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Charlotte Payne
-- Founding Editor
Nancy Kushigian
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This text was scanned from its original in the Shields Library Kohler Collection, University of California, Davis, Kohler I:444. Another copy available on microfilm as Kohler I:444mf.
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February 12, 2008
Charlotte Payne
-- ed.
[Title Page]
BY
CAROLINE FRY,
AUTHOR OF
THE LISTENER, SCRIPTURE READER'S GUIDE, &c. &c.
OF this small collection of Poems, none were written for publication but those that have reference to the Jewish Prophecies, which have been added at the request of a friend. Of the rest, some few were composed by the desire of friends whose partiality valued them. The greater part were but the amusement of sleepless or solitary hours, with no motive for the composition but the feelings of the moment. But they are feelings to which every Christian is alike subjected; and this may give them an interest which otherwise they could not have.
In our agitated passage through the world, it is sometimes good to know what others have felt, what others have thought; and though the Author of these Poems is aware that they have no claim to notice as poetry, she trusts they may be received as the serious reflections of a Christian who only wrote because she felt.
IT has been deemed advisable in the present edition to add a Selection of the most esteemed pieces from the "Assistant of Education," by the same Author; which it is hoped will be considered a valuable addition to the original work. A fourth edition being now required, a further selection has been made from the same publication to a considerable extent; and having adopted a smaller and a neater type, it has been effected, retaining the work at its former price.
WE walk'd by the side
Of the 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 chasten'd breast,
That religion soothes
To a holy rest;
When sorrow has tam'd
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 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,
And the heavenly beam
Be bright and warm;
The heart that it gilds
Is all as weak
As the wave that reflects
The crimson streak.
You cannot impede
The celestial ray,
That lights the dawn
Of eternal day;
But so may you trouble
The bosom it cheers,
'Twill cease to be true
To the image it bears.
SEAL'D is it? Where then did you learn the sigh
That speaks a knowledge which your lips deny?
If its rich treasures never were reveal'd,
Where did you learn to wish the Book unseal'd?
The Esquimaux, to other climes unknown,
Can never sorrow for a milder zone.
So, had you never tasted of the fruit,
You had not sought with tears the hidden root.
Seal'd is it? wherefore should you think so? No!
'Twas never seal'd to one who fear'd it so.
The troubled dreamer, in the midnight gloom,
Wrapt in deep slumber, glides from room to room,
THE spot where I loiter'd was lonely and wild,
The bleak winds of heaven were blowing,
When I looked on a lily of loveliest hue,
That alone and unshelter'd was growing.
What once was a garden, deserted and waste,
Was now but the wild nettle's bed;
The hedge-row, neglected and scatter'd to earth,
Forbade not the passenger's tread.
The thorn and the thistle disputed the soil
Where fairest of flowers had blown;
The hand that had planted them left them to die,
And the lily was blooming alone.
Sweet flower, I whisper'd, so frail as thou art,
This waste is no garden for thee,
That form which the rude wind so ruthless has torn,
Some eye once delighted to see.
It watch'd thee at morning, it watch'd thee at eve,
And wept when it saw thee decline,
And sought for the insect that rankles the bud,
And forbade it to nestle in thine.
But now it forgets thee, and leaves thee alone,
To dwell with the poisonous weed;
The thorn is thy fellow, the thistle thy mate,
Thou wilt perish, and no one will heed.
And one there is like thee—the cherish'd—the lov'd,
Ah! have we no tear for her fate?
The foot of the stranger has pass'd o'er her soil,
And the infidel sits in her gate.
The eye that had watch'd her, the hand that had rear'd,
In bitter displeasure averted,
Has left her the meanest, the vilest of earth,
An alien, alone and deserted.
Disown'd in her birth-place, disown'd where she dwells,
A stranger where'er she appears,
The heart that can melt for all sorrow beside,
Refuses its pity to hers.
Great Father of Mercies! remember thy word;
O hasten, and visit this vine!
The scorn of the Gentile has crush'd it to earth,
'Twas unfruitful,—but still it is thine!
'Tis that thou hadst planted, 'tis that thou hadst rear'd;
Have pity, and hasten the hour,
When the dews of thy love shall be fresh on her leaf,
And thy sunbeam be bright on her flow'r:
The hour when they, who pass over her now
With careless and pitiless foot,
Shall come with delight to repose in her shade,
And gratefully take of her fruit.
THERE was a slave, who, born to days unbless'd,
Drew from his parent blood the hard decree
Of ceaseless and unwilling servitude.
His fathers, many an age, had worn the yoke
Of an incens'd and much offended Lord,
Whom ancient wrong, and ire inherited,
Had made the object of their ceaseless dread.
Just was He, and yet merciless to these,
The subjects of his well-deserved wrath.
"Do this, and live—neglect it, and thou diest!"
This was his high, irrevocable word.
The slave, unknowing of a better state,
And early taught that to obey was life,
WHERE, amid tumultuous waters,
Sickening with a hope repress'd,
Far from all his soul desires,
Loves the sailor's eye to rest?
Is it not on that far beacon
Faintly beaming through the gloom,
Which some friendly hand has lighted
To mark the path that leads him home?
Methinks a hand as kind has rear'd
On yonder hill the simple pile,
That 'mid the world's distasteful travel,
The aspect might our path beguile.
Hardly press'd by earthly sorrow,
Often have I turn'd my eye,
And caught the outline of its tower,
Trac'd upon the azure sky.
Emblem of the peace it proffers,
It has check'd the anxious tear;
Though the world should do its worst,
There is peace and comfort there.
Yes—and when the maddening draught
Of earthly pleasure ran too high,
The distant form has seem'd to say
"Remember," when it met my eye.
Memento of a Saviour's love,
Oft forgotten, oft denied,
However far my footsteps wander,
Be thou ever at my side.
Tell me, when the world allures me,
'Twas not such the bliss I knew,
When beneath thy hallowed ceiling
Draughts of holy joy I drew.
Tell me, when that world betrays me,
Where its sorrows cease to harm,
Where I learned to brave its dangers,
Resting on a Saviour's arm.
Tell, O tell me, when my folly
Treads the path of sin too near,
How many pangs of bitter anguish
Sense of sin has cost me there.
Bring to memory every feeling
Thou hast witness'd in my breast;
Be the beacon that shall guide me
To realms of everlasting rest.
MY seat was the strand of the southern shore,
The salt wave bath'd my feet,
I lov'd to list to the ocean's roar,
In its fitful, slow retreat.
And many a veering sail was there,
Impelled by the south wind's force;
And changeful e'en as the waves that bare,
Was the vessel's troubled course.
Now white and full the sails were spread,
And shone in the bright sun-beam;
A moment—all was dark and dead,
And gone was the partial gleam.
Sometimes she rode like a monarch proud,
On the subject waves uprear'd;
Then far o'er the fluid steep she bow'd,
And a moment disappear'd.
She never rose so blithe and brave,
But she sunk in the deep anon;
She never sunk so far in the wave,
But she rose again as soon.
And many a thought came o'er my mind,
As I watch'd her changeful mood,
With many a feeling deep combin'd,
That my bosom understood.
But there was one above the rest
That lingered on the thought;
It found a welcome in a breast
That lov'd the truth it taught.
For I saw that, howe'er the vessel toss'd,
Still a homeward course it bore,
And the wave that seem'd to distract it most,
But impelled it towards the shore.
And thus, I said, may each storm that blow'd,
Have shorten'd the way I come;
And shall I complain that the wave is rude,
If it bear me the sooner home?
PENSIVE as I watch'd the night,
Many a star was glitt'ring bright,
While their gay, but warmthless rays,
Wak'd the thoughts of other days:
Like the joys I knew of old,
They were bright, but they were cold;
Parting with the parting shade,
One by one I saw them fade—
Duly as the morning clear'd,
One by one they disappear'd.
So before celestial light,
Sink the joys of nature's night;
'Twas but folly made them dear,
'Twas but darkness made them fair.
AND is it so? Look at creation round!
See you how fair, how beautiful it is,
How form'd to bless, how exquisite to please?
We tread its wonders e'en beneath our feet,
We revel in its luxuries every hour,
And feast our every sense upon its charms.
Fit dwelling was it for a sinless race,
Form'd in the image of their parent God;
And 'twas for such He made it. Sad reverse!
What passes now in this so lovely scene?
What purpose serves this world so beautiful?
A vale of death, a prison-house of crime!
The sun that lightens, burns it—and the rain
That sheds luxuriant verdure o'er the soil,
Swells the wild torrent till its ruthless force
WHAT novel song, sweet Bird, has tun'd thy throat?
Thou art not wont to find so sweet a note,
When scarce a sunbeam cheers the wintry day,
And not a leaf is green upon the spray.
Now I could fancy that thy bosom knows
Something of that which o'er my spirit flows,
When, tun'd to joys more pure than earth can give,
I watch the closing of the Sabbath eve.
They are not sunshine joys, for they are staid
And sober, as the twilight's closing shade;
They are not things of earth, for they abide
When grief has claim to every thought beside;
And, like thy winter song, poor Bird, they sound
More sweet, when all is desolate around.
Yes, I have felt it, when the morning hour
Confess'd some earthly care's distracting pow'r,
SAD and slow was the wanderer's tread,
As o'er the lengthen'd way she sped;
And often she cast a wishful eye
On the summer bower as she loiter'd by;
Or stopp'd to gather the brilliant flow'r
That open'd its bud to the mid-day hour.
But the flower died when she touch'd it near,
And the summer bower was not for her.
The lamb is hous'd when his game is play'd,
And the sparrow knows where her nest is made,
But the wanderer's toil is never done,
All else have a home, but she has none.
On whatever spot might her limbs recline,
She sigh'd and whisper'd, "It is not mine."
THAT sun which is yonder so brightly declining,
That you look at with careless delight,
Full many a lesson of wisdom might teach,
Were you skilful to read them aright.
You have seen him envelop'd in dark-boding clouds,
When the rain and the tempest appears,
When the mists of the evening compass'd him round,
And shadow'd his beauty in tears.
But knew you that this was an emblem of one
Whose bosom is clouded with sin,
Whom sorrow has veil'd with the tears of contrition,
And darken'd by tempests within.
The world, all mistaking for what it beholds,
With pity insulting looks on,
And esteems that the hope of the saint is destroy'd,
That the seal of salvation is gone.
But as yonder fair sun, o'er the fast fleeting clouds
That menacing gather below,
Proceeds on his course, and, though darken'd to us,
No change in his brightness can know:
So the Spirit of God in the child of his love,
Unalter'd by sin or by sorrow,
If obscur'd by the vapours of passion to-night,
Will shine the more brightly to-morrow.
And oft you have seen when the morning has lower'd,
And the noon-day been chilling and drear,
And the evening threaten'd for wind and for rain,
A last gleam of sunshine appear;
Appear with a brightness so pure, so serene,
Dispelling the mists that infold,
That the clouds it is leaving, so awful before,
Themselves are all turned to gold.
So the saint who has finish'd his day upon earth,
Serenely and brightly declining,
Sheds a lustre unearthly on all things around,
In future beatitude shining.
His morning of life may be cheerless and dull,
His manhood embarrass'd with ill,
His evening comfortless, friendless, and sad,
And his death-bed be glorious still!
WHY is my soul with weariness oppress'd,
Whence is this load so heavy on my breast?
Why is the tear so often on my cheek,
When scarce my fortunes may a tear bespeak?
Unsatisfied desire it cannot be,
For earth has nothing now to promise me;
Nor can it be regret for joy bereft,
For I want nothing while my God is left;
And were it fear, I still might wonder why
It should be here when danger is not nigh.
But it is none of these—a pang more strong,
More deep, more keen, than ever sorrow wrung.
O Thou! to whom my inmost thoughts reveal'd
Betray a secret from all else conceal'd,
WHO heeds thee, poor flower? No fragrance is thine,
No sunbeam has dress'd thee with hues of delight,
Thou hast found not a branch to o'ershade thee by day,
Or shelter thy form from the blast of the night.
Thou bloom'st in the morning, but no one regards,
Thou diest at eve, unregretted, unseen;
No eye would have miss'd thee, no bosom have felt
One pleasure the less if thou never hadst been.
[Text in Hebrew in original print edition. Ed.]
Conceal'd in the herbage, thy delicate stem
Is hourly crush'd by the passenger's tread,
And the brute, as he carelessly grazes the herb,
Still presses his foot on thy impotent head.
None seek thee, none know thee, none cull thee with care,
To bloom on the bosom in life's festive hour;
E'en the bee, as he flutters from blossom to blossom,
Ne'er settles his wing on thy honeyless flower.
Sweet emblem of mercy! the tear of emotion
Will fall when I see thee, but falls not for thee;
The ills that my fancy would picture as thine,
Are the ills that another has suffer'd for me.
Yes, Jesus, my Saviour, they tell me of thine,
Neglected, despised, like the weed Thou hast made;
Thy people, or saw not, or saw Thee with scorn.
In a robe of unloveliness meekly arrayed.
The deep shades of sorrow went over thy brow,
But none mark'd the tear that thy innocence shed;
The clouds of affliction assembled their thunders,
But none felt the shock when it burst on thy head.
E'en the flower of the garden is nurtur'd and rear'd,
And guarded from evil with delicate care;
But thou, like the wild weed, despised of all,
Wert known but to Him who implanted thee here.
The vilest of mortals might crush Thee to earth,
Cold insult might wound Thee, and no one was mov'd;
All beside Thee had something to cherish, to soothe,
And Thou, only Thou, wert unsought, unbelov'd!
But sweet was the incense that flow'd from thy lips,
In mercy for those that regarded Thee not;
Each tear drop that fell on thy bosom contain'd
A balm for our sorrows when thine were forgot.
And as yonder fair flower, unvalued, unclaim'd,
Thus freely in paths unforbidden has grown,
So free is thy mercy, so priceless thy love,
Whoever will take Thee, may call Thee his own.
WHITHER wouldst thou, restless spirit?
Why so ill content to stay?
Ne'er was night so long and gloomy,
But it yielded to the day.
Many a flower, yet unbudding,
On the winter stem will blow;
Many a myrtle wreath shall blossom
Yet to circle round thy brow.
Close the curtain that envelopes
Futurity's untravell'd sphere;
Days of love and peace untroubled
May be treasur'd for thee there.
Wherefore should I wish to linger
Till returning joy be given?
Life can never know a morning
Bright as that which shines in heaven.
Earthly love is all too feeble
For the immortal spirit's stay;
Friends the fondest should not keep me,—
Jesus loves me more than they!
Flowers of earth, the best and fairest,
Bloom upon a dying root;
Were my hopes e'en now in blossom,
I would not loiter for the fruit.
I would go where Jesus waits me,
I would be where Jesus is;
All too long have we been parted;
Let my spirit speed to his!
YOU would that I write on the Sabbath of God,
But know you the meaning contain'd in that word?
You would that I write on the season of rest,
But know you by whom is that season possess'd?
And think you 'tis then, when the far-sounding bell
Is heard through the village, the city, and dell;
When the poor leave their labour, the wealthy their play,
And with hearts unrepenting assemble to pray?
When they who so thoughtlessly revell'd last night
In the temples of pleasure and godless delight,
Bring their tribute to-day to the house of the Lord,
All stain'd with their recent contempt of his Word?
Or think you 'tis then, when, o'erwearied with toil,
The grave and industrious rest them awhile,—
Dismiss from their bosoms their earthly affairs,
Which to-morrow again are the whole of their cares?
Not such is the Sabbath our Father has given
To the child of his love and the heir of his heaven;
Not such is his rest, nor so little its worth,
Whose pleasures immortal are budding on earth.
But where is the Sabbath of God and of heaven?
In the breast of the saint, of the sinner forgiven.
And where is the rest of enjoyment divine?
In the heart of the Christian—And is it in thine?
And hast thou e'er felt on the Sabbath-day morn,
That the love of thy God in thy bosom is borne?
Has thy heart been more light, and thy spirit more gay,
When thou wak'st at the dawn of the hallowed day?
And hast thou e'er learn'd that the earth and its joys
Are treasures all worthless as infantile toys,
Compar'd with the pleasures a Christian may prove,
As he hastes to the banquet of peace and of love?
Hast thou felt that with joy from all else thou could 'st sever,
Might this feeling celestial but last thee for ever?
That the pleasure unearthly, so transiently given,
Needs only duration to make it a heaven?
If thou hast, it is well;—this earnest of love,
This taste of the banquet preparing above,
Comes commission'd from God with a message divine,
To tell thee a share in that banquet is thine!
Be steadfast, be faithful;—the righteous below
Have almost exhausted their chalice of woe;
The wicked have fill'd up their measure of crime,
And God's awful judgments are marking the time.
Be steadfast, be faithful;—the hour is nigh;
Th' omnipotent arm is uplifted on high;
The doom of the world even now is impending;
The last blow of wrath is prepar'd for descending.
No season is this to be wand'ring abroad,
'Twixt the camp of the foe, and the standard of God;
No season is this, when the battle is near,
To leave it yet doubtful whose colours you wear.
The hour is coming—is coming e'en now,—
When the children of men must be parted below
When the friend from the friend of his bosom must sever,
And the child and the parent be parted for ever.
When they whom affection and duty unite,
Must draw on each other, oppos'd in the fight:
And the righteous must loathe the companion he chose,
To rejoice in the vengeance of God on his foes.
Thy place at that hour needs no question but one,—
Has thy Sabbath eternal on earth been begun?
Hast thou, living, accepted the Spirit divine?
If thou know'st it not here, it can never be thine!
So wretched was the hovel where she dwelt,
It might be thought that poverty itself
Had left the world to dwell alone with her.
The air, that found a passage through the creeks
Of the ill fitted beams that formed her wall,
Might chill, but could not purify the air,
Thick with a cloud of suffocating smoke.
The window, curtain'd only with its dust,
And dark with long-accumulating dirt,
Poll Pegg is not, as seems to have been supposed, a fictitious name, but the real appellation of the person to whom the Poem refers; whose interesting history may be found in the fifth number of "the Assistant of Education," and has since been republished in a separate form, with additions, by the publisher of this volume.
Refus'd a passage to the light of heaven.
Her bed,—if bed indeed it might he call'd,
Where the torn coverlet could ill conceal
That all beneath it was but scatter'd straw,—
Claim'd half the space her dwelling-house could boast.
And there her dog, companion of her toil,
When on the waste she kept her master's sheep,
Now partner in infirmity and years,
Shar'd the last resting-place she knew on earth.
Nor serv'd it less as way and stepping-place
To a suspended ladder, whence they reach'd
The hole of entrance to a wretched loft,
Where dwelt a widow'd daughter and her child.
In this poor habitation, hour from hour,
Day after day, the aged woman sat.
It seem'd her only object was to save
Her scanty garments from the falling fire.
Scanty, indeed, they were—scarcely enough
For covering to her shrunk and wither'd limbs;
While her bare arms, and half uncover'd neck,
Shrivell'd with age, and stain'd with constant smoke,
Show'd like to parched leather o'er her bones.
FAITH, like a simple, unsuspecting child,
Serenely resting on its mother's arm,
Reposing every care upon her God,
Sleeps on his bosom, and expects no harm:
Receives with joy the promises He makes,
Nor questions of his purpose or his power;
She does not doubting ask, "Can this be so?"
The Lord has said it, and there needs no more.
However deep be the mysterious word,
However dark, she disbelieves it not;
Where Reason would examine, Faith obeys,
And "It is written," answers every doubt.
Faith, with a keen and realizing glance,
Revels in things yet distant and unseen,
And tastes a joy as exquisite, as true,
As if no veil of darkness hung between.
It is no cold, reversionary bliss,—
No distant hope the trusting bosom proves;
Faith has already wing'd the soul to heaven,
In search of Him whom seeing not she loves.
If clouds and darkness rest upon the soul,
Darkness is welcome, since it is his will;
In nature's saddest moments Faith can say,
"Though He should slay me, I will trust Him still!"
In vain with rude and overwhelming force,
Conscience repeats her tale of misery;
And powers infernal, wakeful to destroy,
Urge the worn spirit to despair and die.
As evening's pale and solitary star
But brightens while the darkness gathers round,
So Faith, unmov'd amid surrounding storms,
Is fairest seen in darkness most profound!
PATIENCE, when heathen darkness veil'd the world,
Was that high spirit of unbending pride,
That dar'd to err, but was asham'd to suffer.
When man, unknowing of the God that made him,
Unknowing of himself, indignant saw
He could not turn aside the bitter shafts
Of pain and sorrow that beset him round,
Helpless to shun, and impotent to change
His fortunes, he determined not to feel.
God pitying saw—but man undaunted stood,
With stubborn courage arm'd, and call'd it Patience.
Not such was His, upon whose sacred brow
The bloody drops of agony intense
Attest the writhing anguish of his soul;
When, sinking low and heavy unto death,
He wish'd it might be that the cup might pass.
FAREWELL!—and if for ever!—what a doubt
Strikes through the soul at that tremendous thought!
'Tis not the world's for ever; that will pass
Brief as the new-drop on the morning grass.
And I shall lose thee, even as a dream
That flies before the day's unwelcome beam.
Such dreams as those that deck the weary night
With many a fairy phantom of delight—
Phantoms so true, so real while they stay—
We love not to exchange them for the day;
We feel that they are going, and we try
To hold them yet a moment ere they fly.
'Tis but a dream—but yet a little one—
'Tis but a dream—we wake, and it is gone!
And we may sleep, and we may dream again,
But we should find the broken thread in vain.
RESIGN'D!—I am resign'd, if Heaven so will,
To tread awhile the sublunary path
That leads me to my Father and my home—
To do his bidding until all be done
For which He cloth'd my spirit in its clay,
And bade my dust become a living soul.
I am resign'd, a little longer while
To watch the dawn, and wish that it were day;
To see the mists of error slowly wasting,
And the faint sun-beam struggling with the gloom!
"To live is Christ."—I am resign'd to live
Where Christ is with me, leads me by the hand,
Follows my footsteps, sits beside my bed,
Bids the warm tear of grateful exultation
NOT a sound wak'd the air, not a leaf was in motion;
As a mirror of glass was the bosom of ocean;
The vessel slid carelessly over the wave,—
No cares for the timid, no toil for the brave.
I listen'd—but not a faint murmur arose,—
The rocks and the water no longer were foes;
They met unresisting, and stilly embrac'd;
It seem'd that the struggle of nature had ceas'd;
While the light pebble slumber'd unmov'd on the shore,
And the slow-coming tide crept insensibly o'er.
I thought ne'er was sunshine so brilliant, so gay,
As the beam that embellish'd the landscape that day;
LET us loiter awhile on this beautiful hill,—
The last time, perhaps, we shall meet on its brow;
The days that so often have pass'd and return'd,
Returning no longer, escape from us now.
Let them go!— Could we stay them, by social delight,
By friendship enliven'd, endear'd as they are,
They were like to the pleasures a pilgrim enjoys,
When his hopes and the home that he loves are afar.
Let them go!—there are fairer and better to come;
Each joy seems to whisper, in passing away,
"We haste but to bear thee to purer delights,—
Our speed is thy blessing—why bid us delay?"
We sigh when the spring flower falls from the bough,
And regret that such beauty so quickly should fly;
But forget that the summer fruit could not be ours,
Did the blossom that bears it not wither and die.
But of days that are passing shall nothing be found
To bring them to mind when they come not again?
Of the joys we have tasted shall nothing be left,
But a painful remembrance that once they have been?
Not so—we have sat at a banquet whose board
Of all that it offers leaves something in store;
We have tasted a cup whence the nectarine draught
Is sweet on the lip when we drink it no more.
The friendship that lightens our heavenward course
Is a treasure the richest that Fortune has given;
But the sweetest affection our bosom can know
Is that which is seal'd with the blessing of Heaven.
And such be the blessing that rests on our love,
When the lips that have ask'd it no more can unite;
So the scene where our hearts were devoted to God
Shall be fresh on the conscience when pass'd from the sight;
And the thought of to-day shall rebuke ev'ry tear,
And bid ev'ry wish of impatience be still,
And each heart shall be pledg'd to the other, to know
No hope but his mercy, no choice but his will.
YOU ask me why I bend the knee
In attitude of prayer,
If I believe myself ordain'd
Eternal glory's heir?
List, and I'll tell thee.—What am I?—
A child of sin and sorrow,
Produc'd without my will to-day,
And doom'd to die to-morrow
And I am born, as others are,
The willing slave of sin;
Lur'd by a treacherous world without,
Betray'd by guilt within.
And if in Scripture's hallowed page
I read of pardoning love,
And mercy for the ransom'd saints,
Whose names are written above;
And if upon the sacred palm
Of the Redeemer's hand,
'Mid saints and holy martyrs rang'd
My name engraven stand;
I have not seen it written there,
Nor read in deeds of heaven
My title to partake the bliss
For which his blood was given.
And though of all the Father gave
The Saviour loses none,
I cannot search the heavenly roll
To learn if I am one.
No earthly mirror can reflect
The seal upon my brow;
And in my soul's corrupted soil
No fruits of merit grow.
But I have read, and read it there
Where falsehood never spake,
That they who come in lowly guise
To ask for Jesus' sake;
And they who bring a heart with guilt
And deep contrition sear'd,
With knee and spirit bending low,
To wait till they be heard;
Sure I have read that these are they,
And others are there none,
For whom their Saviour and their God
The palm of glory won.
And these are they the Father chose
With fond and partial love;
For whom salvation is proclaim'd
By angel hosts above.
And shall I, then, despise the mark
That proves me heir of bliss?
I know me his, because I pray,
And pray because I'm his.
And there was One on earth, I ween,
Had little need to pray;
And all that was, was his to give,—
Lord of a boundless sway.
He pray'd not with intent to change
His Father's high decree;
Nor had He need to ask in prayer
The thing He meant should be.
Yet Jesus pray'd—and earth receiv'd
Her Maker's bended knee;
Gethsemane resounds the cry,
The groan of agony!
First tell me why a suppliant's breath
Pour'd from a spirit divine;
And I will tell thee why I ask
A bliss I trust is mine.
My humbled spirit is content
To know that I am bid;
Nor dares to ask why I should need
To do what Jesus did.
And whilst I rest in tranquil hope
To share my Saviour's bliss,
Know that if e'er I cease to pray,
I'll cease to think me his.
STAY, Gentile, stay thy sacrilegious hand!
Pass not thy furrows o'er my cherish'd land.
Think you I heeded not to hear you swell
The shout of triumph when my people fell?
When I had left them, helpless and forlorn,
The Heathen's wonder, and the Gentile's scorn,
Was't little that your words profan'd my name,
And mock'd the Father for his children's shame?
Was't little that ye crush'd my bruised reed,
And rais'd your triumphs on my people's need?
It was my cherish'd one—my eldest birth—
The vine I planted on a desert earth—
The spot where I delighted to abide,
Disown'd, disclaim'd, on all the earth beside.
'Tis past—and the recording angel bears
To heaven the record of another year—
Another year of nature's and of mine!
Nature has known no change.—The spring has bloom'd,
The autumn has fulfill'd the summer's promise,
And winter's mantle wraps her in repose.
Nature has known no wrong. The simple flower
Liv'd but to do the purpose of its being,
And, uncorrupted, died when it was done.
The summer-fly has play'd its little hour,
Grateful, perhaps, and surely innocent.
The very dust we tread upon has been
"HUMILITY," said Lena, as she drew
A well-worn glove upon her sun-burnt hand,
"Is the best ornament a Christian knows.
"I think not well of one whose ready speech
"Can talk of self-abasement, and the need
"She hourly feels of pardon from above;
"Yet is array'd in all the pride of life—
''Studies the body's ease, the graceful mien,
"And all the luxuries of refining taste.
"I judge our piety is better shown
"By self-denying lowliness of mind;
"By abstinence from all the joys of sense,
"And disregard of what the world esteems."
And whilst she spoke, the look of harsh reproof
Was follow'd by a self-complacent smile,
Serena, gifted with a milder mood,
Not prone to censure, diffident and meek,
In gentle accents urg'd the favourite theme.
"I envy not the beauty's flatter' form,
"And all the attractions of exterior grace;
"If I must with them take the pride of heart,
"The vanity that follows where they are;
"For sure I am that lowliness of mind,
"Self-disesteem, and meek humility,
"Are ornaments more lovely far than they:
"And while I feel these better gifts are mine,
"I covet not what others prize so much."
And here Lucinda gently clos'd the book
That she had tried in vain to understand.
And "Surely it is strange," she said, "that some,
"Professing to renounce this passing world,
"Should be at so much pains to store their minds
"With varied knowledge and mere human lore.
There was a fourth—I marvel what she thought,
For she said nothing—yet she felt, perhaps.
It may be she had lov'd the world too well,
Had too refin'd and delicate a taste;
And while she felt the grace of God within,
Had cause to mourn her yet unconquer'd pride.
Perhaps she lov'd too well the letter'd page,
The force of intellect, and the mental fire;
I heard no more, nor know what pass'd within—
I may not judge whose heart was proudest there.
He to whose eyes all bosoms are unbar'd
Might judge that she who blush'd that she was proud,
Was humbler yet than they who knew it not.
I cannot tell—but when they parted thence
To meet their God that night in secret prayer,
I think I know who breath'd the deepest groan,
Who sunk the lowest at her Maker's feet,
And with most tears of bitter penitence
Besought an interest in her Saviour's blood.
Humility! —the sweetest, loveliest flower
That bloom'd in Paradise, and the first that died,—
Has rarely blossom'd since on mortal soil.
It is so frail, so delicate a thing,
'Tis gone if it but look upon itself;
And she who ventures to esteem it hers,
Proves by that single thought she has it not.
BEHOLD you the beam
On yonder tide,
As it gently plays
On the vessel's side?
The white sails are spread,
And the anchor heaves,
And the mariner looks
Towards the home he leaves.
Nor swiftly she flies
Through the evening gale,
And the bright moon-beam
Is on her sail;
And they are gone
To some distant sphere;
But the bright moon-beam
Will still be there,
To light their steps
On a foreign shore,
While it shines on the home
They must see no more.
So the self-same beam
Of celestial light
Shall gild the shades
Of our distant night;
And our spirits shall meet,
When forbidden here,
Above yon pale moon's
Silvery sphere.
There our hearts, asunder
So harshly riven,
Shall unite their prayers
Ere they reach to heaven;
And a beam from mercy's
Exhaustless store
Be bright on us both
When we meet no more.
FOR whom is the harp of Judah strung,
That silent erst on the willows hung?
Whence are the stranger sounds that crept
O'er the tuneful chords that so long have slept?
Methinks 'twas a sound that the breezes bore,
On joyful wings, from a distant shore;
And the harp of Judah gently rings,
As the whisper creeps o'er the slumbering strings.
'Twas the voice of pity, that asks a tear
For the mournful weeds her children wear;
That asks of Compassion's hand to wrest
The poignant thorn from Israel's breast.
It tells of a faint and feeble light,
That breaks on the captive's weary night;
The dawn of a glorious day to come,
When mercy shall lead the wanderer home.
Ah! far may the voice be whisper'd round,
Till each heart be glad at the joyful sound;
And many a bosom learn to feel
An anxious throb for Israel's weal!
And many a lip be taught to share,
With holy warmth, the expectant prayer;
The prayer that He, whose prophetic eye
Once softly wept o'er her ruin nigh,
By the voice of imploring nations mov'd,
May smile again on the land He lov'd;
And wipe from her brow the spot of shame,
Replac'd by the seal of her Saviour's name!
STILL as I watch'd the evening close,
In azure blue the pale moon rose;
No sullen mist obscur'd her ray,
Nor e'en a light cloud cross'd her way.
I smil'd a welcome to the beam
First playing on the silver stream,
And vainly thought to watch her light,
Still kindling on the darkening night.
At first 'twas but a breathless seam,
A sable streak, that cross'd her beam;
But now it thickens fast—and now
It closes on her pallid brow;
And still by moments she appears,
A bright smile kindling through her tears.
Another and another ray
Fell faintly ere she pass'd away.
SAY, can they part us, Love, whose hard decree
Forbids my heart to breathe one thought to thee?
Will chilling absence leave affection cold—
No longer cherish'd when no longer told—
And time's swift footsteps, as they onward move,
Wear out the sacred impress of our love?
Day after day, month after month will close,
And none will whisper of the friend we lose:
The form that memory paints will disappear,
And e'en the name grow strange upon the ear.
O YOU who at lighter afflictions repine,
Arrest your complainings, and list ye to mine—
And you who can sorrow for every toy,
Hear a mother's lament for her poor idiot boy.
Still memory tells of that moment of bliss,
When I press'd on his forehead a mother's first kiss,
When committing the gift to the hand that had given,
A mother's first prayer sought acceptance in heaven.
I ask'd not for beauty, I ask'd not for wealth—
The prayer was for reason, contentment, and health—
That reflection might temper the fervour of youth,
And his heart be the seat of religion and truth.
My babe he was lovely in infantine charms,
And often, as sweetly he slept on my arms;
O God! I exclaimed, what delight it will be
To rear him to virtue, to truth, and to Thee!
And fondly I waited the moment so dear,
When my baby should part from my arms with a tear,
When his sweet voice should greet me with accents of joy,
But none were reserved for my poor idiot boy.
When the glittering trinket was held in his sight,
My infant would utter no scream of delight;
When gently compelled from my bosom to part,
No cry of unwillingness gladdened my heart.
His lovely blue eyes never wander'd around,
To seek for his mother, or greet her when found:
These promised delights were not mine to enjoy—
All arms were alike to my poor idiot boy.
His accent was plaintive, distressful, and weak—
No tear of emotion e'er stole on his cheek—
Nor frown ever sate on his forehead of snow,
Nor flush of desire was traced on his brow.
The first year, the second, my grief was beguil'd
With the fond hope that reason would dawn on my child:
But hope is no longer—for seven sad years
He has lain on my bosom, bedewed with my tears.
In vain I caress him, and lure him to speak—
He feels not the warm tear that falls on his cheek:
No look of intelligence lightens his eye—
A wild, vacant stare is his only reply.
Then grant me, O God! 'tis a mother's last prayer—
The solace of death with my infant to share;
No pause of affliction is mine to enjoy,
Till I sleep in the grave of my poor idiot boy.
POOR child of affliction! I heard thee repine,
And my heart beat with sorrow responsive to thine;
And one who has long been a stranger to joy,
Has a tear yet remaining for thee and thy boy.
Yet say, can reflection no comfort bestow?
Is no blessing mixed in thy chalice of woe?
Has justice unerring the balance resign'd
Or the Father of Mercy forgot to be kind?
Perhaps when you offered a mother's first prayer,
Omnipotence listened, and mercy was near—
You ask'd for contentment, religion, and truth,
For reason to temper the passions of youth.
But think of the storms that must break o'er his head,
Of the snares that encompass the path he must tread—
Of the joys that seduce, of the wrongs that assail,
Thy guidance is feeble thy efforts might fail.
Ah think! had the reason by heaven denied,
Been the parent of error, rebellion, and pride—
Would an infidel's wisdom have cost thee no sigh?
More bitter than that thou hast breath'd o'er thy boy?
And look on that visage, that forehead of snow—
Those eyes where no beams of intelligence glow—
Contemplate those lips never severed to speak,
The unvarying hue of that colourless cheek.
Has wrath or revenge e'er contracted that brow?
Can guilt and remorse teach that forehead to glow?
Those sweet lips can never be taught to complain,
No oath can pollute them, no falsehood can stain.
No rose on that cheek will be wither'd by care—
Those soft eyes will never grow wild with despair—
No restless desire can break his repose—
No hope disappointed his lids can unclose.
Ah! think of the day, when at heaven's high nod,
We tremblingly fall at the feet of our God—
Where surrounded by saints and by angels he stands,
And of justice omniscient the reck'ning demands.
While errors unnumbered we cast at his feet,
While each head shall be bowed, and each bosom shall beat:
Unabashed, unconfounded, thy poor idiot boy
Shall ask of his Saviour his portion of joy.
Thy child needs no pardon for talents misused,
For reason perverted, or blessings abused—
No duty neglected, or service unpaid,
No precept unheeded, no law disobeyed.
What page in the heavenly record is soil'd
With the folly or vice of thy poor idiot child?
Though free to accuse him, what voice in the throng,
Can say that thy infant has offered him wrong?
Oh! rather be this then a mother's last prayer,
Her infant's blest portion hereafter to share,
And recognize—Oh! with what rapture of joy,
In an Angel of Heaven, her poor idiot boy!
LAST evening I walked by the clear water's side,
And mark'd a lone Star as it shone in the tide:
'Twas very inconstant—for sometimes the gleam
Was bright as the dew in the sun's gayest beam;
And then it was faint, like the half-lighted ray
Of the moon, when she shrinks from the coming of day;
And often my eye dwelt in vain on the spot,
Where late I had seen it, but now it was not.
And to what did I liken it? Might it not be
That the Star of the evening whispered of thee?
For had'st thou been there, I had bidden thee learn
That the absence but presaged a brighter return;
And even when absent had taught thee to own
The brilliant reflection was hidden—not gone;
IS it not thine, O God, this passing world?
Is it not thine to give it at thy will?
But now Thou mad'st it—it was all thine own—
Hast Thou not power to bestow it still?
And if Thou hast, for whom is it reserved?
Father Eternal! is it not for us?
Was it an empty promise, when Thou said'st
All things are yours, since I have loved you thus?
I thought 'twas thine to give me, and I craved
One blessing more than all on earth beside;
I asked it often, and I asked it long—
It was not sin, and yet it was denied.
Did'st Thou not hear the still-repeated prayer?
Pray'd I amiss, as if the due were mine?
Nor simply resting on thy love, exclaim'd,
Fulfil thy promise, Lord, for I am thine?
Ah, foolish! He, who from the ocean's depth,
Through roaring waters heard the prophet's prayer;
Who marks the first—faint breathings of desire,
Can never deafen his paternal ear.
He heard me—yes, He listened and He heard,
And held the blessing in his own right hand:
Whatever barred me from the good I sought,
Had sunk to nothing at his sole command.
He heard and might have granted—but He marked
The secret reservation of the soul—
The wish, that almost to itself unknown,
Forbade the prayer that on the accents stole.
He marked the feeling that Himself inspired—
He knew the heart He moulded—and He knew
That while my lips the warm petition breathed,
I did not wish it, if He wished not too.
'Twas so, most Merciful! I do not say
I loved thy will more than the thing I sought—
I asked an earthly good, but Thou perceiv'dst
Something was dearer, though I said it not.
Thou knew'st I would not have it, might it mar
The better bliss to which my hopes aspire;
And mercy yielding what thy wisdom knew,
Denied the prayer, to grant me the desire.
AH! where, lovely Planet,
Ah! where dost thou stray;
Thy path it is lonely,
And trackless thy way.
It seems thou art gentle,
It seems thou art fair;
Ah! why without guide,
Dost thou wander in air?
Child of Earth, dost thou ask me
Why thus without guide,
Through the cold nights of Winter
I fearlessly ride?
'Twas Wisdom omnipotent
Placed me on high,
And Infinite power
Marks my track in the sky.
But why, lovely Planet,
Thus restlessly roam?
And hast thou no shelter?
And hast thou no home?
With me dost thou suffer
Fate's hardest decree?
Are wanderings unceasing
Thy portion to be?
Child of Earth, if unresting
I toil through the skies,
'Tis Heaven that wills it,
And Heaven is wise.
If nor haven, nor shelter,
Nor refuge I find,
'Tis Heaven that wills it,
And Heaven is kind.
But why, lovely Planet,
Then tell me I pray,
Do clouds of affliction
O'ershadow thy way?
Child of Earth, thy perception
Is erring and weak;
My bosom is calm
While the tear's on my cheek:
Though the deep shades of darkness
Obscure me to thee,
My passage above them
Is tranquil and free.
A LONELY Rock
On the sea-shore stood,
Its head to heaven,
Its base in the flood—
The dews of morning
Bath'd its brow,
And the moon-beam play'd
On its breast of snow—
The summer breezes
Kiss'd it lightly,
And the sun shone on it
Brightly, brightly;
But there came not forth
Of its cold, cold breast,
So much as to shelter
The sea-mew's nest—
There came not a leaf,
There came not a spray,
Nor the heather brown,
Nor the besom gay—
The simpler came not
To pick with care
The healing buds
Of the balsam there.
What ails thee, thou Rock,
That still in vain
The spring returns
With his jocund train,
So richly dight,
So gaily sped,
And finds no wreath
On thy sullen head?
I look'd again,
And the waters grew—
They reach'd its base,
They reached its brow—
But it trembled not
As it pass'd them through—
And it rose in smiles
As the waves withdrew—
And its brow was deck'd
With gems so bright,
They seem'd like drops
Of the rainbow's light.
'Tis well—and so
O'er some beside,
Adversity flows
With as rough a tide—
It rifles the heart
Of the joys it bore,
And it comes so oft
They will grow no more—
But it leaves it firm,
It leaves it bright,
It leaves it deck'd
With unearthly light—
In hallow'd tears
Serene to stand,
As the lonely Rock
On the cold sea-strand.
A MARINER at eventide
Pushed his light boat from the land—
I saw him pass the boiling surge,
And fix his anchor in the sand.
Then blithe returning to the shore,
As if his every care was past,
Nor casting e'en a look behind,
He hied him homeward to his rest.
How could he trust so frail a thing
Upon the dark and troubled main?
How did he know but yonder waves
Would rend his feeble bark in twain?
Because through many a rougher night
He had seen it safely ride—
Because he knew the anchor sure
To which his trusted bark was tied.
So in darkness, and in light,
Prov'd so often and so long,
Prov'd in sorrow, and in joy,
Christians know their anchor strong.
So with hearts to heaven devoted,
Sins repented and confess'd,
All they have to heaven committed,
Christians get them to their rest.
ENOUGH for feeling, though too brief for words,
A moment on the lofty cliff I stood,
And from the fearful precipice above,
Look'd many a fathom down upon the flood.
The moon-beam slept upon the snow-white cliff,
The chasm frown'd more darkly than by day;
No sound of living thing was on the air,
And ocean's self in seeming slumber lay.
Swiftly my spirit rose above the world,
Far as that tow'ring cliff above the tide,
And soaring high o'er all created things,
Tasted a freedom in the world denied.
In fancy walking nearer to the skies,
It rose to Him with whom I was alone—
Life and its narrow interests pass'd away,
Its cares forgotten, and its wishes gone.
It was a blissful moment—God was all,
And earth was nothing—'twas a bliss more true,
And for the one brief moment that it stay'd,
More sweet than e'er from earthly feeling grew.
'Tis even so, O God! the soul must rise
Above the world or ere it can be free—
'Tis even thus thy wisdom has decreed,
Farthest from earth shall still be nearest Thee.
SISTER of Faith and Charity,
Where there are only three;
Fit habitant of heaven, yet content,
On pity's errand bent,
To ply upon the earth, and steer
The bark of every helpless passenger:
Whether in lofty and well laden keel,
With gilded prow and purple sail,
Fame in the breeze, and honour in the gale;
Or on the raft of poverty, unknown,
He stem the tide, unfreighted and alone.
There is a Power—celestial, yet begot
Of earth—in heaven they need her not:
Our joy's companion, and our sorrow's friend—
Her errand is to tend
'TIS surely strange, thou lovely flower,
That thou should'st choose so dark an hour
To put thy beauties forth—
Why not amid the noon-day blaze,
When many an eye might come to gaze,
And wait upon thy birth?
Why dost thou choose to bloom alone,
Unseen, unnoticed, and unknown,
The midnight's only flower?
When every bud has closed its head,
And all beside thyself have fled
From night's unwelcom'd hour.
I do not love the noon-day blaze,
I do not love the idle gaze
Of every careless eye.
It is not mine to spread my flowers
O'er sunny beds or pleasant bowers,
Where thousand beauties vie.
I cannot deck your summer ways,
I cannot share your golden days,
With all the rich parade
Of things that with the morning come,
And gaily in the sunshine bloom,
But cannot 'bide the shade.
But seek me when they all are gone,
And seek me when thy sun goes down,
And then I will be thine—
And then I'll spread my sweetest flowers,
To cheer the melancholy hours,
When none beside me shine.
Nay then, I'll choose thee, lovely flower,
Before the fairest of the bower—
And if there be for me
A friend whose kindness can abide
The gloom that chases all beside,
I'll liken him to thee.
IS'T joy to me that Jesus lives? That he,
Whom mortals buried, burst the riven tomb,
And came again to prove that he was God?
What joy? Men slay their enemies—and I
Was one that slew Him—for my guilt was there,
To bind a thorn the more upon his brow:
My faithless, cold ingratitude was there,
To add a burden to his bosom's sadness;
And I was party to that fearful burst
Of agony that swelled his sinless heart;
And brake it, ere the murderous sword had smitten.
What joy? Men do not love to see again
The being they have injured and have slain!
'Twere safer for them, that the grave they closed,
Should hold him in its iron grasp for ever.
Is't joy to me that Jesus lives? That He
Jesus is risen. Yes; but ere I join
The pæan of joyful gratitude, that hails
The day of his returning, let me think
If He who has arisen is my friend.
If He is not my friend, He is my foe,
Most injured, most insulted, most provoked—
Men do not sing a welcome to their foes.
If I have lov'd Him—aye, but then to love
Is to desire, to follow, to obey:
It is to bind the object on the heart
So close, so near, that nought may come between,
Nor aught be held of value, or be deem'd
Too much to part from, or too much to leave,
Or suffer, for the sake of Him we love
With Him—it is to listen to his words,
And drink them in as eagerly—as gladly,
As does the parched and thirsty soil drink in
The first small droppings of the summer shower.
Away from Him—it is to remember
When all beside forget Him; and recall
His name, his character, his words, his wishes,
Where nothing whispers of them but our love,
And all around us, and about us sounds,
Amid the turmoil of a restless world,
I SAW beneath its native stem
The sever'd Vine-branch laid—
The dews were fresh upon its cheek—
The sun-beam on its head.
The new-blown flower did not droop,
The leaf was green and fair—
Vigour and life were in its veins,
As if it flourish'd there.
A little while the Vine-branch liv'd,
The smiles of heaven sharing—
A little while it seemed as blest
As those the stem was bearing.
But still the sun-beam shone in vain,
The Vine-branch felt it not—
The summer grew, the winter came,
And the Vine-branch bore no fruit.
So fades and falls the promise fair
Of poor mortality—
So perishes the boast of earth,
When parted, Lord, from thee.
There seems a bud—there seems a flower,
Our wisdom's specious dress—
The brilliant, but unlasting guise
Of nature's helplessness.
But ill shall the rootless virtue stand
Temptation's trying hour—
And soon shall the feeble spirit bend
To earth's delusive power.
Brief as the bloom of the rootless branch
The boast of earth shall be—
Nor truth, nor peace in the bosom bloom,
Till united, Lord, to thee.
LOUD broke the surge upon the sullen rock,
The startled valleys echoed back the shock;
Hard blew the wind, and far as eye could strain,
No living thing was left upon the main,
Save one poor, feeble, solitary bird,
With plaintive scream upon the breezes heard:
Chas'd from his nest by man's encroaching hand,
He wing'd his flight too rashly from the land;
And toiling now to get his distant home,
With worn and wearied limb and ruffled plume,
Disabled on his native gale to ride,
He scarcely floats upon the troubled tide;
And up and down, and down, and up again,
Rising as oft, and rising still in vain,
Each effort brings him nearer to the shore,
But each becomes more feeble than before.
THROUGH the long night of watchfulness and pain,
Where shall the worn and wearied spirit rest?
Who listens in the midnight's lonely hour
To the low hearings of the aching breast?
Still, silent, dark—in vain the ear would catch
A note of comfort whisper'd on the air—
Helpless, alone—the eye looks out in vain
For one to wipe the solitary tear.
'Tis then, O Lord, the spirit turns to thee,
Its ever-present, ever-mindful Friend—
Nearest, when all beside thee is afar,
And kindest where all other comforts end.
Then what delight to know that Thou art there,
Tending in love the lonely sufferer's bed—
In words of peace, still felt, though all unheard,
Shedding soft balm upon the restless head.
Lulling th' impatient spirit to repose,
With holy confidence that all is good—
So gently chastening, even nature's self
Would not escape the lesson if she could.
Yes, gracious Lord! not all the flowers that deck
The bosom of the healthy and the gay—
Not all the mirth and carelessness that gild
The sunshine moments of life's golden day—
Can bear so rich a harvest to the soul
Of holy peace and chaste tranquillity,
As does the pain, that, weaning us from earth,
Persuades the heart to yield itself to Thee.
My spirit, grateful even for the ill,
Asks of thy love this only blessing more—
Never to lose, in joy and health's return,
The thought of sickness' solitary hour.
CLOSE in the hedge a Violet bloom'd
Upon its native stem,
Deck'd with a dewy drop more bright
Than India's brightest gem.
But ill was this fair flower content
To blossom in the shade,
And droop'd with envy of the flowers
That deck'd the sunny glade.
"Why am I here, unseen, unknown,
'Mid weeds and nettles planted—
While still to bloom on sunny banks
To other flowers is granted?
Would I were yonder Cowslip bright,
In open fields to bide—
Or e'en the pretty Pimpernel
That decks the path-way side."
'Twas so the Violet complained,
And mourn'd her lot obscure,
And look'd with envy all the day
On each surrounding flower.
But so it was at even-tide
That some one came that road,
Pick'd the poor Cowslip from its stem,
And scatter'd it abroad.
And 'twas not long ere one in haste,
With rude and careless bound,
Passed o'er the pretty Pimpernel,
And crush'd it to the ground.
The Violet saw, and haply learn'd,
Not her's the sadder lot,
Whom fortune destines to abide
Where others mark her not.
Distinction's path is hard beset
With danger and with wrong—
More bless'd to whom obscurity
And gentle peace belong.
She is too bold who fondly sighs
To try the sunny glade—
Others beside the Violet,
Are safest in the shade.
TWINS of one morning, on a single stem,
Two Roses side by side were growing,
On each alike there hung a diamond drop,
Fresh on its balmy bosom glowing.
I gathered one, the fairest as I thought,
And on my bosom fondly plac'd it—
But ere the rapid hour had twice been told,
Gone was the brilliant blush that grac'd it—
My Rose was dead—and then I vainly wished
I had not cull'd the fresh-blown flower—
Yet many a sunny day it might have lived,
With its loved Sister in the bower.
She flourished there as long as Roses may,
By no rude hand untimely gather'd—
She lived—but Oh! 'twas but a little while
Ere she too on her stem was wither'd.
I saw the rain fall cold upon her breast,
I saw the worm her leaf consuming—
I saw her shrink before the northern blast,
From day to day more palely blooming.
They who had grown with her had left her there,
The summer's last and lonely flower—
Methought there grew a sadness in her look,
As if she chid each loit'ring hour.
Nay, then, I did not wrong thee, my poor Rose,
That from the stem I early took thee,
Ere yet the worm had nestled in thy heart,
Or coldness chill'd, or friends forsook thee.
And may we say our Father does not well,
Briefly to gather what he planted?
Early to lay his hand upon his own,
And take again the life he granted?
Why drop a tear of sorrow on the grave
Of youthful hope untimely blighted?
They do but reach their home when it is day,
While others here are left benighted.
They do not stay to feed upon the dross
Of pleasure's draught so sweetly tasted—
Time will not bid them mourn their pleasant home,
Into a friendless desert wasted.
Care will not wash one bright blush from their cheeks,
With tears of trust and hope misgiven—
Sin will no more upon their their bosom shed
Its painful venom—They are gone to Heaven.
I WILL arise and go unto my Father—
Alas! and when I throw me at his feet,
What can I say?—The Prodigal left once,
And gather'd of the fruit his folly planted,
Ate it, and did not like it, and returned—
He once returned, and he was once forgiven.
It is not so with me—I was forgiven
And sinned again, and was forgiven again—
The penitential vow upon my lips,
The kiss paternal warm upon my cheek,
And still about my neck the golden chain
With which he pledged, and bound me to his love—
A second, and a third time, and a fourth—O God!
I dare not come to thee—It is impossible!
I dare not even lift mine eye to Heaven,
Lest there be something in it that offend thee—
But still to thee, my Saviour!—Thee, my God
And yet my Brother!—Thee, who thyself hast trod
A FLOWER! Full many a day has gone,
And many an hour has loitered on,
Since I have gathered one:
It seems in idle mockery
Thou bidst my pencil draw for thee
A flower, when there are none.
I've been where flowers used to grow,
To find if there be any now,
But all is bleak and bare:
I found the briers they grew among,
I found the thorns they rested on,
But the flowers are not there.
I asked of those who used to twine
Their brightest summer wreath with mine,
If they could find a flower;
But, alas! they sighed, and told me true,
The season's passed when flowers grew
In border, bed, and bower.
If thou hast one, that has out-stay'd
The blighting time, when others fade,
Then bring it, for mine are gone;
If thou hast one, that did not die
When Summer's sunny day went by,
O bring it, for I have none.
WHERE the cowslip and primrose grew,
But now they were growing no more,
All wet with the drops of the morning,
I look'd on a small single flower.
'Twas alter'd, and yet it was like
To some that in Summer had blown;
It was sadder and paler, methought,
Than those that I sometime had known.
I paus'd, and remember'd its name,
And it seem'd that it whisper'd to me,
"Of all that was beautiful once,
I alone am remaining to thee—
The image of joys that are pass'd,
The shadow of hopes that are faded,
The memory that bids thee look back
On a prospect that sorrow has shaded."
"Then grow there, and die there," I said,
"Poor flower, I'll gather thee not;
Since the Summer returns not again,
Be its pleasures for ever forgot;
For altered and sad as thy form,
And faded and pale as thy flower,
Is the image that memory paints
Of joys that are coming no more."
But methought that it whispered again,
And said, "There is something beside,
That is like to the flower that stays
When all flowers beside it have died.
Remember the tear-drop of love,
That fell on the grave of the dead,
Who seem'd to have perished forgotten
Of Him, who his coming delayed.
How gently He smiled upon her
Who seem'd for a moment neglected;
How sweetly He whisper'd of peace
To them whom the world had rejected."
"Nay, then thou art welcome," I said—
"All dreary and cold though it be,
E'en the Winter can bear me a flower—"
I picked it, and brought it to thee.
NAY, Sister, nay—but say not so—
For o'er my memory even now
There comes, as if it were a dream—
A train indeed of things that seem
But shadows now, but they were erst
Realities the best—the first.
Say, if thou wilt, this morning's rose,
That died before the evening's close,
Was never sweet—or say the sun,
Than yesternight in clouds went down,
Was never bright and never shone—
I could believe thee rather so,
Than this strange thing thou tell'st me now.
If never bliss on earth were given,
Then Sister, I have been in Heaven.
"Gone!" Thou art answered—If 'tis so
The boasted bliss of earth must go:
What though it held enchantment's powers,
It is not meet for hearts like ours.
They do not go—the silent tread
Of moments stealing o'er our head,
Leaves the immortal spirit's growth
Still rising in eternal youth;
Destin'd for ever to survive
The waste of all that earth can give.
Say, is it bliss to-day to feed,
And starve to-morrow on our need?
To have at morn, and lose at night,
And grasp to-day the fond delight
Our eager spirits doat upon,
And then, to-morrow, say—'tis gone?
The wish, the hope, the feelings stay,
I KNEW a stream—'twas yonder, where,
Now bleak and bare,
There was a covert once of such fair green
Upon its margin seen,
The wandering Nightingale was fond to come,
And summer birds would choose it for their home.
And then it was a wild and wayward stream;
The brightest beam
Of summer, when it play'd upon its cheek,
Painting its waters with a golden streak,
Did but betray
The hidden rocks that on its bosom lay:
And many a rugged mound, and many a steep,
And many a frowning chasm dark and deep,
Were on its path—and many a sigh,
As it pass'd them by,
AH! wherefore is it thus with me,
That love divine
Has praise from every other lip,
And none from mine?
That every other harp can find
A joyful note,
To sing of thy redeeming love,
While mine is mute?
I struck it twice, I struck it thrice—
It has forgot
The wonted song of gratitude—
It answers not.
O my ungrateful heart! Canst thou,
Canst thou forget
The beauty of that prize he won,
And gave thee it?
Have the dimm'd jewels of thy crown
Belied thy choice?
And the rich pearl upon thy bosom
Lost its price?
That now thou lookest upon Heaven
With tearful eyes;
And hast no better psalmody
Than those cold sighs?
Nay, tune for shame thy harp again,
Nor let it lie
Even before the gate of Heaven,
Thus mournfully.
The ruthless winds have played on it,
And they have torn
That only chord of joyfulness—
There was but one.
They struck it twice, they struck it thrice—
Its musick woke
The deepest echoes of the soul—
And then it broke.
O Lord, make haste! for it is Thou
Alone canst string
With thine own hand this riven heart,
That it may sing.
THOU mournful, melancholy star,
I have watch'd thee many a night—
And many a thought of seriousness
Was whisper'd from thy waning light.
Thou, like the world on which thou shin'st,
Art destin'd briefly to decay—
Returning each returning night
With wasted and diminish'd ray.
Some few nights since thy horn was full,
And mid-way through the cloudless skies,
The favourite of a gazing world,
In fearless pride I saw thee rise.
But late and scarcely heeded now,
With many a circling vapour bound,
Thou com'st when others are at rest,
To tread unseen thy midnight round.
Farewell, thou melancholy star—
The tale is true of more than thee—
Who bright and brilliant for a time,
Subside into obscurity.
So pass the honours of the world—
So beauty fades and life decays—
And men forget the waning star
On which they sometime lov'd to gaze.
And even so our fondest hopes,
In life's first dawning fair and bright,
Consume and waste themselves away,
And leave us many a starless night.
O GOD!—But no—Thou wilt not hear,
Thou wilt not heed the bitter tear
In such a moment prov'd—
When folly weeps her broken toy,
And earthliness bewails the joy
It never should have loved.
I cannot say I did not hear,
When erst Thou whisper'd me, "Beware!
"And take not of that draught."
I cannot say I did not know
The bitterness that lay below,
What I so fondly quaff'd.
I heard the voice—I saw—I knew,
I look'd the empty shadow through,
The cup is out, the draught is done,
The dream, the shadow, all are gone,
And what is left to me?
O God! the agonizing thought,
That I must bear the ill I wrought,
Nor bring it e'en to Thee!
To Thee, who, when no friend was near,
My bosom's secret plaint to hear,
Would erst thine ear incline;
And when my spirit could not rest
Its cares on any earthly breast,
Wert wont to offer thine.
But now—Oh! who will listen now?
Or who relieve, O God, when Thou
Dost answer me but this—
Yes, I abide it, Lord, nor raise
So much as e'en these tearful eyes
For comfort at thy hands—
But if thy pity still may hear,
Grant me, O God, this only prayer,
'Tis all my soul demands!
O grant, that while I eat the fruit,
I learn to loathe the bitter root,
And if there be for me
A friend whose kindness can abide
The gloom that chases all beside,
I'll liken him to Thee.
WHICH are the happy moments?—If the hours
When life's intoxicating flattery pours
Its nectar on the lip—the harp and viol
And the light dance the inebriate sense beguile,
And pleasure, as her diamond sands run on,
Sees them not go, and wonders how they've gone—
If this be happy—all of life forgot
Except the present isolated spot,
And that beheld by the delusive burning
Of earth fed lamps that must go out ere morning—
Unmeet for happiness so light so vain,
It is not then.
Or if it be to lie entranc'd in ease
Upon the bosom of earth-cherish'd peace—
Imagination's children seldom taste
Of joys like these. To them a thorny waste
Seems the fair peopled earth. As if they were
The exil'd spirits of some sunny sphere,
Where all is beaming with poetic fire,
They sicken in unsatisfied desire.
Pleasure is not so gay, nor love so fond,
As they would have it—nor the dizzy round
But in the hours, when on a world unkind,
The poet looks from out his own bright mind,
Finds it a wilderness, and peoples it
With all the brilliant revelry of wit,
Rich in the wealth of his ingather'd store,
When the earth's barrenness can yield no more,
And like the lonely camel on the waste,
From his own bosom makes himself a feast.
If in such hours the self-sufficed mind,
Alien all else, a native kingdom find,
And can forget, amid his brilliant reves,
That he is not so blest as he believes—
The minstrel monarch of his own domain—
It may be then.
Or better in her inner chambers, when,
Unsought of pity and unseen of men,
Sad penitence sits lonely with her sin,
Or sorrow with her tears: without, within,
No sympathy, no comforter but One—
That lov'd, that tender, that compassionate One!
'Tis not to be alone when He is there—
'Tis not to weep when He receives the tear—
If hope that ne'er in earthly sunshine grew
Nor ever died from blight of earthly woe,
"Happy" for her lone hours may better claim
Than all that calls itself by that proud name—
Meet moments for the heaven-taught poet's strain—
It may be then.
O GOD, where art thou? In my bosom's care,
Companionless, alone,
I had no comforter, no hope but Thee,
And even Thou art gone.
How do I know—O agonizing thought!
While thus in vain I call,
If Thou indeed art all I have believ'd?
Or if Thou art at all?
Bow'd like the drooping bulrush o'er my hearth,
Where, through uncounted hours,
My troubled soul to one who is not there
Its thoughts of sorrow pours;
I have sate waiting, waiting for thy word,
And still no message came—
I've shed a thousand, thousand bitter tears,
And no one gather'd them.
And then I've taken thy volume on my knee,
And still 'twas written there,
That Thou dost listen to the mourner's sigh,
And number every tear.
But Thou hast not heard mine. Go, Tempter, go—
And say not to me now,
That page so full of promises unkept
May haply not be true;
And Thee, upon whose love so long in faith
My ardent hopes recline,
Now waited for in vain, may not be God,
Or be at least not mine.
Such doubts, such agonizing doubts within
Whispers that deadly foe—
And having nothing left me but my faith,
Would rob me of that too.
Jesus, Saviour, if thou dost remember,
When hungry and unfed,
He even for thine own celestial feet
That bold temptation laid;
Have pity on my weakness, and send down
From thine eternity,
One of those angel messengers who came,
And minister'd to Thee.
More nights, more days than Thou of old didst stray
In that cold wilderness,
My weary soul has kept its fast from joy,
And hunger'd for its peace.
And now he comes, as erst he came to Thee,
And whispers in mine ear,
"If thou indeed hast such a God in heaven,
Why hears He not thy prayer?"
O Lord, thou knowest—and dost Thou not care
That he should thus bereave
Of all that it desires in earth or heaven
The soul that Thou canst save!
AH! when we view the countless crowd
Upon life's thorny road,
How few whose feet to Zion turn'd,
Are walking to their God.
And few there are that seek to know
Their soul's eternal good;
And few have found the healing balm
Of their Redeemer's blood.
But some beneath their shepherd's arm,
Have got a safe repose—
A shelter from the stormy blast,
A solace for their woes.
And these can simply rest their all
Upon his dying love:
Believing he will bring their souls
Safe to his fold above.
When swiftly on the wings of time,
Their earthly comforts fly,
As swiftly on the wings of love,
Their better rest draws nigh.
And oh, how blessed is their end,
Thus sav'd by love divine;
For God the everlasting Lord
Has said they shall be mine:
Oh! precious promise, sweetest hope,
To mortal spirits given;
It seems to draw aside the veil,
And give a glimpse of heaven.
A LILY, the sweetest, the fairest, the purest,
Was modestly drooping one day o'er its bed—
No beam of the morning had kissed its pale cheek,
Or left on its brightness one faint blush of red.
No rude wind had blown o'er its low sheltered dwelling,
Nor passenger slackened his step for its sake—
No summer-bee found it, and nothing had touched,
Save the pure, pearly dew-drop that hung on its cheek.
It chanced that this Lily beheld o'er its head,
A flower of scarlet so brilliant, so gay—
It seemed that the sunbeam that kissed it was cold,
Compared with the flush of the cheek where it lay.
To the full beam of mid-day it opened its flowers,
Nor sought in the foliage, or shelter, or shade;
Each gay gilded insect of summer was there,
And blithe on its branches the butterfly played.
The pride of the garden, the boast of the bower,
In garments of gladness so brilliantly dressed;
Full many a passenger loitered before it,
And rifled a flower to place on his breast.
The Lily beheld it, and whispered "Fair Flower,
"It grieves me to see thee thus gaily arrayed;
"Delighting to flourish where all may behold thee
"In beauty so proudly, so boldly displayed.
"So high, so unsheltered, so brilliantly clad,
"For ever exposed to the passenger's gaze—
''There comes not an eye, but it looks on thy flowers,
"There comes not a lip, but it speaks of thy praise."
"Content thee, sweet Lily," that flower replied,
"Some power mysterious has placed us apart;
"Had we chosen, thou likely hadst blossomed with me,
"Or I been contented to be what thou art.
"But wrapt in thy leafits my blossoms would die,
"And thine on my branches as surely would fade;
"The hand that has lent us our colours, fair Lily,
"Made me for the sunshine, and thee for the shade."
YES, Love—and when the storm shall come again—
And come it will, however it delay—
You shall remember, too, the soothing calm
That closed the evening of this fearful day.
Passed are the clouds that hung so dark and low—
The rushing torrent flows a tranquil stream—
Changed is the thunder for the linnet's voice,
The vivid lightning for the moon's pale beam.
The herbage, perfum'd with this morning's tears,
Sheds more than wonted fragrance through the air—
And the frail flower that sunk beneath the rain,
Blossoms this evening more than ever fair.
Observe it well—for other storms than these
Bitter experience tutors us to dread—
Thunders more terrible than those that roll'd
With harmless menace o'er our shelter'd head.
And many a shock, in life's yet future day,
That nature feels not, may be felt by thee—
And many a cloud of bitterest portent
Darken'd thy atmosphere unseen of me.
Remember then, with what a transient frown
The tempest hung its terrors o'er our head—
Remember what a sweet and placid calm
Embellish'd nature, when the storm was sped.
So think when sorrow hangs upon thy soul
'Tis but a little, very little while,
Ere heaven will brighten on earth's darkest day,
And light our evening with a holy smile.