Chapter M: S. B. D (4)

My parents reach’d at length the distant spot:
Borne to the earth by grief and sad suspense.
O, God! O, God! they found that “HE was not,”
For thou had’st taken him! thy providence
So order’d it in kind benevolence!
He breath’d his last before the wish’d-for day
When he expected them--he knew not whence
They had to come, nor what a devious way
The white wing’d messenger that bore the news would stray.

XLI.

Urania, goddess of the sacred lay!
Come, touch my languid lips with holy fire,
Brought from divine Parnassus--or convey
The heart’s deep feelings to my sounding lyre!
’Tis vain--’tis vain--such feelings must retire
From mortal view! Again I draw the veil
Over these parents’ hearts. It would require
A more than mortal tongue to tell the tale
Of all their high wrought feelings--mortal speech would fail.

XLII.

’Tis sad when those we love cannot be near
Our dying bed; and yet it saves much pain.
The last farewell that falls upon the ear--
The tears that mourners seek to hide, in vain--
The bursting sobs they cannot quite restrain--
These wring the heart. Now, when we truly know
That friends were near, a sympathizing train,
Who sooth’d our dying one, when faint and low,
O, surely in our hearts sweet gratitude must glow!

XLIII.

God’s providence had led his footsteps, where
He found the kindest friends. A stranger he,
Yet taken to their bosoms! Far and near,
My father’s children find his name a key
Unlocking many hearts. I’d rather be
The child of such a father, than of one
Who’d leave the wealth of India to me!
They heard my brother’s name, and there were none
Who open’d not their doors to my dear father’s son.

XLIV.

God bless them evermore! and he will bless
With all the choice expressions of his love,
Those who befriend the stranger in distress.
There _is_ a God in Heaven, whose bowels move
With gentle pity; and he must approve,
Whene’er his creatures pity and relieve
The way-worn sufferer! Then from above
Our God will smile on those who thus did give
Their tender love to one who had not long to live.

XLV.

Now, when th’ afflicted parents weeping came,
Those noble friends shed with them tear for tear,
And thus most kindly did their love proclaim
For him whom they had laid upon his bier
With aching hearts. O, many a fervent prayer,
While with most tender tears my cheeks are wet,
Ascends to Heaven for them. May Jesus hear!
And may my heart within me cease to beat,
If ever I their love to one I loved forget!

CHARLESTON, _July 12, 1841_.

FOOTNOTES

[11] My brother, ISAAC STOCKTON KEITH PALMER, died in Havana, Green County, Alabama, February 10, 1839, aged 26 years.

“Thy brother shall rise again.”--JOHN xi. 23.

[12] Motto of Hortense Beauharnais.

[13] Ben Jonson.

[14] The late Rev. George A. Baxter, D. D.

[15] New Orleans.

PASSING UNDER THE ROD.

“It was the custom of the Jews to select the tenth of their sheep
after this manner. The lambs were separated from their dams, and
enclosed in a sheepcote, with only one narrow way out: the dams
were at the entrance. On opening the gate, the lambs hastened
to join their dams, and a man placed at the entrance with a rod
dipped in ochre, touched every tenth lamb, and so marked it with
his rod, saying--‘LET THIS BE HOLY.’”

“And I will cause you to pass under the rod, and I will bring you
into the bond of the covenant.”--EZK. xx: 37.

I saw the young bride, in her beauty and pride,
Bedeck’d in her snowy array;
And the bright flush of joy mantled high on her cheek,
And the future look’d blooming and gay:
And with woman’s devotion she laid her fond heart
At the shrine of idolatrous love,
And she anchor’d her hopes to this perishing earth,
By the chain which her tenderness wove.
But I saw when those heartstrings were bleeding and torn,
And the chain had been sever’d in two,
She had changed her white robes for the sables of grief,
And her bloom for the paleness of wo!
But the Healer was there, pouring balm on her heart,
And wiping the tears from her eyes,
And he strengthened the chain he had broken in twain,
And fasten’d it firm to the skies!
There had whisper’d a voice--twas the voice of her God,
“I love thee--I love thee--_pass under the rod_!”

I saw the young mother in tenderness bend
O’er the couch of her slumbering boy,
And she kissed the soft lips as they murmur’d her name,
While the dreamer lay smiling in joy.
O, sweet as a rose bud encircled with dew,
When its fragrance is flung on the air,
So fresh and so bright to that mother he seem’d,
As he lay in his innocence there.
But I saw when she gazed on the same lovely form,
Pale as marble, and silent, and cold,
But paler and colder her beautiful boy,
And the tale of her sorrow was told!
But the Healer was there who had stricken her heart,
And taken her treasure away,
To allure her to Heaven he has placed it on high,
And the mourner will sweetly obey.
There had whisper’d a voice--’twas the voice of her God,
“I love thee--I love thee--_pass under the rod_!”

I saw the fond brother, with glances of love,
Gazing down on a gentle young girl,
And she hung on his arm, and breath’d soft in his ear,
As he play’d with each graceful curl.
O, he loved the sweet tones of her silvery voice,
Let her use it in sadness or glee;
And he’d clasp his brave arms round her delicate form,
As she sat on her brother’s knee.
But I saw when he gazed on her death-stricken face,
And she breath’d not a word in his ear;
And he clasp’d his brave arms round an icy cold form,
And he moisten’d her cheek with a tear.
But the Healer was there, and he said to him thus--
“Grieve not for thy sister’s short life,”
And he gave to his arms still another fair girl,
And he made her his own cherish’d wife!
There had whisper’d a voice--’twas the voice of his God,
“I love thee--I love thee--_pass under the rod_!”

I saw where a father and mother had lean’d
On the arms of a dear gifted son,
And the star in the future grew bright to their gaze,
As they saw the proud place he had won:
And the fast coming evening of life promis’d fair,
And its pathway grew smooth to their feet,
And the starlight of love glimmer’d bright at the end,
And the whispers of fancy were sweet.
But I saw when they stood, bending low o’er the grave,
Where their hearts’ dearest hope had been laid,
And the star had gone down in the darkness of night,
And the joy from their bosoms had fled.
But the Healer was there, and his arms were around,
And he led them with tenderest care;
And he show’d them a star in a bright upper world,
’Twas _their star_ shining brilliantly there!
They had each heard a voice--’twas the voice of their God,
“I love thee--I love thee--_pass under the rod_!”

CHARLESTON, _July 6, 1840_.

THE JOY OF THE CHRISTIAN.

There is a joy my spirit feels,
A holy calm that o’er me steals,
A lighting up within the soul
Of glowing flames that upward roll;
A springing of th’ immortal mind
Away from earth, to joys refined.

Not all the joys of wedded bliss
One moment can compare with this;
Though kindling eyes with rapture sweet,
In beaming glances often meet,
And burning lips with ardor tell
How love and joy together dwell.

Not all the thrilling happiness
A mother’s heart alone can bless,
When, all her pain and anguish done,
Her eye beholds her first born son,
And sees the father standing by,
With smiles of love, and kindling eye,

And prints the first maternal kiss
On lips unconscious of the bliss,
And, full of gladness unexpress’d,
Close clasps him to her swelling breast,
Where springs a fountain rich and free--
The food of helpless infancy!

These are not lasting. I can say,
How joys like these may pass away;
And leave, where all was love and light,
An aching heart--a gloomy night--
A memory of pleasures gone--
A sorrow to be left alone.

But often in the darkest night
Springs up a pure and brilliant light;
And even in the coldest day,
There comes a warm reviving ray;
The light to faith’s quick vision given--
The beaming ray that shines from Heaven.

O, when the soul is dark and drear,
Full well I know that sun can cheer;
In those full beams with deep delight
I chase away the gloomy night,
And bask in those unclouded rays,
The glorious sun’s meridian blaze.

I nestle in my Savior’s breast,
O, ’tis a place of glorious rest!
He holds me near his bleeding side,
O, ever may I thus abide!
His lovely countenance I see,
With smiles of love he looks on me.

O, give me joys that will not die--
The joys that point above the sky!
The only change that comes to them,
Is when they glow with brighter beam;
Like early morn’s delightful ray,
That brightens into perfect day!

JANUARY 13, 1840.

THE PRAYER OF THE WIDOW.

O, thou Almighty God, the widow’s friend!
Where lonely ones are weeping, comfort send!
Thou never wilt refuse thy tender aid,
Where thine own hand the crushing weight has laid.
When, sick at heart, and sad, and desolate,
The widow comes to weep her mournful fate,
And comes to THEE--thy Spirit, holy Dove!
Flies swiftly from the Heaven of purest love;
And O, blest Comforter! thy wings are spread,
To shield from every storm her fainting head;
And, brooding o’er the darkness of her soul,
Where, swelling high, the waves of anguish roll,
Thy sov’reign power from its chaos brings
Pure peaceful joy, and ever-healing springs.

Then may the solitary sing for joy;
For hours like these taste not of earth’s alloy;
Affliction’s fire the gold has purified,
And blest are they whose hopes may thus be tried.
O, God! while tears unbidden freely start,
Here would I lay my crush’d and bleeding heart;
I bless thee that thine own soft hands are here,
To staunch the wounds, and still each throbbing fear.

The human heart, sore wounded oft in vain,
Grows callous, and insensible to pain,
All cicatrized, it hardens with the blow
Which lays its fairest hopes and prospects low;
But softer grows the heart whose wounds are heal’d
By Gilead’s balm, sweet cure from Heaven reveal’d.

If purest joys must from affliction spring,
Then welcome grief, and lonely sorrowing!
A few brief years at most shall pass, before
Sorrow shall cease, and grief shall be no more.
I would not always live this dying life,
Where joys and sorrows keep perpetual strife;
But if I must a toil-worn pilgrim be,
O, Savior! give me tears--_then rest with thee_!
For if life’s path were only strew’d with flowers,
I should forget my own immortal powers,
And stoop to gather roses all my way,
And lose in trifling pleasures life’s short day.
The thorns that pierce my weary wand’ring feet,
But spur me onward to thy blissful seat,
And bring me sooner to my blood-bought home,
Where tearful ones must surely joy to come.

The bitter cup mix’d by my Father’s love,
A salutary medicine _must_ prove;
Not nectar nor ambrosia has so sweet
An after taste, the longing soul to greet.
And, holy Father! I will ne’er refuse
To drink the portion thou for me shalt choose;
Whate’er betides, thy blessed will be done,
And thou shalt judge for me, Almighty One!
Trials are mercy’s faithful harbingers;
Each stroke from God’s own hand a token bears;
O, let me heed the kind paternal blow,
Afflicted heart! _thy Father_ lays thee low.

There is a rock, raised high above the storms
Which lash life’s ocean; not the thousand forms
Or horrid shapes of woe can e’er ascend,
Where Jesus lives his fav’rites to defend.
Low at its base the raging billows dash,
And clouds grow dark, and angry lightning flash,
But firm the rock of ages ever stands,
Securely planted by almighty hands;
No gath’ring clouds can shade its precincts fair,
For everlasting sunshine settles there.

O, Sun of Righteousness! do thou impart
To the deep secret places of my heart,
Pure living rays, and bright effulgent beams,
To shed their light on life’s fast flowing streams.
My aspirations are to thee, bright Heaven!
Nor can I, will I from these flights be driven;
Fain would my wounded spirit soar away,
And lose all darkness in celestial day!

NEW YORK, _August 13, 1840_.

NEW HAVEN.

O, thou beautiful New Haven!
Do I greet thee once again?
Scenes upon my heart engraven,
I review with pleasing pain;
Sweet are mem’ry’s scenes at last,
Though I feel that they are past.

Yet--though gone, I will enjoy them,
Why should they be dead to me?
Why should not my heart employ them,
Savior! to attract to thee?
Those who shared my earthly pleasures,
Thou hast made my heavenly treasures.

Sweet New Haven! well known places,
Carpeted with brightest green,
Call back dear familiar faces,
Part of every mem’ried scene;
_Could_ I breathe thy classic air,
And my loved ones not be there?

Every murmur of the fountain,
Hidden ’neath the clustering shade;
Every rock and every mountain,
Every cool and verdant glade
Has its music--tuneful numbers,
Often heard in midnight slumbers.

There are green immortal bowers,
Where my dearest ones have gone!
Trees of life--unfading flowers,
Cooling shade, and verdant lawn.
Living fountains murmur there,
Flowing free, and sparkling clear.

Yes--thy beauties shall remind me
Of my peaceful home on high,
Nor to earth shall mem’ry bind me,
While I see with tearful eye
These loved scenes of dear New Haven,
Deeply on my heart engraven.

AUGUST 16, 1840.

DIALOGUE BETWEEN THE SAVIOR AND THE MOURNER.

MOURNER.

O, man of sorrows! who art thou,
With sadness painted on thy brow?
Why is thy lovely visage marr’d,
And why thy glorious forehead scarr’d?

SAVIOR.

O, Zion’s daughter! I am He
Who dwelt with God eternally;
But pity brought me here to die;
You see me wounded--this is why.

MOURNER.

Dear dying Savior! can it be,
That thou wert bruised for guilty me?
Art thou acquainted with my grief,
And canst thou give me sweet relief?

SAVIOR.

Afflicted one! I pierc’d thy heart;
From my own quiver sped the dart
Which brought thee, weeping, back to me;
The wounded to the Healer flee!

MOURNER.

O, kind Reprover! may I dare
To tell thee every anxious fear?
Then, Savior! hear my mournful cry,
I fear that _all_ I love may die.

SAVIOR.

Unkind! ungrateful! where am I?
Can God, thy Savior, ever die?
Though friend and lover leave thee, yet
I still am near, dost thou forget?

MOURNER.

Now woe is me--I hang my head,
And sad repenting tears I shed;
Dear Savior! canst thou me forgive,
And bid my sorrowing spirit live?

SAVIOR.

O, stricken mourner! cease thy fear,
More tender than a mother’s care
Are all my watchings over thee;
Then, lone one! softly walk with me.

SEPTEMBER 6, 1840.

CHASTENING, A PROOF OF LOVE.

“But thou hast been weary of me, O, Israel!”

I was weary of the Savior,
Turn’d my heart to other love;
Deeply griev’d at my behavior,
Soon he call’d me from above;
Drew me gently,
Bound me with the cords of love.

This delightful bondage breaking,
Soon my footsteps roam’d away;
He, in grief at my forsaking,
Follow’d me the livelong day;
Woo’d me sweetly,
Words of love I heard him say.

In his garden I was sleeping,
There he came to seek for me;
On his head night-dews were weeping,
Yet he called me tenderly,
“My beloved!
Come, my fair one! come to me!”

Yet I left this heavenly Lover,
Though his lips like lilies were;
Once again became a rover,
Turned away from one so fair;
Still he follow’d--
Watch’d me with untiring care.

Last of all he sent in sorrow,
Call’d my idols all away;
For the sake of bright to-morrow,
Darken’d all my joys to-day;
And he whisper’d,
“Come, my fair one! come away!

“I’m in all thy griefs a sharer,
Thy afflictions all are mine;
’Tis, my love! to draw thee nearer
To my heart, I’m breaking thine;
I have won thee,
Won thy heart by love divine!

“’Tis in mercy I have pain’d thee,
Wand’rer in a desert wild;
Now I know that I have gain’d thee,
O, my love! my undefiled!”
Thus he soothed me,
With his accents sweet and mild.

Now I follow where he leads me,
I am his, and he is mine;
With the richest love he feeds me,
While upon him I recline;
Gazing upward,
On his eyes I fasten mine!

FEBRUARY 2, 1840.

“TO DIE IS GAIN.”

Draw nigh, thou long expected hour!
O, come, and make me free!
My God! I would not always thus
A fetter’d pris’ner be!

My spirit longs to soar away,
But, ah! this mighty chain
From which I struggle to escape,
Binds me to earth again.

Time after time thy sov’reign power
Has some strong link removed,
And I have nearer seem’d to Heaven,
And more my Savior loved.

But still in weakness fetter’d thus,
How can I rise to thee?
Draw nigh, thou long expected hour,
And set the pris’ner free!

JUNE 6, 1840.

ON A FLOWER,

Plucked from the grave of Mrs. C---- B----, the wife of Lieut.
B----, and daughter of Col. V----, who died at Fort Towson, Ark.
Ter.

I saw a beauteous little flower,
Which grew upon a grave,
’Twas pluck’d from its own proud stem, which long’d
Its darling flower to save.
And a tiny bud was borne away
With the lovely parent flower;
But a careful hand that loved them well,
Has kept them till this hour.

The plant which lost them hung its head,
And droop’d for many a day;
But the gentle breeze and the beaming sun
Prevented its decay.
It would have died had not the friend
Who gave those beauteous flowers,
Water’d it oft with refreshing dew,
And gentle summer showers.

O, why didst thou droop and hang thy head,
Bereaved and desolate one?
Is not thy flower far more prized
Than when it was thine own?
When on thy stem it gaily grew,
It was admired and loved;
But many a rude and chilling blast
The trembling flow’ret moved.

Now it is kept with tender care,
And many a friendly eye
Has gazed at the beautiful sever’d branch,
With a tear of sympathy
For _thee_--bereav’d and drooping plant,
The tears were shed _for thee_!
They _would_ not weep for thy lovely flower,
In such kind custody.

’Tis guarded well by one you love,
And kept with watchful care;
And no rude hand may ever touch
That flower to thee so dear.
And the hour comes on when thou must die,
How soon that hour may be!
Now is it not better thy beautiful branch
Should first be removed from thee?

As thus I gazed on the treasured flower
That grew on a lonely grave,
I thought of the silent sleeper there,
Whom no earthly love could save;
And of him who gladly would have died
For her who was taken away,
Who bow’d his head to the stormy blast,
And droop’d for many a day.

O, why didst thou droop and hang thy head,
Bereav’d and desolate one?
I know from thy loved and cherish’d flower,
’Twas hard to part so soon.
But knowest thou not she is far more safe
Than in thy sheltering arms?
For now she liveth in beauty bright,
And fears no sudden alarms.

O, knowest thou not that a heavenly Friend
Is keeping her safely for thee,
And myriads of bright and holy ones
Are joining her minstrelsy?
And the flower pluck’d from thy darling’s grave
Will never again revive,
But the blossom torn from thy throbbing breast
Shall ever in beauty live.

And the hour is coming when thou, frail man,
Shalt lay thee down and die;
And who can tell but thy sainted love
Now waits thy coming on high,
And will joyfully greet th’ unfetter’d soul,
Releas’d from its prison of clay,
And herald thee on through fields of light,
To the blaze of eternal day?

CHARLESTON, _Dec. 27, 1839_.

INVOCATION TO SLEEP.

Come to my pillow, gentle sleep!
And hold me in thy calm embrace;
And with oblivious wing, efface
The stain of tears and sorrows deep!

Or charm me with thy dreamy spell,
And paint a smile where tears had been;
And lead me to the pastures green,
Where I shall find Immanuel!

In waking hours I love to rove
Where Israel’s shepherd feeds his sheep;
Now, on thy wings, O, gentle sleep,
Come, bear me to the spot I love!

Farewell--sad world, farewell to thee!
Let me forget my woes and cares;
“Still waters” murmur in mine ears;
O, to those waters let me flee!

I’ll bathe my soul in liquid love,
And freely drink the crystal tide,
Then sit me down the wave beside,
Nor ever would I thence remove!

There sweetly sounds Immanuel’s name,
Borne gently on the breezy air,
Ten thousand thousand voices there,
With spirit-tongues his love proclaim.

He leads his flock--he loves them well--
He takes the weary in his arms,
And lures them by his dazzling charms,
Forever in his fold to dwell.

Come, gentle sleep, I feel thy power!
Thy dreamy spell is over me,
Farewell, sad world! farewell to thee!
All hail, my sleeping, dreaming hour!

HEAVEN.

“There shall be no more death--neither sorrow--nor
crying--neither shall there be any more pain, for the former
things have passed away.”

REV. xxi. 4.

There shall be no more death! I love to trace
The records of my last abiding place--
A mansion bought for me by dying love;
And--blissful thought!--I may not thence remove.
No waning strength, nor painful heaving breath,
Shall give me warning of thy coming, Death!
I shall not see thee fix thy baleful eye
On those I love, and feel that they must die;
No arrow from thy ever outstretch’d bow
Again shall lay my dearest treasures low;
No thoughts of absent ones shall there intrude,
Nor hearts be broken by thine entrance rude;
No dark abyss of grief shall open there,
To drown my soul in billows of despair;
I shall not feel that I am left _alone_;
And only hear each well remember’d tone
Sound in mine ears, like some low sighing moan!
But Heaven’s undying choral harmony
Shall ever my immortal music be,
And sweet accordance thrill my list’ning ear,
While tuneful angel songs entranc’d I hear.

Yes! there’s a land where death shall be no more,
Where sad heartbreaking partings all are o’er!
I know the land--my darling ones are there;
Come, Death--to that bright world my spirit bear!

There shall be no more sorrow! I shall feel
No chilling sadness o’er my spirit steal;
And there shall be no aching heart in Heaven;
No mem’ry’s tear; no trespass unforgiven;
No restless cares fresh gath’ring every hour;
No clouds o’er life’s dark labyrinth to lower;
No longing thirst for life’s immortal stream;
No disappointment; no deceitful dream;
No heart of adamant to vex me there;
No secret sins to fill me with despair;
No viper gliding round my place of rest,
To fix its deadly fangs within my breast;
No midnight watchings, paling friendship’s cheek;
No harrowing fears I do not dare to speak;
No last adieu to chill my sinking heart,
And whisper me the hour has come--to part!
No sad preparings for the silent grave;
No dark funereal group where willows wave;
No deep distress to bow my fainting head;
No _sorrow’s anniversary_ to dread!
Come--blissful hour! when all have pass’d away--
Those “former things” that darken’d life’s sad day,
And safely housed shall all my loved ones be,
In ever brightening immortality!

Yes! there’s a land where sorrows shall be o’er,
And I shall see the gath’ring cloud no more;
I know the land--I languish to be there:
Come, Death! to that bright world my spirit bear!

There shall be no more crying! Joyful day!
When God’s own hand all tears shall wipe away,
And while eternity’s long ages roll,
Sweet peace shall settle on my ransom’d soul.
I shall not be a wand’ring alien there,
Estrang’d from God--as I am often here;
Loud hallelujahs, ever on my tongue,
Shall to my golden harp be sweetly sung;
No plaintive notes shall give their mournful sounds,
Save when I sing my Savior’s dying wounds;
Then to the Lamb a louder song shall rise,
And echo joyful round th’ eternal skies;
And souls redeem’d shall praise a Savior slain,
While bright archangels catch the pealing strain!
Then, rising high, the song shall swell again,
And infant voices lisp a sweet--AMEN!
No tears can fall where all the blest employ
Is rapturous praise; and ever growing joy
Sits radiant on each angelic face,
While glory brightens all the blissful place!

Yes! there’s a land where tears shall fall no more,
Nor dim the eyes that often wept before;
I know the land--my sainted ones are there;
Come, Death! to that bright world my spirit bear!

There shall be no more pain! no languishing!
No mortal sickness shall its anguish bring;
There shall be no last agony to dread;
No fever’d brain; no restless, aching head;
No bounding pulse; no deathlike shiv’ring chill;
No throbbing heart for death’s cold touch to still;
No curd’ling of the heart’s warm vital flood;
No heavy dulness o’er the eyes to brood;
No pallid faces stealing round my bed,
Fearing to rouse me by the softest tread;
No closing out the blessed light of day;
No need to force my weeping friends away;
No painful gaspings for the thick’ning breath;
No sorrow--no sad tears--no pain--no death!
O, these shall not be there! for life’s sad day
And gloomy night, shall all have “pass’d away!”
There in my own, my dear, eternal home,
No baleful sickly blights may ever come;
My soul shall flourish in immortal bloom,
While lies my body mould’ring in the tomb;
And this poor clay shall yet in beauty rise,
When the last trump shall sound its glad surprise.

Yes! there’s a land where pain shall be no more,
A land of smiles and joy, blest Canaan’s shore!
My Savior and his ransom’d ones are there;
Come, Death! to that bright world my spirit bear!

CHARLESTON, _August 2, 1840_.

TO A MOTHER WITH A DYING CHILD.

Loosen thine arms, fond mother,
And let thy darling go!
Thou _wouldst_ not hold him down to earth,
Amid these floods of woe.

O, clasp him not so fondly
Close to thy trembling breast;
It is a spot he loves--and yet
’Tis not a place of rest.

There is no love nor beauty
Can charm disease away;
The spoiler comes, and rude his touch,
Be long or short his stay.

Soft is thy baby’s pillow
Upon thy tender breast;
Oft have its gentle heavings lull’d
Thy weary boy to rest.

But now in mortal anguish,
What spot can ease his pain?
No more he’ll nestle in thine arms,
Or smile on thee again!

To watch his painful breathings,
To hear his parting sigh,
To see him chill and motionless,
All glazed his beauteous eye,

’Twill tear thy twining heartstrings,
’Twill melt thy soul with woe;
But he in Heaven will drink of joy
He tasted not below.

Look forward, weeping mother,
And place thy darling there;
Eased in a moment all his pain--
His struggles--and his fear!

O, see thy lovely cherub,
Enraptured with surprise!
All new to him the glorious things
Which charm his wond’ring eyes!

He wears a robe of beauty,
The Savior has put on;
Tinged like the gorgeous clouds that lie
Around the setting sun!

He makes harmonious music,
He tunes his golden lyre,
And in his own loud welcome, joins
The bright celestial choir!

He thinks of thee, fond mother!
But not with sorrow there;
He watches for thy spirit-form
Beside those portals fair.

Now--look again in pity
Upon thy suff’ring boy,
And choose his home in that bright world
Of pure immortal joy.

Loosen thine arms, fond mother,
And let thy darling go;
Yes! bid him stretch his angel wings,
And fly from pain and woe!

JUNE 13, 1840.

AN INVOCATION TO DEATH.

O, Death! thou art a welcome friend,
I woo thee to my heart;
From all I loved and valued once,
I’m ready now to part.

This voice, attuned to notes of joy,
Come, hush to silence now;
And in the stillness of the tomb,
Kind friend! come lay me low!

These hands, now warm with active life,
Fear not thy chilling grasp;
Come, Death! though icy cold thou art,
Thy hand I’ll freely clasp.

These eyes, now fondly glancing round
On those I dearly love,
Come, o’er them spread a filmy veil,
Nor let them longer rove.

These lips, now forming words of love,
Come, give one palsying kiss!
They’ll yield thee up their living breath,
With joyful eagerness.

Come, take this heart, this beating heart,
And freeze it all to stone;
And let my soul, my longing soul,
Fly to th’ Eternal One!

Kind Death! come, take me in thine arms,
And set me wholly free!
I’ll thank thee for that cold embrace
Through all eternity!

DECEMBER 31, 1839.

O! SING TO ME OF HEAVEN!

The following lines were written on the occasion of the death of Mrs. Ramsay, widow of the late David Ramsay, the son of the Historian of South Carolina. Her maiden name was Pinckney, a name identified with the history of our state. The lines were suggested by the scenes which took place at her death; they are affectionately dedicated to my dear friends, Mr. and Mrs. H. L. Pinckney, and to our beloved teachers, the Misses Ramsay, to whom my father’s daughters owe a pleasing debt of gratitude.

O! sing to me of Heaven,
When I am call’d to die!
Sing songs of holy ecstasy,
To waft my soul on high!

When cold and sluggish drops
Roll off my marble brow,
Burst forth in strains of joyfulness--
Let Heaven begin below!

When the last moment comes,
O! watch my dying face;
And catch the bright seraphic gleam
Which o’er each feature plays!

Then to my ravish’d ears
Let one sweet song be given;
Let music charm me last on earth,
And greet me first in Heaven!

Then close my sightless eyes,
And lay me down to rest;
And clasp my pale and icy hands
Upon my lifeless breast.

Then round my senseless clay
Assemble those I love;
And sing of Heaven--delightful Heaven!
My glorious home above!

JANUARY 15, 1840.

TO A DYING CHRISTIAN.

Trembling soul, dismiss thy fear;
See thy great deliv’rer near!
Hear him calling thee to come
To thy long expected home!
Weary wand’rer, hasten home!

Dost thou fear the Monarch pale?
Death is vanquish’d--bid him “hail!”
Near him stands a mightier King;
He will needful courage bring:--
Dying Christian! why not sing?

Dost thou dread, when thou shalt die,
Nature’s parting agony?
Calm as evening’s ling’ring ray
Shall thy spirit pass away;
Flutt’ring soul! no longer stay!

Dost thou dread the last “good bye;”
Dread to hear the choking sigh?
When thy friends around thee stand,
Point them to Immanuel’s land--
That delightful, happy land!

Dost thou fear to leave alone
One whose soul was like your own?
Friends, ye shall not parted be;
One in spirit still are ye;
Soon in Heaven both shall be!

Christians, take one long embrace,
Look your last on each dear face!
Hark! the waiting seraph sings!
All the air with music rings!
Struggling spirit, spread thy wings!

JANUARY 11, 1840.

“CHIEFEST AMONG TEN THOUSAND AND ALTOGETHER LOVELY.”

O, thou art the chiefest
Among ten thousand charms,
And altogether lovely;--
I speed me to thine arms!
Enraptured with thy beauty,
O, Bridegroom of my soul!
My all to thee I offer,
And yield to thy control.

I’ve heard thee sweetly wooing
My weary soul to rest;
And granting me, dear Savior,
A home upon thy breast!
O, where could I have found me
So soft a resting place,
Where I can dwell forever,
And feed upon thy grace?

How gently glide the hours,
When I repose in thee;
Like clear untroubled waters,
Fast flowing to the sea.
To pass my happy moments,
So fast my days shall flee,
Till I shall reach the ocean
Of vast eternity!

Then, O! what blissful greetings,
What rapture shall be mine!
And, best of all, forever
Shall I in peace recline
On thy kind arms, dear Savior!
Safe folded to thy breast,
And none shall ever tear me
From that sweet place of rest.

SEPTEMBER 6, 1840.

GOD’S LOVE TO ISRAEL.

Jerusalem! Jerusalem! I’ve set my love on thee;
O! foolish and ungrateful! to wander thus from me.
How kindly would I gather thee beneath my shelt’ring wings!
Jerusalem! thou knowest not whence all thy safety springs.

O! well do I remember thee, the kindness of thy youth;
The love of thine espousals, thy faithfulness and truth;
When thou thy Lord didst follow in a land that was not sown,
In a bleak and howling wilderness--unpeopled, dark, and lone.

I led thee through the desert, and through a land of drought,
And from Egyptian bondage I brought thee safely out;
I placed thee in a fertile land, where milk and honey flow;
And now thou lovest strangers, and after them wilt go.

Jerusalem! Jerusalem! my bowels yearn for thee;
For cisterns, broken cisterns, thou hast forsaken me!
I am the living fountain, whose waters gently flow;
How couldst thou ever leave me, so far astray to go?

O! when wilt thou return again? my arms are open’d wide;
Return, backsliding Israel, to thine almighty Guide!
I’ll lead thee to the pastures green, and to the waters clear;--
Jerusalem! Jerusalem! the friendly warning hear!

JANUARY 18, 1841.

HYMN TO THE TRINITY.

In intimate communion,
Dear Father! I am thine;
O! bless thee for the favor,
For love so much divine;
And though afflictions won me,
How could my heart repine?
If thou wilt love me ever,
All else I can resign.

O! keep me near the fountain
Of overflowing love,
To drink the living water,
Till all my soul shall move;
Till I shall prize thy favor
All other things above,
And thou shalt dwell within me,
O! holy, heavenly Dove!

I cannot live without _thee_,
All lonely as I am;
Thou art a sweet companion,
O! lovely, gentle Lamb!
Dear Father, Son, and Spirit!
Each name can sweetly calm,
And pour into my bosom
A rich and healing balm!

MOUNT AUBURN.

Written immediately after a visit to that sacred spot. Boston, Oct. 3, 1841.

They took me to Mount Auburn--where
They bury the lov’d, the brave, the fair;
’Twas beautiful, all beautiful!
The shaded walk--the grove so cool--
The flowers planted there by love--
The green and leafy arch above--
The grassy mound--and the polish’d stone--
And the strangers passing, one by one.
I saw it all--yet the heart would rove,
Borne onward by deep cherish’d love,
And I thought of _two dear lonely graves_
In the far off West, where the willow waves.

O! beautiful Mount Auburn--where
They bury the loved, the brave, the fair!
Death always chooses the sweetest flowers
When he comes to this living world of ours;
And now he has chosen thee, sweet place!
The loveliest part of the earth’s fair face,
As a home for those who silent sleep,
Where friends may come, and smile, or weep;
For Death is not always a tyrant king,
Casting a gloom over every thing;
Here dwelleth not unmingled pain,
For those who die shall live again,
And every tenanted spot of ground
Shall give up its dead at the trumpet’s sound;
So _I smile_ when I think of _those lonely graves_
In the far off West, where the willow waves.

O! Death’s own palace royal--where
They bury the loved, the brave, the fair!
I have gazed on thy sculptured works of art,
Bearing many a lesson to reach the heart;
The tributes of love to those who have died,
Who lie in earth’s bosom, side by side;
Peace to your ashes, silent dead!
I may not lay my humble head
In such a highly favor’d spot,
When God has call’d, and _I am not_;
For this I care not, so I be
Buried beneath some branching tree;
But could I choose my resting place
When I have run my earthly race,
’Twould be _beside those lonely graves_
In the far off West, where the willow waves.

O! Death’s most cheerful garden--where
They bury the loved, the brave, the fair!
The sweet birds love to visit thee,
And build their nests on many a tree;
And in some cool sequester’d spot,
They sing to those who hear them not;
The busy bee comes often too,
To drink the balmy honey dew,
Where flowers bloom in beauty rare,
And scatter fragrance through the air.
O! bright hued flowers! how _can_ ye bloom
So very near the cold dark tomb?
O! warbling birds! how _can_ ye sing
Where death is mark’d on every thing?
Sweet flowers! ye speak of HEAVEN to me;
For bright to all eternity,
“Transplanted flowers” shall bloom above,
Where all the air is full of love.
And birds! ye do not sing in vain,
Ye chant of HEAVEN in every strain!
For I know that those _I_ loved so well,
In Heaven their notes of triumph swell;
They sleep in _those two lonely graves_
In the far off West, where the willow waves.

THE GIFT.

Written after meeting, in the street, Miss C---- P----, of Boston; who was going on an errand of mercy, to carry a beautiful Peach to a sick friend.

I met her in the fragrant morn,
When the dew-drop sparkled on the thorn,
And the eastern blast was asleep at home,
And the mild south wind had softly come
To visit this beautiful northern land,
And paint the cheeks by her warm breath fann’d.

And I was thinking how sweet was life!
How sweet to the maiden, and the wife!
Aye--sweet to the pensive widow too,
When her heart breathes out for its chosen few,
And the amulet worn on the throbbing breast
Is love--the purest and the best.

’Twas then I met a queen-like form,
But O, that heart, which, beating warm,
Sent its bright current to her cheek--
Would that I could its praises speak!
But were I lonely, sick, or sad,
Her voice would make the stranger glad.

She held a basket in her hand,
Which seem’d to have come from fairy land;
For flower, and vine, and fruit were mix’d,
And all so tastefully were fix’d,
I thought that fairy hands had done
The beautiful thing I gazed upon.

And so it was; for fingers fair
Had placed the delicate flowers there;
And round the peach, the leafy vine
Had made, in soft embrace, to twine;
Like ringlets, gracefully falling o’er
A blushing cheek, just kiss’d before.

Ah, tempting Peach! ’tis well that thou
Art not _forbidden fruit_ just now!
For, given as I know thou’lt be,
So cordially, so gracefully,
What mortal could refuse the boon,
When offer’d, as thou wilt be, soon?

Thou art going to a sufferer’s couch;
He’ll take thee with a gentle touch,
And feast his languid sight awhile,
As though thou hadst a woman’s smile;
And then he’ll turn his grateful eyes
On her who brought the blushing prize.

There let them rest--they’ll surely see
A look so full of sympathy,
They’ll want to gaze on the vision fair,
Till they are dimm’d by a gathering tear;
Then will they gently turn away,
With a look that speaks what the tongue would say.

She has been lately at the side
Of one, who in life’s morning died;[16]
I had not seen him since a slow
And dire disease had laid him low;
But sure I am his beaming eye
Oft thank’d her thus, when none were nigh.

He knew the heart of woman well;
And he loved, in sweetest verse, to tell
Of things that were beautiful on the earth,
And his own bright thoughts oft gave them birth;
O, gifted one! may thy requiem be
Thine own strains that linger in memory!

But now, ’tis time I end my lay;
The potent spell has pass’d away;
I could not see _that_ offering,
And not my heart’s own tribute bring
Of thankfulness, that God has given
Some things on earth, so like to Heaven.

Ah! call ye this a trifling thing?
I’ve seen the smallest flower bring
Such a tide of feeling to the breast,
When the heart was sick, with cares oppress’d,
That now seems never strange to me,
The wonderful power of sympathy!

BOSTON, _October 5, 1840_.

FOOTNOTE

[16] The late lamented B. B. Thatcher.

THE EVER PRESENT FRIEND.

“Lo! I am with you always, even unto the end of the world.”

I’ve a Friend who will not leave me,
Ever walking by my side;
Other friends too often grieve me,
Coldly smile, or harshly chide.

But the Friend who dwelleth near me,
Is my Father--Guard--and Guide;
Ah! ’tis He alone can bear me
Safely over sorrow’s tide.

All the world may think me lonely,
Pitying eyes upon me bend;
But, with this companion only,
_Can_ I need another friend?

Early in the cheerful morning,
Though I seem to walk alone,
He, the proud and lofty scorning,
Walks with me, his own--_his own!_

Or, when evening darkens o’er me,
Solitary though I seem,
Hope’s bright visions glow before me,
While of heavenly joys I dream.

Nearer, dearer than a brother,
Is my kind Almighty Friend;
Surely then, I need no other,
While he will my steps attend.

“I GO TO PREPARE A PLACE FOR YOU.”

My Savior! is my place prepared,
And for my welcome hast thou cared,
When death shall call for me?
When I shall rest beneath the sod,
Shall angels bear my soul to God?
O, Savior! can it be?

Exceeding grace! I raise my eyes,
All wet with tear-drops, to the skies,
And bless thee for thy love;
I would not always dwell below,
Where death has torn my heartstrings so;
’Twill ne’er be thus above.

And yet, ’tis well--’tis well for me,
And well for those who’ve gone to thee,
That thou didst call them home;
I love those dear ones far too well,
To wish that they again should dwell
Where I in sadness roam.

I would not ask them now to change
Their peaceful home; they’d think it strange,
And ’twould be strange indeed
If I, who am a pris’ner here,
And daily shed the silent tear,
Should mourn when they are freed.

I feel not as an exile feels,
When lonely sadness o’er him steals,
And hope forsakes his breast;
I am not banish’d from my home;
I have not many days to roam
Ere I shall be--at rest.

O, blessed Savior! now I see
Great preparations made for me,
In mansions bright and fair;
For thou, with sweet attractive art,
To make Heaven dearer to my heart,
Hast placed my jewels there!

BOSTON, _October 11, 1840_.

TO THE REV. J---- P----, OF BOSTON.

Written after reading some of his touching poems, particularly the one entitled, “My father, mother, brothers, and sisters.”

O, tell me! art thou not life-weary now,
Thou of the noble heart and lofty brow?
Or canst thou breast the waves that round thee rise,
Till call’d to soar above these clouded skies?
Thy father, mother, brothers, sisters, all
Save one, have heard the heavenly Master’s call,
And hasten’d to their dear eternal home;
And thou art left in this dark world to roam.
O, tell me what on earth to thee remains?
For weeping I have read thy mournful strains,
When thou hast told of sorrows, such as I
Have felt--though I had not the power to die,
When death a welcome friend had been to me;
O, would not death be welcome too, to thee?

Yet there are loved ones round thy cheerful hearth;
O, these must sweetly bind thee still to earth!
We hold a chain outstretch’d from earth to Heaven,
By God’s own love to weary mortals given;
But every link removed, that shortens this,
Draws us the nearer to our home of bliss.
The moanful sighings of the wand’ring wind
Have a strange power to move my inmost mind,
And bring sweet thoughts of other days to me,
By some unknown, mysterious sympathy.
So has thy plaintive lyre, with low soft tone,
Pour’d on my soul a music of its own,
And waked an answering chord within my breast,
Which thrills harmonious in my hours of rest.

Thou gifted Bard! whose richly gilded thought
Comes like a ray with noonday brightness fraught,
And cheers the heart obscured by sorrow’s breath,
Which dims all brightness in this world of death--
I thank thee for the lays which thou hast sung!
I thank thee for the lyre which thou hast strung!
Those thrilling lays--that have with me communed,
That deep toned lyre--by holy feelings tuned.
Still let thy silvery dulcet tones be heard,
Like the low warbling of some lonely bird;
Or let thy full toned diapason roll,
Like organ strains--entrancing every soul!

This weary earth is full of discord strange;
But when thy harp is struck, how sweet the change!
Then tune it oft, and sweep th’ obedient strings
Till all the air with heaven-born music rings!
And when thy hand shall wake its harmonies,
To bear the music on, let Echo rise,
And every where in sweet vibration play,
Till _I_ shall hear it--far, O, far away!

BOSTON, _October 13, 1840_.

HEAVEN ON EARTH.

“They that believe _do_ enter into rest.”

Yes--even here, in this dark world,
We enter into rest,
If shelter’d in the Savior’s arms,
And pillow’d on his breast!

The flowery paths of earthly joy
Are not so sweet to me,
As thorny roads, and darksome clouds,
Which drive me, Lord! to thee.

The fragrant flowers--how soon they die,
Scorch’d by the noonday heat;
Or scatter’d, lie along my path,
By angry tempests beat!

Though sore afflictions come to me,
My soul is satisfied;
And longer ’neath the chast’ning rod,
I’m willing to abide.

I never felt as now I feel,
The dark world’s vanity;
I never loved as now I love,
The Heaven I hope to see.

How calmly can I travel on,
While joys and comforts die;
And smile to see my bosom friends
In death’s embraces lie.

’Tis well with them--’tis well with me--
Why should I shed one tear?
My loved ones now are safe at home,
And I shall soon be there.

Yes--even here, in this dark world,
I’ve enter’d into rest;
I’ve flown into my Savior’s arms,
He bears me on his breast!

CHARLESTON, _November 15, 1840_.

THE JOY OF SOLITUDE.

Break not, my solitary heart!
Thy sadness will not always last;
A brighter day will come for thee,
When all thy sorrows will be past.

’Tis thus I cure each bitter pang
My mourning, lonely bosom feels;
I look beyond all earthly things,
Where faith the Christian’s home reveals.

When sorely aches the stricken heart,
How sweet it is _to be alone_;
Where precious tears can freely flow,
And none can hear my stifled moan.

Sweet Solitude! thou art to me,
Like rivers in a desert waste
To faint and weary travelers,
Who long the cooling stream to taste.

O, ye, whose hearts are desolate--
Ye tearful mourners, can ye tell
Why, when my heart feels loneliest,
I love to be alone so well?

Is it because e’en friendship’s joy
Recalls the mem’ry of the past,
And lifts the dark impervious veil
Which death has o’er my pleasures cast?

I cannot tell; I am not vers’d
In the heart’s deep philosophy;
I only know when sad I feel,
Dear Solitude! I fly to thee!

DECEMBER 5, 1841.

“THERE REMAINETH THEREFORE A REST.”

How sweet the sound of _rest_,
To pilgrims weary of the length’ning road!
With quicken’d steps they seek the blest abode
Where sorrow is exchanged for peace and love;
So flies, with eager haste, the timid dove,
To seek her shelt’ring nest!

The aromatic gales
Which reach us oft in contemplative hours,
Bring back the fragrance of “transplanted flowers,”
And give delight unmix’d with earth’s alloy;
So feels the wand’rer, who, with trembling joy,
The breeze from home inhales!

The pilgrim, parch’d with thirst,
Who hears of Heaven’s pure, immortal streams,
Sees, with a vision bright, in all his dreams,
The river flowing near the throne of God;
So joys the traveler, fainting on the road,
To see the fountain burst!

Fair beauty’s beaming eye
Grows brighter as she nears her father’s home,
While springs the vessel through the billowy foam,
Bearing her on to sweet domestic love!
So looks the Christian joyfully above,
Whose hour has come to die!

DECEMBER 15, 1840.

“EXCEEDING GREAT AND PRECIOUS PROMISES.”

“In a dry and thirsty land,
Where no water is,”
Thou hast given us, O, God!
Glorious promises!
Kneeling at thy mercy seat,
Pouring out our prayer,
O, how sweet it is _to know_,
Thou wilt meet us there!

Sweet the words the Savior said
To his chosen few,
“Ye shall not be comfortless,
I will come to you.”
Be not troubled, O, my soul!
He will come again,
To receive you to himself,
Wash’d from every stain.

He has sent the Comforter,
With us to abide,
Till, with all his chosen ones,
We are glorified!
Many mansions are prepared
Where our Lord has gone;
Surely to that peaceful home
Sweetly we are drawn!

Blessed Spirit! when my heart
Feels affliction’s sting,
All these precious promises
To remembrance bring!
Then, as beams the cheerful sun,
Shining after rain,
When these floods of grief are o’er,
I shall smile again.

DECEMBER 27, 1840.

“BLESSED ARE THE MEEK.”

Who is this, with brow serene,
And such a peaceful smile?
Surely now the vision bright
Can sorrow’s self beguile!
As the vision pass’d me by,
I heard an angel speak,
And the simple words were these--
O, “Blessed are the meek.”

Then I follow’d silently,
Where’er the vision led,
Till a storm seem’d gathering
Around the fair one’s head;
Still I saw the peaceful smile,
And heard the angel speak,
And the only words he said
Were--“Blessed are the meek.”

Onward, onward still I went,
Where’er the vision led;
Till I saw the fair one laid
Upon a dying bed.
Then the smiling sufferer,
With voice all faint and weak,
Spake herself--and sweetly said--
O, “Blessed are the meek.”

Now seraphic grew her smile,
The angel too was there,
Waiting, to the upper skies
Th’ unprison’d soul to bear.
Then the angel said to me,
“If happiness you seek,
Ever, ever bear in mind,
How ‘blessed are the meek.’”

JANUARY 8, 1841.

TRUST IN HEAVEN.

“What though some cherish’d joys are fled,
Some flatt’ring dreams are gone?”

Come, mourning spirit, come to me!
I have wherewith to comfort thee;
I have a charm to soothe thy grief,
Which ever yields a sweet relief;
I cherish it within my breast;
It there abides--a welcome guest;
It chideth me whene’er I weep,
And lulls my sorrows all to sleep;
It brings bright visions to my heart,
When, one by one, my friends depart;
To all who seek this boon is given,
’Tis--_an unwav’ring trust in Heaven_.

The woes which in thy pathway stand,
Are there by Heaven’s high command;
By God commission’d, there they stood,
To work together for thy good.
’Tis well thou couldst not pass them by,
Or bribe them from thy path to fly,
Till each had pierc’d thy trembling heart
With sorrow’s ever pointed dart.
For, when thy wounds were aching sore,
If thou had’st never thought before
Of Him who wounded was for thee,
O, _then_ He’d come to memory!

And if, when overwhelm’d with grief,
We fly to Jesus for relief,
And hear his gentle voice of love,
Telling of mansions far above
These often overclouded skies,
Where tears no more shall dim our eyes;
With cheerful voices may we sing,
“O, tyrant Death! where is thy sting?
O, gloomy Grave! we fear not thee,
Where is thy boasted victory?”

Then, drooping mourner! raise thy head;
What though some cherish’d joys are fled?
What though some flatt’ring dreams are gone?
Soon shall the glorious morning dawn,
Which never more shall darken’d be
By clouds o’ercharg’d with misery.

JANUARY 10, 1841.

LINES

ON THE DEATH OF ALONZO CLAUDIUS WHITRIDGE, AGED EIGHT YEARS.

He came into this world of care,
A precious gift from Heaven;
And on his brow, so passing fair,
A holy kiss was given,
As, cradled in his mother’s arms,
The smiling cherub lay;
While gazed the father on his charms,
Pure as the opening day.

In after months, too tenderly
They watch’d his gambols wild;
Ah! did they know how tenderly
They held their darling child?
A few short hours, and O, the change
Their sadden’d spirits feel!
The tear--the sigh--the gloom; how strange!
Who can the cause reveal?