FROM THE LIBRARY OF 
 REV. LOUIS FITZGERALD BENSON, C. D. 
 
 BEQUEATHED BY HIM TO 
 
 THE LIBRARY OF 
 
 PRINCETON THEOLOGICAL SEMINARY 
 
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 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 BY 
 
 v// 
 
 WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 
 
 HARTFORD: 
 
 S. ANDRUS & SON. 
 
 1850. 
 
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1847, 
 
 BY WILLIAM BINGHAM TAPPAN, 
 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. 
 
Poetry of Life is the third volume of a 
 series, embracing my revised Poems ; of 
 which, Poetry of the Heart, and Sacred and 
 Miscellaneous Poems are the first and second. 
 
POETRY OF LIFE 
 
 MISSIONS. 
 
 Delivered before the Porter Rhetorical Society of Andover Theological 
 Seminary, at their Anniversary, September 4, 1838. 
 
 Spirit of Missions ! Spark of genuine flame ! 
 In God or man developed, still the same. 
 The same, where'er Messiah's followers go, — 
 Lights of the world, — to scatter light below. 
 The same, where rise the solemn temple's walls, 
 And where on Heaven the forest suppliant calls. 
 The same that bids the herald tempt the wave 
 For burning India, her lost sons to save ; 
 Or prompts unfamed Philanthropy to trace 
 Through lanes and alleys, Misery's dwelling place. 
 The same, where'er Benevolence is known, — 
 Lingering in hovels, seated on the throne ; 
 Thee, Spirit ! I discern, and hail thee now, 
 Essence divine, — Religion's Daughter, Thou ! 
 
 Ere in the void the firmament was hung, 
 Creation's birth ere stars and seraphs sung, 
 
6 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 Thou hadst thy being. Thousand, thousand times 
 Ten thousand harps had woke immortal chimes 
 To thy sweet praises, and the song above 
 To thee was rendered, known in heaven as Love. 
 
 Say, who of mortals introduced thee here, 
 And brought celestial blessedness so near ? 
 Say, who of man the sandal girded first, 
 To seek a welcome, or shake off its dust ? 
 Peace at the door to leave, or doom, more dread 
 Than that which fell on guilty Sodom's head ? 
 Nay, no mere mortal first that passage trod : 
 The Prince of Missions was the Son of God ! 
 Behold him, in the opening blush of youth, 
 In his own temple ! See the Life, the Truth, 
 Pointing to venerable men the way 
 That scribes may miss, — from which the sage may 
 
 stray. 
 While scanning there the Missionary Boy, 
 The skill of ancients finds perplexed employ ; 
 They listen, wondering, — and subdued is pride, 
 By Wisdom, Beauty, Grace, personified. 
 Behold him in his Father's work engaged ! 
 Work to be done, though unchained demons raged. 
 The lame he heals, the blind to sight restores, 
 And resurrection on Death's chamber pours ; — 
 Type of the power the God possessed within, 
 To cure the soul, and raise the dead in sin. 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 Last words are precious. He that bendeth o'er 
 The form so loved, so soon beheld no more, — 
 And marks the eye, which, ere the spirit's flight, 
 Kindles with rays of an unwonted light, — 
 Watches intently, ere 't is hushed in death, 
 The lightest whisper of the parting breath 
 And waits and listens in his painful fear 
 Lest but one word — the last — may fail his ear. 
 The last fond accents ! — Memory gathers these ! 
 And, when the struggling soul has gained release, 
 No miser treasures gold as Love will hoard, 
 And to the tittle, will fulfil each word. 
 Man is to man most faithful : — is he thus 
 To God ? Past centuries ! ye shall answer us. 
 
 Twilight was gathering o'er the Syrian hills, 
 And day's last gleam lay on Judea's rills ; 
 The soothing silence light's departure brings, 
 Came, gratefully, on sober Evening's wings ; 
 And far round Bethany the influence spread, 
 That o'er Retirement's hour is softly shed ; 
 When Jesus, with his faithful followers, came 
 On final errand. Him they knew, the same 
 Late lost in death, but now in triumph found, 
 Revisiting the loved, familiar ground, — 
 Martha and Mary's town, where Lazarus rose ; — 
 While for a world redeemed, compassion flows, 
 He gives his last command, — fulfilled, when sea 
 
8 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 And earth, as heaven, to Him shall subject be : 
 " Go, ye, and teach all nations ; in the name 
 Of Love Eternal, saving love proclaim." 
 Finished his work, — the great commission given, 
 A cloud his car, the God ascends to heaven. 
 Thus are we answered : — Eighteen hundred years 
 Of crime, and blood, and ignorance, and tears, 
 On hoary Olivet have dial kept, 
 And o'er her Lord's last words the Church has slept. 
 
 Yet, Saviour ! fell those burning words on hearts 
 Slow to believe, and faint to act their parts ? 
 Deemed the apostles that Jerusalem, 
 Their field appropriate, would suffice for them ? 
 And feared they hardship,- and that hands which slew 
 The Master, would destroy the servant too ? 
 Or passed they not from land to land, in turn, 
 Like flames of fire, to purify and burn ! 
 Thy love alone constraining them to spread 
 The Light of Life through regions of the dead ? 
 They did ! — and Earth, from east to western sea, 
 From north to south, was rendered back to Thee. 
 Where slept that spirit, — mighty, godlike, then, 
 In following ages ? Saviour ! why slept men ? 
 
 The night, that lowered upon the nations, broke ; 
 The slumbering Church to duty slowly woke ; 
 And here and there, some stars that told of day 
 Were seen to tremble out in gladdening ray : — 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 Xavier and Swartz — to Europe dimly known — 
 With glorious lustre on the Orient shone. 
 And some looked out along this "Western sky, — 
 Lights of God's kindling that mav never die. 
 
 And see ! where beauty like a robe is flung 1 
 Round David Brainerd, at his Crossweeksung. 
 'T is his the Indian proselytes to lave — 
 A simple rite — in the baptismal wave ; 
 In presence of the sky, and their wild woods, 
 With solemn music of their native floods. 
 Himself, a young disciple, round whom stand — 
 Curious, yet grave — the sovereigns of the land; 
 Bending dark brows ; — 'neath which gleam awe and 
 
 love 
 For him they deem a prophet from above. 
 Beautiful picture ! — and sublime, as fair ; 
 WTiat zeal, and hope, and self-denial there ! 
 
 And some have heard, within these sacred halls, 2 
 The secret voice that on the conscience calls ; 
 And pondered o'er in yonder hallowed grove, 3 
 The lofty plan to spread Redeeming Love. 
 The vows assumed beneath that conscious shade, 
 By Heaven were witnessed ; — Heaven has seen them 
 
 paid. 
 There prayed they, humbly, to the Source Divine ; 
 There found they wisdom on their path to shine. 
 
10 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 Nor faltered they, that path of peril known, 
 Nor thought indulged to keep from God his own. 
 Rejoiced to quell ambition's youthful pride, — 
 Rejoiced to climb the noble vessel's side, — 
 A highway opened for them, vast and wide, 
 A world of woe before them, — oh ! how long 
 By us neglected ! — Heaven, forgive the wrong ! 
 
 Commerce had sent her barks to every sea ; 
 The spangled banner of the daring Free 
 Had tossed its haughty folds on every wind, 
 Long, long before, — in mercy to mankind, — 
 The mission-keel for Jesus ploughed the wave, 
 With register of things that reach beyond the grave. 
 
 'T is brave to see a gallant ship," 
 
 With snowy pinions, fly 
 Across the ocean, like a bird, 
 
 Beneath a pleasant sky. 
 'T is brave to think what precious things 
 
 Are heaped up in her hold, — 
 What goodly merchandise she brings, 
 
 And jewelry and gold. 
 
 How lofty is her carriage, when 
 
 She sitteth on the deep ; 
 Her streamers loose, her canvass spread, 
 
 The rolling seas to sweep ! 
 
POETRY OP LIFE. 11 
 
 The loud hurrah, — the sailor's cheer, — 
 
 The tumult and the strife, — 
 The laugh, the farewell, and the tear ; 
 
 She is a thing of life ! 
 
 Yet braver sight I deem it is, 
 
 And goodlier, when a ship, 
 With Mercy's heralds, doth her wings 
 
 In yonder waters dip ; — 
 A burden bearing, richer far 
 
 Than gold, or cunning gem, — 
 The treasures of the holy Star 
 
 That shines from Bethlehem ! 
 
 More blessed than the royal ships 
 
 Of Solomon, that seas 
 Once traversed, for the peacocks, gums, 
 
 And spice and almug trees. 
 With other errand than the bark 
 
 That hoists the slaver's sail, — 
 On whose deck rains the curse of One 
 
 Who hears the Negro's wail. 
 
 Thrice blessed ! for she answers well 
 
 His high intent, who gave 
 A passage through all latitudes, 
 
 A path on every wave, — 
 
12 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 And to the needle law to turn 
 
 Obedient, to the pole, 
 That His own word may journey on, 
 
 And visit every soul. 
 
 It is a holy thought, that men 
 
 May watch, and toil, and strive, 
 And stir with enterprise the land, 
 
 And make the seas alive ; 
 And open up new avenues 
 
 Which Traffic never trod, 
 Only that Earth by these may be 
 
 A highway for our God. 
 
 On ! on ! — degraded Africa 
 
 In this good ship has part ; 
 A pulse of joy shall quickly beat 
 
 Throughout her mighty heart ; — 
 And, from her farthest pyramid, 
 
 Down to her southern line, 
 When Freedom reigns, what exile will 
 
 Look homeward, to repine ? 
 
 On ! on ! — the iEgean — glorious sea ! — 
 
 Before us gaily smiles ; 
 And those rich emeralds on its breast, 
 
 The lovely Grecian Isles. 
 
POETEY OF LIFE. 13 
 
 On every island shall the Cross 
 
 Confirm the faith of men ; 
 And we '11 not dwell on farewell tears, 
 
 In memory's sadness then ! 
 
 Where Housatonic quietly is seen 
 Winding its silver path through vales of green, — 
 Such as New England only boasts, — one dwelt, 
 Who followed busily the world, yet knelt 
 Daily and truly at a better shrine, — 
 For this life wise, and wise for Life divine. 
 One hapless morn, his duties seemed to ask 
 That on the river he should ply his task. 
 A storm had swept the waters. Chafing still, 
 The billows vexed the shore, and he from ill 
 Must save his craft, which at their mercy lay ; 
 So cheerfully to labor went his way. 
 
 He sought the angry stream, and from its bed 
 That evening's shadows saw him taken, dead. 
 The widow — name of anguish! silence best 
 May tell her sorrows — sunk at first, oppressed. 
 A Christian widow, she, whose humble trust 
 Was firm in God, who laid her hopes in dust. 
 Kites all performed to the departed due, 
 She to her chamber with her babes withdrew, 
 And kneeling by them, in prevailing prayer 
 Poured out a mother's ardent wishes there. 
 
14 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 To Him who makes the fatherless His care, 
 
 She gave them up ; — then, on the curly head 
 
 Of her first-born, she laid her hand, and said : 
 
 " Samuel ! — my son ! — my eldest ! — you have now 
 
 No father here to love you ; — if you bow 
 
 To Christ, your Saviour, though severe this rod, 
 
 He '11 be your Father, and your gracious God." 
 
 Smiling in tears, she rose, and found relief, 
 
 Thenceforth in faith, for this her bitter grief. 
 
 That eager boy, led by maternal love, 
 
 Trod the safe ways that surely lead above. 
 
 And now, though dead, Heaven all the faith fulfils 
 
 Of her, the ancestor of sainted Mills ! 
 
 O mother ! take thy little son, — 
 
 A path to him unknown, — 
 And lead him to the holy Cross ; 
 
 He cannot go alone ; — 
 And teach, betimes, those rosy lips, 
 
 Ere stain may gather there, 
 To lisp of God ; those infant knees 
 
 To bow in earnest prayer. 
 
 He looks to thee in confidence, — 
 
 He knows no other love ; 
 Wilt thou not guide that trusting one 
 
 To better hope above ? 
 
POETRY OF LITE. 15 
 
 He asks in sweet simplicity 
 To have his wants supplied, — 
 
 Wilt thou not teach him how to crave 
 Of One who will not chide ? 
 
 Thy heart is all alarm when pain 
 
 Afflicts his languid limb, — 
 It soothes thee, if thou mayst but ease 
 
 One pang that troubles him ; 
 And wilt thou, then, unmindful be, 
 
 Lest pains without control 
 Should end in death, — the second death 
 
 Of that undying soul ? 
 
 Oh ! look on his uncertain step 
 
 Along the nursery floor, — 
 And think how swift those feet may be 
 
 To seek Destruction's door ! 
 Ay, mother ! others, at their birth, 
 
 Like morning suns have shone ; 
 'Yet in their sins they sunk away, 
 
 And set in shame alone. 
 
 Oh, think ! thy speech, thy action, look, 
 
 Have influence to-day, — 
 And still shall wield their influence 
 
 When worlds have past away. 
 
16 PCETItY OF LIFE. 
 
 Ob, think ! that an unbidden glance 
 
 Has power on such a one, 
 To shape a fiend's or seraph's path, 
 
 When myriad years have run ; 
 
 That this dear prattler on thy knee, 
 
 Whose face is sunshine now, 
 May swell the ranks who wear the curse 
 
 Of hell upon their brow ; 
 Or, with a harp, like that on which 
 
 A Paul and Payson play, 
 May soar and sing, where Perfect Love 
 
 Makes one unclouded day. 4 
 
 There is a power at the secluded hearth 
 
 Of yon New England household, that may be 
 Felt by the dwellers at the ends of earth, — 
 
 Known to the islands of the distant sea. 
 Come ! let us woo the waters, and repair 
 
 To Asia's pleasant gardens, where the palm , 
 And fig-tree flourish ; and the gentle air, 
 
 Laden with citron, yields perpetual balm. 
 In this sweet Isle-of-France is seen the grave, — 
 
 Crowned with the evergreen, — where Harriet 5 
 sleeps. 
 What tender thoughts speed o'er the Indian wave, 
 
 Where pilgrim Love for her fond vigil keeps ! 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 17 I 
 
 What thousands, roused from sleep, have caught 
 Love's flame ! 
 
 What thousands more its influence shall confess, 
 Woke by the thrilling music of her name, — 
 
 And venture all — the heathen world to bless ! 
 
 Unhappy India ! — empire of the sun ! — 
 Rich in the gifts of nature, yet undone. 
 Toil has been given, with many prayers for thee, 
 That thou from Error's bondage mayst be free. 
 Yet Time rolls on ; — in billows deep and long, 
 The tide rolls on, — two hundred millions strong, — 
 Emptying those waves of life into the sea 
 Of shoreless, fathomless Eternity. 
 
 To urge thee downward in thy course of woe, 
 Hear it, high Heaven ! and wonder, Earth below ! 
 The Christian lends his influence, and for gain 
 Adds one more link — the strongest — to thy chain. 
 Thy youth, in European science taught, 
 Obtain, blest boon ! the privilege of thought; 
 And seeking Truth — which only maketh wise — 
 Detect old frauds and superstitious lies ; 
 And caste, and priest, and rite, at once despise. 
 Yet led not by Philosophy to drink 
 At higher streams, they loiter on the brink 
 Of these low waters, thirsty. Who will show 
 The young inquirers where those fountains flow, 
 2 
 
18 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 Of which, who drink, the pearl of price obtain ? 
 And henceforth live, and never thirst again ? 
 Yonder it comes ! — instruction from the West ! 
 Gleaned from the dregs of poison that infest 
 Decaying France ; the precepts of Voltaire, 
 And Paine's vile gatherings of the pit are there ; 
 Sent from the soil of Freedom's boasting band, 
 By men who tread, they say, a Christian land, — 
 Who, rather than their dreadful gains forego, 
 Would doom their race to everlasting woe. 
 Better, far better, that the Hindu lay, 
 A blinded votary, still to senseless clay, 
 Or sculptured stone : — for him it had been well ; 
 He had not found, at last, so deep a hell. 
 
 So have I heard, on some rude barbarous coast, 
 Where ships are wrecked and mariners are lost, 
 If one, perchance, is rescued from the wave, 
 'T is but to find on land a surer grave ; — 
 The robber meets him, nor regards his prayer, 
 But murders whom the seas and tempests spare. 
 
 Joy to the world ! — the Isles that ages saw 
 Vassals of sin, now wait Messiah's law. 
 Forth to their toil the Missionaries go, 
 Gladly to lessen human guilt and woe. 
 God goes before them, freely to prepare 
 The way in pagan lands, Salvation's highway there. 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 19 
 
 And while breaks on them, cloudlike, Oahu, 
 They hear the far-off cry, — " The tabu's o'er ! 
 
 The altar and the God demolished too, 
 
 What Deity shall come to Obookiah's shore ?" 
 
 He comes ! He comes ! whose mission 't is to save, 
 
 And raise the vilest from pollution's grave. 
 
 And at the music of His voice, the brand 
 
 Of death drops powerless from the assassin's hand. 
 
 She that, inhuman, would to burial give 
 
 Her living babe, consents the babe shall live. 
 
 The feeble parent, sick, or worn with age, 
 
 Is left no more to glut some monster's rage. 
 
 The tear is shed, and heaves the contrite's sigh, 
 
 Instead of strife, and Pe-le's frantic cry. 
 
 And stealing o'er the plain and lovely dell, 
 
 How strangely sweet ! — is heard the Sabbath bell. 
 
 The word proclaimed, the Spirit comes in power ; — 
 
 'T is Love's reward, — 't is Heaven's rejoicing hour. 
 
 And what shall mar this picture ? — Blasts from hell 
 May not destroy what God secures so well. 
 And who of men, if devils fail, can dim 
 These ocean-jewels, fashioned thus, for Him ? 
 What savage lands ? — nay, savage they were not 
 That furnished cargoes of the bane, to blot 
 These pleasant gardens from the southern deep, 
 And leave the Christian, patriot, man, to weep 
 
20 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 For desolation, wrought along this shore, 
 
 Known to the elder sister group before. 
 
 From polished climes the dreadful besom came 
 
 To sweep these islands ; and the guilt and shame 
 
 Lie at the doors of holy men, whose sum 
 
 Of cash and sin is swelled by cursed New-England rum. 
 
 Cross the Pacific to our western coast, 
 And vice of darker hue shall meet thee. Boast 
 No more of Christian courtesy ; — behold ! 
 How fiendlike, man, — in villany, how bold ! 
 The poor Nez Perces, from their Oregon 
 Yearly allured to guilty towns, are won 
 To foul Intemperance and Lust ; — then, fraught 
 With seeds of sin, are to their kindred brought ; 
 Returned, to poison with pestiferous breath 
 The simple hordes, and scatter moral death. 7 
 
 " Give us the holy Book," said they, 
 
 " Whose writing tells of hope and heaven : 
 Our lot is sad, and dark our way ; 
 May not the blessed Star of Day, 
 
 To cheer the Indian's path, be given ? 
 
 " Ye 've urged us to the farthest West, 
 
 From hunting-ground and teeming river : 
 Your corn grows on our mother's breast, — 
 We 're trodden down, abused, oppressed, 
 And Manitoo will not deliver. 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 21 
 
 " We '11 look to lands that may be ours, 
 
 Of running streams, and forests vernal ; 
 Where brave men, in those happy bowers, 
 Pass joyfully the white-winged hours 
 That brightly link the years eternal. 
 
 " We want the' Book that shows the way, — 
 The guide to poor lost wanderers given ; — 
 'T will make us glad, while here we stay ; 
 The white man's blessed Star of Day 
 Shall lead the Indian to his heaven." 
 
 The white man, with beguiling talk, 
 
 Allured the Indian to his city, 
 Where Crime is seen in shameless walk, 
 And mad Intemperance loves to stalk, 
 
 And glares the eye that knows not pity ; 
 
 An outcast, loathsome, and heart-broken ; 
 He begs once more — the wretch undone — 
 The holy Book that warns to shun 
 
 Such woe — of heavenly love the token ; 
 
 His cards the white man proffered then, — 
 
 Hell's printed leaves ; at such endeavor 
 Of wickedness, beyond his ken, 
 The Devil blushed, yet triumphed, when 
 He saw the victim lost for ever. 
 
22 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 Spirit of Missions, wake ! — thou art awake 
 If we may Popery trust. See, where they break 
 Away, in locust swarms, from fruitful Rome, 
 To rear the papal throne in Freedom's home ; 
 And teach our sons to own a foreign power ; 
 Our daughters take, with modesty's rich dower, 
 And wed them to the Lord. Yes, bind the free 
 With magic influence of Saint Peter's key ! 
 Yet, would you learn their fitness, and how wise 
 Are such to win the young, a sketch may well suffice. 
 If e'er to classic Italy you go, 
 Look at the schools that good Borromeo, 
 Milan's archbishop, founded. Popery keeps 
 Its vigils there, while better precept sleeps. 
 Sunday is chosen ; yet not Sunday Schools 
 Deem these, though subject to Religion's rules. 
 Behold them in the vast cathedral, where, 
 Sexes apart, they sit with solemn air, 
 And listen, as the skilful priest explains 
 The sinner's loss, — the devotee's sure gains ! 
 No Bible in the pupil's hand is seen, — 
 No library book adorns his desk of green. 
 And yet a bribe rewards the heavy task 
 Of due attendance. From kind Heaven ask 
 These priests indulgences for sin, to pay 
 The hireling scholars on each Sabbath-day. 
 And, without sigh or penitential grief, 
 Scores are wiped out by the old pontiff's brief; 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 23 
 
 Then troop they homeward, — mingling smiles and 
 
 tears, — 
 Absolved, some five, and some five hundred years. 8 
 
 Dear native land ! 't is said, in Heaven's decree, 
 That glorious things are spoken yet of thee ; 
 That, to fulfil some high intent, God gave 
 Our pious fathers passage o'er the wave, 
 And led those pilgrims on their stormy way, 
 His ark to shelter in yon wintry Bay ; 
 Where they, obscure, despised, in very need, 
 Planted in these rude hills most precious seed, 
 And watched its growth, and watered well its root, 
 And saw it redolent of leaves and fruit, — 
 Till, their faith realized, the giant tree 
 Has stretched its hundred arms from sea to sea. 
 
 Has Heaven done this, — and shouldst not thou 
 engage 
 In strife for Heaven, and its last battle wage ? 
 Shouldst thou not speed Salvation's message, thus, 
 As widely, freely, as the common curse ? 
 In every spot where wasting sin has rule, 
 Plant God's own nursery, the Sunday School ? 
 Give to his Bible wings, and bid it go 
 Where guilt is found, and guilt's companion, woe ? 
 Nor stay thy labor till the Eternal Son 
 Smiles on a world to his dominion won ? 
 
24 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 Is Wealth required ? Of Earth's superfluous gold, 
 A mite would win her back to Jesus' fold. 
 Its fountains are not sealed ; — yon playhouse shows 
 When folly calls for wealth, it freely flows. 
 Is talent, time, or zeal required ? — all these 
 That playhouse has, at full command, to please. 
 See there, for sin, how willingly engage, 
 With all the heart, the votaries of the stage ! 
 Who strut and trifle, mock and laugh away, 
 In mimic joy and sorrow, life's poor day. 
 Thousands they 've lulled with pleasure's syren song, 
 Ten thousand witched to death by sorcery strong. 
 What bitter tears have wretched fathers shed 
 O'er manly sons, — of promise, early fled ! — 
 What stricken mothers, silently, have laid 
 A broken heart to rest, where tomb-flowers fade, 
 For lovely daughters, sunk away in shame, 
 Allured, betrayed ; for ever lost their name, 
 Amid enticements of the playhouse, where 
 The soil is sin, — pollution's breath the air ! 
 What hopes, what bliss, what prospects of earth's 
 
 good, 
 What gold, what pearls, what bodies, souls, this flood 
 Of vast iniquity has gorged, none may 
 Or count or guess : the last revealing day 
 Will to the world, in the world's pyre-light, show 
 What wealth was whelmed in this abyss of woe. 9 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 25 1 
 
 Is Chivalry required, that youth inspires ? 
 'T is here, indeed, though lawless are its fires. 
 In honor, nice, it calls aloud for blood, 
 And will obtain it, — spite of man or God. 
 From yonder capital ye heard its cry, 
 When, for their idol, fools agreed to die ; 
 When was forgotten each appealing claim 
 Of right or country, — wife and child, — a name 
 Was periled, and in contest for a shade, 
 Forth went the Duellist on high crusade. 10 
 
 Yes, ye are honorable, all, 
 
 In Congress, there 's no doubt ; 
 Your chivalry we may not call 
 
 In question, who are out. 
 Oh, no ! and yet there 's fresh warm blood 
 
 Upon your hands to-day ; 
 And earth has drunk the purple flood 
 
 Its streams can't wash away. 
 Blood, too, that in their coward haste, 
 
 Men, who from conscience shrink, 
 Have dared, like Druids damned, to taste, 
 
 And given their god to drink. 
 Shame ! where 's thy blush ? we saw it, when 
 
 We searched some felon's cell; 
 But with such honorable men, 
 
 Shame may not, cannot dwell ! 
 
26 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 I saw the deck of the tall vessel, when 
 'T was place of interest to God and men. 
 Her sails, all loosened to the 7 ready breeze, 
 Her pennons, pointing to the distant seas, 
 Told us, the graceful traveller, under weigh 
 For foreign climes, must shortly cleave the Bay. 
 And who are these that gather round her ? Some. 
 Are whispering solace — others, grief makes dumb. 
 That old man, on the verge of heaven, takes 
 Farewell of him who sire and home forsakes. 
 The bride is there — a tender, gentle girl, 
 Lost for the moment in the varying whirl 
 Of sorrow, joy, and blessed hope, as sever 
 Those who on earth again shall mingle never. 
 She hangs upon her mother ; — who may tell, 
 O holy Nature ! what strong feelings swell 
 Within that mother's bosom ! And they go, 
 Where Mercy guides, to nations sunk in woe. 
 Yet think not 't is in sorrow, — that hour's bliss 
 Comes from another world ; 't was never known to 
 this. 
 
 That youth will labor, suffer there, in strife 
 With idol powers. That female will her life 
 Yield up — if need be — where the banyans bloom, 
 "Where no kind kindred hand may deck her tomb, 
 Where savage beasts, or men more savage, roam, — 
 Far from her much-loved Massachusetts home ; 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 27 
 
 And the sweet sympathies that bless her lot, 
 Who languishes and dies in the dear spot 
 That saw her birth. The cloud of canvass spread, 
 The ship departs ; the mission-path they tread. 
 Yet one last word, last wish expressed, — it swells 
 Along the whisper of their sad farewells, — 
 Asks, when of prayer we taste the soothing power, 
 We '11 ne'er forget them, — never, in that hour. 
 
 Welcome the hour of interceding prayer ! 
 Welcome the place of precious concert ! where, 
 With one accord, the Christian suppliants meet, 
 And lay the heathen world at Jesus' feet. 
 The flame, lit up on the far Sandwich shore, 
 Catches from land to land, and passes o'er 
 Ocean and continent, till, like a robe 
 Of glory, prayer encompasses the globe. 
 
 Yet deem not prayer or gold will ever win 
 Earth from the grasp of unrelenting Sin. 
 Not these alone ; — there must be quenchless zeal, 
 And love untiring, — that like love can feel, 
 And toil, as Love did ; gladly, wholly, so 
 That heaven, all love, may dwell with men below. 
 
 Think not the work is done, or well nigh done 
 To " pray and pay " some few days, and the Son 
 Will surely enter on his kingdom — No ! 
 
28 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 The mighty toil is but commenced ; and think, 
 How little is accomplished ! — On the brink 
 Of ruin, yet how many millions stand ! 
 How few, alas ! of that immortal band 
 Will reach immortal life ! — who of us, then, 
 Delays exertion for these fellow-men ? 
 Oh ! while we linger, lingers not Death's power ; 
 And Hell has won its thousands in this hour ! 
 
 Thou precious Gospel ! power is seen in thee, 
 From every yoke, to set all captives free. 
 Where thy pure influence is truly felt, 
 Spurned are the gods to which man blindly knelt. 
 Hark ! to a voice o'er glad Caribbean waves, 11 
 Telling that men walk forth, no longer slaves. 
 The fetters broke, — for ever unconfined, 
 Henceforth expatiates the immortal Mind, — 
 Doing, what Mind, free as its Giver, can, 
 To prove the affinity of God to Man. 
 'T is much that now the tiller of the soil 
 Shall henceforth reap the harvest of his toil ; 
 'T is much — no longer in the world alone, 
 He feels home's treasures are indeed his own. 
 No tyrant's hand shall on his wife be laid, 
 No ruffian dealer in his children trade ; — 
 Nor to the cord and whip shall subject be 
 The body, — yes, 't is more, — the soul is free ! 
 The soul, once bought with Priceless Blood, and sold 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 29 
 
 By man, unblushingly, for sordid gold. 
 What earthquake cry has on that prison broke, 
 And from the guiltless captive loosed the yoke ? 
 The same strong Voice that rocked Philippi's cell, 
 Has wrought Emancipation's work so well ! 
 The Gospel melted Slavery's dreadful chain, 
 And brought up Man to sit with Men again. 
 Oh, speed it then ! till on our millions fall 
 Its warmth and light, that play upon the wall 
 Of their sad dungeon, and, barred out by sin, 
 As yet, with blest deliverance, shine not in. 
 
 Spirit of Missions ! art thou not still found 
 Within this presence, awfully around ? 
 Spirit of Missions ! hast thou not a throne 
 In some hearts here, accepted as thine own, 
 That burn to herald the Redeemer's Name 
 In far-off lands ; content with pain and shame, 
 Sickness and sorrow — death itself — if they 
 Might win some souls where wretched millions 
 
 stray ; 
 And lay their bones in some unnoticed grave, 
 Where Burmah's gardens bloom, or Jordan's palm- 
 trees wave ? 
 
 What recollections crowd upon you still, — 
 Ye who inquire, and learn your Master's will, 12 
 As, often gathering in these sacred halls, 
 
30 
 
 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 Ye counsel, pray, and ponder o'er the calls 
 From the far Heathen ! Oh ! how kindly, then 
 Comes on the heart remembrance of the men 
 Who sat where thus ye sit, in like employ, — 
 Redemption their high theme — its work their joy 
 Where are they ? Memory repeats it, " where ! " 
 The sea has some, and some sepulture share 
 With the poor Pagan : — will ye follow, too ? 
 The foe is strong — our warriors are but few. 
 
 Jericho, when the trump of jubilee 
 Rang round her walls the anthem of the free, 
 Shook at the glorious music. Reeling, fell 
 Rampart and tower, as by some mighty spell. 
 God did it ! Vain that Levite trumpeter, 
 With holy ark, should seven days compass her. 
 Not these ! not these ! His own Almighty blast 
 Her pomp and glory down to ruin cast ; 
 Yes, swept from earth her very name, that none 
 Of her rebellious seed might glean a stone. 
 
 Thus will it ever be ! The only song 
 
 Bewildering devils with its heavenly call 
 
 At whose high summons gates shall open wide, 
 Walls crumble, and from Satan's captive throng 
 The dreadful fetters shall for ever fall, 
 Is that of Freedom : — Go, ye heralds, go ! 
 And strong in Israel's God, — in God, who died 
 To free a world, — Salvation's trumpet blow. 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 31 
 
 " Come ! " cry the nations, deeply sunk in woe ; 
 Go ! — for a secret voice hath bid you " Go." 
 And there are whisperings from the sullen tomb, 
 Just closed o'er talent, worth, and youthful bloom ; 
 He speaks who yesterday assumed the shield, 13 
 Here, in your ranks, prepared to take the field, 
 And of his weapons made one proof below ! 
 He from his coffin speaks, and bids you " Go ! " 
 Yes, from his glory says, " Brief fife — well trod 
 Its path of duty — surely leads to God ! " 
 
 Pass on, ye hours ! Oh ! haste to joyful birth, 
 Thou day ! so long foretold, when ruined Earth — 
 The only planet on which rays divine 
 Of Love, complacent, do not fully shine — 
 The only star of all the glittering train 
 That onward rolls, and seems to roll in vain — 
 Shall be restored to His exalted sway 
 Whom atoms serve, and worlds, immense, obey. 
 
 It comes ! it comes ! — already I behold 
 Millennial splendors to all lands unrolled. 
 Issuing in glory from her night of woes, 
 What wondrous scenes shall Earth to Heaven disclose ! 
 Sin, the Destroyer, and its fruits, unknown, — 
 Religion treads an Eden now her own. 
 What millions gather at the hallowed time, 
 When Labor pauses at the Sabbath's chime ! 
 
32 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 What little ones are grouped, in flocks, untold, 
 Within the Sabbath School's delightful fold ! 
 And every lamb, led by the Shepherd, seen 
 By sparkling founts, in fields of living green. 
 No hasting heralds search the heathen world ; 
 On every hill, behold ! the Cross unfurled. 
 Peace o'er the nations in rich beauty shed, 
 One family of love — one Church — one Head ; 
 And Earth returned from bondage, guilt, and tears, 
 A weary wanderer of six thousand years ! 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 33 
 
 NOTES 
 
 1. Sparks's American Biography. 
 
 2. Andover Theological Seminary. 
 
 3. In connection with Messrs. Newell, Judson, Nott, and Hall, he 
 held frequent consultations on this momentous subject, which resulted 
 in a resolution to combine their exertions for effecting a mission to for- 
 eign lands. There is a beautiful grove that spreads itself in the rear 
 of the buildings of the Andover Theological Seminary; and "along 
 that shady walk," says one of his fellow-missionaries, " where I have 
 often walked alone, Mr. Mills has frequently been my companion, and 
 there urged the importance of missions to the heathen. And when 
 we had reached some sequestered spot, where there was no fear of in- 
 terruption, he would say, — ' Come, God can guide us right ; let us 
 kneel down and pray ; ' and then he would pour out his soul in ar- 
 dent supplication for the blessing of God, and the guidance of his 
 Holy Spirit." — Life of Samuel J. Mills. 
 
 4. St. Augustine, that sublime genius, that illustrious father and 
 great luminary of the church, whose fame filled the whole Christian 
 world in the latter part of the fourth, and beginning of the fifth cen- 
 tury, was, till his 28th year, only a " bitterness to her that bore him." 
 From his own subsequent confession, he was deaf to the voice of con- 
 science : he broke away from all moral restraints, and spent his youth 
 amid scenes of baseness and corruption. But, in all his wanderings, 
 that depraved young man was followed by a weeping, praying mother. 
 Her tears, on his account, watered the earth, and her prayers went up 
 3 
 
34 
 
 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 as incense before God. " It is not possible," said a certain bishop, in 
 reply to her importunity, that he would endeavor to reclaim her son : 
 " Good woman, it is not possible that a child of such tears should 
 perish." And at length the son himself carried to his praying mother 
 the news of his conversion, and she received " the oil of joy for 
 mourning," and " the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness." 
 Mother's Magazine. 
 
 5. Harriet Newell. 
 
 6. The introduction of New England Rum into the Society and 
 Sandwich Islands (sent out by professors of the Christian Religion) 
 has accomplished much for the hindrance of the Gospel among the 
 abused natives. 
 
 7. Astonishing Disclosures. — A friend has put into our hands, for 
 publication, the following extract of a letter from Rev. Mr. Spaulding, 
 missionary on Columbia river, dated February 16, 1837. The truth 
 of the disclosures cannot be doubted, although they are almost too 
 wicked to be believed : — 
 
 " Even at this great remove from the fountains of moral corruption, 
 a small rivulet, now and then, may be seen. Eveiy year, a greater or 
 less number of Nez Perces are taken to St. Louis, and return (if their 
 constitutions outride the storms of intemperance and licentiousness) 
 to scatter the seeds of moral death among their unsuspecting country- 
 men. Nor have I yet, I fear, caused to be burnt all the packs of 
 cards which have been sold for the Bible to the inoffensive people, long 
 seeking for and offering any price to get hold of that precious book. 
 So the devil is found in sheep's clothing, even on the Rocky Moun- 
 tains. They tell me they have sometimes given a horse for a pack of 
 cards, which, they were told, was positively the Word of God ; but 
 which they now call the book from below. They say they have, for 
 some time, distrusted the men that would bring ' fire water ' to the 
 mountains, drink it, and then kill each other." — Boston Courier. 
 
 8. Rev. Daniel Wilson's Tour through Europe. 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 35 
 
 9. The infidel philosopher, Rousseau, declared himself to he of 
 opinion that the theatre is, in all cases, a school of vice. Though he 
 had himself written for the stage, yet, when it was proposed to estab- 
 lish a theatre in the city of Geneva, he wrote against the project with 
 zeal and great force, and expressed the opinion that every friend of 
 pure morals (and of youth) ought to oppose it. Alas ! that which in- 
 fidelity has condemned as a fruitful source of corruption and shame 
 is publicly advocated and patronized in our midst, — yea, more, — 
 vindicated and patronized by some who profess godliness ! 
 
 10. This refers to the duel (1838) between Messrs. Graves and Cilley, 
 both members of Congress. " The wind was so high that they could 
 not shoot with accuracy ; — else the same fate might have fallen to 
 Mr. Graves. But, sir, 
 
 Happy was he that died ; 
 
 For many deaths will the survivor die. 
 
 There is not an honorable man living, who knows all the circum- 
 stances, that would not, at this moment, prefer the situation of Mr. 
 Cilley, stiff and cold as he is, to that of his antagonist, and of his an- 
 tagonist's seconds, who perpetrated his murder. " — Correspondent of 
 the New York Gazette. 
 
 11. The glorious First of August, 1838. 
 
 12. Society of Inquiry on Missions. 
 
 13. Mr. H. T., member of the senior class at the Theological Sem- 
 inary, at Andover, had just preached his first and last sermon, in the 
 chapel of the Institution, and then entered into the joy of his Lord. 
 
36 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 THE DAUGHTER OF THE ISLES. 
 
 Lucy Goodale Thurston, daughter of Rev. Asa and Mrs. Lucy 
 Thurston (Missionaries at the Sandwich Islands, where she was horn), 
 arrived at New York, on a visit to the land of her fathers, and imme- 
 diately after sickened and died, at the age of seventeen years and ten 
 months, leaving a sure and sweet hope of acceptance through the 
 Redeemer. 
 
 The biographer of this interesting girl remarks : " Hers was a peace- 
 ful home. Affection made it happy, and regular and varied occupa- 
 tions added zest to its enjoyments. When, with her mother and sis- 
 ter, she walked along the shores of the broad Pacific, and listened to 
 tales of her Father-land and of a Christian land, her heart never 
 sighed for the far-off region she had brightly pictured in her imagina- 
 tion ; and she returned with a contented spirit to her quiet home at 
 Kai-lu-a." 
 
 Fair Daughter of the sunny Isles 
 
 That sit like sovereigns on the sea, 
 How shall I weave a song of smiles 
 
 For her who never smiled on me ? 
 Or how of graces may I speak, 
 
 That never yet have blest mine eyes ; 
 The dewy lip, the virgin cheek 
 
 Of one that 's passed beyond the skies ? 
 
 I know that Fancy's pearls may shine 
 On Beauty, and, like pearls, be cold ; 
 
 That Flattery's flowers round Wit may twine, 
 And die on bosoms they enfold ; 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 37 
 
 And well I know the exalted Mind, 
 That late informed thy perfect clay, 
 
 Would not with Love or Wit be shrined, 
 Nor be adored in servile lay. 
 
 X know that Death invests the friend 
 
 With worth, Existence never knew ; 
 And to defects we love to lend 
 
 The veil that gives them Virtue's hue : 
 But thou requirest no taper light, 
 
 To shine on thy regretted tomb ; 
 Nor flowers of verse — whose path was bright, 
 
 Whose life was one bouquet of bloom. 
 
 For thou, beyond as well the songs 
 
 As wailings of a world like this, 
 Art mingling with the sister throngs 
 
 That early fled away to bliss ; 
 As far removed from paltry praise, 
 
 That vainly would thy notice win, 
 As from material wants and ways — 
 
 As thy pure spirit is from sin ! 
 
 I love to think thy tender age 
 
 Was wed to Nature's wondrous book, 
 
 And that thou didst upon its page 
 
 Of flowers and shells and planets look ; 
 
38 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 And yet, from flower and star and sea, 
 A very child — didst turn away, 
 
 To seek the glances dear to thee, 
 In thine own quiet Kai-lu-a. 
 
 I love to think how free thou wast 
 
 From Fashion's lore, that taints our kind ; 
 That yet is purchased at the cost 
 
 Of kingdoms — a transparent mind ! 
 And sigh that Earth possesses few — 
 
 Such price is for refinement paid — 
 Like thee, to simple Nature true, 
 
 A guileless and a trusting maid. 
 
 I sigh for her who nobly brought 
 
 Such wealth from Hon-o-lu-lu's strand ; 
 And him, who, sending, meekly thought 
 
 With such to bless its Father-land. 
 And yet 't is well, this tropic gem 
 
 All polished — though to these unknown — 
 So early shines, a diadem, 
 
 Where shines the rainbow-cinctured throne. 
 
 Thanks for the record of thy worth, 
 Traced by Affection's modest pen ; 
 
 Tears were my tribute to its truth, 
 
 Though counted not with weeping men ; 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 39 
 
 And better thought I of my race, 
 
 Redeemed by excellence so rare ; 
 And richer seemed abounding Grace, 
 
 That sought and dowered such lovely heir. 
 
 With books that may not perish, be 
 
 These pages numbered ! Youth shall know 
 How to perfection's symmetry 
 
 A Daughter of the Lord may grow ; 
 And here, as mirrored in a glass, 
 
 May see how fair the saint may shine, 
 Who lets this world unheeded pass, 
 
 And surely seeks a world divine. 
 
 Farewell ! I weep, that flower so young, 
 
 The nursling of a gentle sky, 
 Should on our shores be coldly flung, 
 
 In all its loveliness, to die. 
 And yet 't was ordered by His will 
 
 Who wisely hath events decreed : 
 Thou wast but lent ; — ye griefs, be still ! 
 
 He but recalled when he had need. 
 
40 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 THE CHRISTIAN BRAHMUN. 
 
 " Babajee, the Christian Brahmun ; by Rev. Hollis Read, American 
 Missionary to India ; exhibiting the character of a Hindoo Brah- 
 mun, both before and after his heart had been subdued by Divine 
 Grace." — " It is not," says the author, " pretended that Babajee's 
 case is a common one. His zeal for the conversion of his countrymen, 
 his energy of character, his disinterestedness, his spiritual attainments, 
 distinguished him from the converts with whom I have had the hap- 
 piness of being acquainted. He was evidently selected by Divine 
 sovereignty as a subject on whom God might display the riches of his 
 grace, for the honor of his Name among the heathen, for the confirm- 
 ing of his promises to the church, and for the encouragement of mis- 
 sionaries abroad, and the friends of missions at home." 
 
 Once proud and blinded Pundit ! now 
 
 A meek, enlightened teacher, tell 
 Who wrought the change within thee ? how 
 
 Was scattered Brahmu's potent spell ? 
 What moved a lying, swinish, base, 
 
 Degraded, sensual slave of sin, 
 To knock, and ask, with Truth, a place, 
 
 To beg of Love to let him in ? 
 
 I read, for Lazarus at the gate — 
 
 Lazarus, a sore from foot to crown — 
 
 The willing angels flew to wait, 
 
 And God's attending wheels came down ; 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 41 
 
 Nor wonder ! for his leprous taint 
 
 Defiled alone the outer side ; 
 Within the pauper shone the saint, 
 
 Whom rags and ruin could not hide. 
 
 But thou — whose outward misery told 
 
 The nakedness and need within, 
 Whose blots and blotches were the old 
 
 Corruptions of polluting sin — 
 That thou wast from thy dunghill brought, 
 
 To be a guest where monarchs shine, 
 Perfumed and fair — surpasses thought 
 
 Of man, and reaches thought Divine. 
 
 We deem it marvellous — well we may — 
 
 When, on these Christian altars, one 
 Who grace withstood, is led to lay 
 
 The offering of a soul undone ; — 
 The offering of a broken heart, 
 
 Which God, in Christ, will not despise ; 
 We marvel such hath gracious part 
 
 In the Incarnate Sacrifice. 
 
 Though round his youthful follies dwelt 
 The light of pure instruction given, 
 
 Though his maturer sins had felt 
 
 The brighter blaze of angry Heaven ; 
 
42 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 Yet such is nature unsubdued, 
 
 So hostile to the law of love, 
 That, when with meltings 't is imbued, 
 
 We own the Hand is from above. 
 
 Yet thou, whose bud of childhood grew 
 
 In shade of more than sunless gloom, 
 Who gavest Kristna and Vishnu, 
 
 The precious flower of manhood's bloom, 
 Whose eye, on cunning shasters fixed, 
 
 Ne'er rested on the Book of God ; 
 Whose vain mythology was mixed 
 
 With fables, ancient as the flood, 
 
 And subtleties that sense confused : 
 
 Thou, ne'er the child of one true prayer, 
 
 Mind, intellect, and will abused — 
 For whom no earnest Christian care, 
 
 For whom no watchful winning love 
 Of father, mother, ever woke ; 
 
 That thou, thus bound, shouldst soar above 
 
 And in the True Religion's light 
 
 Shouldst walk, and love its splendors well, 
 Who only knew'st deluding night, 
 
 And in its maze was left to dwell ; 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 43 
 
 And from the tyranny of meats 
 And drinks, and penances of pain, 
 
 Self-given — shouldst joyfully escape, 
 And sunder Caste's terrific chain, 
 
 Proves Power Almighty — nothing less ; — 
 
 And teachings high I take from thee, 
 For which I will thy memory bless, 
 
 O Christian Brahmun Babajee ! 
 That Heaven sees not the wretch so low, 
 
 Whose guilt may manhood's stamp efface, 
 Nor in the veriest heir of woe, 
 
 One sunk beneath recovering Grace. 
 
 And what art thou ? and where am I ? 
 
 Thou, gazing on the Source of Light ; 
 Myself, with longings for the sky, 
 
 A prisoner still in shades of night. 
 Yet, in the lingering task of life, 
 
 Before me, shall I lessoned be 
 By thy calm faith, and prayers, and strife 
 
 With sin, O sinless Gossawee ! * 
 
 * Gossa-sree, a devotee in India, professing to be a holy spiritual In- 
 structor. 
 
 — ♦ 
 
44 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 THE JESUIT.* 
 
 The eager Jesuit pushed his way 
 
 Where heroes fear to go, 
 And reared Love's holy symbol high, 
 From Thibet to the howling sky 
 
 Of Huron's world of snow. 
 
 Regardless or of tribe or clan, 
 
 Or skin of red or white, — 
 He saw mankind as brethren — sought 
 From barbarous, polished, and untaught, 
 
 To win his neophyte. 
 
 No tortures turned his step aside : f 
 
 The tomahawk and knife, 
 The rifle-shot, the club, the stake, 
 But nerved his heart ; they could not break 
 
 The purpose of his life. 
 
 * The Society of Jesus, or Jesuits, founded by Loyola, 1539. 
 
 t The Jesuit never receded one foot ; but as, in a brave army, new 
 troops press forward to fill the place of the fallen, there were never 
 wauting heroism and enterprise in behalf of the Cross. — Bancroft's 
 History. 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 45 
 
 His oath was stern ; he could not wear 
 
 The prelate's jewelled crest ! 
 He moral strength might only find, 
 Enough ! — in wielding plastic mind ; 
 
 To mould it, his behest 
 
 To yoke in papal bondage men, 
 
 To elevate the Cross, 
 The Jesuit freely gave himself: 
 To this, fame, pleasure, ease, and pelf, 
 
 He counted but as dross. 
 
 Yes, death he shunned not, courted, if 
 Rome might the gainer be. * 
 
 O Soldier in a better cause ! 
 
 Defender of sublimer laws ! 
 How is it now with thee ? 
 
 * The wigwams are set on fire ; the Mohawks approach the chapel, 
 and Father Anthony Daniel serenely advances to meet them ; aston- 
 ishment seizes the barbarians. At length, drawing nearer, they dis- 
 charge at him a flight of arrows. All gashed and rent by wounds, he 
 still continues to speak with surprising energy, — now inspiring fear 
 of the divine anger, and again, in gentle tones, yet of more piercing 
 power than the whoops of savages, breathing the affectionate messa- 
 ges of mercy and grace. The victim to the heroism of charity dies ; 
 the name of Jesus on his lips ; the wilderness gave him a grave ; the 
 Huron nation were his mourners. — Bancroft's History. 
 
46 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 Art tliou, to true Religion sworn, 
 
 As eager for thy Lord, 
 To plant at home, or at earth's end, 
 Memorials of thy heavenly Friend, 
 
 With Heaven for thy reward ? 
 
 Ho ! thou " at ease in Zion " — fold 
 
 Thine arms upon thy breast, 
 And tell thy Saviour, if thou durst, 
 For his dear Name are counted curst, 
 Fame, pleasure, health, and rest. 
 
 And tell Him, if thou canst, that thou 
 
 Thy fellow-man to save — 
 From Thibet's grove to Huron's waste, 
 Would'st go and toil, yes, gladly taste 
 The wormwood of the slave.* 
 
 And tell Him that nor fagot, knife, 
 
 Nor savage foe, hath frown 
 To thee, who pantest, for his Name, 
 To war with treachery, trial, shame, 
 And take the martyr's crown ; 
 
 * In the early history of Missions, it is recorded, that devoted men 
 sold themselves into voluntary bondage, that they might thus be en- 
 abled the more effectually to labor for the conversion of the slave. 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 47 
 
 That earnest is thy love for Him, 
 
 As for the Vatican 
 The patient, persevering love 
 That heaven and earth and hell would move, 
 
 Erroneously, for man ; 
 
 And that thou countest ocean's hoards, 
 
 In treasure-depths unpriced, 
 As nought, if thou mayst win from loss, 
 And set — a star above the Cross — 
 
 One soul for Jesus Christ ! 
 
 CHRIST IS COMING! 
 
 Christ is coming ! these his signs : 
 Tumults in the air and earth, 
 
 Sword that dipt in vengeance shines, 
 Woes and wonders sprung to birth, 
 
 Show to faith's discerning eye, 
 
 Christ, the very God, is nigh. 
 
 Christ is coming in the storm ! 
 
 Working on the wretch His will, 
 When his anger waxeth warm : 
 
 Christ is coming in the still 
 Whispers of his Spirit's love, 
 Winning weeping souls above. 
 
48 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 Christ is coming ! yes, in clouds ; 
 
 Every eye shall see Him then ; 
 Rising from their dusty shrouds, 
 
 On Him is the gaze of men, 
 Where the judgment-throne is wheeled, 
 Where all secrets are revealed. 
 
 Christ is coming ! fleeing breath 
 
 Shall His awful token be ; 
 Sinner, know ! thy day of death 
 
 Is the judgment-day for thee ! 
 Who shall of the future year 
 Talk, when now the Judge is here ? 
 
 A SLAVE IS LN MY HOUSE TO-NIGHT.* 
 
 A slave is in my house to-night, 
 
 He flies from Southrons and the Chain ; 
 
 Man made him timid — morning's light 
 Will see his flight again. 
 
 I bid him stay with strong request ; 
 
 My strong request he will deny : 
 The partridge, hunted from its nest, 
 
 Continually must fly. 
 
 * A recent fact. 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 49 
 
 I give him food, I give a bed, 
 
 Where his old limbs at ease may be ; 
 
 I watch his sleep, but sleep has fled, 
 In fear of such as me. 
 
 Flashes along the walls a whip ! 
 
 Bends o'er his bed the overseer ! 
 Grins on the wretch a traitorous lip ! 
 
 The blood-hound scents him here ! * 
 
 I cannot blame him ; stripes and tears 
 Have taught him of Oppression's power ; 
 
 Can Pity tasks of fifty years 
 Unlearn in one short hour ? 
 
 Go, fugitive ! yet not like Cain ; 
 
 There is no guilt upon thy face ; 
 Thy master wears a burning stain, 
 
 Repentance can't efface, f 
 
 Go ! for an angel entertained 
 
 Art thou, methinks, to me and mine ; 
 
 Our zeal — not lost — perhaps had waned ; 
 Freedom ! 't is henceforth thine. 
 
 * Calling the poor fellow in the morning, I found he had secured 
 his chamber door, on the inside, during the night ; such was his fear 
 of his fellow-man ! 
 
 f We forgive the repenting slaveholder ; but the consequences of 
 his crime remain. 
 
50 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 TO MY MOTHER IN NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 Six years have come, six years have flown, 
 
 My Mother ! since we met ; 
 And though this heart has wept alone, 
 
 It never could forget 
 The happy hours of Infancy, 
 
 The hours unknown to care — 
 When, sheltered in a Mother's love, 
 
 It fondly nestled there. 
 
 Mother ! I well remember thou 
 
 Wouldst smile upon thy boy, 
 And warmly on his childish brow 
 
 Imprint the kiss of joy. 
 I wondered why my gladness then 
 
 Was changed to sudden fear, 
 When on my glowing cheek I felt 
 
 The traces of a tear. 
 
 And Memory lingers at the hour 
 
 When, leaving all my play, 
 I sought her presence from whose smiles 
 
 I was not wont to stray. 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 51 
 
 I was a " Mother-boy " I knew, 
 
 Yet was I much to blame ? 
 For pleasure of the heart like this, 
 
 The world has not a name. 
 
 I slept — but thou eouldst not ; for oft 
 
 My sleep, unquiet, told 
 Of sickness stealing o'er my frame, 
 
 And midnight saw thee hold 
 Thy child within thy weary arms ; 
 
 Whilst thou, to nature true, 
 "Wouldst soothe my frequent pain with all 
 
 A Mother's love could do. 
 
 Long years have wandered by since then, 
 
 And I have sped my way 
 Far from Xew England's hills, where I 
 
 First hailed the laughing day ; 
 Yet, Mother ! truant thought returns, 
 
 And lingers oft with thee : 
 Hast thou not, O my parent ! yet 
 
 A blessing left for me ? 
 
 Thou art not what thou wast, for Age 
 
 Has silvered o'er thy hair ; 
 Thine eye is dim, thy cheek is pale — 
 
 Time sets his signet there ; 
 
52 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 Yet dearer, dearer to this heart, 
 
 That thin and snowy curl, 
 My Mother ! than the auburn locks — 
 
 Thy glory when a girl. 
 
 How could it fail to touch my heart 
 
 With filial thought, when I 
 Knew it was care for me that paled 
 
 Thy cheek and dimmed thine eye ? 
 Yes, eloquent the tender glance 
 
 That thou dost turn on me ; 
 Dimly, yet kindly — in that look 
 
 How much of love I see ! 
 
 Be it my lot to smooth the way, 
 
 Before thy pilgrim feet ; 
 And cause the heart that yearned for me, 
 
 Long, long with hope to beat. 
 Be it my lot to pillow where 
 
 Thou seek'st thy last repose ; 
 One little flower shall mark the spot — 
 
 The simple churchyard rose. 
 
 Philadelphia, 1823. 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 53 
 
 Written for the Consecration of the Cemetery in "Westborough, 
 Massachusetts; 1846. 
 
 A thought has lingered at the grave, 
 A holy thought that could not die, 
 
 Since Abra'm chose Machpelah's cave 
 Where Sarah might in slumber lie. 
 
 The garden's had a thought profound, 
 Still moving wonder, love, and tears, 
 
 Since Jesus, in the olive ground, 
 Encountered more than mortal fears. 
 
 The Grave and Garden bring to us 
 
 Alternate terror and delight : 
 With that is seen the midnight curse ; 
 
 With this, a heaven of noonday light. 
 
 And in the garden was a tomb,* 
 The first in which Perfection lay, — 
 
 The first whose everlasting gloom 
 Was chased by Resurrection's ray. 
 
 * John xix. 41. 
 
54 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 Since, from its confines darkness rolled, 
 When angels rolled away the stone, 
 
 A Lamp before its shrine of gold, 
 With spices fed, has purely shone. 
 
 Then here we '11 bring our sacred dead, 
 To sleep till Time and Death are o'er ; 
 
 Our loved, with whom sweet Memories tread, 
 All winged and bright — the solemn shore. 
 
 And here the impressive stone will teach 
 The lesson dust is slow to learn ; 
 
 Though Earth's continual voices preach : 
 " The dust shall unto dust return ! " 
 
 And here, as bleeds the wounded heart, 
 The wounded heart shall solace feel, 
 
 And see that Mercy winged the dart ; 
 For Mercy only wounds to heal. 
 
 HYMN. 
 
 Heaven, to be a happy place, must be a holy place. 
 
 My God, what were Thy heaven to me, 
 If I, 'mid robes, and light, and song, 
 
 Were not, in Heaven, for ever free 
 From fetters that to earth belong ? 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 55 
 
 The fount of pleasure, always clear, 
 
 Aud sparkling, deep, and full, and wide, 
 
 Touched by Sin's wormwood, would appear 
 Black, sluggish, dead, as Sodom's tide. 
 
 The Tree of Life, whose leaves can heal, 
 Whose fruits are twelve, whose shade is fair, 
 
 Swept by Sin's simoom, would reveal 
 A blasted trunk, rent, dry, and bare. 
 
 The glory, like a chrysolite, 
 
 The gates of pearl, the streets of gold, 
 Breathed on by Sin, would fade, as Night 
 
 Had wrapt them in its dreadful fold. 
 
 Should David there attempt the lyre, 
 
 "Whose music shakes the burning throne, — 
 
 One strain, awoke, of wrong desire, 
 
 Would swell a song to heaven unknown. 
 
 Should Peter kneel with myriads there, 
 While inly burned ambition's flame — 
 
 His robe, unlike the snows they wear, 
 Would blush in deepest hues of shame. 
 
 Should, in some hidden spot — if hid 
 One spot of all Thy worlds could be — 
 
 A Judas cherish thought forbid, 
 
 And deem in heaven 't was safe from Thee, 
 
56 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 The light that from the Lamb proceeds, 
 Whose wondrous glory none may tell, 
 
 That plays in flame round secret deeds, 
 Would make his shelter glare with hell. 
 
 THE BIBLE IN COMMON SCHOOLS. 
 
 To seek the goodly Knowledge, 
 
 Advanced our mother Eve ; 
 But she took a step at which the world 
 
 Has never ceased to grieve. 
 
 From the lion crouching by her, 
 
 From the eagle on the wing, 
 She turned to one of cunning speech, 
 
 Whose council hid a sting. 
 
 Though Paradise, to teach her, 
 
 Talked in its silvery brooks ; 
 And the gorgeous flowers and emerald grass 
 
 Whispered in their sweet looks ; 
 
 Entreating her to tarry, 
 
 And, like a gentle bride, 
 To gather the upspringing Truth, 
 
 At thoughtful Adam's side ; 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 57 
 
 She marched where seeming Wisdom 
 
 Invited her to find ; 
 And, in her journey to the tree, 
 
 Left Wisdom far behind. 
 
 " Life, only for the plucking ! " 
 She felt the Tempter's breath ; 
 And ate, and found the pleasant fruit 
 To her and hers was Death. 
 
 As 't was in Eden, centuries 
 
 Ago, so is it now : 
 Her children seek alluring fruit 
 
 From Sin's deceitful bough. 
 
 Be wise, ye sage instructors ! 
 
 The lesson is to you ; 
 For, as the throne of God is Truth, 
 
 Eternally 't is true — 
 
 His step is still to sorrow, 
 
 His march will end in fear, 
 Who, journeying on to Knowledge, leaves 
 
 The Bible in the rear ! 
 
58 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 MISSIONS. 
 
 Roll off, ye clouds, and show a sky, 
 
 Bathed, as when " shepherds watched by night; " 
 Then will we give to harps on high, 
 
 Songs from our world of love and light. 
 
 The clouds, to eyes that gaze afar, 
 
 Are rolling rapidly away ; 
 Revealing sparkles of the Star 
 
 That turns the heathen's night to Day. 
 
 'T was to repair the heathen's loss 
 
 That Missions, with her heart of flame, 
 
 And the munitions of the Cross, 
 Went boldly forth in Jesus' name. 
 
 The scoffer, in that high crusade, 
 Saw madness only — and he smiled ; 
 
 The Christian, while he blest and prayed, 
 Deemed her a sweet, romantic child. 
 
 Her march was o'er the ruined towers ; — 
 Her banners flew on every gale ; — 
 
 We heard the din of falling powers, 
 At whose destruction Sin grew pale. 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 59 
 
 Her victories made the scoffer dumb ; 
 
 The Christian woke to faith and prayer ; 
 And yet her toils — a mighty sum — 
 
 Told every thing but romance there. 
 
 The novelty has passed away ; — 
 There 's scandal in the very thought 
 
 That it is novel to obey, 
 
 And love the souls on Calvary bought. 
 
 Now, softly, silently departs 
 
 The herald to his work of love ; 
 But, oh ! for him, how many hearts 
 
 Are stirred by the Eternal Dove ! 
 
 ACTION. 
 
 God built the world, and built so well 
 That man could nothing add thereto ; 
 
 Now, ruined by the arts of hell, 
 
 There 's something left for man to do. 
 
 He may relieve the clouds that fold 
 The earth below and skies above, 
 
 By pencils, dipt in radiant gold, 
 
 That write upon the darkness : " Love ! " 
 
r 
 
 60 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 He may to primal Day restore 
 
 The wildered nature, blind with sin ; 
 
 A brighter robe than Adam wore, 
 
 His soiled and tattered child may win. 
 
 He mar, in pity, ease the woes 
 
 That take from Paradise their date ; 
 
 And calm with kindness Passion's throes, 
 And blunt the glittering shears of Fate. 
 
 He may seek out the plundered man ; 
 
 From mind and body tear the yoke ; 
 A journeying good Samaritan, 
 
 Who heals the heart that sin has broke. 
 
 Whv should he rest, for whom the stars 
 Wake all night in their orbs divine ? 
 
 Or tire, while planets, in their cars 
 Of wondrous glory, ride and shine ? 
 
 Then let him do and sing ! — for songs 
 Of Action yield intense delight, 
 
 Where to intelligence belongs 
 
 The boon, to " rest not, Day nor Night. 1 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 61 
 
 THE FLAG. 
 
 Some Ladies of Philadelphia sent a Bethel Flag, -with the emblems of 
 the Dove and Ark, to the American Chapel at Harre, France. 
 
 We send the blazoned Dove and Ark 
 
 To her, across the sea, 
 Who in our fortunes, wild and dark, 
 
 Sent us the Fleur-de-lis, 
 Which streamed above the artillery's roar, 
 
 And the roll of the warlike drum : 
 That symbol speaks of strife no more ; 
 
 That martial strain is dumb. 
 
 To noble France a debt we owe ; 
 
 We can 't the claim forget ; 
 We will a precious boon bestow 
 
 On the land of loved Fayette. 
 No gold or gems the gift enhance 
 
 That flies on zephyr's wings ; 
 It carries to light-hearted France 
 
 Word from the King of kings. 
 
 Men think — while pride dominion holds — 
 
 How, o'er the battle field, 
 In triumph waved the Bourbon folds 
 
 Where Frenchmen could not yield ! 
 
62 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 But oh ! this banner tells of fame 
 Earth's pennons cannot win — 
 
 Of victory, in Immanuel's Name, 
 O'er helmed hosts of Sin. 
 
 How glorious those old hills of pride 
 
 That lift their tops of green, 
 Where Orleans' lilies, side by side 
 
 With Freedom's Stars, were seen ! 
 But how much dearer to the mind 
 
 Thoughts which these kindle now, 
 Of Peace and Pardon, star-entwined, 
 
 That beam from Calvary's brow ! 
 
 How dazzling was that meteor's flight 
 
 From Notre-Dame to Rome, 
 Which blasted kingdoms with its light, 
 
 And set at last in doom ! 
 But this fair type that has the Dove 
 
 Of gentle Peace unfurled, 
 Provokes ambition far above 
 
 The conquest of a world. 
 
 Then go ! — the flag Religion sends, — 
 
 And designate the dome 
 Of worship, where the Sailor bends 
 
 To Him who had no home ; — 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 68 
 
 Who often taught within the ship, 
 
 Deemed stricken and unblest — 
 The lofty mandate of whose lip 
 
 Awed angry seas to rest. 
 
 Not only on the Gallic coasts, 
 
 Or Loire, or winding Seine, — 
 Not only o'er her naval hosts, 
 
 Or troops of her terrene, — 
 But let each ocean, river, bay, 
 
 Each vale and mountain crag 
 Of Europe — yes ! of Earth, display 
 
 O God ! Thy victor Flag. 
 
 HYMN OF WELCOME 
 
 From a Sabbath School to their Pastor, on his return from Egypt 
 and Palestine. 
 
 Welcome to thee ! from palmy vales, 
 "Where bloom the olive and the vine ; 
 
 From fervid suns and fragrant gales — 
 From lost, yet lovely Palestine ! 
 
 Thy feet have trod old Horeb's side ; 
 
 Thy hands have gathered Sharon's rose ; 
 And thou hast bathed in Jordan's tide, 
 
 And mused where Kedron softly flows. 
 
64 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 And thou hast prayed where Jesus prayed, 
 
 On Olivet, by night, alone ; 
 And where his sacred head was laid 
 
 Hast coveted to lay thine own. 
 
 And thou hast drunk of cold sweet Nile ; 
 
 And looked on elder Egypt's face, 
 Whose wrinkles woke the frequent smile, — 
 
 Whose crimes, the plea for saving grace. 
 
 Again by thee the soil is pressed 
 Where Syrian robbers never roam ; 
 
 Where Zion finds a peaceful rest, 
 
 And where are Flock, and Friends, and Home. 
 
 Welcome to this, our favored land ! 
 
 Whose rocks defy a stormy sea ; 
 Whose towering hills sublimely stand, 
 
 The guardians of the truly Free. 
 
 And welcome to. our Sabbath School ! 
 
 Where cluster thoughts of happy hours ; 
 Where Love extends her gentle rule ; 
 
 Where bud and bloom immortal flowers ! 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 65 
 
 YEARS PAST— YEARS TO COME. 
 
 O years ! how is your gift defiled 
 With deep-writ characters of shame — 
 
 Lust of the world, and passion wild, 
 And mad ambition's guilty flame ! 
 
 Where harps and hymns of beauty sound 
 Ye 're gone, earth's discord to declare ; 
 
 And in eternity is found 
 
 Each wasted hour, a witness there. 
 
 Yes, and a ransom is not known, 
 Nor bribe to rescue moments fled ; 
 
 All else redeem ! but these, once flown, 
 Return not from the silent dead. 
 
 Departed hours ! and must ye die ? 
 
 None rescued of you all for God ; 
 Pearls without price ! and do ye lie 
 
 Buried with years beyond the flood ? 
 
 Not wholly so — across the night 
 That else had wrapt us in its shade, 
 
 The finger, dipt in lovely light 
 Of holy hope and heaven, is laid. 
 5 
 
66 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 And in its shining beams is seen 
 
 The Christian Army's onward march ; 
 
 Whose spears are of immortal sheen, 
 Whose banner is the Rainbow's arch 
 
 Of Promise, to a fallen world, 
 
 That Sin's advancing, dreadful wave — 
 
 While Mercy's symbol is unfurled — 
 Rolls over no redeemless grave ! 
 
 Onward they go ; of various hue, 
 And tribes of east and western sun : 
 
 But kindred is the hope in view, 
 The warriors of the Cross are one. 
 
 And mid their closing ranks, behold 
 
 The Ark, the Church of God ! the song — 
 
 Beneath where wings of glory fold — 
 Goes up in grandeur from the throng. 
 
 Onward ! the battle is the Lord's, 
 To wage triumphant war with sin ; 
 
 To die — and reach sublime rewards, 
 To fall — and yet the conquest win. 
 
 Years may pass on, and all that earth 
 Imperishable deemed, may fade ; 
 
 And Time, that marked her empires' birth, 
 See them in his sepulchre laid ; 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 67 
 
 Yet onward, o'er the mighty wreck, 
 Shall press the immortal victor band ; 
 
 And rebel realms will bow the neck 
 To Him whose is the heathen land. 
 
 Till, o'er a world by love subdued, 
 
 High Heaven takes up the conqueror's strain ; 
 And voices of earth's multitude 
 
 Repeat the joyful song again. 
 
 O God ! while moments mark their round, 
 
 Still guard us in that mortal fray ; 
 And o'er us, in thy battles found, 
 
 Reveal the star of victory's day. 
 
 THE CHOIR IN NEW YORK. 
 
 I went to Chapel some few Sundays since, 
 
 A stranger, yet at home within the walls 
 
 Where all are welcome. 'T was an early hour : 
 
 So I awhile surveyed the edifice, 
 
 Admiring well the growth of piety, 
 
 Or growth of that fair city which had changed 
 
 Its theatres to Temples. Soon the seats, 
 
 Spacious, and free to poor and rich alike, 
 
 Were filled. The holy man of God his place 
 
 Ascended ; silence reigned, and hearts seemed hushed 
 
68 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 At consciousness that Jesus was within ; 
 When, presently, the Choir — whose ample seat 
 Was to the sacred pulpit's rear assigned, 
 And in full view of worshippers — began : 
 He dies ! the Friend of Sinners dies ! 
 
 In low 
 And sweetly plaintive notes, in which I thought 
 The very soul of harmony spoke out, 
 Did many voices, well attuned, reply, 
 Subduingly — Here 's love beyond degree ! 
 So rich, so melancholy, and so soft, 
 The strains that rose and fell upon the ear — 
 So fitly, modulation of the tones 
 Was married to the language, blending sense 
 With melody, and to the heart and head 
 Conveying truly, sweetly, mournfully 
 The import — that my soul was satisfied, 
 And yet was troubled. Could I help but go 
 With the sad story ? — could I help but hear 
 The voice of Salem's Daughters, as they wept ? — 
 Or could I then resist the plaintive call : 
 " Come, saints, and drop a tear or two for Him 
 Who groaned beneath your load ! " — Could I refrain 
 My joyful praise, as the triumphant burst 
 Gave token that the God had left the tomb, 
 And risen Conqueror and King ! 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 69 
 
 I gazed 
 Upon the leader of this wondrous power 
 Of minstrelsy, divine and true. He sat 
 Midst of the Choir, upon the farthest seat, 
 And highest — the Spirit he of Music 
 Sat ! His venerable form, obedient to 
 The stirring impulse of the melloAv sounds, 
 Involuntarily bent, now at the close, 
 Symphonious, and now, to full extent 
 Expanded, as pealed up the harmony, 
 While every nerve and every fibre seemed 
 Compelled to the sweet service. He, I saw — 
 Blest necromancer ! — had infused his soul 
 Into the soul of each, and each as one 
 Gave voice — one mighty master moving all. 
 
 It wings devotion, when intelligence 
 And skill, and piety, in concord join, 
 Producing Music. Softened by its power, 
 The heart flows forth, and meekly entertains 
 The_ gospel message. Let not tuneless choirs, 
 Where life is not, nor melody, nor taste, 
 Essay the lofty praises of the King ; — 
 For to his shrines should such false fire be brought, 
 'T would mar the sacrifice. How heavily, 
 How wearily, would grieved Devotion's wing 
 Soar then ! New unction must the soul require, 
 If thus disturbed, to worship God aright. 
 
 * 
 
70 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 SUNDAY. 
 
 This calm and sacred Day, my soul 
 Will consecrate, O Lord ! to Thee ; 
 
 Submissive to thy wise control, 
 Yet in her duty wholly free. 
 
 O glad subjection ! that withholds 
 The passions, all inclined to roam ; 
 
 And yet the Spirit's wing unfolds, 
 To fly, and seek her native home. 
 
 Sweet hours ! from Heaven's eternal round 
 Cut out, and flung to us below, 
 
 That we — such pleasant manna found — 
 May foretastes of the banquet know. 
 
 'Mid arid wastes, your bursting springs 
 Like diamonds in the desert shine ; 
 
 My lip to the restorer clings ; 
 
 My soul awakes from more than wine. 
 
 Refreshed and thoughtful, I discern 
 What glittering bubbles I pursue ; 
 
 That 't is the dust which angels spurn, 
 I mould to gods and worship too ! 
 
POETRY OF LITE. 71 
 
 I will not breathe malaria more, 
 
 When such celestial airs invite ; 
 My faith rejects this dreary shore, 
 
 And longs to rise and bathe in light. 
 
 This incense time will I retire 
 
 From sacrifice the six days paid, 
 And watch and feed the vestal fire 
 
 Upon the heart's pure altar laid. 
 
 So Earth, though false, shall see there 's given 
 For her, some glimpses of the True ; 
 
 And I, at last, when reaching Heaven, 
 Find its high bliss not wholly new. 
 
 So, touched by grace, will snap each bond 
 Like yielding flax before the flame ; 
 
 And tinsel, sought with love, too fond, 
 Fade in the gold of Jesus' Name. 
 
 When, free from folly, I shall rise 
 
 Above a world of night and sin, 
 And dip my pinions in the skies, 
 
 And holiness for ever win. 
 
72 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 E. A. A. W. 
 
 She came, and, like a star divine, 
 
 She made our mortal bliss more bright ; 
 
 Like beams that through the tempest shine, 
 She fringed our passing clouds with light. 
 
 The star has faded from the sky, — 
 The beams are lost in heavenly blue ; 
 
 There is a Light that cannot die, 
 There is a Life serene and true. 
 
 She loved the Light, and round her feet 
 Now laughs and leaps perpetual Day ; 
 
 She chose the Life, and now repeat 
 Her pulses their immortal play. 
 
 We saw the promise of the child 
 
 The intellectual girl fulfil ; 
 The nature, generous, free, and wild, 
 
 By Grace subdued, was noble still. 
 
 And nobler — for Religion takes 
 From Nature only stains of sin ; 
 
 The Beautiful she ever makes 
 More beautiful, without, within. 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 73 
 
 In Joy's pure waters bade to dip, — 
 
 And small of common griefs her store, — 
 
 She touched the ware with Hope's warm lip, 
 Gazed on her God, and drank no more. 
 
 She prest " a soft, a downy bed," 
 Made for his daughter by the King : 
 
 Death came — she knew the Rider's tread, 
 But light lay on his raven wing. 
 
 She rose, and broke the bars of clay, 
 
 And sprang at once from tears and dust, — 
 
 More glorious on her shining way 
 
 Than when she came from God at first. 
 
 For, wounded in the primal crime, 
 
 And healed by Calvary's wondrous power, 
 
 No lily of the spotless clinie 
 
 Blooms like the amaranthine flower. 
 
 She died — not hers, but ours, the loss ; 
 
 She died — not ours, but hers, the gain : 
 We die, whom yet the billows toss ; 
 
 She lives, who's past the surging main. 
 
 So in the mansion still and dark 
 TVe laid her form, decay to share ; 
 
 TVe knew that Victory's burning spark 
 Irradiates every atom there. 
 
74 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 While cold and heat, and storm and frost, 
 Shall come and go, nor break her sleep, • 
 
 Her loveliness will ne'er be lost — 
 Affection will her image keep. 
 
 Of her sweet worth we '11 think and talk, 
 Nor deem such virtues can be dead ; 
 
 And in the same bright faith we '11 walk, 
 By which her constant step was led. 
 
 WEEP NOT FOR THE DEAD. 
 
 I hear the voice 
 Of the expecting grave. — Martyr of Antioch. 
 
 The grave hath voice, and seems to say : 
 
 " Weep ye, who on my surface tread, 
 Condemned to bear the heat of day — 
 
 But weep not for the slumbering Dead. 
 Weep ye for those for whom no tear 
 
 Is given, the sorrowing, the distressed, 
 The troubled, whom there 's none to cheer ■ 
 
 But not for him who is at rest 
 
 Weep for the living wretch, whose sighs 
 Go up for loss of friend and lover ; 
 
 For him that as survivor dies, 
 
 Not him whose parting pangs are over. 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 75 
 
 "Weep for the living ; — lie 's alone ; — 
 Few are the living ; — who may know 
 
 How few, compared to the unknown 
 Nations of men that sleep below ! 
 
 " Weep for the sufferer who is tost 
 
 On restless seas of pain and ill, 
 But not for him who, having crossed 
 
 The ocean, rides secure and still. 
 Weep for the sinner, sadder far — 
 
 Who wanders in the depths of night ; 
 But not for him on whom the Star 
 
 Of Morning trembles out in light. 
 
 " Weep, weep for her who comes to weep 
 
 Where her sweet infant lies full low — 
 Not for the spark whose upward leap 
 
 Hath made it flame with cherubs so ! 
 Weep for the prisoner, for the heir 
 
 Of misery, toil, and tears, and pain — 
 But not for those, escaped, who share 
 
 Immortal joys, undying gain ! " 
 
76 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 THE SAILOR AS HE WAS — AS HE IS. 
 
 The sport of yon deceitful wave, 
 He toiled where dangers oft appear ; 
 And careless trod the billowy grave, 
 Stranger to thought or fear. 
 
 Unknown the power that stayed his youth, 
 The God that holds the sea unknown — 
 On his dark soul no ray of truth 
 With kindly impulse shown. 
 
 Fiercely the sullen midnight storm 
 In anger mingled wave and sky ; 
 While the red lightning scathed his form, 
 His curse was heard on high. 
 
 The thunders shook the reeling mast, 
 The vessel rent by every sea — 
 No tear was given to the past, 
 Nor to futurity. 
 
 Then burst the cry of agony, 
 Then quailed the stoutest on that deck ; 
 The toiling vessel climbed on high, 
 And plunged, a buried wreck. 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 77 
 
 No prayer was wafted io the. throne — 
 Could the profane, the scoffer pray ? 
 No ! — wretched, trembling, and alone, 
 His spirit fled away. 
 
 Weep, Sailor ! for thy comrade weep, 
 For he was noble, generous, free ; 
 Yet passed he, in transgression deep, 
 To his eternity. 
 
 Oh ! had he scanned the living chart, 
 By which the unerring course is laid, 
 His vision purged, made clean in heart, 
 The wanderer ne'er had strayed. 
 
 Weep for the dead ! yet with thy tears 
 Blend earnest love for grace divine ; 
 Sailor ! a happier dawn appears — 
 Hope 's beaming star is thine. 
 
 The Man of Nazareth calls to thee, 
 He bids thy toils and sorrows cease ; 
 The voice that calmed proud Galilee, 
 Speaks to the weary, Peace. 
 
 And He — or be thy peaceful way 
 The dark blue wave, or when afar, 
 By gathering perils led astray — 
 Will be thy Morning Star. 
 
78 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 Safe in the tempest as the calm, 
 Art thou that seek'st the mercy-seat ; 
 Sailor ! rejoice, death boasts a charm, 
 Leading to Jesus' feet. 
 
 THE GREATEST HONOR. 
 
 To waken Mind by skilful touch ; 
 
 To call up Mind's sequestered light, 
 And bid it shine for God, is much ; 
 
 And asks for Mind's collected might. 
 
 To find the spot within the heart, 
 
 Where dwells contrition's pearly tear ; 
 
 And, by the Spirit's holy art, 
 To see it flow in sorrow here ; 
 
 To quicken thoughts that slumbered long, 
 And bid them spread an eagle's wing, 
 
 And gain the fields of flower and song, 
 
 Where thoughts yield sweets without a sting ; 
 
 To follow him who loves to roam 
 
 In ways by folly only trod ; 
 And bring the wanderer back to home, 
 
 The rebel outcast to his God ; 
 
POLTKY OF LIFE. 79 
 
 Is highest joy ; — to better thought 
 
 It has an honor greater far 
 Than thrones have ever seized or bought, 
 
 Than clusters round a king or czar. 
 
 Earth knowledge has of real bliss ; 
 
 " Heaven lies about " the spirit then ; 
 Nay ! Heaven can have no joy like this : 
 
 To plead for Christ with erring men. 
 
 B. W. C. 
 
 A Welsh Missionary of the American Sunday School Union, 
 in the West. 
 
 Servant of God ! from thy rude Wales, 
 
 Rude, yet most lovely — with strong hands, 
 And soul on fire, that never fails 
 
 In fray •with Error's dreadful bands, 
 Still for the True and Right to win — 
 
 Thou com'st, with holy burden prest, 
 The bleating lambs to gather in 
 
 Yr ysgol sul — draw yn y "West ! 
 
 Who of us heard thee boldly fling 
 Tones, like a trumpet, to the heart, 
 
 That yet through all its chambers ring — 
 Nor owned the mighty master's art 
 
80 POETRY OF IvIFE. 
 
 That painted on the sombre sky 
 
 His griefs whom Ignorance opprest — 
 
 That pictured to the joyous eye : 
 Yr ysgol sul — draw yn y West ! 
 
 Who heard — nor blest the heart and head 
 
 That in deep faith " the Union " planned? 
 Who heard — nor blest the Living Bread 
 
 Those waters bear through all the land ? 
 Nor prayed that toil and liberal gold 
 
 Might sow the field by tares possest — 
 Till stands, like grain, in thousand fold, 
 
 Yr ysgol sul — draw yn y West ! 
 
 Now God be with thee ! — other eyes 
 
 Shall with most precious tears be dim ; 
 Thy burning words will win the wise, 
 
 And lead the noble youth to Him : 
 But He will hear no truer prayer 
 
 Than ours, that His bright wing may rest 
 On thy dear love, and His sweet care ; 
 
 The Sunday School in yonder West ! 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 81 
 
 THE CHILD AT REST. 
 
 " Unveil thy bosom, faithful tomb ! " 
 To her who knew no weary years ; 
 
 " And give these sacred relics room," 
 That seek no kind retreat from tears. 
 
 Unveil to one of that sweet band 
 Whom Jesus calls the truly " blest ; " 
 
 Who, early, in the better land, 
 A little traveller — went to rest. 
 
 Though feeble, who in faith was strong ; 
 
 Though modest, who for truth was bold ; 
 Whose days by measure, were not long ; 
 
 By knowledge reckoned, who was old. 
 
 For she was taught in Wisdom's ways ; 
 
 And well she learned the simple task 
 To trust the Saviour when He says 
 
 That they shall always have who ask. 
 
 And she in artless accents prayed, 
 
 And Heaven the infant suppliant knew. 
 
 Where our maturer wants are laid, 
 May they obtain such favor too ! 
 6 
 
82 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 " Unveil thy bosom, faithful tomb ! " 
 And give these ashes blest repose, 
 While come and go, in storm and bloom, 
 The winter's frost, the summer's rose. 
 
 SINCE YOU, O EUROPE ! CROWD OUR 
 SHORES. 
 
 Since you, O Europe ! crowd our shores, 
 
 In malice or in wit — 
 With your vile paupers, pests, and thieves, — 
 
 The refuse of the pit ; 
 
 Hoping your carrion-god will fix 
 
 With us his dreadful throne, 
 Till all our sweet and blessed land 
 
 Is putrid as your own ; — 
 
 We, roused to action, cry " Revenge ! " 
 " Revenge ! " we, Christians, swear ; 
 
 We vow in solemn hymn to God, 
 We vow in awful prayer, 
 
 .Never to let the purpose rest, 
 
 Nor sword to sheath be given, 
 Till, by our earnest, peaceful strife, 
 
 Europe is won to Heaven ! 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 83 
 
 THE LOST. 
 
 During the administration of the Lord r s Supper, and while the pas- 
 tor was in the midst of a powerful appeal to the unawakened, the 
 Bellman was heard in the street. The minister paused, as the de- 
 scription of a youthful fugitive was given in clear tones by the crier ; 
 and then, seizing the thought, he exclaimed — "A child is lost! a 
 child is lost ! What if some attending angel, witnessing this com- 
 munion season, and wondering at the rejection of the Saviour by the 
 proud heart, should now give audible testimony of his grief, and 
 beholding some sinner here making his election for a hopeless eter- 
 nity, should startle us with the cry — ' A soul is lost ! a soul is lost ! ' " 
 
 Why on our holy service steals 
 
 Alarum of the bell ? 
 A child is lost I — that cry reveals 
 
 The agony too 'well. 
 A child is lost ! and with the blow 
 
 A father's heart is stirred ; 
 The mother — who may scan her woe, 
 
 Felt, but unknown to word ! 
 
 A child is lost ! and ready feet 
 
 To seek and save are out, 
 And lane and court and crowded street 
 
 Are searched with call and shout. 
 
84 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 The generous toil is not in vain ; 
 
 Success succeeds alarms — 
 The little fugitive again 
 
 Has blest its mother's arms. 
 
 And, for this wanderer, speechless fears 
 
 Were felt, that mocked control ; 
 And for its loss fell heavy tears — 
 
 What if it were a soul 1 
 A soul, for whom no 'larum rings, 
 
 Kind rescuing to call — 
 For whose redemption never springs 
 
 Hope, that yet comes to all ! 
 
 Oh ! smote but now the startled ear 
 
 As smites that warning bell, 
 One note of the despairing fear 
 
 That fills the vault of hell — 
 To seek, who would not quickly fly ? 
 
 What realms would not be crossed — 
 Urged by the lamentable cry, 
 
 " A soul, a soul, is lost ! " 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 85 
 
 THE ANCHOR. 
 
 Is Hope " an anchor of the soul, 
 
 Secure and steadfast," holy Paul ? 
 Then why, where towering breakers roll, 
 
 Is not such anchor cast by all ? 
 Exposed to Time's disastrous gales, 
 
 That drive hirn o'er a treacherous tide, 
 When motive for exertion fails 
 
 How may the Sailor safely ride ? 
 
 Where on the waste of waves, a speck, 
 
 His lazy vessel rides below, 
 God ! Thou see'st him pace the deck, 
 
 In nightly watch, alone, with woe ; 
 And busy Conscience acts its part, 
 
 And keen Remorse awakens wrong, 
 And coward Fear unmans the heart, 
 
 Where guilty recollections throng. 
 
 The Church her anchor, on that sea, 
 Keeps all a-peak before the ship, 
 
 Nor sails without, though sometimes she, 
 Surprised, doth cable cut or slip ; 
 
86 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 But he, untaught, is left to brave 
 Those stormy terrors as he may, — 
 
 Where Hope lights not the surging wave 
 On which he drifts and waits for day. 
 
 Thank God ! at length a gallant bark, 
 
 The Ship of Heaven, looms up in view ; 
 She flies, as did the saving Ark, 
 
 Sin's ruined world, to seek a new 
 From stem to stern she 's fully manned — 
 
 From courses to her royals, trim ; 
 Her distant port, ImmanuePs land ; 
 
 Her cargo, souls redeemed by Him. 
 
 How true, by Bethlehem's sacred Star, 
 
 She steers her course, and hastes along ! 
 And hark ! low winds, that sweep afar 
 
 The rippling waters, bring her song : 
 u Salvation to the Sailor now ! 
 
 There 's safety where the breakers roll ; 
 For, ready swung, at stern and bow, 
 
 Is Hope, the Anchor of the Soul ! " 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 87 
 
 EVERY THING IS SERIOUS ABOUT US. 
 
 God is serious, while from us 
 
 He withholdeth righteous doom ; 
 Christ is serious, who the curse 
 
 Took upon Him in our room. 
 Holy Spirit ! serious Thou 
 
 Art in thy continued strife 
 With the rebel, loth to bow — 
 
 With the dead that hateth life. 
 
 Serious are the Scriptures to us, 
 
 Showing up the depths of sin ; 
 Showing grace that can renew us, 
 
 Grace that shines those depths within. 
 Serious the baptismal rite, 
 
 Serious are the bread and wine ; 
 Wash me, Lord, and make me white ! 
 
 Feast my soul on food divine. 
 
 Serious is the work before me — 
 
 Such a heart as mine to heal : 
 Apathy, that often o'er me 
 
 Comes — rebellion when I feel. 
 
88 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 Serious is it men to warn, 
 
 Some to counsel, some to cheer, 
 
 And to bear unholy scorn, 
 
 And to teach while few may hear. 
 • 
 
 Serious to rejoice aright, 
 
 Or, submissive, kiss the rod ; 
 And to walk approved in sight 
 
 Of myself, and man, and God. 
 Serious, science' hill to climb, 
 
 And to borrow fancy's wings ; 
 Serious are the things of Time, 
 
 Serious are Eternal things. 
 
 Serious is the wide creation — 
 
 All above, about, below ; 
 Heaven, in songs of sweet salvation — 
 
 Hell, in wails of bitter woe. 
 How can I alone be gay ? 
 
 Empty, airy, as the chaff? 
 Worlds are waiting, Lord, thy Day ; 
 
 Is it now a time to laugh ? 
 
 Rather will I gird my soul 
 Strongly to the patient race ; 
 
 And, though feeble, to the goal, 
 Set, for aye, unflinching face. 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 89 
 
 Serious may the conflict be ; 
 
 Hard to vanquish every wile ; 
 Won — I shall the temple see, 
 
 Whose resplendence is Thy smile. 
 
 DEATH'S CHANGES. 
 
 Death's changes, Time and Place declare ; - 
 
 Know'st thou exempted spot, 
 Has mortal ever journeyed where 
 
 The Foe has journeyed not ? 
 To lordly hall or kingly tower, 
 
 Or peasant's lowly cot ? 
 
 O no ! 't is not the dwelling place 
 
 Where loving ones abide : 
 Amid its cheerful haunts I trace 
 
 Death walking in his pride, — 
 The old man's olive plant to kill, 
 
 That grew up at his side. 
 
 Nor is it in that busy town : 
 
 Each year inroads I find — 
 And families of old renown 
 
 Are scattered to the wind. 
 Death breaks them up ; — of ancient friends, 
 
 Who now are left behind ? 
 
90 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 Nor is it in the market — thou 
 Whose sands are at the last;, 
 
 Seest there, a crowd, as eager now 
 As crowds in ages past ; 
 
 And yet new voices reach thine ear, 
 New looks are on thee cast. 
 
 And name not thou the church to me, 
 As place unknown to change — 
 
 The aspect of the flock, I see, 
 Each Sabbath waxes strange : 
 
 Continually, Death manifests 
 He here has ample range. 
 
 Nor mayst thou point to yonder lands : 
 Their former masters sleep 
 
 In their old orchards — other hands 
 The broad possessions keep ; 
 
 And these, in time, shall pass away, 
 And others sow and reap. 
 
 Death's changes are seen everywhere : 
 
 Look on the coronet, 
 And look on beggary, and there 
 
 Thou seest his finger yet. 
 And who that ponders as he goes, 
 
 Such changes may forget ? 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 91 
 
 Mayst thou, young man, of healthful face V 
 
 Or think'st thou he will spare 
 To bow thy form of perfect grace, 
 
 Nor write his victory there ? 
 Thy frame 's well knit, but wrestler Death 
 
 The victor's leaf shall wear. 
 
 Mayst tJiou, O sweetly witching girl ! 
 
 "Whose step is like the roe ? 
 Think'st thou, while in the giddy whirl, 
 
 It will be always so ? 
 A change will Death bring over thee, 
 
 Fair flower ! and lay thee low. 
 
 Sweet cherub babe ! from yon bright world 
 
 Sent down to gladden this — 
 Within thy mother's fond arms curled, 
 
 WTio prints on thee the kiss — 
 She knows not, pointed is the dart 
 
 To thee, that cannot miss. 
 
 Death's changes everywhere are felt : 
 
 The Sea's wide field of blue, 
 The Earth, and Heaven's starry belt, 
 
 Shall fade and perish too. 
 Be He, that hour, my changeless Stay, 
 
 Who maketh all things new ! 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 A STORY OF BROOKLINE. 
 
 FOR MY LITTLE BOY. 
 
 Two swallows paired one vernal day, 
 And thought to build — the month was May. 
 .Beneath a porch with jasmine bound 
 A sweet and quiet place they found, 
 Just where a pillar held the roof 
 From eyes and fingers danger-proof, 
 On premises, well known as his 
 Who knows what open kindness is, 
 "Where I have passed some pleasant time 
 Too happy to be told in rhyme, 
 Where sweet Contentment gaily laughs 
 And Comfort dwells at neighbor Crafts. 
 And so they laid the moss and thorn, 
 And hair, and wool — or plucked or shorn, 
 The spoils of hedge and shrub and bough, 
 As God the Builder taught them how. 
 Their toil went well — for they agreed ; 
 'T was finished to their simple need : 
 With joy they hastened to possess 
 The home their little loves should bless. 
 
 But how shall I the tale pursue ? 
 How end it gladly, and be true ? 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 93 
 
 For your instruction, Boy ! I must — 
 To gain possession as the first 
 These foolish swallows chose to fight : 
 One would be lord by force, not right, 
 And occupy, as if his own, 
 The nest not made for one alone. 
 They worried, tugged, and battled sore 
 To gain possession of its floor ; 
 They fought as if by sin possest, 
 Till, loosened from its perch, the nest 
 Fell in disorder to the ground. 
 Listen ! my moral is profound : 
 *Tis not enough to build in quiet — 
 Enter in peace, eschewing riot 1 
 
 TO A BOODH; 
 
 Sent to me by Rev. Dr. Judson, Missionary in Burmah. 
 
 The idols of the Orient bow, 
 
 Abashed, to a Superior Power ; 
 And weeds offend the pilgrim now, 
 
 Where flaunted priest, and glittered tower. 
 
 They come ! they come ! from silent shrines 
 Of Gunga, and the blue Salwin ; 
 
 Though dumb — to us convincing signs 
 Of rising Truth and falling Sin. 
 
94 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 They come ! — those conquered gods — to stir 
 Our lagging faith, and show that He 
 
 Whose is the Church will give to her 
 The world beyond the Indian Sea. 
 
 And Boodh ! — that, from the sculptor's hand, 
 In ugliness, dropped years ago — 
 
 Sent me by one of that true band 
 
 Whose future crowns are starred below — 
 
 Though thy recumbent chiselled limbs 
 Are spotted now, methinks, with blood, 
 
 Poured ages since, with hellish hymns 
 Of praise to Guilt's incarnate god ; 
 
 Yet hail I here thy presence ! not 
 Exultingly, o'er senseless stone ; 
 
 Or haughtily, because my lot 
 Is cast where better things are known : 
 
 But gladly — for thou telle st me 
 
 The fiend of darkness spreads his wings ; 
 
 And Earth, enlightened, hastes to be 
 Subjected to the King of kings. 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 95 
 
 SACRAMENTAL HYMN. 
 
 " And he said, unto him, Lord, thou knowest all things ; thou know- 
 est that I love thee."— John xxi. 17. 
 
 One speaks for all ! — when Peter thus 
 Speaks for himself, he speaks for us ; 
 And we, who love the Saviour's name, 
 Love him with Peter's earnest flame. 
 
 Come, ye who such appeal can make, 
 Who love Him for his own dear sake ; 
 Come ! in His arms of grace recline, 
 And sup with Him on bread and wine. 
 
 A royal table ! royal cheer ! 
 Haste, hungry, thirsty, fainting, here ! 
 Sweet Mercy o'er the feast folds wings, 
 And with us sits the King of kings. 
 
 Emblem of Heaven's fruition this ! 
 And hark ! a voice comes on our bliss, 
 To each, to all— " Say, lov'st thou me ? " 
 Thou knowest, Lord, that we love thee ! 
 
96 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 HONEY IN THE WILDERNESS. 
 
 u And when the people had come into the wood, behold, the honey 
 dropped. "Wherefore, he put forth the end of the rod that was in his 
 hand, and dipped it in a honey-comb, and put his hand to his mouth, 
 and his eyes were enlightened." — 1 Samuel xiv. 26, 27. 
 
 Spent with the toil of wasting war, 
 His hosts, with him, compelled to fast, 
 
 The longing Chief of Israel saw 
 Where nature furnished wild repast 
 
 The aged terebinth had shed 
 Its pure and luscious treasure round ; 
 
 And the rich feast lay duly spread, 
 Free as the winds, along the ground. 
 
 For there, upon the tangled grass, 
 Dropt the sweet burden of that hive ; 
 
 Yet, till the dial's shade should pass, 
 No Hebrew might partake and live. 
 
 The monarch's son, the empire's heir, 
 The leader in the conflict's van ; 
 
 The victor — say, what was he there ? 
 A weary, worn, and famished man ! 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 97 
 
 He took and ate — no more oppressed, 
 From eyes, enlightened, flashed his joy ! 
 
 O fainting soul ! be thou as blest 
 With drops of Grace, that never cloy. 
 
 And praise Hhn who leads sons of care, 
 
 Pursued by sin and sore distress, 
 From famine and from flight, to where 
 
 There 's Honey in the Wilderness. 
 
 THE DISCOVERER 
 
 We know not who — on Pity's tower 
 A watchman — took the world's survey, 
 
 And saw it captive to the power 
 That holds exterminating sway ; 
 
 Who, reasoning from effect to cause, 
 Sought, link by link, to trace the ill ; 
 
 And, led by Truth's unerring laws, 
 Was brought to the devouring Still ; 
 
 And learned, 't was not the Cup's Abuse, 
 That thus a gracious purpose crost, 
 
 But only by the Moderate Use 
 The noble world of God was lost 
 
 7 
 
98 POETRY OP LfFE. 
 
 We know him not : suffice to know 
 That he has lived — yet lives, nor dies 
 
 While Gratitude is named below — 
 
 While Virtue 's throned above the skies. 
 
 We know him not — and yet his name 
 Among the Best and Greatest rings. 
 
 And what are all earth's chiefs of fame 
 To him ? or what her jewelled kings? 
 
 What shall we give him ? — he 's a shade, 
 Or mortal — gold and gems are dust ; 
 
 Let loftier recompense be paid 
 
 To Him — of all Discoverers, first ! 
 
 To form his chaplet who 's unknown, 
 
 We '11 raise each drooping flower we know ; 
 
 We '11 place Him on the highest throne, 
 By lifting up the child of woe. 
 
 His principle shall be applied 
 
 To every continent and sea, 
 Till every tear of grief is dried, 
 
 And this fair world again is free. 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 99 
 
 FELLOWSHIP. 
 
 " The language of Canaan is everywhere the same." 
 
 Letters from Abroad. 
 
 It is the same ! wherever men 
 
 That love the Saviour meet, 
 Heart leaps to kindred heart, and then 
 
 The interchange is sweet ; 
 Each holds with each communion high, 
 
 The sacred kindlings run, 
 And with imperishable tie 
 
 Their souls are knit in one. 
 
 One language speak the saints below ; 
 
 They speak but one above : 
 How readily affections flow, 
 
 When that which prompts is Love ! 
 For Love 's the same in every zone 
 
 Where minds, thus taught, adore : 
 In our America 't is known, 
 
 And on the English shore. 
 
 They speak this common language well, 
 
 Who own a different speech ; 
 This fellowship has signs that tell 
 
 What this alone doth teach ; 
 
100 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 And he that 's skilled in Canaan's tongue, 
 
 Where'er his foot has trod, 
 Has found with his, some accent strung 
 
 In unison to God. 
 
 The toiler in his city walls, 
 
 The journeyer on the sea, 
 The dweller in imperial halls, 
 
 And he of low degree, — 
 Man, in his northern world of snow, 
 
 Who herds from man apart — 
 In India's vales, where soft winds blow, 
 
 In Afric's mighty heart, — - 
 
 The foreigner and he at home, 
 
 The stranger by the way, 
 Whoe'er has enterprise to roam, 
 
 Or who content to stay — 
 If of this holy brotherhood, 
 
 Are all in Love the same ; 
 And each one in the Son of God 
 
 Has part, that wears his Name. 
 
 Where'er thou stray'st or tarriest, know ! 
 
 If cast with Him thy lot, 
 Thou mayst not in life's passage go 
 
 Where kindred mind is not ; — 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 101 
 
 Where dwelletli not some follower still, 
 
 His witness in each elinie — 
 Men keeping covenant, whom He will 
 
 Keep when sealed up is Time. 
 
 THE PILGRIM'S PROGRESS. 
 
 Where good and ill are strangely mixed 
 
 To Pilgrhn, true, is given, 
 Not rapture, but the habit fixed 
 
 Of fellowship with Heaven. 
 
 Beleaguered by the fiends of night, 
 Behind, beneath, and o'er him, — 
 
 His eye is fastened on the light 
 That ever burns before him. 
 
 And if that Star at times is dim, 
 And fades his bright Elysian, 
 
 He knows the error is with him, 
 And prays for perfect vision. 
 
 Nor idly at the mountain's foot 
 
 Repeats a helpless story, 
 But strong exertions forth will put v 
 
 To reach the upper glory. 
 
102 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 Accursed devils ! — jeer and jibe — 
 
 Ye cannot hhn appal ; 
 Roar, lions ! — He, of Judali's tribe, 
 
 Shall rend the lion's caul. 
 
 Adown the ghostly vale of tears, 
 Where souls are lost and won, 
 
 He sighs, and weeps, and stops his ears, 
 And meekly journeys on. 
 
 Whate'er the road, or wind, or weather, 
 Fierce sun, or freezing blast, 
 
 He travels on, nor cares a feather, 
 So resteth he at last. 
 
 And thus he goes, in face of foes, 
 Through heats, and fogs, and rains, 
 
 Till, where the spice-gale softly blows 
 O'er Beulah's pleasant plains, 
 
 Is rolling at the pilgrim's feet 
 
 The cold and rapid river, 
 Beyond whose banks the sunbeams beat, 
 
 That warm and shine for ever. 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 103 
 
 THE GARMENT WITH FRINGES. 
 
 " And the Lord spake unto Moses, saying : Speak unto the children 
 of Israel, and bid them that they make them fringes in the borders of 
 their garments throughout their generations, and that they put upon 
 the fringe of the borders a ribbon of blue : And it shall be unto you 
 for a fringe, that ye may look upon it, and remember all the com- 
 mandments of the Lord, and do them." — Nujibees xv. 37 — 39. 
 
 Thus said Jehovah : " Make to you 
 Fringes around your garments' hem ; 
 
 A ribbon of appointed blue, 
 In order, shall ye put on them ; — 
 
 Which, while they meet the constant eye, 
 Shall bring to mind my perfect Law, 
 
 That no deceiving angel, nigh, 
 
 May from its claims your duty draw." 
 
 Our vision, Lord, is slow to see 
 
 What blest analogy between 
 A ritual and a robe may be, 
 
 Or what the silken fringe may mean. 
 
 Yet, if to men a graceful book 
 
 Might be the tunic's flowing fold, 
 On which in reverence eyes should look, — 
 
 In which the heart could Truth behold, — 
 
104 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 If Thou didst shadow precepts out 
 
 In garments, starred with gold and gem, 
 
 And write thy glorious Law about 
 
 The dress of blue and crimson hem, — 
 
 Suffice it — such was Wisdom's will ; 
 
 And this is all we need below — 
 For who shall best Thy word fulfil, 
 
 Shall best its sweet instructions know. 
 
 LOSS OF THE STEAMER ATLANTIC. 
 
 I mourned the bright visions affection had cherished, 
 And sorrowed that storms should envelope their sky 
 
 Whose sun has descended, whose hopes have all per- 
 ished, 
 And wept their departure, none questioned me why. 
 
 For every one felt that in glorious manhood, 
 When life is alluring, 't is dreadful to die. 
 
 I thought of the tempest and dark-rolling billows 
 That howled to each other, impatient for prey ; 
 
 Of the night that to agony yielded no pillows, 
 
 Of the watchings and woes of that measureless day. 
 
 To leave with brief shriving ! — to go at short warning ! 
 And who will the widow and fatherless stay ? 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 105 
 
 I looked at those women in feebleness bending 
 Beneath the dread terrors, too mighty to bear ; 
 
 At the crew whose stout bosoms the peril was rending ; 
 At him who had soothed his own anguish in prayer, 
 
 And, true to the last, was for others entreating ; 
 O God ! can the Pagan such faithfulness spare ! 
 
 I pictured the moment when, parting and breaking, 
 The vessel no longer could bear up or save ; 
 
 And I heard the wild shriek of the heart that was 
 taking 
 Its farewell of earth for a home in the wave ; — 
 
 While looked out in pity no star of the morning 
 To light the sad traveller down to his grave. 
 
 And I turned for relief to the same gracious Power, 
 To whom, in perplexity, mortals must go ; 
 
 And I saw 't is the moment when gloomiest lower 
 The clouds, that upon them He fixes the bow. 
 
 And Faith solved the mystery, and bade me adore Him 
 Who lavishes mercy when dealing the blow. 
 
106 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 RETURN OF A PASTOR FROM EUROPE. 
 
 God of Zion, whence her banners 
 
 Stream beyond the outer walls, 
 From whose turrets Zion's Watchman 
 
 In the name of Jesus calls — 
 Listen ! listen ! Praise is waiting 
 
 From a thousand hearts for Thee ; 
 Vows, that men in sadness offered, 
 
 Now with joy performed shall be. 
 
 God of Mercy, o'er the ocean's 
 
 Beautiful, bewildering track, 
 Thou didst take Thy servant from us, 
 
 Thou hast safely led him back. 
 God Omniscient, when between us 
 
 Rocked the seas of half a globe, 
 Thou didst o'er him and around us 
 
 Cast thy Presence like a robe. 
 
 God Almighty, gates of nations 
 
 Thou hast opened to his feet, 
 Where Truth perishes, and Falsehood 
 
 Lives and sits in Satan's seat. 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 107 
 
 God of Wisdom, from thy lessons, 
 Scattered o'er the old world's book, 
 
 Thou hast taught him, as thy Spirit 
 Teaches those who humbly look. 
 
 God of Worship, while together 
 
 Pastor and the people kneel 
 At their own accustomed altar, — 
 
 Thine accustomed grace reveal. 
 Mercy-laden — asking mercy, 
 
 Pressed by Love — imploring more, 
 O exhaustless, constant Giver ! 
 
 Thee, the Giver, we adore. 
 
 KEY. W. T. ARMSTRONG, D.D.* 
 
 Like dreams when the Good pass away, 
 And the soul to its God doth return, 
 
 And man wakes from darkness to Day, 
 Is it right for the Christian to mourn ? 
 
 Shall we weep when the captive who sighed, 
 And drooped in his dungeon alone, 
 
 Clasps Liberty, decked for his bride, 
 And leaps to the light of the throne ? 
 
 • Lost in the Steamer Atlantic. 
 
108 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 Shall we weep that the pilgrim is sped 
 From Beulah, where, singing, he dwelt ; 
 
 Through Jordan so happily led — 
 The chill of the river unfelt ? 
 
 Not long on its margin to wait — 
 The goal in a moment to win — 
 
 At once at the beautiful Gate 
 To enter with ecstasy in ! 
 
 Yes, we mourn, and 't is fitting such woe 
 Every eye with emotion should dim ; 
 
 Every bosom, a fountain, o'erflow, 
 But oh ! not with sorrows for Mm ! 
 
 No tears — though affection her chain 
 Of roses about him had twined ; 
 
 And the heart it were rubies to gain, 
 Was bright with the blaze of the Mind. 
 
 No tears — though his labors were such 
 
 As to Jesus will revenue bring ; 
 Though he deemed their full burden not much, 
 
 Could he joy in the joys of his King. 
 
 No tears — though at midday he went, 
 In the vigor and strength of his prime, 
 
 Ere his frame had decrepitude bent, 
 Or his spirit was weary of time. 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 109 
 
 ♦ 
 
 No tears — though he yielded his life 
 To the foe in a terrible form, 
 
 When he passed in the elements' strife, 
 And soared on the wings of the storm. 
 
 No tears for a chief of the Cross, 
 Save those of our love and respect ; 
 
 But grief for Idolatry's loss — 
 
 The Bread for the Perishing wrecked ! 
 
 And tears for our trial to-day, 
 
 And for Zion, of comeliness shorn ; — 
 Like dreams when the Good pass away, 
 
 It is right for the Christian to mourn. 
 
 FAITHFUL TO HIS CONSTITUENTS. 
 
 He journeyed on, and baited at each house, 
 Where landlords hang out sign to entertain 
 Both " man and beast" And he was entertained 
 With certain glasses of old brandy, or 
 Of Hollands, or the best New-England Rum, 
 As suited taste ; nor boggled he, nor seemed 
 Squeamish, or hard to be well satisfied. 
 And thus did he, or if the weather showed 
 Or cold or moderate, or rain or shine, 
 
110 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 'T was all the same — his quenchless thirst held good ; 
 And by the time we reached the bustling town, 
 Where is the seat of government, to which 
 The gathered wisdom of the State convenes, 
 Yearly, to make or mend the laws — I found 
 My friend, the Representative, was drunk. 
 
 I marvelled somewhat at this riddle, till, 
 Waiting a sober hour, I questioned him, 
 And he did thus reply, all unabashed : 
 " My good constituents hate the new plans — 
 And vile plans are they ! — 'bout the Temperance 
 
 cause ; 
 And they elected me, for well they knew 
 I should oppose such notions, and should thwart 
 Endeavors to put down all licenses — 
 Which curst endeavors are against His will 
 Who made all things, and who has said that all 
 The creatures — surely the " good creature " too — 
 Are very good. Faithful those friends to me, 
 And I must drink - — I love it — for I deem 
 A man unfit to sit in yon brave State House, 
 And represent the friends that stayed at none 
 Expedient, or good or bad, to place him there — 
 Who will not, on occasion, evenjwhere 
 Be faithful to his tried constituents. 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. Ill 
 
 COME TO THE AGED DEAD. 
 
 Come to the aged Dead, and see 
 
 How on that tranquil brow 
 And placid cheek, the impress lies 
 
 Of glorious Childhood now ! 
 
 *T is something, not of noon's full beam, 
 Nor sunset's chastened ray — 
 
 But like sweet morning, ere it melts 
 Into the gush of day. 
 
 We saw him in his lusty prime : 
 
 'T was sadly ours to scan 
 The lineaments that strongly spelt 
 
 How stern that brow of dark-winged years I 
 
 How eloquent that cheek, 
 And eye, chastised, which ever seemed 
 
 Of hopes, all quenched, to speak ! 
 
 We saw him in the wasting hour, 
 When strife its work had done ; 
 
 And sharp disease and eager pain 
 Their victory had won. 
 
112 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 Their victory, in which themselves 
 Found unretrieved defeat ; 
 
 O Death ! thou art a victim, slain 
 Beneath thy victim's feet. 
 
 Come to the Dead — how changed is he ! 
 
 The same — thou need'st not fear ; 
 Sickness and grief and years are gone, 
 
 'T is life's first freshness here. 
 
 The deep-writ characters of time, 
 
 The weary words of age, 
 We read not now ; we fondly dwell 
 
 On Infancy's sweet page. 
 
 A blessed thought ! that love's last look 
 
 Is pictured on the heart 
 So faithfully, that with it Love 
 
 Would willingly not part. 
 
 And, Death ! a mighty power is thine 
 
 To blot out present pain, 
 And with thy cold and gentle touch 
 
 To bring the past again. 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 113 
 
 KEDRON. 
 
 The day hath fled. On Salem's tower 
 The lovely moon-beam calmly shines ; 
 
 Hushed is the song in court and bower, 
 And worshipless the holy shrines. 
 
 'T is night. Jerusalem is still, 
 
 And lost in sleep are bond and free ; 
 
 Her streets, her vale, the holy hill 
 Repose in sweet tranquillity. 
 
 Repose they all ? — have none from sleep 
 Aroused, to sigh o'er Zion's blight ? 
 
 Retire not some, alone, to weep ? 
 Wake not a faithful few this night ? 
 
 Yes ! and along the silent brow 
 
 Of his beloved Olivet, 
 The suffering Saviour wanders now, 
 
 And there have his disciples met. 
 
 How sad the greeting ! — who may tell 
 The tenderness which in that look 
 
 Burst forth, when Jesus wept farewell 
 To those he loved by Kedron's brook ! 
 
114 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 A TOKEN FROM WASHINGTON. 
 
 Thou hast a treasure in thy thought, 
 
 O man of many years ! 
 It stirs a secret spring, whence flow 
 
 Alternate smiles and tears. 
 
 For thus he spoke : " In Peril's day, 
 
 When fields were nobly won, 
 I with the foremost stood, who stood 
 
 With glorious Washington. 
 
 When ceased the tide, that deeply dyed 
 
 The grass of Monmouth red, 
 And ceased the hailing balls, I knelt, 
 
 All bleeding, with the dead. 
 
 Alone f O no ! for still I waved 
 
 In triumph to the sky, 
 My country's stars and stripes ; my oath 
 
 Was thus to do, or die. 
 
 He thanked me — yes ! where flashed the files 
 
 Of Freedom's stern-lipped men. 
 My hair is white — that token warms 
 
 My heart this hour as then." 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 115 
 
 I heard and blushed ; for in the ranks, 
 
 Where, to avenge His loss, 
 The soldiers of Tmmanuel march 
 
 To battle for the Cross, 
 
 I, like a coward, often lose 
 
 My courage for the fight ; 
 And Faith forgets their starry prize 
 
 Who keep the good sword bright. 
 
 And yet the crown for him who grasps 
 
 His colors, on that field, 
 Nor flies, though others round him fly, 
 
 Nor yields, though legions yield, — 
 
 The token for the heart, that keeps 
 
 Its citadel from sins, 
 The " Good and Faithful" to the man 
 
 That perseveres and wins, — 
 
 The world, drawn up in flaming files, 
 
 Shall see when Christ appears. 
 Hast thou not, soul ! a thought to wake 
 
 Alternate smiles and tears ? 
 
116 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 WATCH NIGHT. 
 
 "Three Watch Nights are mentioned in the Bible — the Egyptian 
 Watch Night, when the Israelites were delivered ; our Lord's Watch 
 Night in the garden ; Paul and Silas's Watch Night." 
 
 Watch Night, of old, 
 
 God's chosen, bold, 
 Held, when their hosts he came, 
 
 From scourge and guile, 
 
 And lands of Nile, 
 To lead, in cloud and flame. 
 
 His Watch Night, sad, 
 
 When Satan had 
 One boastful hour the throne — 
 
 Immanuel kept, 
 
 While angels wept 
 To see their Lord alone. 
 
 'T was Watch Night, when 
 
 Philippi's den 
 Held servants of the sky ; 
 
 And bolts and chain, 
 
 Like threads, in twain, 
 Snapt at the earthquake's cry. 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 117 
 
 Up ! Watch Xight, now, 
 
 Hold we, who bow 
 In joy and trembling here, 
 
 Give louder song ! 
 
 Though wait we long, 
 The Master will appear. 
 
 Up ! Watch Xight keep, 
 
 Ye that in sleep 
 Have lain — your torches trim ! 
 
 AVho of his train, 
 
 "When Christ again 
 Appeai-s, will wake for Him t 
 
 Up ! when burns noon, 
 
 Or when the moon 
 Ascends her midnight way — 
 
 He cometh ! see 
 
 That, waiting, ye 
 May greet the Bridegroom's Day. 
 
 Suck, when their shrouds 
 
 Men leave, and clouds 
 Reveal the throne to view, 
 
 Shall win — toils past — 
 
 Bright crowns at last ; 
 Soul ! is there crown for you f 
 
118 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 TO A MISSIONARY. 
 
 When Jesus led his faithful few 
 
 To Bethany, where they, alone, — 
 The favorites of their Lord, — should view 
 
 His transit to his upper throne, — 
 Why stood the cloudy chariot still, 
 
 Upborne by servants of the sky ? 
 Why halted they who do God's will, 
 
 When the deep thunder bids to fly ? 
 
 'T was for the promise left to those, 
 
 His followers in sorrow here, 
 To solace them his mercy chose, 
 
 To dry the pilgrim's starting tear. 
 How tender were the words, whose oil 
 
 Soothed each disciple's anxious heart, 
 Confirmed the strong, prepared for toil 
 
 The faint, to act the martyr's part ! 
 
 " Go, preach my word ; bid Gentile lands 
 Shake off their night ; seek those astray ; 
 Unloose the captive's slavish bands, 
 Release from mental death its prey ; 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 11! 
 
 Lo, I am with you to the end ! " 
 
 He spake, and on the whirlwind's wing, 
 
 The Son of Man, the sinner's Friend, 
 Of Earth, restored, went up, the King. 
 
 Go, Missionary ! — meekly bear 
 
 Thy cross, thy shame, 't will be thy crown ; 
 Thy burden — light beyond compare, 
 
 To that which crushed the Godhead down. 
 The mountains, desert, and the sea, 
 
 That, painfully, thou wanderest o'er, 
 Have dangers — vanquished, yet to thee, 
 
 For these thy Master trod before. 
 
 Thou goest to perils ; yes, the tomb, 
 
 Ere long, will claim its willing prey : 
 Yet courage ! He who rent its gloom 
 
 Poured on that couch eternal day. 
 Farewell ! although these eyes, no more, 
 
 To thee the heart's warm kindlings wear, 
 Yet, sinless, joined on yonder shore, 
 
 Immortal Love awaits thee there. 
 
120 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 INSTALLATION HYMN. 
 
 " Go, preach my Gospel, and proclaim 
 Salvation through Immanuel's Name ! " 
 How shall they hear, with none to teach ? 
 What messenger, unsent, may preach ? 
 
 " Yet, preach my Gospel, and proclaim 
 Salvation through Immanuel's Name ! 
 The world shall listen, while they teach 
 Who, by my Spirit sent, shall preach ! • 
 
 Thus speaks, from age to age, Thy will ; 
 Thy servants thus Thy word fulfil ; 
 From age to age the word 's the same : 
 " Salvation through Immanuel's Name ! " 
 
 And Earth has joy unknown to Heaven, 
 When he, to whom such toil is given, 
 Leads to the Cross an heir of shame, 
 To see him crowned in Jesus' Name ! 
 
 And Earth has notes from her sweet lyres, 
 Unknown to Gabriel's loftier wires, 
 That tell, in love, and bliss, and shame, 
 " Salvation through Immanuel's Name ! " 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 121 
 
 Such joy to this, Thy servant, give ! 
 Bid here such songs of praises live ! 
 Let Heaven and Earth in shouts proclaim 
 Salvation through Immanuers Name ! " 
 
 FRAGMENT. 
 
 The shadowy reign of Time had passed away, 
 Systems had fled, and suns illumed no more. 
 The starry gems were lost in radiant day, 
 The last shrill trump had waked the distant shore ; 
 Its clang had ceased, and silence was in heaven. 
 I saw the marshalled cordon of the sky, 
 In glittering ranks bestud the trackless plain ; 
 The tomb's pale monarch bound in chains stood by, 
 The prince of darkness with his powers was nigh ; 
 While ransomed myriads swelled the countless train. 
 ***** 
 
 I saw the scroll * * * 
 
 Endless duration never can unfold ! 
 
 I saw the scroll — The Life of Deity was there. 
 
 Its awful signet shall remain untold ; 
 
 No strains of heaven, no curse in hell, may dare, 
 
 Eternity ! thy dreadful years declare. 
 
122 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 THAT AT THE NAME OF JESUS EVERY 
 KNEE SHOULD BOW. 
 
 They shall bow, they shall bow ; yet not as they knelt, 
 In a Presence by Pagans unknown and unfelt ; 
 They shall give Him the worship by knowledge re- 
 fined — 
 The love of the soul with the light of the mind. 
 
 They shall bow, they shall bow ; yet not, to their loss, 
 At the jewel and tinsel and wood of the Cross : 
 Intense is his rapture, and nearer than Rome, 
 Who finds at the feet of the Saviour his home. 
 
 They shall bow, they shall bow ; not with Aaron the 
 
 Priest, 
 In temples of gold with the viol and feast ; 
 The breastplate is dimmed and the mitre put by 
 Where Jesus in hovels hears Magdalen's sigh. 
 
 They shall bow, they shall bow, who as foes feel His 
 
 yoke, 
 Where the shriek of their torment ascends with the 
 
 smoke ; 
 They shall bow, they shall bow, who as followers own 
 That the Lord of their love is the Kinjr on the throne. 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 123 
 
 They shall bow — all shall bow ; 't is the compact He 
 
 made ; 
 'T was for this in the manger and tomb He was laid ; 
 The fruit of his travail to Him shall be given, — 
 The satisfied Monarch of Earth, Hell, and Heaven. 
 
 They shall bow — we shall bow, in honor or shame ; 
 Confessing in songs or in sorrows His Name ; 
 And how, where His universe renders the knee, 
 In music or mourning, my brother, shall we ? 
 
 LIFT UP THE CROSS. 
 
 Lift up the Cross, when in thy way 
 
 Some painful duty lies undone; 
 If thou art His who bore its load, 
 
 Thou mayst not the commandment shun. 
 Lift up the Cross, and teach the world — 
 
 Which still professions may condemn — 
 Thy burning words and oaths of love 
 
 Have more than words and oaths in them. 
 
 Lift up the Cross, if low in dust 
 Its glories by the foe are trailed ; 
 
 Though faint and faltering, be the first 
 To lift it when the strong have failed. 
 
124 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 Lift up the Cross, that men may see, 
 Though all forsake in peril's hour, 
 
 There 's one that 's true, and only he 
 Is so who knows and trusts its power. 
 
 Lift up the Cross, in outward show 
 
 Of pure religion, felt within, 
 Or tear it from the shrine, if so 
 
 The gilded wood ye count a sin. 
 Agreed in this — that formal sign, 
 
 Where heart is absent, is but loss ; 
 Hosts of the Lord ! your feuds resign ; — 
 
 Against the mighty lift the Cross. 
 
 Lift up the Cross, my weary soul, 
 
 That o'er the task has lingered long ; 
 Thou fearest — nay, thou shalt not die, 
 
 For those who touch this Ark are strong 
 Lift up the Cross, and lift it high ; 
 
 Its holy peace looks gently down : 
 Hark, to the call to win or die ! 
 
 Now for the Cross behold the Crown ! 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 125 
 
 WHAT IS THE FINEST SIGHT ? 
 
 " Miss Martineau says, that she was told by the captain of a steamer 
 which plied on the river Niagara, between the American and British 
 shores, that the finest sight in the world was the leap of the fugitive 
 slave to the land, when the ship neared the British territory." — See 
 Lord Morpeth's Speech at the World's Convention. 
 
 " What is the finest sight ? 
 America's most brave ? " 
 I ask, where, black as night, 
 Niagara's waters rave. 
 
 What is the finest sight 
 
 On placid lake or shore ? 
 Answer me, tones of might 
 
 That from Niagara roar ! 
 
 Not where the cloudless beam 
 
 On mimic ocean glows ; 
 Not where thy silver stream, 
 
 Utawas ! gently flows : 
 
 Not where the verdant banks 
 Hem in St. Lawrence' pride ; 
 
 Not where the forest flanks 
 Niagara's sweeping tide ; 
 
126 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 Not where the Cataract's call 
 
 Through million trumps is blown ; 
 
 Not where that monarch Fall 
 Hath rainbows round his throne. 
 
 God sees a finer sight 
 
 Than waterfall or flowers, 
 
 When to yon land of light 
 A slave escapes from ours. 
 
 When, fearing, crouching, creeping, 
 He steals his onward way — 
 
 At night in terror sleeping, 
 And scarce alive by day ; — 
 
 Till, leaping from the deck, 
 
 The fugitive at last 
 Is safe, where scowl and beck 
 
 And whip and chain are past. 
 
 God stoops to see that sight, 
 Fulfilling Nature's plan — 
 
 A cheated " chattel" write 
 Himself, a lawful man. 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 127 
 
 THE MAGDALEN'S HYMN. 
 
 I know the world derides my claim 
 
 To healing pity and protection ; 
 I know that to the child of shame, 
 
 It turns no look of kind affection. 
 
 Full well I know the bitter scoff 
 That greets the hapless female ever : 
 
 The cold and selfish cast her off, 
 
 To soothe her and reclaim her, never. 
 
 And some that give the ready smile, 
 
 Approving, to the gay deceiver, 
 Abhor her who, a prey to guile, 
 
 "Was a too faithful, fond believer. 
 
 Yet there is Gilead for my need, 
 
 And balm, too, for this bosom's anguish ; 
 
 For He that marks the bruised reed 
 Will never let the wounded languish. 
 
 Be still, my heart ! — away, ye fears ! 
 
 Tempests that have my spirit driven : 
 Even He who looked on Mary's tears 
 
 Hath whispered — " Thou, too, art forgiven.' 
 
128 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 HYMN 
 
 SUNG IN CASTLE GARDEN, NEW-YORK, BY THE 
 SUNDAY SCHOLARS. 
 
 First Voices.* 
 Oh, ye blessed ! on yonder plains, 
 Worshipping in noble strains, 
 Ranks of veiled Seraphim ! 
 Uttering your melodious hymn, 
 Glorious Spirits ! as ye bow, 
 Bearing victory's palm-branch now, 
 Why to Jesus give renown, 
 And before him cast the crown ? 
 
 Second Voices. 
 'T is His love that stirs our choirs : 
 Silent were these breathing wires, 
 Mute the crystal courts above, 
 If the anthem were not Love. 
 
 First Voices. 
 Tell us, bright ones ! as ye kneel, 
 Whose the richer notes that steal, 
 
 * The first voices by the boys who were in the area of the garden. 
 The girls in the gallery responded in the Second voice. 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 129 
 
 Sweet and soothing, from your throng — 
 Silver voices mingling song ? 
 
 Second Voices, 
 Children, ever near the throne, 
 Bow in beauteous bands alone ; 
 Cherub harps to these are given, 
 And the fairest wreaths of heaven : 
 Praises float along the strings, 
 As they wave rejoicing wings, 
 And in lofty chorus cry, 
 Holy is the Lord, Most High ! " 
 
 First Voices. 
 Warblers ! we would waken here 
 Music of your upper sphere ; 
 We would hymn and worship thus, 
 Were those harp-notes lent to us. 
 
 First and Second Voices. 
 Jesus ! while below we sing, 
 Hallowed incense may we bring ; 
 Jesus, hear us ! — take us where 
 Children, chosen ministrels are. 
 
130 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 CHRIST'S HUMAMTY. 
 
 " Christ, the holy, just, and true, 
 I could not love as now I do, 
 Did I think that he were other 
 Than my human friend and brother." 
 
 James Aldrich. 
 
 Christ's deity and humanity; in reply to 
 the foregoing. 
 
 Christ, my human friend, I might 
 
 Love, as I would love the man 
 Who, in all things good and right, 
 
 Followed out his Maker's plan ; — 
 Who was perfect in his ways, 
 
 Perfect in his thought and speech ; — 
 Such Exemplar I would praise, 
 
 Such would follow where he 'd teach. 
 But though holy, just, and true, 
 I could not love him as I do, 
 Did I think he were no other 
 " Than my human friend and brother." 
 
 Tost upon the waves of sin, 
 By a tempest rough and dark, 
 God must send the saving Ark : 
 
 I ask not man to take me in ! 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 131 
 
 To a human friend my song 
 
 Could not for deliverance rise ; 
 To a human Christ belong 
 
 Not ascriptions of the skies. 
 He, created, cannot save 
 Me, a creature, from the grave : 
 Power inferior has no spell 
 Over agonies of hell. 
 What ! — were Glances from which fled 
 Sickness, — Voice, at which the dead 
 
 Quivered in his shroud, 
 Human only ? — Come, Despair ! 
 
 Come, ye dreadful Doubts ! a crowd 
 Which the Saviour at my prayer 
 Cast out from me. Back again 
 Come ye to my bosom. Vain 
 Hopes built on Salvation's plan, 
 If the Saviour 's but a man ! 
 No ! — Gethsemane its charm 
 
 Loses of subduing sadness — 
 Calvary for my hurt no balm 
 
 Hath of healing gladness, 
 If the Sufferer whose blood-sweat 
 
 Bathed that sacred ground for me, 
 If the Man whose crimson wet - 
 
 For my sins, the dreadful tree, 
 Is not God and Man united ! — 
 In this wilderness of fears, 
 
132 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 Dust my food, my drink, my tears — 
 I should wander on, benighted, 
 Every hope of Heaven blighted, 
 Had I not in all my sorrow 
 Peace to-day and hope for morrow, 
 In the healing, pardoning blood 
 Of the Incarnate Man and God. 
 
 TO SPRING. 
 
 Hail, beauteous Spring ! 
 Attendant queen of flowers — 
 
 Whose smiles dost bring 
 From Pleasure's fairy bowers. 
 
 Hail, beauteous Spring ! 
 Parent of virgin dews — 
 
 With thee are seen 
 The Dance and laughing Muse. 
 
 Hail, beauteous Spring ! 
 We greet thy charming reign ; 
 
 Thy vocal choirs 
 Shall wake the groves again. 
 
 Thy song we hear 
 At eve and early morn, 
 
 When rosy May 
 With Flora treads the lawn. 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 133 
 
 Hail, beauteous Spring ! 
 Daughter of early Love, — 
 
 For thou wilt bring 
 Joy to the mated Dove. 
 
 All nature smiles ; 
 Hope waves her halcyon wing ; 
 
 Sweet peace beguiles ; 
 Hail to thee, beauteous Spring ! 
 
 THE CHILDREN AND DOG. 
 
 Happy sister ! happy brother ! 
 All the world unto each other 
 Are they at their simple meal ; 
 What can purer peace reveal ? 
 He has boyhood's earnestness, 
 She has girlish artlessness ; 
 And to share their supper, see, 
 Dick is begging wistfully. 
 Look demure, entreating eye, 
 
 Lifted paw, as plainly tell 
 As a dog can utter, " I 
 
 Am a friend that serves you well. 
 Am not I, the lonesome night, 
 
 Wakeful for you when you sleep ? 
 If the robber comes, a bite 
 
 Bids him safer distance keep. 
 
134 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 And I toil the -winter's day, 
 And for you, the summer. Pray 
 Who so patient at your side 
 When you walk and when you ride ? 
 Who your dinner takes at noon 
 
 To the school-house in the lane — 
 Touching neither cloth nor spoon — 
 
 And the basket back again, 
 Emptied, to your mother brings ? 
 In a thousand little things, 
 In a thousand little ways, 
 For a word or look of praise, 
 Dick is daily showing you 
 
 Dogs are faithful ; and he begs, 
 
 Humbly on his hinder legs, 
 For a taste of supper too." 
 
 Happy sister ! happy brother ! 
 
 Friendship is a word of art 
 Spelt not by you — each for other 
 
 Knows it truly in the heart. 
 That it yields a generous pleasure, 
 
 Selfish man can ne'er dispute, 
 When he sees the priceless treasure 
 
 Shared with the deserving brute. 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 135 
 
 CHRIST BEHIND THE DOOR. 
 
 " A lady being once invited to make a visit at the house of a friend, 
 said, ' I will go, provided you do not keep Christ behind the door.' " 
 
 When thou talkest with thy neighbor 
 
 On what most concerns, 
 And thy thought, to various subjects, 
 
 Shifts by ready turns, — 
 Why so pressing, why so eager, 
 
 Showing folly's store ? 
 Shutting wisdom out, and keeping 
 
 Christ behind the door ? 
 
 They that feared Jehovah, often, 
 
 In the former days, 
 Spake each to the other, moving 
 
 Each to prayer and praise. 
 They that fear Him at the present, 
 
 Vanity adore ; 
 Keeping, while they murder moments, 
 
 Christ behind the door. 
 
 In the precious — in the olden 
 
 Puritanic rule, 
 Never meeting, never parting, 
 
 Worship, market, school, 
 
136 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 Saw, without an unction dropping, 
 From those saints of yore ; 
 
 Pilgrim dames and damsels — kept they 
 Christ behind the door ? 
 
 To these fashions, to these pleasures, 
 
 Words in torrents come ; 
 If " a zealot " names the Saviour, 
 
 Quickly all are dumb. 
 Vain professor ! false professor ! 
 
 Yield thee ever more 
 Hope that Jesus Christ regards thee — 
 
 Thrust behind the door. 
 
 How they chatter ! how they chatter ! 
 
 Zion's daughters they ? 
 Nay ! they 're Israel's eating, drinking, 
 
 Rising up to play. 
 Go thy wa}r, poor Christian, hoping 
 
 Here to gather store ; 
 All is famine where is keeping 
 
 Christ behind the door. 
 
 Ah ! while noon-tide hastes to even, 
 
 Calling what was lent, 
 And no savory word of heaven 
 
 Toward heaven is sent, 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 137 
 
 This may swell thy worldly treasure, 
 
 Add to foolish lore — 
 He is wealthy-wise who keeps not 
 
 Christ behind the door ! 
 
 THE ANGER OF MOSES. 
 
 With angry blow he smote the rock, 
 
 The obedient waters freely ran — 
 Refreshing to the herd and flock, 
 
 Delicious to the lip of man. 
 He smote it twice, " And Israel ! " 
 
 He muttered thus in scorning then, 
 " Must we bid cool sweet waters well 
 
 From rocks for ye, rebellious men ! " 
 
 Heaven hears, and for this single sin 
 
 Its high displeasure waxeth hot ; 
 The fruitful land he thought to win, 
 
 He may behold, but enter not. 
 O God ! if now the wanderer found 
 
 For his one error doom like this, 
 Who of our race could feel the ground 
 
 Secure, of hope for Canaan's bliss ? 
 
138 POETRY OP LIFE. 
 
 LOOK AT T OTHER SIDE. 
 
 When Jim one day with brother Joe, 
 
 A simple, thoughtless clown, 
 With father's leave set out to go, 
 
 And see the shows in town ; 
 
 It chanced, while idly gaping round, 
 
 Each wonder to descry, 
 An orange, fair, and seeming sound, 
 
 Caught Joe's attentive eye. 
 
 Joe gazed not long, and straight had bought 
 With haste and chuckling pride ; 
 
 But Jim, a youth of keener thought, 
 Said, " Look at t' other side ! " 
 
 Joe viewed again without ado, 
 
 And questioned well his sight ; 
 For underneath, half hid from view, 
 
 The fruit was rotten quite. 
 
 And since that well-remembered day, 
 
 Whatever doth betide, 
 Joe ne'er by wrong is led astray, 
 
 But " looks at t' other side ! " 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 139 
 
 When fools, arrayed in fortune's smile, 
 
 Are puffed with haughty pride, 
 Joe envies first, then thinks awhile, 
 
 And " looks at t' other side ! " 
 
 When Scandal takes its busy round, 
 
 With huge and sweeping stride, 
 Joe heeds it not : with thought profound, 
 
 He " looks at f other side ! " 
 
 When urged in Dissipation's maze, 
 
 Corroding griefs to hide, 
 Joe views the bowl with loathing gaze, 
 
 And " looks at t' other side ! " 
 
 When sad distress and care are nigh, 
 
 And faithless friends deride, 
 With humble hope and tearful eye, 
 
 Joe " looks at t' other side ! " 
 
 And when — life's storms and perils past — 
 
 No more he stems the tide, 
 With joy on yonder shores, at last, 
 
 He '11 view " the other side ! " 
 
140 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 SUNDAY SCHOOL JUBILEE. 
 
 We praise thee, Lord, for light that shone 
 On England first, revealed from Thee ; 
 
 And now hath noontide splendors thrown 
 Around our festive jubilee. 
 
 In gladness and in peace it came 
 To win the troubled wanderer nigh ; 
 
 Its symbol was a Saviour's name ; 
 
 Its token, toil ; its watchword, " Try ! " 
 
 Its eagle track is high in air ; 
 
 Its standard sheet is wide unfurled, 
 Whose waving folds of victory bear 
 
 Release and ransom to a world. 
 
 Joy for its blessings to the child 
 That ages saw flung back on sin ; 
 
 Now gathered from destruction's wild, 
 And brought the Shepherd's fold within ! 
 
 Joy for its Christian-soldier bands 
 
 Whose high emprise hath millions blest ; 
 
 Whose march is o'er the Eastern lands, 
 Whose conquests reach the distant West ! 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 141 
 
 Oh ! as this hour, the world's deep gaze, 
 Withdrawn from its own dark misrule — 
 
 Is fixed in wonder on the rays 
 
 That cluster round the Sunday School ; 
 
 In that pure brightness bid it see 
 
 The day-dawn blushing o'er the skies, 
 
 In whose meridian every knee 
 
 Shall bend, while Earth's hosannas rise. 
 
 A COLLOQUY EN THE STUDY. 
 
 I will not hence, thy sacred truth 
 
 Unto the lost to show, 
 Unless, Lord ! with me in sooth 
 
 Thou graciously wilt go. 
 
 I cannot stir to yonder place : 
 
 I 'm too unwise and weak 
 With Thee to commune, face to face, 
 
 And in thy Name to speak. 
 
 I cannot now unlock the store 
 Of knowledge ; for my mind 
 
 Itself is groping at the door 
 Of Wisdom, halt and blind. 
 
142 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 I may not tell what "wealth of gold 
 
 Bedecks the eternal skies, 
 While vanities of me have hold, 
 
 And earth fills all mine eyes. 
 
 I cannot stand, unshrinking, up 
 
 Before my fellow-man, 
 And tender him the awful cup, 
 
 Charged with his bliss or ban ; 
 
 And with Thy keen and shining sword, 
 The joints and marrow part ; 
 
 And show him, by Thy searching word, 
 The secrets of his heart ; 
 
 And speak of the outgushing streams 
 
 From Calvary that roll, 
 And to the Dayspring's blushing beams 
 
 Direct his darkened soul. 
 
 I 'm not in exercise of faith 
 That Heaven to-day will win ; 
 
 I trust not what the Almighty saith 
 To him who turns from sin. 
 
 I 'm not in earnest, that " there 's room " 
 For all who mercy choose ; 
 
 I do not mourn his certain doom 
 Who will that grace refuse. 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 143 
 
 I fear me, through my unbelief. 
 
 Some soul may enter hell ; 
 Shall I, of unbelievers chief, 
 
 Of faith in Jesus tell ? 
 
 I, who so richly merit wrath, 
 
 A wanderer all my days, 
 Shall I point out the narrow path, 
 
 Whence no true pilgrim strays ? 
 
 I touch the soul's deep springs ? — the tear 
 
 Call forth ? yes, even I 
 Dispel the involuntary fear 
 
 And light the clouded eye, 
 
 Who am myself so dark and cold, 
 
 Whose fears at times are great ; 
 Who tremble when I should be bold, — 
 
 Who often doubt my state ? 
 
 Impossible it is to preach 
 
 Unaided from the throne ; 
 My waiting flock let who will teach, 
 
 I will not go alone I 
 
 O midnight wrestler ! dost thou fail 
 
 When day peeps forth abroad ? 
 Up, trembler ! learn how they prevail 
 
 Who take the strength of God. 
 
144 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 And turn thee from poor, sinful self, 
 
 To Help above thine own ; 
 And, tired of human learning's pelf, 
 
 To riches of the throne. 
 
 Yes, turn from books, and toil, and thought, 
 
 To Him, the glorious Man, 
 Whose blood both flock and shepherd bought ■ 
 
 Redeeming as it ran. 
 
 And in thy utter weakness, find 
 
 The Rock of Ages strong ; 
 And in thy sin, the Perfect Mind — 
 
 Thy soul's rejoicing song. 
 
 Then, freed from darkness, speak of light 
 
 That floods Redemption's way ; 
 And set the sinner's feet aright, 
 
 Whence he may never stray. 
 
 O wondrous Saviour ! who hast all 
 
 I need, Thy glory show ; — 
 Now in thine arms, poor, weak, I fall ; 
 
 Now in Thy strength I 'll go ! 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 145 
 
 COMPLAINT TO THE STE ANGER, YET 
 NIGH. 
 
 O Stranger ! yet to me for ever near ; 
 Light ever shining round me, though I walk 
 Often in darkness ; Voice, of accents clear, 
 Though earth-stopt ears shut out thy heavenly talk ; 
 
 Where art thou ? — If about me, why these fears ? 
 If in my soul, why is this midnight there ? 
 If smiling on my spirit, whence these tears ? 
 If whispering peace, this silence of despair ? 
 
 Why go I, mourning, to the mercy-seat ? 
 And why so cold before inviting Love ? 
 Why, when heart-prostrate at thy bleeding feet, 
 Will not this heart with real feeling move ? 
 
 How can I hear the agonizing groan, 
 Which, hourly, from Gethsemane I hear, 
 Nor my rebellious passions much bemoan, 
 Nor for my base transgressions give the tear ? 
 
 How can I think upon the rabble-scorn, 
 The horrid laugh, the soldier's mocking cry, 
 The whip, the robe, the crown of cruel thorn, 
 Nor bid my sins once and for ever die ! 
 10 
 
146 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 How can I gaze upon thine awful Cross, 
 Where Faith beholds thee daily racked for me, 
 Nor count this idolized vain self but loss, 
 And viler than the vil'st, compared with Thee ? 
 
 How can I greet thy day of blessings, when 
 Weekly reminded by its Sabbath light 
 Of vict'ry over hell and hellish men, 
 And not essay sin's victory in thy might ? 
 
 How can I gaze upon thy pictured life, 
 All perfect, all transparent, and divine, 
 And not with raging lusts wage deadly strife, 
 If so the Exemplar may indeed be mine ? 
 
 How look at my own life with other thought 
 Than sorrow, loathing, unforgiving hate ! 
 
 thou by whose one purchase I am bought, 
 Incarnate Sufferer, God Immaculate, 
 
 1 cling to Thee ! — all doubting, trembling, cling 
 Only to Thee ! — for am I not thine own ? 
 Didst thou not call me ? — did I not thee bring 
 And give thee all ? — ! leave me not alone. 
 
 Am I not thine ? — whose else ? — from sin I shrink ; 
 I cannot fellowship with thy lost foe ; 
 Think of thy blood, my Saviour ! and bethink 
 Thyself of me, for whom that stream did flow. 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 147 
 
 Body and soul I gave thee in that hour ; 
 Body and soul, redeemed for aye by blood ; 
 A slave, set free from Satan's captive power ; 
 A slave adopted as a Son of God ! 
 
 By thy sad passion in the Garden, hear ! 
 
 By thy dread pangs, to mortal men unknown ! 
 
 By thy last superhuman cry, O hear ! 
 
 My Lord, my Saviour ! leave me not alone ! 
 
 Though thee not loving, as I know I should ; 
 Though sin not hating, as I feel I may ; 
 Though holiness not having, as I would ; 
 Though stricken oft, yet wandering oft away ; 
 
 Yet I do love thee, and in thee delight ; 
 And hate I sin and self yet more and more ; 
 In holiness' true way, though not the light 
 I 've gained, yet entered am within th<? door ; 
 
 And think I see its glimmerings, like a star, 
 Beckoning me on. Thou, that art midnight's gem, 
 Burst out in glory on me, and afar 
 Guide to Thyself — the Babe of Bethlehem. 
 
 Doubting and fearing, to Emmaus, lo ! 
 I travel ; mourning, till the shut of day ; 
 "With me that journey, blessed Stranger, go ; 
 My heart shall burn within me by the way. 
 
148 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 Groping and stumbling, do I take thy hand 
 And grasp it — for salvation's self is there ; 
 And thou shalt lead me to the " better land," 
 And with such staff I may not — can't despair. 
 
 And, irrespective of thy purpose, me 
 To save, I '11 worship thee for what thou art ; 
 And as I 'm thine, thou mine wilt ever be ; 
 My Lord ! my God ! I give thee all my heart. 
 
 My Lord ! my God ! I covenant yet with Thee 
 Over and over. By a tenfold cord 
 Stronger than Death — volition all left free — 
 And soft as Love, bind me to thee, my Lord ! 
 
 Now, in my darkness, I believe Thee nigh ; 
 Now, with my Comforter, in grief I 'm blest ; 
 Come near me ; so that heavy laden, I, 
 Thee all-possessing, may in Thee have rest. 
 
 Come nearer ! — All desires are lost in one ; 
 One strong desire to be set free from sin ; 
 And thou canst grant it. Grant it, holy Son, 
 And this poor, happy soul for ever win ! 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 149 
 
 TO THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 Mix me, child, a cup divine, 
 Crystal water, ruby wine ; 
 Here, upon this flowing bowl, 
 I surrender all my soul ! 
 
 Moore's Anacreon. 
 
 Times are altered, Thomas Moore ! 
 
 Since this rhapsody of thine ; 
 Men, to reason brought, adore 
 
 Other Deity than wine : 
 None will madly pledge the soul 
 Noio, upon the flowing bowl. 
 
 Times are altered, Thomas Moore ! 
 
 Drinking hard is not genteel — 
 Since 't is found this inner core 
 
 Of the heart is made to feel : 
 Where the revel once had grace, 
 Wife and children now have place. 
 
 Times are altered, Thomas Moore ! 
 
 Men, of gaudy vice afraid, 
 Count, as something worse than bore, 
 
 Paphian boy and Bacchante maid, 
 Or the butterfly that sips 
 Sparkling cups and rosy lips. 
 
150 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 Times are altered, Thomas Moore ! 
 
 Doubtful song has had its day ; 
 If you give us Grecian lore, 
 
 Leave Anacreon out, we pray. 
 Purge your book and cleanse your heart, 
 Ere you from the stage depart. 
 
 FORGIVENESS. 
 
 <( They met a party of men and women, carrying a sick chief over 
 the mountains, who was evidently dying. It was affecting to see him 
 stretching forth his hand to them as they passed, as if desiring to be 
 friends with all before he died." — Wilkes's Exploring Expedition. 
 
 While gaily leaps the pulse of life, 
 We may our erring brother spurn, 
 
 And, careless, fan the coals of strife, 
 And bid revenge and anger burn ; 
 
 Forgetful that with his our name 
 Is written in the " dreadful Book," 
 
 Awaiting final praise or blame 
 For every action, word, and look ; 
 
 Forgetful that the lot to sin 
 
 Is common as to live and die — 
 
 And, won by love, that we should win 
 By kindly word and gentle eye ; 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 151 
 
 That much of pain to fellow-man 
 
 We may by due reflection spare, 
 If, lifting from his heart the ban, 
 
 We search our own and lay it there. 
 
 We 'd bury all his faults in love, 
 And put unworthy scorn to flight, 
 
 Did we but think an Eye above 
 Sets ours in its transparent light. 
 
 And that we ask on bended knee 
 
 That our offences may not live, 
 With Reason and Religion's plea ; 
 
 "For others, also, we forgive." 
 
 Yet when disease the sense appals, 
 And strength and beauty waste away, 
 
 And sullen pain its victim calls, 
 
 And joy, and hope, and life decay — 
 
 Forgiveness needing at the door 
 
 To which our trembling footsteps tend, 
 
 We charge our pride to swell no more, 
 And every foe becomes a friend. 
 
152 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 SUNDAY-EVENING VERSES. 
 
 In weakness and in trembling, 
 
 I spoke, O God ! to-day, — 
 No threat of thine dissembling, 
 
 No promise kept away. 
 Thy will to men revealing, 
 
 With unction from above, 
 I sin rebuked with feeling, 
 
 And comforted in love. 
 
 Yet, were I ready Aaron, 
 
 Or were I gifted Paul, 
 Unless Thou teachest, barren 
 
 And profitless were all. 
 The zealous tongue may clamor, 
 
 The stupid heart to wake : 
 Thy Spirit is the hammer 
 
 Which only can it break. 
 
 A broad and lovely margin 
 Is Truth, with flowerets set, 
 
 Through which, its wealth discharging, 
 Flows Prayer, the rivulet : 
 
 ♦-T 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 153 
 
 Though beautiful the border, 
 
 Art thou, rny soul, content, 
 Till swifter, deeper, broader, 
 
 The onward stream is sent ? 
 
 I count it solid pleasure, 
 
 I count it lasting fame, 
 To guide the poor to treasure 
 
 Concealed in Jesus' Name ; 
 Yet if the soul's glance, flashing, 
 
 Sends not to mine its spark, 
 I am, where waves are dashing, 
 
 A star untrue and dark. 
 
 To vanquish Baal, before me 
 
 Go, Pleading that prepares ! 
 At altars waiting, o'er me 
 
 Rise, cloud of Christian prayers ! 
 In answer to my calling, 
 
 In answer to their cry, 
 The fire of Heaven, falling, 
 
 Shall lick the trenches dry. 
 
 Called down, at Prayer's desire, 
 
 To bless the Jewish world, 
 Thy glory, at Moriah, 
 
 O'er shrine and pillar curled : 
 
154 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 I ask not now the splendor 
 Which dazzles aching sight ; 
 
 But, Lord, the glimpses render 
 That fill the heart with light ! 
 
 TO MY COUNTRY. 
 
 A sorry spectacle dost thou present 
 
 Unto the world's broad gaze ; 
 The garment of thy comeliness is rent ; 
 
 Cast out in the highways, 
 
 And lying in thy blood, naked, abhorred, 
 
 Art thou, of hopes so high ! 
 Whose infancy was blessed of the Lord, 
 
 Whose youth, beneath his eye, 
 
 Flourished, approved. For thee, the world hath 
 tears, 
 
 That thou, — who with such grace, 
 Beauty, and glory, didst among thy peers 
 
 Assert, and take thy place, 
 
 Fairest of all the nations ; o'er whose head 
 
 Was victory's banner flying ; 
 A new world for thy empire, whither fled 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 155 
 
 Shouldst put at fault all prophecy, all hope, 
 
 "Which have the Ages blest — 
 That boundless Mind should revel with free scope 
 
 In the exhaustless West ; 
 
 That here, at length, the desolating wave 
 
 Of Cruelty should be stayed ; 
 That mad Oppression, in its deep, deep grave, 
 
 Should here for aye be laid. 
 
 Repent thee ! — Nations for thy daring crime 
 
 Weep sorely ; shouldst not thou ? 
 Nineveh once to put off sin had time ; 
 
 For thee that time is NOW ! 
 
 Do it ! and take thy place, the highest, where 
 
 Sit the old crowns ; thine own 
 Brighter and lovelier, beyond compare, 
 
 Than ever decked a throne. 
 
 Do it ! and fireside talk and hymns of home 
 
 Shall be where rings the whip, 
 And blessings on the rich man's field and dome 
 
 Be on the poor man's lip. 
 
 Do it ! and in America's new song 
 
 Sincerely shall join all ; 
 Do it ! and unto God, in shouts, loud, long, 
 
 What freeman will not call ? 
 
156 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 M. A. 
 
 The few I have tried in this hollow world, 
 
 Like jewels of worth in chaff impearled, 
 
 Have paled as I looked, and faded away 
 
 To shine in coronals of perfect day. 
 
 The few I have loved in its desolate path, 
 
 Who lightened its sorrows and blunted its scath, 
 
 Have followed each other on speedier wing, 
 
 Impatient for glory. O God ! what a thing 
 
 Of misery and mocking is one thus bereft ; — 
 
 All gone life's endearments, and he alone left ! 
 
 Why is it, the gifted and gracious, who thus 
 
 Almost the whole species redeem from the curse 
 
 Of selfishness — deeply burnt into the heart — 
 
 Just show what was Eden, and quickly depart ; 
 
 Just come on our darkness with light that illumes 
 
 Like the storm-flash that leaves us to drearier glooms ? 
 
 Just make us in love with real goodness, and then 
 
 Vanish like angels from bowers of men ? 
 
 Is it to wean us from all that below 
 
 Glads us, and cheats with ephemeral show ? 
 
 Is it from earth to the heavenly blue 
 
 Bidding us look, and feel nothing is true 
 
 Or beautiful long on the dust Ave have trod — 
 
 That the true and the lovely are only for God ? 
 
FOETRY OF LIFE. 157 
 
 Such, Mary ! wast thou — and invited to range 
 The pathway of brightness, but little the change 
 That was needed for thee ; — 't was only to stop 
 On the threshold and smile thy farewell, and so drop 
 The garment of clay that but cumbered, and then, 
 For transports, mortality never may ken ! 
 I return thy farewell, and hence softly will tread 
 The path that yet winds 'mid the dying and dead ; 
 And checking, at thought of thy freedom, the tear, 
 As Time takes each link up that fetters me here, 
 Will thank our kind Father, a holier rest, 
 A balm for the mourner, a home for the blest 
 Are thine, where is garnered nor falsehood nor folly, 
 Nor tears of the broken, nor dark melancholy — 
 But where the sweet fountains that murmur in sounds 
 Of music, are flowing o'er happier grounds ; 
 Where wander for ever, in beautiful bloom, 
 Earth's languid and sick, and the lost of the tomb ; 
 Where the innocent babe like a bud never dies, 
 Where the hand of compassion wipes tears from all eyes ; 
 Where the city of God shoots its pinnacles high, 
 Whose walls of clear jasper ne'er echo the sigh ; 
 Where yet I may hope, in the sapphire-laid street, 
 Thee, Mary ! with others long wept for, to meet. 
 Thou canst not, O Grave ! there thy victory bring — 
 Thou canst not, Death ! follow there with thy sting. 
 
158 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 FOURTH-OF-JULY FAIE AND TEA PARTY. 
 
 Rise ! and celebrate the Day 
 When our fathers cast away 
 Cords of Britain ; when our land 
 Leaped at word of the decree 
 That a Continent was free — 
 Promulgated by the band 
 Who in counsel, hand in hand, 
 Who in angry battle stood, 
 Making every tittle good 
 Of their Declaration, hurled 
 In the face of half a world. 
 Rise ! and celebrate ! — By song, 
 Flowing with. the cup along? 
 At the board of noisy cheer, 
 Where the fool and brute appear ? 
 Pise ! and celebrate ! — With laugh, 
 Pinging from a head of chaff, 
 Where the undiscerning mind 
 To true Liberty is blind ; 
 Where the thoughtless fail to scan 
 The right estimate of Man, 
 And, while boasting o'er the graves 
 Of those martyrs, are but slaves ? 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 159 
 
 Thus may Folly — never can 
 Wisdom celebrate it so, 
 Making mock of Freedom ; No ! 
 'T is her privilege to show, 
 That, in every deed and thought, 
 To the test of conscience brought — 
 And by conscience fairly tried, 
 God is only glorified. 
 What ! shall our great Jubilee, 
 Proudest on the roll of fame — 
 By perversion merely be 
 Calendared to greatest shame ? 
 Perish, sooner, Freedom's name ! 
 Perish, all we justly claim 
 Noblest, purest, brightest, best ; 
 Freedom, then, were but a jest. 
 Celebrate ! and to His glory 
 Acts rehearse of ancient story ; — 
 Celebrate ! and in your lays 
 Give the King of nations praise ; 
 Celebrate ! and by your deeds 
 Show, when Mercy intercedes, 
 You can hearken ; and are able 
 Gifts on this entreating table 
 With alacrity to lay, 
 As your tribute for the Day ; — 
 Gold, by eagles, if you choose it, 
 Silver — we will not refuse it ; 
 
160 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 Pennies, though but little things, 
 If the heart the offering brings, 
 Are a gift as truly given, 
 And accepted are of Heaven. 
 Gifts be yours of Heaven's increase ! 
 Ne'er for you Earth's blessings cease ! 
 Leave your offering ! Go in peace ! 
 
 THE DEVOTED. 
 
 Oh ! blest is he who cares 
 
 That God has glory given ; 
 Whose faith, and alms, and toils, and prayers, 
 
 Are leading souls to Heaven. 
 
 And greatly blest is he 
 
 Who labors, prays, and -weeps, 
 That Christ may of his travail see 
 
 Beyond the distant deeps. 
 
 Such — entering into rest — 
 
 The Chinese, saved, shall own ; 
 The African will hail him blest, 
 
 And children of Ceylon. 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 161 
 
 THE PILGRIMAGE — THE CONFLICT. 
 
 " Six hundred millions bound for Night," 
 
 Reluctant Truth has given ; 
 " Two hundred millions in the sight 
 Of Charity, for Heaven," 
 Yet of this pittance, say, are all 
 Redeemed by Blood from Error's thrall ? 
 
 Book of the Future ! though thy lids 
 To open, Reason me forbids, 
 
 Yet Reason tells me, too : 
 Of these two hundred millions, half 
 God winnows from the worthless chaff, 
 
 And shows a remnant — few ! 
 
 The Angel, whose Behest shall save, 
 
 Through the wide Heaven flies ; 
 Legions of warring heralds wave 
 
 The broad-sword of the skies : — 
 Dove of the Lord ! whose snow-wings dip 
 
 In streams of Endless Life — 
 'Tis vain ! unless the heart and lip 
 
 Thou touchest for the strife. 
 
 11 
 
162 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 THE FORGER AND HIS MOTHER. 
 
 When the sentence of the law was pronounced on Mitchell, the 
 forger (late member of Congress), his aged mother stood by his side, 
 with his hand clasped in hers. She afterward accompanied him to 
 the gate of the State Prison. 
 
 He who would order break 
 
 To soothe insatiate pride, 
 Who leaves, for Folly's wake, 
 
 Safe Wisdom's pleasant tide, 
 May sink in depths, or, on the swell 
 Of billows, onward sweep to hell. 
 
 Lost to thyself and shame, 
 
 The execrating land 
 Ringing with thy lapsed name, 
 
 Now, legislator ! stand 
 Among the vile a moral stench, 
 A felon at the frowning bench. 
 
 The world's poor flattery fled, 
 
 By friends regarded not, 
 Thy partner — worse than dead — 
 
 Thee leaving to thy lot, 
 Cover, Oblivion's dreary pall, 
 The abject wretch, cast out of all ! 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 163 
 
 And chiefly from his eye 
 
 Shut out that stricken form I 
 Better at once to die, 
 
 And meet the eternal storm, 
 Than bide — for hath that tempest worse ? — 
 An aged, injured mother's curse. 
 
 Not one ! O Heaven ! not one 
 
 To look upon his face ! 
 To pity the undone, 
 
 To show sweet Mercy's grace, 
 Or break Despair's terrific spell ; 
 Not one ! not one ! Hell ? this is Hell. 
 
 Yes ! — while the law its cup 
 
 Prepares of bitter doom, 
 And shuts the guilty up 
 
 In misery's living tomb, 
 Behold the Mother by him stand, 
 And clasp within her own his hand ! 
 
 And tells not this the story of a love 
 
 Stronger than death ? ay, stronger than disgrace ? 
 Such deep-engrossing spirit 's from above ; 
 
 Earth, sordid, selfish, hath of it no trace. 
 
 The fountain of a Mother's love, Love keeps. 
 
 Angels watch round it ; from it floweth ever 
 A tide more certain than the constant deeps — 
 
 The blue wide waste of waves that faileth never. 
 
164 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 And he, her first-born, idle, dissolute, 
 Heartless, deceptive, cruel though he be, 
 
 With less of human in his soul than brute, 
 Lost in the mire of vile debauchery ; 
 
 Or, with the unlawful thirst of golden gain, 
 Who has his priceless honor sold for dross, 
 
 And bargained, madly, for enduring pain ; 
 Yes, in his cunning, won accursed loss ; 
 
 At the tribunal for his deed arraigned, 
 
 With every eye in scorn upon him bending ; 
 
 Cast out by friend and foe, too foully stained, 
 
 Too deeply scarred by guilt, for man's befriending ; 
 
 In her true love finds refuge, solace, hope ; 
 
 She cheers him with the glimpse of better days, 
 And for his evil star shows horoscope 
 
 Foretelling brightness round his future ways. 
 
 Saith the Wise Son of Sirach, " For his child 
 The father's thought at midnight sadly waketh ; " 
 
 But for her son, whom folly hath defiled, 
 
 The mother's heart, surcharged with anguish, 
 breaketh. 
 
 The love that fondly o'er her infant hung, 
 
 The while he drew life from its sacred source, — 
 
 The love, that, like an aegis, round him flung 
 Most sure protection in his boyhood's course, — 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 165 
 
 That lingered in his step of graceful youth, 
 Haunting his every walk with watchful care, 
 
 Invoking splendors of celestial Truth 
 
 To wrap his mind and ask admission there, — 
 
 Hath followed him : yes, as the radiant star 
 Unerring, of the pure and polar sky, — 
 
 That shines on ocean's wanderer afar, 
 
 'T will shine on him till Love and Nature die. 
 
 Son ! abuse not, slight not, love like this. 
 
 By memory of the precepts at her knee, 
 By the sweet token of her fond, first kiss, 
 
 Cross not by crime her holy hope for thee ! 
 
 By the sad hour that comes at last to call 
 Her, a free spirit, to the stainless skies ; 
 
 By thoughts of her green grave ; yes, and by all 
 The vain regrets which o'er that grave may rise ; 
 
 Heed thou thy Mother ! Heed the earnest love 
 That error in her child can ne'er abate ; 
 
 And on her clouded path that leads above, 
 Let joy for thee a beauteous rainbow wait. 
 
 In all thy joys she hath a fervent joy ; 
 
 The flame that on her altar burns is thine ; 
 Thy griefs are hers, and Ages, that destroy 
 
 All other temples, reverence this shrine. 
 
166 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 For gloweth not this flame in other sphere ? 
 
 Yes, she who soars from night and thee away, 
 Follows, with blessed eyes, thy footsteps here, 
 
 Till thou escape, like her, to perfect Day. 
 
 Sorrows will cluster round thy path below, 
 
 Thou mayst not wholly shun this common doom ; 
 
 But love thy mother, fear thy God, and so, 
 
 'Mid thorns of life, for thee shall flowerets bloom. 
 
 H. H. 
 
 Why tarry ye, ordained to bear 
 The dead to slumbers Jesus blest ? 
 
 Arise ! and take these relics where 
 The weary Christian seeks a rest. 
 
 Yet stay — one little moment more, 
 Ere round his form is wrapt the sod ; 
 
 One look — the last — the last, before 
 It quickens at the trump of God ! 
 
 One look of love and true respect. 
 
 How full, how deep the tides that swell, 
 As on these shores we recollect 
 
 Departed worth, and sigh " farewell ! " 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 167 
 
 Farewell to him of envied lot, 
 
 So rare in life's mysterious plan — 
 To pass its trial free from blot — 
 
 At peace with God, at peace with Man ! 
 
 Farewell to him of bounty large — 
 Who gather here, the corse to bless ? 
 
 Ah ! his peculiar sacred charge, 
 The Widow and the Fatherless. 
 
 Farewell to him whose walk below 
 "Was his of upward heart and eyes ; 
 
 Whose shining streams of treasure flow 
 Freely, in the superior skies ! 
 
 Farewell — farewell — and yet not long ; 
 
 For us will tears be duly shed ; 
 For us will sorrow give her song ; — 
 
 But shall we press as kind a bed ? 
 
 Up, silent men ! who Avait to bear 
 
 This dust to slumbers Jesus blest ; 
 And softly, sadly, take it where 
 
 The weary Christian finds a rest. 
 
168 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 SACKED SONG. 
 
 In Judah, now, the minstrel's lyre 
 
 Is hushed, for mirth has winged its flight ; 
 
 In Zion's courts, the holy fire 
 
 Is quenched, and sorrow veils the night. 
 
 No sound disturbs thee, Solyma ! 
 
 Save some disciple's lowly moan ; 
 No lamp illumes yon vaulted way, 
 
 Save one pale orb that burns alone. 
 
 *T is Bethlehem's Star ! the holy gem 
 That hailed the Godhead from the skies ; 
 
 'Tis Bethlehem's Star — the diadem 
 That tells the Conqueror shall rise. 
 
 He rises ! and the golden choir 
 
 Of angel-minstrels wakes the song ; 
 
 He rises — mortals ! catch the fire, 
 And strains of ecstasy prolong. 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 169 
 
 CHAINS. 
 
 Chaix a man to abject labor, 
 Yoke him with the stupid brute ; 
 
 Then, from thy unrighteous sowing, 
 Watch the true unholy fruit. 
 
 From immortal Mind 't is springing, 
 Mind, that bondage has debased — 
 
 Mean, contemptible to vision — 
 Loathsome, bitter to the taste. 
 
 Stubborn man, with base dishonor, 
 Struggles madly for a day ; 
 
 Yet at night he loves his prison, 
 And his fetters are his play. 
 
 Chain a Woman — if thou darest ; 
 
 Task her, mock her, crush her low ; 
 Scourge her — if thou art a devil — 
 
 Is she sordid ? abject ? — No ! 
 
 Meanness reaches not the temple 
 Hallowed in her inner part ; 
 
 Anguish, chain, and lash, and mockery 
 Never soil a Woman's heart. 
 
170 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 Selfishness becomes more selfish 
 In the fretting storms of life, — 
 
 While the pure, exalted spirit 
 Waxes purer in the strife. 
 
 THE ARK ABSENT. 
 
 "And it came to pass, while the ark ahode in Kirjath-jearim, that 
 the time was long ; for it was twenty years ; and all the house of Israel 
 lamented after the Lord. And they gathered together to Mizpeh, and 
 drew water, and poured it out before the Lord, and fasted on that day, 
 and said there, We haye sinned against the Lord." — 1 Sam. vii. 2, 6. 
 
 Thy story this, my discontented soul ! — 
 Once — oh ! how briefly ! — dwelt the Ark with thee ; 
 Then might the swelling deeps of trouble roll, 
 Then might thy fondest hope take wings and flee ; — 
 
 Thou fear'dst not, car'dst not — more than all beside, 
 A constant faith, a panacea were thine ; 
 And hope might vanish ; thou the storm couldst ride, 
 Scathless, while with thee dwelt the Ark divine. 
 
 Didst thou not duly prize the heavenly Guest, 
 And plead with Mercy thee to strip as bare 
 As Job, if such sharp trial were so blest 
 As thee, poor drowsy spirit, to prepare 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 171 
 
 For keener relish of remaining joys ? 
 Thou, wakened, purified, and rendered meet 
 By discipline to hear and love the voice 
 Which won thee down from pride to Jesus' feet ? 
 
 Or wast thou selfish in that earnest cry ? 
 Thy good desiring rather than His glory, 
 Who will have honor though the creature die ? 
 If so, no marvel at thy 'plaining story. 
 
 Absent will be His smile — that smile is Heaven — 
 His Love will eager pinion spread for flight ; 
 And thou wilt wander on, sin unforgiven, 
 In Meshech's depths, in Kedar's tents of night, 
 
 Till humbled, broken, at his feet reclining, 
 Thou learnest how to yield Him up the whole ; 
 And will, affection, wit, to Him resigning, 
 Dost know the sweetness of an humbled soul. 
 
 Then, with the music of a thousand songs, 
 With snow-white kine to fetch the treasure home, 
 And praise to God, to whom it well belongs, 
 The Ark to thee returns, no more to roam. 
 
172 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 MY IDOL. 
 
 I 've an ancient Idol, which 
 Lately filled its narrow niche 
 In a temple, in a clime, 
 Where, for long-forgotten time, 
 Still had reigned Idolatry ; 
 Where it proudly claimed the knee 
 Of the bondman and the free. 
 For it, reeked a million slaughters, 
 To it, knelt the Orient's daughters. 
 Mothers, to obtain its grace, 
 To it prest their babe's sweet face. 
 Fathers, to avert its evil, 
 Gave their first born to the devil. 
 Mournfully I look upon it, 
 Thinking of the waves of blood 
 And the cruelties that won it 
 Name of Hell's infernal god. 
 This one Idol which I own — 
 " Ha ! but one ! — hast thou no other ? " 
 " No." " Yet stay ! thy bosom's throne 
 Haply holds, e'en now, its brother. 
 Ay, a legion ! yet more hateful 
 Than the idols made of stone, 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 173 
 
 Feared and worshipped, though unknown. 
 
 Viler, too, their incense given, 
 
 Than the sacrifice, ungrateful, 
 
 Which from pagans smells to Heaven ! " 
 
 FOR CHINA.* 
 
 O God ! on China look ! 
 
 And wall her realm about ; 
 Nor from the nation's varied book, 
 
 Let her be blotted out. 
 
 Oppose the western power, 
 To which the empire 's sold ; 
 
 Whose Lion rages to devour, 
 Whose lust is still for gold. 
 
 * John Q. Adams has said that the Opium question had nothing to 
 do with the late outrageous attack of the English on China. Yet had 
 the Chinese continued meekly to receive the drug, the war, notwith- 
 standing other provocations, would probably never have occurred. 
 Immense quantities of Opium are cultivated in India, under the im- 
 mediate direction of the East India Company ; and China presents 
 the only market for this deleterious article .' This is the key to the 
 conduct of the English in relation to the Chinese. 
 
174 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 And if the enslaving drug 
 
 Barbaric heathen hate, 
 While Christians yet the fetter hug, 
 
 That binds them to their fate ; 
 
 And Christian fleets and men 
 Cloud that defenceless coast ; — 
 
 O God of battles ! thunder then 
 Upon the daring host. 
 
 And bow Britannia's heart, 
 
 In this unholy war ; 
 And stain her flag, and bid depart 
 
 The glories of her star. 
 
 Teach her, " whose flag is furled 
 Never," on land or sea, 
 " Whose morning drum beats round the 
 world " — 
 A Greater rules than she ! 
 
 Then, bring the Pagan down, 
 Where all the world must meet ; 
 
 The monarch, humbled at thy crown — 
 The people at thy feet. 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 175 
 
 CHRISTIAN FELLOWSHIP. 
 
 WRITTEN FOR THE VISIT OF A CHURCH AND 
 SOCIETY TO THEIR PASTOR. 
 
 ;; Thus to the Father prayed the Son, 
 One may they be, as We are One ; 
 That I in them, and Thou in Me, 
 They, one with Us, may ever be." 
 
 Thus to the Father in our day 
 Let his disciples meekly pray, 
 That, in their need, for them be done 
 All that was wished for by the Son. 
 
 In their rough march to Zion's hill, 
 When Love is cold and wrong the Will, 
 And every pilgrim's courage faints, 
 There 's hope in Union of the Saints. 
 
 And when his Zeal revives, and Love 
 Spurns earth, takes wings, and soars above, 
 He gains new strength, if he impart 
 His victory to some kindred heart. 
 
176 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 This blest communion, in His Name, — 
 In every Christian breast the same, — 
 Gives unction to our joy, as we, 
 Our Pastor ! share that joy with thee ; 
 
 With thee, who watched this tender shoot, 
 Till budding, ripening, bursting fruit 
 Proclaims the plenty of his sheaves, 
 Who, when he sows in tears, believes ! 
 
 SEMI-CENTENNIAL ANNIVEKSARY OF AN 
 ORDINATION. 
 
 O Saviour ! ere on radiant wing, 
 
 Enwrapt in clouds, thou took'st thy flight, 
 
 To re'assume, as Lord and King, 
 The throne of undisputed right, — 
 
 Didst thou not promise to the few, 
 Bereaved of Master and of Friend, 
 
 That, on their fainting hearts, like dew 
 The Spirit's influence should descend ; — 
 
 And, till Time's drama close, on all 
 By Thee commissioned to proclaim 
 
 The Church, the Bride's celestial call 
 To free salvation in thy Name ? 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 177 
 
 Then hear the fervent prayer, this hour, 
 For him who gave the sires his prayers ; 
 
 And led the children by the power 
 Of wisdom, found with hoary hairs. 
 
 For has he not that influence felt — 
 Thy servant — counted now of men 
 
 A patriarch — who in tears has knelt, 
 And waited two-score years and ten ? 
 
 Then bless thy servant, as to-day, 
 
 Though not like Moses veiled from sight — 
 
 He takes on Pisgah wide survey, 
 Of toil and harvest, shade and light 
 
 And sees — life's wanderings almost o'er — 
 This world 's not " all a fleeting show " 
 
 To him whose faith discerns before, 
 The cloud and fiery pillar's glow. 
 
 And still let gladness on him rest ; 
 
 So all his future bright shall be, 
 Till gathered where the pure and blest 
 
 Find an Eternal Now in Thee. 
 
 12 
 
178 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 TO THE REV. J — P — , OF BOSTON. 
 
 " No father or mother can look on the doctrine of the Atonement, 
 and say : ' I will take that doctrine into my family, and practise upon 
 it as a parent.' Could there be found a monster to do so, he would he 
 excluded from society." — From Rev. J. PSs Speech at the Unitarian 
 Convention in Providence, R. I. Oct. 1843. 
 
 My brother ! — such by common ties — 
 I marvel that thy tongue of flame, 
 
 So apt for truths that men should prize, 
 So bold for Freedom's glorious name, 
 
 Could, on a theme above them all, 
 
 Let words so daring, dreadful, fall. 
 
 The voice that soothed the weary mind, 
 The trumpet-tone that nerved the arm — 
 
 By turns impetuous, scornful, kind, 
 To crime a scourge, to sorrow balm — 
 
 Are these to aid the wily foe ? 
 
 From thee did Truth expect the blow ? 
 
 Yet, if indeed the lip and pen 
 
 That urged so high the spirit's flight, 
 
 Are eager now the hopes of men 
 
 To quench in depths of fearful night — 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 179 
 
 If thou, for self, wilt choose but loss, 
 Spurning the treasures of the Cross, — 
 
 Keep thou the way of song and flowers, 
 That, through a world of sin and blight, 
 
 Leads only where red Sinai lowers, 
 
 Whose lightnings blast, whose thunders fright ; 
 
 At Calvary — while they blaze and roll — 
 
 I on the Atonement stake my soul ! 
 
 WHAT HINDERS ? 
 
 What hinders, when, to bless a world — 
 I asked — the Spirit's wing is nigh, 
 
 That Endless Life has not unfurled 
 Its symbol o'er the doomed to die ? 
 
 Ye send your servants where the grain 
 Is ripe and nodding to its fall, 
 
 And labor may the harvest gain, 
 Most plenteous, for the Lord of all. 
 
 What hinders, when the seed is sown, 
 And looks the watcher for the shoot, 
 
 The field, with thistles overgrown, 
 Rewards nor care nor toil with fruit ? 
 
180 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 O Church ! hast thou withheld thy store ? 
 The Church, with blushes thus replied : 
 " My gifts are small, I would do more 
 For His dear Name who for me died. 
 
 " While journeying up, through sorrow's waste, 
 To Zion's hill, too oft her eye 
 Turns from its glorious goal, to taste 
 Inferior charms, that bloom to die. 
 
 " Yet gold, and time, and talents, cast 
 (Unworthy) in His treasury, tell 
 How feels the Church for those that fast 
 Are girded by the bands of hell. 
 
 " Speaks yet for her the secret plea 
 Which rises to the ear of God, 
 That He will soon ' declare decree,' 
 And sway the world with gentle rod. 
 
 " Speak, too, earth's circumscribing flames, 
 That kindle and each other meet, 
 When Christendom, forgetting names, 
 Brings incense to the mercy-seat. 
 
 " At what a price she fain would buy 
 The freedom of immortal Mind, 
 Let that unconscious, bitter sigh 
 O'er joys for ever left behind — 
 
POETRY OF EIFE. 181 
 
 " Let that deep feeling which denies 
 Relief in tears — the quivering tip, 
 The one long glance of soul and eyes, 
 Fixed on the lessening Mission Ship, — 
 
 Which tropic sickness wastes away, — 
 Let whispered parting words proclaim — 
 Let him who dies with pagans, say ! 
 
 " What hinders, then, in answer made 
 
 To toils, and tears, and faith, and prayer, 
 The idol-realms are not now laid 
 
 Before Him whose of right they are ? 
 
 " Why is it that such pearls of heaven 
 Are melted in the promise-cup, 
 If to the offerer is not given 
 
 Assurance that they 're garnered up ? " 
 
 And Conscience thundered : " Yain are gifts 
 Of gold, and intellect, and prayer, 
 
 Yes, and of life, if He who sifts 
 
 The heart, sees not His image there ! " 
 
182 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 VIEWING THE SPIRE OF A NEW CHURCH. 
 
 Cambridge ! thou hast a gentle name, 
 
 And pleasantly it falls 
 On hearts that treasure up the fame 
 
 Of Harvard's ancient halls. 
 
 Yet dearer than the Muse's seat, 
 
 I own the rising shrine 
 That indicates his sure retreat 
 
 Who flies the Southern Line. 
 
 Now praise to Him who calls up friends — 
 
 Sworn foes to trade in blood — 
 To build where Freedom's Refuge blends 
 
 With Altars for our God ! 
 
 And shame to him, of aspect grave — 
 
 The Levite — who, in pride, 
 Peers at the wounded, weeping slave, 
 
 And takes " the other side." 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 183 
 
 YOU ASKED, I REMEMBER 
 
 You asked, I remember, if those that have flown 
 To the regions of sunshine, would visit again 
 The scenes of past grief, to mortality known, 
 The dream of anxiety, chequered with pain ? 
 
 From courts of the skies should the spotless e'er bend, 
 And delights, once endeared, unimpassioned descry — 
 Is there aught that could bid the wrapt spirit descend, 
 Or a wish rise unbidden, to waken the sigh ? 
 
 If so, 't is the thought of that innocent bliss, 
 The sun-ray, expanding affection's young flower, 
 Which, caught from yon region, beams brightly on this, 
 And to Time lends the hue of Eternity's hour. 
 
 If so, 't is remembrance of love's plighted vow, 
 The sweets of communion, once ardent and true ; 
 And the wish that those veiled in mortality now, 
 Should soar disembodied, and friendship renew. 
 
184 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 THE BRAHMUN SUICIDE. 
 
 On the way, seeing a number of natives passing them hastily, and 
 inquiring the cause, they were told that a Brahmun had drowned 
 himself under the pressure of pain ; upon which they took occasion 
 to point out the wretched condition of their guides, and exhorted them 
 to seek the grace and peace of God in their hearts, which would en- 
 able them patiently to endure calamities. Some of them insinuated 
 that God had predestinated the Brahmun to his miserable end ; but 
 the missionaries testified that God was not the author of evil, but was 
 a lover of our temporal and eternal happiness. — Memoirs of Rev. C. 
 F. Swartz. 
 
 Beautiful are the feet that stand 
 Of heralds on the heathen land ! 
 Beautiful on the distant mountains, 
 And by cool and gushing fountains ; 
 Beautiful by the river's side, 
 Where heaves the idol dome in pride, 
 Where is stretched the Suicide ! 
 Beautiful is Humility, 
 Underneath the banyan tree, 
 Warning the aged devotee ; 
 Telling the young of a Shepherd nigh, 
 Whose arms are safe, whose fold is high ; 
 Telling the poor of pearls and gems 
 Seen not in Earth's diadems ; 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 185 
 
 Telling adorers of the river, 
 Many floods can ne'er deliver ; 
 Gunga cannot save the soul, 
 Jordan only maketh whole. 
 Telling to him who painfully goes 
 On pilgrimage, that fleshly woes 
 Ne'er atone for precept broke — 
 Ne'er release from Error's yoke. 
 Oh, beyond all worldly treasure, 
 Oh, beyond all worldly pleasure, 
 Is an errand such as this ! 
 Is the Missionary's bliss ! 
 Heaven's highest seat is found 
 For him who toils on heathen ground ! 
 And who is he on the Indian sands, 
 That like a heavenly teacher stands ? 
 Near him towers the Moslem's mosque, 
 And Paganism's proud kiosk. 
 O'er him blooms the scented lime, 
 And the noble trees of the eastern clime, 
 Sheltering from the noon-day glare — 
 And see ! what gathered crowds are there. 
 The listening traveller reins his steed, 
 The water-bearer giveth heed ; 
 Each seeks his face with gaze intense, 
 As if, save one, was locked each sense. 
 Earnestly seize the old and young 
 "Words that drop from the stranger's tongue. 
 
186 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 And who is he, of the lifeless form, 
 With drooping limbs, and blood yet warm ? 
 They 've raised him from the river's bed, 
 The water-lily round his head — 
 The pulse all still, the spirit fled ! 
 And this is why is told the tale 
 At which the Hindoo's cheek is pale. 
 'T is of one who fed the altar's fire, 
 And walked around the Suttee's pyre, 
 And stood before his god of stone, 
 Blind worshipper of the Unknown. 
 In senseless mysteries bearing part, 
 Versed in the Shaster — not the heart. 
 Ay, and he felt a void within, 
 That waters were bootless for his sin : 
 Ay, and he bowed beneath his pain, 
 And rushed, uncalled, to God again ! — 
 What hell can burn away that stain ? 
 
 Beautiful are the feet of him 
 Who comes with voice of the seraphim, 
 Standing, and telling of a balm for woes — 
 A fount for the leper, that ever flows : 
 A Gilead and Physician too, 
 Which Paganism never knew. 
 And teaching that relentless Fate 
 Doth not on hapless mortals wait. 
 
 Oh, God is not author of evil ; his love 
 Share the dwellers below and the happy above ! 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 187 
 
 Sweeter than airs of the delicate South, 
 
 Is pity from the teacher's mouth ! 
 
 Sweeter than music of the spheres, 
 
 Which the errand angel hears, 
 
 Are tidings that fall on the Pagan's ears ! 
 
 And he will hear, and the heart will melt, 
 
 And the knee shall be Christ's that to devils has 
 
 knelt. 
 And meekness he '11 learn from this deed of pride, 
 And life from the Brahmun Suicide ! 
 
 BIRTH OF DUELLING. 
 
 Moloch had fallen, and Satan wept 
 
 To see his shrines alone ; 
 His rites in dark oblivion slept, 
 
 And worshipless his throne ; 
 Around him thronged the peers of hell 
 
 Intent on curst debate, 
 Yet nought could Satan's ire dispel 
 
 Or soothe the monarch's hate. 
 
 Till Belial, a tall fiend, arose, 
 And urfred his fell design, — • 
 u And triumph, Chief ! " he said, " thy foes 
 Shall own a mightier shrine ; 
 
POETRY OP LIFE. 
 
 What though the vale of Hinnom boasts 
 
 No more its thousands dead, 
 And Tophet sees no more its hosts 
 
 Through fire and slaughter led ; 
 
 " On Moloch's ruin, lo ! appears 
 
 A new descended god, 
 Whose robe is gemmed with orphan's tears, 
 
 Whose sceptre reeks with blood ; 
 Altars shall rise in every clime 
 
 To this divinity ; 
 And as he hastens, hoary Time 
 
 Shall untold votaries see." 
 
 He spake ; with shouts the conclave rang, 
 
 Hell trembled with acclaim ; 
 " A god, a god descends," they sang, 
 
 " Let Honor be his name ! " 
 Columbia, willing, owns his sway, 
 
 And for her Proud and Brave, 
 He digs, impatient for his prey, 
 
 The Duellist's cold grave. 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 189 
 
 A LATE LOSS. 
 
 He is not dead ! O, can he die, 
 Who quits the Earth and seeks the sky ? 
 Who, prisoner here, his prison breaks, 
 And sickness, death, and chain forsakes ? 
 
 He is not dead ! O, is he dead, 
 
 Who, hungering here, has found new Bread ? 
 
 Who, thirsting in the weary strife, 
 
 Drinks at the goal Eternal Life ? 
 
 He is not dead, who wears a crown ; 
 He is not dead, who casts it down 
 At Jesus' feet, and with the throng 
 Swells the high harp and victor song ! 
 
 Not dead ! though here his voice of love 
 No longer wins to worlds above ; 
 Not dead ! though here Corruption calls 
 His beauty to its marble halls. 
 
 He lives ! he lives ! and only he, 
 Who is with Christ, and still shall be. 
 He lives, who from Sin's thrall has fled ; 
 We feel its power ; we are the dead ! 
 
190 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 LET ME DIE AT AN INN. 
 
 Let me die at an Inn ; I 'd be free 
 In the day of departure from care ; 
 
 At home, 't would be busy with me, 
 
 Abroad, 't would my last moments spare. 
 
 Let me die at an Inn ; I 'd not know 
 Of tumult, when taking that sleep ; 
 
 The thoughts that of Earth had let go, 
 Something earthly might linger to keep. 
 
 Let me die at an Inn ; the strong calls 
 Of bliss that I then must forsake, 
 
 Old comforts, old hearts, and old halls, 
 Retirement might weaken or break. 
 
 Let me die at an Inn ; I 'd not see 
 Friends watch the inaudible beat 
 
 Of a bosom whose pulses were free ; 
 Nor farewells receive and repeat. 
 
 Let me die at an Inn ; children, wife, 
 Away, in my anguish might smile ; 
 
 This heart — they 'd not know of its strife - 
 Would break ; theirs be placid the while. 
 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 191 
 
 Let me die at an Inn ; I M be calm, 
 When fording the waters of death ; 
 
 Eyes keen, to discern the kind Arm — 
 Ears quick, for the harmony's breath. 
 
 Let me die at an Inn ; I 'd bethink 
 Me of what I 've forgotten — that I 
 
 Am a weed on eternity's brink, 
 Whose business is only to die. 
 
 Let me die at an Inn ; I 'd deem rather 
 
 That the principle, passing away, 
 Is a child going home to his Father ; 
 
 World ! ask not the sufferer to stay. 
 
 Let me die at an Inn ; there were need 
 Of reflection, repentance, and love, 
 
 Unwonted — when soon to be freed 
 From chains, to take garlands above. 
 
 I must die, and that soon ; why regret 
 The years that are lost in the flood, 
 
 While moments of mercy may yet 
 Remain to prepare me for God ? 
 
 I must die, and that soon ; what avails 
 
 That the bark, to eternity driven, 
 Was terribly tost, or by gales 
 
 Of favor was wafted to Heaven ? 
 
192 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 I must die, and that soon ; here, my grief 
 And trials have meaning in them ; 
 
 In my coronal there, shall the chief 
 Of these shine the goodliest gem. 
 
 I must die, and that soon ; then, if so, 
 My spirit ! thou 'st nought to prepare, 
 
 And art waiting the summons to go, 
 All ready — what matters it where ? 
 
 Let me die at an Inn ; in my nest ; 
 
 In solitude, city, on sea ; 
 By sickness, in health — 't will be best 
 
 As ordered, my Maker ! by Thee. 
 
 THE UNFRUITFUL. 
 
 Why on this Zion-hill 
 
 Descends no kindly rain — 
 Precept on precept still 
 
 Imparted, and in vain ? 
 No souls these walls to crowd, 
 Like doves, or as a cloud ? 
 
 Its watchman long hath toiled 
 
 In Christ, his Master's name ; 
 Yet Error is not foiled, 
 
 Nor Satan put to shame. 
 
— _ 4 
 
 POETRY OF LIFE. 193 
 
 For weary years the stumbling flock 
 Have blindly missed salvation's Rock. 
 
 With tears and inward strife 
 
 And agony of soul, 
 He 's wooed the dead to life, 
 
 The broken to be whole. 
 But tears and prayers and pain 
 Of spirit, have been vain. 
 
 What lacks he ? love ? — His heart 
 Beats but to earnest love ; 
 
 Power ? — He hath the art 
 To bring heaven from above. 
 No wiser lips God's word hath spoken, 
 No holier hands God's bread hath broken. 
 
 Listen ! — ere vows had bound 
 
 His labors to his spot, 
 A message had him found 
 
 Which he regarded not : 
 By him should be unfurled 
 Peace to the heathen world! 
 
 He shunned it. On this hill 
 No dews of grace descend ; 
 
 'T is as Gilboa still, 
 
 And shall be till his end, 
 Who judgment for the Jonah sees, 
 That to God's will preferred his ease. 
 
 13 
 
194 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 I AM FOR PEACE. 
 
 Man's inhumanity to man, 
 Makes countless thousands mourn. 
 
 Robert Burns. 
 
 What's in the warlike waving plume, 
 Aoid in the gorgeous standard's fold, 
 That beckon on to envied doom 
 Or glorious victory the bold ? 
 What 's in the brazen trumpet's bray 
 And in the spirit-stirring fife 
 And thundering drum, that call away 
 The generous to the deadly strife ? 
 
 What magic 's in old Caesar's name, 
 Or his who died at Babylon — 
 Or his, the chief of modern fame, 
 Who thrones, like counters, lost and won - 
 Yea, what 's in all the high renown 
 That e'er contending legions gained ; 
 The greenest wreath, the proudest crown, 
 That ever poet knew or feigned, 
 
 Compared with all the certain guilt 
 On murder stamped by righteous law, 
 The countless tears, the rivers spilt 
 Of blood, the crimes and woes of war ? 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 195 
 
 Compared with that impetuous tide 
 Of sin, which flows in dreadful wrath — 
 The hatred, scorn, and poisonous pride 
 That surely follow battle's path ? 
 
 Oh ! why should nations, lifted up 
 By Christian privilege, prepare 
 For sister realms the bitter cup, 
 Whose dregs are sorrow and despair ! 
 At empty Honor's larum wake 
 Force that for Right could never fail, — 
 For fancied insult, vengeance take, 
 And slaughter on a " glorious " scale ! 
 
 Just God ! this is not in thy plan ; 
 The monstrous dogma 's not from Thee, 
 That what is wrong from man to man, 
 In governments may faultless be. 
 Thou ever dost transgression hate, 
 In highest, as in humblest place ; 
 Nor will its penalty abate 
 From parliament or populace. 
 
 I loathe it all ! and when I see 
 Gay, gladsome warriors trooping by, 
 With glancing steel, and bravery 
 Of trump and drum, I can but sigh, 
 
196 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 That men, like children, ever seem 
 Still pleased and flattered with a straw ; 
 And for Fame's splendid, empty dream, 
 Will court the crimes and curse of war. 
 
 A VOICE. 
 
 A Voice from Earth, affrighted — 
 
 Earth drinks the crimson flood ! 
 'T is from a human bosom, 
 
 It is a brother's blood. 
 A Voice that calls for vengeance ! 
 
 " Revenge, O God ! the slain, 
 And pour thy hottest vial 
 
 Upon the murderer, Cain." 
 
 A Voice of blood, where Nature 
 
 Has veiled her earth and skies — 
 Where, nailed between the vilest, 
 
 For man, the Holiest, dies. 
 What asketh it ? — most sadly, 
 
 In Mercy's music, too — 
 It cries, " Forgive them, Father, 
 
 They know not what they do ! " 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 197 
 
 WHY WEEPEST THOU ? 
 
 Doth gloomy fate with sullen frown 
 
 Consume thy soul with care ? 
 Hast thou the draught of misery known 
 
 Whose dregs are dark despair ? 
 Art thou oppressed with sorrow's doom, 
 
 Thy heart with anguish torn ? 
 O, soon that sad and cheerless gloom 
 
 Shall wake a brighter morn. 
 Then why should sorrow wring thy brow ? 
 Say, mourner, say, " why weepest thou ? " 
 
 Doth tender love bedeck the bier, 
 
 Is dust with dust inurned ? 
 Has one, affection prized most dear, 
 
 To heaven and God returned ? 
 The beauteous flower that charms the eye, 
 
 And decks the smiling plain, 
 With winter's blast will fade and die, 
 
 But dies to bloom again. 
 Then why should sorrow wring thy brow ? 
 Say, mourner, say, u why weepest thou ? " 
 
198 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 Who of our mortal race is he, 
 
 So firmly fixed by fortune's power, 
 That from the shock he 's counted free, 
 
 Of tossing waves, in trouble's hour ? 
 Let him still clasp his fancied bliss, 
 
 And look defiance, too, on care ; 
 Not heeding, in a world like this, 
 
 If there 's a better known, or where — 
 
 Such am not I. 
 
 Who of the saints that ever trod 
 
 In outward sheen, this path of sin, 
 That never felt — so strong in God — 
 
 The coward weakness full within ? 
 Let him still gaze on yon clear sky, 
 
 As if his mirror there he sought ; 
 And challenge Purity to spy, 
 
 In his soul's core, one careless thought — 
 
 Such dare not I. 
 
 Yet, if there 's one, who in the strength 
 
 Of worldiness, is weak indeed, 
 Who finds his boasted staff, at length, 
 
 (Of wise resolves,) a broken reed, 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 199 
 
 And from the midst of battle calls — 
 While his own goodness sounds retreat — 
 
 On Mercy, and for succor falls, 
 A trembling wretch, at Jesus' feet — 
 
 Such, Lord, am I ! 
 
 THERE ARE YET FLOWERS. 
 
 There are yet flowers in life's wilderness 
 
 That fling upon the air a sweet perfume, 
 And with the charm of Eden-loveliness 
 
 Soothe man's sojournings to the quiet tomb. 
 None live, so hopeless, abject, and unknown 
 
 As nor to covet, nor to gather these. 
 They cluster everywhere, and round him still 
 Their presence throw, who seeks to be alone. 
 
 And yet their sweets no witchery have to please 
 The Proud, that careless pluck with wanton will. 
 Fairest of lingerers in earth's sunny bowers : 
 
 The delicate, not found amid the throng — 
 The pleasant solacers of hidden hours — 
 
 Still, still, be mine, ye Blossomings of Song ! 
 
200 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 WANDERING. 
 
 u Evangelist. Art thou not the man that I found crying without 
 the walls of the city of Destruction ? 
 
 Christian. Yes, dear sir, I am the man. 
 
 Evangelist. Did not I direct thee in the way to the little wicket- 
 gate? 
 
 Christian. Yes, dear sir. 
 
 Evangelist. How is it, then, that thou art so quickly turned 
 aside?"— Pilgrim's Progress. 
 
 Directed, in extremest need, 
 To sure Salvation's only way, 
 
 'T is wise to walk with careful heed, 
 And more than folly thence to stray. 
 
 As guide, the steady " shining light " 
 The preacher of the gospel shows — 
 
 A star upon the brow of night — 
 To him on pilgrimage who goes. 
 
 To keep it ever in his eye, 
 
 Nor lose it for one little hour, 
 Though wayside tempters to him cry, 
 
 Though hell, to hinder, brings its power, 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 201 
 
 Is duty, and insures succ 
 
 The goal, though distant, such shall win, 
 And reach — past sorrow's wilderness — 
 
 The heavenly gate, and enter in. 
 
 But he who shuts to Truth his ears, 
 Forgetting Wisdom's earnest call — 
 
 And wanders, meets the woe he fears, 
 And wrecks upon one error all. 
 
 If Thou hast won me to that road, 
 My Saviour ! bid me, meekly, bear 
 
 Along the path, such trial-load 
 
 As Thou deem'st good — but keep me there ! 
 
 Till, safely at my journey's end, 
 
 I drop with life my burden too, 
 And praise, in Endless Life, the Friend 
 
 Who bore my griefs, and brought me through. 
 
 Yet wherefore, spirit, shouldst thou wait 
 Till past from weary night to day ? 
 
 Sing on thy march to Zion's gate ! 
 
 'T will cheer thee on, and smooth the way. 
 
202 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 THERE 'S REST FOR THE WEARY. 
 
 O thou that hast strayed in a pathway of sorrow, 
 Where joy is a stranger and peril is near — 
 With regret for the past and no hope for the morrow, 
 The sigh thy companion, thy solace a tear, — 
 
 Though dark thy horizon, no star of day cheering, 
 Though thy way, long and lonely, no pleasures illume, 
 Yet in faith turn thy vision to solace appearing, 
 For a ray of tranquillity shines from the tomb. 
 
 There 's bliss yet in store, let reflection still cheer thee, 
 There 's rest for the weary, unfading and true ; 
 On the ocean of life, though the billows are near thee, 
 Look afar where the haven of peace is in view ! 
 
 'T is free from the tempest that here has long shrouded 
 Thy day, and the false light that shone to decoy ; 
 Its waters of life reflect skies still unclouded, 
 And Jesus the Lamb is its light and its joy. 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 203 
 
 I AM NOT WHAT I OUGHT TO BE. 
 
 I am not what I ought to be ; — 
 
 Imperfect, changeful, in my love ; 
 My Saviour, make me more like Thee, 
 
 And fitter for my home above. 
 
 I am not what I wish to be ; 
 
 I surely choose the righteous way, 
 And would from evil thoughts be free, 
 
 And holier grow from day to day. 
 
 I am not what I hope to be ; 
 
 I soon shall lay this body down ; 
 And in my perfect spirit see 
 
 The Wearer of Redemption's crown. 
 
 When I am what I ought to be, 
 
 And what I wish and hope to win, 
 I '11 praise the Love, that followed me 
 
 Through sloughs and sinks, and brought me in. 
 
204 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 THE ENDLESS SIN. 
 
 His sin he forsakes, whatever it be, 
 
 When his summoned soul is bid to flee ; 
 
 He cannot debauch in hell, nor steal, 
 
 Nor in the drunkard's revelry reel ; 
 
 Yet one remains, when filled is his cup, 
 
 The oath of blasphemy ever goes up ; 
 
 Where despair, unwearied, rings its knell, 
 
 Is mingled the curse — there 's swearing in hell. 
 
 There are creditors here, who rivet the fetter, 
 And the bond will have, to the very letter ; 
 Nor tears avail for a longer day, 
 But there 's sorer woe when the devil 's to pay. 
 Our Shylocks to him are angels of light ; 
 His knife is true, and he grinds it bright ; 
 The debtor, snared in his cruel mesh, 
 Surrenders the soul with the quivering flesh. 
 
 And many are they who, not for gold, 
 Salvation's hope have foolishly sold ; 
 The prince who swears on his jewelled throne, 
 The beggar who swears on his dunghill, alone, 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 205 
 
 The child, who lisps the imperfect curse, 
 The hoary sinner — something worse — 
 Whose tongue, beneath the faultering oath, 
 With infirmity trembles, nothing loth. 
 
 I will pray at morn," says the Psalmist ; " yea, 
 
 At noon and at eve I will fervently pray ! " 
 
 But not to the morning's lovely prime, 
 
 Nor to golden noon's meridian time, 
 
 Near when evening shadows softly fall, 
 
 Is confined the Swearers busy call ; 
 
 He swears in his traffic, and swears in his play, 
 
 He swears by night, and he swears by day. 
 
 He serves his master, and serves for naught ; 
 The twig is not limed by which he 's caught ; 
 No wages hath he for his bootless sin, 
 No bribe is too mean such slave to win ; 
 It hath for its trouble no relief ; 
 Its bliss, if any, is idle and brief; 
 And he, of the filthy scum of the pit, 
 Is sorest lashed with scorpion wit. 
 
 Well ! blister your lips, and your heart, if you like ; 
 Swear at the Hand that 's lifted to strike ; 
 Swear at the sleepless judgments of God, 
 And swear at the Mercy that stays the rod : 
 
206 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 'T is the alphabet only of crime that you 're learning, 
 There are other tasks which, your Maker spurning, 
 He '11 give you leisure to study well ; 
 For the damned eternally swear in hell. 
 
 ALL NIGHT IN PRAYER. 
 
 u And it came to pass, in those days, that he -went out into a 
 mountain to pray, and continued all night in prayer to God." 
 
 Luke vi. 12. 
 
 All night in prayer, while mortals slept, 
 The Saviour woke on bended knee, 
 And, in the mountain, vigils kept 
 Of sighs and tears, my soul, for thee. 
 
 Night spread her starry wing around 
 His head, that drooped for human woe, 
 And hastening angels sought the ground, 
 Wondering to see their Maker so. 
 
 He prayed — yet not in view of all 
 The griefs his prescience understood — 
 The stripes, the spear, the nails, the gall, 
 The crown of thorns, the cross of wood. 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 207 
 
 No, nor in view of that dark hour 
 When God from him should turn his eye, 
 And hell's permitted final power 
 Should triumph, when it saw him die. 
 
 But sight of sin and sin's desert 
 Prest down his soul, and sight of men 
 Wounded to death, and to their hurt 
 Rejecting gilead, grieved him then. 
 
 Saviour ! in Judea, prayer 
 Not now is breathed from lips of thine ; 
 That mountain is the robber's lair, — 
 Its clefts reveal the Moslem's shrine. 
 
 Yet here thy gentle arm infolds 
 The children of thy wondrous love ; 
 And present here is He who holds 
 My wants before the throne above. 
 
 All night in prayer ! — my joyful sense 
 Would fain thus spend the wakeful night ; 
 Yet oh ! where Thou art, darkness thence 
 Flies, and with me 't is more than light 
 
208 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 SONGS FOR ROMAN CATHOLICS. 
 I. 
 
 WORSHIP MARY ! — WORSHIP CHRIST ! 
 
 "It is written, Thou shalt worship the Lord thy God, and Hra 
 only shalt thou serve." — St. Luke iv. 8. 
 
 " ! 't is a sweet and lovely sight 
 To see a band of children gather, 
 And round the altar all in -white, 
 Bow, angel-like, to God their Father. 
 
 All thoughts subdued, and bridled glee, 
 
 Their very look is still and wary, 
 As, joining in the Litany, 
 
 They breathe the holy name of Mary." 
 
 Roman Catholic Hymns — London edition. 
 
 O ! rather, bring thy sacred songs 
 To Jesus Christ, thine elder Brother ; 
 
 Nor homage that to him belongs, 
 Yield, in thy folly, to another. 
 
 For why should Childhood's pleasant Voice, 
 Whose tones great Nature makes to vary 
 
 So musically sweet, rejoice 
 In Litanies to Holy Mary ? 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 209 
 
 Can a weak woman, whose own sin 
 Required the wondrous bath of healing, 
 
 Thee from temptation's sorcery win — 
 Or hear in Heaven her votary, kneeling ? 
 
 Or is the Virgin Mother's care 
 
 Thy daily bounteous table spreading ? 
 
 Or does her^eye detect the snare 
 
 Screened by the flowers where thou art treading ? 
 
 Will her ascended spirit bend 
 
 From battlements, while thou art sleeping, 
 And leave high service to attend 
 
 The helpless child whom God is keeping ? 
 
 Or will she, in thy dying hour, 
 
 Spread o'er thee her maternal pinion, 
 
 And shield thee from the grave's strong power, 
 And bid thee shout o'er hell's proud minion ? 
 
 O no ! — " the sweet and lovely sight " 
 
 Is to see holy children gather — 
 Washed in the Saviour's crimson white — 
 
 In prayer around their common Father : 
 
 To breathe His name, His kindly aid 
 
 Invoke, to guide where footsteps falter; — 
 
 Safe, only safe when foes invade, 
 In Christ's own arms, at His own altar. 
 14 
 
210 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 n. 
 
 CAST OUT THE BIBLE.* 
 
 Cast out the Bible from the schools, 
 
 " Douay " and " James," of which they prate, 
 
 Nor let the little whimpering fools • 
 
 Pore over precepts that we hate. 
 
 Has not the troubling page of God 
 Forewarned them of the Antichrist ? 
 And plainly marked the path of blood 
 We take to power and gold, unpriced ? 
 
 Has not the Puritanic pen 
 In lines of lightning traced our doom ? 
 And from their slumbers startled men 
 Who spurned the proffered yoke of Kome ? 
 
 Too long by covert smiles we 've sought 
 Our steady purpose to obtain ; 
 Bethink ye what the church has taught, 
 And boldly strike, if ye would gain. 
 
 * The New York Commercial Advertiser informs us, that the Ro- 
 manists have excluded the Bible from the largest of the District 
 Schools of that city. 1843. 
 
.- 
 
 POETRY OF LIFE. 211 
 
 This heritage to which we look, 
 And grapple with our chains of steel, 
 Shall we surrender to a Book ? 
 No ! by Saint Peter's key and seal. 
 
 NO ! NO ! ten thousand faithful shout ; 
 Crusaders ! be the Cross unfurled 
 From home and school to cast it out, 
 And win to Rome the Western World. 
 
 m. 
 
 THE IDOL MUSEUM. 
 
 Come hither, thou 
 Whose heart rejecteth Wisdom's voice ! 
 
 And see to what that heart will bow, 
 When left to Folly's choice. 
 
 Come hither, thou 
 Of Gentile feet, for Zion shod, 
 
 With songs, that thy wild olive-bough 
 Is grafted into God. 
 
 With songs that Christ 
 Shall of His soul's sore travail see ; 
 
 And kneeling nations, from the highest 
 To lowest, His will be. 
 
>12 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 Enter ! — thou 'It meet 
 Strange fellowship of monstrous sin ; 
 Enter ! — for Papal, Pagan feet, 
 By proxy, are within. 
 
 Come ! for the spoils 
 Of harlot Rome shall meet thy view ; 
 And her stern Inquisition's toils 
 Of fagot, rack, and screw. 
 
 Come ! for thine eyes 
 Shall rest on Juggernaut, whose car 
 
 Crushed millions, ere from Indian skies 
 Beamed Bethlehem's sacred Star. 
 
 Gaze on! — for this 
 Is Mary's ring, that Bonner's axe ; 
 And rosary, to count and kiss, 
 And cross on jewelled pax. * 
 
 Thou handiest here 
 The war-club from the Negro land ; 
 
 And Burmah's Boodh, and Zealand's spear, 
 And gods of Ceylon's strand. 
 
 * Pax-A piece of board, having the image of Christ upon the 
 Cross on it, which the people, before the Reformation, used to kiss 
 after the service was ended ; that ceremony being considered as the 
 
 ^ 1 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 213 
 
 And thou mayst dip 
 Thy fingers in this holy bowl, 
 
 And to yon image touch thy lip 
 With aves for thy soul. 
 
 Enough ! — our tears 
 We give to ignorance and sin ; 
 
 But Guilt, instructed, causeth fears 
 That hell may haply win. 
 
 Hell's flag unfurled 
 From Labrador to far Japan, 
 
 These trophies of a ruined world 
 Show thee, O thoughtful Man ! 
 
 Thou seest press 
 The Pagan load — nor is it small ; — 
 
 But o'er her crimes, baptized, confess 
 That Rome outweighs them all. 
 
 IV. 
 
 THE baptism of THE BEL£. 
 
 Come ! baptize the bell ; 
 
 First, each bosom search, 
 All your sins expel — 
 
 Brin£ it now within the church. 
 
214 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 God-father ! god-mother ! 
 
 Vow to Holy Dame : 
 Wet with Cross, sign with Chrism, 
 
 In the Triune Name. 
 
 Father, Son, and Spirit, 
 
 For thy blessed sake, 
 May it grace inherit 
 
 Ne'er to break ! 
 
 Three strokes with the clapper ! 
 
 Three strokes by the priest ! 
 God-father, god-mother, 
 
 Three strokes at the least ! 
 
 Bell, baptized, at its sound 
 Lurking devils fly the field ; 
 
 Toll ! toll ! tortured soul, 
 Purgatory ! yield. 
 
 When its silvery music soundeth 
 Softly, sadly, on the ear, 
 
 Burial, bridal, fast or festal, 
 Holy Mary, hear ! 
 
 Genuflexion, now, and kiss — 
 
 Reverently kneel ! 
 Ave Mary ! —kiss the bell ! 
 
 Kiss the wheel ! 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 215 
 
 V. 
 
 PAPAL WORSHIP. 
 
 My morning song shall God address, 
 Whose love lay round me all the night ; 
 
 My evening hymn will duly bless 
 
 My Shield through all the hours of light. 
 
 Alone, alone, I trust in Him ; 
 
 And faith assures my trust is right, 
 As well when doubts my prospects dim, 
 
 As when the star of hope is bright. 
 
 But when the early dewdrops lie 
 
 In every humble floweret's cup, 
 Or when the later twilight sky 
 
 Gives sign to shut its petals up, 
 
 Why should my thanks, from Heaven withheld, 
 
 Be murmured at an idol shrine 
 To some ascetic seer of eld, 
 
 Or merry monk of modern time ? 
 
 Or when in depths my spirit faints, 
 Or, rallying, mounts with eagle wing, 
 
 Why should I call on rotten saints, 
 Or psalms to pickled relics sing ? 
 
216 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 Or why, when faithless man deceives, 
 To Woman lift complaining eye ? 
 
 Or fondly deem that who receives 
 Her queenly favor wins the sky ? 
 
 " Will God," saith one, " in very deed, 
 In temples dwell ? " — I ask, will He 
 Take pleasure in a little bead 
 Doled out to Him on rosary ? 
 
 Will He approve the kiss, imprest 
 On marble by the serfs of Rome ? 
 
 Or water, signed on face and breast, 
 That waters never lave at home. 
 
 I own the Pencil's power — its art 
 To keenly-wakened sense appeals ; 
 
 But will He bless the sensual heart 
 That but in Raffaelle's presence feels ? 
 
 I love the Chisel's skill, and think 
 Its true creations all unpriced ; 
 
 But will not eastern odors stink, 
 Burnt only to a sculptured Christ ? 
 
 And will the Omnipresent Mind, 
 Whose seat is light, whose way is dark, 
 
 By trickish mummers be confined 
 To pix, or alb, or stole, or ark ? 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 217 
 
 Or, swallowed in the ruby wine ? 
 
 Or, mixed in wafer, sans the yeast, 
 Thy Saviour, guilty man, and mine ! 
 
 Be eaten, weekly, by a priest ? 
 
 My sins are many ; yet if saints 
 
 In glory only lessen them, 
 Exceeding all that conscience paints, 
 
 Their number will my soul o'erwhelm. 
 
 My sins are scarlet — and yet these 
 
 I cannot to the Virgin trust ; 
 And if I die, unless she please 
 
 As snow to render them, I must. 
 
 Oh ! why should man, consulting pride, 
 
 Some part assume of folly's cost, 
 And fear to trust the Crucified, 
 
 Who only can restore the lost ? 
 
 And fear, in all its scope, to try 
 
 The love that welcomes the opprest ; 
 
 And rather choose, without, to die, 
 Than enter, live, and be at rest ! 
 
 That Mercy kindly waits to win, 
 
 Is not that I may fall the more. 
 While Calvary has a bath for sin 
 
 Of soundless depths, without a shore, 
 
218 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 I '11 seek its streams ; yet cannot pay 
 
 With gold, for parchment deeds of Heaven, 
 
 But will on Jesus' title stay — 
 
 Not Peter's — to be much forgiven. 
 
 The Saviour in His passion sighed ; 
 
 He asked relief, who built the globe ; 
 But for it to His Father cried, 
 
 And not to Enoch, Noah, nor Job. 
 
 I cannot, though but nameless dust, 
 
 Invoke a Helper less than his ; 
 For only He who formed me first, 
 
 From first to last my Refuge is. 
 
 Go, man ! your other lords address, 
 And cleave to falsehoods, if you will : 
 
 Jehovah is the Name I bless, 
 The Triune God I worship still. 
 
 Alone, alone, I trust in Him ; 
 
 And Faith assures me this is right, 
 As well when doubts my prospects dim, 
 
 As when the star of hope is bright. 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 219 
 
 VI. 
 
 NEW ENGLAND GIVEN TO ROME. 
 
 " I do not know that a Roman Catholic Church has heen huilt on 
 Plymouth Rock ; but I think it likely they will yet put one there." — 
 Rev. Leonard Bacon's Speech before the Foreign Evangelical Society, 
 New York, May, 1843. 
 
 Why not upon the Plymouth Eock 
 Erect the bloody " church of God," 
 
 Whose lordly dome may swell, and mock 
 The humble sires below the sod ? 
 
 Why not, where trembled once their prayer, 
 Let clamorous consecrated bells - 
 
 Swing heavily upon the air, 
 
 With matins, vespers, bridals, knells ? 
 
 Why not let stupid massmen throng, — 
 Their scores of feasts and fasts to keep ; 
 
 And give to Mary impious song, 
 
 Where they with God retired, to weep ? 
 
 Why not stretch Charily so wide, 
 
 Whose sarment is of robes the <rem — 
 
 That monstrous Papacy may hide 
 Its hell of guilt beneath the hem ? 
 
220 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 Why not let our own bones and flesh, 
 The children of our faith and hope, 
 
 Seek, unreproved, the lying mesh 
 
 Wove for their footsteps by the Pope ? 
 
 And what forbiddeth — Rome 's the same ! — 
 With us her dungeons, pimps, and spies ? 
 
 And Smithfield fires to hiss and flame 
 From every hill-top to the skies ? 
 
 Sons of the Pilgrims ! long has lain 
 
 The bright red sword of Truth in rust ; 
 
 Ope your dull eyes to see the slain, 
 Even at your altars, bite the dust. 
 
 Too late ! — your speeches, prayers, may not 
 Avert, one hour, the righteous doom : 
 
 This heritage, once yours by lot, 
 God, in His anger, gives to Rome. 
 
 vn. 
 
 HYMN TO THE VIRGIN. 
 
 Virgin of all virgins, Mary ! 
 Teach our solemn hymn to vary 
 Praises worthy Her alone 
 Who is worthy Heaven's throne. 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 221 
 
 Unction give us, so we may 
 
 To the Source of Unction pray. 
 
 Lo ! at Mercy's door we knock, 
 
 Myrrh and spices on the lock, 
 
 Venerable, spotless One ! 
 
 Powerful as thy Blessed Son 
 
 To forgive the foulest sin, 
 
 Ope the Door, and let us in ! 
 
 Mother of Messiah, hear us ! 
 
 Mother of the Maker, hear us ! 
 
 Pearl and dewy Rosebud, hear us ! 
 
 Virgin Mother ! hear us ! hear us ! 
 
 Tower of David, Queen of Angels, 
 
 Lauded by the good Evangels, 
 
 Helper be and Hope and Guide ! 
 
 Be our Pilot on the tide ! 
 
 House of Ivory, House of Gold, 
 
 See us bleating round thy fold, 
 
 Scared by hungry wolves of sin ; 
 
 Ope the Door, and let us in ! 
 
 Morning Star and Gate of Heaven, 
 
 Light to erring mortals given, 
 
 Lead where Magi went before ! 
 
 Lead us to the Stable Door ! 
 
 Mother of the Builder, God, 
 
 If we pass affliction's rod, 
 Aid us, save us, and we '11 bless Thee ! 
 Comfort, keep us, and we '11 bless Thee ! 
 
222 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 Virgin, pure, and undented, 
 If thou seest thy truant child 
 Folly chase, as children will, 
 Seek him, find him, love him still ! 
 Bring the sinner to thy feet, 
 Bring him to the Mercy-seat. 
 If the dazzling gold is ours, 
 Let not gold to Virtue blind us ! 
 If we trifle mid the flowers, 
 Let the thorn of Thee remind us ! 
 Hear us ! hear us ! hear us ! Mary ! 
 Plead with Him who on thy knee 
 Slept and wept for such as we ! 
 Plead for us, whose beads are worn ! 
 Plead for us, whose hearts are torn ! 
 By the Wise Men from afar, 
 By the bright and herald Star, 
 By the three hours' Darkness flung 
 Over pangs from Jesus wrung, 
 Plead for us whose beads are worn ! 
 Plead for us, whose hearts are torn ! 
 Who in bowl of holy water, 
 Free to every son and daughter — 
 Dip the finger, make a toss, 
 Sign on brow and nose the Cross. 
 By the Rosary and Altar, 
 Lazarus' shroud and Judas' halter, 
 By Loretto's flying House, 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 223 
 
 Relic of the Plague of Louse, 
 Moses' rod and Joseph's cup, 
 Egypt's darkness bottled up, 
 By the Missal's gilded leaves, 
 By the Holy Coat of Treves, 
 Keys of Peter, head of Paul, 
 Save us singly, save us- all. * 
 
 *From < : Notes of a Traveller." 
 At Rome, the worship of the Virgin is most assiduously cultivated. 
 Her altar, in every church, is the most thronged with votaries. She 
 gives tender audience to prayer, and makes irresistible intercession 
 with her glorified Son ; she sways him by her maternal love ; she 
 constrains him by her maternal authority. All the treasures of lan- 
 guage are exhausted in search of epithets to exalt and dignify her. 
 She is called daughter of the eternal Father, mother of the eternal 
 Son, spouse of the Holy Ghost, temple of the most holy Trinity, queen 
 of the world, gate of heaven, &c, till one who is a stranger to such 
 language feels repulsed and driven back from even that due rever- 
 ence which every devout Christian will gladly yield to her whom an 
 angel from heaven called " Blessed among Women." 
 
224 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 PITY IN WOMAN. 
 
 Rich is the drop from the soft lid of sorrow, 
 
 When Pity no more its emotions can hide ; 
 
 'T is a gem which the trappings of splendor would 
 
 borrow, — 
 A brilliant, surpassing the symbols of pride. 
 
 Dear are the accents that, misery disarming, 
 Flow out in music and thrill through the soul ; 
 Sweet is the strain which, the lone bosom charming, 
 Bids the unhappy admit its control. 
 
 Bright is the glance of Compassion when beaming, 
 It tells, oh ! how gladly ! it hastes to relieve ; 
 Purer the ray than when Diana, gleaming, 
 Softly alights on the mantle of eve. 
 
 O Woman ! when Pity, thy bosom possessing, 
 Lends radiance to beauty and charms to its hue, 
 Mortality surely is crowned with its blessing, 
 Heaven's last, fairest gift is revealed to the view. 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 225 
 
 COME! 
 
 When God his wrathful stores called out 
 
 To whelm a world beneath the curse, 
 'Mid wild uproar and thundering shout 
 
 Of waters, Mercy whispered thus : 
 " Come thou, until the overflow 
 
 Of this, mine anger, passeth by : " 
 Secure, Noah tarried, till the bow, 
 
 Her beauteous token, spanned the sky. 
 
 And when again the cry went up 
 
 From earth, accusing to the throne ; 
 And guilty man had filled his cup, 
 
 And Sodom must be overthrown : 
 " Come ye, my people ! " in that hour 
 
 The voice of kind alarum rung ; 
 And Heaven delayed the burning shower, 
 
 And round its own its mantle flung. 
 
 In latter time, Redemption's plan, 
 
 Conceived ere worlds in space were hung, 
 
 Unfolded, and the Son of Man 
 Sojourned a ruined race among : 
 15 
 
226 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 And still the Incarnate Teacher cried, 
 
 " Come, thirsty, come ! and thirst ye never; 1 
 
 And till in pangs he bowed and died, 
 He bade men come and live for ever. 
 
 Now speaketh out Jehovah's love, 
 
 In tones to chide, entreat, alarm ; 
 He bids the wounded Come, and prove 
 
 How kind is Gilead's healing balm. 
 Of all the injured law reveals, 
 
 Or gospel woes, is this the sum : 
 Jesus for sin a pardon seals, 
 
 The Spirit and the Bride say, Come ! 
 
 THE YEAR 
 
 Thou unknown fragment of that scroll 
 Whose signet was ere Time began ; 
 
 Ocean, whose waves were wont to roll 
 Ere God from nothing fashioned man, — 
 
 Whence art thou, evanescent Year ? 
 
 Atom ! declare, what dost thou here ? 
 
 Is it, perchance, to mock awhile 
 
 With added moments, life's poor day ? 
 
 With cheating vision to beguile 
 
 Man that appears and hastes away ? 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 227 
 
 Deceitful tide ! thy meteor wave 
 Buoys him, yet bears him to his grave. 
 
 Wilt thou not, like the other years 
 
 That were before thee, disappear ? 
 Why com'st thou with thy dreams and tears, 
 
 Thy burdens, melancholy Year ? 
 'T is fit thou too shouldst come and go, 
 For nought unchanging is below. 
 
 'T is fit that all should fade and die ; 
 
 Yea, Ruin's voice shall shake the spheres : 
 The yellow leaf that sails on high, 
 
 The weary date of days and years, 
 Alike pass on and are forgot ; 
 Once here, but now remembered not. 
 
 And let them pass ; for what but dust 
 Are wheeling worlds, and what are we ? 
 
 Creatures, from frailty formed at first, 
 Yet linked to an eternity : 
 
 When ruined worlds on worlds shall roll 
 
 Then lives the disembodied soul. 
 
228 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 YE DEAD ! 
 
 Ye Dead ! ye Dead ! your rest is sweet, 
 
 From dreamy trouble free ; 
 The laboring heart forgets to beat 
 
 Beneath the alder-tree : 
 Oh ! gladly, 'neath the grassy turf 
 
 The care-worn would recline ; 
 Or 'neath the wave where fairy hands 
 
 Bedeck the lowly shrine. 
 Ye Dead ! ye Dead ! he comes ! he comes ! 
 
 And he that woke to weep 
 Shall bosom every secret ill 
 
 Where ye long vigils keep. 
 
 Ye solitary relics, pent 
 
 In earth, to earth a prey ; 
 Ye voiceless lips, how eloquent 
 
 To me is your decay ! 
 Oh ! sweet the consecrated soil, 
 
 Where pilgrims cease to roam, 
 Where fainting mortals end their toil, 
 
 And misery finds a home ; 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 229 
 
 And sweet the couch where coral wreaths, 
 
 Deep in the surging brine, 
 In ocean's dark unfathomed caves, 
 
 The sleeping dust entwine. 
 
 Unwept, they sank to lasting sleep, 
 
 When tempests rode the cloud ; 
 Or when the night-star paled the deep, 
 
 The deep became their shroud. 
 Think not for those who press that bed 
 
 No seemly knell is rung ; 
 Think not no rites embalm the dead, 
 
 Nor holy hymn is sung. 
 Heard ye not on the midnight wave, 
 
 "When whispered anthems stole ? 
 'T was o'er the sea-boy's early grave, 
 
 A requiem for his soul. 
 
 Dear to the shipwrecked is the. port 
 
 Where, on a stormless sea, 
 His barque rides safe from every gale, 
 
 From shoals and quicksands free. 
 Dear to the wanderer is the star 
 
 That points his doubtful way, 
 That cheers and guides him when afar 
 
 His faltering footsteps stray. 
 
230 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 And dear the hour when I this head 
 
 May pillow on its rest, 
 When I, amid the thronging dead, 
 
 Shall be a welcome guest. 
 Oh ! dear to me that last repose, 
 
 Where I this wasting form 
 May shelter 'neath the opening rose, 
 
 That knows no wintry storm. 
 
 CHILDREN'S HYMN FOE THE FOURTH 
 OF JULY. 
 
 O Saviour ! were thine arms of love 
 Around Judea's children thrown, 
 
 When thou didst say that such above 
 Thou wouldst before thy Father own ? 
 
 Then we, to seek thy face to-day, 
 
 In simple confidence will come ; 
 And where thy chosen offspring stay, 
 
 The Gentile, too, shall find a home. 
 
 Are not the world's rebukings stilled, 
 As infant lips their warblings raise, 
 
 And Heaven its promise sees fulfilled, 
 That thou from babes wilt perfect praise ? 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 231 
 
 Then we will join the noble strain, 
 
 Heard first when stars their courses trod ; 
 
 And later, on the Shepherd's plain, 
 Of Peace to Man, and Praise to God. 
 
 Oh ! let this hour, the thundering drum 
 Proclaim the triumphs of the Free ; 
 
 We '11 sing, away from tumult's hum, 
 The peace that purely flows from thee. 
 
 From Thee, who ledst our fathers' bands, 
 And taught their arms the fight to win. 
 
 Give victory to the children's hands ; 
 Now break for them the chains of sin ! 
 
 And send thy light and send thy power 
 And love, the waking world abroad, 
 
 Till earth resembles Eden's bower, — 
 A second garden of the Lord. 
 
— # 
 
 232 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 TO THE UNITED STATES. 
 
 " I was once in hopes that my own country would precede Tunis 
 and Algiers in abolishing slavery, and carrying out free principles ; 
 but it appears they are in advance of the United States in this par- 
 ticular." 
 
 Now veil your " stars and stripes," and show 
 
 O'er mountain-peak and plain, 
 And where your ships of thunder go, 
 
 Your symbols — Whip and Chain. 
 
 For stars and stripes should only fly 
 O'er freemen's homes and graves ; 
 
 Your splendid flag 's a floating lie — 
 Land of three million slaves ! 
 
 And from your archives ever blot 
 
 The Christian nation's name ; 
 The Christian nation ? own it not, 
 
 Or own it to your shame. 
 
 For you have mocked all faith, and set — 
 
 To your enduring loss — 
 The Church beneath the Minaret, 
 
 The Crescent o'er the Cross. 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 233 
 
 And in the deadly war betwixt 
 
 The False and True, unpriced, 
 Have traitor turned, and scandal fixed 
 
 Upon the name of Christ. 
 
 Where poise the scales of equal link, 
 
 Is 't not some dreadful dream 
 To see the fabling Koran sink, 
 
 The Bible kick the beam ? 
 
 Barbaric dungeons Freedom's song 
 
 Send out, on fetid breath ; — 
 Your gales of paradise prolong 
 
 The captive's vail of death. 
 
 " There is a tide " — your " flood " has passed ; 
 The gem a Christian brow 
 Should wear, you 've madly from you cast — 
 The Moslem has it now. 
 
 Yes ! in the "World's contending race 
 
 For principle that 's free, 
 Your laggard foot has second place — 
 
 The first it cannot be. 
 
 The " second place ! " Oh, no ! the lust 
 
 Of gold has wrought your fall ; 
 Lead on, ye pagan nations ! first — 
 
 My country last of all ! 
 
234 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 THE EXILE. 
 
 An altar, in a foreign land, 
 
 The Hebrew worshipper may raise ; 
 And priest and viol, harp and band 
 
 Be gathered there in prayer and praise : 
 And glory — heaven-descended beam — 
 
 May wrap the place where buds the rod ; 
 The awful ark, itself, may seem 
 
 The dwelling of a present God. 
 
 In vain, in vain, I see him weep, 
 
 And hang his harp upon the trees ; 
 His hand of skill forgets to sweep 
 
 The strings to " Maschil " or" Degrees." 
 By that strange river, thought recalls 
 
 Siloa, and the blessed hours 
 Of prayer, within Moriah's walls ; 
 
 Of praise, beneath his Zion-towers. 
 
 For Israel is an Exile still. 
 
 How can the Exile render thanks, 
 Far from the city, temple, hill — 
 
 By Egypt's Nile, on Chebar's banks ? 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 235 
 
 Those wandering tribes, that fainting priest — 
 
 They are not Israel here; for them 
 No home is like the glorious East, 
 
 Iso city like Jerusalem. 
 
 The Christian worshipper, below, 
 
 An altar rears to faith above ; 
 And on it flames his zeal, and flow 
 
 Around it streams of hope and love. 
 And sometimes in ascending praise, 
 
 And sometimes in prevailing prayer, 
 Glory, most sweet and awful, plays 
 
 About him, as if God were there. 
 
 In vain, in vain, I see his tears, — 
 
 In Kedar's tents constrained to dwell — 
 What trials, toils, temptations, fears ! 
 
 The end ! the end! — oh ! who may tell ? 
 And e'en if rainbow-hope returns, 
 
 Thought climbs its arch, and seeks the gates 
 Within, where purer worship burns, 
 
 Where holier hymn the pilgrim waits. 
 
 For he is banished from his love ; 
 
 And he, an Exile, wanders long ; 
 And pants for sacrifice above, — 
 
 The Priest, the altar, joy and song. 
 
236 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 Yet shout, my soul, for prospects given, 
 A Saviour, Temple, Diadem; — 
 
 No home is like the glorious Heaven ; 
 No city like Jerusalem ! 
 
 THE SOUL RELEASED FROM FEEBLE 
 CLAY. 
 
 The soul, released from feeble clay, 
 Drinks at the fount of living day ; 
 She bathes in happiness above, 
 Inflamed with holy, quenchless love. 
 The pleasures that each sense refine, 
 Spring from the source of joy divine ; 
 Their zest, fruition ne'er can pall ; 
 'T is lasting as the all in all. 
 
 Come then, O pleasing, awful hour ! 
 That frees me from each slavish power. 
 Thou Comforter ! calm every fear. 
 Saviour ! wipe every trembling tear. 
 Some sister angel hover nigh, 
 Compose my couch, receive the sigh, 
 And sweetly whispering, Soul ! be free — 
 Bear me away, my God ! to Thee. 
 
POETRY OF LITE. 237 
 
 OPIUM.* 
 
 Pause not here, ye generous men ! 
 
 One is vanquished ; yet the foe, 
 Hydra-headed, lives again ; 
 
 Deal again the righteous blow. 
 
 Though a thousand Stills are dumb, 
 Though ten thousand are reclaimed, 
 
 Though the advocate of Rum 
 
 Slinks from truth, convinced, ashamed, • 
 
 Though the weeping, joyful wife 
 To her woman's love has prest 
 
 Him, the dead, restored to life, 
 
 Though the poor man's home is blest, — 
 
 Though around the rich man's board 
 Tempting cups no longer shine, 
 
 Whence in ceaseless streams is poured 
 Sparkling and deceiving wine, — 
 
 * At a recent medical temperance meeting held in New York, a 
 physician presented statistics, by which it appears, that there are at 
 least between 3,000 and 5,000 persons in the city of New York, who 
 habitually use Opium in substance, or some of its preparations. — New 
 York Evangelist. 
 
238 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 Yet the labor is not done ; 
 
 Up ! and toil, and pray, and plan. 
 From the regions of the sun, 
 
 From the wily Musselman, 
 
 Comes the deleterious drug, 
 Subtler than the Upas tree ; 
 
 Deadlier than the murderous Thug, * 
 Famine, Fire, and Slaughter be. 
 
 Shall we entertain the thief, 
 That beguiles us with a dream, 
 
 Causing earth's retreat of grief 
 Folly's paradise to seem ? 
 
 To our fireside joys admit 
 
 One that surely poisons bliss ? 
 
 Clasp a serpent of the pit, 
 
 Feel his sting and hear his hiss ? 
 
 We, of many a glorious hill, 
 
 Sacred valley, stream, and plain, 
 
 Meekly own a Master's will, 
 Who the Ottoman has slain ? 
 
 * Thugs, a tribe of murderers lately discovered in India. 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 239 
 
 We, of that delivered land, 
 
 Which for Temperance rose as one, 
 
 When her millions took in hand 
 Effort, and the work was done ? 
 
 Let the heathen teach us ! let 
 
 Patriotic, fearless Lrx * 
 Show us how by man is met 
 
 Man-destroying, fatal sin. 
 
 See his nation vexed and sold 
 
 By the followers of Christ ! f 
 Mind, the dupe of British gold, $ 
 
 Mind, unpurchased and unpriced, 
 
 * A noble-minded pagan, who has labored to banish this destroyer 
 from his country. 
 
 t " Why do Christians bring us opium, and bring it directly in 
 defiance of our laws ? That vile drug has poisoned my son, ruined 
 my brother, and well nigh led me to beggar my wife and children. 
 You cannot wish me well — your religion cannot be better than mine. 
 Go first and persuade your own countrymen to relinquish this nefa- 
 rious traffic, and then I will listen to your instructions on the subject 
 of Christianity. 1 ' — Remonstrance of a Chinese. 
 
 t " The opium-trade is the child of the East India Company's adop- 
 tion. They have employed all the resources of science, wealth, and 
 unlimited power, to force it to its present height ; and they have pros- 
 tituted the means of government to an unlawful end." 
 
240 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 Shall not always lie in shame ; 
 
 Mind — below base matter trod — 
 Will at length assert its claim ; 
 
 Mind alone proceeds from God. 
 
 China from her slumber wakes ! — 
 British Christians freely scoff; — 
 
 China, strong in virtue, breaks 
 Hell's infernal fetter off. 
 
 Which the " Christian " nation ? — say ; 
 
 She that shackles gives for gain, 
 Or the land that doth obey 
 
 Virtue's call to snap the chain ? 
 
 Sound the trumpet ! sound alarm ! 
 
 Who, that dug his tyrant's grave, 
 Will, subdued by sensual charm, 
 
 Be another's viler slave ! 
 
 acts m. 
 
 He lay beside the temple's gate, 
 Beside the Beautiful he lay, 
 
 The lame man, for an alms to wait 
 From those who passed that way. 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 241 
 
 Gold to his need was given, yet vain 
 
 It was he looked for healing aid ; 
 And still the morning saw again 
 
 Him at that portal laid. 
 
 Till the Apostles thither came ; 
 
 And wherefore came these bold ones there ? 
 To seek, in the Redeemer's name, 
 
 The fellowship of prayer. 
 
 " Rise up and walk ! " they said ; and, healed, 
 The lame man leaped and walked abroad ; 
 For in that mandate was revealed 
 Power from the Son of God. 
 
 Thus have I lain, and, at the door, 
 Thus asked vain alms of all beside : 
 
 Repenting, I '11 His aid implore, 
 Who for my sin hath died. 
 
 And oh ! upon my waiting ear, 
 What mellow music seems to roll ? 
 
 My spirit, whither flies thy fear, 
 When Jesus says, " Be whole !" 
 
 16 
 
242 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 MERCY AND WRATH. 
 
 " Shouldst thou behold my face, the sight 
 Thy mortal sense could not sustain ; 
 My Mercy, terrible and bright, 
 
 Destroys him who the view would gain." 
 
 So spake to wondering Moses, God, 
 
 On Sinai's pinnacle of flame ; 
 When Deity its precincts trod, 
 
 When thunders told Jehovah's Name. 
 
 And can you, Sinner, hope to bear 
 The eyes that look creation through, 
 
 When, borne on judgment-clouds in air, 
 He turns those eyes of wrath on you ? 
 
 Go, seek the Cross ! and crucify 
 The pride that curses rebel men ; 
 
 That when " He comes with clouds," your eye 
 May meet His gaze of mercy then. 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 243 
 
 HYMN ON PUEITY. 
 
 Oh, glorious Thou ! thy throne of power 
 Could not remain one single hour, 
 Were not its deep foundations laid 
 On laws of holiness, obeyed. 
 
 The heavens that look upon this globe, 
 The stars that glitter on their robe, 
 Yea, the battalions, blest and bright, 
 Of God, are spotted in his sight. 
 
 What, then, is man, who drinks up sin ? 
 All stains without, all wounds within — 
 Whose guilt embitters every stream 
 That, as it shines, should blessings beam. 
 
 Oh ! from the tree that shadows heaven, 
 Let some benignant branch be given ; — 
 At Marah be again revealed, 
 And, Lord ! the fountain shall be healed. 
 
244 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 THE ELEVENTH HOUR. 
 
 ILLUSTRATING A PICTURE OF A DEATHBED. 
 
 Was it that I shunned repose, 
 
 Sat up late, and early rose, 
 
 Ate the bread of carefulness, 
 
 And denied rny soul each good 
 
 With which Heaven is wont to bless, — 
 
 In my raiment, in my food, 
 
 In my labors, in my pleasures, 
 
 Studying to increase my treasures ; 
 
 Stranger unto pleasant mirth, 
 
 Stranger unto all that earth 
 
 Deems most innocent, that I 
 
 Must o'er disappointment sigh ? 
 
 Why did boundless Fancy wander — 
 
 Why did halcyon Hope beyond her- 
 
 Go, in hourly dreams of gold ? 
 
 Was it that I might be sold 
 
 Unto keen Remorse — the sting, 
 
 Never-dying, of the heart, 
 
 In which Grace hath never part ! 
 
 Far beyond the enchanting cup 
 
 That gay Pleasure mixes up — 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 245 
 
 Far beyond Ambition's bliss, 
 Purchased from a world like this, — 
 By the lost in folly's whirl, 
 "Who for baubles gives the pearl 
 Of the never-sated spirit — 
 Yes, beyond all, to inherit 
 Bliss, I thought was surely mine, 
 When I knelt at Mammon's shrine, 
 And with still, mysterious stealth, 
 Gazed upon the heaped-up wealth — 
 Gloated on the golden pile 
 "With a stern and secret smile. 
 Mighty were my schemings ; then 
 "Was I mightiest of men. 
 Promising my morning : soon 
 Came a cloud, and at my noon 
 Fate was in conspiracy 
 To shroud o'er my evening sky. 
 Quickly was I called away 
 From those visions of delight, 
 To behold their dire decay, 
 To behold the winter's blight 
 Seizing on my blossom ; — God ! 
 Thou didst hold an angry rod. 
 Well I knew thy power was such, 
 Joy comes springing at thy touch ; 
 Well I knew thou couldst destroy, 
 When I saw my smitten hoy ! 
 
246 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 Hovering o'er my dying bed 
 
 Ghosts of murdered moments stand ; 
 
 Every soothing angel fled ; 
 
 Who will chase the hateful band ! 
 
 Thou that minist'rest to care, 
 
 Temporal — canst thou hush despair ? 
 
 Thou, that heal'st the body's pain, 
 
 Canst thou charm back peace again ? 
 
 Thou, that holy text doth bring, • 
 
 Canst thou stop the spirit's wing ! 
 
 All that can the soul concern, 
 
 Of that onward, dread eterne — 
 
 All that can harass, alarm, 
 
 All that may death's sting disarm, 
 
 All that God to man hath given 
 
 Of the unrevealed heaven ; 
 
 All of earth's deceiving schemes, 
 
 All that realizes dreams 
 
 Of infernal horror — all 
 
 Of that unnamed, bitter thrall — 
 
 Memory wakened, conscience smarting, 
 
 All that waits the mind, departing 
 
 To the mind's appalling doom, 
 
 To its ever-living tomb, — 
 
 All of wasted life that 's past, 
 
 All the future, at the last 
 
 Gathering in a fearful might, — 
 
 All of everlasting night, 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 247 
 
 All of tortured body's ill, 
 
 All of unsubdued will, 
 
 All that was and is to be, 
 
 All of vast Eternity, 
 
 With an overwhelming power, 
 
 Crowded in the eleventh hour ! 
 
 WHICH ? 
 
 The sinner says : " Let Evil rule ; " 
 
 Nor doth his heart rebel 
 To see the Devil's purpose done 
 
 On earth, as done in hell. 
 
 The Christian prays : " Let God prevail ; 
 
 To Him be honor given ; 
 And be His perfect will obeyed 
 
 On earth, as 't is in heaven." 
 
 One of these prayers, O man ! is thine ; 
 
 Thy body to tliQ sod — 
 Sink, Spirit ! to thy downward choice, 
 
 Or upward rise to God ! 
 
248 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 HYMN 
 
 WRITTEN FOR A DEDICATION. 
 
 What title write ye, Builders, 
 
 Upon this labor done ? 
 And whose these walls of beauty, 
 
 With shaft that seeks the sun ? 
 Why cluster Age and Manhood, 
 
 And meek-eyed Woman here ? — 
 They, with their smiles and praises ; 
 
 She, with the silent tear ? 
 
 These comely walls are Zion's, 
 
 Whence Zion's banners wave ; 
 This arrowy shaft is Freedom's, 
 
 A symbol for the Slave. 
 And these, the fair, free altars 
 
 Man-stealers may not touch, 
 Nor he that holds in bondage, — 
 
 We rear them not for such. 
 
 Nor in Baptismal waters, 
 
 Nor at the Eucharist, 
 Hath part the foaming wine-cup's 
 
 Forlorn apologist. 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 249 
 
 For Freedom, Temperance, Virtue, 
 
 For God — we struck the spade ; 
 
 " Grace ! " " Grace ! " we shout unto it, 
 
 The copestone Grace hath laid. 
 
 Faith wings the supplication, 
 
 O Paraclete ! the Dove ! 
 That thou upon our labor 
 
 Wilt seal Thy name of Love. 
 We — fervently replying — 
 
 In lines of living fire, 
 Write, "Holiness to Heaven !" 
 
 From corner-stone to spire. 
 
 So shall these walls of beauty, 
 
 With shaft that seeks the sun, 
 Be place of earnest worship, 
 
 Till earthly worship's done. 
 And now, come to thy Temple, 
 
 And fold us with thy wing, 
 And praises, Lord ! Salvator ! 
 
 Shall leap from heart and string. 
 
250 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 THE MANIAC. 
 
 Those eyes that beam with morning light, 
 And all the heaven within declare, 
 
 May set ere long in starless night, 
 Or kindle with demoniac glare. 
 
 The thrilling voice, oft heard to bless, 
 "Whose accents memory would prolong, 
 
 May tell the story of distress, 
 Or warble sorrow's broken song. 
 
 That heart where feeling holds its throne, 
 Which fondly beats to love and me, 
 
 Cold as the unsunned marble stone, 
 May lie in frigid apathy. 
 
 Lord of all good ! thy fiat spake 
 To birth the blessings that I have ; 
 
 Lord of all worlds ! 't is thou canst take 
 Again the boon that mercy gave : 
 
 Take all, but hear my earnest prayer, 
 'T is breathed in tears, reject it not, — 
 
 Take all — but let me never share 
 The hopeless, soulless Maniac's lot ! 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 251 
 
 TO WHOM SHALL WE GO BUT TO THEE? 
 
 When rankling sorrows wound the soul, 
 
 And cares invade the breast, 
 And distant seems the blissful goal 
 
 Of peace and lasting rest, — 
 
 Where shall the mourning wanderer go, 
 
 And where the sufferer fly ? 
 What balm can heal his bosom's woe, 
 
 Whose hand his tears can dry ? 
 
 Say, shall he seek in empty fame 
 
 A cure for bitter care ? 
 Can echoed praise or honor's name 
 
 Beguile the soul's despair ? 
 
 Will grandeur, with its dazzling lure, 
 
 Bestow a kind relief ; 
 Can pageant pomp and pride ensure 
 
 A medicine for grief *? 
 
 Doth pleasure with bewitching guile, 
 
 Invite him to her arms ? 
 Too soon he finds the glance and smile 
 
 Are but deceitful charms. 
 
252 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 Where shall the mourning wanderer go, 
 Oh ! where the sufferer fly ? 
 
 What balm can heal his bosom's woe, 
 Whose hand his tears can dry ? 
 
 Blest Saviour ! 't is alone to Thee, 
 He flies with anguish prest; 
 
 And thou the captive soul wilt free, 
 And give the weary rest. 
 
 NO REST. 
 
 " No Rest shall be to guilty man ! " 
 
 From Eden thundered thus the Lord. 
 And on its bowers He cast the ban, 
 And planted o'er its gates the sword. 
 
 No Rest the hapless wanderer found, 
 And none has found of Adam born ; 
 
 Where'er he toils is rugged ground, 
 Where'er he rests is felt the thorn. 
 
 No Rest from disappointment's pang, 
 No Rest in full fruition's arms, — 
 
 No Rest for mustering passion's clang, 
 From folly's trump and sin's alarms. 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 253 
 
 No Rest from weary wasting pains. 
 
 The failing body breeds decay ; 
 And Nature of herself complains, 
 
 And longs for wings to soar away. 
 
 No Rest from the devouring grave ; — 
 There 'a dust on many a lordly brow ; 
 
 How trite, that " naught from death can save" — 
 That " youth and age and strength must bow ! " 
 
 If thus Earth's offerer sadly feels 
 
 The ground uncertain 'neath his feet, 
 
 And these false altars where he kneels 
 Can give from sorrow no retreat ; 
 
 How may the world, Christian ! yield 
 
 A cordial for thy wounded breast, 
 Or interpose effectual shield 
 
 Between thyself and cares, unblest ? 
 
 From these thou mayst deliverance find, 
 
 Deliverance that Religion gives ; 
 Yet here 's no Rest ('t is not unkind) 
 
 For him who to his Maker lives. 
 
 The moment thou didst take His yoke, 
 
 A laborer for thy Lord to be, — 
 His strong commandment to thee spoke : 
 
 " Arise ! no Rest is here for thee ! " 
 
254 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 No Rest to watching o'er thy sin ! 
 
 To slay pride, passion, ease, and lust, 
 Thou must each hour the fight begin ; 
 
 They droop, but do not bite the dust. 
 
 No Rest to persevering prayer ! 
 
 All night the patriarch strove with God, 
 And who would Israel's blessings share 
 
 Must tread the path that Jacob trod. 
 
 No Rest to toil for souls undone ! 
 
 Lo ! while thou faintest, millions die ; 
 Day hastens — work before thy sun 
 
 Rides downward to the evening sky. 
 
 No Rest to gain in holiness ! 
 
 We press through briers to the goal, 
 Yet once beyond life's wilderness, 
 
 And true perfection crowns the soul. 
 
 Lord God Almighty ! give Thy grace 
 To quicken every sluggish frame ; 
 
 In Heaven they nearest see Thy face 
 Who most on earth exalt Thy name. 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 255 
 
 BRITISH SEIZURE OF THE SAXDWICH 
 ISLAXDS. * 
 
 Great Britain ! down thy hungry gorge 
 Wouldst thou these lovely islands cram ? 
 
 Or refuge offers them Saint George, 
 As lion offers to the lamb ? 
 
 Wouldst take them in thy warm embrace, 
 And kindly stab them in the side, 
 
 As thou the glorious, abject race 
 Of Erin, smitest in thy pride ? 
 
 Or with vast India, grind to dust 
 
 These dots o'er which thy flag 's unfurled, 
 
 Yet more to make thy name of lust 
 Abhorred by an indignant world ? 
 
 TJiou art too late ! a higher crown 
 Hath thee forestalled, to certain loss, 
 
 And king and priesthood have lain down 
 Their soil and seas before the Cross. 
 
 * These verses are believed to be the expression of a feeling, uni- 
 versal in our land, when the tidings of this outrage broke upon us. 
 The disavowal and rectification of the wrong by the British Govern- 
 ment have since become matters of pleasanter history. 
 
256 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 A flag of fairer folds is flung 
 
 Than thine, o'er churches, courts, and schools ; 
 A nobler hymn by men is sung 
 
 Than hirelings rave of " Britain Rules ! " 
 
 On thy decrepit throne in vain 
 
 Thou, trembling, cursest wayward fates ; — 
 These islands are to Christ's domain 
 
 Thus won by the United States. 
 
 CHAPEL IN LIBERIA. 
 
 While a collection was making for the purpose of erecting a Chapel 
 
 in Liberia, which was also to serve for a school-house, little S , an 
 
 orphan girl, who had listened to the account of that colony, with the 
 deepest interest, came forward, and eagerly tendered her little box of 
 savings, saying, " Take it all." 
 
 Nay, take my gift, and spurn it not, 
 
 My heart obeys that call ; 
 Others may bring their gold, yet more 
 
 I offer — 't is my all. 
 
 My all — for sorrow gave to me 
 
 Early its bitter cup ; 
 My God ! I am an orphan child, 
 
 But thou wilt take me up. 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 257 
 
 Oh ! I do deem them brothers now, 
 
 Who have of misery known ; 
 And love as sisters those that weep 
 
 And feel like me, alone. 
 
 Alone, alone — the motherless, 
 
 Whom each one seems to shun ; 
 Cast out upon the cold wide world, 
 
 A solitary one. 
 
 Yet more I pity those that have 
 
 Mothers they ne'er may see ; 
 My mother went, but then I know 
 
 She is where angels be. 
 
 Arid while I call upon her name, 
 
 And weep where she doth lie, 
 Her lofty spirit-hymns are heard 
 
 Above the star-lit sky. 
 
 Then take my gift, and haste to build 
 
 To God a house of prayer, 
 For those whom cruel hands have made 
 
 The orphans of despair. 
 
 17 
 
258 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 THE LABORER'S TEMPERANCE HYMN. 
 
 Shall the bone and muscle, Heaven 
 
 Lent us — shall subduing skill 
 To an enemy be given ? 
 
 Shall the red wine triumph still ? 
 Each of us, around whose dwelling 
 
 Labor's ample blessings flow, 
 Feels his manly bosom swelling 
 
 With indignant answer, No ! 
 
 Shall the freedom falchions bought us, — 
 
 When our injured land rose up, 
 Which to cherish, Time has taught us, 
 
 Be surrendered to the cup ? 
 We — God bless them ! love the story 
 
 Of our fathers and the foe, 
 And we answer, by their glory, 
 
 And the boon they left us, No ! 
 
 Raging drink ! thou 'It not enslave us ; 
 
 Sparkling bowl ! thou now art dim ; 
 Angel Temperance stoops to save us 
 
 From the death within thy brim. 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 259 
 
 Save us I Yes, though we -were spell bound, 
 
 Fixed in very sight of woe, 
 Yet The Pledge shall free the hell-bound : — 
 
 Will we wear those shackles ? No ! 
 
 From the flood's o'erwhelming power, 
 
 We unto this ark have fled ; 
 Whence we gaze, in safety's hour, 
 
 On the dying and the dead. 
 Now, of God, earth's sons and daughters — 
 
 As on high he sets his bow — 
 Ask, if shall return those waters ? 
 
 And Jehovah answers, No ! 
 
 WHAT SHALL I DO IN HEAVEN ? 
 
 I 'm sick of all the busy strife 
 
 That vexeth now this clay ^ 
 The cumbrous garniture of life 
 
 I long to put away. 
 My journey done, how gladly I 
 
 These vestments, wove of pride, 
 These clinging lusts of heart and eye, 
 
 Would fling for aye aside. 
 Quickly unclothed, forsake the stage, 
 Ere these poor rags drop off by age. 
 
260 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 I long to take my eager flight 
 
 From this imperfect world, 
 To skies o'er which no cloud of night 
 
 Has ever yet been curled ; 
 Whose travellers compass all the plains, 
 
 And never meet a storm ; 
 Whose landscapes, winter winds nor rains, 
 
 Nor summer droughts deform. 
 Like a tired bird, upon my breast 
 To fold my wings, and be at rest. 
 
 No ! — like a laborer of his load 
 
 Relieved, to go or stay, 
 And humbly waiting, gracious God, 
 
 Thy pleasure to obey ; 
 And gained for this uncertain pace, 
 
 An angel's darting flame, 
 To traverse for Thee, realms of space, 
 
 Which numbers could not name. 
 Oh ! blest to labor or lie still, 
 And know I 'm doing all thy will 1 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 261 
 
 ROOM IN MOUNT AUBURN! 
 
 Room in Mount Auburn ! — for the traveller * Room ! 
 
 Who comes from pilgrimage to seek a tomb. 
 
 Where throng the wise, the gifted, holy dead, 
 
 The greatly wept for, he should lay his head ; 
 
 And the same spotless robe that winter throws 
 
 O'er these, should wrap him in a kind repose. 
 
 The same sweet warblings when the small birds grieve, 
 
 The same fair flowers that early May will weave, 
 
 Shall be for Mm ; — none nobler, purer, rest 
 
 Until the resurrection of the blest. 
 
 Room ! Room ! for him who, seeking distant Seine, 
 
 Discovered rivers fringed with heavenly green. 
 
 Who went for life and gained it — yielding breath, 
 
 Life, everlasting Life he found in Death. 
 
 * A young American clergyman, of great promise, went to Europe 
 in pursuit of health, and died at Paris. His remains were brought 
 home for interment in Mount Auburn. 
 
262 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 HYMN, 
 
 "Written for the Anniversary of a Sunday School Association. 
 
 Thee we heard not, when thy footsteps 
 
 Told, the Children's Friend was nigh ; 
 Thee we saw nof, when their shoutings 
 
 At thy presence rent the sky. 
 Yet beyond those Hebrew warblers 
 
 We of Gentile race are blest ; 
 Short with them thy tarrying — with us 
 
 Thou hast taken up thy rest. 
 
 " Taken up thy rest " — Redeemer ! 
 
 Yes, though not on Jewish ground ; 
 Here the youthful heart may find thee, 
 
 If that heart is contrite found. 
 And though thunder not " hosannas" 
 
 Where thy foot our street has trod, 
 Yet we feel in hymns of worship 
 
 Thy sweet presence, Son of God. 
 
 Thou didst never, while Incarnate, 
 
 Take us in thine arms of love, 
 Saying, with thy lips of mercy, 
 
 " Such compose my realm above : " 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 263 
 
 Yet thy children if accepted, 
 
 We redeemed and crowned shall be ; 
 
 And with those shall find protection, 
 Who are folded, Lord, by Thee. 
 
 SOFT ARE THE SLUMBERS OF THE SUN- 
 LESS TOMB. 
 
 " Man lieth down and riseth not again till the heavens be no more." 
 
 Job. 
 
 Soft are the slumbers of the sunless tomb ; 
 
 Quiet dwells there — its inmate brooding peace. 
 The still inhabitant heeds not the gloom 
 Of night, nor starts when morn awakes in bloom, 
 
 The wanderer rests, and cares and sorrows cease. 
 Yet shall these forms for ever pillow there ? 
 Shall dust to dust its lasting kin compare ? 
 
 O Thou Unseen ! shall thy creation sleep, 
 Mingled with earth, and dark corruption share, 
 
 Where Silence, drear, and Death, their vigils keep ? 
 We bless thee for the cheering hope revealed, 
 
 Where Inspiration sheds its living ray, 
 Which, quickening vision, shows the grave unsealed, 
 
 Its slumberers waking to Eternal Day. 
 
264 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 VERSES AT MACHIAS. 
 
 AFTER ATTENDING THE MAINE CONFERENCE OF 
 CHURCHES. 
 
 I've journeyed o'er thy noble hills, O Maine ! 
 And seen their torrents leaping, wildly free ; 
 And threaded lovely vale, and trod the plain, 
 Where hastes the shining river to the sea. 
 
 " 'T is beautiful ! * I said — and joyful prayer 
 For blessings on thee rose, that I could look 
 On lessons written out so wondrous fair, 
 For my instruction, in the Maker's book. 
 
 Yet not the noble hill, nor torrent free, 
 Nor fairy vale, nor plain, whose shining flood 
 Hastens unto its lover, the great sea — 
 Reveals to me so much a present God, 
 
 As doth the quiet lesson, taught by this 
 Communion of the hearts that grace hath knit, 
 The while I read, imparting solemn bliss, 
 Which, if not Heaven, doth much resemble it ; 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 265 
 
 And well instructs me, that though pilgrims may 
 Seem separate in the path that leads above, 
 Yet ever, in that sole and narrow way 
 Where Christians walk, they walk in Christian 
 Love. 
 
 DEATH AT THE MIRROR. 
 
 The case of a young and beautiful lady is mentioned, who, while 
 arraying herself before the mirror, for her bridal, was struck with 
 death. 
 
 O Death ! 't is thine to choose 
 Strange time to execute the stern decree ; 
 As if provoked that mortals still refuse, 
 In their forgetfulness, to learn of thee. 
 
 Not only youth thy dart 
 Searches with silent and unerring aim, 
 
 But at the moment when the warm, full heart 
 Nourishes hope, and joy's delicious flame, 
 
 Thou layest the beauty low. 
 And then, in mockery of all that 's fair, 
 
 Dost bid us gaze, and see what empty show, 
 What dust and ashes our fond idols are ! 
 
♦ — ♦ 
 
 266 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 EVERTS. 
 
 Every sorrow here, 
 
 That from evil seems to rise, 
 
 If it start contrition's tear, 
 
 Is a blessing in disguise. 
 
 Every friend that grieves, 
 
 By frail insincerity, 
 
 Teacheth of a Friend that leaves 
 
 Never, but still helpeth me. 
 
 Every vexing stealth 
 
 Fortune maketh of my goods, 
 
 Only bids me store my wealth 
 
 Where no cunning thief intrudes. 
 
 Every babe to dust 
 
 Given with reluctant pain, 
 
 Is but my Redeemer's trust, 
 
 Which he will restore again. 
 
 Every pang that gnaws 
 
 Fiercely this poor frame of mine, 
 
 If but sanctified, me draws 
 
 Nearer to the bliss divine. 
 4-, <> 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 267 
 
 Every little sand 
 
 Loosened by this stormy strife, 
 Tells me of a better land, 
 
 And of an unreckoned life. 
 
 Every living thing 
 
 Or of teeming earth or flood, — 
 Creeping, walking, on the wing — 
 
 Is a teacher of my God. 
 
 i 
 
 Every star that burns 
 
 On night's diadem, 
 If it thought to Jesus turns — 
 
 Is a star of Bethlehem. 
 
 THE BEARING OF THE CROSS. 
 
 And after they had mocked him, they took the robe off from him, 
 and put his own raiment on him ; — and he, bearing his cross, went 
 forth.— The Gospel. 
 
 Curses rang out as they his thrall 
 
 Beheld, and proud lips curled, 
 When bowed within that marble hall, 
 
 The Saviour of the world ; 
 
268 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 When the fell glance of hell he met 
 
 With unreproving eye ; 
 And for reproach, implored yet 
 
 Forgiveness from on high. 
 
 More to be worshipped in his grief 
 
 And meekness, there alone, 
 On that stern floor, than loftiest chief 
 
 That reared or razed a throne. 
 More to be loved, the Sinless then 
 
 In his agony and cries, 
 Bruised by the Father's hand, than when 
 
 He curtained out the skies. 
 
 He bore the scoff and maddening shout ; 
 
 The wormwood was not there ; 
 But in the wrath that hung about, 
 
 And the silence for his prayer. 
 *T was not the anguish of the tree 
 
 That crushed the God within ; 
 But the withering frown of Deity, 
 
 The malison for sin. 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 269 
 
 VIEWS IN PORTLAND. 
 
 The monument over the tomb of Edward Payson, having been over- 
 thrown and broken by some ruthless hand, still remains mutilated 
 and unsightly. The church edifice in which he ministered has been 
 expensively and beautifully modernized and improved. 
 
 I looked, admiring, at her proud Exchange ; 
 
 Gazed on her harbor, dotted with green isles ; 
 And, where old hills in the horizon range, 
 
 Saw frolic Nature wreathe her frowns and smiles ; 
 And blest my God that earth, of much bereft, 
 Has much of Eden for his creatures left. 
 
 Then sought I what, beyond her domes and hills 
 And fairy isles, of rarer sight I deem — 
 
 His resting-place whose sainted image fills 
 All that of perfect we (imperfect) dream; — 
 
 And sighed that marble, marred, still points the eye 
 
 To his low bed whose " Record is on high." 
 
 Should not this tablet — transcript of the man — 
 By skill and taste and beauty be imprest, 
 
 The true expression of a faultless plan 
 
 On which the heart, well satisfied, may rest ; 
 
 And to which all may say as — his goal won — 
 
 God said to Payson : " Good and True ! well done " ? 
 
270 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 Dwellers of Casco ! that enduring name 
 
 Is linked with yours ; and you possess his dust 
 
 Who felt the ardor of his spirit's flame ; — 
 Guard, as becomes ye, well, the awful trust. 
 
 This, if your proverty may not assume, 
 
 Spare from the shrine, and give a decent tomb. 
 
 ENCHANTED GROUND. 
 
 Christian. — " Do you not remember that one of the Shepherds 
 bid us beware of the Enchanted Ground ? " — Pilgrim's Progress. 
 
 We, travellers, find our homeward way 
 
 By many a subtle foe beset ; 
 We war with sin, and many a fray 
 
 Must prove our trusty armor yet. 
 Snares, trials, combats, as we go, 
 
 We yet shall find, as we have found ; 
 And these to us will surely show 
 
 We still are on Enchanted Ground. 
 
 Vexed with ourselves, how often we 
 O'er indecision grieve, and sloth ! — 
 
 To Earth and Heaven we bow the knee, 
 Yet feel we cannot worship both. 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 271 
 
 We haste to duty ; then go back, 
 
 Again to follow Pleasure's round ; 
 And, with the thousands in her track, 
 
 Discern we 're on Enchanted Ground. 
 
 How bright the perfect pattern given 
 
 By Him who marked the narrow way ! 
 May we not, creeping thus to Heaven, 
 
 Walk as he walked ? — we know we may. 
 And lo ! we leap — we run — we fly — 
 
 We proudly spurn earth's scanty bound — 
 Till, weary, falling from the sky, 
 
 We kiss once more Enchanted Ground. 
 
 A follower of the Cross behold — 
 
 A young disciple pressing on ; 
 How zealous, active, cheerful, bold ! 
 
 The " shining light " is almost won. 
 But slumbering sins awake ; — a host 
 
 Comes up with hostile show and sound ; 
 Alas ! is lovely Beulah's coast 
 
 Approached through this Enchanted Ground ? 
 
 Our Church, so lately shadowed o'er 
 With wings of the Eternal Dove, — 
 
 So rich in faith, yet asking more ; 
 So honored, yet so full of love ; 
 
272 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 Our Church, that on her way erect, 
 All-glorious moved, to Zion bound — 
 
 Why droops the Church we deemed elect ? 
 Our Church is on Enchanted Ground. 
 
 The Sunday School — that little flock, 
 
 Feeble or strong, as is the Church — 
 Once could the accuser's malice mock ; 
 
 Once fearless ask the faithful search ; 
 Why is this precious fold unsafe ? 
 
 Why is the wolf within it found ? 
 O teacher ! ne'er at conscience chafe, 
 
 That says, thou 'rt on Enchanted Ground. 
 
 The frequent season of delight, 
 
 When saints looked up for promised aid ; 
 Or when, in watches of the night, 
 
 Each in his secret Bethel prayed ; 
 The place where once those mothers met, 
 
 And blessings for their children found ; 
 Why, dreaming, do ye these forget ? 
 
 Be warned ! ye 're on Enchanted Ground. 
 
 O minister of Jesus ! thou 
 
 Whose privilege it is to lead 
 The thirsty where sweet waters flow, 
 
 The hungry with true bread to feed — 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 273 
 
 Should now thy hands drop helpless down, 
 Because no Hur nor Aaron 's found ? 
 
 " Play thou the man," and win thy crown, 
 Nor halt on this Enchanted Ground. 
 
 Myself ! — where marchest thou to-day ? 
 
 Myself ! — art thou as firm for God, 
 As when, years past, this pilgrim way 
 
 Thy eager steps delighted trod ? 
 Is prayer as fervent, faith as strong ? 
 
 Dost thou in labors, blest, abound ? 
 To travellers true dost thou belong ? 
 
 Or art thou on Enchanted Ground, 
 
 Delaying, trifling, sleeping ? Wake ! 
 
 Wake ! for the shadows of the night 
 Are stealing on thee ; — rest forsake ; 
 
 O sworded one ! be up for fight. 
 There 's not a few that sleep or stray ; 
 
 Yet he who 's wakeful, watchful found, 
 Will walk in light, although his way 
 
 Lies through this dark Enchanted Ground. 
 
 18 
 
274 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 APPEAL 
 
 FROM BIBLE COUNTRIES TO THE AMERICAN 
 SUNDAY SCHOOL UNION. 
 
 Thirty thousand dollars might be employed at this moment, in 
 translating and putting into circulation an assortment of the unex- 
 ceptionable, evangelical, and attractive books of the American Sunday 
 School Union, among thousands of readers who now inhabit the very 
 land which was once traversed by prophets, apostles, and martyrs. 
 Rev. Mr. Brewer, of the Smyrna Mission. 
 
 A voice to thee ! — to thee, whose noble aim 
 
 It is to nurture Childhood for the skies ; — 
 
 A voice from the Levant ! it strongly cries 
 
 For instant help ; — the lands that lie in shame 
 
 Appeal to thee in the Redeemer's name. 
 
 Favored of Institutions ! whose blest root 
 
 Strikes deep, — whose boughs are redolent of fruit, — 
 
 Thou, like to the small mustard seed, from small 
 
 Beginnings sprang: — silent, yet surely grew 
 
 Thy stem in beauty ; — now, thou 'rt strong and tall, 
 
 In bloom luxuriant, and fruitful too. 
 
 On the Atlantic slope thou hast caused schools 
 
 To rise by thousands ; — Alleghany sees 
 
 Thy influence far beyond him. Knowledge rules 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 275 
 
 Where solitude once triumphed ; — humble knees 
 
 Are bowed on flowery prairies, and the voice 
 
 Of young hosannas makes the "West rejoice. 
 
 To the fair sunny South thy heralds go. 
 
 The sweetly winning books that simply speak, 
 
 In useful narrative, of weal and woe, 
 
 Companions of the young throughout the week, 
 
 Thou scatterest ; — the harvest who can know ! 
 
 Nor to these shores confined, thy light hath felt 
 
 Dark Hindostan. Responsive to her calls, 
 
 Thy page hath visited the Indian halls. 
 
 Hearts thou hast moved that long to idols knelt ; 
 
 Thou art already to the Brahmin known ; 
 
 Thou hast already reached the Rajah's throne. 
 
 Blest labors ! blest reward ! To thee is given 
 
 To see, most nobly prospering in thy hands, 
 
 God's work, — small faith thus shaming. Yet hath 
 
 Heaven 
 For thee more fields, and larger ; there are other lands ! 
 Oh ! look at length, upon the prophets' soil, 
 Where martyrs languished, and apostles trod, — 
 And with these pages, fruit of prayer and toil, 
 Bless climes where prayed, and toiled, and died the 
 
 Son of God! 
 
276 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 FILL UP! 
 
 A thousand warriors to the charge — 
 
 Bold-hearted men — have sprung ; 
 In thunders of the cannon's voice 
 
 Their passing dirge is sung : 
 And thousands more at call of drum 
 
 Are rushing on the foe ; 
 Fill up ! Fill up ! — like those they come ■ 
 
 Like those to slumber low. 
 
 They fall, and 't is a fading leaf 
 
 Earth gives unto her slain ; 
 They die, 't is in Fame's trumpet-song 
 
 Her heroes live again. 
 And such her glory ! — who has not 
 
 In bitterness of soul, 
 Mused on the mighty, now forgot, 
 
 Once blazoned on her scroll ? 
 
 Not such is your triumphant gain, 
 
 Ye followers of the cross ! 
 Compared with that which ye obtain, 
 
 The universe were loss : 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 277 
 
 Your leader is the Crucified, 
 
 Whose death was Death's defeat ; 
 
 And with him battling at your side, 
 Your victory 's complete. 
 
 Not such your banner-folds that wave 
 
 To endless life alone, 
 That float above the soldier's grave, 
 
 And flash upon his throne. 
 Yes, from the consecrated field 
 
 Where Christ's brave legions lie, 
 Is rising other monument 
 
 Of names that cannot die. 
 
 Then see, where press the vigorous siege, 
 
 Yon gallant, glorious few ; 
 They give their heart's-blood for their liege, 
 
 And straight are wrapt from view. 
 In Afric, China, and Bengal, 
 
 Their bones in waiting lie ; 
 ; Fill up our ranks ! " to us they call, 
 
 " Fill up I Fill up ! " we cry. 
 
278 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 A COLLOQUY OF BETHLEHEM. 
 
 H And lo the Star, which they saw in the East, went before them j 
 till it came and stood over where the young child was." — Matt. ii. 9. 
 
 O'er Bethlehem the beauteous Star, 
 Bright stranger ! sheds mysterious ray ; 
 
 It guides the traveller afar, 
 
 It cheers the wanderer's weary way. 
 
 First Shepherd. 
 O Shepherd ! whence the peerless gem 
 
 That burns alone on heaven's brow ? 
 Beams there Judea's diadem — 
 
 Returns a king or conqueror now ? 
 
 Second Shepherd. 
 No diadem for Judah burns ; 
 
 No regal sceptre for her kings ; 
 From spoil no conqueror returns, 
 
 No pageantry the herald brings ; — 
 
 It shines, the harbinger of peace, 
 Israel no more shall weep in blood ; 
 
 It bids dark superstition cease, 
 And leads the sinner to his God. 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 279 
 
 First and Second Shepherd. 
 Star of Redemption ! from thy sphere, 
 
 A herald Star — thou wanderest lone ; 
 Shine on our path, dispel our fear, 
 
 And guide us to the Lsf ant's throne. 
 
 GOD IS RIGHT. 
 
 " And we took all his cities at that time, and titterly destroyed the 
 men and the women, and the little ones in every city ; we left none to 
 remain."— Deut. ii. 34. 
 
 Thus saith the Lord, " The Heshbonite, 
 
 Thou, for my holy Name — 
 Sires, mothers, little ones, shalt smite, 
 
 And wrap his towers in flame." 
 
 Then thus sung Moses, " Glory ye 
 
 In his most holy Name ! 
 We smote sires, mothers, little ones, 
 
 And wrapt their towers in flame." 
 
 Thou murmurest, unsubmissive man ; 
 
 And Reason questions why, 
 In Heaven's exterminating plan, 
 
 The innocent should die. 
 
280 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 " Have these small pagans sin conceived 
 Within the hidden part ? 
 Die they because they 've not believed 
 With all the mind and heart ? 
 
 *T is well for the uncircumcised, 
 
 The heathen, in his thrall, 
 Who Israel's God alike despised, 
 
 And Israel, thus to fall. 
 
 But these — on quivering spears transfixed, 
 
 Imploringly to die, 
 Their blood with their pale mothers' mixed : 
 
 Is there a cause ? — and why ? 
 
 How can the Jewish manhood lift 
 
 O'er infancy, the sword, 
 Nor from the chaff the seedlings sift ? 
 
 Is this thy justice, Lord ? " 
 
 Vain fool ! and impudent as vain ! 
 
 Wouldst thou, of glow-worm light, 
 Transparent Rectitude arraign, 
 
 At thy tribunal's night ? 
 
 What though He flings around his feet 
 
 His darkness, like a pall ? 
 'T is seen by us, and thou mayst see 't — 
 
 Light crowns the Judge of all. 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 281 
 
 Subdue thyself to his control ; 
 
 To his decrees, thy wit, 
 Wisdom, and will, and sense, and soul, 
 
 In deepest dust, submit. 
 
 Submit? — prefer (for Reason 's blind) 
 
 The ways of God with man ; 
 Unriddled to the trusting mind, 
 
 Is His mysterious plan. 
 
 The sword that drank the stranger's blood, 
 
 And parents smote to hell, 
 Sharply, but kindly, sent with God 
 
 Their little ones to dwell ! 
 
 THE VALLEY OF HUMILIATION. 
 
 " This Valley of Humiliation is, of itself, as fruitful a place as any 
 the crow flies over." — Mb. Gbeatheart. 
 
 Yale of the Humble, worldlings say, 
 That, lurking in thy dark retreat, 
 
 Are ever-watchful beasts of prey, 
 And lions there and dragons meet. 
 
282 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 That in thy path Apollyon stands, 
 
 All eager, pilgrims to affront ; 
 And round him rally countless bands, 
 
 Thrice armed for Sin's infernal brunt. 
 
 Vale of the Humble, we behold 
 
 Yet oftener, on the heights of pride, 
 
 The foul Fiend's shining scales of gold, 
 Than in the lowly valley's side. 
 
 Here we 're exempt from noise and strife ; 
 
 Here heart with heart may freely talk ; 
 Here angels dwell ; the Lord of Life 
 
 In this retirement loves to walk. 
 
 'T is pleasant, where sweet waters spring, 
 And birds and flowers refresh the sight; 
 
 'T is safe, where waves the ample Wing 
 That shields the Humble, day and night. 
 
 Here then we '11 walk ; and if in wrath 
 Obstructing Death and Hell are seen, 
 
 Death's Death, Hell's Victor, clears the path ; 
 Vale of the Humble, fair and green ! 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 283 
 
 IS THERE A HEART. 
 
 Is there a heart on which thy own 
 May bosom in affliction's hour ? 
 
 Whose pulse, to selfishness unknown, 
 Beats quick with feeling's holy power ? 
 
 Is there a soul so nobly free, 
 
 'T would proudly love, though all beside 
 Had passed thee in adversity, 
 
 Wrapt in the mantle of their pride ? 
 
 Oh ! seize that heart ! for richer 't is 
 Than all that glittering dust can boast ; 
 
 Cherish it thou ! 't will yield a bliss 
 
 To cheer, when worlds on worlds are tost. 
 
 Though hard thy lot, Misfortune's son ! 
 
 A prey to ills — dare not repine ; 
 On thee Hope's beacon-light has shone, 
 
 If such a heart in truth be thine. 
 
284 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 LESSONS FROM A CANARY BIRD. 
 
 On Sabbath morning, soon after the commencement of the fore- 
 noon discourse, a beautiful canary bird made its appearance in the 
 church, and continued flying about during the forenoon and after- 
 noon services. The little songster would startle the audience with an 
 occasional chirp, as if in response to the eloquent passages of the 
 sermons. This pretty incident brought to our mind the thought, 
 that, if men were innocent and happy as this little winged visitor, they 
 would need no meetinghouses, no Gospel, and no Saviour.— Hart- 
 ford Patriot. 
 
 Perhaps it is an idle thought, 
 
 Yet if I could be free 
 From stain, nor needed to be bought 
 
 By blood, poured out for me, — 
 No house of prayer, no welcome news 
 
 Of pardon for my sin, — 
 Would I such state of being choose 
 
 To that I now am in ? 
 
 To see, without sweet Mercy's ray, 
 The Godhead shine but dim ; 
 
 Like Adam, when in " cool of day," 
 The Lord God talked with him ; 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 285 
 
 Nor know how in the cold dark heart 
 
 Love's flames leap up and live, 
 When Jesus bids despair depart, 
 
 And says, " I thee forgive ! " 
 
 Nor drop the sad, delicious tear 
 
 That from repentance springs ? 
 To hear of Calvary, as I hear 
 
 Of other common things ? 
 To see no blessed bounty spread 
 
 For me, a fainting guest — 
 No cheering wine, no living bread, 
 
 By my kind Master blest ? 
 
 To lose that bliss, not found in heaven, 
 
 That song no angel knows — 
 The secret bliss of sin forgiven, — 
 
 The happy song that flows, 
 When heart and hand and soul and voice 
 
 Essay each tuneful chord, 
 And earth seems hastening to rejoice, 
 
 And with me praise the Lord ? 
 
 To weep in Sorrow's bitter night, 
 
 As I am made to weep — 
 Nor deem that One, in robes of light, 
 
 Doth with me vigils keep ? 
 
286 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 To lay in death my aching head, 
 
 With no assurance there, 
 That Jesus makes such dying bed 
 
 His own peculiar care ? 
 
 To wear, above, a harp and crown, 
 
 And never thanks repeat ? 
 Yea, never, never cast them down 
 
 At my Redeemer's feet ? 
 To bathe my soul in splendors bright, 
 
 Yet miss the starry gem, 
 To which heaven owes its fairest light — 
 
 My Saviour's diadem ? 
 
 And where the thousand thousands cry, 
 
 Dominions, thrones, degrees — 
 In one majestic harmony, 
 
 Even as " the sound of seas," 
 " Worthy the Lamb ! " — to hear no hymn 
 
 His attributes proclaim, 
 Nor vie with quiring Seraphim 
 
 In honors to his Name ? 
 
 It is, indeed, an " idle thought ; " 
 
 I would not be made free, 
 Though worthless, wandering, vile — from aught, 
 
 My God prepares for me. 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 287 
 
 Content — yes more, I choose that state 
 
 Which doth his plan fulfil ; 
 And only pray that I may wait 
 
 And do his perfect will. 
 
 DEDICATION. 
 
 Arise, Lord ! Thou and the ark of thy strength ; let thy priests 
 e clothed with salvation, and let thy saints shout aloud for joy. 
 
 The Psalmist. 
 
 Richly arose the diapason's swell, 
 That failed not our low praise in heaven to tell. 
 Fervently went, on wings of faith, the prayer 
 That God indeed would tabernacle there, 
 And shed, as silent dew, refreshing grace. 
 Earnest the words that set apart the place 
 For joyful, solemn worship. Now, then, come ! 
 
 O Father ! here record thy awful name. 
 Incarnate Jesus ! Thou, the embodied sum 
 
 Of each desire, of every good, here claim 
 Souls for thy travail. Holy Ghost ! draw near, 
 By the woke conscience and the secret tear. 
 Us, waiting, Triune God ! Sire ! Son ! and Dove ! 
 Fill with Thyself— Thyself ! Illimitable Love ! 
 
288 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 GAZE THOU UPON A FALLEN WORLD. 
 
 Gaze thou upon a fallen world, 
 
 Of God's once glorious work a part ; 
 O'er which his cloud of wrath is curled, 
 
 And let thine eyes affect thy heart. 
 A world where all have deeply sinned, 
 
 Where flows the curse for rebel man, 
 From Arctic to the burning Ind ; 
 
 From Greenland to Japan. 
 
 Earth, that from the Eternal's hand 
 
 Came forth so fair, what is she now ? 
 Survey her scath from land to land, 
 
 Yet of the ruin ask not thou : 
 'T is seen in unforgiving eyes 
 
 That tell of baleful fires within ; 
 'T is seen, where her fierce nations rise 
 
 To battle, that 't is Sin. 
 
 'T is heard in every secret sigh 
 
 That tells of sorrow ; and the breath 
 
 That falters ; and the earnest cry 
 That heralds the approach of death. 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 289 
 
 'T is written on his faded face 
 
 Who, childless, to the grave has gone ; 
 
 Its bitter triumphs thou mayst trace 
 On every churchyard stone. 
 
 And where are they that should have wept, 
 
 In agony, for mortal woe ? 
 Deem they the last command has slept, 
 
 Spoke eighteen hundred years ago ? 
 Deem they, it were enough to keep 
 
 Eternity, themselves, in view — 
 And suffer million minds to sleep 
 
 The same dark journey through ? 
 
 Wake such ! and weep the shadow thrown 
 
 Across a world that should be light ; 
 Wake such ! and ask that from the throne 
 
 Some glancing beam may chase the night ; 
 That boundless ocean, hill and plain, 
 
 Inheritance for Christ may be ; 
 And for his travail, tears, and pain — 
 
 The universal knee. 
 
 And wake my spirit ! — What dost thou 
 
 For his possession, sunk in guilt, 
 That in its blood is lying now, 
 
 Yet bought by that on Calvary spilt ? 
 19 
 
290 FOETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 Labor and pray ! — Believe this earth, 
 Yet beautiful in tears and dust, 
 
 Shall spring forth to a second birth, 
 Nobler than at the first. 
 
 CONFESSION. 
 
 The good confess to God; — they ever feel 
 Sin's malady a God alone can heal ; 
 And, weary of its pains, they find the breast, 
 Emptied by true Confession, has true rest. 
 The sinner, haughty, and confirmed in pride 
 And stubbornness, would fain transgression hide. 
 He ne'er to Heaven confesses, nor forsakes 
 His crimes ; but to indifference betakes 
 Himself, and says — " God sees not, nor awakes 
 Judgment, long threatened." 
 
 Yet on that dread day, 
 When shuddering systems, wrecked, will pass away, 
 When thrones are set— high o'er the startled crowd 
 Will swell in lamentation, deep and loud, 
 The first, long, sad Confession of the sentenced Proud ! 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 291 
 
 WHEN YON BRIGHT ORB BENEATH THE 
 WEST. 
 
 When yon bright orb beneath the west 
 
 Descends in shades of even, — 
 When all is hushed in peaceful rest, 
 The soul aspires to regions blest, 
 
 And finds repose in Heaven. 
 
 'T is then all fleeting joys below, 
 
 Awhile to mortals given, 
 Seem but the pageant of a show, 
 The veil that hides a latent woe — 
 
 And false, compared with Heaven. 
 
 'T is then all cares and sorrows here, 
 
 By which frail man is driven, — 
 As evening shadows, disappear, 
 And all within is calm and clear, 
 
 Illumed with rays from Heaven. 
 
 Freed from this Earth, my soul would share 
 
 The joys to angels given, 
 In bright celestial mansions, where 
 Blest Virtue beams divinely fair, 
 
 The glorious dawn of Heaven. 
 
292 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 TO THE STEAMSHIP PRESIDENT.* 
 
 Proud barque ! we freighted thee with gold ; 
 
 Our choicest gems we gave to thee ; 
 Thou hadst our all ; — to have and hold, 
 
 And bear in safety o'er the sea. 
 Art thou unfaithful to the trust ? 
 Wilt thou fulfil 't ? — Be just ! be just ! 
 
 We left our treasures with regret ; 
 
 We counted them, for they were dear; 
 Some laughed, as care they would forget, 
 
 And some in sadness dropt the tear. 
 The veriest miser of us knew 
 His hoards were safe, for thou wast true. 
 
 Hadst thou not often borne for us 
 
 Rich household gifts of price unknown ? 
 
 And didst thou ever wrongly thus 
 
 Keep back what was not all thine own ? 
 
 O who mistrusted ! or would shun 
 
 Thy faithless care ? — not one ! not one ! 
 
 * This noble vessel left New York, in the spring of 1841, with pas- 
 sengers and freight for Liverpool, and was heard of no more. 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 293 
 
 We saw thee leave us in thy pride, 
 
 And many a prayer pursued thy track, 
 
 That He who ebbs and floods the tide, 
 
 And chains the sea, would bring thee back. 
 
 Yet not one bosom harbored doubt 
 
 Of her return, that thus went out. 
 
 Nay ! there is one * who doubts not now ! 
 
 She fondly thinks thee just and true ; 
 In dreams she sees thy march, as thou 
 
 All proudly cleav'st thy path of blue ! 
 Man deems thou dost no longer roam, 
 But Woman waits to hail thee home. 
 
 We trusted God, and trusted much 
 
 Thy noble frame of northern oak ; 
 Strong as thy mates, we said that such 
 
 Could brave the tempest's fiercest stroke ; 
 Nor plunge too deeply down, nor reel, 
 Though timbers shivered to the keeL 
 
 We trusted God, yet trusted too 
 
 To science and the perfect skill 
 That could a trackless way pursue, 
 
 And make a distant port, at will ; 
 
 * The wife of one of the ill-fated passengers still believes, with all 
 a woman's love and hope, that the President is safe, and that she 
 shall soon behold again her husband. 
 
294 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 We trusted man, well tried of old : 
 We trusted thee — Give back our gold ! 
 
 Give back the light of friendship's day ; 
 
 The hearts that bound us in their spell ; 
 We parted not with these for aye ! 
 
 We had not said a last " farewell ! " 
 Give back, O Journey er of the Sea ! 
 Our own, and blessings be on thee. 
 
 In vain, in -vain ! to earnest cry 
 
 Of widow and of fatherless, 
 The sullen winds bring no reply ; 
 
 Though for the tidings, we would bless 
 The sullen winds, the cruel sea, 
 If tidings they would give of thee. 
 
 In vain, in vain ! no pitying friend 
 Beheld thee climb the dreadful wave, 
 
 And from that altitude descend 
 To an unfathomable grave. 
 
 Yet thou wast faithful, as we knew, 
 
 For with thy trust thou 'st perished too ! 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 295 
 
 THE WHITED SEPULCHRE. 
 
 Ye may set round this stately tomb, 
 The pots, heaped up with Flora's bloom ; 
 And bid white violets ope their leaf, 
 And cypress stand in silent grief ; — 
 
 Ye may adorn this hallowed place 
 With all that art contrives to grace ; — 
 The tesselated pavement, walk 
 Pebbled or turfed, where Mind may talk ; 
 
 And make this spot of quiet rest 
 Seem outwardly an Eden blest, — 
 A garden, to the senses fair, 
 Wooing us to inhabit there ; 
 
 And yet, when all is done, unlock 
 The iron door ! — sight, smell, a shock 
 Receive, appalling ; — loathing, sick, 
 The dead forsake we for the quick. 
 
 Such is the heart, not cleansed ]py grace, 
 Such is that foul, unseemly place ; 
 Rich, outwardly, in beauty's bloom, 
 Within, offensive as the tomb. 
 
296 POETRY OF LIFE. 
 
 And Holiness, that can endure 
 Only the fragrant and the pure, 
 Flies from the path by vileness trod ; — 
 Dead in sin ! canst thou " see God " ? 
 
 AN EVENING THOUGHT. 
 
 Hast thou, my soul, improved thy powers 
 With zeal, this day, for God and Man ? 
 
 And like a miser weighed the hours, 
 
 As though this day might close the span ? 
 
 Perhaps another opening morn 
 
 On earth may never smile on thee I — 
 
 Wert thou to meet to-morrow's dawn 
 In yonder vast eternity, — 
 
 Wouldst thou with grief review this day, 
 And tremble at thy Maker's rod ? 
 
 Or wouldst thou gladly soar away 
 To welcome an approving God ? 
 
POETRY OF LIFE. 297 
 
 UNION — LAB OR — PRAYER. 
 
 Your creed may be pure and as orthodox found 
 As the precept of Moses, in letters of light, 
 
 When Israel received it, in thunders, and sound 
 Of trumpet, that shook aged Sinai with fright. 
 
 Your faith in essentials may stand like the rock 
 That billows have beaten since Time was a youth ; 
 
 Which, meeting and breaking the element's shock, 
 Looks silently down — the Gibraltar of Truth ! 
 
 Your zeal for a sect may be burning and true ; 
 
 Your prayers and your praises be more than a breath ; 
 All that man may perform for Religion, you '11 do ; 
 
 Live for her, or cheerfully go to the death. 
 
 And yet wanting pity for him who is fed 
 
 On husks, or is starving, you turn from his cry, 
 
 He will faint in his famine, but you with the Bread 
 Of Life in possession, shall languish and die ! 
 
 Believe it ! that Zion will strengthen her stakes, 
 Enlarge her proportions, and lengthen her cords, 
 
 When truce with his idol the warrior breaks ; 
 Ever waging the fight which is only the Lord's. 
 
298 POETEY OF LIFE. 
 
 That idol is Self ! and the meanest of all ; 
 
 The last that Omnipotence lays in the dust ; 
 It lurks in thy bosom ! — it tokens thy fall ! 
 
 If thou wouldst not perish, thine enemy must ! 
 
 Come hither ! — in Union, and Labor, and Prayer, 
 Remember thy brother who wanders in sin ; 
 
 To seek him, and save him, be truly thy care, 
 And thou in the conflict with Nature shalt win. 
 
 And for this blessed purpose, so simple ! so grand ! 
 
 "We have everywhere banners of triumph unfurled ; 
 Not the sword of true temper to draw for a land, 
 
 But with hearts large as Heaven to strike for a world ! 
 
INDEX 
 
 PAGE 
 
 All night in prayer, while mortals slept 206 
 
 An altar, in a foreign land 234 
 
 A slave is in my house to-night 48 
 
 A sorry spectacle dost thou present 154 
 
 A thought has lingered at the grave 53 
 
 A thousand warriors to the charge 276 
 
 A Voice from Earth, affrighted 196 
 
 A Toice to thee ! to thee, whose noble aim 274 
 
 Beautiful are the feet that stand 184 
 
 Cambridge ! thou hast a gentle name 182 
 
 Cast out the Bible from the schools 210 
 
 Chain a man to abject labor 169 
 
 Christ is coming ! these his signs 47 
 
 Christ, my human friend, I might 130 
 
 Come ! baptize the bell 213 
 
 Come hither, thou 211 
 
 Come to the aged Dead, and see Ill 
 
 Curses rang out as they his thrall 267 
 
 Death's changes, Time and Place declare 89 
 
 Directed in extremest need 200 
 
 Doth gloomy fate with sullen frown 197 
 
300 INDEX. 
 
 Every sorrow here 266 
 
 Fair daughter of the sunny isles 86 
 
 Gaze thou upon a fallen 'world 288 
 
 God built the world, and built so well 59 
 
 God is serious, while from us 87 
 
 God of Zion, whence her banners 106 
 
 Go, preach my gospel, and proclaim 120 
 
 Great Britain ! down thy hungry gorge 255 
 
 Hail, beauteous Spring 132 
 
 Happy sister ! happy brother 133 
 
 Hast thou, my soul, improved thy powers 296 
 
 He is not dead ! can he die 189 
 
 Hk j.urneyed on, and baited at each house 109 
 
 He lay beside the temple's gate 240 
 
 He who would order break 162 
 
 His sin he forsakes, whatever it be 204 
 
 I am not what I ought to be 203 
 
 I know the world derides my claim 127 
 
 I looked, admiring, at her proud Exchange 269 
 
 I mourned the bright visions affection had cherished 104 
 
 I 'm sick of all the busy strife 259 
 
 In Judah, now, the minstrel's lyre 168 
 
 In weakness and in trembling 152 
 
 Is Hope " an anchor of the soul " 85 
 
 Is there a heart on which thy own 283 
 
 It is the same ! wherever men 99 
 
 I 've an ancient Idol, which 172 
 
♦ , 
 
 INDEX. 301 
 
 I 've jotimeyed o'er thy noble hills, Maine 264 
 
 I went to chapel some few Sundays since 67 
 
 I will not hence, thy sacred truth 141 
 
 Let me die at an Inn ; I ! d be free 190 
 
 Lift up the Cross, when in thy way 123 
 
 Like dreams when the Good pass away 107 
 
 Moloch had fallen, and Satan wept 187 
 
 My brother ! — such by common ties 178 
 
 My God, what were Thy heaven to me 54 
 
 My morning song shall God address 215 
 
 Nay, take my gift, and spurn it not 256 
 
 " No Rest shall be to guilty man " 252 
 
 Now yeil your " stars and stripes," and show 232 
 
 Death ! ; t is thine to choose 265 
 
 O'er Bethlehem the beauteous star 278 
 
 God ! on China look 173 
 
 Oh ! blest is he who cares 160 
 
 Oh, glorious Thou ! thy throne of power 243 
 
 Oh, ye blessed ! on yonder plains 128 
 
 Once proud and blinded Pundit ! now 40 
 
 One speaks for all ! when Peter thus 95 
 
 O '• rather bring thy sacred songs 208 
 
 O Saviour ! ere on radiant wing 176 
 
 O Saviour ! were thine arms of love 230 
 
 O Stranger '. yet to me for ever near 145 
 
 O thou that hast strayed in a pathway of sorrow 202 
 
 O Years ! how is your gift denied 65 
 
302 INDEX. 
 
 Pause not here, ye generous men 237 
 
 Perhaps i: is an idle thought 254 
 
 Proud barque ! we freighted thee with gold 292 
 
 Eich is the drop from the soft lid of eorrow 224 
 
 Richly arose the diapason's swell 2S7 
 
 Rise ! and celebrate the Day 158 
 
 Roll off ye clouds and show a sky 58 
 
 Room in Mount Auburn ! 2G1 
 
 Servant of God ! from thy rude Wales 79 
 
 Shall the bone and muscle, Heaven 258 
 
 She came, and like a star divine 72 
 
 !; Shouldst thou behold my face, the sight 242 
 
 Since you. Europe ! crowd our shores 82 
 
 u Six hundred millions bound for Night " 161 
 
 Six years have come, six years have flown 50 
 
 Soft are the slumbers of the sunless tomb 263 
 
 Spent with the toil of wasting war 96 
 
 Spirit of Missions I Spark of genuine flame 5 
 
 The day hath fled. On Salem's tower 113 
 
 The eager Jesuit pushed his way 44 
 
 Thee we heard not, when thy footsteps 262 
 
 The few I have tried in this hollow world 156 
 
 The good confess to God ; — they ever feel 290 
 
 The grave hath voice, and seems to say 74 
 
 The idols of the Orient bow 93 
 
 There are yet flowers in life's wilderness 199 
 
 The shadowy reign of Time had passed away 121 
 
 The sinner says : B Let Evil rule ; ' 247 
 
304 INDEX. 
 
 What title write ye, Builders 248 
 
 When God his wrathful stores called out 225 
 
 When Jesus led his faithful few 118 
 
 When Jim one day with brother Joe 138 
 
 When rankling sorrows wound the soul 251 
 
 When thou talkest with thy neighbor 135 
 
 When yon bright orb beneath the west 291 
 
 Where good and ill are strangely mixed 101 
 
 While gaily leaps the pulse of life 150 
 
 Who of our mortal race is he 19S 
 
 Why not upon the Plymouth Rock 219 
 
 Why on our holy service steals 83 
 
 Why on this Zion-hill 192 
 
 Why tarry ye, ordained to bear 166 
 
 With angry blow he smote the rock • •. 137 
 
 Ye Dead ! ye Dead ! your rest is sweet 228 
 
 Ye may set round this stately tomb •• 295 
 
 You asked, I remember, if those that have flown 183 
 
 Your creed may be pure, and as orthodox found 297