F. W. FABER. Mr. FABER is a young clergyman of the established church, and is the author of The Cherwell Water-Lily and other Poems, published in 1840, and Sir Launcelot, in the summer of 1844. His style is simple and poetical, and his productions are generally serious in sentiment and earnest in thought. KING'S BRIDGE. THE dew falls fast, and the night is dark, From bridge to bridge with tremulous fall And it washeth the base of a pleasant hall They stand so still and they look so wise, It keepeth its secrets down below, Oh! the night is dark; but not so dark As my poor soul in this lonely park: From bridge to bridge with tremulous fall As it washeth the base of a pleasant hall O Mary! Mary! could I but hear For death was born in thy blood with life- From bridge to bridge with tremulous fall As it washeth the base of a pleasant hall But fainter and fainter thy bright eyes grew, It keepeth its secrets down below, "Twas o'er thy harp, one day in June, As it washeth the base of a pleasant hall Thou badest me be silent and bold, But my brain was hot, and my heart was cold. I never wept, and I never spake, But stood like a rock where the salt seas break; O'er my blighted love and my chosen's bier. It keepeth its secrets down below, I stood in the church with burning brow, As it washeth the base of a pleasant hall And the spheres did whirl with laughter and mirth The river is green, and runneth slow- It keepeth its secrets down below, The dew falls fast, and the night is dark; From bridge to bridge with tremulous fall As it washeth the base of a pleasant hall But we too soon from our safe place were driven; The world broke in upon our orphan'd life. Dawnings of good, young flowers that look'd to Heaven, It left untill'd for what seem'd manlier strife; Like a too early summer, bringing fruit Where spring perchance had meant another shoot! Some begin life too soon,-like sailors thrown Upon a shore where common things look strange! Like them they roam about a foreign town, And grief awhile may own the force of change. Yet, though one hour new dress and tongue may please, Our second thoughts look homeward, ill at ease. Come then unto our childhood's wreck againThe rocks hard by our father's early grave; And take the few chance treasures that remain, And live through manhood upon what we save. So shall we roam the same old shore at will! In the fond faith that we are children still. Christian thy dream is now-it was not then: Oh! it were strange if childhood were a dream. Strife and the world are dreams: to wakeful men Childhood and home as jealous angels seem: Like shapes and hues that play in clouds at even, They have but shifted from thee into heaven! CHILDHOOD. TO MY ONLY SISTER. [come Dost thou remember how we lived at home- It was a moat about our souls, an arm Of sea, that made the world a foreign shore; And we were too enamour'd of the charm To dream that barks might come and waft us o'er. Cold snow was on the hills; and they did wear Too wild and wan a look to tempt us there. We had traditions of our own, to weave A web of creed and rite and sacred thought; And when a stranger, who did not believe As they who were our types of God had taught, Came to our home, how harsh his words did seem Like sounds that mar, but cannot break a dream. And then in Scripture some high things there were, Of which, they said, we must not read or talk; And we, through fear, did never trespass there, But made our Bibles like our twilight walk In the deep woodlands, where we durst not roam To spots from whence we could not see our home. Albeit we fondly hoped, when we were men, To learn the lore our parents loved so well, And read the rites and symbols which were then But letters of a word we could not spellChurch-bells, and Sundays when we did not play, And sacraments at which we might not stay. THE GLIMPSE. OUR many deeds, the thoughts that we have thought, We sometimes catch a fearful glimpse of one, THE PERPLEXITY. AND, therefore, when I look into my heart, And see how full it is of mighty schemes, Some that shall ripen, some be ever dreams, And yet, though dreams, shall act a real part: When I behold of what and how great things I am the cause; how quick the living springs That vibrate in me, and how far they go,Thought doth but seem another name for fear; And I would fain sit still and never rise To meddle with myself,-God feels so near. And, all the time, he moveth, calm and slow And unperplex'd, though naked to His eyes A thousand thousand spirits pictured are, Kenn'd through the shroud that wraps the heaven of heavens afar! TO A LITTLE BOY. DEAR little one! and can thy mother find Ah! then there must be times, unknown to me, Though now my heart, like an uneasy lake, Some broken images, at times, may take From forms which fade more sadly every hour! THE AFTER-STATE. A SPIRIT came upon me in the night; The citron shrub its golden fruit did train Against an English elm.-'Twas like a dream, Because there was no wind; and things did seem All near and big-like mountains before rain. Far in those twilight bowers, beside a stream, The soul of one who had but lately died Hung listening, with a brother at his side: And no one spoke in all that haunted place,But looked quietly into each other's face! THE WHEELS. THERE are strange, solemn times when serious men Sink out of depth in their own spirit, caught All unawares, and held by some strong thought That comes to them, they know not how or when, And bears them down through many a winding cell, In building up for heaven one single heart. And moulds of curious form are scatter'd there, As yet unused, the shapes of after deeds: And veiled growths and thickly sprouting seeds Are strewn, in which our future life doth lie, Sketch'd out in dim and wondrous prophecy. THE SIGNS OF THE TIMES. THE days of old were days of might But, one by one, the gifts are gone A blight hath past upon the church, The cold and fearful-hearted: Narrow and narrower still each year No man nor angel knoweth: THE END. STEREOTYPED BY L. JOHNSON, PHILADELPHIA. LD |