No more tune their voices here;
Some have sought a distant home,
Gone, 'midst other scenes to roam;
One is racked with wasting pain,
And may never sing again;
While I hear thy feeble moan,
I can never sing alone;
Still, we welcome blooming spring,
But there's no one here to sing.
Come then, little singing bird,
Let thy cheerful voice be heard;
Come, and pour thy melting lays
Where thou didst in better days;
Strive each drooping heart to cheer,
Strive to dry the falling tear,
Strive to soothe each throbbing breast,
Hushing troubled minds to rest.
"My harp is on the willows hung.
And the strings all out of tune,"
And dost thou listen for a song,
From this frail harp, neglected long?
My harp, alas! is drenched in tears,
Rent by contending hopes and fears.
Pale trembling fingers sweep the strings
Whene'er my muse, in sadness, sings;
For, prostrate now, before me lays
The playmate of bright joyous days;
She was my early childhood's pet,
Nor can my bleeding heart forget
That love, which has, in later years
Shared all my pastimes, hopes, and fears.
Long has pale death beside her stood,
And poured his arrows like a flood,
Whilst I have tried, with beating heart,
To steal the poison from each dart;
But oft I fear, lest these dread showers
Will baffle all our feeble powers,
And death's cold hand, will rend apart
The tie that binds her to my heart.
Long I've refused to leave her side,
Lest there should aught remain untried,
Which might her wasting form restore,
And tinge her cheek with bloom once more.
Oft by her couch, the livelong night,
I've watched, till morn's unwelcome light,
Like some vain babbler, must reveal
The tears, which I would fain conceal;
Then softly stole, in silence, where
No sigh could reach the sufferer's ear.
But, shall I thus forever weep,
And let my harp forgotten sleep,
When there's one sweet melodious strain,
Whose power can wake its string again?
Come, let us chant one grateful song
To Him, whose patience waited long,—
"God ruleth, let the earth rejoice!"
Yes, let us make a joyful noise.
We're chastened by a hand divine,
Let us be dumb, nor dare repine;
Thou didst it. O, our Father, God,
Then let us humbly kiss the rod.
Though from our eyes the tear-drop starts,
When those who twine around our hearts
Are suffering with exquisite pain,
Yet, we may weep, and not complain.
Lord, thou didst weep, and so may we,
And bow submissive still to Thee;
Grant us thy grace in sorrow's hour,
To flee for refuge to thy power.
TO A SISTER WHILE DANGEROUSLY ILL.
O Sister! Sister! can it be
That thou must droop, and die?
Still blending on thy fair young cheek,
The rose and lily vie.
But burning fever is the root
From whence those roses spring;
While pain and suffering, on thy brow,
Those snowy lilies fling.
THE INVALID'S DREAM
The sick girl sat with downcast eye,
Her bosom heaved the deep drawn sigh,
She felt that all complaint was vain,
For health would ne'er return again.
With pain and weariness oppressed,
She sought her pillow, there to rest,
While sleep a welcome visit paid,
Bright scenes were to her view displayed.
In fancy's magic glass, she sees
Her cheek, long faded by disease,
The rose of health blooms there again,
'Tis no deceitful hectic stain.
Lightly and firm her footsteps fell;
In rapture, she exclaimed, "I'm well!
I bear no suff'ring, feel no pain,
My long lost treasure I regain."
Her blooming form now stands erect,
In fair and comely robes bedecked;
Her limbs, so long with pain oppressed.
Can nimbly move or sweetly rest.
Rejoicing friends their praises sing,
To Hezekiah's bounteous king;
Well pleased, she hears their grateful songs,
And her glad voice the strain prolongs.
But sleep his downy pinions spread,
Her slumbers broke, the vision fled;
Her burning temples throbbed with pain,—
She was an invalid again.
TO A BUTTERFLY IN MY CHAMBER.
Whence art thou, frail, wand'ring stranger,
Softly flitting round my bed?
Is thy life exposed to danger?
Are thy friends and kindred dead?
Does the cold rude breath of autumn,
Chill thy little fragile form?
Hast thou come to seek a shelter
From the dreaded gath'ring storm?
Art thou now our friendship trying?
Wouldst thou test the vows we made,
When thou was so gaily flying
'Round us, 'neath the fragrant shade?
Or, wouldst thou our hearts be cheering,
Through this pensive lonely eve,
While the chilly winds are bearing
On their wings the faded leaf?
Would thou wast the Father's token,
That the sweet celestial dove,
When the golden bowl is broken,
Will support us by his love,—
Will, in that dread painful conflict,
Flit around our dying bed,
And, to fill the soul with comfort,
Whisper, "blessed are the dead."
TO THE "WILD FLOWER."[5]
I've ranged the bright streamlet in childhood's blest hour,
And culled from its borders spring's loveliest flowers,
Then bound up my bouquet, all glitt'ring with dew,
And smiled on my treasure as homeward I flew.
I've seen the sweet violet deck the green sod,
All fresh from the hand of a bountiful God,
While soft whisp'ring zephyrs breathed this in my ear,
"The wisdom of God in these blossoms appear."
I've looked on the mayflower, spring's earliest child,—
It peeped from the snowdrift and modestly smiled;
I've plucked the fair lily, arrayed in fair white,
And drank in its fragrance with heartfelt delight.
Yet blossoms that smile in the green woodland bower,
Ne'er rival this sweet intellectual flower;
This blossom sprang up from the depths of the mind,—
The heart's thrilling fibres its tendrils entwine,
Affection's pure fountain has watered the germ,
The bright sun of intellect cherished its form,
It's petals were colored in fancy's rich dye,
Till they, with the hues of the rainbow may vie;
I'll pluck thee, sweet blossom, pure fragrance I find,
When the rich perfumes are inhaled by the mind.
FOOTNOTES:
A volume of poems.
THE MINISTER
AT THE FAMILY ALTAR. COMPOSED FOR THE REV. W. FOSS, OF LEEDS.
The father, still in manhood's prime,
Was bowed in humble prayer;
His partner, fair as when a bride,
Was kneeling by him there.
Reclining on a sister's arm,
The babe found sweet repose;
While from the heart, in accents warm,
The father's prayer arose.
And, fair as rosebuds bathed in dew;
By morning zephyrs fanned,
A blooming group of loved ones, too,
Was ranged on either hand.
As many children God had given,
As good old Jacob had;
That he might meet them all in heaven,
How fervently he prayed.
What deep emotions filled my breast,
That scene my spirit stirred;
Will not that family be blessed,
That prayer in heaven be heard?
Though oft his duty calls abroad,
Salvation's news to bear,
The father leaves his charge with God,
Confiding in his care.
AN APPEAL FOR IRELAND.
"Cast thy bread upon the waters, for thou shall find it after many days."—Ecel. xi; 1.
Hark! hear the cry of Erin's sons,
By plague and famine frantic;
The wail of wives and little ones
Comes o'er the broad Atlantic.
O, heed the bitter piercing cry,
That's pealing o'er the ocean;
To us, to us, for aid they fly,
As Israel fled to Goshen.
List! hear that sad and mournful sound,
It is the parent sighing;
Beside him, on the damp cold ground.
His darling ones are lying.
A nation sinking to the grave;
How thick death's shafts are flying!
The loved, the lovely, and the brave,
From want are daily dying.
They're calling to Columbia's sons,
And to her happy daughters;
Take of your bread, ye favor'd ones,
And cast it on the waters.
THE LITTLE CLOUD.
All day the rain has patter'd down,
In dense dark folds, clouds hang around,
The humid air is dead and still,
Thick vapors veil the distant hill.
But now, a little crimson cloud
Beams from an opening in the shroud,
Which, like a dusky pall, o'erspreads
The azure vault above our heads.