THOU art not dead, my son! my son! While lives the sire who loved thee. Can to her soul restore thee? To run before thy duty? That made thee look as angels look, When great good deeds are ended? The strength with which thy soul sustain'd Thy prayer, to stay with us, when sure And that last smile, which seem'd to say Why cannot ye restore me?" Thy look'd farewell is in my heart, And brings thee still before me. What though the change, the fearful change, Thy marble lip, which moves no more, By awed remembrance cherish'd; The pale rose of thy faded face Still withers in my bosom. O Mystery of Mysteries, That took'st my poor boy from me! What art thou, Death? all-dreaded Death! If weakness can o'ercome thee? We hear thee not! we see thee not, E'en when thy arrows wound us; Thy steps are ever round us. No fearful search could find thee: That ever stands behind thee? The Power who bids the worm deny The beam that o'er her blazes, And veils from us the holier light On which the seraph gazes, Where burns the throne of Him, whose name And sobs aloud-while in his eyes The tears, o'erflowing, gather- Bloom round the parted blossom! Was leaving them behind me: I cannot bear it. Even in heaven SLEEP. SLEEP! to the homeless, thou art home; Who meets thee at his journey's end. Thy weakness is unmeasured might; Sparks from the hoof of death's pale steedWorlds flash and perish in thy sight. The daring will to thee alone The will and power are given to theeTo lift the veil of the unknown, The curtain of eternity To look uncensured, though unbidden, THE PILGRIM FATHERS. A VOICE of grief and anger Of pity mix'd with scorn- A wild triumphant yell! The voice of men who left their homes To make their children free; Of men whose hearts were torches For freedom's quenchless fire; Of men, whose mothers brave brought forth The sire of Franklin's sire. They speak!—the Pilgrim Fathers Speak to ye from their graves! For earth hath mutter'd to their bones Athwart the upbraiding waves? Were Hampden, Pym, and Vane !" Land of the sires of Washington, Bring forth such men again! I think, I feel-but when will she A voice of comfort answers me, That God does nought in vain: He wastes nor flower, nor bud, nor leaf, Nor wind, nor cloud, nor wave; And will he waste the hope which grief Hath planted in the grave? CORN LAW HYMN. LORD! call thy pallid angel- No; wake not thou the giant Who drinks hot blood for wine; While he raves over waves That need no whirlwind then; Though slow to move, moved all at once, A sea, a sea of men! A GHOST AT NOON. THE day was dark, save when the beam Beneath my orchard oak; While there I sat, and named her name, I started from the seat in fear; Though all that was I saw ; She mourn'd her hopes o'erthrown Like gather'd flowers half-blown. And e'en the rose, which she had set, The thrush proclaim'd, in accents sweet, FLOWERS FOR THE HEART. FLOWERS! winter flowers!-the child is dead, Oh softly couch his little head, Place this wan lock of mine. Look, mother, on thy little one! And tears will fill thine eyes. Go, search the fields! the lichen wet Bends o'er the unfailing well; Beneath the furrow lingers yet The scarlet pimpernel. Peeps not a snow-drop in the bower, Where never froze the spring? A daisy? Ah! bring childhood's flower! Beside the little cheek; Oh haste! the last of five is dead! REGINALD HEBER. THIS eminent prelate and accomplished scholar was born at Malpas, in Cheshire, on the twenty-first of April, 1783, and in his seventeenth year was sent to Brazen Nose College, Oxford. While here he obtained the Chancellor's prize for a Latin poem, and greatly distinguished himself by a poem in English entitled Palestine. Unlike the mass of undergraduate prize poems, Palestine attained at once a high reputation which promises to be permanent. On receiving his bachelor's degree, Mr. HEBER travelled in Germany, Russia, and the Crimea, and wrote notes and observations, from which many curious passages are given in the well-known journals of Dr. EDWARD DANIEL CLARKE. On his return, he published Europe, a Poem, and was elected to a fellowship in All Soul's College. He was soon after presented with a living in Shropshire, and for several years devoted himself with great assiduity to his profession. He however found time, while discharging his parochial duties, to make some admirable translations from Pindar, and to write many of his beautiful hymns and other brief poems, a volume of which was published in 1812. Three years afterward, he was appointed to deliver the Bampton Lectures, and fulfilled the duty in so able a manner as to add greatly to his literary reputation. In 1822 he was elected to the important office of preacher of Lincoln's Inn; in the same year appeared his edition of the works of JEREMY TAYLOR, with notes and an elaborate memoir; and in 1823 he embarked for the East Indies, having accepted the appointment to the bishopric of the see of Calcutta, made vacant by the death of Dr. Middleton. He held his first visitation in the Cathedral of the capital of Hindostan, on Ascension day, 1824, and from that time devoted himself with great earnestness and untiring industry to missionary labours. He left Calcutta to visit the different presidencies of his extensive diocese, and while at Tirutchinopoli, on the second of April, 1826, was seized with an apoplectic fit, which on the following day ter minated his life, in the forty-third year of his age. He was a man of the most elevated character, whose history was itself a poem of stateliest and purest tone, and most perfect harmony. In the church he was like MɛLANCTHON, the healer of bruised hearts, the reconciler of all differences, the most enthusiastic yet the most placid of all the teachers of religion. In society he was a universal favourite, from his varied knowledge, his remarkable colloquial powers, and his unvarying kindness. India never lost more in a single individual than when HEBER died." The lyrical writings of HEBER possess great and peculiar merits. He is the only Englishman who has in any degree approached the tone of PINDAR, his translations from whom may be regarded as nearly faultless; and his hymns are among the sweetest which English literature contains, breathing a fervent devotion in the most poetical language and most melodious verse. I doubt whether there is a religious lyric so universally known in the British empire or in our own country, as the beautiful missionary piece beginning “From Greenland's icy mountains." The fragments of Morte d'Arthur, the Mask of Gwendolen, and the World before the Flood, are not equal to his Palestine, Europe, or minor poems; but they contain elegant and powerful passages. The only thing unworthy of his reputation which I have seen is Blue Beard, a seriocomic oriental romance, which I believe was first published after his death. The widow of Bishop HEBER, a daughter of Dean Shipley, of St. Asaph, and a woman whose gentleness, taste, and learning made her a fit associate for a man of genius, has published his Life, and his Narrative of a Journey through the Upper Provinces of India from Calcutta to Bombay, each in two volumes quarto. A complete edition of his Poetical Works has been issued by Lea and Blanchard of Philadelphia, and his Memoirs, Travels, Sermons, and other prose writings, have also been reprinted in this country. H CHRISTMAS HYMN. BRIGHTEST and best of the sons of the morning! Dawn on our darkness and lend us Thine aid! Star of the East, the horizon adorning, Guide where our infant Redeemer is laid! Cold on His cradle the dew-drops are shining, Low lies his head with the beast of the stall; Angels adore Him in slumber reclining, Maker and Monarch and Saviour of all! Say, shall we yield Him, in costly devotion, Odours of Edom, and offerings divine? Gems of the mountain and pearls of the ocean, Myrrh from the forest or gold from the mine? Vainly we offer each ample oblation; Vainly with gifts would His favour secure : Richer by far is the heart's adoration; Dearer to God are the prayers of the poor. Brightest and best of the sons of the morning! Dawn on our darkness and lend us Thine aid! Star of the East, the horizon adorning, Guide where our infant Redeemer is laid. THE WIDOW OF NAIN. WAKE not, O mother! sounds of lamentation! Weep not, O widow! weep not hopelessly! Strong is His arm, the Bringer of Salvation, Strong is the Word of God to succour thee! Bear forth the cold corpse, slowly, slowly hear him: Hide his pale features with the sable pall : Chide not the sad one wildly weeping near him: Widow'd and childless, she has lost her all! Why pause the mourners? Who forbids our weeping? Who the dark pomp of sorrow has delay'd? "Set down the bier, he is not dead but sleeping! Young man, arise!"-He spake, and was obey'd! Change, then, O sad one! grief to exultation: Worship and fall before Messiah's knee. Strong was His arm, the Bringer of Salvation; Strong was the Word of God to succour thee! THOU ART GONE TO THE GRAVE. THOU art gone to the grave! but we will not deplore thee, Though sorrows and darkness encompass the tomb; Thy Saviour has pass'd through its portal before thee, And the lamp of His love is thy guide through the gloom! Thou art gone to the grave! we no longer behold thee, Nor tread the rough path of the world by thy side; But the wide arms of Mercy are spread to enfold thee, And sinners may die, for the SINLESS has died! Thou art gone to the grave! and, its mansion forsaking, Perchance thy weak spirit in fear linger'd long; But the mild rays of Paradise beam'd on thy waking, And the sound which thou heardst was the seraphim's song! Thou art gone to the grave! but we will not deplore thee, Whose God was thy ransom, thy guardian and guide; He gave thee, He took thee, and He will restore thee, And death has no sting, for the Saviour has died! SONG. THERE is, they say, a secret well, In Ardennes' forest gray, Whose waters boast a numbing spell, That memory must obey. Who tastes the rill so cool and calm In passion's wild distress, Their breasts imbibe the sullen balm Of deep forgetfulness. And many a maid has sought the grove, But few have borne to lose the love No! by these tears, whose ceaseless smart That never told its pain. By all the walks that once were dear, By every dream of hope gone by FAREWELL. WHEN eyes are beaming What never tongue might tell; When tears are streaming From their crystal cell, When hands are link'd that dread to part, When hope is chidden That fain of bliss would tell, In the breast to dwell, 'Twas merry then in England And beauty, mirth, and warrior worth The shade to invade With the arrow and the bow. Ye spirits of our fathers! Among your children yet are found 'Tis merry yet in Old England, VERSES TO MRS. HEBER. If thou wert by my side, my love, If thou, my love, wert by my side, How gayly would our pinnace glide I miss thee at the dawning gray, I miss thee when by Gunga's stream But most beneath the lamp's pale beam I spread my books, my pencil try, But when of morn and eve the star I feel, though thou art distant far, Then on! then on! where duty leads, My course be onward still, O'er broad Hindostan's sultry mead, O'er bleak Almorah's hill. That course, nor Delhi's kingly gates, Nor wild Malwah detain ; For sweet the bliss us both awaits By yonder western main. Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they say, But ne'er were hearts so light and gay |