Oh, where are they who once did tread

With me, in youth’s sweet sunny morn,

The winding labyrinths that led

Where sweetest flowers the path adorn;

And gladsome birds send forth their lay,

And rivulets murmur on their way?

Oh, where are all the glad and gay,

That filled the brightly-lighted hall;

With loving hearts to music’s lay,

Responded to the joyous call?

With blooming cheeks and beaming eye,

They dreamed of joy and heaved no sigh.

Some swept adown life’s rolling tide,

By summer breezes borne along,

With prosperous gale they gently glide,

Like some sweet fairy boat of song;

And bask in pleasure’s sunny fold,

And revel in their glittering gold.

And some are rudely borne along,

By dark misfortune’s chilly blast;

The storm and tempest coming on,

The sky with clouds is overcast,

Till weary of their toil and care,

They sink in darkness and despair.

And some, whose sunny hopes have fled,

Like th’ withered and deserted flower,

On which no tenderness is shed,—

They sicken in a single hour;

And e’en in youth and beauty’s bloom,

Are ushered to the silent tomb.

And some in yonder graveyard sleep,

Beneath the ever verdant soil;

Where mortals ne’er are known to weep:

They rest from all their pain and toil;

Away from care, from sin set free,

They peaceful rest, O God, in Thee.

A few are left to struggle on,

Through dangers that beset life’s way;

To mourn that all the loved are gone,

To weep and struggle, and to pray,

That all in Heaven at last may meet,

And joy each other there to greet.

Sound on, sound on, ye whistling winds,

As though ye fain would seek

Some quiet rest ye cannot find,

In this cold world so bleak.

Sound on, sound on; ye bring to mind

The bright and joyful past;

The golden hours of sunny yore,

That were too bright to last.

Sound on, sound on, ye whistling winds,

Like thee, ’mid bitter tears,

In vain I sigh for brighter days,

In other happier years.

Sound on, sound on; ye seem to tell

That all things here decay;

The brightest flowers the soonest oft

Will droop and pass away.

Sound on, sound on, ye whistling winds;

Thy strange, mysterious voice

Seems like some spirit hovering near,

Bidding my heart rejoice.

Sound on, sound on; for oh! ye tell

Of a long, peaceful home,

Beyond this dark and fleeting world,

Where sorrows never come.

Sound on, sound on, ye whistling winds;

Your moaning, solemn tone

Does with this heart so well accord,

So dreary, sad and lone.

Sound on, sound on; for oh! ye’ve power

To soothe each rising sigh,

And waft my spirit far away,

Where pleasures never die.

On the rock, a beacon lighted,

Shone upon the stormy wave;

There to guide the bark, benighted:

Home of those, the true and brave.

Clouds of wrath the skies are veiling,

Danger, wreck, and death are nigh;

Lone and wild, the sea-bird’s wailing

As the storm-wind whistles by.

Tempests rave—fierce roars the ocean,

Higher swells the angry foam;

Winds and waves in wild commotion,

Fearful rock their storm-tossed home.

Night of anguish, wo and sorrow,

Wrapt in midnight’s pall of gloom,

Gleams no light upon the morrow,

Dark beneath a watery tomb.

Hark! the bell is loudly ringing

With a deep, and solemn wail.

Death-like knells around are flinging,

In the wild, terrific gale.

Still, the beacon-light is flashing,

None could reach them from the shore.

Towering waves, in fury dashing,

They must sink to rise no more.

Wrecks along the shore are lying,

On the heaving surges tossed;

Mournful winds and waves are sighing,

Ocean’s requiem for the lost;

Mighty dome, by tempest shattered,

Billows o’er thee darkly sweep,

Treasure far more precious, scattered

In the bosom of the deep.

Far beneath the rolling billow,

Sleep the noble, young and brave;

Ocean’s coral bed their pillow,

And their shroud, the foamy wave;

Wreck or monument, may never

Point the fatal rock, swept bare;

But enshrined in memory, ever,

Faithful hearts that perished there.

Poor little orphan child!

I see thee happy now,

With glossy ringlets waving

O’er thy sunny brow;

With tender heart as light and free

As birds in summer air,

With beauty, grace, that well might vie

With rose and lily fair.

Poor little orphan child!

The tears steal down my cheek,

For oh! how little dreamest thou

The world is cold and bleak;

How little knowest thou the toil,

The turmoil, care, and strife,

The tears, the sighs, that may beset

The orphan’s path in life.

Poor little orphan child!

’Tis bitter hard to roam

In this cold, dark, unfeeling world,

Both friendless and alone,

Where friendship ends in selfish aims,

Lips smile but to deceive,

Unkindness mars the spirit’s peace,

And leaves the heart to grieve.

Poor little orphan child!

For thee is pained my heart;

Should sickness pale thy rosy cheek,

And light and hope depart,—

Oh, who would then be near to bathe

The weary, aching head,

And twine around thee, arms of love,

And joy and gladness shed.

Poor little orphan child!

Thou’lt miss a mother’s care,

To watch thy youthful steps,

Thy little griefs to share;

No voice is like a mother’s voice,

No look so sweet and mild,

No smile is like her loving smile,

Upon a darling child.

Oh! ye who revel in your ease,

The orphan’s cry should heed,

Nor with a cold indifference

Treat them in hour of need.

Ye know not of the anguish deep,

That rends their aching heart,

Or of the woe and misery

Your cold words may impart.

Poor little orphan child!

May angels guide their way,

For there are thousand treacherous paths,

That lead the feet astray.

Sin comes in many a dazzling form,—

Fearful the tempter’s power,

Oh, God of love forbid thy fall,

In the dark, trying hour.

Poor little orphan child!

Should tears e’er dim the eye,

And grief and sorrow fill the soul,

And friends no one be nigh;

There is a friend above, on whom

Cast all thy earthly care,

Who ne’er forsakes the fatherless,

But hears the orphan’s prayer.

Poor little orphan child!

I would not shade thy brow,

By telling thee of after years,

To make thee sorrow now.

Oh, no! in childish innocence

Play on with life and glee,

With dimpled cheek and joyous laugh,

So happy, pure and free.

Poor little orphan child!

Blest be thy passage o’er

The ever changing sea of life,

To Canaan’s peaceful shore.

There mayst thou safely land

Where sorrow ne’er will come,

To join thy loved—that happy band

In one eternal home.

Oh! let me be on the stormy sea,

Where darksome clouds arise;

When the waters dash and the lightnings flash,

Along the dismal skies;

There I should be so wild and free.

Oh! let me roam, on the ocean wave

Oh! give me a home.

Oh! let me be on the stormy sea,

When the tempests madly rave;

Where no voice is heard, save the wild sea bird,

As it skims o’er the foamy wave;

No strife and care would reach me there.

Then let me roam, on the ocean wave

Oh! give me a home.

Oh! let me be on the stormy sea,

For there is the home of the brave;

We never fear when danger’s near,

Tossed on the towering wave;

Boldly they sail through wind and gale.

There let me roam, on the ocean wave

Oh! give me a home.

Oh! let me be on the stormy sea,

Where the raging billows bound;

Where the roaring surge and mournful dirge

Is ever heard around;

Where the wild winds sigh, as they whistle by.

Oh! there would I roam, on the ocean wave

Oh! give me a home.

Oh! let me be on the stormy sea,

Far down in the briny deep;

On corals gay, myriads lay,

In their last silent sleep.

Beneath the wave, a wat’ry grave

They’ve found. No more they’ll roam—

’Neath ocean’s wave they’ve found a home.

I met him in his gloomy cell,

Where all alone and sad,

He spent the darksome day and night

In homely vesture clad.

No golden sunlight ever threw

Its lustre o’er his room;

No gladsome voices ever cheered

Its dreariness and gloom.

Oh! he was fair and beautiful,

With clustering auburn hair,

That waved in many a ringlet o’er

The brow of genius rare—

The loved in his sweet native land,

The pride of his dear home,

Once he, who sat within these walls,

In iron fetters lone.

I wept as I did on him look,

For we were friends in youth;

Together trod the selfsame path

Of wisdom and of truth;

Together roamed o’er hill and dale,

As happy, light, and free

As joyous birds in summer air,

In boyish pride and glee.

Ah! strangely altered now his face,

Depicted with despair;

Yet still methought that I could trace

Some former beauty there.

Yet something of the light had gone

That flashed his raven eye,

And pallid cheek, and thin, white lip,

Told of full many a sigh.

Oh! tell me, friend, in grief he cried,

About my joyful home,

And those bright, sunny fields o’er which

We used to sport and roam.

Oh! is the waterfall still there,

Wherein I used to play,

Without one thought of grief and care,

Through all the livelong day.

And is my father, mother, there,

And brother, sister kind?

And do they know my hopeless lot,

In this dark cell confined?

Oh! could I see them but once more,

And press them to my breast,

And meet their sweet, forgiving smile,

My weary soul could rest.

Ah! had I not too fondly loved,

I had not seen this day,

Apart from all that I hold dear,

Alone to waste away.

A rival came—with vilest art

Allured her from my side,

And triumphed in my loss, until

She found him false, and died.

Sick of the world, I left my home,

Far from parental care;

I roved, a wild and thoughtless thing,

Exposed to every snare,

Till tossed on fortune’s faithless sea,

I sought to drown my woe

In revelry and crime, that’s brought

Me in this dungeon low.

Oh! cruel Fate that bids me dwell

In this cold, living tomb!

Oh! mother, couldst thou see me here,

And know my deepest gloom,

Thou wouldst forgive thy erring son,

And heal his broken heart;

Repenting, thou wouldst soothe his grief,

And words of love impart.

Upon his knees, his hands he clasped,

In agony he cried—

We part! the past comes o’er my brain

Like an overwhelming tide;

’Tis like a dark and troubled dream,

That fain I would forget—

But oh! through all the day and night

Its horror haunts me yet.

Ah! wildly now he gazed around

The cell; no more he said,

Save in some broken accents wild,

For reason now had fled.

I looked again—his noble form

Lay stretched upon the floor;

He gave one last, one bitter groan—

The prisoner was no more.

How beautiful the clouds,

The morning’s purple clouds;

How sweet they calm reposing lie

In yonder deep blue azure sky,

Streaked with crimson pale and red,

Fair as violets in their bed;

Gliding, floating, moving ever

Onward, onward, stopping never.

How beautiful the clouds,

The noontide’s burning clouds;

Mountains of pure white driven snow,

In upper regions on they go;

Pillars of ever living light,

Piles of crystal gems as bright,

Gliding, moving, hurrying ever

Onward, onward, stopping never.

How beautiful the clouds,

The dark and rolling clouds;

With tempest, storm, and fury crowned,

Where lightnings fiercely play around;

Terrific, grand, sublime, they rise

When pealing thunders rend the skies;

Whirling, heaving, rolling ever

Onward, onward, stopping never.

How beautiful the clouds,

The golden sunset clouds;

Tinged with yellow, mellow light,

Warm, rich hues that gladden sight;

As sinks the wave in ocean’s breast,

So fades the many-colored west;

Fading, passing, gliding ever

Onward, onward, stopping never.

How beautiful the clouds,

The evening, moonlit clouds;

On tireless wings of snowy hue

They move through heaven’s ethereal blue;

Like fairy forms of crystal light,

Arrayed in robes of silver white;

Gliding, floating, moving ever

Onward, onward, stopping never.

And in our weary march,

The whirling, passing clouds

Are emblems of life’s hurried way,

Swift passing down its fleeting day;

In smiles and tears the restless mind

Is ever seeking—ne’er to find—

A resting place—but hurrying ever

Onward, onward, stopping never.

Youth’s hopes, oh! what are they,

But clouds of changing hue;

Sometimes they’re tinged with golden light,

Beaming with softening beauty bright;

Like clouds they fade, they pass, they die,

And leave no trace upon the sky;

Fleeting, fading, passing ever

Onward, onward, stopping never.

I’d be, when life shall wane,

Like white-winged clouds of even;

Through fields of endless day I’d roam,

And find me there a starry home;

Beyond this world, far, far, away,

To Heaven’s own light I’d wing my way;

Through realms of bliss there roaming ever

Onward, onward, stopping never.

I saw her ’mid the birds and blossoms when a rosy laughing child,

Playing by the silver rivulet, joyous in its murmurings wild;

Now wandering o’er the sunny green with buoyant step and free,

In the mild and balmy breeze that fanned the flowery lee.

In life’s fair spring-time, when the heart is lightest, free from care,

When fancy spreads her pinions wide and soars on wings of air,

Earth’s mantling robe, so brightly decked with rainbow-colored hue,

Came o’er the soul in visions soft as falls the pearly dew.

The morn of youth was on her cheek when love her bosom thrilled,

With golden dreams of future bliss her gentle soul was filled—

Unsullied by the world’s cold strife, its darkness and untruth,

When in its tender infancy, the guileless love of youth.

She thought the world could ne’er be lone while one might not depart,

Who was the worshiped idol of her young and trusting heart;

His dark eyes woke the flame within of soul-lit lustrous hue,

To be unquenched—the holy light of pure devotion true.

Genius marked his lofty brow for wreathing chaplets fair,

And from the deeply-treasured fount of knowledge rich and rare,

She quaffed the crystal streams that flowed, with kind and fervent heart,

As flowers will gather sweetness that may never more depart.

And oft she gazed with rapture on that bright angelic face,

So radiant and beautiful with eloquence and grace;

His voice, like tones of music sweet, bound with a magic spell,

As gems of wisdom from his lips in heavenly accents fell.

In fashion’s brilliant halls, where gay alluring pleasures throng,

No flattering smiles could win her from her childhood’s happy song;

When many a garland twined her brow and passion’s voice soft fell,

She was true to him who knew not how she had loved so well.

Ah! cruel fate that bids the shades of change with fleeting years,

Sad separation’s bitter pang must dim with burning tears—

Like some lone beacon’s glimmering ray the star of hope shall be,

To guide the bark by tempest driven o’er life’s dark, troubled sea.

The cherished love of early years say not she can forget,

That springs in youth’s fresh vernal prime, and with its tears are wet;

Its tender buddings crushed may be, and blighted its return,

Its wasted fragrance lingers still around its broken urn.

When time shall fade youth’s glowing charms, its joy and romance fled,

Love’s purest flame is shining o’er the altar of the dead—

Through desert paths and weary of life’s ever-changing day,

With light and peace his memory shall pave her lonely way.

I saw her in the moonlit vale, a lovely maiden’s form,

Her spirit in illusions wrapped, her cheek with vigor warm;

Untouched by sorrow’s withering hand, so pale, for hers were dreams

Of other years—that for the night had cast their halo beams.

And may the silken tie so fond, unbroken e’er remain,

Bright angels hover round her way to shield till life shall wane;

Unchanging be the heart’s first love, till in immortal bloom,

In yonder Paradise her home and rest beyond the tomb.

Lamented youth, thy spirit now has fled,

Thy youthful form in earth’s cold bosom lies.

Why art thou numbered with the early dead?

Who would not weep when one so lovely dies?

Why wert thou thus cut down in manhood’s bloom,

When life to thee was all a summer’s day,

Consigned unto the dark and silent tomb,

Nought but a lump of cold and lifeless clay?

And oft the mourner there doth go and weep,

And youthful friends shed many a bitter tear

For him who lies in his last, dreamless sleep,

For him they loved and ever held most dear.

We miss thee, brother, in our youthful band,

Thy words of love, thy gentle accents sweet;

But thou hast left us in this dreary land,

No more shall we thy social presence greet.

Thou wast a noble youth, the younger son,

Thy father’s hope and solace in his years;

But short thy stay; ah! soon life’s labor done,

Soon thou hast left a weary vale of tears.

Yes; thou hast left a world of care and toil,

Where storms and tempests o’er our pathway rise,

Calmly to sleep beneath the verdant soil,

Till called triumphant to the upper skies.

Then rest thee, brother, free from all thy pain,

Above thee bloom the rose and violet fair.

We would not wish thee back to earth again,

But let thee calmly, sweetly, slumber there.

Dear sister, words cannot express

To you my heartfelt thankfulness;

Or with what pleasure I behold

This precious gift—a pen of gold.

I prize it more, while now I see

In it remembrance kind of me;

Which fills me with delight untold

In viewing my new pen of gold.

And thee, at morn and evening tide,

As past the fleeting moments glide,

Shall I remember, while I hold

Within my grasp this pen of gold.

With newer zeal I now would write,

Dispensing nought but truth and light;

And richer treasures fain unfold,

The products of my pen of gold.

And when our weary task is done,

The conflict o’er, the victory won,

May we be found of finest mold,

As tried, refined, and pure as gold.

Be cheerful! Be cheerful!

At the breaking of morn,

When the sun’s gladd’ning rays

The earth shall adorn;

Be cheerful when noon

Shall its brightness display.

Be cheerful when eve

Ends the toil of the day,

For all nature is cheering

With harmonious voice;

All nature is bidding

Be glad and rejoice.

Be cheerful! Be cheerful!

Whatever thy lot!

If trouble awaits thee,

Thy woes are forgot.

Be cheerful, and light

Thy path shall surround;

With cheerfulness let

Every moment be crowned,

For all nature is cheering

With harmonious voice,

All nature is bidding

Be glad and rejoice.

Be cheerful! Be cheerful!

Let not the few days

That we spend on this earth

Be void of its lays.

Oft the ills we endure,

From the future we borrow;

Then be cheerful to-day—

Think not of the morrow;

For all nature is cheering

With harmonious voice,

All nature is bidding

Be glad and rejoice.

Be cheerful! Be cheerful!

In life’s joyful spring,

When summer its beauties

And glories shall bring.

Be cheerful when autumn

Shall mantle in gloom,

When the winter of age

Brings near to the tomb;

For all nature is cheering

With harmonious voice,

All nature is bidding

Be glad and rejoice.

There is no flower, brother, howe’er so sweetly blooming,

But it will fade in night;

No sunny sky with beams so bright illuming,

But clouds may shade its light,

But oh! there is a sister’s love,

In sorrow’s night unfading,

That clouds of earthborn care or woe

Ne’er will its light be shading.

Chorus:

Oh! brother, then prize a sister’s devotion,

Ever pure, unchanging, sincere,

Whose heart for thee beats with tender emotion,

And shareth each smile and each tear.

The beaming eye, brother, lit bright with smiles enwreathing,

Tears may unbidden dim,

The soul of music’s melody, sweet breathing,

Discordant strains may hymn.

But oh! there is a sister’s voice

To cheer with kind words spoken;

Her hand may wake sweet strains again

From harp-strings that were broken.

Chorus: Oh! brother, then prize—

Fame’s starry hight, brother, howe’er its gems alluring,

Cold storms and tempests crown;

The form of genius fair may fall, enduring

The world’s dark chilling frown.

But oh! there is a sister’s heart,

Forever true, unshaken,

That ne’er grows cold, but closer clings,

When all else has forsaken.

Chorus: Oh! brother, then prize—

Our golden dreams, brother, we so fondly cherish,

May change like morning’s rays;

Youth’s fairest joys and pleasures all may perish,

With years that pass away.

But oh! there is a sister’s prayer,

That happy be our meeting,

Safe wafted o’er life’s sea in peace,

Where time no more is fleeting.

Chorus: Oh! brother, then prize—

When the world is fair, entwining

Many a garland for thy brow,

When around thee wealth is shining,

Friendship’s hand is near thee now.

But when clouds and storms shall gather

Round thy pathway rough and drear,

Few will cling as fond as ever,

Few will prove to thee sincere.

Oh! if thou canst find the treasure,

Close the precious jewel bind;

Choicest blessing without measure,

Guardian angel—rare to find.

Speak or act, oh! coldly never,

Kindred spirits keenest feel;

Silver links the blow may sever;

Time the wound may never heal.

Friendship’s ties too oft are riven,

By the slightest word or deed;

Oh! trust not love’s tokens given,

Lest thy heart with anguish bleed.

Trust not—hopes we fondly cherish,

Crushed and wounded leave the heart.

Love not—love’s bright flowers perish,

Bloom to wither, then depart.

Love’s sweet strains, like music flowing,

Drink not deep their melting tone.

Eyes that now so gently glowing,

Beam so fondly in thine own—

Ah! their light—it may deceive thee;

Flattering smiles, oh, heed them not,

For their coldness soon may grieve thee,

Soon thou mayest be forgot.

Lavish not youth’s tender feeling—

Warm, confiding—keep it true,

Ere dark shadows o’er thee stealing,

Bitter tears thy cheek bedew.

Trust not—change may, ere the morrow,

Rob thy cheek of beauty’s bloom;

Love not, it may bring the sorrow,

Haste thee to an early tomb.

Solemn vows are lightly spoken,

Joys and pleasures fade and die;

Fondest, truest hearts are broken,

Golden dreams like phantoms fly.

Trust not—vows are falsely plighted—

Lest thy rashness give thee pain;

Love not—“for its flowers once blighted,

They may never bloom again.”

What news is this falls on my ear?

What next will to my sight appear?

My brain doth whirl, my heart doth quake—

Oh, that egregious mistake!

“Too bad! too bad!!” I hear them cry,

“You might have seen with half an eye!

Strange! passing strange!! how could you make

So plain, so blunderous a mistake!”

Ah! where it happened, when and how,

This way or that, no matter now;

Myself from blame I cannot shake—

For there it is, that sad mistake.

Guilty, condemned, I trembling stand,

With pressing cares on every hand,

Without one single plea to make,

For leaving such a bad mistake.

From morn till night, from night till morn,

At every step, weary, forlorn,

Whether I sleep, or whether wake,

I’m haunted still with a mistake.

If right, no meed of praise is won,

No more than duty then is done;

If wrong, then censure I partake,

Deserving such a gross mistake.

How long shall I o’er this bewail?

“The best,” ’tis said, “will sometimes fail;”

Must it then peace forever break—

Summed up, ’tis only a mistake.

A smile is my delight to share,

A frown is more than I can bear;

How great the sacrifice I’d make,

If I could cease from a mistake.

“I’ll try,” my motto yet shall be—

Whate’er I hear, whate’er I see,

And for my own and others’ sakes,

Look out betimes for all mistakes.

O sweet, lovely flower,

For me didst thou bloom

In a far distant bower,

My path to perfume?

For me wast thou nourished,

In that dear, quiet spot,

To tell when thou flourished,

I was not forgot?

Thine image, loved sister,

In fancy I trace,

And joy in the vision,

To greet thine embrace;

But here I have never

Thy hand clasped in mine;

Yet round us forever,

Affection shall twine.

And oft this fond token

Shall whisper to me,

Of friendship unbroken,

In remembrance of thee.

Its freshness may perish;

But ne’er can depart

Its fragrance I cherish

So deep in my heart.

Oh! shed not a tear o’er the spot where I sleep;

For the living and not for the dead ye may weep;

Why mourn for the weary who sweetly repose,

Free in the grave from life’s burden of woes?

I long now to rest in the lone, quiet tomb;

For the footsteps of Jesus have lightened its gloom.

I die in the hope of soon meeting again

The friends that I love, with Him ever to reign.

Whose is a willing heart,

Whose is a ready hand;

Joyful in Jesus’ cause to start,

Joyful for him to stand?

Whose breast with ardor glows,

The conflict to begin;

Warring, but not with carnal foes,

Wrestling with every sin?

Who when the cross appears,

Hasten its weight to bear;

Glad, though it be through thorns and tears,

The cross of Christ to share?

Who at stern duty’s call,

Unbound by selfish will,

Meekly resign their earthly all,

Its bidding to fulfill?

Who with unyielding feet,

When storms around them roar,

Shrink not the scorn and hate to meet

Which Christ their Saviour bore:

Deeming of higher worth,

Their Lord’s reproaches now,

Than all the cankered gold of earth,

To which the worldlings bow?

Whose is a willing heart?

And who obedient stand?

To them shall Heaven its joys impart,

To them the goodly land.

For them the City waits,

Unstained by woe or sin,

And as they come, the pearly gates

Shall ope to let them in.

Tempted, tried, desponding one,

Why does darkness shade thy brow?

Is there no all-beaming sun

In the heavens above thee now?

Is the cloud of radiant light,

Glowing round th’ Eternal throne,

Shrouded in a pall of night,

Or in outer darkness gone?

Is the fount of glory dried?

Are the gates of mercy closed?

Went there ever unsupplied,

Any who in God reposed?

Has his arm grown short to save?

Heavy is his ear to hear?

Bids he any be a slave

To despair or doubt or fear?

Then may we refuse to move,

When his word and mighty arm,

Weak and impotent shall prove,

To deliver us from harm.

Then may we despondent be,

And in him refuse to trust,

When his throne and majesty

Both shall crumble to the dust.

Has not help on One been laid

Strong to save and set us free?

And is there no promise made,

In his name, of victory?