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 HIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 
 
 
 
 t [SMITHSONIAN DEPOSIT. J 
 
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 ^UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. | 
 
POEMS. 
 
 BY 
 
 MEDITATUS. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA: 
 LIPPINCOTT, GRAMBO, AND CO. 
 
 1858. 
 
,%1* 
 
 
 Entered according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1853, by 
 
 LIPPIN COTT, GRAMB O, AND CO., 
 
 in the OflBce of the Clerk of the District Court of the United States in and 
 for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE STARTING-PLACE 13 
 
 CHRIST CHURCH BELLS - 15 
 
 THE DINING-ROOM OV THE OLD HOUSE - - - - 19 
 
 THE STATE-HOUSE CLOCK .-..-- 23 
 
 AN HALF HOUR WITH AN ANGEL 32 
 
 THE OLD swedes' CHURCH, SOUTHWARK, PHILADELPHIA 43 
 
 MY CHILD 48 
 
 CRAZY NORAH --------51 
 
 MILITARY GLORY 54 
 
 THE christian's WARFARE 66 
 
 AFTER DEATH 69 
 
 THE INTERIOR OF THE HEART 73 
 
 THE TWO GRAVES -- 86 
 
 THE STREETS AT MIDNIGHT 90 
 
 TO HIM WHO LOVES TO MEDITATE - - - - 94 
 
IV CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 WIER AND BERTHA 96 
 
 LOVE 106 
 
 GRIEF -._ 108 
 
 IS THERE WITHIN THE MOUNT 115 
 
 THE RIVER 118 
 
POEMS. 
 
 THE STARTINa-PLACE. 
 
 I STAND upon a rock. Beneath I see, 
 Like waves dashed at its base, the troubled world. 
 Within a small white space they surge and boil, 
 But their spent roar breaks not the still calm here. 
 Beyond the ocean stretcheth — smooth, unspecked, 
 As doth on angel's sight Eternity. 
 Who raised me to this place ? I dwelt beneath. 
 Tossed on the sleepless billows. Did I climb 
 By thought or aspiration of my own ? 
 Nay, I knew not there was so blest a height. 
 'Twas Thou who watched the flood, and pitied me. 
 This is the height from which the soul first sees, 
 Like dawn — the truth. Far thro' her realms of light 
 It looketh, and the World and Time seem little things. 
 2 
 
14 THE STARTING-PLACE. 
 
 I had rather be with Thee. Thou who dost search 
 The Heart thro' all its dark and measureless depths, 
 As with a glance I search an empty Vial, 
 Know'st the Goal towards which I, wingless, turn. 
 Yet, Father, not my will. In this fall'n earth 
 The worm even, in its vile abhorred shape. 
 Doth work unfallen angels might not do. 
 Keep me then banished from thy Beams awhile 
 If I may serve Thee ; only these bestow. 
 Thy Love and Presence ; then thro' all my way. 
 Deep in humiliation, or upon 
 The dim, low zenith of this mortal course, 
 ni need nor ask for more. 
 
CHRIST CHURCH BELLS. 
 
 SECOND STREET, PHILADELPHIA. 
 
 I WAS sitting 
 By my window that opened to the East, 
 Looking out o'er the dusky roofs, and up 
 Where burned the stars. There came a gentle breath 
 Of air, and mingled with it faint far sounds. 
 I listened: when they came again, more clear, 
 I heard the ancient chimes of Christ Church bells. 
 Then sudden thronging thoughts, or feelings not yet 
 Shaped to sep'rate thoughts, filled all my breast. 
 Tears rose, and, being alone, I did not 
 Hinder them, but wept. 
 
 What were those feelings? 
 From what hidden spring gushed up those tears? 
 subtile chemist! deep geologist ! 
 
16 CHRIST CHURCH BELLS. 
 
 Ye cannot analyze or search out here : 
 No, nor yet thou who ^-t conscious in thyself 
 Of such emotion and wouldst probe for it. 
 The Heart to all is an unfathomed mystery. 
 We may liken it to instruments of music, 
 To delicate plants that shrink at being touched, 
 To changing skies, to troubled ocean; yea, 
 To all things visible; and yet for that. 
 The viewless seat of joy and woe within, 
 We have in truth no likeness : His itself 
 A world deep, hidden, separate, and none 
 But God can altogether know it. 
 
 The sounds that moved me now I 'd listened to 
 
 Long years ago : I could remember even, 
 
 As it seemed to me, a certain season 
 
 When but a little child, I 'd heard those bells. 
 
 ^Twas recollection then, thou 'It say, brought tears. 
 
 Ah ! by what enginery did it touch so deep ? 
 
 It was most dim remembrance, if not 
 
 Some half lost dream or mere imagining. 
 
 Beside, I would not be a child again. 
 
 Our early years have their small weights of sorrow, 
 
 That press as sorely on the tender spirit 
 
CHRIST CHURCH BELLS. 17 
 
 As heavy mountains do when we are grown; 
 Nor is life's upward path so smooth and even 
 That, like the loiterer in some flowery garden, 
 We 'd turn back to trace the same steps o'er, 
 But chiefly tho' there be a softened light 
 To all of us, and to none more than me, 
 Illumining the path looked back upon, 
 I crave it not, because He still was strange. 
 Unknown, unloved, whom now I chiefly love. 
 Jesus was not accepted. Who could tell. 
 What prophet of the soul, if this of mine, 
 Enamored of all sin, would ever yield ? 
 
 Ye ancient bells ! how many more than me 
 Your chimes have moved ! How many more, when I 
 Am covered with the green and springing sod. 
 They yet shall move I Nor ye alone, but sounds 
 That fill the air, and sights unnoted by 
 The passing crowd, shall to some voiceless heart 
 Call thoughts, to some averted eye bring tears. 
 I cannot know, I do not care to know 
 It now, by what unseen and spiritual touch 
 Ye thrill me; but I think how unconceived 
 Are the susceptibilities that fill the soul, 
 2* 
 
18 CHRIST CHURCH BELLS. 
 
 Here torpid, unsuspected, covered up, 
 But in the milder clime of heaven to be 
 Perfected in new life, and to become. 
 Each one, a separate entrance for our bliss. 
 
THE DINIiNG-ROOM OF THE OLD HOUSE. 
 
 It is the dusk of evening. All the rest 
 
 Are scattered through the house, or have not yet 
 
 Come in from walking. I, mid quiet left, 
 
 Sit here alone in the old dining-room. 
 
 The fire burns in the grate; by its red light 
 
 I see each ancient piece of furniture, 
 
 Around which now come shadows from the past 
 
 Of times and scenes that may return no more. 
 
 Upon the sofa that fills this recess 
 
 Often I 've slumbered, a play-wearied boy. 
 
 Beside this table when scarce higher than it, 
 
 I had my daily food from gentlest hands. 
 
 How different then my thoughts ! I did not dream 
 
 Time could e'er change, or danger reach this place. 
 
 No fortress in the world gives to the soldier 
 
 Such sweet sense of security as Home 
 
 Hath for the little child. 
 
20 THE DINING-ROOM OF THE OLD HOUSE. 
 
 Is it then changed? 
 Is not this room — are not these things about me 
 Still the same? They are the same — the change 
 Hath been in me. The heart learns many lessons 
 While mere fragile wood-work scarce grows old, 
 Or ere the ivy, planted in our youth. 
 Hath crept to the top o' the wall. And yet 
 The change in me is not the only difference. 
 This empty chair before me memory fills 
 With what is now but an imagined form. 
 It was my mother's seat. From year to year 
 Through all my former life I'd seen her there, 
 Thus sitting in the midst of those she loved, 
 When suddenly 'twas vacant, and not here, 
 Nor in her chamber, nor in all the house 
 Was there one trace of her beloved presence. 
 Death ! how dost thou blot us out, with fewer 
 Years, or the threescore and ten, alike. 
 In one brief moment ! Yet we who are left 
 Muse thus and meditate upon those gone — 
 They still live in our hearts. 
 
 Mother, 
 'Tis well I should remember thee. I know 
 That when I came at first, long since. 
 Helpless into this world, it was thy love, 
 
THE DINING-ROOM OF THE OLD HOUSE. 21 
 
 x\s a protecting mantlej did receive me. 
 
 Through feeble infancy, when to another 
 
 I had been a care and weariness, 
 
 Thou held'st me in thy tender, soft embrace 
 
 With the unutterable yearnings that she feels 
 
 Who looks down on her babe in her own bosom. 
 
 When I had become a wayward child. 
 
 Needing forbearance, gentle teaching, and compassion, 
 
 'Twas by thy knee I happy sat ; up to 
 
 Thy face I looked. And so thro' later years 
 
 Thou stood' st between the rugged world and me. 
 
 Until I went forth to that world ; then didst 
 
 Thou follow me with thy love; and still there was 
 
 A difference between a mother's love and that 
 
 Of others. It is not long since, gathered round 
 
 Thy bed, we saw how calmly doth the soul. 
 
 When furnished, wait for and receive its call. 
 
 Ye who do love your children, and who would not 
 
 Rend their hearts to breaking when ye die, 
 
 Leave them the sweet and comfortable trust 
 
 That ye are safe. In its accustomed place, 
 
 Within reach of thy empty seat, I found. 
 
 When thou wert gone, thy Bible. It was marked 
 
 At certain passages, devout and beautiful, 
 
 Of David's Songs, and where, in later time, 
 
22 THE DINING-ROOM OF THE OLD HOUSE. 
 
 The love of God in Christ for us was writ, 
 How by His precious blood alone we 're cleansed, 
 And being cleansed, freed from all punishment — 
 Yet not by work of ours, but by grace given us. 
 
 As we stood round thy open grave we felt 
 How better was th' assurance of thy rest. 
 Which the remembrance of thy life and death 
 Then gave to us, than coveted crowns 
 For an inheritance. 
 
 Old Dining-room ! as we must change, thou shalt 
 Be changed at length. These walls, this roof. 
 That compassed us so long, while the heart's ties 
 Were made and severed, shall be taken down, 
 And this small space within, where hidden 
 From the world hath been sweet intercourse, 
 Shall be but th' open air again, where the 
 Wind passes, vacant and without a mark. 
 But in a better mansion then, I trust. 
 My soul shall live, and, if it be so there. 
 Know them again in blest reunion 
 Whom here I loved. 
 
THE STATE-HOUSE CLOCK. 
 
 MEDITATUS. 
 
 Speak to me ! For these fifty years or more 
 Hast thou been musicg in this hermitage, 
 And yet doth no man ever hear thy voice 
 Save when it crieth the hours. 
 
 CLOCK. 
 
 Who calls on me to speak? one of the throng 
 That daily thus climbs up to my abode, 
 Seeking a moment's empty entertainment? 
 
 MEDITATUS. 
 
 Nay, thou old faithful sentinel I I seek 
 
 More solid stuff; 'tis for instruction that 
 
 I come. Speak, then, and tell me what thou seest 
 
24 THE STATE-HOUSE CLOCK. 
 
 From out these lofty windows, that like eyes 
 Look ever toward the North and South, the East 
 And West! 
 
 CLOCK. 
 
 Stand where thou art, and for a little season 
 (Yet not long), I'll speak with thee. 
 
 This morning, ere my smaller hand reached five. 
 Out in the east I saw the approach of Day. 
 He came without a cloud, and soon with light 
 Filled the horizon, and the arch of heaven. 
 Then blue wreaths of smoke ascending, rose 
 O'er the still city spreading far beneath, 
 Steeples and towers and a waste of roofs, 
 That cover happy and unhappy homes. 
 Since then five times my larger hand hath made 
 His circuit. On each moment hung events 
 Innumerable, nor could I tell them all. 
 Though thou shouldst wait until that midnight hour 
 Revolving comes, when from this height I drop 
 Each finished year into eternity. 
 Yet will I lead thee now a few steps o'er 
 The narrow bounds of thine own daily walk. 
 Then, when thou shalt consider for thyself 
 How wide the world is — how unnumbered are 
 
THE STATE-HOUSE CLOCK. 25 
 
 Her populous cities; her wide teeming plains, 
 
 Where men do labor, hope, enjoy and suffer, love and 
 
 hate. 
 Thou wilt conceive how full Time's moments are, 
 And what a mighty Record that must be. 
 Where there is room to write, at its full length, 
 The secret history of every heart. 
 With every word and look that speaks a thought. 
 
 The echoes of my voice that told aloud 
 The hour just gone, have scarce yet died away. 
 Now doth the sun, uprisen high'r in heaven, 
 Lighten the busy world. His yellow beams 
 Flood the broad highway; pierce thro' polished panes 
 With damask hung, and mid th' luxurious shade 
 Within, glitter upon the gorgeous chandelier; 
 Or, creeping thro' some crevice left unstopped 
 In the closed shutters, lie a spot of gold 
 Upon the floor of the deserted house. 
 
 It is the time appointed, and I see. 
 Not far from hence through a wide lofty door, 
 A merry comp'ny gath'ring : chariots stop. 
 Pouring their treasures out of gay attire. 
 One giveth there her hand away to-day 
 With th' unbought riches of a loving heart. 
 3 
 
26 THE STATE-HOUSE CLOCK. 
 
 Even as I speak she stands ! A snowy bud, 
 That drank last night the falling dews of heaven, 
 Plucked from its earthen bed, adorns her hair. 
 (So mayst thou be, fair bride, when I am done 
 Telling the hours, brought to a better clime.) 
 With solemn rites and the plain golden ring, 
 They bind around them th' invisible thread 
 That Death's sharp sickle now alone may sever. 
 Crowding then bright faces hem them in, 
 And with embraces, smiles, and golden hopes 
 Fill up this swift-winged time of happiness. 
 jL?ye, to the youthful hearts luho do from there 
 Look on itj seems like this sunny shy. 
 
 While I thus speak, from a far window 
 
 Over toward the West an anxious face looks out. 
 
 That same voice told the hour when one should come 
 
 With hollow tube that tells each sound within, 
 
 To place his practised ear near to the beating 
 
 Of a much loved heart. The husband looketh 
 
 On the slender form, into the delicate features 
 
 That of late have waned mysteriously. 
 
 "It cannot be — oh no, this cannot be 
 
 The dim cold shadow of Death ! Woe may not cross 
 
 The threshold of so blest a home ! Here are 
 
THE STATE-HOUSE CLOCK. 27 
 
 Contentment, sweet affections, riches — all 
 Th' appliances this world can give to happiness/' 
 May it be so; yet hast thou found, fond one, 
 How soon man may become as if awaked 
 Out of a pleasant dream. Life unto thee 
 Hath yet its hroad blue sky, hut with 
 A rising cloud. 
 
 By Schuylkill's waters. 
 Where thro' many an age they flowed, hidden 
 In solitude, the unforgotten dead 
 Sleep thro' the still cold vaults of Laurel Hill. 
 (It may be that some form once dear to thee 
 Thus sleeps — yet not to wound thee do I speak.) 
 If thou wilt look now toward the oft trod road 
 That leadeth there, a dark slow-moving train 
 Of carriages thou' It see. Next to that, hung 
 With sable curtains, cometh one whose windows. 
 With raised blinds, are close shut up from ev'ry 
 Passer's eye. Within — ah ! there within — held 
 In so small a space, is a whole world 
 Of woe. I tell thee that between the heart 
 Of him who stops to gaze and hers who 
 Followeth there the dead, is an unfathomed 
 Depth of suffering that swallows up 
 
28 THE STATE-HOUSE CLOCK. 
 
 Youth's freshness, the allurements of this world, 
 The love of pitying friends — the wish to live. 
 It is a mother's funeral, her child's thoughts, 
 Swift messengers to the past, go back 
 Through many years, then come again laden 
 With sweet but sad remembrances that wound 
 The bereaved spirit. To that desolate mourner 
 Life seems one dreary cloud, as ivlieii the whole 
 }Yide firmament is filled with gloom. 
 
 Where yonder lofty buttonwoods lift up 
 Their leafless branches, vying with my height, 
 Standeth apart the ancient Hospital. 
 A century has almost gone since its 
 First stone was laid, then in a wilderness. 
 It is, methinks, a place where Death doth dwell 
 With all his keen and torturing darts. Yet Mercy 
 Ministers to those he wounds; she healeth 
 Him whose strength returns again, and watches 
 By his bed who dies. 
 
 There, in a certain ward 
 Where many lie, is one who hath trod life's 
 Lengthened journey o'er, thro' youth and middle age. 
 Into the winter that lies round the tomb. 
 In all this wide and many-peopled world 
 
THE STATE-HOUSE CLOCK. 29 
 
 She is alone. Not one from whom to claim 
 Those sympathies that run in kindred blood 
 Doth to her knowledge breathe. Within her heart 
 Shut up are the sweet pictures of her youth 
 When, in another land, mid its green fields, 
 Beneath its open sky she played, a child. 
 Who shall she speak to of these things ? It is 
 But nature thus to turn from the chill snows 
 Of age, back to the op'ning buds of spring, 
 And so it seemeth that the dusty space 
 Between is often most transparent then. 
 But in these things, as in all else that memory 
 And meditation summon from the past. 
 Or that the thoughtful mind thro' every hour 
 Doth hold in its own world, she is alone. 
 Alone in the heart's solitude, aged, 
 And poor, and laid in sufferings. Yet beneath 
 These gathered elements of misery 
 That show without and do appal the eye. 
 There is in her another hidden life. 
 Unharmed by them, that the eye cannot see. 
 The soul hath separate life. In early youth 
 So close it clingeth to the ruddy flesh. 
 They seem as one. But when that flesh, grown old, 
 Begins to shake and totter o'er the grave, 
 3* 
 
30 THE STATE-HOUSE CLOCK. 
 
 It looseneth its hold, and doth look out 
 TVards that eternal world to which it tends. 
 If it have then treasure laid up in heaven. 
 With joy it plumes its eager wings for flight. 
 So is it with this aged one. She came 
 O'er a long road, through poverty and toil, 
 To reach this dying bed. But as she rests 
 Upon it now, being prepared to die, 
 Amid the body's sufferings the soul finds peace. 
 As she looks back upon the desert past. 
 And forward to the promised land, life seems 
 (Nor seems alone, but is, for she seeth with 
 An open eye) as when these sides are filled 
 With storms J hut from an opening thro^ the clouds 
 Light Cometh down, and, looking up, we see 
 The calm hhie heaven o^ erspreading all ahove, 
 Which storms, nor clouds, nor tempests ever reach. 
 
 Thus have I shown thee how this selfsame hour 
 To these few hearts bring different messages. 
 What must His view be, who with sleepless eye 
 Through day and night forever looks upon 
 The hearts of all mankind bared to his sight? 
 This know — that not the briefest space of time 
 Wherein thou sleep' st or wakest but doth hold 
 
THE STATE-HOUSE CLOCK. 31 
 
 "Within its narrow compass joy and grief, 
 "Wisdom and folly, virtue, deepest guilt. 
 Yet God discerns the upright heart and pure 
 "Where'er it be, and watcheth over it. 
 Amid the infinite turmoil of this life; 
 He maketh all things labor for its good, 
 While to all others ev'n prosperity 
 Is but a foe clothed in a fair disguise. 
 Live not for Time ! Its slow revolving years. 
 Its hours, its moments, all that fill them up. 
 Whether of the world without or of the heart. 
 Must cease. But for the soul that useth time 
 Aright, believing what hath been revealed of it, 
 A better state, when it is done, remains. 
 
AN HALF HOUR WITH AN ANGEL. 
 
 Methought it was near to the edge of twilight 
 
 On a summer's evening. I was rambling 
 
 In the forest and had come to a lone glen, 
 
 Where, from the thickly wooded height above, 
 
 Some hidden spring poured forth its waters 
 
 O'er the wild, steep rocks. They dripping fell 
 
 From ledge to ledge in countless tiny streams. 
 
 And gathered at the base again, murmured 
 
 A rivulet away. Here, being wear}^, 
 
 On the velvet moss beneath my feet 
 
 I laid me down, still looking on the scene. 
 
 And wrapt in meditation. "Surely," thought I, 
 
 "This place speaketh of the Lord; He hath 
 
 Arrayed it in this goodly dress, adorned 
 
 With ornaments no other but His 
 
 Can fashion, that his worshippers may look 
 
 Upon it and rejoice: for where we love, 
 
AN HALF HOUR WITH AN ANGEL. 33 
 
 Aud cannot yet behold the one beloved, 
 
 How dear is any sign or visible evidence 
 
 That he hath left upon our path, telling 
 
 Of his affection ! So I view these traces 
 
 Of my Father's hand. I love his works 
 
 Not chiefly for their own attractiveness; 
 
 They 're pledges given to my falt'ring soul, 
 
 Confirming it in faith. To me, the field 
 
 Yields more than grain, the garden more than flowers. 
 
 And all th' events of daily Providence 
 
 Bear voiceless hidden messages from God.'' 
 
 While musing thus, I thought a spirit stood 
 
 Before me. ''I am sent to thee," he said, 
 
 ^'Thou who dost seek the path of wisdom. Rise, 
 
 And cast aside thy covering of clay. 
 
 For thou shalt go with me whither thy body 
 
 Cannot go; it shall rest here unharmed, 
 
 Slumbering till thou return to it again." 
 
 He spread his wings, rising above the earth 
 
 In swiftest flight, and I, delivered from 
 
 The flesh, a spirit too, rose by his side. 
 
 I felt no fear, nor was it difficult, 
 
 That steep ascent. 
 
 We did not climb, as earthly pilgrims do. 
 
34 AN HALF HOUR WITH AN ANGEL. 
 
 But passed thro' many a purple-tinted cloud. 
 
 Ascending far above the golden hues 
 
 That gather round the setting sun, until, 
 
 In the blue vault, we rested on the wing. 
 
 Evening had dropped her dusky veil, and Night 
 
 Was letting fall a darker curtain o'er 
 
 The distant world. I saw lights glimmering 
 
 From the abodes of men, and floating on, 
 
 Passed o'er the ocean's stormy flood, or forest's 
 
 Wide-spread gloom : but not a murmur reached us : 
 
 Silently thro' those sublime aerial wastes 
 
 We winged our way. ''Now shalt thou have such sight/ 
 
 The spirit said, "as we, who in love's work 
 
 Are ever ministering to mankind. 
 
 That dim and narrow circle of dull light 
 
 On the far bosom of the earth beneath 
 
 Is a vast city. Seest thou not amid 
 
 Its thousand dwelling-places there is one * 
 
 O'ershadowed by a small bright cloud? 
 
 Thither we will descend, that thou mayst know 
 
 How diS"erent to the spiritual eye 
 
 Terrestrial things appear, and how far short 
 
 Of the reality man's vision stops." 
 
 Then in my dream I turned towards earth again. 
 
AN HALF HOUR WITH AN ANGEL. 35 
 
 Methought I entered 
 The silent chamber where a sick man lay 
 In his unfinished slumber, ere the dawn 
 Of morning. Not a star had faded jet 
 From heaven; no light told of th' approach of day; 
 Yet I found waiting there other spirits 
 Before me. They knew not of my presence. 
 It was hidden from them. Then passed I 
 Noiselessly the soul's great adversary 
 And an angel of the Lord. On either side 
 His couch they stood, silently gazing in 
 The sleeper's face and watched for his awaking. 
 Now I saw how Satan is transformed and 
 Robed in treacherous light; for he did shine 
 More brightly than the other, but 'twas with 
 A red and fiery glare. Yet was he gorgeous 
 To behold, and underneath his burning wings 
 Were chains and torturing manacles concealed. 
 Then did I turn to look upon the angel. 
 His mantle fell in many radiant folds, 
 Down o'er his breast about his lovely form. 
 Trailing around his feet; and I beheld 
 His countenance, but cannot speak its beauty. 
 Bright beams from the Throne still clung to his locks; 
 His serene features shone with softer light; 
 
36 AN HALF HOUR WITH AN ANGEL. 
 
 A golden harp hung by his side ; he bore 
 
 A garment glistening, spotless and new, 
 
 Washed in redeeming blood. So these two watched 
 
 For the lone sick man's waking; but I saw 
 
 That Satan feared to look upon the angel, 
 
 Though his eye burned as a quenchless fire, 
 
 And the angel's beamed celestial love. 
 
 Thus I beheld the impotence of Evil, 
 
 And the mild majesty of Holiness. 
 
 The slumb'rer's sleep was sweet; there seemed within 
 
 No cloud amid the sunshine of his soul. 
 
 Then turned I to my spiritual guide and asked 
 
 Whither he'd led me, and what these things meant. 
 
 '^Thou art," he said, ^^with a departing servant 
 
 Of the Lord. This ministering spirit 
 
 Hath been sent to guard him from all evil. 
 
 And to give him, dying, perfect peace. 
 
 The Enemy can harm him not; this hour 
 
 His power is gone; for this man listened to 
 
 The Gospel's call, and yielded up his heart 
 
 To Christ. His path hath rugged been ; his feet 
 
 Have bled, and oft he bore his heavy cross 
 
 At heat of day; but now, his labors o'er, 
 
 He rests upon the utmost borders of 
 
 A toilsome life, and on the brink of heaven. 
 
AN HALF HOUR WITH AN ANGEL. 
 
 Angels wait beyond thy sight to bear him 
 Hence. Ere one brief hour is past he will be 
 With his God." 
 
 The scene was changed. 
 Methought I passed into another chamber, 
 And beheld the evil spirit watching 
 By another bed of death. Then sought I for 
 The angel guardian, but found him not; 
 The adversary stood in uncurbed power, alone. 
 He was not gorgeous now, to look upon, 
 But hung above that dying couch, shrouded 
 In deepest gloom, like some risen cloud from helL 
 Then, while I wond'ring gazed, another form 
 Appeared : it was of woman's shape, clothed with 
 Strange raiment; for in front deep black, like the 
 Sad mourner's dress, she wore; but from her back 
 A gorgeous mantle hung, sweeping her footsteps. 
 Beside the dying bed she knelt, and asked, 
 '' What shall I give thee — riches, or reputation^ 
 Or a crown? all of earth's gifts are thine.'' 
 The suff'rer closed his eyes to shut her 
 From his sight, and with a bitter gesture 
 Motioned her away. Then I beheld 
 How lightl}" she could leave him whom she seemed 
 4 
 
38 AN HALF HOUR WITH AN ANGEL. 
 
 To honor. Throwing off her sable veil, 
 
 She stood in scarlet clothed, with glitt'ring gems 
 
 And tinkling ornaments, and turning as 
 
 One turneth from a cast off and forgotten thing, 
 
 She passed out from my sight. 
 
 Didst thou e'er look upon Despair? or mark 
 
 The final flight of Hope when she doth spread 
 
 Her azure wings and leave the soul? Oh that 
 
 From out the volume of my thoughts this leaf 
 
 Were torn ! I saw wrath like the lightning fall 
 
 Upon that undefended head. The dying man 
 
 Was cast out from the universe of good; 
 
 Each tie that bound to aught in any measure 
 
 Pure or lovely was cut off, and his soul 
 
 Trembling hung above the open'd, infinite 
 
 Abyss of woe. '^Ah, take me hence," I cried, 
 
 ^^Let us not linger here; I die, I die 
 
 Another death in looking upon this !" 
 
 "Fear not to look," the spirit said, "I brought 
 
 Thee hither for thy good; here mayst thou gather 
 
 Wisdom in rich harvest to thy soul. 
 
 Behold the closing of a life devoted 
 
 To the false and transitory world. 
 
 Upon this dying bed thou seest the pleasures 
 
AN HALF HOUR WITH AN ANGEL. 39 
 
 And the empty honors of threescore years 
 Summed up; for he who lies before thee 
 LoTed the world, and she bestowed upon him 
 Many gifts; but she hath not, in all of her 
 Vast treasury, one for the parting hour. 
 'Tis not the world's to deck the bed of death 
 And make it beautiful ; another hand 
 Must bring the wreaths that fade not there. 
 Yet oft in seasons past the still small voice 
 Strove with this heart, persuading it to turn 
 From fading vanities and live. It strove 
 In vain ! from youth to manhood, and from manhood 
 To the barren borders of the grave — ^barren 
 Unless set out with the transplanted flowers 
 Of grace — then sweetest vale of life, as nearest 
 To its close and in full view of heaven. 
 
 My brief mission draweth to its close. 
 And I must part from thee. Thou 'st seen 
 What blest attendance watches o'er the spirit 
 At its birth into the blissful realms of rest : 
 Thou hast seen too, the dread departing of 
 The soul accurst, in darkness quenched its light 
 Put out to burn no more. 
 
40 AN HALF HOUR WITH AN ANGEL. 
 
 The veil must fall : 
 Enough hath been revealed. Go back to earth 
 Again, and as thou minglest in her cares 
 Remember — like the withering leaf's 
 Thy sojourn there; for as the forest to 
 The wintry wind doth cast its foliage, 
 So to Death's blasts the earth doth shed her leaves. 
 And her dead millions gather in the ground. 
 But there shall be a resurrection of 
 Them all, and we will meet when reunited 
 To thy risen body, thou livest to die no more. 
 Ah ' whither then thy way thro' the wide regions 
 Of eternity? 
 
 Salvation's pearly gates 
 Are open to thee! Wouldst thou enter them? 
 Know, then, that works or righteousness of thine 
 Can never win for thee an entrance there; 
 For God's just law demands obedience. 
 Not in the act alone, but in the thought, 
 Even to its source within thy secret soul. 
 Such perfect service thou canst not perform, 
 Inheriting a heart enslaved by sin; 
 In thine own nature thou hast not the power 
 To love a holy God or do his will: 
 How canst thou then, child of a fallen race. 
 
AN HALF HOUR WITH AN ANGEL. ^1 
 
 Escape the threatened curse awaiting all 
 Who violate his reTealed sovereign Word? 
 Hear ere I leave thee, -what I came to bear, 
 Grlad tidings from on high. 
 
 There is, Lost One, 
 A righteousness, not thine, prepared for thee, 
 That thou mayst wear it even as thine own: 
 'Twas bought at a great cost for guilty man, 
 And all who have it on, in earth or heaven, 
 Are pure -and spotless to the eye of God : 
 ^Tis offered without price (thou ^st naught to give); 
 It becomes thine, in all its preciousness, 
 Through childlike faith in Him who purchased it 
 For thee. By faith thou dost embrace Him 
 With the arms of love, accepting Him 
 As God the Saviour, and thine only hope; 
 United thus thou art made one with Him, 
 And all the powers leagued against thy soul 
 Shall never separate thee from his band. 
 This faith is God's own gift; 'tis his alone 
 T' impart, dread Sovereign of all worlds ! 
 Go ask of Him, clothed in humility, 
 For He refuseth none who rightly seek, 
 4* 
 
42 AN HALF HOUR WITH AN ANGEL. 
 
 According to that Word of Life which He 
 Hath given thee/' 
 
 The spirit ceased. Then, in my dream, I thought 
 We stood amid the forest's gloom again, 
 And as the evening's silent shadows fell. 
 He parted from me on his heavenward flight. 
 And I encumbered with the flesh once more, 
 But ia his words rejoicing, went upon my way. 
 
THE OLD SWEDES' CHURCH, SOUTHWARK, 
 PHILADELPHIA. 
 
 BUILT IN THE YEAR MDCC. 
 
 While we do pass away, and with th' affairs 
 That have engrossed us are forgot, a simple pile 
 Of earth or stone, raised by our hands, endures. 
 I stand within this ancient house, and know 
 That of the men who reared it there is not 
 One but hath gone to dust. Can it then be 
 That what we fashion thus, out of some 
 Base material, shall outlast the busy thoughts, 
 The deep keen joys and sorrows that fill up 
 Our rational life ? 
 
 They who of old with their 
 Own labor did build up these walls, when the 
 Good work was done, sat here and worshipped. 
 (^Twas a different time; the city's hum 
 
44 THE OLD swedes' CHURCH. 
 
 Broke not then on this solitude, and o^er 
 These busy streets stood trees from the 
 Primeval forest.) But at length those fathers 
 Of the church, cut off in vigorous prime or 
 Yenerable age, were gathered one by one 
 And no more seen. Then in their places, even 
 Where I stand, their children met often 
 Through many years; some to prepare to die, 
 Some but to wear an ancient hollow form, 
 Until they too through gradual decline. 
 Came to life's verge and laid their gray hairs down 
 In these still graves a century ago. 
 
 Now of all these, and all they felt while here, 
 
 What visible trace is left ? I do not doubt 
 
 But since that Sabbath morn when first these walls 
 
 Were filled with sounds of praise, near intercourse 
 
 Hath often been between this place and heaven. 
 
 True, many came then, as they still do, but 
 
 To glitter in the livery of this world 
 
 In others' sight; yet ever midst the throng 
 
 God hath his worshippers. 
 
 Here knelt 
 The youthful pair who 'd nurtured their first born 
 
THE OLD swedes' CHURCH. 45 
 
 Through a few tender years, so that her heart 
 
 Was but just opening its stores to love, 
 
 When the child sickened. Round her couch, stricken, 
 
 They stood and saw her languish ; hearing her 
 
 Feeble cry ; looking upon her sufferings 
 
 Until the soul escaped, leaving them the 
 
 Sweet infant form of flesh, as soft, as round, 
 
 As beautiful as when 'twas wont to cling 
 
 To them in life, circling with loving arms 
 
 Their necks. They buried her, hiding out of 
 
 Their sight each little fragment of her dress 
 
 Or toys, that in her play she 'd left scattered 
 
 About their home — then came up here to worship. 
 
 And confess that all He doeth is right. 
 
 Here bowed the husband, who, few days ago. 
 
 Had stooped to catch his wife's faint parting words ; 
 
 Words fuller, in death, of that unchanging love 
 
 Which ever in life had been to him 
 
 A wonder and a mystery. He looked 
 
 Upon th' immovable pale face, and the 
 
 Remembrance of harsh words or of unkindnesses 
 
 That once had wounded her meek spirit 
 
 Came with such accusations on his soul 
 
 As swallowed up his grief in a yet 
 
46 THE OLD swedes' CHURCH. 
 
 Deeper agony. He loathed himself, and mourned. 
 And in this place renewed his vows. 
 
 Here came 
 The tender mother when she ^d heard from one 
 Skilled to discern the ailments of the body, 
 That the small spot of pain which but of late 
 Had troubled her^ was the first stealthy step 
 Of a disease whose dread approach no doctor^s 
 Skill could stay. She sat among her little ones, 
 And thought of leaving them, feeling the first, worst 
 Bitterness of death, until her prayer 
 Was heard, and she was taught, there is a Faith 
 Stronger than the last dread, or suffering. 
 Or human love — that tempts us oft — or death. 
 
 These, and how many more, what tongue can tell? 
 Have from this place, thro' days forgotten now. 
 Offered up various worship. Sighs wet with 
 Sorrow's tears, prayers winged with burning love : 
 Yet to these walls no angel hath come down 
 To write their records here. Are they then perished ? 
 Ye departed ones, come back ! Meet us within 
 This ancient house once more ! Tell to 
 Unthinking men how these things never perish, 
 
THE OLD swedes' CHURCH. 47 
 
 But are gathered up from every house of God, 
 From the shut closet, from the silent woods, 
 Or crowded ways where Christians walk; 
 From that hid Temple in each new-born heart, 
 And written down in heaven. Tell them 
 How little now ye do esteem this world's 
 Remembrance, or her coveted riches. 
 Or the brief sufferings of this fleeting life, 
 That they may turn from these, for the pure joys 
 Unto whose blest possession ye are gone — 
 Beyond the grave. 
 
MY CHILD. 
 
 My child ! here on 
 Her little couch beside my own, unconscious 
 Of the love that 's brooding oyer her, she sleeps ! 
 So once I lay, helpless upon life's threshold, 
 And so once my mother watched o'er me. 
 What harp, or voice, or tongue can utterance 
 Give to a parent's love? Th' untaught peasant, 
 Howsoever rude, if in his rugged breast 
 There lay a kindly heart, hath feelings oft 
 That poets cannot tell. Around each fireside 
 Of the land, where children play and tender 
 Parents watch, unwritten volumes perish 
 Day by day. We feel enough each for himself, 
 Therefore it is that of all thought so little 
 Is decreed to live. Yet here and there is one 
 So made by him who fashions all of us, 
 That with a nicer power he is able 
 
MY CHILD. 49 
 
 To discern tlie deep and hidden motions 
 Of the mindj and bring them forth to language 
 With their own hues and native colors on. 
 If such an one be faithful to his trust, 
 Not marring what in truth is beautiful, 
 Nor covering with false dress the hideous 
 And deformed, he doth perform his work. 
 And with the company of those, who each 
 In his own day and place has sought alone 
 His Maker's glory, he at length shall stand. 
 There will be kings without their royal robes. 
 And slaves, clothed in like radiant dress; 
 There genius, beside the intellect that was 
 But as a child's, shall burn not more with love. 
 
 What is the truly beautiful ? In Nature 
 And her visible works it is the impress 
 Of God's fingers. In the soul this impress 
 Hath been lost. Thro' her deep caverns where the 
 Eich ores lie; o'er her wide vales of meditation; 
 Up her mountain heights of thought sublime. 
 Thick darkness reigns. But when there cometh forth 
 From heaven new light, it doth shed beauty 
 Through this fallen world. 
 5 
 
50 MY CHILD. 
 
 Shine thro' this soul, thou Sun of Righteousness ! 
 Into its hidden places, o'er its wastes, 
 Until the rocky wilderness shall softened be, 
 And blossom as the rose. 
 
CEAZY NORAH : 
 
 A WELL-KNOWN WANDERER IN THE STREETS 
 OP PHILADELPHIA. 
 
 If but the mysterious cord be loosed 
 
 That bindeth up, as one, our faculties, 
 
 They in disorder fallen will become, 
 
 As thine. He who created us; who by 
 
 His touch did wound the wrestling patriarch, 
 
 Hath laid his hand on thee, poor wand'rer. 
 
 Yet in unknown wisdom, and no less 
 
 Than an eternal purpose, was it done. 
 
 Amid the infinite vicissitude 
 
 Of place and circumstance — th' array of ages 
 
 Past and yet to come — th' innumerable 
 
 Generations of mankind, that fill 
 
 Up time, as motes, even to its end, thou 
 
 Hast the place that at the first was given thee. 
 
52 CRAZY NORAH. 
 
 I am not made of better clay than thou, 
 Nor is the spirit that dwells in me 
 Freer by nature of rebellious thought. 
 Or all impure desire, than thine. Mercy 
 Alone, when thou wert wounded, passed me by. 
 
 I do remember thee from my early youth, 
 
 And still the same thou cross'st my thoughtful path, 
 
 "With thy strange dress — the old plaid cloak, man's hat, 
 
 And men's great boots; bearing thy basket on 
 
 Thy arm, filled with thy crazy treasures. 
 
 A troop of boys come after thee; thou stop'st 
 
 And, looking up, dost talk with some imagined 
 
 Being in the air; or, in the silent night. 
 
 From some dark lonely spot, with lifted finger, 
 
 Countest th' unchanging, ever beautiful stars. 
 
 What hast thou sought in these thy wanderings, 
 Now through so many years? Is it some 
 Fancied good? some dim and undefined end? 
 Or doth the spirit of unrest alone. 
 Unknown to thee, still goad thee on ? Poor maniac, 
 With thy dim lamp of reason quite put out. 
 Whatever be thy thought, th' enlightened mind 
 Doth see in thee a world's embodiment. 
 
CRAZY NORAH. 53 
 
 Thou track' st as well the object of thy search 
 
 As many who do pity thee. For what 
 
 Is Reason? or, what aid doth she afford 
 
 In the soul's search for rest? The light she sheds 
 
 Is, at its brightest, but a feeble ray 
 
 About our feet : she cannot pierce the gloom 
 
 Above us, or dispel the heavy clouds 
 
 That darken the immeasurable space 
 
 Between us and the throne of Grod; and yet 
 
 Most of mankind, with guilt not thine, lone wand'rer. 
 
 Go through this world, and grope into the grave. 
 
 Seeking no brighter light than hers. 
 
 5* 
 
MILITARY OLORY. 
 
 TWO SIDES TO IT. 
 
 SCENE — In this Country — A dining-room ornamented 
 with flags — The company seated at tahle. 
 
 MR. PUBLIC OPINION — {rising). 
 
 I have the honor, gentlemen, to propose 
 The health of our distinguished guest, who 
 On a field far different from this, hath won 
 Of late for us, his country, and his own 
 Now coveted name, glory of such a 
 Lustre, that it doth already shine through 
 This wide land and o'er the sea. ( Cheers.) 
 
 CAPTAIN FAVORITE (rising amid loud cheers). 
 
 I thank you, gentlemen, for this warm greeting, 
 Offered one who, not by native or acquired 
 
MILITARY GLORY. 55 
 
 Merit, could claim such distinction, 
 Yet being offered, at your hands I do 
 Accept it, as a thing not earned, but given 
 Of generosity. We soldiers have our work. 
 But our rewards are greater than our work; 
 For, to be honored thus midst smiling peace 
 Makes us forget the rugged path of war, 
 Or hold its perils but a scanty price 
 For such returns. 
 
 I do suppose you will 
 Look to me for some brief account, to-day. 
 Of that late conflict (cheers) in the midst of which 
 A favoring fortune placed me. I say fortune. 
 For, my friends, you wear the soldier's brief creed — 
 Honor and our country — on your hearts, as he 
 Doth on his sword, nor is there difference 
 In aught, save opportunity, between us all. 
 But on the battle-field, each one, intent 
 Upon his aim, and hidden in the smoke 
 Of th' combat, sees not far beyond the point 
 Of his own sword or reach o' his gun (cheers). 
 So each can tell of what he saw; but thus 
 To make the story perfect, every soldier 
 Needs must speak — some now from their red graves. 
 
56 MILITAKY GLORY. 
 
 My portion of the great day's work lay in 
 
 A narrow compass. I was ordered, with 
 
 The brave hearts under my command, to take 
 
 Position on the brow of a green slope, 
 
 Across which, ere the day was done, might pass 
 
 The manoeuvering squadrons of the enemy. 
 
 Here round our voiceless cannon for awhile 
 
 We stood, watching the far-off fight 
 
 In th' agony of idleness. Upon the plain 
 
 Full in our view, but lessened by the 
 
 Distance, our regiments marched to the attack 
 
 Or waited in reserve. We heard their shouting. 
 
 The lone rocks around, sent back the echoes 
 
 Of their artillery, and when a white cloud 
 
 Covered up each band, we saw them, as it 
 
 Rose, with thinner ranks. At length the foe. 
 
 Advancing to th' relief, came within range. 
 
 And from those narrow chambers where Death sleeps 
 
 Within the cannon's mouth, we welcomed him (cheers). 
 
 Then came their cavalry. They charged 
 
 Like the storm-driven thunder-cloud, that flies 
 
 To reach the spot doomed by its lightning — 
 
 But another tempest met them; not of wind, 
 
 Or rain, or the fork'd bolt we can see fall. 
 
MILITARY GLORY. 57 
 
 But of th' invisible messengers that fill the air 
 
 When hostile armies meet^ driving them back {cheers). 
 
 There was a body of the enemy 
 
 That had for special service been detached. 
 
 These, when their perilous purpose was accomplished, 
 
 Sought t^ unite again with their main army. 
 
 We did intercept and so cut off 
 
 Their passage, they could move this way nor that. 
 
 At first, with lighter arms and show of courage, 
 
 They stood up against our pond'rous metal; 
 
 But soon contagious fear ran thro' their ranks, 
 
 Loosening the tight bands of discipline. 
 
 And in one mixed, bewildered, helpless' mass, 
 
 Horses and men provoked our batteries. 
 
 Then with the ceaseless roar from th' other field 
 
 AVe mingled the dread music of our guns. 
 
 Rapid and quick they flashed. Death ! Death ! 
 
 'Twas thou didst point their aim. At each discharge 
 
 The murd'rous shot tore a wide vacant breach* 
 
 From end to end thro' the thick living ranks (cheers), 
 
 Till, when each blade of grass or trampled flower 
 
 Was watered with their plenteous flowing blood, 
 
 * This idea is from a late authentic history. 
 
58 MILITARY GLORY. 
 
 They cried for mercy. 'Twas a moving sight, 
 After each gun was silent, the strife o'er, 
 And the fierce fires of hate within our bosoms 
 Waned, to look upon the wounded. There they lay, 
 All martial semblance of resentment gone. 
 Weak, bleeding, dying, o'er the quiet ground. 
 One begged me, as I passed, for water; but ev'n 
 As I put it to his lips, he, voiceless, died. 
 A ball had pierced his breast thro' where, 
 Upon his scarlet vest, a wreath was worked. 
 Another looked on me and asked (as tho' 
 He thought of his) if I had little children? 
 Th' unfeeling dead methought were the best off. 
 But glorious 
 
 Was the victory our brave armies won. 
 Small was my part in 't, therefore may I speak. 
 In the increasing volume where is writ 
 For those to come the annals of our fame. 
 That day shall live. It did unfurl our flag 
 Over the foe's own land. So shall it be 
 Unfurled while foes do breathe, who would bedim 
 Its honor's spotless hue, or while such hearts 
 As yours, my friends, or mine can bleed. ( Capt. F. sits 
 down amid hud and long -continued cheering.) 
 
MILITARY GLORY. 59 
 
 SCEN3 — A foreign Country — A darkened chamber. 
 CHILD. 
 
 Mother, I will bring you flowers, 
 
 And set them here upon your little table, 
 
 So that the buds shall open in your sight. 
 
 MOTHER. 
 
 Thank you, my love. 
 
 CHILD. 
 
 I will bring books with stories, 
 
 And read them to you, sitting here all day, 
 
 And never weary of your company ; 
 
 For, mother, you are all the world to me I 
 
 MOTHER. 
 
 Thank you, my love. 
 
 CHILD. 
 
 I will hold your hand in the morning 
 While the birds sing to us in the woods. 
 And in the evening on the open path 
 That looks towards the sunset. 
 
60 MILITARY GLORY. 
 
 MOTHER. 
 
 Thank you, my tender love. 
 
 CHILD. 
 
 Are they not beautiful, mother? Will you 
 Never smile again ? 
 
 MOTHER. 
 
 My heart doth smile on you, my child. 
 
 But it is wounded in another part, 
 
 That gives to joy, ev'n now, the taste of grief. 
 
 You cannot know such wounds as yet; oh, that 
 
 You may not ever ! 
 
 CHILD. 
 
 Talk to me, dear mother, and tell me of 
 My father. 
 
 MOTHER. 
 
 How can I speak of him, of whom each thought 
 Is th' bitter food of woe ? And yet of who 
 Else can I speak, and to this orphan'd dove? 
 Your father loved you as I love you. 
 
MILITARY GLORY. 61 
 
 CHILD. 
 
 Do fathers love such little children as 
 Their mothers do ? 
 
 MOTHER, 
 
 He had a mother's heart for tenderness ! 
 I 've seen him hold you, but a babe, thus 
 In his arms, and look, and look into your face, 
 As tho' he thought within himself of all 
 He 'd do for you when you were grown. 
 
 CHILD. 
 
 He would not make a soldier of me, mother? 
 
 MOTHER. 
 
 No, my love. 
 
 CHILD. 
 
 Tell me yet more of my dear father. 
 
 MOTHER. 
 
 When you were sick, he watched by you. The night 
 Was not too long for him to watch. Over 
 6 
 
62 MILITARY GLORY. 
 
 Your bed he stooped, and listened to your breath, 
 Or put his hand upon your burning brow. 
 
 CHILD. 
 
 Are all fathers so, mother? 
 
 MOTHER. 
 
 No; you had 
 
 Two mothers, and one loving father. 
 
 CHILD. 
 
 How long is 't since he left us? 
 
 MOTHER. 
 
 When the snow was on the ground he went. 
 Before a leaf or flower put forth, and so, 
 Evermore it will be winter-time to me. 
 
 CHILD. 
 
 But when died he, mother? 
 
 MOTHER. 
 
 Oh, child ! oh, precious one ! 
 
 You know not how that innocent, sweet tongue 
 
MILITARY GLORY. 63 
 
 Doth break my heart. Yet must I tell you all. 
 
 Three days ago came word of a great battle. 
 
 In it he was slain. None saw him die. Alone ! 
 
 Ah, of what cruel wound — stretched on the plain, 
 
 His tender spirit passed, thinking of thee and me. 
 
 Can it be so? this void — this sore, sore famine 
 
 In my soul, where Hwas so full before? Would, 
 
 Then, that memory were slain ! — 
 
 I do remember him when he left; as he 
 
 Passed thro' that door he turned and looked on me. 
 
 CHILD. 
 
 Am I not like him, mother? 
 
 I 've heard you say my hair and eyes were his. 
 
 MOTHER. 
 
 With one of those yellow locks I worked 
 A silken wreath of flowers on his vest! 
 Oh, dreary War ! was it unto thy sacrifice 
 That I was born, and that those clustered blessings 
 Grew about my former life ? I did not think, 
 As year by year they multiplied and hemmed 
 Me in, one bitter stroke at length should crush 
 Them all and me. 
 
64 MILITARY GLORY. 
 
 CHILD. 
 
 Was it a victory, mother, this 
 Great battle ? 
 
 Yes, to some. 
 
 MOTHER. 
 
 CHILD. 
 
 And are they glad now, mother? 
 Do they now rejoice? 
 
 MOTHER. 
 
 They could not if they knew 
 
 How many hearts are broken now, that were 
 
 Both whole and full of happiness. 
 
 CHILD. 
 
 Shall I not learn to be a soldier, 
 
 And kill them some day, as they killed 
 
 My father? 
 
 MOTHER. 
 
 No, my love; remember your poor mother's words 
 Be not a soldier. Many are who would not e'er; 
 
MILITARY GLORY. 65 
 
 Yet do they not unfold to its full length 
 
 War's list of woes, that they may read them all. 
 
 It is, in truth, a trade that prospers most 
 
 In making such as you see me; such as 
 
 You are. IS^or do I know, if we would live 
 
 Strict by that "Word I daily teach to you, 
 
 How we can fit War's spirit and its deeds 
 
 To th' written teachings of the Prince of Peace. 
 
 6* 
 
THE CHRISTIAN'S WARFARE. 
 
 Not with the giant's sword, 
 
 But with the smooth stones from the running brook 
 
 The Christian fights. From the bright east, where the 
 
 Sun starts at morn, 'neath his whole circle till he 
 
 Comes again, lies spread the battle-field. 
 
 Foes, leagued with those without, are in his hearty 
 
 They couch, like beasts of prey, in his own flesh, 
 
 Yet doth he fight alone each warrior. 
 
 Winning his way across this wilderness. 
 
 It is a war of hidden single combats : 
 
 Not, as with the visible hosts of this world, 
 
 Grathered in array in gorgeous dress. 
 
 Glittering with arms and waving banners : 
 
 Th' unmarshalled host of Christ is scattered wide 
 
 Through every land; each unknown soldier 
 
 To his separate place of trial and of danger : 
 
THE christian's WARFARE. 67 
 
 With the oppressed are they in prisons 
 
 And deep dungeons; with the sick in hospitals, 
 
 Or laid on lonely beds of languishing; 
 
 Or midst the seeming blessedness of the rich 
 
 (For not alone in suffering, yet chiefly there 
 
 God hath his servants); but, where'er it be, 
 
 Each hath his foes forever round him ; 
 
 Each is oft o'ercome and seems defenceless. 
 
 Yet is he armed anew invisibly. 
 
 And, by the help of Grod, keeps fighting on. 
 
 Taking his daily part in that great conflict 
 
 Which is waged within a million hearts 
 
 O'er this wide world, through ev'ry passing hour. 
 
 Thou Hero of this world, who from some eminence, 
 
 With telescope and eye serene dost watch 
 
 The bloody field, ordering the battle ; 
 
 Pointing, by thy command, ten thousand bayonets 
 
 Into ten thousand bleeding hearts; planting 
 
 The dread artillery to sweep from earth, 
 
 In lifeless, mutilated heaps, warm breathing forms. 
 
 That shall be wept for thro' long years to come 
 
 In far off, blighted, desolated homes — 
 
 Thy victory to me is not like his. 
 
68 THE christian's warfare. 
 
 Whoe'er he be, who, shut within his closet, 
 "Wrestles with his own evil heart, and so 
 By grace doth conquer as to bring it back. 
 Broken and meek, to Him from whom by sin 
 It fell, back to his fellow-man, from whom 
 Thro' sin it was estranged. 
 
AFTER DEATH. 
 
 MetiR)ught I stood above my own green grave, 
 3Iy spirit coming back in viewless shape 
 After this house of mortal flesh was laid 
 In the damp earth. The myrtle and the blue 
 Forget-me-not covered the narrow mound. 
 Then from that sober eminence I looked 
 Back on my life, as on a vanished dream. 
 I said: '^For this decaying body lying here, 
 A little dust and a few mouldering bones, 
 What empty, vain solicitude I felt. 
 Decking it oftentimes, that it might seem 
 More comely in men's sight. How daintily 
 'Twas fed; how richly clothed : each smallest spot 
 Of earth was wiped off from its costly dress : 
 It walked with a proud step; it mingled with 
 Most gentle company (who lie scattered 
 Around it now). Then I would heap up wealth 
 
70 AFTER DEATH. 
 
 For it, and build a palace for its mansion; 
 
 So that it had no rest thro' many years. 
 
 Poor clod of earth ! now buried out of sight — 
 
 How didst thou toil, and ache, and suffer 
 
 To lie here. Life ! thou fleeting space 
 
 Of a few days and hours, given us 
 
 Before we come thro' the grave's narrow gate 
 
 Into Eternity, had I thee once again. 
 
 How diff'rently would I use thee. Looking back, 
 
 I see thy harvests of instruction and 
 
 Blest opportunity waving unreaped 
 
 About my path, while I did gather only 
 
 Poisonous weeds, and in the future I behold 
 
 A judgment for which I am unprepared. 
 
 I am a naked soul without a robe 
 
 To wrap me in ! my secret sins uncovered. 
 
 And the dread of that great day when God 
 
 Shall look on me, fills me with terror thro' 
 
 This sleepless state of being." 
 
 Then I thought 
 One came to me and asked, with pitying voice, 
 ^'Who art thou, and what dost thou here?" I said 
 "A disembodied and lost spirit, weeping 
 Above the grave of that poor flesh which clothed 
 
AFTER DEATH. 71 
 
 Me once; for which, alas! I lived alone. 
 
 It, buried here, is dead; and, through corruption. 
 
 Doth return to its original senseless elements; 
 
 But I still live; for me there is no death. 
 
 Save that eternal woe for which I wait.'^ 
 
 He, looking lovingly, again thus spake : 
 
 "If I will now reanimate this dust. 
 
 Causing the heart to beat once more, and the 
 
 Warm blood to flow, giving thee for a season 
 
 Back to life again, wilt thou turn from 
 
 That present evil world and follow me?^^ 
 
 I answered: "Art thou He who died for me?" 
 
 And as I spake, lo ! I beheld his wounds. 
 
 Then at his feet I prostrate fell and cried : 
 
 "If thou wilt give me back the life I 've lost, 
 
 And with it grace to follow thee, I will 
 
 Be thine alone, and thou shalt be my God. 
 
 The world seeking to tempt me, nor the flesh 
 
 With its unnumbered evil longings, nor 
 
 My spiritual enemy shall ever win me 
 
 From thy love." 
 
 I waked from my deep vision 
 To my daily toil, and the returned realities 
 Of life — ^yet to a different life, for I ~ 
 
72 AFTER DEATH. 
 
 Had seen, in that mysterious hour, the End, 
 
 And realized how worthless, then. Pleasure's banquet, 
 
 Or the imaginary heights of Fame, or Wealth, 
 
 Or station ; and how better and how sweet 
 
 It was, to have a friend to meet me on 
 
 That shore, where the poor soul must land alone 
 
 From Jordan's flood. Now, with my cares and labors 
 
 Day by day I mingle prayer and praise. 
 
 Receiving in return those heavenly influences 
 
 Which help the Christian thro' this warring time, 
 
 Griving him fortitude and strength, and often 
 
 Secret draughts of joy. 
 
THE INTERIOR OF THE HEART. 
 
 In the still night as I lay on my bed, 
 
 Thoughts from the day still preventing sweet sleep^ 
 
 Tho' she waited by my couch with her veil 
 
 Of Forgetfulness, willing with gentle hand 
 
 To cast it o'er my wearied form, One* came 
 
 To my chamber holding a burning light; 
 
 He raised it o'er my head, looking down on me, 
 
 And motionless stood gazing, as to view 
 
 Mine inmost soul. In that strange interview, 
 
 As between the voiceless, shrouded dead, 
 
 Fear bound my limbs, and troubled thoughts my tongue. 
 
 I marvelled whom he was, at dead of night, 
 
 Breaking thus uninvited on my rest. 
 
 But soon I saw his form, so clothed in majesty 
 
 He seemed to wear such dignity from heaven, 
 
 * The Spirit that convicts the heart. 
 
74 THE INTERIOR OF THE HEART. 
 
 The questionings of my heart were turned to awe. 
 ^'Not of the earth," then said I, ^'but from where 
 The blue vault shutteth out man's feeble sight 
 Thou 'rt come to me, who am unworthy of 
 Thy presence. Command or lead the way, 
 Thy power is o'er the soul, adoring I obey." 
 
 It was along some unknown path* he led. 
 
 Once beautiful, I judged, but blighted now. 
 
 There hung the withered vine with shrunken clusters, 
 
 And the olive cast her fruit upon the earth. 
 
 I saw there multitudes of faded flowers. 
 
 Parched, as it had been, in their early bloom — 
 
 The lily of the valley and the rose 
 
 Of Sharon. No songs of birds came out from 
 
 The dead boughs, or insects' voices from the ground. 
 
 I seemed to walk in autumn, but it was 
 
 An autumn more intense than that which strips 
 
 From Nature's form her delicate summer robes 
 
 Ere Winter cometh with his storms. 
 
 Soon came we where an archway thro' a rock 
 Rose o'er our path, spanning two brazen gates. 
 
 * Our first serious thoughts. 
 
THE INTERIOR OF THE HEART. i D 
 
 The massive stone frowned down with look impregnable. 
 
 As we approached, beneath its gloomy shade 
 
 I saw one* watching. Covered o'er with mail 
 
 He sat, as of the rock, lone and immovable. 
 
 While hidden yet from sight our footsteps fell 
 
 Upon his ear. He rose with shield and sword, 
 
 But as we came full on bis view be fled. 
 
 Then, drawing near, my guide knocked tbrice upon 
 
 The rugged brass. His heavy strokes resounded, 
 
 But none came to answer them; at which 
 
 I, being fearful, said, "How shall we enter, 
 
 Seeing there is none to open to us ?" 
 
 He answered not, but turned witb looks of love 
 
 That did illumine all my heart; then led 
 
 To where, a little earth removed, revealed 
 
 A secret spring.f 'Twas slight, and to the eye 
 
 Seemed powerless; but when by bis command 
 
 I touched it, lo ! the pond'rous doors gave way, 
 
 Admitting us unharmed. 
 
 Now following at his side, on entering, 
 I saw he covered o'er the lamp he held, 
 
 ^ The sinner's fear of conversion. 
 
 f Prajer, as tanglit by the Holy Spirit. 
 
76 THE INTERIOR OF THE HEART. 
 
 So that its searching rays were shed upon 
 
 My path no more; and then at once darkness 
 
 So thick o'ershadowed me, I was bereft 
 
 Of sight; but, soon uncov'ring it in part, 
 
 Dimly I saw, stretching each way, a plain. 
 
 No wall or boundary was visible 
 
 On either side, but all round and above 
 
 The gloom deepened to utter darkness. 
 
 Far in the centre shone a gleam of light. 
 
 Thither the angel led, and thro' th' obscurity 
 
 ,We passed, like spirits through the realms of death. 
 
 As we drew near the light it flickered round 
 
 Our feet. Then I beheld 'twas from a fire 
 
 Burning on an altar in the midst. 
 
 Beside it there was one* of fiend-like shape. 
 
 And hue dark as the night, save where the blaze. 
 
 Reflected, lighted all one side his form. 
 
 As we approached, not seeing us, he stood, 
 
 And with his waving wings did fan the flames. 
 
 They rose in crimson wreaths, illumining 
 
 A wide, deep circle round and o'er us — 
 
 A red chasm in the black abyss. 
 
 Here paused we, and I heard his voice thus cry : 
 
 * The evil spirit, that reigns in the natural heai't. 
 
THE INTERIOR OF THE HEART. 77 
 
 ^'Burn, burn, forever burn! no otlier light 
 
 Than thme, dread fire, e'er enter here. I love 
 
 This gloom; all evil do I love; all good 
 
 I hate. Deep as these depths my love, but deep 
 
 As hell my hate.^^ Then said I to the spirit 
 
 Who had led me, ''Is not this a mansion 
 
 In that dreadful place whither those souls 
 
 Are sent who die unreconciled to Grod?'' 
 
 Pie answered, "Not yet may'st thou know all of 
 
 The things thou see'st. Gather the sheaves first from 
 
 The field, then seek to separate the fruit 
 
 Within them hid." Now, as we silent stood. 
 
 The fiend, touched with an inward dread instinctive, 
 
 Turned, and as he turned, beheld the angel. 
 
 At the beauteous, lovely sight he trembled, 
 
 Drawing back as if with horror filled. 
 
 Then prostrate fell, and with his wings uplifted, 
 
 Covered all his black and hideous length. 
 
 I looked upon him prostrate. At my side 
 
 The Angel stood, in radiant majesty. 
 
 I thought, ''0 Sin, how fathomless the depths 
 
 To which thou 'rt fallen ! Holiness, how beautiful 
 
 Thy garb, still pure and without spot, in hell 
 
 Or heaven \" 
 
 7* 
 
*78 THE INTERIOR OF THE HEART. 
 
 T' wards tli' impenetrable darkness 
 That all round set limit to our sight 
 The angel turned. His lamp shed but dim light, 
 Not going before or following after us 
 With piercing ray, but casting o'er our pathway 
 A pale beam, lighting each step. I followed 
 Wondering, nor without dread, upon 
 The unknown track. But with me was no strength 
 To turn or stay. Drawn helpless, I was taught 
 There is a Power that, without visible bounds 
 Or seen restraint, reigns o'er the soul supreme. 
 Now came we to a broad and winding way 
 That upward led, by many steps ascending. 
 Ruinous it was, as though uutrod. 
 Save by the viewless wasting steps of years; 
 Yet from the vestiges of grandeur there 
 I knew 'twas worthy once for kings to walk on. 
 As we reached its summit a wide plain 
 Stretched in a measureless circle on our view. 
 And o'er it ghostlike* forms from far and near 
 Fled thro' the dim light to the deeper gloom. 
 Upon this plane I walked to its inner verge; 
 And saw, beneath the altar, He who tended it 
 
 * Our natural evil passions and dispositions. 
 
THE INTERIOR OF THE HEART. 79 
 
 Was risen again, and fed its sleepless fires. 
 
 Thence following the angel far back through 
 
 The darkness, I was led until a wall, 
 
 Like to the barriers of some rocky fortress, 
 
 Rose before us, limiting our steps. 
 
 Against this wall my guide held up his lamp, 
 
 I saw where once it had been covered with 
 
 Inscriptions,* but their import now was lost. 
 
 Dimmed by the dust of ages and th' erasures 
 
 Of decay, I could discern no word 
 
 On all its sullied and mysterious page. 
 
 Then said I, " May I know concerning this 
 
 Which now thou showest me?" He answered, ^' These 
 
 Were words of wisdom, written here in gold. 
 
 Thou 'st heard how glorious, on Zion's top. 
 
 The temple shone, covered with Ophir's costly offerings? 
 
 This was more glorious. The temple's dress 
 
 Was of the earth, put on by mortal hands. 
 
 Here, as a mantle, heavenly Truth was spread — 
 
 Spread by the hand of God. The precious treasures 
 
 There shone in dumb splendor; here they spoke 
 
 With an inspired tongue. But now their voice 
 
 (roeth forth no more — their glory is departed." 
 
 * The law of God, as originally written on our hearts. 
 
80 THE INTERIOR OF THE HEART. 
 
 Passing oii^ "wc walking came to Tihere 
 
 A beautiful garment"^ lay spread o'er our patli. 
 
 'Twas as though he who once was clothed in it 
 
 Had by the hand of death been taken away, 
 
 Leaving it as he died. I lingered here. 
 
 The angel said, " Lay not thine hand on it, 
 
 Eut look upon it, mark it well.'' His lamp 
 
 Then shed its brighter light, and near my feet 
 
 I saw a snowy robe. x\t th' loosened neck 
 
 There hung a clasp made of one goodly pearl; 
 
 No other ornament it bore through all 
 
 Its length, save its own spotless hue. Now as 
 
 I g-azed a change came o'er it. Gradually 
 
 It grew transparent to my sight. 
 
 Then I beheld this robe had been a covering. 
 
 For underneath, hid by its radiant folds. 
 
 Glittered a suit of armor.f There the breastplate 
 
 Shone like burnished gold; the girdle lay as it 
 
 Encircled him with strength who once had worn it. 
 
 I beheld, as laid aside but yesterday. 
 
 The helmet, covered o'er with heavenly hues. 
 
 The shield was small and white, like to some cloud 
 
 That floats, a spot of silver in the sky. 
 
 ^ Plan's original purity. 
 
 f The protection that was in oui' original innocence. 
 
THE INTERIOR OF THE HEART. 81 
 
 Then, when I had looked on it, I said, ^'Ohl dress 
 
 To be desired; would that my soul might here 
 
 Disrobe and put it on." "Thou see'st with 
 
 An eye of fiesh," the angel answered: 
 
 "Beautiful it seemeth, but its heavenly temper 
 
 Hath all gone. Lay now thy hand upon it; 
 
 Know its strength/^ I stooped to touch it: 
 
 At my touch it fell to thinnest dust! 
 
 As some once cherished form that long hath lain 
 
 Hid in the grave, spared by the wasting worm, 
 
 And marred not by decay; keeping the freshness 
 
 Of the first days of death, so that when one 
 
 With filial love doth come to reincase 
 
 The treasured bones, he looks, startled, astonished, 
 
 On a father's face, and, ere he mark it well, 
 
 Its features, touched by tV air, are lost. 
 
 Dissolving into shapeless earth again — 
 
 So fell this beautiful garment from my sight ! 
 
 The eye still sought for it, but found only 
 
 A little heap of dust. Over my heart 
 
 As a thick cloud a heavy sadness came. 
 
 "For a brief space," the angel said, "yet farther 
 Will I lead. Fear not, but follow in my steps." 
 Then o'er another wide and ruinous way 
 
82 THE INTERIOR OF THE HEART. 
 
 We passed, ascending to another plain 
 Like that we 'deleft. Here as we walked I saw 
 The forms of many harps.* Veiled by the shade, 
 They seemed most fair, as tho' th^ invisible strings 
 Might utter harmony in all its voices 
 From those delicate notes, scarce heard, that as 
 The softened tints of early dawn delight us, 
 To those deeper tones that thrill the soul 
 Like richer splendors when departs the day. 
 I looking on them said, '^Oh, thou who know'st 
 Those sweet celestial songs that angels sing, 
 Is there not one among these thou may'st strike 
 And with its music cheer my drooping heart?*' 
 Then as before, his lamp shed brilliant rays — 
 The harps that in the gloom appeared so :^iir. 
 Were ruinous with decay. As the light brightened, 
 From their tops, with sable wings outspread, 
 Flew startled birds — unclean birds of the night — 
 That rested there unseen. The delicate chords 
 Were all enwrapt with heavy mould. Entwined 
 About them, serpents, now disturbed, lifted 
 Their heads, with darting tongues and eyes of fire. 
 When I found utterance I trembling cried, 
 
 * Praise, as offered from the unfallen heart. 
 
THE INTERIOR OF THE HEART. 83 
 
 "Tell me, angel, thro' what mighty wreck 
 
 Thou leadest me? where darkness and corruption 
 
 Have come o'er such exquisite things, sitting 
 
 Triumphant amid ruins not like those 
 
 Of earth, the place of their inheritance, 
 
 But, as it were, somewhere in heaven's domain." 
 
 He, speaking not, led on with rapid step 
 
 To the plane's verge. There on the fearful brink 
 
 We paused. Far, far beneath, as in the depths 
 
 Of hell, I saw once more th' ascending flames : 
 
 Their red glare, struggling up thro' the abyss, 
 
 Scarce reached our dizzy height. "Look now above," 
 
 The angel said. I lifted up my eyes 
 
 And saw as 'twere the rayless countenance 
 
 Of night spread over us. While I thus gazed 
 
 He, turning to me, said, "Light once shone down 
 
 As a pure flood where now thou lookest: 
 
 Its descending glories then were met 
 
 By kindred beams that rose from off the altar; 
 
 For where now thou see'st Sin's deadly minister 
 
 Dwelt One most holy. Those spirits that fled 
 
 From thy sights hiding in darkness, 
 
 Then were clothed in robes like that beneath, 
 
 Nor feared to walk in th' sight of God, for he 
 
 Had made them pure and saw in them no fault. 
 
84 THE INTERIOR OF THE HEART. 
 
 Then did tliese harps resound to their sweet songs. 
 This place was near to heaven; its blest inhabitants 
 Dwelt beneath heaven's light, amid its peace. 
 Such had their happy lot forever been, 
 But that they turned from Him who did create them. 
 
 Shorn of all strength to harm the steadfast soul, 
 Thither temptation came. The Tempter stood 
 Without. He might not rend th' etherial bolts 
 That Power Divine had placed to guard these portals, 
 But his voice sent in, mingled with th' notes of praise, 
 Pleading for entrance. Then these spirits listened 
 To his voice, and listening believed : they 
 Of themselves unbarred the gates no enemy 
 Might force. Oh, what estate was then to sorrow 
 Given ! God's Spirit took his flight. With power 
 The Tempter entered. Into bondage he cast 
 Those who had admitted him, and they became 
 His slaves; yet not unwillingly. Polluted 
 By his presence; with his thoughts infused 
 Into their minds, they learned to love his ways. 
 Behold the change that sin hath wrought ! They who 
 Once basked in heaven's beams now hate the light, 
 And it is taken from them. Here, shut up 
 In darkness with the one they love to serve, 
 
THE INTERIDR OF THE HEART. 85 
 
 With him they work all evil. Yet do I 
 
 Not leave them, as they've chosen thus to perish. 
 
 Even in this place my Witness* dwells, 
 
 But heeded not, and often quite cast out. 
 
 Sometimes I come and preach the words of Life. 
 
 Then, if they hear, I bind the Fiend in chains. 
 
 Open their windows once again to light. 
 
 Which shall at length shine in more glorious streams 
 
 Than ere they fell. For that day cometh, when 
 
 From ev'ry soul that hath returned to me 
 
 All stain and spot of sin shall be quite purged. 
 
 And holiness and joy shall fill it full. 
 
 But when they will not hear, I do at last 
 
 Call hence my witness, and myself return 
 
 No more, leaving them to their doom. 
 
 * Conscience. 
 
THE TWO aHAVES. 
 
 Here are two graves with flowers overgrown, 
 No monument doth tell who lies beneath, 
 
 Or how the swift-winged years have come and flown 
 Since they were laid here by the hand of death. 
 
 Yet was there once a time when, smooth and green. 
 This sod unbroken lay in the cool shade — 
 
 Renewed each spring its grassy dress was seen, 
 Till autumn frosts returning, made it fade. 
 
 This virgin soil, that ne'er was broke before. 
 To dust received those who of dust were born, 
 
 Then closed again, to be disturbed no more 
 Till they shall rend it on the Judgment morn. 
 
THE TWO GRAVES. 87 
 
 And I, a wand'rer on a toilsome way, 
 
 To view this quiet resting-place am brought, 
 
 And lingering here as fades the summer's day. 
 Find mid its quiet beauties food for thought. 
 
 Though still and lonely now, I do not doubt 
 There has another scene been witnessed here, 
 
 When from the stricken heart deep grief flowed out, 
 And where these flowers spring fell the bitter tear. 
 
 But now perchance the stricken heart is gone. 
 That yearned for those who lie beneath this spot ; 
 
 Perchance of all who tread the earth, not one 
 Remembereth their image or their lot. 
 
 And this is but the common fate of all ; 
 
 The world forgets us, though we loved it well; 
 And the few kindred hearts that weep our fall. 
 
 Soon following us, are fallen where we fell. 
 
 It is not, then, upon your earthly state. 
 
 Ye nameless slumb'rers who lie here at rest, 
 
 That lingering thus I muse and meditate 
 As fades the day along the golden west. 
 
88 THE TWO GRAVES. 
 
 Though ye had many lovers and few foes, 
 
 Though wealth with Jewell' d splendor clothed your 
 brow, 
 Though ye were poor, and suffered all the woes 
 
 Of keenest want, what doth it matter now? 
 
 Earth's sorrows and her sweetest joys forgot, 
 The things ye sought in vain and those ye won, 
 
 That pitied and that envied in your lot 
 Are now alike all gone, forever gone. 
 
 Not to the fleeting things of Time, which die 
 As the frail body yieldeth up its breath, 
 
 Thought turns her silent retrospective eye. 
 But to the soul, the soul that knows no death. 
 
 Were ye among the lowly and the meek. 
 
 Whose new-born hearts are filled with heavenly love ? 
 Did ye pass by earth's empty charms, and seek 
 
 A purer portion in the realms above ? 
 
 It may be that the lowly path of prayer 
 
 Across life's waste these mould'ring feet have trod, 
 
 And, cheered by faith, thro' all this night of care 
 With joyful steps they hasten'd home to God. 
 
THE TWO GRAVES. 89 
 
 In sweetest slumber rests the weary head, 
 
 If Jesus the still watches o'er it keep; 
 More soft than couch of down this narrow bed, 
 
 When here he giveth his beloved sleep. 
 
 8* 
 
THE STREETS AT MIDNIGHT. 
 
 How still and cold it is to-night ! 
 The moon hath hid her silver light; 
 But all the lesser hosts burn bright, 
 From east to west. 
 
 Now from the lone, deserted street 
 There comes no sound of busy feet; 
 The crowds that here by day I meet 
 Are gone to rest. 
 
 Ah! what a change the night brings on; 
 She claims all nature for her own : 
 Nor in the outward world alone 
 We feel her sway. 
 
THE STREETS AT MIDNIGHT. 91 
 
 He who at morn, in eager haste, 
 With thronging multitudes here pressed, 
 Now, thoughtful, o'er a gloomy waste 
 Pursues his way. 
 
 Hark ! through the still and wintry air 
 A sound by day I scarce can hear 
 Booms through the darkness loud and clear — 
 The clock tolls one. 
 
 And answers from each neighboring bell. 
 From tower to tower in chorus swell. 
 Till the last laggard sounds the knell, 
 And all are done. 
 
 Who watches o'er the slumb'rer's bed 
 While lies at rest his weary head? 
 Is it the man whose measured tread 
 I hear draw nigh? 
 
 Oh no; there is an unseen Power 
 That guards this sweet unconscious hour. 
 And, while night's shadows round us lower. 
 Stoops from on high. 
 
92 THE STREETS AT MIDNIGHT. 
 
 Now looking on the worlds above, 
 My thoughts in paths celestial move, 
 Musing on one whom still I love. 
 Though from me gone. 
 
 I think how glorious, how bright 
 That City where she walks in light; 
 There is no slumber, there no night, 
 Her work is done. 
 
 Yet was she once a pilgrim here, 
 Compassed, like me, with many a care; 
 Clouds round her pathway gathered near, 
 The way seemed long. 
 
 But, on a dark and suffering day, 
 As sank the flesh amidst decay. 
 Angels her spirit bore away 
 To join their song. 
 
 She spoke not, saw not as she passed. 
 Death had so dark a shadow cast 
 O'er the flickering flame at last. 
 
 And quenched her sight. 
 
THE STREETS AT MIDNIGHT. 93 
 
 But by the life that she had led, 
 We knew, while weeping round her, dead, 
 When her sweet spirit from us fled. 
 Whither its flight. 
 
 Not that she sinless lived, or won 
 Salvation by her works. Alone, 
 Oh ! none shall stand before Thy throne 
 And be forgiven. 
 
 Wrapt in Christ's Righteousness, by Faith 
 She lived; she yielded up her breath; 
 In Him she triumphed over death. 
 And entered heaven. 
 
TO HIM WHO LOVES TO MEDITATE. 
 
 When pausing by the wayside, filled with thought, 
 The inner chamber of thy heart is still, 
 
 And by the whisp'ring spirit thou art taught 
 They are the blest who do their Maker's will — 
 
 When as it were by some celestial hand 
 The veil is lifted up which hides from sight 
 
 The hill of Zion and that pilgrim band 
 
 Who climb its pathway towards the realms of light — 
 
 And as their songs of praise are echoed back, 
 
 Thine doth follow them afar, to find 
 Among the trav'lers on that heavenward track. 
 
 Brothers and friends who have left thee behind — 
 
TO HIM WHO LOVES TO MEDITATE. 95 
 
 When thy soul's rescue seems almost begun, 
 Looking aloft, she craves a portion there, 
 
 And, stretching forth her arms, she longs for one 
 Of those white robes which Jesus' followers wear — 
 
 Know that it is not of thyself they spring. 
 These deep unearthly longings; to thy heart 
 
 Full messages of love from One they bring, 
 
 Who woos thee thus "to choose the better part." 
 
WIER AND BERTHA. 
 
 SCENE — The open country heside a river. 
 
 WIER. 
 
 From this place let us watch the setting sun — 
 There is a glory in his slow departing 
 That brings to mind the bright path of the soul 
 Thro' death's dim twilight to a better world. 
 
 BERTHA. 
 
 These sunset beauties do give heavenly colors 
 To our thoughts. Yet of those thoughts how little 
 Can we speak ! Language draws not the veil 
 From th' inmost heart; much is left hidden there. 
 
 WIER. 
 
 'Tis kindly ordered so. By utterance, and 
 That deep discerning sympathy which springeth 
 
WIER AND BERTHA. 97 
 
 From inward likeness, both in good and evil, 
 
 We look as far into each other's breasts 
 
 As tendeth to our happiness. Our nature 
 
 Is fairn. There are dregs in bottom of 
 
 The cup best unrevealed, save to His eye 
 
 Who ^th more than human charity for our faults. 
 
 BERTHA. 
 
 Yet from the heart that is regenerate, 
 Enough of good doth overflow to nourish 
 Warmest affection — love that sweetens life — ■ 
 Such love as I bear thee. 
 
 WIER. 
 
 I know thou lovest me. Not as 
 
 The ignorant youth who falls before some idol, 
 
 A phantom of his own imagination — 
 
 But invested with some fair familiar 
 
 Form of flesh. Such love hath no real substance; 
 
 Touch it with th' rude hand of actual life, 
 
 It fades. But we may number now our years 
 
 Of wedded union; thou know'st my faults, 
 
 And lovest me still. 
 
 9 
 
y© WIER AND BERTHA. 
 
 BERTHA. 
 
 Ah ! well we know the secret of 
 This cliiference. Our love, at its first spring 
 Nurtured in prayer, now in its later summer 
 Hath become like a fair vine planted by 
 Living waters, daily bearing fresh fruit. 
 And springing up more beautiful. If ever. 
 For an hour, some leaf upon it fades, through 
 Nature's imperfection, grace soon restores 
 Its hue, and, from its topmost tender bud 
 Even to the root, 'tis green. 
 
 WIER. 
 
 Here, then, together let us lift our hearts 
 To Him who reared for us this vine. 
 
 BERTPIA. 
 
 It is a fitting place, amid his visible works. 
 Which, though they have no voices, glorify 
 His name. 
 
 WIER. 
 
 Even voiceless nature would teach man, and she 
 Doth lure him from th' unquiet world into 
 Her solitary haunts, that he may learn of her. 
 
WIER AND BERTHA. 99 
 
 Each object hatli instruction for him here, 
 
 And every leaflet is a mute example. 
 
 Look on these waters flowing at our feet — 
 
 They have their mission, and from age to age 
 
 Fulfil it, nourishing their fruitful borders. 
 
 And most delicate and varied moss 
 
 Doth cloak the barren rock that guards the stream. 
 
 Bring the proud man t' this little blade of grassy 
 
 A thousand years ago one such as it 
 
 Grrew here, and, withering, dropt its seed 
 
 Into the ground, from whence this sprang. 
 
 Can he boast such a line? 
 
 Ah ! what a poor foundation doth he build 
 
 The towering structure of his pride upon ! 
 
 BERTHA. 
 
 And yet how many, thinking they love Nature, 
 But learning not ev'n the first of all those lessons 
 She would teach them — that there is a Grod — 
 Do worship her; raising her to the place 
 Of Him she points to. 
 
 WIER. 
 
 There are such, but unto them 
 
 How has the crystal stream turned stagnant. 
 
100 WIER AND BERTHA. 
 
 And the bloom and smile that earth puts on 
 Changed to a frown ! Th' eloquent and fair face 
 Of Creation loseth its beauty, and is 
 Meaningless to him who loves not Grod. 
 
 This morning, as I climb' d the mountain top, 
 Following th' steep path, scarce discernible. 
 In the deep shade upon its rugged side 
 I found a smooth green spot where wild flowers grew. 
 Thick branches met above it, and all round 
 At a brief distance I was quite shut in 
 By varied foliage. The evening's rain 
 Had freshened all the herbage of the wood 3 
 No sound was there save nature's, and I knew 
 No human eye looked on it but my own. 
 'Twas perfect solitude ! I deeply felt. 
 Yes, beyond utterance, the beauties of the scene. 
 And, as with opened lips, my spirit breathed 
 And drank them in. But after the first draught 
 Came a revulsion and a thirst. Canst thou 
 Tell whence they came? ^Twas even thus. 
 Having looked upon God's works, I longed for Him ; 
 And to the touching charms that filled the place 
 I said: "Ye impart a joy the purest earth 
 Can give me, but earth has not that to give 
 Which nourishes and satisfies the soul." 
 
WIER AND BERTHA. 101 
 
 And here the hlincl idolater of nature 
 
 Had fallen into despondency and grief, 
 
 As having tasted of her purest fount, 
 
 And climbed unto her most exalted summit, 
 
 Only to find there dearth and barrenness ; 
 
 But thro' these natural bowers I passed 
 
 To higher scenes, ev'n to commune with Him 
 
 Who did create them. There I worshipped him, 
 
 And sang his praise, alone, in that sweet solitude, 
 
 Until the leafy covert did become 
 
 A hallowed temple, spiritualized and filled 
 
 With his most Holy Presence. 
 
 Blest is his discourse with nature 
 Whom Faith accompanies as interpreter. 
 Her beauties, all uncovered to his view. 
 Stand witnesses of infinite love and power; 
 And in their midst, as in a higher world, 
 He adores with burning, purified desires. 
 Compared with which these words of mine to thee 
 Are cold as th' falling snow. But thou need'st not 
 To hear them from my lips; thou 'st felt them in 
 Thy heart, and know'st them all. 
 
 9=^ 
 
102 WIER AND BERTHA. 
 
 BERTHA. 
 
 Truly in my lone walks among these hills 
 
 I 've worshipped oft, rejoicing in the hope 
 
 That when their wooded heights shall bloom no more 
 
 For me, I then shall be with Him of whom 
 
 Each flower as in a whisper, and each bold 
 
 Terrific precipice as with a louder voice 
 
 (But not more moving to my heart) doth speak. 
 
 Sometimes I walk in heaviness, weeping 
 
 Beneath my load of sin; but there is joy 
 
 Even in thus weeping at my Master's feet. 
 
 Who that hath known it but would choose 
 
 Religion's tears before all others' smiles? 
 
 If God hath made a world of sin so beautiful, 
 
 Then what must heaven be ? 
 
 WIER. 
 
 How doth the Spirit give to us new sight. 
 That penetrates within the mere outside 
 Of things about us ! We behold the mystery 
 Of which all visible things are but the covering, 
 And of which, to the new opened eye, all 
 Speak. I love to walk with thee beside 
 Truth's placid stream, tracing it to its source. 
 
WIER AND BERTHA. 103 
 
 New views break in upon our upward path, 
 
 And precious jewels lie about our feet. 
 
 He gathers more of Wisdom, tho' unlearned, 
 
 Who searches for her in humility, 
 
 Spreading the net of prayer with faith towards heaven, 
 
 Than all who seek her by some prouder way. 
 
 How many a midnight hour of deep research. 
 
 How many a lofty flight on Fancy's wing 
 
 Hath been in vain ! Ye who in other days 
 
 Soared on the pinions of sublimest thought 
 
 Till all the earth looked up and gazed 
 
 In admiration, tell us, doth the fame 
 
 Ye won console and comfort now? Is it 
 
 A pillow or a downy couch beyond 
 
 The grave? Ah! 'twas not worth the price ye paid. 
 
 Truth learned too late! Ye've grasped a phantom, thrown 
 
 Away a soul. Genius, how hast thou sold 
 
 Thy more than golden heritage for naught ! 
 
 When I look on thy monuments, and thine 
 
 Sweet poesy, whom I love, I mourn so few 
 
 Among the laurelled columns thou hast reared 
 
 Are dedicated to the Lord. Gorgeous 
 
 Thy Temple, but to other gods than He 
 
 Who gave to thee each talent; not that thou 
 
 Shouldst thus exalt and beautify thyself, 
 
104 WIER AND BERTHA. 
 
 But with angelic power tell of his glory 
 
 To thy fellow-men. 
 
 Thou ever first in song ! who climbed so well 
 
 Fame's loftiest height, and still unreached dost stand, 
 
 In thy lone grandeur, on that cloudy peak, 
 
 Envied as thou art, and idolized from age to age, 
 
 1 had rather be in this green vale below. 
 
 An unknown little child in Christ, than thee. 
 
 True wisdom is a second birth, and separate 
 
 From that by which the intellect, arrayed 
 
 In fallen splendor, waketh into being. 
 
 He who is richest in mere gifts of mind, 
 
 Hath no more skill to guide his soul aright 
 
 Than he who's poorest: both are destitute 
 
 Of that renewing beam, which, shed from heaven 
 
 Into the heart, illumines it with light. 
 
 And without which all walk in darkness, 
 
 Never finding out the way of life. Here 
 
 Is the condemnation, that this light 
 
 Is offered us, but we love darkness more. 
 
 Of all th' unnumbered ways 
 We choose to walk in, one alone is right ; 
 And this one seems to be the steepest 
 And most barren of them all. But those 
 
WIER AND BERTHA. 105 
 
 Who follow it, tell of its wondrous beauty, 
 
 And declare that cooling fountains and 
 
 Celestial fruit spring all along its course. 
 
 Yet men believe them not. It is a way 
 
 Narrow, hemmed in, and hidden from the world. 
 
 One walked there long ago, who in his day 
 
 Was filled with grief. Men hated him, and all 
 
 His offence was, love. They crowned him with sharp 
 
 thorns, 
 And led him forth bearing his cross in pageantry 
 Of shame. Yet was he meek and unresisting, 
 Even to the gates of death; but as he 
 Passed thro* them, his bonds fell off, and he became 
 A King. Now on his throne, the Conqueror 
 Of Death, the Prince of Life, he reigns in heaven. 
 His followers have ever walked upon 
 This path; they share the sufferings he bore. 
 But, all enduring to the end, are glorified 
 With him. This is the path, my love, whereon 
 I trust we walk; and is it not, ev'n with 
 Its cross, the path of happiness? 
 
LOVE. 
 
 "When I look around and see 
 The glories that encompass me — 
 The earth, with beauty mantled o'er; 
 The sea, that rolls from shore to shore ; 
 
 The starry sky above — 
 Then when I look within and find 
 T' enjoy all these a deathless mind, 
 
 My heart is filled with love. 
 
 When by the grave I thoughtful stand, 
 Gazing towards that far-ofi" land 
 AYhither, when these are lost to sight, 
 My soul must wing its silent flight 
 
 Beyond the sky above — 
 Then when I think that, waiting there, 
 I have a home than this more fair. 
 Prepared for me without my care. 
 
 My heart overflows with love. 
 
LOVE. 107 
 
 Who did prepare all these for me — 
 The blooming earth, the heaving sea, 
 The mind that marks each beauty here, 
 And waits in faith, from year to year, 
 
 For better things above? 
 ^Twas Thou, Saviour of my soul. 
 Who, ere this earth began to roll, 
 Gruided through space by thy control, 
 
 Hadst chosen me in love. 
 
 Oh, precious love ! it marked my way 
 Thro' trials to eternal day. 
 And now I feel its unseen hand 
 Gruiding me to that calm, blest land 
 
 This vale of tears above. 
 What are these trials, then, to me? 
 Beyond their fleeting space I see 
 A blissful, pure eternity 
 
 Of perfect, perfect love. 
 
GRIEF, 
 
 WITHOUT THE LIGHT, AND WITH IT. 
 
 SCENE- — A closed room — A dead child lying upon a 
 couch. 
 
 THE FATHER (alone). 
 
 How far the rumbling in the street sounds off! 
 The world has changed to me since yesterday. 
 Death puts his dart into the tenderest spot, 
 And leaves it there. The deep foundations of 
 My soul are jarred and shaken out of place. 
 I saw a wall of loose worn stones. A vine 
 Grew on its top. Its tender roots had filled 
 The crevices that time had emptied. When 
 I rudely sought to snatch it, the wall fell. 
 So am I fallen. This dead lovely vine 
 Grew thus on the bare summit of my years, 
 
GRIEF. 109 
 
 And thus was torn from me. I do not live ; 
 
 'Tis but the outward semblance; in my soul 
 'Tiscold! 
 
 Speak, precious one; cheat robber Death! 
 I loved thee with a love he could not reach 
 With the keenest of his quiver to give H a wound. 
 Why then shouldst thou, the embodied, taintless form 
 Of the soul's pure, undying passion, yield? 
 
 Here lies her little hand, so yielding to 
 My will. Where'er I place it, there it rests. 
 Her sweet soft fingers, each a separate death, 
 Lie still in one of mine, yet clasp it not. 
 Her lips are closed. Methinks if 'twere the lips 
 Of one grown up, tho' dearest in the world. 
 They would not break the mourner's heart like these : 
 For all who 're grown we 've sometime seen look sad; 
 But these I never saw look sad before. 
 They called me ^^ Father" yesterday, and smiled. 
 Oh, 'tis unnatural! If 'twere but that 
 My right arm were torn off, and then my left. 
 And my limbs maimed, that I might never rise. 
 And all my wealth, to its last cent, were gone, 
 I had not cared. But thou hast found me out, 
 Op'd the deep sanctuary of my soul, 
 10 
 
110 GRIEF. 
 
 And robbed it! In my fold I had one lamb; 
 
 One tender flower made lovely all my earth. 
 
 Who art thou, Death, that tookest them? or why, 
 
 In taking, didst thou leave their semblance decked, 
 
 To kill ev'n grief, and not sweep rather all? 
 
 Is there no king o'er thee? blank, blank, blank, 
 
 This is the cloud that shuts out all the light ! 
 
 As one stone blind, I roll my eyes in vain. 
 
 Seeking the clue ! The reins of Providence 
 
 Are tangled, or else held by hands in hell. 
 
 What shall I do ? oh ! whither shall I turn ? 
 
 Do I live? Am I an endowed being? 
 
 Or, in truth, a thought — some bitter, wand' ring thought? 
 
 I nothing know but this, that off from life 
 
 The painted, shallow covering hath been taken. 
 
 And beneath a black gulf yawns upon me. 
 
 To its unknown depths I'll her consign, 
 
 And so at death leap in myself. — 
 
 Oclod 
 That lieth in the valley, would that I 
 Were thee ! creeping worm — anything 
 That cannot feel or think, would I were thee ! 
 For I am in the dark. Some unknown hand 
 Bears rule o'er me, and is a tyrant. Life 
 And Death are met within my soul. 
 And, like two rayless floods, do overwhelm me. 
 
GRIEF. Ill 
 
 SCENE— The same. 
 
 THE MOTHER (aloiie). 
 
 The last rays lie the softest on a cloud, 
 
 And so they lie on thee ! I might ev'n think 
 
 'Twas life, or rather some sad spirit that, 
 
 When thine took flight, crept in thy vacant form. 
 
 To this sweet shape thou grewest in my arms, 
 
 And on my breast. Oh I every part calls back 
 
 Some hours gone, till all the multitude 
 
 Seems here with me. I watched a winter's sky 
 
 After a stormy day : Hwas shrouded all 
 
 In black, save one small spot that each cloud shunned. 
 
 There burn'd one constant star. But while I gazed 
 
 'Twas covered suddenly, and not a ray shone down. 
 
 Thus unto me earth's last light is gone out. 
 
 grief that is not told, but secret kept 
 
 In mothers' hearts, how shall I find thee room ? 
 
 From out these closed-up eyes a spirit looked 
 
 That loved me : not with gradual decay. 
 
 Which is the hist'ry of most human love. 
 
 But more and more it loved me each blest day. 
 
 About this time each morning on my knee 
 
112 GRIEF. 
 
 She smiling sat. I combed her hair. I dressed 
 
 Her tender form. Methinks that love and grief, 
 
 Like sisters, wait by turns upon us here. 
 
 Three nights ago — only three nights ago — 
 
 Her gentle voice entered my slumb'ring ear. 
 
 It trembled and seemed fearful. I arose, 
 
 And thro* the darkness deep stole to her bed. 
 
 When by her side I laid she crept up close, 
 
 And, confident, all fear gone, said, ^'Dear mother!" 
 
 Can it be? So great a change so soon? 
 
 It was a living, beautiful form of flesh. 
 
 Holding within its bosom a loved soul : 
 
 Death now hath one ; the other is quite gone ! 
 
 Here, by the dumb, cold witness of my grief 
 
 I *d lay me down and die, but — thro' the dark 
 
 I see. No doubt or speck obscures my gaze 
 
 When I look up. The vast machinery 
 
 Is perfect, and Death has his own small space. 
 
 I do believe that He hath ta'en this soul 
 
 Who said: ''Forbid them not — of such is heaven." 
 
 Is it so sweet a world, oh aching heart, 
 
 Thou wouldst have had her live to taste of it? 
 
 What was that faithless thought of thine each day, 
 
 But that when Death should stand beside thy couch 
 
 'Twould be the point o' his dart to leave her here? 
 
GRIEF. 113 
 
 Oil! 'twas a faithless thought! 'tis shown to me. 
 Cease, foolish tears ! Yet 'tis a deep, wide void. 
 Ah! ye may flow; but cease, my soul, to weep; 
 Thou hast lost nothing. Since 'twas told to thee 
 She should be born, she was born in thy prayers. 
 
 In her young mind there seemed one special beam 
 
 That lighted up such depths of holy truth 
 
 As tender years not often look into. 
 
 I told of the new-born heart, and oft 
 
 She knelt and prayed for it. I held the glass 
 
 To conscience, and she looked in it and wept. 
 
 Tho' all that men have added to 't was hid. 
 
 Yet in clear light it seemed to me she saw 
 
 The simple cross, and loved him who hung there. 
 
 Away then, ye dark hosts that, thronging up 
 From the abyss, would compass me. Heaven opens I 
 Grief is a golden key that lets me in 
 To nearer converse. I did fear this was 
 A most rude shock to shake faith from its place; 
 But I behold it is a Master's hand 
 Settling it firmer — fixing as a rock. 
 sorrow I that would crush the oppressed spirit, 
 Thou 'rt made to be th' unwilling messenger 
 10* 
 
114 GRIEF. 
 
 Of healing. While I weep, yet more do I 
 Rejoice, for all thy wounds shall be restored, 
 Ev'n with the halm that thou thyself dost bring; 
 And on my new and spiritual body 
 No scar of thine, or this sad war's remain. 
 
IS THERE WITHIN THE MOUNT. 
 
 Is there, within the mount that covereth 
 From sight all thy fore-ordered purposes, 
 Some vein of silver or of golden ore 
 That I must give my brief life to dig out? 
 I am thy servant — lead me to my work. 
 Help me, Father ! I am but a servant. 
 Let me not forget when, midst lone labor, 
 Some rich mass first glitters in my sight — 
 Or later, when I shall have brought it forth. 
 And men applaud me, that I 'm but a servant. 
 The gold is not mine, nor did I place 
 It there. At thy appointed time I come, 
 As a day lab'rer, to uncover it. 
 And then go to my place. What matters it 
 Where lies my task ? Sweet is thy service. 
 Whether in the vale, or on the mountain height. 
 Yet in time past I 've trembled to look up. 
 
116 IS THERE WITHIN THE MOUNT. 
 
 Danger seemed clinging to the far-off steep; 
 But I have learned that earthly heights or depths 
 Are nothing in thy sight : thine angel campeth 
 On the untrod snows, as mid the low flowers 
 Of the valley, round him who serves Thee. 
 
 Come, then, 
 Ye feeble train, ye powers of my mind. 
 However feeble, and however few, 
 Come ! unto Him who calleth you do reverence. 
 And thou. Imagination, doff the coat 
 Of fleeting, gaudy colors thou lov'st to wear, 
 And, Keason, unbend thou thy haughty brow; 
 And, ye soft Sentiment and Sensibility, 
 No more sit weeping thus at fancied woe; 
 For every hand or subtile faculty 
 That God hath made there is some work to do. 
 
 World! how little thou know'st of the heart 
 
 That hath been changed ! Believe it not — I know 
 
 Thou wilt believe it not, for argument 
 
 Cannot take the film off from the blind eye; 
 
 Yet will I tell thee that to such a heart 
 
 Those motives that to thee like giant trees 
 
 Spread thro' all space and seem to pierce ev'n heaven, 
 
IS THERE WITHIN THE MOUNT. 117 
 
 Are withered to poor weeds ! Not that they have 
 No lodgement; but they are as things rank, vile, 
 That by the roots we would obliterate 
 From newly watered, cluster-bearing soil. 
 
THE EIVER. 
 
 Far down tlie pebbly beach I walk alone; 
 The deep, wide river floweth by my side; 
 Grreen boughs bend o'er me. Oh, loved Solitude ! 
 Hark from the boughs ! *tis the wood-robin's note. 
 Sweet bird, thou speakest unto me ; I know 
 Who sent thee here. 
 
 Over the river now 
 The meadows look like velvet, and the woods 
 In rich dark clusters stretch to th' edge of sight, 
 Crowned all with gold by the low sinking sun. 
 Lifting my eyes up to the cloudless heaven 
 I see the crescent, slender and new-born. 
 Ye burning worlds that lie t' the other side 
 Of the veil round me, ask T yet of you ? 
 'Tis nothing — I am but a worm — enough 
 Is shown to me. 
 
THE RIVER. 119 
 
 Close by the water's edge, 
 Deep bedded and worn smooth by th' ceaseless tides, 
 Lies a bare stone. I'll rest on it awhile. 
 Far out amid the stream a vessel lone, 
 With snowy sail, floats noiseless towards the sea. 
 The bird hath ceased, and now there's not a sound 
 But gentle ripples, whisp'ring 'long the shore. 
 The crescent has grown brighter; dim pale light 
 Marks out, in a faint line, the rest o' the moon. 
 I gaze up in the blue, sublime abyss. Ye stars ! 
 Unmoved and changeless thus have ye looked down^ 
 From age to age, shedding the same calm ray 
 Where joy hath been, or grief hath crushed the heart. 
 As where in some deep, desert wilderness, 
 Dumb rocks lay strewn as on creation's morn. 
 
 Our life, in its mortality, is brief: 
 
 This soil I step upon — these slender boughs 
 
 That overhang my steps — yes, things all round, now 
 
 Senseless or despised, shall be here when I 'm gone. 
 
 How many more like me have paced this shore, 
 
 Brim full of thought ! Where is the trace of them ? 
 
 Thus, still from day to day I think and think, 
 But to what profit ? In my early youth 
 
120 THE RIVER. 
 
 Thought, tho' unuttered, yet did seem to me, 
 
 When she did put her regal vestures on, 
 
 Some way akin to immortality. 
 
 But as I grew, and meditation came 
 
 And went, like summer sunsets o'er my mind. 
 
 Leaving no mark, I learned that as t' this world, 
 
 It was a place of action : that to feel 
 
 And think was not enough, if we 'd bear fruit. 
 
 Oh, then, to hear, and bear naught but good fruit ! 
 
 We toil in many fields, for many minds; 
 
 I here, thou there- — nor yet have we our choice. 
 
 Grod portioneth man's work, nor asks of him. 
 
 Yet to that portion some refuse to come. 
 
 Choosing their own. Some do th' appointed task, 
 
 But do 't unwillingly. He 's blest who waits 
 
 The Master's voice, and when it calls obeys. 
 
 Where'er it leads. 
 
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