[Title Page]
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Charlotte Payne
Copyright ©2007, University of California
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-- Managing Editor
Charlotte Payne
-- Founding Editor
Nancy Kushigian
-- by
Sarah Frankland
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February 14, 2007
Charlotte Payne
-- ed.
[Title Page]
"The joyous leaves,
Whose tremblings gladden many a copse and glade."
IN collecting the feeling effusions of various minds, as well as in putting forth some of her own, the compiler has studied excellence and solidity of sentiment, rather than poetic merit.
These gatherings of a season of sickness will be found to partake much of the serious, though not sombre cast, incident to the circumstances under which the work has been accomplished. For a few original pieces, in addition to her own, she is indebted to some kind friends, and on behalf of the whole would plead a sentiment of the celebrated Erasmus :—
"A reader should sit down to a book, especially of the miscellaneous kind, as a well-
Wavertree,
1838.
THE morning sun rose bright and clear,
On Abraham's tent it gaily shone,
And all was light and peaceful there,
All—save the patriarch's heart alone.
While God's command arose to mind,
It forced into his eye the tear;
For though his soul was all resigned,
Yet nature fondly lingered there.
The simple morning-feast was spread,
And Sarah at the banquet smiled,
Joy o'er her face its lustre shed,
For near her sat her only child.
The charms that pleas'd a mother's eye
Upon his cheek had left their trace,
His highly augured destiny
Was written in his heavenly face.
His groaning father turned away,
And walked the inner tent, apart;
He felt his fortitude decay,
Whilst nature whispered in his heart
O! must this son, to whom was given
The promise of a blessed land,
Heir to the choicest gifts of heaven,
Be slain by a fond father's hand?
This son, for whom my eldest born
Was sent an outcast from his home,
And in some wilderness, forlorn,
A savage exile doomed to roam!
But shall a feeble worm rebel,
And murmur at a Father's rod?
Shall he be backward to obey
The known and certain will of God?—
"Arise, my son, the cruet fill,
And store the scrip with due supplies;
For we must seek Moriah's hill,
And offer there a sacrifice."
The mother raised her speaking eye,
And all a mother's soul was there;
She feared the desert, drear and dry,
She feared the savage lurking there.
Abraham beheld, and made reply:—
"On Him from whom our blessings flow,
My sister, we with faith rely;
'Tis He commands, and we must go."
The duteous son in haste obeyed;
The scrip was filled, the mules prepared,
And with the third day's twilight shade,
Moriah's lofty hill appeared.
The menials then at distance staid;
Alone ascend the son and sire;
The wood on Isaac's shoulder laid,—
The wood to build his funeral pyre!
No passion swayed the father's mind;
He felt a calm, a death-like chill;
His soul, all chastened, all resigned,
Bowed meekly, though he shuddered still.
While on the mountain's brow they stood,
With smiling wonder Isaac cries,
"My father, lo! the fire and wood,
But where's the lamb for sacrifice?"
The Holy Spirit stayed his mind,
While Abraham answered, low and calm,
With steady voice, and look resigned,
"God will provide himself a lamb."
But let no pen profane, like mine,
On holy themes too rashly dare;
Turn to the Book of books divine,
And read the blessed promise there.
Ages on ages rolled away,
At length the hour appointed came,
And on the mount of Calvary,
God did indeed provide a LAMB.
LORD God of my life! I have hoped in Thee;
O, Jesus, my Saviour! now liberate me:
Thee I've sought while in chains,
And afflicted with pains;
In anguish
I languish;
And on the bent knee,
Adore thee,
Implore thee,
To set my soul free.
IN a sweet spot, which wisdom chose,
Grew an unique and lovely rose:
A flower so fair was seldom born—
A rose, almost without a thorn.
Each passing stranger stopped to view
A plant possessing charms so new:
"Sweet flower!" each lip was heard to say—
Nor less the owner pleased than they.
Reared by his hand with constant care,
And planted in his choice parterre;
Of all his garden this the pride,
No flower so much admired beside.
Nor did the rose unconcious
bloom,
Nor feel ungrateful for the boon:
Oft as her guardian came that way,
Whether at dawn or eve of day,
Expanded wide, her form unveiled,
The double fragrance then exhaled.
As months rolled on, the spring appeared,
Its genial rays the rose matured;
Forth from its root a shoot extends,
The parent rose-tree downward bends,
TWILIGHT with gentle hand did weave
Her fairy web of night and day.
THE bed was earth, the raised pillow, stones,
Whereon poore Jacob rests his head, his bones.
Heaven was his canopy; the shades of night
Were his drawn curtains, to exclude the lighte;
DAISIES, those pearled Arcturi of the earth,
The constellated flower that never sets.
GREAT is our Redeemer's merit,
Great is our Redeemer's might;
Guide us by thy Holy Spirit,
Guide us by thy peerless light:
Thou who on the cross wert bleeding,
Now, in heaven our cause art pleading
Glory to the Lord our Saviour!
Glory to the Lamb once slain!
Wash us in the all-cleansing laver,
Make us free from every stain.
Power is thine in earth and heaven,
Judgment to the Son is given.
Reign in us, thou King immortal!
Rule and reign within the breast;
Lead us through the heavenly portal,
Lead us to thy place of rest;
There, oh there, the ransomed spirits
Do extol thy boundless merits.
With thy precious blood thou bought us,
While in trespasses and sin,
With a father's love thou sought us,
Strove the wanderers to win.
Thy love is pure, thy love is tender;
To thee, oh Lord! what shall we render?
A heart that's pure and undivided,
To Thee, to Thee alone is due:
Thou hast a mansion bright provided,
For those who to thy name are true.
Oh! lead us to our rest in heaven;
Give us to know our sins forgiven.
'Tis firm, unshaken constancy of mind,
That fills the soul, and leaves no void unkind;
E'en in long absence still as fondly true,
As in the heart-rending moment of adieu.
'Tis only this the beating heart can cheer,
'Tis only this can prove a soul sincere.
THE Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.
Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green,
That host with their banners at sunset were seen;
Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.
For the Angel of Death spread his wing on the blast,
And breathed on the face of the foe as he passed;
And the eye of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever were still.
And there lay the steed, with his nostril all wide,
But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride;
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.
And there lay the rider, distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail;
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.
And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal,
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord.
FAREWELL! and could that word impress
Thy life with favouring gales,
How fervently we then should bless
Thy fortune and thy sails!
The winds thy gallant ship that urge,
The softest calm, the loudest surge,
And earth, when ocean fails,
Should echo, with according swell,
The prospering sounds, "Farewell! Farewell!"
But we resign thee to the deep,
As thousands oft have gone,
With only prayers thy course to keep,
And hopes to waft thee on,
And those orisons breathed on high,
The best that man's infirmity
Can give a parting one;—
Which friendship, faith, and weakness tell,
Heaven guard thee now, Farewell! Farewell!
And yet it is a word of power
Well formed the breast to sway;
The smiles of youth in friendship's bower,
Forgotten, may decay.
Then fare thee well in every clime,
Farewell in every sea,
Farewell through all the years of time,
And through eternity!
Whatever may thy hours employ,
In life, or death—in grief, or joy,
A long Farewell to thee;
No better wish my voice can swell
Than this:—God bless thee; Fare thee well!
THE mountains are God's altars, on whose sides
Silence, the parent of deep thought, abides;
His matin-song, the hour when morning breaks,
And the glad heart to gratitude awakes:
And he who from the world's temptation flies,
To his own mind's retired solemnities,
Erects a temple to his God, more holy
Than any built by human pride and folly.
—HUMILITY, fairest of mortal garbs,
And beautiful as morning! hold it dear,
It is a heavenly ornament.
WE walked by the side
Of a tranquil stream,
That the sun had tinged
With his parting beam:
The water was still,
And so crystal clear
That every spray
Had its image there.
And every reed
That o'er it bow'd,
And the crimson streak,
And the silvery cloud,
And all that was bright,
And all that was fair,
And all that was gay,
Was reflected there.
And they said it was like
To the chastened breast,
That religion soothes
To a holy rest;
When sorrow has tamed
The impassion'd eye,
And the bosom reflects
Its expected sky.
But I took a stone
That lay beside,
And I cast it far
On the glassy tide,
And gone was the charm
Of the pictured scene,
And the sky so bright,
And the landscape green.
And I bade them mark
How an idle word,
Too lightly said,
And too deeply heard,
Or a harsh reproof,
Or a look unkind,
May spoil the peace
Of the heavenly mind.
Though sweet be the peace,
And holy the calm,
You cannot impede
The celestial ray,
That gilds the dawn
Of eternal day;
But so you may trouble
The bosom it cheers,
'Twill cease to be true
To the image it bears.
TRAVELLER through this vale of tears,
Art thou tried with doubts and fears?
Does the tempter thee assail,
Till thou think'st he must prevail?
Do the clouds that intervene
Dim the light thou once hast seen?
Dost thou fear thy faith is gone,
And that thou art left alone,
A traveller on life's dreary coast—
Thy guide and comfort nearly lost?
Hear a fellow-traveller's lay,
One who hath trod this painful way,
Upon whose head the storm hath beat,
While many a thorn hath pierced his feet;
But matchless mercy hitherto
Hath interposed, and brought him through,
And hath enabled him to raise,
At times, the joyful song of praise.
In patience then possess thy soul;
Stand still!—for, while the thunders roll,
Thy Saviour sees thee through the gloom,
And will to thy assistance come.
Trust—humbly trust in his defence,
Preserve thy hope and confidence;
DAY is now past, the hours have, one by one,
On rapid pinions hasted, to record
My actions, good or evil, in the skies.
Reflection! let me scan them by thy light.
HOPE still will mount; no timorous fears
Her purpose can beguile,
And if she weeps, those short-lived tears
Will brighten to a smile.
So the gay skylark soars and sings,
To hail the orb of day;
And even the dews that wet her wings
Soon glitter in the ray.
HAIL, and farewell! thou lovely guest,
I may not woo thy stay;
The hues that paint thy glowing vest
Are fading fast away;
Like the retiring tints that die
At evening on the western sky,
And melt in misty grey.
It was but now thy radiant smile
Broke through the season's gloom,
As bending I inhaled awhile
Thy breathing of perfume;
And traced, on every silken leaf,
A tale of summer, sweet and brief,
And sudden as thy doom.
The morning sun thy petals hailed,
New from their mossy cell;
At eve his beam, in sorrow veiled,
Bade thee a last farewell;
To-morrow's ray shall mark the spot,
Where, loosened from their fairy knot,
Thy withering beauties fell.
Alas! on thy forsaken stem
My heart shall long recline,
And mourn the tansitory
gem,
And make the story mine!
So on my joyless winter hour,
Has oped some fair and fragrant flower,
With smile as soft as thine.
Like thee the vision came and went,
Like thee it bloomed and fell,
In momentary pity sent
Of fairer climes to tell;
An piteous doom! ah, costly vow!
Father! and must its price be paid?
Thine house, thy age is childless now,
And low thy dearest hopes are laid!
Blasting is on thy tender vine,
No fruitful bough shall grace the tree!
For me—be calm quiescence mine—
Ammon is smote, and Israel free!
Pay then the price, but let me go
O'er mountain height and verdant slope;
Thus with the fellows of my woe,
Awhile to wail o'er perished hope.
Ye valleys, let your verdure fade,
Ye woods, let winds your branches tear,
Or I no more will seek your shade,
To stain with grief a scene so fair.
And ye, companions dear, no more
Rob for my hair the jasmine-tree,
Spoil the pomegranate's blooming store,
Nor crop the lily fair for me.
Tear not the rose-bud from the bough,
Nor strip the myrtle's scented bloom;
Leave them to grace a happier brow,
That hope and love may yet illume;
But bring the tansy and the rue,
If still ye would your fondness prove;
Give me no flowers but those they strew
O'er the young tomb of hope and love!
STAY thee on thy wild career,
Other sounds than mirth are near;
Spread not those white arms in air
Fling those roses from thy hair;
Stop awhile those glancing feet;
Still thy golden cymbals' beat;
Ring not thus thy joyous laugh;
Cease that purple cup to quaff;
Hear my voice of warning, hear—
Stay thee on thy mad career!
Youth's sweet bloom is round thee now,
Roses laugh upon thy brow;
Radiant are thy starry eyes;
Spring is in the crimson dyes
O'er which thy dimpled smile is wreathing;
Incense on thy lip is breathing;
Light and love are round thy soul,—
But thunder-peals o'er June skies roll;
Even now the storm is near—
Then stay thee on thy mad career!
Look upon that hour marked round,
Listen to that fateful sound,
There my silent hand is stealing,
My more silent course revealing;
Wild, devoted PLEASURE, hear,—
Stay thee on thy mad career!
THERE is a world we have not seen,
That time shall never dare destroy;
Where mortal footstep hath not been,
Nor ear hath caught its sounds of joy.
There is a region, lovelier far
Than sages tell, or poets sing,
Brighter than summer's beauties are,
And softer than the tints of spring.
There is a world, and, oh! how blest
Fairer than prophets ever told,
And never did an angel guest
One half its blessedness unfold.
It is all holy and serene,
The land of glory and repose;
And there, to dim the radiant scene,
The tear of sorrow never flows.
It is not fanned by summer gale,
'Tis not refreshed by vernal showers;
It never needs the moon-beam pale,
For there are known no evening hours.
No; for this world is ever bright,
With a pure radiance all its own,
The streams of uncreated light
Flow round it from the eternal throne.
There, forms that mortals may not see,
Too glorious for the eye to trace,
And clad in peerless majesty,
Move with unutterable grace.
In vain the philosophic eye
May seek to view the fair abode,
Or find it in the curtained sky,—
It is the Dwelling-place of God.
IN my weakness I prayed to the Lord,
That he would be pleased to remove
My disease, by the might of his word,
And raise me again in his love;
But this was his answer, most clearly to me,
"My grace and my love are sufficient for thee."
With this sweet, blessed promise in view,
I cast myself freely on him;
I can trust him—he will bear me through,
Though the valley may sometimes be dim;
Yes, firm is his word, spoken clearly to me,
"My grace and my love are sufficient for thee."
Lord! be pleased that my faith, to the last,
May be fixed on thy promise thus given;
And when death's dark river is past,
O grant I may serve thee in heaven;
BOUND upon the accursed tree,
Faint and bleeding, who is HE?
By the eyes so pale and dim,
Streaming blood and writhing limb,
By the flesh with scourges torn,
By the crown of twisted thorn,
By the side so deeply pierced,
By the baffled, burning thirst,
By the drooping death-dewed brow,
Son of Man! 'tis thou! 'tis thou!
Bound upon the accursed tree,
Dread and awful, who is HE?
By the sun, at noon-day pale,
Shivering rocks, and rending vale,
By earth, that trembled at HIS doom,
By yonder saints, who burst their tomb,
By Eden, promised ere he died
To the felon at his side,—
Lord! our suppliant knees we bow,
Son of God! 'tis thou! 'tis thou!
Bound upon the accursed tree,
Sad and dying, who is HE?
By the last and bitter cry,
The ghost given up in agony;
By the lifeless body laid
In the chambers of the dead;
By the mourners come to weep,
Where the bones of Jesus sleep;
Crucified! we know thee now,
Son of Man! 'tis thou! 'tis thou!
Bound upon the accursed tree,
Dread and awful, who is HE?
By the prayer for them that slew,—
"Lord, they know not what they do!"
By the spoiled and empty grave,
By the souls he died to save,
By the conquest he hath won,
By the saints before his throne,
By the rainbow round HIS brow,
Son of God! 'tis thou! 'tis thou!
THERE'S not a tint that paints the rose,
Or decks the lily fair,
Or streaks the humblest flower that grows,
But heaven has placed it there.
At early dawn, there's not a gale
Across the landscape driven,
And not a breeze that sweeps the vale,
That is not sent by heaven.
There's not of grass a simple blade,
Or leaf of lowliest mien,
Where heavenly skill is not displayed,
And heavenly wisdom seen.
There's not a tempest dark and dread,
Or storm that rends the air,
Or blast that sweeps o'er ocean's bed,
But heaven's own voice is there.
There's not a star whose twinkling light
Illumes the distant earth,
And cheers the solemn gloom of night,
But mercy gave it birth.
There's not a cloud whose dews distil
Upon the parching clod,
And clothe with verdure vale and hill,
That is not sent by God.
There's not a place in earth's vast round,
In ocean deep, and air,
Where skill and wisdom are not found,
For God is everywhere.
Around, beneath, below, above,
Wherever space extends,
There Heaven displays its boundless love,
And power with mercy blends.
Then rise, my soul, and sing His name,
And all His praise rehearse,
Who spreads abroad earth's glorious frame,
And built the universe.
Where'er thine earthly lot is cast,
His power and love declare;
Nor think the mighty theme too vast,
For God is everywhere!
BEHOLD, O Lord! on bended knee,
A mortal frail and trembling here,
Who lifts his soul in prayer to thee,
For thou, he knoweth, prayer wilt hear.
For all the blessings of to-day—
(And, oh! the many run to waste)—
Accept the grateful thanks we pay,
And pardon our offences past.
Yet e'en in thanking thee, O Lord,
We but give back what thou hast given—
Each pious thought, each holy word,
Springs from thy Spirit—God of Heaven!
Deem not our offering less sincere,—
The humble thanks, we humbly pour,—
But in our hearts with grace appear,
That we may thank thee more and more.
IN the search of enjoyment I wandered in vain,
With a void in my bosom that nothing could fill,
For youth's gayest smile was succeeded by pain,
And the sweet cup of pleasure proved bitterness still.
The young days of fancy roll'd rapidly by,
And I shrunk with dismay from the future's dark gloom,
Where the clay-fettered spirit must mourn till it fly,
And man has no rest, but the rest of the tomb.
And yet I have revell'd in hope's fairy dream,
And tasted the raptures of love's purest bliss:
Delusive are both, though alluring they seem,
Like vapours that gleam o'er a hidden abyss.
The proud thirst of glory was mine from my birth,
But what can this world to ambition display,
Which grasps at the skies but is bounded by earth,—
A spirit of fire, in its prison of clay?
And now I have heard of a nobler renown,
A kingdom unfading, a glory divine:
But the humble alone shall inherit the crown,
And how shall that kingdom of glory be mine?
How calm and how beautiful is the devotion
That shines in the lives of the children of God!
It quiets the turbulent spirit's emotion,
And leads them to kiss e'en the chastening rod.
It is not the pride of the cold-minded stoic,
Deeply versed in the lore of philosophy's schools;
Nor that which we deem in the worldling heroic,
Nor the thoughtless contentment of fortune's gay fools:—
It springs from that wisdom that comes from above,
And tarries alone with the humble in heart;
'Tis fulness of faith, 'tis fulness of love,
A spirit the Godhead alone can impart.
THE tale I tell was told me long ago,
Yet mirthful ones, since heard, have passed away,
While this still wakens memory's fondest glow,
And feelings fresh as those of yesterday:
'Twas told me by a man whose hairs were grey,
Whose brow bore token of the lapse of years;
Yet o'er his heart affection's gentle sway
Maintained that lingering spell which age endears,
And while he told his tale his eyes were dim with tears.
But not with tears of sorrow—for the eye
Is often wet with joy and gratitude;
And well his faltering voice and tear and sigh
Declared a heart by thankfulness subdued;
Brief feelings of regret might here intrude,
Like clouds which shade awhile the moon's fair light;
But meek submission soon her power renewed,
And patient smiles, by tears but made more bright,
Confessed that God's decree was wise and good and right,
It was a winter's evening, clear but still;
Bright was the fire, and bright the silvery beam
Of the pale moon shone on the window-sill
And parlour floor; the softly mingled gleam
Of fire and moonlight suited well a theme
Of pensive converse, unallied to gloom;
Ours varied like the subject of a dream,
And turned, at last, upon the silent tomb—
Earth's goal for hoary age and beauty's smiling bloom.
We talked of life's last hour,—the varied pains
And features it assumes;—how some men die
As sets the sun, when dark clouds threaten storm
And starless nights; others, whose evening sky
Resembles those which to the outward eye
Seem full of promise;—and with softened tone,
At seasons check'd by no ungrateful sigh,
The death of one sweet grandchild of his own,
Was by that hoary man most tenderly made known.
She was, he said, a fair and lovely child
As ever parent could desire to see,
Or, seeing, fondly love; of manners mild,
Affections gentle;—even in her glee,
Her very mirth from levity was free;
But her more common mood of mind was one
Thoughtful beyond her early age, for she
Though some might deem her pensive, if not sad,
Yet those who knew her better, best could tell
How calmly happy and how meekly glad
Her quiet heart in its own depths did dwell;
Like to the waters of some crystal well,
In which the stars of heaven at noon are seen,
Fancy might deem on her young spirit fell
Glimpses of light more glorious and serene
Than that of life's brief day, so heavenly was her mien.
But though no boisterous playmate, her fond smile
Had sweetness in it, passing that of mirth;
Loving and kind her thoughts, words, deeds, that while
Betrayed of childish sympathies no dearth:
She loved the wild flowers, scattered over earth,
Bright insects, sporting in the light of day,
Blithe songsters, giving joyous music birth,
In groves impervious to the noontide's ray;
All these she loved as much as those who seemed more gay.
Yet more she loved the word, the smile, the look,
Of those who rear'd her with religious care;
I dare not linger, like my ancient friend,
On every charm and grace of this fair maid;
For in his narrative the story's end,—
With long, with fond prolixity delayed,
Though rightly fancy had its close portrayed,
Before I heard it,—who but might have guessed,
That one so ripe for heaven would early fade,
In this brief state of trouble and unrest;
Yet only wither here, to bloom in life more blest.
My theme is one of joy and not of grief,
I would not loiter o'er such flower's decay,
Nor stop to paint it, slowly, leaf by leaf,
Fading and sinking towards its parent clay:
She sank as sinks the glorious orb of day,—
His glories brightening at his journey's close;
Yet with that chastened, soft, and gentle ray,
In which no dazzling splendour fiercely glows;
But on whose mellowed light our eyes with joy repose.
Her strength was failing, but it seemed to sink
So calmly, tenderly, it woke no fear;
'Twas like a rippling wave on ocean's brink,
Which breaks in dying music on the ear,
And placid on the eye:—no tear,
Except of quiet joy, in hers was known;
Though some there were around her justly dear,
Her love for whom in ev'ry look was shown,
Yet more and more she sought and loved to be alone.
One summer's morn they missed her; she had been,
As usual, to the garden arbour brought,
After their morning meal; her placid mien
Had worn no seeming shade of graver thought,
Her voice, her smile, with cheerfulness was fraught,
And she was left amidst that peaceful scene,
A little space;—but when she there was sought,
In her secluded oratory green,
Their arbour's sweetest flower had left its leafy screen.
They found her in her chamber, by the bed
Whence she had risen; and on the bed-side chair,
Before her, was an open Bible spread;
Herself upon her knees:—with tender care
They stole on her devotions, where the air
Of her meek countenance the truth made known;—
The child had died! died in the act of prayer!
WHAT is beauty? a frail flower;
What is fame? an empty breath;
What's the longest life? an hour,
That hath but one thing certain—death!
THE grave is not a place of rest,
As unbelievers teach,
Where grief can never win a tear,
Nor sorrow never reach.
The eye that shed the tear is closed,
The heaving breast is cold;
But that which suffers and enjoys
No narrow grave can hold.
The mouldering earth and hungry worm
The dust they lent may claim,
But the enduring spirit lives,
Eternally the same.
YES, there is a balm in Gilead,
And a skilled physician there
He can heal thy every ailment,
And thy every weakness bear.
Is thy soul opprest and weary
With the wounds that sin hath made?
Cast on him thy grievous burden,
Seek his all-sustaining aid.
Come with all thy sins upon thee,
He their heavy weight hath borne,
With transgressors hath been numbered,
And endured the sinner's scorn.
Well he knoweth how to succour
Those who feel temptation's power;
He hath past through all before thee,
And hath proved sin's darkest hour.
E'en the weakest one he pitieth,
As a father doth his son;
And in tenderness he willeth
Still to guide and lead thee on.
With the purest love he loved thee,
Long before thou lovedst him;
Give thy years of strength to serve him,
Ere the lamp of life grows dim.
Those who, in repentant meekness,
Hang their hopes on him alone,
He will grant, with full acceptance
And joy, to stand before his throne.
Walking in their Lord and Saviour,
Faithful to their heavenly King,
Waging war beneath his banner,
They shall of salvation sing.
Trusting in thy Saviour's merits,
Look to thy eternal home;
And do thou, in holy patience,
Wait, until thy change shall come.
When He who on the pale horse rideth,
Shall proclaim within thine ear,
That "time to thee shall be no longer,"
Thou shalt joy that sound to hear.
Fear thou not! for Christ hath conquered
Over the last enemy;
Fear thou not! he will sustain thee
In the last extremity.
Angels clad in robes of brightness,
Gladly wait thy coming o'er;
Thou, on wings of downy lightness,
Soon shalt reach the blissful shore.
No more sickness, no more sorrow,
There shall rend thy peaceful breast;
"There the wicked cease from troubling,
There the weary are at rest."
Thou shalt swell the angelic anthem,
With the bright-winged seraphim,
To the Lamb, who, robed in mercy,
Sits between the cherubim.
In the courts of New Jerusalem,
Thou shalt know of wisdom's ways;
All her walls to be salvation,
And her pearly gates be praise.
"THOU Great First Cause," Creator, King, and Lord,
The worm that breathed at thy commanding word
And dies whene'er thou wilt—presumptuous man,
Has dared the mazes of thy path to scan;
Guided by reason's powerless rays alone,
Would pierce the veil of mystery round thee thrown.
Tell me, proud being—flutterer of an hour,
(Who thus would comprehend omniscient power,)
Why worlds were made,—why man was formed a
all?
Or crimeless once permitted then to fall?
The why and wherefore boots us not to know,
Enough, that God ordained it to be so!
Go thou, and cull the simplest flower that grows,
The hill-side daisy, or the wilding rose,
And tell me why so bright their hues appear?
Why they return with each revolving year?
Or why, when countless worlds are all in bloom,
O'er every bud is shed its own perfume:
Yes, solve me this, and I'll believe, with thee,
"T'was meant that man should doubt all mystery.''
Presumptuous worm! enough to know is given,
'Tis fearful meddling with the things of heaven;
Its sacred mysteries belong alone
To Him whose ways are awful and unknown;
Who wings the storm, or whispers "Peace, be still;"
Cradling to rest the mountain wave at will;
Who for our souls his Son a ransom gave,
And guards his fold from childhood to the grave.
Confess, proud man, all his known ways are just,
And what thou canst not fathom "learn to trust."
HOW closely, in this world of change,
Our dearest joys are linked to sorrow!
Through flowery vales to-day we range,
'Neath yew and cypress mourn to-morrow
From friendship's smile and tone of love,
Full many a gleam of joy we borrow;
With friends beloved to-day we rove,
Low o'er their bier we weep to-morrow.
A thousand buds of hope expand,
We'd fain believe will banish sorrow;
By balmy breeze to-day they're fanned,
'Neath scorching sun they droop to-morrow.
Such dazzling lights illume our way,
We scarce can see one shade of sorrow;
'Neath cloudless skies to-day we stray,
From howling storms we shrink to-morrow.
On summer seas we calmly float,
Urged on by joy, unmixed by sorrow,
Hope gilds to-day our fairy boat,
She lies a stranded wreck to-morrow.
Day after day, these startling truths
Wring from our hearts the sigh of sorrow
Though wisdom's voice to-day reproves,
We hope for brighter things to-morrow.
Vain is our hope, if from this world
We seek to gather aught but sorrow;
Vain is our hope, if in this world
We seek a cloudless, bright to-morrow.
Then let us raise our tearful eyes,
To where there shall be no more sorrow,
Where hushed are all the mourner's sighs,
Where ceaseless hallelujahs rise,
There we shall find a glorious morrow.
LET the bright beams of science shed
Their choicest influence o'er thy head;
And let the classic page impart
Its raptures to thy glowing heart;
If Christ, thy Lord, thou do not know,
Wretched and ignorant art thou.
But though, to thee, her beaming ray
Fair science deigns not to display,
And though thy heart has never glowed,
With warmth by classic page bestowed,
Still, if thy Saviour Christ thou know,
Happy, and learned, and wise art thou.
. . . . . . . . . . Even thus
Drop from us treasures one by one:
They who have been from youth with us,
Whose every look, whose every tone,
Is link'd to us like leaves to flowers—
They who have shar'd our pleasant hours—
Whose voices, so familiar grown,
They almost seemed to us our own—
The echoes of each breath of ours—
They who have ever been our pride,
Yet in their hours of triumph dearest—
They whom we most have loved and tried,
And loved the most when tried the nearest;
They pass from us like stars that wane,
The brightest still before,
Or gold links broken from a chain,
That can be joined no more.
O! BRING from the depths of the dark-blue sea,
The silvery pearl with its varying light,
And from Ophir the gold, that so brilliantly
Can laugh in the beams of the noon-day bright,
And match with them, in their dazzling blaze,
The princely gem, with its thousand rays:
And bright though they be, yet my spirit shall call
A gem, that in lustre out-dazzles them all.
And sweeter than odours from Araby blowing,
And richer than perfume from Carmel that flies,
Or the lily's pure blossom, with myrrh overflowing,
Or the incense that breathes from the lov'd sacrifice;
Than the cedar-wood burning
In palace of kings,
Or that sweet bird returning
With rose-scented wings,
Is a perfume I know—and its fragrancy,
In the richest of balms, shall the balmiest be.
Thou hast sat in the cool of the evening hour,
When the delicate leaf in the breeze did not stir,
And hast listened unseen, while in secret bower,
Some loved voice sung thy deeds to the dear dulcimer;
Yes!—the innocent spirit, uncheck'd by a crime,
That warbles its praise to the God of all heaven,
This, this is the music, to whose liquid chime
Is the best flow of melody given.
And the sigh that is breath'd for the sad and forsaken,
And the breath of the contrite that rises in prayer,
O! the best of perfumes from the calamus shaken,
May not with this fragrance compare.
And the eye that is turned to the blue vault above,
While the heavenly tear of devotion is sparkling,
Oh! this is the gem in whose lustre of love
The brightest of jewels is darkling.
And thus, when thy spirit is anguished and lone,
This music can breathe with its tenderest tone,
And this perfume can bring to thy bosom delight,
And in darkness and ruin this gem can be bright!
BY the lone fountain's secret bed,
Where human footsteps rarely tread,
'Mid the wild moor or silent glen,
The sundew blooms unseen by men:
Spreads there her leaf of rosy hue,
A chalice for the morning dew,
And ere the summer's sun can rise,
Drinks the pure waters of the skies.
Wouldst thou that thy lot were given,
Thus to receive the dews of heaven,
With heart prepared, like this meek flower;
Come; then, and hail the dawning hour;
So shall a blessing from on high,
Pure as the rain of summer's sky,
Unsullied as the morning dew,
A GENEROUS soul is not confined at home,
But spreads itself abroad o'er all the public,
And feels for every member of the land.
This dial, was, I believe, formed by Linnæus, and marked the hours by the opening and closing, at regular intervals, of the flowers arranged in it.
'TWAS a lovely thought to mark the hours,
As they floated in light away,
By the opening and the folding flowers,
That laugh to the summer's day.
Thus had each moment its own rich hue,
And its graceful cup or bell,
In whose colour'd vase might sleep the dew,
Like a pearl in an ocean-shell.
To such sweet signs might the time have flow'd
In a golden current on,
Ere from the garden, man's first abode,
The glorious guests were gone.
So might the days have been brightly told—
Those days of song and dreams,
When shepherds gathered their flocks of old,
By the blue Arcadian streams.
So in those isles of delight, that rest
Far off in a breezeless main,
Which many a bark, with a weary guest,
Has sought, but still in vain.
Yet, is not life, in its real flight,
Mark'd thus, even thus, on earth,
By the closing of one hope's delight,
And another's gentle birth.
Oh! let us live, so that flower by flower,
Shutting in turn may leave
A lingerer still for the sun-set hour,
A charm for the shaded eve.
HER'S was no brilliant beauty—a pale tint,
As if a rose-leaf there had left its print,
Was on her cheek, her brow was high and fair,
Crossed by light waving bands of chesnut hair:
Her eyes were cast down on the lovely boy,
Beside whose couch she kneel'd:—but such calm joy,
Such beautiful tranquillity as dwelt
Upon her features, none has ever felt,
Save a fond mother. Her tall, graceful form
Was bending o'er him, and one small white arm
Supported his fair head, while her hand press'd
Her bosom, as she fear'd lest he might start,
To feel the quickened pulses of her heart.
Yet still she drew him nearer to her breast,
When man first from his paradise was driven,
Woman's sweet smiles and witcheries were given
To cheer him on through life's dull wilderness;
But what was left her erring heart to bless?
She once had loved him, as a being sent
From heaven, in God's own image, yet he went,
Even for her sake, astray—she loved not less,
But her high adoration now was o'er,
An earthly passion, sinless now no more,
Absorbed her heart, and every word or sigh
Wrung from his soul thrilled her with agony.
Yet she endured his stern reproach, unmoved
And patient, for she felt how much she loved.
Again I saw the mother bending o'er
The pillow of her babe, but joy no more
Was pictured on her face; her sunken cheek
Her faltering accents, tremulous and weak,
Told a sad tale—she had hung o'er that couch
For many a weary night, and every touch
Of his thin, wasted hand seemed to impart
A thrilling sense of pain to her young heart:
WERE I a trembling leaf,
On yonder stately tree,
After a season, gay and brief,
Condemned to fade and flee
I should be loath to fall
Beside the common way,
Weltering in mire and spurned by all,
Till trodden down to clay.
I would not choose to die,
All on a bed of grass,
Where thousands of my kindred lie,
And idly rot in mass.
Nor would I like to spread
My thin and withered face,
In
hortus siccus
, pale and dead,
A mummy of my race.
No,—on the wings of air
Might I be left to fly,
I know not, and I heed not where,
A waif of earth and sky!
Or, cast upon the stream,
Curled like a hairy-boat,
As through the changes of a dream,
To the world's end I'd float.
Who, that hath ever been,
Could bear to be no more?
Yet who would tread again the scene
He trod through life before!
I CANNOT stain this snowy leaf,
Without a sigh of pensive grief!
As musing on my days gone by,
And those that still before me lie,
I read a mournful emblem here,
That few could read without a tear!
For, as my musing eyes I cast
Upon the pages that are past,
I search them all, but search in vain,
To find even one without a stain!
But what has been is not to be,—
The happy future yet is free;
How sweet to think, in sorrow's hour,
That He who reigns above,
Although supreme in sovereign power,
Is as supreme in love!
How sweet to know, when thus the axe
Is to our gourds decreed,
He will not quench the smoking flax,
Nor break the bruised reed.
But that to those who kiss the rod,
By Him in mercy sent,
The staff of comfort, from their God,
Shall in his love be lent.
Sustain'd thereby, with hopes serene,
Though earth's best joy seem gone,
On this, like Jacob, they shall lean,
And worship Him thereon.
For God, who binds the broken heart
And dries the mourner's tear,
If faith and patience be their part,
Will unto these be near.
Let such but say, "Thy will be done!"
And He who Jesus raised,
Will qualify them, through his Son,
To add, "Thy name be praised!"
IT was a still and solemn hour,
In an isle of the Southern Seas,
And slowly the shades of night were swept
Away by the morning breeze;
When a lonely son of Britain stood,
With cheek and brow of care,
Seeking, amid the solitude,
A place for secret prayer.
No ear to hear in that silent glen,
No eye but the eye of God;
Yet the giant-fern gave back a voice,
As forth the wanderer trod:
They were broken words that met his ear,
And a name was mingled there;
It was the name of Christ he heard,
And the voice of secret prayer!—
A native of that savage isle,
From the depths of his full heart cried
For mercy, for help in the hour of need,
For faith in the Crucified!—
And peace and hope were in those tones,
So solemnly sweet they were,
For He who answers while yet we call,
Had blessed that secret prayer.
The morning dawned on that lonely spot,
But a far more glorious day
Came with the accents of prayer and praise,
On the Indian's lips that lay.
The first, the first who had called on God,
In those regions of Satan's care,
The first who had breathed in his native tongue,
The language of secret prayer.
And he who that hallowed music heard,—
The missionary lone,—
"Fare thee well, thou first and fairest."
MY sweet one! my sweet one! the tears were in my eyes,
When first I clasped thee to my heart, and heard thy feeble cries;
For I thought of all that I had borne, as I bent me down to kiss
Thy cherry lip and sunny brow, my first-born bud of bliss.
I turned to many a withered hope,—to years of grief and pain,—
And the cruel wrongs of a bitter world flashed o'er my boding brain:
I gazed upon thy quiet face, half-blinded by my tears,
Till gleams of bliss, unfelt before, came brightening on my fears;
Sweet rays of hope, that fairer shone 'mid the clouds of gloom that bound them,
As stars dart down their loveliest light when midnight skies are round them.
My sweet one, my sweet one, thy life's brief hour is o'er,
And a father's anxious fears for thee can fever me no more;
And for the hopes—the sun-bright hopes—that blossomed at thy birth,
They too have fled, to prove how frail are cherished things of earth!
'Tis true that thou wert young, my child; but though brief thy span below,
To me it was a little age of agony and woe;
For, from thy first faint dawn of life thy cheek began to fade,
And my heart had scarce thy welcome breathed, ere my hopes were wrapped in shade.
Oh! the child in its hours of health and bloom, that is dear as thou wert then,
Grows far more prized—more fondly loved—in sickness and in pain;
And thus 'twas thine to prove, dear babe, when every hope was lost,
Ten times more precious to my soul, for all that thou hadst cost!
Cradled in thy fair mother's arms, we watched thee day by day,
Pale, like the second bow of heaven, as gently waste away;
And sick with dark forboding fears, we dared not breathe aloud,
Sat, hand in hand, in speechless grief, to wait death's coming cloud.
It came at length; o'er thy bright blue eye the film was gathering fast,
And an awful shade passed o'er thy brow, the deepest and the last;
In thicker gushes strove thy breath—we raised thy drooping head;
A moment more—the final pang—and thou wert of the dead!
Thy gentle mother turned away, to hide her face from me,
We laid thee down in sinless rest, and from thine infant brow
Culled one soft lock of radiant hair—our only solace now;
Then placed around thy beauteous corse, flowers—not more fair and sweet,
Twin rose-buds in thy little hands, and jasmine at thy feet.
Though other offspring still be ours, as fair perchance as thou,
With all the beauty of thy cheek, the sunshine of thy brow,
They never can replace the bud our early fondness nurst;
They may be lovely and beloved, but not, like thee, the first!
The first! How many a memory bright, that one sweet word can bring,
Of hopes that blossomed, drooped, and died, in life's delightful spring;—
My sweet one, my sweet one, my fairest and my first!
When I think of what thou mightst have been, my heart is like to burst;
But gleams of gladness through my gloom their soothing radiance dart,
And my sighs are hushed, my tears are dried, when I turn to what thou art!
Pure as the snow-flake ere it falls, and takes the stain of earth,
With not a taint of mortal life, except thy mortal birth,—
God bade thee early taste the spring for which so many thirst,
And bliss, eternal bliss, is thine, my fairest and my first!
SHE bowed her head before the throne
Of heaven's eternal King;
The sun upon her forehead shone,
Like some communing thing;
In meekness and in love she stood,
Pale, lonely in her care;
But pure and strong is womanhood
In faithfulness and prayer.
The people of her father's land
Had left their father's path,
And God had raised his threat'ning hand
Against them in his wrath:
Her voice arose with theirs—the few
Who still were faithful there;
And peace was given, and healing dew,
To woman's voice of prayer.
The king sat in his purple state
Apart, dominion-robed;
But there was darkness in his fate,
His sickening heart was probed;
And priest and peer their vows preferred,
With quick and courtier care,
But whose on high was soonest heard?—
Lone woman's trembling prayer!
Wild war was raging—proudly rose
The chieftains of the realm;
And thousands met their country's foes,
With spear and crested helm;
And thousands fell—and wrathful men
Raged in their mad despair;
What heard the God of battles then?—
Meek woman's secret prayer!
O strong is woman in the power
Of loveliness and youth;
And rich in her heart's sacred dower
Of strong, unchanging truth:
But who may tell her spirit's might,
Above what strength may dare,
When in life's troubles and its night,
Her heart is bowed in prayer!
MY sweet little cherub, how calm thou'rt reposing,
Thy suffering is over, thy mild eye is closing;
This world has proved to thee a step-dame unfriendly,
But rest thee, my babe, there's a spirit within thee.
Farewell, my sweet baby, too early we sever;
I may come to thee, but to me thou shalt never.
Some angel of mercy shall lead and restore thee,
A pure living flame, to the mansions of glory.
The moralist's boast may sound prouder and prouder,
The hypocrite's prayer rise louder and louder;
But I'll trust my babe, in her trial of danger,
To the mercy of Him who was laid in the manger.
A MOTHER'S love—how sweet the name
What is a mother's love?
A noble, pure, and tender flame,
Enkindled from above,
To bless a heart of earthly mould;
To bring a helpless babe to light,
Then, while it lies forlorn,
To gaze upon that dearest sight,
And feel herself new-born,
In its existence lose her own,
And live and breathe in it alone;—
This is a mother's love.
Its weakness in her arms to bear;
To cherish on her breast;
Feed it from love's own fountain there,
And lull it there to rest;
Then, while it slumbers, watch its breath,
As if to guard from instant death;—
This is a mother's love.
To mark its growth from day to day,
Its opening charms admire,
Catch from its eye the earliest ray
Of intellectual fire;
To smile and listen while it talks,
And lend a finger when it walks;—
This is a mother's love.
And can a mother's love grow cold?
Can she forget her boy?
Ten thousand voices answer "No!"
Ye clasp your babes and kiss;
Your bosoms yearn, your eyes o'erflow
Yet, ah! remember this;—
The infant, reared alone for earth,
May live, may die, to curse his birth
Is this a mother's love?
A parent's heart may prove a snare;
The child she loves so well,
Her hand may lead, with gentlest care,
Down the smooth road to hell;
Nourish its frame,—destroy its mind;—
Thus do the blind mislead the blind,
Even with a mother's love.
Blest infant! whom his mother taught
Early to seek the Lord,
And poured upon his dawning thought
The day-spring of the word;
This was the lesson to her son,—
"Time is eternity begun;"—
Behold that mother's love.
Blest mother! who in wisdom's path,
By her own parent trod,
Thus taught her son to flee the wrath,
And know the fear of God:
Ah! youth, like him enjoy your prime,
Begin eternity in time,—
Taught by that mother's love.
That mother's love!—how sweet the name!
What was that mother's love?—
The noblest, purest, tenderest flame
That kindles from above;
Within a heart of earthly mould,
As much of heaven as heart can hold,
Nor through eternity grows cold;—
This was that mother's love.
UNTHINKING, idle, wild and young,
I laugh'd, and danc'd, and talk'd, and sung;
And proud of health, of freedom vain,
Dream'd not of sorrow, care, or pain;
Concluding, in those hours of glee,
That all the world was made for me.
But when the hour of trial came,
When sickness shook this trembling frame,
When folly's gay pursuits were o'er,
And I could dance and sing no more,
It then occurr'd, how sad 'twould be,
Were this world only made for me.
SWEET falls the shower on Sharon's rose;
Sweet sighs the gale o'er India's billow;
Sweet float the forms which fancy throws
Around the poet's dreaming pillow.
Sweet is the virgin-treasured kiss,
When lips with lips unchanging meet;
Sweet the first throb of bridal bliss,
The untold hope of passion sweet.
Sweet to the exiled, widowed ear
The notes of home-remembered song;
And sweet to speak, and sweet to hear,
The music of his native tongue;
Sweet from the gheber's perfumed urn,
Their sunward way his offerings find;
Sweeter the prodigal's return;
Sweetest the Christian's will resigned.
Bright is the wild wave's sparkling foam;
Bright blooms the fruit in Seville's grove;
Bright glows the cheerful hearth of home;
Brighter the eye of answered love.
Bright the Peruvian's golden chain;
Bright in Brazilian mines the gem;
Brighter Herodias' gorgeous train;
Brightest the Baptist's diadem.
Lovely the form of absent friends;
Lovely the maiden's spell-fraught name;
Lovely the pledge the distant sends;
Lovely the good man's humble fame.
Lovely the unconquered patriot's bier;
Lovely the ground by martyr trod;
Lovely the Christ's millenial year;
Loveliest the eternal sight of God.
Mighty Britannia's guarded coast;
Mighty the Gaul's imperial lord;
Mighty the proud Assyrian's host;
Mightier the slaying angel's sword.
Mighty the monarch-prophet's song;
Mighty the unrespecting grave;
Mightier the soul that knows no wrong;
Almightiest He that died to save.
Dear are my mother's accents mild;
Dear the responsive infant's smile
ENOUGH has heaven bestowed of bliss below,
To tempt our tarriance in this loved retreat;
Enough has heaven ordained of useful woe,
To make us languish for a happier seat.
"All I feel, and hear, and see,
God of love! is full of thee!"
EARTH, with her ten thousand flowers—
Air, with all her beams and showers—
Ocean's infinite expanse—
Heaven's resplendent countenance—
Sounds, among the vales and hills,
In the woods, and by the rills,
Of the breeze, and of the bird,
By the gentle summer stirred;
All these songs beneath—above,
Have one burden—"God is love."
All the hopes and fears that start,
From the fountain of the heart;
All the quiet bliss that lies
In our human sympathies;—
These are voices from above,
Sweetly whispering—"God is love."
FULLY ripe, like the ear of the reaper,
He met the pale messenger's word;
O! sweet is the sleep of the sleeper,
That rests in the name of the Lord.
He slumbers at length with his fathers,
Secure from the tempests of time;
For, the storm which on earth often gathers,
Is unknown in the heavenly clime.
They have placed the cold earth on his ashes,
They have given him up to the tomb;
But the light of his virtue still flashes,
The pathway of truth to illume.
He is dead, but his memory still liveth;
He is gone, his example is here,
And the lustre and fragrance it giveth
Shall linger for many a year.
He stood in the might of his weakness,
The snow of long years on his head;
And sublime, with a patriarch's meekness,
The Gospel of Jesus he spread.
The path of the faithful he noted—
In the way of the humble he trod;
And his life was with ardour devoted
To the cause of religion and God.
Like the sun of a midsummer even,
When, unclouded, it sinks in the west;
His departure was brightened from heaven,
With a cheering assurance of rest.
Calm, and soft, and serene was the slumber,
Preluding his glorious rise;∗
And free from all cares that encumber,
The moment he wing'd to the skies.
Oh! there's joy in the grief of the weeper,
Whose loss may above be restored!
And sweet is the sleep of the sleeper,
That rests in the name of the LORD!
IT is found by calculation that an hour rescued every morning from the blank oblivion of sleep, would make an addition of three years and four months to a life of forty years. To how many noble and useful purposes these hours might be devoted is sufficiently obvious; and when it is considered that many persons waste two or three or even four hours in bed unnecessarily, the wilful curtailment of our time must appear very striking, and suggest the following lines of Cotton.
FOR be assured they all are errant tell-tales;
And though their flight be silent, and their path,
Trackless as the winged couriers of the air,
They speed to heav'n, and there record thy folly;
The last half-hour of the life of this venerable man was passed in a peaceful sleep, on awaking from which he quietly died away.
Because, though stationed on the important watch,
Thou, like a sleeping, faithless sentinel,
Didst let them pass unnoticed, unimproved;
And know, for that thou slumberest on thy guard,
Thou shalt be brought to answer at the bar,
For every fugitive.
On thou whose balance does the mountains weigh,
Whose will the wild, tumultuous seas obey,
Whose breath can turn those wat'ry worlds to flame,
That flame to tempest, and that tempest tame,
Earth's meanest son, all trembling, prostrate falls,
And on the bounty of thy goodness calls.
O! give the winds all past offence to sweep,
To scatter wide, or bury in the deep:
Thy power, my weakness, may I ever see,
And wholly dedicate my soul to thee.
Reign o'er my will, my passions ebb and flow
At thy command, nor human motive know!
If anger boil, let anger be my praise,
And sin the graceful indignation raise:
My love be warm to succour the distressed,
And lift the burden from the soul oppress'd.
WHAT are thine hopes, humanity! thy fears?
Poor voyager upon this flood of years,
Whose tide unturning hurries to the sea
Of dark, unsearchable eternity!
"At evening-time there shall be light."—
Lo! at the appointed day,
Just before the shades of night,
At the sun's last parting ray,
Then at ev'ning shall be light.
Thus in this waste wilderness,
While we journey on in grief,
Though the morning brings distress,
Closing day affords relief.
So, on tribulation's sea,
Doubts obscure the anxious sight,
But behold the shadows flee,
And at ev'ning it is light.
Christian! dost thou fear to tread
Yonder path of dreary gloom?
Is thy spirit filled with dread,
At the darkness of the tomb?
Ere thy last expiring breath,
THE heart that never felt a sting,
Or ne'er exhaled from feeling's spring
One little drop of dew,
For something more that heart must sigh,
For, oh! the soul that thrills with joy,
Must thrill with sorrow too.
THE world with stones, instead of bread,
My weary soul has often fed;
It promised health,—in one short hour
Perished the fair; but fragile flower;
It promised riches,—in a day
They made them wings and fled away;
Lord, with the barren service spent,
To thee my suppliant knee I bent;
And found in thee a Father's grace,—
His band, his heart, is faithfulness;—
The voice of peace, the smile of love,
The bread that feeds the saints above;
I tasted in this world of woe,
A joy its children never know.
OH! this world is a wide one for sorrow or joy,—
And where in this world is my own sailor boy!
With his loud ringing laugh, and his long sunny hair,
Do they swell on the breeze yet, and float through the air?
Is there any bright land, 'mid the lands of the earth,
That holds the lost child of my heart and my hearth?
I have sat by the fire when the old men have said,
There be eyes of the living that look on the dead;
O tell me, ye seers, in your search of the tomb,
Do ye find my fair son in its valleys of gloom?
Is there any pale boy, with a look of the sea,
'Mid that people of shades, who is watching for me?
O that morn when he left us! my eyes are grown dim,
And see little that's bright since they looked upon him;
And my heart in its dulness hath learnt to forget,
But the light of that morning shines clear to it yet;
No record is lost of that far sunny day,
When passed my fair boy like a spirit away.
We waited, how long! but we waited in vain,
And we looked over land, and we looked over main,
And ships, oh how many! came home from the sea,
That brought comfort to others, but sorrow for me;
In all these gay ships, oh! their answer was none,
To the mother who asks if she yet have a son.
And we fed upon hope, until hope was denied,—
Till our health of the spirit, it sickened and died;
And the angel of grief that o'ershadowed his brain,
Now wrote on his forehead in letters of pain,
And I read the hand-writing, and knew that the breast
Of the weary with waiting was going to rest.
So he left a fond word for the lost one,—and I,
I linger behind him, to tell it my boy.
Shall he come to his home,—perhaps sickly and poor,
And meet with no smile at his own cottage-door?
Shall he seek his far land, from the ends of the earth,
And find the fire quenched on his once happy hearth,—
None to love him in sorrow, who loved him in joy;—
Oh! I cannot depart till I speak with my boy!
I have promised to wait,—I have promised to say
What grief was his father's at going away.
Will he come—will he come?—oh! my heart is grown old,
And the blood in my veins it runs languid and cold,
They tell me of countries, beyond the broad sea,
Where stars look on others, but look not on me;
Where the flowers are more sweet, and the waters more bright,
And they hint he may dwell in those valleys of light;—
That he rests in some home, with a far foreign bride.
Oh, this world is a wide one! why is it so wide?
But they surely forget,—which my sailor does not,
That I'm sitting whole years in my lone little cot;
He knows, oh! he knows, if I may, I shall wait,
'Till I hear his clear shout at the low garden-gate;
He is sure his sad mother will strive not to die,
Till the latch has been raised by her lost sailor boy.
I BELIEVE that he lives!—were he laid in the mould,
There's a pulse in my heart would be silent and cold,
That awoke at his birth, and, through good and through ill,
Has played in its depths, and is playing there still;
JESUS can make a dying bed
Feel soft as downy pillows are;
While on his breast I lean my head,
And breathe my soul out sweetly there.
DESERTED by each faithless friend,
When fortune's smiles no more attend,
Submissive to his Father's will,
The patient Christian trusts him still;
Still walks in duty's hallowed way,
And loves to hear, and praise, and pray;
His joy and peace, oh, who can tell
In wealth, or want, with him—All's Well!
BELOVED! though the voice of my love
Have lost all its power to cheer thee,
May thy Father in heaven above
Condescend in His pity to hear thee,
Encompass thy dwelling, enlighten thy path,
And avert, in His mercy, the vials of wrath.
Of old, when the Lord was asleep
In the stern of the ship, on a pillow,
His disciples called on him to keep
Them alive in the midst of the billow,
He graciously rose, saying, "Peace, be ye still,"
The turbulent waves could resist not His will.
Though the weeds may be wrapp'd round thy head,
Though the surges around thee are tossing,
Though no light on thy footsteps is shed,
Though wild beasts thy path may be crossing,
Yet bow in submission—yet kiss thou the rod,
And humbly acknowledge the hand of thy God.
The Lord doth afflict us to prove
That all that's of earth must be shaken;
But he will return in his love,
And show thee thou art not forsaken;
Thy God in Christ Jesus thy riches shall be,
And spread a full banquet of blessings for thee.
Oh then! my beloved, depend
On the arm of His glorious power,
Thy only unchangeable Friend,
Who has passed through temptation's dark hour.
Remember His message, remember His word,
'Tis enough that the servant should be as his Lord.
IN the hour of affliction I told thee,
The Lord would be mighty to save,
That the wing of His love would enfold thee,
And bear thee along the rough wave;
Say, hath He not been to thee better
Than even thy hopes or thy fears,
His promise fulfilled to the letter,
And chased from thy eye all its tears.
Then, while in the blue arch of heaven
Remains the unchangable bow,
Thy faith in God shall not be riven,
His promise thou shalt not forego.
By faith in our crucified Saviour
To the end of the race press thou on,
And make it thy joyful endeavour,
To be called, "by adoption His son."
And the son in the house bideth ever,
No more from the Father to roam,
The world from His love cannot sever
The child that rejoices in home.
Blest home! it is worth all the travel,—
Yea worth all the toil and the fight;
What light! e'en the sun's greatest splendour
Is eclipsed by the radiance bright,
And what can the pale moonbeams render,
When the Lamb is unveiled to the sight?
Yes, Christ is the light of that city,
The Lamb who for sinners was slain,
And this, in His love and His pity,
That thou the bright mansion might gain.
He hath conquer'd! then keep thou pursuing
The path he so valiantly trod,
Thy faith and thy strength oft renewing,
By prayer to a prayer-hearing God.
And then in the time that's appointed,
The angels shall bear thee away;
Thou shalt join with the holy anointed,
Who joy in the fulness of day.
MY God, my Father, while I stray
Far from my home, in life's rough way,
Oh! teach me from my heart to say,
Thy will be done.
Though dark my way and sad my lot,
Let me be still, and murmur not,
And breathe the prayer divinely taught,—
Thy will be done.
What though in lonely grief I sigh
For friends beloved, no longer nigh,
Submissive still would I reply,
Thy will be done.
If thou should call me to resign
What most I prize,—it ne'er was mine,
I only yield thee what is thine:—
Thy will be done.
Should pining sickness waste away
My life in premature decay,
My Father, still I strive to say,
Thy will be done.
Renew my will from day to day,
Blend it with thine, and take away
All that now makes it hard to say,
Thy will be done.
Then when on earth I breathe no more
The prayer oft mixed with tears before,
I'll sing upon a happier shore,
Thy will be done.
I'M going to leave all my sadness,
I'm going to change earth for heaven;
There, there all is peace, all is gladness;
There pureness and glory are given:
Come quickly, then, Jesus! Amen.
Friends, weep not in sorrow of spirit,
But joy that my time here is o'er;
I go the good part to inherit,
Where sorrow and sin are no more.
The shadows of evening are fleeting;
Morn breaks from the city of light,—
This moment day starts into being,
Eternity bursts on my sight.
The first-born redeemed from all trouble,
The Lamb that was slain, in the throng,
Their ardour in praising redouble;
Breaks not on the ear their new song.
I'm going to tell their great story,
To share in their transport of praise:
I'm going in garments of glory,
My voice to unite with their lays.
Ye fetters, corrupted, then leave me,
Thou body of sin, droop and die;
Pains of earth, cease ye ever to grieve me,
From you 'tis for ever I fly:
Come quickly then, Jesus! Amen.
"The only son of his mother, and she was a widow."—
—AND who reclines expiring there?
It is her son, her only son:—
The child of many a fervent prayer,
She loves, as they can love alone
Whose hearts are centered all in one.
She had another once, but he
Long since has been where all must be:—
He fell for Zion; happier far
To die as he had lived,—unchang'd,
Than mourn her latest, deadliest war,
And view her sacred shrines profaned,
His God dishonour'd and disdained.
She saw, but could not share his fate:
An exile now and broken-hearted,
Far from her native vales departed,
To linger through her viewless date,
In home that more became her state,
And there in loneliness to mourn,
Until her orphan babe be born.
But from the moment of its birth,
She strove to check the murmuring tear,
She had a hope that still was dear,
A tie that bound her still to earth;
"There is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner that repenteth."—
REDEEMED! redeemed!
The word went forth from the Father's throne,
And a flood of light from His blessed Son
Upon the suppliant streamed;
Forgiven! forgiven!
The words rose up as the thunders roll,
And on the humbled, trembling soul
The echoes fell from heaven;
And the angels touched the silver strings
Of their harps, and caught the word,
Veiled their glad faces with their wings,
And bowed before the Lord.
Rejoice! rejoice!
Great was the sound of joy above,
And brighter seemed the founts of love,
Sweeter the angels' voice;
And all because one weary heart
Had courage to be blest,
Had taken up the better part,
And bathed its wings in rest!
ART thou oppressed or reviled?
Then act but like a simple child,
Who does not dare the point contest,
But hastens to its mother's breast;
Bows in submission to her laws,
And leaves her to support its cause:
Thus to thy blessed Saviour flee,
Stand still!—thy God shall fight for thee.
"LET there be light"—were the words of creation,
That broke on the chaos and silence of night!
The creatures of mercy invoked to their station,
Suffused into being, and kindled to light.
"Let there be light,"—the great Spirit descended,
And flashed on the wave that in darkness had slept,—
The sun in his glory a giant ascended,
The dews on the earth their mild radiance wept.
"Let there be light,"—and the fruit and the flowers
Responded in smiles to the new-lighted sky.
There was scent on the gale, there was bloom in the bowers,
Sweet sounds for the ear, and soft hue for the eye.
"Let there be light,"—and the mild eye of woman
Beamed joy on the man who this paradise swayed:
There was joy—till the foe of all happiness human,
Crept into those bowers,—was heard and obeyed.
"Let there be light,"—were the words of salvation,
When man had defeated life's object and end;
Had waned from his glorious and glad elevation,
Abandoned a God and conformed to a fiend.
"Let there be light,"—the same Spirit superval,
That lighted the torch when creation began,
Laid aside the bright beams of his Godhead eternal,
And wrought as a servant, and wept as a man!
"Let there be light,"—from Gethsemane springing,
From Golgotha's darkness, from Calvary's tomb;
Joy, joy unto mortals, glad angels are singing,
The Shiloh hath triumphed,—and death is o'ercome!
WHEN the lunar light is leaping
On the streamlet and the lake,
When the winds of heaven are sleeping,
And the nightingale awake;—
While mirrored in the ocean
The bright orbs of heaven appear,
'Tis the hour of deep devotion,—
Lift thy soul to heaven in prayer.
When the autumn breeze is sighing
Through the leafless forest wide;
And the flowers are dead or dying,
Once the summer-garden's pride,—
When the yellow leaves in motion,
Are seen whirling on the air
'Tis an hour for deep devotion,—
Lift thy soul to heaven in prayer.
On his power and greatness ponder,
When the torrent, and the gale,
And the cataract and thunder,
In one fearful chorus swell.
Amidst nature's wild emotion,
Is thy soul oppressed with care?
'Tis the hour for deep devotion,—
Lift thy soul to him in prayer.
In sorrow and in sickness,
And in poverty and pain,
And in vigour, or in weakness,
On the mountain or the plain;
In the desert, on the ocean,
To the throne of love repair;
All are hours for deep devotion,—
Lift thy soul to heaven in prayer.
I HAVE a son, a little son, a boy just five years old,
With eyes of thoughtful earnestness, and mind of gentle mould;
They tell me that unusual grace in all his ways appears,
That my child is grave and wise of heart beyond his childish years.
I cannot say how this may be; I know his face is fair,
And yet his chiefest comeliness is his sweet and serious air.
But that which others most admire, is the thought that fills his mind,
The food for grave and searching speech he every where doth find;
Strange questions doth he ask of me, when we together walk,
He scarcely thinks as children think, nor talks as children talk.
Nor cares he much for childish sports, dotes not on bat and ball,
But looks on manhood's works and ways, and aptly mimics all.
His little heart is busy still, and oftentimes perplexed
With thoughts about this world of ours, and thoughts about the next.
He kneels at his dear mother's knee, she teacheth him to pray,
And strange, and sweet, and solemn then are the words which he will say.
Oh should my gentle child be spared to manhood's years, like me,
I have a son, a second son, a simple child of three;
I'll not declare how bright and fair his little features be:
How silver sweet those tones of his when he prattles on my knee.
I do not think his light-blue eye is like his brother's keen,
Nor his brow so full of childish thought as his hath often been;—
But his little heart's a fountain pure of kind and tender feeling,
And his every look's a gleam of light, rich depths of love revealing.
When he walks with me, the country-folk that pass us in the street,
Will shout for joy, and bless my boy, he looks so mild and sweet:
A play-fellow he is to all, and yet with cheerful tone
Will sing his little songs of love, when left to sport alone.
His presence is like sunshine, that gladdens home and hearth,
To comfort us in all our griefs, and sweeten all our mirth:
Should he grow up to riper years, God grant his heart may prove
As sweet a shrine for heavenly grace, as now for earthly love;
But if beside his grave the tears our aching eyes must dim,
God comfort us for all the love which we shall lose in him.
I have a son, a third sweet son, his age I cannot tell,
For they reckon not by months and years where he hath gone to dwell;
To us, for fourteen anxious months, his infant smiles were given,
And then he bade farewell to earth, and went to live in heaven.
I cannot tell what form is his, what looks he beareth now,
Nor guess how bright a glory crowns his shining seraph brow;
The thoughts that fill his sinless soul,—the bliss that he doth feel,
Are numbered with the sacred things which God will not reveal:
But I know that God hath told me this, that he is now at rest,
Where other blessed infants be, on their Saviour's loving breast;
I know his spirit feels no more this weary load of flesh,
And his sleep is blessed with endless dreams of joy, for ever fresh.
I know the angels fold him close beneath their glittering wings,
And soothe him with a song that breathes of heaven's divinest things:
We know that we shall meet our babe, his mother dear and I,
where God for aye shall wipe away all tears from every eye.
Whate'er befall his brethren twain, his bliss can never cease;
Their lot may here be grief and fear, but his is certain peace.
It may be that the tempter's wiles their souls from bliss may sever,
But if our own poor faith fail not, he must be ours for ever.
When we think of what our darling is, and what he still must be,
When we muse on that world's perfect bliss, and this world's misery;
When we groan beneath this load of sin, and feel this grief and pain,
Oh, we'd rather yield our other two, than have him here again.
SUM up at night what thou hast done by day;
And in the morning what thou hast to do:
Dress and undress thy soul; mark the decay
And growth of it; if by thy watch, that too
Be down, then wind both up: since we shall be
Most surely judged, make thy accounts agree.
HAST thou sounded the depth of yonder sea,
And counted the sands that under it be?
Hast thou talked with the blessed of leading on
To the throne of God some wandering son?
Hast thou witnessed the angels' bright employ?
Then mayst thou speak of a mother's joy.
Evening and morn hast thou watched the bee
Go forth on her errands of industry?
The bee for herself hath gathered and toiled,
But the mother's cares are all for her child.
Hast thou gone with the traveller, thought, afar
From pole to pole, and from star to star?
Thou hast,—but on ocean, earth, and sea,
The heart of a mother has gone with thee.
There is not a grand, inspiring thought,
There is not a truth by wisdom taught,
There is not a feeling pure and high,
That may not be read in a mother's eye.
And ever since earth began, that look
Has been to the wise an open book;
To win them back from the love they prize,
To the holier love that edifies.
There are teachings on earth, and sky and air,
The heavens the glory of God declare!
But louder than voice beneath, above,
He is heard to speak through a mother's love.
THOU butterfly creature,—thou child of an hour,
Oh! whither so rapidly winging thy flight?
Enshrined in the folds of each perishing flow'r,
I see thee absorb'd in a dream of delight.
Beauty, what is it? the eye that is beaming,
The cheek that is glowing with confident bloom,
All that enchanted must wake from their dreaming,
To moulder away in the pitiless tomb.
Rouse thee, thou fair one!—thy shroud it is weaving,
And creeping around thee is winding its ways;
Angels of light at thy folly are grieving,
And angels of darkness are waiting their prey.
Burst from their trammels of fatal delusion,
And follow no longer a phantom of air;
Call not the whispers of conscience intrusion,
But pour out thy soul to thy Saviour in prayer.
Though late be the hour, he will not reject thee,
But welcome thee home with paternal delight,
His presence shall comfort, his arm shall protect thee,
Till faith is exchang'd for the raptures of sight.
WHAT is death?—the open'd portals,
Leading to the blessed abode:
What is death?—a rest for mortals,
Trusting in the living God:
There the spirit dwells in peace,
Happy in its full release.
What is death?—the soul undressing,
Putting off its vest of clay:
What is death?—the goal of blessing,
Hope has pictured all the day:
What is death?—to unbelievers
Death is gloomy, dark, and drear;
Tears the film from all deceivers,
Brings the day of reckoning near.
Day of reckoning! day of dread!
Bursting on the sinner's head!
WHERE is thy dwelling-place?
Is it in the realms of space,
By angels and just spirits only trod?
Or is it in the bright
And everlasting light
Of the sun's flaming disk, that thou art thron'd, O God?
Does fair Arcturus shine
Upon the seat divine,
Whence thou thy matchless mercy dost display?
Or must we search for thee
Beyond the galaxy,
Far in the unmeasured, unimagined heaven?—
So distant, that its light
Could never reach our sight,
Though with the speed of thought for endless ages driven?
Or does thy Spirit still,
Its purpose to fulfil,
Move o'er the face of waters unexplored;—
As when thou didst of old
Thy embryo world behold,
And raised it from the deep by thy almighty word?
Hast thou thy throne on high,
In the empyrean sky,
Where saints adore the wonders of thy grace?
Or is it fix'd elsewhere,
In glories yet more rare?
O! thou all-glorious God, where is thy dwelling-place?
Hosannah unto thee,
God of eternity!
For thou thy Spirit on all flesh hast poured,
And in thy boundless love,
Descended from above,
And made the hearts of men thy temple, mighty Lord!
O! for a voice to sing
To thee, all bounteous King,
That heavenly song by angels sung of yore,
When from the azure plain
They breath'd the blessed strain,
Glory to God on high, and peace for evermore!
I BADE the day-break bring to me
Its own sweet song of ecstacy:
An answer came from leafy trees,
And waking birds, and wandering bees,
And waveless on the water's brim,
The matin hymn! the matin hymn!
I asked the noon for music then,
It echoed forth the hum of men,
The sounds of labour on the wind,
The loud-voiced eloquence of mind,
The heart,—the soul's sublime pulsations,—
The song, the shout, the shock of nations.
I hastened from the restless throng
To soothe me with the evening song:
The darkening heaven was thunder still,
I heard the music of the rill,
The home-bound bee, the vesper-bell.
The cicadæ, the philomel.
Thou omnipresent harmony!
Shades, streams, and stars are full of thee
On every wing, in every sound,
Thine all-pervading power is found,
Some chord to touch, some tale to tell,
Deep,—deep within the spirit's cell.
'TIS the last sad starting tear
That trickles down the weary brow,
And the world's receding sphere
Must depart and vanish now:
Quick as clouds of morning sky,
Flies the feeble life that's given;
And the seraphs weave on high,
Crowns entwined with flowers of heaven.
Earth, with all its shadows vain,
Now must take its rapid flight;
Heaven, with all its glorious reign,
Beams upon the suff'rer's sight.
See a brighter morn at hand,
Dawning from the heavenly throne,
The glories of that better land,
Where pain and parting are unknown.
Hark! from yonder groves of palms,
Sweet the strains of angels be,
As they call, amid their psalms,
"Sister spirit, hail to thee!
Suff'rer now arise and flee,
Soar as on the angel's wing;
Grave, where is thy victory?
And where, O death! thy boasted sting?
WHERE is thy home? I asked a child,
Who in the morning air,
Was twining flowers most sweet fair,
In garlands for her hair.
"My home," the happy heart replied,
And smiled in childish glee,
"Is on the sunny mountain's side,
Where soft winds wander free.
"O! blessings fall on artless youth,
And all its rosy hours,
When every word is joy and truth,
And treasures live in flowers.
"Where is thy home?" I asked of one,
Who bent, with flushing face,
To hear a warrior's tender tone,
In the wild wood's secret place:
She spoke it not; but her varying cheek,
The tale might well impart;
The home of her young spirit meek,
Was in a kindred heart.
Ah, souls that well might soar above,
To earth will fondly cling,
And build their hopes on human love,
That light and fragile thing.
"Where is thy home, thou lonely man?"
I asked a pilgrim grey,
Who came with furrowed brow and wan,
Slow, musing on his way:
He paused, and with solemn mien,
Upturned his holy eyes:—
"The land I seek thou ne'er hast seen,
"My home is in the skies."
O! bless'd,—thrice bless'd, the heart must be,
To whom such thoughts are given,
That walks from worldly fetters free,—
Its only home in heaven.
ERE God had built the mountains,
Or raised the fruitful hills;
Before he filled the fountains,
That feed the running rills;
In me from everlasting,
The wonderful I AM,
Found pleasures never wasting,
And Wisdom is my name.
When like a tent to dwell in,
He spread the skies abroad,
And swath'd about the swelling
Of ocean's mighty flood,
He wrought by weight and measure,
And I was with him then;
Myself the Father's pleasure,
And mine, the sons of men.
Thus Wisdom's words discover
Thy glory and thy grace,
Thou everlasting lover
Of our unworthy race!
Thy gracious eye survey'd us,
Ere stars were seen above;
In wisdom thou hast made us,
And died for us in love.
And couldst thou be delighted,
With creatures such as we?
Who when we saw thee, slighted,
And nail'd thee to a tree?
Unfathomable wonder,
And mystery divine!
The voice that speaks in thunder,
Says, "Sinner, I am thine!"
ONE there is, above all others,
Well deserves the name of friend!
His is love beyond a brother's,
Costly, free, and knows no end:
They who once his kindness prove,
Find it everlasting love.
Which of all our friends, to save us,
Could or would have shed their blood,
But our Jesus died to save us,
Reconciled in him to God:
This was boundless love indeed!
Jesus is a friend in need.
Men, when raised to lofty stations,
Often know their friends no more;
Slight and scorn their poor relations,
Though they valued them before:
But our Saviour always owns
Those whom he redeem'd with groans.
When he lived on earth abas'd,
Friend of sinners was his name;
Could we bear from one another,
What he daily bears for us?
Yet this glorious friend and brother
Loves us, though we treat him thus;
Though for good we render ill,
He accounts us brethren still.
Oh! for grace our hearts to soften;
Teach us, Lord, at length to love;
We, alas! forget too often
What a Friend we have above:
But when home our souls are brought,
We will love thee as we ought.
WHO can fathom the redeeming
Acts of universal love;
Human thought though ever teeming,
Yet can insufficient prove.
Holy angels ever lauding,
Of the great and wondrous scheme,
Seraphs hymning and applauding,
Never can exhaust the theme.
Oh! the height and depth, surprising,
Oh! the length and breadth, how great
Generations past and rising
Will the bliss participate.
Sure the Father's love was burning,
To poor, lost, and helpless man,
Anxious for his safe returning,
Laid the mediatorial plan.
Nor was less the Saviour's merit,
Who severe obedience paid;
Died to obtain the Holy Spirit
For his creatures' help and aid.
Now above makes intercession,
That the penitential mind,
Who makes unreserved confession,
And reforms, may pardon find.
Wretched man, if such caressing,
Work not on thy brutal heart,
If thou spurn'st the heavenly blessing,
Thou in it will have no part.
Blame thy conduct, charge not Heaven,
On thy head thy blood will be;
Every help to thee is given,
Suiting man's free agency.
Do not for a moment's pleasure
Forfeit this, thy dear-bought right,
To the joy and endless treasure
Which the gospel brought to light.
Use thy reason, grace assisting
Every faculty within;
Thou shalt know a brave resisting,
All the deadly powers of sin.
Taste religion's chaste embraces,
Faith with genuine works adorn:
Virtue has eternal graces,
Fresh and blooming every morn.
All her joys beyond expressing,
Peace that yields a golden crop;
She's in life the choicest blessing,
And in death the grateful drop.
Wing thy soul, and qualify her
For the converse held above;
Tip thy tongue and join the choir,
In melodious strains of love.
Utterly disclaiming merit,
Praise the Father and the Son,
Jointly with the Holy Spirit,
An eternal Three in One
ALTHOUGH the fig-tree shall not bloom,
Nor fruit be yielded by the vine,
Though blights the olive's strength consume,
And fields with harvest cease to shine;
Though from the folds the flocks should die,
Nor lowing herds the stall shall fill,
On God my soul shall still rely,
In God, my Saviour, glory still.
I KNOW not who first named thee,
Thou lovely little gem,
But poets long have claimed thee,
To deck love's diadem;
One loved friend may have planted,
And one dispensed the shower,
But God himself has granted
Thy spirit-stirring flower.
Say, did the third day give thee birth?
Thou beautifier of the earth.
I see thy gold-encircled cup,
I see thy starry form,
And tremblingly my soul looks up,
Amid life's threat'ning storm:
The Giver cannot be forgot,
In thee He says,—" Forget me not
"O Lord, I know that in very faithfulness thou hast afflicted
me."
FOR what shall I praise thee, my God and my King?
For what blessings the tribute of gratitude bring?
Shall I praise thee for flowers that bloomed on my breast?
For joys in perspective, and pleasures possess'd?
For the spirit that heightened my days of delight,
And the slumbers that sat on my pillow by night
For this shall I praise thee! but, if only for this,
I should leave half untold the donations of bliss:
I thank thee for sickness, for sorrow, for care,
For the thorns I have gathered, the anguish I bear:
For nights of anxiety, watching, and tears,
A present of pain, a prospective of fears;
I praise thee, I bless thee, my King and my God,
For the good and the evil thy hand hath bestow'd.
The flowers were sweet, but their fragrance is flown,
They yielded no fruits, they are withered and gone:
The thorn it was poignant, but precious to me,—
'Twas the message of mercy,—it led me to thee,
MYSTERIOUS work of God! how still,
How powerless and devoid of will:
The vital spark of life hath fled,—
'Tis cold, inanimate, and dead.
How calm and silent the repose,
That tells us of life's solemn close!
Though solemn, 'tis not dreadful,—no!
Void of disquietude or woe;
'Tis lovely, and I love to dwell
On features lately known so well.
Yet doth my breast with anguish burn,
For busy memory will return,
And too officious wander o'er
Scenes of enjoyment now no more.
When she—departed one—would share
My feelings or of joy or care.
How still and motionless! ah, why,
Unheedful of thy brother—by?
No welcome from those lips can flow,
No pleasure in those eyes can glow;
Intelligence hath left that face,
Yet every feature I can trace:
THE thoughts are strange that crowd into my brain
While I look upward to thee. It would seem
As if God poured thee from his "hollow hand,"
And hung his bow upon thine awful front,
And spoke in that loud voice, which seemed to him
Who dwelt in Patmos for his Saviour's sake,
"The sound of many waters;" and had bade
The flood to chronicle the ages back,
And notch his centuries in the eternal rocks.
HE knelt,—the Saviour knelt and pray'd,
When but his Father's eye,
Look'd through the lonely garden's shade,
On the dread agony!
The Lord of all, above, beneath,
Was bow'd with sorrow unto death.
The sun set in a fearful hour,
The skies might well grow dim,
When this mortality had power
So to o'ershadow Him!
He knew them all,—the doubt, the strife,
The faint perplexing dread,
The mists that hang o'er parting life,
All darkened round his head!
And the Deliverer knelt to pray,
Yet pass'd it not,—that cup, away.
It pass'd not, though the stormy wave
Had sunk beneath his tread;
It pass'd not, though to Him the grave
Had yielded up its dead,
But there was sent him from on high,
A gift of strength for man to die.∗
And was his mortal hour beset
With anguish and dismay?
How may we meet our conflict yet,
In the dark, narrow Way?
How but through Him that path who trod
Save, or we perish, Son of God!
And there appeared an angel unto him from heaven strengthening him."—Luke, xxii. 43.
F. HEMANS.
THERE'S beauty in the deep:—
The wave is bluer than the sky;
And though the light shine bright on high,
More softly do the sea-gems glow,
That sparkle in the depths below:
The rainbow's tints are only made
When on the waters they are laid,
And sun and moon most sweetly shine
Upon the ocean's level brine:—
There's beauty on the deep.
There's music in the deep:—
It is not in the surf's rough roar,
Nor in the whispering, shelly shore,—
They are but earthly sounds that tell
How little of the sea-nymph's shell,
That sends its loud, clear note abroad,
Or winds its softness through the flood,
Echoes through groves with coral gay,
And dies on spongy banks away.—
There's music in the deep.
There's quiet in the deep:—
Above, let tides and tempests rave,
And earth-born whirlwinds wake the wave,
OH! lovely voices of the sky,
Which hymn'd the Saviour's birth,
Are ye not singing still on high,
Ye that sang, "Peace on earth?'.
To us yet speak the strains
Wherewith, in time gone by,
Ye bless'd the Syrian swains,
Oh! voices of the sky?
Oh, clear and shining light, whose beams
That hour heaven's glory shed,
Around the palms, and o'er the streams,
And on the shepherd's head,
Be near through life and death,
As in the holiest night
Of hope and joy and faith—
Oh clear and shining light!
Oh! star which led to Him, whose love
Brought down man's ransom free
Where art thou? midst the host above,
May we still gaze on thee?
In heaven thou art not set,
Thy rays earth may not dim;
Send them to guide us yet,
Oh! star which led to Him!
LEAVES have their time to fall;
And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath,
And stars to set, but all,
Thou hast all seasons for thy own, O death!
Day is for mortal care,
Eve for glad meetings round the joyous hearth,
Night for the dreams of sleep the voice of prayer,
But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth!
The banquet hath its hour,
Its feverish hour of mirth and song and wine;
There comes a day for griefs o'erwhelming power,
A time for softer 'tears—but all are thine!
Youth and the op'ning rose
May look like things too glorious for decay;
And smile at thee!—but thou art not of those
That wait the ripen'd bloom to seize their prey.
Leaves have their time to fall,
And flowers to wither at the north-wind's blast,
And stars to set—but all,
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O death!
We know when moons shall wane,
When summer-birds from far shall cross the sea,
When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grain,
But who shall teach us when to look for thee?
Is it when spring's first gale
Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie
Is it when roses in our paths grow pale
They have one season, all are ours to die!
Thou art where billows foam,
Thou art where music melts upon the air,
Thou art around us in our peaceful home,
And the world calls us forth—and thou art there.
Thou art where friend meets friend,
Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest;
Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend
The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest.
Leaves have their time to fall
And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath,
And stars to set—but all,
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O death!
THE groves were God's first temples. Ere man learned
To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave,
And spread the roof above them; ere he framed
The lofty vault, to gather and roll back
The sound of anthems,—in the darkling wood,
Amidst the cool and silence, he knelt down,
And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks
And supplication. For his simple heart
Might not resist the sacred influences,
That, from the stilly twilight of the place,
And from the gray old trunks that, high in heaven,
Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the sound
Of the invisible breath that sway'd at once
All their green tops, stole o'er him, and bow'd
His spirit with the thought of boundless power,
There have been holy men who hid themselves
Deep in the woody wilderness, and gave
Their lives to thought and prayer, till thy outlived
The generation born with them, nor seemed
'Tis hard to lay into the earth
A countenance so benign! a form that walked
But yesterday so stately on the earth."
COME near! ere yet the dust
Soil the bright paleness of the settled brow;
Look on your brother, and embrace him now,
In still and solemn trust!
Come near! once more let kindred lips be press'd
On his cold cheek; then bear him to his rest!
Look yet on his young face!
What shall the beauty, from among us gone,
Leave of its image, e'en where most it shone,
Gladdening its hearth and race?
Dim grows the semblance on man's heart impress'd;
Come near, and bear the beautiful to rest!
Ye weep, and it is well!
For tears befit earth's parting! yesterday
Song was upon the lips of this pale clay,
Look yet on him whose eye
Meets your no more, in sadness or in mirth!
Was he not fair amidst the sons of earth,
The being born to die?
But not where death has power may love be blessed,
Come near! and bear ye the beloved to rest!
How may the mother's heart
Dwell on her son and dare to hope again?
The spring's rich promise hath been given in vain,
The lovely must depart!
Is he not gone, our brightest and our best?
Come near, and bear the early-call'd to rest!
Look on him! is he laid
In slumber, from the harvest or the chase?
—Too still and sad the smile upon his face,
Yet that, e'en that must fade!
Death holds not long unchained his fairest guest,
Come near! and bear the mortal to his rest!
His voice of mirth had ceased,
Amidst the vineyards! there is left no place
For him whose dust receives your vain embrace,
At the gay bridal-feast!
Yet mourn ye not as they
Whose spirit's light is quench'd!—for him the past
Is seal'd. He may not fall, he may not cast
His birth-right's hope away!
All is not here of our beloved and blessed—
Leave ye the sleeper with his God to rest!
"For the sighing of the needy now will I arise."—
I SAW a baby on the knee
Of a young and lovely mother,
I mark'd her look of ecstacy
As they gaz'd upon each other.
She sang a sweet-toned lullaby,
As her cherub one she prest,
She watched its gently closing eye,
As it sweetly sank to rest.
She laid it in its little bed,—
She kiss'd it, and she smiled:
How noiseless was that mother's tread
Lest she'd wake her slumbering child!
A peaceful hour it sweetly slept,
She heard a faint, faint sound,
She stilly to the cradle crept,—
Her wak'ning babe she found.
I mark'd how very faint a cry
Could meet a mother's ears.
It only seem'd to breathe a sigh,
And yet a mother hears.
I said a mother's ears, but no,
It was a mother's love,
That heard that wailing, faint and low,
Of her little plaintive dove.
She nourished it, and then a kiss
Imprinted on its cheek;
Oh! who can tell a mother's bliss,
Or a mother's fondness speak!
I noted, too, a mother's love
Beam in that eye so mild,
As she ask'd a blessing from above
Upon her voiceless child.
I've pass'd thro' many a scene since then,
O'er many a scene I've yearned,
Amid the busy haunts of men,
But this lesson I have learned,—
That he who wreathes a mother's heart
With the loveliest flower of heaven,
Can of his love to me impart,
And hath this promise given;
That he will hear the suppliant's moan,
Will hear the Christian's sigh,
Will hear the trembling sinner's groan,
Breathed forth in agony.
Then fear thou not, thou downcast one,
He will incline his ear;
For though he sits upon the throne
He loves the voiceless prayer.
To the eye that never slumbers,
The secret prayer is known,
And while thy tears he numbers
He counts thee as his own.
ROCK of Ages, cleft for me!
Let me hide myself in thee;
Let the water and the blood,
From thy riven side which flow'd,
Be of sin the double cure,
Cleanse me from its guilt and power!
Not the labour of my hands
Can fulfil thy law's demands;
Could my zeal no respite know,
Could my tears for ever flow,
All for sin could not atone:
Thou must save and thou alone.
Nothing in my hand I bring,
Simply to thy cross I cling;
Naked, come to thee for dress;
Helpless, look to thee for grace;
Foul, I to the fountain fly;
Wash me, Saviour, or I die!
While I draw this fleeting breath,
When my eyelids close in death,
When I soar to worlds unknown,
See Thee on thy judgment-throne,
AFFLICTED soul, to Christ draw near,
Thy Saviour's gracious promise hear;
His faithful word declares to thee,
That as thy day thy strength shall be.
Let not thy heart despond and say,
"How shall I stand the trying day?"
He has engaged, by firm decree,
That as thy day thy strength shall be.
Thy faith is weak, thy foes are strong,
Perhaps the conflict may be long;
Yet shall at last thy sorrow flee,
And, as thy day, thy strength shall be.
When hov'ring death appears in view,
Christ's presence shall thy fear subdue;
He smiles, and sets thy spirit free:
Lo! as thy day, thy strength shall be.
Then in that after-world of rest,
Where ransom'd souls are fully blest,
How true in retrospect shall prove
The word which told thee, "all was love."
THERE is a state serenely blest,
The vestibule of heavenly rest;
So calm, so pure, so bright, so fair,
Angels themselves might linger there.
'Tis not to soar where Newton soared,
To know all Milton has explored,
To reach this clime so seldom trod
Is simply to repose in God:
To cast those soul-consuming cares
On him who all creation bears,
Who rolls yon comet round this ball
And gently guides the sparrow's fall;
Him whom the soul can fully trust,
The refuge of created dust:
It seeks no more but simply still
Meets bliss in all a Father's will.
Should friends deceive, betray, depart,
Or wound with scorpion-scourge the heart,
THOU art not gone,—thou couldst not go;
True friends can never part:
Our prayer is one, our hope is one,
And we are one in heart.
Nor place nor time can e'er divide
The souls which friendship seals,
But still the changing scenes of life
Their mutual love reveals.
Body from body may be placed
Remote as pole from pole,
But can our fleshly frailties bind
The fellowship of soul?
'Tis when removed from grosser sense
My spirit claims her right,
My friend is often least away,
When absent from my sight.
His form, his look, in memory's glass,
I still distinctly see;
His voice, his words, in fancy's ear,
Are whispering still to me.
Beneath the same fair dome we dwell
By the same hand are fed,
And pilgrims in one narrow way,
Are by one Spirit led.
To the great presence of our God
By hourly faith we come,
And find in sweet communion there
One everlasting home.
Our hope, our joys, our life, our soul,
In our one Saviour meet,
And what in earth or heaven shall break
A union so complete.
O blest are they who seek in Him
A union to their friend;
Their love shall glow through life's decay,
And live when life shall end.
And blest be he whose love bestows
A friendship so divine,
And makes by oneness with Himself
My friend for ever mine.
MY father! could I once again gaze on that honoured brow,
And kiss those icy lips, and view thy form in death laid low,
I think 'twould ease the burning smart, and lull the anxious pain
I feel, whene'er I think "on earth we shall not meet again."
But, oh, the blessed hope revives, that in eternal rest,
I, too, may lay my weary head upon my Saviour's breast,
And we together join the throng that stands before the throne,
Uniting in a song of praise unto the Holy One.
Yes, thou art gone, but is there one would call thee back to earth,
Would rob thee of thy heavenly rest, or of thy glorious birth?
Ah, no! thy sorrows now are o'er, and on thy raptured sight,
Bursts the full radiance of the day that beams with perfect light.
By the One mighty Sacrifice, and that alone, thou stands,
With crown of gold upon thy head, and palm boughs in thy hands;
Bowing before the eternal throne of Him who died to save,
And in the very depth of love partook an earthly grave.
But glory, glory swells the strain;—e'en death could claim no power,
To hold him in his iron grasp beyond the appointed hour:
He burst the bonds, and upward rose upon the Godhead's wings,
And on his mediatorial throne he sits, the King of kings!
A blessed lot is thine, my sire, partaker of his grace,
With Him to tread the courts of heaven, and "see him face to face;"
To tell the story of his love, while myriad saints adore;
Such is thy blest employment now,—yea, thine for evermore!
GO, when the morning shineth,
Go, when the noon is bright,
Go, when the eve declineth,
Go, in the hush of night;
Go, with pure mind and feeling,
Fling earthly thoughts away,
And, in thy chamber kneeling,
Do thou in secret pray.
Remember all who love thee,
All who are loved by thee,
Pray, too, for those that hate thee,
If any such there be;
Then for thyself, in meekness,
A blessing humbly claim,
And link with each petition
Thy great Redeemer's name.
Or, if 'tis e'er denied thee
In solitude to pray,
Should holy thoughts come o'er thee,
When friends are round thy way,
Even then the silent breathing
Of thy spirit raised above,
Will reach His throne of glory,
Who is mercy, truth, and love.
Oh! not a joy or blessing
With this can we compare,
The power that He has given us
To pour our souls in prayer.
Whene'er thou pin'st in sadness
Before His footstool fall,
And remember in thy gladness
His grace who gave thee all.
"Howbeit God dwelleth not in temples made with hands."
NOT in buildings made with hands
Hath Jehovah placed his name;
In hearts contrite His temple stands,
Where, through the Spirit's holy flame,
True worshippers adore their Lord,
Instructed by his living Word:
But whose the heart that we may dare
Denominate a "house of prayer?"
Not his who but profession makes,
In whom the world still holds its sway,
Who here his consolation takes,
Unheeding truth's more narrow way;
Not his, who, rich and full, has made
Uncertain wealth his chiefest joy;
His darling treasure soon will fade,
And prove at best a gilded toy;
Whose heart luxurious has grown,
The seat of sordid mammon's throne:
Then whose the heart that we may dare
Denominate a "house of prayer?"
Not his who rigidly pursues
Mere forms of worship and of prayer,
Who stumbles, like the outward Jews,
At the true throne of David's heir,
Whose holy kingdom is within,
Perfecting peace by conquering sin:
Then whose the heart that we may dare
Denominate a "house of prayer?"
'Tis his that poor and contrite one,
Who feels his wants, and humbly craves
The bread which comes from heaven alone,
Sustained by which the world he braves;
Obedient to his Master's voice,
He makes the daily cross his choice:—
Infirmities may oft oppress,
But still the Spirit's aid is nigh.
And can a holy prayer express,
In the meek language of a sigh:
So great the price our Lord hath placed
Upon a heart with meekness graced,
That such a heart we boldly dare
Denominate a "house of prayer."
THERE is a peace the righteous only know,
There is a peace the pure in spirit feel,
There is a peace which lightens every woe,
A peace which none but Jesus can reveal.
Oh, blessed gift, the gift of God's own son!
Oh, blessed gift, for which he fought and won
Thou, soldier of the cross, thy weapons bear,
Put on thy helmet, breast-plate, and thy shield,
The enemies of God thou shalt not spare,
But with strong hand thy holy weapons wield,
Thy strength is not thine own, thine arm hath power
In Him alone to whom all power belongs;
His is the vict'ry, thine the blessed dower
Of peace, of holy peace and triumph's songs.
He fills thy soul with his redeeming love,
And in thy bosom rests the beauteous dove.
Oh, haste the day when men no more shall raise
The glittering spear against their fellow-men;
When every heart's attuned to Jesus' praise,
Who won for us the conqueror's diadem.
His glorious attribute is Prince of Peace,
His dying gift to his disciples—Peace.
Is thy path lonely? fear it not, for He
Who marks the sparrow's fall is guarding thee;
And not a star shines o'er thine head by night,
But He hath known that it will reach thy sight
And not a joy can beautify thy lot,
But tells thee still that thou art unforgot;
HOW sweet is the song of the lark as she springs
To welcome the morning, with joy on her wings
The higher she rises the louder she sings:
And she sings when we hear her no more;
When storms and dark clouds veil the sun from our sight,
She has mounted above them, she shines in his light,
There, far from the scenes which distress or affright,
She loves her gay music to pour.
'Tis, thus with the Christian, his willing soul flies
To welcome the day-spring which streams from the skies,
He is drawn by its glorious effulgence to rise
Towards the region from whence it is given:
He sings on his way from this cloud-covered spot,
FAIR child with that laughing and sunny brow,
What canst thou tell of the dark hour of woe?
Thy limbs are circled with wreaths of gladness,
Thine eyes speak of joys untouched by sadness,
Thy lisping tongue tells the hour of brightness,
Thy dancing feet tell of days of lightness.
No cloud casts its shade of darkness round thee;
The rainbow-tints of promise surround thee:
Thou know'st not of sorrow, nor pain, nor care,
And all is fair, yea, surpassingly fair;
Yet I know of the sorrows to which thou art heir.
As Time advances he will cast o'er thee
His mantle, bestudded with gems of woe;
The way is narrow that lies before thee,
A thorny path it is thine to know.
But there is a Power that can protect thee,
And there is a Friend that will direct thee,
And lead thee along through the dreary road
That he in his mercy for thee hath trod.
THE Son of God hath gone to war,
The kingly crown to gain;
His blood-red banner streams afar,
Who follows in his train?
Who best can drink the cup of woe,
Triumphant over pain;
Who boldest bears his cross below,—
He follows in his train.
The martyr first, whose eagle eye
Could pierce beyond the grave,
Who saw his Master in the sky,
And called on him to save.
Like him, with pardon on his tongue,
In midst of mortal pain,
He prayed for them who did the wrong.—
Who follows in his train?
A glorious band, a chosen few,
On whom the Spirit came,
Twelve valiant saints, the truth they knew,
And braved the cross and flame;
They met the tyrant's brandished steel,
The lion's gory main;
They bowed their necks the death to feel.—
Who follows in their train?
A noble army, men and boys,
The matron and the maid,
Around their Saviour's throne rejoice,
In robes of white arrayed:
They climbed the dizzy steeps of heaven,
Through peril, toil, and pain;
O God! to us may grace be given
To follow in their train.
COUNT not the days that have idly flown,
The years that were vainly spent;
Nor speak of the hours thou must blush to own,
When thy spirit stands before the throne,
To account for the talents lent.
But number the hours redeemed from sin,
The moments employed for heaven;
Oh! few and evil thy days have been,
Thy life a toilsome and worthless scene,
For a nobler purpose given.
Will the shade go back on thy dial-plate?
Will thy sun stand still on its way?
Both hasten on, and thy spirit's fate
Rests on the point of life's little date;
Then live, while 'tis called to-day.
Life's waning hours, like the Sybil's page,
As they lessen, in value rise;
Oh! rouse thee and live, nor deem that man's age
Stands in the length of his pilgrimage,
But in days that are truly wise.
'TIS hard, when we are sick and poor,
And they who loved us love no more,
When riches, friends, and health are gone,
To say, "O Lord, thy will be done!"
'Tis hard, when in our soul's distress,
All, all around is wilderness,
And herb and quick'ning stream is gone,
To say, "O Lord, thy will be done!"
And yet how light such sorrows be,
To His in dark Gethsemane,
Who drank the cup with stifled groan,
And said, "O Lord, Thy will be done!"
THERE'S not a flower upon the hill,
There's not a leaf upon the tree;
The summer-bird hath left its bough,
Bright child of sunshine! shining now
In spicy lands beyond the sea.
There's silence in the harvest fields,
And blackness in the mountain glen,
And clouds that will not pass away
From the hill-tops for many a day,
And stillness round the homes of men.
The old tree hath an older look,
The lonesome place is yet more dreary;
They go not now, the young and old,
Slow wandering on by wood and wold;
The air is damp, the winds are cold,
And summer paths are wet and weary.
The drooping year is in the wane,
No longer floats the thistle-down;
The crimson heath is wan and sere;
The sedge hangs withering by the mere,
And the broad fern is rent and brown.
The owl sits huddling by himself,
The cold has pierced his body through;
The patient cattle hang their head,
The deer are 'neath their winter-shed;
The ruddy squirrel's in his bed,
And each small thing within its burrow.
In rich men's halls the fire is piled,
And ermine robes keep out the weather.
In poor men's huts the fire is low,
Oh, poverty is disconsolate!
Its pains are many, its foes are strong;
The rich man, in his jovial cheer,
Wishes 'twas winter through the year;
The poor man, 'mid his wants profound,
With all his little children round,
Prays God that winter be not long.
One silent night hath passed, and lo!
How beautiful the earth is now!
All aspect of decay is gone,
The hills have put their vesture on,
And clothed is the forest-bough.
Say not 'tis an unlovely time!
Turn to the wide white waste thy view;
Turn to the silent hills that rise,
In their cold beauty to the skies,
And to those skies intensely blue.
Silent, not sad, the scene appeareth;
And fancy, like a vagrant breeze,
Ready a-wing for flight, doth go
To the cold northern land of snow
Beyond the icy Orcades
The land of ice, the land of snow,
The land that hath no summer flowers,
Where never living creature stood,
The wild, dim, polar solitude,
How different from this land of ours!
Walk now among the forest-trees,—
Saidst thou that they were stripp'd and bare?
Each heavy bough is bending down
With snowy leaves and flowers,—the crown
Which winter regally doth wear.
'Tis well, thy summer garden ne'er
Was lovelier, with its birds and flowers,
Than is this silent place of snow,
With feathery branches drooping low,
Wreathing around thee shadowy bowers
'Tis night! O now come forth to gaze
Upon the heavens, intense and bright
Look on yon myriad worlds, and say,
Though beauty dwelleth with the day,
Is not God manifest by night?
Thou that createst all! Thou fountain
Of our sun's light,—who dwelleth far
From man, beyond the farthest star,
Yet, ever present, who dost heed
We bless thee for our inward life;
For its immortal date decreeing;
For that which comprehendeth thee,
A spark of thy divinity,
Which is the being of our being!
We bless thee for this beauteous earth;
For its increase of corn and wine;
For forest-oaks, and mountain-fills,
For "cattle on a thousand hills;"
We bless thee,—for all good is thine
The earth is thine, and it thou keepest,
That man may labour not in vain;
Thou gav'st the grass, the grain, the tree,
Seed-time and harvest come from thee,
The early and the latter rain.
The earth is thine,—the summer earth,
Fresh with the dews, with sunshine bright,
With golden clouds in evening hours,
With singing birds, and balmy flowers,
Creatures of beauty and delight.
The earth is thine,—the teeming earth,
In the rich bounteous time of seed,
The earth is thine,—when days are dim,
And leafless stands the stately tree;
When from the north the fierce winds blow,
When falling fast the mantling snow,
The earth pertaineth still to thee.
The earth is thine,—thy creature, man!
Thine are all worlds, all suns that shine,
Darkness and light, and life and death;
Whate'er all space inhabiteth,—
Creator, Father, all are thine!
THERE is a secret in the ways of God with his own children
That none others know, that sweetens all he does;
And if such peace while under his afflicting hand we feel,
What will it be to see him as he is,—and past the reach
FATHER! should we come before thee
With the jewel or the gold?
Should thy children here adore thee
With the fairest of the fold?
Father, thou hast made us lowly,
Gold nor gems are ours to bring,
Flocks and herds no more are holy;
Thou wilt find an offering.
Is there not a gem more glowing
Than the diamond or the gold?
Is there not a fountain flowing
From a heart of heavenly mould?
Vain were Marah's bitter waters,
Pardon for the soul to bring:
Father, for thy sons and daughters.
Thou wilt find an offering.
We have seen Him, we have seen Him
As the press of wrath he trod;
Human form in vain would screen Him,
Nature knew the present God.
View Him on the cross suspended,—
Woe for death's triumphal sting,
Joy for sin and sorrow ended;
God will find an offering.
Father, we will come before thee
With the gem thyself hast given;
Father, we will now adore thee,
With the victim sent from heaven.
Dear to thee are infant voices,
When the Saviour's name they sing,
Heaven responds, while man rejoices:—
God hath found an offering.
'TIS bliss to feel the joy a father feels,
And the calm peace that through his bosom steals,
When homeward-bound, after his day of care,
He longs a wife and children's smiles to share:
His babe he presses to his heart with joy,
While on his knee up climbs his prattling boy.
Domestic bliss beguiles his evening hour,
And pure affection sheds her kindly power.
How oft his upraised soul breathes forth the prayer
For the loved objects of his daily care,
That "He who hangs creation on his arm"
Would guide their wandering feet and shield from harm.
The worldling loves his joys,—but what are they?
Alas! how quickly they must pass away!
The miser loves his gold,—his precious gold,
While towards affliction's sons his heart is cold,
Where is his hope? when the last trump shall sound,
Of what avail will his loved hoards be found?
What can surpass a pious father's love,
He hopes to meet his child in realms above,
I rove the roaring waterfall,
Within some deep, romantic glen,
Mid desert wilds, remote from all
The gay and busy haunts of men;
For its low thunders sound to me
Like voices from eternity!
They tell of ages long gone by,
And beings that have passed away,
Who sought, perhaps, with curious eye,
These rocks where now I love to stray:
And thus its thunders sound to me
Like voices from eternity!
And from the past they seem to call
My spirit to the realms beyond
The ruin that must soon befall
These scenes, where grandeur sits enthroned;
And thus its thunders sound to me
Like voices from eternity!
For I am on a torrent borne,
That whirls me rapidly away,
From morn to eve,—from eve to morn,
From month to month, from day to day,
Thus mighty cataract's thundering sounds
In louder thunders soon must die:
And all these rugged mountains round
Uprooted must in ruin lie:
But that dread hour will prove to me
The dawning of eternity!
Eternity, that vast unknown!
Who can that deep abyss explore,
Which swallows up the ages gone,
And rolls its billows evermore?
O may I find that boundless sea
A bright and blest eternity!
LIKE the rivers, time is gliding;
Brightest hours have no abiding;
Use the golden moments well:
Life is wasting,
Death is hasting;
Death consigns to heaven or hell.
WHEN summer decks thy path with flowers,
And pleasure's smile is sweetest;
When not a cloud above thee lowers,
And sunshine leads thy happy hours,
Thy happiest and thy fleetest;
O watch thou then, lest pleasure's smile
Thy spirit of its hope beguile,
When round thee gathering storms are high,
And grief thy days hath shaded;
When earthly joys bloom but to die,
And tears suffuse thy weeping eye,
And hope's bright bow hath faded;
O! watch thou then, lest anxious care
Invade thy heart and rankle there.
Through all life's scenes—through weal or wo,
Through days of mirth and sadness,
Where'er thy wandering footsteps go—
O think how transient here below
Thy sorrow and thy gladness;
And watch thou always, lest thou stray
From Him who points the heavenward way.
FEW rightly estimate the worth
Of joys that spring and fade on earth:
They are not weeds we should despise,
They are not fruits of Paradise;
But wild flowers in the pilgrim's way,
That cheer, yet not protract his stay;
Which he dare not too fondly clasp,
Lest they should perish in his grasp;
And yet may view, and wisely love,
As proofs and types of joys above.
CANST thou by searching find out God,
The Almighty to perfection trace?
And pierce the clouds
Whose darkness shrouds
The brightness of Jehovah's face?
Proud, daring man, this thought of thine
Proves thee the dupe of Satan's art:
The vain attempt
Must bring contempt
On thy rebellious head and heart.
First try the things thy senses reach,
Their nature, power, and essence tell;
If here thou fail,
Canst thou prevail
To find out the Unsearchable?
Go! count the stars and call their names,
Sweep with the comet through the sky;
Fix thy bold gaze
On the sun's blaze,
With an undazzled, tearless eye.
Go! sleep upon the thunder-cloud,
Grasp the forked lightning in thy hand;
Proceed to find
Whence comes the wind,
And trace its paths o'er sea and land.
Go! view the everlasting snows
Moistening the axles of the poles;
And boldly probe
Straight through the globe,
And span the line on which it rolls.
Should thy mind shrink from such attempts,
View the least work of Deity;—
The blades of grass
Thy skill surpass,
And thou art baffled by a fly.
If every work of God is full
Of mysteries we can never scan,
His word, 'tis plain,
Must then contain
Wonders above the powers of man.
Before the great Unsearchable
With lowliness and love I bend;
And gladly trace
In Jesus' face
My God, my Saviour, and my Friend.
The modest water, awed by Power divine,
Confest its God, and blushed itself to wine.
LET the proud veil of darkness be rolled from before thee,
O Lord, and descend on the wing of the storm:
Dispersed or enslaved are the saints that adore thee,
And the rude band of strangers thy temple deform.
And Salem, our Salem, lies low and degraded,
While far from her ruins in exile we pine;
Yet still is the hope of thy remnant unfaded,—
The hand that implants it, Jehovah, is thine.
Alas! we were warned, but we recked not the warning,
Till our warriors grew weak in the day of despair;
And our glory was fled as the light cloud of morning,
That gleams for a moment, and melts into air.
As the proud heathen trampled o'er Zion's sad daughter,
She wept tears of blood o'er her guilt and her woe;
Though foul are the deeds, O thou lost one, that stained thee,
The blood of atonement can wash them away;
Though galling and base are the bonds that enchain thee,
The God that imposed them can lighten their sway.
For a star shall yet rise o'er the darkness of Judah,
A branch yet shall flourish from Jesse's proud stem,
And Zion shall triumph o'er those that subdued her,
Yea, triumph in giving a Saviour to them!
AH, why should we seek to anticipate sorrow,
By throwing the joys of the present away?
And gather the black, rolling clouds of to-morrow
To darken the generous sun of to-day?
"Favour is deceitful and beauty is vain."
YES, favour's deceitful and beauty is vain,
'Tis a truth that ne'er wisdom need blush to avow;
'Tis as true as that age will be wedded to pain,
Or sorrow and sickness may cloud thy young brow.
The rose in thy garden this morning that bloomed,
See—its leaves are all withered and strewed on the plain
And even the zephyr, whose breath it perfumed,
Seemed sighing to whisper, all beauty is vain.
Is not favour deceitful?—Go, ask a reply
Of the darling of Henry, the honoured of Rome,
For whose lofty daring no state was too high,
And who aimed at the queen of the world for his home:
The purple of pontiffs, the rich robe of state,
Were the visions ambition threw over his brain;
Say, do we not read in the tale of his fate,
That favour's deceitful and beauty is vain?
Bright queen of the north, from thy mountains and fells,—
Rude scenes of thy infancy, dear to thy heart,
But there is a favour that cannot deceive,
That all may confide in to whom it is given,
And there is a beauty no time can bereave,
That perfumes with its fragrance the garden of heaven.
'Tis the favour humility earns from on high,
Shown to all who in virtue's fair pathway shall move;
'Tis the beauty of holiness, never to die,
But to blossom for ever in bowers above.
OPENING the map of God's extensive plan,
We find a little isle, this life of man;
Eternity's unknown expanse appears
Circling around, and limiting his years.
THOU canst accomplish all things, Lord of might,
And every thought is naked in thy sight.
But, oh! thy ways are wonderful, and lie
Beyond the deepest reach of mortal eye.
As down in the sunless retreats of the ocean
Sweet flowers are springing no mortal can see,
So, deep in my soul the still prayer of devotion,
Unheard by the world, rises silent to Thee;
My God! silent to Thee;
Pure, warm, silent, to Thee:
So, deep in my soul the still prayer of devotion,
Unheard by the world, rises silent to Thee.
As still to the star of its worship, though clouded,
The needle points faithfully o'er the dim sea,
So, dark as I roam, in the wintry world shrouded,
The hope of my spirit turns trembling to Thee;
My God! trembling to Thee;
Pure, warm, trembling to Thee:
So, dark as I roam, in the wintry world shrouded,
The hope of my spirit turns trembling to Thee.
I CANNOT ope mine eyes,
But Thou art ready there to catche
My morninge-soule and sacrifice:
Then we must needes for that daye make a matche.
My God, what is a hearte?
Silver, or gold, or precious stone,
Or starre, or rainbow, or a part
Of all these things, or all of them in one?
My God, what is a hearte,
That thou shouldst it so eye and woo,
Pouring upon it all thine arte,
As if that thou hadst nothing else to doe?
Indeed, man's whole estate
Amounts, (and richly) to serve thee:
He did not heaven and earthe create,
Yet studies them, not Him by whom they bee.
Teache me thy love to know;
That this new lighte, which now I see,
May both the work and workman showe,
Then by a sunne-beame I will climbe to thee.
GONE!—have ye all then gone—
The good, the beautiful, the kind, the dear?
Passed to your glorious rest so swiftly on,
And left me weeping here?
I gaze on your bright track;
I hear you lessening voices as ye go:—
Have ye no sigh, no solace to fling back
To us who toil below?
They hear not my faint cry,
Beyond the range of sense for ever flown.
I see them melt into eternity,
And feel I am alone.
To the high haven passed,
They anchor far above the scath of ill;
While the stern billow and the reckless blast
Are mine to cope with still.
Oh! from that land of love
Look ye not sometimes on this world of woe?
Think ye not, dear ones, in bright bowers above,
Of those you left below?
Surely ye note us here,
Though not as we appear to mortal view:
And can we still, with all our stains, be dear
To spirits pure as you?
Do ye not loathe,—not spurn,—
The worms of clay, the slaves of sense and will?
When ye from God and glory earthward turn,
Oh! can ye love us still?
Or, have ye rather now
Drunk of his Spirit whom ye worship there,
Who stripped the crown of glory from His brow,
The platted thorns to wear?
It is a fair, fond thought,
That you may still our friends and guardians be,
And heaven's high ministry by you be wrought
With objects low as we.
May we not sweetly hope
That you around our path and bed may dwell?
And shall not all our blessings brighter drop
From hands we loved so well?
Shall we not feel you near,
In hours of danger, solitude, and pain,
Cheering the darkness, drying off the tear,
And turning loss to gain?
Shall not your gentle voice
Break on temptation's dark and sullen mood,
Subdue our erring will, o'errule our choice,
And win from ill to good?
Oh! yes, to us, to us,
A portion of your converse still be given!
Struggling affection still would hold you thus,
Nor yield you all to heaven!
Lead our faint steps to God;
Be with us while the desert here we roam;
Teach us to tread the path which you have trod,
To find with you our home!
SAY, why should my bosom thus heave with a sigh,
And the tear of affection now start from my eye?
Forgive me, thou child whom my soul holds so dear.
You've a smile from my heart, though my eye drops a tear.
This sigh is the tribute of tenderest love,
And I trust shall be heard in the mansions above,
For it breathes a warm prayer to the Bridegroom of Heaven,
That to thee, now a bride, his last blessing be given.
May he weave thee a garland on this nuptial morn,
With the roses of Sharon, thy brows to adorn;
With the ring of his love, may he claim thee for his,
And pronounce thee joint heir of his heavenly bliss.
May the true wedding robe, which was purchas'd with blood,
Be thy portion, my daughter, by Jesus bestowed;
By his grace freely pardon'd, and cleansed from all sin,
Be thou spotless without, and all glorious within.
May my child and her partner in holy connexion
Be united through grace, by true Christian affection;
May the wife prove a sister, the husband a brother,
And each find a help in the faith of each other.
Thus thy marriage on earth a sweet emblem shall be
Of a far brighter union provided for thee:
And then, the few days of thy pilgrimage past,
Thy Saviour will own thee his bride at the last.
Peace be with you, my children; I speak without guile,
I began with a tear, and I end with a smile.
'Tis my hope that your happiness nothing shall cloy,
So the heart of the widow shall sing with new joy.
AND what's a life? the flourishing arraye
Of the proud summer-meadow, which to-daye
Weares her greene plush,—and is to-morrow hay.
"——But to hear
The roaring of the raging elements,
To know all human strength, all human skill,
Avail not; to look around, and only see
The mountain-wave incumbent, with its weight
Of bursting waters, o'er the reeling bark,—
O God! this is indeed a dreadful thing!"
SLOWLY the melancholy day
In cloud and storm passed o'er;
And may
a father's heart beat high,
With an aching fear of woe;
As he gazed upon the ghastly sky,
And heard the tempest blow!
Or watched, with sad and anxious eye,
The warring waves below!
O! many a mournful mother wept,
And closer, fonder prest
The babe, that soft and sweetly slept
Upon her troubled breast;
While every hour, that lingering crept,
Her agonies confest!
And one upon her couch was laid,
In deep and helpless pain;
Two children sought her side, and played
And strove to cheer—in vain:
Till breathlessly, and half afraid,
They listened to the rain!—
"'Tis a rough sea your father braves!"
The afflicted mother said;
"Pray that the Holy Arm that saves,
Then low the children bended there,
With clasped hands, to implore
That God would save them from despair,
And their loved sire restore:
And the heavens heard that quiet prayer,
'Mid all the tempest's roar!
'Twas eve!—and cloudlessly at last
The sky in beauty gleamed!
O'er snowy sail and lofty mast
The painted pennon streamed;
The danger and the gloom had past,
Like horrors—only dreamed!
Swift to the desolated beach
The fisher's children hied;
But far as human sight could reach,
No boat swept o'er the tide!
Still on they watched—and with sweet speech,
To banish grief they tried.
Long, long they sat—when, lo! a light
And distant speck was seen,—
Small as the smallest star of night
When night is most serene
"It comes!" he cried, "our father's boat
See!—sister—by yon stone!
Not there—not there—still more remote;
I know the sail's our own!
Look! look again!—they nearer float!
Thanks! thanks to God alone!"
Four happy, grateful hearts were those
That met at even-fall;
The mother half forgot her woes,
And kissed and blessed them all;
"Praised, praised," she said, "be He who shows
Sweet mercy when we call!"
WHEN on his mission from his home in heaven,
In a frail bark the Saviour deigned to sleep,
The tempest rose;—with headlong fury driven
The wave-tossed vessel whirl'd along the deep;
Wild shrieked the storm amid the parting shrouds,
As the vex'd billows dash'd the darkling clouds.
Oh! then how futile human skill and power!—
"Save us! we perish in the o'erwhelmlng wave,"
They cried, and found, in that tremendous hour,
"An eye to pity, and an arm to save;"
He spoke,—and, lo! obedient to his will,
The raging waters and the winds were still.
And thou, poor trembler, on life's stormy sea,
When dark the waves of sin and sorrow roll,
To Him for refuge from the tempest flee,
To Him confiding, trust thy sinking soul;
For, oh! He came to calm the tempest-tost,
To seek the wanderer, and to save the lost.
For thee, and such as thee, compelled by love,
He left the mansion of the blest on high,
'Mid sin, and pain, and fear, and grief to move;
With lingering anguish and with shame to die.
The debt of justice boundless mercy paid,
For helpless guilt complete atonement made.
Oh! in return for such surpassing grace,
Poor, blind, and naked, what canst thou impart?
Canst thou no offering on the altar place?
Yes, lowly mourner, give him all thy heart;
That simple offering he will not disown,
That living incense may approach his throne.
He asks not herds and flocks, and seas of oil,
No vain oblations please the All-knowing mind;
But the poor, weary, sin-sick, spent with toil,
Who humbly seek it, shall deliverance find;
Like her, the sufferer, who in secret stole
To touch his garment, and at once was whole.
Oh! for a voice of thunder which might wake
The slumbering sinner, ere he sinks in death;
Oh! for a tempest into dust to shake
His sand-built dwelling, while he yet has breath;
A viewless hand, to picture on the wall
His fearful sentence, ere the curtain fall.
Child of the dust, from torpid ruin rise—
Be earth's delusions from thy bosom hurl'd,
And strive to measure, with enlightened eyes,
The dread importance of the eternal world;
The shades of night are gathering round thee fast,
Arise and labour, ere thy day be past.
In darkness, tottering on the slippery verge
Of frail existence, soon to be no more,
Death's rude, tempestuous, ever-nearing surge,
Shall quickly dash thee from the sinking shore.
But, oh! the secrets of the following day
What tongue may utter, or what eye survey!
Oh, then, in time, think what the meek inherit,
What the peace-maker's,—what the mourner's part;
The allotted portion of the poor in spirit,
The promised visions of the pure in heart;
For yet in Gilead there is balm to spare,
And prompt to succour, a Physician there.
For me, I ask no mansion of the just,
No bright possession in yon dazzling sky;
For me, 'twere joy sufficient low in dust,
Like weeping Mary, at his feet to lie,
In deep abhorrence of myself, to hear
Such words as gladden'd her delighted ear.
DEATHLESS principle arise,
Soar, thou native of the skies!
Pearl of price by Jesus bought,
To his glorious likeness wrought
Go, to shine before His throne,
Deck his mediatorial crown;
Go, his triumphs to adorn,
Made for God, to God return.
Lo, he beckons from on high!
Fearless to his presence fly;
Thine the merits of his blood,
Thine the righteousness of God!
Angels joyful to attend,
Hovering round thy pillow bend;
Wait to catch the signal given,
And escort thee quick to heaven.
is thy earthly house distrest,
Willing to retain its guest?
'Tis not thou, but it, must die—
Fly! celestial tenant, fly!
Burst thy shackles, drop thy clay,
Sweetly breathe thyself away;
Singing to thy crown remove,
Swift of wing, and fired with love.
Shudder not to pass the stream,
Venture all thy care on Him,
Him, whose dying love and power
Still'd its tossing, hush'd its war:
Safe is the expanded wave,
Gentle as a summer's eve;
Not one object of his care
Ever suffer'd shipwreck there!
See the haven full in view,
Love divine shall bear thee through;
Mount, their transports to improve,
Join the longing choir above;
Swiftly to their wish be given,
Kindle higher joy in heaven!
Such the prospects that arise
To the dying Christian's eyes;
Such the glorious vista, faith
Opens through the shades of death!
THE wilderness in sooth is glad,
The desert blossoms as the rose,
Where desolation—silence spread,
The song of Zion softly flows.
Brainerd was called the Apostle of the North American Indians.
His land was dark, and idol powers
In terror held the warrior's breast;
But heavenly doctrine dropped as showers,
As Hermon's dew it made him blest.
Its ray of truth dispelled a night
As deep as once, in ages gone
Hung on the Egyptian's land, where light
Beamed forth for Israel's sons alone.
Where brothers' blood once dew'd the ground,
Where rose the inebriate's yell in air,
A band of Christian friends are found,
And murderers in the house of prayer.
This is a conquest worth the name—
Such never graced the "iron rod,"—
To teach the Indian, Jesus' name,
And lead him captive—unto God!
In sooth the wilderness is glad,
The desert blossoms as the rose,
Where desolation—silence spread,
The song of Zion softly flows.
DEATH found strange beauty on that cherub brow
And dashed it out.—There was a tint of rose
On cheek and lip—he touch'd the veins with ice,
And the rose faded. Forth, from those blue eyes,
There spoke a wishful tenderness—a doubt,
Whether to grieve or sleep—which innocence
Alone can wear. With ruthless haste, he bound
The silken fringe of their curtailing lids
For ever. There had been a murmuring sound,
With which the babe would claim its mother's ear,
Charming her even to tears. The spoiler set
His seal of silence! But there beamed a smile,
So fixed and holy, from that marble brow,
Death gazed; and left it there—he dared not steal
The signet-ring of Heaven.
TIME was, is past; thou canst not it recall:
Time is, thou hast; employ the portion small:
Time future, is not,; and may never be:
Time present is the only time for thee.
"Now in thy youth beseech of Him,
Who giveth, upbraiding not,
That his light in thy heart become not dim,
And his love be unforgot:
And thy God, in the darkest of days, will be
Greenness, and beauty, and strength to thee."
HUSH! tis a holy hour—the quiet room
Seems like a temple, while yon soft lamp sheds
A faint and starry radiance through the gloom,
And the sweet stillness, down on young, bright heads,
With all their clustering locks, untouched by care,
And bowed, as flowers are bowed with night—in prayer.
Gaze on, 'tis lovely!—childhood's lip and cheek
Mantling beneath its earnest brow of thought;
Gaze—yet what seest thou in those fair, and meek,
And fragile things, as but for sunshine wrought?
Thou seest what grief must nurture for the sky,
What death must fashion for eternity!
Oh! joyous creatures that will sink to rest,
Lightly, when those pure orisons are done,
As birds, with slumber's honey-dew oppressed,
'Midst the dim, folded leaves at set of sun—
Though fresh within your breasts the untouched springs
Of hope make melody where'er ye tread;
And o'er your sleep bright shadows, from the wings
Of spirits visiting but youth, be spread;
Yet in those flute-like voices, mingling low,
Is woman's tenderness—how soon her woe!
Her lot is on you—silent tears to weep,
And patient smiles to wear, through suffering's hour,
And sumless riches, from affection's deep,
To pour on broken reeds—a wasted shower
And to make idols, and to find them clay,
And to bewail that worship—therefore pray!
Her lot is on you—to be found untired
Watching the stars out by the bed of pain,
With a pale cheek, and yet a brow inspired,
And a true heart of hope, though hope be vain.
Meekly to bear with wrong, to cheer decay,
And, oh! to love through all things—therefore pray!
And take the thought of this calm vesper time,
With its low murmuring sounds and silvery light,
On through the dark days fading from their prime,
As a sweet dew to keep your souls from blight.
WHERE burns the loved hearth brightest,
Cheering the social breast?
Where beats the fond heart lightest,
Its humble hopes possest?
Where is the smile of sadness,
Of meek-eyed patience born,
Worth more than those of gladness,
Which mirth's bright cheek adorn?—
Pleasure is mark'd by fleetness,
To those who ever roam;
While grief itself has sweetness
At Home! dear Home!
There blend the ties that strengthen
Our hearts in hours of grief,
The silver links that lengthen
Joy's visits when most brief;
There eyes, in all their splendour,
Are vocal to the heart,
And glances, gay, or tender,
Fresh eloquence impart;
Then dost thou sigh for pleasure?
Oh! do not blindly roam,
Does pure religion charm thee
Far more than aught below?
Wouldst thou that she should arm thee
Against the hour of woe?
Think not she dwelleth only
In temples built for prayer;
For home itself is lonely
Unless her smiles be there:
The devotee may falter,
The bigot blindly roam,
If worshipless her altar
At Home! dear Home!
Love over it presideth,
With meek and watchful awe,
Its daily service guideth,
And shows its perfect law;
If there thy faith shall fail thee,
If there no shrine be found,
What can thy prayers avail thee,
With kneeling crowds around?
Go! leave thy gift unoffer'd
Beneath religion's dome,
And be her first-fruits proffered
At Home! dear Home!
MY Father, hast thou quite withdrawn
The bright and glorious light of morn?
And hast thou left thy child alone,
The ray of heavenly comfort gone?—
Dost thou disdain my simple prayer?
Hast thou withdrawn thy tender care?
My soul doth pant for Thee, O Lord,
Thou living and eternal Word!
Permit thy righteous sun to rise,
And gild my passage to the skies;
Rekindle with thy holy fire,
Each spark of love, each good desire;
And when the hour of death shall come,
Oh! may I find a blissful home;—
There dwell with Jesus and with Thee,
Through ages of Eternity.
KNOWLEDGE and zeal, and gifts, and talk,
Unless combined with faith and love
And witness'd by a gospel walk,
Will not a true profession prove.
OH India, fair thy groves may show,
While the great banian curtains earth,
And bends again each noble bough
Down to the fountain of its birth.
Too well an emblem of thy sons
Is figur'd by that glorious tree;—
To earth now cling their souls, but once
They were a glorious race and free.
Thus, when I mark their ruined powers,
I cry, to me be Albion given,
Where all unlike thy sons and bowers,
Her bowers and sons aspire to heaven.
BELIEVER.
TRUE faith producing love to God and man
Say, Echo, is not this the gospel plan?
ECHO.
The gospel plan.
BELIEVER.
May I my faith in Jesus constant show
By doing good to all, both friend and foe?
ECHO.
Both friend and foe.
BELIEVER.
But if a brother hates and treats me ill,
Must I return him good and love him still?
ECHO.
Love him still.
BELIEVER.
If he my failings watches to reveal,
Must I his faults as carefully conceal?
ECHO.
As carefully conceal.
BELIEVER.
But if my name and character he tears,
And cruel malice too, too plain appears;
And when I sorrow or affliction know,
He loves to add unto my cup of woe,—
In this uncommon, this, peculiar case,
Sweet Echo say, must I still love and bless?
ECHO.
Still love and bless.
BELIEVER.
Whatever usage ill I may receive,
ECHO.
Still patient be and still forgive.
BELIEVER.
Amen with all my heart, then be it so!
It's all delightful, just, and good I know;
And now to practice I'll directly go.
ECHO.
Directly go.
BELIEVER.
Things being thus, then let who will reject,
My gracious God me surely will protect.
ECHO.
Surely will protect.
BELIEVER.
Henceforth on Him I'll roll my every care,
And both my friend and foe embrace in prayer.
ECHO.
Embrace in prayer.
BELIEVER.
But after all these duties, when they're done,
Must I in point of merit, them disown,
And rest my soul on Jesus' blood alone?
ECHO.
On Jesus' blood alone.
BELIEVER.
Echo, enough! Thy counsel to my ear
Is sweeter than to flowers the dew-drop tear:
Thy wise, instructive lessons please me well,
Till next we meet again:—Farewell! farewell!
ECHO.
Farewell! farewell!
CORNELIUS CAYLEY.
IN de dark woods, no Indian nigh,
Den me look Heb'en, and send up cry,
Upon um knee, so low,
Dat God on high, in shiny place,
See me in night with teary face;
My priest he tell me so.
God send he angel,—take me care,
Him come heself and hear um prayer,
If Indian heart do pray:—
He see me now, he know me here,
He say, poor Indian neber fear,
Me wid you night and day.
So me lub God with inside heart,
He fight for me, he take um part,
OUR heavenly Father, hear
The prayer we offer now;
Thy name be hallowed far and near;
To Thee all nations bow:
Thy kingdom come; Thy will
On earth be done in love,
As saints and seraphim fulfil
Thy perfect law above.
Our daily bread supply,
While by thy word we live;
The guilt of our iniquity
Forgive, as we forgive.
From dark temptation's power,
From Satan's wiles defend;
Deliver in the evil hour,
And guide us to the end.
Twice as much.
Thine, then for ever be
Glory and power divine;
The sceptre, throne, the majesty
Of heaven and earth are thine.
—Thus humbly taught to pray
By thy beloved Son,
Through Him we come to Thee, and say,
All for His sake be done.
LIGHT for the dreary vales
Of ice-bound Labrador!
Where the frost-king breathes on the slippery sails,
And the mariner wakes no more;
Lift high the lamp that never fails
To that dark and sterile shore.
Light for the forest child!
An outcast though he be,
From the haunts where the sun of his childhood smiled,
And the country of the free;
Pour the hope of heaven o'er his desert wild,
For what home on earth has he?
Light for the hills of Greece!
Light for that trampled clime,
Where the rage of the spoiler refused to cease,
Ere it wrecked the boast of time;
If the Moslem hath dealt the gift of peace,
Can ye grudge your boon sublime?
Light on the Hindoo shed!
On the maddening idol train;
The flame of the suttee is dire and red,
And the fakir faints with pain,
And the dying moan on their cheerless bed
By the Ganges laved in vain.
Light for the Persian sky!
The sophi's wisdom fades,
And the pearls of Ormus are poor to buy
Armour when death invades:
Hark! hark! 'tis the sainted Martyn's sigh,
From Ararat's mournful shades.
Light for the Burman vales!
For the islands of the sea!
For the coast where the slave-ship fills its sails
With sighs of agony,
And her kidnapped babes the mother wails,
'Neath the lone banana-tree!
Light for the ancient race
Exiled from Zion's rest!
Light for the darkened earth!
Ye blessed, its beams who shed,
Shrink not till the day-spring hath its birth,
Till, wherever the footsteps of man doth tread,
Salvation's banner, spread broadly forth,
Shall gild the dream of the cradle-bed,
And clear the tomb
From its lingering gloom,
For the aged to rest his weary head.
WHENE'ER the clouds of sorrow roll,
And trials whelm the mind,
When, Faint with grief, thy weary soul
No joy on earth can find,—
Then lift thy voice to God on high,
Dry up the trembling tear,
And hush the low, complaining sigh;
"Fear not," thy God is near.
When dark temptations spread their snares,
And earth with charms allures,
And when thy soul, oppressed with fears,
The world's assault endures;
Then let thy Father's friendly voice
Thy fainting spirit cheer,
And bid thy trembling heart rejoice;
"Fear not," thy God is near.
And when the last, last hour shall come,
That calls thee to thy rest,
To dwell within thy heavenly home,
A welcome, joyful guest,
Be calm—though Jordan's waves may roll,
No ills shall meet thee there;
Angels shall whisper to thy soul,
"Fear not," thy God is near.
"MOTHER, how still the baby lies
I cannot hear his breath;
I cannot see his laughing eyes—
They tell me this is death!
"My little work I thought to bring,
And sat down by his bed,
And pleasantly I tried to sing—
They hushed me—he is dead!
"They say that he again will rise.
More beautiful than now;
That God will bless him in the skies—
O, mother, tell me how!"
"Daughter, do you remember, dear,
The cold dark thing you brought,
And laid upon the casement here,
A withered worm, you thought?
"I told you that Almighty Power,
Could break that withered shell,
And show you in a future hour
Something would please you well.
"Look at the chrysalis, my love,—
An empty shell it lies;
Now raise your wondering glance above,
To where yon insect flies."
"O, yes, mamma! how very gay
Its wings of starry gold;
And, see! it lightly flies away,
Beyond my gentle hold.
"O, mother, now I know full well,
If God that worm can change,
And draw it from this broken cell,
On golden wings to range;—
"How beautiful will brother be,
When God shall give him wings,
Above this dying world to flee,
And live with heavenly things!"
O THOU! from whom all goodness flows,
I lift my heart to thee;
In all my sorrows, conflicts, woes,
O Lord, "remember me!"
When pressing on my burdened heart,
My sins lie heavily,
My pardon speak,—Thy peace impart;
In love "remember me."
Temptations sore obstruct my way,
And ills I cannot flee,
The hour is near,—consigned to death,
I own the just decree;
Succour! with my last parting breath
I'll cry, "remember me!"
THERE is an eye that never sleeps,
Beneath the wing of night;
There is an ear that never shuts,
When sink the beams of light.
There is an arm that never tires,
When human strength gives way;
There is a love that never fails,
When earthly loves decay.
That eye is fixed on seraph throngs;
That ear is filled with angels' songs;
That arm upholds the world on high
That love is throned beyond the sky.
But there's a power which man can wield,
When mortal aid is vain;—
That eye, that arm, that love to reach,
That listening ear to gain.
That power is prayer, which soars on high,
And feeds on bliss beyond the sky!
THE burning east hath caught a sign
Upon the brow of night,
And starts the sage to see it shine
O'er all the morning's light;
A stranger with his step of fire
Upon the starry way,
And wings that tarnish not nor tire
Amid the blaze of day;
But keeping still his flashing eye
Unshut amid the sun-bright sky.
He is not of the stars that sang,∗
At that primæval birth,
"When the morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God shouted for joy."—Job, xxxviii. 7.
When all their lyres with music rang
To hail the young bright earth;
When swelled the world's high anthem out,
And pealed the spheres abroad,
And one wide pæan met the shout,
From all the "sons of God!"
He fought not with the starry train,∗
That fought on Kishon's ancient plain.
Whence comes that glorious messenger?
Why came he not before?
Chaldea hath no form so fair,
In all her planet lore:—
The gheber knoweth not that star,
Amid his creed of fire;
Nor hath its beauty hailed from far
The mariner of Tyre,
When midnight, with her spirit train,
Looked o'er the Idumean main!
It prophesieth in the skies;
Oh! where hath it been hid
For ages, 'mid the myriad eyes
That watch the pyramid!
The Persian, with his starry wit,
He cannot speak its name,
"The stars in their courses fought against Sisera."— Judges, v. 20.
And who shall read the story writ
Upon its brow of flame!
It hath no page in Grecian art,
Nor sign on Zoroaster's chart!
It spreadeth forth its glittering wing,
And beckoneth to the west,
And circleth, like a living thing,
In haste—that may not rest:
The sage hath watched its course afar,
And pondered it apart,
Till, lo! the story of that star
Beams in upon his heart,
And brightly rises on his soul
The legend of its burning scroll!
'Tis He—'tis He— the light of whom
Those ancient prophets told;
The star that should from Jacob come,∗
To shine on Judah's fold!
The East shall offer odours sweet
To meet its rising smiles,
And kings bring presents to His feet
From Tarshish and the isles,—
And Sheba, from the deserts far,
Be summoned by that herald star:
"There shall come a star out of Jacob."—Numb. xxiv. 17.
"The kings of Tarshish and of the ides shall bring presents: the kings of Sheba and Seba shall offer gifts."—Psalm lxxii. 10.
The angel with his sword of flame,
Who watched on Eden's towers,
When Adam, in his hour of shame,
Went weeping from its bowers—
Perchance to that same shining power
The gentler task is given,
To point, in this redeeming hour,
The pathway back to heaven,
And keep the new and better road
That opens to the tree of God.
Along the wild, like ships at sea,
The pilgrim-camel rides,
And through the heavens silently
That glorious banner glides:
The desert-fiend, in breathless haste,
Stalks faint and far away,
And like a garden blooms the waste,
Beneath the holy ray,—
Where they who weary not nor rest
Are travelling star-led to the west.
When Judah heard the voice of God,
On Egypt's hostile plain,
And shook again her hair abroad,
And flung away her chain,—
She followed through the desert-way
Alternate gloom and light,
And that was still a shade by day
But onward, onward gliding still,
Afar and yet afar,
By day and night, o'er plain and hill
Looks out yon golden star!
Oh! never herald's presence yet
With such a glory shone,
And sure such guide must bring the feet
Unto a gorgeous throne;
And who shall meet His awful eye
Whose burning couriers walk the sky?
Yon herald halteth suddenly!
And with their fragrant freight
The stately camels stoop the knee
Before—a stable-gate!
Oh! He whose name was first on high
Is lowliest in his birth,
And He whose star is in the sky
Hath but a crib on earth;
And they—the wise—have trod the wild
To bow before—a little child!
Lo! guided by that eastern ray,
The lowly and the poor
May gather precious truths to-day
NOT worlds on worlds in phalanx deep,
Need we to prove a God is here;
The daisy, fresh from winter's sleep,
Tells of his hand in lines as clear.
For who but He who arched the skies,
And pours the day-spring's living flood,
Wondrous alike in all He tries,
Could rear the daisy's purple bud.
Mould its green cup, its wiry stem,
Its fringed border nicely spin;
And cut the gold embossed gem
That, set in silver, gleams within;
And fling it, unrestrained and free,
O'er hill and dale, and desert sod,
That man, where'er he walks, may see
In every step the stamp of God.
CALL not thy baby dead—
Its ransomed soul hath fled,
On seraph-wings to soar.
Call not thy baby lost—
The stream of death is crossed,
Attained is Canaan's shore.
A pearl of sweet renown,
'Tis in its Saviour's crown.
And wouldst thou wish it here?
Look on that placid brow,
Fair as the driven snow,—
Ah, mother, dry thy tear.
Thou prayed, when it was given,
That it might live for heaven,
MARK well yon gems with mystic glass,
That shine so lovely o'er thee,
And number them as on they pass
In beauty bright before thee:
If thou their number right canst scan,
Thou'lt count the gifts of Heaven to man.
WHEN langour and disease invade
This trembling house of clay,
'Tis sweet to look beyond our cage,
And long to soar away.
Sweet to look inward and attend
The whispers of His love;
Sweet to look upward to the throne,
Where Jesus pleads above.
Sweet to look back and see my name
In life's fair book set down;
Sweet to look forward and behold
Eternal joys my own.
Sweet to reflect how grace divine
My sins on Jesus laid;
Sweet to remember that His blood
My debt of suffering paid.
Sweet on His righteousness to stand,
Which saves from second death;
Sweet to experience day by day
His Spirit's quick'ning breath.
Sweet on His faithfulness to rest,
To trust His firm decrees;
Sweet to lie passive in His hand,
And know no will but His.
Sweet to rejoice in lively hope,
That when my change shall come,
Angels shall hover round my bed
And waft my spirit home.
If such the views that grace unfolds,
Weak as it is below,
What rapture must the church above
In Jesus' presence know!
If such the sweetness of the stream,
What must the fountain be,
Where saints and angels draw their bliss
Immediately from Thee?
NIGHT is the time to rest;
How sweet, when labours close,
To gather round an aching breast
The curtain of repose:
Stretch the tired limbs, and lay the head
Upon our own delightful bed
Night is the time for dreams;
The gay romance of life,
When truth that is, and truth that seems
Blend in fantastic strife;
Night is the time for toil;
To plough the classic field,
Intent to find the buried spoil
Its wealthy furrows yield;
Till all is ours that sages taught,
That poets sang, or heroes wrought.
Night is the time to weep;
To wet with unseen tears
Those graves of memory where sleep
The joys of other years;
Hopes that were angels in their birth,
But perished young, like things of earth.
Night is the time to watch;
On ocean's dark expanse,
To hail the pleiades, or catch
The full-moon's earliest glance,
That brings unto the home-sick mind
All we have loved and left behind.
Night is the time for care;
Brooding on hours mis-spent,
To see the spectre of despair
Come to our lonely tent;
Like Brutus, midst his slumb'ring host,
Startled by Caesar's stalwart ghost.
Night is the time to muse;
Then from the eye the soul
Takes flight, and with expanding views,
Beyond the starry pole,
Descries athwart the abyss of night
The dawn of uncreated light.
Night is the time to pray;
Our Saviour oft withdrew,
To desert mountains far away,
So will his followers do;
Steal from the throng, to haunts untrod,
To hold communion there with God.
Night is the time for death;
When all around is peace,
Calmly to yield the weary breath,
From sin and suffering cease,
Think of heaven's bliss, and give the sign
To parting friends—such death be mine!
TIME speeds away—away—away!
Another hour—another day—
Another month—another year—
Drop from us like the leaflets sear;
Drop like the life-blood from our hearts;
The rose-bloom from the cheek departs.
The tresses from the temples fall,
The eye grows dim and strange to all.
Time speeds away—away—away!
Like torrent in a stormy day,
He undermines the stately tower,
Uproots the tree, and snaps the flower;
And sweeps from our distracted breast
The friends that loved, the friends that blessed;
And leaves us weeping on the shore,
To which they can return no more.
Time speeds away—away—away!
No eagle through the skies of day,
No wind along the hills can flee
So swiftly or so smooth as he.
Like fiery steed, from stage to stage
He bears us on, from youth to age:
NAME them not dead—the faithful, whom
Green earth clos'd lately o'er,
Nor search within the silent tomb
For those who "die no more."
The cold earth hides them from our love,
But not from His who rules above.
They pass'd, as all must pass, the deep
Dread portal of the grave:
But not in dull decay they sleep,
Whom Jesus died to save.
To mortal eye their path is dim,
But 'tis enough,—they rest with Him.
We saw the momentary cloud,
The pale eclipse of mind,
From earthly sight that came to shroud
The ray of thought behind:
A moment more, the shade is gone—
The sun, the spirit, burneth on.
To die—'tis but to pass all free
From death's dominion here—
To burst the bonds of earth, and flee
From every mortal fear;
To plunge within that gulf untried,
And stand before it, glorified.
Thou weep'st—perchance they weep for thee,
If heavenly tear can flow,
To think of all the ills that be
In this sad world below.
Oh! not for all its climes contain
Would they return to earth again.
Yet weep—for earth's a vale of care,
And they who mourn are blest,
If He who heeds the mourner's prayer
Send comfort to the breast;
If hallowed hope break through its gloom,
Earth hath no teacher like the tomb.
"Thy way is in the sea, and thy path in the great waters,
and thy footsteps are not known."—
I WILL not sing a mortal's praise;
To thee I consecrate my lays,
To whom my powers belong;
These gifts upon thine altar strown,
O God! accept;—accept thine own,
My gifts are thine,—be thine alone
The glory of my song.
In earth and ocean, sky and air,
All that is excellent and fair,
Seen, felt, or understood,
From one eternal cause descends,
To one eternal centre tends,
With God begins, continues, ends,
The source and stream of good.
I worship not the sun at noon,
The wand'ring stars, the changing moon,
The wind, the flood, the flame;
I will not bow the votive knee
Him through all nature I explore,
Him in his creatures I adore,
Around, beneath, above;
But, clearest in the human mind,
His bright resemblance when I find—
Grandeur with purity combined,—
I most admire and love.
Oh! there was one,—on earth awhile
He dwelt;—but transient as a smile
That turns into a tear,
His beauteous image passed us by,
He came like lightning from the sky,
He seem'd as dazzling to the eye
As prompt to disappear.
Mild, in his undissembling mien
Were genius, candour, meekness seen,
The lips that loved the truth;
The single eye, whose glance sublime
Look'd to eternity through time;
The soul whose hopes were wont to climb
Above the joys of youth.
Of old,—before the lamp grew dark,
Reposing near the curtain'd ark,
Thus early call'd, and strongly moved,
A prophet from a child, approved,
Spencer his course began;
From strength to strength, from grace to grace,
Swiftest and foremost in the race,
He carried victory in his face;
He triumphed as he ran.
How short his day!—the glorious prize,
To our slow hearts and failing eyes
Appear'd too quickly won:
The warrior rushed into the field,
With arm invincible to wield
The Spirit's sword, the Spirit's shield,
When, lo! the fight was done.
The loveliest star of evening's train
Sets early in the western main,
And leaves the world in night;
The brightest star of morning's host,
Scarce risen, in brighter beams is lost;
Thus sunk his form on ocean's coast,
Thus sprang his soul to light.
1 Sam. iii.
Who shall forbid the eye to weep,
That saw him from the ravening deep
Pluck'd like the lion's prey?
For ever bowed his honoured head,
The spirit in a moment fled,
The heart of friendship cold and dead,
The limbs a wreath of clay!
Revolving his mysterious lot,
I mourn him, but I praise him not:
Glory to God be given,
Who sent him, like a radiant bow,
His covenant of peace to show;
Athwart the breaking storm to glow,
Then vanish into heaven.
O church! to whom that youth was dear,
The angel of thy mercies here;
Behold the path he trod,
A milky way through midnight skies!
Behold the grave in which he lies,
Even from this dust thy prophet cries,
"Prepare to meet thy God."
SURELY we know 'tis a land of sin,
Where sorrow and death have enter'd in;
Where tears have darkened the brightest eyes,
And the rosiest lips breathe forth sad sighs;
Where sunny curls blanch with the hand of time,
And the purest spirits are tinged with crime;
Where the flowers, and the trees, and the birds must die,
And all things tell of mortality.
O, FAR away from Judah's temple towers,
In hapless exile borne to stranger-shores,
By foreign waters captive Zion wept,
Her mournful harp in silent sorrow slept;
No prophet-hand attuned the dulcet chords,
Nor holy seer awakened heavenly words;
No more the temple's tuneful choir proclaim
The awful honours of Jehovah's name;
No more they roam o'er Palestina's hills,
Through balmy groves, beside refreshing rills;
Or, musing o'er the prophet-page, recline
Beneath the shady clusters of the vine;
No more for them the flowers of Sharon bloom,
No Carmel's fragrant borders breathe perfume;
The dews of Hermon vainly fall for them,
And idly Jordan rolls his sacred stream:
The cedar-monarch, on his lofty throne,
To strangers yields the pride of Lebanon:
And, deeper grief, the temple's holy things,
Profaned at banquets of Chaldean kings,
In proud display adorn the festive board,
And grace the revels of their heathen lord.
Mourn, thou afflicted, bruised, forsaken one!
Unhappy outcast of a ruined throne:—
The waters strong and many are unchained,
And darken all the borders of thy land.
But hark—a sound ascends for other years,
The brightening visions of departed seers,
Sing, captive daughter! widow'd queen, rejoice!
In Salem thou shalt hear Messiah's voice!
Yet will thy sons his lowly advent own,
Or hail a Saviour but on David's throne?
But are there not, in favour'd gospel-days,
Who bear the Saviour's glorious name of praise;
Yet view through reason's lens the path he trod,
And own the prophet—but deny the God?
Still in the heart, to Israel's folly true,
They crucify the Prince of life anew:—
Yet e'en for these compassionate he pleads,
For these at God's right hand for ever intercedes.
O Thou, who lookst with tender pity down
On erring man, from thine eternal throne,
O, LET us never lightly fling
A barb of woe to wound another;
O, never let us haste to bring
The cup of sorrow to a brother:
Each has the power to wound,—but he
Who wounds that he may witness pain,
Has learnt no law of charity,
Which ne'er inflicts a pang in vain.
'Tis godlike to awaken joy,
Or sorrow's influence to subdue;
But not to wound, or to annoy
Is part of virtue's lesson too.—
Peace, winged in fairer worlds above,
Shall bend her down to brighten this,
When all man's labour shall be love
And all his thoughts—a brother's bliss.
Look at those sleeping children! softly tread,
Lest thou do mar their dream; and come not nigh
Till their fond mother, with a kiss, shall cry,
"'Tis morn, awake! awake!" Ah! they are dead;
Yet folded in each other's arms they lie
So still—oh, look! so still and smilingly—
So breathing and so beautiful they seem
As if to die in youth were but a dream
Of spring and flowers! of flowers? yet nearer stand—
There is a lily in one little hand,
Broken, but not faded yet,
As if its cup with tears was wet.
So sleeps that child; not faded, though in death;
And seeming still to hear her sister's breath,
As when she first did lay her hand to rest
Gently on that sister's breast,
And kissed her ere she fell asleep!
The archangel trump alone shall wake that slumber deep.
Take up those flowers that fell
From the dead hand, and sigh a long farewell!
Your spirit rests in bliss!
Yet ere with parting prayers we say
Farewell for ever, to the insensate clay,
THY glorious face, O God!
O hide it not from me;
My feet would tread the peaceful road
That leads to heaven and Thee:
That path my blessed Saviour trod,
And gained the victory.
My flesh is weak indeed,
My faith is like to fail,
My head is wrapped about with weed,
And doubts my heart assail;
Break not the seared and bruised reed,
Hide me within the vail.
Yea, with thy guardian wing
Cover me night and day,
Give me of joy and love to sing,
Teach me in faith to say—
Thou art my Prophet, Priest, and King,
The Light, the Truth, the Way.
Weary and faint am I,
But thou art strong to save;
Hear me, oh, hear me when I cry!
Restrain the o'erwhelming wave;
Lift up my soul in faith to thee,
Myself I cannot save.
When life's brief span is o'er,
Lead me to Zion's rest;
Then shall I gladly leave no more
My precious Saviour's breast;
But with the ransomed ever pour
The anthem of the blest.
For sin I can't atone,
Christ suffered not in vain
"Lo, we have left all and followed thee."
JESUS, I my cross have taken,
All to leave, and follow Thee;
Naked, poor, despised, forsaken,
Thou from hence my all shalt be:
Perish every fond ambition,
All I've sought, or hoped, or known,
Yet, how rich is my condition,
God and heaven are still my own.
Let the world despise and leave me;
They have left my Saviour too;
Human hearts and looks deceive me,
Thou art not, like them, untrue;
And whilst thou shalt shine upon me,
God of wisdom, love and might,
Foes may hate, and friends may scorn me,
Show thy face, and all is bright.
Go, then, earthly fame and treasure,
Come disaster, scorn, and pain,
In thy service pain is pleasure,
With thy favour loss is gain.
I have called thee Abba, Father,
I have set my heart on thee,
Storms may howl, and clouds may gather,
All must work for good to me.
Man may trouble and distress me,
'Twill but drive me to thy breast;
Life with trials hard may press me,
Heaven will bring me sweeter rest.
Oh! 'tis not in grief to harm me,
While thy love is left for me,
Oh! 'twere not in joy to charm me,
Were that joy unmixed with thee.
Soul, then know thy full salvation,
Rise o'er sin, and fear, and care,
Joy to find in every station
Something still to do or bear.
Think what spirit dwells within thee;
Think what Father's smiles are thine,
Think how Jesus died to save thee:—
Child of heaven, canst thou repine?
Haste thee on from grace to glory,
Armed by faith and winged by prayer,
HOW fresh, O Lord, how sweet and clean
Are thy returns! e'en as the flowers in spring;
To which, besides their own demean,
The late-past frosts tributes of pleasure bring,
Grief melts away, like snow in May;
As if there were no such cold thing.
Who would have thought my shrivel'd heart
Could have recover'd greennesse? It was gone
Quite underground, as flowers depart
To see their mother-root, when they have blown;
Where they, together, all the hard weather,
Dead to the world, keep house unknown.
These are thy wonders, Lord of power!
Killing and quick'ning, bringing down to hell,
O, that I once past changing were;
Fast in thy paradise, where no flower can wither,
Many a spring I shoot up fair,
Off'ring at heaven, growing and groaning thither:
Nor doth my flower want a spring showre;
My sins and I joyning together.
But, while I grow in a straight line,
Still upwards bent, as if heaven were mine own,
Thy anger comes, and I decline.
What frost to that? What pole is not the zone
Where all things burn, when thou dost turn,
And the least frown of thine is shown?
And now in age I bud again:
After so many deaths I live and write:
I once more smell the dew and rain,
And relish versing. O my onely light,
It cannot be that I am he,
On whom thy tempests fell all night
These are thy wonders, Lord of love!
To make us see we are but flowers that glide:
Which when we once can find and prove,
POOR simple man! still in thy ignorance blest,
Know that thy Bible dares the keenest test;
Know that the scoffer who bright science brings,
To find out blunders in our holy things,
Finds, search his utmost, and search where he will,
Our holy place grows only holier still:
Nay more,—the torch he brought to search the place,
Displays the darkness of his evil face.
Now that my body dead-alive,
Bereav'd of comfort lyes in thrall,
As to the flesh we foode do give,
To keepe in us this mortal breath;
So soules on meditation live,
And shunne thereby immortall death;
Nor art thou ever neerer rest
Than when thou findest me opprest.
First thinke, my soule, if I have foes
That take a pleasure in my care,
And to procure these outward woes
Have thus entrapt me unaware,
Thou shouldst by much more carefull bee,
Since greater foes lay waite for thee.
Then when meu'd up in grates of steele,
Minding those joys mine eyes doe misse,
Thou find'st no torment thou dost feele
So grievous as privation is:
Muse how the damn'd in flames that glow,
Pine in the losse of blisse they know.
Thou seest there's given so great a might
To some that are but clay, as I,
Their very anger can affright,
Which if in any thou espie
By my late hopes that now are crost,
Consider those that firmer bee,
And make the freedome I have lost
A meanes that may remember thee:
Had Christ not thy Redeemer bin
What horrid thrall thou hadst beene in.
These iron chaines, the bolts of steele,
Which other poore offenders guirde,
The wants and cares which they doe feele
May bring some greater thing to minde,
For by their griefe thou shalt doe well,
To thinke upon the paines of hell.
Or when through me thou seest a man
Condemned unto a mortall death,
How sad he looks, how pale, how wan,
Drawing with feare his panting breath,
Thinke if in that such griefe thou see,
How sad will "Goe, ye cursed," bee!
Againe, when he that fear'd to dye
(Past hope) doth see his pardon brought,
Reade but the joy that's in his eye,
And then convay it to thy thought,
There thinke betwixt thy heart and thee,
How sweet will "Come, ye blessed," bee!
Thus if thou doe, though closed here,
My bondage I shall deeme the lesse,
I neither shall have cause to fear,
Nor yet bewaile my sad distresse;
For whether live, or pine, or dye,
We shall have blisse eternally.
A RECENT sight, my dearest Anne,
Engaged mine eye and heart;
And I the scene, and moral too,
Would now to thee impart:
A truth was never deem'd the worse,
Expressed in figure or in verse.
'Twas in my lonely garden, where
I late and early rove,
In lonely walk, or happier still,
Indulg'd with her I love,
And where to talk or thought resign'd,
A part of Eden yet I find.
'Twas there two plants of tender form
Upgrowing I survey'd;
Both conscious of their weakness seem'd,
And seem'd to ask for aid:
I mark'd with anxious watch their bent,
And judged a union their intent.
And so it prov'd—for soon they clasp'd,
And, curling round and round,
Look'd fearful lest they each should lose
The helper each had found;
But coupled soon, they firmness gain'd
And reached a height not else attain'd.
But bending now, as weighter grown,
They feel their junction weak,
And something both may rest upon
They now together seek:
A tree at hand their wishes drew,
And on this prop they hung and grew.
But as I stood, and while I gazed,
A voice my ear addressed;
"All nature is a book, and he
Who reads is wise and blessed;
No humble monitor disdain,
Nor let a trifle preach in vain.
"If 'twas not good for man to live
In Paradise alone,
"Thou and thy dear partner, both
In pleasant bands entwin'd,
Not bound by others, but attached,
By sympathy inclin'd;
Aspiring upwards to the skies,
Should aid each other as you rise.
"Nor think each other's help enough,
Though you the gift esteem;
But mindful of the tree of life,
And both embracing Him;
On Him your sure, almighty Friend,
Your blended hopes and cares suspend."
Although, my Anne, a lot like ours
Has been indulged to few;
E'en we have had wherewith to try,
And prove the counsel true;
But as to Him we turn'd and pray'd
Our griefs and fears have been allay'd.
And should the scene in future change,
And heavier cloudings lower,
The closer we'll embrace his aid,
And meet the trying hour;
"Thou wilt make all his bed in his sickness."
WHEN the body with pain is opprest,
And in anguish no mortal can see,
O where shall my spirit find rest
But Jesus, my Saviour, in Thee?
Yes, Jesus, my Saviour in Thee!
Though the hands of affection and love
Ne'er weary in kindness to me,
What avail would all kindnesses prove,
If I had no interest in Thee?
Yes, Jesus, my Saviour, in Thee!
Thy life is the life I would live,
Thy face is the face I would see;
A beam from thy presence now give,
And centre my hopes upon Thee.
Yes, Jesus, my Saviour, on Thee!
As my soul oft contemplates the scene
In the garden of Gethsemane,
How sweetly my spirit can lean
On the love thou then bearest for me!
Yes, Jesus, my Saviour, for me!
The price of my ransom was paid,
When thou wert outstretched on the tree;
My peace with the Father is made
By faith, O my Saviour, in Thee,
Yes, Jesus, my Saviour, in Thee!
For me a blest mansion prepare,
Where for ever thy face I shall see;
Oh haste, thee, oh haste thee, and bear
My spirit to yonder bright sphere,
To spend an eternity there,
My God and my Saviour with Thee!
Yes, Jesus, my Saviour, with Thee!
THE sun's parting rays on the flood and the fountain
Shone bright, as he sank the broad ocean behind;
And the faint light of evening still hung on the mountain,
Asleep was the zephyr, and still was the wind:
Night saw it, and starting, she shook her black pinion,
Then rose from her dark halls of silence and rest,
And spread forth her mantle—her mark of dominion,
But there was not one gem to illumine the vest.
The fond mother hung o'er her innocent treasure,
And hushed it to sleep, as night shrouded the sphere,
And revelled in ideal visions of pleasure,
Nor dreamt of the danger that hovered so near;
ut the children of Israel had gathered together
To praise the Almighty, to bow 'fore his throne,
Expecting that shortly the God of their fathers
Would free them from bondage, would call them his own.
They slew the pure victim Jehovah demanded,
(Unspotted, unblemished, 'twas ta'en from its dam,)
Advanced to the portals as he had commanded,
And sprinkled them o'er with the blood of the lamb.
Then soon came fell midnight, unthought of, unheeded
By Egypt's great nation, by Egypt's proud king;
And though death was approaching, yet no one receded,
Nor thought of the havoc which vengeance should bring.
The angel of death, on his broad pinion soaring,
Approach'd him;—terrific and grand was his form;
In his hand the bright weapon shone, sparkling and gleaming,
The hand of destruction, and vengeance, and wrath;
And he waved it aloft, while the fire from it streaming
Marked plainly the course of its terrible path.
And long ere the sun had proclaimed a to-morrow,
O'er Pharaoh's wide realm lamentation was heard;
And loud rose the wild shriek of terror and sorrow,
For the first-born of Egypt lay slain by death's sword.
But where on the lintel the red blood would deepen,
The dwellings of Israel's sons to declare,
The angel beheld it, and passed, for the weapon
Of Heaven's displeasure might not enter there:
And when the destroyer in peace had pass'd over
The mark'd habitations of God's chosen race,
They arose up in haste, and they quitted for ever
The land of their bondage, their shame, their disgrace.
ON the third day of creation,
Before mankind had birth,
Ten thousand thousand flowers sprang up
To beautify the earth.
From the rejoicing earth sprang up
Each fragrant, bursting bud;
And God looked down at eventide,
And saw that they were good.
And now, as then, ten thousand flowers
From the gracious earth outburst;
And every flower that springeth up
Is goodly as at first.
The red rose is the red rose still,
And from the lily's cup
An odour, fragrant as at first,
Like frankincense goes up.
Oh flowers, fair, shining flowers,
Like crowned kings ye are,
Each in the nature of its kind,
Unchanging as a star.
Empires have fallen to decay,
Forgotten e'en in name;
Ye flowers, ye little flowers,
Were witnesses of things
More glorious and more wond'rous far
Than the rise and fall of kings!
Ye, in the vales of Paradise,
Heard how the mountains rang,
When the sons of God did shout for joy,
And the stars of morning sang!
Ye saw the creatures of the earth,
Ere fear was felt or pain;
Ye saw the lion and the lamb
Go sporting on the plain!
Ye were the first that from the earth
Sprang, when the floods were dried,
And the meek dove from out the ark
Went wandering far and wide;—
And when, upon Mount Ararat
The floating ark was stay'd,
The freshness of the flowering earth
The patriarch first survey'd,
Ye saw across the heavens
The new-made bended bow,
Ye heard the Eternal bind himself
Upon that glorious show,—
Oh flowers—sweet, goodly flowers,
Ye were loved in times of old;
And better worth were crowns of flowers
Than crowns of beaten gold.
They wore ye at the marriage-feast,
When merry pipes were blown;
And o'er their most beloved dead,
Fit emblems, ye were strewn!
The poets ever loved ye,
For in their souls ye wrought,
Like seas and stars and mountains old,
Enkindling lofty thought.
But greater far than all,
Our blessed Lord did see
How beautiful the lilies grew
In the fields of Galilee:—
"Consider now these flowers," he said,
"They toil not, neither spin;
And God himself the garment made
Which they are clothed in.
In the perfectness of beauty
Each several flower is made;
And Solomon in all his pomp
Was not like them arrayed:—
OH, never, never canst thou know
What then for thee the Saviour bore,
The pangs of that mysterious woe
That wrung his frame at every pore;
The weight that prest upon his brow,
The fever of his bosom's core.
Yes! man for man, perchance, may brave
The horrors of the yawning grave,
And friend for friend, or child for sire,
Undaunted and unmoved expire,
From love, or piety, or pride,
But who can die as Jesus died?
A sweet but solitary beam,
An emanation from above,
Glimmers o'er life's uncertain dream,
We hail that beam, and call it Love!
But fainter than the pale star's ray,
Before the noontide blaze of day,
OH ye are awful words, and well
Ye suit the sad and silent scene,
Inscribed upon his narrow cell
Whose deeds in other days have been:
But, is there nought that speaks our doom,
Save the stern language of the tomb?
Yes, on our fairest pleasures stand
The warning words that none may flee,
Traced plain as by the spectre hand
That marred the Assyrians' revelry,
And told him that his lordly sway,
His throne, his life, must pass away!
I need not tell of beauty's blight,
Of clouds that shade the fairest morn;
The early quenching of the light
That young and lovely eyes have worn;
For few in earthly mansions dwell
That have not known such change too well,
I need not tell of ancient days,
Of realms and nations passed away,
Whose remnants claim our wondering praise,
And proudly wrestle with decay;
The fairest works their art hath lent
Are but their glory's monument.
We list in rapture to the lay
Poured from a heart young, warm, and free,
And marvel that a child of clay
Should frame such wondrous melody:
Even while the enchanting strain we hear,
That heart hath ceased to hope or fear.
The giant ones of old, whose might
Through all the paths of science ran;
Who soared to such a fearful flight
As seems not in the reach of man;
And measured, with their piercing view,
The depths of human wisdom through;—
They too are gone—the faded page
O'er which the midnight student pores—
The chosen friend of early years,
Whose face we fondly gaze upon,
Whose steps with ours, through joy and tears,
So long upon our path have gone,
That earth's best scenes were dull and drear
If his loved image were not there,—
Must he depart? Too surely, yes,—
The doom no child of Adam shuns;
Although ye shared one mother's kiss,
Though ye were both one father's sons,
Though every feeling of thy heart
Should rise to say,—we cannot part.
And yet 'tis well! Though hearts be riven,
So dearly joined they seemed but one,
Yet shall they shine as lights from heaven,
To lead our lingering footsteps on;
Else even earth hath joys so fair,
That we might wish to linger there.
Then like the sage∗
who fain would wreak
On Israel's host an alien's wrath,
Balaam.
And found that all his spells were weak,
Against the Lord of Sabaoth,
Whose counsels had of old decreed,
No harm should rest on Jacob's seed:
He saw their tents o'er Moab spread,
Their banners waving proud and fair;
Remorse for many an evil deed
Wrung from his soul an ardent prayer:
So let our prayer ascend on high:—
"Lord, let me like the righteous die."
DAY-STARS! that ope your eyes with man, to twinkle
From rainbow galaxies of earth's creation,
And dew-drops on her lonely altars sprinkle,
As a libation:
Ye matin-worshippers! who, bending lowly
Before the up-risen sun, God's lidless eye,
Throw from your chalices a sweet and holy
Incense on high.
Ye bright mosaics! that, with storied beauty,
The floor of nature's temple tesselate,
What numerous emblems of instructive duty
Your forms create!
'Neath cloistered boughs, each floral bell that swingeth,
And tolls its perfume on the passing air;
Makes sabbath in the fields, and ever ringeth
A call to prayer.
Not to the domes where crumbling arch and column,
Attest the feebleness of mortal hand,
But to that fane, most catholic and solemn,
Which God hath planned.
To that cathedral, boundless as our wonder,
Whose quenchless lamps the sun and moon supply;
Its choir—the winds and waves,—its organ thunder,
Its dome—the sky.
There, as in solitude and shade I wander,
Through the green aisles, or stretched upon the sod,
Awed by the silence, reverently ponder
The ways of God.
Your voiceless lips, O flowers! are living preachers,
Each cup a pulpit, every leaf a book,
Floral apostles! that, in dewy splendor,
"Weep without woe, and blush without a crime,"
Oh! may I deeply learn, and ne'er surrender
Your lore sublime!
"Thou wert not, Solomon! in all thy glory,
Arrayed," the lilies cry, "in robes like ours:
How vain your grandeur! ah, how transitory
Are human flowers!"
In the sweet-scented pictures, heavenly Artist!
With which thou paintest nature's wide-spread hall,
What a delightful lesson thou impartest
Of love to all!
Not useless are ye, flowers! though made for pleasure;
Blooming o'er field and wave, by day and night,
From every source your sanction bids me treasure
Harmless delight.
Ephemeral sages! what instructors hoary
For such a world of thought could furnish scope
Each fading calyx a memento mori,
Yet fount of hope.
Posthumous glories! angel-like collection!
Upraised from seed or bulb interred in earth,
Ye are to me a type of resurrection,
And second birth.
Were I, O God! in churchless lands remaining,
Far from all voice of teachers and divines,
My soul would find, in flowers of thy ordaining,
Priests, sermons, shrines.
The Alpine horn is an instrument constructed with the bark of the cherry-tree, like a speaking-trumpet, and is used to convey sounds to a great distance. When the last rays of the sun gild the summit of the Alps, the shepherd who dwells highest on those mountains, takes his horn and calls aloud, "Praised be the Lord!" As soon as he is heard, the neighbouring shepherds leave their huts and repeat the same words. The sounds last many minutes, for every echo of the mountains and grottos of the rocks repeat the name of God. In the meanwhile the shepherds bend their knees, and pray in the open air, before retiring to rest.
WHEN varying hues of parting day
O'er evening's portals faintly play,
The Alpine horn calls far away,
"Praised be the Lord!"
And every hill and rock around
(As though they loved the grateful sound)
Send back, 'mid solitudes profound,
"Praised be the Lord."
Just heaven! has man so thankless grown,
He brings no anthems to thy throne,
When voiceless things have found a tone
To praise the Lord?
Ah, no! for see. the shepherds come,
Though hardly heard, the "welcome home,"
From toil of day, they quickly come
To worship God.
The look that taught their hearts to bow,
And childhood's laugh and sunny brow,
All, all by them forgotten now
In praise to God.
Kneeling the starry vault beneath,
With spirits free as air they breathe,
Oh, pure should be their votive wreath
In praise to God.
How lovely such a scene must be,
When prayer and praise ascend to Thee,
In one glad voice of melody,
Eternal Lord!
All space thy temple—and the air
A viewless messenger to bear
Creation's universal prayer
On wings to heaven.
Oh that for me some Alpine horn
(Both closing eve and wakening morn)
Would sound, and bid my bosom scorn
The world's vain joys.
Its treasured idols all resign;
That when life's cheating hues decline,
The one undying thought be mine,
To praise the Lord.
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