Chapter II: Part 2

TO MY FRIEND MRS. LLOYD

My very dear friend Should never depend Upon anything clever or witty, From a poor country wight When attempting to write, To one in your far famous city. Indeed I'm inclined, To fear that you'll find These lines heavy, and quite out of joint; And now I declare, It's no more than fair, Should this prove a dull letter, That you write me a better; And something that's quite to the point. This having premised As at present advised, I'll indulge in the thoughts that incline, Not with curious eye The dim future to spy, But glance backward to "Auld Lang Syne." If I recollect right, It was a cold day quite, And not far from night When _the Boarding School famous_ I entered. Now what could I do? Scarce above my own shoe Did I dare take a view, Or to speak, or e'en move hardly ventured. At this school I remained Till supposed to have gained Education quite good and sufficient; But one in those days, Thought deserving of praise, Would in these, be deemed very deficient. And here we will try Before the mind's eye, To bring forward a few of that household; There were the witty, Also the pretty, But some very plain, Not a few very vain, And among them the phlegmatic and cold. Though it seems out of place I will here find a space For some few in the lower apartment; Sure this must be right, They contributed quite To our comfort, in their humble department. Here's Lydia and Polly, And Peter the jolly, With teeth white as ivory And cheeks black as ebony, So from Africa doubtless was he; But we'll ascend from below, And see entering just now With a Parisian bow And all in a glow Gay Monsieur Pichon, And French teacher Faucon; Also V----, the Musician, And B----, Mathematician. Monsieur Laboltierre, So brisk and debonnair Had also been there; And there's Eggleston fair, With whom none might compare. Miss W----, romantic, Miss F----, transatlantic, And of others a score you might see. But here I propose The long list to close, With addition of only one name; Amidst the gay throng Was one lovely and young, Who brought sunshine wherever she came. She had light brown hair, Was graceful and fair, Of children many Youngest of any, And Margaret this maiden they call; A sweet smile she had That round her lips played, And with eyes bright and blue She'd a heart warm and true And disposition affectionate withal. One advantage she'll allow That I have over her now, The same in our youthful days, when On our studies intent Over school desk we bent, Her Senior I always have been. How like to a dream Do those days to me seem, When with others preparing to enter On the world's great stage, And with light heart engage Our part in the drama to venture. Of that school there's not one Except thee alone, Whom now living as friend I can claim; Some have departed, Some are false hearted, And their friendship exists but in name. But that friendship's long lived That forty years has survived, And may we not hope 'twill endure, When in flames of fire This earth will expire, And old time shall itself be no more.

July 12, 1852.

ESCAPE OF THE ISRAELITES,

AND DESTRUCTION OF PHARAOH.

Ah! short-sighted monarch, dost thou think to pursue The Israel of God, and recapture them too? Hast thou so soon forgotten the plagues on thee sent, Or so hardened thy heart that thou can'st not relent? Then make ready thy chariots, a long way they'll reach; Thou hast six hundred chosen, a captain to each. Now after them _hasten_, no time's to be lost, That God worketh for them, thou'st felt to thy cost. _Speed thee then, speed thee_, thou'lt soon them o'ertake, Thou hast so overtasked them they're powerless and weak. Ah! weak and defenceless they truly appear, But the Lord is their rock, they're his special care. See that pillar that's leading them all on their way, It's a bright cloud by night and a dark cloud by day; And now by the Red Sea behold they encamp, But _hark_! what's that sound, it's the war horse's tramp. Look up, see thy enemy close by thee now, The sea lies before thee, ah! what canst thou do? Moses bids them go forward at God's command, When the waters divide, and they walk on dry land; And the cloud that to Egypt is darkness all night, To the children of Israel, is a bright shining light. And now have the Hebrews all safely passed through The Red Sea, which Pharaoh assaying to do Is destroyed with his host, every one of them drowned, Not a man saved alive, not a _single man found_ To return to lone Egypt, the sad news to bear To the widows and orphans made desolate there. But list! hear the rescued their glad voices raise, And to timbrel and dance add the sweet song of praise, For Pharaoh hath perished beneath the dark sea, And the long enslaved Hebrews are happy and free.

July 14, 1852.

HYMN,

SUNG AT THE ORDINATION OF THE REV. HENRY ALLEN.

We meet to-day as ne'er before, To greet a pastor of our choice, Without a single jarring note, And without one dissenting voice.

Oh thou who art enthroned on high, Before whom holy angels bow, Be pleased to hear us when we sing, Accept the praises offered now.

Let no one present, dare to give, The service of the lip alone; Or think if they the heart withhold, 'Twill find acceptance at thy throne.

But with united heart and voice, A grateful tribute we would raise; Oh bless us all assembled now, Help us to pray, and help to praise.

Thou great Immanuel, who didst lead Thy Israel all the desert through; Like them we're weak and helpless quite, Oh! condescend to lead _us_ too.

And when our Shepherd with his flock Before thy throne shall re-appear, May every one acceptance find, And ceaseless praises offer there.

Sept. 1852.

MARGARET'S REMEMBRANCE OF LIGHTFOOT.

My beautiful steed, 'Tis painful indeed To think we are parted forever; That on no sunny day, With light spirits and gay, Over hills far away, We shall joyously travel together.

Thy soft glossy mane I shall ne'er see again, Nor thy proudly arched neck 'gain behold; Nor admire _that_ in thee, Which so seldom we see, A kind, gentle spirit, yet bold. Thou wert pleasant indeed My darling grey steed, "In my mind's eye" thou'rt beautiful still; For when thou wert old Thy heart grew not cold, Its warm current time never could chill.

Not a stone marks the spot Where they laid thee, Lightfoot, And no fence to enclose thee around; But what if there's not, _Deep engraved on my heart_ Thy loved image may ever be found.

"THE CLOUDS RETURN AFTER THE RAIN."

Dark and yet darker my day's clouded o'er; Are its bright joys all fled, and its sunshine no more? I look to the skies for the bright bow in vain, For constantly "clouds return after the rain."

Must it always be thus, peace banished forever, And joy to this sad heart returned again never? I long for the rest that I cannot obtain, For the clouds, so much dreaded, return after rain.

Is there not in this wide world one spot that is blessed With exemption from suffering, where one may find rest; Where sickness and sorrow no entranpe can gain, And the clouds do not return after the rain?

Ah! deceive not thyself by a vain hope like this, Nor expect in this world to enjoy lasting peace: But bow with submission to God's holy will, For the hand that afflicts is thy kind Father's still.

If my days are dark here, there are brighter above, In those pure realms of light, peace, joy, and of love; Where the air is all balm, and the skies ever fair, And the river of life, clear as crystal flows there.

There also, for healing the nations, are found The leaves of the tree on which rich fruits abound; There is no need of candle, for God is their light, There never is darkness, for "_there_ is no night."

Oh! may I there find, when this brief life is past, By my Saviour prepared, a sweet home at last; Where sin never enters, death, sorrow, nor care, And clouds are not feared, for it never rains there.

August 19, 1852.

THE NOCTURNAL VISIT.

Lo the curtains of night around Palestine fall, And Jerusalem's streets into darkness are thrown; The late-busy hum of men's voices is hushed, And the city is clad in dark livery alone.

But see through the dimness that half opened door, And slowly emerging a figure behold; A quick, furtive glance he has thrown all around, For what is he thirsting, for blood, or for gold?

Stealthily, fearfully, onward he moves, So light are his footsteps you scarce hear their tread; Yet no midnight robber, no murderer is he, Then why dread recognition--of man why afraid?

Let us follow his footsteps and learn where he goes; And now at the door of a house see him stand; But why wait so long ere admittance he seeks, In attempting to knock, why trembles that hand?

He has come to the fountain of light and of life, Before whom ne'er suppliant sued humbly in vain; He has come for the knowledge that alone maketh rich, And without which we're poor, though the whole world we gain.

He has come to learn wisdom of that lowly one, Who spake as "never man spake" it was said; And who, though so poor and despised among men, Is the whole world's Sustainer, creation's great Head.

But list to the words of the Saviour of men, "Verily, verily I say unto thee, That no man, except he be born again, Is permitted the kingdom of heaven to see."

How humbling to pride were these words of our Lord, What fears in his guest they serve to awaken; Though a ruler of Jews, he was yet in his sins; The first step towards heaven he never had taken.

Ah! Nicodemus, how many like thee, Would perceive all their boasted religion was vain, Could they meet but his glance who "searcheth the heart, And trieth the reins of the children of men."

Sept. 9, 1852.

SOVEREIGNTY OF GOD AND FREE AGENCY OF MAN.

Thou art a perfect Sovereign, oh my God! And I rejoice to think that thou art so; That all events are under thy control, And that thou knowest all I think and do. But some may ask, "then why am I to blame Because I sin, if God hath made me thus?" Stop, stop, my friend, God tempteth not to sin, Thou dost it of thy own free will and choice. Though God is Sovereign, we free agents are, Accountable to him for all we do, Feel, think, or say; and at the last great day, A most exact account must render too. With this conclusion be thou satisfied-- _For all who will accept him, Christ hath died_.

Sept. 19, 1862.

* * * * *

God is a Sovereign, man free agent too; How these to reconcile I do not know: But _this_ I know, if _lost_, the blame is _mine_, If saved, the _praise_, oh God! be _only thine_.

AUTUMN AND SUNSET.

Hail, sober Autumn! thee I love, Thy healthful breeze and clear blue sky; And _more_ than flowers of Spring admire Thy falling leaves of richer dye.

'Twas even thus when life was young, I welcomed Autumn with delight; Although I knew that with it came The shorter day and lengthened night.

Let others pass October by, Or dreary call its hours, or chill; Let poets always sing of Spring, My praise shall be of Autumn still.

And I have loved the setting sun, E'en than his rising beams more dear; 'Tis fitting time for serious thought, It is an hour for solemn prayer.

Before the evening closes in, Or night's dark curtains round us fall, See how o'er tree, and spire, and hill, That setting sun illumines all.

So when my earthly race is run, When called to bid this world adieu, Like yonder cloudless orb I see, May _my_ sun set in glory too.

Oct 8, 1852.

"MY TIMES ARE IN THY HAND."

My times are in thy hand, my God! And I rejoice that they are so; My times are in thy hand, my God, Whether it be for weal or woe.

My times are in thy hand, I know; And if I'm washed in Jesus' blood, Though dark my pathway here below, It leads directly up to God.

Since all thy children chastening need, And all _so called_ must feel the rod, Why for exemption should I plead, For am I not thy child, my God?

Ah why go mourning all the day, Or why should I from trials shrink? Though much of sorrow's in my cup, The cup that I am called to drink.

'Tis needful medicine I know, By the most skilful hand prepared, Strictly proportioned to my wants, There's _not a drop_ that can be spared.

Then why desponding, oh my soul, Because of trials here below? They're all appointed by my God, My times are in thy hand, I know.

Jan. 18, 1863.

NOVEMBER.

Remember the poor, in the dark chilly day, When November's loud winds are fierce blowing; Remember the poor, at thy plentiful board, When the fire on thy bright hearth is glowing.

Remember the poor in yon damp dismal shed, Without food, fire, or clothing to warm them; And not like the Priest or the Levite pass by, But Samaritan like stop and cheer them.

Remember the slave, the poor down trodden slave, And do all in thy power to relieve him; And when from oppression he strives to be free, Do thou open thy gate to receive him.

For what saith the Lord is thy duty to such, "To his master thou shalt not return him,"[3] But give him a home near thy own if he likes, And be sure not to vex or oppress him.

When parents or children or brethren you meet, In our happy New England and free, Then remember the slave, the heart broken slave, For thy brother, _thy brother_ is he.

Remember him also when prayer for thyself, In affliction's dark hour doth ascend; And when crying to God the father of all, Let _his_ wants with _thine own_ kindly blend.

And at the last day, when the rich and the poor Shall alike by the _Judge_ be regarded; When master and slave shall appear before God, And a sentence impartial awarded,--

The cup of cold water He will not forget, But with other good acts bring to mind; "When naked ye clothed me, when hungry ye fed," Will be uttered in accents most kind.

But when, blessed Saviour, ah when was the time, That we fed, clothed, or visited thee? "Such acts," He replies, "to my poor brethren done, I consider as done unto me."

Nov. 1862.

[3] See Deuteronomy, 23:15, 16.

WINTER.

His thundering car Is heard from afar, And his trumpet notes sound All the country around; Stop your ears as you will, That loud blast and shrill Is heard by you still. Borne along by the gale, In his frost coat of mail, Midst snow, sleet, and hail, He comes without fail, And drives all before him, Though men beg and implore him Just to let them take breath, Or he'll drive them to death. But he comes in great state, And for none will he wait, Though he sees their distress Yet he spares them no less, For the cold stiff limb Is nothing to him; And o'er countless blue noses, His hard heart he closes. His own children fear him And dare not come near him; E'en his favorite child[4] Has been known to run wild At his too near approach, Her fear of him such, And to shriek and to howl And return scowl for scowl. Indeed few dare him face, And _all_ shun his embrace; For though pleasant his smile, Yet one thinks all the while Of that terrible frown, Which the hardiest clown, Though a stout hearted man, Will avoid if he can. And though many maintain That he gives needless pain, I confess I admire This venerable sire. True his language is harsh, And his conduct oft rash, And we know well enough, That his manners are rough; Yet still in the main, We've no right to complain, For if we prepare for him, And show that we care for him, We may in him find A true friend and kind. With us he will stay Three months to a day, So let us prepare The snug elbow chair, Which placed by the fire For the hoary-head sire, May comfort impart And cheer his old heart. Though he seems so unkind, Yet always you'll find That his cold heart will warm, And he'll do you no harm If your _own_ can but _feel_ For your poor neighbor's weal; And with pity o'erflowing, Your free alms bestowing, Never closing your door On the suffering poor; But clothe, feed, and warm them, And see that none harm them. _E'en to others just do_ As you'd wish them by you. Let's adopt but this plan, To do good when we can, And the dark stormy day Will full quick pass away, And we never complain Of cold weather again, Or of tedious long hours, That are spent within doors; For when winter winds blow, And we're hedged up by snow, We shall find full employment, And lack no enjoyment. Thus prepared, let him come, He will find us at home; Bring wind, hail, or snow, Blow high, or blow low, We're prepared for him now. Then come winter, come, You'll find us at home.

Nov. 5, 1852.

[4] Spring.

There is within this heart of mine, An aching void earth ne'er can fill; I've tried its joys, its friendships proved, But felt that aching void there _still_.

Thy love alone, my Saviour God, True satisfaction can impart; Can fill this aching void I feel, And give contentment to my heart.

Oh! cheer me by thy presence, Lord, Increase my faith an hundred fold; Be _thy name_ on my forehead found, _Mine_ in thy book of life enrolled.

Dec. 19, 1862.

* * * * *

Forever closed that dark blue eye, Full and expressive, pensive too; Thy light brown hair, and face so fair, And graceful form are hid from view.

LIFE'S CHANGES.

A fair young girl was to the altar led By him she loved, the chosen of her heart; And words of solemn import there were said, And mutual vows were pledged till death should part.

But life was young, and death a great way off, At least it seemed so then, on that bright morn; And they no doubt, expected years of bliss, And in their path the rose without a thorn.

Cherished from infancy with tenderest care, A precious only daughter was the bride; And when that young protector's arm she took, She for the first time left her parents' side.

With all a woman's tender, trustful heart, She gave herself away to him she loved; Why should she not, was he not all her own, A choice by friends and parents too approved?

How rapidly with him the days now fly, With _him_ the partner of her future life; Happy and joyous as a child she'd been, Happy as daughter, _happier still as wife_.

But ere eight months in quick succession passed, One to each human heart a dreaded foe, Entered her house, and by a single stroke, Blasted her hopes, and laid her idol low.

Three months of bitter anguish was endured, But hope again revived, and she was blest, When pressing to her heart a darling child, Whose little head she pillowed on her breast.

Not long is she permitted to enjoy, This sweetest bud of promise to her given; Short as an angel's visit was its stay, When God, who gave it, took it up to heaven.

Ah, what a contrast one short year presents! Replete with happiness--replete with woe; In that brief space, a maiden called, and wife, Widow and mother written--childless too.

Surely my friend, I need not say to thee, Look not to earth for what it can't bestow; 'Tis at the best a frail and brittle reed, Which trusting for support, will pierce thee through.

Then let us look above this fleeting earth, To heaven and heavenly joys direct our eyes; No lasting happiness this world affords-- "He builds too low who builds below the skies."

Weston, Dec. 1, 1852.

LINES.

"They will not frame their doings to turn unto their God.
Hosea, 5:4."

I would frame all my doings to please thee, my God! 'Tis from thee all my mercies proceed; I would frame all my doings to serve thee, my God! For thy service is freedom indeed.

I would frame all my doings to please thee, my God! But how feeble my best efforts are; Ah! how needful for me is thy chastening rod, And a proof of thy fatherly care.

I would frame all my doings to serve thee, my God! But my goodness extends not to thee; And when on well doing I'm fully intent, Alas! evil is present with me.

My Creator, Preserver, Redeemer and King, I would tax all my powers to obey; But to Him let me look for the help that I need, Who is the life, the light, and the way.

Weston, Jan. 21, 1853.

"TAKE NO THOUGHT FOR THE MORROW."

Take no thought for the morrow, the Saviour hath said, And he spake as ne'er man spake before; "He carried our sorrows," "was acquainted with grief," And knew well what the heart could endure.

Let the morrow take care for the things of itself, And not by its weight crush thee down; Sufficient to-day is the evil thereof, Let the ills of to-morrow alone.

Neither boast of to-morrow, for what is thy life, But a vapor that floateth away; Like a _tale_ quickly told, or a _dream_ of the night, That departs at the breaking of day.

Be not like the man who once said in his heart, "I have goods that are laid by for years;" But scarce had he planned how they best might be stored, When he dies and leaves all to his heirs.

Neither _dread_ then, nor _boast_ of to-morrow, my soul, But make most of the time that's now given; Be the ground well prepared, with good seed sown thereon, And 'twill yield a rich harvest in heaven.

Jan. 24, 1853.

REMINISCENCES OF THE DEPARTED.

His mission soon accomplished, His race on earth soon run, He passed to realms of glory, Above the rising sun.

So beautiful that infant, When in death's arms he lay; It seemed like peaceful slumber, That morn might chase away.

But morning light was powerless, Those eyelids to unclose; And sunshine saw and left him, In undisturbed repose.

The light of those blue orbs That drank the sunbeams in, Now yields to night, and darkness Holds undisputed reign.

That little form so graceful, The light brown chestnut hair; Those half formed words when uttered, That face so sweet and fair;

All, all his ways so winning, Were impotent to save His life, when called to yield it By _Him that_ life who gave.

So soon his voyage ended, The passage home so short, Before he knew of evil, He entered safe the port.

Since thee, my child, I saw, Long years have passed away; Thy mother's hair then brown, Now's intermixed with gray.

Another link's been broken, By death's relentless hand; A daughter has been taken, The eldest of the band.

_Thy_ little lamp of life, Was put out in a day; But _hers_ was years expiring, By slow yet sure decay.

But _one_ short year of life, Was all allotted thee; But she, thy eldest sister, Was _many_ years spared me.

And though long since we parted, On earth to meet no more; I'd think of thee as children "Not _lost_, but gone before."

Feb. 20, 1853.

"LET ME DIE THE DEATH OF THE RIGHTEOUS."

By the river Euphrates the prophet abode, To whom Balak his messengers sent, Entreating his presence and curses on those Who on Moab's destruction were bent.

By hundreds of thousands they're marching along, And by Moses, God's servant, they're led; The rock for their thirst, cooling water supplies, And with bread from the skies are they fed.

They are felling the nations like trees on their way, And their power there is none can resist; "Come, curse me this people, oh! Balaam, I pray, For he whom _thou_ cursest is curst."

With rich bribes in their hands have these messengers come, Both from Moab and Midian are they; Desiring the Prophet with them would return, And this without any delay.

But the men are requested to stop over night, That the will of the Lord he may learn; And then if by Him he's permitted to go, He'll accompany them on their return.

Now when earth her dark mantle of night had put on, And men's eyes in deep slumber were sealed; In that solemn hour was the voice of God heard, And his will to the Prophet revealed.

"Thou shalt not go with them!" distinctly was said, "Nor to curse the Lord's people presume;" So the Princes of Moab returned as they came, And left Balaam reluctant at home.

Again unto Balaam were messages sent, More in number, in _rank higher still_, With the promise if Balak's request he would grant, He may ask and receive what he will.

But Balaam declared that if Balak would give Him his house full of silver and gold, The word of the Lord he could _not_ go beyond, To do _more_ or do less than he's told.

Still the bait was quite tempting, and Balaam was weak, And wicked he certainly proved; E'en the Ass that he rode, _that_ man's conduct condemned, Who the gains of unrighteousness loved.

In the country of Moab at length he arrives, And King Balak hath met face to face, Who requests that with him a high hill he'd ascend, And the Israelites curse from that place.

Three times seven altars were raised to the Lord, And three times was the sacrifice made; But the curse was withheld, for whom _God_ pronounced blest, Even _Balaam_ to _curse_ was afraid.

Poor Balaam, thy case is a hard one indeed; Like a house that's divided thou art; Both thy Maker and Mammon thou gladly would'st serve, But the former requires thy whole heart.

"Let me die the death of the righteous," say'st thou, "And my last end like his let it be;" But if like the righteous _unwilling to live_, _Never hope like the righteous to die_.

March 24, 1853.

* * * * *

Though life is young, and spirits gay, And hope thy fond heart cheers; Though friends are kind, and health is firm, And death _far off_ appears,

Yet think not happiness like this, Is destined long to last; For ere to-morrow morn, perhaps, Thy sky may be o'ercast.

Ah! let not pleasure blind thy eyes, Or flattery lure thy heart; But in the morning of thy life, Secure the better part.

March 29, 1853.

THE GREAT PHYSICIAN.

"And as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, even so
must the Son of man be lifted up.

"That whosoever believeth in Him should not perish but have
eternal life."

St. John, 3:14, 15.

What means that cry of anguish, That strikes the distant ear; The loud and piercing wailing, In desert wilds we hear?

From Israel's camp it cometh, For Israel hath rebelled; And these are cries of anguish, By wrath of God impelled.

It is no common sorrow, Extorts that bitter groan; 'Tis from the broken hearted, And caused by sin alone.

Lo! in the far off desert, Upon that tented ground, Are many hundred thousands Of weary travellers found.

In desert of Arabia, Near forty years they roam; And soon they are to enter "Canaan their happy home."

But come with me and visit A people so distressed; They are the seed that Jacob When dying pronounced blessed.

We'll draw aside the curtain Of tent that's nearest by; Ah! what a mournful picture For stranger's curious eye.

See on that couch reclining, A young and lovely girl, With brow and neck half shaded. By many a clustering curl.

She was an only daughter, Nurtured with tenderest care; The idol of her parents, And fairest of the fair.

In bloom of youth and beauty, But yesterday she shone; And her fond parents thought her A mine of wealth unknown.

She seems like one that sleepeth, But there's no sign of breath; And coil'd 'neath her arm a serpent, Whose bite is _certain death_.

Yet not alone the mourners In this sad tent are found; Shriek after shriek is echoed For many miles around.

The mother, too, is bitten, With infant in her arms; And sire, in strength of manhood; And bride, with all her charms.

But see on pole suspended, A serpent now appears; And hark! what blissful tidings Salute the mourner's ears.

For every one that's bitten, A remedy is found; However bad the case is, However deep the wound.

If but _one spark_ remaineth Of life in any soul, Just look upon this serpent, That look will make thee whole.

But there's a wound that's deeper Than fiery serpent gave; And bite that's _doubly_ fatal, It kills beyond the grave.

And there's a great physician, That e'en _this wound_ may cure; And those to him applying, May life and health secure.

The broken heart he healeth, He cures the sin-sick soul; And all who will behold him, May _look_ and be made whole.

"I am the way!" he crieth; "And all who will may come, I'll pardon their transgression, And safe conduct them home.

"To cleanse from all pollution, My blood doth freely flow; And sins, though red as scarlet, Shall be as white as snow.

"Thy ransom to pay for thee, E'en my own life it cost; And he such love that slighteth, Forever shall be lost."

April 14, 1853.

TO MY NIECE, MRS. M.A. CALDWELL.

When days are dark and spirits low, And hope desponding stands, What comfort these few words bestow, "My times are in thy hands." That thought should every fear allay, And every cloud dispel; For we are in the hands of _One_ Who "doeth all things well."

He clothes the lily of the field, Paints the gay tulip's leaf, Hears the young ravens when they cry, And hastes to their relief. That little sparrow in thy path, He noticed when it fell; Numbereth the hairs upon thy head, And "doeth all things well."

Then say not when with cares oppressed, He hath forsaken me; For had thy father loved thee less, Would he so chasten thee? A friend he takes, a Husband too, A Child, with him to dwell; Selects the day, the place, the hour-- "He doeth all things well."

His power is _heard_ when thunders roll, _Felt_ when the cold wind blows, _Seen_ in the vivid lightning's flash, And in the blushing rose. He cares for monarch on his throne, For hermit in his cell, For sailor on the mighty deep-- "He doeth all things well."

He raiseth one to high estate, He brings another low; _This year_ an empire doth create The _next_ may overthrow. What he may plan for you or me, While here on earth we dwell, We know not--but of this I'm sure, "He doeth all things well."

Weston, April 18, 1853.

THE MORNING DRIVE.

FOR MY DAUGHTER MARGARET.

Very like to a dream, Doth the time to me seem, When with thee a young girl by my side, One of summer's fine days, In a one pony chaise, We commenced in the morning our ride.

By the pine grove and nook, Over bridge and through brook, Quite at random we drove without fear; While the birds of the grove, In sweet harmony strove, By their concert of music to cheer. With none to molest us, No home cares to press us, Farther onward, and onward we roam; But at length the skies lower, And unhoped for the shower Finds us many miles distant from home.

Even so is life's day, Like a fair morn in May, With hope's bright bow of promise it cheers; But long before night, The sun that so bright In the morning had shone, disappears.

Do not then I entreat, My beloved Margaret, Be content with this world for thy portion; Let ambition soar _higher_, E'en _above_ earth aspire, And to God give thy heart's true devotion.

April 29, 1853.

REPLY TO A TOAST,

SENT BY MR. W. TO THE LADIES OF WAYLAND, AT THEIR FAIR HELD ON MAY-DAY.

Many, _many_ kind thanks from the Waylanders fair, Who are sorry, quite sorry you could not be there, To receive their warm greeting, partake of their cheer, And repaid by their smiles for your wishes sincere. That health and content may your footsteps attend, Believe me, dear sir, is the wish of your friend.

May 2, 1853.

TO MR. C.R.

FOR MANY YEARS DEPRIVED OF SIGHT.

They say the sun is shining In all his splendor now, And clouds in graceful drapery, Are sailing to an fro.

That birds of brilliant plumage, Are soaring on the wing; Exulting in the daylight, Rejoicing as they sing.

They tell me too that roses, E'en in _my_ pathway lie; And decked in rich apparel, Attract the passers by.

They say the sun when setting, Is glorious to behold; And sheds on all at parting, A radiant crown of gold.

And then the night's pale empress, With all her glittering train, The vacant throne ascending, Resumes her peaceful reign.

That she in queenly beauty, Subdued yet silvery light, Makes scarcely less enchanting Than day, the sober night.

But sights like these so cheering, Alas, I cannot see! The daylight and the darkness Are both alike to me.

Yet there's a world above us, So beautiful and fair, That nothing here can equal, And nought with it compare.

There, in a blaze of glory, Amidst a countless throng, The Saviour smiles complacent, While listening to their song.

Ten thousand times ten thousand, Their cheerful voices raise, While golden harps in harmony Are tuned to sound the praise

Of Him the blest deliverer, Who conquered when he fell; The man of many sorrows, The _Great Immanuel_.

But stop--I dare not venture Too far on holy ground; Its _heights_ are too exalted, Its _depths_ are too profound.

Yet may I be permitted, When this brief life is past, The hope in yon bright heaven, To find my home at last.

When cleansed from all pollution, From sin and sorrow free, I, with unclouded vision, My Saviour God may see.

Brooklyn, May, 1853.

TO MY MISSIONARY FRIENDS,

MR. AND MRS. I.G. BLISS.

Why, dear friends, oh! tell us wherefore You're so anxious to be gone; Is the country late adopted Dearer to you than your own?

Have you found a father, mother, In that distant clime to love, Or a sister, friend, or brother, Better than the long-tried prove?

"Oh, no! believe us, no such motives Prompt us to tempt old ocean's wave; We go among the poor benighted, Perhaps to find an early grave.

"Ah! you know not half our anguish-- Only those who _feel_ can tell-- When we think of the sad parting, And that solemn word--farewell.

"But while lingering, souls are dying, Souls that Jesus came to save; And of such a priceless value, That for them his life he gave.

"Trials great no doubt await us In that distant home of ours; Work requiring so much labor, As to exceed our utmost powers.

"But He who said 'Go preach the gospel,' All powerful is, to aid, defend; 'Lo I am with you always,' said he, 'And will be even to the end.'

"With such command, and such a promise, Sure our path of duty's plain; Do not then, dear friends, persuade us Longer with _thee_ to remain."

Go then, go! we'll not detain you, We dare not ask your longer stay; And may winds and waves of ocean, Waft you safely on your way.

They who all forsake for Jesus, Father, mother, country, home, Here an hundred fold are promised, And eternal life to come.

Go then, go! but when far distant, Bear us sometimes on your mind; When for others interceding, Forget not those you leave behind.

And when your earthly warfare's ended, And you have laid your armor down, May souls of poor benighted Asia Add _many_ stars to your bright crown.

TO MY HUSBAND.

Just two-and-forty years have passed[5] Since we, a youthful pair, Together at the altar stood, And mutual vows pledged there.

Our lives have been a checkered scene, Since that midsummer's eve; Much good received our hearts to cheer, And much those hearts to grieve.

Children confided to our care, Hath God in kindness given, Of whom five still on earth remain, And two, we trust, in heaven.

How many friends of early days, Have fallen by our side; Shook by some blast, like autumn leaves They withered, drooped, and died.

But still permitted, hand in hand Our journey we pursue; And when we're weary, cheered by glimpse Of "_better land_" in view.

We may not hope in this low world, Much longer to remain, But oh! there's rapture in the thought, That we may meet again.

[5] July 14, 1853.