Chapter I: Shall Be Satisfied (2)

There I heard sweet strains of music,
And their voices far above,
Dying in the azure distance,
Naming thee a gift of love.

And, my rose tree stood before me,
Finished thus by angel hands;
Perfect in its bloom and fragrance,
Beautiful, as now it stands.

Hence, whenever I behold thee,
I shall think of angels too;
And the countless works of goodness
They descend on earth to do.

All unseen and silent, round us
They their careful watches keep;
Whether we may wake, or slumber,
Guardian angels never sleep!

THE INFANT BAPTIST.

And the child grew, and waxed strong in spirit, and was in the
deserts until the day of his showing unto Israel.

LUKE i. 80.

Child, amid the honeyed flowers
Passing life's bright morning hours--
Playing in the silver rills,
Where they bathe Judea's hills--
Looking, with an earnest eye,
At the wild bird flitting by--
Infant of the joyous heart,
Canst thou tell me who thou art?

Thou, whose little hand in play
Hurls the clustered grapes away;
While thou lov'st to watch the bee,
Or to win a lamb to thee,
And to see the fleecy flock
Resting by the shadowy rock,--
Know'st thou, tender, beauteous boy,
What 's thine errand--whence thy joy?

'T was thy name that Gabriel spoke,
By the altar, while the smoke
From thy father's incense rolled,
When thy being was foretold!
Thou art come, the promised one,
As the dayspring to the sun,
Soon to usher in new light
Through the realms of death and night!

Heavenly innocence is now
Marked upon thy peaceful brow:
God's own Spirit filleth thee,
Sainted babe; for thou art he,
Who before the Lamb shall go,
Crying, that the world may know
He hath life to give the dead,
In the blood he comes to shed!

Though, from nature wild and rude,
Come thy raiment, rest, and food,
Nightly o'er thy desert sleep,
Angels shall their vigils keep;
Through the wilderness by day,
They will guard and lead the way;
Till to Israel thou appear,
Showing heaven's mild kingdom near.

High and glorious, then, the part
For thine eye, and hand, and heart!
When thy feet, on Jordan's side,
Feel the waters, as they glide,
Thou the Son of God shalt see,
Come to be baptized of thee--
Hear him named, and see the Dove
Resting on him from above!

HYMN TO SOLITUDE.

O solitude, holy and calm!
From tumult and crowds breaking free,
I fly, sick and sad, for the balm
I find given only by thee.

Too oft from thy peace I depart,
Kind guardian, friend of my soul,--
And then bring an earth-wounded heart
For thee to bind up and make whole.

My spirit, now worn and oppressed,
Her wings in thy bosom hath furled,
To sink, as a bird in its nest,
Away from a cold, faithless world!

Alarmed at the shade and the chill,
That o'er me its visions have cast,
I here would lie lowly and still,
Till sorrow's dark night hours are past.

And then, from the dust may I rise,
To mount, as the lark from her sod;
And sing, as the morn of my skies
Appears in the smile of my God.

O solitude, sacred and sweet;
Whilst thus in thy bosom I lie,
Earth's baubles are under my feet--
My heart and its treasure, on high.

THE BIBLE IN THE FIELDS.

I love to take this holy book,
In summer's balmy hours,
To study it beside the brook,
Or by the trees and flowers.

For here I read about the God,
Who made this world so fair,
The skies--the stream--the grassy sod
And bloom, that scents the air.

The birds flit round, and sweetly sing
Of him, who feeds them all,--
Who lifts the towering eagle's wing,
And marks the sparrow's fall.

The violet, from its soft green bed,
To speak his goodness too,
Presents its tender, purple head
Baptized with silvery dew.

And here the busy bee I view,
As she comes swiftly by,
And seems to ask, if she should do
More work, or good than I.

Her waxen house betimes to build
I see her wisely bent;
And then, with bread and honey filled
To have it, still intent.

The bees I find their sweets supplied
In wild Judea's land,
To feed the Baptist, when he cried,
"Heaven's kingdom is at hand."

And when our Saviour, from the grave,
Had asked his friends for meat,
He ate the honey-comb they gave;
And showed his hands and feet.

This volume of his will revealed
I here can read within,
"Behold the lilies of the field--
They neither toil nor spin!"

And yet the king "was not arrayed
In glory, like to them;"
Their Maker's power is so displayed
In flower and leaf and stem.

And he sat on the mountain's side,
Who spake these blessed words,
Before him flowery fields spread wide--
Around were trees and birds.

The fleecy flocks, that sport so free
On hill and valley deep,
I love to watch: and here I see
'T is written, "Feed my sheep."

For thus I seem to keep in view,
And feel how near I am
To that dear friend of children, who
Has named himself THE LAMB.

THE HOARY HEAD.

"The hoary head is a crown of glory, if it be found in the way of
righteousness."

Aged man, with locks so hoary,
High estate dost thou possess!
They appear thy crown of glory,
In the way of righteousness.

Jewels, not of man's preparing,
Form the shining diadem,
Thou art from thy Sovereign wearing:
God's own finger silvered them.

Thine are honors, proved and heightened
By the gift of lengthened years;
In affliction's furnace brightened,
Tried by cares, and washed with tears.

Like thy Master, meek and lowly,
Thou a thorny earth hast trod;
With thy breast a high and holy
Temple of the living God.

Aged saint, thy form is bending,
Sere and withered, to the tomb;
But thy spirit, upward tending,
Budded for immortal bloom.

MY FATHER.

"In the evening time there shall be light."

Sacred the hour when thou, my sainted father,
Wast of thy worn-out, sinking clay undressed,
Softly, by his pale hand, who comes to gather
Time's weary pilgrims home to joy and rest.

Noiseless, and clear, and holiest of the seven,
That day when thy last earthly sun went down:
Thy Sabbath, closing here, began in heaven;
Whilst thy meek brow changed ashes for a crown.

Hush was the evening; not a zephyr swelling
Heaved the tree-blossom, or the woodbine leaves;
Silent the bird, that sang about our dwelling,
Slept where she nestled, close beneath its eaves.[1]

Cloudless the moon and stars above were shining,
When time's last ray to thy mild eye was shed;
While death's cold touch, life's silver cord untwining,
Brought his chill night-dew on thy reverend head.

Ninety full years of pilgrimage completing,
Here didst thou linger till one Sabbath more:
'T was holy time; thy pure heart stilled its beating;
Pain, work, and warfare were forever o'er!

Meet hour for one, obedient, meek, and lowly,
Wont, by command of Heaven, the day to keep,
Called, at its evening, to the High and Holy,
Peaceful in Jesus thus to fall asleep!

Sweetly thy form, that seemed a blissful dreamer,
Told, by its features, how the spirit smiled,
Through the dark, shadowy vale, by thy Redeemer
Led to his mansion, like a little child.

Nature's full hand, that, on thy natal morning,
Clothed earth to greet thee in the flowers of May,
Brought them renewed; thy burial-spot adorning,
When fourscore years and ten had rolled away.

Now, while the robin, past the window flying,
Leads off her young, forsaking here her nest,
Constant the wild bird, where thy dust is lying,
Sings her sweet hymn, a requiem to its rest.

There has it joined the ashes of my mother,
Faithful, rewedded to its only bride;
And there thy latest-born, my younger brother,
Thy fond heart's care, sleeps closely by her side.

Yet, angel father, over Jordan's water
Is it so far, that now thou canst not see
Back to the shore, where lonely stands thy daughter,
Sprinkling its rocks and thorns with tears for thee?

Art thou so distant, visions of thy glory
May not be granted to her mortal sight;
When she so long watched o'er thy head so hoary,
Smoothing its pillow, till that mournful night?

Since here so oft, in pain, the path of duty
Thy patient feet, with steady steps, have trod,
Safe now they walk the golden streets in beauty;
And, O! thy blessed eyes, in peace, see God!

[1] A robin had, this spring, been seen taking materials from an old nest on an apple-tree near the door, and carrying them to the corner of the house, where she built on the top of the water-conductor, and close under the eaves, so near my father's chamber, that, when her brood had peeped, if the window was opened, their voices could be heard in the room, while she was feeding them.

A SAGE HATH DEPARTED.

The Lord, from his cloudy pavilion, hath spoken
The soul to himself, and its dust to the clod;
The cord He hath loosed, and the golden bowl broken,
Who formed them so precious. Be still! it is God.

A sage hath departed! the cities sit weeping;
From land unto land does the gloom spread away.
The seas give their wail to the winds o'er them sweeping--
The spirit, that spanned them, hath passed from the clay!

His form, pale and cold, the dark mansion encloses;
Around it, Philanthropy, Science and Art
Their tears for their friend, as in death he reposes,
Shower warm o'er the hand, and the head, and the heart.

But there, while affection her tribute is giving,
The beauty, the grandeur, the power of his mind
The grave cannot hide! in his deeds he is living;
He shines in the light he diffused for mankind!

That mind, as a guide that trod paths on the ocean
Its marks o'er the billowy desert to place,
While man has a heart, and the deep is in motion,
The wide world shall honor, the mariner trace.

The stars in their courses to grasp and to measure,
His eye loved the blue arch of ether to climb;
His soul rose beyond them to lay up a treasure
More bright than the stars, more enduring than time.

And here, while the sorrowing Salem[2] is shrouded
In weeds, for the son of her pride and her love,
'T is his to behold, with a vision unclouded,
The glories unveiled of the SALEM above.

With BOWDITCH inscribed, for the whole earth's revering,
In letters of light to each point beaming round,
A monument formed of his works, now is rearing
Its head, where with clusters of planets 't is crowned.

[2] His birth-place.

THE BURIAL OF SCHILLER.

The still and solemn, shadowy hour,
When Saturday in Sabbath dies,
O'er Weimar hangs; with clouds that lower
And veil in black the moon and skies.

Lo! from yon mansion lights appear,
Pale glimmering through the midnight gloom.
A coffined form is on the bier,
And thence borne forward to the tomb.

The funeral train, how sad and slow
They follow that cold sleeping clay;
While sighs and sobs of bitter wo
Sound deep along the silent way.

And now, the open grave beside,
That dismal bier the bearers rest;
And heavier waves of sorrow's tide
Roll mighty o'er each mourner's breast.

From him who slumbers in the shroud,
As tremblingly they lift the pall,
The moon rends off her veil of cloud,
And o'er him lets her lustre fall.

She beams her silvery, soft adieu.
And is again in darkness hid;
As if affrighted, thus to view
The name on that dread coffin lid.

For 't is her lover, now no more--
Her friend, whom they to dust consign!
And ne'er again is she to pour
Her light,--for eyes like his to shine.

'T is done,--the fearful, final rite,
Too sacred for the glare of day,
Has passed beneath the shadowy night--
Earth, earth has closed o'er SCHILLER's clay!

But, hark! the heavens in thunder groan;
They weep in torrents o'er his bed;
And searching, fiery bolts are thrown,
As if to find and wake the dead.

These funeral honors, so sublime,
Befit him well to whom they 're paid;
And, at the birth of holy time,
'T is meet his dust at rest be laid.

His spirit, bright with heavenly fire,
Has burned its way through mortal strife;
And gained its high, intense desire
To solve the mystery of life.

It is the budding month of May:
This passing storm will call the bloom
A tribute nature soon will pay,
To dress her deathless Poet's tomb.

FUNERAL HYMN FOR PRESIDENT HARRISON.

A wo-stricken people, in sorrow we gather!
The dawn of our glory, our hopes full in bloom
Are changed, with the face of our Chieftain, our Father,
To sable and cypress to hang round his tomb.

While pale in the shroud lies the Patriot sleeping,
A light, that for earth is no longer to burn,
Removed from its place, a sad nation is weeping;
And dark, where it shone, falls the shade of an urn.

When loud, through the land, hill and valley and mountain
Were sounding his name, and reflecting its beams,
The death-angel's wand opened griefs bitter fountain,
To quench their warm joys with its far-flowing streams.

Alas! that the spoiler so early must sever
A tie, which the hearts of a country had bound
To him, who is gone--who is gone, and forever,
To join the bright hosts who their Saviour surround!

Our Father in heaven, yet grant us another,
Like him, who has left us, as orphans, below!
O did not the Sage on his dear younger Brother,
When called to thy presence, his mantle bestow?

To Thee, who, from darkness, thy children hast stricken,
We cry with our wound, asking balm from the Tree,
Whose leaves heal the nations: Hear, hear us, and quicken
Our wandering feet to return unto Thee!

DIRGE FOR FELICIA HEMANS.

They hovered around her, an angel band:
They listened her notes to hear.
The voice was one of their own bright land;
But stained was the harp in their sister's hand,
With marks of the falling tear.

They saw she had wreathed it with deathless flowers;
While many a beauteous leaf,
That looked like the growth of their heavenly bowers,
Was pale with the shade of her darksome hours,
Or wet with the dews of grief.

Then gently from under her hand they took
Her harp, and laid it aside:
The tremulous chords, at her parting look
And the farewell sweep of her fingers, shook,
And snapped as her numbers died.

The angels had whispered of joys above,
And wooed her with them to soar,
Till spreading her wings like a peaceful dove,
Her spirit arose for a world of love
To wander on earth no more.

BRITANNIA, drop thy heaviest tear!
O weep! it will be forgiven,
That, fain we had kept in her bondage here
A soul so pure, and a voice so dear
Had longer withheld from heaven.

SHE DIED, AS DAWNED HER NATAL DAY.

She died, as dawned her natal day!
Amid the buds and flowers of May
Her spirit left the beauteous clay,
In death's deep slumber here;
And mounting up her starry way,
Attained that holier sphere,
Where falls no night o'er birth-day light--
No sorrow brings a tear.

The joy and glory of the skies
With radiance fill her heavenly eyes,
Where thornless flowers around her rise,
And founts that ne'er shall fail;
While here her form so lowly lies
All silent, cold and pale;
Where dews distil, and night-winds chill
Moan through the shadowy vale.

WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM, AFTER THE LINES OF A DECEASED FRIEND.

Close to the lines that her dear hand had traced,
Who took so soon an angel's form on high--
After her name is my memorial placed
For thee, my friend, and it shall tell thee why.

I find a sweetness where her spirit breathed:
A sacred halo round her name is thrown;
So, with the flowers that here her fingers wreathed
To borrow life from them, I twine my own.

Fresh in thy heart and mine her memory lives,
Fragrant and fair, and thornless in its bloom:
Here with the precious odor that it gives,
I fain my simple offering would perfume.

Then, whatsoe'er the change that comes to me--
Though death or duty put me far away,
These silent leaves may still unfold to thee
The wish of one who was thy friend to-day.

Peace be to thee--long life, and joy, and health
The blest allotment of thy sojourn here;
The portion of a child of God, thy wealth,
When time must close, and earth shall disappear!

THE SOVEREIGN OF BABYLON.

The monarch has opened his banqueting hall
For his thousand lords, and his ladies all!
The sparkling wine to each guest is poured,
And mirth swells high at the festal board,
Where none hath the heart more careless and light,
Than he, whose glory must end to-night.

With the cup and the revel the king grows bold--
He calls for the vessels of silver and gold;
The spoils his idolatrous father brought,
'Mid the impious deeds which that proud one wrought,
From the temple of God, at Jerusalem,
That he and his nobles may drink from them.

Each sacred vessel they fill and raise
To a laughing lip, as it speaks the praise
Of the gods of metal, of wood and stone,
But mocks at the name of the Holy One,
Whose finger this hour shall come so near:--
That lip will quiver and blanch with fear.

Monarch! what's there, on the lighted wall,
That can fix thy gaze and thy spirit appall?
Why is thy countenance changed, O king?
Is it one of thy gods this awe can bring,
Which makes thy knees together to smite,
Thine eye so wild, and thy cheek so white?

"A hand! a hand! it hath written a line!
And who will the terrible words define?
A chain of gold shall encircle his neck--
A vesture of scarlet his form shall deck--
And the third, as ruler, shall be that seer,
With honor and power throughout Chaldea!"

Not all the wise and the learned of thine,
Poor impotent one, shall explain that line!
But the captive of Judah, him thy queen
Has bid thee summon--let him be seen!
His eye prophetic receives its sight
From the Being, who caused the hand to write.

The slave is brought to the potentate!
To spurn his gifts, but to read his fate;
To whom 't is inscribed on the lofty wall,
"Thou art weighed, found wanting, and now must fall!
Thy kingdom is numbered--the Persian and Mede
Shall hence to thy throne and thy power succeed!"

They come!--the foemen--nor sword nor flight,
Shall win for that monarch the morning light!
The haughty head where the crown was set,
In dust is pillowed--with gore is wet!
Ye, who are trusting in honor and gold,
Look on him now, and your strength behold!

THE DEER STRICKEN BY TORCH-LIGHT.

The arrow! the arrow is fast in his side!
And still through the forest they follow
The poor stricken deer, that has nowhere to hide,
And dared not to pause where the cool waters glide,
When, leaping the brook, he would almost have died,
One draught from its ripple to swallow.

That deep-planted arrow! O how can he bear
The anguish of feeling it quiver,
When shook by the branches, the wave, or the air,
As forward he bounds, but without heeding where,
From thicket to crag, with the force of despair,
To plunge in the cold, sweeping river?

They hunted him hard, till the sun in the west
Had sunk, while their aim he evaded.
At evening, he sought a calm refuge of rest,
And dropped from pursuit, by his terrors oppressed,
Beneath the close branches, in verdure full-dressed,
By night and the covert o'ershaded.

But ah, the poor deer! they had doomed him to die!
For near the green turf where he laid him,
They lighted the torch, and they brandished it high;
It glared through the boughs on his tender black eye,
That fatally shone for the death-shaft to fly;
His beauty, his beaming betrayed him:

He cannot by flying now loosen the dart,
The end of his tortures to quicken,
By letting the life in one blood-gush depart.
He seeks a retreat, like the warm, wounded heart,
When, lone, slow, and silent, the victim of art,
It dies, as a deer that is stricken.

THE DEATH OF SAPPHIRA.[3]

Sapphira, Sapphira, awake!
Alas! she is gone in the sleep
That but the archangel can break;
For life hath no slumber so deep.

'T is death! his pale ashes are cast
On those withered lips, where but now
An insult to Heaven was passed;
His dumbness hath followed the vow.

A bolt from above, swift and sure,
Hath blasted the pride of the clay;
The spirit, in boldness secure,
In guilt hath been stricken away.

O child of delusion! to stand
The chosen of Jesus among,
To cover the fraud of thy hand,
By falsehood to him on thy tongue!

How vain, the deceit of the heart
To shroud in a mantle so frail!
Its perfidy, thus by its art.
To think from Omniscience to veil!

Lost woman! but three hours before,
The form of thy partner in sin
Was borne, wan and cold, from the door,
Where thou didst so rashly come in.

And they, who had carried him out,
The clods o'er his bosom to lay,
Were waiting, the threshold about,
To bear thee to darkness away.

Sapphira, could Mercy restore,
Or Pity thy spirit recall,
To light up its dwelling once more,
It should not thus hopelessly fall.

But Mercy besought thee in vain,
From death's awful brink to recede;
To shun the despair and the pain
Where she is forbidden to plead.

And Pity's warm tear-drops must roll
The more, that she cannot relume
The clay whence the self-wounded soul
Hath rushed to a suicide's doom.

How potent, how maddening the love,
O gold, of a mortal must be,
To challenge an arm from above--
To stake earth and heaven for thee!

For Justice to Judgment will call;
And who shall their coming abide,
When wrath the most fearful of all,
"The wrath of the Lamb," is defied?

[3] This piece originally illustrated an engraving.

WILLIAM AT SEA.

Whilst thou art away, where the proud waves are swelling
Beneath thy light bark, ever mindful of thee,
The days of thine absence, at home we are telling,
And counting the hours of our William at sea.

And thou, whether cradled to sleep by the billow,
Or watching the sport of the spray and the foam,
If pensive on deck, or in dreams on thy pillow,
We know hast thy soul rapt with visions of home.

We know, when the sun mounts the east in his glory,
Or smiles a "good night," as the west he descends,
Thy heart, pointing back, to itself tells the story
Of mansion paternal, and kindred and friends.

And when at the morning and evening devotion,
While bending with offerings of praise and of prayer,
To God we commend thee afar on the ocean,
We feel thou art kneeling for us to him there.

While months on the waters, long months are before thee,
The two fluid worlds thou art tossing between--
The cold deep below, and the skies bending o'er thee,
Alone by their changes will vary the scene.

Or, if a bright isle, on the flood-waste upstarting,
Rude ocean's green oasis, rest thy glad eye,
'T will fade as a cloud--as a phantom departing,
'T will sink in the circle that bounds sea and sky.

Should some white-winged ship, with her light pennon streaming,
Thy heart on that wide watery desert to cheer,
Arise, like a star through night's solitude beaming,
With meteor swiftness she 'll soon disappear.

And when the coy sea-bird, a wild ether-sailor,
Comes near on her passage, for one language more,
O! how wilt thou long, ere she flies thee, to hail her,
To ask whither bound, and the tidings from shore!

Yet, while so unstable, so pathless and lonely,
Thy way o'er that desolate deep may be found,
'T is marked with the impress of Deity only;
His merciful arms will thy frailty surround.

'T is grand, 't is ennobling, while feeling and knowing
His presence is power, and his banner is love,
To look from that flood, to the firmament showing
Bright shadowings-forth of his glory above.

And, William, though tempest and terrors assail thee--
Though clouds rolled on clouds hide the stars and the sun,
Thy soul's chosen Friend never, never will fail thee!
Winds and waves but obey that omnipotent ONE.

While o'er and around thee thick darkness may gather;
When wide yawns the deep, and the surges swell high,
Thy spirit may hear the kind voice of her Father,
Still whispering, "Be of good cheer; it is I."

And safe may he bear thee through perils and changes
Besetting his course, who so widely would roam,
Then speed thy return from the land of the Ganges,
From pagod and painim! Dear William, come home.

Come home, where the eyes beam through tears to behold thee;
Where arms open wide to receive thee will be;
And promise, while yet to the heart they infold thee
To be, never after, our William at sea!

MY PORTRAIT.

Well, thou art done, cold, speechless thing;
Yet, in thy silence, with the power
A crowd of feelings deep to bring
Unknown until the present hour.

But wherefore done, to life so true?
Not human pride, nor vanity
Could ask the artist hand to do,
And show the world a deed like thee.

And was it simple most, or kind
To have upon the canvass cast
My semblance, thus to leave behind
My shadow, when myself am past?

I know not if another eye
Will ever weep beside thee, more
Than mine does now, I know not why--
It never dropped such tears before.

I view thee as a piece, composed
To last, when I have passed from sight--
When time and earth to me are closed,
To be in time and earthly light.

Perhaps 't is this, that makes me weep--
The thought that I shall pass away,
And those, who have thee then to keep,
May glance at thee, and still be gay.

But why should grief be felt by me,
For fear that others will not grieve?
And what to others then will be
A shade of life, that I may leave?

Still, from their deep, mysterious spring
Gush up these hot, resistless tears;
Whilst thou, cold, heartless, stoic thing,
Dost wear a smile that 's set for years.

Years! Ah, but then, when years shall wipe
From being every line of thee,
The spirit, which thy prototype
Enshrined, shall live eternally!

THE WIDOW'S ONLY SON.

She wrapped her in her sable cloak,
And walked beside the sea;
But seldom of her sorrow spoke,--
Too full of grief was she!

'T was this that made her heart so sad,
To view the ocean wide:
The only son, that widow had,
Went out to sea and died.

And then, in that great, rolling deep,
With solemn, tearful eyes,
His mess-mates lowered him down, to sleep
Till all the dead shall rise.

But where, among those waters vast,
With ceaseless fall and swell,
Her child to that repose had passed,
The mother none could tell.

She therefore questioned wave on wave,
As up they heaved to shore,
If they had rolled across his grave,
Whom she must see no more.

And often, when she marked a ship
With full, returning sail,
The color would forsake her lip,
And speech and vision fail.

For, O! she thought about the one
That spread its canvass white,
To waft away her only son
Forever from her sight!

But still, amid the bitter grief
Which wrung that widow's heart,
Her spirit felt the sweet relief
That faith and hope impart.

She knew her son had ever kept
The path to heavenly rest--
That, when he sank in death, he slept
Upon a Saviour's breast.

"My heavenly Father," she would say,
"I know the troubled sea
But holds from me the precious clay:
My child 's at home with thee!"

THE YOUNG MOTHER.

Composed in its beauty, the fair infant slept;
But still the young mother sat by it and wept:
She rocked not the cradle, she sang not the song,
The sleep of her dear, only child to prolong.

The same fleecy cover, so soft and so warm,
That oft wrapped it sleeping, lay light o'er its form;
Its pillow was downy, and smooth was its bed,
And yet, that sad mother! her fond bosom bled.

She knew that no dream of her babe, in its rest,
Was now of her voice, or its home on her breast;
She caught not the sound nor the balm of its breath:
She knew that her little one slumbered in death!

A hand with the pencil was called to portray
The features and form of her child as it lay;
But false were the hues and the touches of art
To paint the bright image enshrined in her heart.

Its lustre was drawn from a glory on high:
No pencil of earth could the likeness supply;
Nor yet on the canvass was mortal to trace
A smile the pure spirit had left on that face.

The skies, as they opened, their guest to receive,
Had shed, on the dust they allured it to leave,
A sign of the peace, of the joy, and the love,
Encircling for aye the young angel above.

That mother rose calm, when the beautiful clay
Must be from her sight laid forever away!
The gloom left her soul, as a cloud leaves the sun;
It whispered, "Thy will, O my Father, be done!"

EVENING AT ANDOVER SEMINARY-HILL.

I stood on that majestic height,
The lofty Hill of Andover,
Where sacred science holds the light
That beams to distant lands from her.

For there the school of sages stands,
Where, from afar, disciples meet
For lore divine, in holy bands
To sit and learn at Wisdom's feet.

Within its consecrated walls
Is kept and taught Jehovah's will:--
The LAW, whose voice in thunder falls--
The GOSPEL, whispering, "_Peace! be still!_"

The structures while I viewed around,
I seemed to breathe Mount's Zion's air;
I set my foot with awe profound,
As if the ark of God were there.

Each earthly care was calm and dumb,
For holier thoughts the soul to fill;
As if the Shechinah had come
To rest upon that reverend hill.

A mellow glory crowned its head;
And from its foot, in landscape wide,
Profusely nature's charms were spread,
Till in the distance vision died.

It was a summer day's decline:
The drowsy flowers began to close;
The breezes lulled, that stirred the vine;
And all things tended to repose.

The sun, adown the western skies,
Was sinking fast to pass from view,
Calm as the righteous when he dies
To earth, in heaven to live anew.

And thence, on edifice and site,
His golden smile was backward cast,
As if he loved that favored height
To bless the longest and the last.

In eastern splendor, then arrayed,
The full-orbed moon arose serene,
Through evening's hush and night's cool shade
To throw her lustre o'er the scene.

Her silvery vesture wrapped in sheen
The stately seminary pile,
And fell on tree, and flower, and green,
Where pearly dews distilled the while.

And through the chapel's crystal shone
Her light, within the place of prayer,
Till bright-winged angels, from the throne
Above, seemed met and hovering there.

It was a scene--it was an hour
A spirit bowed in dust to raise
Ennobled, till its every power,
Awaked to joy, was tuned to praise.

Clear as that sun, fair as that moon,
Shall thy dear Zion rise and shine
Above her foes--Ah! Lord, how soon?--
When shall the ends of earth be thine?

HYMN OF THE PARTING CLASS.

SUNG BY THEOLOGICAL STUDENTS.

We feel the parting angel's hand
Is in our midst, to loose the band
So close, so sacred, and so dear,
That long hath bound us, brethren, here.

No more within this hallowed place,
United at the throne of grace,
Our prayers shall rise--our voices pour
In praise, when this, our song is o'er.

To each we hear the Saviour say
We to his work must hence away;
For great the field--the laborers few!
What wilt thou, Lord, have us to do?

O send thy Spirit from above
To fire our hearts with heavenly love;
And light our lips with truth, that we
May, witnesses, go forth for thee.

And may we count all else as loss
To spread the glory of thy cross--
From shades and death redeemed, to bring
The priceless jewels of our King.

On distant islands of the sea--
On heathen shores our lot may be,
To dying souls to bear the bread
And balm of life on Calvary shed.

Yet, though our lines be marked afar,
And some beneath a foreign star,
We may look upward to the Sun
Of righteousness, and still be one.

And when our works of faith are past,
In joy we 'll meet on high at last;
And there, in praise, our voices swell
The song, where enters no farewell.

THE SPECKLED ONE.

Poor speckled one! none else will deign
To waft thy name around;
So, let me take it on my strain,
To give it air and sound.

Yes--air and sound, low child of earth!
For these are oft the things
That give a name its greatest worth,
Its gorgeous plumes and wings.

But do not shun me thus, and hop
Affrighted from my way.
Dismiss thy terrors--turn, and stop;
And hear what I may say.

Meek, harmless thing, afraid of man?
This truly should not be.
Then calmly pause, and let me scan
My Maker's work in thee.

For both of us to him belong;
We 're fellow-creatures here;
And power should not be armed with wrong,
Nor weakness filled with fear.

I know it is thy humble lot
To burrow in a hole--
To have a form I envy not,
And that without a soul.

In motion, attitude and limb
I see thee void of grace;
And that a look supremely grim,
Reigns o'er thy solemn face.

But thou for this art not to blame;
Nor should it make us load
With obloquy, and scorn, and shame
The honest name of TOAD.

For, though so low on nature's scale--
In presence so uncouth,
Thou ne'er hast told an evil tale
Of falsehood, or of truth.

Thy thoughts are ne'er on malice bent--
Nor hands to mischief prone;
Nor yet thy heart to discontent;
Though spurned, and poor and lone.

No coveting nor envy burns
In thy bright golden eye,
That calm and innocently turns
On all below the sky.

Thy cautious tongue and sober lip
No words of folly pass,
Nor, are they found to taste and sip
The madness of the glass.

Thy frugal meal is often drawn
From earth, and wood, and stone;
And when thy means by these are gone,
Thou seem'st to live on none.

I hear that in an earthen jar
Sealed close, shut up alive,
From food, drink, air, sun, moon and star,
Thou 'lt live and even thrive:

And that no moan, or murmuring sound
Will issue from the lid
Of thy dark dwelling under ground,
When it is deeply hid.

Thou hast, as 't were, a secret shelf
Whereon is a supply,
Of nourishment within thyself,
Concealed from mortal eye.

Methinks this self-sustaining art
'T were well for us to know,
To keep us up in flesh and heart,
When outer means grow low.

Could we contain our riches thus,
On such mysterious shelves,
Why, none could rob or beggar us;
Unless we lost ourselves!

But ah! my Toadie, there 's the rub,
With every human breast--
To live as in the cynic's tub,
And yet be self-possessed!

For, how to let no boast get round
Beyond our tub, to show
That we in head and heart are sound,
Is one great thing to know.

And yet, the prison-staves and hoop
To let no murmur through,
However hard we find the coop,
Is greater still to do.

Then go, thou sage, resigned and calm;
Amid thy low estate,
And to thy burrow bear the palm
For victory over fate.

We conquer, when we meekly bear
The lot we cannot shape,
And hug to death the ills and care
From which there 's no escape.

THE MOON OF A WINTRY NIGHT.

Moon, thou art wading through the gathered snow,
That o'er us, on the fields of ether spread,
Threatens, ere morning to be here below,
To lie where our poor mortal feet must tread.

Thy face is muffled in a gelid haze,
That shrouds its lustre like a frozen veil;
And kills the twinkling of the starry rays,
Till all on high looks cheerless, dim, and pale.

It gives almost the ague, to behold
The skies so rayless, yet so far from dark;
As when our hearth's white ashes, tired and cold,
We stir in vain to find one pleasant spark.

Yet, by to-morrow's eve our parts may shift,
And thou be shining there, serene and clear,
While we are hedged by many a frigid drift;
Or sleigh-bells shrill may pierce the tingling ear.

How dreary then the scene for thy mild beams
To light, and for the burning stars to view!
The hard ice coating all the lakes and streams,
And one dead white where late gay flowerets grew.

The naked trees, that stand with buried feet,
Like skeletons, will slender shadows throw
On what seems spread as nature's winding-sheet,
While her slain beauties lie concealed below.

Then, but to look abroad on vale and hill,
Where one pale uniform invests the whole,
Though it should make one's vital current chill,
It must not let in winter to the soul!

It must not bring a frost upon the heart,
To kill affection's tendrils--friendship's root,
Where vernal shoots and buds should ever start,
And grow with summer flowers and autumn fruit:

Nor cause the streams of thought to be congealed,
Or, pressed beneath incumbent ice, grow low;
But, like the fount that irrigates the field,
Make bloom and verdure spring, where'er they flow.

It must not make our shrinking fancies flee,
Like birds of summer from the cold withdrawn;
But wise, the mind should, like the prudent bee,
On honey banquet, though the flowers are gone.

Nor must it strike the hopeful spirit dumb,
Or quench the beaming of her upturned eye,
Or close her ear, or make her members numb,
Ere her thank-offerings on the altar lie.

And yet, fair Moon, methinks I like the best
To see thy silvery lustre sprinkled here,
When these bare branches all appear full-dressed,
In some more gentle season of the year.

I love to see it, mingled with the dew,
Falling to bathe the sleeping buds and flowers;
And soft, and silent, coolly streaming through
The whispering leaves, that clothe the summer bowers.

I love to see thy beaming mantle trail
Along the flower-sprent borders of the rill,
With rich, deep shadows stamped, o'erspread the vale,
Or bind the forehead of the silent hill.

I love to see thee through the foliage peep,
Where, one soft hour before, the robin sung
Her vesper song; the while, in downy sleep,
With peaceful breast she guards her callow young.

I love to see thee, when the whip-poor-will
Moans in the hedge behind the cottage-eaves;
And when the plaintive crickets, hidden, trill
Their harvest-hymn among the golden sheaves.

But these are tender memories--ay, and more--
Fresh budding hope from memory's root that grows,
To see earth clothed in beauty as before,
When thou and we have struggled through the snows.

Then come, sweet Moon, and fondly smile on me,
From thy pure azure home, with face serene,
While I will look abroad, and up to thee,
And bless the great Creator of the scene.

Others may call thee fickle--faithless--strange,
When veiled in part, or wholly from their view;
Yet, though twelve times a year thou _seems't_ to change,
Again twelve times I ever find thee true.

'T is our gross planet, heaving misty shrouds,
Or rolled before thee, that our darkness brings,
Just as earth's bulk or vapor hides or clouds
Our glorious view of higher, holier things.

TOM TAR.

I 'll tell you now about Tom Tar,
The sailor stout and bold,
Who o'er the ocean roamed so far,
To countries new and old.

Tom was a man of thousands; he
Would ne'er complain nor frown,
Though high and low the wind and sea
Might toss him up and down.

Amid the waters dark and deep,
He had the happy art,
When all around was storm, to keep
Fair weather in his heart.

Though winds were wild, and waves were rough,
He 'd always cast about,
And find within he 'd calm enough
To stand the storms without.

"For naught," said Tom, "is ever gained
By sighs for what we lack;
Nor can it mend a vessel strained,
To let our temper crack.

"And sure I am, the worst of storms,
That any man should dread,
Is that, which in the bosom forms,
And musters to the head."

Serene, and ever self-possessed,
His mess-mates he would cheer,
And often put their fears to rest,
When dangers gathered near.

If on the rocks the ship was cast,
And surges swept the deck,
Tom Tar was ever found the last,
Who would forsake the wreck.

And when his only hat and shoes
The waters plucked from him,
Why, these, he felt, were small to lose,
Could he keep up and swim!

Then through the billows, foam, and spray,
That rose on every hand,
He 'd, somehow, always find a way
Of getting safe to land.

The secret was, the fear and love
Of Heaven had filled his soul:
His trust was firm in One above,
Howe'er the seas might roll.

And Tom had sailed to many a shore,
And many a wonder seen:
The stories he could tell would more
Than fill a magazine.

He 'd seen mankind in every state,
Almost, that man can know;
But envied not the rich and great,
Nor scorned the poor and low.

The monarch in his sight had stood,
Superb, in glittering vest;
The savage, too, that roams the wood,
In skins and feathers dressed.

The tribes of many an isle he knew;
And beasts, and birds, and flowers,
And fruits, of many a shape and hue,
In lands remote from ours.

He 'd seen the wide-winged albatross
Her breast in ocean lave;
And bold sea-lions, playing, toss
Their heads above the wave.

He 'd seen the dolphin, while his back
Went flashing to the sun,
A swarm of flying fish attack,
And swallow every one!

The porpoise and the spouting whale
Had sported in his view;
And hungry sharks pursued his sail,
As if they 'd eat the crew.

And ever, when Tom Tar got home,
The children, at their play,
Were glad to have the sailor come,
And greet them by the way.

Then, oft, some curious stone, or shell,
The laughing girls and boys
Would find, that on their aprons fell,
To put among their toys.

"These pearly shells," said he, "I found
Where gloomy waters roar:
These polished stones, so smooth and round,
Rough surges washed ashore.

"Though small to us a pebble seems,
'T is made and marked by One,
Who gave the warmth, and lit the beams
Of yon great shining sun.

"And when these pretty shells I find,
Along the ocean strand,
Their beauteous finish brings to mind
Their Maker's perfect hand.

"When on the wildest shore I'm thrown,
And far from human eye,
I think of him who made the stone,
And shell, and sea, and sky.

"For he 's my friend, and I am his,
Though cold and rough the blast:
My safest guide I know he is,
Where'er my lot is cast."

When Tom passed on, the children said,
"These treasures from afar
He brought us! Blessings on his head!
For he 's a good Tom Tar!"

THE SEAMAN'S HYMN.

Landmen, on your downy pillows,
While your eyes are sealed in sleep,
Seamen, tossed 'mid foam and billows,
Roam, for you, a boisterous deep.
When the glorious light of day
Is on your homes so peaceful dawning,
Along our pathless, troubled way
The surge swells high, the flood is yawning.

When earth's flowers to you are blooming,
Or your hearths are bright and warm;
We behold the wild waves booming,
Mount the shrouds, and brave the storm.
Singing birds your hearing greet--
Your hearts the kindred tone rejoices;
While winds, that on our canvass beat,
And roaring ocean join their voices.

Then, to meet the High and Holy,
When ye to his throne repair,
O before him, meek and lowly,
Bow for us, as suppliants there!
When his blessed day appears,
The dearest, best of all the seven,
Your souls the gospel herald cheers;
But none tells us of rest and heaven.

Zion, bid thy sons and daughters
Often, on the bended knee,
Cry to Him, who rules the waters,
For the wanderers o'er sea!
Now, to Thee, the seaman's Friend,
Our guide--our light--our ark abiding,
Our Saviour, we our all commend,
While time's rude waves in frailty riding.

THE MARINER'S SONG OF DEPARTURE.

While o'er the bright bay,
With her streamers at play,
Our bark in her beauty is gliding,
As brothers, are we,
The glad sons of the sea,
Our own darling element riding.

Good pilot, adieu;
For the skies are all blue;
And yonder, blue billows are bounding.
We speed from the port,
To be off by the fort,
While her gun to the sunrise is sounding.

We leave all behind,
That a warm heart can bind,
In home, love, and friendship endearing;
While hope flies before,
For a far, foreign shore,
As the hand at the rudder is steering.

And well do we know
The proud waters below,
That hence are by us to be ridden;
'Mid the corals and caves
There are mariners' graves,
Dark wrecks, and lost treasures deep hidden.

Yet, before our frail bark,
Be the way light or dark,
Our Sun, and the Star that we follow,
Is He, who unbinds
Or enchains the strong winds;
Whose hand holds the seas in its hollow.

If o'er the bright skies
The wild storm-spirit rise,
And spread his black wings full of thunder,
Our canvass we 'll reef,
Or heave-to for relief,
And safely his pinions pass under.

And so, 'mid the strife
On the flood-waves of life,
To Heaven in our ark lowly bending
For help would we cry,
Till the dove, from on high,
Appears with the peace-branch descending.

Thus, we've friend, love, and home,
Wheresoe'er we may roam
The wide seas, from pole to equator--
We 've a light, and high-tower,
In the name and the power
Of him, who is ocean's Creator.

THE SEA-EAGLE'S FALL.

An Eagle, on his towering wing,
Hung o'er the summer sea;
And ne'er did airy, feathered king
Look prouder there than he.

He spied the finny tribes below,
Amid the limpid brine;
And felt it now was time to know
Whereon he was to dine.

He saw a noble, shining fish
So near the surface swim,
He felt at once a hungry wish
To make a feast of him.

Then straight he took his downward course;
A sudden plunge he gave;
And pouncing, seized, with murderous force,
His tempter in the wave.

He struck his talons firm and deep,
Within the slippery prize,
In hope his ruffian grasp to keep;
And high and dry to rise.

But ah! it was a fatal stoop,
As ever monarch made;
And, for that rash--that cruel swoop,
He soon most dearly paid!

The fish had too much gravity
To yield to this attack.
His feet the eagle could not free
From off the scaly back.

He 'd seized on one too strong and great;
His mastery now was gone!
And on, by that prepondering weight,
And downward, he was drawn.

Nor found he here the element
Where he could move with grace;
And flap, and dash, his pinions went,
In ocean's wrinkled face.

They could not bring his talons out,
His forfeit life to save;
And planted thus, he writhed about
Upon his gaping grave.

He raised his head, and gave a shriek,
To bid adieu to light:
The water bubbled in his beak--
He sank from human sight!

The children of the sea came round,
The foreigner to view.
To see an airy monarch drowned,
To them was something new!

Some gave a quick, astonished look,
And darted swift away;
While some his parting plumage shook,
And nibbled him for prey.

O! who that saw that bird at noon
So high and proudly soar,
Could think how awkwardly--how soon,
He 'd fall to rise no more?

Though glory, majesty, and pride
Were his an hour ago,
Deprived of all, that eagle died,
For stooping once too low!

Now, have you ever known or heard
Of biped, from his sphere
Descending, like that silly bird,
To buy a fish so dear?

THE CAGED LION.

Lion, like a captive king,
Sad behind thy prison grate,
Monarch, how I long to bring
Back to thee thy lost estate!

Where thy royal kindred live--
Where thy native sky is warm,
Sufferer, how I long to give
Freedom to that noble form!

Gladly would I know thee there,
Bounding over Afric's plain,
Wildly, with the desert air
Wafting wide thy flowing mane.

Are there words that can describe
What thou wast, at liberty,
When "The Lion of the tribe
Of Judah" names his type in thee?

Here, beneath thy keeper's hand,
Where the blasts of winter freeze,
Think'st thou of that palmy land,
Thy mild country o'er the seas?

Seen but through thy prison bars,
Round thee set so strong and thick,
Do not sun, and moon, and stars
Make thy cowering spirit sick?

Grace, and majesty, and power
Were thy gifts by nature made;
Yet, in one unhappy hour,
All to lose, wast thou betrayed.

When thou first was snared and caught,
Never after to be free,
How thy mighty spirit wrought
In thee, like a troubled sea!

But thou didst not, couldst not think
Of the deep indignity,
To which thou then wast doomed to sink--
Of the exile thou must be.

Oh! that quenched and languid eye
Tells me of a pining heart:
Homesick prisoner, sooner die
Than remain the thing thou art.

Liberty to me and mine--
Liberty is life and breath!
So no less to thee and thine--
Bonds to both but lingering death.

THE TRAVELLER AT THE RED SEA.

At last have I found thee, thou dark, rolling sea!
I gaze on thy face, and I listen to thee,
With spirit o'erawed by the sight and the sound,
While mountain and desert frown gloomy around.

And thee, mighty deep, from afar I behold,
Which God swept apart for his people of old--
That Egypt's proud army, unstained by their blood,
Received on thy bed, to entomb in thy flood.

I cast my eye out, where the cohorts went down:
A throng of pale spectres, no waters can drown,
With banner and blades, seem to rise on the waves,
As Pharaoh's bold hosts rushed in arms to their graves.

But quick from the light of the skies they withdraw,
At silent Omnipotence shrinking with awe;
And each sinks away in his billowy shroud,
From him who walked here, clothed in fire and a cloud.

I stand by the pass, the freed Hebrews then trod,
Sustained by the hand of Jehovah, dry-shod;
And think how the song of salvation, they sang,
With praise to his name, through the wilderness rang.

Our Father, who then didst thine Israel guide,
Console, and rebuke in their wanderings wide,
From these gloomy waters, through this desert drear,
O still in life's maze, to thy pilgrim be near!

Let sins, that would hold in their service, or slay
The soul, that would break from their bondage away,
Forever be drowned in the blood of thy Son,
Who o'er sin and death hath the victory won.

Whilst thou, day by day, wilt thy manna bestow,
And give, for my thirst, the Rock-fountain to flow,
Refreshed by the way, will I speed to the clime
Of rest for the weary, beyond earth and time.

THE HEBREW CAPTIVES.

Our altars they razed, and our temples profaned!
The blood of our prophets and kindred they drained!
And us, from our desolate homes did they bear
Afar, the cold chains of the Painim to wear.

And they, who had carried us captive, drew nigh;
They looked on our woes with an insolent eye;
Our burdens were heavy, our fetters were strong;
And then, they required of us mirth and a song!

We hung up our harps on the willows to sleep;
By Babylon's rivers we sat down to weep;
The song of the Lord, as too holy to sound,
We shut in our souls, on that dark heathen ground.