The night is dark and cold, a beating rain
 Falls ceaselessly upon the dripping roof;
 The dismal wind, with now a fierce, wild shriek,
 And now a hollow moan, as if in pain,
 Circles the eaves, and bends the tortured trees that wring
 Their long, bear hands in the bleak blast.
 Within
 Our chamber all is bright and warm. The fire
 Burns with a ruddy blaze. The shaded lamp
 Softens the pictures on the wall, and glows
 Upon the flowers in the carpet, till they seem
 All fresh and fragrant. Stretched upon the rug,
 His collar gleaming in the fire-light, little Pip
 Is sleeping on, defiant of the storm without.
 The very furniture enjoys the warmth,
 And from its sides reflects the cheerful light.
 Up in its painted cage, the little bird,
 His yellow head beneath his soft, warm wing,
 Is hiding. Oh! my God, out in the storm
 Our little yellow head is beaten by the rain.
 So lonely looks that precious little face
 Up at the cold, dark coffin’s lid above,
 In the bleak graveyard’s solitude!
 Oh! Ethel darling, do you feel afraid?
 Or is Christ with you in your little grave?
 When last we gazed upon those lovely eyes
 They looked so tranquil, in their last repose,
 We knew that Christ’s own tender hand had sealed
 Their lids with His eternal peace.
 Oh! darling, are you happy up in heaven?
 And do the angels part that golden hair
 As tenderly as we? O Saviour dear,
 Thou knowest childhood’s tenderness. Amid
 The care of countless worlds, sometimes descend
 From thine almighty throne of power, and find
 That little yellow head, and lay it on thy breast,
 And smooth her brow with thine own pierced hand;
 She’ll kiss the wound and try to make it well.
 And tell her how we love her memory here;
 And let her sometimes see us, that she may
 Remember us. O Jesus, we can trust
 Her to thy care; and when we lay us down
 To rest, beside that lonely, little grave,
 Oh! let her meet us with her harp.
 God help us both to make that meeting sure!

THE LILY AND THE DEW-DROP

Deep in a cell of darkest green,
 Rayless and murky with unbroken gloom,
 With downcast head and shrinking, modest mien,
 A lily of the valley shed her rare perfume,
 Breathed softly, as a sea shell’s murmur, from her bloom
An odor so exquisite, none can tell,
 If ’tis an odor or a whispered sigh
 That like the dying echoes of a bell
 Falls on the raptured sense so dreamily,
 The soul swoons in the tearful clasp of memory.
So when an old man hears a harvest song
 He used to sing, or smells the new-mown hay,
 A host of saddened recollections throng
 The dusty chambers of his heart, and play
 Upon the cobwebs there a soft Æolian lay.
(Unfinished.)

LINES,

WRITTEN AFTER HAVING A HEMORRHAGE FROM THE LUNGS

Written a short time before his death and handed to his wife with the request, “Do not open this until I am well, or until my death.”

Life bloomed for me as if my path thro’ Eden
 Led its flowery way. Success had crowned
 In many ways my efforts. No dark strife
 With adverse Fate its portent shadows cast
 Across the calm blue scope of heaven.
 And though
Pride often chafed at plain commercial life,
 It was but transient, for ambitious Hope
 Kept ever in my view Fame’s gilded dome,
 Upon whose highest pinnacle I chose my niche,
 For vain conceit had whispered in my ear
 That I had Genius to encharm the world,
 And I looked forward to the loud applause
 Of nations as a simple thing of time.
 Of death I thought but as a fright for those
 Who have no destiny but dying. Mine
 Would come in age, but as a pallid seal
 To Honor gained, and Life’s long labors done.
 Yet I had felt the breath of Asrael’s wing
 When from my youthful head he took my father’s hand,
 And from my manhood’s arms my only child,
 And down the past a little mound of earth,
 Tombed with the darkest sorrow of our hearts,
 Still stands, though veiling in the folds of time.
 Of heaven I thought but as a distant home,
 A place of sweetest rest that I would gain,
 When weary of the burden of the world.
 Thus gay of thought and bright of hope, I moved
 Amid the flowers of my way.
 At once,
 With scarce a rustle in the rose leaves, came
 A shadowy form, and standing silently
 Before my pathway, breathed a whispered sigh,
 As if it loathed its office to perform;
 Then laid Consumption’s ghastly banner on my breast,
 Its pale folds crossed with fatal red.
 The sky
 Grew dark, the rose leaves withered, as the form
 Withdrew, still silently; while I, alone
 Upon the roadside, kneeled to pray for light.
 The stunned surprise of sudden shattered hopes,
 The faith of self-appointed destiny,
 Still turned my eyes toward the Temple Fame.
 Across its gilded dome a spotless cloud
 Had drifted, hiding it from view, but lo!
 The cloud, unfolding snowy depths, disclosed
 The glories of that “House not made with hands,”
 And bending from it, so full of tenderness,
 I could discern the loved ones “gone before.”
 And over all I recognized the Form
 Whose brow endured Gabbatha’s shameful crown,
 Whose woe distilled itself in trickling blood,
 By Cedron’s murmuring wave.
 As tenderly
 As ever mother touched her babe, He bore
 Within His arms a little angel form,
 With golden hair and blue expressive eyes,
 One dimpled hand lay on His willing cheek,
 While He bent down to meet the sweet caress,
 The other, with that well-remembered look
 She kissed, and threw the kiss to me.
 Then down
 I bowed my face, and longed to know mine end.
 ’Twere very sweet to leave all toil and care
 And join the blessed ones beyond the tide;
 And still ’twere sweet beyond compare to wait
 Till eventide with loved ones here, and share
 Their weal or woe.
 Then came a flute-like voice
 That thrilled the solemn air:
 “Pursue thy way,
 Yet humbly walk and watch, and if I come
 At midnight, or at noon, be ready.”
 Thus
 I wish to live, life’s aims subserved to God;
 And each continued day and hour regard
 As special gifts to be improved for Him;
 To wear the girdle of the world about my loins
 So loosely that a moment will suffice
 To break the clasp, and lay it down.

THE END