Chapter VII: Introduction (1)

The scene of this Poem is located on the banks of the Eden, a pleasant river in Cumberland. It is founded on facts, but the names and some other immaterial points are imaginary.

LORD HENRY OF THE EDEN-SIDE.

Roll, ye gentle waters,
Rich in music laden;
Know ye not of matters
Hid in sorrow's deep den.
Bloom, ye buxom beauties,
By this Eden river;
Thine a gem of duties
To attend it ever.
Spread, ye fruitful valleys,
Drawing from it life-spring;
Ye may cope with allies,
And a victor's song sing.

* * * * *

'Twas by this Eden of the northern land, Upon the fertile banks of the fair stream, Where nature's beauties to the noonday spread, And in the golden sunset sparkle more, As charm to charm is added ever new, Until the eye is weary to behold The bounty of the grandeur there contained, To watch the peaceful bosom of the stream Sparkle, as with a thousand diamonds set; While softly moving, as by inward life Inspired, to guide it in the bidden course, As it glides on and onward to the firth; While in its rural bed the silver trout Runs pouting freely, darts from stone to stone, As of that sport it never should be sore. And from the banks, amid the sylvan brake, A life of melody is rising here and there From wood-wild songsters, which their glory take To mete a measure ever sweet and fair; As though the task were for a victory, And each endeavoured to advance its notes In sweetest sounds and fairest melody. 'Tis sweetly soothing to the weary mind, Which here hath turned a little time for rest. Amid this scene the happy swains delight To dwell, and draw the vigor of their life With all the fulness nature can supply, And every morn awake to new delights Robust and hale, and of a healthy mind, And so go forth to labor, and to take The fulness of the land they labor on, And in the meadows feed their favored kine, So full and ready that they low and long The maid with pails to ease the milky load. Sweet is this scene in early hours when viewed, What time the rising sun comes proudly forth, Midway to east, between the south and north, And chases quick the lingering night away, Which, as a schoolboy, loiters on the way; Or in the tranquil of a closing day It is beheld in charms surpassing sweet, Just as the sun has done his bidden course, And goes to slumber in the favored west, Yet lingers long to take a parting look Upon the land which he shall leave behind, As seeming loth to wander from the scene, But, called of duty, moves at length away, And draws his train behind the distant hills, Till all is lost to the admiring gaze, Which feasted on the beauties to the last. For darkness comes with night, his paramour, And cast their shadows over all the land; And in their stilly presence creeps repose, And folds his arms around the lifeful sounds, Till all is hushed of nature into rest, And all the tuneful throng is mutely still, And comes no sound of labor from the hill. Then thrilling is the grandeur of the calm; The only sounds which come upon the ear, To tell the mind that life remaineth near, Are the soft murmurings of the silvery stream, The gentle winds which whisper to the trees As they go wandering in the border woods, Or now and then the screeching of an owl, The bleeting lamb, or distant watch-dog's howl.

* * * * *

'Twas on this scene Lord Henry loved to dwell-- A noble bearer of a noble name-- Lured by the tranquil of a country home To muse upon the beauties of the land. 'Twas here the castle of his fathers stood-- Time honored and of pleasing memories, Adorned of nature and of every art Which the devising of the mind can give To feed the fancy of admiring man. But in these pleasants soon there came a time When he got weary of the lonesome life, Which led him, day by day, in the same scenes, And did not still the longings of his soul. For now he felt the presence of a power Which all men feel, that moves the will at ease Unto a bondage which they fain would shun, Yet loving well the while the gentle guile Which bids the soul unto the presence sweet Of some fair maid, whose winning charms had wrought Well on the strongholds of a purposed heart, Until the entrance hath been fully made, And it is captive to her choosing will, And all the forms to wedlock which pertain. This mystic power incited on him more, Till he resolved to seek a maiden fair, And share with her the blessings of his home, And mete with her the measure of his life. Thus said the voice which whispered to his soul: "And she shall cheer me in the heavy hours, And give a spirit to my lonesome life; And she shall be a maiden, young, and fair, And gentle, and be termed the sweetest flower Of all the land for many measures round; And such a maiden I shall love, and serve, And honor, and revere, with all the love Which an admiring soul can give to one Who is the perfect image of his heart." And, ere a while, Lord Henry loved, and wooed, And wed a maiden of a worthy line, And led her gently to his country home, And used every power to make her glad, And loved and served her with a constant love, And had no mind to other than to her. For she was sweet, and fair, and gentle (more Than the bright picture he had fancied of); And they were happy in such tranquil joys, As day by day went fleeting on its course, And saw them still in one united love, And one to one the source of sweetest joy. These bore their record ere they passed away Of some distinguished pleasure to imply-- A sweetness to the retrospective thought. She was his sole companion day and night. Oft he would lead her to the flowery lawn, And in the rosy bowers bedeck her hair, And watch the image of his soul repose In all her beauty 'neath a rosy crown; Amid the fragrance of the blooming eve, And the soft cadence from the sylvan towers, Beheld the heaving of her gentle breast, Moved by the passing of a peaceful breath, Until of love his soul would overflow; Then he would bend and lay his lips to hers, And pour a shower of mellow kisses there. Then he loved well to hear the harp reply-- The silvery harp--unto her nimble touch, And shower its floods of melody away, To mingle with the songs of nature by; For it knew well the softness of her touch, And gladly gave its music in return. But more he loved than music of the harp, Or songs of many valleys in the Spring, When every fragment of the air is full Of song and all the arts of melody, To hear the sweetness of her full-tuned voice, Raised to the measure of some favored song; A life-like presence lending to the theme, Until the soul is fervent in return Of they who listen to its thrilling power. Then they would wander to the village oft, Now by the path along the bridge, and then Across the water by the ferry-boat; For the coy village is across the stream, Near on a line from where the castle stands, And nigh it well, that when the breeze accords, Or calm prevails, the sounds come floating o'er Of mirthful lads in gambol on the green, Or the part song of buxom damsel raised, Who lightly busies at her noonday task; Anon the chime of the church clock, which tells Another hour departed of the year. And all these sounds familiar to them come, And all the village holds them in respect, Which as they near the rustic boys will doff Their brown worn caps in manner rustic like, While dame and damsel pay a reverence meet Unto the lady they have learnt to love; For she is loved by all the people well, And held in honor as a God-sent friend,-- Kind-hearted to the poor, and to the sick A double help and kindly comforter. In manner thus the seasons quickly pass, One after one,--the flowery Summer and The golden Autumn, with her bounty hand; Then, in the background, Winter, and again, When Spring, the early Summer; it was then, Her full time having come, the lady went Unto her chamber, and brought forth a child. And it was robed, and brought, and put into The father's hand, and he was very glad With the full joy which fills a father's heart, And went and kissed his wife, and bade Her speedy well, and all things seemed good; And in his ear a sweet, soft voice foretold: "Thine is a happy lot of years to come, All full of tranquil and domestic bliss; Thy paths are by the ways of harmony, And a fair train of love shall ever tend, With all her blessings largely to bestow, Upon thy head as dew in Summer night." Again he went unto his wife, to see How quickly she got well and how she fared For he was weary to be wanting her, And longed to see her graceful form again Come quickly here and there about his home. But lo! he saw the hand of sickness had Upon his loved one laid a ruthless hold, And that the lustre of her eye had gone, And that her voice had lost its brightest chords. Then day and night he watched her, and bestowed Of every tendence he could think to give, Which would allay the fever, or imply Relief awhile unto her aching head. But day and night he saw her further wane, Her life-stream ebbing every hour away; Until at last he saw her wane and die, Beheld her sink into the arms of death. Then woeful was the scene, to see him bend Upon the lifeless form in floods of woe, Whose bitter torrents overwhelmed long; And much he wept in full and heavy tears, Till they who saw it thought his heart would break; And for long hours he gazed upon her form, Nor could conceive that she was truly dead. And all the household wept, and many came To give him comfort, but he turned away, And could not hearken to their kindly words, And rose and left the house to wander out, And passed the old domestic at the door, Who dare not question where his master went. And to the woods he wandered. It was night, And long the warblers of the dale had sung Their last glad anthem to the dying day, And gone to slumber in the sylvan bowers Until the dawning of another morn. And on he wandered, but he knew not whence, For all his thoughts were maddened and confused. Then to the bower he came, where oft in time But lately gone he had his loved one led, And with the fairest flowers bedecked her hair. He paused awhile, and, with a heavy sigh, Spake to the flowers, "O ye fair flowers, receive The lamentations of a widowed heart. Thy gay perfections have no further charms; And those sweet odors are diffused now As fragrance is unto a wasted land, Since she who loved them has for ever gone." Then on he pressed into the deepest depths Of the still woods, his mournful story told In tears and sighs unto the woods and wilds; And they made answer in a murmur deep, Which ran from tree to tree adown the break; While from the stream a low lamenting came, And the clear heavens wept gentle tear-drops down, And every star seemed as a pitying eye-- An eye of love with sparkling tear-drops full. And all around was mute, and the pale moon Came forth to take a survey of her realm, Parading in a calm majestic air From end to end, and casting here and there, Through the condenseness of the sylvan boughs, Her sidelong glances, which intrude the depths, And lay strange shadows wrangling on the ground. Then for a while he stood amazed amid The awful tremor of this death-like calm, And for a time his grief forgot its depth; For a calm wonder sat enthroned instead Upon his soul, which shewed the great, and good, And grand conception of the God who made The earth and heavens in order so profound. And, growing weary, there he sat him down Beneath the cover of a spreading tree; For it was many days since he had slept Or rested for his earnest watchfulness. He breathed a silent prayer that God would send Him comfort in and strength to bear the grief, Then drew his mantle o'er him, and remained Wrapt in the sadness of his mournful thoughts, Until the gentle arms of slumber closed Around him, and he slept a deep, soft sleep. And in the watches of the night there came A bright and wondrous vision on his mind. He dreamt that on a lovely eve he sat Beneath the shadow of a spreading tree, In adoration of the beauties round But heartsore with the burden of his woe; When the sweet fragments of a heavenly song Broke on his ear. He raised his eyes, and lo! Amid the tranquil heights above he saw Forth from the portals of the eternal gates Two angel forms descending unto him. Their garments were as white as Winter snow, And on their brows were sparkling crowns of gold, And they had wings as angels, and each held A banner in her hand, on which these words In golden letters were so strangely wrought: "'Tis peace, and love, and joy eternally Adorns the precincts of our blessed home." And bright their presence was as dazzling suns, Which send a radiance through the heavens wide. They now before him stood, and she who spake Was lovely to behold; her perfect form Was as the form of his departed one, Yet lovelier far; and the sweet voice did seem The same sweet voice he had been wont to hear. In fervent power, yet softly, thus she spake: "Dear Henry, rise and mourn no more for me, Since I am in a sweet eternity, And dwell in peace, and joy, and love, and songs, Which are for ever gladly rising there. Sweet were our days together spent below, But sweeter far they shall be when above We are united through unending days With her, an angel too, who was our babe, And who hath come to bear me presence here." Then by the hand she took him, and thus spake In kind and pleading words: "The laws of man Would hold and deem it just that, if a man In time of his prosperity forget To render to his God a full return Of thankfulness and praise, then he shall be In time of his adversity forgot. But God is more compassionate, and says That if a man turn from his heedless ways, And bear a true repentance, he shall live. Then I, the spirit of your once fond wife, Come from the realms of bliss, do thee adjure; Turn to thy God, and give Him worship due, And mourn not with a needless sorrow more. Then, but a season longer, ye shall come And join me in this never-ending bliss." Awe-struck and dumb the wondering Henry stood, And took communion from the Holy One; In adoration bound, he knew not whence To make an answer fit, and would have knelt, Like as before a God, to worship them. But, ere he knew, they had on pinions bright Resumed their course unto the regions whence He saw them come; and, with a wondering look, He watched them still ascend, until the gates Of heaven opened, and they entered in. Then it was morn, and Henry woke from sleep, And looked in wonder on the things around, And felt bewildered for a time to know How hither he had come, and whence the cause. Then fragments of the dream broke on his mind, And yet awhile the joys, the cares, the woes Came clear in their intensity, as when He had endured them in the days just gone. The chilly numbness from his limbs removed, He turned to wander homeward, being now Refreshed by sleep and more in spirit soothed, Reflecting long and deep on the stern truths And troubles tending on the lives of men. Then came the vision of the night before Clear as the waters of a Summer stream, And bore its beauties to his soul anew, Wherefrom he saw a lucent line ascend, Of comfort and of warning to his life, Bidding his soul to higher things ascend, As vapors rise--as vapors rise and flow-- To seek the presence of the sunny heights, Sore of their sojourn in the sphere below; And thus reflected on his bygone days: "Ah me! ah me! my latter life hath been A sorry semblance of the lives of men, Who seek for pleasures in a barren land, And look for comfort in an empty urn, And lose the aim wherefore they live and die Amid the luring of deluding joys. O error bold! ye now thyself reveal Within the chaos of departed time, That she, my wife, received the honor due Unto my God, for she was as my God,-- The idol I adored, my constant theme. Forget! forgive! I will return again Unto a nobler purpose, and will give Unto my God the reverence which is meet, And yet a cherished recollection hold, Because of her who hath departed, and Who came to warn me of my error here. Then in a future day I shall ascend, And share beside her an eternal joy." Again he thought, "But can the babe be dead? It which should be my only comfort now. But now I cannot murmur; I will say, 'God's will be done!' He knoweth what is good." In manner thus he pondered full and deep, Until the hall he reached, then entered in. And all the household wondered whence he came, For that their lord had been the night away, But none could ask him whither he had been; And when they told him that the child was dead, For it was sickly ere he wandered forth, He shed a silent tear, and calmly said, "Great are my woes, but I can bear them now." And 'twas the vision of the fallen night That stood a comfort to his spirit then; Yet he had hoped to see the child survive, And be a last lone comfort to his soul Of earthly kind. And they were glad to see That the full torrent of his grief had gone, And that a peaceful sadness moved him now. Then on the fifth day from her death it was, All due obsequies made, the castle gates Were opened, and emerged therefrom, in deep And sombre black, a mournful train, which bore Unto the grave the mother and the child. There in the ancients' tombs they were reposed Together, by the graves where many years Had slept his fathers in a silent sleep. The old church bell tolled mournfully, and all The village mourned, while many wept among The aged and the feeble, who had known The kindness of her way, and the full hand With which in trouble she had come to them. Then Henry rose, and left the well-loved spot, Nor could he brook to linger on the scene, Where had been spent so many happy hours With her he loved, and where she lived and died; But in a foreign land he sought a home, And there sojourned many years away.

MY MOTHER'S DEATH.

It is a mournful song I sing--
A loving mother dead.
Who can so hard a tiding bring,
Or deeper sorrow bid.

THE MESSAGE.

Soft as an angel's breath,
Swift as the wings of death,
Through all the haunts of men,
By lake and by river,
Across forest and fen,
Onward they sped, paused they never.
By hamlet or hall,
Mystic their pall,
Hied as a spirit hidden from view,
Faithless nor wavering, ever more true.
Onward these words sped--
"Your mother is dead."
Quick as a dart,
Piercing the heart,
Bore they upon me;
Reeling the blow sent me.
Oh! for the woe lent me,
How could I stand.

THE AFFLICTOR.

Was it the hand of God lifted the rod?
Oh how hard does it seem, wonderful God!
Mighty and marvellous, we but behold
In wonder and awe Thy mysteries told--
The work of Thy hand
Throughout all the land,
Bearing on mankind--
Man frail and mortal.
Dark and ambiguous, mighty and grand,
All Thy works are;
Thee, whom all the angels adore,
Falling in prostration before
Thy radiant throne.
In beauty of state
The archangels wait,
Seeking Thy glory,
Great God, alone.
How shall we bend,
Seeking to lend
Humble adorance, worship before Thee?
How shall we yield us meekly submissive
Unto Thy will?
So prone is the heart oft to rebel,
Murmuring still;
From morning until night,
And
From darkness until light,
It doth rebel.
Send,
O Lord! the spirit of meekness,
And dispel
All turbulent thought
And vainglory sought.
We are but nought
In the presence of Thy greatness.

THE COMFORTER.

O Lord! reach us
Thy hand, rich in comfort and love;
Our grief soothe, and raise us above
The tide of woe in which we move;
In this loss console us; sweet may
Our mourning be; oh! let us say,
"God hath removed her; He took her away."
And, Lord, teach us
In all things Thy wisdom to see.
Thou wouldst not have us alway be
Wandering this vale of misery.

HER SUFFERING.

Great had her sorrow been,
Anguish and woe,
Pouring their full fury,
Bearing her low.
But, in agony sore,
The affliction she bore
Meek as a child.
Though every breath was in agony seethed,
Yet not a murmur her parched lips breathed,
So passively mild.
All the earth's gladness
Is but as sadness
Unto her now.
All its gay pleasures
And its great treasures
Are but as measures
Empty and vain.
Peace, peace in her soul
Has fullest control.

HER DEATH.

Then the deliverer came, And, in the glorious name Of the great God, took her away High unto the regions of day. And, ere she yielded her breath Unto the angel of death, These were the last words she spoke-- How sweetly from her lips they broke!-- "Saviour, receive my spirit," Breathed in all the merit Of her Redeemer's love. He stood waiting above, Watching the angels move Unto His throne. And thus the angel came and went; But they who by the pillow bent Were not the power of vision lent To see the holy being sent Among them then, And moving when He passed away, Felt not the soft zephyrs lay Room for his wing, Heard not the heavenly throng Their glad anthem sing, Till the fulness of their song Made the high arches ring.

THE LAST FAREWELL.

Well I remember Her long, lingering look,-- The last farewell I took, Returning from home. 'Twas early September, The cornfields looked yellow, And garden fruits mellow Were beginning to come. She came to the gate with me, And faltered, "Farewell!" But oh! it was a hard one; The silent tear fell Down from her eye. Merrily the birds sang, But in her heart rang A more sorrowful lay, As she saw me away, Watching the turn Where ripples the burn, Till I had gone past; And this was the last-- The last of farewells. Oh how Time tells His wonderful power, So stern in the hour!

REFLECTIONS.

Low the flowing crops bent, With their fulness content; And many a sickle was sent Into the rustling fields, While the gay reaper wields The bounty which God yields In his goodness to man. But as I heard these reapers sing, Thought not Death's reaper would bring To me sorrow so soon; Thought not he would come and remove The one dearest object of love, The earth's greatest boon, From my presence away. Hallowed shall be that day, In memory alway Most dear unto me; For, though I did not see The angel of death near, She may have seen His sable garments peer From the long ranks of time, And heard his voice chime, "I shall come to bring thee Unto eternity." Dead! dead! Oh! bid My trembling heart be still. It cannot brook this ill; This strange and burdened truth It cannot bear. The brightness of my youth It chills to hear. Ah me! and has she gone, Who in sickness watched me long, Smoothed my pillow, hushed the throng, And said To childhood's fears, "Begone!" Who in error chid, And would gently bid A rising rage be still, Or check a stubborn will, In childhood seeming ill. I think I see her now (The smile upon her brow) Sit in the woody shade, Adown the rural glade, So full in song. And watch her fondled boy, With some much cherished toy, Run raptured long. Ah yes! too truly she hath gone. The vacant seat to fill There is none other, there is none To take her place. A mother lost Is ever most A home can bear. Can time never more That image restore? Has that voice gone to keep Its long silent sleep With the dead in the grave? She whom God hath said Should have reverence paid, Here on the earth, All of her birth, Called to give honor, Long life the donor, God hath said shall have. Dead, they all tell me. So strange, it doth seem Like a vision befel me-- A wonderful dream, That I no more may breathe That name ever dear, Save in a mournful voice Hushed silent in fear.

THE FUNERAL.

Now the old church bell Tolls forth its death knell, Mournfully to tell The hour has come at last, In heavy sadness past, To bury the dead, And in silence bid. Then the mourners go, All mournfully slow, Every heart beating low The march of the dead. All with soft and gentle tread Unto the sepulchre sped, And humbly bent every head, Bearing to her last home the dead, In all the obsequies due; Every follower, in presence true, Many a well-known neighbour view, Paying his last meet respect Unto her who has gone, And whose remembrance shone Bright in the memory of them. Now through the old town they pace-- The good old familiar place, Where often in time before She, in life's abounding store, Passed by many a friendly door. But now, how changed is the scene! She, cold in death's awful sheen, Is borne unto the still hallowed green. Every passer turns to see, And they say, "Who can it be?" And they ponder in the thought-- One more unto death brought. Soon may we, too, soon be sought. But they who her in life knew Feel the truth more strangely true, And they take a sadder view Of the great loss to the few, Who received the bosom love Which her kind deeds went to prove. Now they tread in the hallowed ground, Where the sons of ages have found Together a home. And they pause by the chosen ground, And all, in a silence profound, Hear the words of comfort flow, In deep power, sadly and low, From the messenger of love, Appointed of God above To tell to His people peace, And from care a glad release; And his words of comfort are Sweeter to their hearts by far Than balm to a seething wound. And now they lay In the cold clay, To moulder away, All that is mortal of her. O grave! receive her; Ye have no terror, But to relieve her A world of woe. 'Tis but a season, Waiting in reason, She shall be there. She hath gone down corruptible, But shall rise incorruptible, Adorned and fair, When this grave which is closed Shall again be disclosed, And the Good Shepherd shall call Together unto Him all His people, faithful and good, Who in life steadfast have stood. O widower! weep not, And, orphans, lament not. Weep not by the cold grave, Long not that ye might have Her with you again; But let her remain Alone in the grave, In the peace of her last long abode. Far sweeter is death unto her now.

AFTER THE BURIAL.

All hath been finished now;
And from the darkened brow
Of the grave the people move,
Pondering his own heart to prove,
Each unto his home.
While of the old dead's demesne
Hallowed fancies come,
Living and clear, urgent and fain,
As they visit in thought again
And again the place where remain
Their fathers, the sons of many ages,
Gathered from the ever-turning pages
Of the volume of time,
Like a long running rhyme--
Old age and youth,
Falsehood and truth,
Beauty and pride
Side unto side
In that old churchyard,
In the sacred guard
Of hallowed rest.
Then a behest
Moveth the breast
To be holy and meek,
Lowly to seek
Life unto life,
Bearing through strife
Unto the end,
Trying to blend
Love unto life.

HOME SORROW.

Woe is the guest
Of every breast
As they turn from the grave,
Bordered in a wave
Of melancholy deep.
But their woe is not as our woe
In fervor or depth; they cannot know
The fulness to weep
Which we know,--
We who have held the keep
Of her noble heart,
Who was of our unity the crown,
And who was the bosom of our home,
Where did the soul of every member come.
We know the part,
As true mourners, to weep;
For never again,
While time doth remain,
Shall we hear her voice
Relating in choice
Some well-pleasing tale,
Which never could fail
The hours to beguile,
As many a smile
Ran from face unto face.
But now her wonted place
Is vacant, and we
Can sorrow but see
In all things which she
By remembrance comes.
Yet there is a soft tranquil in presence of grief,
Which filleth the bosom of hallowed relief,
Making the pang sweet which rendeth the heart,
Soothing the sorrow and easing the smart,
Leading the mind from vain follies away,
To seek a more sacred and truthful array.

IN REMEMBRANCE.

O memory of a mother gone!
Whene'er with others, or alone,
I hear or breathe that sacred name,
May it allure the hallowed flame
To shine on thee, and lead thy son
Into a better life, begun
Unworthy that which hath been done.
For him and all, and us anon,
In course of life I hear the knell
Of mournful, solemn funeral bell,
Or see the deep black drapings flow
Of funeral cortege moving slow.
Or, when the sombre weeds I don,
May they of warning not be lone,
But freely tell, in solemn truth,
The waning of my boasted youth;
That ere a while those rites shall be
Obsequies fashioned over me.
Then heedless, hasty spirit, pause
To learn and know the better cause
Wherefore ye live, and freely ask
Of wisdom for a fitter task.

TO THE OBSERVER.

Pause, cold observer, pause awhile;
Why will not death thy thoughts beguile?
Think ye for ever to abide
By this deluding desert side?
O wanderer, turn;
O wanderer, stay;
Why will ye spurn
The voice to-day?
A little while--
An hour--may bring
A broken smile,
Death on the wing,
To bear thee down
By laden grief
Beneath his frown.
The time is brief.
Then stay, oh stay!
And lend an ear
To what the dead--
The dying say.
Thy doom is hid,
Thy death is near;
The Judge will bid
Thee soon appear.

THE WORLD'S END.

The gates of heaven are opened, and, behold, The herald comes upon the wings of night, When men in slumber lie, and when abroad The robber goes to plunder what he can; And when the lusty have gone forth to cull A night's defilement in an evil way; The gambler sitteth at his dizzy game, The sotted drunkard feeds his bestial thirst, And revel dancers are aloud in mirth. Alike the heedless and the godly sleep, When from the herald's waking trumpet comes The awful and sonorous cadence, which Shall roll around the earth from pole to pole-- More grand, more great, and more tremendous than The voice of terror in the stormy sky, As when a thousand thunders war therein An angry war among the heavy clouds. And at the sound the wicked tremble sore, For now they know an awful doom at hand, And quail to find no rescue from its power. The robber drops the plunder from his hand; The lusty startle at the mighty sound, And from their beds of sin turn wildly forth; And from his game the gambler leaps amazed And terror-struck; whereas the drunkard wakes-- The sotted drunkard--from his stupid sleep, And feels the awful terrors of the hour. But by the righteous is the sound received As the glad tidings which they long have sought; For well they know the glory of the sign, When He, their true Deliverer, shall come. The earth shall tremble and rebound, and all The graves shall ope their darkened mouths, until The long-forgotten dead shall come therefrom. Then He who is the Judge appears forth from The heavenly gates; upon the lurid flame His chariot shall roll, and on the clouds Of sable smoke, down through the stormy sky, Where roar tremendous thunders, mid the cries Of agony and fear, which rise anon, Heartrending, from the lost, in anguish sore, Who call for shelter, but have no reply, Save terrors still more awful than before; Who seek for mercy, when their fearful doom Shall echo in their ear, "Too late! too late!" Then all the earth shall be engrossed in flame From sea to sea, and high the lurid glare Shall rise in streams amid the gloomy clouds; And the great waters, laving on the flame Their boiling waves, shall feed its power ten times, And lend their vapors to the burning air. All things shall be consumed excepting man; And through the flames the righteous shall be led Unhurt, as though there were no flame; whereas The wicked shall of tortures be conceived More deep in power than ever known before. Then on His throne, mid glories so immense, The Judge in dreadful majesty appears, And looks in thrilling calm on all around. And on His brow sits equity enthroned, And truth and love united with it there; So radiant is His presence that, unveiled, The eye is dazzled which upon it dwells. He calls before Him all the people, and Discerns between the evil and the good Of all the deeds which they have done, and weighs Together in a balance, one in one, The evil and the good of all their thoughts, And all their words and mingled purposes. Then they to whom the balance falls to ill Their judgment thus receive: "Depart, depart Unto the burning lake, for ever fed. Ye would not hearken to the warning words, And now it is too late. Depart! depart!" Then to the hell eternal they and all The tortures of the world, and fears, and pains, And lust and anger, malice and disdain, And pride, and pomp, and every evil thought, Shall roll together, in a burning mass, Down deeper, deeper to the yawning gulphs. Thus all the mountains and great hills shall fly; And seas, and lakes, and rivers of the earth Shall vanish as a cloud before the wind; And He who was the Judge shall now ascend, Together with His chosen people, high Unto the heavenly gates, and, entering in, Shall have abode through day that knows no end In an Elysium of unmeasured joy.

THE SABBATH DAY.

Sweetest and fairest of the days that dawn Upon Elysian hill, and over lawn, And field, and city spread a roseate light! The morning of the Sabbath day--in dight Of many a hallowed strain it comes. The bell Of every village o'er the plain doth tell, From its high seat, within the sacred tower Above the house of God, from hour to hour, A joyous song; and in cathedral town The gladsome peals break forth and warble down; While through the city every belfrey gives A glad reply, which seems to say, "He lives! He lives!" The song of praise is heard ascend, Raised to the heavenly throne, in one to blend With angels' song, from many a cottage rung, Where on this day the father with his young Sits down in peace; while, in the pine grove down The rural glen, a myriad voices crown The clear-tuned solo of the warbling thrush, Or oft in chorus to a duet flush, Sung with the full-piped blackbird of the wood, Their notes are joined. The aspect and the mood Of everything is changed, as wont on day Of toil the crowded city moves to lay The bands of slumber for a time away, But brings not out the bustle and the din Which is her weekday aspect; and within Her walls a stilly peace prevails; the roar And noise of lumbering waggon comes no more Along the well-worn street, nor busy tread Of envoy, hurrying on, by duty led, To bank, or warehouse, or to court of law. The myriad sounds have ceased, which nature saw Were fit to wait upon the day of toil; Nor mendicant nor ballad beggar foil The sacred rest with their assiduous song. And round the factory door the noisy throng Forgets to come as on the other days; Aside her task the weary seamstress lays, Now from the close and foul-aired workroom free. The toilsome shop is closed, and also he Who for the week stood there doth taste the sweets Of liberty awhile; the penman meets No more the tiring scroll; and now in chain The prisoner sits within his dungeon, wan And weary; but he hears some soothing strain Break through the thick and iron-girded wall; And then the heavy shackles seem to fall From off his feet; a strange emotion fills His soul, and through his wasted body thrills, When of the bygone days he thinks in sweet And lingering thought; and then his eyes to meet The scanty rays are turned, and on his mind Awhile the captive fate forgets to find Its deepest force or weary sigh to send. Turn from the city, and to country lend A passing thought. All labor is at rest. The plough lies set, point in the mottled breast Of half-tilled field; the flail is laid above The barn's brown wall; the shining sickles move Not from their keep; the woodman's axe is still; The golden sheaf doth not the feeder fill; The huntsman's horn is hung behind the door; The delver's spade stands idle on the floor; The horse and oxen run the open field, Set free to graze; the holloaing drivers wield No whip or goad, and all the swain is free; The laborer walks abroad, and turns to see, With favoring look, the toilings of his hand, And fruits of labor rising from the land; The rustic lovers saunter in the fields, To talk of love and reap the joy it yields. The tower-clock now the worship-hour relates, And every church the worshipper awaits. Then thither come the cottar and his wife, (Once fair, now furrowed with the cares of life,) With sons and daughters; and, behind them near, The jovial farmer and his wife appear. Then comes the county squire; till the seats, One after one, are full. Then shortly meets The people's eager eye the tranquil face Of their beloved pastor, in his place. He kneels to God, and in deep fervour prays A sweet and powerful prayer; then he lays The open Bible down, and well expounds The message of the Saviour's love, till bounds, For truths so hallowed, every tending heart In joy. Then praise is sung; a ready part Takes every voice to raise a worthy song, Which breaks from seat to seat the aisle along. Then kneel the people by the throne of grace To take the blessing, ere they part to pace Again the world's besetting path. It falls Among them like as dew upon the palls Of parched flowers, to raise and nourish in The hour of need the vital spark within.

* * * * *

Sweetest and fairest, hallowed day of rest! "Peace" is thy banner and thy mottoed crest-- An open boon to all. The weary wait-- The weary wait and sigh to see the gate Of dawn admit thee forth in eastern sky. The merchant's daughter, as each morn goes by, Looks on the scenes without, and counts the days That fly--six, five, four, three, two, one--and lays A hopeful joy upon the day to come, When she shall by her father sit, and some Inspiring volume read, or, in a walk Through wood or vale, employ the time in talk, Sweet and instructively. The widow waits To see her son come home, and anxious gets When near the hour has drawn that she shall hear The step of her sole comforter draw near, With whom on earth she findeth sweetest joy. The orphans wait, and every night employ A time in prayer, that God be pleased to spare Their elder brother, and bestow him fair And happy days. They long the Sabbath day; For then he comes among them, and doth lay A cheerful spirit to the humble home; Pure and delicious truths he tells them from A flowing heart, and they all love him well. All people love the Sabbath--they who dwell In early years of innocence and joy, And they of lusty prime, whom cares employ A thousand snares to tangle or to stem. But more than all, the Sabbath is to them A day of sweet delight who totter near The precincts of the grave without a fear-- Yea, rather, with a joyous hope ere long To leave the weary ranks they now belong, Of feeble age, and, passing death's dark throng, Attain the kingdom of eternal song.

BEAUTY ADORNED.