What household thoughts around thee, as their shrine,
Cling reverently! Of anxious looks beguiled,
My mother's eyes upon thy page divine
Were daily bent; her accents, gravely mild,
Breathed out thy love;—whilst I, a dreaming child,
On breeze-like fancies wandered oft away
To some lone tuft of gleaming spring flowers wild,
Some fresh-discovered nook for woodland play,
Some secret nest; yet would the solemn word
At times with kindlings of young wonder heard,
Fall on my 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.
Few are the fragments left of follies past;
For worthless things are transient. Those that last
Have in them germs of an eternal spirit,
And out of good their permanence inherit.
Baseness is mutability's ally;
But the sublime affections never die.
Sweet bird! thou sing'st away the early hours
Of winter past, or coming, void of care,
Well pleased with delights, which present are,-
Fair seasons, budding sprays. sweet smelling flowers,
To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy bowers,
Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare,
And what dear gifts on thee he did not spare,
A stain to human sense in sin that lowers;
What soul can be so sick, which by thy songs
(Alter'd in sweetness,) sweetly is not driven
Quite to forget earth's turmoils, spites, and wrongs,
And lift a reverend eye and thought to Heaven?
Sweet artless songster, thou my mind dost raise
To air of spheres, yes, and to angels' lays.
BURIAL OF THE YOUNG.
By Mrs. SIGOURNEY.
THERE was an open grave--and many an eye
Look'd down upon it.-Slow the sable hearse
Moved on, as if reluctantly it bore
The young unwearied form to that cold couch
Which age
and sorrow render sweet to man.
-There seem'd a sadness in the humid air,
Lifting the long grass from those verdant mounds
Where slumber multitudes.
Of young, fair females, with their brows of bloom
And shining tresses. Arm in arm they came,
And stood upon the brink of that dark pit,
In pensive beauty, waiting the approach
Of their companion. She was wont to fly
And meet them, as the gay bird meets the spring,
Brushing the dew-drop from the morning flowers,
And breathing mirth and gladness. Now she came
With movements fashion'd to the deep-toned bell :-
She came with mourning sire, and sorrowing child,
And tears of those who at her side were nursed
By the same mother.
Ah! and one was there,
Who ere the blooming of the summer rose,
Had hoped to see her health restored. But death
Arose between them. The pale husband watch'd
So close her journey through the shadowy vale,
That almost to his heart, the ire of death
Enter'd from hers. There was a brilliant flush
Of youth about her,--and her kindling eye
Pour'd such unearthly light, that hope would hang
Even on the archer's arrow, while it dropp'd
Deep poison. Many a restless night she toil'd
For that slight breath which held her from the tomb,
Still wasting like a snow-wreath, which the sun
Marks for his own, on some cool mountain's breast,
Yet spares, and tinges long with rosy light.
-Oft o'er the musings of the silent couch,
Came visions of that matron form which bent
With musing tenderness, to watch and soothe
Her sufferings and her animated hand
In trembling prayer she raised that he would bless
The sorrowing mother, and redeem the child.
Was the orison lost ?--Whence then that peace
So dove-like, sitting o'er a soul that loved
Earth and its pleasures? Whence that angel smile
With which the allurements of a world so dear
Were counted and resign'd? that eloquence
So fondly urging those whose hearts were full
Of sublunary happiness to seek
A better portion? Whence that voice of joy,
Which from the marble lip in life's last strife
Burst forth, to hail her everlasting home?
-Cold reasoners! be convinced, and when ye stand
Where that fair brow, and those unfrosted locks
Return to dust,-where the young sleeper waits
The resurrection morn,-Oh! lift the heart
In praise to Him who gave the victory.
From an American newspaper.
THE organ's thrilling notes swell forth
And fill the temple's dome :
But ah! my sadden'd heart is mute
For I am not at home;-
I turn to meet a stranger's gaze,-
Unwelcome scenes will come;
How can I join in notes of praise
Away, away from home?"
There is my home-where first I knelt
With Jesus' table spread,
And ate with trembling, trusting faith,
The consecrated bread;
No earthly voice can ever sound
So heavenly to my ear,
As his who stood beside the board,
And bade me welcome there.
But stranger tones fall on my ear--
But oh! I long to see
One tender glance from gentle eyes
Fall lovingly on me!
Then should sweet praise the voice employ
That has so sadden'd grown,
And I should feel a thrill of joy
That I am not alone.
Alone! ungrateful thought! ah no!
I cannot be alone:
My God is with me where I go,
And Jesus is my own;
How changed, how bright, each face appears-
How loving and how near;
Yes, all who kneel beside me now,
For Jesus' sake are dear.
Ye seem no longer strange and cold—
And peace within me reigns;
For the warm glow of Jesu's love
Dissolves these chilling chains;
My Father's house! it is my home
Wherever it may be;
My Saviour's flock wherever found--
Ye are the friends for me!
Thou art unchanging, mighty God!
And though all else grow strange,
My Prayer Book still remains the same-
My Bible cannot change:
And should I ever reach the fair
Blest world of joys to come,--
O there will be no strangers there,
We all shall be at home!
JACOB'S DREAM.
By the Rev. GEORGE CROLY.
THE sun was sinking on the mountain zone
That guards thy vales of beauty, Palestine :
And lovely from the desert rose the moon,
Yet lingering on the horizon's purple line,
Like a pure spirit o'er its earthly shrine.
Up Padan-aram's height, abrupt and bare,
A pilgrim toil'd, and oft on day's decline
Look'd pale, then paused for eve's delicious air;
The summit gain'd he knelt, and breathed his evening
He spread his cloak and slumber'd-darkness fell
Upon the twilight hills; a sudden sound
Of silver trumpets o'er him seem'd to swell;
Clouds heavy with the tempest gather'd round
Yet was the whirlwind in its caverns found;
Still deeper roll'd the darkness from on high,
Gigantic volume upon volume wound,
Above, a pillar shooting to the sky;
Below, a mighty sea, that spread incessantly.
Voices are heard-a choir of golden strings,
Low winds, whose breath is loaded with the rose;
Then chariot-wheels--the nearer rush of wings;
Pale lightning round the dark pavilion glows;
It thunders--the resplendent gates unclose;
Far as the eye can glance, on height o'er height,
Rise fiery waving wings, and star-crown'd brows,
Millions on millions, brighter and more bright
Till all is lost in one supreme, unmingled light.
But lo! beside the sleeping pilgrim stand,
Like cherub, Kings, with lifted, mighty plume,
Fix'd, sun-bright eyes, and looks of high command:
They tell the Patriarch of his glorious doom;
Father of countless myriads that shall come,
Sweeping the land like billows of the sea,
Bright as the stars of heaven from twilight's gloom,
Till He is given whom Angels long to see
And Israel's splendid line is crown'd with Deity.
LITTLE CHILDREN BROUGHT TO JESUS.
By GRAHAME.
SUFFER that little children come to me,
Forbid them not. Embolden'd by his words,
The mothers onward press; but finding vain
Th' attempt to reach the Lord, they trust their babes
To strangers' hands; the innocents alarm'd
Amid the throng of faces all unknown,
Shrink, trembling,-till their wandering eyes
The countenance of Jesus, beaming love
And pity; eager then they stretch their arms,
And, cowering, lay their heads upon his breast.
|