There's naught within but mould'ring clay,
No more will he appear.
That sister, who hath sought a friend
To share her grief till time shall end,
Must still in tears be drowned;
Although a partner soothes her grief,
And kindly strives to give relief,
And children cluster round;—
She sees their glossy ringlets flow,
In clusters o'er each little brow;
They speak of days gone by,
When she with brother often strayed,
O'er hill and dale and flow'ry glade,
Where golden sunbeams lie.
A fair young friend, whose aching heart
Now feels affliction's keenest dart,
Must long in sadness weep;
Her brightest hopes are fled away,
Alas! her sweetest joys decay,
They in the grave must sleep.
Her heart still bleeds at every pore,
That much loved form she'll see no more,
Till Gabriel's trump shall sound;
We trust they'll then in raptures rise,
To that blight world above the skies,
Where tears no more are found.
His aged parents feel the blow;
Long since they gazed upon his brow,
And blessed their infant boy;
Trembling with age, we hear them say,
"This dear support is torn away,
What now can yield us joy?
"Long years we watched our lovely plant,
With care supplied its every want,
And hoped it long might bloom;
But fierce disease has laid it low,
Reckless of tears that 'round it flow.
And laid it in the tomb.
"Long, long we nursed his fading form,
And strove to shun the gath'ring storm,
Which threaten'd in the sky;
Yet from our bleeding bosoms torn,
Our darling son leaves us to mourn;
Who can his place supply?"
But could their vision now extend
To those bright realms where dwells their friend,
Their tears would cease to flow;
They'd long to leave this dusky sphere,
And from their lips we soon should hear,
"Dear Savior, let me go."
No more they'd wish the seraph here,
To wander in this vale so drear,
And lay his glory by;
To suffer years of grief and pain,
And cross cold Jordan's stream again,
To reach the joys on high.
THE SISTER'S LAMENT
LINES SUGGESTED BY THE DEATH OF E. TORRY, OF PORTLAND
Oh, Edward, dear Edward! how precious that sound,
I seek for an equal—it cannot be found;
In tones soft and pensive it visits my ear,—
I fain would believe thou art hovering near.
Since thy happy spirit to heaven has fled,
Art thou with me by day, by night round my bed?
I visit thy grave and bedew it with tears,
To share in my sorrow, no Edward appears.
On earth 't was thy pleasure to soothe all my grief,
To wipe off my tears and to bring me relief;
Thy heart's warm affections were lavished on me,
I've spent happy moments conversing with thee.
My counselor, playmate, my guide, and my friend,
On whom I might always in safety depend,
In paths of fair virtue my feet thou hast led,
Where vice, that foul monster, dares not show his head.
Nor was all thy kindness bestowed upon one;
Thou wast an affectionate, dutiful son;
Thy dear honored parents drank deep of thy love,
None ever shared more but thy Father above.
Thy father now sinks 'neath a burden of woe,
His once brilliant eyes now with tears overflow;
Thy mother sits weeping, thy fond brothers sigh,
The dear little children cease playing and cry.
Fair nature is wearing a mantle of gloom,
Deep sorrow sits brooding all round our sweet home;
The soft venial zephyrs come sighing along,
The streamlets are murm'ring a sad, mournful song.
The gray twilight shades come attended with gloom,
While like a dark pall they encircle thy tomb;
When soft showers descend, something whispers to me,
That tears from the clouds are descending for thee.
No star spangled heavens nor cool shady bowers,
No deep ancient forest or fair fragrant flowers
Can fill up the void that I feel in my breast,
Although thou art tuning thy harp with the blest.
In dreams I behold thee when I am asleep,
It cheers up my spirits and I cease to weep;
Enshrined in my heart thy fair image shall dwell,
I'll keep it there always, I love it so well.
LINES UPON A LOCK OF HAIR.
I'll weave a bracelet of this hair,—
Although these locks so hallowed are,
It seems like sacrilege to wear
Such relics of the dead.
I've seen them clust'ring 'round a brow
Which drooped beneath affliction's blow,
And slumbers in the church-yard now,
With all its beauty flown.
The hand that dressed these locks with care,
And 'ranged them 'round that brow so fair,
And oft clasped mine with friendly air,
Is turning back to dust.
And closed those eyes, whose radiant beams
Surpass'd imagination's dreams,
Yet whisp'ring still, were but faint gleams
Emerging from the soul.
Farewell, dear friend, these locks I'll keep,
Till in the grave with thee I sleep;
There, like thee, may I cease to weep,
And, with thee, wake to sing.
LINES
SUGGESTED BY READING AN ACCOUNT OF THE LAST HOURS OF MRS. SARAH JUDSON, SECOND WIFE OF THE LATE LAMENTED DR. JUDSON, OF BURMAN.
"I am in a strait betwixt two, let the will of the Lord be done."—Judson's Offering, 231st page. These were the words of Mrs. Judson a few days previous to her death, when questioned as to her desires respecting the issue of the affliction under which she was suffering.
Life's trials and dangers will all soon be o'er,
I feel myself nearing the heavenly shore,
I'm weary of wand'ring, oh! fain would I rest
With Jesus, my Savior, and sleep on his breast.
I'm weary and thirsty, my spirit has flown
Almost to that river which bursts from the throne;—
I'd range its fair borders, and plunge in its flood,
And join with the angels in praising my God.
I'd rest in the shade of that tree, growing near,
Which yields its rich fruit every month in the year;
Its leaves are so healing, no sickness comes there,
To mar the new song as it floats through the air.
I think of the rest in those regions above,—
My soul spreads her pinions and soars like a dove,—
Yet I'm drawn back to earth by one tender tie,
Which oft clogs my wings;—then, oh! how can I fly!
I think of New England, my fair native land,
The friends of my childhood, that dear faithful band,
Who're waiting to greet me with hearts full of love,
Not knowing my bark will cast anchor above.
To see me, my kindred impatiently wait,—
I think of those dear ones,—my soul's in a strait,—
My father, my mother, my dear orphan son,—
Oh Lord, decide for me, let thy will be done'
JUDSON'S GRAVE.
Dear shepherd of the Burman sheep,
Where have they laid thee down to sleep?
Beside thy long lamented Ann,
Or 'midst thy charge at Aracan?
Or does that palm tree o'er thee wave,
Which shadows thy dear Sarah's grave?
I pause, and drop the silent tear,—
In mournful tones, a voice I hear,
Exclaiming, "Earth affords no space
For Judson's last calm resting place."
Ye spicy groves, perfume each breeze
That steals along the Indian seas,—
For we have felt a pang of woe,
Since, plunged in awful depths below,
Our much lamented Judson's clay,
Must 'neath its rolling billows lay,
Where monsters of the ocean creep,
'Round him o'er whom the nations weep.
No stone directs the stranger's eye
To where his sacred relics lie,
Nor can the weeping Burmans come
To shed their tears around his tomb.
And when their work on earth is done,
No mourning daughter, wife, or son
Can rest from toil the weary head,
Beside him in his ocean bed.
But while we shrink from such a grave,
He rests as sweetly 'neath the wave
As though in Auburn's bowers he lay,
Where sunbeams through green branches play,
And roses, wet with tear drops, bloom
Around th' unconscious sleeper's tomb.
Let no rude wind, no angry storm,
The ocean's heaving breast deform,—
'Tis hallowed as dear Judson's bed,
Until the sea gives up its dead.
Though mortals weep with fond regret,
The Lord that spot will ne'er forget;
He will a faithful record keep,—
He knows where all his children sleep.
Though monsters should that form devour,
'Twill rise in beauty, strength and power;
That voice, which rends the tombs and graves,
Will sound through all the ocean caves;
Then 'roused by heaven's eternal King,
He'll tune his golden harp and sing;
While, quick as thought, to join the song,
Will Burman converts round him throng,
And on that bright auspicious morn,
Like jewels his rich crown adorn.
LINES
SUGGESTED BY A REMARK MADE BY THE REV. WINTHROP MORSE, WHILE ADDRESSING A CONGREGATION ASSEMBLED ON THE BANKS OF THE SANDY RIVER, UPON A BAPTISMAL OCCASION.
The writer of the following, though but a child, was present, and, for the first time, witnessed the administration of that solemn ordinance.
"We're trav'ling to eternity,"
God's faithful servant cried,
As he addressed the multitude
That thronged the water's side.
"We're trav'ling to eternity,"
He said with tearful eye,—
Then come, dear friends, and choose the path
That leads to joys on high.
"We're trav'ling to eternity,"
The convert seemed to say,—
I'll trace the path my Savior marked,
Though through these waves it lay.
"We're trav'ling to eternity,"