Chapter III: Part 3

Annie Rebekah Smith, only daughter of Samuel and Rebekah Smith, was born in West Wilton, N. H., March 16, 1828. When ten years of age, she was converted and joined the Baptist church, in which connection she remained till 1844, when she embraced the doctrine of the soon coming of Christ, and withdrew from the church that she might more freely engage in the work of preparation for that event. After the passing of the time in 1844, being thrown with others into doubt respecting our position in the prophetic calendar, she pursued her favorite occupations of studying and teaching. Commencing in 1844, as assistant in a select school kept by Miss Sarah Livermore, in Wilton, between that time and 1850 she taught, in different places, seven district schools, attending, meanwhile, a term each in Milford, Hancock and New Ipswich, N. H., and six terms at the Ladies' Female Seminary in Charlestown, Mass. At the latter place she fitted herself for a teacher in Oil Painting and French.

In 1850 she took a sketch of Boston and Charlestown from Prospect Hill, Somerville, three miles distant. The effort was too much for her eyes, and, for about eight months she almost entirely lost the use of them. On account of this difficulty, she was obliged to decline a proposition to teach in the seminary at Hancock, which made her misfortune seem almost intolerable, so great was her disappointment. The only alleviation which she found for her affliction in this time, was in becoming an agent for, and contributor to, "The Ladies' Wreath," a monthly magazine published in New York. Her contributions to this periodical, with the exception of a few pieces published in the "Odd Fellow," and some other papers, were her first efforts at public writing.

Her friends in Charlestown, thinking the salt water would prove a benefit to her eyes, invited her to spend a season with them. She went in 1851, not expecting to be gone many weeks, but did not return till November, 1852, when she was called home by the sickness and death of her father. During her stay in Boston and vicinity she went to Portland and Nova Scotia. I requested her to go once, to please me, to sister Temple's, in Boston, to a Seventh-day Adventist meeting. Some remarkable incidents in connection with her attendance at this meeting, together with the faithful efforts of the friends of the truth, arrested her attention; and in about three weeks she committed herself upon the Sabbath and its attendant truths. The next week she sent to the "Advent Review" the piece of poetry entitled "Fear not, Little Flock," which was her first contribution to that paper. The "Review" was then published in Saratoga, N. Y., and she was immediately requested to take a position in that office. She replied that she could not, on account of the trouble with her eyes, but was told to come as she was, or to that effect. Arriving there, the directions in James 5:14, 15, were followed, and her eyes were so far strengthened in answer to prayer, that she was soon enabled to engage without restraint in the work of the office.

With strong faith and fervent zeal, she entered heartily into the work. She rejoiced in the new-found truth. The whole current of her mind was changed, and nobler aspirations took possession of her heart. From a position of exaltation and honor among men, she had now turned her eyes to an inheritance incorruptible, undefiled, reserved in Heaven for the followers of Christ, and to a place at last with the redeemed before the throne. Her contributions to the "Review" while it was published in Saratoga and Rochester, N. Y., afterwards published in her volume of poems, entitled, "Home here, and Home in Heaven," show the themes upon which her mind delighted to dwell.

In November, 1852, as already stated, she was called home by the sickness of her father, who died the first of December following. In January, 1853, before returning to N. Y., she was solicited, in connection with her brother Uriah, to take charge of the Academy in Mont Vernon, N. H., with a salary for the first year, of one thousand dollars, and a prospect of increase as they should bring the school up to a greater degree of prosperity. But she preferred to labor in some capacity where her efforts would tend more directly to spread a knowledge of the truth among the people, and lead them to seek salvation through Christ the Saviour of men. She therefore declined the offer, preferring, without any pecuniary consideration, to again connect herself with the office.

Two years later, in November, 1854, she came home to West Wilton, suffering under the first stages of that disease which shortly brought her to the grave. The following from a letter to a friend, written soon after her death, sets forth the occasion of her last sickness, and the circumstances attending the closing hours of her life:

On account of sickness in the family where she boarded, she assisted in the kitchen awhile, where was a warm stove, and in consequence of a letter being left, she hastened with it to the office unprepared for a cold, wet morning. Had she returned immediately, as she should have done, all might have been well. But she stayed through the day, as her work was there, and became very cold and chilly. That cold undoubtedly seated itself immediately upon her lungs, and threw her into night sweats and a hard cough, which ended but with her life.

So rapid was the wasting process of her disease, that within six weeks from the time she took the cold, she rode up in the cars, on her way home, with an intimate acquaintance of hers who did not know her. He told me he thought of her, but thought it could not be Annie, she was so altered in her looks, being so poor and pale. Her brother Samuel said he did not think he should have known her had he met her unexpectedly, and said with a most dejected look, "_I don't think she will live._"

She came home the 7th of November, kept about and worked some till about the 1st of December, when she had a very distressed day, and raised blood. Having confidence in water treatment, she went where she could receive such treatment, to see the effect it would have, and to get information. She continued this course till the following February. She felt better while under the exhilarating effect of the water, but became satisfied that she was no better.

The 14th of February, most providentially, Bro. Joseph Bates called on us, and stopped till the 18th. This was the occasion of a great blessing to her. At the commencement of the Sabbath, the 16th, the spirit and power of God descended upon her, and she praised God with a loud voice. I felt at the same time the sweet influence of Heaven, and the presence of holy angels. I believed God was hearing prayer, and granting his blessing, and joined them in praising and giving glory to his name. Bro. B. then said to Annie, "You needed this blessing, and now if the Lord sees that it is best for you to be laid away in the grave, he will go with you."

She appeared some stronger and better a few days in the day time, but I could not see that she rested, or was much different nights. Her cough remained obstinate, and I do not think the disease was ever stayed. She was greatly strengthened in a spiritual point of view, and engaged more earnestly in exhorting people to believe the Word, and be ready for the coming of the Lord. She would feel impressed to go out and talk with different individuals upon the truth, and was strengthened and blessed in so doing. Victory was generally gained, so that the truth was verified, that whom the Lord makes free is free indeed. We had from that time as long as she lived, some of the most sweet, melting seasons of prayer that I ever enjoyed, often accompanied with shouts of praise to the Lord.

It was evident to all around that Annie was failing. Her symptoms became alarming. The 20th of March her brother Samuel was taken suddenly and very sick with influenza and fever, three miles and a half away at his boarding place, and unable to get home. Annie said I must go and attend upon him, even if she never saw me again.

The 30th she went to Mason Village to stay with sister Gorham, while I was with her brother. While there, word came that Annie was much worse. The 12th of April I went to Mason Village, and found her very much worse than I expected. For twelve days her death was almost hourly expected by those around. She said to me, "Mother, that poem I've been writing since January, 1855, [since published under the title of "Home Here and Home in Heaven,"] I suppose must all be lost. It is unconnected, and nothing can be done with it to advantage, without me." I went to Wilton and got the papers containing what she had written, but she was not able to do anything with them. She then prayed that she might be enabled to finish the poem, and prepare the book she had in contemplation; that if she did not live, it might be that through it, she being dead would yet speak, and that good might be done.

Sabbath April 21, the meeting was at sister Gorham's. We did not hold it in her room on account of her low state of health, but went in to close the exercises, when to our surprise she commenced praying with more than usual strength. The presence of God was manifested, and his power rested down upon her in a remarkable manner. She said she was raised up to go home, and to do the will of the Lord. She rested better that night than she had for a long while. The next day she rode to Wilton, seven miles, to the astonishment of all. Many from our village had been to see her, and taken their leave, never expecting to see her again; and when they saw the carriage drive up, they came in to inquire when she died. Great was their surprise to find her able to walk about the room. She was again in her own quiet home, and soon commenced on her work. She was not able to write much herself, and I kept paper and pencil to write what she dictated at her will.

The 28th of May she had arranged and composed the last verse of her poem "Home Here and Home in Heaven." The 29th, her brother Uriah came home just in time to write it off for the press, and to assist her in arranging her other poetry for reprinting. She, however, made some alterations, and some little additions while he was copying it.

She dreamed in February that she was with a people, seemingly spectators, and before her was the most beautiful road, which glistened like gold. There was a company arranged by the side, and some one came to her with a peony, and said to her, "You must go over upon that road and hold up this peony." She stood there dressed in white, holding up the peony, when she awoke with the most pleasing impression, that she had yet something more to do for the Lord. She fully believed after she came from Mason, that she should accomplish the work she had in view, and that this was what was represented by her dream. The peony was her favorite flower, and as soon as they were in blossom, Uriah sketched and engraved one for the book, as is seen on the title page.

She often said in view of her dream, that when the book was done there would be a change in her. She should either be raised up to live, or she should die. Her prayer was answered. The book was all done on her part, and as she had a desire to see the proof-sheet of her poem, and heard that help was needed at the office, she said to Uriah, "I feel bad to have you staying on my account, when it seems you might be accomplishing more good." It was thought she might live till frosty nights, if no longer. Under these considerations, Uriah left for Rochester the 17th of July. He had not been gone with the manuscript; more than three hours, when she said, "I am ready now to die;" and she did not live quite ten days after.

The 18th she wrote the piece "Our Duty." The 19th, at 3 o'clock, P. M., she said, "Mother, some change has taken place. I don't think I shall live through the day." I saw there was a change, and stayed by her. Night drew on. No one happened in. She said, "It seems to me I could not breathe to have many in the room." I told her I was not afraid to be alone with her if she did die. She seemed gratified, as she wanted everything as quiet as could be, and she was not able to talk much with people if they were in. Her brother John and myself stayed with her during the night, when it seemed that any moment might be her last. She delivered many messages for different individuals, especially for her brother Samuel, if she did not live to see him. She said, "My mind was never clearer; I could do a sum in arithmetic."

About 2 o'clock she looked very happy. I said to John, "Annie is being blessed." She soon exclaimed, "Glory to God," a number of times, louder than she had spoken for a long while. She said, "Heaven is opened. I know Jesus is mine, and that he will save me. I shall come forth at the first resurrection;" and exhorted us to prepare for the time of trouble, and to be ready to meet her at that day, which she said she did not think was far distant.

Friday morning, the 20th, I wanted to write to Uriah, but she said "It will make no difference, I think I am dying; don't leave me, mother, while I live." We sent for Samuel, and for sister Gorham. She remained about the same. Those who came in thought she must be just gone. They said it did not seem like a sick and dying room, she appeared so happy. She would look upon them and smile when she could not speak. Sabbath, July 21, she seemed better. Sunday, the 22d, more distressed, though she had some pleasing, and I trust profitable intercourse with her relatives and some of her particular friends. Monday morning, more comfortable. Some of us entertained hopes that she might, even then, revive and live. Monday night her distress returned. She said, "I think I cannot live." Thursday morning, the 24th, she composed her last two verses, "Oh! shed not a tear o'er the spot where I sleep," &c. In the afternoon she had a conflict with the enemy, and seemed to lose sight of Jesus. I told her it was no strange thing; it was only a sign the Lord was near and would deliver. She found it even so. Before night she was enabled to triumph over all the powers of darkness, and praised God aloud. She prayed for patience to suffer all her Father's will, saying, "I shall not suffer any too much. I can bear anything while Jesus sustains me;" and many like expressions.

Tuesday night was a solemn and interesting night. I stayed with her alone through the night. Neither of us slept. She was very happy, and talked much with me. She said in her former familiar way, "My mother, I've been afraid I should wear you all out. I've called after you by night and by day." She felt bad to have me kept up as I was on her account. But she said, "I am here now, your dying girl. I think this is the last night, and you must be sure to rest when I am gone. O, my blessed mother, I shall bless you in Heaven for taking such care of me. No sorrow or suffering there. We shall all be free there. Yes, we shall all be free when we arrive at home, and we shall live forever. Yes, and I can smile upon you now through all my sufferings." It was her last suffering night. Wednesday, the 25th, a death coldness was upon her. In the afternoon she became more free from pain and distress. While speaking in the evening of taking care of her, she said, "I shall not want any one to sit up; you can lie on the lounge." At 1 o'clock I called Samuel. She talked with him, called for what she wanted as usual, and told him he might lie down. About three o'clock she called him to wet her head with water, and said she felt sleepy. She was indeed going into her last sleep. Samuel wet her head, and soon after spoke to me and said, "I don't know but Annie is dying." I spoke to her. She took no notice, breathed a few times, and died apparently as easy as any one going into a natural sleep. Her sufferings were over. She was gone. It was 4 o'clock in the morning, July 26, 1855.

She gave many directions about her burial; wanted as little parade as possible. We were expecting Bro. and sister White. We had had a letter from Bro. H. O. Nichols, saying they were expected there, and would be likely to call on us about that time. Brn. Bates, Burr and Nichols were written to, but circumstances prevented any of them from attending her funeral. Bro. Hastings and others spoke, prayed, and sung, to the edification of all. The hymns selected were, "Unconscious now in peaceful sleep," and "She hath passed death's chilling billow." It has since been said by the friends that they never attended a more interesting funeral.

Annie looked very natural; more so than at any time after she came home. It was remarked that a holy sweetness seemed to rest upon her countenance, while her remains were with us. Annie had many favors shown her. For the interest and friendship manifested, the friends have my sincere love and gratitude. Though I ever thought much of them, they seem doubly dear since her death, especially Bro. and sister White, with whom she was so long connected. Annie loved them, and manifested an interest for them, and the work there till the last. Bro. White made her the generous donation of seventy-five dollars and other valuable presents, during her sickness.

It was a great satisfaction that I had Annie with me, and that I was enabled to take care of her while she lived. Her complaints required an uneven temperature of the room, which was unfavorable for me. I took one cold after another, and was very much worn down at the time of her death. I took an additional cold when she was buried, and have scarcely been able to do anything since. I have thought sometimes, that what I had the privilege of doing for Annie, was worth my life, if it must go; and if it were not that I was still needed as a mother, I would now myself willingly lay off the burden of life's duties and cares.

_West Wilton, N. H., Sept. 16, 1855._

POEMS, BY ANNIE R. SMITH.

The Friends of my Youth: Where are They?

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.

Ode to the Winds.

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.

Lines

Suggested by the Wreck of the Minot Ledge Lighthouse.

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.

Lines

Addressed to a little Orphan Child.

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.

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.

The Exiled Prisoner.

Lines occasioned by the Story of an Exile who died of
grief on meeting a former friend.

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.

The Clouds.

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.

The Unchanged.

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.

Lines

Written on the Death of Lorenzo D. Upham.

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.

To M. D. B. On the present of a pen.

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! 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.

The Sister's Devotion.

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--

Trust Not, Love Not.

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."

Proof Reader's Lament.

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_.

Lines to H. N. S.

On the Reception of a Rose.

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.

Lines

Composed by Annie R. Smith, the day but one before
her death.

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.

POEMS, BY URIAH SMITH.

The Willing and Obedient.

"If ye be willing and obedient, ye shall eat the good of
the land." Isa. 1:19.

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.

Be Not Cast Down.

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?

Then in Jesus let us trust;
On him stay our troubled mind:
Not presume; for God is just:
Nor despair; for he is kind.

Be Faithful.

Tune--"Be Kind to the Loved Ones at Home."

O brother, be faithful! soon Jesus will come,
For whom we have waited so long;
Oh! soon we shall enter our glorious home,
And join in the conqueror's song.
O brother, be faithful! for why should we prove
Unfaithful to him who has shown
Such deep, such unbounded and infinite love--
Who died to redeem us his own.

O brother, be faithful! the city of gold,
Prepared for the good and the blest,
Is waiting its portals of pearl to unfold,
And welcome thee into thy rest;
Then brother, prove faithful! not long shall we stay,
In weariness here and forlorn;
Time's dark night of sorrow is wearing away,
We haste to the glorious morn.

O brother, be faithful! He soon will descend,
Creation's Omnipotent King,
While legions of angels his chariot attend,
And palm-wreaths of victory bring.
O brother, be faithful! and soon thou shalt hear
Thy Saviour pronounce the glad word,
Well done, faithful servant, thy title is clear
To enter the joy of thy Lord.

O brother, be faithful! eternity's years
Shall tell for thy faithfulness now,
When bright smiles of gladness shall scatter thy tears,
And a coronet gleam on thy brow.
O brother, be faithful! the promise is sure,
That waits for the faithful and tried;
To reign with the ransomed, immortal and pure,
And ever with Jesus abide.

Lines

To J. T. and M. T. Lane, on the death of their little Child,
Francis M. Lane, July 25, 1858.

Still reigns the tyrant Death in sable power;
Sorrow and mourning wait at his command;
For tender bud as well as blooming flower,
Fades 'neath the touch of his relentless hand.

And hath his summons to your hearts been spoken?
Hath his dark shadow crossed your threshold o'er?
Hath he links of fond affection broken,
And borne a loved one from this mortal shore?

So hath a floweret from your pathway faded;
A bright star shining o'er you set in gloom;
Bright rays of hope are from your vision shaded
By the dark curtain of the silent tomb.

'Tis well to weep: stay not the bitter tears
If thus the burdened heart may find relief;
For this dark earth hath been six thousand years
A vale of woe, a charnel-house of grief.

Know then that here where dearest forms have perished,
There's nothing true on which our love to shed;
Not where death reigns can hopes of bliss be cherished,
Which may not wither 'neath his icy tread.

But ah! there is land whose shores are nearing;
The ills of earth its soil shall never bear;
Of that bright world there stands this promise cheering:
Death finds no entrance--pain no victims there.

To that fair land be now your footsteps tending;
Fix heart and treasure on that blissful shore,
Where friends shall re-unite in joy unending,
Nor taste the pangs of separation more.

Passed Away.

Passed away from earth forever,
Free from all its cares and fears,
She again will join us never
While we tread this vale of tears;
For the turf is now her pillow,
And she sleeps among the dead;
While the cypress and the willow
Wave above her lowly bed.
There she slumbers, calmly slumbers,
With the silent, peaceful dead.

With what grief and anguish riven,
Should we see the loved depart,
If there were no promise given,
Which could soothe the wounded heart!
If the chains with which death binds them,
Ne'er again should broken be;
And his prison which confines them,
Ne'er be burst to set them free;
If forever there to leave them,
Were our hopeless destiny.

But a glorious day is nearing,
Earth's long-wished-for jubilee;
When creation's King appearing,
Shall proclaim his people free;
When upborne on Love's bright pinion,
They shall shout from land and sea,
Death! where is thy dark dominion!
Grave! where is thy victory!
Then we'll meet her, gladly meet her,
Where we'll never parted be.

Ode.

Written for the anniversary exercises of the Golden Branch
Society of Phillips' Exeter Academy, June, 1850.

Borne on in the swift course of time,
The hour again is here,
Which calls from us a sad adieu,
And swells the parting tear.
We'd fain the golden hours prolong,
Which have so quickly past;
We'd fain delay the farewell song,
And bid our union last.

But tho' we grieve that some so soon
Must leave our social band,
We would not have you linger here,
'Gainst duty's high demand.
But, rather, we would bid you forth
Into the field of life,
To battle for immortal names,
Like heroes in the strife.

Advance, then, in the grand career,
So nobly here begun;
Aim to accomplish life's great end,
Until life's course is run.
May fortune smile upon your path,
And all your efforts bless;
And may her arm be ever near
To crown you with success.

And, as you tread your onward course,
May virtue guide your way;
And wreath of fame adorn your brow,
Which ne'er shall fade away,
"Excelsior" will lead you on
To posts of honor high.
And call to mind our "holy bond,"
Of "Friendship's Sacred Tie."

And may you prove, while on you press
With banner wide unfurled,
An honor to your native land,
A blessing to the world.
And when at last, life's work is done,
This recompense you'll have,
The true and lasting fame that waits
The Great, the Good, the Brave.

Ode.

Written for the anniversary exercises of the Golden Branch
Society of Phillips' Exeter Academy, June, 1851.

We've met again within these halls--
These halls to mem'ry dear,
Where scenes of harmony and peace
Have filled the by-gone year.
But e'en while recollections fond
Still cling around the heart,
One bitter thought disturbs our joy:
For we have met to part.