Chapter IV: The Grave Yard (6)

Thou hast a trio angel band,
In heaven's high court above;--
There Freddie, Lizzie, Linnae stand,
Before a God of love.

Thou soon must join that angel band,
For earthly must decay;
Thy children from the spirit land,
Seem beck'ning thee away.

And now a threefold golden cord,
Has unto thee been given,
Gently to draw thy trusting heart
Away from earth to heaven.

And though mysterious are God's ways--
His promises are sure;
Earth no affliction has so deep,
"That heaven cannot cure."

And though so dark appears the cloud--
Its silver lining, see;
The Sun of Righteousness there sheds
His healing beams for thee.

Thou hast one jewell'd casket yet--
Thy Eddie still remains;
O, may a dying Saviour's blood
Cleanse all his guilty stains.

That he may be prepared to go,
When Christ shall bid him come,
And join that glittering, angel band,
In their eternal home.

Then when the last loud trump shall sound,
And wake the sleeping dead;
Thy family shall all be found,
With Christ, their Living Head.

The First and Last Voyage of The Atlantic.

It was a delightful afternoon in midsummer, when I passed through New York, that great thoroughfare of human life, to pursue my passage towards my own New England home, with a heart filled with those inexpressible emotions that crowd upon us, when, after a long absence we anticipate a return to the bosom of a loved family.

Nature seemed tuned to sweet harmonies, and echoing the happiness that filled the heart, produced no discordant note. Gentle breezes fanned the cheek, and bore sweet perfume from the waving branches of the trees as they gently swung before it, and their trembling leaves fluttered before the passing breath of the summer wind; for summer was brightly clad in all her robes of glory.

Birds carolled in wild melody their hymns of praise, and lifted their glad voices to Him "who tipped their glittering wings with gold, and tuned their voice to praise." Flowers were blooming in all their rich varieties, and the splendid boquet that had been presented me from the lady with whom I had been boarding several weeks, bespoke the handy work of its Creator, and involuntarily raised the thoughts to that land, where the flowers fade not, where change and decay come not.

Our journey led us by the quiet Cemetery of Greenwood, that vast receptacle of the city dead. As we mused upon its peaceful rest, its quiet shades, the transparency of the waters, that sleep in the bosom of the sylvan lake, and then glanced upon the great thoroughfare, teeming with life in all its varied and changeful positions, and reflected that every individual in that moving mass possessed an immortal mind, and was pressing their way to these grassy avenues, passing on, step by step, toward the silent grave, the thought was overwhelming, and the question came up, "Lord, what is man that thou art mindful of him, or the Son of man that thou regardest him?"

As we crossed Fulton ferry at Brooklyn, the waters spoke in low, dirge like voices of the same Almighty hand, and their waves were tossed into gentle motion by the passing breeze, and seemed to reflect myriads of diamonds upon its sparkling bosom, as it lay spread out before the eye of the beholder.

The bustling throng of the city were moving down by the Battery toward the steamboat wharf. The silver fountain sent forth its sparkling waters, and the white swan curved its graceful neck in its mimic lake, and the walks in the Battery were neat and inviting; but these attracted not the attention of the passing throng. There was a more intense object of curiosity.

The beautiful Atlantic lay at the wharf, lifting high her huge steam pipes, emitting her blinding steam, and impatient to try her strength upon the bosom of the deep. Her deck was thronged with human beings, filled with impatient curiosity to see the gallant boat launch forth, and pursue her way over the waste of waters.

Little thought that gaping multitude of the rich freight that was on board that floating bark, that was now to try its giant strength upon the billowy waves, the ocean of human mind broader, deeper than the watery waste of the wide Atlantic. O, no, they thought not of those priceless treasures, but it was the boat and her noble bearings that attracted all eyes and was the absorbing theme of conversation.

Near by lay the proud Oregon, apparently boasting that she had tried her strength, and was now willing to contest the point with the stranger boat, and be her pilot down the Sound. Her decks, too, were crowded with passengers anxious for the approaching race, for which every preparation was making.

The sun was sinking towards the west, and shed his subduing beams over the face of nature. No cloud hung its fleecy curtains over the canopy of heaven, but the arch of cerulean blue hung in deep solemn grandeur over the gathered crowd, over the boats at their moorings, and over the rippling waves that mirrored back its placid smile from their own tranquil bosom.

The hour came, the cheerful bells pealed their cordial invitation for all to come on board, and so they hastened on; the second bell rang its departure to the multitude on the shore, and soon the sound of the fierce steam whistle, the noise of the machinery, and the splash of the waters, told that the boats were moving like a thing of life over the bounding billows. The officers of the boat and many of the passengers were hurrying round, with busy feet, and using necessary efforts to propel their speed. As a bird cuts the air or an arrow wings its feathery course, so sped the boats upon their onward way.

The crowd on the shore watched them till they became small black specks in the distance, and then the tumultuous tide of human life turned towards the city's mart, and mingled again in its busy fluctuations and its change.

There was a delightful view as the boat passed the beautiful villages and elegant mansions of the wealthy citizens upon the surrounding shore, reflecting the mild radiance of the setting sun.

When the shadows of twilight deepened, and the sable curtains of night hid more distant objects from view, we could see in the dim distance upon the waste of waters, the heated steam pipes of the swift Atlantic, shedding a lurid glare upon the surrounding darkness.

By some failure in the fire works of the Oregon, one of the boilers refused to do its office, and it was a fearful sight to some on board to witness the high pressure principle that was applied to the other to raise the steam. The blue sky was above us and the blue waters beneath, and midnight shed her mysterious shapes and phantom shadows around us, and awoke memories of steamboat disasters and perishing crews sinking into a watery grave.

The ill-fated Lexington that was burned upon this very track, came up, haunting the imagination with wild, fantastic dreams.

But turning from a land of fancies and of shadows, we raised a trusting eye to the glittering host of silent stars that glistened in all their matchless beauty in heaven's blue vault above, then listened to the dashing of the briny wave, and felt that God was there, that His eye slumbereth not, and His hand holds not only individual life, but the destinies of nations, and at this solemn midnight hour, when there was no object of His creative power in sight save the spangled arch above and the foaming waters beneath, it was sweet to look up to Him in confidence and trust, feeling that His Almighty arm is omnipotent to save.

About midnight the ardor of the race abated. The Atlantic veered off in a different direction toward her destined port, and the Oregon pursued her accustomed way to her usual landing in Stonington.

Both boats reached their places of destination in safety, and thus passed the first night of the gallant boat upon the ocean wave.

* * * * *

It was a cold day when sober autumn had almost accomplished her appointed task, and swept cleanly away the beautiful shrubs and flowers, and rolled the withered leaves before his chilling breath to prepare for the entrance of cold, freezing winter, that already began to send his icy messengers before him, touching the streams with their freezing breath, and scattering snow flakes upon the barren earth.

It was on such a day when autumn came forth dressed in the icy garb of winter, that the Atlantic again prepared to loose from her accustomed moorings and ply her destined way to the busy city. Day after day she had performed her journey, and was winning public confidence in her safety and expedition.

Notwithstanding the inclemency of the weather, many sought a passage, desirous of reaching the distant city to spend the coming thanksgiving with absent friends. The wind sighed in low, fitful murmurs as it bore the fleecy snow flakes upon its airy pinions, and flung them unceremoniously into the face of the passing traveler, thus warning him of a fiercely coming storm.

The officers hesitated, as the ominous sea swell came surging on, and the dashing waves moaning upon the winding shore, seemed shrieking a sad requiem over the departed.

But finally the urgency of the passengers was so great, that they concluded to put forth upon the waste of waters and brave the fury of the midnight storm.

The bell gave its usual signal, and as its stifled sounds were borne upon the ear by the howling winds, they sounded like a death knell.

There were hurrying vehicles, and the busy tread of active feet, and the motley group were all on board, and many sorrowing friends stood upon the shore, breathing a tearful farewell, to the dear ones who were going from them.

The man of God was there; he had committed his interests to the "God of the winds and the waves," and his heart was at peace.

The gay and thoughtless were there, who heeded not that "human life is a vapor, that passeth soon away."

The second bell rang, and the sound fell with that leaden weight upon many hearts, that so often comes upon us, when we are called to part from some dearly loved objects, and we feel that it may be an eternal separation.

The boat was soon gliding over the foaming ocean, and the sorrowing friends returned to their homes, for the driving snow and sleet would not permit them to linger long, to watch its progress.

The last fond look was given, white handkerchiefs fluttered a moment in the sweeping blast, and the last farewell had passed between many fond, loving hearts.

The boat pursued her dangerous way, amid "the windy storm and tempest," and hope animated their bosoms, and some felt sure they should arrive in safety.

The storm and darkness increased, the wind blew with greater violence, and the tumultous sea hove up a hollow, bellowing sound, and seemed threatening swift destruction.

About midnight the boat became unmanageable, and it became evident to all on board, that many, if not all, must perish.

O, who may paint the agony of that fearful night? when death was heralding his approach, in the loud surging of the ruthless blast, and the deep toned thunder of the many voiced waters, as they dashed their giant waves against the ill-fated bark, that groaned and trembled beneath their mighty pressure.

Mingling with the tumultous groans of troubled nature, arose a fearful cry, from lips white with fear.

The solemn voice of prayer went up, and there were none to scoff, when the aged man bent his knee, and lifted his heart to God in prayer, beseeching him, for Jesus Christ's sake, to have mercy upon their souls. Many prayed in that hour of trial that never prayed before. It was an hour that closed the scorner's lip, and made the most profligate feel he was in the presence of a prayer-hearing God.

The bell, as if by some mysterious agency, commenced tolling, and its sad knell sounded through that long night, over the bosom of the lone sea. It was the same bell that rang so loud and clear on the day of the boat's first departure from New York; but now how different are the tones as they mingle with ocean's wail, and the fearful shriek of the howling blast.

It was like the changes that come over us so often, as we toss upon the tide of life, and buffet its adverse storms.

Many, ere morning dawned, found a watery grave.

It is not my intention to particularize, but draw the contrast of the first and last night the beautiful boat tossed upon the mighty deep.

Perchance the same eyes that witnessed her departure from the shore, anxiously watched her return that morning, and the anticipated greeting of many a dear friend burned bright in many a heart, but was soon--very soon--to be forever extinguished, as the loved, expected form was even then buried beneath the ocean wave. Many a mother had prepared the sumptuous thanksgiving breakfast, for a long-absent expected son, who, perchance, was offering up his thanksgiving anthem before the throne of God.

Hoary age and helpless infancy fell alike, before the destroying angel, and there were vacancies in almost all the relations of life.

How often it is thus with those who sail in life's frail bark, out upon the ocean of time. The morning may be calm and serene, and the golden sun shed his glad beams upon our joyous pathway, or the pale moon may walk forth in her beauty, accompanied by all the hosts of twinkling stars, to gladden the night, while gentle winds sigh around our dwellings, and we may pass on in the sunshine and the calm. But clouds will arise, tempests will come, for the waves and billows of human passions will surge over us, and many a frail bark is shattered and stranded beneath their giant strength.

Weary pilgrim in life's rugged journey, there is a haven of peace, where thy worn spirit may find rest. There is a chart to guide thee over the troubled sea, and a pilot stands ready to steer thy little bark aright.

His beams can ever shed a cheering ray upon thy toilsome way; and, oh, may you see light in his light.

The broad ocean of eternity lays before us; into that must our little shallop pass, and meet its final award. This, this is all that is worth living for--happy entrance into the presence of God, that

"We may bathe our weary souls,
In seas of heavenly rest."

The Fatal Feast.

Wealth would have a birth-day ball,
A high and lordly feast:
And open'd wide his spacious hall,
And ask'd in many a guest.

They came--the trifling ones of earth,--
A gay and thoughtless throng,
To join in revelry and mirth,
With music, dance and song.

High waxen tapers burning bright,
Illum'd the brilliant hall,
And threw their soft, enchanting light,
In dazzling rays o'er all.

Soft music echoed sweetest tones,
By unseen minstrels breath'd;
The air was laden with perfume,
From flow'rs that round were wreath'd.

Beauty was there, with brilliant eye.
And Health, with rosy cheek,--
Manhood, with forehead stern and high,
And youth with many a freak.

All--all were sparkling, bright and gay,
And join'd the dance or song,--
And seem'd unto the gazer's eye,
A happy, joyous throng.

And Wealth spread out his costly feast,
And gaily all partook:
The choicest viands cheered each guest,
As all with pleasure look.

For Luxury's self ne'er spread a board
With dainties so profuse,--
The most fastidious must be pleas'd,
For he had but to choose.

One goblet fill'd with nectar bright,
The centre seem'd to keep;
And when 'twas pass'd among the guests,
They all quaff'd long and deep.

The music never ceas'd its strain;
But warbl'd low and sweet;--
Sometimes, soft wailing, 'twould complain--
Then mirth the ear would greet.

All seem'd enchantment spread around,--
A golden, fairy dream;
And far off, mingling in the sound,
Was heard a murmuring stream.

And summer breezes softly sigh'd,--
And wasted sweet perfume,
Through door and lattice, open'd wide,
Around the spacious room.

When mirth was in its wildest mood,
And reign'd in every breast,
Sudden there stalk'd into the hall,
An uninvited guest.

The air grew chill, the lamps burn'd pale,--
All gaz'd with wild dismay,
The music turn'd a funeral wail,--
Then sighing, died away.

Twas Death that came into the hall,
With visage wan and grim,
And throwing off his sickly pall,
Disclos'd each meagre limb.

Some rose to flee, but palsied fell,
"I'm monarch here," cries Death;
And falling bodies quickly tell
His power o'er life and breath.

Beauty lies cold in his embrace,
And pale is manhood's brow;
The rose that crimson'd youth's fair cheek,
Lies a crush'd lily now.

All, all have sank beneath his dart,
Save fashion's ruthless hold;
She still maintains her iron grasp
O'er bodies pale and cold.

Gold glitters on the pallid brow,
And glassy eye-balls stare
Through glossy ringlets, clustering bright,
Of silken, raven hair.

All, all had bow'd to Fashion's shrine,
To deck the living form,
Through which will drag its length'ned slime,
The crawling coffin worm.

The morning sun had risen high,
And brightly shone o'er all;
But comes no voice, and wakes no eye
Within that spacious hall.

A traveller passing by that morn,
Marvell'd that all so long
Should linger in that festive hall
With revelry and song.

And so alighting from his steed,
He cross'd the portal high,
And glancing o'er the silent hall,
The sad sight met his eye.

With lightning's speed he hurri'd forth
To tell the dismal tale,
And soon were gather'd sorrowing friends
From mountain, hill, and dale.

Sad was the fun'ral wail that rose
From that infected hall;
Nought could the different forms define,
But Fashion's slimpsey pall.

And there they rais'd one common tomb,
And left them to their sleep,
'Till Christ's loud trump shall wake the dead
From slumber, long and deep.

The marble monument they rais'd
Doth this instruction bear:
"The things of earth pass soon away,
To meet your God prepare."

Many voices from the dead,
Here bid you well beware;
Tho' youth may bloom upon your cheek,
Still, still for death prepare.

The flowing nectar that had grac'd
The centre of the whole,
And so enlivened every guest,
Had death within the bowl.

Some small ingredient, when 'twas fix'd,
Was left by a mistake,
And others were together mix'd,
That active poison make.

To the Maiden

Maiden, have not the joys of earth
Prov'd fleeting, and of little worth?
And when the summer sun rode high,
Have clouds ne'er flitted o'er the sky?
Has Hope ne'er sprung beside thy way,
And blossom'd only to decay?
Has Friendship never chang'd her tone,
And 'woke a sigh for pleasures gone?
Has Love ne'er shed his fitful gleam
Across thy path--then hid his beam?
Hast thou ne'er felt the solemn truth--
That palsied age must steal o'er youth;
And that the auburn tresses gay
Must soon be chang'd for mournful gray?
Has sickness never pal'd the rose,
That on the cheek of beauty glows,
And ghastly death, with funeral gloom,
Oft call'd the lovely to the tomb?
Ah, maiden, yes, that tell-tale sigh,
The downcast glances of thine eye,
Say that thy heart is but the tomb
Of hopes that wither'd in their bloom;--
Say that, where all things else decay,
Thy fragile form must pass away.
Then why so fondly cling to earth,
Whose joys are of so little worth?
But rather raise your thoughts on high,
Where Hope's fair promises ne'er die,
Where ghastly death holds no domain,
But endless youth and beauty reign.

To Mrs. B----, On the Death of a Son.

How frail are all the things of earth,
How subject to decay;
Scarce they receive their fragile birth
Ere they are swept away.

And tyrant death, with icy hand,
Is ever lurking near,
And binding in his frozen band,
The forms to us most dear.

But do not mourn the early dead,
Whose thread of life is riven;
'Tis Jesus calls them from the earth,
To be with Him in heaven.

Spotless and pure they pass from earth,
And Jesus bids them come;
And glorious is their heavenly birth
In their eternal home.

No more you'll hear the plaintive voice;--
"Mother, dear mother, where?"
Your child shall with his God rejoice
In full fruition there.

No more shall burning fever rage,
No more shall pain oppress,
But angel strains his tongue engage
In hymns of righteousness.

And when life's ebbing sands shall fail,
And pallid death shall come,
May you then look within the vail,
To that eternal home.

And then, perhaps, your gentle child,
So soon from sin set free,
May be the first of angel bands,
Brightly to welcome thee.

So do not mourn the early dead,
So sinless and so fair,
But be prepared to join their bliss,
Thus is the stranger's prayer.

O Come Back, My Brother.

My brother, O, come back to play,
For all the flow'rs are springing gay,
And all the birds sing on the spray;
So, come back, my brother.

'Twas winter when you hung your head,
And lay so pale upon your bed,
And mother told me you were dead,
My poor little brother.

Then the birds all went away,
And all the leaves fell from the spray,
And all the streams forgot to play,
Just like you, my brother.

Then deep fell the drifting snow,
And loud the wintry winds did blow,
And all the flow'rs were buried low,
Just like you, my brother.

But now the sun is riding high,--
The busy bee comes humming by,
And spring's soft gales around us sigh;
O come back, my brother.

Your little rose-bush springs to view,
Your daffodils and daisies too,
And ev'rything comes back but you,
My poor little brother.

O, could I ope the grassy mound,
With which your lovely form is bound,
And break your slumber, so profound,
My poor little brother.

Then gentle mother'd cease to mourn,
And speak to me in that sad tone;
And pity me because alone;
O, come back, my brother.

And yet, I know, it cannot be,
That thou wilt ever come to me;
But I must shortly go to thee,
My poor little brother.

I know that thy once lovely form,
Now feeds the cruel coffin worm,--
And that corruption doth deform
All traces of my brother,

I know that life will swiftly glide,--
That death's bark floats upon the tide,
And soon will lay me by your side,
My dear buried brother.

Then may our souls together reign,
On yonder bright, aerial plain,
And shout a loud, seraphic strain,
In happiness, my brother.

The Twins

It was a sad day in autumn, pale, withering autumn, when a little group of friends collected round the cradle of an infant of a few weeks, who had tasted the cup of life, and now was turning seemingly disappointed away from the bitter portion. The mild blue eyes were raised to heaven, and that heavenly angelic expression, so peculiar to expiring infancy rested upon his face, which was lovely in the extreme, though wasted by disease. He was tenacious of life, and lingered long in the embrace of the pale messenger, although the eye was dim and the wrist pulseless.

The father, mother, sister, and brother, and grandmother, sat watching the quivering flame that would rally for a few moments, then wane again. Near by sat the nurse, bearing upon her lap the little twin sister, who had her birth at the same hour with him, and who, like him too, was passing away.

How soon they wearied of life, those frail, gentle ones, and the angel came to bear them to a brighter, holier world, where the purity of their sinless spirits should remain untarnished by the blight and pollutions of earth.

We watched till the sun went down in the western sky, dim and shadowy, enshrined long before his setting by a yellow autumnal haze, that cast a melancholy subduing shade over the face of decaying nature that hung out her fading flowers and withered leaves, as a token of the sad change that was passing in her realm, while the evening breeze, as it swayed the branches of the trees, bearing many a leaf to the ground, and drifting them before his melancholy breath, seemed sighing a sad requiem over departed glory.

Such a scene, at such an hour, spoke forcibly of the varied changes and uncertainties of life, and as we looked upon the marble paleness of the dear children, and compared them with the withering flowers beneath the window, we felt that human life is but a flower that perisheth.

In this instance, the worm had sapped the bud ere the brighter tints were developed. As we stood in that chamber of death, we felt that God was present, that He who had given life was about to take it back to reign with Him, and though the deep fountains of grief were stirred, there came a "still, small voice," heard through the silence of that lone room, "Be still, and know that I am God," and we bowed in submission to the Divine will.

The mist broke from the face of the sun, and his last setting beams looked forth clear and bright upon the earth, tinging the fleecy clouds with gold and purple, and they looked like gorgeous piles of molten gold, over hung with crimson purple curtains, forming a sumptuous canopy to decorate the heavens.

Even so with the babe, life's feeble taper seemed to revive and emit a brilliant glare for a moment, the lips parted, the eyes wandered from object to object, and seemed to survey all the room contained, gazing most earnestly upon the face of the little sister, so soon to follow him, then wearily closing them with a slight struggle, the spirit passed away.

As we folded him in the vestments of the grave and laid him into the silent halls of death, hope whispered of a glorious resurrection morn, when those blue orbs should again awake from that long peaceful sleep, and look out upon the beauties of the upper world.

They placed his little form in a wide coffin, and laid it in the tomb to await the coming of his little sister.

A week passed away, a week of weary watchfulness and anxiety, of pain, suffering and distress, and the angel returned again for the twin spirit.

It was at the deep midnight hour when he announced his mysterious presence, by laying his icy hand and spreading his marble paleness over the form of the departing sister. The little frame was convulsed, and writhed beneath the grasp of the pale visitant, but he pitied not, relented not, but steady to his purpose, snapped the brittle thread of life, performed the task he had been commissioned with, and hurried away from that place of tears to cast his deep shadow over the sun light of other homes, and fill other hearts with grief, and cause other eyes to look red with weeping, "because death has come into the world," and the children of men must fall before his withering blight.

Already had decomposition commenced its repulsive work in the form of the little son, and he was laid away, while the coffin returned for the other dear one, who was to moulder with him in its narrow confines.

Deposited in the same tomb, was a coffin covered with mould, and just ready to drop from the shelf upon which it was placed, and the shrunken boards had separated, and it was perforated with large cracks where it had been joined together. The lid was always unscrewed, and was often raised by the hand of a fond mother, who looked upon the dust of an only daughter, who had been the idol of her heart. She had spared no pains in educating her, and she had well repaid the labor bestowed upon her in the acquisition of knowledge.

She was beautiful in person, amiable in disposition, and was beloved by a large circle of acquaintances. She was married early, to the companion of her choice, who had been attentive to her from childhood, declaring the first time he saw her, he never saw such beautiful curls in his life, as Annie Grey's.

She had two little sons, and all looked bright and prosperous; Annie was happy in the affection of her husband, her children and her friends, but death lingered not for these things; he came, a most unwelcome visitant, and bore his unwilling victim from the presence of her agonized mother, "to join the pale nations of the dead."

She dressed her in the gilded trappings of life, bolstered her up in bed, and curling her beautiful hair in glossy ringlets over her pale face, had her likeness taken as large as life, and touched with natural coloring, thus preserving the form and features of her child, upon the senseless canvass, which was kept hung up in her room, covered with black crape, during her life time.

Annie ever expressed repugnance at the idea of being deposited in the ground, and her mother had this tomb built that she might there repose, and she could watch her sleeping dust as it crumbled to decay.

Who that looked in upon that mouldering mass of blackened dust, and contrasted it with the beautiful form that moved in life, but learned an impressive lesson of the change that death makes upon the form of youth and beauty? She had slept there many years, and the mother felt the time was approaching, when she must take the last look of those dear remains, and have them removed to the second vault, or buried beneath the grassy turf; but ere the time arrived, the great reaper gathered father and mother into his abundant harvest, and laid them by her side.

Her husband, many years before, had passed from life's busy scenes, and closed his eyes forever upon earth.

The little girl was placed in a coffin, and borne by weeping friends to the burial place, and with her dead brother, lay side by side, beautiful in death.

Fresh buds were placed in the hands of each, as they lay, with their little arms entwined around each other, and their white marble faces, looking up to the pure sky above, while their half-open lids displaying their blue orbs, seemed looking out beneath the drooping fringes, to take a last farewell of earth, sun, sky, friends, and all the endearing associations of life.

A little mound was raised beside the grave of the maternal grandfather, who had fallen suddenly, in the meridian of life, while the strength of manhood was yet upon him. As the aged grandmother turned from the grave of the little ones, she gave one lingering glance to her husband's grave, and removing her glove from her hand, pressed the marble slab, that stood at the head of it, and passed on, with a sigh and a tear, to fulfil the remaining duties that awaited her in life.

She had parted from him, many long years before, and now she had lived her threescore years and ten, and her head was whitened with passing years; but the infant of a few days had gone before her. But a few more years passed, and you looked in vain upon earth for that weary voyager,

On the Frailty of Earthly Things.

The things of earth are false, as fair,
And glitter to betray,
They scarce outlive the sunny glare
Of one short summer day.

The hours--how rapid in their flight,
And days pass swift away,
Scarce dawning ere the shades of night
Chase its bright beams away.

The dew-drop trembling on the flow'r,
Gemm'd by the morning's ray,--
Glitters scarce one little hour,
Ere it is dried away.

The butterfly with gilded wing,
That flits from spray to spray,
Is but an evanescent thing,
That passeth soon away.

The flow'rs--those gay and brilliant things,
So charming to the eye,
Soon fold their withered petals up,
And fade away and die.

The busy bee, with drowsy hum,
That through the summer day,
Flies sipping round from flow'y to flow'r,
Bearing its sweets away,

Is soon constrain'd by wintry winds,
To seek her honi'd cell,
And giving o'er her wandering life,
In quiet there, to dwell.

And rosy health that paints the cheek
With richest crimson dye,
And bids the heart of kindness speak
From beauty's flashing eye,

Soon, soon withdraws the blushing rose,
And leaves the lily there:
Bedims the lustre of the eye,
And pales the cheek with care.

I saw a smiling infant stand
By its fond mother's side:
She fondly pressed one dimpl'd hand
With sweet maternal pride.

Her form was faultless to behold,
And every infant grace
Beam'd sweetly from her radiant eye,
And rosy dimpl'd face.

But sudden stiffness seiz'd those limbs,
A gurgling stopp'd her breath:
Those eyes that shone so bright before,
Were soon upturn'd in death.

And love that fills the youthful breast,
With visions bright and gay,
Oft strews his downy nest with thorns,
And quickly flies away.

And friendship, that peculiar boon,
From God to mortals given,
That seems a brilliant golden link,
Uniting earth with heaven,

Is broken off, and often turn'd
With careless heart away,
And hatred fills the self same place
Where gentle love had sway.

But oh! how poison'd is the dart
That sheds its venom there,
And drives uncherish'd from the heart,
The gift so good and fair.

An aching void must ever dwell
Within the stricken heart;
For who can all the suff'ring tell
When friends in hatred part?

Then do not fondly cling to earth,
Where all things must decay:
Where happiness scarce has its birth
Ere it is swept away.

Lean not on earth, 'twill pierce the heart,
At best a broken reed,
And oft a spear where hope expires,
And peace as often bleeds.

But far beyond yon azure sky,
Yon sparkling star-lit dome,
Let your aspiring hopes ascend,
For there's your heav'nly home.

To a Friend

I love to watch thy youthful eye,
That speaks thy fond affection;
I love to hear thy tender sigh,--
It charms my deep dejection.

The gentle beamings of that eye
Have power to soothe each sorrow,
While casting hope's refulgent dye,
In glances, on to-morrow.

My love is clear as crystal streams,
Flowing from sylvan fountains,--
And pure as Phoebus' noon-day beams,
That gild yon rising mountains.

And constant as the Northern Bear,
That guards the pole unceasing,
And ushers in the new-born year,--
Nor waning, nor decreasing.

But still, shouldst thou faithless prove,
Thy plighted vows resigning,
Leave me and seek another love,
I'd bear, without repining.

No discontent should fill my breast,
But calm as summer even,
I'd still look forward to my rest,
In yonder vaulted heaven.

And still I'd breathe my pray'r for thee
With all my soul's devotion,
Till life itself should cease to be,
And death chill'd each emotion.

Then calm as day's expiring breath,
Each injury forgiven,
My ransom'd soul should take its flight,
And wing its way to Heaven.

The Mother and Her Child.

Child, raise a fervent prayer to heav'n,
That this day's sin may be forgiv'n,
Ere you sink to sweet repose,
While evening's shadows round you close.

The golden sun has sunk to rest,
Behind the curtains of the west,
And rosy twilight, soft and mild,
Brings gentle slumber to my child.

The busy, bustling cares of day,
In noise and tumult pass'd away;
Solemn night, so still and deep,
Bids nature's wearied children sleep.

Soft is the pillow of your rest,--
With health and friends, and comforts blest;
Then raise a fervent prayer to heav'n,
That ev'ry sin may be forgiv'n.

The child began, "Father forgive
My many sins, and bid me live:
May I be humble, meek and mild,
Like Jesus, when a little child.

"O may this feeble soul of mine,
Be join'd to Christ, the living vine;
May I ever bow the knee,
And 'Abba, Father,' cry, to thee.

"Father, in heaven, hear my prayer,
And make a little child thy care,
Jesus has said, so let it be,
'Suffer such to come to me.'

"But, mother, why's my pulse so still?
Mother, why is the air so chill?
And, mother, why are angels fair
Hov'ring o'er me, in the air?

"Mother, with thee I cannot stay,--
Those angels beckon me away;
I feel this night, so still, so deep,
Will bring to me a lasting sleep."

"My child, my child, can it be so?
Can I let my darling go?
Oh, yes--I see it plainly now,--
'Tis death's cold hand upon thy brow.

"Come, lay thy icy cheek to mine,--
I'd kiss thee once, ere I resign
To icy death, thy lovely form,
To feed the gnawing coffin worm.

"Corruption, nor the coffin worm,
Can thy triumphant soul deform;
That, enraptur'd, shall arise,
To dwell with Christ, beyond the skies.

"'Tis the dear Saviour bids thee come,--
His angels wait to bear thee home;
Loudly, he's saying now to thee,--
'Suffer such to come to me.'"

"Mother, all things are pure and bright;--
I see them by a heavenly light,
And beaming in the distance far,
I see the glorious morning Star.

"Farewell, mother," but the name
Died on her lips--life's quiv'ring flame
Had just expir'd; that deathless soul
Had burst its chains, and pass'd the goal.

The mother meekly knelt in prayer,--
She felt that God's own hand was there,
Then wip'd one pearly tear away,
And rose to shroud her lifeless clay.

So sweet a smile the lips still wreath'd,
It seemed life through their parting breath'd,
So gently death had o'er her crept,
That all who gaz'd might deem she slept.

The mother watch'd, with earnest eye,
Her youngest Child before her lie,
Then meekly glancing up to heaven,
"Father, she was not lent, but given.

"Father, thou hast in mercy spoken,--
A tender tie from earth is broken,
But that same tie is link'd to heaven,
And stronger faith and hope are given."

A Mother's Prayer.

My children all have sunk to rest,
The youngest pillow'd on my breast,
And though 'tis midnight, stern and deep,
I still a mother's vigil keep.
Why comes so oft the unbidden sigh?
Why springs the tear-drop to my eye,
And why this agonizing prayer,
Ming'ling with the midnight air?
O, God, to thee I lift mine eye,
Help thou, or else my children die.
To thee my inmost thoughts arise;
By faith I pierce the vaulted skies,
And there I see thy risen Son,
Seated beside thee on the throne,
His pitying accents cry "Forgive,"
And let the thoughtless sinner live.
"Father, I have been crucified--"
"An ignominious death have died,--"
"Deep agony for sin have known;"
"Father, and will not this atone?"
I come, too, leaning on His breast,
There all my hopes and wishes rest,
And join with His my pleading voice,
That they may all in god rejoice.
May one melodious concert rise
From angels, bending from the skies:--
O'er new-born souls, redeemed on earth,
Rejoicing in their heav'nly birth.
Lead them in pastures green and fair,
And gardens planted by thy care;
Where streams of free salvation flow,
And fruitful trees of knowledge grow.
Father, I ask not sordid wealth,
Nor the more precious boon of health;
The only blessing that I crave
Is endless life beyond the grave;
That when the icy hand of death
Shall seize their frames, and stop their breath,
Their souls on wings of faith may rise
To life and joy beyond the skies.
O Father, grant me this request
And I shall be supremely bless'd;
Bend ev'ry stubborn, wilful knee,
And draw each wand'ring heart to thee.
But hark! I hear a cheering voice
That bids my waiting soul rejoice.
"Be still, and know that I am God,"
And bow submissive to the rod.
It seems almost that voice from heav'n,
Had spoke my childrens' sins forgiven,
So suddenly had calmness stole
O'er the deep currents of my soul.
Glory to God, who whispers peace,
And bids our hope and faith increase;
Glory to God, be echoed then,
'Till earth repeats the long amen.

Lines, Written in an Album.

Earthly beauties soon decay,
Earthly pleasures fade away;
Then raise your fond desires to heaven,
And let not all to earth be giv'n.

Though touch'd by brilliant rainbow dyes,
Earth can contain no lasting prize.
But high above yon azure dome,
The ransom'd spirit finds a home.

O, then make wisdom's ways your choice
In early youth. You will rejoice
To tread the straight and narrow way,
That upward leads to endless day.

Then when life's little day is past,
Angels shall welcome thee at last
To yonder blissful, happy shore,
Where sin and sorrow come no more.

On The Death of a Mother.

O bring a robe of snowy white,
And fold it lightly o'er her breast;
Cold and pulseless now it lies,
The sainted spirit's sunk to rest;

And gently fold the toil-worn hands,
And softly close the weary eyes;
Life's rugged journey now is past,
And calm in death's cold sleep she lies.

That gentle heart has ceas'd to feel
The gushings of a mother's love;
But now a purer, holier flame,
Springs up in brighter realms above.

And mother, though the tender tie
Uniting us, has thus been riven,
May we not feel a stronger bond
Drawing our trusting hearts to heaven?

Now oft when evening's shadows steal
Across my path, thy voice I hear;
Again its well remember'd tones
Seem murmuring on my childish ear.

And oft, when sorrow fills my breast,
And my worn spirit turns from earth,
There comes a gentle, well known voice,
Whisp'ring of the spirit's birth.

'Twas hers to guide our infant feet
In wisdom's straight and narrow way,
To lead us to a Saviour's cross,
And teach our infant lips to pray.

But now how blissful is her state,
Free from this cumb'rous, earthly clod,
Her ransom'd spirit fill'd with praise,
Joins the pure throngs that worship God.

She's join'd her children in their home,
In those bless'd mansions far away,
Where sin nor death can ever come,
But all is bright, eternal day.

And though our mother's pass'd from earth,
An angel bending from the skies,
Is ever hov'ring o'er our path,
Urging our weary souls to rise.

Then let us her sweet precepts take,
Tread in the paths our mother trod,
Walk prayerfully the narrow way.
Directed by the word of God,

Cleans'd by a dying Saviour's blood,
We may obtain the promis'd rest;
And when we pass away from earth,
Join our dear mother with the bless'd.

Peace to thy memory, mother dear,
Sweet be thy slumber in the tomb,
'Till Christ in judgment shall appear,
And call His ransom'd children home.

The Music of Earth.

There's music in the summer breeze,
That sighs along the bow'rs;
There's music in the hum of bees,
That flit among the flow'rs.
There's music in the gentle show'r
That patters on the spray;
And music in the bubbling brook
That dances on its way.
There's music in the rustling leaf,
Before the zephyr's sigh,
And music in sweet childhood's laugh,
As it comes ringing by.
There's music in the warbler's song,
That trills his matin lay;
And music in the evening breeze,
As soft it dies away.
There's music in "Old Ocean's" wave,
That breaks upon the shore;
And music in the tempest's moan,--
The distant thunder's roar.
There's music in the things of earth,
Sweet music that we love;
But oh, there's music sweeter far
In yon bright world above.
Where angel bands, with golden harps,
Sing loud of sins forgiven;
And praises to a Saviour slain,
Fill the high dome of heaven.

Lines, Written on the Death of Mrs. Caroline P. Baldwin, Who Died July 6, 1827.

O bring a wreath of summer flow'rs,
And twine it lightly round her brow;
How calmly pass these holy hours--
Mysterious death is with her now.

His icy breath is on her cheek,
His dew is freezing on her brow;
Her eyes no more earth's shadows seek--
Eternity's before them now.

She sees a glittering angel band,
On downy pinions floating by,
To waft her to the spirit land,
Beyond the blue etherial sky.

And hears low music stealing by,--
From golden harps the concert rings;
Earth mingles in the melody
That rises, to the King of kings.

"Husband, I know I'm dying now,
Life's golden sands are waning fast;
Seal on my lips the parting kiss,--
It is the last one--yes, the last.

"Now bring to me our blue eyed boy,--
I'd gaze upon his face once more;
May he, kept from earth's alloy,
Meet me on yon blissful shore."

"Mother, your love is pure and deep--
I know the fount will never dry;
But in its onward current keep,
Through a long eternity.

"Sister, I'm passing to the tomb,
When life's young morn is fair and bright;
And shrouded soon, my youthful bloom
Shall dreamless sleep in death's dark night.

"Dark, did I say--O, no, I see
The golden city full in view;
The pitying Saviour smiles on me,
And angel-bands conduct me through.

"Sweet as the carol of a bird,
Soft as the gentlest summer sigh,
When scarce one trembling leaf is stirr'd
My sinking pulses faint and die."

And so death rested on her cheek,--
Lingering in "strange beauty there;"
That seraph smile a rapture speaks--
That earthly pleasures may not share.

Lines, Written in a Sick-Room, April 15, 1855.

O, fold my flowing curtains by,
I fain would catch the breath of spring,
And breathe its gentle, balmy sigh,
As soft it floats on silken wing.

Lightly it fans my pallid cheek,
And cools the fever of my brow,
And seems of coming health to speak,
As soft it murmurs round me now.

Oh, there are those in life's young morn,
Who, gazing forth with earnest eye,
Feel that spring's joyous, glad return,
Brings but to them the time to die.

While I, a pilgrim, worn and gray,
Wearied with care, still linger on,
Life's path to tread, one little day,
Before the feverish race is run.

On the great battle-field of life,
The warp of destiny is spread,
And countless millions in the strife,
Supply the woof with varied thread.

O, there are some, with hearts of truth,
With courage bold, and daring high,
Whose texture scarce from early youth,
Presents one blemish to the eye.

And there are those all steeped in crime,
Whose fabric is one constant stain;
Who fill up their appointed time,
With conduct vile, and lips profane.

There are bright streaks of glowing hope,
And blackened shades of deep despair,--
All smiles of joy, all tears of grief,
Like rainbow dyes are blended there.

Repentance, with her bitter tears,
Would wash some dismal crime away;
And Terror, arm'd with many fears,
Stands pointing to a future day.

And Happiness, with sunny smile,
Weaves in her roses, rich and rare,
Love, Constancy and Truth, we find,
And trusting Faith, with humble prayer.

Vain were the effort to portray
The varied shades life's scenes present;
But oh, how swift the shuttles play,
By every thought or action sent.

And so each one is weaving fast
His little web of human life;--
Happy those, who find at last,
They have conquered in the strife.

It matters not how short the warp,
If to the goal the object tend,
For, oh, we know, "That life is long
That answers life's great end."

Lines, Written in a Sick Room, July 20th, 1855.

The voice of "many waters"
Is murmuring on my ear,
And mingling in the mystic strains
A mother's voice I hear.
Two white rob'd cherub sisters
Stand harping by her side;
A brother in the concert joins,
Who erst in Jesus died.

And other sainted spirits,
Who've pass'd from earth away,--
Stand wooing me to join their bands
In realms of endless day.
The flow'rs are blooming brightly,
The tree of life is seen;
And so inviting stand the fields,
"Array'd in living green."

The Saviour sheds his presence,
In radiance round the place:
And joy and adoration
Beams bright on ev'ry face.
Loud swells the pealing anthem,
Through the high dome of heav'n,
"Worthy the Lamb, who once was slain,"
And hath our sins forgiv'n.

As thus I gaze enraptur'd,
And drink heav'n's spirit in
Earth's costliest tow'rs and palaces
Look faded, worn and dim;
And death's cold stream that murmurs
So hoarsely on my ear;
If Jesus were my pilot
I'd cross without a fear.

But oh! the tide is turning,
Health flows through ev'ry vein:
And I a little longer
On time's dark shore remain.
But thou, celestial city!
I'd keep thee still in view,
And gladly would the summons heed
That wafts my soul to you.

To a Friend

Sweet comes the gentle breath of spring,
Sighing soft among the flow'rs,
Or sporting high on airy wings,
Fanning the leaves upon the bow'rs.

The golden sun looks gladly down
Upon the vari'gated earth;
Encouraged by his genial rays,
Her garner'd treasures have their birth.

But though the face of earth is fair,
Chance and change are busy here;
And her rugg'd, chequer'd path,
Is water'd oft by sorrow's tear.

Her bosom holds our treasured dead,
The lov'd who in our pathway trod:
Whose place is found on earth no more,
But the freed spirit's soar'd to God.

When ling'ring in the place of graves,
Came there no voice from out the tomb,
Whisp'ring to thy spirit's ear,
"Mother, when will the morning come?"

"O mother, yes, it soon will come,
The glorious resurrection morn,
When Christ shall wake the sleeping dead,
And an immortal day shall dawn."

And though your path may lead you forth
From early friends far, far away;
Far from your darling children's graves,
Jacob's God shall be your stay.

Your chasten'd soul from sorrow's cup,
Has often drank the bitter draught;
But ere the portion was consumed,
A mingled sweet thy spirit quaff'd.

Sister in Christ, God be thy stay,
And lead as He has led before;
And keep thee "in the narrow way,"
Where pleasures dwell for ever more.

Perchance we may not meet again
While ling'ring in this vale of tears;
But mem'ry casts a hallow'd spell
Over the scenes of other years.

And treasur'd in her secret cells,
My much loved friend, are thoughts of thee;
And if we meet no more on earth,
I feel thou'lt sometimes think of me.

Now fare thee well, sweet sister dear,
God speed thy bark o'er life's dark sea;
Safe moor it in the port of peace,
Thy pilot, friend, and helper be.

The Mother's Watch.

O, no, he will not come to-night,--
The stars are fading from the sky;
I've watch'd their dim, expiring light,
With an unwearied, earnest eye,

And soon the golden king of day
Morn's eastern gates will open wide;
And mounted on his fiery car,
Triumphant over earth will ride.

And she array'd in robes of green,
Adorned with vari'gated flowers,
Will welcome him with smiling mien,
While soft winds sigh along the bowers.

He'll kiss the roses on her cheek,
And dry the tear-drop from her eye,--
Cast a glad smile o'er all her face,
And gild each stream that glances by.

And she'll spread out her tempting store
Of fruits and flow'ers, to his warm ray;
He'll touch them with his genial smile,
As glad he runs his joyous way.

But soon his journey will be o'er,
And the dun curtains of the west,
Will hide his beams, while low he sinks
Upon the pillow of his rest.

And soft will steal the twilight hour,
And bring again my watch for thee;
Oh, who may tell a mother's love,
Or fathom that unbounded sea?

Time, that has pass'd with rapid flight,
On silent pinions, hurrying by,
Has witness'd oft the midnight watch,
Of the fond mother's earnest eye.

In infancy, when feverish dreams
Disturb'd her darling as he slept,
How anxious was the mother's watch,
As she her nightly vigil kept.

Her watch is o'er the cradle cast,
Through childhood's wild and flow'ry maze;
Her hand would lead through youth's gay scenes,
And smooth the path of riper days.

Would shield from each impending ill,--
Would guard from ev'ry dang'rous snare.
Instruct the reason, curb the will,
And lift to heaven the trusting prayer.

And should the pois'nous flowers that bloom
Beside his path, tempt him to rove,
To bring the thoughtless wanderer back,--
How earnest is a mother's love.

And so we watch from youth to age,--
From the soft cradle to the grave;
No power can check a mother's love,
That would from sin and sorrow save.

Why Should I Smile?