that unmeasured mercy which can cleanse Unbounded guilt ? Or turned thy stricken heart Toward him who o er thy infant graces watched With tender pride, and all thy sins of youth In blindfold fondness pardoned ? THE TOMB OF ABSALOM. 299 Hark ! the breeze That sweeps the palm-groves of Jerusalem Bears the continuous wail, " O Absalom ! My son ! my son ! " We turn us from thy tomb, Usurping prince ! Thy beauty and thy grace Have perished with thee, but thy fame survives The ingrate son that pierced a father s heart. THE WIDOWS PRAYER. THE youthful maid, the gentle bride, The happy wife, her husband s pride, Who meekly kneel, at morning ray, The incense of their vows to pay, Or pour, amid their evening train, From love s full heart, the incense-strain, What know they of her anguish d cry Who lonely lifts the tearful eye, No sympathizing glance to view Her alter d cheek s unearthly hue, No soothing tone, to quell the power Of grief that bursts at midnight hour. O God ! her heart is pierc d and bare, Have pity on the widow s prayer. Not like the mother, by whose side The partner sits, her guard and guide, Is hers who, reft of earthly trust, Hath laid her bosom s lord in dust; Sleeps her young babe ! but who shall share Its waking charms, its holy care ? THE WIDOW S PRAYER. 301 Who shield the daughter s opening bloom, Whose father moulders in the tomb ? Her son the treacherous world beguiles, What voice shall warn him of its wiles ? What strong hand break the deadly snare ? O answer, Heaven, the widow s prayer ! For not the breath of prosperous days, Though warm with joy and wing d with praise, E er kindled such a living coal Of deep devotion in the soul As that wild blast, which bore away Her idol to returnless clay : And, for the wreath that crown d the brow, Left bitter thoughts and hyssop-bough, A lonely couch, a sever d tie, A tear that time can never dry, Unutter d woe, unpitied care : O God ! regard the widow s prayer. DEATH OF A MISSIONARY AT THE WEST, DROWNED AT A FORD OF THE KASKASKIA, IN THE STATE OK ILLINOIS. COLD sweep the waters o er thee. Thou hast found, Mid all the ardour of thy youthful zeal, And self-devotion to thy Master s cause, An unexpected bed. The ice-swoln tides Of the Kaskaskia shall no more resound To the wild struggles of thy failing steed In that deep plunge which gave thy soul to God. Say, mid thy journey ings o er the snow-clad waste Of yon lone prairie, on that fearful day, When death was by thy side, where dwelt thy thought ? Upon thy angel mission, or the scenes Of thy loved home, with all its sheltering trees And tuneful sound of waters ? Didst thou hope, When Heaven s pure seed should blossom in the soil Of the far Illinois, again to sit Around that fire-side and recount thy toils, And mingle prayers with those who fondly nursed DEATH OF A MISSIONARY. 303 Thy tender infancy ? Now, there are tears In that abode whene er thy cherished name Breaks from the trembling lip. ! ye who mourn With hoary temples o er the smitten son, Slain in his Saviour s service, know that pain Shall never vex him more. Peril and change, And winter s blast, and summer s sultry ray, And sinful snare, what are they now to him But dim-remembered names. If t were so sweet To have a son on earth, where every ill Might point a sword against his heart, and pierce Your own through his, are ye not doubly blest To have a son in Heaven ? KEEP SILENCE/ A SABBATH HYMN. KEEP silence, pride ? What dost thou here, With the frail sons of clay ? How dar st thou in God s courts appear, Where contrite spirits pray ! Keep silence, wild and vexing care ! Six measur d days are thine, Thy seed to sow, thy chaff to share, Steal not the day divine. Keep silence, sorrow ! Faith can tell With what sublime intent Thou to the bosom s inmost cell By Heaven s right hand wert sent. Keep silence, avarice ! With thy hoard So boasted, yet so base, Think st thou the money-changer s board Hath here a fitting place ? " KEEP SILENCE." 305 Keep silence, vain and worldly joy, Foam on, time s tossing wave ! Why lure him with a treacherous toy Who trembles o er the grave ? Keep silence, earth ! the Lord is here, Thy great Creator blest ! His work of wisdom form d thy sphere, Keep thou His day of rest. THE LIBRARY. THOU, whom the world with heartless intercourse Hath wearied, and thy spirit s hoarded gold Coldly impoverished, and with husks repaid, Turn hither. Tis a quiet resting-place, Silent, yet peopled well. Here iriay st thou hold Communion eloquent, and undismayed, Even with the greatest of the ancient earth, Sages, and sires of sciences. These shall gird And sublimate thy soul, until it soar Above the elements. Doth thy heart bleed, And is there none to heal, no comforter ? Turn to the mighty dead. They shall unlock Full springs of sympathy, and with cool hand Compress thy fevered brow. The poet s sigh From buried ages on thine ear shall steal, Like that sweet harp which soothed the wrath of Saul. The cloistered hero, and the throneless king, In stately sadness shall admonish thee How hope hath dealt with man. A map of woe THE LIBRARY. 307 The martyr shall unfold, till in his pangs Pity doth merge all memory of thine own. Perchance unceasing care, or thankless toil Have vex d thy spirit, and sharp thorns prest deep Into the naked nerve. Then, hither come, Great souls shall counsel thee. Old Plato s brow Blendeth reproof with calm benignity That trifles thus should move thee Seneca Spreads to thy mind his richly reasoning page, While Socrates a cordial, half divine, Pours o er the drooping spirit. Bat hath Heaven Unveiled thy nature s deep infirmity, And shown the spots that darken all we call Perfection here ? Then seek the book of God ! Yea, come to Jesus ! Author of our faith, And Finisher doubt not His word shall be A tree of life to feed thy fainting soul, Till thou arise where knowledge hath no bound, And dwell a tireless student of the skies. 20 b SABBATH MEDITATIONS. TOSS D on the angry deep, with riven sails, The bark, long struggling gainst the tempest s wrath, Meets the rich perfume breath d from land-horn gales, And skims more lightly o er her billowy path ; While the glad sailor marks the misty line Where his lov d native hills, the blue horizon join. Spent, on his broken raft, the swimmer lies, A noteless speck mid ocean s stormy spray, While round his head the shrieking sea-gull flies, And warns her comrade of the expected prey. See ! see ! the life-boat ! Lo, its deck he gains, And mid protecting friends forgets his fearful pains. The traveller, faint amid the desert sands, Thinks of his native clime with bitter tear, Fast by his side his drooping camel stands, Hark, to the cry of hope ! a fountain near ! A green oasis mid the burning plain, A nd "neath the palm-tree shade he dreams of home again, SABBATH MEDITATIONS. 309 And art not thou, O glorious sabbath-morn, A life-boat to the outcast on the main ? A sight of home to mariner forlorn ? A sound of waters mid the burning plain ? Bear to my soul thy blessing from on high, That day-spring of our God, whose beams shall never die. With holy words of psalmist and of seer, With penitential prayers, in secret born, With chant and worship of the temple dear, Come thou to me, O consecrated morn, Descend and touch devotion s slumbering chord, And tell to listening faith the rising of her Lord. Yes, raise me o er the dust and care of life, A little way toward that celestial seat, Where, freed for aye from vanity and strife, The "just made perfect" in communion meet ; Show me their vestments, gleaming from the sky, Pour thro heaven s opening gate their echoed minstrelsy, And I will thank thee, tho to earth I turn, And all too soon from thy blest precepts stray, Though in my breast its fever-thirst should burn, And storm or shipwreck daunt my venturous way, Still will I grasp thee as a golden chain, And twine thee round my heart until we meet again. DEATH OF A POET. ANOTHER master of the lyre hath swept His parting strain. Swan-like and sweet it rose, Yet sank unfinished. And methought I heard Its melody in heaven, where harp and voice, For ever hymning the Eternal Name, Blend without weariness. No more he holds, Tender and sad, his night-watch o er the dead, For he is where the spoiler s icy foot Hath never trod, nor the dark seeds of grief In baleful harvest sprung. Twere sweet, indeed, A little longer to have drawn his smile Into the heart of love, and seen him do, With all his graceful singleness of soul, A Saviour s bidding. But be still be still Ye who did gird him up for heaven, and walk Even to its gates in his bless d company. If he hath entered first, what then ? be still ! And let the few brief sands of time roll on, And keep your armour bright, and waiting stand For his warm w ; elcoine to a realm of bliss. LIFE S EVENING. Abide with us, for it is now evening, and the day of life is far spent. BISHOP ANDREWS. THE bright and blooming morn of youth Hath faded from the sky, And many a cherish d bud of hope Is wither d, sere, and dry, Thou, whose being hath no end, Whose years can ne er decay, Whose strength and wisdom are our trust, Abide with us, we pray. Behold the noon-day sun of life Doth seek its western bound, And fast the lengthening shadows cast A heavier gloom around, And all the glow-worm lamps are dead, That, kindling round our way, Gave fickle promises of joy ; Abide with us, we pray. 312 LITE S EVENING. Dim eve draws on, and many a friend Our early path that bless d, Wrapp d in the cerements of the tomh, Have laid them down to rest ; But Thou, the Everlasting Friend, Whose Spirit s glorious ray Can gild the dreary vale of death, Abide with us, we pray. A DOOR OPENED IN HEAVEN, " I looked, and, behold, a door was opened in heaven." REVELATIONS, i IT seemea _iot as a dream, and yet I stood Beside Heaven s gate. Its mighty valves were loosed, And upward, from earth s tribulation, came A soul, whose passport, signed in Calvary s blood, Prevailed. Around the golden threshold s verge I saw the dazzling of celestial wings Thronging to welcome it. The towering form Of an archangel bore it company Up to God s throne. Soft on my ear their tones, Serenely wafted by ambrosial gales, Fell like rich music. " Wherefore didst thou pass Weeping along thy pilgrimage ? " inquired The sinless seraph. " Thorns beset my path. I sought and found not. I obtained and mourned, I loved and lost. Ingratitude and hate Did whet their serpent tooth upon my fame. 314 A DOOR OPENED IN HEAVEN. My wealth took wing. I planted seeds of bliss, And sorrow blossomed." But the risen from earth Faltered to mark that high archangel s glance Bent down ward with surprise, as though it asked " Had thy felicity no deeper root, Thou sky-born soul, for whom the Son of God Bowed to be crucified ? " So when I saw, Or dreamed I saw, that even in Heaven might dwell Reproof and penitence, I prayed to look Ever upon that flood of light which gilds Each morning with its mercy, and whose beams Are brightened every moment, and to bear God s discipline with gladness ; that no tear For trials lost be shed beyond the grave. THOUGHTS AT THE EUNERAL OF A FRIEND. THAT solemn knell, whose mournful call Strikes on the heart, I heard, I saw the sable pall Covering the form revered : And, lo ! his father s race, the ancient and the hlest, Unlock the dim sepulchral halls, where silently they rest, And to the unsaluting tomb, Curtained round with rayless gloom, He entereth in, a wearied guest. To his bereaved abode, the fire-side chair, The holy, household prayer, Affections watchful zeal, his life that bless d, The tuneful lips that soothed his pain, With the dear name of " Father " thrilling through his breast, He cometh not again. Flowers in his home bloom fair, 316 THOUGHTS AT THE FUNERAL OF A FRIEND. The evening taper sparkles clear, The intellectual banquet waiteth there, Which his heart held so dear. The tenderness and grace That make religion beautiful, still spread Their sainted wings to guard the place Alluring friendship s frequent tread. Still seeks the stranger s foot that hospitable door, But he, the husband and the sire, retnrneth never more. His was the upright deed, His the unswerving course, Mid every thwarting current s force, Unchanged by venal aim, or flattery s hollow reed : The holy truth walked ever by his side, And in his bosom dwelt, companion, judge, and guide. But when disease revealed To his unclouded eye The stern destroyer standing nigh, Where turned he for a shield ? Wrapt he the robe of stainless rectitude Around his breast to meet cold Jordan s flood ? Grasped he the staff of pride, His steps through death s dark vale to guide ? Ah, no ! self- righteousness he cast aside, Clasping, with firm and fearless faith, the cross of Him who died. THOUGHTS AT THE FUNERAL OF A FRIEND. 317 Serene, serene, He pressed the crumbling verge of this terrestrial scene, Breathed soft, in childlike trust, The parting groan, Gave back to dust its dust To Heaven its own. MONODY TO MRS. HEMANS. NATURE doth mourn for thee. There is no need For man to strike his plaintive lyre, and fail, As fail he must, if he attempt thy praise. The little plant that never sang before, Save one sad requiem, when its blossoms fell, Sighs deeply through its drooping leaves for thee, As for a florist fallen. The ivy wreath d Round the grey turrets of a buried race, And the tall palm that like a prince doth rear Its diadem neath Asia s burning sky, With their dim legends blend thy hallow d name. Thy music, like baptismal dew, did make Whate er it touch d more holy. The pure shell, Laying its pearly lip on Ocean s floor, The cloister d chambers, where the sea-gods sleep, And the unfathom d melancholy main, Lament for thee, through all their sounding deeps. Hark ! from snow-breasted Himmaleh, to where Snowdon doth weave his coronet of cloud, MONODY TO MRS. HEMANS. 319 From the scath d pine tree, near the red man s hut, To where the everlasting banian builds Its vast columnac temple, comes a moan For thee, whose ritual made each rocky height An altar, and each cottage home, the haunt Of Poesy. Yea, thou didst find the link That joins mute Nature to ethereal mind, And make that link a melody. The couch Of thy last sleep was in the native clime Of song, and eloquence, and ardent soul, Spot fitly chosen for thee. Perchance, that isle, So lov d of favouring skies, yet barin d by fate, Might shadow forth thine own unspoken lot, Close at whose heart the ever-pointed thorn Did gird itself. And so thy life-stream ooz d In gushes of such deep and thrilling song, That angels, poising on some silver cloud, Might linger mid the errands of the skies, And listen, all unblam d. How tenderly Doth Nature draw her curtain round thy rest, And, like a nurse, with finger on her lip, Watch, lest some step disturb thee, striving still From other touch, thy sacred harp to guard. Waits she thy waking, as the mother waits 320 MONODY TO MRS. HEMANS. For some pale babe, whose spirit sleep hatb stolen. And laid it dreaming on tbe lap of Heaven ? We say not thou art dead. We dare not. No. For every mountain-stream and shadowy dell Where thy rich harpings linger would hurl back The falsehood on our souls. Thou spak st alike The simple language of the freckled flower, And of the glorious stars. God taught it thee. And from thy living intercourse with man Thou shalt not pass away, until this earth Drops her last gem into the doom s-day flame. FAREWELL OF THE SOUL TO THE BODY, COMPANION dear ! the hour draws nigh, The sentence speeds to die, to die. So long in mystic union held, So close with strong embrace compell d, How canst thou bear the dread decree That strikes thy clasping nerves from me ? To Him who on this mortal shore The same encircling vestment wore, To Him I look, to Him I bend, To Him thy shuddering frame commend. If I have ever caus d thee pain, The throbbing breast, the burning brain, With cares and vigils turn d thee pale, And scorn d thee when thy strength did fail Forgive ! forgive ! thy task doth cease, Friend ! Lover ! let us part in peace. That thou didst sometimes check my force, Or, trifling, stay mine upward course, 21 322 FAREWELL OF THE SOUL TO THE BODY. Or lure from Heaven my wavering trust, Or bow my drooping wing to dust I blame tbee not, the strife is done, I knew thou wert the weaker one, The vase of earth, the trembling clod, Constrained to hold the breath of God. - Well hast thou in my service wrought, Thy brow hath mirror d forth my thought, To wear my smile, thy lip hath glow d, Thy tear, to speak my sorrows, flowed, Thine ear hath borne me rich supplies Of sweetly-varied melodies, Thy hands my prompted deeds have done, Thy feet upon mine errands run Yes, thou hast mark d my bidding well, Faithful and true ! farewell, farewell. Go to thy rest. A quiet bed Meek mother earth, with flowers shall spread. Where I no more thy sleep may break With lever d dream, nor rudely wake Thy wearied eye. Oh, quit thy hold, For thou art faint, and chill, and cold, And long thy gasp and groan of pain Have bound me pitying in thy chain, Though angels urge me hence to soar Where I shall share thine ills no more. FAREWELL OF THE SOUL TO THE BODY. 323 - Yet we shall meet. To sooth thy pain, Remember we shall meet again. Quell with this hope the victor s sting, And keep it as a signet-ring, When the dire wonn shall pierce thy breast, And nought but ashes mark thy rest, When stars shall fall, and skies grow dark, And proud suns quench their glow-worm spark, Keep thou that hope, to light thy gloom, Till the last trumpet rends the tomb. Then shalt thou glorious rise, and fair, Nor spot, nor stain, nor wrinkle bear, And I, with hovering wing elate, The bursting of thy bonds shall wait, And breathe the welcome of the sky " No more to part, no more to die, Co-heir of immortality." 21 b Z1NZENDORFF. TWAS summer in Wyoming. Through the breast Of that fair vale, the Susquehannah roam d, Wearing its robe of silver, like a bride. Now, with a noiseless current, gliding slow Mid the rich velvet of its curtaining banks, It seem d to sleep, o erwearied with the toil By which its roughly -guarded pass was won ; Then hasting on, refreshing and refresh d. Vaunting the glories of its sylvan home, It spread a mirror to the changeful cloud In crystal beauty. From the towering hills That revel in the sunbeam, or retire Shrouded in mist, the gazing traveller drinks Such deep delight as only nature gives, When, in her garb of loveliness, she mocks Pencil, and power of speech. Yon pictur d chart 326 ZINZENDORFF. Of lawn, and stream, and mountain s shadowy height, And rocks in quiet verdure meekly bower d, Rebukes the pomp of cities, and the strife Of competition, and the lust of gold. The landscape hath a legend : hurrying steps Of stately warriors, valour, prompt and proud To guard its nested loves, the fatal wile Of Indian ambuscade, the madden d shout Of massacre, the flight of timid forms, And moan of sireless orphans. History s hand, And minstrel s art, have glean d these glowing tints, And wrought them deftly, like a crimson thread Into their tissues. Tis not mine to choose A theme so bold, though I have trod the turf Whose greenness told what moisture nourish d it, And ponder d pensive o er that monument Where the last relics of the fallen brave Were gathered by their sons. Yes, I have mus d Mid that enchanted scenery, while the thrill From kindred bosoms, and the vision d past Was strong within my soul. Yet, tis not meet That I should tell of war, or woo the tones Of that high harp which, struck in England s halls, Hath made the name of Gertrude, and the lore Of sad Wyoming s chivalry, a part Of classic song. ZINZENDORFF. 327 A wilder scene I seek, Ancient and barren, where the red man reign d Sole lord, before the usurping plough had dar d A trace of subjugation, or the eye Of science, in its darkling bed, discern d The slumbering anthracite, which now doth draw Exploring thousands to its ebon throne, Like a swarth king of Afric. Then the arch Of the cloud-sweeping forest proudly cast A solemn shadow, for no sound of axe Had taught the monarch oak dire principles Of revolution, or brought down the pine, Like haughty baron from his castled height : Thus dwelt the kings of Europe, ere the voice Of the crusading monk, with whirlwind tone, Did root them from their base, with all their hosts, Tossing the red-cross banner to the sky, And pouring like a torrent o er the wilds Of wondering Asia. The rude native tribes, Fast by the borders of the gentle stream, Carv d out their heritage, with rival heart, And hand uncourteous. There the Shawanese With surest arrow stay d the flying deer, And the bold Delaware, with giant arm, Impell d his swift canoe. In feudal pride Oft the fierce chieftains led their eager hosts To savage battle, or with oathless truce 328 ZINZENDORFl . Drew back, to transient brotherhood, their hordes Of wrathful warriors. In their cone-roofd homes Some budding virtues sprung as best they might Beneath the chill and baleful atmosphere Of savage life. The dusky mother press d Her new-born infant with a rapturous thrill Of unimagin d love, and the glad sire Saw his young boy with eager skill maintain Against the opposing stream a venturous path, Or firmer knit his sinews in the chase. The lip of woman told the treasur d lore Of other times, and mid the tasks and toils Of vassalage kept bright the historic chain, As erst the vestal nurs d the sacred fire. The young kept silence, while the old man spake, And, bowing down before the hoary head, Rever d the wisdom that doth wait on time. But still the cloud of paganism did blight The blossom of their virtues, brooding dark With raven pinion o er the gloomy soul. I said that summer glow d. And with her came A white-brow d stranger. Open as the day Was his fair, noble forehead, and his voice In its sweet intonations, threw a charm O er rudest spirits. Not with more surprise Gaz d the stern Druid, mid his mystic rites, ZIXZENDORFF. 329 On good Augustine, teaching words of peace, What time, with hatred fierce and unsubdued, The woad-stain d Briton in his wattled boat Quail d neath the glance of Rome. Thus fixed the eye Of jealous chieftains and their wandering clans On Zinzendorff. Sought he to grasp their lands ? To search for gold ? to found a mystic throne Of dangerous power ? Where the red council -fire Disturb d the trance of midnight, long they sate Weighing his purpose with a cautious tone In grave debate. For scarce they deem d it true That from a happy home, o er ocean s wave, He thus should come to teach a race unknown Of joys beyond the tomb. Their fetter d minds Sank at the threshold of such bold belief, And, dim with ignorance, their sceptic eye The missionary scann d. Yet some there were W~ho listen d spell-bound to his charmed words ; The sick man drew them as the dew of heaven Into his bosom, children gathered near, To learn the name of Jesus, pressing close To touch his garments, or to feel his hand Resting upon their heads. Such power hath love O er sweet simplicity, ere sin hath taught Suspicion s lesson. By the bed of death 330 ZINDENDORFF. The teacher stood, where the grim Sachem, fear d By many tribes, found in his latest foe The first that conquer d him. That man of might Stretch d on his couch of skins, supinely lay, With every nerve unstrung. Around his hut, The deer s proud antler, and the wampum belt, Dispos d mid gaudy implements of war, The well-fill d quiver, and the feathery plume, Show d that pre-eminence which rank doth claim Mid penury and pain. One youthful form, A lonely daughter, last of all his flock, Tended his dying pillow, with the care Of native tenderness. The water-gourd She wept as he rejected, and her eye Gleam d through its tears so beautiful that none Who gazed remembered that her cheek was dark. She was a gentle creature, and uprose, Parting the raven tresses from her brow, And bowing down with reverent grace, to meet The man of God. He mark d the mortal strife Draw near its close. Cold dews of suffering stood Upon the rigid temples, and the breath Was like that sob with which the swimmer breasts The surge that whelms him. Then a tone subdued, And tremulous with pity and with zeal, Breath d in his ear. " Chieftain ! the ice of death ZINZENDORFF. 331 Is at thv breast. Doth aught disturb the soul, Or make its passage fearful ? " No reply, Save one impatient gesture from the hand That seemed a skeleton s. " Hast thou not been A man of blood ? Repent thee ! Speak the name Of Jesus the Redeemer. Let thy thought Ascend with mine, brother, while I plead Acceptance for thee at the gate of Heaven, Through Him who from the tyrant death can wrest The victory." But then a hollow voice Brake forth, like smother d thunders. "Go thy way, Thou Christian teacher ! I can deal with death Alone. Hence ! Hence ! I charge thee bring no soul That thou hast nurtur d to the red man s heaven, No ! we will drive it thence. My glorious sires 1 " - And then he murmur d what they could not hear, But ever and anon he fiercely rais d His clenching hand as, in the battle strife, To draw the arrow to its utmost head, Or sway the cleaving hatchet. All in vain ; Like Priam s dart the airy weapon fell, For cold paralysis did work within The citadel of life. 332 ZINZENDORFF. There was a pause Of awful stillness. Had the flickering lamp Fail d in that passion-gust ? The daughter bent In agonizing dread, and wiped the dew That stood like drops of rain, and laid her cheek Close by the ghastly sleeper, hoping still To hush him gently to a peaceful dream, As the meek mother lulls her troubled child. But, when no more the gasp, or fitful sigh Stole on her, breathless listening, starting up, She threw the casement higher, and the breeze Blew freshly o er his brow. Then first the pang Of poignant grief that rives the proudest soul Came over that young creature, and she cried, With a loud voice of misery, to him Who pray d the Christian s prayer, that he would lift The voice of supplication for her sire, Ere it should be too late. There was a sound From that low couch, a sudden gush of breath, As if the hollow grave with prison d winds Did madly chafe. The eye unsealing, flash d Strange fires, like frost-bound Hecla. Anger rush d In furious storm-cloud o er that tortur d brow, Making death horrible. " And art thou false, False to our own Great Spirit ? dost thou turn, And pluck the wing that shelter d thee ? I would ZINZENDORFF. 333 That he who hurls the lightning ! " But the curse Froze on his lip, and with a hideous groan As if in combat with some giant-foe, Who to his lion heart had found the way, He wrestled and fell back, to rise no more. Then rose the sob of weeping, and the prayer Of earnest faith. It was a fearful scene, Death, and young sorrow, and unearthly zeal, Dividing that low mansion. But the space Was brief for such companionship. The tramp And heavy tread of many hasting feet Came echoing o er the threshold ; for the throng Who held their Sachem as a god did shrink, To see him die. But, now the deed was done, And the stern chief lay as the powerless babe, They who would tremble at his awful glance, And do his bidding with a spaniel s dread, Now, casting off their abject terror, stood Closest beside him. From the weaker sex Burst forth a tide of sympathy, to sooth The orphan maid : for pity cannot quit Her hold on woman ; whatsoe er her garb Or lineament may be, howe er the sun Hath burnt dark tints upon her, or the yoke Of vassalage and scorn have bow d her low, Still doth her spirit at another s pain Vibrate, as the swept lyre. 334 ZINZENDORFF. Twas sad to see Those hoary elders pacing one by one, So slow and mournful from their fallen chief, And ranging in mute circle on the lawn Beside his dwelling. There a towering line Of warriors gather d, such as ne er had blench d To follow where he pointed, tho the earth Were saturate with blood, or the keen lance Of ambush glitter d thro the quivering leaves. Now, sad of heart, with heads declin d they stood, As men who lose the battle. Flocking still, Came mothers with their sons. A nation mourn d Like one vast family. No word was spoke, Even as the friends of desolated Job, Finding the line of language all too short To fathom woe like his, sublimely paid That highest homage at the throne of grief, Deep silence. Now the infant morning rais d Her rosy eyelids. But no soft breeze mov d The forest lords to shake the dews of sleep From their green coronals. Close curtaining mist Hung o er the quiet river, and it seem d That Nature found the summer-night so sweet, She shunn d the wakening of the King of Day. But there, beneath a broad and branching elm, ZINZENDORFF. 335 Stood forth the holy man, in act to speak. There was a calmness on his pallid brow, That told of Heaven. His stainless life had flow d Pure as his creed. Had the whole warring world With passion quaked, he would have made himself A green oasis mid the strife of tongues, And there have dwelt secure. Strong words, whose power Can tame the sinful heart, he boldly spake, And show d, to penitence, the faith which heals The sting of death. The Gospel s glorious hope, Its rule of purity, its eye of prayer, Its foot of firmness on temptation s steep, Its bark that fails not mid the storm of death, He spread before them, and with gentlest tone, Such as a brother to his sister breathes, His little sister, simple and untaught, Allur d them to the shelter of that ark Which rides the wrathful deluge. Not a breath Disturb d the tide of eloquence. So fix d Were that rude auditory, it would seem Almost as if a nation had become Bronz d into statues. Now and then a sigh, The unbidden messenger of thought profound, Parted the lip ; or some barbarian brow Contracted closer in a haughty frown, 336 ZINZENDORFF. As scowl d the cynic, mid his idol-fanes, When on Mars Hill the inspired apostle preach d Jesus of Nazareth. The furrow d soil Was soft with sorrow. So the rain of heaven Sank deeper in. What seed was sown that hour, Eternity can tell. Brief human breath, Pour d on the wind-harp of a hallow d lip, Or one poor ink-drop on a lonely thought, May stir the mind of millions. Where a cliff Doth beetle rudely from the mountain s breast, And, dripping with a chilly moisture, make Perpetual weeping, was a lonely cave Rock-ribbed and damp. There dwelt an aged man. Fear d as a prophet by the unletter d race Who sought his counsel when some work of guilt Did need a helper. Wondrous tales they told Of dark communion with the shadowy world, And of strange power to. rule the demon-shapes That shriek d and mtitter d in his cell, when storms At midnight strove. Of his mysterious date The living held no record. Palsying age The elastic foot enchain d, which erst would climb The steep unwearied and the wither d flesh Clos d round each sinew with a mummy s clasp ; As if some gaunt and giant shape, embalm d At Thebes or Memphis, when the world was young, ZINZENDORFF. 337 Should from its stain d sarcophagus protrude The harden d limb, and send a grating sound From the cold, lungless breast. And there he dwelt, Austere, in such drear hermitage as seem d Most like a tomb, gleaning from roots and herbs Scant nutriment. Fierce passions, brooding dark In solitude and abstinence, had made A hater of mankind. But when he heard Of the white stranger, with his creed of love Seducing red-men s hearts, hot seeds of wrath Smoulder d within his bosom, like a fire Fed in some charnel house. Revenge he vovv d, And every day was one long troubled pause Of meditation on that dire resolve. Thus he who taught to earth the taste of blood, Ere scarce that music of the stars was hush d Which joyous o er creation s cradle flow d, Cover d the thought of murder in his heart, Till his red eye-balls started, and like flame Glar d on his shepherd-brother, as he led On, by the living streams, his trusting flock. So strong in that misanthrope s bosom wrought A frenzied malice, that his cavern s bound Oft echoed to hoarse shouts, as fancy drew The image of his enemy, and rais d A mimic warfare. Then, uplifting high 22 338 ZINZENDORTF. The tomahawk, he impotently dream d To have his will, but, at each foil d attempt, He curs d the weakness of his blasted arm, In self-consuming madness. Every night Was one wild, tossing vision, acting o er The deed of murder, with a baffled aim, Yet deeming, at each random stroke, the foe Did multiply himself. At length, strong hate Wrought out its likeness in the savage breast Of three grim warriors. Listening oft and long To his dire incantations, forth they went, Once, when the pall of darkness veil d the scene, To do his purpose. Keenly were they arm d, And inly fortified by every spell Which that dire necromancer could devise To bind obedience. Eagerly they sought The abode of Zinzendorff. His lonely tent Rear d its white bosom thro embowering shades, As if some remnant of the wintry snow Did linger there. The earliest cluster d grape Was in its purple flush, and twilight s breath Betray d a chill, prelusive of the sway Of sober autumn. Through a narrow chasm In his slight screen, glar d the assassins eyes, As when the fierce and fell hyena finds A fleshless carcass. Stern, and hard of heart ! ZINZENDORFF. 339 How can ye cleave the breast that thrills for you With generous sympathy ? But what know they Of soft compunction ? train d from youth to tear The scalp fresh bleeding from the tortur d brain, To mock the victim, writhing at the stake, Or hurl the mother, with her wailing babe, Into the wigwam s flame. Slow midnight came, In dark companionship with sullen storms, The red pine blazes in the old man s cave, And every moment mov d with leaden feet, To him who traced it on the dial-plate Of mad impatience and unresting sin. At length, above the tempest s groan, is heard The sound of rushing steps. His blood-shot eyes Look d fiery glad, as when a tiger marks The unwary traveller near his jungle draw. And, as the mother of Herodias snatch d The reeking charger, and the sever d head Of John the Baptist, so he thought to grasp The expected trophy of that soft, brown hair, Sprinkled with early grey. The warriors spake With troubled tone. " Father and prophet, hear ! We found him in his tent. Alone he sat, Like some unwelcom d stranger. Pity came Into our breasts, so mournful was his brow. Still was his death-doom deep within our souls, 22 b 340 ZINZENDORFF. For so we promis d thee. But then he how d His knee to earth, and with a tender voice Did pray for Indians. To the white man s God He bore our nation, with a brother s heart : Yea, even for our little ones besought A place in heaven. But still we firmly grasp d The murderous knife, for so we promis d thee. Then, with a feathery instrument, he trac d That speaking leaf by which the pale-fac d men Bewitch and bow the mind. On the white page He seem d to press his soul, and pour it out, As the bruis d plant doth give its essence forth From every leaf and fibre. While we gaz d, Lo ! the dread king of venemous serpents came, The fatal rattle-snake. So then we saw That our Great Spirit sent death s messenger To punish him. We waited to behold His swollen visage, and his eye suffus d With mortal pain. Prophet ! we speak the truth ! Believe our words. Close coiling at his feet, With brightening tints, and wrath-enkindled eyes, The reptile lay ; but then, as if subdued By the meek magic of his beaming smile, Drew back the forked tongue, that, quivering, long d To dart the o erflowing poison, and, with crest Erect and sparkling, glided slow away. ZINZENDORFF. 341 Doubtless he is a god. We dared not raise The hand against him. For the power forsook Our limbs, and scarcely have we totter d here To bring thee tidings. Prophet ! bid no more His blood be shed. The deadly snake disarm d, The might departing from our warrior-hearts That never blench d in battle, or turned back From mortal man, bear witness, he is god." A shriek rose sharply o er the warring winds, " Hence, base and woman-hearted ! Would this arm Might but one moment claim its ancient strength, And lay ye low. Hence ! See my face no more." And so he drove them forth, tho sounding rains Did roar like torrents down the rifted rocks, And lightnings, cleaving wide the trembling cloud, Blacken d the forest-pines. Time sped his wing, And on the Lehigh s solitary banks The missionary stood. O er that smooth tide The pensive moon wrote out in pencil d rays, The same deep language which his boyhood read Upon the billowy Rhine. Mild evening s breeze, Stirring the interlacing of the elms, And the slight reeds that fring d the river s brink, Pour d the same soul-dissolving sigh that swept His own Lusatian forests. And the voice The writing, were of God. 342 ZINZENDORFF. Serene he mus d, And felt that every spot on earth s wide breast Was home to him, for there his Father dwelt, And all men were his brethren. On that hour Of high devotion, had the Spoiler stole, His step had been mistaken for the sound Of the soft rustling of angelic wings ; And the soul s welcome to the stroke that rends Its fond, yet strange affinity with clay, Had been sublime. To the believer, Death Is like the lion which the strong man slew, And the sweet bees did with their waxen robe. And food ambrosial, cover. He who found This blest enthusiasm nerve his weary heart, Like manna in the wilderness, now toil d As a colonial sire, and thoughtful plann d Mid shelter d valleys, and aspiring hills, Fit refuge for his brethren. Hence arose Fair Bethlehem, with all its pure retreats And peaceful hearths ; and still its classic dome, Where Education with the plastic mind Of childhood mingleth holiest elements, Doth venerate his name. But now the hour That took the shepherd from his simple flock Drew swiftly on : for still the cherish d form ZIXZENDORFF. 343 Of her whose cheek was pallid for his sake Blent with his every dream , and thoughts of home, Sweet household music, long-remember d tones, The far-off echoes of his stately halls, Had, like the voice of many waters, been Strong in his inmost soul, even while he spake Salvation s message to the forest-child. His work of mercy done, the white sail spreads From that broad city s queenly breast which bears The filial impress of the Man of Peace, Who on the blended rivers bas d his throne, And grav d upon his signet-ring her name Of love fraternal. But, behold ! a throng In uncouth garments, and with savage port, Invade the parting scene. With wondering eye, But lip immoveable, they scan the domes, And groves, and gardens. Native pride restrain d The voice of admiration, but the seal Of abject wretchedness seem d deeper stamp d Upon their forehead, as they inark d a pomp 111 understood, and felt in their own realm Their sceptre broken. Not more wildly gleam d The tangled elf-locks of the astonish d Gauls, Who, trampling on the majesty of Rome, Saw her grave senate in their curule chairs, And deern d them demi-gods. 344 ZINZENDORFF. The red-brow d sires, And the sad mothers with their little ones Fast by their side, and on their shoulders bound Their helpless infants, throng d to deprecate The teacher s absence, and with tears implore A parting blessing. Kneeling on the strand, His tender supplication, by their sobs Oft interrupted, sought the ear of Heaven. Long with despairing eye, they watch d the bark Cutting its watery path. Methought their brows By misery furrow d o er, in strongest lines, Like some deep-trac d phylactery, reveal d Prophetic sentence of their fated race, Which unrelenting destiny should waste, Till, like the mighty mastodon, it leave Nought save its bones among us. In the heart Of ZinzendorfT, their murmur d farewell tones Dwelt, a perpetual cadence, prompting oft The interceding prayer. It duly rose Ere the bright mom sprang up from Ocean s bed, Or when, amid his garniture of clouds, Purple and gold, the gorgeous Sun retir d Into his kingly chamber. Then a voice As of a father for an outcast son, O er whom his pity yearns, blent with the sigh And surging thunder of the sleepless wave, ZINZENDORFF. 345 Bearing the sorrows of the wondering tribes To Mercy s ear. Nor were their souls forgot By their kind shepherd, mid the joys of home, While neath his own baronial shades, he sought To spread a banner o er the sect he loved, That peaceful sect, which like the man who lean d On Jesus breast at supper, best imbib d The spirit of his love. Hail ! ye who went Untiring teachers to the heathen tribes, And kneeling with your barbarous pupils, shap d Their rude articulations into prayer. Ye fear d nor tropic suns, nor polar ice, Nor subterranean cell. Ye did not shrink To plant the Tree of Life mid arctic frosts, That the poor Greenlander might taste its fruits, And, mid his rayless night, devoutly bless The Sun of Righteousness. Ye did not shun The savage in his ignorance, or loathe To share his hut. The passport to your care Hath been the sign of deepest wretchedness, The Ethiop forehead, and the name of slave. Teach us your self-denial, we who strive To pluck the mote out of our brother s creed, Till Charity s forgotten plant doth ask 346 ZINZENDORFF. The water-drop, arid die. With zeal we watch And weigh the doctrine, while the spirit scapes ; And in the carving of our cummin -seeds, Our metaphysical hair-splittings, fail To note the orbit of that star of love Which never sets. Yea, even the heathen tribes Who from our lips, amid their chaos dark, First heard the, " Fiat lux," and joyous came Like Lazarus from his tomb, do, wilder d, ask What guide to follow ; for they see the men They dream d were angels, warring in their paths For Paul, and for Apollos, till they lose The certainty that they are one in Christ, That simple clue, which thro life s labyrinth Leads to Heaven s gate. Each differing sect, whose base Is on the same blest Word, doth strictly scan Its neighbour s superstructure, point and arch, Buttress and turret, till the hymn of praise, That from each temple should go up to God. Sinks in the critic s tone. All Christendom Is one eternal burnishing of shields, And girding on of armour. So the heat Of border warfare checks Salvation s way. The free complexion of another s thought Doth militate against him, and those shades Of varying opinion and belief, ZINZENDORFF. 347 Which, sweetly blended with the skill of love, Would make the picture beautiful, are blam d As features of deformity. We toil To controvert, to argue, to defend, Camping amidst imaginary foes, And vision d heresies. Even brethren deem A name of doctrine, or a form of words, A dense partition- wall, tho Christ hath said, " See, that ye love each other." So, come forth, Ye who have safest kept that Saviour s law Green as a living germ within your souls, Followers of Zinzendorff, stand meekly forth, And, with the gentle panoply of love, Persuade the sister churches to recall Their wasted energies, and concentrate In one bright focal point their quenchless zeal : Till from each region of the darken d globe The everlasting Gospel s glorious wing Shall wake the nations to Jehovah s praise. NOTES TO ZINZENDORFF. Page 325, line 8. Its roughly -guarded pass. The Susquehannah, after entering Luzerne county, Pennsylvania, breaks into the valley of Wyoming, near the mouth of the Lacka- wanna, through a narrow mountain chasm, rendered rugged by perpendicular rocks, and, after pursuing a serpentine course for twenty miles, breaks again out of the valley, at a similar pass, called the " Nanticoke gap." Page 326, line 5. The landscape hath a legend. The battle fought on the 3rd of July, 1778, between the Ameri cans, under the command of Col. Zebulon Butler, and the British, led on by Col. John Butler, and a chieftain of mixed blood, named Brandt, is sometimes styled both in history and poetry, the " Wyo ming massacre." Page 326, line 18. Where the last relics of the fallen brave Were gather d by (heir sons. " The occasion of our assembling in this spot is one of no com mon interest : to witness the re-interment of the mutilated bones of our ancestors, and to perform the grateful duty of laying the corner-stone of their monument. This work of gratitude is destined, in the language of the eloquent Webster, to rise till it meet the sun in his coming, till the earliest light of morning shall gild it, and the parting day linger and play upon its summit. " Oration of Chester Butler, Esq., on laying the corner-stone of the IVyominy Monument, July 3, 1833. 350 NOTES TO ZINZENDORFF. Page 327, line 6. The slumbering anthracite. The beautiful vale of Wyoming is distinguished by the anthracite coal formation. This valuable mineral, as exhibited in that region, is unsurpassed in richness and brilliancy, and in quantity apparently inexhaustible. Page 328, line 23. A. white-brow d stranger. Count Zinzendorff, a nobleman of Saxony, the restorer of the ancient church of the United Brethren, or Moravians, performed a mission to the Indians of Wyoming, in the year 1742. He is asserted to have been the first white person who had ever visited that portion of the Shawanese and Delaware tribes, who held domi nion in the valley. Page 329, line 3, The woad-staind Briton, in his wattled boat. The boats of the ancient Britons were composed of basket-work, covered with the skins of beasts. So much were these baskets ad mired in Rome, and such quantities were exported there, that one of their satirical poets ridicules them as among the luxuries of his countrymen, more than a hundred years after the conquest of the British isles. Page 340, line 16. The fatal rattle-snake. " Zinzendorff was alone in his tent, seated upon a bundle of dry weeds that composed his bed, and engaged in writing, when the In dians, who had determined to murder him, approached to execute their bloody commission. It was night, and the cool air of Sep tember rendered a small fire necessary to his comfort. A curtain formed of a blanket, and hung upon pins, was the only guard to the entrance of his tent. The heat of the fire aroused a large rattle snake, which crawled slowly into the tent, and passed over his feet undiscovered. At this moment, the assassins softly approached the door of his tent, and slightly removing the curtain, contemplated the venerable man, too deeply absorbed in meditation to notice either their approach or the venemous snake that lay extended before him. At this sight, even savage hearts shrank from their deadly purpose, and, suddenly quitting the spot, they bore tidings that the white man was in league with the Great Spirit." Chap man s History of /Wyoming. NOTES TO ZINZENDORFF. 351 342, line 21. Fair Bethlehem. Zinzendorff, during his second voyage to America, founded the colony of Bethlehem, a spot celebrated both for its beauty of scenery, and its school, where the elements of piety are blended with the whole process of education, and presented to the young mind, as the source of daily joy, as well as of future felicity. Page 343, line 1. Of her whose cheek was pallid for his sake. His wife, the sister of the Prince of Reuss, was distinguished for every excellence, and, during his absence, took charge of his estates, and devoted their surplus income to the works of benevolence in which he delighted. Page 343, line 26. Saiv her grave senate in their curule chairs, A.nd deemed them demi-gods. When the victorious Gauls, under Brennus, entered Rome, they found the ancient senators sitting in their order, in the Forum, undaunted and unmoved. Their splendid habits, their majestic gravity, and venerable countenances, awed the barbarians into reverence, and they offered them adoration, as tutelary deities. Page 345, line 5. Neath his own baronial shades, he sought To spread a banner o er the sect he lov d. Zinzendorff s estate of Bertholsdorf, in Lusatia, was a refuge for persecuted Moravians. He, with the countess, continually ex tended to them patronage and assistance. By them, the settlement of Hernnhut was protected and cherished, from whence the first missionaries went forth to the West Indies and to Greenland, somewhat more than a century since. Page 345, line 17. That the poor Greenlander might taste its fruits. The centennial anniversary of the Moravian missions in Green land was celebrated on the 20th of January, 1833, with great joy and gratitude among the different congregations established by those devoted servants of the cross, in that inclement clime. 352 NOTES TO ZINZENDORFF. Page 345, line 24. The Ethiop forehead, and the name of slave. More than 40,000 of the converts connected with the 214 mis sion stations maintained by the United Brethren, in different parts of s the globe, are either dwellers in Africa, or slaves in the West India islands. Page 346, line 3. And in the caTving of OUT cummin-seeds. " Antoninus Pius, from his desire to search into the least differ ences, was called cumini sector, the carver of cummin-seeds." Fuller s Holy State. THE END, Clarke, Printers, Silver Street, Falcon Square, London. y & i u