Chapter IV: The Grave Yard (9)

There is no music in my heart,--
No joy within my breast;
In scenes of mirth I have no part,--
In quiet scenes no rest.

Mine is a weariness of life,--
A sickness of the soul;
An ever constant struggling strife,
My feelings to control.

Oh, it was ever--ever thus,
From childhood's earliest hour;
My spirits ever were weighed down,
By some mysterious power.

There seemed some dark, unearthly fate,
Around my life to twine;
That which brings joy to other hearts,
Brings mournfulness to mine.

And yet I am too proud to weep,
I never could complain;
And so they deem my spirit feels
No weariness or pain.

They read not in my sunken eye,
And in my faded cheek.
A weight of wretchedness and woe,
That words could never speak.

Oh, 'tis a weary--weary lot,
To live when joy is gone;--
To feel life has no sunny spot,
Yet still we must live on.

To mingle with the laughing crowd,
Yet feel we are alone;
To know there's not one human heart
Can understand our own.

Oh, Thou, who sitt'st enthroned on high,
Who every heart can see,
Look down in pity and in love,
and take me home to thee.

Lines, Inscribed to a Brother.

A New Year's gift I send to thee,
A volume filled with quaint old rhymes;
And may it wake the memory
Within thy heart, of olden times.

When we by the cheerful fireside hearth,
Together conned the glowing page,
Grave themes, and subjects full of mirth,
Did each by turns our minds engage.

Oh, then, what rapture filled my heart,
How throbb'd my brow--how burn'd my brain,
As the poet with his magic art,
Wove the deep mysteries of his strain.

But now a leaden stupor lies
Upon my dull, inactive soul;
In vain my spirit strives to rise,
From the dark mists that o'er it roll.

Nor legend old, nor wild romance.
Nor fairy tale, nor minstrel lyre,
Can with their magic power entrance,
Or one impassion'd thought inspire.

Thus, like the rosy sunset hues,
Fade fancy's pictures from the soul,
The light that youth's fair skies imbued,
Is merged in clouds that o'er us roll.

Changes

Who has not observed the mutability and ever changing aspect of earthly things? Here, in this pleasant village, where rises the towering spire, the lofty mansion and the humble cottage, with all the varieties appertaining to our village, its numerous factories and pleesant school houses, its well erected bridge over its foaming waters, once the Indian roamed, in untamed freedom, through forests unbroken by the woodman's axe. Here resounded the fierce war-whoop, and here the wild death song; here was built the council-fire, and here was smoked the pipe of peace; in fine, here on this very spot existed all the elements of savage life. The light canoe was paddled over the roaring stream, that thundered on in its majesty, even as now.

But the white man came and scattered the race, and civilization spread its changes over the scene. Thus society is ever changing; even beautiful cities that have existed in all the pomp of wealth and elegance, have now become extinct, and are covered by the dust of ages.

Man's life, too, is one constant scene of change, from infancy to childhood, from childhood to manhood, and from manhood to old age. And many are the vicissitudes which await us during our journey through life. One generation passes away to be succeeded by another; we too must change, and when we shall be sought by our friends in our accustomed places, and they shall ask, "Where are they?" Echo shall answer, "Where?"

To Mr. and Mrs. S----, On the Death of an Infant.

The fairest flow'r that blooms on earth,
And charms the gazer's eye,
Is first to lose its brilliant hues,
And fade away and die.

Soft it unfolds its petals rare,
To gentle dew and sun,
But come one blast of chilling air,
And all its beauty's gone.

E'en so is life; the glow of health
That warms the youthful cheek,
Seems to invite the tyrant Death,
His helpless prey to seek.

Thy little babe scarce 'woke to life,
And promised fair to bloom,
Ere cruel Death his victim seiz'd,
And bore it to the tomb.

We fondly watch'd with anxious eye,
For Hope had promise giv'n;
And little deem'd that passing sigh,
Had borne his soul to heav'n.

Calm as the breath of summer eve,
On flow'r and foliage shed,
And pure as midnight's heav'nly dew,
His gentle spirit fled.

Then let not grief for him abide
Within a parent's breast,
For while his flesh returns to dust,
His soul's with God at rest.

When we from earth are call'd away;
By God's own summons giv'n,
May we as tranquilly depart,
And be as sure of heav'n.

The Spirits of the Dead.

"Are they not all ministering spirits, sent forth to minister unto
them who shall be heirs of salvation?"

Some say the spirits of the dead,
Are hovering o'er our way;
At night they watch around our bed,
And guard our steps by day.

Their shadowy forms are floating round,
In parlor and in hall;
They come and go without a sound,--
As night dews gently fall.

One writer says, "Their airy forms
Are round us everywhere;
They are flitting in and out the door,
And up and down the stairs."

Others the theory deride;
But oft it seems to me,
Beings are present by my side,
Which yet, I cannot see.

Sometimes I start and gaze around,
With half-bewildered air,
Thinking some lov'd one's form to see,
Within the vacant chair.

Sometimes a gentle rustling
Falls faintly on the ear;
Some angel, with the radiant wing,
Perchance is hov'ring near.

We watch the dying Christian's bed,
When death has marked his prey;
He struggles painfully for breath,
And longs to pass away.

But suddenly his eye grows bright,
Lit by unearthly fires;
He gazes upward with delight,--
The angels strike their lyres.

The music falls upon his ear,
In sweet seraphic strains;
Nought earthly can detain him here,--
His spirit bursts its chains,

Ossian, old Scotia's ancient bard,
The genius of the past;
Saw ghosts upon the fleecy clouds,
And heard them in the blast.

The spirits of the mighty dead,
That were in battle slain,
Came by his master spirit led,
Back to this earth again,

Their shadowy forms, in mist arrayed,
Rode on the drifting clouds;
The fork'd lightnings round them play'd,
And thunders echo'd loud.

Fiercely they shook their airy spears,
And clos'd in deadly fight
Shriek'd, as in agony and fear,
Then vanish'd from the sight.

Thus did old Scotia's ancient bard,
Hold converse with the dead;
"Back in the dim and shadowy past;
Those phantoms all had fled."

There let them rest; years have rolled on,
Down the dark tide of time;
Our loftier faith is built upon
A structure more sublime.

We know if angel spirits come
From other worlds to this,
They are sent to guide us to our home,
Where God our Father is.

The Widow's Home

Alas, my home is lonely,--
They've parted from my side;
My husband in the church yard's laid,
My daughter is a bride.

She's stood beside the altar,
And breath'd that solemn vow,
From which she may not falter,
Till life is ended now.

But, oh, my home is lonely,--
I miss them by the hearth;
When evening shadows gather 'round,
I miss their social mirth.

I miss the glances of the eye,
The old familiar tone,--
And feel indeed, the widow's home
Is desolate and lone.

And when we gather round the board,
There's each one's vacant chair;
And, oh, I miss them every hour--
And miss them everywhere.

But still there must be changes,
While time is stealing by,
Alternate sun and shadow
Will flit across the sky.

To Mrs. J. C. Bucklin, by Her Father.

My child, why weepest thou? Are these drawn lines of sorrow alone thy garlands? Why this dreary awe, this languishing on all around you? But hush, these are the foot-prints of Death; he has indeed been with you in his uncertain rounds. The deep, reposing influences indicate his path. I will not dare to question a mother's love, so strange and inexplicable in power, and so mysterious in operation, gentle as the breathing of the memory, ungovernable as the whirlwind in its frenzy, tender as the angel of sympathy, yet stronger than the bands of Death, it is painful to witness such a cloud of sorrow resting on one so young as you, without an atheistic questioning, the all-wise purposes of our Father in heaven.

Your own lovely babe you so fondly adored,
Death's torn from the heart of her mother,
So full was your soul of a mother's deep love,
You would gladly have died to restore her.
Poor fragile, fading, short-lived flow'r,
She was bright and lovely for an hour.

To The Reader.

And now, courteous reader, perchance thou art weary with thy wanderings, and the flowers we have gathered may appear withered to thee, and devoid of beauty or fragrance, and the peep into memory's inner chambers may not have afforded thee the pleasure that I have derived from the survey. If so, farewell, I will intrude no more upon thy time or patience. The curtain has fallen, the dim, misty curtain, and memory has turned her golden key, closed her portfolio, and sat down with folded hands, to brood over her hoarded treasures, placing each in its proper place, to be brought forward again at her mandate, to beguile, perchance, other weary midnight hours with their magic spell. The past cannot be redeemed, and the future is hid in uncertainty; but the present, the golden present is ours, and while our little bark is floating upon the stream of time, let us improve the precious moments as they fly, and spend them in a cultivation of the best affections of the human mind. The mind, that boundless ocean of human thought that is placed within each individual, stretching on throughout the ceaseless ages of eternity. But there must come a solemn time to all who live. Death is upon our track, and will surely soon overtake us, and our decaying bodies must be hid forever from sight beneath the clods of the valley: but these minds shall then live, and happy they who, by a cultivation of the best principles of our nature, have an antepast of heaven while upon earth.

May this be our happy case, gentle reader, if we meet not again on earth, we shall meet in heaven, "for we must all stand before the judgment seat of Christ." I have spread out before you the secret musings of many a midnight hour, and I feel that I am responsible for what I have written. May God grant forgivness for the wrong. And thus we part, gentle reader, to toss yet a little longer upon the stream of time, ere its waves and its billows pass over us forever.

"When midnight o'er the moonless skies,
Her shades of mimic death has spread,
When mortals sleep, when spectres rise;
And nought is wakeful but the dead.
No bloodless shape my path pursues;
No shiv'ring ghost my couch annoys,
Visions more sad my fancy views,
Visions of dear departed joys,--
The shade of youthful hope is there."