Chapter LVIII: Introduction (4)

_Herrmann._ Was that the light from some lone, swift canoe
Shooting across the waters?--No, a flash
From the night’s first, quick fire-fly, lost again
In the deep bay of cedars. Not a bark
Is on the wave; no rustle of a breeze
Comes through the forest. In this new, strange world,
Oh! how mysterious, how eternal, seems
The mighty melancholy of the woods!
The desert’s own great spirit, infinite!
Little they know, in mine own fatherland,
Along the castled Rhine, or e’en amidst
The wild Harz mountains, or the sylvan glades
Deep in the Odenwald--they little know
Of what is solitude! In hours like this,
There, from a thousand nooks, the cottage-hearths
Pour forth red light through vine-hung lattices,
To guide the peasant, singing cheerily,
On the home-path; while round his lowly porch,
With eager eyes awaiting his return,
The cluster’d faces of his children shine
To the clear harvest moon. Be still, fond thoughts!
Melting my spirit’s grasp from heavenly hope
By your vain, earthward yearnings. O my God!
Draw me still nearer, closer unto thee,
Till all the hollow of these deep desires
May with thyself be fill’d! Be it enough
At once to gladden and to solemnise
My lonely life, if for thine altar here
In this dread temple of the wilderness,
By prayer, and toil, and watching, I may win
The offering of one heart, one human heart,
Bleeding, repenting, loving!
Hark! a step,
An Indian tread! I know the stealthy sound--
’Tis on some quest of evil, through the grass
Gliding so serpent-like.

(_He comes forward, and meets an Indian warrior armed._)

Enonio, is it thou? I see thy form
Tower stately through the dusk, yet scarce mine eye
Discerns thy face.

_Enonio._ My father speaks my name.

_Herrmann._ Are not the hunters from the chase return’d?
The night-fires lit? Why is my son abroad?

_Enonio._ The warrior’s arrow knows of nobler prey
Than elk or deer. Now let my father leave
The lone path free.

_Herrmann._ The forest way is long
From the red chieftain’s home. Rest thee awhile
Beneath my sycamore, and we will speak
Of these things further.

_Enonio._ Tell me not of rest!
My heart is sleepless, and the dark night swift.
I must begone.

_Herrmann_, (_solemnly._) No, warrior! thou must stay!
The Mighty One hath given me power to search
Thy soul with piercing words--and thou must stay,
And hear me, and give answer! If thy heart
Be grown thus restless, is it not because
Within its dark folds thou hast mantled up
Some burning thought of ill?

_Enonio_, (_with sudden impetuosity._) How should I rest?--
Last night the spirit of my brother came,
An angry shadow in the moonlight streak,
And said, “_Avenge me!_” In the clouds this morn
I saw the frowning colour of his blood--
And that, too, had a voice. I lay at noon
Alone beside the sounding waterfall,
And through its thunder-music spake a tone--
A low tone piercing all the roll of waves--
And said “_Avenge me!_” Therefore have I raised
The tomahawk, and strung the bow again,
That I may send the shadow from my couch,
And take the strange sound from the cataract,
And sleep once more.

_Herrmann._ A better path, my son!
Unto the still and dewy land of sleep,
My hand in peace can guide thee--e’en the way
Thy dying brother trod. Say, didst thou love
That lost one well?

_Enonio._ Know’st thou not we grew up
Even as twin roes amidst the wilderness?
Unto the chase we journey’d in one path;
We stemm’d the lake in one canoe; we lay
Beneath one oak to rest. When fever hung
Upon my burning lips, my brother’s hand
Was still beneath my head; my brother’s robe
Cover’d my bosom from the chill night-air--
Our lives were girdled by one belt of love
Until he turn’d him from his father’s gods.
And then my soul fell from him--then the grass
Grew in the way between our parted homes;
And wheresoe’er I wander’d, then it seem’d
That all the woods were silent. I went forth--
I journey’d, with my lonely heart, afar,
And so return’d--and where was he? The earth
Own’d him no more.

_Herrmann._ But thou thyself, since then,
Hast turn’d thee from the idols of thy tribe,
And, like thy brother, bow’d the suppliant knee
To the one God.

_Enonio._ Yes! I have learn’d to pray
With my white father’s words, yet all the more
My heart, that shut against my brother’s love,
Hath been within me as an arrowy fire,
Burning my sleep away. In the night-hush,
Midst the strange whispers and dim shadowy things
Of the great forests, I have call’d aloud,
“Brother! forgive, forgive!” He answer’d not--
His deep voice, rising from the land of souls,
Cries but “_Avenge me!_”--and I go forth now
To slay his murderer, that when next his eyes
Gleam on me mournfully from that pale shore,
I may look up, and meet their glance, and say,
“I _have_ avenged thee!”

_Herrmann._ Oh! that human love
Should be the root of this dread bitterness,
Till heaven through all the fever’d being pours
Transmuting balsam! Stay, Enonio! stay!
Thy brother calls thee not! The spirit-world
Where the departed go, sends back to earth
No visitants for evil. ’Tis the might
Of the strong passion, the remorseful grief
At work in thine own breast, which lends the voice
Unto the forest and the cataract,
The angry colour to the clouds of morn,
The shadow to the moonlight. Stay, my son!
Thy brother is at peace. Beside his couch,
When of the murderer’s poison’d shaft he died,
I knelt and pray’d; he named his Saviour’s name,
Meekly, beseechingly; he spoke of thee
In pity and in love.

_Enonio_, (_hurriedly._) Did he not say
My arrow should avenge him?

_Herrmann._ His last words
Were all forgiveness.

_Enonio._ What! and shall the man
Who pierced him with the shaft of treachery,
Walk fearless forth in joy?

_Herrmann._ Was he not once
Thy brother’s friend? Oh! trust me, not in _joy_
He walks the frowning forest. Did keen love,
Too late repentant of its heart estranged,
Wake in _thy_ haunted bosom, with its train
Of sounds and shadows--and shall _he_ escape?
Enonio, dream it not! Our God, the All-just,
Unto himself reserves this royalty--
The secret chastening of the guilty heart,
The fiery touch, the scourge that purifies,
Leave it with him! Yet make it not thy _hope_:
For that strong heart of thine--oh! listen yet--
Must, in its depths, o’ercome the very wish
For death or torture to the guilty one,
Ere it can sleep again.

_Enonio._ My father speaks
Of change, for man too mighty.

_Herrmann._ I but speak
Of that which hath been, and again must be,
If thou wouldst join thy brother, in the life
Of the bright country where, I well believe,
His soul rejoices. _He_ had known such change:
He died in peace. He, whom his tribe once named
The Avenging Eagle, took to his meek heart,
In its last pangs, the spirit of those words
Which, from the Saviour’s cross, went up to heaven--
“_Forgive them, for they know not what they do!_
_Father, forgive!_”--And o’er the eternal bounds
Of that celestial kingdom, undefiled,
Where evil may not enter, he, I deem,
Hath to his Master pass’d. He waits thee there--
For love, we trust, springs heavenward from the grave,
Immortal in its holiness. He calls
His brother to the land of golden light
And ever-living fountains--couldst thou hear
His voice o’er those bright waters, it would say,
“My brother! oh! be pure, be merciful!
That we may meet again.”

_Enonio_, (_hesitating._) Can I return
Unto my tribe, and unavenged?

_Herrmann._ To Him,
To Him return, from whom thine erring steps
Have wander’d far and long! Return, my son,
To thy Redeemer! Died he not in love--
The sinless, the divine, the Son of God--
Breathing forgiveness midst all agonies?
And _we_, dare _we_ be ruthless? By his aid
Shalt thou be guided to thy brother’s place
Midst the pure spirits. Oh! retrace the way
Back to thy Saviour! he rejects no heart
E’en with the dark stains on it, if true tears
Be o’er them shower’d. Ay! weep, thou Indian chief!
For, by the kindling moonlight, I behold
Thy proud lips working--weep, relieve thy soul!
Tears will not shame thy manhood, in the hour
Of its great conflict.

_Enonio_, (_giving up his weapons to_ Herrmann.)
Father! take the bow,
Keep the sharp arrows till the hunters call
Forth to the chase once more. And let me dwell
A little while, my father! by thy side,
That I may hear the blessed words again--
Like water-brooks amidst the summer hills--
From thy true lips flow forth; for in my heart
The music and the memory of their sound
Too long have died away.

_Herrmann._ Oh, welcome back,
Friend, rescued one! Yes, thou shalt be my guest,
And we will pray beneath my sycamore
Together, morn and eve; and I will spread
Thy couch beside my fire, and sleep at last--
After the visiting of holy thoughts--
With dewy wings shall sink upon thine eyes!
Enter my home, and welcome, welcome back
To peace, to God, thou lost and found again!

(_They go into the cabin together._--Herrmann, _lingering for a
moment on the threshold, looks up to the starry skies_.)

Father! that from amidst yon glorious worlds
Now look’st on us, thy children! make this hour
Blessed for ever! May it see the birth
Of thine own image in the unfathom’d deep
Of an immortal soul,--a thing to name
With reverential thought, a solemn world!
To thee more precious than those thousand stars
Burning on high in thy majestic heaven!

EVENING SONG OF THE WEARY.

Father of heaven and earth!
I bless thee for the night,
The soft, still night!
The holy pause of care and mirth,
Of sound and light!

Now, far in glade and dell,
Flower-cup, and bud, and bell,
Have shut around the sleeping woodlark’s nest;
The bee’s long murmuring toils are done,
And I, the o’erwearied one,
O’erwearied and o’erwrought,
Bless thee, O God! O Father of the oppress’d!
With my last waking thought,
In the still night!
Yes! e’er I sink to rest,
By the fire’s dying light,
Thou Lord of earth and heaven!
I bless thee, who hast given,
Unto life’s fainting travellers, the night--
The soft, still, holy night.

THE DAY OF FLOWERS.

A MOTHER’S WALK WITH HER CHILD.

“One spirit--His
Who wore the platted thorn with bleeding brows.
Rules universal nature. Not a flower
But shows some touch, in freckle, freak, or stain,
Of his unrivall’d pencil. He inspires
Their balmy odours, and imparts their hues.
And bathes their eyes with nectar.
Happy who walks with him!” Cowper.

Come to the woods, my boy!
Come to the streams and bowery dingles forth,
My happy child! The spirit of bright hours
Woos us in every wind; fresh wild-leaf scents,
From thickets, where the lonely stock-dove broods,
Enter our lattice; fitful songs of joy
Float in with each soft current of the air;--
And we will hear their summons; we will give
One day to flowers, and sunshine, and glad thoughts,
And thou shalt revel midst free nature’s wealth,
And for thy mother twine wild wreaths; while she,
From thy delight, wins to her own fond heart
The vernal ecstasy of childhood back.
Come to the woods, my boy!

What! wouldst thou lead already to the path
Along the copsewood brook? Come, then! in truth
Meet playmate for a child, a blessed child,
Is a glad, singing stream, heard or unheard,
Singing its melody of happiness
Amidst the reeds, and bounding in free grace
To that sweet chime. With what a sparkling life
It fills the shadowy dingle!--now the wing
Of some low-skimming swallow shakes bright spray
Forth to the sunshine from its dimpled wave;
Now, from some pool of crystal darkness deep,
The trout springs upward, with a showery gleam
And plashing sound of waters. What swift rings
Of mazy insects o’er the shallow tide
Seem, as they glance, to scatter sparks of light
From burnish’d films! And mark yon silvery line
Of gossamer, so tremulously hung
Across the narrow current, from the tuft
Of hazels to the hoary poplar’s bough!
See, in the air’s transparence, how it waves,
Quivering and glistening with each faintest gale,
Yet breaking not--a bridge for fairy shapes,
How delicate, how wondrous!
Yes, my boy!
Well may we make the stream’s bright, winding vein
Our woodland guide, for He who made the stream
Made it a clue to haunts of loveliness,
For ever deepening. Oh, forget him not,
Dear child! That airy gladness which thou feel’st
Wafting thee after bird and butterfly,
As ’twere a breeze within thee, is not less
_His_ gift, his blessing on thy spring-time hours,
Than this rich, outward sunshine, mantling all
The leaves, and grass, and mossy-tinted stones
With summer glory. Stay thy bounding step,
My merry wanderer!--let us rest a while
By this clear pool, where, in the shadow flung
From alder boughs and osiers o’er its breast,
The soft red of the flowering willow-herb
So vividly is pictured. Seems it not
E’en melting to a more transparent glow
In that pure glass? Oh! beautiful are streams!
And, through all ages, human hearts have loved
Their music, still accordant with each mood
Of sadness or of joy. And love hath grown
Into vain worship, which hath left its trace
On sculptured urn and altar, gleaming still
Beneath dim olive-boughs, by many a fount
Of Italy and Greece. But we will take
Our lesson e’en from erring hearts, which bless’d
The river-deities or fountain-nymphs,
For the cool breeze, and for the freshening shade,
And the sweet water’s tune. The One supreme,
The all-sustaining, ever-present God,
Who dower’d the soul with immortality,
Gave also _these_ delights, to cheer on earth
Its fleeting passage; therefore let us greet
Each wandering flower-scent as a boon from Him,
Each bird-note, quivering midst light summer leaves,
And every rich celestial tint unnamed,
Wherewith transpierced, the clouds of morn and eve,
Kindle and melt away!
And now, in love,
In grateful thoughts rejoicing, let us bend
Our footsteps onward to the dell of flowers
Around the ruin’d mansion. Thou, my boy!
Not yet, I deem, hast visited that lorn
But lovely spot, whose loveliness for _thee_
Will wear no shadow of subduing thought--
No colouring from the past. This way our path
Winds through the hazels. Mark how brightly shoots
The dragon-fly along the sunbeam’s line,
Crossing the leafy gloom. How full of life,
The life of song, and breezes, and free wings,
Is all the murmuring shade! and thine, oh _thine_!
Of all the brightest and the happiest here,
My blessed child! _my_ gift of God! that makest
My heart o’erflow with summer!
Hast thou twined
Thy wreath so soon! yet will we loiter not,
Though here the blue-bell wave, and gorgeously
Round the brown, twisted roots of yon scathed oak
The heath-flower spread its purple. We must leave
The copse, and through yon broken avenue,
Shadow’d by drooping walnut-foliage, reach
The ruin’s glade.
And lo! before us, fair
Yet desolate, amidst the golden day,
It stands, that house of silence! wedded now
To verdant Nature by the o’ermantling growth
Of leaf and tendril, which fond woman’s hands
Once loved to train. How the rich wallflower-scent
From every niche and mossy cornice floats,
Embalming its decay! The bee alone
Is murmuring from its casement, whence no more
Shall the sweet eyes of laughing children shine,
Watching some homeward footstep. See! unbound
From the old fretted stone-work, what thick wreaths
Of jasmine, borne by waste exuberance down,
Trail through the grass their gleaming stars, and load
The air with mournful fragrance--for it speaks
Of life gone hence; and the faint, southern breath
Of myrtle-leaves, from yon forsaken porch,
Startles the soul with sweetness! Yet rich knots
Of garden flowers, far wandering, and self-sown
Through all the sunny hollow, spread around
A flush of youth and joy, free nature’s joy,
Undimm’d by human change. How kindly here,
With the low thyme and daisies, they have blent!
And, under arches of wild eglantine,
Drooping from this tall elm, how strangely seems
The frail gum-cistus o’er the turf to snow
Its pearly flower-leaves down! Go, happy boy!
Rove thou at will amidst these roving sweets;
Whilst I, beside this fallen dial-stone,
Under the tall moss-rose tree, long unpruned,
Rest where thick clustering pansies weave around
Their many-tinged mosaic, midst dark grass
Bedded like jewels.
He hath bounded on,
Wild with delight!--the crimson on his cheek
Purer and richer e’en than that which lies
In this deep-hearted rose-cup! Bright moss-rose!
Though now so lorn, yet surely, gracious tree!
Once thou wert cherish’d! and, by human love,
Through many a summer duly visited
For thy bloom-offerings, which o’er festal board,
And youthful brow, and e’en the shaded couch
Of long-secluded sickness, may have shed
A joy, now lost.
Yet shall there still be joy,
Where God hath pour’d forth beauty, and the voice
Of human love shall still be heard in praise
Over his glorious gifts! O Father! Lord!
The All-beneficent! I bless thy name,
That thou hast mantled the green earth with flow’rs,
Linking our hearts to nature! By the love
Of their wild blossoms, our young footsteps first
Into her deep recesses are beguiled--
Her minster-cells--dark glen and forest bower,
Where, thrilling with its earliest sense of thee,
Amidst the low, religious whisperings
And shivery leaf-sounds of the solitude,
The spirit wakes to worship, and is made
Thy living temple. By the breath of flowers,
Thou callest us, from city throngs and cares,
Back to the woods, the birds, the mountain-streams,
That sing of thee! back to free childhood’s heart,
Fresh with the dews of tenderness! Thou bidd’st
The lilies of the field with placid smile
Reprove man’s feverish strivings, and infuse
Through his worn soul a more unworldly life,
With their soft, holy breath. Thou hast not left
His purer nature, with its fine desires,
Uncared for in this universe of thine!
The glowing rose attests it, the beloved
Of poet-hearts, touch’d by their fervent dreams
With spiritual light, and made a source
Of heaven-ascending thoughts. E’en to faint age
Thou lend’st the vernal bliss: the old man’s eye
Falls on the kindling blossoms, and his soul
Remembers youth and love, and hopefully
Turns unto thee, who call’st earth’s buried germs
From dust to splendour; as the mortal seed
Shall, at thy summons, from the grave spring up
To put on glory, to be girt with power,
And fill’d with immortality. Receive
Thanks, blessings, love, for these, thy lavish boons,
And, most of all, their heavenward influences,
O Thou that gavest us flowers!
Return, my boy!--
With all thy chaplets and bright bands, return!
See, with how deep a crimson eve hath touch’d
And glorified the ruin!--glow-worm light
Will twinkle on the dewdrops, ere we reach
Our home again. Come! with thy last sweet prayer
At thy bless’d mother’s knee, to-night shall thanks
Unto our Father in his heaven arise,
For all the gladness, all the beauty shed
O’er one rich day of flowers.

HYMN OF THE TRAVELLER’S HOUSEHOLD ON HIS RETURN,

IN THE OLDEN TIME.

Joy! the lost one is restored!
Sunshine comes to hearth and board.
From the far-off countries old
Of the diamond and red gold;
From the dusky archer-bands,
Roamers of the fiery sands;
From the desert winds, whose breath
Smites with sudden, silent death;
He hath reach’d his home again,
Where we sing
In thy praise a fervent strain,
God our King!

Mightiest! unto thee he turn’d
When the noon-day fiercest burn’d:
When the fountain-springs were far,
And the sounds of Arab war
Swell’d upon the sultry blast,
And the sandy columns past,
Unto thee he cried; and thou,
Merciful! didst hear his vow!
Therefore unto thee again
Joy shall sing
Many a sweet and thankful strain,
God our King!

Thou wert with him on the main,
And the snowy mountain-chain,
And the rivers, dark and wide,
Which through Indian forests glide:
Thou didst guard him from the wrath
Of the lion in his path,
And the arrows on the breeze,
And the dropping poison-trees.
Therefore from our household train
Oft shall spring
Unto thee a blessing strain,
God our King!

Thou to his lone, watching wife
Hast brought back the light of life!
Thou hast spared his loving child
Home to greet him from the wild.
Though the suns of Eastern skies
On his cheek have set their dyes,
Though long toils and sleepless cares
On his brow have blanch’d the hairs,
Yet the night of fear is flown--
He is living, and our own!
Brethren! spread his festal board,
Hang his mantle and his sword,
With the armour, on the wall--
While this long, long silent hall
Joyfully doth hear again
Voice and string
Swell to thee the exulting strain,
God our King!

THE PAINTER’S LAST WORK.

[Suggested by the closing scene in the life of the painter Blake, which is beautifully related by Allan Cunningham.]

“Clasp me a little longer on the brink
Of life, while I can feel thy dear caress;
And when this heart hath ceased to beat, oh! think,
And let it mitigate thy woe’s excess,
That thou hast been to me all tenderness,
And friend to more than human friendship just--
Oh! by that retrospect of happiness,
And by the hope of an immortal trust,
God shall assuage thy pangs when I am laid in dust!”--Campbell.

_The Scene is an English Cottage. The lattice opens upon a Landscape at sunset._

Eugene, Teresa.

_Teresa._ The fever’s hue hath left thy cheek, beloved!
Thine eyes, that make the dayspring in my heart,
Are clear and still once more! Wilt thou look forth?
Now, while the sunset with low streaming light--
The light thou lovest--hath made the elm-wood stems
All burning bronze, the river molten gold!
Wilt thou be raised upon thy couch, to meet
The rich air fill’d with wandering scents and sounds?
Or shall I lay thy dear, dear head once more
On this true bosom, lulling thee to rest
With our own evening hymn?

_Eugene._ Not now, dear love!
My soul is wakeful--lingering to look forth,
Not on the sun, but thee! Doth the light sleep
On the stream tenderly? and are the stems
Of our own elm-trees, by its alchemy,
So richly changed? and is the sweetbrier-scent
Floating around? But I have said farewell,
Farewell to earth, Teresa!--not to thee;
Nor yet to our deep love--nor yet awhile
Unto the spirit of mine art, which flows
Back on my soul in mastery. One last work!
And I will shrine my wealth of glowing thoughts,
Clinging affections, and undying hopes,
All, all in that memorial!

_Teresa._ Oh, what dream
Is this, mine own Eugene? Waste thou not thus
Thy scarce-returning strength; keep thy rich thoughts
For happier days--they will not melt away
Like passing music from the lute. Dear friend!
Dearest of friends! thou canst win back at will
The glorious visions.

_Eugene._ Yes! the unseen land
Of glorious visions hath sent forth a voice
To call me hence. Oh, be thou not deceived!
Bind to thy heart no _earthly_ hope, Teresa!
I must, _must_ leave thee! Yet be strong, my love!
As thou hast still been gentle.

_Teresa._ O Eugene!
What will this dim world be to me, Eugene!
When wanting thy bright soul, the life of all--
My only sunshine? How can I bear on?
How can we part?--we that have loved so well,
With clasping spirits link’d so long by grief,
By tears, by prayer?

_Eugene._ E’en _therefore_ we can part,
With an immortal trust, that such high love
Is not of things to perish.
Let me leave
One record still of its ethereal flame
Brightening through death’s cold shadow. Once again,
Stand with thy meek hands folded on thy breast,
And eyes half veil’d, in thine own soul absorb’d,
As in thy watchings ere I sink to sleep;
And I will give the bending, flower-like grace
Of that soft form, and the still sweetness throned
On that pale brow, and in that quivering smile
Of voiceless love, a life that shall outlast
Their delicate earthly being. There! thy head
Bow’d down with beauty, and with tenderness,
And lowly thought--even thus--my own Teresa!
Oh! the quick-glancing radiance and bright bloom,
That once around thee hung, have melted now
Into more solemn light--but holier far,
And dearer, and yet lovelier in mine eyes,
Than all that summer-flush! For by my couch,
In patient and serene devotedness,
Thou hast made those rich hues and sunny smiles
Thine offering unto me. Oh! I may give
Those pensive lips, that clear Madonna brow,
And the sweet earnestness of that dark eye,
Unto the canvass; I may catch the flow
Of all those drooping locks, and glorify,
With a soft halo, what is imaged thus--
But how much rests unbreathed, my faithful one!
What thou hast been to me! This bitter world!
This cold, unanswering world, that hath no voice
To greet the gentle spirit, that drives back
All birds of Eden, which would sojourn here
A little while--how have I turn’d away
From its keen, soulless air, and in thy heart
Found ever the sweet fountain of response
To quench my thirst for home!
The dear work grows
Beneath my hand,--the last!

_Teresa_, (_falling on his neck in tears._)
Eugene! Eugene!
Break not my heart with thine excess of love!--
Oh! must I lose thee--thou that hast been still
The tenderest--best!

_Eugene._ Weep, weep not thus, beloved!
Let my true heart o’er thine retain its power
Of soothing to the last! Mine own Teresa!
Take strength from strong affection! Let our souls,
Ere this brief parting, mingle in one strain
Of deep, full thanksgiving, for God’s rich boon--
Our perfect love! Oh, blessed have we been
In that high gift! thousands o’er earth may pass,
With hearts unfreshen’d by the heavenly dew,
Which hath kept _ours_ from withering. Kneel, true wife!
And lay thy hands in mine.

_(She kneels beside the couch--he prays.)_

Oh, thus receive
Thy children’s thanks, Creator! for the love
Which thou hast granted, through all earthly woes,
To spread heaven’s peace around them--which hath bound
Their spirits to each other and to thee,
With links whereon unkindness ne’er hath breathed,
Nor wandering thought. We thank thee, gracious God!
For all its treasured memories, tender cares,
Fond words, bright, bright sustaining looks, unchanged
Through tears and joy! O Father! most of all,
We thank, we bless thee, for the priceless trust,
Through thy redeeming Son vouchsafed to those
That love in thee, of union, in thy sight
And in thy heavens, immortal! Hear our prayer!
Take home our fond affections, purified
To spirit-radiance from all earthly stain;
Exalted, solemnised, made fit to dwell,
Father! where all things that are lovely meet,
And all things that are pure--for evermore
With thee and thine!

A PRAYER OF AFFECTION.

Blessings, O Father! shower--
Father of Mercies! round his precious head!
On his lone walks and on his thoughtful hour,
And the pure visions of his midnight bed,
Blessings be shed!

Father! I pray thee not
For earthly treasure to that most beloved--
Fame, fortune, power: oh! be his spirit proved
By these, or by their absence, at thy will!
But let thy peace be wedded to his lot,
Guarding his inner life from touch of ill,
With its dove-pinion still!
Let such a sense of thee,
Thy watching presence, thy sustaining love,
His bosom-guest inalienably be,
That wheresoe’er he move,
A heavenly light serene
Upon his heart and mien
May sit undimm’d! a gladness rest his own,
Unspeakable, and to the world unknown!
Such as from childhood’s morning land of dreams,
Remember’d faintly, gleams--
Faintly remember’d, and too swiftly flown!

So let him walk with thee,
Made by thy Spirit free;
And when thou call’st him from his mortal place,
To his last hour be still that sweetness given,
That joyful trust! and brightly let him part,
With lamp clear burning, and unlingering heart,
Mature to meet in heaven
His Saviour’s face!

MOTHER’S LITANY BY THE SICKBED OF A CHILD.

Saviour, that of woman born,
Mother-sorrow didst not scorn--
Thou, with whose last anguish strove
One dear thought of earthly love--
Hear and aid!

Low he lies, my precious child,
With his spirit wandering wild
From its gladsome tasks and play,
And its bright thoughts far away--
Saviour, aid!

Pain sits heavy on his brow,
E’en though slumber seal it now;
Round his lip is quivering strife,
In his hand unquiet life--
Aid! oh, aid!

Saviour! loose the burning chain
From his fever’d heart and brain,
Give, oh! give his young soul back
Into its own cloudless track!
Hear and aid!

Thou that saidst, “Awake! arise!”
E’en when death had quench’d the eyes--
In this hour of grief’s deep sighing,
When o’erwearied hope is dying,
Hear and aid!

Yet, oh! make him thine, all thine,
Saviour! whether Death’s or mine!
Yet, oh! pour on human love,
Strength, trust, patience, from above!
Hear and aid!

NIGHT HYMN AT SEA.

THE WORDS WRITTEN FOR A MELODY BY FELTON.

Night sinks on the wave,
Hollow gusts are sighing,
Sea-birds to their cave
Through the gloom are flying.
Oh! should storms come sweeping,
Thou, in heaven unsleeping,
O’er thy children vigil keeping,
Hear, hear, and save!

Stars look o’er the sea,
Few, and sad, and shrouded;
Faith our light must be,
When all else is clouded.
Thou, whose voice came thrilling,
Wind and billow stilling,
Speak once more! our prayer fulfilling--
Power dwells with thee!

SONNETS.

FEMALE CHARACTERS OF SCRIPTURE.

“Your tents are desolate; your stately steps,
Of all their choral dances, have not left
One trace beside the fountains: your full cup
Of gladness and of trembling, each alike
Is broken. Yet, amidst undying things,
The mind still keeps your loveliness, and still
All the fresh glories of the early world
Hang round you in the spirit’s pictured halls,
Never to change!”

INVOCATION.

As the tired voyager on stormy seas
Invokes the coming of bright birds from shore,
To waft him tidings, with the gentler breeze,
Of dim, sweet woods that hear no billows roar;
So, from the depth of days, when earth yet wore
Her solemn beauty and primeval dew,
I call you, gracious Forms! Oh, come! restore
Awhile that holy freshness, and renew
Life’s morning dreams. Come with the voice, the lyre,
Daughters of Judah! with the timbrel rise!
Ye of the dark, prophetic, Eastern eyes,
Imperial in their visionary fire;
Oh! steep my soul in that old, glorious time,
When God’s own whisper shook the cedars of your clime!

INVOCATION CONTINUED.

And come, ye faithful! round Messiah seen,
With a soft harmony of tears and light
Streaming through all your spiritual mien--
As in calm clouds of pearly stillness bright,
Showers weave with sunshine, and transpierce their slight
Ethereal cradle. From your heart subdued
All haughty dreams of power had wing’d their flight,
And left high place for martyr fortitude,
True faith, long-suffering love. Come to me, come!
And as the seas, beneath your Master’s tread,
Fell into crystal smoothness, round him spread
Like the clear pavement of his heavenly home;
So, in your presence, let the soul’s great deep
Sink to the gentleness of infant sleep.

THE SONG OF MIRIAM.

A song for Israel’s God! Spear, crest, and helm
Lay by the billows of the old Red Sea,
When Miriam’s voice o’er that sepulchral realm
Sent on the blast a hymn of jubilee.
With her lit eye, and long hair floating free,
Queen-like she stood, and glorious was the strain,
E’en as instinct with the tempestuous glee
Of the dark waters, tossing o’er the slain.
A song for God’s own victory! Oh, thy lays,
Bright poesy! were holy in their birth:
How hath it died, thy seraph-note of praise,
In the bewildering melodies of earth!
Return from troubling, bitter founts--return,
Back to the life-springs of thy native urn!

RUTH.

The plume-like swaying of the auburn corn,
By soft winds to a dreamy motion fann’d,
Still brings me back thine image--O forlorn,
Yet not forsaken Ruth! I see thee stand
Lone, midst the gladness of the harvest-band--
Lone, as a wood-bird on the ocean’s foam
Fall’n in its weariness. Thy fatherland
Smiles far away! yet to the sense of home--
That finest, purest, which can recognise
Home in affection’s glance--for ever true
Beats thy calm heart; and if thy gentle eyes
Gleam tremulous through tears,’tis not to rue
Those words, immortal in their deep love’s tone,
“_Thy people and thy God shall be mine own!_”

THE VIGIL OF RIZPAH.

“And Rizpah, the daughter of Aiah, took sackcloth, and spread it for her upon the rock, from the beginning of harvest until water dropped upon them out of heaven; and suffered neither the birds of the air to rest on them by day, nor the beasts of the field by night.”--2 Sam. xxi. 10.

Who watches on the mountain with the dead,
Alone before the awfulness of night?--
A seer awaiting the deep spirit’s might?
A warrior guarding some dark pass of dread?
No--a lorn woman! On her drooping head,
Once proudly graceful, heavy beats the rain;
She recks not--living for the unburied slain,
Only to scare the vulture from their bed.
So, night by night, her vigil hath she kept
With the pale stars, and with the dews hath wept:
Oh! surely some bright Presence from above
On those wild rocks the lonely one must aid!
E’en so; a strengthener through all storm and shade,
Th’ unconquerable angel, mightiest Love!

THE REPLY OF THE SHUNAMITE WOMAN.

“And she answered, I dwell among mine own people.”
2 Kings, iv. 13.

“I dwell among mine own,”--oh, happy thou!
Not for the sunny clusters of the vine,
Not for the olives on the mountain’s brow,
Nor the flocks wandering by the flowery line
Of streams, that make the green land where they shine
Laugh to the light of waters--not for these,
Nor the soft shadow of ancestral trees,
Whose kindly whisper floats o’er thee and thine--
Oh! not for _these_ I call thee richly blest,
But for the meekness of thy woman’s breast,
Where that sweet depth of still contentment lies;
And for thy holy, household love, which clings
Unto all ancient and familiar things,
Weaving from each some link for home’s dear charities.

THE ANNUNCIATION.

Lowliest of women, and most glorified!
In thy still beauty sitting calm and lone,
A brightness round thee grew--and by thy side,
Kindling the air, a form ethereal shone,
Solemn, yet breathing gladness. From her throne
A queen had risen with more imperial eye,
A stately prophetess of victory
From her proud lyre had struck a tempest’s tone,
For such high tidings as to _thee_ were brought,
Chosen of heaven! that hour: but thou, oh! thou,
E’en as a flower with gracious rains o’erfraught,
Thy virgin head beneath its crown didst bow,
And take to thy meek breast th’ all-holy word,
And own thyself _the handmaid of the Lord_.

THE SONG OF THE VIRGIN.

Yet as a sunburst flushing mountain-snow,
Fell the celestial touch of fire ere long
On the pale stillness of thy thoughtful brow,
And thy calm spirit lighten’d into song.
Unconsciously, perchance, yet free and strong
Flow’d the majestic joy of tuneful words,
Which living harps the choirs of heaven among
Might well have link’d with their divinest chords.
Full many a strain, borne far on glory’s blast,
Shall leave, where once its haughty music pass’d,
No more to memory than a reed’s faint sigh;
While thine, O childlike Virgin! through all time
Shall send its fervent breath o’er every clime,
Being of God, and therefore not to die.

THE PENITENT ANOINTING CHRIST’S FEET.

There was a mournfulness in angel eyes,
That saw thee, woman! bright in this world’s train,
Moving to pleasure’s airy melodies,
Thyself the idol of the enchanted strain.
But from thy beauty’s garland, brief and vain,
When one by one the rose-leaves had been torn;
When thy heart’s core had quiver’d to the pain
Through every life-nerve sent by arrowy scorn;
When thou didst kneel to pour sweet odours forth
On the Redeemer’s feet, with many a sigh,
And showering tear-drop, of yet richer worth
Than all those costly balms of Araby;
_Then_ was there joy, a song of joy in heaven,
For thee, the child won back, the penitent forgiven!

MARY AT THE FEET OF CHRIST.

Oh! bless’d beyond all daughters of the earth!
What were the Orient’s thrones to that low seat
Where thy hush’d spirit drew celestial birth,
Mary! meek listener at the Saviour’s feet?
No feverish cares to that divine retreat
Thy woman’s heart of silent worship brought,
But a fresh childhood, heavenly truth to meet
With love, and wonder, and submissive thought.
Oh! for the holy quiet of thy breast,
Midst the world’s eager tones and footsteps flying,
Thou, whose calm soul was like a well-spring, lying
So deep and still in its transparent rest,
That e’en when noontide burns upon the hills,
Some one bright solemn star all its lone mirror fills.

THE SISTERS OF BETHANY AFTER THE DEATH OF LAZARUS.

One grief, one faith, O sisters of the dead!
Was in your bosoms--thou, whose steps, made fleet
By keen hope fluttering in the heart which bled,
Bore thee, as wings, the Lord of Life to greet;
And thou, that duteous in thy still retreat
Didst wait his summons, then with reverent love
Fall weeping at the bless’d Deliverer’s feet,
Whom e’en to heavenly tears thy woe could move.
And which to _Him_, the All-seeing and All-just,
Was loveliest--that quick zeal, or lowly trust?
Oh! question not, and let no law be given
To those unveilings of its deepest shrine,
By the wrung spirit made in outward sign:
Free service from the heart is all in all to heaven.

THE MEMORIAL OF MARY.

“Verily I say unto you, wheresoever this gospel shall be preached in the whole world, there shall also this that this woman hath done, be told for a memorial of her.”--Matthew, xxvi. 13.--See also John, xii. 3.

Thou hast thy record in the monarch’s hall,
And on the waters of the far mid sea;
And where the mighty mountain-shadows fall,
The Alpine hamlet keeps a thought of thee:
Where’er, beneath some Oriental tree,
The Christian traveller rests--where’er the child
Looks upward from the English mother’s knee,
With earnest eyes in wondering reverence mild,
There art thou known--where’er the Book of light
Bears hope and healing, there, beyond all blight,
Is borne thy memory, and all praise above.
Oh! say what deed so lifted thy sweet name,
Mary! to that pure, silent place of fame?
One lowly offering of exceeding love.

THE WOMEN OF JERUSALEM AT THE CROSS.

Like those pale stars of tempest-hours, whose gleam
Waves calm and constant on the rocking mast.
Such by the cross doth your bright lingering seem,
Daughters of Zion! faithful to the last!
Ye, through the darkness o’er the wide earth cast
By the death-cloud within the Saviour’s eye,
E’en till away the heavenly spirit pass’d,
Stood in the shadow of his agony.
O blessed faith! a guiding lamp, that hour
Was lit for woman’s heart! To her, whose dower
Is all of love and suffering from her birth,
Still hath your act a voice--through fear, through strife,
Bidding her bind each tendril of her life
To that which her deep soul hath proved of holiest worth.

MARY MAGDALENE AT THE SEPULCHRE.

Weeper! to thee how bright a morn was given
After thy long, long vigil of despair,
When that high voice which burial-rocks had riven
Thrill’d with immortal tones the silent air!
Never did clarion’s royal blast declare
Such tale of victory to a breathless crowd,
As the deep sweetness of _one_ word could bear
Into thy heart of hearts, O woman! bow’d
By strong affection’s anguish! one low word--
“_Mary!_” and all the triumph wrung from death
Was thus reveal’d; and thou, that so hadst err’d,
So wept, and been forgiven, in trembling faith
Didst cast thee down before the all-conquering Son,
Awed by the mighty gift thy tears and love had won!

MARY MAGDALENE BEARING TIDINGS OF THE RESURRECTION.

Then was a task of glory all thine own,
Nobler than e’er the still, small voice assign’d
To lips in awful music making known
The stormy splendours of some prophet’s mind.
“_Christ is arisen!_”--by thee, to wake mankind,
First from the sepulchre those words were brought!
Thou wert to send the mighty rushing wind
First on its way, with those high tidings fraught--
“_Christ is arisen!_” Thou, _thou_, the sin-enthrall’d!
Earth’s outcast, heaven’s own ransom’d one, wert call’d
In human hearts to give that rapture birth:
Oh raised from shame to brightness! _there_ doth lie
The tenderest meaning of _His_ ministry,
Whose undespairing love still own’d the spirit’s worth.

SONNETS, DEVOTIONAL AND MEMORIAL.

THE SACRED HARP.

How shall the harp of poesy regain
That old victorious tone of prophet-years--
A spell divine o’er guilt’s perturbing fears,
And all the hovering shadows of the brain?
Dark, evil wings took flight before the strain,
And showers of holy quiet, with its fall,
Sank on the soul. Oh! who may now recall
The mighty music’s consecrated reign?
Spirit of God! whose glory once o’erhung
A throne, the ark’s dread cherubim between,
So let thy presence brood, though now unseen,
O’er those two powers by whom the harp is strung,
Feeling and Thought! till the rekindled chords
Give the long-buried tone back to immortal words.

TO A FAMILY BIBLE.

What household thoughts around thee, as their shrine,
Cling reverently? Of anxious looks beguiled,
My mother’s eyes upon thy page divine
Each day were bent--her accents, gravely mild,
Breathed out thy lore: whilst I, a dreamy child,
Wander’d on breeze-like fancies oft away,
To some lone tuft of gleaming spring-flowers wild,
Some fresh-discover’d nook for woodland play,
Some secret nest. Yet would the solemn Word,
At times, with kindlings of young wonder heard,
Fall on thy waken’d spirit, there to be
A seed not lost,--for which, in darker years,
O Book of Heaven! I pour, with grateful tears,
Heart-blessings on the holy dead and thee!

REPOSE OF A HOLY FAMILY.

FROM AN OLD ITALIAN PICTURE.

Under a palm-tree, by the green, old Nile,
Lull’d on his mother’s breast, the fair child lies,
With dove-like breathings, and a tender smile
Brooding above the slumber of his eyes;
While, through the stillness of the burning skies,
Lo! the dread works of Egypt’s buried kings,
Temple and pyramid, beyond him rise,
Regal and still as everlasting things.
Vain pomps! from him, with that pure, flowery cheek,
Soft shadow’d by his mother’s drooping head,
A new-born spirit, mighty, and yet meek,
O’er the whole world like vernal air shall spread;
And bid all earthly grandeurs cast the crown,
Before the suffering and the lowly, down.

PICTURE OF THE INFANT CHRIST WITH FLOWERS.

All the bright hues from eastern garlands glowing,
Round the young child luxuriantly are spread;
Gifts, fairer far than Magian kings, bestowing
In adoration, o’er his cradle shed.
Roses, deep-fill’d with rich midsummer’s red,
Circle his hands: but, in his grave, sweet eye,
Thought seems e’en now to wake, and prophesy
Of ruder coronals for that meek head.
And thus it was! a diadem of thorn
Earth gave to Him who mantled her with flowers;
To Him who pour’d forth blessings in soft showers
O’er all her paths, a cup of bitter scorn!
And _we_ repine, for whom that cup He took,
O’er blooms that mock’d our hope, o’er idols that forsook!

ON A REMEMBERED PICTURE OF CHRIST.

AN ECCE HOMO, BY LEONARDO DA VINCI.

I met that image on a mirthful day
Of youth; and, sinking with a still’d surprise,
The pride of life, before those holy eyes,
In my quick heart died thoughtfully away,
Abash’d to mute confession of a sway
Awful, though meek. And now that, from the strings
Of my soul’s lyre, the tempest’s mighty wings
Have struck forth tones which then unwaken’d lay;
Now that, around the deep life of my mind,
Affections, deathless as itself, have twined,
Oft does the pale, bright vision still float by;
But more divinely sweet, and speaking _now_
Of One whose pity, throned on that sad brow,
Sounded all depths of love, grief, death, humanity!

THE CHILDREN WHOM JESUS BLESSED.

Happy were they, the mothers, in whose sight
Ye grew, fair children! hallow’d from that hour
By your Lord’s blessing. Surely thence a shower
Of heavenly beauty, a transmitted light
Hung on your brows and eyelids, meekly bright,
Through all the after years, which saw ye move
Lowly, yet still majestic, in the might,
The conscious glory of the Saviour’s love!
And honour’d be all childhood, for the sake
Of that high love! Let reverential care
Watch to behold the immortal spirit wake.
And shield its first bloom from unholy air;
Owning, in each young suppliant glance, the sign
Of claims upon a heritage divine.

MOUNTAIN SANCTUARIES.

“He went up to a mountain apart to pray.”

A child midst ancient mountains I have stood,
Where the wild falcons make their lordly nest
On high. The spirit of the solitude
Fell solemnly upon my infant breast,
Though then I pray’d not; but deep thoughts have press’d
Into my being since it breathed that air,
Nor could I _now_ one moment live the guest
Of such dread scenes, without the springs of prayer
O’erflowing all my soul. No minsters rise
Like them in pure communion with the skies,
Vast, silent, open unto night and day;
So might the o’erburden’d Son of Man have felt,
When, turning where inviolate stillness dwelt,
He sought high mountains, there apart to pray.

THE LILIES OF THE FIELD.

“Consider the lilies of the field.”

Flowers! when the Saviour’s calm, benignant eye
Fell on your gentle beauty--when from you
That heavenly lesson for all hearts he drew,
Eternal, universal, as the sky--
Then, in the bosom of your purity,
A voice He set, as in a temple-shrine,
That life’s quick travellers ne’er might pass you by
Unwarn’d of that sweet oracle divine.
And though, too oft its low, celestial sound
By the harsh notes of work-day Care is drown’d,
And the loud steps of vain, unlistening Haste,
Yet, the great ocean hath no tone of power
Mightier to reach the soul, in thought’s hush’d hour,
Than yours, ye Lilies! chosen thus and graced!

THE BIRDS OF THE AIR.

“And behold the birds of the air.”

Ye too, the free and fearless birds of air,
Were charged that hour, on missionary wing,
The same bright lesson o’er the seas to bear,
Heaven-guided wanderers, with the winds of spring.
Sing on, before the storm and after, sing!
And call us to your echoing woods away
From worldly cares; and bid our spirits bring
Faith to imbibe deep wisdom from your lay.
So may those blessed vernal strains renew
Childhood, a childhood yet more pure and true
E’en than the first, within th’ awaken’d mind;
While sweetly, joyously, they tell of life,
That knows no doubts, no questionings, no strife,
But hangs upon its God, unconsciously resign’d.

THE RAISING OF THE WIDOW’S SON.

“And he that was dead sat up and began to speak.”

_He that was dead rose up and spoke_--He spoke!
Was it of that majestic world unknown?
Those words, which first the bier’s dread silence broke,
Came they with revelation in each tone?
Were the far cities of the nations gone,
The solemn halls of consciousness or sleep,
For man uncurtain’d by that spirit lone,
Back from their portal summon’d o’er the deep?
Be hush’d, my soul! the veil of darkness lay
Still drawn: thy Lord call’d back the voice departed
To spread his truth, to comfort his weak-hearted,
Not to reveal the mysteries of its way.
Oh! take that lesson home in silent faith,
Put on submissive strength to _meet_, not _question_, death!

THE OLIVE TREE.

The palm--the vine--the cedar--each hath power
To bid fair Oriental shapes glance by;
And each quick glistening of the laurel bower
Wafts Grecian images o’er fancy’s eye.
But thou, pale Olive! in _thy_ branches lie
Far deeper spells than prophet-grove of old
Might e’er enshrine: I could not hear the sigh
To the wind’s faintest whisper, nor behold
One shiver of thy leaves’ dim, silvery green,
Without high thoughts and solemn, of that scene
When, in the garden, the Redeemer pray’d--
When pale stars look’d upon his fainting head,
And angels, ministering in silent dread,
Trembled, perchance, within _thy_ trembling shade.

THE DARKNESS OF THE CRUCIFIXION.

On Judah’s hills a weight of darkness hung,
Felt shudderingly at noon: the land had driven
A Guest divine back to the gates of heaven--
A life, whence all pure founts of healing sprung,
All grace, all truth. And when, to anguish wrung,
From the sharp cross th’ enlightening spirit fled,
O’er the forsaken earth a pall of dread
By the great shadow of that death was flung.
O Saviour! O Atoner!--thou that fain
Wouldst make thy temple in each human heart,
Leave not such darkness in my soul to reign;
Ne’er may thy presence from its depths depart,
Chased thence by guilt! Oh! turn not _thou_ away,
The bright and Morning Star, my guide to perfect day!

PLACES OF WORSHIP.

“God is a spirit.”

Spirit! whose life-sustaining presence fills
Air, ocean, central depths by man untried,
Thou for thy worshippers hast sanctified
All place, all time! The silence of the hills
Breathes veneration,--founts and choral rills
Of thee are murmuring,--to its inmost glade
The living forest with thy whisper thrills,
And there is holiness in every shade.
Yet must the thoughtful soul of man invest
With dearer consecration those pure fanes,
Which, sever’d from all sound of earth’s unrest,
Hear naught but suppliant or adoring strains
Rise heavenward. Ne’er may rock or cave possess
_Their_ claim on human hearts to solemn tenderness.

OLD CHURCH IN AN ENGLISH PARK.[426]

Crowning a flowery slope, it stood alone
In gracious sanctity. A bright rill wound,
Caressingly, about the holy ground;
And warbled, with a never-dying tone,
Amidst the tombs. A hue of ages gone
Seem’d, from that ivied porch, that solemn gleam
Of tower and cross, pale-quivering on the stream,
O’er all th’ ancestral woodlands to be thrown--
And something yet more deep. The air was fraught
With noble memories, whispering many a thought
Of England’s fathers: loftily serene,
They that had toil’d, watch’d, struggled, to secure,
Within such fabrics, worship free and pure,
Reign’d there, the o’ershadowing spirit of the scene.

[426] Fawsley Park, near Daventry.

A CHURCH IN NORTH WALES.[427]

Blessings be round it still! that gleaming fane,
Low in its mountain-glen! Old, mossy trees
Mellow the sunshine through the untinted pane;
And oft, borne in upon some fitful breeze,
The deep sound of the ever-pealing seas,
Filling the hollows with its anthem-tone,
There meets the voice of psalms! Yet not alone
For memories lulling to the heart as these,
I bless thee, midst thy rocks, gray house of prayer!
But for _their_ sakes who unto thee repair
From the hill-cabins and the ocean-shore.
Oh! may the fisher and the mountaineer
Words to sustain earth’s toiling children hear,
Within thy lowly walls, for evermore!

[427] That of Aber, near Bangor.

LOUISE SCHEPLER.

[Louise Schepler was the faithful servant and friend of the pastor Oberlin. The last letter addressed by him to his children for their perusal after his decease, affectingly commemorates her unwearied zeal in visiting and instructing the children of the mountain hamlets, through all seasons, and in all circumstances of difficulty and danger.]

A fearless journeyer o’er the mountain-snow
Wert thou, Louise! The sun’s decaying light
Oft, with its latest, melancholy glow,
Redden’d thy steep, wild way: the starry night
Oft met thee, crossing some lone eagle’s height,
Piercing some dark ravine: and many a dell
Knew, through its ancient rock-recesses well,
Thy gentle presence, which hath made them bright
Oft in mid-storms--oh! not with beauty’s eye,
Nor the proud glance of genius keenly burning;
No! pilgrim of unwearying charity!
Thy spell was _love_--the mountain-deserts turning
To blessed realms, where stream and rock rejoice
When the glad human soul lifts a thanksgiving voice!

TO THE SAME.

For thou, a holy shepherdess and kind,
Through the pine forests, by the upland rills,
Didst roam to seek the children of the hills,
A wild, neglected flock! to seek, and find,
And meekly win! there feeding each young mind
With balms of heavenly eloquence: not _thine_,
Daughter of Christ! but His, whose love divine
Its own clear spirit in thy breast had shrined,
A burning light! Oh! beautiful, in truth,
Upon the mountains are the feet of those
Who bear His tidings! From thy morn of youth,
For this were all thy journeyings; and the close
Of that long path, heaven’s own bright sabbath-rest,
Must wait thee, wanderer! on thy Saviour’s breast

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

THE TWO MONUMENTS.[428]

“Oh! bless’d are they who live and die like ‘him,’
Loved with such love, and with such sorrow mourn’d!”
Wordsworth.

Banners hung drooping from on high
In a dim cathedral’s nave,
Making a gorgeous canopy
O’er a noble, noble grave!

And a marble warrior’s form beneath,
With helm and crest array’d,
As on his battle-bed of death,
Lay in their crimson shade.

Triumph yet linger’d in his eye,
Ere by the dark night seal’d;
And his head was pillow’d haughtily
On standard and on shield.

And shadowing that proud trophy-pile,
With the glory of his wing,
An eagle sat--yet seem’d the while
Panting through heaven to spring.

He sat upon a shiver’d lance,
There by the sculptor bound;
But in the light of his lifted glance
Was _that_ which scorn’d the ground.