On the Frailty of Earthly Things.
The things of earth are false, as fair,
And glitter to betray,
They scarce outlive the sunny glare
Of one short summer day.The hours--how rapid in their flight,
And days pass swift away,
Scarce dawning ere the shades of night
Chase its bright beams away.The dew-drop trembling on the flow'r,
Gemm'd by the morning's ray,--
Glitters scarce one little hour,
Ere it is dried away.The butterfly with gilded wing,
That flits from spray to spray,
Is but an evanescent thing,
That passeth soon away.The flow'rs--those gay and brilliant things,
So charming to the eye,
Soon fold their withered petals up,
And fade away and die.The busy bee, with drowsy hum,
That through the summer day,
Flies sipping round from flow'y to flow'r,
Bearing its sweets away,Is soon constrain'd by wintry winds,
To seek her honi'd cell,
And giving o'er her wandering life,
In quiet there, to dwell.And rosy health that paints the cheek
With richest crimson dye,
And bids the heart of kindness speak
From beauty's flashing eye,Soon, soon withdraws the blushing rose,
And leaves the lily there:
Bedims the lustre of the eye,
And pales the cheek with care.I saw a smiling infant stand
By its fond mother's side:
She fondly pressed one dimpl'd hand
With sweet maternal pride.Her form was faultless to behold,
And every infant grace
Beam'd sweetly from her radiant eye,
And rosy dimpl'd face.But sudden stiffness seiz'd those limbs,
A gurgling stopp'd her breath:
Those eyes that shone so bright before,
Were soon upturn'd in death.And love that fills the youthful breast,
With visions bright and gay,
Oft strews his downy nest with thorns,
And quickly flies away.And friendship, that peculiar boon,
From God to mortals given,
That seems a brilliant golden link,
Uniting earth with heaven,Is broken off, and often turn'd
With careless heart away,
And hatred fills the self same place
Where gentle love had sway.But oh! how poison'd is the dart
That sheds its venom there,
And drives uncherish'd from the heart,
The gift so good and fair.An aching void must ever dwell
Within the stricken heart;
For who can all the suff'ring tell
When friends in hatred part?Then do not fondly cling to earth,
Where all things must decay:
Where happiness scarce has its birth
Ere it is swept away.Lean not on earth, 'twill pierce the heart,
At best a broken reed,
And oft a spear where hope expires,
And peace as often bleeds.But far beyond yon azure sky,
Yon sparkling star-lit dome,
Let your aspiring hopes ascend,
For there's your heav'nly home.
To a Friend
I love to watch thy youthful eye,
That speaks thy fond affection;
I love to hear thy tender sigh,--
It charms my deep dejection.The gentle beamings of that eye
Have power to soothe each sorrow,
While casting hope's refulgent dye,
In glances, on to-morrow.My love is clear as crystal streams,
Flowing from sylvan fountains,--
And pure as Phoebus' noon-day beams,
That gild yon rising mountains.And constant as the Northern Bear,
That guards the pole unceasing,
And ushers in the new-born year,--
Nor waning, nor decreasing.But still, shouldst thou faithless prove,
Thy plighted vows resigning,
Leave me and seek another love,
I'd bear, without repining.No discontent should fill my breast,
But calm as summer even,
I'd still look forward to my rest,
In yonder vaulted heaven.And still I'd breathe my pray'r for thee
With all my soul's devotion,
Till life itself should cease to be,
And death chill'd each emotion.Then calm as day's expiring breath,
Each injury forgiven,
My ransom'd soul should take its flight,
And wing its way to Heaven.
The Mother and Her Child.
Child, raise a fervent prayer to heav'n,
That this day's sin may be forgiv'n,
Ere you sink to sweet repose,
While evening's shadows round you close.The golden sun has sunk to rest,
Behind the curtains of the west,
And rosy twilight, soft and mild,
Brings gentle slumber to my child.The busy, bustling cares of day,
In noise and tumult pass'd away;
Solemn night, so still and deep,
Bids nature's wearied children sleep.Soft is the pillow of your rest,--
With health and friends, and comforts blest;
Then raise a fervent prayer to heav'n,
That ev'ry sin may be forgiv'n.The child began, "Father forgive
My many sins, and bid me live:
May I be humble, meek and mild,
Like Jesus, when a little child."O may this feeble soul of mine,
Be join'd to Christ, the living vine;
May I ever bow the knee,
And 'Abba, Father,' cry, to thee."Father, in heaven, hear my prayer,
And make a little child thy care,
Jesus has said, so let it be,
'Suffer such to come to me.'"But, mother, why's my pulse so still?
Mother, why is the air so chill?
And, mother, why are angels fair
Hov'ring o'er me, in the air?"Mother, with thee I cannot stay,--
Those angels beckon me away;
I feel this night, so still, so deep,
Will bring to me a lasting sleep.""My child, my child, can it be so?
Can I let my darling go?
Oh, yes--I see it plainly now,--
'Tis death's cold hand upon thy brow."Come, lay thy icy cheek to mine,--
I'd kiss thee once, ere I resign
To icy death, thy lovely form,
To feed the gnawing coffin worm."Corruption, nor the coffin worm,
Can thy triumphant soul deform;
That, enraptur'd, shall arise,
To dwell with Christ, beyond the skies."'Tis the dear Saviour bids thee come,--
His angels wait to bear thee home;
Loudly, he's saying now to thee,--
'Suffer such to come to me.'""Mother, all things are pure and bright;--
I see them by a heavenly light,
And beaming in the distance far,
I see the glorious morning Star."Farewell, mother," but the name
Died on her lips--life's quiv'ring flame
Had just expir'd; that deathless soul
Had burst its chains, and pass'd the goal.The mother meekly knelt in prayer,--
She felt that God's own hand was there,
Then wip'd one pearly tear away,
And rose to shroud her lifeless clay.So sweet a smile the lips still wreath'd,
It seemed life through their parting breath'd,
So gently death had o'er her crept,
That all who gaz'd might deem she slept.The mother watch'd, with earnest eye,
Her youngest Child before her lie,
Then meekly glancing up to heaven,
"Father, she was not lent, but given."Father, thou hast in mercy spoken,--
A tender tie from earth is broken,
But that same tie is link'd to heaven,
And stronger faith and hope are given."
A Mother's Prayer.
My children all have sunk to rest,
The youngest pillow'd on my breast,
And though 'tis midnight, stern and deep,
I still a mother's vigil keep.
Why comes so oft the unbidden sigh?
Why springs the tear-drop to my eye,
And why this agonizing prayer,
Ming'ling with the midnight air?
O, God, to thee I lift mine eye,
Help thou, or else my children die.
To thee my inmost thoughts arise;
By faith I pierce the vaulted skies,
And there I see thy risen Son,
Seated beside thee on the throne,
His pitying accents cry "Forgive,"
And let the thoughtless sinner live.
"Father, I have been crucified--"
"An ignominious death have died,--"
"Deep agony for sin have known;"
"Father, and will not this atone?"
I come, too, leaning on His breast,
There all my hopes and wishes rest,
And join with His my pleading voice,
That they may all in god rejoice.
May one melodious concert rise
From angels, bending from the skies:--
O'er new-born souls, redeemed on earth,
Rejoicing in their heav'nly birth.
Lead them in pastures green and fair,
And gardens planted by thy care;
Where streams of free salvation flow,
And fruitful trees of knowledge grow.
Father, I ask not sordid wealth,
Nor the more precious boon of health;
The only blessing that I crave
Is endless life beyond the grave;
That when the icy hand of death
Shall seize their frames, and stop their breath,
Their souls on wings of faith may rise
To life and joy beyond the skies.
O Father, grant me this request
And I shall be supremely bless'd;
Bend ev'ry stubborn, wilful knee,
And draw each wand'ring heart to thee.
But hark! I hear a cheering voice
That bids my waiting soul rejoice.
"Be still, and know that I am God,"
And bow submissive to the rod.
It seems almost that voice from heav'n,
Had spoke my childrens' sins forgiven,
So suddenly had calmness stole
O'er the deep currents of my soul.
Glory to God, who whispers peace,
And bids our hope and faith increase;
Glory to God, be echoed then,
'Till earth repeats the long amen.
Lines, Written in an Album.
Earthly beauties soon decay,
Earthly pleasures fade away;
Then raise your fond desires to heaven,
And let not all to earth be giv'n.Though touch'd by brilliant rainbow dyes,
Earth can contain no lasting prize.
But high above yon azure dome,
The ransom'd spirit finds a home.O, then make wisdom's ways your choice
In early youth. You will rejoice
To tread the straight and narrow way,
That upward leads to endless day.Then when life's little day is past,
Angels shall welcome thee at last
To yonder blissful, happy shore,
Where sin and sorrow come no more.
On The Death of a Mother.
O bring a robe of snowy white,
And fold it lightly o'er her breast;
Cold and pulseless now it lies,
The sainted spirit's sunk to rest;And gently fold the toil-worn hands,
And softly close the weary eyes;
Life's rugged journey now is past,
And calm in death's cold sleep she lies.That gentle heart has ceas'd to feel
The gushings of a mother's love;
But now a purer, holier flame,
Springs up in brighter realms above.And mother, though the tender tie
Uniting us, has thus been riven,
May we not feel a stronger bond
Drawing our trusting hearts to heaven?Now oft when evening's shadows steal
Across my path, thy voice I hear;
Again its well remember'd tones
Seem murmuring on my childish ear.And oft, when sorrow fills my breast,
And my worn spirit turns from earth,
There comes a gentle, well known voice,
Whisp'ring of the spirit's birth.'Twas hers to guide our infant feet
In wisdom's straight and narrow way,
To lead us to a Saviour's cross,
And teach our infant lips to pray.But now how blissful is her state,
Free from this cumb'rous, earthly clod,
Her ransom'd spirit fill'd with praise,
Joins the pure throngs that worship God.She's join'd her children in their home,
In those bless'd mansions far away,
Where sin nor death can ever come,
But all is bright, eternal day.And though our mother's pass'd from earth,
An angel bending from the skies,
Is ever hov'ring o'er our path,
Urging our weary souls to rise.Then let us her sweet precepts take,
Tread in the paths our mother trod,
Walk prayerfully the narrow way.
Directed by the word of God,Cleans'd by a dying Saviour's blood,
We may obtain the promis'd rest;
And when we pass away from earth,
Join our dear mother with the bless'd.Peace to thy memory, mother dear,
Sweet be thy slumber in the tomb,
'Till Christ in judgment shall appear,
And call His ransom'd children home.
The Music of Earth.
There's music in the summer breeze,
That sighs along the bow'rs;
There's music in the hum of bees,
That flit among the flow'rs.
There's music in the gentle show'r
That patters on the spray;
And music in the bubbling brook
That dances on its way.
There's music in the rustling leaf,
Before the zephyr's sigh,
And music in sweet childhood's laugh,
As it comes ringing by.
There's music in the warbler's song,
That trills his matin lay;
And music in the evening breeze,
As soft it dies away.
There's music in "Old Ocean's" wave,
That breaks upon the shore;
And music in the tempest's moan,--
The distant thunder's roar.
There's music in the things of earth,
Sweet music that we love;
But oh, there's music sweeter far
In yon bright world above.
Where angel bands, with golden harps,
Sing loud of sins forgiven;
And praises to a Saviour slain,
Fill the high dome of heaven.
Lines, Written on the Death of Mrs. Caroline P. Baldwin, Who Died July 6, 1827.
O bring a wreath of summer flow'rs,
And twine it lightly round her brow;
How calmly pass these holy hours--
Mysterious death is with her now.His icy breath is on her cheek,
His dew is freezing on her brow;
Her eyes no more earth's shadows seek--
Eternity's before them now.She sees a glittering angel band,
On downy pinions floating by,
To waft her to the spirit land,
Beyond the blue etherial sky.And hears low music stealing by,--
From golden harps the concert rings;
Earth mingles in the melody
That rises, to the King of kings."Husband, I know I'm dying now,
Life's golden sands are waning fast;
Seal on my lips the parting kiss,--
It is the last one--yes, the last."Now bring to me our blue eyed boy,--
I'd gaze upon his face once more;
May he, kept from earth's alloy,
Meet me on yon blissful shore.""Mother, your love is pure and deep--
I know the fount will never dry;
But in its onward current keep,
Through a long eternity."Sister, I'm passing to the tomb,
When life's young morn is fair and bright;
And shrouded soon, my youthful bloom
Shall dreamless sleep in death's dark night."Dark, did I say--O, no, I see
The golden city full in view;
The pitying Saviour smiles on me,
And angel-bands conduct me through."Sweet as the carol of a bird,
Soft as the gentlest summer sigh,
When scarce one trembling leaf is stirr'd
My sinking pulses faint and die."And so death rested on her cheek,--
Lingering in "strange beauty there;"
That seraph smile a rapture speaks--
That earthly pleasures may not share.
Lines, Written in a Sick-Room, April 15, 1855.
O, fold my flowing curtains by,
I fain would catch the breath of spring,
And breathe its gentle, balmy sigh,
As soft it floats on silken wing.Lightly it fans my pallid cheek,
And cools the fever of my brow,
And seems of coming health to speak,
As soft it murmurs round me now.Oh, there are those in life's young morn,
Who, gazing forth with earnest eye,
Feel that spring's joyous, glad return,
Brings but to them the time to die.While I, a pilgrim, worn and gray,
Wearied with care, still linger on,
Life's path to tread, one little day,
Before the feverish race is run.On the great battle-field of life,
The warp of destiny is spread,
And countless millions in the strife,
Supply the woof with varied thread.O, there are some, with hearts of truth,
With courage bold, and daring high,
Whose texture scarce from early youth,
Presents one blemish to the eye.And there are those all steeped in crime,
Whose fabric is one constant stain;
Who fill up their appointed time,
With conduct vile, and lips profane.There are bright streaks of glowing hope,
And blackened shades of deep despair,--
All smiles of joy, all tears of grief,
Like rainbow dyes are blended there.Repentance, with her bitter tears,
Would wash some dismal crime away;
And Terror, arm'd with many fears,
Stands pointing to a future day.And Happiness, with sunny smile,
Weaves in her roses, rich and rare,
Love, Constancy and Truth, we find,
And trusting Faith, with humble prayer.Vain were the effort to portray
The varied shades life's scenes present;
But oh, how swift the shuttles play,
By every thought or action sent.And so each one is weaving fast
His little web of human life;--
Happy those, who find at last,
They have conquered in the strife.It matters not how short the warp,
If to the goal the object tend,
For, oh, we know, "That life is long
That answers life's great end."
Lines, Written in a Sick Room, July 20th, 1855.
The voice of "many waters"
Is murmuring on my ear,
And mingling in the mystic strains
A mother's voice I hear.
Two white rob'd cherub sisters
Stand harping by her side;
A brother in the concert joins,
Who erst in Jesus died.And other sainted spirits,
Who've pass'd from earth away,--
Stand wooing me to join their bands
In realms of endless day.
The flow'rs are blooming brightly,
The tree of life is seen;
And so inviting stand the fields,
"Array'd in living green."The Saviour sheds his presence,
In radiance round the place:
And joy and adoration
Beams bright on ev'ry face.
Loud swells the pealing anthem,
Through the high dome of heav'n,
"Worthy the Lamb, who once was slain,"
And hath our sins forgiv'n.As thus I gaze enraptur'd,
And drink heav'n's spirit in
Earth's costliest tow'rs and palaces
Look faded, worn and dim;
And death's cold stream that murmurs
So hoarsely on my ear;
If Jesus were my pilot
I'd cross without a fear.But oh! the tide is turning,
Health flows through ev'ry vein:
And I a little longer
On time's dark shore remain.
But thou, celestial city!
I'd keep thee still in view,
And gladly would the summons heed
That wafts my soul to you.
To a Friend
Sweet comes the gentle breath of spring,
Sighing soft among the flow'rs,
Or sporting high on airy wings,
Fanning the leaves upon the bow'rs.The golden sun looks gladly down
Upon the vari'gated earth;
Encouraged by his genial rays,
Her garner'd treasures have their birth.But though the face of earth is fair,
Chance and change are busy here;
And her rugg'd, chequer'd path,
Is water'd oft by sorrow's tear.Her bosom holds our treasured dead,
The lov'd who in our pathway trod:
Whose place is found on earth no more,
But the freed spirit's soar'd to God.When ling'ring in the place of graves,
Came there no voice from out the tomb,
Whisp'ring to thy spirit's ear,
"Mother, when will the morning come?""O mother, yes, it soon will come,
The glorious resurrection morn,
When Christ shall wake the sleeping dead,
And an immortal day shall dawn."And though your path may lead you forth
From early friends far, far away;
Far from your darling children's graves,
Jacob's God shall be your stay.Your chasten'd soul from sorrow's cup,
Has often drank the bitter draught;
But ere the portion was consumed,
A mingled sweet thy spirit quaff'd.Sister in Christ, God be thy stay,
And lead as He has led before;
And keep thee "in the narrow way,"
Where pleasures dwell for ever more.Perchance we may not meet again
While ling'ring in this vale of tears;
But mem'ry casts a hallow'd spell
Over the scenes of other years.And treasur'd in her secret cells,
My much loved friend, are thoughts of thee;
And if we meet no more on earth,
I feel thou'lt sometimes think of me.Now fare thee well, sweet sister dear,
God speed thy bark o'er life's dark sea;
Safe moor it in the port of peace,
Thy pilot, friend, and helper be.
The Mother's Watch.
O, no, he will not come to-night,--
The stars are fading from the sky;
I've watch'd their dim, expiring light,
With an unwearied, earnest eye,And soon the golden king of day
Morn's eastern gates will open wide;
And mounted on his fiery car,
Triumphant over earth will ride.And she array'd in robes of green,
Adorned with vari'gated flowers,
Will welcome him with smiling mien,
While soft winds sigh along the bowers.He'll kiss the roses on her cheek,
And dry the tear-drop from her eye,--
Cast a glad smile o'er all her face,
And gild each stream that glances by.And she'll spread out her tempting store
Of fruits and flow'ers, to his warm ray;
He'll touch them with his genial smile,
As glad he runs his joyous way.But soon his journey will be o'er,
And the dun curtains of the west,
Will hide his beams, while low he sinks
Upon the pillow of his rest.And soft will steal the twilight hour,
And bring again my watch for thee;
Oh, who may tell a mother's love,
Or fathom that unbounded sea?Time, that has pass'd with rapid flight,
On silent pinions, hurrying by,
Has witness'd oft the midnight watch,
Of the fond mother's earnest eye.In infancy, when feverish dreams
Disturb'd her darling as he slept,
How anxious was the mother's watch,
As she her nightly vigil kept.Her watch is o'er the cradle cast,
Through childhood's wild and flow'ry maze;
Her hand would lead through youth's gay scenes,
And smooth the path of riper days.Would shield from each impending ill,--
Would guard from ev'ry dang'rous snare.
Instruct the reason, curb the will,
And lift to heaven the trusting prayer.And should the pois'nous flowers that bloom
Beside his path, tempt him to rove,
To bring the thoughtless wanderer back,--
How earnest is a mother's love.And so we watch from youth to age,--
From the soft cradle to the grave;
No power can check a mother's love,
That would from sin and sorrow save.
Why Should I Smile?
Why should I smile in mockery now,
When grief sits heavy on my brow?
Or strive in anguish to repress
The tears of gushing tenderness,
That from my heart's deep fountain rise,
And rush unbidden to my eyes?
Oh let me weep, for there's a balm
In tears, they bring a holy calm:
And yield a soothing, sweet relief
To hearts that else would burst with grief.
Yes, I will weep in hopeless woe,
Until my tears refuse to flow;
For lo! before my mental gaze,
The hopes and joys of other days,
Come gathering round, a mystic band,
Like phantoms from the spirit land;
And one by one they pass me by,
"With bloodless cheek and hollow eye,"
And seem to mock me as they go,
In tones of bitterness and woe.
Oh, how unlike the glittering throng
That smiling beckon'd me along,
And strewd with fragrant flow'rs my way,
In childhood's bright and sunny day.
They came in glittering robes arrayed,
O'er golden harps their fingers strayed,
And from their robes of spotless white
They scattered showers of sparkling light.
O, how could my fond heart believe
They glittered only to deceive;
To visions bright as fairy land.
Hope pointed with her magic hand,
And love, with soft and speaking eye,
And tones of thrilling witchery,
A dream like mist around me threw,
Ting'd by many a rainbow hue.
And friendship, with her smiling face,
Clasped me within her warm embrace,
And fondly whisper'd in mine ear,
Sweet words of hope I loved to hear.
And O, how fondly did I fling
On friendship's shrine, the offering
Of my young heart: nor could I deem
Her words were but an idle dream;
But oh, the illusion fled too late,
It left my heart all desolate.
The Youth's Return.
'Twas evening, and sweet melting strains
Of music floated by,
While the soft splendor glowed around,
Of an Italian sky.Within a green and fragrant bower,
Sat a young, dark eyed girl;
And midst her glossy raven hair,
Shone many a costly pearl.Fair was that high born maiden's brow,
And stately was her air;
And the proud beauty of her face
Was all undimmed by care.And in her dark and shadowy eye
There dwelt a tender light,
Like some soft trembling star that shines
Upon the brow of night.And the sweet music of her voice
Was thrilling, soft and low,
As tones of an Aeolian harp,
When southern breezes blow.And costly gems that lady wore,
And jewels rich and rare,
But her beauty far outshone
The brightest jewel there.Bright, glowing pictures hung around,
So exquisitely fair--
Touched with such wondrous skill they seemed
To breathe in beauty there.Delicious odor fill'd the room,
Wafted from orange bow'rs:
The fragrance mingling with perfume,
Of rare exotic flow'rs.In thoughtful mood that lady sat,
While her dark, lustrous eye,
Looked out in pensive tenderness,
Upon the glowing sky.She thought upon a noble youth,
A brave and gallant knight,
Whose heart was true to woman's love,
And strong amid the fight.And noble deeds that youth had done,
And won a glorious name;
Which future ages would enroll
Upon the book of fame.E'en now, he hastes that maid to greet--
Safe from the war returned;
Impatient at her feet to lay
The laurels he had earned.Ah, lady, thou wilt never more
Thy gallant lover see;
His eye of melting tenderness
Will never rest on thee.Death saw that gentle maiden there,
By dreams of love beguiled;
He gazed upon her winning charms,
As hideously he smiled.Full many a bright and lovely form,
Beneath his touch had died;
But she, the loveliest of them all,
He thought to make his bride.With noiseless step and watchful eye
He stole into her bower;
She felt his chill and icy breath,
And withered in an hour.The soft light faded from her eye,
And pallid grew her face,
As folded in Death's icy arms,
She felt his cold embrace.Her breath came heavily and slow,
Vainly she tried to speak;
The life blood froze around her heart,
And curdled in her cheek.And when her maidens sought her there
At the accustomed hour,
They found her cold and motionless,
Within that leafy bower.
To A----.
When the spring tide of thy life shall have passed away, with all its joyous anticipations and budding hopes--when Summer with the music of its birds and the perfume of its flowers, and melancholy Autumn, with its faded leaf and sighing winds, shall have chased each other down the tide of time, and the cold blasts of Winter have begun to chill the life-blood in thy veins--when the hand that penned these lines shall be mouldering in dust, and the friends of thy youth who journeyed with thee along the pathway of life, and who cheered thee with the music of their voices and the light of their smiles have, perchance, one by one passed away, and left thee to journey on in loneliness of heart, when the light of thine own eye shall have become dimmed, and thy sunny hair whitened by the frosts of age--when thy voice, which was wont to gush forth in melody and song, entrancing the ear and cheering the heart of the listener, has become weak and tremulous, and care and sorrow have set their seal upon thy brow. Oh, then may the recollection of no misspent hours, of no neglected opportunities for doing good, or wasted privileges, arise like dim meteors from the tomb to haunt thee with their reproach, but may the smiles of an approving conscience beam upon thee; may sweet peace and hope administer the balm of consolation to thy wounded spirit; may angels hover o'er the couch of thy repose, and fan thee with their balmy wings, and when thy tired spirit shall burst its prison house of clay,
May they bear it to mansions of the blest,
There to repose on Jesus' breast;
From every pain and sorrow free,--
This is the boon I ask for thee.
Beauties of Nature.
This is indeed a beautiful world. As we sit by our window, and gaze out upon the landscape that lies spreads out, diversified by hill and dale, and and waving tree and murmuring rivulet; as we listen to the warbling of the birds, the dreamy hum of the insects, and the low whispering of the soft summer air, as it floats by, redolent with perfume of flowers, we are deeply impressed with the truth, that the Being, who could create such a world, must be a great and glorious Being, before whom we ought to humble ourselves in deep humility.
Yet the little that we are able to behold at one view, is but as a grain of sand upon the sea-shore, compared with the vast world that lies stretched out beyond our vision. Diversified by lofty mountains, whose snow-capped summits tower far up towards the blue vault of heaven, and are covered with perpetual clouds and mists; the mighty ocean, whose bosom heaves, and moans, and wails, as though convulsed by some terrible agony, and which, in its frantic fits, rages with ungovernable fury; the deep, broad, glassy rivers, that flow in quiet beauty, to mingle their waters with the ocean, the foaming cataract, the broad green prairie, variegated by nature's choicest flowers, the old majestic woods, that have been styled nature's cathedral, whose dim, silent, far-stretching aisles have never been trodden by the foot of man; but I must stop, overwhelmed by the magnitude of my subject. It were impossible for the most gifted pen to do justice to the beauty, the grandeur, the sublimity of the theme.
Even those who have climbed the lofty mountain tops, and found themselves lost amidst the clouds, who have been rocked upon the bosom of the heaving ocean, and seen it when the elements held terrible contest, when the howling winds lashed its waves to wild frenzy, when the sheeted lightnings played upon its surface, and the deep, heavy peals of thunder reverberated through the heaven's vast concave, and those, too, who have traversed the broad prairie, that far as the eye can reach, stretches out in wavy undulations, who have heard the eternal thunder of the cataract, as its waters plunge madly into the abyss below, who have wandered amidst orange bowers and spicy groves, and as Pollock expresses it, "have mused on ruins grey with years, and drank from old and fabulous wells, and plucked the vine that first born prophets plucked; and mused on famous tombs, and on the waves of ocean mused, and on the desert waste: the heavens and earth of every country, seen where'er the old inspiring Genii dwelt, aught that could rouse, expand, refine the soul," even such would fail to do justice to the glowing theme.
What renders the pleasure that nature confers doubly valuable, is, that it is free for all. The poor as well as the rich participate in its enjoyment. The sun dispenses its genial light and warmth as generously upon the beggar, who seeks his daily bread from door to door, as upon the crowned monarch. The bird carols as sweet a lay for the toil-worn peasant, who labors from morn till night, to gain a scanty subsistence, as for the titled nobleman, who rolls along in his gilded chariot. The little ragged sunburnt child of poverty may pluck the wayside flowers with as much freedom as the child of wealth, who is nurtured upon the lap of luxury and ease. The cool summer breeze, laden with grateful perfume, fans the hot brow of the slave, weary and fainting beneath his task, as freely as it does that of his pompous and lordly master. Our souls seem to be united by a bond of sympathy, with the inanimate objects of creation. There are many poor beings who are obliged to toil from early dawn far into the hours of night, to obtain bread for themselves and those who are dearer to them than life, and who have never been instructed, even in the first rudiments of science. Yet, are they conscious of possessing bright gems of thought, which they find it impossible to detach from the dust and rubbish and cobwebs of ignorance, with which their minds are filled. There are many such, who, bound down by the grinding hand of oppression, which would, if it were possible, crush out all aspirations of the mind for something higher, nobler, more exalted in the scale of being, are obliged to suppress that longing of the soul that will at times arise to explore the mysterious labyrinths of knowledge, yet, even such, can hold sweet communion with the works of creation. The great volume of nature lies open before them, and though, in studying its pages, they often make wild mistakes, yet they fear no ridicule.
When they gaze upon the blue vault of heaven, bespangled with all its countless gems, though the conclusions they arrive at are far--very far from truth, yet the placid moon looks down upon them as queenly as though they understood all the laws by which she is governed. As they contemplate, with wonder and admiration, the shining stars with which the brow of night is studded, though they understood not all the principles that astronomy unfolds, concerning those heavenly bodies, yet, no scornful light flashes from those brilliant orbs, as they look down from their high estate; and although they do sometimes emit a merry twinkle, yet, there is nothing of ridicule in the expression: but it seems rather to woo the beholder, to gaze upon their wondrous beauty.
The sweet flowers look up to them as lovingly inviting them to partake of their precious sweets, as though they understood all their several properties, and knew how to assign to each its place in the vegetable kingdom. It is true, the poor possess not all the means of the rich for exploring what is rare and curious in the works of nature. They are obliged to confine themselves to what is presented to their view in their own immediate neighborhood; but there is enough even in the tamest prospect, to excite the wonder and admiration of the beholder, and to inspire them with emotions of love and gratitude towards the great Creator.
Yet, grand and beautiful and sublime as this world is, God has only fitted it up as a temporary abode for man; he does not consider it a fit dwelling place for his children to inhabit through all eternity. We are told that when the "spirits of the just made perfect" leave this world, they will go to a better world: a more costly and magnificent abode, that God has prepared for them. Yes, costly indeed, since a title to an inheritance in that better world is purchased by the blood of his only Son; and we are told that it is not in the heart of man to concieve of the glory and magnificence of that place, that is to be the home of those who accept of the terms by which it is to be secured; and what are those terms? why, merely to repent and believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and to seek forgivness for our sins through his blood.
To put our trust in God, to love him supremely, and to seek to do his will; and are not these conditions very easy? Can we help loving such a God, so great, so good, and who has been at such infinite pains, and given such a costly sacrifice to secure the happiness of his subjects? And can we help loving the Saviour who was willing to be made a sacrifice to secure the eternal happiness of a lost and ruined race; and who left a home of glory, of bliss, and joy inexpressible, to come to a world where he must suffer persecution, contempt, and mockery; where he would be reviled, and spit upon, and taunted, and finally die a cruel and ignominous death upon the cross?
All this he suffered, that sinners through his sufferings might receive a title to the joys of that better world that God has prepared for those that love him. Oh how cold, how hard, how utterly lost to all grateful emotions, must that heart be that could treat with scorn or indifference that dear Saviour who has done so much for them, and prepared for all who will accept, a happy entrance into a world of ineffable light and glory.
Where the sun does not emit its golden beams, nor the moon shed her paler rays, and no golden star spangles the canopy, but God's countenance lights the place, and the Lamb is in the midst; He who was offered for the remission of sin. Who would not enter this world, of happiness, where sin enters not, pain or sickness come not, and death is swallowed up in victory? Where the saints of the most high God are clothed upon with the righteousness of Christ, and the "spirits of the just made perfect" join with angels and arch-angels, in singing sweet songs of redeeming love.
But angels cannot appreciate the full rapture of the redeemed soul. We cannot comprehend here, fully, but the mind is overwhelmed when we contemplate the revelations of the Gospel, "Come then expressive silence, muse His praise."
On the Death of Willie White, Who Was Drowned Sept. 21, 1856.
How suddenly this opening flow'r
Was borne from earth away;
In sweeter fragrance to unfold
In realms of endless day.The angel gaz'd with pitying eye
O'er all life's devious way;
Then pluming bright his golden wings,
Bore his freed soul away.Now when you gather round your hearth,
There's Willie's vacant chair;
And Willie's voice of childish mirth,
Is missing every where.And oft you gaze upon his toys,
'Till weeping eyes grow dim;
You know he cannot come to you,
But you must go to him.
The Human Heart
The human heart's a mystery,
That few can understand;
And all its trembling chords should be
Swept with a gentle hand.For if we rudely strike the strings
Whence melody should flow,
A harsh, unnatural discord rings,
Of bitterness and woe.We mingle with the joyous crowd,
Where all is bright and gay,
With music light, and laughter loud,
They pass the hours away.How oft, amid such scenes, the heart
Is sad, we know not why;
And though a smile the lips may part,
A tear steals to the eye.And then we quickly turn away
To hide the starting tear,
While the music of their laughter falls
Dirge-like upon the ear.And we wonder why, when all around
Is song and revelry,
Their joyous mirthfulness should sound,
To us, so mournfully.And yet, sometimes the simplest thing,
Such happiness affords,
It seems as though an angel's wing
Had swept the trembling chords.The gushing music of the rill,
The whisp'ring of the breeze,
And the low and gentle rustling
Of the leaves upon the trees.The sweet, sad sighing autumn winds,
As mournfully they blend,
Speak to the heart as if in words,
Of a departed friend.And as we listen, breathlessly,
To the low, mysterious tone,
We deem some angel spirit
Is whisp'ring to our own.But suddenly, a careless tone,
Or word in harshness spoken,
Recalls the wand'ring spirit home,
And the spell is rudely broken.And then a sad, lone feeling steals
Upon the weary heart,
And amid the gloom we only feel
A longing to depart.A longing to depart and be
Amid the angel choir,
Where perfect love and sympathy
Shall tune each heart and lyre.
Lines, Written on the Death of a Friend.
Oh, who would check the starting tear,
Or who suppress the rising sigh,
When those we fondly cherished here,
In early youth are called to die?Such was thy fate, my early friend,
Thus snatch'd away in beauty's bloom;
No aid that earthly love might lend,
Could save thee, dear one, from the tomb.I call to mind thy greetings warm,
Thy gentle smile, thy winning grace,
And weep that now thy fragile form,
Lies cold and still in Death's embrace.But though I miss thy winning smile,
And the sweet music of thy voice,
That could my weary heart beguile;
Yet I, amid my tears, rejoice,That thou, thus early, didst depart:
When all around was fair and bright:
Ere yet thy fond, confiding heart
Had felt of earthly woe the blight.For it is sweeter, far, to die
When the young heart with hope is fill'd,
Than live o'er ruined hopes, to sigh
When cold distrust that heart has chill'd.Who would not rather pass away
From earth, like some sweet summer flow'r,
When the soft murmuring zephyrs play.
Than live till wintry tempests lower?We trust thy sins have been forgiv'n;
Thy soul made pure from guilt's dark stain;
And that a ransom'd soul in heav'n,
Thou'lt raise to God the angelic strain.Then let no murmuring thought arise,
Though lonely oft my path may be,
And bitter tears oft dim my eyes,
Unbidden, at the thought of thee.Still the sweet memory of thy love,
Has power to sooth my aching heart;
Even as crush'd and withered flow'rs,
A lasting fragrance oft impart.
To a Friend.
Dear girl, thine eye is clear and bright,
Fill'd with a glad and joyous light;
And thy young brow is pure and fair,
As thou hadst never known a care.Full oft, I gaze upon thy face,
Where dwells a sweet and quiet grace;
And wonder what thy fate may be,
Upon life's dark and dangerous sea.Ah, many a rude, tempestous gale,
Perchance, may rend thy little sail,
Ere thou wilt reach that blissful shore,
Where loving friends have gone before.Even now, sweet girl, young as thou art,
Sorrow hath touched thy loving heart,
And clouds have dimmed thy sky, so fair,
And left a shadow resting there.Thou'st lost a mother, kind and dear,
No more her sweet voice greets thine ear--
In winning tones, that could impart
Gladness and joy to thy young heart.No more her gentle hand is laid
In loving kindness on thy head;--
No more her soft eyes rest on thee,
Fill'd with a tender sympathy.Oft will the world seem cold the while,
Without her sweet, approving smile;
Oft will thy heart be sad and weary,
With no fond mother's voice to cheer thee.Thy loved and honored father, too,--
Thy faithful guardian, kind and true,
Whose stronger arm could shield thy form,
And guard it from the impending storm;--Who loved to watch thine infant glee,
And shared thy childish sports with thee,--
He, too, from earthly scenes has fled,
And joined the numbers of the dead.Brothers and sisters, a happy band,
Await thee in the spirit land;
Bright amaranthine crowns they wear;
They long to greet their Ella there.Prepare thee for that better land,--
Prepare to stand at God's right hand;
Soon may the fatal summons come,
To call thy waiting spirit home.Oh, then slight not the Saviour's call,--
Into the arms of Jesus fall;
Sweetly resign to him thy soul,
Yield all thy powers to his control.
Happiness.
Say, what is Happiness?--a gem
That glitters in the diadem
That decks the monarch's brow?
Or does this gem, of form divine,
Gild fortune's gay and jewell'd shrine,
Where heartless flatterers bow?Or dwells it in the sparkling eye,--
Or hides it 'neath the witchery
Of beauty's loveliness?
Or comes it with refreshing power,
Like dewdrops to the fainting flower,
The miser's heart to bless?No, seek it not in Monarchs' hall,
Nor yet beneath the glittering pall,
That hides Ambition's fane;
Nor yet with Beauty does it dwell:
It is not charm'd by magic spell,
Nor bound by golden chain,But they whose hearts with love are fill'd,
"Whose words like heav'nly dew distill'd,"
Are ever just and kind;
Who seek God's favor to obtain,
Rather than praise of man to gain,
This gem will surely find.
A Picture of Human Life.
It was morning. Rosy fingered Aurora lifted the gorgeous curtains of the east, and unlocked the golden gates of light, ushering in the young king of day. The glad earth, bathed with the dews of night, and redolent with flowers, lay blushing and rejoicing beneath his radiant beams, and blooming nature strode forth, clad in his most beautiful garments, while the murmurs of the waterfall, the sigh of the breeze, the carol of the birds, and the hum of busy life--all fell upon the ear, making enchanting melody--music that touched the soul.
Cradled in its downy bed, beneath a window closely curtained, to obstruct the light, lay a sleeping infant, whose dawn of life had just begun. Its very helplessness demanded our love and pity. It smiled and wept, but knew not why; but succeeding days added strength and vigor to his frame, and he came forth in all the sportiveness and beauty of infant loveliness.
It was noon; the sun had gained his zenith in the heavens, and shed down his scorching rays upon the parched earth, that lay drooping beneath his noon-day beams. Scarce a leaf was seen to move, the birds sat silent with folded wing, in the leafy branches, the flowers hung fainting upon their stems, and nature shrank from the oppressive heat.
The cradled infant had passed from infancy to childhood, from childhood to youth, from youth to manhood, through the various changes that mark each successive period, and he now stood in the meridian of life,
"With all his blushing honors thick upon him."
His brow was marked by care and anxiety, and he seemed ambitious to win a name. "Fear first assailed the child, and he trembled and screamed; but at a frown, with youth came love, torturing the hapless bosom, where fierce flames of rage, resentment, jealousy contend. Disturbed ambition presented next, to bid him grasp the moon and waste his days in angry sighs, add deep rivalry for shadows, till to conclude the wretched catalogue, appears pale avarice, straining delusive counters to his breast, e'en in the hour of death." Such are human passions.
It was evening; the curtains of the west were tinged with the varied dyes of sunset, and nature seemed revived by the cool, fresh evening breeze, and smiled complacently beneath the sun's last ray. The full orbed moon arose in the east, and the crystal streams reflected myriads of diamonds beneath her silver beams, and the stars, those golden lamps of night, shone bright in the blue chambers of the sky. An aged man was leaning on his staff, the vigor of life had departed, his locks were thin and scattered, his palsied limbs would scarce perform their office. His eye was dim--no longer beaming with intelligence, and he muttered to himself, as he groped his way along, worn out with the cares, sorrows and perplexities of a busy life, deep furrows were upon his cheeks, and his whole appearance bespoke a weary, way-worn child of earth. He took his solitary way, down a retired path, thickly shaded with fir, holly and yew, through whose thick foliage the struggling moonbeam scarce could penetrate, and the air was filled with humid vapors, gloomy silence as of the tomb reigned around, but exhausted nature sank, and the aged man pillowed his head upon the bosom of earth, and closed his weary eyes to rest, for he was a homeless wanderer.
It was deep, solemn midnight; a dense cloud had obscured the sky, and hid the refulgent light of the moon; the wind howled in fitful murmurs, the thunder rolled in the distance, lightnings glared, and nature wrapped herself in the sable shroud of midnight, and seemed shrieking a death-wail in her many voices.
Beside the gray haired man stood a pale visitant from the spirit land, to summons him away; he laid his icy hand upon his waning pulse, and chilled the current of his struggling breath. No friend was nigh, but his spirit passed gently away, leaving his countenance placid and serene in death.
Such is the end of human life. A little mound of heaped up earth marks the spot, where the weary pilgrim is at rest. All who tread in the path way of life, must lie down too, "with the pale nations of the dead," mingle with common dust, and become the sport of the winds.